“Nay, there’s too much to do. I’ve got—”
“All will keep,” Sir Polquin told him with gruff kindness. “Bide quietly until you get your breakfast.”
There was no satisfying either of them until Dain sat down in a chair by the fire. He frowned at the flames while Sir Polquin and Thum conferred in soft voices they thought too low for his keen ears to overhear. Dain knew there was nothing wrong with him. But something had indeed reached out from a far distance and touched him.
A cold shudder passed through his frame. He felt momentarily as though he’d eaten something rotten that needed spewing up. There were more kinds of pursuit, he realized, than riders on horseback. If Muncel was casting spells his way, even at this great distance, the net was definitely closing in on him. Clearly Muncel would use any means—assassination by eld-poison, kidnapping, even employment of the dark arts—to stop Dain’s return to Nether. His uncle was no ordinary enemy, and the struggle for Nether’s throne would be no ordinary battle.
He knows where I am, Dain thought with a fresh shudder. I have been touched by him, and now—wherever I go—he can find me.
In his castle stronghold at Belrad, King Muncel paced back and forth impatiently, glaring frequently at the huddle of three Gantese magemons kneeling on the floor in the center of his private council room. Impassive guards stood shoulder to shoulder across the closed doors. Muncel’s own lord protector, Prince Anjilihov, and his personal sorcerel, Tulvak Sahm, hovered close by, watching alertly for the least sign of trouble. Tulvak Sahm, insulted by the importation of the magemons, glittered with resentment. He was capable of thwarting the spell from sheer spite, but if he attempted it, King Muncel vowed to make him regret such folly.
The air smelled of fire and ash and burned hair, scents of magic. A sort of crackling energy rose about the three magemons, strong enough to prickle against Muncel’s face. He stopped pacing and watched with hope, but at that moment the energy ebbed low again. Closing their eyes, the magemons bent lower so that their foreheads were almost touching. They hummed softly, uttering words that seemed to draw a cord tight around Muncel’s heart.
He feared their dreadful powers; he was taking a terrible risk in bringing them here so openly, to his own stronghold. But if all went well this day, their dire task would be done and they could leave by eventide, paid and dismissed, never to return.
Restless and impatient, Muncel resumed pacing.
Outside the windows, the day looked bleak and gray. Huge white snowflakes fell rapidly, swirling against the glass in frozen patterns of lace. The snowfall was heavy enough to build large drifts across the keep and extended grounds. Muncel could hear a fierce wind howling and scratching outside. Over in one corner, a large stove of vivid red and blue tiles radiated heat. Beyar skin rugs covered the stone floor, and on one side of the room stood a massive council table surrounded by leather-covered chairs. There would be no council meeting today. Muncel had canceled all audiences and appointments to receive only this delegation from Sindeul, Gant’s capital city. He would speak to no one in his palace until this spell was completed and the threat from the pretender vanquished for good.
Muncel was a gaunt-faced man with deep lines carved around his mouth and between his brows. His black hair and beard were streaked with gray. He was not as tall as his father, King Runtha II, had been, nor did he have the splendid physique of his half-brother Tobeszijian. Narrow-shouldered and thin, he seldom wore a sword and disliked the heavy weight of armor. Because he suffered from a dyspeptic stomach, his posture was slightly hunched and there was always a slight twist to his mouth that spoke of his discomfort. But his eyes were dark and fierce, and his temper legendary. Muncel possessed the subtle mind that Tobeszijian had lacked. As a result, he had held his throne far longer than had his half-brother simply because he could foresee potential problems and eliminate them. Shrewd and cunning, he never took risks unless he was prepared to deal with the consequences. And he was absolutely, utterly ruthless when he chose to be.
Garbed today in fur-lined velvet, with a jeweled dagger on his belt, many rings glittering on his long, pale fingers, and a narrow circlet of gold on his brow, Muncel glared even more harshly at the triad of magemons and barely restrained himself from yelling at their Gantese handlers.
