Part Three

The open fields presented a shifting pattern of green and brown, and were bordered by silvery groves of olive trees and the dark, waxy foliage of clanyx.  A trio of marlets, their white rumps flashing, raced through a small wood and broke into the open. The male, his twisted horns arching over his head, led the way, with his two does zigzagging at his heels.

Ducking a low-hanging branch, Dain spurred his mount through a thicket and burst into the open.

A shout from behind made him draw rein and glance back. King Verence came galloping up, his black steed wet and lathered. Nearly standing up in the stirrups of his red leather saddle, the king flashed Dain a smile and swept his hand forward.

“Let’s away!” he shouted.

Dain’s horse pranced under a short rein until the king thundered past them, then Dain let his animal run. He rode a striking chestnut of pure Saeletian bloodlines. The horse was bred for speed and endurance, with long legs, a slim, lean body, and an intelligence to match his noble heart. A gift from the king, the horse was named Soleil, for his golden mane and tail and the way sunlight struck sparks of gold from his dark coat. Dain loved the creature at first sight.

Soleil loved to run, loved to race. Now, he galloped after the marlets, bounding ahead with long ground-eating strides, his nose stretched eagerly forward.  Dain held him back a little, never letting him get too far in front of the king’s horse, which was tiring.

They dipped along a slope, the horses rearing back on their powerful hindquarters and plunging down. A flash of white, and the marlets vanished into a thicket.

The king reined up. “Damne!” he shouted, red-faced and grinning. “They’ve gone to cover again.”

But Dain’s mind was running lightly with the quarry. “Nay, majesty,” he said, and pointed. “They’ll come out up there.”

“I’ll wager you they won’t,” the king said at once.

“Done.”

No sooner did the words leave Dain’s mouth than the marlets appeared where Dain had said they would.

The king uttered a good-natured groan and slapped him on the shoulder. “You have the best luck of any man I know. Someday, I shall learn not to bet with you.  Come, away!”

He spurred his horse up the hill, and Dain followed. But as they crested the top, the king veered to the left. Dain and Soleil went to the right. The marlets darted and zigzagged, leaping stiff-legged across a rocky gully, then scrambled their way into a field of waist-high grain waving golden under the autumn sky.  Tails up, white rumps flashing, they bounded away.

The king reined up. “Go, Dain! After them!”

But Dain pulled Soleil to a halt, fighting the big horse a moment until he accepted his master’s wishes and settled down. Lowering his head, Soleil snorted at the ground and pawed his foot.

“Dain, why do you stop? That field will make glorious chasing. Look at the size of it. Let your horse run and overtake them if you can.” Dain wiped his hot face with his sleeve and shook his head. “Nay, majesty.

Soleil has run enough today.”

“Bah!” The king took off his velvet cap and fanned himself with it. “My horse is spent. But yours is fresh enough. Do not let politeness spoil the chase.” Dain had no intention of trampling through this field so near in readiness for harvest, nor did he intend to bring down the marlets. He took his thoughts from them, weary of their terror and instinctive desperation. “They gave us a fair chase, did they not, majesty?”

“Ah, now you’re cajoling me.” With a grin, the king shook his finger at Dain.  “You are learning the courtiers’ ways too fast. Grow too smooth-tongued, young Dain, and I’ll take little pleasure in your company.”

In the distance, a hunting horn sounded. Dain turned his head to listen. He and the king had broken off from the main hunting party, which Dain now judged to be half a league away, perhaps less. In this deceptive country of open fields, tiny hills, and unexpected gullies, distance was difficult to judge. Their protectors would be furious, but Dain and Verence were like young, naughty boys exhilarated by their momentary escape.

The king sighed and took a drink from the waterskin tied to his saddle. “Damne, that last gallop was a fine one, eh? I’ll say this for you, young Dain: When we hunt together, I enjoy the best coursing I have ever known, yet I seldom come home with any game to show for it.”

Dain grinned at him. “Your majesty has shot enough game to supply the entire palace for the winter. Let the sport be enough.”

“I suppose that is the eldin view,” the king replied, proffering his waterskin to Dain. In the early days of the hunt, it had been wine the king took with him.  But Dain’s abstinence had been noticed. Soon the king asked for water instead of wine. His disposition improved. His eyes and skin grew clear. His stamina strengthened, and he was a better shot for it. “Ah, Dain, sometimes I think your sympathy lies more with our quarry than with us.”

