It is done, thought Quentin. The ruin is complete. With that he turned away and walked to the place where he had left his horse and climbed at once into the saddle without looking back. As he galloped down the hill, it started to rain-a slow, miserable rain, as if the gods ridiculed him by pouring false sympathy over the wreck of his once-glorious vision.

As the slanting band of sunlight began its crawl across the floor of their cell, Toli got up and began pacing. Prince Gerin still slept peacefully, as if he were in his own safe bed in his father’s castle. Toli watched the boy and smiled, thinking how wonderful to be a child and to have only a child’s limited tolerance for trouble. Was it that their tolerance was so limited, or that their endurance was greater? he wondered. Either way, children simply would not allow trouble to dominate them for any length of time. They shrugged it off like an unwanted cloak on a hot summer’s day. When was it that they learned to wear that stifling cloak?

Upon waking, a plan had occurred to Toli. He thought about it now, thrashing it out in his head, examining it from every possible angle until he was certain about it. When at last he had settled himself with it, he went to the heavy oaken door of their cell and pounded the flat of his hand against it. He waited and pounded again.

In a moment he heard someone hastening to the cell. “What is it? Be quiet,” said the voice on the other side.

“I demand to see the High Priest!”

“No! Be quiet-I have my orders.”

“I demand to see the High Priest! As a prisoner within his walls it is my right!’ Toli began pounding on the door once more.

“Be quiet, do you hear? You will get us both into trouble. Shut up!” The man’s tone was frightened.

“I demand to see-” Toli began, but stopped when he heard the bolt sliding away.

The door creaked on its iron hinges and opened a crack, into which a temple guard thrust his head. His sleep-swollen face glared angrily at the captive. “Shut up! Do you want to wake the whole temple and get me in trouble?”

With the quickness of a cat, Toli sprang forth and shut the door, pinching the guard’s head between the door and the jamb post. “Ach!” said the guard as the door squeezed his neck.

“Now you shut up and listen!” instructed Toli firmly. “If you value your worthless head, you will do as I say. I want to see the High Priest at once. Arrange it. Do you hear me?”

“Ugh… what if I refuse?” the man gasped.

Toli pressed the door more tightly against his neck; he heard the guard’s hands scrabbling for a hold on the other side. “Then,” he answered, “I will be waiting for you when you come with the food next time. And the next time I will crush your throat with this door.”

“Gack!” the man croaked. “Let me go-I will do it!”

“Good. You had better, or next time…” He let the threat trail off.

The guard made a face and Toli slowly eased the pressure, backing away from the door. The man wasted no time in pulling his head free, slamming the door, and ramming the bolt home.

Toli heard the man’s bare feet slapping the stone as he hurried away, and felt he had won his way. Yes, the guard was a coward and would do what he was told. Of that he was certain. But the High Priest? He would not be so easily persuaded. The man was as oily as the sacred stone the priests so diligently anointed. He would have to be dealt with in a different way entirely: not with threats, but with promises. And Toli knew what he would promise.

“IT is just as we feared,” said Theido. “They have come in force.”

“How many?” asked Ronsard. His cheek was purplish-black from a bruise below his left eye. He held himself stiffly, for his muscles ached.

“Six. And they have ridden all night, by the look of them.” The tall knight spoke softly though the door to the council chamber was closed and the guests within could not hear.

“They did not waste any time,” sneered Ronsard. “They are carrion birds, Theido-vultures come to feed on the flesh of the suffering.” He shot an angry look through the stone wall to those who had just arrived and were waiting inside. “What are we going to do? The King cannot attend them; that is out of the question in his present condition.”

“Perhaps,” replied Theido thoughtfully.

“You cannot be serious! Are you thinking of allowing the King to face them?”

“It might do him good. A round with those jackals might shock him out of his despair.

“It might crush what little is left of his spirit, too.”

Theido nodded gravely. “You could be right. But I do not know what else to do. We cannot keep them waiting in there for-ever. They will see the King soon or late; we cannot prevent it. I am afraid Quentin has no choice but to face them.”

“He might succumb…”

“Not to them.” Theido jerked his head toward the council chamber door. “Not like this. But they have the power to convene a Council of Regents. If they sway but five more to their cause, it could be done.”

Ronsard nodded gravely. “Has such a thing ever been accomplished?”

“Not in recent memory-but yes. Once or twice. They would declare the King incompetent-”

“As of now that would not be difficult.”

“And they would have to join forces behind one of their own number. That might prove more difficult-getting them all to agree on who the new King should be. There are many proud lords who believe themselves the only reasonable choice.”

“We have an ally in vanity-thank the Most High for that!”

Theido nodded and ran his hand through his hair with the air of a man who does not welcome taking the next necessary, and possibly fatal, step across a treacherous bridge.

“Go on,” nudged Ronsard. “It must be done. I will wait here and keep an eye on them until you return.”

“And pray, Ronsard. Pray the King has enough wits about him to fend off this attack.”

Pym walked along more quickly for the lack of his usual baggage, but he missed the bang and clang of his pots and tools-his own musical accompaniment wherever he went. He wiped the damp from his face. At least the rain had stopped, and the sky showed signs of clearing before long; it was already shining blue away to the east.

“Ah, Tip, d’ ye see?” said the tinker. “We ‘uns’ll have the sun soon enough. Yes, sir. Won’t have to walk in the rain no more, eh?”

The black dog raised her head to her master and barked once to show that she was glad to be traveling again.

“Yes, fearful it were, Tip. Fearful, I tell ye. Ye should’a seen the King-should’a seen him. All dark and broken was he, more monster than man to look at him. Nivver seen abody looked like that! No, sir. Nivver have, Tip. Him locked away in his own chambers a prisner. That’s what he were-a prisner.”

Pym’s eyes grew round as he remembered his audience with the Dragon King. “What could make a man like that, Tip? I ask ye, what could make him like that? I’ll tell ye-that sword! Yes. The loss of it drives him mad. I know it, yes I do. Don’t I, Tip? Yes, sir.

“He’s lost this son and now his sword, and it drives him mad as a weasle-bit dog. Yes, it does. We ‘uns’ve got to bring the King his sword, Tip. The sword we found, it must be his-or, if not, mayhaps ‘twill do fer another. We must bring it to him, Tip.”

The tinker and his dog had left the Gray Goose after one of Emm’s delicious breakfasts, and struck off along the southern road to Pelgrin and the place Pym had hidden the sword he found in the road.

“The King needs a sword, Tip. We ‘uns’ll give him a sword, won’t we? Yes, sir,” he said as they strolled along. He had heard that talk in the inn and around the town-about the King losing his sword-and had become convinced that the blade he had found in the road belonged to the Dragon King. Pym had known it to be a valuable weapon from the moment he had seen it glimmering in the dust of the road. Now he meant to retrieve the sword from its hiding place and carry it back to the King; that was the message he had meant to deliver to His Highness.