“Dain—”

“No. Something inside me knows that if the king leaves on the morrow without having heard my petition, he will never hear it.”

“How can you know that?”

“Call it my eld blood. I just know.” Dain looked at Thum earnestly. “I must do this. I must take my chances now.”

“But it’s madness to try.”

Dain frowned. “What risk lies in wandering about among the other knights?”

“What risk?” Thum’s voice cracked, and he coughed. “Damne, how can you ask that?  If you’re caught, you risk your entire investiture. Some of the knights might forgive you for wearing armor out of rank, but others will not. Do you want to be denied your knighthood just because you cannot hold your impatience?” “Have you ever known me to be wrong?”

A thoughtful look entered Thum’s green eyes. He met Dain’s stare without flinching. “No, not when it mattered.”

“Then trust me now. I cannot wait. I will not wait, not until I have tried everything I can. The king will talk to me, Thum, if only I can reach him. He was Lord Odfrey’s friend. He will want to know about... about all that happened.”

“Aye,” Thum said gloomily. “Perhaps you are right.”

“Come, then. Let’s go to Sir Terent quickly.”

“He won’t agree to this. Or even if he does, Sir Polquin won’t.” Dain gnawed on his lip. “Then you must lure them away, and Lyias too, if he’s guarding their gear. I will take the armor.”

“Dain—”

“Hush, Thum. We’ve been through all that.”

“But what if Sir Terent has not removed his mail?”

“He must. By the rules of the joust, no man not in competition may wear—” “You’re right,” Thum agreed. He sighed, looking much troubled.  Dain waited only a moment, his impatience growing. “Well?” he demanded.

Thum held out his thin hand. “I am with you, to the last. Win or fail.”

“Win or fail,” Dain repeated, making it an oath, and gripped Thum’s hand hard.  “Hurry,” Prince Gavril snapped to his servant, twisting impatiently beneath the man’s fingers. “Can’t you finish the buckles? What is wrong with you today?” “Sorry, your highness,” the man whispered, intent on his work. “Just...  finishing ... now.” He stepped back and gestured in triumph. “Most handsome indeed.”

Even through the stone walls of the guardhouse, Gavril could hear the cheers and shouts of the crowd. He tilted his golden head, listening to the noise and wishing the cheers were for him. Well, he told himself, they would be soon enough.

He turned around and looked at his reflection. His new chain mail gleamed brightly even in the muted light in here in this semi-underground room. In the sunshine, it would dazzle everyone. Smiling to himself, Gavril ran his hands down the front of his hauberk and glanced past the Reverend Sir Damiend toward another figure standing in the shadows.

“Well?” he asked.

Cardinal Noncire waddled slowly forward into the light. His spotless robes gleamed white. His yellow sash of office girded his broad middle. His small, dark eyes regarded Gavril solemnly.

“Turn about,” he commanded softly.

Gavril obeyed him, feeling almost giddy with excitement. His emotions were rushing about inside him nearly beyond his control. In a few minutes he would be out there, acknowledged a man at last by his father’s subjects. The king had expected him to sit in the royal box until it was time for his part in the tourney, but Gavril had long planned this surprise.

“Yes,” Noncire said at last. “It will do.”

Faint praise, but Gavril grinned at the cardinal in satisfaction. “Isn’t it fine? I wanted a breastplate, but that fool armorer said he could not finish the work by today.”

Sir Damiend cleared his throat, but it was Noncire who said, “The breastplate is perhaps more appropriate for later, your highness.”

“What, after my investiture?” Gavril asked, turning around again to look at his reflection. He shifted his shoulders beneath the weight of the double-linked mail, pleased by how heavy it was. “But that’s merely a formality—” “Do not say so, your highness,” Noncire corrected him. His voice was, as always, soft, gentle, and very precise.

However, Gavril caught a subtle tone in it that made him stop his preening and look over his shoulder. “Well, it is,” he said, but with less assurance. “I can’t be turned down, after all.”

“Perhaps not,” Noncire said while Sir Damiend frowned. “But it is not courteous to say so.”

