"Blakeny, Jay D as Chester, Deborah A - The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice 03 - The Chalice 0.9" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blakeny Jay D)

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Book Information:

Genre: High Fantasy

Author: Deborah Chester

Name: The Chalice

Series: The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice, book 3

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Part One

I

In upland Mandria, pewter-gray clouds scudded low over woods and marshland alike. A light but steady drizzle—the kind that rusted mail and weapons faster than squires could polish them clean again—had been falling all day. The road was muddy and rutted, hindering the already slow progress of the expedition. Dain and Prince Gavril, united in their quest to save Lady Pheresa’s life, were traveling northward with a large force of church soldiers and priests.

    Clad in a quilted wool undertunic, a fine hauberk of triple-linked mail, a green surcoat, and a heavy cloak of dark wool, Dain was riding along, lost in his own thoughts, when he sensed something unusual. At once he spurred his horse, Soleil, off the road and into the woods that lay eastward.

    His protector, Sir Terent, cantered after him, crashing through the undergrowth and slinging mud as he came.

    Reining up, Dain gestured for Sir Terent to turn back, but he was too late. The hind that had been frozen with fright in the bushes leaped from cover and bounded away with a white flash of her tail.

    Swiftly Dain tried to capture what might lie in her dim mind, but all he found there was a frantic run/run/run/run.

    Disappointed, he let the contact fade and stayed a moment beneath the shelter of the trees. Ah, it felt good to inhale the fragrances of damp soil, mossy tree bark, the rotting leaves underfoot, and the marshland in the distance. The frosty bite to the air stung his cheeks and numbed his fingers, but he welcomed the cold. Foliage blazed in hues of scarlet and gold, and leaves drifted down around them, cartwheeling across the ground wherever the wind gusted.

    Sir Terent rode up beside him. Muscular and ruddy-faced, the knight protector was rough-hewn and unpolished. But his gruff exterior belied a heart both true and loyal. Right now, he was looking puzzled. “What set you this way, sire? Were you thinking to course game?”

    “Nay,” Dain said with scorn. “Unlike Gavril, I need no sport to amuse me. I thought I sensed something.”

    “Nonkind?”

    “Nay ...” Frowning, Dain turned his face eastward again. He listened, but all he could hear was the clanking, creaking progress of the wagons and the steady plod of the church soldiers’ horses. They’d been eight days on the road thus far, since disembarking from the royal barges at the river town of Tu-isons, and at this slow rate of travel they’d be at least that many days more—if not longer—before they reached the Netheran border. Since yesterday, Dain had been troubled by an uneasy feeling of being followed. It came and went, as light and elusive as the breeze.

    “Anything?” Sir Terent asked quietly, watching him.

    Dain shook his head in frustration. He didn’t want to tell his protector that of late his eld senses seemed sometimes clouded and uncertain. If he opened himself too much, there came an assault of men-minds all jumbled with thoughts of piety, war, jealousy, worry, and vengeance. Added to that was the odd spell woven by the priest guardians keeping Lady Pheresa alive. It wasn’t magic exactly, but something mysterious and unexplained. Although Dain felt no serious harm in it, it made him uneasy and restless.

    He longed to get away from all of them, longed to lose himself deep in the forests, to find peace and quiet for a time. But such a wish was only self-indulgence; he could not afford it now.

    “Nothing,” he said to Sir Terent with a shrug. “I thought we might be followed.”

    “If not by Nonkind, who?”

    Dain frowned. He could not help but glance at the trees once more, although there was nothing to be seen among them.

    Sir Terent grunted. “Bandits, mayhap. We travel rich enough to tempt anyone.”

    “If they attack, they’ll rue the exercise.”

    Exchanging grins, they let their horses amble back toward thejoad. The company was still moving at a steady pace. Church soldiers, wearing their distinctive white surcoats with the black circles on both breast and back, trotted past. Their helmets were tied to their saddlecloths. They rode with spurs and bridles jingling. Yet for all their noise and chatter, they stayed watchful and alert.

    Although Dain had no liking for these knights and their rigid set of pious beliefs, they were well-trained warriors, stalwart enough to ward off most trouble. No bandit with any sense would dare confront a hundred armed knights, no matter how tempting the contents of these many wagons.

    It was not bandits, however, that worried Dain. There was much unrest across these uplands. The common folk who emerged from small villages to watch their progress cheered little and seemed relieved to see them go. Now and then they came across an isolated homestead that had been burned out or else stood deserted.

    As for this sense of being watched, Dain wished he could determine what was bothering his instincts. All he knew was that it was hostile.

    A shout rang out, rousing him from his thoughts. Dain saw four knights galloping toward him, with a familiar, red-haired figure in their midst. Feeling exasperated beyond measure, Dain scowled at them.

    “Lord Faldain, hold there!” called one of the knights.

    But Dain had already reined up.

    Beside him, Sir Terent scowled. “Damne, they do insult you without fail.”

    Since the first day of this journey, the church soldiers had steadfastly refused to address Dain by any rank higher than chevard. Despite King Verence’s public acknowledgment of Dain as a prince of Nether, Mandrian prejudice against the eldin grew from deep roots, fostered by the Reformed Church. Although these knights were required to treat Dain as nobly born, they expressed their disapproval in myriad ways. Calling him by his lesser rank was but one of them. Coming here now, with his squire Thum in tow, was no doubt yet another.

    Sir Terent’s hand went to his sword hilt. “Time they had a bit of courtesy stuffed down their gullets.”

    “Nay,” Dain said sharply to him. “You know my wishes in this matter.”

    Growling, Sir Terent subsided, but his green eyes were afire with resentment as the soldiers came up.

    Their officer, Sir Wiltem, was a burly man of middle years whose nose had been broken often in past conflicts. He stopped his horse directly in front of Dain’s and glared at him. “Is this your man?” he asked curtly, gesturing at Thum.

    Dain looked his friend over swiftly. Although pale enough to make his freckles stand out like spots, Thum showed no bruise marks. He sat upright in his saddle, his gloved hands clenching the reins, his breath steaming about his set face. He looked furious, but unharmed.

    “My lord,” the officer repeated, “is this your man?”

    “You know him to be Thum du Maltie, my squire,” Dain replied with equal brusqueness. “What do you with him?”

    “We were on scout patrol, and caught him sneaking away—”

    “I was not!” Thum said indignantly, glaring at the knight. “Morde a day, but this is the basest slander. I was riding on my business in plain view.”

    The man ignored Thum’s protest completely and went on scowling at Dain. “Your squire has no leave to depart the company. He can produce no writ of authority from Lord Barthomew. Nor would he tell us his destination.”

    “Release him, Sir Wiltem,” Dain said in rising annoyance. “He rides to Thirst Hold, by my order.”

    “And has your lordship permission from his highness to dispatch this rider?”

    Dain’s fists clenched hard on the reins. “Sir Wiltem,” he said in a voice like iron, “we ride across Thirst land today. If anyone’s permission is required to come and go here, it is mine. Or have you forgotten I am chevard of Thirst, and by the king’s own warrant?”

    For a moment Sir Wiltem looked as though he’d swallowed a wasp, then he bowed over his saddle. “Your pardon, my lord. It did not occur to me—”

    “Plainly,” Dain snapped, cutting short his apology. His gray eyes—eld eyes—blazed at the officer, who shifted his gaze away uneasily.

    Sir Wiltem cleared his throat. “We, er, have our commander’s orders to keep all in the company close. For the safety of—”

    “And do your orders tell you to interfere with my affairs?” Dain broke in sharply.

    Anger flashed in Sir Wiltem’s eyes, but Dain’s gaze never wavered. Once again Sir Wiltem was the first to look away.

    “The safety of this company is—”

    “Thod’s bones, will you say that my squire’s departure threatens us?”

    Sir Wiltem’s face reddened. “I follow orders, my lord,” he said stiffly.

    “Then perhaps you are too zealous, sir,” Dain told him. “Be sure your orders do not again interfere with what I tell my men to do.”

    Sir Wiltem’s eyes were stony, his face impassive. The offense he’d given was serious, but clearly he’d offered all the apology he meant to.

    Without another word, he wheeled his horse around and rode away with his men, cutting through the line of wagons lurching ponderously along the road.

    Glaring after them, Thum spat eloquently.

    Sir Terent flung back a fold of his cloak. “Hah, sire! That told ‘em! ’Tis good to see Wiltem put in his place; aye, and well-whipped with reprimand. He’ll think twice ere he crosses your majesty’s will again.”

    Dain was less sure. The church soldiers’ allegiance belonged

    to Gavril and Noncire; Dain’s authority in this expedition was slight indeed. Although the plan was for him to enter Nether disguised and unnoticed, he now wished he’d accepted Prince Spirin’s offer to send an entourage of exiles with him. Aside from a few servants provided by King Verence, Dain had only his few loyal companions from Thirst to stand by him. At times like these, he felt himself to be teetering on a political precipice.

    “Did they harm you?” he asked Thum.

    “Nay, I’m well,” his friend replied. Lanky, tall, and still growing, Thum du Maltie had of late grown a small brown chin-beard and narrow mustache which made him look more mature than his actual years. A well-born, quiet-spoken young man, Thum seldom lost his temper. But right now, his ire was hot, and his hazel-green eyes were snapping.

    “I tried to outrun them, but they cut me off,” he said. “I had a bad moment or two when I thought they might run me through. Thod’s bones, they acted like I was a dire enemy instead of a mere messenger.”

    “Those knights weren’t scouting,” Sir Terent said scornfully. “They acted with direct intent, or I’m a—”

    “And did they search you?” Dain asked, interrupting him.

    Thum shook his head. “Their saying I refused to tell them my business is a lie! They never asked, just rounded me up and forced me to come back with them.” He frowned at Dain. “It’s wondrous strange.”

    “No stranger than refusing to spend the night at any hold we’ve passed thus far,” Dain said thoughtfully. He looked ahead at the wagons rolling up the muddy road. “There’s need for haste, but this goes too far. The lady cannot keep up such a pace.”

    Thum sighed. “We’re crawling. Mud or not, these kine could pull faster if—”

    “For her, it’s fast enough,” Dain said sharply, then softened his tone. “Well, no matter now. My message must still go to the hold.”

    Thum gathered his reins at once. “Then I’m to ride again?”

    Dain nodded. “Let’s hope you reach it unhindered this time.”

    “I’ll ride like the wind to make up for lost time.” Thum wheeled his horse around, then spurred away in a gallop, his cloak billowing out behind him. In three huge bounds, horse and rider reached the trees and vanished from sight.

    “I can send Polquin to follow him in case he’s set upon again,” Sir Terent offered.

    Dain frowned. “Nay. If I know Thum, he won’t be caught a second time.”

    “He’ll be lucky to reach Thirst’s gates before eventide, delayed like this. If they won’t open for him—”

    “He’ll get there,” Dain said, refusing to think of Thum being left stranded for the night outside the hold walls, shivering with cold and prey to whatever evil might lurk in the darkness. “He’ll think of that, and he’ll take no chances.”

    “Aye, he’s a smart lad.” Sir Terent inhaled deeply and glanced overhead at the drizzling sky. “It’s good indeed to be back on Thirst soil, sire.”

    Dain smiled at him. “We’ve been away too long.”

    “That we have.”

    “Before tomorrow’s nightfall,” Dain promised him, “we’ll be in our Hall, drinking Thirst cider.”

    “With roast pig in our trenchers?”

    Dain laughed. “Perhaps so. But now it’s time to talk to his highness about his meddling.”

    Sir Terent sobered at once. “Now, Dain—uh, I mean, sire,” he said uneasily. “It ain’t wise to go picking a quarrel. Could be this was all Lord Barthomew’s idea.”

    “Barthomew cannot scratch himself without Gavril’s suggestion.”

    Sir Terent grinned. “Aye, ‘tis true enough. Still, it ain’t wise to fuss with his highness—”

    “This is my land,” Dain said grimly. “And I owe Gavril no oath of fealty for it. He should not interfere with me here.”

    Sir Terent looked alarmed. “His highness will do whatever he chooses. You know that.”

    “/ know that tomorrow night Lady Pheresa will rest inside Thirst’s walls as long as she needs to.”

    Not giving Sir Terent time to think up any more objections, Dain kicked Soleil forward and rode to the front of the column.

    He passed the numerous wagons piled high with provisions, tents, clothes chests, and countless gifts of great cost which Gavril intended to give to King Muncel for his assistance in their quest to save Pheresa.

    The lady herself traveled in the foremost wagon, lying in her glass encasement with a blanket spread over it to shield her from curious eyes. Next to her sat Megala, her serving woman, today a cold huddled figure in her damp cloak. On either side of Pheresa’s wagon rode the thirteen guardians on donkeys. These priests were entrusted with the difficult task of sustaining the spell of faith which kept her alive. Cowled and silent, each guardian was attended by a monk assigned to lead the donkeys and bring food and drink when needed. It was paramount that the guardians never be distracted, never be required to perform the most mundane task, never even be spoken to directly. All their attention and energy had to remain focused on their difficult task.

    And that it was difficult Dain had no doubt. Several times he’d heard some of the guardians moan aloud whenever Pheresa suffered most.

    Dain could not bear to look at her encasement, traveling well-secured with ropes to keep it from shifting. Each time he thought of her, afflicted with poison and paralyzed inside this mysterious Mandrian spell that kept her alive, he wanted to cry aloud with anguish. She was so beautiful and good. She had never done anyone harm. She deserved nothing as terrible as this affliction. Every morn when he awoke, he renewed his vow to find a way to save this sweet maid who’d stolen his heart.

    As he trotted past her wagon, he glanced at the servant woman. “How does the lady?” he called out.

    Megala, clutching her cloak beneath her chin, bowed to him nervously and would not directly meet his eld eyes. “Well enough, sir,” she replied. “The pains trouble her, I think. She cries a little in her sleep, poor lamb.”

    Fresh worry filled Dain. The spell holding Pheresa safe sometimes grew weak and allowed the poison to progress further through her body. That’s when her pain came back.

    Unhappy to hear that the lady was failing again, Dain spurred Soleil onward and rode past the flag bearers. Gavril’s blue and gold pennon hung slack in today’s rain, as did the cardinal’s yellow one and the black and white banner of the church soldiers. Yet another man carried the brown flag of pilgrimage, although its display was unnecessary until they reached the Netheran border.

    At the very front of the column, Gavril rode astride a magnificent black horse caprisoned in silver. Surrounded by his personal guards, lord protector, noble-born squires, Lord Barthomew and two other church knight officers, a minstrel, and various advisers, Gavril glowed with proud self-importance. Although he remained as handsome as ever, of late he’d begun to look thin and sometimes haggard. It was rumored he did not sleep well. Among the men it was said that the prince’s worry for his betrothed affected him. Dain, however, believed that Gavril was pining for Tanengard. Against all common sense, the tainted sword had been brought with them, locked away in a box among the baggage. Dain had silenced its terrible song for a while, but he knew eventually its power would begin to stir anew. When it did, Gavril would not be able to resist its call.

    Still, however hard his personal demons might drive him, Gavril had not lost his taste for finery. Today, his gold-colored chain mail shone brightly despite dreary rain and mud. A vivid blue cloak lined with pale, exquisite lyng fur protected him from the elements. His gauntlets were stitched of costly blue leather, with his crest embroidered on the cuffs.

    At his side rode Cardinal Noncire, whose obese bulk flowed over the saddle in all directions. Robed in black wool with a yellow sash of office beneath his fur-lined cloak, the cardinal looked like an immense pillow balanced precariously atop his stout, slow-moving horse. Hooded against the rain, Noncire appeared grim and miserable as he conversed with the prince.

    As Dain rode up, Gavril’s guards glanced his way, instantly alert, and his protector wheeled about to put himself between Dain and the prince.

    “Lord Kress, who is that?” Gavril called out, pretending he could not see Dain clearly.

    “It is I,” Dain said impatiently.

    “Ah, Faldain,” Gavril said in his mocking way. “Move aside, Kress, and let our visitor approach.”

    The protector reined back his horse, and Dain rode up between Gavril and Noncire.

    The cardinal stared at Dain through his small, beady eyes, and instinctively Dain stiffened in his saddle. He did not trust this cunning schemer, who spoke so softly and kindly, yet had a heart of flint. Noncire was neither friend nor ally to Dain, and never would be. After giving Dain a cold stare, he bowed his head slightly in a token gesture of courtesy.

    Dain nodded back to him and turned his attention to Gavril. He had his temper in hand. He intended to start with diplomacy. “My thanks for your reception,” he said politely.

    The prince, his handsome face looking tired beneath a thin, light brown mustache, eyed Dain with even more coldness than had the cardinal. “What do you want?”

    “I offer invitation and hospitality,” Dain said. “On the morrow, let us stop at Thirst Hold and bide there.”

    A twisted smile appeared fleetingly on Gavril’s face. He glanced across Dain at Noncire. “It seems that our kingly companion wishes to play host.”

    Noncire stroked his gray goatee. “The offer is well-intentioned, your highness. A rest in some comfort would be most welcome to all, I’m sure.”

    “There is no comfort to be had at Thirst, lord cardinal. ‘Tis a dour, drafty, inhospitable place, fit only for uplander barbarians.”

    “ ‘Tis better than pitching tents on the mud,” Dain said mildly. “Why not avail ourselves of what the hold can offer? I will not forbid your highness wine, if it’s Thirst cider you fear.”

    His small joke made Noncire smile, but Gavril seemed un-amused by the reference to their foster days, when Chevard Odfrey had kept Gavril’s wines locked in the cellars and insisted all hold folk stay sober.

    “No,” Gavril said. “We will not stop there.”

    Dain sighed. “Why is my offer not pleasing? I have sent a rider ahead to tell them we draw near. All will be prepared for our arrival.”

    Gavril frowned. “Damne, I gave orders against such—”

    “So I learned,” Dain said grimly. “But my rider has been dispatched all the same.”

    Fire sparked in Gavril’s dark blue eyes. “Do you dare defy me?”

    “Thirst is mine, by your father’s generosity,” Dain said, knowing the reminder would twist Gavril’s guts. “‘Tis not defiance to order my men to meet certain responsibilities.”

    “You—”

    “Please,” Dain said, wanting to keep Gavril from working up his notorious temper. “I offer this for Lady Pheresa’s sake. She grows worse. She needs rest.”

    “We’ll camp early today,” Gavril said.

    “Sleeping in a tent in the midst of a forest, with rain, mud, and inconvenience, is hardly the rest she needs,” Dain said, trying to stay patient. “At Thirst she can be made comfortable for a few days until she—”

    “A few days! Thod’s grace, are you mad?” Gavril shouted. “There is no time for lolling at our ease while you play host.”

    “This is a hard journey we make. Surely—”

    “You have done nothing but urge us forward since we left Savroix. When we were on the royal barge, you complained about how slowly the rowmen took us upriver against the current. When I would have taken Lord Ardelon’s recommendation to follow the king’s road north, you insisted we take this one instead. No doubt because it runs past Thirst Hold.”

    Dain frowned. “This road is the shortest route—”

    Gavril’s lip twisted. “Yet how convenient for you. And how remarkable that now, after all your urgency and fretting, it seems you are no longer in such a hurry. Let us dally at Thirst, you say. Let us feast and take our ease and make merry.”

    “I only—”

    “It is not Pheresa you think about, but rather yourself.”

    “Nay!” Dain said angrily.

    Gavril’s eyes flashed. “You want time at Thirst to foment more unrest among the divisionists. You want to busy yourself raising an army among men inclined to forget they are loyal Mandrians first. You—”

    “Have done,” Dain snapped. “Let it be Thirst or any other hold in the land. I care not. Only deliver the lady to a place of comfort. She suffers, and I seek only to alleviate that.”

    Gavril’s eyes grew hot and jealous. He glared at Dain. “You would do well to remember that Pheresa’s welfare is my responsibility. Not yours. She is under excellent care. The physicians who attend her have assured me not an hour past that she remains strong.”

    “Her servant woman says otherwise.”

    “Morde!” Gavril said as though driven to the limits of his patience. “What care I for the opinion of an ignorant servant? Shall I listen to her instead of learned men?”

    “She—”

    “And why should I listen to you?” Gavril went on furiously. “What knowledge of science do you possess?”

    Dain’s mouth clamped tight. He sat there, feeling his pulse thud in his throat and temples.

    Noncire cleared his throat. “Perhaps, your highness—”

    “Perhaps what?” Gavril interrupted rudely. “Do you intend that I should listen to the advice of this pagan who would be a king?”

    Dain’s eyes narrowed at the insult. Behind him, Sir Terent inhaled sharply. For a moment, as Dain glared at Gavril, he saw only haze and fire. Then came a vision of himself, clad in rags, with a leather collar buckled around his neck and a chain leading from it like a dog’s leash.

    This, Dain realized, stunned by his first direct glimpse into Gavril’s mind, must be what Gavril really thought of him. This was what Gavril actually wanted from him. To the prince, Dain would always remain a pagan dog, fit only to sniff out the whereabouts of the missing Chalice.

    Rage burned inside Dain, rekindling his hatred of Gavril, which he’d banked low on this expedition for Pheresa’s sake. Now it came up inside him like the spew of a volcano, hot and violent, and it was all he could do not to draw his weapon and challenge the prince then and there.

    Somehow, his good sense held him silent, though it took a severe struggle with himself to control his ire. His chest felt on fire, and his voice was hoarse when at last he said, “Tomorrow I shall ride to Thirst, and deal with matters there as are needed. I am sorry your highness does not feel the lady merits its hospitality. No more will be said.”

    “Your time would be better spent searching for these mys-terious eld-folk you claim can cure her!” Gavril said. “At Savroix, you boasted you could find them. Yet where are they? Why do you not produce them? Instead of causing trouble among my father’s subjects, why don’t you confine yourself to accomplishing your sole task on this quest?”

    Dain glared at him, stiff with frustration. It was futile to keep arguing, he realized.

    Just as he started to back Soleil away, however, Megala stood up in the front wagon and screamed. “My lady!” she cried out. “My lady! Help her!”

    The driver of Pheresa’s wagon yanked his team to a lurching halt. Gripping the encasement to keep her balance, Megala screamed again.

    Horrified, Dain cried out, “Pheresa!”

    As Dain spurred Soleil in that direction, one of the guardians groaned loudly, clutched his head, and fell off his donkey. Church soldiers, frozen till then, rushed to his aid.

    Dain reached the wagon and flung himself off Soleil just as the guardian priest was lifted from the mud. The man’s hood fell back to reveal his face, withered and drawn as though he’d aged a century. Dain stared at him with astonishment, for to his knowledge none of the guardians were old. This man’s eyes were open and staring fixedly, and his head lolled as though he were dead.

    Others crowded around, everyone talking at once. Dain elbowed and pushed his way through the confusion and climbed into Pheresa’s wagon just as Megala screamed again.

    She reached out her hands to Dain. “Help her,” she pleaded. “Help my sweet lady!”

    When Dain twitched aside a corner of the blanket, he saw Pheresa writhing inside the encasement. Her eyes were shut, but she was red-faced and clawing the glass with her Fingernails.

    Flinging aside all caution, he reached for the lid, but strong hands seized him from behind and pulled him back. Furious, Dain struggled, but Sir Terent had him clamped in a stout hug and would not release him.

    “Let me go!” Dain shouted. “Damne! Let me go!”

    “I won’t let you kill yourself. Come away!” Sir Terent shouted back.

    Cursing, Dain twisted to get free. As he did so, the blanket slid off the glass entirely, revealing Pheresa in her agony to everyone.

    “Cover her!” Gavril commanded, riding up on his black horse. “In Thod’s name, cover her now!”

    Megala bent to pick up the blanket. A knight swung himself into the wagon and helped her spread the cloth over the encasement.

    Meanwhile, Dain was hauled bodily out of the wagon by Sir Terent. As soon as Dain’s feet hit the ground, he struggled and cursed with all his might, but Sir Terent’s hold was an expert one, and Dain could not break it.

    Sir Polquin arrived at a run, took one look at them, and helped Sir Terent manhandle Dain over to one side, well out of the way.

    Sputtering and fuming, Dain cursed them both. The royal physicians came hurrying past him, and someone shouted for the men crowding round to let them through. Men and horses milled all around, and the servants came crowding up to whisper and gawk.

    When he felt Sir Terent’s hold slacken, Dain wrenched free. “How dare you pull me off that wagon!”

    “I’m sworn to keep yer grace alive,” Sir Terent said simply. “If you touch her, you’ll die.”

    That wasn’t strictly true. Dain would be in danger only if he tried to draw the poison afflicting her into himself. But he did not have the healing gifts, and he knew he lacked sufficient skill to withstand the eld-poison in her veins. He started to explain all this yet again to Sir Terent, then told himself it was of no use.

    Frowning, he turned and headed back in Pheresa’s direction, where men were still shouting and hurrying to and fro. “I must know what—”

    “No, sire!” Sir Terent called out in alarm. He ran to block Dain’s path, and there was fear in his face. “In Thod’s name, don’t risk it!”

    Amazed, Dain stopped in his tracks. He had never seen Sir Terent like this before.

    “Please,” Sir Terent pleaded.

    “She will not harm me. You need not—”

    “She will, sire. She will,” Sir Terent insisted. “I know you have a generous heart and you would gladly risk yourself on her behalf, but you must not.”

    Sighing, Dain gave up the argument. By then Sulein had come squelching through the mud, looking alarmed. “Sulein,” Dain said to him, “make haste, and tell me what can be done for her?”

    “As I told your majesty before, the spell they have cast over her is weaker than they believe,” Sulein said, steepling his long fingers together. “If one of the guardians has collapsed, the spell is now out of balance. It may fail completely.”

    “Morde!” Dain said in fresh alarm. He gripped Sulein’s sleeve. “Come! We must help her.”

    “Your majesty forgets I am forbidden to attend the lady.”

    “But you know what to do. You can help her, can’t you?”

    Not giving Sulein a chance to answer, Dain stepped around Sir Terent and headed grimly toward the spot where Gavril was now standing, asking a question of one of the physicians.

    “The spell cannot hold long without thirteen guardians, your highness,” the physician replied loudly. “The potion my colleague is giving her will ease her only if the spell can be rebalanced—”

    “Agreed,” Sulein said as he and Dain halted beside the prince’s group.

    Gavril’s face clouded over, and the physician turned to look at Dain and Sulein with raised eyebrows.

    Silence fell over Gavril and his small group. The hauteur on their faces angered Dain, for their pride and bigotry put Pheresa at more risk.

    Cardinal Noncire gave Dain a very slight inclination of his head. “I fear your majesty’s creature has no place here,” he said quietly, with a hostile glance at Sulein. “His opinion is not requested.”

    “Hear him,” Dain said with equal coldness. “For once, put aside your prejudice against all who are foreign. Master Sulein’s knowledge is more useful than you suppose.”

    Gavril sniffed and swung his gaze back to the royal physician. “And what is necessary to rebalance the—the means by which she is kept alive?”

    “Another guardian must be substituted or the spell will fail completely,” Sulein said before the other physician could answer.

    “Silence him!” Gavril shouted at Dain. “He has not my leave to speak.”

    Ignoring the prince, Dain turned to Sulein. “Could you take the fallen guardian’s place?” he asked. “Truthfully,” he added in warning before Sulein answered. “This is no time for ambition or vanity.”

    Sulein’s dark eyes flashed in umbrage. “Your majesty maligns me,” he complained. “But, yes, I possess the power and the skills for this kind of spell.”

    Gavril stepped up to them, his dark blue eyes snapping with fury. “He is dismissed, I said! This blasphemer will not go near my lady.”

    “Then she’ll die,” Dain said harshly. At that moment, he’d never despised Gavril more. “Or is that what you really want?”

    A white ring appeared around Gavril’s mouth. He reached for his sword. Dain did the same.

    Before either of them could draw, Sir Terent and Lord Kress jumped between them.

    “Please, please, excellencies!” Cardinal Noncire called out. “Consider the lady. This is no time for fighting.”

    Dain took his hand off his sword hilt and stood there hot-cheeked and fuming while Gavril’s face grew paler and paler until his eyes were like burning coals.

    Noncire turned to Sulein, and although a look of distaste crossed his fleshy face, his small black eyes never wavered. “Give me the truth, Master Sulein. Can you contribute to the weavings of faith emanating from the guardians?”

    “Yes, I can,” Sulein replied.

    “You are not of the Circle,” Noncire continued. “Are you foe to it? If I permit you to join your skills with theirs, will you destroy what has been wrought or assist it?”

    Sulein bowed to him. “I will assist. This, I swear on all that is held most sacred.”

    “Don’t let him near her!” Gavril shouted. He would have rushed at Sulein, but his protector blocked his path. Gavril swore and struck the man with his fist, but Lord Kress grimly held firm. “Keep him away from her!” Gavril said. “I command it!”

    Dain started to protest, but instead stretched out his hand in appeal to the cardinal. “Does it break the laws of Writ to let a nonbeliever give assistance?”

    Noncire frowned, but before he could reply, Sulein pulled a Circle from his pocket and held it up. “But I am a believer in the Circle,” he announced. “Because I am not Mandrian-born does not mean I have not heard the message of Tomias the Prophet.”

    Dain’s head jerked around, and he stared at the physician with astonishment before he swiftly lowered his gaze. He felt certain that Sulein was lying. The physician seemed to accept any art or magic that would advance his greedy ambitions, but he was no member of the Reformed Church.

    Noncire seemed taken aback. Finally, however, he extended his hand in benediction to Sulein, who bowed low.

    “Your highness, this changes everything,” the cardinal said to Gavril.

    “No!” the prince shouted. “No!”

    “Your highness, if this man can help keep the lady alive, then surely we must permit him to do so.”

    “I do not trust him.”

    “Does it matter, if he can help?”

    While Gavril stared openmouthed at his former tutor, Dain stepped close to Sulein and glared at him.

    “You play a dangerous game, Sulein,” he said very softly, for their ears alone.

    The physician’s eyes were glowing. “I will never fathom the hidden secrets of these priests’ power unless I partake of it,” he murmured back.

    Angrily Dain gripped his arm. “Do not put her life at risk—”

    “I won’t.” Sulein put his hand atop Dain’s, and the Ring of Solder that he wore on his finger—concealed by a small spell of invisibility—flickered momentarily into sight before vanishing again.

    The sight of it, as always, had the power to distract Dain, to tempt him, to tantalize and exasperate him. He realized Sulein had let him glimpse it now to silence his protests. And although he fell silent, Dain burned inside with resentment. He’d tried every persuasion he could think of to get the Ring from Sulein, for by right it belonged to him, as it had been his father’s before him. Without the Ring he believed he had little chance of finding . But Sulein kept it as a guarantee that Dain would someday grant him a high position in Nether’s future court, as well as give him part of that kingdom’s treasury.

    “You must trust me, sire,” Sulein said softly. “I know exactly what I am doing.”

    Noncire came over to them. “His highness has agreed. On his behalf do I thank you, Master Sulein, for your willingness to serve.”

    Sulein glided away in the cardinal’s wake. While Pheresa’s encasement was unloaded from the wagon and carried a short distance off the road, wattle panels were unloaded from another wagon and hastily assembled around her tent for privacy. The guardians were led by their attendant monks into the small enclosure, with Sulein following. Soon Dain heard them all chanting in unison.

    Aching with worry, he had the feeling that he might never see Sulein or Pheresa alive again.

    Church soldiers dispersed the gawkers and issued orders for camp to be made. Soon the whole company was abustle with chores and tasks. The fallen guardian was buried, and laments for the dead rose across the camp in eerie counterpoint to the chanting on Pheresa’s behalf.

    Sir Polquin directed Dain’s servants to put up his tent, and soon they had their own small enclave in place, with a fire crackling and kettles of water aboil.

    Restless and unable to occupy himself, Dain started to walk over to Pheresa’s enclosure to keep watch there, but he saw Gavril and his minions go by on the same errand.

    Frowning, Dain abandoned the intention. Some of Gavril’s words had scorched themselves across his mind earlier that day, and he could not forget them. Pheresa was indeed Gavril’s lady, not his. No matter how much he still loved her, he could not rightfully intrude.

    Instead he paced back and forth, and wisely Sir Polquin and Sir Terent left him alone.

    At twilight there came the sound of hoofbeats on the road, and a lone horseman was halted by the sentries.

    Watching, Dain saw the silhouette of a thin, upright figure and for a second thought it was Thum returning against orders. But he sensed none of Thum’s warm, kindhearted spirit. This was a stranger, no doubt a courier bringing fresh dispatches to Gavril.

    The sentries permitted the man to enter camp, and he rode through the tents slowly, his gaze scanning the faces around him.

    “The lazy knaves,” Sir Terent said, squinting. “You’d think they’d escort him straight to the prince.”

    “These church soldiers were born in sloth and idleness,” Sir Polquin said critically.

    Ever since that black day on the banks of the Charva River, when Nonkind had attacked Lord Odfrey’s forces while they were escorting Gavril home to Savroix, Sir Polquin’s contempt for the church soldiers’ cowardice had grown rather than abated. These knights were not the same men, but all were judged by Thirst men under the shadow cast by the infamy of the soldiers who’d chosen to surround Gavril, staying out of danger, while the Thirst knights fought to their deaths.

    Dain lost interest in the newcomer and started for his tent to collect one of the scrolls he’d been studying on this journey. He’d set himself to learn Netheran, and tried to work on his lessons daily.

    Just then, however, the courier rode up to their fire and drew rein. “Faldain of Nether?” he asked in a heavily accented voice.

    Jumping up, Sir Terent set his hand on his sword hilt, even as Dain turned around in astonishment.

    “We are all Mandrians here,” the knight protector said in a growl, but the courier was looking at Dain.

    With an audible gasp, he dismounted and took two steps before Sir Terent blocked his path. The courier dropped to his knees in the mud and bowed low.

    “Your majesty,” he said. “Da venetne skekse? Skekse van yt

    Thod!“

    Dain stared at him in curiosity. The courier had the look of a man who’d ridden long and hard. He was young, hardly older than Dain himself, with prominent cheekbones and slightly tilted eyes that told of some eld blood. His hair, which was black and straight, was divided into innumerable plaits knotted with carved wooden beads at their ends. Swinging with every movement of his head, these beads clacked softly together. Both of his ears were pierced and sported multiple small gold rings that glinted in the firelight. His skin had a tawny cast to it, his beard was sparse and very black, and his eyes were dark brown. They shone at Dain with a degree of reverence and awe that made him uncomfortable, for he felt he had done nothing as yet to deserve either.

    “Rise,” Dain said. “Come near the fire and get warm.”

    The courier obeyed with visible gratitude, and looked around curiously at Dain’s modest trappings. Dain wondered if he’d expected to see someone attired in fine velvets and furs, wearing more jewels than a single ruby ring, and waited on hand and foot by liveried servants. Still, he sensed no criticism in the young man, and no doubt.

    Although pale with exhaustion, the courier refused offers of food and drink. “My duty, sire, is to give you these letters.”

    Opening the pouch he kept concealed beneath his fur cloak, the Netheran produced three scrolls of parchment, and dropped to one knee as he handed them to Dain.

    Dain accepted them with mixed feelings. No one at Savroix, save King Verence, was supposed to know that he was a member of Gavril’s expedition north. Officially Dain remained an invalid at Savroix, gravely ill from a wound and allowed no visitors. The ploy, thin indeed for a place as riddled with spies and gossip-mongers as Savroix, had not been expected to hold long, but Dain had hoped he would at least be able to cross the border into Nether before his true whereabouts were discovered.

    “Did Prince Spirin send these missives to me?” he asked.

    The courier blinked. “Nay, your majesty. I have ridden from Lubeck. As soon as word reached us that you were found, my father—that is, the rebel leaders met and drew up these pledges of support. I was dispatched to Savroix, but when I arrived there you had gone.”

    Behind him, Sir Terent swore softly.

    The courier cast him a nervous look before returning his gaze to Dain. “From there, I was sent along this road, so back have I ridden.”

    “Who at Savroix directed you?” Dain asked. “Spirin?”

    The courier flushed and hesitated, but at last he gave Dain a nod that made his braid beads clack together. “We spoke in private, I assure your majesty.”

    Oh, yes, Dain thought with exasperation. And how did Spirin himself know that Dain was gone? Before his departure, Dain had had a long talk with the elderly exile, but he hadn’t taken the man completely into his confidence. He knew not yet who among the Netherans he could trust. Spies and paid informants were everywhere, and the Mandrian courtiers and their servants were readily bought. Besides, who might have overheard Spirin’s conversation with this courier? And, more important, who, if anyone, had followed the courier here to this camp?

    Dain remembered his earlier feeling of being watched this afternoon, and a cold chill went up his spine. He hoped the courier had not brought him additional trouble. “What is your name?” he asked.

    The courier pulled himself to attention. “Chesil Matkevskiet, your majesty.”

    Dain nodded absently, and beckoned to his servants. “Give him food and see to his horse.”

    Bowing, they hurried to comply. Dain, with Sir Terent at his heels, ducked into his tent. The small lamps inside it had been lit, and they cast a ruddy glow over the narrow cot where Dain’s hauberk—freshly cleaned and oiled—now lay spread out, its links reflecting the light softly.

    He sat down on a stool while Sir Terent stood guard at the tent flap, and one by one broke the red-wax seals on his letters. He hoped they were not written in Netheran, for his studies had not yet made him proficient in that language.

    The first letter was not, much to his relief. Instead, he saw the angular lines of runes. Dain could read these fluently, but he doubted if many others in Mandria could. As a code, it served excellently.

    Once he’d gotten past all the florid and excessive salutations, Dain saw that the letter came from Prince Ingor Matkevskiet, leader of the Agya forces in southwest Nether. Matkevskiet pledged his army to Dain’s service, all four thousand Agya warriors, legendary even in other lands. Dain had heard many tales of respect among the dwarves for the Agya warriors’ bravery and fighting prowess. It was said, however, that they did not always serve the kings of Nether. Even some of King Tobeszijian’s battles were reputedly fought without the Agyas. King Muncel had never commanded them.

    But now, with the stroke of a few words on this simple piece of parchment, they were offered to Dain... all four thousand of them.

    It was said that one Agya warrior was worth three men.

    A leap of excitement made Dain grin. He laid the letter on his knee and smoothed it with his hand. This was a tremendous honor. The Agyas had not even measured the muscle in his sword arm, as was their custom before swearing allegiance. Yet they were accepting him sight unseen, willing to follow him against Muncel. -

    Go to Nether, Tobeszijian’s ghost had whispered to him, and the army will come to you.

    So it was true. Dain swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

    Opening the second letter, he found it also written in runes.

    In it, Count Romsalkin pledged two hundred men to Dain’s service.

    The third letter was much stained and creased, almost illegible and scratched out in a combination of rune and Netheran that told Dain the writer was hardly more literate than himself. He puzzled over the short sentences for a long while before he finally deciphered their meaning.

    Feeling stunned, he looked up and the letter dropped from his hand.

    “Sire?” Sir Terent asked in concern. “Are you well?”

    “What?” Dain blinked at him without really seeing him, then the tent came back into focus. He bent over and picked up the letter with shaking fingers.

    “Bad news?” Sir Terent asked.

    “Nay.” Dain read the note again, but its message was plain. “It’s a pledge from someone named Samderaudin. I know not the name, but I think he must be no lord.”

    “What does he offer?”

    Dain lifted his gaze to meet Sir Terent’s. “He offers a cache of weapons and armor that he’s concealed in the mountains. I cannot make out everything he writes, but... have Chesil Matkevskiet come inside. I wish to talk to him in private.”

    “Aye, sire.”

    Sir Terent went outside, and Dain heard his voice calling the courier. Moments later, Chesil entered the tent.

    He bowed low to Dain. “Sire?”

    Dain swallowed a couple of times to be sure of his voice. “Do you know a man called Samderaudin?”

    Chesil’s dark eyes widened, and he flung back his head. “Aychi!” he exclaimed, and made a quick gesture with his hands that Dain did not understand. “This name I have heard, sire.”

    All too conscious of Sir Terent’s listening ears, Dain leaned forward on the stool and said in his awkward, far-from-fluent Netheran, “And is he a sorcerel? Does he command such creatures?”

    Chesil looked distinctly uneasy. He stared at the letter in Dain’s hand, hesitating, before he nodded with a clack of his beads. “Aye,” he replied in Netheran, speaking slowly for Dain’s benefit. “He trains them, and is considered a very powerful sor-cerel himself. He went to the wars when Runtha fought.”

    “Runtha,” Dain said slowly. “My grandfather.”

    “And great-grandfather,” Chesil said. ‘Two Runthas were there. Both powerful kings.“

    Dain stared. “Samderaudin served both?”

    “Aye. Long-lived, are these sorcerels. Unless they are hit too often with the death-fire. Then they die young. That Samderaudin himself has written to you is a great honor indeed, your majesty.”

    “Yes.” Dain swallowed. His dwarf upbringing had taught him to fear and avoid sorcerels at all costs. Capable of commanding great, magical power, the sorcerels supposedly could open the gates between the worlds. It was whispered that there once had been a sorcerelle, a female whose name no one dared speak, who had even opened the gates to the gods themselves, and had then perished because she could not withstand the sight of their greatness.

    Dain frowned. “It is the custom, I’ve heard, for Netheran kings to use sorcerels in battle.”

    “Always,” Chesil said without hesitation. “Especially when Nonkind are the foes.”

    “Have you ridden in such battles?”

    “No. But my father has, many times.”

    Dain eyed him with curiosity. “And you do not fear their powers?”

    Chesil blinked at him. “I would fear, your majesty, to go to war without them. I would fear to face any Nonkind without their spells of protection.”

    Dain frowned, thinking of his own encounters with Nonkind demons. Both times he’d fought with the aid of a magic-endowed sword, Truthseeker first and later Tanengard. He wondered what it must be like to face the Nonkind armed with magicked sword and magicked armor as well.

    “Prince Volvn,” Chesil said, “fought last summer without sorcerels and died. He and all five hundred of his men. It was a great loss, for he was the most favored of your father’s generals. We Agya admired him much. Since then, the rebel forces of Nether have almost given up. Even we Agya were packing our tents to exile ourselves in the uncharted lands. But when word came that your majesty was found, my father saw new hope. We will fight to the death and beyond for you.”

    “Thank you,” Dain said, and his words seemed inadequate to convey what he was feeling. He held out his hand, and at once Chesil knelt and pressed his lips to the fine ruby on Dain’s finger.

    When he stood up again, he asked, “Have you a message for my father?”

    “Yes,” Dain said. “But first, I want to ask another question about Samderaudin. He writes of weapons and armor. I—”

    “Does he offer such?” Chesil exclaimed.

    “Aye, he does.”

    “Aychi! This is a gift indeed,” Chesil said in excitement. “Magicked armor and—”

    “Swords?” Dain asked, his own excitement kindling. “Magicked swords?”

    Chesil nodded.

    Dain rose to his feet with a grin. “Wait outside while I write my responses.”

    With a bow, Chesil hurried out. Sir Terent came forward, curiosity written all over his ruddy face.

    “Aught I can do, sire?”

    “I must write something,” Dain said, searching through his clothes chest for the small box that held his lesson scrolls, a few scraps of parchment, and his inks. He couldn’t help but think of Gavril, who traveled with his exquisite writing desk, an ingenious contraption that looked like an ordinary box made of beautiful woods and inlays. Inside, however, it was a series of clever hinges, drawers, and compartments that held his glass pens and his finely embellished writing papers.

    Dain tore off a piece from where he’d been practicing his letters and began scratching out a reply to Prince Matkevskiet in runes, thanking him for the generous pledge of men. He wrote similar notes to Count Romsalkin and Samderaudin.

    As he sanded the letters to dry the ink, disbelief tingled through him.

    He now had an army to command. Unable to hold his news any longer, he glanced up at Sir Terent, gripped his arm, and whispered, “We must keep this secret for a while, but over four thousand men are pledged to me!”

    Sir Terent blinked at him, and slow comprehension dawned in his green eyes. “Great Thod!” he said in astonishment. “That foreign boy has brought you this news?”

    “Aye,” Dain said. “But voice it not. Secrecy gives me some advantage over King Muncel.”

    “Of course. I’ll say nothing,” Sir Terent promised at once. Then he shot Dain a sly grin. “But may I tell Sir Polquin? He frets something awful about how you’re to cope without men.”

    “Let him fret a while longer,” Dain said with caution. “I trust him with my life, but too many secrets have escaped us already. Let this bide until I am free to act on it.”

    “Better yer grace should act on it now,” Sir Terent said bluntly. “Leave the lady and her poor fate in the hands of those responsible for her, and get on to—”

    “No!” Dain shouted. He slammed his fist down so hard he snapped his pen in half. “I have sworn that I shall see her cured. That comes first.”

    “But, sire—”

    “The people of Nether have waited this many years for deliverance,” Dain said harshly, refusing to yield. “They can wait a few months more.”

    Disappointment crossed Sir Terent’s face. He bowed and argued no more. “As yer majesty judges best,” he said, but in disapproval.

    Annoyed, Dain said no more. From the first day they’d set out on this quest to save Pheresa, Sir Terent and Sir Polquin had been against it. They didn’t understand, Dain told himself as he sealed his letters. If they’d ever known what it was like to love a maid as fair as Pheresa, then obviously they’d forgotten. Besides, finding  would not only save her but also help him regain his kingdom. Dain set his mouth and called Chesil back inside the tent.

    He handed over the letters and bade the Agya courier a swift journey. “Will you wait until daybreak to ride?”

    “Nay, your majesty. There is a strong moon tonight. I do not fear the darkness.”

    “Then Thodspeed,” Dain said. “My compliments to your father. Tell him I look forward to the day when he and I shall meet.”

