But—”

“But what?” Lindier snapped. “Why do you frown so? Why do you quibble? What’s wrong with you? Nerves?”

“No, your grace,” she said, casting her gaze down at her clenched hands. Slowly she forced her fists to uncurl. “But must I live here now?” “Why not? It is to be your home. The king wishes to get to know you, both as your uncle and as your imminent father-in-law.”

“But that is the problem, Father,” she said, meeting Lindier’s eyes. “It is too soon. Gavril has not proposed to me yet.”

“He will, my dear. He must!”

“But he is not bound to choose me.”

“Custom binds him,” Lindier said grimly.

“But not law. For me to be installed here in the palace, and waiting for him when he returns next year . . . well, it looks too forward. It looks as though I expect him to—that I am sure he will—that I—” “Nonsense!” Lindier said heartily. “What is this mincing nicety about? Of course you expect him to propose. We all do.”

“But I should not appear to be too confident.”

“It is custom,” Lindier repeated.

“If I offend his pride, this confidence will prove to be the gravest folly,” she whispered unhappily. “I have heard that the prince is hot-tempered and stubborn.  If he feels coerced or pressured too hard, he may wish to look elsewhere for his bride.”

Lindier snorted and gripped her hand briefly in his. “You worry too much. The boy is young and high-spirited, but he is hardly a fool. One look at you, my dear, and he will be captivated.”

She smiled at that. She could not help but be won by her father’s flattery; however, as they swept through the imposing gates of the palace and rolled along the long drive, her qualms returned.

Still, the wonders and beauty of the grounds amazed her. Her father pulled aside the curtain so they could look out despite the misty rain, and she gasped at the size of the fountain, which seemed as large as a lake. Cavorting sea creatures and cherubs made of mossy stone spouted jets of water. The size and scale of them astonished her. Beyond the fountain lay gardens of riotous color and formal pattern. The flowers glowed in the gentle rain, the day’s dreariness making their hues seem brighter. The walls of the palace towered before her with an immense grandeur of spires and statuary, and as she looked Pheresa’s heart began to beat faster.

I shall be the mistress of all this, she thought. It was the king’s wish, and surely Gavril was no longer as spoiled and horrid as he had been when he was a little child. Even if she did not like him, she liked Savroix very much.  The carriage halted before a vast sweep of steps leading up to tall doors that stood open. Servants in royal livery were lined up in a double row at attention, and a purple carpet was rolled out between them.

As Pheresa was handed out of the carriage with tender care by her father, she met his excited gaze and smiled fully for the first time. In her mind, it no longer mattered if she and Gavril liked or disliked each other. She wanted Savroix for her own. She would do whatever she had to in order to get it.  Far away at Thirst Hold, Gavril’s raid on the chevard’s cellars worked exactly as planned. With almost everyone in the hold worried about whether Lord Odfrey would live or die, it proved a simple matter to gain entry. Aoun and another manservant coerced into helping carried out perhaps a dozen kegs of the Saelutian mead and concealed them in an unused storeroom.  Now it was the eve of Aelintide. The servants had been abustle all day, making preparations for tomorrow’s feasting and celebration of harvest. Julth Rondel, steward of Thirst Hold, wanted to suspend the feast until Lord Odfrey recovered, but Gavril had insisted the celebrations go on as planned.  After supper ended and while the chapel bell was ringing to call worshipers to eventide mass, Gavril collected Mierre, Sir Los, and a servant to carry a keg of the mead. He set out through the crisp night air, his breath puffing white about his face, his jeweled poniard swinging at his side, his fur-lined cloak keeping him warm.

He crossed the hold, walking at first with the general stream of knights and servants going to the mass to pray for Lord Odfrey’s recovery, then splitting off and proceeding onward. He noted with approval the long trestle tables and harvest pole already placed in the stableyard. As he approached the guardhouse, he saw lights in the windows and heard the sounds of comradely singing. Sentries patrolled the battlements in silence, keeping the normal discipline of the hold.  Although the raiders had been defeated, the dwarf attack had greatly unsettled the serfs. It had been with difficulty that they were persuaded to leave the safety of the hold yesterday. Those who had been burned out were sent off to make new homes for themselves, each survivor given a sack of essentials such as a cooking pot, a hank of salted meat, a length of new-woven linsey to make clothes, and a Circle to hang over their new hearth. Such largess emboldened them greatly, and most set off without further persuasion, pausing only to touch the door of the chapel with prayers for Lord Odfrey.

