“But your highness,” Sir Terent said. “What of—”

“I grow weary of your protests to everything I utter, sir,” Gavril said.  Sir Terent straightened his heavy shoulders and didn’t back down. “What of our dead and wounded? Should we not turn back to Thirst and—” “Ah, yes, Lord Odfrey is too ill to travel onward, isn’t he?” “He is,” Sulein said firmly. “It is out of the question.”

“Then you people from Thirst will remain with your chevard,” Gavril said. “I will continue on.”

“How?” Sir Terent asked. “Your highness must have guards and provisions—” “I have the church soldiers to protect me,” Gavril said. “Once I cross the Charva, my danger is little enough. As for provisions, I will leave you a wagon for your return to Thirst.”

“It’s better if your highness returns with us, if we all stick together—” “Nonsense!” Gavril said sharply. “My life has already been risked today. My dogs are dead, my servants killed. I could have been slaughtered with them. I will run no more risks by returning with you.”

Sir Terent looked at him with open disillusionment. “And what of us, your highness?” he asked softly. “What of our protection as we carry back the wounded?” His gaze swung to Sir Damiend before Gavril could reply. “Reverend knight, do you not agree that we must all turn back?” Anger sparked in Gavril’s eyes, and he gestured for Sir Damiend to be silent. “I am giving the orders now,” he declared. “Not Sir Damiend, and certainly not you.  I will hear no more of your insubordination.”

The veins stood out prominently in Sir Terent’s neck. Dain laid his hand swiftly on the knight’s arm in warning, and Sir Terent said nothing else.  “The ferryman is here, your highness,” Dain said, pointing at the barge floating now at the end of the jetty. “Take what you will, and good journey to you.” Gavril’s vivid blue eyes met Dain’s pale gray ones for a long moment. Then the prince jerked a little nod to him and turned away to issue his orders.  It did not take Gavril and the church soldiers long to abandon them. The few remaining servants, most weeping or silent with shock, were loaded onto the wagons, as many as there were still drivers for. A few provisions were left behind; the rest were taken. By the time the sun began to set and dusk crept down over the scene of carnage, Gavril, the church soldiers, and all but two wagons had been ferried across the river and were gone.  Despite the refusal to let Dain safeguard the corpses, Sir Damiend spared no time for burying the dead. Instead, he left the task to the Thirst contingent, saying the prince must be taken home without delay.  For half the night, working by torchlight, Dain, Sir Alard, and Sir Terent collected the bodies, ferrying them across while Sir Bowin and Sir Polquin dug the graves on the far bank. This grim task was made even worse because it was their friends and comrades they buried. Just when Dain thought himself too numb to grieve anymore, he would find a friend or surrogate uncle and memories would flood him with overwhelming emotions. Finding Sir Roye, Lord Odfrey’s fierce old protector, among the dead had been particularly heart-wrenching. Dain and Sir Roye had never gotten along, and yet they were not enemies. Sir Roye had disapproved of Dain and distrusted him because he was eldin, but he had also saved Dain’s skin more than once. He had even been occasionally kind. Now he lay dead, his body mutilated and torn from terrible bite wounds. Dain bound his limbs tightly to his body with rope, as they lacked shroud cloth for the task, and gently laid the old protector to his rest. Tears ran down Dain’s dirt-streaked face, and he was not ashamed to weep for such a valiant warrior.  Sulein sat watch over Lord Odfrey, who lay on his blankets as white and still as death. “No change,” Sulein said each time Dain stopped to check on the chevard.  Thum turned up alive after all, his head bloody from where he’d been knocked unconscious. Dazed and not sure of who he was, he sat like a ghost in the firelight while Lyias tried to coax him into eating meal cakes.  Dain was too weary to be glad his friend had survived. He knew that on the morrow he would rejoice, but right then all he could do was stay numb in order to perform the terrible task of dispatching the dead.

