The Ring

Part One

The chapel at Thirst Hold smelled of incense, dust, and candle wax. Kneeling beside Lord Odfrey and listening to the slow intonations of mass, Dain kept his head bowed respectfully, despite his impatience. Someone was snoring faintly in counterpoint to the priest’s voice. Dain grinned a little to himself, and from the corner of his eye watched the dust motes dancing in the sunlight that streamed down through the oculus window overhead.  Although sunlight fell on the altar, transforming the cloth into dazzling whiteness and glinting off the plain silver and brass accoutrements, the rest of the small chapel lay in gloom. Tricks of light and shadow played along the religious paintings on the walls, making the elongated, large-eyed faces of the saints appear to be alive and watching the worshipers.  The twelve knights of Thirst selected to compete in the king’s tourney knelt today in a group directly behind Lord Odfrey and Dain. No doubt each man was praying that he would be the one to win the tourney and come home covered in glory. Eight and forty additional Thirst knights crowded behind them, with the squires of all jammed into the back of the chapel.

Church soldiers filled the rest of the space, overflowing the benches and crowding into the central aisle. Cloaked and spurred, jammed elbow to elbow, these strangers had not hesitated to wear their weapons to chapel. Kneeling with creaks of their chain mail, their war helmets planted on the floor in front of each man, they listened attentively to the nervous priest’s stumbling service.  Dain shifted his head slightly to glance at them. He had never seen church soldiers before, and he found them a strange breed, with their white surcoats displaying a large black circle on the front and back. Their fierce, weather-burned faces looked more impatient than tranquil, and when a response was called for, their voices roared out the words in loud unison.  They had arrived last night in the midst of the banquet feast. Their leader, a hawkish, tawny-haired man named the Reverend Sir Damiend, presented Lord Odfrey with a warrant signed by Cardinal Noncire ordering Sir Damiend and his men to assist Lord Odfrey in escorting Prince Gavril safely home. The implication, both in the wording of the warrant and in the contempt in Sir Damiend’s stony green eyes, was that Lord Odfrey had erred greatly a few weeks past in letting the prince be almost killed, and was no longer trusted to protect his highness.  Furious on his adoptive father’s behalf, Dain wished that Lord Odfrey would release Gavril to the church soldiers and wash his hands entirely of the spoiled prince.

Ah, but Lord Odfrey would do his duty with gritted teeth, no matter how difficult he found it. “I’ve received nothing from the king to confirm Cardinal Noncire’s warrant,” he had said privately to Dain last night. Of late they’d developed the habit of meeting in the chevard’s wardroom every evening for a few minutes’ chat before Lord Odfrey retired. Dain valued those talks; some days they were the only time he even got to speak to Lord Odfrey. But last night, the chevard had been sorely troubled and irritable. Pacing about his cluttered room, with its stacks of clothes, armor, bedrolls, and spare boots, Lord Odfrey had said, “What if this is some church-planned coup and they mean to kidnap the prince? Do you think my head would be safe from the king’s sword were I to hand off Gavril to these men? Nay, I’ll see him to the very foot of his father’s throne before I call this duty done.”

Sighing to himself now in the chapel, Dain wished the church would abscond with Gavril and take him to some far-off citadel to make a monk of him.  “Your highness will come forward,” the priest said. The prince, resplendent in a doublet of vivid blue silk, went up to kneel at the altar for his special benediction. The sunlight glowed on his golden head. With his eyes closed in prayer, and his handsome young face radiating piety, Gavril looked kind and good.

Dain shifted his gaze away. In reality, Gavril was fanatical, bigoted, and cruel. Less than an hour ago, he had been protesting Dain’s presence at mass, saying it was an affront for a pagan to attend.

Impatient, eager to start on their journey, and tired of kneeling on this hard stone floor, Dain shifted slightly and received a quick jab from Lord Odfrey’s elbow. Glancing up, Dain caught the chevard’s censorious frown.  Heat rose into Dain’s face. He bowed his head quickly, resolved not to wiggle again. But Gavril’s prayer was going on far too long, undoubtedly meant to impress the church soldiers with its sheer length and content. It was good to pray and seek blessing for their journey, but they did not have to spend all day in here. Dain doubted that almighty Thod or any of the lesser gods cared how long a man could pray, once the offerings had been made. Thod saw the hearts of men. What more was needed once the worship rituals were finished? Impatience grew inside Dain, becoming a worm that consumed his entrails. He wanted to go, go, go! Outside in the keep, final preparations for the journey were being made.  It was a radiant late-summer morning, with a sky like a pale blue pearl and the air fragrant with freshly scythed hay. Furling and unfurling in the light breeze, the banners were bright with new dye.

