“I—I—Is it—”

“It’s the ancient form, the same one Odfrey made to me,” the king went on.

Leaning down to Dain, he murmured harshly, “But in private, mind, not like this.  How came you across it on your own? Perhaps you read it off the original charter of Thirst Hold.”

“Your pardon, majesty,” Dain said with a slight frown, “but Thirst Hold has no royal charter. It—” From the corner of his eye he saw the chamberlain gesturing violently at him to be silent.

“Ah, of course,” the king said. He regarded Dain somberly a moment longer, while Dain’s heart thudded in his chest. “Thank you for the reminder. Here in lower Mandria we do not always remember the turbulent history of the uplands. Well!

Your oath is not modern—”

“And is it legal?” Clune dared ask.

The king shot the old duc a scowl for daring to interrupt him. “Aye,” he replied shortly.

Clune bowed and retreated.

The king’s gaze returned to Dain, who tried to rise. “No, stay on your knees.

You are proving to be an unpredictable young man, Dain of Thirst.”

Dain bowed his head. “I beg the king’s pardon.”

“Why?” Abruptly the king laughed out loud. “Apparently you never do anything in the expected way. But as yet, nothing has proven you in the wrong. Odfrey chose you well for his purposes, it seems. Let us get on. Lord Dain, my newest chevard, you are young but already tried in the fields of battle. Who taught you arms?”

It took Dain a moment to realize he wasn’t in trouble after all. A great rush of emotion surged through him. Lifting shining eyes to the king, he somehow found his voice: “Many of the knights at Thirst did instruct me, your majesty. But Sir Polquin, master of arms, taught me the most.”

“The man did well,” the king said. He gestured to a servant, who brought forth his sword. Tapping Dain on both shoulders, the king declared, “I knight you, here before this company of knights and lords, that you may undertake your duties as chevard without hindrance. Rise now, knighted and lorded. Your rewards are well-deserved.”

Applause broke out, polite and restrained in some quarters, more enthusiastic in others. Dain got to his feet on a cloud of euphoria, still cradling his injured hand against his side. His head was spinning, and he hardly knew where he was.  The king, beaming with satisfaction, laughed aloud and reseated himself on his throne. “Take him away and see that his hand is treated. Then we will feast and make merry.”

People rushed Dain as he backed away from the throne. Clapping Dain on the shoulder, his companions surrounded him on all sides. Sir Terent was blinking as though holding back tears.

Sir Polquin looked ready to burst with pride. “Knighted by his majesty,” he said in awe. “Morde a day, I never thought I’d live to see you receive such an honor.”

Thum was practically dancing, his grin splitting his face from ear to ear. “Well done, my friend. And well deserved.”

Sulein, however, reached for Dain’s injured hand. “The healing touch of kings is always helpful,” he mumbled through his beard, “but a salve must go on, yes, and bandages, or it will not heal properly. You are fortunate not to be crippled for life, my lord.”

“Gods,” Sir Terent said with a sigh, mopping his brow. “I have aged a year or more this night. Let’s get you away from this crowd.”

But too many well-wishers surrounded Dain. As they were introduced, most seemed to be there simply to eye him at close range. They peered at his eyes and his ears, then hurried away as though they had scored a triumph. Those who congratulated him with the greatest enthusiasm did so with one eye turned in the king’s direction, as though attempting only to curry royal favor.  Dain wanted nothing to do with such people. “Sulein,” he said over the hubbub, “attend me now.”

The physician bowed in compliance. With Sir Terent pushing a way for them through the crowd, Dain was able to escape to a quiet corner. A page appeared and conducted them to a private antechamber.

“Ah,” Sulein said, glancing around at the small but exquisitely furnished room.

“This is much more suitable.”

With a sigh of relief, Dain sat down on a velvet-covered stool. It was quiet in here, and he bathed his emotions in the peace. So much had happened to him in such a short span of time. He needed this chance to recover his balance.  Sir Terent paced back and forth while Sulein’s gentle fingers worked. Now and then Dain winced, but the pain was minimal compared with what it had been before. From one of his capacious pockets, the physician produced a salve in a minuscule jar. It smelled only of herbs and grease. Dain permitted him to smear it across his hand. Sir Terent took off his tunic and sacrificed a sleeve of his new linen shirt for a bandage.

Dain looked up at his protector in mute gratitude. He still marveled at being served by this large, rough-spoken man.

