“I am sure your highness has many wonderful objectives—”
“Oh, don’t talk to me that way. You sound like Lord Minvere fawning over the king’s new shoes.”
Fresh silence fell over the chamber. The cardinal’s face had grown stony; his black eyes were cold.
Gavril didn’t care if he’d offended the man. Noncire had certainly offended him. How dare he refuse a reasonable request so brusquely, without even considering it? Were an ordinary subject to ask to learn the ancient ways, yes, that could be interpreted as backsliding. But Gavril was not ordinary. He had studied religion with Noncire himself. His mind and heart were pure. He could not be corrupted by old texts and teachings. All he wanted was enough knowledge to harness and master the power within Tanengard, to make the sword serve him and him alone.
When he was younger, he would have confided everything in the cardinal and asked for his help. But Gavril knew now that Noncire would simply quote the mindless rules of the church and insist that Tanengard be destroyed. He would not consider how its powers could be used for the good of the realm. Still, the cardinal’s refusal of Gavril’s request was not entirely unexpected.
Gavril was disappointed, but he had another plan in place. “Forgive my discourtesy,” the prince said, breaking the silence at last. “This has been a momentous day. I am not quite myself.”
“Of course,” Noncire replied, accepting the apology.
Gavril seethed at having had to say it, but he knew he could not get rid of the cardinal otherwise.
“Shall I be seated and keep your highness company?” Noncire asked. He gestured at a nearby stool. “I am prepared to stay as long as I am needed.” Exasperation filled Gavril. Had the cardinal permitted him access to the ancient teachings, there would have been a wealth of questions to ask. They could have talked long into the night. But since the cardinal refused his cooperation, Gavril wanted him to leave at once.
“I would prefer to be alone now.”
Noncire looked surprised. His small eyes dug deep into Gavril, but the prince had been taught by this man how to keep his face impassive. He let the silence stretch out a moment, then he said, “I intend to pray and think. Tomorrow, when I emerge from this chamber, I shall find a different world before me. My responsibilities will be larger. I will no longer be a child. I have much to consider.”
The cardinal’s gaze flickered away. He bowed, wheezing a little as he did so. “Well said. Your highness is wise to reflect on these matters. It speaks highly of the development of your mind and character that you have determined this need on your own.”
“I have grown a great deal this past year,” Gavril said softly. “I am no longer the boy you sent away.”
Noncire’s rare smile appeared, and his dark eyes softened. “Ah, indeed. You were an apt pupil. I hope henceforth we may discuss strategy and statecraft on an entirely new level.”
“We shall,” Gavril promised him. Inside, he thought harshly. If you do not stay my close ally, old man, you will be left behind.
Noncire bowed to him. “May I leave you now?”
“Go,” Gavril said, already turning away. Folding his hands, he bowed his head as though in prayer, listening while the cardinal made his slow, ponderous way up the steps.
When the door at the top creaked open, then closed, Gavril looked up and rose to his feet.
He knew he would not be disturbed until dawn. The knights would guard that door upstairs with their lives. They would permit no one in. But there was another way out, a small servants’ door that led into the dusty back passages. As a boy, Gavril used to explore them and knew them all. Now, tapping his way along the rear wall of the chamber, Gavril found the door he sought. It was hidden behind years of grime and cobwebs. Clearly it was long unused. As he pried it open, the hinges creaked. Gavril winced, but no one came in to check on him.
On the other side of the door lay darkness, and a dank, musty smell. Swiftly he took off his pale robes, then folded them carefully so that they would not get dirty. He was supposed to be naked beneath them, but he’d packed clothing into a large pouch that he’d slung by a cord over his shoulder. Beneath the loose robes, it had not shown at all.
From the pouch, he extracted leggings, thin leather shoes, and a plain tunic, along with a belt and his jeweled dagger. He dressed swiftly, then eased his way into the secret passageway. Three steps inside the door, he found a torch in a wall sconce.
