“You don’t understand. I mean—”

“What you mean is that you should be quiet,” Lander said. He urged the mule onward.

“Why should we have a guard?” Dain asked, glancing again at Sir Metain. “What did they mean about me being returned faster?”

“So you can be flogged for going without permission, I expect,” Lander said.

“That’s unfair!” Dain said angrily. “You asked me to go with you.”

“Aye, I needed your help, not that you gave much.”

“How could I bargain well with you looking so keen?” Lander and Dain glared at each other. The smith was the first to drop his gaze and sigh. “Now, now, no need to quarrel. I gave you your reward, as we agreed.  Let’s put an end to it. If his lordship’s wrathful with you, I can’t help. I told you to ask for permission to come with me, Dain. If you didn’t get it, then there’s naught I can do.”

Dain knotted his fists in his lap and scowled at them. He realized now he’d been foolish to hope that his troubles would go away during his absence. It looked like they’d only grown worse.

They rolled on in silence, while the walls of the hold rose ahead of them. To Dain’s worried eye, Thirst looked the same as always, although more sentries manned the battlements. The gates were closed, and Lander had to shout for them to be opened.

A guard peered down at them from the wall. “Thod’s mercy,” he said. “Look at what’s turned up.”

“Open the gate,” Lander said impatiently. “Open and let us safe inside. We’ve dealt with enough. Open!”

Strain made his voice crack. Dain’s own weariness sagged clear to his bones. He was tired from little sleep, since they had to take turns keeping watch through the tense nights, and ravenous, for Lander’s provisions had not lasted through the extra day it had taken them to return. They’d avoided every settlement they could and were forced periodically to hide, with Lander quaking and praying beneath his breath while Nonkind rode by. They’d had no trouble going into the Dark Forest and reaching the place where Lander was to meet with Baldrush the dwarf, but coming home had been fraught with problems from the moment Dain first sniffed Nonkind and warned Lander to drive them into cover.  Trolk—the first Dain had seen in years—had come marauding by, a snarling pack.  Although marching at a fast pace, they stopped periodically to dig their claws into the bark of trees, and the clacking sound of claws against wood still haunted Dain. Dripping saliva from their yellowed fangs, their tiny stupid eyes peering out from beneath a jutting ledge of browbone, they had hobbled along on their bowed awkward legs with their back hair standing up in hostility. They passed Lander and Dain’s hiding place while Dain crouched low, holding the nostrils of the mule and using his mind to control its panic. With its eyes rolled white and its ears laid flat, the mule stood tense and quaking until the band of trolk were long gone. Their rancid stink trailed after them, hanging in the air so thickly Lander gagged on it.

“Never have I seen demons such as them,” the smith said, gasping for air.  “They aren’t demons,” Dain said. “They lived in the Dark Forest before the dwarves claimed it. Long, long ago the dwarf clans joined forces and killed the trolk kings. Now the trolk are few. They roam and dig their lairs, but seldom do they march like this. Not banded together.”

He frowned, worried by how unusual it was.

“I care nothing about these puzzles,” Lander declared. “I just want to get home to Thirst, with no more trouble.”

But they found trouble at almost every turn. Had they been on foot, they could have abandoned the narrow road that wound through the forest and taken the shortest way back, but the cart, loaded with the metal Dain had bargained for at the price of six-and-thirty gold dreits, hampered them greatly. Lander would not consider abandoning it. Each time Dain sensed someone approaching ahead or from behind, they had to pull the cart off the trail and conceal both it and the mule, hiding until the way was clear again. Their journey home lengthened by hours, then by an entire day.

Had Dain not led the mule through the dark for half a night, they would still be on their road, far from here.

Now the sentry on the wall shouted at Lander to back up his cart, leave it by the wall out of the way, and unhitch his mule.

“What?” Lander shouted back. “Are you daft, man? I can’t leave this load out here to be stolen.”

“Your cart won’t fit through the petite-porte, and that’s all I am allowed to open,” the sentry shouted down.

“Thod’s bones,” Lander swore. “After all I’ve gone through, I will not leave my load. Open the main gate!”

Sir Metain rode up beside him and interrupted the argument. “You know these two, sentry?”

