“But I—”

“Well? I will be frank with you, Faldain. Your worthiness shines from you. I have been most impressed with your qualities, and I want you as my man. You can be of inestimable use to me if you remain my chevard.” Dain’s emotions were threatening to overtake him. The king’s praise would have swelled his head, were it not for all the rest that had been said.  “If you intend to seek your kingdom,” Verence said, “tell me now and I shall divest you of your rank of chevard.”

Dain grew hot with resentment. It was unfair for the king to insist that he decide his entire future so quickly, with such scant warning. “Must I say at this moment?” he asked.

“How long would you delay?” the king replied harshly. “Two choices for your future lie before you. When we return, you will meet Prince Spirin and the young Count Renylkin, two exiles whom I have welcomed to my court. Let them champion you. Lead them and the other Netheran refugees back to your blighted land, where Muncel will defeat you. Or, remain a chevard and keep Thirst secure for me.  Remain loyal to me, and I will see that you are rewarded generously. I can increase your land, your serfs. I can award you the title of baron. Your wealth will multiply. You can go far with me. In fact, when we return to Savroix you have my permission to choose a bride from among the maids at court.” “Marry?” Dain gasped, goggling at the thought. Indeed, the king caught him off guard at every turn.

“Of course,” Verence said with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re a fine, strapping lad. It’s time you wed and settled down. We believe in early marriages here in Mandria. It makes for much happiness.” Dain could not speak. His mind was spinning.

As Verence’s smile broadened, the thunderous sound of approaching horsemen made Dain look in that direction.

The horn blared over the barking dogs, and someone stood up in his stirrups to wave. “Good king, we have found you!” he shouted.

Ignoring the hunting party coming straight for them, the king went on staring at Dain. “Yes, a wife,” he said. “Choose her well and quickly. Enjoy the prosperity I can guarantee you. Or throw everything away on a gamble you cannot win. Your choice lies before you, Faldain. Make it now.”

The ruthlessness in his tone warned Dain that the king would carry out this threat to strip away his title, his new wealth, the chance to woo Pheresa...  everything that had come to matter. Dain gazed at the ears of his fine horse and frowned. He did not want to return to being a beggar in rags.  Am I a coward? he asked himself, but there was no time to sort out his feelings or his desires. Time was running out.

“Well?” the king demanded.

“I remain chevard,” Dain muttered.

A grin brightened the king’s face, and he laughed aloud. “Excellent! You are more sensible than I expected. Well chosen, my boy. You won’t regret this. On that, you have my word. Lord Odfrey himself would be pleased.” Feeling as though he’d made the mistake of a lifetime, Dain bowed his head.

“Yes, majesty. Thank you.”

“Ah, and they’re upon us,” Verence said.

Dogs and riders reached the grove, plunging to a halt on all sides. Laughing, the men chattered rapidly while the dust they’d stirred up clouded everyone. The dogs, pink tongues lolling, milled around between the horses’ legs, yapping with excitement and leaping at the king’s stirrups.

Laughing, the king petted the animals, then straightened in his red saddle.  Taking a ring from his finger, he handed it to Dain. “Here. I believe I must pay for my lost wager on the marlets, Dain.”

Their eyes met. It was not “Faldain” before these others, he noted, but simply “Dain.” His heart felt sore at what he’d thrown away. Yet it had only been a dream, he reminded himself, never reality. King Verence was right: Claiming his throne would have been a hopeless gamble. Then again, taking what was sure was the dwarf way, the way Dain had been raised. He wished he didn’t feel as though a rock sat on his chest.

“Take the ring,” Verence said.

Dain frowned. He’d sold his kingdom for a ruby, it seemed. He didn’t want the trinket. “Our wagers have always been for sport, majesty, never for real.” “I know, but today I feel generous. Take it.”

Everyone was staring with avid curiosity. Self-conscious, Dain reddened, then took the ring.

Verence chuckled and glanced around at his men. “He always wins when we wager which way the accursed animals will run. Who has a full waterskin remaining?  Mine is dry.”

