Mradvior looked puzzled. “I—I—”

“They are never to be killed.” Disgusted, Tobeszijian turned away from him. Of course, the ice floe was now empty.

Prince Kuliestka, holding his helmet in his lap so that the fading sunlight spangled red highlights in his golden hair, still crouched on the bank, staring intently at the fjord. It was getting late now in the day, and mist was forming over the water, obscuring the ice floe and curling in among the trees on the bank.

“He dove off the moment you moved,” Kuliestka said without turning his head. His keen eyes, wrinkled with squint lines at the corners, swept the mist and water again before glancing up at his king. “Fast, for such a big one. No splash of water. I knew he’d go and I kept my eyes on him every second, but he was gone from sight in a blink.”

“The legends say they can swim underwater for many minutes,” Tobeszijian said, feeling disappointment encompass him now. He’d wanted to watch the beyar, to communicate with him. If he’d had time to share his thoughts, perhaps the beyar’s rider would have returned and made greeting. It was rare to communicate with the eldin this far north. Tobeszijian sighed. “He is long gone by now.” Now, that memory faded as a scream from the throat of nothing human rose into the twilight air and echoed over the hills. Shivering under his cloak, Tobeszijian patted his tired horse, scraping off the lather foaming on his neck.  At the time, he had been caught up in the wonder of having seen a white beyar that close, that clearly. He had realized he could never shoot one of the magnificent animals, for they were not meant to be trophies on display in the palace. That day, the hunting party had ridden on and pursued other creatures.  But now, chilled and worried, Tobeszijian considered the incident in a new light and asked himself if Count Mradvior had been aiming at the beyar or at himself.  And what of the night a drunken Count Surov had stumbled into the fire while Tobeszijian was standing close to it with his back turned, talking to some of the younger members of the party? Surov had tipped over a huge cauldron of boiling stew. Only the quick intervention of Prince Kuliestka had saved the king from being seriously burned. Young Fluryk had been splashed in the face, and he would be scarred for life.

In the morning, a humbled Surov had apologized on his knees before the king, who had pardoned him kindly. Surov had promised not to let himself get drunk again, and he had kept that promise. Only now, thinking about the matter with a mind full of suspicion, did Tobeszijian realize Surov had not been drunk a single evening prior to the incident. Nor was Surov ever one to lose control of himself. He was a dour, somber man, more a companion to the king’s half-brother than to Tobeszijian himself. But he had asked to come on this year’s hunting trip, and proved himself to be a competent hunter, although he seemed to take little enjoyment from the sport.

Then there had been the boar, which had exploded from a thicket without warning, squealing and attacking savagely. The horses had panicked, bucking and rearing away. Leaning over to grab one of his hunting spears, Tobeszijian had been rammed from the side by another man’s horse and nearly knocked from the saddle right into the path of the charging boar. Prince Kuliestka had spurred his own frightened mount between Tobeszijian and the boar, managing to stab the creature in the neck. By then Tobeszijian had dropped out of the saddle, which was slipping dangerously around his horse’s belly. With his horse running backward away from him, he managed to draw a spear from the saddle quiver and turned to stab the boar in one eye just as it reached him. The boar squealed horribly and fell over at his feet with a final kick of death.

Tobeszijian wondered who had knocked him off his horse. Was it an unavoidable jostling in the confusion of out-of-control horses, or yet another attempt on his life? Tobeszijian realized he could explain away each incident, dismiss them all if he chose. Had there only been one or two, he would have. But there had been too many. And after today, when he’d come so close to falling into a terrible trap, he no longer wanted to dismiss any suspicion.  The scream came again, a long, wailing shriek that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up inside his mail coif. He felt a fresh surge of fear, but controlled it this time. He knew the shapeshifter now realized it had lost him.  Would it come back for him?

His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed, resisting the temptation to gallop blindly away. He had to use his wits now and not fall into another trap.  Who among his thirty or so hunting companions could he trust? He realized that Prince Kuliestka was the only one he could be absolutely sure of. And his lord protector was missing.

Mouthing an oath, Tobeszijian steeled himself and took his time about finding his bearings. He had lost his dogs and his party, but he himself was not lost.  He kicked his horse forward, heading back toward camp at a cautious trot. He had to conserve his horse’s strength now. If he broke the animal’s wind he would be alone and on foot when darkness fell. That would surely be the end of him.  He rode for a grim hour, keeping his wits and senses sharp. The snow had stopped falling, but the air was heavy with damp and bitterly cold. It was growing steadily darker, making the forest close in around him. With the hills and ravines and thickets any man could easily have become lost. But Tobeszijian’s eldin blood gave him a sense of direction superior to any human’s. He followed his instincts and knew himself close now to camp.

That’s when he heard the sound of hoofbeats and the jingling harnesses of several riders. In the gloom and snowy mist, he could barely see more than a few feet ahead of him.

He stopped his horse and backed the reluctant stallion beneath a fir whose branches were bent low under their burden of snow. Dismounting, he held the animal’s nostrils to keep it from whinnying at the other horses. They rode past at a weary walk, close enough for him to recognize Nuryveviza, Varstok, Surov, and Mradvior.

“We’ll be at camp in a few minutes,” Varstok was saying. His voice was gruff, hoarse with cold, and unmistakable. A huge beyar of a man, he wore a black fur cloak lined with white wool and layers of sheepskin padding beneath his plate armor for warmth. He looked like a mountain being carried by a horse. “What do we tell them? What do we say?”

“What we know,” Mradvior said, sounding short-tempered. “The king chased a stag from sight. We lost him. We have called and searched, but he is not yet found.” “Kuliestka will make us search all night,” Surov grumbled.

“The lord protector is missing too,” Mradvior said.

Someone laughed, and Tobeszijian’s fingers tightened too hard on his horse’s nose. It flung up its head, almost pulling free of his hold, and one of the riders glanced back.

“Did you hear something?”

Mradvior clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t jump at shadows, my friend. Let us find fire and wine to warm us.”

They vanished into the gloom, and Tobeszijian stood there in snow up to his knees, shivering and cursing beneath his breath.

He knew now he could not return to camp. Not alone, with no one to witness what had happened except a handful of frightened servants. They could be killed or bullied. Mradvior and his friends had said enough to confirm Tobeszijian’s suspicions. His five-year reign had been a difficult one from the start.  Following in the footsteps of his father, Runtha, had not been easy, and he’d made mistakes at first.

The worst one had been to believe his half-brother, Muncel, would ever accept him as king.

He’d tried to make peace with Muncel, had awarded him a rich holding in southern Nether near the Mandrian border, but Muncel was not appeased. Every day he listened to the steady drip of poison that was his mother’s voice, whispering in his ear. He listened to the churchmen who were opposed to Tobeszijian because of his eldin blood. When Tobeszijian took an eldin wife as queen, following in the tradition of his father, the church had raised violent objections. Tobeszijian ignored them, and had made himself more enemies as a result. There were plenty who said that Muncel, fully human, should be king—never mind that Muncel was a vain, petty, small-minded, conniving cheat who could barely wield a sword and did not understand the concept of honor.

Tobeszijian had the sudden, overwhelming urge to be home in front of a fire, supplied with a brimming wine cup, his boots off, watching his small children trying to climb inside the boots and toppling over with peals of laughter.  It was his children who had surely goaded his enemies into such desperate measures. First had come Thiatereika, so delicate and beautiful, like her mother. She was four now, straight-backed and clear-eyed, her eldin blood stamped strongly on her features even without her distinctive blue eyes and pointed ears. Two winters past had come Faldain, named for an eldin king, in defiance of Tobeszijian’s critics. Little Faldain with his black hair and chubby cheeks and eyes a pale gray. Eldin eyes that frightened his nurses, who murmured he would put a spell on them. Faldain could point at a supplicant cringing before the throne and yell, “Liar!” and be proven correct in his accusation.  Faldain, gone missing, only to be found sleeping in the midst of the king’s pack of tall, slender dogs, his chubby arms cradled around the neck of Shaiya, the pack leader who would let no one but the king touch her without biting. Faldain, who this summer had stood up in his cradle and loosed a shriek of temper that blew out all the candles in the room. And who a few minutes later had laughed, igniting them all again.

Prince Faldain, heir to the throne of Nether, was three-quarters eldin. Unlike his father Tobeszijian, who looked human and rarely exhibited any gifts of eld, the child was clearly nonhuman. His face might be sweet and chubby, but already the pronounced cheekbones and pointed chin were showing. His eerie gray eyes were tilted at the corners and saw into the minds of men and animals alike. The people feared him, and rumors said that Muncel had vowed the boy would never supplant him as king.

Tobeszijian had kept his concerns to himself. Five years of uneasy rule had taught him to conceal his reasons and motives whenever possible, to give away little, to confide never. He had decided to take the boy with him in public as much as possible once Faldain grew a bit older, for he wanted the people to see the boy and grow used to him. Already he had started negotiations with the people of eld, asking for a tutor who could train the boy in private to govern his special gifts.

