“But, your highness—”

Gavril snapped his fingers. “Would you rather I order you to search all night in the cold and the dark?”

The other boys silenced their protests and bowed.

Glaring at them both, Gavril strode away. They followed like whipped dogs.  Outside, in the frosty darkness, Dain’s hands curled into fists. He hated the prince, hated him with more passion than he’d felt even against the Bnen. For a moment he was tempted to sneak inside the Hall and confront Gavril. But there was the protector to consider. Dain restrained his impulses and crept away to wait until the last of the revelers grew tired and went to bed. When they finally did, Dain crawled under the tables, scavenging with the cats and a stray dog or two for whatever was left of the feast.

Besting a fierce old tom for a bone with a good bit of meat and gristle still attached to it, Dain gnawed it clean, then broke it between his hands and sucked out the marrow. “Merry Aelintide to me,” he muttered.  In the morning, bells rang across the land, echoing from long distances. The chapel bell within the hold rang also, but with a muffled clapper. People appeared soon thereafter, rushing through minimal chores in a slapdash way, then resuming their festivities.

Dain wondered how long the merriment would last. In his experience, when the dwarves feasted long into the night, come the morning after they quarreled and suffered from ale-head. Dain had expected similar behavior, but then remembered that most of the Mandrians had drunk cider the day before, not ale. A few individuals crept about wincing and moaning, but they got scant sympathy.  Still in their finery, people set up a tall pole caped like a man with a huge yellow gourd for a head and a paper crown on its head.  “The king of Aelintide,” they sang to it, and danced and made merry all morning.  From comments he overheard and the general air of mild disappointment, Dain learned that the knights had been expected to joust for entertainment, but had refrained out of respect for Lord Odfrey’s illness.

The servants, however, made do in the afternoon, with the men playing peculiar games of contest involving the juggling of sticks and leather balls, handstands, footraces, the balancing of eggs on their noses, and other silliness. Their efforts were cheered on loudly by the spectators. The stableboys drew lots and pulled off their tunics for wrestling, until they were sweaty and winded from their efforts. At that time, Prince Gavril and the bull-shouldered Mierre came out and exhibited thinsword dueling.

As he had the day before, Dain watched from the fodder loft of the stables.  Despite his dislike of the prince, he couldn’t help but be fascinated by the intricate footwork and fancy sword-play. The duel was like a dance, every movement graceful yet potentially deadly. Prince Gavril made a striking figure in the sunshine, his hair gleaming gold, his lean, fit body lithe and quick in comparison to the lumbering movements of his opponent.  “Mierre, hold your arm higher,” he would call out, then strike in a rapid staccato of beat, feint, attack.

Mierre parried clumsily. Clearly he’d been given only the rudiments of training.  His big hand swallowed the hilt of his thinsword. He had the hands and muscles for wielding a broadsword, not this delicate weapon.

While several of the knights watched from the crowd, the prince circled Mierre and attacked again in a flurry of beautiful moves, ending with a flourish and a solid smack of his blunted sword tip against Mierre’s chest. Applause broke out from the spectators, and Prince Gavril bowed with a broad smile before clapping Mierre on his shoulder and speaking a quick word in his ear.  The larger boy bowed and hurried away, and the prince sauntered over to speak to a pretty maid in a blue gown, who curtsied and blushed at his attention.  Some of the knights looked less than impressed by Gavril’s exhibition. One of them took Mierre’s thinsword and ran his fingers along its blade, flexing it and shaking his head.

Dain drew back from the window, frowning at his tangle of emotions. He’d never seen a thinsword before today, but suddenly he ached to learn how to use one. He hated the prince, yet Gavril’s skill was admirable. Dain shoved the hair out of his face, unprepared for his envy.

The smell of roasted meat suddenly filled the stable, rising above the horse fragrance.

