“But, Sir Polquin—”

“Damne, boy!” the master of arms cried in exasperation.  “If you’re to be a lord, you must learn to act like one! That means you watch from the stands, with your entourage with you. We ain’t much, by Thod, but we’re men of Thirst and have our honor. Enough and have done.” Dain bowed his head meekly and protested no more. But inside, he chafed at all the restrictions they put on him.

“Have patience, Dain,” Sulein said to him later, while they were all pulling off their boots and piling into the bed together like dogs, snarling and pushing to make space. Lyias, as the servant, slept curled on the floor. Privately Dain thought he had the best spot in the room. Sulein tugged at Dain’s arm to regain his attention. “All will come in its good time. Your name will resound across the land one day.”

Dain glanced at him impatiently. “Have you finished casting my horoscope?” “Not all of it. You were born under very complex conjunctions, but I have seen enough to know that much greatness lies ahead of you.” Dain did not entirely believe him. He knew the ambitions Sulein harbored. He knew also that he had made his choice to take Lord Odfrey’s rank, instead of pursuing the identity that the vision king had given him.  “All I want is to see King Verence,” Dain said. “Patience,” Sulein advised him, patting his shoulder. “Patience is necessary for all things.” The light was put out, and they settled down. Soon snoring filled the room and shook the bed like thunder.

Lying awake, Dain frowned in the darkness. He felt both uneasy and excited about tomorrow. Most of all, he felt eaten alive with impatience to make things happen. He’d never imagined it was so difficult to reach the king’s attention.  He knew that King Verence would want to know the news about Lord Odfrey’s death.  But there were too many men—these servants and chamberlains—in the way. They chose whom King Verence saw. They decided when and where. It was frustrating, and being told to have patience did not help at all.

I must make something happen, Dain decided as he closed his eyes. Even if I have to climb into the king’s box tomorrow, I must find a way to reach him.  Later that night, Dain dreamed he was walking in the moonlight. The ocean rushed and ebbed nearby, crashing on the shoreline, only to recede with bubbles of foam that glowed eerie white on the dark sand. The salty air smelled sharp and damp in his nostrils, and he was cold enough to shiver as he plodded along.  Then another, far less pleasant odor came to him. Dain halted, his head lifting in alarm. He stared into the darkness and listened hard for what came. His ears picked up no sound but the restless crash and stir of the water.  The smell grew more pungent, and then he saw the creature coming from a distance. Although it was far off, and the moonlight dim, Dain could see every detail of the beast.

Taller than a horse, it pranced forward on black, razor-sharp hooves. Its long, sinuous neck whipped back and forth with suspicion as it came, and fire blazed within its nostrils. Its eyes were an unholy red, glowing in the darkness. He could hear the hiss of acid dripping from its fangs, burning the sand into little droplets of glass. When it rumbled deep in its throat, he felt the violent wash of its hatred against his mind.

The Nonkind could not come to lower Mandria, Dain reminded himself, but the hold of his dream was strong. When he tried to back away from the creature, his bare feet stuck in the sand and he could not move.

He reached for his dagger, but found himself clad only in his leggings for sleeping. He had no weapons.

Fear curled in the back of his throat. His heart began to pound. Swiftly he grasped the pendant of bard crystal which hung about his neck and held it tight for courage.

“Faldain,” said a voice.

It was deep, commanding, and somehow familiar.

Dain turned his head, trying to see from whence it came. The shore was empty, however, except for him and the approaching darsteed. When Dain looked back at the beast, to his surprise he found it now carried a rider.  The man astride the evil creature was broad-shouldered and erect. He rode his mount like a god, his stern visage keen-eyed and beautiful, his long black hair blowing back in the wind. A gold breastplate and the circlet around his brow told of his kingly rank. His muscular arms bulged as he drew back on the reins, halting the darsteed before Dain. The darsteed hissed and snapped its poisonous jaws, glaring red-eyed at Dain, while its mind beat against his:

Eat/eat/eat/eat.

Dain paid it no more attention, however. His fear had faded when he saw who rode the animal. For it was the king of his previous vision, the king who had warned him in Thirst Hall just before the shapeshifter attacked.  “Faldain,” the vision said now. His deep voice sent a shiver through Dain. “Long have I waited for you.”

“I am here, Great One,” Dain replied. “What do you want of me?”

“Far are you from the quest,” the vision replied. “Go back to it.”

Dain frowned. He did not understand what this ghostly king wanted him to do.

“What quest?” he asked, spreading wide his hands. “I know not what you mean.” “The Chalice of Eternal Life is lost from its people, Faldain. They suffer because of its absence. Find the Chalice and restore it to Nether. This is your kingly duty.”

Dain gulped and hastily gripped his bard crystal again. Only royalty may wear king’s glass, whispered a voice in the back of his mind. It was the only possession he had from his lost past, the only possible proof for an impossible claim.

“King?” he echoed, his voice thin there on the moonlit beach. The surf roared and thundered around them. Stepping closer to the darsteed, which hissed in warning, Dain stared up through the gloom into the vision’s pale eyes. “Do you t-tell me, Great One, that I am the m-missing k-king of Nether?” He could barely say the words. His mouth was so dry he was stammering and nearly choking.

The vision bowed his head and pointed at Dain. “You are king by blood and divine right.”

“Thod’s mercy!” Dain said, gulping again. He stared, his mouth agape. “But I am a nameless bastard, raised by—” “You are Prince Faldain, son of King Tobeszijian and Queen Nereisse, princess of the eld folk. You are brother to Princess Thiatereika, now a spirit of light in the third world with her beloved mother.”

Dain drank in the words, barely able to believe them, yet it was as though years of shame fell from his spirit. His head lifted, and his heart expanded in wonder and amazement. He was not a bastard. He had a family, lineage, a history. And this ...

“Years ago did I conceal you in the Dark Forest with Jorb the swordmaker,” the vision said to him. “It was the only way to save your life.” “Are you my father?” Dain whispered.

“Return to Nether,” the vision told him. “The hearts of your subjects call out pleas for help. You alone can save them from Muncel the Oppressor.” Dain’s mind was spinning. The enormity of all this had stunned him, yet he knew he could not go about proclaiming his newfound identity. “I need proof of who I am,” he said aloud. “No one here will believe me.”

“You fear that which is no danger, Faldain,” the vision told him sternly, “and fail to prepare for that which is a true threat. Find the Chalice of Eternal Life and return it to Nether. That will prove you to all men.” “But the Chalice is only a myth,” Dain protested. He thought of how Gavril had searched the Dark Forest for it and failed. He thought of the entwined legends and tales told about the mysterious missing Chalice. No one alive knew where the sacred vessel was hidden. But if this ghost told him and he could indeed find it... A shiver of anticipation ran through Dain.

“How can I find a myth?” Dain asked. “Where do I go?” The ghost’s pale eyes seemed to be all swirling mist and shadow. They stared into Dain, and he felt cold to his very marrow. “You know how to find it. Look within your memories.”