    “Let it be soon, majesty,” Chesil said, and departed.

    Dain rose to his feet and secured the pledges in a safe place among his possessions.

    “Yer majesty’s supper is ready,” Sir Terent said. “Give the word and I’ll tell ‘em to bring it in.”

    “Nay,” Dain said. He felt distracted and restless. He picked up his cloak and wrapped its heavy folds around his shoulders. “I want to walk a bit first.”

    “You want to go stand over the lady,” Sir Terent grumbled. He pulled on his gloves and followed Dain outside into the frosty night air. “ ‘Tis not kingly to moon over her like—”

    Dain stopped short in his tracks and glared at his protector. “Take care, sir,” he said in a low, furious voice. “I decide what is and is not ‘kingly’ for me to do.”

    Over by the campfire, Sir Polquin was standing with a trencher of food in his hands. He stared at them worriedly.

    Dain and Sir Terent, busy glaring at each other, ignored him.

    Although Sir Terent’s face reddened, he didn’t back down. “Aye, sire,” he said at last. “Seems I’ve got a bit more to learn about serving a king, even if he ain’t got his kingdom yet.”

    Stung by that, Dain frowned. Before he could speak, however, Sir Terent went on: “Remember this, sire. ‘Tis said that King Tobeszijian was a man who liked to do things his way, in his own good time. ’Tis said that he wouldn’t pay enough mind to his duties, and that’s how his brother took the throne away from him.”

    The fire that kindled in Dain’s chest burned its way up into his face. He felt as though he were being strangled. “Who— who told you that?” he asked hoarsely, his fists clenched at his sides.

    “We common knights hear a lot, here and there.”

    “Did the Netherans at Savroix tell you that? Or is it just a Mandrian lie?”

    Sir Terent’s eyes flashed at Dain’s deliberate insult, but he kept his temper. “I couldn’t say, sire.”

    Dain glared at him a moment longer, then he turned on his heel and strode off into the darkness. Sir Terent followed, his big feet crunching on the frozen mud. As Dain picked his way through the camp toward Pheresa’s enclosure, his anger slowly dissipated. He knew, in his heart, that what Sir Terent had said was true.

    Yet how could he be expected to turn his back on Pheresa’s plight? She had drunk the poison meant for him. Did he not owe her something for that?

    He loved her, no matter what Sir Terent said. And stubbornly he kept walking toward her tent.

    The morning dawned bright and fair, with no hint of the previous day’s rain. Sunlight sparkled on frosty leaves and grass. Dain, Sir Terent, and Sir Polquin left the road and cut first across marshland, then fields harvested and gleaned, to take the shortest route to Thirst Hold.

    Behind them, Gavril’s expedition was still camped on the roadside. Like a band of nomads, Dain thought scornfully. Despite Sulein’s being successfully substituted for the dead guardian, the royal physicians said that Lady Pheresa should not be moved as yet. Not even to nearby Thirst. In the meantime, Dain seized the opportunity to visit his hold. Much business awaited him there, and it was long past time that he attended to it.

    Having galloped across an empty field, Dain reined up inside a small wood to give the horses a breather. Woodcutters had been at work in this grove, leaving stumps in their wake. Thirst land, Dain thought, inhaling the mingled scents of woods and autumn with pleasure. It felt good to come back, and Sir Terent and Sir Polquin were grinning like boys.

    Soleil tossed his proud head, flinging his golden mane and pulling on the reins. “Steady,” Dain crooned to him, laughing at the chestnut stallion’s fiery spirit “You can’t race the wind all day.”

    Sir Terent pointed northeast “Just over the next rise past these trees, and we’ll—”

    An arrow sang past Dain’s face, so close the fletchings brushed his skin, and thudded into Sir Terent’s shoulder. The protector reeled in his saddle with a hoarse cry of pain.

    Sir Polquin drew his sword. “Get out of this! Ride, sire. Ride! I’ll hold them.”

    More arrows came raining down on them, but Dain knew they had to stick together if they were to survive. Rearing Soleil to make himself less of a target, he shouted, “Sir Terent, can you ride?”

    The protector’s knight was pale with strain, and he was barely keeping himself in the saddle. Ignoring Dain’s question, he glared at Sir Polquin. “Get him out of here!”

    Sir Polquin wheeled his horse toward Dain.

    “Ride, Terent!” Dain commanded. Leaning forward, he pulled his sagging protector upright. “Ride to the field!”

    An arrow sliced across the top of Dain’s hand, cutting his heavy glove and bringing pain like fire. Ignoring it, he kicked Soleil hard, but as the three of them retreated from the grove, another volley of arrows came at them. One hit Sir Polquin’s horse in the flank.

    Squealing in pain, the animal shied violently, and Sir Polquin came off. He thudded hard against the ground and lay there un-moving.

    Cursing in alarm, Dain drew up and wheeled his horse around to go racing back for him. By then Sir Polquin was sitting up, trying to wave him away.

    “See to yourself, sire!” he shouted gruffly. “I’ll do.”

    “No, you will not,” Dain replied grimly.

    The sporadic hail of arrows stopped, and just as Dain noticed this, a half-dozen riders emerged from the trees to surround them. Several of these men wore red mail. Helmeted with their visors closed, they wore no surcoats to identify themselves.

    “Bandits, damne!” Sir Polquin said, scrambling to his feet. “Get away! I’ll hold them as long as I can.”

    Dain flung back his cloak to free his arms and drew his sword. “It’s too late for that,” he said grimly.

    Beside him, Sir Terent snapped off the arrow still sticking out of his shoulder, swore with shrill vehemence, and drew his sword. “For Thirst and Dain,” he said, pasty-faced and sweating.

    “Aye, for Thirst and Dain!” Sir Polquin echoed grimly.

    Dain swallowed hard. “For Thirst!”

    At that moment their attackers charged, yelling in a language Dain did not understand. From that point forward, there was no chance to think, but only to fight.

    In seconds, Dain found himself flanked by two foes. Desperately wheeling his horse around to get out from between them, Dain swung his sword at the closest man. His blow was parried with a resounding clang of steel. For a split second he stared deep into foreign eyes glittering behind the slits in the man’s visor.

    Right then, Dain felt the force of his opponent’s thoughts: Catch/catch/catch.

    Twisting his wrists, Dain broke free, reversed his swing, and struck again. His sword tip raked across the man’s midsection, slicing through links of chain mail and spilling a gush of blood. But as that attacker tumbled from his horse, a blow across the back of Dain’s shoulders came from his second opponent. He wheezed for air, the world nearly going black on him, and fought to keep gripping his sword.

    Strong hands grabbed him, yanking him upright in the saddle. Through blurred eyes, Dain looked around for Sir Terent, assuming his protector was steadying him.

    Instead, he found himself staring at another helmet, painted blood red with strange symbols on the sides. This man laughed, the sound echoing low from inside his helmet, and gave Dain’s arm a powerful yank that nearly pulled him from the saddle.

    Twisting desperately, Dain brought his sword up and around, but it was impossible to land a blow at this angle. He turned Soleil and swung again, but just then a third foe came galloping up and gave him a shove.

    Dain went tumbling out of his saddle. He hit the ground swearing, and rolled as he’d been taught, coining up on his feet immediately. With a yell, he ran straight at the closest attacker, whose horse reared with deadly forefeet

    Ducking those dangerous hooves, Dain cut the horse’s saddle girth. Horse blood splattered across his arms. The animal screamed, and the saddle—along with rider—went flying off. Dain gave the man no time to gain his feet Rushing at him hard, Dain kicked him as he tried to rise, and swung with all his might His sword took off the man’s head, and it went rolling beneath the feet of another horse, which bucked and kicked in alarm.

    Sir Polquin plunged his dagger into the guts of an opponent then came running to Dain’s side. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they fought two more, while Sir Terent—still mounted— exchanged blows with the last man. The woods rang with the clash of combat.

    Sweating inside his mail, his heart pounding hard, Dain sized up his remaining opponent Already he’d realized these men weren’t trying to kill him; they could have done that at the start with a well-aimed arrow. But if they were trying to capture him alive, that gave Dain the advantage. Recklessly he charged his opponent with a rapid, two-step attack. His sword bit deep at the point where the man’s neck met his shoulder and nearly cleaved him.

    Screaming, the man fell, and Dain finished him with a swift thrust.

    Panting, blood dripping from his blade, Dain turned around in time to see Sir Polquin finish his man with a triumphant yell. Sir Terent’s opponent screamed foreign curses at them and abruptly galloped away.

    Silence fell over the small, trampled clearing, a silence broken only by the snorting horses and the harsh panting of Dain and his friends.

    Gulping in air, Dain shoved back his mail coif to let the cold air bathe his sweat-soaked hair. Aside from the shallow arrow cut across the back of his hand, he’d taken no harm. The others were less fortunate. Sir Terent’s surcoat was stained with blood from his wound. The side of Sir Polquin’s face was scraped raw; he’d have a tremendous bruise there by eventide.

    Sir Polquin gave one of the corpses a kick. “I’ll have Bosque-cel’s hide for this,” he muttered. “What’s he thinking of, letting road bandits run free on Thirst land?”

    “They weren’t bandits,” Dain said. Bending over one of the dead men, he tugged off his helmet.

    “Careful, sire!” Sir Terent gasped out.

    But Dain was busy studying the hatchet-thin features and distinctive bone structure. He even peeled up the man’s lip to reveal a small set of pointed fangs.

    “Morde a day!” Sir Polquin exclaimed, coming over to take a look. “What in Thod’s name is he?”

    “Gantese,” Dain said grimly. “The red mail was an indication that they might be so.”

    Visibly alarmed, Sir Polquin took a quick step back from the corpse. “How long before these devils come alive again and start at us anew?”

    “Nay,” Dain said in reassurance. “They’re Believers, not

    Nonkind.“

    “Is there a difference?”

    “Yes.” Dain frowned in the direction the lone survivor had fled, and wondered if he would return with more men. “At least now I understand why I’ve felt watched the last few days.”

    “Watched, eh? And why didn’t your grace speak of this?” Sir Polquin complained.

    “There was nothing to say. I had no certainty. Would you have me share every uneasiness I feel?”

    “You? Aye, I would,” Sir Polquin said pointedly. “Your senses are our best warnings of Nonkind attack.”

    “This was not Nonkind business.” Dain sighed. “They intended to capture me alive, I think.”

    “Aye,” Sir Terent said unsteadily. “ ‘Twas plain. No one could shoot that many arrows at you and miss.”

    “Didn’t miss you, did they?” Sir Polquin retorted.

    Sir Terent looked terrible, and fresh blood was still seeping into his surcoat, but he mustered a glare for his fellow knight. “That first arrow was intended to put me out of the action. The next arrow brought you down. If you’d stayed on your horse, his grace would have escaped this ambush.”

    Instead of arguing, Sir Polquin grew thoughtful. The fire died in his eyes, and a strange look appeared on his face. “Our lad should have been dead in the first minute the way they surrounded him.”

    “Aye,” Dain agreed. “That’s why I think they meant to take me alive.”

    Sir Polquin scowled. “Damned, pagan devils. What did they want with you? What?”

    “I suspect they were paid agents of my uncle’s. Which means he knows I have left Savroix.”

    “Aye, and where you’ve gone to,” Sir Terent said. “Once they learned the first, the second wasn’t hard to guess.”

    Sir Polquin swore. “And us so careful about smuggling you out of the palace and keeping you out of sight on that barge. I knew those Savroix court daisies would never keep the secret.”

    “Many at court are easily bribed,” Dain agreed. Inside, he felt more relief than annoyance, however. “At least I no longer have to keep myself confined. The secret is out. I might as well make use of it.”

    “Best we get you to Thirst at once,” Sir Polquin said worriedly. “Where there’s one Gantese agent, it’s said there are always more. They won’t give up capturing you this easily.”

    Dain nodded in agreement. It was beginning, he thought. This attack of his uncle’s would be only the first. From now on, he would have to take stronger precautions.

    Riding slowly for Sir Terent’s sake, they reached Thirst Hold a good hour later than Dain had intended. Although the knight did not complain, he rode with gritted teeth and a set face. Dain permitted Sir Polquin to ride pillion behind him, for Sir Polquin’s injured horse had fled into the forest and could not be found.

    Although they expected a second attack, none came. The sight of the hold, standing square and dark against the sunlight, brought grins of relief to all their faces. Dain could feel his tense muscles relaxing.

    Sir Polquin grunted at his shoulder. “Put me off, sire.”

    “Nay,” Dain protested. “I am not ashamed to let you ride.”

    “Put me off. ”fis unseemly for a king to share his mount with a master-at-arms. Not in front of the men.“

    “But—”

    “I’ll serve better by leading Sir Terent’s horse.”

    “Hah!” the protector said at once, but his voice was weak. “Lead me like a babe on a training rein, will you?”

    “Aye, I will.” Sir Polquin slid off Soleil’s hindquarters, and dodged the stallion’s ill-tempered kick. “Go ahead, sire. Let ‘em see you plainly.”

    As they all drew near the hold gates, Dain squeezed Soleil with his legs and coaxed the horse into prancing sideways so that his mane and long tail streamed in the wind. “Ho!” he shouted. “Thirst Hold!”

    A sentry’s head appeared atop the ramparts. Dain lifted his arm. “Ho!”

    More heads appeared. “It’s Lord Dain!” someone shouted. “He’s here at last!”

    A commotion of voices broke out, and with an ear-splitting squeal the ancient winch turned ponderously to open gates and portcullis. Dain had instructed Thum to answer the men’s questions about his royal status—if questions they had—with honesty, but not to proclaim it at large. He would have preferred to come here simply as their chevard. For Thirst folk to accept an eld as their new lord and master was surely challenge enough. He realized he should have arrived with an entourage of guards sworn to his service, aye, with pages, servants, dogs, and minstrels. Who would ever take him for a lord, or even a king, if he did not act the part? His plain ways had to end; that, he knew.

    “You’d think,” Sir Terent grumbled, squinting up at the crenellations, “that they’d have had these gates open ere now. What’s the hour? And them not ready, for all Thum’s warning a day ahead.”

    “They’ve seen trouble here,” Sir Polquin said. “Like as not, they’re expecting more.” He craned his neck to do an inspection of his own. “That crack above the left arrow slit has widened. Ought to be fixed properly this time, and before winter ice widens it more.”

    From inside the hold, the chapel bell began to peal joyously, even as the groan of the winch stopped with the gates barely shifted.

    “Damne, what’s amiss with these louts?” Sir Terent muttered. “Bosquecel!” he roared out. “What in Thod’s name are you doing up there?”

    The captain of the guard appeared atop the gate and peered down at them. Even from that angle, he looked ruffled.

    “I beg pardon, your grace,” he said to Dain, ignoring Sir Terent completely. “How far behind you comes the rest of the company?”

    “They do not come today,” Dain replied.

    “Do not come?” Sir Bosquecel repeated in astonishment. “But—”

    “Your chevard is here,” Sir Polquin broke in gruffly. “That’s honor enough. Stop yammering and open the blighted gate. We have a wounded man in need of attention.”

    Sir Bosquecel started to retort, obviously thought better of it, and vanished. Within a few minutes, the petit-porte swung open.

    Dain rode through it, ducking his head as he passed beneath the massive timbers supporting the weight of the wall and ramparts overhead. Sir Terent and Sir Polquin followed him, grumbling between themselves at Sir Bosquecel’s unusual laxity.

    Meanwhile, from across the fields came serfs and villagers at a run, answering the summons of the bell. Dain rode into the stableyard, to the ragged cheers and shouted greetings of his servants. Yet not all looked happy to see him. Many gawked and pointed. Some of the maidservants held up their aprons to shield their faces from his gaze.

    Dain sighed to himself. Three months gone, and already he’d become a stranger to them again.

    Although the Thirst folk gawked at him with more curiosity than love, Dain held his head high, reminding himself that this mixed reception was what he’d expected. While he’d lived here he’d won the affection of many, the tolerance of some, and the avoidance of others. He’d come to them first as a ragged waif, as ill-mannered as he was hungry. Through Lord Odfrey’s kindness and the generous acceptance of the knights, who proclaimed him their mascot, he’d been put through a foster’s train-ing. Later Lord Odfrey had adopted him as his heir. The inheritance was secure, guaranteed by King Verence himself, and if these people feared to serve an eld they would have to soon grow used to it.

    As he rode through the rambling complex of the hold, his keen eyes noted with approval the stacks of fodder and other signs of a bountiful harvest. During his time away he’d received regular reports from Sir Bosquecel and less frequent ones from Julth Rondel, the steward. From their accounts, the hold was running smoothly, but now as he looked about, Dain saw signs of neglect and slackness. Here at mid-morning, the stableyard was not yet swept. One of the doors to the barn was broken and splintered as though a horse had kicked through it. What appeared to be a new barracks was half-constructed, and boards and timbers lay scattered about in disarray.

    Sir Bosquecel, down from the ramparts, came hurrying up to Dain in the stableyard and bowed hastily. “Welcome home, your grace,” he said, looking nervous and flustered. “We are not as prepared as we ought to be to give you a good and proper welcome. I mean, a proper welcome for a—a king.”

    As he stammered and turned red, Dain realized what the problem was. It was not that he was eld, but rather than his rank had grown too high. A tremendous gulf yawned between him and these plain folk, a gulf that could not be crossed.

    Sir Bosquecel cleared his throat. “The men have been sore bedeviled this month, holding off raids from across the river.”

    He paused, frowning up at the three of them, and his gaze widened at the sight of bloodstained Sir Terent. “Morde! What’s gone amiss here? I’d have sworn no raiders were afoot this day, else we’d have been patrolling the road. Did dwarves attack you?”

    “Nay,” Dain said grimly. “I’ll explain later. Have Sir Ter-ent’s wound seen to, if you please.”

    As Sir Bosquecel issued orders and servants came forward to gently assist Sir Terent from his horse, Dain glanced around with a deepening frown and wondered where the knights themselves were. He’d expected them to issue forth from the guardhouse as he rode across the keep, but there’d been no sight of them. Had they grown so sullen, then? Did they resent his good fortune? Had they turned against him, when once they were mostly his champions?

    “And the men?” he asked. “Are they on patrol now?” Sir Bosquecel glanced up and turned redder than ever. “Uh, no, your grace. They’re here. Gently, man!” he snapped at one of the servants assisting Sir Terent.

    Dain held back more questions. The men’s failure to greet him hurt deeply.

    Dismounting, Dain handed his reins to a sullen-faced sta-bleboy who used to pelt him with dried manure. In the past, Dain would have left the boy alone, feeling it best to avoid confrontation. But his time spent with King Verence had taught him how to deal with men, both common and high.

    He paused a moment, gazing at this former tormentor until the stableboy turned bright red and would not meet his eyes. “How fare you these days, Zeld?” he asked. “Well enough, sir,” the boy mumbled. “Say your grace,” Sir Polquin barked at him. “Stand up straight when you do it. And don’t mumble.”

    Zeld stiffened as though he’d been stung. His face turned even redder as he looked up, met Dain’s eyes, then shifted his own away again. “Uh, yer grace,” he mumbled.

    “As I recall, you never had much use for me, but you’ve a good hand with horses,” Dain said to him. “I would ask you now to treat my horse kindly. He was a gift from King Verence, you see, and I value him highly.”

    Zeld’s mouth fell open. “A gift from the king? Our king? Damne, not true!”

    “Aye, true,” Sir Polquin told him sternly. “And don’t you insult your master by disbelieving him. Oaf that you are, surely you can see there’s no horse in Thirst as fine as this. Saelutian bloodlines, bred in the royal stables. See that you take care with the steed, as his grace bids you.”

    Zeld clutched the reins. His eyes were shining now, and they flashed up to meet Dain’s with none of their former resentment. “And does he run like the wind? I hear tell—”

    “He’s a fine courser,” Dain said. “Keep him in good trim.”

    “Aye, sir ... m’lord ... uh, yer grace. Aye! That I’ll do!” With a smile, Dain moved on, aware that Zeld’s loyalty was now fiercely his. He heard murmurs among the others, but he ignored them as Sir Polquin and Sir Bosquecel broke apart from a brief, private conversation to flank him on either side.

    When he neared the innermost courtyard, he heard a gruff command beyond the wall. As Dain strode through the gate he saw all the knights of Thirst standing rowed up in a double line ■ between him and the steps of the Hall. Shined and polished, their helmets casting blinding reflections in the sunlight, they stood shoulder to shoulder in their green surcoats, holding their freshly painted shields in front of them.

    Dain checked at the sight, and realized now why they hadn’t met him at the guardhouse. All this time they’d been waiting quietly to surprise him. A lump filled his throat, and he wondered how he could have ever doubted them. Somehow, bursting with emotion, he managed to keep his stride steady.

    Sir Bosquecel stepped away to issue a low command, and the sergeant-at-arms bawled it to the men: “Arms to Thirst!”

    In response, they shouted the Thirst war cry and drew their broadswords in unison.

    “High salute!” the sergeant bellowed. Down the line, the broadswords swung aloft, and were held point-to-point in a shining arch of steel.

    Walking proud and tall, honored beyond words, Dain went down the row beneath their swords, keeping his shoulders erect and his chin high.

    He reached the foot of the stone steps, emerged from beneath the steel arch, and started to ascend. As he did so, another command roared forth, and the swords came down in a flashing arc and thudded against the knights’ shields.

    Dain turned to face them and drew his own bloodstained sword in brief salute, holding it up until they sheathed their weapons. Only then did he slide his back into its scabbard. He stared at them a moment, reacquainting himself with their honest, rough-hewn faces. He seemed to have lived through two lifetimes since last he’d seen them. But yes, there was Sir Alard and old, sour-faced Sir Blait. He saw Sir Bowin and Sir De-loit, his single eye shining bright with joy. Dain caught himself looking for faces he knew he would never see again. So many he remembered were missing, and in their place stood new men, recruits he did not know, to replace those who had died that black day on the banks of the Charva. Would they serve him with the same loyalty as the others? Dain wondered.

    Today’s honor gave him hope that the answer would be yes. He saw no hostility in their faces, no prejudice, no sullenness. They looked thrilled with how they’d surprised him.

    “Welcome, your grace. Welcome!”

    It was Julth Rondel, steward of Thirst, who came hastening down the steps to meet Dain. Thum, grinning beneath his thatch of red hair, followed on the steward’s heels.

    “Well met, sire,” he said with a bow.

    “I see you got here in one piece this time,” Dain replied.

    “Aye.” Thum’s grin sobered. “But I hear you met with trouble this morn. How many were there in the attack?”

    “A handful plus one,” Dain replied. “Who’s seeing to Sir Terent?”

    “He’s been taken to the infirmary. And yourself? No harm to you?”

    “I’m well,” Dain said impatiently, and turned to the steward.

    Spreading wide his pudgy hands, Rondel bowed low. He was a short, plump man with a ring of straight blond hair encircling his bald pate. Garbed in Thirst green, he wore his steward’s collar of silver with pride, and had served ably in his post for many years.

    “Come inside, Lord Dain—er, your grace—and welcome to you!” he said warmly, although his gaze seemed shy and unsettled behind the good cheer. “There’s a fire built on the hearth to warm your bones, and some spiced cider waiting in your cup.”

    “That is a fine welcome indeed, Steward Rondel,” Dain said, and gripped the man’s shoulder briefly as he walked inside.

    Barking broke out, and Lord Odfrey’s dogs came bounding to meet him. But at the first sniff, they dropped their fine heads and slunk away in poignant disappointment.

    “They still wait for his return, every day,” Rondel said sadly, and made the sign of the Circle. “Such a terrible pity.”

    “Aye,” Dain agreed. His heart turned momentarily to lead inside his chest, and he was grateful when Rondel said nothing more about Lord Odfrey.

    The Hall smelled musty from disuse, but a good fire burned on the hearth. As he stood by it to warm himself, Dain stripped off his gloves, then flexed his cut hand gingerly while Thum hastened to take his cloak and mail coif. A servant brought Dain a cup of spiced cider.

    Accustomed by now to some of the finest Mandrian wines, Dain nearly gasped at the astringent taste. He’d forgotten how fresh-pressed cider could pucker the mouth.

    “Not our best harvest this year, I’m afraid,” Rondel said, watching him anxiously. “So I have ordered Lord Odfrey’s private supply brought out especially for your grace’s use.”

    Dain concealed his expression by taking another sip. This time the cider went down more easily, although he disliked the heavy spices that had been used to mask the fact that this was last year’s press, and gone vinegary to boot.

    “Very well,” he said. “That is all for now, steward. I’ll be inspecting the hold this afternoon. But first I want breakfast. I rose at first light to come here, while the opportunity presented itself, and having fought off a pack of Gantese assassins, I’m fair famished.”

    The steward seemed relieved by this simple request. “Yes, your grace. At once, your grace.” He hesitated. “And then will your—your grace wish to—”

    “As soon as I’ve eaten,” Dain said, guessing what he was referring to, “I will be going to the chapel to pay my respects to Lord Odfrey.”

    “Ah.” The sadness returned to Rondel’s plump face. “Yes, of course. Very proper, your grace.” The steward bowed and hastened out.

    Dain flung the rest of his cider on the fire, which smoked in retaliation before regaining its flames with an angry pop of sparks. “Gods!” Dain exclaimed. “I thought he would babble all morning.”

    “He’s capable of it,” Thum said grimly. “I have endured his chatter since my arrival yesterday. Morde a day, but were we ever this green and ill-mannered when we first went to Savroix?

    Since I’ve arrived yesterday they’ve been stumbling about in panic, wondering what to do with you.“

    “How so?”

    “Well, the floor rushes were too dirty for a king to see, too common, but the carpets that were in storage have been ravished by moths. That’s why your floors are bare. And your chamber... damne, but there aren’t linens in the hold fine enough for a king to sleep on. Half the servants refuse to believe you’re a king. The other half are scared you’ll cut off their heads if they do or say the wrong thing.”

    Hearing this, Dain didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “What gave them such notions? Do they fear Verence this much?”

    “Thod knows,” Thum said, throwing up his hands. “The house servants would probably fall in dead swoons if they heard his majesty was coming here. Normally, of course, their chevard would keep them in order, but that’s been knocked awry.”

    “Of course it has.” Dain looked helplessly at his friend. “I do not want them to fear me.”

    “No help for it. At least your chamber is ready. If you want a change of clothing while I brush your surcoat clean of mud, there are Lord Odfrey’s tunics. Everything you left behind is probably too small.”

    “No, I thank you!” Dain said in instant refusal. “I’ll wear what I have on.”

    Thum nodded in understanding. “The wardroom has been left locked and untouched since—since we all set out for Savroix a few months ago.”

    “Good. I have the key.”

    “But first, pray tell me what really befell you this morning,” Thum said in concern, fingering a tear in Dain’s cloak. “Gantese assassins? In truth?”

    “Aye. They shot us with arrows before we knew what was afoot, then they came on.”

    “Six to three is heavy work,” Thum said. “I’m sorry I was not there to fight at your side. It is Thod’s mercy you were not killed.”

    “Thod didn’t save us. ‘Twas their own orders.”

    “What?”

    “You heard aright,” Dain said grimly. “They were trying to take me alive, else short work would they have made of us. Tis no accident that the only arrow which actually met its mark struck my protector.”

    Thum’s eyes narrowed, and spots of anger burned in his cheeks. “Damne! What villains!”

    “I feel certain they were my uncle’s agents,” Dain said.

    “Then you must go no farther,” Thum said in alarm. “Your journey ends now, for there’s no chance of you sneaking undetected across the border.”

    Dain eyed him as though he’d lost his wits. “Not if I ride through a checkpoint on a main road, no,” he said impatiently. “Which I have no intention of doing.”

    “But Muncel’s onto your plan. He knows where to find you.”

    “Would you have me turn back at the first trouble?”

    “Nay, but a new plan must be—”

    “I have more than four thousand men at my disposal if I can get to them,” Dain said in excitement. “A courier reached me at the camp last night, bringing pledges from two Netheran generals. Thum, I care not if Muncel knows I’ve left Savroix. I intend to declare myself at once, so that more men can rally to my cause.”

    “But, sire—”

    “The time for secrecy is over!”

    “How will you search for the eldin if—”

    “I will do all,” Dain said with a swift frown. “If the eld-folk hear of my return, perhaps they will come forth from hiding. General Matkevskiet is bound to know where they may be found.”

    “Muncel will not stop with one tiny ambush.”

    “Agreed. I’ll need more men to guard me,” Dain said.

    Thum drew in a sharp breath. “You mean Thirst knights.”

    Dain said nothing. His gaze was answer enough.

    Thum’s eyes widened. “Will you take them across the border?”

    “Do you think they will follow me there?”

    “I—I know not. Do you realize what that would meanT‘

    Dain nodded. “The original charter of this hold was granted by the kings of Edonia—nthe old kingdom—”

    “It’s treason to say that name,” Thum said with a nervous glance over his shoulder.

    “Thirst pledges fealty to Mandria’s kings, but it does not owe its existence to them,” Dain said. “I have studied the complex law of the ancient charters for some time. King Verence and I also discussed it.”

    “Do not expect me to believe he gives you his blessing!”

    Dain frowned at Thum. He felt a little surprised by his friend’s protests. “Not his blessing, no,” he said slowly. “But he will not oppose me.”

    “Dain—”

    “Are you against this?” Dain asked with more sharpness than he intended. “Tell me true. I’ll hold it not against you, but I must know if you remain with me.”

    “Of course I remain with you,” Thum said angrily. “Never question my loyalty.”

    “Then why balk at what I’m saying?”

    “Because if you pull Thirst away, the uplands could fall again into divisionism. Civil war could return to Mandria, at a time when she must remain strong.” Thum’s mouth turned down worriedly. “Gavril would love an excuse to batter the uplands into fresh submission.”

    “Gavril will not dare.”

    But Thum still looked unconvinced. Dain frowned at the fire, and realized that in truth, neither of them knew what Gavril might choose to do, only that it would be cruel and merciless.

    Dain sighed. “I must have men.”

    “And if you take Thirst’s knights with you, who will guard the hold? Who will guard this area of the northeastern borders? There has been much trouble here.”

    “Aye,” Dain said, knowing Thum’s points were valid. He shrugged. “I have no solution to these many problems. Thum, where would the records of the household be kept?”

    “You mean the inventories?” Thum asked, looking startled by the sudden change of subject. “In the wardroom, no doubt.”

    Dain tossed him the key. “Find them. And then you can inform the steward there is to be a new inventory conducted.”

    “In the Hall?”

    “The Hall. The guardhouse. The barns. The entire hold.

    Everything. I want it all written down and checked against the previous entries.“

    Thum looked daunted. “That will take days.”

    “Perhaps we have them, while Lady Pheresa is unable to travel,” Dain said. “This hold has grown slack.”

    “Aye,” Sir Polquin spoke up. “That it has.”

    “Also,” Dain said, “I want Lander the smith brought to me for questioning about that sword he made.”

    Thum frowned. “He’s no longer at the hold.”

    “What? Gone for good?”

    “So I understand. Sir Bosquecel kicked him out.”

    “And good riddance,” Sir Polquin said. “Making magic rubbish like that sword Tanengard. He was naught but a foreign blasphemer.”

    Dain’s brows drew together. “Tanengard, whatever its flaws, saved a few of us from dying on the Charva’s banks that day. Remember that before you judge its maker so harshly.”

    Sir Polquin reddened at the rebuke and dropped his gaze.

    “Er, is there anything else, sire?” Thum asked to break up the uncomfortable silence.

    At that moment, something unseen, an intangible force or presence, engulfed Dain without warning. Failing to answer Thum, he turned away and walked over to the northeast wall. There he stood, staring into what seemed to be a mist, and could not speak or think. He felt an overwhelming sense of pressure, as though his entire body was being compressed or even crushed. It was an effort to breathe.

    Then in the next instant, he found himself seated on a stool and being shaken by a worried-looking Sir Polquin. Thum was holding a fresh cup of cider to his lips.

    Scowling, Dain twisted his head away from the liquid. “Get that far from me!” he said sharply.

    Sir Polquin released his grip on Dain’s shoulders. “Thanks be to Thod! He’s come back to his senses.”

    Dain blinked at the two of them in bewilderment. “What are you saying? I haven’t left my senses. I—”

    “You did,” Thum said hoarsely, looking frightened. “For several minutes—just now—you stared as though you saw something we could not see. You would not answer us. You seemed not to hear us at all, though we did speak to you most urgently and called your name.”

    Dain rubbed his eyes. “I have no recollection of this.”

    “Were you seeing a vision?” Thum asked him anxiously.

    “Nay. I saw nothing. Are you sure?”

    Sir Polquin gripped his arm to keep him from standing. “Your grace had better stay seated for a bit.”

    “Nay.” Dain shook him off and rose to his feet. His knees felt wobbly, and he couldn’t understand why. “I’m well. Don’t fuss over me.”

    “Maybe you should have that cut on your hand looked at. Could have Gantese poison in it.”

    “It’s already closing,” Dain said impatiently. He felt unsettled and alarmed by what they’d told him. “There’s no poison.”

    “You’re not yourself, just the same,” Sir Polquin insisted. “Pale as washed linen. Better sit a while and rest.”

    “Nay, there’s too much to do. I’ve got—”

    “All will keep,” Sir Polquin told him with gruff kindness. “Bide quietly until you get your breakfast.”

    There was no satisfying either of them until Dain sat down in a chair by the fire. He frowned at the flames while Sir Polquin and Thum conferred in soft voices they thought too low for his keen ears to overhear. Dain knew there was nothing wrong with him. But something had indeed reached out from a far distance and touched him.

    A cold shudder passed through his frame. He felt momentarily as though he’d eaten something rotten that needed spewing up. There were more kinds of pursuit, he realized, than riders on horseback. If Muncel was casting spells his way, even at this great distance, the net was definitely closing in on him. Clearly Muncel would use any means—assassination by eld-poison, kidnapping, even employment of the dark arts—to stop Dain’s return to Nether. His uncle was no ordinary enemy, and the struggle for Nether’s throne would be no ordinary battle.

    He knows where I am, Dain thought with a fresh shudder. / have been touched by him, and now—wherever I go—he can find me.

    In his castle stronghold at Belrad, King Muncel paced back and forth impatiently, glaring frequently at the huddle of three Gantese magemons kneeling on the floor in the center of his private council room. Impassive guards stood shoulder to shoulder across the closed doors. Muncel’s own lord protector, Prince Anjilihov, and his personal sorcerel, Tulvak Sahm, hovered close by, watching alertly for the least sign of trouble. Tulvak Sahm, insulted by the importation of the magemons, glittered with resentment. He was capable of thwarting the spell from sheer spite, but if he attempted it, King Muncel vowed to make him regret such folly.

    The air smelled of fire and ash and burned hair, scents of magic. A sort of crackling energy rose about the three magemons, strong enough to prickle against Muncel’s face. He stopped pacing and watched with hope, but at that moment the energy ebbed low again. Closing their eyes, the magemons bent lower so that their foreheads were almost touching. They hummed softly, uttering words that seemed to draw a cord tight around Muncel’s heart.

    He feared their dreadful powers; he was taking a terrible risk in bringing them here so openly, to his own stronghold. But if all went well this day, their dire task would be done and they could leave by eventide, paid and dismissed, never to return.

    Restless and impatient, Muncel resumed pacing.

    Outside the windows, the day looked bleak and gray. Huge white snowflakes fell rapidly, swirling against the glass in frozen patterns of lace. The snowfall was heavy enough to build large drifts across the keep and extended grounds. Muncel could hear a fierce wind howling and scratching outside.

    Over in one corner, a large stove of vivid red and blue tiles radiated heat. Beyar skin rugs covered the stone floor, and on one side of the room stood a massive council table surrounded by leather-covered chairs.

    There would be no council meeting today. Muncel had canceled all audiences and appointments to receive only this delegation from Sindeul, Gant’s capital city. He would speak to no one in his palace until this spell was completed and the threat from the pretender vanquished for good.

    Muncel was a gaunt-faced man with deep lines carved around his mouth and between his brows. His black hair and beard were streaked with gray. He was not as tall as his father, King Runtha II, had been, nor did he have the splendid physique of his half-brother Tobeszijian. Narrow-shouldered and thin, he seldom wore a sword and disliked the heavy weight of armor. Because he suffered from a dyspeptic stomach, his posture was slightly hunched and there was always a slight twist to his mouth that spoke of his discomfort. But his eyes were dark and fierce, and his temper legendary. Muncel possessed the subtle mind that Tobeszijian had lacked. As a result, he had held his throne far longer than had his half-brother simply because he could foresee potential problems and eliminate them. Shrewd and cunning, he never took risks unless he was prepared to deal with the consequences. And he was absolutely, utterly ruthless when he chose to be.

    Garbed today in fur-lined velvet, with a jeweled dagger on his belt, many rings glittering on his long, pale fingers, and a narrow circlet of gold on his brow, Muncel glared even more harshly at the triad of magemons and barely restrained himself from yelling at their Gantese handlers.

    The Believers, clad in fur cloaks and long tunics of heavy wool, themselves looked uneasy. Muncel began to entertain the unwelcome worry that he had exposed himself to censure and condemnation for nothing. And that made him even angrier, for he could not bear the thought of failure, much less ridicule. The churchmen would harass him endlessly about this; he might even be required to do public penance.

    Tulvak Sahm, always sensitive to his moods, glided over to him and bowed as though he’d been summoned.

    “This is taking too long, too long,” Muncel muttered. “Clearly the distance is too far.”

    “Distance slows the power of the spell,” Tulvak Sahm murmured back, his deep voice so quiet it was almost a whisper in

    Muncel’s mind. “But it does not dilute it. Since you have summoned these creatures, majesty, have patience with their antiquated methods. Wait.”

    Muncel’s fists clenched. He had waited, damn the man. He’d waited nearly two decades to find this brat of Tobeszijian’s, and now he wanted the boy crushed.

    “Eee-ah!”

    That shrill outcry from one of the magemons startled even Tulvak Sahm and made Muncel spin around just as the magemons lifted their hands in unison. They started chanting hoarse, unintelligible words that made his skin crawl.

    The crackling energy intensified in the room. The guards had their hands on their sword hilts now while their eyes shifted uneasily.

    Muncel saw rainbow hues of power shimmer in the air above the magemons‘ heads, and even Tulvak Sahm stood rooted in place, staring at them in wonder and dread as the others did.

    Although Muncel himself possessed no magical gifts or special powers—for which he thanked Tomias—he drew in an unsteady breath and willed success in the magemons‘ direction.

    Find him, he commanded in his mind. Smother his lungs. Stop his heart. Crush his soul!

    Abruptly the spell ended. The kneeling magemons moved away from each other and rose to their feet. The rainbow colors vanished from the air, and the humming sense of energy dissipated. There was only a feeling of emptiness in the room now, along with the stench of burned hair and flesh overlying the putrid stink of the magemons themselves.

    One of the three turned over his hand, and Muncel saw large blisters rising on the creature’s palm as though the energy he’d commanded had scorched it.

    Muncel felt no sympathy. Instead, he grew puzzled, then angry. “What’s happened?” he demanded. “Why did you stop?”

    In unison the three magemons turned to face him. As they did so, Prince Anjilihov drew his sword and Tulvak Sahm glided quickly to stand partially in front of Muncel. In his hand glowed a small crystal orb, its yellow light shining through his fingers, and his muscles were tense, as though he was preparing him-self to hurl this magical weapon at the magemons should it prove necessary.

    Over the years, Muncel had learned that weavers of all kinds of magic—sorcerels included—could be strange, unpredictable, even dangerous creatures in the moments immediately after a spell was concluded, especially when they had been spellcast-ing for any intense period of time.

    But Muncel had risked too much to permit failure now. His anger—swollen by a sense of desperation—rose in him like a tide.

    “You did not finish!” he shouted at the magemons. “Why did you stop? Did you even find him? Why have you failed?”

    The three creatures might have been one, so similar in appearance were they. In some sense they could be called men, for they stood upright and walked as men walk. Perhaps once they had even been human, before their training changed them into what they were now. On the whole, they were far less fathomable than Tulvak Sahm, who at least looked human, even if he was not.

    Moon-faced, with dark slits for eyes and mouths that issued smoke whenever they spoke, the magemons possessed skin so white and pale its pallor rivaled the snow outside. They towered above Muncel and his guards as giants, their bulk robed in shapeless garments that covered them from throat to foot. Dried blood and food stains dotted the front of their clothing. Their huge, three-fingered hands were filthy with dirt-rimmed nails as long and untrimmed as talons. They stank of death, filth, rot, and burned magic.

    As they stared at him impassively, responding not at all to his questions, Muncel felt bitter disappointment flood his mouth like bile. He wanted to order the guards to hurl them from the windows to their deaths on the frozen ground below. He had imported this trio from Gant at great expense and trouble. He had housed them in a locked tower within the palace walls, supplied them with raw meat, and even permitted them to roam freely at night. He had paid a king’s ransom in gold coin for them to be bound to his service by a powerful spell-agreement that guaranteed him two requests. And Muncel’s requests were very simple: he wanted them to find Faldain and kill him.

    But they were not keeping their end of the bargain. They stared at him now, huge, impassive, and silent, as though they understood nothing he said.

    To be cheated was unbearable to Muncel. He refused to let these dirty fiends make a fool of him.

    “Answer me!” Muncel demanded of them now. “Why did you stop?”

    Still they said nothing. Fuming, Muncel turned on the foremost Gantese handler. “Well?” he demanded. “If they will not speak, do so for them!”

    Scowling, the Believer bared his fangs at the magemons. “ChyntaF‘ he said sharply, snapping his fingers.

    “Faldain is found,” one of the magemons said, his heavily accented words issuing in a wreath of smoke.

    Muncel’s head lifted. He felt like a pilgrim who sees the shrine ahead. “And is he dead?”

    “He is not dead. He is young and strong.”

    Muncel gritted his teeth. “Sing not his praises to me. I want him killed!”

    “Cannot be done in first touch.”

    “You told me it could!”

    “Human, yes. Human can be crushed inside so he die.” As he spoke, the magemon clenched his large fist, then opened it so that his blisters were revealed, now broken and running with pus. But even as Muncel stared in revulsion, the sores dried up and became ashes. The magemon wiggled his three fingers and the ashes drifted to the floor, revealing a hand smooth-skinned and whole once more. “But Faldain not much human.”

    “All the more reason for him to die.”

    “He has been touched. Can be touched again more easily now.”

    “Can you kill him the next time?”

    “Must be touched thrice. Then will he die.”

    Muncel bottled his anger and listened. “Three times. How long will this take? How soon can you touch him again?”

    The magemon did not answer. His eye slits closed, and he drew his round head down upon his shoulders.

    Tulvak Sahm uttered a harsh word and raised his hand swiftly.

    A puff of vapor exploded against his hand and dissipated into the air with a sour smell.

    Muncel stared, belatedly realizing that the magemon had dared attempt to attack him, might have even harmed him had Tulvak Sahm not intervened.

    “Unholy monsters!” Anjilihov shouted. The protector swung his sword high and charged.

    Shouting in alarm, the Gantese handler stretched out his hands to Muncel. “Majesty! Stop him or we’ll all perish!”

    “Anjilihov!” Muncel roared.

    The protector paid no heed. As he launched himself at the magemon, Tulvak Sahm flung himself bodily against Anjilihov and blocked his path.

    With an oath of frustration, Anjilihov shoved Tulvak Sahm roughly out of his way. Stumbling, the sorcerel whirled and spoke a single word.

    Anjilihov froze in mid-step. A look of bewilderment crossed his face before it, too, froze. All he could move was his eyes, and they shifted wildly as though imploring the king to order his release.

    At the moment, however, Muncel was too outraged to care how long his protector remained trapped in Tulvak Sahm’s spell.

    The air in the council room reeked of conflicting kinds of magic. The three magemons stood shoulder to shoulder, humming something ominous. The power they gave off crackled along Muncel’s skin and lifted his hair. He wanted to flee, but he dared not make any sudden moves.

    Instead, he shifted his gaze to the horrified handlers. “Get them out,” he ordered. “Get them out!”

    The Gantese hurried forward to surround the magemons, speaking to the creatures in singsong voices, and slowly began to herd them away.

    As soon as they were gone and the door shut with a heavy boom, Muncel closed his eyes and drew in several deep breaths. His stomach was burning with fire, and he felt almost faint. Sinking into a tall-backed chair, he pressed his hand to his belly and fought both his anger and the strong urge to be sick.

    With the utterance of a word, Tulvak Sahm released Anjil-ihov, who went staggering across the room before he caught his balance and turned on the sorcerel with a snarl.

    “Gods rot your evil heart!” Anjilihov said furiously, swinging his sword. “When you put your damnable spell on me, you imperiled his majesty’s life. You—”

    “‘Twas you who imperiled us all,” Muncel broke in. “Anjilihov, you fool!”

    The protector looked at his king in bewilderment. “But your majesty was attacked by that demon. ‘Tis my responsibility to—”

    “Tulvak Sahm had already dealt with the matter,” Muncel told him, leaning forward. “You made it worse.”

    “Your majesty, I do protest.” Anjilihov shot Tulvak Sahm a jealous glare as he spoke. “I thought only of your safety.”

    “You thought only of plunging your sword into the guts of a magemonl” Muncel shouted. “Gods, man! Those creatures could level this stronghold to a pile of rubble in a matter of minutes if they chose to unleash their full powers. Had you harmed one, we would have been smote dead.”

    Anjilihov’s gaze dropped from his. He sheathed his sword and knelt before Muncel. “Majesty, I ask your forgiveness. I did not realize this danger.”

    “Obviously,” Muncel said, unmoved. Tulvak Sahm circled them both, breathing harshly. Trying to ignore him, Muncel kept his gaze on Anjilihov. “When I commanded you to stop, you disobeyed me.”

