Thum grinned. “Aye! You’re in favor, right enough. Run to—”

“Nay!” Sir Terent said sharply. “No chevard of Thirst runs hither and yon like a squire.”

Sir Polquin scowled at Dain. “And you not cleaned up, looking no better than a—” “Stop fussing at him and help me strip off this mail,” Sir Terent said.  Horrified, Dain backed up a step. “You won’t undress me out here!”

Sir Polquin froze with an arrested look on his craggy face, then began to laugh.

“Thod’s bones, the lad’s right.”

Sir Terent laughed with him. The two men slapped each other on the back and howled with mirth.

Dain glared at them both, then exchanged a puzzled glance with Thum.  The page, meanwhile, was hopping impatiently from one foot to the other. “If you please,” he said. “The king awaits.”

“Of course,” Dain replied, striding forward with his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. “Sir Terent,” he said over his shoulder, “will you attend me please?”

Still chuckling, Sir Terent broke away and came hurrying after him. Dain tried to keep what small amount of dignity he had left as he crossed the enclosure in his ill-fitting hauberk, his brass spurs ringing softly with every step.  He was let out between the gates, passed through a ready pen, and made his way among the stream of people still emptying the stands.  “Make way!” the page shouted imperiously. His shrill, assured voice and crimson livery made up for his diminutive size.

Dain followed in his wake, conscious of people staring and pointing at him.

“He’s eldin!”

“Look at those eyes—no, don’t! They’ll put a spell on us.”

“He defeated the prince.”

“Isn’t he handsome?”

“Well done, boy!”

Someone whistled. A few people jeered. Others applauded him.  Embarrassed, Dain hurried along as fast as he could without stepping on the page in front of him.

Up ahead, he could see a square that had been roped off in the meadow beyond the tourney enclosure. It seemed that all the town and more now gathered out here.  An impromptu fair was going on already, with merry piping of music and acrobats leaping and cavorting for the crowd’s amusement. Children darted here and there among the thronging adults. Ruffians with sharp faces and sharper eyes sought the gullible for their con games. Ale-soaked laborers, flushed with merriment and the excitement of the occasion, shouted cheers for the king.  Haughty church soldiers, clad in their white tunics and black cloaks, strolled about in small groups, looking offended by much of what they saw. Foreign peddlers called out their wares, hawking them shamelessly. Beggars reached out filthy hands, pleading for alms with tremulous voices until the guards chased them away.

And through all this tumult, the king strolled with members of his court.  Clearly enjoying himself at this festival in his honor, the king looked at ease among the commoners. Smiling as his subjects cheered him, he stopped occasionally to speak to men and women alike. Sometimes he threw coins, then laughed as people scurried and fought over them.

Dain smiled as he watched until a sudden prickle of unease crawled along his shoulders. Instantly alert, he looked out across the sea of faces.  “What’s amiss?” Sir Terent asked quietly. “I’m learning to pay heed to that look on your face, m’lord. Are Nonkind here?”

Dain blinked at him in surprise. “What makes you think so?” “That look you have, all wary and tense, like you’re listening to something none of the rest of us can hear.” Sir Terent frowned. “But then, you being part eld, I guess there be things that you alone hear and know. You’ve shown us that often enough now.”

Dain trusted Sir Terent, but the old habits of caution had been too strongly ingrained in him for him to confide the true extent of his abilities. Instead he shrugged. “No Nonkind. I just... Perhaps the crowd is too large for me. Too many people are here.”

Sir Terent nodded and said no more, but his eyes searched Dain’s with concern as they followed the page up to the assembly of courtiers surrounding the king.  Gavril was not in sight. Nor was Sir Damiend or the fat man in white robes or several others who had been present before. Relieved, Dain felt himself relax.  The king stepped inside the roped-off area and walked up to a long table. On it were displayed a row of swords, their blades gleaming in the sun. Dain counted forty swords, some plain, but most ornate with carving and jewels.  The chamberlain, a pudgy man with curled reddish hair and a self-important expression, stood nearby with a sheet of parchment in his hand. No names identified the makers of these various swords, only numbers. It seemed the king would choose his new blade for its looks and heft alone.  Sir Terent leaned close to Dain’s ear. “Damne, but we forgot Lander’s sword,” he whispered. “He’ll never forgive us for failing to include his entry.” Dain frowned. Lander’s plain sword—the one sent home in the baggage wagon with Lord Odfrey’s body—had never really been intended for this contest. Lander’s true entry, Tanengard, was now in the hands of Gavril, and it seemed that it would remain there.

“Lord Roberd, attend me,” the king commanded.

