“Sire, you—”

“No,” the king interrupted. “Don’t tell me. I remember now. Where is that accursed sword?”

“Lord Roberd has it,” Dain said soothingly. “He will put it in safekeeping.”

“No! It’s not safe!” the king said in alarm. “It must be destroyed.” “Nay, majesty,” Dain said gently. “Not here and now. You cannot break a magicked sword ... as I believe your majesty has now learned.” Verence dropped his head in his hands and groaned. “What did it do to me?” “It defended itself, majesty,” Dain said gently. “Better to put it under lock and key for a time until—” “Give it to Noncire,” the king said.

Dain frowned, not sure that was wise, but Lord Roberd bowed. “It shall be done at once, your majesty.”

The king looked up. “Take care with it, Roberd. I would not have it harm you.” Lord Roberd smiled at his monarch. “I appreciate your majesty’s concern. Lord Dain, however, has worked some wonderment on it, and he says its power is contained for now.”

The king’s gaze went to Dain, and he frowned. Dain wondered if he would now have to stand trial with Gavril for heresy, but the king said nothing.  “The guards will come looking for us if we stay out after dark,” Sir Odeil said in warning. “We’ve sworn, your majesty, not to speak of this without your leave.  None of us will break our oaths.”

The king glanced around at all of them and nodded as though his head still ached. “Thank you. Sir Odeil, help me up.”

The protector obeyed and kept a steadying arm around the king once Verence was on his feet. His wits seemed to be intact, but he was deathly pale. He took a few unsteady steps, then groaned and bent over to be sick on the ground.  Odeil held him, murmuring softly, and wiped the king’s mouth when he finally straightened.

As Dain watched in concern, Sir Terent edged closer to him. “Will he recover, m’lord?”

“Aye. He’ll be well again, but he was hit mortally hard. He won’t feel himself for a while.”

“Damnation on Lander for making such a weapon,” Sir Terent cursed.  Guilt curled through Dain. “And on me, for helping him bring the metal home, for taking the sword when he asked me to bring it here. I should have—” Sir Terent gripped Dain’s shoulder as though to silence such confessions. “It was not your fault,” he said. “You meant to throw it into the Charva, where it could have harmed no one. Blame yourself for nothing else, m’lord.” The king chose to ride back to his palace rather than be carried. He had to be helped into the saddle, however, and once he was up there he sat hunched over like an old man. “Gavril,” he said.

Looking much subdued, the prince went to him at once.

“Walk by my stirrup,” the king commanded. “Let us go home.” “Yes, sire,” Gavril said. He gripped his father’s stirrup in his right hand, his golden head bowed in the rosy light of sunset. But as he and the king started off, Gavril glanced back at Dain with a look of pure hatred.  Dain frowned, and understood that the truce that had existed between them was now at an end. Gavril would be better off without Tanengard, but he would never admit it. And Dain knew all too well how patient and devious Gavril could be in planning revenge. Whatever the prince did against him would be cruel indeed, and certainly deadly.

For seven days, the king remained secluded. While the court speculated worriedly about his illness, the king confined himself mostly to his own apartments and seldom appeared.

When he did grace a function, he looked pale and haggard, and rarely stayed longer than a few minutes.

The Hunting Ball, traditionally held each autumn, was postponed until his majesty’s health improved. Delegates from Nether, waiting to discuss the new treaty, were obliged to kick their heels with no hope of being granted an audience. The king saw no one, no matter how pressing the business.  “King Muncel could take this delay as an insult. Perhaps King Verence does not want a treaty between our realms,” the Nether ambassador said huffily.  It did not matter what he said. There was no audience. During his illness, the king received only his mistress, his son, and his spiritual adviser. It was reported that his appetite was poor. He refused almost everything except toasted cheese and wine. And although his majesty grew thinner, and his barley-colored hair turned visibly gray, he finally laughed aloud one day at the antics of the countess’s pet monkey. From that point on, he mended quickly. And soon the word was passed through the palace: The ball would be held at the end of the week.  Dain was not idle during these days. The very night they escorted a shaken Verence back to the palace, Dain found himself taken to his new apartments in the central portion of Savroix. Very grand they were, very stylish, courtesy of his standing in the king’s favor. When he walked in, marveling at the luxury and opulence, Dain found Sulein waiting for him as he’d requested.  “Ah, thank you,” Dain said to Thum. “I wish to talk to Master Sulein alone.” Thum nodded. Although he was clearly agog to discuss all that had happened, he shooed out the servant Lyias, who was so proud of their new quarters that he wanted to take Dain on a tour of everything. Sir Terent removed himself to the far side of the study and busied himself in polishing his dagger blade. Dain circled through his apartment quickly, noting that he now possessed a study, a bedchamber, and a dressing room large enough to hold Sir Terent’s cot. The furnishings were worthy enough for a prince, but Dain barely gave anything more than a cursory glance.