Pausing outside the door of the guardhouse, Gavril waited for Sir Los to step ahead of him and pound on the thick wooden panels.  The singing died down, and the door swung open. “What’s the word o‘ the master?” asked a gruff voice from within.

“Nothing,” Sir Los replied in his terse way. “His highness requests entry.” The door opened wide, and the knights within rose to their feet, scraping back stools and benches in a great crash of noise.

Gavril drew a deep breath. He was almost trembling inside with anticipation, but he forced his emotions under rigid control. He did not want his excitement misunderstood.

“The knights of Thirst Hold bid your highness enter, with welcome,” said the man at the door.

He bowed low, and Gavril stepped inside.

The guardhouse was a round, stout structure, built of brick and stone. One half of it held cells for miscreants and suspicious characters awaiting judgment and floggings. The rest of the building was a single, open chamber filled with tables and benches. The knights ate their meals here. In their off-duty hours they diced, studied war strategies, assembled to hear reports and dispatches of trouble on the border, and dictated letters to scribes.

Seeing one such individual now standing in the far corner, still clutching his pen in ink-stained fingers, Gavril frowned and pointed at the man. “Scribe, you are excused,” he said.

The scribe’s throat-apple jerked up and down. With a hasty bow, he gathered up scraps of parchment, his inkwell, his leather roll, and his assortment of battered pens. Bowing again, he scuttled past Gavril and his party, and exited out the door into the night.

Gavril glanced around at the silent, respectful faces. One man, Sir Bosquecel, captain of the guard, was conspicuously absent. No doubt he had gone to mass.  Having counted on that, Gavril concealed an inner smile of satisfaction.  “Come to the fire, your highness,” Sir Terent said. He was the man who had opened the door to them. Balding and ruddy-faced, he gestured toward the hearth, where a modest fire burned amidst crumbled embers and white ashes. “Please accept our hospitality and have a chair. Sir Nynth, pour his highness and these companions a cup of cider.”

Gavril allowed himself to be ushered closer to the fire, but he did not sit down, and he did not accept the hastily poured cup offered to him. “Please, sir knights. Allow me to offer you a gift instead.” He gestured, and his servant set the keg on the closest table. “Saelutian mead, good sirs,” Gavril said proudly, beaming at them. “The best quality, fit for the best knights in service in upland Mandria. Let us drink a toast to your recent success in battle.” Silence fell over the room. Many of the knights looked away. Some frowned at Gavril. Others looked shocked.

Taken aback by their unexpected reaction, Gavril allowed his smile to fade from his face. He stared back at them, his pulse beginning to race inside his collar.  “What’s amiss?” he asked, and hated it that he had to ask such a question.  In that instant he felt like an unschooled boy in a company of men. He did not like the feeling at all.

When no one immediately replied, he frowned and gestured at the keg. “This gift is both costly and rare, worthy of the valor you displayed against the dwarf raiders. Will you not drink it with me, on this eve of Aelintide?” Red-faced, Sir Terent drew himself to his full stature, standing head and shoulders above Gavril. He cleared his throat and said with hesitation, “Your highness is most generous. Thanks do we give you for this gift, but we’ll not accept it.”

Gavril’s face was on fire. He did not understand, and there was no chamberlain on hand to murmur a swift explanation in his ear. Social gaffes were unbecoming to princes of the realm. So far no one had dared to laugh at him. Their expressions stayed most solemn. But he held himself rigidly, feeling like a fool and insulted past bearing at their refusal.

When he could master his voice, he said, “May I know why you refuse?” Sir Terent’s eyes held kindness and dismay. Bowing his bald head, he said quietly, “Prayed we have to Tomias the Prophet, asking that Lord Odfrey’s life be spared. Gave we our oaths of personal sacrifice. While strong drink is permitted on Aelintide, our vows were made not to partake of it until Lord Odfrey is whole again.”

Gavril’s head snapped up. His pulse was throbbing in his throat now. His face flamed hotter than ever, and certainty that it was red upset him even more.  Someone should have told him about this. Someone would pay for letting him make such a mistake.

“I see,” he said, his voice tight. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect of your oaths. Had I known—” “But wasn’t your highness at morning mass?” Sir Nynth asked, frowning.  “Yes, of course I was,” Gavril replied.

“We gave our oaths then,” Sir Nynth said.

