“But—”

“I’ve heard the servants and knights talk about this garden. No one is allowed in here. No one. The chevard’s son died here. Mayhap his ghost walks these paths.”

Dain, peering cautiously around the edge of the wall, saw Kaltienne turn pale and swallow.

“Ghosts, you think?”

“I know not. But I know the chevard’s wrath. If he lives I want none of his temper turned against me. You’ve had one of Sir Roye’s floggings. Do you want another?”

“Nay,” Kaltienne said with feeling.

“Nor I. If the eld is hiding in here, he can’t get out. We’ll block this gate and tell his highness—” “Quick!” Kaltienne said, clutching Mierre’s arm. “Someone’s coming. If it’s Sir Roye, we’re—” Mierre shut the gate, and Dain heard the sound of something being dragged across it.

Soon thereafter came Sir Roye’s gruff voice. “You boys! What are you doing there!”

“Nothing, Sir Roye.” Kaltienne’s voice sounded innocent.

“You can’t go in that garden. Get away from there.”

“We meant no harm,” Mierre said. “We were just exploring—” “Did you see that damned eld come this way?‘ “No, Sir Roye,” Kaltienne lied without hesitation.

Dain frowned at such smooth duplicity. It was the experienced liars who never hesitated.

“Morde a day, that fool physician had him and let him go,” Sir Roye grumbled.  “Did you really see the eld, Sir Roye?” Mierre asked innocently. “I heard the knights want to keep him chained in the guardhouse.” Sir Roye growled something Dain could not distinguish. “Get out of here, both of you. You’re sure you saw no sign of him?”

“Not a hair of his head,” Mierre answered. “But we’ll gladly join the hunt.” “Then go along and tell Sir Bosquecel he got away. I’m searching Sulein’s tower again in case he doubled back.”

Their voices faded away.

Fearing trickery, or the return of Sir Roye, Dain let out his breath with a sense of wary relief. He waited until the shadows grew long and cold within the little garden. The music faded in the distance, and with it the sounds of revelry. Only then, shivering, did Dain venture forth into the open. He hurried across the garden and pushed on the gate, but it did not budge. The boys had secured it well, no doubt pulling the cart across it.

Muttering to himself, Dain wondered how long it would be before the prince came to get him. The idea of being Gavril’s prey both frightened and infuriated him.  Now that he had time to think, Dain realized it might have been better if he’d stayed in Sir Roye’s clutches. He’d probably have been beaten and flung out of the hold on his ear, but at least he’d have been safely away from this place.  Instead, he’d let the sorcerel panic him and scatter his wits. He’d been so desperate to get away, he’d acted without thinking. Now he was boxed in here, desperate with thirst and cold and hungrier than ever.  He prowled about for some time, hugging himself against the frost-nipped air.

There were doors at either end of the loggia, but both were securely locked.  Cobwebs were spun over one, showing him it had not been opened in years. The other’s lock was rusted and leaves had drifted up against its base. He could find no other exit.

The fountain had apparently been dry for years—not even a drop of rainwater did it hold to quench his thirst. He searched in the gathering darkness beneath the fruit tree, but found only pits lying on the ground, the fruit long since decayed.

For whatever reason, Prince Gavril did not hasten here to claim his prey.  Perhaps he was waiting until the dead of night. Perhaps he, too, feared the ghosts that walked here and was waiting until dawn. Perhaps the prince was playing with him, hoping to make him afraid. Dain kicked the ground and wished the demons from the second world’s perdition would come forth and strike the prince for his cruelty.

In time, frustrated and miserable, Dain retreated to the dubious shelter of the loggia and watched the windows high above one side of the garden. No lights came on, ever, and he realized that this wing of the hold must be as deserted as the garden itself.

Moonlight rose eventually, shining on the pathways and illuminating the silent fountain. Dain huddled on the cold flagstones of the loggia, too cold to sleep, and watched for ghosts to appear. But none walked here through the long, wretched night.

He stared across the garden, studying the tracery of the tree branches beneath the windows, and realized that his only hope was to climb up and try to break through one of the shutters. He wasn’t sure the branches would support his weight that high, but it was the only thing left to try, short of waiting here until he was dragged out by his tormentors.

