In the Hall of the Dragon King (24 page)

“That is because the oracles are but foolishness of blind men—the smoke without the fire,” said Themu.

That night, when the guests had departed and he was alone in his bed, Quentin had prayed for the first time to this new god, the one he had met in his vision. The vision seemed still more real to him than the vague dimensions of his own dark room and comfortable bed. He prayed, “Lead me in the discovery of your ways, God Most High. Give me the strength to serve you.”

That was all he could think of to say. After all the formalized prayers of the temple, written down to be memorized by constant repetition, Quentin's simple prayer seemed to him ridiculously inadequate.

But trusting in Yeseph's observation that the god regarded more the state of the heart than the length of the prayer, Quentin let it go at that. And he had the strong inner conviction that his prayer had been heard, and by someone very close.

Early that morning, before the sun peeped above the undulating horizon, Quentin and Toli had discussed their plans.

“It is my desire to follow Theido and the others and perhaps catch them if we can,” said Quentin, munching a seed cake. Toli looked at him with strange eyes, which Quentin found unsettling. “Why do you look at me so?”

“You have changed, Kenta,” he said in a low voice, struck with wonder. Kenta was the Jher word for “eagle”—and, by extension, seemed to mean “friend,” “master,” “lord”—all at the same time. It was also the closest approximation of Quentin's own name that Toli would attempt, though to Quentin it seemed his friend did not try very hard. Toli fastened on this word for his own reasons.

“How have I changed?” Quentin tried to dismiss Toli's observation with a smile, but it felt forced. “I am the same as I was.”

Toli saw it differently. He had watched the ceremony of the blessing with great admiration and respect. It had appeared to him as the coronation of a king, and he was proud that his friend, for so he considered Quentin irrevocably now, had acceded to such a high honor.

“No,” said Toli, “you are not the same.”

That was all he would say on the subject. So Quentin pushed on to other things. They would ride on to Tuck and then to Bestou, as the others had done (so Mollena had informed them).

All Quentin knew was that Nimrood could be found at Karsh, though where that might be, he could not say. Mollena refused to speak of the place, saying that it was an evil island not nearly far enough away though it was halfway round the world.

So they had struck out upon the trail to Tuck, a much-forsaken path through the northern forests that were home to a great number of red deer and wild pigs. The animals themselves kept the trail open, giving it the little use that it received; the Curatak had no need of it.

The second day out, Toli had awakened Quentin to a dismal dawn. Shortly after they had breakfasted on some of Mollena's specially packed provisions, the rumbling clouds had begun to leak a fine mist of rain. They had thrown on their hooded cloaks and proceeded in a subdued and melancholy mood. The soaring high spirits of the day before were dampened in the cheerless rain.

As they rode along, Quentin became restive, his mind made uneasy by a thought that jabbed stubbornly at his conscience. He resolved to mention it to Toli at the first opportunity. So when they stopped by a small running stream to water the horses, Quentin spoke what was on his mind.

“Toli, do you know what is ahead of us?” he asked. The young Jher squinted his eyes and peered down the darkened trail.

“No,” he answered with typical Jher logic. “How can one know what lies ahead? Even well-known paths may change. The careful hunter goes with caution.”

“No . . . I mean something else. We go to find Theido and Durwin and the others—most likely we ride into great danger.” He watched Toli's face for any sign of concern. There was none.

Quentin glanced down into the racing stream as his horse's muzzle sank deep in the swirling water. “I have no right to ask you to accompany me any farther. Your people sent you as a guide out of friendship. Now that we have reached Dekra and, indeed, left it behind, your task is ended. You are free to return to your people.”

Quentin glanced up to see Toli's bronzed features drawn into deep lines of sorrow. His mouth turned down sharply at the edges; his dark brown eyes had grown cold. “If that is what you wish, Kenta, I will return to my people.”

“What I want . . . that does not matter. But you must go back. This is my journey, not yours; you did not ask for it. I cannot ask you to risk your life—you have no place in this fight.”