Startled, Dain jumped to his feet in alarm and sniffed the air. He could detect nothing except the smell of the meat and dust from the fodder he’d disturbed. He clamped his hand across his nose and mouth to hold back a sneeze. His mouth was watering, and his stomach growled to fierce, insistent life.  No one was supposed to be in here except the horses; Dain had counted all the stableboys earlier to make sure. He listened hard, but he heard no unusual sounds. When he tried to focus his mind to sweep forth, all he could think about was the meat and how hungry he was.

Last night’s scraps, after two days of watching people gorge themselves, was not enough to hold him together.

Outside, music struck up, accompanied by shouts and laughter.  Dain didn’t bother to look out the window this time. He was tired of merriment he could not join. His stomach rumbled again, and he pressed his hand against his middle. It had to be a trap. If some of the stableboys or anyone else had ducked in here for private merrymaking, there would be the sound of voices and giggling. Instead, all he heard was quiet, broken by the occasional snort of one of the horses in the stalls below.

Easing over to the window, Dain stared down at the people, who were now lining up to dance. He saw Gavril talking to one of the knights. Thum was also in the crowd, looking shy and talking to no one. Of Mierre and Kaltienne, there was no sign.

Anger touched Dain. So they thought he was some stray animal, stupid enough to be enticed with food. He was hungry, but not yet so desperate he would throw away his freedom for a mouthful of meat.

Refusing to panic, he tried to figure out what he should do.  The first step was clear. He had to get out of this building quickly before he found himself trapped up here in the loft. How they’d located him hardly mattered.

Dain decided he’d better leave the hold completely. His hopes of staying seemed futile and not worth the risk of being caught by Gavril or his minions. He would steal enough provisions to last him well, then journey north into Nether in search of the eldin as Thia had asked him to do.

He was not eager to go there. All his life, Jorb had told him it was not safe for him and Thia to seek their own kind. In the past, eldin had lived scattered through parts of Nold and even in the mountains of upper Mandria. But now, few were sighted. Jorb said most had gone into the wilds of Nether. It was said to be a cold, austere land, ruled by a dour king named Muncel, a land of cruel men and harsh ways, savage and unfriendly. But Dain did not think the eldin were welcome even in Nether. Gossip among the customers and traders who came to Jorb’s forge said the eldin had been driven into hiding in the northernmost mountains, as far perhaps as the fjords themselves, and could not be found.  A cheer went up from outside. Dain crawled through the fodder to look and saw a long line of people dancing back and forth around the courtyard. A blushing maiden was standing next to the gourd and pole king of Aelintide. As the line of people passed her, the men bowed and the women curtsied.  “Harvest queen!” they shouted to her.

Dain frowned, no longer interested in their rituals. He heard a shuffle from below, and a quick grunt of exasperation, and knew his time had run out.  He could make larger decisions about where to go later. Right now, he’d better keep his wits focused on the problem at hand.

To the sound of stealthy creaks coming from the simple pole ladder leading to the loft, Dain turned back to the window and thrust his head and shoulders through the small opening, twisting painfully to fit. In his haste, he inadvertently caused the open shutter to bang.

“Hey!” shouted Mierre’s voice. “Come this way. I think he’s up here!” Cursing softly beneath his breath, Dain hoped the merrymakers were enjoying their dancing too much to look up and see him. The drainpipe could be seen from the yard. He dared not try to go that way.

With one hand bracing himself on the slate roof tiles, he looked straight down into the narrow space between the stables and the cow barn next to it. If he slipped, he had a long way to fall.

Squinting against the sunshine, Dain pulled up his legs and stood on the sill of the small window. Boosting himself, he scrambled up onto the roof and climbed rapidly, slipping and sliding on the tiles as he went.

Behind him, he heard a frustrated grunt. Mierre’s voice called out, “He went through the window. I can’t fit.”

“I’ll go!” said Kaltienne.

“Get after him then,” Mierre said. “And if the pagan can fly, see that you do it too. I’ve no head for heights. I’m going down.”

“Coward,” Kaltienne taunted him.

“Listen! He’s going over the roof. Hear that?”

“How can I not?”

“Hurry!” Mierre ordered in exasperation. “I’ll go down to see which way he goes.”

