“Because it’s absurd! He should be cleaning stables, not—”

“Regarding his worthiness, I will dare to disagree with your highness,” she said with spirit. “His proposal was not absurd.”

“You are my intended.”

“And you have not betrothed me. Am I not technically free to choose elsewhere? I am older than most highborn maidens when they marry. If your highness has rejected me, then I must see to my future. I will not linger at court as a rejected spinster.”

He frowned, looking taken aback. “Why do you keep saying I have rejected you?”

“Haven’t you?”

“Thod’s mercy, but you are bold,” he said in displeasure.  She lifted her hands. “I know. You want a maiden who will flatter you and gaze up at you with adoring eyes. Before I learned not to care, I would have done that, your highness. I would have done anything to please you.” Tears suddenly choked her voice, and she had to turn away. She was furious with herself for losing her self-control.

He stepped closer to her. “Pheresa.”

She could not look at him. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she slapped it angrily away.

When Gavril touched her elbow, she flinched. He released her at once, but circled around to stand in front of her. “Pheresa,” he said again in wonder, “have I made you cry?”

She could feel the whole room staring. Her emotions overwhelmed her, and she could no longer endure being watched. “Please,” she murmured desperately, “give me leave to go. I—I am unwell.”

“Of course,” he said at once. “But I will escort you.”

“No,” she began, but he ignored her protest.

Taking her arm, he led her out of the room and along a short hallway to a tall window. They stepped outside onto a tiny balcony. A flight of torchlit steps led down from it, but Gavril stopped and stood beside her while she buried her face in her hands and battled not to weep.

Her mother had taught her that although they had to be used wisely and sparingly, tears were a woman’s best weapon. Pheresa despised such advice. She feared that weeping would only drive Gavril further away.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, knowing she was destroying the chance fate had finally awarded her. “I’m sorry.”

Gavril’s hand touched her shoulder. His fingers felt very warm on her skin. “Do not apologize. I understand how upset he has made you. He is shameless. He understands no boundary, while my father thinks it amusing to let him do as he pleases.”

Puzzled, Pheresa lifted her damp face and stared at Gavril through the gloom. It took her a moment to realize he was again talking about Dain. “Your highness, he didn’t—” “This insult to you is his worst action yet,” Gavril went on, unheeding. “But have no fear. He shan’t be around much longer to pester anyone.” “I know he must return soon to Thirst.” As she spoke, she thought of all Dain had said about his hold. His pride in it had rung in his voice as he described it for her. “He made it sound appealing. So quiet and ordinary.” “It’s an appalling mud hole—freezing in the winter, with scarcely a civilized amenity to it,” Gavril said with loathing.

Someone shrieked with laughter inside. Pheresa frowned at this first sign of the ball’s growing more lively and riotous. “Perhaps a mud hole, with decency and goodness in it, would be preferable to the civilized amenities of drunken orgies.”

“Pheresa, tell me you are not seriously considering going there,” Gavril said in astonishment. “How can you?”

She was annoyed that he would believe it of her, and yet for the first time she felt a little sense of power over Gavril. It was thrilling to think she might have piqued his jealousy at least. At the same time, an undercurrent of self-disgust ran through her. So she was her mother’s daughter, despite all her intentions. For here she was, with the means at last to leverage Gavril into a proposal, and she intended to use it.

“How can I not consider Thirst?” she replied coolly, feeling her pulse beat hard in her throat. “I have no better offer.”

“Ah,” Gavril murmured, and took her hand. “Perhaps you do.” In the overheated ballroom, Dain’s head was buzzing. He had gone this evening from high expectancy, to exhilaration, to despair. Even now, as he watched Pheresa walking away from him with Gavril, he still found himself unable to believe that she’d turned him down. He’d been holding her in his arms, holding her with such tenderness and passion. His senses had reeled from the fragrance and softness of her. While he was working up his courage to kiss her, suddenly she was gone, pulling away from him and going to Gavril instead.  Someone jostled him in the crowd, but Dain paid no attention. He watched her dance with Gavril, so beautiful, her eyes flashing as she spoke to the prince.  Dain felt himself on fire, yet his head was cold and numb, as though it had been cut off and was now floating above his body. He did not know what to do. He had thrown away a kingdom for her, and she did not want him.  Again he was bumped into, and a man said, “I beg your lordship’s pardon. It’s very hot in here, eh?”

“Aye,” Dain said absently. He barely looked at the fellow, who was no one he recognized.

“Have some wine. You look as though you need it. Good stuff, eh?” The man was holding two cups. He offered one to Dain, who realized how thirsty he was.

