“But, sire—”

“The people of Nether have waited this many years for deliverance,” Dain said harshly, refusing to yield. “They can wait a few months more.” Disappointment crossed Sir Terent’s face. He bowed and argued no more. “As yer majesty judges best,” he said, but in disapproval.

Annoyed, Dain said no more. From the first day they’d set out on this quest to save Pheresa, Sir Terent and Sir Polquin had been against it. They didn’t understand, Dain told himself as he sealed his letters. If they’d ever known what it was like to love a maid as fair as Pheresa, then obviously they’d forgotten. Besides, finding the Chalice would not only save her but also help him regain his kingdom. Dain set his mouth and called Chesil back inside the tent.

He handed over the letters and bade the Agya courier a swift journey. “Will you wait until daybreak to ride?”

“Nay, your majesty. There is a strong moon tonight. I do not fear the darkness.” “Then Thodspeed,” Dain said. “My compliments to your father. Tell him I look forward to the day when he and I shall meet.”

“Let it be soon, majesty,” Chesil said, and departed.

Dain rose to his feet and secured the pledges in a safe place among his possessions.

“Yer majesty’s supper is ready,” Sir Terent said. “Give the word and I’ll tell ‘em to bring it in.”

“Nay,” Dain said. He felt distracted and restless. He picked up his cloak and wrapped its heavy folds around his shoulders. “I want to walk a bit first.” “You want to go stand over the lady,” Sir Terent grumbled. He pulled on his gloves and followed Dain outside into the frosty night air. “ ‘Tis not kingly to moon over her like—” Dain stopped short in his tracks and glared at his protector. “Take care, sir,” he said in a low, furious voice. “I decide what is and is not ‘kingly’ for me to do.”

Over by the campfire, Sir Polquin was standing with a trencher of food in his hands. He stared at them worriedly.

Dain and Sir Terent, busy glaring at each other, ignored him.  Although Sir Terent’s face reddened, he didn’t back down. “Aye, sire,” he said at last. “Seems I’ve got a bit more to learn about serving a king, even if he ain’t got his kingdom yet.”

Stung by that, Dain frowned. Before he could speak, however, Sir Terent went on:

“Remember this, sire. ‘Tis said that King Tobeszijian was a man who liked to do things his way, in his own good time. ’Tis said that he wouldn’t pay enough mind to his duties, and that’s how his brother took the throne away from him.” The fire that kindled in Dain’s chest burned its way up into his face. He felt as though he were being strangled. “Who—who told you that?” he asked hoarsely, his fists clenched at his sides.

“We common knights hear a lot, here and there.”

“Did the Netherans at Savroix tell you that? Or is it just a Mandrian lie?”

Sir Terent’s eyes flashed at Dain’s deliberate insult, but he kept his temper.

“I couldn’t say, sire.”

Dain glared at him a moment longer, then he turned on his heel and strode off into the darkness. Sir Terent followed, his big feet crunching on the frozen mud. As Dain picked his way through the camp toward Pheresa’s enclosure, his anger slowly dissipated. He knew, in his heart, that what Sir Terent had said was true.

Yet how could he be expected to turn his back on Pheresa’s plight? She had drunk the poison meant for him. Did he not owe her something for that?  He loved her, no matter what Sir Terent said. And stubbornly he kept walking toward her tent.

The morning dawned bright and fair, with no hint of the previous day’s rain.  Sunlight sparkled on frosty leaves and grass. Dain, Sir Terent, and Sir Polquin left the road and cut first across marshland, then fields harvested and gleaned, to take the shortest route to Thirst Hold.

Behind them, Gavril’s expedition was still camped on the roadside. Like a band of nomads, Dain thought scornfully. Despite Sulein’s being successfully substituted for the dead guardian, the royal physicians said that Lady Pheresa should not be moved as yet. Not even to nearby Thirst. In the meantime, Dain seized the opportunity to visit his hold. Much business awaited him there, and it was long past time that he attended to it.

Having galloped across an empty field, Dain reined up inside a small wood to give the horses a breather. Woodcutters had been at work in this grove, leaving stumps in their wake. Thirst land, Dain thought, inhaling the mingled scents of woods and autumn with pleasure. It felt good to come back, and Sir Terent and Sir Polquin were grinning like boys.

