"Aye," Gorlias whispered. "Let this Elak sit upon the throne!"
A chorus of assent rose. Lycon looked worried.
He murmured, "It's true, Elak. I saw it. Red fire came out of nowhere and burned Kond to a cinder."
Dalan was silent, his ugly face impassive. Elak, watching the Druid, could not read a message in the shallow black eyes.
Gorlias said, "If you can sit on the throne, I'll follow you. If not—you'll be dead. Well?"
Elak did not speak. He turned and mounted the dais. For a moment he paused before the great throne of Cyrena, his gaze dwelling on the golden dragon that writhed across its back, the golden dragons on the arms. For ages the kings of Cyrena had ruled from this seat, ruled with honor and chivalry under the dragon. And now Elak remembered how, in Poseidonia, he had felt himself unworthy to mount the throne.
Would the fires of Mider slay him if he took his dead brother's place?
Silently Elak prayed to his god. "If I'm unworthy," he told Mider, with no thought of irreverence, but as one warrior to another, "then slay me, rather than let the throne be dishonored. Yours is the judgment."
He took his place on the dragon throne.
Silence fell like a pall on the great room. The faces of the crowd were intent and strained. Lycon's breath came fast. The Druid's hands, hidden under the brown robe, made a quick, furtive gesture; his lips moved without sound.