Blowing on his cold hands and flexing them to ease their stiffness, Dain gathered his courage and determination, and began to climb.

In the night, the sound of the gate creaking open awakened Dain. Jerking upright, he scrunched himself deeper into the shadows beneath the fruit tree.  The movement sent a stab of pain through his shoulder, which had stiffened since he fell out of the tree on it. Grimacing, he held back a whimper and concentrated on staying still.

The gate creaked again, and he heard the soft but unmistakable sound of wood scraping over flagstones.

They were coming for him at last.

Dain tried to stay calm, but his heart started pounding. His last hope had been to climb out of this trap, but after he fell he hurt too much to try again.  Now, as he listened to the stealthy creaking of the gate and quiet footsteps, he gathered a broken wedge of edging stone he’d found lying in the neglected flower bed and waited for a chance to attack. Depending on how many were coming for him, he might yet find a way to get past them.

The scent of food—roasted meat and cold toties—nearly undid the last of his strength. Dain’s mouth watered, and for a few moments his hunger consumed him, raging uncontrolled as though it would drive him forward to surrender, to do anything in exchange for nourishment.

“Hello,” called a voice, so soft it was barely above a whisper. “I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend.”

Dain did not recognize the voice, and he frowned in the darkness. He had no friends here.

“Don’t be afraid,” the voice said, low and reassuring. “I’m coming in, but I won’t hurt you. 1 have some food. I thought you might be hungry.” Dain closed his eyes for a moment as weakness passed through him and made his body tremble. He was so hungry, so terribly cold and tired. Steeling himself, he dragged open his eyes and bared his teeth in a silent snarl, curling his fingers tighter around the piece of stone. He had his dagger as well, but he would not draw it unless forced to.

The gate creaked again, louder this time, and then Dain heard it snap shut. His brain woke up and began to think more clearly. He realized that had Prince Gavril come to torment him, he would have kicked the gate open and entered boldly. No, this unseen visitor was trying to be quiet, and he seemed to be alone.

Dain sat up straighter, gathering his legs beneath him. If the gate remained unlocked and he had only one individual to overcome, then perhaps he stood a chance of escape.

Watching closely, he saw a shadow move quietly along the garden path. The moon had waned, making it much harder to see, even with Dain’s excellent night vision.

His visitor stopped near the fountain. “I will put the food here. Take it when you wish,” the voice said. “But there is little time before dawn. The hold will start to stir within the hour. I do not know when the prince will rise, but you should not be here when he comes for you.”

Dain said nothing, listening hard, his thoughts spinning inside his head.  “I know you are awake and hear what I say,” the voice continued in that same quiet, unhurried, reassuring way. “I am Thum du Maltie, and I bear you no ill will.”

Dain matched that name to the freckled, serious face of the boy with red hair.  Thum who had tried to stop Prince Gavril from whipping Dain in the marsh. Thum had also refused to drink wine with the prince last night. This was no friend of Prince Gavril’s. No trickster.

Warily Dain rose to his feet and peered through the gloom at his visitor. “Why?” he asked, his voice hoarse with cold and thirst.

“They are cruel, the other fosters,” Thum said. “They keep you here like a caged animal, with no one to stop them. I thought about telling Sir Bosquecel, but I was not raised to be a tongue-tattle.”

Dain swallowed. “You brought food?”

“Are you hungry? You must be, after being shut in all night.” Dain rested his hand on the rough bark of the tree, wondering if he was dreaming this. “You are not my friend, Thum du Maltie,” he said. “You know me not. Why do you help me?”

“Does it matter?” Thum asked.

Dain sensed no lies in him as yet, but neither had he spoken the complete truth.

“Why? Why help me?”

“The knights are still talking about you. How you came from nowhere to help them with the battle. They said if not for you, Nocine the huntsman would be dead now. They said you saved Lord Odfrey’s life.”

“Is the lord dying?”

“I don’t know,” Thum said. “The steward looks very grave. He tells us nothing.  Sir Roye barely leaves his lordship’s side. He has great fever, and Master Sulein fears for his life because of that.”

