Angrily Dain gripped his arm. “Do not put her life at risk—”

“I won’t.” Sulein put his hand atop Dain’s, and the Ring of Solder that he wore on his finger—concealed by a small spell of invisibility—flickered momentarily into sight before vanishing again.

The sight of it, as always, had the power to distract Dain, to tempt him, to tantalize and exasperate him. He realized Sulein had let him glimpse it now to silence his protests. And although he fell silent, Dain burned inside with resentment. He’d tried every persuasion he could think of to get the Ring from Sulein, for by right it belonged to him, as it had been his father’s before him.  Without the Ring he believed he had little chance of finding the Chalice. But Sulein kept it as a guarantee that Dain would someday grant him a high position in Nether’s future court, as well as give him part of that kingdom’s treasury.  “You must trust me, sire,” Sulein said softly. “I know exactly what I am doing.” Noncire came over to them. “His highness has agreed. On his behalf do I thank you, Master Sulein, for your willingness to serve.”

Sulein glided away in the cardinal’s wake. While Pheresa’s encasement was unloaded from the wagon and carried a short distance off the road, wattle panels were unloaded from another wagon and hastily assembled around her tent for privacy. The guardians were led by their attendant monks into the small enclosure, with Sulein following. Soon Dain heard them all chanting in unison.  Aching with worry, he had the feeling that he might never see Sulein or Pheresa alive again.

Church soldiers dispersed the gawkers and issued orders for camp to be made.  Soon the whole company was abustle with chores and tasks. The fallen guardian was buried, and laments for the dead rose across the camp in eerie counterpoint to the chanting on Pheresa’s behalf.

Sir Polquin directed Dain’s servants to put up his tent, and soon they had their own small enclave in place, with a fire crackling and kettles of water aboil.  Restless and unable to occupy himself, Dain started to walk over to Pheresa’s enclosure to keep watch there, but he saw Gavril and his minions go by on the same errand.

Frowning, Dain abandoned the intention. Some of Gavril’s words had scorched themselves across his mind earlier that day, and he could not forget them.  Pheresa was indeed Gavril’s lady, not his. No matter how much he still loved her, he could not rightfully intrude.

Instead he paced back and forth, and wisely Sir Polquin and Sir Terent left him alone.

At twilight there came the sound of hoofbeats on the road, and a lone horseman was halted by the sentries.

Watching, Dain saw the silhouette of a thin, upright figure and for a second thought it was Thum returning against orders. But he sensed none of Thum’s warm, kindhearted spirit. This was a stranger, no doubt a courier bringing fresh dispatches to Gavril.

The sentries permitted the man to enter camp, and he rode through the tents slowly, his gaze scanning the faces around him.

“The lazy knaves,” Sir Terent said, squinting. “You’d think they’d escort him straight to the prince.”

“These church soldiers were born in sloth and idleness,” Sir Polquin said critically.

Ever since that black day on the banks of the Charva River, when Nonkind had attacked Lord Odfrey’s forces while they were escorting Gavril home to Savroix, Sir Polquin’s contempt for the church soldiers’ cowardice had grown rather than abated. These knights were not the same men, but all were judged by Thirst men under the shadow cast by the infamy of the soldiers who’d chosen to surround Gavril, staying out of danger, while the Thirst knights fought to their deaths.  Dain lost interest in the newcomer and started for his tent to collect one of the scrolls he’d been studying on this journey. He’d set himself to learn Netheran, and tried to work on his lessons daily.

Just then, however, the courier rode up to their fire and drew rein. “Faldain of Nether?” he asked in a heavily accented voice.

Jumping up, Sir Terent set his hand on his sword hilt, even as Dain turned around in astonishment.

“We are all Mandrians here,” the knight protector said in a growl, but the courier was looking at Dain.

With an audible gasp, he dismounted and took two steps before Sir Terent blocked his path. The courier dropped to his knees in the mud and bowed low.  “Your majesty,” he said. “Da venetne skekse? Skekse van yt Thod!” Dain stared at him in curiosity. The courier had the look of a man who’d ridden long and hard. He was young, hardly older than Dain himself, with prominent cheekbones and slightly tilted eyes that told of some eld blood. His hair, which was black and straight, was divided into innumerable plaits knotted with carved wooden beads at their ends. Swinging with every movement of his head, these beads clacked softly together. Both of his ears were pierced and sported multiple small gold rings that glinted in the firelight. His skin had a tawny cast to it, his beard was sparse and very black, and his eyes were dark brown.  They shone at Dain with a degree of reverence and awe that made him uncomfortable, for he felt he had done nothing as yet to deserve either.  “Rise,” Dain said. “Come near the fire and get warm.” The courier obeyed with visible gratitude, and looked around curiously at Dain’s modest trappings. Dain wondered if he’d expected to see someone attired in fine velvets and furs, wearing more jewels than a single ruby ring, and waited on hand and foot by liveried servants. Still, he sensed no criticism in the young man, and no doubt.

Although pale with exhaustion, the courier refused offers of food and drink. “My duty, sire, is to give you these letters.”

