“Then let it be with Lord Roberd—”

“Nonsense!” Gavril snapped. “He is dismissed. You,” Gavril said to Dain. “Are you ready to face me?”

Dain bowed. “Aye.”

“Then let’s get to it.” Without waiting for anyone else to speak, Gavril wheeled his horse around and spurred it away.

The herald was sputtering, and Sir Damiend had a sour, pinched look on his face that made Dain nearly laugh inside his helmet. He curbed his mirth, however, well aware that it was inappropriate here.

Lord Roberd, of course, had all of Dain’s sympathy, for he did not deserve the insult Gavril had dealt him. Still red-faced, the champion gathered his reins and gave Dain a small salute. “The field is yours, sir knight,” he said with courtesy.

“Thank you,” Dain replied. He knew Lord Roberd could not wish him victory against the prince, but that he clearly wanted to. Dain could feel the man’s chaotic thoughts and emotions hammering wildly beneath his controlled exterior.  Out of kindness, Dain added, “But of course, lord champion, this is only an exhibition and not the true jousting, which you have already won.” Lord Roberd’s gaze snapped to Dain for a moment. He said nothing, but inclined his plumed head to Dain in respect before he rode out of the enclosure.  The herald and Sir Damiend both stared at Dain in approval. “Well said,” the herald praised him. “Very well said, sir knight.”

From the stands, a great murmur of consternation was rising. People stood and craned their necks to watch as Lord Roberd rode away in all his magnificence. In his box, the king stood up and beckoned to the herald.  The man rode to him at once and spoke earnestly. Gavril rode over to them, boasting and making large gestures. The king looked unmoved.  “Take no offense by this delay,” Sir Damiend said kindly to Dain. Clearly he had not understood the name Dain gave him earlier, for he seemed not to recognize Dain at all. “The king is understandably concerned. You do realize that his highness is not yet knighted, and therefore by the rules of challenge and combat, cannot legally meet you without your consent.” Dain swallowed again, feeling himself caught in the morass of his own deceit.

“Aye,” he managed to say. “I understand.”

“The king is summoning you,” Sir Damiend said abruptly. “Come.” Dain’s heart seemed to plunge, then he rallied himself, for this was the very thing he’d wanted all along.

He rode over to the king’s box and bowed low over his saddle before the monarch of all Mandria.

Close up, King Verence made a splendid figure. Handsome still, despite the softening of his body and the lines of dissipation in his face, the king had barley-colored hair that grew thick and long to his shoulders. His beard was gray and closely trimmed to his jaw. He wore a long doublet of embroidered silk, with a white linen shirt beneath it. An embroidered cap perched atop his head, and he wore a jeweled thin-sword belted around his waist. A wide collar of magnificent gold, studded with rubies, encircled his neck in proclamation of his royalty. His eyes were a hazel mixture of green and blue, flecked with brown.  Meeting them, Dain felt a small shiver go through him. Sacred eyes, he thought, and wondered if he should dismount in obeisance. A king this man might be, but he was clearly more even than that. In that moment, Dain felt as though something momentous was happening to him, as though the field of destiny was shifting beneath his feet.

“Your name,” the king demanded.

His voice was ordinary, commanding in tone but carrying no magical power.

Relieved, Dain struggled to find his voice.

It was Sir Damiend who answered for him. “He said he is Danov of Tern, your majesty.”

The king blinked, and a murmur of curiosity rippled through the entourage surrounding him. Even the fat man in white church robes stepped forward.  “Your majesty, is he Netheran?” the fat man asked. “Is this tourney open to foreigners?”

“I don’t care who he is,” Gavril said angrily. “I have issued challenge, which he has agreed to meet. Let us fight!”

An argument broke out, but Dain felt a pressure inside himself, the pressure to be honorable, to do the right thing. This was his moment, perhaps his only moment, to speak to the king. He must not let his desire to fight Gavril in anonymity cause him to throw away this opportunity to accomplish what he had promised Lord Odfrey he would do.

He reached up and pulled off his helmet. “No, you’re all wrong,” he said, breaking across the voices. He looked up into the strange eyes of the king with his own of palest eldin gray. “I am Dain of Thirst, Lord Odfrey’s adopted son. I have come to your majesty, as my father bade me, and I bring you sorrowful news of the chevard’s untimely death.”

