“But—”

Sir Roye beckoned to one of the mounted knights still nearby. “See to this,” he ordered, then turned away and headed up the steps into the building.  Dain stood there, watching him go, and only then noticed that the stableboys were staring at him with open hostility and fear.

“What is it?” one of them asked.

The other shook his head. “A demon maybe.”

“Look at them ears.”

“Look at them eyes.”

“No! Don’t look at its eyes. It’ll put a spell on ye!”

The knight backed up his horse. “You boys, see to the chevard’s horse. He’s fought well today, and he deserves an extra ration of grain.” The stableboys ignored him. “Get it!” one of them yelled. He picked up a dried horse dropping and threw it at Dain. The other boy did the same.  Pelted with manure, Dain turned away from them and ran. The knight shouted after him, and Dain glanced back to see him coming in pursuit, his horse’s shod hooves clattering on the paving stones. In the gathering dusk, with the charger snorting scarlet and sparks striking from its hooves, the knight looked like a phantasm from the second world astride a darsteed.

Dain imagined the man picking him up by the scruff of his neck and riding to the gates of the hold, then flinging Dain into the mud.

Refusing to let that happen, Dain darted out of the paved courtyard and back into the larger enclosure and the melee of villagers. Shoved and jostled, he quickly ducked behind a stack of barrels where no one would notice him. Sinking to the cold ground with a weary sigh, he glanced around warily, watching the knight ride by, the war charger pushing through the crowds with ill temper. When the horse kicked a serf and began to paw and champ its bit, the knight reined up and dismounted.

Another knight in a torn and blood-splattered surcoat approached him on foot.

“Masen, what do you out here? Have that brute stabled and see to yourself.” Sir Masen pushed back his mail coif, revealing a sweat-soaked tangle of light brown hair. “Have you seen the eld boy, Terent? The one that rode with us?” “He’s with the chevard, I thought.”

“Nay. Sir Roye dismissed him. I have orders to see him thrown out of the hold.” The other knight swore. Dain crouched lower in his hiding place, hardly daring to breathe. He feared that both of them would resume the search.  “It grows late,” Sir Terent said. “I’m frozen to the bone. Let’s see ourselves to a fire first, then we’ll worry about the eld. It’s too late anyway for tonight. The gates are closing.”

Sir Masen hesitated, but after a moment his friend persuaded him. Together, they walked to the guardhouse and the long barracks beyond it, their spurs jingling with every step. Small boys scampered behind them in obvious hero worship.  Relieved, Dain sank onto his haunches and gulped in several deep breaths. He had a chance now to hide himself well before they hunted him again. Grinning, he delved into the pouch and pulled out a wedge of cheese, which he began to eat as fast as he could choke it down.

Exhaustion dragged at him. He felt stiff with cold and his side ached with every breath. He was terribly thirsty, and his hands were cut and skinned across the backs of his knuckles where they’d been whipped by branches and briars during the wild ride through the forest.

The deepening shadows were cold. The sun sloped low and dropped behind the towering walls. He was in a place of strangers, most of whom would as soon slit his throat as look at him. His one ally lay unconscious, perhaps dying. Although Dain knew Lord Odfrey’s mind had intended to make the promise Dain asked for, he had not actually given it voice before the arrow struck him.  Sir Roye was the kind of man who would accept only deed or command, not intention. Dain grimaced and spit at the thought of Sir Roye, then went back to chewing cheese. He didn’t care if they all cursed him. He needed somewhere to live through the coming winter. Now that he was inside these walls, he wasn’t leaving.

Far away in lower Mandria, a ponderous carriage halted on a low rise, and the Duc du Lindier pulled aside the leather curtain buttoned over the window. “Look, my dear,” he said excitedly.

Pheresa’s gloved hands clenched tightly in her lap for a moment, but she allowed none of her discomposure to show in her face. Obediently she leaned forward to gaze out the window. One trailing end of her veil fell from her shoulder and dangled. Ignoring it, she gripped the edge of the carriage window and peered out at her future.

The air was mild and a rainy drizzle misted down, casting the world in shades of hazy gray. She saw that they had halted in a wooded park of pleasing scope.  Venerable old chestnut trees, their knotty trunks furred with pale moss, spread broad limbs that nearly touched the ground in places. Autumn-blooming cegnias massed at the base of these trees, their fragrant blossoms vivid pink in hue. A carpet of low-growing blue vineca meandered through the park like a road to enchantment. Perky yellow difelias bloomed in scattered clumps. A stream, lined with rounded stones, rushed and gurgled in a course parallel with the winding road.

“Oh!” she said in delight, forgetting her nervousness. “How lovely. I have never seen a more beautiful vista, yet how natural it looks, as though the gardener’s hand was never here.”