Gavril carried it back into the chamber and lit it, then reentered the passageway with the ruddy torchlight flaring before him. He left the door open to allow the light from the candles to spill into the dark passageway as well. Not for a moment did he hesitate. Noncire had been given first chance to serve his prince, and had not unexpectedly refused. Consequently, Gavril would now go forth to meet a man of fewer holy scruples, a man who would teach him the forbidden rites of the old ways. In his plain clothing, Gavril would be an anonymous seeker of knowledge. No one would know his identity or importance. Once he escaped the palace, he would blend into the crowds still celebrating the festival. No spies or guards or protectors would follow him. Gavril drew in a sharp breath of excitement, feeling the exhilaration of freedom. Tonight was going to change the course of his life. The next time he met that pagan Dain, Gavril vowed, he’d have magic fully on his side. There would be no more public defeats, no more humiliations at the hands of one unworthy to even lick his boots. He would be Tanengard’s master, and as such, invincible.
The ceiling of the palace was painted with a mural depicting the parting of celestial clouds to let the radiance of the gods shine down on some long-ago king. Craning his neck back even more, Dain let his mouth fall open as he drank in the scene.
“Damne, will you pay attention?” Sir Terent snapped in exasperation. Recalled to the here and now, Dain shut his mouth and shot an embarrassed look at his protector. “Sorry,” he muttered.
The knight protector had been scrubbed and combed ruthlessly. His big craggy face was bright red from nervousness as he glared at Dain. “There isn’t much time to get this right. Stop gawking at all the pretties around you, m’lord, and pay attention.”
Dain sighed. Since saving the king’s life this afternoon, he had been at the center of a whirlwind of activity and attention. Palace minions had whisked him and his companions away, installing them in a fine suite of rooms. Their meager belongings had been fetched from the inn, and Dain was forced to bathe, endure having his hair trimmed, and dressed in his best clothes. He smoothed his hand down the front of his doublet of green silk, aware that he was growing again and that the sleeves were almost too short. Even his new boots, given to him less than a month ago by Lord Odfrey, pinched now in the toes. Thinking of Lord Odfrey brought a frown to his face. He knew how much the chevard had looked forward to this day when Dain would be taken before the king. The new clothes had been a gift reserved for this most special of occasions, but the chevard would never see Dain wear them. He would never see Dain here in the palace, about to walk into the king’s audience hall.
Dain’s throat choked up. It was all wondrous here, but somehow none of it seemed as exciting as it would have been had Lord Odfrey still been alive. As he stood on the soft, intricately knotted wool carpets, surrounded by priceless objects, costly furniture, and bowing Mandrians, Dain could not help but think of himself less than a year past, when he was just a starving, vagrant, homeless eld roaming the Dark Forest, reviled by any Mandrian whose path he crossed. Any Mandrian save Lord Odfrey. From the first, the chevard had shown him tolerance and kindness.
“Dain,” Sir Terent said loudly.
Blinking, Dain roused himself and realized he hadn’t heard a word the protector said.
Sir Terent threw up his hands and scowled at Sir Polquin, who was pacing back and forth. “See what you can do with him. He doesn’t even hear me.” “Hear what?” Dain asked.
Shaking his head, Sir Terent walked to the other side of the room. They had been left in this fine chamber while they waited for their audience. Dain did not understand why Sir Terent was so nervous. He didn’t have to walk through a hall filled with staring Mandrian nobles.
A tap on the door brought the three of them to alertness, but it was only Thum who entered, grinning from ear to ear. Sulein followed him. For this grand occasion the physician was attired in robes of dark green cloth edged with monkey fur. He wore a conical cap of the same color, and his beard had been combed into small, oiled plaits. Unusual rings of heavy gold flashed on his long fingers, and tiny bells jingled on the toes of his shoes. He looked, and smelled, most exotic and foreign.
Thum wore his best doublet of rust-colored silk with a matching brimless cap perched jauntily atop his red hair. His green eyes were ablaze with excitement. “Good!” he said. “I feared we’d get here too late. We took a wrong turn somewhere and got lost. This palace is monstrous large.” “You’ve missed nothing but waiting,” Dain said. “I’m famished. I wish there would be an end to these ceremonies so we could just sit down to a trencher.” Sir Polquin snorted. “Time you learned the responsibilities of title and power, m’lord. ‘Tis the servants who eat first, not the lords.”
“And the king last of all,” Sulein said. Certain they were making a jest, Dain frowned at them. “Sulein,” Sir Terent said, “mayhap you can get him to learn his oath. He’s used to taking lessons from you.”