“You must tell me what you wish me to do,” replied Toli, clasping Quentin's hand tightly.

“I cannot,” pleaded Quentin. “Do you see?”

Toli did not see. He blinked back at Quentin gravely, as if to reproach him for cruelty unimaginable.

“You may be killed,” explained Quentin. His knowledge of the Jher speech was quickly becoming exhausted under the strain of trying to communicate this dilemma. “I cannot be responsible for your life if you follow me.”

“The Jher believe that every man is responsible for his own life. The Jher are free—I am free. We do not suffer any to be masters over us. But a Jher may serve another if he chooses.”

Toli's voice rose, and the lines of his face began to ease as he continued. “For a Jher to join his fate with another who is worthy—this is the highest honor. For to serve a worthy master accounts the servant worthy. Few of my people ever find an opportunity as I have found.” He spoke this last part as a boast, his eyes sparkling.

“But the danger—”

“He who serves shares another's portion—danger, death, or triumph. If the master receives honor, so his servant receives much greater honor.”

“But I did not ask you to be my servant.”

“No,” he said proudly. “I chose you.”

Quentin shook his head. “What about your people?”

“They will know and rejoice for me.” Toli's face beamed with pleasure.

“I do not understand,” complained Quentin, though he did not much mind his lack of understanding.

“That is because your people are brought up to believe that serving another is a weakness. It is not out of weakness that one serves, but out of strength.”

“I would still feel better if I could ask you myself.”

“Ask, then, but I have already given my answer.”

“Is there no getting rid of you, then?” joked Quentin. The joke escaped Toli, whose face fell again momentarily.

“If you dismiss me, I will return to my people in disgrace.”

“That will never do,” Quentin said.

“You, Kenta, wear the look of glory. You will I serve. For only by your side will I find glory too.”

“Very well,” said Quentin at last. “Since I would really rather not go alone, and you are determined not to allow me to in any case, we will go together.”

“As you wish,” said Toli pleasantly.

“My wishes seem to have nothing to do with it,” remarked Quentin.

Toli ignored the remark and held Balder while Quentin mounted, then mounted his own black-and-white.

“To Tuck, then,” said Quentin. His heart was much lighter and his mind at ease. He had not wanted to give up Toli's company and would have tried to persuade him to remain if that had been the case. This new relationship, however, would require some getting used to. He had not known the extent of Toli's loyalty toward him and wondered if he was at all deserving of it. Already the responsibility weighed heavier than he would have supposed.

They rode along together through a wet afternoon and stopped to spend a soggy evening along the trail under the skimpy shelter afforded by a long-limbed evergreen whose branches brushed the ground.

Toli tethered the horses and allowed them to walk a short pace to graze on nearby clumps of grass and forest foliage. Quentin unrolled the packs under the evergreen boughs and made a dry, soft bed by piling up the aromatic needles. Toli gathered dry bark and stones and soon had a small fire going to warm them and dry out their sopping clothing.

Night fell quickly in the forest, and the two lay in the dark, listening to the drip of water from the high boughs and the small crackling of their little fire. Quentin stretched himself upon his bedroll and breathed the fragrant balsam deep into his lungs.

“What do you think of the new god?” Quentin asked absently, searching the darkness nearby for the glitter of Toli's eyes.

In all the time they had spent at Dekra, he had not spoken to Toli about any of the Ariga religion. Now that oversight embarrassed him.

“He is not new. The Jher have always known him.”

“I did not know. What do you call him?”

“Whinoek.”

“Whinoek,” Quentin repeated to himself. “I like that very much. What does it mean?”

“You would say it means Father . . . Father of Life.”

28

I
t is a slim chance, but it is a chance,” said Durwin, lifting off the first of the water barrel lids.

“I only wonder why we did not think of it sooner,” remarked Theido. “Keep your ear to the door and be ready to sing out,” he added, whispering across the hold to Trenn crouching at the top of the steps.