Dain thought of the sorcerel who had nearly caught him yesterday. He did not like the idea of that creature, who dabbled in magical realms best left undisturbed, treating Lord Odfrey. Who was guarding the chevard from being possessed by the darkness? Who was protecting his soul from theft?  “We wouldn’t have feasted Aelintide at all if the prince hadn’t insisted,” Thum continued. “I—I guess such celebrations mean nothing to you, but I think it’s wrong—disrespectful—to be making merry while the lord of this hold lies so ill.  But Prince Gavril said the harvest feast should be made, in order to show our gratitude to Thod for such generosity. No one but Lord Odfrey dares deny his highness anything. With the chevard so ill, his highness is doing everything he pleases. No one says him nay. No one! It isn’t right. Especially with Lord Odfrey so—” He broke off, worry strong in his voice.

Dain bowed his head with regret. Although he hated to hear that the chevard was dying, he closed off the liking he’d begun to feel for the man. He’d lost too much already. He wanted no more grieving.

“Get away from the food,” he said harshly.

“What?”

“Back away.”

“Oh.” Thum retreated from the fountain, his shadowy figure a little more visible than before.

Dain glanced at the sky, which had lightened to a dark gray. In the distance, birds chirped sleepily. Time was running out.

As soon as Thum was halfway between the fountain and the gate, Dain dashed forward and snatched up the small bundle lying on the edge of the fountain.  Holding it against his chest, he ran past Thum, heading for the gate and freedom.

Thum crashed into him from behind, gripping the back of Dain’s tattered tunic.  Dain tried to wrench free, but he would not let go. There came the sound of cloth ripping, and Thum flung an arm across Dain’s injured shoulder.  Gasping aloud, Dain staggered and sank to his knees, driven down by the pain.

Thum gripped his arms. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Dain concentrated on breathing through the agony, and didn’t answer.

“I did not mean to hurt you,” Thum said. “Really, I’m sorry.”

Snarling, Dain pushed him away. Thum overbalanced and landed on his backside.  Dain expected him to lose his temper and come back fighting, but Thum sat where he was.

“You don’t have to run,” he said. “I’m going to let you out. In fact, I thought I’d help you get out of the hold if that’s what you want. But if you run away, I can’t help.”

Dain didn’t answer. He tore open the wrappings and crammed a chunk of cold meat into his mouth, gulping it down in desperation, barely bothering to chew. The totie was cold and shriveled. Dain cared not. He ate it, coarse, gritty skin and all.

In seconds the food was gone, and some of the terrible ache in the pit of his stomach eased slightly. He thirsted more than ever now, and turned on Thum.  “Do you have more?”

“I—no,” Thum said apologetically. “I didn’t realize you were so—I should have brought more.”

“Must get out of here,” Dain muttered to himself. He was still kneeling on the ground, and felt too tired to move. But with dawn coming, there wasn’t much time. He looked behind him and listened to his inner senses.  “It’s a risk for me, but I’m determined to help you. Anything to defy his highness,” Thum said. Resentment throbbed in his low voice. “He rises early, so we must hurry. If you aren’t hurt, we’d better go.”

Dain pushed himself to his feet, holding his elbow tight to his side to keep from moving his aching shoulder.

Thum stumbled along the path, heading for the gate. “I have to put the cart back across the gate once we’re out. Will you help me?”

Dain didn’t answer.

Thum stopped and turned to face him. “Look, if the prince finds out I helped you, I’ll be in serious trouble.”

Dain told himself not to be a fool. He sensed no lies in this boy, and he could tell that Thum’s nerve was beginning to waver. “I will help,” Dain promised.  “Aelintide is over, you see,” Thum said in relief, hurrying forward. “The villagers will be coming today to conduct business as usual, so the main gates will open after sunrise. If you hide somewhere close to the gates, you can get out during the general coming and going of the throng.” “I can do that,” Dain said, liking the plan. It was simple, and simple plans worked best. He slipped outside through the gate behind Thum with the feeling of having escaped a cage.