Sulein’s dark eyes gleamed. He stared at Dain as though he were a delectable morsel. “The oath of fealty? Of course, of course. Now, my young lord, do you understand tonight’s occasion?”
“Aye, I do,” Dain said impatiently. He wished they would stop making such a fuss. “An official explained everything to me. I am to walk up to the king and bow to him. He will make the proclamation of my legal adoption, and I shall become Chevard of Thirst. Then we’ll eat.”
Thum laughed, but Sulein shook his head with a little tsk-ing noise and glanced at Sir Terent. “I see the problem.”
Dain’s brows knotted together. “What problem? It is a simple business.”
“That, yes,” Sulein explained. “But there is your part, young Dain.”
“My part? What must I do?”
“You have to give the king your oath of fealty,” Sir Terent said in exasperation. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He will expect it, and if you just walk away, it will be a grievous insult to his majesty.” Dain blinked, understanding at last. “Oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh,’” Sulein said. “Now, do you understand what giving of your fealty means?” His gaze bored into Dain. He was no longer smiling. He looked very serious indeed, as though he was trying to inject another meaning into his words. “You pledge your loyalty and your service to King Verence. You become his man, and all that you have and own are given toward his support. If he declares war, then you must join his army with your knights. If he levies taxes, then you must pay them. The charter with Thirst stipulates that the hold and its knights are to guard the northeast boundary between Mandria and Nold. That is your primary service to the king, and in exchange his majesty supplies Thirst with additional forces as needed.”
Dain thought of the papers in Lord Odfrey’s document pouch that he’d struggled to read and understand. According to them, Thirst was more an ally than the possession Sulein described. Yet he recalled how frequently Lord Odfrey had sent reports and dispatches to the king on all kinds of matters, as though his duties were sometimes more that of a clerk than a warrior.
“I understand about guarding the border,” Dain said.
“The oath you must make is binding,” Sulein said, and the warning in his tone was now unmistakable. He stared very hard at Dain. “You must understand all to which you agree. You will be lord over many men, men of lesser rank than you, but when you give the oath of fealty you will be servant to the King of Mandria.”
Dain stared back as Sulein’s meaning soaked into his brain. The physician remained convinced that Dain was the rightful king of Nether. What Sulein was trying to tell him was that one king should never make an oath of fealty to another. But Dain was not willing to give up the title of chevard, so soon to be awarded, for the uncertain kingship of a land he had never seen. He had no proof of his claim, no supporters, no way to accomplish that which he had been told to do.
Yet in the back of his mind lay a thought, coiled like a sleeping serpent: If I command Thirst Hold, I shall have an army of men loyal to me. A small army, but a start.
Swallowing hard, Dain nodded. “I do understand. Thank you, Sulein, for explaining this matter so clearly.” He shifted his gaze to Sir Terent. “What are the words of this oath I must say?”
Sulein looked dismayed, but Sir Terent shouldered forward with a nod of satisfaction. “ ‘I, Dain of Thirst, do hereby kneel to King Verence.’ And that’s what you’ll do, m’lord—kneel to him as you say those words.” Dain nodded.
“ ‘I, Dain of Thirst, do hereby kneel to King Verence and give to him my oath of fealty, pledging my heart and sword to his service, as long as I shall live.’ ” Sir Terent frowned. “Now repeat that.”
Dain said the words back to him, feeling a strong sense of unreality as he did so.
“Much better,” Sir Terent said in approval.
“Aye,” Sir Polquin said gruffly, and gave Dain a small, quick smile. “He’ll do now. Stop fretting over him.”
Sir Terent turned red. In his long tunic of dark Thirst green and his cloak, he looked weather-roughened and out of place in this scented, overfurnished room. But Dain saw an honest man without guile or pretense, and knew he’d rather have one Sir Terent at his back than a thousand courtiers. “I just want our new lord to do well before these dandified court daisies,” Sir Terent said. “Show them that Thirst Hold has its pride.” “Aye,” Sir Polquin agreed gruffly, giving Dain a nod. “You’ll stand for us now.” Drawing a deep breath, Dain now understood why they were so nervous. He regretted his earlier impatience with them, realizing that from now on he would truly be their lord and master. He knew he must conduct himself worthily so they could take pride in him. He must strive to be fair and just in dealing with them. He must never take their steadfast loyalty for granted. A page came in and looked around with a sniff before his gaze fastened on Dain.