Taking it, Dain gave the man a little nod of thanks and lifted the cup in salute. “To your kindness, sir.”

Laughing, the man returned the gesture and shouldered his way on through the crowd. Dain scowled at the dark wine in the cup. Its bouquet was ripe and heavy, assaulting his nostrils. He was no wine drinker, even at this court where the stuff flowed like water at all times, but right now, he thought, perhaps it would be wise to drink until the hurt spreading through him was dulled and lifeless.

It had never occurred to him that her smiles and friendly chatter hid an indifferent heart. He believed her feelings matched his own, and he had let himself weave such a tremendous fantasy for himself that now, now it hurt more than he could stand.

Sighing, he watched them leave the dancing and go to talk on the far side of the room. He told himself to go outside, to get away and stop watching her break his heart, but his feet seemed rooted in place. If the prince made her happy, then Dain could force himself to accept it, but she was shaking her head and frowning at Gavril. She averted her face, and the prince moved closer to her.  Dain growled to himself and lifted the cup to his lips. The heavy smell of the wine repulsed him enough to hesitate. Drink deep, he told himself.  She started crying, and Gavril escorted her out of the room.

Without tasting the wine, Dain lowered the cup and rushed after them.  It was difficult for him to push through the crowd. Some of the courtiers were now well-flushed with drink and beginning to laugh and carouse tipsily. Sir Terent stood by the refreshment table across the room. He saw Dain leaving, but he was hampered from following by the crush of people.  That suited Dain well. He did not need his protector in the way, preventing him from doing the foolish things he intended to do. Gavril was going to make Pheresa desperately unhappy, and Dain refused to let it happen. She was only trying to do her duty, but she was too fine to be shackled to the prince for the rest of her life. She deserved better, and Dain was not going to let her be coerced into something she did not really want. Besides, if he could not make her love him, what was he going to do?

Still carrying his cup, Dain was bumped into by a woman, and half of his wine sloshed over his sleeve, soaking it to the skin. He shook droplets of liquid from his hand and started to lick his fingers dry, but there was no time.  Instead, he hurried on to the door, wiping his hand on the front of his doublet as he went.

Outside the ballroom, the air was cooler and the noise level dropped. Blinking in relief, Dain glanced around and heard the low murmur of voices in the distance. He hurried along a short hallway and saw them, standing outdoors on a small balcony.

Gavril was holding her hand, but Pheresa was trying to pull free. Instead of releasing her, the prince stepped closer and encircled her waist with his arm.  He kissed her lips, and Dain lost his head.

“Unhand her!” he shouted.

Behind him, Sir Terent called out, “M’lord, wait!”

Dain paid no heed. Setting his wine cup down on the balustrade, he confronted Gavril, who by now had stepped away from Pheresa. She gasped and pressed her hands to her cheeks.

In the torchlight, Gavril’s blue eyes flashed with anger. “How dare you interrupt me.”

“You are annoying the lady,” Dain said.

“Dain, please don’t!” she said, but he heard only the wretchedness in her voice, not her words.

“You whelp,” Gavril sneered, reaching for his dagger. “It’s time you were taught your place. Guards—” Dain tackled him before he could shout for help, and together the two of them went sprawling at Pheresa’s feet.

Crying out, she jumped back. Gavril’s flailing fist caught Dain in the jaw, and his head rang momentarily from the blow. Dain hit him back, and the prince cursed savagely before thrusting Dain away and scrambling to his feet.  Again the prince reached for his dagger, but Dain gripped his ankles and pulled his feet out from under him. Gavril landed hard, and as he lay there, momentarily winded, Dain gripped him by the front of his fancy doublet and jerked him upright.

Gavril’s fist connected with his jaw, and Dain’s head snapped back. With the world reeling around him, Dain stumbled backward across the short balcony to the top of the steps. He teetered there, but caught his balance and did not fall.  Cursing, Gavril rushed at Dain with his dagger drawn. Dain drew his own dagger and tried to shift his back to the wall for protection. Gavril thrust hard with his dagger, and as Dain blocked the blow with his own dagger blade, he lost his balance and went tumbling down the steps. By quick instinct, he grabbed hold of Gavril’s doublet with his free hand and pulled the prince down with him.  It was a jolting, wild, painful tumble. Dain felt the jar of every step as he rolled head over heels with a cursing Gavril entangled with him. When he landed, all the air was knocked from his lungs, and he could only lie there, wheezing and half-stunned, with Gavril lying on top of him.

Slowly, hurting all over, Dain rolled the prince off and staggered to his feet.

