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Information: Genre: High
Fantasy Author:
Deborah Chester Name: The
Sword Series:
The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice, book 1 ======================
Part One
The
dogs warned Tobeszijian that something was wrong. It
was only The
king’s dogs, tall slender beasts with white curly hair feathering thickly on
their long legs, ran ahead. Cresting a rise, they lifted their slim muzzles and
barked excitedly. The king and his lord protector rode right behind them. They
parted to dodge a stand of snow-laden fir trees, and plunged down the slope
toward a thicket of briars and choked undergrowth. Tobeszijian’s gaze swept the
snow ahead of him, noting the scuffed tracks—not fresh—and the nibbled tips of
branches. Deer had come this way, all right, but not as recently as Count
Mradvior had led him to believe. Clamped
between his strong thighs, his black stallion stretched its muscular neck and
fought the bit, trying to outrun the dogs, who were bounding gracefully over
the snowdrifts, baying now with a sharp, shrill unfamiliar note. Tobeszijian
reined back, forcing the excited stallion to slow. Half
of the hunting party came into sight behind him, shouting encouragement to the
dogs; the rest galloped in from his left. Ahead
of him, the dogs reached the thicket, snapping and growling, then one of them
yelped sharply and sprang back. Blood stained her white coat. “That’s
no hind!” Kuliestka shouted. Tobeszijian
felt a surge of excitement. Since rising at dawn, he’d been eager to course the
deer that Mradvior and Surov had claimed was out here. He’d dressed swiftly,
eaten light, and kept his horse at a ground-eating canter right behind the
dogs. “Nay,” he said. “I’ll wager my spurs it’s a stag that’s gouged the bitch
like that.” Another
dog yelped and dodged, the snarling and snapping taking a vicious quality
unusual when they cornered a deer. Tobeszijian frowned, but could see nothing
in the thicket except a violent shaking of the branches and brambles. “Thod
take the creature!” Prince Kuliestka said. “Will it stand here or will it run?” An
arrow skimmed Tobeszijian’s left arm just above the elbow, ripping his cloak
and sliding harmlessly off his chain mail. It nicked the shoulder of his horse,
which reared, screaming. Fighting
to keep control of his animal and furious at who- ever
had shot so carelessly, Tobeszijian tried to look to see who was shooting, but
his glance took in only a confused blur of snow and trees, rapid movement as
the hunting party galloped closer, and a series of rapid jolts as his horse
bucked. From the thicket, something suddenly exploded forth, racing away black
and swift, with the dogs in rapid pursuit. Tobeszijian
spurred his stallion, who galloped after them. Blood was still streaming from
the horse’s shoulder, splattering back across Tobeszijian’s gauntlets and thigh.
He put his anger aside, knowing he would deal with the matter later, and bent
low over the stallion’s whipping mane, urging him on faster. In
minutes, he grew certain they chased no stag. The creature was larger, fully as
big as a danselk, but too swift. Now and then Tobeszijian caught glimpses of
it, too fleeting to tell what it was, except that it was black, the color of no
stag that he knew, nay, and no danselk either. They
were rapidly leaving the gentle rolling country behind for steeper hills and
sharp little ravines where half-frozen streams plunged. The forest grew much
denser here, in some places impassable. It was hopeless trying to keep the rest
of the hunting party in sight. Tobeszijian focused on his quarry. He was
curious about it now and fevered from the thrill of the chase it was giving
him. By Thod, he thought joyously, this was good hunting. He
stayed low in the saddle, his stallion flashing through trees and under
low-hanging branches far too fast and wildly for safety. The dogs streaked
ahead of him, almost but not quite able to catch their quarry. He realized he
had left Kuliestka behind, and wondered how that could be. His lord protector’s
horse must have stumbled or blown its wind from the furious pace. The sounds of
the others crashing and shouting behind him grew fainter, heading in a
different direction. The other dogs must have scented another deer. Tobeszijian
cared not. His own dogs were running easily, their pink tongues lolling. His
horse was strong and not yet tired. If necessary Tobeszijian could keep up this
chase for another hour, surely long enough for the quarry to tire and begin to
slow. He
lost sight of it and reined up sharply, listening to his breath panting in his
throat. The dogs were running in silence now, and for an instant he heard
nothing except the snorts of his horse as it champed the bit. His saddle
creaked beneath him, and he stood up in the stirrups, shielding his eyes from
the sting of snowflakes as he peered ahead. He
had stopped halfway down a steep hill. A ridge rose sharply before him,
blanketed almost entirely with snow-dusted trees. If the dogs lost their quarry
in this tight country, he would not find it again. Even
as the thought crossed his mind, the creature bounded into sight in a small
clearing halfway up the rise before him. It paused there, holding its head
high, puffing white from its nostrils. It was a stag, brown with a white throat
and belly, antlers spreading a full twelve points. The
dogs came into sight at the bottom of the hill, yelping and casting for the
creature’s trail along the bank of a narrow, ice-scrimmed stream. Calm, even
noble, the stag gazed across the valley at Tobeszijian. He reached for his horn
to call the dogs back onto the trail, but confusion suddenly swirled in his
mind and he never blew it. Was
this another deer? He’d been chasing something black, not brown. He’d seen no
flash of white from its flag and hindquarters. Had the dogs confused two
trails? From
far away to his left came the low blat of the huntsman’s horn, startling
Tobeszijian. He hadn’t realized he’d gone so far east. Or maybe he’d lost his
direction entirely in this rough country. It was easy enough to do with the sun
hidden behind such dark snow clouds. The
dogs suddenly found the trail and leaped the stream. They went streaking up the
hill, glimpsed here and there through the dark green of the firs and spruces.
The stag remained motionless, except for flicking one ear in the dogs’
direction. It seemed unworried by their approach. Tobeszijian
told himself to spur his horse forward and catch up. This was a fine stag
indeed. What did it matter if the dogs had lost whatever he’d been after? He
felt a shiver brush the back of his shoulders beneath his clothing, like icy
fingernails scraping there. An unexplainable but powerful reluctance to go
farther seized him. That
hillside, he felt certain, held his death. Tobeszijian
had never been able to part the veils of seeing and gaze into the second world,
or even the third, despite his being half eldin. It was said his father’s human
blood ran too strong in his veins, blinding him from having the sight. He’d
never cared much if he lacked the eldin gifts, until now when he found himself
wishing violently for the ability to see what had become of his mysterious
quarry. A
second shiver touched him, and he felt a dark, malevolent presence, unseen and
unsensed even by his horse, which was tugging at the bridle and pawing with a
forefoot. Danger
lurked behind Tobeszijian as well. Remembering the close call with that arrow,
he leaned forward and touched the wound on his stallion’s neck. It had stopped
bleeding. The cut was shallow and would cause no harm to the animal, but had
the angle been different, had the arrow gone into his armpit instead of
glancing off his elbow ... A
chill swept through Tobeszijian, and his nostrils flared in a mixture of anger
and alarm. There had been too many near misses and almost accidents already
during this hunting expedition, enough to make any sane man cautious. But
he could not sit here all day if he was to bring down this stag. His horse
pawed again, rested now, and the stag’s ears pricked toward the dogs, which
were nearly upon it. Again the stag glanced at Tobeszijian, as if to say, Why don’t you come?
He let his horse trot forward down the rest of the slope, then canter across
the stream, kicking up water and ice around him. He could still see the stag,
standing motionless amidst the trees. Tobeszijian believed it was waiting for
him, tempting him. By now, the dogs had reached it, and were yelping in
excitement, but their barks suddenly changed to that shrill, frenzied noise
they’d made earlier. It
was the sound of fear, Tobeszijian realized. He saw the stag whirl around. It
charged forward with its antlers, then sprang aside and went bounding through a
stand of thick pines. As it did, the air around it seemed to shimmer. The pines
themselves rippled, and Tobeszijian glimpsed something black and sleek instead
of the flash of white he should have seen off the animal’s hindquarters. A
smell rolled down the hill to his nostrils, a thick decayed smell of carrion
left to ripen. Shapeshifter. Fear
burst in his chest, and he reined so hard he made his horse rear up.
Tobeszijian’s head nearly cracked against an overhead tree limb, but he paid no
attention. He was hauling back on the reins, yanking cruelly at his horse’s
mouth before finally succeeding in pulling the animal around. Feeling breath- less
and choked, he spurred it hard, and the horse plunged back across the stream.
For an instant he could still hear the excited barking of his dogs, those brave
handsome creatures coursing tirelessly after their prey. Regret flashed through
him, and he reached for his horn to call them off. But
then his hand dropped from the horn hanging on the front of his saddle. The
dogs had the creature’s scent well in their nostrils and they were close enough
now to course it by sight. They would not turn back no matter how much he
called. Tobeszijian
fled in the opposite direction with his heart pounding too fast and his breath
tangled in his lungs. There was little enough in this world that he feared, but
no one but a mad fool took on a shapeshifter alone in a deserted wood. After
a few minutes he realized he was bent low in the saddle, shaking all over,
mindlessly urging his laboring horse yet faster. Coming to his senses, he
reined up, making his horse stumble. He nearly pitched forward out of the
saddle, and had to grab the pommel hard to hang on. Together,
horse and rider paused there in a small hollow next to a fallen log overgrown
with ivy now burnished red and gold by the autumn frosts. Tobeszijian willed
his pounding heart to slow down, willed his mind to start thinking. He
was drenched and shivering with clammy, miserable sweat beneath his clothing
and mail. Wiping his face with an unsteady hand, he realized he was alone out
here. The members of his hunting party were well to the west of his current
position. He could hear them, but they were too far away. His lord protector
was either among them, or separately searching for him, or dead of an arrow in
his back. Frowning,
Tobeszijian pushed that last thought away. The afternoon was well advanced by
now. The gloomy skies were much darker than before. Nightfall would come early
tonight. Nightfall
with a shapeshifter in the forest. A
keeback burst from a nearby tree with a loud flurry of its wings, making him
start violently, and flew away, calling kee-kee-kee. Tobeszijian
believed the shapeshifter had been leading him into a certain trap. How far
would he have chased it, galloping to his death like a mindless fool, before it
turned and attacked him? Or led him to an ambush of soultakers? He
shivered again, drawing his cloak tighter around him. His
horse stood with its head low and sides heaving, blowing hard through its
nostrils. Steam rose into the air off its shoulders. The
arrow, he understood now, had been intended to spring him into the chase.
Everyone knew how much Tobeszijian loved hunting, how obsessed he could become,
especially when he escaped court and Grov and fled into the snowy wilderness up
north to the World’s Rim. There, mountains stood as a barrier to the ice-coated
Every
autumn Tobeszijian allowed himself this one excursion for pleasure, taking
himself far from the cares and intrigues of politics, the day-to-day management
of his kingdom. Summers were for war against Gant and sometimes Klad. Winters
were for remaining denned up by the fire, clothed in wool and heavy furs against
the bitter cold, plotting strategies while the harsh weather raged outside.
Spring was for taking his lady wife out into the forests, officially to hunt
with her dainty falcon, but in reality to let her visit her people in privacy
away from the disapproving stares of his subjects and the churchmen. But autumn
was for hunting; autumn he saved for himself. Gladly
he abandoned the mundane duties of his office for two months of glorious play,
hunting and camping in the wilds with his most stalwart knights and whatever
courtiers were in favor. It was a way of clearing his mind and restoring
himself. He had gone forth every year since taking the throne, telling himself
that his enemies could not wreak too much havoc in his absence. His
fear had left him now. Reaching out, Tobeszijian scooped a handful of snow off
a pine branch and rubbed his face with it. The snow was dry and powdery,
burning his skin with its cold. He ate some of it and tossed the rest away. He
felt hollow and a little embarrassed by his extreme reaction. Still, he knew
himself to be no coward. It was not foolish, but prudent indeed, to flee one of
the Nonkind. Frowning,
he put the other incidents of this trip together, piecing them into place the
way Princess Thiatereika might solve one of her puzzles. The
first incident had been with the white beyar. He
always started his hunting trips by traveling far to the north in search of the
fabled white beyars of Omarya Fjord. Sighting
a white beyar was considered a very good omen. To capture one was rare indeed,
and he had set his heart on someday having white beyar fur draped across his
winter throne. Every year, he always came home without it. But
this time, he had actually sighted one—a huge male with intelligent black eyes.
The animal’s throat was banded in dark gray, and he stood on an ice floe
bobbing on the surface of the fjord, staring right back at Tobeszijian as
though in recognition. Holding
his bow undrawn, Tobeszijian had found himself transfixed, unable to breathe. A
voice tugged at his mind, and he could almost hear the words who/who/who/who. “Look
at him,” Prince Kuliestka said, breathing the words in Tobeszijian’s ear.
“Magnificent devil! He’s not afraid of us.” “He’s
waiting,” Tobeszijian said in sudden understanding. “Waiting for his rider.” Kuliestka’s
hand tightened on Tobeszijian’s shoulder. “Shoot him now. It’s a clear shot,
perfect.” But
Tobeszijian did not move, did not draw. The beyar was still staring right at
him, as though he knew everything they thought and said. A cold shiver ran down
Tobeszijian’s spine. He glanced around, at the steep snowy slopes of the
hillside that ran straight down into the water. Tall pines, spruce, and firs
grew in heavy thickets, snow bending their branches almost to the ground. The
eld rider could be anywhere, close by or a league away. Tobeszijian had not
sensed his presence, but then he had been killing game all day. The smell of
blood hung thick in his nostrils, and the proximity of his human companions was
smothering his senses. A
short distance away, angled up the bank from Tobeszijian and kneeling behind a
fallen log, Count Mradvior nocked his bow and aimed it right at the king, who
was in the line of fire between him and the beyar. The count rose as though to
shoot over the head of the king, and Tobeszijian sensed rather than saw him.
Anger flooded his mind. He stood up, turning in one fluid motion, and hurled
his bow like a spinning scythe at Mradvior. The
heavy bow hit the count, knocking him over and spoiling his aim. His hastily
released arrow flashed in a short, high arc, coming down harmlessly into the
water. “He
is not your game!” Tobeszijian said angrily. Mradvior
stood up, floundering in the deep, powdery snow, and swore long and loud. His
voice echoed up the hillside, bouncing between sky and water. Keebacks flew
from the tree-tops, making their plaintive kee-kee-kee
sound. Mradvior
glared at Tobeszijian. “I was trying to pin him for your majesty. I was trying
to help your majesty get the perfect shot.” Tobeszijian
was not appeased. He needed no help in shooting his game, but that was hardly
the point. Mradvior was always trying to step in where he was not needed,
helping where no help was wanted, offering assistance that was in the way,
hastening to perform tasks of service such as plucking a freshly filled wine
cup from the serving boy’s hand and bringing it to Tobeszijian himself. New to
court and far too ambitious, Mradvior seemed to think he had to work hard to
win favor, when that was the surest way to lose it. Tobeszijian had regretted
bringing him on this hunting trip from the first day. And now he was certain he
had made a mistake. “Surely
our noble companions have informed you by now that I need no help in making my
shots,” Tobeszijian said furiously. “I am not enfeebled. My eyesight is not
gone.” “No,
your majesty,” Mradvior said, beginning to turn red as everyone stared at him.
“Forgive me, your majesty. I was only trying to help.” “Couldn’t
you see the beyar is an eld-mount?” Tobeszijian said in disgust. Mradvior
looked puzzled. “I—I—” “They
are never to be killed.” Disgusted, Tobeszijian turned away from him. Of
course, the ice floe was now empty. Prince Kuliestka, holding his helmet in his lap so that the
fading sunlight spangled red highlights in his golden hair, still crouched on
the bank, staring intently at the fjord. It was getting late now in the day,
and mist was forming over the water, obscuring the ice floe and curling in
among the trees on the bank. “He
dove off the moment you moved,” Kuliestka said without turning his head. His
keen eyes, wrinkled with squint lines at the corners, swept the mist and water
again before glancing up at his king. “Fast, for such a big one. No splash of
water. I knew he’d go and I kept my eyes on him every second, but he was gone
from sight in a blink.” “The
legends say they can swim underwater for many minutes,” Tobeszijian said,
feeling disappointment encompass him now. He’d wanted to watch the beyar, to
communicate with him. If he’d had time to share his thoughts, perhaps the
beyar’s rider would have returned and made greeting. It was rare to communicate
with the eldin this far north. Tobeszijian sighed. “He is long gone by now.” Now,
that memory faded as a scream from the throat of nothing human rose into the
twilight air and echoed over the hills. Shivering under his cloak, Tobeszijian
patted his tired horse, scraping off the lather foaming on his neck. At the
time, he had been caught up in the wonder of having seen a white beyar that
close, that clearly. He had realized he could never shoot one of the
magnificent animals, for they were not meant to be trophies on display in the
palace. That day, the hunting party had ridden on and pursued other creatures.
But now, chilled and worried, Tobeszijian considered the incident in a new
light and asked himself if Count Mradvior had been aiming at the beyar or at
himself. And
what of the night a drunken Count Surov had stumbled into the fire while
Tobeszijian was standing close to it with his back turned, talking to some of
the younger members of the party? Surov had tipped over a huge cauldron of
boiling stew. Only the quick intervention of Prince Kuliestka had saved the
king from being seriously burned. Young Fluryk had been splashed in the face,
and he would be scarred for life. In
the morning, a humbled Surov had apologized on his knees before the king, who
had pardoned him kindly. Surov had promised not to let himself get drunk again,
and he had kept that promise. Only now, thinking about the matter with a mind
full of suspicion, did Tobeszijian realize Surov had not been drunk a single
evening prior to the incident. Nor was Surov ever one to lose control of
himself. He was a dour, somber man, more a companion to the king’s half-brother
than to Tobeszijian himself. But he had asked to come on this year’s hunting
trip, and proved himself to be a competent hunter, although he seemed to take
little enjoyment from the sport. Then
there had been the boar, which had exploded from a thicket without warning,
squealing and attacking savagely. The horses had panicked, bucking and rearing
away. Leaning over to grab one of his hunting spears, Tobeszijian had been
rammed from the side by another man’s horse and nearly knocked from the saddle
right into the path of the charging boar. Prince Kuliestka had spurred his own
frightened mount between Tobeszijian and the boar, managing to stab the creature
in the neck. By then Tobeszijian had dropped out of the saddle, which was
slipping dangerously around his horse’s belly. With his horse running backward
away from him, he managed to draw a spear from the saddle quiver and turned to
stab the boar in one eye just as it reached him. The boar squealed horribly and
fell over at his feet with a final kick of death. Tobeszijian
wondered who had knocked him off his horse. Was it an unavoidable jostling in
the confusion of out-of-con-trol horses, or yet another attempt on his life?
Tobeszijian realized he could explain away each incident, dismiss them all if
he chose. Had there only been one or two, he would have. But there had been too
many. And after today, when he’d come so close to falling into a terrible trap,
he no longer wanted to dismiss any suspicion. The
scream came again, a long, wailing shriek that made the hair on the back of his
neck stand up inside his mail coif. He felt a fresh surge of fear, but
controlled it this time. He knew the shapeshifter now realized it had lost him.
Would it come back for him? His
mouth felt dry, and he swallowed, resisting the temptation to gallop blindly
away. He had to use his wits now and not fall into another trap. Who
among his thirty or so hunting companions could he trust? He realized that
Prince Kuliestka was the only one he could be absolutely sure of. And his lord
protector was missing. Mouthing
an oath, Tobeszijian steeled himself and took his time about finding his bearings.
He had lost his dogs and his party, but he himself was not lost. He
kicked his horse forward, heading back toward camp at a cautious trot. He had
to conserve his horse’s strength now. If he broke the animal’s wind he would be
alone and on foot when darkness fell. That would surely be the end of him. He
rode for a grim hour, keeping his wits and senses sharp. The snow had stopped
falling, but the air was heavy with damp and bitterly cold. It was growing
steadily darker, making the forest close in around him. With the hills and
ravines and thickets any man could easily have become lost. But Tobeszijian’s
eldin blood gave him a sense of direction superior to any human’s. He followed
his instincts and knew himself close now to camp. That’s
when he heard the sound of hoofbeats and the jin-gJing harnesses of several
riders. In the gloom and snowy mist, he could barely see more than a few feet
ahead of him. He
stopped his horse and backed the reluctant stallion beneath a fir whose
branches were bent low under their burden of snow. Dismounting, he held the
animal’s nostrils to keep it from whinnying at the other horses. They rode past
at a weary walk, close enough for him to recognize Nuryveviza, Varstok, Surov,
and Mradvior. “We’ll
be at camp in a few minutes,” Varstok was saying. His voice was gruff, hoarse
with cold, and unmistakable. A huge beyar of a man, he wore a black fur cloak
lined with white wool and layers of sheepskin padding beneath his plate armor
for warmth. He looked like a mountain being carried by a horse. “What do we
tell them? What do we say?” “What
we know,” Mradvior said, sounding short-tempered. “The king chased a stag from
sight. We lost him. We have called and searched, but he is not yet found.” “Kuliestka
will make us search all night,” Surov grumbled. “The
lord protector is missing too,” Mradvior said. Someone
laughed, and Tobeszijian’s fingers tightened too hard on his horse’s nose. It
flung up its head, almost pulling free of his hold, and one of the riders
glanced back. “Did
you hear something?” Mradvior
clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t jump at shadows, my friend. Let us find
fire and wine to warm us.” They
vanished into the gloom, and Tobeszijian stood there in snow up to his knees,
shivering and cursing beneath his breath. He
knew now he could not return to camp. Not alone, with no one to witness what
had happened except a handful of frightened servants. They could be killed or
bullied. Mradvior and his friends had said enough to confirm Tobeszijian’s
suspicions. His five-year reign had been a difficult one from the start.
Following in the footsteps of his father, Runtha, had not been easy, and he’d
made mistakes at first. The
worst one had been to believe his half-brother, Muncel, would ever accept him
as king. He’d
tried to make peace with Muncel, had awarded him a rich holding in southern
Nether near the Mandrian border, but Muncel was not appeased. Every day he
listened to the steady drip of poison that was his mother’s voice, whispering
in his ear. He listened to the churchmen who were opposed to Tobeszijian
because of his eldin blood. When Tobeszijian took an eldin wife as queen,
following in the tradition of his father, the church had raised violent
objections. Tobeszijian ignored them, and had made himself more enemies as a
result. There were plenty who said that Muncel, fully human, should be king—
never mind that Muncel was a vain, petty, small-minded, conniving cheat who
could barely wield a sword and did not understand the concept of honor. Tobeszijian
had the sudden, overwhelming urge to be home in front of a fire, supplied with
a brimming wine cup, his boots off, watching his small children trying to climb
inside the boots and toppling over with peals of laughter. It
was his children who had surely goaded his enemies into such desperate
measures. First had come Thiatereika, so delicate and beautiful, like her
mother. She was four now, straight-backed and clear-eyed, her eldin blood
stamped strongly on her features even without her distinctive blue eyes and
pointed ears. Two winters past had come Faldain, named for an eldin king, in
defiance of Tobeszijian’s critics. Little Faldain with his black hair and
chubby cheeks and eyes a pale gray. Eldin eyes that frightened his nurses, who
murmured he would put a spell on them. Faldain could point at a supplicant
cringing before the throne and yell, “Liar!” and be proven correct in his
accusation. Faldain, gone missing, only to be found sleeping in the midst of
the king’s pack of tall, slender dogs, his chubby arms cradled around the neck
of Shaiya, the pack leader who would let no one but the king touch her without
biting. Faldain, who this summer had stood up in his cradle and loosed a shriek
of temper that blew out all the candles in the room. And who a few minutes
later had laughed, igniting them all again. Prince
Faldain, heir to the throne of Nether, was three-quarters eldin. Unlike his
father Tobeszijian, who looked human and rarely exhibited any gifts of eld, the
child was clearly nonhuman. His face might be sweet and chubby, but already the
pronounced cheekbones and pointed chin were showing. His eerie gray eyes were
tilted at the corners and saw into the minds of men and animals alike. The
people feared him, and rumors said that Muncel had vowed the boy would never
supplant him as king. Tobeszijian
had kept his concerns to himself. Five years of uneasy rule had taught him to
conceal his reasons and motives whenever possible, to give away little, to
confide never. He had decided to take the boy with him in public as much as
possible once Faldain grew a bit older, for he wanted the people to see the boy
and grow used to him. Already he had started negotiations with the people of
eld, asking for a tutor who could train the boy in private to govern his
special gifts. But
the rumors kept spreading that Faldain was of the evil, that the eldin were
hardly better than the Nonkind of Gant. Religious factions in Grov, Lolta,
Trebek, and other towns of Nether wanted complete separation between humans and
eldin, saying they didn’t belong together and never had. That
was false, of course. Tobeszijian knew the ancient histories, of how the folk
of eld had lived in Nether first, all the way back to the time of the War of
the Kingdoms, and how, following that fearsome time when the gods had battled
and slain each other, humans had crept from the They
were thriving now, driven by greed and the ambitions of men. If
they have grown so bold that they would take my life, what have they done to my
family? Tobeszijian asked himself. He
mounted quickly and left his hiding place, ducking beneath the low branches,
which unloaded snow down the back of his cloak. The horse turned toward camp,
its ears pricked forward now, but Tobeszijian swung around, spurring the animal
when it fought him, and headed to the road and home. His
enemies would not catch him unawares again. Tobeszijian’s
horse stumbled over something in the near darkness. Although it snorted and
shied away, the animal was too tired to bolt. Tobeszijian brought him swiftly
under control and turned around to squint through the gloom at whatever lay on
the ground. He
could see only a motionless man-sized shadow. His nostrils caught the scent of
fresh blood. His
heart seemed to stop. No, he thought. No. The
horse would go no closer. Dismounting, Tobeszijian tied the reins to a branch
and drew his dagger. Cautiously he approached the prone corpse, keeping himself
alert in case this was another trap. The
snow was well trampled here. His shoulder brushed a broken pine bough,
dangling, and he could just make out dark patches on the snow. Bending, he
scooped up a patch and sniffed it. Blood on the snow. There
had been a fight here. His
senses told him that the dead man was Prince Kuliestka. Grief pierced
Tobeszijian, but he slammed a door on all his emotions and knelt beside his
friend. Kuliestka
had not gone easily. His sword was still clutched in his hand. Three arrows
protruded from his back. Touching
the fletchings, Tobeszijian scowled. “Cowards,” he muttered aloud. Gently,
although it did not matter now, he gripped Kuli-estka’s shoulders and rolled
him over on his side. The heavy smell of blood rose up, and Tobeszijian could
see it pooled black beneath his friend’s body. There was another smell,
something foul and decayed. Tobeszijian’s nostrils flared, and he slid around
on his knees to stare into the surrounding gloom. Breathing
hard through his mouth, Tobeszijian stripped off his gloves and touched
Kuliestka’s face. His friend’s skin was cold and hard. The heavy ring on
Tobeszijian’s forefinger glowed suddenly in warning, and he snatched his hand
back from Kuliestka’s flesh. Curling
his fingers into a fist, he tried to breathe through his mouth, wanting none of
the rank smell to enter his lungs. The
light coming from the ring grew brighter. He lifted his hand, feeling himself
sweating lightly now beneath his clothes. The pale, clear light shone down upon
Kuliestka’s corpse, showing the bloody mess where his eyes had been torn out
and the huge rents that had been sliced through his chain mail as if it were
parchment. The bulge of his intestines showed, and his left hand was missing.
Swallowing hard, Tobeszijian averted his gaze. A large paw print showed clearly
in the snow nearby, and Tobeszijian lowered his hand unsteadily, not wanting to
see any more. A
hurlhound had killed Kuliestka. Grief
submerged Tobeszijian momentarily, but at the same time his thoughts were
swirling in a tangle of new suspicions. A hurlhound had attacked Kuliestka, and
a shapeshifter had nearly led Tobeszijian to his doom. Mercy of Thod, what had
unleashed the Nonkind here in the depths of Nether, where none of them should
be? On the shared border between Gant and Nether, yes, there was always
trouble, but these creatures should not have been able to come so far without
detection. Unless
someone was opening Nether to them, opening forbidden doorways between the
first and second worlds, and tampering with the spellcraft that protected the
boundaries. “No,”
he whispered in horror, and drew back from Kuliestka’s corpse. Was
Muncel the one? Tobeszijian did not want to believe that his half-brother would
turn to such allies in an effort to gain the throne. But to tell himself that
Muncel did not harbor excessive hatred and ambition was to be naive. Of late,
it seemed that Muncel was a seething mass of rage and resentment. Tobeszijian
had been warned to watch his half-brother and stand guard against treachery. Until
now, Tobeszijian had discounted such warnings, certain that someday with
patience he could find a way to make peace with his half-brother. Now,
with Kuliestka lying dead before him and the echo of Mradvior’s ugly laugh
still in his mind, Tobeszijian finally believed the rumors and suspicions. Evil
men consorting with evil Nonkind had infiltrated his court and his circle of
friends. Today, they had meant to see him die. Yet
Mradvior was no controller of demons; Tobeszijian’s senses would have warned
him of that. One of the Believers had to be nearby, had perhaps joined the
hunting party today in disguise. Tobeszijian’s
thoughts spun rapidly. His emotions were too chaotic for him to think clearly. But
he knew he could not tarry here. It was almost fully dark, and these woods were
not safe. He had to get home, and he had to hurry. He
pulled on his gloves, concealing the strong light that still shone from his
ring. Thinking of it, he paused a moment in temptation. The
Ring of Solder had been passed down from father to son in a long line of kings.
It, along with the Chalice of Eternal Life, had been awarded to mankind by the
gods at the Dawning. Forged by the gods, and imbued with their power, the Ring
and the Chalice together held the spiritual center of Nether and served as its
twin guardians against the darkness. The Ring of Solder alone had the power to
transport its wearer from the first world into the second or third. It crossed
boundaries of distance and time in the space between heartbeats. He could use
it now, and be home just that fast. Tobeszijian
drew a deep breath and reached out his mind, calling, Nereisse/Nereisse/Nereisse/Nereisse. It
was too far. He could not hear her—but something had heard him. He
felt a sudden connection, a sudden, sucking darkness that focused on him.
Gasping, Tobeszijian closed his mind and stumbled back from his friend’s
corpse. The evil was close by, too close, perhaps even next to him. Swallowing
hard, Tobeszijian watched Kuliestka’s corpse intently to see if it moved. He
would know then if a soultaker had consumed what the hurlhound had left. Behind
him, his horse whinnied nervously, and Tobeszijian jumped. His heart was
thudding in his chest. He was a warrior, trained in battle, seasoned by war. He
had fought the Nonkind before, but never without his magicked armor, his
darsteed, and a spell of blessing humming through his sword. Go,
a voice said in his mind. Tobeszijian
whirled around, his sword Mirengard drawn and in his fist without thought. He
stared at the forest surrounding him in the darkness. He listened with all his
senses, but no further warning came. All he heard was the creaking of the trees
in the cold wind and the faint rushing gurgle of a nearby stream. Running
water. He hesitated, then sprang to Kuliestka’s corpse. Swiftly he wrested free of Kuliestka’s frozen fingers, determined
to return it to the prince’s family. He pulled the arrows from his friend’s
back and rolled Kuliestka up inside his yellow cloak. Taking one end of the
garment, he dragged the corpse through the trees and undergrowth, gritting his
teeth and hearing every tiny sound as though magnified a thousand times. The
air of menace and evil grew increasingly thick about him, pouring through the
silent trees of the forest. A terrible stench rose from poor Kuliestka’s body,
warning him of what was coming, of what was trying to seize the flesh and bone
of his friend’s corpse. Tobeszijian
knew he was playing with fire. At any moment the prince might stir, might reach
out for him from the folds of this bloody cloak, might turn his sightless face
to Tobeszijian’s and speak dreadful spell words that would freeze Tobeszijian
in his tracks, render him unable to move while the hurlhound came back to tear
him to pieces and the soultaker claimed his spirit for eternal damnation. The
Ring of Solder was now pure fire encircling his finger inside his glove. He
gritted his teeth and pulled faster, staggering and stumbling backward through
the snow. He knew he owed his dear friend this final chance of release.
Kuliestka’s soul might be gone into the darkness, or perhaps a piece of it
remained tethered still to this mangled body. Either way, Tobeszijian intended
to spare the prince’s body from becoming a plaything for the Nonkind, to be
possessed and used for evil. Tobeszijian
realized he was weeping and saying aloud passages of Writ. He stumbled over a
fallen log and fell backward, falling into a snowdrift and tumbling down the
bank almost into the stream. The shock of his arm falling into the icy water
brought him back to himself. He jerked his arm out of the water, slinging
droplets everywhere, and flexed his hand swiftly. He was tempted to strip off
the wet glove, for he knew it would soon freeze hard and immobilize his hand,
but from the corner of his eye he saw Kuliestka’s wrapped body move. His
mouth went dry. Tobeszijian slung his hand, flinging droplets of water across
the corpse. It flinched, and Tobeszijian took an involuntary step back. He
wanted to run, but he knew there was yet a moment of time. Not giving himself
the chance to think, he finished dragging the corpse the rest of the way down
the bank. He could feel it struggling feebly in his grip, the legs moving
sluggishly. Part
of him wanted to call this a miracle and say Kuliestka was still alive. The
rest of him knew better. “Thod
protect me with all thy strength,” he prayed, and heaved the body into the
stream. It
splashed water across his boots, and the corpse bobbed a moment. A thin,
ghastly shriek ripped through his mind, and Tobeszijian clapped his hands to
his ears, turning away and stumbling to his knees. “Forgive
me,” he said through gritted teeth while the shrill keening went on and on
inside his head. “Forgive me, my old friend, for bringing you to this.” Finally
the horrible sound faded from his mind. Gasping, his face wet with tears,
Tobeszijian straightened in time to see Kuliestka’s body bobbing away
downstream. By morning it would be encased in ice, floating far from here. As
long as it stayed in running water, the Nonkind could not possess it, could not
use it. All winter, Kuliestka would lie in his coffin of ice, and perhaps, if
the gods smiled fortune on him, by spring he would be deep in the Sea of Vvord,
his bones safe for all eternity. Shivering,
Tobeszijian lifted his hand in farewell, then scrambled up the bank and went
hurrying back through the woods to his horse. As he climbed into the saddle, he
could still feel the warmth of the Ring inside his glove, drying it from the
inside out. Again, he felt the urgency of too little time. He
could use the Ring and be home in seconds. But
fear or prudence stayed him from such a desperate course. He had never used the
Ring. He knew a wearer could use it only thrice in a lifetime. His father
before him had never used it. Tobeszijian hesitated, and told himself he was
not desperate yet. Worried, yes, but he could reach Grov in a matter of hours,
riding cross-country rather than by road. If no one came after him, if none of
the Nonkind took his trail, he could make it before dawn. He
clenched his fist, feeling torn, then made his decision. The
Ring was to be used for the protection of the Chalice. It had not been given
lightly into his keeping, and it was not to be used for personal reasons. Grimly,
Tobeszijian swung his horse’s head around and spurred it hard. He had a throne
to save, and a friend to avenge. By
Thod’s hammer and the vengeance of Olas and Vlyk, he would do both. Shortly
before dawn, he reined up his weary horse on a hilltop overlooking the valley
where Grov spread itself along the banks of the Velga River. He felt
saddle-galled and frozen to the bone. Ice crystals had frozen themselves to his
eyebrows and eyelashes. All night, he had wished himself capable of growing a
beard to warm his face from the merciless cold, but his eldin blood prevented
that. Swathed in his cloak, he had ridden with few pauses, using his eldin
sense of direction as he never had before. Here
and there, he had come across ancient markers carved in the trunks of long-dead
trees. It was the old eldin road to Grov, long since forgotten and abandoned,
save by those with the blood of eld. It had brought him here faster than he’d
dared to hope. At
the last crossroads, he’d hesitated, debating whether to ride to Prince
Spirin’s hold and call for all his liege holders to raise their armies in his
support. Riding back to Grov alone might simply put him inside another trap. But
what would he tell Prince Spirin? That he’d nearly been killed? That the
Nonkind were hunting in the forest? That Prince Kuliestka had been murdered?
That he feared his half-brother was behind a plot to depose him? He
had no proof, nothing tangible except his lord protector’s sword, and that said
only that Prince Kuliestka was dead. Tobeszijian knew a king had to be strong.
He could not show up wild, bedraggled, and alone and command the respect of a
harsh warrior like Spirin. No, his only hope was to do the unexpected, and get
to Grov quickly. Now,
the city spread before him, quiet and sleeping still in the gray pearly light
before daybreak. On one side of the Velga sprawled the city, with its wooden
houses, gilded church spires, and multistoried trade halls. The round expanse
of the fur market stood at the city’s center. Barges colored vividly in reds,
blues, greens, and purples were moored along the river docks, bobbing empty or
resting low and heavy in the water. The Velga had not yet frozen, but in the
depths of winter it would grow still, and solid, and silent. Then the merchants
would travel on it by horse-drawn sleigh, dragging logs and furs to market. On
the opposite side of the Velga stood the palace within its vast walls, high and
grim on the sheer rock bluff overlooking the river. The mighty fortress had
held for three centuries, proud and unfallen. He squinted through the mist and
gloom at the walls, hearing the faint stamp and call of the sentries patrolling
the top in their chain mail and long, fur-lined tunics striped in the burgundy
and gold colors of their king. With thick, curved mustaches and tall hats of
black beyar fur, the palace guards were fierce fighters and intensely loyal to
their king. Or
were they? On
the horizon the sky grew steadily lighter. He could see the tallest tower,
where the royal banners should have been waving, but weren’t. He
squinted, his eyes burning from sleeplessness and fatigue. Where was the
queen’s banner? Where was the blue-green flag of Nether with its field of white
stripes, the crimson banner with the gold circle signifying the church’s
sovereignty of the spirit, the fluttering ribbons of various colors denoting
the knights who were in residence at court? Nothing
flew from the poles, not even a tatter of ribbon. He saw no curls of smoke rising
above the rooftops. He listened, knowing the bells should start ringing soon,
but all lay quiet, as though an enchantment had brushed away the very life from
the place. His
heart froze inside him. For a moment he could not breathe. Were they gone? Were
they dead? He
could not believe it. Did not want to believe such infamy could happen in his
kingdom, in his own palace. But
he was here in the woods, frozen to the marrow, and skulking about like a
refugee instead of the king. He had no baggage, no servants, no guards, no
attendants, no courtiers, no crown, and only the torn and dirty clothes on his
back. His lord protector was dead. He had ridden away from here more than six
weeks ago, in blithe high spirits, shoving aside his lady wife’s concerns and
fears, telling himself that Muncel’s arrival in
Grov shortly before his departure signified nothing, ignoring the dark looks
and the dour sermon of Cardinal Pernal’s mass, which was supposed to have been
a blessing of the hunt. “Give
the hunters strength, great Thod,” the cardinal had intoned while the incense
smoke rose and curled on either side of him. “Let them strike hard and take
life swiftly, that all may be made new.” Considered
now, after the brutal events of yesterday, those words took on new
significance. Tobeszijian
sighed and rubbed the ice from his face. Brooding about betrayals and intrigues
served him no good now. If Nereisse was not here, if she’d fled or been taken
prisoner, then his coming here alone was a mistake. He needed an army at his
back. Nereisse! he called with his mind, seeking her. A
tiny, nameless feeling came to him, so faint and weak he almost did not
perceive it. His head lifted. He tried to still his rage and worry in
order to listen. At
last he heard her calling back, Come/come/come/come. She
was in trouble. She was hurt. She was afraid. He
could sense all of it in that faint plea for help. His rage and grief exploded
inside his chest. Without further hesitation, he spurred his horse forward,
galloping down the long, treeless slope of what served the town as common
pastureland. Sheep, clotted together in dirty wool, sprang up with bleats of
alarm as he thundered past, his horse’s hooves throwing up clods of dirt and
ice. A shepherd lad, muffled to the eyes in rags and dirty sheepskin, stumbled
out of his hut and stared openmouthed as Tobeszijian swept past. There
was no way inside the fortress save one, not even for the king. Tobeszijian
reined up at the massive gates of wood as thick as the walls themselves. They
were reinforced with straps of iron. The hinges were as long as his forearms,
their pins as thick as his wrists. It took five men and a winch to pull the
gates open every morning. Trumpet fanfare always marked the ritual, timed just
as the sun broke above the horizon. He
was early, and the guards had not yet assembled. The gates, scarred and
splintered, some of their green and black paint peeling, stood shut, dwarfing
him where he circled his restless horse. It
was not seemly for a king to have to sit at his own gates, shouting for
someone’s attention. Tobeszijian had always come home with heralds riding ahead
of him to give notice. The gates were always wide open, with guards assembled
on either side at attention and horns being blown in the crisp fanfare of
greeting and announcement while he and his riders trotted inside. Had
all been normal, he would have ridden home with his hunting party in a few
days, his friends windburned and invigorated, their laughter and chatter loud.
In their wake would have come the pack animals, laden with game: huge danselk
carcasses dragging massive antlers, rows of white ermine tied up by their hind
feet, snow-hares with long ears dangling, an enormous black beyar as tall as a
grown man with shaggy fur and a set of long claws that could tear the
intestines from a horse’s belly in one swipe, boar frozen stiff, their tusks
protruding long and yellow from the sides of their mouths, and silky-furred
lyng cats with their white bellies and coats of distinctive gray and black
swirls much prized for hats and muffs by ladies of the court. Instead,
nothing was normal. Nothing was as it should be. He sat shivering in his
saddle, locked out and unnoticed. Frustration filled him, but he curbed it as
he did his horse. No doubt the stallion wanted his stall and a ration of grain
as much as the king wanted his bed and a trencher of steaming breakfast. If the
sentries recognized him not, or chose not to, he would never get inside. He
had never felt so helpless, but he wasn’t going to reveal his worry. After a
few minutes, when no one looked over the battlements and saw him, he unstrapped
his hunting horn and blew it. Heads
appeared atop the crenellations at once. “You there, begone!” shouted a gruff
voice. “Hold,
fool,” said someone else. “It’s a messenger in the king’s colors.” They
didn’t know who he was. Fury burned the edges of Tobeszijian’s patience. He
flung back his cloak to reveal his breastplate and pushed back his mail coif to
reveal his face and the gold circlet upon his brow. “The king bids you open,”
he said. The
sun was not yet up, but the distant sky was now streaked with rose and white. The storm clouds of yesterday had
broken up, showing patches of blue sky. He
saw them stare and heard someone swear a terrible oath. “It is!” a voice said
insistently. “It can’t be.” “I
saw his crest, you fool! And his crown.” Another head appeared over the
crenellations, helmeted properly, unlike the others. “Your
majesty!” this man said, sounding astonished. “What marvel is this? How come
you here without—” “Open,”
Tobeszijian said impatiently. “Or must I beg like a knave?” “At
once, majesty!” They
scurried to pass the word. The ritual was thrown aside. He heard echoing booms
on the other side and a flurry of swift orders. Slowly, ever so slowly, the
huge gates began to creak open. It
took several minutes for them to move, but as soon as there was enough space
for his horse to squeeze through, Tobeszijian spurred his mount forward. His
shoulders brushed the wood surface on either side. The grinding creak of the
hinges and the groan of the ropes echoed in the close darkness, accompanied by
the ring of his horse’s iron shoes on the stone pavement. He
rode under the guardhouse, ducking his head slightly and aware of the guards
crouching on the planks of the floor above his head, trying to peer at him
through the cracks. Emerging
into the light filling the stableyard, he squinted and blinked, drawing rein
before a red-faced captain wearing his fur hat cocked jauntily and saluting
with a flash of crimson gloves. “Your
majesty!” he cried, then bowed low. “Up, man!” Tobeszijian said sharply. Behind
him, he was aware of orders cracking out and the heave and groan of the winch
working the gate. He kept his gaze on the captain, who straightened, his face
still flaming red. The captain would not meet his eyes. “The
court, has it gone?” Tobeszijian asked. “I did not see the queen’s banner.
Where has she moved residence?” “I—is
there no one else attending your majesty?” the captain asked. Tobeszijian
glared at the fellow, wondering why he acted so confused. “I believe my
questions should be answered before yours,” he said in quiet rebuke. The
captain’s face drained of color. He knelt on the snow-dusted cobbles. “Forgive
me, sire!” Behind
Tobeszijian the massive gates shut with a boom that made his horse shy. The
locking bars slammed into place. Tobeszijian’s heart thudded with them. His
mouth tightened, and his hands were fists around his reins. It was another
trap, and this time it had him. A
part of his mind still couldn’t believe it, continued to deny all that was
happening. The rest of him faced it with bleak pragmatism. He
did not glance back, although he sensed the guards forming behind him in an
undisciplined knot of spectators. Did they expect him to whirl around and order
them to release him? Without
another look at the captain, who remained crouched on the cobbles, Tobeszijian
rode on into the stableyard proper. By
now, servants, hastily dressed and blowing on their hands to warm them, were
stumbling out from the stables. A pair of serfs gawked at him with their mouths
hanging open, then busied themselves with building a fire in the yard, well
away from the wooden barns and piles of hay. Snowdrifts mounded in the corners
and covered a cart resting on its traces. Steam rose from the shuttered windows
of the stables, telling him the four-legged occupants inside were warm beneath
their strapped-on blankets. He could smell the combined fragrances of
horseflesh, grain mash, and straw. Out here, the customary mud and muck of the
stableyard was all frozen clean. Everything looked exactly as it should, but it
was all horribly wrong. They
stared at him as though he had returned as an apparition. Several
of the serfs cringed back into the shadows, crossing their fingers
superstitiously behind their backs, and Tobeszijian wondered grimly what they
had been told. That he was dead? Was Muncel so certain of his plot’s success
that he had already announced Tobeszijian’s death and moved the court to his
own palace? Why not sit in possession here? Tobeszijian
saw at once that whether he was now a prisoner or not, the servants still
feared and revered him. Counting on habit and their sense of duty, he gestured
imperiously as though he were returning from an ordinary ride. Two stableboys
came darting up warily to seize the bridle of the king’s stallion. The horse,
well lathered and dripping foam, pranced and sidled. His iron shoes struck
sparks off the ice-coated cobbles, and when he tossed his head, he lifted both
boys off the ground. A
third came running to help, darting in under the half-rearing animal’s chin and
snapping on a tether that he fastened to an iron ring embedded in the stone. By
then, Tobeszijian had dismounted. His legs barely supported him for a moment,
making him cling hard to the stirrup until the world righted again. He heard a
voice talking as though from far away, then he blinked and was well again, and
the voice sounded loud and practically in his ear. “Is
aught amiss, majesty?” It was the stablemaster, bowing and frowning at him. The
man kept glancing behind him as though expecting the rest of the party to come
in. “We heard ... that is, we were told—” “What
news of the queen?” Tobeszijian asked, interrupting him. The
stablemaster looked taken aback. It was hardly his place to inform the king
where her majesty had gone to. And yet, no chancellor of the court was stepping
forward in greeting. No pages stood by to offer him wine or to take his filthy
cloak and gloves. No courtiers had come forth, eager to catch a glimpse of him
and perhaps draw the favor of his glance or conversation. All his life he had
been surrounded by attendants, hangers-on, suppliants, dogs, nobles, and the
general action and confusion of the court. There was always someone begging for
a word with him, always maids and ladies giggling from the windows in hopes of
attracting his eye, always minions and servants underfoot. Yet
now it was as though everyone in the place had been spirited away except the
guards and these few servants. Tobeszijian felt like a ghost trying to return
to the world of reality, only to find himself trapped behind glass, unable to
step through. Angrily
he glared at the stablemaster, who had not answered his question. “The queen,
sirrah!” he snapped, all patience gone. “Can you answer a simple question, or
not?” He
was in many respects a gentle man, a kind man, but when he spoke in that tone
men quailed and the world itself seemed to crack. He stood there, a full head
and shoulders taller than the shrinking stablemaster, his blue eyes on fire and
his chiseled, beardless face set in lines of stone. The
stablemaster took an involuntary step back from him, his eyes darting in
several directions as though seeking aid. “Majesty,” he said, turning as pale
as the shirt band protruding above the neck of his tunic. “I—I—it is not meet
that I should relay such news. The—” “Her
banner does not fly. Has she left residence? With what escort and bound for
what location?” The
stablemaster gripped his broad, work-calloused hands together and lifted them
in appeal. “I—I—we know only that she has fallen ill. A fever, they say. It came
suddenly. It was only—” Tobeszijian’s
heart contracted sharply, and he swung away from the man, who gasped and fell
silent. “A
fever?” Tobeszijian said with his back still to the stablemaster. His voice was
sharp. Heat filled his face, and his ears were roaring. Not
Nereisse, he thought with pain too great
to bear. Not my love. The
stablemaster prated on, but Tobeszijian did not listen. Nereisse was eldin; she
could not catch human fevers. She caught no diseases at all. For her to be
taken ill could only mean the poison of spellcraft. He
thought of the shapeshifter and its scream of fury when he rode away from it in
the forest. He thought of Kuliestka’s slashed and mutilated corpse lying in the
snow. He thought of Nereisse fevered and alone, with his enemies closing around
her. “Where
have they taken her?” he asked, using every bit of self-control he possessed
not to shout. His
quiet voice seemed to unnerve the stablemaster further, for the man gave him no
answer. Tobeszijian
swung around, his hand going to his sword hilt. “By Thod, must I wring every
answer from you? Where is she?” “I—I
know not,” the man stammered. His gaze shifted past Tobeszijian in sudden
relief. Warned,
Tobeszijian swung around so fast his cloak billowed from his shoulders. Another
officer of the guard stood close by. This one pos- sessed
harder eyes than the captain; his face was like a hatchet. Tobeszijian glared
at him, noting that the man’s cloak was slightly too long for him and that his
hauberk fit him ill. The links of his chain mail were of an unfamiliar design.
Tobeszi-jian’s nostrils flared. This man was a hirelance, nothing more than a
mercenary cutthroat. Tobeszijian’s gaze shifted past the man to the rest of the
guards. Numbering about forty, including those who stood atop the wall looking
down, most were clearly of the same ilk, wearing foreign-made mail under their
borrowed surcoats. Only a handful, including the captain, were clearly genuine
members of the palace guards, and they had either sold themselves or were under
coercion. Tobeszijian’s
gaze narrowed and he swung it back to the hirelance before him. He noted the
man’s narrow skull and saw a hint of fang in the man’s thin-lipped smile. A
chill of disgust ran through the king. This man was Gantese, and it took every
ounce of Tobeszijian’s self-control not to draw his sword and hack the Believer
in twain then and there. “I
am Bork, your majesty,” the hirelance said. His voice was respectful, but his
eyes were not. “You will surrender your sword.” The
stablemaster moaned. Ignoring
him, Tobeszijian never took his gaze from Bork. “No.” Bork
spread his feet in readiness. His face was hard and wary. “This can go hard, or
it can go easy. and your surrender.” Forty
to one was impossible. But Tobeszijian had no intention of fighting them yet
anyway—there were other things to accomplish first. He mastered his outrage at
the man’s impudence and made no move to obey. “This
fortress is under your control?” he asked. Bork
smirked. “I command it.” A
muscle jumped in Tobeszijian’s jaw. Otherwise he did not move. “I am the king,
hirelance. Your prisoner or not, I do not surrender my sword to the likes of
you. When your master comes to face me, he can demand my sword, and to him
alone will I give my answer.” Bork
did not like his defiance, but Tobeszijian’s gaze held the iron confidence of
birthright and lineage. He stared the hire- lance
down, and when Bork’s gaze dropped, Tobeszijian knew he’d won temporarily. “I
will ask this again,” he said quietly. “Where are the queen and the royal
children?” “Your
queen remains in residence, but not for long, we think.“ As
Tobeszijian’s fingers clenched around his sword hilt, Bork showed his fangs in
a broad smile. Behind Tobeszijian the stablemaster whimpered in fear, but fell
silent instantly as Bork’s cruel gaze shifted to him. Tobeszijian never took
his eyes off the hirelance, and inside his glove he could feel his ring growing
hot. What else had taken possession of his palace? He could not stop his
imagination from running wild, wondering if the Nonkind now roamed the hallways
and passages freely. Had Muncel forged a complete alliance with Gant? If so, he
must be mad. With
great effort, Tobeszijian pulled his whirling thoughts back under control. He
was sweating despite the cold morning air. He told himself to keep his royal
dignity. He must betray no fear, no rage, nothing to indicate he had lost
mastery of himself. “Now, your majesty,” Bork said, his voice as smooth as a
serpent’s glide. “You will come with us to the—” “I
will see my queen,” Tobeszijian said sharply. “If she lies ill, she is in need
of me.” Bork opened his mouth, but Tobeszijian said, “What you have
orders to do can be done later. I am now within these walls. You guard the only
way out.” Bork’s
eyes seemed to shrink in his face until they were two dark pinpricks, but he
protested not. Tobeszijian
turned his back on the Believer, although he half-expected the man to strike.
He caught the stablemaster’s attention, and the man gaped at him in open fear.
“Yes, your majesty?” “A
fresh horse,” Tobeszijian said. “My palace may be emptied, and my friends
vanished, but I will not forgo all custom.” It was the king’s custom to pause
here in his stableyard to change mounts and strip off his mail and armor in
exchange for a courtly tunic before riding into the palace grounds. Most of the
time he divested himself of his weapons also, handing them over to his squire
to be cleaned. The king’s squire, a lad named Rustin and the son of Count
Numitskir, had not gone on the hunting trip this year. Shortly before their
departure, he’d disgraced himself with a slattern who claimed he’d fathered a
child on her. Since squires in training to become knights were expected to
remain celibate until after they took their knightly vows, the boy had
effectively ruined a promising future. In haste to depart, Tobeszijian had told
himself he would judge the matter after his return. It seemed now that he would
not. He wondered what had become of the boy. For that matter, what had become
of his entire court? Would he ever know? If
he allowed himself to feel his shock, he realized, he would not be able to
continue. He refused to think beyond his purpose, which burned like a fire coal
in his breast. The future might hold his death at the hands of these rabble,
but he would not consider that now. “Let
us amend custom today,” he said to the stablemaster. “Just the horse.” The
stablemaster gulped and nodded, bowing low and backing away to snap his fingers
frantically at the boys, who were staring with their mouths open. “It’s
been told that you can ride the darsteed,” Bork said, and pointed at the
opposite side of the stableyard to a round building with a cone-shaped roof of
slate. Lights shone from the tiny windows fitted high in the walls. A bugle of
fury, muffled by the stone walls, came from inside, along with a series of
rapid thuds. Tobeszijian’s
nostrils flared. He felt the darsteed’s fiery rage reach his senses, and his
own pent-up rage and grief responded like fire in his chest. His heartbeat
quickened. For a second his blood raced in his veins. He
sent his mind to it: / am
home/home/home/home. The
creature needed exercise. It had been neglected during his absence, cooped up
in there the whole time. He could feel its explosive need. Soon, he promised it. The
savage fire of its mind came crashing back to him, making him sway slightly in
the effort of absorbing it. Run/run/
run/run. Soon, he promised it again, and his heart felt as savage as the
beast. The
darsteed inside the fortified stall bugled and kicked. Tobeszijian
blinked and broke the contact, realizing that Bork was staring at him in open
conjecture. Bork
smiled and gestured at the stablemaster. “Your king would ride his mighty
darsteed. It’s in need of exercise.” Tobeszijian
frowned. Ordinarily he rode the darsteed into battle instead of a charger. The
darsteed was a creature from a nightmare, a beast of war and terror. By the
laws of tradition, all kings of Nether had owned a darsteed since the days when
Nether first defeated Gant and seized the terrifying beasts as prizes. But the
creatures were kept locked up and viewed at a safe distance. No Netheran king,
until Tobeszijian, had dared to actually ride one. Thanks to his eldin blood,
he could control the brute. When Tobeszijian appeared on the battlefield in
full plate armor and antlered helm, bearing his two-handed sword and a war
hammer, and riding astride a black fearsome creature that breathed fire and
roared with all the violence of hell itself, few Kladite raiders could stand
and hold their ground. Few Gantese Believers and Nonkind would either. Yet
Bork was trying to provoke him into bringing it out. Tobeszijian wondered if
the hirelances had gone inside to look at the beast and if it had injured any
of them. Grimly he met the Gantese’s eyes. He would use the darsteed, all
right, but not yet. Not until the proper time. “Ride
it,” Bork urged him. “We have heard of your legend, King Tobeszijian. We would
see it for ourselves. No one will bring it out for us.” Tobeszijian
said nothing. He
longed for Kuliestka at his side. By now the lord protector would have tried to
put an end to these insults, and gotten himself spitted on the end of a sword.
Grief rose inside Tobeszijian, twisting painfully, but he choked it down. He must
be iron. He must remain every inch a king if he was to keep himself from being
shackled and led away in total humiliation to the guardhouse. “Forgive
me, majesty. We dared not take the beast outside while you were gone,” the
stablemaster said nervously. “Since Vlout died of that head kick, no one can
handle it except your majesty.” Tobeszijian
frowned, momentarily distracted. “You were told to find a replacement for Vlout
immediately.” “I
tried, majesty, but—” Tobeszijian
lifted his hand to silence the man. “Ride
it, great king,” Bork said, openly mocking him now. The
stableboys came leading up a bay courser fitted with an ornate saddle of silver
and a velvet saddlecloth. Rosettes had been braided hastily into its shining black
mane, and its dark hooves gleamed with oil. It tossed its fine head and pranced
sideways, its delicate nostrils snorting white plumes in the frosty air. “That’s
a lady’s mount. Not worth a king’s backside,” Bork said, grinning and showing
his fangs. “Let’s see the darsteed.” Tobeszijian
was conscious of time running out, of his tiny advantage slipping from his
fingers. He must turn the tide of this game, and swiftly, before all was lost. “The
queen’s health is my concern now,” he said coldly. “When I have seen her, I
will consider your request.” Bork
growled in his throat and moved sharply. Perhaps he meant to strike
Tobeszijian, or perhaps he was only making a rude gesture. Either
way, Tobeszijian turned on him and caught his fist in midair, straining to hold
it when the Gantese would have pulled free. Bork’s eyes narrowed to black dots
of evil. He snarled, baring his fangs. But
Tobeszijian’s blue eyes blazed right back, and his mind—unskilled but
strong—crashed against Bork’s. Back
away/back away/back away, he commanded. Bork
snarled again. The other guards were closing fast, scenting a problem even
while the two men stood close to each other, glaring and locked together, their
struggle hidden as yet between their bodies. “When
I am at liberty, I will show you the brute’s paces,” Tobeszijian said,
straining to hold the hirelance. His voice grew rough from the effort he was
expending. Back away, his mind commanded again. Bork
unclenched his fist and stopped the struggle abruptly. His eyes held anger
mingled with confusion. Tobeszijian
knew he could not control the Believer, but he could influence him. He pushed
again, and saw Bork blink. The Gantese stepped back. “At your majesty’s
leisure,” he said, and gestured scornfully at the bay, which shook the rosettes
tied to its long mane and pawed the ground. “We shall still be here.” Relief
came sharp and sudden, like a dagger thrust. Feeling his knees weaken,
Tobeszijian turned away and swung into the saddle with all the grace and
strength he could exhibit. He rode through the smaller gates on the other side
of the stableyard and took the winding road that led to his palace. Not
caring what any of them thought, he spurred the animal to a gallop and didn’t
look back. The
palace grounds sloped uphill, enclosing a small, well-groomed forest of ash
trees that bordered either side of the stone-paved road. Spurring the bay
courser again, Tobeszijian rode through the trees and glimpsed the small, sleek
herd of royal deer nibbling at the still-green grass they’d pawed up from
beneath the snow. Their heads flashed up in alarm as he galloped past, and they
turned as one, bounding away. The
road dipped, curved through a snow-rimmed stream, and wound steeply up through
a stone archway that had once marked a gatehouse and the crumbled remains of
the original fortress walls. Ivy now grew over the fallen stones. Frost had
burnished the leaves to tawny colors. From this point the road became older,
rougher, narrower. The forest grew right up to it on either side. Then abruptly
the trees ended, revealing the top of the hill, which was entirely cleared. The
palace stood there, silhouetted against the rosy, pearlescent morning sky. The
peaks and spires of its roof seemed to stretch to the heavens. The
palace was a magnificent sight that never failed to lift Tobeszijian’s heart.
Three stories tall, the long, multiwinged palace stood there airily in its
setting of snow, sky, and shrubbery. Its pale yellow stone had been quarried
from the rocky hills near Lake Charva, and it featured long rows of tall
windows. Every window was fitted with actual glass, a luxury so rare and costly
it had once threatened to deplete the treasury. Delicate columns of white marble supported archways over
each window. The columns were carved fancifully in the shapes of serpents,
lizards, tree branches, and vines. Winged gryphons lunged from the rooftops as
waterspouts, and leaping sea-maids with outstretched arms were carved from
marble to form the balustrades on either side of the broad steps leading up
into the state portico. Nowhere
else in Grov or all of Nether could such a building be found. It was too
ornate, too whimsical. It gave the eye no rest. It was as different from the
original fortress on this spot as the sun was different from the moon. Yet its
ramparts remained strong and practical. Behind it the sheer stone cliffs
dropped straight down into the Velga River, creating a natural defense on that
side. Runtha’s
Folly, some folk called this bizarre yet beautiful palace. Begun by
Tobeszijian’s grandfather, Runtha I, and completed by his father, Runtha II,
the palace’s unusual appearance was blamed on the eldin and their unwelcome influence. For
many centuries eldin and humans had coexisted peacefully in Nether, even
joining themselves into the Church of the Circle and forming the basis of
modern religion now held by half the known world. The Chalice of Eternal Life
was held sacred by both humans and eldin, who believed in the same history of
the Origins and the same gods. Folk of the eld, however, had magic which the
humans did not. They could enter the second world, which humans could not.
Eldin and humans found they were usually more comfortable apart, and in general
they kept their communities separate. Less
than two hundred years ago, Tomias the Reformer—a monk and visionary believed
to be from Mandria, although he claimed no land as his origin—had entered
Nether, bringing with him a different branch of the church and a radical system
of beliefs. Tomias and the reformers considered the eldin to be part of the
darkness and superstition which had held Nether chained for too long. Church
magic, held firmly in the hands of the crimson-robed churchmen, was preached to
be honorable and true to the Chalice, derived from its sacred power. Eld magic
was said to be derived from perversion and secret liaisons with the darkness, a
force that would tarnish the Chalice. But any human could enter the Circle and
worship the Chalice, bringing it glory, providing he or she came with a true
and willing heart. To serve, a worshiper needed only to feel faith. No actual
performance or action was required, refuting what had been the former custom of
penitence and ritual. Tomias advocated separation and division between humans
and the eldin, claiming that the folk of eld had no actual place in the Circle
and need not be considered an equal part of it. Fresh
and appealing, this message of reform took quickly in Grov, and from there it
spread across the rest of Nether. It became fashionable to deny that the eldin
even existed, fashionable to build stone churches and to burn the old paneathas
which had stood in wall niches, honoring the old gods, since time began. But
as a young man, Runtha I shook off the influence of the reformers. One day
while riding in the forests alone, he was thrown when his horse stumbled.
Knocked unconscious, he awakened hours later to find that night had fallen.
Surrounding him was a group of eldin with eerie white flames shooting from
their fingertips, lighting the clearing without need of lanterns. Although
little contact had been made between humans and eldin since the mission work of
Tomias the Reformer, he was treated that night to eld hospitality. Runtha I
discovered for himself that the eldin were a gentle, merry people with spirits
of light and laughter. He made friends with his hosts, who showed him many
wonders and visions. Returning a few days later to his frantic and much-worried
court, the young king embraced the old ways and set about undermining the
stranglehold of the reformed church. He shortened the sermons and permitted
townspeople freedom of choice between the reformed church and the old
festivals. Eld groves were preserved by royal decree, and this palace
was constructed around the old, dank, original Hall of Kings. A Mandrian was
sent for, and he created these formal gardens of clipped yew hedges, leaving
only a small copse of natural hust trees on one side, out of sight. There,
roses and sea holly were allowed to grow wild in a thicket. Tended by eldin and
much loved by the present queen, this magical place became a riot of color in
the spring, when the hust trees bloomed in long white racemes that hung to the
ground and all sorts of flowers burst from the ground to open crimson, gold,
and pink petals. The bees grew drunk and fat with pollen, the fragrance of
flowers filled the air, ar d the wind would blow a wealth of rose petals across
the grassy paths. As
his horse came surging over the last steep segment of road, Tobeszijian
summoned a mental image of Nereisse his wife, so pale and graceful, walking
there in her grove, her wispy draperies catching on branches, fallen petals
hanging in her knee-long blonde hair and scattering behind her. He felt a pang
inside him as though he’d been pricked. It
was her pain, reaching to him. Oh,
great Thod, he prayed frantically, let me reach her in time. He
kicked his horse forward, making it kick up spumes of powdery snow, its iron
shoes slipping dangerously on patches of ice. No
one waited on the broad steps to greet him. Few lights shone in the windows.
The tall double doors stood closed, with no servants ready to open them. He saw
no curls of smoke spi-raling from the chimneys on the roof. He
had never, in all his lifetime, imagined the palace could be this deserted. The
sight of it, abandoned and empty, pierced his heart. A
corner of his mind raged, wanting specific names and faces, ready to condemn
and assign blame. But it was not that easy to separate the tangled skeins of
the political web. Who at court was not an enemy of some kind? The lord
chancellor, the lord of the treasury, the keeper of the seal, the guardian of the
armory, the cardinal of the church, the steward of the household, and yes,
especially yes, the king’s own half-brother were all problems, siding
continuously against him and the policies he tried to set. Only
five years on the throne, Tobeszijian thought
grimly, and my reign is
already in grave danger. He
could blame part of it on the alliances his father had forged shortly before
his demise. He could blame more of it on Prince Muncel’s ambition and greed. He
could blame the rest on the church and its zealot leader, Cardinal Pernal, who
wanted no half-eld king on the throne. Spurring
the courser, Tobeszijian sent it scrambling madly up the broad steps to the
very doors of the palace. Leaning from the saddle, he pounded on the wooden
panels and listened to the echo of his summons fade inside. No
one came. Dismounting,
he shouldered open the heavy door. Inside, the place was shadowy and cold. He
drew Mirengard, flung back his cloak to free his arms, and strode swiftly
through the rambling palace. The
emptiness drove a wedge of dread deeper into his heart. There had been no
looting. The carpets and furniture still filled the rooms. But no living thing
stirred. He heard nothing except his own rapid footfalls. He
passed through a set of tall double doors into the icy gloom of the original
Hall of Kings. The room was narrow and cramped with age, its arched ceiling
blackened by centuries of fire smoke and grime. Windowless and bleak, the
room’s only illumination normally came from torches kept burning in wall
sconces set between long tapestries. The torches did not burn now, not even
around the multitiered paneatha. The ancient gilded icons of the gods, their
painted images so dim and worn they were nearly unrecognizable, were gone. Tobeszijian
halted there in shock. Lowering the tip of his sword to the sagging wooden
floor, he reached forward and touched each bare arm of the paneatha where an
icon should have been hanging. “Blasphemy,”
he muttered beneath his breath, and looked up. On
the wall, above the crude and age-blackened throne of the First, should have
hung a triangular-shaped sword made of black iron, its hilt wrapped with
leather, its double edges nocked and jagged from battles fought in the dim
beginning of history. of his ancestors was gone. He
knew then what else he would find missing. Fear
plunged to his vitals. It was as though while he was away, the world had ended.
And during this plotting, he hadn’t known, hadn’t guessed. How could he have
been so blind? He stood in the empty Hall and felt lost, as though he’d been
dropped into the third world and could not find his way back out. Drawing
several ragged breaths, he sought to calm himself and knelt before the ancient
wooden cabinet that stood beneath the wall niche of the paneatha. Opening its
doors, he reached inside, found the hidden depression, and pressed it. With a faint rumble and scrape, a portion
of the wooden floor slid aside. Dank air rose into his face. He ran to light
one of the torches, using the striker and stone kept always near the paneatha.
When the torch was burning bright, popping as its pitch warmed within the twist
of straw, he held it aloft in his left hand and gripped his sword with his
right. Thus armed, he descended the rickety wooden steps into the yawning
darkness below the Hall of Kings. At
the bottom of the steps stretched a cramped chamber with walls of frozen dirt
and stone. In the center were double, semicircle rows of stone benches. On the
opposite wall stood a crude stone altar with a cauldron overturned next to it.
The torchlight flickered over the reliquaries on the altar, showing him the
green-patinated bronze bowls intended to hold salt and sacred water, the old
bronze knives of ritual, the rods of white ash, the stubs of Element candles,
the incense burners, rune-stones, a small bell, and the dried remains of vines
that had once wreathed the altar. This
was the original worship site. The Chalice of Eternal Life had been placed here
when the First received it from the gods. For generations the Chalice had been
well guarded by Tobeszijian’s ancestors. Although Tobeszijian’s father had been
besieged by church officials to surrender the Chalice to them so that they
might display it prominently in the newly completed Cathedral of Helspirin in
Grov’s center, Runtha II would not agree. The Chalice belonged here, he said.
Runtha had argued that the Chalice was not to be worshiped instead of the gods.
Its power protected the land and the people of Nether. But that power was not
to be channeled by churchmen for the working of miracles designed only to
increase numbers of congregants. The very day following Tobeszijian’s own
coronation in the Cathedral of Helspirin, Cardinal Pernal had approached him
and requested that the Chalice be moved to the cathedral, far from the
primitive cave where it had been hidden from the people for too long. He
pointed out the arching ceiling of the nave, so high it seemed lost in the
misty shadows. He showed Tobeszijian the sanctum and the stand where the
Chalice would be displayed, high enough so that all who came inside the
enormous cathedral could see it, with narrow slits of windows surrounding it in
order that its light might radiate outside the building at night. That
day, Tobeszijian gazed around at the unfamiliar cathedral, with its fine
carvings and its statues of saints instead of the icons of the old gods. He
noticed the brilliant blue paint and the extensive, elaborate gilding. Oh,
there was no doubt the Chalice would be displayed in as beautiful a setting as
man could devise, but Tobeszijian felt uneasy. Since childhood, he had kept in
his memory the rites and the ancient phrasing of the oath of protection sworn
by him and every other king of Nether since the Chalice came into their care.
He had responsibilities that were secret, unknown to this powerful churchman in
his crimson robes, responsibilities that did not permit the Chalice to be put
on public display. For one thing, its power was too strong, needing containment
by magical means involving soil, salt, running water, and ash wood. Like
his father before him, Tobeszijian refused the church’s request. Cardinal
Pernal’s face had gone quite white and pinched around the nostrils. His dark brown
eyes had blazed with fury that he clearly had difficulty containing. With his
mouth set in a tight line, he bowed to his king, and Tobeszijian left him to
fume as he wished. Now,
however, as Tobeszijian walked into this small, dark cave beneath his palace,
he saw that this first Circle had been violated, and that the Chalice was gone. Behind
the altar, the natural spring which pooled in the ground had been filled in
with dirt and stone, choking it. Tobeszijian touched it and felt dampness, but
nothing more. He swore softly. Skirting the spring, he walked deeper into the
darkness, holding his torch aloft to light his way, although he already knew. With
every cautious step, his heart raged and grieved. Yet he had to look, had to
see for himself all that had been done to defile this holy place. On
the back wall rose a pillar of black obsidian, hewn and polished. The Chalice
of Eternal Life should have been standing atop that pillar. It was not. At
the base of the pillar, the hearth of Perpetual Fire lay cold. Removing his
glove, Tobeszijian thrust his hand into the white, powdery ashes, but there was
no lingering ember to cast warmth. The fire had been dead a long while. “Muncel,”
he said aloud in despair, “what have you done?” The silence seemed to mock him.
He stepped back, stum- bling
a little, then turned and fled, running across the chamber and back up the steps
into the Hall of Kings. He kicked the trapdoor back into place and flung his
torch into a wall sconce with such force it nearly went out. Wrenching himself
around, he strode through the rest of the Hall, passing the rows of ancient
weapons—some mysterious, others primitive—hanging on hooks as reminders of the
past. Slamming
his way through another set of doors, he left the Hall of Kings and strode
through a passageway as gloomy and deserted as the others. More
doors. He burst through them and entered a reception gallery of light and
warmth so intense it hit him like a blow. A row of windows along the left wall
filled the room with morning sunlight. At the far end, he could see a tall
stove, tiled with bright colors and radiating a blast of heat that made him
realize how cold the rest of the palace had grown. His
anger sank into a deep, secretive corner of his soul, and was replaced by a
renewed sense of caution. If the palace was deserted, who had built this fire? Gripping
his sword with both hands and holding it ready before him, he moved down the
corridor on quick, quiet feet, trying to still even the faint jingling of his
silver spurs. He wanted to call out Nereisse’s name, but he held his tongue. The
gallery looked magnificent in the sunlight. Its tall mirrors, even more costly
and rare than the glass in the windows, hung on the right-hand wall, reflecting
back the sunlight streaming in. The place was all dazzle and glitter, prismed
light refracting on the walls and shimmering from the faceted balls of bard
crystal hanging on chains of gold from the ceiling. It
was the Gallery of Glass, famous throughout the kingdoms. His passage beneath
the bard crystal balls set them swinging lightly, and he could hear them sing
in faint little sighs of melody. The gallery had never failed to enchant all
who entered it. Dignitaries from foreign lands often came and sat here by the
hour, marveling at the dazzling array of light and color and sound. During
festivals, it pleased Tobeszijian to allow dances to be held and madrigals to
be performed in here. The fine carpets would be rolled up, and the floors
polished. Candles would be lit everywhere until the mirrors blazed with their
reflection. The ladies would swish and spin about, laughing to see themselves
in the mirrors. The jewel-like colors of their gowns glittered like
kaleidoscope pieces on the faceted surfaces of the bard crystal balls overhead,
while the crystal sang with the melodies, their tunes eerie and soft. Sweat
beaded on Tobeszijian’s brow, and he turned at the end of the gallery to climb
a broad wooden staircase, carpeted by handwoven rugs sent by the Wandering
Tribes in tribute. The carved wooden heads of idealized danselk, covered with
paint and gilding, formed the posts on either side of the head of the
staircase. Their antlers held candle stubs long since burned out. A draft of
the heated air from the Gallery of Glass blew up the staircase, but it did not
reach far. At
the top of the stairs, he rounded the corner and nearly collided with an
elderly servant of the Order of the Chamberlain. Stooped with age, his straight
gray hair cut in a severe bowl shape above his ears, the servant wore a stiff
tabard of embroidered livery in the royal colors of burgundy and gold. His
collar of servitude was embossed with the royal coat of arms. He held a key in
his mottled hands, and worry puckered his old face. Startled
by this encounter, Tobeszijian swung his sword in reflex even as he recognized
the servant. He shortened his swing and the mighty blade whistled harmlessly
over the old man’s head. Cringing to the floor, the servant lifted his hands
and wailed in fright. “Suchin!”
Tobeszijian said in profound relief. He sheathed his sword and gripped the
wailing servant’s shoulder. “Suchin, do you not know me?” Gasping,
the old man lifted his terrified face and un-squinched his eyes. He stared at
Tobeszijian, his mouth falling open and his eyes growing rounder and rounder.
All the color leached from his face. “I
live,” Tobeszijian said firmly, gripping Suchin’s shoulder even tighter. “I am
flesh, not ghost.” Relief
flooded Suchin’s face at that assurance. With a sob, he flung himself at
Tobeszijian’s feet and wept. “Majesty, you have come!” he cried. “At last, you
have come.” Tobeszijian
gazed down at the old man lying at his feet and wondered why he was still here.
Had he been overlooked, or was he one of the betrayers like the captain of the
guard and the stablemaster? But
the king had no time for such questions now. “Suchin,” he said firmly, “rise
and take me to the queen.” Suchin
obeyed, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Hurrying to keep up with
Tobeszijian’s long stride, he pointed toward the state apartments. “Sire,” he
babbled, “what a relief that you have come home. We had given up all hope.” “How
does the queen?” Tobeszijian asked. Guilt choked him as he thought of the
palace betrayed and invaded, the queen ill, the Chalice stolen, all while he’d
been gone on his pleasure, hunting because he felt tired of his
responsibilities. Thod’s mercy, but he had much to answer for. “Is she better?” Suchin
sighed and shook his head. “We thought it was nothing at first. Princess
Thiatereika fell ill several days ago. Her fever was strong, and kept her
tossing and crying out.” Thiatereika,
his only daughter. Tobeszijian felt as though he’d been struck by a war hammer.
Too much was happening. Too much was being taken away. He could hear a wild,
queer laugh in one corner of his brain, while the rest of him stared at Suchin
in horror. “Aye,
sire,” Suchin said. “Only the queen could soothe the child. Then her majesty
took the fever too. She would not give way to it, though, but fought it most
valiantly, giving all her strength to the child’s care. Even when Prince Muncel
came, she received him with pride, facing him down while she tried to hold the
palace in the name of the king.” Suchin’s gaze flickered to Tobeszijian’s face.
“But she could not prevail and was sent to her chambers. She was kept a
prisoner inside until the palace was emptied of everyone. Gilda says her grace
cried aloud yesterday afternoon and spoke your majesty’s name. She did act most
peculiar, weeping that you were dead. Then she swooned and was taken to bed. She
lies there still.” Tobeszijian
frowned, feeling fresh grief wash over him. She’d known of his danger, while
he’d been oblivious to hers. He should never have left this year. He’d known
better. Thod’s bones, but he should have heeded the warning signs and stayed
here to guard what was his. “What
does the physician say?” he asked, pausing while Suchin struggled to push open
the double doors leading into the queen’s chambers. Suchin
looked at him almost fearfully and stepped aside. “There has been no physician
to attend her majesty.” Speechless
with anger, Tobeszijian stopped halfway across the threshold. He met the old
man’s eyes, and suddenly his sword tip was pressing Suchin’s throat. “What
infamy is this?” he shouted. “By whose order was a physician kept from Queen
Nereisse?” Suchin’s
face went as gray as his hair. His eyes widened with terror, and Tobeszijian
pressed the blade deeper into that soft, wrinkled skin. “Her own order, your
grace!” the servant said, gasping. Tobeszijian
had been expecting him to say it was Prince Muncel. Stunned, he released the
old man, and Suchin sagged against the door, banging it into the wall. His hand
trembled as he pointed at the tall bed standing in the center of the room.
Sheathing his sword, Tobeszijian walked toward it in a daze of confusion and
anguish. The
state bed of the queen was a massive piece of furniture. Each post was as big
around as Tobeszijian’s waist and carved heavily with runes of blessing and the
faces of ancient tree spirits. Since Nereisse had become queen, the ancient
timbers of the bed had sprouted with twigs and green leaves, as though roots
still fastened the posts to the soil. Some of the serving maids would not go
near the bed, not even to strip the linens for cleaning. Others claimed they
could hear the timbers groaning during the day, mumbling in the old tongues
things no mortals should hear. Gold
velvet hangings, so heavily embroidered they hung stiff, encircled the bed to
keep out drafts. They were parted now on the side facing a roaring fire, and
Gilda, the old nurse who cared for the royal children, sat there on a stool at
the queen’s bedside, sponging the queen’s hands and face with a damp cloth. Nereisse’s
golden hair spread across the pillow. Reaching to her knees when she left it
unbound, the tresses were normally thick and luxuriant. They sprang back from
her face naturally, requiring no fillet or band to control them, and the curls
and waves of her hair were never still but always in quiet motion, as though a
soft breeze blew over her at all times. Now, however, no invisible breeze
stirred her hair to life. It lay there tangled and limp, darker at her temples,
where she was sweating. Her
clear skin was flushed, and her shut eyelids looked bruised and puffy. She was
tossing her head back and forth on the
pillow, her hands plucking at the fur coverlet. Gilda grasped one of her hands
and held it firmly, patting it with the damp cloth, but Nereisse pulled free
and murmured urgently, “ Siob-veidhne
broic kalfeyd edr hahld! ” The
fire flickered abruptly low as though it might go out, and the air in the room
seemed to vanish momentarily as if it had all been sucked away. Tobeszijian’s
hair stood up on the back of his neck, and he could feel the wild prickling
across his skin that told him she was speaking with power. That
was forbidden here. She herself had forbidden it, saying it was not safe within
the walls, with so many people about. Power, channeled through the eldin
tongue, was for the outdoors, where it could be unleashed with force. Gilda
looked up at Tobeszijian’s arrival, and tears glistened in her rheumy eyes,
trickling down her wrinkled cheeks. Her bottom teeth had long ago rotted out,
leaving her mouth shrunken, and pulling her chin up nearly to her nose. She
might look a crone, but hers was a gentle soul. She had never feared Nereisse
or the children who had been born in this bed. She had served as Tobeszijian’s
nurse, mothering him when his own mother died, and she had stood as his ally
during the days when his father took a new, this time human, wife who wanted
nothing to do with her royal stepson. “Sire,
my sweet lady lies here poorly,” Gilda whispered. “Very poorly.” She slid off
her stool, making way for him to bend over Nereisse. Tobeszijian
gripped his wife’s hands in his. They were burning hot. She tossed her head,
spilling the cloth Gilda had left across her brow. Tobeszijian stroked the queen’s
forehead, trying to ease the furrows which creased it. He kissed first her hot
lips, then her shut eyelids, then the pointed tip of each delicate ear. “My
beloved,” he whispered, grieving for her. She had the smell of death on her
skin. She was so hot, his icy queen, so unnaturally hot. Usually Nereisse’s
skin was as cool to the touch as polished marble. He kissed her again, but her
eyes did not open. He felt afraid. “Nereisse,” he said in desperation, “I’ve
come safely home.” At
last her eyes did drag themselves open. They were blue-gray, tilted at the
corners, and they stared at him without recognition. “Kalfeyd edr hahld!”
she said. He
felt his hair blow back from his brow as she said the words, felt their force.
Danger, she was saying. There is danger. “Nereisse,”
he said, stroking her cheeks, wanting her to know him. “It’s Tobeszijian, come
home to you. Look at me, beloved. Hear my voice.” But
she tossed in his arms, crying out feverishly, then clutching her stomach with whimpers
of pain. “Help
her!” he said to Gilda frantically. “Send for the physician—” “No!”
Nereisse gripped his wrist, pulling herself up off the pillows. Her eyes stared
into his as though she saw a stranger. “Keep away!” “Nereisse,
I’m here,” he said, pushing her hair back from her face. She
tried to bat his hand away. “No!” “Hush,
beloved. I will not hurt you. Gilda,” he said sharply to the old woman, who had
not moved, “do as I have commanded!” “The
physician’s gone, like all the rest,” Gilda said. “There’s only me and Suchin
left. We hid, or they’d have taken us away too.” Tobeszijian,
still trying to soothe his flailing wife, stared at Gilda. Although he had many
questions, he knew this wasn’t the time. Again he tried to ease Nereisse down,
but she was still fighting him. “Nereisse,
it’s Tobeszijian, your husband,” he said. “You know me. I’ve come home.” This
time she responded to his voice. Her eyes, so wild and frantic behind hanging
wisps of hair, glared at him. “You’re dead. I parted the veils of seeing, and
you were dead.” “No,”
he said softly, stroking her hair. “I escaped.” “Saw
you,” she panted. “Saw the Nonkind surrounding you. Saw them rend you. How you
fought, my beloved. You fought so fiercely and well, but you were alone and
there were so many of them—” “No,
Nereisse,” he said, trying to silence her. “I am here, safe with you.” She
groaned and clung to him, weeping now. “It cannot be true,” she said. “I saw so
clearly.” “It
almost happened,” he told her. “Almost, but they could not trap me. Now you
must rest and get better.” He
laid her down upon her pillows, but she still clung to his hand, her blue-gray eyes
frantic. “It is not safe here for you. The churchmen will capture you. The
court has gone. Everything is gone.” “I
saw,” he said grimly, thinking of the deserted palace. “Muncel—”
She shivered, wracked anew with pain. “Hush,”
he said. “I am here now. You must rest and get better. We will deal with the
other later.” But
she seemed not to hear him. “Muncel has claimed your throne,” she said, her
voice a whisper. “He has moved the court to Belrad, saying the palace here is
accursed by eldin magic. The court left yesterday—nay, the day before. Sleds
and troikas and wagons. They took all the—” “Hush,”
he said, masking his fury. “Let me worry about that. It does not matter as long
as you and the children are safe.” Her
gaze shifted, and for a second she was his old Nereisse, gazing into his eyes
with a corner of her mouth quirked up in something between disapproval and
amusement. “Liar,” she whispered. He
gripped her slender hand in his and kissed it to hide a rush of tears. “No,” he
said, closing his eyes as her fingers swept across his face. “I will make war.
Muncel will rue this infamy. He cannot steal my kingdom like a common thief.” “Then
flee now,” she said, shivering. “Find your allies and loyal liegemen who will raise
an army for you. Do not linger here, for they lie in wait for you, intending to
take you prisoner. They would dare try you as a common—” “Never
mind,” he said, not wanting to tell her he was already a prisoner. But not for
long, he vowed. He would crush Muncel. As soon as he raised an army, he would
ride on Mun-cel’s holding. Belrad, the fortress he had given Muncel with
impulsive generosity. Although he owed Muncel nothing, he had been generous to
his half-brother. And this was how Muncel repaid his kindness. Nereisse
shivered more violently, closing her eyes. Worried, Tobeszijian glanced at
Gilda. “What can be done?” “Nothing,” Nereisse gasped out before Gilda could answer. She opened
her eyes to stare up at him. “It is spellcraft, this poison. You must stay away
from me before you catch it.” She
released his hand, drawing back when he would have touched her. “I
cannot catch it,” he said. “You
are half eld. It could harm you.” He
frowned. “What happened, Nereisse? They told me Thi-atereika caught it first.
Is she—” Pain
and grief creased her face. “Better,” she said hoarsely, her breath coming
short and fast. “I drew it from her body.” He
understood. In saving the child, she had infected herself. “Then we shall draw
it from you.” She
shook her head. “Nay, husband. Had there been a sor-cerelle
here when I first took it, perhaps. Not now.” He
bowed his head in overwhelming sorrow, gripping her hand again, then holding it
even tighter when she tried to pull away. “The
poison was meant for Faldain,” she said. “It came in a sweet, baked in the
shape he loves best. One sweet, brought only for him. I was preoccupied, not
paying attention, or I would have sensed it at once.” “Your
majesty was not even in the room,” Gilda murmured. Tobeszijian
glanced at the old nurse, and her sad eyes met his. “I did not know, sire,”
Gilda whispered guiltily. “How could I guess anything was amiss? Except I sent
to the kitchens for no such treat. Nor did I recognize the page who brought it
for my lamb. Our precious princeling gave such a laugh when he saw it, and
clapped his little hands. But the princess is ever greedy, no matter how many
times I admonish her. She grabbed it off the tray before her brother could touch
it. It went straight in her mouth. Seconds later, she was screaming.” He
thought of his daughter, only four, with her mother’s grace and slenderness,
already a beauty with long, golden curls. His son was less than two years old,
chubby and full of mischief. That anyone would want to harm these sweet
innocents sickened him, and stirred his rage anew. “Where are they?” he asked. “In
the nursery,” Gilda replied. “Suchin watches over them. I could not bring them in
here to watch their lady mother die.” “She will not die,” he said firmly, turning back to Nereisse. “She will
not.” “Save
them,” Nereisse said softly, her voice as thin as the springtime wind. “The
children—so young.” She turned her face away and brushed at it with her
fingers. “So hot. So hot. I must find my dear Tobeszijian, who walks this land
no more.” He
stared at her, feeling helpless and afraid, while Gilda went back to sponging
her face. There must be something he could do. Her skin looked like wet ashes.
She was breathing harshly, with great difficulty, and another spasm of pain
shuddered through her, making her cry out. “Kalfeyd edr hahld’t”
she said. A
whoosh of energy passed his head, just missing him, and one of the massive
bedposts split. Gilda dropped the enameled basin of water and jumped back,
making the sign of a circle on her breast. “She’ll kill us all, sire!” “Wait,
Gilda. She won’t—” The nurse was already scuttling away. Before she reached
the door, however, Tobeszijian caught her around the middle and picked her up,
carrying her back, kicking and weeping like a child. “It
missed us both,” he said, putting the old crone down and patting her shoulder.
“She won’t harm us. She won’t. You’ve helped her so bravely, Gilda. You must help her
still.” The
old woman managed to stop her weeping and wiped her face with her apron.
“Forgive me, sire. There is nothing to be done.” He
paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. “If I could reach the eld folk,”
he said aloud. But even as he spoke, he knew it was futile. He had the Ring to
help him escape and return, but despite that he knew not where to go. The eld
folk never stayed in a place long. And Nereisse had already said a sorcerelle
could not help her. Still,
he would not give up. “The bathing tub,” he said in sudden inspiration. “Have
the servants fill it with water. Cold water.” Gilda
gasped. “You’ll kill her.” “She’s
burning up. We must do something. Gilda, get the tub. Call the pages to help—” He
broke off, only then realizing what he’d said. The
old woman pressed a corner of her embroidered apron to her mouth and wept,
rocking herself back and forth. In
the bed, Nereisse moaned and tossed, mumbling incoherently in the eld tongue.
He felt tears falling down his cheeks. He could not let her leave him. Instinctively
he knew it would take too long for him to go downstairs and find his way to the
kitchens, or wherever water was brought from. He hurried to the window and
pulled aside the heavy draperies. Immediately cold drafts raced through the
room, and when he pushed open the window, brutally cold air poured in.
Tobeszijian leaned out, scooping armfuls of snow into the hem of his cloak, and
came back inside, slamming the window shut behind him. He carried the snow to
the bed and started packing handfuls of it around Nereisse. She
opened her eyes and sighed. “Tobeszijian.” Grateful
that she was lucid again, he dropped the snow and gripped her hands, kissing
them. “Yes, beloved. I am here.” Grief
filled her eyes. “Sorry,” she whispered. “All my fault.” He
stroked her hot cheek. “What could be your fault? Mun-cel’s ambition and those
accursed reformers—” “No,
listen to me,” she said urgently. “I was casting with sight, parting the veils
of seeing. I was lonely, missing you, missing my own people. It’s forbidden,
but I wanted to come to you across the—” “Hush,”
he said, hiding a shudder of worry. “Never mind now. Come spring I will take
you home, and you will see all your family. You will feast and laugh and not
feel lonely.” “The
evil ones who have joined Muncel saw me,” she said, looking past him. Terror
filled her face. “I was not careful enough, and they saw me. They heard me. And
I heard them. Muncel has made a pact with the Nonkind. This I saw. He has
allowed Believers into the kingdom—” “Gently,”
Tobeszijian said, his alarm growing. The snow was melting on her skin,
darkening her sleeping shift with moisture. She began to shiver, and he drew
the furs over her. “It’s all right now. I will deal with Muncel.” “No,
Tobeszijian, no’t Nothing is all right. The Nonkind walk among us, by his
invitation. They plan to kill you.” His
mouth set itself in a grim line. “They will not.” “I
wanted to warn you, fearing you would come to harm in the hunt, but they saw
me. They would not have struck so quickly, so boldly if not for me.” “Take
not their guilt onto yourself,” he said. “It is Muncel who is to blame, not
you.” “Had
you not wed me, the people of Nether would have loved you,” she said, weeping.
“They would never have given their hearts to Muncel.” He
pressed his hand against her lips, silencing her, and shook his head. Never had
he regretted taking her as his wife. He loved her still as he had the first day
he saw her dancing in the woods with her companions. She had been singing,
wearing a chain of flowers in her hair, which had flowed unbound over her
shoulders. Her song was like magic, so pure of note and expressive that he had
felt enspelled by it. His gaze would not leave her. And although she had
laughed and run, vanishing into the trees, he had pursued her, seeking her
among the eldin until she was found. She was a highborn princess in her own
right. Had he not been king of Nether, had he not been half eld himself, her
parents would have never let her wed him. “You
must guard the children,” she said, bringing him back from his thoughts. “Never
leave them for a moment. They are in great danger now. They have too much eldin
blood for safety. While Faldain is the rightful heir to the throne, Muncel will
never leave him be. Even Thiatereika is not safe, for her claim follows
Faldain’s.” “We
are all safe,” he said to her, wishing she would stop talking as though he and
she were already dead. “Do not worry. I will not let Muncel get away with this.
That, I swear to you.” “Swear
you will protect the children first,” she insisted, her blue-gray eyes
searching his. “Swear!” “By
my word and my heart, I will see them safely guarded,” he promised. “Now you
must sleep a little. As soon as you are better we—” “Do
not wait for me, my love,” she said urgently. “Flee with them now. Take them to
my ... The forest will guard them.... The forest is friend to them. I can’t...” She
fell silent then, her eyes closing in exhaustion. Tobeszi-jian bent over her,
kissing her brow. He hoped she would sleep. She must. And he had to find a way
to make her better. “Sire,”
Gilda said softly, “shall I have Suchin bring the children?” She
gestured as she spoke, and Tobeszijian saw that Suchin had slid open one of the
doors to the queen’s ornate chambers and was standing there, looking afraid and
worried. “No,”
Tobeszijian said. “We’ll let my lady rest. She seems easier now. The snow has
helped her.” “Shall
I get more?” Gilda asked. He
nodded and glanced down at Nereisse, who lay quiet and still. Too still. He did
not hear her struggling breathing now. He stared at her, and knew, with a stab
of awful certainty. Swiftly
he bent over her, but she lay silent. Her eyes were shut; her head had fallen slightly
to one side. In his grasp, her hand had already grown cold. “No,”
he said. “Nereisse? No!” Gilda
turned from the window and came hurrying back. One look and she quickly
retreated, drawing the circle on her breast. “Oh, your majesty,” she whispered. “No!”
Tobeszijian said angrily. He shook Nereisse hard until her head bounced on the
pillow. “Nereisse! Nereisse!” His
cry came straight from his wounded heart. She could not answer him, could not
smile into his eyes with that little crinkle of her eyelids reserved for him
alone. She could not sing to him. She could not laugh and skip across the
gardens with the children bounding after her. She could not ride in her troika,
bundled in furs, her eyes shining in the starlight and her breath a mist about
her delicate nostrils. She could not kiss him and give him the joy of her
slender body. She was gone, his Nereisse. Gone forever. He
leaned over her then and wept hard, clutching her to his chest. It
was as though darkness surrounded him. He knew nothing except the weight of her
in his arms, and yet already she felt foreign against his chest. For what
remained was not his Nereisse, not the quickness and delight of her. All he
held was an empty shell, so beautiful yet as worthless to him now as dust. He
would gladly see every trace of her beauty gone if only the heart and soul
would return to her. But
it could not. She
was dead, and he had lost her forever. Gilda
crept about the chamber quietly, her sniffles muffled, her movements slow. She
opened chests and withdrew items, coming back to the bed and gently placing her
hand on Tobes-zijian’s shoulder. “Let
me care for her now, sire,” Gilda said softly. “Let me make her ready.” He
could not think, could barely hear. Her words made no sense, yet he responded
to her soft voice and touch as he had when he was a child in her care. She
took Nereisse from his arms and laid his lady on her pil- lows.
Placing a pristine white linen handkerchief over Nereisse’s face, Gilda began
dressing her in an exquisitely embroidered court gown. Tobeszijian
stood there in a daze, and a dim corner of his mind recognized it as Nereisse’s
coronation gown. His eyes burned with fresh tears, and he buried his face in
his hands. His mind filled with the memory of how lovely and radiant she had
looked that day, her face so piquant and solemn beneath the flashing jewels in
her heavy crown. The people had cheered her then, but not warmly. He realized
now that he had been so filled with love for her, so certain of her charm and
intelligence and value, that he’d never paid attention to the people’s lack of
enthusiasm. He had believed they would come to know her as he did, and that
they would overlook her eldin blood and see only the goodness of her heart. He
clenched his fists against his temples, raging at his stupidity. He had been so
blind, so foolish. He had brought Nereisse to this harm. He had taken her from
the protection of her own people and brought her here among the bigoted,
small-minded humans that were his own subjects. He had made his enemies her
enemies, and now they had struck her down. Her
... and their children. For
the first time in several minutes he recalled his children’s existence. Perhaps
some extra sense was trying to warn him, for at that moment he heard a scream
in the distance. It was thin at first, then rose to sharp intensity. He
turned around with an oath, and Gilda froze by the bed, where she was carefully
folding Nereisse’s hands together across the jeweled bodice of the gown. The
scream came again, a piercing shriek that only a terrified child could make. The
grief that fogged him fell away, and he knew that voice as surely as his own.
“Thia!” he said. From
the doorway, old Suchin, who was supposed to be watching the royal children,
gasped aloud. He turned and ran, while Gilda called out something that
Tobeszijian never heard. He
told himself he should have sent for the children the first instant he entered
the palace. Now they were in danger, and his heart went wild. He had lost
Nereisse. He would not lose his son and daughter as well. Drawing
his sword, he ran from the room. Running
from the queen’s chambers down the corridor, Tobeszijian passed a series of
brightly colored doors. Overtaking Suchin, who was hobbling more than running,
Tobeszijian returned to the staircase and charged up another flight of stairs.
As he came to the top of the landing and stepped into a smaller, less ornate
corridor, he saw a hirelance in helmet and mail struggling with a child he held
in his arms. Tobeszijian saw only Thiatereika’s tangled curls and kicking legs,
but he saw enough. With
a shout of rage, he brandished Mirengard and ran at the abductor, just as a
nearby door opened and a second hirelance emerged with Faldain. Tobeszijian
never slowed his charge. His shout had already warned the man holding
Thiatereika, but she was kicking and flailing with all her might, screaming at
the top of her lungs, and this hampered her captor. He managed only to turn
partway around by the time Tobeszijian reached him. Tobeszijian
swung his sword. The great length of steel whistled through the air, and caught
the man’s upper back. Normally he would have aimed for the hirelance’s head,
but it would have been too dangerous a blow with Thiatereika clutched tight in
the man’s arms. Instead, Tobeszijian aimed his sword lower, so that the blade
bit deep into the hirelance’s back. It cut through his hauberk as if it were
cloth and sent tiny links of chain mail flying. The man screamed and dropped
Thiatereika as he stumbled sideways. Mirengard had severed his spine, and the
man’s arms and legs no longer worked. Shrieking, he flopped to the floor, blood
streaming from his wound. Thiatereika
darted away from him. With her hands outstretched and her face bright red from
screaming, she came straight at her father. Tobeszijian
sidestepped her and spun to meet the second hirelance’s charge. The
man had already dropped Faldain on the floor out of his way, and the toddler
was wailing lustily. “My
papa!” Thiatereika clutched Tobeszijian around the leg, hampering him. He
parried weakly, and Mirengard was nearly driven right into his face by the
other man’s blow. Ducking
awkwardly, Tobeszijian scrambled back, disengaging his sword, and parried
again—one-handed this time, while with his left he gripped Thiatereika by the
back of her gown and lifted her off the floor. “Climb
on my back,” he said through gritted teeth, again managing to parry the
hirelance’s charging attack with one hand. Mirengard was heavy and hard to
manage this way. He knew he had only seconds before the hirelance would break
through his weak defense. “Hurry, sweet. Play monkey on my back and hold on
hard.” Thiatereika
grinned at him and climbed him like a tree, swarming across his shoulders and
fastening herself to his back. It was a game they often played, with him
rolling on the floor like a child himself. Now, she wrapped her little arms
around his neck from behind, almost choking him, and sang out, “I’m a monkey
from Saelutia!” Praying
she could hang on, Tobeszijian skidded to his knees to duck another blow from
the hirelance, and got both of his hands on his hilt. He swung with all the
considerable strength and power at his disposal, his muscles flexing beneath
his mail. The hirelance swung down his sword to parry the blow aimed at his
knees, but Tobeszijian’s strength broke the parry and drew blood from the man’s
legs. Yelling
and cursing, the hirelance stumbled back, and Tobeszijian gained his feet to
charge, swinging the mighty Mirengard again and again. In
two more blows, the hirelance’s sword shattered. He stared at it and threw it
down before he turned to run. Tobeszijian
swung a final time. The hirelance’s head went tumbling, slinging blood and
gobbets of flesh across the sunny yellow walls. His body crumbled in its
tracks, with a great spurt of blood gushing forth from the neck. Breathing
hard, Tobeszijian lowered his blood-splattered sword and pulled in air to the
depths of his lungs, then turned around. It had grown deathly silent in the
corridor. He
saw his young son standing frozen in the doorway of the nursery. Faldain’s thumb
was in his mouth, and his pale gray eyes stared solemnly at the corpses. He was
too young to understand or to be afraid, but Tobeszijian wiped his sword on a
corner of his cloak, sheathed it, and hurried to scoop Faldain into his arms.
The boy broke into a wide grin and planted a messy smack on Tobeszijian’s
cheek. “Pa!”
he said proudly. Tobeszijian
touched his son’s black curls, and felt himself undone by the sweet innocence
in Faldain’s face. He pressed his face against Faldain’s tender one, breathing
in softness and the smell of little boy. And he thought of Nereisse, lying dead
in her chamber, never to kiss this child again, never to soothe him when he
cried, or to help him grow up brave and strong in his father’s footsteps.
Faldain would never know how wonderful she was, or how beautiful. He would
never witness her courage or her grace. Tears
burned Tobeszijian’s eyes, and he sent up a prayer of thanksgiving that his
children had been spared. “Suchin,”
he said hoarsely to the servant cowering on the stairs, “get their outdoor
clothes. Dress them for a journey.” Still
looking frightened, the old man scuttled into the room and began searching
through the brightly painted chests and cupboards for small cloaks and smaller boots. Tobeszijian
set both children on the floor. Thiatereika tossed her head, sending her golden
curls bouncing on her shoulders, and ran to help Suchin. “I know where
everything is,” she announced. Faldain
wrapped himself around Tobeszijian’s leg and would not turn it loose. When
Suchin knelt beside the little prince and tried to pry his hands away so he
could put gloves on the boy’s hands and boots on his small feet, Faldain let
out a mighty screech of rage and clung even harder. Thiatereika,
looking adorable in a cloak of blue velvet trimmed with ermine, her hair now
tied back with a ribbon, and dainty fur-lined boots on her feet, went running
off into the playroom. “Thia,”
Tobeszijian called after her. “Stay here.” “I
want my Su-Su,” she said stubbornly. He
had no idea what she was talking about, and let her go. Suchin was still on his
knees, struggling to exchange Faldain’s slippers for boots. The boy was
resisting, kicking his feet and turning red-faced with anger. “No!”
he shouted. Tobeszijian
was a man who waged wars, decreed policy, feasted, and hunted. He played with
his children more than did many men or kings, but until now he’d had no idea
what was entailed in putting clothing on a squirming, rebellious child. To his
eyes, it looked as difficult as bridling a wild horse. “In
Thod’s name, hurry, man,” he said impatiently to Suchin. “They’ll need a change
of clothing as well.” “Aye,
sire,” Suchin said breathlessly as he succeeded in getting the second boot on.
Faldain rolled onto his stomach and began crawling away as fast as he could. Tobeszijian
let Suchin chase the child and instead went to one of the cupboards and opened
it. He pulled out items of clothing at random, surprised at how small they
were, and how finely made. Frowning, Tobeszijian looked in vain for sturdy
clothing suitable for travel. Had they no hardspun, no leggings, no — “Here,
sire,” Suchin said, reappearing with two cups of eldin silver and necklaces of
ribbon twisted with gold wire from which pendants of bard crystal hung. Tobeszijian’s
frown deepened. “We cannot be hampered by frippery. Sturdy clothing, man!
Quickly!” “They
have none, sire.” Suchin pressed the cups into Tobeszijian’s hands. “But these
the queen held important. I’ll be quick.” Faldain
headed off into the playroom in search of Thi-atereika, calling “Ei, ei, ei!”
as loud as he could. Tobeszijian
stared, marveling at how quickly they seemed to forget the danger they’d just
survived. The cups he held were of excellent crafting, engraved with
flowers and the faces of animals, but they were of no use to him. He tossed
them on the floor while Suchin stuffed items into a small cloak that he twisted
into an ill-made bundle. Thiatereika
appeared in the doorway, her eyes enormous. “My papa!” she called, whimpering.
She was clutching a dirty rag doll to her chest. “Su-Su is scared. My papa,
come!” Suchin
hurried over to her, slipping one of the bard crystal pendants over her head
and tucking it beneath her cloak. She twisted away from him and stamped her
foot. “My
papa!” she shouted. “Come!” Tobeszijian
went to her and put his large hand on her curls. “Hush, sweet. We’re going in
just a moment.” She
shied away from his hand and began to cry, pointing at the other room. Puzzled
by what could upset her in there when the dead men in the hallway had not made
her blink, Tobeszijian looked inside the playroom. He
saw smoke curling out through the front grille of the yellow and blue tiled
stove standing in one corner. The nursery was normally a sunny place, with
walls painted in shades of yellow, green, and pink. Painted vines and animals
and cherubs adorned the ceiling and climbed down the corners of the walls.
Strangely, the air felt icy cold, as though all the windows had been thrown
open and the fire in the stove had gone out. But even if the latter had
happened, the stove should have continued to radiate stored heat for a long
time. The
smoke was still pouring out, curling straight down to the floor and toward the
doorway, where Tobeszijian stood, staring at it. It flowed around his ankles,
and he felt immediately chilled to the bone. He stepped back quickly, and
realized then that it wasn’t smoke at all, but instead a black mist that roiled
and curled and seemed to be searching for something. He
saw it pause at the doorway near him. Tendrils of the stuff curled up as though
exploring, then flowed on through the room in a straight line, aiming itself at
the corridor where the corpses lay. Wide-eyed,
Tobeszijian stared at it, suddenly breathing harder than when he’d been
fighting. There was more of the mist now, filling the doorway and curling
around his ankles again. He retreated a second time, then glimpsed Faldain
standing inside the center of the playroom next to the mist. Sucking his thumb,
the child stared solemnly at the murky flow of evil. Tobeszijian’s
heart lurched in his chest. Pushing Thiatereika back against the wall, he waded
through the mist, wincing as his feet seemed to freeze inside his boots. He
grabbed Faldain up and carried him out of the playroom. By the time he’d
stepped out of the mist again he was shuddering violently, and gritted his
teeth to keep from moaning at the pain. Suchin
wailed his prayers and backed against the tall, square bed that the children
shared. He drew a circle on his chest with a shaking hand. The
mist flowed through the bedchamber, curling away from where the silver cups lay
on the floor. For Tobeszijian, this confirmed the mist’s evil. Nonkind could
not cross running water. It could not touch salt or eldin silver, the purest
grade possible. He wondered who was directing the mist, and why. Was it Bork,
the Believer out in the guardhouse? Or were other Gantese agents lurking in the
many passages of the palace? Dry-mouthed,
Tobeszijian realized he could not tarry here much longer. Clearly something out
there sensed that Nereisse was dead. She must have been protecting the
household, holding these forces back with the last remnants of her waning
strength. Premonition
crawled across the back of Tobeszijian’s neck, making him shiver. He gestured
at Suchin, then caught sight of the bundle in the servant’s hands and realized
it would not do. He
went to Thiatereika and stripped off her cloak. “That bundle, quickly!” he
said. With
a puzzled look, Suchin opened it. Tobeszijian pulled out a gown lined with the
softest belly fur of snow-hare. He yanked it down over Thiatereika’s head,
pulling her arms through the sleeves while she protested in a muffled voice.
When her head popped through the neck, she was scowling. “I
can put on my clothes by myself!” she declared. Not
paying attention, Tobeszijian crammed another gown on over her clothing. It was
a tight fit, and she fussed about it until Tobeszijian snapped his fingers at
her in admonition. He tied her cloak back on and drew up her hood firmly to
conceal both her hair and her pointed ears. Her face was streaked with tears,
and her eyes looked tired and puffy. Already this morning she’d been through
too much. His heart ached with the knowledge that he must submit her to a great
deal more. By
now Suchin had succeeded in wrestling an extra pair of hosen and another tunic
onto Faldain, who was fighting him about the boots again. Tobeszijian helped
the old man, holding Faldain still so Suchin could finish dressing him. Suchin
slipped the second bard crystal necklace around Faldain’s chubby neck and
tucked it inside his tunics. “For
luck, little prince,” the old man whispered. “I’m
hot, my papa,” Thiatereika declared. She waved her rag doll. “Su-Su is hot too.
I don’t want to wear this—” Tobeszijian
scooped her into his arms along with Faldain, settling a child on each hip, and
headed out, with Suchin crowding his heels. The
mist filled the entire corridor in front of the nursery. Suchin
whimpered with fear. “There is no way to avoid wading through it, sire.” “Wait,”
Tobeszijian commanded. Juggling children, he drew his sword and plunged the tip
of Mirengard into the black mist. blade
glowed white and silver. The mist parted, curling swiftly away from the steel.
Quickly, Tobeszijian walked through. Behind
him, Suchin cried out and stumbled, then barreled past Tobeszijian. “The evil
is with us,” Suchin wailed, running toward the stairs. “The evil is here!” Thiatereika
began to whimper, and Tobeszijian glared at the old man. “Be quiet, you fool!”
he said. Suchin
fell as silent as if he’d been strangled. The
mist as yet seemed to have taken no notice of the living. It headed for the two
corpses lying on the bloody carpet and began to twist and coil about them. When
a column of roiling darkness started rising from the back of the nearest body,
Tobeszijian’s eyes widened in horror. He
could feel the tingle on his skin and the crawly, itching sensation that told
him magic was being used. Yet darkness was not supposed to be able to enter the
palace like this. There were safeguards and spell locks designed to protect it. But
Nereisse was dead, and the Chalice was gone. What remained to power the spell
locks? He
was thinking like a fool, refusing to accept what was being demonstrated before
him. He remembered his promise to himself that Muncel would not get away with
this. And now in his heart he made it a vow. Muncel would not win. Tobeszijian
swore it on the hilt of his sword, on the heads of his frightened children, and
on the memory of his dead wife. When
the corpse that still had its head twitched and began to climb to its feet,
Thiatereika screamed, and Suchin wailed. Tobeszijian
turned around and headed down the stairs, his children in his arms. He was not
going to waste time fighting Nonkind. The
war had begun. He had lost the first skirmish, but Tobeszijian had never lost a
war yet and did not intend to now. “Hush,
my children,” he murmured to Faldain and
Thi-atereika. “You must be brave now. You must not cry.” They
clung to him in fear, knowing instinctively that everything around them was wrong. Until today he had
never heard Thiatereika cry except in temper. His children had known no unkindness,
no fear, no distress. And he hated Muncel for ending their innocence so
cruelly. Suchin
trotted at his heels, glancing back apprehensively over his shoulder as though he expected the animated
corpse to come after them at any minute. “Sire,” he said worriedly, his old
voice shaking. “Sire, what is to become of us?” At
the bottom of the stairs, Tobeszijian stopped and juggled Faldain in his arms so he could put a hand on the
old man’s shoulder. “Suchin, you have been a true and faithful servant,” he
said, gazing down into the old man’s tear-shiny eyes. “I free you
from service, you and Gilda both. I ask only one last favor of you.” Suchin
bowed his head, weeping openly now. “Anything, sire.” Tobeszijian swallowed
hard to clear the lump from his throat. “Bury my sweet lady in the grove that
she loved so well. Make it a simple resting place, hidden. The eldin will find
her when they come, but tell no one else where she lies.” Suchin
nodded, still weeping and unable to look up. Tobeszijian gripped his
shoulder harder until the old man raised his eyes. “Thank you,”
Tobeszijian said, taking the children’s bundle from the servant’s arms.
“Farewell.” He
strode away, and Suchin came scurrying after him like a dog that will not be parted from its master. “Wait, sire!”
he called. “Will you not come back to us? Is the kingdom truly fallen?” Tobeszijian’s mouth set
itself in a grim line. “I go to fight for it,” he said. “How it shall come out,
I will know not until I can learn who still calls me liege.” Hoisting Thiatereika and
Faldain higher in his arms, he strode out, passing the door to his dead
wife’s chamber with only the slightest falter in his step. Forgive me, my lady, for leaving
you like this, he thought, and glanced
back at Suchin. “Don’t let the Nonkind take her,” he said. “No, sire,” Suchin said
in a small, frightened voice. He stared at Tobeszijian helplessly.
“After we do as you have com- manded, where will we go?
What will become of us? Will you come back?“ Tobeszijian realized the
old man thought he was running away, fleeing to save himself. Anger and hurt
pierced Tobeszijian, and he whirled around. “Nether is mine!” he said, his
voice ringing out loudly. “I do not desert my kingdom; this, I do swear.” “But, sire—” Tobeszijian turned and
strode on, closing his ears to Suchin’s cries. His heart was stone now, his
temper a fire that had seared him. With every stride through his empty palace
his resolve hardened. He knew exactly what to do next, and he did not hesitate. The bay horse he had
ridden to the doors of the palace still wandered about on the portico with its
reins dangling. It snorted when Tobeszijian appeared, but seemed glad to be
caught. Most of the rosettes braided in its flowing black mane had already
fallen off. Tobeszijian placed both
children in front of the saddle and swung up with a soft jingle of his silver
spurs. Pulling on his gauntlets against the cold air, he sent the horse
plunging down the wide steps and across the grand courtyard, riding past the
fountain with its grand basin and cavorting sea creatures carved of stone. The
fountain had been shut down, and the water in the basin had pieces of ice
floating in it. Tobeszijian gave it not a second glance and touched his spurs
to the horse, sending it galloping straight across the orderly plantings
between the courtyard and the curving road. He returned to the
stables, where the serfs sweeping the snow off the cobbles fled at the sight of
him and stood peeking out from the shadows behind the piles of frozen fodder.
Tobeszijian dismounted and pulled his children down off the horse, while a
stableboy hurried to hold the bridle. Tobeszijian glanced at the
boy. “Inform the stablemaster that I want the darsteed,” he said quietly. The boy gaped at him
stupidly, looking frozen with alarm. “Now,” Tobeszijian
snapped. The boy went shuffling
toward the stables, leading the bay horse. Thiatereika tugged at her
father’s cloak. “Are we going riding, my papa?” she asked. He
saw a group of hirelances
coming from the guardhouse. His stomach tightened. “Are
we going riding, my papa?”
Thiatereika asked again. “Are we going riding? Are we?” “Yes,” he said without
glancing at her. He felt a sudden fear that his plan would not work. Faldain
had discovered something on the ground and was bending over, spraddle-legged, to examine it. His small,
gloved fingers worked busily. “When
are we going riding?” Thiatereika asked him. “Are we going soon? Is that why I have so many clothes
on? I’m not cold, my papa. I want to go riding now.” “Yes,” he said
distractedly, watching the hirelances come. “Very soon.” From
inside the round fortified
stall the darsteed scented him and bugled. Its thoughts, like smoking
brands, came at him: Run/run/run/run. Soon, he answered it with his mind. Faldain
straightened up, staggering to catch his balance, and grinned at Tobeszijian.
“Soon!” he crowed. A
little startled, Tobeszijian stared at him, wondering if the child had
overheard his thoughts. But by then the hirelances had reached him. They fanned out, surrounding him in a
circle of menace. “Ready
to surrender now?” Bork asked him. The Gantese’s small
dark eyes stared deep into Tobeszijian’s as though trying to read his thoughts,
but Tobeszijian steeled himself against any flicker of communication and felt
nothing touch him. From
the round stall a series of powerful thuds could be heard. The darsteed grew
louder and more frantic. Tobeszijian
let his gaze stray in that direction. “I thought I would exercise the brute. It gets vicious when it’s
neglected.” Bork’s eyes had shrunk
to pinpricks of suspicion. He pointed at the children. “What are they?” Tobeszijian’s
chin jutted, and his eyes grew cold. “His royal highness, Prince Faldain,” he
said in a voice like iron. “Her royal highness, Princess Thiatereika.” Hearing
her name spoken, Thiatereika turned and skipped over to Tobeszijian’s side. She glared up into Bork’s
hatchet face without fear. “You aren’t one of our guardsmen,” she declared.
“You wear strange boots.” Tobeszijian glared at the
man. “You sent some of your var-lets to seize my children from their chambers,
Bork. With what intent?” Bork shrugged. “I follow
orders.” “They stay with me.” Bork’s fangs showed. “In
your land, the mothers keep their young close by. It makes them soft and
feeble. Is the queen dead now?” “No,” Tobeszijian lied
swiftly, conscious of little ears listening to every word. “She sleeps, and I
would not have her rest disturbed by these two.” “A king, herding his own
young?” Bork asked in astonishment. “You lie.” Tobeszijian’s hand slapped
against his sword hilt, and several of the hirelances reached for their
own weapons. Bork held up his hand to stop them, and sent Tobeszijian one of
his thin-lipped smiles. “You lie,” he repeated
more softly. “You and I both know it. A king does not do servant’s work.” “He might when there are
no servants to do the work,” Tobeszijian retorted. “The palace is empty, except
for one old woman who tends the queen. Or haven’t you gone inside yet? I
suppose you haven’t, for there’s been no looting done.” It was Bork’s turn to
stiffen at the insult. Tobeszijian faced him, steely-eyed and unflinching. Bork scowled at him.
“Surrender your sword. Now.” Tobeszijian reached for
Mirengard slowly. Inside, his heart was already knotting with more worry. He
would have to fight them, and the children were in the way. Thod’s bones, how
was he to get them in the clear? A commotion in the stableyard gave him his answer. He spun around, the
hirelances turning with him, and saw five sweating stableboys bringing the
darsteed out with throat poles. The stablemaster and another boy followed, carrying
the armored body cloth and special saddle. The darsteed was a huge,
snorting brute. As black as evil, its slitted eyes glowed red. Hot, acidic
saliva dripped off its fangs to hiss upon the icy ground. The sweating,
frightened boys maneuvered it around, forcing it to go near the mounting
blocks. Inside
the stables, the horses must have sensed that the darsteed was out. Several of
them whinnied in alarm, and the darsteed slung its head in that direction. It
was bred to hunt and attack anything that moved. It lunged in the direction of
the barns, but the boys held it in place. Roaring
in fury, it shook its snakelike head violently and slashed out with razor-sharp
hooves. The boys screamed in fear, and one of them dropped his throat pole. At
once the darsteed charged, but the others managed to hold it back. The beast
shot flames from its nostrils, scorching the paving stones. Again it shook its
powerful neck and head, shuddering in an effort to throw its handlers off their
feet. The boy who’d fallen scrambled back up and darted forward to seize the
dangling throat pole. The darsteed slashed at him, but missed. Enraged, it
lashed its barbed tail from side to side. The
stablemaster flung the armor cloth over the beast’s humped back and fastened it
with swift expertise. The cloth clanked with its movements, and the darsteed
roared at the saddle, which was being carried closer now. It lunged, and the
boys barely held it in check. The darsteed flung up its head and reared high,
and the stablemaster hurried to throw the saddle on its back. He reached under
the creature’s belly for the cinch, missed, and grabbed again. The
darsteed kicked him, and a bloody gash opened in the stablemaster’s leg. Crying
out, he yanked up the cinch hard enough to make the darsteed grunt, and
stumbled back, limping and clutching his leg. The
darsteed’s nostrils flared, sniffing the scent of fresh blood. Its lean head
followed the stablemaster, and one of the boys shouted a warning. Faldain
squealed with laughter and darted between the hire-lances encircling
Tobeszijian. Grabbing at the child, Tobeszi-jian missed, and Faldain escaped. Seeing
his son run straight at the darsteed, Tobeszijian’s heart lurched in his chest.
“Stop him!” he shouted. Bork
laughed, and none of the hirelances moved to obey Tobeszijian’s command. Horrified,
Tobeszijian tried to go after Faldain himself, but Bork blocked his path. “You
said you wanted to go riding with your young,” he said with a laugh that showed
his fangs. “Now we will see the truth.” Tobeszijian
took a step back and sent his mind to the darsteed, touching cool intelligent
reason to hot bestiality. The darsteed quieted at once, despite the child’s
approach. Its mind held resentment, but it was forced to subject itself to
Tobeszijian’s command. Still/still/still/still, Tobeszijian told it. Breathing
smoky plumes in the cold air, the darsteed stood motionless, watching Faldain’s
approach with its red eyes. The child toddled right up to it, well within
striking range, and stopped, laughing and reaching up to the creature with
innocent, chubby fingers. “In
Thod’s name,” the stablemaster breathed, watching with horrified eyes. “Hoi,
you and Rafe try to get him away from that devil’s spawn.” “Let
his highness be,” Tobeszijian forced himself to say calmly while Bork’s eyes
widened. “After all, this will be his war mount someday. They might as well
become acquainted.” “You
bluff well,” Bork murmured, unable to take his gaze from the sight of child and
beast studying each other. “But still you bluff.” “Do
I?” Tobeszijian replied through his teeth. He kept his face stony and calm, but
inside his heart was thudding with anxiety. Thiatereika
tugged at his cloak. “I can’t see, my papa,” she said in frustration. “What is
Dainie doing with the black horse?” Tobeszijian
lifted her into his arms. “Making friends with it,” he said lightly, feeling
sweat bead along his temples. The
darsteed was resisting his control. He could feel its hunger, like a clawing
thing, and with dismay Tobeszijian remembered it had not been fed properly for
many days now. Faldain was the perfect size for a meal. Oh,
Thod, have mercy, he prayed. Giggling
as though conscious that he was the center of attention, Faldain glanced around
at his audience, moved closer, and held up his hand again to the beast looming
over him. The
darsteed lowered its head, its red eyes focused on nothing but the child. Still/still/still/still, Tobeszijian commanded it. The
beast bared its fangs, letting acid drip, hissing, around Faldain. The child
stretched up on his toes, unafraid, and patted the darsteed on the end of its snout. “Horsey,
go ride!” Faldain announced. A
sigh of awe passed through the onlookers. Tobeszijian pushed his way through
the hirelances with Thiatereika in his arms. His legs felt like wood, but he
forced himself to act the part, calmly walking right up to his son and the
beast that wanted Faldain as its prey. Tobeszijian knew he would have to pay a
price for this obedience. The darsteed would feed, and very soon now, no matter
how much Tobeszijian tried to control it. “Pet
the darsteed, Thiatereika,” the king said lightly. She
reached out and gave the creature’s leathery neck a single pat before he
whisked her out of reach. By then he’d gripped Faldain’s arm and pulled him off
the ground, spinning and kicking almost under the very nose of the darsteed,
which hissed and slavered as little shudders ran through its body. Its tail was
lashing from side to side in warning. Tobeszijian
could feel its fury building, and knew his control would not last much longer. “The
bridle, stablemaster,” he said quietly. But
the stablemaster had sunk down on the cobbles a safe distance away, blood still
streaming from his leg, while some of the other servants tried to tend his
wound. The boy who’d helped carry the saddle stepped forward with the simple
bridle in his hands. It had no bit, and was merely a headpiece with reins
attached. “Be
quick,” Tobeszijian murmured to him. The
boy nodded, his throat apple jerking up and down as he swallowed. Drawing a
final breath, he darted toward the darsteed, which flung up its head in alarm. With
all the control he still possessed, Tobeszijian pressed harder, and the beast
lowered its head. The boy fitted the bridle on, tugging the check strap swiftly
into place, and stumbled out of the way. By
then Tobeszijian had both children on the darsteed’s back. He mounted in a
swift, fluid motion. Gathering the reins, he let a part of himself flow into
and become one with the darsteed. He
wanted to feel it attack. The
darsteed’s blood boiled through Tobeszijian’s veins. His own fury raged back
into the darsteed. Impatience filled Tobeszijian, an impatience and anger that
he no longer tried to govern. With a flick of his hands, he gestured to the
stableboys. “My
children,” he said with the last ounce of what remained inside him as a man,
“hold on tight no matter what happens.” Inside
his glove, the Ring burned hot around his finger. Tobeszijian’s heart was thudding
faster and faster. The
stableboys released the nooses on the throat poles, and Bork stepped forward. “You
ride it and show us your legend,” he said with a sneer. “Then your games are
over, king, and you go to the guardhouse as our prisoner.” Tobeszijian
spurred the darsteed and slipped his control from the beast’s mind. Feed/strike/go, he commanded. With
a bugle of rage, the darsteed bounded straight at Bork, who had time only to
gape in dawning terror before the creature’s fangs ripped out his throat, then
tore off his head and swallowed it in a gulp. Tobeszijian
spurred it again, and the creature leaped and bellowed and thundered across the
stableyard toward the small still-shut gates. Someone
shouted behind him, but Tobeszijian did not listen. He
was concentrating inside, reaching into the heat of the Ring the way his father
had taught him long ago. And when he felt the inner flash of white fire as the
Ring drew him into its power, Tobeszijian tightened his arm around his
children, and spurred the darsteed harder. With a roar, it bounded into the
second world with a speed that made Tobeszijian’s sweat-soaked hair blow back
from his face. All around him was blinding light and a deafening roar of sound. Chalice, he thought with all his might, forcing himself to
concentrate and remain focused. To the Chalice. And
to the astonished onlookers remaining in the stable-yard of Nether Palace, King
Tobeszijian and his children vanished on that fearsome beast of hell into thin
air as though the gods had snatched them from this world and taken them far
away. Only
a fading shower of golden sparks remained behind to glow upon the hoof tracks
etched into the paving stones. For
Tobeszuian, the passage through the second world was too swift and confusing to
evoke fear. In a terrible silence in which his own voice made no sound,
Tobeszijian saw only gray swirling mists and the shadows of things he did not
understand. All he knew was that he and his children were still galloping
through this nonplace on the back of the darsteed. The beast ran with all its
strength, its powerful muscles bunching and thrusting, but if it roared those
sounds were silenced. If the children cried, Tobeszijian could not hear them.
Looking down at them, clamped together within the tight circle of his arm, he
saw them only dimly, as though they were shadows. There was no color in this
strange, ghostly place that seemed washed in shades of moonlit gray. There was
no sense of time. Nothing lived or moved except them. He perceived an emptiness
so profound it frightened him. Belatedly
he remembered he must keep his destination clear in his mind, or else they
would be lost here in the second world forever, prey to its many dangers. Chalice,
he thought. With
a great pop of sound, they leaped back into reality, with its noise, smells,
and overwhelming kaleidoscope of colors. Disoriented and shaken, Tobeszijian
reeled in his saddle, while his children wailed and the darsteed reared and lunged
at something moving before it. Just
in time, Tobeszijian regained his senses and realized the moving object was a
woman, gowned in vivid blue with a purple girdle and a crimson-lined cloak.
Screaming as she backed away from the attacking darsteed, she tripped on the
hem of her long skirts and fell. The darsteed lunged at her, its pointed teeth
snapping. Cringing and screaming, the woman brought up her hands helplessly to
shield herself. Tobeszijian
hit the darsteed with his mind: Stand/stand/ stand/stand. The
darsteed’s head whipped back and around. Its eyes glowed red madness at
Tobeszijian. For an instant he thought he could not withstand the hot, molten
fury raging inside the beast, but with all his will he held firm. Kicking, the
darsteed bugled its frustration and lashed its barbed tail from side to side.
But it obeyed him and stood as he commanded. Sobbing,
the woman scrambled away, and others in the crowd helped pull her to safety. Tobeszijian
saw that he was in a stone church, filled with an ethereal glow of dusty
sunlight streaming in through tall, slitted windows. Scaffolding in places
showed the place to be still under construction. The air smelled of plaster
dust and fresh paint pigments. On the left side, a single tapestry hung between
two windows, but empty hooks showed where other tapestries would soon hang.
Tobeszijian recognized the new Belrad Cathedral. Netheran
nobles in their finery filled the long, rectangular nave. Tobeszijian
recognized many faces, faces which either stared at him in flat defiance or
reddened and turned away. For here were gathered his missing courtiers, those
who had abandoned his palace and his queen while she lay dying. A
fresh burst of grief and accompanying rage shook him. His hands clenched
white-knuckled around his reins, and he could feel his pulse throbbing hard in
his throat. There
stood Count Lazky with his wife and grown daughters. There stood Prince
Askirzikan. There stood Fortinac, the burly knight exiled from Mandria who had
found acceptance here. On her stool, surrounded by frightened attendants, sat
the Countess Renylkin, her aged face set like stone, her knobby hands clutching
a book of Writ tightly in her lap. Only her eyes gave her away, eyes that
stared at him with fear and a trace of wonder. Tobeszijian
could not believe that this countess had turned against him, yet here she was
with all the others. She met his gaze proudly, never faltering, although her
cheeks turned pink. She had been chief lady-in-waiting to the queen, and her
desertion of Nereisse made Tobeszijian wonder in despair how he’d misjudged her
character so completely. Indeed, how could he have been so wrong about so many? In
that moment of stunned silence as he faced them, still glowing from a golden
light which streamed down his body from the delicate circlet of eldin gold on
his brow to the rowels of his silver spurs, Tobeszijian looked every inch a
king and more. Even now, travel-stained and drawn with grief, holding his
big-eyed children clamped against him like refugees, Tobeszijian eclipsed every
other man present. The golden light made the jewels in his sword and dagger
hilts glitter even more brightly. His skin shone with the radiance of it, as
though he’d passed through the breath of the gods. His ice-blue eyes, clear
evidence of his eldin blood, glared with a ferocity that stilled the breath in
many throats. His courtiers had run away like wicked children, but Tobeszijian
had found them, bursting upon them with a great clap of sound and the acrid
smell of magic. Even now, the remnants of whatever spell he’d commanded still
flowed from him, the golden light of it dripping to the floor and puddling in a
pool of radiance at the shifting feet of the darsteed. Somewhere
in the staring crowd there came a rustle of movement accompanied by a faint
clanking sound. A man knelt, bowing his head. Another did the same. And
another. The Countess Renylkin moved ponderously off her stool, and with the
help of her attendants knelt on the stones before her king. Only then did the
abundant folds of her skirts fall, allowing him to see the chain that shackled
her ankles. “My
heart to the king!” cried a deep voice that Tobeszijian recognized as Prince
Spirin’s. Looking in that direction, Tobeszijian saw the tall, lean
prince struggling with someone who was trying to keep him from kneeling.
Spirin’s fur-cuffed sleeve fell back from his wrist, and Tobeszijian saw that
he too was manacled with iron. “To
the king!” shouted someone else. ‘To
the king!“ But
the few voices of acclaim were defiant and isolated. They provoked no general
cheering. And although many now knelt, others did not. Rigid
with anger at the insult, Tobeszijian saw more and more glances being cast
toward the front of the church. He swept his own gaze in that direction,
seeking his enemy. At
the front of the church, high above the altar, a wide win- dow
of stained glass depicting the Circle surrounded by the crests of the holy
orders—-created by men, not by the gods-cast an eerie scarlet glow over
Tobeszijian’s half-brother, Prince Muncel. Wearing an ermine cloak and a tall,
pointed crown glittering with jewels, Muncel sat on a gold throne with black
velvet cushions, a beyarskin rug separating his embroidered velvet shoes from
the cold stone floor. Balanced across his knees lay the sheathed triangular
sword of black iron, the antiquated sword that Solder First had carried into
battle before he met the gods and was given the kingdom, the Ring, the Chalice,
and later Mirengard. Cardinal
Pernal and another ecclesiastical figure sat on either side of Muncel, richly
attired in long robes of crimson and purple. They were there for support and
confirmation, or perhaps as guards. Gazing at his half-brother in cold
speculation, Tobeszijian wondered how much of this evil plot had spun from
Muncel’s greedy heart. Or was he just a puppet of the church? Across
the distance, Tobeszijian and Muncel locked eyes, pale eyes to dark. The
astonishment and growing fury in Muncel were so strong that Tobeszijian felt
them. Although he could not reach into the minds of men the way he could those
of animals, he knew that his half-brother hated him more than ever and intended
to wrest the very kingdom from his hands. This religious ceremony here in the
Belrad Cathedral was one more trap among many. Muncel could not strike
Tobeszijian openly in the royal palace, but by stealing the Chalice and
bringing the courtiers to Belrad, he had lured Tobeszijian onto his own
property. If Tobeszijian attacked him here, Muncel could claim he was merely
defending himself. Such
legal trickery and cowardice sparked new anger in Tobeszijian. He thought of Nereisse,
who had never harmed a living soul, now dead and abandoned in an empty palace,
dead by Muncel’s order. Grief and rage burned Tobeszijian’s throat, and he
struck at Muncel with all the strength of his mind. The
prince’s face turned gray. He cried out sharply, and fell back in his chair.
The gaudy Crown of Runtha slipped forward over his brow and fell into his lap. Cardinal
Pernal was a plump, jowled man with the countenance of a kindly uncle beneath
his fringe of white hair, and the rapacious heart of a vulture. At Muncel’s
collapse, Pernal jumped to his feet. While the other churchmen bent over the
swooning Muncel, grabbing the crown before it could roll to the floor, Pernal
raised the jeweled circle that hung on a gold chain around his fat neck and
cried out in a voice that rang through the church: “Go
back, creature of the darkness, to whence you came!” The
darsteed screamed and reared beneath Tobeszijian, striking out with its deadly
hooves, so that people shouted in fear and crowded even farther away from it. “Go
back!” Pernal shouted. “By the power of the Chalice, I command you to go.” Tobeszijian
glared at him and spurred his darsteed forward to the altar. Tall and
broad-shouldered, with the golden light burnishing his mail and breastplate and
his burgundy cloak flowing from his shoulders over the scaled rump of his
unworldly mount, the king rode through the nave like a god himself. His blue
eyes held the light of battle and righteousness. Pernal’s words of repudiation
were only sound, lacking power, for he did not command the Chalice, nor did he
have true belief. His words were for show, to impress the terrified people
watching and drawing shaky circles on their breasts for protection. Cutting
across Pernal’s chanting, Tobeszijian said loudly, “I am your king! The only
darkness here lies within the hearts of the traitors before me.” His
voice rang off the stones and echoed in the corners. As he spoke he stripped
off his gauntlets, and the Ring of Solder glowed brightly on his finger,
casting its own nimbus of power about his hand. “Let the people of Nether hear
my accusations. Muncel, you have defiled the holy first circle. You have stolen
the Chalice for your own gain. You have murdered one who was innocent—” Muncel
roused himself from his swoon and thrust himself to his feet, wild-eyed and
red-faced. “Who? Your eldin whore?” he shouted, half-hysterically. “Your pagan
ways have cost you, Tobeszijian. The people want to follow the Reformed Church.
They want to follow me. See? Here they are. Your rule is over.” “I
am king!” Tobeszijian said, his deep voice twice as powerful as Muncel’s reedy
tones. “And all here know it. I wear the true crown, the crown of the First. I
wear the Ring, given to the First by the gods. I carry Mirengard, which cannot
be touched save by the hand of the true—” “Pagan
idols,” Muncel broke in contemptuously. “The very symbols of the old darkness,
which we would leave behind.” “The
way you smashed and defiled the royal paneatha?” Tobeszijian demanded. Muncel
lifted his head with a proud smile. ‘The old ways are gone. We look to the
future.“ “A
future based on deceit, murder, and theft,” Tobeszijian said. “There
has been no theft!” Muncel shouted angrily. “Only a return to honor for the
Chalice of Eternal Life.” “Is
that why you defiled the first circle and stole the Chalice?” Tobeszijian
asked, keeping his voice loud enough that all the people might hear. “Is that why
you stole of the First? Is that why you
hold it now?” “The
Chalice belongs to all the people!” Muncel shouted. “It belongs in a place of
glory, where it can be seen and worshiped. This sword is my birthright, I, who
am the true son of Runtha the Second. As is the throne—” “Wanting
a thing does not give you the right to it,” Tobeszijian said. He pointed at
Muncel, hating him for his betrayal, his cowardice, and his lies. “I accuse you
before the gods and the people of Nether!” he cried. “Let the curse of the
defiler be upon you and yours for all time. You have broken the circle of trust
and honor. Let all here know it.” Muncel’s
head whipped around. “Guards!” he called. “Wait,
my lord,” Pernal said in alarm. “Let there be no fighting in this holy place.” “The
usurper must be seized,” Muncel said in fury. “I’ll have his tongue ripped out
for his—” “The
Chalice will drive him out,” Pernal said. He headed for the altar, where the
Chalice stood centered on a square of pristine white linen. Tall, slender, and
made of a glowing white metal only the gods could forge, the Chalice of Eternal
Life filled this end of the church with its own kind of radiance. Pernal
reached for it, but just as his plump hands closed around its stem, Tobeszijian
drew Mirengard and spurred the darsteed forward. Light flashed off the blade of
his sword, and in vengeance for the defilement of his own place of worship, he
sent the darsteed bounding up the two steps onto the dais where the altar
stood. Shouting words that Tobeszijian did not understand, Pernal lifted the Chalice with both hands as
though to ward him off, but the cardinal had no understanding of how to wield
the Chalice’s power. That power was coiled about Tobeszijian’s finger, channeled
through the Ring, which flashed on his hand with increasing brightness. “Pernal!
Take heed!” Muncel was shouting, but Pernal was still chanting his prayer and
did not pay attention to the prince’s warning. The
darsteed lunged and struck, its fangs biting a corner off the altar and
slinging wood and splinters in all directions. Furious, the darsteed spat and
snorted fire. The altar cloth blazed immediately, sending up black smoke and
the stench of charred flax. Looking
alarmed, Pernal stumbled back from the fire with the Chalice still in his pudgy
hands. “Guards!” he shouted. “Drive this creature out!” But
the guards who clustered in the shadows behind the ranks of ecclesiastical
officials did not run forward to confront the darsteed as it hissed and lashed
its barbed tail about. From
the day he had been named official heir to the throne, Tobeszijian had been
trained secretly in his responsibilities in caring for the Chalice, in
mastering the power of the Ring, in protecting the people from disaster should
either item be mishandled. Now, drawing on the immense power of the Chalice,
Tobeszijian spoke two soft words of command. A
shudder passed through the building, making some of the pillars holding up the
lofty ceiling sway. A piece of scaffolding fell, crushing the unfortunates who
were trapped beneath it. Fear ran through the crowd, but it was Pernal who
screamed most loudly and shrilly. Dropping the Chalice, he stumbled back,
moaning and cradling his hands, which were now black and smoking. An
unseen force responded to Tobeszijian’s command, filling him with a violence
that made him sway in the saddle. With all his strength, Tobeszijian forced
himself to control it, drawing on everything his father and Nereisse had taught
him. Yet although he had summoned only a tiny measure of the Chalice’s power,
it was incredibly strong, threatening to overwhelm him. He understood then the
terrible danger of what the Chalice could do, and was afraid of unleashing too
much of it. “Strike what is false!” he shouted. The
power coiled through his body, filling his heart until he thought the muscle
would burst from the strain. Then white fire, blinding bright, flashed down the
length of his arm, sending sparks bursting from the Ring of Solder, and
thrumming through his hand. The white fire built there, then shot down the
length of his sword. A force greater than his own will aimed Mirengard before
white fire shot from its tip and sent the altar exploding in a rain of flames,
splintered wood, and ashes. Fire from it caught the hem of Pernal’s fine robes. Yelling
in fear, the cardinal rolled and beat at the flames, but Tobeszijian paid the
man no heed. Forcing the bucking darsteed around, he thrust the tip of his
sword inside the Chalice where it lay on the floor, and lifted it. “No!”
Muncel shouted, trying to rush forward despite the restraining hands of his
counselors. “It was given to men, Tobeszijian! You and your tainted blood have
no right to it!” Tobeszijian
glared back at him. “Until this evil is cleared from Nether and the hearts of
its people are cleansed again, the Chalice will be seen no more. The taint
comes from you, Muncel, you and your bigotry!” “Seize
him now!” Muncel ordered the guards. They
rushed forward, trying to surround Tobeszijian, but he let the darsteed strike
as it wished, driving the men back. Sheathing his sword, Tobeszijian handed the
Chalice to Thi-atereika. “Hold tight to this, sweet,” he said, while her small
face tipped back to look at him solemnly. “Do not drop it, no matter what.” “I
won’t, my papa,” she promised in a tiny voice. Faldain
patted it. “Pretty.” “Sacrilege!”
Pernal shouted, howling as the flames continued to burn him despite all efforts
to put them out. With
pikes, the guards charged again. Tobeszijian spurred the darsteed right at
them, breaking through their attack, and galloped down the aisle of the nave.
He lifted the Ring. Chalice,
to safety, he thought. And
for the second time, the Ring of Solder filled him with heat and a flash of
white fire, drawing him into the second world with a rush that made him dizzy.
The Cathedral of Bel-rad and the evil men within it were left staring
openmouthed in fear and astonishment at the faint sparkles of light left
trailing in the air. This
time the journey through the second world was long indeed, so long that the
grayness and silence began to twist and confuse Tobeszijian’s mind. Afraid, he
gripped the rim of the Chalice with his bare fingers, while Thiatereika
continued to clutch it tightly against her chest. The white light of the
Chalice glowed brightly, even here in this place of nothing, and Tobesz-ijian
drew comfort from it, telling himself to have faith. They
exploded back into reality with a jolt that shook Tobeszijian’s bones and made
Faldain cry. Patting the child to comfort him, Tobeszijian felt his own
shoulders sag with weariness. He could not remember when he’d had aught to eat
or drink. He’d ridden the hunt hard yesterday—was it only yesterday?—then
traveled all night without rest, and now he was drawing on tremendous reserves
of energy both to control the darsteed and to channel the Ring’s power. He was
a man young and strong, but he knew he was nearing his limits. Fighting
off a wave of exhaustion, he sat slumped in the saddle and looked around. He
did not recognize this country at all. No snow lay on the ground, which was
littered with fallen leaves. Woods surrounded them, thick and impenetrable. The
sky above was bleak and gray. He could smell snow in the air, and felt a biting
chill that cut through his cloak and clothing. The weather was about to turn,
but as yet this land had known only the lightest bite of frost. The trees were
still heavy with foliage, only now starting to turn yellow or bright scarlet.
Leaves fell in steady drifts, landing on his shoulders, curling for a moment in
Faldain’s dark hair before being brushed aside by the cold wind. The
darsteed, lathered and steaming, stood still with its head down as though weary
too. Its mind pushed against Tobeszijian’s, with more need than anger: Food/food/food/food. Sighing,
Tobeszijian dismounted, wincing as his stiff muscles protested. He reached up
and pulled his children down into his arms. Faldain’s cheeks were wet with tear
tracks, and he was whining softly in the way of young children who are too
tired. Thiatereika’s intelligent blue eyes looked around in open curiosity, but
she was also silent. The absence of her usual barrage of questions betrayed her
fatigue. Stepping
back, Tobeszijian released the darsteed to hunt, wondering if he was a fool to
let it go. The creature’s head snapped up, and it hissed at him ferociously
before galloping into the trees and disappearing. Tobeszijian did not watch it
go. His mind remained in the lightest possible contact with it, as if connected
by a long, long leash. He hoped he could order its return when he needed it. “My
papa, I want down,” Thiatereika said, squirming in his arms. He
set her on the ground with relief, taking the Chalice from her, and she turned
her hooded head this way and that to study their surroundings. “What’s
that?” she demanded, pointing at the cave’s mouth. They’d
stopped in what looked to be a shallow ravine, with a thin rivulet of stream
running down its center and a rocky, heavily wooded hillside rising sharply on
one side. The cave was set into the hill, its mouth half-overgrown with briars
and shrubs whose leaves had turned a brilliant yellow. “That,”
Tobeszijian said quietly, “is where we are going to hide the Chalice.” Although
he’d kept his words low and soft, his voice seemed to ring and echo slightly
among the trees. Uneasily, he looked around, trying to sense if anything or
anyone was watching. His senses told him nothing was, but he did not like this
place. The woods were too quiet. The smells of soil and trees and game were
unfamiliar to him. He was not in Nether, but somewhere far away. He did not
feel safe here. Faldain rested his head on his father’s shoulder and sucked
his thumb, heavy and quiet now. Thiatereika stared at the cave until
Tobeszijian took his first stride in that direction, then she ran straight for
it. “Thia,
wait!” he said in alarm. She
stopped in her tracks, much to his relief, and he caught up with her. “We
must be careful,” he said, not wanting to scare her. “Always approach a cave
with caution. You never know what might be living in it.” Her
blue eyes widened. “A beyar?” she whispered. “Beyar,”
Faldain mumbled sleepily against Tobeszijian’s cloak. At
that moment, the king realized what he smelled, and why he felt so uneasy. A
cold feeling of alarm sank through him. He wished he had not let the darsteed
go hunting. Putting
down Faldain, who immediately wailed and reached up his arms, Tobeszijian spent
several moments comforting the child, until his gray eyes grew heavy and
closed. Sighing, Tobeszijian set the Chalice next to the sleeping child and
made Thiatereika sit beside her brother. Taking off his cloak, he spread it
across them. “Both of you stay right here,” he commanded softly. “I
want to see the cave,” she said, her voice thin and tired. “I want to see
beyars.” “Let
me look first,” he told her. “Will
it come out and eat us?” she asked. “Is it going to eat us right now? Gilda
says that beyars take people into their caves and eat them all winter. It’s
winter now, isn’t it, my papa? I know it’s winter because the wind is cold,
although there’s no snow here. Will it snow here, my papa? Will this beyar keep
us in there and eat us?” He
wished, suddenly, that a beyar was all they had to worry about. “No,
Thia,” he said sternly. “There is no beyar here. I will look inside while you
stay here and guard your brother.” “But,
my papa, what if—” He
put his finger to his lips and gave her his sternest look. That was enough to
silence her, and Tobeszijian drew his sword as he walked away from the
children. By the time he’d worked his way through the briars and
approached the mouth of the cave, he was sweating despite the cold wind. The
sour, distinctive smell of trolk was stronger here, strong enough to make him
dry-mouthed. Holding Miren-gard before him, he stepped cautiously forward. He
was a man well seasoned by battle. His courage had never been questioned, not
even by his enemies. By tradition, the muscles in his arm had been measured
when he assumed the throne, and the measuring cord was thereafter placed in the
Book of Counting, where any could see that it was as long as the cord that had
measured Solder’s sword arm. And Tobeszijian was strong in mind as well as arm,
strong enough to command a darsteed with his thoughts, strong enough to have
stunned Muncel, at least for a while. But to confront a trolk in its own cave
was something else entirely. Tobeszijian himself had never fought one, but he’d
seen three men band together against a single trolk and lose. The fierceness of
the creatures was legendary. He knew that only a fool would venture in here,
and yet the Chalice and the Ring had brought him to this place. Mirengard did
not shine, and the Ring neither glowed nor felt hot on his finger. Steeling
himself, Tobeszijian stepped inside. The
cave was shallow and low, forcing him to stoop. With his hair brushing the
ceiling’s dirt and cobwebs, he felt a slight tingle pass through his skin and
realized he had walked through a protection spell. The trolk scent had been
left on this cave, possibly years ago, to keep intruders out. But in fact it
was empty and unused. Relief
swept him, and he let Mirengard dip in his hand. He sensed nothing before him
in the shadowy darkness. The stones smelled musty and damp. The ground beneath
his feet was soft and slightly moist. Sheathing
his sword, he lifted his hand and let the Ring glow slightly, casting its
illumination before him. He saw only a small, slightly rounded chamber,
entirely natural. No one had hewn the cave in this hillside. At the rear, he saw
a V-shaped fissure in the rock wall. It was exactly the right size to hold the
Chalice. Tobeszijian
bowed his head, murmuring a prayer of obedience to the will of the gods.
Exiting the cave, he gathered up children and Chalice and brought them inside.
The Chalice’s natural glow of power filled the cave with illumination. Wedging
it in the fissure, Tobeszijian wrapped the sleeping Faldain in his cloak and
laid him gently on the ground beneath it. Then, with Thiatereika’s small hand
clutched in his, Tobeszijian went outside to gather stones wom smooth by the
stream. He let his daughter carry some of these while he cut straight slim
branches from young ash trees and stripped them of leaves and bark. He
had no candles or salt, but he stood the peeled white ash rods in the fissure
with the Chalice, crossing them left to right, west to east. He placed the
stones in a small circle on the dirt floor, mumbling the holy words of prayer
as he did so. Big-eyed and solemn with a child’s instinctive sense of occasion,
Thiatereika watched every move he made. When he finished placing the soil
within the circle of stones and sprinkled some of it on the base of the
Chalice, he knelt before it and lifted the hilt of Mirengard in front of his
face. Thiatereika
knelt beside him and pressed her hands together. They said the prayer of the
First, Tobeszijian’s deep masculine voice filling the small cave and her thin,
child’s voice piping the words after him in counterpoint. When
he’d finished his part, Tobeszijian listened to his daughter stumbling through
the final words. A corner of his heart swelled with love and pride at this sign
of devotion, already so strong within her. He placed his hand lovingly on her
curls and kissed the top of her head. Then
he said, “O Thod, ruler of all, hear our prayers and our hearts this day. We
have consecrated this place chosen by the will of the gods. So will we honor it
until this time of strife has ended. Hear my plea now, great Thod, and give thy
mercy unto these small children of my loins. Protect them from harm in whatever
is next to come. Anon dein
eld.” “Anon dein eld,”
Thiatereika echoed beside him. She folded her small hands together and kissed
her knuckles as she had been taught. Tobeszijian kissed the hilt of his sword. Feeling
somewhat restored in spirit, he left the children in the cave and went out to
hunt. By nightfall, he’d snared some small game. Skinning the small carcasses,
he built a tiny fire outside the cave by the stream and cooked them until the
meat sizzled with juices and the aroma made his mouth water. He and his
children ate their fill. Then he doused the fire and removed all evidence of
his presence. He and the children went back into the cave and bedded down
together inside the folds of his cloak beneath the gentle radiance of the
Chalice. Within
its light he felt safe and secure, although he knew they could not linger here
much longer. With the children snuggled asleep against him like puppies,
Tobeszijian breathed in the scent of them and caressed the tender skin of their
faces. He knew he could not keep them with him in the days to come. For he was
facing war, and civil war was always the worst and bloodiest kind. On the
morrow he would have to ride to the northernmost reaches of Nether, to seek out
the hold of Prince Volvn, his best general and the wiliest strategist in the
realm. Volvn’s loyalty was sure. Or was it? Only yesterday
Tobeszijian had planned to enlist the support of Prince Spirin, but the man was
a prisoner of Muncel’s and in need of rescue himself. Groaning
a little, Tobeszijian clutched his hair in his hands and tried to battle away
the overwhelming blackness of his grief. In the past two days he had lost his best
friend and his beloved wife. His world had been turned upside down. Tobeszijian
wanted to howl like a wounded animal, but as a man he knew he must control the
maelstrom of emotions that made his chest ache. He could not think of what had
happened, could not remember his dear Nereisse’s face, so still and white in
death. Instead, he must think of the future, of tomorrow and the next day. He
must plan, for to dwell on his loss was to fall into a pit he might not be able
to escape. He
had only one more use of the Ring, only one more journey he could take with its
magical powers. He must use it wisely and flee to the north. Up by the World’s
Rim, where the old ways were still honored, he believed he could raise his
army. While he would not count on Volvn’s loyalty until he stood face-to-face
with the valiant warrior, Tobeszijian did not believe that Volvn could be
corrupted by Muncel’s lies. From
Volvn’s stronghold, he would call on the fealty oaths of his nobles and
knights, testing to see who was loyal and who had gone over to Muncel. He
realized that Cardinal Pernal would try to twist this whole affair into a
vicious holy war. With their souls inflamed, men might tend to forget the true
issue at stake, which was that Muncel had no rightful claim to the throne he
sought. Tobeszijian
reminded himself that he would have to test the eastern holds for treachery.
Someone was letting Believers cross into Nether from Gant. If the border fell,
Nether would be overrun quickly. But
for now, where to put his young, motherless children? What place held safety
for them? Mandria, yes, but it was too far away. Among the eldin, they would
have sanctuary, but Tobeszijian understood that if his son spent more than a
few months among his mother’s people he would be forever changed by their ways
and be rendered unacceptable to his future subjects. Yet
perhaps he was already unacceptable. Bowing his head, Tobeszijian recalled days
of argument with his counselors, who’d opposed his marriage to Nereisse. It was
traditional for the royal family to have a drop of eldin blood in its lineage,
but now it seemed there was too much. Faldain was more eld than human. Tobeszijian
clenched his fists. That did not matter. The throne was his by birth and by
right. Someday it would be Fal-dain’s. Nothing else was acceptable. But
what if this conflict took more than a few months to resolve? He wondered if he
should foster the children with a noble. Yet who could he trust? Then again, it
would be madness to keep the children near him, for if his enemies struck again
they must not find him and Faldain together, two targets for the taking. Over
and over his mind worried at the problem. Nereisse would have known what to do.
How he missed her wise advice already. Tobeszijian sighed. Give him an enemy to
charge and Mirengard in his hand, and he was fearless and perhaps invincible.
Give him shadows and intrigue and betrayal, and he needed guidance to know
where and at whom to strike. He
rolled over onto his side, too weary to sleep on the hard ground. The cold sank
into his bones and made them ache. He had hidden the Chalice in a safe place.
His foremost duty as king had been performed. Now he must think about himself
and his future. In the morning, he would use the Ring to take him and the
children straight to Prince Volvn. There, he would receive counsel. There, he
could make decisions as to what to do next. A
noise awakened Tobeszijian in the dead of night. He awoke with a start, his heart
pounding and his senses straining. At first he heard only the soft rumbling of
Faldain’s snores and Thi-atereika’s rhythmic breathing. He glanced at the
Chalice, and saw it glowing softly within its circle of honor. The
noise came again, muffled and from outside. This time he recognized the
darsteed’s grumbling snort. Astonished,
Tobeszijian sat upright. He had not called the darsteed back. For it to return
on its own was unbelievable. It wouldn’t. Which
meant... He
flung off his cloak and reached for his sword, kneeling hastily before the
Chalice. “Show me my path,” he prayed, “and I will take it.” For
a moment there was only silence around him, then a voice came into his mind,
very clearly and distinctly: “The
children will not be safe in Nether.” He
blinked, astonished by this communication, and felt sweat beading along his
temples. Thod
had heard his prayer and answered him. Swiftly Tobeszijian prostrated himself
on the ground. “Great One, I obey,” he murmured, then rose. Dry-mouthed
and trembling with awe, he shoved aside his spinning thoughts, telling himself
he could not think about the ramifications of this warning now. If the children
weren’t safe in their own land, that meant the treachery was more widespread
than he’d believed possible. Civil war was usually long and bloody. He might
find it difficult to regain his throne. But right now he must act quickly, for
danger had come. He
could feel it, waiting somewhere out there in the night. It was not close yet,
not as close as the darsteed trampling about in the ravine. But it was coming,
as though the Nonkind had been set on his trail again. By
whom? Muncel
might be a traitor, but Tobeszijian could not believe his half-brother would
embrace the darkness. Something else was at work here, something that
Tobeszijian did not as yet understand. A
shiver passed through him. Nereisse’s vision of him surrounded by a Nonkind
horde might yet come true. But,
no, he would not frighten himself with visions and imaginings. He
scooped up the children, neither of whom awakened. Going outside, he found the
night air bitterly cold. The wind was blowing strongly. Now and then he felt a
spit of moisture on his face, though whether it was rain or sleet he could not
tell. He
did not see the darsteed, but he could smell its hot, sulfur stink. When he
heard it rustling among the nearby trees, he called it. Reluctantly
it came, looming suddenly out of the darkness. With its red eyes glowing in the
pitch black, it hissed and blew smoke. Its tail lashed viciously, almost
hitting him, and he noticed that the saddle was askew and the armor cloth torn,
as though the darsteed had been trying to rid itself of both. Putting
the children out of harm’s way, Tobeszijian struggled to right the saddle. He
had to strike the darsteed’s snout twice to keep it from biting him. The stink
of its hot breath filled the air, and it snapped and slung its head about as he
tightened the cinch. Breathlessly,
Tobeszijian jumped back out of reach, slapping aside another attempted bite. He
scooped up the sleeping children without waking them, and started to mount. A
noise in the distance startled Tobeszijian. He froze momentarily in place and
strained his ears to listen. Hissing,
the darsteed raised its head and stared intently in the same direction. The
king’s heart thumped hard beneath his breastplate. Hearing the distant sounds
growing louder as they approached, he frowned and turned his face into the
wind, squinting against the sleet now falling. It was not hoofbeats he heard,
but something quieter, a rhythmic pad-pad-pad, a progressive rustling
through thick undergrowth. Then
he saw a flicker of light in the distant trees. Suddenly there came many
pinpoints of light, dancing and glimmering through the sleet-torn darkness.
Eldin were coming. Relief eased the tension in his shoulders. The
darsteed lifted its narrow head and bugled an eager greeting. Frowning,
Tobeszijian stepped back from the creature and sent it galloping into the
forest, snorting and grumbling, the empty stirrups bouncing against its sides. Turning
on his heel, Tobeszijian reentered the little cave, wrapped the sleeping
children in his cloak, and left them snuggled beneath the pale white glow of
the Chalice’s power. By
the time he emerged, the eldin had arrived. Shadowy and only half-visible in
the sleet-stung darkness, they filled the bottom of the ravine. Some rode
astride beyar mounts, with saddles of crimson leather; most were afoot. A few
held their left hands aloft like torches. The flames burning from their
fingertips created what was known as fairlight. It should have illuminated the
stream and the cave’s bramble-shielded mouth, but it seemed dimmer now than when
he’d first glimpsed it. He could barely see any of them. Cautiously,
Tobeszijian walked downhill to meet their leader. This eld sat astride a
ghostly white beyar with a stripe of gray at its throat. Tobeszijian did not
recognize him, but clearly he was an individual of importance. He wore mail
made of gold links and a sleeveless tunic of velvet lined with lyng fur. Within
the hood of his cloak, a thin gold circlet very similar to Tobes-zijian’s own
crown gleamed on his brow. Tobeszijian
bowed to him in courtesy. “Welcome to my camp,” he said, using the old tongue. The
eld’s eyes were as pale as stone. They studied Tobeszijian coldly. His face was
handsome in the way of his people, lacking a beard, with deep lines grooving either
side of his mouth. When he pushed back the hood of his cloak, his ears were
revealed to be small and elegant, barely pointed at the tips. He wore a heavy
gold ring in the lobe of his right ear. It winked now and then, reflecting the
dim fairlight around him. “I
am Asterlain, king of these mountains,” the eld said. His voice was clear and
musical, with the pure ringing tones of bard crystal. But no lilt or laughter
filled that voice. He spoke the old tongue with an accent strange to
Tobeszijian, who had learned the language from his eldin mother. “I come
seeking Tobeszijian, human king of Nether.” “I
am Tobeszijian.” Out
in the thicket beyond the small clearing, the darsteed stamped and suddenly
bugled. Its
loud voice made Tobeszijian jump, and Asterlain’s beyar roared in response,
rearing up on its hindquarters and swiping the air with its enormous claws
before Asterlain brought it back under control. Asterlain
looked at Tobeszijian. “Why have you brought the Chalice of Eternal Life here?” Ice
encased Tobeszijian’s heart. If the eldin knew the Chalice was here, who else
had been watching his movements? He sensed evil out there in the dark forest,
slinking ever closer, and perhaps listening. Suddenly
he trusted nothing, not even these eldin who had appeared so unexpectedly and
oddly just as he was leaving. “I
am here to hunt,” he lied warily. He moved his hand casually to his sword hilt.
“It is autumn. All who know me know of my custom to range far in search of game
and sport.” “Nether
has prospered long,” Asterlain said, apparently ignoring the lie. “Without the
Chalice, its prosperity will end.” Tobeszijian
frowned. “My kingdom is not yet lost,” he said sternly. “Perhaps you have heard
of my half-brother’s ambitions. They are rumors only. Would I go out sporting
if aught were amiss with my throne and kingdom?” Asterlain
closed his eyes and tilted back his face to sniff the air. Tobeszijian felt
pressure pushing against his mind, but he held his thoughts closed. Anger
burned in his throat and started throbbing in his temples. Never before had any
eld dared to force his mind. The insult tightened his fingers on his sword
hilt. After
a moment, Asterlain opened his eyes and looked at Tobeszijian once again. His
gaze was harsh with frustration. “You lack the skill to protect the Chalice
properly. We have come to help you with your preparations.” Asterlain
is guessing about the Chalice’s being here,
Tobeszijian thought. He is
trying to trick me into confirming his suspicions. Tobeszijian stood frozen, determined to keep every
emotion from his face. He no longer believed he was actually facing real eldin.
Whoever, whatever Asterlain and his party were, they could not be what they
seemed. Although he sensed no taint upon Asterlain, no evil, he could not stop
his thoughts from leaping to the next logical suspicion. Shapeshifters, he thought, his heart racing. Yet were they? Unsure, he
swallowed hard. “It is unwise to doubt my word, King Asterlain,” he replied at
last. “I am here to hunt, nothing more.” The
eld king tilted his head to one side, causing fairlight to glint off his gold
earring. “You are far from your lands and kingdom. Your rights to hunt here do
not exist, save by my leave.” “Then
do I ask your pardon,” Tobeszijian said. “I have offered you a discourtesy,
which was not meant.” “Where
is the Chalice?” Asterlain asked impatiently. “Nearby surely, for we sense it.
Yet where?” Tobeszijian
frowned, and managed to keep his gaze from shifting involuntarily toward the
cave’s mouth. Could Asterlain not see the cave? It was not concealed. The
briars which grew over it were not thick enough to act as a shield. Had
Asterlain not seen Tobeszijian emerge from it in full view? Yet
the eld kept on staring at Tobeszijian, his pale eyes intense with frustration.
Tobeszijian remembered how as a boy he’d had an ancient, much-beloved hound
that went blind in its old age. Tobeszijian would sometimes play a game of
standing absolutely still and silent while the dog sniffed and searched for
him. Sometimes the old dog would come right to him, but sometimes he would
stand only a few feet away, whining in frustration and unable to find his
master. That’s
the way Asterlain was acting, as though he were somehow blind to the cave’s
whereabouts. Obviously he could sense the Chalice’s presence, but he could not
locate it. Perhaps,
Tobeszijian thought in amazement, the Chalice’s own power was concealing it. From
the corner of his eye Tobeszijian gazed warily at the mounted eldin on their
beyars. When he did not look directly at them, they seemed indistinct, not
quite real. His thoughts brushed toward them, and encountered nothing. They
were phantoms only. Illusions. He blinked, his eyes burning, and let his
thoughts spin rapidly through several options. He had to find a way to lead
Asterlain away from this place. But how? “Why
do you not answer?” Asterlain asked impatiently. “King Tobeszijian, I bid you
respond to my questions.” A
strange roaring filled Tobeszijian’s ears. He could feel the Ring of Solder
glowing hotter and hotter on his finger. His heart began to hammer very hard,
but some instinct made him keep absolutely still. He said nothing, almost
holding his breath, and watched alarm fill Asterlain’s eyes. The
eldin king looked around as though he could no longer see Tobeszijian. “King
Tobeszijian!” he called again, his voice even louder now. The air shimmered
around him, and the fairlight burning from his fingertips went out. In
that instant Tobeszijian smelled the sickly sweet, decayed stench of the
Nonkind. He knew then for certain that he was standing in front of a
shapeshifter, the most skilled and powerful one he’d ever encountered. His
blood ran cold, and he almost drew his sword to attack the creature. But he
stayed motionless, telling himself that to hide this way was sensible, not
cowardly. He was outnumbered and on foot. He had his children and the Chalice
to protect. It was important to get out of here safely, not fight a battle he
was certain to lose. If the Chalice’s power was shielding him now, he must work
with it as best he could. Breathing
hard, Asterlain hunched atop his beyar. Rage purpled his face and filled his
pale eyes with such heat and intensity that Tobeszijian was certain they could
drill right through his concealment. Yet
as long as he did not move, Asterlain could not see him. Tobeszijian slowed his
breathing as much as he could, feeling the seconds drawing out slower and
slower until they were agonizing. “Ashnod
curse this place!” Asterlain said furiously, pounding his fist on his thigh.
His voice had changed pitch, deepening and growing rougher in tone. No longer
did he speak in the old tongue of the eldin, but instead in Gantese. Death
stench filled the clearing, polluting the air so heavily that Tobeszijian had
to swallow hard several times to keep himself from gagging. Cursing,
Asterlain spurred his beyar straight at Tobeszijian, who stood there rooted,
his mind spinning with worry. Should he let the beyar ride straight into him?
Should he spring aside at the last moment? Behind
Asterlain, the other eldin riders faded into the darkness. The black shadows of
night filled the clearing while fairlight vanished and Tobeszijian’s lone
opponent cursed and searched. Tobeszijian’s
fingers were curled knuckle-white around his sword hilt. If he drew now he
could slay the beyar and bring down its rider. If he waited it would be too
late to step aside. He
stood with his feet rooted to the ground, his heart pounding in his chest, his
sweat cold beneath his mail. Have
faith in the Chalice, he told himself. By
now the beyar was only a pace away from him. It was a massive brute, its
shoulder nearly as tall as Tobeszijian’s. Asterlain sat hunched astride the
shaggy creature as though in pain. Tobeszijian could hear the shapeshifter’s
harsh breathing. The
hot, sour stench of the beyar mingled with the corrupt smell of its Nonkind
rider. Tobeszijian stared at the long broad muzzle of the beast, at its small,
ferocious eyes. Its powerful claws scraped and clattered on the frozen ground,
and it grunted steadily, making a savage growling noise that tightened
Tobeszijian’s guts. He knew that the beyar’s claws could rendthrough his mail,
slicing him from gullet to groin in a single blow. By then the shapeshifter
would be upon him, or something even worse might come. Stay
still, he told himself, feeling the
pressure against his mind return. Stay still. With
a growl, the beyar came within inches of him, then veered slightly and trotted
past, close enough to brush Tobeszijian’s side with its shaggy white fur.
Asterlain’s toe went right past Tobeszijian’s elbow, missing it by less than a
breath. He
rode onward, calling Tobeszijian’s name and cursing him. Turning around, he
came back and brushed past Tobeszijian on the other side. Sleet stung
Tobeszijian’s face and the cold air sank deep into his bones, but he moved not.
He might as well have been carved from stone, the steady warmth from the Ring
of Solder on his finger giving him just enough courage to endure while
Asterlain cast about, circling the clearing yet again. Then,
from inside the cave, came a child’s frightened wail. Asterlain
drew rein sharply and wheeled his beyar around. His thin face turned toward the
cave, and he listened intently. Tobeszijian
raged inwardly, cursing this creature that hunted him. He wished with all his
might that he could warn Thi-atereika to be quiet, but his mind could not reach
into the thoughts of people. “My
papa!” she wailed, even more loudly than before. “Where are you?” The
sound of her crying filled the air beneath the steady rattle of sleet among the
trees. Asterlain hissed to himself in satisfaction and started toward the cave. “No!”
Tobeszijian shouted. He drew Mirengard, and its blade flashed light through the
darkness as he ran forward. Even
as Asterlain was turning around in his crimson saddle, Tobeszijian struck with
all the strength of his two arms. Mirengard cut Asterlain in half, separating
his head and torso from his hips and legs. A foul black liquid spurted out,
splattering the beyar’s white fur, and the upper half of Asterlain went
tumbling to the ground. The
beyar roared and reared up, and Tobeszijian whistled. Come/come/come/come! he called with his mind. Cloven
hooves pounded over the frozen ground. As the beyar lunged at Tobeszijian with
its deadly claws, the black, scaled darsteed burst from the thicket and struck
the beyar’s side with its razor-sharp forefeet. Great
gashes opened in the beyar’s side. With a roar it turned on the snapping,
hissing darsteed and the two creatures joined in battle. Stumbling
out of the way, Tobeszijian barely avoided being struck down by the darsteed’s
lashing tail. With Mirengard still glowing in his hand, he ran up the hill and
ducked inside the cave. It was dark. The Chalice’s light no longer glowed. Thiatereika
stood just inside the cave’s mouth; he would have stumbled right over her had
she not been crying. Stopping
in the darkness, with his rapid breathing sounding harsh and loud in his ears,
he pulled her into his arms. “Where is your brother?” he asked. “I
had a bad dream, my papa,” she whimpered, clinging to him. “I dreamed that Mama
was dead.” “Hush,”
he said, carrying her to the back of the cave, where he collected the sleeping
Faldain. “She
was taken by people robed in black, my papa,” Thiatereika said brokenly, her
voice torn with grief. “They took her away!” His
arm tightened around her. “Stop it,” he said sharply. “No one is taking your
mother away. You are with me. You are safe.” “I want to go home,” she wailed, crying again. Faldain woke
up and began to cry too. “I’m cold, my papa. I don’t like this game anymore. I
want Gilda.” “Gildie!”
Faldain said in shrill agreement. Tobeszijian
knew they were little, knew they were cold and tired and frightened, but he
spared no more comfort for either of them as he carried them outside into the
bitter night. The sleet was falling even harder. The air was so cold it hurt.
He paused at the mouth of the cave and pressed the flat of Miren-gard’s blade
against first one side of the opening and then the other. “In
the name of Thod,” he intoned, “let this place lie under the protection of the
gods.” Down
in the little clearing near the stream, the battle between the beyar and the
darsteed had already ended. The beyar lay on its side, its white fur now
stained dark. The darsteed was feeding noisily, shaking its lean head viciously
now and then to tear off another chunk of raw flesh. Staying
clear of the beast while it ate, Tobeszijian put his children down and pulled
free of their clinging hands. Both began to cry again. “Stand
there, for just a moment!” he said sharply, his own stress and fatigue making
him harsher than he meant to be. “Do as I say!” Thiatereika
fell silent, and Faldain pressed his face against her, whining still. Tobeszijian
dragged the two halves of Asterlain’s body over the frozen ground and tossed
them in the shallow stream. A scream rose from Asterlain’s dead throat, and
Tobeszijian jumped back, stumbling and nearly falling on the bank while he
struggled to draw his sword. But
Asterlain did not move. While his corpse lay in running water, it could not
resume life. And no other dreadful creature rose to take life from his blood. Tobeszijian
stood there on the bank, breathing hard, his eyes staring at the corpse.
Gradually he relaxed and let his half-drawn sword slide back into its scabbard.
Relief swept him, and he turned away, hurrying back toward the darsteed. His
head was pounding. His muscles remained knotted with tension. He stumbled,
squinting against the sleet, and felt as though he’d stepped into mire and was
being pulled down by it. It
was only fatigue, catching up with him. He caught himself wiping the sleet from
his face, over and over, his palms scrubbing his skin. His breathing was still
rapid and harsh. Now and then he heard a little moan catching in the back of
his throat. Mighty
Thod, deliver me from the hands of my enemies,
he prayed silently, seeking to find strength enough to hang on. He had fought
Gant Nonkind and Believers before, but never alone, on his own, lacking the
spells of protection. The
fetid smell of death still lingered on the air. Hurrying back to the children,
Tobeszijian scooped up Faldain just in time to save him from the darsteed’s
snapping jaws. The
beast hissed at him, lashing a warning with its tail, but Tobeszijian knew
already that it had eaten its fill. It was only protecting its kill now, and
halfheartedly at that. After a couple of tries, Tobeszijian managed to dart close
enough to grab the dangling reins. He pulled the darsteed around, controlling
its desire to strike at him. “No!”
Thiatereika shrieked when her father reached for her. She stamped her foot, her
small cloak gusting in the wind. “I don’t want to ride anymore! I want Gilda! I
want to go home.” Ignoring
her protests, he picked her up and set her and Fal-dain in front of the saddle. The
darsteed whipped its head around and bit Tobeszijian in his side, just above
his hip. The creature’s fangs glanced off the bottom rim of his breastplate,
denting the metal but not piercing it. Still, the attack was vicious enough to
knock Tobeszijian against the beast’s side. Gasping
with pain, he gripped the stirrup to keep his balance while the darsteed bugled
with fury and tried to swing away from him. Desperately
Tobeszijian kept hold of stirrup and reins, knowing he could not let the
darsteed run away with the children on its back. It would shake them off and
eat them. Furious himself, he struck the beast with his thoughts, but its mind
was a red-hot mass, unassailable for the first time since its capture. Astonished,
Tobeszijian staggered, nearly losing his footing as he grappled to keep his
hold on the reins. The darsteed reared high above him, deadly forefeet striking
out. Tobeszijian dodged, and the darsteed yanked away from him. One of the
reins snapped in two with a twang. Tobeszijian
feinted and moved with the beast, trying to stay out of striking range without
losing his last, tenuous hold on the remaining rein. Drawing his dagger, he
dodged another attempt to bite him and struck hard and precisely, plunging his
dagger deep into the web of muscle between the darsteed’s shoulder and ribs. The
animal screamed and blew fire. Thiatereika was crying now, screaming to get
off. Clinging to the darsteed’s neck like a tiny burr, Faldain uttered no
sound. “Hang
on!” Tobeszijian told them as he dodged the flames. Fire scorched his cheek,
and the pain sent him stumbling back. He would have fallen had the darsteed not
dragged him. Its frenzied attempt to pull away lifted Tobeszijian back on his
feet. Cursing, he fought the animal, which was bleeding heavily and moaning. But
its pain distracted it enough for him to reestablish control. Stand/stand/stand/stand, he commanded it. The
darsteed snorted and obeyed him. In that moment, Tobeszijian mounted and jammed
his feet firmly in the stirrups. The darsteed reared, trying to brush him off
under some tree limbs. Thiatereika cried out and nearly toppled to the ground,
but Tobeszijian’s arm encircled her and her brother, keeping them snug against
him. The darsteed tried to rear again, but Tobeszijian jabbed it cruelly with his
spurs, startling it into a weak buck instead. Snorting
flames, the darsteed shook its head in fury, but Tobeszijian leaned over and
pulled out his dagger from its side. Blood spurted across his hand, burning
where it splattered. The
darsteed bellowed in pain and stumbled, but he had control of it now. Go/go/go/go, Tobeszijian commanded, and the beast lurched into a
stumbling gallop. Struggling
to guide it with only one rein, Tobeszijian tried to find his bearings in the darkness.
The sleet soaked through his surcoat and seeped between the links of his mail.
He felt chilled to the bone. The wet saddle under his thighs made him colder.
Tobeszijian pulled up the children’s hoods and tried to cover them with the
folds of his cloak. The night was too raw for traveling, but even as he caught
himself longing to be safe indoors by a warm fire, the wind shifted and his
nostrils caught a stink of something rotten. More
Nonkind were coming. He choked a moment in new alarm, then fear iced his veins. The
darsteed bugled eagerly until Tobeszijian forced it to be silent. In
the sudden quiet, Tobeszijian heard an unworldly howl close by, and his heart
skipped a beat. He knew the hunting cry of a hurlhound all too well. Thanks to
the rebellion of the darsteed, they’d been delayed long enough for the
hurlhound to catch up with them. What
next? Tobeszijian asked himself
wearily, then shook off his weakness. Fiercely, he glanced at the hillside on
his right. The howl had come from somewhere up there. The hurlhound was close
enough to reach him in a few minutes. Already his ears picked up the sound of its crashing progress as it
descended through the undergrowth. The
darsteed swung around to face the approaching hurlhound, its powerful body
quivering eagerly. Tobeszijian’s mind sifted rapidly through a dozen
possibilities. He had to think of a refuge for the children outside of Nether,
and he had only seconds to make a decision. They must be hidden with someone
trustworthy enough not to sell them as hostages to a foreign enemy, or even to
Muncel. But as a wheeling series of faces belonging to the handful of nobles in
Mandria or to the one-eyed chieftain in Klad whom he’d bribed into being a
secret ally crossed his mind, Tobeszijian knew that none of them were right. He
knew, too, that he could not afford to make a mistake now; he had only a single
trip with the Ring remaining to him. The
hurlhound was still crashing down the hillside, so close now he could hear it
snarling and snapping. And at that moment, a second one burst from the thicket
on his left and charged straight toward him. Tobeszijian shouted in alarm, but
the monster yelped and turned aside at the stream, dashing back and forth as
though afraid to leap it. The
hurlhound was a monstrous creature, twice the size of the largest dog in
Tobeszijian’s kennels, with black, scaled skin instead of hair and a broad,
blunt head ending in a powerful muzzle of razor-sharp teeth. Its tongue—glowing
with eerie green phosphorus—lolled from its jaws. He could hear the creature
panting and whining as it paced back and forth along the narrow stream. Its
eyes glowed red, and it stank of rotting flesh, so sickly and foul Tobeszijian
thought he would retch. “Dog!”
Faldain announced, pointing. Thiatereika
screamed. At
that instant, the hurlhound leaped across the stream and came bounding straight
at them with impossible speed. Reaching them, it jumped up as though to drag
Tobeszijian from the saddle. Tobeszijian
swung his sword down in a powerful slash and cut off the hurlhound’s head in a
clean blow. Mirengard was glowing with blinding radiance. He could feel the
magical power in humming through the
bones of his hand. Behind
him, the other hurlhound reached the bottom of the hill and came roaring at
them. Tobeszijian swung the darsteed around to face its oncoming charge, but at
that moment the king made his decision. Gazing
at his glowing sword, he thought of the only sword-maker he knew capable of
producing something similar to the legendary Mirengard. Jerking
off his glove with his teeth, Tobeszijian let the hurlhound keep coming and
concentrated all his heart and mind on his glowing Ring. Its light shone over
the pawing darsteed and Tobeszijian’s children. To
Jorb, the dwarf of Nold, he thought. To Jorb! The
hurlhound reached them, leaping high. Its cavernous jaws opened wide, revealing
its glowing teeth and venomous tongue. Its eyes shone red with the fires of
hell, and its stink rolled over Tobeszijian like death itself. But
he pushed his fear aside. He held his ground while his children screamed and
struggled against the iron band of his protecting arm. Then the power came,
tossing them up into the very air. The hurlhound was knocked aside with a yelp,
and they were swept into the second world yet again. Nold
was a forbidding, unwelcoming country, damp and cold, and it was still tainted
by the residue of magic cast in the mighty battles of antiquity. Sparsely
settled, most of the land was choked with the Dark Forest—woods so thick no
decent road could be built through them. Instead, muddy trails wound through
the trees, trails that might take a weary traveler to a settlement or might
stop in the midst of nowhere. It
was afternoon, and Tobeszijian rode along such a trail, trying hard to keep his
sense of direction despite the weariness buzzing inside his head. The
darsteed was limping badly. Moaning and snorting, the animal hobbled along
stiffly, its wound still oozing and raw. Every
time Tobeszijian tried to dismount to spare it, however, the creature attacked
him. He
rode it grimly, forcing it to give him the very last of its strength. When it finally
went down, he would have to cut its throat and walk to the next settlement. If
he could not buy a decent horse, it would be a long trudge indeed all the way
home to Nether. He
sighed, feeling bereft without the children snuggled beneath his cloak. Again
and again, his mind conjured up his last sight of their bewildered,
tear-streaked faces while Jorb held their shoulders to keep them from running
after their father. Tobeszijian
frowned. He could not feel easy about leaving them behind. They had no
protectors, no guards, no retainers. Even were he gone a month or two—and
certainly it would be no more than that—it was an enormous risk to leave them
in the sole care of a near stranger. Tobeszijian knew Jorb on a business
footing only. The dwarf was a master armorer, and was known for the fine swords
he crafted. Twice Tobeszijian had commissioned him to make armor and daggers
for him. Jorb coveted Mirengard. Whenever he talked to Tobeszijian, his gaze
would stray to , and his thick
fingers—strong enough to crack walnuts—would flex and stretch as though they
ached to slide along that shining blade. Like
all dwarves, Jorb was temperamental and sly. He struck hard bargains, but once
a dwarf actually gave his word, he would stay true to it. Jorb had demanded
Mirengard in exchange for hiding the children. It
was an impossible bargain. Tobeszijian could not hold his throne without , and Jorb knew that. The dwarf had used his
unreasonable demand to leverage a fat purse of gold, the jeweled ring from
Tobeszijian’s smallest finger, his silver spurs, and the cups of eldin silver
belonging to the children. Clutching his booty and chuckling to himself, the
dwarf had ducked his bearded chin low and scuttled back into his queer hut
built in the base of a vast tree trunk, with a stone-lined entry and an
iron-banded door. Smoke curled out through a hollow limb overhead, making the
tree almost look like it was on fire. Jorb
popped outside a few minutes later and gestured. “Well, bring ‘em in. Bring ’em
in!” he said. There
had been time only for a swift glance round at the cramped interior. It was
swept clean, with every humble pos- session
in its proper place. Tobeszijian knew that Jorb was accounted to be rich and
prosperous, as he was much in demand for his skills at the forge. No doubt the
dwarf kept his gold strongboxes and treasures down deep in the ground,
concealed in mysterious tunnels and burrows. Still, the place was far from
suitable for the children of a king. With the blessing of Thod, perhaps they
would not have to stay hidden here long. Tobeszijian
had ridden away this morning with the cries of Faldain and Thiatereika echoing
in his ears. He knew he must set his face toward war, yet he felt unmanned and
guilty. He despaired of ever being reunited with his children. Soon,
my precious ones, he’d promised them
silently. Soon I shall
return for you. Thiatereika
had run down the road in his darsteed’s wake, crying out, “My papa, come back!
My papa! My papa!” The
heartbreak and terror in her voice had nearly destroyed all his resolve.
Although he’d intended to turn around and wave, he kept his back to her,
hearing her voice growing fainter and fainter as he kicked the darsteed into a
gallop. They
were safe, he told himself for the countless time. Hidden
and safe. He
wanted to feel relief, but instead his sense of uneasiness grew. Nereisse would
have condemned him for leaving them behind, unguarded, in the hands of one who
owed him no allegiance. It seemed that her spirit, cold with disapproval,
perched on his shoulder. “What
else could I do?” he asked aloud. Tipping
back his head, he stared at the overcast sky. The clouds were massed and dark above
the thick treetops. He shivered under his cloak. He
felt as though he had somehow failed. And with that came a boiling surge of
anger against Nereisse, who had left him to face these difficulties alone. What
right had she to risk her life by knowingly drawing poison into her body to
save her daughter? What right had she to take herself from him, just when he
needed her most? They could have had another daughter, could have faced the
future together, could have ... Gripping
his hair in his fist, he cried out, making an animal sound of sheer anguish. He
did not understand himself. His fury and resentment bewildered him, and he felt
guilty, as though he had somehow be- trayed
his dead wife by feeling this way. He loved her. He had been enspelled by her
from the first moment he glimpsed her in the forest. As for weighing the value
of Nereisse’s life against Thiatereika’s .. . what was wrong with him? Could he
resent his own daughter for having lived at the cost of her mother’s life? Was that why he found it so easy to abandon his children in
this dark, primitive land? Fearing
that some madness was trying to break his mind, he turned his thoughts toward
his next responsibilities. He must work quickly to raise an army and crush Muncel’s
rebellion. If he didn’t return to Nether soon and force his nobles and knights
to honor their oaths to him, then he might as well stay here in the forests of
Nold, an exile forever. He would not seek assistance from Verence of Mandria
yet. Thus far, Verence had proven to be a sound ally, but it was best to handle
civil war without the help of neighboring lands, which might decide to conquer
rather than assist. The
sky overhead stayed gray and tired. Now and then rain drizzled on him. He
brushed past leafy branches and ducked beneath loops of gnarled vines. Keebacks
wheeled overhead in the sky, making their plaintive cry. He encountered no
other travelers, except once, a group of five dwarves clad in green linsey.