But the rumors kept spreading that Faldain was of the evil, that the eldin were hardly better than the Nonkind of Gant. Religious factions in Grov, Lolta, Trebek, and other towns of Nether wanted complete separation between humans and eldin, saying they didn’t belong together and never had.  That was false, of course. Tobeszijian knew the ancient histories, of how the folk of eld had lived in Nether first, all the way back to the time of the War of the Kingdoms, and how, following that fearsome time when the gods had battled and slain each other, humans had crept from the Sea of Vvord and ventured into the land. They had been welcomed by the people of eld. An alliance had been formed, now very old, with bonds still true, that said eldin and humans could live together in peace. Over the centuries, more separation had gradually come, but it was not until the reformation of the Church of the Circle, ushered in by zealots and evangelists from other lands such as Mandria, that prejudice and distrust had been born.

They were thriving now, driven by greed and the ambitions of men.  If they have grown so bold that they would take my life, what have they done to my family? Tobeszijian asked himself.

He mounted quickly and left his hiding place, ducking beneath the low branches, which unloaded snow down the back of his cloak. The horse turned toward camp, its ears pricked forward now, but Tobeszijian swung around, spurring the animal when it fought him, and headed to the road and home.  His enemies would not catch him unawares again.

Tobeszijian’s horse stumbled over something in the near darkness. Although it snorted and shied away, the animal was too tired to bolt. Tobeszijian brought him swiftly under control and turned around to squint through the gloom at whatever lay on the ground.

He could see only a motionless man-sized shadow. His nostrils caught the scent of fresh blood.

His heart seemed to stop. No, he thought. No.

The horse would go no closer. Dismounting, Tobeszijian tied the reins to a branch and drew his dagger. Cautiously he approached the prone corpse, keeping himself alert in case this was another trap.

The snow was well trampled here. His shoulder brushed a broken pine bough, dangling, and he could just make out dark patches on the snow. Bending, he scooped up a patch and sniffed it. Blood on the snow.  There had been a fight here.

His senses told him that the dead man was Prince Kuliestka. Grief pierced Tobeszijian, but he slammed a door on all his emotions and knelt beside his friend.

Kuliestka had not gone easily. His sword was still clutched in his hand. Three arrows protruded from his back.

Touching the fletchings, Tobeszijian scowled. “Cowards,” he muttered aloud.  Gently, although it did not matter now, he gripped Kuliestka’s shoulders and rolled him over on his side. The heavy smell of blood rose up, and Tobeszijian could see it pooled black beneath his friend’s body. There was another smell, something foul and decayed. Tobeszijian’s nostrils flared, and he slid around on his knees to stare into the surrounding gloom.

Breathing hard through his mouth, Tobeszijian stripped off his gloves and touched Kuliestka’s face. His friend’s skin was cold and hard. The heavy ring on Tobeszijian’s forefinger glowed suddenly in warning, and he snatched his hand back from Kuliestka’s flesh.

Curling his fingers into a fist, he tried to breathe through his mouth, wanting none of the rank smell to enter his lungs.

The light coming from the ring grew brighter. He lifted his hand, feeling himself sweating lightly now beneath his clothes. The pale, clear light shone down upon Kuliestka’s corpse, showing the bloody mess where his eyes had been torn out and the huge rents that had been sliced through his chain mail as if it were parchment. The bulge of his intestines showed, and his left hand was missing. Swallowing hard, Tobeszijian averted his gaze. A large paw print showed clearly in the snow nearby, and Tobeszijian lowered his hand unsteadily, not wanting to see any more.

A hurlhound had killed Kuliestka.

Grief submerged Tobeszijian momentarily, but at the same time his thoughts were swirling in a tangle of new suspicions. A hurlhound had attacked Kuliestka, and a shapeshifter had nearly led Tobeszijian to his doom. Mercy of Thod, what had unleashed the Nonkind here in the depths of Nether, where none of them should be? On the shared border between Gant and Nether, yes, there was always trouble, but these creatures should not have been able to come so far without detection.  Unless someone was opening Nether to them, opening forbidden doorways between the first and second worlds, and tampering with the spellcraft that protected the boundaries.

“No,” he whispered in horror, and drew back from Kuliestka’s corpse.  Was Muncel the one? Tobeszijian did not want to believe that his half-brother would turn to such allies in an effort to gain the throne. But to tell himself that Muncel did not harbor excessive hatred and ambition was to be naive. Of late, it seemed that Muncel was a seething mass of rage and resentment.  Tobeszijian had been warned to watch his half-brother and stand guard against treachery.

Until now, Tobeszijian had discounted such warnings, certain that someday with patience he could find a way to make peace with his half-brother.  Now, with Kuliestka lying dead before him and the echo of Mradvior’s ugly laugh still in his mind, Tobeszijian finally believed the rumors and suspicions. Evil men consorting with evil Nonkind had infiltrated his court and his circle of friends. Today, they had meant to see him die.

Yet Mradvior was no controller of demons; Tobeszijian’s senses would have warned him of that. One of the Believers had to be nearby, had perhaps joined the hunting party today in disguise.

Tobeszijian’s thoughts spun rapidly. His emotions were too chaotic for him to think clearly.

But he knew he could not tarry here. It was almost fully dark, and these woods were not safe. He had to get home, and he had to hurry.  He pulled on his gloves, concealing the strong light that still shone from his ring. Thinking of it, he paused a moment in temptation.  The Ring of Solder had been passed down from father to son in a long line of kings. It, along with the Chalice of Eternal Life, had been awarded to mankind by the gods at the Dawning. Forged by the gods, and imbued with their power, the Ring and the Chalice together held the spiritual center of Nether and served as its twin guardians against the darkness. The Ring of Solder alone had the power to transport its wearer from the first world into the second or third. It crossed boundaries of distance and time in the space between heartbeats. He could use it now, and be home just that fast.

Tobeszijian drew a deep breath and reached out his mind, calling, Nereisse/Nereisse/Nereisse/Nereisse.

It was too far. He could not hear her—but something had heard him.

He felt a sudden connection, a sudden, sucking darkness that focused on him.

Gasping, Tobeszijian closed his mind and stumbled back from his friend’s corpse.

The evil was close by, too close, perhaps even next to him.  Swallowing hard, Tobeszijian watched Kuliestka’s corpse intently to see if it moved. He would know then if a soultaker had consumed what the hurlhound had left.

Behind him, his horse whinnied nervously, and Tobeszijian jumped. His heart was thudding in his chest. He was a warrior, trained in battle, seasoned by war. He had fought the Nonkind before, but never without his magicked armor, his darsteed, and a spell of blessing humming through his sword. Go, a voice said in his mind.

Tobeszijian whirled around, his sword Mirengard drawn and in his fist without thought. He stared at the forest surrounding him in the darkness. He listened with all his senses, but no further warning came. All he heard was the creaking of the trees in the cold wind and the faint rushing gurgle of a nearby stream.  Running water. He hesitated, then sprang to Kuliestka’s corpse. Swiftly he wrested the sword free of Kuliestka’s frozen fingers, determined to return it to the prince’s family. He pulled the arrows from his friend’s back and rolled Kuliestka up inside his yellow cloak. Taking one end of the garment, he dragged the corpse through the trees and undergrowth, gritting his teeth and hearing every tiny sound as though magnified a thousand times. The air of menace and evil grew increasingly thick about him, pouring through the silent trees of the forest. A terrible stench rose from poor Kuliestka’s body, warning him of what was coming, of what was trying to seize the flesh and bone of his friend’s corpse.

Tobeszijian knew he was playing with fire. At any moment the prince might stir, might reach out for him from the folds of this bloody cloak, might turn his sightless face to Tobeszijian’s and speak dreadful spell words that would freeze Tobeszijian in his tracks, render him unable to move while the hurlhound came back to tear him to pieces and the soultaker claimed his spirit for eternal damnation.

The Ring of Solder was now pure fire encircling his finger inside his glove. He gritted his teeth and pulled faster, staggering and stumbling backward through the snow. He knew he owed his dear friend this final chance of release.  Kuliestka’s soul might be gone into the darkness, or perhaps a piece of it remained tethered still to this mangled body. Either way, Tobeszijian intended to spare the prince’s body from becoming a plaything for the Nonkind, to be possessed and used for evil.