“You are summoned.”
Dain’s self-confidence vanished. Dry-mouthed, he found his feet rooted to the floor. Thum’s elbow jabbed his ribs, and Dain stepped forward. Sir Terent took his position at Dain’s heels. Sir Polquin followed him, with Sulein coming after, and Thum brought up the rear. By Savroix standards, it was a tiny entourage indeed, but Dain felt grateful to have such stalwart companions at his back.
He followed the page through immense galleries and countless sets of double doors opened by bowing lackeys. Finally they came to an entrance guarded by pikemen in the royal colors. Beyond, Dain glimpsed a hall of such grandeur and magnificence it took his breath away. Double rows of polished marble columns supported a vaulted ceiling high overhead. The hall was so long Dain could not see its opposite end. Swallowing hard, he walked in that direction, but before he reached the entry, the chamberlain blocked his path. The man, wearing his hair elaborately curled and puffed up with his self-importance, bowed slightly to Dain. He was garbed in a heavy tunic of dark blue, and wore a chain indicating his rank. In his hands he held an ornately carved ebony staff of office. His skin was pale, his eyes cold and unimpressed as he ran his gaze over Dain.
Returning his stare measure for measure, Dain knew that the chamberlain was seeking fault in appearance or behavior, but that there was none to find. In his thoughts, this man deplored Dain’s tailor, but Dain refused to feel shame. Lord Odfrey had given him these clothes. They were suitable, if not as fancy as what most of the courtiers were wearing.
As Dain returned the chamberlain’s cold gaze, his own grew compassionate. He saw through the pomposity and hauteur to the truth. The chamberlain lived here in this palace of many treasures, yet he owned no property of his own. He worked among the most notable men of the land, yet he had no rank beyond his appointed position. He wore rich clothing, yet it came of the king’s largesse. The man lived in fear—fear that he would lose his office when he grew older, fear that he might make a mistake and be laughed at as he had laughed at so many others, fear that his daughter might be carrying a married lord’s child, fear of the scandal if this became public knowledge. Dain understood that this man never walked in the forest, never heard the whisper of leaves or the flow of tree sap. He knew not the songbird’s warble, nor the laughter of a rushing stream. In all ways that mattered, this man was very poor, and was to be pitied. “You understand the procedure?” the chamberlain asked him haughtily.
“I do,” Dain replied.
“Have you any other title, that you may be announced to his majesty?”
Dain thought of what the ghost-king had told him, but he held that secret back. He was not ready yet to share such things. Tonight, he wanted the praise of this assembly, not their laughter.
“I have no title,” he said to the chamberlain. “You may announce me as Dain.” The chamberlain frowned, looking flustered by this, but Dain was already walking forward. The chamberlain bustled ahead of him, and the courtiers gawking in the doorway moved back to let them pass. The chamberlain spoke to a herald hovering just across the threshold.
“Your majesty, my lords and ladies!” the man announced in stentorian tones that quelled the general babble of conversation. He paused, also looking a trifle flustered. “Dain, his protector, his master of arms, his physician, and his companions.”
Dain walked into the vaulted audience chamber, indifferent to the fact that he had been announced by name only, without title, in the manner of monarchs. People stared, whispering. Somewhere a titter of laughter broke out, only to be swiftly muted.
He walked with his head high and his shoulders back, his gaze sweeping the magnificent room, with its enormous tapestries hanging beyond the columns, its arched windows filled with panes of expensive glass, its floor of polished stone laid in intricate triangles of color. He felt many minds pulsing around his. Some of the courtiers were amused by him; others were contemptuous. But all pretended outward respect, for he had saved the life of the king. They would not offend his majesty’s latest favorite by laughing openly at a part-eldin youth with pretensions of glory, but he felt the sharp flick, flick, flick of their emotions like slaps to his face as he walked past.
At the end of the enormous hall sat the king on his throne. Tonight he looked a most impressive monarch indeed in his crown that glittered with jewels, his gold collar of royalty, and his crimson robes. A corona of fat candles blazed behind his head. Impassive men in livery stood on either side of him; one of these held a tall mace, heavily carved with symbols of power from ancient times, the other an ewer wrought of purest silver, containing water laced with something Dain had never encountered before. He faltered ever so slightly, then corrected his step at once.