There is war coming, he thought as he dragged another body into position. A terrible, costly war. For the first time, he understood the importance of politics, the arrangement of treaties and the preservation of alliances. Gant was absorbing Nether, the great and once-powerful ally of Mandria. When it finished feeding on that kingdom, then it would turn its jaws on Klad or Nold or even Mandria—not to nibble with these increasingly bold raids, but to devour.  Tipping back his head to the cold stars above, Dain prayed, Let us be strong enough to defeat them, O Thod. Give each of us the strength of ten men. Empower our swords against the darkness. Let us drive them back.  In the past year, he had striven to become a warrior. He’d trained hard, afterward listening to stories of fighting glory in the guardhouse. He’d seen the scars and limps. He’d dreamed of battle, yearning to be in the thick of it.  Well, now he had been. As he grimly helped dig the soft, crumbling soil, he understood at last that all the glory, honors, banquet feasts, and songs sung by the guardhouse fire were just ways to forget the screams of the dying. Battle was fast, dirty, and terrifying. Battle was feeling your own entrails melt with fear. And sometimes, instead of victory and songs, there were defeat, death, and a sick, shaky aftermath.

Sir Polquin, sweating and slowed by his own injuries, mumbled the words of ritual over the corpses. Dain knelt and touched them one by one, secretly leaving a little sprinkling of salt in each man’s mouth. If the others guessed what he was doing under cover of darkness, they did not stop him.  Then they all worked to fill in the long, shallow grave. By the time they finished, the moon had risen to shine among her court of stars, glittering cold, pale light within the rushing waters of the Charva. The breeze blew sweetly against Dain’s sweating face. He found himself reeling with exhaustion, and when the silent ferryman took them back across the water for the last time, Dain lay slumped against the side with his fingers trailing in the cool waters.  The river had many voices—some fast, some slow—all murmuring a deep, low song of mountain ice, and hot plain, and endless sea. Onward, onward, the voices sang.  Onward to the sea. To be, to be. To be onward to the sea.  The song was elemental, primitive, ancient. It was all rush and instinct, with nothing soothing about it, nothing calming. Dain sighed and closed it from his mind.

When the ferry touched shore, Dain staggered up the bank to where Sulein sat tending the crackling fire and looking haggardly up at the woods on the hill above them.

“How does he?” Dain asked with a gesture at the sleeping Lord Odfrey.  “He lives,” Sulein said flatly. He handed Dain a cup of something, and for once Dain drank it without even a single sniff of suspicion.  The liquid was warm and tasted of spices and something fermented. Dain felt a tingling sensation spread through his limbs. Before he knew it, he was sitting down. “Have to spread salt,” he said thickly. “Have to keep watch.” Someone near him groaned and the others sank to the ground. Sir Bowin flung himself flat on his back. Sir Alard knelt as though his knees had given under him. Sir Terent dropped like a stone and began to snore immediately.  “Can’t move camp to other side,” Dain said, struggling to fit his tongue to his thoughts. “Safe there, but—” “The chevard must not be moved,” Sulein said sternly.  Dain nodded. “Not safe here. Got to watch.”

“Aye,” Sir Alard said in a voice that dragged with exhaustion. “We know they’ll come back before dawn. They always do.”

Sulein had removed his odd hat. His thick, wiry hair spread around his head in a frizzy corona as he shook his head. “Trouble yourselves about it no longer, my friends. I will see that they don’t return for the dead tonight.” Dain smelled something burning and knew Sulein was casting spells. He prayed they worked, then fell over into a deep, dreamless sleep.  In the morning, Dain awakened with his head very clear and only a horrid, metallic taste in his mouth to remind him that he’d taken one of Sulein’s potions. He was young enough for his body to have recovered from the previous day’s exertions. But his heart remained troubled and sore.  He went at once to Lord Odfrey’s side. The chevard looked terrible. His face had turned the color of wet ashes. His closed eyes were sunken in his skull. Flies buzzed around his blood-encrusted surcoat. He smelled of death, yet as long as he continued to breathe Dain vowed to keep hope.

He gripped Lord Odfrey’s cold, slack hand in his and sent Sulein a look of determination. “If he lived through the night, that is a good sign. He is strong.”

Sulein’s dark eyes held compassion but nothing else. In silence he bowed and went away, leaving Dain to sit with his father. Sir Terent stood nearby, watching sadly.

Beyond the little canopy that had been erected to shelter the chevard, the morning sunlight blazed down on the scuffed and torn ground of the campsite. The kine had not yet been yoked to the wagons. They lowed from the hillside, where Lyias had taken them to graze, and one of the horses nickered back in answer.  Everything seemed faintly unreal, as though time had slowed down. One of the banners still lay torn and bloodied on the ground. A dead horse nearby was starting to swell. Soon it would stink. They had to leave before long, as soon as Lord Odfrey improved enough to travel. The other injured men had all died in the night.