Tobeszijian realized he was weeping and saying aloud passages of Writ. He stumbled over a fallen log and fell backward, falling into a snowdrift and tumbling down the bank almost into the stream. The shock of his arm falling into the icy water brought him back to himself. He jerked his arm out of the water, slinging droplets everywhere, and flexed his hand swiftly. He was tempted to strip off the wet glove, for he knew it would soon freeze hard and immobilize his hand, but from the corner of his eye he saw Kuliestka’s wrapped body move.  His mouth went dry. Tobeszijian slung his hand, flinging droplets of water across the corpse. It flinched, and Tobeszijian took an involuntary step back.  He wanted to run, but he knew there was yet a moment of time. Not giving himself the chance to think, he finished dragging the corpse the rest of the way down the bank. He could feel it struggling feebly in his grip, the legs moving sluggishly.

Part of him wanted to call this a miracle and say Kuliestka was still alive. The rest of him knew better.

“Thod protect me with all thy strength,” he prayed, and heaved the body into the stream.

It splashed water across his boots, and the corpse bobbed a moment. A thin, ghastly shriek ripped through his mind, and Tobeszijian clapped his hands to his ears, turning away and stumbling to his knees.

“Forgive me,” he said through gritted teeth while the shrill keening went on and on inside his head. “Forgive me, my old friend, for bringing you to this.” Finally the horrible sound faded from his mind. Gasping, his face wet with tears, Tobeszijian straightened in time to see Kuliestka’s body bobbing away downstream. By morning it would be encased in ice, floating far from here. As long as it stayed in running water, the Nonkind could not possess it, could not use it. All winter, Kuliestka would lie in his coffin of ice, and perhaps, if the gods smiled fortune on him, by spring he would be deep in the Sea of Vvord, his bones safe for all eternity.

Shivering, Tobeszijian lifted his hand in farewell, then scrambled up the bank and went hurrying back through the woods to his horse. As he climbed into the saddle, he could still feel the warmth of the Ring inside his glove, drying it from the inside out. Again, he felt the urgency of too little time.  He could use the Ring and be home in seconds.

But fear or prudence stayed him from such a desperate course. He had never used the Ring. He knew a wearer could use it only thrice in a lifetime. His father before him had never used it. Tobeszijian hesitated, and told himself he was not desperate yet. Worried, yes, but he could reach Grov in a matter of hours, riding cross-country rather than by road. If no one came after him, if none of the Nonkind took his trail, he could make it before dawn.  He clenched his fist, feeling torn, then made his decision.  The Ring was to be used for the protection of the Chalice. It had not been given lightly into his keeping, and it was not to be used for personal reasons.  Grimly, Tobeszijian swung his horse’s head around and spurred it hard. He had a throne to save, and a friend to avenge.

By Thod’s hammer and the vengeance of Olas and Vlyk, he would do both.  Shortly before dawn, he reined up his weary horse on a hilltop overlooking the valley where Grov spread itself along the banks of the Velga River. He felt saddle-galled and frozen to the bone. Ice crystals had frozen themselves to his eyebrows and eyelashes. All night, he had wished himself capable of growing a beard to warm his face from the merciless cold, but his eldin blood prevented that. Swathed in his cloak, he had ridden with few pauses, using his eldin sense of direction as he never had before.

Here and there, he had come across ancient markers carved in the trunks of long-dead trees. It was the old eldin road to Grov, long since forgotten and abandoned, save by those with the blood of eld. It had brought him here faster than he’d dared to hope.

At the last crossroads, he’d hesitated, debating whether to ride to Prince Spirin’s hold and call for all his liege holders to raise their armies in his support. Riding back to Grov alone might simply put him inside another trap.  But what would he tell Prince Spirin? That he’d nearly been killed? That the Nonkind were hunting in the forest? That Prince Kuliestka had been murdered?  That he feared his half-brother was behind a plot to depose him?  He had no proof, nothing tangible except his lord protector’s sword, and that said only that Prince Kuliestka was dead. Tobeszijian knew a king had to be strong. He could not show up wild, bedraggled, and alone and command the respect of a harsh warrior like Spirin. No, his only hope was to do the unexpected, and get to Grov quickly.

Now, the city spread before him, quiet and sleeping still in the gray pearly light before daybreak. On one side of the Velga sprawled the city, with its wooden houses, gilded church spires, and multistoried trade halls. The round expanse of the fur market stood at the city’s center. Barges colored vividly in reds, blues, greens, and purples were moored along the river docks, bobbing empty or resting low and heavy in the water. The Velga had not yet frozen, but in the depths of winter it would grow still, and solid, and silent. Then the merchants would travel on it by horse-drawn sleigh, dragging logs and furs to market.

On the opposite side of the Velga stood the palace within its vast walls, high and grim on the sheer rock bluff overlooking the river. The mighty fortress had held for three centuries, proud and unfallen. He squinted through the mist and gloom at the walls, hearing the faint stamp and call of the sentries patrolling the top in their chain mail and long, fur-lined tunics striped in the burgundy and gold colors of their king. With thick, curved mustaches and tall hats of black beyar fur, the palace guards were fierce fighters and intensely loyal to their king.

Or were they?

On the horizon the sky grew steadily lighter. He could see the tallest tower, where the royal banners should have been waving, but weren’t.  He squinted, his eyes burning from sleeplessness and fatigue. Where was the queen’s banner? Where was the blue-green flag of Nether with its field of white stripes, the crimson banner with the gold circle signifying the church’s sovereignty of the spirit, the fluttering ribbons of various colors denoting the knights who were in residence at court?

Nothing flew from the poles, not even a tatter of ribbon. He saw no curls of smoke rising above the rooftops. He listened, knowing the bells should start ringing soon, but all lay quiet, as though an enchantment had brushed away the very life from the place.

His heart froze inside him. For a moment he could not breathe. Were they gone?

Were they dead?

He could not believe it. Did not want to believe such infamy could happen in his kingdom, in his own palace.

But he was here in the woods, frozen to the marrow, and skulking about like a refugee instead of the king. He had no baggage, no servants, no guards, no attendants, no courtiers, no crown, and only the torn and dirty clothes on his back. His lord protector was dead. He had ridden away from here more than six weeks ago, in blithe high spirits, shoving aside his lady wife’s concerns and fears, telling himself that Muncel’s arrival in Grov shortly before his departure signified nothing, ignoring the dark looks and the dour sermon of Cardinal Pernal’s mass, which was supposed to have been a blessing of the hunt.  “Give the hunters strength, great Thod,” the cardinal had intoned while the incense smoke rose and curled on either side of him. “Let them strike hard and take life swiftly, that all may be made new.”

Considered now, after the brutal events of yesterday, those words took on new significance.

Tobeszijian sighed and rubbed the ice from his face. Brooding about betrayals and intrigues served him no good now. If Nereisse was not here, if she’d fled or been taken prisoner, then his coming here alone was a mistake. He needed an army at his back.

Nereisse! he called with his mind, seeking her.

A tiny, nameless feeling came to him, so faint and weak he almost did not perceive it.

His head lifted. He tried to still his rage and worry in order to listen.

At last he heard her calling back, Come/come/come/come.

She was in trouble. She was hurt. She was afraid.

He could sense all of it in that faint plea for help. His rage and grief exploded inside his chest. Without further hesitation, he spurred his horse forward, galloping down the long, treeless slope of what served the town as common pastureland. Sheep, clotted together in dirty wool, sprang up with bleats of alarm as he thundered past, his horse’s hooves throwing up clods of dirt and ice. A shepherd lad, muffled to the eyes in rags and dirty sheepskin, stumbled out of his hut and stared openmouthed as Tobeszijian swept past.  There was no way inside the fortress save one, not even for the king.  Tobeszijian reined up at the massive gates of wood as thick as the walls themselves. They were reinforced with straps of iron. The hinges were as long as his forearms, their pins as thick as his wrists. It took five men and a winch to pull the gates open every morning. Trumpet fanfare always marked the ritual, timed just as the sun broke above the horizon.

He was early, and the guards had not yet assembled. The gates, scarred and splintered, some of their green and black paint peeling, stood shut, dwarfing him where he circled his restless horse.

It was not seemly for a king to have to sit at his own gates, shouting for someone’s attention. Tobeszijian had always come home with heralds riding ahead of him to give notice. The gates were always wide open, with guards assembled on either side at attention and horns being blown in the crisp fanfare of greeting and announcement while he and his riders trotted inside.  Had all been normal, he would have ridden home with his hunting party in a few days, his friends windburned and invigorated, their laughter and chatter loud.  In their wake would have come the pack animals, laden with game: huge danselk carcasses dragging massive antlers, rows of white ermine tied up by their hind feet, snow-hares with long ears dangling, an enormous black beyar as tall as a grown man with shaggy fur and a set of long claws that could tear the intestines from a horse’s belly in one swipe, boar frozen stiff, their tusks protruding long and yellow from the sides of their mouths, and silky-furred lyng cats with their white bellies and coats of distinctive gray and black swirls much prized for hats and muffs by ladies of the court.