“No water, sire, but I do have wine,” a man offered.

Verence hesitated only marginally. “Well, why not?” he said gaily. “The hunting is over. Let us go back to camp and celebrate our last night here beneath the stars.”

Whistling to his dogs, Verence wheeled his black horse around, laughing at what his protector said to him in chastisement, and spurred the horse away.  Dain held a fretting Soleil back as they all galloped after the king. Only Sir Terent, looking hot and disapproving, remained with Dain.  “You are one as bad as the other, m’lord,” he said. “I have a mind to start—” “Don’t scold me,” Dain replied absently. “I need to think.” “Well, put that fancy ring on your finger before you drop it in the dust,” Sir Terent said.

Starting from his thoughts, Dain looked down at the heavy band of gold and its handsome ruby setting. It was a generous gift indeed, worthy of a king. Dain slid it on his finger and found the weight a shackle.

Sir Terent grunted with admiration. “Now you look like a lord.”

Dain resisted the urge to hurl the ring into the bushes.  Instead, he cantered atop a vantage point, where at last he drew rein. There, with the sinking sun turning the water into molten copper and the sea breeze whipping his hair back from his face, Dain faced what had just happened.  For all his surface geniality, the King of Mandria possessed a mind as ruthless, sharp, and manipulative as any of the plotters and intriguers in his court.  Letting Dain think that today was going to be just another adventure in coursing game, Verence had sprung his trap with wily cleverness. He had by turns astonished, angered, and shocked Dain, seeking to keep him off guard and pressured. He had boxed Dain in, forcing him to make a rapid choice while sweetening the rewards with first the offer of a bride of Dain’s choosing and then this magnificent ring. Dain saw how he’d been outmaneuvered. His lack of confidence and belief in his true identity had been his weakness.  Yet was he wrong to do as Lord Odfrey had wanted? He’d kept his promise to the dying man, and Dain knew he could run Thirst Hold ably for the rest of his life.  Why not be happy and accept it?

His conscience refused, however, to lie easy. He could not help but remember the torment in Tobeszijian’s ghostly eyes. The guilt. Tobeszijian had preserved the sacred artifacts of Nether from his murderous half-brother, but he had not saved his people. Even among the dwarves, Muncel’s atrocities had been talked about for years. Dain grimaced. The mess in Nether had been his father’s doing. Why should it now be his responsibility? After all, he’d been abandoned by Tobeszijian too.

For a moment, he saw Thia in his mind’s eye. With her blond tresses stirring and writhing on her shoulders, she was slim, regal, and imperious. Were she still alive, she would not have hesitated to throw Verence’s gifts back in his face and called for war. The hopelessness of its outcome would not have daunted her.  Moved, his eyes burning, Dain reached inside his tunic and clutched his bard crystal. “Dear sister,” he whispered, “I need you now.” But Thia was not with him. She would never again be with him, never guide him or tell him what to do. He was a man now, a man with his own choices to make and his own life to lead. His heart called out to her spirit, but he heard in reply only the haunting cry of a seabird, wheeling in the air, while the waves crashed endlessly on the rocks below.

The king’s return to Savroix was met by exuberant fanfare, fluttering pennants, and cheering crowds. They rode through the town while people leaned out of windows and thronged the paved streets. Riding among the king’s large party of companions and servants, Dain listened to the cheering and gazed out at the happy, admiring faces. King Verence truly was loved by his subjects. Waving and smiling, the king motioned for a squire to ride alongside him and hold aloft a basin filled with coins. Scooping up handfuls of money, Verence tossed it into the crowd.

With eager whoops, people fought and scrambled for the coins that rained down on their shoulders and bounced over the cobbles. Trumpets sounded from the walls of the city, and Verence exited the massive gates with a final wave.  But even more crowds lined the broad avenue leading from the town to the palace.  As the king’s party rode by, additional folks came running, prosperous merchants and serfs alike. Children in rags ran alongside the horses, yelling and waving their hands.