Gavril swallowed, feeling more a fool than ever. He had heard no such oaths, but then he hadn’t been paying attention. Having conducted his private devotionals at dawn in his own prayer-cabinet, he’d spent his time at mass deep in thought, planning this evening. With a scowl, he promised himself that everyone in his service would be punished for letting this happen.

“Perhaps your highness simply forgot,” Sir Terent said.

“Or perhaps your highness didn’t hear.”

These huge, ill-educated oafs were trying to be kind. Gavril wanted to choke. He glanced at the door, ready to plunge outside and escape this nightmare, but for the second time Sir Terent offered him a cup of that dreadful cider.  “Drink with us, your highness, but we’ll remain sober if it please you.” “Very well.” He could do little else but take the cup. With ill grace he quaffed it, and shuddered at the taste.

Laughing in restored good humor, the knights raised their own cups and drank after him.

“Now then,” Sir Terent said, pushing forward the room’s only tall-backed chair.

“Take our seat of honor and bide with us for a time.”

Rough-mannered or not, the offer was a gracious one. Gavril knew it was rare for knights to consort with boys in training such as himself. Ordinarily only those holding the rank of full knight could enter here, much less be invited to stay longer than a few minutes. But although he accepted the honor, and seated himself stiffly in the chair, he was still smarting from his thwarted plans to bribe them. Now he would have to think of a different approach.  “Tell me, Sir Terent,” he said. “Do you think the dwarves have truly been routed? Or will there be more trouble?”

“None from that lot!” shouted someone in the back of the room. Others swiftly silenced him.

Sir Terent turned red-faced again. “If there are more Bnen uprisings, there may be trouble all winter. That’s what we don’t know yet.” “Ah.” Gavril leaned forward, thrilled to be discussing strategy. For a moment he almost forgot his own plans. “Have you sent scouts into the forest?” “The captain’s not yet given the order. He may be waiting till after Aelintide, but more than likely he’d rather get his information right here.” “I don’t understand.”

Sir Terent grinned and said, “From our eld.”

Gavril frowned. “What eld?”

“The young ‘un what took us into battle,” said Sir Deloit in his thick uplander accent. Grizzled and old, with a puckered scar running through his left eye, he slammed his fist on the table with a grunt of admiration. “Like a gift from Thod, he was, appearing on our road at just the right time. Led us true, he did, straight to ’em. And like a burr did he stick to our lord and master. Naught harmed him, though he be right in the thick of battle. A gift from Thod, he was, all right. It’s him we want to ask about dwarf uprisings.” A terrible suspicion began to coil through Gavril’s mind. There couldn’t be two eldin in the vicinity. Not two young ones. Could there?  Again, he had not been told this gossip. It did not matter to him that he’d been so busy organizing and carrying out the recovery of his stolen wine and mead that he’d paid no heed to anything else. Someone should have informed him.  Leaning back in his chair, Gavril shot a dagger glance in Sir Los’s direction.  The protector’s gaze shifted uneasily, and Gavril’s anger boiled higher. Sir Los had known but had not told him. Unforgivable.

Sir Nynth, an ugly dark-haired man with keen eyes, edged closer. “Tell us, your highness. How do we go about taming our eld? Getting him to come forth from hiding and trust us?”

Gavril blinked at him in startlement. “Say you that the eld is inside the hold?”

“Aye,” Sir Terent said with a nod.

Gavril clenched his hands upon the chair arms. “What does he look like, this eld?”

“He’s about your highness’s height, but skinny. Black-haired. Young.”

Gavril drew in his breath sharply. “I’ve seen this pagan before.” The knights exchanged delighted glances. “Does your highness know him? Know his name?” Sir Terent asked eagerly.

“No.”

“Sir Bosquecel says he is called Dain,” Sir Alard contributed in his soft voice.  “That’s not an eldin name,” another knight farther back protested. “They’re all called by names as long as your arm, names that tangle your tongue right up.” “We’re trying to get him to trust us and come out of hiding,” Sir Terent explained.

“Are you sure he hasn’t left?” Gavril asked. “Perhaps when the villagers departed yesterday—” “Nay. I saw him slinking past the food cellars like a cat midday,” said the one-eyed old knight. “I maybe got only one eye, but it sees sharp. He’s still hanging about. We got to catch him, see?”

“Yes, of course you must,” Gavril said. “It will not do to have a pagan running freely about the hold.”

“Aye, he ought to be brought in and given proper shelter,” Sir Terent said with a smile that showed where his front teeth had been knocked out in some past battle. “And thanked rightly for what he did for us. Nocine the huntsman owes the boy his life.”