Inside the chapel, however, the air hung stale and thick. A trickle of sweat beaded on Dain’s temple. Just as he opened his mouth to draw in a deeper breath, everyone around him stood up and began to chant a prayer. Startled, Dain mouthed the words, muffling his voice among the others, because he did not know the prayer. He’d been through a hasty series of lessons, now that he was no longer to be a pagan, but little of it had stuck. With all his heart, he hoped Lord Odfrey would not suspect how little he’d learned thus far.  Suddenly the mass ended. At the rear of the chapel, someone thrust open the door, and light streamed inside. The squires, Dain’s friend Thum among them, burst outdoors to freedom and yelled in excitement. Grinning, Dain longed to go running outside with them, but his new status required him to remain at Lord Odfrey’s heels.

He did not mind. After all, he was still getting used to the staggering idea of being the chevard’s son, and someone important. The servants who used to kick him now had to bow when he walked by. He was no longer an orphan, an eld pagan from the Dark Forest, with neither home nor family. Now he wore fine clothes, and had servants of his own, and was permitted to sit at Lord Odfrey’s feet among his dogs at evening gatherings. He was even called “lord” now by the servants, and it made him feel odd inside sometimes, as though he had lost himself, his real self, and knew no longer where to find him.  “Lord Odfrey, about that route through Ebel Forest,” said Sir Damiend. Tucking his helmet beneath his arm, he turned to Lord Odfrey and beckoned imperiously.  The chevard obeyed this summons, and Dain followed, seething on behalf of his father.

Sir Damiend spoke with the rolling cadence of lower Mandria. His close-cropped hair and skin were both the color of wild honey; his eyes were hued an intense stony green. He’d been born a lord, but he’d surrendered his rank when he became a church knight. Still, his aristocratic origins were plain in the haughty expression on his face and the way he conducted himself. “It would be quicker,” he said, “to ride straight south to the Charva, then take barges along the river to Nuveron Point, then disembark and ride on from there. Safer, too, I think.” Lord Odfrey’s face went tight and expressionless. Dain knew the chevard had spent many hours with his maps and reports, plotting the safest, swiftest route to Savroix. “I disagree, sir,” he said, keeping his voice even and courteous.  “Here’s why.”

As they talked, Dain’s attention wandered. He saw Gavril already exiting the chapel, with Sir Nynth, his temporary protector, following stolidly at his heels. Dain liked and respected Sir Nynth. He was sorry the man had drawn such disagreeable duty, although for Sir Nynth it was a rise in rank.  Earlier this week, the other two fosters, Kaltienne and Mierre, had departed for their parental homes, leaving Gavril without his usual entourage.  Dain spared the prince no more than a glance, for he and Gavril stayed away from each other as much as possible. A cold little truce existed between them right now, but Dain did not believe it would last. Since the arrival of the church soldiers last night, Gavril had resumed his former arrogance and haughtiness.  Dain was counting the days until they reached Savroix and Gavril passed out of his life forever.

“Dain,” Lord Odfrey said, startling him from his thoughts.

“Yes, lord?”

“This will take a moment. See that Sir Bosquecel has everyone organized, will you?”

Dain bowed and strode outside. With every step, his spirits rose, his excitement making his heart hammer inside his chest.

After the gloomy little chapel, the bright sunlit outdoors made him squint. The sun was advancing into the sky, and it was already hot. They’d lost much precious time dawdling about in the chapel.

Thirst Hold was a sprawling complex of unadorned stone buildings constructed in concentric rings. The innermost courtyard was paved with cobbles and held the chapel, the walled gardens, and the ancient Hall. Three stories tall and flanked by wings supporting towers, the Hall contained the great feasting room plus the living quarters for Lord Odfrey and the other members of his household. Beyond it stood the stableyard, including barns and fodder sheds. The guardhouse and barracks, smithy, smokehouse, communal ovens, and other mundane buildings were located in the outermost keep.

Dain hurried through the milling chaos of the stableyard. Grooms were struggling with fretting horses that were tired of waiting. A saddled war charger lashed out with a hind foot and sent a stableboy flying through the air.  Panicky chickens clucked and squawked foolishly ahead of a trio of horses being led by another boy to be watered.