“Aye, sir, I do. It’s Lander, our smith, and the boy Dain.”

“Compliments of Lord Renald,” Sir Metain said. His voice was gruff and hostile.  “We caught this pair sneaking along the river road north of here. I am to deliver this boy into Lord Odfrey’s hands.”

“And Lord Odfrey will thank you sweetly,” the sentry replied. “We’ve searched long and hard for him, at least until the trouble started.” “Open your petite-porte, and let them through,” Sir Metain said.

The sentry vanished, his voice bawling the order.

Lander knotted his fists and fumed. “I won’t leave my c Morde and damne all besides. I won’t leave it!”

“Calm yourself,” Dain said, eying him with concern. “We’ll carry the metal inside. It will be safe.”

Lander blinked, and relief brightened his face. “Aye,” said, nodding. “Aye! Of course, of course. That can be done.” He jumped off the cart and ran to the head of his mule. The poor, lathered beast, weary to his very bones, refused to turn aside. His head was pointed toward the gate, and no amount coaxing, swearing, or use of the whip would induce him to pull the cart away.  An ear-splitting screech came from the winch inside gates. Slowly the narrow gate inside the main one creaked way open. Dain ran to the back of the cart and pulled out the board gate. He climbed atop the metal bars, shifting the kicked ones first.

Wrapped in cloth, they emitted an inaudible hum that resonated deep inside Dain’s mind. He almost dropped them, there was something repellent about this raw metal, something dark and tainted within the spell that had cast it from ore.

Juggling the bars about so that he could hand them down to Lander, Dain recalled that he had not trusted Baldrush, the dwarf they’d purchased this metal from—no, not at all. There was a strangeness about him that bothered Dain immediately.  Baldrush was tall for his kind; his head came nearly to Dain’s shoulder. His face was narrow and gaunt. His eyes burned with yellow fire. He had a way of muttering to himself within his beard. He paced about, his fingers clutching and unclutching the air. He was never still. Always he kept moving and twitching, muttering and pacing, his eyes darting this way and that. Even the shift of Lander’s shadow on the ground made Baldrush jump.  It was the ore madness, Dain knew. Jorb had warned him the perils of working too much with magicked metal. Glancing at Lander’s red, intense expression now, Dain hoped the smith did not catch the affliction.

“Give it to me!” Lander commanded, grunting with the effort to grasp the ends of the bars. “Careful! Don’t let them slip.”

Dain was glad to release the bars. He crouched atop the load of ordinary metal, his hands still tingling unpleasantly from contact with the magic, and watched Lander hurry through the petite-porte with his treasure.  Annoyance filled Dain as he realized he’d been left out here to cope with the rest of the load. He saw Sir Metain watching him, and Dain’s anger grew.  Defiantly he jumped down. He’d worked for Lander like a serf for four days, all for the two pieces of gold now jingling in his pocket. But he wasn’t going to carry all this metal inside, especially not by himself.

Overhead, the sun abruptly vanished behind a cloud, and the sky turned black and violent. Wind gusted up, buffeting Dain, who went to unharness the mule.  Lightning flashed, with a deafening clap of thunder that made the mule rear, and rain fell in a torrent.

Soaked to the skin in seconds, Dain pulled off the harness, wincing at the sight of the galled sores on the mule’s withers, and tossed the harness into the cart.  Great forks of lightning jabbed the sky. One struck the ground out in the marsh.  Dain heard the crack and sizzle, saw a tree burst into flames that were extinguished by the pounding rain. The noise of the downpour was deafening. Wind buffeted Dain from all sides. The ground at his feet streamed with water.  Already his shoes were sinking into the mud. Sir Metain was shouting at him, gesturing for him to get inside. Squinting and gasping, his hair plastered to his skull, Dain led the mule forward and coaxed him through the narrow gate.  Sir Terent stood there, his ruddy face scrunched and squinting inside its mail coif. “Dain, hurry!” he shouted.

He gripped Dain by the shoulder of his tunic and dragged him inside. Someone else took the reins and led the mule away.

The sudden contrast of shelter after the raging torrent outside left Dain stunned and breathless. He huddled there in the dry, with water dripping from his clothes, while the petite-porte was winched closed again. The cable that controlled it groaned and creaked. Its hinges shrieked from disuse, but at last it slammed closed, and a stout bar was thrown across it.  “What about Lander’s metal?” Dain asked.