Thum shut the gate as quietly as he could, then tapped Dain’s sleeve, making him jump in the darkness. “You push when I say,” Thum whispered.  Dain stood behind the cart and pushed it while Thum picked up the traces and steered. It wasn’t far out of position; Dain figured Thum had been able to budge it only so far by himself. Together they moved it back across the gate.  Thum dusted off his hands. “Let Thod keep the prince from ever knowing it was me,” he said under his breath.

Dain wondered why he was so nervous. “Can the prince beat you too?” he asked.

Thum uttered a sour little laugh. “Worse than that.”

“He can kill you? But would your family not avenge you?” “It’s not like that,” Thum explained. “My father sent me here, hoping I’d become a companion, maybe a favorite, of the prince. I’m the youngest son. I have to make my own way in life since I can’t inherit land. The prince could give me a start, but I haven’t pleased him. We don’t get along at all, and I—I—” He broke off, his voice a tangle of anger, unhappiness, and restraint. “I don’t like him.”

“I hate him.”

Thum uttered a breathless little chuckle. “Morde, but it’s good to hear someone say that. Treason though it is, I hate him too.”

Suddenly friends, they grinned at each other in the shadows. Dain reached out and gripped Thum’s hand. “My thanks, Mandrian. I will repay my debt to you.” “You owe me no debt,” Thum replied fiercely. “I have done what is right. No reward should come for that.”

Elsewhere in the hold, a cock crowed. Dain heard distant sounds of life. The hold was coming awake. He must hide himself again, and quickly. But as he turned away, Thum came after him and gripped his arm briefly.  “My mother says it’s good luck to help the eldin,” Thum whispered shyly, as though half-ashamed to say it. “We’re up-landers, and the old ways are still known to us, even if we now follow Writ. You are nothing evil, and should not be treated so.” Dain understood what he was really asking. “If ever there is luck in my life to bestow, I will share it with you,” he said.

Thum stepped back. “How close to the gates can you get? They should open just after morning mass and—” “I know all the hiding places by now,” Dain said, interrupting his advice.  “Then may your path be sure,” Thum said. Dain hurried away from him, melting into the shadows between the next building and the wall. Around him, objects and outlines were becoming distinct shapes. The air lay still and cold, and his breath fogged white about his face.

Hurrying, he circled the courtyard, staying well against its perimeter where shadows remained dark. No sentry saw him and called out. No yawning serf stumbled across his path. He slipped past the stables, and paused to break the thin layer of ice on the watering trough. His reflection was a pale, unfocused shape glimmering in the water’s surface. Dain drank long and deep of the ice-cold water. It hurt his teeth but cleared his head. From inside the stables, he could now hear the horses nickering and shuffling in their stalls. Muffled, sleepy voices spoke. A sudden light glowed from a window. Ducking low, Dain flitted onward.

With much trepidation, he ventured into risky territory—the outermost keep, where villagers were allowed in for daily business, bread loaves were sold, and tribute was brought for display. The barracks windows shone with light. From within the guardhouse came the aromas of boiled pork and heated cider.  The sentries stamped their cold feet on the battlements like men counting the minutes until they were relieved.

Dain took cover behind a stack of crates and settled himself there to wait until the gates opened. A cock crowed loudly, and the smell of wood smoke filled the air. Dain swallowed and buried his face against his crossed forearms, trying not to think about his stomach. Thum’s gift of meat and totie had been well intentioned, but of small proportion. Listening to his stomach growl, Dain doubted he would ever eat his fill again.

Perhaps he slept, huddled in that cramped space between the crates and the wall, for it was with a start that he suddenly opened his eyes and found sunlight shining across the keep. The gates stood wide open, and guards watched the flow and ebb of excited villagers coming in to haggle over bread or to inquire about Lord Odfrey’s health.

“Did he lose his eye, poor man?” a fat woman with a kerchief tied about her head was asking loudly.

“We prayed mass for him yesterday,” another woman, lean and toothless, chimed in.