In his new study, he gestured for Sulein to be seated. The physician, clad in brown robes edged in monkey fur and wearing his red, conical cap, clasped his long, chemical-stained fingers loosely in front of his stomach and sat down on one of the stools near a desk of beautifully carved wood.  Dain hesitated a moment, then walked around it and seated himself in the tall-backed chair. During the journey back from the south, he had considered many ways to approach this matter with the physician, none of which he was sure would work.

Now, he abandoned all his tactics and simply stared at Sulein. “I want the Ring of Solder,” he said.

The physician’s swarthy face turned pale above his frowzy beard. One of his long-fingered hands strayed up to touch his chest, then he spread out both hands before Dain. The rings which glittered on his fingers were none that Dain recognized.

“As you can see, I do not have .”

“Where is it?” Dain asked harshly. Sulein shrugged. “At Thirst. Presumably you have discovered some estimate of its worth. If you have, then you know it is not for taking on long, perilous journeys.”

“It is not for leaving behind either.” Sulein smiled and tilted his head to one side. His dark eyes gleamed with anticipation, and perhaps a challenge. “Ah, so at last you begin to value these possessions. And how did you decide that you wanted this ring, my lord?”

Dain had sparred frequently with the physician in the past. Now, although Sir Terent was in the room, Dain saw no reason to dissemble. Lifting his chin, he said, “As you have long suspected, I, not Muncel, am the rightful king of Nether. The Ring of Solder belongs to me.”

Sir Terent nearly dropped his dagger. While he stared at Dain with his mouth open, Sulein laughed and lifted his hands aloft to the heavens. Uttering something in his native tongue, he brought his gaze down to meet Dain’s.  “At last it begins,” he said eagerly. “What has convinced you, my lord? What proof have you been given?”

“The ring is part of my inheritance,” Dain said, ignoring these questions. “I would know how you came to have it.”

“Ah, who can trace the mysterious journey of an artifact lost from its previous owner?” Sulein replied, laying his forefinger against his beaky nose. “I bought it from a peddler many, many years ago. I did not know for certain what it was at first, but I realized it was an object of antiquity and importance. When you read the runes to me, I knew instantly what it was and what it could do.” “You didn’t tell me.”

“No, you were concerned only with petty matters then,” Sulein said.  “You must send to Thirst immediately,” Dain said, “and have your strongbox brought here. I want the ring.”

Sulein shook his head and made a tsking noise of regret. “Alas, alas,” he said.

“It is not that simple.”

“Of course it is.”

“No, young lord. It is not.” Dain scowled. “What game do you play with me?” Sulein beamed at him, dark eyes shining. “No games, young lord. All I seek is to remain important to you.”

“I can have your strongbox sent here without your permission,” Dain said.

“Can you indeed? I wonder.”

Dain stared at him, trying to curb his rising impatience, without much success.  He thought of Sulein’s tower at Thirst, and how the door to it was probably spell-locked in the physician’s absence. He thought of Sulein’s ambitions and mysterious purposes. Suspicions curled through his mind, but he did not act on them as yet.

Instead, he tried a different tack. “Tell me what the ring’s powers are.”

Sulein crossed his arms. “They are great indeed.”

Dain frowned at him and made an impatient gesture. “Sulein, you may think yourself clever, toying with me in this manner, but if I order you searched I think we shall find the ring concealed on your person.” Sulein continued to smile, but a faint quiver at the corners of his eyes confirmed Dain’s suspicions. “Violence,” Sulein replied with smooth bravado.  “The resort of the uneducated.”

Dain ignored that gibe. “You claim your ambition is to rise in favor at the Netheran court, when the rightful king once again sits on the throne. If that is true, why do you hesitate to assist me? Why do you keep my property from me?” “I do not keep it from you,” Sulein corrected him. “I guard it for safekeeping until you are able to control it.”

Anger sharpened Dain’s voice. “And are you its master now? What makes you presume—” “Dain, I am not your enemy,” Sulein broke in, rising to his feet. “Never have I been your enemy. You persist in distrusting me, but indeed I am your friend and ally.”

