“The safety of this company is—”

“Thod’s bones, will you say that my squire’s departure threatens us?”

Sir Wiltem’s face reddened. “I follow orders, my lord,” he said stiffly.  “Then perhaps you are too zealous, sir,” Dain told him. “Be sure your orders do not again interfere with what I tell my men to do.”

Sir Wiltem’s eyes were stony, his face impassive. The offense he’d given was serious, but clearly he’d offered all the apology he meant to.  Without another word, he wheeled his horse around and rode away with his men, cutting through the line of wagons lurching ponderously along the road.  Glaring after them, Thum spat eloquently.

Sir Terent flung back a fold of his cloak. “Hah, sire! That told ‘em! ’Tis good to see Wiltem put in his place; aye, and well-whipped with reprimand. He’ll think twice ere he crosses your majesty’s will again.” Dain was less sure. The church soldiers’ allegiance belonged to Gavril and Noncire; Dain’s authority in this expedition was slight indeed. Although the plan was for him to enter Nether disguised and unnoticed, he now wished he’d accepted Prince Spirin’s offer to send an entourage of exiles with him. Aside from a few servants provided by King Verence, Dain had only his few loyal companions from Thirst to stand by him. At times like these, he felt himself to be teetering on a political precipice.

“Did they harm you?” he asked Thum.

“Nay, I’m well,” his friend replied. Lanky, tall, and still growing, Thum du Maltie had of late grown a small brown chin-beard and narrow mustache which made him look more mature than his actual years. A well-born, quiet-spoken young man, Thum seldom lost his temper. But right now, his ire was hot, and his hazel-green eyes were snapping.

“I tried to outrun them, but they cut me off,” he said. “I had a bad moment or two when I thought they might run me through. Thod’s bones, they acted like I was a dire enemy instead of a mere messenger.”

“Those knights weren’t scouting,” Sir Terent said scornfully. “They acted with direct intent, or I’m a—” “And did they search you?” Dain asked, interrupting him.  Thum shook his head. “Their saying I refused to tell them my business is a lie!  They never asked, just rounded me up and forced me to come back with them.” He frowned at Dain. “It’s wondrous strange.”

“No stranger than refusing to spend the night at any hold we’ve passed thus far,” Dain said thoughtfully. He looked ahead at the wagons rolling up the muddy road. “There’s need for haste, but this goes too far. The lady cannot keep up such a pace.”

Thum sighed. “We’re crawling. Mud or not, these kine could pull faster if—” “For her, it’s fast enough,” Dain said sharply, then softened his tone. “Well, no matter now. My message must still go to the hold.” Thum gathered his reins at once. “Then I’m to ride again?”

Dain nodded. “Let’s hope you reach it unhindered this time.” “I’ll ride like the wind to make up for lost time.” Thum wheeled his horse around, then spurred away in a gallop, his cloak billowing out behind him. In three huge bounds, horse and rider reached the trees and vanished from sight.  “I can send Polquin to follow him in case he’s set upon again,” Sir Terent offered.

Dain frowned. “Nay. If I know Thum, he won’t be caught a second time.” “He’ll be lucky to reach Thirst’s gates before eventide, delayed like this. If they won’t open for him—” “He’ll get there,” Dain said, refusing to think of Thum being left stranded for the night outside the hold walls, shivering with cold and prey to whatever evil might lurk in the darkness. “He’ll think of that, and he’ll take no chances.” “Aye, he’s a smart lad.” Sir Terent inhaled deeply and glanced overhead at the drizzling sky. “It’s good indeed to be back on Thirst soil, sire.” Dain smiled at him. “We’ve been away too long.”

“That we have.”

“Before tomorrow’s nightfall,” Dain promised him, “we’ll be in our Hall, drinking Thirst cider.”

“With roast pig in our trenchers?”

Dain laughed. “Perhaps so. But now it’s time to talk to his highness about his meddling.”

Sir Terent sobered at once. “Now, Dain—uh, I mean, sire,” he said uneasily. “It ain’t wise to go picking a quarrel. Could be this was all Lord Barthomew’s idea.”

“Barthomew cannot scratch himself without Gavril’s suggestion.” Sir Terent grinned. “Aye, ‘tis true enough. Still, it ain’t wise to fuss with his highness—” “This is my land,” Dain said grimly. “And I owe Gavril no oath of fealty for it.  He should not interfere with me here.”

Sir Terent looked alarmed. “His highness will do whatever he chooses. You know that.”

“I know that tomorrow night Lady Pheresa will rest inside Thirst’s walls as long as she needs to.”

Not giving Sir Terent time to think up any more objections, Dain kicked Soleil forward and rode to the front of the column.

He passed the numerous wagons piled high with provisions, tents, clothes chests, and countless gifts of great cost which Gavril intended to give to King Muncel for his assistance in their quest to save Pheresa.

The lady herself traveled in the foremost wagon, lying in her glass encasement with a blanket spread over it to shield her from curious eyes. Next to her sat Megala, her serving woman, today a cold huddled figure in her damp cloak. On either side of Pheresa’s wagon rode the thirteen guardians on donkeys. These priests were entrusted with the difficult task of sustaining the spell of faith which kept her alive. Cowled and silent, each guardian was attended by a monk assigned to lead the donkeys and bring food and drink when needed. It was paramount that the guardians never be distracted, never be required to perform the most mundane task, never even be spoken to directly. All their attention and energy had to remain focused on their difficult task.

