“I knew.”
“So you were right to refuse the offer, and I think you showed great composure under the circumstances. I think that if the game had been allowed to continue, you might have beaten him.”
Ben laughed. “I appreciate the vote of confidence. I notice, however, that you left nothing to chance.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you ignored my order not to use the magic and conjured up that image of the Paladin when it looked as if I was going down for the count!”
The owlish face studied him, a faint outline in the dark. Questor set aside the bloodied cloths. “I did nothing of the sort. High Lord. That was the Paladin.”
There was a long silence. “Then he has come three times now,” Ben whispered finally, his bewilderment evident.
“He came when I was caught in the time passage with the Mark, he came when the demons appeared at the coronation, and now he has come to the Greensward. But he seems just exactly what you called him, Questor — a ghost! He looks as if he’s only an image made of light! What is he really?”
The other shrugged. “Maybe what he appears — maybe something more.”
Ben hunched his knees up close against his body, trying to stay warm. “I think that he’s out there. I think that he’s trying to come back again.” He looked at Questor for confirmation.
Questor shook his head. “I do not know, High Lord. Maybe so.”
“What was it that brought him in the past? There must be something you can tell me about him — about why and how he appeared to the old King.”
“He appeared when he was summoned,” the other replied. “The summons has always come from the wearer of the medallion. The medallion is a part of the magic, High Lord. There is a link between it, the Kings of Landover, and the Paladin. But only the Kings of Landover have ever fully understood what that link was.”
Ben pulled the medallion from beneath his tunic and studied it. “Maybe if I rub it, or talk to it, or just grasp it — maybe that will bring the Paladin. What do you think?”
Questor shrugged. Ben tried all three and nothing happened. He tried wishing for the Paladin’s appearance, hands clutched about the medallion so tightly he could feel the impression of its carved surface. Nothing happened.
“I suppose I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.” He sighed and dropped the medallion back down the front of his tunic, feeling it catch on the chain that lay looped about his neck. He looked up through a hole in the barn roof as the wind rattled the shingles against their fastenings. “Tell me about the dragon and the Lords of the Greensward.”
The wizard’s stooped form bent closer still. “You heard most of it from Kallendbor yourself. The Lords of the Greensward are at war with Strabo. The dragon is their nemesis. He has preyed upon them for the better part of twenty years — ever since the old King died. He burns their crops and their buildings; he devours their livestock and occasionally their thralls. He hunts their lands at will, and they are powerless to stop it.”
“Because the dragon is part of the magic — isn’t that it?”
“Yes, High Lord. Strabo is the last of his kind. He was a creature of the world of fairy until his exile thousands of years ago. He cannot be harmed by mortal weapons, only by the magic from which he was created. That was why Kallendbor felt safe in challenging you to rid him of the dragon — he believes you a fraud. A true King of Landover would command the magic of the medallion and could summon the Paladin to do his bidding.”
Ben nodded. “It all comes back to the Paladin, doesn’t it? Tell me, Questor, why is it that the dragon hunts the Greensward as he does?”
The wizard smiled. “He is a dragon.”
“Yes, I know. But he didn’t always hunt like this, I gather — at least, not while the old King lived.”
“True. He kept to his own land in times previous. Perhaps he feared the old King. Perhaps the Paladin kept him there until the old King was dead. Your guess is as good as mine.”