Dain smiled and looked southward, where rows of vineyards followed the slope of the hillside. From this vantage point, he could gaze out at the sea, a shimmering expanse on the horizon that blended into the color of the sky. A white sail marked a ship, though whether it was coming to land or leaving could not be determined at this distance. The afternoon sun shone hot on his shoulders, but the breeze was mild, the air balmy. Far away in the wilds of Nold, the frosts would be turning the foliage gold and russet, animals would be growing denser fur or changing colors in preparation for the new season, and the air would hold a cool bite. Perhaps even the first light snows would have fallen.

Here, in this mellow, warm land, only the harvesting work told of the change of seasons. If he squinted, he could see two men wielding scythes at the far end of the field. They were only testing the grain, however. When they decided to harvest, an army of serfs would descend on this waving grain, with the women and children following them as gleaners.

The sound of the hunting horn came again.

“They’ve lost us,” the king said with satisfaction.

“Time to go back,” Dain said.

“Aye.” The king sighed, looking pensive. He glanced at Dain, then away. “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful,” Dain replied. “There is the land and sea in union. The ground is fertile. The rains are gentle. There is bounty rather than hardship.” “And no petitions, no audiences, no reports, no diplomats,” the king added. He grimaced. “I hate to leave on the morrow.”

“Your majesty can delay.”

Temptation flashed in Verence’s eyes, but he shook his head. “I’ve set back our return by almost a week as ‘tis. Royal duties cannot be neglected for long. That is not how you keep a throne, young Dain.” He smiled. “Or a hold.” With guilt Dain thought of Thirst Hold, still under the command of Sir Bosquecel, who waited for his return. For the past month, Dain had been writing laborious missives almost daily to his hold commander, informing him first of the king’s granting of adoption and title, then mainly replying to Sir Bosquecel’s reports and requests for orders.

Unlike lords of higher ranks, chevards were workers, overseers, and active protectors of the borders. They made countless decisions and judgments, from the matter of whether the water cisterns should be repaired before Aelintide to the fate of a runaway serf who had committed adultery with the wife of someone in the village. Dain could read Mandrian fluently now, but writing was still a skill he struggled to master. Recalling how Lord Odfrey used to fill a page of parchment with flowing script, Dain labored over one or two sentences, his cursive ill-formed and awkward.

Spending time with the king and his high-ranking attendants while away on this hunt, Dain had discovered how much he still lacked in knowledge and education.  Their conversations referred often to history and philosophy largely unknown to him. Only if they talked of war and strategy did he feel at home. In so many ways he felt limited and unpolished, but he was learning fast.  During the first few days of this expedition, he’d learned how to mimic court manners. Next he’d tackled the complicated rules of protocol. He’d used his newly gained reading skills to wade through scrolls of philosophy and history late at night while the rest of the camp snored around him. He’d learned how to dress better, how to wear a cap with flair, and why doing so was important. He’d listened to the squires boasting about how to woo maidens. He’d dreamed of three pale freckles adorning a perfect nose and long, gleaming tresses of reddish-gold hair.

Still growing, he was now taller than the king and broader of shoulder than any except Lord Roberd. He looked less eld and more human as he matured into manhood. His jaw broadened, and the lines of his face grew more chiseled. His voice deepened again, and although Dain remained characteristically soft-spoken, he could—if sufficiently angered—make men quail with his voice’s volume and sharpness.

He had named Thum his squire, and his friend took inordinate pride in seeing that Dain’s saddle was cleaned and oiled, his weapons dry and polished.  Sometimes Dain would awaken in the night with a start and not know where he was.  All this would seem like a dream, and he would expect to find himself inside a burrow in the Dark Forest, dressed in rags of linsey, and his companions hungry and cold. But the past was far away now.

“Besides,” the king said with another sigh, kicking his horse into an amble down the slope, “it is never wise to leave the Heir to the Realm unsupervised for long. I hear that in my absence his highness has commissioned a new wing to be built onto the palace. He will bankrupt the royal treasury, if given the chance.”

Dain frowned. It was rare for the king to complain about the misdeeds of his much-indulged son. Usually Verence had only praise for Gavril’s accomplishments.