Dain smiled. “I must ask Sir Bosquecel for permission—”

“Run, then!” Lander said eagerly. “Run and do it while I get my tunic and some food for the journey. It is a day and a half by cart to go and as long to come back. The mule is slow. You’ll come?”

“If I get Baldrush to take thirty dreits instead of forty, will you give me the difference?”

“You?” Lander asked in wonder. “What would a boy like you want with so much money?”

“I need it to buy a sword of my own.”

“Ah,” Lander said, nodding. “But ten gold dreits is too much wealth for a boy.

Whatever you save me off the asking price, half of it will I give you.”

Dain grinned. “Done!”

He spit on his palm and held out his hand. Lander spit on his palm and gripped Dain’s fingers in a bone-crushing clasp. They shook on the deal.  “Run and get what you need,” Lander said. “And ask the captain for permission. I will not take you against his orders.”

But as Dain hurried across the keep into the stableyard, he heard cheers rising from the practice field. Defiance unfurled inside him. He decided not to ask Sir Bosquecel’s permission. He wasn’t going to ask anyone. He’d tried doing things the Mandrian way, following their endless rules, and he’d ended up being punished anyway. Jorb had always warned Dain to beware men, for they turned and betrayed without warning. Today he’d seen it proven true, and in Lord Odfrey, whom he’d trusted above all others. Now that Lander had presented him with an opportunity too good to pass up, Dain intended to start looking after himself in the ways Jorb had taught him.

Hurrying inside the Hall, Dain ran upstairs, taking two steps at a time, and fetched his cloak, spare footgear, and the blanket off his bed. Rolling these into an untidy bundle, he hurried outside again, dashing past the steward, who stared openmouthed at him.

By the time Dain returned to the keep, Lander had hitched his mule to the cart and was holding the reins impatiently. He had crammed on a wide-brimmed straw hat to protect his bald head from the sun. Dain smelled the pouch of provisions in the back of the cart and hoped Lander had brought enough food.  Lander stared at him. “Where did you go? I thought the captain was at the joust, judging the contest.”

“No,” Dain said, keeping his lie simple. “Ready?”

Dain climbed onto the cart seat, and Lander yelled at the mule. They rolled out through the gates past the sentries, who didn’t challenge them. Lander and his mule cart were a familiar sight, coming and going frequently.  The sun was hot, beating down on Dain’s head without mercy. As the mule struck a steady trot, a slight breeze cooled Dain’s face. He smiled to himself, suddenly homesick for the cool gloominess of the Dark Forest, and did not look back at the hold behind him.

Away in the Dark Forest, Gavril placed his hand on the front of his saddle and leaned forward eagerly to peer at the cave entrance.  “Just there, yer highness,” Sir Vedrique was saying as he pointed. “Look at the top of the cave. See yon stone with the old runes carved in it? Bound to be one of them old shrines, no doubt of it.”

Gavril squinted, trying to see through the greenish gloom. The undergrowth and vines were so thick he could barely see the cave itself, much less any runes carved atop it, but at last he spied a mossy stone. His heart leaped inside his chest, and he felt breathless. This could be it. His quest might end today. His prayers would at last be answered.

He dismounted, feeling light-headed, and pushed his way through his milling pack of dogs. Giving them the command to lie down, Gavril wanted to laugh aloud. Just in time he reined back his emotions, preserving his dignity. He must not set too much hope in this old shrine. He had been disappointed before. For months he’d searched diligently, venturing as deep into the Dark Forest as he dared, wishing always that he could go farther. But today, for some unexplainable reason, he believed success was at hand. The Chalice was here. He could almost feel its holy power. His heart was thudding with anticipation.  When he started up the hillside, Sir Los called out in alarm and hurried after him.

The prince paid his protector no heed as he struggled through the briars and tangled vines. He crowded Sir Vedrique’s spurred heels. “Hurry, hurry,” he said breathlessly.