“Oh ... courtesy.” Shrugging, Gavril returned to his reflection.  “The knighthood vows are sacred,” Sir Damiend said, as though he could no longer hold his tongue. “They must be uttered with reverent sincerity and a true heart.”

Annoyed, Gavril shot the church knight a cool look. “I believe I know the correct attitude for the ceremony,” he replied. “My spurs, please.” Sir Damiend cleared his throat, but Noncire made a slight gesture with his plump hand, and Sir Damiend retreated with a bow.

Gavril’s servant scurried forward with the new spurs of gleaming gold. Kneeling, he buckled them on. Gavril stamped his feet, pleased by the sound the rowels made.

“Aren’t they fine?” he asked, and snapped his fingers. “Kels, the helmet.

Quickly!”

The servant handed the helmet to him. It was steel, plated with gold, and intricately carved all over, with a tall crest of hammered gold plumes on top.  Gavril held it up between his two hands and stared at Noncire with shining blue eyes.

“At last!” he said, triumph in his voice.

“Very fine indeed, your highness,” Noncire said.

But there was no enthusiasm in his voice. Gavril’s brows pulled together, and he lowered the helmet slowly. “You don’t like it,” he said in disappointment. “I thought you, most of all, would be pleased by the entrance I shall make.” “It is premature, your highness,” Noncire said.

Gavril’s frown deepened. He hated argument, especially when his mind was made up. Noncire’s criticism hurt him. To hide it, he chose defiance. “I do not see why.”

“Of course you do,” the cardinal replied evenly, “and you have chosen to take these actions despite convention.”

“I do not wish to be conventional,” Gavril said sullenly. “I am Prince of the Realm. The people must learn to take heed of me.”

“They will. Have no fear of that,” Noncire assured him. “However, your father stands to be disappointed by this.”

“I intend to surprise him.”

“You will succeed there,” Noncire said. “However, this is his majesty’s birthday, and his light should shine brighter today than yours.” Scowling, Gavril said nothing.

“The contest of swords is your father’s way of making a grand ceremony out of a simple act of custom. When a son enters knighthood, his father passes on his sword. His majesty intends to give you his blade and his spurs and—” “—his old mail. Yes, I know that,” Gavril broke in impatiently. “What of it? I would rather have my own, everything new and made for me, than his castoffs.” Noncire’s fat face never altered expression, but something flickered in his beady eyes. Gavril met his stare for a moment, unabashed by the silence of disapproval. He did not care what the cardinal thought. This was a day of battle, not of piety. Gavril knew what was best for himself, and he intended to prove it to everyone else. He was a boy no longer, seeking guidance and education. He was a man, able to stand by his own judgment and decisions. He had wanted to surprise his father this day by presenting him with the Chalice, found and recovered. It would have been a momentous occasion. The people would have rejoiced beyond all measure. The king would have been astonished and amazed.  Everyone would have praised and honored Gavril to the highest.  Instead, he had no Chalice to offer. That meant he had to create another, different surprise in its place. His new armor was a poor substitute for the original plan, but it would do well enough.

“Only one more day, your highness,” Noncire was saying. “Surely some patience—” “No!” Gavril said rudely. He tucked the helmet beneath his arm and walked over to pick up his new sword. The moment his fingers closed about the scabbard, a tingle shot through his flesh. He felt a surge of strength and power. He straightened his shoulders, feeling invincible, and faced the cardinal arrogantly. “One would think, lord cardinal, that you dare to disapprove of my actions.”

Noncire blinked and tried to mask his surprise by bowing as low as his fat body would permit. “Indeed not, your highness.”

“You come very close to criticism,” Gavril told him. “What passes today, tonight, and on the morrow lies between the king and myself.” Noncire spread out his plump hands. “Very well, your highness.” Belting on Tanengard, Gavril felt himself growing even stronger. Angrily, he glared at the cardinal. A few minutes from hence, he would be facing the champion, Lord Roberd. Gavril intended to defeat the man. With Tanengard he could do it. He would be the champion of the tourney, and the knights would respect him. All would cheer his name, and no one would doubt his prowess as a warrior. In the next few weeks, as he began urging his father and the ministers to wage a war of annexation against Klad, they would listen to him as a man and a fighter of distinction. Gavril intended to be the commander of those forces.  Today’s victory was simply the first small step toward achieving his goals.  “I would have your blessing for my victory to come, lord cardinal,” Gavril said, and he made the statement a command.