Dain bowed his head, closing away his worries and concentrating on Lord Odfrey.  The chevard’s life force was ebbing far too low, but Dain refused to give up hope. “You are my father now,” he said aloud, “and you will live. You will not be taken from me. You are strong, lord. You will recover, and we’ll ride home together.”

Lord Odfrey opened his eyes. They were nearly black with a pain so terrible that Dain wanted to look away. But he forced himself to meet Lord Odfrey’s gaze. He smiled, and Lord Odfrey’s lips quivered in an effort to smile back.  “Dain,” he said, his voice a mere husk of sound.

“Gently, lord,” Dain replied. “You must not waste your strength in talk.”

“Listen. You are my ... son. Must go on ... go to king.”

“We’ll go later,” Dain told him. “When you are well, then we will go.” Lord Odfrey tried to shake his head, but the effort clearly was beyond his strength. His face turned even paler, leaving his dark eyes burning like two coals.

“My son,” he insisted.

Dain tightened his grip on Lord Odfrey’s hand in an effort to quiet him. “Yes, I am your son,” he said. “Now you must rest.”

“My blessing ... on you,” Lord Odfrey said, struggling. “Take the warrant.

Have... king sign. You must, Dain. Promise... promise me.” Tears filled Dain’s eyes. He looked up frantically and saw Sulein a short distance away. The physician was watching, and when he saw Dain’s expression of panic, he came hurrying over. The other knights and Thum followed, all of them gathering around.

“I promise,” Dain said to Lord Odfrey, his voice shaking with grief. “But please live, lord. I want you to take me before the king. I don’t want to go alone.  It’s not worth anything alone.”

His tears choked up his voice, and he sobbed in silence, unable to say more.  Lord Odfrey’s fingers moved a little within the harsh grip of Dain’s hand. “My son,” he said, and released a great moaning sigh.

He was dead.

Dain wept over him. In the hot sunshine, the others knelt and drew their Circles in silence. Finally someone began to say a prayer aloud. It was Thum, his wits having returned. His soft, clear voice wavered and choked, and his freckled face looked pale and weary beneath the bandage swathing his head, but he grimly went through the whole prayer.

For Lord Odfrey’s sake, Dain said the responses with the others. But in his heart, he knew he remained a pagan still, for the prayer gave him no comfort. He was too full of loss, so sharp it stabbed him inside. He had known this man not yet a full year, but Lord Odfrey had been all he’d ever yearned for in a father, a man of worth and valor, a man he’d wanted to emulate with all his heart. Lord Odfrey, while no true kin of his, had taken Dain in, shown him kindness, given him a home, and eventually offered him everything. To Dain, the offer of adoption wasn’t about wealth or property or position. The acceptance, the trusting affection which Lord Odfrey had shown him had meant the most of all.  And now this stern man with the tender heart would never ride home to his beloved Thirst again. He would never stride the ramparts of his hold, his angular profile turned to the marshlands while he surveyed the fields. He would never again bellow in anger, or allow the corners of his mouth to soften in amusement. He had outlived his lady wife, whose marriage ring he still wore. He had outlived the frail son of his loins. He had carried his grief and his disappointments through life without complaint. Valiant and courageous, he had been brave and true to the last.

He should have died old and safe in front of his own fire, with his dogs at his feet, Dain thought ruefully, but instead here he was lying cold on a blanket on the ground, mourned by a handful, forgotten already by the prince he had sworn to protect.

Dain did not know how long he sat there, numb and lost, with Lord Odfrey’s hand still gripped in his, but at last he was roused by a gentle shaking of his shoulder.

Slowly Dain glanced up, and saw Sir Terent standing over him, silhouetted against the midday sun. “It’s time to go, lad,” he said in a soft, kind voice.  “Time to take our poor lord home.”

Dain nodded, although his throat choked up again so much he could not speak. He got to his feet and stood out of the way as Sir Terent tenderly pulled the ends of the blanket over Lord Odfrey and bound it around him with cords. Then Sir Terent carried him away to place him in one of the wagons.  In silence Thum came to stand beside Dain, offering mute comfort with his presence.

Quietly he said, “It’s time to go, Dain. Everyone is ready.” Dain was staring sightlessly at the river “Dain?”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not going back,” Dain said. The words came out without thought. He’d made no conscious decision. But he felt right about what he was saying. He knew what he had to do.

“What do you mean you’re not going back?” Thum asked in bewilderment. “Of course you are. Thirst is yours now.”

“Is it?” Dain asked sharply.

