He would see in that most hideous of moments-stretched out far, far beyond its normal length-the cruel blade bite deep into his flesh, cleaving bone from muscle. And be would see himself severed in half and feel the awful rush of his organs spilling out.

He would know his death in its most terrifying aspect. He would die not instantly, as it would seem to those who looked on. He would die with torturous slowness. Gradually. Bit by excruciating bit.

EIGHTEEN

“YOU LOOK better this morning than you have in weeks, Sire.” Durwin had seen the King from across the garden and had watched him for some moments before approaching. Eskevar sat quietly on a small stone bench amidst a riotous splash of color from the flowers of every shade and description. Every variety of flowering plant and shrub from the furthest ends of the realm and beyond had a place in the Dragon King’s garden.

A shadow vanished from the King’s brow as he looked up and saw his physician coming toward him. “Thanks to the ministrations of my good hermit, I think I will yet trouble this world with my existence.”

Durwin cocked a wary eye at Eskevar. “How strangely you put it, Sire. I would have thought that today, of all days, you would rejoice in your improved health and put gloomy thoughts far behind you.”

“Then little you know me, sir. I may not make merry when my-when men of my bidding are still abroad.”

“It is Midsummer!” said Durwin. His gaiety was a little forced; he too felt uneasy about Quentin and Toli and the others being so long away. “I would not wonder if they were enjoying the hospitality of one of the happy villages by the sea.”

Eskevar shook his head gravely. “You contrive to cheer me, but your words fall far short of the mark, Durwin-though I thank you for the attempt. I know too well that something is wrong in Mensandor. Something is very wrong.”

Durwin stepped closer to his monarch and laid a hand on his shoulder. The King looked up into the hermit’s eyes and smiled wanly. “Sire, I, too, feel a dread creeping over the land. Sometimes my heart flutters unexpectedly, or a chill falls upon me as I sit in my chamber before the fire, and I know something is loose in the land that does not love peace. Too soon, I fear, we will face a most loathsome enemy.

“But I also know that we stand in the light of the god’s pleasure, and no darkness can extinguish it.”

“I wish I had faith enough to believe in your god. I have seen too much of religion to believe.” Eskevar sighed and rose slowly to his feet. Durwin reached out a hand and steadied him.

The two old friends walked the garden paths side by side in silence for a long time; Durwin kept his hand under the King’s arm.

“I do not think I could survive another campaign, another war,” said Eskevar after they had walked the entire length and breadth of the garden.

“You are tired, Sire. That is all. You have been very ill. Take your time, and do not let such thoughts trouble you. When you have regained your strength you will feel differently, I assure you.”

“Perhaps.” The King grew silent again.

The sun shone down in a friendly way, and all the garden seemed to shout with the exuberance of life. A fountain splashed in a shady nook near a wall covered with white morning-glories. A delicate song floated on the perfumed air as the men strolled slowly by. They stopped to listen.

“How sweetly your daughter sings, Sire.”

“She cannot do else.” The King laughed gently, and the light seemed to rise in his eyes. “She is a woman, and she is in love.”

Seeing how his patient brightened at the thought of his daughter, Durwin turned aside and directed their steps toward the fountain and the young woman dressed all in white samite, glistening like a living ray of light.

“My Lady sings most beautifully,” said Durwin when they had drawn close. Bria, her hands busily plaiting a garland of ivy into which morning-glories were woven, raised her head and smiled.

“I would have thought my lords too preoccupied for a maiden’s vain utterings,” Bria laughed. Music filled the air, and shadows raced away. Eskevar seemed suddenly to become young once again, remembering perhaps another whose laughter enchanted him. “Come, Father. And Durwin, too. Sit beside me, and tell me what you two have been talking about this morning.”

“We will sit with you, but it is you who must tell us what occupies your thoughts,” said Durwin.

They sat on stone benches near the fountain; Eskevar settled next to his lovely daughter and did not take his eyes from her. Bria began to relate the trivial commonplaces of her day, and her excitement at the approach of the evening’s Midsummer celebration. There was no hint in her voice of anything but the most joyful anticipation and delight.

How very like her mother, Durwin thought. How wise and good. Her heart must have been filled with thoughts of Quentin and consumed with longing for his presence in this happy time; yet she did not let on that she felt anything but the most perfect contentment and happiness. She was doing it for her father, he knew.

After a little while, Durwin slipped quietly away and left his patient for the moment in the hands of an even more skillful physician, one whose very presence was a healing balm.

Arriving at the road, Esme had faced a hard decision. To the north lay Askelon and her goal; to the south, danger and the likelihood of being captured again. But she guessed that any help which she might bring must come out of the south, too. That was the way her protectors, Quentin and Toli, had been heading when they encountered her. That was the way their friends were expected to return.

The choice had occupied her the greater part of the afternoon-ever since leaving the oracle. And upon reaching the seaside track she was no further decided in her mind. Very likely Quentin and Toli were dead. And it was almost certain that their friends-whoever they were-had been ambushed and killed, as had her own bodyguards. It seemed a futile gesture to turn away from Askelon now; there was nothing to be gained by wandering further afield. And yet, the words of Orphe’s daughter still whispered in her

But this ye do

And this will be found:

Your errand done

When two are unbound.

What else could those words mean but that Quentin and Toli- the two- were still alive but would not remain so unless she went to free them? If she believed the prophecy at all, it would mean that her errand would only be accomplished in securing their release.

It made no sense. But when, thought Esme bitterly, did the gods ever make sense to mortals?

So, against all reason, she had turned Riv to the south. As their shadow deepened and lengthened in the late afternoon, they set off in search of friends in a friendless land.

A long night fraught with lingering chills had passed into a sullen morning in which an angry red sun glowered upon the horizon. Esme was up and shaking the leaves and dew from her cloak when she heard it: the crisp jingle of horses moving on the road. It was dim and far away, but it was a sound she knew well- the sound of men at arms moving with some speed and purpose, their weapons and tack clinking with every step.

She slipped from the bower that had been her bed for the night, slightly below the road and down an incline so that it was well hidden, and crept to the road’s edge to peer along its length. She could see no one coming, and for a moment the sound drifted away; she wondered if she had imagined it. But the road hereabouts ran over and around the many humps of this hilly region, and presently the sound came again.

She ducked away again into her leafy refuge and led Riv out and along a route parallel to the road. They descended into a small valley and rose again to the top of a little, tree-lined knob. From there Esme judged she would have a clear view of the road below without fear of being seen.