Noncire’s eyes were stony within their layers of fat, but he raised his hand and drew a Circle in the air. Softly he chanted the words of benediction, while Gavril prayed with him.

When the cardinal finished, Gavril straightened. He glanced toward the shadows, where Sir Damiend waited. The church knight had been designated Gavril’s temporary protector for today. Gavril had been thrilled, for he admired Sir Damiend’s fighting prowess very much. But Sir Damiend was not the same man he’d been during their journey here from upper Mandria. He’d made no secret of his disapproval of Gavril’s fighting today. Of course he was a stern, conservative, pious man, but to Gavril he seemed suddenly old-fashioned and unnecessarily critical of Gavril’s plans to flaunt the ancient rules of knighthood. What did a day matter? Gavril asked himself yet once again. It was all a giant formality.  Why not hasten the whole procedure and stop making such a mystery of it?

“Sir Damiend,” Gavril said sharply, “I am ready to proceed.” The commander of the church soldiers strode forward, exchanging a silent look with Cardinal Noncire as he fell into step behind Gavril. The prince noticed, and his annoyance grew. Until today, he had looked up to both these men. But they were not his masters, and if necessary he would teach them that lesson.  Gavril walked out of the guardhouse and up a flight of steps into the sunlight.  It was so bright in the ready pen he had to squint until his eyes adjusted. A servant was waiting with his mount, a fine new warhorse beautifully trained.  Armored and saddled, the horse tossed its noble head and pawed the ground impatiently. Hanging at Gavril’s side, Tanengard seemed to blaze within its scabbard. It was all Gavril could do not to seize the hilt and draw it. He wanted to charge full-tilt, swinging the weapon and shouting at the top of his lungs.

Somehow, he controlled himself and kept his composure while he was assisted into the saddle. He fitted on his helmet, leaving the visor up, for it limited his vision more than he’d expected.

Sir Damiend mounted his own horse with athletic grace. The breeze caught the man’s lightweight cloak and streamed it out over the hindquarters of his horse.  Gavril laughed aloud and spurred his mount. “Away!” he called, gesturing to the servants to pass the word.

By the time he reached the gates separating him from the tourney enclosure, Gavril heard his name being shouted forth by the heralds. Trumpets sounded flourishes, and the gates swung open.

Gavril rode forward, spurring his horse and reining it hard to make it leap and prance. The sun gleamed off his golden mail, turning him into a shining figure of light itself, glinting and radiant before them all.

The people gasped aloud, then surged to their feet with such enthusiasm the wooden stands swayed. “Prince Gavril!” they shouted, stamping and clapping.  “Prince Gavril! Prince Gavril!”

Beaming, Gavril swung his horse around and waved to the crowd as they acclaimed him. This was the most glorious moment he had ever known. Joy and pride filled him. He no longer cared that he’d failed to bring home the Chalice. The people loved him anyway. They loved him for himself, their prince and future king.  He smiled and waved, letting his horse prance and sidle, while the trumpets blared and the people went on cheering. And when at last he rode before the king’s box and bowed over his saddle, he took little note that King Verence sat there amidst his standing courtiers with a face like stone and his eyes cold indeed. The Lady Pheresa sat next to the king, wearing a gown of sky blue. Her blonde hair was coiled inside a jeweled net, and a winsome scarf fluttered from her slender white fingers. She looked pale beside the king; her large eyes stared at Gavril with reserve. He cared not; to him she was an insignificant detail, someone to be dealt with later.

“Father!” Gavril called out as the noise began to die down. “I come to fight before you. Cheer me on, majesty, that I may be assured of a victory!” The king leaned forward. Although he did not smile, he gave Gavril a jaunty wave. “Go forth, my son, and do well.”

Pleased, Gavril wheeled his horse around and cantered back and forth, while the people cheered him again. He did not notice that the king never smiled at him, or cheered, or clapped. Gavril had made the people love him, and that was all—in his mind—that mattered.