Soleil tossed his proud head, flinging his golden mane and pulling on the reins.  “Steady,” Dain crooned to him, laughing at the chestnut stallion’s fiery spirit “You can’t race the wind all day.”

Sir Terent pointed northeast “Just over the next rise past these trees, and we’ll—” An arrow sang past Dain’s face, so close the fletchings brushed his skin, and thudded into Sir Terent’s shoulder. The protector reeled in his saddle with a hoarse cry of pain.

Sir Polquin drew his sword. “Get out of this! Ride, sire. Ride! I’ll hold them.” More arrows came raining down on them, but Dain knew they had to stick together if they were to survive. Rearing Soleil to make himself less of a target, he shouted, “Sir Terent, can you ride?”

The protector’s knight was pale with strain, and he was barely keeping himself in the saddle. Ignoring Dain’s question, he glared at Sir Polquin. “Get him out of here!”

Sir Polquin wheeled his horse toward Dain.

“Ride, Terent!” Dain commanded. Leaning forward, he pulled his sagging protector upright. “Ride to the field!”

An arrow sliced across the top of Dain’s hand, cutting his heavy glove and bringing pain like fire. Ignoring it, he kicked Soleil hard, but as the three of them retreated from the grove, another volley of arrows came at them. One hit Sir Polquin’s horse in the flank.

Squealing in pain, the animal shied violently, and Sir Polquin came off. He thudded hard against the ground and lay there un-moving.  Cursing in alarm, Dain drew up and wheeled his horse around to go racing back for him. By then Sir Polquin was sitting up, trying to wave him away.  “See to yourself, sire!” he shouted gruffly. “I’ll do.”

“No, you will not,” Dain replied grimly.

The sporadic hail of arrows stopped, and just as Dain noticed this, a half-dozen riders emerged from the trees to surround them. Several of these men wore red mail. Helmeted with their visors closed, they wore no surcoats to identify themselves.

“Bandits, damne!” Sir Polquin said, scrambling to his feet. “Get away! I’ll hold them as long as I can.”

Dain flung back his cloak to free his arms and drew his sword. “It’s too late for that,” he said grimly.

Beside him, Sir Terent snapped off the arrow still sticking out of his shoulder, swore with shrill vehemence, and drew his sword. “For Thirst and Dain,” he said, pasty-faced and sweating.

“Aye, for Thirst and Dain!” Sir Polquin echoed grimly.

Dain swallowed hard. “For Thirst!”

At that moment their attackers charged, yelling in a language Dain did not understand. From that point forward, there was no chance to think, but only to fight.

In seconds, Dain found himself flanked by two foes. Desperately wheeling his horse around to get out from between them, Dain swung his sword at the closest man. His blow was parried with a resounding clang of steel. For a split second he stared deep into foreign eyes glittering behind the slits in the man’s visor.  Right then, Dain felt the force of his opponent’s thoughts: Catch/catch/catch.  Twisting his wrists, Dain broke free, reversed his swing, and struck again. His sword tip raked across the man’s midsection, slicing through links of chain mail and spilling a gush of blood. But as that attacker tumbled from his horse, a blow across the back of Dain’s shoulders came from his second opponent. He wheezed for air, the world nearly going black on him, and fought to keep gripping his sword.

Strong hands grabbed him, yanking him upright in the saddle. Through blurred eyes, Dain looked around for Sir Terent, assuming his protector was steadying him.

Instead, he found himself staring at another helmet, painted blood red with strange symbols on the sides. This man laughed, the sound echoing low from inside his helmet, and gave Dain’s arm a powerful yank that nearly pulled him from the saddle.

Twisting desperately, Dain brought his sword up and around, but it was impossible to land a blow at this angle. He turned Soleil and swung again, but just then a third foe came galloping up and gave him a shove.  Dain went tumbling out of his saddle. He hit the ground swearing, and rolled as he’d been taught, coining up on his feet immediately. With a yell, he ran straight at the closest attacker, whose horse reared with deadly forefeet Ducking those dangerous hooves, Dain cut the horse’s saddle girth. Horse blood splattered across his arms. The animal screamed, and the saddle—along with rider—went flying off. Dain gave the man no time to gain his feet Rushing at him hard, Dain kicked him as he tried to rise, and swung with all his might His sword took off the man’s head, and it went rolling beneath the feet of another horse, which bucked and kicked in alarm.

