When the great day came at last for the Sword to be put into his hands, with a blare of trumpets the castle gates flew open, and a long procession of nobles filed through.  To the sound of cheers and ringing of bells, Aldebaran fared forth on his quest.  The old king, his father, stepped down in the morning sun, and with bared head Aldebaran knelt to receive his blessing.  With his hand on the Sword he swore that he would not come home again, until he had made a braver conquest than had ever been made with it before, and by the bloodstone on his finger the old king knew that Aldebaran would fail not in the keeping of that oath.

With the godspeed of the villagers ringing in his ears, he rode away.  Only once he paused to look back, when a white hand fluttered at a casement, and Vesta’s sorrowful face shone down on him like a star.  Then she, too, saw the bloodstone on his finger as he waved her a farewell, and she, too, knew by that token he would fail not in the keeping of his oath.

’Twas passing wonderful how soon Aldebaran began to taste the sweets of great achievement.  His name was on the tongue of every troubador, his deeds in every minstrel’s song.  And though he travelled far to alien lands, scarce known by hearsay even to the folk at home, his fame was carried back, far over seas again, and in his father’s court his name was spoken daily in proud tones, as they recounted all his honours.

Young, strong, with the impetuous blood begotten of success tingling through all his veins, he had no thought that dire mishap could seize on him; that pain or malady or mortal weakness could pierce his armour, which youth and health had girt about him.  From place to place he went, wherever there was need of some brave champion to espouse a weak one’s cause.  It mattered not who was arrayed against him, whether a tyrant king, a dragon breathing fire, or some hideous scaly monster that preyed upon the villages.  His Sword of Conquest was unsheathed for each; and as his courage grew with every added victory, he thirsted for some greater foe to vanquish, remembering his youthful vow.

And as he journeyed on he pictured often to himself the day of his returning, the day on which his vow should find fulfilment.  How wide the gates would be thrown open for his welcome!  How loud would swell the cheers of those who thronged to do him honour!  His dreams were always of that triumphal entrance, and of Vesta’s approving smile.  Never once the shadow of a thought stole through his mind that it might be far otherwise.  Was not he born for conquest?  Did not the very stars foretell success?

One night, belated in a mountain pass, he sought the shelter of a shelving rock, and with his mantle wrapped about him lay down to sleep.  Upon the morrow he would sally forth and beard the Province Terror in his stronghold; would challenge him to combat, and after long and glorious battle would rid the country of its dreaded foe.  Already tasting victory, he fell asleep, a smile upon his lips.