“Aye, you did well, m’lord,” Sir Terent said, retreating in order to pull his tunic back on. He kept blinking with emotion. “Lord Odfrey would have been proud, if I may say it. As for that pledge—” “I don’t know how it came....”

But Sir Terent was shaking his head and wiping his eyes. When he looked at Dain again, pride shone in his face. “The ancient oath, from when Thirst and the uplands were free. Thod have mercy, but I never thought to witness any man brave enough to say that to a lowlander king’s face. That took courage, aye. Great courage.”

“It did,” Thum said quietly. “If only my father and grandfather could have been here to see it done.”

Sir Polquin cleared his throat. “Brave, aye,” he said gruffly, “but perhaps foolish as well. We’ll have no talk of fomenting rebellions, if you please.  Clune already has his hackles raised. The whole set of ministers will be fearful now of an uprising.”

“Not from me,” Dain promised. “It just came out.”

“And no wonder, after those priests and their damned foolery,” Sir Terent said angrily.

“Aye, a trap, that was!” Sir Polquin agreed. “At least it’s over,” Dain said wearily. Tomorrow, perhaps he would feel angry at what the priests had tried to do to him. Tonight, he found that it did not matter. He had achieved his goal, and he wanted to savor that satisfaction. “Let us fret no more about it.” “There, that is finished.” Sulein surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction. “Now you can return to the celebration.” Dain felt suddenly exhausted. “I think I would rather go to my room.” The men exchanged sharp glances.  “Are you ill, m’lord?” Sir Terent asked. The alarm in his voice shamed Dain into thinking of the others. It was not right that he should deprive them of tonight’s festivities just because he’d had more than he could assimilate. He knew they could not attend the feast and dancing without him. Sighing, he forced himself to straighten from his slump.

“No, I’m well,” he said, smiling at Sir Terent. “It’s just so much, so quickly.” “ ‘Quickly!’ ” Sir Terent said in surprise. “And after you’ve waited for it all this time? You’re a wonder indeed, with the things you say. Uh, m’lord,” he added hastily.

“If you’re still in pain, I can mix a potion with wine,” Sulein offered.  “Nay.” Dain shook his head at once, as wary as ever of Sulein’s concoctions. The man served ably, but Dain had never been able to trust him. “In truth, between the king’s ministrations and yours, I cannot tell that my hand is burned, unless I flex it thus.”

“Don’t!” Sulein said in alarm.

Dain grinned at him and lowered his hand. He found that by hooking his thumb in his belt, he could keep his hand cradled unobtrusively.  Sir Terent was still frowning in visible worry. “If your lordship wishes to retire—” Dain shook his head. “I was only jesting,” he said, making his voice light.  “Let’s get back to the others. If I thought myself famished before, now I could eat the table.”

Leading the way, he forced himself to smile as he returned to the audience hall.  The loud hubbub of everyone’s talking at once struck him unpleasantly, but he ignored that. Pushing his way through the milling crowd, Dain found himself waylaid by the chamberlain.

“Your lordship will sit at the king’s table,” the man announced. “Please come with me.”

Dain hesitated and glanced at his companions.

Sulein bowed at once. “If I have your lordship’s leave to seek my own place?”

“And I also, m’lord?” Sir Polquin said.

Dain nodded, realizing with disappointment that not even Thum would be allowed to sit with him.

“Come, Lord Dain,” the chamberlain said, conducting him into the banqueting hall. Sir Terent followed close at his heels, and Dain was grateful for his protector’s solid presence among so many strangers.  Long tables stretched the length of the banqueting hall. The king’s table stood turned crosswise at the far end. Unlike the others, it was covered with a cloth of snowy linen. Huge candlesticks stood at either end of it. The king’s tall-backed chair was positioned at the center, flanked by benches for his majesty’s most honored guests.

Under the golden blaze of light, the feast itself was spread in astonishing bounty along the tables. Were it not for the divine smells of roasted fowl and pork wafting through the hall, Dain would not have believed that the fanciful creations were food. He saw sculptures of pastry next to tureens of bubbling stews. Loaves of bread baked in animal shapes were heaped in pyramids that served as centerpieces. Plates of colorful fruit turned out to be candy instead; the real fruit was gilded and spangled like jewels. A gigantic peacock, its brilliant feathers spread out to gleam in the candlelight, was in fact a pie containing live birds. One of them escaped as the servants were setting the peacock on the table. The pale dove flew about the room, followed by other escaping birds. The gathering crowd applauded, and Dain heard the king’s laughter ring out from across the room.