“You see? You see?” whispered a man in the crowd. He spoke softly, but Dain’s keen ears heard every word. “He felt the holy water’s presence there. His pagan blood must be screaming for him to run.”
Dain kept his gaze straight ahead, but he tightened his lips to control his uncertainty. From his brief stint of training in Mandrian religion, he knew what holy water was and what it was sometimes used for. Perhaps the old folktale about throwing an eld into water to make him melt held some truth after all. Dain had an inkling that the water in this ewer might be poured over him in a test. It was not water blessed by priests, however, not like the water in the chapel at Thirst Hold. Nay, this held lacings of strange power and magic such as Dain had never encountered before. He did not know what it was, but its presence surprised him. He thought the Mandrians were opposed to magic, yet to one side of the throne stood a trio of men in white church robes. Did they not sense the spells crisscrossing the king? Did they not object?
The priests wore white coifs that framed their faces tightly. Their eyes watched Dain without expression, but he knew they opposed him. Their minds were walls of hostility.
After one glance in their direction, he pretended to ignore them and focused his gaze on the king.
The chamberlain, who had walked ahead of Dain, now stopped and bowed low. “Your majesty,” he said in a voice of the deepest reverence. King Verence, despite his grandeur, looked like a man impatient to be done with ceremonies and off to his supper. He caught Dain’s eye over the head of the bowing chamberlain and motioned him forward.
Dain glanced back at his companions and saw that they were shuffling aside, leaving him to stand before the king alone. Sir Terent looked strained and proud, as though Dain were his own son. Sir Polquin was beaming. Sulein wore no expression at all, but his hands were clenched so hard that the knuckles were white. Thum was all eyes and freckles, looking as pale as his linen. Dain tried to remember to keep breathing. He stepped forward past the chamberlain, who was now backing out of the way. His instructions had been to halt three steps short of the throne and bow. But he thought of the king’s great majesty. Verence had shown him kindness, and was allowing him to fulfill his last promise to Lord Odfrey. Overcome with a rush of emotions, Dain simply knelt at the king’s feet, bowed his head to the floor, and placed his hand in gratitude on the royal foot.
A babble of voices broke out among the courtiers. The chamberlain hissed at Dain and made aimless little gestures, but Dain ignored him. The only person who mattered in this room was the king.
“Dain,” the king said. His voice held amusement, surprise, and gentleness. “Rise up and stand before me. Do not prostrate yourself to me like a barbarian.” Embarrassment rushed through Dain with such force he thought his temples might burst. He rose to his feet with his face on fire and bowed as he should have done in the first place. At that moment he did not know what he was doing here in this sumptuous palace among these resplendent people of wealth and position. He expected someone to jump up—Gavril perhaps—and shout, “Throw him out! The impostor should be in rags, eating scraps with the swine. Throw him out!” But Gavril was not present. He was gone for the evening to perform the rituals of his investiture. And no one else protested Dain’s standing here, garbed in finery instead of rags, while the king smiled at him.
At the king’s gesture, a clerk garbed in dark brown came shuffling forward. Lord Odfrey’s much-creased and stained petition was held in the man’s thin, ink-splattered hands.
“Read the petition of Odfrey, Chevard of Thirst,” the king commanded.
The man cleared his throat and read the words aloud so that all might hear them. The brief document was eloquent in its simplicity. It stated how and why Lord Odfrey had wished to adopt Dain as his son and heir. It pointed out that Dain had saved Lord Odfrey’s life during the battle with the dwarves. From his first days in the hold, he had exhibited nobility of character, a sound regard for the safety and well-being of those within the hold, and a kindness and honesty of spirit that made him a worthy young man. Although his origins were mysterious, Lord Odfrey had no doubt that Dain carried noble blood, as evidenced by his stature and carriage, by his keen intelligence, and by the pendant of king’s glass which he had worn since infancy.