Halfway up the road, a cheery piping of reedoes and flutes met them. Musicians in the king’s colors parted on either side of the road, loudly playing his favorite melodies.

Looking delighted by this surprise, Verence laughed and spurred his horse ahead with the eagerness of a boy. “Home!” he shouted.

It seemed the entire palace had turned out, servants and courtiers alike, to welcome their monarch back. The Countess Lalieux stood on the balcony overlooking the steps. Attired in a stunning gown of emerald-green cloth woven with threads of gold, the king’s mistress shimmered with every movement, and she blew his majesty bold kisses.

Laughing, he saluted her in return. Then a look of surprise crossed his face.

“Where is the prince?”

While the cheering died down, servants conferred hastily. The king’s brow grew thunderous. He beckoned to a page. “Inform Lady Lalieux that I shall join her later.”

The page bowed and hurried away.

“Well?” the king shouted, picking up the flagon of wine that was brought to him.  “I have traveled a hard road today, and I expect my son to be here to greet my return.” He drank deep, then slung the dregs on the pavement like splatters of blood. “What is your answer, damne! Someone must know what is meant by this insult.”

A steward of the palace began stammering a vague reply, but he was interrupted by a broad figure in spotless white robes who was slowly descending the steps to the courtyard.

“May I speak, your majesty?” asked the soft, velvety tones of Cardinal Noncire.

“Ah, Cardinal,” the king said. “Of course you will satisfy this little mystery.

You have always been able to keep my son on your leash.” Noncire’s small black eyes sharpened, but his expression never changed. “His highness had every intention of being here to welcome your majesty’s return. In fact, he has planned a surprise.”

“Has he?” Verence said coldly.

Farther back in the king’s party, Dain shifted impatiently in his saddle. He didn’t understand why Verence refused to dismount so the rest of them could.  Coated with dust and so parched his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth, Dain wanted only to go indoors and find a pail of water to drink and another to bathe in. With those comforts satisfied, he intended to seek out Lady Pheresa and Sulein, in whichever order.

But the cardinal, like most priests of his religion, was proving to be long-winded and officious. Silently, Dain urged him to get on with it.  “Your majesty must remember that his highness is still a young man, with a young man’s passions for new endeavors. I believe you will find him in the Field of Salt.”

Several people gasped, and Dain saw Verence turn pale. The king stared only for a few moments before he clenched his jaw tight and wheeled his reluctant horse around. His gaze swept the men.

“Lord Roberd,” he snapped. “Lord Dain. Accompany me.” Dain swallowed a groan, but knew he dared not show his reluctance. The king seldom lost his temper, but when he did it was unpleasant for all concerned.  Beside him, though Thum looked apprehensive, he gathered his reins, ready to stay at Dain’s side.

Dain shot Thum a quick glance. He knew that Gavril had once threatened Thum’s family and might do so again if Thum witnessed whatever was about to happen between royal father and son.

Quickly he said, “See to our quarters, if we still have any. Find Sulein, and tell him I want to see him as soon as the king dismisses me.” Thum looked as though he’d been given a reprieve. “Aye,” he said in a grateful voice. “I’ll make sure that all is ready for your return.” Dain kicked Soleil forward to fall in behind the king’s protector. Lord Roberd, his own protector swinging in alongside Sir Terent, rode next to Dain.  As they rode away, leaving behind a crowd gone quiet, Dain glanced at Lord Roberd, but the champion’s face remained impassive. Although dust coated the man’s black tunic and cap, he seemed tireless as he kicked his mount to a trot.  They crossed the fine gardens, where the horses’ hooves cut up the meticulous lawn, but the king did not seem to care.

A trio of servants on ladders, busy shearing dense green shrubbery into fanciful shapes, paused in their work and bowed precariously to the king as he rode past them. He acknowledged them not.