“You aren’t going to throw it away. Dain, it’s a tremendous inheritance. Don’t

be a fool—”

“I’m not. I gave him my promise.”

“Then let’s take him home,” Thum said sadly.

“I can’t go there. I have to go to Savroix.”

“It will wait.”

“No, nothing is legal. I dare not wait.” Dain turned his head to frown at Thum.  “That’s what he was trying to tell me. He made me promise I would go straight to the king. Without his majesty’s seal, the adoption is not legal, no matter what Lord Odfrey wished.”

“Oh,” Thum said, blinking. “Then as soon as he’s buried in the chapel, you’ll have to set out.”

“No, I’m going now. Delay will only cause me trouble.”

Thum looked shocked, and Dain frowned at him. “How long would you have me wait?” “Long enough to see him respectfully laid to rest and his soul sent to the Beyond,” Thum said. “It’s any son’s duty to his father.” “And what happens if I see him settled under the rites, and lose the king’s goodwill?” Dain asked. “I’m almost halfway to Savroix now. Gavril journeys ahead of me. He will have plenty of time to turn the king’s mind against my petition, unless I follow closely.”

“Do you think Gavril will care?” Thum asked. “He has much awaiting him. There’s his investiture and his betrothal and—” “I think Gavril will not forget to do me whatever ill he can,” Dain said.  “Perhaps not in the next few days—you’re right in saying he will be busy. But if I go home to mourn, I am only giving him time to remember. He hates me, Thum.” “Aye, that’s true.”

“I have to do this for Lord Odfrey. He made me promise.” Dain shot Thum a wild look. “I can’t go back on my promise. Not to him!”

“Easy. We all witnessed it. We know what you have to do.” Thum squared his thin shoulders. “I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to. Your duties are over.”

“Then I’ll swear myself to your service,” Thum said fiercely. “Only don’t send me away!”

“All right,” Dain said with a blink. He was grateful for Thum’s loyalty and glad of his friendship. He did not know how to say either of those things, however, so he just nodded awkwardly and went back to frowning at the river. “Of course you may go with me, but not as a servant.”

“You’ll need a squire.”

“I’m not a knight yet,” Dain said. “All I need is a friend at my back.”

“Then I’m with you,” Thum said with a smile.

Sir Polquin came limping over to them. He looked cross, hot, and ravaged with grief. “It’s time to go.”

“I’m taking Lord Odfrey’s petition to the king,” Dain said.  “Aye, lad. We’ll send you there in finery and fanfare, with half our knights at your back, and the banners flying,” Sir Polquin said. “But first we take Lord Odfrey home and put him to his rest.”

“You must do it,” Dain said. “You and Sir Terent and Sir Alard. He wanted me to go straight to the king. He knew what will happen if I do not.” “There’s political maneuvering, and then there’s moral duty,” Sir Polquin began stiffly. “You must—” By then, however, Sir Terent had joined them. “What’s the delay?” he demanded, handing Lord Odfrey’s document pouch to Dain. “Your horse is saddled, m’lord.  I’ve seen you supplied with food and a waterskin. If you’re careful, you should have enough to last you all the way to Savroix.”

Dain took the document pouch in his hands, feeling a new lump choke his throat.  The pouch was made of sturdy leather, much worn from years of use. Lord Odfrey’s hands had knotted it shut only yesterday morning.

After a slight hesitation, Dain unknotted the flap and dug through the papers until he found the one bearing Lord Odfrey’s seal at the top and the petition carefully penned below it. Dain frowned at it, recognizing it only because Lord Odfrey had shown it to him. And although he could even read some of it now, he bit his lip and thrust it at Thum.

“Is this the petition?” he asked, while his face flamed with embarrassment.

“Aye,” Thum said quietly.

Dain folded it up and tucked it inside his doublet for safe-keeping. He closed the pouch and started to hand it to Sir Terent. “If you will take this to Thirst for—” “Nay!” Sir Terent said, raising both meaty hands in rejection. “The chevard goes nowhere without that close by. Copies of all the warrants, land grants, and deeds are in it. It’s too important to leave about.”