    Anjilihov turned pale. He bowed his head nearly to the floor. “Forgive me, majesty! I thought only of your—”

    “You are not to think!” Muncel said angrily. “You are to obey.”

    “Yes, majesty,” Anjilihov whispered.

    “One more failure, and I’ll see you and your family banished to the World’s Rim. Is that clear?”

    “Yes, majesty.”

    Muncel’s stomach was burning with pain. A cold chill passed through him, and he suddenly found the lingering stench in the air unbearable. “Open a window. The air in here is foul.”

    Anjilihov jumped to his feet and obeyed, rather than calling a servant to do it.

    Tulvak Sahm continued to circle Muncel’s chair. “The mage-mons are savages,” he murmured. “More dangerous than even I expected. I do not believe the handlers have much control over them. Not as much as your majesty was led to expect.”

    A blast of icy wind filled the room and stirred the tapestries. Snow blew in and sank into the fur rugs. Muncel inhaled the clean, brisk air with relief and felt his head clear.

    “They should not be brought here again,” Tulvak Sahm said. “Let them finish their spellcasting in the tower.”

    “I want to be present,” Muncel said stubbornly. “I want to know the instant they kill the pretender.”

    “Then more sorcerels should be summoned here to guard your majesty,” Tulvak Sahm said.

    Muncel stared up at the man in astonishment. Tulvak Sahm was close to admitting that his powers were less than those of the magemons.

    “How long would it take to summon your colleagues?”

    Tulvak Sahm’s face remained inscrutable as he tucked his hands into his sleeves. “I can reach them with the power of my mind immediately. Their coming would take less than five days.”

    ‘Too long. I want this matter finished before then.“

    “Half of your majesty’s bargain has been accomplished today,” Tulvak Sahm said. “That is great progress. A few more days will scarcely matter.”

    “Every day matters!” Muncel shouted, only to wince as the pain in his stomach grew worse. “The pretender is nearly to the border now.”

    Word of Faldain’s return was flying across the kingdom as fast as the news could spread, Muncel thought worriedly. There’d already been an outbreak of trouble in Grov itself, traditional seat of Netheran kings, just when half his army had been sent west to put down a Grethori uprising. And the northern settlements were always rebellious; Muncel could only imagine how the troublemakers there would react when news of the pretender’s return reached them.

    He pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “I will not have Faldain set foot on Netheran soil, Tulvak Sahm. I dare not!”

    “It does not matter where he dies,” the sorcerel assured him.

    “The false one will not prevail against your majesty. This have I foretold.”

    Horoscope castings no longer reassured Muncel. Where Fal-dain was concerned, Muncel could not rest easy. In his nightmares, he’d dreamed of lying on the ground, bloody from numerous wounds, while Faldain—looking exactly like Tobesz-ijian—stood over him victorious. As for his half-brother, who’d disappeared so mysteriously into thin air nearly two decades ago on his demonic mount, who was to say that Tobeszijian himself might not somehow return? There was no proof that he was dead, although Tulvak Sahm repeatedly assured Muncel that his half-brother no longer existed in the first world.

    Muncel dared not believe in anything except his own fears and instincts.

    Had he waited for destiny all those years ago, he’d still be nothing but Tobeszijian’s half-brother, lower in rank than those eldin brats Tobeszijian had sired. Muncel believed not in fate, but in planning ahead. In poisoning an enemy before the battle. In crushing an enemy’s insides via magic before he could incite the people to revolt.

    Glaring at his sorcerel, Muncel said, “If the pretender reaches Nether and proclaims himself king before the magemons kill him, the people will make a martyr of him. From his grave, he can still cause me trouble.”

    Tulvak Sahm shrugged. “Ghosts have never troubled your majesty before. Why should this one?”

    Angrily Muncel refused to answer. He had no intention of admitting the panic he felt whenever he heard Faldain’s name spoken.

    In rational terms, there was little to worry about. The boy was untried and had few resources. He had failed to get the support of the Mandrian army, which had been Muncel’s greatest worry. Rumor said that he could not even speak Nedieran.

    Muncel had a powerful army supplemented by Gantese and Nonkind auxiliaries. Ruthless and capable, Muncel ruled this kingdom with an iron fist and was well-established on the throne. Moreover, Faldain was more eld than human. After all these years, the anti-eld teachings of the Reformed Church had had time to take solid hold in the realm. Many people would reject the pretender for his mixed blood alone.

    Yet despite his advantages, in the deepest corners of his heart Muncel still feared the boy’s return. No matter how many reassuring horoscopes Tulvak Sahm cast, Muncel remained afraid. No matter how often he counted the size of his army, he felt little confidence. Still, he was determined that Faldain would never sit on Nether’s throne. Never. This, Muncel had sworn long ago in his darkest days, before he overthrew Tobeszijian. He’d made a secret pilgrimage to Gant and knelt to the evil god Ashnod. He’d drunk a cup of bitterness, wormwood, and gall, said to represent the souls of the condemned. He’d eaten ashes said to be the burned bodies of the dead. He’d even spoken words of submission and worship to Ashnod, a statue of black stone that smoked and roared in a chamber of flame.

    All this had he done, privately casting aside his belief in Thod and Tomias and selling his soul to the Believers in order to seize the birthright that should have been his. Paying such a price had been worthwhile, for he’d prevailed against Tobeszijian. But now, to grant even an hour of life to Tobeszijian’s son would be to cheapen and reject all he’d sacrificed in order to get his throne.

    As for Muncel’s own son ... although the child was sickly now, he would grow out of his afflictions and one day succeed to his father’s throne. For his sake also, Muncel mused, must Faldain die; the people of Nether should never have the chance to compare Faldain’s sturdy frame and straight limbs to Jonan’s frailty.

    Lifting his gaze to Tulvak Sahm, Muncel said, “The pretender must die before he sets foot on Netheran soil. I will not wait.”

    A knock on the door kept Tulvak Sahm from replying. Hearing the sound of several voices outside, Muncel frowned wearily.

    “No,” he said to Anjilihov. “Send whoever it is away. I am unwell and can give no audiences now.”

    Unbidden, Tulvak Sahm glided over to the open window and shut it. Bowing to Muncel, he said, “Churchmen are without. I will go.”

    “Yes, yes, go,” Muncel agreed, and leaned his head back against the chair with a sigh. No doubt word had spread through the court about the magemons. That the church was sending a delegation to protest their presence was no more than he’d expected. But he did not want to deal with them now.

    Anjilihov closed the door firmly and came to him. “Cardinal Pernal sought an audience with your majesty, but I told him—”

    “Are you truly unwell, majesty?” Pernal’s voice said clearly. “I have no doubt of it.”

    Opening his eyes, Muncel saw the cardinal advancing into the room, alone and without the pair of acolytes who usually helped him walk. Despite his advanced age, Pernal’s mind was as razor-sharp and cunning as ever. He’d suffered a mysterious illness ever since the day he’d grabbed  of Eternal Life in an effort to keep Tobeszijian from stealing it. No remedy in all these years had cured him or given him much relief from his sufferings. Yet, like Muncel, Pernal remained ambitious, too ambitious for him to surrender to his affliction. Thus, he refused to retire, and still clung to his role as Muncel’s chief spiritual guide and adviser, although Muncel no longer wanted either.

    Now, leaning heavily on his cane, Cardinal Pernal limped across the room toward the king. His face, terribly scarred from the old burns, contorted with pain as he came forward, but his eyes were alert and outraged.

    “Lord cardinal,” Muncel said in cold greeting. “It seems you are determined to force an audience today.”

    The old man halted, then bowed with difficulty. “Your majesty,” he said, sounding out of breath. “Word reached me this morning that Prince Jonan has fallen ill again. I came to pray for the boy, but instead I found your grace closeted with creatures of sin and evil, rather than seeking Tomias’s mercy for your son.”

    Muncel’s temper blazed, yet he withheld a reply. Had Pernal been any other man in his court, he would have ordered his death for such bold condemnation. But Pernal had never feared him. They knew too many of each other’s secrets; they were locked forever in uneasy alliance, friends once, and now enemies chained by mutual purpose.

    In the silence, a look of sadness filled the old man’s eyes. “This room is far too cold. No doubt you’ve had it aired to hide your misdeeds, like a schoolboy concealing evidence of his pranks.”

    Muncel frowned.

    “But of course your majesty is no schoolboy, and the evil that was done in this chamber is no prank. Alas, that such foul creatures are now permitted free run of your majesty’s court.”

    “They are locked away,” Muncel said. “They will harm no one.”

    “And your tame sorcereli Is he also locked away?”

    Gritting his teeth, Muncel said nothing. That Pernal dared to stand here and chastise him was almost more than he was willing to take. The cardinal, Muncel vowed, had best take care.

    “I grieve to see this,” Pernal said relentlessly. “Long ago when you and I plotted the firm establishment of the Reformed Church in this realm, I never dreamed things would come to this.”

    “I have no time for reminiscences,” Muncel said impatiently. “Was there something in particular you wished to ask me, lord cardinal?”

    “I come not to ask but to rebuke.”

    “That, you have done.”

    “And your heart remains hard and closed.” Pernal shook his head sadly. “I wish to pray for your majesty’s soul. Come with me to the chapel for a short while. Let us refresh our spirits together.”

    Despite himself, Muncel stiffened. Rising to his feet, he snapped, “Another time. Not today.”

    “No,” Pernal said softly. “I thought not. You have been giving me that same answer for many years now, majesty. You cannot delay seeking the merciful forgiveness of Tomias forever.”

    “I need no forgiveness,” Muncel said angrily. “Thank you for the offer. I must continue with other matters now.”

    He started to step around the cardinal, but Pernal was not finished with him. “There is something else I must tell your majesty.”

    “Then say it quickly!”

    “My agents have found Faldain.”

    Feeling as though he’d been struck, Muncel glared at the cardinal. “What mean you by this? On whose authority do you seek out the pretender?”

    “On the authority of the church, your majesty.”

    “He is my enemy,” Muncel declared. “I will deal with him in my own fashion.”

    “You want him dead. No doubt those creatures in your employ have been casting their evil spells, blaspheming here, in order to destroy Tobeszijian’s son.”

    “Yes, I want him dead,” Muncel growled. “And I will have him so.”

    “My men have orders to capture Prince Faldain alive and to bring him to Belrad without delay.”

    Taken aback by this audacity, Muncel stared at the old man for a full moment before he managed to speak. “Belrad? Why not Grov? Why not put the scepter in his hand? How dare you?”

    “Nay, majesty! How dare you jeopardize ?”

    “What? I don’t understand.”

    Pernal’s eyes were blazing. “Of course you don’t. You haven’t been thinking clearly since the boy was discovered at Savroix.”

    Muncel’s brows knotted. He felt his anger building inside him like an explosive force. Growling in his throat, he began to pace back and forth, making curt, chopping gestures with his hands. “The pretender seeks to have me overthrown. He is too great a danger.”

    “He is the only link we have to’s whereabouts. He must not be killed until that knowledge is wrested from him.”

    Pemal’s words rang through the chamber. Some of Muncel’s panic and anger diminished, yet he was also aghast at what the old man wanted.

    “Yes,” Pernal said, nodding his scarred head. His eyes, clear and commanding, bored deep into Muncel. “He knows where it’s hidden.”

    “How can you be sure?”

    “Was he not with his father when  was taken? Think of it, majesty! In all likelihood he has lived with it, grown up with it. Undoubtedly he possesses it now, or has left it concealed where no one but himself can find it. He must be captured and brought here alive.”

    “He won’t tell us what he knows,” Muncel said. “Why should he?”

    “But if he carries  with him, we shall have it!” Holy fervor shone in Pernal’s eyes. “The sacred vessel will be restored to its rightful place in the cathedral. Its blessed light will once again shine on this afflicted land.”

    “You think it will heal you.”

    Pernal bowed his head. “It will heal many. Perhaps it will show mercy to me as well.”

    Muncel snorted. “Have you forgotten how it maimed you?”

    “That was Tobeszijian’s doing.  itself does only good.”

    Clasping his hands at his back, Muncel resumed pacing. “You should have consulted me first.”

    “Your majesty is not the head of the Reformed Church. Thod and his prophet Tomias rule our souls.”

    Muncel scowled, but he knew when to give in. “Very well. If your agents have found the pretender, send them word to seize him where he is. Have him searched. Reclaim  if you can, but do not have him brought to Belrad. That would be the gravest folly.”

    “But if he does not travel with , we must wrest the knowledge of its location from him. At the cathedral, we can hold him prisoner and open his mind.”

    “Would you force him?” Muncel asked, curious as to how far Pernal would go.

    “If he will not aid us willingly, aye.” There was no mercy now in Pernal’s voice. It rang out as harshly as Muncel’s own. “The true test of his worthiness to rule Nether is if he will sacrifice himself to restore  to its rightful place. If he resists, then he is unworthy.”

    “What gibberish is this?” Muncel roared, losing his temper completely. His pulse was throbbing in his temples and his stomach churned as though he’d swallowed fire. “You would give him a test before you hand him my throne? You speak treason, old man!”

    “Proving his worthiness to rule does not mean he will have your throne,” Pernal replied without flinching. “But I will have  from him before I permit him to fall into your majesty’s hands.”

    “Permit?” Muncel repeated, choking. “Permit? How dare you! I—”

    “You are not thinking!” Pernal snapped. “You are letting your emotions rule your actions, and that is always fatal, majesty! It was the first lesson in statecraft that I taught you.”

    Furious, Muncel drew his dagger, but instead of fear contempt blazed in the cardinal’s eyes. “No matter that you’ve abandoned your faith. I must uphold it,” he said with conviction. “For Nether’s sake, I must! It’s my sworn duty to see that  returns to us.”

    Muncel stared at the dagger clenched in his hand. A deep shudder shook his frame, and he felt tired to the depths of his soul.

    “Do you not realize,” he asked quietly, “that if  returns it will cast me out for all I have done?”

    Pernal’s eyes widened, and he drew in a sharp breath. “Majesty,” he said in a tone of compassion, “allow me to heal your soul before it’s too late. Let  restore the faith you gave away—”

    Muncel stepped up to him and plunged his dagger deep into the old man’s stomach.

    Disbelief filled Pernal’s eyes. He stared at Muncel, and although his mouth worked no words came out.

    “At last you have gone too far,” Muncel said to him, and twisted the knife deeper into Pernal’s vitals. “You fool! You should have understood that I do not want  back. Not now. Not at any price.”

    Pernal’s scarred, hideous face looked frozen. His eyes stared, the vital force inside them dimming slowly. “You have condemned yourself,” he whispered, and died.

    Muncel pulled out his dagger as the old man crumpled to the floor, and absently the king handed his weapon to Prince Anjilihov. As his protector wiped off the dagger, Muncel stared at the corpse at his feet. He felt empty and foreign to himself.

    “I was condemned long ago,” he said softly, and nudged the body with his toe. “You were a fool, Pernal, not to see it sooner.”

    At Thirst Hold Dain looked in on Sir Terent, who lay bandaged and sleeping, then made his way to the chapel. The interior of this small place of worship was as shadowy as usual. Just inside the threshold, Dain paused to let his eyes adjust. The air was cold, dry, and musty, smelling of incense and candle wax.

    The religious murals painted on the walls—crude renderings indeed after the sophisticated art Dain had seen at Savroix— looked dusty and blurred in the shadows. Tiny motes of dust danced in the sunlight pouring down through the oculus overhead. This was a simple place of worship, built for simple folk, yet pride and reverence showed in the immaculate snowiness of the altar cloth and in the brightly polished brass Circle hanging from the ceiling.

    There came a pattering of footsteps, and the priest appeared, greeting Dain with restrained courtesy. As soon as he was informed of Dain’s errand, he lit a torch and led the way down a flight of shallow stone steps into the crypt below the chapel floor.

    “Alas, our poor Lord Odfrey, cut down too early. Far too early,” the priest said mournfully. “The people have not yet recovered from the loss. They loved him like children love a parent. They have been lost without him here, guiding and providing for them.”

    Dain took the torch from the priest’s hand and dismissed him. Glancing at Sir Polquin, he said, “Wait for me here.”

    Nodding, the temporary knight protector positioned himself at the foot of the steps. “I’ll see you’re not disturbed.”

    “Thank you.”

    Dain made his way slowly through the tombs. He found this to be a strange and eerie place of death. Sensitive to the eternal quiet, the musty shadows, and how the slightest of sounds echoed, Dain preferred the dwarf custom of burying the dead beneath dirt or inside wood. He believed that the spirit was long gone to the third world; why not let the body decay as all living things in the forest eventually returned to the soil? But it seemed Mandrians valued stone to guard their bones.

    At the far end of the crypt he came at last to Odfrey’s tomb. As yet it was only a plain box of stone. No statue lay atop it, and Dain supposed the carving was not yet finished. He would have to inquire, and make sure all was done in accordance with the customs of Odfrey’s family.

    A small plaque inscribed with Odfrey’s full name and the dates of his birth and death was all that adorned the plain surface. In Dain’s eyes, it seemed fitting that Odfrey should lie in such simple state. He had lived a plain, utilitarian life, avoiding frills and finery as much as he could. Yet there was one thing his tomb lacked that Dain could supply.

    Dain quietly slid his torch into a wall sconce, then drew his sword—Odfrey’s sword—from its scabbard. As plain and well-worn as its former master, the weapon had never quite fit Dain’s hand, and he knew where this blade belonged.

    With reverence, Dain kissed the hilt of the sword and laid it atop Odfrey’s tomb before he knelt at its base.

    It felt strange to be in a place of death without the proper Elements to conduct a service of respect. Dain had no salt, no stones, no basin of water, no candles, no fresh-peeled rods of ash. He had not brought such things with him because Odfrey had not believed in them. Therefore, he would honor the man who’d befriended him and given him so much by praying as Odfrey had taught him to pray.

    Closing his eyes, he offered his short, simple request to Thod the Mighty. He asked that Odfrey’s soul abide happily in the third world, reunited there with his son Hilard and his lady wife, who had both died years ago. There had been much grief and loneliness hidden in the chevard’s heart. Now Dain hoped his sorrow had vanished forever.

    At the end of his prayer, Dain sighed, knowing that according to the teachings of the Reformed Church, he had done his duty.

    But he was not finished. Still kneeling, he bowed his head and communed with his memories of the man who’d become like a father to him, even though they had known each other less than a year. He had respected and admired Odfrey so much. He had yearned to please the man, to make the chevard proud of him. Odfrey had been the first man Dain trusted, the first Mandrian to show him kindness. It was thanks to Odfrey that Dain had discovered his own royal heritage, for without the chevard’s quest to see him officially adopted, Dain would have never met King Verence, who’d recognized his pendant of bard crystal for what it really was.

    So much had happened of late. Dain longed to be walking about the hold at Lord Odfrey’s side, seeking his counsel, for there was much ahead of him that he did not know how to handle. He wished that, just one last time, he could see the calm good sense in the chevard’s dark eyes, could hear the man talking to him about strategy and planning. In his young life, Dain had lost first his true father, who left him in the Dark Forest and never returned; then Jorb, the dwarf swordmaker who’d served as a guardian while Dain was growing up; and now Odfrey, a decent man of generous heart and open mind who’d seen past Dain’s rough edges to show him a future beyond his wildest dreams.

    Suddenly, Dain could no longer hold back his feelings. He knew this was against Writ, but he could not stop the ache in his heart. Closing his eyes, he found himself praying fervently to Odfrey himself.

    “I go to fight a great war, lord,” he cast forth in his mind. “I am barely a knight, barely a lord, barely a king, yet I must fight as all three. How can I be seasoned and wily? What must I know? What must I learn to prepare myself for the trials that lie ahead of me? Oh, lord, if only your spirit could ride with me into battle, then I would not fear what is to come.”

    He waited a moment, but sensed no response. “It is custom with your people and mine that a son should inherit his father’s sword. I have carried yours, lord, the one that you used daily with honor, the one that you died with. And now I have brought it back to you.”

    He paused, concentrating so hard that sweat beaded up along his temples. Around him pressed the silence of eternity. He heard nothing but the steady boom of his own heartbeat.

    “Lord, if you are aware of me still, hear my request. I need Truthseeker in order to fight the darkness that will be my foe. You taught me that this weapon is not to be used for trivial battles. I ask for its use to regain my throne, and surely that cause is worthy. If my taking it offends you, show me the breath of your displeasure and I swear that I will not carry it away. But if you approve, fill my heart with your strength.”

    He waited a long while, waited until all he could hear was the muted hissing of the torch as it burned low. He waited until his knees ached on the stone floor, but nothing came to him. No murmur of approval or disapproval. No breath of benediction or protest.

    Nothing at all.

    Sighing, Dain had never felt more pagan and apart from the ways of Mandria than at that moment, for surely Lord Odfrey’s soul had not heard his prayer at all.

    It had been futile to believe his troubles could be eased this way. Dain raised himself stiffly, then placed both hands on the stone box which surrounded Lord Odfrey’s bones and bade him farewell.

    Although he’d gained no answer, at least he’d performed the courtesy of asking. Henceforth, if Odfrey’s spirit grew wroth at Dain’s use of Truthseeker and chose to haunt him, so be it. He would take what he needed. He would take what he wanted. All that was here belonged to him, by man-law, and he would claim it.

    He did not let himself glance back as he strode from the crypt.

    Once outside, he paused in the courtyard and looked at Sir Polquin. “What is the custom here, in the swearing of oaths to a new chevard?”

    Sir Polquin blinked at the question. “Well now, it’s custom to end the mourning with a feast—a great banquet in the Hall.”

    “Go on.”

    “And then toasts are drunk, and the men come forward to swear themselves into your service.”

    “The vaulted swords, the honor they showed me this morning. What was that?”

    “Another custom of respect,” Sir Polquin replied, squinting against the‘ sunshine. “Respect due to the chevard’s heir.”

    Dain’s throat was suddenly full. He struggled to swallow before he could command his voice. “And if I asked them to swear their service this afternoon, in this yard?” He swept his arm in a gesture at the paved courtyard. “Would that break custom too much, if we had the oaths before the banquet feast?”

    Sir Polquin stared at him hard. “What’s turning in that head of yours, sire? What’re you up to?”

    “We have little time before we must resume our journey,” Dain said. “I would see this done before I leave for Nether.”

    “But surely there’s a few days yet. The poor lady’s too ill to be moved now. And word has to be sent to the nearby holds, at least the upland ones, so that the other chevards can come and stand as witnesses.”

    Frustrated, Dain swore softly beneath his breath. “But if they are not present? Does that invalidate the oaths?”

    “Nay. It’s just an upland custom from the old days. It makes sure that no false claims can be brought against you.”

    Dain turned to scowl across the courtyard at the opposite wall rising behind Sulein’s tower.

    “Why?” Sir Polquin asked. “Have you a worry that the men’ll balk? I’ll cram my sword down their gullets if they don’t line up proper.”

    “Nay, there’ll be no oaths at swordpoint, if you please, sir knight!”

    “What then? What’s the hurry?”

    “I can’t say. I just have a feeling....” Dain abruptly made up his mind. “Let the order be given. Notify Sir Bosquecel that I want the oaths given this afternoon. A rider will take the announcement to the other holds. We’ll feast tonight, and be ready to rejoin Gavril’s company on the morrow.”

    Sir Polquin started to speak, then held his tongue with a frown.

    Dain glanced at him. “I don’t trust his highness. It troubles me to stay too long from where I can keep my eye on him.”

    “Seems to me, sire, that Prince Gavril has his eye on you.”

    “Perhaps. But there’s also Sulein to think of, now that he’s been pressed into serving as a guardian.”

    “Sulein!” Sir Polquin snorted in disgust. “Good riddance, I say. That smelly hedge-pig of a physician ought to—”

    “I need him,” Dain broke in.

    “Why? According to what I hear from Terent, you’ve never liked the foreign scoundrel. Haven’t from the first day of your being here. Why, your grace even ran off in the forest just to escape having lessons with him.”

    This last was not true, but Dain had long ago given up trying to set common misconception straight. “I need him,” he repeated. “He has something that belongs to me, and until I can get it away from him—”

    “Tell me what it is, and I’ll have it off his miserable hide in a twinkling,” Sir Polquin said fiercely. “Why didn’t your grace speak up about it sooner?”

    “He’s concealed it with a spell, and I can’t get it away from him until he releases it.”

    “Morde!” Sir Polquin stared wide-eyed at Dain. “Even more reason to get rid of him. Why Lord Odfrey put up with his nasty ways, I’ve never understood. He only brought him here to see if he could cure Master Hilard. Which he didn’t.”

    “Believe me,” Dain said, “once I have my property, you may do with him as you will.”

    “A thief,” Sir Polquin muttered, glaring beneath his knotted brows. “Well, now. I’ll have to see what I can do.”

    “Nothing at present,” Dain reminded him. “Not as long as he’s a guardian.”

    “Probably put himself there just to keep himself out of our clutches. Fear not: Terent and I will get him.”

    “You can’t as long as he’s a guardian.”

    “Casting spells is against Writ,” Sir Polquin said sternly. “Thod may strike him down for it. But what is it he’s taken?”

    “He wears a ring, very old, carved with runes and set with a smooth white stone,” Dain said, striving to keep his voice casual. He dared not tell even Sir Polquin just how valuable this ring was. “If you ever see it on his hand, that means the spell concealing it has faded. It can be plucked from his finger then, and only then.”

    “I’ll keep that in mind, sire. But I never saw you wearing such a ring when you came to Thirst.”

    Dain frowned. Sir Polquin’s memory remained as sharp as ever, and he was notoriously hard to fool. “It belonged to my father,” he said with honesty. “How Sulein came by it, I know not. But it’s important.”

    “Then I’ll warn Terent, and we’ll keep watch for it. Now for this business of the oath-giving. By your leave, I’ll send a page to summon Sir Bosquecel.”

    Shortly thereafter the captain of the guard arrived. He looked thinner and grayer these days, but he still carried himself straight and erect. Although he blinked at Dain’s request, he bowed in immediate, unquestioning obedience as a knight and hold officer was expected to.

    “The oath service can take place just after midday, m’lord,” he said brusquely. “I’m sorry to hear that you cannot be staying with us long, but I’ll have the men ready.”

    “Thank you,” Dain said, grateful for the man’s efficiency.

    Sir Bosquecel saluted, then strode away to attend to his duties, and Dain turned toward his wardroom.

    But he’d barely reached the steps leading indoors when there came a shout from the sentries atop the wall. “Riders on the approach!”

    Dain looked around with a grin. “It’s Gavril! He’s brought her here after all.”

    Feeling a rush of joy, he threw away his new dignity and ran for the steps leading up to the sentry walk. With Sir Polquin at his heels, Dain hurried along, his shoulder brushing the stone crenellations. At the vantage point overlooking the southwest, he paused and leaned out to watch the group approaching.

    The crisp wind ruffled his hair. He saw a small party of ten riders riding beneath the Lunt colors of scarlet and black, and disappointment stabbed him.

    At his shoulder, Sir Polquin grunted. “Those aren’t the prince’s colors. Why, it’s men from Lunt. Odd that they’ve come here. Probably just a patrol checking in to see that all’s well.” Shortly thereafter, the Lunt men were admitted through the gates, and a sentry knight came striding up to where Dain still waited on the ramparts.

    “M’lord,” he said in a thick uplander accent. “It’s Lord Re-nald come asking for audience wi‘ ye.”

    Dain frowned, impatient with the prospect of a visit he had no desire for. His time here was short; he had many things to do.

    Sir Polquin breathed down the back of Dain’s neck. “Here’s your chevard witness for the oath-giving. Come like a gift of providence.”

    Some of Dain’s impatience faded. “Did Chevard Renald say what business brings him hence?” he asked the sentry.

    “Nay, m’lord,” the knight replied. “Seems a bit rattled. There’s been plenty of trouble hereabouts wi‘ raids and such like. Mayhap he’s seeking Thirst men to ride forth wi’ Lunt.”

    Dain thought of Pheresa lying in a tent with only a fence of wattle built around her. She had no salt or sticks of peeled ash to protect her from Nonkind raiders. Only those damned church soldiers, who were too arrogant to learn or listen.

    “M’lord—”

    “Yes! Of course,” Dain said hastily, pulling himself from his worried thoughts. “See that the chevard is bid welcome. I’ll receive him at once.”

    The sentry bowed and hurried away.

    Dain looked at Sir Polquin, who said grimly, “Sounds like trouble’s afoot.”

    “Aye. But where do I receive him?” Dain asked. “The wardroom’s been locked. Lord Odfrey’s things are still—” He choked up and suddenly could not finish his sentence.

    Had Sir Terent been with him, the man would have reached out and gripped his shoulder in the way he used to comfort Dain. “Aye, lad,” he would have said softly. “ ‘Tis hard to bear.”

    But the master-at-arms crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “Wardroom’s the proper place for such,” he said gruffly. “Best get used to it, now that it’s yours.”

    His words were like a dash of cold water, and Dain nod-ded. “Very well,” he said, and spun on his heel to return the way he’d come.

    A few minutes later, he was standing at Lord Odfrey’s desk in the lord’s small, homey chamber, which had grown stale and musty in its owner’s absence. He was conscious of the presence of Truthseeker, lying in the chest behind his chair. He could feel the subtle throb of it, a whisper of its voice, as though the sword was stirring to life because of Dain’s proximity. An involuntary thrill raced up Dain’s spine. // knows, he thought in excitement. It knows I mean to carry it into battle. Cobwebs had been spun over the hearth, and their delicate tracery shimmered in the sunlight slanting in through the window. Parchments, maps, and dispatches littered the top of the desk, and that huge beautifully illustrated map of the kingdoms that Dain had once admired was still draped over the tall-backed chair.

    Hearing booted footsteps approaching his door, Dain whisked the map off the chair. He was still rolling it up when a knock sounded.

    Sir Polquin swung open the door, then stepped back. “Lord Renald, your grace.”

    The Chevard of Lunt Hold entered with a swagger. His black cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, and his scarlet sur-coat was wrinkled and mud-splattered from hard riding. Young and strongly built, with an elegant chin-beard and mustache, Lord Renald looked exactly as Dain remembered him from the night of Dain’s trial in the Hall, when Dain had killed the shapeshifter and saved Gavril’s life. Renald’s intelligent eyes were fairly snapping just now with impatience and disappointment.

    “Lord Renald,” Dain said with his best court manners, “welcome to Thirst. As always, our hospitality is—”

    “Thank you. Most kind,” Lord Renald broke in curtly with none of his usual suavity. He seemed to notice his abruptness and checked himself. “Forgive me. I’ve been up since before dawn, riding like I had hurlhounds on my heels.”

    “There’s trouble, then,” Dain said with a sinking heart. He didn’t want to get caught up in the problems of this land. His way still led north. “What sort?”

    As he spoke, he pointed to the chair, and Lord Renald dropped into it heavily. A servant entered with a tray of cider in cups, and Lord Renald drained his in one swallow.

    Grimacing, he slammed the empty cup down. “Damne, that’s the sourest vintage I’ve yet drunk from Thirst orchards.”

    Dain left his own cup untouched and seated himself behind the desk. It felt strange indeed to have Lord Odfrey’s things around him. He kept thinking that Lord Odfrey would come striding in at any moment and take charge, but of course that could not happen.

    “I’m sorry there’s no stronger drink to offer,” Dain said. “The hold cellars need filling with wine and mead.”

    Lord Renald shrugged, dismissing the matter. His shrewd eyes regarded Dain for a moment, sizing him up. Dain felt his face grow hot beneath that intent gaze, but he returned it with equal steadiness.

    “I own myself astonished to see you here, Lord Dain,” the man said after a pause. “The word we had of you was that you were lying ill abed at Savroix. Yet you’re here, looking hale and hearty.”

    “My recovery progressed quicker than expected.”

    Lord Renald’s brows shot up. “And is it truth or rumor that you’re the lost king of Nether?”

    The direct question took Dain aback. “You’re well-informed, my lord.”

    Lord Renald’s gaze did not waver. ‘Truth or rumor?“

    “Truth.”

    The chevard rose to his feet and bowed. “Then your majesty honors me with this audience.”

    “Please be seated,” Dain said. “You’ve ridden hard. Rest yourself.”

    Lord Renald hesitated, then resumed his seat. “Morde a day, but you’re a casual king.”

    “I’m not crowned yet,” Dain replied.

    Lord Renald grinned and suddenly looked not much older than Dain himself. “Aye, that’s a valid point. May I bring my business here before your majesty?”

    Dain nodded.

    “I come looking for Prince Gavril. The word is that he’s on his road northward to Nether.”

    “Aye, he is.”

    “Well, damne! Isn’t he here?”

    “No.”

    “Morde. These raids keep me sore pressed of late. Thod knows I have better things to do than chase in every direction in search of his highness. But I’m bidden to tell him he must turn back.”

    ‘Turn back!“ Dain echoed in surprise. ”But why?“

    “That should be obvious.”

    Dain found himself flushing. “You must explain. It is not obvious to me.”

    Lord Renald looked at him as though he were a fool. “Has his highness—have you—given no thought to the reports we’ve been sending to Savroix since early autumn?”

    “His highness is on a mission of mercy. He does not intend to turn back.”

    Lord Renald grunted. “I have received direct orders from King Verence to stop Prince Gavril and turn him homeward. If he’d sought shelter for the night at Lunt, as I expected him to, it would have been an easy matter. As ‘tis, now I must hunt him. I tell you, Lord Dain, I have neither the time nor the manpower to spare for such a task.”

    Understanding now why Gavril had been so intent on avoiding Lunt and other holds, Dain drew in his breath sharply. “He must have received a warning.”

    “What?”

    “He must have been warned of the king’s intent,” Dain said. “He’s insisted we camp on the road every night since we left Tuisons and started overland. Not even here to Thirst will he come.”

    A line appeared between Lord Renald’s brows. “And have you also a missive from the king, telling you to turn his highness back?”

    “Nay. Unless it’s come without my being told.” Dain leaned forward. “I arrived but this morning.”

    Lord Renald rose to his feet. “Then you’ve a host of things to do. And I have more riding before me.”

    “Will you not bide long enough to take a midday meal here?”

    Lord Renald seemed pleased by the offer. “Your grace is in-deed hospitable. Certainly you’ve grown more polished than you were when I saw you last.”

    Flushing at the compliment, Dain also rose to his feet. “At Savroix, it was necessary to learn quickly.”

    “So I imagine. Well now, thank you for your kindness, but I dare not tarry while this task is on me.”

    “His highness is camped but a few miles from here. No more than a league, if that far,” Dain said.

    Lord Renald stared at him in astonishment. “Then why does he not come here? Why risk—”

    “I told you. He obviously intends to avoid receiving his father’s order.”

    The chevard frowned, a muscle working in his jaw. “Well, no matter what he intends, his highness is to return to Savroix at once. He can’t evade the order now, no matter how he tries.”

    “But why must he turn back?” Dain asked. “There is Lady Pheresa to consider. If we abandon the journey now, she will surely perish.”

    Lord Renald shrugged. “I know nothing of that. I have my orders, and his highness is soon to have his.”

    “But what has alarmed King Verence so?” Dain asked. “Trouble with Nonkind?”

    “Aye, all the usual mess and more,” the chevard said with feeling. “There have been three trolk attacks on Lunt in the past month. We’ll probably eat our Aelintide feast with our hands on our weapons.”

    “Trolks haven’t banded together in years.”

    “They’re at it now. As many as fifty to a pack sometimes. Thod knows how we’ll keep them off if they continue to come. But there’s some new trouble between King Verence and Nether, or so I hear. That’s why his majesty doesn’t want the prince to continue northward.”

    “The treaty,” Dain said in dismay. “There must be a disagreement on terms.”

    “Aye. Now I’d best go.”

    “Wait, my lord,” Dain said quickly. “There is a favor I would ask you.”

    “Better to ask it after I speak to his highness,” Lord Renald said, and turned to go.

    “It’s about my oath service,” Dain said quickly.

    Lord Renald halted in his tracks, then swung back. “You have a kingdom north of here. Will you claim a mere hold for yourself as well?”

    “Thirst is mine,” Dain said harshly. “By Verence’s warrant and Lord Odfrey’s wish.”

    “Did Odfrey know your true identity?”

    Dain met the chevard’s probing eyes and made no reply.

    After a moment Lord Renald blinked. “Morde,” he said softly. “I always knew there was more to Odfrey than duties and battle. The only reason he accepted Prince Gavril as a foster here was to measure what kind of man—aye, and king—he would grow into. How you fell into his hands as well, Thod only knows.”

    “Will you witness my oath service?” Dain asked again.

    “I’ll come back for it, if the raids allow.”

    “My lord, I’m having it this day.”

    “Your grace seems to be in a great hurry.”

    “I am.”

    Lord Renald waited, but when Dain explained nothing more, he raised his brows. “I find it interesting that a pagan such as yourself seeks to follow our conventions.”

    Dain’s shoulders stiffened. “I was named knight and chevard by his majesty, King Verence,” he said curtly. “No longer am I considered pagan, but a lord of Mandria—”

    “Mandria or Edonia?” Lord Renald asked with equal sharpness. “Rumor says you favor division.”

    “You hear perhaps too many rumors, my lord. This one is wrong,” Dain declared. “I favor keeping Thirst strong enough to withstand what Gant will one day send at it.”

    “Nether will be coming at it soon enough,” Lord Renald said. “This treaty offered to King Verence mocks us, and I pray to Thod he will reject it, even if it means war.”

    “Nether is not an enemy yet,” Dain said.

    “Are you promising to keep it allied to Mandria?”

    Dain’s head lifted at that challenge. “King Verence and my father were friends, and they kept friendship between their realms. I would do the same.”

    “Easy to say. Harder, perhaps, to do. I have been to Nether once, four years past. ‘Tis a filthy land, full of pestilence and thieves.”

    Dain’s nostrils flared, but he kept his temper. “Once more will I ask you, Lord Renald. Will you, as Chevard of Lunt, witness my oath service as Chevard of Thirst?”

    “Do you understand that by so doing I put myself and my hold at risk?”

    “How so?”

    “Obviously you mean to lead Thirst knights into Nether,” Lord Renald said. “There can be no other reason for such haste. I know my king. He will be furious if you do this. I do not care to risk his ire.”

    “You are more at risk if you fail to convey his message to Prince Gavril.”

    “How so? You said his highness is close by.”

    “I did not say he would be easy to find. Is he on the main highway or a lesser road? How much time have you to search for him?”

    “Damne! What games do you play with me now?” Dain crossed his arms over his chest and simply watched Lord Renald. “ ‘Twas you who said you haven’t much time.” “

    “Us unfriendly to force a man to take risks he shouldn’t.” Dain shrugged. “You uplanders are perhaps too cautious.”

    “We uplanders have reason to be!” Lord Renald retorted. “My grandfather survived the War of Union, when Edonia was brought to heel. He survived, but he struggled thereafter with harsh taxation and was forced to surrender half his lands. The lowlanders have stamped their feet hard on our necks, and only in recent years have the penalties eased. We are trusted now, but we paid a bitter price for it. I’ll not be accused of joining the divisionists.”

    “I do not ask you to do that,” Dain replied. He saw that he was not going to budge Lord Renald by any means of persuasion he’d tried thus far. It was time for frank speaking. “I’m no intriguer, my lord. I do not plot political strategies here. When I ride into Nether, possibly I shall never return. But if I do not validate my warrant of inheritance by receiving the oaths of Thirst’s men ... if I do not follow the customs and complete my duties as an adopted son of Odfrey’s, then my departure and absence will render Thirst unclaimed. Its ancient charter will be dissolved, and it will pass into King Verence’s hands. I have heard that Prince Gavril is counting on this and intends to use the hold for a hunting lodge.”

    Lord Renald blinked.

    Dain nodded. “Perhaps you do not care if the Thirst crest is chiseled off the walls and the royal seal replaces it. But I care. This is perhaps the last thing I can do to preserve Odfrey’s ancestral lands as they were meant to be. I seek to honor his wishes as best I can.”

    Lord Renald looked increasingly thoughtful as he listened. “I see. But if you keep ownership of Thirst, the hold will have no chevard to manage it, or to help protect this part of the border.”

    “If I survive what lies before me, I shall remedy that,” Dain said. “I should like a son of mine to return here.”

    Lord Renald shot him a wry look. “In that case Thirst would belong to Nether, and it would still be lost to the uplands.”

    “But it will not belong to Prince Gavril,” Dain said through his teeth.

    “Is that all this is? A ploy to keep his highness from seizing the hold for his own?”

    Dain hesitated, then nodded. “Aye.”

    Lord Renald laughed. “At least that’s honest. Is this how you mean to get back at his highness for having falsely accused you at trial here?”

    “It’s not about revenge,” Dain said stiffly, thinking of that night in Thirst’s Hall when he’d saved Gavril’s life from the shapeshifter. “It’s ... Much lies between us, my lord. ‘Tis complicated to explain.”

    “Never mind,” Lord Renald said with a shrug. “I know enough about feuds. They never stop, and they can consume you if you are not careful.”

    Dain said nothing, just gazed steadily at the man.

    “Very well, King Dain,” Lord Renald conceded with a sigh. “I will witness your oath service and see you rightfully placed as chevard. If you fail at being a king, perhaps you can come back and run this hold, eh?”

    Dain’s smile soured a bit. As an endorsement of support, it wasn’t much, but he supposed he should be grateful that Lord Renald was agreeing at all.

    “I thank you,” he said formally. “Come, let us eat together. Then as soon as the ceremony is finished, I will direct you to Prince Gavril’s camp.”

    “He will hate us both for this,” Lord Renald said with a sigh.

    “Aye, he will,” Dain agreed. “But I, at least, am used to it.”

    Despite the brightness of the midday sun, the wind blew cold. The banners of Thirst Hold snapped in the breeze while a trumpet rang out and drumbeats rolled.

    In solemn procession, the knights of Thirst marched forth from the guardhouse before an awestruck crowd of servants, villagers, and serfs. Each knight wore full armor and carried arms. Each knight led his charger, with his shield tied to his saddle. The horses were caprisoned for war with armored saddlecloths and head plates. Their iron shoes scraped and rang on the paving stones as they filed into the innermost courtyard. The knights came in order of rank. Sir Bosquecel led the line, followed by Sir Alard and the other first-rank knights, then the middle-rank knights, then the sentry-rank knights, and at the rear, the elderly or battle-maimed knights who no longer rode to war but served light duties as door guards and strategists. Behind this procession came the delegation of squires, squirming and nervous in their dark green tunics and wool cloaks.

    Atop the stone steps leading to the Hall, Dain sat in a tall-backed chair. He still wore his mail hauberk, but had donned one of Lord Odfrey’s dark green surcoats for the occasion. His thick black hair had been braided up the back of his skull, war-rior fashion, revealing his pointed ears. A narrow circlet of gold—a gift from Prince Spirin before Dain left Savroix—rested on his brow for the first time. His magnificent ruby ring gleamed on his finger.

    Behind his chair stood Sir Terent, looking pale and drawn but proud. Sir Polquin was beside him, with his bullish shoulders drawn back and his head high. It was a king’s right to have two protectors if he chose, and Dain had just named Sir Polquin to the second position a few minutes earlier. For once, the master-at-arms had been struck speechless, but his eyes were shining over the honor bestowed on him.

    To Dain’s left stood Lord Renald with his small band of Lunt knights. To his right were the priest and Thum, who kept grinning despite his attempts to stay solemn.

    The procession of knights halted at the foot of the steps, and the drums fell silent.

    The herald stepped forward. “By the right of inheritance and the warrant of his majesty, King Verence, this man Faldain is proclaimed Chevard of Thirst. According to law, the oaths of service which bind these assembled men of arms to Odfrey, Lord of Thirst, are hereby dissolved and void.”

    Some of the knights bowed their heads. Dain’s keen ears caught the faintest murmur of whispering among the house servants and pages looking on.

    This was the moment, Dain told himself, where everything could go awry. Freed of all allegiance, the knights could now ride forth from Thirst and pledge their service elsewhere. No one could forcibly bind them to Dain, whether he was the lawful chevard or not. He sat there trying to look impassive, but his mouth was dry and his heart was thumping hard inside his chest. If he had not been eld he would not have been much worried, but uplanders were notoriously prejudiced against those of his kind.

    “The claims of Faldain begin,” the herald announced, his voice ringing forth across the assembly. “He is knight-at-arms, Chevard of Thirst, and uncrowned King of Nether. He asks for your oaths of service, which you may give or withhold by the laws of Mandria.”

    The drumbeats resumed.

    Dain rose to his feet and went down the steps to where the knights stood in a long row before their horses. Behind him, Sir Terent and Sir Polquin followed. It was required that Dain go to each knight in turn, the action a symbol of his humble supplication. Once the oaths were given, his every command would have to be obeyed without question or hesitation, but until then he was to think of how bereft and insignificant he would be without his men. The ceremony and its meanings had all been explained to him, and he felt nervous and stiff in the knees.

    As he reached Sir Bosquecel, he stopped and turned to face the man, who stared back from beneath his upraised visor.

    “Ask the question,” Sir Terent mumbled in Dain’s ear.

    Thus prompted, Dain said, “I come to you in need, Sir Bosquecel. What am I given?”

    The hold commander drew his sword and knelt before Dain to lay his weapon on the ground between them. “I give you my sword in service, loyalty, and honor,” he replied, his voice firm and clear. “I swear to obey and fight in the name of Faldain, until my days be ended. Aelmn.”

    “Aelmn,” intoned the priest, stepping up to anoint Sir Bosquecel’s brow in blessing.

    Drawing in an unsteady breath, Dain moved to the next man in line. “Sir Alard,” he said. “I come to you once more in need. Although you gave your oath before, what will you give now?”