The Believers, clad in fur cloaks and long tunics of heavy wool, themselves looked uneasy. Muncel began to entertain the unwelcome worry that he had exposed himself to censure and condemnation for nothing. And that made him even angrier, for he could not bear the thought of failure, much less ridicule. The churchmen would harass him endlessly about this; he might even be required to do public penance.
Tulvak Sahm, always sensitive to his moods, glided over to him and bowed as though he’d been summoned.
“This is taking too long, too long,” Muncel muttered. “Clearly the distance is too far.”
“Distance slows the power of the spell,” Tulvak Sahm murmured back, his deep voice so quiet it was almost a whisper in Muncel’s mind. “But it does not dilute it. Since you have summoned these creatures, majesty, have patience with their antiquated methods. Wait.”
Muncel’s fists clenched. He had waited, damn the man. He’d waited nearly two decades to find this brat of Tobeszijian’s, and now he wanted the boy crushed. “Eee-ah!”
That shrill outcry from one of the magemons startled even Tulvak Sahm and made Muncel spin around just as the magemons lifted their hands in unison. They started chanting hoarse, unintelligible words that made his skin crawl. The crackling energy intensified in the room. The guards had their hands on their sword hilts now while their eyes shifted uneasily. Muncel saw rainbow hues of power shimmer in the air above the magemons’ heads, and even Tulvak Sahm stood rooted in place, staring at them in wonder and dread as the others did.
Although Muncel himself possessed no magical gifts or special powers—for which he thanked Tomias—he drew in an unsteady breath and willed success in the magemons‘ direction.
Find him, he commanded in his mind. Smother his lungs. Stop his heart. Crush his soul!
Abruptly the spell ended. The kneeling magemons moved away from each other and rose to their feet. The rainbow colors vanished from the air, and the humming sense of energy dissipated. There was only a feeling of emptiness in the room now, along with the stench of burned hair and flesh overlying the putrid stink of the magemons themselves.
One of the three turned over his hand, and Muncel saw large blisters rising on the creature’s palm as though the energy he’d commanded had scorched it. Muncel felt no sympathy. Instead, he grew puzzled, then angry. “What’s happened?” he demanded. “Why did you stop?”
In unison the three magemons turned to face him. As they did so, Prince Anjilihov drew his sword and Tulvak Sahm glided quickly to stand partially in front of Muncel. In his hand glowed a small crystal orb, its yellow light shining through his fingers, and his muscles were tense, as though he was preparing himself to hurl this magical weapon at the magemons should it prove necessary.
Over the years, Muncel had learned that weavers of all kinds of magic—sorcerels included—could be strange, unpredictable, even dangerous creatures in the moments immediately after a spell was concluded, especially when they had been spellcasting for any intense period of time.
But Muncel had risked too much to permit failure now. His anger—swollen by a sense of desperation—rose in him like a tide.
“You did not finish!” he shouted at the magemons. “Why did you stop? Did you even find him? Why have you failed?”
The three creatures might have been one, so similar in appearance were they. In some sense they could be called men, for they stood upright and walked as men walk. Perhaps once they had even been human, before their training changed them into what they were now. On the whole, they were far less fathomable than Tulvak Sahm, who at least looked human, even if he was not. Moon-faced, with dark slits for eyes and mouths that issued smoke whenever they spoke, the magemons possessed skin so white and pale its pallor rivaled the snow outside. They towered above Muncel and his guards as giants, their bulk robed in shapeless garments that covered them from throat to foot. Dried blood and food stains dotted the front of their clothing. Their huge, three-fingered hands were filthy with dirt-rimmed nails as long and untrimmed as talons. They stank of death, filth, rot, and burned magic.
As they stared at him impassively, responding not at all to his questions, Muncel felt bitter disappointment flood his mouth like bile. He wanted to order the guards to hurl them from the windows to their deaths on the frozen ground below. He had imported this trio from Gant at great expense and trouble. He had housed them in a locked tower within the palace walls, supplied them with raw meat, and even permitted them to roam freely at night. He had paid a king’s ransom in gold coin for them to be bound to his service by a powerful spell-agreement that guaranteed him two requests. And Muncel’s requests were very simple: he wanted them to find Faldain and kill him. But they were not keeping their end of the bargain. They stared at him now, huge, impassive, and silent, as though they understood nothing he said. To be cheated was unbearable to Muncel. He refused to let these dirty fiends make a fool of him.