Grief clouded the king’s eyes, and he nodded. “This news have I heard. My heart has mourned the loss of a good and loyal friend.”

“No!” Gavril said, his voice shrill. He glared at Dain, white-lipped with fury, and pointed a shaking finger at him. “You—you—how dare you come here under false pretenses. You have no right to be on this field of honor. You have no right to challenge me!”

“My son,” the king said with a weary sigh, “ ‘twas you who issued the challenge.

Do not fault this young man for accepting it.”

“I won’t fight him,” Gavril said, nearly spitting. “He has no business here at all. Trickster! You aren’t even a knight—” “Neither are you,” Dain shot back, annoyed by his interruption.  There was a moment of total silence, broken by the king’s snort of amusement.

“Truthfully said. This lad shows spirit.”

“Your majesty,” Gavril said in exasperation, “he is naught but—” “Have done,” the king interrupted impatiently. “What is his trickery in comparison to yours?”

Gavril’s face turned white. “Sire, I but wished to—” The king raised his hand, and Gavril cut off his protest.  Impressed that there was finally someone who could command Gavril, Dain turned his attention back to the king. Verence was looking at him without much approval, but Dain knew he must not be daunted.

“I was wrong to come before your majesty in this guise,” he admitted swiftly, “but I knew no other way to reach you.”

“There are audiences,” the fat man said reprovingly.

Sir Damiend was scowling at Dain in disgust. “Sire, this creature is indeed who he claims to be: Lord Odfrey’s pagan whelp. Although why—” “Your remarks are not desired,” the king said coldly, cutting him off. “There will be no insults spoken of my dear friend Odfrey.” His gaze swung about to encompass them all. “Is that clear?”

Everyone bowed to him, and Dain was left to face the king, who now looked very stern indeed.

“You have reached me,” the king said, “through trickery and deceit. What would you say to me?”

Dain swallowed and struggled to keep his courage. The king’s peculiar eyes bored right through him, and Dain knew that he was being given an opportunity he might never get again. Swiftly he pulled out the petition, much creased and battered now. He held it out, and Sir Damiend was swift to pluck it from his fingers.  “From Lord Odfrey, your majesty,” Dain said.

Sir Damiend started to unfold it, but the king held out his hand for it.  Dain held his breath, watching the king read the words that Lord Odfrey had penned with such care. His heart was pounding so hard he almost felt dizzy. His whole future depended on the king’s decision. At that moment, he could almost feel Lord Odfrey’s presence beside him, waiting also.  The king finished reading and folded the parchment with no change in his expression. “I understand that Lord Odfrey died on his road here.” Puzzlement filled Dain. He struggled to keep himself as composed as the king.

“Aye, your majesty,” he said. His voice roughened with memory of that dark day.  “We were escorting his highness, as was the chevard’s duty. Nonkind attacked us on the banks of the Charva. The prince was saved, but Lord Odfrey died of his wounds.”

Tears burned Dain’s eyes, but he held them back as he remembered how Lord Odfrey had died there, deserted by all save a few of his most loyal companions. “With his last words he spoke of your majesty,” Dain whispered. “He bade me promise to come straight to you.”

The king’s green and blue eyes never wavered from Dain’s face. “And did you?” “Aye, your majesty. I—I did not even take my 1-lord home to be buried, but instead sent him with knights to guard his journey back to Thirst while I rode on southward. I did seek audience, but—” “Who came with you?” the king demanded.

Dain frowned. “My knight protector, Sir Terent. The Thirst master of arms, Sir Polquin. My friend Thum, who is the younger son of—” “Nay, boy, not an entire list,” the king said impatiently. “How many knights?  What numbers do you command here?”

“Two knights came with me,” Dain said, not understanding his question. “Two knights did I send to convey Lord Odfrey’s body home.” “And the others?”

“There are no others, save the men which were left to guard Thirst Hold in our absence.”

The king blinked and stepped back. “Thod above!” he swore in consternation. “Are you saying all the rest died with Lord Odfrey?”

