Voices were raised, some in approbation, some in angry protest and objection. A tall, lean oldster shouted, "Aye—this is Zeulas, returned once more. This is Orander's brother."
"Be silent, Hira," another snapped. "This scarecrow Cyrena's king?"
Elak flushed and took a half-step forward. Dalan's voice halted him.
"You disbelieve, Gorlias?" he asked. "Well—d'you know of a worthier man? Will you sit on the dragon throne?"
Gorlias looked at the Druid with an oddly frightened air; he fell silent and turned away. The others broke into a renewed chorus of quarreling.
Hira silenced them. His lean face was triumphant. "There's one sure test. Let him take it."
He turned to Elak. "The lords of Cyrena have fought like a pack of snarling dogs since Orander's death. Each wanted the throne. Baron Kond yelled louder than the rest. Dalan offered him the dragon throne, in the name of Mider, if he could hold it."
From the others a low whisper went up—uneasy, fearful. Hira continued:
"Kond mounted the dais a month ago and sat on the throne. And he died! The fires of Mider slew him."