Sir Polquin plunged his dagger into the guts of an opponent then came running to Dain’s side. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they fought two more, while Sir Terent—still mounted—exchanged blows with the last man. The woods rang with the clash of combat.

Sweating inside his mail, his heart pounding hard, Dain sized up his remaining opponent Already he’d realized these men weren’t trying to kill him; they could have done that at the start with a well-aimed arrow. But if they were trying to capture him alive, that gave Dain the advantage. Recklessly he charged his opponent with a rapid, two-step attack. His sword bit deep at the point where the man’s neck met his shoulder and nearly cleaved him.  Screaming, the man fell, and Dain finished him with a swift thrust.  Panting, blood dripping from his blade, Dain turned around in time to see Sir Polquin finish his man with a triumphant yell. Sir Terent’s opponent screamed foreign curses at them and abruptly galloped away.

Silence fell over the small, trampled clearing, a silence broken only by the snorting horses and the harsh panting of Dain and his friends.  Gulping in air, Dain shoved back his mail coif to let the cold air bathe his sweat-soaked hair. Aside from the shallow arrow cut across the back of his hand, he’d taken no harm. The others were less fortunate. Sir Terent’s surcoat was stained with blood from his wound. The side of Sir Polquin’s face was scraped raw; he’d have a tremendous bruise there by eventide.  Sir Polquin gave one of the corpses a kick. “I’ll have Bosquecel’s hide for this,” he muttered. “What’s he thinking of, letting road bandits run free on Thirst land?”

“They weren’t bandits,” Dain said. Bending over one of the dead men, he tugged off his helmet.

“Careful, sire!” Sir Terent gasped out.

But Dain was busy studying the hatchet-thin features and distinctive bone structure. He even peeled up the man’s lip to reveal a small set of pointed fangs.

“Morde a day!” Sir Polquin exclaimed, coming over to take a look. “What in Thod’s name is he?”

“Gantese,” Dain said grimly. “The red mail was an indication that they might be so.”

Visibly alarmed, Sir Polquin took a quick step back from the corpse. “How long before these devils come alive again and start at us anew?” “Nay,” Dain said in reassurance. “They’re Believers, not Nonkind.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes.” Dain frowned in the direction the lone survivor had fled, and wondered if he would return with more men. “At least now I understand why I’ve felt watched the last few days.”

“Watched, eh? And why didn’t your grace speak of this?” Sir Polquin complained.  “There was nothing to say. I had no certainty. Would you have me share every uneasiness I feel?”

“You? Aye, I would,” Sir Polquin said pointedly. “Your senses are our best warnings of Nonkind attack.”

“This was not Nonkind business.” Dain sighed. “They intended to capture me alive, I think.”

“Aye,” Sir Terent said unsteadily. “ ‘Twas plain. No one could shoot that many arrows at you and miss.”

“Didn’t miss you, did they?” Sir Polquin retorted.

Sir Terent looked terrible, and fresh blood was still seeping into his surcoat, but he mustered a glare for his fellow knight. “That first arrow was intended to put me out of the action. The next arrow brought you down. If you’d stayed on your horse, his grace would have escaped this ambush.” Instead of arguing, Sir Polquin grew thoughtful. The fire died in his eyes, and a strange look appeared on his face. “Our lad should have been dead in the first minute the way they surrounded him.”

“Aye,” Dain agreed. “That’s why I think they meant to take me alive.”

Sir Polquin scowled. “Damned, pagan devils. What did they want with you? What?” “I suspect they were paid agents of my uncle’s. Which means he knows I have left Savroix.”

“Aye, and where you’ve gone to,” Sir Terent said. “Once they learned the first, the second wasn’t hard to guess.”

Sir Polquin swore. “And us so careful about smuggling you out of the palace and keeping you out of sight on that barge. I knew those Savroix court daisies would never keep the secret.”

