“It is an evil day.” Ronsard turned a careworn visage to his friend. “How is Eskevar faring?”

“He is the same. No change.”

Eskevar had nearly collapsed when the sound of the ram commenced. It was as if each blow had been so aimed as to strike directly to the King’s heart. It was only with difficulty that the two knights had led their sovereign away without the soldiers witnessing his fall. Upon gaining the security of the tower, they all but carried him to his chambers. Biorkis and Alinea had been in attendance since then, and the knights had returned to watch through the day-bright night as the Ningaal strove to batter down the doors.

“Will he ride, do you think?” asked Ronsard.

“Why do you ask me? You have stood with him in battle enough times to know. But we are under siege! Why does everyone insist upon talking about battlefields and riding?” Theido snapped. After a long, silent moment in which Ronsard merely looked back at him sadly, Theido sighed, “Forgive me, my friend. I am tired. I have not slept in three days that I can count-one cannot even tell day from night anymore! I am tired.”

“Go and rest. Let me take your watch. You yourself have said that nothing will happen soon. Have something to eat, and lay yourself down a little. You will feel better.”

“Yes, perhaps I should do that.” Theido turned his eyes away toward the north. “They should be coming. They should have been here by now.”

“They will come. And do not forget that Quentin, Toli and Durwin are abroad. Theirs is some errand that will make good; of that I am certain.”

“So I believe. I only hope they are in time.” He smiled briefly and gripped Ronsard by the shoulder. “Thank you. I will rest a bit as you suggest. It has been a long time since I endured a siege. I have forgotten my manners almost completely.”

“You have forgotten nothing, my friend. Go now, and I will send for you if anything changes.”

When Theido had gone and his footsteps descending from the barbican could no longer be heard, Ronsard settled himself against the stone crenellation of the turret. He looked long and hungrily to the north for the shining armies he hoped he would see riding to their rescue. But the far vista shimmered instead with the heat of the summer sun. Nothing moved out on the plain.

Still, the knight watched and waited and his thoughts became a prayer, turning toward the new god he had so recently elected to serve.

“God Most High,” Ronsard mumbled, “I do not have the knowledge of your ways that others do. But if you need a strong sword, here am I.” There was a long lapse before he spoke again. “I know not how to pray in seemly words. I have never been a man of prayers. But I believe you helped me once, long ago, so I pray you will listen to me once again. Lead us against this terrible host which gathers at our gates and seeks to destroy us. And if it be my lot to die, so be it. But let me face the moment like a true knight and seek to save another’s life before my own.”

He prayed on, pouring out his heart as the words came to him and would have continued praying but for the alarm which brought his instantly to his feet and sent him off to meet a new disaster.

FIFTY-ONE

THEY FOUND Inchkeith huddled behind a hill of stone not faraway from the pool. All wondered at his odd behavior in hiding and at the look of fear which twisted his features as he raised his eyes to meet them.

“What is wrong, Inchkeith? Why did you disappear like that?” asked Quentin. The master armorer peered at his discoverers with a distrustful look. His hands trembled as he worked up the nerve to speak.

“Do not make me touch it! I beg you, sirs! Do not make me touch it!” He hid his face in his hands once more, and his shoulders shook as if he were sobbing.

“This is very strange,” remarked Quentin, turning to Toli and Durwin. The hermit gazed with narrowed eyes upon the huddled body of the deformed man.

“I think I know what ails him. He is afraid to touch the blazing white lanthanil; he has seen its power and what it can do. He saw your arm healed, and he fears what it might do to him.”

“But-” Quentin sputtered in amazement, “certainly you are wrong here, Durwin. If anything, he should rejoice and rush to take it into his hands that he might be healed of his crippling deformity. So I would, and anyone else, I would think.”

“Would you?” asked Durwin. His bushy eyebrows arched high as they would go. “Think again. His twisted spine cripples him, yes. But he has lived his life with it and has come to accept it and himself for what he is. His spirit has risen above his physical limitations in the beauty of his craft. There is a strong pride in that.”

“To be healed, to be made strong and whole again-what can be the harm in that?” Quentin shook his head slowly from side to side. The thing was a mystery to him.

“Quentin, have you never had a flaw of some sort, a hurt that you carried with you?” Quentin’s brow wrinkled sharply. “You cursed it and fretted over it and longed to cast it aside, and yet you secretly caressed it and held it close lest it should somehow slip away. For that weakness was part of you, and however hateful it was it defined you; you took strength from it. With it, you knew who you were; without it, who could say what you would be?”

Quentin answered slowly. “Perhaps it is as you say, Durwin. When I was a child I held many such childish flaws and weaknesses as virtues. But I put them away when I became a man.”

“Ah, yes. But your weaknesses were not of the same kind as Inchkeith’s. His is not so easily put aside. How much more must he fear losing the thing-ugly as it is-that has given him such comfort all the long years of his life? It is no wonder that he shrinks away from the Healing Stones. For though he would give anything in his power to be made straight and strong, he would give much more to remain as he is.”

Quentin turned to regard Inchkeith where he sat a little way off, still huddled and trembling. There were no words to describe the pitiful picture that met his gaze. Sadly, he turned away from it.

“Go and ready yourselves for another dive,” suggested Durwin. “I will talk to him a little and convince him that whether he touches a stone or not, the decision is his. We will not think the less of him for refraining if that, in the end, is how he chooses. Go on, now. We will come hence directly.”

Quentin and Toli did as Durwin told them and returned to the pool. “Look how they shine, Toli,” marveled Quentin as he knelt before the two lumps of glowing rock. “Have you ever seen anything like it? It is as if they burn with an inner fire. They should be hot to the touch, but they are cool.”

“They possess very great power. Of that there is no doubt. I understand now why the Ariga closed off the mine and concealed what was left of the white lanthanil in the pool. The temptation to wield such power must drive men mad.”

Quentin nodded silently. “I wonder what else the stone can do?” he asked at last. His bright face shone in the aura of the stones.

“We shall see, Kenta. You have been chosen to carry the Shining One; you will find out.”

In a moment Durwin came, leading a sheepish Inchkeith toward them. “Very well, shall we continue? We have much work to do and have only begun.”

“One moment, Durwin. Please, I would speak.” Inchkeith held up his hand. “I am ashamed of my behavior, and you would do a kindness to a foolish old man if you would wash it from your minds. I am sorry to have embarrassed my friends so. I promise I will embarrass you no further.”

“Think no more on it, master Inchkeith,” replied Quentin happily. “I assure you it is already forgotten, and you shall never hear of it from our lips again.”

They all returned to work as before and threw themselves into their labors. The enervating force of the ore-bearing stones which Quentin and Toli brought up allowed the two divers to remain underwater for greater periods of time, and before long a fair-sized pile of the shining stone was heaped beside the pool.