Instead, nothing was normal. Nothing was as it should be. He sat shivering in his saddle, locked out and unnoticed. Frustration filled him, but he curbed it as he did his horse. No doubt the stallion wanted his stall and a ration of grain as much as the king wanted his bed and a trencher of steaming breakfast.  If the sentries recognized him not, or chose not to, he would never get inside.  He had never felt so helpless, but he wasn’t going to reveal his worry. After a few minutes, when no one looked over the battlements and saw him, he unstrapped his hunting horn and blew it.

Heads appeared atop the crenellations at once. “You there, begone!” shouted a gruff voice.

“Hold, fool,” said someone else. “It’s a messenger in the king’s colors.” They didn’t know who he was. Fury burned the edges of Tobeszijian’s patience. He flung back his cloak to reveal his breastplate and pushed back his mail coif to reveal his face and the gold circlet upon his brow. “The king bids you open,” he said.

The sun was not yet up, but the distant sky was now streaked with rose and white. The storm clouds of yesterday had broken up, showing patches of blue sky.  He saw them stare and heard someone swear a terrible oath. “It is!” a voice said insistently. “It can’t be.”

“I saw his crest, you fool! And his crown.” Another head appeared over the crenellations, helmeted properly, unlike the others.

“Your majesty!” this man said, sounding astonished. “What marvel is this? How come you here without—” “Open,” Tobeszijian said impatiently. “Or must I beg like a knave?” “At once, majesty!”

They scurried to pass the word. The ritual was thrown aside. He heard echoing booms on the other side and a flurry of swift orders. Slowly, ever so slowly, the huge gates began to creak open.

It took several minutes for them to move, but as soon as there was enough space for his horse to squeeze through, Tobeszijian spurred his mount forward. His shoulders brushed the wood surface on either side. The grinding creak of the hinges and the groan of the ropes echoed in the close darkness, accompanied by the ring of his horse’s iron shoes on the stone pavement.  He rode under the guardhouse, ducking his head slightly and aware of the guards crouching on the planks of the floor above his head, trying to peer at him through the cracks.

Emerging into the light filling the stableyard, he squinted and blinked, drawing rein before a red-faced captain wearing his fur hat cocked jauntily and saluting with a flash of crimson gloves.

“Your majesty!” he cried, then bowed low. “Up, man!” Tobeszijian said sharply.  Behind him, he was aware of orders cracking out and the heave and groan of the winch working the gate. He kept his gaze on the captain, who straightened, his face still flaming red. The captain would not meet his eyes.  “The court, has it gone?” Tobeszijian asked. “I did not see the queen’s banner.

Where has she moved residence?”

“I—is there no one else attending your majesty?” the captain asked.  Tobeszijian glared at the fellow, wondering why he acted so confused. “I believe my questions should be answered before yours,” he said in quiet rebuke.  The captain’s face drained of color. He knelt on the snow-dusted cobbles.

“Forgive me, sire!”

Behind Tobeszijian the massive gates shut with a boom that made his horse shy.  The locking bars slammed into place. Tobeszijian’s heart thudded with them. His mouth tightened, and his hands were fists around his reins. It was another trap, and this time it had him.

A part of his mind still couldn’t believe it, continued to deny all that was happening. The rest of him faced it with bleak pragmatism.  He did not glance back, although he sensed the guards forming behind him in an undisciplined knot of spectators. Did they expect him to whirl around and order them to release him?

Without another look at the captain, who remained crouched on the cobbles, Tobeszijian rode on into the stableyard proper.

By now, servants, hastily dressed and blowing on their hands to warm them, were stumbling out from the stables. A pair of serfs gawked at him with their mouths hanging open, then busied themselves with building a fire in the yard, well away from the wooden barns and piles of hay. Snowdrifts mounded in the corners and covered a cart resting on its traces. Steam rose from the shuttered windows of the stables, telling him the four-legged occupants inside were warm beneath their strapped-on blankets. He could smell the combined fragrances of horseflesh, grain mash, and straw. Out here, the customary mud and muck of the stableyard was all frozen clean. Everything looked exactly as it should, but it was all horribly wrong.

They stared at him as though he had returned as an apparition.  Several of the serfs cringed back into the shadows, crossing their fingers superstitiously behind their backs, and Tobeszijian wondered grimly what they had been told. That he was dead? Was Muncel so certain of his plot’s success that he had already announced Tobeszijian’s death and moved the court to his own palace? Why not sit in possession here?

Tobeszijian saw at once that whether he was now a prisoner or not, the servants still feared and revered him. Counting on habit and their sense of duty, he gestured imperiously as though he were returning from an ordinary ride. Two stableboys came darting up warily to seize the bridle of the king’s stallion.  The horse, well lathered and dripping foam, pranced and sidled. His iron shoes struck sparks off the ice-coated cobbles, and when he tossed his head, he lifted both boys off the ground.

A third came running to help, darting in under the half-rearing animal’s chin and snapping on a tether that he fastened to an iron ring embedded in the stone.  By then, Tobeszijian had dismounted. His legs barely supported him for a moment, making him cling hard to the stirrup until the world righted again. He heard a voice talking as though from far away, then he blinked and was well again, and the voice sounded loud and practically in his ear.

“Is aught amiss, majesty?” It was the stablemaster, bowing and frowning at him.  The man kept glancing behind him as though expecting the rest of the party to come in. “We heard ... that is, we were told—” “What news of the queen?” Tobeszijian asked, interrupting him.  The stablemaster looked taken aback. It was hardly his place to inform the king where her majesty had gone to. And yet, no chancellor of the court was stepping forward in greeting. No pages stood by to offer him wine or to take his filthy cloak and gloves. No courtiers had come forth, eager to catch a glimpse of him and perhaps draw the favor of his glance or conversation. All his life he had been surrounded by attendants, hangers-on, suppliants, dogs, nobles, and the general action and confusion of the court. There was always someone begging for a word with him, always maids and ladies giggling from the windows in hopes of attracting his eye, always minions and servants underfoot.  Yet now it was as though everyone in the place had been spirited away except the guards and these few servants. Tobeszijian felt like a ghost trying to return to the world of reality, only to find himself trapped behind glass, unable to step through.

Angrily he glared at the stablemaster, who had not answered his question. “The queen, sirrah!” he snapped, all patience gone. “Can you answer a simple question, or not?”

He was in many respects a gentle man, a kind man, but when he spoke in that tone men quailed and the world itself seemed to crack. He stood there, a full head and shoulders taller than the shrinking stablemaster, his blue eyes on fire and his chiseled, beardless face set in lines of stone.

The stablemaster took an involuntary step back from him, his eyes darting in several directions as though seeking aid. “Majesty,” he said, turning as pale as the shirt band protruding above the neck of his tunic. “I—I—it is not meet that I should relay such news. The—” “Her banner does not fly. Has she left residence? With what escort and bound for what location?”

The stablemaster gripped his broad, work-calloused hands together and lifted them in appeal. “I—I—we know only that she has fallen ill. A fever, they say. It came suddenly. It was only—” Tobeszijian’s heart contracted sharply, and he swung away from the man, who gasped and fell silent.

“A fever?” Tobeszijian said with his back still to the stablemaster. His voice was sharp. Heat filled his face, and his ears were roaring.  Not Nereisse, he thought with pain too great to bear. Not my love.  The stablemaster prated on, but Tobeszijian did not listen. Nereisse was eldin; she could not catch human fevers. She caught no diseases at all. For her to be taken ill could only mean the poison of spellcraft.

He thought of the shapeshifter and its scream of fury when he rode away from it in the forest. He thought of Kuliestka’s slashed and mutilated corpse lying in the snow. He thought of Nereisse fevered and alone, with his enemies closing around her.

“Where have they taken her?” he asked, using every bit of self-control he possessed not to shout.

His quiet voice seemed to unnerve the stablemaster further, for the man gave him no answer.

Tobeszijian swung around, his hand going to his sword hilt. “By Thod, must I wring every answer from you? Where is she?”

“I—I know not,” the man stammered. His gaze shifted past Tobeszijian in sudden relief.

Warned, Tobeszijian swung around so fast his cloak billowed from his shoulders.  Another officer of the guard stood close by. This one possessed harder eyes than the captain; his face was like a hatchet. Tobeszijian glared at him, noting that the man’s cloak was slightly too long for him and that his hauberk fit him ill.  The links of his chain mail were of an unfamiliar design. Tobeszijian’s nostrils flared. This man was a hirelance, nothing more than a mercenary cutthroat.  Tobeszijian’s gaze shifted past the man to the rest of the guards. Numbering about forty, including those who stood atop the wall looking down, most were clearly of the same ilk, wearing foreign-made mail under their borrowed surcoats. Only a handful, including the captain, were clearly genuine members of the palace guards, and they had either sold themselves or were under coercion.  Tobeszijian’s gaze narrowed and he swung it back to the hirelance before him. He noted the man’s narrow skull and saw a hint of fang in the man’s thin-lipped smile. A chill of disgust ran through the king. This man was Gantese, and it took every ounce of Tobeszijian’s self-control not to draw his sword and hack the Believer in twain then and there.

