When you—”

Mierre raised his beefy hand in menace, and Kaltienne scooted back his stool. He shut his mouth, but deviltry still danced in his eyes.

Sighing, Mierre returned his attention to Gavril, who had begun to seethe.

“Forgive me, your highness. He’s forever a fool and a knave.” “No,” Gavril said, his tone cutting and contemptuous. “Kaltienne is a child. I shouldn’t have included him in this—” “Your highness!” Kaltienne said loudly, horrified. He jumped off his stool to kneel before Gavril. “Forgive me. I was only jesting. I will do whatever you ask—” Gavril pointed at him and said sternly, “Hold your tongue.” Kaltienne’s face turned pale. He reached out as though to take Gavril’s hand in his, but Gavril drew back.

“Say no more,” he commanded. “Listen and perhaps I will relent.”

Gulping audibly, Kaltienne bowed his head and remained kneeling.  Gavril frowned at him with impatience. He was running out of time, and these boys were not providing the quality of help he wanted. “Get on your feet,” he said angrily.

Kaltienne jumped up at once. He opened his mouth, met Gavril’s angry eyes, and closed his mouth again with a sigh.

“I don’t suppose your highness could just ask Lord Odfrey to return your wine?”

Mierre asked quietly.

Gavril gritted his teeth. “I did. Lord Odfrey refused me.” That had been a week ago, and his voice still reverberated with his shock and furious disappointment. No one ever refused him, the only son of the king. No one ever denied him what he wished or asked for. Except for Lord Odfrey. At every turn the chevard thwarted him. It was maddening. Worst of all, Lord Odfrey had been given this authority by the king’s own warrant. Thus far, one month had passed of Gavril’s required year of fostering. Already it seemed an eternity.  Thanks to the chevard’s obstinance, Gavril had made no progress on his secret quest to find the lost Chalice.

Frowning, Gavril held out his jeweled cup in silence, and his lone manservant hurried forward to fill it. The cider was a thin, brown brew pressed from the Thirst orchards. Gavril considered it a peasant’s drink, but Lord Odfrey was as miserly a man as Gavril had ever encountered, worse even than the clerks in the royal countinghouse. The chevard served naught but water or cider at his table, except on feast-days and the king’s birthday. Nor would he permit Gavril to drink from the costly and elegant wines, or Klad beer, with its kick to the stomach, or the honeyed mead from the Isles of Saelutia that he had brought with him in a wagon made specially for the purpose. That wagon was now lodged in the chevard’s barn, and its sublime contents were all under lock and key inside the chevard’s own cellar.

Robbery it was, nothing less. Every time Gavril swallowed the sour, thin cider he felt as though his throat had been scalded by his present guardian’s thievery and discourtesy. Gavril had been drinking wine since he was seven. It was his custom in his father’s palace to drink rounds with the guardsmen once a month on lastday. Among the men he had the reputation for having a hard head and a hollow leg. Therefore, he felt insulted by Lord Odfrey’s assumption that he could not command his cup or that he would hold drunken revels with the other fostered boys in his rooms at night.

Even more important than Gavril’s own luxury, however, were the kegs of fine mead that he’d intended to use as bribes. How else was he to win over the secret support of Lord Odfrey’s knights? How else could he suborn the loyalty of the steward of Thirst Hold? Or persuade the cook to prepare meals of suitable quality for him alone? Saelutian mead was an elixir of such sweetness and flavor that a single goblet of it could make a grown man reel. Rare and costly, it was powerfully addictive and after a few sips one’s palate craved it with an evergrowing fierceness. Using it instead of coin was a subtle ploy that appealed to Gavril. He aspired to statecraft of great subtlety. Cardinal Noncire had taught him that intrigue should always be as soft and quiet as a whisper, forever patient, forever relentless, alarming no one yet accomplishing much.  And Gavril had much to accomplish.

“Your highness,” Mierre said, “I could ask the servants whether there is another way down into the lower regions besides the stair that’s guarded. I think I could persuade someone to help us.”

Gavril swung around, feeling somewhat appeased. At least Mierre was trying to help. “You must not give away our intentions with too many questions.” “I would not,” Mierre said.

Kaltienne raised his hand, fairly dancing about with his eagerness to speak.

With a sigh Gavril nodded to him. “Yes?” he commanded.

