the table—”
“A pot of diamonds! Really?”
“I jest you not. Right there, the third one over, yes that’s it. Take all you want. Take them all. Do you value them personally or do your people regard them highly as a trade item?”
Jymoor opened her mouth to answer but a noise distracted her. She turned toward a large cabinet of shelves and realized that a man stood just around its edge, trying to flatten himself against its side.
“Who are you?” Jymoor gasped.
“Fear not,” Yeel said, speaking toward Jymoor. “It is I, Yeel, your close associate!”
“Not you Yeel. I’m speaking to that tall man hiding next to the shelves, there.”
The man stepped forward uncertainly. He had a long beard and a strong frame, although he looked as though his diet had been poor. He wore torn and dirty clothing, like that of a common laborer.
“I have no name…I am a servant…of Faverhind.”
“No longer, dear fellow,” Yeel said. “Faverhind has been dealt with…I daresay you are now free, without master, ready to feel the four winds on your face as an independent agent, should it strike your fancy.”
The man seemed shocked by this news, or perhaps by Yeel’s circuitous dialogue.
“How did you come to be here?” Jymoor asked.
The man stared off into space. “I was…here on a quest. I wore the armor…once, they called me the Crescent Knight.”
Jymoor made a small surprised sound. “You’re alive! Of course, as you heard, we thought you dead.”
“Please accept my apologies, sir,” Yeel added. “I will, of course, recognize your ownership of the armor. I will not disturb it further.”
The knight hesitated again. He looked up at the hanging armor, as if remembering. “Once…but it belongs to Master Faverhind, now.”
“Oh no,” Yeel said, “He’s not a problem any longer; you may proceed with your life as you see fit, at your whim—”
“What he means is that Faverhind is dead, or as good as dead,” Jymoor said. “Will you please join us, my lord? We still need you, and Yeel here, to aid us in our battle for survival. I beg you, don your armor again, and return to your home as a hero!”
The knight shuffled nervously. Jymoor examined the tatters of his clothing, and saw the man looked thin and weak. The knight’s eyes were haunted, and told of hardship.
“Perhaps I shall,” he said at last. “If Faverhind is no more…”
“They called you the Crescent Knight since birth?” Yeel asked. “Is your position a hereditary one in your society?”
The man shook his head. “I was born with the name Avorn,” he said.
“It would be rude to refer to him as anything other than the Crescent Knight, or his lordship,” Jymoor jumped in.
“No…I am a man like any other. I will answer to my other name, and take no offense in it.”
“Well then, my Lord Avorn the Crescent Knight, do you happen to know how to open the chest secured by snakes? Or what is inside of it?” Yeel asked.
Avorn walked back into the adjoining room. Yeel moved to observe him. Jymoor snatched up the small pottery cup of diamonds that Yeel had mentioned and went after them. The knight came to the black table that held the snake-secured chest.
“Salvas tiam gettamrat,” the knight muttered. The entwined serpents immediately released their jaws and slithered free of each other. They slid gracefully onto the top of the chest and lay still.
“How did you do that?” Jymoor asked.
“He learned Faverhind’s keywords,” Yeel answered for the knight. “And what is inside?” he asked of the sullen ex-prisoner.
“He keeps the things that he has taken from all those who have come seeking you over the years. Including my sword, I believe,” Avorn answered.
“Then you shall get it back,” Yeel said. He reached forward and flipped the lid open. Jymoor almost yelled out, fearful of the snakes. But they slid lazily over the table, content to stay near the chest, and they didn’t make any efforts to attack.
Yeel produced an odd-cut leather pack and began to move items from the chest into it. Jymoor saw several interesting things as Yeel plundered the container. There were jewels, amulets, holy symbols and even a tiny metal facsimile of a bear with moving limbs. Yeel produced a short sword and handed it to Avorn.
Jymoor watched the knight as he regarded his weapon. Holding the sword transformed him with a wave of confidence or purpose. The man’s shoulders squared and his jaw set in newfound determination.
“I must retrieve my armor,” Avorn announced and tromped back into the other