“Many at court are easily bribed,” Dain agreed. Inside, he felt more relief than annoyance, however. “At least I no longer have to keep myself confined. The secret is out. I might as well make use of it.”

“Best we get you to Thirst at once,” Sir Polquin said worriedly. “Where there’s one Gantese agent, it’s said there are always more. They won’t give up capturing you this easily.”

Dain nodded in agreement. It was beginning, he thought. This attack of his uncle’s would be only the first. From now on, he would have to take stronger precautions.

Riding slowly for Sir Terent’s sake, they reached Thirst Hold a good hour later than Dain had intended. Although the knight did not complain, he rode with gritted teeth and a set face. Dain permitted Sir Polquin to ride pillion behind him, for Sir Polquin’s injured horse had fled into the forest and could not be found.

Although they expected a second attack, none came. The sight of the hold, standing square and dark against the sunlight, brought grins of relief to all their faces. Dain could feel his tense muscles relaxing.  Sir Polquin grunted at his shoulder. “Put me off, sire.”

“Nay,” Dain protested. “I am not ashamed to let you ride.”

“Put me off. ‘Tis unseemly for a king to share his mount with a master-at-arms.

Not in front of the men.”

“But—”

“I’ll serve better by leading Sir Terent’s horse.”

“Hah!” the protector said at once, but his voice was weak. “Lead me like a babe on a training rein, will you?”

“Aye, I will.” Sir Polquin slid off Soleil’s hindquarters, and dodged the stallion’s ill-tempered kick. “Go ahead, sire. Let ‘em see you plainly.” As they all drew near the hold gates, Dain squeezed Soleil with his legs and coaxed the horse into prancing sideways so that his mane and long tail streamed in the wind. “Ho!” he shouted. “Thirst Hold!”

A sentry’s head appeared atop the ramparts. Dain lifted his arm. “Ho!”

More heads appeared. “It’s Lord Dain!” someone shouted. “He’s here at last!” A commotion of voices broke out, and with an ear-splitting squeal the ancient winch turned ponderously to open gates and portcullis. Dain had instructed Thum to answer the men’s questions about his royal status—if questions they had—with honesty, but not to proclaim it at large. He would have preferred to come here simply as their chevard. For Thirst folk to accept an eld as their new lord and master was surely challenge enough. He realized he should have arrived with an entourage of guards sworn to his service, aye, with pages, servants, dogs, and minstrels. Who would ever take him for a lord, or even a king, if he did not act the part? His plain ways had to end; that, he knew.

“You’d think,” Sir Terent grumbled, squinting up at the crenellations, “that they’d have had these gates open ere now. What’s the hour? And them not ready, for all Thum’s warning a day ahead.”

“They’ve seen trouble here,” Sir Polquin said. “Like as not, they’re expecting more.” He craned his neck to do an inspection of his own. “That crack above the left arrow slit has widened. Ought to be fixed properly this time, and before winter ice widens it more.”

From inside the hold, the chapel bell began to peal joyously, even as the groan of the winch stopped with the gates barely shifted.

“Damne, what’s amiss with these louts?” Sir Terent muttered. “Bosquecel!” he roared out. “What in Thod’s name are you doing up there?” The captain of the guard appeared atop the gate and peered down at them. Even from that angle, he looked ruffled.

“I beg pardon, your grace,” he said to Dain, ignoring Sir Terent completely.

“How far behind you comes the rest of the company?”

“They do not come today,” Dain replied.

“Do not come?” Sir Bosquecel repeated in astonishment. “But—” “Your chevard is here,” Sir Polquin broke in gruffly. “That’s honor enough. Stop yammering and open the blighted gate. We have a wounded man in need of attention.”

Sir Bosquecel started to retort, obviously thought better of it, and vanished.

Within a few minutes, the petit-porte swung open.

Dain rode through it, ducking his head as he passed beneath the massive timbers supporting the weight of the wall and ramparts overhead. Sir Terent and Sir Polquin followed him, grumbling between themselves at Sir Bosquecel’s unusual laxity.

Meanwhile, from across the fields came serfs and villagers at a run, answering the summons of the bell. Dain rode into the stableyard, to the ragged cheers and shouted greetings of his servants. Yet not all looked happy to see him. Many gawked and pointed. Some of the maidservants held up their aprons to shield their faces from his gaze.