Stocky and round-cheeked, their beards woolly and matted, they were each
burdened with bulky sacks thrown across their shoulders, sacks heavy enough to
bend them double. Their furtive eyes glared at Tobeszijian, then they scattered
off the road and into the forest, giving him no chance to ask how far it was to
the next settlement. If
he could find a village, he would trade his cloak pin for a horse or even a
mule, and set the darsteed loose. He
touched his mind to the beast’s, trying to urge it, but the darsteed was too
filled with pain and fury to go faster. A
keeback burst from the trees ahead of him, calling kee-kee-kee.
A stag bounded into the road, stared at him with startled eyes, and leaped back
into the thicket in a panic. The darsteed stumbled to a halt unbidden, and let
its head sink down. Frowning, Tobeszijian kicked it hard, but it only groaned. He
sat there in the saddle, tired and cold and wet, and knew he had pushed it all
he could. Its wound was not fatal, but the beast needed rest and care to mend.
Tobeszijian had time for neither. He could not set the creature free in these
woods, where it would hunt and attack man, dwarf, or creature alike. Which
meant he would have to kill it. “Not
yet,” he said through his teeth, thinking of the long walk ahead of him. A king
afoot in a foreign land? It was a mockery. Again
he urged the darsteed forward, but it stood there with its snout on the ground
and would not respond. Fury
and frustration choked Tobeszijian. He knew he had only himself to blame for
the darsteed’s injury. Tilting back his head, Tobeszijian lifted his fist to
the sky. If only he’d used the Ring to go north to Prince Volvn’s stronghold as
he’d first intended. If only he hadn’t been warned not to take the children
back into Nether. It was unfair of the gods to set so strict a limitation on
the use of the Ring. Only three tries? When there was need of more? “Damn
you!” he shouted. Drawing his sword, he whacked the darsteed’s rump with the
flat of his blade. It
hissed and whipped its head around defiantly, but took no step forward. Again
he struck it, shouting curses and wishing he had not let Jorb talk him out of
his spurs, but all his efforts to urge the creature on were for naught. The
darsteed instead sank to its knees. Tobeszijian
twisted around in the saddle and started to dismount. But at that moment he
heard a sudden pop of sound, and a creature black and hairy materialized from
thin air to stand directly in his path. It
was half the size of the darsteed, and so lean it seemed almost flat when it
turned to the side. A stench of sulfur hung on its fur, and its bony head
turned on a long, sinuous neck to bare multiple rows of savage teeth at Tobeszijian. The
darsteed bellowed and reared up with an awkward lunge, nearly unseating its
rider. Furious at himself for being caught off guard, Tobeszijian had only a
second to wonder why his senses had not warned him a Nonkind was this close
before the sylith leaped forward. As
the darsteed lashed out with its sharp hooves and the sylith dodged with a
snarl, Tobeszijian drew Mirengard. In the presence of Ncnkind its blade glowed
as white as the purest flame. Swinging aloft, Tobeszijian fought to control the
darsteed and managed to pivot his mount around just as the sylith sprang up at
him. Tobeszijian’s blade sliced cleanly through the sylith’s thin neck,
dropping its head to the ground with a spurt of acidic blood that splattered
and steamed in the cold air. He smelled the dreadful decayed stench of it and
tried desperately to breathe through his mouth. The
headless body of the monster staggered about, refusing to topple. Bugling a
challenge, the darsteed brought its sharp hooves down upon the sylith’s head,
crushing it. Snorting flame, the darsteed set the sylith’s narrow body afire. A
shriek rent the air, fading into the ether as the sylith finally died. Its
charred body crashed to the ground and lay still. The reek of burned flesh
filled the air. Mirengard
glowed even brighter, and ’s power
flowed down its blade, dripping off the tip and cleansing the foul blood away.
Tiny silver puddles shimmered on the trampled ground, and green vines sprouted
there, unfurling new leaves despite the frost-laden air. In less than a day the
vines would grow over the sylith’s charred corpse and conceal it as though it
had never been there. Continuing
down his road, Tobeszijian drew in a few deep breaths and wondered what had
made the monster attack him alone. Syliths seldom hunted singly. Another one
was bound to be nearby. He lifted his face to the damp breeze, questing, but
sensed nothing. A shiver moved down his spine, and he kept Mirengard gripped in
his hand instead of sheathing it. Snorting little spurts of flame, its eyes glowing red, its
tail lashing viciously behind it, the darsteed trotted a few steps, restive and
fiery, before it began to limp again. Tobeszijian
kept it going. Settling himself deeper in the saddle, he maintained a wary
lookout. He smelled nothing other than the darsteed’s lathered sweat, damp
soil, and the half-rotted leaves of the forest, yet he stayed tense and ready. At
that moment, twin shrieks filled the air before him. He reined up sharply, his
heart nearly bursting through his breastplate. Just as the darsteed wheeled
sideways, two hurlhounds materialized on the road, blocking it. The darsteed,
still hot with battle-lust, bellowed and lunged against the reins. Another cry
answered from behind. Two more hurlhounds appeared there, cutting him off from
retreat. Tobeszijian
swore and spurred the darsteed into the forest, although he knew that with its
wounded shoulder it could not outrun this unholy pack. The
darsteed reared, and he glimpsed yet a fifth hurlhound, springing at them from
the undergrowth. Black-scaled
and vicious, their eyes glowing red and their fangs dripping death, the
hurlhounds closed in. Darsteed and rider fought with hooves and sword, grimly
determined to prevail. But two of the hounds bit deep into the darsteed’s
hindquarters, cutting tendons, and brought it halfway down. The
darsteed screamed with pain, and its agony flooded Tobeszijian’s senses even as
he twisted in the saddle to hack into one of the hurlhounds. The creature
collapsed with a yelp, and its companion snarled and sprang back out of reach. At
that moment, Tobeszijian was struck from the left by the weight of another,
which gripped the folds of his heavy cloak in its mouth and tried to drag him
from the saddle. Tobeszijian
drew his dagger and struck the hurlhound in the face. His dagger point skidded
across its scaled skull and rammed into one of its red eyes. Snarling and
yelping, the hurlhound snapped back its head so violently that Tobeszijian’s
dagger was torn from his hand. He
struck with Mirengard to fend off another attack, but one of the creatures sank
its fangs into his leg. Venom
poured into his flesh like fire. He heard himself screaming a wild, senseless
mixture of curses and prayers. The darsteed bucked beneath him as it tried to
pull its crippled hind legs up beneath it. Wobbling, it threw Tobeszijian off
balance, and with a moan let itself sink down, only to thrash wildly again. The
remaining hurlhounds did not let up. One went for the darsteed’s throat while
another nearly pulled Tobeszijian from the saddle. Streaming blood, racked with
agony, he killed it, but more of the creatures kept appearing, making sure he
stayed surrounded and outnumbered. Their
dim, bestial minds hammered at his: KilUkilUkill/kill. And
another unholy mind came with theirs, one cold, sentient, and clear: Where/where/where/where? Tobeszijian’s
mind was bombarded with images of the Chal- ice,
death and decay, rotting bones, moldering intestines, gaping wounds, hot biting
joy at killing, and implacable fury mingled with frustration. He
gasped, struggling with all his might to hold his mind shut against the mad
hounds and their unseen master. He would not surrender the Chalice. Not even to
save himself. He
knew he could not prevail. He was tiring, and he wore no spell of protection to
shield him. His wounds burned with such fire he thought he might pass out. Yet
the pain goaded him to keep fighting even as the poison sapped his strength. He
felt himself weakening fast. His sword arm slowed, feeling increasingly heavy.
Tiny gray dots danced in his vision. His spirit and mind remained strong, but
his body was dying. Turning
in a tight circle, he struck again and again, beating back the hurlhounds with
diminishing strength. The poison in his veins was something dark and tangled,
tainted with horrors worse than death. His body jerked, and he fought the need
to thrash against whatever burned inside him. He would not give way to it,
would not become a part of the evil surrounding him. “No,”
he said raggedly, hacking a terrible wound across the neck of a lunging
hurlhound. With its head nearly severed from its body, it staggered in a circle
and snapped bloody, hissing froth at one of its mates. Wild
laughter suddenly filled the air above the ferocious snarls and growls.
Yelping, the uninjured hurlhounds sprang back from Tobeszijian as though
obeying a silent command. Those bleeding with wounds froze in their tracks and
abruptly collapsed. Swaying,
Tobeszijian blinked away the dancing dots for a moment and glanced around. A
short distance away, a trio of men mounted on darsteeds emerged from the woods.
Their helms were plain and black. Their hauberks were made not of chain mail,
but instead of thinly sliced disks of obsidian stone, coating their bodies like
the darsteeds’ scales. Gloved and spurred, with long broadswords of black steel
hanging at their sides, they stared at Tobeszijian in silence. He saw their
eyes glow red and unnatural through the slits in their helms. When they
breathed, the stone disks of their armor made faint clacking sounds, and smoke
curled forth from their nostrils. The damp air reeked of sulfur and death. One
of the three held a cage that swung freely on a chain. Within the cage writhed
something misty and formless. Smaller than a man, it lengthened itself and then
shrank, always in flux. It was colored the same sickly gray hue as wood fungus,
and it was far more to be feared than any of the other Nonkind present. It was
horribly, completely evil. A soultaker. Tobeszijian’s
breath froze in his lungs. Fear rushed through his bowels as though he had
suddenly swallowed hot liquid. While syliths and hurlhounds ripped a man’s body
apart, soul-takers came to it, lay on it, and took that which the gods granted
to men and not to beasts. On
the battlefield, from afar, Tobeszijian had witnessed soultakers feeding on
their victims. He had heard the screams that mortal throats should never make.
He had seen afterward the soultakers rise into the air, writhing, bloated, and
colored brightly by the life and essence of what they’d consumed. He had seen
the corpses rise and follow commands, their dead white faces staring with eyes
that no longer saw, their slack mouths sagging open, their clutching hands
outstretched to attack the living troops that often fled in disarray.
Tobeszijian had seen soultakers sit on the shoulders of these walking corpses,
like riders on their mounts. And he had sometimes witnessed soldiers of the
darkness such as these opening cages to unleash soultakers within. Fury
and fear tangled with desperation in his throat. That thing would not take him,
he vowed grimly. It would not eat his soul and then use his rotting body to
harm others. Whether dead or alive, he’d become no eternal prisoner of the
Nonkind, doomed for all eternity. Tobeszijian
fought off his swimming dizziness and drew himself erect. Streaming with blood
from his wounds, his lungs aching for air, he gripped Mirengard with both hands
and raised it in challenge to the Nonkind soldiers. glowed a blinding white, as did the Ring of
Solder on his finger. Frowning, Tobeszijian reached deep inside his faith,
drawing on the power of and Ring. “In
the name of Thod,” he said in a voice that rang out in the silence, “begone,
foul demons, and let me pass.” “Surrender
the Chalice and you may pass.” The voice that answered him was gravelly and
strangled, almost too hoarse to be understood. Tobeszijian
lifted his head higher. He never parleyed with the Nonkind, never discussed
their terms. His father had warned him to refuse any request, simply and
straightforwardly, and to keep refusing. For to be drawn into conversation was
to give their evil minds time to find a way of tricking him. He
met the fierce red eyes of the soldiers. Around him the hurlhounds panted and
watched, their fangs dripping saliva that hissed and steamed. “Surrender
the Chalice,” the hoarse voice commanded again. “No,”
Tobeszijian said, forcing his voice to sound strong and firm while his heart
thudded beneath his breastplate. The poison was burning even hotter inside him
now, making him shiver and sweat. He wanted to drop to his knees and cry out
for mercy. That desire was so foreign and false that he felt appalled, then
realized their minds were trying to force his compliance. “No!” he cried. “Surrender,”
the soldier in the center of the trio said. Through
Tobeszijian’s mind writhed whispers of Surrender/surrender/surrender/surrender. “What
makes you think I have the Chalice?” Tobeszijian countered. “I am a common
traveler, on my road. You are mistaken.” Rasping,
terrible laughter filled the air. “King Tobeszijian, you have become a liar and
a coward. Without your armies and your spells, you stink of fear.” Tobeszijian
stiffened, but inside he was horrified by the truth of what the Nonkind had
said. Never before had he known any cowardice in himself. Never before had he
broken from his training. Never before had he been as afraid as he was now. It
was the poison, he told himself feverishly. He had to take care and not let its
influence work tricks on his mind. “Surrender
the Chalice,” the Nonkind said to him. The
command held force now, a force that rocked Tobeszijian back on his heels. He
nearly toppled over backward. Catching his balance, he blinked sweat from his
eyes and gripped Mirengard desperately. Protect me,
he prayed to it. He
knew that the Nonkind would hammer at his will and courage while the
poison sapped his strength. He would have to fight until the hurlhounds tore
him apart. Then the soultaker would defile him, taking his thoughts and
knowledge, and imprisoning his spirit forever. The location of the Chalice
would be known to them, and all would be lost—not just his life and his
kingdom, but the very world of truth, mercy, and good. “Thod
have mercy on me,” he prayed aloud. Mirengard glowed even brighter, until the blade
was a shining flame. He did not want to die, but he could not give these
creatures what they wanted. Tobeszijian
shivered and recalled his youth, when his father had taken him far from the
palace on a winter’s day. In a secret place, King Runtha had made him swear
grave oaths of responsibility for the Chalice’s safekeeping. Runtha’s voice had
been solemn and calm as he recited the words. Tobeszijian had repeated them
after him, and the words and phrases had echoed strangely in the air around him. He
opened his mouth now to repeat those oaths, but before he could speak the
hounds snarled and sprang at him from all sides. Tobeszijian
staggered in an attempted feint, his weakened and bloody body unable to carry
through on the maneuver. He struck hard with Mirengard, but a set of poisonous
jaws clamped onto his hip from behind, and Tobeszijian cried out as he was
driven to his knees. “No!”
he shouted. “May Thod rot you, demon!” Twisting,
he sliced with Mirengard, and the shining sword cleaved the hound in two. The
remaining hounds circled him with snapping jaws, but he pivoted on his knees,
swinging Mirengard, and they dodged away. Heartened
by their cowardice, Tobeszijian found the strength to stagger back to his feet.
The hounds closed in, menace glowing in their red eyes. Awash
with agony, Tobeszijian circled with them. The dancing dots were back in his
vision, and his breath sounded ragged and harsh in his ears. Hearing a soft
click, he glanced up just as one of the Nonkind soldiers opened the soultaker’s
cage. The
thing, so pale and formless, slid its pallid tendrils through the opening, and
the rest of it flowed out. Writhing, it floated in the air near Tobeszijian,
who stared at it in horror and dread. Thoughts
as thin as needles of rain slid into his mind: Come/come/come/come to me, and I shall eat you, king
of men. Screaming
an oath, Tobeszijian swung Mirengard at it with all his might, but the
soultaker sailed upward, and he missed. A
hurlhound struck his back, knocking him down. He heard the ferocious growling
as the thing bit his shoulder through his armor, trying for his neck. Shouting,
Tobeszijian felt himself lifted by the monster and shaken hard, the way a dog
shakes a rat. He felt his neck pop and a dreadful numb sensation spread through
him. In
desperation, he looked down and saw Mirengard still glowing white and pure in
his bloody hand. He saw the Ring of Solder shining on his forefinger, its power
there for the taking, the using. He had spent his three journeys, all that were
allowed, but Tobeszijian no longer cared about rules or warnings. He was dying
here, defeated and alone. The Ring was his final chance to save himself, to
save his soul, to save the Chalice. Desperately
he sent his thoughts into the power of the Ring, finding its center. He
saw the blinding flash, heard the great pop as he was sucked once more into the
second world. In the distance he heard howls of anger, as though the hurlhounds
were trying to follow him here into this place of gray silence, but this time
he went hurtling, hurtling, hurtling as though slung by a catapult. He could
not move, could not aim himself, could not command his own body. Instead, he
plummeted through the mists of the second world, and flew toward a shining
barrier that sparkled and swirled ahead of him. He felt strange tremors in his
body, accompanied by a rush of chilling coldness that doused the fire burning
his wounds. Too
late he realized he had leaped into the second world without a destination in
his mind. He
found himself spinning around and around as though still falling through the
air. He seemed to be shrinking, and faintly he heard voices rising and falling
in powerful murmurs, voices that seemed to have the power to break all creation
if they chose. Was
he going to the third world? Was he now dead like his poor, sweet Nereisse?
Would he be reunited with her on the other side of that glowing curtain of
light as the Writ promised? But
there was something unfinished. Something that needed doing. Some
responsibility he had left behind him. “You
never stick to your duty, boy,” his father’s voice suddenly boomed at him.
“It’s duty that keeps a king strong.” “My
lord prince, if you will not keep your mind on your studies you will never
learn the strategies of rule,” his tutor’s voice said with a sigh. “Dear
husband, I feel a sense of unease that I cannot as yet explain,” Nereisse said
on the eve of his departure. “Must you go so far away to hunt this year? Must
you be gone so long?” “My
papa! Don’t leave me! My papa!” What
had he forgotten? What was there left for him to do? Spinning
in the lost currents of nowhere, Tobeszijian struggled to remember what had
been so important to him. He felt shame lingering on his senses, shame for all
he’d left undone. It was time he proved himself, time he stuck with his duty. But
hadn’t he done enough? He had lost his throne, but he had saved the Chalice
from the hands of evil. Was that not duty enough performed? He
found himself at the shining barrier of light. How beautiful and wondrous it
was. How brightly it shone. He squinted and thought he could see shapes moving
behind it. The third world, he thought with a rush of excitement and joy. He
tried to reach out to it, wanting to find Nereisse, wanting to find happiness. But
his duty was unfinished. Had he stayed home instead of going hunting, his
enemies would not have had such an easy opportunity to strike against him. Had
he chosen his travels more wisely, he might have needed to use the Ring only
thrice, as commanded. Had he imprisoned Muncel or exiled him when he first
succeeded their father, his half-brother would not have found it so convenient
to betray him. So
many mistakes, but this time he would not make another. The
barrier’s radiant glow shone across his face. He could feel its warmth, so
lovely and refreshing. But when he tried to reach through the light, his hand
bounced off something. He could not see the shapes behind it except as motion
and color. He could not see Nereisse. He tried to call out, but he had no voice
here in the gray void of the second world. And
he knew that he must finish his task before he could pass through. For once in
his life he must be the king his father and his subjects had expected him to
be. Muncel must not stay on the throne of Nether. The evil that had crept into
the land must be driven out. These remained his responsibilities. Sighing,
feeling hollow with regret, Tobeszijian turned back from the gateway to the
third world and found himself plunging forever in the gray mists, unable to
escape them, his obligations like a chain that held him shackled. On
the narrow road in the forests of Nold, all lay quiet and still. There remained
nothing to see of the battle which had raged in King Tobeszijian’s final
moments except the churned ground and the stripped bones of his darsteed’s
eaten carcass. A
week or so later, a peddler came wandering along in a drizzling rain, whistling
softly to firm his courage there in the gloom of forest. Many tales were told
about the legendary Dark Forest of Nold. These woods had seen centuries of evil
aprowl, and old battles fought by gods, and long terrors, and darkness, and
doom. The
peddler had traveled the length and breadth of Nold often enough to keep him
wary but not unduly afraid. Stories were stories. He had a sharp dagger in his
belt and a set of good wits. He was a small man, quick of thought and keen of
eye. He
paused when he came to the battleground, sensing some lingering disquiet in the
air. Doffing his cap, he made a quick sign with his nimble fingers to ward off
evil and left the narrow track to tiptoe around the spot where clearly death
had struck. The
drizzle stopped and the clouds overhead parted for a moment to let sunshine
fall into the forest. In the moisture-laden air, the light sparkled with the
soft, magical colors of rainbow. A
wink of something glittering in that beautiful light caught the peddler’s eye,
and he stopped. Stooping
low, he peered at the ground a long, cautious while. At last, satisfied that no
invisible trap of evil had been set there to snare him, he took one quick step
onto the torn, muddy ground. He picked up the object and held it aloft. The
ring glittered and flashed in the sunlight. It was finely wrought, its band
stamped all around with intricate rune carvings. The top was set with a large
oval stone as pale and smooth as milk. He had never seen anything so fine
except on the fingers of rich noblemen. Now here, on this lonely road, lay the
long bones of a noble’s rather large horse, lay also the chewed and tattered
remains of a fine leather saddle, lay the noble’s fine finger ring; in fact,
lay all but the bones of the noble himself. The
peddler grinned to himself at his good luck, and couldn’t resist polishing the
ring on the front of his jerkin. A fine piece, worthy of a king, he thought. It
would bring him luck. It would bring him a pretty price when he sold it. Not in
Nold, of course. The scattered villages and burrows held only rude dwarves
willing to buy a few trinkets, colored ribbon, or tea leaves bound up in little
bags of coarse cloth, but nothing better. No, he’d not sell this fancy ring
until he crossed the border into the rich land of Mandria. He was not an
impatient or a greedy man, but when luck came his way he knew what to do with
it. Still
grinning to himself, the peddler secured the ring in a safe place inside his
clothing. Putting his cap back on, he shouldered his pack and continued on down
the road, whistling to himself. Never once did he see the silent shadows which
slid forth from among the trees to follow him on his journey. Part
Two years later The sound of hunting horns—faint at first, then swelling
louder—filled the air and silenced the forest. Startled, Dain lifted his head
from the shallow pool of water where he’d paused for a drink. He listened
intently. The
wailing blat of the horns came again, from his left, the southwest. Dain
glanced at the gray clouds scudding low above the treetops, and tried to gauge
distance and time. He knew he must be nearly out of the Dark Forest. Rising to
his feet, he listened, straining to hear hoofbeats. Ah
. . . yes, crashing like the muted thunder of a distant summer storm. That
meant the hunters were Mandrian, for no one in Nold hunted with such noise and
fanfare. Most especially not now, when the dwarf clans were at war, their drumbeats
throbbing late at night and the smoke from burned-out burrows hanging in the
air. Dain
swallowed hard. Never before had he ventured this close to the border. But now
was no time to lose his courage. Thia’s life depended on what he managed to
accomplish today. Down
deep within the knot inside his belly, he felt an ache of fearful despair, but
he ignored his emotions and set off at a ground-eating trot, determined to get
help for his injured sister. Dodging
and darting through the undergrowth of dense forest, he angled toward the
approaching sound of the hunters. If
he was close enough to the border for men to be venturing into the forest, that
meant he was nearing settlements and villages, places where he could steal food
and perhaps a horse. Sudden
terror, alien and fierce, burst through his mind. With it came a stag that
burst from cover and bounded across Dain’s trail. The animal passed so close to
him that he saw the blood splattering its dusty coat, the heaving flanks, the
white of its eye, the dark pink flare within its nostril. Awash
in fear and pain, the creature’s mind swept across Dain’s, making him stagger
to one side and grip a tree trunk for support. Dain closed the stag’s senses from
his own, shaking his head to clear it. Seconds
later, he heard a deep baying sound that made the hairs rise on the back of his
neck. A pack of tall, brawny red dogs came crashing through the thickets and
closed in on the faltering stag. Dain
felt the purposeful flick of their minds: chase/chase/ chase/chase. He
dived for cover, for now the horses and riders were upon him, crashing and
blundering through the undergrowth and trees. They were shouting and blowing
their horns in great excitement. One rode past Dain so closely he was nearly
hit in the face by the rider’s spurred foot. In
a heartbeat, they thundered past, kicking up dirt and leaves behind them. He
left his cover and followed them, knowing the stag could not run much longer. Indeed,
only a few minutes later the stag went down in a small clearing. The dogs
leaped on it with yelps and snarls. For a moment there was milling confusion
while the hunters beat off the dogs. Someone shot an arrow into the stag’s
creamy throat. The noble creature turned its gaze toward its killer for a
moment, then its head sank to the ground and it lay still. Whooping,
the hunters surrounded their prey. They were four youths, each about Dain’s own
age. Richly dressed in velvet cloth and furs, gilded daggers gleaming at their
belts, their bows held slack in their hands, they slapped each other on the
back and congratulated each other. Three older men in chain mail and green
surcoats without crests and one muscular man wearing the crossed-axe crest of a
protector stayed in the saddle and watched the proceedings silently. Dain
crept closer, focusing all his attention on the bulging saddlebags of finely
worked leather. He could smell food inside—the pale tender bread baked in a
puff, wedges of cheese, hanks of cold meat all wrapped in neat waxed-linen
bundles. His own hunger was like a living thing inside him, driving him
forward, almost making him forget caution. With
his mind, he stilled the nearest horse, turning it around and luring it toward
him at the edge of the clearing. Snorting, the handsome animal tossed its head
and came forward a few steps, then nibbled at a few blades of grass before
coming another few steps closer. Finally it stopped and began to eat in
earnest, its reins dragging on the ground. Dain
admired its sleekness, seeing how well groomed and cared for it was. Its
splendid leather saddle and cloth alone would bring a fine price. Dain could
sell the trappings and the horse for enough gold to support him and Thia for a
year. But most of all, he wanted the food in those saddlebags. Hovering
at the edge of the thicket, Dain dared not venture into the open. Keeping a
wary eye on the armed men, he crouched close enough to a tangle of briars for
the thorns to snag his tattered clothing, and used his mind to lure the horse
into coming yet closer. The
young hunters joked and yelped in high spirits. The largest one, with shoulders
as burly as a grown man’s, passed around a wineskin with a furtive giggle while
another boy knelt to dip his fingers in the stag’s blood. He smeared crimson
streaks across his face, then marked the faces of his companions. Fascinated
despite his sense of urgency, Dain stared at these Mandrian youths, who were
his own age and size, yet as different from him as night from day. He had seen
Mandrians before, of course. Jorb had done much trade with the nobles, who
valued a well-crafted sword. But it was seldom that Dain saw boys of such
wealth and magnificence, with such beautiful horses and fine leather tack. Bold
youths indeed, to enter the Dark Forest after game. Dain had heard many tales
among the dwarves, tales of the foolish Mandrians who quested in the Dark
Forest for the legendary Chalice of Eternal Life or the mythical Field of
Skulls, which Jorb said was no place for any common mortal to see. Such
searchers often failed to return. The Dark Forest was a mysterious place, full
of impenetrable sectors and traps for the unwary. Even the dwarves knew there
were parts of the forest where no living creature should go. But
these young hunters laughed and sucked blood from each other’s fingers and
boasted, each claiming in turn to have shot the arrow which first wounded the
stag. The red dogs twisted and circled among them, panting and whining for
attention. Dain returned his concentration to the horse, which would not quite
venture to the edge of the clearing, despite all his enticements. Perhaps he
should risk being seen. If he mounted the horse, he could outrun the others and
lose himself quickly in the dense undergrowth. After all, what harm could such
boys do him? They were nothing but brave talk and blowing wind. Right now they
were discussing whether they should break off the stag’s antlers or cut off its
entire head. The rich, wasteful fools weren’t interested in its flavorful, dark
meat or the beauty of its hide. A
corner of Dain’s mind urged him to wait out of sight, safe and quiet, until
they left with their prize. Then he could help himself to all the venison he
could carry. He knew how to build a slow, smoking fire, how to cut the meat
into strips and dry it into leathery jerky. Wait, he cautioned himself. But
the horse was so close. A fleet-footed, strong animal that would carry Thia to
a village large enough to support a healer. The Bnen arrow point had snapped
off inside her. It festered there, bringing her much pain and fever. Right now
she needed tending as much as they both needed food. Drawing
a deep breath, Dain cautiously sent his thoughts in the direction of the four
men overseeing their charges. Look
at them, he urged. Watch what they do. Help them. The protector turned his mount to ride toward the
hunters, who were now hacking inexpertly at the stag’s head. The other men
looked that way. Quick
as thought, Dain slipped from cover and went to the horse. Alarmed, it lifted
its head from the grass, but Dain soothed it with a thought and swept his
fingers gently across the animal’s shoulder. Reassured,
the horse bent its head again to eat. Dain drew in scents of warm horse,
leather, the boy who’d ridden the saddle, and the ham that was so enticingly
close. He gathered the reins and put his foot in the stirrup. Without
warning, the horse squealed in fury and swung away from him. Hopping on one
foot, Dain tried to climb into the saddle, but the horse reared, lashing out
with its forefeet. Attack/attack/attack. Its mind was awash with heat. It lunged at him, snapping
with huge, yellow teeth. Dain smacked its muzzle and stumbled back, falling in
the process. Across
the clearing, the boys stood frozen, staring at him with astonishment. Then the
handsomest, best dressed of the lot stepped forward and pointed at Dain. “A
thief!” he called out. “Sir Los, he’s stealing my horse!” With shouts, the armed men drew their swords and came
rushing at Dain. He was busy trying to escape from the horse, which sought to
trample him, but a shrill whistle from the boy in the blue, fur-trimmed tunic
swung the horse away from him. It trotted to its master, and Dain jumped to his
feet and ran. At
that moment, two more riders—one clad in chain mail and green surcoat, the
other in plain green wool, with a horn slung across his barrel chest and a
pointed cap on his head— galloped into the clearing between Dain and his
pursuers. The men swore at each other, while the boys ran to mount up. The dogs
milled and circled, barking. “It’s
an eld!” someone shouted in a shrill voice. “It’s
a thief!” said someone else. “Get
him!” One
of the men bore down on Dain, but he ducked to one side, evading swing, and scrambled away. He dived into a
briar thicket where the horseman couldn’t follow. Burrowing deep, Dain
scratched his hands and face and snagged his clothing. Squinting his eyes to
protect them, he wiggled deeper into the thicket, his heart pounding too fast,
his breath coming quick and short. There
was no time to curse the horse that had turned on him, no time to tell himself
he should have just stolen the food and been satisfied. The Mandrians valued
their horses the way dwarves valued their treasures. He was in for it now. “Dogs,
go’t” came the command, and with yelping barks the brutes came
after Dain the same way they’d coursed the stag. Hearing
one dog bay over the noise of the others, Dain felt a chill go through the
marrow of his bones. He was now their prey, their quarry, and the dogs would
run him until they caught him and tore him apart. With
a little sob, he burst clear of the briars on the other side, gaining himself a
few seconds of time, and ran for his life. Dodging
and darting on foot, unable to take cover in an underground burrow because the
dogs would only dig him out, he ran with all the fleetness he possessed. Dogs
and horses drew ever closer, and only his quick wits and sudden changes of
direction kept him ahead of them. His
best chance of escape was to head deep into the forest, but his pursuers seemed
to know what he would try. They kept driving him the wrong way, pushing him
more and more toward the west. He tried to double back and slip between them,
knowing that the depths of the Dark Forest would save him. But an arrow hit
him, slicing through the meat of his forearm, just below his elbow. The pain
came swift and sharp. He stumbled and fell, then rolled desperately back onto
his feet while one of the boys shouted, “I hit him! Did your highness see? My
arrow caught him.” Clamping
his left hand on his bleeding arm, Dain struggled on, but by then a horse and
rider blocked his path east. Dain turned west yet again, cursing to himself and
wishing he had the powers of a sorcerel that would char them to ashes. He called on Fim and Rod,
dour gods of the dwarves, to bring a war party of Bnen forth to attack these
trespassing Mandrians, but the dwarf gods did not hear the prayers of an eldin
boy. No one interceded. No one rescued him. He had only his wits and his
nimbleness, and all the while his pursuers kept maneuvering him the wrong way,
until the dense thickets grew sparse and the trees spread apart, thinning into
open country. Beyond
the edge of the forest, Dain could see a wide, empty marshland—all water and
sky. On the horizon, a black rim of trees stood along the opposite side of the
river, too far away to offer him any hope. Out there in the open, he could not
outrun them. They would hunt him down and kill him without mercy, the same way
they’d killed the stag. For
sport, with no need for meat or survival. He
was pagan, with pagan blood. They would not let him g°- With
his breath sobbing in his throat, he dropped down into a briar-choked gully
where the horses couldn’t go. He dou back, ducking low to keep himself hidden
beneath the’s canopy of shtac and perlimon saplings growing thick on banks.
Pushing apart their intertwined branches, the sme! damp crimson and orange-gold
leaves thick in his nostrils splashed through a trickle of ankle-deep water and
ran alon course to throw the dogs off his scent. Then
he dived into a stand of russet-leaved harlberries crouched low and still,
making no sound or movement, even to breathe deeply while the riders cantered
past him, 1 on the bank of the gully. He was a hare, his clothing the dap]
color of bark and leaves, his hair dark, his pale skin d enough to blend with the
land. Blood from his wounded oozed between his fingers. He could smell it, hot
and copp He feared the dogs would smell it too. When
the riders went past him, he waited a little while,‘t scuttled out from beneath
the bush and went on until the g ended and he had to climb out. But
ahead of him, blocking the way back into the Dark 1 est, was one of the guards,
the oldest and wiliest of them, gaze sweeping the area without mercy, his drawn
sword i silver in his hand. Dain
hissed softly, cursing the man in his heart, and slithe back unseen down the
damp, leaf-strewn bank of the gully, retraced his steps until the gully grew
shallow and wide, op ing to the bank of marsh. Ahead of him lay open country, a
a of mud, water, and weeds with a river flowing beyond. ‘ boys milled about on
the bank with their sleek horses lathe and steaming. The dogs whined and
snuffled, casting back forth for the scent they’d lost. Careful
to stay upwind, Dain crept along behind the b and angled his way into the marsh
unseen. When
he stepped into the water, he nearly yelped alouc was icy cold, so cold it
burned. He plunged forward as fas he could without splashing until he reached
the freshly reeds growing in the water. Shivering and breathing hard, struggled
through them, bruising his feet on the sharp stalks by the cutters. Reaching
some taller, uncut reeds, he croud there, his head level with their tops. His
lungs burned in chest; his muscles ached with exhaustion. Clouds
as dirty as undyed wool scudded low over the mai No wind blew, but the cold air
was numbing enough. With his breath fogging about him, Dain waited a moment,
then waded through the knee-deep water even farther into the reeds and crouched
again. Constant shivers ran through him, as much from fear as from cold. He
clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. He had to be silent now, as
still and silent as the mist lying upon the river that flowed behind him. The
wound in his right forearm dripped pale blood into the water. He held his arm beneath
the surface in hopes of stanching the bleeding and hiding the smell from the
dogs. The
coldness of the water burned his skin and raised huge goose bumps across his
body. Sucking in his belly, he bowed his head and let quick breaths hiss in and
out through his gritted teeth. His pulse thumped so fast it bruised his throat.
His mind was wide open, receiving the crimson bloodlust of the dogs—chase/chase/chase; kill/kill/kill—and the flick, flick, flick of men-minds, blurs of
thoughts, shapes, and colors he could barely shut out. A
whimper came from between his jaws. He held his breath, savagely starving
himself for air. He’d already made enough mistakes today. No need now to lead
them right to him because he could not hold his fear silent. To
his right he saw a great levee built of dirt to hold the marsh back. A road
paved with stone topped the levee, which curved to accommodate the lazy bend of
river. Beyond, trees stood silhouetted against the dirty sky. Spangled in
colors of gold, scarlet, and rust, most of them were dropping their leaves.
Distant, thin spirals of smoke rose into the sky. A village, he thought,
feeling a faint measure of hope. If he could get there, get to the smithy and
call himself Jorb’s apprentice, he might find refuge of a sort. Most Mandrians
were suspicious of strangers, let alone those of his kind, and were inclined to
toss those of the bent eye into the nearest horse trough or stream, for despite
their priests and large churches, the old beliefs of Man-dria claimed that
those of pagan blood melted in water. Dain
glanced down at the muddy water enclosing him at the rib line and grimaced. He
wished at this moment that the superstition were true. Melting would be a more
merciful end than what the hunters planned for him. He
tried to calm himself. Jorb always said no good came of panic. He understood
now that he’d tried to steal a war-trained horse, one taught not to let a
stranger mount it. Even had 1 it into the forest, he could never have gotten on
its back wi being thrown. It would have been useless for his purp Well, the
mistake had been an honest one. It was past. He i it aside and wasted no more
thought on self-recrimination Only let these hunters go, he thought
impatiently, ho his muscles rigid against the shivers which racked him them go
before he froze to death in this icy water. Keebacks
perching in a nearby copse of trees on the rose with a sudden flurry of wings.
Their harsh squawking tied Dain. A cry choked in his throat, and he nearly
burst his miserable hiding place on the force of their instinct. But
he could not run another step. His legs were spent, muscles cramped and
trembling. His stomach felt as thoi had been knotted and was being drawn up by
slow degree; his throat to choke him. He crouched lower in the icy wate gaze on
the boys still searching for him among the trees though at this distance he
could not distinguish their wore could hear the frustration in their voices as
they called to other. Dain
grinned to himself, feeling his whole body shake toes had gone numb. He could
barely feel his feet now. Cl ing his jaw tight to keep his teeth from
chattering, he wai his baffled pursuers and knew they hadn’t expected him’t
tually come out here into the open. Go
away, he thought with all his might.
But he was too and spent now to focus his thoughts enough to really pers them. “A
track!” shouted the huntsman. “He took to the wate Hoofbeats came thudding across
the muddy banks o marsh. A horse neighed as it floundered belly-deep in v The
dogs’ noise changed note, and Dain stopped breathinj watched the dogs rush to
the water’s edge, only to leap 1 With lolling tongues and waving tails, they
barked in his c tion as though they could see him in his paltry hiding place
riders rode back and forth, discussing the matter. Go
away, Dain thought fiercely while the
terrible numl crept up his legs. His strength was waning. He did not thь could
hold himself crouched there and still in the freezing 1 much longer. Two
of the dogs jumped into the water, then scrambled out to shake themselves and
whine at their masters. For
an instant the sun broke through the storm clouds to shine upon supple leather,
velvets, and fur-trimmed caps. It tipped the hunting spears with gold. “He’s
gone to the water, right enough,” said one of the men in chain mail. His
gnarled voice carried clearly across the marsh. “Morde a day, but he’s sly as a
vixlet. Yer highness’s fine dogs cannae catch scent in yon marsh.” The
boy he spoke to snatched off his cap to reveal hair that shone as bright as
gold coin. It was the handsome one, the boy whose horse Dain had tried to
steal. “I’m aware of that,” he said angrily. His voice rang out in a clear
tenor, like the song of crystal. “But he’s not gone far. He’s spilled enough of
his cursed white blood to weaken him. I’ll wager a gold dreit he’s out there in
those very reeds now, shivering and trying to cast a spell on us. Thum! Mierre!
Attend me, both of you. What say you to it?” Dain
shrank even lower in the water. His eyes were wide and unblinking, focused on
nothing save the hunters. His heart thudded harder than ever. Why had fate
crossed his path with that of a prince? And gods, this prince guessed his
intentions too plainly. The
youth called Thum made no answer to the prince’s call, but the other one—burly
in the shoulders and moon-faced— kicked his mount closer to his prince. They
faced each other at the water’s edge, their bodies slack in the saddle while
their horses drank. Overhead, the keebacks sailed the skies, crying out their
harsh call. In the distance, a bell began to ring, and another hunting horn
blew. “Hear
that?” Thum said. “We’re being called in.” The others ignored him. “I
say aye, my prince,” the boy called Mierre answered. “Our quarry’s nearby, all
right. The marsh is narrow this way between the road and the river. If he goes
on he’ll have to swim the river, and I doubt he can do that. Not after the run
he’s had.” “Cornered,”
the golden-haired prince said in satisfaction. “Prince
Gavril,” Thum said, his voice fine and clear. “It’s to be a damned cold
wetting, riding into that muck just to fish out a thief. A poor end to fine
hunting. Let’s leave the wretch to freeze and go back to the hold as we are
bidden.” His
sensible words gave Dain a trickle of hope. “No!”
Prince Gavril said. “I’ve not run my horse hard to go home now. If you’re
afraid of wet feet, go in and yourself fire. I’m not finished here.” The
boys glared at each other. Even at a short distance ] could feel Thum’s
exasperation and Gavril’s iron-hard dete nation. “He’s
nothing, the poor wretch,” Thum said quietly. ‘ worth our trouble.“ “He
stole from me,” Gavril said. “Such an offense canm unpunished.” “He
was after food, nothing more, I wager,” Thum said fusing to back down. “He
looked scrawny enough. Maybe a refugee from the clan wars.” Mierre
laughed. “He’s an eld, you fool, not a dwarf haven’t you seen either before?” Thum’s
freckled face turned red. “A starving thief is hi
worth a flogging for failing to come in when we are called Gavril pointed at
him. “You,” he said loudly and conterr ously, “are a fool. I fear no flogging. Lord
Odfrey would dare.” Thum’s
face turned even redder. He bowed low ovei saddle, and Dain could feel the
force of his angry emban ment. “As my lord prince says,” he replied curtly. Gavril
wheeled his horse away. “You and you,” he sai the men, “spread yourselves along
the bank. Sir Los, go there. Mierre, you and Kaltienne stand ready to catch him
v I flush him out. Thum, you are excused.” The
freckle-faced boy gave his prince a small salute wheeled his horse harshly
around. Spurring the animal unnecessary force, he went galloping away, his
horse’s throwing up big chunks of mud behind him. Mierre
shrugged his burly shoulders and muttered sc thing to Kaltienne, who laughed
unkindly. Prince
Gavril raised a curved horn that he wore slung ac his shoulders by a long
leather cord. He blew a note that n the dogs howl. It pierced Dain’s head. He
clapped both hani his ears in pain, and when the sound faded, taking his aj
away, he found Gavril splashing halfway to his hiding p
On the bank, the dogs milled and circled around the legs o horses, the plumes
of their tails waving proudly, while the riders spread themselves along the
bank in readiness. Dain
shifted his feet in the water, feeling increasingly cornered. Behind him
stretched the expanse of marsh, dotted with reeds and little hillocks of mud
that gave way to the channel of the river. Out there, the water ran swift and
deep. Dain knew he could not go that way, for the river’s current would suck
him under in a twinkling should he try to swim it. Thia, he thought in despair. Forgive me. I have failed you. But
Thia was too far away to hear him. Would she wonder when he did not return
tonight? Would she surface from her burning fever long enough to worry about him?
Would she ever know of her abandonment as she slipped closer to death? Would
she have to go into the hands of the gods unshriven and unsung, lacking salt on
her tongue to ease her journey into the third world? Would she die without his
hand gripping hers, alone in the darkness? His
grief was like an anvil in his chest, holding him down. Dain tried to stay in
his hiding place, hoping that if he did not move he would remain unseen.
However, the rational part of his mind knew that the uncut reeds provided too
thin a cover to hide him for more than a few moments longer. If he jumped up,
all would see him. He couldn’t outrun the horse, even in the water. No, his
only chance was to completely submerge himself in the shallow water and try to
crawl to safety. Breathing
... He needed a hollow reed, but there was no time to search for one. The reeds
growing around him were green. Their centers would be full of a pale, fleshy
substance. Fighting desperation, Dain crouched lower in the water. Gavril
rode closer, urging his reluctant horse onward with little nudges of his spurs.
By now, Dain could see the boy’s white, set face, the dried streaks of blood
still on his cheeks. The look of murderous intent in his violet-blue eyes made
Dain’s blood run cold. Those
vivid blue eyes flashed over him and beyond, searching the marsh, then flashed
back. They stared right at Dain and widened. It was as though the curtain of
reeds had been swept aside, leaving Dain exposed. Time froze to a standstill in
which Dain saw every detail of his pursuer, from the clenched knuckles of
Gavril’s rein hand, to the golden bracelet of royalty upon his wrist, to the
purple stitching on the chest strap of the horse. Gold
and purple ... colors of the Mandrian king’s hou hold. Dain felt small and
faint. Even when he’d tried to steal horse, he hadn’t noticed the colors,
hadn’t paid heed. /
am not your rightful prey! flashed his thoughts. Gavril
winced. “Get out of my head, damn you!” shouted. He drew a short hunting javelin
from his stirrup qui and hurled it. Time
remained slow, while the fear in Dain swelled lik wineskin. He had to move, had
to dodge, had to ... The
swelling inside him burst. Fear scalded the back of throat and burned through
his chest like acid. The paral> holding him prisoner broke away, and at the
last possible’s ond he flinched aside. The javelin skimmed him harmlessly i
thunked into the water near his foot. One end quivered in the a moment, then
the entire javelin sank slowly beneath water. Dain
gulped in relief along with air. Gavril
glared at him in even greater fury. “Damn you! 1 next shaft will come at you so
hard none of your accursed spt will cast it aside.” He
reached for another javelin, but his quiver was empty Dain could have bent and
seized the weapon now settl: into the mud at his feet, but he thought the chase
must at last over. He rose dripping to his feet and held his hands out fn his
sides in a silent plea for mercy. Now
that his panic had calmed somewhat, all he had to was push
a little at Prince Gavril’s mind—a man mind, a and therefore hard to master,
but not impossible—and th would be mercy. He could go free, go on to the
village and’s< help for Thia there. . . . Gavril’s
head jerked. Color flared into his face. “Go fn Run amok in the village? What
spell are you casting on n Begone! Begone, in the name of Tomias!” As
he spoke, half in fury and half in hysteria, his hand ral at his doublet,
loosening it. He drew forth a shining, spiral! circle of gold upon a fine chain
and brandished it like a weap* “Get back, demon!” There
was no power in his amulet, but the emotion crackl: through the prince was of
such intensity Dain backed up a st The naked fear in Gavril’s face faded, to be
replaced by a sui of new confidence. He brandished the amulet again, his blue
eyes alight with something unpleasant. “So
you do fear some things, monster,” he said in a voice of such hatred Dain
backed up another step. Gavril pressed the sides of his horse, and the large,
snorting creature sidled closer. Dain’s nostrils were flooded with the strong
scent of sweaty horse, stronger than Prince Gavril’s man scent, stronger than
the fishy stench of the mud. “Bow
to the Circle of Tomias, monster. Bow to it!” Dain had heard the name of Tomias
spoken before, but he did not understand why a god should have a man-name. He
had seen the man-god’s name chiseled on the lintels of village churches. He had
heard others call out to this man-god in fear or invoke the name as an oath.
But Dain did not live under the power of Tomias. Jorb had taught him to beware
the ways of Mandrians and their religion. They took insult quickly, especially
from those they considered pagan. Dain had been warned long ago that if he ever
spoke Tomias’s name in the hearing of a Mandrian, chances were his tongue would
be cut out for defilement. Thus,
he could not obey this angry boy’s command, even had he wished to, which he did
not. There were currents of falsehood and entrapment running through Gavril’s
voice. “Bow
to this emblem of our holy prophet,” Gavril said, “and I shall let you live,
though you be a wretched pagan and a miserable thief.” Dain
glared up at him, then laughed with harsh disbelief. “You lie.” Pink
stained Gavril’s pale cheeks, clashing with the dark streaks of blood. He
stared, his blue eyes bulging, as though he could not believe Dain’s defiance. “Your
prophet has naught to do with this day,” Dain said, his tongue curling around
the peculiar inflections of the Mandrian language. “You hunt with a full belly
and own many horses. Why care you if I take what I need? You are not beggared
by it.” Gavril
dropped his circle, letting it swing free by its gold chain. He said nothing,
but reached for something ofl the opposite side of his saddle. Dain
stepped back, but he was unprepared for the thin, black blur that came at him.
He threw up his wounded arrn to protect his face, and the whip snapped across
his wound so viciously he screamed. “Pagan
spawn! Monster! I’ll be done with you this day,” Gavril shouted, whipping
Dain’s head and shoulders again and again. “I’ll crush the life from you for
daring to steal from me. There’ll be one less pagan alive to taint the air I
breathe!” With
every other word a blow cracked down. Dain reeled under burst after burst of
agony. He tried to dodge the whip and couldn’t. The horse snorted and trampled
around him, cutting him off at every turn. Every lash of the whip was a
white-hot brand that choked off the breath in his lungs. Staggering
to one side, he slipped and fell into the water. The horse’s hooves splashed
down just a finger’s thickness from his skull. Dain
floundered, trying to get away. His feet slipped in the mud, giving him no purchase.
In the distance he could hear a voice shouting in protest. “Stop
it!” one of the men was saying. “My lord prince, that’s enough!” But
Gavril either did not hear or he ignored the man. He wheeled his horse around so
sharply it reared, and tried to make it trample Dain. Frantically
Dain rolled to one side, swallowing muddy water as he did so, and floundered
out of the way as the horse swung around again. Dain groped through the mud for
the javelin. Half-stumbling, half on his knees, he scrabbled and searched in
desperation. If he could find the javelin, he could defend himself. The
whip caught Dain across the back of his neck, directly on bare skin, with such
force his mind went sheet-white, then black. He toppled forward, no more than
half-conscious. Dimly he thought that his head must have been severed from his
body, which he could not feel. He
hit the water, facedown, and sank like a stone. But the cold water on his cuts
awakened a fire so brutal it revived him. He jerked and pushed himself from the
water, and his hand found the javelin in the mud. Slinging back his dripping
hair and dragging in a deep breath, he coughed up some of the water he’d
swallowed. Somewhere
to his left came another shout and the sound of splashing, but Dain paid that
no heed. He rose to his feet, his gaze locked with Gavril’s. “Leave
me be!” he shouted, or tried to, but his voice was choked from the water he’d
swallowed and came out with little force. Gavril
glared at him. “Why won’t you die, damn you? Why do you fight me? You’re dead
already. Surrender to it!” As
he spoke, Gavril drew his dagger, and the blade was thin and well honed and
deadly. Dain recognized in a single, trained glance how tempered it was, how
beautifully balanced. He could smell the strength of the metal, and the intent
in Gavril’s eyes was just as deadly. Dain
shook his head. Inside him came an explosion of rage so hot it charred away his
intestines and seared his very bones. He lifted the javelin. Alarm
replaced the mad fervor in Gavril’s dark blue eyes. On the bank, the protector
shouted, “Your highness! Come away!” “I
can handle him!” Gavril shouted with a brave gesture. But Dain could see his
fright. It
wasn’t enough. Dain wanted Gavril to choke on fear, to feel it in his own bile,
to scream with it, to have his liver melt to a puddle and all his strength flow
out of his body. He wanted Gavril to beg for mercy, to feel his breath come
short, to fall off that brute horse and grovel in the mud. But most of all,
Dain wanted to ram this spear into the soft part of Gavril’s belly, to grind it
in until steel grated on spine bone and caught there. “You
dare not strike me,” Gavril said. He held up his wrist to make his sleeve fall
back and reveal the gold bracelet. “Do you know what this means, monster? To
strike at me is to strike at the king, and that is treason punishable by ...” Dain
stopped listening. In a flash of cunning he realized he must first attack the
horse to unseat Gavril. Then he would have Gavril at his mercy. “Your
turn,” he said, and lunged. A
whip lashed out from behind him, catching the upraised javelin and flicking it
from his grasp. In dismay, Dain watched it go spinning over the reeds and into
the water, truly lost now. He whirled. This time he faced not one of Gavril’s
companions, but instead a man with lines carved deep in his weathered face and
eyes as dark as night. A man in a fur cloak and silver chain, a sword hilt angled
beside his hip and rings glittering on his lean fingers. “Hold
this action!” the man said in a voice like thunder. “Both of you stay where you
are.” The
murderous rage faded from Dain so swiftly he felt hollow and dizzy. For a
moment he saw two of this harsh-faced man in his splendid fur cloak. Dain
blinked, and there was one again. But the old shortness of breath was back,
like a hand constricting his throat. He felt his blood oozing down his arm
again, making rapid drips into the water. Gavril’s
pale cheeks had turned bright scarlet. “Chevard Odfrey!” he said shrilly. “My
lord, you saw! You saw what this creature attempted against my person. You came
just in time—” “Silence,
if you please, your highness,” the chevard said curtly. His voice was harsh and
flat in tone, as though he had no music in him. “I saw a great many things,
most of them which you must account for.” The
red in Gavril’s face paled. “A mere game of hunt and—” “Game,
was it? I saw a defenseless lad hounded and cornered like a water rat for your
sport. I saw him thrashed till he fell and heard you screaming like a fiend
instead of a prince of the realm. How far did you mean to go with this game?” The
contempt in the man’s voice amazed Dain. He realized he was being championed,
for reasons he could not understand. His gaze flicked from one angry face to
the other, and he wondered if he dared try to break away. “Chevard,
do you criticize me?” Gavril said angrily. “I warned him of my identity and yet
he meant to strike me. That’s treason, and he must answer for it.” The
chevard gestured impatiently, but Gavril stood up in his stirrups. “It
is!” he said shrilly. “Treason most clear! The law is firm.” “Do
you expect an uneducated wretch like this to understand the law?” Odfrey
countered. “Ignorance
is no excuse for transgression. Furthermore, he is a pagan and would not kneel
to the Circle—” The
chevard held up his hand in a gesture that silenced Gavril in mid-sentence. Amazed
at his power, Dain stared up at the man sitting so straight in his saddle. Lord
Odfrey was in his middle years, with no gray showing yet in his straight brown
hair, but plenty of it in his thick mustache. The rest of his face was
cleanshaven, with a hint of bristle to be seen on his lean jaws this late in
the afternoon. His nose was long and straight, except for a slight bump where
it seemed to have once been broken. His mouth was uncompromising. He wore no
mail, and his long doublet and leggings were dark green wool, the cloth woven
tight and hard. His boots reached to his knees, and were made of good leather,
much scuffed and worn. His mud-splattered spurs were plain brass. Only the
crest embroidered on the left breast of his striped fur cloak proclaimed his
rank. Even his rings were not fancy; just a plain signet and a dull cabochon
set in gold that was his marriage ring. His horse, heavy-boned and strong,
stood in the cold water patiently, unlike Gavril’s flashy mount, which shied
and pawed and pranced constantly. Lord
Odfrey turned his frowning gaze on Dain and studied him for a long moment.
Beneath the fierce, unsmiling facade of this man, Dain sensed kindness and a
true heart. Some flicker of mercy or compassion lit in the depths of the man’s
eyes. It surprised Dain, but he immediately tried to take advantage of it. “I
have offended the prince,” he said, although no one had given him leave to
speak. “But not enough to be killed for it.” “Silence!”
Gavril shouted before he glanced back at Lord Odfrey. “Take care, my lord
chevard,” he warned nervously. “Do not let his gaze enspell you.” Lord
Odfrey frowned. “He
is clearly pagan,” Gavril said. “Look at his eyes, how colorless and strange
they are. Look at his pale blood. He is a monster. He deserves no fairness—” “The
lad is eldin,” Odfrey said impatiently. “Or partly so, perhaps, if his black
hair is anything to go by. That hardly makes him a monster. As for fairness,
honor is not a quality to be shed or worn depending on the circumstances. If
this wretch stole from you and you had your servants catch him and beat him for
it, that would be justice.” “He
did steal!” Gavril said hotly. “My horse, he would have taken—” “Your
horse?” Lord Odfrey echoed in quiet amazement. “It’s war-trained, or so you
have boasted.” • ‘ Again
Gavril’s cheeks turned pink. “It is,” he said, clearly taking offense. “Trained
by my father’s own—” “Then
this lad could not steal it,” Odfrey said. “Impossible.” “But—” “Did
he steal anything else?” “He
meant to! My saddle and accouterments. My coat of arms on the saddlecloth is
embroidered of real gold. He—” “Yet
he actually took none of these things?” “Intent
is the same as action,” Gavril said in a sullen voice. “Even worse, he insulted
the Circle and would not—” “If
you coursed him for sport, let your hounds bay for his blood, and whipped him
to a bloody pulp because he did not recognize your Circle, it would seem you
ask too much of this young pagan.” “He’s
a thief!” Gavril said furiously. “When I sought to punish him, he defied me.
Worse, he insulted me, calling me a liar, and then he tried to harm my person.” Dain
glared at Gavril, who was twisting the truth to support his charge. He was a
vicious, deceitful worm. Dain despised him for his lies even more than for his
cruelty. Lord
Odfrey’s stony expression did not change. Solemn and unruffled, he showed
little emotion. “He
tried to kill me,” Gavril repeated. “You have my word for it, and I am the
king’s—” “—son.
Yes, I know, your highness. You have reminded everyone in my hold of that fact
at least twice a day since you arrived.” “Then
you might trouble to remember the fact, instead of mocking and insulting me,”
Gavril said haughtily. “Cool
your wrath, boy. It’s most unseemly in one of your station.” Gavril
stared at him, openmouthed and sputtering. Lord
Odfrey met his look of wild astonishment and dawning rage with a grim lack of
deference. “If you expect me to believe a tale such as this, you are much
mistaken. You sit on a war-trained horse, armed with dagger, whip, and
javelins. Do you really expect me to believe an unarmed, half-starved, wounded,
and frozen wretch like this eld boy could bring the slightest harm to your
royal person? I think not.” Gavril’s
blue eyes grew very dark and still. “Do you also call me a liar, my lord?” “I
call you a spoiled lowland brat,” Odfrey replied. “You flight around my lands
with courtier airs and too much conceit in yourself. The king sent you to me
for training, and by the blood of Tomias I do not see that task as one of
providing you with more flattery and spoiling. You’ve been here a month, and by
now you should know my rules. Did I not expressly forbid you and the others to
enter the Nold forest? There is a war in that land, a war that is no concern of
ours except in avoiding its dangers. Your safety cannot be guaranteed in such a
place.” “I
will hunt where I please,” Gavril replied. “We were coursing a stag. Would you
have us let it go free because of a mere boundary?” “A
stag,” Lord Odfrey said. His dark eyes narrowed. “What became of it?” “We
brought it down,” Gavril boasted. “Kaltienne took the first shot with his bow
and wounded it. My dogs are superb coursers, and we caught up with it as soon
as it fell. My arrow finished it. We wear its blood, as you can see.” “Who
is packing out the meat?” Gavril
blinked as though puzzled. “The meat is of no importance.” It
was Lord Odfrey’s turn to redden. His mouth opened, but although a small muscle
leaped in his jaw he did not speak. After a moment he snapped his jaws shut and
wheeled his horse around so fast he nearly knocked Dain over. “Huntsman!”
he shouted with enough volume that his voice echoed across the marsh. “Take
those men and go back for the meat.” “But,
m’lord, it’s to be dark soon,” the man protested. “You
know I will not abide waste,” Odfrey said. “But
the dark, m’lord. In Nold, m’lord.” Lord
Odfrey growled to himself. “Sir Alard,” he said to one of the knights. “Did you
leave the arrows in the beast?” The
man had been slouching in his saddle when Lord Odfrey spoke to him, then
quickly sat erect. “I’m sorry, m’lord,” he said slowly. “In the race after—I
didn’t think of it—it seemed less important than—” “Mandrian
arrows left bold as day in a carcass not even skinned and butchered. What
insult will be taken? What clan owns the land where you brought down the stag?” All
of them, Gavril especially, looked blank. Dain compre- hended
the reason for Lord Odfrey’s disquiet. It was an insult to trespass when
hunting game, and a bigger insult to hunt game for sport, not food. It spoke of
an arrogant disregard for ownership of land and property. If any dwarf found
the stag on land claimed by a clan, great offense would be taken. Dwarves could
and did start wars with far less provocation. Would they attack a Mandrian hold
for such a reason? Unlikely, especially with the war against the Bnen now
raging. But Lord Odfrey understood dwarf ways, and that was unusual for a
Mandrian noble. Dain’s respect for the man went up a notch. “Were
there clan markings that anyone noticed?” Odfrey asked. Again, no one answered. In
a quiet voice, Dain said, “Yes, the Clan Nega.” Lord
Odfrey whipped around so fast Dain was startled. His dark eyes bored into Dain,
piercing hard. “Nega? Not Rieg?” “Rieg
lands are here, near the edge of the forest,” Dain replied. “The marsh is your
land, yes?” But
Lord Odfrey wasn’t listening. “Nega,” he repeated. His face grew thunderous and
he glared so furiously at Gavril that the prince looked momentarily alarmed,
then more defiant and arrogant than ever. “You went that deep into the Dark
Forest? Against my orders?” Gavril
pulled on his gauntlets of fine blue velvet stitched to leather palms. He
shrugged. “When I hunt, I do not let my quarry go. Willingly.” “There
has been fighting reported on Nega lands,” Lord Odfrey said, ignoring Gavril’s
last remark. “You take too many foolish risks. There will be no more of it.
What if this eld had gone deeper into the Dark Forest? Would you have coursed
him to its very center?” “If
necessary,” Gavril answered coolly. His eyes met Lord Odfrey’s. “I do not fear
the dwarves. Besides, we knew he would try to go east, and we kept him from it.
I am not the fool you think me, my lord chevard.” “Then
obey the orders you are given.” “It is your responsibility to keep me safe,” Gavril said.
“I shall do as I please. Your orders offend me.” “Learn
to be offended,” Lord Odfrey snapped. “There will be no more adventures in the
Dark Forest. There will be no hunting of people on my land. If my huntsman has
not told you this before, you know it now.“ “Is
this wretch your serf?” Gavril said icily, pointing at Dain with his whip. “We
jumped him in the forest, beyond your boundaries, sir. If he is a monster of
Nold, then he belongs to no one and should be fair game.” “He’s
not an animal. He is not to be hunted,” Odfrey said. “He’s
a thief and a nuisance. If the villagers see an eld lurking about their fields,
they’ll be—” “The
villagers and their superstitions are my responsibility, not yours,” the
chevard said with a snap. “The day’s hunt is over for you. Call in your dogs
and take yourself back to the hold.” Gavril
stared at him as though he could not believe what had been said. “You dismiss me?”
he said, and his voice was almost a squeak. “The hunt is for my pleasure. You
cannot—” “I
can and I will,” Odfrey broke in. “My word is law here. Take care you remember
that.” “I
never forget any slight done me,” Gavril said, and his blue eyes were hot with
resentment. He cast Dain a glare as though to blame him for this disgrace.
“You,” he said in a voice that cut. “If I ever see you on Chevard Odfrey’s
lands, I shall feed you to my dogs.” “If
you set your dogs on another person, I will have them killed,” Odfrey said. The
iron in his voice held heat now. His dark eyes burned in his weathered face. “You
would not dare,” Gavril said, then faltered. His gaze shifted to his clenched
hands. “They are my property. Am I to blame if they prefer to take pagan scent?
One animal is very like another.” “That
is the worst sign of your character yet shown to me.” Gavril
blinked. “When I came to Thirst Hold, you admired my dogs. No one in this
region owns their equal. Their bloodlines are the best in—” “There
are many handsome things in this world,” the chevard said, “but not all of them
are good. I have said what I will do if you misuse your animals again in this
fashion. You have lived under my roof long enough by now, Prince Gavril, to
know that I keep my word. Do not force me to order them destroyed.” Gavril
sat his horse as though he’d been clouted hard but had not yet fallen. His gaze
never left the chevard’s face, but Dain watched his hands clench and
unclench the reins. “Well?” Odfrey asked. “Am I clearly understood?” Gavril
drew a sharp breath. Dain expected him to insult the chevard and gallop away,
for that intent burned bright in Gavril’s mind. But Gavril said, “Your words
are most clear to me, sir.” “Good.” “I hope, sir, that you will not find displeasure when I
write to my father the king and tell him of this day’s events.” The
chevard did not flinch. “I have never feared the truth, or King Verence’s sense
of justice. He is always interested in hearing both sides of a matter. By all
means write to him, but take care that you present the full truth. I am sure he
will find your actions, and your motivations for them, greatly enlightening.
Your letter can go in my next dispatch pouch.” Gavril’s
gaze dropped. He wheeled his horse about and kicked it into a gallop. As he
rode away, he splashed water over Dain, who was too cold to care. Grateful
to be free of the prince, Dain edged away a couple of steps, but the chevard’s
gaze swung to him and he stopped. Now
that it was just the two of them alone, some deep sadness appeared in Lord
Odfrey’s face. “You are just his size,” he muttered as though to himself. “That
same way of standing. That same fearless turn of the head. What is your name,
lad?” “Dain.” “You
are far from the mountains of the eld folk.” “I
come from Nold. I am—was apprenticed to Jorb
maker.” The
chevard smiled, and his face transformed from a stern, stony countenance into
one gentle and warm. The deep lines that bracketed his mouth were smoothed
away. Crinkles fanned at the corners of his eyes. He looked younger when he
smiled, far less formidable. “Jorb, the old rascal. I carry one of his swords,”
he said, indicating the weapon that hung from his belt. “Yes,
lord,” Dain said awkwardly. “I saw.” Odfrey’s
smile faded. “But you say you were his apprentice. Not now? Has the trouble reached him too?” Dain’s
throat closed in sudden grief. He thought of how he’d returned from his errand
three days, no, four past, and found the tree burrow ablaze. The forge was
already gone, charred to ashes. Jorb’s body was a blackened, twisted thing,
hacked and broken by the axe that had felled him, so broken he couldn’t crawl
away from the fire that had burned him alive along with his home. Jorb
had always been a force in Dain’s life, a short, surly, gruff-voiced taskmaster
who liked his pipe in the evenings and who would sit watching the stars
contentedly, humming along in his basso voice while Thia sang and Dain played
accompaniment on a lute. Jorb liked his ale and his food; he was nearly as wide
as he was tall. He was hot-tempered and impatient, yet he took infinite pains
with s he crafted, turning each blade
into a thing of rare beauty. And when the steady tap-tap-tap
of his hammering was done, he would hone and polish, humming to the steel as
though to bring it to life. His craggy face would light up and he would smile
as he spoke the final words over each creation: “Kreith ‘ng kdag ’vn halh.”—“This sword is made.” He
had taught Dain metals. He had taught Dain his skills but never his artistry.
Some days as they worked together in the hot forge, Jorb would sweat and hum
without uttering a single word. Other days he would talk endlessly on a variety
of subjects, giving Dain the teaching, as he called it. He was father, teacher,
taskmaster, friend. Behind the gruffness and stern air of authority he was kind
and good, with a fondness for riddles and a love of song. And
now he was dead, dead because of Dain. There was no getting past the guilt or
the grief. Each time Dain pushed it out of his mind, the memories came flooding
back. He could smell the sickening stench of burned flesh, the smoky stink of
charred cloth. He could feel Jorb’s sturdy shoulder cupped in his hand, how
stiff and wrong it felt. He had dug a grave and spoken the words of passing in
the dwarf tongue. He had sprinkled salt over the freshly turned soil and
crossed the ash twigs there, but his rites were not enough to cleanse what he’d
done or to absolve him of blame. He
frowned, swallowing hard, and found his voice gone. He could not answer Lord
Odfrey’s simple question. All he could do was glance up, his eyes suddenly
brimming with tears, and nod his head. Regret
softened the chevard’s face. Looking down at Dain from atop his horse, he said
softly, “Dead?” , * Again
Dain nodded. A sob heaved in his chest, but he would not utter it. His grief
was not to be shared with men. It was a private thing. His shame, he would
battle alone. But
not just yet. Mastering
himself, he swallowed and struggled to speak. “Please, lord,” he said in a
choked voice. “I thank you for saving me. Would you also show mercy and save my
sister as well?” “What?” “My
sister. She’s hurt. We’ve come as far away as she can. When the Bnen attacked,
they put an arrow in her that I cannot—” “Where
is she?” Hope
filled Dain’s chest. He pointed at the forest. “A league away, no more. Not far
from where the stag went down. I can show you the spot, lead your men back to
it, if you will—” Odfrey’s
gaze grew hard and intent. “What know you of the Bnen? How large are their
forces?” “I
didn’t see them—” “But
there’s been talk, surely, in the settlements, and in your friend’s burrow. You
know Jorb, so you must know members of his family. When did the Bnen attack
him? How long ago? Are they moving this way?” Dain
could not answer his rapid-fire questions. His legs felt so numbed by the water
he could no longer feel them. Perhaps that was a mercy, for they had stopped
aching with fatigue, but he did not feel steady. In fact, as he took a cautious
step forward, he thought his knees might buckle beneath him. His arm, wounded
by the arrow Gavril had shot at him earlier and now cut by the whip, throbbed
with a pain that hurt all the way up to the backs of his eyes. In truth, he
hurt all over. And Thia was a league away, hidden in the forest, hurt and in
dire need of help. He did not think she would live much longer if the arrow was
not taken out. He had tried last night, and only hurt her more. This man was
kind. If Dain could only find a way to reach that kindness on Thia’s behalf, he
knew he could save her. He
reached out and gripped the man’s stirrup with his cold hands. “Please help
her, for you are a kind and just lord. I only tried to take the prince’s horse
to get Thia food and help. She needs—” With
a grunt, Lord Odfrey reached around and untied the cords securing a leather
pouch to the back of his saddle. He tossed it at Dain, who caught it clumsily. “There’s
food enough to get you home,” Lord Odfrey said. “A wedge of cheese and some
bread. Now be off with you, lad. No harm will come to you on my land.” “But
my sister—” “There’s
food enough for her,” Lord Odfrey said, already wheeling his big horse around.
“Get out of this cold water before you freeze to death. I’ve a prince to escort
and my hold to secure in case the Bnen keep coming west.” Dain
stared at him in dismay, knowing he had to do or say something that would
change the chevard’s mind. “Please!”
he called, splashing clumsily. “May I go with your huntsman? If I bring her to
your hold, will your healer give her aid?” Lord
Odfrey barely glanced back. “The huntsman will not be going into the Dark
Forest this night. Not with Bnen as near as Jorb’s forge. Now get out of the
water and build yourself a fire to thaw. You’ll freeze if you don’t.” Dain
opened his mouth to call out again, but Lord Odfrey spurred his horse and rode
away, splashing water behind him as he went. It
was dark by the time Dain reached the little burrow where Thia lay hidden. His
legs felt leaden, and he was breathing hard. He’d taken no time to build a fire.
Running and trotting to keep warm, he’d hoped his clothes would dry on the way.
But it was too cold, and they were still damp. The air felt as piercing as
needles. When he reached the tiny clearing, he stumbled to a halt at its edge,
exhausted but still cautious. Clutching the food pouch in his arms, he ignored
the hollow rumbling in his stomach and focused his attention on the clearing. The
forest lay silent and still around him—too still. Dwarf scent came to his
nostrils, and he felt the hair on his neck lift. Friendly or hostile, he knew
not, but they had been in this clearing within the last hour or so. He
drew in an unsteady breath and reached out with his mind: Thia? Her
pain flooded him. Gasping, he broke contact with her, then leaned his shoulder
against a tree trunk and drew in several deep, shuddering breaths. He could
tell she was worse, much worse. Grief and worry filled him. He
had to do something to save her. She was all he had left. He could not bear to
lose her too. He crossed the clearing, finding it heavily trampled and
littered with blackened fire stones and small heaps of still-warm ashes where
the dwarves had camped. It was a mercy of the gods that they had not decided to
bed here for the night. On
the opposite side of the clearing lay an immense log as thick as Dain was tall.
Rotting and half-covered with the vines and brush that had grown up around it,
the log must have fallen years ago. Fallen leaves drifted deep against it. Dain
dug with both hands, scooping dirt aside until he cleared away the shallow
layer of soil that covered a lattice of woven twigs. It was perhaps the size of
a fighting shield. Pulling it out of the way, he thrust his head and shoulders
into the shallow hole it had covered, and inhaled the damp scent of soil and
worms. “Thia?”
he whispered. “I’m coming. Don’t be afraid.” He
wriggled through the tunnel, his shoulders scraping the sides and the top of
his head bumping from time to time. It was barely large enough for him. If he
grew as much this year as he had last year, he would no longer fit. Little
trickles of the loamy soil fell into his hair and ears, working down his neck
and beneath his tunic of coarse-woven linsey. The
tunnel angled up. Dain popped his head up into the hol-lowed-out center of the
huge log. He found Thia lying where he’d left her, wrapped in a threadbare
blanket, with leaves packed around her for additional warmth. It
was warm and quiet in here. An array of glowstones resting on small niches chiseled
into the wooden walls cast a soft, dim, lambent light. The burrow was snug and
dry, though cramped for the two of them. It belonged to the Forlo Clan, to be
used by travelers on their road to trade with upper Mandria. Spell-locked
so that only members of Forlo could see its rune markings outside, the burrow
was fitted with the glowstones, the musty old blanket, and a mug and a plate
Dain had found spun over by spiders when they’d first sheltered here last
night. They could build no fire inside the burrow, of course. It was warm
enough this autumn night, provided someone wasn’t afflicted with fever or
shivering in wet clothes. Lying
still, Thia gave him no greeting. He frowned at her before looking to see if
leaves were sprouting or sap had beaded up along the wooden walls. Thia’s
presence, he knew, should be bringing this great log back to life, but he saw
no signs of it. He knelt beside her, breathing in her scent, which was mixed
with the wood, leaf, and worm odors of the burrow. He smelled life in her, and
relief gripped his heart so hard he squeaked out her name. “Thia!”
he said, gripping her hand. It was clammy and cold. “I’m home,” he told her,
stroking her long, tangled hair back from her brow. “I’m here with you.” She
moaned, stirring beneath his touch as though even the gentle sweep of his
fingers across her brow hurt her. “I’m
back,” he said again. “And look, look at what I have brought. Food for us. Good
food. Look.” He
dug into the pouch Lord Odfrey had given him, pulling out a generous chunk of
cheese, fresh and soft, along with bread made of fine, pale flour and apples
newly picked. The food’s mingled aromas made his mouth water, and his stomach
growled louder than ever. “Thia,
open your eyes and see the wealth of our supper,” he said in excitement. “This
will give you strength. Wake up, dear one, and see our bounty.” She
moaned again, turning her head away. Dain tossed the food aside and pulled her
into his arms, rocking her against him while she lay limp and unresponsive. Her
long hair, usually constantly moving as though stirred by a mysterious wind,
fell lank and snarled across his lap. Pain
filled his chest, a pain so deep and sharp he thought he could not breathe.
Tears spilled down his cheeks as he pressed his lips to her temple. “Live,
dear sister,” he pleaded with her. “Please, please
live.” Once
again she stirred. “Jorb?” she asked in confusion. “He
is not here,” Dain said, tears streaking his face. He did not want her to think
about the brutal attack. She had suffered enough. “Jorb is not here. Open your
eyes, and try to eat. You must regain your strength.” She
said something so soft he could not understand it. Cradling her against his
knees, he broke off a small bite of the cheese and put it against her slack
lips. “Try,
Thia,” he said, his voice shaking now even though he was trying not to sound
afraid. “Please, try.” She
lifted her head, tipping it back against his shoulder so that she could gaze up
into his face. She smiled, yet her face looked so ghostly and wan in that dim,
glowing light she seemed to already have entered the third world, where spirits
dwelled. “Dain,”
she said, her voice a light, insubstantial sigh. She tried to lift her hand to
touch his face, but lacked the strength. He
gripped her fingers, willing his strength into her. Sobs shook his frame, and
he bowed his head, unashamed of his tears. He had tried so hard to save her.
The alternative was impossible, inconceivable, unbearable. “Dain,”
she said again. “I cannot go on.” “Don’t
say that! Don’t give up. We’re very close to a hold. We can seek help there.
They are kind, these men of Mandria. I met one today who gave me the food. He
will—” “I
am dying,” she interrupted him. “No!” “Dying,”
she said. “Little brother, don’t weep so.” But
he could no longer listen. Shaking with grief, he bent over her, holding her
tightly in his arms, and gritted his teeth to hold in his cries of anguish. She
was all he had. She had been sister and mother to him, his dearest companion.
Thia was beautiful, a maiden of slender form and infinite grace. Her blonde
hair fell in luxuriant waves to her knees, and in the springtime she liked to
wear it unbound with a wreath of flowers upon her brow. Her eyes were pale
sky-blue and wise, able to sparkle with teasing merriment or gaze steadily into
the depths of someone’s heart. When Dain was little, she would rock him to
sleep at night, singing snatches of incomplete songs and fragments of rhymes
that she said she remembered from the before times. Sometimes, she would spin
tales of a fabulous palace that stretched in all directions, a palace as large
as the world itself, and filled inside with all the colors of the rainbow. She
would weave tales that fired his imagination. She’d defended him from bullies
until he’d become big enough to handle himself. She’d taught him manners and
honesty and to be gentle with all defenseless creatures. From her, he’d learned
woodcraft, how to walk through the forest without disturbing the wild denizens,
how to find the pure streams that coursed hidden in thicket-choked gullies, how
to tell direction from bark moss and the stars, how to let the wind sing to
him, and how to hear what the ancient trees themselves had to say. He
could not imagine a world without her in it. He could not think of a day when
she would not be waiting in Jorb’s burrow to welcome him and their guardian
home, her hair smelling of herbs and her eyes as placid as still water. She had
but to sing, and her garden seeds would sprout forth, growing vegetables
bursting with intense flavor. She had but to smile and the sun brightened in
the sky. That
she should now lie here in this burrow far from home, battered and bloody, her
slender body racked with pain from the arrow that had brought her down, spoke
of great wrong and injustice. It violated all that was true and good in the
world. It was a crime that called for punishment and retribution. “Thia,”
he said, moaning her name as he wept over her, “don’t go. We’ll find a way. You
can hold on just a little longer until I carry you to Thirst Hold.” “A
hold?” she whispered, and this time she found the strength to smooth back his
dark hair from his brow. “A man-place? You would trust men, little brother? Has
Jorb taught you nothing?”‘ “I
would indenture myself for a lifetime if it would gain you the help of a
healer,” he replied. She
smiled, but her eyes filled with sadness. “My papa has been a long time coming.
I tried to wait. He told me to be good and to wait for him, Dainie, but I’m so
tired.” A
sob filled Dain’s throat. He clutched her. “Thia!” “Find
our papa,” she whispered. “Go home and find him.” Dain
frowned bitterly. “Why should I? He cast us out and abandoned us. Orphans, he
made us. Jorb is the only father I have known, or would call so.” A
tear slipped down her cheek. She opened her mouth to speak, but the sound never
came. Just
like that, she was gone. He
didn’t believe it at first. He couldn’t. “Thia?”
he said, his voice carrying his shock and disbelief. “No!” He
called her name again and shook her hard, but silence was his only answer as
she lay dead in his arms. He rocked her, moaning her name, and his tears soaked
into her hair. In
Prince Gavril’s modest suite of rooms in the west tower of Thirst Hold, a fire
roared on the hearth, casting a bounty of warmth and light against the icy
drafts. Outside the shuttered windows, the night wind sighed and moaned, but
inside Gavril and his two companions sat around a small table, cups of cider in
their hands, and plotted their raid on Lord Odfrey’s cellars. “We
could wait till the household sleeps and sneak in,” Kaltienne suggested. A
thin, wiry boy with straight black hair and the eyes of an imp, he grinned
impudently and quaffed another cupful of cider. “Wait for lights-out and take
ourselves into the cellar while the cook’s off watch. He snores enough to
conceal any noise we might make. If we each carry out a pair of kegs apiece, it
should take us only about forty nights of work to—” “Hush
your chatter,” Mierre said gruffly. “Fool’s talk is not what his highness wants
to hear.” “What
other plan have you?” Kaltienne retorted. He laughed. “Oh, I see. Nocturnal
raids would interfere with your own plans, eh, Mierre? You’ve caught the eye of
that lusty housemaid Atheine, the one with the mole on her—” “That’s
enough,” Mierre growled. Frowning,
Gavril drew back from them and reached inside his fur-lined doublet to touch
his Circle. Cardinal Noncire, his tutor back at Savroix, had warned him that
his fellow fosters might already be well versed in the coarsest habits of
carnality. Mierre, bigger than the rest of them, with his bullish shoulders and
muscular neck, seemed afflicted with a steady lust that pursued any young
female servant in the hold. Several ambitious wenches had offered their wares
to Gavril, but he had been warned about that, too. He wasn’t going to destroy
his piety for a few minutes’ release in the grimy arms of some turnip-scrubber. “Be
glad you aren’t a Netheran and forced to stay celibate until you’re knighted,“
Kaltienne said with a sly grin. ”I saw you with Atheine behind the barn
yesterday morning. Those white legs of hers are longer than—“ With
a quick, apprehensive glance at Gavril, Mierre turned on Kaltienne and whacked
him hard across the back. Whooping for breath, Kaltienne doubled over. His
empty cup dropped from his fingers and rolled across the floor. Gavril
ignored him and glared impatiently at Mierre. The burly foster met his prince’s
gaze and turned a faint shade of pink. “I
beg your highness’s forgiveness,” he said. He was large, gruff, clumsy, and unpolished,
but he was learning courtly ways fast. Gavril valued him for his strength, his
growing loyalty, his ambitions, and his natural shrewdness. Mierre frowned at
Kaltienne, who was still wheezing. “Kaltienne never knows when to hold his
tongue.” “Pardon is given,” Gavril said, but his tone was purposely
curt to let them know he wanted no more nonsense. “If we may return to the
matter at hand?” Mierre
bent over the crudely drawn diagram of the oldest section of the hold. His
sandy hair was thin and brittle, sticking out from beneath the edges of his
dark green cap, which he wore tilted rakishly on one side of his head just like
Gavril did. “I can try to steal a key, your highness, but there’s always a
guard posted at the—” “That
won’t do,” Gavril interrupted. Turning away in frustration, he flung up his
hands. “What kind of miser keeps a guard posted on his own cellar? Morde a day,
but the chevard is impossible.” By
now Kaltienne had his breath back. He straightened with a wince, keeping a wary
distance from Mierre. “Damne, Mierre, that hurt like the devil.” “You’ll
get worse if you don’t behave.” Kaltienne
snorted. “Behave? Thod’s teeth, but you’re the one who can’t behave. When you—” Mierre
raised his beefy hand in menace, and Kaltienne scooted back his stool. He shut
his mouth, but deviltry still danced in his eyes. Sighing,
Mierre returned his attention to Gavril, who had begun to seethe. “Forgive me,
your highness. He’s forever a fool and a knave.” ■ “No,” Gavril said, his
tone cutting and contemptuous. “Kaltienne is a child. I shouldn’t have included
him in this—” “Your
highness!” Kaltienne said loudly, horrified. He jumped off his stool to kneel
before Gavril. “Forgive me. I was only jesting. I will do whatever you ask—” Gavril
pointed at him and said sternly, “Hold your tongue.” Kaltienne’s
face turned pale. He reached out as though to take Gavril’s hand in his, but
Gavril drew back. “Say
no more,” he commanded. “Listen and perhaps I will relent.” Gulping
audibly, Kaltienne bowed his head and remained kneeling. Gavril
frowned at him with impatience. He was running out of time, and these boys were
not providing the quality of help he wanted. “Get on your feet,” he said
angrily. Kaltienne
jumped up at once. He opened his mouth, met Gavril’s angry eyes, and closed his
mouth again with a sigh. “I
don’t suppose your highness could just ask Lord Odfrey to return your wine?”
Mierre asked quietly. Gavril
gritted his teeth. “I did. Lord Odfrey refused me.” That
had been a week ago, and his voice still reverberated with his shock and
furious disappointment. No one ever refused him,
the only son of the king. No one ever denied him what he wished or asked for.
Except for Lord Odfrey. At every turn the chevard thwarted him. It was
maddening. Worst of all, Lord Odfrey had been given this authority by the
king’s own warrant. Thus far, one month had passed of Gavril’s required year of
fostering. Already it seemed an eternity. Thanks to the chevard’s obstinance,
Gavril had made no progress on his secret quest to find the lost Chalice. Frowning,
Gavril held out his jeweled cup in silence, and his lone manservant hurried
forward to fill it. The cider was a thin, brown brew pressed from the Thirst
orchards. Gavril considered it a peasant’s drink, but Lord Odfrey was as
miserly a man as Gavril had ever encountered, worse even than the clerks in the
royal countinghouse. The chevard served naught but water or cider at his table,
except on feast-days and the king’s birthday. Nor would he permit Gavril to
drink from the costly and elegant wines, or Klad beer, with its kick to the
stomach, or the honeyed mead from the Isles of Saelutia that he had brought
with him in a wagon made specially for the purpose. That wagon was now lodged
in the chevard’s barn, and its sublime contents were all under lock and key
inside the chevard’s own cellar. Robbery
it was, nothing less. Every time Gavril swallowed the sour, thin cider he felt
as though his throat had been scalded by his present guardian’s thievery and
discourtesy. Gavril had been drinking wine since he was seven. It was his
custom in his father’s palace to drink rounds with the guardsmen once a month
on lastday. Among the men he had the reputation for having a hard head and a
hollow leg. Therefore, he felt insulted by Lord Odfrey’s assumption that he
could not command his cup or that he would hold drunken revels with the other
fostered boys in his rooms at night. Even more important than Gavril’s own luxury, however, were
the kegs of fine mead that he’d intended to use as bribes. How else was he to
win over the secret support of Lord Odfrey’s knights? How else could he suborn
the loyalty of the steward of Thirst Hold? Or persuade the cook to prepare
meals of suitable quality for him alone? Saelutian mead was an elixir of such
sweetness and flavor that a single goblet of it could make a grown man reel.
Rare and costly, it was powerfully addictive and after a few sips one’s palate
craved it with an evergrowing fierceness. Using it instead of coin was a subtle
ploy that appealed to Gavril. He aspired to statecraft of great subtlety.
Cardinal Noncire had taught him that intrigue should always be as soft and
quiet as a whisper, forever patient, forever relentless, alarming no one yet
accomplishing much. And
Gavril had much to accomplish. “Your
highness,” Mierre said, “I could ask the servants whether there is another way
down into the lower regions besides the stair that’s guarded. I think I could
persuade someone to help us.” Gavril
swung around, feeling somewhat appeased. At least Mierre was trying to help.
“You must not give away our intentions with too many questions.” “I
would not,” Mierre said. Kaltienne raised his hand, fairly dancing about with His
eagerness to speak. With
a sigh Gavril nodded to him. “Yes?” he commanded. “There’s
a privy channel going down the back of the hold into an underground cistern,“
Kaltienne said. ”There has to be a way to get in through the clean-out door—“ Gavril
wrinkled his nose in horror. Mierre
grunted. “You can try it.” Kaltienne’s
eyes widened. “Not me!” “Who
of us do you expect to do it?” Gavril asked. Kaltienne
clearly had not thought through his suggestion. He grimaced and tugged at his
tunic, which was wrinkled and stained with remnants of his dinner. He did not
answer, and Gavril wished he had never asked Kaltienne to join this discussion.
The boy was a fool, useless in planning anything. He
was, however, fearless and willing to try whatever was suggested to him. “You,”
Gavril said to him now, “will steal a key to the cellars. I am sure you can do
it.” Kaltienne
brightened. “Sure,” he said with breezy confidence. “All I have to do is go to
the kitchens to see what food I can pick up, and I’ll get it then.” “Will
you!” Mierre said in loud exasperation. “The cellar key is held by the wine
steward. Can you get your hands on his ring of keys? I think not.” “I’ll
find a way,” Kaltienne said stubbornly, flicking a glance at Gavril, who was
watching them with a grim smile. “His highness wants me to do this, and I can.” Mierre
growled. “He’ll botch it, your highness.” “And
you could do better?” Kaltienne said, his voice tight and angry. The tips of
his ears had turned red, and fierce determination shone in his eyes. Gavril
smiled to himself and knew he’d succeeded in gaining Kaltienne’s loyalty.
Cardinal Noncire said that once you persuaded a man to commit a risky act for
you, that man was bound to your side forever. If he attempted to draw back, you
could always bring his crime before others. “I
could do better,” Mierre said, as stubborn as a bull. He lowered his head and
glared at Kaltienne. “I’ll ask Atheine to get the keys for us. Better yet, I’ll
see if she can’t distract the guard so that we can slip past. Is that not the
better plan, your highness?” Gavril
felt his ears grow hot. He swung his gaze away, refusing to let anyone see his
embarrassment. He had been sheltered until now, raised in his father’s palace,
kept from the roughness of other boys, tutored by an official of the church. He
was not opposed to carnality, although the Writ cautioned against impropriety
and unnaturalness. In fact, Gavril had carefully laid plans to indulge himself
with a woman as soon as he finished his quest. But until he found the Chalice
of Eternal Life later this year, he intended to remain chaste. He
swallowed hard, banishing certain images from his mind, and mastered his
composure sufficiently to face the other boys again. Kaltienne
was smirking, making lewd faces at Mierre and licking his lips. Mierre’s
face held caution. The larger boy was learning to watch Gavril, to gauge his moods,
and to please him accordingly. He had boasted of his sexual exploits during
their first week here, but after Gavril’s scathing denunciation, he boasted no
longer. The
silence seemed to unnerve him. Hunching his big shoulders, he ducked his head.
“If my plan displeases your highness, j__” Gavril
lifted his hand. “Can this servant girl be trusted?” “She
need not know anything except what I wish for her to do,” Mierre said
arrogantly. “A gift will make her willing.” Gavril
crossed the room and unchained his strongbox. Shielding its contents from the
others, he lifted the lid and picked out a pair of coins. Carefully rechaining
the box, he walked back to Mierre and held out one of the coins, a large silver
dreit. “Is
this a suitable gift for your wench?” he asked. Mierre’s
eyes went round and wide. He stared at the coin as though he’d never seen one
before. “Damne,” he said softly. “It’s a fortune.” Gavril
put the dreit in the larger boy’s hand, pressing it hard against Mierre’s
sweaty palm. “Give her that.” He held up the second coin, another silver dreit.
“This, she may have when her work is accomplished.” Mierre’s
mouth was hanging open now. He gaped like the illiterate, ill-bred, minor nobleman’s
son that he was. Slowly he took the second coin from Gavril’s hand. “It’s too
much,” he said hoarsely. “It will frighten her.” “Will
it?” Gavril asked scornfully. “I think not. If she’s as lusty a drab as you
say—” l | “She’s
no drab!” Mierre said hotly. Gavril
raised his brows, and Mierre seemed to realize he’d just yelled at his prince. Looking
shocked, Mierre bowed at once. “Forgive me, your highness. I—I spoke without
thinking.” “This
isn’t a simple kiss. She is to lure the man completely away from his post. If
she can do that, especially to one of Lord Odfrey’s knights, she will have
earned her money well.” Gavril cocked his head to one side and stared very hard
at Mierre. “You will not let jealousy interfere, will you?” “No,
your highness!” he said too rapidly. “No. She is only a housemaid, after all.” “Exactly.” “Well,
well,” Kaltienne said, giving them each a wink. “And maybe you will persude her
to look twice in my direction too when she is—” “Shut
up!” Mierre shouted. A
knock on the door interrupted them. Gavril frowned and gestured for silence. His
manservant Aoun went to the door, while Gavril’s protector. Sir Los, rose
quietly to his feet and stood with his hand on his sword hilt. Aoun murmured with someone on the other side of the door,
then glanced over his shoulder. “Well?”
Gavril demanded impatiently. “Is it that page I asked to keep me informed of
all messengers who come? Has a dispatch arrived?” Aoun
bowed low and stepped out of the way. “No,”
said a tall, lean figure garbed in a tunic of mallard blue. Thum du Maltie
entered and swept off his cap with a bow. “Your highness, I have been sent to
escort you to Lord Odfrey.” Astonished
and far from pleased, Gavril frowned. “Now?” “Yes,
now.” “But
I am occupied,” Gavril said, gesturing at Mierre and Kaltienne. “With my
friends.” He
kept his tone quiet and pleasant, but the insult he delivered to Thum was
unmistakable. Mierre puffed out his brawny chest. Kaltienne grinned. Thum’s
freckled face turned bright red. He was well mannered, educated, quick of wit
and understanding, but obstinate, unwilling to commit his loyalty, and too
ready to question the worth of Gavril’s orders or intentions. Which was exactly
why he had not been included in tonight’s scheming. If he learned about the
intended raid, he would feel it his duty to inform Lord Odfrey. Already, he’d
proven himself a tongue-tattle this afternoon by telling Lord Odfrey where to
find Gavril in the marsh. And
Gavril never forgot a slight. “Your
highness is to come at once, if it is convenient,” Thum said to Gavril. “It
is not,” Gavril said. “Then
I am to wait until your highness is free,” Thum said. Annoyed
by this interruption, Gavril frowned. He could play the game and dawdle here in
his quarters until the evening came to a close. But Lord Odfrey had a
disconcerting habit of seeing through such ploys and dealing with them
unpleasantly. There might be extra chores assigned to Gavril tomorrow, or extra
drills, or some other unpleasantness done to him under the guise of training. “Very
well,” Gavril said to Thum. He pointed at the opposite end of the room. “Wait
over there.” Thum
bowed and walked silently to the place indicated. He stood next to Gavril’s
writing table of exquisite inlaid wood and appeared to ignore its litter of
reading scrolls, a sloppy pile of perhaps five or six leather-bound volumes
that individually reflected enormous wealth, an ink pot of chased silver, fine
sheets of writing parchment, a hunk of sealing wax, and Gavril’s seal. Gavril
glanced at Mierre and Kaltienne. “Do nothing yet,” he said in a low voice, picking
up the diagram and folding it in half. “We will talk again tomorrow. You may go
now.” They
bowed, Mierre looking thoughtful and Kaltienne grinning wickedly. Out they
went, and Gavril walked into his bedchamber to idle several moments before the
looking glass—a‘ costly possession indeed, and perhaps the largest object of
its kind in the entire hold. He straightened his doublet, made sure his linen
undersleeves were still white and clean, and tilted his cap even more rakishly
over his brow. He buckled on a slim, bejeweled poniard that glittered in the
soft-burning lamplight, glanced at his prayer-cabinet in the corner, and
decided he would not pray before answering this summons. His
anger was a coal that burned steadily inside his breast. The altercation
between him and Lord Odfrey this afternoon could not be forgiven. If the
chevard was summoning ‘Mm to offer an apology, Gavril did not know if he would
accept it. He had never disliked a man more than Lord Odfrey, never. He found
the chevard stern, unyielding, disrespectful, and unfit to run a hold of this
strategic importance. The chevard possessed a high reputation as a lordly
knight and warrior. Men across all Mandria respected his battle skills. But
Gavril valued subservience more, and Lord Odfrey showed him none. Cardinal
Noncire had cautioned Gavril before he chose Thirst that he would dislike this
upland hold. However, the king encouraged Gavril to accept the positioning,
wanting him to receive his final training at the hands of a warrior like Lord
Odfrey. And besides, Thirst was the closest hold to the Dark Forest, the
strongest, most heavily manned citadel guarding the northeast corner of
Mandria. Every
day, a small detail of knights stationed themselves at the bridge gate. Any
travelers wanting to cross the river and continue east into the Dark Forest had
to identify themselves and their business. Any travelers venturing forth from
Nold into Mandria had to do the same, plus have all their goods searched and
accounted for. Prior
to coming here, Gavril had listened to tales of danger, battles to repress
raiders, commerce, adventure, good hunting, and how Thirst stood as a beacon of
light and truth against the pagan darkness of Nold and other lands. Gavril had
imagined a hold full of traditions and honor, always active, always at the
center of intrigue and tremendous adventures. Gavril was determined to use
Thirst as his base while he searched for the Chalice. It had been missing for
many years, and during that time its legend had only grown. Nether
had once been Mandria’s most powerful ally, but now under the rule of King
Muncel, Nether was only a shadow land, its fortunes dwindling every year.
Gavril believed that the Chalice had been stolen from Nether and concealed for a
purpose ordained by Thod. Clearly the Chalice was destined to cast its
blessings on another realm. He was determined to find it for Mandria. All his
life, Gavril had believed himself destined to do something special, to live a
life renowned among kings and men. When someday he succeeded to his father’s
throne, Gavril believed, possessing the Chalice would make his rule both
prosperous and powerful. He would wage war on Nether first, crushing the
darkness there. He would annex Klad, driving forth its barbarian peoples, and
take its valuable pasturelands for his own realm. Someday, he would be a great
king, and his name would resound across the land. But
for now, he was only a young prince, his ranks and titles courtesies, his
knight’s spurs as yet unearned. He chafed at being in this awkward place,
neither a child nor yet considered a man. He
had come to Thirst shining with expectations, eager to begin the destiny
promised him in the horoscope castings of the court’s astrologer. Gavril had
brought his servants, his guards, his books, his dogs, his wines, his velvet
hangings, his desk, footstools, weapons, horses, falcons, and prayer-cabinet.
He had come expecting to live in the unofficial capital of upper Mandria,
centered within its intrigue and activity. Instead,
Thirst was an ancient, crumbling, ill-maintained hold on the edge of a bleak
marsh in the midst of nowhere. The villages nearby were tiny enclaves of
unbearable squalor and poverty. The serfs acted sullen and disrespectful. Many
still held old and forbidden memories of when upper Mandria was another realm,
called Edonia, with its own king and armies. The land around Thirst Hold was
almost flat, cleared for fields, and fitted with ugly levees and channels to
drain marsh flooding in spring and autumn. Hunting was poor, except in the
forest. The climate was dismal, cold and damp, and winter had not even set in
yet. It was only a few days short of Aelintide, the great feast-day of autumn
harvest, with a month beyond that to Selwinmas and what the uplanders called
the long cold. Gavril
found Lord Odfrey to be the kind of bleak, humorless drudge he most despised,
all duty and work, with no understanding of fashion, fun, or the amenities of a
civilized life. The chevard locked up Gavril’s wine, confiscated half his
books, dismissed nearly all his servants, complained that his dogs ate too much
and caused trouble in the kennels, refused to alter his chapel hours for
Gavril’s convenience, and expected Gavril to run, fetch, and scurry with daily
chores like the other bumpkins who had fostered here over the years. The
chevard’s master-at-arms. Sir Polquin, was a muscular brute lacking manners or
respect. Rarely would he allow Gavril to practice the “more sophisticated and
modern swordplay he had been learning at home. Instead, every day brought the
same old boring, outdated drills and practice. Gavril’s
own private suite—if two meager rooms could be called a suite—was clearly a
storeroom that had been cleared out for his use. Never mind that the other
fosters shared a single chamber with only their cots and a chest each to hold
their possessions. Born and raised in the great palace Savroix, considered the
very heart of all Mandria, Gavril had spent his life surrounded by affluent,
luxurious comfort. His personal apartments took up a whole wing of the palace;
an army of efficient servants garbed in his personal livery anticipated his
every wish. Thirst Hold—considered one of the largest and most affluent upland
citadels—was in reality shockingly primitive. Even worse, there could be no
quest for the Chalice if Lord Odfrey continued to deny Gavril his mead, plus
two of his most valuable books, containing as they did much arcane lore about
the Chalice, the Field of Skulls, and the channels of magic which ran through
Nold. There could be no quest if Lord Odfrey would not let Gavril enter the
Dark Forest. He tried to conceal his purpose by conducting hunts with his dogs
and friends, but Lord Odfrey worried about everything, including this present war
among the dwarves. Gavril did not fear the creatures. He was a prince of
Mandria. He had no quarrel with the people of Nold, and he did not believe the
dwarves would harm him. Destiny
had brought him here. If he did not take action soon, he would see his destiny
slipping through his fingers, unseized through the blundering interference of
Lord Odfrey. Scowling
at his likeness in the looking glass, Gavril brushed his golden hair behind his
ears and left his bedchamber. Thum was still standing by his desk, speaking in
a low, courteous voice to Sir Los. Gavril’s
approach caused their conversation to break off. He snapped his gaze from one
face to another, with an annoyance that felt sour in the pit of his stomach.
“If you are reduced to page,” he said tartly to Thum, “then by all means escort
me to the chevard now.” Gavril
and Thum descended the curl of steps leading down inside the tower to the
second floor, where a walkway spanned the distance between the west tower and
the central buildings. The night air lay damp and cold on Gavril’s shoulders.
He wished he’d worn a cloak, but he would not go back for it now. If need be,
he could always ask Sir Los—following a few steps behind him—to share his
cloak. Thum
shivered as he strode along. His doublet was fashioned of thick welt, but it
was not fur-lined as Gavril’s clothing was. With his breath steaming from his
mouth in the gloom, Thum said, “It’s mortal cold out here tonight. Winter’s on
its way, Aelintide or no.” “Are
you cold, Maltie?” Gavril asked in a voice as bored as he could make it. “I
hadn’t noticed. Look yon.” He stopped in his tracks and leaned over the
parapet, then tilted back his head to scan the dark sky overhead. “Is the cloud
cover breaking? Do you see any stars, Maltie?” Thum
was obliged to halt beside him. With chattering teeth, he said, “Nay, your
highness. No stars.” “Some
glimmer of light from those windows across the keep must have tricked my eyes,”
Gavril said with a laugh. “Perhaps it will snow by dawn. Think you so?” “Nay,
your highness. It’s mild yet in the season. We’ve some autumn before us yet.” Enjoying
his game, Gavril smiled to himself in the darkness. Keeping Thum du Maltie out
here in the cold air in his thin clothes was one way to punish him for this
afternoon’s defiance. He would find more. “Explain
to me the winters here,” Gavril said. “We have but scant snowfall at Savroix,
but many have told me upland winters are bitter indeed.” “Aye,”
Thum said, hugging himself. “Bitter enough.” “Then
it will get colder than this?” “Aye.” “Will
the snows come often? Will we be trapped indoors?” “At
times.” ■,
I Listening to Thum’s teeth chatter, Gavril’s smile widened. “I have heard
there is much hunting that can be done even during the cruel grip of winter.
Tell me what you know, Maltie.” Thum,
his teeth chattering more than ever and his thin shoulders hunched now as he tucked
his hands beneath his arms to keep them warm, responded politely, although his
descriptions were terse. Gavril felt slightly uncomfortable, but he held
himself against shivering and stood there, not listening to anything Thum said. Across
the keep, sentries walked the ramparts. Torches burned at set points along the
crenellations, and now and then Gavril saw one of the sentries pause to warm
his hands by the blaze. Beyond the marsh, one of the village churches was
ringing a bell, its sound echoing along the waterway. The hour grew late.
Gavril felt tempted to keep Thum out here half the night. “Tell
me more,” he urged when Thum stopped speaking. “You make the customs of this
region come alive for me.” “Gladly,
your highness, but Lord Odfrey awaits you,” Thum said stiffly. Gavril
made a deprecating gesture. “So he does. I had almost forgotten. Come then.” They
walked on, Gavril moving leisurely and Thum crowding his flank. At the opposite
end of the walkway, Gavril paused, waiting while Sir Los shouldered forward and
pushed through the door first. When his protector gestured that all was clear,
Gavril stepped through. Thum
entered last, gasping and shuddering while Sir Los shut the door with a faint
boom that echoed through the stark, unfurnished antechamber. While Thum blew on
his hands, they walked along a corridor adorned only with weapons hanging
decoratively on the walls, down more stairs, through a public room hung with
tapestries and massive, unlit candles, and up a flight of stairs,. At the end
of another corridor at last they came to a stout door of oak, banded with iron.
A sleepy young page waited on duty there, yawning in the torchlight. Gavril
paused several paces away from the door and turned his back abruptly on the
idle stare of the page. He met Thum’s gaze. “Swiftly. What is this summons
about?” he asked in a low, curt voice. Thum’s
hazel-green eyes blinked in surprise. “I know not.” “Of
course you do. Prepare me. Tell me what Lord Odfrey wants with me.” “I
cannot—” “You
mean you will not.” Thum’s
freckled face began to redden. “No, your highness,” he said calmly. “I cannot.
I do not know.” “But
he sent you. You must have heard him say something of his intentions.” “I
was summoned to the chevard and we talked briefly. Then he said I was to escort
you here to him,” Thum replied. His
answer displeased Gavril. “Yes, you talk often with the chevard, do you not?”
he muttered. “Sir?” Gavril
scowled, and his blue eyes met Thum’s hazel ones harshly. “You talked this
afternoon, and saw that I was reprimanded.” Thum
looked astonished. “Your highness, I did not—” “Do
you call me a liar now, as well?” Gavril broke in. Thum
tried to answer, but Gavril lifted his hand for silence. He shot Thum another
glare, and turned away from him. Striding
on, he approached the page, who now snapped to attention, and said, “Admit me.” Bowing,
the page pushed open the heavy door. It swung slowly, creaking on its hinges,
and Gavril entered Lord Odfrey’s wardroom. Glancing back over his shoulder, he
said to Thum, “Await me. We are not finished, you and I.” Anger
had knotted Thum’s brow. He gave Gavril only a sketch of a bow and said,
“Indeed, we have not. I will see myself cleared in your highness’s estimation
or—” Gavril
turned away and walked into the wardroom without letting Thum finish. He
glanced around swiftly, with little interest. He had been here before. It was a
plain, utilitarian chamber, holding a desk and a locked cabinet, a window
shuttered now against the night, a few unevenly burning candles, a miser’s fire
dying on the hearth in a collapsing heap of coals, and Lord Odfrey’s weapons,
hanging haphazardly on hooks. Lord Odfrey’s mud-encrusted boots stood drying on
the hearth. The room smelled of smoke, dog, damp wool, and melting tallow wax. Gavril’s
nostrils curled in distaste. The chevard lived like a yeoman instead of a lord. Lord
Odfrey’s plain brass cup stood on the desk, weighing down a litter of papers
and maps. A worn leather dispatch case lay open on one corner of the desk, its
contents half-raked out into view. But of the man himself, there was no sign. Gavril’s
brows pulled together. He swung around and pinned his gaze on the page. “Where
is the chevard?” “He
will return soon,” the boy said, his eyes wary. Gavril had a black reputation
among the pages. All of them feared him, which was exactly as he wanted it. “He
said if your highness came, I was to bid you await him here.” Gavril
could not believe this insult. Again and again, Lord Odfrey dealt him rudeness
and discourtesy. To leave, knowing his prince was coming, was a deliberate
slight. “And how long am I to wait?” Gavril asked in a voice like silk. The
page backed up a step, his hand groping behind him for the door. “Not long, I
believe, your highness. Uh, let me fetch your highness some cider.” And
the boy dashed out, slamming the door behind him, before Gavril could ask him
anything else. Fuming,
Gavril paced around the wardroom, kicking a leather-covered stool out of his
way. He ended up beside Lord Odfrey’s desk. Frowning, he glared at it, and
noticed the maps half-unrolled atop the general litter of papers. The top map
was ofNold. Gavril
caught his breath and glanced over his shoulder at the door. Sir Los stood
there. The protector met his gaze in silence. “Lock
it,” Gavril said. Sir
Los didn’t even blink; he was too well trained for that. Putting a hand on the
pull-latch, he said, “There’s no key.” “Then
hold it. Let no one enter and surprise me.” “Be
quick, your highness,” Sir Los said. “For I hear the footsteps of someone
approaching.” “Morde!”
Gavril said. He grabbed up the map, knocking over the cup of cider in the
process. Brown liquid sloshed out, staining papers and running off the edge of
the desk onto the floor. Gavril
batted the cup off the desk, sending it flying across the room, where it banged
against the stone hearth. Swearing to himself, he swiped the sticky cider off
most of the papers, and watched ink running and melting together. Outside,
footsteps paused at the door, which then swung open, only to bang against the
solid shoulders of Sir Los, who had braced his feet and did not move aside.
“What’s this?” Lord Odfrey asked in surprise. “Who blocks my door?” There
was no time to clean up the mess. There was no time to study the map, which was
large and exquisitely detailed. Frustrated, Gavril put it down on top of the
desk, hiding the wet papers, and sprang away from the desk. At his gesture, Sir
Los stepped aside from the door. Pushed
hard from the other side, the door banged violently into the wall. Lord Odfrey
stood framed in the doorway, scowling. Rid of his hauberk, and clad instead in
a knee-long tunic of old-fashioned cut and leggings of dark green wool, soft
cloth shoes on his feet, and a niching of pale linen shirt showing at his neck,
Lord Odfrey looked younger and less formidable. His hand, scarred across the
knuckles and wearing only a plain signet ring, tightened visibly on the
parchment scroll he was carrying. One of his rangy hounds thrust its slim head
beneath his master’s hand. Behind him stood Thum and the page, both craning
their necks to see inside. Lord
Odfrey’s dark eyes narrowed on Gavril. “Your highness has come at last, I see.” He
sounded short-tempered and tired. Gavril
lifted his chin. “I was about to leave, thinking I had been summoned in error.” “What
error?” Lord Odfrey asked, stepping into the wardroom. His dog gazed up at him
in adoration, then lay down near the hearth. “What error?” he repeated. “I sent
Maltie to you a full hour ago.” Gavril
was in no mood to bear another unjust reprimand. Gritting his teeth, he said,
“I have answered your summons. What is it you wish to discuss with me?” “Little
enough now at this late hour,” Lord Odfrey said in his gruff way. “First of
all, has your highness brought any letters? My dispatches to the king are
almost complete. The messenger will ride out at dawn. Your letters can go in
his pouch.” Gavril
moved uneasily away from Lord Odfrey’s desk. He wondered if the cider had
ruined those dispatches. If so, if Lord Odfrey questioned him about it, he
would blame the page’s clumsiness rather than his own. “Any
letters, your highness?” Gavril
started and pulled his thoughts together. “Uh, no. I have not yet found the
time to write to my father the king.” Lord
Odfrey grunted and shifted impatiently to something else. “I have some
questions about your hunt today—” “Surely
we have discussed the matter enough,” Gavril broke in. “Your reprimand was
clear, my lord. You need not repeat it.” “I
have no intention of repeating it,” Lord Odfrey said impatiently. “I want to
know if you saw any signs of battle while you were in the forest. Any trampled
ground? Any signs of warning .. . bits of red cloth fluttering from branches,
that sort of thing? Any runes scratched into the trunks of trees?” “No.” Lord
Odfrey sighed, but he did not look relieved. “Did you smell any smoke?” “No.” The
chevard clasped his hands behind him and began to pace back and forth in front of
the hearth. If he noticed the cup lying dented in the corner, he did not
mention it. Nor, to Gavril’s relief, did he approach his desk. “A messenger
just came from Silon town downriver. There’s been trouble there with dwarf
raiders. You were lucky today to leave the forest unscathed.” The
brush with danger, however faint and until now unknown, pleased Gavril. He
puffed out his chest. “We did not venture far into Nold, but had we encountered
any war parties, I assure you we would have fought.” Lord
Odfrey snorted. “You’d have had little choice otherwise.” His glance shot to
Sir Los before Gavril could find a retort. “And you, protector? Did you notice
aught while the boys were coursing their stag?” “I
did not, my lord,” Sir Los replied respectfully. “Damne.
The eld was more informative than either of you. I should have kept him for
questioning.” “It
is against law and Writ to keep pagans beneath a roof that houses the
faithful,” Gavril said. Lord
Odfrey glared at him. “That’s as may be,” he replied curtly. “But it’s upland
custom that eldin bring good luck to households that give them shelter.” “Old
superstitions should be stamped out when they appear, not encouraged.” “If
the dwarves decide to carry their war across our border, we’ll have need of all
the luck we can find, whether it’s church luck or pagan.“ Gavril
drew in a sharp breath. “That’s blasphemy!” “No,
it’s practicality—something you need to acquire, my prince. Good night.” Gavril
stood there with his mouth open, astonished to find himself dismissed so
curtly. “We have not yet finished this discussion,” he said. “There’s
no discussion here,” Lord Odfrey said. He left the hearth and headed toward his
desk, but Gavril stood between him and the table, blocking his path. Lord
Odfrey stopped and scowled. “I’ve asked my questions, and you’ve given me no
answers. It’s late. Go to bed.” Gavril
reluctantly stepped aside, allowing the chevard to pass. Lord Odfrey circled his
desk and sat down. He did not notice the spilled cider drying on the floor. And
as yet, he had not glanced at the disarranged papers before him. “I
will go now and write my letters,” Gavril said. Already he was composing in his
head his brief note of complaint to the king. But more important was the
longer, more detailed missive he would write to Cardinal Noncire. The church
needed to know how shaky the faith was in this godforsaken corner of the realm.
“I will have two to send with your dispatches in the morning.” “Not
now,” Lord Odfrey said. “It’s too late. Get yourself in bed. You have drills
and chores aplenty on the morrow.” Gavril’s
annoyance came surging back. “Do you now refuse to send my letters?” “I
do not refuse. You have had ample opportunity to compose them since this
afternoon. Your failure to take advantage of your free time has served your
highness ill yet again. Your letters can go in next week’s dispatches, provided
they are written by then. Now, good night.” Gavril
opened his mouth to protest further, but Lord Odfrey had already turned his
attention to his papers. Frowning, he reached for the map draped across the top
of his desk. Gavril lost his nerve at that point and hastily strode out. Thum
was waiting outside the wardroom, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He fell into
step beside the prince. Gavril
glared at him. “Go to your quarters. I don’t want you.” “Lord
Odfrey said I was to escort you back,” Thum said, yawning again. “Why?
I need no nursemaid, no spy to report if I go where I am bidden to go.” Annoyance
crossed Thum’s face. “I’m no spy,” he said curtly. “I’m just following orders.
Lord Odfrey doesn’t explain himself. Your highness knows that.” “I
know that your presence annoys me,” Gavril said. “Then
forgive me, your highness,” Thum replied stiffly. “I but follow orders from the
same man as you do.” Heat
flared in Gavril’s face. He glared at Thum, who glared right back. “First
I am a tongue-tattle, and now I am a spy,” Thum said, making no effort to keep
his voice down. Outside, across the keep in the chapel tower, the bell began to
ring somberly, tolling the call for final prayers and lights-out. Downstairs,
servants were extinguishing torches and banking fires, chattering and yawning
as they went. “What
next will your highness say of me?” Thum continued, still glaring at Gavril.
“Why have I offended you so?” Gavril
stopped in his tracks and turned on the other boy. “ ‘Offend’ is exactly the
word,” he said through his teeth. “You dare question my authority in front of
the other fosters. You dare stand up for an eld in defiance of Writ. You give
my whereabouts away to Lord Odfrey so that I am dealt his wrath. And now, you
dare speak to me with disrespect. Yes, you offend me, Thum du Maltie. And you
are treading on dangerous ground in doing so.” The
color leached from Thum’s face. His mouth fell open, but it was a moment before
he uttered any words. “We—we are all as equals here,” he said faintly. “Lord
Odfrey said so the first day we came. He said we should forget rank and think
of ourselves as comrades and knights in training. We must be warriors together
first before we can succeed our fathers and stand in rank—” “Cease your prattle,” Gavril said scornfully, and Thum fell
silent. Gavril looked him up and down, sneering at him. “You stand before me,
wearing your doublet of cheap fool’s finery, the youngest son of an unimportant
noble, and dare say to me that we are equals‘? Do you know why I was
summoned to Lord Odfrey’s wardroom tonight?” A
strange, pinched expression had appeared on Thum’s face. Stiffly, he said, “As
I said before to your highness, I know not.” “It
was a courtesy he extended to me. My letters to Savroix are included in his
weekly dispatches. Do you write letters to your family, Maltie?” Thum’s
throat jerked as he swallowed. “No, your highness.” “Can
you write at all, Maltie?” “A—a
little, your highness.” “Do
you realize that I have only to pen a few lines to my father the king, stating
my complaints, and your family could lose its warrant of nobility?” Thum’s
mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stared at Gavril as though he had never
seen him before. “What
offends me also offends my father,” Gavril went on. He circled Thum, who stood
there rigid and unmoving, then stopped in front of him again. “If you cause
offense, is your father not also an offender with you? Hmm? You stand there
with your mouth open, Maltie, but you make no answer.” “Please,”
Thum gasped. “My father has always served the king ably. He wears a chain given
to him by the king’s own hand. He is loyal with all his heart and soul.” “Geoffen
du Maltie is well spoken of at my father’s court. But that can change,” Gavril
said, and saw Thum flinch. “Since you think you can reprimand me, question my
orders, and ignore my authority over you, what else do you think? That you are
better than I?” “No,
your highness.” “Is
it worth it, Maltie? To have your moment of supremacy, to laugh at my expense?
Is it worth seeing your father ruined, your brothers brought down with him,
your elder sister’s impending nuptials called off?” Tears
shimmered in Thum’s hazel eyes, but he did not let them fall. Instead, he shot
Gavril an imploring glance. “Please, I beg your pardon. I did not mean to
offend. I misunderstood, and I apologize. I will not repeat my transgressions.
I swear this to you.” “You
swear.” “Yes,”
Thum said, blinking hard. “I give you my—” “Don’t
give me your word!” Gavril shouted, and Thum flinched again. “You are neither
noble nor knight. You are nothing! Your word is nothing.” Red
surged into Thum’s face, and his mouth tightened. He dropped his gaze quickly,
but not before Gavril saw the fury that flared in his eyes. Gavril
raked him with a contemptuous glance. “No land will you inherit. You will be a
common knight in another man’s service. In a year I will be named Heir to the
Realm. I am as far above you as are the stars above this land. That I have
deigned to reside here and be trained in your proximity grants you no favor, no
right to familiarity. Your family should have taught you better, for if they
believe you will gain them more boons at court, you have destroyed those
hopes.” Thum
kept his gaze on the floor. He was stiff, barely breathing. He said nothing. Gavril
let the silence hang between them before he said, “There is a way for you to
redeem yourself.” Thum’s
gaze flashed up. “What way?” he asked. He
should have promised to do anything, not question the terms, Gavril thought,
frowning at him. “Come to my quarters.” Silence
held them until they reached the top of the west tower and entered Gavril’s chamber,
where the fire cast welcome warmth and candles burned despite the last bell. In
the bedchamber beyond, Gavril glimpsed his bed, piled with pillows swathed in
clean linen, the heavy fur robe turned back. Aoun was standing beside the bed,
holding a pole with a heated warmer on the end of it beneath the covers to warm
the sheets. Sighing,
Gavril threw out his arms in a stretch and unbuckled his belt. Tossing his
poniard onto his writing desk, he pulled off his cap and loosened the laces of
his doublet before he turned around to face Thum, who was watching him with a
tense, white face. “What
must I do?” Thum asked. Gavril
yawned, playing him the way a cat torments a mouse. “There is a map of Nold within
Lord Odfrey’s wardroom. Large. About this size.” He held his hands apart.
“Drawn on parchment. It’s on the chevard’s desk. I want that map. You will
bring it to me.” Thum
frowned. “You mean you wish me to ask Lord Odfrey if you may look at it?” “No.
I want the map. When Lord Odfrey is away, you will enter his wardroom and take
the map.” “That’s
stealing!” “Is
it?” Gavril glanced around and saw his jeweled cup waiting for him on the
table. He picked it up, swirled the contents a moment, and drank. “You
want me to steal from the chevard?” “Stop
asking stupid questions. I want you to give me that map of Nold. It’s quite
detailed. I need it.” “But—” “How
you manage to supply my request is your concern, not mine.” “I won’t steal for you,” Thum said in outrage. “My honor
requires—how can you even ask—” “Then
refuse my request,” Gavril said with a shrug, and put down his cup. “Clearly
you’re too much an uplander to be acceptable at court. My father will be interested
to learn that the Maltie family sympathizes with old politics that should have
been stamped out long before now.” “You
can’t accuse Geoffen du Maltie of supporting the division,” Thum said
furiously. “You can’t! It isn’t true!” “My
observations are quite clear,” Gavril retorted. “I can say what I please, and
my father the king will listen.” “No,”
Thum said, breathing hard. “No!” “Then
get out.” “This
is unfair!” Thum said. “You tell me I have offended you by speaking plainly, as
I was told to do by the chevard. But I am to steal to regain your favor? What
trap do you hold for me?” “Careful,
Maltie. Your tongue is digging a deeper hole for you.” Thum
clamped his mouth shut and swung away from Gavril with a muted cry. Rigid and
anguished, he lifted his clenched fists in the air. Gavril watched him, smiling
to himself. Cardinal Noncire had taught him well how to manage the difficult
ones. They always had a weakness. It was simply a question of finding out what
that weakness was. “Go,”
Gavril said, his voice hard and merciless. “Kaltienne lacks your scruples. He
will be honored to serve me by bringing the map.” Thum’s
shoulders sagged. He turned around as slowly as an old man, and Gavril’s chest
swelled with satisfaction. Thum was beaten, he thought. He would now serve his
prince as docilely as a lamb. Never again would he question order$.“ For once
he took this risk on Gavril’s behalf, he would be bound to Gavril forever,
bound by his own guilt. Thum
looked up. “I will not steal for you,” he said, his voice soft and wretched.
“Though you be my prince and will one day be my liege and king, I cannot do
this wrong.” Fury
swept through Gavril. He glared at Thum and reached to his side for the dagger
that was no longer there. “You—” “But
I will copy the map for you,” Thum said. “If that will please your highness.” It
took Gavril’s anger a moment to cool. He stared at Thum through narrowed eyes,
realizing that this boy had not broken after all. He was still independent,
still defiant. Had the map not been truly important to Gavril’s plans, he would
have ordered Thum thrown out then and there. Instead,
he mastered his emotions and forced himself to think over the offer. “Can you
draw?” he asked. “Yes, your highness.” “Have
you ink or parchment? You cannot write, you said.” “I
can write a little,” Thum replied. “I can copy whatever is written on the map.
You have ink and parchment, there.” He pointed at Gavril’s writing desk. “Bring
the map here and copy it,” Gavril said. Thum
looked alarmed. “I dare not take it from Lord Odfrey’s wardroom.” ■• “He
will only beat you,” Gavril said with a shrug. “But I have the power to destroy
your family.” “Thod
is who my conscience must answer to,” Thum replied, revealing a bedrock faith
for the first time. That
alone awakened grudging respect in Gavril. He stared at the other boy for a
moment and relented. “Very well,” he said. “Take what you need from my desk.” Thum
blinked, hesitated, then hurried to the desk and drew forth a sheet of stiff
parchment and a pen. “Take
care!” Gavril said sharply enough to make him start. “And do the task quickly.
I want the map in my hands tomorrow.” “I
have duties all morning, and in the afternoon we are to drill with the
master-at-arms.” Impatience
filled Gavril. He wanted to choke Thum, or have Sir Los beat the knave for his
impudence. Instead, he gave him a stony look and said, “Then you will have to
copy it tonight.” “But it’s past matins,” Thum said. “All lights are to be
out. I can’t—” “You
have little choice. It’s easier to enter Lord Odfrey’s wardroom now while the
chevard is asleep than tomorrow, when you will be missed if you are absent from
your duties. And no doubt Lord Odfrey will be going in and out of his wardroom
throughout the day—” “All
right!” Thum said. Sweat beaded along his hairline, making his red hair stick
out. He drew in a ragged breath and would not meet Gavril’s eyes. “All right.
Tonight.” Gavril
handed him a fat candle. “Work quickly. And make no mistakes. Put it in my
hands by noontime.” Thum
looked up briefly, his hazel eyes swirling with a mix of resentment and
dislike, then he headed toward the door. “You
need not act like a martyr, Maltie,” Gavril called after him. “I have offered
you my mercy. You should be grateful for a second chance.” Thum
paused and glanced back. His freckled face was stony, and not a dram of
gratitude could be seen in it. He left without another word, carrying candle,
parchment, and pen. Sir
Los closed the door behind him. “That’s one to watch, your highness,” he said
gruffly. “Some of ‘em can’t be whipped. They’ve too much spirit for a heavy
hand.” Gavril
glared at him. “And who asked for your opinion?” he said icily. Sir
Los shrugged. “My opinion matters, your highness, when I’ve got to keep
someone’s dagger out of your back.” “Don’t
be absurd. He would never strike at me.” Sir
Los bowed. “As your highness says. If you are retiring now, I will bid you a
pleasant sleep.” “Where
are you going?” Gavril asked him, still displeased by what he’d said. “Why are
you leaving?” “Going
to watch that boy a while,” Sir Los said, pulling his indigo cloak tighter
around his heavy shoulders. “See if he goes where he’s been bid to go.” Gavril
frowned. “Call
it my bad feeling,” Sir Los said. “Call it making sure. Good night, your
highness. Someday perhaps you’ll leant not to be so cruel with his type.” “Cruel?”
Gavril said in outrage. “I was putting him in his place. The cardinal taught me
how to use all—” Sir
Los smiled lopsidedly, clearly unconvinced. Feeling
a qualm of doubt, Gavril frowned. “You have not permission to question my
actions,” he said haughtily. “Your opinion has not been asked for.” “No,
your highness.” “Thum
du Maltie hasn’t the courage to cause me trouble,” Gavril said. “He’s smart enough
to know better.” “Aye,
that’s right enough,” Sir Los agreed, taking the liberty allowed a protector.
He seldom voiced an opinion, unlike his predecessor, who lectured Gavril
constantly, but when Sir Los had something to say he was like a dog worrying a
bone. He would not leave it. Sir Los looked at Gavril and tapped his thick,
oft-broken nose. “But it might be better to mend your ways a bit and not try
everything the cardinal has taught you. There’s going to come a day when I do
fear your highness will run afoul of someone not smart like Maltie, not smart
enough to know he’s licked. That’s when your highness will find trouble.” “Then
you will have to make sure I don’t come to harm,” Gavril said with false
sweetness. He smiled at his protector. “I have no intention of mending my
ways.” Dain
awakened with a start and sat up inside the burrow. He listened intently,
trying to identify the sound that had awakened him. Nothing. It
was time to go. He stretched hard enough to make his spine crack, then bent
over Thia, touching her cold face in farewell. He had performed the rites as
best he could, putting salt on her tongue and wrapping her tightly in the
threadbare blanket. He left her pendant of bard crystal lying on her breast.
Even in the dim light provided by the glowstones, the faceted sides of the
crystal glittered with muted fire. Her face lay in re- pose,
no longer tormented with pain. Even death could not mar her beauty. He
kissed her cold cheek one last time, his eyes wet and stinging. He hated to
leave her, but she was no longer here with him. She had gone into the third
world, where her spirit would forever sing. Wiping
his face, Dain forced himself to go. Emerging
from the burrow, he popped his head out of the ground, blowing dirt from his
nostrils, and gazed cautiously around. The clearing remained deserted in the
cold, gray light of morning. It was raining softly in a light mist that stirred
the forest scents of leafy mold, bark, and moss. The forest was silent. Not
even a bird chirped. There were no rustles, none of the usual activity among
the furred denizens of the woods. A
ripple of unease passed through Dain. He pushed his shoulders through the hole
and climbed out. Swiftly, keeping his senses alert, he replaced the lattice and
soil over the hole, then covered everything with a layer of golden and russet
leaves. He worked methodically to erase all evidence of his recent stay there.
When he was satisfied, he scratched out the rune mark of the Forlo Clan and
drew another, signifying it was now a burial place. Fresh
tears stung his eyes. Fiercely he pushed himself away from there and melted
into the undergrowth, leaving the clearing as fast as his legs would take him.
He’d eaten the last of the food, and he needed to hunt if he was to have supper
tonight. Beyond that, his future stretched empty and unknown before him. His
whole life had changed irrevocably in the past few days. A
distant whooping froze him in his tracks. He listened a moment to the yells,
and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. A war party, a victorious one
from the sound, was coming his way. At
almost the same moment, the wind shifted, and he caught their scent. Dwarves .
. . Bnen, probably. His mind caught something else—men-thoughts, awash with
fear. Dain
turned about slowly, absorbing sounds, scents, and that wailing panic from
human minds. It was time for him tO’get out of here. But
he did not run. Instead, he waited to make sure he understood from where they
were approaching and ho,w many there might be. Dwarves tended to travel in
tight clusters of about half their fighting force, with the rest scattered out
ahead, parallel with, or behind the pack. If he wasn’t careful, he could cross
paths with some of the scouts. Unarmed, he had no chance of surviving any such
encounter. They
yelled again, chanting their gruff war songs, and a drum began to beat, close
and loud. Dain darted undercover and crouched low, making himself as still and
small as possible, hoping his clothing would blend into the colors of the
thicket. A
scout passed him, gnarled and short, his powerful shoulders supporting a
bloodstained war axe, his cap pulled low upon his craggy forehead, his eyes
reddened and glaring. Seconds
later, another scout appeared, only to vanish almost immediately back into the
undergrowth. When
a third and fourth scout showed themselves, Dain realized they were converging
on the clearing where Thia’s burrow was. They had camped there yesterday before
going on their night raid. Now, in the cold early morning, they were returning,
fierce and satisfied, splattered with blood and gore, many of them bearing
loot. At
first Dain was puzzled. There were no clans living this close to the forest’s
edge. Who had the Bnen attacked? As
soon as the question crossed his mind, he knew. They had raided the Mandrian
villages across the marsh. Dain did not understand what had driven them to
provoke war, and he did not really care. What mattered right now was that he
get himself as far away from here as he could, before they caught him, crushed
his skull, and drank his blood in celebration. But
he saw the main pack coming, marching along, singing to the beat of their
drums. Their number surprised him. Several war parties had obviously banded
together, for there were perhaps a hundred or more dwarves marching in close
ranks. Most dwarf clans fought in small groups, making surprise attacks of
great fierceness, then retreating quickly with whatever loot they could grab on
the way. Seldom did they join forces in any kind of army, for they were too
fierce, independent, and hot-tempered to work together for long. All
the same, as Dain watched them march past his hiding place, he couldn’t help
thinking of the old tales Jorb used to spin in the evenings when the day’s work
was done. Tales of the great dwarf armies in the time before men, when enormous
bat- ties
had shook the ground, forming the mountains, when the sounds of dying lifted to
the skies and created clouds, when blood ran as rivers, making channels for
water to flow thereafter. And it hadn’t only been the dwarves who’d fought in
antiquity, but also trolk and dire creatures spawned in darkness. One
of the most ferocious of these ancient battles had been the last, when the
creatures of darkness were at last driven by the dwarves into the wasteland of
what was now Gant. This battle had required all the dwarves to band together.
It had taken place in what was now the fabled Field of Skulls. It had been a
battle so terrible and long, in which so many had been slain and spilled their
blood, that the battleground itself grew saturated and became barren. No trees
or grass or any living thing would grow on the site. The bones of the dead were
said to be piled so high and so thickly that even long centuries later they
made the ground look white. No one who found the place could take a single step
without walking on the remains of the dead. Power still resonated on this
battlefield, a power too strong for time to dispel. It was said to permeate the
bones lying there, and if a visitor took away even a fragment with him, the
power residing in that piece of bone would bring him either great luck or
terrible misfortune. The blood from this battle had flowed so heavily that it
was said to be the origin of the mighty Charva River. Whether or not that was
true, few dwarves living today would consider wetting themselves in the Charva,
for many believed dead souls were still trapped in the waters of the river.
Other legends said that Thod had struck the ground with a mighty blow, thus
creating a lake from which the Charva flowed as a natural barrier between
Nonkind and the warrior dwarves of Nold. Dain
shook off these thoughts. The ancient days were over. These dwarves marching
past him now were only Bnen, murderers of his guardian and sister. He curled
himself tighter under the bush, aching with rage and grief. He wanted to jump
forth and attack them with his bare hands. He wanted to hurt them, defeat them,
kill them. But
he was one against too many. If he tried, he would waste his life for no
purpose and they would not pay for their crimes. Somehow, he must find a way of
revenge. That
was when he saw the prisoners. Bound and bleeding from wounds, they were pushed
along at the end of the pack and guarded by tormenters who jabbed them with
dagger points, laughing and jeering at them in the hoarse dwarf tongue. Three
men, wearing dark green tunics that marked them as being in Lord Odfrey’s
service. One of them had a horn slung across his shoulder by a leather cord.
Dain recognized him as the huntsman whom Lord Odfrey had ordered into the
forest to recover the stag carcass. The
huntsman was weeping in fear, his craggy face contorted. He limped along on a
leg which oozed blood with every step, and his captors seemed to delight in
shoving him faster. When
the prisoners stumbled past Dain, their fear washed over him with such force he
felt stunned in their wake: Dead/dead/dead/dead. With
an effort, he shut their panic away and knelt there on the damp ground, still
watching as the pack marched toward the clearing. He cared nothing about those
men or their fate, except that no one deserved to die at the hands of the Bnen.
For Thia’s sake, for Jorb’s, he had to try to help them. He
waited for the rear scouts to straggle in, and when at last he thought it was
safe, when he could hear the shouting and jubilation as camp was made, Dain
followed them, pausing only to pick up the huntsman’s cap which had fallen on
the ground. By
the time Dain crept up to the edge of the clearing, the dwarves had chopped
down three pairs of saplings and were busy stripping them of their branches. A
large bonfire had been built in the center of the clearing. Five dwarves with
runes painted in blood on their faces and the fronts of their tunics surrounded
the fire, which was crackling and throwing sparks toward the sky. Chanting to
the beat of the drums, the five circled the fire, now and then throwing
something into it which made fearsome green flashes followed by puffs of white
smoke. Dain
froze at the sight of wise-sayers. All the clans of the dwarves had them. But
never before had he seen five together. They were working a powerful spell. He
could feel the strength of it tingling along his face and the backs of his
hands. Yet
dwarf magic could not affect him seriously. He had too much eld blood in his
veins. Something inside him stirred, brought to life by their incantations, yet
not part of it. He frowned, keeping one eye on the wise-sayers as they chanted
and marched, and the other eye on the prisoners, who knelt with their hands
bound behind them. By
now the saplings were stripped of their branches, creating six long poles. Each
prisoner was jerked to his feet, then two poles were lashed to his back. Dain
had never seen this before, but he believed the Bnen were about to commit kreg n ‘durgm,
a terrible, ritualistic torture that supported their darkest magic. Uneasiness
prickled harder inside him. He stared, trying to figure out what they sought to
conjure forth from the second world. It had to be terrible indeed, if they were
creating such a potent spell to control it. Whatever
it might be, he had no desire to witness it. Dain
felt the temptation to turn aside and flee from this evil, but he did not. His
heart stirred with pity for the prisoners, who had stopped pleading for mercy
now and stood silent, their eyes huge with fear. But more than pity, he felt
anger, felt it growing to a terrible heat that burned his core and spread along
his limbs. His heart pounded hard with it, and his breathing deepened and grew
harsh in his throat. How
dare they desecrate Thia’s burial place with their dark spells. It was not
enough to shoot her down as she ran defenseless from her burning home, but now
they would defile her burial place with their tainted works. His
anger burned hotter, and Dain gripped the branches of the bush before him so
hard the twigs cut into his palms. He noticed no discomfort, however. From his
heart a summons was cast forth, a summons such as he had never created before.
He hardly knew what he was about; he knew only that this must be stopped. Come/come/come/come! His
mind spread through the forest, gathering all that was living and calling it to
him. The
birds responded first—large, black keebacks and tiny brown sparouns, the
blue-gray rackens, and the fierce, crested tiftiks. Circling and swooping from
the sky, they flew above the clearing, avoiding the billows of white smoke.
Ever more of them converged, crowding the sky overhead, shrieking and cawing
and chirping and trilling until the noise was almost deafening. The
drumbeat faltered, and the wise-sayers paused in their incantation to stare
upward. “It
comes!” one of them said. “It is a sign. We are heard.” The
birds descended to the treetops, jostling and crowding each other for perches,
some of them beating each other with their wings and pecking viciously. And
still more birds flew in. “This
portent is not of our working,” another wise-sayer said. “Oglan! Set a watch.
You, Targ, keep the beat going.” The
drumbeat resumed, pounding beneath the squawking noise of the birds, but it was
not as steady a beat as it had been before. More
birds came, darkening the sky overhead and filling the trees with a rustling,
jostling, fluttering cacophony. Dain
closed his eyes, filling himself with his anger, letting it burn forth in his summons,
which spread ever wider: Come/
come/come/come. “Look!”
someone shouted. And
now a vixlet darted across the clearing, her russet fur and banded brush
glinting in the firelight. She ran straight toward the bonfire, then stopped
just short of it and glanced around. Her dark mask of fur banded her narrow
face, and she parted her jaws to reveal long rows of sharp, gleaming teeth.
Then she darted away. Mice
scurried out from under leaves, running here and there. Hares appeared, and
stags and more vixlets, some mated and running in pairs. Rats came, red-eyed
and dangerous, their long whiskers quivering as they sat up on their
hindquarters and tested the wind. A muted cough warned of the arrival of a
tawny canar, muscles rippling beneath its hide, its sinuous neck turning from
side to side as it bared its long fangs and snarled. Crying
out, the dwarves fell back from it, abandoning their prisoners, who began to
wail their prayers aloud in terrified voices. The
canar, crouching, came running the rest of the way into the clearing, and the
smaller animals that were normally its prey scattered. It moved like silk, its
long, lithe body tightly wound and ready to pounce. Snarling, it approached the
bonfire, sending the wise-sayers backing away, but it did not go too near the
blaze. A
roar on the opposite side of the clearing sent the stag leaping into the air,
and the smaller animals darted here and there in fresh panic. A beyar, massive
and old, gray hairs glinting in its shaggy black pelt, shuffled into sight. It
reared up on its hind legs, massive paws swatting at the air, and roared again. The
canar squalled a challenge, and the two master predators of the forest glared
at each other across the clearing. Murmuring,
the dwarves clustered to one side, shaking their heads and looking alarmed. As
fierce as the Bnen were, even they did not want to be caught in the middle of
this battle. In
the distance, wolves set up a chorus, their eerie cries echoing far through the
trees. The canar and beyar ignored them, but the other animals shifted
uneasily. A vixlet pounced on a hare, killing it with a swift snap of her jaws.
The scent of blood filled the air, and the stag broke loose of Dain’s control
and bounded wildly across the center of the clearing. The
canar, unable to resist such prey, swung about to leap at the stag’s shoulder.
The animal, caught in mid-bound, bleated and fell heavily, the canar atop its
back. Then, with a roar, the beyar charged, knocking the canar off the stag and
sending it rolling into the edge of the fire. The
canar screamed with pain, and the scent of burning fur overwhelmed the scent of
blood. Squalling and twisting frantically, the canar rolled itself out of the
fire and jumped up, singed and furious, to join battle with the beyar. The
dwarves scattered in all directions, while the wise-say-ers shouted at them to
come back. Four
of the wise-sayers shouted and argued with each other, but the fifth, the
tallest of them, with a long, gray beard and eyes as yellow as the canar’s,
stood apart, silent as he quested the air with his senses. “It
is the shapeshifters!” shouted one of the other wise-sayers, dodging as the
battle came in his direction. “They have come to us like this—” “No,”
said the bearded one. He dropped his gaze from the skies above and began to
look hard at the forest around him. “We have not reached the dark ones. This is
magic not of ours. Someone interferes with us.” As
he spoke, he reached into a pouch tied at his belt and drew forth what looked
like a black stone, except that it smoked in his hand and seemed on the verge
of bursting into flames. He
hurled it straight at the bush which concealed Dain, and struck him hard on the
shoulder. The
pain of it broke Dain’s concentration, and his mastery over the animals fell.
They ran in all directions, heedless of the battle between beyar and canar.
Some leaped over the dead stag; others bounded back and forth in wild zigzags,
the chaos so complete and unbridled the wise-sayers were forced to flee into
the forest with the other dwarves. Knowing
this was his chance, Dain ran into the clearing. A vixlet darted between his
legs, tripping him. He staggered to keep his balance, and dodged the rats
scuttling purposefully toward the food abandoned along with the other loot.
Something bit him, and Dain swore and jumped aside. A
few more strides and he reached the prisoners. Picking up a dagger someone had
dropped, he sliced through their bonds, ignoring their cries and pleas for
deliverance. “Quiet,”
he said, cutting the last of the cords. “Run that way. Run for your lives. Go!” Pointing,
he slapped their shoulders, and they set off in as great a panic as the animals.
Above them, the birds rose up in a terrible flock, filling the air with the
sound of beating wings. Dain ran too, hearing someone shout behind him and
knowing they had only scant moments to reach whatever cover they could find
beyond the clearing. In minutes, the dwarves would come after them. Dain knew
he could outrun them. But the prisoners were stumbling and blundering along,
wasting precious moments glancing back. “Run!”
he called to them. “Run!” The
huntsman cried out and fell. Dain went back to pull him upright. The man’s face
was the color of a grub. He swayed, and the others grabbed his arms and helped
him forward. Dain
started to follow, but something snagged him from behind and pulled him back. At
first he believed he’d been gripped by the back of his tunic. Shouting, he
twisted around to strike with the dagger he’d picked up, but there was nothing
there. Astonished,
he barely had time to realize this before his arms slammed down against his sides
and froze there. He struggled with all his might, trying to break free against
his invisible bonds, but his feet were yanked out from beneath him. He fell
heavily on his side, and grunted at the impact. In
the distance, he saw the bearded wise-sayer pointing at him, shouting some kind
of spell in the dwarf tongue. Dain
stopped his struggles at once, knowing that physical resistance only
strengthened the spell. Dwarf magic rarely worked on those of eldin blood.
Dain’s arms and feet were bound with an invisible rope of power, but it could
not hold him for long. He saw the pack of dwarves running toward him, and knew
he had only moments to avoid capture. “Fire!”
he said aloud, gathering the energy in his mind. He envisioned tongues of flame
burning through the rope of power, and seconds later the spell was broken. Dain
scrambled upright and fled. Half
of the dwarves veered to follow him; the rest continued in pursuit of the
Mandrians. With
the huntsman’s wounded leg hampering them, the men could not hope to outrun
their pursuers. Dain ducked into a heavy stand of harlberries, taking care to
crush some of the purplish-green stems. A pungent, unpleasant scent rose into
the air. Dain smeared some of the pale sap up and down his arms and across the
front of his tunic. The scent would mask his own. Ducking
low, he scuttled behind a log, paused a moment, then doubled back, eluding his
pursuers. As fast as he could, he headed after the Mandrians. They
were making too much noise. Even a blind dwarf could follow them without
trouble. Their scent hung in the air, mingled with fear and fresh blood. Dain
angled to one side of the dwarf pack, well under cover, but as fleet-footed as
a young stag. He leaped over a fallen log, ducked beneath a low-hanging vine of
muscaug with leaves like burnished copper, and tackled the fleeing men from the
side. He
knocked them bodily into a gully that cut beneath a stand of shtac, sending
them tumbling with muffled grunts and little cries of pain. Breathless and
winded, they all landed in the bottom among drifts of fallen leaves. Dain
sat up first, his ears alert for any indication that they’d been seen. No
outcry rose up, but the dwarves were still coming, tracking by scent. Jerking
his tattered sleeve free of the briars which snagged it, Dain clutched one
man’s arm and clapped a dirty hand across another’s mouth before they could
speak. “Hush.
Hush!” he whispered fiercely, glaring at each of them in turn. The huntsman lay
facedown in the leaves, not moving. Dain gripped his arm and felt the life
still coursing through him. “Make no sound,” he said softly. “As you value your
lives, do exactly as I say.” Big-eyed
and afraid, they stared at him. He
listened again, his senses filtering all sounds and movement beyond their poor
hiding place. There was little time. He could think of only one thing to do,
and he wasn’t sure it would work. His sister had been the spellcaster, not he. But
he was determined to try. “Pay
heed,” he said to them, struggling to find the Mandrian words he wanted. “I
will hide you and go for help, but you must not move. You must not speak.” “Gods
above,” one of the men said, the words bursting from him as though he could dam
them no longer. “We can’t hide here. They’re almost upon us.” His
companion tried to struggle to his feet, but Dain pulled him down. “Listen!” he
said fiercely. “I am eld. I can help you, but only if you work with me. No
matter how close they come, they will not see you if you do not move and do not
speak. Swear you will do this, and I will help you.” The
two men, streaked with mud and dried blood, their hair in tangles, their eyes
wide and desperate, exchanged a look, then nodded. Dain
pointed at the unconscious huntsman. “Keep him quiet too.” “Done,”
said one of the men. “But hurry.” Dain
drew his bard crystal pendant from beneath his tunic and held it up. It swung
on its cord, glittering with inner fire. Dain forced himself to forget how time
was running out, how close the dwarves were. He concentrated all his thought
and being on trees, ivy-wreathed trees. He thought of their sturdy trunks,
their strong bark, their outstretched branches. He thought of their crowns of
gold and russet leaves, their deep roots that secured them to the soil. He
thought of the shelter they gave to living things. He thought of how they
reached tall to the sky, how they swayed in the wind but did not break, how
they cast shade in the heat of summer and rattled bare-limbed in the cruel
storms of winter. Still
swinging the bard crystal back and forth so that it began to vibrate with
melody, Dain listened to the circulation of sap within the trees around him,
listened to the steady rustle of their leaves, listened to the digging and
searching of their roots within the ground. He opened his mouth and sang, low
and soft, the song of trees. Somber
and muted, the notes of his song filled the gully. The men beside him remained
still as he had instructed. Dain opened his eyes and saw them no longer.
Instead, two saplings grew in the bottom of this shallow gully, with a fallen
log beside them. Dain
lowered his bard crystal and tucked it back beneath his clothing. He sang a few
more notes to finish the spell, and felt pleased with his results. “Stay
until I return with help,” he whispered. “You are safe here.” One
of the saplings shuddered and seemed to bend toward him. The image shivered,
and Dain saw the man within the spell again. “Do
not move!” he ordered. The
man froze, and the image of the spell became again a young tree. Dain glared at
them. “The spell is weak. Do hot destroy it.” They
made him no answer, but he could feel their fear and desperation. “I will come
back,” he promised. There
was no more time to give them additional reassurances. The dwarves had arrived. Dain
swore under his breath and ducked beneath a bush, knowing he should have
already fled. The
dwarves tramped past the gully, grumbling to each other in vile humor. “Gonna
rip off their heads,” one muttered. “Stab
‘em. Stab their guts,” said another. “Make
‘em scream long and hard this time. Went too easy on ’em before.” Dain
kept his head down while they went by, barely letting himself breathe and
trusting that his clothing would blend into the colors of the perlimon bushes
and the shtac. The briars choked the rest of the gully, giving him no place of
egress except straight up the side. He
waited until the dwarves were gone. Ever mindful of scouts trailing well
behind, he waited longer. Then, cautiously, he emerged from his hiding place
and slapped the leaves and bits of bark from the back of his neck. “Stay
still,” he warned the Mandrians one last time, and left them. By
the time Dain reached the river, he was panting hard and his legs burned with
fatigue. He had stopped only twice to catch his wind. His mouth was drawn with
thirst, and despite the cold he was sweating. Leaving
the cover of the forest made him uneasy. He had to force himself to venture out
into the open. The road made him suspicious. It was too broad, too open, too
exposed. He wondered why such flat, smooth stones had been laid to create its
surface, yet as soon as he stepped foot on it he understood. Walking on it was
wondrous easy. He had no mud to drag his feet, no ruts to stumble over. When
the road curved up onto the top of the levee that held back the marsh, Dain
could see far in all directions. Smoke,
too much of it, and too dark for common cook fires, rose above the treetops on
the other side of the river. Dain suspected the raided villages must be there.
Bells were ringing, at least three of them, from three separate directions,
tolling a warning across the land. Ahead
of him loomed the stone bulwarks of the bridge that spanned the river. A
gatehouse blocked the road, and the armed guards there watched Dain’s approach. He
hesitated, unsure that they would let a pagan such as himself cross into their
land. It was certain the Bnen dwarves had not used this road, but he did not
have time to hunt a ford across the river. Stopping,
Dain dared not venture into arrow range. He veered off the road and slid down
the levee’s steep bank to the water’s edge. The gray water swept past him,
swift and deep. “You
there!” called a stern voice from above. Dain
looked up and saw one of the guards peering down at him from the wall of the
bridge. “Get
away!” the guard yelled at him. Dain
ignored him, and returned his attention to the river. In
the next instant an arrow whizzed past him, close enough to be a warning. Dain
stumbled to one side, his heart knocking his ribs. “Get
away!” he was told. “Get back where you belong.” “Aye!”
called another. “The souls of our dead are not for the likes of you.” “I’m
no soultaker!” Dain shouted back. He
saw one of the guards nock another arrow to his bowstring. Dain backed away
hastily, but before the man could shoot, hoofbeats thundered and echoed across
the water. Squinting
westward, Dain saw an army of riders crossing the bridge. They rode two
abreast. Their war chargers were shod with iron, and sparks flew off the paving
stones of the road as they came. The men were clad in hauberks and steel
helmets. Most were armed with broadswords, spears, and war axes. Pennants flew
in long streamers of color, and a horn blared stridently. The
guards ran to open the gates for Lord Odfrey’s army. Clearly they were riding forth
to deal retaliation for the Bnen attack. Dain ran up the bank to the road and
reached the top just as the wooden gates across the bridge were flung wide and
the army cantered through. The
figure at the head of this column wore a shining helmet and breastplate. With
his visor down, his face could not be seen, but his surcoat was dark green with
a yellow crest of rearing stags, and his cloak was chevroned in strips of dark
and pale fur. Lord Odfrey himself rode this day, his figure grim and erect in
the saddle, his broadsword hanging at his side. Dain
ran onto the road in front of him. Lifting his arms, he shouted, “Stop! In the
name of mercy, Lord Odfrey, stop!” The
chevard drew rein, but even as he slowed, lifting his arm in a signal to the
riders behind him, another knight spurred his mount forward, straight at Dain. This
man was not as large as Lord Odfrey. He wore a simple hauberk beneath his
surcoat of green. A crest of crossed axes adorned the front of it, and his
cloak was made of dark, serviceable wool. Disbelieving
that this man would ride him down, much less attack, Dain held his ground as
the charger, wearing its head plate and armored saddlecloth, galloped straight
at him. When the man drew his sword and shouted an oath in Mandrian, Dain
realized he was serious. At
the last second, Dain dodged, but he was too late. The knight protector swatted
him with the flat side of his broadsword and knocked him head over heels down
the bank of the levee. Unable to stop his impetus, Dain tumbled over and over
until he landed with a splash in the marsh water. The
icy shock of the water brought him upright, dripping and sputtering. “Lord
Odfrey!” he shouted. But
the men were riding on, heedless of his call. “Lord Odfrey!” Dain shouted with
all his might. His voice was drowned out in the thunder of the hoofbeats, the
clanking and jingling of armor, saddles, spurs, and bridle bits. None of them
spared him a glance. Their blood beat hot, and their minds were on war. He
could sense it rolling off them like a stench. Desperate, Dain climbed halfway
up the slippery bank, and cast his mind at Lord Odfrey’s: Halt/halt/halt/halt. Again
the chevard reined up, signaling for the column to pause. Dain ran the rest of
the way to the top of the bank. “Lord
Odfrey, your huntsman is in mortal danger!” he called, jumping and waving in an
attempt to be seen in the midst of the horsemen. “Lord Odfrey!” “Let him through,” someone commanded. The riders parted, reining their
mounts aside, and Dain trotted through their midst straight to Lord Odfrey.
Staring at Dain through the narrow eye slits of his helmet, the chevard sat
there on his war charger, which pawed the ground and champed its bit with much
head-tossing. Breathlessly,
Dain stumbled to a halt before him. “Lord,” he said, gasping between words,
“your huntsman and two others were prisoners of the Bnen. I set them free, but
they are still in danger. The Bnen are hunting them even now, and the huntsman
is wounded.” “M’lord,” protested the knight who had knocked Dain off the
road only moments before, “have done with this brat. We’ve a whole village to
avenge.” Lord
Odfrey raised his visor, revealing a weathered face both stony and hostile. He
kicked his mount forward to meet Dain, who reached out for his bridle. The
chevard circled his horse, and as he passed Dain he drew his spurred foot from
the stirrup and kicked him in the stomach. All
the wind left Dain in a whoosh of pain. He doubled over, sinking to his knees,
wanting to vomit. The
chevard rode around him in a circle so tight, Dain feared the war charger might
trample him. “Never seek to command my wits again,” Lord Odfrey thundered at
him. “Keep your pagan ways to yourself, boy!” Clutching
his aching stomach, Dain struggled to draw breath. He held up the huntsman’s
cap mutely. “What
is that?” the chevard asked, but Dain could not speak. The
knight protector rode forward and plucked the cap from Dain’s hand. “What
is that, Sir Roye?” Lord Odfrey asked the man. “Nothing,”
the protector answered. He flung the cap on the ground. “A piece of cloth.” “That
belongs to your huntsman,” Dain said, finding breath and strength enough to
regain his feet at the same time. “He cannot hide in safety long. You must ride
to his aid.” “This
is mindless babbling,” Sir Roye said impatiently. “Let us ride on, m’lord.” “I
owe you my life, lord,” Dain called out. “Why should I lie?” Lord
Odfrey frowned. With visible reluctance he beckoned to Dain, who approached him
warily and stopped out of reach this time. “You are the eld I saw yesterday.” “Yes,”
Dain said. “I
sent you back into the forest from whence you came. What do you here and now? We’ve
the Nega dwarves to hunt down—” “But
the Bnen attacked your villages,” Dain said in protest. Around
him, a babble of consternation and anger broke out. “What
knows he of the raid?” “Part
of it, most like.” “A
spy, he is!” “Let’s carve his bones for the trouble he’s caused.” A
shout rose up, and Dain’s knees locked in fear. He held his ground, however,
knowing they wouldn’t attack him until Lord Odfrey gave them leave. His life
hung on the whim of this stern man towering above him on horseback. Dain never
let his gaze waver from Lord Odfrey’s dark eyes. “Your
wits are addled,” the chevard said. “My huntsman is safe behind in Thirst
Hold—” “Nay,
he lies bleeding in the forest,” Dain interrupted. “And with him are two men,
stalwart and tall. One has hair like wheat. The top of his left ear was cut off
probably a long time ago. The other has a nose hooked and broken, with no front
teeth. Are they not your men? Who else would they be? I saw your huntsman
yesterday. I know his face well.” “Enough
of this,” Sir Roye said. “M’lord, let us go—” “Silence,”
the chevard commanded, and Sir Roye clamped his mouth shut without another
word. Lord
Odfrey’s dark eyes bored into Dain. “Your clothes are torn worse than last I
saw them. There’s blood on you—” “The
huntsman’s,” Dain said quickly. “Not mine.” “How
far have you run?” “A
league, hardly more,” Dain said with growing impatience. “Come, if you will
save them—” Lord
Odfrey lifted his hand. “Boy, my huntsman is not—” “But
he came for the stag killed by those boys. I heard you give him the order to
fetch the meat.” “So
I did,” Lord Odfrey said as though he’d forgotten until now. “But this morn,
when the alarm was raised, I left orders for him not to go. It’s not safe, with
raids coming out of Nold.” Dain
shook his head. “The man is in the forest, in desperate need of your help.
Where I hid him and the others will not hold long, especially if they ... It
will not hold long. If you mean to save them, you must
hurry!” “The
chevard must do nothing save by his own will,” Sir Roye said to Dain. Within
the frame of his helmet he had a face like a wrinkled nut; his features were
dark and fierce. Hostility and suspicion radiated from his cat-yellow eyes, and
Dain knew that were it not for the chevard’s presence, Sir Roye would have run
him through with that sword instead of just smacking him with it. Already, Dain
had begun to feel a steady ache in his ribs from that blow. Sir Roye leaned
down from his saddle and stabbed his finger at Dain. “You don’t tell him what
to do, ever! Morde a day, but I’d like to slit that pagan tongue right out of
your gullet.” Believing
him, Dain swallowed hard and fought the urge to back up. “You’re
saying these men are in the clearing where the stag was brought down?” Lord
Odfrey asked. “Near
to it. Not far past it,” Dain said. “I’ll show you.” He
tried to go forward, but Sir Roye moved his horse to block Dain’s path. “It’s a
smooth trick, this urgent story of men in need of us, but it’s naught but pagan
lies, m’lord. He wants nothing better than to lead us to certain ambush.” “I
tell the truth!” Dain said hotly. “You’re
lying, like all your kind.” “Hold
your tongue, Sir Roye,” Lord Odfrey said with steely anger. “This boy was
Jorb maker’s apprentice. He’s no
stranger, and I think no liar.” “M’lord,
this tale has holes abounding in it,” Sir Roye said. “The men are in the hold
where they should be—” “Nay!” shouted someone from the rear of the column. “They
rode out before first light. Caix here saw them go!” “Aye,”
said another voice that was fainter, as though even farther back. “I did,
m’lord.” The
chevard struck the pommel of his saddle with his gloved hand. “Damne! Did the
fools leave before word of the raid came to us?” Sir
Roye drew back, but the other men surrounding Dain stared down at him, silent
now, and intent. “Fools,”
Lord Odfrey muttered again, but Dain wondered if it was the men he meant, or
himself. The chevard scowled at Dain. “Quickly now, tell me what you know. You
saw Nocine—the huntsman—and two others—” “Sir
Tilou and Sir Valon,” Sir Roye muttered. Lord
Odfrey nodded without taking his gaze off Dain. “Exactly where?” “They
are hiding in a gully beyond the clearing of the Forlo travel burrow,” Dain
said. “Now my sister’s burial place.”. Compassion
sparked briefly in the chevard’s dark gaze, then vanished. “A gully? They can’t
hide there.” “Not for long,” Dain agreed. “The Bnen were about to
torture them.” “And
how did you rescue them from this war party of dwarves?” Sir Roye asked with
open skepticism. Dain
opened his mouth to answer, but Lord Odfrey interrupted. “Never mind. There’s
no time to be lost—” “But,
m’lord,” Sir Roye said in protest. “What about the raid that left fourteen of
your villagers dead and their huts afire? What about the Nega who—” “The
Nega would not raid,” Dain said hotly. “They never raid. They are—” “We
saw their marks, boy,” Sir Roye said. “We have proof.” “A
mark is not proof.” “And
who else would draw it?” “The
Bnen who did the raid,” Dain said, meeting the knight glare for glare. “The Bnen
I saw carrying man-loot and bringing man-prisoners. Here lies Nega land,” he
said, pointing at the curve of forest behind Lord Odfrey, “but the Nega do not
winter this far west. They are gone south, to their mines in the Rock Hills.” Lord
Odfrey pointed to the cap, which lay on the ground where Sir Roye had thrown
it. Dain hastened to pick it up and hand it to the chevard, who turned it over
in his hands. “This
is Nocine’s,” the chevard said. “There is blood on it.” Sir
Roye’s face crinkled up as he squinted at his lord. “And if this one’s a
trickster, sent forth to lead us off the trail?” Lord
Odfrey looked at Dain. “Come here, boy.” Dain
went to him, as wary as before, and stood next to his stirrup. Lord Odfrey
reached down his hand. Hesitantly, Dain started to clasp it as he had seen
Mandrians do, but Lord Odfrey gripped him hard just above his elbow. The
chevard’s fingers were like steel, clamped on to Dain’s flesh. Dain struggled
to hold back a gasp, and hid the pain he felt from his face. Lord
Odfrey’s dark eyes bored into Dain’s pale gray ones as though he meant to look
inside his very soul. Then he released him so abruptly, Dain staggered back. “He
brings us truth,” Lord Odfrey declared. The
men exchanged glances, murmuring to each other. Sir Roye’s mouth opened in
dismay. “M’lord—” Lord
Odfrey drew his foot from the stirrup, and Dain jumped back out of reach. “Quickly
now,” Lord Odfrey said to him as though he did not notice. “Get up behind me.” Dain put his foot in the stirrup and scrambled up behind
Lord Odfrey’s saddle. He had never ridden such a tall horse as this before. He
felt as though he were floating high in the air. The charger shifted beneath
him, its powerful hindquarters flexing with strength. Dain clamped his legs
tight to hold on with, and Lord Odfrey cast him a glance. “Don’t
kick him in the flanks or we’ll both be thrown,” he said, and wheeled the horse
around with such speed Dain nearly toppled off. “Hang on to my cloak and point
the way.” Dain
gripped the magnificent fur in one hand and slid his other past Lord Odfrey’s
armored elbow. “There.” Lord
Odfrey gathered his reins, but Sir Roye was not yet done. He
spurred his horse to block Lord Odfrey’s path. His eyes held distrust and
suspicion. “M’lord, consider the risk. If he’s leading us into a trap—” “And
if he is not?” Lord Odfrey retorted. “Will I chase blindly through the Dark
Forest all day or will I use this guide that Thod has brought us?” “Thod
is leading us in the guise of a pagan?” someone behind Dain said in loud
disbelief. “Mercy of Tomias, what next?” Dain
did not glance back to see who spoke, and neither did Lord Odfrey. The
chevard’s gaze clashed with Sir Roye’s. “Will you protest all day, or will you
follow me, Sir Roye?” “If
he betrays us—” “Then
you have my permission to draw and quarter him,” Lord Odfrey said grimly. He
glanced back at Dain, who sat very still and wary at his back now. “That is,”
the chevard added, “after I take off his head. Still eager to save men who are
strangers to you, boy?” Dain
swallowed hard, but he knew he could not waver now, before this challenge. “The
Bnen killed my family. If I can bring them harm by leading your men to them, I
will.” He pointed again. “That way, lord.” The
chevard turned his gaze on Sir Roye, who backed his mount out of his master’s
way. Lord Odfrey spurred his horse, and they leaped away in a gallop. The
horse’s mind was a dim flicker of go/go/go. Grinning with eagerness,
Dain tipped back his head to savor the rush of wind against his face. This was
like flying. He jounced along, as high as the tree branches, clinging to the
back of the chevard’s saddle. The rhythmic thunder of the army’s hoofbeats
filled his ears. He
pointed the way, and the column of riders arrowed into the Dark Forest as fast
as the snarled undergrowth would allow. The horses snorted their white breath
and ran tirelessly. Leaves were falling, as golden as bright coins, and the
small, furry denizens of the forest fled to their dens at the noisy passage of
horses and riders. Always, Dain was questing with his mind, seeking the Bnen
raiders. Some
remained at the clearing. The rest were scattered. He murmured this in Lord
Odfrey’s ear, and the chevard nodded. “The
clearing first,” he said. They
crossed a road no wider than a trail that wound through the ever-thickening
trees. Although a weak, wintry sun shone this day, it barely penetrated the
canopy overhead. Here and there, pale shafts of light pierced down to the
springy mold underfoot. Vines looped low from branches, creating hazards of
their own. The riders slowed down to a trot, ducking vines and branches,
sometimes halting to cut their way through. “This,”
Sir Roye muttered behind the chevard’s horse, “is why we don’t bring cavalry
into the Dark Forest.” Dain
ignored him, as did the chevard. “There,” Dain whispered, pointing at the
clearing ahead. His keen eyes, long accustomed to picking out the movement of a
quarry from the trembling of leaves, saw a group of the dwarves working to pile
something in the middle of the clearing. The bonfire blazed less brightly than
earlier. He wondered if the wise-sayers had succeeded in bringing their spell
to life. Sniffing suspiciously, he detected no dark magic. The
chevard drew his sword, as did Sir Roye and the riders behind them. “This is
their smallest force,” the chevard said in a soft voice. “Strike quick and
hard. We’ve more work to do elsewhere.” “My
lord,” asked a cultured voice from among the men. “What degree of mercy do we
show?” Growls
of protest rose up, but a glare from Lord Odfrey silenced them all. “No mercy,”
he said, and spurred his horse forward. Behind
him rose a howling battle cry such as Dain had never heard before. It was
terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He realized he was being hurtled
into battle without arms or weapons, but at that moment he felt immortal and
did not care. He
drew his own dagger, gripping the back of the chevard’s saddle with his other
hand. Lifting his own voice, he cried out Thia’s name, and rode the galloping
charger into the clearing for blood and battle, seeking her vengeance. By
the time they burst upon the dwarves, the twenty or so Bnen there had thrown
down the loot they were stacking in piles and reached for their war axes.
Gathering themselves into a knot with their backs guarded, they tried to
withstand the initial rush of the riders, but they were too few. Lord
Odfrey did not swerve around them as Dain expected him to. Instead, he set his
charger straight at the enemy and rode right into their midst and over the top
of them. Several dwarves were trampled beneath the charger’s hooves, their
screams blending with the shouts and battle cries of the others. Hearing a
skull crunch and shatter, Dain swallowed hard and leaned down to swipe the
enemy with his dagger. He missed his mark as the charger leaped sideways. Then
there came a great whistling whoosh of air as Lord Odfrey’s long broadsword
swung and sent a Bnen head flipping in an arc to bounce and tumble on the
ground. Blood
from the headless dwarf spurted across Dain’s leg, then the charger was on the
other side of the clustered dwarves. The horse swung around without any
command. Dain noticed that the reins were lying slack on the horse’s heavy
neck. Both of Lord Odfrey’s hands gripped the long hilt of his broadsword. His
shoulders bunched with effort as he lifted and swung again. Another
dwarf went down, cleaved in two. From the other side, Sir Roye was hacking and
cursing steadily. The
dwarves broke ranks and scattered. In a few minutes, all of them lay dead, even
the wise-sayers. One of the knights stirred among the loot with the tip of his
spear and brought up a child’s rag doll impaled on the end of it. “These
are our raiders, sure enough,” Lord Odfrey said grimly. Raising his visor, he
glanced around at Dain. “Is this all of them?” “Nay,
there are eighty or so more,” Dain answered breath- lessly.
Brief though it had been, this battle had filled his mind with scenes of shock
and slaughter. He wanted more. “They’re coming.” Lord
Odfrey exchanged a glance with Sir Roye. “Hard to maneuver in the trees. Still,
the advantage is ours. Give the orders.” Sir
Roye wheeled his horse around and bawled out commands. The knights scattered
and rode out of the clearing in various directions. In the distance, a drum
began to pound. Dain heard it before Lord Odfrey did. Both of them tensed. “Ah,”
Lord Odfrey said quietly. He settled himself deeper in the saddle and gathered
his reins. “Lead me to where you left Nocine and the others, boy.” On
the way to the gully, they encountered two more attacking parties of dwarves.
The Mandrian knights had all the advantages of being on horseback and having
spears and broadswords. The dwarves were fearless, ferocious, and used both
arrows and axes, hesitating not to attack horses as well as men. But the
chargers were trained fighters, rearing and trampling with deadly forefeet. Both
times Lord Odfrey fought his way through, with Sir Roye sticking grimly to his
side. Two other knights also rode close, protecting the chevard. Leaving
dead or dying dwarves behind them, they rode on in the direction Dain showed
them. Before he reached the gully, however, he knew his spell had failed. Dismay
swept his heart, followed by exasperation. The two saplings that should have
been standing in the bottom of the gully were gone. Only the real stands of
crimson-leaved shtac remained, along with the briars and the clumps of perlimon
laden with bright orange globes of intensely sour fruit. It took a hard frost
to ripen perlimon, and even then the fruit was often too tart to enjoy. Dain
stared into the gully while the charger pawed the edge restlessly. “Well?”
Lord Odfrey asked in a harsh voice. “They
did not stay,” Dain said, wondering what had become of the men. “I told them
they would be safe if they—” He
broke off, feeling the knights’ suspicion gathering around him like a net. “No
cover to hide in here,” Sir Roye said, glaring at Dain with his yellow eyes. “I
told you, m’lord—” “Wait,”
Dain said. He slid off the charger before Lord Odfrey could protest. Ducking
beneath the perlimons, Dain slithered down the steep bank of the gully to its
bottom, where the log still lay, half-covered with drifting leaves. He
knelt and began to scoop armfuls of them away. “Boy,”
Lord Odfrey said. “He’s
lost his wits,” Sir Roye muttered. Dain ignored them both. Laying his hand on the log’s rough
bark, he felt the life force of the man within his spell, a dim, nearly spent
force. Dain broke the spell, and there the huntsman lay for all of them to see.
Nocine’s face had turned gray and sweaty. His mouth hung open slackly, but when
Dain pressed his palm to the huntsman’s chest, he felt the erratic thud of his
heart. “Morde
a day!” Sir Roye swore. “What magic is this?” Dain
turned his head to look up at them. “Only a weak nature spell,” he said. “It
fools the eyes, nothing more. I told the others to stay still. If they grew
frightened and moved, the spell would break.” None
of the Mandrians replied. They were all staring at him, with expressions
varying from fear, to wary admiration, to glaring suspicion, to stern
neutrality. “He’s
a—Thod knows what he is,” Sir Roye said. “Best to keep well away from him,
m’lord.” Lord
Odfrey said nothing. In the stony lines of his weathered face, his dark eyes
looked sad and far away, as though it wasn’t Dain he saw at all. In
the distance came the sounds of more battle. Dain tilted his head to listen,
and knew the main force of Bnen were coming. “Your
huntsman lives, lord,” he said to the chevard. “And the war party is not far
from us.” Lord
Odfrey blinked as though coming out of his thoughts. He pointed at the
unconscious huntsman. “Sir Alard, take him forth from here. See him safely
home.” “Yes,
my lord.” The
knight spurred his horse down into the gully and dismounted to pick up Nocine
and drape him across his mount’s withers. Returning to the saddle, he sent his
horse scrambling back up the slope to the top and headed away. Dain
climbed up after him and stood there, wondering what was to happen now. He read
the faces of the three remaining men and knew they intended to leave him
behind. In
that moment, Dain knew he did not want to part ways. He did not want to go deep
into the Dark Forest, searching out others of the Forlo Clan and claiming a
home with them. With Jorb dead, the Forlo dwarves owed Dain no claim of
kinship. Even if another swordmaker accepted Dain as an apprentice, he knew
suddenly, he did not want to spend his life making swords—he wanted to wield
them. In the last two days, he had glimpsed a different, much larger world than
the one he’d always known. His home and family were gone now. He could do
whatever he wanted, go wherever he pleased, make a new life for himself. “You
have served me well, boy,” Lord Odfrey said. “My
name is Dain.” “You
acted well in saving my huntsman’s life. You brought us to the raiders
responsible for the attack on my village. For these acts I thank you.” Lord
Odfrey untied the food pouch from his saddle and held it out. Dain
made no move to take it. “Is food all I’m worth, lord?” Sir
Roye growled, and Lord Odfrey blinked. “You hunger, boy,” the chevard said.
“But if it’s gold you would rather have—” “My
name is Dain, and I want a place in your hold as my reward.” “Nay!”
Sir Roye shouted before Lord Odfrey could answer. The knight glared at Dain,
his yellow eyes afire. “There can be no pagan in a faithful hold. Morde a day,
he would bring ill luck to us all—” Arrows
came whistling through the trees into their midst, a whole volley of them. One
skimmed over Dain’s shoulder, making him flinch and dive for cover. Several
struck Sir Roye’s back, bouncing off his armor harmlessly. One hit Lord Odfrey
in the face. There
was a spurt of blood, and the chevard reeled back in his saddle. Quicker than
thought, Dain jumped and caught him before he could topple off his horse. The
charger whipped its armored head around and bit Dain in his side. The
pain made him shout aloud. Doubling his fist, he struck the horse across its
tender muzzle. The horse released him, and Dain sucked in a shaky breath
against the agony flooding his side. He could feel blood oozing along his skin
beneath his tunic, but he dared not look. He
was still holding the chevard up, and the man in his armor weighed so much Dain
thought he would sink into the ground beneath him. Sir Roye shouted something
and rode around to Lord Odfrey’s other side. Leaning over, Sir Roye gripped
Lord Odfrey’s arm and pulled him upright. “M’lord!”
he was shouting urgently. “M’lord!” Lord
Odfrey groaned. He was still pressing his hand to his face, the arrow’s shaft
and fletching protruding from his fingers. Blood ran everywhere, soaking into
his surcoat and trickling down his armor. From
the trees around them, a harrowing cry rose and drums beat like thunder. Dain
climbed onto Lord Odfrey’s horse and straddled it in front of the saddle. He
was practically sitting on the horse’s thick neck, but he grabbed the reins and
said, “Hold on to me, lord.” The
chevard was breathing hard, making a faint groaning sound beneath each ragged
breath. He swayed and turned toward Sir Roye. “Pull it out,” he gasped harshly. Sir
Roye’s gaze swiveled from him to the dwarves, visible now as they came swarming
from three sides. The other knight, whose name Dain did not know, lifted a horn
to his lips and blew on it loudly. In the distance another horn answered. “Pull
it out!” Lord Odfrey ordered. “Damne, do as I command.” Sir
Roye’s fierce narrow face knotted in consternation, but he reached across and
gripped the shaft of the arrow. “If it’s in your eye, I’ll kill you,” he said. Lord
Odfrey shuddered and struck Dain in the back with his fist. Dain
looked at Sir Roye and saw the older man’s love for the chevard warring in his
eyes with what he knew had to be done. “Pull it out,” Dain said. Sir
Roye scowled and gave a quick, hard tug. The arrow came out with a great gout
of blood that spurted across the back of Dain’s head and shoulders. Lord Odfrey
cried out and slumped against Dain, who struggled to sit erect and support his
weight. “They’re
on us!” the other knight shouted, drawing his sword. Another
volley of arrows flew at them. Dain wheeled the charger around, using the reins
as he had seen the other men do. The horse backed its ears and fought him,
half-rearing, but the arrows skimmed by without striking Dain. He heard some of
them hit Lord Odfrey’s armored back and fall to the ground. Shouting
hoarse war cries of their own, Sir Roye and the other knight closed ranks and
charged the rush of dwarves, although they were hopelessly outnumbered. Lord
Odfrey’s horse was still fighting Dain, trying to swing itself around toward
the battle. While
he was struggling with it, Dain felt Lord Odfrey lift himself. His visor
clanged down, and the man shakily drew his sword, nearly cutting Dain’s thigh
in doing so. “Boy,”
he said, his voice thin and muffled inside his helmet, “have you any magic to
stanch this wound?” Dwarves
surrounded the two knights on all sides, and more of them came rushing now
toward Dain and Lord Odfrey. Dain was afraid. His heart was pounding so hard he
thought it would break his ribs. He believed that Lord Odfrey was going to
swoon and fall off the horse at any moment. They had to get out of here. “Boy,”
Lord Odfrey said again. Dain
shook his head. “Nay, lord. None.” Lord
Odfrey gripped his shoulder with such force Dain thought his bones might crack,
then said, “Drop the reins on his neck. Let him fight for us. We’ll stand here.
We will not run.” The
chevard’s courage shamed Dain. He dropped the reins as commanded, and at once
the brawny charger blew through its nostrils and wheeled around to meet the
oncoming dwarves. He reared and struck out with his forefeet, bringing two of
the dwarves down. As
the horse landed, he leaped forward. Dain was nearly unseated, but Lord Odfrey
leaned forward with the horse, using its impetus as he swung his sword. A
dwarf staggered back, his head half-severed from his neck. Cruel
fingers gripped Dain’s left knee and tugged hard, trying to pull him off. He
twisted around and stabbed the dwarf’s forearm with his dagger. Screaming, the
dwarf released him and
stumbled back. But two others took his place. Lord Odfrey lifted his sword over
Dain’s head and swung down, eliminating them both. Dain
heard the chevard grunt with the effort, but his courage and refusal to give up
infected Dain with the same fiery spirit. Together they fought, circling as the
dwarves tried to surround them. After a while, Sir Roye fought his way back to
Lord Odfrey’s side, protecting him with great ferocity. Then
a horn blew, and from Dain’s left came twenty or more Mandrian knights riding
through the trees like vengeance itself. They plowed into the dwarf war party
and attacked them from their flank, driving them back while some of the knights
forced their way to Lord Odfrey’s side, shielding him from further harm. A
few minutes later, minutes that seemed to last an eternity to Dain, sudden
quiet descended upon the forest. The dead and dying lay sprawled everywhere,
their blood soaking into the ground. Silence held the forest, broken only by
the harsh breathing of the survivors, who lifted their visors and showed
strained, sweat-soaked faces to each other. Sir
Roye glared fiercely around, then sheathed his sword. He reached out and
gripped Lord Odfrey’s sword arm. “M’lord,” he said, his voice hoarse with
fatigue and worry. “It’s over. M’lord, let me take your sword.” Lord
Odfrey sat there in silence as though he did not comprehend, but at last he let
Sir Roye pull his bloody sword from his hand. “Home,”
he said in a strained whisper. Sir
Roye nodded to Dain, who gathered up the charger’s reins. “Go easy with him,
boy.” Dain
nodded, coaxing the weary charger into a walk. Sir
Roye rode close on his right. Another knight crowded close on the left. “Know
you the way?” Sir Roye asked. “I’m fair turned about in these infernal trees.” “I
know the way,” Dain said. Conscious
of the importance of his task, he picked a path over the dead Bnen, his enemies
no longer. Deep weariness sagged through him. but he resisted it, refusing to
give way to the long shudders that shook him. He had never been in battle
before. The smell of death hung thick over the woods, tainting them now. He was
glad the Mandrian knights did not joke and laugh as they rode home behind his
lead. They talked softly among themselves, but did not make merry. He noticed
that several seemed to be praying, making the circle of their faith as they did
so. He respected them for that. Good-bye,
Thia, he thought. Sleep well in your resting place. I go to a new life
among men. You would not like it. You would tell me to beware, for men are
never to be trusted. But I trust this man. His heart is good, and he has honor
in him. Lord
Odfrey moaned quietly and slumped against Dain’s back. Sir Roye gripped his
arm, steadying him to keep him from falling, and thus did they ride forth from
the Dark Forest, crossing the bridge that spanned the river whose name Dain did
not know. The bridge guards stared at them, openmouthed and red-faced with
admiration, and closed the gates behind them. When
they reached the opposite bank, the road stretched ahead, leading to a slight
rise of ground. There rose the tall stone walls of Thirst Hold, a gray fortress
with banners flying against the sky. Seeing
it, Dain shivered slightly. His fear and distrust returned and he knew fresh
temptation to return to the forest and make a solitary life for himself. He
could journey to the north, to see Nether. He could explore the world. Yet
the world seemed too big just now. He was cold and hungry, and he hurt all
over. Surely Lord Odfrey would give him a place here, where he would have
shelter and food in exchange for whatever work he would do. He’d sensed
agreement in the man’s mind before the last attack. For now, that was assurance
enough. The
massive gates to the hold stood open by the time the riders reached them. They
rode through, someone else taking the lead now. There was a cramped tunnel of
stone to pass along, then Dain emerged into a spacious, muddy keep surrounded
by walls and buildings of stone. Everything he saw amazed him. He could barely
take in half of it. And
people . . . there were people everywhere, thronging the courtyard and milling
around past another passageway that led into yet a larger yard. Towers rose
above the roofs of the tallest buildings. A few of the windows even glinted
with glass. He had never seen so much stone, or so much fodder stacked in
yellowing heaps next to barns, or so many chickens running and
squawking underfoot, or so many barrels and kegs of food. From the looks of
things, the inhabitants of several villages had crowded themselves within the
walls of the hold. How
they did clamor, shrieking and calling out questions, cheering and waving their
caps when the word went forth that the raiders were dead. They
yelled and stamped their feet and hooted and jumped for joy, pressing closer
until some of the knights shoved them back. “Make
way!” Sir Roye shouted impatiently. “Make way for the chevard!” The
cheers did not fade. The common folk seemed not to notice that Lord Odfrey was
wounded. They milled and scrambled out of the way heedlessly, until at last
Dain and Sir Roye rode through their midst and broke free into a third courtyard,
this one paved with large, smooth flagstones. The horses’ hooves clattered,
echoing off the buildings that towered above. Broad
steps led to a central building, one longer than it was tall and flanked by a
tower on either side. Servants swarmed down the steps and came hurrying to meet
Dain’s horse. “Fetch
Sulein at once,” Sir Roye ordered. “His lordship is badly hurt.” “Is
he dead?” a voice asked, only to be shushed. A
pair of boys gripped the war charger’s bridle, and one of them pulled the reins
from Dain’s hands. “Who’s that?” he asked, staring at Dain. No
one answered him. Eager
hands reached up and lowered Lord Odfrey gently from his horse. With his armor
on, he was no easy weight. Six men struggled to carry him up the steps and into
the building. Dain could hear dogs barking inside and the commotion of voices. Weary
to his very bones, Dain slid off the horse and walked around it to Sir Roye,
who was also dismounting. The
knight bowed his head and straightened slowly as though his joints ached. He
pulled off his helmet and pushed back his mail coif to reveal short-cropped
gray hair darkened with sweat. His yellow eyes held worry. “Where
now should I go?” Dain asked him. “Can I have the food Lord Odfrey offered me
earlier?” “Food?”
Sir Roye repeated. He turned his head around and focused on Dain as though he’d
forgotten the boy existed. He scowled. “Food?” “Yes,
I’m hungry—” “I
don’t care if you starve,” Sir Roye said, but he cut down the food pouch from
Lord Odfrey’s saddle and flung it at Dain. “There’s your reward. Now be off
with you.” Dain
clutched the pouch and stood there, determined to get what he wanted. “The lord
was going to give me a place—” “He
never did!” Sir Roye broke in angrily. “I
asked—” “Aye,
but he gave no promise.” The
two of them glared at each other until Dain finally looked away. Desperately he
said, “But I helped you. I led you to the Bnen. I saved the huntsman’s life. I
fought with—” “There’s
no place for the likes of you in Thirst Hold,” Sir Roye said. “Get back to
where you belong.” “But—” Sir
Roye beckoned to one of the mounted knights still nearby. “See to this,” he ordered,
then turned away and headed up the steps into the building. Dain
stood there, watching him go, and only then noticed that the stableboys were
staring at him with open hostility and fear. “What
is it?” one of them asked. The
other shook his head. “A demon maybe.” “Look
at them ears.” “Look
at them eyes.” “No!
Don’t look at its eyes. It’ll put a spell on ye!” The
knight backed up his horse. “You boys, see to the chevard’s horse. He’s fought
well today, and he deserves an extra ration of grain.” The
stableboys ignored him. “Get it!” one of them yelled. He picked up a dried
horse dropping and threw it at Dain. The other boy did the same. Pelted
with manure, Dain turned away from them and ran. The knight shouted after him,
and Dain glanced back to see him coming in pursuit, his horse’s shod hooves
clattering on the paving stones. In the gathering dusk, with the charger
snorting scarlet and sparks striking from its hooves, the knight looked like a
phantasm from the second world astride a darsteed. Dain
imagined the man picking him up by the scruff of his • neck
and riding to the gates of the hold, then flinging Dain into the mud. Refusing
to let that happen, Dain darted out of the paved courtyard and back into the
larger enclosure and the melee of villagers. Shoved and jostled, he quickly
ducked behind a stack of barrels where no one would notice him. Sinking to the
cold ground with a weary sigh, he glanced around warily, watching the knight
ride by, the war charger pushing through the crowds with ill temper. When the
horse kicked a serf and began to paw and champ its bit, the knight reined up
and dismounted. Another
knight in a torn and blood-splattered surcoat approached him on foot. “Masen, what
do you out here? Have that brute stabled and see to yourself.” Sir
Masen pushed back his mail coif, revealing a sweat-soaked tangle of light brown
hair. “Have you seen the eld boy, Terent? The one that rode with us?” “He’s
with the chevard, I thought.” “Nay.