“I am Bork, your majesty,” the hirelance said. His voice was respectful, but his eyes were not. “You will surrender your sword.”

The stablemaster moaned.

Ignoring him, Tobeszijian never took his gaze from Bork.

“No.”

Bork spread his feet in readiness. His face was hard and wary. “This can go hard, or it can go easy. The sword and your surrender.” Forty to one was impossible. But Tobeszijian had no intention of fighting them yet anyway—there were other things to accomplish first. He mastered his outrage at the man’s impudence and made no move to obey.  “This fortress is under your control?” he asked.

Bork smirked. “I command it.”

A muscle jumped in Tobeszijian’s jaw. Otherwise he did not move. “I am the king, hirelance. Your prisoner or not, I do not surrender my sword to the likes of you. When your master comes to face me, he can demand my sword, and to him alone will I give my answer.”

Bork did not like his defiance, but Tobeszijian’s gaze held the iron confidence of birthright and lineage. He stared the hirelance down, and when Bork’s gaze dropped, Tobeszijian knew he’d won temporarily.

“I will ask this again,” he said quietly. “Where are the queen and the royal children?”

“Your queen remains in residence, but not for long, we think.” As Tobeszijian’s fingers clenched around his sword hilt, Bork showed his fangs in a broad smile. Behind Tobeszijian the stablemaster whimpered in fear, but fell silent instantly as Bork’s cruel gaze shifted to him. Tobeszijian never took his eyes off the hirelance, and inside his glove he could feel his ring growing hot. What else had taken possession of his palace? He could not stop his imagination from running wild, wondering if the Nonkind now roamed the hallways and passages freely. Had Muncel forged a complete alliance with Gant? If so, he must be mad.

With great effort, Tobeszijian pulled his whirling thoughts back under control.  He was sweating despite the cold morning air. He told himself to keep his royal dignity. He must betray no fear, no rage, nothing to indicate he had lost mastery of himself. “Now, your majesty,” Bork said, his voice as smooth as a serpent’s glide. “You will come with us to the—” “I will see my queen,” Tobeszijian said sharply. “If she lies ill, she is in need of me.”

Bork opened his mouth, but Tobeszijian said, “What you have orders to do can be done later. I am now within these walls. You guard the only way out.” Bork’s eyes seemed to shrink in his face until they were two dark pinpricks, but he protested not.

Tobeszijian turned his back on the Believer, although he half-expected the man to strike. He caught the stablemaster’s attention, and the man gaped at him in open fear. “Yes, your majesty?”

“A fresh horse,” Tobeszijian said. “My palace may be emptied, and my friends vanished, but I will not forgo all custom.” It was the king’s custom to pause here in his stableyard to change mounts and strip off his mail and armor in exchange for a courtly tunic before riding into the palace grounds. Most of the time he divested himself of his weapons also, handing them over to his squire to be cleaned. The king’s squire, a lad named Rustin and the son of Count Numitskir, had not gone on the hunting trip this year. Shortly before their departure, he’d disgraced himself with a slattern who claimed he’d fathered a child on her. Since squires in training to become knights were expected to remain celibate until after they took their knightly vows, the boy had effectively ruined a promising future. In haste to depart, Tobeszijian had told himself he would judge the matter after his return. It seemed now that he would not. He wondered what had become of the boy. For that matter, what had become of his entire court? Would he ever know?

If he allowed himself to feel his shock, he realized, he would not be able to continue. He refused to think beyond his purpose, which burned like a fire coal in his breast. The future might hold his death at the hands of these rabble, but he would not consider that now.

“Let us amend custom today,” he said to the stablemaster. “Just the horse.” The stablemaster gulped and nodded, bowing low and backing away to snap his fingers frantically at the boys, who were staring with their mouths open.  “It’s been told that you can ride the darsteed,” Bork said, and pointed at the opposite side of the stableyard to a round building with a cone-shaped roof of slate. Lights shone from the tiny windows fitted high in the walls. A bugle of fury, muffled by the stone walls, came from inside, along with a series of rapid thuds.

Tobeszijian’s nostrils flared. He felt the darsteed’s fiery rage reach his senses, and his own pent-up rage and grief responded like fire in his chest. His heartbeat quickened. For a second his blood raced in his veins.  He sent his mind to it: I am home/home/home/home.  The creature needed exercise. It had been neglected during his absence, cooped up in there the whole time. He could feel its explosive need.  Soon, he promised it.

The savage fire of its mind came crashing back to him, making him sway slightly in the effort of absorbing it. Run/run/run/run.

Soon, he promised it again, and his heart felt as savage as the beast.

The darsteed inside the fortified stall bugled and kicked.  Tobeszijian blinked and broke the contact, realizing that Bork was staring at him in open conjecture.

Bork smiled and gestured at the stablemaster. “Your king would ride his mighty darsteed. It’s in need of exercise.”

Tobeszijian frowned. Ordinarily he rode the darsteed into battle instead of a charger. The darsteed was a creature from a nightmare, a beast of war and terror. By the laws of tradition, all kings of Nether had owned a darsteed since the days when Nether first defeated Gant and seized the terrifying beasts as prizes. But the creatures were kept locked up and viewed at a safe distance. No Netheran king, until Tobeszijian, had dared to actually ride one. Thanks to his eldin blood, he could control the brute. When Tobeszijian appeared on the battlefield in full plate armor and antlered helm, bearing his two-handed sword and a war hammer, and riding astride a black fearsome creature that breathed fire and roared with all the violence of hell itself, few Kladite raiders could stand and hold their ground. Few Gantese Believers and Nonkind would either.  Yet Bork was trying to provoke him into bringing it out. Tobeszijian wondered if the hirelances had gone inside to look at the beast and if it had injured any of them. Grimly he met the Gantese’s eyes. He would use the darsteed, all right, but not yet. Not until the proper time.

“Ride it,” Bork urged him. “We have heard of your legend, King Tobeszijian. We would see it for ourselves. No one will bring it out for us.” Tobeszijian said nothing.

He longed for Kuliestka at his side. By now the lord protector would have tried to put an end to these insults, and gotten himself spitted on the end of a sword. Grief rose inside Tobeszijian, twisting painfully, but he choked it down.  He must be iron. He must remain every inch a king if he was to keep himself from being shackled and led away in total humiliation to the guardhouse.  “Forgive me, majesty. We dared not take the beast outside while you were gone,” the stablemaster said nervously. “Since Vlout died of that head kick, no one can handle it except your majesty.”

Tobeszijian frowned, momentarily distracted. “You were told to find a replacement for Vlout immediately.”

“I tried, majesty, but—”

Tobeszijian lifted his hand to silence the man.

“Ride it, great king,” Bork said, openly mocking him now.  The stableboys came leading up a bay courser fitted with an ornate saddle of silver and a velvet saddlecloth. Rosettes had been braided hastily into its shining black mane, and its dark hooves gleamed with oil. It tossed its fine head and pranced sideways, its delicate nostrils snorting white plumes in the frosty air.

“That’s a lady’s mount. Not worth a king’s backside,” Bork said, grinning and showing his fangs. “Let’s see the darsteed.”

Tobeszijian was conscious of time running out, of his tiny advantage slipping from his fingers. He must turn the tide of this game, and swiftly, before all was lost.

“The queen’s health is my concern now,” he said coldly. “When I have seen her, I will consider your request.”

Bork growled in his throat and moved sharply. Perhaps he meant to strike Tobeszijian, or perhaps he was only making a rude gesture.  Either way, Tobeszijian turned on him and caught his fist in midair, straining to hold it when the Gantese would have pulled free. Bork’s eyes narrowed to black dots of evil. He snarled, baring his fangs.

But Tobeszijian’s blue eyes blazed right back, and his mind—unskilled but strong—crashed against Bork’s. Back away/back away/back away, he commanded.  Bork snarled again. The other guards were closing fast, scenting a problem even while the two men stood close to each other, glaring and locked together, their struggle hidden as yet between their bodies.

“When I am at liberty, I will show you the brute’s paces,” Tobeszijian said, straining to hold the hirelance. His voice grew rough from the effort he was expending. Back away, his mind commanded again.

Bork unclenched his fist and stopped the struggle abruptly. His eyes held anger mingled with confusion.

Tobeszijian knew he could not control the Believer, but he could influence him.  He pushed again, and saw Bork blink. The Gantese stepped back. “At your majesty’s leisure,” he said, and gestured scornfully at the bay, which shook the rosettes tied to its long mane and pawed the ground. “We shall still be here.” Relief came sharp and sudden, like a dagger thrust. Feeling his knees weaken, Tobeszijian turned away and swung into the saddle with all the grace and strength he could exhibit. He rode through the smaller gates on the other side of the stableyard and took the winding road that led to his palace.  Not caring what any of them thought, he spurred the animal to a gallop and didn’t look back.

