But Quentin was stunned-it had been a long time since he had been called an acolyte. He had nearly forgotten that he ever served in the temple at all; that seemed long ago. “I was but a boy,” he replied.

“Times change, as you say. But old ways die hard, do they not?”

Quentin said nothing. The man looked around the ring of fallen stones. “Why do you suppose men honor their gods with stone?”

“Stone endures,” said Quentin.

“Yes, but as you see, even stone falls in the end. What is it that endures after stone has crumbled to dust?”

Quentin recognized this question as one that his old teacher Yeseph, the elder of Dekra, had asked him as a pupil many years ago. Old Yeseph, dead now and buried years before. “Man’s spirit endures,” said Quentin. That had been the answer Yeseph had sought.

“And love endures,” the man said simply. “Would it not make more sense to honor the god with love instead of temples made of stone?”

Again a pang of guilt arrowed the King. Who was this man?

“Quentin,” he said softly, “do not be afraid.”

“I am not-” began Quentin. The man raised a hand and cut him off.

“And do not give yourself to despair. Your enemies seek to humble you, to mock the god you serve. Trust in the Most High, and he will raise you up.”

The man stood and smiled again. “The boat will take you back across the water.”

Quentin jumped up. “Do not go! Please-”

“I must. My time here is finished. I wanted to see you just once more, and to say farewell.”

“No!” cried Quentin, throwing himself to his knees. “Stay with me. I would hear more!”

“It is not to be. But never fear, we will be together again. I am certain of it.” The man smiled his gentle smile and laid a hand on Quentin’s head.

Quentin felt a rush of warmth flood through him at the touch. The panic that had come upon him ceased.

“Before, I did not get the chance to say good-bye as I would have wished.” The man raised Quentin to his feet and wrapped him in a hug. After a moment, clasping his friend’s shoulders with both hands, he held the King back at arm’s length and said, “Good-bye, my friend.”

“Good-bye,” said Quentin. He stood and watched as the man turned and walked toward the wood, passing between two great slabs of stone as through a doorway.

The mist rolled up and removed him from Quentin’s sight, and he was gone.

THE FUNERAL procession left at dawn and rode through the quiet streets of Askelon bearing the body of the beloved hermit on a black-draped bier drawn by two of Toli’s finest white horses. It went to the north where Pelgrin Forest met the plain at its closest point to the castle, a distance of about a league.

The day was fair and warm, the sun rosy-gold in the treetops as it climbed into heaven’s great bowl of cloud-scrubbed blue. The air, soft and still, held the sweetness of wildflowers that grew in haphazard clusters across the tableland-pink and yellow sunlilies, buttercups and bluebuttons, white laceleaves and tiny purple lady’s slippers.

Toli rode Riv and led the bier; Esme and Bria followed, and Alinea came in a coach with Princess Brianna on one side of her and Princess Elena on the other. Nearly three score mourners made up the cortege-lords and ladies, knights, squires, household servants, and townspeople-all friends of the hermit, for he welcomed every man, whether of high position or of meaner birth, as friend.

And though their errand was a sad one, the day was so bright and the feeling of life so intense that it was not possible for any of the mourners to remain genuinely sorrowful.

“How strange it is,” remarked Bria, thinking about this very thing. “Today I feel newly cleansed. As if the past days have been an unhappy dream that vanished with the dawn.”

“Yes,” agreed Esme. “I feel the same way. And yet, I have not changed-the whole world seems to be newborn.”

They continued to talk this way, and behind them in the coach the little Princesses plied their grandmother with questions. Princess Elena had never attended a funeral, and Princess Brianna only one-that of Yeseph; but she had been a baby less than a year old and did not remember it.

“Grandmother, what will happen to Durwin?”

“Nothing bad, my child. His body will rest now in the earth,” Alinea answered.

“But won’t he get cold?” piped Elena.

“No, never again.”

“I know what will happen,” said Brianna importantly. “He will turn into bones!”

“How awful!” cried little Elena, her eyes sparkling at the mystery of it. “Will I turn into bones, too?”

“Not for a very long time, my dear one. But someday, yes. Everyone dies, and their bodies turn into bones and dust.”

“I do not think I shall like it,” said Elena, growing pensive.

“I will!” announced Brianna, determined to make the best of any situation.

“I do not believe you will even know what has happened, nor will you care. You will begin a wonderful new life somewhere else.”

“Where? Oh, tell us about it, Grandmother,” they said.

“Very well. There is a great kingdom far away-the kingdom of the Most High. When you die you will go there and live with him. It is a wondrous place and more beautiful than anything you have ever seen. You will leave your body-you will not need it anymore, because you will have a new body-and go live in happiness forever.”

“Is that where Durwin has gone?”

“Yes, that is where he has gone. He has gone to be with the Most High.”

“Will we see Durwin again when we get there?” asked Elena.

“Of course. He will be waiting for us.”

“And Grandfather Eskevar, too?” Brianna wanted to know.

“Yes, Eskevar too.” Alinea smiled. The children were so trusting, so innocent and unsuspicious. They believed what she told them without needing proofs or assurances. Theirs was a most simple and indulgent faith, with room for many questions but little doubt

“Oh,” said Brianna matter-of-factly, “I shall go at once then. I should love to see Grandfather.”

“It would make us sad if you went right away, dear one,” replied Alinea, smoothing the girl’s hair. “For then we would not see you anymore. Stay with us a little while longer, please.”

“Very well,” agreed Brianna, “I will. I would not like to leave you, Grandmother.” She snuggled in closer.

Of all who traveled in that party only Toli did not feel the wonder of the day. He rode silently, eyes ahead, unseeing, his mind concentrating on affairs that ripped at his heart and made him want to cry out in agony, I have failed my master. I have disgraced myself and brought ruin upon the King. He was right; it was all my fault. My fault alone. Yes, Durwin’s blood is on my head. I am responsible-I should never have left them alone. If I had been there, Durwin would still be alive, and the Prince would be safe. None of this would ever have happened. I failed in my duty and am no longer worthy to be called a servant. I must make it right. I must make it right, though it cost my life. My life-what good is it to me now?

They reached the site and brought the bier to the grave that had been prepared the day before. It was just a little way inside the forest, on the bank overlooking a shaded pool-the pool in which Durwin had waded many times gathering his healing plants.

Alinea had chosen the spot, remembering how he had loved to come here to wade, or just to sit and contemplate. Many times she had found him stretched out on the bank and sat with him as he talked about this or that herb, or traced his musing about the Most High.

“Quentin should be here,” said Bria, “and Gerin. How they both loved Durwin. I wish they were here.” She was quite over her trauma of the night before; in fact, she did not really remember it as having happened to her. It belonged to the dream, the bad dream she left behind with the new day.