Dain held out his hand. “Then give me the ring.”

Sulein spread out his fingers. “If you can discern which is the ring you seek, take it from my hand.”

Angered, Dain glared at him, but Sulein met his eyes with a confident smile, challenging Dain to see through the disguise he had wrought.  Dain did not want to play this game, but he realized he had little choice.

“One moment,” Sulein said, and snapped his fingers in Sir Terent’s direction.  Dain looked that way and saw Sir Terent standing frozen by the window with a blank expression on his face. Astonished, Dain glanced from his protector back to the physician. “What did you do to him?”

“Are our secrets for such as him?” Sulein countered. “He is merely suspended for a few moments while we finish our discussion.”

Dain smelled no use of magic, yet the hair on the back of his neck was prickling. Frowning slightly, he glanced at Sir Terent again. If the palace guards grew suspicious that any magic was being used, Dain and Sulein would both find themselves in prison.

“You should take care with your spells,” Dain said. “You should trust me more and Sir Terent less.”

“He is loyal.”

“Loyal or not, he is a Mandrian. They cannot go where we would tread.” Sulein spread out his fingers again. “Now. Let your eldin powers serve you. Which is the ring you seek? Choose carefully, young lord, for the one you, choose will be the only one I shall give to you.”

Dain frowned and stared at the three rings gleaming on the fingers of Sulein’s left hand. His right hand was bare of ornamentation, yet he held it out as well.  Dain suspected the trick to this game might well be that Sulein was wearing the Ring of Solder concealed beneath his clothing. Stifling his impatience, he tried to concentrate.

Fatigue made it difficult to focus his thoughts. He was exasperated and annoyed, but after a few moments he succeeded in calming his mind. He stared at the rings carefully until he sensed the spell overlying them. The disguise was woven with amazing skill. The rings themselves provided no information. His senses could not choose from among them.

Disappointed, he frowned and leaned back. If the ring he sought was among them, it should emit a power of its own. He should be able to feel its resonance.  “Quickly,” Sulein muttered. “I cannot hold the spell on Sir Terent much longer.” Dain felt a waver in the physician’s concentration. He stared at the man’s lean hands and pointed at a wide band of embossed gold on his middle finger. “That one.”

Sulein laughed with satisfaction. “A handsome choice, young lord. Not as handsome as the ruby you already wear, but it will make a good companion.” He took off the gold band and held it out to Dain.

Furious with disappointment, Dain struck it from Sulein’s hand and sent the gold ring flying. “Which one is it?” he demanded.

“None of these, young lord. Perhaps your eldin gifts are not as clever as I thought. Hmm?” Smiling broadly, Sulein held up his right hand, clenched it, and turned it over in a quick gesture. There on his finger appeared the ring of heavy silver with the milky stone. The fine rings on Sulein’s other hand shimmered momentarily and became only dull, cheap ornaments of brass.  Dain stared, realizing how thoroughly he’d been tricked.  Sulein laughed again. “How disappointed you look. But you see, young lord, I bought this ring with good coin. I cannot give it away.” “It doesn’t belong to you,” Dain said through his teeth.  “But it does. Your name is not inscribed on the band in these rune carvings. You cannot prove ownership, especially when I possess it. Had you seen through its disguise, then I might have felt compelled to surrender it to you. But we have made our bargain, and you didn’t choose it.”

Dain’s eyes narrowed. He stared coldly at the gloating physician. “What do you want for it?”

“Ah! Now that is the first sensible thing you have said tonight.” Sulein scratched his beard. “What do I want? Ah, indeed, a delightful question that opens doors to all kinds of possibilities.”

His greed was suddenly revealed in his face, naked and intense. He smiled at Dain, while his dark eyes remained calculating and sharp. “If possession of this ring will grant you your kingdom, surely it must be worth a great deal. How large is the Netheran treasury?”

Contempt rose in Dain. Sulein would forever cling to him, sucking at his resources like a leech.

“The treasury, I am told, is bankrupt.”

“Pity. Then you will have to acquire funds elsewhere. From Prince Spirin, perhaps? He and I have already discussed your future. What is your favor with King Verence worth?”