“Nocine?” Gavril echoed.

“Aye. Saved him with spellcraft.”

Disapproval sank through Gavril like a stone through water. He stared at Sir Terent with a stern face. “Spellcraft is against Writ.”

“Aye, of course,” the knight agreed with a casualness that made Gavril determined to write down his name as soon as he returned to his chambers tonight. He was starting to compile lists of such names, ferreting out the unfaithful for Cardinal Noncire’s information. Sir Terent leaned forward. “But he is what he is. Can’t help it, I figure. Anyway, we want to thank him. Make him our mascot and—” Gavril shot to his feet, causing Sir Terent to break off. “Make him your what?” the prince shouted.

“Our mascot,” Sir Terent repeated.

“He brought us wondrous luck,” Sir Nynth said.

Other knights were nodding.

“Aye,” Sir Deloit said. “Took us through forest so twisted we couldn’t never found our way back out again. But he knew all the ways. Saw trails we didn’t see. Sniffed his way through, most like. But he didn’t get lost once in all the day. Quick-witted too, he is. If ever we go back into Nold, it’s that boy I want guiding me.”

Other voices lifted in agreement.

Listening to them, Gavril somehow managed to master his shock and outrage.  Uplanders were notorious backsliders, always letting their faith falter in favor of the old ways. Many were lenient toward pagans, just as these knights were tonight. They saw no contradiction between that and their oaths of faithfulness to the Writ.

But beyond that, Gavril was thinking of the qualities the knights kept mentioning about this Dain. He remembered the eld he had hunted only a few days ago, the eld with black hair and eyes of pagan gray, the eld who had defied him and fought back with a fearlessness that now made Gavril wonder. Could this eld be put to his use? If Dain truly knew his way about the Dark Forest, then did he know how to find the Field of Skulls? And beyond that, did he perhaps know where to find the Chalice of Eternal Life? Even if Gavril bribed these oafs into searching the forest for him, it was clear they knew not where to look.  A corner of Gavril’s heart warned him against the temptation of using pagans in his service. It was opening the gate to worse temptations. But he felt strong in his faith, and certain that he could withstand whatever might try to turn him from the truth of Writ. Was it sinfully wrong to use a pagan in his search for the missing Chalice?

Gavril envisioned putting Dain in a harness, a collar and chain on his throat like a leashed dog. He would ride through the Dark Forest with Dain trotting ahead of him, hunting the Chalice, leading the way to success.  “Your highness?” Sir Terent said, jolting Gavril from his thoughts.  He blinked stupidly, trying to gather his wits and remember what had been said around him. “Yes?”

“I asked what we should do to catch him,” Sir Terent said. “I’m sorry if your highness is too tired. It’s just—I thought since your highness has been schooled so much in the Writ and the faith, you might know more about the pagan ways than we do. You might know how to make him trust us.”

Gavril hesitated only a second, then he smiled. “Of course. I would be most pleased to assist you.”

Sir Terent bowed, his ruddy face showing gratitude. Sir Deloit banged his gnarled hand on the table. “And I say that we ought to try tolling him out with food. Leave it about, easy like, and he’ll come for it. Bound to be hungry by now.”

“An excellent idea,” Gavril said.

“Then we’ll do that,” Sir Terent said. He glanced at the other knights with a smile and nod.

“I must take my leave now,” Gavril told them. “I will think on this matter and give you what help I can. Perhaps I and the other fosters will try our hand at pursuing him.”

As he spoke, he glanced over his shoulder at Mierre, who gave him a quick smile.  “Chasing him is likely going to scare him worse,” the old knight started in, but someone put a hand on his shoulder to silence him.

Gavril frowned. He’d had enough advice from that quarter. “Good night to you, sir knights,” he said with gracious courtesy. “Good Aelintide as well.” They bowed, chorusing, “Good Aelintide, your highness.”

“I will wish you luck, also, in tomorrow’s games and melee.” Sir Terent’s smile vanished, and again an uncomfortable silence fell over the room. “There will be none.”

Gavril stared in fresh surprise. “No contests?”

“Not while our lord lies so gravely ill.”

“I see.” Gavril felt his face growing hot again. He tried to hide his discomfiture by adjusting the heavy folds of his cloak. “Well, then, let us be glad there is still to be a feast.”

He turned to go, and Sir Los hurried ahead of him to thrust open the door.

“Wait, your highness!” Sir Terent called after him.

Gavril turned back to see the knight coming with the keg.