“Oh.” Dain tucked it under his arm, wanting to die from mortification. He realized how hopelessly ignorant he was, how ill-prepared and unworthy of the position that had been given to him. Lord Odfrey had been responsible for a tremendous number of people and lands. He read dispatches daily and wrote letters and reports, kept accounts, judged disputes, and accorded settlements.  Dain himself could barely read and had only just learned to scratch out his name. He could be no leader of men, for he himself was not yet a man.  “This unbearded sprout wants to abandon his lordship and ride straight to Savroix,” Sir Polquin growled. “Thinks only of the petition.” “And rightly so,” Sir Terent said. As Sir Polquin’s jaw dropped open, Sir Terent dropped to one knee before Dain. “My oath of service and loyalty is given to you, Lord Dain. Whether the king grants your petition or not, I know what Lord Odfrey wished. That do I follow, with all my heart.”

Bowing his head, he drew his sword and lifted it, hilt-first, to Dain.  Astonished and touched, Dain could only stand there a moment with his throat choked up. Then he gathered his wits and touched Sir Terent’s sword hilt lightly. “Thank you,” he said, his voice mangled by his effort to control it. “I do accept your oath.”

“Wait there!” Sir Alard called out. He came hurrying over and was there by the time Sir Terent had regained his feet. “What are you doing, Terent? Swearing fealty with Lord Odfrey not yet in his grave?”

“We’re far from Thirst,” Sir Terent said flatly. “What would you have me do? I heard Lord Odfrey’s dying words, heard him bless Dain as his son and heir. I will serve Thirst all my days, to my last breath. And with Thirst, I serve its chevard, new or old.”

Sir Alard’s frown deepened, and he said nothing else.  Red came surging up Sir Polquin’s stout neck into his jowls. He squinted at Sir Terent and muttered beneath his breath. Dain expected him to swear and stride away, but instead he lowered himself to his knees and raised the hilt of his sword.

“So do I swear my oath to Dain, chevard of Thirst,” he said gruffly, then glared at Sir Alard. “Well?”

The tall, slim knight hesitated only a moment longer, then also knelt. Before he could speak, Sir Terent turned and bellowed, “Sir Bowin! Come here at once!” As the last knight came hurrying over, Sir Polquin and Sir Alard remained kneeling. Dain barely knew Sir Bowin, who was taciturn to the point of unfriendliness. Without hesitation, the knight gave Dain a curt nod and knelt beside Sir Alard.

“Has to be done,” he said, as though to himself, and drew his sword.  The oaths were given. Dain touched each of their sword hilts, feeling once again as though he was moving in a dream. He was incredibly grateful to them. And although he understood that their loyalty was given more to Lord Odfrey and the hold than to him personally, Dain did not care. He felt humbled by their devotion, and he told himself he must work hard to live up to what was expected of him.

And his first task, he knew, must be to secure his inheritance.

Squaring his shoulders, he faced the knights and Thum, who stood quietly nearby.  “Thank you,” he said, keeping his words simple. “I value your loyalty more than I can say. I will strive to keep myself worthy of it.”

Sir Polquin looked at him fiercely. The master of arms was not an unkind man, but his standards were always high.

“Lord Odfrey saw the potential in you. See that you live up to it.”

“I will,” Dain promised, and cleared his throat. “Sir Terent?”

“M’lord?”

It felt strange, having Sir Terent address him with such respect. Dain frowned.  “You and the others will escort the chevard’s body home, while—” “Nay,” Sir Terent said crisply.

Flustered by this refusal to follow his first order as their new master, Dain scowled at him. “What do you—” “For the past six years I’ve been the knight champion of Thirst Hold,” Sir Terent said. His ruddy face looked as stern and determined as Dain had ever seen it. “For six years I’ve entered the king’s tourney, and never have I won.” Sir Alard stared at him with his mouth agape. “How can you think of the tourney at a time like—” Sir Polquin elbowed him in the ribs and growled something to keep him quiet.  Sir Terent ignored the interruptions and went on looking squarely at Dain. “I haven’t won, but neither have I ever come in last,” he went on. “I’m seasoned in countless campaigns. I’ve been fighting since I was seventeen. I’ve still got my eyes, and I’m quick on my feet. If you’ll have me, m’lord, I’d be honored to serve as your knight protector.”

Dain’s mouth fell open.

Sir Alard’s mouth grew pinched. “So you’ll jump for promotion in spite of—” “Hush that,” Sir Polquin said gruffly. “This is no time for jealousy, man. Think on it! Who else among us can serve the lad better?”

“It isn’t being done properly,” Sir Alard insisted. “There should be a contest among all the Thirst knights above—” “Bah!” Sir Polquin said. “We’ve no time for that. If Lord Dain is to ride straight to Savroix, he must be protected.”