Sir Roye dismissed him. I have orders to see him thrown out of the hold.” The
other knight swore. Dain crouched lower in his hiding place, hardly daring to
breathe. He feared that both of them would resume the search. “It
grows late,” Sir Terent said. “I’m frozen to the bone. Let’s see ourselves to a
fire first, then we’ll worry about the eld. It’s too late anyway for tonight.
The gates are closing.” Sir
Masen hesitated, but after a moment his friend persuaded him. Together, they
walked to the guardhouse and the long barracks beyond it, their spurs jingling
with every step. Small boys scampered behind them in obvious hero worship. Relieved,
Dain sank onto his haunches and gulped in several deep breaths. He had a chance
now to hide himself well before they hunted him again. Grinning, he delved into
the pouch and pulled out a wedge of cheese, which he began to eat as fast as he
could choke it down. Exhaustion
dragged at him. He felt stiff with cold and his side ached with every breath.
He was terribly thirsty, and his hands were cut and skinned across the backs of
his knuckles where they’d been whipped by branches and briars during the wild
ride through the forest. The
deepening shadows were cold. The sun sloped low and dropped behind the towering
walls. He was in a place of strangers, most of whom would as soon slit his
throat as look at him. His one ally lay unconscious, perhaps dying. Although
Dain knew Lord Odfrey’s mind had intended to make the promise Dain asked for,
he had not actually given it voice before the arrow struck him. Sir
Roye was the kind of man who would accept only deed or command, not intention.
Dain grimaced and spit at the thought of Sir Roye, then went back to chewing
cheese. He didn’t care if they all cursed him. He needed somewhere to live
through the coming winter. Now that he was inside these walls, he wasn’t
leaving. Far
away in lower Mandria, a ponderous carriage halted on a low rise, and the Due
du Lindier pulled aside the leather curtain buttoned over the window. “Look, my
dear,” he said excitedly. Pheresa’s
gloved hands clenched tightly in her lap for a moment, but she allowed none of
her discomposure to show in her face. Obediently she leaned forward to gaze out
the window. One trailing end of her veil fell from her shoulder and dangled.
Ignoring it, she gripped the edge of the carriage window and peered out at her
future. The
air was mild and a rainy drizzle misted down, casting the world in shades of
hazy gray. She saw that they had halted in a wooded park of pleasing scope.
Venerable old chestnut trees, their knotty trunks furred with pale moss, spread
broad limbs that nearly touched the ground in places. Autumn-blooming cegnias
massed at the base of these trees, their fragrant blossoms vivid pink in hue. A
carpet of low-growing blue vineca meandered through the park like a road to
enchantment. Perky yellow difelias bloomed in scattered clumps. A stream, lined
with rounded stones, rushed and gurgled in a course parallel with the winding
road. “Oh!”
she said in delight, forgetting her nervousness. “How lovely. I have never seen
a more beautiful vista, yet how natural it looks, as though the gardener’s hand
was never here.” “Ladies
and their flowers,” her father said with an indulgent chuckle. “Look beyond, my
dear. There is the palace.” Pheresa
lifted her gaze to the horizon. Beyond the trees, looming through the mist,
sprawled a gray mass of stone and spire. She drew in a sharp breath. “Savroix!”
she whispered. It
was the size of a town, much larger than she’d expected despite all the tales
she’d been told. Pheresa
blinked at it, trying to take in its size, trying to convince herself that this
was indeed to be her new home. For a moment she felt lost and overwhelmed.
After all, for the past nine years of her life, she had been incarcerated in
the nuncery at Montreuv, cloistered there with other young maidens of the
highest birth to be educated in all that was desirable and ladylike. A week
past, her father had come for her. He was nearly a stranger, looking tall and
thin and impatient. She wondered when his hair had turned gray. When had he
acquired his limp? He’d bowed to her hastily, clearing his throat in a way she did
remember, and announced, “The king wants you to come live at Savroix. Get your
things ready, for I am to take you there immediately.” Since
then, Pheresa’s orderly life had become one of chaos and flurry. She’d been
given scant time to pack her belongings. Whisked home, she’d tried to
familiarize herself with the house and grounds, as well as the three younger
sisters she’d acquired in her absence, but her mother was wild with excitement
and kept her busy with fittings for gowns and all the accouterments necessary
for a lady of fashion. Nothing was ready. Her trunks at this moment contained
several half-finished gowns to be completed by the palace seamstresses. The
rest of her things would be sent to her later. Pheresa
did not understand the need for such haste. Normally a calm, well-ordered
maiden, she preferred life to follow an established routine. She had expected
to remain at Montreuv until spring, at which time she would celebrate her
eighteenth birthday. The nuns conducted a small, elegant ceremony for their
graduates. Pheresa had looked forward to wearing a gown of pure white, with a
diadem of silver in her hair and a bouquet of spring lilies in her hands, while
the benediction was pronounced over them and bells rang joyously. All
her life she had known what her future would hold. Her mother was Princess
Dianthelle, sister to the king. Her father was the Due du Lindier, one of
Mandria’s four marechals and a very great warrior. From birth, Pheresa had been
destined to wed the Heir to the Realm. She had met Gavril only once, when she
was eight years old and he was seven. They had gone through a trothing ceremony
to convey the intentions of their parents, although it was not a binding
contract of obligation on either side. All she remembered of Gavril was that he
was blond-haired, that he had snatched the best pastries for himself, and that
he had kicked her when no one was looking. In
the coming year, when Gavril reached his majority and was knighted, he would be
proclaimed Heir to the Realm. Upon achieving that title, he would be free to
marry. She expected to attend the ceremonies of his investiture. They would be
formally reintroduced. He would court her, and if she pleased him, he would
propose. Pheresa
was not a vain young woman, but she knew herself to be beautiful. Her figure
was well formed and graceful. Her blonde tresses held a natural tint of red,
bleached away carefully with the juice of lemons by her maidservant and kept
secret from the nuns. She had three freckles on her nose, which she considered
too long and slender; the freckles were bleached with lemons too. Now that she
was no longer under the aegis of the nuns, who disapproved of vanity, she
planned to powder her nose in the court fashion and vanquish her freckles
entirely. Her eyes were wide-set and light brown. She was intelligent, able to
read and write, versed in many subjects, and levelheaded. She looked forward to
parties and dancing, but she planned also to read and study a variety of topics
which the nuns had closed to her inquiring mind. These
had been her plans, but now they were thrown awry. She had not expected King
Verence to summon her so abruptly to the palace. She did not understand why she
was to live with him now, many months before she should even arrive to meet
Prince Gavril. Her cousin was away, being fostered. She could not even become
acquainted with him as she would like. “Well,
daughter?” her father asked now, beaming at her. His long narrow face was
flushed with excitement. He looked puffed up with pride, and she wished he were
not. “Is there no smile? Does the sight of your new home not please you?
Savroix, my dear. Savroix!” Pheresa
swallowed a sigh and summoned a wan smile to please him. “Yes, Father, Savroix
is certainly impressive. I did not expect it to be so large.” “There’s
nothing like it in all the world,” Lindier proclaimed, and rubbed his hands
together. He closed the leather curtain and gave the order for the carriage to
drive on. “Not much longer now, my dear, and then you shall be home.” She
frowned, unable to hide her distaste. “Why
do you look so?” he asked. “Do
you not find this summons odd?” she replied. “Odd?
Certainly not. It is a great honor extended to you. The king has followed your
progress and studies with much interest these past few years. Your conduct and
deportment have been reported to him as excellent. He is well pleased and now
he is impatient to meet you. What is wrong with that?” “Nothing,”
she said hastily. “I am honored by this opportunity to meet the king. But—” “But
what?” Lindier snapped. “Why do you frown so? Why do you quibble? What’s wrong
with you? Nerves?” “No,
your grace,” she said, casting her gaze down at her clenched hands. Slowly she
forced her fists to uncurl. “But must I live here now?” “Why
not? It is to be your home. The king wishes to get to know you, both as your
uncle and as your imminent father-in-law.” “But
that is the problem, Father,” she said, meeting Lindier’s eyes. “It is too
soon. Gavril has not proposed to me yet.” “He
will, my dear. He must!” “But
he is not bound to choose me.” “Custom
binds him,” Lindier said grimly. “But
not law. For me to be installed here in the palace, and waiting for him when he
returns next year . . . well, it looks too forward. It looks as though I expect
him to—that I am sure he will—that I—” “Nonsense!”
Lindier said heartily. “What is this mincing nicety about? Of course you expect
him to propose. We all do.” “But
I should not appear to be too confident.” “It
is custom,” Lindier repeated. “If
I offend his pride, this confidence will prove to be the gravest folly,” she
whispered unhappily. “I have heard that the prince is hot-tempered and
stubborn. If he feels coerced or pressured too hard, he may wish to look
elsewhere for his bride.” Lindier
snorted and gripped her hand briefly in his. “You worry too much. The boy is
young and high-spirited, but he is hardly a fool. One look at you, my dear, and
he will be captivated.” She
smiled at that. She could not help but be won by her father’s flattery;
however, as they swept through the imposing gates of the palace and rolled
along the long drive, her qualms returned. Still,
the wonders and beauty of the grounds amazed her. Her father pulled aside the
curtain so they could look out despite the misty rain, and she gasped at the
size of the fountain, which seemed as large as a lake. Cavorting sea creatures
and cherubs made of mossy stone spouted jets of water. The size and .scale of
them astonished her. Beyond the fountain lay gardens of riotous color and
formal pattern. The flowers glowed in the gentle rain, the day’s dreariness
making their hues seem brighter. The walls of the palace towered before her
with an immense grandeur of spires and statuary, and as she looked Pheresa’s
heart began to beat faster. /
shall be the mistress of all
this, she thought. It was the king’s
wish, and surely Gavril was no longer as spoiled and horrid as he had been when
he was a little child. Even if she did not like him, she liked Savroix very
much. The
carriage halted before a vast sweep of steps leading up to tall doors that
stood open. Servants in royal livery were lined up in a double row at
attention, and a purple carpet was rolled out between them. As
Pheresa was handed out of the carriage with tender care by her father, she met
his excited gaze and smiled fully for the first time. In her mind, it no longer
mattered if she and Gavril liked or disliked each other. She wanted Savroix for
her own. She would do whatever she had to in order to get it. Far
away at Thirst Hold, Gavril’s raid on the chevard’s cellars worked exactly as
planned. With almost everyone in the hold worried about whether Lord Odfrey
would live or die, it proved a simple matter to gain entry. Aoun and another
manservant coerced into helping carried out perhaps a dozen kegs of the
Sae-lutian mead and concealed them in an unused storeroom. Now
it was the eve of Aelintide. The servants had been abustle all day, making
preparations for tomorrow’s feasting and celebration of harvest. Julth Rondel,
steward of Thirst Hold, wanted to suspend the feast until Lord Odfrey
recovered, but Gavril had insisted the celebrations go on as planned. After
supper ended and while the chapel bell was ringing to call worshipers to
eventide mass, Gavril collected Mierre, Sir Los, and a servant to carry a keg
of the mead. He set out through the crisp night air, his breath puffing white
about his face, his jeweled poniard swinging at his side, his fur-lined cloak
keeping him warm. He
crossed the hold, walking at first with the general stream of knights and
servants going to the mass to pray for Lord Odfrey’s recovery, then splitting
off and proceeding onward. He noted with approval the long trestle tables and
harvest pole already placed in the stableyard. As he approached the guardhouse,
he saw lights in the windows and heard the sounds of comradely singing.
Sentries patrolled the battlements in silence, keeping the normal discipline of
the hold. Although the raiders had been defeated, the dwarf attack had greatly
unsettled the serfs. It had been with difficulty that they were persuaded to
leave the safety of the hold yesterday. Those who had been burned out were sent
off to make new homes for themselves, each survivor given a sack of essentials
such as a cooking pot, a hank of salted meat, a length of new-woven linsey to
make clothes, and a Circle to hang over their new hearth. Such largess
emboldened them greatly, and most set off without further persuasion, pausing
only to touch the door of the chapel with prayers for Lord Odfrey. Pausing
outside the door of the guardhouse, Gavril waited for Sir Los to step ahead of
him and pound on the thick wooden panels. The
singing died down, and the door swung open. “What’s the word o‘ the master?”
asked a gruff voice from within. “Nothing,”
Sir Los replied in his terse way. “His highness requests entry.” The
door opened wide, and the knights within rose to their feet, scraping back
stools and benches in a great crash of noise. Gavril
drew a deep breath. He was almost trembling inside with anticipation, but he
forced his emotions under rigid control. He did not want his excitement
misunderstood. “The
knights of Thirst Hold bid your highness enter, with welcome,” said the man at
the door. He
bowed low, and Gavril stepped inside. The
guardhouse was a round, stout structure, built of brick and stone. One half of
it held cells for miscreants and suspicious characters awaiting judgment and
floggings. The rest of the building was a single, open chamber filled with
tables and benches. The knights ate their meals here. In their off-duty hours
they diced, studied war strategies, assembled to hear reports and dispatches of
trouble on the border, and dictated letters to scribes. Seeing
one such individual now standing in the far corner, still clutching his pen in
ink-stained fingers, Gavril frowned and pointed at the man. “Scribe, you are
excused,” he said. The
scribe’s throat-apple jerked up and down. With a hasty bow, he gathered up
scraps of parchment, his inkwell, his leather roll, and his assortment of
battered pens. Bowing again, he scuttled past Gavril and his party, and exited
out the door into the night. Gavril
glanced around at the silent, respectful faces. One man, Sir Bosquecel, captain
of the guard, was conspicuously absent. No doubt he had gone to mass. Having
counted on that, Gavril concealed an inner smile of satisfaction. “Come
to the fire, your highness,” Sir Terent said. He was the man who had opened the
door to them. Balding and ruddy-faced, he gestured toward the hearth, where a
modest fire burned amidst crumbled embers and white ashes. “Please accept our
hospitality and have a chair. Sir Nynth, pour his highness and these companions
a cup of cider.” Gavril
allowed himself to be ushered closer to the fire, but he did not sit down, and
he did not accept the hastily poured cup offered to him. “Please, sir knights.
Allow me to offer you a gift instead.” He gestured, and his servant set the keg
on the closest table. “Saelutian mead, good sirs,” Gavril said proudly, beaming
at them. “The best quality, fit for the best knights in service in upland
Mandria. Let us drink a toast to your recent success in battle.” Silence
fell over the room. Many of the knights looked away. Some frowned at Gavril.
Others looked shocked. Taken
aback by their unexpected reaction, Gavril allowed his smile to fade from his
face. He stared back at them, his pulse beginning to race inside his collar.
“What’s amiss?” he asked, and hated it that he had to ask such a question. In
that instant he felt like an unschooled boy in a company of men. He did not
like the feeling at all. When
no one immediately replied, he frowned and gestured at the keg. “This gift is
both costly and rare, worthy of the valor you displayed against the dwarf
raiders. Will you not drink it with me, on this eve of Aelintide?” Red-faced,
Sir Terent drew himself to his full stature, standing head and shoulders above
Gavril. He cleared his throat and said with hesitation, “Your highness is most
generous. Thanks do we give you for this gift, but we’ll not accept it.” Gavril’s
face was on fire. He did not understand, and there was no chamberlain on hand
to murmur a swift explanation in his ear. Social gaffes were unbecoming to
princes of the realm. So far no one had dared to laugh at him. Their
expressions stayed most solemn. But he held himself rigidly, feeling like a
fool and insulted past bearing at their refusal. When
he could master his voice, he said, “May I know why you refuse?” Sir
Terent’s eyes held kindness and dismay. Bowing his bald head, he said quietly,
“Prayed we have to Tomias the Prophet, asking that Lord Odfrey’s life be
spared. Gave we our oaths of personal sacrifice. While strong drink is
permitted on Aelintide, our vows were made not to partake of it until Lord
Odfrey is whole again.” Gavril’s
head snapped up. His pulse was throbbing in his throat now. His face flamed
hotter than ever, and certainty that it was red upset him even more. Someone
should have told him about this. Someone would pay for letting him make such a
mistake. “I
see,” he said, his voice tight. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect of your
oaths. Had I known—” “But
wasn’t your highness at morning mass?” Sir Nynth asked, frowning. “Yes,
of course I was,” Gavril replied. “We
gave our oaths then,” Sir Nynth said. Gavril
swallowed, feeling more a fool than ever. He had heard no such oaths, but then
he hadn’t been paying attention. Having conducted his private devotionals at
dawn in his own prayer-cabinet, he’d spent his time at mass deep in thought,
planning this evening. With a scowl, he promised himself that everyone in his
service would be punished for letting this happen. “Perhaps
your highness simply forgot,” Sir Terent said. “Or
perhaps your highness didn’t hear.” These
huge, ill-educated oafs were trying to be kind. Gavril wanted to choke. He
glanced at the door, ready to plunge outside and escape this nightmare, but for
the second time Sir Terent offered him a cup of that dreadful cider. “Drink
with us, your highness, but we’ll remain sober if it please you.” “Very
well.” He could do little else but take the cup. With ill grace he quaffed it,
and shuddered at the taste. Laughing
in restored good humor, the knights raised their own cups and drank after him. “Now
then,” Sir Terent said, pushing forward the room’s only tall-backed chair.
“Take our seat of honor and bide with us for a time.” Rough-mannered
or not, the offer was a gracious one. Gavril knew it was rare for knights to
consort with boys in training such as himself. Ordinarily only those holding
the rank of full knight could enter here, much less be invited to stay longer
than a few minutes. But although he accepted the honor, and seated himself
stiffly in the chair, he was still smarting from his thwarted plans to bribe
them. Now he would have to think of a different approach. “Tell
me, Sir Terent,” he said. “Do you think the dwarves have truly been routed? Or will
there be more trouble?” “None
from that lot!” shouted someone in the back of the room. Others swiftly
silenced him. Sir
Terent turned red-faced again. “If there are more Bnen uprisings, there may be
trouble all winter. That’s what we don’t know yet.” “Ah.”
Gavril leaned forward, thrilled to be discussing strategy. For a moment he
almost forgot his own plans. “Have you sent scouts into the forest?” “The
captain’s not yet given the order. He may be waiting till after Aelintide, but
more than likely he’d rather get his information right here.“ “I
don’t understand.” Sir
Terent grinned and said, “From our eld.” Gavril
frowned. “What eld?” “The
young ‘un what took us into battle,” said Sir Deloit in his thick uplander accent.
Grizzled and old, with a puckered scar running through his left eye, he slammed
his fist on the table with a grunt of admiration. “Like a gift from Thod, he
was, appearing on our road at just the right time. Led us true, he did,
straight to ’em. And like a burr did he stick to our lord and master. Naught
harmed him, though he be right in the thick of battle. A gift from Thod, he
was, all right. It’s him we want to ask about dwarf uprisings.” A
terrible suspicion began to coil through Gavril’s mind. There couldn’t be two
eldin in the vicinity. Not two young ones. Could there? Again,
he had not been told this gossip. It did not matter to him that he’d been so
busy organizing and carrying out the recovery of his stolen wine and mead that
he’d paid no heed to anything else. Someone should have informed him. Leaning
back in his chair, Gavril shot a dagger glance in Sir Los’s direction. The
protector’s gaze shifted uneasily, and Gavril’s anger boiled higher. Sir Los
had known but had not told him. Unforgivable. Sir
Nynth, an ugly dark-haired man with keen eyes, edged closer. “Tell us, your
highness. How do we go about taming our eld? Getting him to come forth from
hiding and trust us?” Gavril
blinked at him in startlement. “Say you that the eld is inside the hold?” “Aye,”
Sir Terent said with a nod. Gavril
clenched his hands upon the chair arms. “What does he look like, this eld?” “He’s
about your highness’s height, but skinny. Black-haired. Young.” Gavril
drew in his breath sharply. “I’ve seen this pagan before.” The
knights exchanged delighted glances. “Does your highness know him? Know his
name?” Sir Terent asked eagerly. “No.” “Sir
Bosquecel says he is called Dain,” Sir Alard contributed in his soft voice. “That’s
not an eldin name,” another knight farther back protested. “They’re all called
by names as long as your arm, names that tangle your tongue right up.” “We’re
trying to get him to trust us and come out of hiding,” Sir Terent explained. “Are
you sure he hasn’t left?” Gavril asked. “Perhaps when the villagers departed
yesterday—” “Nay.
I saw him slinking past the food cellars like a cat midday,” said the one-eyed
old knight. “I maybe got only one eye, but it sees sharp. He’s still hanging
about. We got to catch him, see?” “Yes,
of course you must,” Gavril said. “It will not do to have a pagan running
freely about the hold.” “Aye,
he ought to be brought in and given proper shelter,” Sir Terent said with a
smile that showed where his front teeth had been knocked out in some past
battle. “And thanked rightly for what he did for us. Nocine the huntsman owes
the boy his life.” “Nocine?”
Gavril echoed. “Aye.
Saved him with spellcraft.” Disapproval
sank through Gavril like a stone through water. He stared at Sir Terent with a
stern face. “Spellcraft is against Writ.” “Aye,
of course,” the knight agreed with a casualness that made Gavril determined to
write down his name as soon as he returned to his chambers tonight. He was
starting to compile lists of such names, ferreting out the unfaithful for
Cardinal Noncire’s information. Sir Terent leaned forward. “But he is what he
is. Can’t help it, I figure. Anyway, we want to thank him. Make him our mascot
and—” Gavril
shot to his feet, causing Sir Terent to break off. “Make him your what?” the
prince shouted. “Our
mascot,” Sir Terent repeated. “He
brought us wondrous luck,” Sir Nynth said. Other
knights were nodding. “Aye,”
Sir Deloit said. “Took us through forest so twisted we couldn’t never found our
way back out again. But he knew all the ways. Saw trails we didn’t see. Sniffed
his way through, most like. But he didn’t get lost once in all the day. Quick- witted
too, he is. If ever we go back into Nold, it’s that boy I want guiding me.“ Other
voices lifted in agreement. Listening
to them, Gavril somehow managed to master his shock and outrage. Uplanders were
notorious backsliders, always letting their faith falter in favor of the old
ways. Many were lenient toward pagans, just as these knights were tonight. They
saw no contradiction between that and their oaths of faithfulness to the Writ. But
beyond that, Gavril was thinking of the qualities the knights kept mentioning
about this Dain. He remembered the eld he had hunted only a few days ago, the
eld with black hair and eyes of pagan gray, the eld who had defied him and
fought back with a fearlessness that now made Gavril wonder. Could this eld be
put to his use? If Dain truly knew his way about the Dark Forest, then did he
know how to find the Field of Skulls? And beyond that, did he perhaps know
where to find the Chalice of Eternal Life? Even if Gavril bribed these oafs
into searching the forest for him, it was clear they knew not where to look. A
corner of Gavril’s heart warned him against the temptation of using pagans in
his service. It was opening the gate to worse temptations. But he felt strong
in his faith, and certain that he could withstand whatever might try to turn
him from the truth of Writ. Was it sinfully wrong to use a pagan in his search
for the missing Chalice? Gavril
envisioned putting Dain in a harness, a collar and chain on his throat like a
leashed dog. He would ride through the Dark Forest with Dain trotting ahead of
him, hunting the Chalice, leading the way to success. “Your
highness?” Sir Terent said, jolting Gavril from his thoughts. He
blinked stupidly, trying to gather his wits and remember what had been said
around him. “Yes?” “I
asked what we should do to catch him,” Sir Terent said. “I’m sorry if your
highness is too tired. It’s just—I thought since your highness has been
schooled so much in the Writ and the faith, you might know more about the pagan
ways than we do. You might know how to make him trust us.” Gavril
hesitated only a second, then he smiled. “Of course. I would be most pleased to
assist you.” Sir
Terent bowed, his ruddy face showing gratitude. Sir Deloit banged his gnarled hand
on the table. “And I say that we ought to try tolling him out with food. Leave
it about, easy like, and he’ll come for it. Bound to be hungry by now.” “An excellent idea,” Gavril said. “Then
we’ll do that,” Sir Terent said. He glanced at the other knights with a smile
and nod. “I
must take my leave now,” Gavril told them. “I will think on this matter and
give you what help I can. Perhaps I and the other fosters will try our hand at
pursuing him.” As
he spoke, he glanced over his shoulder at Mierre, who gave him a quick smile. “Chasing
him is likely going to scare him worse,” the old knight started in, but someone
put a hand on his shoulder to silence him. Gavril
frowned. He’d had enough advice from that quarter. “Good night to you, sir
knights,” he said with gracious courtesy. “Good Aelintide as well.” They
bowed, chorusing, “Good Aelintide, your highness.” “I
will wish you luck, also, in tomorrow’s games and melee.” Sir
Terent’s smile vanished, and again an uncomfortable silence fell over the room.
“There will be none.” Gavril
stared in fresh surprise. “No contests?” “Not
while our lord lies so gravely ill.” “I
see.” Gavril felt his face growing hot again. He tried to hide his discomfiture
by adjusting the heavy folds of his cloak. “Well, then, let us be glad there is
still to be a feast.” He
turned to go, and Sir Los hurried ahead of him to thrust open the door. “Wait,
your highness!” Sir Terent called after him. Gavril
turned back to see the knight coming with the keg. “No,”
Gavril said, lifting his hand. “Keep my gift.” “We
cannot accept it,” Sir Terent said. “You
said you will not drink it until Lord Odfrey is well.” Gavril forced a smile to
his lips, still desirous of addicting the company to this wondrous mead so that
their allegiance would thereafter belong to him. “Save it until that time, then
drink it in celebration.” Some
of the knights lifted merry cheers, but Sir Terent still looked troubled. “Lord
Odfrey disapproves of strong drink.” “It’s
fine mead,” Gavril said. “But if
you wish, feed it to the swine.“ Mierre
stepped forward, looking red-faced and shy before the men. “It’s not polite to
refuse a gift from the prince,” he muttered in warning. Sir
Terent, thus crudely informed of proper protocol, blinked and stepped back.
“Forgive me,” he said in haste. “I meant no offense to your highness.” “None
is taken,” Gavril said sweetly. “Good night.” He walked out, his small
entourage trailing behind him. With every crunching step across the frozen mud
of the stable-yard, his iron control slipped another notch. Seething, he
whirled at last and struck Sir Los in the chest with his fist. The blow banged
against Sir Los’s hauberk, hurting Gavril’s hand, but he was too furious to
care. “You
knew,” he said in a low spiteful voice. “You knew about the eld and you said
nothing. You knew about their oaths, and you warned me not. If I were home in
Savroix, I’d have your ears and tongue cut as a reward for such service.” Sir
Los stared at him through the darkness. “I am your knight protector. I guard
your life with my own. Would you chase the eld yourself and risk being burned
or killed with his spellcraft? Better to let the knights catch him. Better for
your highness to stay far away from him. He would have done you harm that day
in the marsh.” Despite
his anger, Gavril knew his protector’s words were true. He drew in an angry
breath, his chest heaving, then spun about on his heel and strode off without
another word. The
others followed him in silence. After a moment he reached out and gripped
Mierre by his muscular arm. “You will catch him,” he said in a voice like iron.
“You will trap him and bring him to me. You and Kaltienne work at this.” “Aye, your highness,” Mierre said. Gavril
listened for any sound of doubt or cowardice, but Mierre sounded as confident
as always. “You do not fear his spellcraft?” Gavril asked. “Not
much,” Mierre said. “My grandsire sometimes had eldin come about the place when
I was little. They were always gentle.” “This
one isn’t,” Gavril warned him. “I’ll
catch him. Worry not,” Mierre
said. “Besides, I know how to ward him off, if I have to.” Gavril
frowned in the darkness. As he strode into the paved courtyard, he saw that the
chapel lights had gone dark. All was still and quiet. It must be late, he knew.
He had stayed too long with the knights. He
started to warn Mierre against using the old ways, for such were forbidden, but
then he bit his tongue. For once he would look the other way and pretend he did
not understand what Mierre meant. It’s for the Chalice,
he assured his conscience. “Be
quick about it, if you can,” he said at last. “We have free rein only while the
chevard lies ill. If he recovers, we’ll be back in chores, unable to come and
go as we please.” “Aye,
this is better,” Mierre agreed with a grin. “Your highness?” “Yes?” “What
about some of that mead for ourselves? We deserve it, after all we’ve done.” Gavril
spun about and struck Mierre across the face, too furious to govern himself
this time. “It’s not for you!” he shouted. “Not for anyone but whom I say.” Holding
his cheek, Mierre took a cautious step back. His green eyes were suddenly flat
and sullen. “I beg your high-ness’s pardon,” he said. Gavril
took several ragged breaths before he could haul his temper back under control.
“Not the mead,” he said at last, his voice more its normal tone. “Never the mead.
Is that clearly understood? Never.” “Aye,
your highness.” “We’ll
share wine or ale ... later. Tomorrow perhaps, if you bring me the eld.”
Gavril’s voice was still unsteady. He turned away from Mierre, appalled by how close
he could come to disaster if the wrong people got into that mead. It was no
brew for anyone except those Gavril wanted to master. He must take care to keep
the fosters well away from it. “I think,” Gavril said, “that you had better
leave me now.” Mierre bowed and ran off across the courtyard. Gavril
lingered a moment, gulping in cold air to clear his head. Sir Los dismissed the
gawking servant with a gesture and waited in patient silence. Finally
Gavril turned his steps toward the deserted chapel, where the last of the
incense still wafted from the brazier hanging outside the door. Gavril stepped
into the shadowy interior, which was lit only by a few votives flickering on
the altar. The domed ceiling rose overhead into shadows, its gilding reflecting
small glints of candlelight. It was painted with a scene of Tomias the Prophet
at the Sacred Well. Gavril
paid no attention to the ceiling painting, which he considered crudely drawn and
ill-colored by whatever local artisans Lord Odfrey had employed. His heart was
not stirred by the carvings on the altar, for they had a flavor of the old
ways. Instead, he focused his gaze on the“large Circle of gilded brass hanging
above the altar. As always, the sight of the cheap Circle annoyed him. Lord
Odfrey, he felt, should spend the money for a Circle of solid gold. Sighing,
Gavril sought to clear his mind. This evening he had been crossed by many
temptations. He needed a cleansed heart in order to keep his vows and the path
he had chosen. Genuflecting,
Gavril pressed his face against the floor and began to pray. Shivering
in the shadows, his breath steaming about his face, Dain watched the prince
enter the small chapel, his elegant, cloaked figure momentarily silhouetted as
the door swung open to admit him. The prince’s protector followed him, then all
lay quiet beneath the hand of darkness. Dain had heard every word of the
conversation between Prince Gavril and the larger boy called Mierre. He
understood that they intended to catch him. Sighing,
Dain slipped from the courtyard and ducked into the warm, smelly kennels. He
snuggled in among the dogs, who licked his hands and chin sleepily. These were
not the prince’s dogs. Those red brutes were kept kenneled in a separate place. Dain
could have befriended them too, but he had not yet taken the trouble. Weary
and afraid, he made himself a nest in the straw and basked in the warmth of the
dogs. Gavril would either hurt him or kill him if he let himself be caught.
Dain grimaced angrily in the darkness and vowed not to let it happen. He was
determined to stay here through the winter, but he refused to be prey for the
cruel prince and his companions. At
dawn, the chapel bell rang loudly, shattering all the natural song in the
world. Startled awake, Dain sat bolt upright. The dogs clambered to their feet,
shook their coats, and whined in anticipation of their morning meal of raw
fish. Angry
at himself for having slept so late, Dain scrambled out of the kennel and
ducked into a damp alcove over one of the cisterns. Crouched in there, his back
wedged against the clammy stones, he listened while the kennelmaster came
shuffling along, hitching up his untied leggings with one hand and scrubbing
the sleep from his face with the other. “Merry
Aelintide to you,” he called out to the dogs, who barked back gleefully. Dain
whispered the word to himself. Aelintide, the great harvest feast. Now he
understood what the frenzied work and preparations had been for. The
past few days, harvesters had been bringing food into the hold, until there
seemed to be enough to feed all the world. Dain had never before seen such
bounty. The dwarves were not good farmers. Jorb had sometimes grown a small
patch of* root vegetables to help them get through the winter. Thia loved
tending it, although she preferred flowers to the mundane cabbages, turnips,
toties, and fingerlings. She would stand in the patch with a hoe in hand and
the sun warming her face. She sang so beautifully that the birds would come and
perch on her shoulders, singing with her while bees buzzed amid her flowers in
low, droning counterpoint. But
these Mandrians were not like the dwarves. Instead, they farmed large fields.
Hordes of serfs hoed and pulled weeds throughout the long growing season, then
in autumn they went forth to scythe, winnow, and stack sheaves. Millers
wearing Thirst green took charge of the grain brought to the hold in tall-sided
carts. They ground flour and baked bread to be sold back to the villagers. The
aroma of bak- ing
bread made Dain weak in the knees. With his mouth watering, he had skulked
about the ovens yesterday and had even risked plucking out a loaf, which was
still baking and only half-cooked. Its crust burned his hands, forcing him to
juggle it while he ran back into hiding. When he broke it open, a great cloud
of steam hit his face. The dough was gooey in the center. He bit into it and
burned his mouth. Thereafter he blew on it and nibbled, blew on it and nibbled,
marveling at the texture and whiteness of the bread. He ate it all, and later
was sick. But he did not care. One
of the many barns held a herd of cows that were taken outside the hold to a
pasture in the morning dawn and brought back in late afternoon. They were
milked every day, and plump women in kerchiefs and white aprons skimmed cream,
churned butter, and made large wheels of yellow cheese that were wrapped in
linen and stored in wooden hoop-shaped boxes stacked in a cool cellar. Men
smoked meats in a place built especially for the purpose. Hams and haunches of
mutton were hung from the rafters. Fish was filleted and hung up on wooden
dowels to dry over slow, smoky fires. Barrels of salted meat were stacked in
storerooms and cellars alongside sacks of brown toties and large purple
turnips. Baskets of quince, pears, and apples filled another building lined
with shelves to hold them all. Cider-making
went on all day long, filling the air with the fermenting fragrance of crushed
apples. Berries were put in huge outdoor kettles and boiled into a frothy,
sugary confection later spooned into lidded crocks. Young girls wearing long
aprons left the hold at early morn and trudged back at eventide, their aprons
full of herbs and grasses that were then chopped, dried, and stored in small
clay pots with corks. Such
a flurry of work went on around the preparation and storage of food that Dain
began to believe this was all the workers did, year-round. The Mandrians stored
up food like the dwarves stored up treasure. Then
late yesterday afternoon the work had stopped. The hold looked abandoned, for
everyone seemed to have gone indoors. When the bell rang at eventide, many of
the hold folk went to chapel for mass. Foul-smelling incense burned night and
day from a smoking brass brazier hung outside the chapel door. Dain did not
understand all the rituals of man-religion, but he understood that they were
praying for the recovery of Lord Odfrey. Dain
was also worried about the chevard. He could not pray to the dwarf gods for
mercy, for they did not govern the chevard’s fate. He knew very little about
the Church of Man-dria, because men-ways were also denied to him. As for the
eldin gods, if there were any, he had never been taught their ways and could
not call on them either. Feeling
bereft, he prayed instead to Thia’s spirit, now living as light and song within
the third world. In his mind he talked to her, for he had no one else. In the
few days he’d hidden himself here, he’d kept himself out of sight, fearing
capture and bodily harm, especially if Gavril caught him. The knights knew he
was here, for sometimes they searched for him. Other times they left bits of
food lying out, like lures for a trap. Dain was not so easily tricked. Already
he had learned the patterns of the place, when to venture out and when to stay
in hiding. The sentries patrolled the battlements and bridge spans between
towers. He had to make sure he skulked along the shadows and places where a
guard overhead could not see him. And
if he was lonely, at least he did not starve. At night he drank water from the
stone horse troughs. Food was easy to scavenge, for the hold folk were wasteful
and careless with it. The simpleton goosegirl left out crusts of bread to feed
the plump pidges that strutted and cooed along the roofs. Careless stableboys
sometimes abandoned half-eaten apples or tossed the cores away. Maidservants
carried out buckets of scraps at midday and eventide. This bounty was shared
first among the scrawny children who worked at keeping the paved courtyard
swept clean of leaves and horse droppings. The scraps they left were then given
as slop to the pigs. Once he found the food stores, Dain did not have to rob the
pigs. There was so much food, nothing would be missed. He had never seen such
bounty in his life. Now,
however, as he crouched with his feet planted on the lid of the cistern and
listened to the kennelmaster whistle and talk to the dogs, Dain felt a surge of
loneliness so great he almost pushed himself out into open sight. But he held
himself where he was, aching in a way he could not explain. Within
an hour or so, the smells of baking filled the air with scents that made his
mouth water and nearly drove him mad. Strains of music told him the festival
was starting. Curious to see some of it, Dain found himself a vantage point by
climbing the drainpipe leading to the stable roof and pulling himself inside a
window. There, in the fragrant, yellowed mounds of horse fodder, he could peer
out the window and watch the celebration in relative safety. At
first he did not recognize the servants who appeared and mistook them for
guests. They appeared in finery that made Dain stare round-eyed. Maids he’d seen
wearing tattered linsey gowns, their hair braided loosely down their back, were
now transformed by gowns of bright blue, crimson, or green, worn with
embroidered kirtles and linen undersleeves. Their hair was combed and braided
with ribbons into tight coils about their heads. The men had shed their livery
and wore new, brightly hued doublets over their old leggings. Trestles
and boards had already been made into long tables that stretched across the
yard. More servants carried out platter after platter of meat, pies, bowls of
steaming vegetables, more pies, wedges of cheese, loaves of bread, pastries,
yet more pies, and jug after jug of cider to wash it all down. For
Dain, crouched in his hiding place, this feast was the most enticing vision he’d
ever seen. Wishing he, too, could be a guest, he drank in the sights and
sniffed the wondrous smells. The knights, looking manly and splendid in their
vivid surcoats, their beards neatly trimmed and their hair combed back, filed
forth from the barracks. Led by the captain of the guard, they sat at one of
the long tables, and the servants sat at the other. All the workers, from the
sweeps to the stableboys to the milkmaids to the cheese-makers and so on, sat
and feasted together, clinking their brass cups in toasts, tossing bones to the
dogs, laughing and jesting in good fellowship. “Merry
Aelintide to you,” they called out to each other in courtesy. “May Thod
preserve Lord Odfrey.” “Amen,”
came the replies. They
feasted all afternoon, until the shadows grew long and the cows lowed in the
barn for milking. Scattering, they threw on smocks to protect their finery and
went about their chores, feeding the animals but doing little else. A
short mass was held, then torches were lit and music struck up. They danced and
feasted yet more, making merry half the night. Inside the central, long
building that Dain now knew as the Hall, lights shone from the windows, and the
sound of music rose and fell in strange rhythms that made him long to join in.
Leaving the stables, he slinked along in the shadows and peered in some of the
windows of the Hall. He
glimpsed house servants wearing garments that outshone those of the outside
workers. Torches and candles burned in every room of the ground floor, casting
a warm glow of light over furnishings that took his breath away. Dain had
sneaked looks inside before, but now the Hall seemed transformed. Gone were the
floor rushes; beautiful carpets lay spread out on the floor in their stead. The
homely stools and benches had vanished, replaced with chairs of fine woods. In
the ample candlelight, the tapestries on the walls were no longer huge, gloomy
hangings of cloth, but instead vivid depictions of men and women that seemed to
shimmer with life, as though magic was woven among the threads. One
of the boys called fosters came into sight. Peering through the window, Dain
stiffened with alarm, but he did not slip away. This one was not Mierre, who
was dangerous, or the younger boy who was a fool. Dain did not remember this
one’s name, but he marveled at the gorgeous doublet and leggings the boy wore.
He was tall and thin, his red hair glinting like copper in .the candlelight. He
wore a thin belt with a fine dagger hanging from it. A ring winked on his finger.
He was not a prince, but tonight he looked like one. All
too conscious of his own tattered and filthy rags, his unkempt hair that he cut
occasionally with a knife to keep it out of his eyes, Dain shivered in the cold
and watched this wealthy boy warming himself before a roaring fire. Mierre,
followed by the fool Kaltienne, walked into the room, carrying two cups. Mierre
handed one to the red-haired boy. They spoke together for a moment, with
Kaltienne laughing. The red-haired boy looked wary, Dain thought. Clearly they
were not friends. Then
the prince walked in, and a flare of heat rose through Dain that made him
forget how cold and miserable he was. He glared through the window at the
prince, whose magnificence outshone that of the other boys. Gavril wore velvet
and fur. His slender white fingers glittered with rings, and the gold bracelet
of royalty gleamed on his wrist. His dagger hilt shone with jew- els,
and the prince’s dark blue eyes twinkled in good humor. Lurking in the doorway
was the protector, in chain mail despite the festivities, wearing his sword as
he guarded the prince the way Sir Roye had sought to guard Lord Odfrey. Prince
Gavril laughed merrily and raised his cup in a toast. “Let us hail Aelintide
and the success of all ventures.” Everyone
drank deeply, except the red-haired boy, who sputtered at what was in his cup. “This
is wine!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?” “I brought it with me from Savroix,” the prince said, draining his cup. “But I thought it was locked away in the—” The red-haired
boy met Gavril’s narrowed eyes and broke off his sentence. “Thum
du Maltie, you remain a fool,” Gavril said with contempt. “No
one gave you permission to get it,” Thum said. His hand was white-knuckled
around his cup. “Lord Odfrey said our first day here that men in training do
not drink—” “Lord
Odfrey has nothing to say in this matter,” Gavril said sharply. “Leave me.” Thum
set down his cup and bowed low to the prince. He glanced at the other two boys,
and his face turned as red as his hair. In silence, he hurried out of sight. Kaltienne
mocked him, clasping his hands under his chin and capering about, pretending to
swoon. “Oh! Oh! I have tasted wine,” he cried in a high, falsetto voice. “I am
corrupted. My wits are rotted. I am undone.” Mierre
laughed robustly, flinging back his head. Picking up Thum’s cup, he drained its
contents and smacked his thick lips. “Do you think he’ll run and tell?” Kaltienne
stopped his antics and glowered, but Prince Gavril shrugged one elegant
shoulder. “No,” he said. “The Maltie honor will not let him. Now, what have you
accomplished today?” Mierre
frowned, exchanging a wary look with Kaltienne. “Accomplished?” “In
searching for the eld!” Gavril said angrily. “We have been at your highness’s
heels all day,” Mierre said. “Exactly.
Getting nothing done. I want him caught while everyone is too busy to notice
what we’re doing.” “I
looked this morning,” Kaltienne said. “But the hold is vast, with passages
running everywhere. We could search for days, even months before we—” Mierre
nudged him in the ribs, but too late. Gavril’s
face darkened. “You will find him tomorrow. By what means I care not. But you
will do it.” “But,
your highness—” Gavril
snapped his fingers. “Would you rather I order you to search all night in the
cold and the dark?” The
other boys silenced their protests and bowed. Glaring
at them both, Gavril strode away. They followed like whipped dogs. Outside,
in the frosty darkness, Dain’s hands curled into fists. He hated the prince,
hated him with more passion than he’d felt even against the Bnen. For a moment
he was tempted to sneak inside the Hall and confront Gavril. But there was the
protector to consider. Dain restrained his impulses and crept away to wait
until the last of the revelers grew tired and went to bed. When they finally did,
Dain crawled under the tables, scavenging with the cats and a stray dog or two
for whatever was left of the feast. Besting
a fierce old torn for a bone with a good bit of meat and gristle still attached
to it, Dain gnawed it clean, then broke it between his hands and sucked out the
marrow. “Merry Aelintide to me,” he muttered. In
the morning, bells rang across the land, echoing from long distances. The
chapel bell within the hold rang also, but with a muffled clapper. People
appeared soon thereafter, rushing through minimal chores in a slapdash way,
then resuming their festivities. Dain
wondered how long the merriment would last. In his experience, when the dwarves
feasted long into the night, come the morning after they quarreled and suffered
from ale-head. Dain had expected similar behavior, but then remembered that
most of the Mandrians had drunk cider the day before, not ale. A few
individuals crept about wincing and moaning, but they got scant sympathy. Still
in their finery, people set up a tall pole caped like a man with a huge yellow
gourd for a head and a paper crown on its head. “The
king of Aelintide,” they sang to it, and danced and made merry all morning. From
comments he overheard and the general air of mild disappointment, Dain learned
that the knights had been expected to joust for entertainment, but had
refrained out of respect for Lord Odfrey’s illness. The
servants, however, made do in the afternoon, with the men playing peculiar
games of contest involving the juggling of sticks and leather balls,
handstands, footraces, the balancing of eggs on their noses, and other
silliness. Their efforts were cheered on loudly by the spectators. The
stableboys drew lots and pulled off their tunics for wrestling, until they were
sweaty and winded from their efforts. At that time, Prince Gavril and the
bull-shouldered Mierre came out and exhibited thinsword dueling. As
he had the day before, Dain watched from the fodder loft of the stables.
Despite his dislike of the prince, he couldn’t help but be fascinated by the
intricate footwork and fancy sword-play. The duel was like a dance, every
movement graceful yet potentially deadly. Prince Gavril made a striking figure
in the sunshine, his hair gleaming gold, his lean, fit body lithe and quick in
comparison to the lumbering movements of his opponent. “Mierre,
hold your arm higher,” he would call out, then strike in a rapid staccato of
beat, feint, attack. Mierre
parried clumsily. Clearly he’d been given only the rudiments of training. His
big hand swallowed the hilt of his thinsword. He had the hands and muscles for
wielding a broadsword, not this delicate weapon. While
several of the knights watched from the crowd, the prince circled Mierre and
attacked again in a flurry of beautiful moves, ending with a flourish and a
solid smack of his blunted sword tip against Mierre’s chest. Applause broke out
from the spectators, and Prince Gavril bowed with a broad smile before clapping
Mierre on his shoulder and speaking a quick word in his ear. The
larger boy bowed and hurried away, and the prince sauntered over to speak to a
pretty maid in a blue gown, who curtsied and blushed at his attention. Some
of the knights looked less than impressed by Gavril’s exhibition. One of them
took Mierre’s thinsword and ran his fingers along its blade, flexing it and
shaking his head. Dain
drew back from the window, frowning at his tangle of emotions. He’d never seen
a thinsword before today, but suddenly he ached to learn how to use one. He
hated the prince, yet Gavril’s skill was admirable. Dain shoved the hair out of
his face, unprepared for his envy. The
smell of roasted meat suddenly filled the stable, rising above the horse
fragrance. Startled,
Dain jumped to his feet in alarm and sniffed the air. He could detect nothing
except the smell of the meat and dust from the fodder he’d disturbed. He
clamped his hand across his nose and mouth to hold back a sneeze. His mouth was
watering, and his stomach growled to fierce, insistent life. No
one was supposed to be in here except the horses; Dain had counted all the
stableboys earlier to make sure. He listened hard, but he heard no unusual
sounds. When he tried to focus his mind to sweep forth, all he could think
about was the meat and how hungry he was. Last
night’s scraps, after two days of watching people gorge themselves, was not
enough to hold him together. Outside,
music struck up, accompanied by shouts and laughter. Dain
didn’t bother to look out the window this time. He was tired of merriment he
could not join. His stomach rumbled again, and he pressed his hand against his
middle. It had to be a trap. If some of the stableboys or anyone else had
ducked in here for private merrymaking, there would be the sound of voices and
giggling. Instead, all he heard was quiet, broken by the occasional snort of
one of the horses in the stalls below. Easing
over to the window, Dain stared down at the people, who were now lining up to
dance. He saw Gavril talking to one of the knights. Thum was also in the crowd,
looking shy and talking to no one. Of Mierre and Kaltienne, there was no sign. Anger
touched Dain. So they thought he was some stray animal, stupid enough to be
enticed with food. He was hungry, but not yet so desperate he would throw away
his freedom for a mouthful of meat. Refusing
to panic, he tried to figure out what he should do. The
first step was clear. He had to get out of this building quickly before he found
himself trapped up here in the loft. How they’d located him hardly mattered. Dain
decided he’d better leave the hold completely. His hopes of staying seemed
futile and not worth the risk of being caught by Gavril or his minions. He
would steal enough provisions to last him well, then journey north into Nether
in search of the eldin as Thia had asked him to do. He
was not eager to go there. All his life, Jorb had told him it was not safe for
him and Thia to seek their own kind. In the past, eldin had lived scattered
through parts of Nold and even in the mountains of upper Mandria. But now, few
were sighted. Jorb said most had gone into the wilds of Nether. It was said to
be a cold, austere land, ruled by a dour king named Muncel, a land of cruel men
and harsh ways, savage and unfriendly. But Dain did not think the eldin were
welcome even in Nether. Gossip among the customers and traders who came to
Jorb’s forge said the eldin had been driven into hiding in the northernmost
mountains, as far perhaps as the fjords themselves, and could not be found. A
cheer went up from outside. Dain crawled through the fodder to look and saw a
long line of people dancing back and forth around the courtyard. A blushing
maiden was standing next to the gourd and pole king of Aelintide. As the line
of people passed her, the men bowed and the women curtsied. “Harvest
queen!” they shouted to her. Dain
frowned, no longer interested in their rituals. He heard a shuffle from below, and
a quick grunt of exasperation, and knew his time had run out. He
could make larger decisions about where to go later. Right now, he’d better
keep his wits focused on the problem at hand. To
the sound of stealthy creaks coming from the simple pole ladder leading to the
loft, Dain turned back to the window and thrust his head and shoulders through
the small opening, twisting painfully to fit. In his haste, he inadvertently
caused the open shutter to bang. “Hey!”
shouted Mierre’s voice. “Come this way. I think he’s up here!” Cursing
softly beneath his breath, Dain hoped the merrymakers were enjoying their
dancing too much to look up and see him. The drainpipe could be seen from the
yard. He dared not try to go that way. With
one hand bracing himself on the slate roof tiles, he looked straight down into
the narrow space between the stables and the cow barn next to it. If he
slipped, he had a long way to fall. Squinting
against the sunshine, Dain pulled up his legs and stood on the sill of the
small window. Boosting himself, he scrambled up onto the roof and climbed
rapidly, slipping and sliding on the tiles as he went. Behind
him, he heard a frustrated grunt. Mierre’s voice called out, “He went through
the window. I can’t fit.” “I’ll
go!” said Kaltienne. “Get
after him then,” Mierre said. “And if the pagan can fly, see that you do it
too. I’ve no head for heights. I’m going down.” “Coward,”
Kaltienne taunted him. “Listen!
He’s going over the roof. Hear that?” “How
can I not?” “Hurry!”
Mierre ordered in exasperation. “I’ll go down to see which way he goes.” By
now Dain had reached the iron spire atop the ridgepole of the stables. He
crouched there, shivering in the cold wind, and found himself nearly as high as
some of the towers. One of the sentries on the wall saw him, gave a shout, and
pointed. Cursing
him, Dain slithered down the other side of the roof, crouching low on his
haunches and skidding along on his heels. By the time he reached the edge, he
was going much too fast to stop. Dain’s heart jumped into his mouth, but if he
lost his nerve now he would surely fall. Yelling,
he stood up at the last moment and leaped with all his might across the gap
between the stables and the next building. He landed on the other roof, lost
his balance, fell flat, and began to slide down. But
this building had a ledge of sorts to channel water along the edge of the roof.
Dain’s toes struck it, and he stopped sliding. He lay there a moment, his
sweating face pressed against the slate, and waited for his heart to stop
thudding so violently. Shouts
from below sent him scrambling up and over the ridgepole of this building. On
the other side, he found a drain- pipe
and climbed down it as far as he could, then jumped lightly the rest of the way
to the ground. He
listened a moment, gauging from which way his pursuers were coming, and ran
swiftly in the other direction. A
shout from one of the sentries made him glance over his shoulder. He saw the
knight gesturing from his vantage point on the battlements. Dain snarled to
himself. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Time to go to ground, and get
himself out of their sight. He
dodged around the rear of the storehouse, considered the cellars rowed up
behind it, and rejected them as dead ends. The boys were still coming. Dain ran
on and stopped worrying about who else might see him. He careened past the
simple goosegirl feeding her charges with grain from her apron. Clad in her
usual rags, with only a scarlet kerchief tied around her throat for finery, she
watched him run by with her mouth open in a large O. A
wall rose up before him. It was the base of one of the towers. Behind him, the
boys shouted jubilantly. Dain’s determination grew. He ran straight toward the
wall and bounded up the kegs stacked there as lightly and surefootedly as a
young stag. Teetering
on the very top keg as it shifted and swayed beneath his weight, Dain jumped
for the window overhead. His outstretched fingers grazed the bottom sill and
missed. The keg wobbled under his feet, and Dain felt the whole stack going. He
jumped again, kicking the keg out from under him, and this time his fingers
grabbed the sill. He
held on grimly, his fingers aching from the strain. Clawing desperately with
his other hand, he managed to pull himself up. Belly-first,
he slid headlong through the window and tumbled onto the spiraled staircase
inside. It was a painful landing, and he lay there a moment, gasping for
breath. The stone steps felt cold beneath his cheek. The stairwell was gloomy
and filled with shadows, its only light coming in through the window. From
outside, he heard Mierre swearing. Dain grinned to himself and sat up shakily.
They would be coming in through the door in moments. Pulling himself to his
feet, he went upstairs, winding around and around until he came to a closed
door. Grasping
the ring, Dain tugged hard, but the door did not open. It seemed his luck had
run out. He was hemmed in, with nowhere to go except down, straight into the
arms of his pursuers. Gritting his teeth, Dain tugged again on the ring, using
both hands and straining until the gristle in his shoulders popped. The door
did not budge. From below, he heard them coming. Dain
bared his teeth, breathing hard and trying to think. But he was trapped, with
nowhere to go. He
kicked the door in fury and jiggled the ring again, his desperation rising.
There came a click, and Dain paused for a second. He stared at the ring in his
hand and slowly twisted it. The
catch clicked, and the door swung open. Dain
eeled through the narrow opening and pulled the door shut behind him. The room
beyond was poorly lit, but Dain spared it no glance. Instead, he patted the
door, seeking some means of barring it. “Slide
that bolt across, and it will hold firm,” said a deep, heavily accented voice
behind him. Dain
jumped, his heart nearly bounding from his throat. He whirled around and saw a
tall figure in a long, dark robe standing no more than two strides away from
him. Dain stared, unsure if this was friend or foe, but then he heard the boys’
voices. Gasping,
he slid the bolt into place, locking the door just as their fists thudded
against it. They shouted on the other side, but for now Dain was safe from
them. Breathing
hard, he leaned his back against the door and ventured a cautious smile at the
man watching him. “Thanks
to you,” he said in Mandrian. “I—” “So
you are the eld of Lord Odfrey’s battle, the one Thirst knights have been
boasting about these last few days,” the man in the shadows said. His voice had
a deep, singsong quality that made Dain shiver. “I have been hoping to see you
for myself, and now the gods have brought you to my workroom. Thus, it must be
that our destinies are entwined.” Frowning,
Dain swallowed. He did not like the voice of this man. He kept hearing
something, some timbre or tone that made him think of darkness and smoke. He
wished he could see the man’s face, which remained hidden by shadows, but at
the same time he felt relieved that he couldn’t. He wondered what this man was,
and feared to learn the answer. “Yes,”
the man said, stepping forward with a gliding motion that did not seem natural
at all. “You are going to be very useful for my experiments.” Instinct
warned Dain that Mierre and Kaltienne were less dangerous than this man. As he
whirled and tried to slide open the bolt, the man spoke a single word, a word
Dain did not understand, a word like a puff of smoke. The
smell of fire filled the air, and Dain’s arms would not move. He realized he
was frozen in place, as helpless as if bound by ropes. Fear rose through him.
By some terrible chance, he had fallen into the clutches of a sorcerel,
a creature who could crisp him to ashes with a mere thought. Sweat
broke out along Dain’s forehead. His heart was pounding again, and his mouth
had gone so dry he couldn’t swallow. He stood there, struggling inside with all
his might to break free, and could not move even the tip of his finger. Someone
knocked on the door. “We would enter, Master Sulein,” Mierre said boldly. “If
you are within, grant us admittance.” Sulein
glided to the door beside Dain. This close, Dain could smell the man’s
scent—something acrid and arcane on his clothing from the potions he concocted
in this dimly lit room, but also something else, which emanated from his very
skin, as though he ate odd things unknown to most folk. The
knocking came again. “Master Sulein! I bid you let us enter and take the eld.” “Begone,”
Sulein said. “You boys are forbidden inside my tower.” “But,
Master Sulein, we have been chasing the eld, at great risk to ourselves. His
highness bade us find him and—” “This
is no toy for the prince to play with,” Sulein said. “Begone.” “But—” “Will
you interfere with my work, work which may save the chevard’s life?” Sulein thundered.
“If I must open this door, toads will you become.” From
the other side came the sound of running feet, then silence. Dain stood there,
still frozen in place, and swallowed hard. The
sorcerel put his hand on Dain’s shoulder, and Dain flinched inside
as though he’d been branded. “You are much in demand, little eld,” Sulein said
gently, his voice coiling around Dain like a serpent. “The chevard wants you.
The prince wants you. And I want you.” He laughed, a low silky sound. “But it
is I who have you. And all the powers that you command. Come to my fire, and
tell me your mysteries.” The
spell binding Dain’s feet was released. He wrenched himself away from Sulein’s
hand, but there was no escape. Sulein stepped between him and the door, and
Dain found he still could not move his arms. Awkwardly
he stumbled back from the sorcerel, who herded him across the room. It was filled with a
crowded jumble of furniture and objects. Dain was forced toward the end, where
a fire burned on the hearth. “Dain
you are called. That is no name of the eldin. I can see that your blood is
mixed, but there is little enough of the human in you,” Sulein said as Dain
halted next to the fire. Sulein
glided closer into the light, revealing himself to be hook-nosed and swarthy of
skin, with a frizzy black beard and eyes as bright and beady as a keeback’s. He
wore a tall conical hat edged in monkey fur, and his long brown robe was
stained and discolored in places, as though he often spilled his experiments.
No gray showed in his dark hair or beard. No wrinkles carved his face, yet his
eyes held all of antiquity in their liquid depths. Dain
glanced at him, then away, afraid to meet those eyes for too long. “You
were Jorb’s apprentice,” Sulein said. “He was a sword-maker, a dwarf, I am
told. How peculiar. Tell me, did he buy you? How did you come to be in his
keeping? Or were you living in the Dark Forest for a different purpose?” Dain
said nothing. His face felt hot, as though fevered. His lungs could not draw in
enough air. Sulein’s questions seemed harmless, and yet he feared to answer
them. “How
much did Jorb train you? Did he ever let you work with magicked metal?” Dain
felt a growing compulsion inside him to answer. Setting his jaw, he withstood
it and said nothing. After
a few moments, the pressure eased and faded. Sulein raised his bushy brows.
“Ah,” he said as though making a discovery. “Your powers are strong. Good. I
will learn all the more from you.” “There
is nothing to learn,” Dain said defiantly. He spoke in the harsh dwarf tongue,
and laced his tone with contempt. Sulein
cast him a sharp look. “But I shall pick you apart,” he said, also speaking
dwarf. “I am a collector of knowledge, and you, little eld, are a very great
prize indeed.” Dain
said nothing else. He could not outtrick a sorcerel;
he was not going to try. Instead, he concentrated on forcing his frozen arms to
move. Sheer strength was not enough. He stopped straining and considered the
problem from another direction, ignoring whatever Sulein said to him. After a
moment, he began to sing inside his mind. It was hard at first—he was too frightened
and angry to concentrate—but after a few moments the song flowed more readily
inside his mind. He sang of motion, of the wind, of the swaying branches of a
willow by a stream, of the flit and wiggle of fish as they swam, of the strong
wings of birds on the air. The spell holding him tight began to loosen. Feeling
hopeful, Dain kept the song going in his mind. Sulein spoke again to him, but
he paid no heed. Sulein
gripped him by his shoulder. “What are you doing?” Dain’s
arms came free. He spun in Sulein’s grip, thrusting the man away. As Sulein
struggled to regain his balance, Dain dodged around him, slinging a table
between them as he went, so that crockery and bottles crashed to the floor.
Dain ran for the door. He
reached it, ignoring Sulein’s shout behind him, and drew back the bolt. For a
moment his body felt heavy and slow, but the remnants of the song still
ran through Dain’s mind. He concentrated on that, and the heaviness lifted. Pushing
open the door with a mighty shove, Dain jumped over the threshold and bolted
for his freedom, smack into a sturdy barrel chest and a strong pair of hands
that seized him by his tunic and shook him so hard his teeth rattled. “Got
you!” said Sir Roye. Dain
kicked him in the shins and ran. Down
the steps he flew, ignoring the heated argument between the two men behind him.
His feet skimmed the steps. He kept his fingertips lightly on the wall for
balance as he went faster and faster. At
the bottom of the tower, the door leading outside stood ajar. Dain hit it with
his shoulder and careened outside into the sunshine, which made him blink and
squint. The
music swirled in the courtyard. People were still dancing and clapping their
hands. Mierre
and Kaltienne waited a short distance from the tower door, like two cats
crouched at a mouse’s lair. Kaltienne saw him first and dug his elbow into
Mierre’s ribs. “There he is!” They
came at a run, and Dain darted off in the opposite direction. Hurrying past a
parked cart resting on its traces, he ducked through the first door he came to,
fortunately unlocked, but instead of entering the Hall as he expected, he found
himself inside a small walled garden. Badly neglected, it was in serious need
of tending. Many of the plants had begun to yellow from nightly frosts. Others,
overgrown and sprawled across the paths, needed cutting back. Walkways atangle
with weeds led to a central axis where a silent fountain stood encircled by a
bench of moss-covered stone. Birds rustled and stirred within the branches of a
gnarled old fruit tree in the corner. Flowers with dead blooms rattled in the
chilly breeze. On
the opposite side of the gate ran a loggia littered with dead leaves. Dain
trotted along this, ducking into the shadows at one end just as the boys opened
the gate and peered into the garden. “Halt!”
Mierre said in alarm, thrusting his muscular arm across the opening. “We cannot
go in there.” Kaltienne
pushed at his arm, without budging it. “But I saw him enter.” “Doesn’t
matter. We’re forbidden to go into the lady’s garden.” What lady?
Dain wondered, pressing himself deeper into the shadows. He hardly dared
breathe. “He’s
in there,” Kaltienne said with frustration. He tried to duck beneath Mierre’s
arm, but the larger boy shoved him back. Kaltienne’s
mouth fell open. “Have you gone mad? You know what his highness threatened if
we failed.” “We’ve
got him,” Mierre said firmly. “But we don’t go in. Not us. The prince can, if
he’s brave enough.” “But—” “I’ve
heard the servants and knights talk about this garden. No one is allowed in
here. No one. The chevard’s son died here. Mayhap his ghost walks these paths.” Dain,
peering cautiously around the edge of the wall, saw Kaltienne turn pale and
swallow. “Ghosts,
you think?” “I
know not. But I know the chevard’s wrath. If he lives I want none of his temper
turned against me. You’ve had one of Sir Roye’s floggings. Do you want
another?” “Nay,”
Kaltienne said with feeling. “Nor
I. If the eld is hiding in here, he can’t get out. We’ll block this gate and
tell his highness—” “Quick!”
Kaltienne said, clutching Mierre’s arm. “Someone’s coming. If it’s Sir Roye,
we’re—” Mierre
shut the gate, and Dain heard the sound of something being dragged across it. Soon
thereafter came Sir Roye’s gruff voice. “You boys! What are you doing there!” “Nothing,
Sir Roye.” Kaltienne’s voice sounded innocent. “You
can’t go in that garden. Get away from there.” “We
meant no harm,” Mierre said. “We were just exploring-” “Did
you see that damned eld come this way?‘ “No,
Sir Roye,” Kaltienne lied without hesitation. Dain
frowned at such smooth duplicity. It was the experienced liars who never
hesitated. “Morde
a day, that fool physician had him and let him go,” Sir Roye grumbled. “Did
you really see the eld, Sir Roye?” Mierre asked innocently. “I heard the
knights want to keep him chained in the guardhouse.” Sir
Roye growled something Dain could not distinguish. “Get out of here, both of
you. You’re sure you saw no sign of him?” “Not
a hair of his head,” Mierre answered. “But we’ll gladly join the hunt.” “Then
go along and tell Sir Bosquecel he got away. I’m searching Sulein’s tower again
in case he doubled back.” Their
voices faded away. Fearing
trickery, or the return of Sir Roye, Dain let out his breath with a sense of
wary relief. He waited until the shadows grew long and cold within the little
garden. The music faded in the distance, and with it the sounds of revelry.
Only then, shivering, did Dain venture forth into the open. He hurried across
the garden and pushed on the gate, but it did not budge. The boys had secured
it well, no doubt pulling the cart across it. Muttering
to himself, Dain wondered how long it would be before the prince came to get
him. The idea of being Gavril’s prey both frightened and infuriated him. Now
that he had time to think, Dain realized it might have been better if he’d
stayed in Sir Roye’s clutches. He’d probably have been beaten and flung out of
the hold on his ear, but at least he’d have been safely away from this place. Instead,
he’d let the sorcerel panic him and scatter his wits. He’d been so desperate to
get away, he’d acted without thinking. Now he was boxed in here, desperate with
thirst and cold and hungrier than ever. He
prowled about for some time, hugging himself against the frost-nipped air.
There were doors at either end of the loggia, but both were securely locked.
Cobwebs were spun over one, showing him it had not been opened in years. The
other’s lock was rusted and leaves had drifted up against its base. He could
find no other exit. The
fountain had apparently been dry for years—not even a drop of rainwater did it
hold to quench his thirst. He searched in the gathering darkness beneath the
fruit tree, but found only pits lying on the ground, the fruit long since
decayed. For
whatever reason, Prince Gavril did not hasten here to claim his prey. Perhaps
he was waiting until the dead of night. Perhaps he, too, feared the ghosts that
walked here and was waiting until dawn. Perhaps the prince was playing with
him, hoping to make him afraid. Dain kicked the ground and wished the demons
from the second world’s perdition would come forth and strike the prince for
his cruelty. In
time, frustrated and miserable, Dain retreated to the dubious shelter of the
loggia and watched the windows high above one side of the garden. No lights
came on, ever, and he realized that this wing of the hold must be as deserted
as the garden itself. Moonlight
rose eventually, shining on the pathways and illuminating the silent fountain.
Dain huddled on the cold flagstones of the loggia, too cold to sleep, and
watched for ghosts to appear. But none walked here through the long, wretched
night. He
stared across the garden, studying the tracery of the tree branches beneath the
windows, and realized that his only hope was to climb up and try to break
through one of the shutters. He wasn’t sure the branches would support his
weight that high, but it was the only thing left to try,
short of waiting here until he was dragged out by his tormentors. Blowing
on his cold hands and flexing them to ease their stiffness, Dain gathered his
courage and determination, and began to climb. In
the night, the sound of the gate creaking open awakened Dain. Jerking upright,
he scrunched himself deeper into the shadows beneath the fruit tree. The
movement sent a stab of pain through his shoulder, which had stiffened since he
fell out of the tree on it. Grimacing, he held back a whimper and concentrated
on staying still. The
gate creaked again, and he heard the soft but unmistakable sound of wood
scraping over flagstones. They
were coming for him at last. Dain
tried to stay calm, but his heart started pounding. His last hope had been to
climb out of this trap, but after he fell he hurt too much to try again. Now,
as he listened to the stealthy creaking of the gate and quiet footsteps, he
gathered a broken wedge of edging stone he’d found lying in the neglected
flower bed and waited for a chance to attack. Depending on how many were coming
for him, he might yet find a way to get past them. The
scent of food—roasted meat and cold toties—nearly undid the last of his
strength. Dain’s mouth watered, and for a few moments his hunger consumed him,
raging uncontrolled as though it would drive him forward to surrender, to do
anything in exchange for nourishment. “Hello,”
called a voice, so soft it was barely above a whisper. “I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend.” Dain
did not recognize the voice, and he frowned in the darkness. He had no friends
here. “Don’t
be afraid,” the voice said, low and reassuring. “I’m coming in, but I won’t
hurt you. 1 have some food. I thought you might be hungry.” Dain
closed his eyes for a moment as weakness passed through him and made his body
tremble. He was so hungry, so terribly cold and tired. Steeling himself, he
dragged open his eyes and bared his teeth in a silent snarl, curling his fingers
tighter around the piece of stone. He had his dagger as well, but he would not
draw it unless forced to. The
gate creaked again, louder this time, and then Dain heard it snap shut. His
brain woke up and began to think more clearly. He realized that had Prince
Gavril come to torment him, he would have kicked the gate open and entered
boldly. No, this unseen visitor was trying to be quiet, and he seemed to be
alone. Dain
sat up straighter, gathering his legs beneath him. If the gate remained unlocked
and he had only one individual to overcome, then perhaps he stood a chance of
escape. Watching
closely, he saw a shadow move quietly along the garden path. The moon had
waned, making it much harder to see, even with Dain’s excellent night vision. His
visitor stopped near the fountain. “I will put the food here. Take it when you
wish,” the voice said. “But there is little time before dawn. The hold will
start to stir within the hour. I do not know when the prince will rise, but you
should not be here when he comes for you.” Dain
said nothing, listening hard, his thoughts spinning inside his head. “I
know you are awake and hear what I say,” the voice continued in that same quiet,
unhurried, reassuring way. “I am Thum du Maltie, and I bear you no ill will.” Dain
matched that name to the freckled, serious face of the boy with red hair. Thum
who had tried to stop Prince Gavril from whipping Dain in the marsh. Thum had
also refused to drink wine with the prince last night. This was no friend of
Prince Gavril’s. No trickster. Warily
Dain rose to his feet and peered through the gloom at his visitor. “Why?” he
asked, his voice hoarse with cold and thirst. “They
are cruel, the other fosters,” Thum said. “They keep you here like a caged
animal, with no one to stop them. I thought about telling Sir Bosquecel, but I
was not raised to be a tongue-tattle.“ Dain
swallowed. “You brought food?” “Are
you hungry? You must be, after being shut in all night.“ Dain
rested his hand on the rough bark of the tree, wondering if he was dreaming
this. “You are not my friend, Thum du Maltie,” he said. “You know me not. Why
do you help me?” “Does
it matter?” Thum asked. Dain sensed no lies in him as yet, but neither had he
spoken the complete truth. “Why? Why help me?” “The
knights are still talking about you. How you came from nowhere to help them
with the battle. They said if not for you, Nocine the huntsman would be dead
now. They said you saved Lord Odfrey’s life.” “Is
the lord dying?” “I
don’t know,” Thum said. “The steward looks very grave. He tells us nothing. Sir
Roye barely leaves his lordship’s side. He has great fever, and Master Sulein
fears for his life because of that.“ Dain
thought of the sorcerel who had nearly caught him yesterday. He did not like the
idea of that creature, who dabbled in magical realms best left undisturbed,
treating Lord Odfrey. Who was guarding the chevard from being possessed by the
darkness? Who was protecting his soul from theft? “We
wouldn’t have feasted Aelintide at all if the prince hadn’t insisted,” Thum
continued. “I—I guess such celebrations mean nothing to you, but I think it’s
wrong—disrespectful—to be making merry while the lord of this hold lies so ill.
But Prince Gavril said the harvest feast should be made, in order to show our
gratitude to Thod for such generosity. No one but Lord Odfrey dares deny his
highness anything. With the chevard so ill, his highness is doing everything he
pleases. No one says him nay. No one! It isn’t right. Especially with Lord
Odfrey so—” He broke off, worry strong in his voice. Dain
bowed his head with regret. Although he hated to hear that the chevard was
dying, he closed off the liking he’d begun to feel for the man. He’d lost too
much already. He wanted no more grieving. “Get
away from the food,” he said harshly. “What?” “Back
away.” “Oh.”
Thum retreated from the fountain, his shadowy figure a little more visible than
before. Dain
glanced at the sky, which had lightened to a dark gray. In the distance, birds
chirped sleepily. Time was running out. As
soon as Thum was halfway between the fountain and the gate, Dain dashed forward
and snatched up the small bundle lying on the edge of the fountain. Holding it
against his chest, he ran past Thum, heading for the gate and freedom. Thum
crashed into him from behind, gripping the back of Dain’s tattered tunic. Dain
tried to wrench free, but he would not let go. There came the sound of cloth
ripping, and Thum flung an arm across Dain’s injured shoulder. Gasping
aloud, Dain staggered and sank to his knees, driven down by the pain. Thum
gripped his arms. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Dain
concentrated on breathing through the agony, and didn’t answer. “I
did not mean to hurt you,” Thum said. “Really, I’m sorry.” Snarling,
Dain pushed him away. Thum overbalanced and landed on his backside. Dain
expected him to lose his temper and come back fighting, but Thum sat where he
was. “You
don’t have to run,” he said. “I’m going to let you out. In fact, I thought I’d
help you get out of the hold if that’s what you want. But if you run away, I
can’t help.” Dain
didn’t answer. He tore open the wrappings and crammed a chunk of cold meat into
his mouth, gulping it down in desperation, barely bothering to chew. The totie
was cold and shriveled. Dain cared not. He ate it, coarse, gritty skin and all. In
seconds the food was gone, and some of the terrible ache in the pit of his
stomach eased slightly. He thirsted more than ever now, and turned on Thum. “Do
you have more?” “I—no,”
Thum said apologetically. “I didn’t realize you were so—I should have brought
more.” “Must
get out of here,” Dain muttered to himself. He was still kneeling on the
ground, and felt too tired to move. But with dawn coming, there wasn’t much
time. He looked behind him and listened to his inner senses. “It’s
a risk for me, but I’m determined to help you. Anything to defy his highness,”
Thum said. Resentment throbbed in his low voice. “He rises early, so we must
hurry. If you aren’t hurt, we’d better go.“ Dain
pushed himself to his feet, holding his elbow tight to his side to keep from
moving his aching shoulder. Thum
stumbled along the path, heading for the gate. “I have to put the cart back
across the gate once we’re out. Will you help me?” Dain
didn’t answer. Thum
stopped and turned to face him. “Look, if the prince finds out I helped you,
I’ll be in serious trouble.” Dain
told himself not to be a fool. He sensed no lies in this boy, and he could tell
that Thum’s nerve was beginning to waver. “I will help,” Dain promised. “Aelintide
is over, you see,” Thum said in relief, hurrying forward. “The villagers will
be coming today to conduct business as usual, so the main gates will open after
sunrise. If you hide somewhere close to the gates, you can get out during the
general coming and going of the throng.” “I
can do that,” Dain said, liking the plan. It was simple, and simple plans
worked best. He slipped outside through the gate behind Thum with the feeling
of having escaped a cage. Thum
shut the gate as quietly as he could, then tapped Dain’s sleeve, making him
jump in the darkness. “You push when I say,” Thum whispered. Dain
stood behind the cart and pushed it while Thum picked up the traces and
steered. It wasn’t far out of position; Dain figured Thum had been able to
budge it only so far by himself. Together they moved it back across the gate. Thum
dusted off his hands. “Let Thod keep the prince from ever knowing it was me,”
he said under his breath. Dain
wondered why he was so nervous. “Can the prince beat you too?” he asked. Thum
uttered a sour little laugh. “Worse than that.” “He
can kill you? But would your family not avenge you?” “It’s
not like that,” Thum explained. “My father sent me here, hoping I’d become a
companion, maybe a favorite, of the prince. I’m the youngest son. I have to
make my own way in life since I can’t inherit land. The prince could give me a
start, but I haven’t pleased him. We don’t get along at all, and I—I—“ He broke
off, his voice a tangle of anger, unhappiness, and restraint. ”I don’t like
him.“ “I hate him.” Thum
uttered a breathless little chuckle. “Morde, but it’s good to hear someone say
that. Treason though it is, I hate him too.” Suddenly
friends, they grinned at each other in the shadows. Dain reached out and
gripped Thum’s hand. “My thanks, Man-drian. I will repay my debt to you.” “You
owe me no debt,” Thum replied fiercely. “I have done what is right. No reward
should come for that.” Elsewhere
in the hold, a cock crowed. Dain heard distant sounds of life. The hold was
coming awake. He must hide himself again, and quickly. But as he turned away,
Thum came after him and gripped his arm briefly. “My
mother says it’s good luck to help the eldin,” Thum whispered shyly, as though
half-ashamed to say it. “We’re up-landers, and the old ways are still known to
us, even if we now follow Writ. You are nothing evil, and should not be treated
so.” Dain understood what he was really asking. “If ever there is luck in my
life to bestow, I will share it with you,” he said. Thum
stepped back. “How close to the gates can you get? They should open just after
morning mass and—” “I
know all the hiding places by now,” Dain said, interrupting his advice. “Then
may your path be sure,” Thum said. Dain hurried away from him, melting into the
shadows between the next building and the wall. Around him, objects and
outlines were becoming distinct shapes. The air lay still and cold, and his
breath fogged white about his face. Hurrying,
he circled the courtyard, staying well against its perimeter where shadows
remained dark. No sentry saw him and called out. No yawning serf stumbled
across his path. He slipped past the stables, and paused to break the thin
layer of ice on the watering trough. His reflection was a pale, unfocused shape
glimmering in the water’s surface. Dain drank long and deep of the ice-cold
water. It hurt his teeth but cleared his head. From inside the stables, he
could now hear the horses nick- ering and shuffling in their stalls. Muffled, sleepy voices
spoke. A sudden light glowed from a window. Ducking low, Dain flitted onward. With
much trepidation, he ventured into risky territory—the outermost keep, where
villagers were allowed in for daily business, bread loaves were sold, and
tribute was brought for display. The barracks windows shone with light. From
within the guardhouse came the aromas of boiled pork and heated cider. The
sentries stamped their cold feet on the battlements like men counting the
minutes until they were relieved. Dain
took cover behind a stack of crates and settled himself there to wait until the
gates opened. A cock crowed loudly, and the smell of wood smoke filled the air.
Dain swallowed and buried his face against his crossed forearms, trying not to
think about his stomach. Thum’s gift of meat and totie had been well
intentioned, but of small proportion. Listening to his stomach growl, Dain
doubted he would ever eat his fill again. Perhaps
he slept, huddled in that cramped space between the crates and the wall, for it
was with a start that he suddenly opened his eyes and found sunlight shining
across the keep. The gates stood wide open, and guards watched the flow and ebb
of excited villagers coming in to haggle over bread or to inquire about Lord
Odfrey’s health. “Did
he lose his eye, poor man?” a fat woman with a kerchief tied about her head was
asking loudly. “We
prayed mass for him yesterday,” another woman, lean and toothless, chimed in. Others
swarmed about, babbling questions and repeating gossip. Rubbing
his face, Dain rose cautiously to his feet and worked out the kinks from his
stiff muscles. He blew on his fingers to warm them, then sauntered out from
behind the crates and melted into a small crowd of serfs haggling with each
other over a brace of squawking chickens held upside down by their feet.
Nearby, a scrawny child with a dirt-smeared face held the end of a rope tied
around a young shoat. The child’s eyes widened at the sight of Dain. Swiftly
he ducked away into the general mill and press of people, his heart pounding
fast, his mouth dry with fear. Anyone could look at him and sound the alarm.
Steadily, refusing to let himself run, he kept pushing his way through the busy
crowd, aiming toward the gate. Ahead,
he saw a wide gap between the crowd and the gates themselves. Alert sentries
stood there, armed with swords and pikes. Hesitating,
knowing he could never walk alone between those sentries without being noticed,
Dain lost his nerve. Wheeling
aside, he eased into the wake of another group of villagers, then broke off and
ducked behind the guardhouse. It had no windows at the rear, and there was a
narrow space between it and the wall. Above him, the walkway for the
battlements jutted across the space like a roof. The sentries up there couldn’t
see him. He
halted there, his palm pressed against the rough bricks, and tried to regain
his courage. This
was a foul place. The stench told him lazy men used this area at night for
their latrine instead of crossing the keep. Dain drew a deep breath, and eased
his way forward. When the curved wall of the guardhouse took him out from
beneath the walkway overhead, he paused a moment and frowned over the logistics
of his problem. Ahead
of him stretched another open space to the smithy, then from there, the area in
front of the gates remained clear. While he watched, a stooped man and a slim
girl entered, both carrying laden baskets on their hips. They paused inside the
gates, and the sentries nudged them on. Dain
drew in his breath with a hiss, realizing the only way he could walk out was if
he went disguised. He
scowled, refusing to panic. He could do this, provided he used the crowd sensibly
and didn’t lose his courage. Ahead
of him, the smithy was opened for business, its large shutters thrown wide. Its
fire roared in the circular hearth, blazing orange and hot. Dain heard the
smith start working at his craft. The hammer made a steady plink, plink, plink
noise. Listening to that familiar rhythm, Dain caught a whiff of heated metal.
A wave of homesickness washed over him. He missed Jorb with a stab of grief so
intense he leaned his head against the bricks and closed his eyes. Why
had he ever come to this foreign place, where he’d forced himself to live like
a thief, skulking fearfully and risking his life? He belonged in the Dark
Forest. It was time to go home, not wander the world. But
there was no home to return to. The Bnen had burned the forge, where Dain could
have tried to continue the work Jorb had taught him. They had burned the
burrow. All of it, everything he knew and loved, was gone. It would always be
gone, even if he did try to return. Bowing
his head, Dain let his emotions wash over him. Perhaps it was only that he was
so tired, so hungry, so cold. He couldn’t reason anymore. He needed rest and a
place of safety. That’s why he kept wanting to go home. He realized it was
going to take him a long time to remember that home was forever lost to him.
Home was to be found in the hearts of loved ones, and his would never again
stretch out their hands in gladness to see him, would never again call his name
with laughter in their greeting, would never again stand steadfast at his side,
their affection a warmth that fed his spirit and gave him comfort. The
loop of a rope settled around his shoulders without warning. A quick yank
tightened it about his upper arms, and Dain was pulled off his feet before he
knew what was happening. He
landed hard on his side, grunting at the impact. Instinctively he twisted
around, trying to regain his feet, but before he could get up, someone jumped
on top of him, pinning his legs while he jerked and struggled to free his arms. A second loop of the rope went around him. Another hard
yank nearly crushed the breath from his lungs. His sore shoulder protested with
a stab of pain that left him helpless while he was swiftly trussed. Fearing
that he’d been caught by the prince’s minions, Dain kept on struggling. “Be
still,” said a harsh voice, “and do not put your eye on me. I’m protected from
your pagan spells.” Dain
recognized Sir Roye’s voice. Surprised, he stopped struggling and Sir Roye finished
tying him. With a grunt, the knight stood up, taking his bony knee from the
small of Dain’s back. At
once, Dain startled struggling again. Desperate and frightened, he knew not
what would befall him now, but a glimpse up at Sir Roye’s hostile face boded no
good for him. Despite
his efforts, Dain realized, he had no chance to pull free. Scrambling to his
knees, he paused, his breath rasping loud in his throat. “Morde
a day, but you’re a sight of trouble. As sly as a cat, slinking here and there.
Why didn’t you stay in the garden, where I could have caught you quicker?” Dain
squinted up at Sir Roye, silhouetted against the sunshine. He didn’t think the
knight really wanted an answer. “And now you’re going to give me to Prince
Gavril? You’ll enjoy seeing him whip me. Or do you intend to kill me on his
order?” The
knight punched him in the stomach, and Dain doubled over with an agonized
whoop. Sir
Roye took a step closer. “That’ll teach you to keep a respectful tongue in your
pagan head. I am ‘Sir Roye’ to you, or simply ‘sir’. You call me that, and you
watch your tone.” Toppling
over, Dain retched up his breakfast and managed to roll himself over away from
it. Telling himself there was surely worse to come, he scowled and tried to
ignore the burning discomfort in his belly. “I’ve
done no wrong here,” he managed to say. “I am no enemy—” “You’re
a damned pagan thief and Thod knows what else. Eating from the winter stores is
a crime that merits twelve lashes alone.” Dain
stiffened, remembering Prince Gavril’s whip all too well. “It’s no crime to
feed myself.” “And
who gave you leave, eh? You answer me that.” Dain
glared fiercely up at Sir Roye. “I saved Nocine’s life. I led the lord to the
raiders. I helped in the battle. If I have eaten a few apples as my reward, is
that so wrong?” “If
you’re hungry, you go to the kitchens and beg along with the other mendicants.
You don’t steal, unless you want a whipping or your hands cut off.” Dain
blinked in fresh horror. “What is man-law, that it should be so harsh?” “Nothing
harsh about it. The beggared have only got to ask for charity. By the holy law
of Writ, such have to be fed. But thieves endanger everyone. We have to keep
enough in stores to feed every mouth in this place through winter.” “I
thought... Would a pagan beggar be fed? Or would I be beaten for asking?“ Dain
asked. ”Does the Writ of your belief apply to folk like me?“ The
knight squinted at him and said nothing. Pursing his lips, he looked away, then
pulled a servant’s cap from his pocket and bent down to cram it onto Dain’s
head. It fitted close to his skull, with two long flaps that came down over his
ears. “You’re too much trouble,” he grumbled. “If it were up to me, you’d be
drowned and well out of our way.” He
pulled Dain to his feet, and said, “But it ain’t up to me. Back you come.” “He
will kill me,” Dain said, planting his feet and refusing to budge. “Let me go,
Sir Roye. Do not take me to death.” “What
is this babble?” Sir Roye asked in exasperation. “I’m not killing you, yet.” “The
prince will.” “His
highness has naught to say about this matter,” Sir Roye announced. “Now move
your feet. I’ve wasted too much time already tracking you for his lordship.” Dain
grinned at him with sudden hope. “Lord Odfrey sent for me?” Sir
Roye’s yellow eyes glittered resentfully. “Not like you think, you heathen
knave. But he’s been calling for his boy— Thod rest the poor lad’s soul—and
that Sulein thinks you’ll do as well for him in his fever.” Down
sank Dain’s spirits. “So he really is dying. I don’t want to see him.” Sir
Roye whacked the side of his head. “Hold your tongue. No one asked you what you
want. Now move!” He
pushed Dain forward, and Dain went, stumbling every time Sir Roye pushed him.
Although Dain half-expected Sir Roye to parade him along in front of everyone,
the knight kept away from the crowds and out of sight of the sentries. Together
they skulked along, seeking to pass unnoticed, and soon Sir Roye was pushing
Dain up a series of steps that led to the battlements. They strode along the
walkway, with Dain catching wide-eyed glimpses of the world of field and marsh
stretching far beyond the hold’s walls. Before they came to the first sentry, Sir Roye shook Dain
hard. “Keep your eyes down. Don’t let them see who you are.” Dain
bowed his head, staggering along as Sir Roye kept shoving him. When they came
to the sentry, the man saluted Sir Roye and stepped aside. It
was the same with the next sentry, and the next. Soon thereafter, they passed
through a door into a tower, then walked along corridors and passageways, up
stairs and down, winding here and there until Dain was greatly confused and had
little idea of where he might be inside this maze of stone. Finally
Sir Roye shoved Dain into a long, narrow chamber fitted with drains in the
floor and stone channels. A fire burned there, and at one end stood a wooden
tub as tall as Dain’s shoulder, with steps mounting it. Sir
Roye whipped the cap off Dain’s head and untied him. Dain tried to shake some
circulation back into his arms, but as he turned around, Sir Roye gripped him
with both hands and pulled his ragged tunic over his head before Dain could
stop him. Wincing
at the pain in his shoulder, Dain sucked in his breath and tried not to yell. Despite
the fire, the room was cold. Shivering, Dain tried to grab his tunic from Sir
Roye’s hand, but the knight held it out of his reach. “Get
in the tub,” he ordered. “Why?” Sir
Roye glared at him. “Because you stink worse than the dogs. Because I won’t
take no filthy, gint-eyed knave to my lord with him lying there fevered out of
his poor wits. You wash, and make it quick.” Although
he longed to be clean, the idea of a cold bath did not appeal to Dain. He
tilted his head at Sir Roye and could not resist saying, “But have you not
heard that we eldin melt when we get wet? We are supposed to be but watery
elements, formed into a cloud of appearance, and that is why we—” Sir
Roye smacked his head, knocking him backward. “Get in the tub, and cease that
heathen chatter of yours.” To
Dain’s surprise, the water was tepid, not icy cold as he’d expected. He enjoyed
splashing about, sluicing off the dirt and filth he’d accumulated in recent
days. A servant came with a bucket and emptied some heated water into the tub.
Dain laughed at such luxury, and even ducked his head under the water, then
surged up, shaking himself like a dog. Sir
Roye climbed the steps and prodded him with a wooden pole. “Out,” he commanded. Dain
obeyed, dripping and shivering. A servant wrapped him in cloth and shoved him
over to stand before the fire. While Dain dried himself, Sir Roye glared at him
thoughtfully. “What
happened to your side?” Dain
glanced down at the bruised and discolored web of skin between his lower ribs
and his hipbone. “Oh, the lord’s horse bit me the day we fought the dwarves.” Sir
Roye grunted to himself and grasped Dain firmly while he prodded the wound.
Dain sucked in air between his teeth and fought the urge to shove Sir Roye
away, knowing it would only get him struck again. “Hurt?”
Sir Roye asked. “No,”
Dain lied, glaring at him. “Could
make a fearsome scar,” Sir Roye said. He touched the bruises on Dain’s
shoulder. “And here?” “I
fell out of a tree last night, trying to escape—I mean, while I was climbing
over the garden wall,” Dain amended hastily. “I fell off the wall.” “A
worse lie has never been spoken,” Sir Roye said, but he released Dain and
gestured for the servant to hand him clean clothes. They
were very fine, these garments, as fine as Dain had seen Thum, Mierre, and
Kaltienne wearing—not as fine as the prince’s clothes, but soft and well made.
Dain fingered them, awed by such generosity. “Don’t
just stand there gawking,” Sir Roye said gruffly, scowling at Dain. “Get them
on.” “But
they are the clothes of a lord,” Dain said in protest. “They are too good.” “Aye, they are,” Sir Roye snapped. His face turned red, and
he scowled more fiercely than ever. “They belonged to Lord Odfrey’s son. You’re
his size, close enough. He had dark hair too. Now get dressed. And when you’re
through giving his lordship comfort, you can have your own filthy rags back
again.” Dain
blinked, understanding with a bump of reality that this clothing was not a gift
to be kept. His mouth twisted wryly and he tugged on the leggings, keeping his
head down to hide his expression. His pendant of bard crystal swung and thumped
into his bare chest as he straightened and reached for the doublet to pull it
on. The servant handed him a linen shirt instead. “What do you wear?” Sir Roye
asked. “A pagan amulet?” “Yes,” Dain said, his voice muffled as he swiftly pulled the shirt over
his head. He yanked the garment down before Sir Roye could reach out and touch
the pendant. It was not for the likes of the knight to touch. Now the doublet
went on. It fit well enough, except for being a little narrow in the chest and
too short in the arms. Pushing back his wet hair from his face and letting it
drip down the back of his collar, Dain looked at the knight and shrugged.
“Well?” he asked. Sir
Roye frowned at him, and some emotion—sadness perhaps—touched his yellow eyes.
“Aye,” he said softly. “I see the resemblance now. Damne.” “I
look like the lord’s son?” Dain asked. “The one who died?” “Morde
a day!” Sir Roye said in startlement. “Who told you about that?” “Do
I?” Dain asked. For a moment he entertained the wild hope that perhaps Lord
Odfrey was his missing father, the man who’d given him and Thia into Jorb’s
keeping, then never returned for them. But as fast as the thought entered his
mind, he dismissed it, knowing it could not be so. “What was the boy’s name?”
he asked. “Hilard,”
Sir Roye replied, lost in memory. “A gentle boy, scholarly. Rather read than
ply a sword. But a good horseman. Dependable. His lordship was always short
with the lad. Impatient with his faults. Wanted him to be a fighter. Wasn’t
until the stranguli took him that the chevard learned how much he loved that
boy.” “When
did he die?” Dain asked quietly, hearing old grief echoing in Sir Roye’s gruff
voice. Sir
Roye scowled at him. “Five years past. He was about your age and size.
Dark-haired. Thin.” “Does
grieving last so long?” Dain asked, staring at the man in dismay. “Does the
loss never go away, never stop hurting?” Whatever Sir Roye might have answered
was interrupted by the door’s slamming open. The page who’d opened the door so
forcefully jumped aside, and Prince Gavril strolled in, followed by his
hulking, silent protector and a red-faced Mierre. “See,
your highness?” Mierre said, pointing furiously at Dain. “I told you someone
let him out of the garden. He has not the power to fly—” A
gesture from Prince Gavril silenced him abruptly. Gavril walked farther into
the room, his dark blue eyes narrowed with anger, his mouth tight-lipped. The
sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows sparked golden glints from his
hair. He wore leggings of the softest doeskin and a long doublet of russet wool
with the sleeves slashed to show his creamy linen. His bracelet of royalty
gleamed golden on his wrist, and a jeweled dagger glittered at his belt. “What
are you about, Sir Roye?” he asked coldly. “Bathing a pagan while your lord and
master lies dying?” Sir
Roye turned to face him like a grizzled old dog. “What I do is not accountable
to you, highness.” Prince
Gavril blinked at such gruff defiance. For a moment he seemed unable to find
words. Then his frown deepened. “Harboring a pagan is against Writ. I ordered
his capture as soon as I learned he was sneaking about the hold. He is my
prisoner—” “Did
you catch him?” Sir Roye countered. “I
ordered his—” “But
you didn’t catch him, did you?” Sir Roye persisted. Gavril
was scowling now. “I need not sully my hand. My order is enough.” “Not
in Thirst, it ain’t. The chevard rules here, your highness. You’re a foster,
and your orders ain’t taken above his lordship’s.” Gavril
turned bright red. His eyes flashed to Dain, who was listening to this with
enjoyment, and he glared more fiercely than ever. “You have bewitched Sir Roye,
and—” “I’m
on the chevard’s business,” Sir Roye said, cutting across the prince’s
accusations. “Step aside, your highness. I cannot be detained.” Gavril
did not budge. “But what are you doing?” he asked. “Bathing him, giving him
clothes above his station, feeding him? These are violations of—” “I
got no time for preaching,” Sir Roye said. He walked forward, straight at
Prince Gavril, who did not move aside. The weathered old knight glanced at Sir
Los, who had his hand on the hilt of his sword. Calmly, Sir Roye stepped around
the prince and gestured for Dain to follow him. Dain
obeyed warily, determined not to let Mierre or Sir Los seize him. As he stepped
past the prince, Sir Los shifted his stance, but quick as thought Sir Roye
stepped into his path, blocking him from Dain, who hurried out the door, his
relief mingling with shame over his fear. “Let’s
not start something we don’t want,” Sir Roye said, his dark, craggy face inches
from Sir Los’s. “You have your orders, Los, but so do I have mine.” “Sir
Los!” Gavril cried out. But
the knight protector dropped his hand away from his sword hilt and stepped
back. “Sir
Los!” Gavril said in fresh fury. The
large knight said nothing and did not look at his master. Sir Roye gave him a
little nod and left the room, emerging into the corridor where Dain waited. He
tapped Dain’s shoulder, giving him a small push. “Walk on. You’ve caused me
enough trouble for the day.” “But
I did not—” “You’re
here,” Sir Roye said furiously, keeping his voice low as they rounded a corner
and passed out of earshot. “On account of you, I’ve defied the prince of the
realm.” “Lord
Odfrey will give me a place here. It was meant to be his promise.” Sir
Roye snorted in contempt. “A promise not made.” “He
will,” Dain said with assurance. “Just as soon as I speak to him and—” Sir
Roye shoved him into the wall to silence him. While Dain straightened himself,
trying to catch his breath, the old knight glared and pointed his finger at
him. “You’ll work none of your pagan wiles on him, hear me? You keep yourself
quiet now, and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.“ ”j__“ “Quiet!” Dain
shut his jaws and glared back. He was tired of being shoved and smacked and
yelled at. He was tempted to break away from Sir Roye, but the knowledge that
Gavril and his minions might pounce kept him where he was. As mean and gruff as
he acted, Sir Roye meant protection, even if temporarily. “Sir
Roye!” called an accented voice, one that made the hairs rise on the back of
Dain’s neck. “Where have you been? Why have you been away so long?” It
was Sulein, the sorcerel, coming down the passageway toward them. Garbed in a long
robe of crimson and green stripes, his conical red hat perched on his head and
his dark beard frizzing wildly around his jaw, Sulein stared at Dain with a
smile of dawning delight. Dain
stopped in his tracks and would come no closer, until Sir Roye gripped his arm
and forcefully shoved him along. “It
took a bit of doing to get this lad,” Sir Roye said, pushing Dain past Sulein,
who turned and followed them, gliding along in his unnatural way. “He wasn’t
where I was told he’d be.” “He
escaped the garden, where my vision saw him in hiding?” Sulein asked in
surprise. “How?” Dain
kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t about to answer any questions that would cause
trouble for Thum. Unsure if the sorcerel could read his mind, Dain
began mentally tabulating the weights of metal and made certain not to look
Sulein in the eye. “How
he did it matters not,” Sir Roye growled. “He wasn’t there. What news of my
lord?” “He
came awake for a moment. He sleeps now, but he is very restless. The fever does
not abate.” As
he spoke, Sulein glided ahead of them, then pushed open a door at the end of
the corridor. Guards stood on duty on either side of the door, but no page or
other servants loitered about. Although they remained at attention without
expression on their stern faces, one of the guards blinked at the sight of
Dain, and his eyes widened. The
man did not speak, however, and Dain found himself being shoved into a large
chamber kept dark and shadowy by the many shuttered windows. A large fire
crackled on the hearth. More fires burned in braziers placed on all four sides
of a large, box-shaped bed standing in the center of the room. Heavy curtains
of tapestry enclosed the bed, except where some of the panels had been pulled
aside. Dain saw the chevard lying there, propped high on cushions.
He wore a dark green robe of velvet over a linen gown. His face was heavily
bandaged. Dain smelled the meat poultice and the fevered flesh of the wound
beneath it. His stomach turned at other sickroom smells, but with a frown he
made himself ignore them. “Go
on, boy,” Sulein said quietly, freeing Dain from Sir Roye’s grip and shoving
him forward. “Go and sit yourself on that stool there. Stay very quiet. You
will be where his lordship can see you when he wakes up.” “And
put none of your pagan hexes on him while he lies helpless,” Sir Roye said. Dain
whirled around and glared at him. “I saved his life. Why would I harm him?” “Get
over there,” Sir Roye said, baring his teeth. Sulein clapped his hands between them. “Hush this. There
must be quiet. An atmosphere of peace and serenity. No quarreling. Now, boy.
Sit on the stool as I told you.” Dain
seated himself on the cushioned stool next to the chevard’s bed. Although the fires
made the room very warm, the chevard was shivering beneath the coverlet and fur
robe. His head turned restlessly on the pillow, but his eyes did not open. “And
you, Sir Roye,” Sulein said in reproof. “Why do you fear this boy so? The eldin
are peaceable creatures. They understand the natural flow of life forces. They
are not evil.” Sir
Roye grunted, his fear and worry swirling through him so strongly Dain could
sense them. Ignoring the men, Dain leaned toward the chevard, who was turning his
head from side to side in pain, mumbling words Dain could not understand. Grief
rose in Dain anew. He missed Thia and Jorb with all his heart. He did not want
to be in the room of a dying man. He did not want to worry about the chevard,
or even to like him. He had been raised to distrust men and their ways. Men
were du-plicitous, superstitious, and dangerous, like Prince Gavril. But Lord
Odfrey seemed different. He was a fair man, an honest man. It was not right
that the Bnen arrows should kill him too. Dain
reached out and curled his fingers lightly around the chevard’s hand. Its flesh
was intensely hot and dry. Behind
Dain, Sir Roye strode forward. “Take your—” “Hush,”
Sulein said. “Be still. This is what I hoped for.” Dain
glanced over his shoulder at the two men. Sulein was standing in Sir Roye’s
path, and the knight’s face was contorted in a grimace of worry and anger.
Neither came any closer. Dain
relaxed. He already knew the answer he’d sought. The chevard’s blood burned
with this terrible fever. His pain was strong. But so was his body strong. He
was not yet ready to die. “Lord,”
Dain said in his quiet, awkward Mandrian, “I have come to speak with you about your
promise. Have you forgotten it? Have you forgotten me?” “Be
quiet, boy!” Sir Roye ordered. Startled,
Dain glanced up, but despite Sir Roye’s fearsome scowl, Sulein was beaming and
gesturing for Dain to continue. “Do
not stop,” Sulein said. “Talk to him. It will help center his mind and bring
him from his fever. Tell him anything you wish.” Dain
drew in a wary breath, trusting the outraged Sir Roye more than he trusted the sorcerel.
Yet clearly Sulein understood what he was doing. Returning his attention to the chevard, Dain was surprised
to see the man’s dark eyes open and staring at him. “Hilard?”
Lord Odfrey said in a shaky voice. “I
am not Hilard your son,” Dain said evenly, ignoring Sir Roye’s muted growl of
protest. “I am the eldin boy who rode with you when you fought the dwarves of
the Dark Forest. Do you remember the battle, lord?” The
chevard frowned, looking lost and witless. Pain shimmered in the liquid depths
of his dark eyes. Beneath the thick bandage swathing half his face, his skin
was pasty white. “Hilard,” he said. His fingers shifted in Dain’s grip. “You
have come.” “Was
your son part eldin, as am I?” Dain asked. “Is that why you are kind to us?” “No,”
Lord Odfrey said. His voice was a thin whisper. “I want Hilard.” “He
is dead,” Dain replied. “You know that, lord.” Lord
Odfrey gripped Dain’s fingers with momentary strength. “You have come back. I
prayed for this, and you have come.” Behind
him, Sir Roye moaned and walked over to the window. Bowing his head, he put his
hand to his face. Dain
swiftly turned his gaze back to Lord Odfrey. “I am called Dain, lord,” he said
softly. “I was Jorb maker’s apprentice
and fostered son. You saved my life, and I saved yours. Where your son walks
today, you are not yet ready to go. It
is not your time. Do not let this wound end your life before its fullness.“ The
chevard closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He seemed to sleep again, but his
fingers did not slacken on Dain’s hand. When
Dain tried to pull away, the chevard opened his eyes at once. This time they
looked more alert. “Stay with me,” he commanded, and sank back into his
troubled sleep. Dain
stayed. For
three days, Dain remained in the chevard’s room, present whenever the man
awakened and called for him. A cot was brought for him to sleep on. Food was
served to him on trays. Lord Odfrey’s condition slowly improved, and Sulein
beamed at Dain in approval. “Your
presence is helping. It is exactly as I wished and expected.” Sulein
worked hard. He mixed potions with noxious smells that he poured down Lord
Odfrey’s throat. He changed the bandage occasionally, scraping off the evil poultice
and replacing it with fresh. The wound looked puckered and angry. Dain believed
it should be exposed to the air, and the windows opened to let in sunlight, but
Sulein kept the place tight and airless, like a stuffy cave. His hands were not
always clean when he ministered to the chevard. Dain believed Lord Odfrey lived
in spite of Sulein’s ministrations. As
for spells, he saw Sulein cast only one, and there was little magic in it.
Although Dain had been frightened of the physician at first, he gradually began
to suspect that Sulein was not a true sorcerel after all but instead
only a man trying to be one. Dain
was never alone with the chevard. Sir Roye stood guard over his master like a
faithful old dog, and Dain had no opportunities to open the windows or to throw
the poultice away. Bored, he ate all the food he could get his hands on and
wandered about the chamber, examining its contents without touching or
disturbing anything. Then
came the early dawn when Dain was awakened by a slight noise. He sat up and
left his cot, going to the chevard’s bedside at once on silent feet. Sir Roye
was slumped in a chair, snoring. Sulein had gone. The candles were all
guttered, and the fires had died to a few crumbling, hissing coals atop heaps
of ashes. Meager daylight leaked in around the edges of the shutters. Dain
went to one window and opened it, letting in cold air and dawn’s shadowy, gray
light. The
chevard lay on his side. His eyes stared, and he did not breathe. Horrified,
Dain crept closer. It was dawn, the hour when souls were the least anchored to
their bodies. Was the chevard dead? He
did not want to believe it, but already grief was swelling inside his heart.
Refusing to let his mind touch death, Dain kept his senses to himself and
instead touched the chevard’s arm. The
man’s flesh was warm and pliant. The chevard blinked, and Dain flinched back.
Almost at once, however, he smiled to himself and gripped the chevard’s hand. There
was no fever in it. Lord Odfrey’s hand was cool and dry. Dain touched his
throat and found no fever there either. Relief
filled Dain. Shivering a little in his thin shirt and leggings, he sank onto
the stool and faced the chevard’s intense stare. “Is
this the Beyond?” the chevard asked softly. “I do not know where I am. Nothing
looks as I remember.” “The
physician changed your room,” Dain replied, his voice quiet to keep from waking
Sir Roye. “Most of the furniture is stacked in the passageway outside the door.
He said there was an imbalance in the forces and elements that—” “Is
this the Beyond?” Lord Odfrey asked again. He sounded tired, as though he had
journeyed a long way. “If
you mean the third world,” Dain answered, “no, it is not. You are still in the
first world, in your hold, in your personal chamber. Sir Roye guards your rest.
If you look that way, you can see him.” “I
see an eld boy who reminds me of my son,” Lord Odfrey said without moving. “Yet
you are nothing like him. Strange.” “What
is strange?” Dain asked, yawning despite himself. “You
have the spirit he did not. I could not make a warrior of him. I tried too
hard, I think.” “We
are what we are,” Dain said. “I am not—” “There
is a belief, an old one,” the chevard broke in, “that the eldin sometimes carry
our souls for us. Or the souls of our loved ones. Carried from the Beyond back
into our world so that we can see them for a little while. Is that true?” Dain
frowned. “I know not. I have never heard it.” “You
must know.” “I
was not raised among my people,” Dain said. “I do not know their ways.” The
chevard’s intense stare never wavered. “Do you carry my son’s soul, Dain? Is
that why you came here? So that I could see some part of him again for a time?” Dain’s
frown deepened, for he felt uncomfortable with these odd questions. “I came out
of need,” he said simply. “I lost my home and family. I had nowhere to go.” He
hesitated a long moment, and the chevard did not interrupt. Finally, the truth
forced its way out: “I came to you,” Dain admitted, “because I knew you would
fight the Bnen and defeat them. I wanted revenge for what they did to my sister
and to Jorb.” “Did
I give you this revenge?” Lord Odfrey asked. “I do not remember.” “You
did,” Dain said. He started to add that revenge had brought no comfort to his
heart. He still missed Thia and Jorb, still hated the Bnen, still wanted
everything put back as it had been. The dead did not erase the dead. But he
felt it would be wrong to utter such feelings, and he held his tongue. “You
fought them valiantly, lord, and you defeated them.” The
chevard rolled onto his back and moaned. “My face hurts like—Where is Sir
Roye?” His
voice was growing stronger and more querulous. From his corner, Sir Roye
snorted awake and sat upright. “If
you hurt,” Dain said, “I will fetch the physician to you.” “Don’t want him,” Lord Odfrey said. “Want my breakfast. Want to sit up.
Roye! Damne, where are you?” “Here,
my lord,” Sir Roye said hastily, scrambling to his side. The protector scrubbed
at his face with his hands, grinning at his master with a delight that
transformed his craggy face. “You’re awake. Praise Thod!” “I
hurt and I’m hungry,” Lord Odfrey said, pounding the bed weakly with one hand.
“Why is it so dark in here? Why has the fire burned out? What stinks? Dain!” “Yes, lord?” The
chevard stared up at him with sudden horror. “Tell me the truth. Is my face infected
with the rot?” “Not
yet,” Dain replied. “The stink comes from Sulein’s poultice. It needs to come
off.” “And
what do you know about healing and such arts?” Sir Roye asked him fiercely from
the opposite side of the bed. Dain
glared right back. “My sister knew healing. She said a wound should be kept
clean and exposed to light and fresh air.” “Hah!”
Sir Roye said in derision. “You’d kill him certain, with measures like that.” Lord
Odfrey reached up and began tugging at his bandages. “Off with it.” “My
lord,” Sir Roye said, trying to hold down his hands. “Wait for Sulein to do
that. You’ll hurt yourself, sure.” “Ow!”
Lord Odfrey shouted. Cursing, he finished pulling the bandage away and flung it
on the floor. Then
Sulein arrived, gliding forward hastily with his robe unfastened and his
conical hat on crooked. “What is this? What is this?” he asked, clapping his
hands together. “Wash
this damned stink off me,” Lord Odfrey ordered. The
commotion began. A page stuck his head inside the room, staring around with his
eyes popping. “He’s better! He’s alive! Praise Thod!” The
guards looked in while the page went dashing away, shouting down the corridor.
Sulein bustled to fill a basin with water and started cleaning the wound.
Servants, gawking at their master, came in to build up new fires and light
fresh candles. Sulein ordered the window shut, but Lord Odfrey ordered it
opened again. All the windows were opened, transforming the chamber with
sunlight and fresh air. From
outside, the chapel bell began to ring in celebration, sending up ripples of
music such as Dain had never heard. He
retreated from the general confusion, taking refuge in a corner, until Sir Roye
noticed him and booted him out. But Lord Odfrey ordered him brought back in. “I
want him near me,” the chevard said. “Make a place for him. He is welcome at
Thirst, as long as he will stay.” Sir
Roye bowed, but he shot a quick, scornful look in Dain’s direction. “And what
place will he have, my lord? Stable work? Field work?” “Nonsense.”
Looking suddenly white and exhausted, Lord Odfrey sank back upon his pillows.
“Put him among the fosters. Give him training at arms.” The
servants froze in mid-task. Sulein jostled his basin of water. Sir Roye’s eyes
widened in shock. “He’s
pagan, m’lord! It’s against—” “Look
at his black hair. Look at his size. He’s just starting to grow, damne,” Lord
Odfrey said. “There’s human blood in him too. Under the old law, he can be
trained.” Sir
Roye opened his mouth, but the captain of the guards came rushing in, his
surcoat flapping about his knees, his chain mail creaking. Halting, he threw a
salute. “My
lord!” he said briskly. Sulein
straightened. “There are too many people in this room,” he said in a loud voice
that drove out the servants. “The chevard will live, but he must have rest.” Lord
Odfrey ignored everyone but his protector. They stared at each other, their
strong wills clashing visibly. Dain looked on, holding his breath in amazement.
Training? To be a warrior? To perhaps be a knight someday? To have rank and
skills and training, to know adventure and battle? His heart started thumping
hard, and he could not breathe for excitement. “Put
him in training,” Lord Odfrey said. “M’lord,
I would do your will as always,” Sir Roye said with a grimace, “but think of
what this means. Remember who is fostered here.” “These
matters can be settled at another time,” Sulein said, trying to interrupt them.
He gestured for Sir Roye to withdraw, but the knight protector did not budge
from Lord Odfrey’s bedside. “The
prince, m’lord,” Sir Roye said. Dain
opened his mouth, wanting to offer a dozen assurances. Wanting to plead.
Wanting to say anything that would prevail. But he held himself silent, sensing
that at this moment he should not interfere. “The
prince does not choose my fosters,” Lord Odfrey said, his voice starting to
fail him. He shut his eyes a moment, then fought to reopen them. “I rule this
hold by royal warrant. Dain will be fostered here, with full rights as such.” “But
he has no sponsor, no one to provide for him. He can’t—” “Damne,
Sir Roye, do not argue with me!” As he spoke, Lord Odfrey grimaced in agony and
fell back against his pillows again, gasping for breath. “Now
this is enough,” Sulein said, pulling the coverlet up across the invalid and
placing his hand firmly on the chevard’s sweating brow. “You will bring back
your fever if you do not rest. Sir Roye, why do you argue with your master’s
orders? Why do you risk his life by making him so upset?” Sir
Roye looked stricken. He bowed low. “Your pardon, m’lord. I did not mean to—” “You
always have the best interests of the hold at heart,” Lord Odfrey said in a
thin, tired voice. He tried to smile, but that caused him more pain. “I know
this. Thod brought him to me. Let him stay, if he will.” Sir
Roye nodded, but he glanced at Dain without acceptance. “Boy, do you have any
idea of what training means?” “Yes,”
Dain said, his eagerness spilling forth. “To learn arms and—” “Will
you stay, unsponsored, and take the training freehold?” Dain
frowned slightly, unsure of what these terms meant exactly. “If it means I can
eat food and not be beaten and learn—” “If
I may speak,” Sir Bosquecel said. Sir
Roye turned on him fiercely. “You may not!” “Sir
Roye,” Lord Odfrey said in rebuke. The
protector’s mouth snapped shut. He glared at the captain, who met his gaze
without flinching. “Speak,”
Lord Odfrey said wearily. “If
it please you, my lord, I will sponsor the boy.” Sir
Roye snorted. “Are you adopting him, Bosquecel?” “The
men will see that he has what he needs in equipment and all else,” Sir
Bosquecel said. Dain
stared, unable to believe his ears. Sir
Bosquecel smiled at Lord Odfrey. “We would have him as our mascot, my lord.” Sir
Roye looked at the captain as though he were a fool, but Lord Odfrey smiled
back. “These details will be worked out later,” he said, and thrust away the
cup Sulein was trying to press to his lips. “No, I do not want that
abomination!” he said fiercely. “I want breakfast.” Sulein
closed in on him again, and Sir Roye came around the bed to gesture at Dain,
who followed him over to the captain of the guard. “You
heard the chevard,” Sir Roye said gruffly. He shoved Dain at Sir Bosquecel. “He’s
yours, man. Get him started.” “Yes,
sir.” The
captain saluted and wheeled around smartly. Dain followed at his heels, but Sir
Roye gripped his arm to delay him a moment. “Heed
this,” he said in Dain’s ear. “The chevard has given you the chance of a
lifetime, far more than the likes of you deserves. Don’t you let him down, or
it’s me you’ll answer to.” Dain
met his fierce eyes, and knew the threat was no idle one. “I understand,” he
said quietly with equal determination, and hurried out. Part
Three In a northern valley of Nether,
up near the World’s Rim, the war of rebellion that had been planned and plotted
with such care and hope for months came to an end. It
began at dawn, with the blatting of horns and the yelled battle cries of men.
Five hundred rebels, trained and drilled to peak efficiency, were led by
General Ilymir Volvn, formerly a prince before King Muncel declared him traitor
and confiscated his lands and fortune. General Volvn was the greatest military
strategist in the realm, and he took on two thousand of the king’s troops this
day, his hawk face turned fearlessly toward his enemy, his courage and valor
infecting his small force. He
should have won today, for his men were the best of the rebel fighters, better
trained by far than the Gantese allies and sloppy conscripts of the king. The
rebels had justice on their side. But
King Muncel the Usurper had evil on his. In
the second hour of battle, when Volvn’s forces were beginning to prevail, a
gateway to the second world was opened, and out poured demons of all
descriptions. After that the tide of battle had shifted; then had come the
slaughter. Disbelieving,
Princess Alexeika Volvn watched the massacre from her vantage point on the
hillside. “No!” she cried. ‘Wo.’“ But
there was nothing she could do. Had her father sus- pected
a trap waited for him here, he would not have led his men forth. Alexeika had
watched the general pray, had watched him think and plan, had watched him
devise strategies, study the ground, and rethink his positions. He had been
prepared for everything except the Nonkind, and the scouts had not sighted them
in the area before battle commenced. Foul,
dirty dishonor was this. Honorable men and armies did not wage war thus. But
then, Alexeika’s father was the epitome of an honorable man, while it seemed
his foes had forgotten what honor was. It was one thing to go into battle
against Gant, with all the demons and horrors Believers tried to unleash on
their foes. In such situations, Netheran forces summoned special blessings for
sword and armor. They positioned sorcerels strategically to help
repel the Nonkind monsters. But when Netheran fought Netheran, they fought as men
and adhered to the acknowledged rules of battle. With
growing horror, Alexeika watched the battle rage. Had her father’s men been
less valiant, it would have ended almost as soon as it began. Instead, they
fought on, impossibly brave, refusing to flee or surrender until there was only
a small knot of men clustered around the banner in the center of the field. One
by one they were hacked down; then the banner fell. Seeing
that vivid streamer plummet to the ground, Alexeika screamed. Beside her, the
old defrocked priest Uzfan gripped her arm and began to mutter prayers. The
boys and other women nearby cried out and wept. “What
can we do?” Shelena moaned. “Merciful Olas, what can we do?” There
was nothing, of course. They were only watchers, too far away and helpless
besides. Stricken with shock, Alexeika looked on with tears running down her
cheeks. Before
midday, the victors galloped off, their banners streaming with pride under the
hot sun. They left the gallant rebel forces of Nether lying strewn across the
battlefield like abandoned toys. Shelena
and Larisa clutched each other, weeping. The boys stood white-faced with shock. Alexeika’s
heart was drumming. She had entered <* ozen place where she could feel
nothing. Jerking the reins of her pony untied, she mounted and stood up in the
stirrups. From
her throat came a scream of rage and grief so loud and terrible it echoed off
the surrounding hills and rolled down into the valley below. The king’s forces
were just vanishing over the far hillside, but Alexeika waited no longer. She
spurred her short-legged pony forward down the long, sloping hill from their
vantage point. “Wait!”
Shelena called after her. “Alexeika, it’s not yet safe!” Alexeika
crouched low over her pony’s rough mane and went tearing down into the valley.
She intended to ride straight to the center of the field, to the cluster of
bodies lying around the broken banner pole, but her pony—no doubt frightened by
the smells of carnage—plunged to a halt at the edge of the field. When she
kicked him and lashed his neck with the end of the reins, he reared up and
nearly threw her off. Only
then did she come to her senses. Down here in the bright, hot sunlight, she
could see how trampled the meadow grass was. Bodies lay where they’d fallen.
Blood was splashed everywhere, so much blood. The smell of it in the heat
flowed over her senses, suddenly unbearable. She
gagged and leaned over the saddle just in time. When
she righted herself, her pony was shifting and turning under her. The world
spun a little. She felt light-headed and cold. By
then Shelena, Larisa, and the five boys had caught up with her. Old Uzfan came
straggling behind them, beating his slow donkey with a stick. The beast waggled
its long shaggy ears and brayed. The
sound echoed across the silent valley, shocking Alexeika. It seemed sacrilege
to hear such a common, defiant sound in the presence of so much death. “The
gods protect us,” Shelena murmured, drawing rein beside Alexeika. Larisa
covered her mouth with her hand and began to whimper. Alexeika
herself could find no words. She stared in all directions at these hacked and
broken bodies belonging to men who last night had been laughing and boasting
round the camp-fires, working up their courage for today. Right now, she
recognized none of their slack faces or dusty, staring eyes. They all looked
like strangers, and she was grateful for that. Dazed, she knew that soon the
real grief would hit her, and she would find herself crushed as though with a stone. “All
of them,” Larisa moaned, rocking herself back and forth in her saddle. “All our
brave men.” Her broad face contorted, and she began to cry with ugly, gulping
sobs. “Thornic! My Thornic! My Dragn. My Osmyl.” Shelena’s
eyes filled with tears. She tipped back her head to utter the wailing, but
Uzfan gripped her arm and shook her hard. “Stop
it!” he said fiercely. “Have you no sense? They will hear us.” Larisa
went on sobbing, but Shelena glared back at the old priest. “Does it matter?”
she retorted. “My man is dead. So is my heart.” Uzfan
gestured at the boys, who had clustered together to stare. Their young faces
showed how unprepared for this massacre they were. “Quick. You know what to do.
Gather as many weapons as you can. We’ll load them on my donkey. Quickly! Just
as we planned last night.” Hearing
him, Alexeika closed her eyes. Last night, the boys who had been chosen for
this task of plundering the dead had believed it would be the enemy’s weapons
they would gather— not their own. “Hurry!”
Uzfan said, giving one of them a shake. “Would you let the Nonkind have their
swords and bo-. ”“‘ That
got the boys moving. Tentatively at i_st, then with more resolve, they began to
pick up the weapons. While
Uzfan got Shelena and Larisa to work, Alexeika’s head cleared. She remembered
her father’s careful instructions, given to her in his final words last night.
A lump rose in her throat. She swallowed it, refusing to think of him right
now. She had her duty, and she must not shirk it. To do so would be to fail
him, he who had never failed her. Swiftly
she dismounted and ground-tied her pony. “Uzfan,” she made herself ask, “are
there any survivors?” The
old priest lifted his head and closed his eyes. His nostrils quivered, and she
could feel the pressure of the power he summoned. Then he opened his eyes and
shook his head. His brown eyes met hers and filled with compassion. She
understood, and dropped her own gaze swiftly to hide her tears. “Then
we mustn’t waste time. The looters will be coming.” Both
of the older women turned to stare at Alexeika in shock. “No,” Larisa
whispered. “The
dead will bring them quicker than usual,” Alexeika said. As
she spoke she glanced toward the southeast, where the king’s forces had ridden.
“Help Uzfan salt as many bodies as you can.” Larisa
covered her mouth with her hands and began to cry again, but Shelena faced
Alexeika. “There isn’t enough salt to go round. We can’t sprinkle them all.” Alexeika
met her eyes grimly. “Do what you can. Just hurry.” Leaving
them standing there, rooted in place, Alexeika turned and hurried away, but
she’d barely gone more than five strides before someone came puffing behind her
and caught her by the back of her jerkin. Unlike
the other women, Alexeika wore male clothing, with leather leggings and a thin
linsey tunic reaching nearly to her knees for modesty. Over it she wore a
sleeveless jerkin belted by her twin daggers, with their sharp curved blades
and ivory handles. Her long, unruly hair hung in a single thick braid down her
back, in the way of the Agya soldiers. She was tall for a maiden, lean and
surefooted. She strode boylike. She could swagger and curse and spit and ride.
She knew how to handle weapons. And she’d been taught to think like a man,
coldly and fearlessly, but to keep her feminine cunning as well. When
the back of her jerkin was grabbed, Alexeika whirled around, her braid flying
straight out behind her, and slapped the offending hand away. It belonged to
Uzfan, and his bearded old face was scowling with disapproval. “Where
do you go?” he demanded. “We must stay together. This is an evil place. Magic
still crosses the air. There is no safety here among the dead.” “I’m
going to my father,” Alexeika said, her voice as rigid as steel. She would not
let herself feel, not now. “I must prepare him.” A
piece of her heart kept hoping that old Uzfan was wrong, that a few of these
fallen warriors still lived. Her father could not be dead. He could not. That’s
what she hoped, although she knew the banner would not have fallen if her
father lived. Ilymir Volvn, once a general of King Tobeszijian’s forces, and now
leader of the rebellion, would be shouting orders at this moment if he still
had any breath left in his body. She
could not think of it, not now. Her inner core had a crack across its surface,
a crack that would let all her strength shatter inside if she did not take
care. No, she must follow her orders. She must not fail him. “Alexeika,”
Uzfan said, his voice more gentle n^ /, “the preparations are my task, not
yours. Stay here close to the others. I will go to him.” Frowning,
she turned her gaze away. Time was running out; she could feel it as though the
slipping grains fell between her fingers. His protests only wasted the moments
that remained. “I’m
going,” she said, and started off again. She walked quickly, picking her way
over the fallen men. It
was eerie and quiet, this field of the dead. Her ears still echoed with the
recent sounds of battle, the yells of ferocity, the screams of the dying. Foot
soldiers vying against mounted cavalry. The odds evened by training and righteous
determination. King Muncel was evil, weak, and half-mad. He had opened Nether
to the Nonkind, bargained with the demons of Gant, and sold his soul into
unholy alliances as a means of keeping his ill-gotten throne. He was a
murderer, a liar, and a thief. He had confiscated lands and personal
treasuries, plundered the old shrines, and forced the realm to accept the
Reformed Church without exception. He had deposed some nobles and driven out
officers, condemning to death any who defied him. Alexeika’s own mother, once
lady-in-waiting to Queen Neaglis, Muncel’s foreign-bom consort, had died twelve
years past on the end of Muncel’s sword because she refused to say where her
husband and a third of the standing army had fled to. And
so it had begun, the civil war that went on and on, a never-ending wound that
bled the vitality from this realm. Perhaps,
with this defeat, this massacre, it had ended at last. Alexeika
walked faster, dragging her hand across her burning eyes. She would not accept
that. Her father would never want her to think that way. A battle could be
lost, but the war had to continue. That’s what he would say. “Papa,”
she whispered, her heart aching as she stumbled along. Tears spilled down her
cheeks, and she brushed them away. She
tripped over a man’s legs and fell, landing hard on her knees and crying out.
For a moment, she crouched there, gasping for breath, her emotions raw beneath
the control she barely held. When
she tried to rise to her feet, she looked at the face of the man she’d fallen
over. It was Count Lanyl Otverya, her father’s squire, barely eighteen and
still growing his first beard. The visor to his helmet had been torn away on
one side. It hung twisted and bloody from the axe blow that had killed him. Alexeika
crawled closer and gripped his sleeve. His breastplate was dented and hacked
open by the ferocious blows he’d taken. No shield lay near him; she supposed he
dropped it in the charge. The blade of his sword had been shattered, and his dead
hand gripped only the hilt. Kneeling
beside him, she bowed her head and wept. Lanyl had been fun, always laughing
and playing pranks. His clear tenor voice could sing songs of old so sweetly
that grown men wept. He should have led his own army, but his lands had been
confiscated too. Deposed of his hold, his title officially stripped away, his
parents and siblings imprisoned or dead, Lanyl had escaped the purge with only
his father’s sword as his inheritance. He’d been so optimistic that one day King
Muncel would be knocked from his throne and order restored to this weary land. Lanyl
had been like a brother to her. Gently, Alexeika closed his staring eyes, and
in doing so stained her fingers with his blood. When
her tears stopped, she pulled the broken sword from his hand and with the tip
of her dagger pried the square, thumb-sized ruby from its pommel. She pocketed
the jewel, feeling like a thief. Yet they had to live. They had to eat. They
had to keep the fight going somehow. A
sob escaped her. She choked back the rest and pushed herself to her feet,
turning away from him while she still could. Puffing
heavily, old Uzfan caught up with her. “Alexeika, wait!” he said, gasping
between words. “For the love of Thod. please wait.” She slid her dagger back into its sheath and handed Uzfan
the remnant of Lanyl’s shattered sword. “Take care of him, please.” Uzfan’s
face blurred through her tears. “I must go to my father.” “Child,”
he said, “there is no more time. Look yon.” She followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw
movement atop the distant hills. She drew in a sharp breath, feeling ice in her
veins despite the day’s heat. Queer little prickles ran through her skin. “Soultakers,”
Uzfan said, his old voice quavering with fear. His hand shook visibly as he
lowered it. “They are riding with the looters. I feel them.” She
nodded, her mouth too dry for talking. “I, too.” “We
must hurry. They must not catch us.” “Lanyl,”
she said. “Please.” Uzfan sighed and nodded. Taking the broken sword, he
murmured the words of protection, then peeled away Lanyl’s battered
breastplate. He struck swift and hard, staking the boy. Alexeika
had already turned away, unable to watch. She heard the blow, and flinched as
though the weapon had passed through her own heart. Now Lanyl was freed, his
soul severed from his body. The soultakers would not possess him. While
Uzfan sprinkled salt over the body, Alexeika hurried on toward the center of
the field. “Alexeika,
no!” Uzfan shouted. The old priest ran after her, caught her shoulder, and spun
her around. “No! The risk is too great.” She
glared at him. “And what will protect him? Would you leave him to those—” Her
voice failed her. She gestured furiously, unable to say the words. “I
will make a spell and cast it over the entire field,” Uzfan said. “But come
away. Now, child, while there is time.” “I
must give him rites,” she said raggedly, refusing to listen. “I must take his
sword. The looters cannot have it.” “His
sword will lie where it lies,” Uzfan said fiercely. His old, dark eyes glared
at her from beneath wrinkled lids. “Your father is dead, child. His sword is of
no use now. The war is ended.” Rage
and protest and grief welled up inside her, building a force she could no
longer contain. She slapped him with all her might, rocking him on his feet.
Spinning from him, she strode away. He
made no further attempt to stop her, and she was glad. Stumbling and
half-running, she forced herself to climb over the mound of dead men entangled
together at what had been the last stand. A corner of her mind felt shock that
she had dared strike a priest, much less Uzfan himself. But the rest of her was
too angry to care. She
shoved and shifted and pushed her way through to where the banner lay trampled,
its bright colors now stained and coated with blood-splattered dirt. Her
father lay beneath the broken banner pole, his gloved hand still grasping part
of it. The banner boy lay headless and disemboweled beside him. There
was a horrible stink in the air, the stink of Nonkind, a taint that burned her
nostrils and made her want to retreat. Shaking her head, she knelt instead
beside the man who had sired her, raised her, and loved her enough for two
parents. Prince
Ilymir Volvn, general of the king’s army, protector of the south. His titles
had once been prestigious and many. His victories, his decorations for valor,
and his honor had all shone brightly until King Muncel declared him a traitor
and stripped him of everything. For years now he had lived with a price on his
head, a prince turned outlaw. But his dream of restoring the throne to its
rightful king had never dimmed. Her
father had been a tall, lean man with a jutting beak of a nose, bushy gray
eyebrows, and a harsh gash of mouth. He was gruff and plainspoken, relentless,
and a perfectionist, yet this was the man who had taught her to swim in icy
streams during childhood summers, holding her around the middle while she
laughed and paddled. This was the man who had braided her hair for her, who
refused to let her cut it, who had taught her to dance and given her secret
deportment lessons suitable for a lady at court, mincing along in the privacy
of the woods while he held up the train of an imaginary gown. This was the man
who had given her the set of daggers, taken her to a man who taught her how to
throw and handle them without cutting herself. Prince Volvn had trained and
tempered her as best he could. Never had he been unkind or unfair, despite his
high standards. He wanted her to grow up capable, strong, and able to think for
herself. She
had loved him with all her heart. Never again would they walk together under
the evening stars, plotting campaigns and strategy. Never again would she feel
his strong arm across her shoulders. Never would she hear his gruff voice
softened to that special tone spoken to her alone, while he murmured, “My pet,
do not be so fierce against Lanyl. He is only a boy in love with you, and
therefore a fool.“ “My
pet,” he would say, “put aside your temper and think.
What is your brain for, except to be used?” “My
pet,” he had said this morning just before he rode into battle, “I depend on
you if anything goes wrong. Keep Sever-gard out of the hands of the enemy.
Never has it been held by a dishonorable man. Protect it as you would your
life, and someday give it to your son.” “Don’t
say such things!” she protested, full of courage then. Her blood was on fire to
be with the men; her heart felt certain they would win. “You’ll have a victory
today. I know it!” “Follow
your orders, daughter,” he said, his voice cracking like a whip. “Promise me
you’ll follow them.” And
now she would have to. “Oh,
Papa,” she said. Sinking to her knees beside him, she lifted his visor. He
had never known defeat in his long and distinguished career. His valiant name
alone was enough to fill the hearts of men with courage. Five times in the past
five years he had led the small rebel forces in skirmishes and battles, and
each time they won. But today, he had faced the king’s real army, one
supplemented with hard-bitten Gantese mercenaries and Nonkind, and he had
lacked sorcerels to protect his men. In
the distance, the looters now came. She felt the thunder of their approaching
hoofbeats shaking the valley floor, but she did not lift her gaze from her
father’s face. Although
his eyes were shut, he looked stern. Already death had made his face a
stranger’s. She touched his cheek, but it did not bring him closer or keep him
with her. He was gone. Weeping,
she drew her hand back and curled her fingers into a fist. The noise of the
galloping horses grew louder. A
hand gripped her shoulder. She jumped, screaming, and whirled around to attack,
but it was only old Uzfan. Gasping with relief, she sagged down to her knees
again. “Swiftly,
child,” Uzfan said. “Use the salt you brought. I have no more in my pouch.” Frowning,
she reached for the small, heavy pouch hanging at her belt. He
took it from her, sighing and plucking at his white beard. “Your
father’s presence is very strong. They will seek him for the power of his
life.” She
shivered and swallowed hard, trying not to think of the horrors that awaited
his body if she and Uzfan failed to protect him now. Muttering
incantations and prayers, Uzfan began sprinkling the salt across Prince Volvn’s
body. Alexeika
reached down and pulled Severgard from her father’s hand. The great sword had
been handed down through seven generations of her family. Long and heavy, it
had been forged by a dwarf swordmaker who used magicked metal mined in the
Mountains of the Gods. The blade was made of black steel, and runes were carved
along it. The hilt and guard were wrapped in gold and silver wire, and a great
flashing sapphire was set in the pommel. She struggled to lift it. Gore
was drying on the blade, and its stench was rank and tainted. She wrinkled her
nose in revulsion. Nonkind had died today on this blade. She wiped it clean,
knowing it would have to be scrubbed with both salt and sand and oiled later. Tugging
off her father’s belt, she choked back a fresh sob, but she slid into
its scabbard and knotted the ends of the belt together before slinging it
across her shoulder. By
now Uzfan had finished with the salt. He poured the last of it on Prince
Volvn’s tongue. “Is
it enough?” Alexeika asked. The
looters were close enough to see them. In their sinister black cloaks, they
yelled and cursed. She could smell their evil, a stink as foul as that which
had been on . It made her want to run. “Is
there enough time for his soul to leave?” she asked. Uzfan
shook his head sorrowfully. “Nay, child. His presence is too strong. It does
not want to accept failure.” She
felt sick to her stomach, but she was her father’s daughter. She knew what had
to be done. “Child,
shall I—” “No,”
she said firmly, swallowing hard. She drew her father’s dagger and held it
aloft. This was a son’s duty to a father who fell in battle. She told herself
to be strong. Uzfan
did not argue with her. He pulled off Prince Volvn’s helmet and the mail coif
beneath it. The hot, dusty wind ruffled the dead man’s gray hair. Uzfan tipped
back his head, exposing her father’s muscular throat. She
crouched, her fingers holding the dagger so tightly her whole hand shook. Tears
filled her eyes anew, stinging them. “Forgive me,” she whispered, and plunged
the dagger through his throat. Something
pale and gossamer-light floated upward from his body. It encompassed her for a
second, bringing with it a sensation of warmth and well-being. Then it was
gone, his soul, gone to the safety of the third world. She
wept, but there was no time. Shouting at her, Uzfan gripped her shoulder and
pulled her upright. She stumbled and started to run, then turned back and
grabbed the tattered banner. “Hurry!”
Uzfan shouted. The
riders were too close. She heard them whooping and yelling shrilly. All around
her darkness seemed to be descending. A bugling roar of something unearthly
made her glance back. She saw a darsteed coming after her, bounding with a
stride twice as long as a horse’s. Its nostrils blew flame, and next to it ran
a hurlhound with fangs bared and dripping yellow poison. It bayed at her, and
her heart lurched in fear. Uzfan
shouted, and a great cloud of dust whirled up between them and the riders. The
swirling cyclone caused the darsteeds and horses to rear to a halt. Two of the
hurlhounds came running on, straight into the cloud. They were swept off their
feet and flung high into the vortex. Alexeika
saw the look of strain on the old priest’s face and knew he could not hold the
spell long. Gripping his arm, she ran with him, pushing him when his old legs
faltered. At the far edge of the field, Shelena waited on her pony, holding the
reins of Alexeika’s frightened mount. Larisa and the boys were already fleeing,
the boys beating the heavily laden donkey with sticks to make it run. Uzfan
stumbled and fell, despite her efforts to catch him. She crouched low and
pulled him upright. Dirt
streaked his face and coated his beard. He was gasping for air, his face purple
with exertion. Behind her came a triumphant cheer as the cloud dissipated and
the looters surged through. Most
of them fell on the bodies with a savagery that sick- ened
Alexeika. The hurlhounds tasted salt and fell back with yelps of pain. “Come
on,” she muttered to Uzfan, pushing him forward. She
thought the looting might distract the horde enough to allow her and the old
man to escape. But the sound of pursuit came again. Uzfan
looked back and murmured something that made her ears ring. A column of fire
blazed up behind them, cutting off the pursuers a second time. The
smell of magic filled the air, making Alexeika cough. She urged him on, hoping
he did not kill himself with such exertion. “Hurry!”
Shelena called. Her pony was rearing with fear. She barely managed to control
it. When
it whirled around beneath her, she flung the reins of Alexeika’s pony at her
and galloped away. Alexeika lunged forward and caught the reins just in time to
keep her own mount from bolting as well. Talking
to the frightened animal, trying to soothe it while it reared and pulled back,
she got Uzfan astride it and jumped on herself. Wheeling the pony around, she
let it run. An
arrow grazed her shoulder blade, stinging harshly though giving her no serious
harm. She glanced back, but the looters did not follow her away from the
battlefield. The man swathed in black who had shot at her lowered his bow and
gave her a mocking salute, then turned his darsteed around and headed back to
the carnage. The
pony ran and ran, over the hill and up the next, until the woods swallowed them
and they slowed to a jouncing, weary trot through the cool shade. “I
don’t believe it,” Uzfan muttered in his beard. “We got away. We got away. Do
they not know what they let escape? There must have been no Believers
controlling them. They let us get away.” “No,”
Alexeika said firmly. “You frightened them with your magic. Are you feeling
better now? Should I find a stream so you may drink?” “No,”
he said, his voice sounding weak and shaky. “Do not stop. We dare not stop.” By
the time they reached camp on the banks of the fjord, it was late afternoon.
Alexeika could hear the women keening, the sound rising and falling like a
brutal wind. She bowed her head, struggling with her own emotions, but she
refused to wail and tear her clothing and mourn in the way of female serfs. The
camp was a large one, although it did not contain all the families of the men
and boys who had died today. Many had come to join the war, leaving their homes
to fight the darkness. But now, those who remained—the old men, the women, the
children—sobbed and grieved in their tents or else stood as though turned to
stone in the midst of some task, their faces ravaged with sorrow. A
few gathered around as Alexeika drew her weary pony to a halt. They stared at
her in silence, watching as she carried her father’s sword into her tent. Draysinko,
a man no older than thirty but spared from fighting because of his crippled
leg, was waiting when she came finally outside again. She had washed her face
and eaten the few bites of food she could choke down. Severgard, now clean and
oiled, lay in its scabbard atop her father’s cot. Tonight, she would light the
Element candles and pray for him the same way he had taught her to mourn her
mother, in dignified privacy. Not for her the grieving of the serfs, the women
sitting outside their tents and keening for hours or perhaps even days. It was
the custom of the peasants to show how much they had respected a loved one by
mourning for as long as possible before exhaustion claimed them. Sometimes,
Alexeika almost believed they were competing with each other by displaying the
most grief. When
she emerged from her tent, an uneasy delegation, consisting of Draysinko, five
old men, and two gray-haired court ladies determined to look as stern and regal
as ever despite their plain linsey gowns, was waiting politely for her. Draysinko
stepped forward, limping on his crooked leg, and bowed to her. “Your father is
dead?” he asked. Formality
required her to make an official announcement. The camp now lacked a leader,
and she wondered who would be named to take her father’s place. She had filled
in during his absences before. He had traveled often to secret meetings with
other rebel leaders, trying to raise an army, trying to obtain weapons and
armor where and when he could. But this time, the absence would be permanent. Her
heart ached, and she swiftly turned her thoughts away lest she break down. Her
father had taught her that a good commander did not betray weakness to his
followers. “Excuse
this intrusion,” Draysinko said politely, although his eyes looked impatient.
“As the daughter of the House of Volvn, you must officially make the
announcement.” It
irritated her that he sought to instruct her in her public duties. Her head
lifted high on her graceful neck. She squared her shoulders. “Consider
the announcement made,” she said. “Prince Volvn is dead. The battle was lost.” The
men of the little delegation exchanged glances. All except Draysinko removed
their caps and bowed to her. She saw tears run down the withered cheeks of Lady
Natelitya, but neither of the two older women changed their bleak expressions.
They had lost so much in recent years, perhaps they could not feel this most
recent blow. ‘Tonight,“
Alexeika said, ”I shall speak to the junior auxiliary. We will step up their
training. In a month, they should be ready to march on Trebek as—“ “No,”
Lady Natelitya said. “My husband is dead. My eldest sons are dead. Now my
youngest son is dead. You will not kill my grandson as well.” Alexeika
frowned. She had not expected opposition, especially not from the fierce Lady
Natelitya. “The plans have already been made. My father—” “—is
not here to lead the next skirmish,” Lady Natelitya said. “You will not risk
the children.” Alexeika
drew in a deep breath. “Very well. We will have to send word to the forces at
Lolta. We can join them or go to—” “No,”
Lady Natelitya said. “It is over.” “But—” “Over,
Alexeika,” the woman said. Turning her back, she walked away. Alexeika
stared after her in dismay. She started to go after Lady Natelitya, whose
support was important, but Draysinko blocked her path. “We
must talk,” he said. Hope
came back to her. She smiled at him and the others who remained. “Then you
agree with me that we must continue our strategy? With delays, of course, to
recover fighting strength—” “There
will be no more fighting,” Draysinko interrupted her. She
could see in their eyes that they were united against her. “Explain,” she said
sharply. “The
war of rebellion is over,” Draysinko announced. “We lost. Today’s massacre ends
everything.” “No!”
she cried. “It cannot. It must not. If you—if we give up now, then everything
we lost today was lost in vain. You would make a mockery of their deaths.” “Word
has come to us from our friends in Lolta,” Draysinko said. “It came too late to
stop today’s fighting, but there is hope for the rest of us.” “What
is this message?” Alexeika asked suspiciously. “King
Muncel offers a royal pardon to all rebels who surrender themselves.” A
scornful laugh escaped her. “And you believe this? It’s a trick.” “No.
It is a chance to live. The messenger from Lolta says some have already
accepted the offer. They have not been killed. They are to be serfs in the
southeast lands.” Near
Gant, she thought with a shudder.
“Serfs?” she echoed, disdain harsh in her voice. “Do
not look so unhappy, Princess,” Draysinko replied sharply. He had been born a
serf, she remembered. “There is hard work, but what is harder than living like
this, hand-to-mouth, always in danger of betrayal or capture? It is a chance to
make a new beginning. A chance to start over.” “Impossible,”
she said, shaking her head. “The king seeks to trick us. Tleska, you surely do
not believe this offer will be honored?” The
old man she spoke to knotted his face in consternation. He was gripping his cap
in his gnarled old hands. They trembled visibly. “We can’t go on without the
general.” “Yes,
we can,” she said loudly. Other
people, drawn by their argument, began to gather around. “We
must!” she continued. “One defeat is not enough to stop us—” “Yes
it is!” Draysinko interrupted her. His dark eyes snapped with anger. He looked
like he wanted to shake her. “This wasn’t just a defeat.” “It
was a massacre,” Tleska said.
“There isn’t an able-bodied man left among us.” “Who
will hunt for us this winter?” asked a woman from the rear of the crowd. “My
Slan was the best with a bow in the camp. Who will feed me and his children
now? Who will hunt for the rest of you?” “I
can hunt,” Alexeika said proudly. “The older boys can hunt.” “A
woman and some children,” Draysinko said with a sneer. She
glared at him. “You are not too crippled to learn to shoot a bow. You could
fish and—” “I
am not trained for such work,” he said, using the argument he always produced
to keep from doing his share. He had been a rug-maker in Grov when the purge
began. As long as he was only expected to weave cloth, he worked well. Ask him
to do anything else, and he shrieked with complaints. “Hear me, all of you!” he
shouted to the crowd. “We must face reality. This summer, yes, we can survive
in hiding. But come the snows, what will we do?” “We’ll
do what we’ve always done,” Alexeika said, astonished by his cowardice. Yes,
today had shaken them all. Every time she thought of life without her father,
she grew faint and sick inside. Still, he would not want her, or any of them,
to give up. “We’ll winter in the mountain caves. And we’ll go on with what we
must do. With what we vowed to do.” ‘The
war is over,“ Draysinko insisted. ”We can have a full pardon if we will
surrender.“ “Then
what did my father die for?” she asked fiercely. “Why did he spill his blood,
if not to put a stop to the evil that has taken Nether? He did not fight today
so that I could become a Gantese serf.” “Nothing
was said about serving the Gantese,” said a man quietly. He
was a stranger. She guessed he must be the messenger from Lolta. Even as she
sized him up, noting the lean body in mismatched chain mail, the scar on his
cheek, the shiftiness to his eyes, and the worn but serviceable sword in his
scabbard, Alexeika reminded herself that they should move camp as soon as he
left. She did not like the looks of him. Nor would she trust anything he said. Alexeika
looked at the bleak and frightened faces turned to her. “There’s another thing
you haven’t thought through,” she said. “Will you accept the Reformed Church
and renounce the old ways?” That
shocked them. Murmurs arose in the crowd. Several women flung their aprons over
their heads and began to whimper. Young children, big-eyed still from the news
that they had no fathers or brothers, stood huddled together in clusters,
watching their mothers panic. “Nothing
was said about that,” Draysinko admitted. He turned to look at the messenger,
as did everyone else. The
stranger shrugged. “Heard nothing about it.” “You
know it will be required,” Alexeika said. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? By law,
a serf is required to follow the beliefs of his master. Will you kneel to the
Reformed Circle? Will you, Draysinko? Will you, Tleska? Boral? Tomk?
Ulinvo?” No
one answered her. She noticed old Uzfan walking toward the rear of the crowd.
Pale and weary, he leaned heavily on a wooden staff. Drawing
in a breath, Alexeika pointed at the priest. “Here is our Uzfan. Remember that
he was defrocked by the reformers because he would not leave the old ways. His
brethren were beheaded.” Uzfan
nodded. “She speaks the truth. The Circle was once a theology of tolerance,
embracing old messages and new. No longer is this true. You have lost your
kinsmen today in this terrible tragedy. Take care you do not lose your gods as
well.” Alexeika
looked at the messenger, her eyes filled with challenge and distrust. “You’ve
delivered your message,” she said. “Go back to Lolta.” The
man bowed to her. “I will tell them of the defeat.” She
frowned, biting her lip, but there was no way to stop him. It was the truth,
the dreadful, unflinching, harsh truth. Unbearable, and yet they had to bear
it. As
the man mounted his horse and rode away, she squared her shoulders with an
effort and faced the people again. “We
must grieve first,” she said. “Let us give ourselves time for that before we
make any hasty decisions. In the morning, we’ll move camp and then we’ll—” “Why?”
demanded Larisa. “Why should we move?” “For
safety,” Alexeika replied. “We have always done so after a messenger comes to
us.” “But
who will strike the tents?” “We
can,” Alexeika said. “It’s
nearly nightfall,” Tleska said sadly. “We can’t march in the dark. Our hearts
are too heavy.” “No,
of course we will not march tonight,” Alexeika agreed, masking her sigh. “I
said we’ll break camp in the morning. At first light.” “But
how will my da’s ghost know to find me if I move away?” asked a little girl.
She was missing her front teeth and had a spattering of freckles across her
nose. The
wailing resumed, with women turning away, wadding their aprons in their hands.
Children scurried after them, clutching folds of their skirts and crying too. Dismayed,
Alexeika felt weary to her bones. Grief had exhausted her. She wanted no
conflict now, but Draysinko and the other men still stood there before her,
looking indecisive. She could think of only one other way to raise their
spirits and bring back their courage. “Let
us not forget why we fight,” she said. “Uzfan, when night falls, will you cast
the prophecy about our true king once more?” The
old priest shook his head wearily. “Nay, child,” he said. “Not this night. You
cannot rouse the hearts of people until their sorrow is spent.” She
would have argued and cajoled him, but he turned and walked away, leaning on
his staff. One by one, the others trickled away, until only Draysinko was left. “The people will not follow you,” he said spitefully. “You
are not your father. You are no man, despite your leggings and daggers.” “I
know what my father would wish me to do,” she replied, still astonished by his
hostility. Draysinko had always grumbled, but never before had he tried to
create open dissension. Perhaps he had not dared to until now. Perhaps he
wanted the leadership for himself. She
looked at Draysinko’s sour face. “I do not want my father’s death to be in
vain.” He
frowned. “We will choose a new leader tomorrow.” “We’ll
choose when we reach our new camp. In a few days.” “And
who finds this new camp?” he asked with a sneer. “You?” She
opened her mouth to say she could, but he turned away. Frowning and feeling troubled,
she watched his limping figure a moment, then withdrew into her tent to think. Her
father’s presence seemed to fill the small space. Despite the gathering shadows
she could see Severgard lying where she’d left it. It was a potent weapon, powered
with magic. Who would carry it into battle now? Sitting
down on her cot, she gripped her hair with her fingers and leaned over, her
grief mixed with resentment. If only she could have been male. Her father had
needed a son to inherit this sword, to carry his name into history, to continue
the fight for the true king. She was strong and fearless, but not strong enough
to wield Severgard. She could barely lift it, and she knew not how to control
its power. What
was she to do? Let these people disperse and surrender? Let the rebellion fall
apart? Tell herself she could do nothing except bed a man and bring a son into
the world, a son who years from now would perhaps live to carry this sword into
battle? Why had the gods given her an agile mind and a strong will, if her
loins were all she was good for? Worst
of all, she was disappointed in her people, disappointed by how thoroughly they
had been demoralized. It was as though this blow had killed their hearts,
leaving them without the will to continue. Was she the only one who raged at
the massacre, who vowed in her heart she would never give up, would never
surrender, would never accept Muncel the Usurper as her rightful king? She was
ashamed of the people she called friends, ashamed and disappointed in them. Perhaps
tomorrow they would regain their courage. But as she listened to the wailing in
the tents, she did not think they would. It was hard to lose, devastating to
lose, knowing right was on your side, and yet losing anyway. “Oh,
Papa,” she whispered through her tears. “What am I to do?” - In
lower Mandria, the palace of Savroix was lit inside and out for an evening
summertime festival. Flambeaux atop poles illuminated the garden paths, and
richly garbed guests wearing masks as disguises strolled in all directions.
Laughter and playful shrieks filled the warm air among the hedges. Lute music
played in the distance. A
girl went running by with a merry tinkling of tiny bells sewn to her skirts,
her mask slipping and her hair half-unbound. She was pursued by a young man
with streaming lovelocks and a short beard. He carried his mask in his hand and
was laughing lustily. “Wicked,
wicked!” the girl said. Her words were a rebuke, but her tone was all
surrender. She ran on, disappearing into the shadows of the shrubbery, the
young man on her heels. Standing
next to a stone statue, Pheresa watched the amorous couple vanish. Although she
had lived at court for several months now, she remained shocked by these wanton
escapades. King Verence was a kindly, good-hearted man, but what misbehavior he
did not himself witness he seemed to take no interest in. Nor did he want
anyone carrying tales to him. Therefore, the courtiers did as they pleased as
long as they kept decorum in the king’s presence. As for Verence himself, he
kept two mistresses in opposite wings of the palace, and officious little
secretaries with pens and parchment were in charge of keeping the two ladies’
schedules apart so that they never met each other. Pheresa
had not been trained to lead such a life as she saw daily at court. Nor could
she bring herself to embrace it, despite the joking advice of others. Often,
she felt unsophisticated and alone. She had written only once to her mother for
advice, but Princess Dianthelle’s reply was curt. Pheresa had to make herself
admired if she was to succeed. No one could obtain popularity for her. Pheresa
had no particular wish to be popular among courtiers who were idle and heedless
of anything except their next pleasure. She was interested in the workings of
govern- ment
and longed to be allowed to sit in on the meetings between king and council.
Once, she had requested permission to attend. Her petition had been denied. Now,
her three companions—Lady Esteline, who was Pheresa’s court chaperone, plus
Lady Esteline’s husband, Lord Thieron, and brother, Lord Fantil—observed her
round-eyed expression at this evening’s festivities and laughed. “That
was the little Sofia you saw running into the shrubbery, my dear,” Lady
Esteline said, giggling behind her slim hand. “One. of the ladies in waiting to
Countess Lalieux.” Pheresa
blinked. The Countess Lalieux was the king’s newer mistress. “I see,” she
replied, but her voice was clipped. Lady
Esteline laughed harder. “Do not worry,” she said gaily. “Sofia and her pursuer
are engaged to be married. Such a frown you wear.” Lord
Fantil bowed to Pheresa. “Enchanting,” he said, showing his teeth in approval.
“Such old-fashioned, country notions of propriety. Most young maidens fresh out
of the nuncery are eager to embrace all that they see here. Few are as shy ...
and as beguiling .. as you.” Pheresa
blushed to the roots of her hair and hoped the shadows concealed her change of
color. She looked away from him, feeling his compliments and flattery to be
inappropriate. Lady
Esteline laughed again. ‘Take care, Fantil. This child would rather read the
dreary foreign dispatches and harvest accounts than flirt with a handsome man.
I think it a grave disservice to teach young maidens how to read. See what
comes of filling their minds with such nonsense?“ Lord
Thieron threw back his bald head and brayed. The others joined in his laughter.
Pheresa smiled to be a good sport. They were always laughing at her and teasing
her. She disliked it very much, but she did not know what to do about it. Nor
did she quite know how to acquire friends of her own choosing. Her place at
court remained tenuous. The king liked her, and she had the honor of visiting
him daily for chats and occasional games of chess. But she had no official
position here. Niece of the king or not, she had no duties and no importance.
Neither of the king’s mistresses had chosen to receive her or invite her to
join their circle of companions. Pheresa was relieved because as a member of
the royal family, she knew she should not recognize either woman. Yet she was
lonely. King Verence’s wife had died several years ago, and he had not remarried.
Pheresa believed he erred in this, for a queen would have curbed the courtiers’
excesses and organized their society more productively. But she knew better
than to dispense either her opinions or her advice. The
best and most courteous of the older courtiers spoke to her pleasantly, but
most of the younger set did not bother with her at all. Pheresa understood, of
course. Until she was engaged to Prince Gavril and officially destined to one
day be queen, she meant nothing here. Now,
she and her companions resumed their stroll along the garden path, and Pheresa
kept a wary eye on how far away from the palace they seemed to be going. From
all sides, she could hear furtive rustlings and giggles in the ornate
shrubbery. During the day, she adored the gardens and loved walking through
their beauty. On evenings like this, however, she would rather have been safe
in her own chamber. Lady
Esteline stumbled and gripped the arm of her husband. “Oh, how silly of me,”
she said unsteadily. “This blighted slipper has come apart. Thieron, you must
assist me.” Her
husband bent to reach beneath the long hem of her gown. Lord Fantil moved to
stand beside Pheresa. She could smell a fragrance on him, something musky and
disturbing. Her father had never worn scent. Nor did the king. She did not like
the custom. “Is
it easily mended?” Fantil asked politely. Lord
Thieron pulled the slipper off his wife’s foot and held it up for inspection in
the gloom. “I think not.” “Such
a bother,” Lady Esteline complained, “and I paid four dreits of silver for
these shoes. I shall insist the cobbler refund my money.” “Let
us go back,” Pheresa said with relief. “The men can help you walk, and I
shall—” “No,
my dear. How can you think of spoiling your evening because of my silly
slipper?” Lady Esteline patted Pheresa’s hand. “You really must see the north
fountains by moonlight. They are the most enchanting sight. Fantil, please
escort Lady Pheresa there.” “Of
course,” he said eagerly. A
tiny sense of alarm passed through Pheresa. “The fountains will wait for
another occasion,” she said, trying to keep her voice light and steady.
“I could not leave you like this, my lady.” “Dear
child,” Lady Esteline cooed. “So sweet of you to worry about me. But I have my
Thieron to escort me. Please go on.” “I
am a little tired,” Pheresa said desperately. Fantil
took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. “Then we shall not tarry
long. But the fountains by moonlight you must see, if my sister has decreed it.
Come, my lady.” He
led her away into the shadows, away from the palace and the flaming torchlight.
Pheresa did not want to go with this man. She knew she should not be with him
alone, but her own chaperone had put her in his keeping. She did not know how
to extricate herself from this situation without making a fuss. People already
considered her quaint and old-fashioned. She would be joked at and mocked even
more if she took fright and ran away. The
fountains stood beyond the farthest edge of the gardens, with the woodland park
behind them. Cascades of water poured down and jetted into the air. Although
the moon was only a thin sliver tonight, the effect was a pretty one. Pheresa
stood there, gazing at the sight, and feeling very conscious of how close to
her this man stood, of how tightly he kept her arm clasped within his. “Beautiful,”
she said. “Now, let us go back.” She
tried to turn around, but he held her where she was. Pheresa
frowned. “Please.” “There
is no hurry, my lady,” he said, and his voice was deep and smooth and assured.
“Let us linger a few moments more to savor all that is special here.” From
the corner of her eye, she glimpsed another couple nearby. They were embracing
in a passionate kiss. Lord Fantil bent over her, and she could feel his warm
breath upon her cheek. She
felt trapped, too warm, and a little faint. He meant to kiss her, of that she
was certain. His arm had now encircled her back. His fingers splayed across her
waist, pulling her closer to him. “You
are a beautiful child,” he murmured. “Your skin is so white it glows by
moonlight. Your lips are—” Pheresa
had a sudden clear thought of the palace and how close she stood to jeopardy
here. If Fantil compromised her, she would leave Savroix in disgrace. Certainly
she would never marry the Heir to the Realm. With
a gasp, she turned her head, averting his lips from hers. He kissed her cheek
instead, and she twisted in his hold, giving him a strong push. He
released her at once, much to her relief, and held up his hands. “Now, now, my
little dove. What do you fear? Have you never savored a man’s ardor before?” “I
do not intend to savor yours,” Pheresa said tartly. “That
is unkind. If I have frightened you, I beg your pardon. Please, my lady, there
is nothing to fear. It is pleasant, once you grow used to it.” “No
doubt,” she said, gathering up her skirts and walking around him. He turned to
go with her, and she quickened her pace. “But I do not intend to dally here in
the moonlight with you.” ‘Tell
me how I displease you,“ he said, reaching out and gripping her wrist. She
stopped, too furious now to feel afraid. “Release me.” He
obeyed, but in doing so he allowed his fingers to stroke her arm lightly. She
shivered. “Am
I too ugly or too old for you?” he asked. Pheresa
frowned. Lord Fantil was young and very handsome, as well he knew. His games
annoyed her. With a little huff, she started walking again. “Lady
Pheresa—” “Hush!”
she said angrily. “How dare you use my name out here. Do you intend to cause a
scandal?” He
did not reply fast enough, and that told her the answer. She
drew in her breath sharply. “I see.” “No,
I don’t think you do,” he replied. “Tarry a moment, and let us talk.” “There
is nothing we need say,” she told him, walking faster. “I understand this
matter perfectly. You have a younger sister, do you not? One reputed to be beautiful
indeed.” “Yes,”
he replied with caution. “Yes,”
Pheresa repeated, nodding to herself. Her anger deepened with every step. “A
sister whom you would like to marry to his highness.” “My
lady—” “Enough!
Do not waste my time with falsehoods,” she snapped. “You and Lady Esteline
think me unprotected and foolish, too naive to guard myself from ruinous
seduction. I fear to disappoint you, my lord, but you have overestimated the
power of your charm.” He
kept pace with her, but even through the shadows she could see how tense he had
become. When he spoke, his voice was as tight and clipped as hers. “Forgive my
offense. If you believe my family plots against you, you are completely
mistaken. My youngest sister is already betrothed to a young man of worth and
fortune. She is no rival to your ambition.” Just
short of a flambeau, he stopped on the garden path and faced her, his face and
shoulders in shadow. “You quite mistook me. My compliments were sincere, but I
assure you they will not trouble you again. Good evening.” With
a bow, he strode away, leaving her there alone. Pheresa
stood next to a large shrub with her face and throat flaming hot. Her
mind—momentarily so clear and certain—fell into confusion and she did not know what
to think. It seemed she had erred again, and in doing so had insulted a man of
importance. All the popular ladies at court had admirers, but she had just
spurned her first so clumsily she might never attract another. The nuns had
taught her how to read and think for herself, but not how to flirt. Dismayed,
she stood there hiding in the shadows until she was certain she would not cry,
then slowly returned to the palace. Far
away in Nether, the shadows grew long and darkened inside Alexeika’s tent.
Eventually, she found a measure of calmness. She thought of the stories her
father used to tell her about King Tobeszijian, handsome and strong, with his
eld eyes and his thick black hair. When Queen Nereisse was poisoned and the
throne overturned, Tobeszijian had acted like the true king he was. He seized
the Chalice of Eternal Life from the hands of the churchmen who stole it and
rode forth into a cloud of magic, never to be seen again. The
Chalice and Tobeszijian’s heirs were missing all these years later. It was
rumored Tobeszijian was dead, for everyone felt he would have returned to fight
for the throne had he been alive. But his body was never found. Men had
searched. Often Alexeika had seen pilgrims trudging along lonely forest paths
or steep mountain passes, their footgear worn to shreds as they searched
tirelessly for their lost king. Uzfan
had cast prophecy and evoked visions, saying the king was lost forever, but
that his son would one day return. “King
Faldain,” Alexeika whispered now. Her heart stirred at the mention of his name.
He would be about her age, perhaps a year older, for she was not born until
after the troubles in Nether began. Her older sister had died of some childhood
illness. Later her mother had been killed. That was when her father came forth
from hiding in exile and took Alexeika into his care. That was when he began to
actively campaign against King Muncel. There had been war ever since. If
she had anything to do with it, there would continue to be war. She
wondered what Faldain looked like, if he was as strong and handsome as his
father had been. Did he have Tobeszijian’s black hair? Or was he pale and fair
like his eldin mother? Where did he live? Did he know of his heritage? Was he training,
even now, in the arts of war so that he could return to avenge his parents and
seize the throne rightfully his? Was he worthy of his name? Did he have the
character and courage to be a king? Or was he spoiled and shallow? She
sighed, pushing away her speculation. The problem was that the people needed a
man of flesh and blood to fight for. They needed to know that their rightful
king existed. Until now, they had put their faith in her father and followed
his leadership. But without the general, there was little to keep their hopes
alive. If
Uzfan would only cast a vision of Faldain, the people might keep going. If they
could see their king, they would know him worth waiting for. She
stood up, intending to go to the old priest and persuade him to cast a vision.
But as she stepped outside her tent into the soft evening air, she halted. She
could not ask again. If Uzfan possessed the strength to conjure up the vision,
he would have done it rather than refuse her. It would be unkind to pester him
and make him admit he was too weak to perform the task. The
evening breeze felt cool and pleasant. The camp lay quiet now, for most people
had withdrawn inside their tents. She realized she hadn’t scheduled the night
watch, but a shadow moved among the trees, telling her the work was being done
anyway. Out
on the fjord, the water lay still and dark. A moon was rising in the sky. She
watched it climb the heavens and knew she needed hope as much as the others.
Perhaps more. Well,
then, she would use her own insignificant abilities and cast a vision for
herself. Her mother had possessed a bit of eldin blood. Alexeika’s gifts were
small indeed, and seldom used, for when she’d been younger Uzfan’s attempts to
train her had been unsuccessful and frustrating to them both. Tonight, however,
she decided to try. Perhaps, instead of a vision of the king, she would seek a
vision of her father. As
long as she lived, she would never forget the sensation of feeling his soul
pass from this world into another. It had felt like a benediction, his parting
blessing, although he had never been a sentimental man given to emotional
displays. Already she missed him so much. Quietly
she walked down the steep bank and untied a small fishing skiff. Climbing in,
she paddled her way across the fjord until she was well away from the bank.
Shipping her paddle, she let the skiff bob there on the surface, waiting until
the water grew calm and still. The
moon’s pale sliver hung above her. Stars spangled the darkness around it. The
water reflected back moon and starlight. She centered herself until she found a
place of peace and acceptance. Closing
her eyes, she concentrated her thoughts on her father, envisioning a mist upon
the water. Long ago she had tried to part the veils of seeing, as Uzfan
referred to casting a vision. She was never very good at it, but now she tried
not to think about old failures. In the past she’d wanted to see her mother,
and her mother had not come willingly into sight. Tonight,
however, Alexeika still felt the fleeting touch of her father’s soul. She
focused on him, feeling the mists of her mind swirl around her, and opened her
eyes, waiting with what patience she possessed. The
moonlight glowed deep within the water, shining deeper than she had ever seen
it before. After
a time, however, she realized that this was not the moonlight which glowed in
the depths, but rather something else. It
rose slowly, slowly to the surface of the water, wavered there, then broke
through and lifted into the air. Water and vapor seemed to blend together. The
air grew suddenly cold, as though she’d been plunged into winter. She
saw an apparition form and take shape, still glowing from within. It was the
figure of a man. Her breath caught, then fled her lungs. This was not her
father. Disappointment seeped through her. She saw instead a youth, dark-haired
and lanky, his full growth not yet achieved. He stood there, his feet in the
mist, his legs straight and coltish, his chest strong, his arms longer than his
sleeves. His head was bowed, but then he lifted it and looked right at her. She
sat there openmouthed, unable to look away. How pale his eyes were, glowing
with the unearthly light that formed him. His cheeks were lean, his nose
straight and aristocratic. His brows were thick dark slashes above his eyes. He
spoke not, and she could not tell if he saw her. Then he lifted his right arm.
A sword formed in his hand, both mist and light, a sword whose blade flashed with
carved runes. When he swung it aloft, the runes flowed from the blade and
sparkled off the tip like shooting stars. They
rained down on her, winking into the water and glowing there like tiny lights. Tipping
back her head, she laughed silently, marveling at the beauty of light and mist
and water. “I
am Faldain,” her vision said, his voice sounding only in her head. It was a
voice young but deepening, with a resonance that echoed long inside her.
“Summon me not again. It is not my time to be found.” “We
need you,” she dared whisper. “Come and save your people.“ He
swung of mist and light again, this
time right at her. The tip pierced her breastbone, and icy fire plunged through
her heart. She arched her back with a choked cry. Then
he was gone, the vision fading in a last shower of sparks and starlight. When
she recovered her senses, Alexeika found herself huddled on her knees in the
bottom of the skiff, doubled over and crying. She
hurt, yet her fingers found no wound where the vision had stabbed her. The mist
was gone, and the water lay calm and dark. A cloud had crossed the moon
overhead, muting the starlight as well. With
shaking hands, she rubbed the tears from her face. Her teeth were chattering,
and she felt so very cold. Whatever she had wanted, it had not been this. “Alexeika,”
called a voice softly. It reached across the fjord and brought her from her
thoughts. “Child, come back to shore. It is over now.” Startled,
she looked at the bank. Uzfan, his long robe perilously close to the water,
stood right at the edge, beckoning to her. Behind him clustered what looked
like half the camp. The people were silent in the moonlight, which came and
went fitfully behind its thin veil of cloud. They stared at her with their
mouths open. Fear
touched her, along with embarrassment. What had they seen? She
gripped the paddle, her fingers tight on the polished wood, and felt a strong
temptation to go far away into the darkness, never to return. “Alexeika,”
Uzfan called again. His voice was gentle, full of understanding. “Come to
shore, child. You must be cold.” Yes,
she felt as chilled as if it were a winter evening. Overhead, a falling star
plummeted through the sky, falling out of sight among the treetops of the
distant shore. She shivered and began to paddle slowly to Uzfan. Her
arms felt leaden and stiff. It seemed to take her forever to return, but
finally the skiff bumped into the rocks and eager hands reached down to grip it
and tie it fast. Someone
took her hands and pulled her to her feet. She stumbled out, feeling as though
her mind was not quite connected to her body, and Uzfan gripped her arm firmly. “Come,
child,” he said. ‘Time to rest. Make way for her. Shelena, step aside.“ The
women and old men parted way before her reluctantly. As she walked between
them, they reached out and touched her hair and her clothing, murmuring words
she did not quite understand. Up
the hill, as she and Uzfan left the others behind and approached her tent, she
faltered and stopped. “What
happened?” she asked, still feeling dazed. “Come.
I will build a fire,” the old man said kindly. Beneath
his reassuring tone, however, she heard disapproval. She
frowned. “I don’t understand. I wanted to see my father.” Uzfan
shook his head and pushed her toward her tent. She stood next to it, watching
while he assembled twigs and kindling in a circle of stones and struck sparks
into the fluff of shredded bark. A small blaze caught, flaring orange in the
darkness. “Child,
child,” he said in mild rebuke. “Do you remember none of the lessons I taught
you? A soul newly departed cannot be seen. Would you call your father forth
from the safety he so barely reached?” “I
miss him,” she said, her voice small like a child’s. Uzfan
climbed to his feet with a grunt and turned to grip her arms. “Come and sit by
the fire. It will warm you.” She
sank to the ground, rubbing her chest where she still ached. Uzfan tended the
fire, feeding sticks to it as the flames grew hungry and stronger. He kept
staring at her with a frown, his eyes shifting away each time she glanced up. His
disapproval seemed stronger than ever. She
frowned. “I did something wrong?” “Do
you think so?” he asked too quickly. She
sighed. She didn’t want a lesson. “I don’t know. It seemed—I don’t know. I’ve
never cast a real vision before. Not like that.” She rubbed her chest again. “I
didn’t know it would hurt.” “Who
did you conjure forth?” he asked sternly. She
did not answer. She was suddenly afraid to. “Child,
what you did was very wrong. Think of the danger you have placed yourself in.
The camp now knows what you can do.” She
shook her head. “I can’t. I don’t know how it happened. I’ve tried before, and
it never worked. You remember.” “I
remember an impatient girl refusing to follow instructions. Did I not warn you
never to part the veils of seeing on your own?” “No.” He
snorted. “Then remember it now. Dangerous, child! Dangerous. You must never
invoke forces you do not understand or cannot control.” He shuddered. “We are
too close to the battle- field.
Nonkind roam our land, and the darkness is always close. You must never again
take such a risk.“ “It
wasn’t malevolent,” she said, trying to defend herself now. She felt ashamed,
and therefore defiant. “I found no evil—” “Ah,
but evil may find you,” he retorted, glaring at her. She
glared back and wanted suddenly to shock him. “It was Faldain,” she said. “He
told me so.” Uzfan’s
mouth fell open. He stared at her, his expression altering into one of shock.
The stick he held halfway in the fire burst into flames, and still he sat there
motionless. At
last, however, he was forced to throw the stick into the fire. Shaking his
scorched fingers, he blew on them and stared at her again. “Faldain?” he
whispered. “Are you certain?” “He
said that was his name.” “Impossible.” “Why?” “Because
it is. No one knows if the boy even lives, or where he might be.” “He
lives,” she said with assurance. Uzfan
clasped his hands together. “Great mercy of Thod,” he muttered. “How could you
find him, an untrained natural— I—I am amazed.” “He
said for me not to summon him again. He said it was not yet time for him to be
found.” Frustration filled her, and she pounded her fist on her knee. “When
will he come? If I am to keep people in support of him, he must come soon.” Uzfan
reached out and closed his hand over her fist. “Stop this at once. You are not
in command of these events.” “Don’t
you think I can lead—” “That
is not what I’m talking about. Listen to me, child.” Uzfan’s old eyes, very
grave and serious, held hers. “When you want a thing to happen, when you have
devoted your life to making it happen, it can be very hard to let events take
their course. But you do not control what is to be. You must never again try to
force destiny.” “I
only wanted to see him,” she began, but Uzfan scowled. “No,”
he said sternly. “You asked me to give the people a vision of Faldain, and when
I refused you set out to defy my wisdom. Is this not the way of it?” She
could not meet his gaze now. Squirming a little, she glared at the fire. “Alexeika?” “Yes!
I suppose so. I wanted hope for myself. Is that wrong?” He
stared at her. “It is wrong.” Angry,
she flashed her eyes at him, then looked away again. “If
he comes one day or if he never comes, it is not for you to decide. You cannot
set his path. It is forbidden for you to try. Is that clear?” “I
don’t have those kinds of powers—” “You
might! Great Thod, girl, look what you accomplished tonight. Your power
unchained and unchanneled, careening everywhere. You are a natural. Your
mother’s blood gave you what ability you have, but it’s erratic, unusable.” “That
can’t be true,” she said in surprise. “Why did you try to train me before if my
gifts weren’t—” ‘To
keep you from doing harm to yourself or to others,“ he said angrily. “Oh.” “Yes,”
he snapped. “I felt at the time that it would be unkind to tell you more. You
seemed uninterested in learning, and so I let it pass. I see now I was wrong.” “So
even if I tried again to do what I did tonight, it might not happen.” “You
might set fire to yourself, or nothing might happen at all. Your gift is small
and uncontrollable. If you did not bring Nonkind to us, I will be very
grateful.” She
bit her lip, understanding now why he was so angry. Contrite, she said, “I ask
your pardon. I was not trying to do harm. If we must leave camp tonight, then I
will—” “No,
no, do not alarm everyone,” he said grouchily. “There’s been enough trouble for
one day. Promise me, child, that you will never do something like this again.” She
frowned, feeling sorry, but not yet ready to promise anything. “But he does
exist,” she said. “He is not a myth. He does live. Somewhere.” “If
that is true, then you have endangered him as well. Visions are meant to summon
the dead, not those living. You could injure him.” Her
eyes widened with alarm. “I didn’t mean to. Can you find out where he is?” “No.” “Then
how—” “Alexeika,
I have warned you most strongly. Must I make a spell to take your gift away
from you?” She
leaned back, astonished that he would threaten her. “You mean this?” His
gaze never wavered. “I do.” “Did
the others see him? Do they know? Do they understand now?” “They
know you have powers, and that can someday endanger you,” he said with
exasperation. “No
one here would expose me, no more than they would betray you,” she said,
shrugging off his concern. “Are
you sure of that?” he asked. “Of
course,” she said lightly, but the worry in his face gave her pause. She
frowned. “Do you think—” “I
do not need to counsel you on who to trust,” he said. “This has been most
unwise, most unwise indeed. Now, do I have your promise that you will not do
such a thing again?” “Yes,”
she said in a small voice of surrender. He
grunted and got stiffly to his feet. “Then I shall leave you for the night. You
cannot lead people with tricks, Alexeika. That is King Muncel’s way, and you
know how false he is. Beware your own will. It should never be stronger than
your prudence.” She
bowed her head under his rebuke. He walked away, grumbling in his beard as he
went. For
a while she sat by the fire, until at last the coldness inside her melted away.
When she noticed that someone was staring at her from a nearby tent, she threw
dirt on the fire, smothering it, and went inside her own. It
was easy to distract herself for a few minutes, packing her possessions and
those of her father’s that she wanted to keep. It would be a hard job in the
morning, getting camp to break. But
when her packing was finished, she had nothing else to do except extinguish the
small oil lamp and lie on her cot in the darkness. Faldain’s
face swam back into her thoughts. He had not looked like she expected. She
wondered when he would come and why Uzfan seemed to think he might never do so.
Didn’t this young king know who he was and what his responsibilities were?
Didn’t he care? Surely he’d heard about Nether’s misfortunes. Was he trying to
raise an army, and if so, from where? Would he enter Nether with an invading
force? Would he sell Nether to another realm in exchange for fighting men, the
way his uncle had done? She
frowned, fretting in the night, and in time grew angry with the boy she’d seen.
If he didn’t come, then he was either a fool or a weakling. If he didn’t care
about his own land and people, then he deserved no throne. In the meantime, she
had to find a way to persuade the rebels to carry through the planned attack on
Trebek. It was a small but important river town, controlling barge trade
between the Nold border and Grov. She had to continue her father’s plans.
Somehow, even if everyone else turned coward and surrendered, she had to
continue. Deep
in the night, Dain lunged upright from sleep with a gasp. He felt as though he
were drowning in a deep, icy-cold lake. He could not breathe. Water filled his
lungs and nostrils, holding him down. In his hand he gripped a sword that
flashed with fire. A sorcerelle held him enchanted, drawing him forth from the water only
to plunge him back in. Shuddering,
Dain rubbed his sweating face with both hands and pulled up his knees to rest his
forehead on them. He realized now it had been only a dream. He was safe within
the foster sleeping chamber in Thirst Hold, and he’d better take care to make
no noise that might disturb the others. After
a time his pounding heart slowed and he began to breathe more normally. It was
hot and airless in the chamber. His cot was closest to the window, but the
Mandrian custom was to keep windows firmly shuttered at night. If he opened it
now to fill his lungs with fresh air, the others might wake up. Dain had no desire to take a beating from Mierre. As
silently as shadow, he slipped from the room, passing Thum’s cot, where his
friend snored, passing Kaltienne’s cot, and finally passing Mierre’s. The
largest boy was a light sleeper, but Dain made no sound. He had learned early
on how to smear goose grease on the hinges of the door so that it could be
opened without a sound. Safely
in the corridor, he let out his breath in relief and, barefooted, went padding
off outside. He crossed the walkway over to the battlements and leaned his bare
shoulder against the cool stone crenellation, gazing outward across the
patchwork of light and darkest shadows that marked the fields, meadows, and
eventually forest belonging to this Thirst. It
would be morning soon. He sniffed the breeze, aware of an imperceptible
lightening of the sky. Down at the corner of the wall, the sentry yawned and
resumed his slow walk. The man had not yet noticed Dain, but once he did there
would be no challenge. The sentries were used to Dain’s nocturnal ram-blings.
Sometimes he slept on the walkways, or tried to. Usually a sentry roused him
and sent him back inside. No
one understood how hard it was for him to sleep inside a building of stone.
Although he had lived at Thirst now for three-quarters of a year, he still
wondered sometimes what men feared so much that they should build such a
fortress of timber and stone to hide within. He found it overwhelming at times
to be among so many people, with so many men-minds flicking past his own. He
had learned to shut them out as much as possible, but at night it was harder.
Sometimes he dreamed their dreams, and that was difficult, if not repulsive. Tonight’s
dream, however, had been different. Frowning, Dain rubbed his chest. He still
felt unsettled by it, and he hadn’t understood it at all. It was almost as
though he hadn’t dreamed it, but had instead been yanked by magical means into
another world and time. If so, why? Who was that maiden on the lake with eyes
like starlight, and what had she wanted him to do? His
fingers reached up to curl around his pendant of bard crystal, which wasn’t
there. Dain’s
frown deepened. Angrily he lowered his hand. He kept forgetting he no longer
wore it. Thanks
to Gavril and Mierre, who had tormented and teased him on his first day of
training. During the break, Mierre and the prince closed in on Dain, and Mierre
attacked first. While he and Dain were fighting, the leather cord had snapped,
and the pendant went flying into the dirt. Gavril picked it up, exclaiming,
“This is king’s glass! Where did you get it?” Pinned
at that moment by Mierre, who was sitting on him and twisting his arm painfully
behind him, Dain spat out a mouthful of dirt. “That’s mine.” “Oh,
you stole it, no doubt.” “Didn’t.” “I
say you did. No one wears king’s glass unless they are royalty.” Mierre
twisted Dain’s arm harder. He grunted, gritting his teeth to keep from crying
out, and flailed uselessly with his other hand. “Mine,”
he insisted. “You
cannot claim stolen property.” Dain
gathered all his strength and managed to break free of Mierre. Sending the
larger boy toppling, Dain scrambled up, landed a dirty kick that made Mierre
double up and howl, and launched himself at Gavril. “It’s
mine!” he shouted, tackling the prince and knocking him down. Biting
and scratching and gouging, the only way he knew how to fight, Dain swarmed
Gavril furiously, determined to get his property back. It was all he had of his
lost heritage, the only possession his unknown parents had given him. Jorb had
warned him and Thia never to lose their pendants, never to show them, never to
give them into anyone’s keeping. And now, his worst enemy—this arrogant,
pompous prince who had already thrown a royal fit at the idea of even being in
the same hold with him, much less in training together—clutched his pendant and
no doubt intended to keep it for himself. “Give
it back!” Dain shouted. He struck Gavril in the mouth, and pain shot through his
knuckles as they split on the prince’s teeth. Blood spurted, and Gavril howled.
“Give it back!” Dain shouted. Lunging for Gavril’s clenched fist, Dain rolled
over and over with the prince. Then
they were surrounded by men, who pulled them bodily apart. Bleeding and
streaked with dirt, his fine doublet torn, Gavril pointed at Dain with a shaking
finger and gasped, too furious to speak. Dain
glared and lunged for him, only to be held back by the men. “Now,
now, what is all this?” demanded the master-at-arms, Sir Polquin. “This is not
the way knights, nobles, and gentlemen conduct themselves on a field of honor.” “He’s
none of those,” Gavril said, his face beet-red with fury. “The dirty little—” “Now,
now, your highness,” Sir Polquin broke in. “Dain does not yet know our customs.
Let us not lose our temper.” Gavril
turned his blue-eyed rage on the master-at-arms. “I shall lose my temper if I
desire! He’ll die for this! The ruffian attacked me without provocation.” “Liar!”
Dain shouted back, struggling against the hands that held him fast. “He is a
thief. That pendant is mine. He took it from me.” Sir
Polquin’s weather-roughened face turned slightly pale. He frowned and scratched
his sun-bleached hair, but his green eyes held little mercy when he looked at
Dain. “You must never strike his highness or call him a thief or a liar.” “He
«!” Dain insisted. Sir
Masen cuffed Dain on his ear. Pain flared through his head, distracting him momentarily.
“Don’t talk back to the master-at-arms, boy.” Sir
Polquin beckoned to Mierre, who had dusted off his doublet and now came
forward. “And what say you about this? Were you fighting Dain as well?” “I
was showing him how to wrestle, sir,” Mierre lied smoothly. “If we must have
him with us, we don’t want him shaming us by not knowing how to grapple.” The
men chuckled, and seemed to accept this lie. Mierre smiled, and his gaze
flickered to Dain for one brief, malevolent moment. Seething,
hating them all, Dain set his jaw and glared at everyone. “The pendant is
mine,” he said. “Prince or not, he cannot take it from me.” “He
hit me,” Gavril said. “That is a crime punishable by—” “Come
with me,” Sir Polquin said. Clamping his hand on Dain’s shoulder, he marched
him away from the others, off the practice field and out of earshot. “Now,” the
master-at-arms said grimly, “we’re going to have a talk about manners, boy.” “I
don’t care about manners!” Dain shouted. “It’s
against law to strike him. If Sir Los had been here, you’d be dead.” Dain
frowned. “But he cannot take my property.” “By
right and rank, he can,” Sir Polquin told him. Stunned
by this injustice, Dain drew in a sharp breath. “It’s mine. It’s all I have,
all that I own. My father gave it to me. I have nothing else of his, no other—” “All
right, all right. Calm down, boy, and listen to me.” Dain
fell silent, but he could not stop fretting. Looking past Sir Polquin’s sturdy
shoulder, he saw Gavril out there on the field, chatting with the men, laughing
at something, his blond hair glinting bright in the sunshine. It was not fair.