They crossed the bottom of a small, shallow ravine with a stream running through it. Partway up the slope was the cave’s entrance.

This place was hushed and tranquil, like an outdoor chapel. Even birdsong seemed muted and distant. Sunlight stabbed down intermittently through the dense canopy overhead, gilding leaves and moss in its soft golden light.  The closer they came, the slower Sir Vedrique walked.  Growling with impatience, Gavril tried to push past him, but the young knight flung his arm across Gavril’s chest to block his way.

“Nay, yer highness. Can’t take too much care with these old places. There’s power here still.”

“And maybe trolk,” muttered one of the other knights.  Gavril scowled and glanced back to see who had spoken. The four remaining knights of his party sat on their horses, huddled together as though they feared this old pagan place. Gavril swung his gaze away scornfully. There was nothing to fear. He pulled out his Circle and let it swing atop his linen doublet.  “What are trolk?” Sir Los asked.

Sir Vedrique paused to send him a snaggletoothed grin. “Old myths, protector.

Ain’t nothing to fear.”

“Hurry,” Gavril said. “We can talk later. I am not afraid.”

Sir Vedrique frowned. “Wait here, yer highness. Let Sir Los and me go first.” Resenting their caution, Gavril seethed. Impatiently he waited, tapping his fingers on his belt, while Sir Los and Sir Vedrique pushed ahead of him.  At the mouth of the cave, Sir Vedrique took his sword and hacked away much of the thicket growing across it. Then Sir Los drew his weapon and ventured inside.  He seemed to be in there forever, while Gavril stood fidgeting, agonized with jealousy. What if Sir Los found the Chalice first? How unfair for him to get the glory when it was Gavril who had prayed daily for the honor.  Realizing what he was thinking, Gavril felt ashamed of himself. Scowling, he turned his back on the cave and struggled to master his feelings.  “Your highness,” Sir Los called out.

Gavril spun around and saw the protector emerging. When Sir Los beckoned, Gavril hurried into the cave. It was darker inside than he’d expected, and it stunk with something old and sour. Wrinkling his nostrils, he lifted his hand to his face and tried to breathe through his mouth.

“What is this stink?” he asked. “Has some beast died in here?” “That’s trolk musk,” Sir Vedrique said quietly. “Real old. Maybe an old spell lingering on.”

“A spell!” Gavril said in horror, then caught himself and swallowed. “Of course.  This is a pagan shrine. But the magic cannot harm us if our faith is strong. Sir Los, we need light.”

The protector found an old stick lying on the ground just inside the cave. He pulled out his tinderbox and set it alight. In silence, he handed the makeshift torch to Gavril.

Holding it aloft, Gavril walked swiftly through the cave. It was quite small, barely tall enough for him to stand upright, and shallow. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and dead leaves had drifted in. As Gavril strode back and forth, his excitement faltered. Why, this old cave wasn’t any kind of shrine. It didn’t even have an altar, just a circle of scattered stones and some sticks wedged against the back wall.

Scowling, he knelt down to study a stone no bigger than his own head. With his fingertips he traced the carvings there, carvings he could not read and did not wish to. Behind the stone he saw a glint of something, and his excitement leaped high again.

He lifted his torch, and its ruddy flickering light spread over a small, nearly concealed pile of dusty artifacts.

Rusted and tarnished, the basin and ill-assorted collection of cups and vessels which he saw were nothing at all, nothing but junk. Maybe a long time ago, some dwarves had crawled in here and drunk themselves senseless. He tossed down the basin, making a clatter, and picked up a tall, flared vessel. A spider was crawling along its rim. Gavril flicked it away and tapped the cup. It sounded dull. He rubbed it, but its surface was so encrusted with tarnish and grime it couldn’t be cleaned.

Disgusted, Gavril flung it down with the rest, and rose to his feet.

“Any of that rubbish useful?” Sir Vedrique asked.

“No,” Gavril said. He thought of the Chalice, of how it was said to shine with a glorious power so strong it could fill a dark room with light. It certainly was not here in this filthy lair.