“Answer me!” Muncel demanded of them now. “Why did you stop?”
Still they said nothing. Fuming, Muncel turned on the foremost Gantese handler.
“Well?” he demanded. “If they will not speak, do so for them!” Scowling, the Believer bared his fangs at the magemons. “Chynta!” he said sharply, snapping his fingers.
“Faldain is found,” one of the magemons said, his heavily accented words issuing in a wreath of smoke.
Muncel’s head lifted. He felt like a pilgrim who sees the shrine ahead. “And is he dead?”
“He is not dead. He is young and strong.”
Muncel gritted his teeth. “Sing not his praises to me. I want him killed!”
“Cannot be done in first touch.”
“You told me it could!”
“Human, yes. Human can be crushed inside so he die.” As he spoke, the magemon clenched his large fist, then opened it so that his blisters were revealed, now broken and running with pus. But even as Muncel stared in revulsion, the sores dried up and became ashes. The magemon wiggled his three fingers and the ashes drifted to the floor, revealing a hand smooth-skinned and whole once more. “But Faldain not much human.”
“All the more reason for him to die.”
“He has been touched. Can be touched again more easily now.”
“Can you kill him the next time?”
“Must be touched thrice. Then will he die.”
Muncel bottled his anger and listened. “Three times. How long will this take?
How soon can you touch him again?”
The magemon did not answer. His eye slits closed, and he drew his round head down upon his shoulders.
Tulvak Sahm uttered a harsh word and raised his hand swiftly. A puff of vapor exploded against his hand and dissipated into the air with a sour smell.
Muncel stared, belatedly realizing that the magemon had dared attempt to attack him, might have even harmed him had Tulvak Sahm not intervened. “Unholy monsters!” Anjilihov shouted. The protector swung his sword high and charged.
Shouting in alarm, the Gantese handler stretched out his hands to Muncel.
“Majesty! Stop him or we’ll all perish!”
“Anjilihov!” Muncel roared.
The protector paid no heed. As he launched himself at the magemon, Tulvak Sahm flung himself bodily against Anjilihov and blocked his path. With an oath of frustration, Anjilihov shoved Tulvak Sahm roughly out of his way. Stumbling, the sorcerel whirled and spoke a single word. Anjilihov froze in mid-step. A look of bewilderment crossed his face before it, too, froze. All he could move was his eyes, and they shifted wildly as though imploring the king to order his release.
At the moment, however, Muncel was too outraged to care how long his protector remained trapped in Tulvak Sahm’s spell.
The air in the council room reeked of conflicting kinds of magic. The three magemons stood shoulder to shoulder, humming something ominous. The power they gave off crackled along Muncel’s skin and lifted his hair. He wanted to flee, but he dared not make any sudden moves.
Instead, he shifted his gaze to the horrified handlers. “Get them out,” he ordered. “Get them out!”
The Gantese hurried forward to surround the magemons, speaking to the creatures in singsong voices, and slowly began to herd them away. As soon as they were gone and the door shut with a heavy boom, Muncel closed his eyes and drew in several deep breaths. His stomach was burning with fire, and he felt almost faint. Sinking into a tall-backed chair, he pressed his hand to his belly and fought both his anger and the strong urge to be sick. With the utterance of a word, Tulvak Sahm released Anjilihov, who went staggering across the room before he caught his balance and turned on the sorcerel with a snarl.
“Gods rot your evil heart!” Anjilihov said furiously, swinging his sword. “When you put your damnable spell on me, you imperiled his majesty’s life. You—” “ ‘Twas you who imperiled us all,” Muncel broke in. “Anjilihov, you fool!” The protector looked at his king in bewilderment. “But your majesty was attacked by that demon. ‘Tis my responsibility to—” “Tulvak Sahm had already dealt with the matter,” Muncel told him, leaning forward. “You made it worse.”