No matter what man-law or man-custom said, it was not fair, and it was not
right. “Dain!” Reluctantly
Dain turned his attention back to Sir Polquin, who was scowling at him. “Did
you hear anything I said?” “No,”
Dain admitted. Sir
Polquin sighed. “Thought as much. Dain boy, heed me. The prince is far above
you. He will one day be king, and his word law.” “Pity
yourselves,” Dain said rudely, “for he will be brutal.” Sir
Polquin slapped him. “Never speak thus about his highness again. I’ll beat this
lesson into you, if I must. To live among us, you must abide by our ways.” Dain’s
jaw ached from the blow. He straightened himself slowly, resentment still
strong inside him. “The prince says I cannot own my bard crystal. He says only
royalty may wear it. That is his custom, Mandrian custom, but it isn’t mine! My father gave
it to me. My sister wore one as well. Who is your prince to say I may not have
it?” “I
know not what bard crystal is,” Sir Polquin said, “but you will respect your
betters—” “King’s
glass he called it,” Dain said. Sir
Polquin opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stared at Dain in
bewilderment mingled with a touch of alarm. “King’s glass?” he echoed finally.
“You wear king’s glass?” Dain
shrugged. “Perhaps you think it is worth little. But the trinket is mine, and—” “Oh,
it is worth a great deal!” Sir Polquin said, looking more astonished than ever.
“Don’t you know its value?” Now
it was Dain’s turn to be puzzled. “Its value lies in that my father gave it to
me when I was but an infant. Since I never met my father, I have nothing else
of his except this small gift.” Sir
Polquin whistled, his eyes round with wonder. “Small gift indeed. It’s worth a
fortune, or so I hear. Naught but the highest born can afford it. And who was
your father?” “I
do not know his name,” Dain said. “My guardian never told us. I know only that
my father rode to Jorb’s burrow one day and paid him well to take us in.” “Well,
well, Dain boy, it seems we chose you better than we knew,” Sir Polquin said
with a sudden grin. “Come along now. We’re wasting the best part of the day,
and there’s training to be done.” Dain
planted his feet and would not budge. “But what about my pendant? Will you make
the prince give it back?” “Boy,
has nothing I’ve said filled that hollow between your ears?” Dain
frowned. “He cannot take it from me. Prince or not, he has no right.” “Perhaps
he doesn’t at that,” Sir Polquin agreed. Dain’s
spirits rose. “Then you agree? I can have it back?” “I
think we’d better take this matter to Lord Odfrey.” “But—” “Come
along!” In
the end, after Sir Polquin took Lord Odfrey aside and whispered long into his
ear, after Lord Odfrey frowned, exclaimed, and stared at Dain in astonishment
and the beginnings of a smile, and after Gavril was asked to surrender the
pendant into Lord Odfrey’s keeping, the matter was settled, but to no one’s
satisfaction. “He
is a pagan nobody, a serf at best, his blood mixed, his parentage unknown,”
Gavril said sullenly. “He has no right to wear a jewel of this value.” “His
father is clearly a noble of high rank,” Lord Odfrey replied, turning the piece
of bard crystal over and over in his fingers. It whispered faint song in
response to his touch. Light prismed and flashed within its faceted depths.
“This man must be important enough to wish to avoid the scandal of having a
bastard son with eldin blood. That is why you were fostered with Jorb, lad,“ he
said to Dain while everyone stared and began to whisper in speculation. ”Now
you are fostered here. This pendant,“ he went on, holding it aloft, ”is indeed
part of your heritage, and is too valuable to be put at risk. For now, Sulein
will keep it safe for you in his strongbox.“ “But—” “It
will be safe there, Dain,” Lord Odfrey said, his frown and words a warning.
“When you are older and more responsible, you will receive it back. Let this
matter rest now.” And
so the physician who wanted to be a sorcerel had it, locked away where
Dain could not get it. He tried not to resent such interference. He understood
that this was the only way to keep Gavril from taking it completely away from
him. And yet, Dain could not help but wonder why the Mandrians talked so much
about honor but did not expect it in Gavril, who would one day be their king. Dain’s
standing had risen in the hold. Everyone knew him now as a nobleman’s by-blow,
and he was treated with more courtesy than when they’d thought him simply a
stray of no lineage. Dain was not happy to be called a bastard, but the explanation
made sense, especially since Jorb had always refused to tell him and Thia where
they came from. Gavril
was infuriated that Dain received no punishment for hitting him. But
thereafter, he gave Dain a wide berth, refusing to look at him or speak to him,
and ceasing to torment him. Rumor spread that the two boys might be cousins.
King Ver-ence’s younger brother, now dead, had been a roving scoundrel in his
youth. Dain
refused to consider any relationship. He believed his father was Netheran, for
that much Jorb had said. But if the Mandrians wanted to believe Dain was one of
theirs, and if it made them feed him more and treat him better, he was not
going to argue. Still, without his bard crystal, he felt bereft and incomplete.
He could not wait for the summer to end. For then, Gavril would be leaving
Thirst Hold forever. Dain believed that as soon as the prince departed, his
pendant would be returned to him. “A
month,” he whispered, turning his face toward the dawn, where a corona of gold and
rosy pink blazed above the horizon. Dain
sampled the breeze, his nostrils sifting through its myriad scents. “Only a
month.” A
month hence would fall the king’s birthday. King Verence always threw a great
festival and invited all the nobles and knights of his realm to participate in
a tournament. It was the king’s custom to let young men win their spurs by
jousting before they joined the knighthood orders. But this year would also
mark Prince Gavril’s investiture into the knighthood and his coming of age,
when he would be named Heir to the Realm. Extra celebrations had been planned
accordingly. Gavril himself had been training very hard, practicing privately
with Sir Polquin rather than being kept in practice drills with the other
fosters. The less Dain saw of Gavril, the better it pleased him. As
for today, he grinned to himself, thinking of his plans, and his ambition. Sir
Polquin had organized a contest among the fosters to determine by combat which
of them would be allowed to accompany Lord Odfrey to the king’s tournament as
squire. Only one boy would be chosen. Sir Polquin said that measuring the boys’
prowess with arms was the fairest way to determine who deserved this honor.
Lord Odfrey had agreed to the contest, and the boys were ablaze with
excitement. Now,
as the cocks crowed in the stableyard and the hold began to stir, Dain saw a
trail of men carrying boards to the practice field outside the walls. They were
setting up benches for the spectators. All the knights not on duty intended to
come. Servants who could get away from their duties would be there. Villagers
would watch as well. Dain
thought of all this and felt nervous, but at the same time he was eager to show
off what he had learned the past few months. He had worked hard, harder than he
ever had in his life. If Sir Polquin was not putting him through extra
practices to help him catch up with the others, then Sir Bosquecel would come
along after hours and teach him some trick of swordplay. Or Sir Nynth would
give him extra riding lessons. Or Sir Terent would drill him in the finer
points of heraldry. Every day Dain felt as though his head would burst from the
strain of having so much knowledge tamped into it. His muscles ached at night,
but his young body thrived on all the exercise. He
had grown in sudden spurts that surprised everyone and caused him to need more
new clothes. No longer was he slight of build like most eldin. In addition to
gaining height, he was growing much broader through his chest and shoulders.
Hard muscles rippled through his arms. The
knights teased him, saying he was using a growth spell, but Dain thought it was
all the food he ate. He was forever hungry, despite regular meals. The more he
trained, the larger he grew. His voice deepened, never cracking and breaking at
embarrassing moments the way Thum’s did, much to his friend’s consternation.
Dain learned how to cut his hair so that it was short and neat in the way Lord
Odfrey preferred his men-at-arms to look, but long enough to cover the pointed
tips of his ears. His pale gray eyes would forever mark him, but despite that
the maids of the hold began to throw him sultry looks nearly as often as they
eyed the other boys. Every time a serving maid lingered while pouring cider in
his cup or brushed herself against his shoulder while setting a laden trencher
before him, Thum would dig his elbow sharply into Dain’s ribs and snicker. Dain
squirmed with embarrassment, but he was seldom fooled. He could read the girls’
intentions. Most of them contained a mixture of fervor, curiosity, and scorn.
And for all their pretended boldness, most were afraid of him. He pursued no
one and accepted no invitations. For one thing, he felt unsure of himself. Nor
did he want Mierre’s leavings, or worse, Kalti- enne’s. Besides,
he had yet to grow a beard, although all the others were trying to sprout
scraggling versions of them. Sir Nynth had taken him aside one evening and solemnly
explained that until he grew a beard, he would be no man that pleased a woman.
Sensing amusement in the other knights when he and Sir Nynth returned, Dain
grew suspicious of such advice, thinking it a jest. But when Thum said he had
also heard this from his older brothers, Dain decided to believe it. “Better
get ready, Dain boy,” said the sentry now, startling Dain from his thoughts. He
gave Dain a grin and slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve bet money on you. Don’t
let me down.” Realizing
he was going to miss his breakfast if he didn’t hurry, Dain smiled back and ran
for it. In
an hour, the sun was up bright and hot over the practice field. Dain squinted
as he helped Thum buckle on his thick padding. Shaped like a breastplate but
instead made of multiple layers of wool felt stitched together, it fit over
each boy’s chest and back and buckled down the sides with leather straps. “Too
tight!” Thum said with a gasp. Dain
eased out the buckle one notch. “Sorry.” “You
have to get it even on both sides or it will slip,” Thum said. “Pay attention,
Dain.” Dain
drew a deep breath and nodded. He was trying, but his excitement was too
intense. He felt like he might leave the ground and fly about in all
directions. Already buckled into his own padding, he finished strapping Thum in
and thumped him on the back. “Now,
you’re ready,” he said. Thum
grinned, meeting Dain’s gaze. For a moment, neither boy spoke, and Thum’s
freckled face began to turn red. “This is it,” he said, his voice cracking. Dain
nodded, his gaze darting across the field, where Sir Polquin and his assistants
were setting up the equipment, readying the blunted lances, and counting the
padded practice swords. Knights and villagers mingled about. The air was
festive, despite the summer heat. Some enterprising urchin was selling pies.
The Thirst banners swung heavily in the hot air. “Dain,”
Thum said, his voice hesitant, “I wish you luck today.” Reluctantly
Dain pulled his attention away from the scene and looked at his red-haired
friend. “What? Oh, yes. Thanks.” Thum
frowned, and Dain scrambled to remember the rest of his manners. “And
good luck to you as well, Thum.” Some
of the ire faded from Thum’s face. He looked a little troubled, however. “We
can’t be friends the rest of this day, I suppose. Not and compete at our best.
I wish there could be two squires chosen, not one.” Dain
understood what Thum was trying to say. For all his sharp wits, Thum had a soft
heart. He spent too much time bemoaning what could not be changed. The four
fosters were all desperate to see Savroix, the fabled palace of Mandrian kings.
Dain knew that Thum, who had failed to make friends with the spoiled prince,
might never see Savroix otherwise in his lifetime. In order to advance, Thum
would have to become some knight’s squire. If he succeeded in becoming Lord
Odfrey’s, then he would have a good start at a career. But
Dain also wanted to become Lord Odfrey’s squire. He admired the chevard very much.
He wanted desperately to please him and make him proud. Dain never forgot that
he owed his good fortune to the chevard’s kindness. He wanted to repay the man
with service. Although the other boys had been training at arms for several
years, Dain was determined to shine. He practiced harder and longer than the
others. He did not let Mierre’s taunts and Kaltienne’s teasing stop him from
trying again and again until he mastered a skill. He had ability; that was
evident to all. He learned quickly. Although he might not understand something
as it was first being explained to him, as soon as he saw someone demonstrate
the movement, he could quickly imitate it. Already he had become an expert
horseman. That was easy, for his mind alone was able to control the horse. As
for fighting, he was agile, quick, and inclined to cheat. Again and again Sir
Bosquecel took him aside to explain that a knight never cheated in a contest of
honor, although in real battle anything was permitted against the enemy. Dain
did not understand this distinction and felt it was a silly waste of time. But
he worked hard to please the knights. He
heard a shout from the center of the field. Sir Polquin was gesturing for the
boys to come to him. Thum,
still looking worried and on edge, frowned at Dain. Dain’s own heart was
suddenly pounding. He gave Thum a light shove to start him walking and matched
strides with him. From the opposite side of the field came Mierre and
Kaltienne. Dain
said, “I want to win as much as you do. But if I cannot win, then I want it to
be you.” “I
feel the same,” Thum said quickly. He frowned at the other boys. “Anyone but
them.” “Aye.”
Dain gave him a nudge. “We’ll be friends again, come tonight. Don’t worry.” Thum’s
grim look vanished, and he managed a quick grin before Sir Polquin lined them
up and started his inspection of their padding. His assistant followed, handing
out padded caps. Dain
hated the cap. It was hot and stank of sweat. Complaining about it got nowhere,
however. Sir Polquin warned them that the metal helmets they would wear someday
were much worse. ‘ “The rules of orderly contest apply,” Sir Polquin said
sternly. “We’ll draw lots to see who goes first. We’ll start with lances. You
have three tries to hit the circle.” As
he spoke, he pointed toward the alley, where a red shield with a white circle
painted on its center swung at one end. “If
everyone hits that, we’ll take‘ off the blunted tips and let you aim your lances
through this ring.” He held up a circle of brass with a loop of rope already
tied to it. Mierre
rolled his eyes impatiently. “Games of children,” he said. “Why not let us
unseat each other, the real way?” “Because
not everyone has learned that skill as yet,” Sir Polquin replied. “You
mean, the stray hasn’t learned it yet,” Mierre said, flicking Dain a look of
contempt. “The rest of us are trained for it. Why should he hold us back? At
least let us ride at a quintain, if not at each other.” Sir
Polquin’s weathered face grew quite stiff, the way it did when he was annoyed.
“For those who succeed at lance, we’ll go to swords and shieldwork. You’ll
throw lots again to see how you’re paired. There will be three judges for this
contest: Lord Odfrey, Prince Gavril, and Sir Bosquecel.” Hearing
those names, Dain smiled to himself and lifted his chin higher. He was certain
to please two judges out of three. Lancework remained hard for him, but he was
good at sword-play, very good. He’d learned something new last week, something
he hadn’t yet shown to Thum. He intended to hold it back as his ultimate trick.
It would be impressive, and he was certain to win. A
commotion in the distance caught his attention. He saw Lord Odfrey riding up on
a bay horse that was prancing in response to the excitement and noise. Sir
Bosquecel rode beside the chevard, but of Gavril there was no sign. Sir
Polquin looked displeased. “Is his highness going to keep us waiting clear to
the midday heat?” Grumbling, he strode away to confer with Lord Odfrey, who
leaned down from his saddle and shook his head. Dain
and Thum exchanged glances. Thum sighed and circled his thumb around the tip of
his forefinger. Dain grinned. They all knew how Gavril liked to make a big
entrance. “Doesn’t
care, does he?” Kaltienne complained, wiping sweat off his face. “We bore his
highness, don’t we?” i
“Shut up,” Mierre growled. “He’s got more important th to do. He won’t be
coming today.” Even
Dain blinked at that, but it was Thum who shot Mi a startled look. “Not
coming?” he echoed. “Why not?” “Gone
hunting,” Mierre said. “Without
his lapdogs?” Dain asked. He was learning to insults the courtly way, using words
and a sneer instead o1 fists. “How can he manage?” Kaltienne
turned on him, hot-faced. “Listen, you—” “Keep
ranks!” Sir Polquin bawled, returning just in timi Kaltienne snapped back to
his place in line, and the} stood at stiff attention. “There’s been a change,” Sir Polquin announced. “Sir F will
be the third judge, instead of his highness.” Dain
grimaced to himself. It was hardly an improvemei his favor. Although he left
Dain alone, Sir Roye still disl him. He told himself the protector was a knight
and wi judge fairly, but in his heart Dain wasn’t so sure. “Let’s
get this started,” Sir Polquin said. He waved ai stableboys, who led the
saddled horses up. They were chargers, long put out to pasture, their muzzles
grayed, these old warhorses still knew their training. They recogn the
festivities, and their ears were pricked with interest. “Must
we ride these old plugs?” Mierre complained. One
of the horses tried to bite him, and Mierre’s protest lost in the general laughter. “Mount,”
Sir Polquin ordered. “Hold
up!” Lord Odfrey called, interrupting them. From
the benches, the spectators began to yell and clap, ing to get things started.
Lord Odfrey, however, rode across field and pointed at Dain. “Come
away, lad,” he said. Dain
handed the reins back to a stableboy. Not underst ing at first, thinking Lord
Odfrey was going to give him’s private word of encouragement and wishing he
wouldn’t, 1 walked out to meet the chevard. “Lord,” he said, grinning a
squinted up into Lord Odfrey’s dark eyes, “I will do my today. I will show
you—” “Leave
the field,” Lord Odfrey said. “You won’t be coning for this honor.” Dain’s
smile faded. At first, he didn’t believe he had heard correctly, then he stammered,
“But, lord, I—” “You
heard my command,” Lord Odfrey said in his stern way. “Obey it.” “But—” “Is
there a problem, m’lord?” Sir Polquin asked, hurrying up behind Dain. “No,”
Lord Odfrey replied, absently pulling a hank of his horse’s mane over to the
other side of its neck. “This is a contest to determine my new squire. Dain
needs at least another year of training before he can expect such an
appointment. He has no place in this contest.” “I’ve
worked hard,” Dain said, choked with disappointment. His head was spinning. He
couldn’t believe that Lord Odfrey was making him withdraw. “I can do it—” “Sir
Polquin,” Lord Odfrey said. The
edge in his voice was plain to hear. Sir Polquin put his hand on Dain’s
shoulder. “You heard his lordship, Dain boy. Off you go.” “But
I—” Sir
Polquin’s eyes sparked with annoyance. Dain realized belatedly that he was
protesting direct orders. That transgression alone proved he was too unskilled
to be on the field. His
face grew hot. He shut his jaw, clenching it so hard his muscles jumped. This
wasn’t fair. He’d worked extra hard to be ready to compete. He should be
allowed to try, even if he came out defeated. But
to protest further was to embarrass Lord Odfrey and the knights who’d been
trying to train him. Dain knew how he was expected to act. He had to pretend it
didn’t matter. Had to pretend he didn’t care. Somehow,
although his body felt so stiff he didn’t think he could bend it, he managed to
bow. “Yes,”
Lord Odfrey said. “You may watch the contest if you wish, but no later than
this afternoon you are to report to Sulein for lessons. It’s time we
concentrated on improving your mind as well as your muscles.” Dain
bowed again, his face on fire. His throat had swelled with anger and
resentment. He couldn’t protest now even if he wanted to. “That
is all,” Lord Odfrey said with a nod of dismissal. His dark gaze snapped to Sir
Polquin. “Take down the circled shield. They’ll go at unseating each other.” “And if they break their fool necks?” Sir Polquin asked. “Time
to stop coddling them,” Lord Odfrey replied mercilessly. “I’ll not be squired
by an untested sprout.” “Aye,
m’lord.” Sir
Polquin turned away to start issuing orders. Over by the horses, the boys
cheered with new excitement. Babbling with the others as they mounted up, Thum
paused briefly to glance Dain’s way with a frown, but Dain couldn’t bear his
pity right then. Unstrapping
his padding and jerking off his cap, Dain carried it over to where the rest of
the equipment was stacked and dropped it, then marched himself rigidly off the
field. Sir
Terent and Sir Nynth intercepted him, their faces red in the heat. “What’s
amiss? Why are you leaving?” “The
lord ordered me away,” Dain said, his voice tight and hard. He did not want
them to see his choking disappointment, how much he cared. “He thinks I am not
good enough to compete.” “Morde
a day!” Sir Nynth exclaimed, his keen eyes snapping. “Of all the injustice—” “It’s
for his squire,” Sir Terent interrupted, casting his friend a warning look.
“Dain’s a bit green for that.” “Aye,
and what of it?” Sir Nynth retorted hotly. “I’ve money bet on the boy.” “Better
get it off,” Dain said, and pushed away from them, ignoring their calls to come
back. He
would not watch the contest. He would not hang about taking hearty slaps of
pity or watching the knights talk aboui him. This was the first opportunity
he’d had to prove that he re ally could fit in, and Lord Odfrey had taken it
away from him. How
had he displeased the chevard? What had he done wrong? If the chevard wanted to
punish him, Dain would have rather been flogged than humiliated like this. Perhaps
Lord Odfrey had seen him in practice and believe< he was no good. Dain
gritted his teeth, walking even faster, and kicked th< dirt in front of him.
He was good now, and he could be evei better. He knew it, knew
already how natural and right a swon felt in his hands. The
sentries at the gates looked startled to see him. “What’s amiss?” one of them
called to him. “Are you ousted already?” Why
explain? Dain scowled at them. “Aye,” he replied, and strode on while they
laughed and called out commiseration that he didn’t want. He
walked across the hold to the innermost courtyard and nearly entered Sulein’s
tower before he stopped, scowling ferociously at the door leading inside. Lessons?
What kind of lessons? Did the chevard think him so hopeless at arms that he would
make a scholar of him? It
all came welling up—the months of hard work, the stress of trying to fit in,
the brutality of today’s disappointment. Dain kicked the door and spun away. He
wasn’t going to have anything to do with the stinking old physician. He was
tired of following orders, tired of doing what he was told. He
hurried away, wishing he’d gone to the woods instead of coming inside the hold.
As he reached the outer keep, however, he found it astir. Prince Gavril was
mounting his fancy horse. The red and fawn hunting dogs were out, barking and
wagging their tails in excitement. Sir Los was climbing into his saddle, as
cheerless as ever. Five other knights assigned to Gavril’s protection were
milling about as well. Desperate
not to let the prince see his disgrace, Dain dodged out of sight. No one called
his name, and after a tense moment he relaxed. He hid until he heard the
prince’s retinue clatter away. Hunting
mad, Dain thought with scorn. The prince went out at every opportunity. Of late
he’d grown even more fanatical, as though he thought that once he returned to
Savroix he would never be allowed to hunt again. What did he see in this sport?
Dain could not understand it, and had no wish to try. Gavril seldom returned
with any game. He seemed only to want to gallop about through the Dark Forest
as much as possible. Lord Odfrey had warned him again and again to stay away
from there, but Gavril went anyway. The knights had orders to steer him in
other, safer directions, but since spring these five men seemed to always be
the ones that went forth with the prince. They were a scruffy, shifty-eyed lot,
the lowest rank, hardly better than hirelances. To Dain’s eye, they seemed more
loyal to Gavril than they did to anyone else. Certainly they let the prince
have his way and go where he wanted. Dain
shrugged, and ventured out of hiding. He hoped the prince got swept off his
horse by a tree branch and broke his arrogant neck. Across
the keep, Dain heard the steady plinking of the smith’s hammer. He scowled,
indecisive for a moment, but then he turned his steps toward the forge. He did
not want to leave the hold right now. He was afraid that if he went off into
the forest, he might not return. Though perhaps that was what he should do,
leave and not come back, Dain was not yet ready to make that decision. He was
too angry and confused to think straight. He knew only that he did not want to
be alone—his spirits felt too dark and angry for him to stand his own company.
He had no wish to talk to anyone either, but the smith might put Dain to work,
as he did sometimes when Dain felt lonely and missed his old life too much. Sir
Bosquecel and Lord Odfrey disapproved of Dain’s working in the forge. Such
manual labor was beneath his rank, they said. But it was as good a place to
find comfort as any. When he regained his calm, Dain would decide whether he
should run away. The
smith’s name was Lander. A Netheran by birth, he’d come down to Mandria years
ago to escape the civil war raging in his homeland. A local woman lived with
him in the village and called herself his wife, but gossip said they were not
church-wed. If Lander had any family back in Nether, he never spoke of them. He
would not talk about his past, except to say that he’d been born and raised in
Grov, but that it was no fit place to live in now. He
was an excellent smith, especially with simple repairs of hinges and
plowshares. He worked inside the hold rather than in the village because he was
also a skilled armorer, and the knights kept him busy grinding out the nicks in
their sword blades and repairing broken links in their mail. To Dain’s critical
eye, Lander’s skill was finer than most men’s, although he lacked Jorb’s
exquisite artistry. But then, Jorb had surpassed everyone, including the other
dwarf master armorers. On
this summer’s morn, the forge blazed with the heat of its roaring fire. The air
inside shimmered and danced. Shirtless, Lander wore only his leggings and a
soot-blackened leather apron. His muscular arms and shoulders dripped with
sweat. Concentrating
on tapping out a curve in a horseshoe, he barely glanced up when Dain entered
the forge. Not until he plunged the shoe into a bucket of water, sending up a
great cloud of hissing steam, did he pause to wipe his streaming brow with his
forearm and give Dain a quick, shy smile. “Hearty
morn,” he said in his foreign way. His eyes were pale blue, almost as pale as
Thia’s had been, like mist over a spring sky. The rest of him was bulky and hairless
except for a tonsure of red curls around a bald pate. His pale flesh never
tanned even in the summertime; his thick torso looked like a chunky slab of
stone. He
seemed glad to see Dain as always, but his manner was preoccupied. “That’s the
last,” he said to himself, lifting the horseshoe from the water pail and
tossing it with a clank onto a pile of similar shoes. Putting away his set of
tongs, he left his hammer lying atop the anvil while he stripped off his apron
and wiped his face and shoulders with it. “Thought you’d be in the contest,” he
said. “Over already, is it?” “Not
for the others,” Dain said. He scowled at the fire so he wouldn’t have to look
at Lander. “Eh?
What? Oh. So that’s the way of it.” “I wanted to see the tournament at Savroix,” Dain said, although he’d
already decided not to talk about it. Lander, however, was safe. He made no
judgments, offered no advice. The smith sighed sympathetically. “So would I
like to go.” “You?” Dain asked in surprise. He’d been
so wrapped up in his own plans of late, it had never occurred to him that
probably everyone in the hold wanted to see the king’s tournament. “Have you
ever been to Savroix?” “Nay,
not I.” Lander smiled in his fleeting way and wiped his sweating face again.
“But it would be good to go, if I can find a way.” Dain
said nothing, sensing that for once the smith wanted talk. “In
my homeland I was a master armorer,” Lander sa proudly. “Not just a smith,
making horseshoes and repairir latches, but a fine swordmaker. Here, the
knights will let me n pair their armor. I am allowed to make new helmets,
sometime a shield, but never more than that. I am foreign-born,“ he sak
striking his chest. “That means they think I cannot make sword for them. Not
even daggers. No, they go elsewhere. To the ar morer at Lunt Hold sometimes, or
to the dwarves. I ask you boy, is a dwarf not foreign? How can they think this
way? Bu they do.“ Dain
nodded with sympathy. Lander
cast Dain a sideways look. “You know the dwarf swordmakers.” “Jorb
was the best.” Lander
sighed. “Aye, they all say so. But now there is no Jorb. So will they let me
make them new swords for the tournament? No. But there is a way for me to show
them what I can do.” Dain
traced his finger along the worn handle of the hammer. He knew better than to
pick it up without permission. “Make some swords, I guess,” he said, without
much interest in Lander’s problems. “Show them what you can do.” “Hah!
Better idea than that I have.” Lander tugged him by his sleeve over to a
storage cabinet and pulled out a sheet of grubby vellum. He glanced around as
though to make sure no one was watching, and showed the drawing to Dain. “What
do you think of this?” depicted was beautiful. Its long tapering
blade was carved with rosettes and scrollwork. The hilt guard made the Circle
so many Mandrians wanted, thinking the symbol would shield them from harm in
battle, and was carved to look like tendrils of gold ivy. The hilt itself was
long enough for a two-handed grip, and wrapped ornately with silver and gold
wire. Dain’s
brows lifted. He was impressed, and yet a drawing was not a sword. “I
could make this sword,” Lander said, tapping the vellum with a grimy fingertip.
“I could‘.” “Do
it then,” Dain said. He rolled up the vellum to hand it back, but Lander
grabbed it and whacked him across his chest with it. “There
is a way to make it better, to make it wondrous,” Lander said. He leaned close
enough for Dain to smell his sour breath. His pale eyes flashed with passion.
“I need magicked metal.” Dain
couldn’t help it. He laughed. Muttering
furiously, Lander shoved him away and thrust his drawing back in the cabinet.
“I should never show you my dream,” he said. “Fool I am.” “No,
I wasn’t laughing at you,” Dain tried to reassure him. “It’s just—I thought
that was forbidden here. Using magicked metal, I mean.” Lander
shrugged. “Mandrians have strange ideas. It is not always good to pay attention
to what they fear. I have held some of the great swords. I know how they live
in the hand. The difference is like night and day.” “Even
if you got that kind of metal,” Dain said, thinking the man was crazy to have
such dreams, “and even if you made it, no one here could afford such a weapon.” “Hah!”
Lander said, beaming and pouncing on him again. “Now you understand. The king’s
birthday, it is a big occasion. Yes, and this year the king will give his sword
to his son for knighthood. It is the custom, yes?” “I
know not,” Dain replied, wondering where Lander was going with this. He hadn’t
come to the forge to be a confidant. But
Lander wasn’t letting him go. “Yes, the custom. From father to son goes . Valor is passed from the old hand to the
young. But the king must have new sword to replace what he gives away. And so
there is a contest among the smiths of the land. that is chosen ... Well, then everyone in
Mandria will know that Lander can make them best. Lander is a master, as good as
any dwarf.” Dain
nodded and started edging away. “I wish you luck, Lander. Now I had better go
before—” “Wait.”
Lander blocked his path and leaned down, his pale eyes intense. “You were
Jorb’s apprentice. That means you know his secrets. You know where he got such
metal.” Suddenly
wary, Dain drew back. “No, I — ” “Yes,
yes.” Lander gripped Dain’s sleeve and glanced around to make sure no one was
nearby. “Do you know the dwarf called Baldrush?” Dain
frowned, still wary. “Maybe.” “Yes! Yes, you do know,” Lander said eagerly. “I will make
this worth your while, Dain.” “I
won’t go to him—” “Already
done,” Lander said with pride. He pointed at the two-wheeled cart parked near
the forge. “I have been working extra to finish my work so I can leave today. I
will meet Baldrush and bargain with him for this metal.” Lander grinned, his
pale eyes atwinkle with excitement. “Advise me, Dain. You know this Baldrush.
Tell me how to make a good bargain with him.” Dain
dropped to his haunches in the dwarf way. “Let us discuss his terms, then.” A
few minutes later, Dain and Lander sauntered out of the forge. Dain blinked in
the bright sunshine, feeling sure Lander would be cheated in Nold. He wanted
his metal too much. He had saved forty gold dreits in his strongbox, a
veritable treasure. But forty dreits was Baldrush’s asking price. “Too
high,” Dain said. “Thirty is more than fair. Forty is too much.” “Can
you make him take thirty?” Lander asked. “Of course I will pay it all, if I
must.” “Don’t
say that,” Dain told him, appalled. “You should tell him thirty is all that you
have. And don’t sound too willing to pay that. Twenty-five would be better.” “No,
no, twenty-five is not fair price,” Lander said, shaking his head. “You would
have me insult him. Already he does not want to sell the metal to me. If I
offer twenty-five, he will say I am cheating him in the man-way, and he will
leave.” “Thirty,
then,” Dain said firmly, believing Baldrush would talk Lander into the full
amount. The
smith was nodding at Dain. “You come with me. You make the bargain.” Dain
smiled. “I must ask Sir Bosquecel for permission—” “Run,
then!” Lander said eagerly. “Run and do it while I get my tunic and some food
for the journey. It is a day and a half by cart to go and as long to come back.
The mule is slow. You’ll come?” “If
I get Baldrush to take thirty dreits instead of forty, will you give me the
difference?” “You?”
Lander asked in wonder. “What would a boy like you want with so much money?” “I
need it to buy a sword of my own.” “Ah,”
Lander said, nodding. “But ten gold dreits is too much wealth for a boy.
Whatever you save me off the asking price, half of it will I give you.” Dain
grinned. “Done!” He
spit on his palm and held out his hand. Lander spit on his palm and gripped
Dain’s fingers in a bone-crushing clasp. They shook on the deal. “Run
and get what you need,” Lander said. “And ask the captain for permission. I
will not take you against his orders.” But
as Dain hurried across the keep into the stableyard, he heard cheers rising
from the practice field. Defiance unfurled inside him. He decided not to ask
Sir Bosquecel’s permission. He wasn’t going to ask anyone. He’d tried doing
things the Mandrian way, following their endless rules, and he’d ended up being
punished anyway. Jorb had always warned Dain to beware men, for they turned and
betrayed without warning. Today he’d seen it proven true, and in Lord Odfrey,
whom he’d trusted above all others. Now that Lander had presented him with an
opportunity too good to pass up, Dain intended to start looking after himself
in the ways Jorb had taught him. Hurrying
inside the Hall, Dain ran upstairs, taking two steps at a time, and fetched his
cloak, spare footgear, and the blanket off his bed. Rolling these into an
untidy bundle, he hurried outside again, dashing past the steward, who stared
openmouthed at him. By
the time Dain returned to the keep, Lander had hitched his mule to the cart and
was holding the reins impatiently. He had crammed on a wide-brimmed straw hat
to protect his bald head from the sun. Dain smelled the pouch of provisions in
the back of the cart and hoped Lander had brought enough food. Lander
stared at him. “Where did you go? I thought the captain was at the joust,
judging the contest.” “No,” Dain said, keeping his lie simple. “Ready?” Dain
climbed onto the cart seat, and Lander yelled at the mule. They rolled out
through the gates past the sentries, who didn’t challenge them. Lander and his
mule cart were a familiar sight, coming and going frequently. The
sun was hot, beating down on Dain’s head without mercy. As the mule struck a
steady trot, a slight breeze cooled Dain’s face. He smiled to himself, suddenly
homesick for the cool gloominess of the Dark Forest, and did not look back at
the hold behind him. Away
in the Dark Forest, Gavril placed his hand on the front of his saddle and leaned
forward eagerly to peer at the cave entrance. “Just
there, yer highness,” Sir Vedrique was saying as he pointed. “Look at the top
of the cave. See yon stone with the old runes carved in it? Bound to be one of
them old shrines, no doubt of it.” Gavril
squinted, trying to see through the greenish gloom. The undergrowth and vines
were so thick he could barely see the cave itself, much less any runes carved
atop it, but at last he spied a mossy stone. His heart leaped inside his chest,
and he felt breathless. This could be it. His quest might end today. His
prayers would at last be answered. He
dismounted, feeling light-headed, and pushed his way through his milling pack
of dogs. Giving them the command to lie down, Gavril wanted to laugh aloud.
Just in time he reined back his emotions, preserving his dignity. He must not
set too much hope in this old shrine. He had been disappointed before. For
months he’d searched diligently, venturing as deep into the Dark Forest as he
dared, wishing always that he could go farther. But today, for some
unexplainable reason, he believed success was at hand. The Chalice was here. He
could almost feel its holy power. His heart was thudding with anticipation. When
he started up the hillside, Sir Los called out in alarm and hurried after him. The
prince paid his protector no heed as he struggled through the briars and
tangled vines. He crowded Sir Vedrique’s spurred heels. “Hurry, hurry,” he said
breathlessly. They
crossed the bottom of a small, shallow ravine with a stream running through it.
Partway up the slope was the cave’s entrance. This
place was hushed and tranquil, like an outdoor chapel. Even birdsong seemed
muted and distant. Sunlight stabbed down intermittently through the dense canopy
overhead, gilding leaves and moss in its soft golden light. The
closer they came, the slower Sir Vedrique walked. Growling
with impatience, Gavril tried to push past him, but the young knight flung his
arm across Gavril’s chest to block his way. “Nay,
yer highness. Can’t take too much care with these old places. There’s power
here still.” “And
maybe trolk,” muttered one of the other knights. Gavril
scowled and glanced back to see who had spoken. The four remaining knights of
his party sat on their horses, huddled together as though they feared this old
pagan place. Gavril swung his gaze away scornfully. There was nothing to fear.
He pulled out his Circle and let it swing atop his linen doublet. “What
are trolk?” Sir Los asked. Sir
Vedrique paused to send him a snaggletoothed grin. “Old myths, protector. Ain’t
nothing to fear.” “Hurry,”
Gavril said. “We can talk later. I am not afraid.” Sir
Vedrique frowned. “Wait here, yer highness. Let Sir Los and me go first.” Resenting
their caution, Gavril seethed. Impatiently he waited, tapping his fingers on
his belt, while Sir Los and Sir Vedrique pushed ahead of him. At
the mouth of the cave, Sir Vedrique took his sword and hacked away much of the thicket
growing across it. Then Sir Los drew his weapon and ventured inside. He seemed
to be in there forever, while Gavril stood fidgeting, agonized with jealousy.
What if Sir Los found the Chalice first? How unfair for him to get the glory
when it was Gavril who had prayed daily for the honor. Realizing
what he was thinking, Gavril felt ashamed of himself. Scowling, he turned his
back on the cave and struggled to master his feelings. “Your
highness,” Sir Los called out. Gavril
spun around and saw the protector emerging. When Sir Los beckoned, Gavril
hurried into the cave. It was darker inside than he’d expected, and it stunk
with something old and sour. Wrinkling his nostrils, he lifted his hand to his
face and tried to breathe through his mouth. “What
is this stink?” he asked. “Has some beast died in here?” “That’s
trolk musk,” Sir Vedrique said quietly. “Real old. Maybe an old spell lingering
on.” “A
spell!” Gavril said in horror, then caught himself and swallowed. “Of course.
This is a pagan shrine. But the magic cannot harm us if our faith is strong.
Sir Los, we need light.” The
protector found an old stick lying on the ground just inside the cave. He
pulled out his tinderbox and set it alight. In silence, he handed the makeshift
torch to Gavril. Holding
it aloft, Gavril walked swiftly through the cave. It was quite small, barely
tall enough for him to stand upright, and shallow. Cobwebs hung from the
ceiling, and dead leaves had drifted in. As Gavril strode back and forth, his
excitement faltered. Why, this old cave wasn’t any kind of shrine. It didn’t
even have an altar, just a circle of scattered stones and some sticks wedged
against the back wall. Scowling,
he knelt down to study a stone no bigger than his own head. With his fingertips
he traced the carvings there, carvings he could not read and did not wish to.
Behind the stone he saw a glint of something, and his excitement leaped high
again. He
lifted his torch, and its ruddy flickering light spread over a small, nearly
concealed pile of dusty artifacts. Rusted
and tarnished, the basin and ill-assorted collection of cups and vessels which
he saw were nothing at all, nothing but junk. Maybe a long time ago, some
dwarves had crawled in here and drunk themselves senseless. He tossed down the
basin, making a clatter, and picked up a tall, flared vessel. A spider was
crawling along its rim. Gavril flicked it away and tapped the cup. It sounded dull.
He rubbed it, but its surface was so encrusted with tarnish and grime it
couldn’t be cleaned. Disgusted,
Gavril flung it down with the rest, and rose to his feet. “Any
of that rubbish useful?” Sir Vedrique asked. “No,”
Gavril said. He thought of the Chalice, of how it was said to shine with a
glorious power so strong it could fill a dark room with light. It certainly was
not here in this filthy lair. Glancing
around one last time, he kicked some of the smaller stones with his toe, accidentally
knocking them back into a complete circle. His lip curled with disdain. “This
is nothing but a pagan hole, as foolish and empty as their beliefs. Let us go.” Sir
Los was standing just inside the entrance. He started to exit first, but Gavril
angrily darted out ahead of him. “Come
on,” he said. “Let’s be away from here. We’ve wasted enough time.” He
started down the hillside, leaving the knights to pick their way more slowly
after him. But just as he stepped across the tiny stream, a shout rang out, and
dwarves rose up from the thickets, aiming drawn bows at them from all sides. The
dogs leaped to their feet, barking furiously. Fearful for their safety, Gavril
shouted, “Stay!” Sir
Vedrique also shouted in alarm. One of the knights on horseback drew his sword,
but a dwarf loosed a shot and the arrow hit the knight in his throat. He
toppled off his horse, which bolted into the forest. The others bunched closer,
their hands on their weapons, and swore loudly. “Move
not!” ordered a dwarf with a long brown beard. He looked like the youngest of
the company. His eyes were keen and fierce. “Stand where you are.” Gavril
halted on the edge of the stream, feeling his pulse thumping hard inside his
collar. His mouth had gone dry. Suddenly his mind was filled with all the tales
and legends of dwarves he’d heard in his life, tales of how fierce they were,
how fearlessly they could fight, how brutally they sometimes tortured their
prisoners. He thought of the huntsman Nocine, well now in body after being
attacked by the Bnen dwarves last autumn, but not yet restored in mind or
spirit. Refusing to be afraid, Gavril shook such thoughts away. “You
there,” he called out, ignoring Sir Los’s choked warning to be quiet, “put away
your weapons. We mean you no harm. Why should you attack us?” The
brown-bearded dwarf stared at Gavril, studying him a long while. The drawn bows
did not lower. After several minutes the dwarf shifted his gaze to the other
men. “Who is leader?” The
insult infuriated Gavril. He opened his mouth to declare himself, but at the
last moment caution held his tongue. If they should guess who he was, they
might decide to hold him for ransom. He now understood why Lord Odfrey was
always warning him against going too deep into the forest. Gavril had never
expected to be caught like this, on foot and unable to defend himself. Sir
Vedrique stepped forward, and a warning arr skimmed in front of his face. The
young knight stopped sh and lifted his sword ever so slightly. “Now don’t get
fei; What clan are you, eh?” “We
are Clan Nega,” the brown-bearded dwarf said, “~‘t
are intruding on a sacred place, an old place.” “There’s
nothing here,” Gavril couldn’t help but say. He v still full of disappointment.
And angry. He wanted only to gone from this shrine that had mysteriously
promised so mi and had then withheld what he most wanted. “Nothing is lc Not
even an altar.” Several
of the dwarves glared and some of them muttei angrily in their heathenish tongue. ‘Take
care,“ Sir Vedrique murmured to Gavril, never taki his gaze off the dwarves.
”We’ve made ’em mad enough ready.“ Gavril
had no liking for the reprimand, but his own go sense told him this was no time
to argue. “Ain’t
no offense intended here,” Sir Vedrique said. “A didn’t know this place was
sacred. We’ve been hunting be and thought we might have found a lair.” Some
of the dwarves laughed. The scorn in their laugh made Gavril flush. He clenched
his fists, annoyed with I Vedrique. Why must the knight make them sound like fools? “You
hunt boar on foot?” the brown-bearded dwarf asked slow, incredulous smile
spreading across his face. “You go ir boar dens?” Sir
Vedrique shrugged. “Yon cave stinks so bad, we thoug it had to be—” More
laughter came from the dwarves. They chattered I gether in their barbarous
language. Gavril fumed and threw 5 Vedrique a glare. The knight raised his
brows in return ai shook his head quickly. Gavril clenched his jaw, keeping qu:
with an effort. “We
didn’t know this was one of your sacred places,” 2 Vedrique said. “We apologize
if we have offended.” “We
apologize,” Sir Los said from behind Gavril. Gavril’s
scowl deepened. If this tale got back to Thirst Hoi he would be a laughingstock.
Hunting boars on foot indeed. I was far from being such a fool. “Say
it, yer highness,” Sir Vedrique whispered. “Say
what?” Gavril asked, but he knew. “Ask
them for pardon,” Sir Los murmured. Gavril’s
back stiffened. He opened his mouth to protest, but the brown-bearded dwarf
looked at him sharply. Meeting that astute, suspicious gaze, Gavril swallowed
his pride as a prince and a hunter. He said, “I beg your pardon for intruding
here.” The
dwarf said something to his companions, and the drawn bows were relaxed. “There
is good hunting in Mandria,” the dwarf said sternly. “You stay off Nega lands.
We want no trouble with men.” Gavril
opened his mouth to say he would hunt where he pleased, but Sir Vedrique spoke
first: “Aye. We’ll not trespass again.” “Then
go,” the brown-bearded dwarf said. “And come not ever again to this place.” Sir
Vedrique gave Gavril a light nudge in the back with the tip of his sword.
Furious, his face on fire, Gavril strode over to his horse and climbed into his
saddle. He would look at no one. In silence, Sir Vedrique and Sir Los mounted. “Get
that man,” Gavril said in a low, angry voice, pointing at the dead knight. The
body was lifted across the withers of one of the horses, since the dead man’s
own mount had run off. The small party rode away at a nervous trot, the dwarves
watching them go. Gavril
still burned with humiliation. As soon as they were safely out of earshot, and
the cave and its guardians far behind them, he drew rein and glared at Sir
Vedrique. “How
dare you make a fool of me,” he said. “You are dismissed from my service.” Annoyance
crossed Sir Vedrique’s face. He hesitated a moment, then bowed. “As yer
highness says.” “It
is bad enough that we were caught in such a position,” Gavril went on, glaring
at all of them now. “How could the rest of you let them sneak up on us like
that? Taking us like—” “We heard naught,” one of the knights said defensively. “That’s hardly
an excuse,” Gavril said. “It’s your duty to protect me. And what did you do
instead? Sat there with your hands in the air and your mouths open. I’m through
with all of you.” “Since
you ain’t going hunting no more in Nold,” Sir Vedrique said coldly, “mayhap
it’s just as well that we are dis- missed.
My rump’s getting galled from so much riding on this quest of yers.“ Gavril
gritted his teeth. He wanted to lash out at all of them and tell them just how
stupid and worthless they were. But Sir Los was frowning at him in warning.
Gavril remembered that these men’s allegiance to him was of the lightest kind.
They had sworn him no oath as they had to Lord Odfrey. Nor were these the best
of Lord Odfrey’s men. Of the five ranks of knighthood, these were all at the
bottom. The worst paid, they were chronically broke, gambling away what little
they earned. If they could be bribed with ale and coinage, their characters
were thin at best. Gavril realized suddenly that if he went too far in insulting
them, there might be another unfortunate accident here in the forest. Sir Los
would die to protect him, but Sir Los was outnumbered four to one. Sir
Vedrique’s hostile expression eased a bit when Gavril said nothing else.
Slumping in his saddle, the knight pointed at the dead man. “We’d better make
ourselves a story.” Gavril
frowned. “Story? Why should we explain?” Some
of the men laughed. Sir
Vedrique, however, was not laughing. “If you think Sir Bosquecel will not be
asking questions when we bring in a dead man, yer highness needs to think
again.” “Then
you will explain it,” Gavril said. “I need not trouble myself.” “Here!”
Sir Vedrique said sharply. “We’ve come out with you into this damned forest,
where none of us are supposed to be. What will I say, that one of us shot him
instead of a stag we were coursing? ‘We made a mistake, Sir Bosquecel. Sorry,
and we’ll take more care the next time’?” “Mind
your tone,” Sir Los growled, but the younger knight went on glaring at Gavril. “I’ll
see you’re paid extra for your trouble,” Gavril said. “Aye,
that goes without saying. As for this corpse—” Sir
Los drew rein abruptly and blocked the path of the rider bringing the dead man.
“Bury him here and say he deserted.” Everyone stared at Sir Los, and Gavril’s bad temper
abruptly cooled. It was one thing to claim he hunted on Thirst land and did not
defy Lord Odfrey’s orders against exploring the Dark Forest; it was another to
conceal a murder, to hide the body and lie about it. Such a lie would have to
be kept forever. Feeling
strange and cold, Gavril gripped his Circle. The men stared at him, waiting for
him to decide. The dead knight, oaf that he was, deserved more than a hasty
grave scratched in the forest. Rites should be said to protect his body at
least, but there was no one among them who could do the task. Gavril himself
knew the correct prayers, but he had no intention of blaspheming by trying to
act as a priest. This
was wrong. Gavril felt he should ride back to Thirst and deliver a frank
confession to Lord Odfrey of what he’d done and why. But his quest was private,
a deeply personal thing. Lord Odfrey would condemn him for it, would point out
all the unpleasant details such as disobedience, unnecessary risk, and now,
disaster. Gavril felt that today’s crushing disappointments were all he could
bear. He was running out of time, and he had failed to accomplished the one
objective that could have made him great. Enduring a reprimand from Lord Odfrey
would be too much. He
looked up and met Sir Los’s eyes. The protector’s rounded face gave nothing
away. It never did. “See
that it’s done,” Gavril said harshly. As
he watched the work commence, he knew he was making a mistake. The dead man was
of the faithful. He should not be buried out here in secret, in unhallowed
ground, certain prey for anything evil that wished to dig him up. Still, th*;
arrow had caught him in the throat. Surely his soul had been r sed and was now
safely where it belonged. Wrong or not, concealment would solve many problems.
Desertion was a simple explanation; no motive for it need be supplied. The
knights used the dead man’s sword to dig the grave, since the weapon could not
be kept anyway and the dulling of its blade did not matter. Gavril sat atop his
horse, his dogs nosing his stirrup and whining. How he wished he could ride on
and leave this dismal, gloomy forest behind. He would never come back. His
dreams and best intentions had been for naught. He had imperiled his conscience
for this holy mission, had prayed and sacrificed, and still he had failed. His
quest to find the missing Chalice was over. Four
days later, Dain and Lander returned. The plodding mule drew them along the
muddy ruts of the river road, where Dain saw a column of black smoke rising
above the trees beyond the marsh. Already edgy, he frowned and nudged Lander in
the ribs. “Look
yon,” he said. The
smith hunched his shoulders and slapped the reins harder on the mule’s rump.
His face was haggard from fear and lack of sleep, “Think you the hold is
burning?” Dain
shook his head. Already his senses told him that the hold was standing firm.
Nor had there been death in the deserted village they now passed through. The
killing had happened farther ahead, south of the hold, perhaps where that smoke
was coming from. Images of agony and blood flashed through his mind. For an
instant he seemed to be elsewhere, as though his spirit had been yanked
backward in time to the vicinity of that recent battle. He could even hear the
screams of the dying mingling with the shrieks of Nonkind. The very air hung
thick with the stench of evil. Dain
shivered despite the sultry heat of the afternoon, and with great effort he
wrenched his mind back to the here and now. Thirst knights had fought. Some had
died in the four days Dain and Lander had been gone; Dain didn’t want to know
which ones. Already his heart felt torn with horror and grief over how suddenly
and unexpectedly danger had come to Thirst in his absence. He
should not have left. He should have been here with his comrades, fighting
alongside them. Instead, he had been off in the Dark Forest, striking bargains
that Lander could have made alone. Dain
clenched his fists on his knees, gritting his teeth as the cart wheels jounced
over the ruts. He wanted to jump down and race ahead on foot, but at the same
time he feared what he might find. It
was a hot, sultry day, the air sticky and close with no breeze stirring.
Although the sun shone strong and bright, the world seemed to have stilled
itself, waiting for trouble the way small rodents hide under the blades of
grass when vixlets hunt the meadow. On the distant horizon, storm clouds were
massing. Now and then Dain heard a distant rumble of thunder. The
weary mule slowed down as they passed through the village’s abandoned huts.
Crude doors stood ajar. Kettles and brooms lay on the ground where they’d been flung
down. A half-mended fishing net hung on a pole frame, with the mending cords
still swinging by their knotted ends in the breeze. A
noise from behind them made Dain spin around on the cart seat, his hand
reaching for his dagger. “Demons!”
Lander shouted, and whacked the mule so hard it shambled forward into a trot. Nearly
overbalanced, Dain gripped the smith’s shoulder. “Have care!” he said. “It’s
just a dog.” Lander
glanced back unwillingly, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. The
mongrel, spotted black and white with burrs matted in its floppy ears, slunk
away between two huts. Its tail wagged nervously against the wall, making a
hollow thunk of sound. “A
dog,” Dain repeated in relief, his heart beating too fast. Lander
gulped in several deep breaths. Perspiration beaded down his face, darkening
his fringe of red hair. Hastily he drew a circle on his chest. “Thod is
merciful.” Sheathing
his dagger, Dain gripped Lander’s slack hand and shook the reins to make the
mule walk on. “Let’s get to Thirst before dark.” Lander
mumbled something and gave the mule a halfhearted tap with the whip. Dain
sighed. He’d sweated through his tunic so much it had plastered itself to his back.
He wished he was carrying salt in his pockets. When he lived with Jorb he never
left the burrow without filling his pockets from the barrel kept standing
always at the door, a wooden scoop jammed upright in its center. But while he’d
been living at Thirst, he’d lost the habit. Men depended on swords and stout
walls to protect them. Right now, Dain and Lander had neither. At
the end of the village grew a copse of trees that blocked a clear view of the
road beyond. Dain disliked the place, for the bushes grew close and thick, and
he could not see ahead. He smelled no Nonkind, but the flick of men-minds
suddenly as- saulted
his senses. At the same moment, a squad of horsemen in armor burst upon them
from the cover of the trees. Before
Dain could draw his dagger, they were surrounded, and a lance tip hovered at
Lander’s throat. The
smith sat frozen, his face red, his mouth hanging open. He tried to speak, but
could only sputter. Dain
sat beside him with his dagger half-drawn. Already he’d noted with alarm that
these knights did not wear the dark green of Thirst. Their surcoats were
scarlet, and their cloaks black. The eyes of strangers glittered through the
slits of their helmets. “State
your name and business here,” ordered a gruff voice. Lander
whimpered in the back of throat, and it was Dain who answered: “This is Lander,
smith of Thirst Hold. I am called Dain.” “Easily
said, but harder to prove—” “By
what right do you question us?” Dain demanded. “Who are you!
What hold is yours?” The
lance remained at Lander’s throat. Dain could feel the smith’s rigid tension.
His fear hung sour on the air. The
knight who had spoken now dipped his head slightly to Dain. He flipped up his
visor, revealing a thin, chiseled face made distinguished by an elegant chin
beard and mustache. His eyes were dark brown, and although he did not smile the
fierceness had relaxed in his gaze. “A
bold tongue you have, boy,” he replied. “ ‘Tis a pity I can believe you not.
Neither of you have the look of Mandria. You wear no livery to mark you as
Thirst folk.” Lander
pulled back his head, taking his throat a few inches away from the steel tip of
that lance, which so far had not wavered. “Livery!” he repeated, sounding
offended. “Does a smith wear the tabard of a varlet?” “Nay,
but smiths do not journey far from their forge either,” the man replied. One
of the other knights rode up beside him and spoke softly, to his ear alone. The
bearded knight frowned, then nodded and gave Dain a closer scrutiny. “Dain, is
it?” “Yes.” “Are
you Chevard Odfrey’s foster eld who ran away four days past?” Dain’s
chin lifted haughtily. “I am both eld and a foster,” he said. “I did not run
away.” The
knight’s gaze grew cold, but he made no response. Instead, he rode alongside
the cart and peered down at its cargo. “What are you hauling?” “Metal
for my work,” Lander said. His voice was swift, high, and nervous. “There’s
much to do before the great tournament in Savroix a month from now. A few times
a year I go to the dwarves of Nold to buy what I need.” Again
they got a sharp look. Feeling the hostility emanating from these strangers,
Dain frowned. He did not take his hand off his dagger. “You’ve
been in the Dark Forest, then,” the knight said. “Aye,”
Lander said. “And a mortal bad time in getting back. The whole world has turned
upside down these past few days. Nonkind everywhere, and all sorts of—” Dain
pinched his side to silence him and glared up at the knight. “By what authority
do you question us?” he demanded. “What names do you bear? Who is your liege?
What hold do you—” “Hush,”
Lander whispered furiously to him. “Cause us no trouble. Curb your tongue,
boy!” Dain
ignored him. “What is your name, sir knight?” he called out to the bearded man. The
man seemed momentarily amused. “I am Lord Renald, chevard of Lunt Hold.” Dain
stared, realizing belatedly that he should have noticed the quality of the
man’s splendid armor, the good breeding of his horse, the aristocratic air in
his cultured voice. Gulping at his breach of courtesy, Dain bowed awkwardly to
the man. “Your
pardon, lord,” he said with more courtesy. “But what brings you here to Thirst
lands? Have you been fighting the Nonkind?” “You
know there’s been a battle,” Lord Renald said, frowning. One
of the other knights swore violently. “Aye, he knows it, the sly demon-caller—” Lord
Renald’s head whipped around, and the other knight abruptly fell silent. “Let
them pass,” Lord Renald said, reining his horse aside. The
lance trained on Lander swung away from his throat. The
riders blocking the road reined their horses aside, leaving the way clear. Lander
clucked to his mule, but Dain’s suspicions grew. There was much wrong, much he
did not understand. Lord
Renald sent Lander a stern look. “Head straight to the hold. Make no stops
until you reach the gates. The way is clear, but it’s been won at a hard cost.” “Yes,
m’lord,” Lander said, bobbing up and down with gratitude. “Thank you, m’lord.” The
chevard gestured at one of his men. “Go with them. Make sure the boy arrives
and is presented to Lord Odfrey with my compliments.” The
man inclined his head, his eyes glittering angrily through the slits in his
helmet. “Aye, m’lord. Though wouldn’t it be faster to take him up behind my
saddle and ride straight there—” “No,”
Lord Renald said firmly. “Let him return as he left. The affair is not our
concern.” “When
men die on a field of—” “Sir
Metain, you have your orders.” The
knight bowed. “Aye, m’lord.” “If
you please, Lord Renald,” Dain said in puzzlement, trying to sort out what
their exchange meant. “What is—” “Hush,” Lander commanded him, elbowing him. “Hold your fool
tongue and let us go.” “But—” Lander
whipped the mule, sending the cart lurching forward. They bounced out from
beneath the trees and up onto the paved road. In silence the knights of Lunt
watched them go, their black cloaks blending into the shadows of the copse,
their red surcoats vivid, like splashes of blood. Sir
Metain came trotting after them, grim and silent on his war charger. Lander’s
face burned bright red. “Thod’s thumbs,” he muttered. “Lord Renald himself, and
you speaking up as bold as brass. Morde a day, what will become of us now?” “I
gave him little insult,” Dain said, glancing back once more. “I just asked for
his name. What right, lord or no, does he have here, stopping us and making his
demands?” “What
right?” Lander said, clearly horrified by such a question. “What right? The
right of a lord. What do you think?” “But
he is not lord of this land,” Dain said. “He is not chevard of Thirst. What battle
has been done? And why? How did it all happen so suddenly, in the short time we
were gone? Did you know there was trouble brewing out here, Lander? Did you go
to meet Baldrush despite it?” “What
trouble?” Lander said, but he would not meet Dain’s eyes. “Had you heard aught?
You live closer with the knights than do I. Why would I risk my life dodging
Nonkind and all sorts of demons if I did not have to?” Dain
was not convinced. “Because you wanted this mag-icked metal.” “Hush!”
Lander said, glancing back at Sir Metain. He looked at his load, the two
special bars wrapped in cloth to hide them from view. “No one is to know about
what I’m doing. No one!” His
thick, calloused hand, powerful from a lifetime of wielding a hammer, gripped
Dain’s forearm and squeezed almost hard enough to crack bones. “Keep quiet
about it. Morde a day, what eld has ever had a tongue like yours? Supposed to
keep yourself to yourself, you are, not challenging chevards and asking
questions.” “But
something’s amiss,” Dain insisted. “Is
it now?” Lander retorted with exasperation. “And what would that be? The fact
that we’ve barely returned with our lives? The fact that some village yon is on
fire and every other village we’ve come to has been deserted or looted or both?
What could be amiss? You’re daft, boy, daft!” “You
don’t understand. I mean—” “What
you mean is that you should be quiet,” Lander said. He urged the mule onward. “Why
should we have a guard?” Dain asked, glancing again at Sir Metain. “What did
they mean about me being returned faster?” “So
you can be flogged for going without permission, I expect,” Lander said. “That’s
unfair!” Dain said angrily. “You asked me to go with you.” “Aye,
I needed your help, not that you gave much.” “How
could I bargain well with you looking so keen?” Lander
and Dain glared at each other. The smith was the first to drop his gaze and
sigh. “Now, now, no need to quarrel. I gave you your reward, as we agreed.
Let’s put an end to it. If his lordship’s wrathful with you, I can’t help. I
told you to ask for permission to come with me, Dain. If you didn’t get it,
then there’s naught I can do.“ Dain
knotted his fists in his lap and scowled at them. He realized now he’d been
foolish to hope that his troubles would go away during his absence. It looked
like they’d only grown worse. They
rolled on in silence, while the walls of the hold rose ahead of them. To Dain’s
worried eye, Thirst looked the same as always, although more sentries manned
the battlements. The gates were closed, and Lander had to shout for them to be
opened. A
guard peered down at them from the wall. “Thod’s mercy,” he said. “Look at
what’s turned up.” “Open
the gate,” Lander said impatiently. “Open and let us safe inside. We’ve dealt
with enough. Open!” Strain
made his voice crack. Dain’s own weariness sagged clear to his bones. He was
tired from little sleep, since they had to take turns keeping watch through the
tense nights, and ravenous, for Lander’s provisions had not lasted through the
extra day it had taken them to return. They’d avoided every settlement they
could and were forced periodically to hide, with Lander quaking and praying
beneath his breath while Nonkind rode by. They’d had no trouble going into the
Dark Forest and reaching the place where Lander was to meet with Baldrush the
dwarf, but coming home had been fraught with problems from the moment Dain
first sniffed Nonkind and warned Lander to drive them into cover. Trolk—the
first Dain had seen in years—had come marauding by, a snarling pack. Although
marching at a fast pace, they stopped periodically to dig their claws into the
bark of trees, and the clacking sound of claws against wood still haunted Dain.
Dripping saliva from their yellowed fangs, their tiny stupid eyes peering out
from beneath a jutting ledge of browbone, they had hobbled along on their bowed
awkward legs with their back hair standing up in hostility. They passed Lander
and Dain’s hiding place while Dain crouched low, holding the nostrils of the
mule and using his mind to control its panic. With its eyes rolled white and
its ears laid flat, the mule stood tense and quaking until the band of trolk
were long gone. Their rancid stink trailed after them, hanging in the air so
thickly Lander gagged on it. “Never
have I seen demons such as them,” the smith said, gasping for air. “They
aren’t demons,” Dain said. “They lived in the Dark Forest before the dwarves
claimed it. Long, long ago the dwarf clans joined forces and killed the trolk
kings. Now the trolk are few. They roam and dig their lairs, but seldom do they
march like this. Not banded together.” He
frowned, worried by how unusual it was. “I
care nothing about these puzzles,” Lander declared. “I just want to get home to
Thirst, with no more trouble.” But
they found trouble at almost every turn. Had they been on foot, they could have
abandoned the narrow road that wound through the forest and taken the shortest
way back, but the cart, loaded with the metal Dain had bargained for at the
price of six-and-thirty gold dreits, hampered them greatly. Lander would not
consider abandoning it. Each time Dain sensed someone approaching ahead or from
behind, they had to pull the cart off the trail and conceal both it and the
mule, hiding until the way was clear again. Their journey home lengthened by
hours, then by an entire day. Had
Dain not led the mule through the dark for half a night, they would still be on
their road, far from here. Now
the sentry on the wall shouted at Lander to back up his cart, leave it by the
wall out of the way, and unhitch his mule. “What?”
Lander shouted back. “Are you daft, man? I can’t leave this load out here to be
stolen.” “Your
cart won’t fit through the petite-porte, and that’s all I am allowed to open,”
the sentry shouted down. “Thod’s
bones,” Lander swore. “After all I’ve gone through, I will not leave my load.
Open the main gate!” Sir
Metain rode up beside him and interrupted the argument. “You know these two,
sentry?” “Aye,
sir, I do. It’s Lander, our smith, and the boy Dain.” “Compliments
of Lord Renald,” Sir Metain said. His voice was gruff and hostile. “We caught
this pair sneaking along the river road north of here. I am to deliver this boy
into Lord Odfrey’s hands.” “And
Lord Odfrey will thank you sweetly,” the sentry replied. “We’ve searched long
and hard for him, at least u the trouble started.” “Open
your petite-porte, and let them through,” Sir Mel said. The
sentry vanished, his voice bawling the order. Lander
knotted his fists and fumed. “I won’t leave my c Morde and damne all besides. I
won’t leave it!” “Calm
yourself,” Dain said, eying him with concern. “W carry the metal inside. It
will be safe.” Lander
blinked, and relief brightened his face. “Aye,” said, nodding. “Aye! Of course,
of course. That can be done He jumped off the cart and ran to the head of his
mule. 1 poor, lathered beast, weary to his very bones, refused to
ti aside. His head was pointed toward the gate, and no amount coaxing,
swearing, or use of the whip would induce him to b; the cart away. An
ear-splitting screech came from the winch inside gates. Slowly the narrow gate
inside the main one creaked way open. Dain ran to the back of the cart and
pulled out board gate. He climbed atop the metal bars, shifting the m
icked ones first. Wrapped
in cloth, they emitted an inaudible hum that r onated deep inside Dain’s mind.
He almost dropped them, there was something repellent about this raw metal,
someth dark and tainted within the spell that had cast it from ore. Juggling
the bars about so that he could hand them dowr Lander, Dain recalled that he
had not trusted Baldrush, dwarf they’d purchased this metal from—no, not at
all. Th was a strangeness about him that bothered Dain immediate Baldrush was
tall for his kind; his head came nearly to Dai shoulder. His face was narrow
and gaunt. His eyes burned w yellow fire. He had a way of muttering to himself
within beard. He paced about, his fingers clutching and unclutch: the air. He
was never still. Always he kept moving and twit ing, muttering and pacing, his
eyes darting this way and t’t Even the shift of Lander’s shadow on the ground made Ba
rush jump. It
was the ore madness, Dain knew. Jorb had warned him the perils of working too
much with magicked metal. Glanc at Lander’s red, intense expression now, Dain
hoped the sm did not catch the affliction. “Give
it to me!” Lander commanded, grunting with the effort to grasp the ends of the
bars. “Careful! Don’t let them slip.” Dain
was glad to release the bars. He crouched atop the load of ordinary metal, his
hands still tingling unpleasantly from contact with the magic, and watched
Lander hurry through the petite-porte with his treasure. Annoyance
filled Dain as he realized he’d been left out here to cope with the rest of the
load. He saw Sir Metain watching him, and Dain’s anger grew. Defiantly
he jumped down. He’d worked for Lander like a serf for four days, all for the
two pieces of gold now jingling in his pocket. But he wasn’t going to carry all
this metal inside, especially not by himself. Overhead,
the sun abruptly vanished behind a cloud, and the sky turned black and violent.
Wind gusted up, buffeting Dain, who went to unharness the mule. Lightning
flashed, with a deafening clap of thunder that made the mule rear, and rain
fell in a torrent. Soaked
to the skin in seconds, Dain pulled off the harness, wincing at the sight of
the galled sores on the mule’s withers, and tossed the harness into the cart.
Great forks of lightning jabbed the sky. One struck the ground out in the
marsh. Dain heard the crack and sizzle, saw a tree burst into flames that were
extinguished by the pounding rain. The noise of the downpour was deafening.
Wind buffeted Dain from all sides. The ground at his feet streamed with water.
Already his shoes were sinking into the mud. Sir Metain was shouting at him,
gesturing for him to get inside. Squinting and gasping, his hair plastered to
his skull, Dain led the mule forward and coaxed him through the narrow gate. Sir
Terent stood there, his ruddy face scrunched and squinting inside its mail
coif. “Dain, hurry!” he shouted. He
gripped Dain by the shoulder of his tunic and dragged him inside. Someone else
took the reins and led the mule away. The
sudden contrast of shelter after the raging torrent outside left Dain stunned
and breathless. He huddled there in the dry, with water dripping from his
clothes, while the petite-porte was winched closed again. The cable that
controlled it groaned and creaked. Its hinges shrieked from disuse, but at last
it slammed closed, and a stout bar was thrown across it. “What
about Lander’s metal?” Dain asked. “It’s
not going anywhere!” Sir Terent replied. He gripp< Dain by both shoulders
and shook him roughly. “So you‘ alive, young rascal. I never thought we’d see
you again.” “Lord
Renald caught him,” Sir Metain said. “I am to tal him straight to your
chevard.” Staring
out at the keep from beneath the portcullis, Dain sa knights running for
shelter in all directions. Most wore Thь green, but some displayed the black
and scarlet of Lunt. All them had on hauberks, their swords hanging from their
hip their cloaks soaking up the rain. They were splattered wi mud, mire, and
blood, and shouted to each other as they dashi to get out of the rain. Squires
and servants milled around, co ing with war chargers alarmed by the storm. The
confusi< meant that these men must have ridden in shortly before Da and
Lander themselves arrived. Dain
sensed the battle fierceness still raging in their mind Sir Nynth came ducking
under the portcullis into the narrc space of shelter by the gates. He saw Dain
and his face brigl ened momentarily. “Dain!” he said in a mixture of relief and
e asperation. “Thod be thanked, and Tomias too. Where in all’t three worlds
have you been?” Dain
opened his mouth, but Sir Terent stepped betwei them. “It’s
a long story, by the looks of him. Lunt riders caug him.” “They
didn’t catch me,” Dain said indignantly. “Lander a I were coming home. We’d
have been back yesterday if not f having to hide from Nonkind patrols. Why have
they dar come this far into the open? Did they attack the hold? Wha been
afire?” “One
of the villages to the south,” Sir Nynth replied. I
voice was grave. He looked weary and grim. “Is
that Dain?” called out another voice. Sir Polquin cai striding up, a mixture of
emotions afire in his face. “Whe have you been? Morde, the trouble you’ve
caused.” “Save
it,” Sir Terent growled before Dain could respor “You better get yourself to
the chevard at once.” Dain
glanced at Sir Metain. “I don’t need him to go w me. The
knight from Lunt scowled, but Sir Polquin interced< “This
is our business, friend knight,” he said. “We’ll handle it in our own way.” “You’d
better keep a close eye on the creature,” Sir Metain said. “If he betrayed you
once, he’ll do it again.” Dain
glared at him. “What? Who have I betrayed?” He
found his answer in the grim faces surrounding him, in the censure and doubt
that filled every eye. “He’s
been in the Dark Forest,” Sir Metain said. “Admitted it to Lord Renald bold as
brass.” “We
were buying metal,” Dain said. He pointed at the gate. “It’s right out there.
Ask Lander. He wanted me to go with him to do the bargaining.” “You
can explain yourself to Lord Odfrey,” Sir Polquin said. Both condemnation and
disappointment could be heard in his voice. Dain
stared at them in horror. Why did they think he’d brought the Nonkind here? “I
didn’t—” “Dain,
just go,” Sir Terent said. “But
I—” The
knight gave him a shove. “Be off!” As
Dain hurried away, Sir Terent said to the others, “Boys be pretty much the
same, whether they be pagan or of the faithful. They don’t think. They just go
off on adventures at a whim.” “Maybe,”
Sir Polquin said. “Maybe not.” Sir
Nynth shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to stand in his shoes while he faces
Lord Odfrey.” “Will
he?” Sir Metain asked doubtfully, still looking as though he meant to follow
Dain out into the downpour. With his hand on his sword hilt, he stood at the
edge of the shelter and glowered at Dain, who was hesitating, soaked and
miserable, while they talked about him. “Will he go and do as he is bidden?” “Aye,”
Sir Terent said. “He will. He’s a good boy, our Dain.” “We
needed him and his luck with us today,” Sir Nynth added. Dain
frowned, forcing himself to turn away, then he was dodging and twisting through
the crowded keep. He saw no reason for Lord Odfrey to be angry at him. He’d
been gone only a few days. Was he a prisoner here? Had he no freedom to come
and go if it pleased him? Lord Odfrey saw little use in him as it was. Why
should the chevard care where Dain went or wil whom? But
despite his inner defiance, Dain knew very well th he’d broken the rules of the
hold by leaving without permi sion. He’d
had plenty of time to think it over while riding on th uncomfortable cart. He’d
been prepared to return with humilit and he’d come to accept Lord Odfrey’s
decision to withdra him from the squire contest. He was, after all, eld.
Although tl men of Thirst Hold might make a pet of him and give him n of the
place, he knew he must never forget that he was not equ to the other boys. Something
deep inside Dain’s heart burned with anger that, but he ignored it, telling himself
it was the way of tl world. He must never forget the lessons about men-ways th
Jorb had tried to instill in him. Forgetting led to blind trust, ai that left
him vulnerable to being hurt. He liked and admin Lord Odfrey very much; he had
even respected the man. B Lord Odfrey was what he was. He dealt less hurt than
oth men, but he was still capable of acting arbitrarily and unjustl You are not like the other fosters, Dain reminded himsi often during his trip with Lander. You are eld, and will alwa be the less for it. Had
he been a simpleton or born with a humble heart, thought, his lot in life would
have been easier. He would ha been grateful for shelter and food. He would have
been pleas at the training in arms they’d given him. He would not ha wanted
more, or been ashamed of his mean estate and qui tionable birth. He would not
wonder why he owned a piece bard crystal—he and his sister both—and he would
never qui tion where he’d come from or why he’d been driven from tl place, cast
out to struggle on his own. He would not dream all that his life could be. He
would concern himself only w where he walked at this moment, thinking neither
behind h nor ahead. He would be content. Most
important, his heart would never ache the way it < right now. He had counted the knights his friends. He had grown to
cept and believe in their rough affection. During the last f< days, he had
struggled hard to lose his pride and come to ter with Lord Odfrey’s decision. But
now, he found that they blamed him for the raiding of the Nonkind and the
battle that had been fought. What greater injustice could there be than this? Fresh
anger boiled up inside him. He told himself that if the knights could turn on
him this quickly and believe him capable of betraying them to the Nonkind, then
he didn’t want to be here. He would leave Thirst for good, and Thod smite them
all. Rain
continued to pour, hammering Dain’s skin. Drops hit the ground with such
violence they bounced up. Water was flooding the keep, turning it into a bog of
mud and manure. Grooms hurried along, leading war chargers with rain-soaked
manes and stringy tails, empty stirrups flapping as they trotted by. The
villagers had pitched makeshift tents across the keep’s expanse. They huddled
inside their crude shelters, peering out at the rain, their livestock milling
about in everyone’s way. Slipping and sliding in the mire, Dain made his way
through the small set of inner gates and into the cobbled stableyard beyond. The
stables were jammed with horses. A fodder barn had been cleaned out to shelter
more, but it was overflowing too. Others were tied outside these structures,
standing with their rumps to the wind, their ears flat with misery. The groom
who had passed Dain moments before was now carrying his master’s saddle
indoors. As
Dain jogged through the rain, squinting, his shoulders hunched up, he saw the
Thirst stableboys standing in the doorway, gawking and chewing straws. One
of them pointed at Dain and said something, but just then more lightning clawed
the sky, nearly blinding Dain. Thunder seemed to break the world apart. He
cried out, dropping to his knees with his hands clapped over his ears, and saw
a jagged fork of lighting hit the banner pole atop the west tower. Sparks and
fire flew in all directions, scoring a black mark on the stone. The air was
choked with the burned smell of it, and Dain abandoned his idea of going all
the way to the Hall. Fearing
that he might be struck by a lightning bolt, Dain glanced at the stables, but
the doors were now shut and everyone had vanished. He
looked across at Sulein’s tower and headed for it at a run. If the world was
ending, he wanted his bard crystal in hand. The
door leading in to Sulein’s tower was unlocked. Dain pushed his way inside,
gasping with relief as he slammed the door behind him. The interior of the
tower lay shrouded in gloom, relieved only by the flashes of lightning seen
through the small windows cut in the staircase wall. Dain
leaned against the door to catch his breath and wipe the water from his face.
His hair dripped down inside his collar, but he was so wet he hardly noticed.
Gripping the hem of his tunic, he wrung it out as best he could, leaving a
puddle on the floor, then squelched his way up the stairs in his sodden shoes. As
he climbed, he could smell the peculiar combination of herbs and potions which
always lingered here. He felt the resonance of weak magic and half-formed
spells which permeated the place. His heart started to beat faster, but he kept
going. He
would never find it easy to be near the physician, but if luck was with him
today Sulein would be elsewhere, attending wounded men. It
was not to be. Dain
reached the top of the stairs and walked to Sulein’s door. No sooner did he
grip the iron ring than Sulein yanked the door open. Standing
framed in the doorway, his loose brown robe stained and discolored as usual
from the ill effects of his experiments, the physician stared down at Dain with
a toothy smile. “So,”
he said, “you have returned in a storm of sky fire and thunder. Come inside,
eld. Long months have I waited for you to come to me.” Dain
opened his mouth, but could say nothing. The hair prickled on the back of his
neck. In that moment, lightning flashed outside the windows, and its eerie
white light threw strange shadows across the physician’s face, as though a
skull were gazing down at Dain. He stood there frozen with dismay, every
instinct warning him to run from this man who craved the dark secrets of a sorcerel. Sulein’s
fevered smile faded, and he reached out his hand as though to draw Dain in.
“Come,” he said again. “There is something you want, is there not? Something
that is yours? What will you give me in exchange for it? What eld secrets will
you share?” As
he spoke he stood aside and gestured at the interior of his workroom. The place
was filled with shadows and gloom, with no lamps or candles lit to illuminate
it. Yet suddenly at a wave of Sulein’s long-fingered hand a glow of lambent
light came from nowhere and fell across a wooden box on one of the tables. Dain
could sense his bard crystal within it, could almost hear it. That Sulein
should have possession of it, that he should guard it from its rightful owner
incensed Dain so much he forgot his fear. “Come
inside,” Sulein said softly, his eyes bright and eager. “Let us bargain.” And
Dain stepped over the threshold into his lair. Outside, the storm ceased as
abruptly as it had begun. Aware of the silence, when moments before rain had
been pounding on the conical roof of Sulein’s tower, Dain blinked and looked
around. He drew in a deep breath, and suddenly his mind cleared. He
could tell where Sulein had gripped his emotions, especially his resentment,
and where he sought to manipulate him. Frowning, Dain glanced at the physician
without meeting the man’s eyes and ran across the room to grip the box with
both hands. “Put
it down!” Sulein said in alarm. “You have not my permission to touch it.” Paying
him no heed, Dain opened the box. His pendant lay glittering inside upon a
scrap of fine cloth, its cord coiled neatly around it. An assortment of other
items lay scattered next to it, including a large ring with runes carved on its
band. Dain ignored everything but what belonged to him. He picked up the bard
crystal, and heard it sing softly within the curl of his fingers. Soothed
by its faint melody, Dain smiled, but Sulein grabbed the pendant from his hand. “No!”
he said firmly. “You may not take it from this place of safekeeping. We will
talk first.” Anger
swept Dain. He snarled a curse in dwarf and reached for his dagger. Sulein’s
intense eyes met Dain’s and held them. Neither of them spoke in that moment,
and no magic was used. Yet Dain left his dagger half-drawn, his chest heaving
with every furious breath as he battled himself. “You
do not wish to draw your weapon against me, Dain,” Sulein said quietly, his
dark face very serious behind his frizzy beard. “I am Lord Odfrey’s man, and no
warrior. Would you break the laws of this hold in such a way?” Dain
bared his teeth. “The pendant is mine. I want it back.” “Why?”
Sulein asked him. “So you can run away from Thirst for good? You had to return
today, of course, for your property. You were foolish to forget it the first
time, but then your temper is fierce, I think.“ “I
did not run away,” Dain said angrily. “If you are as wise as you claim you
would know this.” “Don’t
be impertinent,” Sulein replied. He placed the bard crystal back in his
strongbox and closed the lid. Dain
reached out, but Sulein carried the box across the room and placed it on a
shelf alongside numerous bottles and small clay pots. “No,”
he said, dusting off his long slender hands and returning. “Let us sit and have
our talk.” Dain
scowled, prickling with unease, and swung away from him. “What do you want in
exchange for my property? I have no secrets to share.” “Oh,
but you do. You are a treasure trove walking among us.” Sulein smiled. His dark
eyes shone through the gloom. “What do you fear, boy? Why will you not answer
my questions?” “I
have no knowledge of the dark ways,” Dain answered. “I can tell you nothing
about them.” Sulein
laughed, throwing back his head so far it was strange that his conical hat did
not fall off. “Ah, so that is it! I do not seek ways of the darkness or the
forbidden. This do I assure you, boy. Have you never studied?” “Studied
what?” Dain asked suspiciously. Sulein
seated himself on a stool. He gestured for Dain to do r the
same, but Dain remained standing, ready to run for the door if he had to. “Studied
knowledge, for its own sake,” Sulein replied, lighting several candles. Their
flickering glow reduced the gloom, driving back the shadows. The
room was cluttered as always, filled with stacks of old scrolls that looked so
brittle with age they would probably have crumbled to dust if anyone tried to
unroll them. A dead vixlet, embalmed and mounted, snarled at Dain from atop the
shelves. Its eyes, made of colored glass, reflected the candlelight in an eerie
fashion, almost as though the thing were possessed. “Can
you read, Dain?” Sulein asked. “Of
course.” Sulein
picked up a scrap of parchment and held it out. When Dain kept his distance,
Sulein rattled it impatiently. “Oh,
come, come, boy, what have you to fear? Take the paper and tell me what it
says.” Dain
stepped closer reluctantly and saw small, strange characters drawn across the page.
Anger flared inside him. “Another game!” he said impatiently. “I have no time
for this. Give me my bard crystal!” “No,
Dain,” Sulein replied softly, his tone quite firm. “Not without Lord Odfrey’s
order.” “Then
I have other things to do.” Turning about, Dain headed for the door. “You
lived among the dwarves,” Sulein said after him. “Presumably you learned to
read and write in runes.” Dain
glanced back. “I have orders to report to Lord Odfrey. I cannot dally here, talking
of runes and such.” “Lord
Odfrey is busy with what has transpired during your absence. I believe he is
praying in the chapel now for the souls of the men who died in this day’s
battle.” Some
of Dain’s annoyance faded into concern. Some of those dead knights were surely
men he’d liked. He wanted to know their names, and yet he dreaded finding out. “There
is a little time,” Sulein said. “You know this, or you would not have come here
on your way to his lordship.” Dain
frowned, but Sulein was right. “Are there many dead?” he asked. “Since
when do you care about the fate of Mandrian serfs?” Dain’s
frown deepened. “I meant, are there many dead among the knights?” “You
care for them, then? As comrades?” “Of
course!” Dain said hotly. “What do you think of me? Why does everyone think I
had something to do with—” “You
have changed while living here among us,” Sulein said. “You have begun to think
more like a Mandrian and less like a dwarf.” “I
am neither,” Dain said flatly. “That
is correct. Were you born in Nether?” Sulein asked. The
sudden change of subject threw Dain for a moment. “I know not.” “Krogni da vletsna ryakilvn yla meratskya. Do you understand those words?” Sulein asked. “No,”
Dain said, but uneasily. Though the words meant nothing, their cadence had a
familiar rhythm and lilt. Thia used to sing a child’s song of nonsense words.
She taught him to sing it too, but neither of them knew what the words meant.
That little song was similar to what Sulein said. Dain felt cold inside. “Never go into Nether” Jorb had warned him and Thia most solemnly. “Seek not the eldin who live there.” “Did
Jorb your guardian ever speak to you in Netheran?” Sulein asked, “No.” “Did
he tell you where you came from?” “I
am eld,” Dain said harshly. “That is enough to know.” “You
are highborn, and you know it,” Sulein persisted. “Are you afraid to accept
this? Why? It is to your advantage to be educated, to know how to read and
write in more than one language. To have knowledge of classical learning so
that you can converse with others of your station.” “Station?”
Dain repeated. “I have no station except beggar! I am fostered here on charity,
with the superstitions of Lord Odfrey to thank. That is all I am.” “Nether
has been missing its rightful king for sixteen years,” Sulein said. “King
Muncel rules there, and it is Gant he allies himself with now, not Mandria. It
is said that King Tobeszijian is surely dead, but that his son, the rightful
heir to Nether’s throne, lives hidden in exile.” “What
do I care about Nether?” Dain said impatiently. “Save
that many eldin live there—or used to, before King Mun-cel drove them out.” Sulein
leaned forward, his eyes boring into Dain. “The rightful heir’s name is
Faldain.” He
seemed to be waiting for something. Expectancy hung on him like a cloak. Dain
laughed incredulously. “You jest, surely. Or do you think me a knave stupid
enough to believe such nonsense?” “It
is not nonsense,” Sulein said. “This is most important. You could be the
missing prince.” “I
am not,” Dain said. “My name is not—” “Dain
and Faldain are names almost identical,” Sulein said eagerly. “You are the
correct age.” Dain
stared at him with pity. What foolishness was this? “Dain is a common suffix to
many eldin names,” he said. “Faldain, Sordain, Landain, Cueldain ... What of
that? Oh, you paint a pretty dream. I would love to be a king, with a great
treasure in my storehouse and the life of a fable, but I am simply an eld,
orphaned and without family. I must live where I can, and keep myself alive.” “You
wear king’s glass,” Sulein said, but his voice had dropped to a whisper. Dain
sensed how desperately the man wanted his idea to be true. For an instant Dain
allowed himself to dream as well, but it was too impossible. He could not even
imagine it. In that unguarded moment, Sulein’s usual protections seemed to have
vanished. He sat there facing Dain, his hope plain to read in his face. Dain
could tell that this man wanted the reward and honor of finding the missing
heir to Nether’s throne. Sulein might bury himself in this workroom with his
studies and his experiments, but he was an ambitious man. He wanted too much. He
wanted from Dain what Dain did not have to give him. “The
pieces fit. Besides, only royalty may wear king’s glass,” Sulein said. “In
Mandria, yes,” Dain said, deliberately making his voice scornful. “But such is
not the custom elsewhere. As a man foreign-born, you should know better than to
think the custom of one land is the same in all.” Sulein’s
face reddened. He drew back as though he’d been struck. “Perhaps,” he muttered. “How
many refugees have fled from Nether in recent years?“ Dain asked. ”Families
have been divided and lost. I could belong to anyone. I have proof of nothing.“ “Prince
Faldain’s mother, the Queen Nereisse, was true eld,” Sulein said. “King
Tobeszijian was half-eld himself. It is allowed in Nether, to cross blood this
way. The old gifts of seeing are valued there, unlike here, where the church
has reformed much ... and caused much more to be lost.” “I
must go,” Dain said. Sulein
jumped off his stool. “You disappoint me. I thought you would have more
ambition for yourself.” “To
reach too high is to be struck down,” Dain said bitterly. “I cannot even vie
for the position of Lord Odfrey’s squire. How would you make me into a king?” Sulein
drew in a breath, his brow creasing with pity. “Ah, yes. Perhaps it is so, and
my ideas are only foolishness. Well, then, talk to me instead of eld magic. You
may trust me not to share what you say. I know that it is not always safe to
reveal too much knowledge of the old ways.” Dain
frowned, backing up a step. “There is no magic.” “I
know differently.” Sulein picked up a stick and held it out. “If you hold this
in your hand, will it sprout leaves and return to life?” Dain
held his hands at his side and glared at the physician. “No.” “I
have talked to Nocine the huntsman,” Sulein said. “You cast a spell and turned
him into a tree to save his life.” “I
created a vision, an illusion,” Dain protested. “You
have mastery over the animals.” “No.” “You
can touch the minds of men, read their thoughts perhaps. Oh, your abilities in
these areas are not as strong as mine, but I have studied and practiced many
years to learn the art of mind spells, while this you do naturally.” “I
am not like you!” Dain said sharply. “I do not—” “Wouldn’t
you like to increase your powers?” Sulein asked him. “Wouldn’t you like to know
how to wield them exactly as you wish, to use them for—” “No!”
Dain said. He hurried to the door, but it would not open. Frustrated, he tugged
at it, twisting the ring this way and that, but it was locked. He gave the
wooden panel a kick and turned back to face the physician. “When
you learn to put aside your fear, when you learn to open your mind to what you
truly are, then you will have a future of limitless possibilities,” Sulein
said. “I
have no desire to be a sorcerel,” Dain said defiantly. “Let me go.” “But
you were so eager to come inside before.” “That’s
when I thought you might give back my bard crystal,” Dain retorted. “Keeping my
property from me is theft.” Anger
touched Sulein’s eyes, and the air inside the room grew suddenly cold. “I
study, Dain,” he said after a long silence. “I guard. But I do not steal.
Remember that.” Dain
stood there, mute and angry, his blood pounding impatiently in his veins.
Sulein’s words were all lies and trickery. Nothing he said could be trusted. Outside,
the chapel bell began to ring, tolling the deaths solemnly while thunder
continued to roll in the skies. “I
must go,” Dain said. “One
last thing, and then you may relieve Lord Odfrey’s mind. Come over to the
light.” Sulein
walked away from Dain, leaving him to follow reluctantly. The physician bent
over another piece of parchment, writing on it with a glass pen spun from
myriad colors that shimmered in the candlelight. Putting
down his pen, he turned around and held up the parchment in front of Dain.
“Read what this says.” This
time Dain found himself looking at runes, simple ones, written in the old
style. New wariness entered him, for many times the old runes contained spells. “Well?”
Sulein prompted. “I
can read this.” “What
does it say?” Dain
said nothing. “What
does it say?” Dain
felt a pressure to respond. Angrily he gestured at Sulein. “Stop that! It will
not work on me.” The
pressure stopped, and Sulein frowned. “Your obstinance is most annoying. Why
can you not cooperate even in such a simple matter as this?” “Because
it’s not simple,” Dain said. “The old runes have power and spells in them. It—”
He stopped in mid-sentence and frowned. A memory bobbed to the surface of his
mind, and he sent Sulein a sharp look. “These are the runes carved on the band
of the old ring in your strongbox. You want to know what they say, but I
thought you could read—” “No,”
Sulein responded with visible discomfort. “I speak dwarf. I cannot read their
runes. At least not very well. What does this legend say?” “Where
did you get the ring?” Dain asked. “What do you want with an old ring like
that?” “Never
you mind. Just tell me what the runes say.” Dain
hesitated, tilting his head to one side. “You must give back my bard crystal.” Sulein’s
eyes grew angry. “You would have me defy Lord Odfrey?” “The
spells you practice and seek to learn in here defy him every day,” Dain
replied. “I
will not return the crystal to you,” Sulein said, lifting his chin. “Not until
Lord Odfrey commands me to do so.” “Then
I won’t tell you what the ring says.” Sulein
glared at him a long while. Dain stared right back, a tiny smile playing at the
corners of his mouth. In
the end, it was Sulein who broke eye contact, “Very well,” he said. “You may
have your king’s glass back.” Dain
held out his hand. Sulein
drew himself up with a huff. “Do you doubt my word? Translate the runes.” Dain
said nothing, just went on holding out his hand. Muttering
in his beard, Sulein glided over to the strongbox and took it off the shelf.
Dain hurried to him and received his pendant. Slipping it around his neck, Dain
reached into the box before Sulein could close the lid and grabbed up the ring. Holding
it aloft, he read its inscription loudly, “Solder’s ring!” The
stones in the walls of the tower shook slightly, and the ring’s great stone
glowed with white light. Sulein
turned pale. “Mareesh have mercy!” he cried in horror. Grabbing the ring away
from Dain, he threw it back into the box and slammed the lid shut. “Are you
mad, invoking its powers like that? It is not to be touched, never to be
touched without-the greatest care and protection.” Alarmed
by the reaction to what he meant as a joke, Dain stared at the physician.
“What, exactly, is it?” Sulein
looked shaken. Clutching the strongbox to his chest, he wiped his face with his
sleeve. “It is,” he said slowly, “what I hoped it to be. A miracle brought to
me by the gods and a peddler who sold it into my keeping for a piece of silver.
The Ring of Solder,” he said, his voice filled with awe. Dain
expected the walls to shake again, but all was now still. “I told you the old
runes have spells in them. If I say it again, will the walls shake a second
time?” “Foolish
boy, do not joke about things you do not understand,” Sulein admonished him
sternly. “So
who is Solder?” Dain asked with curiosity. “Not a dwarf king. I’ve never heard
of him.” “Someday
you will know the legend,” Sulein said. “If you do not already. You are a
tangle of lies before me, but I will unravel all of them to find the truth of
what you really are and what you really know.” “I
am not this missing king you’re looking for,” Dain said, hoping he wasn’t going
to start that again. “Believe me, if I were him, I’d—” “Go
away, Dain,” Sulein said, sounding tired. He waved his hand across the surface
of the door, and it unlocked with an audible click. “I have much to consider.
Now that I know this ring of legend truly exists, I must study its powers and
safeguard it properly. It is not a toy to be played with.” Dain
stepped around him, heading for his escape, but Sulein gripped him by the back
of his wet tunic and held him back. “Say
nothing about the ring,” he said fiercely. “Not to Lord Odfrey, not to anyone.
Swear this to me!” Dain
frowned at him with equal fierceness. “Then grant me one boon.” “Must
you barter over everything?” Dain
shrugged. “Blame it on my dwarf upbringing. I will keep silent, if you will
part the veils of seeing. Show me who I really am. Show me my father and
mother. Give me my past.” He
expected Sulein to jump on this. After all, the physician still wanted to name
him King of Nether. But instead Sulein frowned and shook his head. “No,”
he said portentously. “Not now. I have other things to study.” In
a flash, Dain knew the truth. Fresh anger welled up inside him. “You do not
know how,” he said, his voice rising in disbe- lief.
“The first level of the sorcereFs art, and you know it not. Are your minor spells just smoke
and illusion? How can you reach past—” He
stopped, aware that in his anger he was revealing too much knowledge of his
own. Sulein
was watching him like a hawk. Dain
glared back at him, then wrenched open the door and strode out. As he went, he
chastised himself for letting his temper and pride get the better of his good
sense. Sulein had learned too much today. If not for the recovery of his bard
crystal, Dain would have believed himself completely the loser of this battle
of wills. He
tucked the pendant even farther beneath his wet tunic, patting his chest in
comfort at having it back again. He felt stronger now, more confident against
the dark forces beyond the walls of this hold. The crystal had no special
powers, no magic other than how it made song. But it belonged to the side of
nature unsullied by the Nonkind. If he fell into trouble, the crystal’s
presence would help him keep a clear head. Besides, it was his talisman, his
only legacy. It did not belong in a box, locked away in the darkness of a
crazed man’s workroom, but here, singing softly against his flesh, a part of
his spirit in some way he could not define. The
chapel doors were just swinging open to let out the mass-goers when Dain
hurried across the courtyard and into the Hall. Skirting the public chambers,
he went upstairs to change into dry clothes. The
chamber he shared with the other fosters was empty at the moment. Relieved,
Dain flung open the lid of the clothes chest at the foot of his bed and found a
new doublet folded neatly atop his meager possessions. Holding it up, Dain gave
it a shake to release the folds, and thought the sleeves looked long enough
this time. The cloth was sturdy and well woven, dyed a handsome dark red. It
was an unexpected kindness, this gift. Dain did not know who was responsible
for it. New clothes usually appeared mysteriously like this at Thirst Hold,
just when his seams were bursting or his sleeves had shrunk halfway to his
elbows. A
lump closed his throat, and he crushed the doublet in his hands. He did not
want to leave Thirst, he realized. He did not want people here to hate him. The
door opened and the page named Hueh looked in. “Thod above, where is the lamp?”
he asked in his piping voice, and hurried to light it. “You’re wanted by the
chevard at once. He saw you in the courtyard, so you’d better hurry.” Dain
nodded and stripped off his wet clothing. Clad in a dry pair of leggings, he
went to the washing bucket to clean the mud off his hands. While he was still
bent over it, the door opened and someone came in. “Well,
well, so Bastard du Stray has come back,” Mierre said. “Why don’t you put your
head in that bucket and drown yourself?” Slinging
water from his hands, Dain straightened and turned around to see the largest of
the fosters standing there with his feet straddled and his thumbs hooked in his
belt. Mierre’s green eyes were as unfriendly as ever. Beside
him stood Kaltienne, like a sly weasel, eyes darting with malice. “Aye,” he
said with a sneer. “You should have kept running. No one wants a traitor like
you back.” Dain
frowned. “I am no traitor.” Mierre
stepped forward. “Mayhap we should drown you and put an end to the matter.” Kaltienne
laughed in an ugly way and started to circle around behind Dain. Quick as
thought, Dain ran to his bunk and picked up his dagger. He faced them both,
standing light and ready on the balls of his feet. The weapon glinted in the
lamplight, and his would-be tormentors paused. “If
that’s the way you want this done,” Mierre said, and drew his own dagger. Kaltienne
said nothing, but he also drew his weapon. Dry-mouthed,
Dain swallowed. He was outnumbered and boxed in by the beds. In the corner of
the room, the young page watched openmouthed, of no help at all. Dain wanted to
tell him to run for help, but thought doing so would be cowardly. He held his
tongue. Mierre
came at him, thrusting hard and viciously with his blade. Dain dodged it, but
Kaltienne was hemming him in on the other side, giving him scant room to
maneuver. Dain jumped over the narrow bed, going behind Mierre, who turned with
him. Mierre
tried to block Dain’s blow, but Dain’s dagger sliced his arm at the shoulder,
ripping cloth. Blood welled up, and Mierre swore savagely. He
attacked, and Dain skipped out of reach, only to have to dodge Kaltienne’s
thrust. Watching their eyes instead of their blades, Dain could hear his breath
whistling in his throat. His heart was pounding loud and furiously. But at the
same time, he was curiously excited and hot. He saw the warning flicker in
Mierre’s green eyes, but Dain leaped forward to meet the larger youth. Ducking
under Mierre’s dagger thrust, Dain stabbed at him, only to be knocked back by
Mierre’s free fist. Staggering,
his ears ringing lightly, Dain shook his head to clear it, and barely evaded
Kaltienne’s clumsy lunge. “Damne!”
Mierre said. “Get him and let’s end this.” Dain’s
head was up. With shining eyes, he threw Mierre a wild grin. “Did you think I
would stand still and let you gut me?” “Demon!”
Mierre lunged at him again, hitting Dain with his shoulder and driving him back
against the wall. Dain
grunted at the impact, and just in time pulled up his dagger between them to
block Mierre’s thrust at his belly. “Heads
up!” Kaltienne shouted in warning. “The prince!” Mierre
straightened at once, backing away from Dain and turning to face the doorway. Dain,
breathing hard, his knees suddenly weak, glanced up and saw Prince Gavril
standing there, gazing in at them. Gavril wore a doublet of pale blue linen,
the cloth woven in a chevron pattern. His leggings were of the same pale color,
and his shoes were of thin supple leather. On his golden hair, he wore an
embroidered cap tilted at a rakish angle. His
violet-blue eyes swept the faces of everyone in the room, lingering on Dain a
moment before going to Mierre. “Fighting?”
he asked with a lift of his brows. “Is this seemly behavior?” Mierre’s
face turned red. “Your highness, it is only the pagan traitor. We want him not
in here with us.” “Naturally
not,” Gavril said. He
smiled at Dain, and it was the coldest smile Dain had ever seen. He knew right
then that Gavril would not help him. The
prince stepped into the room and turned his gaze on the wide-eyed face of the
little page. “You,” he said to Hueh, “get out.” Hueh
fled without a word, not even glancing in Dain’s direction. Kaltienne
had already sheathed his dagger, remembering the rule against drawn weapons in
the presence of royalty. He bowed. “I beg your highness’s pardon. We just
thought we’d teach the pagan a lesson.” Gavril
gestured at the door. “Close that, and then you may continue.” Dain
stared at him, feeling his spirits sink. Three against one was not good, and he
could not think of a way out of this. Gavril was gloating openly, his blue eyes
clearly inviting Dain to plead for mercy. Dain
clamped his jaw shut. He wouldn’t do it, not even if they strung his entrails
from one side of the room to the other. Kaltienne hastened to slam the door
shut. Mierre grinned, and his green eyes narrowed on Dain. “You
must always deliver lessons in private,” Gavril said. “Never in front of silly
little pages.” “Where’s
your protector?” Dain called out, using bravado to mask his fear. “Why not make
it four against one?” They
took no shame at his words. Gavril laughed and seated himself on a stool.
“Finish this quickly,” he said. “It’s almost time for dinner.” Mierre’s
grin widened. He sprang at Dain, who ducked away with a nimbleness the larger
youth couldn’t match. Mierre was very strong, but not agile. From the corner of
his eye, Dain watched for Kaltienne, always sneaking to get at Dain’s back like
the coward he was. With
Gavril clearly anticipating some good entertainment, Dain felt determined to
best both of these bullies, if only to wipe the smug smiles off their faces. He
would have preferred to attack Gavril and see blood splatter across that pretty
pale doublet, but right now he had to concentrate on Mierre. Lunging
at Kaltienne, Dain slashed viciously with his dagger in the way Sir Nynth had
taught him. Moving his arm up and down in a blur of movement, he attacked with
force, driving Kaltienne back until the boy stumbled into one of the beds and
fell with a cry of fear. Dain
slashed at his exposed stomach and missed, for at the same moment Mierre
gripped him by his shoulder and pulled him back. Dain twisted desperately to
avoid being impaled on Mierre’s dagger. He felt the tip rake his ribs, bringing
a swift burning of pain and the trickle of blood. Cursing
in the dwarf tongue, Dain ducked and spun, plunging his dagger up at Mierre’s
vitals. Mierre
blocked the thrust with his blade, and for a moment the two weapons locked.
They strained against each other until the tendons knotted in Mierre’s thick
neck and Dain felt his muscles tremble with effort. Mierre
bared his large, yellowed teeth. His green eyes, savage and merciless, glared
down into Dain’s. “Finish
him! Finish him!” Kaltienne was shouting. Dain
felt himself giving beneath the other boy’s greater strength. With all his will
and might, Dain struggled to hold firm. Sweat poured down his face, stinging
his eyes. His back was bleeding, but the pain fired his determination all the
more. He would not give way. He would not. But
Mierre kept pushing him down, and Dain felt his knees shaking and starting to
buckle despite all he could do. Once he was forced to kneel, his throat would
be level with Mierre’s blade, and too easy a target. A
week past, Mierre would not have dared kill him, for Dain was the favorite of
the knights. But today, after the battle with the Nonkind, when everyone seemed
to be blaming Dain somehow, he wondered if Mierre would even take punishment. Dain
struggled to disengage his dagger, but Mierre had such pressure on his hand,
twisting there, that the blades remained locked. Dain’s whole arm was shaking
now from the strain. His knees failed him, and Mierre drove him down. “Now!”
Kaltienne shouted. Mierre
twisted his wrist to unlock the dagger guards. Already Dain could feel how
Mierre intended to draw his arm horizontally, slashing Dain’s throat in one
clean stroke. But
as Mierre disengaged, Dain lunged at him and with his head butted Mierre right
between his legs. Mierre
howled a shrill, piercing cry of pain. Dain overbalanced him, sending Mierre
toppling to the floor. Dain
scrambled on top of him and pinned him while a white-faced Mierre, his knees
drawn up, clutched himself. Gripping
the front of his tunic, Dain put the point of his dagger to Mierre’s throat and
lifted his gaze to Gavril. The
prince had risen to his feet, and was staring at Dain with a mixture of fury
and horror. Behind
Dain, Kaltienne was shouting, “Foul trickster! Hon-orless cheat!” Ignoring
him, Dain kept his gaze on the prince. “Well?” he asked, breathing hard. “Is
this the lesson you had in mind?” Red
spots burned on Gavril’s cheeks. Before he could reply, however, Kaltienne
loosed a hoarse cry and launched himself at Dain’s back. Too
late, Dain tried to turn to face his attack. Kaltienne’s dagger point skidded
across his shoulder blade and gouged into the back of his arm. Pain
blossomed there, and Dain’s cry was being engulfed by Kaltienne’s furious
screaming, when suddenly the door slammed open as though it had been kicked and
Sir Roye came rushing inside. “What’s
all this?” he demanded. Gavril
pointed at Dain and Kaltienne, who were locked in a struggle atop Mierre. “Stop
them at once,” he commanded. “Sir Roye, I have ordered them repeatedly to stop,
but they will not heed me.” Swearing,
Sir Roye gripped Kaltienne and heaved him away, sending him sprawling. His bloody
dagger went clattering across the floor. Dain barely had time to drag in a
short, gasping breath before Sir Roye yanked him upright. “Thod’s
bones,” he swore, glaring at Dain as though this was somehow his fault. “Are
you bad hurt?” Bleeding
and rigid with agony, Dain could not find enough breath to answer. Sir Roye
gave Mierre a nudge with his foot. “You,
get up,” he said without compassion. Mierre
rolled onto his side and groaned. By
now Kaltienne was floundering to his feet. Glaring, he pointed at Dain. “He’s a
pagan cheat and traitor! He does not belong in here with us.” “Aye,
that’s true enough,” Sir Roye muttered. He still had his hand on Dain’s
uninjured arm, supporting him. His yellow eyes glared at them all, then he
glanced over his shoulder at Hueh, who was peeping openmouthed into the room.
“You!” he ordered. “Collect these daggers and take them out of here. Now!” “Yes,
Sir Roye.” The boy scuttled into the room and picked up Mierre’s dagger where
it lay on the floor, then Kaltienne’s. At last he came to Dain, who alone still
clutched his weapon. The
page’s head came only to Dain’s waist. His face held the roundness of babyhood,
despite his six or seven years. Brown curls framed his face. If he had fetched
Sir Roye, then Dain knew he owed this child his life. Seeing
Hueh’s fear, Dain managed a smile that was nearly a grimace and flipped his
dagger over to hand it hilt-first to the child. The
page’s eyes brightened, and in that moment hero worship filled his face. He
took Dain’s dagger and stepped back. “Fighting
in the presence of the prince,” Sir Roye was scolding them all. “You know
better, all of you. It’s forbidden to draw weapons before him. Morde a day, you
deserve more than flogging. Your highness,” he said gruffly, “where is Sir
Los?” Gavril
shrugged. “I gave him leave for the evening. I thought myself safe enough in
the Hall.” “Apparently
not,” Sir Roye said. “We
weren’t attacking him,” Dain said, but Sir Roye shook him so hard he cried out
with pain. “Silence!
No one gave you leave to speak. Come on,” he said, pulling Dain toward the
door. “Out with you. Mierre and Kaltienne, clean yourselves up. And get this
room put back to rights.” Not
waiting for any of them to reply, Sir Roye jerked a stiff little bow in
Gavril’s direction and marched Dain out. As
soon as they were in the corridor, Dain tried to explain, but Sir Roye refused
to listen. In grim silence Dain was taken to the bathing chamber, deserted now
except for two servants trying to mop up spilled water and gather up the towels
someone had tossed about. Sir
Roye pushed Dain onto a stool. “Sit.” When
he began probing at Dain’s cuts, his fingers were far more gentle than his tone
of voice. “Shallow,
most of it. Just one spot that’s deep. You’ll do,” he said with gruff relief.
Tearing some strips off a towel, he bound Dain up efficiently. “Thank
you,” Dain said. Sir
Roye glared at him, his dark weathered face as stern as ever. “I want you in
good shape for the flogging that awaits you. Deserting the hold and Thod knows
what else.” Dain
frowned, anxious to vindicate himself. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I just went
with Lander to buy sword metal.” “Explain
yourself to the chevard,” Sir Roye said without interest, tossing the bloody
cloths into a heap on the floor. “I’m not your judge.” “Why
won’t anyone believe me?” Dain asked. “I didn’t bring the Nonkind here—” “Who
says you did?” Sir Roye asked sharply. Dain
hunched his shoulders. “Everyone.” “Daft
nonsense,” Sir Roye said. “The raids came from the south. That’s why Lunt Hold
sent warnings. Their lands have been raided too.” Relief
filled Dain. He smiled at the protector, glad at last to find someone who
believed him. Sir
Roye scowled back. “Get yourself dressed and go to his lordship’s wardroom.” “Yes,
sir,” Dain said, still smiling. “Thank you for your help.” Sir
Roye refused to meet his gaze. “I do not want your thanks.” “You
saved my life.” “The
page did!” Sir Roye protested fiercely. “Running to me and bawling like a
babe.” “I
must thank him too,” Dain said. “You’ll
report to the chevard, the way you were told to the moment you set foot in the
hold. Thod’s bones, brawling before the prince. If he chooses to be offended,
you’re in for it.” “But
I—” “And
you can thank whatever pagan deities you pray and blaspheme before that Sir Los
wasn’t there. He’d have gutted you the moment you drew your dagger. Gods! Have
you not learned any sense in all the time you’ve been among us?” “They
attacked me,” Dain began. “I had to defend myself.” “Brawl
with your fists, you dolt, when the prince is there.” “I
had little choice in the matter,” Dain said stiffly, his back rigid with
resentment. “I did not start the fight.” “And
what does that matter?” Sir Roye said without a trace of compassion. “Sir
Polquin has taught you that a knight commands his combat. If honor requires,
you move it to a place that’s—” “And
if you have no choice?” Dain asked hotly. “If there’s no honor shown?” Sir
Roye’s single eye was stony. “Honor is your
responsibility. You don’t don it or discard it according to the situation. That’s
where you will never be one of us, boy.” “Enough
of this talk. I am no keeper of yours, nay, and no teacher either. You have
enough of those, and your head must be made of bone for all the good their work
has done.” Dain
opened his mouth, but Sir Roye held up his hand for silence. “As
soon as you’re done with his lordship, you go collect your gear and report to
housekeeping. They’ll house you elsewhere than the fosters’ room. You never
should have been in there in the first place.” His
censure stung. Dain looked down, frowning. “I am glad to get away from Mierre
and Kaltienne.” It was the truth he spoke, but he knew what Sir Roye meant. No
doubt the protector thought he should be sleeping in the stables, if even in
the hold at all. Glancing up, Dain added, “Could Thum and I share a chamber?” “Nay,”
Sir Roye said with a snort of disgust. “Thum, for all his spindly ways, has at
least enough sense to stay out of trouble. He doesn’t need to mix with the
likes of you. None of them do. I told his lordship you’d bring grief to the
place and sure enough you have.“ ”j__“ “Keep
your tongue!” Sir Roye said gruffly. “Now jump to, and do as you’ve been told!
I’ve wasted enough time with you.” Dain
sat there on the stool, seething from all the criticism. It was not fair that
he should be blamed for first the battle and now this fight with the fosters.
Why had Sir Roye bothered to save him if he thought Dain this worthless? “Boy!”
Sir Roye barked. “On your feet like I said. If you feel faint, I’ll pour one of
the physician’s potions down your gullet, but get to moving now. Any more
dallying will be an open insult to his lordship, and then I’m within my duty to
take you to the flogging block for that if naught else.” Dain
gritted his teeth and rose to his feet. His eyes, hot with anger, met Sir
Roye’s. The protector gave him a stiff nod and walked out. Walking
stiffly out of the bathing chamber with his wounded arm cradled against his
side, Dain nearly collided with Thum, who was hurrying along the passageway. Thum
jumped back from him, holding up his hands to ask pardon. “Dain!” he said
anxiously. “Are you much hurt? Hueh said you were bleeding—” “Some
cuts,” Dain said grimly. “I will live.” Thum’s freckled face lit up with relief. His red hair lay
plastered dark and wet against his head; rain had spotted his doublet. He
sported a black eye that was healing in several vivid hues, giving his thin,
rather serious face a rakish look. In one hand, he carried Dain’s new
wine-colored doublet. “I’m
glad you’re not bad hurt,” he said. “From the way Hueh’s been telling it, I
thought you were carried away swooning and bloody in Sir Roye’s arms.” Little
Hueh, Dain thought darkly, had been helpful, but the page had better not go
embellishing the tale of what had transpired. Dain shook his head at Thum. “Do
you really think Sir Roye would be that tender?” he asked with scorn. Thum
grinned. “Had you waited another few minutes, I would have been there to help
you fight the oafs.” “Be
glad you weren’t,” Dain said, reaching for his doublet. “You’re the only one of
us not in trouble. Well, you and Prince Gavril.” “I
know.” Thum gripped Dain’s uninjured arm to usher him back inside the bathing
chamber. “Here, I will help you get dressed.” He
took the doublet from Dain’s hands and threw it over Dain’s head. With quick
but gentle tugs, he pulled it down over Dain’s shoulders. “Tell me if I hurt
you.” Dain
was gritting his teeth with pain as he twisted his arm to fit it into a sleeve,
but he said nothing. The new doublet was roomy and comfortable, large enough to
allow for more growth. Pleased with it, Dain smoothed his hand down the front
while Thum belted on his dagger for him. “You’re in greater trouble than just the fight, you know,” Thum
murmured quietly, keeping an eye on the servants, who were still cleaning the
chamber and clearly trying to eavesdrop. “Thod’s mercy, Dain, what made you run
away like that?” “Not
you as well!” Dain cried in dismay. “How can everyone think so ill of me? I
went with the smith, that’s all. If I’d known the Nonkind were going to attack
Thirst, I would have been here to help fight.” “They
didn’t attack Thirst. Who is spreading that
tale?” Thum replied. “But it was bad enough, by what I’ve heard. None of us
fosters were allowed in the battle, thanks to you and Mierre.” Dain
frowned. “What do you mean? Am I to be blamed next for lightning striking the
tower? For the sky turning dark? For the rain that’s falling? What else?” “Do
not turn your bad temper on me. You asked what’s amiss, and I am only telling
you.” “I
am not angry at you,” Dain said by way of apology. Thum
nodded, then sighed gloomily. “What’s all the practice and training for, if
we’re to be kept in the hold with the women and children?” “Saw
you none of the battle?” Dain asked in sympathy. “Nay,
not one blow.” “Who
gave such an order, keeping you home?” “Sir
Bosquecel. He said we were lazy, unprepared louts who couldn’t bear arms any
better than the serfs.” Dain
blinked in astonishment. “But that’s not true. Nor is it fair.” “None
of this is fair,” Thum said. “You have no idea of how angry he is. Well, they
all are. Squabbles and quarreling in all directions, for days now. And once the
Lunt knights came, there’s been trouble with them as well. They eat like horses
and drink like fish. And gamble? Morde! But it’s worst between Sir Polquin and
Sir Bosquecel. They blame each other for what happened. It looked like they
might come to blows on the practice field the day of the contest, and they are
not speaking to each other still.” Dain
frowned, trying to make sense of all this. “Because I left the contest?” “Nay,
because of Mierre. Oh, I tell you, Dain, you and he both have caused more upset
this week than I could think of to do in a year.” “I
wish you would tell your story straight and not jump from one thing to
another,” Dain complained. “I do not understand what happened.” “Well,
and while there was all the trouble over the contest and Mierre, you were
discovered missing.” “I
left in plain sight with Lander,” Dain said defensively. “Aye,
so the guards said. But Lander told no one where he was going, nor did you.
Lord Odfrey believed you would not stay with the smith but instead strike out
on your own. And then Lord Renald rode in with news of Nonkind raiders. Lord
Odfrey sent men out searching near and far for you. He was certain you’d be
killed.” “I’ve
been dodging Nonkind all my life,” Dain said with a shrug. “He had no need to
worry.” “Well,
he did, just the same. And so did Sir Terent and Sir Polquin—and all of us.” Dain
frowned, feeling bad. “I did not mean for anyone to worry. I was fine.” “Lord
Renald was angered that men were spared to search. He said everyone was needed
for fighting, even fosters. That’s when Lord Odfrey forbade any of us, from the
prince down to yours truly, to leave the hold.” Uncomfortable,
knowing he’d done wrong to cause them such concern, Dain changed the subject.
“Who won the contest?” “Mierre,
of course.” Dain
hissed through his teeth. He was not surprised, but the idea of that hulking
bully serving Lord Odfrey infuriated him. From now on it would be Mierre who
burnished the chevard’s armor, Mierre who honed and polished his weapons,
Mierre who fed his dogs, Mierre who rode at the chevard’s flank along with Sir
Roye. Dain had wanted that position with all his heart, for he craved Lord
Odfrey’s attention. He wanted to repay the man for his kindness this year by
serving him better than any squire had done before. But instead it would be
Mierre, churlish and lazy, at Lord Odfrey’s side. Before today’s attack, Dain
had always disliked Mierre, but now he hated him as much as he hated the
prince. They were two of a kind, cruel and self-centered. How could Lord Odfrey
stand to have Mierre in his service? “And you, Thum?” Dain asked irritably. “Couldn’t you find a
way to defeat him that day? I would have had the honor go to you.“ “Thank
you, but once I was unhorsed by Mierre’s lance, that finished me.” Thum touched
his face proudly. “That’s how I came by this.” Dain
admired his puffy and discolored eye. “I have never seen a better one. Did it
hurt much?” “No,”
Thum boasted. “Well, not much. But you should have seen it the first night,
swelled out to here. I couldn’t open my eye, and Sulein thought I might lose
it.” “Like
Sir Roye,” Dain said, both revolted and fascinated by the idea. “I’m
glad to have my sight as good as ever,” Thum said, betraying his relief. “It
would be hard to earn my knight’s spurs with only one eye. I had no balance
while it was swelled so, and I kept bumping into things.” “If
you’re going to lose an eye, it should be after you’re knighted and happen
while you’re in a great battle,” Dain told him. “Not in a small contest with
padded weapons.” “Aye,”
Thum agreed fervently. He placed his hand over his heart. Making a fancy bow,
he said in falsetto voice, “And now, dear maiden fair, let me tell you how I
came by my scar. Neither in battle nor in king’s joust, but only by riding full
tilt into my practice opponent’s lance like a dolt and unhorsing myself.” Dain
laughed. “Unhorsed by the quintain.” Thum
laughed with him. “Aye! Mierre is stupid enough to be
a practice dummy.” Dain
puffed out his chest and spun about stiffly in an effort to imitate Mierre, but
it made his arm hurt and he stopped the play with a wince. Thum
sobered abruptly. “But you have taken real injury at his hands. Is it true what
little Hueh says, that both the blackguards fought you at once?” Dain
hesitated, but he saw no reason to deny it. “Aye,” he said grimly. “They did.
Pagans deserve no honorable treatment, I suppose.” “Do
not say that!” Thum said angrily. He scowled. “The cowards. They are both bad
to the heart. The day they leave this hold can’t come too soon for me.” “Leave?”
Dain echoed in puzzlement. “But if Mierre is Lord Odfrey’s squire—” “But
he isn V!” Thum said. His hazel eyes danced with more news. “I
wish you had stayed to see it. The contest ended, with me on the ground and my
mouth full of dirt, and Mierre was declared winner. Sir Terent looked like he’d
eaten sour fruit, and Sir Nynth would not applaud.” Imagining
it, Dain smiled. “What happened? Did Lord Odfrey refuse to have him? That’s
wise, for he—” “Nay!”
Thum said. “Let me tell you. Lord Odfrey had his stone face on—you know how he
looks at times.” “Aye,”
Dain said ruefully. “I know very well.” “He
stood before us with Sir Polquin and Sir Roye flanking him, and he conferred
the offer of squire on Mierre according to the rules of the contest.” Thum
paused and gripped Dain’s arm hard. “Mierre turned him down.” Dain
gasped. “What?” “Aye.
Turned him down with cool hauteur, like Lord Odfrey was dirt to him. It’s plain
he’s learned that manner from the prince, but it did him no credit. Sir
Bosquecel was furious, and Sir Polquin more so. Everyone witnessed the grave
insult to Lord Odfrey, but we could not believe it. Had Mierre refused such an offer
from a sentry-rank knight, I might understand. But no one turns down the chance
to be a chevard’s squire, especially a warrior of such valor and repute as our
Lord Odfrey.” Dain
frowned, angry on Lord Odfrey’s behalf, though relieved as well. Still, it made
no sense. “But why would Mierre refuse? Does he think another knight will offer
him a better position? Where? Can his father provide—” “Rumor
has it. . .” Thum paused dramatically, his hazel eyes dancing. “Promise you
will not spread it, Dain.” “I
am the last person in this hold to know about the matter,” Dain said tartly.
“Where would I spread such news? Speak!” “Well,
the rumor in the guardhouse is that Mierre is hoping to be named Prince
Gavril’s squire.” “That
surprises me not,” Dain said. “No one toadies to Gavril more than he does.” “But
it’s an awful risk.” “Why?
Gavril favors him.” “But
the prince is not yet knighted. He can take no squire until he has his spurs.” “In
a month he’ll have them,” Dain said. “I see no risk if the prince has promised
him—” “But
has he?” Thum asked. Dain
frowned. “Has he not?” “Nothing
has been said officially.” “What
has that to do with anything?” “Dain,
don’t you understand court politics at all?” “No,”
Dain said defensively. “How could I?” “Oh.
When Gavril’s knighted, he is going to be named Heir to the Realm. That means
the nobles acknowledge him as the official successor to the throne.” “I
thought he already was,” Dain said. “Nay.” “He
gives himself enough airs.” “Wait
until he’s knighted,” Thum said darkly. “There’ll be no holding him back then.
But it’s certain that his squire has already been chosen and will be the son of
a due or cardinal, someone of the first rank. Gavril is far too important to be
squired by an uplander of minor lineage.” Dain
thought of Mierre, a young oaf who clearly burned with ambition to better
himself. “There’s been a promise made between them,” he guessed. “And no matter
what the custom may be, Gavril does what he wants.” “Not
in affairs of state. He can’t,” Thum argued. “Just as his marriage has been
planned for him from birth to his cousin Pheresa. There is no official
engagement as yet, for the Heir to the Realm must do his own choosing of a
bride. But by custom it must—or at least should—be
this lady. Everyone at court, especially the king, expects Gavril to ask her.” “I
hope she is a hag and her face sours his breakfast every morning,” Dain said. Thum
laughed. “Mierre is gambling heavily, but I think he will be the loser by
aiming too high.” “So
who is going to be Lord Odfrey’s squire?” Dain asked. The
merriment dimmed from Thum’s eyes and he shook his head. “I know not. It’s
something no one dares ask him, for the chevard’s mood has been dark indeed
this week. Why did you leave the contest grounds, Dain? You were right to be
angry. I would have been too, but you should have stayed out of courtesy.” Dain
stared at his friend, and saw disappointment lurking in Thum’s bruised face. He
understood then that Thum had wanted him to stay and cheer for him. Contrition
filled Dain. He put out his hand. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “You think me
a poor friend.” Thum
gripped his hand. “Nay,” he said loyally. “Not poor, but sometimes hard to
understand.” Dain
sighed. “You must teach me how to do better. My ways are not yours. I do not
mean to off^end you.” “It’s
Lord Odfrey you must not offend,” Thum said. Dain’s
eyes flew wide open. “Oh, gods! The chevard! I should have reported to him long
ago. If he was angry with me before, I have little chance of appeasing him
now.” “Damne,
you will have no appeal,” Thum agreed worriedly. “I beg your pardon for
chattering so long.” Dain
headed for the door, and Thum went with him. “Dain,
you look mortal pale in the face. Are you feeling faint?” “Nay,”
Dain answered, his courage sinking like a lead weight. “Though I wish I could
faint and put off this meeting.” “You
dare not.” “Better
to get it over with.” Swallowing hard, Dain wished he’d never left the hold
now. Even the two gold pieces in his pocket were not worth all this. His own
angry defiance had faded. He understood plainly why Lord Odfrey must be
infuriated with him. And the chevard’s temper was never easy to face. Dain sent
Thum a look of appeal. “Stay with me?” “Aye,”
Thum said like the stalwart friend he was. Of course, since he was not in
disgrace he had little to fear, Dain reminded himself. Together
they headed for Lord Odfrey’s wardroom. Sentry
knights stood on duty outside Lord Odfrey’s door. Servants were walking down
the length of the passageway, lighting torches that drove back the shadows. The
servants cast Dain sharp, speculative looks and whispered among themselves. His
face felt hot. Stiffly, he walked past them, pretending he did not notice. One
of the knights, Sir Blait, held up his hand to stop Dain’s approach. “I’ll
relieve you of your dagger, Dain,” he said gruffly. Dain’s
throat closed up with embarrassment and anger. Beside him, Thum began to murmur
about offense and insult, but Dain elbowed him to be quiet. In
silence, his face stiff and hot, he drew his dagger and handed it over
hilt-first. “Will
you take mine as well, Sir Blait?” Thum asked hotly. Sir
Blait was gray-haired and stooped. Since his knees had begun to stiffen and
ache he’d been demoted to sentry duty. Sour-tempered and gruff, he looked
annoyed by Thum’s remark. He said, “Nay, I have my orders. You know better than
to spout your mouth where it’s not wanted.” Thum’s
face turned red, but Dain did not want his friend to join him in disgrace. “Thum,”
he said, his voice low and firm, “thank you, but perhaps you’d better go to
your supper.” “I
said I’d stay with you and I will.” Dain
shook his head. “This trouble is mine now. Go and eat supper for us both.” Thum
scowled and opened his mouth to protest, then understanding dawned in his eyes.
It was likely that Dain would get no supper tonight, and Thum could gather
enough food to slip to him later. “I will,” Thum said. He touched Dain’s
shoulder briefly as though to give him encouragement, then left. Sir
Blait scowled at Dain and tapped on the door. “He’s here, m’lord,” he called
out. Lord
Odfrey’s voice responded, and Sir Blait pushed open the door. Without going in,
Dain could see the chevard at his desk, which was piled high with dispatch
scrolls, scraps of vellum and parchment, and a heavy book secured with a lock.
One of Lord Odfrey’s dogs lay snoring softly against the base of the massive
wooden desk. The chevard’s boots stood by the empty hearth. The chevard himself
sat in a pool of golden candlelight that cast shadows across the angle of his
cheekbones and the firm jut of his chin. He wore an old-fashioned tunic of dark
gray cloth, and from his shoulders down he blended into the shadows. When he lifted
his gaze to meet Dain’s, his dark eyes looked fathomless. “Enter,”
he said harshly. “I’ve waited long enough.” Dain
gave Lord Odfrey a quick, nervous glance. Squaring his shoulders, he winced
slightly and stepped over the threshold. Sir Blait shut the door behind him,
and Dain felt suddenly short of breath and hemmed in by this small, cluttered
room. It
was very warm. No evening breeze blew through the small window, although Dain
smelled rain on the air. He also caught the faintest whiff of Nonkind on the
chevard’s boots. It unsettled him. Lord
Odfrey went back to his writing. In the silence Dain could hear the faint
scratching of the chevard’s pen across the parchment. Knowing he was being
tested, knowing he must not interrupt, Dain swallowed a sigh of impatience and
wished he dared sit, for his knees were feeling weak and his arm throbbed. His
famished stomach growled while he listened to faraway sounds of lute music and
the clatter in the Hall that accompanied supper. A
tall-backed chair, handsomely carved, faced Lord Odfrey’s desk. It looked
ornate enough for a lord to sit on. Dain dared not touch it. A map lay thrown
across its back. A beautiful thing, the map was colorfully illustrated with
vivid inks of scarlet and indigo and green. Tilting his head, Dain studied the
geography of Mandria, illustrated with splendid meadows, streams where
rainbow-hued fish leaped, and an ornate palace topped by a crown that must
represent Savroix, seat of Man-drian kings. Nold was drawn much smaller, and
bordered by drawings of crossed axes. Many trees were sketched close together
to represent the Dark Forest. Nold’s ore-rich mountains were not drawn on the
map at all, and the four largest dwarf settlements were marked in the wrong
places. Klad was placed north of Nold and was a land Dain knew little about. He
recognized it by the drawings of tents and herds of horned cattle. A small
portrait of a bearded barbarian with small squinty eyes and long braids of
blond hair showed Dain the type of folk who must live there. Jorb had told Dain
about selling a sword to a Kladite many years ago, but the Kladites seldom
ventured beyond their own borders. They were said to eat hardened milk flavored
with blood and to count their wealth by how many cows and wives they owned. Curious
to see Nether, Dain leaned forward to look at the rest of the map. “Where
have you been?” Lord Odfrey demanded. His voice was stern and harsh, his tone
unforgiving. Startled,
Dain jumped and met Lord Odfrey’s dark eyes. They looked almost black with
anger. Dain’s answer tangled in his throat. It all seemed suddenly too long and
difficult to explain. He could not decide where to start or how to say it. “Dain,
I’ll not ask you again.” Thus
warned, Dain took refuge in defiance. He shrugged. “I was seeing the world.” Lord
Odfrey’s fist slammed atop his desk, making a candle jump. “Damne, boy! I’ll
brook none of your flippancy. You’ve been in this hold since chapel let out,
perhaps longer. Why didn’t you report to me at once?” “Did
you think me unaware of your arrival? Sir Terent sent word from the gates
immediately. He should have escorted you straight here himself. No doubt he
thought he could trust you to follow orders. Clearly he was wrong.” Embarrassment
flooded Dain. “I had—” A
knock on the door interrupted him. Lord Renald came tramping in without
ceremony. He still wore his mail and stained surcoat, but had left his helmet
and gauntlets elsewhere. With his brown hair curling almost to his shoulders,
the chevard of Lunt looked young, hardly more than twenty. He wore no marriage
ring on his hand, but a very fine sapphire ring glittered on his thumb. Dain
caught himself mentally appraising its value, then looked away quickly. Lord
Renald stared at Dain with a lift of his brows, but it was to Lord Odfrey that
he spoke: “So here he is.” “Yes,
finally,” Lord Odfrey snapped. There
was no gladness in his voice, no relief, no relenting. Dain frowned, and his
own anger and resentment came surging back. Neither
man, however, was paying Dain any heed. “Forgive
me, Odfrey,” Lord Renald said, frowning. “My man had orders to see him safely
into your hands, but he failed.” “Aye,
that he did,” Lord Odfrey said grimly. “I
have questioned Sir Metain. It seems he thought delivering the boy within your
walls good enough. I’ve dealt with that misconception.” Lord
Odfrey nodded while Dain looked from one to the other, still wondering what
they were talking about. “It is no fault of yours, Renald,” Lord Odfrey said
bleakly. “At least you found him and brought him back.” Frowning,
Dain tried to protest. “But I was on my way home—” “Aye,
I found the young devil. Jaunting along in a mule cart with a Netheran.“ Lord
Renald shot Dain a look of distrust and suspicion. ”What enchantment did he
bear, to be able to pass through the river lands without even a scratch, while
the befouled ran there, killing as they pleased? Had I known, had I suspected
him of being an assassin, I would have—“ “Enough,” Lord Odfrey said, lifting his hand. “Assassin?” Dain said,
unable to keep quiet. “Me? But I am not!” “They’ve
called for him,” Lord Renald said, ignoring Dain’s outburst. “They want an
accounting.” Lord
Odfrey scowled in visible exasperation. “Nonsense. It’s a ridiculous
accusation, and a waste of time. He—” “It must be done, Odfrey. The vote was just cast for trial.” A bleak,
defeated expression entered Lord Odfrey’s face. He rubbed his eyes and pinched
the bridge of his nose a moment as though fatigued. “The fools play into the
prince’s hands,” he murmured. “Morde! I hoped it would not come to this. A
quiet talk here would do as well. Why must he make a huge drama of the matter?” Lord
Renald’s face held no expression, but his eyes were not unkind. They flicked to
Dain’s face, then returned to Lord Odfrey. “Let me take the eld to them. You
need not come.” “Take
me where?” Dain asked suspiciously, feeling the urge to escape. Lord
Odfrey rose to his feet. “Thank you, but no. Dain is my responsibility. I
brought him into the hold last winter. I brought this risk to his highness. I
will see the matter through to its end.” “As
you wish,” Lord Renald said with a slight bow. “Will it damage your standing
with the king?” Lord
Odfrey gestured impatiently. “I cannot be worried with that now.” “Best
you do think of it. It’s unwise to lose the king’s friendship.” “We
are a long way from court.” “A
private messenger from the prince has already been turned back at your gates
and prevented from leaving,” Lord Renald said. “And how will that be
interpreted?” “Damne!”
Lord Odfrey said. “Prince Gavril schemes like a churchman. He has forced this
trial on us and now he tries to bring a higher authority into it. Morde a day,
if his highness wants a trial he’ll have it, but we’ll hold to the law on every
point. The truth of this will be decided by my knights and yours. No one else,
for that is the law.“ “Mandrian
law for an eld?” Lord Renald asked softly. Lord Odfrey’s face was stone. “There
will be no church inquisitor in my Hall.” Dain
stared at them both, his mouth open with alarm. He did not yet understand what
was wrong or how he could be accused of a crime worth trial and possible
inquisitors, but he knew himself to be in dire trouble. “What
has the prince said against me?” he demanded. He thought of this afternoon’s
attack, while Gavril sat and watched, smiling. A cold chill ran through Dain,
and with it came anger, deep and strong. Sir Roye had tried, in his gruff,
hostile way, to warn him that more trouble lay ahead. But Dain hadn’t expected
it to come this fast. “Lord,” he said to Odfrey, “please tell me what I stand
accused of. A drawn weapon in his presence? But I was already fighting when the
prince entered—” “Say
nothing of this to me!” Lord Odfrey snapped. “You will speak to the assembly.” “But
I tell you the truth!” Dain said desperately. “It’s too late to appeal to me
now,” Lord Odfrey said harshly. “You defied me by running away. And now you
have attacked Prince Gavril.” “No!”
Dain said, horrified. In a flash, he finally understood. Gavril’s evil, lying
tongue had twisted everything. “Lord, you must listen to me. It was—” “The
assembly will listen to you,” Lord Odfrey said, cutting him off. “Master your
fear.” “I
did no wrong,” Dain insisted. “Hueh was a witness to what occurred. Sir Roye as
well—” “Dain,
be silent!” Lord Odfrey said. “We cannot settle this now. If you are innocent,
then you must prove that to the knights.” Dain
stopped his explanations, feeling desperation clawing inside his chest. How
could he explain? Who would believe his word above the prince’s? Bitterness twisted
inside him, and in his mind he could hear Thia saying, “Trust not men, Dain. They will always turn and
betray you.” Lord
Renald set his hand gently on Dain’s shoulder. “Better I take him now.” “No,”
Lord Odfrey said in a voice like iron. There was fear in him, and Dain’s sense
of alarm grew. If Lord Odfrey was worried about him, then truly he stood little
chance. Lord
Odfrey shook his head. “Thank you, Renald, but please go and tell them that
I’ll bring him in a few minutes.” The chevard’s gaze swung back to Dain and
narrowed. “He must account to me first.” “Be
not long,” Lord Renald advised him. “The more wine they drink and the longer
they talk, the more trouble can brew.” “Dain’s
delay has already done the most harm,” Lord Odfrey said bleakly. “More will
matter little.” This
remark did not seem to impress Lord Renald. “It will be better if he appears of
his own accord. If they must come for him, it will look black against him
indeed.” He
left with that ominous remark. Dain
frowned at Lord Odfrey. “Who will take my word instead of his?” he asked
without hope. “Even you do not believe in my innocence.” “How
can I when you have defied me so boldly?” Lord Odfrey retorted. “I
was angry.” “Anger
maketh a fool,” Lord Odfrey said as though quoting someone. Dain
flushed hot. For a moment he wanted to shout curses at the chevard. But when he
saw the anguish in Lord Odfrey’s dark eyes, Dain’s throat choked up and he
could not stay angry. He had tried so hard in recent months to gain this man’s
respect. Now he saw how deeply he had disappointed Lord Odfrey. But Lord Odfrey
needed to understand how much he had hurt Dain as well. Swallowing
hard, Dain said, “I wanted to prove myself to you. I wanted to make you proud
of me. When you withdrew me from the contest, I was angry, for I wanted to try,
even if I entered at a disadvantage.” “But
why run away over something so trivial?” Lord Odfrey asked. “It
was not trivial to me.” Lord
Odfrey frowned, and for a long moment there was silence between them. Dain
broke it with a sigh.
“I will never be a knight, will I?” Lord
Odfrey’s brows knotted. “Dain—” “I
am eld. Neither Mandrian nor one of the faithful.” Dain shrugged. “When the knights
let me sit and listen to their tales in the guardhouse, I felt as though I
belonged. When they taught me swordplay, I could forget what I am. But there is
no true acceptance for one such as myself.” “Dain,
I sought to protect you from harm,” Lord Odfrey said, looking upset. “I feared
Mierre would hurt you cruelly on the field, and conceal it as a jousting
injury.” “Strange,”
Dain said, unable to believe him. “Mierre’s dagger wounded me today, and now
that I am accused of a terrible act I did not commit, you believe them, not me.
How does that protect me from harm?” “It
will be the knights who judge you, not I,” Lord Odfrey said. That
answer was meaningless, for Lord Odfrey still refused to take his side. Dain
stared at him, hurt beyond measure. Someone
pounded on the door. “My lord, bid us enter!” With
a start, Lord Odfrey glanced in that direction. “Wait!” he called. Dain
heard an impatient murmur of male voices outside the door, and Sir Blait
growling a response. Fear dried Dain’s mouth. If he could not sway Lord Odfrey,
how could he prove himself to the rest? Would they let Hueh speak on his
behalf? Would the child tell the truth, or lie? It took courage to accuse the
prince publicly of lying. /
shall do it, Dain promised himself grimly. Though they cut out my tongue for it, 1 shall make
them hear how infamous their prince is. The
pounding came again on the door, more insistent this time. Dain
looked at Lord Odfrey in appeal. “Lord, tell me the law I am to be judged by.
If I am to defend myself, I must know how.” Lord
Odfrey flung his ink pot at the wall. It shattered there, blotching the wall
with a huge indigo stain. “Damne! Had you come straight to me, you would have
had no opportunity to attack Gavril. I am certain he provoked you, but why in
Thod’s name were you so foolish?” “Open
your ears to my words,” Dain said. “I did not attack the prince. Not once. Not
in any fashion. He came to watch while Mierre and Kaltienne fought me. Sir Roye
told me I was wrong to have my weapon drawn in his presence, but was I to
sheathe my dagger to avoid offending his highness, and let them stab me?“ Lord
Odfrey closed his eyes as though in pain. He drew in a sharp breath and opened
them again. “You will swear to this?” “Aye,
of course I will swear to it,” Dain said fervently. “Truth
is the only defense you have.” “My
word against Gavril’s.” Dain sighed. “Will Hueh be allowed to speak for me?
Will Sir Roye?” Lord
Odfrey’s eyes were dark with anguish. He hesitated a moment before he said, “I
have sent Sir Roye away. He is delivering a message from me to Geoffen du
Maltie.” Dain
stared in disbelief. Cold chills ran down his arms. “Why?” he whispered. “Thod
help me, to save his life,” Lord Odfrey answered. His face held momentary
despair, then it grew harsh again. ‘The man has been my protector since I won my
spurs of knighthood. I will not let him risk his life by calling the prince a
liar.“ The
coldness in Dain spread. “And Hueh?” he asked. “The
child, by law, is too young to speak.” Dain
shivered, turned away, and went to stand by the window. He stared blindly
outside, his heart pounding heavily. “Then I am doomed.” Lord
Odfrey came up behind him. He touched Dain’s shoulder, but Dain flinched away. “Forgive
me,” Lord Odfrey said quietly. “They are innocents and I cannot let them be
harmed by what has befallen you.” “Of
course,” Dain said bitterly. “As an eld, I am permitted no defense.” “No!”
Lord Odfrey spun him around and glared at him. “Damne, boy! I would rather fall
in battle than lose you. I lost one son. I do not—cannot lose another.” “I am not your son,” Dain said harshly. “No.” Dain
flung up his chin, facing the man. “Would you defend me if I were?” Lord
Odfrey clenched his jaw so hard a muscle leaped there. “In Thod’s name, how can
I? When I became chevard of Thirst, I swore to uphold the law of the land. I
tried to protect you, but you defied me, ran away, consorted with a foreigner,
and have been traveling through Nold at a time when our lands are under
fearsome attack. You defied Sir Terent by refusing to come straight to me. I
could have protected you then, but nay, you fell into the trap set for you. Now
you would accuse me of not defending you. How can I when you have rejected my
every effort to protect you?“ Dain
listened to him and felt his defiance crumble. His eyes stung, and he turned
away, silent and wretched. His mistakes loomed large, and he saw now how wrong
he’d been, how unfair he’d been to blame Lord Odfrey for his problems. His own
independence and defiance had played into Gavril’s hands. “What,
then, can I do?” he asked. “For me to tell the truth will be to accuse the
prince of lying. If I do that, will I break another of your laws?” “Yes.” Dain
swore softly beneath his breath. The trap was even worse than he’d thought.
Gavril had him from every side. “If I run away, for real this time? If I never
return?” Sorrow
creased Lord Odfrey’s scarred face. “You will be wanted for life. You can never
cross Mandrian borders again, for the king will set a price on your head. If I
or any knight here see you, we will be bound by our duty and fealty to seek
your life. I do not want that, Dain. Do you?” “If
I remain here and go through this trial, will I die?” Dain asked bluntly. “I
know not. I hope not,” Lord Odfrey said with a sigh. “But
you cannot promise me.” “Dain,”
Lord Odfrey said, his voice serious indeed, “if you wish to escape Thirst,
there is a way out, a hidden way known only by me. It was shown to me by my
father, and his father before him.” Hope flashed through Dain. He grabbed at the offer like a
drowning man. “Where is it?” “You
will go, then?” Lord Odfrey asked. “What
choice have I?” Lord
Odfrey dropped his gaze and nodded. “Very well. I will show you the way.” The
knights outside pounded on the door again. “My lord! We must have him.
Surrender him to us now!” “A
moment more,” Lord Odfrey called back, and strode across the wardroom to the
fireplace. He pressed a stone, and a small, concealed door opened in the wall.
“Through here. Quickly.” Dain
hurried to it and had started to duck into a cramped, musty passageway draped
with cobwebs and smelling of mice when a suspicion tickled the back of his
neck. He paused, hesitating, and glanced back. Lord
Odfrey scowled at him and gestured for him to go. “Hurry. You have no more
time.” “What
will become of you?” Dain asked. “If I go, it will be known that you allowed me
to escape. What will befall you?” “Do
not worry about me.” But
Dain was thinking of what the chevard had said to Lord Renald. “You said I was
your responsibility. Will you be punished for defying the prince?” “No.” “Tell
me the truth,” Dain said fiercely. “If
you’re going, you must go now,” Lord Odfrey said with equal fierceness. “It is
the only way to save you.” “Will
you stand trial in my place?” Dain asked. Lord
Odfrey said nothing. They stared at each other a long moment in the silence,
then Dain slowly backed out of the escape passage and pressed the stone to
close its door. “Dain!” “No,”
Dain said softly, “I will not run if it means you will be destroyed in my
place.” “I
have a better chance than you.” Dain
shook his head. “You have given me much kindness this year, lord. I will not
serve you ill in repayment.” “In
Thod’s name, you must go!” Dain
turned away from him and resolutely opened the door. He found himself faced by
a delegation of six knights, half Thirst men and half Lunt. His heart was
hammering again, and from behind him he could feel a wave of despair pass
through Lord Odfrey. Dain’s knees felt weak, and he was sore afraid, but he
forced himself to face the men with his head held high and his gaze steady. “Take
me to your assembly,” he said. The
Hall of Thirst Hold stretched long and narrow, with a high vaulted ceiling
spanned by thick wooden beams and hung with Thirst banners of green. The head
of a stag bearing immense, spreading antlers was mounted at one end of the
Hall; the massive head of a black, snarling beyar was at the other. Tapestries
covered the wall on one side of the Hall, while shields interspersed with
chevron-patterned arrangements of swords and rosettes of daggers adorned the
opposite wall. Long trestle tables littered with trenchers, riddled wheels of
cheese, bread crumbs, and platters of picked-over meat bones stretched the
length of the room in a double row, leaving an empty aisle that reached all the
way to the great hearth at the north end. Large enough to roast an ox, the
hearth stood cold and empty this summer’s night. Torches set in iron sconces on
either side of the chimneypiece flamed vivid red, hissing and smoking and
dripping hot pitch. When
Lord Odfrey walked into the Hall, the musicians fell silent and the knights
sitting at the tables stopped their chatter. Pewter tankards of Thirst cider
banged the tables. Benches scraped back, and the knights rose to their feet. The
chevard had put on a dark green cloak over his gray tunic. The torchlight
glittered on his jeweled cloak pin, signet, and marriage ring. Grim-faced, Lord
Odfrey strode along straight-backed, with one hand resting lighting on his
swore hilt. Dain
followed behind him, feeling the weight of every paь of eyes in the Hall, from Prince
Gavril on down to the lowliesi page. Next came the six knights in solemn
procession. The
knights of Thirst were sober, but the men of Lunt were not. Dain smelled the
fermented ale in their cups and on theь breath. He read fierce judgment in their
gaze. Their minds flickered against his: guilty/guilty/guilty/guilty. At
the head table, which was still laden with supper remains Prince Gavril sat
with the priest and Lord Renald. Only Lord Renald had the right to stay seated
in Lord Odfrey’s presence but none of them rose. The
torchlight gleamed on Gavril’s golden hair. He wore an indigo doublet of silk.
His handsome face smirked with triumph, and his slender white hand toyed with
the jeweled hilt of his poniard. Sir
Los stood behind his young master’s chair, looking stolid and bulky. His
expression was stony, his eyes forever watchful. The priest was a short,
swarthy man with a sunburned tonsure and worried, nervous eyes. Wearing his
robes, he looked hot and unhappy. With
his own protector standing behind his chair, Lord Re-nald leaned back,
seemingly at his ease, but his dark eyes held a frown. When Lord Odfrey reached
the table, Lord Renald rose to his feet and bowed. Lord
Odfrey inclined his head stiffly in return. Their exchange of courtesies made
Gavril look haughty and churlish. When the prince continued to sit in Lord
Odfrey’s presence, a faint murmur of disapproval spread across the room. Gavril
seemed to ignore it, but his dark blue eyes flashed with disdain. Glancing to
one side of the Hall, Dain found the worried faces of Thum and Sir Polquin
among the crowd. Sir Polquin scowled at Gavril and Thum looked furious. Lord
Odfrey’s gaze passed over Gavril coldly and sought out his captain-at-arms.
“Who have been chosen judges?” he asked. Sir
Bosquecel, looking stern and official in his mail and sur-coat, came forward.
“The judges will be Lord Renald, his captain-at-arms, and myself.” Dain
blinked worriedly. Lord Renald seemed fairly neutral and open-minded, but Dain
had already heard the man warn Lord Odfrey not to risk offending the king. Dain
did not think Lord Renald would fail to follow his own advice. The second man
Dain knew not at all. Sir Bosquecel had always been kind to Dain in the past,
but now he stood rigid and stalwart before Lord Odfrey and did not glance at
Dain once. Even if Sir Bosquecel took Dain’s side, that left two whose votes
were at best uncertain. Prince
Gavril finally rose to his feet. “A representative of the church should also be
a judge,” he said. The
priest beside him jumped up hastily, looking more nervous than before. “I shall
serve as I am called to serve, my lords,” he said in a thin, breathless voice. Ignoring
the priest entirely, Lord Odfrey looked at Gavril with scant patience. “Such is
not the law.” Gavril
flushed, and for a moment hatred for Lord Odfrey gleamed in his dark blue eyes.
“It is the custom at court to include the church as a courtesy.” “We
are an assembly of warriors, your highness,” Lord Odfrey said in a voice like
stone. “We will follow law here, not lowlander custom.” The
pink flush in Gavril’s face darkened at the rebuke, and some of the knights
laughed. Gavril glared at them. “Very well!” he said a bit shrilly. “Let us
begin.” Sir
Bosquecel looked offended by the prince’s brusque command. Watching, Dain got a
glimmer of an idea. If he could cause Gavril to lose his temper and display to
these men his true personality, then perhaps they might believe what Dain had
to say. It was a thin plan, but all he had. The
ceremony began with the head table being pushed back and Dain placed in front
of it to face the entire Hall. A
herald wearing Thirst livery came forward and cleared his throat. “Lords and
knights,” he announced, “let it be known that the trial of one eld youth, known
as Dain, has now begun. Let truth be spoken by all. Let all hearts be open to
receiving the truth, as we are taught by Tomias, servant of Thod the Almighty.” Someone
pounded his tankard on the table at the rear of the Hall. “Hang ‘im!” the man
shouted drunkenly. “Hang ’im in a river tree an‘ let the keebacks peck out his
eyes!” Lord
Odfrey whirled around. “Seize that man!” he roared. Two Thirst knights strode
down the length of the Hall toward the offender. “Gently,”
Lord Renald said with an apologetic shrug. “Chances are he’s one of mine.” Lord
Odfrey was not listening. His fist was clenched at his side and he fumed,
“Drunkenness in my Hall. I will not have it.” The
knight who was pulled forth to stand on wobbly knees was not a Lunt man,
however, but Thirst. With food and ale spilled down his green surcoat, he let
his head loll a moment before he waved and flashed a drunken grin. It was Sir
Vedrique, assigned to Gavril’s company of guards. Lord
Odfrey looked livid. “Get him out!” he ordered. “Secure him in the guardhouse.” “Aye,
m’lord.” Sir
Vedrique was hustled out, and Lord Odfrey gazed long and hard around the Hall.
“If any other man here is drunk, let him admit it now and leave without
censure. Stay, and if I learn you have voted in this trial with your judgment
impaired, it will be a public flogging.” Two
Thirst knights stepped sheepishly from the crowd, bowed unsteadily to their
chevard, and left. A Lunt man also came forward and bowed to Lord Renald. “I
fear, m’lord,” he said in a slurred voice, “that I am unfit for this occasion.” “You
may go,” Lord Renald told him. Gavril
stepped toward Lord Odfrey. “I am to blame, my lord,” he said lightly. “ ‘Twas
my idea to cheer and reward the men for a hard day’s fighting. I did provide
ale from my private stores, after Sir Bosquecel granted permission.” Lord
Odfrey scowled at his captain-at-arms, who looked deeply troubled. “I
saw no harm, my lord,” he said quietly. “Permission was sought the moment we
rode in, before this other trouble began.” “I
see,” Lord Odfrey said, and let it pass. Dain,
however, drew in a sharp breath and glanced at Gavril. How smug the prince
looked. He must have planned this all in meticulous detail. Why? Dain wondered. What had he ever done to warrant the
prince’s total enmity? Was this retaliation for that long-ago day when they’d
scuffled over the bard crystal? Could Gavril harbor a grudge for something that
trivial? Or did blind hatred stem simply from bigotry and prejudice? Gavril had
gone to great trouble to see him destroyed. The
ceremony continued. A green square of cloth embroidered with Lord Odfrey’s
crest of leaping stag and his bars of rank was brought forth by a trembling
page. He handed the cloth reverently to Sir Bosquecel, who held it up by two
corners and draped it across Lord Odfrey’s sword as it was drawn. Dain
noticed that tonight Lord Odfrey’s weapon was not the usual utilitarian blade
that he wore into battle but instead one longer and very old. It was not
fashioned of magicked steel forged by dwarves but instead of some metal equally
mysteri- ous,
ancient in fact, with a resonance that traveled along Dain senses. He had never
seen such metal before, and he could n get a clear look at it with the cloth
draped across the blade, b he closed his eyes and listened to the hum of it. “/
am Truthseeker,” it said within the hum. Great pow flowed inside the
blade. Long ago, many battles had it fougl Images of blood and death mingled
with war cries in tongu that Dain had never heard before. He shuddered and
opened h eyes as the draped sword was pointed straight at his
heart, th< turned sideways and laid at Dain’s feet. Gold wire was wrappi
around the two-handed hilt and a row of fiery emeralds studdt the straight edge
of the guard. Glittering and gleaming, Trut seeker lay on the floor in
humility, but even the cloth could n mask its greatness. Wide-eyed
with awe, Dain stared at Lord Odfrey, and h entire image of the man changed to
something new. Of wh lineage was this man that he owned a sword made of
god-stee Such ancient weapons were legendary, more myth than fact i these
times. Jorb had sometimes spoken of god-steel wistfull wishing he could touch
some of it, just once, in his lifetime. ] the olden days, dwarves and other
treasure-hunters had sea‘ enged the Field of Skulls in hopes of finding such a
weapc among the fallen. To see a sword of this kind, here and now, o viously
well preserved and handed down from generation generation, so astonished Dain
that he could not remain silen “Truthseeker is—” Lord
Odfrey’s gaze snapped to his in warning. As Da broke off what he’d been about
to blurt out, the chevard said a soft, grim voice, “My ancestral sword is named
aptly. And you are found guilty, it will take your life.” Dain
gulped, but Lord Odfrey was already turning aw from him. Standing alone, Dain
met the eyes of the assemh and told himself that doomed or not he would see the
truth tc tonight, would hold to his honor and show them eld courage. The
six knights who had escorted Dain here from Lo Odfrey’s wardroom now knelt in a
semicircle before him. O by one, each man drew his sword beneath a plain cloth and
h the draped weapon on the floor before him. The three judg
stood facing Dain on his right; Lord Odfrey, Gavril, and Sir L stood facing him
on his left. At
the rear of the Hall some of the wounded knights hobbl in with
assistance. Four other men were carried on wooden boards, with Sulein hovering
in attendance. A loud babble of conversation rose through the Hall, until the
herald raised his hand for silence. “Hear
this!” he said, his voice ringing out so that all could hear. “The eld called
Dain stands accused by Prince Gavril of crimes and foul deeds against his
person. His highness will lay those charges now.” His
face alight with eagerness, Gavril stepped forward and pointed at Dain. “In the
afternoon of this day,” he began with great formality, “this pagan creature did
walk into the common chamber of the fosters and interrupt my conversation with
Mierre and Kaltienne. He did swear at me and give me great insult, then without
provocation he drew his dagger and attacked me, with intent to commit grievous
bodily harm ... or my death.” Dain
stiffened, incensed by so blatant a lie, but he’d been warned not to speak out
of turn. It took all the willpower he had to stay silent, even as hostile
murmurs rose through the Hall. Their emotions beat at him, stronger than ever: guilty/guilty/ guilty/guilty. Clenching
his jaw, he drew his bard crystal from beneath his doublet and clutched the
pendant in his fist. He thought of Thia, his beloved sister, whose pale,
blonde-haired beauty had been like a song in the air. She would not want to see
him here, judged for his life by this assembly of men and bound by their
treachery and lies. He thought of her proud spirit, her courage that had never
faltered, even in her final hours as she lay dying of a Bnen arrow. If
he did not prevail tonight, he would join her spirit in the third world. But he
would not go like a baseborn coward, cringing and pleading for mercy. Dain
stared coldly at Gavril, whose lying tongue had finally fallen silent. Mierre
and then Kaltienne were brought forward to speak their lies. Furious, Dain kept
his shoulders erect and his chin high. Gavril had hated and persecuted him from
the first day because he was an eld; there was no other reason. The prince’s
blind prejudice did him no credit, and someday perhaps these men and others who
followed him would see the truth of his character and follow him no more. When
the accusations ended, silence hung over the Hall. Dain
faced the assembly, refusing to act guilty or let his fea show. He had no
witnesses to contradict the lies Mierre ani Kaltienne had spoken. Truthseeker
lay at his feet. He wishe with all his heart that would spring into the aь guided by the hand
of Olas, god of war and justice, to smit them. But
that was an unworthy wish, Dain told himself. His proh lems were his own, too
small for the gods to concern therr selves with. He had gotten himself into
this by his own action and choices. Foolishly, he had played into Gavril’s evil
hands. The
Hall seemed to grow warmer as someone else spoke i
length. Dain stopped listening and let his mind drift. His an was throbbing
more than ever. He could smell the food not yt
cleared off the tables. His stomach growled and rumbled, and took all his
willpower not to grab some of the table scraps at hi back. Between his wound
and his hunger, he felt faint. Yet h was determined to stand tall and look
brave. Something
pale and indistinct near the ceiling caused th banners to flutter. Trying not
to sway, Dain let his gaze wande upward. He frowned at the shape, which swirled
like mist an was no creature of this world. His
mouth went dry and for an instant he knew fear. But h sensed nothing evil about
it. His eyes closed a moment, fightin off a wave of weakness, and when he
opened them again th mist was forming itself into the likeness of a man such as
Dai had never seen before. He
blinked, unable to believe his eyes, and glanced swiftl around to see if anyone
else noticed this vision. But Lor Odfrey was speaking, and all eyes were
trained on the chevarc Dain found his gaze drawn back to the vision. This
strange was an awesome sight, a handsome man in the prime of lift
broad-shouldered and strong, with a chiseled face too angula to be Mandrian.
There was a look of the eld to his features, al though like Dain his frame was
as large and muscular as an human’s. His breastplate of gold embossed with
symbols c hammer and lightning bolts gleamed as though with a life of it own.
In his right hand this man held a magnificent sword witi a blade that shone
white and magical. His thick black hair fel to his shoulders, held back by a
circlet of delicate gold that onl; enhanced his masculinity. His ice-blue eyes
were eagle-keen They pierced Dain as though they would look deep, to Dain’s
very soul. Unable
to draw a complete breath, Dain felt his knees buckling. He tried to kneel
before this king, but the apparition pointed his sword at him and his deep
voice rang through Dain’s mind, “Kneel not to me, Faldain of Nether.” Dain
gasped. From the corner of his eye he saw Gavril glance at him sharply, but
Dain’s gaze remained rapt on the king. His heart was pounding with suppressed
excitement. Faldain of
Nether. The name ran through his
thoughts. In his mind, Dain replied, “Great One, what would you have me do?” Again
the apparition pointed at Dain with his mighty sword, which glowed now to a
blinding degree, like a tongue of white flame. “Beware!” rang the words in
Dain’s mind. “Danger lurks close. You must not fail.” Dain
frowned, finding this warning hardly useful. He had little chance of prevailing
at this trial, especially the way truth was being mocked tonight. “How
can I win?” he asked the king. “Have mercy, Great One, and show me the way.” “The
way is already known to you. Lose not your courage against your foe.” “But—” “The
danger is not what you think. Beware, Faldain. Pay heed to my warning.” The
apparition vanished, leaving Dain shaken and disoriented. He lifted his hand to
rub the sweat from his brow, and wondered if his own weakness had made him
imagine the vision. Yet
its words still echoed in his mind. Frowning, Dain slowly turned the warning
over and over in his thoughts. Some spirit from the third world had reached
through to warn him of danger other than what he faced right now. The
hair suddenly prickled on the back of his neck. Were Nonkind here, concealed in
the hold, perhaps in the Hall itself? He sensed nothing, yet his sense of
unease grew rapidly. Lord
Odfrey was saying, “I will remind you of how this boy first came to us, starved
and wretched, how he did risk his own life to save that of the huntsman Nocine,
who stands now at the rear of the Hall.” As
he spoke, he pointed at the man. Many of the assemb twisted their heads to
look. Others did not. “Dain
rode into battle unarmed at my back that day,” t’t
chevard continued, his voice hard and measured. “He risked h life to guide us
to the dwarf raiders who had done wrong I Thirst. He risked his life to save
mine.” The
chevard pointed to his scarred face. “Thanks to th boy’s quick actions, I
survived my wound and lived. It w< your wish, knights of Thirst, to make him
a foster. I grant yoi petition and allowed him to stay as one of us, to be
trained arms. It has been our united intention that he one day’t knighted and
serve Thirst in its defense. You know his goc qualities, which are many. But,
yes, he has had his moments < mischief. What boy does not?” A
few of the knights chuckled, but others stayed silen frowning while they
listened. “He
disobeyed me a few days past and went forth in tli smith’s company to help him
buy sword metal from a dwar Since Dain was raised by Jorb maker, it was not ui reasonable of our smith
to ask for his help in securing a goo price.” Behind
Lord Odfrey, Gavril was sighing impatiently an fidgeting. Dain stared hard at
him, wondering where th Nonkind could be and how he could stop the proceedings’t
warn Lord Odfrey. As
though feeling Dain’s stare, the prince glared back unt Dain shifted his gaze
away. “In
leaving the hold without permission, Dain did wrong, Lord Odfrey continued, his
speech apparently endless. ”Bi who among you cannot remember your own boyhood
es capades?“ There
were more chuckles, but Dain hardly noticed that th chevard’s words were
swaying the knights in his favor. H wondered if the chevard had yet answered
the direct accusatioi Gavril had laid. Lord
Odfrey pointed at Dain. “Many of you have work© with Dain, and sought to assist
him in his training. Others o you have supervised him in his chores. Have you
known thi boy to lie? To ever strike someone else in anger? To treat an) one
cruelly or unjustly?” The
chevard paused, holding the assembly with his ster gaze. “The answer to each of
those questions is no. For the months he has lived among us, has he not had
ample opportunity to do harm against myself, against any of you, against even
the prince, had he wished? Why has he chosen to attack his highness now? Did he
attack at all, or did our prince misunderstand boyish high spirits and—” The
stench of something rotted and foul reached Dain’s nostrils. “Stop!” he shouted
loudly. His
interruption silenced Lord Odfrey, who swung around to glare at him. Sir
Bosquecel scowled. Others glared at Dain for daring to interrupt. “You
have not leave to speak, Dain,” Sir Bosquecel said in annoyance. “Await your
turn.” Dain
paid them no heed. He looked in all directions, seeking the Nonkind that was
among them. Released at last, as though the creature could no longer contain
itself, a foul stench so overwhelmed Dain’s senses that he wanted to retch.
Swallowing, he looked but saw nothing wrong. Everyone
was staring at him, and Gavril said, “He is surely mad, or pretending to be so.
It is a thin defense.” Even
now, Gavril refused to accept any beliefs or abilities save those that he
valued. Despising him for a fool, Dain said, “There is a Nonkind here.” Sir
Bosquecel and Lord Odfrey swung around in alarm. Sir Polquin swore aloud and
reached for his sword hilt. “Where,
Dain?” Lord Odfrey asked. “In Thod’s name, what is it? Where is it?” Dain
could not tell him, for as yet his eyes could not penetrate the creature’s
spell of concealment. He shook his head in frustration. The stink intensified,
worse than ever, causing the hair to stand up on the back of Dain’s neck. It
had to be close now, must be coming closer, yet he saw no movement save that of
a knight, striding forward from the back of the Hall. Dain eyed him narrowly,
unsure. He was unwilling to make the wrong accusation. “Dain!”
Lord Odfrey said sharply. He
drew a sharp breath and glanced at the chevard. “I cannot see it, but it’s here
in the Hall. It must be a shapeshifter.” “Gods!”
Sir Bosquecel said, half-drawing his sword. Sir
Los stepped in front of Gavril with his hand on his own weapon. Gavril
laughed scornfully. “Will you believe more of his nonsense? Will you let his
spells and lies cloud your minds?” He held up his gold Circle and aimed it at
Dain. “This pagan has no—” One
of the wounded men jumped to his feet, knocking Sulein aside, and suddenly
shimmered and changed shape, becoming a shadowy, snake-headed creature with
black, leathery wings. It screamed, and the sound pierced Dain’s ears. Several
knights cried out, clapping their hands to their ears and sinking to their
knees. The shapeshifter flew through the air so swiftly it was only a blur, and
came straight for the front of the Hall. It aimed itself at Gavril, who was
standing dumbstruck with horror. The prince raised his Circle, but Sir Los
pushed Gavril back and swung his sword at the shapeshifter’s belly. His
sword glanced off the creature’s hide without effect, and the shapeshifter sank
its poisonous fangs into Sir Los’s throat. Sir Los screamed, a high, keening
sound of death, and his sword fell from his slack fingers as the creature
pulled his body up into the air and drained the life from it. With
shouts, Sir Polquin and Sir Terent rushed at it, striking to no avail. Through
the Hall, there was shouting and pandemonium. Lord Odfrey and Lord Renald
bellowed orders that went unheeded in the confusion. The
priest held up his brass Circle, but retreated, wailing a prayer aloud. Someone
rushed to grab one of the torches and whirled it about so that the flames
popped and guttered. Gavril rushed foolishly at the shapeshifter, brandishing
his Circle and his jeweled dagger, and Lord Odfrey flung himself at the prince
to save him. One of the shapeshifter’s leathery wings struck Lord Odfrey and
knocked him sprawling to the floor. He lay still, unconscious or perhaps dead,
his forehead bloody. Sir
Bosquecel grabbed Lord Odfrey’s shoulders and dragged him out of the thing’s
reach just as it struck viciously. Its fangs snapped on thin air, and it
screamed in rage. “Back,
demon of the second world!” Gavril shouted. The
shapeshifter turned on the prince, who flung his dagger at it. The pretty
little weapon bounced harmlessly off the creature and clattered on the floor. Gavril
brandished his Circle. “By my faith, I order you back!” The
shapeshifter shimmered and suddenly took man-form again It laughed, a horrible
guttural sound that could never have been made by a mortal throat, then shifted
back into its true form. It flapped its wings and snapped at Gavnl, unfazed by
his religious talisman.
. Gavril’s
face had turned white. His hand trembled as it held the Circle even higher.
“This is a holy object. It must drive you back!” The
shapeshifter lunged again, snapping its poisonous jaws right in Gavril’s face. He
dropped his Circle and cringed back, flinging up his hands to ward off the
creature. “No! No!” he screamed in terror. Dain was the closest to the prince.
Without thinking, he whirled around and grabbed a handful of salt from the
seasoning bowl on the table, then stooped and picked up Truthseeker. The
embroidered cloth fell away from the carved blade as Dain swung it up and
around. The
shapeshifter seized the prince in its talons and reared back its snakelike head
to strike. Running to them, Dain flung his handful of salt at the monster and
shouted, “By salt and holy steel do I banish you from this world!” The
salt stung the hide of the shapeshifter, which shrieked in agony and began to
flail like something crazed. One of its wing tips nearly knocked Dain off his
feet. Ducking, he regained his balance, but the shapeshifter’s talons were
tearing long gashes in Gavril’s legs. The prince screamed. Gripping Truthseeker
with both hands, Dain lifted the heavy sword. In that instant, he felt its
power come to life, channeling up his wrists and arms all the way to his heart.
He heard himself say words that he did not understand, yet they made the very
air thunder. His bard crystal pendant sang a note so piercing and pure that
Dain’s ears rang. He swung with all his
might. Bursting
into flames as it whistled through the air, the god-steel blade sliced through
the shapeshifter’s thin neck and set it afire. In seconds, the creature’s
entire body was ablaze. It screamed and shrieked, writhing in its death throes,
then exploded into ashes that rained down upon Dain. In
the sudden silence, the air reeked of smoke and Nonkind stench. Truthseeker’s
blade flashed fire a moment longer, its power shaking Dain’s teeth. He could
feel his whole body glowing and his hair standing on end. Then the flames went
out, the light in dimmed, its power
faded away, and it became once more just a weapon of surpassing beauty. Dain
stood there, feeling weightless and light-headed. He could hear a roaring
sound, muted and far away. He saw individual faces that he recognized in flickers
of clarity. Thum, his freckles standing out boldly in his white face. Sir
Bosquecel kneeling over Lord Odfrey, who was holding his head and trying to sit
up. Sir Polquin, also on his knees, his lips moving but no sound coming forth.
And Gavril, lying on the floor near Dain, torn and bloody. The prince was
crying with pain and the aftermath of his fear, but he was alive. Dain
drew a deep breath, feeling neither relief nor regret, feeling nothing at all.
He had saved the life of his enemy; that was all he knew. Suddenly
Truthseeker was too heavy to hold. He struggled with it, knowing he must not
insult the blade by dropping it on the floor. A
hand gripped Dain’s wrist, then gently took the hilt from his bloody grasp. He
realized dimly that his wound must have opened. He could feel blood running
down his arm inside his sleeve. The
hand belonged to Sir Terent. His ruddy face entered the diminishing circle of
Dain’s vision and knotted itself with concern. “Dain,” he said. “Release .” Dain
thought he had, but when he looked down, his fingers were still gripped,
knuckle-white, around the gold-wire hilt. Frowning, he forced his fingers to
loosen. Sir
Terent reverently took away and handed it
to someone that Dain could not see. The absence of Truthseeker’s weight was a
relief. Now Dain had nothing left to anchor him. He felt himself floating
farther and farther away. “Dain,” Sir Terent said. “Dain, lad!” But the mists
closed around Dain, and he was gone. When
he next opened his eyes, the sun was shining through a narrow window straight
onto his face. Squinting, Dain tried to lift his head, but it weighed too much. The
pungent smell of herbs wafted beneath his nostrils, making him sneeze. Sulein
bent over him, smiling through his dark, frizzy beard. “Ah, he is with us
again. This is good.” Dain
glanced around, but he did not recognize the small, whitewashed room. Its
shuttered windows were open to admit the fragrant summer air. He lay in a tall
bed with heavy posts. Sulein retreated, and Lord Odfrey appeared at Dain’s
bedside. The
chevard looked solemn and troubled. A bruise marred his brow, but otherwise he
looked hale. He seated himself gently on the side of the bed and stared down at
Dain. “How
are you, lad?” he asked. His voice was gruff, and he cleared it loudly. Dain
considered the question. “Hungry.” Amusement lit the chevard’s dark eyes. His
smiled warmed his face and took the sternness away. Turning his head, he asked
Sulein to convey a message to the kitchen, then he swung his gaze back to Dain. “What,”
he asked mildly, “shall I do with you?” Memory was returning to Dain fast. He
frowned, feeling his worries return. “The trial,” he said. “Will it finish
today?” “The
trial is over,” Lord Odfrey said. “No fault was found in you.” Dain
grinned with relief. “No fault?” “None. You saved Prince Gavril’s life in front of us all, or don’t you
remember?” Dain
frowned, the memories bobbing and turning in his mind. “Has his wound been
salted and cleansed in the proper way?” “Aye.
And after all Gavril has done against you, I marvel that you care.” Dain’s
frown deepened to a scowl. Lord Odfrey mistook his concern. He cared nothing
for the prince. But if darkness should possess Gavril through tainted wounds,
everyone in the hold would be at risk. “How
the shapeshifter got in past our safeguards, the priest still has not explained
to my satisfaction,” Lord Odfrey said. “These are troubled times we face, now
that Nether no longer stands against them with us. Had you not been there,
Dain, many would have surely died, the prince among them.” Dain looked away,
and could not feel entirely glad. “Gavril is not wholly bad-hearted,” Lord
Odfrey said softly as though reading Dain’s mind. “Just spoiled and ill-taught
by ambitious men. He was mistaken in his belief that you meant him harm.” Dain
sat bolt upright. “I never attacked him!” he said furiously. “There was no
mistake about—” “Dain,”
Lord Odfrey said, gripping his hand. “Hush. The matter is closed. You are
cleared of all accusation.” “But
he—he—” “It
is over,” Lord Odfrey said in a tone that permitted no further discussion. “Be
glad.” Dain
sighed and nodded, knowing he must do as Lord Odfrey advised. Perhaps Gavril
had learned a lesson from this experience. Perhaps now he would be more
tolerant of beliefs that were not his own. Perhaps he might even see some good
use in having an eld around. “Was
he much hurt?” Dain asked. “His
leg will pain him for a while, but he will mend,” Lord Odfrey said. “By the
king’s birthday, he’ll be well enough to do his part in his knighting
ceremonies.” The
king’s tournament. Dain nodded, feeling fresh disappointment wash through him.
He would see none of the festivities at Savroix, but at least he was alive and
not to be punished. He could accept that as enough. “Lord,”
he said, gazing up at Lord Odfrey, “there is something I would ask you.” “Yes?” “It’s
about Thum.” “Yes?” “You
have no squire,” Dain said, frowning as he sought the best way to phrase his
request, “and Thum would be good in the job.” “Would
he?” Lord Odfrey said. His voice was neutral. His dark eyes held no expression
at all. This
was not promising. Dain frowned and tried to think of a way to persuade him.
“Thum is smart, lord, and loyal. He never loses things. He works hard. He would
make you a worthy squire.” “Thank
you for your advice, even if it is unasked for,” Lord Odfrey said. “I have
already placed him in that post.” Dain’s
gaze flashed up, and he smiled, although to his surprise his spirits suddenly
felt lower than before. So Thum would be the one foster permitted to go to
Savroix later this summer. Well, he deserved the trip. He was a hard worker and
a good friend. But somewhere beneath Dain’s gladness lay an empty feeling that
he could not drive away. “Now
enough about Thum,” Lord Odfrey said. “The knights ended your trial, but there
are other matters between you and me that are not settled.” Dain
swallowed hard, expecting lecture and punishment. “Yes, lord?” Lord
Odfrey stared at him, and with a sudden frown stood up and began to pace back
and forth. “Damne,” he muttered. “I came here prepared to reprimand you for
leaving the hold without permission, for not governing your damnable temper as
you should, for causing me more worry than a man should have to endure. Never
do that to me again.” Dain
stared at him in surprise. “No, lord,” he said after a moment. “I won’t.” “You
must learn discipline. An order is an order. If you like or dislike it, that
does not matter. If your commander cannot count on you to obey him in all
areas, then he cannot depend on you in battle either.” Dain
hung his head. “Am I to be flogged?” “Thod knows you deserve it,” Lord Odfrey said grimly, then paused next
to Dain and ruffled his hair with a gentle hand. “But, no. I think you’ve been
through enough.” Relief
filled Dain, and a great weight came off his shoulders. He glanced up and saw
Lord Odfrey smiling at him. Dain smiled back, glad that they were friends
again. “Impossible
brat,” Lord Odfrey said with feeling. “How did you learn to swing a sword like
that? How did you make it flash fire hot enough to destroy a Nonkind?” “But
it will always do so against them,” Dain said in surprise. “Truthseeker is—” “It
is not made of magicked metal!” Lord Odfrey said too quickly, as though he
perhaps feared that it really was. “I do not own a weapon that is forbidden by
Writ.” “No,
Truthseeker is not made of magicked metal,” Dain said, wondering how Lord
Odfrey could own such a holy weapon and not know what he had. The
chevard released his breath. “Thod be thanked. I thought you were going to tell
me of some power I didn’t—” “It’s made of god-steel.” Lord Odfrey stared at him, looking
dumbfounded. “What?” “Aye.
God-steel. Have you heard of it? It’s rare and very old. The metal is so hard
that dwarves who have found pieces of it in places of ancient battles cannot
hammer it. They cannot soften it with fire. They cannot work it at all, despite
their skill. Some ancestor of yours must have fought in the great battles of
long ago.” Lord
Odfrey sank down on the edge of the bed again, as though his legs would not
hold him. “Gods’ mercy,” he whispered at last. “I cannot believe it.” “The
power was not mine,” Dain said, surprised that Lord Odfrey had even thought so.
“Everything lay inside .” Lord Odfrey
ran his hand across his face. “My father was afraid to touch it. I have never
carried it in battle.” “That’s
where it belongs,” Dain said. “That’s what it sings for.” The
chevard turned his gaze on Dain and frowned. “I have heard it said that the
dwarves believe metal sings. You can hear it, can’t you?” Dain’s
smile faded. He met Lord Odfrey’s eyes and knew he must tell the truth. “Aye. I
felt it speak to me. It told me its name, and I believed it right to use it.
Or, in doing so, have I broken another law?” “No,
lad,” Lord Odfrey said kindly. “You used it for the greatest good possible,
that of saving someone’s life.” “It
is an incredible weapon,” Dain said, remembering the feel of it. “I would see
you use it—” “Nay!”
Lord Odfrey said hastily, standing up again. “My father warned me as his father
did warn him, that it is too strong for mere men to handle. And if you are
right about its being made from god-steel, then my father spoke truth. Mortals
have no business with such weapons. But you swung it as though it had been made
for your hand.” “Desperation, lord, that is all.” “False
modesty does not become you,” Lord Odfrey said. “By the laws of our church, men
cannot own god-steel.” Dain
looked up in alarm. “You will not destroy it, lord! You will not fling it in
the river.” “I
should,” Lord Odfrey said, but shook his head. “Nay, I will not. My father told
me it was won as a prize in battle by our ancestor.” “It
was a very great reward,” Dain said. “Your ancestor must have fought bravely
indeed.” Lord
Odfrey nodded and blinked in amazement. “God-steel,” he said softly, looking
secretly pleased. “Well, well. Let this be our secret, Dain, kept between you
and me. Let the others think you have powers against the Nonkind if they wish.” “But
I do not—” “It
does no harm. Otherwise, I must explain
, and I would rather not.” “Of
course,” Dain agreed quickly. “I would not wish to cause you trouble.” Lord
Odfrey smiled. “Enough about Truthseeker. You saved the prince’s life. And the
king has already sent his gratitude.” He
reached into his pocket and drew forth a rolled-up parchment, which he handed
to Dain. “How
did it come so quickly?” Dain asked, puzzled. “When this all happened only last
night, how did he know?” Lord
Odfrey chuckled. “Be at ease, lad. There’s no magic here. You’ve been asleep
five days since you swooned. I thought you might never awaken, but Sulein
assured me you would recover.” “Five
days!” “Aye.
No wonder you’re hungry, eh?” Dain
nodded. He unrolled the parchment slowly, having trouble because his wounded
arm was so heavily bandaged he could barely move it. Lord Odfrey held one side
of the parchment while Dain unrolled the rest. There
were many seals and flourishing signatures, but it was all written in the same
small characters that Sulein had showed him earlier, characters that Dain could
not read. He
frowned in shame,‘realizing what it meant to be ignorant. “I cannot read this,
lord,” he admitted. “No,
your education has far too many gaps. That is why I wanted you to begin lessons
with Sulein. If you are to live in Mandria, you must be able to read and write
our language.” “Sir
Terent cannot read,” Dain argued, staring at the crown drawn above one
signature. He guessed that it must say “Ver-ence,” and felt awed. “Sir Polquin
cannot either.” “I
would have you do better in life than a middle-rank knight,” Lord Odfrey said
firmly. “To be an educated man, Dain, is to have as much treasure as a
storehouse of gold pieces.“ Dain
sighed, thinking of endless days cooped up with Sulein in his dark tower room,
studying letters when he would rather be riding and practicing swordplay. He
nodded at the paper before him. “What does this say, lord?” “It
says, Dain, that I have permission to take you before King Verence and request
that you be made my ward and heir.” Dain
blinked, and at first he did not believe he had heard correctly. He met Lord
Odfrey’s dark eyes in wonder and disbelief, and felt amazed past words. “What?”
he gasped. Lord
Odfrey’s face held a mixture of hope and longing. “Does my petition please
you?” he asked, and his voice was vulnerable. “Please
me?” Dain echoed. “Oh, yes!” Lord
Odfrey’s whole face lit up, and he held out his hand. Dain gripped it firmly,
his throat suddenly too choked to speak. “Ah,
Dain, it will be good to have a son again. Since you came to Thirst, you have
lightened the sorrow in my heart. I have watched you, hoping to see you prosper
and develop. Many times these past months my heart longed to speak to you about
this.” “I
didn’t know,” Dain said softly. “No,
it has been something for me to work out alone. That night of the trial, when
you refused to flee the hold because I would have to stand accused in your
place, I knew that you were as true as ash wood. And I believed then that you
might perhaps hold some fondness for me as well, as a son has for a father.” Dain
opened his mouth, but his emotions were too tangled for him to speak. Lord
Odfrey frowned and gazed into the distance. “You see, Dain, while you have
lived here, you have acted at times like a wild spirit caged. I feared you
would decide to leave us at any time. I dared not let myself become too fond of
you, or start thinking of you as the son I needed to replace my poor Hilard. I
didn’t want to be hurt again. And then you did leave.” “Lord—” “No,
let me say this. I have nearly lost you twice now. Perhaps I have been too
strict with you, as I was with Hilard. Had you been more sure of your place
here, you would not have misunderstood me that day of the contest.“ Dain
was astonished to hear Lord Odfrey apologizing to him. “Lord, don’t! It is I
who must ask your pardon for—” Lord
Odfrey met his gaze, and Dain’s sentence faltered to a halt. “Would it please
you to stay at Thirst, to one day hold it after me as chevard?” “Think
on it,” Lord Odfrey said as though afraid that Dain would refuse. “I have told
you too much too fast. You need not answer me now.” Dain
struggled to swallow the lump in his throat, wanting to give his answer, but
too overwhelmed to find the words he needed. Lord
Odfrey stood staring down at Dain. “If you agree, the king is willing to hear
my petition. This paper almost guarantees that he will grant it.” Dain
frowned. “Lord, you do me great honor. But will you not suffer by naming an eld
into your family?” Lord
Odfrey shook his head. “I think not. Indeed, I care not. Mine is an old family,
well established in honest service. Court politics have never interested me.
Besides, the king does not hold the same views as his son, although I hope your
bravery has changed Prince Gavril’s opinions on many things. King Verence
remembers the old days, and old alliances.” Dain
thought of his vision the night of the trial, of the black-haired king who had
appeared to warn him and who had called him “Faldain of the Nether.” The
missing prince of that troubled realm. He shivered, afraid to think Sulein’s
guess might be right. Dain thought back to the night he had dreamed himself
drowning in water and a girl had summoned him forth to her bidding. Had she not
also called him Faldain? He
frowned, wondering now if he should not tell Lord Odfrey of these things and
ask his advice. But seeing the hope and hesitation tangled up in Lord Odfrey’s
face, Dain could not bring himself to speak of it. He had no proof, and in
himself he was not sure. It seemed too great and wondrous an identity to wish
for. And if he made such a claim for himself, he might lose Lord Odfrey’s offer
altogether. No—Jorb, who was always practical, had taught Dain to always take
what was sure, never what might be. Dain
looked up at the man whom he so admired, whom he’d wished could really be his
father, and who had now extended that tremendous honor to him. He
smiled shyly. “Lord, I would be honored past all I can say to—to be your ward.” Lord
Odfrey let out his breath explosively and grinned. “Truly?” “Aye.” They
gripped hands again, and tears of happiness misted Lord Odfrey’s eyes. Dain
could hardly meet his gaze, for Lord Odfrey shone with such pride and affection
that he felt dazzled. “My
son,” Lord Odfrey said softly, and his voice shook with emotion. Dain
thought of the home and family he’d lost less than a year past. Now he’d gained
both again—not the same ones, of course, but perhaps almost as good.
