*****
Edwin knelt within the chapel, his head bowed, his ancient sword Trumbrand clasped in his hands. The men had laid out the scout’s shattered body on a bier. Edwin had never once moved, and if he saw the corpse, he gave no sign.
The young knights crept forward, glancing nervously at one another. Edwin did not look up, did not even move as they knelt on either side of him. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deep, his lips parted slightly.
“Give me a sign,” he prayed, beseeching whatever powers might harken to his voice. “I am not afraid. I will do what you ask. Just give me a sign that I am not alone.”
Over and over he repeated his simple plea. The prayer filled his thoughts, staved off hunger and weariness, suffused him with peace and calm. He had come to the chapel often in his youth, when he could steal away for an hour or two without Derek noticing. He had knelt there, keeping vigil as Huma and Vinas and the Hooded Knight did in the tales. Sometimes, he had thought he had felt something, but he had never been sure. Now, he prayed more fervently than ever. Dragons-real dragons-were coming. But if dragons were real, that meant that Huma might have been real as well. And then, that meant-he trembled at the thought-that Paladine was real!
“You must be tired, young man.”
Edwin caught his breath so suddenly, he nearly choked. He opened his eyes and stared in wonder. There was nothing there. He glanced to either side. The young knights who had joined him in his vigil dozed where they knelt.
“I said, you must be tired, Edwin,” said the voice again.
The voice came from behind him. Wincing as he moved joints stiff from hours of motionlessness, Edwin half-turned to see who had joined him. Behind him stood Pax Garett, and there was compassion in the old knight’s face. He rested a gauntleted hand on Edwin’s shoulder and smiled kindly.
“S-Sir Pax!” stammered Edwin. “Why have you come? Is something the matter?” He started to rise, his brow creased with worry, Trumbrand ready in his hand. “Are we under attack?”
“No, no,” Pax said. Gently but firmly, he pushed Edwin back down. “Nothing so bad as that. I just needed to get out of that accursed storm for a while.” He glanced over his shoulder at the chapel’s closed door. “And I had to speak with you, this night.” He reached for a flask on his belt, unstopped it, and took a deep draught. Wiping his grizzled mouth, he handed the flask to Edwin. “It’s only water, I fear,” the elder knight said. “My old heart burns these days if I drink anything stronger.”
Edwin took the flask and drank thirstily. Knees creaking, Pax crouched down beside him.
“Why have you come to see me?” Edwin asked. “Surely my brother-”
Pax shook his head. “Your brother has enough to worry about.” He fixed Edwin with a piercing gaze.
“I knew, soon or late, this day would come,” Pax said. “And,” he added, his expression growing fond, “in a way, I’m glad it has. You were always special, Edwin. So few believe the tales these days. When I was a lad, there were some who scoffed, but they were few. Now, times have changed. Men think the stories are fancy, that Quivalen Soth and Rutger of Saddleway were just artful liars.”
Edwin nodded. He’d heard as much-from Derek and others-all his life. “Then . . . the tales . . . they are true?” he asked slowly, his voice hushed.
Pax smiled, gave a short chuckle. “Who’s to say?” he replied. “I wasn’t around to see Huma take the field against She of Many Colors and None, or the Hooded Knight ride out to battle Angethrim. But then, I’ve never seen a dragon, either. Some of the tales may be false, some true, some both. What does it matter? All that’s important is the believing. I could never make Derek understand that, but you”-Pax patted Edwin on the shoulder fondly-“you always knew. Keep believing, Edwin, and one day the bards might sing about you.”