Dain sighed to himself. Three months gone, and already he’d become a stranger to them again.

Although the Thirst folk gawked at him with more curiosity than love, Dain held his head high, reminding himself that this mixed reception was what he’d expected. While he’d lived here he’d won the affection of many, the tolerance of some, and the avoidance of others. He’d come to them first as a ragged waif, as ill-mannered as he was hungry. Through Lord Odfrey’s kindness and the generous acceptance of the knights, who proclaimed him their mascot, he’d been put through a foster’s training. Later Lord Odfrey had adopted him as his heir. The inheritance was secure, guaranteed by King Verence himself, and if these people feared to serve an eld they would have to soon grow used to it.  As he rode through the rambling complex of the hold, his keen eyes noted with approval the stacks of fodder and other signs of a bountiful harvest. During his time away he’d received regular reports from Sir Bosquecel and less frequent ones from Julth Rondel, the steward. From their accounts, the hold was running smoothly, but now as he looked about, Dain saw signs of neglect and slackness.  Here at mid-morning, the stableyard was not yet swept. One of the doors to the barn was broken and splintered as though a horse had kicked through it. What appeared to be a new barracks was half-constructed, and boards and timbers lay scattered about in disarray.

Sir Bosquecel, down from the ramparts, came hurrying up to Dain in the stableyard and bowed hastily. “Welcome home, your grace,” he said, looking nervous and flustered. “We are not as prepared as we ought to be to give you a good and proper welcome. I mean, a proper welcome for a—a king.” As he stammered and turned red, Dain realized what the problem was. It was not that he was eld, but rather than his rank had grown too high. A tremendous gulf yawned between him and these plain folk, a gulf that could not be crossed.  Sir Bosquecel cleared his throat. “The men have been sore bedeviled this month, holding off raids from across the river.”

He paused, frowning up at the three of them, and his gaze widened at the sight of bloodstained Sir Terent. “Morde! What’s gone amiss here? I’d have sworn no raiders were afoot this day, else we’d have been patrolling the road. Did dwarves attack you?”

“Nay,” Dain said grimly. “I’ll explain later. Have Sir Terent’s wound seen to, if you please.”

As Sir Bosquecel issued orders and servants came forward to gently assist Sir Terent from his horse, Dain glanced around with a deepening frown and wondered where the knights themselves were. He’d expected them to issue forth from the guardhouse as he rode across the keep, but there’d been no sight of them. Had they grown so sullen, then? Did they resent his good fortune? Had they turned against him, when once they were mostly his champions?  “And the men?” he asked. “Are they on patrol now?” Sir Bosquecel glanced up and turned redder than ever. “Uh, no, your grace. They’re here. Gently, man!” he snapped at one of the servants assisting Sir Terent.

Dain held back more questions. The men’s failure to greet him hurt deeply.  Dismounting, Dain handed his reins to a sullen-faced stableboy who used to pelt him with dried manure. In the past, Dain would have left the boy alone, feeling it best to avoid confrontation. But his time spent with King Verence had taught him how to deal with men, both common and high.

He paused a moment, gazing at this former tormentor until the stableboy turned bright red and would not meet his eyes. “How fare you these days, Zeld?” he asked. “Well enough, sir,” the boy mumbled. “Say your grace,” Sir Polquin barked at him. “Stand up straight when you do it. And don’t mumble.” Zeld stiffened as though he’d been stung. His face turned even redder as he looked up, met Dain’s eyes, then shifted his own away again. “Uh, yer grace,” he mumbled.