“It’s not going anywhere!” Sir Terent replied. He gripped Dain by both shoulders and shook him roughly. “So you’re alive, young rascal. I never thought we’d see you again.”

“Lord Renald caught him,” Sir Metain said. “I am to take him straight to your chevard.”

Staring out at the keep from beneath the portcullis, Dain saw knights running for shelter in all directions. Most wore Thirst green, but some displayed the black and scarlet of Lunt. All them had on hauberks, their swords hanging from their hips, their cloaks soaking up the rain. They were splattered with mud, mire, and blood, and shouted to each other as they dashed to get out of the rain. Squires and servants milled around, coping with war chargers alarmed by the storm. The confusion meant that these men must have ridden in shortly before Dain and Lander themselves arrived.

Dain sensed the battle fierceness still raging in their minds. Sir Nynth came ducking under the portcullis into the narrow space of shelter by the gates. He saw Dain and his face brigtened momentarily. “Dain!” he said in a mixture of relief and exasperation. “Thod be thanked, and Tomias too. Where in all ’t three worlds have you been?”

Dain opened his mouth, but Sir Terent stepped between them.

“It’s a long story, by the looks of him. Lunt riders caught him.”

“They didn’t catch me,” Dain said indignantly. “Lander and I were coming home.

We’d have been back yesterday if not for having to hide from Nonkind patrols.  Why have they dar come this far into the open? Did they attack the hold? What’s been afire?”

“One of the villages to the south,” Sir Nynth replied. His voice was grave. He looked weary and grim.

“Is that Dain?” called out another voice. Sir Polquin came striding up, a mixture of emotions afire in his face. “Where have you been? Morde, the trouble you’ve caused.”

“Save it,” Sir Terent growled before Dain could respond. “You better get yourself to the chevard at once.”

Dain glanced at Sir Metain. “I don’t need him to go with me.  The knight from Lunt scowled, but Sir Polquin interceded “This is our business, friend knight,” he said. “We’ll handle it in our own way.”

“You’d better keep a close eye on the creature,” Sir Metain said. “If he betrayed you once, he’ll do it again.”

Dain glared at him. “What? Who have I betrayed?”

He found his answer in the grim faces surrounding him, in the censure and doubt that filled every eye.

“He’s been in the Dark Forest,” Sir Metain said. “Admitted it to Lord Renald bold as brass.”

“We were buying metal,” Dain said. He pointed at the gate. “It’s right out there. Ask Lander. He wanted me to go with him to do the bargaining.” “You can explain yourself to Lord Odfrey,” Sir Polquin said. Both condemnation and disappointment could be heard in his voice.

Dain stared at them in horror. Why did they think he’d brought the Nonkind here?

“I didn’t—”

“Dain, just go,” Sir Terent said.

“But I—”

The knight gave him a shove. “Be off!”

As Dain hurried away, Sir Terent said to the others, “Boys be pretty much the same, whether they be pagan or of the faithful. They don’t think. They just go off on adventures at a whim.”

“Maybe,” Sir Polquin said. “Maybe not.”

Sir Nynth shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to stand in his shoes while he faces Lord Odfrey.”

“Will he?” Sir Metain asked doubtfully, still looking as though he meant to follow Dain out into the downpour. With his hand on his sword hilt, he stood at the edge of the shelter and glowered at Dain, who was hesitating, soaked and miserable, while they talked about him. “Will he go and do as he is bidden?” “Aye,” Sir Terent said. “He will. He’s a good boy, our Dain.”

“We needed him and his luck with us today,” Sir Nynth added.  Dain frowned, forcing himself to turn away, then he was dodging and twisting through the crowded keep. He saw no reason for Lord Odfrey to be angry at him.  He’d been gone only a few days. Was he a prisoner here? Had he no freedom to come and go if it pleased him? Lord Odfrey saw little use in him as it was. Why should the chevard care where Dain went or with whom?  But despite his inner defiance, Dain knew very well that he’d broken the rules of the hold by leaving without permission.