Glancing around one last time, he kicked some of the smaller stones with his toe, accidentally knocking them back into a complete circle. His lip curled with disdain. “This is nothing but a pagan hole, as foolish and empty as their beliefs. Let us go.”

Sir Los was standing just inside the entrance. He started to exit first, but Gavril angrily darted out ahead of him.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s be away from here. We’ve wasted enough time.” He started down the hillside, leaving the knights to pick their way more slowly after him. But just as he stepped across the tiny stream, a shout rang out, and dwarves rose up from the thickets, aiming drawn bows at them from all sides.  The dogs leaped to their feet, barking furiously. Fearful for their safety, Gavril shouted, “Stay!”

Sir Vedrique also shouted in alarm. One of the knights on horseback drew his sword, but a dwarf loosed a shot and the arrow hit the knight in his throat. He toppled off his horse, which bolted into the forest. The others bunched closer, their hands on their weapons, and swore loudly.

“Move not!” ordered a dwarf with a long brown beard. He looked like the youngest of the company. His eyes were keen and fierce. “Stand where you are.” Gavril halted on the edge of the stream, feeling his pulse thumping hard inside his collar. His mouth had gone dry. Suddenly his mind was filled with all the tales and legends of dwarves he’d heard in his life, tales of how fierce they were, how fearlessly they could fight, how brutally they sometimes tortured their prisoners. He thought of the huntsman Nocine, well now in body after being attacked by the Bnen dwarves last autumn, but not yet restored in mind or spirit. Refusing to be afraid, Gavril shook such thoughts away.  “You there,” he called out, ignoring Sir Los’s choked warning to be quiet, “put away your weapons. We mean you no harm. Why should you attack us?” The brown-bearded dwarf stared at Gavril, studying him a long while. The drawn bows did not lower. After several minutes the dwarf shifted his gaze to the other men. “Who is leader?”

The insult infuriated Gavril. He opened his mouth to declare himself, but at the last moment caution held his tongue. If they should guess who he was, they might decide to hold him for ransom. He now understood why Lord Odfrey was always warning him against going too deep into the forest. Gavril had never expected to be caught like this, on foot and unable to defend himself.  Sir Vedrique stepped forward, and a warning arrow skimmed in front of his face.  The young knight stopped short and lifted his sword ever so slightly. “Now don’t get fei; What clan are you, eh?”

“We are Clan Nega,” the brown-bearded dwarf said, “You are intruding on a sacred place, an old place.”

“There’s nothing here,” Gavril couldn’t help but say. He was still full of disappointment. And angry. He wanted only to gone from this shrine that had mysteriously promised so much and had then withheld what he most wanted.  “Nothing is here. Not even an altar.”

Several of the dwarves glared and some of them muttered angrily in their heathenish tongue.

“Take care,” Sir Vedrique murmured to Gavril, never taking his gaze off the dwarves. “We’ve made ’em mad enough ready.”

Gavril had no liking for the reprimand, but his own good sense told him this was no time to argue.

“Ain’t no offense intended here,” Sir Vedrique said. “A didn’t know this place was sacred. We’ve been hunting boar and thought we might have found a lair.” Some of the dwarves laughed. The scorn in their laugh made Gavril flush. He clenched his fists, annoyed with Vedrique. Why must the knight make them sound like fools?

“You hunt boar on foot?” the brown-bearded dwarf asked slow, incredulous smile spreading across his face. “You go in boar dens?”

Sir Vedrique shrugged. “Yon cave stinks so bad, we thought it had to be—” More laughter came from the dwarves. They chattered together in their barbarous language. Gavril fumed and threw Vedrique a glare. The knight raised his brows in return and shook his head quickly. Gavril clenched his jaw, keeping quiet with an effort.

“We didn’t know this was one of your sacred places,” Vedrique said. “We apologize if we have offended.”