A fresh babble of conversation broke out among the courtiers, almost drowning out the clerk, who kept reading. During the journey to Savroix, Dain had read the words again and again, seeking comfort from them, hearing Lord Odfrey’s voice speaking them in his mind. He knew them all by heart, yet he listened enrapt as though for the first time. It was not Lord Odfrey’s praise of him that he craved, but the structure and cadence of the words the chevard had penned. For through those words, the way in which they had been written, the thoughts which had arranged and selected them, Dain could be with Lord Odfrey again. With his eyes moist, his mind awash in memory and grief, he barely realized the clerk had stopped reading. A silence fell across the assembly, broken here and there by tiny rivulets of whispering. Curious eyes bored into Dain’s back. King Verence stared at him. “Do you wear the pendant referred to?” The pendant was Dain’s most precious and private possession. He kept it concealed beneath his clothing, wanting no one to know about it, lest they try to take it away from him, as Sulein had once done at Gavril’s urging. He could not lie, however, to the king. Reluctantly he nodded. “I do wear it, your majesty.”
The king held out his hand. “I would see this for myself.” Refusal flew through Dain. Although his back stiffened, he knew he could do nothing save acquiesce. Slowly, his reluctance more evident than he realized, he hooked his thumb beneath the cord of plain leather around his neck and pulled the pendant forth. A gasp arose from the crowd. Dain pulled the cord over his head, then handed it to the king. In that second, the bard crystal caught the candlelight and glittered fire within its many facets. Dain’s hand trembled, and the crystal sang softly, its notes pure and magical. Then it was laid across the king’s palm, and royal fingers closed over it.
Dain felt bereft and lost, as though his very heart had been taken from him. The king held up the pendant to the light and squinted at it. Then Verence smiled and drew forth his own pendant. His was a small, round disk, smooth without facets. He laid Dain’s slim, finger-sized pendant across his, then drew them apart with a quick motion of his hands.
The dual notes harmonized perfectly, ringing forth with such purity that Dain forgot his unease and let his spirit fly upon their sound. “It is genuine,” the king announced, handing the pendant back to Dain and tucking his own away. He looked at Dain rather sharply for a moment, his hazel green-and-blue eyes filled with questions. “Where did you get it?” “I know not, majesty,” Dain answered, slipping his pendant back beneath his doublet. “I have always had it.”
“Strange,” the king murmured. His thoughts seemed to flow away from Dain for a moment. “It was a handsome gift someone gave you.” “Aye, your majesty,” Dain agreed. He told himself to say nothing else, but something about the occasion, the heat within the room, and the headiness of standing here before the king made him say more on the subject than he ever had to anyone other than Sulein and Lord Odfrey. “My sister had one as well.” Verence’s brows shot up. “Your sister!” he echoed. “Damne, and where is she?”
“Dead, your majesty. Her bard crystal lies buried with her.”
“Bard crystal? You call it this?”
Dain frowned a little. “Aye. You call it king’s glass here in Mandria, but I—” “Quite so. Well, as Lord Odfrey said in his document, your origins are mysterious. No doubt he questioned you thoroughly when you first came to him.” Memories, fresh and keen, flooded Dain. He smiled a little. “Aye, majesty,” he said ruefully. “Lord Odfrey did.”
“For my old friend to move past the memory of his lost son Hilard, to abandon his grief and be willing to look once more to the future, speaks highly of you, Dain,” the king announced. “I have not forgotten the dispatch which came from Thirst nearly a year past, saying that Lord Odfrey’s life was spared in battle by the quick actions of a half-wild boy of the eld folk.” The king smiled at Dain, who felt his throat choke up. “Nor have I forgotten a much more recent dispatch from Thirst, saying that the life of my own son and heir, Prince Gavril, was saved by the quick actions of a boy named Dain, a boy whom Odfrey wished to adopt.”
The king rose to his feet and faced the assembly. “And today, not many hours past, this same boy—a stranger to my majesty, and indeed, a stranger to Savroix—did save the royal life of the king from a vicious attack by foreign agents and enemies of this realm. Truly, all that Lord Odfrey wrote about you, Dain, is fact and not mere praise. You have shown yourself to understand the responsibilities of the rank offered to you. You have not shirked your duties. You have displayed prowess with arms in today’s contest—much to the chagrin of his royal highness.”
Polite chuckles broke out, for the king was smiling as he spoke. Dain smiled too, but not much. He felt frozen and weak-kneed, unable to breathe properly. His head was buzzing, making it hard to listen to the king’s words. “Were you anyone else, I would hasten to confer the adoption and titles which you seek.”