“As I recall, you never had much use for me, but you’ve a good hand with horses,” Dain said to him. “I would ask you now to treat my horse kindly. He was a gift from King Verence, you see, and I value him highly.” Zeld’s mouth fell open. “A gift from the king? Our king? Damne, not true!” “Aye, true,” Sir Polquin told him sternly. “And don’t you insult your master by disbelieving him. Oaf that you are, surely you can see there’s no horse in Thirst as fine as this. Saelutian bloodlines, bred in the royal stables. See that you take care with the steed, as his grace bids you.” Zeld clutched the reins. His eyes were shining now, and they flashed up to meet Dain’s with none of their former resentment. “And does he run like the wind? I hear tell—” “He’s a fine courser,” Dain said. “Keep him in good trim.” “Aye, sir . . . m’lord . . . uh, yer grace. Aye! That I’ll do!” With a smile, Dain moved on, aware that Zeld’s loyalty was now fiercely his. He heard murmurs among the others, but he ignored them as Sir Polquin and Sir Bosquecel broke apart from a brief, private conversation to flank him on either side.  When he neared the innermost courtyard, he heard a gruff command beyond the wall. As Dain strode through the gate he saw all the knights of Thirst standing rowed up in a double line between him and the steps of the Hall. Shined and polished, their helmets casting blinding reflections in the sunlight, they stood shoulder to shoulder in their green surcoats, holding their freshly painted shields in front of them.

Dain checked at the sight, and realized now why they hadn’t met him at the guardhouse. All this time they’d been waiting quietly to surprise him. A lump filled his throat, and he wondered how he could have ever doubted them. Somehow, bursting with emotion, he managed to keep his stride steady.  Sir Bosquecel stepped away to issue a low command, and the sergeant-at-arms bawled it to the men: “Arms to Thirst!”

In response, they shouted the Thirst war cry and drew their broadswords in unison.

“High salute!” the sergeant bellowed. Down the line, the broadswords swung aloft, and were held point-to-point in a shining arch of steel.  Walking proud and tall, honored beyond words, Dain went down the row beneath their swords, keeping his shoulders erect and his chin high.  He reached the foot of the stone steps, emerged from beneath the steel arch, and started to ascend. As he did so, another command roared forth, and the swords came down in a flashing arc and thudded against the knights’ shields.  Dain turned to face them and drew his own bloodstained sword in brief salute, holding it up until they sheathed their weapons. Only then did he slide his back into its scabbard. He stared at them a moment, reacquainting himself with their honest, rough-hewn faces. He seemed to have lived through two lifetimes since last he’d seen them. But yes, there was Sir Alard and old, sour-faced Sir Blait.  He saw Sir Bowin and Sir Deloit, his single eye shining bright with joy. Dain caught himself looking for faces he knew he would never see again. So many he remembered were missing, and in their place stood new men, recruits he did not know, to replace those who had died that black day on the banks of the Charva.  Would they serve him with the same loyalty as the others? Dain wondered.  Today’s honor gave him hope that the answer would be yes. He saw no hostility in their faces, no prejudice, no sullenness. They looked thrilled with how they’d surprised him.

“Welcome, your grace. Welcome!”

It was Julth Rondel, steward of Thirst, who came hastening down the steps to meet Dain. Thum, grinning beneath his thatch of red hair, followed on the steward’s heels.

“Well met, sire,” he said with a bow.

“I see you got here in one piece this time,” Dain replied.  “Aye.” Thum’s grin sobered. “But I hear you met with trouble this morn. How many were there in the attack?”

“A handful plus one,” Dain replied. “Who’s seeing to Sir Terent?”

“He’s been taken to the infirmary. And yourself? No harm to you?”

“I’m well,” Dain said impatiently, and turned to the steward.  Spreading wide his pudgy hands, Rondel bowed low. He was a short, plump man with a ring of straight blond hair encircling his bald pate. Garbed in Thirst green, he wore his steward’s collar of silver with pride, and had served ably in his post for many years.

“Come inside, Lord Dain—er, your grace—and welcome to you!” he said warmly, although his gaze seemed shy and unsettled behind the good cheer. “There’s a fire built on the hearth to warm your bones, and some spiced cider waiting in your cup.”

“That is a fine welcome indeed, Steward Rondel,” Dain said, and gripped the man’s shoulder briefly as he walked inside.

Barking broke out, and Lord Odfrey’s dogs came bounding to meet him. But at the first sniff, they dropped their fine heads and slunk away in poignant disappointment.

“They still wait for his return, every day,” Rondel said sadly, and made the sign of the Circle. “Such a terrible pity.”

