Страница 27 из 75
“Come here, boy.”
The lad’s mother rushed over to him and wiped his face with her dirty apron, rubbing spittle on his cheeks and chin. When the youth was presentable, she pushed him forward. The boy resisted, bashful before the King.
Quentin nodded and smiled. The boy was a little older than Prince Gerin, and though of more slender build he had the same unruly dark brown hair.
“It is the King!” his mother whispered harshly in his ear. “Show yer ma
Whether the youth understood who it was that waited for him or not, in his eyes it did not greatly matter. Anyone who rode a steed such as the one that stood in the yard before him qualified as royalty in his young opinion.
His mother prodded him to stand before Quentin, where he gazed at his unshod feet and drew lines in the dirt with his toe. Quentin put his hands on his slim shoulders. “What is your name, lad?”
The answer was some moments in coming. “Re
“Re
“Does he have a horse?” asked Re
“No,” replied Quentin. It was true, for although Gerin could well choose any horse in the King’s stable to ride, he did not have one of his own. “But he likes to ride. Do you like to ride?”
The youngster’s face suddenly saddened. “I-I’ve ne’re been on a horse, Sire.” The awful truth was out and the boy felt better for it, for he brightened instantly and a
Quentin chuckled at the certainty in the young voice. “I am sure you shall!” he agreed, and then added: “would you like to ride a horse?”
The dark eyes went wide and rolled toward the nearest parent for approval. “‘Tis all ‘ee’s ever wanted t’do,” said the fa
“Then today you shall have your wish, brave sir!” said Quentin. He led the youngster by the hand over to where Blazer stood quietly. The horse seemed to grow in size as they approached, and Quentin felt Ke
With that assurance, Quentin picked the boy up and put him in the saddle. The boy wore a dazed expression, unable to fathom his immediate good fortune or sort out the i
The King handed him the reins and placed them just so in his hands. Then, when Re
Quentin, too, felt their joy, and he laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh, and so easy. He had begun to think he would never laugh again.
Re
Then Quentin showed the boy how to pull the reins to one side or the other to make the horse turn, how to make him stop and go. Re
“Aye,” nodded the boy.
“Then he is yours to lead. Ride him, young master.” Quentin stepped away from the horse, and Re
When the ride was over at last, Blazer came to stand before his master. Before Quentin could reach up a hand, Re
“Well done, lad!” shouted Quentin, clapping the boy on the back. “Well done!”
Ke
“Thank ‘ee, Sire,” said the farmer’s wife. She grabbed his hand and kissed it.
“This be a proud day, Sire,” crowed the farmer. There were tears of joy sparkling at the corners of his eye. “Me son astride the King’s charger…” There were no more words to describe the pride he felt.
“Please, it is but a little thing,” replied Quentin. “I was happy to do it.”
“You must stay t’ supper, m’lord,” said the woman. Then she blinked in amazement, realizing what she had said. She had just invited the King to supper! In her kitchen! Oh, my!
Quentin began to make his apology, but stopped and turned toward the road. The shadows of evening were stretching across the land. The sun had grown into a great blazing red fireball as it touched the far horizon. He was tired, and the thought of climbing back into the saddle and riding on to Askelon seemed repugnant at the moment.
“Madame,” said Quentin, as he would address any noble’s wife, “I would be honored to partake of an evening meal with you.”
At once her eyes grew round and her jaw dropped; she turned to look at her husband, who merely peered back at her with the same expression of absolute astonishment. Then she gathered her skirts and dashed for the house to begin preparing the meal. Quentin smiled to see her go.
“M’lord,” said the farmer when she had gone, “ ‘low me t’ look after yer steed. ‘Ee must be hungry after a long day’s travlin’.”
“Thank you, that would be most kind.”
The farmer led Blazer away to the small barn set alongside the house at the back. The horse, sensing feed was close, picked up his hooves and fairly pranced away. Little Re
Quentin sat back on the edge of the well, folding his arms across his chest. Perhaps he should not have accepted the invitation; maybe he should not delay on the road. Ah, but he could not go back on his acceptance now. Furthermore, he could leave before dawn and be in Askelon early in the morning, and he could use the rest. Here, perhaps, he could forget his troubles for an hour, eat and sleep, forget.
“Why are you sad?” chirped a young voice beside him.
Quentin stirred himself and looked up to see Re
“Thinking about your own little boy? He’s the Prince!” Re
“I suppose I was. Yes, he is the Prince-”
“And you’re out searching for him,” said Re
Quentin smiled sadly. Bad news does fly with eagle’s wings, he thought. Yes, they all know what has happened. All of Mensandor would know by now. His grief was not as private as he supposed. Nothing about him was private anymore. The Dragon King’s life was gossip, legend, and song to them.
What would they all think when they learned he had lost the flaming sword, Zhaligkeer, the Shining One, symbol of his authority and divine appointment? What would they say of him then?
“Don’t ‘ee worry, Sire,” said the boy. “ ‘Ee’ll find the Prince! ‘Ee’re the Dragon King! ‘Ee can do anything!”