Dain blinked, caught by this unexpected remark. His heart fell like a stone inside him.
“But you are part eld, Dain, and a mystery to us. The rank of chevard holds within it a sworn duty to protect the borders of this realm. And Thirst is special to us.”
Dain blinked. “Aye, majesty.”
The king frowned. “It has been said to me that you are studying our religion in order to convert.”
Dain’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t speak. Those lessons had fallen mostly by the wayside, although Sir Terent still made sure he practiced the few prayers he’d learned before leaving Thirst. Dain swallowed hard. “Aye, majesty.” The king glanced at the trio of priests, and his brow knotted. Anger, possibly a trace of resentment, flashed in his eyes before he swept his gaze down and concealed it.
“There is a test before you,” the king said. “Will you take it?” Unease touched Dain as an expectant hush fell over the crowd. He glanced at the trio of priests, waiting impassively for his answer. Somewhere among the press of thoughts around him, Dain sensed a glimmer of a mind gloating at his discomfiture. He frowned, but already the sensation was gone, as elusive as smoke.
Meeting the king’s gaze, Dain asked, “Do all petitioners take this test?” The king’s eyes narrowed. Among the courtiers, someone gasped, as though astonished that Dain would defy his majesty this way. Abruptly Verence threw back his head and let out a great, boisterous guffaw. “You have spirit, lad, I’ll grant you that,” he said, clapping Dain on the shoulder with such force Dain nearly staggered. “No, not all petitioners take this test my priests have devised for you.”
And there it was, the challenge laid forth in the cool appraising look the king gave him.
This time Dain did not hesitate. It was not fair, but he knew life seldom was.
“I will take your test,” he said.
The king stepped aside, and one of the priests beckoned to Dain. “Come forward.”
Wary now, for this felt like a trap, Dain obeyed.
One priest stepped forward with a small box in his hands. The man’s light brown, almost yellow eyes burned with a fanatic’s zeal. “We shall test your eld blood and your pagan heart.”
“He is not pagan!” Sir Terent said sharply from behind Dain. The protector’s alarm was plain, his denial too vehement. Someone in the crowd laughed in disbelief. Dain turned around and lifted his hand to quell Sir Terent’s protest.
“Let them test me,” he said with a reassuring smile he did not feel. “I won’t melt.”
Looking worried, Sir Terent gnawed his lip. Beside him, Sir Polquin was scowling and huffing beneath his mustache. “Superstitious lot, these lowlanders,” he muttered loud enough to be overheard.
“Is there refusal?” the priest with the box asked. Dain heard hope in the question and turned back to him quickly. “No refusal,” he said. “Your ambition burns hot,” the priest said. “Now we will see what else burns inside you.”
As he spoke, he opened the lid of the box. Dain smelled the heat of the coals within as the priest tipped the box to show him embers glowing red atop ashes. “Purity fire,” the priest announced. His yellow eyes blazed. “Put your hand inside and bring forth one coal.”
Dain felt the invisible lacings of magic tracing back and forth among the three priests. The Reformed Church of the Circle was officially opposed to magic, yet these priests were highly trained in its use. What hypocrites, Dain thought angrily, to forbid the upland Mandrians to utilize proper magical safeguards against Nonkind raids, while the churchmen did as they pleased here safely south of the Charva River.
Well, as a test this was easy. He had learned this one when he was a young boy barely tall enough to peer over the top of Jorb’s forge. Anyone who was going to work with fire needed to learn this simple trick to avoid getting seriously burned.
He reached out, but Sir Terent said quickly, “Not your sword hand!” Dain nodded and stretched forth his other hand. The heat inside the box was intense enough to make him flinch, but he did not draw back. The priest’s mesmerizing yellow eyes captured Dain’s gaze until he realized what the churchman was trying to do. Blinking, Dain shifted his eyes away and focused his mind on his task.
Ignore the pain withering my fingers. Think instead of cool ice from the mountain streams that freeze in winter. Become ice, so cold, so very cold. Become impervious to flame. Concentrating with all he had, Dain curled his fingers around one of the coals. The pain went elsewhere, and he kept it away, knowing that later there would be no burns at all.
Pleased, Dain started to withdraw his hand. As he did so, his gaze met the priest’s.