Others swarmed about, babbling questions and repeating gossip.  Rubbing his face, Dain rose cautiously to his feet and worked out the kinks from his stiff muscles. He blew on his fingers to warm them, then sauntered out from behind the crates and melted into a small crowd of serfs haggling with each other over a brace of squawking chickens held upside down by their feet. Nearby, a scrawny child with a dirt-smeared face held the end of a rope tied around a young shoat. The child’s eyes widened at the sight of Dain.  Swiftly he ducked away into the general mill and press of people, his heart pounding fast, his mouth dry with fear. Anyone could look at him and sound the alarm. Steadily, refusing to let himself run, he kept pushing his way through the busy crowd, aiming toward the gate.

Ahead, he saw a wide gap between the crowd and the gates themselves. Alert sentries stood there, armed with swords and pikes.

Hesitating, knowing he could never walk alone between those sentries without being noticed, Dain lost his nerve.

Wheeling aside, he eased into the wake of another group of villagers, then broke off and ducked behind the guardhouse. It had no windows at the rear, and there was a narrow space between it and the wall. Above him, the walkway for the battlements jutted across the space like a roof. The sentries up there couldn’t see him.

He halted there, his palm pressed against the rough bricks, and tried to regain his courage.

This was a foul place. The stench told him lazy men used this area at night for their latrine instead of crossing the keep. Dain drew a deep breath, and eased his way forward. When the curved wall of the guardhouse took him out from beneath the walkway overhead, he paused a moment and frowned over the logistics of his problem.

Ahead of him stretched another open space to the smithy, then from there, the area in front of the gates remained clear. While he watched, a stooped man and a slim girl entered, both carrying laden baskets on their hips. They paused inside the gates, and the sentries nudged them on.

Dain drew in his breath with a hiss, realizing the only way he could walk out was if he went disguised.

He scowled, refusing to panic. He could do this, provided he used the crowd sensibly and didn’t lose his courage.

Ahead of him, the smithy was opened for business, its large shutters thrown wide. Its fire roared in the circular hearth, blazing orange and hot. Dain heard the smith start working at his craft. The hammer made a steady plink, plink, plink noise. Listening to that familiar rhythm, Dain caught a whiff of heated metal. A wave of homesickness washed over him. He missed Jorb with a stab of grief so intense he leaned his head against the bricks and closed his eyes.  Why had he ever come to this foreign place, where he’d forced himself to live like a thief, skulking fearfully and risking his life? He belonged in the Dark Forest. It was time to go home, not wander the world.  But there was no home to return to. The Bnen had burned the forge, where Dain could have tried to continue the work Jorb had taught him. They had burned the burrow. All of it, everything he knew and loved, was gone. It would always be gone, even if he did try to return.

Bowing his head, Dain let his emotions wash over him. Perhaps it was only that he was so tired, so hungry, so cold. He couldn’t reason anymore. He needed rest and a place of safety. That’s why he kept wanting to go home. He realized it was going to take him a long time to remember that home was forever lost to him.  Home was to be found in the hearts of loved ones, and his would never again stretch out their hands in gladness to see him, would never again call his name with laughter in their greeting, would never again stand steadfast at his side, their affection a warmth that fed his spirit and gave him comfort.  The loop of a rope settled around his shoulders without warning. A quick yank tightened it about his upper arms, and Dain was pulled off his feet before he knew what was happening.

He landed hard on his side, grunting at the impact. Instinctively he twisted around, trying to regain his feet, but before he could get up, someone jumped on top of him, pinning his legs while he jerked and struggled to free his arms.  A second loop of the rope went around him. Another hard yank nearly crushed the breath from his lungs. His sore shoulder protested with a stab of pain that left him helpless while he was swiftly trussed.

Fearing that he’d been caught by the prince’s minions, Dain kept on struggling.  “Be still,” said a harsh voice, “and do not put your eye on me. I’m protected from your pagan spells.”

Dain recognized Sir Roye’s voice. Surprised, he stopped struggling and Sir Roye finished tying him. With a grunt, the knight stood up, taking his bony knee from the small of Dain’s back.

At once, Dain startled struggling again. Desperate and frightened, he knew not what would befall him now, but a glimpse up at Sir Roye’s hostile face boded no good for him.

Despite his efforts, Dain realized, he had no chance to pull free. Scrambling to his knees, he paused, his breath rasping loud in his throat.  “Morde a day, but you’re a sight of trouble. As sly as a cat, slinking here and there. Why didn’t you stay in the garden, where I could have caught you quicker?”