“There’s a privy channel going down the back of the hold into an underground

cistern,” Kaltienne said. “There has to be a way to get in through the clean-out

door—”

Gavril wrinkled his nose in horror.

Mierre grunted. “You can try it.”

Kaltienne’s eyes widened. “Not me!”

“Who of us do you expect to do it?” Gavril asked.

Kaltienne clearly had not thought through his suggestion. He grimaced and tugged at his tunic, which was wrinkled and stained with remnants of his dinner. He did not answer, and Gavril wished he had never asked Kaltienne to join this discussion. The boy was a fool, useless in planning anything.  He was, however, fearless and willing to try whatever was suggested to him.  “You,” Gavril said to him now, “will steal a key to the cellars. I am sure you can do it.”

Kaltienne brightened. “Sure,” he said with breezy confidence. “All I have to do is go to the kitchens to see what food I can pick up, and I’ll get it then.” “Will you!” Mierre said in loud exasperation. “The cellar key is held by the wine steward. Can you get your hands on his ring of keys? I think not.” “I’ll find a way,” Kaltienne said stubbornly, flicking a glance at Gavril, who was watching them with a grim smile. “His highness wants me to do this, and I can.”

Mierre growled. “He’ll botch it, your highness.”

“And you could do better?” Kaltienne said, his voice tight and angry. The tips of his ears had turned red, and fierce determination shone in his eyes.  Gavril smiled to himself and knew he’d succeeded in gaining Kaltienne’s loyalty.  Cardinal Noncire said that once you persuaded a man to commit a risky act for you, that man was bound to your side forever. If he attempted to draw back, you could always bring his crime before others.

“I could do better,” Mierre said, as stubborn as a bull. He lowered his head and glared at Kaltienne. “I’ll ask Atheine to get the keys for us. Better yet, I’ll see if she can’t distract the guard so that we can slip past. Is that not the better plan, your highness?”

Gavril felt his ears grow hot. He swung his gaze away, refusing to let anyone see his embarrassment. He had been sheltered until now, raised in his father’s palace, kept from the roughness of other boys, tutored by an official of the church. He was not opposed to carnality, although the Writ cautioned against impropriety and unnaturalness. In fact, Gavril had carefully laid plans to indulge himself with a woman as soon as he finished his quest. But until he found the Chalice of Eternal Life later this year, he intended to remain chaste.  He swallowed hard, banishing certain images from his mind, and mastered his composure sufficiently to face the other boys again.

Kaltienne was smirking, making lewd faces at Mierre and licking his lips.  Mierre’s face held caution. The larger boy was learning to watch Gavril, to gauge his moods, and to please him accordingly. He had boasted of his sexual exploits during their first week here, but after Gavril’s scathing denunciation, he boasted no longer.

The silence seemed to unnerve him. Hunching his big shoulders, he ducked his head. “If my plan displeases your highness, I—” Gavril lifted his hand. “Can this servant girl be trusted?” “She need not know anything except what I wish for her to do,” Mierre said arrogantly. “A gift will make her willing.”

Gavril crossed the room and unchained his strongbox. Shielding its contents from the others, he lifted the lid and picked out a pair of coins. Carefully rechaining the box, he walked back to Mierre and held out one of the coins, a large silver dreit.

“Is this a suitable gift for your wench?” he asked.

Mierre’s eyes went round and wide. He stared at the coin as though he’d never seen one before. “Damne,” he said softly. “It’s a fortune.” Gavril put the dreit in the larger boy’s hand, pressing it hard against Mierre’s sweaty palm. “Give her that.” He held up the second coin, another silver dreit.  “This, she may have when her work is accomplished.” Mierre’s mouth was hanging open now. He gaped like the illiterate, ill-bred, minor nobleman’s son that he was. Slowly he took the second coin from Gavril’s hand. “It’s too much,” he said hoarsely. “It will frighten her.” “Will it?” Gavril asked scornfully. “I think not. If she’s as lusty a drab as you say—” “She’s no drab!” Mierre said hotly.

Gavril raised his brows, and Mierre seemed to realize he’d just yelled at his prince.

Looking shocked, Mierre bowed at once. “Forgive me, your highness. I—I spoke without thinking.”

“This isn’t a simple kiss. She is to lure the man completely away from his post.  If she can do that, especially to one of Lord Odfrey’s knights, she will have earned her money well.” Gavril cocked his head to one side and stared very hard at Mierre. “You will not let jealousy interfere, will you?” “No, your highness!” he said too rapidly. “No. She is only a housemaid, after all.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, well,” Kaltienne said, giving them each a wink. “And maybe you will persude her to look twice in my direction too when she is—” “Shut up!” Mierre shouted.