“No,” Gavril said, lifting his hand. “Keep my gift.”

“We cannot accept it,” Sir Terent said.

“You said you will not drink it until Lord Odfrey is well.” Gavril forced a smile to his lips, still desirous of addicting the company to this wondrous mead so that their allegiance would thereafter belong to him. “Save it until that time, then drink it in celebration.”

Some of the knights lifted merry cheers, but Sir Terent still looked troubled.

“Lord Odfrey disapproves of strong drink.”

“It’s fine mead,” Gavril said. “But if you wish, feed it to the swine.” Mierre stepped forward, looking red-faced and shy before the men. “It’s not polite to refuse a gift from the prince,” he muttered in warning.  Sir Terent, thus crudely informed of proper protocol, blinked and stepped back.

“Forgive me,” he said in haste. “I meant no offense to your highness.” “None is taken,” Gavril said sweetly. “Good night.” He walked out, his small entourage trailing behind him. With every crunching step across the frozen mud of the stable-yard, his iron control slipped another notch. Seething, he whirled at last and struck Sir Los in the chest with his fist. The blow banged against Sir Los’s hauberk, hurting Gavril’s hand, but he was too furious to care.  “You knew,” he said in a low spiteful voice. “You knew about the eld and you said nothing. You knew about their oaths, and you warned me not. If I were home in Savroix, I’d have your ears and tongue cut as a reward for such service.” Sir Los stared at him through the darkness. “I am your knight protector. I guard your life with my own. Would you chase the eld yourself and risk being burned or killed with his spellcraft? Better to let the knights catch him. Better for your highness to stay far away from him. He would have done you harm that day in the marsh.”

Despite his anger, Gavril knew his protector’s words were true. He drew in an angry breath, his chest heaving, then spun about on his heel and strode off without another word.

The others followed him in silence. After a moment he reached out and gripped Mierre by his muscular arm. “You will catch him,” he said in a voice like iron.  “You will trap him and bring him to me. You and Kaltienne work at this.”

“Aye, your highness,” Mierre said.

Gavril listened for any sound of doubt or cowardice, but Mierre sounded as confident as always. “You do not fear his spellcraft?” Gavril asked.  “Not much,” Mierre said. “My grandsire sometimes had eldin come about the place when I was little. They were always gentle.”

“This one isn’t,” Gavril warned him.

“I’ll catch him. Worry not,” Mierre said. “Besides, I know how to ward him off, if I have to.”

Gavril frowned in the darkness. As he strode into the paved courtyard, he saw that the chapel lights had gone dark. All was still and quiet. It must be late, he knew. He had stayed too long with the knights.

He started to warn Mierre against using the old ways, for such were forbidden, but then he bit his tongue. For once he would look the other way and pretend he did not understand what Mierre meant. It’s for the Chalice, he assured his conscience.

“Be quick about it, if you can,” he said at last. “We have free rein only while the chevard lies ill. If he recovers, we’ll be back in chores, unable to come and go as we please.”

“Aye, this is better,” Mierre agreed with a grin. “Your highness?”

“Yes?”

“What about some of that mead for ourselves? We deserve it, after all we’ve done.”

Gavril spun about and struck Mierre across the face, too furious to govern himself this time. “It’s not for you!” he shouted. “Not for anyone but whom I say.”

Holding his cheek, Mierre took a cautious step back. His green eyes were suddenly flat and sullen. “I beg your highness’s pardon,” he said.  Gavril took several ragged breaths before he could haul his temper back under control. “Not the mead,” he said at last, his voice more its normal tone. “Never the mead. Is that clearly understood? Never.”

“Aye, your highness.”

“We’ll share wine or ale ... later. Tomorrow perhaps, if you bring me the eld.” Gavril’s voice was still unsteady. He turned away from Mierre, appalled by how close he could come to disaster if the wrong people got into that mead. It was no brew for anyone except those Gavril wanted to master. He must take care to keep the fosters well away from it. “I think,” Gavril said, “that you had better leave me now.”

Mierre bowed and ran off across the courtyard. Gavril lingered a moment, gulping in cold air to clear his head. Sir Los dismissed the gawking servant with a gesture and waited in patient silence.

Finally Gavril turned his steps toward the deserted chapel, where the last of the incense still wafted from the brazier hanging outside the door. Gavril stepped into the shadowy interior, which was lit only by a few votives flickering on the altar. The domed ceiling rose overhead into shadows, its gilding reflecting small glints of candlelight. It was painted with a scene of Tomias the Prophet at the Sacred Well.