Perhaps—except for Thia—better. He
drew a deep breath of happiness and looked up at Lord Odfrey. “My father.” ====================== Notes: Scanned
by JASC If you
correct any minor errors, please change the version number below (and in the
file name) to a slightly higher one e.g. from .9 to .95 or if major revisions,
to v. 1.0/2.0 etc.. Current
e-book version is .9 (most formatting errors have been corrected; a few
OCR are sprinkled throughout the text.) Comments,
Questions, Requests (no promises): [email protected] DO
NOT READ THIS BOOK OF YOU DO NOT OWN/POSSES THE PHYSICAL COPY. THAT IS STEALING
FROM THE AUTHOR. -------------------------------------------- Book
Information: Genre: High
Fantasy Author:
Deborah Chester Name: The
Sword Series:
The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice, book 1 ======================
Part One
The
dogs warned Tobeszijian that something was wrong. It
was only The
king’s dogs, tall slender beasts with white curly hair feathering thickly on
their long legs, ran ahead. Cresting a rise, they lifted their slim muzzles and
barked excitedly. The king and his lord protector rode right behind them. They
parted to dodge a stand of snow-laden fir trees, and plunged down the slope
toward a thicket of briars and choked undergrowth. Tobeszijian’s gaze swept the
snow ahead of him, noting the scuffed tracks—not fresh—and the nibbled tips of
branches. Deer had come this way, all right, but not as recently as Count
Mradvior had led him to believe. Clamped
between his strong thighs, his black stallion stretched its muscular neck and
fought the bit, trying to outrun the dogs, who were bounding gracefully over
the snowdrifts, baying now with a sharp, shrill unfamiliar note. Tobeszijian
reined back, forcing the excited stallion to slow. Half
of the hunting party came into sight behind him, shouting encouragement to the
dogs; the rest galloped in from his left. Ahead
of him, the dogs reached the thicket, snapping and growling, then one of them
yelped sharply and sprang back. Blood stained her white coat. “That’s
no hind!” Kuliestka shouted. Tobeszijian
felt a surge of excitement. Since rising at dawn, he’d been eager to course the
deer that Mradvior and Surov had claimed was out here. He’d dressed swiftly,
eaten light, and kept his horse at a ground-eating canter right behind the
dogs. “Nay,” he said. “I’ll wager my spurs it’s a stag that’s gouged the bitch
like that.” Another
dog yelped and dodged, the snarling and snapping taking a vicious quality
unusual when they cornered a deer. Tobeszijian frowned, but could see nothing
in the thicket except a violent shaking of the branches and brambles. “Thod
take the creature!” Prince Kuliestka said. “Will it stand here or will it run?” An
arrow skimmed Tobeszijian’s left arm just above the elbow, ripping his cloak
and sliding harmlessly off his chain mail. It nicked the shoulder of his horse,
which reared, screaming. Fighting
to keep control of his animal and furious at who- ever
had shot so carelessly, Tobeszijian tried to look to see who was shooting, but
his glance took in only a confused blur of snow and trees, rapid movement as
the hunting party galloped closer, and a series of rapid jolts as his horse
bucked. From the thicket, something suddenly exploded forth, racing away black
and swift, with the dogs in rapid pursuit. Tobeszijian
spurred his stallion, who galloped after them. Blood was still streaming from
the horse’s shoulder, splattering back across Tobeszijian’s gauntlets and thigh.
He put his anger aside, knowing he would deal with the matter later, and bent
low over the stallion’s whipping mane, urging him on faster. In
minutes, he grew certain they chased no stag. The creature was larger, fully as
big as a danselk, but too swift. Now and then Tobeszijian caught glimpses of
it, too fleeting to tell what it was, except that it was black, the color of no
stag that he knew, nay, and no danselk either. They
were rapidly leaving the gentle rolling country behind for steeper hills and
sharp little ravines where half-frozen streams plunged. The forest grew much
denser here, in some places impassable. It was hopeless trying to keep the rest
of the hunting party in sight. Tobeszijian focused on his quarry. He was
curious about it now and fevered from the thrill of the chase it was giving
him. By Thod, he thought joyously, this was good hunting. He
stayed low in the saddle, his stallion flashing through trees and under
low-hanging branches far too fast and wildly for safety. The dogs streaked
ahead of him, almost but not quite able to catch their quarry. He realized he
had left Kuliestka behind, and wondered how that could be. His lord protector’s
horse must have stumbled or blown its wind from the furious pace. The sounds of
the others crashing and shouting behind him grew fainter, heading in a
different direction. The other dogs must have scented another deer. Tobeszijian
cared not. His own dogs were running easily, their pink tongues lolling. His
horse was strong and not yet tired. If necessary Tobeszijian could keep up this
chase for another hour, surely long enough for the quarry to tire and begin to
slow. He
lost sight of it and reined up sharply, listening to his breath panting in his
throat. The dogs were running in silence now, and for an instant he heard
nothing except the snorts of his horse as it champed the bit. His saddle
creaked beneath him, and he stood up in the stirrups, shielding his eyes from
the sting of snowflakes as he peered ahead. He
had stopped halfway down a steep hill. A ridge rose sharply before him,
blanketed almost entirely with snow-dusted trees. If the dogs lost their quarry
in this tight country, he would not find it again. Even
as the thought crossed his mind, the creature bounded into sight in a small
clearing halfway up the rise before him. It paused there, holding its head
high, puffing white from its nostrils. It was a stag, brown with a white throat
and belly, antlers spreading a full twelve points. The
dogs came into sight at the bottom of the hill, yelping and casting for the
creature’s trail along the bank of a narrow, ice-scrimmed stream. Calm, even
noble, the stag gazed across the valley at Tobeszijian. He reached for his horn
to call the dogs back onto the trail, but confusion suddenly swirled in his
mind and he never blew it. Was
this another deer? He’d been chasing something black, not brown. He’d seen no
flash of white from its flag and hindquarters. Had the dogs confused two
trails? From
far away to his left came the low blat of the huntsman’s horn, startling
Tobeszijian. He hadn’t realized he’d gone so far east. Or maybe he’d lost his
direction entirely in this rough country. It was easy enough to do with the sun
hidden behind such dark snow clouds. The
dogs suddenly found the trail and leaped the stream. They went streaking up the
hill, glimpsed here and there through the dark green of the firs and spruces.
The stag remained motionless, except for flicking one ear in the dogs’
direction. It seemed unworried by their approach. Tobeszijian
told himself to spur his horse forward and catch up. This was a fine stag
indeed. What did it matter if the dogs had lost whatever he’d been after? He
felt a shiver brush the back of his shoulders beneath his clothing, like icy
fingernails scraping there. An unexplainable but powerful reluctance to go
farther seized him. That
hillside, he felt certain, held his death. Tobeszijian
had never been able to part the veils of seeing and gaze into the second world,
or even the third, despite his being half eldin. It was said his father’s human
blood ran too strong in his veins, blinding him from having the sight. He’d
never cared much if he lacked the eldin gifts, until now when he found himself
wishing violently for the ability to see what had become of his mysterious
quarry. A
second shiver touched him, and he felt a dark, malevolent presence, unseen and
unsensed even by his horse, which was tugging at the bridle and pawing with a
forefoot. Danger
lurked behind Tobeszijian as well. Remembering the close call with that arrow,
he leaned forward and touched the wound on his stallion’s neck. It had stopped
bleeding. The cut was shallow and would cause no harm to the animal, but had
the angle been different, had the arrow gone into his armpit instead of
glancing off his elbow ... A
chill swept through Tobeszijian, and his nostrils flared in a mixture of anger
and alarm. There had been too many near misses and almost accidents already
during this hunting expedition, enough to make any sane man cautious. But
he could not sit here all day if he was to bring down this stag. His horse
pawed again, rested now, and the stag’s ears pricked toward the dogs, which
were nearly upon it. Again the stag glanced at Tobeszijian, as if to say, Why don’t you come?
He let his horse trot forward down the rest of the slope, then canter across
the stream, kicking up water and ice around him. He could still see the stag,
standing motionless amidst the trees. Tobeszijian believed it was waiting for
him, tempting him. By now, the dogs had reached it, and were yelping in
excitement, but their barks suddenly changed to that shrill, frenzied noise
they’d made earlier. It
was the sound of fear, Tobeszijian realized. He saw the stag whirl around. It
charged forward with its antlers, then sprang aside and went bounding through a
stand of thick pines. As it did, the air around it seemed to shimmer. The pines
themselves rippled, and Tobeszijian glimpsed something black and sleek instead
of the flash of white he should have seen off the animal’s hindquarters. A
smell rolled down the hill to his nostrils, a thick decayed smell of carrion
left to ripen. Shapeshifter. Fear
burst in his chest, and he reined so hard he made his horse rear up.
Tobeszijian’s head nearly cracked against an overhead tree limb, but he paid no
attention. He was hauling back on the reins, yanking cruelly at his horse’s
mouth before finally succeeding in pulling the animal around. Feeling breath- less
and choked, he spurred it hard, and the horse plunged back across the stream.
For an instant he could still hear the excited barking of his dogs, those brave
handsome creatures coursing tirelessly after their prey. Regret flashed through
him, and he reached for his horn to call them off. But
then his hand dropped from the horn hanging on the front of his saddle. The
dogs had the creature’s scent well in their nostrils and they were close enough
now to course it by sight. They would not turn back no matter how much he
called. Tobeszijian
fled in the opposite direction with his heart pounding too fast and his breath
tangled in his lungs. There was little enough in this world that he feared, but
no one but a mad fool took on a shapeshifter alone in a deserted wood. After
a few minutes he realized he was bent low in the saddle, shaking all over,
mindlessly urging his laboring horse yet faster. Coming to his senses, he
reined up, making his horse stumble. He nearly pitched forward out of the
saddle, and had to grab the pommel hard to hang on. Together,
horse and rider paused there in a small hollow next to a fallen log overgrown
with ivy now burnished red and gold by the autumn frosts. Tobeszijian willed
his pounding heart to slow down, willed his mind to start thinking. He
was drenched and shivering with clammy, miserable sweat beneath his clothing
and mail. Wiping his face with an unsteady hand, he realized he was alone out
here. The members of his hunting party were well to the west of his current
position. He could hear them, but they were too far away. His lord protector
was either among them, or separately searching for him, or dead of an arrow in
his back. Frowning,
Tobeszijian pushed that last thought away. The afternoon was well advanced by
now. The gloomy skies were much darker than before. Nightfall would come early
tonight. Nightfall
with a shapeshifter in the forest. A
keeback burst from a nearby tree with a loud flurry of its wings, making him
start violently, and flew away, calling kee-kee-kee. Tobeszijian
believed the shapeshifter had been leading him into a certain trap. How far
would he have chased it, galloping to his death like a mindless fool, before it
turned and attacked him? Or led him to an ambush of soultakers? He
shivered again, drawing his cloak tighter around him. His
horse stood with its head low and sides heaving, blowing hard through its
nostrils. Steam rose into the air off its shoulders. The
arrow, he understood now, had been intended to spring him into the chase.
Everyone knew how much Tobeszijian loved hunting, how obsessed he could become,
especially when he escaped court and Grov and fled into the snowy wilderness up
north to the World’s Rim. There, mountains stood as a barrier to the ice-coated
Every
autumn Tobeszijian allowed himself this one excursion for pleasure, taking
himself far from the cares and intrigues of politics, the day-to-day management
of his kingdom. Summers were for war against Gant and sometimes Klad. Winters
were for remaining denned up by the fire, clothed in wool and heavy furs against
the bitter cold, plotting strategies while the harsh weather raged outside.
Spring was for taking his lady wife out into the forests, officially to hunt
with her dainty falcon, but in reality to let her visit her people in privacy
away from the disapproving stares of his subjects and the churchmen. But autumn
was for hunting; autumn he saved for himself. Gladly
he abandoned the mundane duties of his office for two months of glorious play,
hunting and camping in the wilds with his most stalwart knights and whatever
courtiers were in favor. It was a way of clearing his mind and restoring
himself. He had gone forth every year since taking the throne, telling himself
that his enemies could not wreak too much havoc in his absence. His
fear had left him now. Reaching out, Tobeszijian scooped a handful of snow off
a pine branch and rubbed his face with it. The snow was dry and powdery,
burning his skin with its cold. He ate some of it and tossed the rest away. He
felt hollow and a little embarrassed by his extreme reaction. Still, he knew
himself to be no coward. It was not foolish, but prudent indeed, to flee one of
the Nonkind. Frowning,
he put the other incidents of this trip together, piecing them into place the
way Princess Thiatereika might solve one of her puzzles. The
first incident had been with the white beyar. He
always started his hunting trips by traveling far to the north in search of the
fabled white beyars of Omarya Fjord. Sighting
a white beyar was considered a very good omen. To capture one was rare indeed,
and he had set his heart on someday having white beyar fur draped across his
winter throne. Every year, he always came home without it. But
this time, he had actually sighted one—a huge male with intelligent black eyes.
The animal’s throat was banded in dark gray, and he stood on an ice floe
bobbing on the surface of the fjord, staring right back at Tobeszijian as
though in recognition. Holding
his bow undrawn, Tobeszijian had found himself transfixed, unable to breathe. A
voice tugged at his mind, and he could almost hear the words who/who/who/who. “Look
at him,” Prince Kuliestka said, breathing the words in Tobeszijian’s ear.
“Magnificent devil! He’s not afraid of us.” “He’s
waiting,” Tobeszijian said in sudden understanding. “Waiting for his rider.” Kuliestka’s
hand tightened on Tobeszijian’s shoulder. “Shoot him now. It’s a clear shot,
perfect.” But
Tobeszijian did not move, did not draw. The beyar was still staring right at
him, as though he knew everything they thought and said. A cold shiver ran down
Tobeszijian’s spine. He glanced around, at the steep snowy slopes of the
hillside that ran straight down into the water. Tall pines, spruce, and firs
grew in heavy thickets, snow bending their branches almost to the ground. The
eld rider could be anywhere, close by or a league away. Tobeszijian had not
sensed his presence, but then he had been killing game all day. The smell of
blood hung thick in his nostrils, and the proximity of his human companions was
smothering his senses. A
short distance away, angled up the bank from Tobeszijian and kneeling behind a
fallen log, Count Mradvior nocked his bow and aimed it right at the king, who
was in the line of fire between him and the beyar. The count rose as though to
shoot over the head of the king, and Tobeszijian sensed rather than saw him.
Anger flooded his mind. He stood up, turning in one fluid motion, and hurled
his bow like a spinning scythe at Mradvior. The
heavy bow hit the count, knocking him over and spoiling his aim. His hastily
released arrow flashed in a short, high arc, coming down harmlessly into the
water. “He
is not your game!” Tobeszijian said angrily. Mradvior
stood up, floundering in the deep, powdery snow, and swore long and loud. His
voice echoed up the hillside, bouncing between sky and water. Keebacks flew
from the tree-tops, making their plaintive kee-kee-kee
sound. Mradvior
glared at Tobeszijian. “I was trying to pin him for your majesty. I was trying
to help your majesty get the perfect shot.” Tobeszijian
was not appeased. He needed no help in shooting his game, but that was hardly
the point. Mradvior was always trying to step in where he was not needed,
helping where no help was wanted, offering assistance that was in the way,
hastening to perform tasks of service such as plucking a freshly filled wine
cup from the serving boy’s hand and bringing it to Tobeszijian himself. New to
court and far too ambitious, Mradvior seemed to think he had to work hard to
win favor, when that was the surest way to lose it. Tobeszijian had regretted
bringing him on this hunting trip from the first day. And now he was certain he
had made a mistake. “Surely
our noble companions have informed you by now that I need no help in making my
shots,” Tobeszijian said furiously. “I am not enfeebled. My eyesight is not
gone.” “No,
your majesty,” Mradvior said, beginning to turn red as everyone stared at him.
“Forgive me, your majesty. I was only trying to help.” “Couldn’t
you see the beyar is an eld-mount?” Tobeszijian said in disgust. Mradvior
looked puzzled. “I—I—” “They
are never to be killed.” Disgusted, Tobeszijian turned away from him. Of
course, the ice floe was now empty. Prince Kuliestka, holding his helmet in his lap so that the
fading sunlight spangled red highlights in his golden hair, still crouched on
the bank, staring intently at the fjord. It was getting late now in the day,
and mist was forming over the water, obscuring the ice floe and curling in
among the trees on the bank. “He
dove off the moment you moved,” Kuliestka said without turning his head. His
keen eyes, wrinkled with squint lines at the corners, swept the mist and water
again before glancing up at his king. “Fast, for such a big one. No splash of
water. I knew he’d go and I kept my eyes on him every second, but he was gone
from sight in a blink.” “The
legends say they can swim underwater for many minutes,” Tobeszijian said,
feeling disappointment encompass him now. He’d wanted to watch the beyar, to
communicate with him. If he’d had time to share his thoughts, perhaps the
beyar’s rider would have returned and made greeting. It was rare to communicate
with the eldin this far north. Tobeszijian sighed. “He is long gone by now.” Now,
that memory faded as a scream from the throat of nothing human rose into the
twilight air and echoed over the hills. Shivering under his cloak, Tobeszijian
patted his tired horse, scraping off the lather foaming on his neck. At the
time, he had been caught up in the wonder of having seen a white beyar that
close, that clearly. He had realized he could never shoot one of the
magnificent animals, for they were not meant to be trophies on display in the
palace. That day, the hunting party had ridden on and pursued other creatures.
But now, chilled and worried, Tobeszijian considered the incident in a new
light and asked himself if Count Mradvior had been aiming at the beyar or at
himself. And
what of the night a drunken Count Surov had stumbled into the fire while
Tobeszijian was standing close to it with his back turned, talking to some of
the younger members of the party? Surov had tipped over a huge cauldron of
boiling stew. Only the quick intervention of Prince Kuliestka had saved the
king from being seriously burned. Young Fluryk had been splashed in the face,
and he would be scarred for life. In
the morning, a humbled Surov had apologized on his knees before the king, who
had pardoned him kindly. Surov had promised not to let himself get drunk again,
and he had kept that promise. Only now, thinking about the matter with a mind
full of suspicion, did Tobeszijian realize Surov had not been drunk a single
evening prior to the incident. Nor was Surov ever one to lose control of
himself. He was a dour, somber man, more a companion to the king’s half-brother
than to Tobeszijian himself. But he had asked to come on this year’s hunting
trip, and proved himself to be a competent hunter, although he seemed to take
little enjoyment from the sport. Then
there had been the boar, which had exploded from a thicket without warning,
squealing and attacking savagely. The horses had panicked, bucking and rearing
away. Leaning over to grab one of his hunting spears, Tobeszijian had been
rammed from the side by another man’s horse and nearly knocked from the saddle
right into the path of the charging boar. Prince Kuliestka had spurred his own
frightened mount between Tobeszijian and the boar, managing to stab the creature
in the neck. By then Tobeszijian had dropped out of the saddle, which was
slipping dangerously around his horse’s belly. With his horse running backward
away from him, he managed to draw a spear from the saddle quiver and turned to
stab the boar in one eye just as it reached him. The boar squealed horribly and
fell over at his feet with a final kick of death. Tobeszijian
wondered who had knocked him off his horse. Was it an unavoidable jostling in
the confusion of out-of-con-trol horses, or yet another attempt on his life?
Tobeszijian realized he could explain away each incident, dismiss them all if
he chose. Had there only been one or two, he would have. But there had been too
many. And after today, when he’d come so close to falling into a terrible trap,
he no longer wanted to dismiss any suspicion. The
scream came again, a long, wailing shriek that made the hair on the back of his
neck stand up inside his mail coif. He felt a fresh surge of fear, but
controlled it this time. He knew the shapeshifter now realized it had lost him.
Would it come back for him? His
mouth felt dry, and he swallowed, resisting the temptation to gallop blindly
away. He had to use his wits now and not fall into another trap. Who
among his thirty or so hunting companions could he trust? He realized that
Prince Kuliestka was the only one he could be absolutely sure of. And his lord
protector was missing. Mouthing
an oath, Tobeszijian steeled himself and took his time about finding his bearings.
He had lost his dogs and his party, but he himself was not lost. He
kicked his horse forward, heading back toward camp at a cautious trot. He had
to conserve his horse’s strength now. If he broke the animal’s wind he would be
alone and on foot when darkness fell. That would surely be the end of him. He
rode for a grim hour, keeping his wits and senses sharp. The snow had stopped
falling, but the air was heavy with damp and bitterly cold. It was growing
steadily darker, making the forest close in around him. With the hills and
ravines and thickets any man could easily have become lost. But Tobeszijian’s
eldin blood gave him a sense of direction superior to any human’s. He followed
his instincts and knew himself close now to camp. That’s
when he heard the sound of hoofbeats and the jin-gJing harnesses of several
riders. In the gloom and snowy mist, he could barely see more than a few feet
ahead of him. He
stopped his horse and backed the reluctant stallion beneath a fir whose
branches were bent low under their burden of snow. Dismounting, he held the
animal’s nostrils to keep it from whinnying at the other horses. They rode past
at a weary walk, close enough for him to recognize Nuryveviza, Varstok, Surov,
and Mradvior. “We’ll
be at camp in a few minutes,” Varstok was saying. His voice was gruff, hoarse
with cold, and unmistakable. A huge beyar of a man, he wore a black fur cloak
lined with white wool and layers of sheepskin padding beneath his plate armor
for warmth. He looked like a mountain being carried by a horse. “What do we
tell them? What do we say?” “What
we know,” Mradvior said, sounding short-tempered. “The king chased a stag from
sight. We lost him. We have called and searched, but he is not yet found.” “Kuliestka
will make us search all night,” Surov grumbled. “The
lord protector is missing too,” Mradvior said. Someone
laughed, and Tobeszijian’s fingers tightened too hard on his horse’s nose. It
flung up its head, almost pulling free of his hold, and one of the riders
glanced back. “Did
you hear something?” Mradvior
clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t jump at shadows, my friend. Let us find
fire and wine to warm us.” They
vanished into the gloom, and Tobeszijian stood there in snow up to his knees,
shivering and cursing beneath his breath. He
knew now he could not return to camp. Not alone, with no one to witness what
had happened except a handful of frightened servants. They could be killed or
bullied. Mradvior and his friends had said enough to confirm Tobeszijian’s
suspicions. His five-year reign had been a difficult one from the start.
Following in the footsteps of his father, Runtha, had not been easy, and he’d
made mistakes at first. The
worst one had been to believe his half-brother, Muncel, would ever accept him
as king. He’d
tried to make peace with Muncel, had awarded him a rich holding in southern
Nether near the Mandrian border, but Muncel was not appeased. Every day he
listened to the steady drip of poison that was his mother’s voice, whispering
in his ear. He listened to the churchmen who were opposed to Tobeszijian
because of his eldin blood. When Tobeszijian took an eldin wife as queen,
following in the tradition of his father, the church had raised violent
objections. Tobeszijian ignored them, and had made himself more enemies as a
result. There were plenty who said that Muncel, fully human, should be king—
never mind that Muncel was a vain, petty, small-minded, conniving cheat who
could barely wield a sword and did not understand the concept of honor. Tobeszijian
had the sudden, overwhelming urge to be home in front of a fire, supplied with
a brimming wine cup, his boots off, watching his small children trying to climb
inside the boots and toppling over with peals of laughter. It
was his children who had surely goaded his enemies into such desperate
measures. First had come Thiatereika, so delicate and beautiful, like her
mother. She was four now, straight-backed and clear-eyed, her eldin blood
stamped strongly on her features even without her distinctive blue eyes and
pointed ears. Two winters past had come Faldain, named for an eldin king, in
defiance of Tobeszijian’s critics. Little Faldain with his black hair and
chubby cheeks and eyes a pale gray. Eldin eyes that frightened his nurses, who
murmured he would put a spell on them. Faldain could point at a supplicant
cringing before the throne and yell, “Liar!” and be proven correct in his
accusation. Faldain, gone missing, only to be found sleeping in the midst of
the king’s pack of tall, slender dogs, his chubby arms cradled around the neck
of Shaiya, the pack leader who would let no one but the king touch her without
biting. Faldain, who this summer had stood up in his cradle and loosed a shriek
of temper that blew out all the candles in the room. And who a few minutes
later had laughed, igniting them all again. Prince
Faldain, heir to the throne of Nether, was three-quarters eldin. Unlike his
father Tobeszijian, who looked human and rarely exhibited any gifts of eld, the
child was clearly nonhuman. His face might be sweet and chubby, but already the
pronounced cheekbones and pointed chin were showing. His eerie gray eyes were
tilted at the corners and saw into the minds of men and animals alike. The
people feared him, and rumors said that Muncel had vowed the boy would never
supplant him as king. Tobeszijian
had kept his concerns to himself. Five years of uneasy rule had taught him to
conceal his reasons and motives whenever possible, to give away little, to
confide never. He had decided to take the boy with him in public as much as
possible once Faldain grew a bit older, for he wanted the people to see the boy
and grow used to him. Already he had started negotiations with the people of
eld, asking for a tutor who could train the boy in private to govern his
special gifts. But
the rumors kept spreading that Faldain was of the evil, that the eldin were
hardly better than the Nonkind of Gant. Religious factions in Grov, Lolta,
Trebek, and other towns of Nether wanted complete separation between humans and
eldin, saying they didn’t belong together and never had. That
was false, of course. Tobeszijian knew the ancient histories, of how the folk
of eld had lived in Nether first, all the way back to the time of the War of
the Kingdoms, and how, following that fearsome time when the gods had battled
and slain each other, humans had crept from the They
were thriving now, driven by greed and the ambitions of men. If
they have grown so bold that they would take my life, what have they done to my
family? Tobeszijian asked himself. He
mounted quickly and left his hiding place, ducking beneath the low branches,
which unloaded snow down the back of his cloak. The horse turned toward camp,
its ears pricked forward now, but Tobeszijian swung around, spurring the animal
when it fought him, and headed to the road and home. His
enemies would not catch him unawares again. Tobeszijian’s
horse stumbled over something in the near darkness. Although it snorted and
shied away, the animal was too tired to bolt. Tobeszijian brought him swiftly
under control and turned around to squint through the gloom at whatever lay on
the ground. He
could see only a motionless man-sized shadow. His nostrils caught the scent of
fresh blood. His
heart seemed to stop. No, he thought. No. The
horse would go no closer. Dismounting, Tobeszijian tied the reins to a branch
and drew his dagger. Cautiously he approached the prone corpse, keeping himself
alert in case this was another trap. The
snow was well trampled here. His shoulder brushed a broken pine bough,
dangling, and he could just make out dark patches on the snow. Bending, he
scooped up a patch and sniffed it. Blood on the snow. There
had been a fight here. His
senses told him that the dead man was Prince Kuliestka. Grief pierced
Tobeszijian, but he slammed a door on all his emotions and knelt beside his
friend. Kuliestka
had not gone easily. His sword was still clutched in his hand. Three arrows
protruded from his back. Touching
the fletchings, Tobeszijian scowled. “Cowards,” he muttered aloud. Gently,
although it did not matter now, he gripped Kuli-estka’s shoulders and rolled
him over on his side. The heavy smell of blood rose up, and Tobeszijian could
see it pooled black beneath his friend’s body. There was another smell,
something foul and decayed. Tobeszijian’s nostrils flared, and he slid around
on his knees to stare into the surrounding gloom. Breathing
hard through his mouth, Tobeszijian stripped off his gloves and touched
Kuliestka’s face. His friend’s skin was cold and hard. The heavy ring on
Tobeszijian’s forefinger glowed suddenly in warning, and he snatched his hand
back from Kuliestka’s flesh. Curling
his fingers into a fist, he tried to breathe through his mouth, wanting none of
the rank smell to enter his lungs. The
light coming from the ring grew brighter. He lifted his hand, feeling himself
sweating lightly now beneath his clothes. The pale, clear light shone down upon
Kuliestka’s corpse, showing the bloody mess where his eyes had been torn out
and the huge rents that had been sliced through his chain mail as if it were
parchment. The bulge of his intestines showed, and his left hand was missing.
Swallowing hard, Tobeszijian averted his gaze. A large paw print showed clearly
in the snow nearby, and Tobeszijian lowered his hand unsteadily, not wanting to
see any more. A
hurlhound had killed Kuliestka. Grief
submerged Tobeszijian momentarily, but at the same time his thoughts were
swirling in a tangle of new suspicions. A hurlhound had attacked Kuliestka, and
a shapeshifter had nearly led Tobeszijian to his doom. Mercy of Thod, what had
unleashed the Nonkind here in the depths of Nether, where none of them should
be? On the shared border between Gant and Nether, yes, there was always
trouble, but these creatures should not have been able to come so far without
detection. Unless
someone was opening Nether to them, opening forbidden doorways between the
first and second worlds, and tampering with the spellcraft that protected the
boundaries. “No,”
he whispered in horror, and drew back from Kuliestka’s corpse. Was
Muncel the one? Tobeszijian did not want to believe that his half-brother would
turn to such allies in an effort to gain the throne. But to tell himself that
Muncel did not harbor excessive hatred and ambition was to be naive. Of late,
it seemed that Muncel was a seething mass of rage and resentment. Tobeszijian
had been warned to watch his half-brother and stand guard against treachery. Until
now, Tobeszijian had discounted such warnings, certain that someday with
patience he could find a way to make peace with his half-brother. Now,
with Kuliestka lying dead before him and the echo of Mradvior’s ugly laugh
still in his mind, Tobeszijian finally believed the rumors and suspicions. Evil
men consorting with evil Nonkind had infiltrated his court and his circle of
friends. Today, they had meant to see him die. Yet
Mradvior was no controller of demons; Tobeszijian’s senses would have warned
him of that. One of the Believers had to be nearby, had perhaps joined the
hunting party today in disguise. Tobeszijian’s
thoughts spun rapidly. His emotions were too chaotic for him to think clearly. But
he knew he could not tarry here. It was almost fully dark, and these woods were
not safe. He had to get home, and he had to hurry. He
pulled on his gloves, concealing the strong light that still shone from his
ring. Thinking of it, he paused a moment in temptation. The
Ring of Solder had been passed down from father to son in a long line of kings.
It, along with the Chalice of Eternal Life, had been awarded to mankind by the
gods at the Dawning. Forged by the gods, and imbued with their power, the Ring
and the Chalice together held the spiritual center of Nether and served as its
twin guardians against the darkness. The Ring of Solder alone had the power to
transport its wearer from the first world into the second or third. It crossed
boundaries of distance and time in the space between heartbeats. He could use
it now, and be home just that fast. Tobeszijian
drew a deep breath and reached out his mind, calling, Nereisse/Nereisse/Nereisse/Nereisse. It
was too far. He could not hear her—but something had heard him. He
felt a sudden connection, a sudden, sucking darkness that focused on him.
Gasping, Tobeszijian closed his mind and stumbled back from his friend’s
corpse. The evil was close by, too close, perhaps even next to him. Swallowing
hard, Tobeszijian watched Kuliestka’s corpse intently to see if it moved. He
would know then if a soultaker had consumed what the hurlhound had left. Behind
him, his horse whinnied nervously, and Tobeszijian jumped. His heart was
thudding in his chest. He was a warrior, trained in battle, seasoned by war. He
had fought the Nonkind before, but never without his magicked armor, his
darsteed, and a spell of blessing humming through his sword. Go,
a voice said in his mind. Tobeszijian
whirled around, his sword Mirengard drawn and in his fist without thought. He
stared at the forest surrounding him in the darkness. He listened with all his
senses, but no further warning came. All he heard was the creaking of the trees
in the cold wind and the faint rushing gurgle of a nearby stream. Running
water. He hesitated, then sprang to Kuliestka’s corpse. Swiftly he wrested free of Kuliestka’s frozen fingers, determined
to return it to the prince’s family. He pulled the arrows from his friend’s
back and rolled Kuliestka up inside his yellow cloak. Taking one end of the
garment, he dragged the corpse through the trees and undergrowth, gritting his
teeth and hearing every tiny sound as though magnified a thousand times. The
air of menace and evil grew increasingly thick about him, pouring through the
silent trees of the forest. A terrible stench rose from poor Kuliestka’s body,
warning him of what was coming, of what was trying to seize the flesh and bone
of his friend’s corpse. Tobeszijian
knew he was playing with fire. At any moment the prince might stir, might reach
out for him from the folds of this bloody cloak, might turn his sightless face
to Tobeszijian’s and speak dreadful spell words that would freeze Tobeszijian
in his tracks, render him unable to move while the hurlhound came back to tear
him to pieces and the soultaker claimed his spirit for eternal damnation. The
Ring of Solder was now pure fire encircling his finger inside his glove. He
gritted his teeth and pulled faster, staggering and stumbling backward through
the snow. He knew he owed his dear friend this final chance of release.
Kuliestka’s soul might be gone into the darkness, or perhaps a piece of it
remained tethered still to this mangled body. Either way, Tobeszijian intended
to spare the prince’s body from becoming a plaything for the Nonkind, to be
possessed and used for evil. Tobeszijian
realized he was weeping and saying aloud passages of Writ. He stumbled over a
fallen log and fell backward, falling into a snowdrift and tumbling down the
bank almost into the stream. The shock of his arm falling into the icy water
brought him back to himself. He jerked his arm out of the water, slinging
droplets everywhere, and flexed his hand swiftly. He was tempted to strip off
the wet glove, for he knew it would soon freeze hard and immobilize his hand,
but from the corner of his eye he saw Kuliestka’s wrapped body move. His
mouth went dry. Tobeszijian slung his hand, flinging droplets of water across
the corpse. It flinched, and Tobeszijian took an involuntary step back. He
wanted to run, but he knew there was yet a moment of time. Not giving himself
the chance to think, he finished dragging the corpse the rest of the way down
the bank. He could feel it struggling feebly in his grip, the legs moving
sluggishly. Part
of him wanted to call this a miracle and say Kuliestka was still alive. The
rest of him knew better. “Thod
protect me with all thy strength,” he prayed, and heaved the body into the
stream. It
splashed water across his boots, and the corpse bobbed a moment. A thin,
ghastly shriek ripped through his mind, and Tobeszijian clapped his hands to
his ears, turning away and stumbling to his knees. “Forgive
me,” he said through gritted teeth while the shrill keening went on and on
inside his head. “Forgive me, my old friend, for bringing you to this.” Finally
the horrible sound faded from his mind. Gasping, his face wet with tears,
Tobeszijian straightened in time to see Kuliestka’s body bobbing away
downstream. By morning it would be encased in ice, floating far from here. As
long as it stayed in running water, the Nonkind could not possess it, could not
use it. All winter, Kuliestka would lie in his coffin of ice, and perhaps, if
the gods smiled fortune on him, by spring he would be deep in the Sea of Vvord,
his bones safe for all eternity. Shivering,
Tobeszijian lifted his hand in farewell, then scrambled up the bank and went
hurrying back through the woods to his horse. As he climbed into the saddle, he
could still feel the warmth of the Ring inside his glove, drying it from the
inside out. Again, he felt the urgency of too little time. He
could use the Ring and be home in seconds. But
fear or prudence stayed him from such a desperate course. He had never used the
Ring. He knew a wearer could use it only thrice in a lifetime. His father
before him had never used it. Tobeszijian hesitated, and told himself he was
not desperate yet. Worried, yes, but he could reach Grov in a matter of hours,
riding cross-country rather than by road. If no one came after him, if none of
the Nonkind took his trail, he could make it before dawn. He
clenched his fist, feeling torn, then made his decision. The
Ring was to be used for the protection of the Chalice. It had not been given
lightly into his keeping, and it was not to be used for personal reasons. Grimly,
Tobeszijian swung his horse’s head around and spurred it hard. He had a throne
to save, and a friend to avenge. By
Thod’s hammer and the vengeance of Olas and Vlyk, he would do both. Shortly
before dawn, he reined up his weary horse on a hilltop overlooking the valley
where Grov spread itself along the banks of the Velga River. He felt
saddle-galled and frozen to the bone. Ice crystals had frozen themselves to his
eyebrows and eyelashes. All night, he had wished himself capable of growing a
beard to warm his face from the merciless cold, but his eldin blood prevented
that. Swathed in his cloak, he had ridden with few pauses, using his eldin
sense of direction as he never had before. Here
and there, he had come across ancient markers carved in the trunks of long-dead
trees. It was the old eldin road to Grov, long since forgotten and abandoned,
save by those with the blood of eld. It had brought him here faster than he’d
dared to hope. At
the last crossroads, he’d hesitated, debating whether to ride to Prince
Spirin’s hold and call for all his liege holders to raise their armies in his
support. Riding back to Grov alone might simply put him inside another trap. But
what would he tell Prince Spirin? That he’d nearly been killed? That the
Nonkind were hunting in the forest? That Prince Kuliestka had been murdered?
That he feared his half-brother was behind a plot to depose him? He
had no proof, nothing tangible except his lord protector’s sword, and that said
only that Prince Kuliestka was dead. Tobeszijian knew a king had to be strong.
He could not show up wild, bedraggled, and alone and command the respect of a
harsh warrior like Spirin. No, his only hope was to do the unexpected, and get
to Grov quickly. Now,
the city spread before him, quiet and sleeping still in the gray pearly light
before daybreak. On one side of the Velga sprawled the city, with its wooden
houses, gilded church spires, and multistoried trade halls. The round expanse
of the fur market stood at the city’s center. Barges colored vividly in reds,
blues, greens, and purples were moored along the river docks, bobbing empty or
resting low and heavy in the water. The Velga had not yet frozen, but in the
depths of winter it would grow still, and solid, and silent. Then the merchants
would travel on it by horse-drawn sleigh, dragging logs and furs to market. On
the opposite side of the Velga stood the palace within its vast walls, high and
grim on the sheer rock bluff overlooking the river. The mighty fortress had
held for three centuries, proud and unfallen. He squinted through the mist and
gloom at the walls, hearing the faint stamp and call of the sentries patrolling
the top in their chain mail and long, fur-lined tunics striped in the burgundy
and gold colors of their king. With thick, curved mustaches and tall hats of
black beyar fur, the palace guards were fierce fighters and intensely loyal to
their king. Or
were they? On
the horizon the sky grew steadily lighter. He could see the tallest tower,
where the royal banners should have been waving, but weren’t. He
squinted, his eyes burning from sleeplessness and fatigue. Where was the
queen’s banner? Where was the blue-green flag of Nether with its field of white
stripes, the crimson banner with the gold circle signifying the church’s
sovereignty of the spirit, the fluttering ribbons of various colors denoting
the knights who were in residence at court? Nothing
flew from the poles, not even a tatter of ribbon. He saw no curls of smoke rising
above the rooftops. He listened, knowing the bells should start ringing soon,
but all lay quiet, as though an enchantment had brushed away the very life from
the place. His
heart froze inside him. For a moment he could not breathe. Were they gone? Were
they dead? He
could not believe it. Did not want to believe such infamy could happen in his
kingdom, in his own palace. But
he was here in the woods, frozen to the marrow, and skulking about like a
refugee instead of the king. He had no baggage, no servants, no guards, no
attendants, no courtiers, no crown, and only the torn and dirty clothes on his
back. His lord protector was dead. He had ridden away from here more than six
weeks ago, in blithe high spirits, shoving aside his lady wife’s concerns and
fears, telling himself that Muncel’s arrival in
Grov shortly before his departure signified nothing, ignoring the dark looks
and the dour sermon of Cardinal Pernal’s mass, which was supposed to have been
a blessing of the hunt. “Give
the hunters strength, great Thod,” the cardinal had intoned while the incense
smoke rose and curled on either side of him. “Let them strike hard and take
life swiftly, that all may be made new.” Considered
now, after the brutal events of yesterday, those words took on new
significance. Tobeszijian
sighed and rubbed the ice from his face. Brooding about betrayals and intrigues
served him no good now. If Nereisse was not here, if she’d fled or been taken
prisoner, then his coming here alone was a mistake. He needed an army at his
back. Nereisse! he called with his mind, seeking her. A
tiny, nameless feeling came to him, so faint and weak he almost did not
perceive it. His head lifted. He tried to still his rage and worry in
order to listen. At
last he heard her calling back, Come/come/come/come. She
was in trouble. She was hurt. She was afraid. He
could sense all of it in that faint plea for help. His rage and grief exploded
inside his chest. Without further hesitation, he spurred his horse forward,
galloping down the long, treeless slope of what served the town as common
pastureland. Sheep, clotted together in dirty wool, sprang up with bleats of
alarm as he thundered past, his horse’s hooves throwing up clods of dirt and
ice. A shepherd lad, muffled to the eyes in rags and dirty sheepskin, stumbled
out of his hut and stared openmouthed as Tobeszijian swept past. There
was no way inside the fortress save one, not even for the king. Tobeszijian
reined up at the massive gates of wood as thick as the walls themselves. They
were reinforced with straps of iron. The hinges were as long as his forearms,
their pins as thick as his wrists. It took five men and a winch to pull the
gates open every morning. Trumpet fanfare always marked the ritual, timed just
as the sun broke above the horizon. He
was early, and the guards had not yet assembled. The gates, scarred and
splintered, some of their green and black paint peeling, stood shut, dwarfing
him where he circled his restless horse. It
was not seemly for a king to have to sit at his own gates, shouting for
someone’s attention. Tobeszijian had always come home with heralds riding ahead
of him to give notice. The gates were always wide open, with guards assembled
on either side at attention and horns being blown in the crisp fanfare of
greeting and announcement while he and his riders trotted inside. Had
all been normal, he would have ridden home with his hunting party in a few
days, his friends windburned and invigorated, their laughter and chatter loud.
In their wake would have come the pack animals, laden with game: huge danselk
carcasses dragging massive antlers, rows of white ermine tied up by their hind
feet, snow-hares with long ears dangling, an enormous black beyar as tall as a
grown man with shaggy fur and a set of long claws that could tear the
intestines from a horse’s belly in one swipe, boar frozen stiff, their tusks
protruding long and yellow from the sides of their mouths, and silky-furred
lyng cats with their white bellies and coats of distinctive gray and black
swirls much prized for hats and muffs by ladies of the court. Instead,
nothing was normal. Nothing was as it should be. He sat shivering in his
saddle, locked out and unnoticed. Frustration filled him, but he curbed it as
he did his horse. No doubt the stallion wanted his stall and a ration of grain
as much as the king wanted his bed and a trencher of steaming breakfast. If the
sentries recognized him not, or chose not to, he would never get inside. He
had never felt so helpless, but he wasn’t going to reveal his worry. After a
few minutes, when no one looked over the battlements and saw him, he unstrapped
his hunting horn and blew it. Heads
appeared atop the crenellations at once. “You there, begone!” shouted a gruff
voice. “Hold,
fool,” said someone else. “It’s a messenger in the king’s colors.” They
didn’t know who he was. Fury burned the edges of Tobeszijian’s patience. He
flung back his cloak to reveal his breastplate and pushed back his mail coif to
reveal his face and the gold circlet upon his brow. “The king bids you open,”
he said. The
sun was not yet up, but the distant sky was now streaked with rose and white. The storm clouds of yesterday had
broken up, showing patches of blue sky. He
saw them stare and heard someone swear a terrible oath. “It is!” a voice said
insistently. “It can’t be.” “I
saw his crest, you fool! And his crown.” Another head appeared over the
crenellations, helmeted properly, unlike the others. “Your
majesty!” this man said, sounding astonished. “What marvel is this? How come
you here without—” “Open,”
Tobeszijian said impatiently. “Or must I beg like a knave?” “At
once, majesty!” They
scurried to pass the word. The ritual was thrown aside. He heard echoing booms
on the other side and a flurry of swift orders. Slowly, ever so slowly, the
huge gates began to creak open. It
took several minutes for them to move, but as soon as there was enough space
for his horse to squeeze through, Tobeszijian spurred his mount forward. His
shoulders brushed the wood surface on either side. The grinding creak of the
hinges and the groan of the ropes echoed in the close darkness, accompanied by
the ring of his horse’s iron shoes on the stone pavement. He
rode under the guardhouse, ducking his head slightly and aware of the guards
crouching on the planks of the floor above his head, trying to peer at him
through the cracks. Emerging
into the light filling the stableyard, he squinted and blinked, drawing rein
before a red-faced captain wearing his fur hat cocked jauntily and saluting
with a flash of crimson gloves. “Your
majesty!” he cried, then bowed low. “Up, man!” Tobeszijian said sharply. Behind
him, he was aware of orders cracking out and the heave and groan of the winch
working the gate. He kept his gaze on the captain, who straightened, his face
still flaming red. The captain would not meet his eyes. “The
court, has it gone?” Tobeszijian asked. “I did not see the queen’s banner.
Where has she moved residence?” “I—is
there no one else attending your majesty?” the captain asked. Tobeszijian
glared at the fellow, wondering why he acted so confused. “I believe my
questions should be answered before yours,” he said in quiet rebuke. The
captain’s face drained of color. He knelt on the snow-dusted cobbles. “Forgive
me, sire!” Behind
Tobeszijian the massive gates shut with a boom that made his horse shy. The
locking bars slammed into place. Tobeszijian’s heart thudded with them. His
mouth tightened, and his hands were fists around his reins. It was another
trap, and this time it had him. A
part of his mind still couldn’t believe it, continued to deny all that was
happening. The rest of him faced it with bleak pragmatism. He
did not glance back, although he sensed the guards forming behind him in an
undisciplined knot of spectators. Did they expect him to whirl around and order
them to release him? Without
another look at the captain, who remained crouched on the cobbles, Tobeszijian
rode on into the stableyard proper. By
now, servants, hastily dressed and blowing on their hands to warm them, were
stumbling out from the stables. A pair of serfs gawked at him with their mouths
hanging open, then busied themselves with building a fire in the yard, well
away from the wooden barns and piles of hay. Snowdrifts mounded in the corners
and covered a cart resting on its traces. Steam rose from the shuttered windows
of the stables, telling him the four-legged occupants inside were warm beneath
their strapped-on blankets. He could smell the combined fragrances of
horseflesh, grain mash, and straw. Out here, the customary mud and muck of the
stableyard was all frozen clean. Everything looked exactly as it should, but it
was all horribly wrong. They
stared at him as though he had returned as an apparition. Several
of the serfs cringed back into the shadows, crossing their fingers
superstitiously behind their backs, and Tobeszijian wondered grimly what they
had been told. That he was dead? Was Muncel so certain of his plot’s success
that he had already announced Tobeszijian’s death and moved the court to his
own palace? Why not sit in possession here? Tobeszijian
saw at once that whether he was now a prisoner or not, the servants still
feared and revered him. Counting on habit and their sense of duty, he gestured
imperiously as though he were returning from an ordinary ride. Two stableboys
came darting up warily to seize the bridle of the king’s stallion. The horse,
well lathered and dripping foam, pranced and sidled. His iron shoes struck
sparks off the ice-coated cobbles, and when he tossed his head, he lifted both
boys off the ground. A
third came running to help, darting in under the half-rearing animal’s chin and
snapping on a tether that he fastened to an iron ring embedded in the stone. By
then, Tobeszijian had dismounted. His legs barely supported him for a moment,
making him cling hard to the stirrup until the world righted again. He heard a
voice talking as though from far away, then he blinked and was well again, and
the voice sounded loud and practically in his ear. “Is
aught amiss, majesty?” It was the stablemaster, bowing and frowning at him. The
man kept glancing behind him as though expecting the rest of the party to come
in. “We heard ... that is, we were told—” “What
news of the queen?” Tobeszijian asked, interrupting him. The
stablemaster looked taken aback. It was hardly his place to inform the king
where her majesty had gone to. And yet, no chancellor of the court was stepping
forward in greeting. No pages stood by to offer him wine or to take his filthy
cloak and gloves. No courtiers had come forth, eager to catch a glimpse of him
and perhaps draw the favor of his glance or conversation. All his life he had
been surrounded by attendants, hangers-on, suppliants, dogs, nobles, and the
general action and confusion of the court. There was always someone begging for
a word with him, always maids and ladies giggling from the windows in hopes of
attracting his eye, always minions and servants underfoot. Yet
now it was as though everyone in the place had been spirited away except the
guards and these few servants. Tobeszijian felt like a ghost trying to return
to the world of reality, only to find himself trapped behind glass, unable to
step through. Angrily
he glared at the stablemaster, who had not answered his question. “The queen,
sirrah!” he snapped, all patience gone. “Can you answer a simple question, or
not?” He
was in many respects a gentle man, a kind man, but when he spoke in that tone
men quailed and the world itself seemed to crack. He stood there, a full head
and shoulders taller than the shrinking stablemaster, his blue eyes on fire and
his chiseled, beardless face set in lines of stone. The
stablemaster took an involuntary step back from him, his eyes darting in
several directions as though seeking aid. “Majesty,” he said, turning as pale
as the shirt band protruding above the neck of his tunic. “I—I—it is not meet
that I should relay such news. The—” “Her
banner does not fly. Has she left residence? With what escort and bound for
what location?” The
stablemaster gripped his broad, work-calloused hands together and lifted them
in appeal. “I—I—we know only that she has fallen ill. A fever, they say. It came
suddenly. It was only—” Tobeszijian’s
heart contracted sharply, and he swung away from the man, who gasped and fell
silent. “A
fever?” Tobeszijian said with his back still to the stablemaster. His voice was
sharp. Heat filled his face, and his ears were roaring. Not
Nereisse, he thought with pain too great
to bear. Not my love. The
stablemaster prated on, but Tobeszijian did not listen. Nereisse was eldin; she
could not catch human fevers. She caught no diseases at all. For her to be
taken ill could only mean the poison of spellcraft. He
thought of the shapeshifter and its scream of fury when he rode away from it in
the forest. He thought of Kuliestka’s slashed and mutilated corpse lying in the
snow. He thought of Nereisse fevered and alone, with his enemies closing around
her. “Where
have they taken her?” he asked, using every bit of self-control he possessed
not to shout. His
quiet voice seemed to unnerve the stablemaster further, for the man gave him no
answer. Tobeszijian
swung around, his hand going to his sword hilt. “By Thod, must I wring every
answer from you? Where is she?” “I—I
know not,” the man stammered. His gaze shifted past Tobeszijian in sudden
relief. Warned,
Tobeszijian swung around so fast his cloak billowed from his shoulders. Another
officer of the guard stood close by. This one pos- sessed
harder eyes than the captain; his face was like a hatchet. Tobeszijian glared
at him, noting that the man’s cloak was slightly too long for him and that his
hauberk fit him ill. The links of his chain mail were of an unfamiliar design.
Tobeszi-jian’s nostrils flared. This man was a hirelance, nothing more than a
mercenary cutthroat. Tobeszijian’s gaze shifted past the man to the rest of the
guards. Numbering about forty, including those who stood atop the wall looking
down, most were clearly of the same ilk, wearing foreign-made mail under their
borrowed surcoats. Only a handful, including the captain, were clearly genuine
members of the palace guards, and they had either sold themselves or were under
coercion. Tobeszijian’s
gaze narrowed and he swung it back to the hirelance before him. He noted the
man’s narrow skull and saw a hint of fang in the man’s thin-lipped smile. A
chill of disgust ran through the king. This man was Gantese, and it took every
ounce of Tobeszijian’s self-control not to draw his sword and hack the Believer
in twain then and there. “I
am Bork, your majesty,” the hirelance said. His voice was respectful, but his
eyes were not. “You will surrender your sword.” The
stablemaster moaned. Ignoring
him, Tobeszijian never took his gaze from Bork. “No.” Bork
spread his feet in readiness. His face was hard and wary. “This can go hard, or
it can go easy. and your surrender.” Forty
to one was impossible. But Tobeszijian had no intention of fighting them yet
anyway—there were other things to accomplish first. He mastered his outrage at
the man’s impudence and made no move to obey. “This
fortress is under your control?” he asked. Bork
smirked. “I command it.” A
muscle jumped in Tobeszijian’s jaw. Otherwise he did not move. “I am the king,
hirelance. Your prisoner or not, I do not surrender my sword to the likes of
you. When your master comes to face me, he can demand my sword, and to him
alone will I give my answer.” Bork
did not like his defiance, but Tobeszijian’s gaze held the iron confidence of
birthright and lineage. He stared the hire- lance
down, and when Bork’s gaze dropped, Tobeszijian knew he’d won temporarily. “I
will ask this again,” he said quietly. “Where are the queen and the royal
children?” “Your
queen remains in residence, but not for long, we think.“ As
Tobeszijian’s fingers clenched around his sword hilt, Bork showed his fangs in
a broad smile. Behind Tobeszijian the stablemaster whimpered in fear, but fell
silent instantly as Bork’s cruel gaze shifted to him. Tobeszijian never took
his eyes off the hirelance, and inside his glove he could feel his ring growing
hot. What else had taken possession of his palace? He could not stop his
imagination from running wild, wondering if the Nonkind now roamed the hallways
and passages freely. Had Muncel forged a complete alliance with Gant? If so, he
must be mad. With
great effort, Tobeszijian pulled his whirling thoughts back under control. He
was sweating despite the cold morning air. He told himself to keep his royal
dignity. He must betray no fear, no rage, nothing to indicate he had lost
mastery of himself. “Now, your majesty,” Bork said, his voice as smooth as a
serpent’s glide. “You will come with us to the—” “I
will see my queen,” Tobeszijian said sharply. “If she lies ill, she is in need
of me.” Bork opened his mouth, but Tobeszijian said, “What you have
orders to do can be done later. I am now within these walls. You guard the only
way out.” Bork’s
eyes seemed to shrink in his face until they were two dark pinpricks, but he
protested not. Tobeszijian
turned his back on the Believer, although he half-expected the man to strike.
He caught the stablemaster’s attention, and the man gaped at him in open fear.
“Yes, your majesty?” “A
fresh horse,” Tobeszijian said. “My palace may be emptied, and my friends
vanished, but I will not forgo all custom.” It was the king’s custom to pause
here in his stableyard to change mounts and strip off his mail and armor in
exchange for a courtly tunic before riding into the palace grounds. Most of the
time he divested himself of his weapons also, handing them over to his squire
to be cleaned. The king’s squire, a lad named Rustin and the son of Count
Numitskir, had not gone on the hunting trip this year. Shortly before their
departure, he’d disgraced himself with a slattern who claimed he’d fathered a
child on her. Since squires in training to become knights were expected to
remain celibate until after they took their knightly vows, the boy had
effectively ruined a promising future. In haste to depart, Tobeszijian had told
himself he would judge the matter after his return. It seemed now that he would
not. He wondered what had become of the boy. For that matter, what had become
of his entire court? Would he ever know? If
he allowed himself to feel his shock, he realized, he would not be able to
continue. He refused to think beyond his purpose, which burned like a fire coal
in his breast. The future might hold his death at the hands of these rabble,
but he would not consider that now. “Let
us amend custom today,” he said to the stablemaster. “Just the horse.” The
stablemaster gulped and nodded, bowing low and backing away to snap his fingers
frantically at the boys, who were staring with their mouths open. “It’s
been told that you can ride the darsteed,” Bork said, and pointed at the
opposite side of the stableyard to a round building with a cone-shaped roof of
slate. Lights shone from the tiny windows fitted high in the walls. A bugle of
fury, muffled by the stone walls, came from inside, along with a series of
rapid thuds. Tobeszijian’s
nostrils flared. He felt the darsteed’s fiery rage reach his senses, and his
own pent-up rage and grief responded like fire in his chest. His heartbeat
quickened. For a second his blood raced in his veins. He
sent his mind to it: / am
home/home/home/home. The
creature needed exercise. It had been neglected during his absence, cooped up
in there the whole time. He could feel its explosive need. Soon, he promised it. The
savage fire of its mind came crashing back to him, making him sway slightly in
the effort of absorbing it. Run/run/
run/run. Soon, he promised it again, and his heart felt as savage as the
beast. The
darsteed inside the fortified stall bugled and kicked. Tobeszijian
blinked and broke the contact, realizing that Bork was staring at him in open
conjecture. Bork
smiled and gestured at the stablemaster. “Your king would ride his mighty
darsteed. It’s in need of exercise.” Tobeszijian
frowned. Ordinarily he rode the darsteed into battle instead of a charger. The
darsteed was a creature from a nightmare, a beast of war and terror. By the
laws of tradition, all kings of Nether had owned a darsteed since the days when
Nether first defeated Gant and seized the terrifying beasts as prizes. But the
creatures were kept locked up and viewed at a safe distance. No Netheran king,
until Tobeszijian, had dared to actually ride one. Thanks to his eldin blood,
he could control the brute. When Tobeszijian appeared on the battlefield in
full plate armor and antlered helm, bearing his two-handed sword and a war
hammer, and riding astride a black fearsome creature that breathed fire and
roared with all the violence of hell itself, few Kladite raiders could stand
and hold their ground. Few Gantese Believers and Nonkind would either. Yet
Bork was trying to provoke him into bringing it out. Tobeszijian wondered if
the hirelances had gone inside to look at the beast and if it had injured any
of them. Grimly he met the Gantese’s eyes. He would use the darsteed, all
right, but not yet. Not until the proper time. “Ride
it,” Bork urged him. “We have heard of your legend, King Tobeszijian. We would
see it for ourselves. No one will bring it out for us.” Tobeszijian
said nothing. He
longed for Kuliestka at his side. By now the lord protector would have tried to
put an end to these insults, and gotten himself spitted on the end of a sword.
Grief rose inside Tobeszijian, twisting painfully, but he choked it down. He must
be iron. He must remain every inch a king if he was to keep himself from being
shackled and led away in total humiliation to the guardhouse. “Forgive
me, majesty. We dared not take the beast outside while you were gone,” the
stablemaster said nervously. “Since Vlout died of that head kick, no one can
handle it except your majesty.” Tobeszijian
frowned, momentarily distracted. “You were told to find a replacement for Vlout
immediately.” “I
tried, majesty, but—” Tobeszijian
lifted his hand to silence the man. “Ride
it, great king,” Bork said, openly mocking him now. The
stableboys came leading up a bay courser fitted with an ornate saddle of silver
and a velvet saddlecloth. Rosettes had been braided hastily into its shining black
mane, and its dark hooves gleamed with oil. It tossed its fine head and pranced
sideways, its delicate nostrils snorting white plumes in the frosty air. “That’s
a lady’s mount. Not worth a king’s backside,” Bork said, grinning and showing
his fangs. “Let’s see the darsteed.” Tobeszijian
was conscious of time running out, of his tiny advantage slipping from his
fingers. He must turn the tide of this game, and swiftly, before all was lost. “The
queen’s health is my concern now,” he said coldly. “When I have seen her, I
will consider your request.” Bork
growled in his throat and moved sharply. Perhaps he meant to strike
Tobeszijian, or perhaps he was only making a rude gesture. Either
way, Tobeszijian turned on him and caught his fist in midair, straining to hold
it when the Gantese would have pulled free. Bork’s eyes narrowed to black dots
of evil. He snarled, baring his fangs. But
Tobeszijian’s blue eyes blazed right back, and his mind—unskilled but
strong—crashed against Bork’s. Back
away/back away/back away, he commanded. Bork
snarled again. The other guards were closing fast, scenting a problem even
while the two men stood close to each other, glaring and locked together, their
struggle hidden as yet between their bodies. “When
I am at liberty, I will show you the brute’s paces,” Tobeszijian said,
straining to hold the hirelance. His voice grew rough from the effort he was
expending. Back away, his mind commanded again. Bork
unclenched his fist and stopped the struggle abruptly. His eyes held anger
mingled with confusion. Tobeszijian
knew he could not control the Believer, but he could influence him. He pushed
again, and saw Bork blink. The Gantese stepped back. “At your majesty’s
leisure,” he said, and gestured scornfully at the bay, which shook the rosettes
tied to its long mane and pawed the ground. “We shall still be here.” Relief
came sharp and sudden, like a dagger thrust. Feeling his knees weaken,
Tobeszijian turned away and swung into the saddle with all the grace and
strength he could exhibit. He rode through the smaller gates on the other side
of the stableyard and took the winding road that led to his palace. Not
caring what any of them thought, he spurred the animal to a gallop and didn’t
look back. The
palace grounds sloped uphill, enclosing a small, well-groomed forest of ash
trees that bordered either side of the stone-paved road. Spurring the bay
courser again, Tobeszijian rode through the trees and glimpsed the small, sleek
herd of royal deer nibbling at the still-green grass they’d pawed up from
beneath the snow. Their heads flashed up in alarm as he galloped past, and they
turned as one, bounding away. The
road dipped, curved through a snow-rimmed stream, and wound steeply up through
a stone archway that had once marked a gatehouse and the crumbled remains of
the original fortress walls. Ivy now grew over the fallen stones. Frost had
burnished the leaves to tawny colors. From this point the road became older,
rougher, narrower. The forest grew right up to it on either side. Then abruptly
the trees ended, revealing the top of the hill, which was entirely cleared. The
palace stood there, silhouetted against the rosy, pearlescent morning sky. The
peaks and spires of its roof seemed to stretch to the heavens. The
palace was a magnificent sight that never failed to lift Tobeszijian’s heart.
Three stories tall, the long, multiwinged palace stood there airily in its
setting of snow, sky, and shrubbery. Its pale yellow stone had been quarried
from the rocky hills near Lake Charva, and it featured long rows of tall
windows. Every window was fitted with actual glass, a luxury so rare and costly
it had once threatened to deplete the treasury. Delicate columns of white marble supported archways over
each window. The columns were carved fancifully in the shapes of serpents,
lizards, tree branches, and vines. Winged gryphons lunged from the rooftops as
waterspouts, and leaping sea-maids with outstretched arms were carved from
marble to form the balustrades on either side of the broad steps leading up
into the state portico. Nowhere
else in Grov or all of Nether could such a building be found. It was too
ornate, too whimsical. It gave the eye no rest. It was as different from the
original fortress on this spot as the sun was different from the moon. Yet its
ramparts remained strong and practical. Behind it the sheer stone cliffs
dropped straight down into the Velga River, creating a natural defense on that
side. Runtha’s
Folly, some folk called this bizarre yet beautiful palace. Begun by
Tobeszijian’s grandfather, Runtha I, and completed by his father, Runtha II,
the palace’s unusual appearance was blamed on the eldin and their unwelcome influence. For
many centuries eldin and humans had coexisted peacefully in Nether, even
joining themselves into the Church of the Circle and forming the basis of
modern religion now held by half the known world. The Chalice of Eternal Life
was held sacred by both humans and eldin, who believed in the same history of
the Origins and the same gods. Folk of the eld, however, had magic which the
humans did not. They could enter the second world, which humans could not.
Eldin and humans found they were usually more comfortable apart, and in general
they kept their communities separate. Less
than two hundred years ago, Tomias the Reformer—a monk and visionary believed
to be from Mandria, although he claimed no land as his origin—had entered
Nether, bringing with him a different branch of the church and a radical system
of beliefs. Tomias and the reformers considered the eldin to be part of the
darkness and superstition which had held Nether chained for too long. Church
magic, held firmly in the hands of the crimson-robed churchmen, was preached to
be honorable and true to the Chalice, derived from its sacred power. Eld magic
was said to be derived from perversion and secret liaisons with the darkness, a
force that would tarnish the Chalice. But any human could enter the Circle and
worship the Chalice, bringing it glory, providing he or she came with a true
and willing heart. To serve, a worshiper needed only to feel faith. No actual
performance or action was required, refuting what had been the former custom of
penitence and ritual. Tomias advocated separation and division between humans
and the eldin, claiming that the folk of eld had no actual place in the Circle
and need not be considered an equal part of it. Fresh
and appealing, this message of reform took quickly in Grov, and from there it
spread across the rest of Nether. It became fashionable to deny that the eldin
even existed, fashionable to build stone churches and to burn the old paneathas
which had stood in wall niches, honoring the old gods, since time began. But
as a young man, Runtha I shook off the influence of the reformers. One day
while riding in the forests alone, he was thrown when his horse stumbled.
Knocked unconscious, he awakened hours later to find that night had fallen.
Surrounding him was a group of eldin with eerie white flames shooting from
their fingertips, lighting the clearing without need of lanterns. Although
little contact had been made between humans and eldin since the mission work of
Tomias the Reformer, he was treated that night to eld hospitality. Runtha I
discovered for himself that the eldin were a gentle, merry people with spirits
of light and laughter. He made friends with his hosts, who showed him many
wonders and visions. Returning a few days later to his frantic and much-worried
court, the young king embraced the old ways and set about undermining the
stranglehold of the reformed church. He shortened the sermons and permitted
townspeople freedom of choice between the reformed church and the old
festivals. Eld groves were preserved by royal decree, and this palace
was constructed around the old, dank, original Hall of Kings. A Mandrian was
sent for, and he created these formal gardens of clipped yew hedges, leaving
only a small copse of natural hust trees on one side, out of sight. There,
roses and sea holly were allowed to grow wild in a thicket. Tended by eldin and
much loved by the present queen, this magical place became a riot of color in
the spring, when the hust trees bloomed in long white racemes that hung to the
ground and all sorts of flowers burst from the ground to open crimson, gold,
and pink petals. The bees grew drunk and fat with pollen, the fragrance of
flowers filled the air, ar d the wind would blow a wealth of rose petals across
the grassy paths. As
his horse came surging over the last steep segment of road, Tobeszijian
summoned a mental image of Nereisse his wife, so pale and graceful, walking
there in her grove, her wispy draperies catching on branches, fallen petals
hanging in her knee-long blonde hair and scattering behind her. He felt a pang
inside him as though he’d been pricked. It
was her pain, reaching to him. Oh,
great Thod, he prayed frantically, let me reach her in time. He
kicked his horse forward, making it kick up spumes of powdery snow, its iron
shoes slipping dangerously on patches of ice. No
one waited on the broad steps to greet him. Few lights shone in the windows.
The tall double doors stood closed, with no servants ready to open them. He saw
no curls of smoke spi-raling from the chimneys on the roof. He
had never, in all his lifetime, imagined the palace could be this deserted. The
sight of it, abandoned and empty, pierced his heart. A
corner of his mind raged, wanting specific names and faces, ready to condemn
and assign blame. But it was not that easy to separate the tangled skeins of
the political web. Who at court was not an enemy of some kind? The lord
chancellor, the lord of the treasury, the keeper of the seal, the guardian of the
armory, the cardinal of the church, the steward of the household, and yes,
especially yes, the king’s own half-brother were all problems, siding
continuously against him and the policies he tried to set. Only
five years on the throne, Tobeszijian thought
grimly, and my reign is
already in grave danger. He
could blame part of it on the alliances his father had forged shortly before
his demise. He could blame more of it on Prince Muncel’s ambition and greed. He
could blame the rest on the church and its zealot leader, Cardinal Pernal, who
wanted no half-eld king on the throne. Spurring
the courser, Tobeszijian sent it scrambling madly up the broad steps to the
very doors of the palace. Leaning from the saddle, he pounded on the wooden
panels and listened to the echo of his summons fade inside. No
one came. Dismounting,
he shouldered open the heavy door. Inside, the place was shadowy and cold. He
drew Mirengard, flung back his cloak to free his arms, and strode swiftly
through the rambling palace. The
emptiness drove a wedge of dread deeper into his heart. There had been no
looting. The carpets and furniture still filled the rooms. But no living thing
stirred. He heard nothing except his own rapid footfalls. He
passed through a set of tall double doors into the icy gloom of the original
Hall of Kings. The room was narrow and cramped with age, its arched ceiling
blackened by centuries of fire smoke and grime. Windowless and bleak, the
room’s only illumination normally came from torches kept burning in wall
sconces set between long tapestries. The torches did not burn now, not even
around the multitiered paneatha. The ancient gilded icons of the gods, their
painted images so dim and worn they were nearly unrecognizable, were gone. Tobeszijian
halted there in shock. Lowering the tip of his sword to the sagging wooden
floor, he reached forward and touched each bare arm of the paneatha where an
icon should have been hanging. “Blasphemy,”
he muttered beneath his breath, and looked up. On
the wall, above the crude and age-blackened throne of the First, should have
hung a triangular-shaped sword made of black iron, its hilt wrapped with
leather, its double edges nocked and jagged from battles fought in the dim
beginning of history. of his ancestors was gone. He
knew then what else he would find missing. Fear
plunged to his vitals. It was as though while he was away, the world had ended.
And during this plotting, he hadn’t known, hadn’t guessed. How could he have
been so blind? He stood in the empty Hall and felt lost, as though he’d been
dropped into the third world and could not find his way back out. Drawing
several ragged breaths, he sought to calm himself and knelt before the ancient
wooden cabinet that stood beneath the wall niche of the paneatha. Opening its
doors, he reached inside, found the hidden depression, and pressed it. With a faint rumble and scrape, a portion
of the wooden floor slid aside. Dank air rose into his face. He ran to light
one of the torches, using the striker and stone kept always near the paneatha.
When the torch was burning bright, popping as its pitch warmed within the twist
of straw, he held it aloft in his left hand and gripped his sword with his
right. Thus armed, he descended the rickety wooden steps into the yawning
darkness below the Hall of Kings. At
the bottom of the steps stretched a cramped chamber with walls of frozen dirt
and stone. In the center were double, semicircle rows of stone benches. On the
opposite wall stood a crude stone altar with a cauldron overturned next to it.
The torchlight flickered over the reliquaries on the altar, showing him the
green-patinated bronze bowls intended to hold salt and sacred water, the old
bronze knives of ritual, the rods of white ash, the stubs of Element candles,
the incense burners, rune-stones, a small bell, and the dried remains of vines
that had once wreathed the altar. This
was the original worship site. The Chalice of Eternal Life had been placed here
when the First received it from the gods. For generations the Chalice had been
well guarded by Tobeszijian’s ancestors. Although Tobeszijian’s father had been
besieged by church officials to surrender the Chalice to them so that they
might display it prominently in the newly completed Cathedral of Helspirin in
Grov’s center, Runtha II would not agree. The Chalice belonged here, he said.
Runtha had argued that the Chalice was not to be worshiped instead of the gods.
Its power protected the land and the people of Nether. But that power was not
to be channeled by churchmen for the working of miracles designed only to
increase numbers of congregants. The very day following Tobeszijian’s own
coronation in the Cathedral of Helspirin, Cardinal Pernal had approached him
and requested that the Chalice be moved to the cathedral, far from the
primitive cave where it had been hidden from the people for too long. He
pointed out the arching ceiling of the nave, so high it seemed lost in the
misty shadows. He showed Tobeszijian the sanctum and the stand where the
Chalice would be displayed, high enough so that all who came inside the
enormous cathedral could see it, with narrow slits of windows surrounding it in
order that its light might radiate outside the building at night. That
day, Tobeszijian gazed around at the unfamiliar cathedral, with its fine
carvings and its statues of saints instead of the icons of the old gods. He
noticed the brilliant blue paint and the extensive, elaborate gilding. Oh,
there was no doubt the Chalice would be displayed in as beautiful a setting as
man could devise, but Tobeszijian felt uneasy. Since childhood, he had kept in
his memory the rites and the ancient phrasing of the oath of protection sworn
by him and every other king of Nether since the Chalice came into their care.
He had responsibilities that were secret, unknown to this powerful churchman in
his crimson robes, responsibilities that did not permit the Chalice to be put
on public display. For one thing, its power was too strong, needing containment
by magical means involving soil, salt, running water, and ash wood. Like
his father before him, Tobeszijian refused the church’s request. Cardinal
Pernal’s face had gone quite white and pinched around the nostrils. His dark brown
eyes had blazed with fury that he clearly had difficulty containing. With his
mouth set in a tight line, he bowed to his king, and Tobeszijian left him to
fume as he wished. Now,
however, as Tobeszijian walked into this small, dark cave beneath his palace,
he saw that this first Circle had been violated, and that the Chalice was gone. Behind
the altar, the natural spring which pooled in the ground had been filled in
with dirt and stone, choking it. Tobeszijian touched it and felt dampness, but
nothing more. He swore softly. Skirting the spring, he walked deeper into the
darkness, holding his torch aloft to light his way, although he already knew. With
every cautious step, his heart raged and grieved. Yet he had to look, had to
see for himself all that had been done to defile this holy place. On
the back wall rose a pillar of black obsidian, hewn and polished. The Chalice
of Eternal Life should have been standing atop that pillar. It was not. At
the base of the pillar, the hearth of Perpetual Fire lay cold. Removing his
glove, Tobeszijian thrust his hand into the white, powdery ashes, but there was
no lingering ember to cast warmth. The fire had been dead a long while. “Muncel,”
he said aloud in despair, “what have you done?” The silence seemed to mock him.
He stepped back, stum- bling
a little, then turned and fled, running across the chamber and back up the steps
into the Hall of Kings. He kicked the trapdoor back into place and flung his
torch into a wall sconce with such force it nearly went out. Wrenching himself
around, he strode through the rest of the Hall, passing the rows of ancient
weapons—some mysterious, others primitive—hanging on hooks as reminders of the
past. Slamming
his way through another set of doors, he left the Hall of Kings and strode
through a passageway as gloomy and deserted as the others. More
doors. He burst through them and entered a reception gallery of light and
warmth so intense it hit him like a blow. A row of windows along the left wall
filled the room with morning sunlight. At the far end, he could see a tall
stove, tiled with bright colors and radiating a blast of heat that made him
realize how cold the rest of the palace had grown. His
anger sank into a deep, secretive corner of his soul, and was replaced by a
renewed sense of caution. If the palace was deserted, who had built this fire? Gripping
his sword with both hands and holding it ready before him, he moved down the
corridor on quick, quiet feet, trying to still even the faint jingling of his
silver spurs. He wanted to call out Nereisse’s name, but he held his tongue. The
gallery looked magnificent in the sunlight. Its tall mirrors, even more costly
and rare than the glass in the windows, hung on the right-hand wall, reflecting
back the sunlight streaming in. The place was all dazzle and glitter, prismed
light refracting on the walls and shimmering from the faceted balls of bard
crystal hanging on chains of gold from the ceiling. It
was the Gallery of Glass, famous throughout the kingdoms. His passage beneath
the bard crystal balls set them swinging lightly, and he could hear them sing
in faint little sighs of melody. The gallery had never failed to enchant all
who entered it. Dignitaries from foreign lands often came and sat here by the
hour, marveling at the dazzling array of light and color and sound. During
festivals, it pleased Tobeszijian to allow dances to be held and madrigals to
be performed in here. The fine carpets would be rolled up, and the floors
polished. Candles would be lit everywhere until the mirrors blazed with their
reflection. The ladies would swish and spin about, laughing to see themselves
in the mirrors. The jewel-like colors of their gowns glittered like
kaleidoscope pieces on the faceted surfaces of the bard crystal balls overhead,
while the crystal sang with the melodies, their tunes eerie and soft. Sweat
beaded on Tobeszijian’s brow, and he turned at the end of the gallery to climb
a broad wooden staircase, carpeted by handwoven rugs sent by the Wandering
Tribes in tribute. The carved wooden heads of idealized danselk, covered with
paint and gilding, formed the posts on either side of the head of the
staircase. Their antlers held candle stubs long since burned out. A draft of
the heated air from the Gallery of Glass blew up the staircase, but it did not
reach far. At
the top of the stairs, he rounded the corner and nearly collided with an
elderly servant of the Order of the Chamberlain. Stooped with age, his straight
gray hair cut in a severe bowl shape above his ears, the servant wore a stiff
tabard of embroidered livery in the royal colors of burgundy and gold. His
collar of servitude was embossed with the royal coat of arms. He held a key in
his mottled hands, and worry puckered his old face. Startled
by this encounter, Tobeszijian swung his sword in reflex even as he recognized
the servant. He shortened his swing and the mighty blade whistled harmlessly
over the old man’s head. Cringing to the floor, the servant lifted his hands
and wailed in fright. “Suchin!”
Tobeszijian said in profound relief. He sheathed his sword and gripped the
wailing servant’s shoulder. “Suchin, do you not know me?” Gasping,
the old man lifted his terrified face and un-squinched his eyes. He stared at
Tobeszijian, his mouth falling open and his eyes growing rounder and rounder.
All the color leached from his face. “I
live,” Tobeszijian said firmly, gripping Suchin’s shoulder even tighter. “I am
flesh, not ghost.” Relief
flooded Suchin’s face at that assurance. With a sob, he flung himself at
Tobeszijian’s feet and wept. “Majesty, you have come!” he cried. “At last, you
have come.” Tobeszijian
gazed down at the old man lying at his feet and wondered why he was still here.
Had he been overlooked, or was he one of the betrayers like the captain of the
guard and the stablemaster? But
the king had no time for such questions now. “Suchin,” he said firmly, “rise
and take me to the queen.” Suchin
obeyed, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Hurrying to keep up with
Tobeszijian’s long stride, he pointed toward the state apartments. “Sire,” he
babbled, “what a relief that you have come home. We had given up all hope.” “How
does the queen?” Tobeszijian asked. Guilt choked him as he thought of the
palace betrayed and invaded, the queen ill, the Chalice stolen, all while he’d
been gone on his pleasure, hunting because he felt tired of his
responsibilities. Thod’s mercy, but he had much to answer for. “Is she better?” Suchin
sighed and shook his head. “We thought it was nothing at first. Princess
Thiatereika fell ill several days ago. Her fever was strong, and kept her
tossing and crying out.” Thiatereika,
his only daughter. Tobeszijian felt as though he’d been struck by a war hammer.
Too much was happening. Too much was being taken away. He could hear a wild,
queer laugh in one corner of his brain, while the rest of him stared at Suchin
in horror. “Aye,
sire,” Suchin said. “Only the queen could soothe the child. Then her majesty
took the fever too. She would not give way to it, though, but fought it most
valiantly, giving all her strength to the child’s care. Even when Prince Muncel
came, she received him with pride, facing him down while she tried to hold the
palace in the name of the king.” Suchin’s gaze flickered to Tobeszijian’s face.
“But she could not prevail and was sent to her chambers. She was kept a
prisoner inside until the palace was emptied of everyone. Gilda says her grace
cried aloud yesterday afternoon and spoke your majesty’s name. She did act most
peculiar, weeping that you were dead. Then she swooned and was taken to bed. She
lies there still.” Tobeszijian
frowned, feeling fresh grief wash over him. She’d known of his danger, while
he’d been oblivious to hers. He should never have left this year. He’d known
better. Thod’s bones, but he should have heeded the warning signs and stayed
here to guard what was his. “What
does the physician say?” he asked, pausing while Suchin struggled to push open
the double doors leading into the queen’s chambers. Suchin
looked at him almost fearfully and stepped aside. “There has been no physician
to attend her majesty.” Speechless
with anger, Tobeszijian stopped halfway across the threshold. He met the old
man’s eyes, and suddenly his sword tip was pressing Suchin’s throat. “What
infamy is this?” he shouted. “By whose order was a physician kept from Queen
Nereisse?” Suchin’s
face went as gray as his hair. His eyes widened with terror, and Tobeszijian
pressed the blade deeper into that soft, wrinkled skin. “Her own order, your
grace!” the servant said, gasping. Tobeszijian
had been expecting him to say it was Prince Muncel. Stunned, he released the
old man, and Suchin sagged against the door, banging it into the wall. His hand
trembled as he pointed at the tall bed standing in the center of the room.
Sheathing his sword, Tobeszijian walked toward it in a daze of confusion and
anguish. The
state bed of the queen was a massive piece of furniture. Each post was as big
around as Tobeszijian’s waist and carved heavily with runes of blessing and the
faces of ancient tree spirits. Since Nereisse had become queen, the ancient
timbers of the bed had sprouted with twigs and green leaves, as though roots
still fastened the posts to the soil. Some of the serving maids would not go
near the bed, not even to strip the linens for cleaning. Others claimed they
could hear the timbers groaning during the day, mumbling in the old tongues
things no mortals should hear. Gold
velvet hangings, so heavily embroidered they hung stiff, encircled the bed to
keep out drafts. They were parted now on the side facing a roaring fire, and
Gilda, the old nurse who cared for the royal children, sat there on a stool at
the queen’s bedside, sponging the queen’s hands and face with a damp cloth. Nereisse’s
golden hair spread across the pillow. Reaching to her knees when she left it
unbound, the tresses were normally thick and luxuriant. They sprang back from
her face naturally, requiring no fillet or band to control them, and the curls
and waves of her hair were never still but always in quiet motion, as though a
soft breeze blew over her at all times. Now, however, no invisible breeze
stirred her hair to life. It lay there tangled and limp, darker at her temples,
where she was sweating. Her
clear skin was flushed, and her shut eyelids looked bruised and puffy. She was
tossing her head back and forth on the
pillow, her hands plucking at the fur coverlet. Gilda grasped one of her hands
and held it firmly, patting it with the damp cloth, but Nereisse pulled free
and murmured urgently, “ Siob-veidhne
broic kalfeyd edr hahld! ” The
fire flickered abruptly low as though it might go out, and the air in the room
seemed to vanish momentarily as if it had all been sucked away. Tobeszijian’s
hair stood up on the back of his neck, and he could feel the wild prickling
across his skin that told him she was speaking with power. That
was forbidden here. She herself had forbidden it, saying it was not safe within
the walls, with so many people about. Power, channeled through the eldin
tongue, was for the outdoors, where it could be unleashed with force. Gilda
looked up at Tobeszijian’s arrival, and tears glistened in her rheumy eyes,
trickling down her wrinkled cheeks. Her bottom teeth had long ago rotted out,
leaving her mouth shrunken, and pulling her chin up nearly to her nose. She
might look a crone, but hers was a gentle soul. She had never feared Nereisse
or the children who had been born in this bed. She had served as Tobeszijian’s
nurse, mothering him when his own mother died, and she had stood as his ally
during the days when his father took a new, this time human, wife who wanted
nothing to do with her royal stepson. “Sire,
my sweet lady lies here poorly,” Gilda whispered. “Very poorly.” She slid off
her stool, making way for him to bend over Nereisse. Tobeszijian
gripped his wife’s hands in his. They were burning hot. She tossed her head,
spilling the cloth Gilda had left across her brow. Tobeszijian stroked the queen’s
forehead, trying to ease the furrows which creased it. He kissed first her hot
lips, then her shut eyelids, then the pointed tip of each delicate ear. “My
beloved,” he whispered, grieving for her. She had the smell of death on her
skin. She was so hot, his icy queen, so unnaturally hot. Usually Nereisse’s
skin was as cool to the touch as polished marble. He kissed her again, but her
eyes did not open. He felt afraid. “Nereisse,” he said in desperation, “I’ve
come safely home.” At
last her eyes did drag themselves open. They were blue-gray, tilted at the
corners, and they stared at him without recognition. “Kalfeyd edr hahld!”
she said. He
felt his hair blow back from his brow as she said the words, felt their force.
Danger, she was saying. There is danger. “Nereisse,”
he said, stroking her cheeks, wanting her to know him. “It’s Tobeszijian, come
home to you. Look at me, beloved. Hear my voice.” But
she tossed in his arms, crying out feverishly, then clutching her stomach with whimpers
of pain. “Help
her!” he said to Gilda frantically. “Send for the physician—” “No!”
Nereisse gripped his wrist, pulling herself up off the pillows. Her eyes stared
into his as though she saw a stranger. “Keep away!” “Nereisse,
I’m here,” he said, pushing her hair back from her face. She
tried to bat his hand away. “No!” “Hush,
beloved. I will not hurt you. Gilda,” he said sharply to the old woman, who had
not moved, “do as I have commanded!” “The
physician’s gone, like all the rest,” Gilda said. “There’s only me and Suchin
left. We hid, or they’d have taken us away too.” Tobeszijian,
still trying to soothe his flailing wife, stared at Gilda. Although he had many
questions, he knew this wasn’t the time. Again he tried to ease Nereisse down,
but she was still fighting him. “Nereisse,
it’s Tobeszijian, your husband,” he said. “You know me. I’ve come home.” This
time she responded to his voice. Her eyes, so wild and frantic behind hanging
wisps of hair, glared at him. “You’re dead. I parted the veils of seeing, and
you were dead.” “No,”
he said softly, stroking her hair. “I escaped.” “Saw
you,” she panted. “Saw the Nonkind surrounding you. Saw them rend you. How you
fought, my beloved. You fought so fiercely and well, but you were alone and
there were so many of them—” “No,
Nereisse,” he said, trying to silence her. “I am here, safe with you.” She
groaned and clung to him, weeping now. “It cannot be true,” she said. “I saw so
clearly.” “It
almost happened,” he told her. “Almost, but they could not trap me. Now you
must rest and get better.” He
laid her down upon her pillows, but she still clung to his hand, her blue-gray eyes
frantic. “It is not safe here for you. The churchmen will capture you. The
court has gone. Everything is gone.” “I
saw,” he said grimly, thinking of the deserted palace. “Muncel—”
She shivered, wracked anew with pain. “Hush,”
he said. “I am here now. You must rest and get better. We will deal with the
other later.” But
she seemed not to hear him. “Muncel has claimed your throne,” she said, her
voice a whisper. “He has moved the court to Belrad, saying the palace here is
accursed by eldin magic. The court left yesterday—nay, the day before. Sleds
and troikas and wagons. They took all the—” “Hush,”
he said, masking his fury. “Let me worry about that. It does not matter as long
as you and the children are safe.” Her
gaze shifted, and for a second she was his old Nereisse, gazing into his eyes
with a corner of her mouth quirked up in something between disapproval and
amusement. “Liar,” she whispered. He
gripped her slender hand in his and kissed it to hide a rush of tears. “No,” he
said, closing his eyes as her fingers swept across his face. “I will make war.
Muncel will rue this infamy. He cannot steal my kingdom like a common thief.” “Then
flee now,” she said, shivering. “Find your allies and loyal liegemen who will raise
an army for you. Do not linger here, for they lie in wait for you, intending to
take you prisoner. They would dare try you as a common—” “Never
mind,” he said, not wanting to tell her he was already a prisoner. But not for
long, he vowed. He would crush Muncel. As soon as he raised an army, he would
ride on Mun-cel’s holding. Belrad, the fortress he had given Muncel with
impulsive generosity. Although he owed Muncel nothing, he had been generous to
his half-brother. And this was how Muncel repaid his kindness. Nereisse
shivered more violently, closing her eyes. Worried, Tobeszijian glanced at
Gilda. “What can be done?” “Nothing,” Nereisse gasped out before Gilda could answer. She opened
her eyes to stare up at him. “It is spellcraft, this poison. You must stay away
from me before you catch it.” She
released his hand, drawing back when he would have touched her. “I
cannot catch it,” he said. “You
are half eld. It could harm you.” He
frowned. “What happened, Nereisse? They told me Thi-atereika caught it first.
Is she—” Pain
and grief creased her face. “Better,” she said hoarsely, her breath coming
short and fast. “I drew it from her body.” He
understood. In saving the child, she had infected herself. “Then we shall draw
it from you.” She
shook her head. “Nay, husband. Had there been a sor-cerelle
here when I first took it, perhaps. Not now.” He
bowed his head in overwhelming sorrow, gripping her hand again, then holding it
even tighter when she tried to pull away. “The
poison was meant for Faldain,” she said. “It came in a sweet, baked in the
shape he loves best. One sweet, brought only for him. I was preoccupied, not
paying attention, or I would have sensed it at once.” “Your
majesty was not even in the room,” Gilda murmured. Tobeszijian
glanced at the old nurse, and her sad eyes met his. “I did not know, sire,”
Gilda whispered guiltily. “How could I guess anything was amiss? Except I sent
to the kitchens for no such treat. Nor did I recognize the page who brought it
for my lamb. Our precious princeling gave such a laugh when he saw it, and
clapped his little hands. But the princess is ever greedy, no matter how many
times I admonish her. She grabbed it off the tray before her brother could touch
it. It went straight in her mouth. Seconds later, she was screaming.” He
thought of his daughter, only four, with her mother’s grace and slenderness,
already a beauty with long, golden curls. His son was less than two years old,
chubby and full of mischief. That anyone would want to harm these sweet
innocents sickened him, and stirred his rage anew. “Where are they?” he asked. “In
the nursery,” Gilda replied. “Suchin watches over them. I could not bring them in
here to watch their lady mother die.” “She will not die,” he said firmly, turning back to Nereisse. “She will
not.” “Save
them,” Nereisse said softly, her voice as thin as the springtime wind. “The
children—so young.” She turned her face away and brushed at it with her
fingers. “So hot. So hot. I must find my dear Tobeszijian, who walks this land
no more.” He
stared at her, feeling helpless and afraid, while Gilda went back to sponging
her face. There must be something he could do. Her skin looked like wet ashes.
She was breathing harshly, with great difficulty, and another spasm of pain
shuddered through her, making her cry out. “Kalfeyd edr hahld’t”
she said. A
whoosh of energy passed his head, just missing him, and one of the massive
bedposts split. Gilda dropped the enameled basin of water and jumped back,
making the sign of a circle on her breast. “She’ll kill us all, sire!” “Wait,
Gilda. She won’t—” The nurse was already scuttling away. Before she reached
the door, however, Tobeszijian caught her around the middle and picked her up,
carrying her back, kicking and weeping like a child. “It
missed us both,” he said, putting the old crone down and patting her shoulder.
“She won’t harm us. She won’t. You’ve helped her so bravely, Gilda. You must help her
still.” The
old woman managed to stop her weeping and wiped her face with her apron.
“Forgive me, sire. There is nothing to be done.” He
paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. “If I could reach the eld folk,”
he said aloud. But even as he spoke, he knew it was futile. He had the Ring to
help him escape and return, but despite that he knew not where to go. The eld
folk never stayed in a place long. And Nereisse had already said a sorcerelle
could not help her. Still,
he would not give up. “The bathing tub,” he said in sudden inspiration. “Have
the servants fill it with water. Cold water.” Gilda
gasped. “You’ll kill her.” “She’s
burning up. We must do something. Gilda, get the tub. Call the pages to help—” He
broke off, only then realizing what he’d said. The
old woman pressed a corner of her embroidered apron to her mouth and wept,
rocking herself back and forth. In
the bed, Nereisse moaned and tossed, mumbling incoherently in the eld tongue.
He felt tears falling down his cheeks. He could not let her leave him. Instinctively
he knew it would take too long for him to go downstairs and find his way to the
kitchens, or wherever water was brought from. He hurried to the window and
pulled aside the heavy draperies. Immediately cold drafts raced through the
room, and when he pushed open the window, brutally cold air poured in.
Tobeszijian leaned out, scooping armfuls of snow into the hem of his cloak, and
came back inside, slamming the window shut behind him. He carried the snow to
the bed and started packing handfuls of it around Nereisse. She
opened her eyes and sighed. “Tobeszijian.” Grateful
that she was lucid again, he dropped the snow and gripped her hands, kissing
them. “Yes, beloved. I am here.” Grief
filled her eyes. “Sorry,” she whispered. “All my fault.” He
stroked her hot cheek. “What could be your fault? Mun-cel’s ambition and those
accursed reformers—” “No,
listen to me,” she said urgently. “I was casting with sight, parting the veils
of seeing. I was lonely, missing you, missing my own people. It’s forbidden,
but I wanted to come to you across the—” “Hush,”
he said, hiding a shudder of worry. “Never mind now. Come spring I will take
you home, and you will see all your family. You will feast and laugh and not
feel lonely.” “The
evil ones who have joined Muncel saw me,” she said, looking past him. Terror
filled her face. “I was not careful enough, and they saw me. They heard me. And
I heard them. Muncel has made a pact with the Nonkind. This I saw. He has
allowed Believers into the kingdom—” “Gently,”
Tobeszijian said, his alarm growing. The snow was melting on her skin,
darkening her sleeping shift with moisture. She began to shiver, and he drew
the furs over her. “It’s all right now. I will deal with Muncel.” “No,
Tobeszijian, no’t Nothing is all right. The Nonkind walk among us, by his
invitation. They plan to kill you.” His
mouth set itself in a grim line. “They will not.” “I
wanted to warn you, fearing you would come to harm in the hunt, but they saw
me. They would not have struck so quickly, so boldly if not for me.” “Take
not their guilt onto yourself,” he said. “It is Muncel who is to blame, not
you.” “Had
you not wed me, the people of Nether would have loved you,” she said, weeping.
“They would never have given their hearts to Muncel.” He
pressed his hand against her lips, silencing her, and shook his head. Never had
he regretted taking her as his wife. He loved her still as he had the first day
he saw her dancing in the woods with her companions. She had been singing,
wearing a chain of flowers in her hair, which had flowed unbound over her
shoulders. Her song was like magic, so pure of note and expressive that he had
felt enspelled by it. His gaze would not leave her. And although she had
laughed and run, vanishing into the trees, he had pursued her, seeking her
among the eldin until she was found. She was a highborn princess in her own
right. Had he not been king of Nether, had he not been half eld himself, her
parents would have never let her wed him. “You
must guard the children,” she said, bringing him back from his thoughts. “Never
leave them for a moment. They are in great danger now. They have too much eldin
blood for safety. While Faldain is the rightful heir to the throne, Muncel will
never leave him be. Even Thiatereika is not safe, for her claim follows
Faldain’s.” “We
are all safe,” he said to her, wishing she would stop talking as though he and
she were already dead. “Do not worry. I will not let Muncel get away with this.
That, I swear to you.” “Swear
you will protect the children first,” she insisted, her blue-gray eyes
searching his. “Swear!” “By
my word and my heart, I will see them safely guarded,” he promised. “Now you
must sleep a little. As soon as you are better we—” “Do
not wait for me, my love,” she said urgently. “Flee with them now. Take them to
my ... The forest will guard them.... The forest is friend to them. I can’t...” She
fell silent then, her eyes closing in exhaustion. Tobeszi-jian bent over her,
kissing her brow. He hoped she would sleep. She must. And he had to find a way
to make her better. “Sire,”
Gilda said softly, “shall I have Suchin bring the children?” She
gestured as she spoke, and Tobeszijian saw that Suchin had slid open one of the
doors to the queen’s ornate chambers and was standing there, looking afraid and
worried. “No,”
Tobeszijian said. “We’ll let my lady rest. She seems easier now. The snow has
helped her.” “Shall
I get more?” Gilda asked. He
nodded and glanced down at Nereisse, who lay quiet and still. Too still. He did
not hear her struggling breathing now. He stared at her, and knew, with a stab
of awful certainty. Swiftly
he bent over her, but she lay silent. Her eyes were shut; her head had fallen slightly
to one side. In his grasp, her hand had already grown cold. “No,”
he said. “Nereisse? No!” Gilda
turned from the window and came hurrying back. One look and she quickly
retreated, drawing the circle on her breast. “Oh, your majesty,” she whispered. “No!”
Tobeszijian said angrily. He shook Nereisse hard until her head bounced on the
pillow. “Nereisse! Nereisse!” His
cry came straight from his wounded heart. She could not answer him, could not
smile into his eyes with that little crinkle of her eyelids reserved for him
alone. She could not sing to him. She could not laugh and skip across the
gardens with the children bounding after her. She could not ride in her troika,
bundled in furs, her eyes shining in the starlight and her breath a mist about
her delicate nostrils. She could not kiss him and give him the joy of her
slender body. She was gone, his Nereisse. Gone forever. He
leaned over her then and wept hard, clutching her to his chest. It
was as though darkness surrounded him. He knew nothing except the weight of her
in his arms, and yet already she felt foreign against his chest. For what
remained was not his Nereisse, not the quickness and delight of her. All he
held was an empty shell, so beautiful yet as worthless to him now as dust. He
would gladly see every trace of her beauty gone if only the heart and soul
would return to her. But
it could not. She
was dead, and he had lost her forever. Gilda
crept about the chamber quietly, her sniffles muffled, her movements slow. She
opened chests and withdrew items, coming back to the bed and gently placing her
hand on Tobes-zijian’s shoulder. “Let
me care for her now, sire,” Gilda said softly. “Let me make her ready.” He
could not think, could barely hear. Her words made no sense, yet he responded
to her soft voice and touch as he had when he was a child in her care. She
took Nereisse from his arms and laid his lady on her pil- lows.
Placing a pristine white linen handkerchief over Nereisse’s face, Gilda began
dressing her in an exquisitely embroidered court gown. Tobeszijian
stood there in a daze, and a dim corner of his mind recognized it as Nereisse’s
coronation gown. His eyes burned with fresh tears, and he buried his face in
his hands. His mind filled with the memory of how lovely and radiant she had
looked that day, her face so piquant and solemn beneath the flashing jewels in
her heavy crown. The people had cheered her then, but not warmly. He realized
now that he had been so filled with love for her, so certain of her charm and
intelligence and value, that he’d never paid attention to the people’s lack of
enthusiasm. He had believed they would come to know her as he did, and that
they would overlook her eldin blood and see only the goodness of her heart. He
clenched his fists against his temples, raging at his stupidity. He had been so
blind, so foolish. He had brought Nereisse to this harm. He had taken her from
the protection of her own people and brought her here among the bigoted,
small-minded humans that were his own subjects. He had made his enemies her
enemies, and now they had struck her down. Her
... and their children. For
the first time in several minutes he recalled his children’s existence. Perhaps
some extra sense was trying to warn him, for at that moment he heard a scream
in the distance. It was thin at first, then rose to sharp intensity. He
turned around with an oath, and Gilda froze by the bed, where she was carefully
folding Nereisse’s hands together across the jeweled bodice of the gown. The
scream came again, a piercing shriek that only a terrified child could make. The
grief that fogged him fell away, and he knew that voice as surely as his own.
“Thia!” he said. From
the doorway, old Suchin, who was supposed to be watching the royal children,
gasped aloud. He turned and ran, while Gilda called out something that
Tobeszijian never heard. He
told himself he should have sent for the children the first instant he entered
the palace. Now they were in danger, and his heart went wild. He had lost
Nereisse. He would not lose his son and daughter as well. Drawing
his sword, he ran from the room. Running
from the queen’s chambers down the corridor, Tobeszijian passed a series of
brightly colored doors. Overtaking Suchin, who was hobbling more than running,
Tobeszijian returned to the staircase and charged up another flight of stairs.
As he came to the top of the landing and stepped into a smaller, less ornate
corridor, he saw a hirelance in helmet and mail struggling with a child he held
in his arms. Tobeszijian saw only Thiatereika’s tangled curls and kicking legs,
but he saw enough. With
a shout of rage, he brandished Mirengard and ran at the abductor, just as a
nearby door opened and a second hirelance emerged with Faldain. Tobeszijian
never slowed his charge. His shout had already warned the man holding
Thiatereika, but she was kicking and flailing with all her might, screaming at
the top of her lungs, and this hampered her captor. He managed only to turn
partway around by the time Tobeszijian reached him. Tobeszijian
swung his sword. The great length of steel whistled through the air, and caught
the man’s upper back. Normally he would have aimed for the hirelance’s head,
but it would have been too dangerous a blow with Thiatereika clutched tight in
the man’s arms. Instead, Tobeszijian aimed his sword lower, so that the blade
bit deep into the hirelance’s back. It cut through his hauberk as if it were
cloth and sent tiny links of chain mail flying. The man screamed and dropped
Thiatereika as he stumbled sideways. Mirengard had severed his spine, and the
man’s arms and legs no longer worked. Shrieking, he flopped to the floor, blood
streaming from his wound. Thiatereika
darted away from him. With her hands outstretched and her face bright red from
screaming, she came straight at her father. Tobeszijian
sidestepped her and spun to meet the second hirelance’s charge. The
man had already dropped Faldain on the floor out of his way, and the toddler
was wailing lustily. “My
papa!” Thiatereika clutched Tobeszijian around the leg, hampering him. He
parried weakly, and Mirengard was nearly driven right into his face by the
other man’s blow. Ducking
awkwardly, Tobeszijian scrambled back, disengaging his sword, and parried
again—one-handed this time, while with his left he gripped Thiatereika by the
back of her gown and lifted her off the floor. “Climb
on my back,” he said through gritted teeth, again managing to parry the
hirelance’s charging attack with one hand. Mirengard was heavy and hard to
manage this way. He knew he had only seconds before the hirelance would break
through his weak defense. “Hurry, sweet. Play monkey on my back and hold on
hard.” Thiatereika
grinned at him and climbed him like a tree, swarming across his shoulders and
fastening herself to his back. It was a game they often played, with him
rolling on the floor like a child himself. Now, she wrapped her little arms
around his neck from behind, almost choking him, and sang out, “I’m a monkey
from Saelutia!” Praying
she could hang on, Tobeszijian skidded to his knees to duck another blow from
the hirelance, and got both of his hands on his hilt. He swung with all the
considerable strength and power at his disposal, his muscles flexing beneath
his mail. The hirelance swung down his sword to parry the blow aimed at his
knees, but Tobeszijian’s strength broke the parry and drew blood from the man’s
legs. Yelling
and cursing, the hirelance stumbled back, and Tobeszijian gained his feet to
charge, swinging the mighty Mirengard again and again. In
two more blows, the hirelance’s sword shattered. He stared at it and threw it
down before he turned to run. Tobeszijian
swung a final time. The hirelance’s head went tumbling, slinging blood and
gobbets of flesh across the sunny yellow walls. His body crumbled in its
tracks, with a great spurt of blood gushing forth from the neck. Breathing
hard, Tobeszijian lowered his blood-splattered sword and pulled in air to the
depths of his lungs, then turned around. It had grown deathly silent in the
corridor. He
saw his young son standing frozen in the doorway of the nursery. Faldain’s thumb
was in his mouth, and his pale gray eyes stared solemnly at the corpses. He was
too young to understand or to be afraid, but Tobeszijian wiped his sword on a
corner of his cloak, sheathed it, and hurried to scoop Faldain into his arms.
The boy broke into a wide grin and planted a messy smack on Tobeszijian’s
cheek. “Pa!”
he said proudly. Tobeszijian
touched his son’s black curls, and felt himself undone by the sweet innocence
in Faldain’s face. He pressed his face against Faldain’s tender one, breathing
in softness and the smell of little boy. And he thought of Nereisse, lying dead
in her chamber, never to kiss this child again, never to soothe him when he
cried, or to help him grow up brave and strong in his father’s footsteps.
Faldain would never know how wonderful she was, or how beautiful. He would
never witness her courage or her grace. Tears
burned Tobeszijian’s eyes, and he sent up a prayer of thanksgiving that his
children had been spared. “Suchin,”
he said hoarsely to the servant cowering on the stairs, “get their outdoor
clothes. Dress them for a journey.” Still
looking frightened, the old man scuttled into the room and began searching
through the brightly painted chests and cupboards for small cloaks and smaller boots. Tobeszijian
set both children on the floor. Thiatereika tossed her head, sending her golden
curls bouncing on her shoulders, and ran to help Suchin. “I know where
everything is,” she announced. Faldain
wrapped himself around Tobeszijian’s leg and would not turn it loose. When
Suchin knelt beside the little prince and tried to pry his hands away so he
could put gloves on the boy’s hands and boots on his small feet, Faldain let
out a mighty screech of rage and clung even harder. Thiatereika,
looking adorable in a cloak of blue velvet trimmed with ermine, her hair now
tied back with a ribbon, and dainty fur-lined boots on her feet, went running
off into the playroom. “Thia,”
Tobeszijian called after her. “Stay here.” “I
want my Su-Su,” she said stubbornly. He
had no idea what she was talking about, and let her go. Suchin was still on his
knees, struggling to exchange Faldain’s slippers for boots. The boy was
resisting, kicking his feet and turning red-faced with anger. “No!”
he shouted. Tobeszijian
was a man who waged wars, decreed policy, feasted, and hunted. He played with
his children more than did many men or kings, but until now he’d had no idea
what was entailed in putting clothing on a squirming, rebellious child. To his
eyes, it looked as difficult as bridling a wild horse. “In
Thod’s name, hurry, man,” he said impatiently to Suchin. “They’ll need a change
of clothing as well.” “Aye,
sire,” Suchin said breathlessly as he succeeded in getting the second boot on.
Faldain rolled onto his stomach and began crawling away as fast as he could. Tobeszijian
let Suchin chase the child and instead went to one of the cupboards and opened
it. He pulled out items of clothing at random, surprised at how small they
were, and how finely made. Frowning, Tobeszijian looked in vain for sturdy
clothing suitable for travel. Had they no hardspun, no leggings, no — “Here,
sire,” Suchin said, reappearing with two cups of eldin silver and necklaces of
ribbon twisted with gold wire from which pendants of bard crystal hung. Tobeszijian’s
frown deepened. “We cannot be hampered by frippery. Sturdy clothing, man!
Quickly!” “They
have none, sire.” Suchin pressed the cups into Tobeszijian’s hands. “But these
the queen held important. I’ll be quick.” Faldain
headed off into the playroom in search of Thi-atereika, calling “Ei, ei, ei!”
as loud as he could. Tobeszijian
stared, marveling at how quickly they seemed to forget the danger they’d just
survived. The cups he held were of excellent crafting, engraved with
flowers and the faces of animals, but they were of no use to him. He tossed
them on the floor while Suchin stuffed items into a small cloak that he twisted
into an ill-made bundle. Thiatereika
appeared in the doorway, her eyes enormous. “My papa!” she called, whimpering.
She was clutching a dirty rag doll to her chest. “Su-Su is scared. My papa,
come!” Suchin
hurried over to her, slipping one of the bard crystal pendants over her head
and tucking it beneath her cloak. She twisted away from him and stamped her
foot. “My
papa!” she shouted. “Come!” Tobeszijian
went to her and put his large hand on her curls. “Hush, sweet. We’re going in
just a moment.” She
shied away from his hand and began to cry, pointing at the other room. Puzzled
by what could upset her in there when the dead men in the hallway had not made
her blink, Tobeszijian looked inside the playroom. He
saw smoke curling out through the front grille of the yellow and blue tiled
stove standing in one corner. The nursery was normally a sunny place, with
walls painted in shades of yellow, green, and pink. Painted vines and animals
and cherubs adorned the ceiling and climbed down the corners of the walls.
Strangely, the air felt icy cold, as though all the windows had been thrown
open and the fire in the stove had gone out. But even if the latter had
happened, the stove should have continued to radiate stored heat for a long
time. The
smoke was still pouring out, curling straight down to the floor and toward the
doorway, where Tobeszijian stood, staring at it. It flowed around his ankles,
and he felt immediately chilled to the bone. He stepped back quickly, and
realized then that it wasn’t smoke at all, but instead a black mist that roiled
and curled and seemed to be searching for something. He
saw it pause at the doorway near him. Tendrils of the stuff curled up as though
exploring, then flowed on through the room in a straight line, aiming itself at
the corridor where the corpses lay. Wide-eyed,
Tobeszijian stared at it, suddenly breathing harder than when he’d been
fighting. There was more of the mist now, filling the doorway and curling
around his ankles again. He retreated a second time, then glimpsed Faldain
standing inside the center of the playroom next to the mist. Sucking his thumb,
the child stared solemnly at the murky flow of evil. Tobeszijian’s
heart lurched in his chest. Pushing Thiatereika back against the wall, he waded
through the mist, wincing as his feet seemed to freeze inside his boots. He
grabbed Faldain up and carried him out of the playroom. By the time he’d
stepped out of the mist again he was shuddering violently, and gritted his
teeth to keep from moaning at the pain. Suchin
wailed his prayers and backed against the tall, square bed that the children
shared. He drew a circle on his chest with a shaking hand. The
mist flowed through the bedchamber, curling away from where the silver cups lay
on the floor. For Tobeszijian, this confirmed the mist’s evil. Nonkind could
not cross running water. It could not touch salt or eldin silver, the purest
grade possible. He wondered who was directing the mist, and why. Was it Bork,
the Believer out in the guardhouse? Or were other Gantese agents lurking in the
many passages of the palace? Dry-mouthed,
Tobeszijian realized he could not tarry here much longer. Clearly something out
there sensed that Nereisse was dead. She must have been protecting the
household, holding these forces back with the last remnants of her waning
strength. Premonition
crawled across the back of Tobeszijian’s neck, making him shiver. He gestured
at Suchin, then caught sight of the bundle in the servant’s hands and realized
it would not do. He
went to Thiatereika and stripped off her cloak. “That bundle, quickly!” he
said. With
a puzzled look, Suchin opened it. Tobeszijian pulled out a gown lined with the
softest belly fur of snow-hare. He yanked it down over Thiatereika’s head,
pulling her arms through the sleeves while she protested in a muffled voice.
When her head popped through the neck, she was scowling. “I
can put on my clothes by myself!” she declared. Not
paying attention, Tobeszijian crammed another gown on over her clothing. It was
a tight fit, and she fussed about it until Tobeszijian snapped his fingers at
her in admonition. He tied her cloak back on and drew up her hood firmly to
conceal both her hair and her pointed ears. Her face was streaked with tears,
and her eyes looked tired and puffy. Already this morning she’d been through
too much. His heart ached with the knowledge that he must submit her to a great
deal more. By
now Suchin had succeeded in wrestling an extra pair of hosen and another tunic
onto Faldain, who was fighting him about the boots again. Tobeszijian helped
the old man, holding Faldain still so Suchin could finish dressing him. Suchin
slipped the second bard crystal necklace around Faldain’s chubby neck and
tucked it inside his tunics. “For
luck, little prince,” the old man whispered. “I’m
hot, my papa,” Thiatereika declared. She waved her rag doll. “Su-Su is hot too.
I don’t want to wear this—” Tobeszijian
scooped her into his arms along with Faldain, settling a child on each hip, and
headed out, with Suchin crowding his heels. The
mist filled the entire corridor in front of the nursery. Suchin
whimpered with fear. “There is no way to avoid wading through it, sire.” “Wait,”
Tobeszijian commanded. Juggling children, he drew his sword and plunged the tip
of Mirengard into the black mist. blade
glowed white and silver. The mist parted, curling swiftly away from the steel.
Quickly, Tobeszijian walked through. Behind
him, Suchin cried out and stumbled, then barreled past Tobeszijian. “The evil
is with us,” Suchin wailed, running toward the stairs. “The evil is here!” Thiatereika
began to whimper, and Tobeszijian glared at the old man. “Be quiet, you fool!”
he said. Suchin
fell as silent as if he’d been strangled. The
mist as yet seemed to have taken no notice of the living. It headed for the two
corpses lying on the bloody carpet and began to twist and coil about them. When
a column of roiling darkness started rising from the back of the nearest body,
Tobeszijian’s eyes widened in horror. He
could feel the tingle on his skin and the crawly, itching sensation that told
him magic was being used. Yet darkness was not supposed to be able to enter the
palace like this. There were safeguards and spell locks designed to protect it. But
Nereisse was dead, and the Chalice was gone. What remained to power the spell
locks? He
was thinking like a fool, refusing to accept what was being demonstrated before
him. He remembered his promise to himself that Muncel would not get away with
this. And now in his heart he made it a vow. Muncel would not win. Tobeszijian
swore it on the hilt of his sword, on the heads of his frightened children, and
on the memory of his dead wife. When
the corpse that still had its head twitched and began to climb to its feet,
Thiatereika screamed, and Suchin wailed. Tobeszijian
turned around and headed down the stairs, his children in his arms. He was not
going to waste time fighting Nonkind. The
war had begun. He had lost the first skirmish, but Tobeszijian had never lost a
war yet and did not intend to now. “Hush,
my children,” he murmured to Faldain and
Thi-atereika. “You must be brave now. You must not cry.” They
clung to him in fear, knowing instinctively that everything around them was wrong. Until today he had
never heard Thiatereika cry except in temper. His children had known no unkindness,
no fear, no distress. And he hated Muncel for ending their innocence so
cruelly. Suchin
trotted at his heels, glancing back apprehensively over his shoulder as though he expected the animated
corpse to come after them at any minute. “Sire,” he said worriedly, his old
voice shaking. “Sire, what is to become of us?” At
the bottom of the stairs, Tobeszijian stopped and juggled Faldain in his arms so he could put a hand on the
old man’s shoulder. “Suchin, you have been a true and faithful servant,” he
said, gazing down into the old man’s tear-shiny eyes. “I free you
from service, you and Gilda both. I ask only one last favor of you.” Suchin
bowed his head, weeping openly now. “Anything, sire.” Tobeszijian swallowed
hard to clear the lump from his throat. “Bury my sweet lady in the grove that
she loved so well. Make it a simple resting place, hidden. The eldin will find
her when they come, but tell no one else where she lies.” Suchin
nodded, still weeping and unable to look up. Tobeszijian gripped his
shoulder harder until the old man raised his eyes. “Thank you,”
Tobeszijian said, taking the children’s bundle from the servant’s arms.
“Farewell.” He
strode away, and Suchin came scurrying after him like a dog that will not be parted from its master. “Wait, sire!”
he called. “Will you not come back to us? Is the kingdom truly fallen?” Tobeszijian’s mouth set
itself in a grim line. “I go to fight for it,” he said. “How it shall come out,
I will know not until I can learn who still calls me liege.” Hoisting Thiatereika and
Faldain higher in his arms, he strode out, passing the door to his dead
wife’s chamber with only the slightest falter in his step. Forgive me, my lady, for leaving
you like this, he thought, and glanced
back at Suchin. “Don’t let the Nonkind take her,” he said. “No, sire,” Suchin said
in a small, frightened voice. He stared at Tobeszijian helplessly.
“After we do as you have com- manded, where will we go?
What will become of us? Will you come back?“ Tobeszijian realized the
old man thought he was running away, fleeing to save himself. Anger and hurt
pierced Tobeszijian, and he whirled around. “Nether is mine!” he said, his
voice ringing out loudly. “I do not desert my kingdom; this, I do swear.” “But, sire—” Tobeszijian turned and
strode on, closing his ears to Suchin’s cries. His heart was stone now, his
temper a fire that had seared him. With every stride through his empty palace
his resolve hardened. He knew exactly what to do next, and he did not hesitate. The bay horse he had
ridden to the doors of the palace still wandered about on the portico with its
reins dangling. It snorted when Tobeszijian appeared, but seemed glad to be
caught. Most of the rosettes braided in its flowing black mane had already
fallen off. Tobeszijian placed both
children in front of the saddle and swung up with a soft jingle of his silver
spurs. Pulling on his gauntlets against the cold air, he sent the horse
plunging down the wide steps and across the grand courtyard, riding past the
fountain with its grand basin and cavorting sea creatures carved of stone. The
fountain had been shut down, and the water in the basin had pieces of ice
floating in it. Tobeszijian gave it not a second glance and touched his spurs
to the horse, sending it galloping straight across the orderly plantings
between the courtyard and the curving road. He returned to the
stables, where the serfs sweeping the snow off the cobbles fled at the sight of
him and stood peeking out from the shadows behind the piles of frozen fodder.
Tobeszijian dismounted and pulled his children down off the horse, while a
stableboy hurried to hold the bridle. Tobeszijian glanced at the
boy. “Inform the stablemaster that I want the darsteed,” he said quietly. The boy gaped at him
stupidly, looking frozen with alarm. “Now,” Tobeszijian
snapped. The boy went shuffling
toward the stables, leading the bay horse. Thiatereika tugged at her
father’s cloak. “Are we going riding, my papa?” she asked. He
saw a group of hirelances
coming from the guardhouse. His stomach tightened. “Are
we going riding, my papa?”
Thiatereika asked again. “Are we going riding? Are we?” “Yes,” he said without
glancing at her. He felt a sudden fear that his plan would not work. Faldain
had discovered something on the ground and was bending over, spraddle-legged, to examine it. His small,
gloved fingers worked busily. “When
are we going riding?” Thiatereika asked him. “Are we going soon? Is that why I have so many clothes
on? I’m not cold, my papa. I want to go riding now.” “Yes,” he said
distractedly, watching the hirelances come. “Very soon.” From
inside the round fortified
stall the darsteed scented him and bugled. Its thoughts, like smoking
brands, came at him: Run/run/run/run. Soon, he answered it with his mind. Faldain
straightened up, staggering to catch his balance, and grinned at Tobeszijian.
“Soon!” he crowed. A
little startled, Tobeszijian stared at him, wondering if the child had
overheard his thoughts. But by then the hirelances had reached him. They fanned out, surrounding him in a
circle of menace. “Ready
to surrender now?” Bork asked him. The Gantese’s small
dark eyes stared deep into Tobeszijian’s as though trying to read his thoughts,
but Tobeszijian steeled himself against any flicker of communication and felt
nothing touch him. From
the round stall a series of powerful thuds could be heard. The darsteed grew
louder and more frantic. Tobeszijian
let his gaze stray in that direction. “I thought I would exercise the brute. It gets vicious when it’s
neglected.” Bork’s eyes had shrunk
to pinpricks of suspicion. He pointed at the children. “What are they?” Tobeszijian’s
chin jutted, and his eyes grew cold. “His royal highness, Prince Faldain,” he
said in a voice like iron. “Her royal highness, Princess Thiatereika.” Hearing
her name spoken, Thiatereika turned and skipped over to Tobeszijian’s side. She glared up into Bork’s
hatchet face without fear. “You aren’t one of our guardsmen,” she declared.
“You wear strange boots.” Tobeszijian glared at the
man. “You sent some of your var-lets to seize my children from their chambers,
Bork. With what intent?” Bork shrugged. “I follow
orders.” “They stay with me.” Bork’s fangs showed. “In
your land, the mothers keep their young close by. It makes them soft and
feeble. Is the queen dead now?” “No,” Tobeszijian lied
swiftly, conscious of little ears listening to every word. “She sleeps, and I
would not have her rest disturbed by these two.” “A king, herding his own
young?” Bork asked in astonishment. “You lie.” Tobeszijian’s hand slapped
against his sword hilt, and several of the hirelances reached for their
own weapons. Bork held up his hand to stop them, and sent Tobeszijian one of
his thin-lipped smiles. “You lie,” he repeated
more softly. “You and I both know it. A king does not do servant’s work.” “He might when there are
no servants to do the work,” Tobeszijian retorted. “The palace is empty, except
for one old woman who tends the queen. Or haven’t you gone inside yet? I
suppose you haven’t, for there’s been no looting done.” It was Bork’s turn to
stiffen at the insult. Tobeszijian faced him, steely-eyed and unflinching. Bork scowled at him.
“Surrender your sword. Now.” Tobeszijian reached for
Mirengard slowly. Inside, his heart was already knotting with more worry. He
would have to fight them, and the children were in the way. Thod’s bones, how
was he to get them in the clear? A commotion in the stableyard gave him his answer. He spun around, the
hirelances turning with him, and saw five sweating stableboys bringing the
darsteed out with throat poles. The stablemaster and another boy followed, carrying
the armored body cloth and special saddle. The darsteed was a huge,
snorting brute. As black as evil, its slitted eyes glowed red. Hot, acidic
saliva dripped off its fangs to hiss upon the icy ground. The sweating,
frightened boys maneuvered it around, forcing it to go near the mounting
blocks. Inside
the stables, the horses must have sensed that the darsteed was out. Several of
them whinnied in alarm, and the darsteed slung its head in that direction. It
was bred to hunt and attack anything that moved. It lunged in the direction of
the barns, but the boys held it in place. Roaring
in fury, it shook its snakelike head violently and slashed out with razor-sharp
hooves. The boys screamed in fear, and one of them dropped his throat pole. At
once the darsteed charged, but the others managed to hold it back. The beast
shot flames from its nostrils, scorching the paving stones. Again it shook its
powerful neck and head, shuddering in an effort to throw its handlers off their
feet. The boy who’d fallen scrambled back up and darted forward to seize the
dangling throat pole. The darsteed slashed at him, but missed. Enraged, it
lashed its barbed tail from side to side. The
stablemaster flung the armor cloth over the beast’s humped back and fastened it
with swift expertise. The cloth clanked with its movements, and the darsteed
roared at the saddle, which was being carried closer now. It lunged, and the
boys barely held it in check. The darsteed flung up its head and reared high,
and the stablemaster hurried to throw the saddle on its back. He reached under
the creature’s belly for the cinch, missed, and grabbed again. The
darsteed kicked him, and a bloody gash opened in the stablemaster’s leg. Crying
out, he yanked up the cinch hard enough to make the darsteed grunt, and
stumbled back, limping and clutching his leg. The
darsteed’s nostrils flared, sniffing the scent of fresh blood. Its lean head
followed the stablemaster, and one of the boys shouted a warning. Faldain
squealed with laughter and darted between the hire-lances encircling
Tobeszijian. Grabbing at the child, Tobeszi-jian missed, and Faldain escaped. Seeing
his son run straight at the darsteed, Tobeszijian’s heart lurched in his chest.
“Stop him!” he shouted. Bork
laughed, and none of the hirelances moved to obey Tobeszijian’s command. Horrified,
Tobeszijian tried to go after Faldain himself, but Bork blocked his path. “You
said you wanted to go riding with your young,” he said with a laugh that showed
his fangs. “Now we will see the truth.” Tobeszijian
took a step back and sent his mind to the darsteed, touching cool intelligent
reason to hot bestiality. The darsteed quieted at once, despite the child’s
approach. Its mind held resentment, but it was forced to subject itself to
Tobeszijian’s command. Still/still/still/still, Tobeszijian told it. Breathing
smoky plumes in the cold air, the darsteed stood motionless, watching Faldain’s
approach with its red eyes. The child toddled right up to it, well within
striking range, and stopped, laughing and reaching up to the creature with
innocent, chubby fingers. “In
Thod’s name,” the stablemaster breathed, watching with horrified eyes. “Hoi,
you and Rafe try to get him away from that devil’s spawn.” “Let
his highness be,” Tobeszijian forced himself to say calmly while Bork’s eyes
widened. “After all, this will be his war mount someday. They might as well
become acquainted.” “You
bluff well,” Bork murmured, unable to take his gaze from the sight of child and
beast studying each other. “But still you bluff.” “Do
I?” Tobeszijian replied through his teeth. He kept his face stony and calm, but
inside his heart was thudding with anxiety. Thiatereika
tugged at his cloak. “I can’t see, my papa,” she said in frustration. “What is
Dainie doing with the black horse?” Tobeszijian
lifted her into his arms. “Making friends with it,” he said lightly, feeling
sweat bead along his temples. The
darsteed was resisting his control. He could feel its hunger, like a clawing
thing, and with dismay Tobeszijian remembered it had not been fed properly for
many days now. Faldain was the perfect size for a meal. Oh,
Thod, have mercy, he prayed. Giggling
as though conscious that he was the center of attention, Faldain glanced around
at his audience, moved closer, and held up his hand again to the beast looming
over him. The
darsteed lowered its head, its red eyes focused on nothing but the child. Still/still/still/still, Tobeszijian commanded it. The
beast bared its fangs, letting acid drip, hissing, around Faldain. The child
stretched up on his toes, unafraid, and patted the darsteed on the end of its snout. “Horsey,
go ride!” Faldain announced. A
sigh of awe passed through the onlookers. Tobeszijian pushed his way through
the hirelances with Thiatereika in his arms. His legs felt like wood, but he
forced himself to act the part, calmly walking right up to his son and the
beast that wanted Faldain as its prey. Tobeszijian knew he would have to pay a
price for this obedience. The darsteed would feed, and very soon now, no matter
how much Tobeszijian tried to control it. “Pet
the darsteed, Thiatereika,” the king said lightly. She
reached out and gave the creature’s leathery neck a single pat before he
whisked her out of reach. By then he’d gripped Faldain’s arm and pulled him off
the ground, spinning and kicking almost under the very nose of the darsteed,
which hissed and slavered as little shudders ran through its body. Its tail was
lashing from side to side in warning. Tobeszijian
could feel its fury building, and knew his control would not last much longer. “The
bridle, stablemaster,” he said quietly. But
the stablemaster had sunk down on the cobbles a safe distance away, blood still
streaming from his leg, while some of the other servants tried to tend his
wound. The boy who’d helped carry the saddle stepped forward with the simple
bridle in his hands. It had no bit, and was merely a headpiece with reins
attached. “Be
quick,” Tobeszijian murmured to him. The
boy nodded, his throat apple jerking up and down as he swallowed. Drawing a
final breath, he darted toward the darsteed, which flung up its head in alarm. With
all the control he still possessed, Tobeszijian pressed harder, and the beast
lowered its head. The boy fitted the bridle on, tugging the check strap swiftly
into place, and stumbled out of the way. By
then Tobeszijian had both children on the darsteed’s back. He mounted in a
swift, fluid motion. Gathering the reins, he let a part of himself flow into
and become one with the darsteed. He
wanted to feel it attack. The
darsteed’s blood boiled through Tobeszijian’s veins. His own fury raged back
into the darsteed. Impatience filled Tobeszijian, an impatience and anger that
he no longer tried to govern. With a flick of his hands, he gestured to the
stableboys. “My
children,” he said with the last ounce of what remained inside him as a man,
“hold on tight no matter what happens.” Inside
his glove, the Ring burned hot around his finger. Tobeszijian’s heart was thudding
faster and faster. The
stableboys released the nooses on the throat poles, and Bork stepped forward. “You
ride it and show us your legend,” he said with a sneer. “Then your games are
over, king, and you go to the guardhouse as our prisoner.” Tobeszijian
spurred the darsteed and slipped his control from the beast’s mind. Feed/strike/go, he commanded. With
a bugle of rage, the darsteed bounded straight at Bork, who had time only to
gape in dawning terror before the creature’s fangs ripped out his throat, then
tore off his head and swallowed it in a gulp. Tobeszijian
spurred it again, and the creature leaped and bellowed and thundered across the
stableyard toward the small still-shut gates. Someone
shouted behind him, but Tobeszijian did not listen. He
was concentrating inside, reaching into the heat of the Ring the way his father
had taught him long ago. And when he felt the inner flash of white fire as the
Ring drew him into its power, Tobeszijian tightened his arm around his
children, and spurred the darsteed harder. With a roar, it bounded into the
second world with a speed that made Tobeszijian’s sweat-soaked hair blow back
from his face. All around him was blinding light and a deafening roar of sound. Chalice, he thought with all his might, forcing himself to
concentrate and remain focused. To the Chalice. And
to the astonished onlookers remaining in the stable-yard of Nether Palace, King
Tobeszijian and his children vanished on that fearsome beast of hell into thin
air as though the gods had snatched them from this world and taken them far
away. Only
a fading shower of golden sparks remained behind to glow upon the hoof tracks
etched into the paving stones. For
Tobeszuian, the passage through the second world was too swift and confusing to
evoke fear. In a terrible silence in which his own voice made no sound,
Tobeszijian saw only gray swirling mists and the shadows of things he did not
understand. All he knew was that he and his children were still galloping
through this nonplace on the back of the darsteed. The beast ran with all its
strength, its powerful muscles bunching and thrusting, but if it roared those
sounds were silenced. If the children cried, Tobeszijian could not hear them.
Looking down at them, clamped together within the tight circle of his arm, he
saw them only dimly, as though they were shadows. There was no color in this
strange, ghostly place that seemed washed in shades of moonlit gray. There was
no sense of time. Nothing lived or moved except them. He perceived an emptiness
so profound it frightened him. Belatedly
he remembered he must keep his destination clear in his mind, or else they
would be lost here in the second world forever, prey to its many dangers. Chalice,
he thought. With
a great pop of sound, they leaped back into reality, with its noise, smells,
and overwhelming kaleidoscope of colors. Disoriented and shaken, Tobeszijian
reeled in his saddle, while his children wailed and the darsteed reared and lunged
at something moving before it. Just
in time, Tobeszijian regained his senses and realized the moving object was a
woman, gowned in vivid blue with a purple girdle and a crimson-lined cloak.
Screaming as she backed away from the attacking darsteed, she tripped on the
hem of her long skirts and fell. The darsteed lunged at her, its pointed teeth
snapping. Cringing and screaming, the woman brought up her hands helplessly to
shield herself. Tobeszijian
hit the darsteed with his mind: Stand/stand/ stand/stand. The
darsteed’s head whipped back and around. Its eyes glowed red madness at
Tobeszijian. For an instant he thought he could not withstand the hot, molten
fury raging inside the beast, but with all his will he held firm. Kicking, the
darsteed bugled its frustration and lashed its barbed tail from side to side.
But it obeyed him and stood as he commanded. Sobbing,
the woman scrambled away, and others in the crowd helped pull her to safety. Tobeszijian
saw that he was in a stone church, filled with an ethereal glow of dusty
sunlight streaming in through tall, slitted windows. Scaffolding in places
showed the place to be still under construction. The air smelled of plaster
dust and fresh paint pigments. On the left side, a single tapestry hung between
two windows, but empty hooks showed where other tapestries would soon hang.
Tobeszijian recognized the new Belrad Cathedral. Netheran
nobles in their finery filled the long, rectangular nave. Tobeszijian
recognized many faces, faces which either stared at him in flat defiance or
reddened and turned away. For here were gathered his missing courtiers, those
who had abandoned his palace and his queen while she lay dying. A
fresh burst of grief and accompanying rage shook him. His hands clenched
white-knuckled around his reins, and he could feel his pulse throbbing hard in
his throat. There
stood Count Lazky with his wife and grown daughters. There stood Prince
Askirzikan. There stood Fortinac, the burly knight exiled from Mandria who had
found acceptance here. On her stool, surrounded by frightened attendants, sat
the Countess Renylkin, her aged face set like stone, her knobby hands clutching
a book of Writ tightly in her lap. Only her eyes gave her away, eyes that
stared at him with fear and a trace of wonder. Tobeszijian
could not believe that this countess had turned against him, yet here she was
with all the others. She met his gaze proudly, never faltering, although her
cheeks turned pink. She had been chief lady-in-waiting to the queen, and her
desertion of Nereisse made Tobeszijian wonder in despair how he’d misjudged her
character so completely. Indeed, how could he have been so wrong about so many? In
that moment of stunned silence as he faced them, still glowing from a golden
light which streamed down his body from the delicate circlet of eldin gold on
his brow to the rowels of his silver spurs, Tobeszijian looked every inch a
king and more. Even now, travel-stained and drawn with grief, holding his
big-eyed children clamped against him like refugees, Tobeszijian eclipsed every
other man present. The golden light made the jewels in his sword and dagger
hilts glitter even more brightly. His skin shone with the radiance of it, as
though he’d passed through the breath of the gods. His ice-blue eyes, clear
evidence of his eldin blood, glared with a ferocity that stilled the breath in
many throats. His courtiers had run away like wicked children, but Tobeszijian
had found them, bursting upon them with a great clap of sound and the acrid
smell of magic. Even now, the remnants of whatever spell he’d commanded still
flowed from him, the golden light of it dripping to the floor and puddling in a
pool of radiance at the shifting feet of the darsteed. Somewhere
in the staring crowd there came a rustle of movement accompanied by a faint
clanking sound. A man knelt, bowing his head. Another did the same. And
another. The Countess Renylkin moved ponderously off her stool, and with the
help of her attendants knelt on the stones before her king. Only then did the
abundant folds of her skirts fall, allowing him to see the chain that shackled
her ankles. “My
heart to the king!” cried a deep voice that Tobeszijian recognized as Prince
Spirin’s. Looking in that direction, Tobeszijian saw the tall, lean
prince struggling with someone who was trying to keep him from kneeling.
Spirin’s fur-cuffed sleeve fell back from his wrist, and Tobeszijian saw that
he too was manacled with iron. “To
the king!” shouted someone else. ‘To
the king!“ But
the few voices of acclaim were defiant and isolated. They provoked no general
cheering. And although many now knelt, others did not. Rigid
with anger at the insult, Tobeszijian saw more and more glances being cast
toward the front of the church. He swept his own gaze in that direction,
seeking his enemy. At
the front of the church, high above the altar, a wide win- dow
of stained glass depicting the Circle surrounded by the crests of the holy
orders—-created by men, not by the gods-cast an eerie scarlet glow over
Tobeszijian’s half-brother, Prince Muncel. Wearing an ermine cloak and a tall,
pointed crown glittering with jewels, Muncel sat on a gold throne with black
velvet cushions, a beyarskin rug separating his embroidered velvet shoes from
the cold stone floor. Balanced across his knees lay the sheathed triangular
sword of black iron, the antiquated sword that Solder First had carried into
battle before he met the gods and was given the kingdom, the Ring, the Chalice,
and later Mirengard. Cardinal
Pernal and another ecclesiastical figure sat on either side of Muncel, richly
attired in long robes of crimson and purple. They were there for support and
confirmation, or perhaps as guards. Gazing at his half-brother in cold
speculation, Tobeszijian wondered how much of this evil plot had spun from
Muncel’s greedy heart. Or was he just a puppet of the church? Across
the distance, Tobeszijian and Muncel locked eyes, pale eyes to dark. The
astonishment and growing fury in Muncel were so strong that Tobeszijian felt
them. Although he could not reach into the minds of men the way he could those
of animals, he knew that his half-brother hated him more than ever and intended
to wrest the very kingdom from his hands. This religious ceremony here in the
Belrad Cathedral was one more trap among many. Muncel could not strike
Tobeszijian openly in the royal palace, but by stealing the Chalice and
bringing the courtiers to Belrad, he had lured Tobeszijian onto his own
property. If Tobeszijian attacked him here, Muncel could claim he was merely
defending himself. Such
legal trickery and cowardice sparked new anger in Tobeszijian. He thought of Nereisse,
who had never harmed a living soul, now dead and abandoned in an empty palace,
dead by Muncel’s order. Grief and rage burned Tobeszijian’s throat, and he
struck at Muncel with all the strength of his mind. The
prince’s face turned gray. He cried out sharply, and fell back in his chair.
The gaudy Crown of Runtha slipped forward over his brow and fell into his lap. Cardinal
Pernal was a plump, jowled man with the countenance of a kindly uncle beneath
his fringe of white hair, and the rapacious heart of a vulture. At Muncel’s
collapse, Pernal jumped to his feet. While the other churchmen bent over the
swooning Muncel, grabbing the crown before it could roll to the floor, Pernal
raised the jeweled circle that hung on a gold chain around his fat neck and
cried out in a voice that rang through the church: “Go
back, creature of the darkness, to whence you came!” The
darsteed screamed and reared beneath Tobeszijian, striking out with its deadly
hooves, so that people shouted in fear and crowded even farther away from it. “Go
back!” Pernal shouted. “By the power of the Chalice, I command you to go.” Tobeszijian
glared at him and spurred his darsteed forward to the altar. Tall and
broad-shouldered, with the golden light burnishing his mail and breastplate and
his burgundy cloak flowing from his shoulders over the scaled rump of his
unworldly mount, the king rode through the nave like a god himself. His blue
eyes held the light of battle and righteousness. Pernal’s words of repudiation
were only sound, lacking power, for he did not command the Chalice, nor did he
have true belief. His words were for show, to impress the terrified people
watching and drawing shaky circles on their breasts for protection. Cutting
across Pernal’s chanting, Tobeszijian said loudly, “I am your king! The only
darkness here lies within the hearts of the traitors before me.” His
voice rang off the stones and echoed in the corners. As he spoke he stripped
off his gauntlets, and the Ring of Solder glowed brightly on his finger,
casting its own nimbus of power about his hand. “Let the people of Nether hear
my accusations. Muncel, you have defiled the holy first circle. You have stolen
the Chalice for your own gain. You have murdered one who was innocent—” Muncel
roused himself from his swoon and thrust himself to his feet, wild-eyed and
red-faced. “Who? Your eldin whore?” he shouted, half-hysterically. “Your pagan
ways have cost you, Tobeszijian. The people want to follow the Reformed Church.
They want to follow me. See? Here they are. Your rule is over.” “I
am king!” Tobeszijian said, his deep voice twice as powerful as Muncel’s reedy
tones. “And all here know it. I wear the true crown, the crown of the First. I
wear the Ring, given to the First by the gods. I carry Mirengard, which cannot
be touched save by the hand of the true—” “Pagan
idols,” Muncel broke in contemptuously. “The very symbols of the old darkness,
which we would leave behind.” “The
way you smashed and defiled the royal paneatha?” Tobeszijian demanded. Muncel
lifted his head with a proud smile. ‘The old ways are gone. We look to the
future.“ “A
future based on deceit, murder, and theft,” Tobeszijian said. “There
has been no theft!” Muncel shouted angrily. “Only a return to honor for the
Chalice of Eternal Life.” “Is
that why you defiled the first circle and stole the Chalice?” Tobeszijian
asked, keeping his voice loud enough that all the people might hear. “Is that why
you stole of the First? Is that why you
hold it now?” “The
Chalice belongs to all the people!” Muncel shouted. “It belongs in a place of
glory, where it can be seen and worshiped. This sword is my birthright, I, who
am the true son of Runtha the Second. As is the throne—” “Wanting
a thing does not give you the right to it,” Tobeszijian said. He pointed at
Muncel, hating him for his betrayal, his cowardice, and his lies. “I accuse you
before the gods and the people of Nether!” he cried. “Let the curse of the
defiler be upon you and yours for all time. You have broken the circle of trust
and honor. Let all here know it.” Muncel’s
head whipped around. “Guards!” he called. “Wait,
my lord,” Pernal said in alarm. “Let there be no fighting in this holy place.” “The
usurper must be seized,” Muncel said in fury. “I’ll have his tongue ripped out
for his—” “The
Chalice will drive him out,” Pernal said. He headed for the altar, where the
Chalice stood centered on a square of pristine white linen. Tall, slender, and
made of a glowing white metal only the gods could forge, the Chalice of Eternal
Life filled this end of the church with its own kind of radiance. Pernal
reached for it, but just as his plump hands closed around its stem, Tobeszijian
drew Mirengard and spurred the darsteed forward. Light flashed off the blade of
his sword, and in vengeance for the defilement of his own place of worship, he
sent the darsteed bounding up the two steps onto the dais where the altar
stood. Shouting words that Tobeszijian did not understand, Pernal lifted the Chalice with both hands as
though to ward him off, but the cardinal had no understanding of how to wield
the Chalice’s power. That power was coiled about Tobeszijian’s finger, channeled
through the Ring, which flashed on his hand with increasing brightness. “Pernal!
Take heed!” Muncel was shouting, but Pernal was still chanting his prayer and
did not pay attention to the prince’s warning. The
darsteed lunged and struck, its fangs biting a corner off the altar and
slinging wood and splinters in all directions. Furious, the darsteed spat and
snorted fire. The altar cloth blazed immediately, sending up black smoke and
the stench of charred flax. Looking
alarmed, Pernal stumbled back from the fire with the Chalice still in his pudgy
hands. “Guards!” he shouted. “Drive this creature out!” But
the guards who clustered in the shadows behind the ranks of ecclesiastical
officials did not run forward to confront the darsteed as it hissed and lashed
its barbed tail about. From
the day he had been named official heir to the throne, Tobeszijian had been
trained secretly in his responsibilities in caring for the Chalice, in
mastering the power of the Ring, in protecting the people from disaster should
either item be mishandled. Now, drawing on the immense power of the Chalice,
Tobeszijian spoke two soft words of command. A
shudder passed through the building, making some of the pillars holding up the
lofty ceiling sway. A piece of scaffolding fell, crushing the unfortunates who
were trapped beneath it. Fear ran through the crowd, but it was Pernal who
screamed most loudly and shrilly. Dropping the Chalice, he stumbled back,
moaning and cradling his hands, which were now black and smoking. An
unseen force responded to Tobeszijian’s command, filling him with a violence
that made him sway in the saddle. With all his strength, Tobeszijian forced
himself to control it, drawing on everything his father and Nereisse had taught
him. Yet although he had summoned only a tiny measure of the Chalice’s power,
it was incredibly strong, threatening to overwhelm him. He understood then the
terrible danger of what the Chalice could do, and was afraid of unleashing too
much of it. “Strike what is false!” he shouted. The
power coiled through his body, filling his heart until he thought the muscle
would burst from the strain. Then white fire, blinding bright, flashed down the
length of his arm, sending sparks bursting from the Ring of Solder, and
thrumming through his hand. The white fire built there, then shot down the
length of his sword. A force greater than his own will aimed Mirengard before
white fire shot from its tip and sent the altar exploding in a rain of flames,
splintered wood, and ashes. Fire from it caught the hem of Pernal’s fine robes. Yelling
in fear, the cardinal rolled and beat at the flames, but Tobeszijian paid the
man no heed. Forcing the bucking darsteed around, he thrust the tip of his
sword inside the Chalice where it lay on the floor, and lifted it. “No!”
Muncel shouted, trying to rush forward despite the restraining hands of his
counselors. “It was given to men, Tobeszijian! You and your tainted blood have
no right to it!” Tobeszijian
glared back at him. “Until this evil is cleared from Nether and the hearts of
its people are cleansed again, the Chalice will be seen no more. The taint
comes from you, Muncel, you and your bigotry!” “Seize
him now!” Muncel ordered the guards. They
rushed forward, trying to surround Tobeszijian, but he let the darsteed strike
as it wished, driving the men back. Sheathing his sword, Tobeszijian handed the
Chalice to Thi-atereika. “Hold tight to this, sweet,” he said, while her small
face tipped back to look at him solemnly. “Do not drop it, no matter what.” “I
won’t, my papa,” she promised in a tiny voice. Faldain
patted it. “Pretty.” “Sacrilege!”
Pernal shouted, howling as the flames continued to burn him despite all efforts
to put them out. With
pikes, the guards charged again. Tobeszijian spurred the darsteed right at
them, breaking through their attack, and galloped down the aisle of the nave.
He lifted the Ring. Chalice,
to safety, he thought. And
for the second time, the Ring of Solder filled him with heat and a flash of
white fire, drawing him into the second world with a rush that made him dizzy.
The Cathedral of Bel-rad and the evil men within it were left staring
openmouthed in fear and astonishment at the faint sparkles of light left
trailing in the air. This
time the journey through the second world was long indeed, so long that the
grayness and silence began to twist and confuse Tobeszijian’s mind. Afraid, he
gripped the rim of the Chalice with his bare fingers, while Thiatereika
continued to clutch it tightly against her chest. The white light of the
Chalice glowed brightly, even here in this place of nothing, and Tobesz-ijian
drew comfort from it, telling himself to have faith. They
exploded back into reality with a jolt that shook Tobeszijian’s bones and made
Faldain cry. Patting the child to comfort him, Tobeszijian felt his own
shoulders sag with weariness. He could not remember when he’d had aught to eat
or drink. He’d ridden the hunt hard yesterday—was it only yesterday?—then
traveled all night without rest, and now he was drawing on tremendous reserves
of energy both to control the darsteed and to channel the Ring’s power. He was
a man young and strong, but he knew he was nearing his limits. Fighting
off a wave of exhaustion, he sat slumped in the saddle and looked around. He
did not recognize this country at all. No snow lay on the ground, which was
littered with fallen leaves. Woods surrounded them, thick and impenetrable. The
sky above was bleak and gray. He could smell snow in the air, and felt a biting
chill that cut through his cloak and clothing. The weather was about to turn,
but as yet this land had known only the lightest bite of frost. The trees were
still heavy with foliage, only now starting to turn yellow or bright scarlet.
Leaves fell in steady drifts, landing on his shoulders, curling for a moment in
Faldain’s dark hair before being brushed aside by the cold wind. The
darsteed, lathered and steaming, stood still with its head down as though weary
too. Its mind pushed against Tobeszijian’s, with more need than anger: Food/food/food/food. Sighing,
Tobeszijian dismounted, wincing as his stiff muscles protested. He reached up
and pulled his children down into his arms. Faldain’s cheeks were wet with tear
tracks, and he was whining softly in the way of young children who are too
tired. Thiatereika’s intelligent blue eyes looked around in open curiosity, but
she was also silent. The absence of her usual barrage of questions betrayed her
fatigue. Stepping
back, Tobeszijian released the darsteed to hunt, wondering if he was a fool to
let it go. The creature’s head snapped up, and it hissed at him ferociously
before galloping into the trees and disappearing. Tobeszijian did not watch it
go. His mind remained in the lightest possible contact with it, as if connected
by a long, long leash. He hoped he could order its return when he needed it. “My
papa, I want down,” Thiatereika said, squirming in his arms. He
set her on the ground with relief, taking the Chalice from her, and she turned
her hooded head this way and that to study their surroundings. “What’s
that?” she demanded, pointing at the cave’s mouth. They’d
stopped in what looked to be a shallow ravine, with a thin rivulet of stream
running down its center and a rocky, heavily wooded hillside rising sharply on
one side. The cave was set into the hill, its mouth half-overgrown with briars
and shrubs whose leaves had turned a brilliant yellow. “That,”
Tobeszijian said quietly, “is where we are going to hide the Chalice.” Although
he’d kept his words low and soft, his voice seemed to ring and echo slightly
among the trees. Uneasily, he looked around, trying to sense if anything or
anyone was watching. His senses told him nothing was, but he did not like this
place. The woods were too quiet. The smells of soil and trees and game were
unfamiliar to him. He was not in Nether, but somewhere far away. He did not
feel safe here. Faldain rested his head on his father’s shoulder and sucked
his thumb, heavy and quiet now. Thiatereika stared at the cave until
Tobeszijian took his first stride in that direction, then she ran straight for
it. “Thia,
wait!” he said in alarm. She
stopped in her tracks, much to his relief, and he caught up with her. “We
must be careful,” he said, not wanting to scare her. “Always approach a cave
with caution. You never know what might be living in it.” Her
blue eyes widened. “A beyar?” she whispered. “Beyar,”
Faldain mumbled sleepily against Tobeszijian’s cloak. At
that moment, the king realized what he smelled, and why he felt so uneasy. A
cold feeling of alarm sank through him. He wished he had not let the darsteed
go hunting. Putting
down Faldain, who immediately wailed and reached up his arms, Tobeszijian spent
several moments comforting the child, until his gray eyes grew heavy and
closed. Sighing, Tobeszijian set the Chalice next to the sleeping child and
made Thiatereika sit beside her brother. Taking off his cloak, he spread it
across them. “Both of you stay right here,” he commanded softly. “I
want to see the cave,” she said, her voice thin and tired. “I want to see
beyars.” “Let
me look first,” he told her. “Will
it come out and eat us?” she asked. “Is it going to eat us right now? Gilda
says that beyars take people into their caves and eat them all winter. It’s
winter now, isn’t it, my papa? I know it’s winter because the wind is cold,
although there’s no snow here. Will it snow here, my papa? Will this beyar keep
us in there and eat us?” He
wished, suddenly, that a beyar was all they had to worry about. “No,
Thia,” he said sternly. “There is no beyar here. I will look inside while you
stay here and guard your brother.” “But,
my papa, what if—” He
put his finger to his lips and gave her his sternest look. That was enough to
silence her, and Tobeszijian drew his sword as he walked away from the
children. By the time he’d worked his way through the briars and
approached the mouth of the cave, he was sweating despite the cold wind. The
sour, distinctive smell of trolk was stronger here, strong enough to make him
dry-mouthed. Holding Miren-gard before him, he stepped cautiously forward. He
was a man well seasoned by battle. His courage had never been questioned, not
even by his enemies. By tradition, the muscles in his arm had been measured
when he assumed the throne, and the measuring cord was thereafter placed in the
Book of Counting, where any could see that it was as long as the cord that had
measured Solder’s sword arm. And Tobeszijian was strong in mind as well as arm,
strong enough to command a darsteed with his thoughts, strong enough to have
stunned Muncel, at least for a while. But to confront a trolk in its own cave
was something else entirely. Tobeszijian himself had never fought one, but he’d
seen three men band together against a single trolk and lose. The fierceness of
the creatures was legendary. He knew that only a fool would venture in here,
and yet the Chalice and the Ring had brought him to this place. Mirengard did
not shine, and the Ring neither glowed nor felt hot on his finger. Steeling
himself, Tobeszijian stepped inside. The
cave was shallow and low, forcing him to stoop. With his hair brushing the
ceiling’s dirt and cobwebs, he felt a slight tingle pass through his skin and
realized he had walked through a protection spell. The trolk scent had been
left on this cave, possibly years ago, to keep intruders out. But in fact it
was empty and unused. Relief
swept him, and he let Mirengard dip in his hand. He sensed nothing before him
in the shadowy darkness. The stones smelled musty and damp. The ground beneath
his feet was soft and slightly moist. Sheathing
his sword, he lifted his hand and let the Ring glow slightly, casting its
illumination before him. He saw only a small, slightly rounded chamber,
entirely natural. No one had hewn the cave in this hillside. At the rear, he saw
a V-shaped fissure in the rock wall. It was exactly the right size to hold the
Chalice. Tobeszijian
bowed his head, murmuring a prayer of obedience to the will of the gods.
Exiting the cave, he gathered up children and Chalice and brought them inside.
The Chalice’s natural glow of power filled the cave with illumination. Wedging
it in the fissure, Tobeszijian wrapped the sleeping Faldain in his cloak and
laid him gently on the ground beneath it. Then, with Thiatereika’s small hand
clutched in his, Tobeszijian went outside to gather stones wom smooth by the
stream. He let his daughter carry some of these while he cut straight slim
branches from young ash trees and stripped them of leaves and bark. He
had no candles or salt, but he stood the peeled white ash rods in the fissure
with the Chalice, crossing them left to right, west to east. He placed the
stones in a small circle on the dirt floor, mumbling the holy words of prayer
as he did so. Big-eyed and solemn with a child’s instinctive sense of occasion,
Thiatereika watched every move he made. When he finished placing the soil
within the circle of stones and sprinkled some of it on the base of the
Chalice, he knelt before it and lifted the hilt of Mirengard in front of his
face. Thiatereika
knelt beside him and pressed her hands together. They said the prayer of the
First, Tobeszijian’s deep masculine voice filling the small cave and her thin,
child’s voice piping the words after him in counterpoint. When
he’d finished his part, Tobeszijian listened to his daughter stumbling through
the final words. A corner of his heart swelled with love and pride at this sign
of devotion, already so strong within her. He placed his hand lovingly on her
curls and kissed the top of her head. Then
he said, “O Thod, ruler of all, hear our prayers and our hearts this day. We
have consecrated this place chosen by the will of the gods. So will we honor it
until this time of strife has ended. Hear my plea now, great Thod, and give thy
mercy unto these small children of my loins. Protect them from harm in whatever
is next to come. Anon dein
eld.” “Anon dein eld,”
Thiatereika echoed beside him. She folded her small hands together and kissed
her knuckles as she had been taught. Tobeszijian kissed the hilt of his sword. Feeling
somewhat restored in spirit, he left the children in the cave and went out to
hunt. By nightfall, he’d snared some small game. Skinning the small carcasses,
he built a tiny fire outside the cave by the stream and cooked them until the
meat sizzled with juices and the aroma made his mouth water. He and his
children ate their fill. Then he doused the fire and removed all evidence of
his presence. He and the children went back into the cave and bedded down
together inside the folds of his cloak beneath the gentle radiance of the
Chalice. Within
its light he felt safe and secure, although he knew they could not linger here
much longer. With the children snuggled asleep against him like puppies,
Tobeszijian breathed in the scent of them and caressed the tender skin of their
faces. He knew he could not keep them with him in the days to come. For he was
facing war, and civil war was always the worst and bloodiest kind. On the
morrow he would have to ride to the northernmost reaches of Nether, to seek out
the hold of Prince Volvn, his best general and the wiliest strategist in the
realm. Volvn’s loyalty was sure. Or was it? Only yesterday
Tobeszijian had planned to enlist the support of Prince Spirin, but the man was
a prisoner of Muncel’s and in need of rescue himself. Groaning
a little, Tobeszijian clutched his hair in his hands and tried to battle away
the overwhelming blackness of his grief. In the past two days he had lost his best
friend and his beloved wife. His world had been turned upside down. Tobeszijian
wanted to howl like a wounded animal, but as a man he knew he must control the
maelstrom of emotions that made his chest ache. He could not think of what had
happened, could not remember his dear Nereisse’s face, so still and white in
death. Instead, he must think of the future, of tomorrow and the next day. He
must plan, for to dwell on his loss was to fall into a pit he might not be able
to escape. He
had only one more use of the Ring, only one more journey he could take with its
magical powers. He must use it wisely and flee to the north. Up by the World’s
Rim, where the old ways were still honored, he believed he could raise his
army. While he would not count on Volvn’s loyalty until he stood face-to-face
with the valiant warrior, Tobeszijian did not believe that Volvn could be
corrupted by Muncel’s lies. From
Volvn’s stronghold, he would call on the fealty oaths of his nobles and
knights, testing to see who was loyal and who had gone over to Muncel. He
realized that Cardinal Pernal would try to twist this whole affair into a
vicious holy war. With their souls inflamed, men might tend to forget the true
issue at stake, which was that Muncel had no rightful claim to the throne he
sought. Tobeszijian
reminded himself that he would have to test the eastern holds for treachery.
Someone was letting Believers cross into Nether from Gant. If the border fell,
Nether would be overrun quickly. But
for now, where to put his young, motherless children? What place held safety
for them? Mandria, yes, but it was too far away. Among the eldin, they would
have sanctuary, but Tobeszijian understood that if his son spent more than a
few months among his mother’s people he would be forever changed by their ways
and be rendered unacceptable to his future subjects. Yet
perhaps he was already unacceptable. Bowing his head, Tobeszijian recalled days
of argument with his counselors, who’d opposed his marriage to Nereisse. It was
traditional for the royal family to have a drop of eldin blood in its lineage,
but now it seemed there was too much. Faldain was more eld than human. Tobeszijian
clenched his fists. That did not matter. The throne was his by birth and by
right. Someday it would be Fal-dain’s. Nothing else was acceptable. But
what if this conflict took more than a few months to resolve? He wondered if he
should foster the children with a noble. Yet who could he trust? Then again, it
would be madness to keep the children near him, for if his enemies struck again
they must not find him and Faldain together, two targets for the taking. Over
and over his mind worried at the problem. Nereisse would have known what to do.
How he missed her wise advice already. Tobeszijian sighed. Give him an enemy to
charge and Mirengard in his hand, and he was fearless and perhaps invincible.
Give him shadows and intrigue and betrayal, and he needed guidance to know
where and at whom to strike. He
rolled over onto his side, too weary to sleep on the hard ground. The cold sank
into his bones and made them ache. He had hidden the Chalice in a safe place.
His foremost duty as king had been performed. Now he must think about himself
and his future. In the morning, he would use the Ring to take him and the
children straight to Prince Volvn. There, he would receive counsel. There, he
could make decisions as to what to do next. A
noise awakened Tobeszijian in the dead of night. He awoke with a start, his heart
pounding and his senses straining. At first he heard only the soft rumbling of
Faldain’s snores and Thi-atereika’s rhythmic breathing. He glanced at the
Chalice, and saw it glowing softly within its circle of honor. The
noise came again, muffled and from outside. This time he recognized the
darsteed’s grumbling snort. Astonished,
Tobeszijian sat upright. He had not called the darsteed back. For it to return
on its own was unbelievable. It wouldn’t. Which
meant... He
flung off his cloak and reached for his sword, kneeling hastily before the
Chalice. “Show me my path,” he prayed, “and I will take it.” For
a moment there was only silence around him, then a voice came into his mind,
very clearly and distinctly: “The
children will not be safe in Nether.” He
blinked, astonished by this communication, and felt sweat beading along his
temples. Thod
had heard his prayer and answered him. Swiftly Tobeszijian prostrated himself
on the ground. “Great One, I obey,” he murmured, then rose. Dry-mouthed
and trembling with awe, he shoved aside his spinning thoughts, telling himself
he could not think about the ramifications of this warning now. If the children
weren’t safe in their own land, that meant the treachery was more widespread
than he’d believed possible. Civil war was usually long and bloody. He might
find it difficult to regain his throne. But right now he must act quickly, for
danger had come. He
could feel it, waiting somewhere out there in the night. It was not close yet,
not as close as the darsteed trampling about in the ravine. But it was coming,
as though the Nonkind had been set on his trail again. By
whom? Muncel
might be a traitor, but Tobeszijian could not believe his half-brother would
embrace the darkness. Something else was at work here, something that
Tobeszijian did not as yet understand. A
shiver passed through him. Nereisse’s vision of him surrounded by a Nonkind
horde might yet come true. But,
no, he would not frighten himself with visions and imaginings. He
scooped up the children, neither of whom awakened. Going outside, he found the
night air bitterly cold. The wind was blowing strongly. Now and then he felt a
spit of moisture on his face, though whether it was rain or sleet he could not
tell. He
did not see the darsteed, but he could smell its hot, sulfur stink. When he
heard it rustling among the nearby trees, he called it. Reluctantly
it came, looming suddenly out of the darkness. With its red eyes glowing in the
pitch black, it hissed and blew smoke. Its tail lashed viciously, almost
hitting him, and he noticed that the saddle was askew and the armor cloth torn,
as though the darsteed had been trying to rid itself of both. Putting
the children out of harm’s way, Tobeszijian struggled to right the saddle. He
had to strike the darsteed’s snout twice to keep it from biting him. The stink
of its hot breath filled the air, and it snapped and slung its head about as he
tightened the cinch. Breathlessly,
Tobeszijian jumped back out of reach, slapping aside another attempted bite. He
scooped up the sleeping children without waking them, and started to mount. A
noise in the distance startled Tobeszijian. He froze momentarily in place and
strained his ears to listen. Hissing,
the darsteed raised its head and stared intently in the same direction. The
king’s heart thumped hard beneath his breastplate. Hearing the distant sounds
growing louder as they approached, he frowned and turned his face into the
wind, squinting against the sleet now falling. It was not hoofbeats he heard,
but something quieter, a rhythmic pad-pad-pad, a progressive rustling
through thick undergrowth. Then
he saw a flicker of light in the distant trees. Suddenly there came many
pinpoints of light, dancing and glimmering through the sleet-torn darkness.
Eldin were coming. Relief eased the tension in his shoulders. The
darsteed lifted its narrow head and bugled an eager greeting. Frowning,
Tobeszijian stepped back from the creature and sent it galloping into the
forest, snorting and grumbling, the empty stirrups bouncing against its sides. Turning
on his heel, Tobeszijian reentered the little cave, wrapped the sleeping
children in his cloak, and left them snuggled beneath the pale white glow of
the Chalice’s power. By
the time he emerged, the eldin had arrived. Shadowy and only half-visible in
the sleet-stung darkness, they filled the bottom of the ravine. Some rode
astride beyar mounts, with saddles of crimson leather; most were afoot. A few
held their left hands aloft like torches. The flames burning from their
fingertips created what was known as fairlight. It should have illuminated the
stream and the cave’s bramble-shielded mouth, but it seemed dimmer now than when
he’d first glimpsed it. He could barely see any of them. Cautiously,
Tobeszijian walked downhill to meet their leader. This eld sat astride a
ghostly white beyar with a stripe of gray at its throat. Tobeszijian did not
recognize him, but clearly he was an individual of importance. He wore mail
made of gold links and a sleeveless tunic of velvet lined with lyng fur. Within
the hood of his cloak, a thin gold circlet very similar to Tobes-zijian’s own
crown gleamed on his brow. Tobeszijian
bowed to him in courtesy. “Welcome to my camp,” he said, using the old tongue. The
eld’s eyes were as pale as stone. They studied Tobeszijian coldly. His face was
handsome in the way of his people, lacking a beard, with deep lines grooving either
side of his mouth. When he pushed back the hood of his cloak, his ears were
revealed to be small and elegant, barely pointed at the tips. He wore a heavy
gold ring in the lobe of his right ear. It winked now and then, reflecting the
dim fairlight around him. “I
am Asterlain, king of these mountains,” the eld said. His voice was clear and
musical, with the pure ringing tones of bard crystal. But no lilt or laughter
filled that voice. He spoke the old tongue with an accent strange to
Tobeszijian, who had learned the language from his eldin mother. “I come
seeking Tobeszijian, human king of Nether.” “I
am Tobeszijian.” Out
in the thicket beyond the small clearing, the darsteed stamped and suddenly
bugled. Its
loud voice made Tobeszijian jump, and Asterlain’s beyar roared in response,
rearing up on its hindquarters and swiping the air with its enormous claws
before Asterlain brought it back under control. Asterlain
looked at Tobeszijian. “Why have you brought the Chalice of Eternal Life here?” Ice
encased Tobeszijian’s heart. If the eldin knew the Chalice was here, who else
had been watching his movements? He sensed evil out there in the dark forest,
slinking ever closer, and perhaps listening. Suddenly
he trusted nothing, not even these eldin who had appeared so unexpectedly and
oddly just as he was leaving. “I
am here to hunt,” he lied warily. He moved his hand casually to his sword hilt.
“It is autumn. All who know me know of my custom to range far in search of game
and sport.” “Nether
has prospered long,” Asterlain said, apparently ignoring the lie. “Without the
Chalice, its prosperity will end.” Tobeszijian
frowned. “My kingdom is not yet lost,” he said sternly. “Perhaps you have heard
of my half-brother’s ambitions. They are rumors only. Would I go out sporting
if aught were amiss with my throne and kingdom?” Asterlain
closed his eyes and tilted back his face to sniff the air. Tobeszijian felt
pressure pushing against his mind, but he held his thoughts closed. Anger
burned in his throat and started throbbing in his temples. Never before had any
eld dared to force his mind. The insult tightened his fingers on his sword
hilt. After
a moment, Asterlain opened his eyes and looked at Tobeszijian once again. His
gaze was harsh with frustration. “You lack the skill to protect the Chalice
properly. We have come to help you with your preparations.” Asterlain
is guessing about the Chalice’s being here,
Tobeszijian thought. He is
trying to trick me into confirming his suspicions. Tobeszijian stood frozen, determined to keep every
emotion from his face. He no longer believed he was actually facing real eldin.
Whoever, whatever Asterlain and his party were, they could not be what they
seemed. Although he sensed no taint upon Asterlain, no evil, he could not stop
his thoughts from leaping to the next logical suspicion. Shapeshifters, he thought, his heart racing. Yet were they? Unsure, he
swallowed hard. “It is unwise to doubt my word, King Asterlain,” he replied at
last. “I am here to hunt, nothing more.” The
eld king tilted his head to one side, causing fairlight to glint off his gold
earring. “You are far from your lands and kingdom. Your rights to hunt here do
not exist, save by my leave.” “Then
do I ask your pardon,” Tobeszijian said. “I have offered you a discourtesy,
which was not meant.” “Where
is the Chalice?” Asterlain asked impatiently. “Nearby surely, for we sense it.
Yet where?” Tobeszijian
frowned, and managed to keep his gaze from shifting involuntarily toward the
cave’s mouth. Could Asterlain not see the cave? It was not concealed. The
briars which grew over it were not thick enough to act as a shield. Had
Asterlain not seen Tobeszijian emerge from it in full view? Yet
the eld kept on staring at Tobeszijian, his pale eyes intense with frustration.
Tobeszijian remembered how as a boy he’d had an ancient, much-beloved hound
that went blind in its old age. Tobeszijian would sometimes play a game of
standing absolutely still and silent while the dog sniffed and searched for
him. Sometimes the old dog would come right to him, but sometimes he would
stand only a few feet away, whining in frustration and unable to find his
master. That’s
the way Asterlain was acting, as though he were somehow blind to the cave’s
whereabouts. Obviously he could sense the Chalice’s presence, but he could not
locate it. Perhaps,
Tobeszijian thought in amazement, the Chalice’s own power was concealing it. From
the corner of his eye Tobeszijian gazed warily at the mounted eldin on their
beyars. When he did not look directly at them, they seemed indistinct, not
quite real. His thoughts brushed toward them, and encountered nothing. They
were phantoms only. Illusions. He blinked, his eyes burning, and let his
thoughts spin rapidly through several options. He had to find a way to lead
Asterlain away from this place. But how? “Why
do you not answer?” Asterlain asked impatiently. “King Tobeszijian, I bid you
respond to my questions.” A
strange roaring filled Tobeszijian’s ears. He could feel the Ring of Solder
glowing hotter and hotter on his finger. His heart began to hammer very hard,
but some instinct made him keep absolutely still. He said nothing, almost
holding his breath, and watched alarm fill Asterlain’s eyes. The
eldin king looked around as though he could no longer see Tobeszijian. “King
Tobeszijian!” he called again, his voice even louder now. The air shimmered
around him, and the fairlight burning from his fingertips went out. In
that instant Tobeszijian smelled the sickly sweet, decayed stench of the
Nonkind. He knew then for certain that he was standing in front of a
shapeshifter, the most skilled and powerful one he’d ever encountered. His
blood ran cold, and he almost drew his sword to attack the creature. But he
stayed motionless, telling himself that to hide this way was sensible, not
cowardly. He was outnumbered and on foot. He had his children and the Chalice
to protect. It was important to get out of here safely, not fight a battle he
was certain to lose. If the Chalice’s power was shielding him now, he must work
with it as best he could. Breathing
hard, Asterlain hunched atop his beyar. Rage purpled his face and filled his
pale eyes with such heat and intensity that Tobeszijian was certain they could
drill right through his concealment. Yet
as long as he did not move, Asterlain could not see him. Tobeszijian slowed his
breathing as much as he could, feeling the seconds drawing out slower and
slower until they were agonizing. “Ashnod
curse this place!” Asterlain said furiously, pounding his fist on his thigh.
His voice had changed pitch, deepening and growing rougher in tone. No longer
did he speak in the old tongue of the eldin, but instead in Gantese. Death
stench filled the clearing, polluting the air so heavily that Tobeszijian had
to swallow hard several times to keep himself from gagging. Cursing,
Asterlain spurred his beyar straight at Tobeszijian, who stood there rooted,
his mind spinning with worry. Should he let the beyar ride straight into him?
Should he spring aside at the last moment? Behind
Asterlain, the other eldin riders faded into the darkness. The black shadows of
night filled the clearing while fairlight vanished and Tobeszijian’s lone
opponent cursed and searched. Tobeszijian’s
fingers were curled knuckle-white around his sword hilt. If he drew now he
could slay the beyar and bring down its rider. If he waited it would be too
late to step aside. He
stood with his feet rooted to the ground, his heart pounding in his chest, his
sweat cold beneath his mail. Have
faith in the Chalice, he told himself. By
now the beyar was only a pace away from him. It was a massive brute, its
shoulder nearly as tall as Tobeszijian’s. Asterlain sat hunched astride the
shaggy creature as though in pain. Tobeszijian could hear the shapeshifter’s
harsh breathing. The
hot, sour stench of the beyar mingled with the corrupt smell of its Nonkind
rider. Tobeszijian stared at the long broad muzzle of the beast, at its small,
ferocious eyes. Its powerful claws scraped and clattered on the frozen ground,
and it grunted steadily, making a savage growling noise that tightened
Tobeszijian’s guts. He knew that the beyar’s claws could rendthrough his mail,
slicing him from gullet to groin in a single blow. By then the shapeshifter
would be upon him, or something even worse might come. Stay
still, he told himself, feeling the
pressure against his mind return. Stay still. With
a growl, the beyar came within inches of him, then veered slightly and trotted
past, close enough to brush Tobeszijian’s side with its shaggy white fur.
Asterlain’s toe went right past Tobeszijian’s elbow, missing it by less than a
breath. He
rode onward, calling Tobeszijian’s name and cursing him. Turning around, he
came back and brushed past Tobeszijian on the other side. Sleet stung
Tobeszijian’s face and the cold air sank deep into his bones, but he moved not.
He might as well have been carved from stone, the steady warmth from the Ring
of Solder on his finger giving him just enough courage to endure while
Asterlain cast about, circling the clearing yet again. Then,
from inside the cave, came a child’s frightened wail. Asterlain
drew rein sharply and wheeled his beyar around. His thin face turned toward the
cave, and he listened intently. Tobeszijian
raged inwardly, cursing this creature that hunted him. He wished with all his
might that he could warn Thi-atereika to be quiet, but his mind could not reach
into the thoughts of people. “My
papa!” she wailed, even more loudly than before. “Where are you?” The
sound of her crying filled the air beneath the steady rattle of sleet among the
trees. Asterlain hissed to himself in satisfaction and started toward the cave. “No!”
Tobeszijian shouted. He drew Mirengard, and its blade flashed light through the
darkness as he ran forward. Even
as Asterlain was turning around in his crimson saddle, Tobeszijian struck with
all the strength of his two arms. Mirengard cut Asterlain in half, separating
his head and torso from his hips and legs. A foul black liquid spurted out,
splattering the beyar’s white fur, and the upper half of Asterlain went
tumbling to the ground. The
beyar roared and reared up, and Tobeszijian whistled. Come/come/come/come! he called with his mind. Cloven
hooves pounded over the frozen ground. As the beyar lunged at Tobeszijian with
its deadly claws, the black, scaled darsteed burst from the thicket and struck
the beyar’s side with its razor-sharp forefeet. Great
gashes opened in the beyar’s side. With a roar it turned on the snapping,
hissing darsteed and the two creatures joined in battle. Stumbling
out of the way, Tobeszijian barely avoided being struck down by the darsteed’s
lashing tail. With Mirengard still glowing in his hand, he ran up the hill and
ducked inside the cave. It was dark. The Chalice’s light no longer glowed. Thiatereika
stood just inside the cave’s mouth; he would have stumbled right over her had
she not been crying. Stopping
in the darkness, with his rapid breathing sounding harsh and loud in his ears,
he pulled her into his arms. “Where is your brother?” he asked. “I
had a bad dream, my papa,” she whimpered, clinging to him. “I dreamed that Mama
was dead.” “Hush,”
he said, carrying her to the back of the cave, where he collected the sleeping
Faldain. “She
was taken by people robed in black, my papa,” Thiatereika said brokenly, her
voice torn with grief. “They took her away!” His
arm tightened around her. “Stop it,” he said sharply. “No one is taking your
mother away. You are with me. You are safe.” “I want to go home,” she wailed, crying again. Faldain woke
up and began to cry too. “I’m cold, my papa. I don’t like this game anymore. I
want Gilda.” “Gildie!”
Faldain said in shrill agreement. Tobeszijian
knew they were little, knew they were cold and tired and frightened, but he
spared no more comfort for either of them as he carried them outside into the
bitter night. The sleet was falling even harder. The air was so cold it hurt.
He paused at the mouth of the cave and pressed the flat of Miren-gard’s blade
against first one side of the opening and then the other. “In
the name of Thod,” he intoned, “let this place lie under the protection of the
gods.” Down
in the little clearing near the stream, the battle between the beyar and the
darsteed had already ended. The beyar lay on its side, its white fur now
stained dark. The darsteed was feeding noisily, shaking its lean head viciously
now and then to tear off another chunk of raw flesh. Staying
clear of the beast while it ate, Tobeszijian put his children down and pulled
free of their clinging hands. Both began to cry again. “Stand
there, for just a moment!” he said sharply, his own stress and fatigue making
him harsher than he meant to be. “Do as I say!” Thiatereika
fell silent, and Faldain pressed his face against her, whining still. Tobeszijian
dragged the two halves of Asterlain’s body over the frozen ground and tossed
them in the shallow stream. A scream rose from Asterlain’s dead throat, and
Tobeszijian jumped back, stumbling and nearly falling on the bank while he
struggled to draw his sword. But
Asterlain did not move. While his corpse lay in running water, it could not
resume life. And no other dreadful creature rose to take life from his blood. Tobeszijian
stood there on the bank, breathing hard, his eyes staring at the corpse.
Gradually he relaxed and let his half-drawn sword slide back into its scabbard.
Relief swept him, and he turned away, hurrying back toward the darsteed. His
head was pounding. His muscles remained knotted with tension. He stumbled,
squinting against the sleet, and felt as though he’d stepped into mire and was
being pulled down by it. It
was only fatigue, catching up with him. He caught himself wiping the sleet from
his face, over and over, his palms scrubbing his skin. His breathing was still
rapid and harsh. Now and then he heard a little moan catching in the back of
his throat. Mighty
Thod, deliver me from the hands of my enemies,
he prayed silently, seeking to find strength enough to hang on. He had fought
Gant Nonkind and Believers before, but never alone, on his own, lacking the
spells of protection. The
fetid smell of death still lingered on the air. Hurrying back to the children,
Tobeszijian scooped up Faldain just in time to save him from the darsteed’s
snapping jaws. The
beast hissed at him, lashing a warning with its tail, but Tobeszijian knew
already that it had eaten its fill. It was only protecting its kill now, and
halfheartedly at that. After a couple of tries, Tobeszijian managed to dart close
enough to grab the dangling reins. He pulled the darsteed around, controlling
its desire to strike at him. “No!”
Thiatereika shrieked when her father reached for her. She stamped her foot, her
small cloak gusting in the wind. “I don’t want to ride anymore! I want Gilda! I
want to go home.” Ignoring
her protests, he picked her up and set her and Fal-dain in front of the saddle. The
darsteed whipped its head around and bit Tobeszijian in his side, just above
his hip. The creature’s fangs glanced off the bottom rim of his breastplate,
denting the metal but not piercing it. Still, the attack was vicious enough to
knock Tobeszijian against the beast’s side. Gasping
with pain, he gripped the stirrup to keep his balance while the darsteed bugled
with fury and tried to swing away from him. Desperately
Tobeszijian kept hold of stirrup and reins, knowing he could not let the
darsteed run away with the children on its back. It would shake them off and
eat them. Furious himself, he struck the beast with his thoughts, but its mind
was a red-hot mass, unassailable for the first time since its capture. Astonished,
Tobeszijian staggered, nearly losing his footing as he grappled to keep his
hold on the reins. The darsteed reared high above him, deadly forefeet striking
out. Tobeszijian dodged, and the darsteed yanked away from him. One of the
reins snapped in two with a twang. Tobeszijian
feinted and moved with the beast, trying to stay out of striking range without
losing his last, tenuous hold on the remaining rein. Drawing his dagger, he
dodged another attempt to bite him and struck hard and precisely, plunging his
dagger deep into the web of muscle between the darsteed’s shoulder and ribs. The
animal screamed and blew fire. Thiatereika was crying now, screaming to get
off. Clinging to the darsteed’s neck like a tiny burr, Faldain uttered no
sound. “Hang
on!” Tobeszijian told them as he dodged the flames. Fire scorched his cheek,
and the pain sent him stumbling back. He would have fallen had the darsteed not
dragged him. Its frenzied attempt to pull away lifted Tobeszijian back on his
feet. Cursing, he fought the animal, which was bleeding heavily and moaning. But
its pain distracted it enough for him to reestablish control. Stand/stand/stand/stand, he commanded it. The
darsteed snorted and obeyed him. In that moment, Tobeszijian mounted and jammed
his feet firmly in the stirrups. The darsteed reared, trying to brush him off
under some tree limbs. Thiatereika cried out and nearly toppled to the ground,
but Tobeszijian’s arm encircled her and her brother, keeping them snug against
him. The darsteed tried to rear again, but Tobeszijian jabbed it cruelly with his
spurs, startling it into a weak buck instead. Snorting
flames, the darsteed shook its head in fury, but Tobeszijian leaned over and
pulled out his dagger from its side. Blood spurted across his hand, burning
where it splattered. The
darsteed bellowed in pain and stumbled, but he had control of it now. Go/go/go/go, Tobeszijian commanded, and the beast lurched into a
stumbling gallop. Struggling
to guide it with only one rein, Tobeszijian tried to find his bearings in the darkness.
The sleet soaked through his surcoat and seeped between the links of his mail.
He felt chilled to the bone. The wet saddle under his thighs made him colder.
Tobeszijian pulled up the children’s hoods and tried to cover them with the
folds of his cloak. The night was too raw for traveling, but even as he caught
himself longing to be safe indoors by a warm fire, the wind shifted and his
nostrils caught a stink of something rotten. More
Nonkind were coming. He choked a moment in new alarm, then fear iced his veins. The
darsteed bugled eagerly until Tobeszijian forced it to be silent. In
the sudden quiet, Tobeszijian heard an unworldly howl close by, and his heart
skipped a beat. He knew the hunting cry of a hurlhound all too well. Thanks to
the rebellion of the darsteed, they’d been delayed long enough for the
hurlhound to catch up with them. What
next? Tobeszijian asked himself
wearily, then shook off his weakness. Fiercely, he glanced at the hillside on
his right. The howl had come from somewhere up there. The hurlhound was close
enough to reach him in a few minutes. Already his ears picked up the sound of its crashing progress as it
descended through the undergrowth. The
darsteed swung around to face the approaching hurlhound, its powerful body
quivering eagerly. Tobeszijian’s mind sifted rapidly through a dozen
possibilities. He had to think of a refuge for the children outside of Nether,
and he had only seconds to make a decision. They must be hidden with someone
trustworthy enough not to sell them as hostages to a foreign enemy, or even to
Muncel. But as a wheeling series of faces belonging to the handful of nobles in
Mandria or to the one-eyed chieftain in Klad whom he’d bribed into being a
secret ally crossed his mind, Tobeszijian knew that none of them were right. He
knew, too, that he could not afford to make a mistake now; he had only a single
trip with the Ring remaining to him. The
hurlhound was still crashing down the hillside, so close now he could hear it
snarling and snapping. And at that moment, a second one burst from the thicket
on his left and charged straight toward him. Tobeszijian shouted in alarm, but
the monster yelped and turned aside at the stream, dashing back and forth as
though afraid to leap it. The
hurlhound was a monstrous creature, twice the size of the largest dog in
Tobeszijian’s kennels, with black, scaled skin instead of hair and a broad,
blunt head ending in a powerful muzzle of razor-sharp teeth. Its tongue—glowing
with eerie green phosphorus—lolled from its jaws. He could hear the creature
panting and whining as it paced back and forth along the narrow stream. Its
eyes glowed red, and it stank of rotting flesh, so sickly and foul Tobeszijian
thought he would retch. “Dog!”
Faldain announced, pointing. Thiatereika
screamed. At
that instant, the hurlhound leaped across the stream and came bounding straight
at them with impossible speed. Reaching them, it jumped up as though to drag
Tobeszijian from the saddle. Tobeszijian
swung his sword down in a powerful slash and cut off the hurlhound’s head in a
clean blow. Mirengard was glowing with blinding radiance. He could feel the
magical power in humming through the
bones of his hand. Behind
him, the other hurlhound reached the bottom of the hill and came roaring at
them. Tobeszijian swung the darsteed around to face its oncoming charge, but at
that moment the king made his decision. Gazing
at his glowing sword, he thought of the only sword-maker he knew capable of
producing something similar to the legendary Mirengard. Jerking
off his glove with his teeth, Tobeszijian let the hurlhound keep coming and
concentrated all his heart and mind on his glowing Ring. Its light shone over
the pawing darsteed and Tobeszijian’s children. To
Jorb, the dwarf of Nold, he thought. To Jorb! The
hurlhound reached them, leaping high. Its cavernous jaws opened wide, revealing
its glowing teeth and venomous tongue. Its eyes shone red with the fires of
hell, and its stink rolled over Tobeszijian like death itself. But
he pushed his fear aside. He held his ground while his children screamed and
struggled against the iron band of his protecting arm. Then the power came,
tossing them up into the very air. The hurlhound was knocked aside with a yelp,
and they were swept into the second world yet again. Nold
was a forbidding, unwelcoming country, damp and cold, and it was still tainted
by the residue of magic cast in the mighty battles of antiquity. Sparsely
settled, most of the land was choked with the Dark Forest—woods so thick no
decent road could be built through them. Instead, muddy trails wound through
the trees, trails that might take a weary traveler to a settlement or might
stop in the midst of nowhere. It
was afternoon, and Tobeszijian rode along such a trail, trying hard to keep his
sense of direction despite the weariness buzzing inside his head. The
darsteed was limping badly. Moaning and snorting, the animal hobbled along
stiffly, its wound still oozing and raw. Every
time Tobeszijian tried to dismount to spare it, however, the creature attacked
him. He
rode it grimly, forcing it to give him the very last of its strength. When it finally
went down, he would have to cut its throat and walk to the next settlement. If
he could not buy a decent horse, it would be a long trudge indeed all the way
home to Nether. He
sighed, feeling bereft without the children snuggled beneath his cloak. Again
and again, his mind conjured up his last sight of their bewildered,
tear-streaked faces while Jorb held their shoulders to keep them from running
after their father. Tobeszijian
frowned. He could not feel easy about leaving them behind. They had no
protectors, no guards, no retainers. Even were he gone a month or two—and
certainly it would be no more than that—it was an enormous risk to leave them
in the sole care of a near stranger. Tobeszijian knew Jorb on a business
footing only. The dwarf was a master armorer, and was known for the fine swords
he crafted. Twice Tobeszijian had commissioned him to make armor and daggers
for him. Jorb coveted Mirengard. Whenever he talked to Tobeszijian, his gaze
would stray to , and his thick
fingers—strong enough to crack walnuts—would flex and stretch as though they
ached to slide along that shining blade. Like
all dwarves, Jorb was temperamental and sly. He struck hard bargains, but once
a dwarf actually gave his word, he would stay true to it. Jorb had demanded
Mirengard in exchange for hiding the children. It
was an impossible bargain. Tobeszijian could not hold his throne without , and Jorb knew that. The dwarf had used his
unreasonable demand to leverage a fat purse of gold, the jeweled ring from
Tobeszijian’s smallest finger, his silver spurs, and the cups of eldin silver
belonging to the children. Clutching his booty and chuckling to himself, the
dwarf had ducked his bearded chin low and scuttled back into his queer hut
built in the base of a vast tree trunk, with a stone-lined entry and an
iron-banded door. Smoke curled out through a hollow limb overhead, making the
tree almost look like it was on fire. Jorb
popped outside a few minutes later and gestured. “Well, bring ‘em in. Bring ’em
in!” he said. There
had been time only for a swift glance round at the cramped interior. It was
swept clean, with every humble pos- session
in its proper place. Tobeszijian knew that Jorb was accounted to be rich and
prosperous, as he was much in demand for his skills at the forge. No doubt the
dwarf kept his gold strongboxes and treasures down deep in the ground,
concealed in mysterious tunnels and burrows. Still, the place was far from
suitable for the children of a king. With the blessing of Thod, perhaps they
would not have to stay hidden here long. Tobeszijian
had ridden away this morning with the cries of Faldain and Thiatereika echoing
in his ears. He knew he must set his face toward war, yet he felt unmanned and
guilty. He despaired of ever being reunited with his children. Soon,
my precious ones, he’d promised them
silently. Soon I shall
return for you. Thiatereika
had run down the road in his darsteed’s wake, crying out, “My papa, come back!
My papa! My papa!” The
heartbreak and terror in her voice had nearly destroyed all his resolve.
Although he’d intended to turn around and wave, he kept his back to her,
hearing her voice growing fainter and fainter as he kicked the darsteed into a
gallop. They
were safe, he told himself for the countless time. Hidden
and safe. He
wanted to feel relief, but instead his sense of uneasiness grew. Nereisse would
have condemned him for leaving them behind, unguarded, in the hands of one who
owed him no allegiance. It seemed that her spirit, cold with disapproval,
perched on his shoulder. “What
else could I do?” he asked aloud. Tipping
back his head, he stared at the overcast sky. The clouds were massed and dark above
the thick treetops. He shivered under his cloak. He
felt as though he had somehow failed. And with that came a boiling surge of
anger against Nereisse, who had left him to face these difficulties alone. What
right had she to risk her life by knowingly drawing poison into her body to
save her daughter? What right had she to take herself from him, just when he
needed her most? They could have had another daughter, could have faced the
future together, could have ... Gripping
his hair in his fist, he cried out, making an animal sound of sheer anguish. He
did not understand himself. His fury and resentment bewildered him, and he felt
guilty, as though he had somehow be- trayed
his dead wife by feeling this way. He loved her. He had been enspelled by her
from the first moment he glimpsed her in the forest. As for weighing the value
of Nereisse’s life against Thiatereika’s .. . what was wrong with him? Could he
resent his own daughter for having lived at the cost of her mother’s life? Was that why he found it so easy to abandon his children in
this dark, primitive land? Fearing
that some madness was trying to break his mind, he turned his thoughts toward
his next responsibilities. He must work quickly to raise an army and crush Muncel’s
rebellion. If he didn’t return to Nether soon and force his nobles and knights
to honor their oaths to him, then he might as well stay here in the forests of
Nold, an exile forever. He would not seek assistance from Verence of Mandria
yet. Thus far, Verence had proven to be a sound ally, but it was best to handle
civil war without the help of neighboring lands, which might decide to conquer
rather than assist. The
sky overhead stayed gray and tired. Now and then rain drizzled on him. He
brushed past leafy branches and ducked beneath loops of gnarled vines. Keebacks
wheeled overhead in the sky, making their plaintive cry. He encountered no
other travelers, except once, a group of five dwarves clad in green linsey.
Stocky and round-cheeked, their beards woolly and matted, they were each
burdened with bulky sacks thrown across their shoulders, sacks heavy enough to
bend them double. Their furtive eyes glared at Tobeszijian, then they scattered
off the road and into the forest, giving him no chance to ask how far it was to
the next settlement. If
he could find a village, he would trade his cloak pin for a horse or even a
mule, and set the darsteed loose. He
touched his mind to the beast’s, trying to urge it, but the darsteed was too
filled with pain and fury to go faster. A
keeback burst from the trees ahead of him, calling kee-kee-kee.
A stag bounded into the road, stared at him with startled eyes, and leaped back
into the thicket in a panic. The darsteed stumbled to a halt unbidden, and let
its head sink down. Frowning, Tobeszijian kicked it hard, but it only groaned. He
sat there in the saddle, tired and cold and wet, and knew he had pushed it all
he could. Its wound was not fatal, but the beast needed rest and care to mend.
Tobeszijian had time for neither. He could not set the creature free in these
woods, where it would hunt and attack man, dwarf, or creature alike. Which
meant he would have to kill it. “Not
yet,” he said through his teeth, thinking of the long walk ahead of him. A king
afoot in a foreign land? It was a mockery. Again
he urged the darsteed forward, but it stood there with its snout on the ground
and would not respond. Fury
and frustration choked Tobeszijian. He knew he had only himself to blame for
the darsteed’s injury. Tilting back his head, Tobeszijian lifted his fist to
the sky. If only he’d used the Ring to go north to Prince Volvn’s stronghold as
he’d first intended. If only he hadn’t been warned not to take the children
back into Nether. It was unfair of the gods to set so strict a limitation on
the use of the Ring. Only three tries? When there was need of more? “Damn
you!” he shouted. Drawing his sword, he whacked the darsteed’s rump with the
flat of his blade. It
hissed and whipped its head around defiantly, but took no step forward. Again
he struck it, shouting curses and wishing he had not let Jorb talk him out of
his spurs, but all his efforts to urge the creature on were for naught. The
darsteed instead sank to its knees. Tobeszijian
twisted around in the saddle and started to dismount. But at that moment he
heard a sudden pop of sound, and a creature black and hairy materialized from
thin air to stand directly in his path. It
was half the size of the darsteed, and so lean it seemed almost flat when it
turned to the side. A stench of sulfur hung on its fur, and its bony head
turned on a long, sinuous neck to bare multiple rows of savage teeth at Tobeszijian. The
darsteed bellowed and reared up with an awkward lunge, nearly unseating its
rider. Furious at himself for being caught off guard, Tobeszijian had only a
second to wonder why his senses had not warned him a Nonkind was this close
before the sylith leaped forward. As
the darsteed lashed out with its sharp hooves and the sylith dodged with a
snarl, Tobeszijian drew Mirengard. In the presence of Ncnkind its blade glowed
as white as the purest flame. Swinging aloft, Tobeszijian fought to control the
darsteed and managed to pivot his mount around just as the sylith sprang up at
him. Tobeszijian’s blade sliced cleanly through the sylith’s thin neck,
dropping its head to the ground with a spurt of acidic blood that splattered
and steamed in the cold air. He smelled the dreadful decayed stench of it and
tried desperately to breathe through his mouth. The
headless body of the monster staggered about, refusing to topple. Bugling a
challenge, the darsteed brought its sharp hooves down upon the sylith’s head,
crushing it. Snorting flame, the darsteed set the sylith’s narrow body afire. A
shriek rent the air, fading into the ether as the sylith finally died. Its
charred body crashed to the ground and lay still. The reek of burned flesh
filled the air. Mirengard
glowed even brighter, and ’s power
flowed down its blade, dripping off the tip and cleansing the foul blood away.
Tiny silver puddles shimmered on the trampled ground, and green vines sprouted
there, unfurling new leaves despite the frost-laden air. In less than a day the
vines would grow over the sylith’s charred corpse and conceal it as though it
had never been there. Continuing
down his road, Tobeszijian drew in a few deep breaths and wondered what had
made the monster attack him alone. Syliths seldom hunted singly. Another one
was bound to be nearby. He lifted his face to the damp breeze, questing, but
sensed nothing. A shiver moved down his spine, and he kept Mirengard gripped in
his hand instead of sheathing it. Snorting little spurts of flame, its eyes glowing red, its
tail lashing viciously behind it, the darsteed trotted a few steps, restive and
fiery, before it began to limp again. Tobeszijian
kept it going. Settling himself deeper in the saddle, he maintained a wary
lookout. He smelled nothing other than the darsteed’s lathered sweat, damp
soil, and the half-rotted leaves of the forest, yet he stayed tense and ready. At
that moment, twin shrieks filled the air before him. He reined up sharply, his
heart nearly bursting through his breastplate. Just as the darsteed wheeled
sideways, two hurlhounds materialized on the road, blocking it. The darsteed,
still hot with battle-lust, bellowed and lunged against the reins. Another cry
answered from behind. Two more hurlhounds appeared there, cutting him off from
retreat. Tobeszijian
swore and spurred the darsteed into the forest, although he knew that with its
wounded shoulder it could not outrun this unholy pack. The
darsteed reared, and he glimpsed yet a fifth hurlhound, springing at them from
the undergrowth. Black-scaled
and vicious, their eyes glowing red and their fangs dripping death, the
hurlhounds closed in. Darsteed and rider fought with hooves and sword, grimly
determined to prevail. But two of the hounds bit deep into the darsteed’s
hindquarters, cutting tendons, and brought it halfway down. The
darsteed screamed with pain, and its agony flooded Tobeszijian’s senses even as
he twisted in the saddle to hack into one of the hurlhounds. The creature
collapsed with a yelp, and its companion snarled and sprang back out of reach. At
that moment, Tobeszijian was struck from the left by the weight of another,
which gripped the folds of his heavy cloak in its mouth and tried to drag him
from the saddle. Tobeszijian
drew his dagger and struck the hurlhound in the face. His dagger point skidded
across its scaled skull and rammed into one of its red eyes. Snarling and
yelping, the hurlhound snapped back its head so violently that Tobeszijian’s
dagger was torn from his hand. He
struck with Mirengard to fend off another attack, but one of the creatures sank
its fangs into his leg. Venom
poured into his flesh like fire. He heard himself screaming a wild, senseless
mixture of curses and prayers. The darsteed bucked beneath him as it tried to
pull its crippled hind legs up beneath it. Wobbling, it threw Tobeszijian off
balance, and with a moan let itself sink down, only to thrash wildly again. The
remaining hurlhounds did not let up. One went for the darsteed’s throat while
another nearly pulled Tobeszijian from the saddle. Streaming blood, racked with
agony, he killed it, but more of the creatures kept appearing, making sure he
stayed surrounded and outnumbered. Their
dim, bestial minds hammered at his: KilUkilUkill/kill. And
another unholy mind came with theirs, one cold, sentient, and clear: Where/where/where/where? Tobeszijian’s
mind was bombarded with images of the Chal- ice,
death and decay, rotting bones, moldering intestines, gaping wounds, hot biting
joy at killing, and implacable fury mingled with frustration. He
gasped, struggling with all his might to hold his mind shut against the mad
hounds and their unseen master. He would not surrender the Chalice. Not even to
save himself. He
knew he could not prevail. He was tiring, and he wore no spell of protection to
shield him. His wounds burned with such fire he thought he might pass out. Yet
the pain goaded him to keep fighting even as the poison sapped his strength. He
felt himself weakening fast. His sword arm slowed, feeling increasingly heavy.
Tiny gray dots danced in his vision. His spirit and mind remained strong, but
his body was dying. Turning
in a tight circle, he struck again and again, beating back the hurlhounds with
diminishing strength. The poison in his veins was something dark and tangled,
tainted with horrors worse than death. His body jerked, and he fought the need
to thrash against whatever burned inside him. He would not give way to it,
would not become a part of the evil surrounding him. “No,”
he said raggedly, hacking a terrible wound across the neck of a lunging
hurlhound. With its head nearly severed from its body, it staggered in a circle
and snapped bloody, hissing froth at one of its mates. Wild
laughter suddenly filled the air above the ferocious snarls and growls.
Yelping, the uninjured hurlhounds sprang back from Tobeszijian as though
obeying a silent command. Those bleeding with wounds froze in their tracks and
abruptly collapsed. Swaying,
Tobeszijian blinked away the dancing dots for a moment and glanced around. A
short distance away, a trio of men mounted on darsteeds emerged from the woods.
Their helms were plain and black. Their hauberks were made not of chain mail,
but instead of thinly sliced disks of obsidian stone, coating their bodies like
the darsteeds’ scales. Gloved and spurred, with long broadswords of black steel
hanging at their sides, they stared at Tobeszijian in silence. He saw their
eyes glow red and unnatural through the slits in their helms. When they
breathed, the stone disks of their armor made faint clacking sounds, and smoke
curled forth from their nostrils. The damp air reeked of sulfur and death. One
of the three held a cage that swung freely on a chain. Within the cage writhed
something misty and formless. Smaller than a man, it lengthened itself and then
shrank, always in flux. It was colored the same sickly gray hue as wood fungus,
and it was far more to be feared than any of the other Nonkind present. It was
horribly, completely evil. A soultaker. Tobeszijian’s
breath froze in his lungs. Fear rushed through his bowels as though he had
suddenly swallowed hot liquid. While syliths and hurlhounds ripped a man’s body
apart, soul-takers came to it, lay on it, and took that which the gods granted
to men and not to beasts. On
the battlefield, from afar, Tobeszijian had witnessed soultakers feeding on
their victims. He had heard the screams that mortal throats should never make.
He had seen afterward the soultakers rise into the air, writhing, bloated, and
colored brightly by the life and essence of what they’d consumed. He had seen
the corpses rise and follow commands, their dead white faces staring with eyes
that no longer saw, their slack mouths sagging open, their clutching hands
outstretched to attack the living troops that often fled in disarray.
Tobeszijian had seen soultakers sit on the shoulders of these walking corpses,
like riders on their mounts. And he had sometimes witnessed soldiers of the
darkness such as these opening cages to unleash soultakers within. Fury
and fear tangled with desperation in his throat. That thing would not take him,
he vowed grimly. It would not eat his soul and then use his rotting body to
harm others. Whether dead or alive, he’d become no eternal prisoner of the
Nonkind, doomed for all eternity. Tobeszijian
fought off his swimming dizziness and drew himself erect. Streaming with blood
from his wounds, his lungs aching for air, he gripped Mirengard with both hands
and raised it in challenge to the Nonkind soldiers. glowed a blinding white, as did the Ring of
Solder on his finger. Frowning, Tobeszijian reached deep inside his faith,
drawing on the power of and Ring. “In
the name of Thod,” he said in a voice that rang out in the silence, “begone,
foul demons, and let me pass.” “Surrender
the Chalice and you may pass.” The voice that answered him was gravelly and
strangled, almost too hoarse to be understood. Tobeszijian
lifted his head higher. He never parleyed with the Nonkind, never discussed
their terms. His father had warned him to refuse any request, simply and
straightforwardly, and to keep refusing. For to be drawn into conversation was
to give their evil minds time to find a way of tricking him. He
met the fierce red eyes of the soldiers. Around him the hurlhounds panted and
watched, their fangs dripping saliva that hissed and steamed. “Surrender
the Chalice,” the hoarse voice commanded again. “No,”
Tobeszijian said, forcing his voice to sound strong and firm while his heart
thudded beneath his breastplate. The poison was burning even hotter inside him
now, making him shiver and sweat. He wanted to drop to his knees and cry out
for mercy. That desire was so foreign and false that he felt appalled, then
realized their minds were trying to force his compliance. “No!” he cried. “Surrender,”
the soldier in the center of the trio said. Through
Tobeszijian’s mind writhed whispers of Surrender/surrender/surrender/surrender. “What
makes you think I have the Chalice?” Tobeszijian countered. “I am a common
traveler, on my road. You are mistaken.” Rasping,
terrible laughter filled the air. “King Tobeszijian, you have become a liar and
a coward. Without your armies and your spells, you stink of fear.” Tobeszijian
stiffened, but inside he was horrified by the truth of what the Nonkind had
said. Never before had he known any cowardice in himself. Never before had he
broken from his training. Never before had he been as afraid as he was now. It
was the poison, he told himself feverishly. He had to take care and not let its
influence work tricks on his mind. “Surrender
the Chalice,” the Nonkind said to him. The
command held force now, a force that rocked Tobeszijian back on his heels. He
nearly toppled over backward. Catching his balance, he blinked sweat from his
eyes and gripped Mirengard desperately. Protect me,
he prayed to it. He
knew that the Nonkind would hammer at his will and courage while the
poison sapped his strength. He would have to fight until the hurlhounds tore
him apart. Then the soultaker would defile him, taking his thoughts and
knowledge, and imprisoning his spirit forever. The location of the Chalice
would be known to them, and all would be lost—not just his life and his
kingdom, but the very world of truth, mercy, and good. “Thod
have mercy on me,” he prayed aloud. Mirengard glowed even brighter, until the blade
was a shining flame. He did not want to die, but he could not give these
creatures what they wanted. Tobeszijian
shivered and recalled his youth, when his father had taken him far from the
palace on a winter’s day. In a secret place, King Runtha had made him swear
grave oaths of responsibility for the Chalice’s safekeeping. Runtha’s voice had
been solemn and calm as he recited the words. Tobeszijian had repeated them
after him, and the words and phrases had echoed strangely in the air around him. He
opened his mouth now to repeat those oaths, but before he could speak the
hounds snarled and sprang at him from all sides. Tobeszijian
staggered in an attempted feint, his weakened and bloody body unable to carry
through on the maneuver. He struck hard with Mirengard, but a set of poisonous
jaws clamped onto his hip from behind, and Tobeszijian cried out as he was
driven to his knees. “No!”
he shouted. “May Thod rot you, demon!” Twisting,
he sliced with Mirengard, and the shining sword cleaved the hound in two. The
remaining hounds circled him with snapping jaws, but he pivoted on his knees,
swinging Mirengard, and they dodged away. Heartened
by their cowardice, Tobeszijian found the strength to stagger back to his feet.
The hounds closed in, menace glowing in their red eyes. Awash
with agony, Tobeszijian circled with them. The dancing dots were back in his
vision, and his breath sounded ragged and harsh in his ears. Hearing a soft
click, he glanced up just as one of the Nonkind soldiers opened the soultaker’s
cage. The
thing, so pale and formless, slid its pallid tendrils through the opening, and
the rest of it flowed out. Writhing, it floated in the air near Tobeszijian,
who stared at it in horror and dread. Thoughts
as thin as needles of rain slid into his mind: Come/come/come/come to me, and I shall eat you, king
of men. Screaming
an oath, Tobeszijian swung Mirengard at it with all his might, but the
soultaker sailed upward, and he missed. A
hurlhound struck his back, knocking him down. He heard the ferocious growling
as the thing bit his shoulder through his armor, trying for his neck. Shouting,
Tobeszijian felt himself lifted by the monster and shaken hard, the way a dog
shakes a rat. He felt his neck pop and a dreadful numb sensation spread through
him. In
desperation, he looked down and saw Mirengard still glowing white and pure in
his bloody hand. He saw the Ring of Solder shining on his forefinger, its power
there for the taking, the using. He had spent his three journeys, all that were
allowed, but Tobeszijian no longer cared about rules or warnings. He was dying
here, defeated and alone. The Ring was his final chance to save himself, to
save his soul, to save the Chalice. Desperately
he sent his thoughts into the power of the Ring, finding its center. He
saw the blinding flash, heard the great pop as he was sucked once more into the
second world. In the distance he heard howls of anger, as though the hurlhounds
were trying to follow him here into this place of gray silence, but this time
he went hurtling, hurtling, hurtling as though slung by a catapult. He could
not move, could not aim himself, could not command his own body. Instead, he
plummeted through the mists of the second world, and flew toward a shining
barrier that sparkled and swirled ahead of him. He felt strange tremors in his
body, accompanied by a rush of chilling coldness that doused the fire burning
his wounds. Too
late he realized he had leaped into the second world without a destination in
his mind. He
found himself spinning around and around as though still falling through the
air. He seemed to be shrinking, and faintly he heard voices rising and falling
in powerful murmurs, voices that seemed to have the power to break all creation
if they chose. Was
he going to the third world? Was he now dead like his poor, sweet Nereisse?
Would he be reunited with her on the other side of that glowing curtain of
light as the Writ promised? But
there was something unfinished. Something that needed doing. Some
responsibility he had left behind him. “You
never stick to your duty, boy,” his father’s voice suddenly boomed at him.
“It’s duty that keeps a king strong.” “My
lord prince, if you will not keep your mind on your studies you will never
learn the strategies of rule,” his tutor’s voice said with a sigh. “Dear
husband, I feel a sense of unease that I cannot as yet explain,” Nereisse said
on the eve of his departure. “Must you go so far away to hunt this year? Must
you be gone so long?” “My
papa! Don’t leave me! My papa!” What
had he forgotten? What was there left for him to do? Spinning
in the lost currents of nowhere, Tobeszijian struggled to remember what had
been so important to him. He felt shame lingering on his senses, shame for all
he’d left undone. It was time he proved himself, time he stuck with his duty. But
hadn’t he done enough? He had lost his throne, but he had saved the Chalice
from the hands of evil. Was that not duty enough performed? He
found himself at the shining barrier of light. How beautiful and wondrous it
was. How brightly it shone. He squinted and thought he could see shapes moving
behind it. The third world, he thought with a rush of excitement and joy. He
tried to reach out to it, wanting to find Nereisse, wanting to find happiness. But
his duty was unfinished. Had he stayed home instead of going hunting, his
enemies would not have had such an easy opportunity to strike against him. Had
he chosen his travels more wisely, he might have needed to use the Ring only
thrice, as commanded. Had he imprisoned Muncel or exiled him when he first
succeeded their father, his half-brother would not have found it so convenient
to betray him. So
many mistakes, but this time he would not make another. The
barrier’s radiant glow shone across his face. He could feel its warmth, so
lovely and refreshing. But when he tried to reach through the light, his hand
bounced off something. He could not see the shapes behind it except as motion
and color. He could not see Nereisse. He tried to call out, but he had no voice
here in the gray void of the second world. And
he knew that he must finish his task before he could pass through. For once in
his life he must be the king his father and his subjects had expected him to
be. Muncel must not stay on the throne of Nether. The evil that had crept into
the land must be driven out. These remained his responsibilities. Sighing,
feeling hollow with regret, Tobeszijian turned back from the gateway to the
third world and found himself plunging forever in the gray mists, unable to
escape them, his obligations like a chain that held him shackled. On
the narrow road in the forests of Nold, all lay quiet and still. There remained
nothing to see of the battle which had raged in King Tobeszijian’s final
moments except the churned ground and the stripped bones of his darsteed’s
eaten carcass. A
week or so later, a peddler came wandering along in a drizzling rain, whistling
softly to firm his courage there in the gloom of forest. Many tales were told
about the legendary Dark Forest of Nold. These woods had seen centuries of evil
aprowl, and old battles fought by gods, and long terrors, and darkness, and
doom. The
peddler had traveled the length and breadth of Nold often enough to keep him
wary but not unduly afraid. Stories were stories. He had a sharp dagger in his
belt and a set of good wits. He was a small man, quick of thought and keen of
eye. He
paused when he came to the battleground, sensing some lingering disquiet in the
air. Doffing his cap, he made a quick sign with his nimble fingers to ward off
evil and left the narrow track to tiptoe around the spot where clearly death
had struck. The
drizzle stopped and the clouds overhead parted for a moment to let sunshine
fall into the forest. In the moisture-laden air, the light sparkled with the
soft, magical colors of rainbow. A
wink of something glittering in that beautiful light caught the peddler’s eye,
and he stopped. Stooping
low, he peered at the ground a long, cautious while. At last, satisfied that no
invisible trap of evil had been set there to snare him, he took one quick step
onto the torn, muddy ground. He picked up the object and held it aloft. The
ring glittered and flashed in the sunlight. It was finely wrought, its band
stamped all around with intricate rune carvings. The top was set with a large
oval stone as pale and smooth as milk. He had never seen anything so fine
except on the fingers of rich noblemen. Now here, on this lonely road, lay the
long bones of a noble’s rather large horse, lay also the chewed and tattered
remains of a fine leather saddle, lay the noble’s fine finger ring; in fact,
lay all but the bones of the noble himself. The
peddler grinned to himself at his good luck, and couldn’t resist polishing the
ring on the front of his jerkin. A fine piece, worthy of a king, he thought. It
would bring him luck. It would bring him a pretty price when he sold it. Not in
Nold, of course. The scattered villages and burrows held only rude dwarves
willing to buy a few trinkets, colored ribbon, or tea leaves bound up in little
bags of coarse cloth, but nothing better. No, he’d not sell this fancy ring
until he crossed the border into the rich land of Mandria. He was not an
impatient or a greedy man, but when luck came his way he knew what to do with
it. Still
grinning to himself, the peddler secured the ring in a safe place inside his
clothing. Putting his cap back on, he shouldered his pack and continued on down
the road, whistling to himself. Never once did he see the silent shadows which
slid forth from among the trees to follow him on his journey. Part
Two years later The sound of hunting horns—faint at first, then swelling
louder—filled the air and silenced the forest. Startled, Dain lifted his head
from the shallow pool of water where he’d paused for a drink. He listened
intently. The
wailing blat of the horns came again, from his left, the southwest. Dain
glanced at the gray clouds scudding low above the treetops, and tried to gauge
distance and time. He knew he must be nearly out of the Dark Forest. Rising to
his feet, he listened, straining to hear hoofbeats. Ah
. . . yes, crashing like the muted thunder of a distant summer storm. That
meant the hunters were Mandrian, for no one in Nold hunted with such noise and
fanfare. Most especially not now, when the dwarf clans were at war, their drumbeats
throbbing late at night and the smoke from burned-out burrows hanging in the
air. Dain
swallowed hard. Never before had he ventured this close to the border. But now
was no time to lose his courage. Thia’s life depended on what he managed to
accomplish today. Down
deep within the knot inside his belly, he felt an ache of fearful despair, but
he ignored his emotions and set off at a ground-eating trot, determined to get
help for his injured sister. Dodging
and darting through the undergrowth of dense forest, he angled toward the
approaching sound of the hunters. If
he was close enough to the border for men to be venturing into the forest, that
meant he was nearing settlements and villages, places where he could steal food
and perhaps a horse. Sudden
terror, alien and fierce, burst through his mind. With it came a stag that
burst from cover and bounded across Dain’s trail. The animal passed so close to
him that he saw the blood splattering its dusty coat, the heaving flanks, the
white of its eye, the dark pink flare within its nostril. Awash
in fear and pain, the creature’s mind swept across Dain’s, making him stagger
to one side and grip a tree trunk for support. Dain closed the stag’s senses from
his own, shaking his head to clear it. Seconds
later, he heard a deep baying sound that made the hairs rise on the back of his
neck. A pack of tall, brawny red dogs came crashing through the thickets and
closed in on the faltering stag. Dain
felt the purposeful flick of their minds: chase/chase/ chase/chase. He
dived for cover, for now the horses and riders were upon him, crashing and
blundering through the undergrowth and trees. They were shouting and blowing
their horns in great excitement. One rode past Dain so closely he was nearly
hit in the face by the rider’s spurred foot. In
a heartbeat, they thundered past, kicking up dirt and leaves behind them. He
left his cover and followed them, knowing the stag could not run much longer. Indeed,
only a few minutes later the stag went down in a small clearing. The dogs
leaped on it with yelps and snarls. For a moment there was milling confusion
while the hunters beat off the dogs. Someone shot an arrow into the stag’s
creamy throat. The noble creature turned its gaze toward its killer for a
moment, then its head sank to the ground and it lay still. Whooping,
the hunters surrounded their prey. They were four youths, each about Dain’s own
age. Richly dressed in velvet cloth and furs, gilded daggers gleaming at their
belts, their bows held slack in their hands, they slapped each other on the
back and congratulated each other. Three older men in chain mail and green
surcoats without crests and one muscular man wearing the crossed-axe crest of a
protector stayed in the saddle and watched the proceedings silently. Dain
crept closer, focusing all his attention on the bulging saddlebags of finely
worked leather. He could smell food inside—the pale tender bread baked in a
puff, wedges of cheese, hanks of cold meat all wrapped in neat waxed-linen
bundles. His own hunger was like a living thing inside him, driving him
forward, almost making him forget caution. With
his mind, he stilled the nearest horse, turning it around and luring it toward
him at the edge of the clearing. Snorting, the handsome animal tossed its head
and came forward a few steps, then nibbled at a few blades of grass before
coming another few steps closer. Finally it stopped and began to eat in
earnest, its reins dragging on the ground. Dain
admired its sleekness, seeing how well groomed and cared for it was. Its
splendid leather saddle and cloth alone would bring a fine price. Dain could
sell the trappings and the horse for enough gold to support him and Thia for a
year. But most of all, he wanted the food in those saddlebags. Hovering
at the edge of the thicket, Dain dared not venture into the open. Keeping a
wary eye on the armed men, he crouched close enough to a tangle of briars for
the thorns to snag his tattered clothing, and used his mind to lure the horse
into coming yet closer. The
young hunters joked and yelped in high spirits. The largest one, with shoulders
as burly as a grown man’s, passed around a wineskin with a furtive giggle while
another boy knelt to dip his fingers in the stag’s blood. He smeared crimson
streaks across his face, then marked the faces of his companions. Fascinated
despite his sense of urgency, Dain stared at these Mandrian youths, who were
his own age and size, yet as different from him as night from day. He had seen
Mandrians before, of course. Jorb had done much trade with the nobles, who
valued a well-crafted sword. But it was seldom that Dain saw boys of such
wealth and magnificence, with such beautiful horses and fine leather tack. Bold
youths indeed, to enter the Dark Forest after game. Dain had heard many tales
among the dwarves, tales of the foolish Mandrians who quested in the Dark
Forest for the legendary Chalice of Eternal Life or the mythical Field of
Skulls, which Jorb said was no place for any common mortal to see. Such
searchers often failed to return. The Dark Forest was a mysterious place, full
of impenetrable sectors and traps for the unwary. Even the dwarves knew there
were parts of the forest where no living creature should go. But
these young hunters laughed and sucked blood from each other’s fingers and
boasted, each claiming in turn to have shot the arrow which first wounded the
stag. The red dogs twisted and circled among them, panting and whining for
attention. Dain returned his concentration to the horse, which would not quite
venture to the edge of the clearing, despite all his enticements. Perhaps he
should risk being seen. If he mounted the horse, he could outrun the others and
lose himself quickly in the dense undergrowth. After all, what harm could such
boys do him? They were nothing but brave talk and blowing wind. Right now they
were discussing whether they should break off the stag’s antlers or cut off its
entire head. The rich, wasteful fools weren’t interested in its flavorful, dark
meat or the beauty of its hide. A
corner of Dain’s mind urged him to wait out of sight, safe and quiet, until
they left with their prize. Then he could help himself to all the venison he
could carry. He knew how to build a slow, smoking fire, how to cut the meat
into strips and dry it into leathery jerky. Wait, he cautioned himself. But
the horse was so close. A fleet-footed, strong animal that would carry Thia to
a village large enough to support a healer. The Bnen arrow point had snapped
off inside her. It festered there, bringing her much pain and fever. Right now
she needed tending as much as they both needed food. Drawing
a deep breath, Dain cautiously sent his thoughts in the direction of the four
men overseeing their charges. Look
at them, he urged. Watch what they do. Help them. The protector turned his mount to ride toward the
hunters, who were now hacking inexpertly at the stag’s head. The other men
looked that way. Quick
as thought, Dain slipped from cover and went to the horse. Alarmed, it lifted
its head from the grass, but Dain soothed it with a thought and swept his
fingers gently across the animal’s shoulder. Reassured,
the horse bent its head again to eat. Dain drew in scents of warm horse,
leather, the boy who’d ridden the saddle, and the ham that was so enticingly
close. He gathered the reins and put his foot in the stirrup. Without
warning, the horse squealed in fury and swung away from him. Hopping on one
foot, Dain tried to climb into the saddle, but the horse reared, lashing out
with its forefeet. Attack/attack/attack. Its mind was awash with heat. It lunged at him, snapping
with huge, yellow teeth. Dain smacked its muzzle and stumbled back, falling in
the process. Across
the clearing, the boys stood frozen, staring at him with astonishment. Then the
handsomest, best dressed of the lot stepped forward and pointed at Dain. “A
thief!” he called out. “Sir Los, he’s stealing my horse!” With shouts, the armed men drew their swords and came
rushing at Dain. He was busy trying to escape from the horse, which sought to
trample him, but a shrill whistle from the boy in the blue, fur-trimmed tunic
swung the horse away from him. It trotted to its master, and Dain jumped to his
feet and ran. At
that moment, two more riders—one clad in chain mail and green surcoat, the
other in plain green wool, with a horn slung across his barrel chest and a
pointed cap on his head— galloped into the clearing between Dain and his
pursuers. The men swore at each other, while the boys ran to mount up. The dogs
milled and circled, barking. “It’s
an eld!” someone shouted in a shrill voice. “It’s
a thief!” said someone else. “Get
him!” One
of the men bore down on Dain, but he ducked to one side, evading swing, and scrambled away. He dived into a
briar thicket where the horseman couldn’t follow. Burrowing deep, Dain
scratched his hands and face and snagged his clothing. Squinting his eyes to
protect them, he wiggled deeper into the thicket, his heart pounding too fast,
his breath coming quick and short. There
was no time to curse the horse that had turned on him, no time to tell himself
he should have just stolen the food and been satisfied. The Mandrians valued
their horses the way dwarves valued their treasures. He was in for it now. “Dogs,
go’t” came the command, and with yelping barks the brutes came
after Dain the same way they’d coursed the stag. Hearing
one dog bay over the noise of the others, Dain felt a chill go through the
marrow of his bones. He was now their prey, their quarry, and the dogs would
run him until they caught him and tore him apart. With
a little sob, he burst clear of the briars on the other side, gaining himself a
few seconds of time, and ran for his life. Dodging
and darting on foot, unable to take cover in an underground burrow because the
dogs would only dig him out, he ran with all the fleetness he possessed. Dogs
and horses drew ever closer, and only his quick wits and sudden changes of
direction kept him ahead of them. His
best chance of escape was to head deep into the forest, but his pursuers seemed
to know what he would try. They kept driving him the wrong way, pushing him
more and more toward the west. He tried to double back and slip between them,
knowing that the depths of the Dark Forest would save him. But an arrow hit
him, slicing through the meat of his forearm, just below his elbow. The pain
came swift and sharp. He stumbled and fell, then rolled desperately back onto
his feet while one of the boys shouted, “I hit him! Did your highness see? My
arrow caught him.” Clamping
his left hand on his bleeding arm, Dain struggled on, but by then a horse and
rider blocked his path east. Dain turned west yet again, cursing to himself and
wishing he had the powers of a sorcerel that would char them to ashes. He called on Fim and Rod,
dour gods of the dwarves, to bring a war party of Bnen forth to attack these
trespassing Mandrians, but the dwarf gods did not hear the prayers of an eldin
boy. No one interceded. No one rescued him. He had only his wits and his
nimbleness, and all the while his pursuers kept maneuvering him the wrong way,
until the dense thickets grew sparse and the trees spread apart, thinning into
open country. Beyond
the edge of the forest, Dain could see a wide, empty marshland—all water and
sky. On the horizon, a black rim of trees stood along the opposite side of the
river, too far away to offer him any hope. Out there in the open, he could not
outrun them. They would hunt him down and kill him without mercy, the same way
they’d killed the stag. For
sport, with no need for meat or survival. He
was pagan, with pagan blood. They would not let him g°- With
his breath sobbing in his throat, he dropped down into a briar-choked gully
where the horses couldn’t go. He dou back, ducking low to keep himself hidden
beneath the’s canopy of shtac and perlimon saplings growing thick on banks.
Pushing apart their intertwined branches, the sme! damp crimson and orange-gold
leaves thick in his nostrils splashed through a trickle of ankle-deep water and
ran alon course to throw the dogs off his scent. Then
he dived into a stand of russet-leaved harlberries crouched low and still,
making no sound or movement, even to breathe deeply while the riders cantered
past him, 1 on the bank of the gully. He was a hare, his clothing the dap]
color of bark and leaves, his hair dark, his pale skin d enough to blend with the
land. Blood from his wounded oozed between his fingers. He could smell it, hot
and copp He feared the dogs would smell it too. When
the riders went past him, he waited a little while,‘t scuttled out from beneath
the bush and went on until the g ended and he had to climb out. But
ahead of him, blocking the way back into the Dark 1 est, was one of the guards,
the oldest and wiliest of them, gaze sweeping the area without mercy, his drawn
sword i silver in his hand. Dain
hissed softly, cursing the man in his heart, and slithe back unseen down the
damp, leaf-strewn bank of the gully, retraced his steps until the gully grew
shallow and wide, op ing to the bank of marsh. Ahead of him lay open country, a
a of mud, water, and weeds with a river flowing beyond. ‘ boys milled about on
the bank with their sleek horses lathe and steaming. The dogs whined and
snuffled, casting back forth for the scent they’d lost. Careful
to stay upwind, Dain crept along behind the b and angled his way into the marsh
unseen. When
he stepped into the water, he nearly yelped alouc was icy cold, so cold it
burned. He plunged forward as fas he could without splashing until he reached
the freshly reeds growing in the water. Shivering and breathing hard, struggled
through them, bruising his feet on the sharp stalks by the cutters. Reaching
some taller, uncut reeds, he croud there, his head level with their tops. His
lungs burned in chest; his muscles ached with exhaustion. Clouds
as dirty as undyed wool scudded low over the mai No wind blew, but the cold air
was numbing enough. With his breath fogging about him, Dain waited a moment,
then waded through the knee-deep water even farther into the reeds and crouched
again. Constant shivers ran through him, as much from fear as from cold. He
clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. He had to be silent now, as
still and silent as the mist lying upon the river that flowed behind him. The
wound in his right forearm dripped pale blood into the water. He held his arm beneath
the surface in hopes of stanching the bleeding and hiding the smell from the
dogs. The
coldness of the water burned his skin and raised huge goose bumps across his
body. Sucking in his belly, he bowed his head and let quick breaths hiss in and
out through his gritted teeth. His pulse thumped so fast it bruised his throat.
His mind was wide open, receiving the crimson bloodlust of the dogs—chase/chase/chase; kill/kill/kill—and the flick, flick, flick of men-minds, blurs of
thoughts, shapes, and colors he could barely shut out. A
whimper came from between his jaws. He held his breath, savagely starving
himself for air. He’d already made enough mistakes today. No need now to lead
them right to him because he could not hold his fear silent. To
his right he saw a great levee built of dirt to hold the marsh back. A road
paved with stone topped the levee, which curved to accommodate the lazy bend of
river. Beyond, trees stood silhouetted against the dirty sky. Spangled in
colors of gold, scarlet, and rust, most of them were dropping their leaves.
Distant, thin spirals of smoke rose into the sky. A village, he thought,
feeling a faint measure of hope. If he could get there, get to the smithy and
call himself Jorb’s apprentice, he might find refuge of a sort. Most Mandrians
were suspicious of strangers, let alone those of his kind, and were inclined to
toss those of the bent eye into the nearest horse trough or stream, for despite
their priests and large churches, the old beliefs of Man-dria claimed that
those of pagan blood melted in water. Dain
glanced down at the muddy water enclosing him at the rib line and grimaced. He
wished at this moment that the superstition were true. Melting would be a more
merciful end than what the hunters planned for him. He
tried to calm himself. Jorb always said no good came of panic. He understood
now that he’d tried to steal a war-trained horse, one taught not to let a
stranger mount it. Even had 1 it into the forest, he could never have gotten on
its back wi being thrown. It would have been useless for his purp Well, the
mistake had been an honest one. It was past. He i it aside and wasted no more
thought on self-recrimination Only let these hunters go, he thought
impatiently, ho his muscles rigid against the shivers which racked him them go
before he froze to death in this icy water. Keebacks
perching in a nearby copse of trees on the rose with a sudden flurry of wings.
Their harsh squawking tied Dain. A cry choked in his throat, and he nearly
burst his miserable hiding place on the force of their instinct. But
he could not run another step. His legs were spent, muscles cramped and
trembling. His stomach felt as thoi had been knotted and was being drawn up by
slow degree; his throat to choke him. He crouched lower in the icy wate gaze on
the boys still searching for him among the trees though at this distance he
could not distinguish their wore could hear the frustration in their voices as
they called to other. Dain
grinned to himself, feeling his whole body shake toes had gone numb. He could
barely feel his feet now. Cl ing his jaw tight to keep his teeth from
chattering, he wai his baffled pursuers and knew they hadn’t expected him’t
tually come out here into the open. Go
away, he thought with all his might.
But he was too and spent now to focus his thoughts enough to really pers them. “A
track!” shouted the huntsman. “He took to the wate Hoofbeats came thudding across
the muddy banks o marsh. A horse neighed as it floundered belly-deep in v The
dogs’ noise changed note, and Dain stopped breathinj watched the dogs rush to
the water’s edge, only to leap 1 With lolling tongues and waving tails, they
barked in his c tion as though they could see him in his paltry hiding place
riders rode back and forth, discussing the matter. Go
away, Dain thought fiercely while the
terrible numl crept up his legs. His strength was waning. He did not thь could
hold himself crouched there and still in the freezing 1 much longer. Two
of the dogs jumped into the water, then scrambled out to shake themselves and
whine at their masters. For
an instant the sun broke through the storm clouds to shine upon supple leather,
velvets, and fur-trimmed caps. It tipped the hunting spears with gold. “He’s
gone to the water, right enough,” said one of the men in chain mail. His
gnarled voice carried clearly across the marsh. “Morde a day, but he’s sly as a
vixlet. Yer highness’s fine dogs cannae catch scent in yon marsh.” The
boy he spoke to snatched off his cap to reveal hair that shone as bright as
gold coin. It was the handsome one, the boy whose horse Dain had tried to
steal. “I’m aware of that,” he said angrily. His voice rang out in a clear
tenor, like the song of crystal. “But he’s not gone far. He’s spilled enough of
his cursed white blood to weaken him. I’ll wager a gold dreit he’s out there in
those very reeds now, shivering and trying to cast a spell on us. Thum! Mierre!
Attend me, both of you. What say you to it?” Dain
shrank even lower in the water. His eyes were wide and unblinking, focused on
nothing save the hunters. His heart thudded harder than ever. Why had fate
crossed his path with that of a prince? And gods, this prince guessed his
intentions too plainly. The
youth called Thum made no answer to the prince’s call, but the other one—burly
in the shoulders and moon-faced— kicked his mount closer to his prince. They
faced each other at the water’s edge, their bodies slack in the saddle while
their horses drank. Overhead, the keebacks sailed the skies, crying out their
harsh call. In the distance, a bell began to ring, and another hunting horn
blew. “Hear
that?” Thum said. “We’re being called in.” The others ignored him. “I
say aye, my prince,” the boy called Mierre answered. “Our quarry’s nearby, all
right. The marsh is narrow this way between the road and the river. If he goes
on he’ll have to swim the river, and I doubt he can do that. Not after the run
he’s had.” “Cornered,”
the golden-haired prince said in satisfaction. “Prince
Gavril,” Thum said, his voice fine and clear. “It’s to be a damned cold
wetting, riding into that muck just to fish out a thief. A poor end to fine
hunting. Let’s leave the wretch to freeze and go back to the hold as we are
bidden.” His
sensible words gave Dain a trickle of hope. “No!”
Prince Gavril said. “I’ve not run my horse hard to go home now. If you’re
afraid of wet feet, go in and yourself fire. I’m not finished here.” The
boys glared at each other. Even at a short distance ] could feel Thum’s
exasperation and Gavril’s iron-hard dete nation. “He’s
nothing, the poor wretch,” Thum said quietly. ‘ worth our trouble.“ “He
stole from me,” Gavril said. “Such an offense canm unpunished.” “He
was after food, nothing more, I wager,” Thum said fusing to back down. “He
looked scrawny enough. Maybe a refugee from the clan wars.” Mierre
laughed. “He’s an eld, you fool, not a dwarf haven’t you seen either before?” Thum’s
freckled face turned red. “A starving thief is hi
worth a flogging for failing to come in when we are called Gavril pointed at
him. “You,” he said loudly and conterr ously, “are a fool. I fear no flogging. Lord
Odfrey would dare.” Thum’s
face turned even redder. He bowed low ovei saddle, and Dain could feel the
force of his angry emban ment. “As my lord prince says,” he replied curtly. Gavril
wheeled his horse away. “You and you,” he sai the men, “spread yourselves along
the bank. Sir Los, go there. Mierre, you and Kaltienne stand ready to catch him
v I flush him out. Thum, you are excused.” The
freckle-faced boy gave his prince a small salute wheeled his horse harshly
around. Spurring the animal unnecessary force, he went galloping away, his
horse’s throwing up big chunks of mud behind him. Mierre
shrugged his burly shoulders and muttered sc thing to Kaltienne, who laughed
unkindly. Prince
Gavril raised a curved horn that he wore slung ac his shoulders by a long
leather cord. He blew a note that n the dogs howl. It pierced Dain’s head. He
clapped both hani his ears in pain, and when the sound faded, taking his aj
away, he found Gavril splashing halfway to his hiding p
On the bank, the dogs milled and circled around the legs o horses, the plumes
of their tails waving proudly, while the riders spread themselves along the
bank in readiness. Dain
shifted his feet in the water, feeling increasingly cornered. Behind him
stretched the expanse of marsh, dotted with reeds and little hillocks of mud
that gave way to the channel of the river. Out there, the water ran swift and
deep. Dain knew he could not go that way, for the river’s current would suck
him under in a twinkling should he try to swim it. Thia, he thought in despair. Forgive me. I have failed you. But
Thia was too far away to hear him. Would she wonder when he did not return
tonight? Would she surface from her burning fever long enough to worry about him?
Would she ever know of her abandonment as she slipped closer to death? Would
she have to go into the hands of the gods unshriven and unsung, lacking salt on
her tongue to ease her journey into the third world? Would she die without his
hand gripping hers, alone in the darkness? His
grief was like an anvil in his chest, holding him down. Dain tried to stay in
his hiding place, hoping that if he did not move he would remain unseen.
However, the rational part of his mind knew that the uncut reeds provided too
thin a cover to hide him for more than a few moments longer. If he jumped up,
all would see him. He couldn’t outrun the horse, even in the water. No, his
only chance was to completely submerge himself in the shallow water and try to
crawl to safety. Breathing
... He needed a hollow reed, but there was no time to search for one. The reeds
growing around him were green. Their centers would be full of a pale, fleshy
substance. Fighting desperation, Dain crouched lower in the water. Gavril
rode closer, urging his reluctant horse onward with little nudges of his spurs.
By now, Dain could see the boy’s white, set face, the dried streaks of blood
still on his cheeks. The look of murderous intent in his violet-blue eyes made
Dain’s blood run cold. Those
vivid blue eyes flashed over him and beyond, searching the marsh, then flashed
back. They stared right at Dain and widened. It was as though the curtain of
reeds had been swept aside, leaving Dain exposed. Time froze to a standstill in
which Dain saw every detail of his pursuer, from the clenched knuckles of
Gavril’s rein hand, to the golden bracelet of royalty upon his wrist, to the
purple stitching on the chest strap of the horse. Gold
and purple ... colors of the Mandrian king’s hou hold. Dain felt small and
faint. Even when he’d tried to steal horse, he hadn’t noticed the colors,
hadn’t paid heed. /
am not your rightful prey! flashed his thoughts. Gavril
winced. “Get out of my head, damn you!” shouted. He drew a short hunting javelin
from his stirrup qui and hurled it. Time
remained slow, while the fear in Dain swelled lik wineskin. He had to move, had
to dodge, had to ... The
swelling inside him burst. Fear scalded the back of throat and burned through
his chest like acid. The paral> holding him prisoner broke away, and at the
last possible’s ond he flinched aside. The javelin skimmed him harmlessly i
thunked into the water near his foot. One end quivered in the a moment, then
the entire javelin sank slowly beneath water. Dain
gulped in relief along with air. Gavril
glared at him in even greater fury. “Damn you! 1 next shaft will come at you so
hard none of your accursed spt will cast it aside.” He
reached for another javelin, but his quiver was empty Dain could have bent and
seized the weapon now settl: into the mud at his feet, but he thought the chase
must at last over. He rose dripping to his feet and held his hands out fn his
sides in a silent plea for mercy. Now
that his panic had calmed somewhat, all he had to was push
a little at Prince Gavril’s mind—a man mind, a and therefore hard to master,
but not impossible—and th would be mercy. He could go free, go on to the
village and’s< help for Thia there. . . . Gavril’s
head jerked. Color flared into his face. “Go fn Run amok in the village? What
spell are you casting on n Begone! Begone, in the name of Tomias!” As
he spoke, half in fury and half in hysteria, his hand ral at his doublet,
loosening it. He drew forth a shining, spiral! circle of gold upon a fine chain
and brandished it like a weap* “Get back, demon!” There
was no power in his amulet, but the emotion crackl: through the prince was of
such intensity Dain backed up a st The naked fear in Gavril’s face faded, to be
replaced by a sui of new confidence. He brandished the amulet again, his blue
eyes alight with something unpleasant. “So
you do fear some things, monster,” he said in a voice of such hatred Dain
backed up another step. Gavril pressed the sides of his horse, and the large,
snorting creature sidled closer. Dain’s nostrils were flooded with the strong
scent of sweaty horse, stronger than Prince Gavril’s man scent, stronger than
the fishy stench of the mud. “Bow
to the Circle of Tomias, monster. Bow to it!” Dain had heard the name of Tomias
spoken before, but he did not understand why a god should have a man-name. He
had seen the man-god’s name chiseled on the lintels of village churches. He had
heard others call out to this man-god in fear or invoke the name as an oath.
But Dain did not live under the power of Tomias. Jorb had taught him to beware
the ways of Mandrians and their religion. They took insult quickly, especially
from those they considered pagan. Dain had been warned long ago that if he ever
spoke Tomias’s name in the hearing of a Mandrian, chances were his tongue would
be cut out for defilement. Thus,
he could not obey this angry boy’s command, even had he wished to, which he did
not. There were currents of falsehood and entrapment running through Gavril’s
voice. “Bow
to this emblem of our holy prophet,” Gavril said, “and I shall let you live,
though you be a wretched pagan and a miserable thief.” Dain
glared up at him, then laughed with harsh disbelief. “You lie.” Pink
stained Gavril’s pale cheeks, clashing with the dark streaks of blood. He
stared, his blue eyes bulging, as though he could not believe Dain’s defiance. “Your
prophet has naught to do with this day,” Dain said, his tongue curling around
the peculiar inflections of the Mandrian language. “You hunt with a full belly
and own many horses. Why care you if I take what I need? You are not beggared
by it.” Gavril
dropped his circle, letting it swing free by its gold chain. He said nothing,
but reached for something ofl the opposite side of his saddle. Dain
stepped back, but he was unprepared for the thin, black blur that came at him.
He threw up his wounded arrn to protect his face, and the whip snapped across
his wound so viciously he screamed. “Pagan
spawn! Monster! I’ll be done with you this day,” Gavril shouted, whipping
Dain’s head and shoulders again and again. “I’ll crush the life from you for
daring to steal from me. There’ll be one less pagan alive to taint the air I
breathe!” With
every other word a blow cracked down. Dain reeled under burst after burst of
agony. He tried to dodge the whip and couldn’t. The horse snorted and trampled
around him, cutting him off at every turn. Every lash of the whip was a
white-hot brand that choked off the breath in his lungs. Staggering
to one side, he slipped and fell into the water. The horse’s hooves splashed
down just a finger’s thickness from his skull. Dain
floundered, trying to get away. His feet slipped in the mud, giving him no purchase.
In the distance he could hear a voice shouting in protest. “Stop
it!” one of the men was saying. “My lord prince, that’s enough!” But
Gavril either did not hear or he ignored the man. He wheeled his horse around so
sharply it reared, and tried to make it trample Dain. Frantically
Dain rolled to one side, swallowing muddy water as he did so, and floundered
out of the way as the horse swung around again. Dain groped through the mud for
the javelin. Half-stumbling, half on his knees, he scrabbled and searched in
desperation. If he could find the javelin, he could defend himself. The
whip caught Dain across the back of his neck, directly on bare skin, with such
force his mind went sheet-white, then black. He toppled forward, no more than
half-conscious. Dimly he thought that his head must have been severed from his
body, which he could not feel. He
hit the water, facedown, and sank like a stone. But the cold water on his cuts
awakened a fire so brutal it revived him. He jerked and pushed himself from the
water, and his hand found the javelin in the mud. Slinging back his dripping
hair and dragging in a deep breath, he coughed up some of the water he’d
swallowed. Somewhere
to his left came another shout and the sound of splashing, but Dain paid that
no heed. He rose to his feet, his gaze locked with Gavril’s. “Leave
me be!” he shouted, or tried to, but his voice was choked from the water he’d
swallowed and came out with little force. Gavril
glared at him. “Why won’t you die, damn you? Why do you fight me? You’re dead
already. Surrender to it!” As
he spoke, Gavril drew his dagger, and the blade was thin and well honed and
deadly. Dain recognized in a single, trained glance how tempered it was, how
beautifully balanced. He could smell the strength of the metal, and the intent
in Gavril’s eyes was just as deadly. Dain
shook his head. Inside him came an explosion of rage so hot it charred away his
intestines and seared his very bones. He lifted the javelin. Alarm
replaced the mad fervor in Gavril’s dark blue eyes. On the bank, the protector
shouted, “Your highness! Come away!” “I
can handle him!” Gavril shouted with a brave gesture. But Dain could see his
fright. It
wasn’t enough. Dain wanted Gavril to choke on fear, to feel it in his own bile,
to scream with it, to have his liver melt to a puddle and all his strength flow
out of his body. He wanted Gavril to beg for mercy, to feel his breath come
short, to fall off that brute horse and grovel in the mud. But most of all,
Dain wanted to ram this spear into the soft part of Gavril’s belly, to grind it
in until steel grated on spine bone and caught there. “You
dare not strike me,” Gavril said. He held up his wrist to make his sleeve fall
back and reveal the gold bracelet. “Do you know what this means, monster? To
strike at me is to strike at the king, and that is treason punishable by ...” Dain
stopped listening. In a flash of cunning he realized he must first attack the
horse to unseat Gavril. Then he would have Gavril at his mercy. “Your
turn,” he said, and lunged. A
whip lashed out from behind him, catching the upraised javelin and flicking it
from his grasp. In dismay, Dain watched it go spinning over the reeds and into
the water, truly lost now. He whirled. This time he faced not one of Gavril’s
companions, but instead a man with lines carved deep in his weathered face and
eyes as dark as night. A man in a fur cloak and silver chain, a sword hilt angled
beside his hip and rings glittering on his lean fingers. “Hold
this action!” the man said in a voice like thunder. “Both of you stay where you
are.” The
murderous rage faded from Dain so swiftly he felt hollow and dizzy. For a
moment he saw two of this harsh-faced man in his splendid fur cloak. Dain
blinked, and there was one again. But the old shortness of breath was back,
like a hand constricting his throat. He felt his blood oozing down his arm
again, making rapid drips into the water. Gavril’s
pale cheeks had turned bright scarlet. “Chevard Odfrey!” he said shrilly. “My
lord, you saw! You saw what this creature attempted against my person. You came
just in time—” “Silence,
if you please, your highness,” the chevard said curtly. His voice was harsh and
flat in tone, as though he had no music in him. “I saw a great many things,
most of them which you must account for.” The
red in Gavril’s face paled. “A mere game of hunt and—” “Game,
was it? I saw a defenseless lad hounded and cornered like a water rat for your
sport. I saw him thrashed till he fell and heard you screaming like a fiend
instead of a prince of the realm. How far did you mean to go with this game?” The
contempt in the man’s voice amazed Dain. He realized he was being championed,
for reasons he could not understand. His gaze flicked from one angry face to
the other, and he wondered if he dared try to break away. “Chevard,
do you criticize me?” Gavril said angrily. “I warned him of my identity and yet
he meant to strike me. That’s treason, and he must answer for it.” The
chevard gestured impatiently, but Gavril stood up in his stirrups. “It
is!” he said shrilly. “Treason most clear! The law is firm.” “Do
you expect an uneducated wretch like this to understand the law?” Odfrey
countered. “Ignorance
is no excuse for transgression. Furthermore, he is a pagan and would not kneel
to the Circle—” The
chevard held up his hand in a gesture that silenced Gavril in mid-sentence. Amazed
at his power, Dain stared up at the man sitting so straight in his saddle. Lord
Odfrey was in his middle years, with no gray showing yet in his straight brown
hair, but plenty of it in his thick mustache. The rest of his face was
cleanshaven, with a hint of bristle to be seen on his lean jaws this late in
the afternoon. His nose was long and straight, except for a slight bump where
it seemed to have once been broken. His mouth was uncompromising. He wore no
mail, and his long doublet and leggings were dark green wool, the cloth woven
tight and hard. His boots reached to his knees, and were made of good leather,
much scuffed and worn. His mud-splattered spurs were plain brass. Only the
crest embroidered on the left breast of his striped fur cloak proclaimed his
rank. Even his rings were not fancy; just a plain signet and a dull cabochon
set in gold that was his marriage ring. His horse, heavy-boned and strong,
stood in the cold water patiently, unlike Gavril’s flashy mount, which shied
and pawed and pranced constantly. Lord
Odfrey turned his frowning gaze on Dain and studied him for a long moment.
Beneath the fierce, unsmiling facade of this man, Dain sensed kindness and a
true heart. Some flicker of mercy or compassion lit in the depths of the man’s
eyes. It surprised Dain, but he immediately tried to take advantage of it. “I
have offended the prince,” he said, although no one had given him leave to
speak. “But not enough to be killed for it.” “Silence!”
Gavril shouted before he glanced back at Lord Odfrey. “Take care, my lord
chevard,” he warned nervously. “Do not let his gaze enspell you.” Lord
Odfrey frowned. “He
is clearly pagan,” Gavril said. “Look at his eyes, how colorless and strange
they are. Look at his pale blood. He is a monster. He deserves no fairness—” “The
lad is eldin,” Odfrey said impatiently. “Or partly so, perhaps, if his black
hair is anything to go by. That hardly makes him a monster. As for fairness,
honor is not a quality to be shed or worn depending on the circumstances. If
this wretch stole from you and you had your servants catch him and beat him for
it, that would be justice.” “He
did steal!” Gavril said hotly. “My horse, he would have taken—” “Your
horse?” Lord Odfrey echoed in quiet amazement. “It’s war-trained, or so you
have boasted.” • ‘ Again
Gavril’s cheeks turned pink. “It is,” he said, clearly taking offense. “Trained
by my father’s own—” “Then
this lad could not steal it,” Odfrey said. “Impossible.” “But—” “Did
he steal anything else?” “He
meant to! My saddle and accouterments. My coat of arms on the saddlecloth is
embroidered of real gold. He—” “Yet
he actually took none of these things?” “Intent
is the same as action,” Gavril said in a sullen voice. “Even worse, he insulted
the Circle and would not—” “If
you coursed him for sport, let your hounds bay for his blood, and whipped him
to a bloody pulp because he did not recognize your Circle, it would seem you
ask too much of this young pagan.” “He’s
a thief!” Gavril said furiously. “When I sought to punish him, he defied me.
Worse, he insulted me, calling me a liar, and then he tried to harm my person.” Dain
glared at Gavril, who was twisting the truth to support his charge. He was a
vicious, deceitful worm. Dain despised him for his lies even more than for his
cruelty. Lord
Odfrey’s stony expression did not change. Solemn and unruffled, he showed
little emotion. “He
tried to kill me,” Gavril repeated. “You have my word for it, and I am the
king’s—” “—son.
Yes, I know, your highness. You have reminded everyone in my hold of that fact
at least twice a day since you arrived.” “Then
you might trouble to remember the fact, instead of mocking and insulting me,”
Gavril said haughtily. “Cool
your wrath, boy. It’s most unseemly in one of your station.” Gavril
stared at him, openmouthed and sputtering. Lord
Odfrey met his look of wild astonishment and dawning rage with a grim lack of
deference. “If you expect me to believe a tale such as this, you are much
mistaken. You sit on a war-trained horse, armed with dagger, whip, and
javelins. Do you really expect me to believe an unarmed, half-starved, wounded,
and frozen wretch like this eld boy could bring the slightest harm to your
royal person? I think not.” Gavril’s
blue eyes grew very dark and still. “Do you also call me a liar, my lord?” “I
call you a spoiled lowland brat,” Odfrey replied. “You flight around my lands
with courtier airs and too much conceit in yourself. The king sent you to me
for training, and by the blood of Tomias I do not see that task as one of
providing you with more flattery and spoiling. You’ve been here a month, and by
now you should know my rules. Did I not expressly forbid you and the others to
enter the Nold forest? There is a war in that land, a war that is no concern of
ours except in avoiding its dangers. Your safety cannot be guaranteed in such a
place.” “I
will hunt where I please,” Gavril replied. “We were coursing a stag. Would you
have us let it go free because of a mere boundary?” “A
stag,” Lord Odfrey said. His dark eyes narrowed. “What became of it?” “We
brought it down,” Gavril boasted. “Kaltienne took the first shot with his bow
and wounded it. My dogs are superb coursers, and we caught up with it as soon
as it fell. My arrow finished it. We wear its blood, as you can see.” “Who
is packing out the meat?” Gavril
blinked as though puzzled. “The meat is of no importance.” It
was Lord Odfrey’s turn to redden. His mouth opened, but although a small muscle
leaped in his jaw he did not speak. After a moment he snapped his jaws shut and
wheeled his horse around so fast he nearly knocked Dain over. “Huntsman!”
he shouted with enough volume that his voice echoed across the marsh. “Take
those men and go back for the meat.” “But,
m’lord, it’s to be dark soon,” the man protested. “You
know I will not abide waste,” Odfrey said. “But
the dark, m’lord. In Nold, m’lord.” Lord
Odfrey growled to himself. “Sir Alard,” he said to one of the knights. “Did you
leave the arrows in the beast?” The
man had been slouching in his saddle when Lord Odfrey spoke to him, then
quickly sat erect. “I’m sorry, m’lord,” he said slowly. “In the race after—I
didn’t think of it—it seemed less important than—” “Mandrian
arrows left bold as day in a carcass not even skinned and butchered. What
insult will be taken? What clan owns the land where you brought down the stag?” All
of them, Gavril especially, looked blank. Dain compre- hended
the reason for Lord Odfrey’s disquiet. It was an insult to trespass when
hunting game, and a bigger insult to hunt game for sport, not food. It spoke of
an arrogant disregard for ownership of land and property. If any dwarf found
the stag on land claimed by a clan, great offense would be taken. Dwarves could
and did start wars with far less provocation. Would they attack a Mandrian hold
for such a reason? Unlikely, especially with the war against the Bnen now
raging. But Lord Odfrey understood dwarf ways, and that was unusual for a
Mandrian noble. Dain’s respect for the man went up a notch. “Were
there clan markings that anyone noticed?” Odfrey asked. Again, no one answered. In
a quiet voice, Dain said, “Yes, the Clan Nega.” Lord
Odfrey whipped around so fast Dain was startled. His dark eyes bored into Dain,
piercing hard. “Nega? Not Rieg?” “Rieg
lands are here, near the edge of the forest,” Dain replied. “The marsh is your
land, yes?” But
Lord Odfrey wasn’t listening. “Nega,” he repeated. His face grew thunderous and
he glared so furiously at Gavril that the prince looked momentarily alarmed,
then more defiant and arrogant than ever. “You went that deep into the Dark
Forest? Against my orders?” Gavril
pulled on his gauntlets of fine blue velvet stitched to leather palms. He
shrugged. “When I hunt, I do not let my quarry go. Willingly.” “There
has been fighting reported on Nega lands,” Lord Odfrey said, ignoring Gavril’s
last remark. “You take too many foolish risks. There will be no more of it.
What if this eld had gone deeper into the Dark Forest? Would you have coursed
him to its very center?” “If
necessary,” Gavril answered coolly. His eyes met Lord Odfrey’s. “I do not fear
the dwarves. Besides, we knew he would try to go east, and we kept him from it.
I am not the fool you think me, my lord chevard.” “Then
obey the orders you are given.” “It is your responsibility to keep me safe,” Gavril said.
“I shall do as I please. Your orders offend me.” “Learn
to be offended,” Lord Odfrey snapped. “There will be no more adventures in the
Dark Forest. There will be no hunting of people on my land. If my huntsman has
not told you this before, you know it now.“ “Is
this wretch your serf?” Gavril said icily, pointing at Dain with his whip. “We
jumped him in the forest, beyond your boundaries, sir. If he is a monster of
Nold, then he belongs to no one and should be fair game.” “He’s
not an animal. He is not to be hunted,” Odfrey said. “He’s
a thief and a nuisance. If the villagers see an eld lurking about their fields,
they’ll be—” “The
villagers and their superstitions are my responsibility, not yours,” the
chevard said with a snap. “The day’s hunt is over for you. Call in your dogs
and take yourself back to the hold.” Gavril
stared at him as though he could not believe what had been said. “You dismiss me?”
he said, and his voice was almost a squeak. “The hunt is for my pleasure. You
cannot—” “I
can and I will,” Odfrey broke in. “My word is law here. Take care you remember
that.” “I
never forget any slight done me,” Gavril said, and his blue eyes were hot with
resentment. He cast Dain a glare as though to blame him for this disgrace.
“You,” he said in a voice that cut. “If I ever see you on Chevard Odfrey’s
lands, I shall feed you to my dogs.” “If
you set your dogs on another person, I will have them killed,” Odfrey said. The
iron in his voice held heat now. His dark eyes burned in his weathered face. “You
would not dare,” Gavril said, then faltered. His gaze shifted to his clenched
hands. “They are my property. Am I to blame if they prefer to take pagan scent?
One animal is very like another.” “That
is the worst sign of your character yet shown to me.” Gavril
blinked. “When I came to Thirst Hold, you admired my dogs. No one in this
region owns their equal. Their bloodlines are the best in—” “There
are many handsome things in this world,” the chevard said, “but not all of them
are good. I have said what I will do if you misuse your animals again in this
fashion. You have lived under my roof long enough by now, Prince Gavril, to
know that I keep my word. Do not force me to order them destroyed.” Gavril
sat his horse as though he’d been clouted hard but had not yet fallen. His gaze
never left the chevard’s face, but Dain watched his hands clench and
unclench the reins. “Well?” Odfrey asked. “Am I clearly understood?” Gavril
drew a sharp breath. Dain expected him to insult the chevard and gallop away,
for that intent burned bright in Gavril’s mind. But Gavril said, “Your words
are most clear to me, sir.” “Good.” “I hope, sir, that you will not find displeasure when I
write to my father the king and tell him of this day’s events.” The
chevard did not flinch. “I have never feared the truth, or King Verence’s sense
of justice. He is always interested in hearing both sides of a matter. By all
means write to him, but take care that you present the full truth. I am sure he
will find your actions, and your motivations for them, greatly enlightening.
Your letter can go in my next dispatch pouch.” Gavril’s
gaze dropped. He wheeled his horse about and kicked it into a gallop. As he
rode away, he splashed water over Dain, who was too cold to care. Grateful
to be free of the prince, Dain edged away a couple of steps, but the chevard’s
gaze swung to him and he stopped. Now
that it was just the two of them alone, some deep sadness appeared in Lord
Odfrey’s face. “You are just his size,” he muttered as though to himself. “That
same way of standing. That same fearless turn of the head. What is your name,
lad?” “Dain.” “You
are far from the mountains of the eld folk.” “I
come from Nold. I am—was apprenticed to Jorb
maker.” The
chevard smiled, and his face transformed from a stern, stony countenance into
one gentle and warm. The deep lines that bracketed his mouth were smoothed
away. Crinkles fanned at the corners of his eyes. He looked younger when he
smiled, far less formidable. “Jorb, the old rascal. I carry one of his swords,”
he said, indicating the weapon that hung from his belt. “Yes,
lord,” Dain said awkwardly. “I saw.” Odfrey’s
smile faded. “But you say you were his apprentice. Not now? Has the trouble reached him too?” Dain’s
throat closed in sudden grief. He thought of how he’d returned from his errand
three days, no, four past, and found the tree burrow ablaze. The forge was
already gone, charred to ashes. Jorb’s body was a blackened, twisted thing,
hacked and broken by the axe that had felled him, so broken he couldn’t crawl
away from the fire that had burned him alive along with his home. Jorb
had always been a force in Dain’s life, a short, surly, gruff-voiced taskmaster
who liked his pipe in the evenings and who would sit watching the stars
contentedly, humming along in his basso voice while Thia sang and Dain played
accompaniment on a lute. Jorb liked his ale and his food; he was nearly as wide
as he was tall. He was hot-tempered and impatient, yet he took infinite pains
with s he crafted, turning each blade
into a thing of rare beauty. And when the steady tap-tap-tap
of his hammering was done, he would hone and polish, humming to the steel as
though to bring it to life. His craggy face would light up and he would smile
as he spoke the final words over each creation: “Kreith ‘ng kdag ’vn halh.”—“This sword is made.” He
had taught Dain metals. He had taught Dain his skills but never his artistry.
Some days as they worked together in the hot forge, Jorb would sweat and hum
without uttering a single word. Other days he would talk endlessly on a variety
of subjects, giving Dain the teaching, as he called it. He was father, teacher,
taskmaster, friend. Behind the gruffness and stern air of authority he was kind
and good, with a fondness for riddles and a love of song. And
now he was dead, dead because of Dain. There was no getting past the guilt or
the grief. Each time Dain pushed it out of his mind, the memories came flooding
back. He could smell the sickening stench of burned flesh, the smoky stink of
charred cloth. He could feel Jorb’s sturdy shoulder cupped in his hand, how
stiff and wrong it felt. He had dug a grave and spoken the words of passing in
the dwarf tongue. He had sprinkled salt over the freshly turned soil and
crossed the ash twigs there, but his rites were not enough to cleanse what he’d
done or to absolve him of blame. He
frowned, swallowing hard, and found his voice gone. He could not answer Lord
Odfrey’s simple question. All he could do was glance up, his eyes suddenly
brimming with tears, and nod his head. Regret
softened the chevard’s face. Looking down at Dain from atop his horse, he said
softly, “Dead?” , * Again
Dain nodded. A sob heaved in his chest, but he would not utter it. His grief
was not to be shared with men. It was a private thing. His shame, he would
battle alone. But
not just yet. Mastering
himself, he swallowed and struggled to speak. “Please, lord,” he said in a
choked voice. “I thank you for saving me. Would you also show mercy and save my
sister as well?” “What?” “My
sister. She’s hurt. We’ve come as far away as she can. When the Bnen attacked,
they put an arrow in her that I cannot—” “Where
is she?” Hope
filled Dain’s chest. He pointed at the forest. “A league away, no more. Not far
from where the stag went down. I can show you the spot, lead your men back to
it, if you will—” Odfrey’s
gaze grew hard and intent. “What know you of the Bnen? How large are their
forces?” “I
didn’t see them—” “But
there’s been talk, surely, in the settlements, and in your friend’s burrow. You
know Jorb, so you must know members of his family. When did the Bnen attack
him? How long ago? Are they moving this way?” Dain
could not answer his rapid-fire questions. His legs felt so numbed by the water
he could no longer feel them. Perhaps that was a mercy, for they had stopped
aching with fatigue, but he did not feel steady. In fact, as he took a cautious
step forward, he thought his knees might buckle beneath him. His arm, wounded
by the arrow Gavril had shot at him earlier and now cut by the whip, throbbed
with a pain that hurt all the way up to the backs of his eyes. In truth, he
hurt all over. And Thia was a league away, hidden in the forest, hurt and in
dire need of help. He did not think she would live much longer if the arrow was
not taken out. He had tried last night, and only hurt her more. This man was
kind. If Dain could only find a way to reach that kindness on Thia’s behalf, he
knew he could save her. He
reached out and gripped the man’s stirrup with his cold hands. “Please help
her, for you are a kind and just lord. I only tried to take the prince’s horse
to get Thia food and help. She needs—” With
a grunt, Lord Odfrey reached around and untied the cords securing a leather
pouch to the back of his saddle. He tossed it at Dain, who caught it clumsily. “There’s
food enough to get you home,” Lord Odfrey said. “A wedge of cheese and some
bread. Now be off with you, lad. No harm will come to you on my land.” “But
my sister—” “There’s
food enough for her,” Lord Odfrey said, already wheeling his big horse around.
“Get out of this cold water before you freeze to death. I’ve a prince to escort
and my hold to secure in case the Bnen keep coming west.” Dain
stared at him in dismay, knowing he had to do or say something that would
change the chevard’s mind. “Please!”
he called, splashing clumsily. “May I go with your huntsman? If I bring her to
your hold, will your healer give her aid?” Lord
Odfrey barely glanced back. “The huntsman will not be going into the Dark
Forest this night. Not with Bnen as near as Jorb’s forge. Now get out of the
water and build yourself a fire to thaw. You’ll freeze if you don’t.” Dain
opened his mouth to call out again, but Lord Odfrey spurred his horse and rode
away, splashing water behind him as he went. It
was dark by the time Dain reached the little burrow where Thia lay hidden. His
legs felt leaden, and he was breathing hard. He’d taken no time to build a fire.
Running and trotting to keep warm, he’d hoped his clothes would dry on the way.
But it was too cold, and they were still damp. The air felt as piercing as
needles. When he reached the tiny clearing, he stumbled to a halt at its edge,
exhausted but still cautious. Clutching the food pouch in his arms, he ignored
the hollow rumbling in his stomach and focused his attention on the clearing. The
forest lay silent and still around him—too still. Dwarf scent came to his
nostrils, and he felt the hair on his neck lift. Friendly or hostile, he knew
not, but they had been in this clearing within the last hour or so. He
drew in an unsteady breath and reached out with his mind: Thia? Her
pain flooded him. Gasping, he broke contact with her, then leaned his shoulder
against a tree trunk and drew in several deep, shuddering breaths. He could
tell she was worse, much worse. Grief and worry filled him. He
had to do something to save her. She was all he had left. He could not bear to
lose her too. He crossed the clearing, finding it heavily trampled and
littered with blackened fire stones and small heaps of still-warm ashes where
the dwarves had camped. It was a mercy of the gods that they had not decided to
bed here for the night. On
the opposite side of the clearing lay an immense log as thick as Dain was tall.
Rotting and half-covered with the vines and brush that had grown up around it,
the log must have fallen years ago. Fallen leaves drifted deep against it. Dain
dug with both hands, scooping dirt aside until he cleared away the shallow
layer of soil that covered a lattice of woven twigs. It was perhaps the size of
a fighting shield. Pulling it out of the way, he thrust his head and shoulders
into the shallow hole it had covered, and inhaled the damp scent of soil and
worms. “Thia?”
he whispered. “I’m coming. Don’t be afraid.” He
wriggled through the tunnel, his shoulders scraping the sides and the top of
his head bumping from time to time. It was barely large enough for him. If he
grew as much this year as he had last year, he would no longer fit. Little
trickles of the loamy soil fell into his hair and ears, working down his neck
and beneath his tunic of coarse-woven linsey. The
tunnel angled up. Dain popped his head up into the hol-lowed-out center of the
huge log. He found Thia lying where he’d left her, wrapped in a threadbare
blanket, with leaves packed around her for additional warmth. It
was warm and quiet in here. An array of glowstones resting on small niches chiseled
into the wooden walls cast a soft, dim, lambent light. The burrow was snug and
dry, though cramped for the two of them. It belonged to the Forlo Clan, to be
used by travelers on their road to trade with upper Mandria. Spell-locked
so that only members of Forlo could see its rune markings outside, the burrow
was fitted with the glowstones, the musty old blanket, and a mug and a plate
Dain had found spun over by spiders when they’d first sheltered here last
night. They could build no fire inside the burrow, of course. It was warm
enough this autumn night, provided someone wasn’t afflicted with fever or
shivering in wet clothes. Lying
still, Thia gave him no greeting. He frowned at her before looking to see if
leaves were sprouting or sap had beaded up along the wooden walls. Thia’s
presence, he knew, should be bringing this great log back to life, but he saw
no signs of it. He knelt beside her, breathing in her scent, which was mixed
with the wood, leaf, and worm odors of the burrow. He smelled life in her, and
relief gripped his heart so hard he squeaked out her name. “Thia!”
he said, gripping her hand. It was clammy and cold. “I’m home,” he told her,
stroking her long, tangled hair back from her brow. “I’m here with you.” She
moaned, stirring beneath his touch as though even the gentle sweep of his
fingers across her brow hurt her. “I’m
back,” he said again. “And look, look at what I have brought. Food for us. Good
food. Look.” He
dug into the pouch Lord Odfrey had given him, pulling out a generous chunk of
cheese, fresh and soft, along with bread made of fine, pale flour and apples
newly picked. The food’s mingled aromas made his mouth water, and his stomach
growled louder than ever. “Thia,
open your eyes and see the wealth of our supper,” he said in excitement. “This
will give you strength. Wake up, dear one, and see our bounty.” She
moaned again, turning her head away. Dain tossed the food aside and pulled her
into his arms, rocking her against him while she lay limp and unresponsive. Her
long hair, usually constantly moving as though stirred by a mysterious wind,
fell lank and snarled across his lap. Pain
filled his chest, a pain so deep and sharp he thought he could not breathe.
Tears spilled down his cheeks as he pressed his lips to her temple. “Live,
dear sister,” he pleaded with her. “Please, please
live.” Once
again she stirred. “Jorb?” she asked in confusion. “He
is not here,” Dain said, tears streaking his face. He did not want her to think
about the brutal attack. She had suffered enough. “Jorb is not here. Open your
eyes, and try to eat. You must regain your strength.” She
said something so soft he could not understand it. Cradling her against his
knees, he broke off a small bite of the cheese and put it against her slack
lips. “Try,
Thia,” he said, his voice shaking now even though he was trying not to sound
afraid. “Please, try.” She
lifted her head, tipping it back against his shoulder so that she could gaze up
into his face. She smiled, yet her face looked so ghostly and wan in that dim,
glowing light she seemed to already have entered the third world, where spirits
dwelled. “Dain,”
she said, her voice a light, insubstantial sigh. She tried to lift her hand to
touch his face, but lacked the strength. He
gripped her fingers, willing his strength into her. Sobs shook his frame, and
he bowed his head, unashamed of his tears. He had tried so hard to save her.
The alternative was impossible, inconceivable, unbearable. “Dain,”
she said again. “I cannot go on.” “Don’t
say that! Don’t give up. We’re very close to a hold. We can seek help there.
They are kind, these men of Mandria. I met one today who gave me the food. He
will—” “I
am dying,” she interrupted him. “No!” “Dying,”
she said. “Little brother, don’t weep so.” But
he could no longer listen. Shaking with grief, he bent over her, holding her
tightly in his arms, and gritted his teeth to hold in his cries of anguish. She
was all he had. She had been sister and mother to him, his dearest companion.
Thia was beautiful, a maiden of slender form and infinite grace. Her blonde
hair fell in luxuriant waves to her knees, and in the springtime she liked to
wear it unbound with a wreath of flowers upon her brow. Her eyes were pale
sky-blue and wise, able to sparkle with teasing merriment or gaze steadily into
the depths of someone’s heart. When Dain was little, she would rock him to
sleep at night, singing snatches of incomplete songs and fragments of rhymes
that she said she remembered from the before times. Sometimes, she would spin
tales of a fabulous palace that stretched in all directions, a palace as large
as the world itself, and filled inside with all the colors of the rainbow. She
would weave tales that fired his imagination. She’d defended him from bullies
until he’d become big enough to handle himself. She’d taught him manners and
honesty and to be gentle with all defenseless creatures. From her, he’d learned
woodcraft, how to walk through the forest without disturbing the wild denizens,
how to find the pure streams that coursed hidden in thicket-choked gullies, how
to tell direction from bark moss and the stars, how to let the wind sing to
him, and how to hear what the ancient trees themselves had to say. He
could not imagine a world without her in it. He could not think of a day when
she would not be waiting in Jorb’s burrow to welcome him and their guardian
home, her hair smelling of herbs and her eyes as placid as still water. She had
but to sing, and her garden seeds would sprout forth, growing vegetables
bursting with intense flavor. She had but to smile and the sun brightened in
the sky. That
she should now lie here in this burrow far from home, battered and bloody, her
slender body racked with pain from the arrow that had brought her down, spoke
of great wrong and injustice. It violated all that was true and good in the
world. It was a crime that called for punishment and retribution. “Thia,”
he said, moaning her name as he wept over her, “don’t go. We’ll find a way. You
can hold on just a little longer until I carry you to Thirst Hold.” “A
hold?” she whispered, and this time she found the strength to smooth back his
dark hair from his brow. “A man-place? You would trust men, little brother? Has
Jorb taught you nothing?”‘ “I
would indenture myself for a lifetime if it would gain you the help of a
healer,” he replied. She
smiled, but her eyes filled with sadness. “My papa has been a long time coming.
I tried to wait. He told me to be good and to wait for him, Dainie, but I’m so
tired.” A
sob filled Dain’s throat. He clutched her. “Thia!” “Find
our papa,” she whispered. “Go home and find him.” Dain
frowned bitterly. “Why should I? He cast us out and abandoned us. Orphans, he
made us. Jorb is the only father I have known, or would call so.” A
tear slipped down her cheek. She opened her mouth to speak, but the sound never
came. Just
like that, she was gone. He
didn’t believe it at first. He couldn’t. “Thia?”
he said, his voice carrying his shock and disbelief. “No!” He
called her name again and shook her hard, but silence was his only answer as
she lay dead in his arms. He rocked her, moaning her name, and his tears soaked
into her hair. In
Prince Gavril’s modest suite of rooms in the west tower of Thirst Hold, a fire
roared on the hearth, casting a bounty of warmth and light against the icy
drafts. Outside the shuttered windows, the night wind sighed and moaned, but
inside Gavril and his two companions sat around a small table, cups of cider in
their hands, and plotted their raid on Lord Odfrey’s cellars. “We
could wait till the household sleeps and sneak in,” Kaltienne suggested. A
thin, wiry boy with straight black hair and the eyes of an imp, he grinned
impudently and quaffed another cupful of cider. “Wait for lights-out and take
ourselves into the cellar while the cook’s off watch. He snores enough to
conceal any noise we might make. If we each carry out a pair of kegs apiece, it
should take us only about forty nights of work to—” “Hush
your chatter,” Mierre said gruffly. “Fool’s talk is not what his highness wants
to hear.” “What
other plan have you?” Kaltienne retorted. He laughed. “Oh, I see. Nocturnal
raids would interfere with your own plans, eh, Mierre? You’ve caught the eye of
that lusty housemaid Atheine, the one with the mole on her—” “That’s
enough,” Mierre growled. Frowning,
Gavril drew back from them and reached inside his fur-lined doublet to touch
his Circle. Cardinal Noncire, his tutor back at Savroix, had warned him that
his fellow fosters might already be well versed in the coarsest habits of
carnality. Mierre, bigger than the rest of them, with his bullish shoulders and
muscular neck, seemed afflicted with a steady lust that pursued any young
female servant in the hold. Several ambitious wenches had offered their wares
to Gavril, but he had been warned about that, too. He wasn’t going to destroy
his piety for a few minutes’ release in the grimy arms of some turnip-scrubber. “Be
glad you aren’t a Netheran and forced to stay celibate until you’re knighted,“
Kaltienne said with a sly grin. ”I saw you with Atheine behind the barn
yesterday morning. Those white legs of hers are longer than—“ With
a quick, apprehensive glance at Gavril, Mierre turned on Kaltienne and whacked
him hard across the back. Whooping for breath, Kaltienne doubled over. His
empty cup dropped from his fingers and rolled across the floor. Gavril
ignored him and glared impatiently at Mierre. The burly foster met his prince’s
gaze and turned a faint shade of pink. “I
beg your highness’s forgiveness,” he said. He was large, gruff, clumsy, and unpolished,
but he was learning courtly ways fast. Gavril valued him for his strength, his
growing loyalty, his ambitions, and his natural shrewdness. Mierre frowned at
Kaltienne, who was still wheezing. “Kaltienne never knows when to hold his
tongue.” “Pardon is given,” Gavril said, but his tone was purposely
curt to let them know he wanted no more nonsense. “If we may return to the
matter at hand?” Mierre
bent over the crudely drawn diagram of the oldest section of the hold. His
sandy hair was thin and brittle, sticking out from beneath the edges of his
dark green cap, which he wore tilted rakishly on one side of his head just like
Gavril did. “I can try to steal a key, your highness, but there’s always a
guard posted at the—” “That
won’t do,” Gavril interrupted. Turning away in frustration, he flung up his
hands. “What kind of miser keeps a guard posted on his own cellar? Morde a day,
but the chevard is impossible.” By
now Kaltienne had his breath back. He straightened with a wince, keeping a wary
distance from Mierre. “Damne, Mierre, that hurt like the devil.” “You’ll
get worse if you don’t behave.” Kaltienne
snorted. “Behave? Thod’s teeth, but you’re the one who can’t behave. When you—” Mierre
raised his beefy hand in menace, and Kaltienne scooted back his stool. He shut
his mouth, but deviltry still danced in his eyes. Sighing,
Mierre returned his attention to Gavril, who had begun to seethe. “Forgive me,
your highness. He’s forever a fool and a knave.” ■ “No,” Gavril said, his
tone cutting and contemptuous. “Kaltienne is a child. I shouldn’t have included
him in this—” “Your
highness!” Kaltienne said loudly, horrified. He jumped off his stool to kneel
before Gavril. “Forgive me. I was only jesting. I will do whatever you ask—” Gavril
pointed at him and said sternly, “Hold your tongue.” Kaltienne’s
face turned pale. He reached out as though to take Gavril’s hand in his, but
Gavril drew back. “Say
no more,” he commanded. “Listen and perhaps I will relent.” Gulping
audibly, Kaltienne bowed his head and remained kneeling. Gavril
frowned at him with impatience. He was running out of time, and these boys were
not providing the quality of help he wanted. “Get on your feet,” he said
angrily. Kaltienne
jumped up at once. He opened his mouth, met Gavril’s angry eyes, and closed his
mouth again with a sigh. “I
don’t suppose your highness could just ask Lord Odfrey to return your wine?”
Mierre asked quietly. Gavril
gritted his teeth. “I did. Lord Odfrey refused me.” That
had been a week ago, and his voice still reverberated with his shock and
furious disappointment. No one ever refused him,
the only son of the king. No one ever denied him what he wished or asked for.
Except for Lord Odfrey. At every turn the chevard thwarted him. It was
maddening. Worst of all, Lord Odfrey had been given this authority by the
king’s own warrant. Thus far, one month had passed of Gavril’s required year of
fostering. Already it seemed an eternity. Thanks to the chevard’s obstinance,
Gavril had made no progress on his secret quest to find the lost Chalice. Frowning,
Gavril held out his jeweled cup in silence, and his lone manservant hurried
forward to fill it. The cider was a thin, brown brew pressed from the Thirst
orchards. Gavril considered it a peasant’s drink, but Lord Odfrey was as
miserly a man as Gavril had ever encountered, worse even than the clerks in the
royal countinghouse. The chevard served naught but water or cider at his table,
except on feast-days and the king’s birthday. Nor would he permit Gavril to
drink from the costly and elegant wines, or Klad beer, with its kick to the
stomach, or the honeyed mead from the Isles of Saelutia that he had brought
with him in a wagon made specially for the purpose. That wagon was now lodged
in the chevard’s barn, and its sublime contents were all under lock and key
inside the chevard’s own cellar. Robbery
it was, nothing less. Every time Gavril swallowed the sour, thin cider he felt
as though his throat had been scalded by his present guardian’s thievery and
discourtesy. Gavril had been drinking wine since he was seven. It was his
custom in his father’s palace to drink rounds with the guardsmen once a month
on lastday. Among the men he had the reputation for having a hard head and a
hollow leg. Therefore, he felt insulted by Lord Odfrey’s assumption that he
could not command his cup or that he would hold drunken revels with the other
fostered boys in his rooms at night. Even more important than Gavril’s own luxury, however, were
the kegs of fine mead that he’d intended to use as bribes. How else was he to
win over the secret support of Lord Odfrey’s knights? How else could he suborn
the loyalty of the steward of Thirst Hold? Or persuade the cook to prepare
meals of suitable quality for him alone? Saelutian mead was an elixir of such
sweetness and flavor that a single goblet of it could make a grown man reel.
Rare and costly, it was powerfully addictive and after a few sips one’s palate
craved it with an evergrowing fierceness. Using it instead of coin was a subtle
ploy that appealed to Gavril. He aspired to statecraft of great subtlety.
Cardinal Noncire had taught him that intrigue should always be as soft and
quiet as a whisper, forever patient, forever relentless, alarming no one yet
accomplishing much. And
Gavril had much to accomplish. “Your
highness,” Mierre said, “I could ask the servants whether there is another way
down into the lower regions besides the stair that’s guarded. I think I could
persuade someone to help us.” Gavril
swung around, feeling somewhat appeased. At least Mierre was trying to help.
“You must not give away our intentions with too many questions.” “I
would not,” Mierre said. Kaltienne raised his hand, fairly dancing about with His
eagerness to speak. With
a sigh Gavril nodded to him. “Yes?” he commanded. “There’s
a privy channel going down the back of the hold into an underground cistern,“
Kaltienne said. ”There has to be a way to get in through the clean-out door—“ Gavril
wrinkled his nose in horror. Mierre
grunted. “You can try it.” Kaltienne’s
eyes widened. “Not me!” “Who
of us do you expect to do it?” Gavril asked. Kaltienne
clearly had not thought through his suggestion. He grimaced and tugged at his
tunic, which was wrinkled and stained with remnants of his dinner. He did not
answer, and Gavril wished he had never asked Kaltienne to join this discussion.
The boy was a fool, useless in planning anything. He
was, however, fearless and willing to try whatever was suggested to him. “You,”
Gavril said to him now, “will steal a key to the cellars. I am sure you can do
it.” Kaltienne
brightened. “Sure,” he said with breezy confidence. “All I have to do is go to
the kitchens to see what food I can pick up, and I’ll get it then.” “Will
you!” Mierre said in loud exasperation. “The cellar key is held by the wine
steward. Can you get your hands on his ring of keys? I think not.” “I’ll
find a way,” Kaltienne said stubbornly, flicking a glance at Gavril, who was
watching them with a grim smile. “His highness wants me to do this, and I can.” Mierre
growled. “He’ll botch it, your highness.” “And
you could do better?” Kaltienne said, his voice tight and angry. The tips of
his ears had turned red, and fierce determination shone in his eyes. Gavril
smiled to himself and knew he’d succeeded in gaining Kaltienne’s loyalty.
Cardinal Noncire said that once you persuaded a man to commit a risky act for
you, that man was bound to your side forever. If he attempted to draw back, you
could always bring his crime before others. “I
could do better,” Mierre said, as stubborn as a bull. He lowered his head and
glared at Kaltienne. “I’ll ask Atheine to get the keys for us. Better yet, I’ll
see if she can’t distract the guard so that we can slip past. Is that not the
better plan, your highness?” Gavril
felt his ears grow hot. He swung his gaze away, refusing to let anyone see his
embarrassment. He had been sheltered until now, raised in his father’s palace,
kept from the roughness of other boys, tutored by an official of the church. He
was not opposed to carnality, although the Writ cautioned against impropriety
and unnaturalness. In fact, Gavril had carefully laid plans to indulge himself
with a woman as soon as he finished his quest. But until he found the Chalice
of Eternal Life later this year, he intended to remain chaste. He
swallowed hard, banishing certain images from his mind, and mastered his
composure sufficiently to face the other boys again. Kaltienne
was smirking, making lewd faces at Mierre and licking his lips. Mierre’s
face held caution. The larger boy was learning to watch Gavril, to gauge his moods,
and to please him accordingly. He had boasted of his sexual exploits during
their first week here, but after Gavril’s scathing denunciation, he boasted no
longer. The
silence seemed to unnerve him. Hunching his big shoulders, he ducked his head.
“If my plan displeases your highness, j__” Gavril
lifted his hand. “Can this servant girl be trusted?” “She
need not know anything except what I wish for her to do,” Mierre said
arrogantly. “A gift will make her willing.” Gavril
crossed the room and unchained his strongbox. Shielding its contents from the
others, he lifted the lid and picked out a pair of coins. Carefully rechaining
the box, he walked back to Mierre and held out one of the coins, a large silver
dreit. “Is
this a suitable gift for your wench?” he asked. Mierre’s
eyes went round and wide. He stared at the coin as though he’d never seen one
before. “Damne,” he said softly. “It’s a fortune.” Gavril
put the dreit in the larger boy’s hand, pressing it hard against Mierre’s
sweaty palm. “Give her that.” He held up the second coin, another silver dreit.
“This, she may have when her work is accomplished.” Mierre’s
mouth was hanging open now. He gaped like the illiterate, ill-bred, minor nobleman’s
son that he was. Slowly he took the second coin from Gavril’s hand. “It’s too
much,” he said hoarsely. “It will frighten her.” “Will
it?” Gavril asked scornfully. “I think not. If she’s as lusty a drab as you
say—” l | “She’s
no drab!” Mierre said hotly. Gavril
raised his brows, and Mierre seemed to realize he’d just yelled at his prince. Looking
shocked, Mierre bowed at once. “Forgive me, your highness. I—I spoke without
thinking.” “This
isn’t a simple kiss. She is to lure the man completely away from his post. If
she can do that, especially to one of Lord Odfrey’s knights, she will have
earned her money well.” Gavril cocked his head to one side and stared very hard
at Mierre. “You will not let jealousy interfere, will you?” “No,
your highness!” he said too rapidly. “No. She is only a housemaid, after all.” “Exactly.” “Well,
well,” Kaltienne said, giving them each a wink. “And maybe you will persude her
to look twice in my direction too when she is—” “Shut
up!” Mierre shouted. A
knock on the door interrupted them. Gavril frowned and gestured for silence. His
manservant Aoun went to the door, while Gavril’s protector. Sir Los, rose
quietly to his feet and stood with his hand on his sword hilt. Aoun murmured with someone on the other side of the door,
then glanced over his shoulder. “Well?”
Gavril demanded impatiently. “Is it that page I asked to keep me informed of
all messengers who come? Has a dispatch arrived?” Aoun
bowed low and stepped out of the way. “No,”
said a tall, lean figure garbed in a tunic of mallard blue. Thum du Maltie
entered and swept off his cap with a bow. “Your highness, I have been sent to
escort you to Lord Odfrey.” Astonished
and far from pleased, Gavril frowned. “Now?” “Yes,
now.” “But
I am occupied,” Gavril said, gesturing at Mierre and Kaltienne. “With my
friends.” He
kept his tone quiet and pleasant, but the insult he delivered to Thum was
unmistakable. Mierre puffed out his brawny chest. Kaltienne grinned. Thum’s
freckled face turned bright red. He was well mannered, educated, quick of wit
and understanding, but obstinate, unwilling to commit his loyalty, and too
ready to question the worth of Gavril’s orders or intentions. Which was exactly
why he had not been included in tonight’s scheming. If he learned about the
intended raid, he would feel it his duty to inform Lord Odfrey. Already, he’d
proven himself a tongue-tattle this afternoon by telling Lord Odfrey where to
find Gavril in the marsh. And
Gavril never forgot a slight. “Your
highness is to come at once, if it is convenient,” Thum said to Gavril. “It
is not,” Gavril said. “Then
I am to wait until your highness is free,” Thum said. Annoyed
by this interruption, Gavril frowned. He could play the game and dawdle here in
his quarters until the evening came to a close. But Lord Odfrey had a
disconcerting habit of seeing through such ploys and dealing with them
unpleasantly. There might be extra chores assigned to Gavril tomorrow, or extra
drills, or some other unpleasantness done to him under the guise of training. “Very
well,” Gavril said to Thum. He pointed at the opposite end of the room. “Wait
over there.” Thum
bowed and walked silently to the place indicated. He stood next to Gavril’s
writing table of exquisite inlaid wood and appeared to ignore its litter of
reading scrolls, a sloppy pile of perhaps five or six leather-bound volumes
that individually reflected enormous wealth, an ink pot of chased silver, fine
sheets of writing parchment, a hunk of sealing wax, and Gavril’s seal. Gavril
glanced at Mierre and Kaltienne. “Do nothing yet,” he said in a low voice, picking
up the diagram and folding it in half. “We will talk again tomorrow. You may go
now.” They
bowed, Mierre looking thoughtful and Kaltienne grinning wickedly. Out they
went, and Gavril walked into his bedchamber to idle several moments before the
looking glass—a‘ costly possession indeed, and perhaps the largest object of
its kind in the entire hold. He straightened his doublet, made sure his linen
undersleeves were still white and clean, and tilted his cap even more rakishly
over his brow. He buckled on a slim, bejeweled poniard that glittered in the
soft-burning lamplight, glanced at his prayer-cabinet in the corner, and
decided he would not pray before answering this summons. His
anger was a coal that burned steadily inside his breast. The altercation
between him and Lord Odfrey this afternoon could not be forgiven. If the
chevard was summoning ‘Mm to offer an apology, Gavril did not know if he would
accept it. He had never disliked a man more than Lord Odfrey, never. He found
the chevard stern, unyielding, disrespectful, and unfit to run a hold of this
strategic importance. The chevard possessed a high reputation as a lordly
knight and warrior. Men across all Mandria respected his battle skills. But
Gavril valued subservience more, and Lord Odfrey showed him none. Cardinal
Noncire had cautioned Gavril before he chose Thirst that he would dislike this
upland hold. However, the king encouraged Gavril to accept the positioning,
wanting him to receive his final training at the hands of a warrior like Lord
Odfrey. And besides, Thirst was the closest hold to the Dark Forest, the
strongest, most heavily manned citadel guarding the northeast corner of
Mandria. Every
day, a small detail of knights stationed themselves at the bridge gate. Any
travelers wanting to cross the river and continue east into the Dark Forest had
to identify themselves and their business. Any travelers venturing forth from
Nold into Mandria had to do the same, plus have all their goods searched and
accounted for. Prior
to coming here, Gavril had listened to tales of danger, battles to repress
raiders, commerce, adventure, good hunting, and how Thirst stood as a beacon of
light and truth against the pagan darkness of Nold and other lands. Gavril had
imagined a hold full of traditions and honor, always active, always at the
center of intrigue and tremendous adventures. Gavril was determined to use
Thirst as his base while he searched for the Chalice. It had been missing for
many years, and during that time its legend had only grown. Nether
had once been Mandria’s most powerful ally, but now under the rule of King
Muncel, Nether was only a shadow land, its fortunes dwindling every year.
Gavril believed that the Chalice had been stolen from Nether and concealed for a
purpose ordained by Thod. Clearly the Chalice was destined to cast its
blessings on another realm. He was determined to find it for Mandria. All his
life, Gavril had believed himself destined to do something special, to live a
life renowned among kings and men. When someday he succeeded to his father’s
throne, Gavril believed, possessing the Chalice would make his rule both
prosperous and powerful. He would wage war on Nether first, crushing the
darkness there. He would annex Klad, driving forth its barbarian peoples, and
take its valuable pasturelands for his own realm. Someday, he would be a great
king, and his name would resound across the land. But
for now, he was only a young prince, his ranks and titles courtesies, his
knight’s spurs as yet unearned. He chafed at being in this awkward place,
neither a child nor yet considered a man. He
had come to Thirst shining with expectations, eager to begin the destiny
promised him in the horoscope castings of the court’s astrologer. Gavril had
brought his servants, his guards, his books, his dogs, his wines, his velvet
hangings, his desk, footstools, weapons, horses, falcons, and prayer-cabinet.
He had come expecting to live in the unofficial capital of upper Mandria,
centered within its intrigue and activity. Instead,
Thirst was an ancient, crumbling, ill-maintained hold on the edge of a bleak
marsh in the midst of nowhere. The villages nearby were tiny enclaves of
unbearable squalor and poverty. The serfs acted sullen and disrespectful. Many
still held old and forbidden memories of when upper Mandria was another realm,
called Edonia, with its own king and armies. The land around Thirst Hold was
almost flat, cleared for fields, and fitted with ugly levees and channels to
drain marsh flooding in spring and autumn. Hunting was poor, except in the
forest. The climate was dismal, cold and damp, and winter had not even set in
yet. It was only a few days short of Aelintide, the great feast-day of autumn
harvest, with a month beyond that to Selwinmas and what the uplanders called
the long cold. Gavril
found Lord Odfrey to be the kind of bleak, humorless drudge he most despised,
all duty and work, with no understanding of fashion, fun, or the amenities of a
civilized life. The chevard locked up Gavril’s wine, confiscated half his
books, dismissed nearly all his servants, complained that his dogs ate too much
and caused trouble in the kennels, refused to alter his chapel hours for
Gavril’s convenience, and expected Gavril to run, fetch, and scurry with daily
chores like the other bumpkins who had fostered here over the years. The
chevard’s master-at-arms. Sir Polquin, was a muscular brute lacking manners or
respect. Rarely would he allow Gavril to practice the “more sophisticated and
modern swordplay he had been learning at home. Instead, every day brought the
same old boring, outdated drills and practice. Gavril’s
own private suite—if two meager rooms could be called a suite—was clearly a
storeroom that had been cleared out for his use. Never mind that the other
fosters shared a single chamber with only their cots and a chest each to hold
their possessions. Born and raised in the great palace Savroix, considered the
very heart of all Mandria, Gavril had spent his life surrounded by affluent,
luxurious comfort. His personal apartments took up a whole wing of the palace;
an army of efficient servants garbed in his personal livery anticipated his
every wish. Thirst Hold—considered one of the largest and most affluent upland
citadels—was in reality shockingly primitive. Even worse, there could be no
quest for the Chalice if Lord Odfrey continued to deny Gavril his mead, plus
two of his most valuable books, containing as they did much arcane lore about
the Chalice, the Field of Skulls, and the channels of magic which ran through
Nold. There could be no quest if Lord Odfrey would not let Gavril enter the
Dark Forest. He tried to conceal his purpose by conducting hunts with his dogs
and friends, but Lord Odfrey worried about everything, including this present war
among the dwarves. Gavril did not fear the creatures. He was a prince of
Mandria. He had no quarrel with the people of Nold, and he did not believe the
dwarves would harm him. Destiny
had brought him here. If he did not take action soon, he would see his destiny
slipping through his fingers, unseized through the blundering interference of
Lord Odfrey. Scowling
at his likeness in the looking glass, Gavril brushed his golden hair behind his
ears and left his bedchamber. Thum was still standing by his desk, speaking in
a low, courteous voice to Sir Los. Gavril’s
approach caused their conversation to break off. He snapped his gaze from one
face to another, with an annoyance that felt sour in the pit of his stomach.
“If you are reduced to page,” he said tartly to Thum, “then by all means escort
me to the chevard now.” Gavril
and Thum descended the curl of steps leading down inside the tower to the
second floor, where a walkway spanned the distance between the west tower and
the central buildings. The night air lay damp and cold on Gavril’s shoulders.
He wished he’d worn a cloak, but he would not go back for it now. If need be,
he could always ask Sir Los—following a few steps behind him—to share his
cloak. Thum
shivered as he strode along. His doublet was fashioned of thick welt, but it
was not fur-lined as Gavril’s clothing was. With his breath steaming from his
mouth in the gloom, Thum said, “It’s mortal cold out here tonight. Winter’s on
its way, Aelintide or no.” “Are
you cold, Maltie?” Gavril asked in a voice as bored as he could make it. “I
hadn’t noticed. Look yon.” He stopped in his tracks and leaned over the
parapet, then tilted back his head to scan the dark sky overhead. “Is the cloud
cover breaking? Do you see any stars, Maltie?” Thum
was obliged to halt beside him. With chattering teeth, he said, “Nay, your
highness. No stars.” “Some
glimmer of light from those windows across the keep must have tricked my eyes,”
Gavril said with a laugh. “Perhaps it will snow by dawn. Think you so?” “Nay,
your highness. It’s mild yet in the season. We’ve some autumn before us yet.” Enjoying
his game, Gavril smiled to himself in the darkness. Keeping Thum du Maltie out
here in the cold air in his thin clothes was one way to punish him for this
afternoon’s defiance. He would find more. “Explain
to me the winters here,” Gavril said. “We have but scant snowfall at Savroix,
but many have told me upland winters are bitter indeed.” “Aye,”
Thum said, hugging himself. “Bitter enough.” “Then
it will get colder than this?” “Aye.” “Will
the snows come often? Will we be trapped indoors?” “At
times.” ■,
I Listening to Thum’s teeth chatter, Gavril’s smile widened. “I have heard
there is much hunting that can be done even during the cruel grip of winter.
Tell me what you know, Maltie.” Thum,
his teeth chattering more than ever and his thin shoulders hunched now as he tucked
his hands beneath his arms to keep them warm, responded politely, although his
descriptions were terse. Gavril felt slightly uncomfortable, but he held
himself against shivering and stood there, not listening to anything Thum said. Across
the keep, sentries walked the ramparts. Torches burned at set points along the
crenellations, and now and then Gavril saw one of the sentries pause to warm
his hands by the blaze. Beyond the marsh, one of the village churches was
ringing a bell, its sound echoing along the waterway. The hour grew late.
Gavril felt tempted to keep Thum out here half the night. “Tell
me more,” he urged when Thum stopped speaking. “You make the customs of this
region come alive for me.” “Gladly,
your highness, but Lord Odfrey awaits you,” Thum said stiffly. Gavril
made a deprecating gesture. “So he does. I had almost forgotten. Come then.” They
walked on, Gavril moving leisurely and Thum crowding his flank. At the opposite
end of the walkway, Gavril paused, waiting while Sir Los shouldered forward and
pushed through the door first. When his protector gestured that all was clear,
Gavril stepped through. Thum
entered last, gasping and shuddering while Sir Los shut the door with a faint
boom that echoed through the stark, unfurnished antechamber. While Thum blew on
his hands, they walked along a corridor adorned only with weapons hanging
decoratively on the walls, down more stairs, through a public room hung with
tapestries and massive, unlit candles, and up a flight of stairs,. At the end
of another corridor at last they came to a stout door of oak, banded with iron.
A sleepy young page waited on duty there, yawning in the torchlight. Gavril
paused several paces away from the door and turned his back abruptly on the
idle stare of the page. He met Thum’s gaze. “Swiftly. What is this summons
about?” he asked in a low, curt voice. Thum’s
hazel-green eyes blinked in surprise. “I know not.” “Of
course you do. Prepare me. Tell me what Lord Odfrey wants with me.” “I
cannot—” “You
mean you will not.” Thum’s
freckled face began to redden. “No, your highness,” he said calmly. “I cannot.
I do not know.” “But
he sent you. You must have heard him say something of his intentions.” “I
was summoned to the chevard and we talked briefly. Then he said I was to escort
you here to him,” Thum replied. His
answer displeased Gavril. “Yes, you talk often with the chevard, do you not?”
he muttered. “Sir?” Gavril
scowled, and his blue eyes met Thum’s hazel ones harshly. “You talked this
afternoon, and saw that I was reprimanded.” Thum
looked astonished. “Your highness, I did not—” “Do
you call me a liar now, as well?” Gavril broke in. Thum
tried to answer, but Gavril lifted his hand for silence. He shot Thum another
glare, and turned away from him. Striding
on, he approached the page, who now snapped to attention, and said, “Admit me.” Bowing,
the page pushed open the heavy door. It swung slowly, creaking on its hinges,
and Gavril entered Lord Odfrey’s wardroom. Glancing back over his shoulder, he
said to Thum, “Await me. We are not finished, you and I.” Anger
had knotted Thum’s brow. He gave Gavril only a sketch of a bow and said,
“Indeed, we have not. I will see myself cleared in your highness’s estimation
or—” Gavril
turned away and walked into the wardroom without letting Thum finish. He
glanced around swiftly, with little interest. He had been here before. It was a
plain, utilitarian chamber, holding a desk and a locked cabinet, a window
shuttered now against the night, a few unevenly burning candles, a miser’s fire
dying on the hearth in a collapsing heap of coals, and Lord Odfrey’s weapons,
hanging haphazardly on hooks. Lord Odfrey’s mud-encrusted boots stood drying on
the hearth. The room smelled of smoke, dog, damp wool, and melting tallow wax. Gavril’s
nostrils curled in distaste. The chevard lived like a yeoman instead of a lord. Lord
Odfrey’s plain brass cup stood on the desk, weighing down a litter of papers
and maps. A worn leather dispatch case lay open on one corner of the desk, its
contents half-raked out into view. But of the man himself, there was no sign. Gavril’s
brows pulled together. He swung around and pinned his gaze on the page. “Where
is the chevard?” “He
will return soon,” the boy said, his eyes wary. Gavril had a black reputation
among the pages. All of them feared him, which was exactly as he wanted it. “He
said if your highness came, I was to bid you await him here.” Gavril
could not believe this insult. Again and again, Lord Odfrey dealt him rudeness
and discourtesy. To leave, knowing his prince was coming, was a deliberate
slight. “And how long am I to wait?” Gavril asked in a voice like silk. The
page backed up a step, his hand groping behind him for the door. “Not long, I
believe, your highness. Uh, let me fetch your highness some cider.” And
the boy dashed out, slamming the door behind him, before Gavril could ask him
anything else. Fuming,
Gavril paced around the wardroom, kicking a leather-covered stool out of his
way. He ended up beside Lord Odfrey’s desk. Frowning, he glared at it, and
noticed the maps half-unrolled atop the general litter of papers. The top map
was ofNold. Gavril
caught his breath and glanced over his shoulder at the door. Sir Los stood
there. The protector met his gaze in silence. “Lock
it,” Gavril said. Sir
Los didn’t even blink; he was too well trained for that. Putting a hand on the
pull-latch, he said, “There’s no key.” “Then
hold it. Let no one enter and surprise me.” “Be
quick, your highness,” Sir Los said. “For I hear the footsteps of someone
approaching.” “Morde!”
Gavril said. He grabbed up the map, knocking over the cup of cider in the
process. Brown liquid sloshed out, staining papers and running off the edge of
the desk onto the floor. Gavril
batted the cup off the desk, sending it flying across the room, where it banged
against the stone hearth. Swearing to himself, he swiped the sticky cider off
most of the papers, and watched ink running and melting together. Outside,
footsteps paused at the door, which then swung open, only to bang against the
solid shoulders of Sir Los, who had braced his feet and did not move aside.
“What’s this?” Lord Odfrey asked in surprise. “Who blocks my door?” There
was no time to clean up the mess. There was no time to study the map, which was
large and exquisitely detailed. Frustrated, Gavril put it down on top of the
desk, hiding the wet papers, and sprang away from the desk. At his gesture, Sir
Los stepped aside from the door. Pushed
hard from the other side, the door banged violently into the wall. Lord Odfrey
stood framed in the doorway, scowling. Rid of his hauberk, and clad instead in
a knee-long tunic of old-fashioned cut and leggings of dark green wool, soft
cloth shoes on his feet, and a niching of pale linen shirt showing at his neck,
Lord Odfrey looked younger and less formidable. His hand, scarred across the
knuckles and wearing only a plain signet ring, tightened visibly on the
parchment scroll he was carrying. One of his rangy hounds thrust its slim head
beneath his master’s hand. Behind him stood Thum and the page, both craning
their necks to see inside. Lord
Odfrey’s dark eyes narrowed on Gavril. “Your highness has come at last, I see.” He
sounded short-tempered and tired. Gavril
lifted his chin. “I was about to leave, thinking I had been summoned in error.” “What
error?” Lord Odfrey asked, stepping into the wardroom. His dog gazed up at him
in adoration, then lay down near the hearth. “What error?” he repeated. “I sent
Maltie to you a full hour ago.” Gavril
was in no mood to bear another unjust reprimand. Gritting his teeth, he said,
“I have answered your summons. What is it you wish to discuss with me?” “Little
enough now at this late hour,” Lord Odfrey said in his gruff way. “First of
all, has your highness brought any letters? My dispatches to the king are
almost complete. The messenger will ride out at dawn. Your letters can go in
his pouch.” Gavril
moved uneasily away from Lord Odfrey’s desk. He wondered if the cider had
ruined those dispatches. If so, if Lord Odfrey questioned him about it, he
would blame the page’s clumsiness rather than his own. “Any
letters, your highness?” Gavril
started and pulled his thoughts together. “Uh, no. I have not yet found the
time to write to my father the king.” Lord
Odfrey grunted and shifted impatiently to something else. “I have some
questions about your hunt today—” “Surely
we have discussed the matter enough,” Gavril broke in. “Your reprimand was
clear, my lord. You need not repeat it.” “I
have no intention of repeating it,” Lord Odfrey said impatiently. “I want to
know if you saw any signs of battle while you were in the forest. Any trampled
ground? Any signs of warning .. . bits of red cloth fluttering from branches,
that sort of thing? Any runes scratched into the trunks of trees?” “No.” Lord
Odfrey sighed, but he did not look relieved. “Did you smell any smoke?” “No.” The
chevard clasped his hands behind him and began to pace back and forth in front of
the hearth. If he noticed the cup lying dented in the corner, he did not
mention it. Nor, to Gavril’s relief, did he approach his desk. “A messenger
just came from Silon town downriver. There’s been trouble there with dwarf
raiders. You were lucky today to leave the forest unscathed.” The
brush with danger, however faint and until now unknown, pleased Gavril. He
puffed out his chest. “We did not venture far into Nold, but had we encountered
any war parties, I assure you we would have fought.” Lord
Odfrey snorted. “You’d have had little choice otherwise.” His glance shot to
Sir Los before Gavril could find a retort. “And you, protector? Did you notice
aught while the boys were coursing their stag?” “I
did not, my lord,” Sir Los replied respectfully. “Damne.
The eld was more informative than either of you. I should have kept him for
questioning.” “It
is against law and Writ to keep pagans beneath a roof that houses the
faithful,” Gavril said. Lord
Odfrey glared at him. “That’s as may be,” he replied curtly. “But it’s upland
custom that eldin bring good luck to households that give them shelter.” “Old
superstitions should be stamped out when they appear, not encouraged.” “If
the dwarves decide to carry their war across our border, we’ll have need of all
the luck we can find, whether it’s church luck or pagan.“ Gavril
drew in a sharp breath. “That’s blasphemy!” “No,
it’s practicality—something you need to acquire, my prince. Good night.” Gavril
stood there with his mouth open, astonished to find himself dismissed so
curtly. “We have not yet finished this discussion,” he said. “There’s
no discussion here,” Lord Odfrey said. He left the hearth and headed toward his
desk, but Gavril stood between him and the table, blocking his path. Lord
Odfrey stopped and scowled. “I’ve asked my questions, and you’ve given me no
answers. It’s late. Go to bed.” Gavril
reluctantly stepped aside, allowing the chevard to pass. Lord Odfrey circled his
desk and sat down. He did not notice the spilled cider drying on the floor. And
as yet, he had not glanced at the disarranged papers before him. “I
will go now and write my letters,” Gavril said. Already he was composing in his
head his brief note of complaint to the king. But more important was the
longer, more detailed missive he would write to Cardinal Noncire. The church
needed to know how shaky the faith was in this godforsaken corner of the realm.
“I will have two to send with your dispatches in the morning.” “Not
now,” Lord Odfrey said. “It’s too late. Get yourself in bed. You have drills
and chores aplenty on the morrow.” Gavril’s
annoyance came surging back. “Do you now refuse to send my letters?” “I
do not refuse. You have had ample opportunity to compose them since this
afternoon. Your failure to take advantage of your free time has served your
highness ill yet again. Your letters can go in next week’s dispatches, provided
they are written by then. Now, good night.” Gavril
opened his mouth to protest further, but Lord Odfrey had already turned his
attention to his papers. Frowning, he reached for the map draped across the top
of his desk. Gavril lost his nerve at that point and hastily strode out. Thum
was waiting outside the wardroom, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He fell into
step beside the prince. Gavril
glared at him. “Go to your quarters. I don’t want you.” “Lord
Odfrey said I was to escort you back,” Thum said, yawning again. “Why?
I need no nursemaid, no spy to report if I go where I am bidden to go.” Annoyance
crossed Thum’s face. “I’m no spy,” he said curtly. “I’m just following orders.
Lord Odfrey doesn’t explain himself. Your highness knows that.” “I
know that your presence annoys me,” Gavril said. “Then
forgive me, your highness,” Thum replied stiffly. “I but follow orders from the
same man as you do.” Heat
flared in Gavril’s face. He glared at Thum, who glared right back. “First
I am a tongue-tattle, and now I am a spy,” Thum said, making no effort to keep
his voice down. Outside, across the keep in the chapel tower, the bell began to
ring somberly, tolling the call for final prayers and lights-out. Downstairs,
servants were extinguishing torches and banking fires, chattering and yawning
as they went. “What
next will your highness say of me?” Thum continued, still glaring at Gavril.
“Why have I offended you so?” Gavril
stopped in his tracks and turned on the other boy. “ ‘Offend’ is exactly the
word,” he said through his teeth. “You dare question my authority in front of
the other fosters. You dare stand up for an eld in defiance of Writ. You give
my whereabouts away to Lord Odfrey so that I am dealt his wrath. And now, you
dare speak to me with disrespect. Yes, you offend me, Thum du Maltie. And you
are treading on dangerous ground in doing so.” The
color leached from Thum’s face. His mouth fell open, but it was a moment before
he uttered any words. “We—we are all as equals here,” he said faintly. “Lord
Odfrey said so the first day we came. He said we should forget rank and think
of ourselves as comrades and knights in training. We must be warriors together
first before we can succeed our fathers and stand in rank—” “Cease your prattle,” Gavril said scornfully, and Thum fell
silent. Gavril looked him up and down, sneering at him. “You stand before me,
wearing your doublet of cheap fool’s finery, the youngest son of an unimportant
noble, and dare say to me that we are equals‘? Do you know why I was
summoned to Lord Odfrey’s wardroom tonight?” A
strange, pinched expression had appeared on Thum’s face. Stiffly, he said, “As
I said before to your highness, I know not.” “It
was a courtesy he extended to me. My letters to Savroix are included in his
weekly dispatches. Do you write letters to your family, Maltie?” Thum’s
throat jerked as he swallowed. “No, your highness.” “Can
you write at all, Maltie?” “A—a
little, your highness.” “Do
you realize that I have only to pen a few lines to my father the king, stating
my complaints, and your family could lose its warrant of nobility?” Thum’s
mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stared at Gavril as though he had never
seen him before. “What
offends me also offends my father,” Gavril went on. He circled Thum, who stood
there rigid and unmoving, then stopped in front of him again. “If you cause
offense, is your father not also an offender with you? Hmm? You stand there
with your mouth open, Maltie, but you make no answer.” “Please,”
Thum gasped. “My father has always served the king ably. He wears a chain given
to him by the king’s own hand. He is loyal with all his heart and soul.” “Geoffen
du Maltie is well spoken of at my father’s court. But that can change,” Gavril
said, and saw Thum flinch. “Since you think you can reprimand me, question my
orders, and ignore my authority over you, what else do you think? That you are
better than I?” “No,
your highness.” “Is
it worth it, Maltie? To have your moment of supremacy, to laugh at my expense?
Is it worth seeing your father ruined, your brothers brought down with him,
your elder sister’s impending nuptials called off?” Tears
shimmered in Thum’s hazel eyes, but he did not let them fall. Instead, he shot
Gavril an imploring glance. “Please, I beg your pardon. I did not mean to
offend. I misunderstood, and I apologize. I will not repeat my transgressions.
I swear this to you.” “You
swear.” “Yes,”
Thum said, blinking hard. “I give you my—” “Don’t
give me your word!” Gavril shouted, and Thum flinched again. “You are neither
noble nor knight. You are nothing! Your word is nothing.” Red
surged into Thum’s face, and his mouth tightened. He dropped his gaze quickly,
but not before Gavril saw the fury that flared in his eyes. Gavril
raked him with a contemptuous glance. “No land will you inherit. You will be a
common knight in another man’s service. In a year I will be named Heir to the
Realm. I am as far above you as are the stars above this land. That I have
deigned to reside here and be trained in your proximity grants you no favor, no
right to familiarity. Your family should have taught you better, for if they
believe you will gain them more boons at court, you have destroyed those
hopes.” Thum
kept his gaze on the floor. He was stiff, barely breathing. He said nothing. Gavril
let the silence hang between them before he said, “There is a way for you to
redeem yourself.” Thum’s
gaze flashed up. “What way?” he asked. He
should have promised to do anything, not question the terms, Gavril thought,
frowning at him. “Come to my quarters.” Silence
held them until they reached the top of the west tower and entered Gavril’s chamber,
where the fire cast welcome warmth and candles burned despite the last bell. In
the bedchamber beyond, Gavril glimpsed his bed, piled with pillows swathed in
clean linen, the heavy fur robe turned back. Aoun was standing beside the bed,
holding a pole with a heated warmer on the end of it beneath the covers to warm
the sheets. Sighing,
Gavril threw out his arms in a stretch and unbuckled his belt. Tossing his
poniard onto his writing desk, he pulled off his cap and loosened the laces of
his doublet before he turned around to face Thum, who was watching him with a
tense, white face. “What
must I do?” Thum asked. Gavril
yawned, playing him the way a cat torments a mouse. “There is a map of Nold within
Lord Odfrey’s wardroom. Large. About this size.” He held his hands apart.
“Drawn on parchment. It’s on the chevard’s desk. I want that map. You will
bring it to me.” Thum
frowned. “You mean you wish me to ask Lord Odfrey if you may look at it?” “No.
I want the map. When Lord Odfrey is away, you will enter his wardroom and take
the map.” “That’s
stealing!” “Is
it?” Gavril glanced around and saw his jeweled cup waiting for him on the
table. He picked it up, swirled the contents a moment, and drank. “You
want me to steal from the chevard?” “Stop
asking stupid questions. I want you to give me that map of Nold. It’s quite
detailed. I need it.” “But—” “How
you manage to supply my request is your concern, not mine.” “I won’t steal for you,” Thum said in outrage. “My honor
requires—how can you even ask—” “Then
refuse my request,” Gavril said with a shrug, and put down his cup. “Clearly
you’re too much an uplander to be acceptable at court. My father will be interested
to learn that the Maltie family sympathizes with old politics that should have
been stamped out long before now.” “You
can’t accuse Geoffen du Maltie of supporting the division,” Thum said
furiously. “You can’t! It isn’t true!” “My
observations are quite clear,” Gavril retorted. “I can say what I please, and
my father the king will listen.” “No,”
Thum said, breathing hard. “No!” “Then
get out.” “This
is unfair!” Thum said. “You tell me I have offended you by speaking plainly, as
I was told to do by the chevard. But I am to steal to regain your favor? What
trap do you hold for me?” “Careful,
Maltie. Your tongue is digging a deeper hole for you.” Thum
clamped his mouth shut and swung away from Gavril with a muted cry. Rigid and
anguished, he lifted his clenched fists in the air. Gavril watched him, smiling
to himself. Cardinal Noncire had taught him well how to manage the difficult
ones. They always had a weakness. It was simply a question of finding out what
that weakness was. “Go,”
Gavril said, his voice hard and merciless. “Kaltienne lacks your scruples. He
will be honored to serve me by bringing the map.” Thum’s
shoulders sagged. He turned around as slowly as an old man, and Gavril’s chest
swelled with satisfaction. Thum was beaten, he thought. He would now serve his
prince as docilely as a lamb. Never again would he question order$.“ For once
he took this risk on Gavril’s behalf, he would be bound to Gavril forever,
bound by his own guilt. Thum
looked up. “I will not steal for you,” he said, his voice soft and wretched.
“Though you be my prince and will one day be my liege and king, I cannot do
this wrong.” Fury
swept through Gavril. He glared at Thum and reached to his side for the dagger
that was no longer there. “You—” “But
I will copy the map for you,” Thum said. “If that will please your highness.” It
took Gavril’s anger a moment to cool. He stared at Thum through narrowed eyes,
realizing that this boy had not broken after all. He was still independent,
still defiant. Had the map not been truly important to Gavril’s plans, he would
have ordered Thum thrown out then and there. Instead,
he mastered his emotions and forced himself to think over the offer. “Can you
draw?” he asked. “Yes, your highness.” “Have
you ink or parchment? You cannot write, you said.” “I
can write a little,” Thum replied. “I can copy whatever is written on the map.
You have ink and parchment, there.” He pointed at Gavril’s writing desk. “Bring
the map here and copy it,” Gavril said. Thum
looked alarmed. “I dare not take it from Lord Odfrey’s wardroom.” ■• “He
will only beat you,” Gavril said with a shrug. “But I have the power to destroy
your family.” “Thod
is who my conscience must answer to,” Thum replied, revealing a bedrock faith
for the first time. That
alone awakened grudging respect in Gavril. He stared at the other boy for a
moment and relented. “Very well,” he said. “Take what you need from my desk.” Thum
blinked, hesitated, then hurried to the desk and drew forth a sheet of stiff
parchment and a pen. “Take
care!” Gavril said sharply enough to make him start. “And do the task quickly.
I want the map in my hands tomorrow.” “I
have duties all morning, and in the afternoon we are to drill with the
master-at-arms.” Impatience
filled Gavril. He wanted to choke Thum, or have Sir Los beat the knave for his
impudence. Instead, he gave him a stony look and said, “Then you will have to
copy it tonight.” “But it’s past matins,” Thum said. “All lights are to be
out. I can’t—” “You
have little choice. It’s easier to enter Lord Odfrey’s wardroom now while the
chevard is asleep than tomorrow, when you will be missed if you are absent from
your duties. And no doubt Lord Odfrey will be going in and out of his wardroom
throughout the day—” “All
right!” Thum said. Sweat beaded along his hairline, making his red hair stick
out. He drew in a ragged breath and would not meet Gavril’s eyes. “All right.
Tonight.” Gavril
handed him a fat candle. “Work quickly. And make no mistakes. Put it in my
hands by noontime.” Thum
looked up briefly, his hazel eyes swirling with a mix of resentment and
dislike, then he headed toward the door. “You
need not act like a martyr, Maltie,” Gavril called after him. “I have offered
you my mercy. You should be grateful for a second chance.” Thum
paused and glanced back. His freckled face was stony, and not a dram of
gratitude could be seen in it. He left without another word, carrying candle,
parchment, and pen. Sir
Los closed the door behind him. “That’s one to watch, your highness,” he said
gruffly. “Some of ‘em can’t be whipped. They’ve too much spirit for a heavy
hand.” Gavril
glared at him. “And who asked for your opinion?” he said icily. Sir
Los shrugged. “My opinion matters, your highness, when I’ve got to keep
someone’s dagger out of your back.” “Don’t
be absurd. He would never strike at me.” Sir
Los bowed. “As your highness says. If you are retiring now, I will bid you a
pleasant sleep.” “Where
are you going?” Gavril asked him, still displeased by what he’d said. “Why are
you leaving?” “Going
to watch that boy a while,” Sir Los said, pulling his indigo cloak tighter
around his heavy shoulders. “See if he goes where he’s been bid to go.” Gavril
frowned. “Call
it my bad feeling,” Sir Los said. “Call it making sure. Good night, your
highness. Someday perhaps you’ll leant not to be so cruel with his type.” “Cruel?”
Gavril said in outrage. “I was putting him in his place. The cardinal taught me
how to use all—” Sir
Los smiled lopsidedly, clearly unconvinced. Feeling
a qualm of doubt, Gavril frowned. “You have not permission to question my
actions,” he said haughtily. “Your opinion has not been asked for.” “No,
your highness.” “Thum
du Maltie hasn’t the courage to cause me trouble,” Gavril said. “He’s smart enough
to know better.” “Aye,
that’s right enough,” Sir Los agreed, taking the liberty allowed a protector.
He seldom voiced an opinion, unlike his predecessor, who lectured Gavril
constantly, but when Sir Los had something to say he was like a dog worrying a
bone. He would not leave it. Sir Los looked at Gavril and tapped his thick,
oft-broken nose. “But it might be better to mend your ways a bit and not try
everything the cardinal has taught you. There’s going to come a day when I do
fear your highness will run afoul of someone not smart like Maltie, not smart
enough to know he’s licked. That’s when your highness will find trouble.” “Then
you will have to make sure I don’t come to harm,” Gavril said with false
sweetness. He smiled at his protector. “I have no intention of mending my
ways.” Dain
awakened with a start and sat up inside the burrow. He listened intently,
trying to identify the sound that had awakened him. Nothing. It
was time to go. He stretched hard enough to make his spine crack, then bent
over Thia, touching her cold face in farewell. He had performed the rites as
best he could, putting salt on her tongue and wrapping her tightly in the
threadbare blanket. He left her pendant of bard crystal lying on her breast.
Even in the dim light provided by the glowstones, the faceted sides of the
crystal glittered with muted fire. Her face lay in re- pose,
no longer tormented with pain. Even death could not mar her beauty. He
kissed her cold cheek one last time, his eyes wet and stinging. He hated to
leave her, but she was no longer here with him. She had gone into the third
world, where her spirit would forever sing. Wiping
his face, Dain forced himself to go. Emerging
from the burrow, he popped his head out of the ground, blowing dirt from his
nostrils, and gazed cautiously around. The clearing remained deserted in the
cold, gray light of morning. It was raining softly in a light mist that stirred
the forest scents of leafy mold, bark, and moss. The forest was silent. Not
even a bird chirped. There were no rustles, none of the usual activity among
the furred denizens of the woods. A
ripple of unease passed through Dain. He pushed his shoulders through the hole
and climbed out. Swiftly, keeping his senses alert, he replaced the lattice and
soil over the hole, then covered everything with a layer of golden and russet
leaves. He worked methodically to erase all evidence of his recent stay there.
When he was satisfied, he scratched out the rune mark of the Forlo Clan and
drew another, signifying it was now a burial place. Fresh
tears stung his eyes. Fiercely he pushed himself away from there and melted
into the undergrowth, leaving the clearing as fast as his legs would take him.
He’d eaten the last of the food, and he needed to hunt if he was to have supper
tonight. Beyond that, his future stretched empty and unknown before him. His
whole life had changed irrevocably in the past few days. A
distant whooping froze him in his tracks. He listened a moment to the yells,
and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. A war party, a victorious one
from the sound, was coming his way. At
almost the same moment, the wind shifted, and he caught their scent. Dwarves .
. . Bnen, probably. His mind caught something else—men-thoughts, awash with
fear. Dain
turned about slowly, absorbing sounds, scents, and that wailing panic from
human minds. It was time for him tO’get out of here. But
he did not run. Instead, he waited to make sure he understood from where they
were approaching and ho,w many there might be. Dwarves tended to travel in
tight clusters of about half their fighting force, with the rest scattered out
ahead, parallel with, or behind the pack. If he wasn’t careful, he could cross
paths with some of the scouts. Unarmed, he had no chance of surviving any such
encounter. They
yelled again, chanting their gruff war songs, and a drum began to beat, close
and loud. Dain darted undercover and crouched low, making himself as still and
small as possible, hoping his clothing would blend into the colors of the
thicket. A
scout passed him, gnarled and short, his powerful shoulders supporting a
bloodstained war axe, his cap pulled low upon his craggy forehead, his eyes
reddened and glaring. Seconds
later, another scout appeared, only to vanish almost immediately back into the
undergrowth. When
a third and fourth scout showed themselves, Dain realized they were converging
on the clearing where Thia’s burrow was. They had camped there yesterday before
going on their night raid. Now, in the cold early morning, they were returning,
fierce and satisfied, splattered with blood and gore, many of them bearing
loot. At
first Dain was puzzled. There were no clans living this close to the forest’s
edge. Who had the Bnen attacked? As
soon as the question crossed his mind, he knew. They had raided the Mandrian
villages across the marsh. Dain did not understand what had driven them to
provoke war, and he did not really care. What mattered right now was that he
get himself as far away from here as he could, before they caught him, crushed
his skull, and drank his blood in celebration. But
he saw the main pack coming, marching along, singing to the beat of their
drums. Their number surprised him. Several war parties had obviously banded
together, for there were perhaps a hundred or more dwarves marching in close
ranks. Most dwarf clans fought in small groups, making surprise attacks of
great fierceness, then retreating quickly with whatever loot they could grab on
the way. Seldom did they join forces in any kind of army, for they were too
fierce, independent, and hot-tempered to work together for long. All
the same, as Dain watched them march past his hiding place, he couldn’t help
thinking of the old tales Jorb used to spin in the evenings when the day’s work
was done. Tales of the great dwarf armies in the time before men, when enormous
bat- ties
had shook the ground, forming the mountains, when the sounds of dying lifted to
the skies and created clouds, when blood ran as rivers, making channels for
water to flow thereafter. And it hadn’t only been the dwarves who’d fought in
antiquity, but also trolk and dire creatures spawned in darkness. One
of the most ferocious of these ancient battles had been the last, when the
creatures of darkness were at last driven by the dwarves into the wasteland of
what was now Gant. This battle had required all the dwarves to band together.
It had taken place in what was now the fabled Field of Skulls. It had been a
battle so terrible and long, in which so many had been slain and spilled their
blood, that the battleground itself grew saturated and became barren. No trees
or grass or any living thing would grow on the site. The bones of the dead were
said to be piled so high and so thickly that even long centuries later they
made the ground look white. No one who found the place could take a single step
without walking on the remains of the dead. Power still resonated on this
battlefield, a power too strong for time to dispel. It was said to permeate the
bones lying there, and if a visitor took away even a fragment with him, the
power residing in that piece of bone would bring him either great luck or
terrible misfortune. The blood from this battle had flowed so heavily that it
was said to be the origin of the mighty Charva River. Whether or not that was
true, few dwarves living today would consider wetting themselves in the Charva,
for many believed dead souls were still trapped in the waters of the river.
Other legends said that Thod had struck the ground with a mighty blow, thus
creating a lake from which the Charva flowed as a natural barrier between
Nonkind and the warrior dwarves of Nold. Dain
shook off these thoughts. The ancient days were over. These dwarves marching
past him now were only Bnen, murderers of his guardian and sister. He curled
himself tighter under the bush, aching with rage and grief. He wanted to jump
forth and attack them with his bare hands. He wanted to hurt them, defeat them,
kill them. But
he was one against too many. If he tried, he would waste his life for no
purpose and they would not pay for their crimes. Somehow, he must find a way of
revenge. That
was when he saw the prisoners. Bound and bleeding from wounds, they were pushed
along at the end of the pack and guarded by tormenters who jabbed them with
dagger points, laughing and jeering at them in the hoarse dwarf tongue. Three
men, wearing dark green tunics that marked them as being in Lord Odfrey’s
service. One of them had a horn slung across his shoulder by a leather cord.
Dain recognized him as the huntsman whom Lord Odfrey had ordered into the
forest to recover the stag carcass. The
huntsman was weeping in fear, his craggy face contorted. He limped along on a
leg which oozed blood with every step, and his captors seemed to delight in
shoving him faster. When
the prisoners stumbled past Dain, their fear washed over him with such force he
felt stunned in their wake: Dead/dead/dead/dead. With
an effort, he shut their panic away and knelt there on the damp ground, still
watching as the pack marched toward the clearing. He cared nothing about those
men or their fate, except that no one deserved to die at the hands of the Bnen.
For Thia’s sake, for Jorb’s, he had to try to help them. He
waited for the rear scouts to straggle in, and when at last he thought it was
safe, when he could hear the shouting and jubilation as camp was made, Dain
followed them, pausing only to pick up the huntsman’s cap which had fallen on
the ground. By
the time Dain crept up to the edge of the clearing, the dwarves had chopped
down three pairs of saplings and were busy stripping them of their branches. A
large bonfire had been built in the center of the clearing. Five dwarves with
runes painted in blood on their faces and the fronts of their tunics surrounded
the fire, which was crackling and throwing sparks toward the sky. Chanting to
the beat of the drums, the five circled the fire, now and then throwing
something into it which made fearsome green flashes followed by puffs of white
smoke. Dain
froze at the sight of wise-sayers. All the clans of the dwarves had them. But
never before had he seen five together. They were working a powerful spell. He
could feel the strength of it tingling along his face and the backs of his
hands. Yet
dwarf magic could not affect him seriously. He had too much eld blood in his
veins. Something inside him stirred, brought to life by their incantations, yet
not part of it. He frowned, keeping one eye on the wise-sayers as they chanted
and marched, and the other eye on the prisoners, who knelt with their hands
bound behind them. By
now the saplings were stripped of their branches, creating six long poles. Each
prisoner was jerked to his feet, then two poles were lashed to his back. Dain
had never seen this before, but he believed the Bnen were about to commit kreg n ‘durgm,
a terrible, ritualistic torture that supported their darkest magic. Uneasiness
prickled harder inside him. He stared, trying to figure out what they sought to
conjure forth from the second world. It had to be terrible indeed, if they were
creating such a potent spell to control it. Whatever
it might be, he had no desire to witness it. Dain
felt the temptation to turn aside and flee from this evil, but he did not. His
heart stirred with pity for the prisoners, who had stopped pleading for mercy
now and stood silent, their eyes huge with fear. But more than pity, he felt
anger, felt it growing to a terrible heat that burned his core and spread along
his limbs. His heart pounded hard with it, and his breathing deepened and grew
harsh in his throat. How
dare they desecrate Thia’s burial place with their dark spells. It was not
enough to shoot her down as she ran defenseless from her burning home, but now
they would defile her burial place with their tainted works. His
anger burned hotter, and Dain gripped the branches of the bush before him so
hard the twigs cut into his palms. He noticed no discomfort, however. From his
heart a summons was cast forth, a summons such as he had never created before.
He hardly knew what he was about; he knew only that this must be stopped. Come/come/come/come! His
mind spread through the forest, gathering all that was living and calling it to
him. The
birds responded first—large, black keebacks and tiny brown sparouns, the
blue-gray rackens, and the fierce, crested tiftiks. Circling and swooping from
the sky, they flew above the clearing, avoiding the billows of white smoke.
Ever more of them converged, crowding the sky overhead, shrieking and cawing
and chirping and trilling until the noise was almost deafening. The
drumbeat faltered, and the wise-sayers paused in their incantation to stare
upward. “It
comes!” one of them said. “It is a sign. We are heard.” The
birds descended to the treetops, jostling and crowding each other for perches,
some of them beating each other with their wings and pecking viciously. And
still more birds flew in. “This
portent is not of our working,” another wise-sayer said. “Oglan! Set a watch.
You, Targ, keep the beat going.” The
drumbeat resumed, pounding beneath the squawking noise of the birds, but it was
not as steady a beat as it had been before. More
birds came, darkening the sky overhead and filling the trees with a rustling,
jostling, fluttering cacophony. Dain
closed his eyes, filling himself with his anger, letting it burn forth in his summons,
which spread ever wider: Come/
come/come/come. “Look!”
someone shouted. And
now a vixlet darted across the clearing, her russet fur and banded brush
glinting in the firelight. She ran straight toward the bonfire, then stopped
just short of it and glanced around. Her dark mask of fur banded her narrow
face, and she parted her jaws to reveal long rows of sharp, gleaming teeth.
Then she darted away. Mice
scurried out from under leaves, running here and there. Hares appeared, and
stags and more vixlets, some mated and running in pairs. Rats came, red-eyed
and dangerous, their long whiskers quivering as they sat up on their
hindquarters and tested the wind. A muted cough warned of the arrival of a
tawny canar, muscles rippling beneath its hide, its sinuous neck turning from
side to side as it bared its long fangs and snarled. Crying
out, the dwarves fell back from it, abandoning their prisoners, who began to
wail their prayers aloud in terrified voices. The
canar, crouching, came running the rest of the way into the clearing, and the
smaller animals that were normally its prey scattered. It moved like silk, its
long, lithe body tightly wound and ready to pounce. Snarling, it approached the
bonfire, sending the wise-sayers backing away, but it did not go too near the
blaze. A
roar on the opposite side of the clearing sent the stag leaping into the air,
and the smaller animals darted here and there in fresh panic. A beyar, massive
and old, gray hairs glinting in its shaggy black pelt, shuffled into sight. It
reared up on its hind legs, massive paws swatting at the air, and roared again. The
canar squalled a challenge, and the two master predators of the forest glared
at each other across the clearing. Murmuring,
the dwarves clustered to one side, shaking their heads and looking alarmed. As
fierce as the Bnen were, even they did not want to be caught in the middle of
this battle. In
the distance, wolves set up a chorus, their eerie cries echoing far through the
trees. The canar and beyar ignored them, but the other animals shifted
uneasily. A vixlet pounced on a hare, killing it with a swift snap of her jaws.
The scent of blood filled the air, and the stag broke loose of Dain’s control
and bounded wildly across the center of the clearing. The
canar, unable to resist such prey, swung about to leap at the stag’s shoulder.
The animal, caught in mid-bound, bleated and fell heavily, the canar atop its
back. Then, with a roar, the beyar charged, knocking the canar off the stag and
sending it rolling into the edge of the fire. The
canar screamed with pain, and the scent of burning fur overwhelmed the scent of
blood. Squalling and twisting frantically, the canar rolled itself out of the
fire and jumped up, singed and furious, to join battle with the beyar. The
dwarves scattered in all directions, while the wise-say-ers shouted at them to
come back. Four
of the wise-sayers shouted and argued with each other, but the fifth, the
tallest of them, with a long, gray beard and eyes as yellow as the canar’s,
stood apart, silent as he quested the air with his senses. “It
is the shapeshifters!” shouted one of the other wise-sayers, dodging as the
battle came in his direction. “They have come to us like this—” “No,”
said the bearded one. He dropped his gaze from the skies above and began to
look hard at the forest around him. “We have not reached the dark ones. This is
magic not of ours. Someone interferes with us.” As
he spoke, he reached into a pouch tied at his belt and drew forth what looked
like a black stone, except that it smoked in his hand and seemed on the verge
of bursting into flames. He
hurled it straight at the bush which concealed Dain, and struck him hard on the
shoulder. The
pain of it broke Dain’s concentration, and his mastery over the animals fell.
They ran in all directions, heedless of the battle between beyar and canar.
Some leaped over the dead stag; others bounded back and forth in wild zigzags,
the chaos so complete and unbridled the wise-sayers were forced to flee into
the forest with the other dwarves. Knowing
this was his chance, Dain ran into the clearing. A vixlet darted between his
legs, tripping him. He staggered to keep his balance, and dodged the rats
scuttling purposefully toward the food abandoned along with the other loot.
Something bit him, and Dain swore and jumped aside. A
few more strides and he reached the prisoners. Picking up a dagger someone had
dropped, he sliced through their bonds, ignoring their cries and pleas for
deliverance. “Quiet,”
he said, cutting the last of the cords. “Run that way. Run for your lives. Go!” Pointing,
he slapped their shoulders, and they set off in as great a panic as the animals.
Above them, the birds rose up in a terrible flock, filling the air with the
sound of beating wings. Dain ran too, hearing someone shout behind him and
knowing they had only scant moments to reach whatever cover they could find
beyond the clearing. In minutes, the dwarves would come after them. Dain knew
he could outrun them. But the prisoners were stumbling and blundering along,
wasting precious moments glancing back. “Run!”
he called to them. “Run!” The
huntsman cried out and fell. Dain went back to pull him upright. The man’s face
was the color of a grub. He swayed, and the others grabbed his arms and helped
him forward. Dain
started to follow, but something snagged him from behind and pulled him back. At
first he believed he’d been gripped by the back of his tunic. Shouting, he
twisted around to strike with the dagger he’d picked up, but there was nothing
there. Astonished,
he barely had time to realize this before his arms slammed down against his sides
and froze there. He struggled with all his might, trying to break free against
his invisible bonds, but his feet were yanked out from beneath him. He fell
heavily on his side, and grunted at the impact. In
the distance, he saw the bearded wise-sayer pointing at him, shouting some kind
of spell in the dwarf tongue. Dain
stopped his struggles at once, knowing that physical resistance only
strengthened the spell. Dwarf magic rarely worked on those of eldin blood.
Dain’s arms and feet were bound with an invisible rope of power, but it could
not hold him for long. He saw the pack of dwarves running toward him, and knew
he had only moments to avoid capture. “Fire!”
he said aloud, gathering the energy in his mind. He envisioned tongues of flame
burning through the rope of power, and seconds later the spell was broken. Dain
scrambled upright and fled. Half
of the dwarves veered to follow him; the rest continued in pursuit of the
Mandrians. With
the huntsman’s wounded leg hampering them, the men could not hope to outrun
their pursuers. Dain ducked into a heavy stand of harlberries, taking care to
crush some of the purplish-green stems. A pungent, unpleasant scent rose into
the air. Dain smeared some of the pale sap up and down his arms and across the
front of his tunic. The scent would mask his own. Ducking
low, he scuttled behind a log, paused a moment, then doubled back, eluding his
pursuers. As fast as he could, he headed after the Mandrians. They
were making too much noise. Even a blind dwarf could follow them without
trouble. Their scent hung in the air, mingled with fear and fresh blood. Dain
angled to one side of the dwarf pack, well under cover, but as fleet-footed as
a young stag. He leaped over a fallen log, ducked beneath a low-hanging vine of
muscaug with leaves like burnished copper, and tackled the fleeing men from the
side. He
knocked them bodily into a gully that cut beneath a stand of shtac, sending
them tumbling with muffled grunts and little cries of pain. Breathless and
winded, they all landed in the bottom among drifts of fallen leaves. Dain
sat up first, his ears alert for any indication that they’d been seen. No
outcry rose up, but the dwarves were still coming, tracking by scent. Jerking
his tattered sleeve free of the briars which snagged it, Dain clutched one
man’s arm and clapped a dirty hand across another’s mouth before they could
speak. “Hush.
Hush!” he whispered fiercely, glaring at each of them in turn. The huntsman lay
facedown in the leaves, not moving. Dain gripped his arm and felt the life
still coursing through him. “Make no sound,” he said softly. “As you value your
lives, do exactly as I say.” Big-eyed
and afraid, they stared at him. He
listened again, his senses filtering all sounds and movement beyond their poor
hiding place. There was little time. He could think of only one thing to do,
and he wasn’t sure it would work. His sister had been the spellcaster, not he. But
he was determined to try. “Pay
heed,” he said to them, struggling to find the Mandrian words he wanted. “I
will hide you and go for help, but you must not move. You must not speak.” “Gods
above,” one of the men said, the words bursting from him as though he could dam
them no longer. “We can’t hide here. They’re almost upon us.” His
companion tried to struggle to his feet, but Dain pulled him down. “Listen!” he
said fiercely. “I am eld. I can help you, but only if you work with me. No
matter how close they come, they will not see you if you do not move and do not
speak. Swear you will do this, and I will help you.” The
two men, streaked with mud and dried blood, their hair in tangles, their eyes
wide and desperate, exchanged a look, then nodded. Dain
pointed at the unconscious huntsman. “Keep him quiet too.” “Done,”
said one of the men. “But hurry.” Dain
drew his bard crystal pendant from beneath his tunic and held it up. It swung
on its cord, glittering with inner fire. Dain forced himself to forget how time
was running out, how close the dwarves were. He concentrated all his thought
and being on trees, ivy-wreathed trees. He thought of their sturdy trunks,
their strong bark, their outstretched branches. He thought of their crowns of
gold and russet leaves, their deep roots that secured them to the soil. He
thought of the shelter they gave to living things. He thought of how they
reached tall to the sky, how they swayed in the wind but did not break, how
they cast shade in the heat of summer and rattled bare-limbed in the cruel
storms of winter. Still
swinging the bard crystal back and forth so that it began to vibrate with
melody, Dain listened to the circulation of sap within the trees around him,
listened to the steady rustle of their leaves, listened to the digging and
searching of their roots within the ground. He opened his mouth and sang, low
and soft, the song of trees. Somber
and muted, the notes of his song filled the gully. The men beside him remained
still as he had instructed. Dain opened his eyes and saw them no longer.
Instead, two saplings grew in the bottom of this shallow gully, with a fallen
log beside them. Dain
lowered his bard crystal and tucked it back beneath his clothing. He sang a few
more notes to finish the spell, and felt pleased with his results. “Stay
until I return with help,” he whispered. “You are safe here.” One
of the saplings shuddered and seemed to bend toward him. The image shivered,
and Dain saw the man within the spell again. “Do
not move!” he ordered. The
man froze, and the image of the spell became again a young tree. Dain glared at
them. “The spell is weak. Do hot destroy it.” They
made him no answer, but he could feel their fear and desperation. “I will come
back,” he promised. There
was no more time to give them additional reassurances. The dwarves had arrived. Dain
swore under his breath and ducked beneath a bush, knowing he should have
already fled. The
dwarves tramped past the gully, grumbling to each other in vile humor. “Gonna
rip off their heads,” one muttered. “Stab
‘em. Stab their guts,” said another. “Make
‘em scream long and hard this time. Went too easy on ’em before.” Dain
kept his head down while they went by, barely letting himself breathe and
trusting that his clothing would blend into the colors of the perlimon bushes
and the shtac. The briars choked the rest of the gully, giving him no place of
egress except straight up the side. He
waited until the dwarves were gone. Ever mindful of scouts trailing well
behind, he waited longer. Then, cautiously, he emerged from his hiding place
and slapped the leaves and bits of bark from the back of his neck. “Stay
still,” he warned the Mandrians one last time, and left them. By
the time Dain reached the river, he was panting hard and his legs burned with
fatigue. He had stopped only twice to catch his wind. His mouth was drawn with
thirst, and despite the cold he was sweating. Leaving
the cover of the forest made him uneasy. He had to force himself to venture out
into the open. The road made him suspicious. It was too broad, too open, too
exposed. He wondered why such flat, smooth stones had been laid to create its
surface, yet as soon as he stepped foot on it he understood. Walking on it was
wondrous easy. He had no mud to drag his feet, no ruts to stumble over. When
the road curved up onto the top of the levee that held back the marsh, Dain
could see far in all directions. Smoke,
too much of it, and too dark for common cook fires, rose above the treetops on
the other side of the river. Dain suspected the raided villages must be there.
Bells were ringing, at least three of them, from three separate directions,
tolling a warning across the land. Ahead
of him loomed the stone bulwarks of the bridge that spanned the river. A
gatehouse blocked the road, and the armed guards there watched Dain’s approach. He
hesitated, unsure that they would let a pagan such as himself cross into their
land. It was certain the Bnen dwarves had not used this road, but he did not
have time to hunt a ford across the river. Stopping,
Dain dared not venture into arrow range. He veered off the road and slid down
the levee’s steep bank to the water’s edge. The gray water swept past him,
swift and deep. “You
there!” called a stern voice from above. Dain
looked up and saw one of the guards peering down at him from the wall of the
bridge. “Get
away!” the guard yelled at him. Dain
ignored him, and returned his attention to the river. In
the next instant an arrow whizzed past him, close enough to be a warning. Dain
stumbled to one side, his heart knocking his ribs. “Get
away!” he was told. “Get back where you belong.” “Aye!”
called another. “The souls of our dead are not for the likes of you.” “I’m
no soultaker!” Dain shouted back. He
saw one of the guards nock another arrow to his bowstring. Dain backed away
hastily, but before the man could shoot, hoofbeats thundered and echoed across
the water. Squinting
westward, Dain saw an army of riders crossing the bridge. They rode two
abreast. Their war chargers were shod with iron, and sparks flew off the paving
stones of the road as they came. The men were clad in hauberks and steel
helmets. Most were armed with broadswords, spears, and war axes. Pennants flew
in long streamers of color, and a horn blared stridently. The
guards ran to open the gates for Lord Odfrey’s army. Clearly they were riding forth
to deal retaliation for the Bnen attack. Dain ran up the bank to the road and
reached the top just as the wooden gates across the bridge were flung wide and
the army cantered through. The
figure at the head of this column wore a shining helmet and breastplate. With
his visor down, his face could not be seen, but his surcoat was dark green with
a yellow crest of rearing stags, and his cloak was chevroned in strips of dark
and pale fur. Lord Odfrey himself rode this day, his figure grim and erect in
the saddle, his broadsword hanging at his side. Dain
ran onto the road in front of him. Lifting his arms, he shouted, “Stop! In the
name of mercy, Lord Odfrey, stop!” The
chevard drew rein, but even as he slowed, lifting his arm in a signal to the
riders behind him, another knight spurred his mount forward, straight at Dain. This
man was not as large as Lord Odfrey. He wore a simple hauberk beneath his
surcoat of green. A crest of crossed axes adorned the front of it, and his
cloak was made of dark, serviceable wool. Disbelieving
that this man would ride him down, much less attack, Dain held his ground as
the charger, wearing its head plate and armored saddlecloth, galloped straight
at him. When the man drew his sword and shouted an oath in Mandrian, Dain
realized he was serious. At
the last second, Dain dodged, but he was too late. The knight protector swatted
him with the flat side of his broadsword and knocked him head over heels down
the bank of the levee. Unable to stop his impetus, Dain tumbled over and over
until he landed with a splash in the marsh water. The
icy shock of the water brought him upright, dripping and sputtering. “Lord
Odfrey!” he shouted. But
the men were riding on, heedless of his call. “Lord Odfrey!” Dain shouted with
all his might. His voice was drowned out in the thunder of the hoofbeats, the
clanking and jingling of armor, saddles, spurs, and bridle bits. None of them
spared him a glance. Their blood beat hot, and their minds were on war. He
could sense it rolling off them like a stench. Desperate, Dain climbed halfway
up the slippery bank, and cast his mind at Lord Odfrey’s: Halt/halt/halt/halt. Again
the chevard reined up, signaling for the column to pause. Dain ran the rest of
the way to the top of the bank. “Lord
Odfrey, your huntsman is in mortal danger!” he called, jumping and waving in an
attempt to be seen in the midst of the horsemen. “Lord Odfrey!” “Let him through,” someone commanded. The riders parted, reining their
mounts aside, and Dain trotted through their midst straight to Lord Odfrey.
Staring at Dain through the narrow eye slits of his helmet, the chevard sat
there on his war charger, which pawed the ground and champed its bit with much
head-tossing. Breathlessly,
Dain stumbled to a halt before him. “Lord,” he said, gasping between words,
“your huntsman and two others were prisoners of the Bnen. I set them free, but
they are still in danger. The Bnen are hunting them even now, and the huntsman
is wounded.” “M’lord,” protested the knight who had knocked Dain off the
road only moments before, “have done with this brat. We’ve a whole village to
avenge.” Lord
Odfrey raised his visor, revealing a weathered face both stony and hostile. He
kicked his mount forward to meet Dain, who reached out for his bridle. The
chevard circled his horse, and as he passed Dain he drew his spurred foot from
the stirrup and kicked him in the stomach. All
the wind left Dain in a whoosh of pain. He doubled over, sinking to his knees,
wanting to vomit. The
chevard rode around him in a circle so tight, Dain feared the war charger might
trample him. “Never seek to command my wits again,” Lord Odfrey thundered at
him. “Keep your pagan ways to yourself, boy!” Clutching
his aching stomach, Dain struggled to draw breath. He held up the huntsman’s
cap mutely. “What
is that?” the chevard asked, but Dain could not speak. The
knight protector rode forward and plucked the cap from Dain’s hand. “What
is that, Sir Roye?” Lord Odfrey asked the man. “Nothing,”
the protector answered. He flung the cap on the ground. “A piece of cloth.” “That
belongs to your huntsman,” Dain said, finding breath and strength enough to
regain his feet at the same time. “He cannot hide in safety long. You must ride
to his aid.” “This
is mindless babbling,” Sir Roye said impatiently. “Let us ride on, m’lord.” “I
owe you my life, lord,” Dain called out. “Why should I lie?” Lord
Odfrey frowned. With visible reluctance he beckoned to Dain, who approached him
warily and stopped out of reach this time. “You are the eld I saw yesterday.” “Yes,”
Dain said. “I
sent you back into the forest from whence you came. What do you here and now? We’ve
the Nega dwarves to hunt down—” “But
the Bnen attacked your villages,” Dain said in protest. Around
him, a babble of consternation and anger broke out. “What
knows he of the raid?” “Part
of it, most like.” “A
spy, he is!” “Let’s carve his bones for the trouble he’s caused.” A
shout rose up, and Dain’s knees locked in fear. He held his ground, however,
knowing they wouldn’t attack him until Lord Odfrey gave them leave. His life
hung on the whim of this stern man towering above him on horseback. Dain never
let his gaze waver from Lord Odfrey’s dark eyes. “Your
wits are addled,” the chevard said. “My huntsman is safe behind in Thirst
Hold—” “Nay,
he lies bleeding in the forest,” Dain interrupted. “And with him are two men,
stalwart and tall. One has hair like wheat. The top of his left ear was cut off
probably a long time ago. The other has a nose hooked and broken, with no front
teeth. Are they not your men? Who else would they be? I saw your huntsman
yesterday. I know his face well.” “Enough
of this,” Sir Roye said. “M’lord, let us go—” “Silence,”
the chevard commanded, and Sir Roye clamped his mouth shut without another
word. Lord
Odfrey’s dark eyes bored into Dain. “Your clothes are torn worse than last I
saw them. There’s blood on you—” “The
huntsman’s,” Dain said quickly. “Not mine.” “How
far have you run?” “A
league, hardly more,” Dain said with growing impatience. “Come, if you will
save them—” Lord
Odfrey lifted his hand. “Boy, my huntsman is not—” “But
he came for the stag killed by those boys. I heard you give him the order to
fetch the meat.” “So
I did,” Lord Odfrey said as though he’d forgotten until now. “But this morn,
when the alarm was raised, I left orders for him not to go. It’s not safe, with
raids coming out of Nold.” Dain
shook his head. “The man is in the forest, in desperate need of your help.
Where I hid him and the others will not hold long, especially if they ... It
will not hold long. If you mean to save them, you must
hurry!” “The
chevard must do nothing save by his own will,” Sir Roye said to Dain. Within
the frame of his helmet he had a face like a wrinkled nut; his features were
dark and fierce. Hostility and suspicion radiated from his cat-yellow eyes, and
Dain knew that were it not for the chevard’s presence, Sir Roye would have run
him through with that sword instead of just smacking him with it. Already, Dain
had begun to feel a steady ache in his ribs from that blow. Sir Roye leaned
down from his saddle and stabbed his finger at Dain. “You don’t tell him what
to do, ever! Morde a day, but I’d like to slit that pagan tongue right out of
your gullet.” Believing
him, Dain swallowed hard and fought the urge to back up. “You’re
saying these men are in the clearing where the stag was brought down?” Lord
Odfrey asked. “Near
to it. Not far past it,” Dain said. “I’ll show you.” He
tried to go forward, but Sir Roye moved his horse to block Dain’s path. “It’s a
smooth trick, this urgent story of men in need of us, but it’s naught but pagan
lies, m’lord. He wants nothing better than to lead us to certain ambush.” “I
tell the truth!” Dain said hotly. “You’re
lying, like all your kind.” “Hold
your tongue, Sir Roye,” Lord Odfrey said with steely anger. “This boy was
Jorb maker’s apprentice. He’s no
stranger, and I think no liar.” “M’lord,
this tale has holes abounding in it,” Sir Roye said. “The men are in the hold
where they should be—” “Nay!” shouted someone from the rear of the column. “They
rode out before first light. Caix here saw them go!” “Aye,”
said another voice that was fainter, as though even farther back. “I did,
m’lord.” The
chevard struck the pommel of his saddle with his gloved hand. “Damne! Did the
fools leave before word of the raid came to us?” Sir
Roye drew back, but the other men surrounding Dain stared down at him, silent
now, and intent. “Fools,”
Lord Odfrey muttered again, but Dain wondered if it was the men he meant, or
himself. The chevard scowled at Dain. “Quickly now, tell me what you know. You
saw Nocine—the huntsman—and two others—” “Sir
Tilou and Sir Valon,” Sir Roye muttered. Lord
Odfrey nodded without taking his gaze off Dain. “Exactly where?” “They
are hiding in a gully beyond the clearing of the Forlo travel burrow,” Dain
said. “Now my sister’s burial place.”. Compassion
sparked briefly in the chevard’s dark gaze, then vanished. “A gully? They can’t
hide there.” “Not for long,” Dain agreed. “The Bnen were about to
torture them.” “And
how did you rescue them from this war party of dwarves?” Sir Roye asked with
open skepticism. Dain
opened his mouth to answer, but Lord Odfrey interrupted. “Never mind. There’s
no time to be lost—” “But,
m’lord,” Sir Roye said in protest. “What about the raid that left fourteen of
your villagers dead and their huts afire? What about the Nega who—” “The
Nega would not raid,” Dain said hotly. “They never raid. They are—” “We
saw their marks, boy,” Sir Roye said. “We have proof.” “A
mark is not proof.” “And
who else would draw it?” “The
Bnen who did the raid,” Dain said, meeting the knight glare for glare. “The Bnen
I saw carrying man-loot and bringing man-prisoners. Here lies Nega land,” he
said, pointing at the curve of forest behind Lord Odfrey, “but the Nega do not
winter this far west. They are gone south, to their mines in the Rock Hills.” Lord
Odfrey pointed to the cap, which lay on the ground where Sir Roye had thrown
it. Dain hastened to pick it up and hand it to the chevard, who turned it over
in his hands. “This
is Nocine’s,” the chevard said. “There is blood on it.” Sir
Roye’s face crinkled up as he squinted at his lord. “And if this one’s a
trickster, sent forth to lead us off the trail?” Lord
Odfrey looked at Dain. “Come here, boy.” Dain
went to him, as wary as before, and stood next to his stirrup. Lord Odfrey
reached down his hand. Hesitantly, Dain started to clasp it as he had seen
Mandrians do, but Lord Odfrey gripped him hard just above his elbow. The
chevard’s fingers were like steel, clamped on to Dain’s flesh. Dain struggled
to hold back a gasp, and hid the pain he felt from his face. Lord
Odfrey’s dark eyes bored into Dain’s pale gray ones as though he meant to look
inside his very soul. Then he released him so abruptly, Dain staggered back. “He
brings us truth,” Lord Odfrey declared. The
men exchanged glances, murmuring to each other. Sir Roye’s mouth opened in
dismay. “M’lord—” Lord
Odfrey drew his foot from the stirrup, and Dain jumped back out of reach. “Quickly
now,” Lord Odfrey said to him as though he did not notice. “Get up behind me.” Dain put his foot in the stirrup and scrambled up behind
Lord Odfrey’s saddle. He had never ridden such a tall horse as this before. He
felt as though he were floating high in the air. The charger shifted beneath
him, its powerful hindquarters flexing with strength. Dain clamped his legs
tight to hold on with, and Lord Odfrey cast him a glance. “Don’t
kick him in the flanks or we’ll both be thrown,” he said, and wheeled the horse
around with such speed Dain nearly toppled off. “Hang on to my cloak and point
the way.” Dain
gripped the magnificent fur in one hand and slid his other past Lord Odfrey’s
armored elbow. “There.” Lord
Odfrey gathered his reins, but Sir Roye was not yet done. He
spurred his horse to block Lord Odfrey’s path. His eyes held distrust and
suspicion. “M’lord, consider the risk. If he’s leading us into a trap—” “And
if he is not?” Lord Odfrey retorted. “Will I chase blindly through the Dark
Forest all day or will I use this guide that Thod has brought us?” “Thod
is leading us in the guise of a pagan?” someone behind Dain said in loud
disbelief. “Mercy of Tomias, what next?” Dain
did not glance back to see who spoke, and neither did Lord Odfrey. The
chevard’s gaze clashed with Sir Roye’s. “Will you protest all day, or will you
follow me, Sir Roye?” “If
he betrays us—” “Then
you have my permission to draw and quarter him,” Lord Odfrey said grimly. He
glanced back at Dain, who sat very still and wary at his back now. “That is,”
the chevard added, “after I take off his head. Still eager to save men who are
strangers to you, boy?” Dain
swallowed hard, but he knew he could not waver now, before this challenge. “The
Bnen killed my family. If I can bring them harm by leading your men to them, I
will.” He pointed again. “That way, lord.” The
chevard turned his gaze on Sir Roye, who backed his mount out of his master’s
way. Lord Odfrey spurred his horse, and they leaped away in a gallop. The
horse’s mind was a dim flicker of go/go/go. Grinning with eagerness,
Dain tipped back his head to savor the rush of wind against his face. This was
like flying. He jounced along, as high as the tree branches, clinging to the
back of the chevard’s saddle. The rhythmic thunder of the army’s hoofbeats
filled his ears. He
pointed the way, and the column of riders arrowed into the Dark Forest as fast
as the snarled undergrowth would allow. The horses snorted their white breath
and ran tirelessly. Leaves were falling, as golden as bright coins, and the
small, furry denizens of the forest fled to their dens at the noisy passage of
horses and riders. Always, Dain was questing with his mind, seeking the Bnen
raiders. Some
remained at the clearing. The rest were scattered. He murmured this in Lord
Odfrey’s ear, and the chevard nodded. “The
clearing first,” he said. They
crossed a road no wider than a trail that wound through the ever-thickening
trees. Although a weak, wintry sun shone this day, it barely penetrated the
canopy overhead. Here and there, pale shafts of light pierced down to the
springy mold underfoot. Vines looped low from branches, creating hazards of
their own. The riders slowed down to a trot, ducking vines and branches,
sometimes halting to cut their way through. “This,”
Sir Roye muttered behind the chevard’s horse, “is why we don’t bring cavalry
into the Dark Forest.” Dain
ignored him, as did the chevard. “There,” Dain whispered, pointing at the
clearing ahead. His keen eyes, long accustomed to picking out the movement of a
quarry from the trembling of leaves, saw a group of the dwarves working to pile
something in the middle of the clearing. The bonfire blazed less brightly than
earlier. He wondered if the wise-sayers had succeeded in bringing their spell
to life. Sniffing suspiciously, he detected no dark magic. The
chevard drew his sword, as did Sir Roye and the riders behind them. “This is
their smallest force,” the chevard said in a soft voice. “Strike quick and
hard. We’ve more work to do elsewhere.” “My
lord,” asked a cultured voice from among the men. “What degree of mercy do we
show?” Growls
of protest rose up, but a glare from Lord Odfrey silenced them all. “No mercy,”
he said, and spurred his horse forward. Behind
him rose a howling battle cry such as Dain had never heard before. It was
terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He realized he was being hurtled
into battle without arms or weapons, but at that moment he felt immortal and
did not care. He
drew his own dagger, gripping the back of the chevard’s saddle with his other
hand. Lifting his own voice, he cried out Thia’s name, and rode the galloping
charger into the clearing for blood and battle, seeking her vengeance. By
the time they burst upon the dwarves, the twenty or so Bnen there had thrown
down the loot they were stacking in piles and reached for their war axes.
Gathering themselves into a knot with their backs guarded, they tried to
withstand the initial rush of the riders, but they were too few. Lord
Odfrey did not swerve around them as Dain expected him to. Instead, he set his
charger straight at the enemy and rode right into their midst and over the top
of them. Several dwarves were trampled beneath the charger’s hooves, their
screams blending with the shouts and battle cries of the others. Hearing a
skull crunch and shatter, Dain swallowed hard and leaned down to swipe the
enemy with his dagger. He missed his mark as the charger leaped sideways. Then
there came a great whistling whoosh of air as Lord Odfrey’s long broadsword
swung and sent a Bnen head flipping in an arc to bounce and tumble on the
ground. Blood
from the headless dwarf spurted across Dain’s leg, then the charger was on the
other side of the clustered dwarves. The horse swung around without any
command. Dain noticed that the reins were lying slack on the horse’s heavy
neck. Both of Lord Odfrey’s hands gripped the long hilt of his broadsword. His
shoulders bunched with effort as he lifted and swung again. Another
dwarf went down, cleaved in two. From the other side, Sir Roye was hacking and
cursing steadily. The
dwarves broke ranks and scattered. In a few minutes, all of them lay dead, even
the wise-sayers. One of the knights stirred among the loot with the tip of his
spear and brought up a child’s rag doll impaled on the end of it. “These
are our raiders, sure enough,” Lord Odfrey said grimly. Raising his visor, he
glanced around at Dain. “Is this all of them?” “Nay,
there are eighty or so more,” Dain answered breath- lessly.
Brief though it had been, this battle had filled his mind with scenes of shock
and slaughter. He wanted more. “They’re coming.” Lord
Odfrey exchanged a glance with Sir Roye. “Hard to maneuver in the trees. Still,
the advantage is ours. Give the orders.” Sir
Roye wheeled his horse around and bawled out commands. The knights scattered
and rode out of the clearing in various directions. In the distance, a drum
began to pound. Dain heard it before Lord Odfrey did. Both of them tensed. “Ah,”
Lord Odfrey said quietly. He settled himself deeper in the saddle and gathered
his reins. “Lead me to where you left Nocine and the others, boy.” On
the way to the gully, they encountered two more attacking parties of dwarves.
The Mandrian knights had all the advantages of being on horseback and having
spears and broadswords. The dwarves were fearless, ferocious, and used both
arrows and axes, hesitating not to attack horses as well as men. But the
chargers were trained fighters, rearing and trampling with deadly forefeet. Both
times Lord Odfrey fought his way through, with Sir Roye sticking grimly to his
side. Two other knights also rode close, protecting the chevard. Leaving
dead or dying dwarves behind them, they rode on in the direction Dain showed
them. Before he reached the gully, however, he knew his spell had failed. Dismay
swept his heart, followed by exasperation. The two saplings that should have
been standing in the bottom of the gully were gone. Only the real stands of
crimson-leaved shtac remained, along with the briars and the clumps of perlimon
laden with bright orange globes of intensely sour fruit. It took a hard frost
to ripen perlimon, and even then the fruit was often too tart to enjoy. Dain
stared into the gully while the charger pawed the edge restlessly. “Well?”
Lord Odfrey asked in a harsh voice. “They
did not stay,” Dain said, wondering what had become of the men. “I told them
they would be safe if they—” He
broke off, feeling the knights’ suspicion gathering around him like a net. “No
cover to hide in here,” Sir Roye said, glaring at Dain with his yellow eyes. “I
told you, m’lord—” “Wait,”
Dain said. He slid off the charger before Lord Odfrey could protest. Ducking
beneath the perlimons, Dain slithered down the steep bank of the gully to its
bottom, where the log still lay, half-covered with drifting leaves. He
knelt and began to scoop armfuls of them away. “Boy,”
Lord Odfrey said. “He’s
lost his wits,” Sir Roye muttered. Dain ignored them both. Laying his hand on the log’s rough
bark, he felt the life force of the man within his spell, a dim, nearly spent
force. Dain broke the spell, and there the huntsman lay for all of them to see.
Nocine’s face had turned gray and sweaty. His mouth hung open slackly, but when
Dain pressed his palm to the huntsman’s chest, he felt the erratic thud of his
heart. “Morde
a day!” Sir Roye swore. “What magic is this?” Dain
turned his head to look up at them. “Only a weak nature spell,” he said. “It
fools the eyes, nothing more. I told the others to stay still. If they grew
frightened and moved, the spell would break.” None
of the Mandrians replied. They were all staring at him, with expressions
varying from fear, to wary admiration, to glaring suspicion, to stern
neutrality. “He’s
a—Thod knows what he is,” Sir Roye said. “Best to keep well away from him,
m’lord.” Lord
Odfrey said nothing. In the stony lines of his weathered face, his dark eyes
looked sad and far away, as though it wasn’t Dain he saw at all. In
the distance came the sounds of more battle. Dain tilted his head to listen,
and knew the main force of Bnen were coming. “Your
huntsman lives, lord,” he said to the chevard. “And the war party is not far
from us.” Lord
Odfrey blinked as though coming out of his thoughts. He pointed at the
unconscious huntsman. “Sir Alard, take him forth from here. See him safely
home.” “Yes,
my lord.” The
knight spurred his horse down into the gully and dismounted to pick up Nocine
and drape him across his mount’s withers. Returning to the saddle, he sent his
horse scrambling back up the slope to the top and headed away. Dain
climbed up after him and stood there, wondering what was to happen now. He read
the faces of the three remaining men and knew they intended to leave him
behind. In
that moment, Dain knew he did not want to part ways. He did not want to go deep
into the Dark Forest, searching out others of the Forlo Clan and claiming a
home with them. With Jorb dead, the Forlo dwarves owed Dain no claim of
kinship. Even if another swordmaker accepted Dain as an apprentice, he knew
suddenly, he did not want to spend his life making swords—he wanted to wield
them. In the last two days, he had glimpsed a different, much larger world than
the one he’d always known. His home and family were gone now. He could do
whatever he wanted, go wherever he pleased, make a new life for himself. “You
have served me well, boy,” Lord Odfrey said. “My
name is Dain.” “You
acted well in saving my huntsman’s life. You brought us to the raiders
responsible for the attack on my village. For these acts I thank you.” Lord
Odfrey untied the food pouch from his saddle and held it out. Dain
made no move to take it. “Is food all I’m worth, lord?” Sir
Roye growled, and Lord Odfrey blinked. “You hunger, boy,” the chevard said.
“But if it’s gold you would rather have—” “My
name is Dain, and I want a place in your hold as my reward.” “Nay!”
Sir Roye shouted before Lord Odfrey could answer. The knight glared at Dain,
his yellow eyes afire. “There can be no pagan in a faithful hold. Morde a day,
he would bring ill luck to us all—” Arrows
came whistling through the trees into their midst, a whole volley of them. One
skimmed over Dain’s shoulder, making him flinch and dive for cover. Several
struck Sir Roye’s back, bouncing off his armor harmlessly. One hit Lord Odfrey
in the face. There
was a spurt of blood, and the chevard reeled back in his saddle. Quicker than
thought, Dain jumped and caught him before he could topple off his horse. The
charger whipped its armored head around and bit Dain in his side. The
pain made him shout aloud. Doubling his fist, he struck the horse across its
tender muzzle. The horse released him, and Dain sucked in a shaky breath
against the agony flooding his side. He could feel blood oozing along his skin
beneath his tunic, but he dared not look. He
was still holding the chevard up, and the man in his armor weighed so much Dain
thought he would sink into the ground beneath him. Sir Roye shouted something
and rode around to Lord Odfrey’s other side. Leaning over, Sir Roye gripped
Lord Odfrey’s arm and pulled him upright. “M’lord!”
he was shouting urgently. “M’lord!” Lord
Odfrey groaned. He was still pressing his hand to his face, the arrow’s shaft
and fletching protruding from his fingers. Blood ran everywhere, soaking into
his surcoat and trickling down his armor. From
the trees around them, a harrowing cry rose and drums beat like thunder. Dain
climbed onto Lord Odfrey’s horse and straddled it in front of the saddle. He
was practically sitting on the horse’s thick neck, but he grabbed the reins and
said, “Hold on to me, lord.” The
chevard was breathing hard, making a faint groaning sound beneath each ragged
breath. He swayed and turned toward Sir Roye. “Pull it out,” he gasped harshly. Sir
Roye’s gaze swiveled from him to the dwarves, visible now as they came swarming
from three sides. The other knight, whose name Dain did not know, lifted a horn
to his lips and blew on it loudly. In the distance another horn answered. “Pull
it out!” Lord Odfrey ordered. “Damne, do as I command.” Sir
Roye’s fierce narrow face knotted in consternation, but he reached across and
gripped the shaft of the arrow. “If it’s in your eye, I’ll kill you,” he said. Lord
Odfrey shuddered and struck Dain in the back with his fist. Dain
looked at Sir Roye and saw the older man’s love for the chevard warring in his
eyes with what he knew had to be done. “Pull it out,” Dain said. Sir
Roye scowled and gave a quick, hard tug. The arrow came out with a great gout
of blood that spurted across the back of Dain’s head and shoulders. Lord Odfrey
cried out and slumped against Dain, who struggled to sit erect and support his
weight. “They’re
on us!” the other knight shouted, drawing his sword. Another
volley of arrows flew at them. Dain wheeled the charger around, using the reins
as he had seen the other men do. The horse backed its ears and fought him,
half-rearing, but the arrows skimmed by without striking Dain. He heard some of
them hit Lord Odfrey’s armored back and fall to the ground. Shouting
hoarse war cries of their own, Sir Roye and the other knight closed ranks and
charged the rush of dwarves, although they were hopelessly outnumbered. Lord
Odfrey’s horse was still fighting Dain, trying to swing itself around toward
the battle. While
he was struggling with it, Dain felt Lord Odfrey lift himself. His visor
clanged down, and the man shakily drew his sword, nearly cutting Dain’s thigh
in doing so. “Boy,”
he said, his voice thin and muffled inside his helmet, “have you any magic to
stanch this wound?” Dwarves
surrounded the two knights on all sides, and more of them came rushing now
toward Dain and Lord Odfrey. Dain was afraid. His heart was pounding so hard he
thought it would break his ribs. He believed that Lord Odfrey was going to
swoon and fall off the horse at any moment. They had to get out of here. “Boy,”
Lord Odfrey said again. Dain
shook his head. “Nay, lord. None.” Lord
Odfrey gripped his shoulder with such force Dain thought his bones might crack,
then said, “Drop the reins on his neck. Let him fight for us. We’ll stand here.
We will not run.” The
chevard’s courage shamed Dain. He dropped the reins as commanded, and at once
the brawny charger blew through its nostrils and wheeled around to meet the
oncoming dwarves. He reared and struck out with his forefeet, bringing two of
the dwarves down. As
the horse landed, he leaped forward. Dain was nearly unseated, but Lord Odfrey
leaned forward with the horse, using its impetus as he swung his sword. A
dwarf staggered back, his head half-severed from his neck. Cruel
fingers gripped Dain’s left knee and tugged hard, trying to pull him off. He
twisted around and stabbed the dwarf’s forearm with his dagger. Screaming, the
dwarf released him and
stumbled back. But two others took his place. Lord Odfrey lifted his sword over
Dain’s head and swung down, eliminating them both. Dain
heard the chevard grunt with the effort, but his courage and refusal to give up
infected Dain with the same fiery spirit. Together they fought, circling as the
dwarves tried to surround them. After a while, Sir Roye fought his way back to
Lord Odfrey’s side, protecting him with great ferocity. Then
a horn blew, and from Dain’s left came twenty or more Mandrian knights riding
through the trees like vengeance itself. They plowed into the dwarf war party
and attacked them from their flank, driving them back while some of the knights
forced their way to Lord Odfrey’s side, shielding him from further harm. A
few minutes later, minutes that seemed to last an eternity to Dain, sudden
quiet descended upon the forest. The dead and dying lay sprawled everywhere,
their blood soaking into the ground. Silence held the forest, broken only by
the harsh breathing of the survivors, who lifted their visors and showed
strained, sweat-soaked faces to each other. Sir
Roye glared fiercely around, then sheathed his sword. He reached out and
gripped Lord Odfrey’s sword arm. “M’lord,” he said, his voice hoarse with
fatigue and worry. “It’s over. M’lord, let me take your sword.” Lord
Odfrey sat there in silence as though he did not comprehend, but at last he let
Sir Roye pull his bloody sword from his hand. “Home,”
he said in a strained whisper. Sir
Roye nodded to Dain, who gathered up the charger’s reins. “Go easy with him,
boy.” Dain
nodded, coaxing the weary charger into a walk. Sir
Roye rode close on his right. Another knight crowded close on the left. “Know
you the way?” Sir Roye asked. “I’m fair turned about in these infernal trees.” “I
know the way,” Dain said. Conscious
of the importance of his task, he picked a path over the dead Bnen, his enemies
no longer. Deep weariness sagged through him. but he resisted it, refusing to
give way to the long shudders that shook him. He had never been in battle
before. The smell of death hung thick over the woods, tainting them now. He was
glad the Mandrian knights did not joke and laugh as they rode home behind his
lead. They talked softly among themselves, but did not make merry. He noticed
that several seemed to be praying, making the circle of their faith as they did
so. He respected them for that. Good-bye,
Thia, he thought. Sleep well in your resting place. I go to a new life
among men. You would not like it. You would tell me to beware, for men are
never to be trusted. But I trust this man. His heart is good, and he has honor
in him. Lord
Odfrey moaned quietly and slumped against Dain’s back. Sir Roye gripped his
arm, steadying him to keep him from falling, and thus did they ride forth from
the Dark Forest, crossing the bridge that spanned the river whose name Dain did
not know. The bridge guards stared at them, openmouthed and red-faced with
admiration, and closed the gates behind them. When
they reached the opposite bank, the road stretched ahead, leading to a slight
rise of ground. There rose the tall stone walls of Thirst Hold, a gray fortress
with banners flying against the sky. Seeing
it, Dain shivered slightly. His fear and distrust returned and he knew fresh
temptation to return to the forest and make a solitary life for himself. He
could journey to the north, to see Nether. He could explore the world. Yet
the world seemed too big just now. He was cold and hungry, and he hurt all
over. Surely Lord Odfrey would give him a place here, where he would have
shelter and food in exchange for whatever work he would do. He’d sensed
agreement in the man’s mind before the last attack. For now, that was assurance
enough. The
massive gates to the hold stood open by the time the riders reached them. They
rode through, someone else taking the lead now. There was a cramped tunnel of
stone to pass along, then Dain emerged into a spacious, muddy keep surrounded
by walls and buildings of stone. Everything he saw amazed him. He could barely
take in half of it. And
people . . . there were people everywhere, thronging the courtyard and milling
around past another passageway that led into yet a larger yard. Towers rose
above the roofs of the tallest buildings. A few of the windows even glinted
with glass. He had never seen so much stone, or so much fodder stacked in
yellowing heaps next to barns, or so many chickens running and
squawking underfoot, or so many barrels and kegs of food. From the looks of
things, the inhabitants of several villages had crowded themselves within the
walls of the hold. How
they did clamor, shrieking and calling out questions, cheering and waving their
caps when the word went forth that the raiders were dead. They
yelled and stamped their feet and hooted and jumped for joy, pressing closer
until some of the knights shoved them back. “Make
way!” Sir Roye shouted impatiently. “Make way for the chevard!” The
cheers did not fade. The common folk seemed not to notice that Lord Odfrey was
wounded. They milled and scrambled out of the way heedlessly, until at last
Dain and Sir Roye rode through their midst and broke free into a third courtyard,
this one paved with large, smooth flagstones. The horses’ hooves clattered,
echoing off the buildings that towered above. Broad
steps led to a central building, one longer than it was tall and flanked by a
tower on either side. Servants swarmed down the steps and came hurrying to meet
Dain’s horse. “Fetch
Sulein at once,” Sir Roye ordered. “His lordship is badly hurt.” “Is
he dead?” a voice asked, only to be shushed. A
pair of boys gripped the war charger’s bridle, and one of them pulled the reins
from Dain’s hands. “Who’s that?” he asked, staring at Dain. No
one answered him. Eager
hands reached up and lowered Lord Odfrey gently from his horse. With his armor
on, he was no easy weight. Six men struggled to carry him up the steps and into
the building. Dain could hear dogs barking inside and the commotion of voices. Weary
to his very bones, Dain slid off the horse and walked around it to Sir Roye,
who was also dismounting. The
knight bowed his head and straightened slowly as though his joints ached. He
pulled off his helmet and pushed back his mail coif to reveal short-cropped
gray hair darkened with sweat. His yellow eyes held worry. “Where
now should I go?” Dain asked him. “Can I have the food Lord Odfrey offered me
earlier?” “Food?”
Sir Roye repeated. He turned his head around and focused on Dain as though he’d
forgotten the boy existed. He scowled. “Food?” “Yes,
I’m hungry—” “I
don’t care if you starve,” Sir Roye said, but he cut down the food pouch from
Lord Odfrey’s saddle and flung it at Dain. “There’s your reward. Now be off
with you.” Dain
clutched the pouch and stood there, determined to get what he wanted. “The lord
was going to give me a place—” “He
never did!” Sir Roye broke in angrily. “I
asked—” “Aye,
but he gave no promise.” The
two of them glared at each other until Dain finally looked away. Desperately he
said, “But I helped you. I led you to the Bnen. I saved the huntsman’s life. I
fought with—” “There’s
no place for the likes of you in Thirst Hold,” Sir Roye said. “Get back to
where you belong.” “But—” Sir
Roye beckoned to one of the mounted knights still nearby. “See to this,” he ordered,
then turned away and headed up the steps into the building. Dain
stood there, watching him go, and only then noticed that the stableboys were
staring at him with open hostility and fear. “What
is it?” one of them asked. The
other shook his head. “A demon maybe.” “Look
at them ears.” “Look
at them eyes.” “No!