Dain squinted up at Sir Roye, silhouetted against the sunshine. He didn’t think the knight really wanted an answer. “And now you’re going to give me to Prince Gavril? You’ll enjoy seeing him whip me. Or do you intend to kill me on his order?”

The knight punched him in the stomach, and Dain doubled over with an agonized whoop.

Sir Roye took a step closer. “That’ll teach you to keep a respectful tongue in your pagan head. I am ‘Sir Roye’ to you, or simply ‘sir’. You call me that, and you watch your tone.”

Toppling over, Dain retched up his breakfast and managed to roll himself over away from it. Telling himself there was surely worse to come, he scowled and tried to ignore the burning discomfort in his belly.

“I’ve done no wrong here,” he managed to say. “I am no enemy—” “You’re a damned pagan thief and Thod knows what else. Eating from the winter stores is a crime that merits twelve lashes alone.”

Dain stiffened, remembering Prince Gavril’s whip all too well. “It’s no crime to feed myself.”

“And who gave you leave, eh? You answer me that.” Dain glared fiercely up at Sir Roye. “I saved Nocine’s life. I led the lord to the raiders. I helped in the battle. If I have eaten a few apples as my reward, is that so wrong?”

“If you’re hungry, you go to the kitchens and beg along with the other mendicants. You don’t steal, unless you want a whipping or your hands cut off.” Dain blinked in fresh horror. “What is man-law, that it should be so harsh?” “Nothing harsh about it. The beggared have only got to ask for charity. By the holy law of Writ, such have to be fed. But thieves endanger everyone. We have to keep enough in stores to feed every mouth in this place through winter.” “I thought... Would a pagan beggar be fed? Or would I be beaten for asking?”

Dain asked. “Does the Writ of your belief apply to folk like me?” The knight squinted at him and said nothing. Pursing his lips, he looked away, then pulled a servant’s cap from his pocket and bent down to cram it onto Dain’s head. It fitted close to his skull, with two long flaps that came down over his ears. “You’re too much trouble,” he grumbled. “If it were up to me, you’d be drowned and well out of our way.”

He pulled Dain to his feet, and said, “But it ain’t up to me. Back you come.” “He will kill me,” Dain said, planting his feet and refusing to budge. “Let me go, Sir Roye. Do not take me to death.”

“What is this babble?” Sir Roye asked in exasperation. “I’m not killing you, yet.”

“The prince will.”

“His highness has naught to say about this matter,” Sir Roye announced. “Now move your feet. I’ve wasted too much time already tracking you for his lordship.”

Dain grinned at him with sudden hope. “Lord Odfrey sent for me?” Sir Roye’s yellow eyes glittered resentfully. “Not like you think, you heathen knave. But he’s been calling for his boy—Thod rest the poor lad’s soul—and that Sulein thinks you’ll do as well for him in his fever.”

Down sank Dain’s spirits. “So he really is dying. I don’t want to see him.” Sir Roye whacked the side of his head. “Hold your tongue. No one asked you what you want. Now move!”

He pushed Dain forward, and Dain went, stumbling every time Sir Roye pushed him.  Although Dain half-expected Sir Roye to parade him along in front of everyone, the knight kept away from the crowds and out of sight of the sentries. Together they skulked along, seeking to pass unnoticed, and soon Sir Roye was pushing Dain up a series of steps that led to the battlements. They strode along the walkway, with Dain catching wide-eyed glimpses of the world of field and marsh stretching far beyond the hold’s walls.

Before they came to the first sentry, Sir Roye shook Dain hard. “Keep your eyes down. Don’t let them see who you are.”

Dain bowed his head, staggering along as Sir Roye kept shoving him. When they came to the sentry, the man saluted Sir Roye and stepped aside.  It was the same with the next sentry, and the next. Soon thereafter, they passed through a door into a tower, then walked along corridors and passageways, up stairs and down, winding here and there until Dain was greatly confused and had little idea of where he might be inside this maze of stone.  Finally Sir Roye shoved Dain into a long, narrow chamber fitted with drains in the floor and stone channels. A fire burned there, and at one end stood a wooden tub as tall as Dain’s shoulder, with steps mounting it.  Sir Roye whipped the cap off Dain’s head and untied him. Dain tried to shake some circulation back into his arms, but as he turned around, Sir Roye gripped him with both hands and pulled his ragged tunic over his head before Dain could stop him.