And that it was difficult Dain had no doubt. Several times he’d heard some of the guardians moan aloud whenever Pheresa suffered most.  Dain could not bear to look at her encasement, traveling well-secured with ropes to keep it from shifting. Each time he thought of her, afflicted with poison and paralyzed inside this mysterious Mandrian spell that kept her alive, he wanted to cry aloud with anguish. She was so beautiful and good. She had never done anyone harm. She deserved nothing as terrible as this affliction. Every morn when he awoke, he renewed his vow to find a way to save this sweet maid who’d stolen his heart.

As he trotted past her wagon, he glanced at the servant woman. “How does the lady?” he called out.

Megala, clutching her cloak beneath her chin, bowed to him nervously and would not directly meet his eld eyes. “Well enough, sir,” she replied. “The pains trouble her, I think. She cries a little in her sleep, poor lamb.” Fresh worry filled Dain. The spell holding Pheresa safe sometimes grew weak and allowed the poison to progress further through her body. That’s when her pain came back.

Unhappy to hear that the lady was failing again, Dain spurred Soleil onward and rode past the flag bearers. Gavril’s blue and gold pennon hung slack in today’s rain, as did the cardinal’s yellow one and the black and white banner of the church soldiers. Yet another man carried the brown flag of pilgrimage, although its display was unnecessary until they reached the Netheran border.  At the very front of the column, Gavril rode astride a magnificent black horse caprisoned in silver. Surrounded by his personal guards, lord protector, noble-born squires, Lord Barthomew and two other church knight officers, a minstrel, and various advisers, Gavril glowed with proud self-importance.  Although he remained as handsome as ever, of late he’d begun to look thin and sometimes haggard. It was rumored he did not sleep well. Among the men it was said that the prince’s worry for his betrothed affected him. Dain, however, believed that Gavril was pining for Tanengard. Against all common sense, the tainted sword had been brought with them, locked away in a box among the baggage. Dain had silenced its terrible song for a while, but he knew eventually its power would begin to stir anew. When it did, Gavril would not be able to resist its call.

Still, however hard his personal demons might drive him, Gavril had not lost his taste for finery. Today, his gold-colored chain mail shone brightly despite dreary rain and mud. A vivid blue cloak lined with pale, exquisite lyng fur protected him from the elements. His gauntlets were stitched of costly blue leather, with his crest embroidered on the cuffs.

At his side rode Cardinal Noncire, whose obese bulk flowed over the saddle in all directions. Robed in black wool with a yellow sash of office beneath his fur-lined cloak, the cardinal looked like an immense pillow balanced precariously atop his stout, slow-moving horse. Hooded against the rain, Noncire appeared grim and miserable as he conversed with the prince.  As Dain rode up, Gavril’s guards glanced his way, instantly alert, and his protector wheeled about to put himself between Dain and the prince.  “Lord Kress, who is that?” Gavril called out, pretending he could not see Dain clearly.

“It is I,” Dain said impatiently.

“Ah, Faldain,” Gavril said in his mocking way. “Move aside, Kress, and let our visitor approach.”

The protector reined back his horse, and Dain rode up between Gavril and Noncire.

The cardinal stared at Dain through his small, beady eyes, and instinctively Dain stiffened in his saddle. He did not trust this cunning schemer, who spoke so softly and kindly, yet had a heart of flint. Noncire was neither friend nor ally to Dain, and never would be. After giving Dain a cold stare, he bowed his head slightly in a token gesture of courtesy.

Dain nodded back to him and turned his attention to Gavril. He had his temper in hand. He intended to start with diplomacy. “My thanks for your reception,” he said politely.

The prince, his handsome face looking tired beneath a thin, light brown mustache, eyed Dain with even more coldness than had the cardinal. “What do you want?”

“I offer invitation and hospitality,” Dain said. “On the morrow, let us stop at Thirst Hold and bide there.”

A twisted smile appeared fleetingly on Gavril’s face. He glanced across Dain at Noncire. “It seems that our kingly companion wishes to play host.” Noncire stroked his gray goatee. “The offer is well-intentioned, your highness.

A rest in some comfort would be most welcome to all, I’m sure.” “There is no comfort to be had at Thirst, lord cardinal. ‘Tis a dour, drafty, inhospitable place, fit only for uplander barbarians.”

“ ‘Tis better than pitching tents on the mud,” Dain said mildly. “Why not avail ourselves of what the hold can offer? I will not forbid your highness wine, if it’s Thirst cider you fear.”

His small joke made Noncire smile, but Gavril seemed unamused by the reference to their foster days, when Chevard Odfrey had kept Gavril’s wines locked in the cellars and insisted all hold folk stay sober.

“No,” Gavril said. “We will not stop there.”

Dain sighed. “Why is my offer not pleasing? I have sent a rider ahead to tell them we draw near. All will be prepared for our arrival.”