He’d had plenty of time to think it over while riding on the uncomfortable cart.  He’d been prepared to return with humility and he’d come to accept Lord Odfrey’s decision to withdraw him from the squire contest. He was, after all, eld.  Although the men of Thirst Hold might make a pet of him and give him run of the place, he knew he must never forget that he was not equal to the other boys.  Something deep inside Dain’s heart burned with anger that, but he ignored it, telling himself it was the way of the world. He must never forget the lessons about men-ways that Jorb had tried to instill in him. Forgetting led to blind trust, and that left him vulnerable to being hurt. He liked and admired Lord Odfrey very much; he had even respected the man. But Lord Odfrey was what he was. He dealt less hurt than other men, but he was still capable of acting arbitrarily and unjustly You are not like the other fosters, Dain reminded himself often during his trip with Lander. You are eld, and will always be the less for it.

Had he been a simpleton or born with a humble heart, he thought, his lot in life would have been easier. He would have been grateful for shelter and food. He would have been pleased at the training in arms they’d given him. He would not have wanted more, or been ashamed of his mean estate and questionable birth. He would not wonder why he owned a piece bard crystal—he and his sister both—and he would never question where he’d come from or why he’d been driven from that place, cast out to struggle on his own. He would not dream of all that his life could be. He would concern himself only with where he walked at this moment, thinking neither behind him nor ahead. He would be content.  Most important, his heart would never ache the way it did right now.  He had counted the knights his friends. He had grown to accept and believe in their rough affection. During the last few days, he had struggled hard to lose his pride and come to terms with Lord Odfrey’s decision.  But now, he found that they blamed him for the raiding of the Nonkind and the battle that had been fought. What greater injustice could there be than this?  Fresh anger boiled up inside him. He told himself that if the knights could turn on him this quickly and believe him capable of betraying them to the Nonkind, then he didn’t want to be here. He would leave Thirst for good, and Thod smite them all.

Rain continued to pour, hammering Dain’s skin. Drops hit the ground with such violence they bounced up. Water was flooding the keep, turning it into a bog of mud and manure. Grooms hurried along, leading war chargers with rain-soaked manes and stringy tails, empty stirrups flapping as they trotted by. The villagers had pitched makeshift tents across the keep’s expanse. They huddled inside their crude shelters, peering out at the rain, their livestock milling about in everyone’s way. Slipping and sliding in the mire, Dain made his way through the small set of inner gates and into the cobbled stableyard beyond.  The stables were jammed with horses. A fodder barn had been cleaned out to shelter more, but it was overflowing too. Others were tied outside these structures, standing with their rumps to the wind, their ears flat with misery.  The groom who had passed Dain moments before was now carrying his master’s saddle indoors.

As Dain jogged through the rain, squinting, his shoulders hunched up, he saw the Thirst stableboys standing in the doorway, gawking and chewing straws.  One of them pointed at Dain and said something, but just then more lightning clawed the sky, nearly blinding Dain. Thunder seemed to break the world apart.  He cried out, dropping to his knees with his hands clapped over his ears, and saw a jagged fork of lighting hit the banner pole atop the west tower. Sparks and fire flew in all directions, scoring a black mark on the stone. The air was choked with the burned smell of it, and Dain abandoned his idea of going all the way to the Hall.

Fearing that he might be struck by a lightning bolt, Dain glanced at the stables, but the doors were now shut and everyone had vanished.  He looked across at Sulein’s tower and headed for it at a run. If the world was ending, he wanted his bard crystal in hand.

The door leading in to Sulein’s tower was unlocked. Dain pushed his way inside, gasping with relief as he slammed the door behind him. The interior of the tower lay shrouded in gloom, relieved only by the flashes of lightning seen through the small windows cut in the staircase wall.

Dain leaned against the door to catch his breath and wipe the water from his face. His hair dripped down inside his collar, but he was so wet he hardly noticed. Gripping the hem of his tunic, he wrung it out as best he could, leaving a puddle on the floor, then squelched his way up the stairs in his sodden shoes.

As he climbed, he could smell the peculiar combination of herbs and potions which always lingered here. He felt the resonance of weak magic and half-formed spells which permeated the place. His heart started to beat faster, but he kept going.

He would never find it easy to be near the physician, but if luck was with him today Sulein would be elsewhere, attending wounded men.  It was not to be.

