“The hermit dead? The heir gone?” They looked grimly at one another.

Toli continued, “Mount up at once and come with me. We ride to meet the King, who is pursuing them.”

“By Zoar, these rogues will pay for this outrage!” vowed Lord Galen. “We are at your command, sir!”

With that the knights abandoned their kill, mounted their horses, and fell into line behind Toli, who led them toward the place where he had encountered the attackers. They made their way as quickly as they could and at last reached the glade.

It was quiet and cool in the shaded clearing. A number of tiny yellow butterflies flitted among the leaves, darting in and out of the falling beams of light that slanted in through the trees. A hermit thrush sang in the high treetops-a clear, sparkling liquid sound, pure and sweet.

The glade seemed enchanted, and no one dared break the spell of the place.

Durwin still lay where they had left him, so still and peaceful he might have merely dozed off for a nap. No one spoke at first, overcome with the strangeness of the scene before them.

The hermit lay dead, and yet seemed in such perfect peace that those who looked upon him could but stare in awe. His presence was strong in the place; each one felt it as if he had touched them.

“Someone should stay with him,” said Lord Bossit. “I will.”

“No,” replied Toli quietly. “He is safe here in the forest. Nothing can harm him now. Go back to the castle and lead the others here. The Queen is bringing a bier. See that all is attended to.”

“As you say, my lord.” He left at once.

“The King rode to the south,” said Toli. He turned Riv and took up the trail. The other knights followed without a word.

Quentin combed a wide swath through the forest, working first this way for half a league or more, and then cutting back the other way. But for all his care and vigilance, he failed to uncover any sign of the fleeing assassins.

Still he pushed on, bending ever southward, with a feeling that this was the direction the abductors had chosen, though he knew they might well have taken another. The forest was huge; to cover it all would take scores of men and many months of diligent searching. As he rode, Quentin fought down the growing sense of futility and desperation that swelled within him, building up inside like a vile black broth set to the fire.

He paused periodically to listen but detected only the normal, sleepy sounds of the wood. He went on.

Then, quite without warning, Blazer stumbled down a short, steep bank of hill, and Quentin found himself on the well-used southern road that led to Hinsenby and then bent southwest along the coast. He sat still in the saddle for a moment, scanning the road both ways. When nothing out of the ordinary presented itself to his gaze, he turned once more southward and continued on.

After riding a little way he came to a dell where the road dipped to meet a stony-banked stream. Here he found his first clue, for in the dust of the road at the banks of the stream were a number of footprints, and the hoofprints of a horse.

Whoever made those prints had emerged from the forest at this point, having followed the stream until it met the road. Across the stream the tracks led off down the way. Blazer splashed across the water, and Quentin leaned low in the saddle to examine the marks. It was difficult to tell anything for certain from these prints, for there were others all along the road.

The hunt! thought Quentin. How dull I am. These and all the rest were made by people on their way to the festival. At once his hope, so quickly born, died and shrank away. But not entirely. Of all the various tracks in the dust only a few were leading southward. All the others pointed toward the north and Askelon.

Seizing this meager scrap of evidence, Quentin once again urged the sturdy Blazer onward. The steed flew over the wide road, and the King searched along its length for any trace of his son’s passing.

“Listen!” said one temple guard to the other. “Someone comes.”

Both stopped and peered back behind them on the road. They could hear the tinkling jingle of tiny bells-such as a horse would wear on its tack.

“You get off the road. If they stop, draw sword and be ready,” said the first.

“But-” protested the other. His hands trembled as they touched the weapon concealed beneath his cloak at his side.

“Quickly! I will stay here and try to put them astray.”

“Why were we chosen for this cursed task?” grumbled the other.

“Do as I say! Hurry! They are almost upon us!” The frightened guard threw a dark look at his comrade, and then disappeared into the underbrush at the side of the road. In a moment the first could see horse and rider approaching rapidly.

“You there!” shouted Quentin when he came. The nervous accomplice turned and stood blinking at him, pretending to be unsure as to whether it was he who had been addressed. Then his eye caught sight of the wrought gold clasp that secured the rider’s cloak-a terrible, twisting dragon, the royal blazon.

A shiver ran through the man as Quentin was recognized; color drained from his face.

“So you know your King when you see him, do you?” The man licked his lips and said, “I am at your service, Sire.” His eyes shifted unsteadily.

“How long have you been on this road?” demanded Quentin. “Well, we-that is, I… not long… I mean-”

“Where are you bound?”

“To Hinsenby, Sire.”

“Are you alone?” Quentin watched the man struggle under his questions.

“Yes, lord.” The man’s eyes shifted again. “Have you seen anyone on the way?” The man thought for a moment and then said, “Yes, I did. Only a short while ago it was. Back there-back by the stream. A group of travelers. Merchants, I think.”

“How many?”

“Five, six maybe. Not more. They were bound for Askelon, I would warrant.”

Quentin turned in the saddle and looked behind him. No, the prints had pointed the other way. Then he saw the tracks leading away from the road. He turned back to the man just in time to see him glance to the side and then quickly back.

“Merchants, you said?”

“Sire, I believe they were.”

“And are you a merchant, too?” asked the King suspiciously.

“I am…”-the man hesitated-“a pilgrim, Sire.”

“They were going to Askelon, you say? Was there a boy with them, a boy on horseback?”

The supposed pilgrim opened his mouth, but the words stuck on his tongue.

“Answer quickly, friend! I find your manner most peculiar.”

The traveler flushed. “No, there was no boy with them. I saw none, at least.”

“Liar!” shouted Quentin, scowling furiously. “In truth I saw the hoofprints at the water, and they continue this way.”

The temple guard stared at the King sullenly and said nothing.

“It is no small thing to lie to your King,” continued Quentin in a voice strained but in control. “I will give you one more chance. Where did they go?”

“I know not, Sire. Please… it is not-”

“Are you in league with them?” shouted Quentin. “Answer me!”

Just then there was a rustle in the bushes at the side of the road. Quentin whirled around as another man, dressed like the first in dark tunic and long cloak despite the heat of the day, leaped from his hiding place, sword in hand. The second man lunged clumsily forward, eyes showing terror. “Strike!” cried this attacker. Quentin turned to see a blade appear in the first pilgrim’s hand as well.

Zhaligkeer sang as it slid from the sheath; the long blade shone forth with cool brilliance from its fierce inner fire. Quentin swung the mighty sword overhead “You! You killed Durwin!” he cried.

The two men saw the terrible sword and fell back with a startled cry.

“Murderers!” shouted Quentin. “Cowards!”

“Mercy!” cried the first assailant “Mercy… I beg you!” Rage like molten metal seared through Quentin’s mind; its wild fury rushed through him with blinding force. “I will show you mercy,” he cried, “the mercy you showed Durwin!”