The Chalice

Part One

In upland Mandria, pewter-gray clouds scudded low over woods and marshland alike. A light but steady drizzle—the kind that rusted mail and weapons faster than squires could polish them clean again—had been falling all day. The road was muddy and rutted, hindering the already slow progress of the expedition.  Dain and Prince Gavril, united in their quest to save Lady Pheresa’s life, were traveling northward with a large force of church soldiers and priests.  Clad in a quilted wool undertunic, a fine hauberk of triple-linked mail, a green surcoat, and a heavy cloak of dark wool, Dain was riding along, lost in his own thoughts, when he sensed something unusual. At once he spurred his horse, Soleil, off the road and into the woods that lay eastward.  His protector, Sir Terent, cantered after him, crashing through the undergrowth and slinging mud as he came.

Reining up, Dain gestured for Sir Terent to turn back, but he was too late. The hind that had been frozen with fright in the bushes leaped from cover and bounded away with a white flash of her tail.

Swiftly Dain tried to capture what might lie in her dim mind, but all he found there was a frantic run/run/run/run.

Disappointed, he let the contact fade and stayed a moment beneath the shelter of the trees. Ah, it felt good to inhale the fragrances of damp soil, mossy tree bark, the rotting leaves underfoot, and the marshland in the distance. The frosty bite to the air stung his cheeks and numbed his fingers, but he welcomed the cold. Foliage blazed in hues of scarlet and gold, and leaves drifted down around them, cartwheeling across the ground wherever the wind gusted.  Sir Terent rode up beside him. Muscular and ruddy-faced, the knight protector was rough-hewn and unpolished. But his gruff exterior belied a heart both true and loyal. Right now, he was looking puzzled. “What set you this way, sire? Were you thinking to course game?”

“Nay,” Dain said with scorn. “Unlike Gavril, I need no sport to amuse me. I thought I sensed something.”

“Nonkind?”

“Nay . . .” Frowning, Dain turned his face eastward again. He listened, but all he could hear was the clanking, creaking progress of the wagons and the steady plod of the church soldiers’ horses. They’d been eight days on the road thus far, since disembarking from the royal barges at the river town of Tuisons, and at this slow rate of travel they’d be at least that many days more—if not longer—before they reached the Netheran border. Since yesterday, Dain had been troubled by an uneasy feeling of being followed. It came and went, as light and elusive as the breeze.

“Anything?” Sir Terent asked quietly, watching him.

Dain shook his head in frustration. He didn’t want to tell his protector that of late his eld senses seemed sometimes clouded and uncertain. If he opened himself too much, there came an assault of men-minds all jumbled with thoughts of piety, war, jealousy, worry, and vengeance. Added to that was the odd spell woven by the priest guardians keeping Lady Pheresa alive. It wasn’t magic exactly, but something mysterious and unexplained. Although Dain felt no serious harm in it, it made him uneasy and restless.

He longed to get away from all of them, longed to lose himself deep in the forests, to find peace and quiet for a time. But such a wish was only self-indulgence; he could not afford it now.

“Nothing,” he said to Sir Terent with a shrug. “I thought we might be followed.”

“If not by Nonkind, who?”

Dain frowned. He could not help but glance at the trees once more, although there was nothing to be seen among them.

Sir Terent grunted. “Bandits, mayhap. We travel rich enough to tempt anyone.”

“If they attack, they’ll rue the exercise.”

Exchanging grins, they let their horses amble back toward the road. The company was still moving at a steady pace. Church soldiers, wearing their distinctive white surcoats with the black circles on both breast and back, trotted past.  Their helmets were tied to their saddlecloths. They rode with spurs and bridles jingling. Yet for all their noise and chatter, they stayed watchful and alert.  Although Dain had no liking for these knights and their rigid set of pious beliefs, they were well-trained warriors, stalwart enough to ward off most trouble. No bandit with any sense would dare confront a hundred armed knights, no matter how tempting the contents of these many wagons.  It was not bandits, however, that worried Dain. There was much unrest across these uplands. The common folk who emerged from small villages to watch their progress cheered little and seemed relieved to see them go. Now and then they came across an isolated homestead that had been burned out or else stood deserted.

As for this sense of being watched, Dain wished he could determine what was bothering his instincts. All he knew was that it was hostile.  A shout rang out, rousing him from his thoughts. Dain saw four knights galloping toward him, with a familiar, red-haired figure in their midst. Feeling exasperated beyond measure, Dain scowled at them.  “Lord Faldain, hold there!” called one of the knights.

But Dain had already reined up.

Beside him, Sir Terent scowled. “Damne, they do insult you without fail.” Since the first day of this journey, the church soldiers had steadfastly refused to address Dain by any rank higher than chevard. Despite King Verence’s public acknowledgment of Dain as a prince of Nether, Mandrian prejudice against the eldin grew from deep roots, fostered by the Reformed Church. Although these knights were required to treat Dain as nobly born, they expressed their disapproval in myriad ways. Calling him by his lesser rank was but one of them.  Coming here now, with his squire Thum in tow, was no doubt yet another.  Sir Terent’s hand went to his sword hilt. “Time they had a bit of courtesy stuffed down their gullets.”

“Nay,” Dain said sharply to him. “You know my wishes in this matter.” Growling, Sir Terent subsided, but his green eyes were afire with resentment as the soldiers came up.

Their officer, Sir Wiltem, was a burly man of middle years whose nose had been broken often in past conflicts. He stopped his horse directly in front of Dain’s and glared at him. “Is this your man?” he asked curtly, gesturing at Thum.  Dain looked his friend over swiftly. Although pale enough to make his freckles stand out like spots, Thum showed no bruise marks. He sat upright in his saddle, his gloved hands clenching the reins, his breath steaming about his set face. He looked furious, but unharmed.

“My lord,” the officer repeated, “is this your man?”

“You know him to be Thum du Maltie, my squire,” Dain replied with equal brusqueness. “What do you with him?”

“We were on scout patrol, and caught him sneaking away—” “I was not!” Thum said indignantly, glaring at the knight. “Morde a day, but this is the basest slander. I was riding on my business in plain view.” The man ignored Thum’s protest completely and went on scowling at Dain. “Your squire has no leave to depart the company. He can produce no writ of authority from Lord Barthomew. Nor would he tell us his destination.” “Release him, Sir Wiltem,” Dain said in rising annoyance. “He rides to Thirst Hold, by my order.”

“And has your lordship permission from his highness to dispatch this rider?”

Dain’s fists clenched hard on the reins. “Sir Wiltem,” he said in a voice like

iron, “we ride across Thirst land today. If anyone’s permission is required to

come and go here, it is mine. Or have you forgotten I am chevard of Thirst, and

by the king’s own warrant?”

For a moment Sir Wiltem looked as though he’d swallowed a wasp, then he bowed over his saddle. “Your pardon, my lord. It did not occur to me—” “Plainly,” Dain snapped, cutting short his apology. His gray eyes—eld eyes—blazed at the officer, who shifted his gaze away uneasily.  Sir Wiltem cleared his throat. “We, er, have our commander’s orders to keep all in the company close. For the safety of—” “And do your orders tell you to interfere with my affairs?” Dain broke in sharply.

Anger flashed in Sir Wiltem’s eyes, but Dain’s gaze never wavered. Once again Sir Wiltem was the first to look away.