Wincing at the pain in his shoulder, Dain sucked in his breath and tried not to yell.

Despite the fire, the room was cold. Shivering, Dain tried to grab his tunic from Sir Roye’s hand, but the knight held it out of his reach.  “Get in the tub,” he ordered.

“Why?”

Sir Roye glared at him. “Because you stink worse than the dogs. Because I won’t take no filthy, gint-eyed knave to my lord with him lying there fevered out of his poor wits. You wash, and make it quick.”

Although he longed to be clean, the idea of a cold bath did not appeal to Dain.  He tilted his head at Sir Roye and could not resist saying, “But have you not heard that we eldin melt when we get wet? We are supposed to be but watery elements, formed into a cloud of appearance, and that is why we—” Sir Roye smacked his head, knocking him backward. “Get in the tub, and cease that heathen chatter of yours.”

To Dain’s surprise, the water was tepid, not icy cold as he’d expected. He enjoyed splashing about, sluicing off the dirt and filth he’d accumulated in recent days. A servant came with a bucket and emptied some heated water into the tub. Dain laughed at such luxury, and even ducked his head under the water, then surged up, shaking himself like a dog.

Sir Roye climbed the steps and prodded him with a wooden pole. “Out,” he commanded.

Dain obeyed, dripping and shivering. A servant wrapped him in cloth and shoved him over to stand before the fire. While Dain dried himself, Sir Roye glared at him thoughtfully.

“What happened to your side?”

Dain glanced down at the bruised and discolored web of skin between his lower ribs and his hipbone. “Oh, the lord’s horse bit me the day we fought the dwarves.”

Sir Roye grunted to himself and grasped Dain firmly while he prodded the wound.  Dain sucked in air between his teeth and fought the urge to shove Sir Roye away, knowing it would only get him struck again.

“Hurt?” Sir Roye asked.

“No,” Dain lied, glaring at him.

“Could make a fearsome scar,” Sir Roye said. He touched the bruises on Dain’s shoulder. “And here?”

“I fell out of a tree last night, trying to escape—I mean, while I was climbing over the garden wall,” Dain amended hastily. “I fell off the wall.” “A worse lie has never been spoken,” Sir Roye said, but he released Dain and gestured for the servant to hand him clean clothes.

They were very fine, these garments, as fine as Dain had seen Thum, Mierre, and Kaltienne wearing—not as fine as the prince’s clothes, but soft and well made.  Dain fingered them, awed by such generosity.

“Don’t just stand there gawking,” Sir Roye said gruffly, scowling at Dain. “Get them on.”

“But they are the clothes of a lord,” Dain said in protest. “They are too good.” “Aye, they are,” Sir Roye snapped. His face turned red, and he scowled more fiercely than ever. “They belonged to Lord Odfrey’s son. You’re his size, close enough. He had dark hair too. Now get dressed. And when you’re through giving his lordship comfort, you can have your own filthy rags back again.” Dain blinked, understanding with a bump of reality that this clothing was not a gift to be kept. His mouth twisted wryly and he tugged on the leggings, keeping his head down to hide his expression. His pendant of bard crystal swung and thumped into his bare chest as he straightened and reached for the doublet to pull it on. The servant handed him a linen shirt instead. “What do you wear?” Sir Roye asked. “A pagan amulet?”

“Yes,” Dain said, his voice muffled as he swiftly pulled the shirt over his head. He yanked the garment down before Sir Roye could reach out and touch the pendant. It was not for the likes of the knight to touch. Now the doublet went on. It fit well enough, except for being a little narrow in the chest and too short in the arms. Pushing back his wet hair from his face and letting it drip down the back of his collar, Dain looked at the knight and shrugged. “Well?” he asked.