Pages laden with wineskins hurried to fill huge goblets already on the tables.  People rowed up, a few squabbling over who was to sit where. The chamberlain and his minions hurried here and there to soothe feelings and arbitrate these disputes.

Dain noticed that no one sat down and began eating. He did not understand why, but he guessed it had to do with Mandrian rules.

As though reading his mind, Sir Terent leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Remember not to sit or eat until the king does.”

Dain nodded at the reminder, though his stomach was growling and the smell of so much food made him feel wild. He’d eaten nothing in hours, and it had been a long, eventful day.

The guests for the king’s table included the sour-faced Duc du Chine and Cardinal Noncire. Clune, wearing a sleeveless overrobe atop his tunic of embroidered silk, no longer looked like a scruffy escapee from a bandit attack.  His gray hair was combed back from his brow, and his fierce brows jutted in a ledge over his eyes. He stared at Dain in open disapproval, and Dain dared not address him. The cardinal was a man Dain had heard much about, for during Gavril’s stay as a foster at Thirst, he had mentioned his tutor frequently. Dain stared at this man who had educated the prince, taking in his massive girth, the jeweled rings on his fat fingers, the diamond-studded Circle hanging around his neck. Noncire had shaped and molded Gavril into what he was today; Dain flicked a contemptuous glance at the fat man, then bowed slightly to the duc.  Both men paused in their conversation, but stared at him coldly and gave him no greeting at all before resuming their talk.

Others noticed the insult. While they murmured and snickered, Dain felt the pointed tips of his ears grow hot. He turned away, understanding that he would probably always have plenty of enemies, and shrugged it off. He looked at the food still being placed on the already laden table and wished the king would let them start eating. “Hello.”

Startled by the soft voice from behind him, Dain turned and found himself gazing into a pair of tilted brown eyes that made his heart lurch. It was the girl who had sat in the king’s box this afternoon. Close up, she dazzled him with luminous pale skin and a face like a dream. Tonight her hair was unbound and allowed to cascade over her shoulders and down her back. There was so much of it. How softly it shone in the candlelight, which turned the few glints of red in her golden tresses to gentle fire. Longing to touch those silken strands, Dain curled his fingers into a loose fist at his side to control himself. She wore a little cap tied beneath her chin, and ringlets and smaller curls escaped from the front to frame her heart-shaped face in a most enchanting way. Her gown was the hue of sand, and it glittered with thousands of tiny pearls and crystal beads sewn in intricate patterns across her long skirts. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and when her clear-eyed gaze lowered from his, he was fascinated by the way her lashes swept her cheeks. She had three pale freckles on her small, straight nose, almost hidden by a dusting of powder. He hated the powder, for her beauty was already so perfect it needed no artifice.  Belatedly he realized he was gawking at her like a serf without manners. He blinked, struggling to find his wits and his voice. “Hello,” he said in response. “I—I—” She smiled, revealing a dimple in one soft cheek, and curtsied to him.  Dain could not believe he was being curtsied to by a lady as fine as this. He felt as though he were floating in a dream where nothing was real. And yet, here he was, a lord, standing at the king’s table, with the most beautiful lady in the room smiling at him.

“It’s so annoying,” she said in a lilting voice. “We have no one to provide formal introductions. Would you be shocked if I threw aside protocol and introduced myself?”

“Only if I may do the same in return,” he replied.

She smiled. “Your bravery is evident in everything you do, Lord Dain,” she said, then laughed at her own words. “You need not introduce yourself after this evening’s ceremony.”

His face flamed. What a fool he was, trying to be gallant and only sounding stupid instead.

But she didn’t seem to mind. “I am Lady Pheresa du Lindier,” she said. A delicate tinge of pink touched her cheeks, as though her boldness embarrassed her.

Dain gulped and bowed hastily. Realization flooded him, and he could have groaned aloud for not having guessed her identity sooner. This was the daughter of the Duc du Lindier, as well as the king’s niece, a lady promised already to Gavril and destined to be Queen of Mandria. She was far, far beyond his reach.  He couldn’t believe she even wanted to speak to him.  “Would it please you to converse with me while we wait for his majesty?” Lady Pheresa asked. “I hope you are not offended by my forwardness.” He blinked in surprise, amazed that she thought she could offend him in any way.

“Nay, lady. I—I am grateful for your notice.”

She studied him a moment, while he felt heat surge into his face. “You needn’t be,” she told him at last, apparently deciding to be frank. “I am not important here.”