Dain glanced over his shoulder at the multistoried palace rising above him. Its many windows, evidence of the king’s tremendous wealth, glittered as they reflected the afternoon sun. Was Pheresa in one of those rooms? Dain wondered.  Did she see him riding by? Would she care if she did?  During the journey back to Savroix, Dain had decided not to ask for her hand the first moment he saw her. She might not share his feelings. After all, she knew not who he really was. Perhaps she would be insulted by an offer of marriage from an eld of no proven background and lineage, an eld only recently made a lord.

But she likes me, Dain argued to himself. That had to count for something. If he could make her like him even more, if he could convince her to love him, would she then not smile on him with favor?

Deep in these thoughts, Dain barely noticed as they passed long beds of golden flowers interspersed with blue. Grown leggy and windblown, many of the flowers had fallen over and lay trailing their petals extravagantly on the lawns.  The riders passed through a gap in the shrubbery, and Dain found himself in an open field. The gardeners had cut a broad swath of grass as a transitional boundary between the gardens and the field itself. Along the horizon, the King’s Wood rimmed the far side of this field. It teemed with game preserved exclusively for Verence’s personal hunting whenever he could not leave his court. Scents of the forest mingled with that of the sun-kissed wild grass waving in the breeze. In the distance stood the stone tower of a ruined cathedral, its roof long since fallen in and its rafters exposed like bleached bones.

Dain’s keen ears heard the faint clang of distant sword-play; his nostrils picked up the acrid scent of magic. Instantly alert, he looked ahead. “Thod’s bones,” he muttered, then frowned in unease. “Your majesty!” he called out.  “Have a care!”

The king ignored him, but his majesty’s protector glanced back at Dain in quick attention. Dain gripped his dagger hilt in warning and frowned. Sir Odeil, a grizzled veteran whose scarred jaw and throat told of his battle experience, nodded and spurred his horse closer to the king’s.

Sir Terent rode up beside Dain, his eyes troubled. “What’s amiss?” he asked softly.

“Spellcasting,” Dain murmured back.

Sir Terent’s eyes widened. He mouthed a curse and set his hand on his sword hilt.

On Dain’s other side, Lord Roberd was staring. Dain said nothing to the man.

He’d given enough warning; already some of his initial alarm was fading.

Whatever spell was being woven in the churchyard, it was not a strong one.  Perhaps it would have been wiser not to say anything, but the presence of a spell here at Savroix had startled him.

His gaze strayed ahead and narrowed on the two distant figures circling each other in the weedy churchyard. Only one of them was armed, but Dain knew that lithe, cat-quick form all too well.

“Gavril,” he said under his breath, knowing it was Tanengard the prince was wielding. “You fool. You fool.”

“Eh?” Lord Roberd asked, frowning at him. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, my lord,” Dain replied quickly.

Whatever the prince had in mind, Dain knew, he was learning the wrong spell.  Although weak, this spell’s power came from a tainted source. As a human, especially one of his intense religious beliefs, Gavril had no business toying with something like that. It could hurt him; or more likely, it could hurt those around him.

“Raise it higher. Higher.”

Semi-crouched with Tanengard’s heavy weight trembling in his grasp, Gavril kept his eyes closed and his teeth gritted. Sweat poured down his naked chest, and he heaved in another breath as he strained to hold the shaky spell he’d managed to weave.

“Work with it. Feel its power flow through you,” the Sebein priest murmured encouragingly. “Don’t control it. Merge with it.”

Gavril struggled to obey. With his eyes closed against all distractions, it was easier to concentrate. He kept the five points of reference clear within his mind, and felt the abrasive, raw power of the magicked sword swirl through his consciousness. It carried lust and fury and the hunger for war.  Soon, he promised it. Soon, I’ll take you to war. Serve me!

Become me, the sword replied inside him.

It had never spoken to him before. Amazed and exhilarated, Gavril felt the blade lift of its own accord. His heart lurched, and he grinned. “Look!” he cried.  “Look at it! I have it! I have it!”

“Concentrate,” the Sebein told him. After all these days of working together, Gavril still had not learned the man’s name. “Do not speak. Stay with its force, and be what it wants you to be.”

But the sword lifted yet higher in Gavril’s hands and swung itself around to the south like a pointing compass.

