“Nothing-it was nothing.”

Ronsard shook his head. “I know that look of yours. Out with it, Theido.”

Theido nodded slowly. “I was thinking about what Toli said regarding Quentin’s sword.”

“Now there is a puzzle. I wonder what is behind it.”

“Nothing good, you may be sure. I was thinking just now that it portends a greater evil than the Prince’s disappearance, and that is bad enough.”

Ronsard stared at his friend knowingly. “Aye, the Shining One is not to be parted with lightly. I should have thought Quentin would fight to the death before giving it up.”

“You speak my thoughts to a word. And yet, when Toli met him in the road he did not speak of it at all. Why, I wonder.” Theido glanced at the sky once more and said, “One problem at a time, eh? We will start again at daybreak.”

“Yes, tomorrow-and that is the last good day. The signs, if they are out there, are already disappearing.”

Theido turned his horse and made to move away. “Farewell, Ronsard. I will meet you tomorrow at the same time. If we have not found the trail by then, well-just pray that we find it.”

Ronsard raised his hand in farewell and watched the tall, lean knight ride away, back along the way he had come. Theido is right, he thought. Something is at work here that bodes ill for all of us. What it is we shall find out soon enough, I’ll warrant.

He sighed and moved off through the deepening shadows to meet with his men once more before he rolled himself in his cloak to sleep. All around, the wood lay still and silent, as if contemplating the coming of the night. Ronsard felt a chill creeping out with the shadows, and with it a sinister foreboding such as he had not felt in many years. He shuddered inwardly and rode on.

“If you think it unwise, mother, or if you would advise a better plan, please tell me.” Bria watched her mother carefully, almost breathlessly. Hers had been a sudden thought, and she had gone immediately to her mother’s apartments to share her idea.

“I do not say it is unwise,” said Alinea slowly and with great concentration. “But I do have misgivings.”

Bria frowned at the word. But her mother continued. “However, I remember another time, years ago, when Durwin counseled the same plan. Then, too, it seemed a chancy enterprise. But it was the right course, as it turned out-though even Durwin could never have guessed the outcome.” She smiled at her daughter, and Bria saw the light in her green eyes. “It seems that the destinies of Askelon and Dekra are ever intertwined. Yes, my dear, go to Dekra. I will go too.”

“Mother, do you mean it? You would go?”

“Why not? I am fit for a journey. And now that the King’s road is complete to Malmarby the trip will be an easy one most of the way. But we must leave at once.” She glanced at her daughter quickly. “What is wrong?”

“You spoke of misgivings. What are they?”

“Just that word may come to Askelon about the Prince. If you were not here to receive it…” Her voice trailed off.

“I see. What should I do?”

“That I cannot tell you. You must do what any mother does; you must listen to your heart.”

“Then I will go to Dekra and speak to the Elders there. We have often had reason to seek their wisdom, and their prayers may be most effective.” Her eyes held her mother’s. “I do so wish that Quentin were here, though.”

“Quentin will return soon. We will leave behind a letter telling him what we propose. He would wish to stay here in any case to aid in the search.”

“What about Brianna and Elena-I fear leaving them.”

“They will come with us. Why not? They have begged to see Dekra often enough, and they will enjoy the trip. As it is, I think it would be unwise to leave them. We will take a coach and a bodyguard of knights, and travel the safer.”

Bria smiled, feeling better for having talked with her mother. “Yes, naturally you are right.”

“It will be better for us to have something to do. The waiting would weigh heavily on us, I fear. If word was long in coming… well, we will go. We must not think of anything but Gerin’s welfare. The Elders at Dekra will be able to help.”

Bria gazed at her mother admiringly, and then threw her arms around her neck in a hug. “Oh, thank you. I knew you would say the right thing.”

Alinea patted her daughter’s back. “Poor Quentin. I pray that the waiting does not distress him overmuch. I would feel better if Toli were here. Perhaps he will soon return.”

“When should we leave?”

“Just as soon as the horses and supplies can be made ready.”

“Tomorrow morning, then. We will rest better in our own beds tonight, and leave at first light.”

Alinea nodded her assent. Bria bent and kissed her mother and then hurried away, her mind already filled with dozens of details that would require attention before they could leave. Alinea watched her go, thinking back on a time when she had planned the same journey. She smiled, nodded, and went back to her prayers.

“Help “eself,” said the farmer, nodding toward the well

Quentin slowly dismounted and walked to the well, feeling every jounce of the road in each stiff step. He settled himself on the edge of the stonework and took up the dipping gourd. He played out the braided cord, filled the gourd, and then took the brimming vessel to his horse.

Blazer, his shining white coat now dusty brown-gray, plunged his broad muzzle into the water and drank deeply. As Quentin held the gourd he noticed a movement in the doorway of the house nearby. The farmer’s wife joined her husband, and Quentin fell under her sharp scrutiny. There was a mumble of whispered words behind him. He wondered what the woman was saying to her husband. When he turned around he understood, for he saw a look of awe blossom on their ruddy features-the look that accompanied him whenever he made his way in public. It reminded him that he was the Dragon King.

He looked at them and they bowed low, both of them, awkward and self-conscious. “Rise, my friends,” he said softly.

“I-I did not know as ‘twas ‘ee, Sire,” stammered the farmer. “I be yer ‘umble servant.”

Quentin patted his dusty clothes. “How could you know, good man?” Little puffs of dust accompanied each pat. “I look more a highwayman than a King.”

The farmer’s raw-boned wife nudged her man with an elbow, and he jumped forward at once and took the gourd. “ ‘Low me, Sire.”

Quentin was about to protest, but thought better of it and allowed the man his pleasure, knowing that for years to come the farmer would tell his friends and relatives of the day he had watered the King’s horse.

Sitting on the edge of the well once more, Quentin turned his eyes to the house and noted its rude construction. Though it was a most simple structure, made from the cheapest materials-mud daubed over woven sticks on a timber frame and topped with a roof of thatch-it was clean, and all was orderly in the yard. It was identical to any number of households that stretched from one end of Mensandor to the other-from Wilderby to Woodsend.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a quick flick of a shadow as it darted and disappeared around the corner of the house. He watched the spot for a moment and was rewarded by seeing a pair of wide dark eyes and a pale forehead poke around the edge of the house once more.

Quentin smiled and raised his hand, beckoning to the owner of those eyes to come out and join him. Presently, a grubby young boy stepped hesitantly around the corner, keeping his back pressed against the house, inching toward the stranger with the shyness of a wild creature of the forest. The dark-eyed youngster was dressed in a long, hand-me-down tunic resewn for him, no doubt, from one of his father’s. The edges of this garment were frazzled and frayed, and the threads blew in the breeze like tassels. He stared at the newcomer with open curiosity and admiration-as much for the great warhorse drinking from the gourd his father held as for the horse’s rider.