He had dropped his dagger in the fall.

Looking around for it, he saw it lying on one of the steps halfway up.  Pheresa stood on the balcony, a vision in blue, the torchlight sparking red highlights in her blonde hair. Pressing her hands to her mouth, she stared down at them. “Dain!” she cried out. “Please stop.” Out of breath and sorely shaken, he lifted his hand in a salute, but before Dain could answer her Gavril regained his feet and attacked him from behind. Instinctively, he tried to twist around, and felt Gavril’s knife blade slice along his ribs. Fire burned in the cut, making him grunt. Watching them, Pheresa screamed.  Gavril was cursing viciously. He thrust again, but Dain caught his wrist in time and strained to hold him. Gavril’s lips drew back in a snarl, and sheer hatred blazed in his eyes.

“You’ll die tonight,” he said. “I have sworn it. This time you’ve gone too far.” Dain didn’t care. Any punishment was worth it, if it meant ridding the world—ridding Pheresa—of this arrogant, cruel brute. Still straining to hold Gavril’s knife hand, he struck the prince in the face with his other fist.  Gavril’s head snapped back. Dain hit him again, and then there were shouts and the sound of running feet. Strong hands gripped Dain and pulled him back from Gavril.

The prince glared at Dain and twisted his dagger to nick Dain’s wrist as they were separated.

Wincing, Dain clamped his hand upon his bleeding wrist and struggled to catch his breath while the guards pummeled him and marched him up the steps.  The king was standing at the top, with Pheresa behind him. The torchlight glittered on Verence’s crown and rubies. He looked furious, with his mouth compressed to a tight line and his brow furrowed. Curious people were crowding onto the balcony, only to be pushed back by palace guards. Sir Terent fought his way through and came running halfway down the steps, only to be motioned back by Dain’s captors.

“M’lord!” he said in despair, looking with horror from Dain to Gavril’s puffy, bleeding face. “Great mercy of Thod, what have you done?” The king glared at Sir Terent and gestured at one of his guards. “Remove this man.”

The guards shoved Sir Terent away, and Dain was brought up to the balcony to face the king and Lady Pheresa.

His gaze went at once to her. She had turned as white as the ermine trim on her gown. Her brown eyes were huge in her face, and she was breathing hard with distress.

“You fool,” she said in despair. Tears shone on her face. “You poor, idiot fool.”

Dain didn’t understand. “He was making you cry.”

Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks, but before she could reply Gavril came staggering up the steps, flanked by two supportive guards. His blond hair was standing on end, his doublet was wrinkled and torn, and his blue eyes blazed with rage.

“Order his death, sire!” he shouted, pointing at Dain with his bloody dagger.

“He attacked me, aye, and would have killed me had I not defended myself.”

Gavril gestured at the steps behind him. “There lies his weapon in proof.” Hard-eyed, the king moved his hand. One of the guards picked up Dain’s dagger and brought it to the king. “There is no blood on his blade,” Verence said in relief. “Thod be thanked.”

“Aye, Thod’s grace and my skill in fighting are all that saved me,” Gavril said, partially out of breath. “I could have broken my neck being thrown down those steps.”

“Gavril, how can you lie so?” Pheresa demanded. Still pale, she was straggling for breath, and waving her hands aimlessly about. She turned to the king. “Sire, it was not as—” “Who began this fight?” the king asked angrily.

Gavril ignored his father and turned his rage on Pheresa. “How dare you accuse me of lying! Have you lost your wits, or did it please you to see us fighting over you like—” “No, it did not please me!” she retorted with equal fury. “Never have I been more mortified. You might have been two mongrels attacking each other in the dirt.” Her angry gaze swept over to include Dain. “This is not the way men of honor behave. Both of you are horrible, horrible! I—” Choking, she coughed and turned away. Dain tried to go to her, but his captors held him fast. “Help her.  She’s going to swoon,” he said.

One of the guards caught her as she sank down. Still coughing, she could not seem to catch her breath.

Swearing, the king glanced around and saw the wine cup that Dain had set on the balustrade moments before. He picked it up and held it to her lips. “Drink this, child.”

Gasping, she did so, and her coughing eased. The king touched her face gently in concern before turning back to Gavril and Dain with a scowl.  “Your behavior is unfit for any lady’s eyes,” he said sternly. “Both of you—” Pheresa shuddered and loosed a little cry of distress. Dain saw her face twist in sudden pain.

“Help her!” he said in alarm, trying again to pull free of his captors. “She is ill.”