Opening the pouch he kept concealed beneath his fur cloak, the Netheran produced three scrolls of parchment, and dropped to one knee as he handed them to Dain.  Dain accepted them with mixed feelings. No one at Savroix, save King Verence, was supposed to know that he was a member of Gavril’s expedition north.  Officially Dain remained an invalid at Savroix, gravely ill from a wound and allowed no visitors. The ploy, thin indeed for a place as riddled with spies and gossip-mongers as Savroix, had not been expected to hold long, but Dain had hoped he would at least be able to cross the border into Nether before his true whereabouts were discovered.

“Did Prince Spirin send these missives to me?” he asked.  The courier blinked. “Nay, your majesty. I have ridden from Lubeck. As soon as word reached us that you were found, my father—that is, the rebel leaders met and drew up these pledges of support. I was dispatched to Savroix, but when I arrived there you had gone.”

Behind him, Sir Terent swore softly.

The courier cast him a nervous look before returning his gaze to Dain. “From there, I was sent along this road, so back have I ridden.” “Who at Savroix directed you?” Dain asked. “Spirin?” The courier flushed and hesitated, but at last he gave Dain a nod that made his braid beads clack together. “We spoke in private, I assure your majesty.” Oh, yes, Dain thought with exasperation. And how did Spirin himself know that Dain was gone? Before his departure, Dain had had a long talk with the elderly exile, but he hadn’t taken the man completely into his confidence. He knew not yet who among the Netherans he could trust. Spies and paid informants were everywhere, and the Mandrian courtiers and their servants were readily bought.  Besides, who might have overheard Spirin’s conversation with this courier? And, more important, who, if anyone, had followed the courier here to this camp?  Dain remembered his earlier feeling of being watched this afternoon, and a cold chill went up his spine. He hoped the courier had not brought him additional trouble. “What is your name?” he asked.

The courier pulled himself to attention. “Chesil Matkevskiet, your majesty.” Dain nodded absently, and beckoned to his servants. “Give him food and see to his horse.”

Bowing, they hurried to comply. Dain, with Sir Terent at his heels, ducked into his tent. The small lamps inside it had been lit, and they cast a ruddy glow over the narrow cot where Dain’s hauberk—freshly cleaned and oiled—now lay spread out, its links reflecting the light softly.

He sat down on a stool while Sir Terent stood guard at the tent flap, and one by one broke the red-wax seals on his letters. He hoped they were not written in Netheran, for his studies had not yet made him proficient in that language.  The first letter was not, much to his relief. Instead, he saw the angular lines of runes. Dain could read these fluently, but he doubted if many others in Mandria could. As a code, it served excellently.

Once he’d gotten past all the florid and excessive salutations, Dain saw that the letter came from Prince Ingor Matkevskiet, leader of the Agya forces in southwest Nether. Matkevskiet pledged his army to Dain’s service, all four thousand Agya warriors, legendary even in other lands. Dain had heard many tales of respect among the dwarves for the Agya warriors’ bravery and fighting prowess. It was said, however, that they did not always serve the kings of Nether. Even some of King Tobeszijian’s battles were reputedly fought without the Agyas. King Muncel had never commanded them.  But now, with the stroke of a few words on this simple piece of parchment, they were offered to Dain . . . all four thousand of them.

It was said that one Agya warrior was worth three men.  A leap of excitement made Dain grin. He laid the letter on his knee and smoothed it with his hand. This was a tremendous honor. The Agyas had not even measured the muscle in his sword arm, as was their custom before swearing allegiance. Yet they were accepting him sight unseen, willing to follow him against Muncel.  Go to Nether, Tobeszijian’s ghost had whispered to him, and the army will come to you.

So it was true. Dain swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

Opening the second letter, he found it also written in runes.

In it, Count Romsalkin pledged two hundred men to Dain’s service.  The third letter was much stained and creased, almost illegible and scratched out in a combination of rune and Netheran that told Dain the writer was hardly more literate than himself. He puzzled over the short sentences for a long while before he finally deciphered their meaning.

Feeling stunned, he looked up and the letter dropped from his hand.

“Sire?” Sir Terent asked in concern. “Are you well?”

“What?” Dain blinked at him without really seeing him, then the tent came back into focus. He bent over and picked up the letter with shaking fingers.  “Bad news?” Sir Terent asked.

“Nay.” Dain read the note again, but its message was plain. “It’s a pledge from someone named Samderaudin. I know not the name, but I think he must be no lord.” “What does he offer?”

Dain lifted his gaze to meet Sir Terent’s. “He offers a cache of weapons and armor that he’s concealed in the mountains. I cannot make out everything he writes, but . . . have Chesil Matkevskiet come inside. I wish to talk to him in private.”

“Aye, sire.”

Sir Terent went outside, and Dain heard his voice calling the courier. Moments later, Chesil entered the tent.

He bowed low to Dain. “Sire?”

Dain swallowed a couple of times to be sure of his voice. “Do you know a man called Samderaudin?”