“Your majesty, I do protest.” Anjilihov shot Tulvak Sahm a jealous glare as he spoke. “I thought only of your safety.”
“You thought only of plunging your sword into the guts of a magemon!” Muncel shouted. “Gods, man! Those creatures could level this stronghold to a pile of rubble in a matter of minutes if they chose to unleash their full powers. Had you harmed one, we would have been smote dead.”
Anjilihov’s gaze dropped from his. He sheathed his sword and knelt before Muncel. “Majesty, I ask your forgiveness. I did not realize this danger.” “Obviously,” Muncel said, unmoved. Tulvak Sahm circled them both, breathing harshly. Trying to ignore him, Muncel kept his gaze on Anjilihov. “When I commanded you to stop, you disobeyed me.”
Anjilihov turned pale. He bowed his head nearly to the floor. “Forgive me, majesty! I thought only of your—” “You are not to think!” Muncel said angrily. “You are to obey.” “Yes, majesty,” Anjilihov whispered.
“One more failure, and I’ll see you and your family banished to the World’s Rim.
Is that clear?”
“Yes, majesty.”
Muncel’s stomach was burning with pain. A cold chill passed through him, and he suddenly found the lingering stench in the air unbearable. “Open a window. The air in here is foul.”
Anjilihov jumped to his feet and obeyed, rather than calling a servant to do it. Tulvak Sahm continued to circle Muncel’s chair. “The magemons are savages,” he murmured. “More dangerous than even I expected. I do not believe the handlers have much control over them. Not as much as your majesty was led to expect.” A blast of icy wind filled the room and stirred the tapestries. Snow blew in and sank into the fur rugs. Muncel inhaled the clean, brisk air with relief and felt his head clear.
“They should not be brought here again,” Tulvak Sahm said. “Let them finish their spellcasting in the tower.”
“I want to be present,” Muncel said stubbornly. “I want to know the instant they kill the pretender.”
“Then more sorcerels should be summoned here to guard your majesty,” Tulvak Sahm said.
Muncel stared up at the man in astonishment. Tulvak Sahm was close to admitting that his powers were less than those of the magemons. “How long would it take to summon your colleagues?”
Tulvak Sahm’s face remained inscrutable as he tucked his hands into his sleeves. “I can reach them with the power of my mind immediately. Their coming would take less than five days.”
“Too long. I want this matter finished before then.”
“Half of your majesty’s bargain has been accomplished today,” Tulvak Sahm said.
“That is great progress. A few more days will scarcely matter.” “Every day matters!” Muncel shouted, only to wince as the pain in his stomach grew worse. “The pretender is nearly to the border now.” Word of Faldain’s return was flying across the kingdom as fast as the news could spread, Muncel thought worriedly. There’d already been an outbreak of trouble in Grov itself, traditional seat of Netheran kings, just when half his army had been sent west to put down a Grethori uprising. And the northern settlements were always rebellious; Muncel could only imagine how the troublemakers there would react when news of the pretender’s return reached them. He pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “I will not have Faldain set foot on Netheran soil, Tulvak Sahm. I dare not!”
“It does not matter where he dies,” the sorcerel assured him.
“The false one will not prevail against your majesty. This have I foretold.” Horoscope castings no longer reassured Muncel. Where Faldain was concerned, Muncel could not rest easy. In his nightmares, he’d dreamed of lying on the ground, bloody from numerous wounds, while Faldain—looking exactly like Tobeszijian—stood over him victorious. As for his half-brother, who’d disappeared so mysteriously into thin air nearly two decades ago on his demonic mount, who was to say that Tobeszijian himself might not somehow return? There was no proof that he was dead, although Tulvak Sahm repeatedly assured Muncel that his half-brother no longer existed in the first world. Muncel dared not believe in anything except his own fears and instincts. Had he waited for destiny all those years ago, he’d still be nothing but Tobeszijian’s half-brother, lower in rank than those eldin brats Tobeszijian had sired. Muncel believed not in fate, but in planning ahead. In poisoning an enemy before the battle. In crushing an enemy’s insides via magic before he could incite the people to revolt.
