“Now, sir, enlighten an old busybody if you will. That is, if you have no reason to conceal your errand.” Izash inclined his old head; his white beard fell almost to the floor. A slight smile creased his lined face as if to coax the words forth with kindness.

“I am Ronsard,” the knight’s voice cracked. Another sip of wine followed that exertion. His eyes, steel gray in the silver light, looked around at the tight circle of faces bent over him. “Where am I?” he asked quietly.

“You are among friends,” Biorkis told him. “This is the holy temple of Ariel, and we are his priests. You may speak freely. No harm can reach you here.”

As if reassured by the soothing words the knight licked his lips and said with as much strength as he could muster, “I am come from the King.”

The words were simple, but they struck the ears of the listeners like thunder. The King! He comes from the King! The murmur rose to echo from the high vaulted arches of the temple.

Only Izash, still leaning upon his rod, seemed unimpressed.

“Our king? Or someone else’s?” the elderly priest asked.

“King Eskevar,” the fallen knight answered with spirit.

The name sent another ripple through the gathered priests. The King had been absent so long, his name unheard among his own countrymen, that hearing it now brought hope to all gathered there.

“And what of the King?” the old priest continued. His probing had a method to it; he was occupying the knight, making him forget his wounds and the pain which twisted his rugged features.

“I cannot say more. The rest is for the Queen alone.” The fighting man gulped air and licked his lips again. “I was waylaid last night-ambushed by outlaws who now sleep with the snow.”