“Aye,” Dain told him. “One-third of the standing Thirst forces set forth for Savroix to guard Prince Gavril’s safety. They were slain in the ambush, though they fought as valiantly as men could. All but four knights died there.” Grave murmurs spread among the royal entourage. Verence himself drew a Circle, and the fat man began to pray beneath his breath.

“I was not told of this,” the king said. His gaze flashed to Sir Damiend first, and while the knight reddened, the king looked at his son.  Gavril tossed his head. “Would you receive such grim news during your birthday festivities, sire?”

“By Thod, I would,” the king replied grimly. “Especially when it affects the realm.”

“Hardly that,” Gavril said with a shrug. “A great pity, of course, but not—” “Those men died for you, my son,” the king said to him.  Gavril blinked and abandoned what he was saying. “Yes,” he admitted quietly.

“And did the Nonkind take them?” the king asked.

Someone behind him—the girl, perhaps—gasped aloud. Everyone ignored her while they stared at Dain for his answer.

He shook his head. “Nay, your majesty. My companions and I ferried their bodies across the Charva to the southern bank. They were buried there, with what rites we could give them.”

“Pagan rites?” Sir Damiend asked.

His hostility and contempt made Dain’s eyes flash.

“Nay, sir. With the church rites they believed in.” Dain returned his gaze to the king. “All save Lord Odfrey. His body was sent home, guarded by Sir Alard and Sir Bowin. I hope it reached the hold safely.”

The king drew another Circle and murmured something. When he looked up again, it was not at Dain but at Sir Damiend. “None of this was in your report.” The church knight opened his mouth, but hesitated with his answer. “I knew not these particular details, your majesty.”

“Why not?”

Sir Damiend did not flinch. “Because as soon as the attack was over, I gathered the church soldiers of my command and brought Prince Gavril southward as fast as we could travel. His safety was my primary duty.”

“Indeed, but could you not even tarry to protect the souls of the dead?” the king asked with acerbity. “It is one of your sworn duties, is it not, Reverend Sir Damiend?”

The knight’s face went white. “Yes, your majesty.”

“How many men did you lose in this battle?” the king persisted, although from the flicker in his eyes Dain suspected that he already knew the answer.  Sir Damiend swallowed. “Five men.”

“Five. And did you bury them at the field of battle?”

“We brought them with us, sire.”

“I see.” The king’s voice was growing colder with every word. He glared at Sir Damiend, who looked frozen before him. There was not a sound among the onlookers. Even Gavril had lost his expression of impatient arrogance. The king’s eyes held Sir Damiend pinned. “Tell me, sir knight. Are the men of your command such superb fighters that only five fell to this dread enemy while—” His gaze snapped to Dain. “How many Thirst knights fell?” “One and sixty,” Dain replied.

“While one and sixty Thirst knights lost their lives?” The king glared at Sir Damiend. “Or have you taken up the Netheran custom of keeping a sorcerel near you in battle to counteract the magic of the Nonkind?” Red flared in Sir Damiend’s cheeks. He glared back. “Never, your majesty! We would never commit such sacrilege!”

“Then answer my question. How do you account for the men you brought back with you? How large was your force? Fifty men, was it not?” “Yes, your majesty.”

“And five and forty rode home with my son.”

“His protection was our chief concern.”

“Very dutiful. And what was Lord Odfrey’s concern?” the king asked, his voice whip-sharp.

The fat man rose to his feet and moved closer to the king. “Sire,” he said in a soft, gentle voice. “Your grief carries your heart too far into sadness. Let this be dealt with elsewhere—” “Let us deal with it now,” the king said harshly, never giving the fat man a glance. His gaze remained on Sir Damiend, who squared his shoulders.  “We surrounded the prince and did not engage in combat, except as it came to us,” he replied. His voice wavered on him before he firmed it once more. “That was my duty and my decision. I gave the orders.”

“And Lord Odfrey was expendable?” the king asked. “One and sixty seasoned knights under the bravest chevard in the land were expendable? Combined, you could have been a formidable force. Yet you divided and let the Thirst men fall to this horrendous foe.”