The champion joined him with a bow. “How may I assist your majesty?” But the king was looking around impatiently. His gaze alighted on Dain and brightened. “You!” he called out, beckoning. “Come to me.” Dain hesitated, but the chamberlain gestured impatiently, and he went forward.

Sir Terent followed at his heels, until the king’s protector held him back.  In all his dreams, Dain had never expected to find himself at the king’s side, here in front of so many. The courtiers nudged each other and murmured softly.  The pretty maiden with the golden hair was not here, much to his disappointment.  Instead there were older ladies—wearing painted faces and gowns so embroidered with pearls and jewels that the skirts were stiff—who stared at him with open appraisal. Dain felt his face growing hot. He’d never seen women who looked or acted like this. His keen ears overheard their bold remarks as they made fun of his borrowed mail or said he was handsome or speculated on what kind of lover he would make. Dain thought them incredibly rude and cruel, and shifted his gaze away.

Rubbing his hands together in excitement, the king glanced first at Lord Roberd, then at Dain. “You two will be my advisers today. Tell me which swords you would pick. Do not touch them, mind! Only I may do that. But tell me the ones you favor.” He gestured. “You first, Lord Roberd.”

The champion bowed to the king and walked slowly down the row of weapons, the king and Dain following him in silence. “Numbers one, five, seven, twenty, and twenty-two, your majesty.”

The king glanced at a hovering clerk. “Are you making note of that?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

The ladies sighed over Lord Roberd and applauded him. He glanced at them with a smile and bowed.

Dain frowned a little in bewilderment. This was no way to choose a weapon. They should be allowed to pick them up, heft the balance, flex the blades, examine the workmanship. The king was making a game of this, sport to entertain his courtiers. Dain, who knew how desperately at least one smith in the realm was counting on the king’s choice, could only imagine how the other smiths were praying for his favor right now. The king, of course, was either oblivious or simply did not care.

He glanced at Dain. “And now, young man, I would have your choices. Which ones do you fancy?”

“May I not touch them at all, your majesty?”

The attendants looked alarmed by Dain’s question. When the king’s smile faded, Dain realized that he’d erred.

“No,” the king said tersely. “I have given you the rules. Make your choices.”

“Aye, your majesty,” Dain said hastily.

As he walked down the length of the table, he cast his expert eye on the weapons and took his time while the courtiers made bets as to whether he’d choose the same ones as Lord Roberd.

The champion had chosen swords which were heavily adorned with jewels, but usable as well. Two of the weapons, however, were poorly forged. An untrained eye would not notice, but Dain sensed the stress in the metal at once. He frowned and turned away from them. Reaching the end of the table, he stood a moment in serious thought, and walked back to the head of the table once more.  “Oh, come, come,” the chamberlain said in protest. “Do not dawdle all day.” “Leave him be,” the king said, looking amused again. He gave Dain a nod of encouragement. “Take all the time you wish, young Dain.” One of the more outlandishly dressed lords sniffed through his long, thin nose and said loudly, “I believe it is an old custom—prereform, of course—to let eld folk choose the steel for one’s sword. His majesty charms us by reviving these ancient practices.”

More laughter and applause followed this sally. Dain looked around, and the onlookers laughed at him.

“Take heart, boy!” shouted a rough voice from the commoner side of the crowd.

“You choose what you like!”

The courtiers laughed at that, too. Frowning, Dain returned his concentration to the weapons. If everyone saw him as the rest of the afternoon’s entertainment, so be it. He understood, even if they did not, that a king’s sword must be finely made and carefully chosen. If he could touch them, he would know in an instant which was the best suited for his majesty. Instead, he sniffed and listened and looked, training all his senses on each of them.  Halfway down the table, he paused and stared very hard at a handsome sword with a black blade carved with rosettes and vines. It was beautiful indeed. Lord Roberd had named it as one of his choices. The craftsmanship looked superb.  “I believe you must like that one,” the king remarked over his shoulder, making Dain start. “Lord Roberd certainly did.”

“Aye, your majesty,” the champion agreed. “It looks to be a fine weapon.” But something about it seemed wrong to Dain. Beautiful it was, yes, but he found himself disliking it. He could not say why. There was no magic in the steel, none in any of these swords. There were no enspelling runes hidden within the carvings on the black blade. He sensed nothing to alarm him, and yet he drew back from it in sudden rejection.

“No, I do not choose it,” he said.

The king’s eyebrows shot up, and Lord Roberd grunted with surprise. Dain walked on to the very last sword. It was plain, lacking the ornate carvings that so many of the other weapons featured. But the craftsmanship was dwarf-trained and beautifully presented. He admired the subtle curve of the blade to its tip. The hilt was designed to fit the shape of a man’s hand. He bent down to peer at the small bulges beneath the wire wrapping of the hilt that betrayed the balances.  They looked to be exactly the right size. The maker had not spent his time fitting jewels into the hilt or carving the blade. Instead, he had worked to make a weapon true and strong, with plenty of give in it so that it would last a lifetime and carry the king through the fiercest battle. Most of all, Dain approved of the metal itself. He bent low and sniffed it, recognizing the slightly blue sheen that marked it as having been forged from High Mountain ore, the best of Nold.