Clad in Sir Terent’s chain mail and battered old breastplate, and wearing no surcoat, Dain found the helmet to be immensely heavy and hotter than the desert of Gant. Sweat poured down his face and stung his eyes. He blinked and swore beneath his breath, guiding his restless horse through the milling crowd of still-mounted knights, all of whom were both dust-stained and blood-splattered.  Lord Roberd had beaten Sir Gilon in ferocious combat that had kept the crowd on its feet, cheering throughout. Dain had watched it all, and he was still caught up in the drama and excitement that it had provided. From their earlier chat, Lord Roberd and Sir Gilon had seemed like close friends on excellent terms. But they had fought like enemies, neither man giving quarter, each expending his all. Not until Sir Gilon lay flat on his back in the dust with Lord Roberd’s sword tip pressed to his gorget had the herald called a halt and proclaimed Lord Roberd’s victory.

Lord Roberd had sheathed his blade and given his friend a helping hand up. The two men had hugged each other, and Lord Roberd had supported his limping friend as they’d left the enclosure to thunderous applause.

Since then, there had been a period of rest, while serfs raked and resanded the field. Musicians played stirring tunes and men with trays of sweet pies and fruit roved about, hawking their wares. Servants set up an awning over the king’s box to cast shade against the merciless sun.

Lord Roberd did not return to claim his leafy crown of victory, which was now resting on a pillow in the king’s box. It was said a hefty purse of gold dreits lay beneath that crown.

When Gavril came forth, glittering like flame incarnate, Lord Roberd’s absence began to make the crowd restless.

The knights surrounding Dain in the ready pen were particularly impatient.

“Where’s Lord Roberd?” someone called out. “Where’s our champion?”

Laughter and hooting catcalls came in answer.

“Gone for a wineskin!” a merry voice shouted.

“Aye, the champion needs ale courage to face this opponent.” Looking back at the enclosure, Dain saw Gavril cantering back and forth before the stands, waving grandly while people cheered for him. When he came past the knights, many of them cheered too, but in mockery, not love.  Dain grinned to himself inside his helmet, glad to see that few knights admired Gavril, and hoped Lord Roberd would make a quick end of him.  “Thod’s teeth, he’s blinded me!” a voice said. “Did you ever see such a high polish on armor?”

More laughter broke out among the men. “I want Lord Roberd to maneuver him to that mud hole at the end of the list. That’s where his highness should be unhorsed.”

“What? And get his golden mail all muddy? Such a shame,” said another.  A wizened old knight with knobs of gray hair and a disfiguring scar sat slumped in his saddle. His helmet was tied to his saddle and his mail coif was shoved down around his neck. He spat in disgust. “Knaves and rascals, the lot of you are. Making merry sport of his highness, who ain’t got the right to be on that field, much less wearing mail. An insult to the knighthood, I call it.” “Aye,” muttered the man next to Dain. He twisted about impatiently in his saddle. “Ah, damne now, where is the fellow?”

“Think you that Lord Roberd has lost his nerve?” asked a knight who was missing his front teeth.

They roared with laughter at that one.

A squire came running up, out of breath and sweating beneath his cap. “Please, sir knights, make way that I may pass. I must speak to a herald.” “Let him through!”

They reined their horses aside, while more knights, long since eliminated from the contest and no longer attired in mail, came to join the throng of onlookers.  “That’s Lord Roberd’s squire. Hold up, boy! Where’s your master?” “Having another horse saddled,” the squire replied as he pushed past Dain’s mount. “His best charger—the one he was resting for this contest—has cast a shoe.”

A general groan of sympathy went up.

Out in the lists, Gavril drew rein at last to rest his lathered horse. The prince looked around impatiently as the common folk in the wooden stands began calling for action.

The squire went running across the field, and was met partway by one of the heralds in red livery. The boy delivered his message and came running back.  The herald rode over to the king and passed word to him. King Verence leaned forward to the edge of the box, listened, and nodded.  Watching him, Dain felt gnawing impatience. When the contest ended, he was going to ride up to the king’s box, exactly like the herald had done, and say Lord Odfrey’s name loudly. That should catch the king’s attention.  “Lord Roberd is delayed!” the herald announced.