Startled, Gavril opened his eyes, and saw the tip of Tanengard pointed directly at the king.

The transition was too sudden. He stared, caught off guard by this completely unexpected sight of his father, who rode up travel-stained and dusty on his black stallion, his face like a black cloud. Gavril blinked, not trusting his eyes. How had his majesty come to be here? Gavril had not heard him or his party approach. The king might have appeared from thin air.  Gavril blinked, his wits still entangled in the spell, which was fading from him rapidly. He smelled it burning in the air, as strong as the guilt ablaze in his heart.

Gasping, he tried to choke out a greeting for his father. He knew he must bow, must think of some swift explanation. But Tanengard seemed frozen in the air. It still pointed at the king ... no, at someone behind his majesty.  Gavril tilted his head to one side, and saw the pagan Dain astride a beautiful chestnut horse of such exquisite lines it could only have been a gift from the king’s own stables. Dain, grown manly, fashionable, and formidable in recent weeks. Dain, no longer a stripling without letters or resources. Dain, who had saved Gavril’s life from the shapeshifter, who had defeated Gavril in front of everyone at the tourney, who could effortlessly command the sword Gavril now held.

Tanengard still wanted to serve the eld. It quivered now in Gavril’s hands like a dog kept from its master. Cursing to himself, Gavril struggled to lower the weapon. He was horrified at being caught this way. It looked as though he had brandished his sword at the king. Had his father’s guards been present, Gavril would likely be lying flat on the ground at this moment with someone’s weapon tip at his throat. As it was, Sir Odeil, knight protector to his majesty, looked murderous and ready to spring from his saddle.

“Father!” Gavril said, his face aflame. He tried again to lower Tanengard, without success. Exasperated, and not knowing what else to do, he took his hands off it completely and stepped back. He thought it would hang suspended there in midair. But as soon as his touch left it, the treacherous sword fell to the ground.

The king’s face turned red with a combination of amazement, disappointment, and outrage. Clearly he thought Gavril had swung at him, then thrown down his sword in surrender.

There was no way to explain without confessing the truth, and Gavril choked on doing that. He refused to condemn himself. Would the king order him tried for heresy? Rarely did Gavril feel alarmed, but there was a dreadful, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Not knowing what to say, Gavril bowed. With his head lowered, he glanced around for Sebein, but the priest had vanished from sight.

An awful silence hung over the scene. Gavril, unable to remain bowed like a servant about to be whipped, slowly straightened and forced himself to meet his father’s eyes.

“Sire,” he whispered. His voice sounded hoarse and strangled, and he stopped, swallowing hard. The king still said nothing. Gavril recalled old lessons in Noncire’s study. To act guilty was to be considered guilty. Drawing a deep breath, he forced a smile to his lips. “Father, welcome home!” he said brightly.  “Forgive me for not being at the palace to greet you. I fear I lost track of the time.”

The king dismounted stiffly, tossing his reins to Lord Roberd. Clapping his gloved hands together in a small cloud of dust, Verence walked forward slowly until he stood in front of Gavril. His stony expression did not change.  “You look road-weary indeed, sire,” Gavril said. “How far did you come, this last leg?”

The king ignored his attempt at chatter and kicked Tanengard lightly with his toe. “This sword you use instead of my own, which was offered to you as a gift—how did you come by it?”

“I—” Gavril thought quickly. “Why, I picked it up after the battle by the Charva. One of the men must have dropped it. I found it perfect for my hand, and so I kept it.”

“It seems a bit ornate for a common knight to carry,” the king observed. He bent down to pick it up by its hilt, and both Gavril and Dain moved as though to stop him. Ignoring them, the king turned Tanengard over in his hands to examine its golden ivy carvings and rosettes.

Gavril glared at Dain, still in his saddle, and thought, You jealous fool. You want it for yourself. You hate it that I took it from you.  Dain was frowning. His gaze was on the king, who swung Tanengard experimentally back and forth, hefting its balance.