    Sir Alard knelt and laid his sword on the ground between them. He gave the same answer Sir Bosquecel had, with equal assurance and conviction in his voice.

    The priest anointed him, while Dain moved to the next man and the next. By the end of the ceremony, Dain felt numb from repeating the same words over and over. Only four knights had withdrawn, refusing to serve. They were new men, strangers, and of the lower ranks. The rest, however, now stood proud and erect as Dain came striding back up the line. When he started to climb steps, they swung their swords aloft and shouted his name.

    “Faldain! Faldain of Thirst!”

    He turned to face them, pride and gratitude tangled in his throat, and returned the salute. Then he resumed his seat while the squires came, one by one, up the steps to kneel before him and make their pledges. After the squires came the servants, beginning with Julth Rondel and continuing down to the lowest scullions. Many sounded nervous or even frightened as they spoke their pledges. One woman covered her face with her hands lest he gaze into her eyes and enspell her. Two of the maids broke into tears, but the rest kept their composure.

    Dain smiled at each servant who dared meet his gaze. He spoke to them with kind gentleness, taking care to do or say nothing to alarm them.

    At last it was all done. The villagers gawked from afar at their new master. The serfs had no pledge to make; they were bound from one lord to another with no choice in the matter. A brief benediction was spoken by the priest, and the herald announced Dain’s invitation that all help themselves to the cider barrels in celebration.

    Feeling as though a heavy weight had come off his shoulders, Dain left his chair and found himself surrounded by his men, all talking at once and grinning like fools.

    Lord Renald came over with a cool smile on his lips, but he offered Dain his hand in friendship. “Well done. You have won their loyalty, and I hope Lunt and Thirst will continue to share the accord they have known in times past.”

    “It’s my hope as well,” Dain replied. “And now for my end of our agreement. You will find Prince Gavril less than a—”

    Suddenly distant trumpets sounded and a shout rose from the lone lookout on the walls. Muttering curses, the sentry knights bolted for the ramparts.

    Lord Renald gripped his sword hilt. “It’s trolks. Morde a day, but I shouldn’t have left—”

    A wide-eyed page came running up to Dain. “Lord grace,” he said, garbling Dain’s titles, “ ‘tis Prince Gavril coming to the gates.”

    Astonished, Dain stared at the child. He couldn’t help but think how close the ceremony had come to being interrupted by Gavril’s arrival.

    “Tell me swiftly,” he said to the page. “Does the whole company come with his highness, or rides he alone?”

    “It’s everyone!” the page replied. “Such a large number of wagons, and the church soldiers are carrying demons tied to a pole.”

    Dain and Lord Renald exchanged startled looks.

    “Alive?” Dain asked.

    “Nay, my lord grace,” the little boy replied with excitement. “Their heads are cut off, and are swinging in a sack beside them. I saw—”

    The trumpets sounded again, and two men in white surcoats came riding into the courtyard. The crowd parted, and Dain walked down the steps to meet them.

    As he drew near, he saw it was Lord Barthomew and Sir Wiltem. The commander was glancing around at the crowd and signs of panoply with narrowed eyes. When he saw Dain, he stiffened in his saddle.

    “Lord Faldain,” Lord Barthomew said with a sneer, “I am to convey to you compliments of his highness. Prince Gavril and his party seek the hospitality of Thirst Hold.”

    The formal request was worded with correct courtesy, but the tone that delivered it held contempt and mockery.

    Behind Dain, Sir Terent growled in his throat like an old dog, and Sir Polquin turned red over the affront.

    Ignoring Lord Barthomew’s insulting tone, Dain felt relief that Gavril was finally showing some common sense. “Bid his highness and companions welcome,” Dain replied formally. “Report to Sir Bosquecel for instructions in how your knights will be billeted here.”

    After Lord Barthomew had bowed and ridden off, looking surly, Dain turned and issued orders to the steward.

    “Lady Pheresa must not be stared at by the servants,” he said sternly. “Above all, we must respect her privacy. Give her an excellent chamber, one that is easily kept warm. Let there be chairs and cushions to soften the furnishings. Damne, I wish we’d known sooner to prepare for her.”

    A few minutes thereafter, Gavril came riding into the courtyard on his black stallion, his banners flying and his entourage in tow. His pack of dogs barked and milled around the horses in excitement. Today he wore his golden breastplate, polished to a blinding sheen. His dark blue cloak flowed from his shoulders to hang in heavy folds over the hindquarters of his pranc-ing mount. The sunlight glinted on his blond hair, and his vivid blue eyes were glittering with anger as he saw the gathering of knights in their finery.

    Dismounting onto a tiny velvet stool that his page hurried to place beneath his stirrup, Gavril ignored the crowd staring at him and started up the steps, Lord Kress at his heels.

    Dain met Gavril halfway. With his brows knotted in acute dislike, the prince looked Dain up and down.

    “So you would wear a crown now,” he said scornfully, referring to the circlet on Dain’s brow.

    “This is no crown,” Dain replied. “By Nether custom, the circlet is worn as a badge of royalty, just as you wear your bracelet.”

    Gavril’s cheeks flushed at the comparison, but he made no further protest. “I thought you intended to keep your identity discreet.”

    “My intentions have changed.”

    “Clearly. Well, it seems I have interrupted your ceremony. What a pity. I would urge you to continue, but alas, seeing Lady Pheresa settled will occupy us both.”

    Dain smiled, keeping his voice as silky as Gavril’s. “Your highness is kind, but there is no interruption. My oath service has been completed, and all is well.”

    Gavril’s smile dropped from his face, to be replaced by a thunderous scowl. “Impossible! You are too hasty. The oath service cannot possibly have been conducted this quickly.”

    “It has.”

    “But improperly. There are no witnesses. At least four chevards must be present—”

    “My pardon for correcting your highness,” Lord Renald said quietly, stepping forward, “but according to law a minimum of only one chevard is needed for witnessing.”

    Gavril’s cheeks were ablaze. He glared at Lord Renald, then shifted his gaze back to Dain. “How convenient to find Lunt here as well. You have been busy indeed this day.”

    Bowing, Dain kept silent. He was eager to get away from the prince and devote his attention to Pheresa.

    “Your highness,” Lord Renald was saying, “I bear messages from your father the king, which I am to speak to you without delay.”

    Gavril took a step back. “Not now.”

    “But, your highness—”

    “Not now!” Gavril turned away from Lord Renald and stared at Dain. “I must speak to you in private.” Dain frowned. “Perhaps after—”

    “At once! It cannot be delayed.”

    “Yes, very well,” Dain said.

    By this time, Noncire and his attendant priests were riding into the courtyard, followed by a stream of church soldiers. The latter should have remained in the stableyard, but no one appeared to be directing them properly. Sir Bosquecel was busy ordering Thirst knights to disperse into the outermost bailey. The result was milling confusion, added to by the crowd of gawking villagers.

    It was almost impossible to hear or speak over the general din. With a glance at the exasperated Lord Renald, Dain led the way inside. He and Gavril were followed by their protectors, and Lord Renald with his man brought up the rear.

    Halfway up the stairs, Gavril paused and gave Lord Renald a cold look indeed. “Forgive me, sir, but why do you accompany us?” he inquired.

    Lord Renald’s face turned pink, but he met Gavril’s gaze without flinching. “I must give your highness the king’s orders.”

    “And I told you I would not hear that message now.”

    “Then I shall wait outside Faldain’s wardroom until it pleases your highness to receive me.”

    Gavril’s face grew stony. “When I am ready to receive you, I shall send for you. At present you are dismissed.”

    Lord Renald’s flush darkened to crimson. Although his eyes were blazing, he kept his temper at having been treated like a mere lackey. He bowed, then turned on his heel and went back downstairs without another word.

    Gavril sighed. “These provincial lords are so tiresome.” Dain felt angry on Renald’s behalf. Although he knew it was probably best to hold his tongue, he could not help but say,

    “Your highness should not chastise him for trying to obey his orders.”

    Gavril, however, was gazing about the corridor they now walked along, and appeared not to be listening. “I see you’ve adopted the kingly privilege of two protectors for yourself. Is it not best to see yourself crowned first?”

    Dain met Gavril’s eyes. They were bright and vivid, even here in the shadowy corridor. There was an air of suppressed excitement about him, a fevered impatience, that made Dain uneasy.

    “It’s just,” Gavril went on, “that I feel myself outnumbered.”

    As Dain unlocked the wardroom door, he reminded himself to post a guard here as long as Gavril’s men were running loose about the place. He glanced at Sir Terent, who had held up well during the ceremony, but now looked paler than he should have.

    “Go and rest,” Dain said.

    Sir Terent frowned immediately. “I’m fine, sire. Fit as can be.”

    “I shall wish you to stand duty with me later,” Dain said. “Rest now, and let Sir Polquin serve in your place.”

    Sir Polquin grinned. With a deeper frown, Sir Terent bowed and left.

    Dain pushed open the door to the wardroom, wincing as it creaked rustily. Light and fresh air poured in through the open window.

    Gavril looked around at the cluttered space, and sneered. “It appears to be a shrine to Lord Odfrey.”

    “There hasn’t been time to put things in new order,” Dain said, then refused to defend himself further. “Please be seated. I’ll send a servant to fetch your highness some wine, if—”

    “Wine?” Gavril interrupted with a grin. “Not that sour vinegar Thirst is so famous for?”

    “Indeed not,” Dain said, grinning back. For an instant he and Gavril were in perfect accord. “Rest assured, there will be changes made at Thirst.”

    “Clearly you are already busy.” Gavril glanced at Lord Kress. “Protector, would you step outside?”

    Kress bowed at once, but hesitated, then looked at Sir Polquin, who bristled instantly.

    “Our conversation must be completely private,” Gavril said to Dain in appeal. “You understand.”

    Dain frowned, suspecting that Gavril had some question about Tanengard he wanted no one to overhear. Dain thought it best to humor him, lest the prince change his mind about staying and drag Pheresa back into the cold wilderness once again.

    “If you please, Sir Polquin,” Dain said. “Perhaps you and Lord Kress would care to stroll in the corridor.”

    Sir Polquin looked like he’d eaten sour grapes. He scowled and hesitated, obviously reluctant to leave, but with more meekness than Dain expected he walked out with Kress, slamming the door behind them.

    “Now,” Gavril said as though in relief, “we can speak plainly.”

    “What about?”

    “This foreign physician of yours,” Gavril said.

    Dain blinked. The topic of Sulein surely did not merit such privacy. “Is he not able to sustain his place among the guardians?”

    “He seems to be doing adequately. My concern lies with his trustworthiness. Will he harm her?”

    “No.”

    Gavril nodded and began to pace back and forth. “In all frankness, I dislike his presence. The guardians sustain her life with a weaving of faith, but Sulein believes not in Writ. He is using power of a different sort. It could taint the entire proceedings. I think Noncire should take his place.”

    “Noncire!” Dain said in amazement.

    Gavril’s gaze, as cold and alert as a lyng’s, met his. “You object?”

    “Nay, I do not object,” Dain said, thinking rapidly. “But— but I did not know him capable—”

    “He is a cardinal, Dain. Of course he’s capable!”

    Stung, Dain said, “Very well. But at his age, is he strong enough?”

    “I know not,” Gavril admitted with a sigh. “Of late his judgment seems to be faltering. He and I disagree more and more.”

    “Better leave Sulein in place,” Dain said, “and save the cardinal in case another guardian falls.”

    “Aye, your advice is sound,” Gavril agreed.

    This strange conversation made Dain uneasy and suspicious. “And now, your highness, what is it you really want to discuss with me? Tanengard?”

    Gavril stopped pacing and whirled around. “Do not mock me! Thod curse your bones, I would have it still if not for you.”

    “The king forbade you its use,” Dain said coldly. “Not I.”

    “You—” Gavril stopped and appeared to struggle with himself. “Nay, there is another matter I would discuss with you.”

    “Then discuss it,” Dain said impatiently. “I have much to do.”

    “This Sulein,” Gavril said. “Can he peer into the minds of men?”

    “No,” Dain replied without thinking. “Why?”

    “What is it called, this looking that the pagans do?”

    Dain felt astonishment. To his knowledge, Gavril had never before shown any curiosity about the special abilities belonging to some eldin and Netheran priests. “It’s called parting the veils of seeing, but—”

    “Can you do it?”

    “Nay. Women with eld blood and many sorcerelles have this gift. For men it often comes harder, if at all. Why—”

    “Strange, these different terms for similar things,” Gavril mused. “Noncire calls it faith with sight, but it must be the same thing. Don’t you agree?”

    Dain was starting to think that Gavril’s wits were wandering. He could make little sense of this conversation that went first in one direction, then in another. It was unlike Gavril to act this way.

    “I wish I could see into the future,” Gavril said with a sigh. “In my nightly prayers, I ask Tomias for his benevolence on my plans, but prayers are not always answered. Did you know that I used to believe with all my heart and soul that I would find ?”

    Dain’s frown deepened. He eyed the door. “I know that you wanted to find it while you were here as a foster.”

    “No one searched harder than did I,” Gavril said sadly. “No one prayed for the honor of its discovery more than I. And all the time, you were here with me. You, who have known since infancy where to find it.”

    Alarm spread through Dain. He moved around the end of the desk, heading for the door, but Gavril crashed into him and hit him hard across his temple with the hilt of his poniard.

    Dain’s head rang. He saw the world tilt, fade, and tilt again. Blinking, he came to and found himself down on one knee, rigid with the determination not to faint. His head throbbed like a drumbeat.

    Gavril stood over him, twisting his fingers into the cloth at Dain’s shoulder. “How you must have laughed at me this past year, watching me struggle with my faith and effort, while you knew the secret all the time.”

    The room spun again, making Dain feel dizzy and sick. He squinted, desperate to make Gavril understand. “No,” he struggled to say. His voice croaked like a stranger’s. “Don’t know.”

    “You told my father you could find it. You pledged your word of honor to bring its cure to Pheresa.”

    “Eldin can cure her,” Dain said, wincing as Gavril’s grip tightened on his shoulder, twisting a fold of the cloth across his windpipe. He coughed for air and reached for his dagger, but it was gone from his belt. “Chalice—”

    Gavril rapped his skull again with the hilt of the poniard, and Dain dipped into a place of darkness, only to be shaken out of it by Gavril. Pain throbbed in his head. He smelled blood and could feel it streaking down the side of his face.

    In a dim corner of his scattered wits, he felt anger at himself for having been caught off guard like this. He shouldn’t have trusted Gavril for an instant.

    “Listen to me!” Gavril was saying, shaking him again. “I will give you one chance. Tell me where  is hidden. Show me where  is hidden, and I will not deliver you into Muncel’s hands.”

    Dain blinked slowly, feeling his brain turning like thick treacle. “Muncel?” he echoed.

    “A message from Nether reached me this morning,” Gavril said impatiently. “I have been asked by a man named Pernal to hand you over as an unlawful pretender to Nether’s throne. Your secret is out, Dain. They know you are here and not in Savroix.”

    “Uh—”

    “This is a chance for Mandria to create new ties of friendship with Nether, to strengthen an old alliance.”

    “Don’t—”

    “Cardinal Pernal offers much for you on King Muncel’s behalf! Do you want to hear the terms?”

    Dain closed his eyes for a moment, feeling gray and clammy. He knew he must not pass out. His only chance was to stay conscious.

    “How naive you are,” Gavril said with something close to pity in his voice. “No doubt you thought you could just ride across the border, and the Netherans would receive you with joyous welcome. Hah! This is what comes of a weak mind and small education. You are no king. You have no right to swagger about with a circlet of gold on your head—” He ripped the ornament from Dain’s brow and flung it across the room. “You have no right to appoint two protectors to guard you. Your folly and conceit are as unfounded as they are pathetic. You’re naught but a pretender, Dain! A pretender!”

    “What,” Dain asked, trying to buy time, “do they offer for me?”

    “A potion which will cure Pheresa instantly.”

    “Doesn’t exist—”

    “You want me to believe so,” Gavril said with a harsh laugh. “But you are as full of lies and trickery as all your kind. Do you not think I know what will happen if you find the eld-folk? You will betray me, enspell me, and hold me hostage for ransom.”

    Dain frowned, wondering if he was dreaming this. How had Gavril thought up such nonsense? Except... except that such an act of foul betrayal was perhaps exactly what Gavril himself would commit in Dain’s place.

    “Gavril,” he said, fighting off another bout of dizziness, “listen to me. I—”

    “No, you listen! I am offered five times your weight in gold, plus the cure for Pheresa, plus a suit of Netheran-forged armor, plus a new treaty granting many concessions to Mandria, plus the altar cloth where  once rested, if I will hand you over intact.”

    Dain swallowed a groan. He longed to sink to the floor, but Gavril’s grip did not loosen.

    “Well? What say you to such generosity? Do you think you are worth that much?”

    “A fine payment,” Dain said with an effort. He was sweating, but he still felt cold. “Worth a prince.”

    “Yes, indeed.”

    “If I am really a pretender, would they offer so much?”

    Gavril clamped his hand atop Dain’s skull, and Dain nearly passed out. “Hold your tongue, trickster! I have something else in mind. Dain! Hear me!” He gave Dain another shake to bring him back. “As appealing as these offers are, I will ignore them. I will set you free if you will take me straight to . Right now. This very day.”

    “You—you would leave Pheresa here?” Dain asked, wincing as the throbbing in his head grew worse. “To die?”

    “Nay, fool! You said  would cure her. And so it will when I bring it back from where your father concealed it. Why should she suffer more, being dragged about in a wagon, when we can bring the cure to her?”

    Dain frowned, and Gavril shook him again. “Come! Let us ride forth this very afternoon. I give you this chance to decide; otherwise, we depart tomorrow with you in chains.”

    Dain summoned all his strength to send Gavril a look of scorn. “You will never give me to the Netherans as long as you think I know where to find . Threaten all you like, but you won’t do it.”

    Gavril bared his teeth. His blue eyes shone with triumph. “You’re forgetting something. Because I am a fair man, I have given you a chance to spare your life. Help me, and I’ll set you free. Oppose me, and I’ll let Noncire open your mind for the secrets it contains. I am told it is a procedure rarely done, for it brings terrible pain to the victim. Afterwards, you will be quite mad.”

    While Dain looked up at him in horror, Gavril flung back his golden head and laughed.

    “The Netherans don’t care if you’re mad or sane,” he said, still chuckling. “I will know where to find , and I can still deliver you—poor wretch that you’ll be—to collect my reward in Grov.”

    Dain knelt there, desperately struggling to pull his wits together. “Sir Polquin!” he shouted, although the effort made his head ring. “Sir Polquin, come to me!”

    Cursing, Gavril gave him a shove that toppled him over. The door swung open. Expecting Sir Polquin to come charging inside to his rescue, Dain felt his heart lift with relief.

    But as the door opened, he saw two figures struggling on the threshold. Dain tried to get to his feet but failed, and at that moment Sir Polquin cried out and sagged in Lord Kress’s arms.

    Kress, out of breath, his face a grim mask, manhandled Sir Polquin inside the wardroom and shoved him to the floor.

    Sir Polquin hit on his side with a thud, his back to Dain, and lay there unmoving and far too still. Dain picked himself up, swaying unsteadily on his hands and knees, and crawled to him. But he knew the truth before he touched Sir Polquin’s shoulder.

    “No,” he whispered in anguish. “No!”

    Dain rolled Sir Polquin onto his back, then stared down into his sightless eyes. Lord Kress’s dagger still protruded from Sir Polquin’s heart. As Dain stared in horror, Kress bent down, bracing his foot on Sir Polquin’s ribs, and pulled the dagger out.

    “Good work,” Gavril said.

    “And this one gave your highness no trouble?” Kress asked, cleaning his blade matter-of-factly.

    Gavril laughed. “Nay. He was easily tricked. Go outside and keep watch. I’ll join you in a moment.”

    Kress obeyed, closing the door behind him.

    Dain knelt there, too frozen with grief to act. Sir Polquin, so stern, so brusque, so gruff-spoken, had taught Dain his very first lessons in swordplay. A relentless taskmaster who demanded perfection, he had run Dain and the other fosters through endless practice drills. Quick to criticize, slow to praise, Sir Polquin had never treated Dain as less than the others because of his mixed blood. Now, grief swelled in Dain’s heart. He could not believe he had lost this man. Sir Polquin’s unfriendliness was surface only; inside, his heart had been true and loyal. Protec-tor for less than one day, Dain thought, bowing his head as his eyes burned and stung.

    “Mandrians slaying Mandrians,” Dain said hoarsely. “What vile infamy is this?”

    “Get up, if you can,” Gavril said impatiently. “Do not keep me waiting for your answer.”

    “Was this necessary?” Dain asked. “Killing Polquin?”

    “You called him to you,” Gavril said without mercy. “You sounded the alarm that brought his death. If you want to blame anyone, blame yourself.”

    Dain felt the guilt twist inside him like the plunge of a knife. But it had been Kress’s hand that had done this black deed, not his. He glared at Gavril, hating him, and felt a terrible anger burn through his veins. He reached out, gripped the leg of a chair, and shoved it into Gavril with all his might.

    The prince grunted with pain and surprise, and went staggering to one side. Desperate to make an end of him before Lord Kress came back in, Dain tried to tackle him by his ankles, but Gavril dodged him.

    With a curse, Dain turned to pull Sir Polquin’s dagger from his belt, but his body couldn’t obey him fast enough. He gripped the hilt, but he felt as though he were trapped in deep mud. His coordination, his balance, his strength had all gone elsewhere.

    Gavril kicked him in the ribs, knocking him flat and sending him skidding across the floor. “I see I have your answer,” he said. “Very well! You were always a fool, Dain. I offered you mercy, but now you are finished.”

    As he spoke, he hit Dain again with his poniard. The weighted hilt felt like a hammer smashing into Dain’s browbone. His bones seemed to melt, and he fell. He tried to move, but his limbs would not obey him. Instead, he felt himself sinking into darkness.

    Gavril’s voice, mocking and merciless, followed him down: “I shall send Noncire to you as soon as we have Thirst subdued and in our power. You fool! You have only yourself to blame for your destruction.”

    There was no answer Dain could make. The darkness swallowed him then, and would not give him up.

    The sound of voices arguing above him brought Dain back to consciousness. He came swimming up through the darkness reluctantly, feeling the headache still pounding in his skull.

    He felt himself lifted onto a hard surface. The back of his head thumping against it jolted him to full awareness. He opened his eyes, and was instantly dazzled by golden light that made him squint.

    “Hurry,” a voice said sharply. “He awakes.” Ropes were tied to Dain’s arms and legs, and he was lashed in place before he could make more than a token struggle. As yet he could see nothing more than silhouettes against the bright candlelight. He frowned, trying to figure out where he was and how he’d gotten here. If only his head would stop hurting.

    “Sulein?” he said thickly. His mouth was so dry he spoke in a rasp. “Sir Terent?”

    “Quick,” one of the men said, and a cloth was draped across Dain’s face.

    The folds were heavy enough to make him feel smothered. He jerked his head but could not shake it off. He heard the rasp of a strikebox and smelled the sharp acrid scent of flame. Moments later, the cloying stench of incense coiled through the air. Trying not to breathe it, Dain grimaced beneath the cloth. A knock sounded on the door, and when it was opened Dain heard the rustle of thick robes and the whisper of soft leather shoes. He recognized the slow ponderous gait and inhaled a familiar scent of pomade.

    “My lord cardinal!” one of the men said nervously. “All is in readiness.”

    “Good,” Noncire replied. “Why is his face covered?”

    “Er, to—to keep his gaze from enspelling us, your eminence.”

    “Foolish superstitions,” Noncire said. ‘Take it off.“ The cloth was whisked away from Dain’s face. He squinted against the dazzle of light, but this time his eyes adjusted quickly and he saw that he was still in the wardroom. Candles blazed around him. In one comer a small iron brazier burned incense, sending forth thick crimson smoke.

    Shimmering in white silk robes, a yellow sash of office encircling his vast middle, the cardinal gazed down at Dain with his small, beady eyes before he held aloft his diamond-studded Circle, which winked and glittered in the candlelight.

    Angrily, Dain jerked against his bonds, but the ropes were new and tight. He felt neither slack nor give in them.

    “Now, do not be tiresome,” the cardinal said to him softly. “Had you been cooperative with his highness, this rather tedious business would not be necessary.”

    Feeling his heartbeat race, Dain glared at him. “You cannot part the veils of seeing! You have no such powers to look into my mind!”

    Noncire’s expression never changed. “But of course I do. And if you submit, it will be over quickly, with less damage.” He paused a moment, his eyes boring into Dain’s. “If you resist, you will suffer terribly.”

    Dain frowned at him, seeking pity or compassion, and finding none.

    “ of Eternal Life must be found,” Noncire said. “It is a terrible sin to keep something so holy hidden away where its tremendous powers and benevolence are wasted.”

    “Sin?” Dain echoed with a hollow laugh. “And is there no sin in destroying my mind?”

    “Tell your secret and you will not be harmed.”

    Dain heard the lie in Noncire’s voice. “Its guardianship is my responsibility,” Dain said. “As it was my father’s before me, and his father’s before him.”

    “But you’ve been a poor guardian, Faldain of Nether,” Noncire said softly. His plump hand, the pale pudgy fingers adorned with rings of his high rank and estate, stretched out and gripped the front of Dain’s surcoat. A cold, smothering force seemed to ripple forth from his touch, sinking through Dain’s clothing into his skin and the very marrow of his bones.

    Dain could not hold back his gasp of surprise. His eyes widened, and he stared very hard at Noncire, but he could detect nothing in the man, no hint of extraordinary powers at all.

    “Your church training was a travesty.” Noncire gestured with his free hand, and the assistant priests began to chant something that made Dain flinch. Every word in the chant was like a pinprick, then a nick, then a stab.

    “Clearly,” Noncire said, looming large over Dain, “you understand almost nothing of Writ, or you would know that our priestly training is based on ancient principles indeed. We are taught those first, before we proceed to the ceremonies of holding mass and giving benedictions.”

    “But you are against magic,” Dain said breathlessly, stiffening in his bonds as Noncire’s grasp tightened. “Tomias forbade it.”

    Noncire chuckled. “How refreshing, to hear a pagan such as yourself call on the Prophet for aid. This is not magic, Faldain. It is something far older.”

    He pressed his palm across Dain’s nose and mouth, and his thick fingers were like iron, digging into Dain’s flesh. The clammy sense of smothering engulfed Dain, filling him with panic, for he could not breathe. Only vaguely did he realize that he was jerking against his bindings, jerking so hard the ropes sawed at his wrists. But his struggles began to ebb, for his body seemed to be freezing, growing turgid, inert, and unresponsive. Such a terrible coldness flowed from Noncire’s hands. It filled Dain, submerged him, slowed his heartbeat to a mere thread.

    Desperate, Dain reached deep inside himself and thought of fire, thought of flames, smoke, and heat. Though it was a strain to even open his mouth, he sang of fire and flicker, of heat and hunger, of crackling, jumping, hissing, blazing fire.

    Noncire closed his eyes, and the coldness in Dain increased, hurting now. Dain felt something clawing at his mind, trying to force its way in.

    With all his strength, Dain struggled for breath to swell his song. He sang of Jorb’s forge, of the roar of flames beneath the bellows, of the sere, crackling heat dancing in the air above the firepit, of the glowing orange metal, half-molten and sparking beneath the skilled tap of Jorb’s hammer. And at last he felt the coldness thawing in him and believed, with a spurt of relief, that he was winning.

    Then new pain spiked through his head, and Dain’s song faltered.

    “!” said a voice inside his head. “! Where is it?”

    Memory came to Dain of the last time he’d seen the sacred vessel. He was high above the ground, perched on a beast that breathed fire and ashes. His father was nearby and they were surrounded by a crowd of people. There was an altar. A man with a cruel face wore a crown. Another man in pale robes held  aloft. How white it was. How brightly it shone, casting a clear pure light of its own.

    When the man holding it aloft shouted words of anger and strife,  burned him so much he dropped it, dropped the sacred Chalice the way Dain dropped his cup at nursery suppers. And then his father started shouting words of power. Flames shot forth from the end of a mighty sword, and all the bad men fled.

    “Fire!” Dain sang now, resisting Noncire. “Fire most holy. Fire of ash and wood. Fire of power. Fire of sky. Fire of earth and mountain. Burn away the impurities. Burn away the dross.”

    Noncire spoke and his grip tightened, but the cold was still thawing. Dain could breathe again, and the more air that filled his lungs, the louder he sang. Until... he felt something stir inside him, something he had never felt before. It was similar to what he felt when he’d wielded Truthseeker or Tanengard, and yet far different.

    Tiny little flames sprang up along the ropes binding Dain’s arms. In seconds, the ropes were burned through, and Dain yanked his arms free. He knocked Noncire away from him, sending the obese cardinal staggering across the wardroom. His assistants scattered with cries of alarm, forgetting their chant entirely. The spell collapsed.

    Sitting up, Dain tugged at the ropes still holding his legs.

    “Guards!” one of the assistants shouted.

    Dain swore. He yanked the last knot free, then flung himself off the desk just as the door crashed open. A church knight, clad in mail and holding a sword, loomed in the doorway.

    Dain kicked the incense brazier over in the guard’s path.

    Coals spilled out across the man’s feet, making him swear and jump back. Crimson smoke gusted up, filling the room.

    Noncire’s fat face was blotched with anger, and his black eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Put that sword away,” he said harshly to the guard. “Seize him and hold him fast.”

    Dain retreated a step. The wardroom was small, crowded with too many people and the heavy furniture. He backed toward the cold fireplace, remembering the secret passage concealed behind it that Lord Odfrey had once shown him.

    But there was no chance to reach it. The church knight charged him, and although Dain dodged, he knew he had no real hope of eluding capture. Not when one of the assistant priests gripped him by the back of his tunic and held him just long enough for the knight to pounce.

    Dain sent the assistant reeling back with a little yelp of pain. But then the knight reached him and put his dagger to Dain’s throat.

    Dain froze, breathing hard.

    “Good,” Noncire said. “Hold him fast.”

    The guard seized Dain’s right arm and twisted it hard behind his back. He tried to resist, but the dagger point pressed harder, and Dain felt blood trickle down his throat.

    Raging inside with frustration, Dain kept still.

    Noncire came to him with malevolence glittering in his tiny black eyes. “Your eld magic has availed you little,” he said. “Now your defiance will cost you dearly.” His gaze flicked to the guard. “Hold him.”

    Before Dain could react, pain skewered his skull with such violence and force he thought it had been split open. There was no fighting this time, no resisting. The brutal, destructive agony seemed to have no end until at last... at long last... Noncire stepped back with a tiny smirk of satisfaction.

    “Release him,” the cardinal said.

    The guard obeyed, and Dain swayed on his feet a moment, wide-eyed and shaken, before he fainted into a black aftermath.

    The sound of knocking brought him back. He lay in darkness, hardly breathing, his eyes staring at the shadows. After a while, the door creaked open and someone entered.

    “Dain?”

    Torchlight cast a glow through the room that drove back the shadows. Dain squinted, retreating inside himself as the footsteps came closer.

    “What has happened in here?” Thum said in wonder. “It looks like everything has been.. . Dain! Great Thod above, Dain!”

    Thum knelt beside him, gripped his shoulders, and rolled him over.

    Dain winced and turned his face away from the light. It hurt. Sound hurt. Even darkness and silence hurt.

    Thum touched his face, and Dain flinched. “I’m sorry,” Thum said, snatching his hand away. “Can you hear me? Can you speak? Morde a day, what’s bashed your head? Can you answer me? Dain? Sire? What’s happened to you? I’ve been searching everywhere.”

    Dain wished he could just lie there forever. He wished he could burrow deep into the earth and never come out. He felt sick and gray and clammy. It was impossible to speak, yet somehow he had to know, had to find the strength to ask questions.

    “You ... well?” His voice was a croak he couldn’t recognize as his own.

    “Of course I am. How can you think of me when you are in this state? Let me call the servants—”

    “No!” The effort of making that protest exhausted Dain. He reached out blindly, groping until Thum gripped his hand. Dain squeezed his fingers weakly. “No one,” he whispered.

    “But what’s happened? I thought you were visiting Lady Pheresa all this time, yet when I went to fetch you for supper you were not with her. Her serving woman said you never came.”

    Dain closed his eyes on a laugh he lacked the strength to utter. How normal it all sounded. He felt as though he was lying in a place thousands of leagues away.

    “Still here,” he murmured. “Gavril. Not taken her away.”

    “Why should his highness go?” Thum asked in surprise. “He just came this afternoon. When you did not come to your chamber to change for the feast, I decided to look for you. I didn’t want you to miss the banqueting or the toasts. Already the men are calling for their new chevard. Gavril is downstairs in his finery and has ordered his musicians to play merry tunes for everyone’s enjoyment.”

    “Still here.”

    “Aye, of course he’s here. I’ll tell you, he looked sour for a while about the oath service, but tonight his mood has greatly improved.”

    “Still here,” Dain repeated again, unable to believe it.

    “I must fetch help for you,” Thum said worriedly. “Or has Sir Polquin gone for it?”

    Dain laughed, a low, gutless chuckle that he could not stop until Thum gave him a little shake.

    “In Thod’s name, sire, you’re in a bad way. Can you sit up?”

    Too late did Dain try to protest. As soon as Thum sat him up, he hunched over and was violently sick. Sinking back, he felt exhausted and wrenched. A cold sweat covered him, and he couldn’t seem to collect his thoughts, no matter how much he tried. There was something he needed to do, something he kept forgetting as quickly as he thought of it.

    / am alive, he thought in wonder. / am not insane, and I am alive.

    “I must get you to your chamber,” Thum said.

    “No,” Dain whispered, trying again to think of what he needed to do. “Let me bide here a moment longer.”

    They sat in silence a little while, then Thum asked, “Where is Sir Polquin? Has he gone to get help for you? Why isn’t he here? Who attacked you, Dain? What villainy has been done?”

    Dain’s anger returned, and, though splintered and damaged, it revived him a little. “Kress,” he finally managed to say.

    “Lord Kress? Did he strike you on Gavril’s orders? I hope Sir Polquin has treated him as he deserves!”

    Sighing, Dain gave up the attempt to explain. Perhaps later, after he remembered what he had to do, he would be able to tell Thum what had happened. If he tried now, he feared, he would weep.

    “Sir Terent,” he whispered in dread. “Safe?”

    “Of course he’s safe. The arrow did not go deep into his shoulder. Do you want me to fetch him to you?”

    Dain gripped Thum’s sleeve in alarm. “Don’t go.”

    Thum patted his shoulder. “No, of course I won’t go. You needn’t worry.”

    “Must rest,” Dain said.

    “Of course. When you think you can stand, we’ll go to your chamber.”

    “Must remember. Must think.”

    “Not now,” Thum told him. “I am going to lay you down again and call a servant—”

    “Call no one!” Dain snapped, then sagged over and retched again. Nothing came up this time but misery.

    “Your head must be pounding like a drum,” Thum said in sympathy. “I remember hitting mine once when I was little and fell out of a tree. I was sick too, and dizzy. I had to lie abed all day until I felt myself again. Gods! How dare these scoundrels attack you in your own wardroom. Their boldness is an insult that must be repaid in like kind!”

    Dain, however, did not answer Thum, for he suddenly heard a low, humming melody that he vaguely recognized. It was a song, yet not a song. Although low and quiet, it seemed very clear.

    “Dain—”

    “Hush!” he said. “Listen.”

    “To what? I hear nothing.”

    But Dain heard it clearly, for the humming was louder now. And in his mind called a familiar, resonant voice: “Come to Truthseeker! ”

    He drew in his breath sharply. That was what he was supposed to remember. Truthseeker was in this room. It knew somehow that he intended to carry it... carry it... to where?

    “Can you stand now?” Thum asked. “Your skin feels very cold. You have lain too long in this unheated room. Come, let me help you up.”

    Dain shut his eyes, saying nothing. Thum rose to his feet and pulled Dain upright with a grunt, his arm tight and steady around Dain’s ribs.

    “All right?” he asked. “You aren’t feeling sick again, are you?”

    The room spun for a moment. Dain felt fresh sweat break out across his body. With Thum’s help he took a single, feeble step, nearly fell, and managed another.

    The torchlight glinted on something lying in the corner. It was Dain’s circlet of gold, lying where Gavril had flung it. In silence he pointed, and Thum bent to pick it up for him.

    “Villains!” Thum said in a furious, strangled voice. He’d gone suddenly pale behind his narrow beard, and his freckles stood out plainly. “They who serve Gavril are cowards and knaves. To attack you like this! It isn’t to be borne! I’ll give the order and have them thrown out of the hold this very night.”

    Dain lost interest in Thum’s outrage and turned instead toward the large wooden chest standing against the wall. Staggering and dizzy, he struggled toward it.

    “Easy now,” Thum said. “You’re going the wrong way. The door lies in yon direction.”

    But Dain would not be turned around. He reached the chest and sank to his knees despite Thum’s efforts to catch him.

    “Please,” Thum said worriedly. “Come away. There’s nothing here to be done right now. Dain, come with me.”

    Ignoring him, Dain struggled to lift the lid of the chest, found it too heavy, and nearly mashed his fingers before Thum raised it for him.

    “There’s nothing in here,” Thum said impatiently. “Dain? Sire!”

    Reluctantly Dain turned his head to look up at his friend. “Have to,” he said, and reached inside the chest.

    “What are you looking for? Tell me and I’ll get it for you.”

    Without answering, Dain shifted through the chest’s contents, pawing aside a stack of vellum and leather books, a cloak so old the cloth was rotting, a purse of gold dreits, a pair of lady’s gloves in finest silk yellowed with age, a worn dog collar, and a musty fur robe. Beneath all this lay a plain leather scabbard sheathing the magnificent sword made of god-steel.

    Peering over his shoulder, Thum sucked in an audible breath. “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about this sword. Shall I lift it out for you?”

    “Nay.”

    Fighting off another bout of dizziness, Dain gripped the weapon with both hands. The ancient metal, wrought in ways mysterious, resonated with power that made Dain’s hair stand on end. He shuddered involuntarily, feeling the contact with it even through the leather and wood scabbard.

    A surge of energy jolted through him, filling him with new strength until he no longer felt sick and dizzy. Some of the confusion fell from his mind. He remembered what Noncire had done to him, tearing into his mind to find hidden secrets. He remembered that he had conjured in his mind a false location for . Only then had the dreadful attack ceased.

    He’d saved himself, but even so he’d come far too close to destruction. Gripping Truthseeker now, he drew in several deep breaths and squared his shoulders. He hoped Gavril and Noncire sought  so far and long in the wrong direction that they both rotted of futility.

    Dain shook off Thum’s helping hands and rose to his feet. Truthseeker hummed in his hands, its deep song for him alone.

    No dwarf swordmaker had crafted this weapon. It was far older, made from metal so hard no ordinary steel could prevail against it. The guard, studded with a row of glittering emeralds, was straight, not circular, in a style predating the long-ago establishment of the Church. The gold wire wrapping the long hilt gleamed richly in the candlelight. The blade itself was carved, Dain remembered, but he did not draw it now to look. Although he’d used the weapon once, to fight and destroy a shapeshifter, he found himself wary and a bit afraid of Truth-seeker’s tremendous power.

    “/ know your hand,” the sword said to him. “Fear me not.”

    Breathless, Dain gripped the hilt, and felt it twist in his hand as though fitting itself to his grasp. It almost hurt him to hold it, yet he hung on, his heart racing.

    “To war,” Truthseeker urged him.

    “It’s beautiful,” Thum said, staring at it. “I remember how you used it to kill the shapeshifter. We would all have died that night if not for you.” His eyes met Dain’s and widened in wonder. “You’re well again. Is it—is it the sword’s doing?”

    “Aye,” Dain replied, soaking in the power that Truthseeker shared with him.

    “Is it magicked, like Tanengard?”

    Dain shook his head, and saw no reason to keep Lord Odfrey’s secret now. “It’s made of god-steel.”

    Thum’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His hazel-green eyes were popping. To his credit, he didn’t flee, although he’d turned nearly as pale as Dain felt.

    “ ‘Tis very old,” Dain said when Thum remained silent. “The dwarves search the ancient battlegrounds sometimes in hopes of finding god-steel. They can’t work it, though. My old guardian Jorb told me no one has the knowledge of how to make such metal as this.”

    “What is it doing here?” Thum whispered.

    “You mean, how came Lord Odfrey to own such a weapon?” Dain asked wryly. “It has been handed down secretly from father to son for generations in his family. He was afraid to carry it, afraid the priests would condemn it and order it destroyed.”

    Thum made a strangled, involuntary noise of protest in his throat.

    Dain smiled wanly at him. “No,” he assured his friend. “Nothing like that will happen to this blade. It has missed war for centuries. It has been locked away, hidden and feared, but it was made for battle and justice. I will take it back to both.”

    At that moment footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the wardroom door. With them, came the sound of voices.

    Frowning, Thum turned in that direction. “Blackguards,” he said angrily. “Come to finish the job, no doubt. I’ll—”

    Dain shushed him quickly. He knew not why church soldiers were returning here, but he didn’t want to learn the reason. He and Thum could not be found, and there was only one other way out.

    Swiftly he hurried over to the desk and yanked open the drawer where Lord Odfrey had kept a spare dagger. The weapon was still there. Gripping it and Truthseeker, Dain went to the fireplace and pressed the stone as Lord Odfrey had once shown him.

    A small, concealed door slid open in the wall, and a dark passageway yawned there, smelling musty and dank.

    Picking up his torch, Thum stared with his mouth open.

    The door rattled. “I told you to keep this door locked,” some-one outside said in annoyance. “His eminence gave strict orders about it.”

    Dain beckoned to Thum, and the squire followed him into the passageway like a rabbit bolting into its hole. Inside, Dain saw an iron lever draped with cobwebs. Swiftly he pulled it down, and the hidden door slid shut just as the wardroom door slammed open with a bang.

    Crowded together in the narrow space, with the torch held between them close enough to scorch their eyebrows, Dain and Thum listened in silence.

    “Damne, he’s gone!” one of the men shouted.

    “If you’d locked the door instead of coming to me—”

    “No one gave me a key.”

    Their bickering continued, then faded away as the door slammed again.

    Dain realized he was holding his breath, and slowly eased it out. He met Thum’s gaze. “I think they’re gone.”

    “Morde a day, but where does this passage go?” Thum asked.

    “I don’t know. Out of the hold somewhere. Come.”

    Thum gripped Dain’s arm to keep him from starting down the passageway. “You don’t mean to explore it, surely!”

    Dain frowned. “We’re leaving this hold tonight, this very hour. I must get to Nether without delay.”

    “But, Dain, what about his highness? What about your attackers?”

    Dain thought about Sir Polquin, whose death cried out for vengeance. “I will rejoin with Gavril later,” he said grimly. “His villainy will not go unchecked forever. This, I do swear.”

    “But you must denounce him. Do it here, before your own men.”

    “I will not set Mandrians against Mandrians,” Dain said grimly.

    “Then—”

    “Thum, I must get away, now, before they discover me gone. Gavril means to betray me to King Muncel for a price. I will not fall victim to his plan.”

    Thum swore viciously. “He is evil through and through. He has hated you from the very beginning and will see no good in you at all. But why attack you here at Thirst? Why not wait until we reached Grov to betray you? It makes no sense.”

    “Have you ever heard of faith with sight?”

    Thum jerked back from him and drew the Circle hastily. “Damne, to talk of that is forbidden by Writ!”

    “Cardinal Noncire did it to me,” Dain said, even while Thum shook his head. “I have no reason to lie. You saw my state before the sword revived me.”

    “But why would he do such a thing?”

    “He and Gavril think I know where  is hidden.” Dain scowled, hating them more than ever. “Sir Polquin is dead, Thum. Killed by Lord Kress while trying to defend me.”

    “Great Thod, no!”

    Dain stared at the wall, and felt a bitter surge of memory. “My father warned me in a vision that I would be betrayed. I always felt sure it would be Gavril who did so, but I never thought—I didn’t expect this—”

    He broke off, unable to command his voice.

    After a moment of silence, Thum gripped his shoulder. “They are foul to the core,” Thum said angrily. “Gavril has always rammed his piety down our throats, but he is the very worst blasphemer I have ever seen. I suppose he thinks that if he but gives the orders for his evil to be carried out, and takes no action himself, Thod will look the other way.”

    “There isn’t much time,” Dain said. “They’ll be looking for me. Somehow we’ve got to warn Sir Terent and—”

    “They’re looking for you, but / am not suspect,” Thum said. He pointed at the hidden door. “Let me back through.”

    “Nay!” Dain protested in alarm. “You’re safe with—”

    “ ‘Tis your safety we must worry about. Let me go back and announce that you’ve taken to your chamber with illness.”

    “No—”

    “Dain, hear me,” Thum said with urgency. “We’ll need horses, and money. You can’t walk to Nether, can you?”

    Realizing Thum was right, Dain put aside his protests. “You’re thinking more clearly than I am.”

    “And small wonder. I’ll take those coins from that purse we saw in the chest. Aye, and clean out your strongbox as well. There’s food too—”

    “No food. Don’t risk it.”

    “Very well, but you must have your hauberk, your cloak, and your boots. Besides Sir Terent, who else do you want?”

    “Sir Alard,” Dain said, thinking it over.

    “No one else?”

    “We can’t smuggle out the entire force without arousing suspicion. As ‘tis, how will you get yourself, and horses besides, out of the hold without being stopped?”

    Thum looked grim indeed. “Unless Gavril’s men have taken the hold by force, the sentries are your men, sire. I have only to say we act on your orders, and they’ll let us out.”

