When all contestants, buckled and braced and mounted on their sturdy warhorses, had ridden twice around the lists, the marshall of the games took his place upon the field and read out the rules of the tournament to the participants now lining either end of the field.

Lots had been drawn to decide the order of the knights to participate. Sir Grenett had won first place and advanced across the field, paused, and turned in front of Prince Jaspin’s party.

“For Mensandor and glory!” he shouted. All the people returned the cry, “For freedom! Fight on!” Prince Jaspin dipped his head and Sir Grenett rode to the knight he chose as his opponent, picking him from among the mounted knights assembled in a long line at the west end of the field. He stopped before Sir Weilmar and touched his buckler with the point of his lance. The two then rode out to take their places at either end of the field.

At the signal, the Prince’s falling glove, both riders spurred their charges forward, lances held high. As they closed upon one another in the center of the field, the combatants lowered their lances and made ready to exchange blows.

Sir Weilmar’s aim was good. He placed his blow precisely on target in the center of Sir Grenett’s chest. Sir Grenett was no less precise and the shock of the collision staggered both horses. Sir Weilmar’s lance splintered like kindling as it glanced off his competitor’s heavy armor. Sir Grenett would have fared no better but for the strength of his arm and his own slightly more advantageous weight in the saddle. His blow caught Sir Weilmar and lifted him in the saddle, but Weilmar’s excellent horsemanship kept him at the reins, causing instead his saddle bindings to burst.

Weilmar’s saddle slid to the side, and both saddle and knight tumbled over the rear of the horse to the ground. This slight advantage was accorded to Sir Grenett’s favor, since neither had won a decisive fall.

All this took place in a twinkling amidst the general clamor and cheering of the crowd, many of whom had placed wagers upon their favorites. The marshall accorded Sir Grenett the victor and Sir Weilmar vanquished. The two retired to watch the rest of the games in peace, having won enough valor for the day, and the next two contestants took their places. Sir Grenett received a gold sovereign for his victory; Sir Weilmar, nothing but a broken cinch strap and fleeting disgrace.

The games moved through their course to the delight of the gathered onlookers. One after another, each knight tried his strength and skill at arms. The games continued to the delight of the spectators, when midway through the contests a murmur of alarm arose from the far side of the field opposite Prince Jaspin’s canopy. The riders awaiting the signal for their turn at the joust paused and turned their attention toward the crowd to see what the disturbance might be.

“What in Oiphe’s name!” cursed the Prince as spectators, apparently frightened by some cause as yet unapparent, fled into the field.

“Someone has undoubtedly seen a snake in the grass,” laughed Bascan of Endonny, sitting near the Prince. “Nothing to be concerned about, I am sure.”

Another sought to further the joke adding, “A snake in the grass is better than rats in the cellar.” Everyone laughed again.

The Prince, perceiving this to be a sly comment on his jailing of Weldon and Larcott exploded at the joker. “Who dares ridicule my judgment? Speak up!”

“I meant nothing by it, my Lord. It was only an idle jest…” Sir Brian sputtered. “No offense was intended, I assure you.” He was about to speak further when a gasp arose from the ladies below them and several of the knights on the platform jumped to their feet.

“Blood and thunder!” someone cried. “Who… what is it?”

The throng on the far side of the field had opened, clearing a wide avenue for a lone rider who took the field with a slow, dignified, and somewhat menacing gait. Prince Jaspin’s face drained of its ruddy hue and his hands fluttered like frightened birds in his lap.

A lone Harrier advanced across the field and brought his horse to stand in front of the Prince. On his shoulder perched a large hawk; at his side hung an awkward bundle.

Without a word he loosed the bundle and drew out the contents of the rough sack. The defiant Harrier then raised high into the air for all to see the two severed, bloodied heads of his dead comrades.

QUENTIN stood at the parapet of his room overlooking a dark, mist-shrouded forest feeling useless and disgraced at being left behind. His hand hung at his side, still holding the letters left for him by his friends, and which he had just reread yet once again.

He heard a sound behind him and turned; it was Mollena, his aging nurse. She hobbled in, glancing at his empty bed and then out onto the balcony, and smiled a toothless grin when she saw him.

“Come in, young master. You will be chilled standing out there like that. Warmth comes to these old mountains but slowly. You’ll be needing your cloak a good spell yet.”

Quentin said nothing, but came reluctantly inside and threw himself upon the bed.

“You are feeling stronger, I can tell. But not so much is good for you yet. Your feet are anxious, but your heart needs rest.” She paused and looked at Quentin’s fallen countenance. “What you have read troubles your soul, my bold young man?”

“They left me, Mollena. Why?” Quentin knew why; he merely wanted some other assurance that he had not been forgotten.

“It could not be any other way. That I know.” She spoke these words in a queer way. Quentin rolled over and looked at her. The Curatak were an odd people and knew many things by many strange ways.

“What do you know?” he asked, much as one would ask a soothsayer to divulge his future.

“I know that your friend Toli waits for you below. Come, the walk will do you good, I think.”

Quentin slid off the bed and shuffled to the door. “Here,” said Mollena as he stepped across the threshold, “remember your cloak.” Quentin took it and threw it across his shoulders and went with the old woman down to meet his friend.

Under the old healer’s ministrations Quentin had revived and awakened three days after Theido and the others had set out. He had opened his eyes, as if from a long night’s sleep, hungry and not more than a little lightheaded. He lay for a long time trying to remember what had happened to him and how he had come to be where he was. But the attempt was futile.

Somewhere in the far recesses of his mind a shadowy, indistinct dream still lingered-a dream in which he had a part. But it seemed long ago and far removed from himself, as if it had all happened to someone else and he had only read the account of it. He had-in the letters Durwin and Alinea had left behind for him.

Quentin had gotten up to walk around the room on the second day, and had explored the whole of the upper floor the day after that. Under Mollena’s tutelage he had learned something of Dekra and the mysterious Curatak who guarded the ruins.

Dekra was the last stronghold of a great and powerful civilization, a people who had vanished without trace a thousand years before Celbercor had come to forge his kingdom. The Curatak, or Caretakers, had long ago colonized the ruined city and fought back the ever-encroaching weeds and wildlife-and from time to time even discouraged squatters from settling there.

From the dust of crumbling walls and columns in the once-proud city of a highborn race, the Caretakers had rescued the memory of Dekra and its inhabitants. They had delved deeply into their past, learned their ways and customs, and had even effected restoration of much of the ancient city’s common square, or the seat of the government. It was here Quentin and the others had been housed, in the lofty, many-roomed palace of the governor of Dekra, which now served as the central communal dwelling of the Curatak.