Chesil’s dark eyes widened, and he flung back his head. “Aychi!” he exclaimed, and made a quick gesture with his hands that Dain did not understand. “This name I have heard, sire.”

All too conscious of Sir Terent’s listening ears, Dain leaned forward on the stool and said in his awkward, far-from-fluent Netheran, “And is he a sorcerel?  Does he command such creatures?”

Chesil looked distinctly uneasy. He stared at the letter in Dain’s hand, hesitating, before he nodded with a clack of his beads. “Aye,” he replied in Netheran, speaking slowly for Dain’s benefit. “He trains them, and is considered a very powerful sorcerel himself. He went to the wars when Runtha fought.” “Runtha,” Dain said slowly. “My grandfather.”

“And great-grandfather,” Chesil said. “Two Runthas were there. Both powerful kings.”

Dain stared. “Samderaudin served both?”

“Aye. Long-lived, are these sorcerels. Unless they are hit too often with the death-fire. Then they die young. That Samderaudin himself has written to you is a great honor indeed, your majesty.”

“Yes.” Dain swallowed. His dwarf upbringing had taught him to fear and avoid sorcerels at all costs. Capable of commanding great, magical power, the sorcerels supposedly could open the gates between the worlds. It was whispered that there once had been a sorcerelle, a female whose name no one dared speak, who had even opened the gates to the gods themselves, and had then perished because she could not withstand the sight of their greatness.  Dain frowned. “It is the custom, I’ve heard, for Netheran kings to use sorcerels in battle.”

“Always,” Chesil said without hesitation. “Especially when Nonkind are the foes.”

“Have you ridden in such battles?”

“No. But my father has, many times.”

Dain eyed him with curiosity. “And you do not fear their powers?” Chesil blinked at him. “I would fear, your majesty, to go to war without them. I would fear to face any Nonkind without their spells of protection.” Dain frowned, thinking of his own encounters with Nonkind demons. Both times he’d fought with the aid of a magic-endowed sword, Truthseeker first and later Tanengard. He wondered what it must be like to face the Nonkind armed with magicked sword and magicked armor as well.

“Prince Volvn,” Chesil said, “fought last summer without sorcerels and died. He and all five hundred of his men. It was a great loss, for he was the most favored of your father’s generals. We Agya admired him much. Since then, the rebel forces of Nether have almost given up. Even we Agya were packing our tents to exile ourselves in the uncharted lands. But when word came that your majesty was found, my father saw new hope. We will fight to the death and beyond for you.”

“Thank you,” Dain said, and his words seemed inadequate to convey what he was feeling. He held out his hand, and at once Chesil knelt and pressed his lips to the fine ruby on Dain’s finger.

When he stood up again, he asked, “Have you a message for my father?”

“Yes,” Dain said. “But first, I want to ask another question about Samderaudin.

He writes of weapons and armor. I—”

“Does he offer such?” Chesil exclaimed.

“Aye, he does.”

“Aychi! This is a gift indeed,” Chesil said in excitement. “Magicked armor and—” “Swords?” Dain asked, his own excitement kindling. “Magicked swords?” Chesil nodded.

Dain rose to his feet with a grin. “Wait outside while I write my responses.” With a bow, Chesil hurried out. Sir Terent came forward, curiosity written all over his ruddy face.

“Aught I can do, sire?”

“I must write something,” Dain said, searching through his clothes chest for the small box that held his lesson scrolls, a few scraps of parchment, and his inks.  He couldn’t help but think of Gavril, who traveled with his exquisite writing desk, an ingenious contraption that looked like an ordinary box made of beautiful woods and inlays. Inside, however, it was a series of clever hinges, drawers, and compartments that held his glass pens and his finely embellished writing papers.

Dain tore off a piece from where he’d been practicing his letters and began scratching out a reply to Prince Matkevskiet in runes, thanking him for the generous pledge of men. He wrote similar notes to Count Romsalkin and Samderaudin.

As he sanded the letters to dry the ink, disbelief tingled through him.  He now had an army to command. Unable to hold his news any longer, he glanced up at Sir Terent, gripped his arm, and whispered, “We must keep this secret for a while, but over four thousand men are pledged to me!” Sir Terent blinked at him, and slow comprehension dawned in his green eyes.  “Great Thod!” he said in astonishment. “That foreign boy has brought you this news?”

“Aye,” Dain said. “But voice it not. Secrecy gives me some advantage over King Muncel.”

“Of course. I’ll say nothing,” Sir Terent promised at once. Then he shot Dain a sly grin. “But may I tell Sir Polquin? He frets something awful about how you’re to cope without men.”

“Let him fret a while longer,” Dain said with caution. “I trust him with my life, but too many secrets have escaped us already. Let this bide until I am free to act on it.”

“Better yer grace should act on it now,” Sir Terent said bluntly. “Leave the lady and her poor fate in the hands of those responsible for her, and get on to—” “No!” Dain shouted. He slammed his fist down so hard he snapped his pen in half.  “I have sworn that I shall see her cured. That comes first.”