Durwin took a handful of yellowish-looking powder from a cloth that Alinea held in her hands. He sprinkled it into the water in the barrel, and Theido stirred it with a broken oar and replaced the lid.

“Do you think they will come for water today?” asked Alinea. The three moved on to the next barrel and repeated the procedure.

“I hope so.” Theido rolled his eyes upward to the deck overhead. “They come every second day to replenish the stoups on deck with fresh water. With any luck at all, they will come today too. Though we must be close to land now—they may wait.”

“We do what we can. Just to be sure, we will refrain from contaminating this last barrel; it will be for our use.” Durwin shook the last of the powder into the keg and dusted his hands over the top.

Just then Trenn rapped sharply on the stairs with his foot. “Someone comes!” he whispered harshly. “Look quick!”

Theido stirred vigorously and replaced the lid of the keg, driving it home with the end of his oar. The three then took up their usual places at the foot of the stairs as the door to the hold opened.

“Bring up a goodly length,” a voice called out from the deck to the two descending figures.

“Get back!” snarled one of the sailors. The other went to a corner and proceeded to sort among piles of rope. When he found what he wanted, he returned and started up the stairs with the rope. The captives watched in disappointment.

After the sailors had locked the door behind them, Durwin said, “Take heart; the day is yet young. Perhaps they will come again.”

Trenn looked doubtful. “But we have no way of knowing how close we may be to land. We could drop anchor soon.”

“Indeed we could. If that is to be, so be it. The god holds us in his hand and moves however he will.”

But as he spoke, there arose a commotion on the deck above and the sound of someone furiously throwing off the chains and locks that secured the hold. The door again swung open, and Pyggin's scream could be heard as he berated his poor seamen. “The day's ration of water, you dolts! Fetch it! You've already fetched yourselves a flogging!”

Three forlorn sailors tumbled down the stairs, led by the sailor with the rope. They dashed straight for the nearest water keg without casting even a sideways glance at the prisoners huddled at the edge of the shaft of light thrown down by the door overhead. They lifted the keg in their brawny arms and struggled back up the steep stairs. They did not see the surprised and pleased expressions on the faces of the prisoners as they disappeared back up on the deck with the water ration for the crew.

“We still don't know whether Pyggin drinks from the same bowl as his men or not,” said Trenn when the footsteps had faded away above.

“It is a risk we will take,” answered Theido. He turned to Durwin. “How long before your potion works?”

“It varies, of course—how big the man, how much he drinks . . . But I made it slow to act, though strong. When all have gone to sleep tonight, none will rise before dawn—though tempest blow and waves beat down the masts.” He laughed, and his eyes twinkled in the darkened hold. “But lest we forget, we have a more immediate problem before us . . .”

“Right,” agreed Trenn. “If we don't find a way out of this stinking hull, it won't matter low long those rogues sleep.”

“What about one of the other hatches?” said Alinea, pointing into the darkness beyond to one of the two dim squares of light cut in the deck above.

“An excellent idea, my lady.” The voice was Ronsard's. Surprised, all turned to see the knight standing somewhat uncertainly behind them.

“Ronsard!” exclaimed Theido. “How long have you been standing there?”

“You should not be standing at all!” said Alinea, rushing over to take the wounded knight by the arm and lead him back to his crude pallet. He took one step toward them, and his face screwed up in pain; a hand shot to the side of his head.

“Oh!” he said and then steadied himself. “I am not used to having my feet under me just yet.”

“It will come,” assured Durwin.

“Ah, but I feel better than I have in a very long time,” replied the knight, allowing himself to be sat down on a keg by the queen's insistence. “Aside from this throbbing head of mine, I feel like a new man.”

“I am glad to see it,” said Theido, beaming. “I had long ago given you up for dead—even seeing you here and looking like you did when we found you did not increase my hopes by much. But it now appears that you will live after all.”

“It is all due to this wizard priest of yours,” Ronsard said, grinning at Durwin.

“I did nothing—only allowed you to get the rest your body needed. You have slept these last three days.”