The flash of satisfaction in the man’s yellow eyes told Dain a trap was springing shut on him. This test was not about whether he could pick up a blazing coal with his bare hand, but whether he would do so unharmed and thus betray skills in magic.
Angered, he glared at the priest and let the ice in his thoughts go. Pain flared in his hand, so intense he thought he would pass out from it. He could feel his flesh burning, could hear a faint sizzle as the skin on his palm charred. He drew out his hand, the live coal inside his clenched fingers, and the pain made him shudder. Without realizing what he was doing, he dropped to his knees as a hoarse, muffled cry of agony escaped his clenched jaws. “Gods!” Sir Terent rushed forward to shake him by his shoulders. “Drop it! Drop it now!”
But Dain raised his streaming eyes to the priest, who was staring down at him with a scowl of disgust. “Is it enough?” he asked, gasping out the words. “Sufficient,” the priest murmured.
“Drop it!” the king commanded.
Dain tipped back his head in anguish and released the coal. It went rolling across the polished stone floor before the throne, smoking and leaving a black streak in its wake.
Shuddering, Dain cradled his burned hand against him and bent low, rocking himself from side to side in pain.
“Bring the ewer to him!” the priest commanded.
One of the men in livery obeyed.
“Sir knight, stand back,” the priest said to Sir Terent. “This test is not finished.”
“Your majesty, must the boy be maimed?” Sir Terent asked in appeal. Silent and watchful, the king said nothing. Sir Terent was forced to withdraw as the servant knelt before Dain and proffered the ewer. “Put your hand in the water,” the priest said. “Cool your burn.” There was another trap waiting for him inside this water, Dain knew. Struggling to fend off his pain, he tried to think. Holy water would not harm him, but this was something else. His mind flashed to the priest’s, but it held shut against him. His mind went to Sulein, and in the physician’s fascinated thoughts, Dain found his answer.
The ewer held vitriol. If he plunged his hand into the liquid, his very skin would be burned off his bones.
Dain closed his eyes against another spasm of pain. The smell of his own burned flesh was sickening, but he refused to let it distract him. He dared not hesitate.
“Did you hear me?” the priest asked, bending lower. “Let this cool water soothe your burn. It has been blessed. Perhaps it may even heal you, unless you hold some taint.”
Gazing into the man’s eyes as though mesmerized, Dain whispered, “Thank you for your kindness,” and reached out to slip his hand into the ewer. It was his intention to knock the vessel aside, pretending clumsiness in his agony, but just as his fingers touched the ewer’s lip, the king stepped forward. “Stop!” he said. “I command it.”
Dain froze where he was, trying not to look at the vitriol. His heart pounded in relief.
The priest almost hissed in frustration. “Your majesty,” he said with forced courtesy, “the test is not yet complete.”
But the king was drawing a silver vial from his own purse. Holding it up, he pulled out the stopper. “My personal holy water will soothe his wound. Turn over your hand, Dain.” Feeling a surge of gratitude, Dain obeyed. But the priest did not withdraw. “Your majesty, he must be tested for taint from both sides, from the fire and the water—” “Is the water I hold not blessed?” the king countered. He held the vial out to the priest. “Take it and pour it on him yourself if you doubt me.” Turning pale, the priest bowed hastily and retreated. “Forgive me, your majesty.”
The king gently clasped Dain’s wrist, holding it while he dribbled cool water across the burned flesh and intoned a soft prayer. Dain could not keep from wincing as the first splash of water hit the burn.
Someone cried out, “Watch him! He is going to melt from it!” Faint screams came from some of the ladies, but most of the courtiers crowded closer to watch.
Much to Dain’s astonishment, after that initial discomfort, the majority of his pain began to fade. He was no convert. He had never finished his training in the ways of the religion of the Circle, but he felt a sense of ease, almost of peace, steal over him. The king’s prayer was a true benediction, and as Dain watched, the worst blistering of his burn lessened visibly. He stared, his mouth dropping open in surprise.
“There,” the king said with a kindly smile, shaking out the last drop and replacing the stopper. “It looks less angry already.”
Dain stared at his hand, and could not believe this small miracle. The fiery agony was gone, leaving only a tender sense of discomfort. His red flesh was turning almost a normal color, and some of the blisters had disappeared. “A miracle,” he whispered.
“Of course,” the king said. “That is what faith is for.”