“Ladies and their flowers,” her father said with an indulgent chuckle. “Look beyond, my dear. There is the palace.”

Pheresa lifted her gaze to the horizon. Beyond the trees, looming through the mist, sprawled a gray mass of stone and spire. She drew in a sharp breath.  “Savroix!” she whispered.

It was the size of a town, much larger than she’d expected despite all the tales she’d been told.

Pheresa blinked at it, trying to take in its size, trying to convince herself that this was indeed to be her new home. For a moment she felt lost and overwhelmed. After all, for the past nine years of her life, she had been incarcerated in the nuncery at Montreuv, cloistered there with other young maidens of the highest birth to be educated in all that was desirable and ladylike. A week past, her father had come for her. He was nearly a stranger, looking tall and thin and impatient. She wondered when his hair had turned gray.  When had he acquired his limp? He’d bowed to her hastily, clearing his throat in a way she did remember, and announced, “The king wants you to come live at Savroix. Get your things ready, for I am to take you there immediately.” Since then, Pheresa’s orderly life had become one of chaos and flurry. She’d been given scant time to pack her belongings. Whisked home, she’d tried to familiarize herself with the house and grounds, as well as the three younger sisters she’d acquired in her absence, but her mother was wild with excitement and kept her busy with fittings for gowns and all the accouterments necessary for a lady of fashion. Nothing was ready. Her trunks at this moment contained several half-finished gowns to be completed by the palace seamstresses. The rest of her things would be sent to her later.

Pheresa did not understand the need for such haste. Normally a calm, well-ordered maiden, she preferred life to follow an established routine. She had expected to remain at Montreuv until spring, at which time she would celebrate her eighteenth birthday. The nuns conducted a small, elegant ceremony for their graduates. Pheresa had looked forward to wearing a gown of pure white, with a diadem of silver in her hair and a bouquet of spring lilies in her hands, while the benediction was pronounced over them and bells rang joyously.  All her life she had known what her future would hold. Her mother was Princess Dianthelle, sister to the king. Her father was the Duc du Lindier, one of Mandria’s four marechals and a very great warrior. From birth, Pheresa had been destined to wed the Heir to the Realm. She had met Gavril only once, when she was eight years old and he was seven. They had gone through a trothing ceremony to convey the intentions of their parents, although it was not a binding contract of obligation on either side. All she remembered of Gavril was that he was blond-haired, that he had snatched the best pastries for himself, and that he had kicked her when no one was looking.

In the coming year, when Gavril reached his majority and was knighted, he would be proclaimed Heir to the Realm. Upon achieving that title, he would be free to marry. She expected to attend the ceremonies of his investiture. They would be formally reintroduced. He would court her, and if she pleased him, he would propose.

Pheresa was not a vain young woman, but she knew herself to be beautiful. Her figure was well formed and graceful. Her blonde tresses held a natural tint of red, bleached away carefully with the juice of lemons by her maidservant and kept secret from the nuns. She had three freckles on her nose, which she considered too long and slender; the freckles were bleached with lemons too. Now that she was no longer under the aegis of the nuns, who disapproved of vanity, she planned to powder her nose in the court fashion and vanquish her freckles entirely. Her eyes were wide-set and light brown. She was intelligent, able to read and write, versed in many subjects, and levelheaded. She looked forward to parties and dancing, but she planned also to read and study a variety of topics which the nuns had closed to her inquiring mind.

These had been her plans, but now they were thrown awry. She had not expected King Verence to summon her so abruptly to the palace. She did not understand why she was to live with him now, many months before she should even arrive to meet Prince Gavril. Her cousin was away, being fostered. She could not even become acquainted with him as she would like.

“Well, daughter?” her father asked now, beaming at her. His long narrow face was flushed with excitement. He looked puffed up with pride, and she wished he were not. “Is there no smile? Does the sight of your new home not please you?  Savroix, my dear. Savroix!”

Pheresa swallowed a sigh and summoned a wan smile to please him. “Yes, Father, Savroix is certainly impressive. I did not expect it to be so large.” “There’s nothing like it in all the world,” Lindier proclaimed, and rubbed his hands together. He closed the leather curtain and gave the order for the carriage to drive on. “Not much longer now, my dear, and then you shall be home.”

She frowned, unable to hide her distaste.

“Why do you look so?” he asked.

“Do you not find this summons odd?” she replied.

“Odd? Certainly not. It is a great honor extended to you. The king has followed your progress and studies with much interest these past few years. Your conduct and deportment have been reported to him as excellent. He is well pleased and now he is impatient to meet you. What is wrong with that?” “Nothing,” she said hastily. “I am honored by this opportunity to meet the king.