The palace grounds sloped uphill, enclosing a small, well-groomed forest of ash trees that bordered either side of the stone-paved road. Spurring the bay courser again, Tobeszijian rode through the trees and glimpsed the small, sleek herd of royal deer nibbling at the still-green grass they’d pawed up from beneath the snow. Their heads flashed up in alarm as he galloped past, and they turned as one, bounding away.

The road dipped, curved through a snow-rimmed stream, and wound steeply up through a stone archway that had once marked a gatehouse and the crumbled remains of the original fortress walls. Ivy now grew over the fallen stones.  Frost had burnished the leaves to tawny colors. From this point the road became older, rougher, narrower. The forest grew right up to it on either side. Then abruptly the trees ended, revealing the top of the hill, which was entirely cleared. The palace stood there, silhouetted against the rosy, pearlescent morning sky. The peaks and spires of its roof seemed to stretch to the heavens.  The palace was a magnificent sight that never failed to lift Tobeszijian’s heart. Three stories tall, the long, multiwinged palace stood there airily in its setting of snow, sky, and shrubbery. Its pale yellow stone had been quarried from the rocky hills near Lake Charva, and it featured long rows of tall windows. Every window was fitted with actual glass, a luxury so rare and costly it had once threatened to deplete the treasury.

Delicate columns of white marble supported archways over each window. The columns were carved fancifully in the shapes of serpents, lizards, tree branches, and vines. Winged gryphons lunged from the rooftops as waterspouts, and leaping sea-maids with outstretched arms were carved from marble to form the balustrades on either side of the broad steps leading up into the state portico.  Nowhere else in Grov or all of Nether could such a building be found. It was too ornate, too whimsical. It gave the eye no rest. It was as different from the original fortress on this spot as the sun was different from the moon. Yet its ramparts remained strong and practical. Behind it the sheer stone cliffs dropped straight down into the Velga River, creating a natural defense on that side.  Runtha’s Folly, some folk called this bizarre yet beautiful palace. Begun by Tobeszijian’s grandfather, Runtha I, and completed by his father, Runtha II, the palace’s unusual appearance was blamed on the eldin and their unwelcome influence.

For many centuries eldin and humans had coexisted peacefully in Nether, even joining themselves into the Church of the Circle and forming the basis of modern religion now held by half the known world. The Chalice of Eternal Life was held sacred by both humans and eldin, who believed in the same history of the Origins and the same gods. Folk of the eld, however, had magic which the humans did not.  They could enter the second world, which humans could not. Eldin and humans found they were usually more comfortable apart, and in general they kept their communities separate.

Less than two hundred years ago, Tomias the Reformer—a monk and visionary believed to be from Mandria, although he claimed no land as his origin—had entered Nether, bringing with him a different branch of the church and a radical system of beliefs. Tomias and the reformers considered the eldin to be part of the darkness and superstition which had held Nether chained for too long. Church magic, held firmly in the hands of the crimson-robed churchmen, was preached to be honorable and true to the Chalice, derived from its sacred power. Eld magic was said to be derived from perversion and secret liaisons with the darkness, a force that would tarnish the Chalice. But any human could enter the Circle and worship the Chalice, bringing it glory, providing he or she came with a true and willing heart. To serve, a worshiper needed only to feel faith. No actual performance or action was required, refuting what had been the former custom of penitence and ritual. Tomias advocated separation and division between humans and the eldin, claiming that the folk of eld had no actual place in the Circle and need not be considered an equal part of it.

Fresh and appealing, this message of reform took quickly in Grov, and from there it spread across the rest of Nether. It became fashionable to deny that the eldin even existed, fashionable to build stone churches and to burn the old paneathas which had stood in wall niches, honoring the old gods, since time began.

But as a young man, Runtha I shook off the influence of the reformers. One day while riding in the forests alone, he was thrown when his horse stumbled.  Knocked unconscious, he awakened hours later to find that night had fallen.  Surrounding him was a group of eldin with eerie white flames shooting from their fingertips, lighting the clearing without need of lanterns. Although little contact had been made between humans and eldin since the mission work of Tomias the Reformer, he was treated that night to eld hospitality. Runtha I discovered for himself that the eldin were a gentle, merry people with spirits of light and laughter. He made friends with his hosts, who showed him many wonders and visions. Returning a few days later to his frantic and much-worried court, the young king embraced the old ways and set about undermining the stranglehold of the reformed church. He shortened the sermons and permitted townspeople freedom of choice between the reformed church and the old festivals.  Eld groves were preserved by royal decree, and this palace was constructed around the old, dank, original Hall of Kings. A Mandrian was sent for, and he created these formal gardens of clipped yew hedges, leaving only a small copse of natural hust trees on one side, out of sight. There, roses and sea holly were allowed to grow wild in a thicket. Tended by eldin and much loved by the present queen, this magical place became a riot of color in the spring, when the hust trees bloomed in long white racemes that hung to the ground and all sorts of flowers burst from the ground to open crimson, gold, and pink petals. The bees grew drunk and fat with pollen, the fragrance of flowers filled the air, and the wind would blow a wealth of rose petals across the grassy paths.  As his horse came surging over the last steep segment of road, Tobeszijian summoned a mental image of Nereisse his wife, so pale and graceful, walking there in her grove, her wispy draperies catching on branches, fallen petals hanging in her knee-long blonde hair and scattering behind her. He felt a pang inside him as though he’d been pricked.

It was her pain, reaching to him.

Oh, great Thod, he prayed frantically, let me reach her in time.  He kicked his horse forward, making it kick up spumes of powdery snow, its iron shoes slipping dangerously on patches of ice.

No one waited on the broad steps to greet him. Few lights shone in the windows.  The tall double doors stood closed, with no servants ready to open them. He saw no curls of smoke spiraling from the chimneys on the roof.  He had never, in all his lifetime, imagined the palace could be this deserted.

The sight of it, abandoned and empty, pierced his heart.  A corner of his mind raged, wanting specific names and faces, ready to condemn and assign blame. But it was not that easy to separate the tangled skeins of the political web. Who at court was not an enemy of some kind? The lord chancellor, the lord of the treasury, the keeper of the seal, the guardian of the armory, the cardinal of the church, the steward of the household, and yes, especially yes, the king’s own half-brother were all problems, siding continuously against him and the policies he tried to set.

Only five years on the throne, Tobeszijian thought grimly, and my reign is already in grave danger.

He could blame part of it on the alliances his father had forged shortly before his demise. He could blame more of it on Prince Muncel’s ambition and greed. He could blame the rest on the church and its zealot leader, Cardinal Pernal, who wanted no half-eld king on the throne.

Spurring the courser, Tobeszijian sent it scrambling madly up the broad steps to the very doors of the palace. Leaning from the saddle, he pounded on the wooden panels and listened to the echo of his summons fade inside.  No one came.

Dismounting, he shouldered open the heavy door. Inside, the place was shadowy and cold. He drew Mirengard, flung back his cloak to free his arms, and strode swiftly through the rambling palace.

The emptiness drove a wedge of dread deeper into his heart. There had been no looting. The carpets and furniture still filled the rooms. But no living thing stirred. He heard nothing except his own rapid footfalls.  He passed through a set of tall double doors into the icy gloom of the original Hall of Kings. The room was narrow and cramped with age, its arched ceiling blackened by centuries of fire smoke and grime. Windowless and bleak, the room’s only illumination normally came from torches kept burning in wall sconces set between long tapestries. The torches did not burn now, not even around the multitiered paneatha. The ancient gilded icons of the gods, their painted images so dim and worn they were nearly unrecognizable, were gone.  Tobeszijian halted there in shock. Lowering the tip of his sword to the sagging wooden floor, he reached forward and touched each bare arm of the paneatha where an icon should have been hanging.

“Blasphemy,” he muttered beneath his breath, and looked up.  On the wall, above the crude and age-blackened throne of the First, should have hung a triangular-shaped sword made of black iron, its hilt wrapped with leather, its double edges nocked and jagged from battles fought in the dim beginning of history of his ancestors was gone.

He knew then what else he would find missing.

Fear plunged to his vitals. It was as though while he was away, the world had ended. And during this plotting, he hadn’t known, hadn’t guessed. How could he have been so blind? He stood in the empty Hall and felt lost, as though he’d been dropped into the third world and could not find his way back out.  Drawing several ragged breaths, he sought to calm himself and knelt before the ancient wooden cabinet that stood beneath the wall niche of the paneatha.  Opening its doors, he reached inside, found the hidden depression, and pressed it.

