“Don’t you ‘uns trouble yerselfs fer we,” said Pym. Tip wagged her tail amiably, knowing that this was the place where she received those juicy titbits and gristly beef bones. She barked once in anticipation of such a morsel.

“Yes, Tip,” laughed Otho, stooping to pat the dog. “We won’t forget you. Good old girl.”

Pym threw off his implements and wares and trundled them into a corner. He sat down with the innkeeper, and Emm served them up a little stew and bread. Otho fetched frothy ale in crockery jars and joined them.

They talked of all that had happened since Pym’s last visit, and all the customers who would need Pym’s services. Before long, however, their conversation turned to the one subject on everyone’s minds and on the tips of everyone’s tongues in every gathering place in Askelon.

“Shocking!” said Emm, clucking her tongue. “Simply shocking. I can’t imagine who would want to harm that beautiful boy, poor Prince Gerin!”

“Nor who’d be fool enough to go agin’ the Dragon King. There’s the mystery,” nodded Milcher knowingly. “Him and that sword of his, enchanted and all.”

They all shook their heads in bewilderment at the affairs that had befallen their King. “You were on the road,” continued Milcher. “Did you see anything?”

Pym merely shrugged. “ ‘Pears I come too late.” He was of half a mind to tell them about the dead man in the road, and about the sword. But even though they were his friends, he thought better of it and kept that part secret. “ ‘Twas over before we ‘uns got to Pelgrin, tho a’ course we met lots abodies on the road to tell ‘t.”

“Oh, there’s talk aplenty, there is,” agreed Milcher. “Most of it not worth a thimble o’ mud. They say it was the Harriers got the boy Prince. Others say it was some of that swill-belly Nin’s cravens who’ve been hiding up in the mountains all these years. Bah! That lot was driven into the sea at lancepoint-every last one of ‘em.”

“Strange though how nobody has seen hand nor hair of them that took him. Tis very like the earth opened up and swallowed them whole, quick as you please. Nobody seen nothing,” said Otho.

“I saw the King,” volunteered Pym. “This mornin’ on the road. Least I thought ‘twas the King. Looked a King t’ me.”

“Likely did. Likely did,” said Milcher, slapping the board with his hand. “Ham the butcher says the King rode in this morning all alather. Been riding like a wraith for days.”

“Did he have his sword when you saw him?” Otho asked Pym.

“What a question!” Milcher cried. “Of course he did. The Dragon King never goes anywhere without that sword. That’s what makes him invincible.”

Otho did not back down. “That’s not what I heard.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward across the table so no one would overhear him, though there was no one else in the place. “I heard from Glenna, the Queen’s maidservant-”

“Glenna’s his sweetheart,” put in Otho’s mother, smiling a knowing smile. “Works in the royal kitchen.”

Otho threw a warning glance in her direction but hurried on. “-that there’s talk in the castle that the King has lost his sword!”

“Lost his sword?” Milcher gasped, staring wide-eyed at his son. “Bah!”

“He never would!” said his mother in a hushed tone. “Lose the Shining One? Never!”

Otho only nodded; his eyes squinted. “He rode out with it the day of the hunt. Everyone in Mensandor saw it-its great golden hilt gleaming from the scabbard at his side. We all saw it.” He put his finger in the air for emphasis. “But no one saw it when he returned.”

“What happened t’ it?” asked Pym. His heart raced faster.

Otho licked his lips. “No one knows.” His voice was a whisper. “But they say that if the Zhaligkeer is gone, the kingdom is ruined.”

“Pshaw!” said his father uneasily. “Who would believe it?”

“It could well be,” maintained Otho. “Could well be.”

“The King is still King, isn’t he?” Emm glanced at her son apprehensively.

“Aye, as long as he holds the sword. That sword is his power. Without it he is doomed.”

“Doomed?” wondered Pym.

“Aye, and you would be too. There’s some as says that Quentin isn’t the rightful King, not being blood and all.”

“He was chosen, by the gods!” cried Milcher.

“Chosen he was. But it was the sword that backed it up.” Otho inclined his head conspiratorially. “It is the work of the gods. They are angry with this new temple of his; they don’t like his chasing after that new god-that Most High. The old gods are going to humble him as an example to the whole kingdom to return to true worship with gifts and supplications.”

Otho crossed his long arms and leaned back in his chair, smug in his rightness in the matter. The others looked at one another helplessly. Who was there to dispute what they had heard?

If this was a matter between gods, who could intercede on behalf of mere mortals? Who could contest the gods?

Once there was a resolute young man with a flaming sword who had the very hand of a god upon him. He was strong, invincible. But he, too, had proven only human, subject to the wounds and errors of all flesh.

How fickle the gods were. They had allowed him to prosper for a season; now they wanted their tribute, and even the Dragon King would have to bend before them. Blazing sword or not, they meant to have their due, and the King could not refuse them.

The glittering dreams of the Priest King and his wonderful City of Light were just smoke after all. Men were just the playthings of the gods.

So it had ever been, and so would ever be.

IF NOT for the urgency of their errand, Bria would have enjoyed the journey to Dekra. The days wore the golden-green mantle of fair summer; peace clothed the land and seemed to blossom from every bough. The dark deeds of only a short time ago-a few days-receded into the past, more and more remote with every league.

Only the throbbing ache in her heart reminded her that all was not well, that her son had been taken from her, that her world would never be right until he was returned.

By day she rode with the others, keeping her spirits high-talking, singing, or steeping herself in the beauty of the day. By night she prayed; her prayers were not for herself, but for her son and her husband, that the Most High would keep them safe wherever they were. And sometimes in the night, when no one could see her, she wept.

The Queen and her companions, though unused to the rigors of the road, were well looked after by Wilkins and the other two knights, and were made as comfortable as possible. And owing to the smoothness of the King’s Highway, they moved swiftly toward their destination.

“Today we will cross beyond Celbercor’s Wall,” declared Alinea, Several leagues from their camp of the night before, though the sun was only a few hours up, they had stopped to eat some breakfast, and to let the Princesses gather wildflowers.

“Have we come that far?” asked Esme with some surprise. “I thought the journey would be much longer.”

“Before the King’s Road, yes. Quentin’s work in extending the highway has made travel to this part of the kingdom the easier and more quickly done.”

“We may reach Dekra by evening tomorrow if we hurry,” said Alinea. She pointed to the east and south where the mountains lifted their heads to the clouds. “Celbercor’s Wall runs from the sea into those hills of rock. Once beyond it, Dekra is only two days’ ride.”

“Oh, then let us hurry by all means,” cried Esme. “I have always wanted to visit Dekra. You have told me so much about it, I cannot wait to see it.”

“It is indeed a most remarkable place,” said Bria. She gazed into the distance as if she were looking for the sweeping towers of the city to rise above the horizon. “The Ariga were a noble and beautiful people. Theirs is a city like no other.”