Gavril paid no attention to the ceiling painting, which he considered crudely drawn and ill-colored by whatever local artisans Lord Odfrey had employed. His heart was not stirred by the carvings on the altar, for they had a flavor of the old ways. Instead, he focused his gaze on the large Circle of gilded brass hanging above the altar. As always, the sight of the cheap Circle annoyed him.  Lord Odfrey, he felt, should spend the money for a Circle of solid gold.  Sighing, Gavril sought to clear his mind. This evening he had been crossed by many temptations. He needed a cleansed heart in order to keep his vows and the path he had chosen.

Genuflecting, Gavril pressed his face against the floor and began to pray.  Shivering in the shadows, his breath steaming about his face, Dain watched the prince enter the small chapel, his elegant, cloaked figure momentarily silhouetted as the door swung open to admit him. The prince’s protector followed him, then all lay quiet beneath the hand of darkness. Dain had heard every word of the conversation between Prince Gavril and the larger boy called Mierre. He understood that they intended to catch him.

Sighing, Dain slipped from the courtyard and ducked into the warm, smelly kennels. He snuggled in among the dogs, who licked his hands and chin sleepily.  These were not the prince’s dogs. Those red brutes were kept kenneled in a separate place.

Dain could have befriended them too, but he had not yet taken the trouble.  Weary and afraid, he made himself a nest in the straw and basked in the warmth of the dogs. Gavril would either hurt him or kill him if he let himself be caught. Dain grimaced angrily in the darkness and vowed not to let it happen. He was determined to stay here through the winter, but he refused to be prey for the cruel prince and his companions.

At dawn, the chapel bell rang loudly, shattering all the natural song in the world. Startled awake, Dain sat bolt upright. The dogs clambered to their feet, shook their coats, and whined in anticipation of their morning meal of raw fish.  Angry at himself for having slept so late, Dain scrambled out of the kennel and ducked into a damp alcove over one of the cisterns. Crouched in there, his back wedged against the clammy stones, he listened while the kennelmaster came shuffling along, hitching up his untied leggings with one hand and scrubbing the sleep from his face with the other.

“Merry Aelintide to you,” he called out to the dogs, who barked back gleefully.  Dain whispered the word to himself. Aelintide, the great harvest feast. Now he understood what the frenzied work and preparations had been for.  The past few days, harvesters had been bringing food into the hold, until there seemed to be enough to feed all the world. Dain had never before seen such bounty. The dwarves were not good farmers. Jorb had sometimes grown a small patch of root vegetables to help them get through the winter. Thia loved tending it, although she preferred flowers to the mundane cabbages, turnips, toties, and fingerlings. She would stand in the patch with a hoe in hand and the sun warming her face. She sang so beautifully that the birds would come and perch on her shoulders, singing with her while bees buzzed amid her flowers in low, droning counterpoint.

But these Mandrians were not like the dwarves. Instead, they farmed large fields. Hordes of serfs hoed and pulled weeds throughout the long growing season, then in autumn they went forth to scythe, winnow, and stack sheaves.  Millers wearing Thirst green took charge of the grain brought to the hold in tall-sided carts. They ground flour and baked bread to be sold back to the villagers. The aroma of baking bread made Dain weak in the knees. With his mouth watering, he had skulked about the ovens yesterday and had even risked plucking out a loaf, which was still baking and only half-cooked. Its crust burned his hands, forcing him to juggle it while he ran back into hiding. When he broke it open, a great cloud of steam hit his face. The dough was gooey in the center. He bit into it and burned his mouth. Thereafter he blew on it and nibbled, blew on it and nibbled, marveling at the texture and whiteness of the bread. He ate it all, and later was sick. But he did not care.

One of the many barns held a herd of cows that were taken outside the hold to a pasture in the morning dawn and brought back in late afternoon. They were milked every day, and plump women in kerchiefs and white aprons skimmed cream, churned butter, and made large wheels of yellow cheese that were wrapped in linen and stored in wooden hoop-shaped boxes stacked in a cool cellar.  Men smoked meats in a place built especially for the purpose. Hams and haunches of mutton were hung from the rafters. Fish was filleted and hung up on wooden dowels to dry over slow, smoky fires. Barrels of salted meat were stacked in storerooms and cellars alongside sacks of brown toties and large purple turnips.  Baskets of quince, pears, and apples filled another building lined with shelves to hold them all.