With a faint rumble and scrape, a portion of the wooden floor slid aside. Dank air rose into his face. He ran to light one of the torches, using the striker and stone kept always near the paneatha. When the torch was burning bright, popping as its pitch warmed within the twist of straw, he held it aloft in his left hand and gripped his sword with his right. Thus armed, he descended the rickety wooden steps into the yawning darkness below the Hall of Kings.  At the bottom of the steps stretched a cramped chamber with walls of frozen dirt and stone. In the center were double, semicircle rows of stone benches. On the opposite wall stood a crude stone altar with a cauldron overturned next to it.  The torchlight flickered over the reliquaries on the altar, showing him the green-patinated bronze bowls intended to hold salt and sacred water, the old bronze knives of ritual, the rods of white ash, the stubs of Element candles, the incense burners, rune-stones, a small bell, and the dried remains of vines that had once wreathed the altar.

This was the original worship site. The Chalice of Eternal Life had been placed here when the First received it from the gods. For generations the Chalice had been well guarded by Tobeszijian’s ancestors. Although Tobeszijian’s father had been besieged by church officials to surrender the Chalice to them so that they might display it prominently in the newly completed Cathedral of Helspirin in Grov’s center, Runtha II would not agree. The Chalice belonged here, he said.  Runtha had argued that the Chalice was not to be worshiped instead of the gods.  Its power protected the land and the people of Nether. But that power was not to be channeled by churchmen for the working of miracles designed only to increase numbers of congregants. The very day following Tobeszijian’s own coronation in the Cathedral of Helspirin, Cardinal Pernal had approached him and requested that the Chalice be moved to the cathedral, far from the primitive cave where it had been hidden from the people for too long. He pointed out the arching ceiling of the nave, so high it seemed lost in the misty shadows. He showed Tobeszijian the sanctum and the stand where the Chalice would be displayed, high enough so that all who came inside the enormous cathedral could see it, with narrow slits of windows surrounding it in order that its light might radiate outside the building at night.

That day, Tobeszijian gazed around at the unfamiliar cathedral, with its fine carvings and its statues of saints instead of the icons of the old gods. He noticed the brilliant blue paint and the extensive, elaborate gilding. Oh, there was no doubt the Chalice would be displayed in as beautiful a setting as man could devise, but Tobeszijian felt uneasy. Since childhood, he had kept in his memory the rites and the ancient phrasing of the oath of protection sworn by him and every other king of Nether since the Chalice came into their care. He had responsibilities that were secret, unknown to this powerful churchman in his crimson robes, responsibilities that did not permit the Chalice to be put on public display. For one thing, its power was too strong, needing containment by magical means involving soil, salt, running water, and ash wood.  Like his father before him, Tobeszijian refused the church’s request. Cardinal Pernal’s face had gone quite white and pinched around the nostrils. His dark brown eyes had blazed with fury that he clearly had difficulty containing. With his mouth set in a tight line, he bowed to his king, and Tobeszijian left him to fume as he wished.

Now, however, as Tobeszijian walked into this small, dark cave beneath his palace, he saw that this first Circle had been violated, and that the Chalice was gone.

Behind the altar, the natural spring which pooled in the ground had been filled in with dirt and stone, choking it. Tobeszijian touched it and felt dampness, but nothing more. He swore softly. Skirting the spring, he walked deeper into the darkness, holding his torch aloft to light his way, although he already knew.

With every cautious step, his heart raged and grieved. Yet he had to look, had to see for himself all that had been done to defile this holy place.  On the back wall rose a pillar of black obsidian, hewn and polished. The Chalice of Eternal Life should have been standing atop that pillar. It was not.  At the base of the pillar, the hearth of Perpetual Fire lay cold. Removing his glove, Tobeszijian thrust his hand into the white, powdery ashes, but there was no lingering ember to cast warmth. The fire had been dead a long while.  “Muncel,” he said aloud in despair, “what have you done?” The silence seemed to mock him. He stepped back, stumbling a little, then turned and fled, running across the chamber and back up the steps into the Hall of Kings. He kicked the trapdoor back into place and flung his torch into a wall sconce with such force it nearly went out. Wrenching himself around, he strode through the rest of the Hall, passing the rows of ancient weapons—some mysterious, others primitive—hanging on hooks as reminders of the past.  Slamming his way through another set of doors, he left the Hall of Kings and strode through a passageway as gloomy and deserted as the others.  More doors. He burst through them and entered a reception gallery of light and warmth so intense it hit him like a blow. A row of windows along the left wall filled the room with morning sunlight. At the far end, he could see a tall stove, tiled with bright colors and radiating a blast of heat that made him realize how cold the rest of the palace had grown.

His anger sank into a deep, secretive corner of his soul, and was replaced by a renewed sense of caution. If the palace was deserted, who had built this fire?  Gripping his sword with both hands and holding it ready before him, he moved down the corridor on quick, quiet feet, trying to still even the faint jingling of his silver spurs. He wanted to call out Nereisse’s name, but he held his tongue.

The gallery looked magnificent in the sunlight. Its tall mirrors, even more costly and rare than the glass in the windows, hung on the right-hand wall, reflecting back the sunlight streaming in. The place was all dazzle and glitter, prismed light refracting on the walls and shimmering from the faceted balls of bard crystal hanging on chains of gold from the ceiling.  It was the Gallery of Glass, famous throughout the kingdoms. His passage beneath the bard crystal balls set them swinging lightly, and he could hear them sing in faint little sighs of melody. The gallery had never failed to enchant all who entered it. Dignitaries from foreign lands often came and sat here by the hour, marveling at the dazzling array of light and color and sound. During festivals, it pleased Tobeszijian to allow dances to be held and madrigals to be performed in here. The fine carpets would be rolled up, and the floors polished. Candles would be lit everywhere until the mirrors blazed with their reflection. The ladies would swish and spin about, laughing to see themselves in the mirrors.  The jewel-like colors of their gowns glittered like kaleidoscope pieces on the faceted surfaces of the bard crystal balls overhead, while the crystal sang with the melodies, their tunes eerie and soft.

Sweat beaded on Tobeszijian’s brow, and he turned at the end of the gallery to climb a broad wooden staircase, carpeted by handwoven rugs sent by the Wandering Tribes in tribute. The carved wooden heads of idealized danselk, covered with paint and gilding, formed the posts on either side of the head of the staircase.  Their antlers held candle stubs long since burned out. A draft of the heated air from the Gallery of Glass blew up the staircase, but it did not reach far.  At the top of the stairs, he rounded the corner and nearly collided with an elderly servant of the Order of the Chamberlain. Stooped with age, his straight gray hair cut in a severe bowl shape above his ears, the servant wore a stiff tabard of embroidered livery in the royal colors of burgundy and gold. His collar of servitude was embossed with the royal coat of arms. He held a key in his mottled hands, and worry puckered his old face.

Startled by this encounter, Tobeszijian swung his sword in reflex even as he recognized the servant. He shortened his swing and the mighty blade whistled harmlessly over the old man’s head. Cringing to the floor, the servant lifted his hands and wailed in fright.

“Suchin!” Tobeszijian said in profound relief. He sheathed his sword and gripped the wailing servant’s shoulder. “Suchin, do you not know me?” Gasping, the old man lifted his terrified face and un-squinched his eyes. He stared at Tobeszijian, his mouth falling open and his eyes growing rounder and rounder. All the color leached from his face.

“I live,” Tobeszijian said firmly, gripping Suchin’s shoulder even tighter. “I am flesh, not ghost.”

Relief flooded Suchin’s face at that assurance. With a sob, he flung himself at Tobeszijian’s feet and wept. “Majesty, you have come!” he cried. “At last, you have come.”

Tobeszijian gazed down at the old man lying at his feet and wondered why he was still here. Had he been overlooked, or was he one of the betrayers like the captain of the guard and the stablemaster?

But the king had no time for such questions now. “Suchin,” he said firmly, “rise and take me to the queen.”

Suchin obeyed, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Hurrying to keep up with Tobeszijian’s long stride, he pointed toward the state apartments. “Sire,” he babbled, “what a relief that you have come home. We had given up all hope.” “How does the queen?” Tobeszijian asked. Guilt choked him as he thought of the palace betrayed and invaded, the queen ill, the Chalice stolen, all while he’d been gone on his pleasure, hunting because he felt tired of his responsibilities. Thod’s mercy, but he had much to answer for. “Is she better?” Suchin sighed and shook his head. “We thought it was nothing at first. Princess Thiatereika fell ill several days ago. Her fever was strong, and kept her tossing and crying out.”

Thiatereika, his only daughter. Tobeszijian felt as though he’d been struck by a war hammer. Too much was happening. Too much was being taken away. He could hear a wild, queer laugh in one corner of his brain, while the rest of him stared at Suchin in horror.