Glaring at his sorcerel, Muncel said, “If the pretender reaches Nether and proclaims himself king before the magemons kill him, the people will make a martyr of him. From his grave, he can still cause me trouble.” Tulvak Sahm shrugged. “Ghosts have never troubled your majesty before. Why should this one?”
Angrily Muncel refused to answer. He had no intention of admitting the panic he felt whenever he heard Faldain’s name spoken.
In rational terms, there was little to worry about. The boy was untried and had few resources. He had failed to get the support of the Mandrian army, which had been Muncel’s greatest worry. Rumor said that he could not even speak Netheran. Muncel had a powerful army supplemented by Gantese and Nonkind auxiliaries. Ruthless and capable, Muncel ruled this kingdom with an iron fist and was well-established on the throne. Moreover, Faldain was more eld than human. After all these years, the anti-eld teachings of the Reformed Church had had time to take solid hold in the realm. Many people would reject the pretender for his mixed blood alone.
Yet despite his advantages, in the deepest corners of his heart Muncel still feared the boy’s return. No matter how many reassuring horoscopes Tulvak Sahm cast, Muncel remained afraid. No matter how often he counted the size of his army, he felt little confidence. Still, he was determined that Faldain would never sit on Nether’s throne. Never. This, Muncel had sworn long ago in his darkest days, before he overthrew Tobeszijian. He’d made a secret pilgrimage to Gant and knelt to the evil god Ashnod. He’d drunk a cup of bitterness, wormwood, and gall, said to represent the souls of the condemned. He’d eaten ashes said to be the burned bodies of the dead. He’d even spoken words of submission and worship to Ashnod, a statue of black stone that smoked and roared in a chamber of flame.
All this had he done, privately casting aside his belief in Thod and Tomias and selling his soul to the Believers in order to seize the birthright that should have been his. Paying such a price had been worthwhile, for he’d prevailed against Tobeszijian. But now, to grant even an hour of life to Tobeszijian’s son would be to cheapen and reject all he’d sacrificed in order to get his throne. As for Muncel’s own son . . . although the child was sickly now, he would grow out of his afflictions and one day succeed to his father’s throne. For his sake also, Muncel mused, must Faldain die; the people of Nether should never have the chance to compare Faldain’s sturdy frame and straight limbs to Jonan’s frailty. Lifting his gaze to Tulvak Sahm, Muncel said, “The pretender must die before he sets foot on Netheran soil. I will not wait.”
A knock on the door kept Tulvak Sahm from replying. Hearing the sound of several voices outside, Muncel frowned wearily.
“No,” he said to Anjilihov. “Send whoever it is away. I am unwell and can give no audiences now.”
Unbidden, Tulvak Sahm glided over to the open window and shut it. Bowing to Muncel, he said, “Churchmen are without. I will go.”
“Yes, yes, go,” Muncel agreed, and leaned his head back against the chair with a sigh. No doubt word had spread through the court about the magemons. That the church was sending a delegation to protest their presence was no more than he’d expected. But he did not want to deal with them now. Anjilihov closed the door firmly and came to him. “Cardinal Pernal sought an audience with your majesty, but I told him—” “Are you truly unwell, majesty?” Pernal’s voice said clearly. “I have no doubt of it.”
Opening his eyes, Muncel saw the cardinal advancing into the room, alone and without the pair of acolytes who usually helped him walk. Despite his advanced age, Pernal’s mind was as razor-sharp and cunning as ever. He’d suffered a mysterious illness ever since the day he’d grabbed the Chalice of Eternal Life in an effort to keep Tobeszijian from stealing it. No remedy in all these years had cured him or given him much relief from his sufferings. Yet, like Muncel, Pernal remained ambitious, too ambitious for him to surrender to his affliction. Thus, he refused to retire, and still clung to his role as Muncel’s chief spiritual guide and adviser, although Muncel no longer wanted either. Now, leaning heavily on his cane, Cardinal Pernal limped across the room toward the king. His face, terribly scarred from the old burns, contorted with pain as he came forward, but his eyes were alert and outraged. “Lord cardinal,” Muncel said in cold greeting. “It seems you are determined to force an audience today.”