Don’t look at its eyes. It’ll put a spell on ye!” The
knight backed up his horse. “You boys, see to the chevard’s horse. He’s fought
well today, and he deserves an extra ration of grain.” The
stableboys ignored him. “Get it!” one of them yelled. He picked up a dried
horse dropping and threw it at Dain. The other boy did the same. Pelted
with manure, Dain turned away from them and ran. The knight shouted after him,
and Dain glanced back to see him coming in pursuit, his horse’s shod hooves
clattering on the paving stones. In the gathering dusk, with the charger
snorting scarlet and sparks striking from its hooves, the knight looked like a
phantasm from the second world astride a darsteed. Dain
imagined the man picking him up by the scruff of his • neck
and riding to the gates of the hold, then flinging Dain into the mud. Refusing
to let that happen, Dain darted out of the paved courtyard and back into the
larger enclosure and the melee of villagers. Shoved and jostled, he quickly
ducked behind a stack of barrels where no one would notice him. Sinking to the
cold ground with a weary sigh, he glanced around warily, watching the knight
ride by, the war charger pushing through the crowds with ill temper. When the
horse kicked a serf and began to paw and champ its bit, the knight reined up
and dismounted. Another
knight in a torn and blood-splattered surcoat approached him on foot. “Masen, what
do you out here? Have that brute stabled and see to yourself.” Sir
Masen pushed back his mail coif, revealing a sweat-soaked tangle of light brown
hair. “Have you seen the eld boy, Terent? The one that rode with us?” “He’s
with the chevard, I thought.” “Nay.
Sir Roye dismissed him. I have orders to see him thrown out of the hold.” The
other knight swore. Dain crouched lower in his hiding place, hardly daring to
breathe. He feared that both of them would resume the search. “It
grows late,” Sir Terent said. “I’m frozen to the bone. Let’s see ourselves to a
fire first, then we’ll worry about the eld. It’s too late anyway for tonight.
The gates are closing.” Sir
Masen hesitated, but after a moment his friend persuaded him. Together, they
walked to the guardhouse and the long barracks beyond it, their spurs jingling
with every step. Small boys scampered behind them in obvious hero worship. Relieved,
Dain sank onto his haunches and gulped in several deep breaths. He had a chance
now to hide himself well before they hunted him again. Grinning, he delved into
the pouch and pulled out a wedge of cheese, which he began to eat as fast as he
could choke it down. Exhaustion
dragged at him. He felt stiff with cold and his side ached with every breath.
He was terribly thirsty, and his hands were cut and skinned across the backs of
his knuckles where they’d been whipped by branches and briars during the wild
ride through the forest. The
deepening shadows were cold. The sun sloped low and dropped behind the towering
walls. He was in a place of strangers, most of whom would as soon slit his
throat as look at him. His one ally lay unconscious, perhaps dying. Although
Dain knew Lord Odfrey’s mind had intended to make the promise Dain asked for,
he had not actually given it voice before the arrow struck him. Sir
Roye was the kind of man who would accept only deed or command, not intention.
Dain grimaced and spit at the thought of Sir Roye, then went back to chewing
cheese. He didn’t care if they all cursed him. He needed somewhere to live
through the coming winter. Now that he was inside these walls, he wasn’t
leaving. Far
away in lower Mandria, a ponderous carriage halted on a low rise, and the Due
du Lindier pulled aside the leather curtain buttoned over the window. “Look, my
dear,” he said excitedly. Pheresa’s
gloved hands clenched tightly in her lap for a moment, but she allowed none of
her discomposure to show in her face. Obediently she leaned forward to gaze out
the window. One trailing end of her veil fell from her shoulder and dangled.
Ignoring it, she gripped the edge of the carriage window and peered out at her
future. The
air was mild and a rainy drizzle misted down, casting the world in shades of
hazy gray. She saw that they had halted in a wooded park of pleasing scope.
Venerable old chestnut trees, their knotty trunks furred with pale moss, spread
broad limbs that nearly touched the ground in places. Autumn-blooming cegnias
massed at the base of these trees, their fragrant blossoms vivid pink in hue. A
carpet of low-growing blue vineca meandered through the park like a road to
enchantment. Perky yellow difelias bloomed in scattered clumps. A stream, lined
with rounded stones, rushed and gurgled in a course parallel with the winding
road. “Oh!”
she said in delight, forgetting her nervousness. “How lovely. I have never seen
a more beautiful vista, yet how natural it looks, as though the gardener’s hand
was never here.” “Ladies
and their flowers,” her father said with an indulgent chuckle. “Look beyond, my
dear. There is the palace.” Pheresa
lifted her gaze to the horizon. Beyond the trees, looming through the mist,
sprawled a gray mass of stone and spire. She drew in a sharp breath. “Savroix!”
she whispered. It
was the size of a town, much larger than she’d expected despite all the tales
she’d been told. Pheresa
blinked at it, trying to take in its size, trying to convince herself that this
was indeed to be her new home. For a moment she felt lost and overwhelmed.
After all, for the past nine years of her life, she had been incarcerated in
the nuncery at Montreuv, cloistered there with other young maidens of the
highest birth to be educated in all that was desirable and ladylike. A week
past, her father had come for her. He was nearly a stranger, looking tall and
thin and impatient. She wondered when his hair had turned gray. When had he
acquired his limp? He’d bowed to her hastily, clearing his throat in a way she did
remember, and announced, “The king wants you to come live at Savroix. Get your
things ready, for I am to take you there immediately.” Since
then, Pheresa’s orderly life had become one of chaos and flurry. She’d been
given scant time to pack her belongings. Whisked home, she’d tried to
familiarize herself with the house and grounds, as well as the three younger
sisters she’d acquired in her absence, but her mother was wild with excitement
and kept her busy with fittings for gowns and all the accouterments necessary
for a lady of fashion. Nothing was ready. Her trunks at this moment contained
several half-finished gowns to be completed by the palace seamstresses. The
rest of her things would be sent to her later. Pheresa
did not understand the need for such haste. Normally a calm, well-ordered
maiden, she preferred life to follow an established routine. She had expected
to remain at Montreuv until spring, at which time she would celebrate her
eighteenth birthday. The nuns conducted a small, elegant ceremony for their
graduates. Pheresa had looked forward to wearing a gown of pure white, with a
diadem of silver in her hair and a bouquet of spring lilies in her hands, while
the benediction was pronounced over them and bells rang joyously. All
her life she had known what her future would hold. Her mother was Princess
Dianthelle, sister to the king. Her father was the Due du Lindier, one of
Mandria’s four marechals and a very great warrior. From birth, Pheresa had been
destined to wed the Heir to the Realm. She had met Gavril only once, when she
was eight years old and he was seven. They had gone through a trothing ceremony
to convey the intentions of their parents, although it was not a binding
contract of obligation on either side. All she remembered of Gavril was that he
was blond-haired, that he had snatched the best pastries for himself, and that
he had kicked her when no one was looking. In
the coming year, when Gavril reached his majority and was knighted, he would be
proclaimed Heir to the Realm. Upon achieving that title, he would be free to
marry. She expected to attend the ceremonies of his investiture. They would be
formally reintroduced. He would court her, and if she pleased him, he would
propose. Pheresa
was not a vain young woman, but she knew herself to be beautiful. Her figure
was well formed and graceful. Her blonde tresses held a natural tint of red,
bleached away carefully with the juice of lemons by her maidservant and kept
secret from the nuns. She had three freckles on her nose, which she considered
too long and slender; the freckles were bleached with lemons too. Now that she
was no longer under the aegis of the nuns, who disapproved of vanity, she
planned to powder her nose in the court fashion and vanquish her freckles
entirely. Her eyes were wide-set and light brown. She was intelligent, able to
read and write, versed in many subjects, and levelheaded. She looked forward to
parties and dancing, but she planned also to read and study a variety of topics
which the nuns had closed to her inquiring mind. These
had been her plans, but now they were thrown awry. She had not expected King
Verence to summon her so abruptly to the palace. She did not understand why she
was to live with him now, many months before she should even arrive to meet
Prince Gavril. Her cousin was away, being fostered. She could not even become
acquainted with him as she would like. “Well,
daughter?” her father asked now, beaming at her. His long narrow face was
flushed with excitement. He looked puffed up with pride, and she wished he were
not. “Is there no smile? Does the sight of your new home not please you?
Savroix, my dear. Savroix!” Pheresa
swallowed a sigh and summoned a wan smile to please him. “Yes, Father, Savroix
is certainly impressive. I did not expect it to be so large.” “There’s
nothing like it in all the world,” Lindier proclaimed, and rubbed his hands
together. He closed the leather curtain and gave the order for the carriage to
drive on. “Not much longer now, my dear, and then you shall be home.” She
frowned, unable to hide her distaste. “Why
do you look so?” he asked. “Do
you not find this summons odd?” she replied. “Odd?
Certainly not. It is a great honor extended to you. The king has followed your
progress and studies with much interest these past few years. Your conduct and
deportment have been reported to him as excellent. He is well pleased and now
he is impatient to meet you. What is wrong with that?” “Nothing,”
she said hastily. “I am honored by this opportunity to meet the king. But—” “But
what?” Lindier snapped. “Why do you frown so? Why do you quibble? What’s wrong
with you? Nerves?” “No,
your grace,” she said, casting her gaze down at her clenched hands. Slowly she
forced her fists to uncurl. “But must I live here now?” “Why
not? It is to be your home. The king wishes to get to know you, both as your
uncle and as your imminent father-in-law.” “But
that is the problem, Father,” she said, meeting Lindier’s eyes. “It is too
soon. Gavril has not proposed to me yet.” “He
will, my dear. He must!” “But
he is not bound to choose me.” “Custom
binds him,” Lindier said grimly. “But
not law. For me to be installed here in the palace, and waiting for him when he
returns next year . . . well, it looks too forward. It looks as though I expect
him to—that I am sure he will—that I—” “Nonsense!”
Lindier said heartily. “What is this mincing nicety about? Of course you expect
him to propose. We all do.” “But
I should not appear to be too confident.” “It
is custom,” Lindier repeated. “If
I offend his pride, this confidence will prove to be the gravest folly,” she
whispered unhappily. “I have heard that the prince is hot-tempered and
stubborn. If he feels coerced or pressured too hard, he may wish to look
elsewhere for his bride.” Lindier
snorted and gripped her hand briefly in his. “You worry too much. The boy is
young and high-spirited, but he is hardly a fool. One look at you, my dear, and
he will be captivated.” She
smiled at that. She could not help but be won by her father’s flattery;
however, as they swept through the imposing gates of the palace and rolled
along the long drive, her qualms returned. Still,
the wonders and beauty of the grounds amazed her. Her father pulled aside the
curtain so they could look out despite the misty rain, and she gasped at the
size of the fountain, which seemed as large as a lake. Cavorting sea creatures
and cherubs made of mossy stone spouted jets of water. The size and .scale of
them astonished her. Beyond the fountain lay gardens of riotous color and
formal pattern. The flowers glowed in the gentle rain, the day’s dreariness
making their hues seem brighter. The walls of the palace towered before her
with an immense grandeur of spires and statuary, and as she looked Pheresa’s
heart began to beat faster. /
shall be the mistress of all
this, she thought. It was the king’s
wish, and surely Gavril was no longer as spoiled and horrid as he had been when
he was a little child. Even if she did not like him, she liked Savroix very
much. The
carriage halted before a vast sweep of steps leading up to tall doors that
stood open. Servants in royal livery were lined up in a double row at
attention, and a purple carpet was rolled out between them. As
Pheresa was handed out of the carriage with tender care by her father, she met
his excited gaze and smiled fully for the first time. In her mind, it no longer
mattered if she and Gavril liked or disliked each other. She wanted Savroix for
her own. She would do whatever she had to in order to get it. Far
away at Thirst Hold, Gavril’s raid on the chevard’s cellars worked exactly as
planned. With almost everyone in the hold worried about whether Lord Odfrey
would live or die, it proved a simple matter to gain entry. Aoun and another
manservant coerced into helping carried out perhaps a dozen kegs of the
Sae-lutian mead and concealed them in an unused storeroom. Now
it was the eve of Aelintide. The servants had been abustle all day, making
preparations for tomorrow’s feasting and celebration of harvest. Julth Rondel,
steward of Thirst Hold, wanted to suspend the feast until Lord Odfrey
recovered, but Gavril had insisted the celebrations go on as planned. After
supper ended and while the chapel bell was ringing to call worshipers to
eventide mass, Gavril collected Mierre, Sir Los, and a servant to carry a keg
of the mead. He set out through the crisp night air, his breath puffing white
about his face, his jeweled poniard swinging at his side, his fur-lined cloak
keeping him warm. He
crossed the hold, walking at first with the general stream of knights and
servants going to the mass to pray for Lord Odfrey’s recovery, then splitting
off and proceeding onward. He noted with approval the long trestle tables and
harvest pole already placed in the stableyard. As he approached the guardhouse,
he saw lights in the windows and heard the sounds of comradely singing.
Sentries patrolled the battlements in silence, keeping the normal discipline of
the hold. Although the raiders had been defeated, the dwarf attack had greatly
unsettled the serfs. It had been with difficulty that they were persuaded to
leave the safety of the hold yesterday. Those who had been burned out were sent
off to make new homes for themselves, each survivor given a sack of essentials
such as a cooking pot, a hank of salted meat, a length of new-woven linsey to
make clothes, and a Circle to hang over their new hearth. Such largess
emboldened them greatly, and most set off without further persuasion, pausing
only to touch the door of the chapel with prayers for Lord Odfrey. Pausing
outside the door of the guardhouse, Gavril waited for Sir Los to step ahead of
him and pound on the thick wooden panels. The
singing died down, and the door swung open. “What’s the word o‘ the master?”
asked a gruff voice from within. “Nothing,”
Sir Los replied in his terse way. “His highness requests entry.” The
door opened wide, and the knights within rose to their feet, scraping back
stools and benches in a great crash of noise. Gavril
drew a deep breath. He was almost trembling inside with anticipation, but he
forced his emotions under rigid control. He did not want his excitement
misunderstood. “The
knights of Thirst Hold bid your highness enter, with welcome,” said the man at
the door. He
bowed low, and Gavril stepped inside. The
guardhouse was a round, stout structure, built of brick and stone. One half of
it held cells for miscreants and suspicious characters awaiting judgment and
floggings. The rest of the building was a single, open chamber filled with
tables and benches. The knights ate their meals here. In their off-duty hours
they diced, studied war strategies, assembled to hear reports and dispatches of
trouble on the border, and dictated letters to scribes. Seeing
one such individual now standing in the far corner, still clutching his pen in
ink-stained fingers, Gavril frowned and pointed at the man. “Scribe, you are
excused,” he said. The
scribe’s throat-apple jerked up and down. With a hasty bow, he gathered up
scraps of parchment, his inkwell, his leather roll, and his assortment of
battered pens. Bowing again, he scuttled past Gavril and his party, and exited
out the door into the night. Gavril
glanced around at the silent, respectful faces. One man, Sir Bosquecel, captain
of the guard, was conspicuously absent. No doubt he had gone to mass. Having
counted on that, Gavril concealed an inner smile of satisfaction. “Come
to the fire, your highness,” Sir Terent said. He was the man who had opened the
door to them. Balding and ruddy-faced, he gestured toward the hearth, where a
modest fire burned amidst crumbled embers and white ashes. “Please accept our
hospitality and have a chair. Sir Nynth, pour his highness and these companions
a cup of cider.” Gavril
allowed himself to be ushered closer to the fire, but he did not sit down, and
he did not accept the hastily poured cup offered to him. “Please, sir knights.
Allow me to offer you a gift instead.” He gestured, and his servant set the keg
on the closest table. “Saelutian mead, good sirs,” Gavril said proudly, beaming
at them. “The best quality, fit for the best knights in service in upland
Mandria. Let us drink a toast to your recent success in battle.” Silence
fell over the room. Many of the knights looked away. Some frowned at Gavril.
Others looked shocked. Taken
aback by their unexpected reaction, Gavril allowed his smile to fade from his
face. He stared back at them, his pulse beginning to race inside his collar.
“What’s amiss?” he asked, and hated it that he had to ask such a question. In
that instant he felt like an unschooled boy in a company of men. He did not
like the feeling at all. When
no one immediately replied, he frowned and gestured at the keg. “This gift is
both costly and rare, worthy of the valor you displayed against the dwarf
raiders. Will you not drink it with me, on this eve of Aelintide?” Red-faced,
Sir Terent drew himself to his full stature, standing head and shoulders above
Gavril. He cleared his throat and said with hesitation, “Your highness is most
generous. Thanks do we give you for this gift, but we’ll not accept it.” Gavril’s
face was on fire. He did not understand, and there was no chamberlain on hand
to murmur a swift explanation in his ear. Social gaffes were unbecoming to
princes of the realm. So far no one had dared to laugh at him. Their
expressions stayed most solemn. But he held himself rigidly, feeling like a
fool and insulted past bearing at their refusal. When
he could master his voice, he said, “May I know why you refuse?” Sir
Terent’s eyes held kindness and dismay. Bowing his bald head, he said quietly,
“Prayed we have to Tomias the Prophet, asking that Lord Odfrey’s life be
spared. Gave we our oaths of personal sacrifice. While strong drink is
permitted on Aelintide, our vows were made not to partake of it until Lord
Odfrey is whole again.” Gavril’s
head snapped up. His pulse was throbbing in his throat now. His face flamed
hotter than ever, and certainty that it was red upset him even more. Someone
should have told him about this. Someone would pay for letting him make such a
mistake. “I
see,” he said, his voice tight. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect of your
oaths. Had I known—” “But
wasn’t your highness at morning mass?” Sir Nynth asked, frowning. “Yes,
of course I was,” Gavril replied. “We
gave our oaths then,” Sir Nynth said. Gavril
swallowed, feeling more a fool than ever. He had heard no such oaths, but then
he hadn’t been paying attention. Having conducted his private devotionals at
dawn in his own prayer-cabinet, he’d spent his time at mass deep in thought,
planning this evening. With a scowl, he promised himself that everyone in his
service would be punished for letting this happen. “Perhaps
your highness simply forgot,” Sir Terent said. “Or
perhaps your highness didn’t hear.” These
huge, ill-educated oafs were trying to be kind. Gavril wanted to choke. He
glanced at the door, ready to plunge outside and escape this nightmare, but for
the second time Sir Terent offered him a cup of that dreadful cider. “Drink
with us, your highness, but we’ll remain sober if it please you.” “Very
well.” He could do little else but take the cup. With ill grace he quaffed it,
and shuddered at the taste. Laughing
in restored good humor, the knights raised their own cups and drank after him. “Now
then,” Sir Terent said, pushing forward the room’s only tall-backed chair.
“Take our seat of honor and bide with us for a time.” Rough-mannered
or not, the offer was a gracious one. Gavril knew it was rare for knights to
consort with boys in training such as himself. Ordinarily only those holding
the rank of full knight could enter here, much less be invited to stay longer
than a few minutes. But although he accepted the honor, and seated himself
stiffly in the chair, he was still smarting from his thwarted plans to bribe
them. Now he would have to think of a different approach. “Tell
me, Sir Terent,” he said. “Do you think the dwarves have truly been routed? Or will
there be more trouble?” “None
from that lot!” shouted someone in the back of the room. Others swiftly
silenced him. Sir
Terent turned red-faced again. “If there are more Bnen uprisings, there may be
trouble all winter. That’s what we don’t know yet.” “Ah.”
Gavril leaned forward, thrilled to be discussing strategy. For a moment he
almost forgot his own plans. “Have you sent scouts into the forest?” “The
captain’s not yet given the order. He may be waiting till after Aelintide, but
more than likely he’d rather get his information right here.“ “I
don’t understand.” Sir
Terent grinned and said, “From our eld.” Gavril
frowned. “What eld?” “The
young ‘un what took us into battle,” said Sir Deloit in his thick uplander accent.
Grizzled and old, with a puckered scar running through his left eye, he slammed
his fist on the table with a grunt of admiration. “Like a gift from Thod, he
was, appearing on our road at just the right time. Led us true, he did,
straight to ’em. And like a burr did he stick to our lord and master. Naught
harmed him, though he be right in the thick of battle. A gift from Thod, he
was, all right. It’s him we want to ask about dwarf uprisings.” A
terrible suspicion began to coil through Gavril’s mind. There couldn’t be two
eldin in the vicinity. Not two young ones. Could there? Again,
he had not been told this gossip. It did not matter to him that he’d been so
busy organizing and carrying out the recovery of his stolen wine and mead that
he’d paid no heed to anything else. Someone should have informed him. Leaning
back in his chair, Gavril shot a dagger glance in Sir Los’s direction. The
protector’s gaze shifted uneasily, and Gavril’s anger boiled higher. Sir Los
had known but had not told him. Unforgivable. Sir
Nynth, an ugly dark-haired man with keen eyes, edged closer. “Tell us, your
highness. How do we go about taming our eld? Getting him to come forth from
hiding and trust us?” Gavril
blinked at him in startlement. “Say you that the eld is inside the hold?” “Aye,”
Sir Terent said with a nod. Gavril
clenched his hands upon the chair arms. “What does he look like, this eld?” “He’s
about your highness’s height, but skinny. Black-haired. Young.” Gavril
drew in his breath sharply. “I’ve seen this pagan before.” The
knights exchanged delighted glances. “Does your highness know him? Know his
name?” Sir Terent asked eagerly. “No.” “Sir
Bosquecel says he is called Dain,” Sir Alard contributed in his soft voice. “That’s
not an eldin name,” another knight farther back protested. “They’re all called
by names as long as your arm, names that tangle your tongue right up.” “We’re
trying to get him to trust us and come out of hiding,” Sir Terent explained. “Are
you sure he hasn’t left?” Gavril asked. “Perhaps when the villagers departed
yesterday—” “Nay.
I saw him slinking past the food cellars like a cat midday,” said the one-eyed
old knight. “I maybe got only one eye, but it sees sharp. He’s still hanging
about. We got to catch him, see?” “Yes,
of course you must,” Gavril said. “It will not do to have a pagan running
freely about the hold.” “Aye,
he ought to be brought in and given proper shelter,” Sir Terent said with a
smile that showed where his front teeth had been knocked out in some past
battle. “And thanked rightly for what he did for us. Nocine the huntsman owes
the boy his life.” “Nocine?”
Gavril echoed. “Aye.
Saved him with spellcraft.” Disapproval
sank through Gavril like a stone through water. He stared at Sir Terent with a
stern face. “Spellcraft is against Writ.” “Aye,
of course,” the knight agreed with a casualness that made Gavril determined to
write down his name as soon as he returned to his chambers tonight. He was
starting to compile lists of such names, ferreting out the unfaithful for
Cardinal Noncire’s information. Sir Terent leaned forward. “But he is what he
is. Can’t help it, I figure. Anyway, we want to thank him. Make him our mascot
and—” Gavril
shot to his feet, causing Sir Terent to break off. “Make him your what?” the
prince shouted. “Our
mascot,” Sir Terent repeated. “He
brought us wondrous luck,” Sir Nynth said. Other
knights were nodding. “Aye,”
Sir Deloit said. “Took us through forest so twisted we couldn’t never found our
way back out again. But he knew all the ways. Saw trails we didn’t see. Sniffed
his way through, most like. But he didn’t get lost once in all the day. Quick- witted
too, he is. If ever we go back into Nold, it’s that boy I want guiding me.“ Other
voices lifted in agreement. Listening
to them, Gavril somehow managed to master his shock and outrage. Uplanders were
notorious backsliders, always letting their faith falter in favor of the old
ways. Many were lenient toward pagans, just as these knights were tonight. They
saw no contradiction between that and their oaths of faithfulness to the Writ. But
beyond that, Gavril was thinking of the qualities the knights kept mentioning
about this Dain. He remembered the eld he had hunted only a few days ago, the
eld with black hair and eyes of pagan gray, the eld who had defied him and
fought back with a fearlessness that now made Gavril wonder. Could this eld be
put to his use? If Dain truly knew his way about the Dark Forest, then did he
know how to find the Field of Skulls? And beyond that, did he perhaps know
where to find the Chalice of Eternal Life? Even if Gavril bribed these oafs
into searching the forest for him, it was clear they knew not where to look. A
corner of Gavril’s heart warned him against the temptation of using pagans in
his service. It was opening the gate to worse temptations. But he felt strong
in his faith, and certain that he could withstand whatever might try to turn
him from the truth of Writ. Was it sinfully wrong to use a pagan in his search
for the missing Chalice? Gavril
envisioned putting Dain in a harness, a collar and chain on his throat like a
leashed dog. He would ride through the Dark Forest with Dain trotting ahead of
him, hunting the Chalice, leading the way to success. “Your
highness?” Sir Terent said, jolting Gavril from his thoughts. He
blinked stupidly, trying to gather his wits and remember what had been said
around him. “Yes?” “I
asked what we should do to catch him,” Sir Terent said. “I’m sorry if your
highness is too tired. It’s just—I thought since your highness has been
schooled so much in the Writ and the faith, you might know more about the pagan
ways than we do. You might know how to make him trust us.” Gavril
hesitated only a second, then he smiled. “Of course. I would be most pleased to
assist you.” Sir
Terent bowed, his ruddy face showing gratitude. Sir Deloit banged his gnarled hand
on the table. “And I say that we ought to try tolling him out with food. Leave
it about, easy like, and he’ll come for it. Bound to be hungry by now.” “An excellent idea,” Gavril said. “Then
we’ll do that,” Sir Terent said. He glanced at the other knights with a smile
and nod. “I
must take my leave now,” Gavril told them. “I will think on this matter and
give you what help I can. Perhaps I and the other fosters will try our hand at
pursuing him.” As
he spoke, he glanced over his shoulder at Mierre, who gave him a quick smile. “Chasing
him is likely going to scare him worse,” the old knight started in, but someone
put a hand on his shoulder to silence him. Gavril
frowned. He’d had enough advice from that quarter. “Good night to you, sir
knights,” he said with gracious courtesy. “Good Aelintide as well.” They
bowed, chorusing, “Good Aelintide, your highness.” “I
will wish you luck, also, in tomorrow’s games and melee.” Sir
Terent’s smile vanished, and again an uncomfortable silence fell over the room.
“There will be none.” Gavril
stared in fresh surprise. “No contests?” “Not
while our lord lies so gravely ill.” “I
see.” Gavril felt his face growing hot again. He tried to hide his discomfiture
by adjusting the heavy folds of his cloak. “Well, then, let us be glad there is
still to be a feast.” He
turned to go, and Sir Los hurried ahead of him to thrust open the door. “Wait,
your highness!” Sir Terent called after him. Gavril
turned back to see the knight coming with the keg. “No,”
Gavril said, lifting his hand. “Keep my gift.” “We
cannot accept it,” Sir Terent said. “You
said you will not drink it until Lord Odfrey is well.” Gavril forced a smile to
his lips, still desirous of addicting the company to this wondrous mead so that
their allegiance would thereafter belong to him. “Save it until that time, then
drink it in celebration.” Some
of the knights lifted merry cheers, but Sir Terent still looked troubled. “Lord
Odfrey disapproves of strong drink.” “It’s
fine mead,” Gavril said. “But if
you wish, feed it to the swine.“ Mierre
stepped forward, looking red-faced and shy before the men. “It’s not polite to
refuse a gift from the prince,” he muttered in warning. Sir
Terent, thus crudely informed of proper protocol, blinked and stepped back.
“Forgive me,” he said in haste. “I meant no offense to your highness.” “None
is taken,” Gavril said sweetly. “Good night.” He walked out, his small
entourage trailing behind him. With every crunching step across the frozen mud
of the stable-yard, his iron control slipped another notch. Seething, he
whirled at last and struck Sir Los in the chest with his fist. The blow banged
against Sir Los’s hauberk, hurting Gavril’s hand, but he was too furious to
care. “You
knew,” he said in a low spiteful voice. “You knew about the eld and you said
nothing. You knew about their oaths, and you warned me not. If I were home in
Savroix, I’d have your ears and tongue cut as a reward for such service.” Sir
Los stared at him through the darkness. “I am your knight protector. I guard
your life with my own. Would you chase the eld yourself and risk being burned
or killed with his spellcraft? Better to let the knights catch him. Better for
your highness to stay far away from him. He would have done you harm that day
in the marsh.” Despite
his anger, Gavril knew his protector’s words were true. He drew in an angry
breath, his chest heaving, then spun about on his heel and strode off without
another word. The
others followed him in silence. After a moment he reached out and gripped
Mierre by his muscular arm. “You will catch him,” he said in a voice like iron.
“You will trap him and bring him to me. You and Kaltienne work at this.” “Aye, your highness,” Mierre said. Gavril
listened for any sound of doubt or cowardice, but Mierre sounded as confident
as always. “You do not fear his spellcraft?” Gavril asked. “Not
much,” Mierre said. “My grandsire sometimes had eldin come about the place when
I was little. They were always gentle.” “This
one isn’t,” Gavril warned him. “I’ll
catch him. Worry not,” Mierre
said. “Besides, I know how to ward him off, if I have to.” Gavril
frowned in the darkness. As he strode into the paved courtyard, he saw that the
chapel lights had gone dark. All was still and quiet. It must be late, he knew.
He had stayed too long with the knights. He
started to warn Mierre against using the old ways, for such were forbidden, but
then he bit his tongue. For once he would look the other way and pretend he did
not understand what Mierre meant. It’s for the Chalice,
he assured his conscience. “Be
quick about it, if you can,” he said at last. “We have free rein only while the
chevard lies ill. If he recovers, we’ll be back in chores, unable to come and
go as we please.” “Aye,
this is better,” Mierre agreed with a grin. “Your highness?” “Yes?” “What
about some of that mead for ourselves? We deserve it, after all we’ve done.” Gavril
spun about and struck Mierre across the face, too furious to govern himself
this time. “It’s not for you!” he shouted. “Not for anyone but whom I say.” Holding
his cheek, Mierre took a cautious step back. His green eyes were suddenly flat
and sullen. “I beg your high-ness’s pardon,” he said. Gavril
took several ragged breaths before he could haul his temper back under control.
“Not the mead,” he said at last, his voice more its normal tone. “Never the mead.
Is that clearly understood? Never.” “Aye,
your highness.” “We’ll
share wine or ale ... later. Tomorrow perhaps, if you bring me the eld.”
Gavril’s voice was still unsteady. He turned away from Mierre, appalled by how close
he could come to disaster if the wrong people got into that mead. It was no
brew for anyone except those Gavril wanted to master. He must take care to keep
the fosters well away from it. “I think,” Gavril said, “that you had better
leave me now.” Mierre bowed and ran off across the courtyard. Gavril
lingered a moment, gulping in cold air to clear his head. Sir Los dismissed the
gawking servant with a gesture and waited in patient silence. Finally
Gavril turned his steps toward the deserted chapel, where the last of the
incense still wafted from the brazier hanging outside the door. Gavril stepped
into the shadowy interior, which was lit only by a few votives flickering on
the altar. The domed ceiling rose overhead into shadows, its gilding reflecting
small glints of candlelight. It was painted with a scene of Tomias the Prophet
at the Sacred Well. Gavril
paid no attention to the ceiling painting, which he considered crudely drawn and
ill-colored by whatever local artisans Lord Odfrey had employed. His heart was
not stirred by the carvings on the altar, for they had a flavor of the old
ways. Instead, he focused his gaze on the“large Circle of gilded brass hanging
above the altar. As always, the sight of the cheap Circle annoyed him. Lord
Odfrey, he felt, should spend the money for a Circle of solid gold. Sighing,
Gavril sought to clear his mind. This evening he had been crossed by many
temptations. He needed a cleansed heart in order to keep his vows and the path
he had chosen. Genuflecting,
Gavril pressed his face against the floor and began to pray. Shivering
in the shadows, his breath steaming about his face, Dain watched the prince
enter the small chapel, his elegant, cloaked figure momentarily silhouetted as
the door swung open to admit him. The prince’s protector followed him, then all
lay quiet beneath the hand of darkness. Dain had heard every word of the
conversation between Prince Gavril and the larger boy called Mierre. He
understood that they intended to catch him. Sighing,
Dain slipped from the courtyard and ducked into the warm, smelly kennels. He
snuggled in among the dogs, who licked his hands and chin sleepily. These were
not the prince’s dogs. Those red brutes were kept kenneled in a separate place. Dain
could have befriended them too, but he had not yet taken the trouble. Weary
and afraid, he made himself a nest in the straw and basked in the warmth of the
dogs. Gavril would either hurt him or kill him if he let himself be caught.
Dain grimaced angrily in the darkness and vowed not to let it happen. He was
determined to stay here through the winter, but he refused to be prey for the
cruel prince and his companions. At
dawn, the chapel bell rang loudly, shattering all the natural song in the
world. Startled awake, Dain sat bolt upright. The dogs clambered to their feet,
shook their coats, and whined in anticipation of their morning meal of raw
fish. Angry
at himself for having slept so late, Dain scrambled out of the kennel and
ducked into a damp alcove over one of the cisterns. Crouched in there, his back
wedged against the clammy stones, he listened while the kennelmaster came
shuffling along, hitching up his untied leggings with one hand and scrubbing
the sleep from his face with the other. “Merry
Aelintide to you,” he called out to the dogs, who barked back gleefully. Dain
whispered the word to himself. Aelintide, the great harvest feast. Now he
understood what the frenzied work and preparations had been for. The
past few days, harvesters had been bringing food into the hold, until there
seemed to be enough to feed all the world. Dain had never before seen such
bounty. The dwarves were not good farmers. Jorb had sometimes grown a small
patch of* root vegetables to help them get through the winter. Thia loved
tending it, although she preferred flowers to the mundane cabbages, turnips,
toties, and fingerlings. She would stand in the patch with a hoe in hand and
the sun warming her face. She sang so beautifully that the birds would come and
perch on her shoulders, singing with her while bees buzzed amid her flowers in
low, droning counterpoint. But
these Mandrians were not like the dwarves. Instead, they farmed large fields.
Hordes of serfs hoed and pulled weeds throughout the long growing season, then
in autumn they went forth to scythe, winnow, and stack sheaves. Millers
wearing Thirst green took charge of the grain brought to the hold in tall-sided
carts. They ground flour and baked bread to be sold back to the villagers. The
aroma of bak- ing
bread made Dain weak in the knees. With his mouth watering, he had skulked
about the ovens yesterday and had even risked plucking out a loaf, which was
still baking and only half-cooked. Its crust burned his hands, forcing him to
juggle it while he ran back into hiding. When he broke it open, a great cloud
of steam hit his face. The dough was gooey in the center. He bit into it and
burned his mouth. Thereafter he blew on it and nibbled, blew on it and nibbled,
marveling at the texture and whiteness of the bread. He ate it all, and later
was sick. But he did not care. One
of the many barns held a herd of cows that were taken outside the hold to a
pasture in the morning dawn and brought back in late afternoon. They were
milked every day, and plump women in kerchiefs and white aprons skimmed cream,
churned butter, and made large wheels of yellow cheese that were wrapped in
linen and stored in wooden hoop-shaped boxes stacked in a cool cellar. Men
smoked meats in a place built especially for the purpose. Hams and haunches of
mutton were hung from the rafters. Fish was filleted and hung up on wooden
dowels to dry over slow, smoky fires. Barrels of salted meat were stacked in
storerooms and cellars alongside sacks of brown toties and large purple
turnips. Baskets of quince, pears, and apples filled another building lined
with shelves to hold them all. Cider-making
went on all day long, filling the air with the fermenting fragrance of crushed
apples. Berries were put in huge outdoor kettles and boiled into a frothy,
sugary confection later spooned into lidded crocks. Young girls wearing long
aprons left the hold at early morn and trudged back at eventide, their aprons
full of herbs and grasses that were then chopped, dried, and stored in small
clay pots with corks. Such
a flurry of work went on around the preparation and storage of food that Dain
began to believe this was all the workers did, year-round. The Mandrians stored
up food like the dwarves stored up treasure. Then
late yesterday afternoon the work had stopped. The hold looked abandoned, for
everyone seemed to have gone indoors. When the bell rang at eventide, many of
the hold folk went to chapel for mass. Foul-smelling incense burned night and
day from a smoking brass brazier hung outside the chapel door. Dain did not
understand all the rituals of man-religion, but he understood that they were
praying for the recovery of Lord Odfrey. Dain
was also worried about the chevard. He could not pray to the dwarf gods for
mercy, for they did not govern the chevard’s fate. He knew very little about
the Church of Man-dria, because men-ways were also denied to him. As for the
eldin gods, if there were any, he had never been taught their ways and could
not call on them either. Feeling
bereft, he prayed instead to Thia’s spirit, now living as light and song within
the third world. In his mind he talked to her, for he had no one else. In the
few days he’d hidden himself here, he’d kept himself out of sight, fearing
capture and bodily harm, especially if Gavril caught him. The knights knew he
was here, for sometimes they searched for him. Other times they left bits of
food lying out, like lures for a trap. Dain was not so easily tricked. Already
he had learned the patterns of the place, when to venture out and when to stay
in hiding. The sentries patrolled the battlements and bridge spans between
towers. He had to make sure he skulked along the shadows and places where a
guard overhead could not see him. And
if he was lonely, at least he did not starve. At night he drank water from the
stone horse troughs. Food was easy to scavenge, for the hold folk were wasteful
and careless with it. The simpleton goosegirl left out crusts of bread to feed
the plump pidges that strutted and cooed along the roofs. Careless stableboys
sometimes abandoned half-eaten apples or tossed the cores away. Maidservants
carried out buckets of scraps at midday and eventide. This bounty was shared
first among the scrawny children who worked at keeping the paved courtyard
swept clean of leaves and horse droppings. The scraps they left were then given
as slop to the pigs. Once he found the food stores, Dain did not have to rob the
pigs. There was so much food, nothing would be missed. He had never seen such
bounty in his life. Now,
however, as he crouched with his feet planted on the lid of the cistern and
listened to the kennelmaster whistle and talk to the dogs, Dain felt a surge of
loneliness so great he almost pushed himself out into open sight. But he held
himself where he was, aching in a way he could not explain. Within
an hour or so, the smells of baking filled the air with scents that made his
mouth water and nearly drove him mad. Strains of music told him the festival
was starting. Curious to see some of it, Dain found himself a vantage point by
climbing the drainpipe leading to the stable roof and pulling himself inside a
window. There, in the fragrant, yellowed mounds of horse fodder, he could peer
out the window and watch the celebration in relative safety. At
first he did not recognize the servants who appeared and mistook them for
guests. They appeared in finery that made Dain stare round-eyed. Maids he’d seen
wearing tattered linsey gowns, their hair braided loosely down their back, were
now transformed by gowns of bright blue, crimson, or green, worn with
embroidered kirtles and linen undersleeves. Their hair was combed and braided
with ribbons into tight coils about their heads. The men had shed their livery
and wore new, brightly hued doublets over their old leggings. Trestles
and boards had already been made into long tables that stretched across the
yard. More servants carried out platter after platter of meat, pies, bowls of
steaming vegetables, more pies, wedges of cheese, loaves of bread, pastries,
yet more pies, and jug after jug of cider to wash it all down. For
Dain, crouched in his hiding place, this feast was the most enticing vision he’d
ever seen. Wishing he, too, could be a guest, he drank in the sights and
sniffed the wondrous smells. The knights, looking manly and splendid in their
vivid surcoats, their beards neatly trimmed and their hair combed back, filed
forth from the barracks. Led by the captain of the guard, they sat at one of
the long tables, and the servants sat at the other. All the workers, from the
sweeps to the stableboys to the milkmaids to the cheese-makers and so on, sat
and feasted together, clinking their brass cups in toasts, tossing bones to the
dogs, laughing and jesting in good fellowship. “Merry
Aelintide to you,” they called out to each other in courtesy. “May Thod
preserve Lord Odfrey.” “Amen,”
came the replies. They
feasted all afternoon, until the shadows grew long and the cows lowed in the
barn for milking. Scattering, they threw on smocks to protect their finery and
went about their chores, feeding the animals but doing little else. A
short mass was held, then torches were lit and music struck up. They danced and
feasted yet more, making merry half the night. Inside the central, long
building that Dain now knew as the Hall, lights shone from the windows, and the
sound of music rose and fell in strange rhythms that made him long to join in.
Leaving the stables, he slinked along in the shadows and peered in some of the
windows of the Hall. He
glimpsed house servants wearing garments that outshone those of the outside
workers. Torches and candles burned in every room of the ground floor, casting
a warm glow of light over furnishings that took his breath away. Dain had
sneaked looks inside before, but now the Hall seemed transformed. Gone were the
floor rushes; beautiful carpets lay spread out on the floor in their stead. The
homely stools and benches had vanished, replaced with chairs of fine woods. In
the ample candlelight, the tapestries on the walls were no longer huge, gloomy
hangings of cloth, but instead vivid depictions of men and women that seemed to
shimmer with life, as though magic was woven among the threads. One
of the boys called fosters came into sight. Peering through the window, Dain
stiffened with alarm, but he did not slip away. This one was not Mierre, who
was dangerous, or the younger boy who was a fool. Dain did not remember this
one’s name, but he marveled at the gorgeous doublet and leggings the boy wore.
He was tall and thin, his red hair glinting like copper in .the candlelight. He
wore a thin belt with a fine dagger hanging from it. A ring winked on his finger.
He was not a prince, but tonight he looked like one. All
too conscious of his own tattered and filthy rags, his unkempt hair that he cut
occasionally with a knife to keep it out of his eyes, Dain shivered in the cold
and watched this wealthy boy warming himself before a roaring fire. Mierre,
followed by the fool Kaltienne, walked into the room, carrying two cups. Mierre
handed one to the red-haired boy. They spoke together for a moment, with
Kaltienne laughing. The red-haired boy looked wary, Dain thought. Clearly they
were not friends. Then
the prince walked in, and a flare of heat rose through Dain that made him
forget how cold and miserable he was. He glared through the window at the
prince, whose magnificence outshone that of the other boys. Gavril wore velvet
and fur. His slender white fingers glittered with rings, and the gold bracelet
of royalty gleamed on his wrist. His dagger hilt shone with jew- els,
and the prince’s dark blue eyes twinkled in good humor. Lurking in the doorway
was the protector, in chain mail despite the festivities, wearing his sword as
he guarded the prince the way Sir Roye had sought to guard Lord Odfrey. Prince
Gavril laughed merrily and raised his cup in a toast. “Let us hail Aelintide
and the success of all ventures.” Everyone
drank deeply, except the red-haired boy, who sputtered at what was in his cup. “This
is wine!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?” “I brought it with me from Savroix,” the prince said, draining his cup. “But I thought it was locked away in the—” The red-haired
boy met Gavril’s narrowed eyes and broke off his sentence. “Thum
du Maltie, you remain a fool,” Gavril said with contempt. “No
one gave you permission to get it,” Thum said. His hand was white-knuckled
around his cup. “Lord Odfrey said our first day here that men in training do
not drink—” “Lord
Odfrey has nothing to say in this matter,” Gavril said sharply. “Leave me.” Thum
set down his cup and bowed low to the prince. He glanced at the other two boys,
and his face turned as red as his hair. In silence, he hurried out of sight. Kaltienne
mocked him, clasping his hands under his chin and capering about, pretending to
swoon. “Oh! Oh! I have tasted wine,” he cried in a high, falsetto voice. “I am
corrupted. My wits are rotted. I am undone.” Mierre
laughed robustly, flinging back his head. Picking up Thum’s cup, he drained its
contents and smacked his thick lips. “Do you think he’ll run and tell?” Kaltienne
stopped his antics and glowered, but Prince Gavril shrugged one elegant
shoulder. “No,” he said. “The Maltie honor will not let him. Now, what have you
accomplished today?” Mierre
frowned, exchanging a wary look with Kaltienne. “Accomplished?” “In
searching for the eld!” Gavril said angrily. “We have been at your highness’s
heels all day,” Mierre said. “Exactly.
Getting nothing done. I want him caught while everyone is too busy to notice
what we’re doing.” “I
looked this morning,” Kaltienne said. “But the hold is vast, with passages
running everywhere. We could search for days, even months before we—” Mierre
nudged him in the ribs, but too late. Gavril’s
face darkened. “You will find him tomorrow. By what means I care not. But you
will do it.” “But,
your highness—” Gavril
snapped his fingers. “Would you rather I order you to search all night in the
cold and the dark?” The
other boys silenced their protests and bowed. Glaring
at them both, Gavril strode away. They followed like whipped dogs. Outside,
in the frosty darkness, Dain’s hands curled into fists. He hated the prince,
hated him with more passion than he’d felt even against the Bnen. For a moment
he was tempted to sneak inside the Hall and confront Gavril. But there was the
protector to consider. Dain restrained his impulses and crept away to wait
until the last of the revelers grew tired and went to bed. When they finally did,
Dain crawled under the tables, scavenging with the cats and a stray dog or two
for whatever was left of the feast. Besting
a fierce old torn for a bone with a good bit of meat and gristle still attached
to it, Dain gnawed it clean, then broke it between his hands and sucked out the
marrow. “Merry Aelintide to me,” he muttered. In
the morning, bells rang across the land, echoing from long distances. The
chapel bell within the hold rang also, but with a muffled clapper. People
appeared soon thereafter, rushing through minimal chores in a slapdash way,
then resuming their festivities. Dain
wondered how long the merriment would last. In his experience, when the dwarves
feasted long into the night, come the morning after they quarreled and suffered
from ale-head. Dain had expected similar behavior, but then remembered that
most of the Mandrians had drunk cider the day before, not ale. A few
individuals crept about wincing and moaning, but they got scant sympathy. Still
in their finery, people set up a tall pole caped like a man with a huge yellow
gourd for a head and a paper crown on its head. “The
king of Aelintide,” they sang to it, and danced and made merry all morning. From
comments he overheard and the general air of mild disappointment, Dain learned
that the knights had been expected to joust for entertainment, but had
refrained out of respect for Lord Odfrey’s illness. The
servants, however, made do in the afternoon, with the men playing peculiar
games of contest involving the juggling of sticks and leather balls,
handstands, footraces, the balancing of eggs on their noses, and other
silliness. Their efforts were cheered on loudly by the spectators. The
stableboys drew lots and pulled off their tunics for wrestling, until they were
sweaty and winded from their efforts. At that time, Prince Gavril and the
bull-shouldered Mierre came out and exhibited thinsword dueling. As
he had the day before, Dain watched from the fodder loft of the stables.
Despite his dislike of the prince, he couldn’t help but be fascinated by the
intricate footwork and fancy sword-play. The duel was like a dance, every
movement graceful yet potentially deadly. Prince Gavril made a striking figure
in the sunshine, his hair gleaming gold, his lean, fit body lithe and quick in
comparison to the lumbering movements of his opponent. “Mierre,
hold your arm higher,” he would call out, then strike in a rapid staccato of
beat, feint, attack. Mierre
parried clumsily. Clearly he’d been given only the rudiments of training. His
big hand swallowed the hilt of his thinsword. He had the hands and muscles for
wielding a broadsword, not this delicate weapon. While
several of the knights watched from the crowd, the prince circled Mierre and
attacked again in a flurry of beautiful moves, ending with a flourish and a
solid smack of his blunted sword tip against Mierre’s chest. Applause broke out
from the spectators, and Prince Gavril bowed with a broad smile before clapping
Mierre on his shoulder and speaking a quick word in his ear. The
larger boy bowed and hurried away, and the prince sauntered over to speak to a
pretty maid in a blue gown, who curtsied and blushed at his attention. Some
of the knights looked less than impressed by Gavril’s exhibition. One of them
took Mierre’s thinsword and ran his fingers along its blade, flexing it and
shaking his head. Dain
drew back from the window, frowning at his tangle of emotions. He’d never seen
a thinsword before today, but suddenly he ached to learn how to use one. He
hated the prince, yet Gavril’s skill was admirable. Dain shoved the hair out of
his face, unprepared for his envy. The
smell of roasted meat suddenly filled the stable, rising above the horse
fragrance. Startled,
Dain jumped to his feet in alarm and sniffed the air. He could detect nothing
except the smell of the meat and dust from the fodder he’d disturbed. He
clamped his hand across his nose and mouth to hold back a sneeze. His mouth was
watering, and his stomach growled to fierce, insistent life. No
one was supposed to be in here except the horses; Dain had counted all the
stableboys earlier to make sure. He listened hard, but he heard no unusual
sounds. When he tried to focus his mind to sweep forth, all he could think
about was the meat and how hungry he was. Last
night’s scraps, after two days of watching people gorge themselves, was not
enough to hold him together. Outside,
music struck up, accompanied by shouts and laughter. Dain
didn’t bother to look out the window this time. He was tired of merriment he
could not join. His stomach rumbled again, and he pressed his hand against his
middle. It had to be a trap. If some of the stableboys or anyone else had
ducked in here for private merrymaking, there would be the sound of voices and
giggling. Instead, all he heard was quiet, broken by the occasional snort of
one of the horses in the stalls below. Easing
over to the window, Dain stared down at the people, who were now lining up to
dance. He saw Gavril talking to one of the knights. Thum was also in the crowd,
looking shy and talking to no one. Of Mierre and Kaltienne, there was no sign. Anger
touched Dain. So they thought he was some stray animal, stupid enough to be
enticed with food. He was hungry, but not yet so desperate he would throw away
his freedom for a mouthful of meat. Refusing
to panic, he tried to figure out what he should do. The
first step was clear. He had to get out of this building quickly before he found
himself trapped up here in the loft. How they’d located him hardly mattered. Dain
decided he’d better leave the hold completely. His hopes of staying seemed
futile and not worth the risk of being caught by Gavril or his minions. He
would steal enough provisions to last him well, then journey north into Nether
in search of the eldin as Thia had asked him to do. He
was not eager to go there. All his life, Jorb had told him it was not safe for
him and Thia to seek their own kind. In the past, eldin had lived scattered
through parts of Nold and even in the mountains of upper Mandria. But now, few
were sighted. Jorb said most had gone into the wilds of Nether. It was said to
be a cold, austere land, ruled by a dour king named Muncel, a land of cruel men
and harsh ways, savage and unfriendly. But Dain did not think the eldin were
welcome even in Nether. Gossip among the customers and traders who came to
Jorb’s forge said the eldin had been driven into hiding in the northernmost
mountains, as far perhaps as the fjords themselves, and could not be found. A
cheer went up from outside. Dain crawled through the fodder to look and saw a
long line of people dancing back and forth around the courtyard. A blushing
maiden was standing next to the gourd and pole king of Aelintide. As the line
of people passed her, the men bowed and the women curtsied. “Harvest
queen!” they shouted to her. Dain
frowned, no longer interested in their rituals. He heard a shuffle from below, and
a quick grunt of exasperation, and knew his time had run out. He
could make larger decisions about where to go later. Right now, he’d better
keep his wits focused on the problem at hand. To
the sound of stealthy creaks coming from the simple pole ladder leading to the
loft, Dain turned back to the window and thrust his head and shoulders through
the small opening, twisting painfully to fit. In his haste, he inadvertently
caused the open shutter to bang. “Hey!”
shouted Mierre’s voice. “Come this way. I think he’s up here!” Cursing
softly beneath his breath, Dain hoped the merrymakers were enjoying their
dancing too much to look up and see him. The drainpipe could be seen from the
yard. He dared not try to go that way. With
one hand bracing himself on the slate roof tiles, he looked straight down into
the narrow space between the stables and the cow barn next to it. If he
slipped, he had a long way to fall. Squinting
against the sunshine, Dain pulled up his legs and stood on the sill of the
small window. Boosting himself, he scrambled up onto the roof and climbed
rapidly, slipping and sliding on the tiles as he went. Behind
him, he heard a frustrated grunt. Mierre’s voice called out, “He went through
the window. I can’t fit.” “I’ll
go!” said Kaltienne. “Get
after him then,” Mierre said. “And if the pagan can fly, see that you do it
too. I’ve no head for heights. I’m going down.” “Coward,”
Kaltienne taunted him. “Listen!
He’s going over the roof. Hear that?” “How
can I not?” “Hurry!”
Mierre ordered in exasperation. “I’ll go down to see which way he goes.” By
now Dain had reached the iron spire atop the ridgepole of the stables. He
crouched there, shivering in the cold wind, and found himself nearly as high as
some of the towers. One of the sentries on the wall saw him, gave a shout, and
pointed. Cursing
him, Dain slithered down the other side of the roof, crouching low on his
haunches and skidding along on his heels. By the time he reached the edge, he
was going much too fast to stop. Dain’s heart jumped into his mouth, but if he
lost his nerve now he would surely fall. Yelling,
he stood up at the last moment and leaped with all his might across the gap
between the stables and the next building. He landed on the other roof, lost
his balance, fell flat, and began to slide down. But
this building had a ledge of sorts to channel water along the edge of the roof.
Dain’s toes struck it, and he stopped sliding. He lay there a moment, his
sweating face pressed against the slate, and waited for his heart to stop
thudding so violently. Shouts
from below sent him scrambling up and over the ridgepole of this building. On
the other side, he found a drain- pipe
and climbed down it as far as he could, then jumped lightly the rest of the way
to the ground. He
listened a moment, gauging from which way his pursuers were coming, and ran
swiftly in the other direction. A
shout from one of the sentries made him glance over his shoulder. He saw the
knight gesturing from his vantage point on the battlements. Dain snarled to
himself. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Time to go to ground, and get
himself out of their sight. He
dodged around the rear of the storehouse, considered the cellars rowed up
behind it, and rejected them as dead ends. The boys were still coming. Dain ran
on and stopped worrying about who else might see him. He careened past the
simple goosegirl feeding her charges with grain from her apron. Clad in her
usual rags, with only a scarlet kerchief tied around her throat for finery, she
watched him run by with her mouth open in a large O. A
wall rose up before him. It was the base of one of the towers. Behind him, the
boys shouted jubilantly. Dain’s determination grew. He ran straight toward the
wall and bounded up the kegs stacked there as lightly and surefootedly as a
young stag. Teetering
on the very top keg as it shifted and swayed beneath his weight, Dain jumped
for the window overhead. His outstretched fingers grazed the bottom sill and
missed. The keg wobbled under his feet, and Dain felt the whole stack going. He
jumped again, kicking the keg out from under him, and this time his fingers
grabbed the sill. He
held on grimly, his fingers aching from the strain. Clawing desperately with
his other hand, he managed to pull himself up. Belly-first,
he slid headlong through the window and tumbled onto the spiraled staircase
inside. It was a painful landing, and he lay there a moment, gasping for
breath. The stone steps felt cold beneath his cheek. The stairwell was gloomy
and filled with shadows, its only light coming in through the window. From
outside, he heard Mierre swearing. Dain grinned to himself and sat up shakily.
They would be coming in through the door in moments. Pulling himself to his
feet, he went upstairs, winding around and around until he came to a closed
door. Grasping
the ring, Dain tugged hard, but the door did not open. It seemed his luck had
run out. He was hemmed in, with nowhere to go except down, straight into the
arms of his pursuers. Gritting his teeth, Dain tugged again on the ring, using
both hands and straining until the gristle in his shoulders popped. The door
did not budge. From below, he heard them coming. Dain
bared his teeth, breathing hard and trying to think. But he was trapped, with
nowhere to go. He
kicked the door in fury and jiggled the ring again, his desperation rising.
There came a click, and Dain paused for a second. He stared at the ring in his
hand and slowly twisted it. The
catch clicked, and the door swung open. Dain
eeled through the narrow opening and pulled the door shut behind him. The room
beyond was poorly lit, but Dain spared it no glance. Instead, he patted the
door, seeking some means of barring it. “Slide
that bolt across, and it will hold firm,” said a deep, heavily accented voice
behind him. Dain
jumped, his heart nearly bounding from his throat. He whirled around and saw a
tall figure in a long, dark robe standing no more than two strides away from
him. Dain stared, unsure if this was friend or foe, but then he heard the boys’
voices. Gasping,
he slid the bolt into place, locking the door just as their fists thudded
against it. They shouted on the other side, but for now Dain was safe from
them. Breathing
hard, he leaned his back against the door and ventured a cautious smile at the
man watching him. “Thanks
to you,” he said in Mandrian. “I—” “So
you are the eld of Lord Odfrey’s battle, the one Thirst knights have been
boasting about these last few days,” the man in the shadows said. His voice had
a deep, singsong quality that made Dain shiver. “I have been hoping to see you
for myself, and now the gods have brought you to my workroom. Thus, it must be
that our destinies are entwined.” Frowning,
Dain swallowed. He did not like the voice of this man. He kept hearing
something, some timbre or tone that made him think of darkness and smoke. He
wished he could see the man’s face, which remained hidden by shadows, but at
the same time he felt relieved that he couldn’t. He wondered what this man was,
and feared to learn the answer. “Yes,”
the man said, stepping forward with a gliding motion that did not seem natural
at all. “You are going to be very useful for my experiments.” Instinct
warned Dain that Mierre and Kaltienne were less dangerous than this man. As he
whirled and tried to slide open the bolt, the man spoke a single word, a word
Dain did not understand, a word like a puff of smoke. The
smell of fire filled the air, and Dain’s arms would not move. He realized he
was frozen in place, as helpless as if bound by ropes. Fear rose through him.
By some terrible chance, he had fallen into the clutches of a sorcerel,
a creature who could crisp him to ashes with a mere thought. Sweat
broke out along Dain’s forehead. His heart was pounding again, and his mouth
had gone so dry he couldn’t swallow. He stood there, struggling inside with all
his might to break free, and could not move even the tip of his finger. Someone
knocked on the door. “We would enter, Master Sulein,” Mierre said boldly. “If
you are within, grant us admittance.” Sulein
glided to the door beside Dain. This close, Dain could smell the man’s
scent—something acrid and arcane on his clothing from the potions he concocted
in this dimly lit room, but also something else, which emanated from his very
skin, as though he ate odd things unknown to most folk. The
knocking came again. “Master Sulein! I bid you let us enter and take the eld.” “Begone,”
Sulein said. “You boys are forbidden inside my tower.” “But,
Master Sulein, we have been chasing the eld, at great risk to ourselves. His
highness bade us find him and—” “This
is no toy for the prince to play with,” Sulein said. “Begone.” “But—” “Will
you interfere with my work, work which may save the chevard’s life?” Sulein thundered.
“If I must open this door, toads will you become.” From
the other side came the sound of running feet, then silence. Dain stood there,
still frozen in place, and swallowed hard. The
sorcerel put his hand on Dain’s shoulder, and Dain flinched inside
as though he’d been branded. “You are much in demand, little eld,” Sulein said
gently, his voice coiling around Dain like a serpent. “The chevard wants you.
The prince wants you. And I want you.” He laughed, a low silky sound. “But it
is I who have you. And all the powers that you command. Come to my fire, and
tell me your mysteries.” The
spell binding Dain’s feet was released. He wrenched himself away from Sulein’s
hand, but there was no escape. Sulein stepped between him and the door, and
Dain found he still could not move his arms. Awkwardly
he stumbled back from the sorcerel, who herded him across the room. It was filled with a
crowded jumble of furniture and objects. Dain was forced toward the end, where
a fire burned on the hearth. “Dain
you are called. That is no name of the eldin. I can see that your blood is
mixed, but there is little enough of the human in you,” Sulein said as Dain
halted next to the fire. Sulein
glided closer into the light, revealing himself to be hook-nosed and swarthy of
skin, with a frizzy black beard and eyes as bright and beady as a keeback’s. He
wore a tall conical hat edged in monkey fur, and his long brown robe was
stained and discolored in places, as though he often spilled his experiments.
No gray showed in his dark hair or beard. No wrinkles carved his face, yet his
eyes held all of antiquity in their liquid depths. Dain
glanced at him, then away, afraid to meet those eyes for too long. “You
were Jorb’s apprentice,” Sulein said. “He was a sword-maker, a dwarf, I am
told. How peculiar. Tell me, did he buy you? How did you come to be in his
keeping? Or were you living in the Dark Forest for a different purpose?” Dain
said nothing. His face felt hot, as though fevered. His lungs could not draw in
enough air. Sulein’s questions seemed harmless, and yet he feared to answer
them. “How
much did Jorb train you? Did he ever let you work with magicked metal?” Dain
felt a growing compulsion inside him to answer. Setting his jaw, he withstood
it and said nothing. After
a few moments, the pressure eased and faded. Sulein raised his bushy brows.
“Ah,” he said as though making a discovery. “Your powers are strong. Good. I
will learn all the more from you.” “There
is nothing to learn,” Dain said defiantly. He spoke in the harsh dwarf tongue,
and laced his tone with contempt. Sulein
cast him a sharp look. “But I shall pick you apart,” he said, also speaking
dwarf. “I am a collector of knowledge, and you, little eld, are a very great
prize indeed.” Dain
said nothing else. He could not outtrick a sorcerel;
he was not going to try. Instead, he concentrated on forcing his frozen arms to
move. Sheer strength was not enough. He stopped straining and considered the
problem from another direction, ignoring whatever Sulein said to him. After a
moment, he began to sing inside his mind. It was hard at first—he was too frightened
and angry to concentrate—but after a few moments the song flowed more readily
inside his mind. He sang of motion, of the wind, of the swaying branches of a
willow by a stream, of the flit and wiggle of fish as they swam, of the strong
wings of birds on the air. The spell holding him tight began to loosen. Feeling
hopeful, Dain kept the song going in his mind. Sulein spoke again to him, but
he paid no heed. Sulein
gripped him by his shoulder. “What are you doing?” Dain’s
arms came free. He spun in Sulein’s grip, thrusting the man away. As Sulein
struggled to regain his balance, Dain dodged around him, slinging a table
between them as he went, so that crockery and bottles crashed to the floor.
Dain ran for the door. He
reached it, ignoring Sulein’s shout behind him, and drew back the bolt. For a
moment his body felt heavy and slow, but the remnants of the song still
ran through Dain’s mind. He concentrated on that, and the heaviness lifted. Pushing
open the door with a mighty shove, Dain jumped over the threshold and bolted
for his freedom, smack into a sturdy barrel chest and a strong pair of hands
that seized him by his tunic and shook him so hard his teeth rattled. “Got
you!” said Sir Roye. Dain
kicked him in the shins and ran. Down
the steps he flew, ignoring the heated argument between the two men behind him.
His feet skimmed the steps. He kept his fingertips lightly on the wall for
balance as he went faster and faster. At
the bottom of the tower, the door leading outside stood ajar. Dain hit it with
his shoulder and careened outside into the sunshine, which made him blink and
squint. The
music swirled in the courtyard. People were still dancing and clapping their
hands. Mierre
and Kaltienne waited a short distance from the tower door, like two cats
crouched at a mouse’s lair. Kaltienne saw him first and dug his elbow into
Mierre’s ribs. “There he is!” They
came at a run, and Dain darted off in the opposite direction. Hurrying past a
parked cart resting on its traces, he ducked through the first door he came to,
fortunately unlocked, but instead of entering the Hall as he expected, he found
himself inside a small walled garden. Badly neglected, it was in serious need
of tending. Many of the plants had begun to yellow from nightly frosts. Others,
overgrown and sprawled across the paths, needed cutting back. Walkways atangle
with weeds led to a central axis where a silent fountain stood encircled by a
bench of moss-covered stone. Birds rustled and stirred within the branches of a
gnarled old fruit tree in the corner. Flowers with dead blooms rattled in the
chilly breeze. On
the opposite side of the gate ran a loggia littered with dead leaves. Dain
trotted along this, ducking into the shadows at one end just as the boys opened
the gate and peered into the garden. “Halt!”
Mierre said in alarm, thrusting his muscular arm across the opening. “We cannot
go in there.” Kaltienne
pushed at his arm, without budging it. “But I saw him enter.” “Doesn’t
matter. We’re forbidden to go into the lady’s garden.” What lady?
Dain wondered, pressing himself deeper into the shadows. He hardly dared
breathe. “He’s
in there,” Kaltienne said with frustration. He tried to duck beneath Mierre’s
arm, but the larger boy shoved him back. Kaltienne’s
mouth fell open. “Have you gone mad? You know what his highness threatened if
we failed.” “We’ve
got him,” Mierre said firmly. “But we don’t go in. Not us. The prince can, if
he’s brave enough.” “But—” “I’ve
heard the servants and knights talk about this garden. No one is allowed in
here. No one. The chevard’s son died here. Mayhap his ghost walks these paths.” Dain,
peering cautiously around the edge of the wall, saw Kaltienne turn pale and
swallow. “Ghosts,
you think?” “I
know not. But I know the chevard’s wrath. If he lives I want none of his temper
turned against me. You’ve had one of Sir Roye’s floggings. Do you want
another?” “Nay,”
Kaltienne said with feeling. “Nor
I. If the eld is hiding in here, he can’t get out. We’ll block this gate and
tell his highness—” “Quick!”
Kaltienne said, clutching Mierre’s arm. “Someone’s coming. If it’s Sir Roye,
we’re—” Mierre
shut the gate, and Dain heard the sound of something being dragged across it. Soon
thereafter came Sir Roye’s gruff voice. “You boys! What are you doing there!” “Nothing,
Sir Roye.” Kaltienne’s voice sounded innocent. “You
can’t go in that garden. Get away from there.” “We
meant no harm,” Mierre said. “We were just exploring-” “Did
you see that damned eld come this way?‘ “No,
Sir Roye,” Kaltienne lied without hesitation. Dain
frowned at such smooth duplicity. It was the experienced liars who never
hesitated. “Morde
a day, that fool physician had him and let him go,” Sir Roye grumbled. “Did
you really see the eld, Sir Roye?” Mierre asked innocently. “I heard the
knights want to keep him chained in the guardhouse.” Sir
Roye growled something Dain could not distinguish. “Get out of here, both of
you. You’re sure you saw no sign of him?” “Not
a hair of his head,” Mierre answered. “But we’ll gladly join the hunt.” “Then
go along and tell Sir Bosquecel he got away. I’m searching Sulein’s tower again
in case he doubled back.” Their
voices faded away. Fearing
trickery, or the return of Sir Roye, Dain let out his breath with a sense of
wary relief. He waited until the shadows grew long and cold within the little
garden. The music faded in the distance, and with it the sounds of revelry.
Only then, shivering, did Dain venture forth into the open. He hurried across
the garden and pushed on the gate, but it did not budge. The boys had secured
it well, no doubt pulling the cart across it. Muttering
to himself, Dain wondered how long it would be before the prince came to get
him. The idea of being Gavril’s prey both frightened and infuriated him. Now
that he had time to think, Dain realized it might have been better if he’d
stayed in Sir Roye’s clutches. He’d probably have been beaten and flung out of
the hold on his ear, but at least he’d have been safely away from this place. Instead,
he’d let the sorcerel panic him and scatter his wits. He’d been so desperate to
get away, he’d acted without thinking. Now he was boxed in here, desperate with
thirst and cold and hungrier than ever. He
prowled about for some time, hugging himself against the frost-nipped air.
There were doors at either end of the loggia, but both were securely locked.
Cobwebs were spun over one, showing him it had not been opened in years. The
other’s lock was rusted and leaves had drifted up against its base. He could
find no other exit. The
fountain had apparently been dry for years—not even a drop of rainwater did it
hold to quench his thirst. He searched in the gathering darkness beneath the
fruit tree, but found only pits lying on the ground, the fruit long since
decayed. For
whatever reason, Prince Gavril did not hasten here to claim his prey. Perhaps
he was waiting until the dead of night. Perhaps he, too, feared the ghosts that
walked here and was waiting until dawn. Perhaps the prince was playing with
him, hoping to make him afraid. Dain kicked the ground and wished the demons
from the second world’s perdition would come forth and strike the prince for
his cruelty. In
time, frustrated and miserable, Dain retreated to the dubious shelter of the
loggia and watched the windows high above one side of the garden. No lights
came on, ever, and he realized that this wing of the hold must be as deserted
as the garden itself. Moonlight
rose eventually, shining on the pathways and illuminating the silent fountain.
Dain huddled on the cold flagstones of the loggia, too cold to sleep, and
watched for ghosts to appear. But none walked here through the long, wretched
night. He
stared across the garden, studying the tracery of the tree branches beneath the
windows, and realized that his only hope was to climb up and try to break
through one of the shutters. He wasn’t sure the branches would support his
weight that high, but it was the only thing left to try,
short of waiting here until he was dragged out by his tormentors. Blowing
on his cold hands and flexing them to ease their stiffness, Dain gathered his
courage and determination, and began to climb. In
the night, the sound of the gate creaking open awakened Dain. Jerking upright,
he scrunched himself deeper into the shadows beneath the fruit tree. The
movement sent a stab of pain through his shoulder, which had stiffened since he
fell out of the tree on it. Grimacing, he held back a whimper and concentrated
on staying still. The
gate creaked again, and he heard the soft but unmistakable sound of wood
scraping over flagstones. They
were coming for him at last. Dain
tried to stay calm, but his heart started pounding. His last hope had been to
climb out of this trap, but after he fell he hurt too much to try again. Now,
as he listened to the stealthy creaking of the gate and quiet footsteps, he
gathered a broken wedge of edging stone he’d found lying in the neglected
flower bed and waited for a chance to attack. Depending on how many were coming
for him, he might yet find a way to get past them. The
scent of food—roasted meat and cold toties—nearly undid the last of his
strength. Dain’s mouth watered, and for a few moments his hunger consumed him,
raging uncontrolled as though it would drive him forward to surrender, to do
anything in exchange for nourishment. “Hello,”
called a voice, so soft it was barely above a whisper. “I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend.” Dain
did not recognize the voice, and he frowned in the darkness. He had no friends
here. “Don’t
be afraid,” the voice said, low and reassuring. “I’m coming in, but I won’t
hurt you. 1 have some food. I thought you might be hungry.” Dain
closed his eyes for a moment as weakness passed through him and made his body
tremble. He was so hungry, so terribly cold and tired. Steeling himself, he
dragged open his eyes and bared his teeth in a silent snarl, curling his fingers
tighter around the piece of stone. He had his dagger as well, but he would not
draw it unless forced to. The
gate creaked again, louder this time, and then Dain heard it snap shut. His
brain woke up and began to think more clearly. He realized that had Prince
Gavril come to torment him, he would have kicked the gate open and entered
boldly. No, this unseen visitor was trying to be quiet, and he seemed to be
alone. Dain
sat up straighter, gathering his legs beneath him. If the gate remained unlocked
and he had only one individual to overcome, then perhaps he stood a chance of
escape. Watching
closely, he saw a shadow move quietly along the garden path. The moon had
waned, making it much harder to see, even with Dain’s excellent night vision. His
visitor stopped near the fountain. “I will put the food here. Take it when you
wish,” the voice said. “But there is little time before dawn. The hold will
start to stir within the hour. I do not know when the prince will rise, but you
should not be here when he comes for you.” Dain
said nothing, listening hard, his thoughts spinning inside his head. “I
know you are awake and hear what I say,” the voice continued in that same quiet,
unhurried, reassuring way. “I am Thum du Maltie, and I bear you no ill will.” Dain
matched that name to the freckled, serious face of the boy with red hair. Thum
who had tried to stop Prince Gavril from whipping Dain in the marsh. Thum had
also refused to drink wine with the prince last night. This was no friend of
Prince Gavril’s. No trickster. Warily
Dain rose to his feet and peered through the gloom at his visitor. “Why?” he
asked, his voice hoarse with cold and thirst. “They
are cruel, the other fosters,” Thum said. “They keep you here like a caged
animal, with no one to stop them. I thought about telling Sir Bosquecel, but I
was not raised to be a tongue-tattle.“ Dain
swallowed. “You brought food?” “Are
you hungry? You must be, after being shut in all night.“ Dain
rested his hand on the rough bark of the tree, wondering if he was dreaming
this. “You are not my friend, Thum du Maltie,” he said. “You know me not. Why
do you help me?” “Does
it matter?” Thum asked. Dain sensed no lies in him as yet, but neither had he
spoken the complete truth. “Why? Why help me?” “The
knights are still talking about you. How you came from nowhere to help them
with the battle. They said if not for you, Nocine the huntsman would be dead
now. They said you saved Lord Odfrey’s life.” “Is
the lord dying?” “I
don’t know,” Thum said. “The steward looks very grave. He tells us nothing. Sir
Roye barely leaves his lordship’s side. He has great fever, and Master Sulein
fears for his life because of that.“ Dain
thought of the sorcerel who had nearly caught him yesterday. He did not like the
idea of that creature, who dabbled in magical realms best left undisturbed,
treating Lord Odfrey. Who was guarding the chevard from being possessed by the
darkness? Who was protecting his soul from theft? “We
wouldn’t have feasted Aelintide at all if the prince hadn’t insisted,” Thum
continued. “I—I guess such celebrations mean nothing to you, but I think it’s
wrong—disrespectful—to be making merry while the lord of this hold lies so ill.
But Prince Gavril said the harvest feast should be made, in order to show our
gratitude to Thod for such generosity. No one but Lord Odfrey dares deny his
highness anything. With the chevard so ill, his highness is doing everything he
pleases. No one says him nay. No one! It isn’t right. Especially with Lord
Odfrey so—” He broke off, worry strong in his voice. Dain
bowed his head with regret. Although he hated to hear that the chevard was
dying, he closed off the liking he’d begun to feel for the man. He’d lost too
much already. He wanted no more grieving. “Get
away from the food,” he said harshly. “What?” “Back
away.” “Oh.”
Thum retreated from the fountain, his shadowy figure a little more visible than
before. Dain
glanced at the sky, which had lightened to a dark gray. In the distance, birds
chirped sleepily. Time was running out. As
soon as Thum was halfway between the fountain and the gate, Dain dashed forward
and snatched up the small bundle lying on the edge of the fountain. Holding it
against his chest, he ran past Thum, heading for the gate and freedom. Thum
crashed into him from behind, gripping the back of Dain’s tattered tunic. Dain
tried to wrench free, but he would not let go. There came the sound of cloth
ripping, and Thum flung an arm across Dain’s injured shoulder. Gasping
aloud, Dain staggered and sank to his knees, driven down by the pain. Thum
gripped his arms. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Dain
concentrated on breathing through the agony, and didn’t answer. “I
did not mean to hurt you,” Thum said. “Really, I’m sorry.” Snarling,
Dain pushed him away. Thum overbalanced and landed on his backside. Dain
expected him to lose his temper and come back fighting, but Thum sat where he
was. “You
don’t have to run,” he said. “I’m going to let you out. In fact, I thought I’d
help you get out of the hold if that’s what you want. But if you run away, I
can’t help.” Dain
didn’t answer. He tore open the wrappings and crammed a chunk of cold meat into
his mouth, gulping it down in desperation, barely bothering to chew. The totie
was cold and shriveled. Dain cared not. He ate it, coarse, gritty skin and all. In
seconds the food was gone, and some of the terrible ache in the pit of his
stomach eased slightly. He thirsted more than ever now, and turned on Thum. “Do
you have more?” “I—no,”
Thum said apologetically. “I didn’t realize you were so—I should have brought
more.” “Must
get out of here,” Dain muttered to himself. He was still kneeling on the
ground, and felt too tired to move. But with dawn coming, there wasn’t much
time. He looked behind him and listened to his inner senses. “It’s
a risk for me, but I’m determined to help you. Anything to defy his highness,”
Thum said. Resentment throbbed in his low voice. “He rises early, so we must
hurry. If you aren’t hurt, we’d better go.“ Dain
pushed himself to his feet, holding his elbow tight to his side to keep from
moving his aching shoulder. Thum
stumbled along the path, heading for the gate. “I have to put the cart back
across the gate once we’re out. Will you help me?” Dain
didn’t answer. Thum
stopped and turned to face him. “Look, if the prince finds out I helped you,
I’ll be in serious trouble.” Dain
told himself not to be a fool. He sensed no lies in this boy, and he could tell
that Thum’s nerve was beginning to waver. “I will help,” Dain promised. “Aelintide
is over, you see,” Thum said in relief, hurrying forward. “The villagers will
be coming today to conduct business as usual, so the main gates will open after
sunrise. If you hide somewhere close to the gates, you can get out during the
general coming and going of the throng.” “I
can do that,” Dain said, liking the plan. It was simple, and simple plans
worked best. He slipped outside through the gate behind Thum with the feeling
of having escaped a cage. Thum
shut the gate as quietly as he could, then tapped Dain’s sleeve, making him
jump in the darkness. “You push when I say,” Thum whispered. Dain
stood behind the cart and pushed it while Thum picked up the traces and
steered. It wasn’t far out of position; Dain figured Thum had been able to
budge it only so far by himself. Together they moved it back across the gate. Thum
dusted off his hands. “Let Thod keep the prince from ever knowing it was me,”
he said under his breath. Dain
wondered why he was so nervous. “Can the prince beat you too?” he asked. Thum
uttered a sour little laugh. “Worse than that.” “He
can kill you? But would your family not avenge you?” “It’s
not like that,” Thum explained. “My father sent me here, hoping I’d become a
companion, maybe a favorite, of the prince. I’m the youngest son. I have to
make my own way in life since I can’t inherit land. The prince could give me a
start, but I haven’t pleased him. We don’t get along at all, and I—I—“ He broke
off, his voice a tangle of anger, unhappiness, and restraint. ”I don’t like
him.“ “I hate him.” Thum
uttered a breathless little chuckle. “Morde, but it’s good to hear someone say
that. Treason though it is, I hate him too.” Suddenly
friends, they grinned at each other in the shadows. Dain reached out and
gripped Thum’s hand. “My thanks, Man-drian. I will repay my debt to you.” “You
owe me no debt,” Thum replied fiercely. “I have done what is right. No reward
should come for that.” Elsewhere
in the hold, a cock crowed. Dain heard distant sounds of life. The hold was
coming awake. He must hide himself again, and quickly. But as he turned away,
Thum came after him and gripped his arm briefly. “My
mother says it’s good luck to help the eldin,” Thum whispered shyly, as though
half-ashamed to say it. “We’re up-landers, and the old ways are still known to
us, even if we now follow Writ. You are nothing evil, and should not be treated
so.” Dain understood what he was really asking. “If ever there is luck in my
life to bestow, I will share it with you,” he said. Thum
stepped back. “How close to the gates can you get? They should open just after
morning mass and—” “I
know all the hiding places by now,” Dain said, interrupting his advice. “Then
may your path be sure,” Thum said. Dain hurried away from him, melting into the
shadows between the next building and the wall. Around him, objects and
outlines were becoming distinct shapes. The air lay still and cold, and his
breath fogged white about his face. Hurrying,
he circled the courtyard, staying well against its perimeter where shadows
remained dark. No sentry saw him and called out. No yawning serf stumbled
across his path. He slipped past the stables, and paused to break the thin
layer of ice on the watering trough. His reflection was a pale, unfocused shape
glimmering in the water’s surface. Dain drank long and deep of the ice-cold
water. It hurt his teeth but cleared his head. From inside the stables, he
could now hear the horses nick- ering and shuffling in their stalls. Muffled, sleepy voices
spoke. A sudden light glowed from a window. Ducking low, Dain flitted onward. With
much trepidation, he ventured into risky territory—the outermost keep, where
villagers were allowed in for daily business, bread loaves were sold, and
tribute was brought for display. The barracks windows shone with light. From
within the guardhouse came the aromas of boiled pork and heated cider. The
sentries stamped their cold feet on the battlements like men counting the
minutes until they were relieved. Dain
took cover behind a stack of crates and settled himself there to wait until the
gates opened. A cock crowed loudly, and the smell of wood smoke filled the air.
Dain swallowed and buried his face against his crossed forearms, trying not to
think about his stomach. Thum’s gift of meat and totie had been well
intentioned, but of small proportion. Listening to his stomach growl, Dain
doubted he would ever eat his fill again. Perhaps
he slept, huddled in that cramped space between the crates and the wall, for it
was with a start that he suddenly opened his eyes and found sunlight shining
across the keep. The gates stood wide open, and guards watched the flow and ebb
of excited villagers coming in to haggle over bread or to inquire about Lord
Odfrey’s health. “Did
he lose his eye, poor man?” a fat woman with a kerchief tied about her head was
asking loudly. “We
prayed mass for him yesterday,” another woman, lean and toothless, chimed in. Others
swarmed about, babbling questions and repeating gossip. Rubbing
his face, Dain rose cautiously to his feet and worked out the kinks from his
stiff muscles. He blew on his fingers to warm them, then sauntered out from
behind the crates and melted into a small crowd of serfs haggling with each
other over a brace of squawking chickens held upside down by their feet.
Nearby, a scrawny child with a dirt-smeared face held the end of a rope tied
around a young shoat. The child’s eyes widened at the sight of Dain. Swiftly
he ducked away into the general mill and press of people, his heart pounding
fast, his mouth dry with fear. Anyone could look at him and sound the alarm.
Steadily, refusing to let himself run, he kept pushing his way through the busy
crowd, aiming toward the gate. Ahead,
he saw a wide gap between the crowd and the gates themselves. Alert sentries
stood there, armed with swords and pikes. Hesitating,
knowing he could never walk alone between those sentries without being noticed,
Dain lost his nerve. Wheeling
aside, he eased into the wake of another group of villagers, then broke off and
ducked behind the guardhouse. It had no windows at the rear, and there was a
narrow space between it and the wall. Above him, the walkway for the
battlements jutted across the space like a roof. The sentries up there couldn’t
see him. He
halted there, his palm pressed against the rough bricks, and tried to regain
his courage. This
was a foul place. The stench told him lazy men used this area at night for
their latrine instead of crossing the keep. Dain drew a deep breath, and eased
his way forward. When the curved wall of the guardhouse took him out from
beneath the walkway overhead, he paused a moment and frowned over the logistics
of his problem. Ahead
of him stretched another open space to the smithy, then from there, the area in
front of the gates remained clear. While he watched, a stooped man and a slim
girl entered, both carrying laden baskets on their hips. They paused inside the
gates, and the sentries nudged them on. Dain
drew in his breath with a hiss, realizing the only way he could walk out was if
he went disguised. He
scowled, refusing to panic. He could do this, provided he used the crowd sensibly
and didn’t lose his courage. Ahead
of him, the smithy was opened for business, its large shutters thrown wide. Its
fire roared in the circular hearth, blazing orange and hot. Dain heard the
smith start working at his craft. The hammer made a steady plink, plink, plink
noise. Listening to that familiar rhythm, Dain caught a whiff of heated metal.
A wave of homesickness washed over him. He missed Jorb with a stab of grief so
intense he leaned his head against the bricks and closed his eyes. Why
had he ever come to this foreign place, where he’d forced himself to live like
a thief, skulking fearfully and risking his life? He belonged in the Dark
Forest. It was time to go home, not wander the world. But
there was no home to return to. The Bnen had burned the forge, where Dain could
have tried to continue the work Jorb had taught him. They had burned the
burrow. All of it, everything he knew and loved, was gone. It would always be
gone, even if he did try to return. Bowing
his head, Dain let his emotions wash over him. Perhaps it was only that he was
so tired, so hungry, so cold. He couldn’t reason anymore. He needed rest and a
place of safety. That’s why he kept wanting to go home. He realized it was
going to take him a long time to remember that home was forever lost to him.
Home was to be found in the hearts of loved ones, and his would never again
stretch out their hands in gladness to see him, would never again call his name
with laughter in their greeting, would never again stand steadfast at his side,
their affection a warmth that fed his spirit and gave him comfort. The
loop of a rope settled around his shoulders without warning. A quick yank
tightened it about his upper arms, and Dain was pulled off his feet before he
knew what was happening. He
landed hard on his side, grunting at the impact. Instinctively he twisted
around, trying to regain his feet, but before he could get up, someone jumped
on top of him, pinning his legs while he jerked and struggled to free his arms. A second loop of the rope went around him. Another hard
yank nearly crushed the breath from his lungs. His sore shoulder protested with
a stab of pain that left him helpless while he was swiftly trussed. Fearing
that he’d been caught by the prince’s minions, Dain kept on struggling. “Be
still,” said a harsh voice, “and do not put your eye on me. I’m protected from
your pagan spells.” Dain
recognized Sir Roye’s voice. Surprised, he stopped struggling and Sir Roye finished
tying him. With a grunt, the knight stood up, taking his bony knee from the
small of Dain’s back. At
once, Dain startled struggling again. Desperate and frightened, he knew not
what would befall him now, but a glimpse up at Sir Roye’s hostile face boded no
good for him. Despite
his efforts, Dain realized, he had no chance to pull free. Scrambling to his
knees, he paused, his breath rasping loud in his throat. “Morde
a day, but you’re a sight of trouble. As sly as a cat, slinking here and there.
Why didn’t you stay in the garden, where I could have caught you quicker?” Dain
squinted up at Sir Roye, silhouetted against the sunshine. He didn’t think the
knight really wanted an answer. “And now you’re going to give me to Prince
Gavril? You’ll enjoy seeing him whip me. Or do you intend to kill me on his
order?” The
knight punched him in the stomach, and Dain doubled over with an agonized
whoop. Sir
Roye took a step closer. “That’ll teach you to keep a respectful tongue in your
pagan head. I am ‘Sir Roye’ to you, or simply ‘sir’. You call me that, and you
watch your tone.” Toppling
over, Dain retched up his breakfast and managed to roll himself over away from
it. Telling himself there was surely worse to come, he scowled and tried to
ignore the burning discomfort in his belly. “I’ve
done no wrong here,” he managed to say. “I am no enemy—” “You’re
a damned pagan thief and Thod knows what else. Eating from the winter stores is
a crime that merits twelve lashes alone.” Dain
stiffened, remembering Prince Gavril’s whip all too well. “It’s no crime to
feed myself.” “And
who gave you leave, eh? You answer me that.” Dain
glared fiercely up at Sir Roye. “I saved Nocine’s life. I led the lord to the
raiders. I helped in the battle. If I have eaten a few apples as my reward, is
that so wrong?” “If
you’re hungry, you go to the kitchens and beg along with the other mendicants.
You don’t steal, unless you want a whipping or your hands cut off.” Dain
blinked in fresh horror. “What is man-law, that it should be so harsh?” “Nothing
harsh about it. The beggared have only got to ask for charity. By the holy law
of Writ, such have to be fed. But thieves endanger everyone. We have to keep
enough in stores to feed every mouth in this place through winter.” “I
thought... Would a pagan beggar be fed? Or would I be beaten for asking?“ Dain
asked. ”Does the Writ of your belief apply to folk like me?“ The
knight squinted at him and said nothing. Pursing his lips, he looked away, then
pulled a servant’s cap from his pocket and bent down to cram it onto Dain’s
head. It fitted close to his skull, with two long flaps that came down over his
ears. “You’re too much trouble,” he grumbled. “If it were up to me, you’d be
drowned and well out of our way.” He
pulled Dain to his feet, and said, “But it ain’t up to me. Back you come.” “He
will kill me,” Dain said, planting his feet and refusing to budge. “Let me go,
Sir Roye. Do not take me to death.” “What
is this babble?” Sir Roye asked in exasperation. “I’m not killing you, yet.” “The
prince will.” “His
highness has naught to say about this matter,” Sir Roye announced. “Now move
your feet. I’ve wasted too much time already tracking you for his lordship.” Dain
grinned at him with sudden hope. “Lord Odfrey sent for me?” Sir
Roye’s yellow eyes glittered resentfully. “Not like you think, you heathen
knave. But he’s been calling for his boy— Thod rest the poor lad’s soul—and
that Sulein thinks you’ll do as well for him in his fever.” Down
sank Dain’s spirits. “So he really is dying. I don’t want to see him.” Sir
Roye whacked the side of his head. “Hold your tongue. No one asked you what you
want. Now move!” He
pushed Dain forward, and Dain went, stumbling every time Sir Roye pushed him.
Although Dain half-expected Sir Roye to parade him along in front of everyone,
the knight kept away from the crowds and out of sight of the sentries. Together
they skulked along, seeking to pass unnoticed, and soon Sir Roye was pushing
Dain up a series of steps that led to the battlements. They strode along the
walkway, with Dain catching wide-eyed glimpses of the world of field and marsh
stretching far beyond the hold’s walls. Before they came to the first sentry, Sir Roye shook Dain
hard. “Keep your eyes down. Don’t let them see who you are.” Dain
bowed his head, staggering along as Sir Roye kept shoving him. When they came
to the sentry, the man saluted Sir Roye and stepped aside. It
was the same with the next sentry, and the next. Soon thereafter, they passed
through a door into a tower, then walked along corridors and passageways, up
stairs and down, winding here and there until Dain was greatly confused and had
little idea of where he might be inside this maze of stone. Finally
Sir Roye shoved Dain into a long, narrow chamber fitted with drains in the
floor and stone channels. A fire burned there, and at one end stood a wooden
tub as tall as Dain’s shoulder, with steps mounting it. Sir
Roye whipped the cap off Dain’s head and untied him. Dain tried to shake some
circulation back into his arms, but as he turned around, Sir Roye gripped him
with both hands and pulled his ragged tunic over his head before Dain could
stop him. Wincing
at the pain in his shoulder, Dain sucked in his breath and tried not to yell. Despite
the fire, the room was cold. Shivering, Dain tried to grab his tunic from Sir
Roye’s hand, but the knight held it out of his reach. “Get
in the tub,” he ordered. “Why?” Sir
Roye glared at him. “Because you stink worse than the dogs. Because I won’t
take no filthy, gint-eyed knave to my lord with him lying there fevered out of
his poor wits. You wash, and make it quick.” Although
he longed to be clean, the idea of a cold bath did not appeal to Dain. He
tilted his head at Sir Roye and could not resist saying, “But have you not
heard that we eldin melt when we get wet? We are supposed to be but watery
elements, formed into a cloud of appearance, and that is why we—” Sir
Roye smacked his head, knocking him backward. “Get in the tub, and cease that
heathen chatter of yours.” To
Dain’s surprise, the water was tepid, not icy cold as he’d expected. He enjoyed
splashing about, sluicing off the dirt and filth he’d accumulated in recent
days. A servant came with a bucket and emptied some heated water into the tub.
Dain laughed at such luxury, and even ducked his head under the water, then
surged up, shaking himself like a dog. Sir
Roye climbed the steps and prodded him with a wooden pole. “Out,” he commanded. Dain
obeyed, dripping and shivering. A servant wrapped him in cloth and shoved him
over to stand before the fire. While Dain dried himself, Sir Roye glared at him
thoughtfully. “What
happened to your side?” Dain
glanced down at the bruised and discolored web of skin between his lower ribs
and his hipbone. “Oh, the lord’s horse bit me the day we fought the dwarves.” Sir
Roye grunted to himself and grasped Dain firmly while he prodded the wound.
Dain sucked in air between his teeth and fought the urge to shove Sir Roye
away, knowing it would only get him struck again. “Hurt?”
Sir Roye asked. “No,”
Dain lied, glaring at him. “Could
make a fearsome scar,” Sir Roye said. He touched the bruises on Dain’s
shoulder. “And here?” “I
fell out of a tree last night, trying to escape—I mean, while I was climbing
over the garden wall,” Dain amended hastily. “I fell off the wall.” “A
worse lie has never been spoken,” Sir Roye said, but he released Dain and
gestured for the servant to hand him clean clothes. They
were very fine, these garments, as fine as Dain had seen Thum, Mierre, and
Kaltienne wearing—not as fine as the prince’s clothes, but soft and well made.
Dain fingered them, awed by such generosity. “Don’t
just stand there gawking,” Sir Roye said gruffly, scowling at Dain. “Get them
on.” “But
they are the clothes of a lord,” Dain said in protest. “They are too good.” “Aye, they are,” Sir Roye snapped. His face turned red, and
he scowled more fiercely than ever. “They belonged to Lord Odfrey’s son. You’re
his size, close enough. He had dark hair too. Now get dressed. And when you’re
through giving his lordship comfort, you can have your own filthy rags back
again.” Dain
blinked, understanding with a bump of reality that this clothing was not a gift
to be kept. His mouth twisted wryly and he tugged on the leggings, keeping his
head down to hide his expression. His pendant of bard crystal swung and thumped
into his bare chest as he straightened and reached for the doublet to pull it
on. The servant handed him a linen shirt instead. “What do you wear?” Sir Roye
asked. “A pagan amulet?” “Yes,” Dain said, his voice muffled as he swiftly pulled the shirt over
his head. He yanked the garment down before Sir Roye could reach out and touch
the pendant. It was not for the likes of the knight to touch. Now the doublet
went on. It fit well enough, except for being a little narrow in the chest and
too short in the arms. Pushing back his wet hair from his face and letting it
drip down the back of his collar, Dain looked at the knight and shrugged.
“Well?” he asked. Sir
Roye frowned at him, and some emotion—sadness perhaps—touched his yellow eyes.
“Aye,” he said softly. “I see the resemblance now. Damne.” “I
look like the lord’s son?” Dain asked. “The one who died?” “Morde
a day!” Sir Roye said in startlement. “Who told you about that?” “Do
I?” Dain asked. For a moment he entertained the wild hope that perhaps Lord
Odfrey was his missing father, the man who’d given him and Thia into Jorb’s
keeping, then never returned for them. But as fast as the thought entered his
mind, he dismissed it, knowing it could not be so. “What was the boy’s name?”
he asked. “Hilard,”
Sir Roye replied, lost in memory. “A gentle boy, scholarly. Rather read than
ply a sword. But a good horseman. Dependable. His lordship was always short
with the lad. Impatient with his faults. Wanted him to be a fighter. Wasn’t
until the stranguli took him that the chevard learned how much he loved that
boy.” “When
did he die?” Dain asked quietly, hearing old grief echoing in Sir Roye’s gruff
voice. Sir
Roye scowled at him. “Five years past. He was about your age and size.
Dark-haired. Thin.” “Does
grieving last so long?” Dain asked, staring at the man in dismay. “Does the
loss never go away, never stop hurting?” Whatever Sir Roye might have answered
was interrupted by the door’s slamming open. The page who’d opened the door so
forcefully jumped aside, and Prince Gavril strolled in, followed by his
hulking, silent protector and a red-faced Mierre. “See,
your highness?” Mierre said, pointing furiously at Dain. “I told you someone
let him out of the garden. He has not the power to fly—” A
gesture from Prince Gavril silenced him abruptly. Gavril walked farther into
the room, his dark blue eyes narrowed with anger, his mouth tight-lipped. The
sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows sparked golden glints from his
hair. He wore leggings of the softest doeskin and a long doublet of russet wool
with the sleeves slashed to show his creamy linen. His bracelet of royalty
gleamed golden on his wrist, and a jeweled dagger glittered at his belt. “What
are you about, Sir Roye?” he asked coldly. “Bathing a pagan while your lord and
master lies dying?” Sir
Roye turned to face him like a grizzled old dog. “What I do is not accountable
to you, highness.” Prince
Gavril blinked at such gruff defiance. For a moment he seemed unable to find
words. Then his frown deepened. “Harboring a pagan is against Writ. I ordered
his capture as soon as I learned he was sneaking about the hold. He is my
prisoner—” “Did
you catch him?” Sir Roye countered. “I
ordered his—” “But
you didn’t catch him, did you?” Sir Roye persisted. Gavril
was scowling now. “I need not sully my hand. My order is enough.” “Not
in Thirst, it ain’t. The chevard rules here, your highness. You’re a foster,
and your orders ain’t taken above his lordship’s.” Gavril
turned bright red. His eyes flashed to Dain, who was listening to this with
enjoyment, and he glared more fiercely than ever. “You have bewitched Sir Roye,
and—” “I’m
on the chevard’s business,” Sir Roye said, cutting across the prince’s
accusations. “Step aside, your highness. I cannot be detained.” Gavril
did not budge. “But what are you doing?” he asked. “Bathing him, giving him
clothes above his station, feeding him? These are violations of—” “I
got no time for preaching,” Sir Roye said. He walked forward, straight at
Prince Gavril, who did not move aside. The weathered old knight glanced at Sir
Los, who had his hand on the hilt of his sword. Calmly, Sir Roye stepped around
the prince and gestured for Dain to follow him. Dain
obeyed warily, determined not to let Mierre or Sir Los seize him. As he stepped
past the prince, Sir Los shifted his stance, but quick as thought Sir Roye
stepped into his path, blocking him from Dain, who hurried out the door, his
relief mingling with shame over his fear. “Let’s
not start something we don’t want,” Sir Roye said, his dark, craggy face inches
from Sir Los’s. “You have your orders, Los, but so do I have mine.” “Sir
Los!” Gavril cried out. But
the knight protector dropped his hand away from his sword hilt and stepped
back. “Sir
Los!” Gavril said in fresh fury. The
large knight said nothing and did not look at his master. Sir Roye gave him a
little nod and left the room, emerging into the corridor where Dain waited. He
tapped Dain’s shoulder, giving him a small push. “Walk on. You’ve caused me
enough trouble for the day.” “But
I did not—” “You’re
here,” Sir Roye said furiously, keeping his voice low as they rounded a corner
and passed out of earshot. “On account of you, I’ve defied the prince of the
realm.” “Lord
Odfrey will give me a place here. It was meant to be his promise.” Sir
Roye snorted in contempt. “A promise not made.” “He
will,” Dain said with assurance. “Just as soon as I speak to him and—” Sir
Roye shoved him into the wall to silence him. While Dain straightened himself,
trying to catch his breath, the old knight glared and pointed his finger at
him. “You’ll work none of your pagan wiles on him, hear me? You keep yourself
quiet now, and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.“ ”j__“ “Quiet!” Dain
shut his jaws and glared back. He was tired of being shoved and smacked and
yelled at. He was tempted to break away from Sir Roye, but the knowledge that
Gavril and his minions might pounce kept him where he was. As mean and gruff as
he acted, Sir Roye meant protection, even if temporarily. “Sir
Roye!” called an accented voice, one that made the hairs rise on the back of
Dain’s neck. “Where have you been? Why have you been away so long?” It
was Sulein, the sorcerel, coming down the passageway toward them. Garbed in a long
robe of crimson and green stripes, his conical red hat perched on his head and
his dark beard frizzing wildly around his jaw, Sulein stared at Dain with a
smile of dawning delight. Dain
stopped in his tracks and would come no closer, until Sir Roye gripped his arm
and forcefully shoved him along. “It
took a bit of doing to get this lad,” Sir Roye said, pushing Dain past Sulein,
who turned and followed them, gliding along in his unnatural way. “He wasn’t
where I was told he’d be.” “He
escaped the garden, where my vision saw him in hiding?” Sulein asked in
surprise. “How?” Dain
kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t about to answer any questions that would cause
trouble for Thum. Unsure if the sorcerel could read his mind, Dain
began mentally tabulating the weights of metal and made certain not to look
Sulein in the eye. “How
he did it matters not,” Sir Roye growled. “He wasn’t there. What news of my
lord?” “He
came awake for a moment. He sleeps now, but he is very restless. The fever does
not abate.” As
he spoke, Sulein glided ahead of them, then pushed open a door at the end of
the corridor. Guards stood on duty on either side of the door, but no page or
other servants loitered about. Although they remained at attention without
expression on their stern faces, one of the guards blinked at the sight of
Dain, and his eyes widened. The
man did not speak, however, and Dain found himself being shoved into a large
chamber kept dark and shadowy by the many shuttered windows. A large fire
crackled on the hearth. More fires burned in braziers placed on all four sides
of a large, box-shaped bed standing in the center of the room. Heavy curtains
of tapestry enclosed the bed, except where some of the panels had been pulled
aside. Dain saw the chevard lying there, propped high on cushions.
He wore a dark green robe of velvet over a linen gown. His face was heavily
bandaged. Dain smelled the meat poultice and the fevered flesh of the wound
beneath it. His stomach turned at other sickroom smells, but with a frown he
made himself ignore them. “Go
on, boy,” Sulein said quietly, freeing Dain from Sir Roye’s grip and shoving
him forward. “Go and sit yourself on that stool there. Stay very quiet. You
will be where his lordship can see you when he wakes up.” “And
put none of your pagan hexes on him while he lies helpless,” Sir Roye said. Dain
whirled around and glared at him. “I saved his life. Why would I harm him?” “Get
over there,” Sir Roye said, baring his teeth. Sulein clapped his hands between them. “Hush this. There
must be quiet. An atmosphere of peace and serenity. No quarreling. Now, boy.
Sit on the stool as I told you.” Dain
seated himself on the cushioned stool next to the chevard’s bed. Although the fires
made the room very warm, the chevard was shivering beneath the coverlet and fur
robe. His head turned restlessly on the pillow, but his eyes did not open. “And
you, Sir Roye,” Sulein said in reproof. “Why do you fear this boy so? The eldin
are peaceable creatures. They understand the natural flow of life forces. They
are not evil.” Sir
Roye grunted, his fear and worry swirling through him so strongly Dain could
sense them. Ignoring the men, Dain leaned toward the chevard, who was turning his
head from side to side in pain, mumbling words Dain could not understand. Grief
rose in Dain anew. He missed Thia and Jorb with all his heart. He did not want
to be in the room of a dying man. He did not want to worry about the chevard,
or even to like him. He had been raised to distrust men and their ways. Men
were du-plicitous, superstitious, and dangerous, like Prince Gavril. But Lord
Odfrey seemed different. He was a fair man, an honest man. It was not right
that the Bnen arrows should kill him too. Dain
reached out and curled his fingers lightly around the chevard’s hand. Its flesh
was intensely hot and dry. Behind
Dain, Sir Roye strode forward. “Take your—” “Hush,”
Sulein said. “Be still. This is what I hoped for.” Dain
glanced over his shoulder at the two men. Sulein was standing in Sir Roye’s
path, and the knight’s face was contorted in a grimace of worry and anger.
Neither came any closer. Dain
relaxed. He already knew the answer he’d sought. The chevard’s blood burned
with this terrible fever. His pain was strong. But so was his body strong. He
was not yet ready to die. “Lord,”
Dain said in his quiet, awkward Mandrian, “I have come to speak with you about your
promise. Have you forgotten it? Have you forgotten me?” “Be
quiet, boy!” Sir Roye ordered. Startled,
Dain glanced up, but despite Sir Roye’s fearsome scowl, Sulein was beaming and
gesturing for Dain to continue. “Do
not stop,” Sulein said. “Talk to him. It will help center his mind and bring
him from his fever. Tell him anything you wish.” Dain
drew in a wary breath, trusting the outraged Sir Roye more than he trusted the sorcerel.
Yet clearly Sulein understood what he was doing. Returning his attention to the chevard, Dain was surprised
to see the man’s dark eyes open and staring at him. “Hilard?”
Lord Odfrey said in a shaky voice. “I
am not Hilard your son,” Dain said evenly, ignoring Sir Roye’s muted growl of
protest. “I am the eldin boy who rode with you when you fought the dwarves of
the Dark Forest. Do you remember the battle, lord?” The
chevard frowned, looking lost and witless. Pain shimmered in the liquid depths
of his dark eyes. Beneath the thick bandage swathing half his face, his skin
was pasty white. “Hilard,” he said. His fingers shifted in Dain’s grip. “You
have come.” “Was
your son part eldin, as am I?” Dain asked. “Is that why you are kind to us?” “No,”
Lord Odfrey said. His voice was a thin whisper. “I want Hilard.” “He
is dead,” Dain replied. “You know that, lord.” Lord
Odfrey gripped Dain’s fingers with momentary strength. “You have come back. I
prayed for this, and you have come.” Behind
him, Sir Roye moaned and walked over to the window. Bowing his head, he put his
hand to his face. Dain
swiftly turned his gaze back to Lord Odfrey. “I am called Dain, lord,” he said
softly. “I was Jorb maker’s apprentice
and fostered son. You saved my life, and I saved yours. Where your son walks
today, you are not yet ready to go. It
is not your time. Do not let this wound end your life before its fullness.“ The
chevard closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He seemed to sleep again, but his
fingers did not slacken on Dain’s hand. When
Dain tried to pull away, the chevard opened his eyes at once. This time they
looked more alert. “Stay with me,” he commanded, and sank back into his
troubled sleep. Dain
stayed. For
three days, Dain remained in the chevard’s room, present whenever the man
awakened and called for him. A cot was brought for him to sleep on. Food was
served to him on trays. Lord Odfrey’s condition slowly improved, and Sulein
beamed at Dain in approval. “Your
presence is helping. It is exactly as I wished and expected.” Sulein
worked hard. He mixed potions with noxious smells that he poured down Lord
Odfrey’s throat. He changed the bandage occasionally, scraping off the evil poultice
and replacing it with fresh. The wound looked puckered and angry. Dain believed
it should be exposed to the air, and the windows opened to let in sunlight, but
Sulein kept the place tight and airless, like a stuffy cave. His hands were not
always clean when he ministered to the chevard. Dain believed Lord Odfrey lived
in spite of Sulein’s ministrations. As
for spells, he saw Sulein cast only one, and there was little magic in it.
Although Dain had been frightened of the physician at first, he gradually began
to suspect that Sulein was not a true sorcerel after all but instead
only a man trying to be one. Dain
was never alone with the chevard. Sir Roye stood guard over his master like a
faithful old dog, and Dain had no opportunities to open the windows or to throw
the poultice away. Bored, he ate all the food he could get his hands on and
wandered about the chamber, examining its contents without touching or
disturbing anything. Then
came the early dawn when Dain was awakened by a slight noise. He sat up and
left his cot, going to the chevard’s bedside at once on silent feet. Sir Roye
was slumped in a chair, snoring. Sulein had gone. The candles were all
guttered, and the fires had died to a few crumbling, hissing coals atop heaps
of ashes. Meager daylight leaked in around the edges of the shutters. Dain
went to one window and opened it, letting in cold air and dawn’s shadowy, gray
light. The
chevard lay on his side. His eyes stared, and he did not breathe. Horrified,
Dain crept closer. It was dawn, the hour when souls were the least anchored to
their bodies. Was the chevard dead? He
did not want to believe it, but already grief was swelling inside his heart.
Refusing to let his mind touch death, Dain kept his senses to himself and
instead touched the chevard’s arm. The
man’s flesh was warm and pliant. The chevard blinked, and Dain flinched back.
Almost at once, however, he smiled to himself and gripped the chevard’s hand. There
was no fever in it. Lord Odfrey’s hand was cool and dry. Dain touched his
throat and found no fever there either. Relief
filled Dain. Shivering a little in his thin shirt and leggings, he sank onto
the stool and faced the chevard’s intense stare. “Is
this the Beyond?” the chevard asked softly. “I do not know where I am. Nothing
looks as I remember.” “The
physician changed your room,” Dain replied, his voice quiet to keep from waking
Sir Roye. “Most of the furniture is stacked in the passageway outside the door.
He said there was an imbalance in the forces and elements that—” “Is
this the Beyond?” Lord Odfrey asked again. He sounded tired, as though he had
journeyed a long way. “If
you mean the third world,” Dain answered, “no, it is not. You are still in the
first world, in your hold, in your personal chamber. Sir Roye guards your rest.
If you look that way, you can see him.” “I
see an eld boy who reminds me of my son,” Lord Odfrey said without moving. “Yet
you are nothing like him. Strange.” “What
is strange?” Dain asked, yawning despite himself. “You
have the spirit he did not. I could not make a warrior of him. I tried too
hard, I think.” “We
are what we are,” Dain said. “I am not—” “There
is a belief, an old one,” the chevard broke in, “that the eldin sometimes carry
our souls for us. Or the souls of our loved ones. Carried from the Beyond back
into our world so that we can see them for a little while. Is that true?” Dain
frowned. “I know not. I have never heard it.” “You
must know.” “I
was not raised among my people,” Dain said. “I do not know their ways.” The
chevard’s intense stare never wavered. “Do you carry my son’s soul, Dain? Is
that why you came here? So that I could see some part of him again for a time?” Dain’s
frown deepened, for he felt uncomfortable with these odd questions. “I came out
of need,” he said simply. “I lost my home and family. I had nowhere to go.” He
hesitated a long moment, and the chevard did not interrupt. Finally, the truth
forced its way out: “I came to you,” Dain admitted, “because I knew you would
fight the Bnen and defeat them. I wanted revenge for what they did to my sister
and to Jorb.” “Did
I give you this revenge?” Lord Odfrey asked. “I do not remember.” “You
did,” Dain said. He started to add that revenge had brought no comfort to his
heart. He still missed Thia and Jorb, still hated the Bnen, still wanted
everything put back as it had been. The dead did not erase the dead. But he
felt it would be wrong to utter such feelings, and he held his tongue. “You
fought them valiantly, lord, and you defeated them.” The
chevard rolled onto his back and moaned. “My face hurts like—Where is Sir
Roye?” His
voice was growing stronger and more querulous. From his corner, Sir Roye
snorted awake and sat upright. “If
you hurt,” Dain said, “I will fetch the physician to you.” “Don’t want him,” Lord Odfrey said. “Want my breakfast. Want to sit up.
Roye! Damne, where are you?” “Here,
my lord,” Sir Roye said hastily, scrambling to his side. The protector scrubbed
at his face with his hands, grinning at his master with a delight that
transformed his craggy face. “You’re awake. Praise Thod!” “I
hurt and I’m hungry,” Lord Odfrey said, pounding the bed weakly with one hand.
“Why is it so dark in here? Why has the fire burned out? What stinks? Dain!” “Yes, lord?” The
chevard stared up at him with sudden horror. “Tell me the truth. Is my face infected
with the rot?” “Not
yet,” Dain replied. “The stink comes from Sulein’s poultice. It needs to come
off.” “And
what do you know about healing and such arts?” Sir Roye asked him fiercely from
the opposite side of the bed. Dain
glared right back. “My sister knew healing. She said a wound should be kept
clean and exposed to light and fresh air.” “Hah!”
Sir Roye said in derision. “You’d kill him certain, with measures like that.” Lord
Odfrey reached up and began tugging at his bandages. “Off with it.” “My
lord,” Sir Roye said, trying to hold down his hands. “Wait for Sulein to do
that. You’ll hurt yourself, sure.” “Ow!”
Lord Odfrey shouted. Cursing, he finished pulling the bandage away and flung it
on the floor. Then
Sulein arrived, gliding forward hastily with his robe unfastened and his
conical hat on crooked. “What is this? What is this?” he asked, clapping his
hands together. “Wash
this damned stink off me,” Lord Odfrey ordered. The
commotion began. A page stuck his head inside the room, staring around with his
eyes popping. “He’s better! He’s alive! Praise Thod!” The
guards looked in while the page went dashing away, shouting down the corridor.
Sulein bustled to fill a basin with water and started cleaning the wound.
Servants, gawking at their master, came in to build up new fires and light
fresh candles. Sulein ordered the window shut, but Lord Odfrey ordered it
opened again. All the windows were opened, transforming the chamber with
sunlight and fresh air. From
outside, the chapel bell began to ring in celebration, sending up ripples of
music such as Dain had never heard. He
retreated from the general confusion, taking refuge in a corner, until Sir Roye
noticed him and booted him out. But Lord Odfrey ordered him brought back in. “I
want him near me,” the chevard said. “Make a place for him. He is welcome at
Thirst, as long as he will stay.” Sir
Roye bowed, but he shot a quick, scornful look in Dain’s direction. “And what
place will he have, my lord? Stable work? Field work?” “Nonsense.”
Looking suddenly white and exhausted, Lord Odfrey sank back upon his pillows.
“Put him among the fosters. Give him training at arms.” The
servants froze in mid-task. Sulein jostled his basin of water. Sir Roye’s eyes
widened in shock. “He’s
pagan, m’lord! It’s against—” “Look
at his black hair. Look at his size. He’s just starting to grow, damne,” Lord
Odfrey said. “There’s human blood in him too. Under the old law, he can be
trained.” Sir
Roye opened his mouth, but the captain of the guards came rushing in, his
surcoat flapping about his knees, his chain mail creaking. Halting, he threw a
salute. “My
lord!” he said briskly. Sulein
straightened. “There are too many people in this room,” he said in a loud voice
that drove out the servants. “The chevard will live, but he must have rest.” Lord
Odfrey ignored everyone but his protector. They stared at each other, their
strong wills clashing visibly. Dain looked on, holding his breath in amazement.
Training? To be a warrior? To perhaps be a knight someday? To have rank and
skills and training, to know adventure and battle? His heart started thumping
hard, and he could not breathe for excitement. “Put
him in training,” Lord Odfrey said. “M’lord,
I would do your will as always,” Sir Roye said with a grimace, “but think of
what this means. Remember who is fostered here.” “These
matters can be settled at another time,” Sulein said, trying to interrupt them.
He gestured for Sir Roye to withdraw, but the knight protector did not budge
from Lord Odfrey’s bedside. “The
prince, m’lord,” Sir Roye said. Dain
opened his mouth, wanting to offer a dozen assurances. Wanting to plead.
Wanting to say anything that would prevail. But he held himself silent, sensing
that at this moment he should not interfere. “The
prince does not choose my fosters,” Lord Odfrey said, his voice starting to
fail him. He shut his eyes a moment, then fought to reopen them. “I rule this
hold by royal warrant. Dain will be fostered here, with full rights as such.” “But
he has no sponsor, no one to provide for him. He can’t—” “Damne,
Sir Roye, do not argue with me!” As he spoke, Lord Odfrey grimaced in agony and
fell back against his pillows again, gasping for breath. “Now
this is enough,” Sulein said, pulling the coverlet up across the invalid and
placing his hand firmly on the chevard’s sweating brow. “You will bring back
your fever if you do not rest. Sir Roye, why do you argue with your master’s
orders? Why do you risk his life by making him so upset?” Sir
Roye looked stricken. He bowed low. “Your pardon, m’lord. I did not mean to—” “You
always have the best interests of the hold at heart,” Lord Odfrey said in a
thin, tired voice. He tried to smile, but that caused him more pain. “I know
this. Thod brought him to me. Let him stay, if he will.” Sir
Roye nodded, but he glanced at Dain without acceptance. “Boy, do you have any
idea of what training means?” “Yes,”
Dain said, his eagerness spilling forth. “To learn arms and—” “Will
you stay, unsponsored, and take the training freehold?” Dain
frowned slightly, unsure of what these terms meant exactly. “If it means I can
eat food and not be beaten and learn—” “If
I may speak,” Sir Bosquecel said. Sir
Roye turned on him fiercely. “You may not!” “Sir
Roye,” Lord Odfrey said in rebuke. The
protector’s mouth snapped shut. He glared at the captain, who met his gaze
without flinching. “Speak,”
Lord Odfrey said wearily. “If
it please you, my lord, I will sponsor the boy.” Sir
Roye snorted. “Are you adopting him, Bosquecel?” “The
men will see that he has what he needs in equipment and all else,” Sir
Bosquecel said. Dain
stared, unable to believe his ears. Sir
Bosquecel smiled at Lord Odfrey. “We would have him as our mascot, my lord.” Sir
Roye looked at the captain as though he were a fool, but Lord Odfrey smiled
back. “These details will be worked out later,” he said, and thrust away the
cup Sulein was trying to press to his lips. “No, I do not want that
abomination!” he said fiercely. “I want breakfast.” Sulein
closed in on him again, and Sir Roye came around the bed to gesture at Dain,
who followed him over to the captain of the guard. “You
heard the chevard,” Sir Roye said gruffly. He shoved Dain at Sir Bosquecel. “He’s
yours, man. Get him started.” “Yes,
sir.” The
captain saluted and wheeled around smartly. Dain followed at his heels, but Sir
Roye gripped his arm to delay him a moment. “Heed
this,” he said in Dain’s ear. “The chevard has given you the chance of a
lifetime, far more than the likes of you deserves. Don’t you let him down, or
it’s me you’ll answer to.” Dain
met his fierce eyes, and knew the threat was no idle one. “I understand,” he
said quietly with equal determination, and hurried out. Part
Three In a northern valley of Nether,
up near the World’s Rim, the war of rebellion that had been planned and plotted
with such care and hope for months came to an end. It
began at dawn, with the blatting of horns and the yelled battle cries of men.
Five hundred rebels, trained and drilled to peak efficiency, were led by
General Ilymir Volvn, formerly a prince before King Muncel declared him traitor
and confiscated his lands and fortune. General Volvn was the greatest military
strategist in the realm, and he took on two thousand of the king’s troops this
day, his hawk face turned fearlessly toward his enemy, his courage and valor
infecting his small force. He
should have won today, for his men were the best of the rebel fighters, better
trained by far than the Gantese allies and sloppy conscripts of the king. The
rebels had justice on their side. But
King Muncel the Usurper had evil on his. In
the second hour of battle, when Volvn’s forces were beginning to prevail, a
gateway to the second world was opened, and out poured demons of all
descriptions. After that the tide of battle had shifted; then had come the
slaughter. Disbelieving,
Princess Alexeika Volvn watched the massacre from her vantage point on the
hillside. “No!” she cried. ‘Wo.’“ But
there was nothing she could do. Had her father sus- pected
a trap waited for him here, he would not have led his men forth. Alexeika had
watched the general pray, had watched him think and plan, had watched him
devise strategies, study the ground, and rethink his positions. He had been
prepared for everything except the Nonkind, and the scouts had not sighted them
in the area before battle commenced. Foul,
dirty dishonor was this. Honorable men and armies did not wage war thus. But
then, Alexeika’s father was the epitome of an honorable man, while it seemed
his foes had forgotten what honor was. It was one thing to go into battle
against Gant, with all the demons and horrors Believers tried to unleash on
their foes. In such situations, Netheran forces summoned special blessings for
sword and armor. They positioned sorcerels strategically to help
repel the Nonkind monsters. But when Netheran fought Netheran, they fought as men
and adhered to the acknowledged rules of battle. With
growing horror, Alexeika watched the battle rage. Had her father’s men been
less valiant, it would have ended almost as soon as it began. Instead, they
fought on, impossibly brave, refusing to flee or surrender until there was only
a small knot of men clustered around the banner in the center of the field. One
by one they were hacked down; then the banner fell. Seeing
that vivid streamer plummet to the ground, Alexeika screamed. Beside her, the
old defrocked priest Uzfan gripped her arm and began to mutter prayers. The
boys and other women nearby cried out and wept. “What
can we do?” Shelena moaned. “Merciful Olas, what can we do?” There
was nothing, of course. They were only watchers, too far away and helpless
besides. Stricken with shock, Alexeika looked on with tears running down her
cheeks. Before
midday, the victors galloped off, their banners streaming with pride under the
hot sun. They left the gallant rebel forces of Nether lying strewn across the
battlefield like abandoned toys. Shelena
and Larisa clutched each other, weeping. The boys stood white-faced with shock. Alexeika’s
heart was drumming. She had entered <* ozen place where she could feel
nothing. Jerking the reins of her pony untied, she mounted and stood up in the
stirrups. From
her throat came a scream of rage and grief so loud and terrible it echoed off
the surrounding hills and rolled down into the valley below. The king’s forces
were just vanishing over the far hillside, but Alexeika waited no longer. She
spurred her short-legged pony forward down the long, sloping hill from their
vantage point. “Wait!”
Shelena called after her. “Alexeika, it’s not yet safe!” Alexeika
crouched low over her pony’s rough mane and went tearing down into the valley.
She intended to ride straight to the center of the field, to the cluster of
bodies lying around the broken banner pole, but her pony—no doubt frightened by
the smells of carnage—plunged to a halt at the edge of the field. When she
kicked him and lashed his neck with the end of the reins, he reared up and
nearly threw her off. Only
then did she come to her senses. Down here in the bright, hot sunlight, she
could see how trampled the meadow grass was. Bodies lay where they’d fallen.
Blood was splashed everywhere, so much blood. The smell of it in the heat
flowed over her senses, suddenly unbearable. She
gagged and leaned over the saddle just in time. When
she righted herself, her pony was shifting and turning under her. The world
spun a little. She felt light-headed and cold. By
then Shelena, Larisa, and the five boys had caught up with her. Old Uzfan came
straggling behind them, beating his slow donkey with a stick. The beast waggled
its long shaggy ears and brayed. The
sound echoed across the silent valley, shocking Alexeika. It seemed sacrilege
to hear such a common, defiant sound in the presence of so much death. “The
gods protect us,” Shelena murmured, drawing rein beside Alexeika. Larisa
covered her mouth with her hand and began to whimper. Alexeika
herself could find no words. She stared in all directions at these hacked and
broken bodies belonging to men who last night had been laughing and boasting
round the camp-fires, working up their courage for today. Right now, she
recognized none of their slack faces or dusty, staring eyes. They all looked
like strangers, and she was grateful for that. Dazed, she knew that soon the
real grief would hit her, and she would find herself crushed as though with a stone. “All
of them,” Larisa moaned, rocking herself back and forth in her saddle. “All our
brave men.” Her broad face contorted, and she began to cry with ugly, gulping
sobs. “Thornic! My Thornic! My Dragn. My Osmyl.” Shelena’s
eyes filled with tears. She tipped back her head to utter the wailing, but
Uzfan gripped her arm and shook her hard. “Stop
it!” he said fiercely. “Have you no sense? They will hear us.” Larisa
went on sobbing, but Shelena glared back at the old priest. “Does it matter?”
she retorted. “My man is dead. So is my heart.” Uzfan
gestured at the boys, who had clustered together to stare. Their young faces
showed how unprepared for this massacre they were. “Quick. You know what to do.
Gather as many weapons as you can. We’ll load them on my donkey. Quickly! Just
as we planned last night.” Hearing
him, Alexeika closed her eyes. Last night, the boys who had been chosen for
this task of plundering the dead had believed it would be the enemy’s weapons
they would gather— not their own. “Hurry!”
Uzfan said, giving one of them a shake. “Would you let the Nonkind have their
swords and bo-. ”“‘ That
got the boys moving. Tentatively at i_st, then with more resolve, they began to
pick up the weapons. While
Uzfan got Shelena and Larisa to work, Alexeika’s head cleared. She remembered
her father’s careful instructions, given to her in his final words last night.
A lump rose in her throat. She swallowed it, refusing to think of him right
now. She had her duty, and she must not shirk it. To do so would be to fail
him, he who had never failed her. Swiftly
she dismounted and ground-tied her pony. “Uzfan,” she made herself ask, “are
there any survivors?” The
old priest lifted his head and closed his eyes. His nostrils quivered, and she
could feel the pressure of the power he summoned. Then he opened his eyes and
shook his head. His brown eyes met hers and filled with compassion. She
understood, and dropped her own gaze swiftly to hide her tears. “Then
we mustn’t waste time. The looters will be coming.” Both
of the older women turned to stare at Alexeika in shock. “No,” Larisa
whispered. “The
dead will bring them quicker than usual,” Alexeika said. As
she spoke she glanced toward the southeast, where the king’s forces had ridden.
“Help Uzfan salt as many bodies as you can.” Larisa
covered her mouth with her hands and began to cry again, but Shelena faced
Alexeika. “There isn’t enough salt to go round. We can’t sprinkle them all.” Alexeika
met her eyes grimly. “Do what you can. Just hurry.” Leaving
them standing there, rooted in place, Alexeika turned and hurried away, but
she’d barely gone more than five strides before someone came puffing behind her
and caught her by the back of her jerkin. Unlike
the other women, Alexeika wore male clothing, with leather leggings and a thin
linsey tunic reaching nearly to her knees for modesty. Over it she wore a
sleeveless jerkin belted by her twin daggers, with their sharp curved blades
and ivory handles. Her long, unruly hair hung in a single thick braid down her
back, in the way of the Agya soldiers. She was tall for a maiden, lean and
surefooted. She strode boylike. She could swagger and curse and spit and ride.
She knew how to handle weapons. And she’d been taught to think like a man,
coldly and fearlessly, but to keep her feminine cunning as well. When
the back of her jerkin was grabbed, Alexeika whirled around, her braid flying
straight out behind her, and slapped the offending hand away. It belonged to
Uzfan, and his bearded old face was scowling with disapproval. “Where
do you go?” he demanded. “We must stay together. This is an evil place. Magic
still crosses the air. There is no safety here among the dead.” “I’m
going to my father,” Alexeika said, her voice as rigid as steel. She would not
let herself feel, not now. “I must prepare him.” A
piece of her heart kept hoping that old Uzfan was wrong, that a few of these
fallen warriors still lived. Her father could not be dead. He could not. That’s
what she hoped, although she knew the banner would not have fallen if her
father lived. Ilymir Volvn, once a general of King Tobeszijian’s forces, and now
leader of the rebellion, would be shouting orders at this moment if he still
had any breath left in his body. She
could not think of it, not now. Her inner core had a crack across its surface,
a crack that would let all her strength shatter inside if she did not take
care. No, she must follow her orders. She must not fail him. “Alexeika,”
Uzfan said, his voice more gentle n^ /, “the preparations are my task, not
yours. Stay here close to the others. I will go to him.” Frowning,
she turned her gaze away. Time was running out; she could feel it as though the
slipping grains fell between her fingers. His protests only wasted the moments
that remained. “I’m
going,” she said, and started off again. She walked quickly, picking her way
over the fallen men. It
was eerie and quiet, this field of the dead. Her ears still echoed with the
recent sounds of battle, the yells of ferocity, the screams of the dying. Foot
soldiers vying against mounted cavalry. The odds evened by training and righteous
determination. King Muncel was evil, weak, and half-mad. He had opened Nether
to the Nonkind, bargained with the demons of Gant, and sold his soul into
unholy alliances as a means of keeping his ill-gotten throne. He was a
murderer, a liar, and a thief. He had confiscated lands and personal
treasuries, plundered the old shrines, and forced the realm to accept the
Reformed Church without exception. He had deposed some nobles and driven out
officers, condemning to death any who defied him. Alexeika’s own mother, once
lady-in-waiting to Queen Neaglis, Muncel’s foreign-bom consort, had died twelve
years past on the end of Muncel’s sword because she refused to say where her
husband and a third of the standing army had fled to. And
so it had begun, the civil war that went on and on, a never-ending wound that
bled the vitality from this realm. Perhaps,
with this defeat, this massacre, it had ended at last. Alexeika
walked faster, dragging her hand across her burning eyes. She would not accept
that. Her father would never want her to think that way. A battle could be
lost, but the war had to continue. That’s what he would say. “Papa,”
she whispered, her heart aching as she stumbled along. Tears spilled down her
cheeks, and she brushed them away. She
tripped over a man’s legs and fell, landing hard on her knees and crying out.
For a moment, she crouched there, gasping for breath, her emotions raw beneath
the control she barely held. When
she tried to rise to her feet, she looked at the face of the man she’d fallen
over. It was Count Lanyl Otverya, her father’s squire, barely eighteen and
still growing his first beard. The visor to his helmet had been torn away on
one side. It hung twisted and bloody from the axe blow that had killed him. Alexeika
crawled closer and gripped his sleeve. His breastplate was dented and hacked
open by the ferocious blows he’d taken. No shield lay near him; she supposed he
dropped it in the charge. The blade of his sword had been shattered, and his dead
hand gripped only the hilt. Kneeling
beside him, she bowed her head and wept. Lanyl had been fun, always laughing
and playing pranks. His clear tenor voice could sing songs of old so sweetly
that grown men wept. He should have led his own army, but his lands had been
confiscated too. Deposed of his hold, his title officially stripped away, his
parents and siblings imprisoned or dead, Lanyl had escaped the purge with only
his father’s sword as his inheritance. He’d been so optimistic that one day King
Muncel would be knocked from his throne and order restored to this weary land. Lanyl
had been like a brother to her. Gently, Alexeika closed his staring eyes, and
in doing so stained her fingers with his blood. When
her tears stopped, she pulled the broken sword from his hand and with the tip
of her dagger pried the square, thumb-sized ruby from its pommel. She pocketed
the jewel, feeling like a thief. Yet they had to live. They had to eat. They
had to keep the fight going somehow. A
sob escaped her. She choked back the rest and pushed herself to her feet,
turning away from him while she still could. Puffing
heavily, old Uzfan caught up with her. “Alexeika, wait!” he said, gasping
between words. “For the love of Thod. please wait.” She slid her dagger back into its sheath and handed Uzfan
the remnant of Lanyl’s shattered sword. “Take care of him, please.” Uzfan’s
face blurred through her tears. “I must go to my father.” “Child,”
he said, “there is no more time. Look yon.” She followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw
movement atop the distant hills. She drew in a sharp breath, feeling ice in her
veins despite the day’s heat. Queer little prickles ran through her skin. “Soultakers,”
Uzfan said, his old voice quavering with fear. His hand shook visibly as he
lowered it. “They are riding with the looters. I feel them.” She
nodded, her mouth too dry for talking. “I, too.” “We
must hurry. They must not catch us.” “Lanyl,”
she said. “Please.” Uzfan sighed and nodded. Taking the broken sword, he
murmured the words of protection, then peeled away Lanyl’s battered
breastplate. He struck swift and hard, staking the boy. Alexeika
had already turned away, unable to watch. She heard the blow, and flinched as
though the weapon had passed through her own heart. Now Lanyl was freed, his
soul severed from his body. The soultakers would not possess him. While
Uzfan sprinkled salt over the body, Alexeika hurried on toward the center of
the field. “Alexeika,
no!” Uzfan shouted. The old priest ran after her, caught her shoulder, and spun
her around. “No! The risk is too great.” She
glared at him. “And what will protect him? Would you leave him to those—” Her
voice failed her. She gestured furiously, unable to say the words. “I
will make a spell and cast it over the entire field,” Uzfan said. “But come
away. Now, child, while there is time.” “I
must give him rites,” she said raggedly, refusing to listen. “I must take his
sword. The looters cannot have it.” “His
sword will lie where it lies,” Uzfan said fiercely. His old, dark eyes glared
at her from beneath wrinkled lids. “Your father is dead, child. His sword is of
no use now. The war is ended.” Rage
and protest and grief welled up inside her, building a force she could no
longer contain. She slapped him with all her might, rocking him on his feet.
Spinning from him, she strode away. He
made no further attempt to stop her, and she was glad. Stumbling and
half-running, she forced herself to climb over the mound of dead men entangled
together at what had been the last stand. A corner of her mind felt shock that
she had dared strike a priest, much less Uzfan himself. But the rest of her was
too angry to care. She
shoved and shifted and pushed her way through to where the banner lay trampled,
its bright colors now stained and coated with blood-splattered dirt. Her
father lay beneath the broken banner pole, his gloved hand still grasping part
of it. The banner boy lay headless and disemboweled beside him. There
was a horrible stink in the air, the stink of Nonkind, a taint that burned her
nostrils and made her want to retreat. Shaking her head, she knelt instead
beside the man who had sired her, raised her, and loved her enough for two
parents. Prince
Ilymir Volvn, general of the king’s army, protector of the south. His titles
had once been prestigious and many. His victories, his decorations for valor,
and his honor had all shone brightly until King Muncel declared him a traitor
and stripped him of everything. For years now he had lived with a price on his
head, a prince turned outlaw. But his dream of restoring the throne to its
rightful king had never dimmed. Her
father had been a tall, lean man with a jutting beak of a nose, bushy gray
eyebrows, and a harsh gash of mouth. He was gruff and plainspoken, relentless,
and a perfectionist, yet this was the man who had taught her to swim in icy
streams during childhood summers, holding her around the middle while she
laughed and paddled. This was the man who had braided her hair for her, who
refused to let her cut it, who had taught her to dance and given her secret
deportment lessons suitable for a lady at court, mincing along in the privacy
of the woods while he held up the train of an imaginary gown. This was the man
who had given her the set of daggers, taken her to a man who taught her how to
throw and handle them without cutting herself. Prince Volvn had trained and
tempered her as best he could. Never had he been unkind or unfair, despite his
high standards. He wanted her to grow up capable, strong, and able to think for
herself. She
had loved him with all her heart. Never again would they walk together under
the evening stars, plotting campaigns and strategy. Never again would she feel
his strong arm across her shoulders. Never would she hear his gruff voice
softened to that special tone spoken to her alone, while he murmured, “My pet,
do not be so fierce against Lanyl. He is only a boy in love with you, and
therefore a fool.“ “My
pet,” he would say, “put aside your temper and think.
What is your brain for, except to be used?” “My
pet,” he had said this morning just before he rode into battle, “I depend on
you if anything goes wrong. Keep Sever-gard out of the hands of the enemy.
Never has it been held by a dishonorable man. Protect it as you would your
life, and someday give it to your son.” “Don’t
say such things!” she protested, full of courage then. Her blood was on fire to
be with the men; her heart felt certain they would win. “You’ll have a victory
today. I know it!” “Follow
your orders, daughter,” he said, his voice cracking like a whip. “Promise me
you’ll follow them.” And
now she would have to. “Oh,
Papa,” she said. Sinking to her knees beside him, she lifted his visor. He
had never known defeat in his long and distinguished career. His valiant name
alone was enough to fill the hearts of men with courage. Five times in the past
five years he had led the small rebel forces in skirmishes and battles, and
each time they won. But today, he had faced the king’s real army, one
supplemented with hard-bitten Gantese mercenaries and Nonkind, and he had
lacked sorcerels to protect his men. In
the distance, the looters now came. She felt the thunder of their approaching
hoofbeats shaking the valley floor, but she did not lift her gaze from her
father’s face. Although
his eyes were shut, he looked stern. Already death had made his face a
stranger’s. She touched his cheek, but it did not bring him closer or keep him
with her. He was gone. Weeping,
she drew her hand back and curled her fingers into a fist. The noise of the
galloping horses grew louder. A
hand gripped her shoulder. She jumped, screaming, and whirled around to attack,
but it was only old Uzfan. Gasping with relief, she sagged down to her knees
again. “Swiftly,
child,” Uzfan said. “Use the salt you brought. I have no more in my pouch.” Frowning,
she reached for the small, heavy pouch hanging at her belt. He
took it from her, sighing and plucking at his white beard. “Your
father’s presence is very strong. They will seek him for the power of his
life.” She
shivered and swallowed hard, trying not to think of the horrors that awaited
his body if she and Uzfan failed to protect him now. Muttering
incantations and prayers, Uzfan began sprinkling the salt across Prince Volvn’s
body. Alexeika
reached down and pulled Severgard from her father’s hand. The great sword had
been handed down through seven generations of her family. Long and heavy, it
had been forged by a dwarf swordmaker who used magicked metal mined in the
Mountains of the Gods. The blade was made of black steel, and runes were carved
along it. The hilt and guard were wrapped in gold and silver wire, and a great
flashing sapphire was set in the pommel. She struggled to lift it. Gore
was drying on the blade, and its stench was rank and tainted. She wrinkled her
nose in revulsion. Nonkind had died today on this blade. She wiped it clean,
knowing it would have to be scrubbed with both salt and sand and oiled later. Tugging
off her father’s belt, she choked back a fresh sob, but she slid into
its scabbard and knotted the ends of the belt together before slinging it
across her shoulder. By
now Uzfan had finished with the salt. He poured the last of it on Prince
Volvn’s tongue. “Is
it enough?” Alexeika asked. The
looters were close enough to see them. In their sinister black cloaks, they
yelled and cursed. She could smell their evil, a stink as foul as that which
had been on . It made her want to run. “Is
there enough time for his soul to leave?” she asked. Uzfan
shook his head sorrowfully. “Nay, child. His presence is too strong. It does
not want to accept failure.” She
felt sick to her stomach, but she was her father’s daughter. She knew what had
to be done. “Child,
shall I—” “No,”
she said firmly, swallowing hard. She drew her father’s dagger and held it
aloft. This was a son’s duty to a father who fell in battle. She told herself
to be strong. Uzfan
did not argue with her. He pulled off Prince Volvn’s helmet and the mail coif
beneath it. The hot, dusty wind ruffled the dead man’s gray hair. Uzfan tipped
back his head, exposing her father’s muscular throat. She
crouched, her fingers holding the dagger so tightly her whole hand shook. Tears
filled her eyes anew, stinging them. “Forgive me,” she whispered, and plunged
the dagger through his throat. Something
pale and gossamer-light floated upward from his body. It encompassed her for a
second, bringing with it a sensation of warmth and well-being. Then it was
gone, his soul, gone to the safety of the third world. She
wept, but there was no time. Shouting at her, Uzfan gripped her shoulder and
pulled her upright. She stumbled and started to run, then turned back and
grabbed the tattered banner. “Hurry!”
Uzfan shouted. The
riders were too close. She heard them whooping and yelling shrilly. All around
her darkness seemed to be descending. A bugling roar of something unearthly
made her glance back. She saw a darsteed coming after her, bounding with a
stride twice as long as a horse’s. Its nostrils blew flame, and next to it ran
a hurlhound with fangs bared and dripping yellow poison. It bayed at her, and
her heart lurched in fear. Uzfan
shouted, and a great cloud of dust whirled up between them and the riders. The
swirling cyclone caused the darsteeds and horses to rear to a halt. Two of the
hurlhounds came running on, straight into the cloud. They were swept off their
feet and flung high into the vortex. Alexeika
saw the look of strain on the old priest’s face and knew he could not hold the
spell long. Gripping his arm, she ran with him, pushing him when his old legs
faltered. At the far edge of the field, Shelena waited on her pony, holding the
reins of Alexeika’s frightened mount. Larisa and the boys were already fleeing,
the boys beating the heavily laden donkey with sticks to make it run. Uzfan
stumbled and fell, despite her efforts to catch him. She crouched low and
pulled him upright. Dirt
streaked his face and coated his beard. He was gasping for air, his face purple
with exertion. Behind her came a triumphant cheer as the cloud dissipated and
the looters surged through. Most
of them fell on the bodies with a savagery that sick- ened
Alexeika. The hurlhounds tasted salt and fell back with yelps of pain. “Come
on,” she muttered to Uzfan, pushing him forward. She
thought the looting might distract the horde enough to allow her and the old
man to escape. But the sound of pursuit came again. Uzfan
looked back and murmured something that made her ears ring. A column of fire
blazed up behind them, cutting off the pursuers a second time. The
smell of magic filled the air, making Alexeika cough. She urged him on, hoping
he did not kill himself with such exertion. “Hurry!”
Shelena called. Her pony was rearing with fear. She barely managed to control
it. When
it whirled around beneath her, she flung the reins of Alexeika’s pony at her
and galloped away. Alexeika lunged forward and caught the reins just in time to
keep her own mount from bolting as well. Talking
to the frightened animal, trying to soothe it while it reared and pulled back,
she got Uzfan astride it and jumped on herself. Wheeling the pony around, she
let it run. An
arrow grazed her shoulder blade, stinging harshly though giving her no serious
harm. She glanced back, but the looters did not follow her away from the
battlefield. The man swathed in black who had shot at her lowered his bow and
gave her a mocking salute, then turned his darsteed around and headed back to
the carnage. The
pony ran and ran, over the hill and up the next, until the woods swallowed them
and they slowed to a jouncing, weary trot through the cool shade. “I
don’t believe it,” Uzfan muttered in his beard. “We got away. We got away. Do
they not know what they let escape? There must have been no Believers
controlling them. They let us get away.” “No,”
Alexeika said firmly. “You frightened them with your magic. Are you feeling
better now? Should I find a stream so you may drink?” “No,”
he said, his voice sounding weak and shaky. “Do not stop. We dare not stop.” By
the time they reached camp on the banks of the fjord, it was late afternoon.
Alexeika could hear the women keening, the sound rising and falling like a
brutal wind. She bowed her head, struggling with her own emotions, but she
refused to wail and tear her clothing and mourn in the way of female serfs. The
camp was a large one, although it did not contain all the families of the men
and boys who had died today. Many had come to join the war, leaving their homes
to fight the darkness. But now, those who remained—the old men, the women, the
children—sobbed and grieved in their tents or else stood as though turned to
stone in the midst of some task, their faces ravaged with sorrow. A
few gathered around as Alexeika drew her weary pony to a halt. They stared at
her in silence, watching as she carried her father’s sword into her tent. Draysinko,
a man no older than thirty but spared from fighting because of his crippled
leg, was waiting when she came finally outside again. She had washed her face
and eaten the few bites of food she could choke down. Severgard, now clean and
oiled, lay in its scabbard atop her father’s cot. Tonight, she would light the
Element candles and pray for him the same way he had taught her to mourn her
mother, in dignified privacy. Not for her the grieving of the serfs, the women
sitting outside their tents and keening for hours or perhaps even days. It was
the custom of the peasants to show how much they had respected a loved one by
mourning for as long as possible before exhaustion claimed them. Sometimes,
Alexeika almost believed they were competing with each other by displaying the
most grief. When
she emerged from her tent, an uneasy delegation, consisting of Draysinko, five
old men, and two gray-haired court ladies determined to look as stern and regal
as ever despite their plain linsey gowns, was waiting politely for her. Draysinko
stepped forward, limping on his crooked leg, and bowed to her. “Your father is
dead?” he asked. Formality
required her to make an official announcement. The camp now lacked a leader,
and she wondered who would be named to take her father’s place. She had filled
in during his absences before. He had traveled often to secret meetings with
other rebel leaders, trying to raise an army, trying to obtain weapons and
armor where and when he could. But this time, the absence would be permanent. Her
heart ached, and she swiftly turned her thoughts away lest she break down. Her
father had taught her that a good commander did not betray weakness to his
followers. “Excuse
this intrusion,” Draysinko said politely, although his eyes looked impatient.
“As the daughter of the House of Volvn, you must officially make the
announcement.” It
irritated her that he sought to instruct her in her public duties. Her head
lifted high on her graceful neck. She squared her shoulders. “Consider
the announcement made,” she said. “Prince Volvn is dead. The battle was lost.” The
men of the little delegation exchanged glances. All except Draysinko removed
their caps and bowed to her. She saw tears run down the withered cheeks of Lady
Natelitya, but neither of the two older women changed their bleak expressions.
They had lost so much in recent years, perhaps they could not feel this most
recent blow. ‘Tonight,“
Alexeika said, ”I shall speak to the junior auxiliary. We will step up their
training. In a month, they should be ready to march on Trebek as—“ “No,”
Lady Natelitya said. “My husband is dead. My eldest sons are dead. Now my
youngest son is dead. You will not kill my grandson as well.” Alexeika
frowned. She had not expected opposition, especially not from the fierce Lady
Natelitya. “The plans have already been made. My father—” “—is
not here to lead the next skirmish,” Lady Natelitya said. “You will not risk
the children.” Alexeika
drew in a deep breath. “Very well. We will have to send word to the forces at
Lolta. We can join them or go to—” “No,”
Lady Natelitya said. “It is over.” “But—” “Over,
Alexeika,” the woman said. Turning her back, she walked away. Alexeika
stared after her in dismay. She started to go after Lady Natelitya, whose
support was important, but Draysinko blocked her path. “We
must talk,” he said. Hope
came back to her. She smiled at him and the others who remained. “Then you
agree with me that we must continue our strategy? With delays, of course, to
recover fighting strength—” “There
will be no more fighting,” Draysinko interrupted her. She
could see in their eyes that they were united against her. “Explain,” she said
sharply. “The
war of rebellion is over,” Draysinko announced. “We lost. Today’s massacre ends
everything.” “No!”
she cried. “It cannot. It must not. If you—if we give up now, then everything
we lost today was lost in vain. You would make a mockery of their deaths.” “Word
has come to us from our friends in Lolta,” Draysinko said. “It came too late to
stop today’s fighting, but there is hope for the rest of us.” “What
is this message?” Alexeika asked suspiciously. “King
Muncel offers a royal pardon to all rebels who surrender themselves.” A
scornful laugh escaped her. “And you believe this? It’s a trick.” “No.
It is a chance to live. The messenger from Lolta says some have already
accepted the offer. They have not been killed. They are to be serfs in the
southeast lands.” Near
Gant, she thought with a shudder.
“Serfs?” she echoed, disdain harsh in her voice. “Do
not look so unhappy, Princess,” Draysinko replied sharply. He had been born a
serf, she remembered. “There is hard work, but what is harder than living like
this, hand-to-mouth, always in danger of betrayal or capture? It is a chance to
make a new beginning. A chance to start over.” “Impossible,”
she said, shaking her head. “The king seeks to trick us. Tleska, you surely do
not believe this offer will be honored?” The
old man she spoke to knotted his face in consternation. He was gripping his cap
in his gnarled old hands. They trembled visibly. “We can’t go on without the
general.” “Yes,
we can,” she said loudly. Other
people, drawn by their argument, began to gather around. “We
must!” she continued. “One defeat is not enough to stop us—” “Yes
it is!” Draysinko interrupted her. His dark eyes snapped with anger. He looked
like he wanted to shake her. “This wasn’t just a defeat.” “It
was a massacre,” Tleska said.
“There isn’t an able-bodied man left among us.” “Who
will hunt for us this winter?” asked a woman from the rear of the crowd. “My
Slan was the best with a bow in the camp. Who will feed me and his children
now? Who will hunt for the rest of you?” “I
can hunt,” Alexeika said proudly. “The older boys can hunt.” “A
woman and some children,” Draysinko said with a sneer. She
glared at him. “You are not too crippled to learn to shoot a bow. You could
fish and—” “I
am not trained for such work,” he said, using the argument he always produced
to keep from doing his share. He had been a rug-maker in Grov when the purge
began. As long as he was only expected to weave cloth, he worked well. Ask him
to do anything else, and he shrieked with complaints. “Hear me, all of you!” he
shouted to the crowd. “We must face reality. This summer, yes, we can survive
in hiding. But come the snows, what will we do?” “We’ll
do what we’ve always done,” Alexeika said, astonished by his cowardice. Yes,
today had shaken them all. Every time she thought of life without her father,
she grew faint and sick inside. Still, he would not want her, or any of them,
to give up. “We’ll winter in the mountain caves. And we’ll go on with what we
must do. With what we vowed to do.” ‘The
war is over,“ Draysinko insisted. ”We can have a full pardon if we will
surrender.“ “Then
what did my father die for?” she asked fiercely. “Why did he spill his blood,
if not to put a stop to the evil that has taken Nether? He did not fight today
so that I could become a Gantese serf.” “Nothing
was said about serving the Gantese,” said a man quietly. He
was a stranger. She guessed he must be the messenger from Lolta. Even as she
sized him up, noting the lean body in mismatched chain mail, the scar on his
cheek, the shiftiness to his eyes, and the worn but serviceable sword in his
scabbard, Alexeika reminded herself that they should move camp as soon as he
left. She did not like the looks of him. Nor would she trust anything he said. Alexeika
looked at the bleak and frightened faces turned to her. “There’s another thing
you haven’t thought through,” she said. “Will you accept the Reformed Church
and renounce the old ways?” That
shocked them. Murmurs arose in the crowd. Several women flung their aprons over
their heads and began to whimper. Young children, big-eyed still from the news
that they had no fathers or brothers, stood huddled together in clusters,
watching their mothers panic. “Nothing
was said about that,” Draysinko admitted. He turned to look at the messenger,
as did everyone else. The
stranger shrugged. “Heard nothing about it.” “You
know it will be required,” Alexeika said. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? By law,
a serf is required to follow the beliefs of his master. Will you kneel to the
Reformed Circle? Will you, Draysinko? Will you, Tleska? Boral? Tomk?
Ulinvo?” No
one answered her. She noticed old Uzfan walking toward the rear of the crowd.
Pale and weary, he leaned heavily on a wooden staff. Drawing
in a breath, Alexeika pointed at the priest. “Here is our Uzfan. Remember that
he was defrocked by the reformers because he would not leave the old ways. His
brethren were beheaded.” Uzfan
nodded. “She speaks the truth. The Circle was once a theology of tolerance,
embracing old messages and new. No longer is this true. You have lost your
kinsmen today in this terrible tragedy. Take care you do not lose your gods as
well.” Alexeika
looked at the messenger, her eyes filled with challenge and distrust. “You’ve
delivered your message,” she said. “Go back to Lolta.” The
man bowed to her. “I will tell them of the defeat.” She
frowned, biting her lip, but there was no way to stop him. It was the truth,
the dreadful, unflinching, harsh truth. Unbearable, and yet they had to bear
it. As
the man mounted his horse and rode away, she squared her shoulders with an
effort and faced the people again. “We
must grieve first,” she said. “Let us give ourselves time for that before we
make any hasty decisions. In the morning, we’ll move camp and then we’ll—” “Why?”
demanded Larisa. “Why should we move?” “For
safety,” Alexeika replied. “We have always done so after a messenger comes to
us.” “But
who will strike the tents?” “We
can,” Alexeika said. “It’s
nearly nightfall,” Tleska said sadly. “We can’t march in the dark. Our hearts
are too heavy.” “No,
of course we will not march tonight,” Alexeika agreed, masking her sigh. “I
said we’ll break camp in the morning. At first light.” “But
how will my da’s ghost know to find me if I move away?” asked a little girl.
She was missing her front teeth and had a spattering of freckles across her
nose. The
wailing resumed, with women turning away, wadding their aprons in their hands.
Children scurried after them, clutching folds of their skirts and crying too. Dismayed,
Alexeika felt weary to her bones. Grief had exhausted her. She wanted no
conflict now, but Draysinko and the other men still stood there before her,
looking indecisive. She could think of only one other way to raise their
spirits and bring back their courage. “Let
us not forget why we fight,” she said. “Uzfan, when night falls, will you cast
the prophecy about our true king once more?” The
old priest shook his head wearily. “Nay, child,” he said. “Not this night. You
cannot rouse the hearts of people until their sorrow is spent.” She
would have argued and cajoled him, but he turned and walked away, leaning on
his staff. One by one, the others trickled away, until only Draysinko was left. “The people will not follow you,” he said spitefully. “You
are not your father. You are no man, despite your leggings and daggers.” “I
know what my father would wish me to do,” she replied, still astonished by his
hostility. Draysinko had always grumbled, but never before had he tried to
create open dissension. Perhaps he had not dared to until now. Perhaps he
wanted the leadership for himself. She
looked at Draysinko’s sour face. “I do not want my father’s death to be in
vain.” He
frowned. “We will choose a new leader tomorrow.” “We’ll
choose when we reach our new camp. In a few days.” “And
who finds this new camp?” he asked with a sneer. “You?” She
opened her mouth to say she could, but he turned away. Frowning and feeling troubled,
she watched his limping figure a moment, then withdrew into her tent to think. Her
father’s presence seemed to fill the small space. Despite the gathering shadows
she could see Severgard lying where she’d left it. It was a potent weapon, powered
with magic. Who would carry it into battle now? Sitting
down on her cot, she gripped her hair with her fingers and leaned over, her
grief mixed with resentment. If only she could have been male. Her father had
needed a son to inherit this sword, to carry his name into history, to continue
the fight for the true king. She was strong and fearless, but not strong enough
to wield Severgard. She could barely lift it, and she knew not how to control
its power. What
was she to do? Let these people disperse and surrender? Let the rebellion fall
apart? Tell herself she could do nothing except bed a man and bring a son into
the world, a son who years from now would perhaps live to carry this sword into
battle? Why had the gods given her an agile mind and a strong will, if her
loins were all she was good for? Worst
of all, she was disappointed in her people, disappointed by how thoroughly they
had been demoralized. It was as though this blow had killed their hearts,
leaving them without the will to continue. Was she the only one who raged at
the massacre, who vowed in her heart she would never give up, would never
surrender, would never accept Muncel the Usurper as her rightful king? She was
ashamed of the people she called friends, ashamed and disappointed in them. Perhaps
tomorrow they would regain their courage. But as she listened to the wailing in
the tents, she did not think they would. It was hard to lose, devastating to
lose, knowing right was on your side, and yet losing anyway. “Oh,
Papa,” she whispered through her tears. “What am I to do?” - In
lower Mandria, the palace of Savroix was lit inside and out for an evening
summertime festival. Flambeaux atop poles illuminated the garden paths, and
richly garbed guests wearing masks as disguises strolled in all directions.
Laughter and playful shrieks filled the warm air among the hedges. Lute music
played in the distance. A
girl went running by with a merry tinkling of tiny bells sewn to her skirts,
her mask slipping and her hair half-unbound. She was pursued by a young man
with streaming lovelocks and a short beard. He carried his mask in his hand and
was laughing lustily. “Wicked,
wicked!” the girl said. Her words were a rebuke, but her tone was all
surrender. She ran on, disappearing into the shadows of the shrubbery, the
young man on her heels. Standing
next to a stone statue, Pheresa watched the amorous couple vanish. Although she
had lived at court for several months now, she remained shocked by these wanton
escapades. King Verence was a kindly, good-hearted man, but what misbehavior he
did not himself witness he seemed to take no interest in. Nor did he want
anyone carrying tales to him. Therefore, the courtiers did as they pleased as
long as they kept decorum in the king’s presence. As for Verence himself, he
kept two mistresses in opposite wings of the palace, and officious little
secretaries with pens and parchment were in charge of keeping the two ladies’
schedules apart so that they never met each other. Pheresa
had not been trained to lead such a life as she saw daily at court. Nor could
she bring herself to embrace it, despite the joking advice of others. Often,
she felt unsophisticated and alone. She had written only once to her mother for
advice, but Princess Dianthelle’s reply was curt. Pheresa had to make herself
admired if she was to succeed. No one could obtain popularity for her. Pheresa
had no particular wish to be popular among courtiers who were idle and heedless
of anything except their next pleasure. She was interested in the workings of
govern- ment
and longed to be allowed to sit in on the meetings between king and council.
Once, she had requested permission to attend. Her petition had been denied. Now,
her three companions—Lady Esteline, who was Pheresa’s court chaperone, plus
Lady Esteline’s husband, Lord Thieron, and brother, Lord Fantil—observed her
round-eyed expression at this evening’s festivities and laughed. “That
was the little Sofia you saw running into the shrubbery, my dear,” Lady
Esteline said, giggling behind her slim hand. “One. of the ladies in waiting to
Countess Lalieux.” Pheresa
blinked. The Countess Lalieux was the king’s newer mistress. “I see,” she
replied, but her voice was clipped. Lady
Esteline laughed harder. “Do not worry,” she said gaily. “Sofia and her pursuer
are engaged to be married. Such a frown you wear.” Lord
Fantil bowed to Pheresa. “Enchanting,” he said, showing his teeth in approval.
“Such old-fashioned, country notions of propriety. Most young maidens fresh out
of the nuncery are eager to embrace all that they see here. Few are as shy ...
and as beguiling .. as you.” Pheresa
blushed to the roots of her hair and hoped the shadows concealed her change of
color. She looked away from him, feeling his compliments and flattery to be
inappropriate. Lady
Esteline laughed again. ‘Take care, Fantil. This child would rather read the
dreary foreign dispatches and harvest accounts than flirt with a handsome man.
I think it a grave disservice to teach young maidens how to read. See what
comes of filling their minds with such nonsense?“ Lord
Thieron threw back his bald head and brayed. The others joined in his laughter.
Pheresa smiled to be a good sport. They were always laughing at her and teasing
her. She disliked it very much, but she did not know what to do about it. Nor
did she quite know how to acquire friends of her own choosing. Her place at
court remained tenuous. The king liked her, and she had the honor of visiting
him daily for chats and occasional games of chess. But she had no official
position here. Niece of the king or not, she had no duties and no importance.
Neither of the king’s mistresses had chosen to receive her or invite her to
join their circle of companions. Pheresa was relieved because as a member of
the royal family, she knew she should not recognize either woman. Yet she was
lonely. King Verence’s wife had died several years ago, and he had not remarried.
Pheresa believed he erred in this, for a queen would have curbed the courtiers’
excesses and organized their society more productively. But she knew better
than to dispense either her opinions or her advice. The
best and most courteous of the older courtiers spoke to her pleasantly, but
most of the younger set did not bother with her at all. Pheresa understood, of
course. Until she was engaged to Prince Gavril and officially destined to one
day be queen, she meant nothing here. Now,
she and her companions resumed their stroll along the garden path, and Pheresa
kept a wary eye on how far away from the palace they seemed to be going. From
all sides, she could hear furtive rustlings and giggles in the ornate
shrubbery. During the day, she adored the gardens and loved walking through
their beauty. On evenings like this, however, she would rather have been safe
in her own chamber. Lady
Esteline stumbled and gripped the arm of her husband. “Oh, how silly of me,”
she said unsteadily. “This blighted slipper has come apart. Thieron, you must
assist me.” Her
husband bent to reach beneath the long hem of her gown. Lord Fantil moved to
stand beside Pheresa. She could smell a fragrance on him, something musky and
disturbing. Her father had never worn scent. Nor did the king. She did not like
the custom. “Is
it easily mended?” Fantil asked politely. Lord
Thieron pulled the slipper off his wife’s foot and held it up for inspection in
the gloom. “I think not.” “Such
a bother,” Lady Esteline complained, “and I paid four dreits of silver for
these shoes. I shall insist the cobbler refund my money.” “Let
us go back,” Pheresa said with relief. “The men can help you walk, and I
shall—” “No,
my dear. How can you think of spoiling your evening because of my silly
slipper?” Lady Esteline patted Pheresa’s hand. “You really must see the north
fountains by moonlight. They are the most enchanting sight. Fantil, please
escort Lady Pheresa there.” “Of
course,” he said eagerly. A
tiny sense of alarm passed through Pheresa. “The fountains will wait for
another occasion,” she said, trying to keep her voice light and steady.
“I could not leave you like this, my lady.” “Dear
child,” Lady Esteline cooed. “So sweet of you to worry about me. But I have my
Thieron to escort me. Please go on.” “I
am a little tired,” Pheresa said desperately. Fantil
took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. “Then we shall not tarry
long. But the fountains by moonlight you must see, if my sister has decreed it.
Come, my lady.” He
led her away into the shadows, away from the palace and the flaming torchlight.
Pheresa did not want to go with this man. She knew she should not be with him
alone, but her own chaperone had put her in his keeping. She did not know how
to extricate herself from this situation without making a fuss. People already
considered her quaint and old-fashioned. She would be joked at and mocked even
more if she took fright and ran away. The
fountains stood beyond the farthest edge of the gardens, with the woodland park
behind them. Cascades of water poured down and jetted into the air. Although
the moon was only a thin sliver tonight, the effect was a pretty one. Pheresa
stood there, gazing at the sight, and feeling very conscious of how close to
her this man stood, of how tightly he kept her arm clasped within his. “Beautiful,”
she said. “Now, let us go back.” She
tried to turn around, but he held her where she was. Pheresa
frowned. “Please.” “There
is no hurry, my lady,” he said, and his voice was deep and smooth and assured.
“Let us linger a few moments more to savor all that is special here.” From
the corner of her eye, she glimpsed another couple nearby. They were embracing
in a passionate kiss. Lord Fantil bent over her, and she could feel his warm
breath upon her cheek. She
felt trapped, too warm, and a little faint. He meant to kiss her, of that she
was certain. His arm had now encircled her back. His fingers splayed across her
waist, pulling her closer to him. “You
are a beautiful child,” he murmured. “Your skin is so white it glows by
moonlight. Your lips are—” Pheresa
had a sudden clear thought of the palace and how close she stood to jeopardy
here. If Fantil compromised her, she would leave Savroix in disgrace. Certainly
she would never marry the Heir to the Realm. With
a gasp, she turned her head, averting his lips from hers. He kissed her cheek
instead, and she twisted in his hold, giving him a strong push. He
released her at once, much to her relief, and held up his hands. “Now, now, my
little dove. What do you fear? Have you never savored a man’s ardor before?” “I
do not intend to savor yours,” Pheresa said tartly. “That
is unkind. If I have frightened you, I beg your pardon. Please, my lady, there
is nothing to fear. It is pleasant, once you grow used to it.” “No
doubt,” she said, gathering up her skirts and walking around him. He turned to
go with her, and she quickened her pace. “But I do not intend to dally here in
the moonlight with you.” ‘Tell
me how I displease you,“ he said, reaching out and gripping her wrist. She
stopped, too furious now to feel afraid. “Release me.” He
obeyed, but in doing so he allowed his fingers to stroke her arm lightly. She
shivered. “Am
I too ugly or too old for you?” he asked. Pheresa
frowned. Lord Fantil was young and very handsome, as well he knew. His games
annoyed her. With a little huff, she started walking again. “Lady
Pheresa—” “Hush!”
she said angrily. “How dare you use my name out here. Do you intend to cause a
scandal?” He
did not reply fast enough, and that told her the answer. She
drew in her breath sharply. “I see.” “No,
I don’t think you do,” he replied. “Tarry a moment, and let us talk.” “There
is nothing we need say,” she told him, walking faster. “I understand this
matter perfectly. You have a younger sister, do you not? One reputed to be beautiful
indeed.” “Yes,”
he replied with caution. “Yes,”
Pheresa repeated, nodding to herself. Her anger deepened with every step. “A
sister whom you would like to marry to his highness.” “My
lady—” “Enough!
Do not waste my time with falsehoods,” she snapped. “You and Lady Esteline
think me unprotected and foolish, too naive to guard myself from ruinous
seduction. I fear to disappoint you, my lord, but you have overestimated the
power of your charm.” He
kept pace with her, but even through the shadows she could see how tense he had
become. When he spoke, his voice was as tight and clipped as hers. “Forgive my
offense. If you believe my family plots against you, you are completely
mistaken. My youngest sister is already betrothed to a young man of worth and
fortune. She is no rival to your ambition.” Just
short of a flambeau, he stopped on the garden path and faced her, his face and
shoulders in shadow. “You quite mistook me. My compliments were sincere, but I
assure you they will not trouble you again. Good evening.” With
a bow, he strode away, leaving her there alone. Pheresa
stood next to a large shrub with her face and throat flaming hot. Her
mind—momentarily so clear and certain—fell into confusion and she did not know what
to think. It seemed she had erred again, and in doing so had insulted a man of
importance. All the popular ladies at court had admirers, but she had just
spurned her first so clumsily she might never attract another. The nuns had
taught her how to read and think for herself, but not how to flirt. Dismayed,
she stood there hiding in the shadows until she was certain she would not cry,
then slowly returned to the palace. Far
away in Nether, the shadows grew long and darkened inside Alexeika’s tent.
Eventually, she found a measure of calmness. She thought of the stories her
father used to tell her about King Tobeszijian, handsome and strong, with his
eld eyes and his thick black hair. When Queen Nereisse was poisoned and the
throne overturned, Tobeszijian had acted like the true king he was. He seized
the Chalice of Eternal Life from the hands of the churchmen who stole it and
rode forth into a cloud of magic, never to be seen again. The
Chalice and Tobeszijian’s heirs were missing all these years later. It was
rumored Tobeszijian was dead, for everyone felt he would have returned to fight
for the throne had he been alive. But his body was never found. Men had
searched. Often Alexeika had seen pilgrims trudging along lonely forest paths
or steep mountain passes, their footgear worn to shreds as they searched
tirelessly for their lost king. Uzfan
had cast prophecy and evoked visions, saying the king was lost forever, but
that his son would one day return. “King
Faldain,” Alexeika whispered now. Her heart stirred at the mention of his name.
He would be about her age, perhaps a year older, for she was not born until
after the troubles in Nether began. Her older sister had died of some childhood
illness. Later her mother had been killed. That was when her father came forth
from hiding in exile and took Alexeika into his care. That was when he began to
actively campaign against King Muncel. There had been war ever since. If
she had anything to do with it, there would continue to be war. She
wondered what Faldain looked like, if he was as strong and handsome as his
father had been. Did he have Tobeszijian’s black hair? Or was he pale and fair
like his eldin mother? Where did he live? Did he know of his heritage? Was he training,
even now, in the arts of war so that he could return to avenge his parents and
seize the throne rightfully his? Was he worthy of his name? Did he have the
character and courage to be a king? Or was he spoiled and shallow? She
sighed, pushing away her speculation. The problem was that the people needed a
man of flesh and blood to fight for. They needed to know that their rightful
king existed. Until now, they had put their faith in her father and followed
his leadership. But without the general, there was little to keep their hopes
alive. If
Uzfan would only cast a vision of Faldain, the people might keep going. If they
could see their king, they would know him worth waiting for. She
stood up, intending to go to the old priest and persuade him to cast a vision.
But as she stepped outside her tent into the soft evening air, she halted. She
could not ask again. If Uzfan possessed the strength to conjure up the vision,
he would have done it rather than refuse her. It would be unkind to pester him
and make him admit he was too weak to perform the task. The
evening breeze felt cool and pleasant. The camp lay quiet now, for most people
had withdrawn inside their tents. She realized she hadn’t scheduled the night
watch, but a shadow moved among the trees, telling her the work was being done
anyway. Out
on the fjord, the water lay still and dark. A moon was rising in the sky. She
watched it climb the heavens and knew she needed hope as much as the others.
Perhaps more. Well,
then, she would use her own insignificant abilities and cast a vision for
herself. Her mother had possessed a bit of eldin blood. Alexeika’s gifts were
small indeed, and seldom used, for when she’d been younger Uzfan’s attempts to
train her had been unsuccessful and frustrating to them both. Tonight, however,
she decided to try. Perhaps, instead of a vision of the king, she would seek a
vision of her father. As
long as she lived, she would never forget the sensation of feeling his soul
pass from this world into another. It had felt like a benediction, his parting
blessing, although he had never been a sentimental man given to emotional
displays. Already she missed him so much. Quietly
she walked down the steep bank and untied a small fishing skiff. Climbing in,
she paddled her way across the fjord until she was well away from the bank.
Shipping her paddle, she let the skiff bob there on the surface, waiting until
the water grew calm and still. The
moon’s pale sliver hung above her. Stars spangled the darkness around it. The
water reflected back moon and starlight. She centered herself until she found a
place of peace and acceptance. Closing
her eyes, she concentrated her thoughts on her father, envisioning a mist upon
the water. Long ago she had tried to part the veils of seeing, as Uzfan
referred to casting a vision. She was never very good at it, but now she tried
not to think about old failures. In the past she’d wanted to see her mother,
and her mother had not come willingly into sight. Tonight,
however, Alexeika still felt the fleeting touch of her father’s soul. She
focused on him, feeling the mists of her mind swirl around her, and opened her
eyes, waiting with what patience she possessed. The
moonlight glowed deep within the water, shining deeper than she had ever seen
it before. After
a time, however, she realized that this was not the moonlight which glowed in
the depths, but rather something else. It
rose slowly, slowly to the surface of the water, wavered there, then broke
through and lifted into the air. Water and vapor seemed to blend together. The
air grew suddenly cold, as though she’d been plunged into winter. She
saw an apparition form and take shape, still glowing from within. It was the
figure of a man. Her breath caught, then fled her lungs. This was not her
father. Disappointment seeped through her. She saw instead a youth, dark-haired
and lanky, his full growth not yet achieved. He stood there, his feet in the
mist, his legs straight and coltish, his chest strong, his arms longer than his
sleeves. His head was bowed, but then he lifted it and looked right at her. She
sat there openmouthed, unable to look away. How pale his eyes were, glowing
with the unearthly light that formed him. His cheeks were lean, his nose
straight and aristocratic. His brows were thick dark slashes above his eyes. He
spoke not, and she could not tell if he saw her. Then he lifted his right arm.
A sword formed in his hand, both mist and light, a sword whose blade flashed with
carved runes. When he swung it aloft, the runes flowed from the blade and
sparkled off the tip like shooting stars. They
rained down on her, winking into the water and glowing there like tiny lights. Tipping
back her head, she laughed silently, marveling at the beauty of light and mist
and water. “I
am Faldain,” her vision said, his voice sounding only in her head. It was a
voice young but deepening, with a resonance that echoed long inside her.
“Summon me not again. It is not my time to be found.” “We
need you,” she dared whisper. “Come and save your people.“ He
swung of mist and light again, this
time right at her. The tip pierced her breastbone, and icy fire plunged through
her heart. She arched her back with a choked cry. Then
he was gone, the vision fading in a last shower of sparks and starlight. When
she recovered her senses, Alexeika found herself huddled on her knees in the
bottom of the skiff, doubled over and crying. She
hurt, yet her fingers found no wound where the vision had stabbed her. The mist
was gone, and the water lay calm and dark. A cloud had crossed the moon
overhead, muting the starlight as well. With
shaking hands, she rubbed the tears from her face. Her teeth were chattering,
and she felt so very cold. Whatever she had wanted, it had not been this. “Alexeika,”
called a voice softly. It reached across the fjord and brought her from her
thoughts. “Child, come back to shore. It is over now.” Startled,
she looked at the bank. Uzfan, his long robe perilously close to the water,
stood right at the edge, beckoning to her. Behind him clustered what looked
like half the camp. The people were silent in the moonlight, which came and
went fitfully behind its thin veil of cloud. They stared at her with their
mouths open. Fear
touched her, along with embarrassment. What had they seen? She
gripped the paddle, her fingers tight on the polished wood, and felt a strong
temptation to go far away into the darkness, never to return. “Alexeika,”
Uzfan called again. His voice was gentle, full of understanding. “Come to
shore, child. You must be cold.” Yes,
she felt as chilled as if it were a winter evening. Overhead, a falling star
plummeted through the sky, falling out of sight among the treetops of the
distant shore. She shivered and began to paddle slowly to Uzfan. Her
arms felt leaden and stiff. It seemed to take her forever to return, but
finally the skiff bumped into the rocks and eager hands reached down to grip it
and tie it fast. Someone
took her hands and pulled her to her feet. She stumbled out, feeling as though
her mind was not quite connected to her body, and Uzfan gripped her arm firmly. “Come,
child,” he said. ‘Time to rest. Make way for her. Shelena, step aside.“ The
women and old men parted way before her reluctantly. As she walked between
them, they reached out and touched her hair and her clothing, murmuring words
she did not quite understand. Up
the hill, as she and Uzfan left the others behind and approached her tent, she
faltered and stopped. “What
happened?” she asked, still feeling dazed. “Come.
I will build a fire,” the old man said kindly. Beneath
his reassuring tone, however, she heard disapproval. She
frowned. “I don’t understand. I wanted to see my father.” Uzfan
shook his head and pushed her toward her tent. She stood next to it, watching
while he assembled twigs and kindling in a circle of stones and struck sparks
into the fluff of shredded bark. A small blaze caught, flaring orange in the
darkness. “Child,
child,” he said in mild rebuke. “Do you remember none of the lessons I taught
you? A soul newly departed cannot be seen. Would you call your father forth
from the safety he so barely reached?” “I
miss him,” she said, her voice small like a child’s. Uzfan
climbed to his feet with a grunt and turned to grip her arms. “Come and sit by
the fire. It will warm you.” She
sank to the ground, rubbing her chest where she still ached. Uzfan tended the
fire, feeding sticks to it as the flames grew hungry and stronger. He kept
staring at her with a frown, his eyes shifting away each time she glanced up. His
disapproval seemed stronger than ever. She
frowned. “I did something wrong?” “Do
you think so?” he asked too quickly. She
sighed. She didn’t want a lesson. “I don’t know. It seemed—I don’t know. I’ve
never cast a real vision before. Not like that.” She rubbed her chest again. “I
didn’t know it would hurt.” “Who
did you conjure forth?” he asked sternly. She
did not answer. She was suddenly afraid to. “Child,
what you did was very wrong. Think of the danger you have placed yourself in.
The camp now knows what you can do.” She
shook her head. “I can’t. I don’t know how it happened. I’ve tried before, and
it never worked. You remember.” “I
remember an impatient girl refusing to follow instructions. Did I not warn you
never to part the veils of seeing on your own?” “No.” He
snorted. “Then remember it now. Dangerous, child! Dangerous. You must never
invoke forces you do not understand or cannot control.” He shuddered. “We are
too close to the battle- field.
Nonkind roam our land, and the darkness is always close. You must never again
take such a risk.“ “It
wasn’t malevolent,” she said, trying to defend herself now. She felt ashamed,
and therefore defiant. “I found no evil—” “Ah,
but evil may find you,” he retorted, glaring at her. She
glared back and wanted suddenly to shock him. “It was Faldain,” she said. “He
told me so.” Uzfan’s
mouth fell open. He stared at her, his expression altering into one of shock.
The stick he held halfway in the fire burst into flames, and still he sat there
motionless. At
last, however, he was forced to throw the stick into the fire. Shaking his
scorched fingers, he blew on them and stared at her again. “Faldain?” he
whispered. “Are you certain?” “He
said that was his name.” “Impossible.” “Why?” “Because
it is. No one knows if the boy even lives, or where he might be.” “He
lives,” she said with assurance. Uzfan
clasped his hands together. “Great mercy of Thod,” he muttered. “How could you
find him, an untrained natural— I—I am amazed.” “He
said for me not to summon him again. He said it was not yet time for him to be
found.” Frustration filled her, and she pounded her fist on her knee. “When
will he come? If I am to keep people in support of him, he must come soon.” Uzfan
reached out and closed his hand over her fist. “Stop this at once. You are not
in command of these events.” “Don’t
you think I can lead—” “That
is not what I’m talking about. Listen to me, child.” Uzfan’s old eyes, very
grave and serious, held hers. “When you want a thing to happen, when you have
devoted your life to making it happen, it can be very hard to let events take
their course. But you do not control what is to be. You must never again try to
force destiny.” “I
only wanted to see him,” she began, but Uzfan scowled. “No,”
he said sternly. “You asked me to give the people a vision of Faldain, and when
I refused you set out to defy my wisdom. Is this not the way of it?” She
could not meet his gaze now. Squirming a little, she glared at the fire. “Alexeika?” “Yes!
I suppose so. I wanted hope for myself. Is that wrong?” He
stared at her. “It is wrong.” Angry,
she flashed her eyes at him, then looked away again. “If
he comes one day or if he never comes, it is not for you to decide. You cannot
set his path. It is forbidden for you to try. Is that clear?” “I
don’t have those kinds of powers—” “You
might! Great Thod, girl, look what you accomplished tonight. Your power
unchained and unchanneled, careening everywhere. You are a natural. Your
mother’s blood gave you what ability you have, but it’s erratic, unusable.” “That
can’t be true,” she said in surprise. “Why did you try to train me before if my
gifts weren’t—” ‘To
keep you from doing harm to yourself or to others,“ he said angrily. “Oh.” “Yes,”
he snapped. “I felt at the time that it would be unkind to tell you more. You
seemed uninterested in learning, and so I let it pass. I see now I was wrong.” “So
even if I tried again to do what I did tonight, it might not happen.” “You
might set fire to yourself, or nothing might happen at all. Your gift is small
and uncontrollable. If you did not bring Nonkind to us, I will be very
grateful.” She
bit her lip, understanding now why he was so angry. Contrite, she said, “I ask
your pardon. I was not trying to do harm. If we must leave camp tonight, then I
will—” “No,
no, do not alarm everyone,” he said grouchily. “There’s been enough trouble for
one day. Promise me, child, that you will never do something like this again.” She
frowned, feeling sorry, but not yet ready to promise anything. “But he does
exist,” she said. “He is not a myth. He does live. Somewhere.” “If
that is true, then you have endangered him as well. Visions are meant to summon
the dead, not those living. You could injure him.” Her
eyes widened with alarm. “I didn’t mean to. Can you find out where he is?” “No.” “Then
how—” “Alexeika,
I have warned you most strongly. Must I make a spell to take your gift away
from you?” She
leaned back, astonished that he would threaten her. “You mean this?” His
gaze never wavered. “I do.” “Did
the others see him? Do they know? Do they understand now?” “They
know you have powers, and that can someday endanger you,” he said with
exasperation. “No
one here would expose me, no more than they would betray you,” she said,
shrugging off his concern. “Are
you sure of that?” he asked. “Of
course,” she said lightly, but the worry in his face gave her pause. She
frowned. “Do you think—” “I
do not need to counsel you on who to trust,” he said. “This has been most
unwise, most unwise indeed. Now, do I have your promise that you will not do
such a thing again?” “Yes,”
she said in a small voice of surrender. He
grunted and got stiffly to his feet. “Then I shall leave you for the night. You
cannot lead people with tricks, Alexeika. That is King Muncel’s way, and you
know how false he is. Beware your own will. It should never be stronger than
your prudence.” She
bowed her head under his rebuke. He walked away, grumbling in his beard as he
went. For
a while she sat by the fire, until at last the coldness inside her melted away.
When she noticed that someone was staring at her from a nearby tent, she threw
dirt on the fire, smothering it, and went inside her own. It
was easy to distract herself for a few minutes, packing her possessions and
those of her father’s that she wanted to keep. It would be a hard job in the
morning, getting camp to break. But
when her packing was finished, she had nothing else to do except extinguish the
small oil lamp and lie on her cot in the darkness. Faldain’s
face swam back into her thoughts. He had not looked like she expected. She
wondered when he would come and why Uzfan seemed to think he might never do so.
Didn’t this young king know who he was and what his responsibilities were?
Didn’t he care? Surely he’d heard about Nether’s misfortunes. Was he trying to
raise an army, and if so, from where? Would he enter Nether with an invading
force? Would he sell Nether to another realm in exchange for fighting men, the
way his uncle had done? She
frowned, fretting in the night, and in time grew angry with the boy she’d seen.
If he didn’t come, then he was either a fool or a weakling. If he didn’t care
about his own land and people, then he deserved no throne. In the meantime, she
had to find a way to persuade the rebels to carry through the planned attack on
Trebek. It was a small but important river town, controlling barge trade
between the Nold border and Grov. She had to continue her father’s plans.
Somehow, even if everyone else turned coward and surrendered, she had to
continue. Deep
in the night, Dain lunged upright from sleep with a gasp. He felt as though he
were drowning in a deep, icy-cold lake. He could not breathe. Water filled his
lungs and nostrils, holding him down. In his hand he gripped a sword that
flashed with fire. A sorcerelle held him enchanted, drawing him forth from the water only
to plunge him back in. Shuddering,
Dain rubbed his sweating face with both hands and pulled up his knees to rest his
forehead on them. He realized now it had been only a dream. He was safe within
the foster sleeping chamber in Thirst Hold, and he’d better take care to make
no noise that might disturb the others. After
a time his pounding heart slowed and he began to breathe more normally. It was
hot and airless in the chamber. His cot was closest to the window, but the
Mandrian custom was to keep windows firmly shuttered at night. If he opened it
now to fill his lungs with fresh air, the others might wake up. Dain had no desire to take a beating from Mierre. As
silently as shadow, he slipped from the room, passing Thum’s cot, where his
friend snored, passing Kaltienne’s cot, and finally passing Mierre’s. The
largest boy was a light sleeper, but Dain made no sound. He had learned early
on how to smear goose grease on the hinges of the door so that it could be
opened without a sound. Safely
in the corridor, he let out his breath in relief and, barefooted, went padding
off outside. He crossed the walkway over to the battlements and leaned his bare
shoulder against the cool stone crenellation, gazing outward across the
patchwork of light and darkest shadows that marked the fields, meadows, and
eventually forest belonging to this Thirst. It
would be morning soon. He sniffed the breeze, aware of an imperceptible
lightening of the sky. Down at the corner of the wall, the sentry yawned and
resumed his slow walk. The man had not yet noticed Dain, but once he did there
would be no challenge. The sentries were used to Dain’s nocturnal ram-blings.
Sometimes he slept on the walkways, or tried to. Usually a sentry roused him
and sent him back inside. No
one understood how hard it was for him to sleep inside a building of stone.
Although he had lived at Thirst now for three-quarters of a year, he still
wondered sometimes what men feared so much that they should build such a
fortress of timber and stone to hide within. He found it overwhelming at times
to be among so many people, with so many men-minds flicking past his own. He
had learned to shut them out as much as possible, but at night it was harder.
Sometimes he dreamed their dreams, and that was difficult, if not repulsive. Tonight’s
dream, however, had been different. Frowning, Dain rubbed his chest. He still
felt unsettled by it, and he hadn’t understood it at all. It was almost as
though he hadn’t dreamed it, but had instead been yanked by magical means into
another world and time. If so, why? Who was that maiden on the lake with eyes
like starlight, and what had she wanted him to do? His
fingers reached up to curl around his pendant of bard crystal, which wasn’t
there. Dain’s
frown deepened. Angrily he lowered his hand. He kept forgetting he no longer
wore it. Thanks
to Gavril and Mierre, who had tormented and teased him on his first day of
training. During the break, Mierre and the prince closed in on Dain, and Mierre
attacked first. While he and Dain were fighting, the leather cord had snapped,
and the pendant went flying into the dirt. Gavril picked it up, exclaiming,
“This is king’s glass! Where did you get it?” Pinned
at that moment by Mierre, who was sitting on him and twisting his arm painfully
behind him, Dain spat out a mouthful of dirt. “That’s mine.” “Oh,
you stole it, no doubt.” “Didn’t.” “I
say you did. No one wears king’s glass unless they are royalty.” Mierre
twisted Dain’s arm harder. He grunted, gritting his teeth to keep from crying
out, and flailed uselessly with his other hand. “Mine,”
he insisted. “You
cannot claim stolen property.” Dain
gathered all his strength and managed to break free of Mierre. Sending the
larger boy toppling, Dain scrambled up, landed a dirty kick that made Mierre
double up and howl, and launched himself at Gavril. “It’s
mine!” he shouted, tackling the prince and knocking him down. Biting
and scratching and gouging, the only way he knew how to fight, Dain swarmed
Gavril furiously, determined to get his property back. It was all he had of his
lost heritage, the only possession his unknown parents had given him. Jorb had
warned him and Thia never to lose their pendants, never to show them, never to
give them into anyone’s keeping. And now, his worst enemy—this arrogant,
pompous prince who had already thrown a royal fit at the idea of even being in
the same hold with him, much less in training together—clutched his pendant and
no doubt intended to keep it for himself. “Give
it back!” Dain shouted. He struck Gavril in the mouth, and pain shot through his
knuckles as they split on the prince’s teeth. Blood spurted, and Gavril howled.
“Give it back!” Dain shouted. Lunging for Gavril’s clenched fist, Dain rolled
over and over with the prince. Then
they were surrounded by men, who pulled them bodily apart. Bleeding and
streaked with dirt, his fine doublet torn, Gavril pointed at Dain with a shaking
finger and gasped, too furious to speak. Dain
glared and lunged for him, only to be held back by the men. “Now,
now, what is all this?” demanded the master-at-arms, Sir Polquin. “This is not
the way knights, nobles, and gentlemen conduct themselves on a field of honor.” “He’s
none of those,” Gavril said, his face beet-red with fury. “The dirty little—” “Now,
now, your highness,” Sir Polquin broke in. “Dain does not yet know our customs.
Let us not lose our temper.” Gavril
turned his blue-eyed rage on the master-at-arms. “I shall lose my temper if I
desire! He’ll die for this! The ruffian attacked me without provocation.” “Liar!”
Dain shouted back, struggling against the hands that held him fast. “He is a
thief. That pendant is mine. He took it from me.” Sir
Polquin’s weather-roughened face turned slightly pale. He frowned and scratched
his sun-bleached hair, but his green eyes held little mercy when he looked at
Dain. “You must never strike his highness or call him a thief or a liar.” “He
«!” Dain insisted. Sir
Masen cuffed Dain on his ear. Pain flared through his head, distracting him momentarily.
“Don’t talk back to the master-at-arms, boy.” Sir
Polquin beckoned to Mierre, who had dusted off his doublet and now came
forward. “And what say you about this? Were you fighting Dain as well?” “I
was showing him how to wrestle, sir,” Mierre lied smoothly. “If we must have
him with us, we don’t want him shaming us by not knowing how to grapple.” The
men chuckled, and seemed to accept this lie. Mierre smiled, and his gaze
flickered to Dain for one brief, malevolent moment. Seething,
hating them all, Dain set his jaw and glared at everyone. “The pendant is
mine,” he said. “Prince or not, he cannot take it from me.” “He
hit me,” Gavril said. “That is a crime punishable by—” “Come
with me,” Sir Polquin said. Clamping his hand on Dain’s shoulder, he marched
him away from the others, off the practice field and out of earshot. “Now,” the
master-at-arms said grimly, “we’re going to have a talk about manners, boy.” “I
don’t care about manners!” Dain shouted. “It’s
against law to strike him. If Sir Los had been here, you’d be dead.” Dain
frowned. “But he cannot take my property.” “By
right and rank, he can,” Sir Polquin told him. Stunned
by this injustice, Dain drew in a sharp breath. “It’s mine. It’s all I have,
all that I own. My father gave it to me. I have nothing else of his, no other—” “All
right, all right. Calm down, boy, and listen to me.” Dain
fell silent, but he could not stop fretting. Looking past Sir Polquin’s sturdy
shoulder, he saw Gavril out there on the field, chatting with the men, laughing
at something, his blond hair glinting bright in the sunshine. It was not fair.
No matter what man-law or man-custom said, it was not fair, and it was not
right. “Dain!” Reluctantly
Dain turned his attention back to Sir Polquin, who was scowling at him. “Did
you hear anything I said?” “No,”
Dain admitted. Sir
Polquin sighed. “Thought as much. Dain boy, heed me. The prince is far above
you. He will one day be king, and his word law.” “Pity
yourselves,” Dain said rudely, “for he will be brutal.” Sir
Polquin slapped him. “Never speak thus about his highness again. I’ll beat this
lesson into you, if I must. To live among us, you must abide by our ways.” Dain’s
jaw ached from the blow. He straightened himself slowly, resentment still
strong inside him. “The prince says I cannot own my bard crystal. He says only
royalty may wear it. That is his custom, Mandrian custom, but it isn’t mine! My father gave
it to me. My sister wore one as well. Who is your prince to say I may not have
it?” “I
know not what bard crystal is,” Sir Polquin said, “but you will respect your
betters—” “King’s
glass he called it,” Dain said. Sir
Polquin opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stared at Dain in
bewilderment mingled with a touch of alarm. “King’s glass?” he echoed finally.
“You wear king’s glass?” Dain
shrugged. “Perhaps you think it is worth little. But the trinket is mine, and—” “Oh,
it is worth a great deal!” Sir Polquin said, looking more astonished than ever.
“Don’t you know its value?” Now
it was Dain’s turn to be puzzled. “Its value lies in that my father gave it to
me when I was but an infant. Since I never met my father, I have nothing else
of his except this small gift.” Sir
Polquin whistled, his eyes round with wonder. “Small gift indeed. It’s worth a
fortune, or so I hear. Naught but the highest born can afford it. And who was
your father?” “I
do not know his name,” Dain said. “My guardian never told us. I know only that
my father rode to Jorb’s burrow one day and paid him well to take us in.” “Well,
well, Dain boy, it seems we chose you better than we knew,” Sir Polquin said
with a sudden grin. “Come along now. We’re wasting the best part of the day,
and there’s training to be done.” Dain
planted his feet and would not budge. “But what about my pendant? Will you make
the prince give it back?” “Boy,
has nothing I’ve said filled that hollow between your ears?” Dain
frowned. “He cannot take it from me. Prince or not, he has no right.” “Perhaps
he doesn’t at that,” Sir Polquin agreed. Dain’s
spirits rose. “Then you agree? I can have it back?” “I
think we’d better take this matter to Lord Odfrey.” “But—” “Come
along!” In
the end, after Sir Polquin took Lord Odfrey aside and whispered long into his
ear, after Lord Odfrey frowned, exclaimed, and stared at Dain in astonishment
and the beginnings of a smile, and after Gavril was asked to surrender the
pendant into Lord Odfrey’s keeping, the matter was settled, but to no one’s
satisfaction. “He
is a pagan nobody, a serf at best, his blood mixed, his parentage unknown,”
Gavril said sullenly. “He has no right to wear a jewel of this value.” “His
father is clearly a noble of high rank,” Lord Odfrey replied, turning the piece
of bard crystal over and over in his fingers. It whispered faint song in
response to his touch. Light prismed and flashed within its faceted depths.
“This man must be important enough to wish to avoid the scandal of having a
bastard son with eldin blood. That is why you were fostered with Jorb, lad,“ he
said to Dain while everyone stared and began to whisper in speculation. ”Now
you are fostered here. This pendant,“ he went on, holding it aloft, ”is indeed
part of your heritage, and is too valuable to be put at risk. For now, Sulein
will keep it safe for you in his strongbox.“ “But—” “It
will be safe there, Dain,” Lord Odfrey said, his frown and words a warning.
“When you are older and more responsible, you will receive it back. Let this
matter rest now.” And
so the physician who wanted to be a sorcerel had it, locked away where
Dain could not get it. He tried not to resent such interference. He understood
that this was the only way to keep Gavril from taking it completely away from
him. And yet, Dain could not help but wonder why the Mandrians talked so much
about honor but did not expect it in Gavril, who would one day be their king. Dain’s
standing had risen in the hold. Everyone knew him now as a nobleman’s by-blow,
and he was treated with more courtesy than when they’d thought him simply a
stray of no lineage. Dain was not happy to be called a bastard, but the explanation
made sense, especially since Jorb had always refused to tell him and Thia where
they came from. Gavril
was infuriated that Dain received no punishment for hitting him. But
thereafter, he gave Dain a wide berth, refusing to look at him or speak to him,
and ceasing to torment him. Rumor spread that the two boys might be cousins.
King Ver-ence’s younger brother, now dead, had been a roving scoundrel in his
youth. Dain
refused to consider any relationship. He believed his father was Netheran, for
that much Jorb had said. But if the Mandrians wanted to believe Dain was one of
theirs, and if it made them feed him more and treat him better, he was not
going to argue. Still, without his bard crystal, he felt bereft and incomplete.
He could not wait for the summer to end. For then, Gavril would be leaving
Thirst Hold forever. Dain believed that as soon as the prince departed, his
pendant would be returned to him. “A
month,” he whispered, turning his face toward the dawn, where a corona of gold and
rosy pink blazed above the horizon. Dain
sampled the breeze, his nostrils sifting through its myriad scents. “Only a
month.” A
month hence would fall the king’s birthday. King Verence always threw a great
festival and invited all the nobles and knights of his realm to participate in
a tournament. It was the king’s custom to let young men win their spurs by
jousting before they joined the knighthood orders. But this year would also
mark Prince Gavril’s investiture into the knighthood and his coming of age,
when he would be named Heir to the Realm. Extra celebrations had been planned
accordingly. Gavril himself had been training very hard, practicing privately
with Sir Polquin rather than being kept in practice drills with the other
fosters. The less Dain saw of Gavril, the better it pleased him. As
for today, he grinned to himself, thinking of his plans, and his ambition. Sir
Polquin had organized a contest among the fosters to determine by combat which
of them would be allowed to accompany Lord Odfrey to the king’s tournament as
squire. Only one boy would be chosen. Sir Polquin said that measuring the boys’
prowess with arms was the fairest way to determine who deserved this honor.
Lord Odfrey had agreed to the contest, and the boys were ablaze with
excitement. Now,
as the cocks crowed in the stableyard and the hold began to stir, Dain saw a
trail of men carrying boards to the practice field outside the walls. They were
setting up benches for the spectators. All the knights not on duty intended to
come. Servants who could get away from their duties would be there. Villagers
would watch as well. Dain
thought of all this and felt nervous, but at the same time he was eager to show
off what he had learned the past few months. He had worked hard, harder than he
ever had in his life. If Sir Polquin was not putting him through extra
practices to help him catch up with the others, then Sir Bosquecel would come
along after hours and teach him some trick of swordplay. Or Sir Nynth would
give him extra riding lessons. Or Sir Terent would drill him in the finer
points of heraldry. Every day Dain felt as though his head would burst from the
strain of having so much knowledge tamped into it. His muscles ached at night,
but his young body thrived on all the exercise. He
had grown in sudden spurts that surprised everyone and caused him to need more
new clothes. No longer was he slight of build like most eldin. In addition to
gaining height, he was growing much broader through his chest and shoulders.
Hard muscles rippled through his arms. The
knights teased him, saying he was using a growth spell, but Dain thought it was
all the food he ate. He was forever hungry, despite regular meals. The more he
trained, the larger he grew. His voice deepened, never cracking and breaking at
embarrassing moments the way Thum’s did, much to his friend’s consternation.
Dain learned how to cut his hair so that it was short and neat in the way Lord
Odfrey preferred his men-at-arms to look, but long enough to cover the pointed
tips of his ears. His pale gray eyes would forever mark him, but despite that
the maids of the hold began to throw him sultry looks nearly as often as they
eyed the other boys. Every time a serving maid lingered while pouring cider in
his cup or brushed herself against his shoulder while setting a laden trencher
before him, Thum would dig his elbow sharply into Dain’s ribs and snicker. Dain
squirmed with embarrassment, but he was seldom fooled. He could read the girls’
intentions. Most of them contained a mixture of fervor, curiosity, and scorn.
And for all their pretended boldness, most were afraid of him. He pursued no
one and accepted no invitations. For one thing, he felt unsure of himself. Nor
did he want Mierre’s leavings, or worse, Kalti- enne’s. Besides,
he had yet to grow a beard, although all the others were trying to sprout
scraggling versions of them. Sir Nynth had taken him aside one evening and solemnly
explained that until he grew a beard, he would be no man that pleased a woman.
Sensing amusement in the other knights when he and Sir Nynth returned, Dain
grew suspicious of such advice, thinking it a jest. But when Thum said he had
also heard this from his older brothers, Dain decided to believe it. “Better
get ready, Dain boy,” said the sentry now, startling Dain from his thoughts. He
gave Dain a grin and slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve bet money on you. Don’t
let me down.” Realizing
he was going to miss his breakfast if he didn’t hurry, Dain smiled back and ran
for it. In
an hour, the sun was up bright and hot over the practice field. Dain squinted
as he helped Thum buckle on his thick padding. Shaped like a breastplate but
instead made of multiple layers of wool felt stitched together, it fit over
each boy’s chest and back and buckled down the sides with leather straps. “Too
tight!” Thum said with a gasp. Dain
eased out the buckle one notch. “Sorry.” “You
have to get it even on both sides or it will slip,” Thum said. “Pay attention,
Dain.” Dain
drew a deep breath and nodded. He was trying, but his excitement was too
intense. He felt like he might leave the ground and fly about in all
directions. Already buckled into his own padding, he finished strapping Thum in
and thumped him on the back. “Now,
you’re ready,” he said. Thum
grinned, meeting Dain’s gaze. For a moment, neither boy spoke, and Thum’s
freckled face began to turn red. “This is it,” he said, his voice cracking. Dain
nodded, his gaze darting across the field, where Sir Polquin and his assistants
were setting up the equipment, readying the blunted lances, and counting the
padded practice swords. Knights and villagers mingled about. The air was
festive, despite the summer heat. Some enterprising urchin was selling pies.
The Thirst banners swung heavily in the hot air. “Dain,”
Thum said, his voice hesitant, “I wish you luck today.” Reluctantly
Dain pulled his attention away from the scene and looked at his red-haired
friend. “What? Oh, yes. Thanks.” Thum
frowned, and Dain scrambled to remember the rest of his manners. “And
good luck to you as well, Thum.” Some
of the ire faded from Thum’s face. He looked a little troubled, however. “We
can’t be friends the rest of this day, I suppose. Not and compete at our best.
I wish there could be two squires chosen, not one.” Dain
understood what Thum was trying to say. For all his sharp wits, Thum had a soft
heart. He spent too much time bemoaning what could not be changed. The four
fosters were all desperate to see Savroix, the fabled palace of Mandrian kings.
Dain knew that Thum, who had failed to make friends with the spoiled prince,
might never see Savroix otherwise in his lifetime. In order to advance, Thum
would have to become some knight’s squire. If he succeeded in becoming Lord
Odfrey’s, then he would have a good start at a career. But
Dain also wanted to become Lord Odfrey’s squire. He admired the chevard very much.
He wanted desperately to please him and make him proud. Dain never forgot that
he owed his good fortune to the chevard’s kindness. He wanted to repay the man
with service. Although the other boys had been training at arms for several
years, Dain was determined to shine. He practiced harder and longer than the
others. He did not let Mierre’s taunts and Kaltienne’s teasing stop him from
trying again and again until he mastered a skill. He had ability; that was
evident to all. He learned quickly. Although he might not understand something
as it was first being explained to him, as soon as he saw someone demonstrate
the movement, he could quickly imitate it. Already he had become an expert
horseman. That was easy, for his mind alone was able to control the horse. As
for fighting, he was agile, quick, and inclined to cheat. Again and again Sir
Bosquecel took him aside to explain that a knight never cheated in a contest of
honor, although in real battle anything was permitted against the enemy. Dain
did not understand this distinction and felt it was a silly waste of time. But
he worked hard to please the knights. He
heard a shout from the center of the field. Sir Polquin was gesturing for the
boys to come to him. Thum,
still looking worried and on edge, frowned at Dain. Dain’s own heart was
suddenly pounding. He gave Thum a light shove to start him walking and matched
strides with him. From the opposite side of the field came Mierre and
Kaltienne. Dain
said, “I want to win as much as you do. But if I cannot win, then I want it to
be you.” “I
feel the same,” Thum said quickly. He frowned at the other boys. “Anyone but
them.” “Aye.”
Dain gave him a nudge. “We’ll be friends again, come tonight. Don’t worry.” Thum’s
grim look vanished, and he managed a quick grin before Sir Polquin lined them
up and started his inspection of their padding. His assistant followed, handing
out padded caps. Dain
hated the cap. It was hot and stank of sweat. Complaining about it got nowhere,
however. Sir Polquin warned them that the metal helmets they would wear someday
were much worse. ‘ “The rules of orderly contest apply,” Sir Polquin said
sternly. “We’ll draw lots to see who goes first. We’ll start with lances. You
have three tries to hit the circle.” As
he spoke, he pointed toward the alley, where a red shield with a white circle
painted on its center swung at one end. “If
everyone hits that, we’ll take‘ off the blunted tips and let you aim your lances
through this ring.” He held up a circle of brass with a loop of rope already
tied to it. Mierre
rolled his eyes impatiently. “Games of children,” he said. “Why not let us
unseat each other, the real way?” “Because
not everyone has learned that skill as yet,” Sir Polquin replied. “You
mean, the stray hasn’t learned it yet,” Mierre said, flicking Dain a look of
contempt. “The rest of us are trained for it. Why should he hold us back? At
least let us ride at a quintain, if not at each other.” Sir
Polquin’s weathered face grew quite stiff, the way it did when he was annoyed.
“For those who succeed at lance, we’ll go to swords and shieldwork. You’ll
throw lots again to see how you’re paired. There will be three judges for this
contest: Lord Odfrey, Prince Gavril, and Sir Bosquecel.” Hearing
those names, Dain smiled to himself and lifted his chin higher. He was certain
to please two judges out of three. Lancework remained hard for him, but he was
good at sword-play, very good. He’d learned something new last week, something
he hadn’t yet shown to Thum. He intended to hold it back as his ultimate trick.
It would be impressive, and he was certain to win. A
commotion in the distance caught his attention. He saw Lord Odfrey riding up on
a bay horse that was prancing in response to the excitement and noise. Sir
Bosquecel rode beside the chevard, but of Gavril there was no sign. Sir
Polquin looked displeased. “Is his highness going to keep us waiting clear to
the midday heat?” Grumbling, he strode away to confer with Lord Odfrey, who
leaned down from his saddle and shook his head. Dain
and Thum exchanged glances. Thum sighed and circled his thumb around the tip of
his forefinger. Dain grinned. They all knew how Gavril liked to make a big
entrance. “Doesn’t
care, does he?” Kaltienne complained, wiping sweat off his face. “We bore his
highness, don’t we?” i
“Shut up,” Mierre growled. “He’s got more important th to do. He won’t be
coming today.” Even
Dain blinked at that, but it was Thum who shot Mi a startled look. “Not
coming?” he echoed. “Why not?” “Gone
hunting,” Mierre said. “Without
his lapdogs?” Dain asked. He was learning to insults the courtly way, using words
and a sneer instead o1 fists. “How can he manage?” Kaltienne
turned on him, hot-faced. “Listen, you—” “Keep
ranks!” Sir Polquin bawled, returning just in timi Kaltienne snapped back to
his place in line, and the} stood at stiff attention. “There’s been a change,” Sir Polquin announced. “Sir F will
be the third judge, instead of his highness.” Dain
grimaced to himself. It was hardly an improvemei his favor. Although he left
Dain alone, Sir Roye still disl him. He told himself the protector was a knight
and wi judge fairly, but in his heart Dain wasn’t so sure. “Let’s
get this started,” Sir Polquin said. He waved ai stableboys, who led the
saddled horses up. They were chargers, long put out to pasture, their muzzles
grayed, these old warhorses still knew their training. They recogn the
festivities, and their ears were pricked with interest. “Must
we ride these old plugs?” Mierre complained. One
of the horses tried to bite him, and Mierre’s protest lost in the general laughter. “Mount,”
Sir Polquin ordered. “Hold
up!” Lord Odfrey called, interrupting them. From
the benches, the spectators began to yell and clap, ing to get things started.
Lord Odfrey, however, rode across field and pointed at Dain. “Come
away, lad,” he said. Dain
handed the reins back to a stableboy. Not underst ing at first, thinking Lord
Odfrey was going to give him’s private word of encouragement and wishing he
wouldn’t, 1 walked out to meet the chevard. “Lord,” he said, grinning a
squinted up into Lord Odfrey’s dark eyes, “I will do my today. I will show
you—” “Leave
the field,” Lord Odfrey said. “You won’t be coning for this honor.” Dain’s
smile faded. At first, he didn’t believe he had heard correctly, then he stammered,
“But, lord, I—” “You
heard my command,” Lord Odfrey said in his stern way. “Obey it.” “But—” “Is
there a problem, m’lord?” Sir Polquin asked, hurrying up behind Dain. “No,”
Lord Odfrey replied, absently pulling a hank of his horse’s mane over to the
other side of its neck. “This is a contest to determine my new squire. Dain
needs at least another year of training before he can expect such an
appointment. He has no place in this contest.” “I’ve
worked hard,” Dain said, choked with disappointment. His head was spinning. He
couldn’t believe that Lord Odfrey was making him withdraw. “I can do it—” “Sir
Polquin,” Lord Odfrey said. The
edge in his voice was plain to hear. Sir Polquin put his hand on Dain’s
shoulder. “You heard his lordship, Dain boy. Off you go.” “But
I—” Sir
Polquin’s eyes sparked with annoyance. Dain realized belatedly that he was
protesting direct orders. That transgression alone proved he was too unskilled
to be on the field. His
face grew hot. He shut his jaw, clenching it so hard his muscles jumped. This
wasn’t fair. He’d worked extra hard to be ready to compete. He should be
allowed to try, even if he came out defeated. But
to protest further was to embarrass Lord Odfrey and the knights who’d been
trying to train him. Dain knew how he was expected to act. He had to pretend it
didn’t matter. Had to pretend he didn’t care. Somehow,
although his body felt so stiff he didn’t think he could bend it, he managed to
bow. “Yes,”
Lord Odfrey said. “You may watch the contest if you wish, but no later than
this afternoon you are to report to Sulein for lessons. It’s time we
concentrated on improving your mind as well as your muscles.” Dain
bowed again, his face on fire. His throat had swelled with anger and
resentment. He couldn’t protest now even if he wanted to. “That
is all,” Lord Odfrey said with a nod of dismissal. His dark gaze snapped to Sir
Polquin. “Take down the circled shield. They’ll go at unseating each other.” “And if they break their fool necks?” Sir Polquin asked. “Time
to stop coddling them,” Lord Odfrey replied mercilessly. “I’ll not be squired
by an untested sprout.” “Aye,
m’lord.” Sir
Polquin turned away to start issuing orders. Over by the horses, the boys
cheered with new excitement. Babbling with the others as they mounted up, Thum
paused briefly to glance Dain’s way with a frown, but Dain couldn’t bear his
pity right then. Unstrapping
his padding and jerking off his cap, Dain carried it over to where the rest of
the equipment was stacked and dropped it, then marched himself rigidly off the
field. Sir
Terent and Sir Nynth intercepted him, their faces red in the heat. “What’s
amiss? Why are you leaving?” “The
lord ordered me away,” Dain said, his voice tight and hard. He did not want
them to see his choking disappointment, how much he cared. “He thinks I am not
good enough to compete.” “Morde
a day!” Sir Nynth exclaimed, his keen eyes snapping. “Of all the injustice—” “It’s
for his squire,” Sir Terent interrupted, casting his friend a warning look.
“Dain’s a bit green for that.” “Aye,
and what of it?” Sir Nynth retorted hotly. “I’ve money bet on the boy.” “Better
get it off,” Dain said, and pushed away from them, ignoring their calls to come
back. He
would not watch the contest. He would not hang about taking hearty slaps of
pity or watching the knights talk aboui him. This was the first opportunity
he’d had to prove that he re ally could fit in, and Lord Odfrey had taken it
away from him. How
had he displeased the chevard? What had he done wrong? If the chevard wanted to
punish him, Dain would have rather been flogged than humiliated like this. Perhaps
Lord Odfrey had seen him in practice and believe< he was no good. Dain
gritted his teeth, walking even faster, and kicked th< dirt in front of him.
He was good now, and he could be evei better. He knew it, knew
already how natural and right a swon felt in his hands. The
sentries at the gates looked startled to see him. “What’s amiss?” one of them
called to him. “Are you ousted already?” Why
explain? Dain scowled at them. “Aye,” he replied, and strode on while they
laughed and called out commiseration that he didn’t want. He
walked across the hold to the innermost courtyard and nearly entered Sulein’s
tower before he stopped, scowling ferociously at the door leading inside. Lessons?
What kind of lessons? Did the chevard think him so hopeless at arms that he would
make a scholar of him? It
all came welling up—the months of hard work, the stress of trying to fit in,
the brutality of today’s disappointment. Dain kicked the door and spun away. He
wasn’t going to have anything to do with the stinking old physician. He was
tired of following orders, tired of doing what he was told. He
hurried away, wishing he’d gone to the woods instead of coming inside the hold.
As he reached the outer keep, however, he found it astir. Prince Gavril was
mounting his fancy horse. The red and fawn hunting dogs were out, barking and
wagging their tails in excitement. Sir Los was climbing into his saddle, as
cheerless as ever. Five other knights assigned to Gavril’s protection were
milling about as well. Desperate
not to let the prince see his disgrace, Dain dodged out of sight. No one called
his name, and after a tense moment he relaxed. He hid until he heard the
prince’s retinue clatter away. Hunting
mad, Dain thought with scorn. The prince went out at every opportunity. Of late
he’d grown even more fanatical, as though he thought that once he returned to
Savroix he would never be allowed to hunt again. What did he see in this sport?
Dain could not understand it, and had no wish to try. Gavril seldom returned
with any game. He seemed only to want to gallop about through the Dark Forest
as much as possible. Lord Odfrey had warned him again and again to stay away
from there, but Gavril went anyway. The knights had orders to steer him in
other, safer directions, but since spring these five men seemed to always be
the ones that went forth with the prince. They were a scruffy, shifty-eyed lot,
the lowest rank, hardly better than hirelances. To Dain’s eye, they seemed more
loyal to Gavril than they did to anyone else. Certainly they let the prince
have his way and go where he wanted. Dain
shrugged, and ventured out of hiding. He hoped the prince got swept off his
horse by a tree branch and broke his arrogant neck. Across
the keep, Dain heard the steady plinking of the smith’s hammer. He scowled,
indecisive for a moment, but then he turned his steps toward the forge. He did
not want to leave the hold right now. He was afraid that if he went off into
the forest, he might not return. Though perhaps that was what he should do,
leave and not come back, Dain was not yet ready to make that decision. He was
too angry and confused to think straight. He knew only that he did not want to
be alone—his spirits felt too dark and angry for him to stand his own company.
He had no wish to talk to anyone either, but the smith might put Dain to work,
as he did sometimes when Dain felt lonely and missed his old life too much. Sir
Bosquecel and Lord Odfrey disapproved of Dain’s working in the forge. Such
manual labor was beneath his rank, they said. But it was as good a place to
find comfort as any. When he regained his calm, Dain would decide whether he
should run away. The
smith’s name was Lander. A Netheran by birth, he’d come down to Mandria years
ago to escape the civil war raging in his homeland. A local woman lived with
him in the village and called herself his wife, but gossip said they were not
church-wed. If Lander had any family back in Nether, he never spoke of them. He
would not talk about his past, except to say that he’d been born and raised in
Grov, but that it was no fit place to live in now. He
was an excellent smith, especially with simple repairs of hinges and
plowshares. He worked inside the hold rather than in the village because he was
also a skilled armorer, and the knights kept him busy grinding out the nicks in
their sword blades and repairing broken links in their mail. To Dain’s critical
eye, Lander’s skill was finer than most men’s, although he lacked Jorb’s
exquisite artistry. But then, Jorb had surpassed everyone, including the other
dwarf master armorers. On
this summer’s morn, the forge blazed with the heat of its roaring fire. The air
inside shimmered and danced. Shirtless, Lander wore only his leggings and a
soot-blackened leather apron. His muscular arms and shoulders dripped with
sweat. Concentrating
on tapping out a curve in a horseshoe, he barely glanced up when Dain entered
the forge. Not until he plunged the shoe into a bucket of water, sending up a
great cloud of hissing steam, did he pause to wipe his streaming brow with his
forearm and give Dain a quick, shy smile. “Hearty
morn,” he said in his foreign way. His eyes were pale blue, almost as pale as
Thia’s had been, like mist over a spring sky. The rest of him was bulky and hairless
except for a tonsure of red curls around a bald pate. His pale flesh never
tanned even in the summertime; his thick torso looked like a chunky slab of
stone. He
seemed glad to see Dain as always, but his manner was preoccupied. “That’s the
last,” he said to himself, lifting the horseshoe from the water pail and
tossing it with a clank onto a pile of similar shoes. Putting away his set of
tongs, he left his hammer lying atop the anvil while he stripped off his apron
and wiped his face and shoulders with it. “Thought you’d be in the contest,” he
said. “Over already, is it?” “Not
for the others,” Dain said. He scowled at the fire so he wouldn’t have to look
at Lander. “Eh?
What? Oh. So that’s the way of it.” “I wanted to see the tournament at Savroix,” Dain said, although he’d
already decided not to talk about it. Lander, however, was safe. He made no
judgments, offered no advice. The smith sighed sympathetically. “So would I
like to go.” “You?” Dain asked in surprise. He’d been
so wrapped up in his own plans of late, it had never occurred to him that
probably everyone in the hold wanted to see the king’s tournament. “Have you
ever been to Savroix?” “Nay,
not I.” Lander smiled in his fleeting way and wiped his sweating face again.
“But it would be good to go, if I can find a way.” Dain
said nothing, sensing that for once the smith wanted talk. “In
my homeland I was a master armorer,” Lander sa proudly. “Not just a smith,
making horseshoes and repairir latches, but a fine swordmaker. Here, the
knights will let me n pair their armor. I am allowed to make new helmets,
sometime a shield, but never more than that. I am foreign-born,“ he sak
striking his chest. “That means they think I cannot make sword for them. Not
even daggers. No, they go elsewhere. To the ar morer at Lunt Hold sometimes, or
to the dwarves. I ask you boy, is a dwarf not foreign? How can they think this
way? Bu they do.“ Dain
nodded with sympathy. Lander
cast Dain a sideways look. “You know the dwarf swordmakers.” “Jorb
was the best.” Lander
sighed. “Aye, they all say so. But now there is no Jorb. So will they let me
make them new swords for the tournament? No. But there is a way for me to show
them what I can do.” Dain
traced his finger along the worn handle of the hammer. He knew better than to
pick it up without permission. “Make some swords, I guess,” he said, without
much interest in Lander’s problems. “Show them what you can do.” “Hah!
Better idea than that I have.” Lander tugged him by his sleeve over to a
storage cabinet and pulled out a sheet of grubby vellum. He glanced around as
though to make sure no one was watching, and showed the drawing to Dain. “What
do you think of this?” depicted was beautiful. Its long tapering
blade was carved with rosettes and scrollwork. The hilt guard made the Circle
so many Mandrians wanted, thinking the symbol would shield them from harm in
battle, and was carved to look like tendrils of gold ivy. The hilt itself was
long enough for a two-handed grip, and wrapped ornately with silver and gold
wire. Dain’s
brows lifted. He was impressed, and yet a drawing was not a sword. “I
could make this sword,” Lander said, tapping the vellum with a grimy fingertip.
“I could‘.” “Do
it then,” Dain said. He rolled up the vellum to hand it back, but Lander
grabbed it and whacked him across his chest with it. “There
is a way to make it better, to make it wondrous,” Lander said. He leaned close
enough for Dain to smell his sour breath. His pale eyes flashed with passion.
“I need magicked metal.” Dain
couldn’t help it. He laughed. Muttering
furiously, Lander shoved him away and thrust his drawing back in the cabinet.
“I should never show you my dream,” he said. “Fool I am.” “No,
I wasn’t laughing at you,” Dain tried to reassure him. “It’s just—I thought
that was forbidden here. Using magicked metal, I mean.” Lander
shrugged. “Mandrians have strange ideas. It is not always good to pay attention
to what they fear. I have held some of the great swords. I know how they live
in the hand. The difference is like night and day.” “Even
if you got that kind of metal,” Dain said, thinking the man was crazy to have
such dreams, “and even if you made it, no one here could afford such a weapon.” “Hah!”
Lander said, beaming and pouncing on him again. “Now you understand. The king’s
birthday, it is a big occasion. Yes, and this year the king will give his sword
to his son for knighthood. It is the custom, yes?” “I
know not,” Dain replied, wondering where Lander was going with this. He hadn’t
come to the forge to be a confidant. But
Lander wasn’t letting him go. “Yes, the custom. From father to son goes . Valor is passed from the old hand to the
young. But the king must have new sword to replace what he gives away. And so
there is a contest among the smiths of the land. that is chosen ... Well, then everyone in
Mandria will know that Lander can make them best. Lander is a master, as good as
any dwarf.” Dain
nodded and started edging away. “I wish you luck, Lander. Now I had better go
before—” “Wait.”
Lander blocked his path and leaned down, his pale eyes intense. “You were
Jorb’s apprentice. That means you know his secrets. You know where he got such
metal.” Suddenly
wary, Dain drew back. “No, I — ” “Yes,
yes.” Lander gripped Dain’s sleeve and glanced around to make sure no one was
nearby. “Do you know the dwarf called Baldrush?” Dain
frowned, still wary. “Maybe.” “Yes! Yes, you do know,” Lander said eagerly. “I will make
this worth your while, Dain.” “I
won’t go to him—” “Already
done,” Lander said with pride. He pointed at the two-wheeled cart parked near
the forge. “I have been working extra to finish my work so I can leave today. I
will meet Baldrush and bargain with him for this metal.” Lander grinned, his
pale eyes atwinkle with excitement. “Advise me, Dain. You know this Baldrush.
Tell me how to make a good bargain with him.” Dain
dropped to his haunches in the dwarf way. “Let us discuss his terms, then.” A
few minutes later, Dain and Lander sauntered out of the forge. Dain blinked in
the bright sunshine, feeling sure Lander would be cheated in Nold. He wanted
his metal too much. He had saved forty gold dreits in his strongbox, a
veritable treasure. But forty dreits was Baldrush’s asking price. “Too
high,” Dain said. “Thirty is more than fair. Forty is too much.” “Can
you make him take thirty?” Lander asked. “Of course I will pay it all, if I
must.” “Don’t
say that,” Dain told him, appalled. “You should tell him thirty is all that you
have. And don’t sound too willing to pay that. Twenty-five would be better.” “No,
no, twenty-five is not fair price,” Lander said, shaking his head. “You would
have me insult him. Already he does not want to sell the metal to me. If I
offer twenty-five, he will say I am cheating him in the man-way, and he will
leave.” “Thirty,
then,” Dain said firmly, believing Baldrush would talk Lander into the full
amount. The
smith was nodding at Dain. “You come with me. You make the bargain.” Dain
smiled. “I must ask Sir Bosquecel for permission—” “Run,
then!” Lander said eagerly. “Run and do it while I get my tunic and some food
for the journey. It is a day and a half by cart to go and as long to come back.
The mule is slow. You’ll come?” “If
I get Baldrush to take thirty dreits instead of forty, will you give me the
difference?” “You?”
Lander asked in wonder. “What would a boy like you want with so much money?” “I
need it to buy a sword of my own.” “Ah,”
Lander said, nodding. “But ten gold dreits is too much wealth for a boy.
Whatever you save me off the asking price, half of it will I give you.” Dain
grinned. “Done!” He
spit on his palm and held out his hand. Lander spit on his palm and gripped
Dain’s fingers in a bone-crushing clasp. They shook on the deal. “Run
and get what you need,” Lander said. “And ask the captain for permission. I
will not take you against his orders.” But
as Dain hurried across the keep into the stableyard, he heard cheers rising
from the practice field. Defiance unfurled inside him. He decided not to ask
Sir Bosquecel’s permission. He wasn’t going to ask anyone. He’d tried doing
things the Mandrian way, following their endless rules, and he’d ended up being
punished anyway. Jorb had always warned Dain to beware men, for they turned and
betrayed without warning. Today he’d seen it proven true, and in Lord Odfrey,
whom he’d trusted above all others. Now that Lander had presented him with an
opportunity too good to pass up, Dain intended to start looking after himself
in the ways Jorb had taught him. Hurrying
inside the Hall, Dain ran upstairs, taking two steps at a time, and fetched his
cloak, spare footgear, and the blanket off his bed. Rolling these into an
untidy bundle, he hurried outside again, dashing past the steward, who stared
openmouthed at him. By
the time Dain returned to the keep, Lander had hitched his mule to the cart and
was holding the reins impatiently. He had crammed on a wide-brimmed straw hat
to protect his bald head from the sun. Dain smelled the pouch of provisions in
the back of the cart and hoped Lander had brought enough food. Lander
stared at him. “Where did you go? I thought the captain was at the joust,
judging the contest.” “No,” Dain said, keeping his lie simple. “Ready?” Dain
climbed onto the cart seat, and Lander yelled at the mule. They rolled out
through the gates past the sentries, who didn’t challenge them. Lander and his
mule cart were a familiar sight, coming and going frequently. The
sun was hot, beating down on Dain’s head without mercy. As the mule struck a
steady trot, a slight breeze cooled Dain’s face. He smiled to himself, suddenly
homesick for the cool gloominess of the Dark Forest, and did not look back at
the hold behind him. Away
in the Dark Forest, Gavril placed his hand on the front of his saddle and leaned
forward eagerly to peer at the cave entrance. “Just
there, yer highness,” Sir Vedrique was saying as he pointed. “Look at the top
of the cave. See yon stone with the old runes carved in it? Bound to be one of
them old shrines, no doubt of it.” Gavril
squinted, trying to see through the greenish gloom. The undergrowth and vines
were so thick he could barely see the cave itself, much less any runes carved
atop it, but at last he spied a mossy stone. His heart leaped inside his chest,
and he felt breathless. This could be it. His quest might end today. His
prayers would at last be answered. He
dismounted, feeling light-headed, and pushed his way through his milling pack
of dogs. Giving them the command to lie down, Gavril wanted to laugh aloud.
Just in time he reined back his emotions, preserving his dignity. He must not
set too much hope in this old shrine. He had been disappointed before. For
months he’d searched diligently, venturing as deep into the Dark Forest as he
dared, wishing always that he could go farther. But today, for some
unexplainable reason, he believed success was at hand. The Chalice was here. He
could almost feel its holy power. His heart was thudding with anticipation. When
he started up the hillside, Sir Los called out in alarm and hurried after him. The
prince paid his protector no heed as he struggled through the briars and
tangled vines. He crowded Sir Vedrique’s spurred heels. “Hurry, hurry,” he said
breathlessly. They
crossed the bottom of a small, shallow ravine with a stream running through it.
Partway up the slope was the cave’s entrance. This
place was hushed and tranquil, like an outdoor chapel. Even birdsong seemed
muted and distant. Sunlight stabbed down intermittently through the dense canopy
overhead, gilding leaves and moss in its soft golden light. The
closer they came, the slower Sir Vedrique walked. Growling
with impatience, Gavril tried to push past him, but the young knight flung his
arm across Gavril’s chest to block his way. “Nay,
yer highness. Can’t take too much care with these old places. There’s power
here still.” “And
maybe trolk,” muttered one of the other knights. Gavril
scowled and glanced back to see who had spoken. The four remaining knights of
his party sat on their horses, huddled together as though they feared this old
pagan place. Gavril swung his gaze away scornfully. There was nothing to fear.
He pulled out his Circle and let it swing atop his linen doublet. “What
are trolk?” Sir Los asked. Sir
Vedrique paused to send him a snaggletoothed grin. “Old myths, protector. Ain’t
nothing to fear.” “Hurry,”
Gavril said. “We can talk later. I am not afraid.” Sir
Vedrique frowned. “Wait here, yer highness. Let Sir Los and me go first.” Resenting
their caution, Gavril seethed. Impatiently he waited, tapping his fingers on
his belt, while Sir Los and Sir Vedrique pushed ahead of him. At
the mouth of the cave, Sir Vedrique took his sword and hacked away much of the thicket
growing across it. Then Sir Los drew his weapon and ventured inside. He seemed
to be in there forever, while Gavril stood fidgeting, agonized with jealousy.
What if Sir Los found the Chalice first? How unfair for him to get the glory
when it was Gavril who had prayed daily for the honor. Realizing
what he was thinking, Gavril felt ashamed of himself. Scowling, he turned his
back on the cave and struggled to master his feelings. “Your
highness,” Sir Los called out. Gavril
spun around and saw the protector emerging. When Sir Los beckoned, Gavril
hurried into the cave. It was darker inside than he’d expected, and it stunk
with something old and sour. Wrinkling his nostrils, he lifted his hand to his
face and tried to breathe through his mouth. “What
is this stink?” he asked. “Has some beast died in here?” “That’s
trolk musk,” Sir Vedrique said quietly. “Real old. Maybe an old spell lingering
on.” “A
spell!” Gavril said in horror, then caught himself and swallowed. “Of course.
This is a pagan shrine. But the magic cannot harm us if our faith is strong.
Sir Los, we need light.” The
protector found an old stick lying on the ground just inside the cave. He
pulled out his tinderbox and set it alight. In silence, he handed the makeshift
torch to Gavril. Holding
it aloft, Gavril walked swiftly through the cave. It was quite small, barely
tall enough for him to stand upright, and shallow. Cobwebs hung from the
ceiling, and dead leaves had drifted in. As Gavril strode back and forth, his
excitement faltered. Why, this old cave wasn’t any kind of shrine. It didn’t
even have an altar, just a circle of scattered stones and some sticks wedged
against the back wall. Scowling,
he knelt down to study a stone no bigger than his own head. With his fingertips
he traced the carvings there, carvings he could not read and did not wish to.
Behind the stone he saw a glint of something, and his excitement leaped high
again. He
lifted his torch, and its ruddy flickering light spread over a small, nearly
concealed pile of dusty artifacts. Rusted
and tarnished, the basin and ill-assorted collection of cups and vessels which
he saw were nothing at all, nothing but junk. Maybe a long time ago, some
dwarves had crawled in here and drunk themselves senseless. He tossed down the
basin, making a clatter, and picked up a tall, flared vessel. A spider was
crawling along its rim. Gavril flicked it away and tapped the cup. It sounded dull.
He rubbed it, but its surface was so encrusted with tarnish and grime it
couldn’t be cleaned. Disgusted,
Gavril flung it down with the rest, and rose to his feet. “Any
of that rubbish useful?” Sir Vedrique asked. “No,”
Gavril said. He thought of the Chalice, of how it was said to shine with a
glorious power so strong it could fill a dark room with light. It certainly was
not here in this filthy lair. Glancing
around one last time, he kicked some of the smaller stones with his toe, accidentally
knocking them back into a complete circle. His lip curled with disdain. “This
is nothing but a pagan hole, as foolish and empty as their beliefs. Let us go.” Sir
Los was standing just inside the entrance. He started to exit first, but Gavril
angrily darted out ahead of him. “Come
on,” he said. “Let’s be away from here. We’ve wasted enough time.” He
started down the hillside, leaving the knights to pick their way more slowly
after him. But just as he stepped across the tiny stream, a shout rang out, and
dwarves rose up from the thickets, aiming drawn bows at them from all sides. The
dogs leaped to their feet, barking furiously. Fearful for their safety, Gavril
shouted, “Stay!” Sir
Vedrique also shouted in alarm. One of the knights on horseback drew his sword,
but a dwarf loosed a shot and the arrow hit the knight in his throat. He
toppled off his horse, which bolted into the forest. The others bunched closer,
their hands on their weapons, and swore loudly. “Move
not!” ordered a dwarf with a long brown beard. He looked like the youngest of
the company. His eyes were keen and fierce. “Stand where you are.” Gavril
halted on the edge of the stream, feeling his pulse thumping hard inside his
collar. His mouth had gone dry. Suddenly his mind was filled with all the tales
and legends of dwarves he’d heard in his life, tales of how fierce they were,
how fearlessly they could fight, how brutally they sometimes tortured their
prisoners. He thought of the huntsman Nocine, well now in body after being
attacked by the Bnen dwarves last autumn, but not yet restored in mind or
spirit. Refusing to be afraid, Gavril shook such thoughts away. “You
there,” he called out, ignoring Sir Los’s choked warning to be quiet, “put away
your weapons. We mean you no harm. Why should you attack us?” The
brown-bearded dwarf stared at Gavril, studying him a long while. The drawn bows
did not lower. After several minutes the dwarf shifted his gaze to the other
men. “Who is leader?” The
insult infuriated Gavril. He opened his mouth to declare himself, but at the
last moment caution held his tongue. If they should guess who he was, they
might decide to hold him for ransom. He now understood why Lord Odfrey was
always warning him against going too deep into the forest. Gavril had never
expected to be caught like this, on foot and unable to defend himself. Sir
Vedrique stepped forward, and a warning arr skimmed in front of his face. The
young knight stopped sh and lifted his sword ever so slightly. “Now don’t get
fei; What clan are you, eh?” “We
are Clan Nega,” the brown-bearded dwarf said, “~‘t
are intruding on a sacred place, an old place.” “There’s
nothing here,” Gavril couldn’t help but say. He v still full of disappointment.
And angry. He wanted only to gone from this shrine that had mysteriously
promised so mi and had then withheld what he most wanted. “Nothing is lc Not
even an altar.” Several
of the dwarves glared and some of them muttei angrily in their heathenish tongue. ‘Take
care,“ Sir Vedrique murmured to Gavril, never taki his gaze off the dwarves.
”We’ve made ’em mad enough ready.“ Gavril
had no liking for the reprimand, but his own go sense told him this was no time
to argue. “Ain’t
no offense intended here,” Sir Vedrique said. “A didn’t know this place was
sacred. We’ve been hunting be and thought we might have found a lair.” Some
of the dwarves laughed. The scorn in their laugh made Gavril flush. He clenched
his fists, annoyed with I Vedrique. Why must the knight make them sound like fools? “You
hunt boar on foot?” the brown-bearded dwarf asked slow, incredulous smile
spreading across his face. “You go ir boar dens?” Sir
Vedrique shrugged. “Yon cave stinks so bad, we thoug it had to be—” More
laughter came from the dwarves. They chattered I gether in their barbarous
language. Gavril fumed and threw 5 Vedrique a glare. The knight raised his
brows in return ai shook his head quickly. Gavril clenched his jaw, keeping qu:
with an effort. “We
didn’t know this was one of your sacred places,” 2 Vedrique said. “We apologize
if we have offended.” “We
apologize,” Sir Los said from behind Gavril. Gavril’s
scowl deepened. If this tale got back to Thirst Hoi he would be a laughingstock.
Hunting boars on foot indeed. I was far from being such a fool. “Say
it, yer highness,” Sir Vedrique whispered. “Say
what?” Gavril asked, but he knew. “Ask
them for pardon,” Sir Los murmured. Gavril’s
back stiffened. He opened his mouth to protest, but the brown-bearded dwarf
looked at him sharply. Meeting that astute, suspicious gaze, Gavril swallowed
his pride as a prince and a hunter. He said, “I beg your pardon for intruding
here.” The
dwarf said something to his companions, and the drawn bows were relaxed. “There
is good hunting in Mandria,” the dwarf said sternly. “You stay off Nega lands.
We want no trouble with men.” Gavril
opened his mouth to say he would hunt where he pleased, but Sir Vedrique spoke
first: “Aye. We’ll not trespass again.” “Then
go,” the brown-bearded dwarf said. “And come not ever again to this place.” Sir
Vedrique gave Gavril a light nudge in the back with the tip of his sword.
Furious, his face on fire, Gavril strode over to his horse and climbed into his
saddle. He would look at no one. In silence, Sir Vedrique and Sir Los mounted. “Get
that man,” Gavril said in a low, angry voice, pointing at the dead knight. The
body was lifted across the withers of one of the horses, since the dead man’s
own mount had run off. The small party rode away at a nervous trot, the dwarves
watching them go. Gavril
still burned with humiliation. As soon as they were safely out of earshot, and
the cave and its guardians far behind them, he drew rein and glared at Sir
Vedrique. “How
dare you make a fool of me,” he said. “You are dismissed from my service.” Annoyance
crossed Sir Vedrique’s face. He hesitated a moment, then bowed. “As yer
highness says.” “It
is bad enough that we were caught in such a position,” Gavril went on, glaring
at all of them now. “How could the rest of you let them sneak up on us like
that? Taking us like—” “We heard naught,” one of the knights said defensively. “That’s hardly
an excuse,” Gavril said. “It’s your duty to protect me. And what did you do
instead? Sat there with your hands in the air and your mouths open. I’m through
with all of you.” “Since
you ain’t going hunting no more in Nold,” Sir Vedrique said coldly, “mayhap
it’s just as well that we are dis- missed.
My rump’s getting galled from so much riding on this quest of yers.“ Gavril
gritted his teeth. He wanted to lash out at all of them and tell them just how
stupid and worthless they were. But Sir Los was frowning at him in warning.
Gavril remembered that these men’s allegiance to him was of the lightest kind.
They had sworn him no oath as they had to Lord Odfrey. Nor were these the best
of Lord Odfrey’s men. Of the five ranks of knighthood, these were all at the
bottom. The worst paid, they were chronically broke, gambling away what little
they earned. If they could be bribed with ale and coinage, their characters
were thin at best. Gavril realized suddenly that if he went too far in insulting
them, there might be another unfortunate accident here in the forest. Sir Los
would die to protect him, but Sir Los was outnumbered four to one. Sir
Vedrique’s hostile expression eased a bit when Gavril said nothing else.
Slumping in his saddle, the knight pointed at the dead man. “We’d better make
ourselves a story.” Gavril
frowned. “Story? Why should we explain?” Some
of the men laughed. Sir
Vedrique, however, was not laughing. “If you think Sir Bosquecel will not be
asking questions when we bring in a dead man, yer highness needs to think
again.” “Then
you will explain it,” Gavril said. “I need not trouble myself.” “Here!”
Sir Vedrique said sharply. “We’ve come out with you into this damned forest,
where none of us are supposed to be. What will I say, that one of us shot him
instead of a stag we were coursing? ‘We made a mistake, Sir Bosquecel. Sorry,
and we’ll take more care the next time’?” “Mind
your tone,” Sir Los growled, but the younger knight went on glaring at Gavril. “I’ll
see you’re paid extra for your trouble,” Gavril said. “Aye,
that goes without saying. As for this corpse—” Sir
Los drew rein abruptly and blocked the path of the rider bringing the dead man.
“Bury him here and say he deserted.” Everyone stared at Sir Los, and Gavril’s bad temper
abruptly cooled. It was one thing to claim he hunted on Thirst land and did not
defy Lord Odfrey’s orders against exploring the Dark Forest; it was another to
conceal a murder, to hide the body and lie about it. Such a lie would have to
be kept forever. Feeling
strange and cold, Gavril gripped his Circle. The men stared at him, waiting for
him to decide. The dead knight, oaf that he was, deserved more than a hasty
grave scratched in the forest. Rites should be said to protect his body at
least, but there was no one among them who could do the task. Gavril himself
knew the correct prayers, but he had no intention of blaspheming by trying to
act as a priest. This
was wrong. Gavril felt he should ride back to Thirst and deliver a frank
confession to Lord Odfrey of what he’d done and why. But his quest was private,
a deeply personal thing. Lord Odfrey would condemn him for it, would point out
all the unpleasant details such as disobedience, unnecessary risk, and now,
disaster. Gavril felt that today’s crushing disappointments were all he could
bear. He was running out of time, and he had failed to accomplished the one
objective that could have made him great. Enduring a reprimand from Lord Odfrey
would be too much. He
looked up and met Sir Los’s eyes. The protector’s rounded face gave nothing
away. It never did. “See
that it’s done,” Gavril said harshly. As
he watched the work commence, he knew he was making a mistake. The dead man was
of the faithful. He should not be buried out here in secret, in unhallowed
ground, certain prey for anything evil that wished to dig him up. Still, th*;
arrow had caught him in the throat. Surely his soul had been r sed and was now
safely where it belonged. Wrong or not, concealment would solve many problems.
Desertion was a simple explanation; no motive for it need be supplied. The
knights used the dead man’s sword to dig the grave, since the weapon could not
be kept anyway and the dulling of its blade did not matter. Gavril sat atop his
horse, his dogs nosing his stirrup and whining. How he wished he could ride on
and leave this dismal, gloomy forest behind. He would never come back. His
dreams and best intentions had been for naught. He had imperiled his conscience
for this holy mission, had prayed and sacrificed, and still he had failed. His
quest to find the missing Chalice was over. Four
days later, Dain and Lander returned. The plodding mule drew them along the
muddy ruts of the river road, where Dain saw a column of black smoke rising
above the trees beyond the marsh. Already edgy, he frowned and nudged Lander in
the ribs. “Look
yon,” he said. The
smith hunched his shoulders and slapped the reins harder on the mule’s rump.
His face was haggard from fear and lack of sleep, “Think you the hold is
burning?” Dain
shook his head. Already his senses told him that the hold was standing firm.
Nor had there been death in the deserted village they now passed through. The
killing had happened farther ahead, south of the hold, perhaps where that smoke
was coming from. Images of agony and blood flashed through his mind. For an
instant he seemed to be elsewhere, as though his spirit had been yanked
backward in time to the vicinity of that recent battle. He could even hear the
screams of the dying mingling with the shrieks of Nonkind. The very air hung
thick with the stench of evil. Dain
shivered despite the sultry heat of the afternoon, and with great effort he
wrenched his mind back to the here and now. Thirst knights had fought. Some had
died in the four days Dain and Lander had been gone; Dain didn’t want to know
which ones. Already his heart felt torn with horror and grief over how suddenly
and unexpectedly danger had come to Thirst in his absence. He
should not have left. He should have been here with his comrades, fighting
alongside them. Instead, he had been off in the Dark Forest, striking bargains
that Lander could have made alone. Dain
clenched his fists on his knees, gritting his teeth as the cart wheels jounced
over the ruts. He wanted to jump down and race ahead on foot, but at the same
time he feared what he might find. It
was a hot, sultry day, the air sticky and close with no breeze stirring.
Although the sun shone strong and bright, the world seemed to have stilled
itself, waiting for trouble the way small rodents hide under the blades of
grass when vixlets hunt the meadow. On the distant horizon, storm clouds were
massing. Now and then Dain heard a distant rumble of thunder. The
weary mule slowed down as they passed through the village’s abandoned huts.
Crude doors stood ajar. Kettles and brooms lay on the ground where they’d been flung
down. A half-mended fishing net hung on a pole frame, with the mending cords
still swinging by their knotted ends in the breeze. A
noise from behind them made Dain spin around on the cart seat, his hand
reaching for his dagger. “Demons!”
Lander shouted, and whacked the mule so hard it shambled forward into a trot. Nearly
overbalanced, Dain gripped the smith’s shoulder. “Have care!” he said. “It’s
just a dog.” Lander
glanced back unwillingly, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. The
mongrel, spotted black and white with burrs matted in its floppy ears, slunk
away between two huts. Its tail wagged nervously against the wall, making a
hollow thunk of sound. “A
dog,” Dain repeated in relief, his heart beating too fast. Lander
gulped in several deep breaths. Perspiration beaded down his face, darkening
his fringe of red hair. Hastily he drew a circle on his chest. “Thod is
merciful.” Sheathing
his dagger, Dain gripped Lander’s slack hand and shook the reins to make the
mule walk on. “Let’s get to Thirst before dark.” Lander
mumbled something and gave the mule a halfhearted tap with the whip. Dain
sighed. He’d sweated through his tunic so much it had plastered itself to his back.
He wished he was carrying salt in his pockets. When he lived with Jorb he never
left the burrow without filling his pockets from the barrel kept standing
always at the door, a wooden scoop jammed upright in its center. But while he’d
been living at Thirst, he’d lost the habit. Men depended on swords and stout
walls to protect them. Right now, Dain and Lander had neither. At
the end of the village grew a copse of trees that blocked a clear view of the
road beyond. Dain disliked the place, for the bushes grew close and thick, and
he could not see ahead. He smelled no Nonkind, but the flick of men-minds
suddenly as- saulted
his senses. At the same moment, a squad of horsemen in armor burst upon them
from the cover of the trees. Before
Dain could draw his dagger, they were surrounded, and a lance tip hovered at
Lander’s throat. The
smith sat frozen, his face red, his mouth hanging open. He tried to speak, but
could only sputter. Dain
sat beside him with his dagger half-drawn. Already he’d noted with alarm that
these knights did not wear the dark green of Thirst. Their surcoats were
scarlet, and their cloaks black. The eyes of strangers glittered through the
slits of their helmets. “State
your name and business here,” ordered a gruff voice. Lander
whimpered in the back of throat, and it was Dain who answered: “This is Lander,
smith of Thirst Hold. I am called Dain.” “Easily
said, but harder to prove—” “By
what right do you question us?” Dain demanded. “Who are you!
What hold is yours?” The
lance remained at Lander’s throat. Dain could feel the smith’s rigid tension.
His fear hung sour on the air. The
knight who had spoken now dipped his head slightly to Dain. He flipped up his
visor, revealing a thin, chiseled face made distinguished by an elegant chin
beard and mustache. His eyes were dark brown, and although he did not smile the
fierceness had relaxed in his gaze. “A
bold tongue you have, boy,” he replied. “ ‘Tis a pity I can believe you not.
Neither of you have the look of Mandria. You wear no livery to mark you as
Thirst folk.” Lander
pulled back his head, taking his throat a few inches away from the steel tip of
that lance, which so far had not wavered. “Livery!” he repeated, sounding
offended. “Does a smith wear the tabard of a varlet?” “Nay,
but smiths do not journey far from their forge either,” the man replied. One
of the other knights rode up beside him and spoke softly, to his ear alone. The
bearded knight frowned, then nodded and gave Dain a closer scrutiny. “Dain, is
it?” “Yes.” “Are
you Chevard Odfrey’s foster eld who ran away four days past?” Dain’s
chin lifted haughtily. “I am both eld and a foster,” he said. “I did not run
away.” The
knight’s gaze grew cold, but he made no response. Instead, he rode alongside
the cart and peered down at its cargo. “What are you hauling?” “Metal
for my work,” Lander said. His voice was swift, high, and nervous. “There’s
much to do before the great tournament in Savroix a month from now. A few times
a year I go to the dwarves of Nold to buy what I need.” Again
they got a sharp look. Feeling the hostility emanating from these strangers,
Dain frowned. He did not take his hand off his dagger. “You’ve
been in the Dark Forest, then,” the knight said. “Aye,”
Lander said. “And a mortal bad time in getting back. The whole world has turned
upside down these past few days. Nonkind everywhere, and all sorts of—” Dain
pinched his side to silence him and glared up at the knight. “By what authority
do you question us?” he demanded. “What names do you bear? Who is your liege?
What hold do you—” “Hush,”
Lander whispered furiously to him. “Cause us no trouble. Curb your tongue,
boy!” Dain
ignored him. “What is your name, sir knight?” he called out to the bearded man. The
man seemed momentarily amused. “I am Lord Renald, chevard of Lunt Hold.” Dain
stared, realizing belatedly that he should have noticed the quality of the
man’s splendid armor, the good breeding of his horse, the aristocratic air in
his cultured voice. Gulping at his breach of courtesy, Dain bowed awkwardly to
the man. “Your
pardon, lord,” he said with more courtesy. “But what brings you here to Thirst
lands? Have you been fighting the Nonkind?” “You
know there’s been a battle,” Lord Renald said, frowning. One
of the other knights swore violently. “Aye, he knows it, the sly demon-caller—” Lord
Renald’s head whipped around, and the other knight abruptly fell silent. “Let
them pass,” Lord Renald said, reining his horse aside. The
lance trained on Lander swung away from his throat. The
riders blocking the road reined their horses aside, leaving the way clear. Lander
clucked to his mule, but Dain’s suspicions grew. There was much wrong, much he
did not understand. Lord
Renald sent Lander a stern look. “Head straight to the hold. Make no stops
until you reach the gates. The way is clear, but it’s been won at a hard cost.” “Yes,
m’lord,” Lander said, bobbing up and down with gratitude. “Thank you, m’lord.” The
chevard gestured at one of his men. “Go with them. Make sure the boy arrives
and is presented to Lord Odfrey with my compliments.” The
man inclined his head, his eyes glittering angrily through the slits in his
helmet. “Aye, m’lord. Though wouldn’t it be faster to take him up behind my
saddle and ride straight there—” “No,”
Lord Renald said firmly. “Let him return as he left. The affair is not our
concern.” “When
men die on a field of—” “Sir
Metain, you have your orders.” The
knight bowed. “Aye, m’lord.” “If
you please, Lord Renald,” Dain said in puzzlement, trying to sort out what
their exchange meant. “What is—” “Hush,” Lander commanded him, elbowing him. “Hold your fool
tongue and let us go.” “But—” Lander
whipped the mule, sending the cart lurching forward. They bounced out from
beneath the trees and up onto the paved road. In silence the knights of Lunt
watched them go, their black cloaks blending into the shadows of the copse,
their red surcoats vivid, like splashes of blood. Sir
Metain came trotting after them, grim and silent on his war charger. Lander’s
face burned bright red. “Thod’s thumbs,” he muttered. “Lord Renald himself, and
you speaking up as bold as brass. Morde a day, what will become of us now?” “I
gave him little insult,” Dain said, glancing back once more. “I just asked for
his name. What right, lord or no, does he have here, stopping us and making his
demands?” “What
right?” Lander said, clearly horrified by such a question. “What right? The
right of a lord. What do you think?” “But
he is not lord of this land,” Dain said. “He is not chevard of Thirst. What battle
has been done? And why? How did it all happen so suddenly, in the short time we
were gone? Did you know there was trouble brewing out here, Lander? Did you go
to meet Baldrush despite it?” “What
trouble?” Lander said, but he would not meet Dain’s eyes. “Had you heard aught?
You live closer with the knights than do I. Why would I risk my life dodging
Nonkind and all sorts of demons if I did not have to?” Dain
was not convinced. “Because you wanted this mag-icked metal.” “Hush!”
Lander said, glancing back at Sir Metain. He looked at his load, the two
special bars wrapped in cloth to hide them from view. “No one is to know about
what I’m doing. No one!” His
thick, calloused hand, powerful from a lifetime of wielding a hammer, gripped
Dain’s forearm and squeezed almost hard enough to crack bones. “Keep quiet
about it. Morde a day, what eld has ever had a tongue like yours? Supposed to
keep yourself to yourself, you are, not challenging chevards and asking
questions.” “But
something’s amiss,” Dain insisted. “Is
it now?” Lander retorted with exasperation. “And what would that be? The fact
that we’ve barely returned with our lives? The fact that some village yon is on
fire and every other village we’ve come to has been deserted or looted or both?
What could be amiss? You’re daft, boy, daft!” “You
don’t understand. I mean—” “What
you mean is that you should be quiet,” Lander said. He urged the mule onward. “Why
should we have a guard?” Dain asked, glancing again at Sir Metain. “What did
they mean about me being returned faster?” “So
you can be flogged for going without permission, I expect,” Lander said. “That’s
unfair!” Dain said angrily. “You asked me to go with you.” “Aye,
I needed your help, not that you gave much.” “How
could I bargain well with you looking so keen?” Lander
and Dain glared at each other. The smith was the first to drop his gaze and
sigh. “Now, now, no need to quarrel. I gave you your reward, as we agreed.
Let’s put an end to it. If his lordship’s wrathful with you, I can’t help. I
told you to ask for permission to come with me, Dain. If you didn’t get it,
then there’s naught I can do.“ Dain
knotted his fists in his lap and scowled at them. He realized now he’d been
foolish to hope that his troubles would go away during his absence. It looked
like they’d only grown worse. They
rolled on in silence, while the walls of the hold rose ahead of them. To Dain’s
worried eye, Thirst looked the same as always, although more sentries manned
the battlements. The gates were closed, and Lander had to shout for them to be
opened. A
guard peered down at them from the wall. “Thod’s mercy,” he said. “Look at
what’s turned up.” “Open
the gate,” Lander said impatiently. “Open and let us safe inside. We’ve dealt
with enough. Open!” Strain
made his voice crack. Dain’s own weariness sagged clear to his bones. He was
tired from little sleep, since they had to take turns keeping watch through the
tense nights, and ravenous, for Lander’s provisions had not lasted through the
extra day it had taken them to return. They’d avoided every settlement they
could and were forced periodically to hide, with Lander quaking and praying
beneath his breath while Nonkind rode by. They’d had no trouble going into the
Dark Forest and reaching the place where Lander was to meet with Baldrush the
dwarf, but coming home had been fraught with problems from the moment Dain
first sniffed Nonkind and warned Lander to drive them into cover. Trolk—the
first Dain had seen in years—had come marauding by, a snarling pack. Although
marching at a fast pace, they stopped periodically to dig their claws into the
bark of trees, and the clacking sound of claws against wood still haunted Dain.
Dripping saliva from their yellowed fangs, their tiny stupid eyes peering out
from beneath a jutting ledge of browbone, they had hobbled along on their bowed
awkward legs with their back hair standing up in hostility. They passed Lander
and Dain’s hiding place while Dain crouched low, holding the nostrils of the
mule and using his mind to control its panic. With its eyes rolled white and
its ears laid flat, the mule stood tense and quaking until the band of trolk
were long gone. Their rancid stink trailed after them, hanging in the air so
thickly Lander gagged on it. “Never
have I seen demons such as them,” the smith said, gasping for air. “They
aren’t demons,” Dain said. “They lived in the Dark Forest before the dwarves
claimed it. Long, long ago the dwarf clans joined forces and killed the trolk
kings. Now the trolk are few. They roam and dig their lairs, but seldom do they
march like this. Not banded together.” He
frowned, worried by how unusual it was. “I
care nothing about these puzzles,” Lander declared. “I just want to get home to
Thirst, with no more trouble.” But
they found trouble at almost every turn. Had they been on foot, they could have
abandoned the narrow road that wound through the forest and taken the shortest
way back, but the cart, loaded with the metal Dain had bargained for at the
price of six-and-thirty gold dreits, hampered them greatly. Lander would not
consider abandoning it. Each time Dain sensed someone approaching ahead or from
behind, they had to pull the cart off the trail and conceal both it and the
mule, hiding until the way was clear again. Their journey home lengthened by
hours, then by an entire day. Had
Dain not led the mule through the dark for half a night, they would still be on
their road, far from here. Now
the sentry on the wall shouted at Lander to back up his cart, leave it by the
wall out of the way, and unhitch his mule. “What?”
Lander shouted back. “Are you daft, man? I can’t leave this load out here to be
stolen.” “Your
cart won’t fit through the petite-porte, and that’s all I am allowed to open,”
the sentry shouted down. “Thod’s
bones,” Lander swore. “After all I’ve gone through, I will not leave my load.
Open the main gate!” Sir
Metain rode up beside him and interrupted the argument. “You know these two,
sentry?” “Aye,
sir, I do. It’s Lander, our smith, and the boy Dain.” “Compliments
of Lord Renald,” Sir Metain said. His voice was gruff and hostile. “We caught
this pair sneaking along the river road north of here. I am to deliver this boy
into Lord Odfrey’s hands.” “And
Lord Odfrey will thank you sweetly,” the sentry replied. “We’ve searched long
and hard for him, at least u the trouble started.” “Open
your petite-porte, and let them through,” Sir Mel said. The
sentry vanished, his voice bawling the order. Lander
knotted his fists and fumed. “I won’t leave my c Morde and damne all besides. I
won’t leave it!” “Calm
yourself,” Dain said, eying him with concern. “W carry the metal inside. It
will be safe.” Lander
blinked, and relief brightened his face. “Aye,” said, nodding. “Aye! Of course,
of course. That can be done He jumped off the cart and ran to the head of his
mule. 1 poor, lathered beast, weary to his very bones, refused to
ti aside. His head was pointed toward the gate, and no amount coaxing,
swearing, or use of the whip would induce him to b; the cart away. An
ear-splitting screech came from the winch inside gates. Slowly the narrow gate
inside the main one creaked way open. Dain ran to the back of the cart and
pulled out board gate. He climbed atop the metal bars, shifting the m
icked ones first. Wrapped
in cloth, they emitted an inaudible hum that r onated deep inside Dain’s mind.
He almost dropped them, there was something repellent about this raw metal,
someth dark and tainted within the spell that had cast it from ore. Juggling
the bars about so that he could hand them dowr Lander, Dain recalled that he
had not trusted Baldrush, dwarf they’d purchased this metal from—no, not at
all. Th was a strangeness about him that bothered Dain immediate Baldrush was
tall for his kind; his head came nearly to Dai shoulder. His face was narrow
and gaunt. His eyes burned w yellow fire. He had a way of muttering to himself
within beard. He paced about, his fingers clutching and unclutch: the air. He
was never still. Always he kept moving and twit ing, muttering and pacing, his
eyes darting this way and t’t Even the shift of Lander’s shadow on the ground made Ba
rush jump. It
was the ore madness, Dain knew. Jorb had warned him the perils of working too
much with magicked metal. Glanc at Lander’s red, intense expression now, Dain
hoped the sm did not catch the affliction. “Give
it to me!” Lander commanded, grunting with the effort to grasp the ends of the
bars. “Careful! Don’t let them slip.” Dain
was glad to release the bars. He crouched atop the load of ordinary metal, his
hands still tingling unpleasantly from contact with the magic, and watched
Lander hurry through the petite-porte with his treasure. Annoyance
filled Dain as he realized he’d been left out here to cope with the rest of the
load. He saw Sir Metain watching him, and Dain’s anger grew. Defiantly
he jumped down. He’d worked for Lander like a serf for four days, all for the
two pieces of gold now jingling in his pocket. But he wasn’t going to carry all
this metal inside, especially not by himself. Overhead,
the sun abruptly vanished behind a cloud, and the sky turned black and violent.
Wind gusted up, buffeting Dain, who went to unharness the mule. Lightning
flashed, with a deafening clap of thunder that made the mule rear, and rain
fell in a torrent. Soaked
to the skin in seconds, Dain pulled off the harness, wincing at the sight of
the galled sores on the mule’s withers, and tossed the harness into the cart.
Great forks of lightning jabbed the sky. One struck the ground out in the
marsh. Dain heard the crack and sizzle, saw a tree burst into flames that were
extinguished by the pounding rain. The noise of the downpour was deafening.
Wind buffeted Dain from all sides. The ground at his feet streamed with water.
Already his shoes were sinking into the mud. Sir Metain was shouting at him,
gesturing for him to get inside. Squinting and gasping, his hair plastered to
his skull, Dain led the mule forward and coaxed him through the narrow gate. Sir
Terent stood there, his ruddy face scrunched and squinting inside its mail
coif. “Dain, hurry!” he shouted. He
gripped Dain by the shoulder of his tunic and dragged him inside. Someone else
took the reins and led the mule away. The
sudden contrast of shelter after the raging torrent outside left Dain stunned
and breathless. He huddled there in the dry, with water dripping from his
clothes, while the petite-porte was winched closed again. The cable that
controlled it groaned and creaked. Its hinges shrieked from disuse, but at last
it slammed closed, and a stout bar was thrown across it. “What
about Lander’s metal?” Dain asked. “It’s
not going anywhere!” Sir Terent replied. He gripp< Dain by both shoulders
and shook him roughly. “So you‘ alive, young rascal. I never thought we’d see
you again.” “Lord
Renald caught him,” Sir Metain said. “I am to tal him straight to your
chevard.” Staring
out at the keep from beneath the portcullis, Dain sa knights running for
shelter in all directions. Most wore Thь green, but some displayed the black
and scarlet of Lunt. All them had on hauberks, their swords hanging from their
hip their cloaks soaking up the rain. They were splattered wi mud, mire, and
blood, and shouted to each other as they dashi to get out of the rain. Squires
and servants milled around, co ing with war chargers alarmed by the storm. The
confusi< meant that these men must have ridden in shortly before Da and
Lander themselves arrived. Dain
sensed the battle fierceness still raging in their mind Sir Nynth came ducking
under the portcullis into the narrc space of shelter by the gates. He saw Dain
and his face brigl ened momentarily. “Dain!” he said in a mixture of relief and
e asperation. “Thod be thanked, and Tomias too. Where in all’t three worlds
have you been?” Dain
opened his mouth, but Sir Terent stepped betwei them. “It’s
a long story, by the looks of him. Lunt riders caug him.” “They
didn’t catch me,” Dain said indignantly. “Lander a I were coming home. We’d
have been back yesterday if not f having to hide from Nonkind patrols. Why have
they dar come this far into the open? Did they attack the hold? Wha been
afire?” “One
of the villages to the south,” Sir Nynth replied. I
voice was grave. He looked weary and grim. “Is
that Dain?” called out another voice. Sir Polquin cai striding up, a mixture of
emotions afire in his face. “Whe have you been? Morde, the trouble you’ve
caused.” “Save
it,” Sir Terent growled before Dain could respor “You better get yourself to
the chevard at once.” Dain
glanced at Sir Metain. “I don’t need him to go w me. The
knight from Lunt scowled, but Sir Polquin interced< “This
is our business, friend knight,” he said. “We’ll handle it in our own way.” “You’d
better keep a close eye on the creature,” Sir Metain said. “If he betrayed you
once, he’ll do it again.” Dain
glared at him. “What? Who have I betrayed?” He
found his answer in the grim faces surrounding him, in the censure and doubt
that filled every eye. “He’s
been in the Dark Forest,” Sir Metain said. “Admitted it to Lord Renald bold as
brass.” “We
were buying metal,” Dain said. He pointed at the gate. “It’s right out there.
Ask Lander. He wanted me to go with him to do the bargaining.” “You
can explain yourself to Lord Odfrey,” Sir Polquin said. Both condemnation and
disappointment could be heard in his voice. Dain
stared at them in horror. Why did they think he’d brought the Nonkind here? “I
didn’t—” “Dain,
just go,” Sir Terent said. “But
I—” The
knight gave him a shove. “Be off!” As
Dain hurried away, Sir Terent said to the others, “Boys be pretty much the
same, whether they be pagan or of the faithful. They don’t think. They just go
off on adventures at a whim.” “Maybe,”
Sir Polquin said. “Maybe not.” Sir
Nynth shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to stand in his shoes while he faces
Lord Odfrey.” “Will
he?” Sir Metain asked doubtfully, still looking as though he meant to follow
Dain out into the downpour. With his hand on his sword hilt, he stood at the
edge of the shelter and glowered at Dain, who was hesitating, soaked and
miserable, while they talked about him. “Will he go and do as he is bidden?” “Aye,”
Sir Terent said. “He will. He’s a good boy, our Dain.” “We
needed him and his luck with us today,” Sir Nynth added. Dain
frowned, forcing himself to turn away, then he was dodging and twisting through
the crowded keep. He saw no reason for Lord Odfrey to be angry at him. He’d
been gone only a few days. Was he a prisoner here? Had he no freedom to come
and go if it pleased him? Lord Odfrey saw little use in him as it was. Why
should the chevard care where Dain went or wil whom? But
despite his inner defiance, Dain knew very well th he’d broken the rules of the
hold by leaving without permi sion. He’d
had plenty of time to think it over while riding on th uncomfortable cart. He’d
been prepared to return with humilit and he’d come to accept Lord Odfrey’s
decision to withdra him from the squire contest. He was, after all, eld.
Although tl men of Thirst Hold might make a pet of him and give him n of the
place, he knew he must never forget that he was not equ to the other boys. Something
deep inside Dain’s heart burned with anger that, but he ignored it, telling himself
it was the way of tl world. He must never forget the lessons about men-ways th
Jorb had tried to instill in him. Forgetting led to blind trust, ai that left
him vulnerable to being hurt. He liked and admin Lord Odfrey very much; he had
even respected the man. B Lord Odfrey was what he was. He dealt less hurt than
oth men, but he was still capable of acting arbitrarily and unjustl You are not like the other fosters, Dain reminded himsi often during his trip with Lander. You are eld, and will alwa be the less for it. Had
he been a simpleton or born with a humble heart, thought, his lot in life would
have been easier. He would ha been grateful for shelter and food. He would have
been pleas at the training in arms they’d given him. He would not ha wanted
more, or been ashamed of his mean estate and qui tionable birth. He would not
wonder why he owned a piece bard crystal—he and his sister both—and he would
never qui tion where he’d come from or why he’d been driven from tl place, cast
out to struggle on his own. He would not dream all that his life could be. He
would concern himself only w where he walked at this moment, thinking neither
behind h nor ahead. He would be content. Most
important, his heart would never ache the way it < right now. He had counted the knights his friends. He had grown to
cept and believe in their rough affection. During the last f< days, he had
struggled hard to lose his pride and come to ter with Lord Odfrey’s decision. But
now, he found that they blamed him for the raiding of the Nonkind and the
battle that had been fought. What greater injustice could there be than this? Fresh
anger boiled up inside him. He told himself that if the knights could turn on
him this quickly and believe him capable of betraying them to the Nonkind, then
he didn’t want to be here. He would leave Thirst for good, and Thod smite them
all. Rain
continued to pour, hammering Dain’s skin. Drops hit the ground with such
violence they bounced up. Water was flooding the keep, turning it into a bog of
mud and manure. Grooms hurried along, leading war chargers with rain-soaked
manes and stringy tails, empty stirrups flapping as they trotted by. The
villagers had pitched makeshift tents across the keep’s expanse. They huddled
inside their crude shelters, peering out at the rain, their livestock milling
about in everyone’s way. Slipping and sliding in the mire, Dain made his way
through the small set of inner gates and into the cobbled stableyard beyond. The
stables were jammed with horses. A fodder barn had been cleaned out to shelter
more, but it was overflowing too. Others were tied outside these structures,
standing with their rumps to the wind, their ears flat with misery. The groom
who had passed Dain moments before was now carrying his master’s saddle
indoors. As
Dain jogged through the rain, squinting, his shoulders hunched up, he saw the
Thirst stableboys standing in the doorway, gawking and chewing straws. One
of them pointed at Dain and said something, but just then more lightning clawed
the sky, nearly blinding Dain. Thunder seemed to break the world apart. He
cried out, dropping to his knees with his hands clapped over his ears, and saw
a jagged fork of lighting hit the banner pole atop the west tower. Sparks and
fire flew in all directions, scoring a black mark on the stone. The air was
choked with the burned smell of it, and Dain abandoned his idea of going all
the way to the Hall. Fearing
that he might be struck by a lightning bolt, Dain glanced at the stables, but
the doors were now shut and everyone had vanished. He
looked across at Sulein’s tower and headed for it at a run. If the world was
ending, he wanted his bard crystal in hand. The
door leading in to Sulein’s tower was unlocked. Dain pushed his way inside,
gasping with relief as he slammed the door behind him. The interior of the
tower lay shrouded in gloom, relieved only by the flashes of lightning seen
through the small windows cut in the staircase wall. Dain
leaned against the door to catch his breath and wipe the water from his face.
His hair dripped down inside his collar, but he was so wet he hardly noticed.
Gripping the hem of his tunic, he wrung it out as best he could, leaving a
puddle on the floor, then squelched his way up the stairs in his sodden shoes. As
he climbed, he could smell the peculiar combination of herbs and potions which
always lingered here. He felt the resonance of weak magic and half-formed
spells which permeated the place. His heart started to beat faster, but he kept
going. He
would never find it easy to be near the physician, but if luck was with him
today Sulein would be elsewhere, attending wounded men. It
was not to be. Dain
reached the top of the stairs and walked to Sulein’s door. No sooner did he
grip the iron ring than Sulein yanked the door open. Standing
framed in the doorway, his loose brown robe stained and discolored as usual
from the ill effects of his experiments, the physician stared down at Dain with
a toothy smile. “So,”
he said, “you have returned in a storm of sky fire and thunder. Come inside,
eld. Long months have I waited for you to come to me.” Dain
opened his mouth, but could say nothing. The hair prickled on the back of his
neck. In that moment, lightning flashed outside the windows, and its eerie
white light threw strange shadows across the physician’s face, as though a
skull were gazing down at Dain. He stood there frozen with dismay, every
instinct warning him to run from this man who craved the dark secrets of a sorcerel. Sulein’s
fevered smile faded, and he reached out his hand as though to draw Dain in.
“Come,” he said again. “There is something you want, is there not? Something
that is yours? What will you give me in exchange for it? What eld secrets will
you share?” As
he spoke he stood aside and gestured at the interior of his workroom. The place
was filled with shadows and gloom, with no lamps or candles lit to illuminate
it. Yet suddenly at a wave of Sulein’s long-fingered hand a glow of lambent
light came from nowhere and fell across a wooden box on one of the tables. Dain
could sense his bard crystal within it, could almost hear it. That Sulein
should have possession of it, that he should guard it from its rightful owner
incensed Dain so much he forgot his fear. “Come
inside,” Sulein said softly, his eyes bright and eager. “Let us bargain.” And
Dain stepped over the threshold into his lair. Outside, the storm ceased as
abruptly as it had begun. Aware of the silence, when moments before rain had
been pounding on the conical roof of Sulein’s tower, Dain blinked and looked
around. He drew in a deep breath, and suddenly his mind cleared. He
could tell where Sulein had gripped his emotions, especially his resentment,
and where he sought to manipulate him. Frowning, Dain glanced at the physician
without meeting the man’s eyes and ran across the room to grip the box with
both hands. “Put
it down!” Sulein said in alarm. “You have not my permission to touch it.” Paying
him no heed, Dain opened the box. His pendant lay glittering inside upon a
scrap of fine cloth, its cord coiled neatly around it. An assortment of other
items lay scattered next to it, including a large ring with runes carved on its
band. Dain ignored everything but what belonged to him. He picked up the bard
crystal, and heard it sing softly within the curl of his fingers. Soothed
by its faint melody, Dain smiled, but Sulein grabbed the pendant from his hand. “No!”
he said firmly. “You may not take it from this place of safekeeping. We will
talk first.” Anger
swept Dain. He snarled a curse in dwarf and reached for his dagger. Sulein’s
intense eyes met Dain’s and held them. Neither of them spoke in that moment,
and no magic was used. Yet Dain left his dagger half-drawn, his chest heaving
with every furious breath as he battled himself. “You
do not wish to draw your weapon against me, Dain,” Sulein said quietly, his
dark face very serious behind his frizzy beard. “I am Lord Odfrey’s man, and no
warrior. Would you break the laws of this hold in such a way?” Dain
bared his teeth. “The pendant is mine. I want it back.” “Why?”
Sulein asked him. “So you can run away from Thirst for good? You had to return
today, of course, for your property. You were foolish to forget it the first
time, but then your temper is fierce, I think.“ “I
did not run away,” Dain said angrily. “If you are as wise as you claim you
would know this.” “Don’t
be impertinent,” Sulein replied. He placed the bard crystal back in his
strongbox and closed the lid. Dain
reached out, but Sulein carried the box across the room and placed it on a
shelf alongside numerous bottles and small clay pots. “No,”
he said, dusting off his long slender hands and returning. “Let us sit and have
our talk.” Dain
scowled, prickling with unease, and swung away from him. “What do you want in
exchange for my property? I have no secrets to share.” “Oh,
but you do. You are a treasure trove walking among us.” Sulein smiled. His dark
eyes shone through the gloom. “What do you fear, boy? Why will you not answer
my questions?” “I
have no knowledge of the dark ways,” Dain answered. “I can tell you nothing
about them.” Sulein
laughed, throwing back his head so far it was strange that his conical hat did
not fall off. “Ah, so that is it! I do not seek ways of the darkness or the
forbidden. This do I assure you, boy. Have you never studied?” “Studied
what?” Dain asked suspiciously. Sulein
seated himself on a stool. He gestured for Dain to do r the
same, but Dain remained standing, ready to run for the door if he had to. “Studied
knowledge, for its own sake,” Sulein replied, lighting several candles. Their
flickering glow reduced the gloom, driving back the shadows. The
room was cluttered as always, filled with stacks of old scrolls that looked so
brittle with age they would probably have crumbled to dust if anyone tried to
unroll them. A dead vixlet, embalmed and mounted, snarled at Dain from atop the
shelves. Its eyes, made of colored glass, reflected the candlelight in an eerie
fashion, almost as though the thing were possessed. “Can
you read, Dain?” Sulein asked. “Of
course.” Sulein
picked up a scrap of parchment and held it out. When Dain kept his distance,
Sulein rattled it impatiently. “Oh,
come, come, boy, what have you to fear? Take the paper and tell me what it
says.” Dain
stepped closer reluctantly and saw small, strange characters drawn across the page.
Anger flared inside him. “Another game!” he said impatiently. “I have no time
for this. Give me my bard crystal!” “No,
Dain,” Sulein replied softly, his tone quite firm. “Not without Lord Odfrey’s
order.” “Then
I have other things to do.” Turning about, Dain headed for the door. “You
lived among the dwarves,” Sulein said after him. “Presumably you learned to
read and write in runes.” Dain
glanced back. “I have orders to report to Lord Odfrey. I cannot dally here, talking
of runes and such.” “Lord
Odfrey is busy with what has transpired during your absence. I believe he is
praying in the chapel now for the souls of the men who died in this day’s
battle.” Some
of Dain’s annoyance faded into concern. Some of those dead knights were surely
men he’d liked. He wanted to know their names, and yet he dreaded finding out. “There
is a little time,” Sulein said. “You know this, or you would not have come here
on your way to his lordship.” Dain
frowned, but Sulein was right. “Are there many dead?” he asked. “Since
when do you care about the fate of Mandrian serfs?” Dain’s
frown deepened. “I meant, are there many dead among the knights?” “You
care for them, then? As comrades?” “Of
course!” Dain said hotly. “What do you think of me? Why does everyone think I
had something to do with—” “You
have changed while living here among us,” Sulein said. “You have begun to think
more like a Mandrian and less like a dwarf.” “I
am neither,” Dain said flatly. “That
is correct. Were you born in Nether?” Sulein asked. The
sudden change of subject threw Dain for a moment. “I know not.” “Krogni da vletsna ryakilvn yla meratskya. Do you understand those words?” Sulein asked. “No,”
Dain said, but uneasily. Though the words meant nothing, their cadence had a
familiar rhythm and lilt. Thia used to sing a child’s song of nonsense words.
She taught him to sing it too, but neither of them knew what the words meant.
That little song was similar to what Sulein said. Dain felt cold inside. “Never go into Nether” Jorb had warned him and Thia most solemnly. “Seek not the eldin who live there.” “Did
Jorb your guardian ever speak to you in Netheran?” Sulein asked, “No.” “Did
he tell you where you came from?” “I
am eld,” Dain said harshly. “That is enough to know.” “You
are highborn, and you know it,” Sulein persisted. “Are you afraid to accept
this? Why? It is to your advantage to be educated, to know how to read and
write in more than one language. To have knowledge of classical learning so
that you can converse with others of your station.” “Station?”
Dain repeated. “I have no station except beggar! I am fostered here on charity,
with the superstitions of Lord Odfrey to thank. That is all I am.” “Nether
has been missing its rightful king for sixteen years,” Sulein said. “King
Muncel rules there, and it is Gant he allies himself with now, not Mandria. It
is said that King Tobeszijian is surely dead, but that his son, the rightful
heir to Nether’s throne, lives hidden in exile.” “What
do I care about Nether?” Dain said impatiently. “Save
that many eldin live there—or used to, before King Mun-cel drove them out.” Sulein
leaned forward, his eyes boring into Dain. “The rightful heir’s name is
Faldain.” He
seemed to be waiting for something. Expectancy hung on him like a cloak. Dain
laughed incredulously. “You jest, surely. Or do you think me a knave stupid
enough to believe such nonsense?” “It
is not nonsense,” Sulein said. “This is most important. You could be the
missing prince.” “I
am not,” Dain said. “My name is not—” “Dain
and Faldain are names almost identical,” Sulein said eagerly. “You are the
correct age.” Dain
stared at him with pity. What foolishness was this? “Dain is a common suffix to
many eldin names,” he said. “Faldain, Sordain, Landain, Cueldain ... What of
that? Oh, you paint a pretty dream. I would love to be a king, with a great
treasure in my storehouse and the life of a fable, but I am simply an eld,
orphaned and without family. I must live where I can, and keep myself alive.” “You
wear king’s glass,” Sulein said, but his voice had dropped to a whisper. Dain
sensed how desperately the man wanted his idea to be true. For an instant Dain
allowed himself to dream as well, but it was too impossible. He could not even
imagine it. In that unguarded moment, Sulein’s usual protections seemed to have
vanished. He sat there facing Dain, his hope plain to read in his face. Dain
could tell that this man wanted the reward and honor of finding the missing
heir to Nether’s throne. Sulein might bury himself in this workroom with his
studies and his experiments, but he was an ambitious man. He wanted too much. He
wanted from Dain what Dain did not have to give him. “The
pieces fit. Besides, only royalty may wear king’s glass,” Sulein said. “In
Mandria, yes,” Dain said, deliberately making his voice scornful. “But such is
not the custom elsewhere. As a man foreign-born, you should know better than to
think the custom of one land is the same in all.” Sulein’s
face reddened. He drew back as though he’d been struck. “Perhaps,” he muttered. “How
many refugees have fled from Nether in recent years?“ Dain asked. ”Families
have been divided and lost. I could belong to anyone. I have proof of nothing.“ “Prince
Faldain’s mother, the Queen Nereisse, was true eld,” Sulein said. “King
Tobeszijian was half-eld himself. It is allowed in Nether, to cross blood this
way. The old gifts of seeing are valued there, unlike here, where the church
has reformed much ... and caused much more to be lost.” “I
must go,” Dain said. Sulein
jumped off his stool. “You disappoint me. I thought you would have more
ambition for yourself.” “To
reach too high is to be struck down,” Dain said bitterly. “I cannot even vie
for the position of Lord Odfrey’s squire. How would you make me into a king?” Sulein
drew in a breath, his brow creasing with pity. “Ah, yes. Perhaps it is so, and
my ideas are only foolishness. Well, then, talk to me instead of eld magic. You
may trust me not to share what you say. I know that it is not always safe to
reveal too much knowledge of the old ways.” Dain
frowned, backing up a step. “There is no magic.” “I
know differently.” Sulein picked up a stick and held it out. “If you hold this
in your hand, will it sprout leaves and return to life?” Dain
held his hands at his side and glared at the physician. “No.” “I
have talked to Nocine the huntsman,” Sulein said. “You cast a spell and turned
him into a tree to save his life.” “I
created a vision, an illusion,” Dain protested. “You
have mastery over the animals.” “No.” “You
can touch the minds of men, read their thoughts perhaps. Oh, your abilities in
these areas are not as strong as mine, but I have studied and practiced many
years to learn the art of mind spells, while this you do naturally.” “I
am not like you!” Dain said sharply. “I do not—” “Wouldn’t
you like to increase your powers?” Sulein asked him. “Wouldn’t you like to know
how to wield them exactly as you wish, to use them for—” “No!”
Dain said. He hurried to the door, but it would not open. Frustrated, he tugged
at it, twisting the ring this way and that, but it was locked. He gave the
wooden panel a kick and turned back to face the physician. “When
you learn to put aside your fear, when you learn to open your mind to what you
truly are, then you will have a future of limitless possibilities,” Sulein
said. “I
have no desire to be a sorcerel,” Dain said defiantly. “Let me go.” “But
you were so eager to come inside before.” “That’s
when I thought you might give back my bard crystal,” Dain retorted. “Keeping my
property from me is theft.” Anger
touched Sulein’s eyes, and the air inside the room grew suddenly cold. “I
study, Dain,” he said after a long silence. “I guard. But I do not steal.
Remember that.” Dain
stood there, mute and angry, his blood pounding impatiently in his veins.
Sulein’s words were all lies and trickery. Nothing he said could be trusted. Outside,
the chapel bell began to ring, tolling the deaths solemnly while thunder
continued to roll in the skies. “I
must go,” Dain said. “One
last thing, and then you may relieve Lord Odfrey’s mind. Come over to the
light.” Sulein
walked away from Dain, leaving him to follow reluctantly. The physician bent
over another piece of parchment, writing on it with a glass pen spun from
myriad colors that shimmered in the candlelight. Putting
down his pen, he turned around and held up the parchment in front of Dain.
“Read what this says.” This
time Dain found himself looking at runes, simple ones, written in the old
style. New wariness entered him, for many times the old runes contained spells. “Well?”
Sulein prompted. “I
can read this.” “What
does it say?” Dain
said nothing. “What
does it say?” Dain
felt a pressure to respond. Angrily he gestured at Sulein. “Stop that! It will
not work on me.” The
pressure stopped, and Sulein frowned. “Your obstinance is most annoying. Why
can you not cooperate even in such a simple matter as this?” “Because
it’s not simple,” Dain said. “The old runes have power and spells in them. It—”
He stopped in mid-sentence and frowned. A memory bobbed to the surface of his
mind, and he sent Sulein a sharp look. “These are the runes carved on the band
of the old ring in your strongbox. You want to know what they say, but I
thought you could read—” “No,”
Sulein responded with visible discomfort. “I speak dwarf. I cannot read their
runes. At least not very well. What does this legend say?” “Where
did you get the ring?” Dain asked. “What do you want with an old ring like
that?” “Never
you mind. Just tell me what the runes say.” Dain
hesitated, tilting his head to one side. “You must give back my bard crystal.” Sulein’s
eyes grew angry. “You would have me defy Lord Odfrey?” “The
spells you practice and seek to learn in here defy him every day,” Dain
replied. “I
will not return the crystal to you,” Sulein said, lifting his chin. “Not until
Lord Odfrey commands me to do so.” “Then
I won’t tell you what the ring says.” Sulein
glared at him a long while. Dain stared right back, a tiny smile playing at the
corners of his mouth. In
the end, it was Sulein who broke eye contact, “Very well,” he said. “You may
have your king’s glass back.” Dain
held out his hand. Sulein
drew himself up with a huff. “Do you doubt my word? Translate the runes.” Dain
said nothing, just went on holding out his hand. Muttering
in his beard, Sulein glided over to the strongbox and took it off the shelf.
Dain hurried to him and received his pendant. Slipping it around his neck, Dain
reached into the box before Sulein could close the lid and grabbed up the ring. Holding
it aloft, he read its inscription loudly, “Solder’s ring!” The
stones in the walls of the tower shook slightly, and the ring’s great stone
glowed with white light. Sulein
turned pale. “Mareesh have mercy!” he cried in horror. Grabbing the ring away
from Dain, he threw it back into the box and slammed the lid shut. “Are you
mad, invoking its powers like that? It is not to be touched, never to be
touched without-the greatest care and protection.” Alarmed
by the reaction to what he meant as a joke, Dain stared at the physician.
“What, exactly, is it?” Sulein
looked shaken. Clutching the strongbox to his chest, he wiped his face with his
sleeve. “It is,” he said slowly, “what I hoped it to be. A miracle brought to
me by the gods and a peddler who sold it into my keeping for a piece of silver.
The Ring of Solder,” he said, his voice filled with awe. Dain
expected the walls to shake again, but all was now still. “I told you the old
runes have spells in them. If I say it again, will the walls shake a second
time?” “Foolish
boy, do not joke about things you do not understand,” Sulein admonished him
sternly. “So
who is Solder?” Dain asked with curiosity. “Not a dwarf king. I’ve never heard
of him.” “Someday
you will know the legend,” Sulein said. “If you do not already. You are a
tangle of lies before me, but I will unravel all of them to find the truth of
what you really are and what you really know.” “I
am not this missing king you’re looking for,” Dain said, hoping he wasn’t going
to start that again. “Believe me, if I were him, I’d—” “Go
away, Dain,” Sulein said, sounding tired. He waved his hand across the surface
of the door, and it unlocked with an audible click. “I have much to consider.
Now that I know this ring of legend truly exists, I must study its powers and
safeguard it properly. It is not a toy to be played with.” Dain
stepped around him, heading for his escape, but Sulein gripped him by the back
of his wet tunic and held him back. “Say
nothing about the ring,” he said fiercely. “Not to Lord Odfrey, not to anyone.
Swear this to me!” Dain
frowned at him with equal fierceness. “Then grant me one boon.” “Must
you barter over everything?” Dain
shrugged. “Blame it on my dwarf upbringing. I will keep silent, if you will
part the veils of seeing. Show me who I really am. Show me my father and
mother. Give me my past.” He
expected Sulein to jump on this. After all, the physician still wanted to name
him King of Nether. But instead Sulein frowned and shook his head. “No,”
he said portentously. “Not now. I have other things to study.” In
a flash, Dain knew the truth. Fresh anger welled up inside him. “You do not
know how,” he said, his voice rising in disbe- lief.
“The first level of the sorcereFs art, and you know it not. Are your minor spells just smoke
and illusion? How can you reach past—” He
stopped, aware that in his anger he was revealing too much knowledge of his
own. Sulein
was watching him like a hawk. Dain
glared back at him, then wrenched open the door and strode out. As he went, he
chastised himself for letting his temper and pride get the better of his good
sense. Sulein had learned too much today. If not for the recovery of his bard
crystal, Dain would have believed himself completely the loser of this battle
of wills. He
tucked the pendant even farther beneath his wet tunic, patting his chest in
comfort at having it back again. He felt stronger now, more confident against
the dark forces beyond the walls of this hold. The crystal had no special
powers, no magic other than how it made song. But it belonged to the side of
nature unsullied by the Nonkind. If he fell into trouble, the crystal’s
presence would help him keep a clear head. Besides, it was his talisman, his
only legacy. It did not belong in a box, locked away in the darkness of a
crazed man’s workroom, but here, singing softly against his flesh, a part of
his spirit in some way he could not define. The
chapel doors were just swinging open to let out the mass-goers when Dain
hurried across the courtyard and into the Hall. Skirting the public chambers,
he went upstairs to change into dry clothes. The
chamber he shared with the other fosters was empty at the moment. Relieved,
Dain flung open the lid of the clothes chest at the foot of his bed and found a
new doublet folded neatly atop his meager possessions. Holding it up, Dain gave
it a shake to release the folds, and thought the sleeves looked long enough
this time. The cloth was sturdy and well woven, dyed a handsome dark red. It
was an unexpected kindness, this gift. Dain did not know who was responsible
for it. New clothes usually appeared mysteriously like this at Thirst Hold,
just when his seams were bursting or his sleeves had shrunk halfway to his
elbows. A
lump closed his throat, and he crushed the doublet in his hands. He did not
want to leave Thirst, he realized. He did not want people here to hate him. The
door opened and the page named Hueh looked in. “Thod above, where is the lamp?”
he asked in his piping voice, and hurried to light it. “You’re wanted by the
chevard at once. He saw you in the courtyard, so you’d better hurry.” Dain
nodded and stripped off his wet clothing. Clad in a dry pair of leggings, he
went to the washing bucket to clean the mud off his hands. While he was still
bent over it, the door opened and someone came in. “Well,
well, so Bastard du Stray has come back,” Mierre said. “Why don’t you put your
head in that bucket and drown yourself?” Slinging
water from his hands, Dain straightened and turned around to see the largest of
the fosters standing there with his feet straddled and his thumbs hooked in his
belt. Mierre’s green eyes were as unfriendly as ever. Beside
him stood Kaltienne, like a sly weasel, eyes darting with malice. “Aye,” he
said with a sneer. “You should have kept running. No one wants a traitor like
you back.” Dain
frowned. “I am no traitor.” Mierre
stepped forward. “Mayhap we should drown you and put an end to the matter.” Kaltienne
laughed in an ugly way and started to circle around behind Dain. Quick as
thought, Dain ran to his bunk and picked up his dagger. He faced them both,
standing light and ready on the balls of his feet. The weapon glinted in the
lamplight, and his would-be tormentors paused. “If
that’s the way you want this done,” Mierre said, and drew his own dagger. Kaltienne
said nothing, but he also drew his weapon. Dry-mouthed,
Dain swallowed. He was outnumbered and boxed in by the beds. In the corner of
the room, the young page watched openmouthed, of no help at all. Dain wanted to
tell him to run for help, but thought doing so would be cowardly. He held his
tongue. Mierre
came at him, thrusting hard and viciously with his blade. Dain dodged it, but
Kaltienne was hemming him in on the other side, giving him scant room to
maneuver. Dain jumped over the narrow bed, going behind Mierre, who turned with
him. Mierre
tried to block Dain’s blow, but Dain’s dagger sliced his arm at the shoulder,
ripping cloth. Blood welled up, and Mierre swore savagely. He
attacked, and Dain skipped out of reach, only to have to dodge Kaltienne’s
thrust. Watching their eyes instead of their blades, Dain could hear his breath
whistling in his throat. His heart was pounding loud and furiously. But at the
same time, he was curiously excited and hot. He saw the warning flicker in
Mierre’s green eyes, but Dain leaped forward to meet the larger youth. Ducking
under Mierre’s dagger thrust, Dain stabbed at him, only to be knocked back by
Mierre’s free fist. Staggering,
his ears ringing lightly, Dain shook his head to clear it, and barely evaded
Kaltienne’s clumsy lunge. “Damne!”
Mierre said. “Get him and let’s end this.” Dain’s
head was up. With shining eyes, he threw Mierre a wild grin. “Did you think I
would stand still and let you gut me?” “Demon!”
Mierre lunged at him again, hitting Dain with his shoulder and driving him back
against the wall. Dain
grunted at the impact, and just in time pulled up his dagger between them to
block Mierre’s thrust at his belly. “Heads
up!” Kaltienne shouted in warning. “The prince!” Mierre
straightened at once, backing away from Dain and turning to face the doorway. Dain,
breathing hard, his knees suddenly weak, glanced up and saw Prince Gavril
standing there, gazing in at them. Gavril wore a doublet of pale blue linen,
the cloth woven in a chevron pattern. His leggings were of the same pale color,
and his shoes were of thin supple leather. On his golden hair, he wore an
embroidered cap tilted at a rakish angle. His
violet-blue eyes swept the faces of everyone in the room, lingering on Dain a
moment before going to Mierre. “Fighting?”
he asked with a lift of his brows. “Is this seemly behavior?” Mierre’s
face turned red. “Your highness, it is only the pagan traitor. We want him not
in here with us.” “Naturally
not,” Gavril said. He
smiled at Dain, and it was the coldest smile Dain had ever seen. He knew right
then that Gavril would not help him. The
prince stepped into the room and turned his gaze on the wide-eyed face of the
little page. “You,” he said to Hueh, “get out.” Hueh
fled without a word, not even glancing in Dain’s direction. Kaltienne
had already sheathed his dagger, remembering the rule against drawn weapons in
the presence of royalty. He bowed. “I beg your highness’s pardon. We just
thought we’d teach the pagan a lesson.” Gavril
gestured at the door. “Close that, and then you may continue.” Dain
stared at him, feeling his spirits sink. Three against one was not good, and he
could not think of a way out of this. Gavril was gloating openly, his blue eyes
clearly inviting Dain to plead for mercy. Dain
clamped his jaw shut. He wouldn’t do it, not even if they strung his entrails
from one side of the room to the other. Kaltienne hastened to slam the door
shut. Mierre grinned, and his green eyes narrowed on Dain. “You
must always deliver lessons in private,” Gavril said. “Never in front of silly
little pages.” “Where’s
your protector?” Dain called out, using bravado to mask his fear. “Why not make
it four against one?” They
took no shame at his words. Gavril laughed and seated himself on a stool.
“Finish this quickly,” he said. “It’s almost time for dinner.” Mierre’s
grin widened. He sprang at Dain, who ducked away with a nimbleness the larger
youth couldn’t match. Mierre was very strong, but not agile. From the corner of
his eye, Dain watched for Kaltienne, always sneaking to get at Dain’s back like
the coward he was. With
Gavril clearly anticipating some good entertainment, Dain felt determined to
best both of these bullies, if only to wipe the smug smiles off their faces. He
would have preferred to attack Gavril and see blood splatter across that pretty
pale doublet, but right now he had to concentrate on Mierre. Lunging
at Kaltienne, Dain slashed viciously with his dagger in the way Sir Nynth had
taught him. Moving his arm up and down in a blur of movement, he attacked with
force, driving Kaltienne back until the boy stumbled into one of the beds and
fell with a cry of fear. Dain
slashed at his exposed stomach and missed, for at the same moment Mierre
gripped him by his shoulder and pulled him back. Dain twisted desperately to
avoid being impaled on Mierre’s dagger. He felt the tip rake his ribs, bringing
a swift burning of pain and the trickle of blood. Cursing
in the dwarf tongue, Dain ducked and spun, plunging his dagger up at Mierre’s
vitals. Mierre
blocked the thrust with his blade, and for a moment the two weapons locked.
They strained against each other until the tendons knotted in Mierre’s thick
neck and Dain felt his muscles tremble with effort. Mierre
bared his large, yellowed teeth. His green eyes, savage and merciless, glared
down into Dain’s. “Finish
him! Finish him!” Kaltienne was shouting. Dain
felt himself giving beneath the other boy’s greater strength. With all his will
and might, Dain struggled to hold firm. Sweat poured down his face, stinging
his eyes. His back was bleeding, but the pain fired his determination all the
more. He would not give way. He would not. But
Mierre kept pushing him down, and Dain felt his knees shaking and starting to
buckle despite all he could do. Once he was forced to kneel, his throat would
be level with Mierre’s blade, and too easy a target. A
week past, Mierre would not have dared kill him, for Dain was the favorite of
the knights. But today, after the battle with the Nonkind, when everyone seemed
to be blaming Dain somehow, he wondered if Mierre would even take punishment. Dain
struggled to disengage his dagger, but Mierre had such pressure on his hand,
twisting there, that the blades remained locked. Dain’s whole arm was shaking
now from the strain. His knees failed him, and Mierre drove him down. “Now!”
Kaltienne shouted. Mierre
twisted his wrist to unlock the dagger guards. Already Dain could feel how
Mierre intended to draw his arm horizontally, slashing Dain’s throat in one
clean stroke. But
as Mierre disengaged, Dain lunged at him and with his head butted Mierre right
between his legs. Mierre
howled a shrill, piercing cry of pain. Dain overbalanced him, sending Mierre
toppling to the floor. Dain
scrambled on top of him and pinned him while a white-faced Mierre, his knees
drawn up, clutched himself. Gripping
the front of his tunic, Dain put the point of his dagger to Mierre’s throat and
lifted his gaze to Gavril. The
prince had risen to his feet, and was staring at Dain with a mixture of fury
and horror. Behind
Dain, Kaltienne was shouting, “Foul trickster! Hon-orless cheat!” Ignoring
him, Dain kept his gaze on the prince. “Well?” he asked, breathing hard. “Is
this the lesson you had in mind?” Red
spots burned on Gavril’s cheeks. Before he could reply, however, Kaltienne
loosed a hoarse cry and launched himself at Dain’s back. Too
late, Dain tried to turn to face his attack. Kaltienne’s dagger point skidded
across his shoulder blade and gouged into the back of his arm. Pain
blossomed there, and Dain’s cry was being engulfed by Kaltienne’s furious
screaming, when suddenly the door slammed open as though it had been kicked and
Sir Roye came rushing inside. “What’s
all this?” he demanded. Gavril
pointed at Dain and Kaltienne, who were locked in a struggle atop Mierre. “Stop
them at once,” he commanded. “Sir Roye, I have ordered them repeatedly to stop,
but they will not heed me.” Swearing,
Sir Roye gripped Kaltienne and heaved him away, sending him sprawling. His bloody
dagger went clattering across the floor. Dain barely had time to drag in a
short, gasping breath before Sir Roye yanked him upright. “Thod’s
bones,” he swore, glaring at Dain as though this was somehow his fault. “Are
you bad hurt?” Bleeding
and rigid with agony, Dain could not find enough breath to answer. Sir Roye
gave Mierre a nudge with his foot. “You,
get up,” he said without compassion. Mierre
rolled onto his side and groaned. By
now Kaltienne was floundering to his feet. Glaring, he pointed at Dain. “He’s a
pagan cheat and traitor! He does not belong in here with us.” “Aye,
that’s true enough,” Sir Roye muttered. He still had his hand on Dain’s
uninjured arm, supporting him. His yellow eyes glared at them all, then he
glanced over his shoulder at Hueh, who was peeping openmouthed into the room.
“You!” he ordered. “Collect these daggers and take them out of here. Now!” “Yes,
Sir Roye.” The boy scuttled into the room and picked up Mierre’s dagger where
it lay on the floor, then Kaltienne’s. At last he came to Dain, who alone still
clutched his weapon. The
page’s head came only to Dain’s waist. His face held the roundness of babyhood,
despite his six or seven years. Brown curls framed his face. If he had fetched
Sir Roye, then Dain knew he owed this child his life. Seeing
Hueh’s fear, Dain managed a smile that was nearly a grimace and flipped his
dagger over to hand it hilt-first to the child. The
page’s eyes brightened, and in that moment hero worship filled his face. He
took Dain’s dagger and stepped back. “Fighting
in the presence of the prince,” Sir Roye was scolding them all. “You know
better, all of you. It’s forbidden to draw weapons before him. Morde a day, you
deserve more than flogging. Your highness,” he said gruffly, “where is Sir
Los?” Gavril
shrugged. “I gave him leave for the evening. I thought myself safe enough in
the Hall.” “Apparently
not,” Sir Roye said. “We
weren’t attacking him,” Dain said, but Sir Roye shook him so hard he cried out
with pain. “Silence!
No one gave you leave to speak. Come on,” he said, pulling Dain toward the
door. “Out with you. Mierre and Kaltienne, clean yourselves up. And get this
room put back to rights.” Not
waiting for any of them to reply, Sir Roye jerked a stiff little bow in
Gavril’s direction and marched Dain out. As
soon as they were in the corridor, Dain tried to explain, but Sir Roye refused
to listen. In grim silence Dain was taken to the bathing chamber, deserted now
except for two servants trying to mop up spilled water and gather up the towels
someone had tossed about. Sir
Roye pushed Dain onto a stool. “Sit.” When
he began probing at Dain’s cuts, his fingers were far more gentle than his tone
of voice. “Shallow,
most of it. Just one spot that’s deep. You’ll do,” he said with gruff relief.
Tearing some strips off a towel, he bound Dain up efficiently. “Thank
you,” Dain said. Sir
Roye glared at him, his dark weathered face as stern as ever. “I want you in
good shape for the flogging that awaits you. Deserting the hold and Thod knows
what else.” Dain
frowned, anxious to vindicate himself. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I just went
with Lander to buy sword metal.” “Explain
yourself to the chevard,” Sir Roye said without interest, tossing the bloody
cloths into a heap on the floor. “I’m not your judge.” “Why
won’t anyone believe me?” Dain asked. “I didn’t bring the Nonkind here—” “Who
says you did?” Sir Roye asked sharply. Dain
hunched his shoulders. “Everyone.” “Daft
nonsense,” Sir Roye said. “The raids came from the south. That’s why Lunt Hold
sent warnings. Their lands have been raided too.” Relief
filled Dain. He smiled at the protector, glad at last to find someone who
believed him. Sir
Roye scowled back. “Get yourself dressed and go to his lordship’s wardroom.” “Yes,
sir,” Dain said, still smiling. “Thank you for your help.” Sir
Roye refused to meet his gaze. “I do not want your thanks.” “You
saved my life.” “The
page did!” Sir Roye protested fiercely. “Running to me and bawling like a
babe.” “I
must thank him too,” Dain said. “You’ll
report to the chevard, the way you were told to the moment you set foot in the
hold. Thod’s bones, brawling before the prince. If he chooses to be offended,
you’re in for it.” “But
I—” “And
you can thank whatever pagan deities you pray and blaspheme before that Sir Los
wasn’t there. He’d have gutted you the moment you drew your dagger. Gods! Have
you not learned any sense in all the time you’ve been among us?” “They
attacked me,” Dain began. “I had to defend myself.” “Brawl
with your fists, you dolt, when the prince is there.” “I
had little choice in the matter,” Dain said stiffly, his back rigid with
resentment. “I did not start the fight.” “And
what does that matter?” Sir Roye said without a trace of compassion. “Sir
Polquin has taught you that a knight commands his combat. If honor requires,
you move it to a place that’s—” “And
if you have no choice?” Dain asked hotly. “If there’s no honor shown?” Sir
Roye’s single eye was stony. “Honor is your
responsibility. You don’t don it or discard it according to the situation. That’s
where you will never be one of us, boy.” “Enough
of this talk. I am no keeper of yours, nay, and no teacher either. You have
enough of those, and your head must be made of bone for all the good their work
has done.” Dain
opened his mouth, but Sir Roye held up his hand for silence. “As
soon as you’re done with his lordship, you go collect your gear and report to
housekeeping. They’ll house you elsewhere than the fosters’ room. You never
should have been in there in the first place.” His
censure stung. Dain looked down, frowning. “I am glad to get away from Mierre
and Kaltienne.” It was the truth he spoke, but he knew what Sir Roye meant. No
doubt the protector thought he should be sleeping in the stables, if even in
the hold at all. Glancing up, Dain added, “Could Thum and I share a chamber?” “Nay,”
Sir Roye said with a snort of disgust. “Thum, for all his spindly ways, has at
least enough sense to stay out of trouble. He doesn’t need to mix with the
likes of you. None of them do. I told his lordship you’d bring grief to the
place and sure enough you have.“ ”j__“ “Keep
your tongue!” Sir Roye said gruffly. “Now jump to, and do as you’ve been told!
I’ve wasted enough time with you.” Dain
sat there on the stool, seething from all the criticism. It was not fair that
he should be blamed for first the battle and now this fight with the fosters.
Why had Sir Roye bothered to save him if he thought Dain this worthless? “Boy!”
Sir Roye barked. “On your feet like I said. If you feel faint, I’ll pour one of
the physician’s potions down your gullet, but get to moving now. Any more
dallying will be an open insult to his lordship, and then I’m within my duty to
take you to the flogging block for that if naught else.” Dain
gritted his teeth and rose to his feet. His eyes, hot with anger, met Sir
Roye’s. The protector gave him a stiff nod and walked out. Walking
stiffly out of the bathing chamber with his wounded arm cradled against his
side, Dain nearly collided with Thum, who was hurrying along the passageway. Thum
jumped back from him, holding up his hands to ask pardon. “Dain!” he said
anxiously. “Are you much hurt? Hueh said you were bleeding—” “Some
cuts,” Dain said grimly. “I will live.” Thum’s freckled face lit up with relief. His red hair lay
plastered dark and wet against his head; rain had spotted his doublet. He
sported a black eye that was healing in several vivid hues, giving his thin,
rather serious face a rakish look. In one hand, he carried Dain’s new
wine-colored doublet. “I’m
glad you’re not bad hurt,” he said. “From the way Hueh’s been telling it, I
thought you were carried away swooning and bloody in Sir Roye’s arms.” Little
Hueh, Dain thought darkly, had been helpful, but the page had better not go
embellishing the tale of what had transpired. Dain shook his head at Thum. “Do
you really think Sir Roye would be that tender?” he asked with scorn. Thum
grinned. “Had you waited another few minutes, I would have been there to help
you fight the oafs.” “Be
glad you weren’t,” Dain said, reaching for his doublet. “You’re the only one of
us not in trouble. Well, you and Prince Gavril.” “I
know.” Thum gripped Dain’s uninjured arm to usher him back inside the bathing
chamber. “Here, I will help you get dressed.” He
took the doublet from Dain’s hands and threw it over Dain’s head. With quick
but gentle tugs, he pulled it down over Dain’s shoulders. “Tell me if I hurt
you.” Dain
was gritting his teeth with pain as he twisted his arm to fit it into a sleeve,
but he said nothing. The new doublet was roomy and comfortable, large enough to
allow for more growth. Pleased with it, Dain smoothed his hand down the front
while Thum belted on his dagger for him. “You’re in greater trouble than just the fight, you know,” Thum
murmured quietly, keeping an eye on the servants, who were still cleaning the
chamber and clearly trying to eavesdrop. “Thod’s mercy, Dain, what made you run
away like that?” “Not
you as well!” Dain cried in dismay. “How can everyone think so ill of me? I
went with the smith, that’s all. If I’d known the Nonkind were going to attack
Thirst, I would have been here to help fight.” “They
didn’t attack Thirst. Who is spreading that
tale?” Thum replied. “But it was bad enough, by what I’ve heard. None of us
fosters were allowed in the battle, thanks to you and Mierre.” Dain
frowned. “What do you mean? Am I to be blamed next for lightning striking the
tower? For the sky turning dark? For the rain that’s falling? What else?” “Do
not turn your bad temper on me. You asked what’s amiss, and I am only telling
you.” “I
am not angry at you,” Dain said by way of apology. Thum
nodded, then sighed gloomily. “What’s all the practice and training for, if
we’re to be kept in the hold with the women and children?” “Saw
you none of the battle?” Dain asked in sympathy. “Nay,
not one blow.” “Who
gave such an order, keeping you home?” “Sir
Bosquecel. He said we were lazy, unprepared louts who couldn’t bear arms any
better than the serfs.” Dain
blinked in astonishment. “But that’s not true. Nor is it fair.” “None
of this is fair,” Thum said. “You have no idea of how angry he is. Well, they
all are. Squabbles and quarreling in all directions, for days now. And once the
Lunt knights came, there’s been trouble with them as well. They eat like horses
and drink like fish. And gamble? Morde! But it’s worst between Sir Polquin and
Sir Bosquecel. They blame each other for what happened. It looked like they
might come to blows on the practice field the day of the contest, and they are
not speaking to each other still.” Dain
frowned, trying to make sense of all this. “Because I left the contest?” “Nay,
because of Mierre. Oh, I tell you, Dain, you and he both have caused more upset
this week than I could think of to do in a year.” “I
wish you would tell your story straight and not jump from one thing to
another,” Dain complained. “I do not understand what happened.” “Well,
and while there was all the trouble over the contest and Mierre, you were
discovered missing.” “I
left in plain sight with Lander,” Dain said defensively. “Aye,
so the guards said. But Lander told no one where he was going, nor did you.
Lord Odfrey believed you would not stay with the smith but instead strike out
on your own. And then Lord Renald rode in with news of Nonkind raiders. Lord
Odfrey sent men out searching near and far for you. He was certain you’d be
killed.” “I’ve
been dodging Nonkind all my life,” Dain said with a shrug. “He had no need to
worry.” “Well,
he did, just the same. And so did Sir Terent and Sir Polquin—and all of us.” Dain
frowned, feeling bad. “I did not mean for anyone to worry. I was fine.” “Lord
Renald was angered that men were spared to search. He said everyone was needed
for fighting, even fosters. That’s when Lord Odfrey forbade any of us, from the
prince down to yours truly, to leave the hold.” Uncomfortable,
knowing he’d done wrong to cause them such concern, Dain changed the subject.
“Who won the contest?” “Mierre,
of course.” Dain
hissed through his teeth. He was not surprised, but the idea of that hulking
bully serving Lord Odfrey infuriated him. From now on it would be Mierre who
burnished the chevard’s armor, Mierre who honed and polished his weapons,
Mierre who fed his dogs, Mierre who rode at the chevard’s flank along with Sir
Roye. Dain had wanted that position with all his heart, for he craved Lord
Odfrey’s attention. He wanted to repay the man for his kindness this year by
serving him better than any squire had done before. But instead it would be
Mierre, churlish and lazy, at Lord Odfrey’s side. Before today’s attack, Dain
had always disliked Mierre, but now he hated him as much as he hated the
prince. They were two of a kind, cruel and self-centered. How could Lord Odfrey
stand to have Mierre in his service? “And you, Thum?” Dain asked irritably. “Couldn’t you find a
way to defeat him that day? I would have had the honor go to you.“ “Thank
you, but once I was unhorsed by Mierre’s lance, that finished me.” Thum touched
his face proudly. “That’s how I came by this.” Dain
admired his puffy and discolored eye. “I have never seen a better one. Did it
hurt much?” “No,”
Thum boasted. “Well, not much. But you should have seen it the first night,
swelled out to here. I couldn’t open my eye, and Sulein thought I might lose
it.” “Like
Sir Roye,” Dain said, both revolted and fascinated by the idea. “I’m
glad to have my sight as good as ever,” Thum said, betraying his relief. “It
would be hard to earn my knight’s spurs with only one eye. I had no balance
while it was swelled so, and I kept bumping into things.” “If
you’re going to lose an eye, it should be after you’re knighted and happen
while you’re in a great battle,” Dain told him. “Not in a small contest with
padded weapons.” “Aye,”
Thum agreed fervently. He placed his hand over his heart. Making a fancy bow,
he said in falsetto voice, “And now, dear maiden fair, let me tell you how I
came by my scar. Neither in battle nor in king’s joust, but only by riding full
tilt into my practice opponent’s lance like a dolt and unhorsing myself.” Dain
laughed. “Unhorsed by the quintain.” Thum
laughed with him. “Aye! Mierre is stupid enough to be
a practice dummy.” Dain
puffed out his chest and spun about stiffly in an effort to imitate Mierre, but
it made his arm hurt and he stopped the play with a wince. Thum
sobered abruptly. “But you have taken real injury at his hands. Is it true what
little Hueh says, that both the blackguards fought you at once?” Dain
hesitated, but he saw no reason to deny it. “Aye,” he said grimly. “They did.
Pagans deserve no honorable treatment, I suppose.” “Do
not say that!” Thum said angrily. He scowled. “The cowards. They are both bad
to the heart. The day they leave this hold can’t come too soon for me.” “Leave?”
Dain echoed in puzzlement. “But if Mierre is Lord Odfrey’s squire—” “But
he isn V!” Thum said. His hazel eyes danced with more news. “I
wish you had stayed to see it. The contest ended, with me on the ground and my
mouth full of dirt, and Mierre was declared winner. Sir Terent looked like he’d
eaten sour fruit, and Sir Nynth would not applaud.” Imagining
it, Dain smiled. “What happened? Did Lord Odfrey refuse to have him? That’s
wise, for he—” “Nay!”
Thum said. “Let me tell you. Lord Odfrey had his stone face on—you know how he
looks at times.” “Aye,”
Dain said ruefully. “I know very well.” “He
stood before us with Sir Polquin and Sir Roye flanking him, and he conferred
the offer of squire on Mierre according to the rules of the contest.” Thum
paused and gripped Dain’s arm hard. “Mierre turned him down.” Dain
gasped. “What?” “Aye.
Turned him down with cool hauteur, like Lord Odfrey was dirt to him. It’s plain
he’s learned that manner from the prince, but it did him no credit. Sir
Bosquecel was furious, and Sir Polquin more so. Everyone witnessed the grave
insult to Lord Odfrey, but we could not believe it. Had Mierre refused such an offer
from a sentry-rank knight, I might understand. But no one turns down the chance
to be a chevard’s squire, especially a warrior of such valor and repute as our
Lord Odfrey.” Dain
frowned, angry on Lord Odfrey’s behalf, though relieved as well. Still, it made
no sense. “But why would Mierre refuse? Does he think another knight will offer
him a better position? Where? Can his father provide—” “Rumor
has it. . .” Thum paused dramatically, his hazel eyes dancing. “Promise you
will not spread it, Dain.” “I
am the last person in this hold to know about the matter,” Dain said tartly.
“Where would I spread such news? Speak!” “Well,
the rumor in the guardhouse is that Mierre is hoping to be named Prince
Gavril’s squire.” “That
surprises me not,” Dain said. “No one toadies to Gavril more than he does.” “But
it’s an awful risk.” “Why?
Gavril favors him.” “But
the prince is not yet knighted. He can take no squire until he has his spurs.” “In
a month he’ll have them,” Dain said. “I see no risk if the prince has promised
him—” “But
has he?” Thum asked. Dain
frowned. “Has he not?” “Nothing
has been said officially.” “What
has that to do with anything?” “Dain,
don’t you understand court politics at all?” “No,”
Dain said defensively. “How could I?” “Oh.
When Gavril’s knighted, he is going to be named Heir to the Realm. That means
the nobles acknowledge him as the official successor to the throne.” “I
thought he already was,” Dain said. “Nay.” “He
gives himself enough airs.” “Wait
until he’s knighted,” Thum said darkly. “There’ll be no holding him back then.
But it’s certain that his squire has already been chosen and will be the son of
a due or cardinal, someone of the first rank. Gavril is far too important to be
squired by an uplander of minor lineage.” Dain
thought of Mierre, a young oaf who clearly burned with ambition to better
himself. “There’s been a promise made between them,” he guessed. “And no matter
what the custom may be, Gavril does what he wants.” “Not
in affairs of state. He can’t,” Thum argued. “Just as his marriage has been
planned for him from birth to his cousin Pheresa. There is no official
engagement as yet, for the Heir to the Realm must do his own choosing of a
bride. But by custom it must—or at least should—be
this lady. Everyone at court, especially the king, expects Gavril to ask her.” “I
hope she is a hag and her face sours his breakfast every morning,” Dain said. Thum
laughed. “Mierre is gambling heavily, but I think he will be the loser by
aiming too high.” “So
who is going to be Lord Odfrey’s squire?” Dain asked. The
merriment dimmed from Thum’s eyes and he shook his head. “I know not. It’s
something no one dares ask him, for the chevard’s mood has been dark indeed
this week. Why did you leave the contest grounds, Dain? You were right to be
angry. I would have been too, but you should have stayed out of courtesy.” Dain
stared at his friend, and saw disappointment lurking in Thum’s bruised face. He
understood then that Thum had wanted him to stay and cheer for him. Contrition
filled Dain. He put out his hand. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “You think me
a poor friend.” Thum
gripped his hand. “Nay,” he said loyally. “Not poor, but sometimes hard to
understand.” Dain
sighed. “You must teach me how to do better. My ways are not yours. I do not
mean to off^end you.” “It’s
Lord Odfrey you must not offend,” Thum said. Dain’s
eyes flew wide open. “Oh, gods! The chevard! I should have reported to him long
ago. If he was angry with me before, I have little chance of appeasing him
now.” “Damne,
you will have no appeal,” Thum agreed worriedly. “I beg your pardon for
chattering so long.” Dain
headed for the door, and Thum went with him. “Dain,
you look mortal pale in the face. Are you feeling faint?” “Nay,”
Dain answered, his courage sinking like a lead weight. “Though I wish I could
faint and put off this meeting.” “You
dare not.” “Better
to get it over with.” Swallowing hard, Dain wished he’d never left the hold
now. Even the two gold pieces in his pocket were not worth all this. His own
angry defiance had faded. He understood plainly why Lord Odfrey must be
infuriated with him. And the chevard’s temper was never easy to face. Dain sent
Thum a look of appeal. “Stay with me?” “Aye,”
Thum said like the stalwart friend he was. Of course, since he was not in
disgrace he had little to fear, Dain reminded himself. Together
they headed for Lord Odfrey’s wardroom. Sentry
knights stood on duty outside Lord Odfrey’s door. Servants were walking down
the length of the passageway, lighting torches that drove back the shadows. The
servants cast Dain sharp, speculative looks and whispered among themselves. His
face felt hot. Stiffly, he walked past them, pretending he did not notice. One
of the knights, Sir Blait, held up his hand to stop Dain’s approach. “I’ll
relieve you of your dagger, Dain,” he said gruffly. Dain’s
throat closed up with embarrassment and anger. Beside him, Thum began to murmur
about offense and insult, but Dain elbowed him to be quiet. In
silence, his face stiff and hot, he drew his dagger and handed it over
hilt-first. “Will
you take mine as well, Sir Blait?” Thum asked hotly. Sir
Blait was gray-haired and stooped. Since his knees had begun to stiffen and
ache he’d been demoted to sentry duty. Sour-tempered and gruff, he looked
annoyed by Thum’s remark. He said, “Nay, I have my orders. You know better than
to spout your mouth where it’s not wanted.” Thum’s
face turned red, but Dain did not want his friend to join him in disgrace. “Thum,”
he said, his voice low and firm, “thank you, but perhaps you’d better go to
your supper.” “I
said I’d stay with you and I will.” Dain
shook his head. “This trouble is mine now. Go and eat supper for us both.” Thum
scowled and opened his mouth to protest, then understanding dawned in his eyes.
It was likely that Dain would get no supper tonight, and Thum could gather
enough food to slip to him later. “I will,” Thum said. He touched Dain’s
shoulder briefly as though to give him encouragement, then left. Sir
Blait scowled at Dain and tapped on the door. “He’s here, m’lord,” he called
out. Lord
Odfrey’s voice responded, and Sir Blait pushed open the door. Without going in,
Dain could see the chevard at his desk, which was piled high with dispatch
scrolls, scraps of vellum and parchment, and a heavy book secured with a lock.
One of Lord Odfrey’s dogs lay snoring softly against the base of the massive
wooden desk. The chevard’s boots stood by the empty hearth. The chevard himself
sat in a pool of golden candlelight that cast shadows across the angle of his
cheekbones and the firm jut of his chin. He wore an old-fashioned tunic of dark
gray cloth, and from his shoulders down he blended into the shadows. When he lifted
his gaze to meet Dain’s, his dark eyes looked fathomless. “Enter,”
he said harshly. “I’ve waited long enough.” Dain
gave Lord Odfrey a quick, nervous glance. Squaring his shoulders, he winced
slightly and stepped over the threshold. Sir Blait shut the door behind him,
and Dain felt suddenly short of breath and hemmed in by this small, cluttered
room. It
was very warm. No evening breeze blew through the small window, although Dain
smelled rain on the air. He also caught the faintest whiff of Nonkind on the
chevard’s boots. It unsettled him. Lord
Odfrey went back to his writing. In the silence Dain could hear the faint
scratching of the chevard’s pen across the parchment. Knowing he was being
tested, knowing he must not interrupt, Dain swallowed a sigh of impatience and
wished he dared sit, for his knees were feeling weak and his arm throbbed. His
famished stomach growled while he listened to faraway sounds of lute music and
the clatter in the Hall that accompanied supper. A
tall-backed chair, handsomely carved, faced Lord Odfrey’s desk. It looked
ornate enough for a lord to sit on. Dain dared not touch it. A map lay thrown
across its back. A beautiful thing, the map was colorfully illustrated with
vivid inks of scarlet and indigo and green. Tilting his head, Dain studied the
geography of Mandria, illustrated with splendid meadows, streams where
rainbow-hued fish leaped, and an ornate palace topped by a crown that must
represent Savroix, seat of Man-drian kings. Nold was drawn much smaller, and
bordered by drawings of crossed axes. Many trees were sketched close together
to represent the Dark Forest. Nold’s ore-rich mountains were not drawn on the
map at all, and the four largest dwarf settlements were marked in the wrong
places. Klad was placed north of Nold and was a land Dain knew little about. He
recognized it by the drawings of tents and herds of horned cattle. A small
portrait of a bearded barbarian with small squinty eyes and long braids of
blond hair showed Dain the type of folk who must live there. Jorb had told Dain
about selling a sword to a Kladite many years ago, but the Kladites seldom
ventured beyond their own borders. They were said to eat hardened milk flavored
with blood and to count their wealth by how many cows and wives they owned. Curious
to see Nether, Dain leaned forward to look at the rest of the map. “Where
have you been?” Lord Odfrey demanded. His voice was stern and harsh, his tone
unforgiving. Startled,
Dain jumped and met Lord Odfrey’s dark eyes. They looked almost black with
anger. Dain’s answer tangled in his throat. It all seemed suddenly too long and
difficult to explain. He could not decide where to start or how to say it. “Dain,
I’ll not ask you again.” Thus
warned, Dain took refuge in defiance. He shrugged. “I was seeing the world.” Lord
Odfrey’s fist slammed atop his desk, making a candle jump. “Damne, boy! I’ll
brook none of your flippancy. You’ve been in this hold since chapel let out,
perhaps longer. Why didn’t you report to me at once?” “Did
you think me unaware of your arrival? Sir Terent sent word from the gates
immediately. He should have escorted you straight here himself. No doubt he
thought he could trust you to follow orders. Clearly he was wrong.” Embarrassment
flooded Dain. “I had—” A
knock on the door interrupted him. Lord Renald came tramping in without
ceremony. He still wore his mail and stained surcoat, but had left his helmet
and gauntlets elsewhere. With his brown hair curling almost to his shoulders,
the chevard of Lunt looked young, hardly more than twenty. He wore no marriage
ring on his hand, but a very fine sapphire ring glittered on his thumb. Dain
caught himself mentally appraising its value, then looked away quickly. Lord
Renald stared at Dain with a lift of his brows, but it was to Lord Odfrey that
he spoke: “So here he is.” “Yes,
finally,” Lord Odfrey snapped. There
was no gladness in his voice, no relief, no relenting. Dain frowned, and his
own anger and resentment came surging back. Neither
man, however, was paying Dain any heed. “Forgive
me, Odfrey,” Lord Renald said, frowning. “My man had orders to see him safely
into your hands, but he failed.” “Aye,
that he did,” Lord Odfrey said grimly. “I
have questioned Sir Metain. It seems he thought delivering the boy within your
walls good enough. I’ve dealt with that misconception.” Lord
Odfrey nodded while Dain looked from one to the other, still wondering what
they were talking about. “It is no fault of yours, Renald,” Lord Odfrey said
bleakly. “At least you found him and brought him back.” Frowning,
Dain tried to protest. “But I was on my way home—” “Aye,
I found the young devil. Jaunting along in a mule cart with a Netheran.“ Lord
Renald shot Dain a look of distrust and suspicion. ”What enchantment did he
bear, to be able to pass through the river lands without even a scratch, while
the befouled ran there, killing as they pleased? Had I known, had I suspected
him of being an assassin, I would have—“ “Enough,” Lord Odfrey said, lifting his hand. “Assassin?” Dain said,
unable to keep quiet. “Me? But I am not!” “They’ve
called for him,” Lord Renald said, ignoring Dain’s outburst. “They want an
accounting.” Lord
Odfrey scowled in visible exasperation. “Nonsense. It’s a ridiculous
accusation, and a waste of time. He—” “It must be done, Odfrey. The vote was just cast for trial.” A bleak,
defeated expression entered Lord Odfrey’s face. He rubbed his eyes and pinched
the bridge of his nose a moment as though fatigued. “The fools play into the
prince’s hands,” he murmured. “Morde! I hoped it would not come to this. A
quiet talk here would do as well. Why must he make a huge drama of the matter?” Lord
Renald’s face held no expression, but his eyes were not unkind. They flicked to
Dain’s face, then returned to Lord Odfrey. “Let me take the eld to them. You
need not come.” “Take
me where?” Dain asked suspiciously, feeling the urge to escape. Lord
Odfrey rose to his feet. “Thank you, but no. Dain is my responsibility. I
brought him into the hold last winter. I brought this risk to his highness. I
will see the matter through to its end.” “As
you wish,” Lord Renald said with a slight bow. “Will it damage your standing
with the king?” Lord
Odfrey gestured impatiently. “I cannot be worried with that now.” “Best
you do think of it. It’s unwise to lose the king’s friendship.” “We
are a long way from court.” “A
private messenger from the prince has already been turned back at your gates
and prevented from leaving,” Lord Renald said. “And how will that be
interpreted?” “Damne!”
Lord Odfrey said. “Prince Gavril schemes like a churchman. He has forced this
trial on us and now he tries to bring a higher authority into it. Morde a day,
if his highness wants a trial he’ll have it, but we’ll hold to the law on every
point. The truth of this will be decided by my knights and yours. No one else,
for that is the law.“ “Mandrian
law for an eld?” Lord Renald asked softly. Lord Odfrey’s face was stone. “There
will be no church inquisitor in my Hall.” Dain
stared at them both, his mouth open with alarm. He did not yet understand what
was wrong or how he could be accused of a crime worth trial and possible
inquisitors, but he knew himself to be in dire trouble. “What
has the prince said against me?” he demanded. He thought of this afternoon’s
attack, while Gavril sat and watched, smiling. A cold chill ran through Dain,
and with it came anger, deep and strong. Sir Roye had tried, in his gruff,
hostile way, to warn him that more trouble lay ahead. But Dain hadn’t expected
it to come this fast. “Lord,” he said to Odfrey, “please tell me what I stand
accused of. A drawn weapon in his presence? But I was already fighting when the
prince entered—” “Say
nothing of this to me!” Lord Odfrey snapped. “You will speak to the assembly.” “But
I tell you the truth!” Dain said desperately. “It’s too late to appeal to me
now,” Lord Odfrey said harshly. “You defied me by running away. And now you
have attacked Prince Gavril.” “No!”
Dain said, horrified. In a flash, he finally understood. Gavril’s evil, lying
tongue had twisted everything. “Lord, you must listen to me. It was—” “The
assembly will listen to you,” Lord Odfrey said, cutting him off. “Master your
fear.” “I
did no wrong,” Dain insisted. “Hueh was a witness to what occurred. Sir Roye as
well—” “Dain,
be silent!” Lord Odfrey said. “We cannot settle this now. If you are innocent,
then you must prove that to the knights.” Dain
stopped his explanations, feeling desperation clawing inside his chest. How
could he explain? Who would believe his word above the prince’s? Bitterness twisted
inside him, and in his mind he could hear Thia saying, “Trust not men, Dain. They will always turn and
betray you.” Lord
Renald set his hand gently on Dain’s shoulder. “Better I take him now.” “No,”
Lord Odfrey said in a voice like iron. There was fear in him, and Dain’s sense
of alarm grew. If Lord Odfrey was worried about him, then truly he stood little
chance. Lord
Odfrey shook his head. “Thank you, Renald, but please go and tell them that
I’ll bring him in a few minutes.” The chevard’s gaze swung back to Dain and
narrowed. “He must account to me first.” “Be
not long,” Lord Renald advised him. “The more wine they drink and the longer
they talk, the more trouble can brew.” “Dain’s
delay has already done the most harm,” Lord Odfrey said bleakly. “More will
matter little.” This
remark did not seem to impress Lord Renald. “It will be better if he appears of
his own accord. If they must come for him, it will look black against him
indeed.” He
left with that ominous remark. Dain
frowned at Lord Odfrey. “Who will take my word instead of his?” he asked
without hope. “Even you do not believe in my innocence.” “How
can I when you have defied me so boldly?” Lord Odfrey retorted. “I
was angry.” “Anger
maketh a fool,” Lord Odfrey said as though quoting someone. Dain
flushed hot. For a moment he wanted to shout curses at the chevard. But when he
saw the anguish in Lord Odfrey’s dark eyes, Dain’s throat choked up and he
could not stay angry. He had tried so hard in recent months to gain this man’s
respect. Now he saw how deeply he had disappointed Lord Odfrey. But Lord Odfrey
needed to understand how much he had hurt Dain as well. Swallowing
hard, Dain said, “I wanted to prove myself to you. I wanted to make you proud
of me. When you withdrew me from the contest, I was angry, for I wanted to try,
even if I entered at a disadvantage.” “But
why run away over something so trivial?” Lord Odfrey asked. “It
was not trivial to me.” Lord
Odfrey frowned, and for a long moment there was silence between them. Dain
broke it with a sigh.
“I will never be a knight, will I?” Lord
Odfrey’s brows knotted. “Dain—” “I
am eld. Neither Mandrian nor one of the faithful.” Dain shrugged. “When the knights
let me sit and listen to their tales in the guardhouse, I felt as though I
belonged. When they taught me swordplay, I could forget what I am. But there is
no true acceptance for one such as myself.” “Dain,
I sought to protect you from harm,” Lord Odfrey said, looking upset. “I feared
Mierre would hurt you cruelly on the field, and conceal it as a jousting
injury.” “Strange,”
Dain said, unable to believe him. “Mierre’s dagger wounded me today, and now
that I am accused of a terrible act I did not commit, you believe them, not me.
How does that protect me from harm?” “It
will be the knights who judge you, not I,” Lord Odfrey said. That
answer was meaningless, for Lord Odfrey still refused to take his side. Dain
stared at him, hurt beyond measure. Someone
pounded on the door. “My lord, bid us enter!” With
a start, Lord Odfrey glanced in that direction. “Wait!” he called. Dain
heard an impatient murmur of male voices outside the door, and Sir Blait
growling a response. Fear dried Dain’s mouth. If he could not sway Lord Odfrey,
how could he prove himself to the rest? Would they let Hueh speak on his
behalf? Would the child tell the truth, or lie? It took courage to accuse the
prince publicly of lying. /
shall do it, Dain promised himself grimly. Though they cut out my tongue for it, 1 shall make
them hear how infamous their prince is. The
pounding came again on the door, more insistent this time. Dain
looked at Lord Odfrey in appeal. “Lord, tell me the law I am to be judged by.
If I am to defend myself, I must know how.” Lord
Odfrey flung his ink pot at the wall. It shattered there, blotching the wall
with a huge indigo stain. “Damne! Had you come straight to me, you would have
had no opportunity to attack Gavril. I am certain he provoked you, but why in
Thod’s name were you so foolish?” “Open
your ears to my words,” Dain said. “I did not attack the prince. Not once. Not
in any fashion. He came to watch while Mierre and Kaltienne fought me. Sir Roye
told me I was wrong to have my weapon drawn in his presence, but was I to
sheathe my dagger to avoid offending his highness, and let them stab me?“ Lord
Odfrey closed his eyes as though in pain. He drew in a sharp breath and opened
them again. “You will swear to this?” “Aye,
of course I will swear to it,” Dain said fervently. “Truth
is the only defense you have.” “My
word against Gavril’s.” Dain sighed. “Will Hueh be allowed to speak for me?
Will Sir Roye?” Lord
Odfrey’s eyes were dark with anguish. He hesitated a moment before he said, “I
have sent Sir Roye away. He is delivering a message from me to Geoffen du
Maltie.” Dain
stared in disbelief. Cold chills ran down his arms. “Why?” he whispered. “Thod
help me, to save his life,” Lord Odfrey answered. His face held momentary
despair, then it grew harsh again. ‘The man has been my protector since I won my
spurs of knighthood. I will not let him risk his life by calling the prince a
liar.“ The
coldness in Dain spread. “And Hueh?” he asked. “The
child, by law, is too young to speak.” Dain
shivered, turned away, and went to stand by the window. He stared blindly
outside, his heart pounding heavily. “Then I am doomed.” Lord
Odfrey came up behind him. He touched Dain’s shoulder, but Dain flinched away. “Forgive
me,” Lord Odfrey said quietly. “They are innocents and I cannot let them be
harmed by what has befallen you.” “Of
course,” Dain said bitterly. “As an eld, I am permitted no defense.” “No!”
Lord Odfrey spun him around and glared at him. “Damne, boy! I would rather fall
in battle than lose you. I lost one son. I do not—cannot lose another.” “I am not your son,” Dain said harshly. “No.” Dain
flung up his chin, facing the man. “Would you defend me if I were?” Lord
Odfrey clenched his jaw so hard a muscle leaped there. “In Thod’s name, how can
I? When I became chevard of Thirst, I swore to uphold the law of the land. I
tried to protect you, but you defied me, ran away, consorted with a foreigner,
and have been traveling through Nold at a time when our lands are under
fearsome attack. You defied Sir Terent by refusing to come straight to me. I
could have protected you then, but nay, you fell into the trap set for you. Now
you would accuse me of not defending you. How can I when you have rejected my
every effort to protect you?“ Dain
listened to him and felt his defiance crumble. His eyes stung, and he turned
away, silent and wretched. His mistakes loomed large, and he saw now how wrong
he’d been, how unfair he’d been to blame Lord Odfrey for his problems. His own
independence and defiance had played into Gavril’s hands. “What,
then, can I do?” he asked. “For me to tell the truth will be to accuse the
prince of lying. If I do that, will I break another of your laws?” “Yes.” Dain
swore softly beneath his breath. The trap was even worse than he’d thought.
Gavril had him from every side. “If I run away, for real this time? If I never
return?” Sorrow
creased Lord Odfrey’s scarred face. “You will be wanted for life. You can never
cross Mandrian borders again, for the king will set a price on your head. If I
or any knight here see you, we will be bound by our duty and fealty to seek
your life. I do not want that, Dain. Do you?” “If
I remain here and go through this trial, will I die?” Dain asked bluntly. “I
know not. I hope not,” Lord Odfrey said with a sigh. “But
you cannot promise me.” “Dain,”
Lord Odfrey said, his voice serious indeed, “if you wish to escape Thirst,
there is a way out, a hidden way known only by me. It was shown to me by my
father, and his father before him.” Hope flashed through Dain. He grabbed at the offer like a
drowning man. “Where is it?” “You
will go, then?” Lord Odfrey asked. “What
choice have I?” Lord
Odfrey dropped his gaze and nodded. “Very well. I will show you the way.” The
knights outside pounded on the door again. “My lord! We must have him.
Surrender him to us now!” “A
moment more,” Lord Odfrey called back, and strode across the wardroom to the
fireplace. He pressed a stone, and a small, concealed door opened in the wall.
“Through here. Quickly.” Dain
hurried to it and had started to duck into a cramped, musty passageway draped
with cobwebs and smelling of mice when a suspicion tickled the back of his
neck. He paused, hesitating, and glanced back. Lord
Odfrey scowled at him and gestured for him to go. “Hurry. You have no more
time.” “What
will become of you?” Dain asked. “If I go, it will be known that you allowed me
to escape. What will befall you?” “Do
not worry about me.” But
Dain was thinking of what the chevard had said to Lord Renald. “You said I was
your responsibility. Will you be punished for defying the prince?” “No.” “Tell
me the truth,” Dain said fiercely. “If
you’re going, you must go now,” Lord Odfrey said with equal fierceness. “It is
the only way to save you.” “Will
you stand trial in my place?” Dain asked. Lord
Odfrey said nothing. They stared at each other a long moment in the silence,
then Dain slowly backed out of the escape passage and pressed the stone to
close its door. “Dain!” “No,”
Dain said softly, “I will not run if it means you will be destroyed in my
place.” “I
have a better chance than you.” Dain
shook his head. “You have given me much kindness this year, lord. I will not
serve you ill in repayment.” “In
Thod’s name, you must go!” Dain
turned away from him and resolutely opened the door. He found himself faced by
a delegation of six knights, half Thirst men and half Lunt. His heart was
hammering again, and from behind him he could feel a wave of despair pass
through Lord Odfrey. Dain’s knees felt weak, and he was sore afraid, but he
forced himself to face the men with his head held high and his gaze steady. “Take
me to your assembly,” he said. The
Hall of Thirst Hold stretched long and narrow, with a high vaulted ceiling
spanned by thick wooden beams and hung with Thirst banners of green. The head
of a stag bearing immense, spreading antlers was mounted at one end of the
Hall; the massive head of a black, snarling beyar was at the other. Tapestries
covered the wall on one side of the Hall, while shields interspersed with
chevron-patterned arrangements of swords and rosettes of daggers adorned the
opposite wall. Long trestle tables littered with trenchers, riddled wheels of
cheese, bread crumbs, and platters of picked-over meat bones stretched the
length of the room in a double row, leaving an empty aisle that reached all the
way to the great hearth at the north end. Large enough to roast an ox, the
hearth stood cold and empty this summer’s night. Torches set in iron sconces on
either side of the chimneypiece flamed vivid red, hissing and smoking and
dripping hot pitch. When
Lord Odfrey walked into the Hall, the musicians fell silent and the knights
sitting at the tables stopped their chatter. Pewter tankards of Thirst cider
banged the tables. Benches scraped back, and the knights rose to their feet. The
chevard had put on a dark green cloak over his gray tunic. The torchlight
glittered on his jeweled cloak pin, signet, and marriage ring. Grim-faced, Lord
Odfrey strode along straight-backed, with one hand resting lighting on his
swore hilt. Dain
followed behind him, feeling the weight of every paь of eyes in the Hall, from Prince
Gavril on down to the lowliesi page. Next came the six knights in solemn
procession. The
knights of Thirst were sober, but the men of Lunt were not. Dain smelled the
fermented ale in their cups and on theь breath. He read fierce judgment in their
gaze. Their minds flickered against his: guilty/guilty/guilty/guilty. At
the head table, which was still laden with supper remains Prince Gavril sat
with the priest and Lord Renald. Only Lord Renald had the right to stay seated
in Lord Odfrey’s presence but none of them rose. The
torchlight gleamed on Gavril’s golden hair. He wore an indigo doublet of silk.
His handsome face smirked with triumph, and his slender white hand toyed with
the jeweled hilt of his poniard. Sir
Los stood behind his young master’s chair, looking stolid and bulky. His
expression was stony, his eyes forever watchful. The priest was a short,
swarthy man with a sunburned tonsure and worried, nervous eyes. Wearing his
robes, he looked hot and unhappy. With
his own protector standing behind his chair, Lord Re-nald leaned back,
seemingly at his ease, but his dark eyes held a frown. When Lord Odfrey reached
the table, Lord Renald rose to his feet and bowed. Lord
Odfrey inclined his head stiffly in return. Their exchange of courtesies made
Gavril look haughty and churlish. When the prince continued to sit in Lord
Odfrey’s presence, a faint murmur of disapproval spread across the room. Gavril
seemed to ignore it, but his dark blue eyes flashed with disdain. Glancing to
one side of the Hall, Dain found the worried faces of Thum and Sir Polquin
among the crowd. Sir Polquin scowled at Gavril and Thum looked furious. Lord
Odfrey’s gaze passed over Gavril coldly and sought out his captain-at-arms.
“Who have been chosen judges?” he asked. Sir
Bosquecel, looking stern and official in his mail and sur-coat, came forward.
“The judges will be Lord Renald, his captain-at-arms, and myself.” Dain
blinked worriedly. Lord Renald seemed fairly neutral and open-minded, but Dain
had already heard the man warn Lord Odfrey not to risk offending the king. Dain
did not think Lord Renald would fail to follow his own advice. The second man
Dain knew not at all. Sir Bosquecel had always been kind to Dain in the past,
but now he stood rigid and stalwart before Lord Odfrey and did not glance at
Dain once. Even if Sir Bosquecel took Dain’s side, that left two whose votes
were at best uncertain. Prince
Gavril finally rose to his feet. “A representative of the church should also be
a judge,” he said. The
priest beside him jumped up hastily, looking more nervous than before. “I shall
serve as I am called to serve, my lords,” he said in a thin, breathless voice. Ignoring
the priest entirely, Lord Odfrey looked at Gavril with scant patience. “Such is
not the law.” Gavril
flushed, and for a moment hatred for Lord Odfrey gleamed in his dark blue eyes.
“It is the custom at court to include the church as a courtesy.” “We
are an assembly of warriors, your highness,” Lord Odfrey said in a voice like
stone. “We will follow law here, not lowlander custom.” The
pink flush in Gavril’s face darkened at the rebuke, and some of the knights
laughed. Gavril glared at them. “Very well!” he said a bit shrilly. “Let us
begin.” Sir
Bosquecel looked offended by the prince’s brusque command. Watching, Dain got a
glimmer of an idea. If he could cause Gavril to lose his temper and display to
these men his true personality, then perhaps they might believe what Dain had
to say. It was a thin plan, but all he had. The
ceremony began with the head table being pushed back and Dain placed in front
of it to face the entire Hall. A
herald wearing Thirst livery came forward and cleared his throat. “Lords and
knights,” he announced, “let it be known that the trial of one eld youth, known
as Dain, has now begun. Let truth be spoken by all. Let all hearts be open to
receiving the truth, as we are taught by Tomias, servant of Thod the Almighty.” Someone
pounded his tankard on the table at the rear of the Hall. “Hang ‘im!” the man
shouted drunkenly. “Hang ’im in a river tree an‘ let the keebacks peck out his
eyes!” Lord
Odfrey whirled around. “Seize that man!” he roared. Two Thirst knights strode
down the length of the Hall toward the offender. “Gently,”
Lord Renald said with an apologetic shrug. “Chances are he’s one of mine.” Lord
Odfrey was not listening. His fist was clenched at his side and he fumed,
“Drunkenness in my Hall. I will not have it.” The
knight who was pulled forth to stand on wobbly knees was not a Lunt man,
however, but Thirst. With food and ale spilled down his green surcoat, he let
his head loll a moment before he waved and flashed a drunken grin. It was Sir
Vedrique, assigned to Gavril’s company of guards. Lord
Odfrey looked livid. “Get him out!” he ordered. “Secure him in the guardhouse.” “Aye,
m’lord.” Sir
Vedrique was hustled out, and Lord Odfrey gazed long and hard around the Hall.
“If any other man here is drunk, let him admit it now and leave without
censure. Stay, and if I learn you have voted in this trial with your judgment
impaired, it will be a public flogging.” Two
Thirst knights stepped sheepishly from the crowd, bowed unsteadily to their
chevard, and left. A Lunt man also came forward and bowed to Lord Renald. “I
fear, m’lord,” he said in a slurred voice, “that I am unfit for this occasion.” “You
may go,” Lord Renald told him. Gavril
stepped toward Lord Odfrey. “I am to blame, my lord,” he said lightly. “ ‘Twas
my idea to cheer and reward the men for a hard day’s fighting. I did provide
ale from my private stores, after Sir Bosquecel granted permission.” Lord
Odfrey scowled at his captain-at-arms, who looked deeply troubled. “I
saw no harm, my lord,” he said quietly. “Permission was sought the moment we
rode in, before this other trouble began.” “I
see,” Lord Odfrey said, and let it pass. Dain,
however, drew in a sharp breath and glanced at Gavril. How smug the prince
looked. He must have planned this all in meticulous detail. Why? Dain wondered. What had he ever done to warrant the
prince’s total enmity? Was this retaliation for that long-ago day when they’d
scuffled over the bard crystal? Could Gavril harbor a grudge for something that
trivial? Or did blind hatred stem simply from bigotry and prejudice? Gavril had
gone to great trouble to see him destroyed. The
ceremony continued. A green square of cloth embroidered with Lord Odfrey’s
crest of leaping stag and his bars of rank was brought forth by a trembling
page. He handed the cloth reverently to Sir Bosquecel, who held it up by two
corners and draped it across Lord Odfrey’s sword as it was drawn. Dain
noticed that tonight Lord Odfrey’s weapon was not the usual utilitarian blade
that he wore into battle but instead one longer and very old. It was not
fashioned of magicked steel forged by dwarves but instead of some metal equally
mysteri- ous,
ancient in fact, with a resonance that traveled along Dain senses. He had never
seen such metal before, and he could n get a clear look at it with the cloth
draped across the blade, b he closed his eyes and listened to the hum of it. “/
am Truthseeker,” it said within the hum. Great pow flowed inside the
blade. Long ago, many battles had it fougl Images of blood and death mingled
with war cries in tongu that Dain had never heard before. He shuddered and
opened h eyes as the draped sword was pointed straight at his
heart, th< turned sideways and laid at Dain’s feet. Gold wire was wrappi
around the two-handed hilt and a row of fiery emeralds studdt the straight edge
of the guard. Glittering and gleaming, Trut seeker lay on the floor in
humility, but even the cloth could n mask its greatness. Wide-eyed
with awe, Dain stared at Lord Odfrey, and h entire image of the man changed to
something new. Of wh lineage was this man that he owned a sword made of
god-stee Such ancient weapons were legendary, more myth than fact i these
times. Jorb had sometimes spoken of god-steel wistfull wishing he could touch
some of it, just once, in his lifetime. ] the olden days, dwarves and other
treasure-hunters had sea‘ enged the Field of Skulls in hopes of finding such a
weapc among the fallen. To see a sword of this kind, here and now, o viously
well preserved and handed down from generation generation, so astonished Dain
that he could not remain silen “Truthseeker is—” Lord
Odfrey’s gaze snapped to his in warning. As Da broke off what he’d been about
to blurt out, the chevard said a soft, grim voice, “My ancestral sword is named
aptly. And you are found guilty, it will take your life.” Dain
gulped, but Lord Odfrey was already turning aw from him. Standing alone, Dain
met the eyes of the assemh and told himself that doomed or not he would see the
truth tc tonight, would hold to his honor and show them eld courage. The
six knights who had escorted Dain here from Lo Odfrey’s wardroom now knelt in a
semicircle before him. O by one, each man drew his sword beneath a plain cloth and
h the draped weapon on the floor before him. The three judg
stood facing Dain on his right; Lord Odfrey, Gavril, and Sir L stood facing him
on his left. At
the rear of the Hall some of the wounded knights hobbl in with
assistance. Four other men were carried on wooden boards, with Sulein hovering
in attendance. A loud babble of conversation rose through the Hall, until the
herald raised his hand for silence. “Hear
this!” he said, his voice ringing out so that all could hear. “The eld called
Dain stands accused by Prince Gavril of crimes and foul deeds against his
person. His highness will lay those charges now.” His
face alight with eagerness, Gavril stepped forward and pointed at Dain. “In the
afternoon of this day,” he began with great formality, “this pagan creature did
walk into the common chamber of the fosters and interrupt my conversation with
Mierre and Kaltienne. He did swear at me and give me great insult, then without
provocation he drew his dagger and attacked me, with intent to commit grievous
bodily harm ... or my death.” Dain
stiffened, incensed by so blatant a lie, but he’d been warned not to speak out
of turn. It took all the willpower he had to stay silent, even as hostile
murmurs rose through the Hall. Their emotions beat at him, stronger than ever: guilty/guilty/ guilty/guilty. Clenching
his jaw, he drew his bard crystal from beneath his doublet and clutched the
pendant in his fist. He thought of Thia, his beloved sister, whose pale,
blonde-haired beauty had been like a song in the air. She would not want to see
him here, judged for his life by this assembly of men and bound by their
treachery and lies. He thought of her proud spirit, her courage that had never
faltered, even in her final hours as she lay dying of a Bnen arrow. If
he did not prevail tonight, he would join her spirit in the third world. But he
would not go like a baseborn coward, cringing and pleading for mercy. Dain
stared coldly at Gavril, whose lying tongue had finally fallen silent. Mierre
and then Kaltienne were brought forward to speak their lies. Furious, Dain kept
his shoulders erect and his chin high. Gavril had hated and persecuted him from
the first day because he was an eld; there was no other reason. The prince’s
blind prejudice did him no credit, and someday perhaps these men and others who
followed him would see the truth of his character and follow him no more. When
the accusations ended, silence hung over the Hall. Dain
faced the assembly, refusing to act guilty or let his fea show. He had no
witnesses to contradict the lies Mierre ani Kaltienne had spoken. Truthseeker
lay at his feet. He wishe with all his heart that would spring into the aь guided by the hand
of Olas, god of war and justice, to smit them. But
that was an unworthy wish, Dain told himself. His proh lems were his own, too
small for the gods to concern therr selves with. He had gotten himself into
this by his own action and choices. Foolishly, he had played into Gavril’s evil
hands. The
Hall seemed to grow warmer as someone else spoke i
length. Dain stopped listening and let his mind drift. His an was throbbing
more than ever. He could smell the food not yt
cleared off the tables. His stomach growled and rumbled, and took all his
willpower not to grab some of the table scraps at hi back. Between his wound
and his hunger, he felt faint. Yet h was determined to stand tall and look
brave. Something
pale and indistinct near the ceiling caused th banners to flutter. Trying not
to sway, Dain let his gaze wande upward. He frowned at the shape, which swirled
like mist an was no creature of this world. His
mouth went dry and for an instant he knew fear. But h sensed nothing evil about
it. His eyes closed a moment, fightin off a wave of weakness, and when he
opened them again th mist was forming itself into the likeness of a man such as
Dai had never seen before. He
blinked, unable to believe his eyes, and glanced swiftl around to see if anyone
else noticed this vision. But Lor Odfrey was speaking, and all eyes were
trained on the chevarc Dain found his gaze drawn back to the vision. This
strange was an awesome sight, a handsome man in the prime of lift
broad-shouldered and strong, with a chiseled face too angula to be Mandrian.
There was a look of the eld to his features, al though like Dain his frame was
as large and muscular as an human’s. His breastplate of gold embossed with
symbols c hammer and lightning bolts gleamed as though with a life of it own.
In his right hand this man held a magnificent sword witi a blade that shone
white and magical. His thick black hair fel to his shoulders, held back by a
circlet of delicate gold that onl; enhanced his masculinity. His ice-blue eyes
were eagle-keen They pierced Dain as though they would look deep, to Dain’s
very soul. Unable
to draw a complete breath, Dain felt his knees buckling. He tried to kneel
before this king, but the apparition pointed his sword at him and his deep
voice rang through Dain’s mind, “Kneel not to me, Faldain of Nether.” Dain
gasped. From the corner of his eye he saw Gavril glance at him sharply, but
Dain’s gaze remained rapt on the king. His heart was pounding with suppressed
excitement. Faldain of
Nether. The name ran through his
thoughts. In his mind, Dain replied, “Great One, what would you have me do?” Again
the apparition pointed at Dain with his mighty sword, which glowed now to a
blinding degree, like a tongue of white flame. “Beware!” rang the words in
Dain’s mind. “Danger lurks close. You must not fail.” Dain
frowned, finding this warning hardly useful. He had little chance of prevailing
at this trial, especially the way truth was being mocked tonight. “How
can I win?” he asked the king. “Have mercy, Great One, and show me the way.” “The
way is already known to you. Lose not your courage against your foe.” “But—” “The
danger is not what you think. Beware, Faldain. Pay heed to my warning.” The
apparition vanished, leaving Dain shaken and disoriented. He lifted his hand to
rub the sweat from his brow, and wondered if his own weakness had made him
imagine the vision. Yet
its words still echoed in his mind. Frowning, Dain slowly turned the warning
over and over in his thoughts. Some spirit from the third world had reached
through to warn him of danger other than what he faced right now. The
hair suddenly prickled on the back of his neck. Were Nonkind here, concealed in
the hold, perhaps in the Hall itself? He sensed nothing, yet his sense of
unease grew rapidly. Lord
Odfrey was saying, “I will remind you of how this boy first came to us, starved
and wretched, how he did risk his own life to save that of the huntsman Nocine,
who stands now at the rear of the Hall.” As
he spoke, he pointed at the man. Many of the assemb twisted their heads to
look. Others did not. “Dain
rode into battle unarmed at my back that day,” t’t
chevard continued, his voice hard and measured. “He risked h life to guide us
to the dwarf raiders who had done wrong I Thirst. He risked his life to save
mine.” The
chevard pointed to his scarred face. “Thanks to th boy’s quick actions, I
survived my wound and lived. It w< your wish, knights of Thirst, to make him
a foster. I grant yoi petition and allowed him to stay as one of us, to be
trained arms. It has been our united intention that he one day’t knighted and
serve Thirst in its defense. You know his goc qualities, which are many. But,
yes, he has had his moments < mischief. What boy does not?” A
few of the knights chuckled, but others stayed silen frowning while they
listened. “He
disobeyed me a few days past and went forth in tli smith’s company to help him
buy sword metal from a dwar Since Dain was raised by Jorb maker, it was not ui reasonable of our smith
to ask for his help in securing a goo price.” Behind
Lord Odfrey, Gavril was sighing impatiently an fidgeting. Dain stared hard at
him, wondering where th Nonkind could be and how he could stop the proceedings’t
warn Lord Odfrey. As
though feeling Dain’s stare, the prince glared back unt Dain shifted his gaze
away. “In
leaving the hold without permission, Dain did wrong, Lord Odfrey continued, his
speech apparently endless. ”Bi who among you cannot remember your own boyhood
es capades?“ There
were more chuckles, but Dain hardly noticed that th chevard’s words were
swaying the knights in his favor. H wondered if the chevard had yet answered
the direct accusatioi Gavril had laid. Lord
Odfrey pointed at Dain. “Many of you have work© with Dain, and sought to assist
him in his training. Others o you have supervised him in his chores. Have you
known thi boy to lie? To ever strike someone else in anger? To treat an) one
cruelly or unjustly?” The
chevard paused, holding the assembly with his ster gaze. “The answer to each of
those questions is no. For the months he has lived among us, has he not had
ample opportunity to do harm against myself, against any of you, against even
the prince, had he wished? Why has he chosen to attack his highness now? Did he
attack at all, or did our prince misunderstand boyish high spirits and—” The
stench of something rotted and foul reached Dain’s nostrils. “Stop!” he shouted
loudly. His
interruption silenced Lord Odfrey, who swung around to glare at him. Sir
Bosquecel scowled. Others glared at Dain for daring to interrupt. “You
have not leave to speak, Dain,” Sir Bosquecel said in annoyance. “Await your
turn.” Dain
paid them no heed. He looked in all directions, seeking the Nonkind that was
among them. Released at last, as though the creature could no longer contain
itself, a foul stench so overwhelmed Dain’s senses that he wanted to retch.
Swallowing, he looked but saw nothing wrong. Everyone
was staring at him, and Gavril said, “He is surely mad, or pretending to be so.
It is a thin defense.” Even
now, Gavril refused to accept any beliefs or abilities save those that he
valued. Despising him for a fool, Dain said, “There is a Nonkind here.” Sir
Bosquecel and Lord Odfrey swung around in alarm. Sir Polquin swore aloud and
reached for his sword hilt. “Where,
Dain?” Lord Odfrey asked. “In Thod’s name, what is it? Where is it?” Dain
could not tell him, for as yet his eyes could not penetrate the creature’s
spell of concealment. He shook his head in frustration. The stink intensified,
worse than ever, causing the hair to stand up on the back of Dain’s neck. It
had to be close now, must be coming closer, yet he saw no movement save that of
a knight, striding forward from the back of the Hall. Dain eyed him narrowly,
unsure. He was unwilling to make the wrong accusation. “Dain!”
Lord Odfrey said sharply. He
drew a sharp breath and glanced at the chevard. “I cannot see it, but it’s here
in the Hall. It must be a shapeshifter.” “Gods!”
Sir Bosquecel said, half-drawing his sword. Sir
Los stepped in front of Gavril with his hand on his own weapon. Gavril
laughed scornfully. “Will you believe more of his nonsense? Will you let his
spells and lies cloud your minds?” He held up his gold Circle and aimed it at
Dain. “This pagan has no—” One
of the wounded men jumped to his feet, knocking Sulein aside, and suddenly
shimmered and changed shape, becoming a shadowy, snake-headed creature with
black, leathery wings. It screamed, and the sound pierced Dain’s ears. Several
knights cried out, clapping their hands to their ears and sinking to their
knees. The shapeshifter flew through the air so swiftly it was only a blur, and
came straight for the front of the Hall. It aimed itself at Gavril, who was
standing dumbstruck with horror. The prince raised his Circle, but Sir Los
pushed Gavril back and swung his sword at the shapeshifter’s belly. His
sword glanced off the creature’s hide without effect, and the shapeshifter sank
its poisonous fangs into Sir Los’s throat. Sir Los screamed, a high, keening
sound of death, and his sword fell from his slack fingers as the creature
pulled his body up into the air and drained the life from it. With
shouts, Sir Polquin and Sir Terent rushed at it, striking to no avail. Through
the Hall, there was shouting and pandemonium. Lord Odfrey and Lord Renald
bellowed orders that went unheeded in the confusion. The
priest held up his brass Circle, but retreated, wailing a prayer aloud. Someone
rushed to grab one of the torches and whirled it about so that the flames
popped and guttered. Gavril rushed foolishly at the shapeshifter, brandishing
his Circle and his jeweled dagger, and Lord Odfrey flung himself at the prince
to save him. One of the shapeshifter’s leathery wings struck Lord Odfrey and
knocked him sprawling to the floor. He lay still, unconscious or perhaps dead,
his forehead bloody. Sir
Bosquecel grabbed Lord Odfrey’s shoulders and dragged him out of the thing’s
reach just as it struck viciously. Its fangs snapped on thin air, and it
screamed in rage. “Back,
demon of the second world!” Gavril shouted. The
shapeshifter turned on the prince, who flung his dagger at it. The pretty
little weapon bounced harmlessly off the creature and clattered on the floor. Gavril
brandished his Circle. “By my faith, I order you back!” The
shapeshifter shimmered and suddenly took man-form again It laughed, a horrible
guttural sound that could never have been made by a mortal throat, then shifted
back into its true form. It flapped its wings and snapped at Gavnl, unfazed by
his religious talisman.
. Gavril’s
face had turned white. His hand trembled as it held the Circle even higher.
“This is a holy object. It must drive you back!” The
shapeshifter lunged again, snapping its poisonous jaws right in Gavril’s face. He
dropped his Circle and cringed back, flinging up his hands to ward off the
creature. “No! No!” he screamed in terror. Dain was the closest to the prince.
Without thinking, he whirled around and grabbed a handful of salt from the
seasoning bowl on the table, then stooped and picked up Truthseeker. The
embroidered cloth fell away from the carved blade as Dain swung it up and
around. The
shapeshifter seized the prince in its talons and reared back its snakelike head
to strike. Running to them, Dain flung his handful of salt at the monster and
shouted, “By salt and holy steel do I banish you from this world!” The
salt stung the hide of the shapeshifter, which shrieked in agony and began to
flail like something crazed. One of its wing tips nearly knocked Dain off his
feet. Ducking, he regained his balance, but the shapeshifter’s talons were
tearing long gashes in Gavril’s legs. The prince screamed. Gripping Truthseeker
with both hands, Dain lifted the heavy sword. In that instant, he felt its
power come to life, channeling up his wrists and arms all the way to his heart.
He heard himself say words that he did not understand, yet they made the very
air thunder. His bard crystal pendant sang a note so piercing and pure that
Dain’s ears rang. He swung with all his
might. Bursting
into flames as it whistled through the air, the god-steel blade sliced through
the shapeshifter’s thin neck and set it afire. In seconds, the creature’s
entire body was ablaze. It screamed and shrieked, writhing in its death throes,
then exploded into ashes that rained down upon Dain. In
the sudden silence, the air reeked of smoke and Nonkind stench. Truthseeker’s
blade flashed fire a moment longer, its power shaking Dain’s teeth. He could
feel his whole body glowing and his hair standing on end. Then the flames went
out, the light in dimmed, its power
faded away, and it became once more just a weapon of surpassing beauty. Dain
stood there, feeling weightless and light-headed. He could hear a roaring
sound, muted and far away. He saw individual faces that he recognized in flickers
of clarity. Thum, his freckles standing out boldly in his white face. Sir
Bosquecel kneeling over Lord Odfrey, who was holding his head and trying to sit
up. Sir Polquin, also on his knees, his lips moving but no sound coming forth.
And Gavril, lying on the floor near Dain, torn and bloody. The prince was
crying with pain and the aftermath of his fear, but he was alive. Dain
drew a deep breath, feeling neither relief nor regret, feeling nothing at all.
He had saved the life of his enemy; that was all he knew. Suddenly
Truthseeker was too heavy to hold. He struggled with it, knowing he must not
insult the blade by dropping it on the floor. A
hand gripped Dain’s wrist, then gently took the hilt from his bloody grasp. He
realized dimly that his wound must have opened. He could feel blood running
down his arm inside his sleeve. The
hand belonged to Sir Terent. His ruddy face entered the diminishing circle of
Dain’s vision and knotted itself with concern. “Dain,” he said. “Release .” Dain
thought he had, but when he looked down, his fingers were still gripped,
knuckle-white, around the gold-wire hilt. Frowning, he forced his fingers to
loosen. Sir
Terent reverently took away and handed it
to someone that Dain could not see. The absence of Truthseeker’s weight was a
relief. Now Dain had nothing left to anchor him. He felt himself floating
farther and farther away. “Dain,” Sir Terent said. “Dain, lad!” But the mists
closed around Dain, and he was gone. When
he next opened his eyes, the sun was shining through a narrow window straight
onto his face. Squinting, Dain tried to lift his head, but it weighed too much. The
pungent smell of herbs wafted beneath his nostrils, making him sneeze. Sulein
bent over him, smiling through his dark, frizzy beard. “Ah, he is with us
again. This is good.” Dain
glanced around, but he did not recognize the small, whitewashed room. Its
shuttered windows were open to admit the fragrant summer air. He lay in a tall
bed with heavy posts. Sulein retreated, and Lord Odfrey appeared at Dain’s
bedside. The
chevard looked solemn and troubled. A bruise marred his brow, but otherwise he
looked hale. He seated himself gently on the side of the bed and stared down at
Dain. “How
are you, lad?” he asked. His voice was gruff, and he cleared it loudly. Dain
considered the question. “Hungry.” Amusement lit the chevard’s dark eyes. His
smiled warmed his face and took the sternness away. Turning his head, he asked
Sulein to convey a message to the kitchen, then he swung his gaze back to Dain. “What,”
he asked mildly, “shall I do with you?” Memory was returning to Dain fast. He
frowned, feeling his worries return. “The trial,” he said. “Will it finish
today?” “The
trial is over,” Lord Odfrey said. “No fault was found in you.” Dain
grinned with relief. “No fault?” “None. You saved Prince Gavril’s life in front of us all, or don’t you
remember?” Dain
frowned, the memories bobbing and turning in his mind. “Has his wound been
salted and cleansed in the proper way?” “Aye.
And after all Gavril has done against you, I marvel that you care.” Dain’s
frown deepened to a scowl. Lord Odfrey mistook his concern. He cared nothing
for the prince. But if darkness should possess Gavril through tainted wounds,
everyone in the hold would be at risk. “How
the shapeshifter got in past our safeguards, the priest still has not explained
to my satisfaction,” Lord Odfrey said. “These are troubled times we face, now
that Nether no longer stands against them with us. Had you not been there,
Dain, many would have surely died, the prince among them.” Dain looked away,
and could not feel entirely glad. “Gavril is not wholly bad-hearted,” Lord
Odfrey said softly as though reading Dain’s mind. “Just spoiled and ill-taught
by ambitious men. He was mistaken in his belief that you meant him harm.” Dain
sat bolt upright. “I never attacked him!” he said furiously. “There was no
mistake about—” “Dain,”
Lord Odfrey said, gripping his hand. “Hush. The matter is closed. You are
cleared of all accusation.” “But
he—he—” “It
is over,” Lord Odfrey said in a tone that permitted no further discussion. “Be
glad.” Dain
sighed and nodded, knowing he must do as Lord Odfrey advised. Perhaps Gavril
had learned a lesson from this experience. Perhaps now he would be more
tolerant of beliefs that were not his own. Perhaps he might even see some good
use in having an eld around. “Was
he much hurt?” Dain asked. “His
leg will pain him for a while, but he will mend,” Lord Odfrey said. “By the
king’s birthday, he’ll be well enough to do his part in his knighting
ceremonies.” The
king’s tournament. Dain nodded, feeling fresh disappointment wash through him.
He would see none of the festivities at Savroix, but at least he was alive and
not to be punished. He could accept that as enough. “Lord,”
he said, gazing up at Lord Odfrey, “there is something I would ask you.” “Yes?” “It’s
about Thum.” “Yes?” “You
have no squire,” Dain said, frowning as he sought the best way to phrase his
request, “and Thum would be good in the job.” “Would
he?” Lord Odfrey said. His voice was neutral. His dark eyes held no expression
at all. This
was not promising. Dain frowned and tried to think of a way to persuade him.
“Thum is smart, lord, and loyal. He never loses things. He works hard. He would
make you a worthy squire.” “Thank
you for your advice, even if it is unasked for,” Lord Odfrey said. “I have
already placed him in that post.” Dain’s
gaze flashed up, and he smiled, although to his surprise his spirits suddenly
felt lower than before. So Thum would be the one foster permitted to go to
Savroix later this summer. Well, he deserved the trip. He was a hard worker and
a good friend. But somewhere beneath Dain’s gladness lay an empty feeling that
he could not drive away. “Now
enough about Thum,” Lord Odfrey said. “The knights ended your trial, but there
are other matters between you and me that are not settled.” Dain
swallowed hard, expecting lecture and punishment. “Yes, lord?” Lord
Odfrey stared at him, and with a sudden frown stood up and began to pace back
and forth. “Damne,” he muttered. “I came here prepared to reprimand you for
leaving the hold without permission, for not governing your damnable temper as
you should, for causing me more worry than a man should have to endure. Never
do that to me again.” Dain
stared at him in surprise. “No, lord,” he said after a moment. “I won’t.” “You
must learn discipline. An order is an order. If you like or dislike it, that
does not matter. If your commander cannot count on you to obey him in all
areas, then he cannot depend on you in battle either.” Dain
hung his head. “Am I to be flogged?” “Thod knows you deserve it,” Lord Odfrey said grimly, then paused next
to Dain and ruffled his hair with a gentle hand. “But, no. I think you’ve been
through enough.” Relief
filled Dain, and a great weight came off his shoulders. He glanced up and saw
Lord Odfrey smiling at him. Dain smiled back, glad that they were friends
again. “Impossible
brat,” Lord Odfrey said with feeling. “How did you learn to swing a sword like
that? How did you make it flash fire hot enough to destroy a Nonkind?” “But
it will always do so against them,” Dain said in surprise. “Truthseeker is—” “It
is not made of magicked metal!” Lord Odfrey said too quickly, as though he
perhaps feared that it really was. “I do not own a weapon that is forbidden by
Writ.” “No,
Truthseeker is not made of magicked metal,” Dain said, wondering how Lord
Odfrey could own such a holy weapon and not know what he had. The
chevard released his breath. “Thod be thanked. I thought you were going to tell
me of some power I didn’t—” “It’s made of god-steel.” Lord Odfrey stared at him, looking
dumbfounded. “What?” “Aye.
God-steel. Have you heard of it? It’s rare and very old. The metal is so hard
that dwarves who have found pieces of it in places of ancient battles cannot
hammer it. They cannot soften it with fire. They cannot work it at all, despite
their skill. Some ancestor of yours must have fought in the great battles of
long ago.” Lord
Odfrey sank down on the edge of the bed again, as though his legs would not
hold him. “Gods’ mercy,” he whispered at last. “I cannot believe it.” “The
power was not mine,” Dain said, surprised that Lord Odfrey had even thought so.
“Everything lay inside .” Lord Odfrey
ran his hand across his face. “My father was afraid to touch it. I have never
carried it in battle.” “That’s
where it belongs,” Dain said. “That’s what it sings for.” The
chevard turned his gaze on Dain and frowned. “I have heard it said that the
dwarves believe metal sings. You can hear it, can’t you?” Dain’s
smile faded. He met Lord Odfrey’s eyes and knew he must tell the truth. “Aye. I
felt it speak to me. It told me its name, and I believed it right to use it.
Or, in doing so, have I broken another law?” “No,
lad,” Lord Odfrey said kindly. “You used it for the greatest good possible,
that of saving someone’s life.” “It
is an incredible weapon,” Dain said, remembering the feel of it. “I would see
you use it—” “Nay!”
Lord Odfrey said hastily, standing up again. “My father warned me as his father
did warn him, that it is too strong for mere men to handle. And if you are
right about its being made from god-steel, then my father spoke truth. Mortals
have no business with such weapons. But you swung it as though it had been made
for your hand.” “Desperation, lord, that is all.” “False
modesty does not become you,” Lord Odfrey said. “By the laws of our church, men
cannot own god-steel.” Dain
looked up in alarm. “You will not destroy it, lord! You will not fling it in
the river.” “I
should,” Lord Odfrey said, but shook his head. “Nay, I will not. My father told
me it was won as a prize in battle by our ancestor.” “It
was a very great reward,” Dain said. “Your ancestor must have fought bravely
indeed.” Lord
Odfrey nodded and blinked in amazement. “God-steel,” he said softly, looking
secretly pleased. “Well, well. Let this be our secret, Dain, kept between you
and me. Let the others think you have powers against the Nonkind if they wish.” “But
I do not—” “It
does no harm. Otherwise, I must explain
, and I would rather not.” “Of
course,” Dain agreed quickly. “I would not wish to cause you trouble.” Lord
Odfrey smiled. “Enough about Truthseeker. You saved the prince’s life. And the
king has already sent his gratitude.” He
reached into his pocket and drew forth a rolled-up parchment, which he handed
to Dain. “How
did it come so quickly?” Dain asked, puzzled. “When this all happened only last
night, how did he know?” Lord
Odfrey chuckled. “Be at ease, lad. There’s no magic here. You’ve been asleep
five days since you swooned. I thought you might never awaken, but Sulein
assured me you would recover.” “Five
days!” “Aye.
No wonder you’re hungry, eh?” Dain
nodded. He unrolled the parchment slowly, having trouble because his wounded
arm was so heavily bandaged he could barely move it. Lord Odfrey held one side
of the parchment while Dain unrolled the rest. There
were many seals and flourishing signatures, but it was all written in the same
small characters that Sulein had showed him earlier, characters that Dain could
not read. He
frowned in shame,‘realizing what it meant to be ignorant. “I cannot read this,
lord,” he admitted. “No,
your education has far too many gaps. That is why I wanted you to begin lessons
with Sulein. If you are to live in Mandria, you must be able to read and write
our language.” “Sir
Terent cannot read,” Dain argued, staring at the crown drawn above one
signature. He guessed that it must say “Ver-ence,” and felt awed. “Sir Polquin
cannot either.” “I
would have you do better in life than a middle-rank knight,” Lord Odfrey said
firmly. “To be an educated man, Dain, is to have as much treasure as a
storehouse of gold pieces.“ Dain
sighed, thinking of endless days cooped up with Sulein in his dark tower room,
studying letters when he would rather be riding and practicing swordplay. He
nodded at the paper before him. “What does this say, lord?” “It
says, Dain, that I have permission to take you before King Verence and request
that you be made my ward and heir.” Dain
blinked, and at first he did not believe he had heard correctly. He met Lord
Odfrey’s dark eyes in wonder and disbelief, and felt amazed past words. “What?”
he gasped. Lord
Odfrey’s face held a mixture of hope and longing. “Does my petition please
you?” he asked, and his voice was vulnerable. “Please
me?” Dain echoed. “Oh, yes!” Lord
Odfrey’s whole face lit up, and he held out his hand. Dain gripped it firmly,
his throat suddenly too choked to speak. “Ah,
Dain, it will be good to have a son again. Since you came to Thirst, you have
lightened the sorrow in my heart. I have watched you, hoping to see you prosper
and develop. Many times these past months my heart longed to speak to you about
this.” “I
didn’t know,” Dain said softly. “No,
it has been something for me to work out alone. That night of the trial, when
you refused to flee the hold because I would have to stand accused in your
place, I knew that you were as true as ash wood. And I believed then that you
might perhaps hold some fondness for me as well, as a son has for a father.” Dain
opened his mouth, but his emotions were too tangled for him to speak. Lord
Odfrey frowned and gazed into the distance. “You see, Dain, while you have
lived here, you have acted at times like a wild spirit caged. I feared you
would decide to leave us at any time. I dared not let myself become too fond of
you, or start thinking of you as the son I needed to replace my poor Hilard. I
didn’t want to be hurt again. And then you did leave.” “Lord—” “No,
let me say this. I have nearly lost you twice now. Perhaps I have been too
strict with you, as I was with Hilard. Had you been more sure of your place
here, you would not have misunderstood me that day of the contest.“ Dain
was astonished to hear Lord Odfrey apologizing to him. “Lord, don’t! It is I
who must ask your pardon for—” Lord
Odfrey met his gaze, and Dain’s sentence faltered to a halt. “Would it please
you to stay at Thirst, to one day hold it after me as chevard?” “Think
on it,” Lord Odfrey said as though afraid that Dain would refuse. “I have told
you too much too fast. You need not answer me now.” Dain
struggled to swallow the lump in his throat, wanting to give his answer, but
too overwhelmed to find the words he needed. Lord
Odfrey stood staring down at Dain. “If you agree, the king is willing to hear
my petition. This paper almost guarantees that he will grant it.” Dain
frowned. “Lord, you do me great honor. But will you not suffer by naming an eld
into your family?” Lord
Odfrey shook his head. “I think not. Indeed, I care not. Mine is an old family,
well established in honest service. Court politics have never interested me.
Besides, the king does not hold the same views as his son, although I hope your
bravery has changed Prince Gavril’s opinions on many things. King Verence
remembers the old days, and old alliances.” Dain
thought of his vision the night of the trial, of the black-haired king who had
appeared to warn him and who had called him “Faldain of the Nether.” The
missing prince of that troubled realm. He shivered, afraid to think Sulein’s
guess might be right. Dain thought back to the night he had dreamed himself
drowning in water and a girl had summoned him forth to her bidding. Had she not
also called him Faldain? He
frowned, wondering now if he should not tell Lord Odfrey of these things and
ask his advice. But seeing the hope and hesitation tangled up in Lord Odfrey’s
face, Dain could not bring himself to speak of it. He had no proof, and in
himself he was not sure. It seemed too great and wondrous an identity to wish
for. And if he made such a claim for himself, he might lose Lord Odfrey’s offer
altogether. No—Jorb, who was always practical, had taught Dain to always take
what was sure, never what might be. Dain
looked up at the man whom he so admired, whom he’d wished could really be his
father, and who had now extended that tremendous honor to him. He
smiled shyly. “Lord, I would be honored past all I can say to—to be your ward.” Lord
Odfrey let out his breath explosively and grinned. “Truly?” “Aye.” They
gripped hands again, and tears of happiness misted Lord Odfrey’s eyes. Dain
could hardly meet his gaze, for Lord Odfrey shone with such pride and affection
that he felt dazzled. “My
son,” Lord Odfrey said softly, and his voice shook with emotion. Dain
thought of the home and family he’d lost less than a year past. Now he’d gained
both again—not the same ones, of course, but perhaps almost as good.
Perhaps—except for Thia—better. He
drew a deep breath of happiness and looked up at Lord Odfrey. “My father.” |
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