A knock on the door interrupted them. Gavril frowned and gestured for silence.  His manservant Aoun went to the door, while Gavril’s protector. Sir Los, rose quietly to his feet and stood with his hand on his sword hilt.  Aoun murmured with someone on the other side of the door, then glanced over his shoulder.

“Well?” Gavril demanded impatiently. “Is it that page I asked to keep me informed of all messengers who come? Has a dispatch arrived?” Aoun bowed low and stepped out of the way.

“No,” said a tall, lean figure garbed in a tunic of mallard blue. Thum du Maltie entered and swept off his cap with a bow. “Your highness, I have been sent to escort you to Lord Odfrey.”

Astonished and far from pleased, Gavril frowned. “Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“But I am occupied,” Gavril said, gesturing at Mierre and Kaltienne. “With my friends.”

He kept his tone quiet and pleasant, but the insult he delivered to Thum was unmistakable. Mierre puffed out his brawny chest. Kaltienne grinned.  Thum’s freckled face turned bright red. He was well mannered, educated, quick of wit and understanding, but obstinate, unwilling to commit his loyalty, and too ready to question the worth of Gavril’s orders or intentions. Which was exactly why he had not been included in tonight’s scheming. If he learned about the intended raid, he would feel it his duty to inform Lord Odfrey. Already, he’d proven himself a tongue-tattle this afternoon by telling Lord Odfrey where to find Gavril in the marsh.

And Gavril never forgot a slight.

“Your highness is to come at once, if it is convenient,” Thum said to Gavril.

“It is not,” Gavril said.

“Then I am to wait until your highness is free,” Thum said.  Annoyed by this interruption, Gavril frowned. He could play the game and dawdle here in his quarters until the evening came to a close. But Lord Odfrey had a disconcerting habit of seeing through such ploys and dealing with them unpleasantly. There might be extra chores assigned to Gavril tomorrow, or extra drills, or some other unpleasantness done to him under the guise of training.  “Very well,” Gavril said to Thum. He pointed at the opposite end of the room.

“Wait over there.”

Thum bowed and walked silently to the place indicated. He stood next to Gavril’s writing table of exquisite inlaid wood and appeared to ignore its litter of reading scrolls, a sloppy pile of perhaps five or six leather-bound volumes that individually reflected enormous wealth, an ink pot of chased silver, fine sheets of writing parchment, a hunk of sealing wax, and Gavril’s seal.  Gavril glanced at Mierre and Kaltienne. “Do nothing yet,” he said in a low voice, picking up the diagram and folding it in half. “We will talk again tomorrow. You may go now.”

They bowed, Mierre looking thoughtful and Kaltienne grinning wickedly. Out they went, and Gavril walked into his bedchamber to idle several moments before the looking glass—a costly possession indeed, and perhaps the largest object of its kind in the entire hold. He straightened his doublet, made sure his linen undersleeves were still white and clean, and tilted his cap even more rakishly over his brow. He buckled on a slim, bejeweled poniard that glittered in the soft-burning lamplight, glanced at his prayer-cabinet in the corner, and decided he would not pray before answering this summons.

His anger was a coal that burned steadily inside his breast. The altercation between him and Lord Odfrey this afternoon could not be forgiven. If the chevard was summoning him to offer an apology, Gavril did not know if he would accept it. He had never disliked a man more than Lord Odfrey, never. He found the chevard stern, unyielding, disrespectful, and unfit to run a hold of this strategic importance. The chevard possessed a high reputation as a lordly knight and warrior. Men across all Mandria respected his battle skills. But Gavril valued subservience more, and Lord Odfrey showed him none.  Cardinal Noncire had cautioned Gavril before he chose Thirst that he would dislike this upland hold. However, the king encouraged Gavril to accept the positioning, wanting him to receive his final training at the hands of a warrior like Lord Odfrey. And besides, Thirst was the closest hold to the Dark Forest, the strongest, most heavily manned citadel guarding the northeast corner of Mandria.

Every day, a small detail of knights stationed themselves at the bridge gate.  Any travelers wanting to cross the river and continue east into the Dark Forest had to identify themselves and their business. Any travelers venturing forth from Nold into Mandria had to do the same, plus have all their goods searched and accounted for.

