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curls—hung limp and lifeless and had now turned almost completely gray.
    Quentin found himself staring at the face of a strange man who looked at him intently with sunken eyes rimmed with dark circles. He looked away quickly and said, “This is a cheery room, Sire. Will we be alone, or are others expected?”
    â€œOthers will come, but not yet. I wanted to speak to you alone first. Please, sit down.” The king lowered himself slowly into a chair at the round table, and Quentin followed. He wanted to weep at the sight of Eskevar, the mighty Dragon King who was now tottering like an old man.
    How could this be? wondered Quentin. How could such a change be wrought in such a short time? In a scant eight or nine months, the king had deteriorated to a shocking degree. Quentin wanted to dash from the room, to remove himself far away from the creature who sat beside him and who wore the king’s crown.
    Eskevar gazed into the young man’s eyes with a look of inexpressible tenderness; a fatherly compassion that Quentin had never seen before suddenly flowered. Quentin was strangely moved and forgot for a moment the horror of the king’s shattered health.
    â€œQuentin,” said Eskevar after a moment’s contemplation, “as you know, I have no son, no heir to my throne save Bria. My brother, Prince Jaspin, is banished, nevermore to return. I think it is time for me to choose my successor.”
    â€œSurely, my lord is mistaken.” Quentin gulped. “Now is not the time to think of such things. You have many years ahead of you. You are strong yet.”
    Eskevar shook his head slowly, frowning slightly. “No, it is not to be. Quentin”—again the sweet, sad smile and fatherly glance—“Quentin, I am dying.”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œYes! Hear me!” The king raised his voice. “Slowly it may be, but I am dying. I shall not live to see another spring. It is time for me to set my house in order.
    â€œI intend to choose you as my successor—wait! Since you are not in direct bloodline, it will have to go before the Council of Regents. I expect no problem there. As I have chosen you myself, they will ratify my choice gladly.”
    Quentin sat gazing at his folded hands, speechless. The king’s words had stricken him mute.
    After what seemed like hours, he looked up and saw Eskevar watching him quietly, but intensely. “You honor me greatly, Sire. But I am not worthy of such high accord. I am an orphan, and of no noble birth. I am not worthy to be king.”
    â€œYou, Quentin, are my ward. You have been a son to me as I have watched you grow to manhood these last years. I want you, and no other, to wear my crown.”
    â€œI do not know what to say, my lord.”
    â€œSay but that you will do as I command; ease my heart in this matter.”
    Quentin stood up from his chair and then went down on his knees before his king. “I am ever your servant, Sire. I will obey.”
    Eskevar placed a hand upon Quentin’s head and said, “I am content. Now my heart can rest.” He took Quentin by the arm; his grip was spidery and light. “Rise, sir! One king does not kneel to another. From this day forth you are heir to the throne of Mensandor.”
    Just then there came a knock upon the chamber door and Oswald’s voice could be heard calling, “The others have arrived, Your Majesty,” as the door swung open.
    In walked Toli and Durwin. Toli hesitated at the sight of the king, but Durwin did not flinch at all. He hurried to the table and, with a quick bow, began talking of his travels, all the while keeping a close eye on the ailing monarch as if weighing him for some remedy.
    â€œGood, good. Be seated, both of you. We have a matter to discuss.”
    The king looked at his comrades closely and drew a deep, weary breath before he began.
    â€œFor some time I have been of an uneasy mind. Restless, hungry, and uneasy. At