He started to say something else, but Gavril stood up in his stirrups.  “Delayed!” he said in a voice of loud disbelief. Pulling off his helmet, he gazed around haughtily. “Or does he fear to meet his prince?” A hush fell over the stands, and the knight sitting next to Dain swore beneath his breath.

“Gods,” muttered someone else. “Does he mean to insult Lord Roberd?” “I have come to fight!” Gavril announced with supreme confidence. “If the champion will not meet me, then I challenge anyone else who will! Let my opponent come forth.”

Dain ignored the outraged voices around him and watched the king. His majesty was frowning and actually leaned forward as though to call out to Gavril, but then he settled back in his chair and did nothing. His face showed no expression at all. A fat man in white robes bent to speak to him. The king shook his head, and the fat man retreated.

It was bad, Dain thought, to shame one’s father. How heedless Gavril was of the feelings of others. It was not Lord Roberd’s fault he was delayed. Courtesy demanded that Gavril wait, but he went on boasting and calling out insults.  The knights around Dain began to mutter darkly. Dain frowned, still watching the king. He saw the pretty maid say something and gently touch the king’s sleeve.  His majesty smiled at her in reply, but his annoyance with his son was plain to see. Still, he did not call Gavril to order.

I would never cause my father such embarrassment, Dain thought.  “Will no one meet me?” Gavril shouted again, while a babble broke out across the stands.

“The young puppy!” said the old knight with the scar.  Dain could stand no more. Before he realized it, he was kicking his horse forward.

Laughing, the knights parted to make way for him. Their gleeful words of encouragement rang in his ears. “What-ho! The prince and the knight of mystery.” “Hirelance, I hope you put him in the mud.” As Dain rode into the enclosure, a delighted cheer rose from the wooden stands. The courtiers in the stone seats fell silent. Gavril wheeled his horse around to stare, then rode toward the lists for a lance. Dain thought he heard Sir Polquin’s bellow rising over the noise of the crowd. He looked up at the many faces, but saw no one he recognized. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, and yet he kept riding forward. Gavril had issued the challenge, had opened the contest to any opponent. Let him reap the consequences, Dain thought.  However, another horse and rider came forth to block Dain’s path. This was Sir Damiend, attired in silk doublet and fine cap for today’s occasion. The garb looked wrong on him. His lean aesthete’s face belonged atop serviceable mail and his church surcoat, not court fashion. But whether he wore mail today or not, the man remained a soldier to his marrow. Narrow-eyed with suspicion, he gestured for Dain to stop. When Dain obeyed, Sir Damiend looked him over from the top of his battered helmet to the tips of his plain brass spurs. Dain’s armor was old and rusted in places, despite having been soaked in oiled sand and relacquered before they’d set out for Savroix. It was also a poor fit. The mail sleeves were too long and kept bunching over the tops of Dain’s gauntlets. The padded undercoat he wore beneath the armor was too large in the chest and too narrow across the shoulders, causing the mail to chafe Dain in places. His gorget had been hastily laced on once he’d donned the coif, and Dain was sure it was crooked, the sign of an amateur. He carried Lord Odfrey’s sword and rode Sir Polquin’s horse, as it was fresher than Sir Terent’s, which had already been in the contest. The horse was a sturdy, experienced old charger, but its saddle was plain and worn and it had no armor cloth for its protection. Still, Dain thought, not every knight was able to afford the best equipment. Although he looked patched together, he told himself, he had no less right to be on the field than Gavril.

By now Dain was certain Sir Terent had seen him out here, if not Sir Polquin too. He wondered if Thum had found them, and what kind of explanation he was giving. They all—even Sulein—would be having a fit, but it was too late for them to stop him. He looked past Sir Damiend at the king, but his majesty was speaking to someone and paid Dain no heed at all.

“May I see your weapons, sir?”