“Thod’s bones,” Lord Roberd said at last with a half-laugh, “is the lad going to taste it?”

Dain straightened with a flush and faced the king. “I choose number forty,” he said.

The king’s brows went up a second time. “And no other?”

“No. This is the best of them.”

“But it’s so ugly!” a woman complained.

“Your majesty!” called out another lady. Dressed in a magnificent gown of green silk, she smiled at the king. “Do not listen to this young ruffian. What does he know of style? ‘Tis a sword a hirelance might carry.”

“A hirelance could not afford this weapon,” Dain retorted, impatient with her ignorance. From the corner of his eye he saw Sir Terent gesturing at him to hold his tongue. Abashed, Dain frowned and dropped his gaze at once.  The king stared at him without expression, and Dain felt the weight of royal silence. Instinctively he took a step back.

A varlet gripped his sleeve from behind and pulled him aside. Some of the onlookers tittered, and Dain’s face flamed again. He wanted to crawl into a burrow in the Dark Forest and never come forth. What was he doing here, in this strange land among these folk? He did not understand them at all.  “Very foolish,” the varlet murmured in his ear with a savage satisfaction that bewildered Dain even more. “Rebuttals to the royal mistress are unwise, especially in front of his majesty.”

Dain shot him an astonished look, and the man met his stare with a strange little smile.

“You are bolder than I shall ever be,” the man whispered, and moved away from him.

Humiliated and now ignored, Dain watched the king pick up each blade in turn.  With Lord Roberd still at his side, murmuring advice, the king went down the row until he came to the black sword in the center. Then, apparently just to tantalize the crowd, he smiled and walked to the other end of the table.  Everyone groaned in good-natured anticipation.

He picked up the last sword, the one chosen by Dain. Hefting it carelessly, he paused and gave it another look. “It does sit well in the hand,” he commented.  Some of Dain’s embarrassment lessened. Although he might err with his manners, he knew his judgment was sound when it came to swords.  Lord Roberd took the weapon and stepped aside to brandish it with a couple of broad sweeps that made the ladies shriek in mock alarm. The men laughed and applauded. Bowing to them, Lord Roberd handed the sword back to the king, who held it with visible appreciation.

“It’s a superb sword,” he said, glancing at Dain. Then he looked at the woman whom Dain had offended. She sniffed with disapproval. “Pity it’s so plain,” the king said with a sigh, and put down number forty.

One by one, he picked up the others. Number thirty-nine, number thirty-eight, number twenty-two, number twenty.

Now he stood looking at the black sword in the center, the handsome one that drew the eye and seemed to stand out more than all the rest. Clearly it had captured the king’s favor. When he reached for it, the crowd applauded and his mistress smiled.

Dain felt a sudden presence in the crowd, a shifting evil, elusive yet strong.  It wasn’t Nonkind, yet he sensed a taint of that on this individual. And in that moment, his mind touched the thoughts of whoever lurked out there in the throng.  Yelling in alarm, Dain leaped for the king. “It’s poisoned!” he shouted. “Don’t touch it!”

Looking startled, the king turned halfway in his direction. Lord Roberd lifted his hand, but by then Dain had tackled the king and knocked him to the ground.  Together they rolled into one of the table legs. Swords flew all directions.  Clamped in Dain’s arms, the king struggled and cursed him hoarsely. Then rough hands seized Dain and dragged him off. The king’s protector drew his sword to run Dain through, but the king spoke sharply. Instead, the guards seized Dain, lifting him onto his feet and ramming the butt end of a pike into his midsection.

It drove all the air from his lungs. Dain doubled over in agony. Another blow across his shoulders sent him to his knees, and everyone seemed to be shouting at him.

“He attacked the king! Arrest him at once!” the chamberlain shouted.  Another man, one who looked important, stepped forward. “Letting an unknown, nameless stranger—and an eld to boot—into his majesty’s company was folly, sheer folly!”

The noise spread. “He attacked the king. Kill him!”

Dain looked up in fear. “I did no such—”

A guard knocked him flat. “Silence!”

In sick disbelief, Dain lay sprawled on the grass while they milled and trampled around him. Now brushed off and on his feet, the king looked furious. Dain knew he was finished. No one would even listen to him. They believed what they wanted to.

“Clean this up!” someone ordered. “You there. Pick up these weapons. And you, bring the king’s chosen sword to him.”