The old man halted, then bowed with difficulty. “Your majesty,” he said, sounding out of breath. “Word reached me this morning that Prince Jonan has fallen ill again. I came to pray for the boy, but instead I found your grace closeted with creatures of sin and evil, rather than seeking Tomias’s mercy for your son.”
Muncel’s temper blazed, yet he withheld a reply. Had Pernal been any other man in his court, he would have ordered his death for such bold condemnation. But Pernal had never feared him. They knew too many of each other’s secrets; they were locked forever in uneasy alliance, friends once, and now enemies chained by mutual purpose.
In the silence, a look of sadness filled the old man’s eyes. “This room is far too cold. No doubt you’ve had it aired to hide your misdeeds, like a schoolboy concealing evidence of his pranks.”
Muncel frowned.
“But of course your majesty is no schoolboy, and the evil that was done in this chamber is no prank. Alas, that such foul creatures are now permitted free run of your majesty’s court.”
“They are locked away,” Muncel said. “They will harm no one.”
“And your tame sorcerel? Is he also locked away?”
Gritting his teeth, Muncel said nothing. That Pernal dared to stand here and chastise him was almost more than he was willing to take. The cardinal, Muncel vowed, had best take care.
“I grieve to see this,” Pernal said relentlessly. “Long ago when you and I plotted the firm establishment of the Reformed Church in this realm, I never dreamed things would come to this.”
“I have no time for reminiscences,” Muncel said impatiently. “Was there something in particular you wished to ask me, lord cardinal?” “I come not to ask but to rebuke.”
“That, you have done.”
“And your heart remains hard and closed.” Pernal shook his head sadly. “I wish to pray for your majesty’s soul. Come with me to the chapel for a short while. Let us refresh our spirits together.”
Despite himself, Muncel stiffened. Rising to his feet, he snapped, “Another time. Not today.”
“No,” Pernal said softly. “I thought not. You have been giving me that same answer for many years now, majesty. You cannot delay seeking the merciful forgiveness of Tomias forever.”
“I need no forgiveness,” Muncel said angrily. “Thank you for the offer. I must continue with other matters now.”
He started to step around the cardinal, but Pernal was not finished with him.
“There is something else I must tell your majesty.”
“Then say it quickly!”
“My agents have found Faldain.”
Feeling as though he’d been struck, Muncel glared at the cardinal. “What mean you by this? On whose authority do you seek out the pretender?” “On the authority of the church, your majesty.”
“He is my enemy,” Muncel declared. “I will deal with him in my own fashion.” “You want him dead. No doubt those creatures in your employ have been casting their evil spells, blaspheming here, in order to destroy Tobeszijian’s son.” “Yes, I want him dead,” Muncel growled. “And I will have him so.” “My men have orders to capture Prince Faldain alive and to bring him to Belrad without delay.”
Taken aback by this audacity, Muncel stared at the old man for a full moment before he managed to speak. “Belrad? Why not Grov? Why not put the scepter in his hand? How dare you?”
“Nay, majesty! How dare you jeopardize the Chalice?”
“What? I don’t understand.”
Pernal’s eyes were blazing. “Of course you don’t. You haven’t been thinking clearly since the boy was discovered at Savroix.”
Muncel’s brows knotted. He felt his anger building inside him like an explosive force. Growling in his throat, he began to pace back and forth, making curt, chopping gestures with his hands. “The pretender seeks to have me overthrown. He is too great a danger.”
“He is the only link we have to the Chalice’s whereabouts. He must not be killed until that knowledge is wrested from him.”
Pemal’s words rang through the chamber. Some of Muncel’s panic and anger diminished, yet he was also aghast at what the old man wanted. “Yes,” Pernal said, nodding his scarred head. His eyes, clear and commanding, bored deep into Muncel. “He knows where it’s hidden.” “How can you be sure?”