His attention jumping back to Sir Damiend, Dain nodded and drew his sword. It was a plain but finely crafted weapon. The inscriptions were almost worn off the blade. Thinking of the man who had carried it, Dain felt a lump filling his throat. He handed it over, hilt-first, vowing anew to carry it with honor.  Sir Damiend gave the sword but a cursory glance, then examined Dain’s dagger.  Clearly he was checking for poison or other trickery. Dain sat quietly in his saddle, praying Sir Damiend would not ask him to remove his helmet.  He’d not intended to come out here for combat, but now that he was committed, he could feel his body quickening with excitement. The chance to meet Gavril, to put the prince down in defeat, was too tempting to resist. He could not wait to strike the first blow and dent Gavril’s pretty armor. “You wear no colors,” Sir Damiend said, handing back the dagger. “Are you a hirelance?” Dain pulled his wandering attention away from Gavril, who was shouting something to the wooden stands that was evoking a noisy response. “Nay, I am not.” “Your name, sir?” Sir Damiend demanded as the cheering grew even louder.  Dain hesitated a moment. If the herald announced his name, Gavril would know who was facing him and would insist Dain be thrown out. Dain’s future as a knight would be jeopardized for passing himself off falsely as a member of the knighthood. However, the king would hear his name spoken, and that might gain his majesty’s attention as nothing else could.

In any case, Dain was not going to lie. “I am D-Dain of Thirst,” he stammered out.

Just as he spoke, a tremendous roar came from the crowd, nearly drowning out his words. Sir Damiend frowned as though he did not understand. The noise around them increased, and Dain turned his head to look at what was causing the commotion.

Lord Roberd was riding into the enclosure. The champion made an awesome figure indeed. His black mail seemed to absorb the sunlight. His black-and-white-striped surcoat was a clean one, dazzlingly bold. His saddle and armor cloth were black, and he rode a stout white horse, snorting and prancing as it came. He carried the lance with the black and white spirals, and his pennant fluttered from it in the hot breeze. Black and white plumes waved from the top of his helmet. He looked monstrous in size, immensely powerful, and ready for combat.

Seeing him, Dain’s mouth went dry, and he knew his hopes for defeating Gavril were as the dust blowing around his horse’s feet.

The herald, bright in his red livery, came galloping up. Looking flustered, he glanced from Dain to Lord Roberd, who rode up to them and lifted his visor.  Close up, the champion revealed a weathered face and eyes that looked tired and serious indeed. He stared at Dain, who kept his visor closed. Dain’s heart was thumping hard. He told himself to bow out of this, while he could still escape.  “Ah, Lord Roberd,” the herald said with a little bow of respect. “There seems to be some confusion.”

“So I see,” Lord Roberd said, still staring at Dain. Finally he shifted his gaze back to the herald. “Was my message not brought?”

“Oh, aye, sir, it was indeed,” the herald replied. “But his highness ... um, Sir Damiend? Would you be kind enough to bring the prince to us?” The commander of the church soldiers wheeled his horse away and rode to Prince Gavril, who was already coming toward them, bearing his lance and clearly fuming with impatience.

“I am being kept waiting!” he complained as he reined up before them. His blue eyes glared at them all from within his helmet. “Am I to perish of the heat before I have an opponent?”

Lord Roberd bowed to him. “Forgive me, your highness. I was delayed by my horse, which cast a shoe.”

“Then you forfeit the contest to me,” Gavril said smugly. “Such are the rules, Lord Roberd.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Dull red crept into Lord Roberd’s face, and the herald’s mouth fell open.

Clearly Lord Roberd was not accustomed to being dismissed by young upstarts, whatever their rank.

Gavril turned his gaze on Dain. “As for you, sir. Have you been vetted by Sir Damiend?”

“I have examined his weapons,” Sir Damiend replied. “He wears no colors, but he swears he is not a hirelance.”

“On your honor?” Gavril asked Dain harshly.

That question was an insult to any man, of any rank, but Dain bowed to him. “On my honor,” he said very quietly.

“Your highness,” Sir Damiend broke in, “if the contest between you and Lord Roberd is now forfeit, then claim your victory and let this be at an end. There is no need to accept this stranger’s challenge.”

“Indeed not, your highness,” the herald agreed eagerly.  They all stared at Gavril, whose blue eyes shifted away. He rested his hand on Tanengard’s hilt, with its magnificent guard shaped in the form of gold ivy.  Even at this distance Dain could feel the humming power of the tainted sword.

“I have come to fight,” Gavril announced, “and fight I shall.”