The king turned, but by then Pheresa was moaning with pain. Her face turned a strange color, and her eyes grew glassy. Her body jerked in the hold of the guard supporting her, then she doubled over and fainted. The king stared. “What in the name of—” “Poison!” Gavril said, looking as horrified as Dain felt. “What was in the wine? Where did it come from?”

The king looked at the cup in his hand with revulsion and started to throw it away.

“No, sire!” Dain shouted. “Let a physician test its contents. But send for help immediately while she still breathes.” Commotion broke out. The guards pushed the courtiers away, and Pheresa was carried into a small chamber and laid on a bench. Her skin had turned the gray hue of death, and she was breathing hard, with short, rasping breaths.

“Let me attend her,” Dain pleaded desperately. “At least until the physician comes.”

“Father, do not allow him near her,” Gavril protested. “He could do her more harm.”

The king looked at his son, but then gestured at Dain’s guards. “Release him.” Still gripping his bleeding wrist, which was dripping through his fingers, Dain went to her side and knelt there.

“He is too filthy!” Gavril protested. “Keep him away from her.” The king instead issued a command, and one of the guards tore a strip of cloth and bound up Dain’s wrist. His pale blood soaked through it quickly, but Dain paid no heed. Ignoring everything except Pheresa, he gripped one of her hands in his.

She was burning hot and still gasping for breath. He could feel the poison in her veins. It was strangely slow-acting, for it had not killed her yet, but Dain felt more gratitude than puzzlement. He closed his eyes, trying to draw some of the poison into himself, but he lacked the skill.

Frustrated, he opened his eyes and stared at her in anguish. “It’s no common poison. I don’t know how to save her.”

A stricken look filled Verence’s eyes. He lifted the back of his hand to his mouth and began to pace back and forth.

Gavril stood in silence a moment, then scowled and pointed at Dain. “You did this to her,” he said. “It was your cup. You brought it to kill her.” Dain rose to his feet in astonishment. The movement made him dizzy, and he blinked hard to fight off his weakness.

By then the king was staring at his son. “What accusation is this?” “Have him questioned,” Gavril said harshly. “He has tried to murder my betrothed—” “That’s a lie!” Dain shouted.

At that moment the doors burst open and Cardinal Noncire, followed by a trio of priests and two court physicians, entered the room. One of the latter went to Pheresa and bent over her.

Seconds later he straightened and made the swift sign of the Circle. He murmured into the cardinal’s ear, and the men exchanged somber looks.  “What is it?” the king asked. “What can be done?”

“All must clear the room,” Noncire said. “If she is to be saved at all costs, majesty?”

Verence frowned and seemed to hesitate, but Gavril stepped forward. “Yes, yes, at all costs. How can you even ask such a thing? Noncire, if there’s any way to preserve her life, do it! She is to be my wife.”

The king met the eyes of the cardinal and nodded. Noncire bowed. “By your command,” he said. “All must leave. Quickly, before it’s too late.” Dain wanted to protest. He distrusted these men, for they were the same priests who’d tested him that night before King Verence. But he was given no chance to speak. The guards pushed him out of the room in the wake of Verence and Gavril, and no sooner did he cross the threshold than the doors were slammed behind him.  He turned back, frowning at the carved panels. His keen ears could already make out the strange words the priests were chanting softly. Hairs prickled on the back of his neck, and he caught the burned whiff of magic. His mouth went dry.  They were casting a spell over her.

“What are they going to do?” Gavril asked in the corridor.

“Whatever they can,” the king said grimly. “Come away.” Eyes wide with astonishment, Dain turned to him. What hypocrisy was this? To preach against and condemn the use of magic, to torture Gavril for having tried to learn the weakest of spells, and yet to order its use now. Dain had not expected to find such contradictions in the king. “Your majesty,” he said.  The king’s gaze flicked to him, and Verence nodded grimly as though to confirm Dain’s suspicions. “By my command only can it be done,” he said. “And only in a true emergency, such as this, will I command it. Now, both of you come with me.  We will get to the bottom of this.”

By the time they reached the king’s study, a spacious room with a wall of leaded windows overlooking the central courtyard of the palace, the chamberlain and some of the ministers were waiting. A harried servant bustled about, trying to light candles. The room was shadowy and cool, with a long wooden table in its center.

The chamberlain stepped forward with a bow. “Your majesty,” he said in a hushed voice of profound shock. “May I express our deepest sympathies regarding the serious illness of your lady niece.”

Clune also came forward, his old face looking tired and haggard. “Not plague, is it?” he demanded. “Don’t want my daughters exposed to plague. Be a panic if it is.”

The king glared at him impatiently. “It is poison.”

