“Dain—”

“Are you against this?” Dain asked with more sharpness than he intended. “Tell me true. I’ll hold it not against you, but I must know if you remain with me.” “Of course I remain with you,” Thum said angrily. “Never question my loyalty.”

“Then why balk at what I’m saying?”

“Because if you pull Thirst away, the uplands could fall again into divisionism.

Civil war could return to Mandria, at a time when she must remain strong.” Thum’s mouth turned down worriedly. “Gavril would love an excuse to batter the uplands into fresh submission.”

“Gavril will not dare.”

But Thum still looked unconvinced. Dain frowned at the fire, and realized that in truth, neither of them knew what Gavril might choose to do, only that it would be cruel and merciless.

Dain sighed. “I must have men.”

“And if you take Thirst’s knights with you, who will guard the hold? Who will guard this area of the northeastern borders? There has been much trouble here.” “Aye,” Dain said, knowing Thum’s points were valid. He shrugged. “I have no solution to these many problems. Thum, where would the records of the household be kept?”

“You mean the inventories?” Thum asked, looking startled by the sudden change of subject. “In the wardroom, no doubt.”

Dain tossed him the key. “Find them. And then you can inform the steward there is to be a new inventory conducted.”

“In the Hall?”

“The Hall. The guardhouse. The barns. The entire hold. Everything. I want it all written down and checked against the previous entries.” Thum looked daunted. “That will take days.”

“Perhaps we have them, while Lady Pheresa is unable to travel,” Dain said. “This hold has grown slack.”

“Aye,” Sir Polquin spoke up. “That it has.”

“Also,” Dain said, “I want Lander the smith brought to me for questioning about that sword he made.”

Thum frowned. “He’s no longer at the hold.”

“What? Gone for good?”

“So I understand. Sir Bosquecel kicked him out.”

“And good riddance,” Sir Polquin said. “Making magic rubbish like that sword Tanengard. He was naught but a foreign blasphemer.” Dain’s brows drew together. “Tanengard, whatever its flaws, saved a few of us from dying on the Charva’s banks that day. Remember that before you judge its maker so harshly.”

Sir Polquin reddened at the rebuke and dropped his gaze.  “Er, is there anything else, sire?” Thum asked to break up the uncomfortable silence.

At that moment, something unseen, an intangible force or presence, engulfed Dain without warning. Failing to answer Thum, he turned away and walked over to the northeast wall. There he stood, staring into what seemed to be a mist, and could not speak or think. He felt an overwhelming sense of pressure, as though his entire body was being compressed or even crushed. It was an effort to breathe.  Then in the next instant, he found himself seated on a stool and being shaken by a worried-looking Sir Polquin. Thum was holding a fresh cup of cider to his lips.

Scowling, Dain twisted his head away from the liquid. “Get that far from me!” he said sharply.

Sir Polquin released his grip on Dain’s shoulders. “Thanks be to Thod! He’s come back to his senses.”

Dain blinked at the two of them in bewilderment. “What are you saying? I haven’t left my senses. I—” “You did,” Thum said hoarsely, looking frightened. “For several minutes—just now—you stared as though you saw something we could not see. You would not answer us. You seemed not to hear us at all, though we did speak to you most urgently and called your name.”

Dain rubbed his eyes. “I have no recollection of this.”

“Were you seeing a vision?” Thum asked him anxiously.

“Nay. I saw nothing. Are you sure?”

Sir Polquin gripped his arm to keep him from standing. “Your grace had better stay seated for a bit.”

“Nay.” Dain shook him off and rose to his feet. His knees felt wobbly, and he couldn’t understand why. “I’m well. Don’t fuss over me.” “Maybe you should have that cut on your hand looked at. Could have Gantese poison in it.”

“It’s already closing,” Dain said impatiently. He felt unsettled and alarmed by what they’d told him. “There’s no poison.”

“You’re not yourself, just the same,” Sir Polquin insisted. “Pale as washed linen. Better sit a while and rest.”