    Dain nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “Go then, and take care.”

    “‘Tis yourself who must take care,” Thum said worriedly. “Were there any other way, I would not leave you. What if your illness returns?”

    “It won’t,” Dain assured him, and then stilled his protests.

    Dain listened at the door a moment, then pulled up the lever. The panel slid open and, after handing Dain the torch, Thum stepped back into the wardroom.

    They stared at each other a moment, and Dain wondered if he would ever see his friend again.

    “Go with Thod,” Thum said.

    “You as well.”

    As Thum lifted his hand, Dain pushed down the lever. The hidden door slid between them, and Dain was left in the cramped passageway with only the weapons and the torch for company.

    He took a moment to thread the dagger and Truthseeker’s scabbard onto his belt. Truthseeker was so long its tip nearly dragged on the ground. As Dain picked up the torch again, a wave of dizziness passed through him.

    He leaned against the wall until the trembling aftershock passed, then wiped the sweat from his brow with an unsteady hand and regathered his strength with determination. Pushing himself forward, he followed the passageway to wherever it might lead him.

    Part Two

    In the long twilight of evening, when the sky darkened to indigo and falling snowflakes swirled thickly in the gusts of wind, Alexeika Volvn crept from one snowdrift to another until she reached the back of the inn. There, she eased herself into cover behind a stack of empty wooden crates and hunkered low with a sense of relief.

    It was bitterly cold tonight, the wind cutting through her cloak and hauberk. Shivering, she flexed her fingers inside her fur-lined gloves in an effort to keep them from stiffening.

    Snow season was just beginning in southern Nether. Up north, where she’d lately been, snow lay waist-deep over the ground and drifted high against trees and shepherds’ crofts. Travel in such climate was hard indeed, and Alexeika was grateful to have come down here near the border, to better weather and riper pluckings.

    On the other side of the wall, she heard muffled sounds as the small party of king’s soldiers she’d been tracking all afternoon rode into the stableyard and shouted for the landlord.

    Grinning to herself, Alexeika thought of the eight stalwart horses shortly to be stabled in this ramshackle struc-ture at her back. In two or three hours, when the inn’s customers had dined and bedded down for the night, she would slip over the wall and take her pick.

    Four stolen horses with bridles would be about all she could handle. They would fetch a good price from Costma and add to her growing stash of coin. She had almost enough money to pay for her lodging and food for the duration of the winter. Time was growing short before the deep cold came, but tonight’s work would bring her very near her goal.

    Born a princess and the daughter of Nether’s most famous general, Alexeika now lived a dangerous and solitary life. Since her escape from the savage Grethori tribes up in the far mountains, she’d avoided most folk. The price on her head was high enough to tempt one to betrayal. Twice she’d asked Costma to let her join his bandits, but he refused, saying his men would not tolerate her presence in their company, not even if she wore chain mail and wielded a sword like a man. She would cause trouble, he said.

    And so she’d become a horse thief, working alone and taking dangerous risks, selling her prizes to Costma and other bandit chieftains for the coinage that would see her through the winter. She had no home, no family, no one to give her charity. She had no choice but to provide for herself as best she could.

    Hunkered in the dark, sheltered by the crates with the stable wall at her back, Alexeika supped on hard cheese and a withered apple and ate snow to quench her thirst. The falling snowflakes filled the folds of her cloak and dampened her hair.

    Gradually the village grew quiet as folk shut themselves in for the night. The smell of woodsmoke drifted to her nostrils now and then. In the forest beyond the outskirts of the village, she heard the distant howling of wolves, and shivered involuntarily. The voices and bustle inside the inn, accompanied by the aromas of hot stew and dran tea, eventually faded. When all lay quiet, and even the wind died down to a light breeze that swept snow across a sleeping world, Alexeika rose to her feet and stamped them a while to bring back feeling in her toes.

    She shook the snow from her cloak and climbed the wall. After she paused on top to look around, she dropped lightly into a snowdrift in a corner near the fodder pile.

    No alarm sounded, and she drew in a deep breath of relief. Dusting snow off her clothing, she glanced around to get the lay of the place. The inn was a crumbling structure built of timber and daub in the shape of an L. The stables were hardly more than a rickety lean-to attached to the longest section of the inn. The walls extended from there, forming the whole into a rectangular-shaped compound. Double gates made of thin wood slats that creaked and rattled in the wind provided the only exit or entrance. Although they’d been shut for the night, they were hardly stout enough to provide any real protection in case of trouble; nor, Alexeika saw at a glance, were they locked. Only a wooden pole dropped across two brackets held them closed.

    Light shone across the yard from a large window, throwing an oblong spangle of gold upon the snow. The window gave anyone inside a clear view across the yard, and Alexeika’s heart sank as she saw it. For a second she considered abandoning her plan, but she could hear the horses moving about inside the lean-to, tantalizingly close and too tempting to resist.

    Although the penalty for stealing army horses was a beheading on the spot, Alexeika never stole any other kind. Most village folk were too poor to own or feed horses; besides, they were not her enemies. Muncel’s soldiers were, and she gladly ran the risk to do them whatever harm she could.

    Now, finning her resolve, she edged along the inside of the wall, staying well within shadow as she circumnavigated the yard. A dog lying curled up against the door barked sleepily at her. She gave it the rest of her cheese, rubbing its upright ears and making friends with it. When it saw she had no more food, the watchdog yawned and put its head down on its paws.

    Grinning to herself, Alexeika slipped up to the large window and peered cautiously inside. The light came from a dying fire on the hearth. It glowed in a mass of collapsed embers and ash. All the torches and lamps had been extinguished; she saw no sign of servants.

    The soldiers snored with their heads on the table, their hands still curled around their tankards. By the look of their uncleared trenchers, they’d drunk more than they’d eaten. Over in one corner near the fire, a communal heap of straw provided bed-ding for a small group of travelers huddled together for warmth under fur robes and blankets. Alexeika hardly spared them a glance. They would not have horses to steal. Hardly anyone could afford a mount these days except soldiers and the aristocrats in favor with the usurper.

    Silently Alexeika moved away from the window. If she kept quiet enough, no one indoors would rouse. Now she had to make sure no guard had been posted at the stables themselves. Keeping one hand on her dagger hilt, Alexeika made her way cautiously in that direction.

    Close up, the stables looked even more dilapidated than they had at a distance. The structure seemed to have been built of whatever scraps of timber and board the owner could scrounge together. Wattle panels divided the stalls, and Alexeika could hear the wind whistling through the gaps and chinks in the lean-to.

    The horses—large shadows she could barely see—shifted about placidly in the dark. The wealth they represented made her shiver with anticipation.

    Swiftly she forced herself to concentrate. This was no time to be dreaming of the coins Costma would count into her palm. The hardest part of her task still lay ahead of her.

    The wind died down completely, and all the world fell into a hush. It grew even colder. Alexeika’s feet and hands were numb, and her cloak might as well have been made of paper for all the warmth it provided tonight. Forcing herself to be patient, she waited and listened for a long while until she felt sure no guard was present, then eased inside the shelter and made soft clicking noises with her tongue to alert the horses to her presence. Stretching out her hand, she touched the hindquarters of one animal, and patted it in reassurance as she moved up alongside it.

    “Easy there. Easy,” she murmured, and the horse dipped its head and rumbled softly in its nostrils.

    In her father’s youth, knights of family and proud lineage, and not hired soldiers, formed the bulk of the king’s army. Such knights had possessed war horses trained to submit to them alone. Nearly impossible to handle, fierce, and trained to strike down any stranger who put his hand on them, those chargers would have attacked her, whereas these horses were sleepy and docile. The king’s agents bought them in herds from the Kla-dites, and they were assigned to the soldiers at random. These nags were light-boned coursers, underbred and thin-necked beneath shaggy winter coats, but they would fetch her money from the bandits. That was all she cared about.

    Not wanting to alarm the horses, Alexeika forced herself to take her time. Fumbling in the dark, she found the bridle of the nearest horse hanging on a peg and slipped it on the animal, then did the same with the horse next to it. The bemused pair turned about and came with her willingly.

    Drawing in a deep breath, Alexeika glanced once more at the window of the inn, wishing it did not overlook the yard, and told herself that now was the time for boldness.

    She led the horses across the yard in full sight, feeling her heartbeat pound nervously. Her senses were stretched tight. When one of the horses nudged her back, she nearly jumped.

    Alexeika slipped the pole out of the gate brackets, eased open a panel, which creaked loudly, and led the horses out into the road.

    There, she came face-to-face with four men on horseback, cloaked and hooded, and standing squarely in her path.

    Gasping with alarm, Alexeika froze in her tracks and stood there staring. The snow had stopped falling, and overhead the clouds had parted enough to show stars and moonlight. She could see these travelers well enough, but from whence had they come? She’d heard no hoofbeats, no sounds of approach. It was as though they had dropped from the second world, yet they were not Nonkind. In fact, they looked foreign, for their cloaks were thick and neither patched nor mended. Their horses were twice as fat and sleek as her pair.

    Her heart was hammering with fright, but almost at once she regained her wits and told herself to act nonchalant.

    So she gave them a nod and clucked to her horses, then attempted to lead them past the strangers.

    “Hold there, if you will,” called out one of the four. His voice was clear, strong, and foreign. He spoke Netheran with a strange accent indeed, but she could understand him.

    The problem was, she feared the soldiers asleep in the inn would also hear him.

    “Is this an inn?” the stranger asked her.

    Alexeika shook her head.

    The four travelers exchanged looks and sighs of obvious disappointment. Alexeika hardened her heart to their plight. It was late and cold, but if they were foreign and soft they’d not find this lodging to their satisfaction. Better to spend the night in the forest with beyars and wolves than to share a roof with the king’s men.

    Holding her head down, she tried again to lead the horses past them, and again the spokesman blocked her path. “We were told we could find lodging in this village. Where is it, if not here?”

    Silently, Alexeika pointed down the road the way they’d come.

    One of the other men, a large shadow with bulky shoulders, growled within the dark folds of his hood. “Nay, sire,” he said in Mandrian, which Alexeika understood, “this lad’s playing us for a fool. We’ve found the place, right enough.”

    Their leader raised his gloved hand for silence and regarded Alexeika from within the dark folds of his hood. “Guide us to the inn, and I’ll pay you for your trouble.”

    Again Alexeika shook her head. She dared not speak. Although she looked enough like a boy in the moonlight in her masculine garments, her voice was unmistakably feminine and melodious, difficult to disguise.

    “Might be a half-wit,” growled the large man who’d spoken earlier.

    Alexeika did not wait for the leader to respond. She tightened her grip on her horses’ bridles and led them forward past his stirrup.

    In silence he did nothing to stop her, and she was just feeling the first stir of relief when she overheard him say to his men, “Thum, see if you can rouse the landlord. If nothing else, perhaps we can pay the owner of a private dwelling to let us lodge for the night.”

    “Aye—”

    Alexeika spun around. “Do not call out,” she pleaded ur-gently, keeping her voice as low as she could. “Your kind are not welcome here, and King Muncel’s soldiers lodge within.”

    At that moment the watchdog set up a furious barking, and a shout came from inside the inn. Alexeika swore and jumped onto the bony back of one of her acquisitions. She kicked it forward and yanked on the reins of the other just as some of the soldiers came bursting out into the yard and ran to the gates.

    ‘Thief! Bandits!“

    The clash of steel made Alexeika glance back. She saw the four strangers fighting off the soldiers’ disorganized attack. Grinning to herself, Alexeika kicked her mount to a gallop, and the horse she led broke into an unwilling run alongside.

    Seconds later, she heard the thunder of hoofbeats behind her and saw that the four strangers were following her. She swore in annoyance, for they would lead the soldiers onto her trail.

    By now, torchlight was flaring in the stableyard. Men shouted, and already some of the soldiers were mounted in pursuit.

    Alexeika leaned low over the neck of her horse, urging it faster. But it was a sorry steed, far inferior to the Mandrian horses. They were gaining on her easily, and she knew she could not elude them, especially while she was hampered with the spare horse.

    Reluctantly she dropped its reins, and the animal blundered over into the path of one of her pursuers. As the man cursed in Mandrian, Alexeika yanked on the reins and left the road, ducking low as she plunged into the forest. Here, no moonlight penetrated the interlaced boughs of pine and fir. She rode recklessly through the darkness, pressing her cheek to her horse’s rough mane to keep from being whipped by branches.

    If Thod favored her, as she prayed he would, the Mandri-ans would not leave the safety of the road.

    But Thod did not favor her.

    The Mandrians fell back slightly and Alexeika thought her ploy had worked, but then two riders began to follow her while the others stopped to engage the soldiers. Again she heard the clash of swords, along with a choked cry of pain.

    The second skirmish ended nearly as soon as it began. Alexeika glanced back, and now she saw a shadowy figure racing behind her, closing the narrow gap. Worriedly she tried to think of another trick to throw him off, but at that moment her horse plunged into a thicket of briers and reared with a squeal of pain.

    With no stirrups or saddle to aid her, Alexeika nearly fell off. Clinging to the horse’s neck, she hung on desperately while it lunged out of the thicket. Then it halted with a lurch that sent her flying.

    She landed on her hands and knees with a jolt that snapped her teeth together. As her horse whinnied and tried to run backward from her, she staggered upright in an attempt to grab the dangling reins, stumbled in the deep snow, and fell again.

    Meanwhile, the Mandrian in pursuit galloped up so fast she feared she would be trampled. She rolled frantically to one side even as his mount plunged to a halt, throwing a spume of snow over her. Snorting white jets of air, the horse tossed its fine head and pawed the ground.

    Alexeika’s horse flicked its moth-eaten tail and darted into the undergrowth. Seeing a long day’s worth of hard work vanish like mist, she knelt in the snow and swore long and loud.

    The Mandrian laughed at her. “I understand one word in four,” he said, still chuckling, “but for a maid verily you do curse as well as any knight I’ve known.”

    Vexed beyond measure, Alexeika fell silent. To be laughed at, after having failed so completely in her objective, made her furious.

    The other Mandrians joined their leader, who glanced their way. “Any more to follow?” he asked.

    “Nay, sire,” said the largest one. “They fought ill indeed. Why they thought us bandits I—”

    The leader pointed at Alexeika. “There is the bandit, but she has lost both her horses in the chase.”

    “She?” one of them asked him. “You mean—”

    “Aye, a maid,” the leader said. Amusement still colored his voice, and Alexeika’s cheeks burned like fire.

    She rose to her feet and looked carefully to one side to see if she could escape this clearing for the nearby thicket before they had time to stop her. Her hands settled themselves unob-trusively on the hilts of her daggers, ready to throw with deadly accuracy if these men decided to try other sport with her.

    “Come, lass,” the leader said to Alexeika, stretching out his hand. “Climb behind my saddle and guide us to where we can shelter for the night in this blighted cold.”

    While Alexeika hesitated, the biggest man cleared his throat. “Nay, sire,” he protested, “be not so generous or so trusting.”

    “She’s a proven thief,” another one remarked.

    “I’m not leaving her here in the cold,” the leader said. “Come, maid. We mean you no harm, as long as you try not to steal our horses.”

    Stung by that remark, Alexeika tossed her head. “I’m no thief.”

    “Were those horses yours?”

    Grinding her teeth together, she would not answer.

    “A thief,” the large man said with a growl. “Leave her be, yer grace, and let’s quit this wood as fast as we can.”

    “Thod knows how far it is to the next settlement,” the leader said with a weary sigh. “And we’ve ridden hard this day. We need rest and warmth for a while.” His gaze returned to Alexeika. “Will you guide us?”

    “How much coin do you offer?”

    “Two silver dreits.”

    In Mandrian coin? Her mouth opened in shock even as she thought he must be a fool. The offer was too generous, which meant he knew nothing about Nether at all.

    “I know more than you think,” he said gently, as though he could read her very thoughts. “Would you rather have skannen instead—”

    “I’ll take the dreits,” she said swiftly, and gripped his stirrup.

    The large man kicked his horse forward. “Nay, lass, you’ll ride with me. And you’ll hand over both daggers and the sword first.”

    She backed up at once. “Never!”

    “Sir Terent, you affront her at every turn,” the leader chided the man gently. Despite his odd accent, there was something familiar about his voice, something that toyed with her memory. “She’s no enemy of ours.”

    “Don’t be so sure,” Sir Terent replied sourly. “We’ve met no friend in this forsaken land yet, and—”

    “What is your name?” the leader asked her.

    “Alexeika.”

    He waited a moment as though he expected her to tell him the rest of it, but when she did not he bowed to her from his saddle. “Alexeika is a highborn name, is it not? Very pretty.”

    She flushed at the compliment, then felt renewed anger at herself for being swayed by his charm and manners.

    “You are welcome to come with us, Alexeika, and show us to good shelter. Will you give me your word that you will not use your weapons against me or my companions?”

    She hesitated, sensing the suspicion and distrust that surrounded her from everyone except the leader. “You’re no enemy of mine,” she said begrudgingly. “I’ll strike you not, providing none of you strike me.”

    “Fair enough,” the leader announced, and held out his hand to her again. “Climb up behind me.”

    The thought of those two silver dreits decided her, for they were a fortune. At best, Costma would have given her only a few skannen for the horses. But Mandrian dreits would put an end to the shortage in her purse, meaning she’d have enough to live on for the rest of the winter. It was incredibly good fortune, and she hesitated no longer.

    When she grasped the stranger’s hand he pulled his foot from his stirrup, and she climbed up behind him with quick agility. Settled at his back, she resisted the impulse to put her arms around him and clutched the back of his fine thick cloak instead. He was a rich man, this stranger, and why he’d chosen to travel into Nether at this time of year was a mystery she did not care to unravel. Soon enough he’d run into more trouble than his three men could handle, and then he’d be shorn of his fine clothes, his boots, and his fancy horse, not to mention his fat purse. For a moment it was tempting to consider guiding him to Costma’s camp and turning him over to the bandits.

    But then she thought of her father and what he would have said to such a dishonorable scheme. Ashamed of herself for even thinking it, Alexeika tapped the Mandrian lord’s shoulder and pointed deeper into the forest. “That way.”

    In less than an hour they reached a sheltered spot that was Alex-eika’s camp. Nestled beneath the overhanging bank of a small stream that was now a half-frozen rivulet in the snow, it was a good place, protected from the wind and easily defended. Alexeika showed the men where they could tether their horses in a small, sheltering grove of shtac. She dismounted, then ducked beneath the overhang and pulled aside the stone where she kept her strikebox and tinder dry.

    A few moments later she had a fire going. The men moved back and forth, unsaddling and caring for their horses, talking softly among themselves as they decided who would stand watch and in what order. Alexeika fed sticks to her small fire, which blazed stronger, and watched the men without appearing to. She found herself approving of their camaraderie and discipline. Three of them, the lord included, were clearly knights, for the firelight glinted off their mail hauberks and spurs. The fourth individual, young and very thin with freckles and dark red hair, served the lord as squire.

    It was he who spied the bark bucket Alexeika left hanging on a tree branch. And he who used it to carry water to the fire.

    Giving her a tentative smile, he said, “I am Thum du Maltie, squire to our master. May I heat this water for his comfort?”

    She nodded, not yet ready to smile back. “If you don’t set my bucket afire.”

    There was a simple trick to heating bark containers, but it seemed the squire intended to take no chances. He produced a metal pot from his saddlebags and used it to heat the water. Then he set about unwrapping some bundles of waxed linen to produce a feast of cold meat, cheese, flat cakes, and apples.

    Although Alexeika had eaten, her supper had been meager fare indeed compared with this. As the men gathered around the fire, crouching low to keep from bumping their heads on the overhang, Alexeika shyly retreated deeper into the shadows.

    The largest man was clearly the lowest born. Sir Terent, the lord had called him, and he was rough-edged and plain, sitting there with his ruddy face and gapped teeth. His green eyes remained forever watchful for trouble in the dark woods beyond their fire. Now and then he glanced at her, alert to her movements.

    By his actions, he was clearly the lord’s protector, she realized.

    The other knight was fair-haired and soft-spoken, a courtly man whose manner reminded her of her father’s. Suddenly she yearned for her old life, when her father had still lived and there had been a few remnants of civility and grace in their camp.

    “I am Sir Alard,” he said to Alexeika as he carved himself a hearty slice of meat with his dagger. “Will you eat with us?”

    She’d had no meat in several days. Game had grown scarce here, and she knew she’d have to move her camp soon. Silently she nodded her acceptance of the man’s offer, and grew round-eyed as he handed her the large slice of meat he’d cut for himself.

    “Cold rations again,” Sir Terent grumbled between bites of flat cake. “Nothing to warm a man’s bones in this supper.”

    “Be glad you’ve got food at all,” Sir Alard told him, and offered Alexeika a flat cake.

    She took it politely. The cake was light in texture, baked of fine flour with no coarse grain in it. Ravenous, she devoured it in four bites and gnawed happily at her meat, grateful for the men’s casual generosity.

    Thum took the heated water and carried it out to the shadows for the lord to wash with.

    Warmed by the fire, Alexeika pulled off her tattered cloak and knelt to put another stick on the blaze.

    “Thod’s mercy!” Sir Terent shouted, reaching for his sword.

    That was all the warning Alexeika had before she found herself knocked sprawling. Coughing, she lifted her head and found Sir Terent’s sword tip at her throat. Sir Alard’s foot pinned her arm.

    She lay there, half-winded and paralyzed with alarm. “What—”

    “Silence!” Sir Terent roared. “You’ll have steel down your gullet if you try your wiles on me.”

    She could not understand what had turned them so suddenly against her. Sir Terent’s hostility, however, could not be doubted, and when she shifted her gaze to Sir Alard, that knight looked no less dangerous.

    “I’ll hold her,” Sir Terent said grimly to his fellow knight. “Run and tell his grace that we’ve caught ourselves a Nonkind witch.”

    Sir Alard obeyed, while Alexeika glared up at Sir Terent. She realized now that it was the sight of her red hauberk that had alarmed him. He was a fool to jump to conclusions, but when she opened her mouth to tell him so, he pressed harder with his sword, and she felt the tip break her skin. She froze, hardly daring to breathe, and moved no more.

    At that moment, the lord strode up. He had thrown back his cloak hood like the others, but unlike them, he had removed his mail coif and washed the road grime from his face and hands. His black hair fell, neatly combed, to his shoulders. When he stopped next to her, he stood so that the fire was at his back and his face remained cast in shadow.

    “What’s this about Nonkind?” he asked sharply.

    “Look at her, sire,” Sir Terent said roughly. “Look at what she’s wearing.”

    “Gantese mail.”

    “Aye. That makes her one of the murdering savages if not—”

    “She’s Netheran, not a Believer,” the lord said sharply.

    “But we know that Nether and Gant are allies now,”Sir Alard said. “Strange how neatly we fell into her path. She could have led us into a trap and—”

    “There’s no trap here,” their master said. “Let her up.”

    “But, sire—”

    “Let her up. She intends us no harm, no matter what she wears.”

    Sir Terent looked as though he wanted to argue, but he obeyed the command. As soon as his sword tip swung away from her throat, Alexeika scrambled up and tackled him by his ankles, knocking him to the ground. He fell with a howling curse of fury, but she was already swarming him and had drawn one of her daggers. She pricked his throat, and had the satisfaction of seeing his green eyes flare wide with alarm, before she sprang off him and whirled to face the others, crouching low, her dagger ready in her hand.

    “Get away from me, you Mandrian devils!” she snarled. “I curse this fire I’ve shared with you! I—”

    “Alexeika! Be at peace,” the lord said to her, holding up his hand placatingly. The firelight gleamed in the ruby on his finger. “It was a mistake, nothing more.”

    Sir Terent rose to his feet, dabbing at the trickle of blood on his neck, and scowling. “Damne, I’ll show her what a mistake is.”

    “You’ll stand!” the lord commanded in a voice like thunder. “You’ve caused enough trouble, sir.”

    Sir Terent turned bright red. “Sire, we’ve seen the womenfolk of Nether. Ain’t none of them like this. She’s a shapeshifter or Believer or both. What’s more, she’s likely to cast a—”

    “Enough!” the lord snapped, and Sir Terent fell reluctantly silent. “I have already said she’s not Nonkind. Even the mail she wears carries no taint.”

    “I cleaned it well after I killed the Believer it belonged to,” Alexeika said fiercely, glaring at Sir Terent.

    He glared back. “Ain’t likely,” he growled. “Horse thief, liar, and idle boaster.”

    His master gestured in visible annoyance, and Sir Terent uttered no more taunts.

    Furious with herself for having brought these men here, Alexeika glared at them all. They had no right to judge her or insult her by calling her a liar. They were foreign dogs, louts of no breeding and less worth. And if Sir Terent insulted her once more, she’d hurl this dagger at his throat and silence him forever.

    “Enough of this,” the lord said, cutting across the hostile quiet. “Let us all return to the fire and sup together. We’ve no right to judge Alexeika, no right to force explanations. She—”

    “You owe me two silver dreits,” Alexeika broke in, interrupting his attempt to restore peace. “I’ll have my payment now. Then I’m going. Keep the camp. I care not, but I’ll share no fire with you again. Nay, and I want no more of your putrid food, either!”

    As she spoke, she vowed to spend the rest of the night walking to Costma’s camp. She’d tell him where these rich strangers were and see him pluck them the way they deserved. That ruby ring alone would fetch a good price.

    “Very well, Alexeika,” the lord said mildly. He ignored his men’s protests and turned toward the fire to pick out the coins from his purse.

    As he did so, Alexeika caught a clear view of his face for the first time that night. To her total astonishment, she recognized his lean chiseled face, slanted cheekbones, keen pale gray eyes, and mouth both sensitive and determined. Now she knew why his voice had sounded familiar. She had seen this man, seen him in a vision on the fjord long months ago, when she’d tried to conjure forth her dead father’s spirit and had brought forth King Faldain’s image instead.

    Disbelief flooded her, yet she was certain he was one and the same. Dropping her dagger unheeded on the ground, she retreated from him and nearly lost her balance on the sloping bank.

    The men stared at her as though she’d lost her wits.

    “Alexeika?” The lord’s voice was both gentle and commanding.

    She felt faint at the sound of it, faint and on fire all at the same time. This was the man she’d cursed; this was the man she’d considered betraying to Costma’s bandits. Thod above, but she was unworthy to have found him, unworthy of his kindness and his valor in saving her tonight from the usurper’s soldiers.

    “What’s amiss with you now?” Faldain asked.

    “She’s lost her wits,” Sir Terent said gruffly. “That is, if she ever had any.”

    Ignoring his insult, Alexeika went on staring at Faldain. Her heart was thudding so hard it hurt. He was no apparition this time, but actual flesh and bone.

    “She’s staring hard at his grace,” Sir Alard said in alarm. “If she means to cast a spell—”

    “She doesn’t,” Faldain said quickly. “Put aside your superstitions, men. She cannot harm you that way.”

    Thum stepped forward. “Be at ease, Alexeika. This is our lord and master, the Chevard of Thirst—”

    “Nay, he is not!” she broke in, refusing the lie.

    “He is!” Thum said hotly.

    “Liar! I know different.”

    Faldain gripped Thum’s arm to hold him still and walked toward her with a frown.

    “Sire, don’t go near her!” Sir Terent pleaded, but Faldain ignored him.

    As he approached, it was all Alexeika could do to hold her ground. Her knees were shaking so she feared they might buckle.

    “Alexeika,” Faldain said gently. “What ails you?”

    Her ears were roaring. She kept staring at him, telling herself that he was real. She had ridden at his back. She had gripped his hand in hers.

    “Alexeika?”

    “You,” she said, forcing herself to speak at last. In some dim corner of her brain, she realized she was acting like a fool, like the basest, most unlettered peasant, but all her training seemed to have deserted her. In truth, she could scarcely command her wits. “You are King Faldain.”

    He halted in his tracks.

    Alexeika’s gaze never left his face. She had dreamed of him often, trying to imagine where he was, what he might be like. In her mind she had made a valiant hero of him, hoping that one day he would return to his kingdom and free his people. But in all her dreams and imaginings, she had not quite conjured him into this tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man. She had not prepared herself for the keen force of his penetrating gaze, for his intelligence and perception. She stared at him now, and wondered if he would admit his true identity to her.

    “You are,” she insisted, although he’d neither confirmed nor denied what she’d said. “You’re King Faldain. You have returned.”

    Still he did not speak.

    His squire frowned at her. “Why do you say this? How do you know?”

    “I have seen him before.”

    “And I say her wits are clean addled,” Sir Terent said loudly. “She’s no—”

    Faldain, however, held up his hand. Recognition suddenly flashed in his eyes. “The lake,” he said. “You were the one who brought me there!”

    Her knees failed her then. She sank to the ground and bowed low, overwhelmed by the desire to weep and laugh at the same time. “Your majesty,” she said through her tears. “Oh, that my father could have lived to see your return.”

    Faldain bent over her and pulled her upright. “You parted the veils of seeing to find me many months ago,” he said to her in wonder. “Who are you?”

    And now at last she remembered her training and her lineage. Lifting her head proudly to belie her ragged clothing and dirt-smeared face, she said, “I am the Princess Alexeika Volvn, daughter of Prince Ilymir Volvn, former general of King Tobesz-ijian’s forces. My mother was lady in waiting to Queen Nereisse and later served Queen Neaglis under duress until Neaglis had her executed as a spy.”

    Faldain said nothing, and Alexeika swiftly dashed her tears away. She drew Severgard, ignoring Sir Terent’s swift reach for his own weapon, and held its hilt up before Faldain.

    “My father’s sword. He has no sons to carry it, and so I bear it in the cause of restoration of your majesty’s throne, and the defeat of the usurper.”

    Faldain reached out and gently touched the hilt for a brief moment. “Your service honors me,” he said quietly. “As does the noble blade Severgard.”

    Awestruck, Alexeika realized she had not said the sword’s name aloud. “How did you—you—”

    Faldain smiled. “It told me.”

    She knew that swords made of magicked metal were supposed to speak to their masters, but although Severgard obeyed her hand and had glowed with power when she’d wielded it against the creatures of darkness, never had she actually heard its song. That he could astonished her. In truth he was the king.

    Faldain gestured. “Come, my lady,” he said with courtesy, as though her hair was combed and braided with jewels and she wore a fine gown of silk velvet. “Come and retake your place at the fire. We’ve much to discuss.”

    Feeling numb, she obeyed, and hardly noticed when he bent to pick up her dropped dagger and hand it back to her. Absently she sheathed the weapon and sat down across the fire from him.

    The ruddy light cast shadows and angles over his face, as sparks and flame danced between them.

    When the others crowded around, Alexeika leaned forward. “Your army,” she said eagerly. “How far behind you does it come? How many troops have you? Infantry or calvary? Or both?”

    Embarrassment colored his face. He shook his head. “Nay, good lady. I come not leading an army. I am here with these men only, traveling in secret to find the eld-folk.”

    His answer was so unexpected she could but stare at him at first. “I must have misheard your majesty,” she said slowly. “You come not with an army?”

    He shrugged. “Do you see one encamped here? Nay. As I said, I travel with these men only.”

    “But what mean you by this?” she cried, forgetting she spoke to a king. “Have you not come to Nether to claim your throne, as is your right?”

    “In time, yes, but first—”

    “First? What could be more important?”

    His gray eyes flashed angrily. “That, good lady, is not your concern. ”

    “Isn’t it? Why come here at all, if you mean to ignore the plight of your people?‘ she cried, ignoring the anger in his face. Disappointment and outrage choked her. She could not help thinking of her father’s slain body lying on that battlefield, a brave and noble man who had fought for this—this craven’s cause. Tears burned her eyes. ”Do you care nothing for the sacrifices that have been made on your behalf? Do you have no heart, that you can ignore the misery and wretchedness that you’ve seen?“

    Rigid with anger, he jumped to his feet.

    She also stood up, glaring at him with a spirit fed by years of hope now crushed past bearing. “Sneaking into Nether like a thief, hiding yourself as though you are ashamed of who you are—”

    “That’s enough!” he snapped. “I do not answer to you. I need not explain my actions.”

    “Why?” she taunted him. “Because you are king?”

    Nostrils flaring, he said nothing.

    “If you will not declare yourself, and act like a king, then you cannot expect me to treat you as one,” she told him. “I

    have seen five hundred valiant knights, brave warriors all, slain to the last man by trickery and evil. They died in your cause, and my father died with them. He believed in you and your father to the last.“ Her voice nearly broke, but she managed to control it. ”I am glad now that he did not live to see this day, did not live to see you as you really are, unworthy of his sacrifice and devotion.“

    Faldain had turned white. His lips were clamped in a thin line, and his pale eyes blazed at her. “You are quick to judge, my lady,” he said at last, his voice hoarse with the effort of controlling it. “You are quick to condemn matters you understand not.”

    She despised him for keeping his temper, for refusing to defend himself against her accusations. Worse, she despised him because she’d been infatuated with him all this time, and now that she’d seen him she was forced to realize that she’d been thoroughly deluded. He looked strong and handsome, yes. He had civil manners, and intelligent, well-governed men around him, but he was all show and good clothing. She’d seen nothing of worth in him except his innate kindness. But kindness did not make a king. Kindness did not win a stolen throne from the hands of one so evil and unscrupulous she could barely say his name aloud.

    “By what right do you judge me?” he asked coldly. “If your father died, I am sorry for it—”

    “You are not sorry,” she broke in with scorn. “You did not know him. You did not watch him cut down, as I did. Why should you care?”

    His pale gray eyes raked her. “I, too, have seen loved ones die. Do you think you are the only one in this world who has suffered loss or deprivation, princess?”

    “You have grown up in Mandrian ease,” she said scornfully, glancing at the other men, who were looking on in complete silence. “A prince of royal blood, pampered and given every—”

    Faldain laughed, the sound cutting across her words and driving her to furious silence. Even worse, some of his men began to smile. They exchanged glances as though they shared some private joke. She despised them for laughing at her.

    “Well?” she demanded, refusing to back down. “What does your majesty know of want? When have you ever gone hungry or slept in the wilderness like an animal with only a pile of leaves to serve as a bed?”

    A muscle leaped in his jaw, but he answered not.

    Instead, his squire spoke up: “Truly, my lady, you do discuss matters of which you are woefully ignorant. It has only been this autumn that his majesty learned his true identity and royal lineage. He grew up in Nold, apprenticed to a sword-maker, and would remain there still had his family not been slaughtered in a dwarf war.”

    “That’s enough, Thum,” Faldain said.

    But Thum squared his shoulders and continued. “He has known both whippings and near-starvation. People of eld blood fare poorly in Mandria, and had he not come to the favor of King Verence he might be beggared still.”

    Alexeika’s eyes widened. She felt a roaring in her ears, and her face was on fire.

    “You call yourself highborn,” Thum continued scathingly, “but you have the appearance of a harridan. You are wild, tattered, and dirty, with sticks and leaves in your hair. You are garbed immodestly in men’s clothing. When we saw you this evening, you were stealing horses, yet you think you have the right to scream at our master and accuse him of cowardice and worse. You are not fit to speak his name, much less judge his actions.”

    “Enough, Thum,” Faldain said sharply, and this time his squire colored and obeyed.

    Alexeika stood there as though frozen while they all stared at her in disapproval. Inside, she raged at what Thum had said, yet his words carried the ring of truth. And she was mortified by how much she deserved his reprimand. Her father would have been ashamed of her for the way she’d acted tonight, and she wished the ground would open now and swallow her.

    Living alone these past few weeks had been hard indeed. Since her escape from the Grethori, she had been all internal fire and steely determination. It had driven her and given her purpose so that she could survive on her own. But perhaps she’d become too hard, too fierce. If what Thum said was true, she’d made a dreadful error.

    Somehow, although she wanted to die, she managed to bring up her gaze to meet Faldain’s. What must he think of her? What had she done?

    “Your majesty,” she said so softly her words were barely above a whisper. “My behavior has been inexcusable. I forgot my place. I—”

    “Let us say no more about it,” he interrupted coldly, and turned away. “We’d better get some rest if we’re to make an early start come morning.”

    “Aye,” Sir Terent said. “I’m to take first watch. You use my blanket as well as your own, sire.”

    Then they went on about their business of shaking out bedrolls and banking the fire, all of them ignoring Alexeika as though she’d ceased to exist.

    She stood there, appalled and horrified by how quickly their acceptance of her had turned into contempt.

    Then Faldain glanced at her and held out the spare blanket. “Come to the fire, Alexeika,” he said. “Use this blanket, if you have none of your own.”

    His kindness was even worse. She turned away and stumbled out into the darkness to the edge of the trees. Her throat ached, and tears spilled down her cheeks, freezing there in the frosty air. She felt as though she’d failed her father and all his expectations of her. And yet, what was she to think of a king who would not seize his throne, would not take the risk of standing forth and making his claim openly?

    After a few minutes, she heard footsteps behind her and whirled around, her hand on her dagger.

    “Alexeika,” Faldain said quietly, “fear not. I mean you no harm.”

    Her hand dropped from the weapon, and she drew a long, shuddering sigh. “Please,” she whispered, wiping furtively at her eyes in the dark, “leave me alone.”

    “If that’s your wish. I came to pay you the coinage I owe you.”

    Pride surged hot in her throat. She wanted to throw the money in his face, but her common sense and desperation made her stretch out her hand to take the coins. She gripped them hard, and fresh shame branded her all over again.

    “You are no common lass. Forgive me, but I meant ‘no common lady,’ ” he said, breaking the silence. “Your way of life has taken you cross-country many times?” “Yes.”

    “Good. I could hunt the eld-folk on my own, but winter is coming soon, and I must find what I seek without delay. Will you guide me to my mother’s people, Alexeika? I will pay you well for your trouble.”

    She sniffed, and wiped her eyes again. “I don’t understand. The eldin will not fight. They will give you no army.”

    He snorted impatiently. “Do not worry about my army. I have one already in place.”

    She stared at him in astonishment, wishing she could see his face through the darkness. “But—but your majesty said you had none.”

    “I said I have come to Nether with only the men who are with me tonight. That does not mean I have no warriors to fight in my name.”

    Her sense of astonishment grew, and rapidly she reviewed in her mind the remaining bands of rebels that she knew about. So many had given up and dispersed.

    “Will you guide me to the eld-folk?” he asked again. She frowned. “They cannot be found, not now. Perhaps in the spring, when thaw begins, but—”

    “But do you know where they are? Where to look for them?” She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, majesty.” Without warning, he pounced on her, pushing her back against a tree and pinning her there. She tried to fight him off, but he gripped her wrist with crushing strength. “Never lie to me again,” he said harshly. Her mouth went dry. She could feel her heart thudding against her ribs, even after he released her and turned away. He was incredibly quick. She realized she had underestimated him, misjudged him, perhaps completely.

    Confused and embarrassed, she swallowed with difficulty and tried to amend her mistake. “Forgive me,” she whispered.

    “You have judged me, insulted me, and now lied to me,” he said, his voice like iron. “Why should I forgive you anything?

    I will find another guide.“

    He started to walk away, but she ran after him. “Your majesty, wait! I didn’t mean to lie. It’s just that searching for the eldin is a waste of time. They—”

    “It is my time to waste,” he said harshly. “Mine, and that of the one I love. How dare you decide such things for me?”

    “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling as though she’d been struck. “I—I have been used to giving orders. I don’t take them very well.”

    “It would seem you do not take them at all. If your father was a general, my lady, I wonder you are not better trained.”

    He could not have said anything that hurt her more. She shut her eyes a moment, and forced her pride to bend.

    “Please,” she said, letting herself plead. “I would be honored to guide your majesty anywhere. I just thought I—”

    “You must give me your word never to lie to me again, Alexeika. I will not tolerate it, not in anyone who serves me.”

    He spoke to her the way he might have spoken to a servant. Irritation flared inside her, but she stamped it out. If he was really the king, he could speak to her any way he chose, and she would have to accept it.

    She bowed her head. “I swear my honesty, your majesty.”

    “Then on the morrow you will guide me to the eld-folk?”

    She hesitated. “I will take you where I think they might be found. I cannot promise success. They no longer trust men.”

    “Then I shall find much in common with them,” he said dryly.

    She frowned. “If your majesty would but strike first at Grov, and proclaim yourself there, the people would rally to you. And the eldin would come forth from hiding. It would not be necessary to seek them.”

    “I have asked you to be my guide, not my adviser,” he said firmly. “If I want your counsel I will ask you for it; otherwise, my actions and decisions are not yours to question.”

    She could not rein in her pride. “You misjudge me if you think I am some meek maiden fit only for pointing you down a road,” she told him plainly. “I know this land, yes, especially the mountain and fjord country. But I know much more that could be of use to your majesty, if you would but allow it.”

    “You—”

    “I have been trained in battle strategy.”

    He laughed. “Am I to be taught by a girl? Nay, my lady, you won’t—”

    “Hear me!” she said furiously. “Of course I do not intend to teach your majesty simple battle skills, but do you know the Netheran style of fighting? Do you know how to face Nonkind and sorcerelsl Do you even know what they are?”

    “Aye,” he said brusquely. “I do.”

    She realized she was offending him again, but she had to prove her point. “I am not helpless. See these?” She drew her daggers and held them out for him to see. “I have slain the men who carried them. One was a Grethori chieftain; the other was a Believer. I have used my father’s sword in battle. I have fought in your majesty’s name, struggled to keep your cause alive. There is a price on my head, as there was on my father’s. I tell you all this not to boast, but to show you the value of my advice. Heed me, majesty, and let me guide you in more than following a trail.”

    “You have been accustomed perhaps to giving orders in your father’s camp,” he replied, “but you will not give them here. There can be but one leader among us. If you are a true supporter in my cause, you will accept this. Well?”

    Alexeika felt as though she’d been flattened again, and a mixture of resentment and exasperation stirred her. After all, her father had trained her to use her intelligence and abilities. She wasn’t trying to compete with Faldain; she only wanted to help him. But it seemed that wasn’t what he wanted.

    She had often imagined what it would be like if she were to ever meet him. She believed he would instantly acknowledge her to be no ordinary woman, and he would be grateful for her help. Instead, she had found herself reprimanded harshly and put firmly in her place. It seemed her expectations had been far too idealistic. He had a mule’s stubbornness, and a poor grasp of his kingdom’s political situation. Such a combination could be deadly. She should perhaps abandon him now, she reflected, before she was forced to witness disaster.

    And yet, she could not go. She had spent her life wondering what he would be like. After she’d seen the vision of him on the fjord, she had been infatuated with him. Now that she’d met him in person and felt the force of his charm and mag-netism, she could not imagine herself anywhere except at his side. Yet that confused her too.

    “Well?” he asked again, impatiently this time. “We must get this settled, for I do not want to repeat this argument with you.”

    She bowed in the darkness. “I accept your majesty’s terms.”

    “Good.” He did not seem to notice how hard it had been for her to say that. “I am in great haste to find the eld-folk. I seek a cure, one that they alone can give—”

    “Are you ill, majesty?” she asked in alarm.

    “Nay, it is for someone ... very dear to me,” he said.

    She tried to draw breath, but her lungs did not seem to be working very well. Her dreams were bursting in rapid succession tonight. How could she have ever hoped he would see her and instantly lose his heart? She was rough and unfeminine, her maidenly wiles forgotten. Naturally he would have a lady he loved. He might even be married, although he wore no marriage ring. Feeling foolish, Alexeika told herself her dream of winning him was girlish nonsense that must come to an end. But it hurt just the same.

    As Faldain walked back toward the fire, with Alexeika following, he said, “When we have found the eld-folk, then I hope you will guide me to General Matkevskiet.”

    Surprised yet again, she stopped in her tracks to stare at him.

    He did not pause, but continued walking so that she was forced to hurry to catch up.

    “If you are indeed the daughter of a rebel leader, then you must know this man.”

    “Of course.” She frowned. “I mean, I know who he is. I saw him once when I was a child. He—he refused to join the Agya forces with my father’s men. If he had, they could have crippled Muncel’s army before he gained troops from Gant. It might have made all the difference, or so my father used to say. There was no communication between them after that.”

    “And Count Romsalkin?”

    Again he surprised her. “These men support you?”

    “Aye.”

    “And you tell me this?” she said, marveling. “You do not suspect that I might betray you at the first village we come to? The usurper’s spies and paid informants are everywhere. I could betray you, and Matkevskiet and Romsalkin as well, for a few pieces of—”

    “But you won’t,” Faldain broke in calmly. Their gazes locked for a long time. “No,” she said, lifting her head proudly. “I won’t. But I do not think you should trust me—or anyone—as quickly as this.”

    He grinned, and in that moment she lost her heart to him forever. There was such charm in his face, such a winning look, that she could not resist him. “You need not worry,” he told her. “You seem to think me something of a fool, Alexeika, but fear not. I was raised by dwarves, and I know more than you suppose.”

    Her face flamed anew. It seemed she had made every mistake possible tonight. “Majesty, I—”

    “It grows late, and we must ride at first light,” he said in dismissal, and climbed into the bedroll his squire had prepared for him.

    Disgruntled, Alexeika hesitantly took up the blanket they had generously left for her use, and wrapped herself in its folds. She settled herself a little apart from the men, with her back propped against the bank for security.

    Sir Alard was the last to settle himself by the fire’s glowing embers. Rolling over so that he could look at her, he smiled and said softly for her ears alone, “We have all tried to dissuade him from this quest, and cannot. You will not succeed either.”

    She frowned. “Not even if we are trapped up by the World’s Rim when the deep cold comes? It is folly to seek the eldin this time of year.” It was folly to seek them at any time of year, for they refused to be found, but she did not say that aloud.

    Sir Alard shrugged and burrowed deeper into his blankets, saying nothing else. Soon the men were snoring.

    Alexeika lay there, wide-awake and unable to calm herself. She listened to the sentry stamp his feet out in the darkness to keep them warm. She listened to her own heartbeat thrumming with excitement that Faldain was so near. He was stubborn, impossible to manage, ruthless beneath his courtesy, and completely fascinating. She had done everything wrong tonight, and yet he had still offered her a place in his service.

    Tomorrow, she thought, / ride with the king.

    If only they were riding in the right direction, instead of on this mysterious quest of his. She thought briefly of misleading him and guiding his path straight to the Agya hideouts, but at once she dismissed the temptation. He had too much eld blood in him to be so easily fooled. Besides, there was more to this matter than he’d yet revealed. She warned herself to bite her tongue and take care.

    And for the first time in her life, she could not sleep.

    With his horse plodding in Lord Barthomew’s wake, Prince Gavril squinted into the driving snow, and huddled deeper inside his fur-lined cloak. He was exhausted and half-frozen. His joints ached from long hours in the saddle, but he had too much pride to rest himself in one of the wagons. Cardinal Noncire had retired from riding horseback many days ago, and now rode in state beneath an arched canopy that protected him from the worst of the wind and cold, with a little portable brazier burning with coals, soft cushions to recline on, and his scrolls and books to read. Each day he invited Gavril to share his comforts, and each day Gavril gave him a curt refusal.

    He had yet to forgive Noncire for his failure to learn the true whereabouts of  from Dain. After all, Gavril had warned Noncire that Dain required special handling, but the cardinal had been too arrogant, too self-confident, to listen.

    As a result, Dain had deceived them all, his vile trickery sending Gavril on a futile chase to an abandoned shepherd’s hut in the meadows far west of Thirst Hold. That escapade cost them three days of time they could ill afford to spare. Dain seemed incapable of understanding how holy and precious  was, or how vitally important it was to recover the sacred vessel.

    Now, riding along the road while the wind blew right through his cloak and furs and the snow stung his face, Gavril fumed and clenched his cold fingers harder on the reins. He vowed that if ever again his path crossed with Dain’s, he would make that pagan dog pay dearly for misleading them.

    In the first place, Dain should have been forthcoming about’s whereabouts. When Noncire questioned him, Dain should have submitted himself willingly, even eagerly, to the cardinal’s interrogation. After all, he’d sworn to help save Pheresa’s life. The liar had claimed he would do anything for her.

    To Gavril had fallen the unpleasant task of explaining Dain’s defection to Pheresa. She had lain there, wan of face, with her reddish-gold hair brushed and shining, and listened to him gravely. Tears had welled up in her brown eyes as he told her how Dain had betrayed her, and Gavril had pledged anew that he would never desert her, that he would do everything humanly possible to find her cure.

    Yet hardly had they set out from Thirst to resume their journey when another guardian had collapsed. Despite Noncire’s previous avowal that he could replace a guardian if necessary, he immediately claimed that he was too fatigued from the effort to open Dain’s mind to be able to serve the lady. Gavril, disgusted by the cardinal’s cowardice, made no effort to coerce him. He knew the spell could not work under duress.

    Thus far, Pheresa still lived, even with the spell out of balance, but at night her moans and weeping could be heard across the sleeping camp. She looked so ill and hollow-eyed that Gavril could hardly bear to visit her these days. He no longer knew how to alleviate her fears.

    “We’ll be in Nether soon,” he told her day after day while the belief in her eyes gradually dimmed.

    At first she’d tried to ask him questions about the remedy the Netherans promised. What was it? How would it work? But in the last week, she’d grown too weak to bother. She only stared at him with grave, pain-filled eyes, clearly no longer trusting him to save her. And what if he did fail? For the first time in his life, Gavril was not entirely sure he would triumph. He found such a possibility disquieting, and it was difficult not to resent the lady for having brought him to such a state. If Pheresa died soon, in a way it would almost be a relief.

    Such thoughts shamed him, making him pray long into the nights in atonement. But sweet mercy of Tomias, he was tired of responsibility, tired of this long trek, tired of the endless small difficulties of traveling with an invalid, tired of the boring exhaustion of it all.

    Nevertheless, here he was, pressing on at the head of their company. Nether was a country as bleak and forbidding as anything he’d ever seen. The snow was driving harder in their faces today, and Gavril had never been colder in his life. There was no way to get warm, not even when they set up camp for the night. No fire, tent, or blankets could ward off the numbing cold, which seemed to freeze the very marrow of his bones. Aching, tired, and miserable, he slept poorly, if at all, yet he kept forcing himself and his men onward.

    Since they’d crossed the Netheran border, it had snowed every day. They could not find adequate forage for their horses. The kine bawled hungrily at night. Their own food supplies grew short, and there seemed to be almost nothing they could purchase or scavenge. This was a land marred by hovels of starving peasants, blighted crops withering unharvested in paltry fields, meager villages lacking the most basic amenities, and this bleak climate of unremitting cold.

    Worse, time was running out. He’d intended to reach Grov and return home to Savroix by Selwinmas, but that holy day was drawing nigh. After it would come winter. He had to get out of this Thodforsaken realm before the weather became too harsh for travel. The thought of being trapped here all winter filled him with dread.

    As for Dain, ever since his escape from Thirst Hold in the dead of night, along with one of his protectors, du Maltie, and one other Thirst knight, there had been no sight of him, no trail to follow, no whisper along the border that he’d been sighted. It was as though the forest had swallowed him. And no matter how much Gavril craved vengeance, there was no time to spare in hunting him down.

    Noncire swore that Dain would forever go in want of his wits, but Gavril did not believe him. Gavril no longer believed much of anything the cardinal said. Dain hadn’t been too insane to escape Thirst or elude them since. Gavril believed that Dain must carry blasphemous protections of magic and evil that gave him more lives than a cat.

    Blessed Thod, Gavril prayed now, have mercy on me and let me find this creature, that I may destroy him once and for all. “Your highness.”

    The voice of Lord Barthomew intruded on Gavril’s thoughts. Seeing the church knight commander blocking the road, Gavril reined up with a scowl. Around him, his squires and Lord Kress drew rein as well.

    “Yes?” Gavril snapped.

    “The Netherans, your highness. They’ve passed along a message that we approach Grov.”

    Gavril’s ill temper fell away, and excitement made him straighten in his saddle. “Where?”

    Lord Barthomew pointed, and Gavril saw Commander Ognyoska of their Netheran escort a short distance ahead, beckoning to him. Since they’d crossed the border, this large, armed force of Netheran soldiers had traveled with them, claiming to be escorts. Ognyoska said that he and his men rode along for Gavril’s protection, but Gavril considered their presence an insult, most especially since there were exactly the same number of Netheran knights to match his church soldiers.

    But right now, Gavril forgot his resentment and felt overwhelming relief at having finally reached their destination. Spurring his horse forward, he joined Ognyoska.

    A burly, taciturn man with a thick mustache and a tall hat of black beyar hide, Ognyoska wore a cloak of shaggy fur. His chain mail was rusted in places, his horse was a spindly, rough-coated nag, and his marriage ring was tarnished. When he grinned at Gavril, he showed a mouthful of rotten teeth.

    Pointing ahead into the swirling snow, the commander spoke with more animation than he’d showed in days. His translator, a scrawny man going bald and suffering from a perpetual head cold, sniffed and said, “Compliments to your royal highness. The city lies ahead. Permit Commander Ognyoska to show you the vista.”

    Glancing at Lord Kress and Lord Barthomew to make sure they stayed close by, Gavril spurred his black stallion ahead of the pennon-bearers to follow Ognyoska to the top of a small rise.

    As Gavril drew rein there, the wind died down for a moment and the snow stopped swirling in his face.

    Ognyoska gestured proudly. “Grov!” he stated.

    A valley bathed in misty white lay before them. Bordered on one side by the half-frozen Velga River, the city sprawled across the valley floor with clusters of wooden houses painted in garish colors, gilded church spires, and defense towers of stone. Although it was barely mid-afternoon, dusk was drawing near and many windows already shone with light. The falling snow blurred the scene, softening the outlines of the buildings. Plenty of people could be seen thronging the streets of frozen mud, and barges bobbed on the river amidst small ice floes. Across the city, rising high atop a bluff that overlooked the river, stood the palace of Nether’s kings, a fortress of massive stone walls and tall towers wreathed in mist and snow flurries.

    Gavril had not expected the city to be this big. It fully rivaled Savroix-en-Charva in size. But large or not, it was no doubt populated with barbarians, if the Netherans he’d met thus far were anything to judge by. Still, his relief grew as he stared at the city. Suddenly the hard journey and its difficulties seemed worthwhile, and his spirits lifted.

    But a new problem loomed before him. Part of the cost of Pheresa’s cure was to deliver Dain alive into the hands of Cardinal Pernal. How, Gavril wondered bleakly, was he to explain to the Netheran cardinal that he would not be delivering Dain as promised? He’d received no communications from Pernal in days, and he had not wanted to send news to the Netheran that Dain had escaped through the incompetency of his men.

    Well, he couldn’t repine over it now. There must be something else the Netherans would accept in Dain’s place, he told himself. Perhaps the wagons of costly gifts would be enough.

    Swinging his gaze away from the city, Gavril looked at Ognyoska. “Where are we to go? To the palace?”

    The translator chattered between them. “No, no,” he said earnestly. “Not enough space for all in King Muncel’s court. Your highness will lodge in fine house. All has been made ready for comfort.”

    “House?” Gavril stiffened in affront. “Whose house? How dare you suggest that I take up residence in some ordinary dwelling? I—”

    Ognyoska spoke again in Netheran, his words coming rapid-fire. The translator blew his red nose and sniffed miserably.

    “Your highness mistakes my words,” he said with a mendicant smile and a little bow from atop his donkey. “This is house of very fine personage. Very fine. Will be satisfactory much. It belongs to family of Count Mradvior and is grand indeed. You will see.”

    Scowling, Gavril did not see why he should not stay in the palace or even reside with King Muncel in his stronghold at Belrad. However, when Ognyoska shouted orders they moved forward, following the road down into the city as twilight closed about them.

    With wolves howling in the woods and nightfall making the cold bite even deeper, all Gavril could think about was getting indoors and finding fire and food.

    Grov itself was an ominous place, however. As he drew near, Gavril felt the strangeness of the city reach out to him. Unease prickled along his spine and he rode with one hand clutching the hilt of his sword.

    Since they’d entered Nether, he’d resumed carrying Tanen-gard, despite Noncire’s protests. Gavril felt as though a missing piece of him had been restored, making him whole again, for the sword was no longer silent. It muttered constantly in the back of his mind, a closer companion than even his protector.

    Just now, the blade was glowing white inside its scabbard, which meant Nonkind lurked nearby. Dry-mouthed, he stared hard into every deep shadow and sat tense and alert in his saddle, certain that death was going to attack.

    In silence, the townspeople pushed back to let them pass.

    No cheers of greeting were raised, and yet the crowd—ominously quiet—grew ever larger as they passed. Hordes of beggars followed at their heels. With the grim-faced Netheran knights trotting at front and rear, and the church soldiers angry still at having these foreign nursemaids, as they called them, it was a solemn procession indeed that wended its way through the fetid streets.

    Garbage and filth lay where it had been tossed. Starving mongrels scavenged what they could, snarling as they ran from the horsemen. Most of the buildings Gavril saw stood in disrepair. Some had been grand in the past but were now deserted. Weeds grew up through broken steps and snow drifted in through open windows.

    They crossed a fine square, paved in stone and surrounded by beautiful villas, but whatever statues had once stood on a trio of bases in the center had been pulled down and smashed to bits.

    Gavril glanced back over his shoulder at Pheresa’s wagon and was glad the cloth canopy remained in place, not so much to shield her from the eyes of the curious as to keep her from seeing what a dreadful place he’d brought her to.

    What have I done? he asked himself.

    In the very heart of this dreadful city, he found himself riding at last through tall gates of intricately worked iron and entered a compound of ornate gardens, pools, and fountains blanketed with snow and ice.

    The house itself was an immense structure that towered at least four stories overhead. Broad steps of pale stone jutted forth from its red-painted entrance, and mythical creatures carved from finest agate guarded either side.

    Servants clad in livery came out to greet them with welcoming smiles and steaming flagons of hot drink. Distracted by the spiced and rather appealing brew, which warmed him from the first sip, Gavril saw Ognyoska’s knights close the iron gates just as the crowd surged forward. Now the peculiar silence was broken, and many people howled like wolves, reaching through the gates with imploring hands and crying out words Gavril did not understand.

    Shouting, the guards drove the horde of people back with pikes, for it seemed they might break open the gates if left unchecked. Some even attempted to climb over, only to be knocked off by the guards.

    It made no sense to Gavril, who turned his back on the sight and went inside, leaving the church soldiers to be directed to barracks in another wing of the compound. Stout men came forth to gently carry Lady Pheresa’s glass encasement up the steps, which had been swept clean of snow.

    Warmth was Gavril’s first impression as he strode through the tall doors. The air was so comfortable he immediately felt overdressed in his gloves and heavy cloak. A long vestibule painted in garish colors of scarlet, black, and blue stretched before him, but he saw no hearth or burning fire. Puzzled at first and fearing the use of some magic, he soon realized the warmth was radiating from a tall construction of glazed tiles standing in one corner.

    Unctuous servants ushered him forward into a spacious chamber of regal proportions. The ceiling, carved and gilded in a riot of creatures and floral motifs, soared high overhead.

    Noncire, puffing in his fur-lined cloak, his long black traveling robes snow-soaked at the hem, waddled up beside Gavril and smiled in approval as he glanced around. “Very fine.”

    Indeed, Gavril could find no fault with the soft carpets underfoot, the exotic woods which paneled the walls, or the marquetry and carving of the furniture. More servants appeared like magic to anticipate his every wish. And so efficient were they that he felt instantly at home. His initial misgivings faded.

    Lady Pheresa had been set down in the center of the room. Her serving woman hovered nearby, and Gavril strode over to check on his lady. Pulling back a corner of the blanket covering her encasement, he found her either asleep or unconscious; her skin was pasty white, with a light sheen of perspiration. He wanted to wake her and tell her the good news of their arrival, but just then the guardians filed in silently to surround her, and Gavril retreated from them.

    Throwing off his cloak and gloves, he accepted another flagon of the spiced drink and stood near the tile stove to bask in its wonderful warmth. What a luxury to feel the frozen mar-row in his bones thawing. For the first time since he’d left Savroix, he felt warm enough.

    A gray-haired Netheran, clad in a velvet tunic trimmed with islean fur and a heavy gold chain studded with jewels, appeared and bowed deeply to Gavril.

    “I am Lord Mradvior,” he announced in heavily accented Mandrian while Gavril’s brows rose in both astonishment and affront. “All is to your comfort, yes? All is to your liking?”

    Gavril set down his flagon and turned his back on the man. leaving Noncire to quietly explain Mandrian protocol to him.

    “Ah, yes,” Mradvior said. He smiled, but there was a flash of anger in his dark eyes. “I understand. But your highness is a guest in my house, by orders of our esteemed majesty the king. I will, I think, introduce myself as I please.”

    There was something slightly hostile in the man’s tone. Still annoyed by his presumption, Gavril turned around with the intention of ordering his men to usher Mradvior out.

    Only, none of the guards in the room wore white surcoats. Aside from himself, Kress, Noncire, and the guardians, everyone else present was a stranger. Alarmed, Gavril wondered what had become of his companions—his squires and minstrels, the royal physicians, the assistant priests, and most important, Lord Barthomew.

    “Where are the church knights?” he asked sharply. “Kress! Where is Lord Barthomew?”

    “Your knights have been shown to their quarters,” Mradvior said before Kress could reply. “There they will stay. Your highness has no need of armed men to protect him while he is the guest of our most excellent majesty.”

    Gavril felt uneasy. He realized he was deep inside a foreign kingdom, inside a strange and foreign city, now isolated from his own men and at the dubious mercy of his hosts. For the first time he understood his father’s fears and why Verence had been so reluctant to let him come here.

    However, Gavril refused to let himself be rattled. Facing Count Mradvior with all the icy disdain he could summon, he said, “Your hospitality is most gracious. When will I see King Muncel?”

    “Ah, very soon. Very soon. An audience has been arranged.

    His majesty is always pressed by the many demands of his high estate, but he, too, is anxious to meet. In the meantime, I am to see to your every comfort. If you wish anything—“

    “Lady Pheresa,” Gavril cut in. “Her comfort is paramount. She has need, at this moment, of her physicians.”

    “Of course. Her affliction is surely most curious.” As he spoke, Mradvior walked over to Pheresa and swept the blanket to the floor. He stared at her, his eyes gleaming. “Well, well, a beauty.”

    “Stand away from her!” Gavril commanded furiously. “How dare you invade her privacy in such a way.”

    Mradvior ignored his protest and walked around the circle of guardians, now and then tapping one of them on the shoulder. Gavril saw one of these men, Dain’s peculiar physician Sulein, twitch violently and sway where he knelt.

    Alarm filled Gavril’s throat. He stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “You must not distract the guardians, Count Mradvior. Her life depends on their complete concentration.”

    “Really?” Mradvior’s thick brows shot up, and he smiled. “This is most fascinating. I will tell the king of these details. They will amuse him, I am sure.”

    Gavril’s hands curled into fists. He could not believe this creature’s insolence. But without his men to put Mradvior out, Gavril could do little to silence him.

    “The lady’s affliction,” Gavril said through his teeth, “is surely too tragic to afford amusement to anyone of civility and kindness.”

    Mradvior tossed back his head in a bellow of laughter so loud several of the guardians swayed. Gavril watched them in alarm, wondering how to get this idiot away from them.

    “Ah, your highness,” Mradvior said at last, wiping his eyes. He laughed again. “You will find that his majesty is neither civil nor kind.”

    “If you have any regard for the lady’s malady, please grant her some privacy and quiet,” Gavril said, resenting having to plead on her behalf. He’d never begged for anything in his life. “She needs her physicians at once. The journey has taken its toll on her.”

    “Do you want her moved again?” Mradvior asked, looking surprised. “This chamber is surely good enough. It is warm and dry.”

    “She requires a solitary chamber where no one will disturb her and the guardians,” Gavril said impatiently. “Please.”

    Mradvior shrugged and issued a series of rapid orders in Netheran. Servants came to lift Pheresa’s encasement and carry her away, with the silent guardians filing out in her wake. Megala followed fearfully.

    Noncire leaned over Gavril’s shoulder. “I am not sure this separation is wise, your highness,” he murmured into Gavril’s ear. “Perhaps it would have been better to keep her close by.”

    Gavril glared at him. “Your advice comes too late.”

    Noncire’s answer was cut off by Mradvior, who said, “There! She will be placed in my wife’s apartments. Perhaps she will amuse the ladies of my household, for they will be curious to see her style of hair and gown.”

    Dismay sank through Gavril. “I pray they will not disturb her. She needs her physicians, for she—”

    “My physician attends her now,” Mradvior said with a shrug. “It is enough.”

    Gavril shut his mouth on more protests. “Then I wish to bathe and dine. Afterwards I will write letters. Have you messengers that will carry them for me? Or may I dispatch my own men?”

    “All will be seen to, your highness.”

    The evasive answer set Gavril’s teeth on edge. If he was a prisoner, he wished Mradvior would come out and say so openly.

    “Please notify Cardinal Pernal of my arrival. As soon as possible, he must come to me.”

    Mradvior’s smile faded. He pressed his palms together and sighed. “Regrettably, his eminence is away.”

    “Where?”

    “Far from here. He has gone on a long journey.”

    “And when will he return?”

    For some reason this question seemed to amuse Mradvior very much. “Not for a very long time.”

    “But I have been exchanging letters with him,” Gavril protested. “We were engaged in negotiations for—”

    “Ah, yes, negotiations for the return of the pretender,” Mrad-vior broke in with a bow. “But I am informed by Commander Ognyoska that the pretender is not with you.”

    “Unfortunately, no.” Gavril shot a look of blame at Noncire. “He escaped us.”

    “Pity.” Mradvior’s smile disappeared, and his dark eyes bored into Gavril with implacable force. “Ognyoska had orders to give the pretender a proper greeting at the border. His majesty will be... disappointed.”

    An involuntary shiver ran up Gavril’s spine. “It could not be helped.”

    “Oh, you need not make your excuses to me, your highness. It is King Muncel you will be held accountable to.”

    Anger flashed through Gavril. He tossed his head. “I am accountable to no one, Count Mradvior. As Heir to the Realm of Mandria, I—”

    “Oh, your highness is of very great importance,” Mradvior agreed. “Very great. Yes, yes, this is understood.”

    “Your highness,” Kress whispered hoarsely at Gavril’s shoulder. “This feels like a trap.”

    Gavril was amazed it had taken Kress this long to grasp the obvious. Glaring at his protector, all he said was “Netheran manners are poor, but they do understand the rules of safe conduct and hospitality.”

    “Yes, yes! We do understand,” Mradvior said with a smile. “You will be treated very well during your stay here. Of course, how long you stay depends on many factors.”

    “The health of the lady,” Gavril said sharply. “If she can be cured quickly, I hope to depart before—”

    Mradvior shook his head as though she were of no importance. “Not the lady, no. You will stay as long as it takes King Verence to become generous.”

    Stiffening with alarm, Gavril gripped his sword hilt. “What do you mean?”

    Mradvior gave him a sly grin. “Yes, yes, I think he will be anxious to see his son and only heir come home again. We Netherans are not fools, your highness. When you give us such a ripe opportunity, how can we resist grabbing it?”

    “Speak plainly, sir. Say what you mean!” But Mradvior only laughed.

    “We had an agreement,” Gavril said angrily. “We came here under stated truce and a flag of pilgrimage to save the lady’s life.”

    “Well, she’ll be a curiosity for the court, I am sure,” Mradvior said with a shrug. “Everyone is agog to see her. We have heard the rumors of her beauty. This spell which keeps her alive is strange magic indeed, which the king wants to study.”

    “Take me to King Muncel at once!” Gavril commanded.

    “When it is time for your appointed audience, of course.”

    “No! I demand to see him now.”

    “When it is time for your appointed audience.”

    Gavril muttered under his breath and strode for the door. The guards who stood in front of it, however, refused to budge. Gavril glared at them, trying hard to keep his dignity even as his heart started pounding.

    “Let me pass!” he commanded.

    “They do not obey your highness’s orders,” Mradvior said from behind him. “Your highness may have full run of my house, but your highness may not leave.”

    Gavril stiffened and turned back to face him. “Am I a prisoner here?”

    Mradvior spread wide his hands with a shrug. “I prefer the word guest.”

    “You cannot hold me. To do so is tantamount to a declaration of war.”

    “Yes, yes, of course,” Mradvior replied. “But since King Verence has refused agreement to the terms of the new treaty, Nether and Mandria are no longer friends.”

    Gavril listened to this news and felt sick. Was this why his father wanted him to turn back? Why had his message not said so in plain explanation? But even worse, what had possessed Verence to be so stubborn at this delicate time?

    “Still,” Mradvior was saying merrily, “what do the terms matter? You will bring a very fine ransom that will swell King Muncel’s treasury. Of course if your father does not act quickly, you cannot be released before the deep cold, and then I’m afraid it will be thaw-time before you can journey homeward. Do you think the lady will live that long?”

    “Kress!” Gavril shouted, and sprang forward as he drew

    Tanengard. Behind him, he heard Kress draw steel. His protector took on some of the guards, who shouted in Netheran as they engaged in combat.

    Gavril charged Mradvior, who carried no weapon other than a small dagger. Although he wanted to run the villain through, Gavril intended to hold him at swordpoint and force a way to freedom.

    Noncire called out a warning that Gavril ignored.

    Just as he reached the count, however, an invisible force slammed into him. Tanengard grew too heavy to hold, and as he went staggering back, he dropped the sword.

    Across the room, Kress screamed in agony. Gavril looked over his shoulder in time to see one of the guards yanking his sword from the protector’s chest. Blood spurted, and Kress crumpled to the floor.

    Looking around wildly, Gavril found himself entirely on his own. He lunged toward Tanengard, but the invisible force struck him again, and knocked him away from the sword.

    Fearful of this magic, he retreated a step and desperately tried to remember his Sebein training in how to properly channel Tanengard’s special powers. If he could just close his eyes and concentrate a moment, he would remember how to—

    “In the name of Tomias, begone!” Noncire shouted sternly, and the memory shattered in Gavril’s mind.

    Enraged, he turned on the cardinal. “This is no time for piety! How dare you interfere!”

    “And how dare you risk your soul when your very life is in mortal danger?” the cardinal retorted. “Do not reach for that weapon in anger, your highness. I warn you most urgently. It will consume you as it did before.”

    Gavril opened his mouth to argue, but by then Mradvior had picked up Tanengard and was examining it with interest.

    “A magicked blade,” he said, pursing his lips. “I thought Mandrians never carried them.”

    “You thought wrong,” Gavril said proudly.

    Noncire clutched his sleeve. “Have a care, highness.” Furious with him, Gavril shook off his grasp. He sprang at Mradvior again, intending to wrest Tanengard from his hand.

    This time the invisible force walloped him so hard the world grew dim. Only his quick grab at a table kept him from falling.

    Noncire gripped his shoulders to steady him. “Desist, I beg you! He is using magic and you will only do yourself harm.”

    “I will not be made a fool by this blackguard!” As he straightened, Gavril tried to reach for his Circle, but it was inside his hauberk where he could not get at it.

    Chuckling, Mradvior came forward and handed Tanengard to him hilt-first. “My master-at-arms would be interested to know where this weapon was forged. It has an unusual vibrancy in the blade. Does it not affect you? Some men go mad when they carry something flawed like this.”

    As Gavril’s hand closed on the hilt, he felt Tanengard’s rage ignite from his own, and he was filled with an overwhelming urge to strike. With one blow, he could send Mradvior’s head rolling across the soft carpet.

    “Gavril!” Noncire said urgently. “In the name of Tomias, take care! He wants you to act rashly.”

    The prince bared his teeth, but he saw the taunting challenge in Mradvior’s dark eyes, and knew that Noncire’s warning was true.

    Struggling to master his emotions, Gavril slid Tanengard into its scabbard. He could not fight spellcasting, no matter how much he might want to try. He must bide his time for the right moment, and then, by Thod, he would run Mradvior through.

    Looking disappointed at his restraint, Mradvior beckoned to a wide-eyed servant. “His highness looks fatigued. Conduct him and his eminence to their apartments. Oh, and clean up this mess.”

    Feeling hollow, Gavril walked past Kress’s body to follow the servant through a door and up a long flight of stairs to an elegant suite of rooms. Gavril hardly spared a look for his new surroundings. He seemed unable to concentrate. He had been tricked. He’d been made into a fool. First by Dain, and now ...

    “Highness,” the servant said, handing him what looked like a clear stone. “Speak aloud where you wish to go, and the stone will guide you.”

    “Great Tomias!” Gavril said in startlement. He dropped the stone, which bounced on the thick rug and rolled partway under a chair.

    Clucking in distress, the servant retrieved it, seemed about to repeat his instructions, then bowed and carefully set the stone on a small table of inlaid wood. Bowing again, he backed out past Noncire, and vanished.

    Gavril’s fear rushed up and over him like a gigantic wave. He shut his eyes, fighting the desire to scream aloud. “What in Thod’s name have we come to?” he whispered.

    “We have come to betrayal and villainy,” Noncire said softly. Shrugging off his cloak, he looked at the ornate furnishings and heavy hangings. “Well, Gavril, your pride has brought you here. Since you refused to listen to anyone’s counsel except your own, you—”

    “Oh, end your recriminations,” Gavril said sharply, recovering from his momentary weakness. He began to pace back and forth. “I take no blame for this. I came here in good faith. Is it my fault that I have been betrayed?”

    “Yes.”

    Gavril glared at him. “How dare you say so!”

    “Why should I not tell the truth? I am equally a prisoner here, but no one will ransom me, I think.”

    Gavril resumed pacing. Another wave of indignation swept over him. “We had Muncel’s assurance, his word!”

    “This situation cannot be entirely unexpected,” Noncire said scornfully. “The risk has always been a factor. King Verence feared something like this—”

    “My father is the very reason we are now prisoners!” Gavril said furiously. “I blame him entirely for this.”

    Noncire’s small black eyes turned stony with disappointment. “Of course you do.”

    “Why don’t you make yourself useful? Instead of casting blame, you can better serve me by finding a way to reach Cardinal Pernal and—what? Why do you shake your head at me?”

    “Did your highness not understand Mradvior’s hints? Cardinal Pernal is surely dead.”

    “You imagine things!” Gavril said with a sharp laugh of disbelief. “Why should he be dead?”

    “Because in this realm, enemies of the king vanish, never to be seen again.”

    “Fie! We know Pernal to be Muncel’s chief spiritual adviser. He has been so for years. You can hardly label him one of Muncel’s enemies.”

    “If you wish to delude yourself, do so,” Noncire said with uncharacteristic asperity. “I think he is dead.”

    “Then find someone else to aid us.”

    Noncire’s fat face never changed expression. “I think it must be your highness who finds a way out of this predicament.”

    “How so?”

    “When you meet with King Muncel—”

    “If I meet with him,” Gavril said glumly.

    “I believe you shall. He will want to gloat over his catch, if nothing else.”

    Gavril ground his teeth together and abandoned this useless conversation. The fact of having been tricked made him boil. That Muncel dared betray him seemed inconceivable. Never in his life had Gavril met with more disrespect or insult than today. And yet, had his father not bungled the treaty with Nether, none of this would have happened. Gavril’s eyes narrowed. It seemed Verence wasn’t as concerned for his son’s welfare as he pretended. Well, let him pay a hefty ransom for their return. Perhaps that would teach him to be less careless with his treaties in the future.

    “It is said that King Muncel has an uncertain temper,” Noncire was saying. “When you talk to him, take care that you do not arouse it.”

    Gavril turned on him impatiently. “I do not require your counsel on this.”

    “I think you do!” Noncire said sharply. “All our lives are at risk here.”

    “He will not dare kill me,” Gavril said haughtily.

    Noncire’s fat face turned red. It was one of the few times he had ever displayed his temper. “You might consider the safety of those you have brought here with you,” he said very quietly indeed.

    Gavril shrugged. “Do not lose your nerve simply because

    Mradvior has wielded a bit of magic. Muncel and Mradvior know that if / am harmed, my father will send no ransom.“

    “And your men are therefore expendable?” Noncire said in rebuke. “Like Lord Kress?”

    “I cannot help the man now,” Gavril said in irritation. “What is the point of dwelling on his loss?”

    “And Lady Pheresa?”

    “Ah, yes. I must see that she gets the care she needs. You will work to negotiate our freedom.”

    “With whom?”

    Gavril shrugged. “You must have allies in the church here. Contact them.”

    “And if I cannot?”

    “Stop arguing with me, and do as you are told!” Gavril shouted. “I wish to Thod I’d never brought you along.”

    “I wish to Thod I had not come.”

    Hot, angry silence fell between them. Gavril looked at his former tutor with contempt. Although the man had once seemed to be so intelligent and clever, he’d proven himself both spineless and weak.

    “You’re here at your own insistence,” he reminded the cardinal icily.

    “Someone must protect your soul.” Noncire pointed at Tanen-gard. “Your blasphemy in carrying that vile weapon puts you in mortal danger.”

    “Without it to protect us, we—”

    “Did you not hear Mradvior say it will eventually drive you mad?”

    Worry touched Gavril for only a moment before he dismissed it. “Why should I believe what that villain says? Tanengard will protect us from the evil here.”

    ‘Tanengard will only draw you into the darkness. Have care—“

    “Be silent!” Gavril roared, losing his temper entirely. “I will hear no more on the matter, lord cardinal! Must I use this weapon to silence you forever?”

    Noncire stood very still, his face as immobile as stone. For a long moment he stared at Gavril. “I have lost you,” he said sorrowfully. “All the training and instruction in the faith that I

    gave you since your infancy is now as nothing. You are lost, Gavril, and I cannot get you back.“

    “You old fool!” Gavril pointed at the door. “Get out! Get outl”

    In cold, disapproving silence, Noncire drew the sign of the Circle between them and went.

    Dain and his companions were five days into the forest of central Nether and looking for a place to camp for the night when the attack came.

    It had been overcast all day. No snow was falling, but the air smelled damp and frosty. It was bitterly cold, and as dusk drew nigh, shadows began to pool beneath the trees. Keebacks flew overhead, calling their plaintive kee ... kee ... kee. A young danselk, his antlers spreading to only two points, foraged noisily in a stand of colorful harlberries until he heard their approach; panic-stricken, the danselk flung himself from the thicket and raced away.

    “Damne!” Sir Terent said. “An easy shot, that, if I had a bow.”

    “Do you want to course him?” Thum asked.

    “And do what? Stab him with my sword?” Sir Terent snorted. “Nay. He’s gone already.”

    Meeting Thum’s smiling eyes, Dain gave his squire a small nod of approval. That was the most Sir Terent had said in days. Ever since Sir Polquin’s death, Sir Terent had gone about in a black mood indeed. Gone were his sunny, gap-toothed smiles. Instead, his brow was often furrowed, and grim lines bracketed his mouth. Dain left him alone to his grieving for his friend.

    There was no comfort to offer; nothing would bring Sir Polquin back.

    At present, Alexeika and Sir Alard had ridden ahead, scouting for a campsite. Dain, Sir Terent, and Thum allowed their horses to plod along at a walk. It was getting more and more difficult to find forage for the animals, and their own food supplies had dwindled to whatever they could manage to hunt on the way. Early this morning, Sir Terent’s traps had caught two hares. Tied to his saddle, they dangled and bobbed with the promise of tasty eating tonight.

    Dain’s head was aching a little, in the way it did occasionally since Cardinal Noncire had tried to force open his mind. As a result, he wasn’t alert. All he could think of was stopping for the night, eating something hot, and not moving until his headache eased.

    Had he felt well, they might have had some warning before gray shadows came flying at them from the trees.

    Larger than bats and much faster, two of the creatures zoomed over Dain’s head. He ducked instinctively and heard Thum shout in alarm. Drawing rein, they all bunched together, ducking and swatting the things in bewilderment. Sir Terent drew his sword with an oath, but he could not swing it fast enough to strike whatever these things were that darted and circled.

    His headache forgotten, Dain tried to contact them with his mind, but was brushed aside. One came right at him, and Dain ducked just in time.

    “Morde a day!” Sir Terent swore, swinging his sword in vain. “What are they?”

    “Nothing of this world,” Dain said as one struck his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he caught a confused impression of gray fur and beady malevolent eyes. Its claws were like needles, and with an oath, he knocked it off. Before it hit the ground, however, it turned over in midair and suddenly zoomed away.

    Thum screamed, arching his back, and Dain saw that one of the small gray shapes had fastened itself to his shoulder. “Get it off me!” Thum shouted. “Damne! It’s—” He halted in mid-sentence and screamed again.

    Unsure what to do, Dain drew Truthseeker and plunged its tip into the creature. Flames burst the thing apart, and the others flew off with tiny screeches just as Sir Alard came galloping out of the trees, with Alexeika clinging behind him.

    Sir Alard had his sword drawn. His eyes were on fire and he was ready for battle. “What is it? What happened?” he demanded.

    Dain had no time to answer him. Leaning over from his saddle, he pounded out the flames burning through Thum’s cloak, using his gloved hands to smother the fire. Thum was huddled over his horse’s neck, moaning softly. Dain stopped slapping flames long enough to give him a light shake.

    “Are you much hurt? Did it bite you? Thum, are you hurt?”

    Thum didn’t answer. At that moment, the fire in his cloak shot back to life, nearly scorching Dain’s hand.

    Sir Terent gripped Thum by his collar and shoved him out of the saddle. Even as Thum hit the ground with a startled yelp, Sir Terent was dismounting. He ran to roll Thum over and over in the snow until the fire was truly extinguished from his clothing. Even then, Sir Terent took no chances. He yanked off Thum’s ruined cloak, flung it on the ground, and kicked snow over it.

    “These damned swords,” he grumbled. “ ‘Tis against Writ to put magic in a blade, aye, and I can see why.”

    By then they were all off their horses, except Alexeika, who remained on Sir Alard’s steed. Holding her daggers in her hands, she kept a sharp watch on the sky and trees around them.

    “We must leave this place,” she announced. “Now.”

    Dain glanced up at her. She was an odd maiden, to be sure, with her brusque manners and masculine clothing. Her tongue was sharp, and she was quick to criticize, quick to voice her opinion, whether asked for or not. But since that first night, when they’d argued so fiercely, she’d taken care not to contradict Dain’s orders. On his part, he tried to talk to her only when it was absolutely necessary.

    He noticed now that she was looking tense, even a little frightened. That increased his sense of unease.

    “It is not good to be here,” she said. “They are a warning.”

    “What are they?”

    “Krenjin. Imps. They’re dangerous.”

    Dain had never heard of the creatures. But although they were not Nonkind, they were certainly hostile. “What kind of warning?”

    She glanced overhead again with such apprehension that Dain looked skyward too, half-expecting to see another formation of the creatures in renewed attack.

    “Alexeika, what kind of warning? Against what?”

    “I don’t know.” She gestured impatiently. “We must go!”

    By now Sir Terent and Sir Alard were helping Thum to his feet. The squire’s face was bone white beneath his freckles. His hazel-green eyes were round and wide with shock.

    “All right?” Dain asked him worriedly. “Can you ride?”

    He gave Dain an unsteady nod. “Aye.”

    “We’ll tend him later!” Alexeika called out. “Only let us get away from here!”

    Dain had many questions about these mysterious krenjin, but he would ask them later. While Thum was helped back astride his horse, Dain swung into Soleil’s saddle.

    “They came at us from the direction we were heading,” he said to Alexeika.

    She frowned. “Then let’s turn aside. We’ll circle east a ways before we head north again.”

    Mindful of Thum, who looked none too steady in the saddle, Dain kicked his horse to a trot and ducked beneath the bare branches of a tree entwined with woody vines. The others followed him, and for a moment there was only the sound of their horses crashing through the snow-crusted undergrowth.

    Then Dain sensed something ahead, something he did not know or recognize. Fearing another attack of krenjin, he turned Soleil aside, but an enormous gray beyar came loping across his path.

    Soleil reared in fright, and suddenly they were surrounded by more of the huge, shaggy animals.

    By the time Dain had his panicked horse back under control, it was too late to run. Only then did he notice that some of the beyars had riders. Slim, cloaked figures, they were but half-seen in the gloomy shadows among the trees.

    “Merciful Thod,” Sir Terent whispered hoarsely, “what lies before us now?”

    But Dain started grinning in relief. “Eld-folk!” he said with a laugh. “We have found them.”

    Sir Terent’s eyes shifted and darted warily. “Looks more like they’ve found us. Aye, and caught us fast.”

    “There’s nothing to fear,” Dain proclaimed. For the first time since he’d sneaked out of Thirst Hold via its secret passageway and waited long, bleak hours in the darkness until Sir Terent, Thum, and Sir Alard rode through the gates at dawn’s light, concealed among Lord Renald’s small squadron of knights, Dain felt optimism. No matter how much the others had doubted the course he’d set them on, he’d always believed that he could find the elusive eldin. And now that he had, he felt that many of his troubles were over. After all, these were his mother’s people. As soon as they knew who he was, they would help him.

    Raising his hand in peace, he called out a greeting.

    “Take care, sire,” Alexeika warned softly.

    Ignoring her, Dain kicked his trembling horse forward.

    A slim, short arrow hurtled through the air, missing him by inches. He halted, his heart pounding fast.

    “In Thod’s name, sire!” Sir Terent called out in alarm. “Come back!”

    “Be still,” Dain told his protector, and stared at the silent, hostile eldin around him. He wished he could see their faces more clearly in the darkening shadows. Again he raised his hand. “I am Faldain,” he said loudly. “Son of King Tobeszijian and Queen Nereisse. I come seeking my mother’s people.”

    When no one responded, Dain frowned. “I bring no harm to you,” he said. “I seek my mother’s people, and come with friendship and good intentions.”

    Finally the beyars parted, and a single rider approached Dain. His mount was a stout, black-furred beast with a band of white at its throat. When the beyar halted in front of Dain, its rider pushed back his hood with a frown.

    Dain found himself looking into a pair of amber eyes flecked with glints of silver. The eld’s hair—blond as tasseled grain— fell nearly to his slim shoulders, and the pale locks twisted and writhed constantly as though a wind blew through them.

    A pang of familiarity shot through Dain’s heart. Thia’s hair had been that same pale color. It, too, had moved and curled incessantly as though possessing life of its own. He wished fiercely that she were here at his side for this reunion with their mother’s people.

    The eld’s face was triangular, with pronounced cheekbones and a narrow chin. A single gold earring dangled from one of his pointed ears. Beneath his cloak, he was clad in a fur-lined jerkin and leggings of soft, fawn-colored leather.

    “You call yourself Faldain, son of Tobeszijian,” he replied at last when he had finished his scrutiny of Dain. “How will you prove it?”

    Dain frowned. “How will you test me?”

    The eld glanced at the darkening sky and shrugged. In silence he started to turn his beyar around.

    “Wait!” Dain called out desperately. “Please. I’ve come seeking your help.”

    “You wear man-stink and think man-thoughts,” the eld said to him harshly. “We no longer walk among men.”

    “I would change that, if I could,” Dain said. “I know many injustices have harmed the eld-folk, and hope to put an end to such wrongs.”

    “Then end them,” the eld said indifferently. “It is nothing to us.”

    “Wait!” Dain called again. “Please take me to your king. Let me plead my cause to him.”

    “Your cause has no meaning to us.”

    “How do you know?” Dain asked.

    The eld glared at him. “Leave this land. You have intruded on sacred ground, and your presence offends us. Take your men and go!”

    “I ask your pardon for our intrusion,” Dain said quickly. “I didn’t know—”

    “The markings are plain.”

    Embarrassed by his ignorance, Dain sighed. “I know only dwarf runes, not eldin ones.”

    The eld gestured with contempt. “We do not scratch runes into trees like barbarians. You were warned away by the kren-jin, but you heeded them not. You have intruded, and I will give you but one more chance to go with your lives intact.”

    “Sire,” Sir Terent said softly behind him. “You better back away now, nice and quiet.”

    But Dain couldn’t face defeat now, not when he was so close to achieving this part of his objective. He drew a deep breath. “In the name of Solder, I—”

    Roaring, several of the beyars reared up on their hindquarters. Their eldin riders exchanged glances and called out sharply in a language Dain did not understand.

    Their leader narrowed his amber eyes at Dain. “What do you know of the old favors?” he demanded angrily. “What do you call for in the name of the First?”

    Dain realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it hastily as he tried to hide his delight in what Solder’s name had invoked. He’d only intended to urge them to listen to him; he knew nothing about any “old favors.” But now it seemed he had some leverage, and he intended to use it.

    ‘Take me to your king,“ he said. ”I must talk to him.“

    The eld scowled at him through the gathering shadows, then said something rapidly that Dain did not understand. He pointed behind Dain, and several eld riders closed in on Dain’s companions.

    “No man may come past this point,” the eld said to Dain. “Your companions will stay here, guarded close.”

    “But—”

    “There will be no trickery.” The eld issued another order.

    One of his riders gripped Alexeika’s arm and pulled her off Sir Alard’s horse.

    She twisted, kicking in midair, and landed on her feet with a stumble. Snarling something, she reached for her daggers.

    “Alexeika, no!” Dain commanded.

    She froze. Curly tendrils of her dark hair framed her face, and a long strand that had escaped her braid hung crookedly over one ear. “I’ll not be taken prisoner,” she said gruffly. “Never again will I be held against my will.”

    The eld leader swung his attention back to Dain. “You are both mixed-bloods. Is she your sister, Thiatereika?”

    Again, a pang of regret stabbed through Dain. He was relieved that they knew him, even recognized him, but deeply saddened that Thia would never meet her mother’s people.

    “Thiatereika is not with us,” Dain said formally. His throat felt like it had something wedged in it; he could not seem to make himself phrase his answer differently.

    “Who is this maiden?” the eld leader asked suspiciously.

    With a proud toss of her head, Alexeika walked up to stand at Dain’s stirrup. “I am Alexeika, daughter of Prince Ilymir Volvn. My mother was half-eldin and from—”

    “Both of you will come,” the eld leader said. As he lifted his hand, tiny flames ignited from the tips of his fingers and cast a faint, pearly glow of light. “Your mixed blood will enable you to go across.”

    “Sire!” Sir Terent called in alarm. “Don’t go off with them! They mean you no good—”

    “Sir Terent, hold your tongue!” Dain ordered furiously. “I will not hear you insult their hospitality.”

    “Ain’t hospitality to part you from your protector and haul you off at spearpoint,” Sir Terent said stubbornly.

    “I am in no danger,” Dain retorted. “They will treat me well. Bide here quietly until my return. I won’t be long.”

    “I must go with you,” Sir Terent said stubbornly, coming forward.

    The eld leader spoke a sharp command, and one of the riders bounded across Sir Terent’s path. Confronted by a huge, snarling beyar and a rider holding a javelin in readiness to throw, Sir Terent backed down.

    “In Thod’s name, sire, take not this risk!” he pleaded one last time.

    The eld leader was glaring at Dain; clearly the scant patience he’d possessed was gone. “They cannot enter our sacred groves,” he said in outrage. “They profane the very ground.”

    “I give you my word they will not stir from this place,” Dain said, making sure he spoke loudly enough for Sir Terent and the others to hear him. “They will cause no trouble. You have my bond on this.”

    The eld leader looked at Dain with open distrust, but after a moment his scrutiny swung away. He nodded, then wheeled his beyar around. “Very well. Come.”