“Little,” Dain snapped. “He will not support me.” Sulein’s bright smile faded.  “Are you saying you have spent a month in his majesty’s company and accomplished nothing? Have you not built on your advantages? Have you acquired nothing for yourself—no lands, no additional titles, no sinecures?” Dain’s shame was like acid in his throat. If only Sulein knew what he’d really acquired... and given away. He reached for his dagger. “Enough of this. Your greed is unmatched—” Lifting his hands, Sulein backed away so hastily he knocked over his stool. “The stakes are high ... majesty.” Dain paused, sucking in a sharp breath. “It has a pleasant sound to it, does it not?” Sulein said softly, never taking his eyes off Dain. “You have seen at close hand how it is to be king. You want that, don’t you?” Dain blinked, throwing off the spell Sulein was using to cloud his mind. “What I want is my father’s ring.”

“Then you must pay for it.”

“How much?”

Sulein shrugged. “Is this the night to decide such a weighty matter? Why not wait until the throne is yours before we decide on payments and rewards?” There would be no throne, no rewards. All Dain wanted was the ring. Getting it out of the hands of someone as unscrupulous as Sulein was the least he could do for Tobeszijian. “Why not put everything on the table and make our deal now?” Dain countered.

“You bargain like a dwarf rather than a lord,” Sulein complained.  Dain bared his teeth and sprang at Sulein. Before the startled physician could back away from him, Dain was gripping the front of his robes, twisting them while he pressed his dagger point to Sulein’s throat. He forced the physician against the wall.

“You try my patience,” Dain said through gritted teeth. “Off with it, before I slice through your finger.”

“Take it by force, and have it you will not,” Sulein said quickly. Fear flashed in his eyes, but he had not lost his courage. He glared at Dain defiantly, lifting his chin to ease the dagger point from his flesh. “I can disappear with it, quicker than thought, and nevermore will you find me.” Dain glared at him furiously. “A bluff.”

“No! It is the power of this ring. How else did King Tobeszijian escape his enemies? How else did he cross and recross this world, hiding first the Chalice of Eternal Life and then you? Three times can a man travel thus on the power of Solder’s ring. Back away from me now, and give me what I ask for, or I swear to you on all my ancestors that I will vanish and take this ring to King Muncel. He will pay my price, if you do not.”

Dain said nothing. Anger roared in his ears, filling him with such heat he thought he might burst into ashes. After a moment, he managed to master himself enough to back away from Sulein. He sheathed his dagger with an unsteady hand and stood there, glowering at the floor for a long while, before at last he forced up his gaze.

“For the last time, I ask your price.”

Triumph filled Sulein’s eyes. He stepped away from the wall. “A position as your court astrologer and chief adviser.”

Dain’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

Sulein smiled. “My own palace and servants.”

Dain waited.

Sulein rubbed his hands together. “One-third of your wealth, not only taken from whatever lies within the treasury at the time of your coronation, but also one-third from your revenues thereafter, for my lifetime.” The request was outrageous. Dain had not expected Sulein to be this greedy. He frowned in an effort to hide his shock, and realized that Sulein could have asked for half. Still, the price would not be paid.

“Well?” Sulein asked him. “Think as long and hard as you wish, but there’s no way around this bargain. Of course, if you want time to decide, then I shall—” “No,” Dain said abruptly. “I agree.”

This time it was Sulein’s eyes that widened in shock. He stared at Dain as though he could not believe the bargain was struck. “You swear this?” he asked hoarsely.

“I do. When I sit on my throne, you will have your price.” Dain held out his hand. “Now give me the ring.”

Sulein’s laughter rang out loudly enough to wake Sir Terent from his spell.  While the protector was sneezing and rubbing his face in confusion, Sulein shook his head. His eyes danced ruthlessly. “No, no, no, young lord,” he said. “And have you vanish to parts unknown without me? No.”

Dain had thought he’d made his face as impassive as a stone carving. Could Sulein sense the truth hidden inside him? “I have given my word.” “Yes, indeed, and your word I do accept,” Sulein told him. “But I shall keep the ring safely under my guard for you. That way, you will not forget to take me along whenever you leave for the north.”

“Eh?” Sir Terent said, blinking and yawning. “What’s that, m’lord? Are we leaving for Thirst?”

Seething, Dain managed to tear his gaze away from the triumphant physician. He wanted to wipe that smirk off Sulein’s face, but he did not doubt that Sulein would make good his threat to disappear if Dain pressed him too hard.  “M’lord?” Sir Terent asked again. “Are we leaving for Thirst?” “Not just yet,” Dain managed to say. His fists were clenched at his side, and anger was a flame inside him. It was all he could do to make his voice sound normal. “We must wait for the king’s leave before we can go.” “But we’ll go soon, do you think?” Sir Terent asked wistfully. Homesickness was plain to hear in his voice. “Before the snows fall too heavy?” “Aye, perhaps,” Dain said.