Dain reached the top of the stairs and walked to Sulein’s door. No sooner did he grip the iron ring than Sulein yanked the door open.

Standing framed in the doorway, his loose brown robe stained and discolored as usual from the ill effects of his experiments, the physician stared down at Dain with a toothy smile.

“So,” he said, “you have returned in a storm of sky fire and thunder. Come inside, eld. Long months have I waited for you to come to me.” Dain opened his mouth, but could say nothing. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. In that moment, lightning flashed outside the windows, and its eerie white light threw strange shadows across the physician’s face, as though a skull were gazing down at Dain. He stood there frozen with dismay, every instinct warning him to run from this man who craved the dark secrets of a sorcerel.  Sulein’s fevered smile faded, and he reached out his hand as though to draw Dain in. “Come,” he said again. “There is something you want, is there not? Something that is yours? What will you give me in exchange for it? What eld secrets will you share?”

As he spoke he stood aside and gestured at the interior of his workroom. The place was filled with shadows and gloom, with no lamps or candles lit to illuminate it. Yet suddenly at a wave of Sulein’s long-fingered hand a glow of lambent light came from nowhere and fell across a wooden box on one of the tables.

Dain could sense his bard crystal within it, could almost hear it. That Sulein should have possession of it, that he should guard it from its rightful owner incensed Dain so much he forgot his fear.

“Come inside,” Sulein said softly, his eyes bright and eager. “Let us bargain.” And Dain stepped over the threshold into his lair. Outside, the storm ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Aware of the silence, when moments before rain had been pounding on the conical roof of Sulein’s tower, Dain blinked and looked around. He drew in a deep breath, and suddenly his mind cleared.  He could tell where Sulein had gripped his emotions, especially his resentment, and where he sought to manipulate him. Frowning, Dain glanced at the physician without meeting the man’s eyes and ran across the room to grip the box with both hands.

“Put it down!” Sulein said in alarm. “You have not my permission to touch it.” Paying him no heed, Dain opened the box. His pendant lay glittering inside upon a scrap of fine cloth, its cord coiled neatly around it. An assortment of other items lay scattered next to it, including a large ring with runes carved on its band. Dain ignored everything but what belonged to him. He picked up the bard crystal, and heard it sing softly within the curl of his fingers.  Soothed by its faint melody, Dain smiled, but Sulein grabbed the pendant from his hand.

“No!” he said firmly. “You may not take it from this place of safekeeping. We will talk first.”

Anger swept Dain. He snarled a curse in dwarf and reached for his dagger.  Sulein’s intense eyes met Dain’s and held them. Neither of them spoke in that moment, and no magic was used. Yet Dain left his dagger half-drawn, his chest heaving with every furious breath as he battled himself.  “You do not wish to draw your weapon against me, Dain,” Sulein said quietly, his dark face very serious behind his frizzy beard. “I am Lord Odfrey’s man, and no warrior. Would you break the laws of this hold in such a way?” Dain bared his teeth. “The pendant is mine. I want it back.” “Why?” Sulein asked him. “So you can run away from Thirst for good? You had to return today, of course, for your property. You were foolish to forget it the first time, but then your temper is fierce, I think.”

“I did not run away,” Dain said angrily. “If you are as wise as you claim you would know this.”

“Don’t be impertinent,” Sulein replied. He placed the bard crystal back in his strongbox and closed the lid.

Dain reached out, but Sulein carried the box across the room and placed it on a shelf alongside numerous bottles and small clay pots.  “No,” he said, dusting off his long slender hands and returning. “Let us sit and have our talk.”

Dain scowled, prickling with unease, and swung away from him. “What do you want in exchange for my property? I have no secrets to share.” “Oh, but you do. You are a treasure trove walking among us.” Sulein smiled. His dark eyes shone through the gloom. “What do you fear, boy? Why will you not answer my questions?”

“I have no knowledge of the dark ways,” Dain answered. “I can tell you nothing about them.”

Sulein laughed, throwing back his head so far it was strange that his conical hat did not fall off. “Ah, so that is it! I do not seek ways of the darkness or the forbidden. This do I assure you, boy. Have you never studied?” “Studied what?” Dain asked suspiciously.