“Your majesty, come away.”

Solicitously they swarmed around King Verence. Dain tried to sit up, but the guard’s foot stamped him flat again.

Miserable, he wondered where Sir Terent was. Had they arrested the knight as well? How could this go so wrong so quickly?

The overturned table was righted, and two of the squires began to pick up the swords and lay them on its surface.

Fresh alarm filled Dain. He tried to get the squires’ attention. “Don’t touch the black sword!” he shouted.

Cursing, the guard kicked him in the face.

The world went black and all the noises in it swirled together. Awash with pain and skidding on the edge of unconsciousness, Dain heard a scream.  His senses returned. Somehow he managed to open his eyes.  People were shouting and running backward, fleeing from the screaming squire, who stood frozen and contorted, his back arched, his hands curved into claws.  He screamed again and clutched his hand as the black sword fell from his fingers. Then he began to convulse, falling on the ground while he made the most terrible cries of pain. No one rushed to his aid. They stood around him, watching openmouthed while he died.

Sulein came pushing his way through the crowd until the guards stopped him.  “Please!” he cried in his accented voice. “I am a physician, with much expertise in poisons. Let me examine him.”

But the guards pushed him back and would not let him approach.  The commander of the palace guards, looking very stern indeed, rushed up. He bowed to the king, who was white-faced and clearly shaken.  “Your majesty must get away from here at once.”

Ignoring his advice, the king instead gestured at the dead squire’s cohort, who crouched in fear, staring at his dead comrade. “No one must touch the black sword with his bare hand,” the king commanded.

“We will see that it’s safely removed, sire,” the second squire promised.

“Who made it?” the king roared. “Who brought it here?” Dain’s guard stamped yet again on his back. “This knave, of course, your majesty. It’s clear he was part of the plot.”

The king turned around and stared at Dain, who lay there helpless on the ground.

Furious at the guard’s accusation, Dain wanted to protest but dared not speak.  His fists clutched the turf in anger at such injustice, and his eyes found the king’s with mute appeal.

Frowning, the king hesitated a moment, then approached Dain despite the protests of his court.

“Stay back from him, majesty!”

“He has the evil eye!”

“He’ll put a spell on your majesty!”

Ignoring them, the king gestured at Dain. “Let him up.” More protests broke out, but the guards grabbed Dain’s arms and lifted him to his feet. The world swirled around him, and Dain felt his knees buckle. They held him upright, giving him a rough shake that made him bite back a grunt of pain.

The king came closer and stared deep into Dain’s eyes. “You knew,” he said quietly. “How?”

Dain struggled to keep his wits about him. There was nothing he could say but the truth. “I am eld,” he replied simply. “Someone in the crowd wanted to harm you. When I learned his thoughts, I tried to warn you.” “Majesty, come away from that vile creature.”

The king nodded to Dain. “We will talk more of this later. Let him go!” he commanded. His voice rang out, and the hubbub fell silent. “This young man saved my life. He is to be praised, not punished. Release him at once!” The guards dropped their hold on Dain. He swayed and nearly fell before he managed to brace his knees.

The king flashed a furious look around at everyone. “He is to be given full hospitality of the palace. Tonight, he will feast beside me in a place of honor.  Commander!”

“Sire?”

“Seek those behind this plot. I will have the name of the black sword’s maker. I will have the man’s head.”

Saluting, the commander took the parchment enumerating the swords from the chamberlain and hurried off.

The king glared at his chamberlain, who looked both white and faint with alarm.  “See to this young man’s needs,” the king said. “Admit his companions to him, and make all welcome. This is my command.”

The man bowed low. “Yes, your majesty.”

In an instant, everything changed for Dain. Instead of being beaten and reviled, he was surrounded by varlets and attendants. Enraged by their fawning hypocrisy, Dain shrugged off their helping hands.

Sir Terent, now permitted to join him, pushed some of them aside. “Get away from him!” he bellowed. “M’lord, are you much hurt?”

“I’ll live,” Dain said grimly.

“They held me, m’lord. I could not reach you.”

His distress and alarm somehow steadied Dain. With a lopsided smile, for his face was aching, Dain reached out to his protector. “And what would you have done if you had? Attacked the palace guards? Run the king’s protector through?” “Morde, I thought the man would kill you before my eyes,” Sir Terent said in a shaken voice. But he seemed calmer now. Putting a reassuring arm around Dain’s shoulders, he said, “Easy then. Let’s get you away from here.” The king’s entourage was already streaming away while the crowd was broken up.  Guards pushed through the throng, but there was no chance of their finding the agent they sought. Dain knew he was already far away.  He started to tell Sir Terent so when suddenly the world swirled around him without warning.