With a mocking bow, Sulein took his leave. “If there is any other way in which I can serve you, young lord, you have only to summon me. Perhaps, when Prince Spirin calls on you, I may be present?”

Dain nodded curtly, and the physician walked out with a beaming smile.  As the door closed behind him, Dain walked over to a small table to pick up an ornate ewer. He turned it over in his hands, but did not really see it. He wanted to throttle Sulein. By tomorrow, when he refused to meet with Prince Spirin, Sulein would guess the truth. Then there would be no chance of getting the ring away from him. He might even carry out his threat of selling it to King Muncel.

Dain sighed and flexed his tense shoulders. He felt like a failure, and the physician’s taunts did not help.

There must be some way to trick him out of the ring, Dain thought. Somehow, he had to find a way.

“M’lord?” Sir Terent asked, still rubbing his face and looking confused. “Did I hear you tell Sulein you’re the King of Nether?”

“No!” Dain said sharply. He set the ewer down with a bang. “I’m king of nothing, Sir Terent. It was only a jest.”

Stripped to the waist, Gavril knelt in the palace chapel before the altar. A snowy cloth embroidered with circles of gold thread glittered in the candlelight. Despite the coolness of the air, he was sweating profusely. Blood dripped down his back from the cuts he’d inflicted with the knotted whip.  Clutching it, he bowed his golden head and struggled against his inner demons of fury and fear.

On either side of the aisle behind him, priests stood chanting prayers for his soul. Wine-colored smoke from the swinging braziers filled the air with clouds of incense. Bishops and cardinals gathered behind the altar in a semicircle of censure.

When the chanting stopped, Noncire stepped forward. His white slippers made no sound on the stones. As he halted before Gavril, his robes swished around his ankles.

“Has your highness found penitence?” he asked.

This was the third time he’d asked the question. Twice before Gavril had answered with a truthful no; twice before Noncire had ordered him to flagellate himself again.

Now, Gavril crouched lower, awash with pain and misery, his face wet with tears and self-loathing.

“Your highness?” Noncire repeated. “Have you found penitence?” No mercy could be heard in that soft voice. Gavril knew this could go on for hours, as long as he exhibited strength and honesty. All he felt in his heart was raging agony at being parted from Tanengard. He did not repent of his actions. He felt sorry for having been caught, nothing more.  Knowing that he was at fault, that he had indeed sinned most grievously, Gavril wanted to be penitent. He knew there must be something seriously wrong if he could not renounce the hold this strange sword had taken over his senses. With all his heart, he wanted to discuss this problem with Noncire, the way they once had discussed everything. But the cardinal had withdrawn his sympathy and friendship to judge Gavril. Tonight, he showed no more mercy than he had during the previous days of Gavril’s ordeal... during the enforced fasting and the appearance before the church tribunal for questioning about his alleged heresy.  There were always multiple sides to any issue; this at least had been what Noncire taught him before. Now, however, it seemed that the church knew no mercy. It considered nothing but its strictest rules. It permitted no leeway, no reinterpretations.

And for the first time in his life, as his back and shoulders burned with self-inflicted pain, Gavril questioned the authority of the church that he’d previously embraced with such fervor. Its rules were for lesser men, not him.  The church, he felt, should suspend its rules long enough to let him explain his reasons. But instead, he had been summarily judged and ordered to make penance for the safety of his immortal soul.

As a result, tonight he abased himself like a lowly serf. He cried out and wept in his pain and misery. And the churchmen watched, standing there in their silk robes, holding their Circles of gold and jewels in plump white hands. Their eyes held no compassion, no mercy whatsoever. Not even for him, not even after all his efforts to serve the church, to find the Chalice for the church’s glory.  Gavril’s emotions hardened into a knot of resentment inside his throat. It threatened to choke him.

Noncire took a step closer. “Your highness must answer. Have you at last found true penitence?”

Slowly, Gavril straightened his spine. Would he be rewarded for honesty? Would the truth bring mercy and forgiveness? No, it would not. They would only go on punishing and punishing. He knew that worse things—such as hot tongs and the Boot—awaited him once the flagellation was over.

“If your highness does not answer, then resume the punishment,” Noncire said.  Gavril felt himself go cold inside. He lifted his head, and his dark blue eyes were swimming with tears. “I have found penitence,” he lied. “I beg for the mercy of Tomias the Reformer.”

The chanting resumed.