Prior to coming here, Gavril had listened to tales of danger, battles to repress raiders, commerce, adventure, good hunting, and how Thirst stood as a beacon of light and truth against the pagan darkness of Nold and other lands. Gavril had imagined a hold full of traditions and honor, always active, always at the center of intrigue and tremendous adventures. Gavril was determined to use Thirst as his base while he searched for the Chalice. It had been missing for many years, and during that time its legend had only grown.  Nether had once been Mandria’s most powerful ally, but now under the rule of King Muncel, Nether was only a shadow land, its fortunes dwindling every year.  Gavril believed that the Chalice had been stolen from Nether and concealed for a purpose ordained by Thod. Clearly the Chalice was destined to cast its blessings on another realm. He was determined to find it for Mandria. All his life, Gavril had believed himself destined to do something special, to live a life renowned among kings and men. When someday he succeeded to his father’s throne, Gavril believed, possessing the Chalice would make his rule both prosperous and powerful. He would wage war on Nether first, crushing the darkness there. He would annex Klad, driving forth its barbarian peoples, and take its valuable pasturelands for his own realm. Someday, he would be a great king, and his name would resound across the land.

But for now, he was only a young prince, his ranks and titles courtesies, his knight’s spurs as yet unearned. He chafed at being in this awkward place, neither a child nor yet considered a man.

He had come to Thirst shining with expectations, eager to begin the destiny promised him in the horoscope castings of the court’s astrologer. Gavril had brought his servants, his guards, his books, his dogs, his wines, his velvet hangings, his desk, footstools, weapons, horses, falcons, and prayer-cabinet. He had come expecting to live in the unofficial capital of upper Mandria, centered within its intrigue and activity.

Instead, Thirst was an ancient, crumbling, ill-maintained hold on the edge of a bleak marsh in the midst of nowhere. The villages nearby were tiny enclaves of unbearable squalor and poverty. The serfs acted sullen and disrespectful. Many still held old and forbidden memories of when upper Mandria was another realm, called Edonia, with its own king and armies. The land around Thirst Hold was almost flat, cleared for fields, and fitted with ugly levees and channels to drain marsh flooding in spring and autumn. Hunting was poor, except in the forest. The climate was dismal, cold and damp, and winter had not even set in yet. It was only a few days short of Aelintide, the great feast-day of autumn harvest, with a month beyond that to Selwinmas and what the uplanders called the long cold.

Gavril found Lord Odfrey to be the kind of bleak, humorless drudge he most despised, all duty and work, with no understanding of fashion, fun, or the amenities of a civilized life. The chevard locked up Gavril’s wine, confiscated half his books, dismissed nearly all his servants, complained that his dogs ate too much and caused trouble in the kennels, refused to alter his chapel hours for Gavril’s convenience, and expected Gavril to run, fetch, and scurry with daily chores like the other bumpkins who had fostered here over the years. The chevard’s master-at-arms. Sir Polquin, was a muscular brute lacking manners or respect. Rarely would he allow Gavril to practice the more sophisticated and modern swordplay he had been learning at home. Instead, every day brought the same old boring, outdated drills and practice.

Gavril’s own private suite—if two meager rooms could be called a suite—was clearly a storeroom that had been cleared out for his use. Never mind that the other fosters shared a single chamber with only their cots and a chest each to hold their possessions. Born and raised in the great palace Savroix, considered the very heart of all Mandria, Gavril had spent his life surrounded by affluent, luxurious comfort. His personal apartments took up a whole wing of the palace; an army of efficient servants garbed in his personal livery anticipated his every wish. Thirst Hold—considered one of the largest and most affluent upland citadels—was in reality shockingly primitive. Even worse, there could be no quest for the Chalice if Lord Odfrey continued to deny Gavril his mead, plus two of his most valuable books, containing as they did much arcane lore about the Chalice, the Field of Skulls, and the channels of magic which ran through Nold.  There could be no quest if Lord Odfrey would not let Gavril enter the Dark Forest. He tried to conceal his purpose by conducting hunts with his dogs and friends, but Lord Odfrey worried about everything, including this present war among the dwarves. Gavril did not fear the creatures. He was a prince of Mandria. He had no quarrel with the people of Nold, and he did not believe the dwarves would harm him.

Destiny had brought him here. If he did not take action soon, he would see his destiny slipping through his fingers, unseized through the blundering interference of Lord Odfrey.

Scowling at his likeness in the looking glass, Gavril brushed his golden hair behind his ears and left his bedchamber. Thum was still standing by his desk, speaking in a low, courteous voice to Sir Los.

Gavril’s approach caused their conversation to break off. He snapped his gaze from one face to another, with an annoyance that felt sour in the pit of his stomach. “If you are reduced to page,” he said tartly to Thum, “then by all means escort me to the chevard now.”

Gavril and Thum descended the curl of steps leading down inside the tower to the second floor, where a walkway spanned the distance between the west tower and the central buildings. The night air lay damp and cold on Gavril’s shoulders. He wished he’d worn a cloak, but he would not go back for it now. If need be, he could always ask Sir Los—following a few steps behind him—to share his cloak.  Thum shivered as he strode along. His doublet was fashioned of thick welt, but it was not fur-lined as Gavril’s clothing was. With his breath steaming from his mouth in the gloom, Thum said, “It’s mortal cold out here tonight. Winter’s on its way, Aelintide or no.”

“Are you cold, Maltie?” Gavril asked in a voice as bored as he could make it. “I hadn’t noticed. Look yon.” He stopped in his tracks and leaned over the parapet, then tilted back his head to scan the dark sky overhead. “Is the cloud cover breaking? Do you see any stars, Maltie?”

Thum was obliged to halt beside him. With chattering teeth, he said, “Nay, your highness. No stars.”

“Some glimmer of light from those windows across the keep must have tricked my eyes,” Gavril said with a laugh. “Perhaps it will snow by dawn. Think you so?” “Nay, your highness. It’s mild yet in the season. We’ve some autumn before us yet.”

Enjoying his game, Gavril smiled to himself in the darkness. Keeping Thum du Maltie out here in the cold air in his thin clothes was one way to punish him for this afternoon’s defiance. He would find more.

“Explain to me the winters here,” Gavril said. “We have but scant snowfall at Savroix, but many have told me upland winters are bitter indeed.” “Aye,” Thum said, hugging himself. “Bitter enough.”

“Then it will get colder than this?”

“Aye.”

“Will the snows come often? Will we be trapped indoors?” “At times.” Listening to Thum’s teeth chatter, Gavril’s smile widened. “I have heard there is much hunting that can be done even during the cruel grip of winter. Tell me what you know, Maltie.”

Thum, his teeth chattering more than ever and his thin shoulders hunched now as he tucked his hands beneath his arms to keep them warm, responded politely, although his descriptions were terse. Gavril felt slightly uncomfortable, but he held himself against shivering and stood there, not listening to anything Thum said.

Across the keep, sentries walked the ramparts. Torches burned at set points along the crenellations, and now and then Gavril saw one of the sentries pause to warm his hands by the blaze. Beyond the marsh, one of the village churches was ringing a bell, its sound echoing along the waterway. The hour grew late.  Gavril felt tempted to keep Thum out here half the night.  “Tell me more,” he urged when Thum stopped speaking. “You make the customs of this region come alive for me.”

“Gladly, your highness, but Lord Odfrey awaits you,” Thum said stiffly.  Gavril made a deprecating gesture. “So he does. I had almost forgotten. Come then.”

They walked on, Gavril moving leisurely and Thum crowding his flank. At the opposite end of the walkway, Gavril paused, waiting while Sir Los shouldered forward and pushed through the door first. When his protector gestured that all was clear, Gavril stepped through.

Thum entered last, gasping and shuddering while Sir Los shut the door with a faint boom that echoed through the stark, unfurnished antechamber. While Thum blew on his hands, they walked along a corridor adorned only with weapons hanging decoratively on the walls, down more stairs, through a public room hung with tapestries and massive, unlit candles, and up a flight of stairs,. At the end of another corridor at last they came to a stout door of oak, banded with iron. A sleepy young page waited on duty there, yawning in the torchlight.  Gavril paused several paces away from the door and turned his back abruptly on the idle stare of the page. He met Thum’s gaze. “Swiftly. What is this summons about?” he asked in a low, curt voice.

Thum’s hazel-green eyes blinked in surprise. “I know not.”

“Of course you do. Prepare me. Tell me what Lord Odfrey wants with me.”

“I cannot—”

“You mean you will not.”

Thum’s freckled face began to redden. “No, your highness,” he said calmly. “I cannot. I do not know.”

“But he sent you. You must have heard him say something of his intentions.” “I was summoned to the chevard and we talked briefly. Then he said I was to escort you here to him,” Thum replied.

His answer displeased Gavril. “Yes, you talk often with the chevard, do you not?” he muttered.

“Sir?”

Gavril scowled, and his blue eyes met Thum’s hazel ones harshly. “You talked this afternoon, and saw that I was reprimanded.”

Thum looked astonished. “Your highness, I did not—” “Do you call me a liar now, as well?” Gavril broke in.

Thum tried to answer, but Gavril lifted his hand for silence. He shot Thum another glare, and turned away from him.

Striding on, he approached the page, who now snapped to attention, and said, “Admit me.”

Bowing, the page pushed open the heavy door. It swung slowly, creaking on its hinges, and Gavril entered Lord Odfrey’s wardroom. Glancing back over his shoulder, he said to Thum, “Await me. We are not finished, you and I.” Anger had knotted Thum’s brow. He gave Gavril only a sketch of a bow and said, “Indeed, we have not. I will see myself cleared in your highness’s estimation or—” Gavril turned away and walked into the wardroom without letting Thum finish. He glanced around swiftly, with little interest. He had been here before. It was a plain, utilitarian chamber, holding a desk and a locked cabinet, a window shuttered now against the night, a few unevenly burning candles, a miser’s fire dying on the hearth in a collapsing heap of coals, and Lord Odfrey’s weapons, hanging haphazardly on hooks. Lord Odfrey’s mud-encrusted boots stood drying on the hearth. The room smelled of smoke, dog, damp wool, and melting tallow wax.  Gavril’s nostrils curled in distaste. The chevard lived like a yeoman instead of a lord.

Lord Odfrey’s plain brass cup stood on the desk, weighing down a litter of papers and maps. A worn leather dispatch case lay open on one corner of the desk, its contents half-raked out into view. But of the man himself, there was no sign.

Gavril’s brows pulled together. He swung around and pinned his gaze on the page.

“Where is the chevard?”

“He will return soon,” the boy said, his eyes wary. Gavril had a black reputation among the pages. All of them feared him, which was exactly as he wanted it. “He said if your highness came, I was to bid you await him here.” Gavril could not believe this insult. Again and again, Lord Odfrey dealt him rudeness and discourtesy. To leave, knowing his prince was coming, was a deliberate slight. “And how long am I to wait?” Gavril asked in a voice like silk.

The page backed up a step, his hand groping behind him for the door. “Not long, I believe, your highness. Uh, let me fetch your highness some cider.” And the boy dashed out, slamming the door behind him, before Gavril could ask him anything else.

Fuming, Gavril paced around the wardroom, kicking a leather-covered stool out of his way. He ended up beside Lord Odfrey’s desk. Frowning, he glared at it, and noticed the maps half-unrolled atop the general litter of papers. The top map was of Nold.

Gavril caught his breath and glanced over his shoulder at the door. Sir Los stood there. The protector met his gaze in silence.

“Lock it,” Gavril said.

Sir Los didn’t even blink; he was too well trained for that. Putting a hand on the pull-latch, he said, “There’s no key.”

“Then hold it. Let no one enter and surprise me.”

“Be quick, your highness,” Sir Los said. “For I hear the footsteps of someone approaching.”

“Morde!” Gavril said. He grabbed up the map, knocking over the cup of cider in the process. Brown liquid sloshed out, staining papers and running off the edge of the desk onto the floor.

Gavril batted the cup off the desk, sending it flying across the room, where it banged against the stone hearth. Swearing to himself, he swiped the sticky cider off most of the papers, and watched ink running and melting together.  Outside, footsteps paused at the door, which then swung open, only to bang against the solid shoulders of Sir Los, who had braced his feet and did not move aside. “What’s this?” Lord Odfrey asked in surprise. “Who blocks my door?” There was no time to clean up the mess. There was no time to study the map, which was large and exquisitely detailed. Frustrated, Gavril put it down on top of the desk, hiding the wet papers, and sprang away from the desk. At his gesture, Sir Los stepped aside from the door.

