“I’ll tell him you kidnapped me and—”

“The lies are unnecessary,” the priest broke in. “There is nothing to fear from Arvt. Hear his proposition.”

“I won’t!”

The priest folded his hands together as Arvt’s laughter abruptly died. “Then go, your highness,” the Sebein said. “We cannot help you.” Gavril backed his way to the door. Over by the hearth, the other priest muttered words that Gavril did not understand. But something about his tone made Gavril shiver. He knew he must escape this place before he was en-spelled.  As he reached behind him for the latch, a light far stronger than the flickering candle could produce began to fill the room. From the depths of the little cauldron rose the image of a sword. It hung suspended in the air, spinning slowly.

Gavril recognized it at once. “Tanengard,” he whispered.  He thought of its beauty and how perfectly it fitted his hand. He thought of all its power, power that would not obey him. His lust for the sword overcame him, and he let it. The moment of escape trickled away, un-taken.  “Listen to Arvt,” the Sebein said. “You have only to listen, and then we will arrange the lesson you seek. Now, your highness, is such a price too high?” Gavril opened his mouth, only to shut it again without saying the words he meant to. The ambition inside his breast intensified. They had not demanded anything horrible, he told himself.

“Very well,” he said reluctantly.

Arvt seized the opportunity like a vixlet pouncing on its prey. “The Chief Believer of Gant wishes to make treaty with Mandria. He has sent me here for that purpose. There are many years of enmity to overcome. This we know. But Gant hopes to be friend to Mandria.”

“Mandria will never ally itself with Gant,” Gavril said scornfully.

“Not even if it meant annexation of Klad grazing lands?” Gavril’s eyes narrowed. He turned his attention away from the revolving image of Tanengard and focused on Arvt. “Go on.”

“Klad is barbaric land, broken among chieftains who are not united. Why should such savages claim valuable and fertile land, when it could be divided between Gant and Mandria?”

Gavril sucked in a deep breath. He had long had his eye on Klad, intending to conquer it as soon as he took the throne. But that, he knew, was years away. And in the meantime, his father had no interest in waging war.  “Your highness sees the possibilities,” Arvt said.

“I do,” Gavril admitted, eying the man with increased interest. “But I will not persuade my father to forge an alliance with you. Nor,” he added hastily, “am I sure I want to. As you say, we have long been enemies with Gant.” “My land is unhappy place, filled with difficulty and hardship,” Arvt said smoothly. “We are terrorized by the Nonkind, which cannot be controlled.” “They do your bidding,” Gavril said with scorn.

“Nay, your highness. It is not as you think. These creatures belong to the second world. There are many reasonable people in Gant who would see them and their handlers banished forever.”

“Oh? I did not know of this.”

“That is because no one ever hears our side,” Arvt told him. “The Chief Believer wants to be friends with Mandria—even if it means inclusion of the Mandrian church to help us resist the monsters that plague us. There is much to be gained on both sides, if your highness is willing to help.”

While Arvt spoke, the image of Tanengard kept spinning. Gavril tried to ignore that enticing lure, but he could feel the sword’s pull.

Perspiring as he struggled to keep his wits, Gavril again forced his gaze back to Arvt. “Your proposal carries merit,” he said carefully. “But I cannot promise what my father will—” “Young prince, we in Gant live long. We know King Verence opposes change. You are future of Mandria. If you do not oppose us, then I know progress can be made.”

Gavril’s chest puffed out. “Yes,” he said gravely. “When I become king, there will be many changes.”

“Thank you, most excellent prince.”

“Now,” Gavril said to the Sebein. “I have listened. When does my first lesson begin?”

The crack of flesh hitting flesh resounded through the bedchamber. Pain burst through Pheresa’s cheek, and her eye felt like it might explode. She went reeling back, tripped over a tasseled footstool, and fell sprawling on the floor.

Her mother’s embroidered slippers moved over to stand just inches from her throbbing face. Lying there, Phere struggled to hold back her tears.  “Get up,” Princess Dianthelle said in a cold, furio voice. “Or I shall slap you again. You fool! How dare you embarrass your father and me before the entire court Climbing unsteadily to her feet, Pheresa didn’t bother to straighten her rumpled skirts. Her lip felt like it was swelling and her cheek still throbbed with fire. Tears burned her eyes, but again she fought them back. She forced herself to meet her mother’s blazing eyes.

“I did nothing to you, Mama,” she replied. “You chose to insult the king tonight. If he decides to punish you you have only yourself to blame and—” The princess slapped her again, sending her reeling back a second time. Pheresa caught herself against the bed, gasping and sobbing with pain.  “Now you add impertinence to your behavior. Such sauce! Is this all you have learned at court? You sully yourself by eating with that—that cow he keeps as mistress. You recognize her! Damne! You’re a fool, Phere a fool in every way.”