Cider-making went on all day long, filling the air with the fermenting fragrance of crushed apples. Berries were put in huge outdoor kettles and boiled into a frothy, sugary confection later spooned into lidded crocks. Young girls wearing long aprons left the hold at early morn and trudged back at eventide, their aprons full of herbs and grasses that were then chopped, dried, and stored in small clay pots with corks.

Such a flurry of work went on around the preparation and storage of food that Dain began to believe this was all the workers did, year-round. The Mandrians stored up food like the dwarves stored up treasure.

Then late yesterday afternoon the work had stopped. The hold looked abandoned, for everyone seemed to have gone indoors. When the bell rang at eventide, many of the hold folk went to chapel for mass. Foul-smelling incense burned night and day from a smoking brass brazier hung outside the chapel door. Dain did not understand all the rituals of man-religion, but he understood that they were praying for the recovery of Lord Odfrey.

Dain was also worried about the chevard. He could not pray to the dwarf gods for mercy, for they did not govern the chevard’s fate. He knew very little about the Church of Mandria, because men-ways were also denied to him. As for the eldin gods, if there were any, he had never been taught their ways and could not call on them either.

Feeling bereft, he prayed instead to Thia’s spirit, now living as light and song within the third world. In his mind he talked to her, for he had no one else. In the few days he’d hidden himself here, he’d kept himself out of sight, fearing capture and bodily harm, especially if Gavril caught him. The knights knew he was here, for sometimes they searched for him. Other times they left bits of food lying out, like lures for a trap. Dain was not so easily tricked.  Already he had learned the patterns of the place, when to venture out and when to stay in hiding. The sentries patrolled the battlements and bridge spans between towers. He had to make sure he skulked along the shadows and places where a guard overhead could not see him.

And if he was lonely, at least he did not starve. At night he drank water from the stone horse troughs. Food was easy to scavenge, for the hold folk were wasteful and careless with it. The simpleton goosegirl left out crusts of bread to feed the plump pidges that strutted and cooed along the roofs. Careless stableboys sometimes abandoned half-eaten apples or tossed the cores away.  Maidservants carried out buckets of scraps at midday and eventide. This bounty was shared first among the scrawny children who worked at keeping the paved courtyard swept clean of leaves and horse droppings. The scraps they left were then given as slop to the pigs. Once he found the food stores, Dain did not have to rob the pigs. There was so much food, nothing would be missed. He had never seen such bounty in his life.

Now, however, as he crouched with his feet planted on the lid of the cistern and listened to the kennelmaster whistle and talk to the dogs, Dain felt a surge of loneliness so great he almost pushed himself out into open sight. But he held himself where he was, aching in a way he could not explain.  Within an hour or so, the smells of baking filled the air with scents that made his mouth water and nearly drove him mad. Strains of music told him the festival was starting. Curious to see some of it, Dain found himself a vantage point by climbing the drainpipe leading to the stable roof and pulling himself inside a window. There, in the fragrant, yellowed mounds of horse fodder, he could peer out the window and watch the celebration in relative safety.  At first he did not recognize the servants who appeared and mistook them for guests. They appeared in finery that made Dain stare round-eyed. Maids he’d seen wearing tattered linsey gowns, their hair braided loosely down their back, were now transformed by gowns of bright blue, crimson, or green, worn with embroidered kirtles and linen undersleeves. Their hair was combed and braided with ribbons into tight coils about their heads. The men had shed their livery and wore new, brightly hued doublets over their old leggings.  Trestles and boards had already been made into long tables that stretched across the yard. More servants carried out platter after platter of meat, pies, bowls of steaming vegetables, more pies, wedges of cheese, loaves of bread, pastries, yet more pies, and jug after jug of cider to wash it all down.  For Dain, crouched in his hiding place, this feast was the most enticing vision he’d ever seen. Wishing he, too, could be a guest, he drank in the sights and sniffed the wondrous smells. The knights, looking manly and splendid in their vivid surcoats, their beards neatly trimmed and their hair combed back, filed forth from the barracks. Led by the captain of the guard, they sat at one of the long tables, and the servants sat at the other. All the workers, from the sweeps to the stableboys to the milkmaids to the cheese-makers and so on, sat and feasted together, clinking their brass cups in toasts, tossing bones to the dogs, laughing and jesting in good fellowship.

“Merry Aelintide to you,” they called out to each other in courtesy. “May Thod preserve Lord Odfrey.”

“Amen,” came the replies.