General consternation broke out among the others while the chamberlain lifted his hands ineffectually for silence.

The king glanced at his master of arms. “Remove these men.” “But, your majesty, please,” the chamberlain protested. “Affairs of state must be—” “Everything must wait,” the king told him. “Until we know if she will live or die, there is nothing to be done. She—” His voice grew hoarse and cracked. He stopped, frowning, and cleared his throat. “She is betrothed to his highness.  You may announce that. You may also ask the people for their prayers on her behalf.”

The chamberlain bowed and backed himself out, while the ministers did likewise.  As soon as the guards had shut the doors, Gavril flung himself in a chair and demanded that the servant who was building a fire in the hearth stop what he was doing and bring him wine. Drinking deeply, he pointed at Dain. “The pagan must be put in the dungeons, sire, without delay. He attacked me, and he must pay the price.”

Blinking against the dizzying little dots that kept swimming in front of his vision, Dain opened his mouth to speak in his defense, but no words came out. He closed his eyes for a second, and opened them again to find that he’d sunk to his knees before the king.

Pacing back and forth, Verence gestured impatiently at Dain. “No need to beg. I am not ready to execute you... yet.”

“Sire, you are too merciful. He is both a liar and an assassin.” “Gavril, please hush these wild accusations,” the king said, and rubbed his face. “ ‘Tis I who gave her the stuff to drink. Damne! I feel the guilt of that most strongly.”

“The poison was in my cup,” Dain said in a thin voice. “It was meant for me.”

Gavril leaned forward in his chair. “And did you drink any of it?” Dain met his gaze, feeling Gavril’s hatred wash over him with such violence he swayed on his knees.

The king stopped pacing and frowned at Dain. “Did you?” The color drained from his face, and before Sir Odeil could stop him he hastened over to grip Dain’s shoulder. “Great Thod, it was half-empty when I picked it up. No, no, my boy, not you as well.”

Dain tried to tell him he had not drunk the poison, but his voice failed him again. Through a strange roaring in his ears, he heard the king issuing orders.  The fire was blazing now on the hearth, casting its orange light across Dain’s face and body, but he could not feel its warmth. He was very, very cold. And then he knew nothing.

He dreamed that he stood in a gloomy cave, a place of dank, bone-chilling coldness. Ice glistened on the stone walls where water had seeped through the rock and frozen. His feet and hands were numb. When he looked down at himself, he wore a shroud of white linen and his feet were bare. Wondering if he was dead, he shivered and looked ahead to the source of pale clear light that illuminated the cave. He saw the Chalice of Eternal Life shining from a niche carved into the wall. Light emanated from it, and as Dain drew closer, he felt himself bathed in its radiant purity.

Awed, he knelt before it and traced a ring about himself in the dirt. He had no salt, no ash rods, no candles with which to make the proper rituals. All he could do was worship with his heart.

“Faldain.”

Turning around, he faced King Tobeszijian. Ghostly pale, almost transparent in places, the lost king wore his gold breastplate and mail. His great sword hung at his side. Dain rose to his feet before this vision of the man who had been his father. Aside from his pallor, Tobeszijian still looked young and vigorous.  An invisible wind stirred his black hair back from his stern, forbidding face.

His eyes, pale blue and fierce, blazed into Dain’s.

“Father,” Dain whispered.

The vision glared at him a moment, then held out his gauntleted hand.  A rush of emotions choked Dain’s throat. He went forward and knelt, then reached out to grasp his father’s fingers, but his hands passed through the vision and touched only air.

Pain pierced Dain’s heart. He wanted so much to grasp his father’s hand, to feel this man just once, to know he was indeed real.

“You cannot touch me, Faldain,” Tobeszijian said, his deep voice booming within the cave. “We exist in different worlds.”

“But am I not dead too, Father?”

Tobeszijian’s fierce gaze shifted past Dain to the Chalice. “Do you remember this place, my son?”

Dain glanced about and slowly rose to his feet. “No.”

“I brought you here when you were a toddling babe. Remember the cave, Faldain.

You must remember the cave.”

“Father, I—I have failed you,” Dain admitted in a choked voice. “I made a terrible choice, a mistake.”

“Nether needs its true king. It is being consumed by darkness. Take the Chalice home, my son.”

Hope grew inside Dain. He looked at the sacred vessel, shining its pure light, and wondered if he dared touch it.

“Were I not threatened by Verence with war—”

“Verence is not your enemy.”

“Then when I have the means to gather an army—”

“You are king!” Tobeszijian boomed, making Dain jump. “The army will come to you.”