“A fine-looking blade indeed, with these carvings. It is new.” The king ran his fingertip along the rosettes carved into the steel, and shuddered. “Yes, I can see the attraction,” he continued, his voice calm and conversational now. “It’s a sword worthy in looks for a prince ... or a king.”

Dismay pierced Gavril’s heart. Surely his father was not going to claim Tanengard for himself. That would be too cruel. The king owned everything. Why could he not be content to let Gavril keep this one possession of value for his own?

“Sire,” he said in protest. “Please.”

The king shot Gavril a sharp look, and too late Gavril saw the trap that Verence had laid for him.

“So you fear I will take it from you,” Verence said softly. “You stand here in dread, lest I keep it for myself. And although that is my complete right as your sovereign, still you protest. Have you forgotten yourself so completely?” Gavril stared at him. He had never been scolded this sharply by his father before. The king’s reprimands were usually mild ones, accompanied by long lectures that left Gavril yawning. But today Verence was furious, and Gavril did not understand why.

“Why do you stare at me this way?” the king demanded. “So lost, so blank, so unrepentant? What has become of you, Gavril? Have you destroyed your soul completely, that you stand here on this unhallowed ground, in a place foul, a place I have forbidden anyone to go near?”

“Father,” Gavril said reasonably, “it’s just an old churchyard. The place has been abandoned for years—” “Do not take me for a fool!” Verence bellowed, and Gavril flinched. “You know these stones remain impregnated with the old spells. It is not safe here for anyone weak in the true faith. That you—” “Ah, Father, but I am not weak,” Gavril said with his old assurance. “My piety is—” “I question your piety!” Verence shouted. “Who was that man here with you?” Gavril’s smile faded. He had been hoping the king hadn’t seen the Sebein.

“Sire?”

“Will you add lying to your list of offenses?” the king demanded. “Who was he?” Gavril shrugged. “A man, a swordsman hired to teach me techniques used in other lands. No doubt he’s a ruffian of some sort. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wanted for various crimes, but he was willing to do this work for me. Coming out here was the only way to get privacy.”

“And where is your protector?” the king asked.

“I can defend myself against one man. I did not need protection.” Doubt flickered in the king’s gaze. There was enough truth in Gavril’s words to give them some credibility. Gavril’s confidence returned.  “Father, please forgive me. I did not mean to displease you.” He held out his hand in supplication.

But Verence’s brows knotted together, and he moved Tanengard aside as though he believed Gavril was reaching for it. Sorrowful disappointment filled his green and blue eyes. “You must think I am a fool,” he said softly.  Astonished, Gavril blinked. “Sire?”

“This is a magicked sword!” Verence roared. Turning livid, he held it aloft in a fist that shook with rage. “Do you think you can prance about court with such a weapon and have no one—least of all myself—recognize what it is?” Discovery. Feeling sickened by the thought of his disgrace, Gavril put out both hands in appeal. “Father, have mercy. It is a tool that can be used for good—” “It is evil!” the king shouted. “Evil! Look what it has done to you. You crave to hold it in your hands again the way an addict craves his opiates. My son, have a care for your immortal soul.”

Shame overtook Gavril. Tears burned in his eyes, and he looked away from his father’s wrath to hide his emotions. The king spoke the truth; he was like a man crazed. He could think of little lately save the sword and how to master it. Yet he was pious and strong in his faithfulness to the teachings of the church. He could not be suborned so easily. Even meeting the Sebeins in secret was not a sign that he was in danger of losing his soul.

“Majesty,” Dain said, his quiet voice breaking the momentary silence, “take care you do not hold the sword too long. Do not let it overtake you.” “Thod above!” the king said in distaste. He stared at Tanengard with a grimace.  “This is a weapon that could lead a man into the greatest folly, perhaps even to turn against me.”

“No, Father!” Gavril said in anguish. “I would never do that.” Eyes hard with suspicion, Verence stared at him. “Would you not? And what of your plans to add a new wing to the palace? A wing built for the pleasure of Lalieux?”

Gavril felt as though he’d been poleaxed. How did the king know about that?