They feasted all afternoon, until the shadows grew long and the cows lowed in the barn for milking. Scattering, they threw on smocks to protect their finery and went about their chores, feeding the animals but doing little else.  A short mass was held, then torches were lit and music struck up. They danced and feasted yet more, making merry half the night. Inside the central, long building that Dain now knew as the Hall, lights shone from the windows, and the sound of music rose and fell in strange rhythms that made him long to join in.  Leaving the stables, he slinked along in the shadows and peered in some of the windows of the Hall.

He glimpsed house servants wearing garments that outshone those of the outside workers. Torches and candles burned in every room of the ground floor, casting a warm glow of light over furnishings that took his breath away. Dain had sneaked looks inside before, but now the Hall seemed transformed. Gone were the floor rushes; beautiful carpets lay spread out on the floor in their stead. The homely stools and benches had vanished, replaced with chairs of fine woods. In the ample candlelight, the tapestries on the walls were no longer huge, gloomy hangings of cloth, but instead vivid depictions of men and women that seemed to shimmer with life, as though magic was woven among the threads.  One of the boys called fosters came into sight. Peering through the window, Dain stiffened with alarm, but he did not slip away. This one was not Mierre, who was dangerous, or the younger boy who was a fool. Dain did not remember this one’s name, but he marveled at the gorgeous doublet and leggings the boy wore. He was tall and thin, his red hair glinting like copper in the candlelight. He wore a thin belt with a fine dagger hanging from it. A ring winked on his finger. He was not a prince, but tonight he looked like one.

All too conscious of his own tattered and filthy rags, his unkempt hair that he cut occasionally with a knife to keep it out of his eyes, Dain shivered in the cold and watched this wealthy boy warming himself before a roaring fire.  Mierre, followed by the fool Kaltienne, walked into the room, carrying two cups.  Mierre handed one to the red-haired boy. They spoke together for a moment, with Kaltienne laughing. The red-haired boy looked wary, Dain thought. Clearly they were not friends.

Then the prince walked in, and a flare of heat rose through Dain that made him forget how cold and miserable he was. He glared through the window at the prince, whose magnificence outshone that of the other boys. Gavril wore velvet and fur. His slender white fingers glittered with rings, and the gold bracelet of royalty gleamed on his wrist. His dagger hilt shone with jewels, and the prince’s dark blue eyes twinkled in good humor. Lurking in the doorway was the protector, in chain mail despite the festivities, wearing his sword as he guarded the prince the way Sir Roye had sought to guard Lord Odfrey.  Prince Gavril laughed merrily and raised his cup in a toast. “Let us hail Aelintide and the success of all ventures.”

Everyone drank deeply, except the red-haired boy, who sputtered at what was in his cup.

“This is wine!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?”

“I brought it with me from Savroix,” the prince said, draining his cup.  “But I thought it was locked away in the—” The red-haired boy met Gavril’s narrowed eyes and broke off his sentence.

“Thum du Maltie, you remain a fool,” Gavril said with contempt.  “No one gave you permission to get it,” Thum said. His hand was white-knuckled around his cup. “Lord Odfrey said our first day here that men in training do not drink—” “Lord Odfrey has nothing to say in this matter,” Gavril said sharply. “Leave me.”

Thum set down his cup and bowed low to the prince. He glanced at the other two boys, and his face turned as red as his hair. In silence, he hurried out of sight.

Kaltienne mocked him, clasping his hands under his chin and capering about, pretending to swoon. “Oh! Oh! I have tasted wine,” he cried in a high, falsetto voice. “I am corrupted. My wits are rotted. I am undone.” Mierre laughed robustly, flinging back his head. Picking up Thum’s cup, he drained its contents and smacked his thick lips. “Do you think he’ll run and tell?”

Kaltienne stopped his antics and glowered, but Prince Gavril shrugged one elegant shoulder. “No,” he said. “The Maltie honor will not let him. Now, what have you accomplished today?”

Mierre frowned, exchanging a wary look with Kaltienne. “Accomplished?” “In searching for the eld!” Gavril said angrily. “We have been at your highness’s heels all day,” Mierre said.

“Exactly. Getting nothing done. I want him caught while everyone is too busy to notice what we’re doing.”

“I looked this morning,” Kaltienne said. “But the hold is vast, with passages running everywhere. We could search for days, even months before we—” Mierre nudged him in the ribs, but too late.

Gavril’s face darkened. “You will find him tomorrow. By what means I care not.

But you will do it.”