Pushed hard from the other side, the door banged violently into the wall. Lord Odfrey stood framed in the doorway, scowling. Rid of his hauberk, and clad instead in a knee-long tunic of old-fashioned cut and leggings of dark green wool, soft cloth shoes on his feet, and a niching of pale linen shirt showing at his neck, Lord Odfrey looked younger and less formidable. His hand, scarred across the knuckles and wearing only a plain signet ring, tightened visibly on the parchment scroll he was carrying. One of his rangy hounds thrust its slim head beneath his master’s hand. Behind him stood Thum and the page, both craning their necks to see inside.

Lord Odfrey’s dark eyes narrowed on Gavril. “Your highness has come at last, I see.”

He sounded short-tempered and tired.

Gavril lifted his chin. “I was about to leave, thinking I had been summoned in error.”

“What error?” Lord Odfrey asked, stepping into the wardroom. His dog gazed up at him in adoration, then lay down near the hearth. “What error?” he repeated. “I sent Maltie to you a full hour ago.”

Gavril was in no mood to bear another unjust reprimand. Gritting his teeth, he said, “I have answered your summons. What is it you wish to discuss with me?” “Little enough now at this late hour,” Lord Odfrey said in his gruff way. “First of all, has your highness brought any letters? My dispatches to the king are almost complete. The messenger will ride out at dawn. Your letters can go in his pouch.”

Gavril moved uneasily away from Lord Odfrey’s desk. He wondered if the cider had ruined those dispatches. If so, if Lord Odfrey questioned him about it, he would blame the page’s clumsiness rather than his own.

“Any letters, your highness?”

Gavril started and pulled his thoughts together. “Uh, no. I have not yet found the time to write to my father the king.”

Lord Odfrey grunted and shifted impatiently to something else. “I have some questions about your hunt today—” “Surely we have discussed the matter enough,” Gavril broke in. “Your reprimand was clear, my lord. You need not repeat it.”

“I have no intention of repeating it,” Lord Odfrey said impatiently. “I want to know if you saw any signs of battle while you were in the forest. Any trampled ground? Any signs of warning ... bits of red cloth fluttering from branches, that sort of thing? Any runes scratched into the trunks of trees?” “No.”

Lord Odfrey sighed, but he did not look relieved. “Did you smell any smoke?”

“No.”

The chevard clasped his hands behind him and began to pace back and forth in front of the hearth. If he noticed the cup lying dented in the corner, he did not mention it. Nor, to Gavril’s relief, did he approach his desk. “A messenger just came from Silon town downriver. There’s been trouble there with dwarf raiders. You were lucky today to leave the forest unscathed.” The brush with danger, however faint and until now unknown, pleased Gavril. He puffed out his chest. “We did not venture far into Nold, but had we encountered any war parties, I assure you we would have fought.” Lord Odfrey snorted. “You’d have had little choice otherwise.” His glance shot to Sir Los before Gavril could find a retort. “And you, protector? Did you notice aught while the boys were coursing their stag?” “I did not, my lord,” Sir Los replied respectfully.

“Damne. The eld was more informative than either of you. I should have kept him for questioning.”

“It is against law and Writ to keep pagans beneath a roof that houses the faithful,” Gavril said.

Lord Odfrey glared at him. “That’s as may be,” he replied curtly. “But it’s upland custom that eldin bring good luck to households that give them shelter.” “Old superstitions should be stamped out when they appear, not encouraged.” “If the dwarves decide to carry their war across our border, we’ll have need of all the luck we can find, whether it’s church luck or pagan.” Gavril drew in a sharp breath. “That’s blasphemy!”

“No, it’s practicality—something you need to acquire, my prince. Good night.” Gavril stood there with his mouth open, astonished to find himself dismissed so curtly. “We have not yet finished this discussion,” he said.  “There’s no discussion here,” Lord Odfrey said. He left the hearth and headed toward his desk, but Gavril stood between him and the table, blocking his path.  Lord Odfrey stopped and scowled. “I’ve asked my questions, and you’ve given me no answers. It’s late. Go to bed.”

Gavril reluctantly stepped aside, allowing the chevard to pass. Lord Odfrey circled his desk and sat down. He did not notice the spilled cider drying on the floor. And as yet, he had not glanced at the disarranged papers before him.  “I will go now and write my letters,” Gavril said. Already he was composing in his head his brief note of complaint to the king. But more important was the longer, more detailed missive he would write to Cardinal Noncire. The church needed to know how shaky the faith was in this godforsaken corner of the realm.  “I will have two to send with your dispatches in the morning.” “Not now,” Lord Odfrey said. “It’s too late. Get yourself in bed. You have drills and chores aplenty on the morrow.”