“Aye, sire,” Suchin said. “Only the queen could soothe the child. Then her majesty took the fever too. She would not give way to it, though, but fought it most valiantly, giving all her strength to the child’s care. Even when Prince Muncel came, she received him with pride, facing him down while she tried to hold the palace in the name of the king.” Suchin’s gaze flickered to Tobeszijian’s face. “But she could not prevail and was sent to her chambers. She was kept a prisoner inside until the palace was emptied of everyone. Gilda says her grace cried aloud yesterday afternoon and spoke your majesty’s name. She did act most peculiar, weeping that you were dead. Then she swooned and was taken to bed. She lies there still.”

Tobeszijian frowned, feeling fresh grief wash over him. She’d known of his danger, while he’d been oblivious to hers. He should never have left this year.  He’d known better. Thod’s bones, but he should have heeded the warning signs and stayed here to guard what was his.

“What does the physician say?” he asked, pausing while Suchin struggled to push open the double doors leading into the queen’s chambers.  Suchin looked at him almost fearfully and stepped aside. “There has been no physician to attend her majesty.”

Speechless with anger, Tobeszijian stopped halfway across the threshold. He met the old man’s eyes, and suddenly his sword tip was pressing Suchin’s throat.  “What infamy is this?” he shouted. “By whose order was a physician kept from Queen Nereisse?”

Suchin’s face went as gray as his hair. His eyes widened with terror, and Tobeszijian pressed the blade deeper into that soft, wrinkled skin. “Her own order, your grace!” the servant said, gasping.

Tobeszijian had been expecting him to say it was Prince Muncel. Stunned, he released the old man, and Suchin sagged against the door, banging it into the wall. His hand trembled as he pointed at the tall bed standing in the center of the room. Sheathing his sword, Tobeszijian walked toward it in a daze of confusion and anguish.

The state bed of the queen was a massive piece of furniture. Each post was as big around as Tobeszijian’s waist and carved heavily with runes of blessing and the faces of ancient tree spirits. Since Nereisse had become queen, the ancient timbers of the bed had sprouted with twigs and green leaves, as though roots still fastened the posts to the soil. Some of the serving maids would not go near the bed, not even to strip the linens for cleaning. Others claimed they could hear the timbers groaning during the day, mumbling in the old tongues things no mortals should hear.

Gold velvet hangings, so heavily embroidered they hung stiff, encircled the bed to keep out drafts. They were parted now on the side facing a roaring fire, and Gilda, the old nurse who cared for the royal children, sat there on a stool at the queen’s bedside, sponging the queen’s hands and face with a damp cloth.  Nereisse’s golden hair spread across the pillow. Reaching to her knees when she left it unbound, the tresses were normally thick and luxuriant. They sprang back from her face naturally, requiring no fillet or band to control them, and the curls and waves of her hair were never still but always in quiet motion, as though a soft breeze blew over her at all times. Now, however, no invisible breeze stirred her hair to life. It lay there tangled and limp, darker at her temples, where she was sweating.

Her clear skin was flushed, and her shut eyelids looked bruised and puffy. She was tossing her head back and forth on the pillow, her hands plucking at the fur coverlet. Gilda grasped one of her hands and held it firmly, patting it with the damp cloth, but Nereisse pulled free and murmured urgently, “Siob-veidhne broic kalfeyd edr hahld!”

The fire flickered abruptly low as though it might go out, and the air in the room seemed to vanish momentarily as if it had all been sucked away.  Tobeszijian’s hair stood up on the back of his neck, and he could feel the wild prickling across his skin that told him she was speaking with power.  That was forbidden here. She herself had forbidden it, saying it was not safe within the walls, with so many people about. Power, channeled through the eldin tongue, was for the outdoors, where it could be unleashed with force.  Gilda looked up at Tobeszijian’s arrival, and tears glistened in her rheumy eyes, trickling down her wrinkled cheeks. Her bottom teeth had long ago rotted out, leaving her mouth shrunken, and pulling her chin up nearly to her nose. She might look a crone, but hers was a gentle soul. She had never feared Nereisse or the children who had been born in this bed. She had served as Tobeszijian’s nurse, mothering him when his own mother died, and she had stood as his ally during the days when his father took a new, this time human, wife who wanted nothing to do with her royal stepson.

“Sire, my sweet lady lies here poorly,” Gilda whispered. “Very poorly.” She slid off her stool, making way for him to bend over Nereisse.  Tobeszijian gripped his wife’s hands in his. They were burning hot. She tossed her head, spilling the cloth Gilda had left across her brow. Tobeszijian stroked the queen’s forehead, trying to ease the furrows which creased it. He kissed first her hot lips, then her shut eyelids, then the pointed tip of each delicate ear.

“My beloved,” he whispered, grieving for her. She had the smell of death on her skin. She was so hot, his icy queen, so unnaturally hot. Usually Nereisse’s skin was as cool to the touch as polished marble. He kissed her again, but her eyes did not open. He felt afraid. “Nereisse,” he said in desperation, “I’ve come safely home.”

At last her eyes did drag themselves open. They were blue-gray, tilted at the corners, and they stared at him without recognition. “Kalfeyd edr hahld!” she said.

He felt his hair blow back from his brow as she said the words, felt their force. Danger, she was saying. There is danger.

“Nereisse,” he said, stroking her cheeks, wanting her to know him. “It’s Tobeszijian, come home to you. Look at me, beloved. Hear my voice.” But she tossed in his arms, crying out feverishly, then clutching her stomach with whimpers of pain.

“Help her!” he said to Gilda frantically. “Send for the physician—” “No!” Nereisse gripped his wrist, pulling herself up off the pillows. Her eyes stared into his as though she saw a stranger. “Keep away!” “Nereisse, I’m here,” he said, pushing her hair back from her face.

She tried to bat his hand away. “No!”

“Hush, beloved. I will not hurt you. Gilda,” he said sharply to the old woman, who had not moved, “do as I have commanded!”

“The physician’s gone, like all the rest,” Gilda said. “There’s only me and Suchin left. We hid, or they’d have taken us away too.” Tobeszijian, still trying to soothe his flailing wife, stared at Gilda. Although he had many questions, he knew this wasn’t the time. Again he tried to ease Nereisse down, but she was still fighting him.

“Nereisse, it’s Tobeszijian, your husband,” he said. “You know me. I’ve come home.”

This time she responded to his voice. Her eyes, so wild and frantic behind hanging wisps of hair, glared at him. “You’re dead. I parted the veils of seeing, and you were dead.”

“No,” he said softly, stroking her hair. “I escaped.”

“Saw you,” she panted. “Saw the Nonkind surrounding you. Saw them rend you. How you fought, my beloved. You fought so fiercely and well, but you were alone and there were so many of them—” “No, Nereisse,” he said, trying to silence her. “I am here, safe with you.” She groaned and clung to him, weeping now. “It cannot be true,” she said. “I saw so clearly.”

“It almost happened,” he told her. “Almost, but they could not trap me. Now you must rest and get better.”

He laid her down upon her pillows, but she still clung to his hand, her blue-gray eyes frantic. “It is not safe here for you. The churchmen will capture you. The court has gone. Everything is gone.”

“I saw,” he said grimly, thinking of the deserted palace.

“Muncel—” She shivered, wracked anew with pain.

“Hush,” he said. “I am here now. You must rest and get better. We will deal with the other later.”

But she seemed not to hear him. “Muncel has claimed your throne,” she said, her voice a whisper. “He has moved the court to Belrad, saying the palace here is accursed by eldin magic. The court left yesterday—nay, the day before. Sleds and troikas and wagons. They took all the—” “Hush,” he said, masking his fury. “Let me worry about that. It does not matter as long as you and the children are safe.”

Her gaze shifted, and for a second she was his old Nereisse, gazing into his eyes with a corner of her mouth quirked up in something between disapproval and amusement. “Liar,” she whispered.

He gripped her slender hand in his and kissed it to hide a rush of tears. “No,” he said, closing his eyes as her fingers swept across his face. “I will make war. Muncel will rue this infamy. He cannot steal my kingdom like a common thief.”

“Then flee now,” she said, shivering. “Find your allies and loyal liegemen who will raise an army for you. Do not linger here, for they lie in wait for you, intending to take you prisoner. They would dare try you as a common—” “Never mind,” he said, not wanting to tell her he was already a prisoner. But not for long, he vowed. He would crush Muncel. As soon as he raised an army, he would ride on Muncel’s holding. Belrad, the fortress he had given Muncel with impulsive generosity. Although he owed Muncel nothing, he had been generous to his half-brother. And this was how Muncel repaid his kindness.  Nereisse shivered more violently, closing her eyes. Worried, Tobeszijian glanced at Gilda. “What can be done?”

“Nothing,” Nereisse gasped out before Gilda could answer. She opened her eyes to stare up at him. “It is spellcraft, this poison. You must stay away from me before you catch it.”

She released his hand, drawing back when he would have touched her.

“I cannot catch it,” he said.

“You are half eld. It could harm you.”

He frowned. “What happened, Nereisse? They told me Thiatereika caught it first.