“Quentin here fears for his King. That the worst may have too soon befallen him.” Although the knight spoke gently, Quentin jerked his head up and shot a warning glance as if he had given away a deep secret, or trespassed upon a sacred trust.

“That is something greatly to be feared. I fear it as well.”

Quentin raised his eyes from the darkness of the shadows to look upon the beautiful Alinea sitting so calmly beside him. Though she had echoed his concern, her voice lacked the resignation that he felt within himself.

“But, it is Midsummer’s already. Jaspin has been crowned king…” The words failed.

“And still we do not know where Eskevar may be. Is that it?” she asked.

Again Quentin only nodded.

“Take heart, dear friend. The tale is not all told. There is much that may yet be done. If only we could see a little ahead into tomorrow, as Durwin sometimes seems to, we might see a very different prospect than we now contemplate. Though we cannot see what may be, we have hope. Hope has not abandoned us; nor should we abandon it.”

“My Lady speaks well,” agreed Kellaris. “Those are words from a courageous heart.”

Quentin had to agree. Alinea showed remarkable courage, had shown it all along. Suddenly he was glad for the cover of night, for it hid the blush of shame which had risen to his cheeks.

He got slowly to his feet and said, “I thank you for your kind words, my Lady.” That was all he could manage before he moved off again, walking slowly away across the deck.

“That boy carries the weight of the world on his young shoulders,” said Kellaris, watching Quentin’s form meld into the darkness.

“Yes, and he complains not for himself,” murmured Alinea. “There beats a most noble heart, and proof against any evil.”

That night, as Quentin lay upon his mattress in his shared quarters, he offered up his second prayer.

“Most High God, let your servant see but a little ahead. Or, if not, give me the hope that drives out fear.” Then he drifted off to sleep.

QUENTIN awoke to the sound of voices calling and feet pounding upon the deck. From the slanting beams of sunlight pouring into the sleeping quarters he could see that the day was speeding away. He threw off the coverlet and jumped nimbly to his feet, experiencing that momentary weaving sensation he always had when waking at sea.

Making his way out onto the main deck, Quentin noticed that the calls and sounds of activity were becoming more frantic. Something was wrong.

His curiosity alerted, he dashed out onto deck, nearly colliding with Trenn who stood just outside the cabin door.

“Look at that, young master,” said Trenn, squinting up his eyes and jutting his jaw forward. “Aye, an evil sign if I ever saw one.

At first Quentin did not see what he was looking at. Then, as the sight overwhelmed him, he did not see how he had missed it.

Dead ahead and closing in on three sides, loomed a tremendous fog bank scudding swiftly toward them over the water. The sea was calm; the breeze light. The thick, curling fog seemed driven from behind.

The fog was a dirty gray mass: heavy, dark, its churning walls rose high overhead. And even as Quentin watched, the first leading wisps trailed across the sun.

Quentin ran to the rail and leaned over. Behind them Selric’s two sister ships had drawn close, and the crew was trying unsuccessfully to throw lines from one ship to another so that none would be lost in the fog. That was the explanation for the sounds of urgency he had heard. For, though the other ships still sailed in clear weather, a wondrous blue sky arching overhead and the sun spilling down a generous light, Selric’s vessel in the lead was now almost engulfed in the fog.

Quentin watched as the towering billows closed overhead, blotting out the last patch of spotless blue above. The sun became a dull hot spot overhead, then dimmed and was extinguished altogether. This was an evil sign, thought Quentin, as the rolling clouds swallowed the ship and removed the other ships from his sight.

He turned and was astonished to find that he could not see even as far as across the deck. So thick was the fog that he could not say for certain exactly where he was at that moment. If he had not had a fairly good idea of the lay of the ship, he could have been completely lost.

“Trenn,” he called, and was surprised to hear an answer close at hand.

“Here, sir!” The warder had stepped close to the rail when the fog closed in. “I like this little enough. It is a trick of that wicked wizard Nimrood. Mark my words; he is behind this right enough. Even I can feel that.”

Trenn’s voice, though close by, sounded removed and muffled. His face floated in and out of view in the veiling mist: a pale apparition uttering dire pronouncements. Quentin shivered and said, “It is just a fog, Trenn. I am sure we sail through it soon.”

“I am inclined to agree with Trenn,” said a voice behind them. Quentin nearly leaped overboard. The voice had come out of nowhere, with no warning of approaching steps. But the voice was familiar and Quentin could make out the dim outline of Durwin’s round shape standing before them.

“This is not the season for mists upon the sea,” said the hermit. A long pause ensued. “I believe there is magic behind this. Evil magic. There are signs-one can tell. This is no ordinary fog. It is sorcery.”

Durwin did not say more; he did not need to. There was only one who would cause such an enchantment to overtake them. Trenn had spoken his name aloud, though Quentin dared not.

The day wore on and the fog became every hour more foul.

It grew steadily darker and cooler, so by mid-afternoon it appeared as twilight, and the cloying air held a damp chill which seeped into the clothing of any who ventured out into it. Strange blasts of icy wind blew suddenly out of nowhere, striking the surprised victim on the face, first from one direction then from another. Selric’s men, well-trained and seasoned, said nothing, their mouths clamped shut in grim determination. But their eyes revealed a mounting fear.

Quentin sat upon his mattress munching an apple. He did not feel like eating; the apple was merely an exercise against the creeping uneasiness they all felt. Only Toli, who dozed upon his pallet, seemed unconcerned. But the Jher had not spoken all day.

Then the voices began.

Quentin became aware of them as one becomes aware that the wind has risen. All at once it is there, though it must have been present and building in force for a long time unnoticed. That was how the voices started. First a whisper, barely audible. Then a little louder, growing until the long, rattling wails could be heard echoing across the sea.

Quentin and Toli tiptoed out on deck and crept forward to the main mast where they found a tight knot of sailors huddled together, and among them Theido, Ronsard, King Selric and Durwin.

All around them shrieks and moans filled the foul air. Rasping calls and booming shouts echoed overhead. Whispers and cries and whimpering groans surrounded them. The eerie cacophony of voices assailed them on every side-a chorus of all the unhappy spirits that roamed the nether places of the world.

Amidst the bawling and the bellows, the raking screams and screeches, the bone chilling howls and absurd whooping arose a sound which made Quentin’s blood run to water.

A laugh. A chuckle sounding small and far away began to grow. It swelled uncontrollably and insanely, booming louder and louder, a sharp, hacking cackle which shook the rigging and rattled the gear on board the ship. Quentin could feel that madman’s laugh through the soles of his feet as he stood on deck with his hands clamped over his ears.

He couldn’t shut it out; the sound had gotten inside his head. He began to think that if the laughter did not soon stop he would end it by leaping overboard and letting the waves cover him in silence.