“My orders committed me to the preservation of the prince’s life,” Sir Damiend said. “Half of our combined forces fought valiantly to engage the enemy. The rest fought to protect his highness. Clearly capture of Prince Gavril was their intent. This, we foiled. To that end, every man present was expendable.” “Yes,” the king agreed, surprising Dain. “So they were.” He nodded at Sir Damiend. “I wanted to hear you say it before this gathering, that all men here might know what occurred. A pity this was not stated as completely and eloquently in your report.”

Sir Damiend’s face reddened again. He said nothing.  “Reports can be amended,” the fat man said to the king in soothing tones. King Verence stared into the distance, his face drawn with disappointment and grief.  “Let today’s festivities not be marred by the sad tidings this young man has brought before your majesty,” the fat man added.

Gavril turned his dark blue eyes on Dain. “You have brought your message to his majesty, as you promised Lord Odfrey. Now you can go.” Dain frowned, not ready to accept dismissal yet. “My petition?” he said, gazing at the king.

“How dare you pester his majesty!” the fat man said. He gestured imperiously.

“Send this boy away.”

“No,” the king said, rousing himself from his thoughts. He turned his gaze on his son. “You and this young man knew each other at Thirst Hold, I am sure.” “Dain was there,” Gavril admitted. “He’s a stray, brought in from the wilderness by Lord Odfrey’s kindness. Of course, he has sought to take advantage of—” “Is this not the young man who saved your life, Gavril?” the king asked.  Dain held his breath, feeling hope return.

Gavril scowled and reluctantly nodded. “Yes, your majesty. He did, when my protector Sir Los failed to guard me.”

“Sir Los died protecting you,” Dain felt compelled to say.  “I remember reading Lord Odfrey’s account. There is much to consider,” the king said.

Dain looked at him with hope. This man was indeed as fair-minded as Lord Odfrey had said. He was a good king, with justice in him, unlike his son, who lied, schemed, and manipulated to get his way.

Abruptly King Verence gestured. “Go to it, Gavril. Let us see what your training has wrought in you.”

Gavril stared at him blankly. “Sire?”

“Do not waste this fine new armor you have commissioned for yourself. There is a challenge on the field, I believe. Herald, announce the contest.” Dain’s eyes widened, and his blood began to pump faster. He stared at the king in amazement.

Gavril also stared at his father. “But, sire, do you mean to call Lord Roberd back to the field?”

“I do not,” the king said with asperity. “You dismissed him for forfeiture. This young man—Dain, is it? Dain is your challenger.”

A grin spread across Dain’s face.

Gavril sputtered. “But—but I cannot meet him! He’s a pagan savage, not a knight.”

“So you said before,” the king replied serenely, impervious to his son’s protests. “And I believe this ‘pagan’ answered you well. You are no more a knight than is he.”

Gavril reddened in fury. “Is your majesty forcing me to fight this creature?” “I am,” the king said. “You have boasted before us all. Let us see what you can do.”

The fat man bent over to whisper in the king’s ear. Verence ignored him. “Well?” he asked his son.

Gavril glared at Dain. “I will trounce you like the dog you are.” Knowing better than to insult him in return, Dain satisfied himself with “I will do my best to see that you don’t.”

Someone among the courtiers laughed aloud.

The herald, recalled to his duties, spurred his horse to the middle of the field to make the announcement. The crowd came alive at once, clapping their approval.  Dain turned to the king. He had no answer to his petition, but at least he’d been heard. He must force himself to be patient now. As respectfully as he could, Dain bowed to his majesty. He admired the king for having treated him fairly, without regard for his ragged appearance or unorthodox method of gaining an audience.

“Thank you for your kind attention, your majesty,” he said.

The king’s gaze flickered to him briefly, and Dain was given a slight nod.  Aware that he could be forgotten within the hour, Dain wheeled his horse away and headed for the lists. Sir Damiend rode beside him, still red-faced from the reprimand he’d been dealt.

As Dain reined up and surveyed the lances standing in their rack, Sir Damiend said, “Heed this, boy. You’re going into a contest against his highness. Mind you give him the victory.”

Dain’s brows knotted. He shot Sir Damiend a sharp look.  “You heard me,” the church knight said. “Think you that his majesty wants his son trounced this day before all assembled?”