Another day gone, he thought, and now there are no more days. It must be tomorrow. Tomorrow or the King’s son will die. He stood over the basin, his hands dripping, and stared through the side of the tent, picturing the little Prince captive in the clutches of the loathsome High Priest. He saw the boy bound and placed on the altar and the dagger plunged into his trusting heart.

“No!” he cried aloud, slamming his hand into the basin. Water splashed everywhere and sloshed over the rim. “Not while I have breath in my body will they harm that boy!” he vowed. He heard a sound behind him and said to his squire, “Hand me a cloth,” putting out his hand to receive it.

“I, too, have made a similar vow.”

Ronsard looked up and noticed for the first time who his visitor was. “Quentin! You-Your Majesty! I thought-”

Quentin smiled thinly. “I know what you thought. But never mind. Here”-he handed the dripping knight a strip of clean linen -”dry yourself and we will talk.”

The King threw off his riding gloves and cloak and sat down on one of the benches at the table. Ronsard ran the towel over his face and dried his hands, all the while studying the man before him as a physician might study a patient who has suddenly and unexpectedly arisen from his sickbed. “I am tired, Ronsard. It is a long ride from Askelon. I wonder that Ameronis has the will to make the trip as often as he seems to. But then, he always did sit a strong saddle.”

“Sire, allow me to send for something to eat. I was about to get some food for myself.”

“Yes, do that I am hungry as well I have eaten nothing all day.”

“You must be starved!” Ronsard fairly shouted, for here before him sat the King, who to all appearances seemed in his right mind. Ronsard could detect none of the melancholy that he had so recently seen in his friend. True, his manner was grave beneath the forced civility of his aspect; clearly the King struggled to show himself composed. And fatigue sat on his shoulders like a burden, bending him over, draining his features of color.

But he had come, and he spoke as one who knew what he was doing, who had purpose and reason behind his actions. Surely this was the very best sign.

Ronsard crossed to the tent flap and called to a squire to bring food and drink, then returned a moment later. “Sire, it is good to see you. We thought… that is, we were afraid-”

“You were afraid your King had deserted you completely.” To Ronsard’s look he added, “Well, you were right. I had deserted you. I sent you out to fight my battle for me while I stayed within my own walls and ate out my heart with self-pity and grief. But no more. Though I have but one more day to be King, then King I will be-not a coward.”

It heartened Ronsard to hear Quentin talk this way-with fire in his voice, and his tone resolute. “Sit, my friend,” said Quentin, “and tell me how the matter stands.”

Ronsard lowered himself to the bench opposite, leaned on his elbows, and began to recite all that had taken place since they had come to Ameron-on-Sipleth. While they talked, the squire entered with their meal and laid it on the table before them. Ronsard motioned the young man away, indicating that they wished to be left alone and would serve themselves.

Quentin listened intently, nodding now and again as he ate, dipping his hand to his trencher. He raised his cup and drained it when Ronsard had finished and said, “You and Theido have done well. I am pleased.”

“Sire, will you lead the troops tomorrow?”

Quentin considered this and then inclined his head in assent “Ameronis must be made to face his King if he would wear the crown. Yes, I will lead. He must see me riding at the head of my army, and know who it is he would overthrow.”

Ronsard smiled. “Excellent! Yes, that is the Quentin I know! Those jackals will turn tail and run!”

“You know that I would not lift blade against them if it could be avoided. I would not that a single man were hurt. But my son’s life is at stake, and I must not fail him.”

Ronsard opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again. But Quentin said, “What is it? Speak-we know each other too well to hold back.”

“As you say, my lord,” Ronsard began, then hesitated once more. “Sire, the words come hard.”

“They will come no easier for holding them.”

The stalwart knight turned his face away and said, “What will you do if we fail to regain the sword?”

“That I cannot say. If I thought riding with an armed force to the High Temple was the answer, I would have done it without delay. But I dare not risk the danger to my son, Ronsard. We must in all events try to recover the Shining One.” He paused, adding in a quiet voice, “Failing that, we must trust in the Most High to work his will. That is all any man can do.”

“How much longer?” Theido asked, sweat dripping from his forehead and running down his neck. Sir Garth looked back at him and shook his head sadly.

“No telling yet, my lord. Another few hours at least; likely more.” The brawny knight jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where men labored to cut through the iron bands of the portcullis with various implements.

“Put new men to the task, and spell them regularly from now on. We still have to fight once we are through the gate; I do not want the men exhausted before they must lift their swords.”

“It is the heat in this blasted tunnel,” said Garth, “It drains a man’s strength. We would have cut through long ago if not for that.”

Theido turned and walked to the barrier. For all their efforts, they had succeeded in removing only one section of the thick iron gate. A second section was nearly freed, but a third and a fourth most be cut away to ensure that an armed man could pass through quickly. There was nothing to be done but continue hacking away at the structure at the same maddening, stow pace.

Abruptly Theido left the chamber, passing back through the narrow tunnel to the cave mouth and the cool night beyond. The ping and chink of the workers’ tools echoed through the passageway as their chisels bit into the iron. Below the cave the soldiers whose services were not now required at the grate rested on the shingle beside the water. The moon had risen and shone sparkling on the dark river, illuminating the cliff and the castle walls above with a ghostly light

The soldiers glanced up as Theido made his way down to them. Progress? the glance asked. None, Theido’s look answered as he sat down among them.

One of the men, a knight by the name of Olin, leaned close to Theido and asked, “What will happen if we do not breach the grate? What will we do?”

“The grate will be breached,” Theido answered stiffly. “Yes, I know-eventually. But what if dawn comes first?” Theido turned cheerless eyes upon the man and replied, “Ronsard will attack at dawn. He has no other choice. With our help or without it, he will go against the walls.” Olin stared at Theido in silence. “You asked for the truth; I told you.”

“It is a hard truth, my lord. It is sure death to go against those walls. Catapults and rams-”

Theido cut him off. “We have no time for catapults to wear down the walls or rams to splinter the gates. No time.”

“Then if we fail here, we die.”

“Yes, and more. If we fail, the realm dies with us; the kingdom is in ruins.” Theido nodded slowly, gazing out over the smoothly flowing water. “You did not know so much was at stake?”

“No, my lord,” answered the knight. “I thought it was just to save the Prince.”

“The Prince, ourselves, our nation.”

Sir Olin said nothing more for a long time. Then, without another word, he rose to his feet and climbed back up the side of the cliff to the cave and went back to take his place at the portcullis with the other workmen.

Then, as Theido watched, one by one the others who had been resting, having just come out from the tunnel, got up and climbed back to the cave to pick up their tools once more.