By now Dain had reached the iron spire atop the ridgepole of the stables. He crouched there, shivering in the cold wind, and found himself nearly as high as some of the towers. One of the sentries on the wall saw him, gave a shout, and pointed.

Cursing him, Dain slithered down the other side of the roof, crouching low on his haunches and skidding along on his heels. By the time he reached the edge, he was going much too fast to stop. Dain’s heart jumped into his mouth, but if he lost his nerve now he would surely fall.

Yelling, he stood up at the last moment and leaped with all his might across the gap between the stables and the next building. He landed on the other roof, lost his balance, fell flat, and began to slide down.

But this building had a ledge of sorts to channel water along the edge of the roof. Dain’s toes struck it, and he stopped sliding. He lay there a moment, his sweating face pressed against the slate, and waited for his heart to stop thudding so violently.

Shouts from below sent him scrambling up and over the ridgepole of this building. On the other side, he found a drainpipe and climbed down it as far as he could, then jumped lightly the rest of the way to the ground.  He listened a moment, gauging from which way his pursuers were coming, and ran swiftly in the other direction.

A shout from one of the sentries made him glance over his shoulder. He saw the knight gesturing from his vantage point on the battlements. Dain snarled to himself. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Time to go to ground, and get himself out of their sight.

He dodged around the rear of the storehouse, considered the cellars rowed up behind it, and rejected them as dead ends. The boys were still coming. Dain ran on and stopped worrying about who else might see him. He careened past the simple goosegirl feeding her charges with grain from her apron. Clad in her usual rags, with only a scarlet kerchief tied around her throat for finery, she watched him run by with her mouth open in a large O.  A wall rose up before him. It was the base of one of the towers. Behind him, the boys shouted jubilantly. Dain’s determination grew. He ran straight toward the wall and bounded up the kegs stacked there as lightly and surefootedly as a young stag.

Teetering on the very top keg as it shifted and swayed beneath his weight, Dain jumped for the window overhead. His outstretched fingers grazed the bottom sill and missed. The keg wobbled under his feet, and Dain felt the whole stack going.  He jumped again, kicking the keg out from under him, and this time his fingers grabbed the sill.

He held on grimly, his fingers aching from the strain. Clawing desperately with his other hand, he managed to pull himself up.

Belly-first, he slid headlong through the window and tumbled onto the spiraled staircase inside. It was a painful landing, and he lay there a moment, gasping for breath. The stone steps felt cold beneath his cheek. The stairwell was gloomy and filled with shadows, its only light coming in through the window.  From outside, he heard Mierre swearing. Dain grinned to himself and sat up shakily. They would be coming in through the door in moments. Pulling himself to his feet, he went upstairs, winding around and around until he came to a closed door.

Grasping the ring, Dain tugged hard, but the door did not open. It seemed his luck had run out. He was hemmed in, with nowhere to go except down, straight into the arms of his pursuers. Gritting his teeth, Dain tugged again on the ring, using both hands and straining until the gristle in his shoulders popped.  The door did not budge. From below, he heard them coming.  Dain bared his teeth, breathing hard and trying to think. But he was trapped, with nowhere to go.

He kicked the door in fury and jiggled the ring again, his desperation rising.  There came a click, and Dain paused for a second. He stared at the ring in his hand and slowly twisted it.

The catch clicked, and the door swung open.

Dain eeled through the narrow opening and pulled the door shut behind him. The room beyond was poorly lit, but Dain spared it no glance. Instead, he patted the door, seeking some means of barring it.

“Slide that bolt across, and it will hold firm,” said a deep, heavily accented voice behind him.

Dain jumped, his heart nearly bounding from his throat. He whirled around and saw a tall figure in a long, dark robe standing no more than two strides away from him. Dain stared, unsure if this was friend or foe, but then he heard the boys’ voices.

Gasping, he slid the bolt into place, locking the door just as their fists thudded against it. They shouted on the other side, but for now Dain was safe from them.

Breathing hard, he leaned his back against the door and ventured a cautious smile at the man watching him.