“Aye,” Dain agreed. His heart turned momentarily to lead inside his chest, and he was grateful when Rondel said nothing more about Lord Odfrey.  The Hall smelled musty from disuse, but a good fire burned on the hearth. As he stood by it to warm himself, Dain stripped off his gloves, then flexed his cut hand gingerly while Thum hastened to take his cloak and mail coif. A servant brought Dain a cup of spiced cider.

Accustomed by now to some of the finest Mandrian wines, Dain nearly gasped at the astringent taste. He’d forgotten how fresh-pressed cider could pucker the mouth.

“Not our best harvest this year, I’m afraid,” Rondel said, watching him anxiously. “So I have ordered Lord Odfrey’s private supply brought out especially for your grace’s use.”

Dain concealed his expression by taking another sip. This time the cider went down more easily, although he disliked the heavy spices that had been used to mask the fact that this was last year’s press, and gone vinegary to boot.  “Very well,” he said. “That is all for now, steward. I’ll be inspecting the hold this afternoon. But first I want breakfast. I rose at first light to come here, while the opportunity presented itself, and having fought off a pack of Gantese assassins, I’m fair famished.”

The steward seemed relieved by this simple request. “Yes, your grace. At once, your grace.” He hesitated. “And then will your—your grace wish to—” “As soon as I’ve eaten,” Dain said, guessing what he was referring to, “I will be going to the chapel to pay my respects to Lord Odfrey.” “Ah.” The sadness returned to Rondel’s plump face. “Yes, of course. Very proper, your grace.” The steward bowed and hastened out.

Dain flung the rest of his cider on the fire, which smoked in retaliation before regaining its flames with an angry pop of sparks. “Gods!” Dain exclaimed. “I thought he would babble all morning.”

“He’s capable of it,” Thum said grimly. “I have endured his chatter since my arrival yesterday. Morde a day, but were we ever this green and ill-mannered when we first went to Savroix? Since I’ve arrived yesterday they’ve been stumbling about in panic, wondering what to do with you.” “How so?”

“Well, the floor rushes were too dirty for a king to see, too common, but the carpets that were in storage have been ravished by moths. That’s why your floors are bare. And your chamber . . . damne, but there aren’t linens in the hold fine enough for a king to sleep on. Half the servants refuse to believe you’re a king. The other half are scared you’ll cut off their heads if they do or say the wrong thing.”

Hearing this, Dain didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “What gave them such notions? Do they fear Verence this much?”

“Thod knows,” Thum said, throwing up his hands. “The house servants would probably fall in dead swoons if they heard his majesty was coming here.  Normally, of course, their chevard would keep them in order, but that’s been knocked awry.”

“Of course it has.” Dain looked helplessly at his friend. “I do not want them to fear me.”

“No help for it. At least your chamber is ready. If you want a change of clothing while I brush your surcoat clean of mud, there are Lord Odfrey’s tunics. Everything you left behind is probably too small.” “No, I thank you!” Dain said in instant refusal. “I’ll wear what I have on.” Thum nodded in understanding. “The wardroom has been left locked and untouched since—since we all set out for Savroix a few months ago.” “Good. I have the key.”

“But first, pray tell me what really befell you this morning,” Thum said in concern, fingering a tear in Dain’s cloak. “Gantese assassins? In truth?” “Aye. They shot us with arrows before we knew what was afoot, then they came on.”

“Six to three is heavy work,” Thum said. “I’m sorry I was not there to fight at your side. It is Thod’s mercy you were not killed.”

“Thod didn’t save us. ‘Twas their own orders.”

“What?”

“You heard aright,” Dain said grimly. “They were trying to take me alive, else short work would they have made of us. ‘Tis no accident that the only arrow which actually met its mark struck my protector.”

Thum’s eyes narrowed, and spots of anger burned in his cheeks. “Damne! What villains!”

“I feel certain they were my uncle’s agents,” Dain said.  “Then you must go no farther,” Thum said in alarm. “Your journey ends now, for there’s no chance of you sneaking undetected across the border.” Dain eyed him as though he’d lost his wits. “Not if I ride through a checkpoint on a main road, no,” he said impatiently. “Which I have no intention of doing.” “But Muncel’s onto your plan. He knows where to find you.”

“Would you have me turn back at the first trouble?”