    Alexeika stepped forward, her blue-gray eyes large and luminous.

    Dain reached down to give her a hand so she could climb on Soleil behind him. She hesitated, but he gave her a quick smile, and something softened in her eyes. She climbed up behind his saddle with quick agility, and in that momentary clasp of their hands, he sensed the excitement that pulsed inside her.

    Dain felt the same way, for he was certain he was going to meet a part of his heritage and find out more about who he was. He would meet his family. There would be celebrations and long talks. And best of all, he would learn how to cure Pheresa.

    The beyars padded silently over the crusted snow. Night fell over the forest, but the fairlight flickering from the eld riders’ fingers provided enough illumination to guide Dain through trees and brush nearly as choked and thick as that to be found in the Dark Forest. Gradually Dain grew conscious of something very strange. The trees around them were alive, for he could sense their low, dormant life force. But there seemed to be nothing else alive in this forest: no little animals hibernating in their burrows, no birds, no predators—nothing.

    In all directions he sensed only a silent stillness that made the hair prickle beneath his mail coif. He stayed alert in the saddle, riding with one hand resting on his sword hilt. Beneath him, Soleil pranced along like a coiled spring, ready to bolt at the least provocation.

    At last, they came to a stream, narrow and incredibly swift. The water rushed past a scrim of ice trying with little success to form along the edge of the bank. The riders around Dain parted to allow him to ride alongside their leader.

    A narrow bridge spanned the stream. Access to it was guarded by a pair of life-sized, carved wooden beyars standing on their hind legs.

    The leader dismounted with a gesture for Dain to do likewise. An eld rider hurried forward to take Soleil’s reins.

    Dain watched him with a frown, but the eld’s hands were gentle with the nervous horse. He murmured softly to Soleil as the eld led the steed away.

    “Come,” the leader said, then walked across the bridge, the sound of his footsteps masked by the rushing water.

    Dain walked between the carved beyars, and was startled to feel himself brushed by some essence of the animal, as though beyar spirit resided in these statues. Warily, he quickened his stride across the bridge planks, with Alexeika hurrying at his heels, and joined the leader on the other side of the stream.

    The moment his foot stepped off the bridge onto solid ground, the entire world changed with a suddenness that took him aback. Where before there had been nightfall, bone-numbing cold, and crunchy snow underfoot, now there was light as though a hundred lanterns had been lit at once. The warm breeze was fragrant with the scents of flowers and foliage. The trees towering around them were fully leafed in green, their canopies whispering and rustling softly.

    The ground itself was carpeted with moss that released a pungent, almost spicy aroma when stepped on. A path edged with glowstones wended its way toward a collection of dwellings close by, and Dain could hear the sound of voices and laughter.

    He glanced back across the bridge at the other side, but all lay shrouded in darkness, and he could see nothing now of the other riders or his horse.

    Alexeika was gazing around in wonder. Meeting his eyes, she smiled with the delight of a child.

    He felt himself relaxing in these gentle surroundings. This was all he could have imagined and more; once again he thought of his sister, and how wherever she’d been present, plants grew lush and flowers bloomed with an intensely sweet fragrance.

    Their guide, however, looked as stern and unfriendly as ever. He gestured impatiently, and they followed him up the path to the village.

    Tidy dwellings enclosed within blooming hedges circled a grassy clearing. In its center stood a tree growing straight and true. Although it was fully leafed, it cast no shade. The same gentle clear light seemed to shine everywhere. Eldin children were at play, running and chasing a ball made of leather, but at the sight of Dain and Alexeika they stopped their game and scattered for home.

    That’s when Dain noticed an individual sitting on a wooden chair beneath the tree. The chair had sprouted leaves along its surface, as though the wood it was carved from remained alive and rooted. Robed in clothing of soft green, wearing shoes of supple leather, and holding a leafy staff in his hand, this individual had the distinctive eldin features. His face was unlined, but as Dain met his rain-colored eyes he knew instinctively that the eld was very old. His pointed ears were pierced by multiple gold rings, and in his white, constantly stirring hair he wore a gold diadem.

    A few eldin, both male and female, stood near him. One of them held a small harp, although Dain had heard no singing. The pleasant expressions on their faces dropped away and hardened as they caught sight of Dain and Alexeika.

    Their hostility was like a blow. Dain frowned, wondering what had happened to the famed gentleness and hospitality of the eld-folk. What had made them so tense and wary of strangers?

    The guide gestured for Dain to stop, then walked forward alone to kneel before the old eld.

    “Grandfather,” he said reverently, and kissed the hem of his garment.

    The old eld leaned forward to place his hand benevolently on the younger one’s head. He asked a question in the eldin dialect that Dain did not understand.

    Still kneeling, the young eld replied in kind.

    Something familiar about the words flickered and shifted in Dain’s mind. He frowned, feeling he should be able to understand if only he concentrated a little harder.

    Alexeika edged closer to him. “Do you know what he is saying?” she whispered.

    “No.”

    She frowned. “Did your lady mother teach you nothing when you were a child?”

    He glared at her. “Did not yours?”

    Her face puckered angrily as though she’d bitten into a sour grape, but before she could retort, the old eld was beckoning to Dain.

    “Come forth,” he said in Netheran.

    Not sure whether to be elated or nervous, Dain swallowed and walked up to him. He bowed in the Mandrian way, then

    r

    dropped to his knees, willing to humble himself if it would help.

    “This is King Kaxiniz,” the younger eld announced. “Leader of the eight Tribes ... and father of she who was Nereisse.”

    Dain looked up in startlement, realizing he was staring into the pale gray eyes of his own grandfather. At last, against all odds, he had found his true family. Tangled emotions surged into Dain’s throat. For a moment he was too choked up to speak.

    Kaxiniz stared at him and through him, offering no greeting. Dain met his regard steadily for a moment, then shifted his gaze to the younger eld, who had taken a place beside Kax-iniz’s chair as though he had the right to do so.

    “You called his majesty ‘grandfather,’” Dain said in puzzlement. “Is he in truth your relation, or do you call him so as a title of respect?”

    The young eld’s amber eyes flashed proudly. “I am Potanderzin,” he stated. “Grandson and heir to King Kaxiniz.”

    Dain smiled in genuine pleasure. “Then we are cousins. I am glad to find family.”

    Potanderzin stiffened. “We are not your family, mixed-blood!”

    Kaxiniz held up his hand, and Potanderzin subsided with a glare.

    The king of the eldin turned his pale gaze back on Dain and said, “You have invoked the old favors owed to Solder the First. What would you ask of us?”

    Dain blinked at the direct question. He was still trying to adjust to the fact that he possessed both a grandfather and a cousin, and possibly numerous other relatives as well. He wanted to meet them all, to be welcomed. However, plainly he was not going to be accepted here. It saddened him to discover that the eldin were in their own way as bigoted as humans.

    “Ask your favor!” Kaxiniz said impatiently. “Let us settle all debts and be done with them.”

    Dain frowned, certain he faced a trap of some kind. Solder had been the first king of Nether; for a debt to have lasted over the course of several centuries, Dain realized, it must be great indeed. He had no intention of squandering it through ignorance.

    “Perhaps I will not ask my favor now,” Dain said, and saw the old king’s eyes narrow.

    “What, then, do you want?”

    “I am Nereisse’s son,” Dain said in appeal.

    Kaxiniz’s eyes were like river pebbles. “So it has been said. What proof have you?”

    Dain slid a finger inside the neck of his hauberk and pulled out his bard crystal pendant. As he held it up, the multifaceted glass caught the special light of this place and flashed to life in a rainbow of colors and hues that it had never reflected before. The breeze stirred it, and the crystal began to sing with a purity that took Dain’s breath away. Before he realized it, he was singing with it, his voice blending in perfect harmony.

    Potanderzin caught his breath audibly, and Kaxiniz closed his eyes. No one else present moved or spoke until the song ended.

    Trembling a little with emotions he could not name, Dain closed his hand around the crystal. It felt strangely warm and alive against his palm, more so than ever before. He drew in several deep breaths to steady himself.

    “I am Faldain,” he whispered.

    When Kaxiniz opened his eyes, tears shimmered in them. “I heard Nereisse’s voice in your song.”

    Dain bowed his head, missing the mother he had never known.

    “And the voice of someone else. Who?”

    “Thiatereika,” Dain said hoarsely, and cleared his throat. “My sister.”

    Kaxiniz’s gaze shifted to Alexeika, who stood behind Dain. “Not this maiden?”

    “No,” Dain answered. “Thiatereika is dead.”

    Murmurs came from the onlookers, and Kaxiniz’s hands clenched hard in his lap.

    His expression, however, did not change. “Killed by menl” he asked harshly.

    “No, by dwarves. My—Tobeszijian left Thia and me in the guardianship of Jorb the Swordmaker. We grew up in Nold, and might be there still except for a war that broke out among the clans. lorb died in one of the attacks, and so did Thia.”

    “How were you spared?” Potanderzin asked.

    Hearing criticism and an unspoken accusation of cowardice in his voice, Dain frowned and rose to his feet to face his cousin. He was a full head taller than Potanderzin, with twice the muscles and breadth of shoulder. He was getting tired of being judged and found lacking by someone he could break in half.

    “I was away, buying ore for the forge,” he replied, his voice quiet but brittle. “Be assured I took vengeance on those who slew her. They live no more.”

    “Ah, the man-taint covers you well,” Kaxiniz said. “Why come you here to boast of killing and death?”

    “I come here to ask for your help in saving someone’s life.”

    “Whose?”

    “Lady Pheresa du Lindier,” Dain replied. “She is of Man-dria.”

    The eldin all stared at him, and no one spoke. Dain struggled on with his explanation.

    “By accident she drank eld-poison which was intended for me. She lies near death, and has been kept alive only through a spell. It cannot hold her much longer. I came here for the cure.”

    Kaxiniz’s brows drew together. “You come invoking the old favors for this?”

    Dain did not understand his anger. “I need your help. I don’t know where else to turn.”

    “Nereisse died because of eld-poison meant for you,” the old one said. “Why do you come before me with this tale told anew? To wound my heart? To stir up old grief? She was my only daughter. With the greatest misgivings did I bestow her hand in marriage to a man-king. I did it only because Tobesz-ijian had eldin blood in his veins. And see what became of her! See!”

    He flung out his hand as he spoke, and a small vapor formed in the air. For a moment it roiled upon itself, then it cleared to show Dain an image of a woman lying in bed, writhing in fevered delirium. He stared at her, realizing this slender, beautiful woman who looked so much like Thia was the mother he’d never known.

    Unable to stop himself, he took at step toward the image, and it vanished with a small pop.

    “She died because of you!” Kaxiniz said. “Died to save her child from poison.” “j__”

    “And now you claim another woman will die by the same cause, and for the same reasons.”

    “I didn’t come to bring you pain!” Dain said vehemently. “I came in an effort to save a life.”

    “She cannot be saved.”

    “But she’s human. There’s no eld blood in her. Surely something can be done to rid her of the poison,” Dain said desperately. “Please, sir. I beg for your mercy.”

    “There is no cure,” Kaxiniz said gruffly. “It is a poison like no other, conjured forth from the foul breath of Ashnod of Gant to destroy us. It is destruction. Its source is the very antithesis of life. There is no cure.”

    “But—”

    “Accept this. Your quest is a false one, born of pride and a sense of false responsibility.”

    “I am responsible!” Dain retorted, reeling from what Kaxiniz had said. “I love her. I—”

    “And that is another lie.” As Kaxiniz leaned forward, his pale gray eyes were relentless. “You claim love for the bride of another man. No eld would dare do this. You are immoral and tainted by man-ways.”

    Dain stiffened. “I fell in love with her before she belonged to another. I—”

    “No, Faldain. No. I read the truth in your heart, truth which you will not accept. You sought this maiden because she was forbidden. You sought her because you are the enemy of the man she belongs to. This is evil. Great evil!”

    “But I—”

    “You have grown up to be unworthy of your mother’s sacrifice,” Kaxiniz said with contempt. “Nereisse never lacked courage. She never told lies, not even to herself. She never evaded her duty.”

    “Are you saying I do?”

    Kaxiniz said nothing, but the expression in his eyes was damning.

    Feeling whipped by the old king’s scorn, Dain stood there with his face on fire and his temper in shreds. He hadn’t come here to be called an immoral coward. Kaxiniz was a stranger, with no right to judge him.

    Except... Kaxiniz was his grandfather, and he did have the right to judge.

    Feeling ashamed and confused, Dain bowed his head. “I do intend to claim my throne,” he said stiffly, wanting the old eld to understand. “But I have felt it necessary to save Pheresa if I could. I don’t expect her gratitude. I—I know that if she lives she will marry Prince Gavril of Mandria. But why should I let her die, if I could do anything to prevent it?” He looked up, frowning earnestly. “I thought the eldin revered life. Why are you so eager to condemn this young woman? You don’t even know her.”

    “I do not judge her. I do not condemn her,” Kaxiniz said. “Her fate lies not in my hands.”

    “The eldin are healers,” Dain said, pleading with him. “Can no one try to help her? If not for my sake, then for hers? She is innocent. No enemy of any man. Why should she suffer? Why should she die because an assassin sought my death?”

    Kaxiniz stared at him stonily. “You could journey to the pits of hell and beg Ashnod for his dire mercy on her behalf, and it would avail you nothing. There is no cure.”

    “But I thought an eldin healer could draw the—”

    “No eld can draw the poison from her without dying in the attempt. As your mother died, drawing the poison from her child.”

    Dain flinched, for again he heard the accusation and bitterness in Kaxiniz’s voice. He had no memory of having been poisoned as a young child, no memory of having been seriously ill. Thia would have told him about it if it had really happened. Yet he heard no lie in Kaxiniz’s words.

    Dain sighed, then said, “Can  of Eternal Life not create a cure?”

    Behind him, Alexeika gasped aloud. Potanderzin blinked in shock. Kaxiniz drew back deeper within the embrace of his leafy chair. Dain did not know what had shocked them this time, but he was getting tired of how these people took offense at everything he said or asked.

    “Do you know where  is hidden?” he persisted.

    “I do not.”

    Dain’s last hope crashed. He couldn’t believe he had come all this way, risked his life and the lives of his friends, only to meet now with failure. He’d been so sure the eldin would help Pheresa. Had Thiatereika still been alive, she would have stretched out her hand instantly to help a stranger. He realized he’d expected all the eldin to be like her, but clearly they weren’t.

    And yet, there was another mystery lying concealed beneath Kaxiniz’s hostility, a secret of some kind, a... a sort of wariness tinged with fear. Dain glanced around at the handful of eldin looking on, then turned his frown on the nearby dwellings. There weren’t many of them. There seemed to be almost no folk in this enchanted village. And why had the little ones fled at the sight of him? Were they so wary of strangers? Why? Who could harm them, much less find them here?

    “Why do you hide yourselves?” he asked. “What do you all fear?”

    Kaxiniz’s and Potanderzin’s faces were like stone. Dain sensed a flash of panic between grandfather and grandson, felt it as sharply as though it had been shared with him.

    “Something is wrong,” Dain said. “You fear me? Why?”

    The two of them exchanged glances that only confirmed Dain’s suspicions.

    “Why?” he repeated. “All my life I have heard of the eldin ways, of eldin gentleness, of eldin hospitality, of eldin grace and love of beauty. I saw it in my sister, who never spoke from unkindness, who cherished all living creatures.”

    “Your sister is dead,” Potanderzin said harshly. “You said she died by violence. So has it been for most of our folk. We have been too gentle, too trusting. Well, no more!”

    Kaxiniz reached out and touched his wrist, but Potanderzin scowled and jerked away from the old eld’s touch.

    “You ask why we fear you?” Potanderzin said angrily to Dain. “You stand here, in our last place of refuge, and feel hurt because we abhor you!”

    Kaxiniz sighed. “Potanderzin, do not—”

    “Yes, Grandfather! I must tell him. Why shouldn’t he know?”

    ‘Tell me what?“ Dain demanded.

    Potanderzin’s amber and silver eyes blazed at him. “You mean our destruction.”

    “What?”

    “It has been foretold! The son of Tobeszijian will find us, even in refuge where no man may enter. No matter where we hide, he will ride straight to us with eyes that see past the veils of concealment. And when he goes forth from us, he will betray us to our worst enemies. Then will we be driven forever from this place of safety, nevermore to dwell here beyond the reach of men.”

    Stunned, Dain could only stand there, staring at his cousin in astonishment. “But such a prophecy is impossible,” he said at last. “I would never bring harm to you. I—-”

    “Save your lies,” Potanderzin said roughly. “I tell you it has been foretold. The veils of seeing have been parted several times, and always we see ourselves in flight, moving eastward, toward the lands of our enemies.”

    “Visions can be misinterpreted,” Dain said desperately. “I would not act against you. This, I swear!”

    “Knowledge of our hiding place now lies in your mind,” Kaxiniz said with quiet weariness. “Among the Nonkind, knowledge can be plucked from anyone’s thoughts, whether he wishes it to happen or not.”

    Potanderzin nodded. “You are our downfall, Faldain. Our last destruction. This is why we wish you ill.”

    “But—”

    “It is time for you to go,” Kaxiniz said. He met Dain’s eyes as he spoke, and there was no relenting in his gaze. “If you invoke the old favors, we will dishonor ourselves and refuse. For we cannot help you. Now go, and bring about our destiny.”

    “No,” Dain said. “No! Please, I swear to you that—”

    “We do not want your oaths,” Potanderzin said with a sneer. “The king has bade you go. In the name of courtesy, do as he asks. Or must you be forced out?”

    From the corner of his eye, Dain saw Alexeika stiffen and reach for her daggers.

    Not wanting violence, Dain held up his hand. “Wait!” he called out, as much to her as to Potanderzin. “I will go, but I ask one last question.”

    Potanderzin looked as though he would refuse, but Kaxiniz gestured to Dain. “Speak.”

    “Could / draw the poison from Pheresa?” Dain asked. Alexeika gave an involuntary start, but he ignored her and kept his gaze firmly on Kaxiniz. “If I were shown the gifts of healing, could I save her?”

    Emotions shimmered in Kaxiniz’s eyes, but he gave Dain no answer.

    Alexeika gripped his sleeve. “You’ll die,” she said fiercely. “If you attempt such a thing, you will kill yourself. What good to us is that?”

    “It would clear a debt,” Dain said stubbornly. “One life for another. Isn’t that right, Grandfather?”

    Kaxiniz’s face had lost all color. Even his curls stopped moving. “No,” he said hoarsely. “No!”

    “Teach me this skill,” Dain said. “I was too young to remember where my father hid , so I cannot bring it forth from hiding to heal many who suffer. I can think of no other way to save Pheresa’s life. Even if you think I am wrong, she is my friend. I have to save her, no matter what the cost!”

    “And do you understand the cost?” Potanderzin asked him fiercely. “Do you?”

    “Yes,” Dain said. “My life for hers.”

    “No,” Alexeika moaned, but Dain ignored her.

    “With you will die the true line of Netheran kings,” Kaxiniz said. “The chain of descendants from Solder will lie broken forever.”

    Dain flinched slightly at that, but he did not yield. “I am sorry,” he said. “I was not raised to preserve kingdoms, but instead to keep my word. And I gave it to—”

    “Foolish boy, consider more than your own boastful arrogance!” Kaxiniz broke in. “Long, long ago in the time of the ancients, Solder did dare to intervene in the Battles of the Gods. Partly because of his courage and valor, Ashnod and the lesser dark gods were defeated. The mortals who worshipped them became the first Nonkind, and all were driven far across the Charva into a desolate place that we now know as Gant.

    “In reward, Thod made Solder first king over Nether and entrusted him with  of Eternal Life and many secrets of power and magic to enable him to rule long and well. This, Faldain, is your heritage. This is your beginning.”

    Dain frowned. He dared not interrupt the old eld, but so far nothing Kaxiniz said had changed his mind.

    “Since that dawning of time, Ashnod has focused on one primary objective.”

    “Revenge?” Dain said impatiently.

    Kaxiniz frowned at him in severe disapproval. “It is Ashnod’s will that Solder’s line be broken forever, crushed from existence.  of Eternal Life is to be either destroyed or else lost for all eternity. Nether is to sink into the darkness and be consumed by evil. Why do you think Muncel was befriended years ago by agents of the Believers? Who do you think dripped the poison of jealousy into his ear, day after day, until he actually struck against your parents?”

    Dain dropped his gaze, ashamed of his earlier flippancy.

    “Hear me,” Kaxiniz said. “When Tobeszijian was forced from his throne and vanished, never to return, evil took great strides against us. Your father condemned his realm to death when he removed —”

    “He had to,” Dain said in automatic defense of his father. “He couldn’t let it fall into their hands.”

    Kaxiniz’s face twisted with bitterness. “Your father was a brave warrior in battle. The rest of the time he was a fool who did not think ahead. He reacted. He never planned. Time after time, I warned Nereisse of the dangers, yet Tobeszijian would not heed them.”

    “Anyone can make mistakes,” Dain said. “Why can you not forgive his?”

    “Because he carelessly allowed himself and his entire family to fall into the enemy’s hands.”

    Dain’s head lifted in contradiction. “Nay, he kept my sister and me from harm. We were well-hidden until this year.”

    “Too well-hidden,” Kaxiniz said bitterly. “He could have brought you to my keeping, but he did not. Despite his eld blood, he did not trust me with your welfare. Now you stand here, looking brave and manly, yet how ignorant of the true situation you are. By hiding you from your own heritage, Tobeszijian played once more into the enemy’s plans. To some Netherans you are a myth, a savior whose eventual return has been foretold. To others, you are nothing at all, for they do not believe in you. To us, you are disaster.”

    “Hear me! Your coming is likely too late, but if you do nothing except go questing to save a foreign girl whose destiny has no place in Nether, then you finish Ashnod’s work for him.”

    “I gave her my word,” Dain said stubbornly.

    Kaxiniz’s stony gray eyes bored into him. “When?” he asked sharply. “Before or after you learned your true identity?”

    Dain frowned. He had the feeling that Kaxiniz already knew the answer to his question, yet Dain knew he was expected to reply. “After.”

    “Aye, after,” Kaxiniz said with a nod. “After you knew you were required to be elsewhere.”

    “Nether has grown dark indeed,” Dain told him coldly. “For I see that the eldin have come to despise kindness.”

    Kaxiniz stared at him a long moment before he shook his head. “Alas, kindness is not despised, but the good of many must come before the good of one. Has no one taught you this?”

    Dain refused to answer.

    Kaxiniz sighed. “It would seem you are exactly like your father.”

    “Am I?” Dain retorted with heat, wondering what the old eld would say if he knew how strongly Tobeszijian’s vision had urged him to return and rectify his mistakes by fighting for the throne. “Then I am proud to be like him. He kept  from danger.”

    “But at the cost of his kingdom’s well-being!” Potanderzin burst out, as though he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. His eyes were blazing. “The land has grown tainted and foul. We eldin can no longer heal it, for Muncel’s evil has destroyed the Tree of Life that we worship. If you throw yourself away on a cause that does not belong to you, who will restore the tree? Who will restore ? Who will restore the kingdom?”

    Dain’s face was burning. He glared back. “You revile me in one breath and beg me to save you in the next. Is this not the way of men, and far beneath the honor of the eld-folk?”

    Potanderzin reached for his dagger, but quickly Kaxiniz rose to his feet and stepped between them.

    “You hide here, fearing foretellings that may or may not come true,” Dain said in disgust. “Yet what do you for the cause? Will you come forth and fight the evil? Or am I supposed to do it all alone?”

    Kaxiniz faced him with stony dignity. The expression in his gray eyes was terrible to behold. “When you have proven yourself a king, you may criticize us. Not before.” He pointed a trembling finger at Dain. “Go from us. Go!”

    Dain bowed to the old king, his anger like something alive in his chest. Tight-lipped, he took no farewell and gave no other courtesy, but simply turned on his heel and strode away.

    Potanderzin hurried to catch up with him. “I will lead you back to the bridge.”

    “No need,” Dain said angrily. “I can follow the path.”

    “You are blind and foolish,” Potanderzin said. “Just like your father. You are unworthy of Solder’s heritage.”

    “Thank you,” Dain said through his teeth, “for repeating the old king’s words. I would not want to forget them.”

    “Perhaps repetition will break through the stone of your stubbornness.”

    Fuming, Dain followed Potanderzin back along the village path to the bridge. There, he hesitated, seeking one last way to appeal to his cousin’s sense of mercy.

    But Potanderzin gave him no chance. He pointed at the bridge. “Go from here, and do not return.”

    “My blood is pale,” Dain said resentfully. “Just like yours. We’re kin, whether you like it or not.”

    “Until you are worthy, you are no kin of mine.”

    “Worthy?” Dain shot at him. “Worthy of what? My throne? How dare you judge me like this. You have closed your minds, without giving me a chance.”

    “We have seen what is to come,” Potanderzin intoned.

    “Aye, so you keep saying, but what do you intend to do about it?”

    “Do?” Potanderzin said blankly. “What can be done?”

    “When you can answer that question, perhaps at last you will be worthy to sit on our grandfather’s throne.”

    Potanderzin’s eyes narrowed. “Do not mock me. This war against Ashnod has nothing to do with the folk of eld.”

    Dain snorted. “Of course not. Yet you hide.”

    “You were born under great auspices to sit on Nether’s throne. It is your responsibility to guard , to keep back the powers of darkness. We are not required to help you.”

    “Clearly,” Dain retorted. “You hide here in your enchanted wood, safe from Muncel’s army, safe from Gantese assassins. You criticize me yet take no risks yourself. I wonder you do not slaughter me to prevent this betrayal I’m supposed to commit.”

    “Great Thod, no!” Alexeika said in alarm.

    Dain went on glaring at Potanderzin. “Or do you intend to strike me down after I cross this bridge?”

    “You speak evil insult,” Potanderzin said through his teeth. His hands were clenched at his sides. “We eldin are not assassins.”

    “No, indeed. Your destiny has been foretold; therefore, you will fold your hands like old women and make it come true. Why not help fight the darkness? Why not seek to restore this Tree of Life you count so high?”

    Potanderzin’s amber eyes narrowed to slits. He glared at Dain in silence.

    “Yes, I thought so,” Dain said with contempt. “You will do nothing. I may be wrong, as my grandfather has said, but at least I am no coward.”

    “Go from here,” Potanderzin said furiously, and the flowers blooming next to the path withered and died as he spoke. “You understand nothing. Nothing! Go and do not come back!”

    Dain shot him a final steely look. “I am ashamed,” he said, “to know you are my kin.”

    Potanderzin stiffened, but Dain turned away from him and stepped onto the bridge.

    Instantly the light and warmth vanished, and all was dark and bitterly cold once more. Dain strode across, his boots echoing on the rough planks, and stepped off between the carved beyars.

    He found the other eldin riders gone. Only a lingering scent of rank beyar musk remained on the frosty air. Soleil, nickering a welcome, stood tied to a tree.

    Dain untied the reins and waited in the darkness, fuming, as Alexeika crossed the bridge and hurried to join him.

    “Your majesty,” she said quietly, her voice holding a mixture of sympathy and pity, “I’m sorry—”

    “Yes, thank you,” he said, cutting her off. He wanted no comforting. He was too angry, too resentful. His eldin relatives had condemned Pheresa to death, and he would never forgive them for it. “Let’s find the others and go from here.”

    But Alexeika blocked his path. “I’m sorry I had to hear of your shame,” she said. “I swear I will never speak of it.”

    “Shame? What say you?”

    She was only a shadow in the darkness, lean and straight and stalwart. Her hair and skin smelled of frost. “This awful thing that you will do—”

    “I will not betray them!” Dain said angrily. “Gods! Is this your belief as well, that fate comes to us as an assignment we cannot escape?”

    “No, but—”

    “They are sore afraid,” he said, cutting across her words. “There are few of them left—no doubt from persecution. Clearly it has softened their thinking and made them weak.”

    “Fear is always the greatest enemy,” Alexeika said. “Or so my father always told me.”

    “Your father,” Dain said grimly, “was wise.”

    “Sire, you won’t—I mean, you really don’t intend to draw this lady’s poison into yourself, do you?”

    He looked away, staring into the blackness of the forest with his heart still on fire. Never, since Thia’s death, could he remember feeling so bleak inside.

    “No,” he said curtly.

    Alexeika sighed in obvious relief. “Thank the—”

    “If she were nearby, I would try something... anything,” he said raggedly, clenching and unclenching his fists. “But surely she’s in Grov by now.”

    “Grov!”

    “Aye. Unless she died on the journey.” Dain tipped back his head and blinked fiercely in an effort to control himself. He wanted to yell, to draw his sword and cleave something in twain. He wanted to trample, to destroy, to run with the wind until he could feel nothing at all.

    “Your majesty cannot go to Grov!” Alexeika said in alarm.

    “I know. My uncle’s men would cut me down. No, Alexeika, I’m turning west to find the Agyas. It’s time for war.”

    She made a soft little cry in the back of her throat and suddenly dropped to her knees in the snow before him, clutching the hem of his hauberk. “At last,” she murmured, her voice raw with emotions he did not want to witness. “At last! Oh—”

    He gripped her shoulders, and gave her a rough shake. “On your feet. There’s nothing to rejoice about.”

    “But there is!”

    “No, Alexeika.” He sighed harshly in the darkness. “Come, let us get back to the others.”

    Just as he slid his foot into the stirrup to mount his horse, a peculiar feeling swept him, rendering him dizzy and suddenly weak. Letting his foot drop back to the ground, he closed his eyes and leaned against Soleil’s reassuring bulk. A terrible coldness suffused him, starting at the top of his head and descending through his body. He felt as though his very life was sinking into the ground with it. He could feel his heart slowing, his energy draining away until there was nothing ... nothing ...

    “Dain!”

    A rattling thump jolted his bones and brought him back from the icy darkness of nowhere.

    Opening his eyes with a wince, Dain found himself lying on the ground, which was very cold and hard beneath him. He blinked, momentarily dazzled by the orange flames of a campfire. Thum knelt over him, gripping the front of his surcoat with both fists.

    “Dain!” he shouted again with more urgency than before.

    “Easy, lad,” Sir Terent’s voice said. “He’s coming around.”

    Dain tried to lift his hand to his head. He felt dizzy and strange. Nothing looked right to him. He could not figure out what had happened.

    “Here, Terent, lift him while I put this blanket under him.”

    “Aye, Alard. Here, Thum, move out of the way. You’re of no help lifting.”

    Thum vanished, and Dain felt himself lifted and set down again. The ground still felt cold beneath him.

    Frowning, he gazed up into Sir Terent’s worried face. His head dawdled like an infant’s, and he had to concentrate to hold it steady. “What happened to me?”

    Sir Terent pressed a callused hand to his cheek and smiled. “Ah, now, that’s what we’d like to know. That lass came riding into camp here like a wild woman, with you draped unconscious over the saddle. She said you were hale and hearty and talking to her one minute, and the next you fainted flat on the ground.”

    “Oh.” Dain’s frown deepened. He tried to remember and couldn’t. “Is that what—”

    “As for me,” Sir Terent said grimly, “I’m wondering what those queer eldin did to you. What kind of spell did they cast on you, eh?”

    “Move back!” another voice said before Dain could answer.

    Alexeika rushed up to elbow Sir Terent aside. She lifted Dain’s head and pressed a bark cup of water to his lips. “Drink this.”

    Realizing he was thirsty, Dain gulped down the icy cold liquid with gratitude. His weakness was wearing off now. He pushed her hands aside and sat up, thrusting against Sir Terent’s attempt to press him back down.

    “I’m well, sir,” he said sharply, and glanced around.

    The camp lay in a tiny clearing banked with snowdrifts beneath the laden branches of pine and fir. A fire was crackling briskly, casting out enough warmth to hold back the night’s raw cold. Hare carcasses, long since roasted and stripped to the bones, lay atop a flat stone by the flames. Dain could smell the lingering aroma of roasted meat, and his mouth watered.

    “Is aught left for me to eat?”

    Sir Terent chuckled and clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Aye, that there is. Now I know you’re well again. Here, Alard! Hand over that morsel of hare we saved back.”

    Sir Terent’s idea of a morsel was the entire haunch. But clearly they’d all eaten while he was unconscious, so Dain took it and ate it hungrily.

    While he did so, they gathered round and stared at him with blatant concern.

    “I like this not,” Sir Terent said finally when Dain was snapping the bones and sucking marrow from them. “You faltered at Thirst and did act most strange. Now you’ve swooned. Perhaps it’s some illness and—”

    “No,” Dain said with a frown, tossing the bones into the fire and wiping his greasy fingers. “I have been thinking about this, for it’s passing strange.”

    “But if you’re ill—”

    “I can’t be,” Dain said. “My eldin blood would protect me from common malady.”

    Sir Terent’s face turned red, and he slapped a hand around his sword hilt. “Then these eldin have enspelled you—”

    “Easy, sir,” Dain said to restrain him. “Someone is trying to do it, but it’s not the eld-folk.”

    Alexeika’s intelligent gaze was intent as she leaned forward. “No, it can’t be,” she agreed. “I sense none of their type of magic near you.”

    “Hush, lass!” Sir Terent said gruffly to her. “This discussion has no need of your opinion.”

    For an instant she looked hurt; then anger flashed in her eyes and she jumped to her feet. “Wisely spoken, sir lout!” she said contemptuously. “Since you are foreign-born and too stupid to know magic when it’s burning your ears, I’ll leave you to it.”

    “Alexeika!” Dain called after her, but she turned so fast her long braid of hair swung behind her. Away she strode into the night.

    Thum and Sir Alard kept silent, but Sir Terent showed no remorse.

    “Good riddance,” he said in satisfaction, rubbing his hands. “Bold as brass and a tongue of vinegar. Now, sire, about these eldin—”

    “She was absolutely right, Sir Terent,” Dain cut him off coldly. “This could not be their magic turned against me.”

    “Don’t see why not,” Sir Terent replied stubbornly. “No friendliness in them, and the lass told us they refused to help you.”

    “That doesn’t mean they’re trying to kill me,” Dain said.

    “Kill you!” Thum exclaimed in horror. “You think someone intends your death?”

    “Aye.” Frowning, Dain rubbed his chest. “It’s like lying in a snowdrift for hours, unable to move, and growing colder all the while. But it’s worse than that. It’s feeling everything sinking away, fading ...” He sat in silence a long moment, trying to shake off the confused memories. “It comes from afar.”

    “From who?” Thum asked. “Who attacks you like this?”

    Dain shook his head. “Choose from my enemies, since they’re so plentiful. But this is strange magic. I don’t know it, and yet I...” He frowned, but the thought that had almost come to him vanished and would not return. Frustrated, he sighed. “All I know is that it’s getting stronger.”

    His men exchanged uneasy glances. Sir Alard had pulled out his Circle and was turning the brass piece over and over in his fingers.

    Thum’s hazel-green eyes held horror. “But what can you do to stop it? You must know something!”

    “I don’t. I never know when it’s going to overtake me.” Dain’s frown deepened, and he shivered despite his nearness to the fire. “With the Nonkind, I often have some inkling, but this is nothing of their ilk.”

    “Can you not sense when it will strike again?” Thum asked.

    Dain met his eyes with a sense of foreboding. “Nay. I only know that it will.”

    That night he dreamed of riding through driving sleet, the air so cold it burned his nostrils and fingers. He dreamed of hurlhounds— red-eyed, acid-slavering beasts that surrounded him so that there was no way out. He dreamed of fire and smoke, hearing Thia’s screams, feeling her life force ebb away as he gripped her in grief and denial. He dreamed of a place harsh and terrible, where the wind blew sand that abraded his face and choked his breath. And he dreamed of his father, ghostly pale astride his darsteed, blood streaming from terrible wounds, his sword, Mirengard, glowing white in his hands.

    “Father!” Dain called out desperately, racing after Tobeszijian. There was so much he wanted to ask, so much he needed to know. “Father! Wait for me!”

    But Tobeszijian seemed not to hear him. Moaning in pain, the great king reeled in his saddle as though he would fall from it. On his ungloved hand, the Ring of Solder glowed brightly against the gloom. Dain saw his father hesitate, nearly swoon again with a shuddering grimace, and mouth words that Dain could not overhear.

    A blinding explosion of sparks enveloped him, and in an instant he vanished into thin air. Only a few golden sparks lingered in the air, raining down slowly where he had been a moment before.

    Dain felt an overwhelming sense of loss and dread. “Father!” he called. “Come back! Please!”

    But Tobeszijian did not return.

    The next morning, they arose and broke camp in dawn’s bleak light. Dain felt tired and heavy-eyed from poor rest. He caught the others glancing at him in concern, but with a frown he brushed aside their inquiries and climbed into the saddle.

    As had become their custom, Alexeika walked over to climb up behind Sir Alard, but Dain stopped her.

    “Ride with me today,” he said. “We will turn westward and set a hard pace. Soleil is better able to carry two than is Sir Alard’s steed.”

    Alexeika’s cheeks took on a pale tinge of pink. In silence, her red chain mail looking vivid and outlandish against the frosty gray backdrop of the woods, she climbed behind his saddle.

    “I’m sorry for Sir Terent’s words to you last night,” Dain said quietly for her ears alone.

    The color in her cheeks intensified. Her blue-gray eyes were fierce with resentment as she nodded stiffly to him. “The apology is not yours to make, sire,” she said.

    “Perhaps not,” Dain said. “But he is my man and I am responsible for him. He never means to be as rough as he sounds.”

    “Your majesty is wrong!” she said sharply. “He means exactly what he says. But I need no protecting from the bigotry of your men. I can take care of myself.”

    She was so prickly that Dain was tempted to drop the matter, but he could hear genuine hurt beneath her bravado, and he remained troubled by the look that had crossed her face last night. It was the first sign of vulnerability he’d seen in her, the first sign that she was neither as tough nor as hard as she tried to appear.

    “I faced their bigotry myself not so long past,” he told her mildly. “Few Mandrians will accept anyone of eld blood in their company. Gaining their loyalty did not come quickly ... or eas-By.”

    “I suppose your majesty is telling me that in the fullness of time they will befriend me too?”

    “Aye.”

    She snorted. “Why think you I want their friendship?”

    “Everyone needs friends, Alexeika. Even you.”

    She fell silent at his back, and Dain added, “Besides, we’re comrades. It’s best to be on good terms before battle.”

    She ducked in unison with him as they rode beneath a low-hanging branch. “Battle won’t come before the thaw of spring. We—”

    She broke off with a gasp of alarm. At that moment, the stench of fetid decay filled Dain’s nostrils.

    He nearly stood in the stirrups as he drew Truthseeker. ‘Ter-ent, Thum, Alard!“ he shouted. ”Nonkind!“

    Just as Dain shouted his warning, a pair of hurlhounds burst from the undergrowth and came bounding straight for him. Black as eternity they were, their hides scaled and oily, and their eyes glowed with red fire. Venom dripped from their slavering jaws, and they stank of the grave.

    At his back, Alexeika shouted a war cry and drew her sword, which was glowing white in the presence of evil. Dain spurred Soleil forward, intending to meet the onrush of the two hurlhounds with steel, but his beautiful steed had been bred in the gentle stables of Savroix, far to the south where monsters such as these were unknown. Soleil was only a courser, trained to the hunt, and no horse of war.

    Just as Dain leaned over and swung, intending to use his horse’s momentum to drive his sword with additional power through the spine of the nearest hurlhound, Soleil squealed in terror and sprang away from the snarling, snapping monster. Truthseeker whistled harmlessly through the air without striking its target, and Dain nearly tumbled from the saddle. Righting himself with an oath of frustration, Dain pulled hard on the reins, and tried to turn his panicked horse back toward the fray.

    Then Sir Terent came galloping up on his heavy charger. With a shout, he beheaded one of the hurlhounds before it could leap at Dain. Coming up on the other side, Sir Alard attacked the second monster. Their ordinary swords could not prevail, however. Refusing to fall over, the headless hound went staggering back and forth until at last Dain was able to stab it with Truthseeker. Flames shot forth from the blade, and the hurlhound burst into ashes with a thin, wailing scream.

    Sir Alard was stiH hacking at the other monster, mercilessly cutting it to pieces until his charger finally reared and brought both forefeet down on the hurlhound’s skull with a mighty crack of bone. Only then did the monster fall.

    A terrible quiet fell over the wood, broken only by everyone’s harsh breathing. Jets of white wreathed from their mouths, and there was no need to say aloud what they were all thinking: where two hurlhounds were to be found, a whole pack would surely follow.

    Alexeika gripped the back of Dain’s cloak. “This horse of yours is a fool!” she said in fury.

    Dain didn’t bother to reply; he was too busy using his mind to soothe Soleil’s fear and bring the trembling horse back under his control.

    “I hear more coming,” Sir Terent said.

    For once his hearing proved more keen than Dain’s. Lifting his head, Dain shook off his preoccupation with Soleil to listen, and now he heard the baying of more hurlhounds, coming fast. Worse, he heard the thunder of hoofbeats, and he sensed the minds of many riders. Some were filled with evil intent; others were simply empty. His mouth went dry.

    “Believers and Nonkind,” he said hoarsely.

    Sir Terent stood up in his stirrups, listening with all his might. “How many, think you?”

    Dain’s mind was working rapidly. Not for the first time did he feel exasperation at being in a strange land. He knew not the lay of this country, knew not the streams, nor the ravines and hiding places.

    “Sire?” Sir Terent said. “How many—*

    ‘Too many for us to fight,“ Dain replied quickly. ”Damne, but we should have ridden hard all night, gotten ourselves far from here. We—“

    “After your swoon last night, you were in no condition to ride,” Sir Terent reminded him gruffly.

    “That’s my point,” Dain said impatiently, reining Soleil around. “Clearly my uncle’s agents have been hunting me since I left Savroix. Last night, somehow, they—or some sorcerel working in conceit with them—managed to mark me.”

    “Mercy of Riva,” Alexeika whispered in dismay.

    Ignoring her, he kept his gaze on his protector. “That must be why I fainted.”

    A deep crease furrowed between Sir Terent’s brows. While Sir Alard drew a Circle on his breast, Sir Terent stared hard at Dain. “You’re saying some kind of spell’s been cast o’er your mind?”

    “Not to control me,” Dain assured him. “But these hurlhounds made straight for me alone. We’ve been found, here in the midst of nowhere. How else, unless they have marked me in some way?”

    Alexeika gripped his shoulder. “If that’s so, then by camping here near where you collapsed, we’ve given these riders all night to catch up with us. Thod above, I never thought of that!”

    Comprehension and worry flashed across all their faces, but there was no time to discuss it further. The sounds of pursuit were coming closer, a crashing thunder through the forest that made birds fly up from the treetops into the sky and set Soleil’s ears pricking nervously. A terrible howl rose in the air, and Dain felt his heart lurch in his chest, for he was the quarry.

    “We’ve got to run for it,” Sir Terent said grimly, and Sir Alard was nodding with nervous glances over his shoulder.

    “If you’re marked,” Alexeika said quietly to Dain, “then they’ll follow you no matter where you run.”

    “I’ve thought of that,” Dain said. He forced himself to speak crisply, with no evidence of fear, in order to steady the rest of them. “I think I can make myself elusive and counteract whatever they’ve put on me. Quick, Alexeika, is there a place of refuge nearby? An old shrine, perhaps? A place to hide?”

    She was frowning. “I think so. About half a league that way.” She pointed. “There’s a little river, the Tan. On the other side are small hills riddled with caves. I’ve heard there are old shrines there.”

    “Morde a day!” Sir Terent said in frustration. “What good is some pagan cave—”

    “A river!” Dain said in relief, paying his protector no heed. “That’s even better. Come—”

    “Wait, sire!” Thum said urgently, moving his horse to block Dain’s path. “Why take the chance of running that far when the eldin sanctuary is close by? If you hide yourself there, surely the Nonkind cannot follow you to that enchanted place.”

    Sir Alard’s head whipped around, and hope flashed across his face. “Yes, that’s it! Go there now, while we hold them—”

    “Nay!” Dain said angrily, as Soleil bunched and pranced beneath him. He thought of the prophecy that said he would lead destruction to the eldin, and shook his head. “Not there. None of us are welcome, and I will not lead Nonkind to-—”

    “Never mind us,” Sir Terent said gruffly. “Get yourself to safety at once, Dain lad. We’ll take a stand here to give you what time we can.”

    Dain met Sir Terent’s green eyes and saw in them all the man’s stalwart love and loyalty, offered with the gift of his life. “Nay! I’ll leave none behind. Quick! We ride toward the river.”

    “Go to your folks,” Sir Terent said. “They’ll hide you. I’ll lay odds they know how to hide from the Nonkind better than anyone.”

    The kind intentions of his friends filled Dain with frustration. There was no time to explain how he’d been treated by the eldin, and clearly Alexeika had not spoken of it to anyone.

    Another howl filled the air, followed by fearsome baying, and Soleil reared in fright. Fighting with the horse, Dain shouted breathlessly, “I’m riding to the river, and all of you will follow. You can’t defend this ground. Come!”

    Not allowing them to waste more time by arguing, Dain wheeled Soleil around and let him run. Spurred by panic, the fleet-footed courser would have ordinarily left the heavier horses behind, but Soleil was carrying the weight of two, and that helped Dain slow him to a pace the others could match.

    They’d very nearly argued too long. A pack of hurlhounds came into sight, gaining rapidly on their heels, then splitting into two smaller packs that ran through the undergrowth on either side of Dain and his companions. Making no attempt to attack, they merely paced them, their black scaly hides flashing through gaps in the undergrowth as they ran alongside.

    “Sire!” Alexeika shouted in his ear, but Dain was watching the hurlhounds closely and made no reply.

    He leaned forward over Soleil’s whipping mane, steadying the frightened horse all he could. The hurlhounds kept pace easily, never drawing closer, and Dain wondered why they did not attack.

    A horn wailed in the distance behind them, and Dain’s heart nearly jumped from his throat. He remembered the day when Gavril had coursed him through the Dark Forest with hounds and men, all because he’d tried to steal a horse and a bit of food. And now he was the quarry again.

    Battling down fear, he forced himself to think. They couldn’t ride at this blistering pace all the way to the river. Therefore, it was time for trickery.

    With determination, he reached deep inside his mind, seeking the mark that had been placed on him. Because he was no sor-cerel, he could not work complex magic. He knew only the simple, instinctive spells of life and nature, but thus far simplicity had always served him well. He drew in a breath, then began to sing softly of salt.

    “What are you doing?” Alexeika asked, but with a shake of his head Dain kept singing.

    He sang of salt mines, places where the ground turned barren and salt lay white atop the soil. He sang of salt on food, salt on altars, salt on the tongue. He sang of salt in the sea, salt in wounds, salt to cure meat, salt for cleaning. He sang of the coarse gritti-ness of it, of its radiant sparkle in sunlight, of its white purity when finely ground. He sang of its flavor. He sang of its sting.

    He sang until he felt the mark wither slightly, then he yanked the reins and veered Soleil toward the hurlhounds paralleling him on the right. Neighing in fright, the horse fought him, but Dain pressed at its mind with his own.

    Soleil leaped a fallen log, burst through a thicket, and nearly crashed broadside into one of the monsters.

    Drawing Truthseeker, Dain struck fast and hard before the horse could scramble away from the hurlhound. Flames and ash flew in all directions, and the hurlhound was no more.

    Behind him, Alexeika was wielding her own sword, chanting, “Severgard! Severgard!” as she sliced through another creature.

    Wild baying broke out. The hurlhounds that had been running on their left came to the fray, just as Sir Alard, Sir Terent, and Thum caught up and desperately joined Dain in the fight he’d started. For a moment there was only wild shouting and the frenzied snarling of the monsters.

    Truthseeker sang in Dain’s hands as he caught another hurlhound in mid-leap and sent it crashing to the ground. He could hear Severgard singing as well, in a kind of peculiar harmony, as though the two blades—despite being forged so differently—were aware of each other.

    A few seconds later, the battle ended, and all lay momentarily quiet in the forest. Weak sunlight filtered through the bare branches of the trees and glittered atop the trampled snow. Breathing hard, Dain felt Truthseeker still humming in his grasp. The sword glowed and rippled from hilt to tip, cleaning itself of gore and blood, which dripped off to hiss and steam on the ground.

    Dain sheathed the sword and glanced around swiftly to take stock. Alexeika slid off Soleil’s rump without a word and darted over to Sir Alard. Meanwhile, Thum was doubled over his saddle, wincing and gasping. Dain saw him clutching his leg, saw the claw marks and blood, now dripping onto the snow.

    Swearing in alarm, Dain reached into the purse of salt that he’d brought with him from Mandria and rode over to his friend. Swiftly he brushed Thum’s hand away from his injury and salted the wound.

    Stiffening, Thum jerked back his head with a shout of agony that he bit off. Dain gripped his arm hard until the spasm eased and Thum began gasping and swearing.

    Dain grinned at him, but Thum grimaced back. “I like not your tending,” he said.

    “You’d like dying of poison less,” Dain said bluntly, and glanced at Sir Terent. “Are you well?” he asked.

    “Aye.” The protector’s gaze was shifting in all directions. “We can’t tarry here.”

    “Bind his leg for him. And quickly.” Dain handed over the purse of salt. “Paste those cuts well with more salt first.”

    “Morde! Nay,” Thum said shakily.

    Dain looked at Sir Terent sternly. “Be sure it’s done. It means his life.”

    “Aye, your grace,” Sir Terent said.

    Dain nodded, then rode over to see about Sir Alard just as Alexeika was pressing the flat side of her sword against a bite wound in his arm. His mail sleeve hung in tatters, and he gritted his teeth in obvious pain, the cords in his neck standing out until I at last she released him. Sir Alard’s aristocratic face turned as pale as the snow. He drew in several shuddering breaths before at last he recovered enough to lift his head.

    “Does that work better than salt?” Dain asked Alexeika.

    She grinned. “The same, but while I can run out of salt, Sev-ergard is always with me.”

    Dain gave Sir Alard’s shoulder a little shake. “Well again?”

    The knight’s brows rose. “If you call being branded alive a cure.”

    “If you can joke, you can ride.” Dain swung his gaze back to Alexeika. “Come, my lady. Back up behind me.”

    She frowned, hesitating between the two of them. “Perhaps I should ride with Sir Alard and steady him.”

    “I’m well,” Sir Alard said, straightening in the saddle.

    “Come,” Dain said to her, listening to the wail of the horn coming closer. His heartbeat quickened. “His horse carried you yesterday. Today ‘tis Soleil’s turn.”

    Alexeika climbed on behind him, and they rode onward at a brisk trot. “Soleil,” Alexeika said in Dain’s ear, “is likely to buck both of us off before this day is over.”

    Dain grinned, although it wasn’t much of a joke. Then three riders appeared ahead of them. Clad in dark mail and heavily armed, they made no noise, raised no shout. They ranged themselves across the trail, blocking it, and simply waited.

    Alexeika moaned. “Thod’s mercy.”

    “We can take them, sire,” Sir Terent said softly, looking grim indeed as he gripped his sword hilt.

    Dain frowned and drew rein. “Nay,” he said in alarm. “There’s a trap here. Turn back!”

    But as he whirled Soleil around, it was only to see another group of five riders block them from behind. This latter group was close enough for Dain to see that their mail was made from something that looked like black obsidian, yet that was flexible enough to allow them movement. He was reminded of scales on a serpent, or some Nonkind creature. Swiftly he drew his sword.

    Alexeika gripped his shoulder hard. “Fire-knights!” she whispered.

    He frowned. “Believers?”

    “Aye, the worst kind.”

    The fire-knights slowly trotted forward from both sides, closing in on them. Dain’s men were brave fighters, but were outnumbered and tired. Even as Sir Terent and Sir Alard drew their swords, Dain turned Soleil southward and headed into the forest. “Come!” he shouted, and kicked his horse to a gallop.

    The others tried to follow, but one of the Believers shouted something in his bizarre, clacking language. Strange symbols drawn in flames appeared suddenly in midair before Dain.

    Startled, he jerked involuntarily on the reins, and Soleil reared in panic. The flaming symbols cast off sparks and ashes that elongated as they fell to the ground. But instead of snuffing out in the snow, they blazed on the ground, cutting him off from the forest.

    “Thod and Riva, have mercy on our souls,” Alexeika was praying at Dain’s back.

    He brought Soleil under control and wheeled the horse in another direction, but again the Believer shouted, and again fire symbols blazed in the air, cutting Dain off.

    Sir Terent swore a string of violent oaths. “Here’s where we fight these devils, sire.”

    “Aye,” Dain agreed grimly, and brandished Truthseeker. It was not humming with power, and neither was Severgard aglow. Whatever these fire-knights might be, they were not Nonkind. Thod only knew what they were.

    “Thum,” Dain said rapidly to his friend. “Get you away into the trees.”

    “Nay, sire.” <

    “Do not engage!” Dain said angrily. “You’ve no armor. You’re not required to fight.”

    Holding his sword, Thum looked grim indeed as he positioned his horse beside Dain. They were arranged now in a tight circle, facing all four directions as the Believers closed in. “I doubt these creatures understand Mandrian rules of combat, sire,” he said in a tight, strained voice.

    “Squires do not fight,” Dain said harshly. “I’ll not put you at risk. As soon as we engage, slip away and—”

    “Nay!”

    “Hush, the pair of you,” Sir Terent muttered, just as he used to when they were fosters in training. He drew the sign of a Circle on his breast, as did Sir Alard.

    With shouts, the Believers charged at a gallop. Dain lifted Truthseeker. “For Nether!” he shouted. “For Faldain!” his men roared in response. Then they were surrounded, and the crash of swords rang through the trees. Sir Terent’s war charger reared up and struck with deadly forefeet, driving one Believer back just as the protector swung his sword at one of the foes closing in on Dain.

    Then another opponent rushed at Dain, and he had no more chance to see what was happening to his companions. Looking massive in the black stone armor, this Believer kept his helmet visor closed, and Dain could see only darkness where his eyes should have been.

    Fear stabbed through Dain, but he pushed it away as he met the Believer’s attack. God-steel collided with iron, and the Believer’s sword shattered in the first blow. The Believer stared at the broken weapon in his fist, then shouted something and hurled it at Dain like a knife.

    Dain batted it away, but by then the Believer had drawn a curved dagger that flashed in the final slanting rays of sunlight. As he charged again, Dain swung his ancient sword with both hands and struck the man at the base of his shoulder.

    Obsidian plates cracked into tiny slivers of stone that went flying as Truthseeker cleaved the Believer in twain to his waist. As the Believer fell, blood gushing from the fearsome wound, Dain sought another opponent.

    Sir Terent was hacking lustily away, and Sir Alard was holding his own, but Thum was outnumbered by two Believers, who were ignoring his squire status entirely. While one kept Thum’s sword engaged, the other hit him from behind.

    Knocked from his saddle, Thum went crashing to the ground and lay there unmoving.

    “No!” In a fury, Dain attacked the Believer who’d struck his friend down, thrusting Truthseeker through his back. Screaming, the Believer toppled over. Dain twisted Truthseeker desperately to keep it from being wrenched from his hand, but before he could withdraw his weapon, the fire-knight who’d been fighting Thum hurriedly pulled the dead man from Dain’s reach. Truthseeker, still lodged in the dead man, was wrested from Dain’s grasp.

    With a laugh, the Believer galloped off, dragging the corpse and Truthseeker alike.

    Armed now with nothing more than his dagger, Dain gulped. For a moment he was too horrified to think.

    “Two down to our one,” Alexeika shouted over the clang of weapons. “Six now against our four.”

    Dain looked at Thum, who was still lying on the ground. Dead or stunned, Dain knew not, but he feared the worst. Grief swelled through him, and with it came fresh anger.

    “I’ll take his sword,” Dain said, and started to dismount. Alexeika, however, gripped him in warning. “Look!” He turned his head and saw another Believer approaching him at a gallop, sword brandished aloft Straight at Dain came this new opponent, looking huge in his stone armor, his black cloak billowing from his shoulders as his horse jumped Thum’s body. The Believer’s horse was snorting jets of white breath, and tendrils of smoke curled through slits in the Believer’s visor.

    Desperate to get Thum’s sword, Dain again started to dismount, but Alexeika reached around him to press Severgard into his hand. ‘Take mine!“ she shouted, and jumped off before Dain could stop her.

    Severgard protested by nearly twisting itself from Dain’s hand. It was all he could do not to drop it. By then Alexeika had darted behind the fire-knight to seize Thum’s sword. Holding it aloft, she went running to rejoin the fray, and there was no chance to swap weapons with her. Desperately Dain managed to force his fingers around Severgard’s silver and gold wire hilt just as his opponent struck.

    Despite mustering a desperate parry just in the nick of time, Dain knew himself to be in trouble.

    Severgard was not forged for him, was never destined for his use. Its weight and balance were off; having held Truthseeker only moments before, Dain was painfully aware of this fact. He struggled with the sword, fighting it as much as he fought his opponent, who kept him hard pressed.

    Severgard was a magicked blade, but it had none of the advantages of god-steel. It did not shatter the Believer’s weapon. It could not cut through his obsidian armor. With every blow, Dain felt the Believer’s strength jolt through his blade, his wrists, and his arms. He was tiring, sweating heavily inside his hauberk, and all the while in the back of his mind he was cursing himself for having foolishly thrust Truthseeker into that last man.

    How many times in sword drills had Sir Polquin taught him and the other fosters never to run a mounted man through? Always cut, but never stab. Not while in the saddle.

    He’d made a terrible error, a green boy’s error, and now he was paying for it. It was only by Thod’s grace and Alexeika’s generosity that he was still armed and able to fight at all.

    Determined to prevail, Dain stopped defending himself and instead swung aggressively, feinting, then striking low, just above the fire-knight’s hipbone. The blade bounced off the stone armor, unable to cut through it. Had the man been wearing normal chain mail, it would have been a mortal blow. Ignoring his disappointment, swiftly Dain reversed his swing and brought Severgard up to meet the Believer’s response.

    The sword was no longer fighting him, but it remained something lifeless in his hands. Dain sent his mind to it in appeal.

    Nothing in Severgard responded to him.

    The Believer got in past Dain’s guard and struck his upper arm. It was a glancing blow that did no damage, but the jolt of it was a warning. Gritting his teeth, Dain swung back in a fury, striking again and again with all his skill and might.

    The Believer faltered a little. His guard slipped more than once, only to recover before Dain could take advantage of it. Clearly the Believer was tiring too, although not as much as Dain. With leaden arms, Dain forced himself to keep fighting. When he saw smoke curl through the slits of the fire-knight’s visor, he felt a weary stab of alarm. What was this creature if not a man? And if he was Nonkind, why didn’t Severgard’s magical power come alive?

    Nearby, the others fought equally hard. Heartened by the shouts and ringing steel, knowing his comrades refused defeat, Dain kept on, but he was grunting now with every blow he delivered and feeling a burn in his arms that warned him he had little strength left.

    Knowing that he would soon falter from exhaustion, Dain sang Severgard’s song raggedly, although such notes were hard for his throat to imitate. He sang them anyway, panting between notes as he sweated and fought against his indefatigable foe.

    Severgard shuddered in his hands. He felt its power come reluctantly to life, flashing from hilt to sword tip in an instant, and making the blade glow white.

    The Believer shouted something in Gantese and tilted his head away, as though it hurt him to gaze on that glowing light. Seiz-ing his momentary advantage, Dain swung Severgard with all his strength.

    The blow overpowered the Believer’s defense. He went reeling back, toppling from his saddle to roll over in the snow. The advantage was now Dain’s. Kicking Soleil faster, he swung Severgard high and charged. The fire-knight regained his feet, but he did not parry, did not even look up at Dain. Instead, he shifted his stance as Soleil came at him, and with one powerful blow sliced through the horse’s throat a split second before Dain’s sword hit him.

    A spray of blood splattered the snow and blew back across Dain’s thighs. In mid-stride, Soleil went down, crashing to his side and kicking his legs convulsively as his powerful heart pumped his life away.

    Knocked flying from the saddle in the fall, Dain hit hard and tumbled over twice from the impetus of impact.

    Although his mind urged him up, he lay mere a moment, half-stunned. Blearily he saw Soleil lying on blood-soaked snow, the horse’s strength, beauty, and speed gone forever. It was impossible to believe, too terrible to believe. Dain wanted to close his eyes and just lie there, but he knew better.

    Somehow he forced himself to his hands and knees, shaking his head in an effort to get his wits moving. He saw a shadow rushing at him, and desperately lifted Severgard.

    He was too slow, too dazed from his fall.

    The Believer he’d been fighting knocked Severgard from his hands, then kicked him hard in the ribs. Wheezing from having all the wind driven out of his lungs, Dain toppled onto his side and knew he was finished.

    “Dain!” Sir Terent bellowed in the distance. “Dain, no!”

    Looming over him, the fire-knight lowered his sword, and Dain expected him to drive it through his heart in a final thrust. Instead, he nudged Dain’s leg with his toe.

    “Up,” he said.

    At first Dain could not believe his ears; then he realized he was to be made a prisoner.

    A sickening sense of defeat flowed over him as he floundered unsteadily to his feet.

    A short distance away, Alexeika was screaming defiance. Dain saw her crouched with Thum’s sword in her hands, turning while a Believer circled her. They sprang at each other and engaged in a swift flurry of blows, but a moment later she cried out in pain and her sword went spinning from her hand. She drew a dagger and hurled it, but the Believer batted it aside and grabbed her. Shrieking, she tried to stab him with her remaining weapon, but could not pierce his armor. Then she was knocked to the ground and pinned there by her opponent’s foot.

    Only then did Dain see Sir Alard lying on the ground and Sir Terent kneeling in defeat with two opponents holding their weapons on him. Blood streamed down his face, and his head was bowed.

    Dain dragged in a breath of relief. At least the man was still alive. It was a mercy any of them had survived.

    The Believer who had defeated Dain held his sword aimed warily at Dain’s throat, as though he expected Dain to give him more trouble. “I am Quar,” he said. His voice was rough and guttural. “You are my prisoner, Faldain of Nether.”

    Dain gritted his teeth and forced himself to speak calmly. “Raise your visor, Quar. Let me see who has captured me.”

    He intended to hurl his dagger into the man’s eye if he could get him to raise his visor, but Quar only laughed. It was a low, horrid sound, like stone grating on stone. Smoke curled forth from beneath the man’s helmet, and Dain caught a whiff of something charred.

    “My face is not for you to see, Faldain,” the Believer said. “I have walked through the fire of Ashnod. I live in fire, for his glory. And for his glory will your blood be served to him.”

    Dain swallowed hard. “You’re taking us to Gant?”

    “You, I take to Gant. You will be served to Ashnod.”

    “Then let my friends go,” Dain said quickly. “You have no need of them. Spare their lives and release them.”

    Turning partially away from Dain, Quar gestured at the men standing over Sir Terent. “Ch’t kvm’styk mut!”

    One of the Believers reached down and yanked off Sir Ter-ent’s mail coif. The other swung his sword in one swift, flashing blow.

    Sir Terent’s head went rolling across the ground beneath the feet of a horse. While the animal neighed and pranced in fright, Sir Terent’s body toppled over.

    Dain stared openmouthed, unable to believe it. So swiftly, so cruelly had it happened, he could not absorb the horror of it. Sir Terent had been their prisoner, disarmed. He had surrendered and was at their mercy. The casual brutality of Quar’s order stunned

    Dain.

    He slowly wrenched his gaze away from the gruesome sight of the man who had befriended him, trained him, protected him, and served him with the most loyal heart of all. Quar met Dain’s gaze steadily but said nothing.

    That’s when the rage came, a fury that burned away everything inside Dain and left only a white-hot force. He felt the anger flash through him, then he shouted, and his rage came forth like flames of power, knocking Quar reeling.

    Ducking recklessly under Quar’s sword, Dain drove his shoulder into the man’s gut, pushing him backward with all his might as he drew his dagger.

    Still shouting words that cracked and trembled in the air, Dain struck at Quar again and again, but his dagger point skidded harmlessly off the stone armor. Quar’s fist, sheathed by an obsidian-encrusted glove, smashed into Dain’s face.

    The world blackened and shrank in an instant. Dain staggered backward, feeling as though he’d been sucked into a vortex. It pulled him down before he could even struggle, and he was smothered in dark nothing.

    Part Three

    For days, Gavril waited in vain for an audience with King Muncel as though he were nothing more than an emissary. It was a terrible insult, and with every passing day Gavril’s temper grew more frayed. Truly he had come to a land of barbarians.

    He was given the run of one wing of Count Mradvior’s palatial house, but he quickly discovered that aside from a handful of graciously furnished chambers, the rest of the building stood empty.

    Denied the most basic amusements, Gavril prowled restlessly through the desolate, unheated rooms, preoccupied with finding a way to escape his trap. A trap he still blamed on Verence.

    “Father, you fool!” Gavril muttered aloud as he paced up and down. “Why do you delay? Why do you not hurry?”

    He’d written several letters to Verence, until he’d figured out that Mradvior was burning them.

    Caged and thwarted at every turn, Gavril had thought up several plans to escape the house and round up his church knights. But every exit was guarded and when he’d drawn his sword on some of the guards, he found that they were protected by the same mysterious spell that safeguarded

    Mradvior. Tanengard could not harm them. In sheer frustration, he’d even tried throwing a chair through a window, but the glass would not break.

    Megala came searching for him. “Your highness—”

    “What are you doing away from your post?” he asked in annoyance. “Get back to Lady Pheresa at once.”

    The serving woman curtsied deeply. “I ask pardon of your highness,” she said nervously, twisting her hands together. “The lady has sent me to fetch you.”

    Gavril was startled. “She’s awake?”

    “Aye, your highness. Weak and doing poorly, but—”

    He strode out of the room, with Megala trotting at his heels. When they’d first arrived in this terrible place, Mradvior’s wife had stolen Pheresa’s ball gown, for apparently it was dyed a shade of blue impossible to obtain in Nether. Thereafter, they’d ignored her, for she gave them little amusement.

    Presently Pheresa was installed in a tiny chamber hardly large enough to hold her encasement and the guardians. Sometimes her room was heated; sometimes it was not. More guardians had collapsed, until now she had only six to hold the spell together. Gavril could not believe Pheresa remained alive. Her survival had seemed tenuous enough when there’d been thirteen guardians, let alone less than half that number.

    Now, as he hurried into her tiny, poorly lit chamber, he hoped that she was finally dying. She’d suffered long enough, and the Netherans weren’t going to help her. Why should she not at last have the relief of death?

    At first, Gavril had considered it both noble and tragic to have his betrothed stricken this way. The spells, the encasement, and the trappings necessary to preserve her life had lent the situation a certain dignity, as had the dangerous quest to save her. She remained beautiful, and her helpless vulnerability rendered her appealing to him. During their journey, Gavril had felt proud of himself for taking such good care of her. In return, she’d shown him gratitude, and he’d felt sure that once she was cured, she would become a dutiful, compliant wife.

    But the quest had ended in failure, and Pheresa wasn’t going to be saved. Instead, she was dying slowly and terribly. He gazed at her now where she lay within a dim circle of candle-light. She wore a dingy white gown of cheap cloth, plain of embellishment and so poorly constructed that one of the sleeves was noticeably shorter than the other. Her thick reddish-gold hair lay matted to her skull like dull straw, and her eyes were deeply sunk into their sockets.

    A dark cloud settled over his spirits, and he bowed his head, feeling a tangle of resentment, self-pity, and deep unhappiness. It was one thing to undertake a difficult endeavor with shining confidence and every hope of success; it was quite another to stand among the ruins of failure and despair.

    The shining glass encasement had grown dusty and scratched. There was something tawdry about it all—the plainness of the dying girl, her cheap gown, the stink of a sickroom, the desperate exhaustion so obvious in the few remaining guardians kneeling around her.

    Feeling repulsed, Gavril lifted his head and took a step back from her. For this, he had risked his life. For this, he now was kept prisoner in this vile place. He turned to leave, but at that moment Pheresa opened dull, unfocused eyes.

    Gavril could barely stand to look at her pale face and wasting form. In that moment he despised her for what she’d become as much as for what she’d brought him to.

    “Gavril.” Her voice was the merest whisper, and she struggled to smile. “Sweet prince, you are still with me.”

    Still chained to you, he thought, and averted his face without reply.

    “Don’t weep for me,” she said. “My dearest prince, how good you are. I didn’t think you loved me at first. Now I know that you care deeply. You’ve done so much for me. Thank you, my love.”

    Overwhelmed with revulsion and embarrassment, Gavril felt as though he’d been swept by fire. Her words made her even more pathetic, and he was filled with the urge to turn on her viciously, to say how he hated her, how she’d put him in the gravest danger, how he wished he’d never known her. He felt like shattering the encasement and stabbing her through the heart. Even then, he decided contemptuously, she would probably think him a hero for releasing her from this misery.

    Somehow, he restrained his wild urges and even forced him-self to meet her gaze. “Pheresa,” he said unsteadily, and stopped. He could think of nothing to say.

    “Don’t blame yourself,” she whispered. Her brown eyes gazed up at him with tenderness. “You tried your very best. I love you for that. My last prayers will be for you.”

    As her voice drifted off, her eyes fell closed. Choking, Gavril retreated from her while Megala hurried forward to tend her mistress.

    “Is she ... dead?” he asked hoarsely, gripping his sword hilt while Tanengard chanted Death, death, death, death in his mind. “Nay, your highness,” Megala replied. “The sweet lady sleeps again. But her fever burns strong today. The physicians have not come to her recently. Where are they? Can nothing be done to ease her suffering?”

    Gavril envisioned endless months imprisoned here, trapped by the guards, trapped by the terrible cold and snow outside, trapped by this maiden who would not die. His brain felt as though ants were crawling inside it. He wanted to scream, and then to laugh. Above all, he wanted to draw Tanengard and behead each of the remaining guardians. Then Pheresa would die. And then ... he would still be a prisoner. “Your highness?”

    Gavril shot Megala a wild look, then whirled around and fled the room. He collared the first servant he encountered. “Your master. I want him at once!”

    The servant looked bewildered. “Count wants you,” he replied in his thick Netheran accent. “I come to bring you.”

    A little surprised, for he hadn’t spoken to the count in days, Gavril followed the servant to the sumptuous chamber where he’d first met Mradvior. It seemed to be the count’s favorite room. When Gavril arrived, the count was sitting near the warm tiled stove, sipping spiced wine from a jewel-encrusted cup and munching on toasted nuts.

    He grinned at Gavril and raised his cup in greeting. “Your highness!” he said merrily. “I have a surprise for you. Tonight begins the festival of lights. It is a great favorite here in Grov. I shall take you in a sleigh down to the river if you give your word not to—”

    “I want to see the king,” Gavril said angrily.

    “Yes, yes, it takes time. But the festival is really—”

    “A plague on your festival! I want to see the king! I demand to see him.”

    Tossing more nuts in his mouth, Mradvior shrugged. “Why? Your royal father will pay your ransom. Be patient, and enjoy yourself. Enjoy Netheran hospitality.”

    “No, thank you,” Gavril snapped. “I have asked repeatedly for audience with King Muncel. What is necessary to achieve it? Bribes? Promises of—”

    “No, no, no.” Mradvior grew serious. “You are fine prince, fine young man. I like you. And so I will give you advice. Is good the king has not sent for you.” He pointed at Gavril. “You do not ever tell him I say this to you, eh?”

    Gavril shrugged. “I want to see him. Now, with no more delay.”

    “Why?”

    Gavril’s anger swelled inside him. “That is no concern of yours.”

    “If you have question, or request, ask me. I will find out answer.”

    “No,” Gavril said through his teeth. “I want to speak to the king myself.”

    “Is not good for you to do this,” Mradvior insisted.

    “Morde a day!” Gavril screamed, losing his temper completely. He drew Tanengard and used it to smash a small table to pieces.

    Mradvior jumped to his feet, dropping his fancy cup and scattering the toasted nuts over the floor. His protector came running, but Gavril turned aside from the count and started pacing back and forth. “I want to see the king!” he shouted, still brandishing his sword. “Make it so, Lord Mradvior, and do it nowl”

    “As you command,” Mradvior said warily. “So will I inquire.”

    “Insist, damn you! Don’t inquire!”

    Bowing repeatedly, Mradvior backed away from him and beckoned to two of his guards. “Watch his highness,” he said in a low voice. “Do not let him destroy more furniture.”

    Overhearing, Gavril snorted to himself with bleak amuse-ment and kept pacing back and forth. It pleased him to hold Tanengard in his hands, pleased him to swing it about and attack imaginary foes.

    After a long while, one of Mradvior’s minions came for him, followed by a servant carrying Gavril’s cloak and gloves. Smiling, Gavril put them on and followed the man outside.

    Snow was falling, and the air felt damp and bitterly cold. Shivering beneath his heavy cloak, Gavril climbed into the horse-drawn sleigh next to Mradvior and allowed servants to spread a heavy robe of beyar fur across his lap. Mounted guards, snow collecting in the folds of their fur hats, surrounded the sleigh.

    An order was given, and the sleigh went racing toward the tall gates, which swung open at their approach. The gliding smoothness of the sleigh amazed Gavril. It was far more comfortable than a wagon.

    The mounted guards stayed close, pressing on all sides, so that it was impossible to see anything of the streets or the city.

    Mradvior’s dark mustache turned white with snow. He sat tensely, looking neither right nor left. A large basin of salt was balanced on his lap, and in his hand he clutched a long dagger. He seemed unwilling to talk to Gavril.

    The prince wondered what Mradvior was afraid of, yet the count seemed unwilling to talk. At last they passed through a set of tall gates and wound through a wood up a short hill to a castle fortress. An entire army seemed to be camped on the grounds. Gantese marched by, and in the distance Gavril heard an animal bugle loudly.

    He jumped, his heart thudding in his chest. “A shapeshifter?” he gasped out.

    “Darsteed,” Mradvior told him without expression. “Foul creatures.”

    In its scabbard, Tanengard glowed white. Gripping the hilt for courage, Gavril saw a black, scaly monster that looked like a dog—but that was much larger, and horrible—go padding around the corner of a tent. His mouth went dry, and his grip tightened.

    “That—that beast,” he said breathlessly.

    “Hmm? I didn’t see it.”

    “ ‘Twas vile,” Gavril said. “Like a—” He stopped, unable to go on.

    Mradvior stared at him. “Haven’t you seen Nonkind before?”

    “Of course I have! I—” Gavril thought of the shapeshifter, a horrifying, shrieking, winged creature that had clawed him with its talons. He still bore deep scars on his legs, still remembered his terror, still recalled how his gold Circle had not deflected the monster’s attack.

    Suddenly the bowl of salt that Mradvior held made perfect sense. Staring at it, Gavril swallowed hard.

    “Have you any salt in your pockets?” Mradvior asked him, proffering the bowl. ‘Take some.“

    Gavril frowned, affronted as always by the man’s familiarity, and turned his head away. “No, thank you.”

    ‘Take some. Is best to be prepared.“

    “Nothing would dare attack me,” Gavril said, and heard the hollow bravado in his voice. “Certainly not in the presence of your king.”

    “If you want to think so. But is never good, to be in presence of king.”

    Gavril ignored him.

    The sleigh crossed a moat and drawbridge into what seemed more like a cave than a fortress. They passed through a long, rough-hewn tunnel, the runners scraping noisily over paving stones, before they eventually emerged in a cramped courtyard surrounded by towering walls.

    Here, the sleigh stopped. Gavril and Mradvior climbed out. The guards dismounted and flanked them on either side as they walked up a set of massive stone steps to enter the fortress through a set of tall, thick doors studded with nails.

    Contrary to Gavril’s expectations, there was no heat inside. Nor was there much light. He found himself squinting against a pervasive gloom, for only now and then could there be found a burning torch in a wall sconce. The walls were black with grime and smoke, the floors filthy with matted rushes, worn and rat-chewed carpets, bits of bone, and trash. Servants and officials lurked in corners and behind stone pillars, breaking off conversations as Gavril and Mradvior passed.

    They climbed a flight of steps into a gallery of long cham-bers, where one opened directly into another. Again, there were no windows, only a few arrow slits cut high up into the walls. Snow drifted through these openings, and icy drafts whipped through the rooms.

    Fur- and velvet-clad courtiers huddled in small clusters. Some were dicing or playing assorted games next to charcoal braziers. Others plinked mournful tunes on lutes and zithrens. And a few talked and drank, passing dishes of little morsels from one to another.

    They stared at Gavril openly, making no attempt to mask their curiosity. He walked with his chin held high, annoyed by having to come here under close guard, without his entourage, his heralds, his banners, or the usual fanfare. He was mortified by such treatment, yet with his gloves held elegantly in one hand and the other resting on his sword hilt, he swaggered along like the prince he was, staring back at the curious with all the hauteur he possessed.

    He wore a fur-lined doublet of pale blue velvet today, tied with lacings of silver. His snowy, immaculate linen showed at the throat. His leggings and boots were made of supple leather, and his sword belt was chased with silver. His bracelet of royalty glinted gold on his wrist, and his dark blue eyes glowed with defiance and contempt for this ragged, ill-mannered court.

    They came at last to a closed door, guarded by knights who held pikes across it. An official shivering in a woolen cloak lurked there.

    Mradvior spoke very softly to him, and the official shot Gavril a wide-eyed look before slipping past the guards into the chamber.

    “The king waits in yon room?” Gavril asked.

    Mradvior bowed and nodded. He seemed nervous.

    Gavril turned around and began to pace back and forth. “I will not be kept waiting like this. Let whomever his majesty is receiving be sent out, that I may enter.”

    As though someone had overheard him, the guards stepped aside and the door swung open. Young pages—pallid, scrawny boys with frightened eyes—hurried out, crying, “Make way! Make way!”

    Mradvior drew a sharp breath and jumped aside. As he did so he gripped Gavril’s sleeve to pull him out of the way. “Unhand me!” Gavril said. “How dare you!” The count shot him a look of warning. “Be quiet, be quiet,” he whispered, glancing past Gavril and bowing low. “Call no attention to yourself.”

    Puzzled, Gavril swung back just as a litter of carved and gilded wood was carried out by eight sweating bearers. Cushioned with scarlet, purple, and gold silk and adorned with long tassels that swung and bobbed, the litter contained a creature such as Gavril could not even have imagined. It might have been a man ... once. But its skin was charred to a black, leathery texture from the top of its knobby, hairless skull all the way to the elongated, bare feet protruding from the hem of its silk robes. Its hands were strangely shaped, very narrow with fingers of unusual length. Each digit ended in a long, black talon that looked needle-sharp. A stink of sulfur and brimstone hung about this apparition. Draped on its neck was a collar studded with enormous rubies that glowed blood red.

    Gavril’s jaw dropped and, ignoring Mradvior’s surreptitious tug at the hem of his doublet, he stared openly. The creature lifted its gaze to his and stared back. It had a man’s eyes, distinctly human no matter what the rest of him looked like.

    No word was spoken between them. Gavril barely drew breath. He could make no sound. Inside, his heart was hammering as though he’d run a long distance.

    Certain he was gazing on the god of darkness itself, Gavril fumbled inside his doublet for his gold Circle and clutched it hard.

    The creature went on its way, and Gavril saw three other vile things emerge from the chamber in its wake. Huge and moon-faced, they stank of carrion. As they shambled past him, Gavril felt a nameless unease coil about his entrails.

    As soon as they were gone, he struggled to draw a deep breath. He felt light-headed and strange. He wished he’d never come to this Thodforsaken place. “What—what—” He could not seem to force the words past his lips.

    “Those were magemons,” Mradvior said. “Taken away, it looks to be. The king will be angry.” “What are magemonsT

    “Gantese magicians. Very powerful. Yes, yes, makers of very powerful magic. Very dangerous. Sorcereh work alone, but magemons cast their spells in teams. Very strong.” Mradvior frowned. “Is against Writ to have them here. The king dares much.”

    Feeling as though he’d been struck, Gavril stared at the count and found nothing to say.

    Mradvior scuttled away, beckoning to the official, who had now reappeared. The two put their heads together and consulted in whispers.

    Gavril turned and stared down the gallery at the departing magemons and the burned creature. Forbidden, blasphemous purveyors of magic ... everything that was wrong and unholy. To even see such as they was to be defiled. And Muncel openly consorted with such unspeakable evil. It was amazing, Gavril thought in shock, that Thod had not struck the king down for the evil he did.

    “Best to go,” Mradvior said, returning. “Best to come another day.”

    “Certainly not,” Gavril said with a huff. “I will not be brushed off like a mere courtier. How dare you suggest it.”

    “Is better to be gone when king is angry, your highness,” Mradvior said.

    Disdaining the man’s cowardice, Gavril stepped past the count. “Announce me,” he said to the official hovering at the doorway.

    The man only stared at him with bulging eyes. From inside the king’s chamber came a howl of temper, followed by a shattering crash.

    Blanching, the official retreated.

    “Come away, your highness,” Mradvior called softly. “Is not a good time.”

    Ignoring him, Gavril walked unannounced into the king’s chamber, where he saw a cluster of wary-eyed courtiers on one side of a large, sparsely furnished room. Pacing back and forth before a heavily carved throne was a black-haired man garbed in a long velvet tunic trimmed with ermine at cuffs and hem. A half-grown lyng, wearing a studded collar and tethered by a chain, lay near the throne, idly switching its tail and watching the proceedings through slitted, feral eyes. Servants were crouched on their knees, foreheads touching the floor. An overturned table lay in the midst of broken glass. Wine spread in a large puddle from the mess.

    Those who noticed Gavril’s entrance ignored him. The king— busy pacing and gesticulating—paid Gavril no heed either.

    “This meddling goes too far, Tulvak Sahm,” he said furiously to a tall, foreign-looking man clad in long robes and a peaked hat. “I will not submit to it!”

    “Your majesty has no choice ... at present,” the man replied in a quiet, singsong voice.

    Although they were speaking in Netheran, Gavril understood what they were saying. Since childhood, he’d been thoroughly versed in the languages of all Mandria’s allies. That did not mean, however, that he would deign to speak anything but his own language.

    Short of shouting to bring attention to himself, there was nothing to do but wait. Gavril glanced around. As an audience chamber, this room was half the size of Savroix’s. Paneled with wood painted in gaudy colors and lit with torches, it held no fine art at all. A tiled stove checkered in colors of bright blue and red radiated the first heat Gavril had felt since entering this appalling fortress. An enormous mobile of king’s glass, cut into rectangular prisms, quivered and danced in the air, singing softly as it refracted light.

    “A plague on Gant!” the king shouted. “A plague on the Chief Believer and the minion he has sent to interfere with me! I will not stand for such interference.”

    “Majesty has no—”

    “Bah! I had the pretender in my grasp,” the king said, clenching his fist. “All I had to do was squeeze the life from him, Tulvak Sahm. But now he is to be saved.”

    “Not saved, majesty. Delivered unto the Chief Believer and sacrificed to Ashnod. Surely that is a fate dire enough for any—”

    “The rabble will make a martyr of him,” Muncel said. “It will cause more unrest.”

    “But the pretender will still be dead,” Tulvak Sahm murmured.

    Gavril’s wandering attention suddenly focused on what they were saying. The “pretender” they referred to could only be Dain, pagan fiend that he was.

    “So your majesty’s men have captured the upstart,” Gavril said loudly, daring to interrupt the king’s conversation despite Mradvior’s hiss of warning. He walked forward, clapping his hands together. “Well done.”

    A knight clad in a mail hauberk and fur-trimmed surcoat stepped into Gavril’s path. “Halt!”

    Gavril struck a disdainful pose, but obeyed. Angered to be treated like some oaf, he told himself these Netherans clearly had no understanding of the proper deference due a prince of royal blood.

    “Again, your majesty, I say well done,” he called out in Mandrian. “ ‘Twas my intention to bring Faldain to you in chains as a gift, but, alas, he escaped my men through vile trickery.”

    Muncel stared at Gavril in astonishment. Far from a handsome man, at this close range the king looked even less well-favored. Lines of dissipation were grooved around his eyes and mouth, and his mouth was pinched together. His deep-set brown eyes held chronic dissatisfaction. Gray streaked his black hair and beard, making him look older than he probably was. Stooped and perhaps shortsighted, he lacked the aura of noble majesty which rested so impressively on Verence’s broad shoulders.

    “Who is this?” he asked.

    Belatedly the official at the door announced, “Your majesty, the Prince of Mandria!”

    Gavril stood proudly with his head held high, pleased to be the center of attention at last. “I am Prince Gavril of Mandria,” he said, giving the correct form of his title. “Heir to the Realm.”

    Pointing at him, Muncel laughed. “So, Mradvior! You have brought the little cock to me, eh? How he does crow and strut.”

    Some of the courtiers present joined in the king’s derisive laughter.

    Heat flooded Gavril’s face and burned the tips of his ears, but calling on all his willpower, he managed to keep his temper. “I thank your majesty for granting me this audience.”

    Muncel’s laughter died. He swung around to the tall, odd-looking man standing beside him. “Eh?” he said sharply. “What does he say?”

    The man translated.

    “I have been a guest in your majesty’s fair city for many days now,” Gavril continued, pausing occasionally to allow translation. “It is time your majesty and I had a discussion. I want—”

    “Has the ransom come?” Muncel broke in.

    “Nay, your majesty,” replied a courtier with a deep bow. “King Verence has sent no reply to your majesty’s demands.”

    Muncel leaned forward, peering at the man who spoke. “Nothing?”

    “Not a single word.”

    Muncel’s face turned purple. He swung around and glared at Gavril. “That southern dog! I hold his son and heir, and still he defies me. Gant meddles. Mandria ignores me. What is next? War?”

    “If your majesty will hear me,” Gavril said impatiently.

    Muncel gestured angrily. “Get rid of him.”

    When the protector shoved Gavril back, the prince’s temper snapped and he drew Tanengard. “How dare you touch me!” he shouted.

    Even as the courtiers called out in alarm, the protector drew his weapon and attacked. Gavril parried, expecting his mag-icked sword to easily vanquish this opponent. But everything seemed to go wrong at once. The protector had the strength of three men. He overpowered Gavril and knocked Tanengard from his hands in the first exchange of blows.

    Before he knew what was happening, Gavril found himself flat on the floor with the protector’s sword at his throat.

    Dazed by how fast it had happened, Gavril dared not move. His heart was pounding, and to his shame he was afraid that he would die here and now.

    “Desist!” Tulvak Sahm called out. “Majesty, he should not be harmed ... at least not until his ransom is paid.”

    “It will be paid!” Gavril said through his teeth. “And to the last dreit. That, I swear!”

    “What?” Muncel asked Tulvak Sahm. “He says it will be paid?”

    “Yes, majesty. He swears it.”

    Stooping, Muncel peered down at Gavril. His eyes were like stone. They held no humanity, compassion, or mercy. Gavril reflected that the burned creature who’d ridden out of here on that fancy litter had eyes more human than Muncel’s. Here, he thought with a shudder, is true evil.

    Tulvak Sahm picked up Tanengard and examined the weapon with interest. “A magicked blade, majesty,” he said, sounding amused. “Poorly made. Shall I let your majesty hear its song?”

    “No,” Gavril whispered, agonized with jealousy. No one was supposed to hear Tanengard except himself. It was his and his alone.

    “There are spells and lures woven through the metal,” Tulvak Sahm said, letting his fingertips brush the blade lightly. “Look at him, majesty. He’s caught fast like a moth in a spider’s web. See how much he hates it that I hold his sword?”

    Muncel barely glanced at Tanengard. “The workmanship is terrible. Break it.”

    “No!” Gavril cried out before he could stop himself. With his last remnants of pride, he barely kept himself from pleading.

    “And do I release him from its spell first?” Tulvak Sahm asked, tilting his head to one side. His strange, slanted eyes regarded Gavril coldly. “He will go mad if he is not released before it is destroyed.”

    Muncel walked over to his throne and sat down. He looked petulant and bored. “I care not.”

    “It is best, majesty, to keep him in good health until he is ransomed. Verence may demand verification of his well-being before he pays.”

    “Verence is a lying dog!” Muncel said harshly. “And full of trickery. Clearly he cares nothing for this boy. He must have other sons.”

    “He does not!” Gavril declared hotly.

    The Netherans exchanged speculative glances, and Gavril re-alized it would have been wiser to keep quiet. Swallowing hard, he burned with humiliation.

    “Is this how you treat your equals?” he asked, feeling he had nothing left to lose. “This discourtesy, these constant insults ... they ill-become a monarch. But then, you are only a king by theft and treachery.”

    Muncel jumped to his feet. “Get him out! Get him out!”

    The protector grabbed Gavril by the front of his doublet and shoved him from the chamber with such force that he fell sprawling on the floor. Gavril heard the door slam shut behind him, cutting off the babble and noise inside.

    Seething, he picked himself up slowly, glad he’d delivered some insults of his own. Really, Muncel was nothing but an arrogant monster, a ruffian, a usurper, nothing more.

    Mradvior hurried to help Gavril up. “Come, come,” he said in haste. “We go. We must hurry.”

    “You are not to touch me!” Gavril roared at him.

    But Mradvior gripped his sleeve anyway. “We go now. You have made the king more angry than before. Is not good to stay here.”

    Planting his feet, Gavril wrenched his arm free. “I’ll go nowhere without my sword!” he shouted. “They are not to break it. Not to dishonor me like this. They have no right to—”

    “You fool! Forget the sword. We must go before the king orders you killed on the spot, and me with you.”

    Still protesting, Gavril was whisked from the moldering fortress and packed into the sleigh. Climbing in beside him, Mradvior shouted orders at the driver, and back they went through the city. Dusk was falling now.

    Howling for alms, beggars ran beside them in the streets. Mradvior ignored them and the guards kept the beggars away from the sleigh. Gavril huddled under the furs and paid no attention. All he could think about was Tanengard and how Muncel’s minion had stolen it from him. He wanted it back most desperately.

    In the distance, from down some dark alley came a howling cry that belonged to nothing of this world. Mradvior grimly clutched his dagger and bowl of salt.

    “I should not have brought you here,” he said over and over.

    “I should not. I was fool to bring you to the king. But you are bigger fool to insult him. Thod! The king’s temper is terrible thing. And now ... now perhaps I am ruined.”

    “Why do you snivel so?” Gavril asked indifferently. His hands stroked Tanengard’s empty scabbard. “Why are you not quiet?”

    Mradvior drew in a sharp breath. “Do you realize nothing? In morning I could face orders for execution. My house, my family all could be destroyed. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “All because you insult the king.”

    “Your fate has nothing to do with me,” Gavril said with a shrug.

    Visibly fuming, Mradvior sat rigidly on the seat beside Gavril, silent all the way back to the gates of his house.

    The guards pushed away the rabble that crowded up next to the sleigh as it slipped through the gates. When pikesmen attacked the crowd, the guards galloped inside, urging the sleigh before them. The gates shut with a clang, while the people shouted pleas for food, for money, for mercy ... unheeded completely by both Gavril and Mradvior.

    Gavril found the heat inside the house a blessing. Until then, he had not realized how thoroughly chilled he was. Pulling off his cloak, he glanced around, but Mradvior was already hurrying away into another part of the house, leaving him behind with the servants.