In the outer keep, the confusion grew worse. Loaded supply wagons were being maneuvered into a line. Yoked kine bawled in confusion and were whipped all the harder by their sweating, frustrated drivers. Dain blinked in amazement at how many wagons there were. He and Thum had wandered around them last night, but they seemed to have doubled in number since then. Of course, more than half of them belonged to Gavril, for the prince brought many luxurious possessions for his year’s stay. But besides Gavril’s wagons, all of which were painted with gaudy colors, there was one for the bedrolls and clothes chests, one for all the armor and jousting weapons, and one for extra saddles and tack. Lord Odfrey’s crest marked his individual wagon. Dain saw that Lord Odfrey’s manservant Lyias was already perched there, with his feet propped up on Dain’s clothes chest.  Sulein the physician, his red conical hat exchanged for a strange, flat square tied atop his head, was trying to persuade Lyias to let him put his collection of bags and chests in the chevard’s wagon.

Dain swung away hurriedly before the physician could see him and threaded his way through the church soldiers, who were collecting their mounts with quick efficiency.

Across the way, Sir Bosquecel was busy bawling orders at his men. A groom passed Dain, leading a saddled charger at a rapid trot. The sixty knights who were going were considered Thirst’s best, and although not all would be competing in the tourney, they preened and swaggered equally. Wearing polished mail that glinted and shone in the hot sunlight, they endured a barrage of heckling from the envious knights staying home.

Dain delivered Lord Odfrey’s message to Sir Bosquecel, who nodded tersely. Free now to find Thum, Dain grinned and started to look for his friend, but a muscular arm snaked out through the chaos and gripped him around the middle.  Hauled backward so fast he nearly lost his footing, Dain stumbled and managed to twist free. He found himself confronting Lander, the Netheran smith who had gotten him into major trouble only a few weeks before. Slab-shouldered and clad in a soot-streaked leather apron, the smith was looking about nervously with darting, pale eyes. Wisps of his thin red hair stood on end.  “You!” Dain said angrily. He turned away, but Lander gripped his arm and held him fast.

“Not so fast, boy,” he said. “Come with me.”

Dain pulled free and smoothed the wrinkles in his sleeve. “I have things to do.”

“This is important. You were in on the beginning. You’ll see it finished.”

“What are you talking about?” Dain asked impatiently.  “The sword, boy. The sword!” Lander glanced about and raised his finger to his lips. “Come.”

“I saw your entry for the sword contest. It’s not worth carting all the way to Savroix. Lord Odfrey accepted it out of kindness, nothing more.” Lander’s pale eyes blinked. “Harsh words you say to me, boy. And after all we’ve been through together. Harsh words.” Dain recalled the man’s boasting of the magnificent sword he would make from magicked metal. Together they’d ventured into the Dark Forest of Nold to buy the steel from a half-crazed dwarf. Lander had sworn that he possessed the skill of a master swordmaker, but he’d produced only that sword of plain steel, utilitarian and well-balanced, but with no artistry other than its simple rosettes at the guard. When Lander had presented it to Lord Odfrey last night as his entry in the contest for the king’s new sword, Dain had seen the faint line that creased Lord Odfrey’s brow. But the chevard had promised to enter the weapon in the contest.  Dain had felt it was an embarrassment to Thirst Hold and shouldn’t be entered.

Lord Odfrey had silenced Dain’s protests, saying he’d given his word to Lander.  “But it’s not worthy!” Dain had said. “A man’s best effort is always worthy,” Lord Odfrey had told him. “It is a plain weapon, unsuitable for a king, but the blade is good and serviceable. It will not win, of course, but the smith’s reward will come from having his work seen by his majesty.” Dain had not understood that at all, and right now he wished Lander would go away and leave him alone.

“Now, boy, listen close,” Lander said, leaning over. “The real sword is for you to take, see? Not Lord Odfrey. You.”

“What?”

Lander muttered something in Netheran and gripped Dain by the front of his doublet. He hurried Dain over to his smithy, and they stepped inside. Today, the circular hearth held only cold ashes instead of its usual fire. The tools were neatly put away. The shutters that were usually propped wide open on all sides of the small structure remained closed. Lander did not open them now.  Dain frowned. The scents of ash and metal were as familiar to him as the rhythmic ping-ping-ping of a smithy’s hammer. He had been raised by Jorb, master armorer among the dwarves. The forge felt like home, and although in the past year Dain had come here for comfort and reminders of a childhood spent among hammers and tools, that part of his life was now closed forever. It was better to stay away and let his memories lie.

While Dain hesitated in the doorway, tempted to escape, Lander started rummaging inside a wooden cupboard.

Dain watched him with a frown. “You mean you actually made the sword you said you would? A magicked one?”

Lander jerked upright and made wild gestures. “Hush! Not so loud. Of course I made it. Every night, after my usual work was done, I worked on it. This blade was forged in darkness, where no one but myself could see it.”