Sulein seated himself on a stool. He gestured for Dain to do the same, but Dain remained standing, ready to run for the door if he had to.  “Studied knowledge, for its own sake,” Sulein replied, lighting several candles.

Their flickering glow reduced the gloom, driving back the shadows.  The room was cluttered as always, filled with stacks of old scrolls that looked so brittle with age they would probably have crumbled to dust if anyone tried to unroll them. A dead vixlet, embalmed and mounted, snarled at Dain from atop the shelves. Its eyes, made of colored glass, reflected the candlelight in an eerie fashion, almost as though the thing were possessed.  “Can you read, Dain?” Sulein asked.

“Of course.”

Sulein picked up a scrap of parchment and held it out. When Dain kept his distance, Sulein rattled it impatiently.

“Oh, come, come, boy, what have you to fear? Take the paper and tell me what it says.”

Dain stepped closer reluctantly and saw small, strange characters drawn across the page. Anger flared inside him. “Another game!” he said impatiently. “I have no time for this. Give me my bard crystal!”

“No, Dain,” Sulein replied softly, his tone quite firm. “Not without Lord Odfrey’s order.”

“Then I have other things to do.” Turning about, Dain headed for the door.  “You lived among the dwarves,” Sulein said after him. “Presumably you learned to read and write in runes.”

Dain glanced back. “I have orders to report to Lord Odfrey. I cannot dally here, talking of runes and such.”

“Lord Odfrey is busy with what has transpired during your absence. I believe he is praying in the chapel now for the souls of the men who died in this day’s battle.”

Some of Dain’s annoyance faded into concern. Some of those dead knights were surely men he’d liked. He wanted to know their names, and yet he dreaded finding out.

“There is a little time,” Sulein said. “You know this, or you would not have come here on your way to his lordship.”

Dain frowned, but Sulein was right. “Are there many dead?” he asked.

“Since when do you care about the fate of Mandrian serfs?”

Dain’s frown deepened. “I meant, are there many dead among the knights?”

“You care for them, then? As comrades?”

“Of course!” Dain said hotly. “What do you think of me? Why does everyone think I had something to do with—” “You have changed while living here among us,” Sulein said. “You have begun to think more like a Mandrian and less like a dwarf.”

“I am neither,” Dain said flatly.

“That is correct. Were you born in Nether?” Sulein asked.

The sudden change of subject threw Dain for a moment. “I know not.”

“Krogni da vletsna ryakilvn yla meratskya. Do you understand those words?”

Sulein asked.

“No,” Dain said, but uneasily. Though the words meant nothing, their cadence had a familiar rhythm and lilt. Thia used to sing a child’s song of nonsense words.  She taught him to sing it too, but neither of them knew what the words meant.  That little song was similar to what Sulein said. Dain felt cold inside. “Never go into Nether” Jorb had warned him and Thia most solemnly. “Seek not the eldin who live there.”

“Did Jorb your guardian ever speak to you in Netheran?” Sulein asked.

“No.”

“Did he tell you where you came from?”

“I am eld,” Dain said harshly. “That is enough to know.” “You are highborn, and you know it,” Sulein persisted. “Are you afraid to accept this? Why? It is to your advantage to be educated, to know how to read and write in more than one language. To have knowledge of classical learning so that you can converse with others of your station.”

“Station?” Dain repeated. “I have no station except beggar! I am fostered here on charity, with the superstitions of Lord Odfrey to thank. That is all I am.” “Nether has been missing its rightful king for sixteen years,” Sulein said.  “King Muncel rules there, and it is Gant he allies himself with now, not Mandria. It is said that King Tobeszijian is surely dead, but that his son, the rightful heir to Nether’s throne, lives hidden in exile.”

“What do I care about Nether?” Dain said impatiently.

“Save that many eldin live there—or used to, before King Muncel drove them out.” Sulein leaned forward, his eyes boring into Dain. “The rightful heir’s name is Faldain.”

He seemed to be waiting for something. Expectancy hung on him like a cloak.  Dain laughed incredulously. “You jest, surely. Or do you think me a knave stupid enough to believe such nonsense?”

“It is not nonsense,” Sulein said. “This is most important. You could be the missing prince.”