“Come here, boy.”

The lad’s mother rushed over to him and wiped his face with her dirty apron, rubbing spittle on his cheeks and chin. When the youth was presentable, she pushed him forward. The boy resisted, bashful before the King.

Quentin nodded and smiled. The boy was a little older than Prince Gerin, and though of more slender build he had the same unruly dark brown hair.

“It is the King!” his mother whispered harshly in his ear. “Show yer manners!”

Whether the youth understood who it was that waited for him or not, in his eyes it did not greatly matter. Anyone who rode a steed such as the one that stood in the yard before him qualified as royalty in his young opinion.

His mother prodded him to stand before Quentin, where he gazed at his unshod feet and drew lines in the dirt with his toe. Quentin put his hands on his slim shoulders. “What is your name, lad?”

The answer was some moments in coming. “Renny, Sire.” The voice was scarcely audible.

“Renny, I have a boy just like you,” said Quentin. A knife sliced at his heart with the words, for again he remembered that his son was gone. “His name is Gerin,” he continued, forcing a smile, “and he is about your age.”

“Does he have a horse?” asked Renny.

“No,” replied Quentin. It was true, for although Gerin could well choose any horse in the King’s stable to ride, he did not have one of his own. “But he likes to ride. Do you like to ride?”

The youngster’s face suddenly saddened. “I-I’ve ne’re been on a horse, Sire.” The awful truth was out and the boy felt better for it, for he brightened instantly and announced, “But when I get big I’ll have a horse an’ I’ll be a knight!”

Quentin chuckled at the certainty in the young voice. “I am sure you shall!” he agreed, and then added: “would you like to ride a horse?”

The dark eyes went wide and rolled toward the nearest parent for approval. “‘Tis all ‘ee’s ever wanted t’do,” said the fanner. “Tis all’ee talks of.”

“Then today you shall have your wish, brave sir!” said Quentin. He led the youngster by the hand over to where Blazer stood quietly. The horse seemed to grow in size as they approached, and Quentin felt Kenny’s hand grip his tightly. “This one is a well-trained mount. He will not harm his rider.”

With that assurance, Quentin picked the boy up and put him in the saddle. The boy wore a dazed expression, unable to fathom his immediate good fortune or sort out the innumerable sensations assailing him in this miraculous instant.

The King handed him the reins and placed them just so in his hands. Then, when Renny was situated, Quentin took Blazer’s bridle and began leading him around the yard. The fanner and his wife stood together clutching each other, beaming happily as they watched their son ride the King’s own stallion.

Quentin, too, felt their joy, and he laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh, and so easy. He had begun to think he would never laugh again.

Renny, for his part, celebrated the occasion with all the solemn pomp his young frame could muster. He sat rigid in the saddle, his back straight as any lance, eyes level, shoulders square: the very picture of a knight riding into battle, full of courage, the victory sure, the foe all but vanquished.

Then Quentin showed the boy how to pull the reins to one side or the other to make the horse turn, how to make him stop and go. Renny took in this information gravely, studiously. “Do you think you can remember all that?”

“Aye,” nodded the boy.

“Then he is yours to lead. Ride him, young master.” Quentin stepped away from the horse, and Renny threw a half-worried, half-exultant look to his parents, kicked his heels gently into Blazer’s flanks, lifted the reins, and began to ride the horse around the yard. Blazer, champion of battle, high-spirited and fleet as the wind over the plain, behaved as docilely as any plow horse. He stepped lightly around the yard, circling the three spectators, tossing his head and snorting now and then, to the delight of all.

When the ride was over at last, Blazer came to stand before his master. Before Quentin could reach up a hand, Renny threw his leg over the pommel and slid from the saddle as expertly as any knight. He wore a look of dazzled triumph that seemed to say, I have ridden the King’s horse! I will be a knight!

“Well done, lad!” shouted Quentin, clapping the boy on the back. “Well done!”

Kenny’s parents ran forward to embrace him, as pleased for his good fortune as if it had been their own dream’s fulfillment. Quentin was moved by this spectacle of love between the members of this simple family. His heart went out to them.

“Thank ‘ee, Sire,” said the farmer’s wife. She grabbed his hand and kissed it.

“This be a proud day, Sire,” crowed the farmer. There were tears of joy sparkling at the corners of his eye. “Me son astride the King’s charger…” There were no more words to describe the pride he felt.

“Please, it is but a little thing,” replied Quentin. “I was happy to do it.”

“You must stay t’ supper, m’lord,” said the woman. Then she blinked in amazement, realizing what she had said. She had just invited the King to supper! In her kitchen! Oh, my!

Quentin began to make his apology, but stopped and turned toward the road. The shadows of evening were stretching across the land. The sun had grown into a great blazing red fireball as it touched the far horizon. He was tired, and the thought of climbing back into the saddle and riding on to Askelon seemed repugnant at the moment.

“Madame,” said Quentin, as he would address any noble’s wife, “I would be honored to partake of an evening meal with you.”

At once her eyes grew round and her jaw dropped; she turned to look at her husband, who merely peered back at her with the same expression of absolute astonishment. Then she gathered her skirts and dashed for the house to begin preparing the meal. Quentin smiled to see her go.

“M’lord,” said the farmer when she had gone, “ ‘low me t’ look after yer steed. ‘Ee must be hungry after a long day’s travlin’.”

“Thank you, that would be most kind.”

The farmer led Blazer away to the small barn set alongside the house at the back. The horse, sensing feed was close, picked up his hooves and fairly pranced away. Little Renny watched him go, his eyes still sparkling like stars. He had relived his momentous ride a hundred times already in his mind.

Quentin sat back on the edge of the well, folding his arms across his chest. Perhaps he should not have accepted the invitation; maybe he should not delay on the road. Ah, but he could not go back on his acceptance now. Furthermore, he could leave before dawn and be in Askelon early in the morning, and he could use the rest. Here, perhaps, he could forget his troubles for an hour, eat and sleep, forget.

“Why are you sad?” chirped a young voice beside him.

Quentin stirred himself and looked up to see Renny studying him carefully. “I was just thinking, lad.”

“Thinking about your own little boy? He’s the Prince!” Renny informed him.

“I suppose I was. Yes, he is the Prince-”

“And you’re out searching for him,” said Renny, finishing his thought. “Bad men took him away, and we must all keep our eyes an’ ears open so’s to see or hear ‘bout him.”

Quentin smiled sadly. Bad news does fly with eagle’s wings, he thought. Yes, they all know what has happened. All of Mensandor would know by now. His grief was not as private as he supposed. Nothing about him was private anymore. The Dragon King’s life was gossip, legend, and song to them.

What would they all think when they learned he had lost the flaming sword, Zhaligkeer, the Shining One, symbol of his authority and divine appointment? What would they say of him then?

“Don’t ‘ee worry, Sire,” said the boy. “ ‘Ee’ll find the Prince! ‘Ee’re the Dragon King! ‘Ee can do anything!”