Noncire emitted a gusty sigh and smiled very briefly. He rested his plump hand on Gavril’s head. “Mercy is given. Put down the scourging whip and drink this cup of bitterness.”

The cup was brought to Gavril. He drank the nasty, soured wine it contained, choking a little. After that, they prayed over him and raised him from his knees. His wounds were attended, and clean garments were brought to cover him.  Noncire praised his brave piety in returning to the correct path. “All men who are worthy,” the cardinal said, “go through a crisis of faith. You have survived yours, and you will be the stronger for it.”

Gavril’s gaze flickered to him, then away. The prince’s heart was stone inside his breast. He heard the cardinal’s words with shrill inner laughter and contempt. If only Noncire realized that Gavril’s faith had just died inside him.  If only the man knew that he had driven the final wedge between Gavril and all he had believed in before.

The prince was escorted back to his apartments, and the word was officially released to the king the next day. All was forgiven in the eyes of Tomias.  Relieved, the king sent a letter to Gavril, but the prince set the parchment down unread. He thought of how his father had found him in the churchyard at his dark lessons. He thought of Dain, risen so high in the king’s estimation, higher perhaps now than Gavril himself. He thought of Tanengard, its powers silenced by that meddling pagan, still under Dain’s command and not his own.  And his anger hardened into a hatred deeper than anything he had ever felt before. Dain had long ago ceased to be merely a nuisance. Now, with this betrayal, he had put Gavril in grave jeopardy. No doubt it had been Dain who’d learned of Gavril’s secret lessons, Dain who’d whispered word of them to the king, Dain who’d led the king to the churchyard and that awful moment of discovery. Gavril could not forget the painful disillusionment that had flashed across his father’s face. Until then, he had always felt secure in his father’s unquestioning love for him. But Dain had tainted that as well. He had exposed Gavril, had made Verence see the truth about his son, and Gavril could not forgive him for that.

For a few days Gavril bided his time, until the opportunity came to speak in private with Arvt, the Gantese agent.

“Your highness sent for me. I come,” Arvt said, bowing low from the shadows, while Gavril stood on the palace ramparts and pretended to gaze out across the landscape toward the sea. “How may I serve?”

Gavril never looked at the man. His emotions were icy cold inside him. “There’s little time to arrange this. I will bring suspicion to myself if I elude my protector for more than a moment. You know the chevard, Lord Dain?” “Ah, the king’s favorite,” Arvt said.

It was like having a shard of ice driven into his heart. Gavril shuddered. “Him.

I want him removed. Use whatever methods you prefer, but make it quick.” “ ‘Removed,’ ” Arvt said, his strange accent rolling over the word. “You mean killed?”

“Yes, killed!” Gavril snapped. He slammed a clenched fist down atop the stone crenellation. “I want him dead!”

“It can be easily done,” Arvt said with another bow. “But the price will be—” “Name it. Anything.” Gavril spun on his heel so fast his cloak flared out behind him. He could hear his protector calling his name. Gritting his teeth, Gavril started down the steps. “I’m here!” he called out, then shot Arvt a glare. “Get it done quickly, and I’ll pay the price.”

“Will the king’s ball be soon enough, highness?” Arvt whispered after him.  Gavril kept going down the steps without replying, but inside he smiled with cold satisfaction.

The night of the ball, the palace blazed with lights, music, and excitement. For days, servants had been working feverishly to prepare for the festivities. Now, the state galleries had been transformed, with swags of fruit entwined with gold, russet, and dark green ribbons hanging over every doorway. Animal hides lay on the polished floors. Long brown-and-blue-speckled feathers plucked from the tails of goursen, the plump and stupid birds of the southern meadows, stood fanned decoratively in baskets and drinking horns. Shallow copper pans held ploven eggs, considered a rare delicacy and available only in the autumn. Their pale hues of green and soft blue were enhanced by the polished copper gleam of the vessels. Crocks of mead, smelling richly of fermented honey, stood open on tables next to long-handled dippers. Baskets of fresh-picked apples, pears, and quince stood about in bounty. There were even rushes strewn across the floor of one gallery, imitating the cruder life of upland holds.

Walking into this rustic setting that contrasted so completely with the magnificent tapestries and paintings on the walls, plus the gilded woodwork and plaster boiseries, Dain felt as though he had slipped sideways through time and space into a far different world. Beside him, Thum was staring with a grin of appreciation.

Tonight they both wore doublets of dark Thirst green. Dain’s crest was embroidered on his, and a new pin of worked gold held his cloak folded back fashionably over his right shoulder. He was nervous and excited as he walked about through the decorated rooms, marveling at all he saw. The crowd was slowly gathering as more courtiers appeared for the evening’s festivities. Some wore outlandish hunting costumes, complete with embroidered quivers of gold-fletched arrows, and carried tiny bows carved from ebony strung with gold cords.  Outside in the gathering darkness of eventide, a storm was brewing. Clouds had brought nightfall early, and now and then Dain heard a muted rumble of thunder.  The very air seemed charged with expectancy, and it made him more restless than ever.

That afternoon, he had gone out to the gardens and picked an enormous armful of the blue and yellow flowers. Recalling Thia’s deft way with arrangements, Dain had tried to imitate what his sister would have done with such fragrant beauty.  From an arbor in the shrubbery, he pulled down a vine covered with white, sweet-smelling blooms and used this to tie the flowers into an enormous bouquet, wrapping their long stems with the ends of the vine, then tucking in a few delicate racemes of something pink for contrast.

Carrying his bouquet into the palace and ignoring the stares of those he encountered, Dain handed the flowers to a diminutive page who then, staggering beneath the fragrant burden, went off to give the tribute to Lady Pheresa.  Now, he waited nervously for her appearance, hoping his gift had pleased her.  The Duc du Clune was announced, with his two daughters. Thum eyed the ladies appreciatively. “The younger one is fair, don’t you think?” he asked Dain. “Her name is Roxina.”

Dain glanced unwillingly in that direction. He remembered Elnine and Roxina from the night when they’d sought refuge in his camp. Their faces were pretty enough, and Roxina was the more buxom of the two sisters, but Dain considered them both foolish and spoiled, with affected manners and too much conceit. Still, if Thum sought an evening’s flirtation, Dain had no intention of discouraging him.  “Roxina,” he said with a nod as the lady simpered at an acquaintance and fluttered her silk scarves. “Very pretty.”

Thum grinned and rocked back and forth on his toes. “Aye,” he said in satisfaction. “And nicer than her shrew of a sister.”

“You’ve spoken to her?” Dain asked in startlement.

Thum nodded, acting extremely casual. “You’re not the only one with romance on your mind,” he said. “May I have your leave?”

Dain nodded, and Thum sauntered off in Lady Roxina’s direction. A little surprised, Dain glanced over his shoulder at Sir Terent. “Knew you about this?” Sir Terent seemed amused. “Aye, m’lord. I heard that young Thum cut quite a swath among the ladies while we were gone with the king.” “Did he now.” Admiration for his friend made Dain smile. “And is he serious about this lady?”

Sir Terent shrugged. “No more serious than a young man can be while he courts three different ladies in three different weeks.”

“Oh.” Dain opened his mouth to ask another question, but at that moment the Countess Lalieux arrived with her entourage, to much fanfare and applause from the courtiers. The lady looked magnificent in a gown of quilted silk edged with fur. Her tilted eyes swept the assembly, and she seemed a little put out to have arrived before the king. The young women in her entourage came chattering in behind her, and Pheresa walked gracefully among their number.  Seeing her, Dain’s heart stopped. He forgot everything else as he watched her enter the room. Her new gown was constructed in the latest court fashion. She wore vivid blue trimmed with the merest touch of white ermine at the bodice, as was her royal right. Long sleeves also edged in ermine ended in long points over her hands. The neckline of the dress was cut lower than usual, showing off the lady’s lovely figure and flattering the graceful slenderness of her throat. She wore her long tresses braided and looped at the back of her head, and not until she turned to speak to someone did Dain glimpse the white-flowered vine woven among her braids. In her left hand she carried one of the yellow flowers he’d picked for her.

The rock inside his chest lifted, and he felt suddenly as though he could fly.

Everything was worth it, for her.

Sir Terent grabbed his arm. “Have a care, m’lord. It’s fire you play with—” Ignoring him, Dain pulled free and pushed his way through the crowd toward her.  Clad in a new doublet of pleated dark blue silk, with a velvet-lined cloak swinging from his shoulders and his jeweled dagger glittering at his waist, Gavril strode impatiently into the king’s apartments past the bowing servants.  Halting in the center of the room, he glanced around, a frown marring his handsome young face.

Sir Odeil, the king’s protector, appeared and bowed low. “Come this way, your highness.”

“I’m late,” Gavril complained. “I—”

“The king is expecting you,” Sir Odeil said firmly.

