Toli spoke up. “Though I have never heard of this prophecy-before it was spoken in the King’s chamber, that is-the Jher, too, have a legend that a king of the white race will arise who will usher in the age of light. He is to be called Lotheneil, the Waymaker. That is because he will lead men’s minds toward Winoek, the God Most High.” Toli fixed his master with a knowing look and crossed his arms upon his chest, as if satisfied the matter was settled.
“Do not think that I am unwilling,” said Quentin. “But you must show me how these things pertain to me. I know nothing of this prophecy-”
“And yet you quoted it word for word, or nearly. In the original it goes something like this:
Thee sweord sceal byrnan with fyr flaume.
Deorcin sceal dhy; deffetyn hit fleon winge falcho.
“I should really have been surprised if you had spoken it in the old tongue. Still, I was shocked beyond belief. There are not four men in all of Mensandor who know and can quote that obscure prophecy. That two of them should be in the same room together at an utterance-well, it is quite remarkable. Incredible.”
“I did not tell the whole prophecy, only part of it.” Quentin fidgeted in his high-backed chair, while Toli perched like a bird of prey beside him. “It might have been a coincidence.”
“Quentin,” Durwin reproached softly, “you know as well as I that for the servants of the Most High there are no coincidences. And for a prophet to quote the merest portion of a prophecy is the same as to invoke the whole. The Elders at Dekra should have given ample instruction in that.”
It was true; he had often heard and understood the Elders to make reference to various events and happenings in the sacred texts, quoting portions of the text and implying the rest. He knew Durwin could see through any attempt on his part to distance himself from the events which were forming on all sides. It seemed to Quentin that a web of circumstance was weaving itself around him, pulling tighter and tighter. Soon he would be trapped by a destiny he had not foreseen and was not certain he could fulfill.
But he also felt that aside from his personal reluctance, which sat like a lintel stone upon his back, if what Biorkis and Durwin said was true he had a responsibility to follow wherever the trail would lead. If he did have some part to play in saving the realm, he had to accept it and do whatever was required, aside from how he felt about it
It was this other, more rational Quentin who answered, “Very well. Let us see what you two rumormongers have schemed up for us. There seems to be no denying you.”
“You are beginning to think beyond yourself, eh, Quentin? That is good. Yes, very good.” Biorkis pulled on his long white braided beard. “Now here is what I have found.”
The hours that followed had seemed but the flicker of a candle flame. A wink, a nod and they were gone. From the moment his old teacher had begun to speak, Quentin was gripped in a spell of enchantment, transfixed by the unutterable mystery of the story of strange events, long forgotten, having passed from the minds and hearts of men long ages past. It was remembered only by a few learned men, and now it was revived in his presence. He listened intently, seizing every word as a thirsty man opening his parched throat to the sky to drink in the drops of rain.
They told of the sword, a sword unlike any other and possessed of holy power; of secret mines beneath hidden mountains in half-remembered lands; and of the forging of the mighty weapon upon an anvil of gold. Biorkis and Durwin, their round faces flushed with the excitement of their tale, spoke of the ache of the people who for generation upon generation had waited, believing that they would see the coming of the sword and he who would carry it. They told of the songs sung and prayers prayed in all the dark, hopeless times for the hand worthy to possess the sword to arise and deal deliverance at its point.
Zhaligkeer-that was the name the ancients had given the sword. The Shining One.
Quentin rolled the old-sounding name on his tongue. Knowing the name linked him to those who had lived and died waiting to see it. He wondered how many men had breathed that name in their hour of need; he wondered how many had despaired of ever seeing it and had given up hope and turned away.
When at last the story was told, Quentin rose to stretch and pace the room in quick, restless strides. “Are you suggesting that we just go and find this sword? That it lies hidden in some cave in the high Fiskills?”
Biorkis shook his head wearily. “Not find it; the sword does not exist. You must make it. Zhaligkeer must be forged of the hand that will wield it.”
Quentin sighed hopelessly. “I do not understand. Forgive me. What was all that about anvils of gold and secret mines and all? I thought it was all part of the legend.”
“Oh, it is, it is,” said Durwin. “But it is our belief that the legends indicate the manner in which the sword must be made, not how it was made. I do not think that anyone ever actually made the sword.”
“Well, why not? It does not seem at all clear why they would hesitate. What was to stop them from trying?”
Durwin cocked his head to one side and smiled smugly. “Nothing… and everything. Undoubtedly many tried. They applied the prophecy to themselves and their own times. But two things are needed for the sword to become Zhaligkeer, the Shining One: the ore from the secret mines, and the hand of him whom the prophecy names. Even if they had found the ore, which perhaps some of them by some means accomplished, they still lacked the thing that would make the sword the Zhaligkeer: the hand of the chosen one. You see, it is not the blade alone but the hand of the Most High which endows the sword with its power.”
“If, as you say, men have long sought the Shining One, why have I not heard tell of it before now?”
“There is nothing unusual there, sir!” laughed Biorkis. “It is ever thus. In good days men think not of the hand that helps them. But when evil days come upon them, they cry out for the deliverer.
In Mensandor, the years have brought prosperity and peace to the people as often as not. Men have forgotten much of the old times when their fathers struggled in the land. They have forgotten the sword; but for a few the prophecy would have been lost completely.”
Quentin brushed his good hand through his hair. His eyes burned in his head. He was tired. The night was old, and he needed sleep.
“I know nothing of making swords. Neither do I know the way to secret mines in the high wastelands of the Fiskills. And even if I already possessed such a sword, I do not know what I should do with it; I do not even have the arm to raise it.”
Durwin crossed the room and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You are tired. You should take your rest like Toli there.” Durwin nodded toward the Jher, who had curled himself up in an empty seat and was now sleeping soundly. “Go to bed now. We have talked enough for one night. We will talk again tomorrow. Believe me, there is much more to discuss before we set off.”
Quentin believed him. There were a thousand questions flapping around in his head like blackbirds over a new-plowed field. But he was exhausted and could think of nothing but sleep.
“Does anyone else know about all this… this…” Words failed him; he could think no more.
“No, not as yet-though Ronsard and Theido know we will be busy while they are away. To Eskevar I have mentioned my suspicions regarding the events before us, but he knows nothing of the sword. No one beyond we four knows anything about what we have talked of this night.
“Good night, Quentin. Go find your bed. We will talk again in the morning.”
As if on signal, Toli rose and slipped to the door to lead his master away. In a few moments Quentin felt himself sink deeply into bed; he did not bother to remove his clothes, but collapsed full-length upon the bed. To Quentin it seemed as if he had plunged into a warm, silent sea. He was asleep as the waves closed over him.