“We apologize,” Sir Los said from behind Gavril.

Gavril’s scowl deepened. If this tale got back to Thirst Hold he would be a laughingstock. Hunting boars on foot indeed. He was far from being such a fool.  “Say it, yer highness,” Sir Vedrique whispered.

“Say what?” Gavril asked, but he knew.

“Ask them for pardon,” Sir Los murmured.

Gavril’s back stiffened. He opened his mouth to protest, but the brown-bearded dwarf looked at him sharply. Meeting that astute, suspicious gaze, Gavril swallowed his pride as a prince and a hunter. He said, “I beg your pardon for intruding here.”

The dwarf said something to his companions, and the drawn bows were relaxed.  “There is good hunting in Mandria,” the dwarf said sternly. “You stay off Nega lands. We want no trouble with men.”

Gavril opened his mouth to say he would hunt where he pleased, but Sir Vedrique spoke first: “Aye. We’ll not trespass again.”

“Then go,” the brown-bearded dwarf said. “And come not ever again to this place.”

Sir Vedrique gave Gavril a light nudge in the back with the tip of his sword.  Furious, his face on fire, Gavril strode over to his horse and climbed into his saddle. He would look at no one. In silence, Sir Vedrique and Sir Los mounted.  “Get that man,” Gavril said in a low, angry voice, pointing at the dead knight.  The body was lifted across the withers of one of the horses, since the dead man’s own mount had run off. The small party rode away at a nervous trot, the dwarves watching them go.

Gavril still burned with humiliation. As soon as they were safely out of earshot, and the cave and its guardians far behind them, he drew rein and glared at Sir Vedrique.

“How dare you make a fool of me,” he said. “You are dismissed from my service.” Annoyance crossed Sir Vedrique’s face. He hesitated a moment, then bowed. “As yer highness says.”

“It is bad enough that we were caught in such a position,” Gavril went on, glaring at all of them now. “How could the rest of you let them sneak up on us like that? Taking us like—” “We heard naught,” one of the knights said defensively.  “That’s hardly an excuse,” Gavril said. “It’s your duty to protect me. And what did you do instead? Sat there with your hands in the air and your mouths open.  I’m through with all of you.”

“Since you ain’t going hunting no more in Nold,” Sir Vedrique said coldly, “mayhap it’s just as well that we are dismissed. My rump’s getting galled from so much riding on this quest of yers.”

Gavril gritted his teeth. He wanted to lash out at all of them and tell them just how stupid and worthless they were. But Sir Los was frowning at him in warning. Gavril remembered that these men’s allegiance to him was of the lightest kind. They had sworn him no oath as they had to Lord Odfrey. Nor were these the best of Lord Odfrey’s men. Of the five ranks of knighthood, these were all at the bottom. The worst paid, they were chronically broke, gambling away what little they earned. If they could be bribed with ale and coinage, their characters were thin at best. Gavril realized suddenly that if he went too far in insulting them, there might be another unfortunate accident here in the forest. Sir Los would die to protect him, but Sir Los was outnumbered four to one.

Sir Vedrique’s hostile expression eased a bit when Gavril said nothing else.  Slumping in his saddle, the knight pointed at the dead man. “We’d better make ourselves a story.”

Gavril frowned. “Story? Why should we explain?”

Some of the men laughed.

Sir Vedrique, however, was not laughing. “If you think Sir Bosquecel will not be asking questions when we bring in a dead man, yer highness needs to think again.”

“Then you will explain it,” Gavril said. “I need not trouble myself.” “Here!” Sir Vedrique said sharply. “We’ve come out with you into this damned forest, where none of us are supposed to be. What will I say, that one of us shot him instead of a stag we were coursing? ‘We made a mistake, Sir Bosquecel.  Sorry, and we’ll take more care the next time’?”

“Mind your tone,” Sir Los growled, but the younger knight went on glaring at Gavril.

“I’ll see you’re paid extra for your trouble,” Gavril said.