“Yes, it’s—”

“Do not say it aloud!” the priest warned him with an upraised hand.

Gavril swallowed the word, and glanced apprehensively around the dimly lit room.  The priest lowered his hand slowly, letting out his breath in a sigh. “It is enough that you know it. Tell me, your highness, has its power been unleashed, or does it yet remain a virgin blade?”

Suddenly he was flooded by memories of that day on the bank of the Charva: the sunlight gleaming on the water, the grass verdant and green, the air soft and fragrant with the scents of summer—all shattered in an instant as the Nonkind monsters poured into this world from their own, bringing their stench and death with them. He remembered holding the reins tightly as his terrified horse tried to bolt. He’d been surrounded on all sides by the stalwart church soldiers holding drawn weapons. He remembered watching the battle as the monsters attacked and slew Lord Odfrey’s courageous knights. Sir Damiend had passed orders to prepare his men for the onslaught that would next come at them. And all the while Gavril had sat there, unable to seize command as he had been born and bred to do, the very sight and smell of the monsters turning his bowels to water. He’d felt sick from his own fear, and it had taken all his willpower not to spew his vomit. Sitting there on his horse, he had not been able to shake off the remembrance of the shapeshifter’s attack in Thirst Hold, of how its talons had raked him with agony, how he’d seen the crimson spurt of his own blood, listened to his own screams, felt the searing, fetid breath of the monster as its jaws opened for him. And so, shaking with terror as the Nonkind continued their attack at the Charva, he’d said nothing while Sir Damiend steadied his men and calculated whether they could gallop to safety.

Then there had come a blinding flash of light, as though lightning was striking from the cloudless sky. A voice had shouted over the din of battle, a voice speaking words in a language Gavril did not recognize. And through the clouds of dust churning over the battleground, Dain had come riding into view. Wearing no armor and wielding the sword that blazed with light, he’d fought off the monsters, slaying them and driving them back single-handedly. Dain alone, armed with Tanengard, had driven away the Nonkind forces.  As the battle ended, and the last fearsome shrieks of the monsters faded on the air, Gavril had felt so jealous of Dain it had been like a stab to his heart. He should have been the hero. He should have been the one vanquishing the foe.  Instead, he had cowered like a child, consumed with fear, while Dain took all the glory. Moreover, it was unbearable that once again Dain should save his life. Gavril had never hated Dain more than he did at that moment. As soon as possible, he took possession of the magical sword, determined that Tanengard would make him the mightiest warrior Mandria had ever seen.  But today’s defeat by Dain, in front of the court and his own father, despite the presence of Tanengard in his hand, had shaken Gavril to his core. It was inconceivable that he should wield the sword and still suffer defeat. That must never happen again.

“Your highness?” the priest said, breaking Gavril’s thoughts. “Has the sword’s power been used?”

“It has,” Gavril said hoarsely.

“By you?”

“No. I want to learn how to invoke that power, how to control it. According to the legends, such swords sometimes serve only one hand. I want that hand to be mine.”

The two priests exchanged another look. The one who had been quiet now walked away and left by a small door in the back of the room.  “Very well, your highness,” the remaining priest said. “Such a skill is relatively easy to learn, providing you can release your fear.” “How dare you say I’m afraid!” Gavril said, reaching for his dagger. “You insult me!”

“I speak the truth,” the priest replied coolly. “Unhand your weapon. We will help you. There remains only the matter of price.”

Gavril shrugged. “Name it.”

The back door opened, and two individuals stepped through. One of them was the second Sebein priest, carrying a small bronze cauldron. The other wore travel clothing of leather leggings, boots, and a tunic of undyed linsey. He strode forward on very long, lean legs, and as he entered the circle of wavering candlelight, there was something both powerful and sinuous about him. The light gleamed on his pitch-black hair, which was oiled to lie smooth on his narrow skull. His eyes, staring boldly at Gavril, were yellow, with strange, oblong pupils. He wore a short, neatly trimmed beard as black as his hair, and when he smiled he revealed a set of pointed fangs.

Gavril leaped back. “Morde a day!” he exclaimed before he could stop himself, and drew his dagger.

Halting, the Gantese laughed softly. “Do I alarm the prince? Forgive.” He bowed, but in mockery.

Gavril shifted his glare to the priest. “How dare you bring this creature before me! Are you mad?”

“There is nothing to fear, your highness,” the priest replied soothingly. “Arvt has a certain matter to discuss with you.”

“I have nothing to discuss with him,” Gavril declared, backing toward the door.

He kept his dagger pointed at them, and found himself breathing hard and fast.  This had been a trap all along. He’d been a fool to come here. “All of you, keep away from me!”

The priest he’d talked to and the Gantese remained motionless. The other priest set up his cauldron in front of the hearth and began emptying the contents of several vials into it. Gavril eyed him with increasing alarm, fearing what he might be doing.

“Speak to Arvt, your highness. It is part of the price.”

“What?”

“The price for your lesson. Hear what Arvt has to say.”