Gavril’s annoyance came surging back. “Do you now refuse to send my letters?” “I do not refuse. You have had ample opportunity to compose them since this afternoon. Your failure to take advantage of your free time has served your highness ill yet again. Your letters can go in next week’s dispatches, provided they are written by then. Now, good night.”

Gavril opened his mouth to protest further, but Lord Odfrey had already turned his attention to his papers. Frowning, he reached for the map draped across the top of his desk. Gavril lost his nerve at that point and hastily strode out.  Thum was waiting outside the wardroom, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He fell into step beside the prince.

Gavril glared at him. “Go to your quarters. I don’t want you.”

“Lord Odfrey said I was to escort you back,” Thum said, yawning again.

“Why? I need no nursemaid, no spy to report if I go where I am bidden to go.” Annoyance crossed Thum’s face. “I’m no spy,” he said curtly. “I’m just following orders. Lord Odfrey doesn’t explain himself. Your highness knows that.” “I know that your presence annoys me,” Gavril said.

“Then forgive me, your highness,” Thum replied stiffly. “I but follow orders from the same man as you do.”

Heat flared in Gavril’s face. He glared at Thum, who glared right back.  “First I am a tongue-tattle, and now I am a spy,” Thum said, making no effort to keep his voice down. Outside, across the keep in the chapel tower, the bell began to ring somberly, tolling the call for final prayers and lights-out.  Downstairs, servants were extinguishing torches and banking fires, chattering and yawning as they went.

“What next will your highness say of me?” Thum continued, still glaring at Gavril. “Why have I offended you so?”

Gavril stopped in his tracks and turned on the other boy. “ ‘Offend’ is exactly the word,” he said through his teeth. “You dare question my authority in front of the other fosters. You dare stand up for an eld in defiance of Writ. You give my whereabouts away to Lord Odfrey so that I am dealt his wrath. And now, you dare speak to me with disrespect. Yes, you offend me, Thum du Maltie. And you are treading on dangerous ground in doing so.”

The color leached from Thum’s face. His mouth fell open, but it was a moment before he uttered any words. “We—we are all as equals here,” he said faintly.  “Lord Odfrey said so the first day we came. He said we should forget rank and think of ourselves as comrades and knights in training. We must be warriors together first before we can succeed our fathers and stand in rank—” “Cease your prattle,” Gavril said scornfully, and Thum fell silent. Gavril looked him up and down, sneering at him. “You stand before me, wearing your doublet of cheap fool’s finery, the youngest son of an unimportant noble, and dare say to me that we are ‘equals’? Do you know why I was summoned to Lord Odfrey’s wardroom tonight?”

A strange, pinched expression had appeared on Thum’s face. Stiffly, he said, “As I said before to your highness, I know not.”

“It was a courtesy he extended to me. My letters to Savroix are included in his weekly dispatches. Do you write letters to your family, Maltie?” Thum’s throat jerked as he swallowed. “No, your highness.”

“Can you write at all, Maltie?”

“A—a little, your highness.”

“Do you realize that I have only to pen a few lines to my father the king, stating my complaints, and your family could lose its warrant of nobility?” Thum’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stared at Gavril as though he had never seen him before.

“What offends me also offends my father,” Gavril went on. He circled Thum, who stood there rigid and unmoving, then stopped in front of him again. “If you cause offense, is your father not also an offender with you? Hmm? You stand there with your mouth open, Maltie, but you make no answer.” “Please,” Thum gasped. “My father has always served the king ably. He wears a chain given to him by the king’s own hand. He is loyal with all his heart and soul.”

“Geoffen du Maltie is well spoken of at my father’s court. But that can change,” Gavril said, and saw Thum flinch. “Since you think you can reprimand me, question my orders, and ignore my authority over you, what else do you think?  That you are better than I?”

“No, your highness.”

“Is it worth it, Maltie? To have your moment of supremacy, to laugh at my expense? Is it worth seeing your father ruined, your brothers brought down with him, your elder sister’s impending nuptials called off?” Tears shimmered in Thum’s hazel eyes, but he did not let them fall. Instead, he shot Gavril an imploring glance. “Please, I beg your pardon. I did not mean to offend. I misunderstood, and I apologize. I will not repeat my transgressions. I swear this to you.”

“You swear.”