“Was he not with his father when the Chalice was taken? Think of it, majesty! In all likelihood he has lived with it, grown up with it. Undoubtedly he possesses it now, or has left it concealed where no one but himself can find it. He must be captured and brought here alive.”
“He won’t tell us what he knows,” Muncel said. “Why should he?” “But if he carries the Chalice with him, we shall have it!” Holy fervor shone in Pernal’s eyes. “The sacred vessel will be restored to its rightful place in the cathedral. Its blessed light will once again shine on this afflicted land.” “You think it will heal you.”
Pernal bowed his head. “It will heal many. Perhaps it will show mercy to me as well.”
Muncel snorted. “Have you forgotten how it maimed you?”
“That was Tobeszijian’s doing. The Chalice itself does only good.” Clasping his hands at his back, Muncel resumed pacing. “You should have consulted me first.”
“Your majesty is not the head of the Reformed Church. Thod and his prophet Tomias rule our souls.”
Muncel scowled, but he knew when to give in. “Very well. If your agents have found the pretender, send them word to seize him where he is. Have him searched. Reclaim the Chalice if you can, but do not have him brought to Belrad. That would be the gravest folly.”
“But if he does not travel with the Chalice, we must wrest the knowledge of its location from him. At the cathedral, we can hold him prisoner and open his mind.”
“Would you force him?” Muncel asked, curious as to how far Pernal would go. “If he will not aid us willingly, aye.” There was no mercy now in Pernal’s voice. It rang out as harshly as Muncel’s own. “The true test of his worthiness to rule Nether is if he will sacrifice himself to restore the Chalice to its rightful place. If he resists, then he is unworthy.”
“What gibberish is this?” Muncel roared, losing his temper completely. His pulse was throbbing in his temples and his stomach churned as though he’d swallowed fire. “You would give him a test before you hand him my throne? You speak treason, old man!”
“Proving his worthiness to rule does not mean he will have your throne,” Pernal replied without flinching. “But I will have the Chalice from him before I permit him to fall into your majesty’s hands.”
“Permit?” Muncel repeated, choking. “Permit? How dare you! I—” “You are not thinking!” Pernal snapped. “You are letting your emotions rule your actions, and that is always fatal, majesty! It was the first lesson in statecraft that I taught you.”
Furious, Muncel drew his dagger, but instead of fear contempt blazed in the cardinal’s eyes. “No matter that you’ve abandoned your faith. I must uphold it,” he said with conviction. “For Nether’s sake, I must! It’s my sworn duty to see that the Chalice returns to us.”
Muncel stared at the dagger clenched in his hand. A deep shudder shook his frame, and he felt tired to the depths of his soul.
“Do you not realize,” he asked quietly, “that if the Chalice returns it will cast me out for all I have done?”
Pernal’s eyes widened, and he drew in a sharp breath. “Majesty,” he said in a tone of compassion, “allow me to heal your soul before it’s too late. Let the Chalice restore the faith you gave away—” Muncel stepped up to him and plunged his dagger deep into the old man’s stomach. Disbelief filled Pernal’s eyes. He stared at Muncel, and although his mouth worked no words came out.
“At last you have gone too far,” Muncel said to him, and twisted the knife deeper into Pernal’s vitals. “You fool! You should have understood that I do not want the Chalice back. Not now. Not at any price.”
Pernal’s scarred, hideous face looked frozen. His eyes stared, the vital force inside them dimming slowly. “You have condemned yourself,” he whispered, and died.
Muncel pulled out his dagger as the old man crumpled to the floor, and absently the king handed his weapon to Prince Anjilihov. As his protector wiped off the dagger, Muncel stared at the corpse at his feet. He felt empty and foreign to himself.
“I was condemned long ago,” he said softly, and nudged the body with his toe.
“You were a fool, Pernal, not to see it sooner.”
At Thirst Hold Dain looked in on Sir Terent, who lay bandaged and sleeping, then made his way to the chapel. The interior of this small place of worship was as shadowy as usual. Just inside the threshold, