“Then how—”

“Alexeika, I have warned you most strongly. Must I make a spell to take your gift away from you?”

She leaned back, astonished that he would threaten her. “You mean this?”

His gaze never wavered. “I do.”

“Did the others see him? Do they know? Do they understand now?” “They know you have powers, and that can someday endanger you,” he said with exasperation.

“No one here would expose me, no more than they would betray you,” she said, shrugging off his concern.

“Are you sure of that?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said lightly, but the worry in his face gave her pause. She frowned. “Do you think—” “I do not need to counsel you on who to trust,” he said. “This has been most unwise, most unwise indeed. Now, do I have your promise that you will not do such a thing again?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice of surrender.

He grunted and got stiffly to his feet. “Then I shall leave you for the night.  You cannot lead people with tricks, Alexeika. That is King Muncel’s way, and you know how false he is. Beware your own will. It should never be stronger than your prudence.”

She bowed her head under his rebuke. He walked away, grumbling in his beard as he went.

For a while she sat by the fire, until at last the coldness inside her melted away. When she noticed that someone was staring at her from a nearby tent, she threw dirt on the fire, smothering it, and went inside her own.  It was easy to distract herself for a few minutes, packing her possessions and those of her father’s that she wanted to keep. It would be a hard job in the morning, getting camp to break.

But when her packing was finished, she had nothing else to do except extinguish the small oil lamp and lie on her cot in the darkness.

Faldain’s face swam back into her thoughts. He had not looked like she expected.  She wondered when he would come and why Uzfan seemed to think he might never do so. Didn’t this young king know who he was and what his responsibilities were?  Didn’t he care? Surely he’d heard about Nether’s misfortunes. Was he trying to raise an army, and if so, from where? Would he enter Nether with an invading force? Would he sell Nether to another realm in exchange for fighting men, the way his uncle had done?

She frowned, fretting in the night, and in time grew angry with the boy she’d seen. If he didn’t come, then he was either a fool or a weakling. If he didn’t care about his own land and people, then he deserved no throne. In the meantime, she had to find a way to persuade the rebels to carry through the planned attack on Trebek. It was a small but important river town, controlling barge trade between the Nold border and Grov. She had to continue her father’s plans.  Somehow, even if everyone else turned coward and surrendered, she had to continue.

Deep in the night, Dain lunged upright from sleep with a gasp. He felt as though he were drowning in a deep, icy-cold lake. He could not breathe. Water filled his lungs and nostrils, holding him down. In his hand he gripped a sword that flashed with fire. A sorcerelle held him enchanted, drawing him forth from the water only to plunge him back in.

Shuddering, Dain rubbed his sweating face with both hands and pulled up his knees to rest his forehead on them. He realized now it had been only a dream. He was safe within the foster sleeping chamber in Thirst Hold, and he’d better take care to make no noise that might disturb the others.

After a time his pounding heart slowed and he began to breathe more normally. It was hot and airless in the chamber. His cot was closest to the window, but the Mandrian custom was to keep windows firmly shuttered at night. If he opened it now to fill his lungs with fresh air, the others might wake up.  Dain had no desire to take a beating from Mierre. As silently as shadow, he slipped from the room, passing Thum’s cot, where his friend snored, passing Kaltienne’s cot, and finally passing Mierre’s. The largest boy was a light sleeper, but Dain made no sound. He had learned early on how to smear goose grease on the hinges of the door so that it could be opened without a sound.  Safely in the corridor, he let out his breath in relief and, barefooted, went padding off outside. He crossed the walkway over to the battlements and leaned his bare shoulder against the cool stone crenellation, gazing outward across the patchwork of light and darkest shadows that marked the fields, meadows, and eventually forest belonging to this Thirst.

It would be morning soon. He sniffed the breeze, aware of an imperceptible lightening of the sky. Down at the corner of the wall, the sentry yawned and resumed his slow walk. The man had not yet noticed Dain, but once he did there would be no challenge. The sentries were used to Dain’s nocturnal ramblings.  Sometimes he slept on the walkways, or tried to. Usually a sentry roused him and sent him back inside.

No one understood how hard it was for him to sleep inside a building of stone.  Although he had lived at Thirst now for three-quarters of a year, he still wondered sometimes what men feared so much that they should build such a fortress of timber and stone to hide within. He found it overwhelming at times to be among so many people, with so many men-minds flicking past his own. He had learned to shut them out as much as possible, but at night it was harder.  Sometimes he dreamed their dreams, and that was difficult, if not repulsive.

Tonight’s dream, however, had been different. Frowning, Dain rubbed his chest.  He still felt unsettled by it, and he hadn’t understood it at all. It was almost as though he hadn’t dreamed it, but had instead been yanked by magical means into another world and time. If so, why? Who was that maiden on the lake with eyes like starlight, and what had she wanted him to do?  His fingers reached up to curl around his pendant of bard crystal, which wasn’t there.

Dain’s frown deepened. Angrily he lowered his hand. He kept forgetting he no longer wore it.

Thanks to Gavril and Mierre, who had tormented and teased him on his first day of training. During the break, Mierre and the prince closed in on Dain, and Mierre attacked first. While he and Dain were fighting, the leather cord had snapped, and the pendant went flying into the dirt. Gavril picked it up, exclaiming, “This is king’s glass! Where did you get it?” Pinned at that moment by Mierre, who was sitting on him and twisting his arm painfully behind him, Dain spat out a mouthful of dirt. “That’s mine.” “Oh, you stole it, no doubt.”

“Didn’t.”

“I say you did. No one wears king’s glass unless they are royalty.” Mierre twisted Dain’s arm harder. He grunted, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out, and flailed uselessly with his other hand.

“Mine,” he insisted.

“You cannot claim stolen property.”

Dain gathered all his strength and managed to break free of Mierre. Sending the larger boy toppling, Dain scrambled up, landed a dirty kick that made Mierre double up and howl, and launched himself at Gavril.

“It’s mine!” he shouted, tackling the prince and knocking him down.  Biting and scratching and gouging, the only way he knew how to fight, Dain swarmed Gavril furiously, determined to get his property back. It was all he had of his lost heritage, the only possession his unknown parents had given him.  Jorb had warned him and Thia never to lose their pendants, never to show them, never to give them into anyone’s keeping. And now, his worst enemy—this arrogant, pompous prince who had already thrown a royal fit at the idea of even being in the same hold with him, much less in training together—clutched his pendant and no doubt intended to keep it for himself.  “Give it back!” Dain shouted. He struck Gavril in the mouth, and pain shot through his knuckles as they split on the prince’s teeth. Blood spurted, and Gavril howled. “Give it back!” Dain shouted. Lunging for Gavril’s clenched fist, Dain rolled over and over with the prince.

Then they were surrounded by men, who pulled them bodily apart. Bleeding and streaked with dirt, his fine doublet torn, Gavril pointed at Dain with a shaking finger and gasped, too furious to speak.  Dain glared and lunged for him, only to be held back by the men.  “Now, now, what is all this?” demanded the master-at-arms, Sir Polquin. “This is not the way knights, nobles, and gentlemen conduct themselves on a field of honor.”

“He’s none of those,” Gavril said, his face beet-red with fury. “The dirty little—” “Now, now, your highness,” Sir Polquin broke in. “Dain does not yet know our customs. Let us not lose our temper.”

Gavril turned his blue-eyed rage on the master-at-arms. “I shall lose my temper if I desire! He’ll die for this! The ruffian attacked me without provocation.” “Liar!” Dain shouted back, struggling against the hands that held him fast. “He is a thief. That pendant is mine. He took it from me.”

Sir Polquin’s weather-roughened face turned slightly pale. He frowned and scratched his sun-bleached hair, but his green eyes held little mercy when he looked at Dain. “You must never strike his highness or call him a thief or a liar.”

“He is!” Dain insisted.

Sir Masen cuffed Dain on his ear. Pain flared through his head, distracting him momentarily. “Don’t talk back to the master-at-arms, boy.” Sir Polquin beckoned to Mierre, who had dusted off his doublet and now came forward. “And what say you about this? Were you fighting Dain as well?” “I was showing him how to wrestle, sir,” Mierre lied smoothly. “If we must have him with us, we don’t want him shaming us by not knowing how to grapple.” The men chuckled, and seemed to accept this lie. Mierre smiled, and his gaze flickered to Dain for one brief, malevolent moment.

Seething, hating them all, Dain set his jaw and glared at everyone. “The pendant is mine,” he said. “Prince or not, he cannot take it from me.”