Gavril compressed his lips and swept past the man to enter his father’s bedchamber with more inner trepidation than he wanted to admit. The royal bedchamber was as large as one of the galleries, for in the mornings it had to hold the courtiers in favor as well as the gentlemen of waiting, each with their own specific duties in assisting the king to dress for the day. In the center of the room stood the immense bed, with its canopy of gilded wood and purple plumes. Velvet hangings were tied to the massive posts with tasseled cords. The royal coat of arms hung over the bed, and the coverlet was priceless silk, also embroidered with the king’s crest. Railings of wood stretched out across the room on either side of the bed. Someday, Gavril told himself, those railings would hold back the crowds of the curious when King Verence lay on his deathbed.  It was believed by the common folk that the breath of a dying king could bestow great fortune. Yes, Gavril thought, one day they will come to see you die, and I will be king thereafter.

But tonight, by the light of the flaming candles, his majesty was very much alive and standing before a reflecting glass as his valet fussed over the final details of his attire. Magnificent in gold cloth and rubies, his crown on his head, the king had already dismissed his gentlemen of waiting and was making a final selection of the jewels he would wear.

“His highness, Prince Gavril,” Sir Odeil announced.

The king turned away from the mirror at once and held out his hand in greeting.

“My boy.”

In the past he would have advanced halfway across the room to meet Gavril, treating him almost as an equal. Now, however, he stood where he was and let Gavril come to him.

It was subtle behavior, but the implications were a slap of reproach. Aware that he was still not completely forgiven for his transgressions, Gavril burned with resentment. How long did the king intend to punish him? Even the church had pronounced forgiveness. That should be enough to satisfy anyone.  In retaliation, Gavril slowed his pace as he approached his father, making the king wait. At last, however, they stood facing each other. Gavril bowed deeply.  Verence’s green and blue eyes regarded him somberly. The king had lost weight since his recent illness. Dark circles still smudged the skin beneath his eyes.  His light hair had turned noticeably gray.

Good, Gavril thought spitefully. Hurry and age. That is what you deserve for trying to destroy Tanengard.

“All of you may go,” the king said to his minions. He glanced at Sir Odeil and nodded, and even the protector left the room.

Gavril raised his brows and hooked his thumbs arrogantly in his belt. “Well, sire? We are delaying the start of the ball.”

“What of it?” the king replied. “There is something we must discuss.”

Gavril decided to stop needling his father. “I am at your majesty’s disposal.”

“Another letter has come to me from Lindier.”

Gavril’s interest perked up. He hoped the marechal would join the faction who believed they should conquer Klad. “How does my uncle?” “He is angry, Gavril, and frustrated. As, I will admit, am I.” Shrugging, Gavril turned away. He understood now why he’d been summoned. It was going to be another lecture about his betrothal.

“Don’t you think you have insulted Pheresa long enough?”

Gavril glanced up sharply. “It is not my intention to insult her.”

“You’ve ignored her since your return to court.”

“What of that? Really, Father, I have been much occupied—” “Better that we do not discuss your ‘occupations,’ ” the king said grimly.  Flushing, Gavril bit his lip and fell silent.

The king began to pace back and forth in front of him. “You know your duty. What have you against the girl? If she were squint-eyed and toothless, I would understand, but Pheresa has no flaws, no blemishes.” “I have nothing against her,” Gavril replied. “Except her eagerness. She’s bold, don’t you think, sire? Why did she come here like this, as though assured I would choose her? Why didn’t she wait at home for me to pay my court?” The king laughed. “Is that all this is? A misunderstanding of etiquette? I invited her here, my boy. I wanted to become acquainted with her myself, see that she acquired some court polish. She’s pretty, well-behaved, intelligent, and sensible. Her nuncery education has made her modest. My sister did an excellent job in raising her.”

“No doubt, sire.” Gavril sighed. Of course the king would champion this girl. He would say he invited her, but Gavril knew his aunt well. She must have pushed for the invitation that permitted her daughter to come to court. Therefore, it was just as Gavril thought: Pheresa was too bold. Had she been otherwise, she would have insisted on staying home. “But there are many maidens in this realm who have been excellently raised.”

“And still you have no interest in Pheresa or anyone else.” The king frowned.

“Is there something wrong with you?”

“Nay!” Gavril protested, his face reddening. “It’s just... I wanted to choose my own—” “Well, you’ve had a month or more to look about the court and choose someone else, but as far as I can discover you’ve failed to do even that.” The king shook his finger at Gavril. “It’s your duty to marry early and well. You must prove your ability to produce heirs.”