Sir Roye frowned at him, and some emotion—sadness perhaps—touched his yellow eyes. “Aye,” he said softly. “I see the resemblance now. Damne.” “I look like the lord’s son?” Dain asked. “The one who died?”

“Morde a day!” Sir Roye said in startlement. “Who told you about that?” “Do I?” Dain asked. For a moment he entertained the wild hope that perhaps Lord Odfrey was his missing father, the man who’d given him and Thia into Jorb’s keeping, then never returned for them. But as fast as the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it, knowing it could not be so. “What was the boy’s name?” he asked.

“Hilard,” Sir Roye replied, lost in memory. “A gentle boy, scholarly. Rather read than ply a sword. But a good horseman. Dependable. His lordship was always short with the lad. Impatient with his faults. Wanted him to be a fighter.  Wasn’t until the stranguli took him that the chevard learned how much he loved that boy.”

“When did he die?” Dain asked quietly, hearing old grief echoing in Sir Roye’s gruff voice.

Sir Roye scowled at him. “Five years past. He was about your age and size.

Dark-haired. Thin.”

“Does grieving last so long?” Dain asked, staring at the man in dismay. “Does the loss never go away, never stop hurting?” Whatever Sir Roye might have answered was interrupted by the door’s slamming open. The page who’d opened the door so forcefully jumped aside, and Prince Gavril strolled in, followed by his hulking, silent protector and a red-faced Mierre.

“See, your highness?” Mierre said, pointing furiously at Dain. “I told you someone let him out of the garden. He has not the power to fly—” A gesture from Prince Gavril silenced him abruptly. Gavril walked farther into the room, his dark blue eyes narrowed with anger, his mouth tight-lipped. The sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows sparked golden glints from his hair. He wore leggings of the softest doeskin and a long doublet of russet wool with the sleeves slashed to show his creamy linen. His bracelet of royalty gleamed golden on his wrist, and a jeweled dagger glittered at his belt.  “What are you about, Sir Roye?” he asked coldly. “Bathing a pagan while your lord and master lies dying?”

Sir Roye turned to face him like a grizzled old dog. “What I do is not accountable to you, highness.”

Prince Gavril blinked at such gruff defiance. For a moment he seemed unable to

find words. Then his frown deepened. “Harboring a pagan is against Writ. I

ordered his capture as soon as I learned he was sneaking about the hold. He is

my prisoner—”

“Did you catch him?” Sir Roye countered.

“I ordered his—”

“But you didn’t catch him, did you?” Sir Roye persisted.

Gavril was scowling now. “I need not sully my hand. My order is enough.” “Not in Thirst, it ain’t. The chevard rules here, your highness. You’re a foster, and your orders ain’t taken above his lordship’s.” Gavril turned bright red. His eyes flashed to Dain, who was listening to this with enjoyment, and he glared more fiercely than ever. “You have bewitched Sir Roye, and—” “I’m on the chevard’s business,” Sir Roye said, cutting across the prince’s accusations. “Step aside, your highness. I cannot be detained.” Gavril did not budge. “But what are you doing?” he asked. “Bathing him, giving him clothes above his station, feeding him? These are violations of—” “I got no time for preaching,” Sir Roye said. He walked forward, straight at Prince Gavril, who did not move aside. The weathered old knight glanced at Sir Los, who had his hand on the hilt of his sword. Calmly, Sir Roye stepped around the prince and gestured for Dain to follow him.

Dain obeyed warily, determined not to let Mierre or Sir Los seize him. As he stepped past the prince, Sir Los shifted his stance, but quick as thought Sir Roye stepped into his path, blocking him from Dain, who hurried out the door, his relief mingling with shame over his fear.

“Let’s not start something we don’t want,” Sir Roye said, his dark, craggy face inches from Sir Los’s. “You have your orders, Los, but so do I have mine.” “Sir Los!” Gavril cried out.

But the knight protector dropped his hand away from his sword hilt and stepped back.

“Sir Los!” Gavril said in fresh fury.

The large knight said nothing and did not look at his master. Sir Roye gave him a little nod and left the room, emerging into the corridor where Dain waited.  He tapped Dain’s shoulder, giving him a small push. “Walk on. You’ve caused me enough trouble for the day.”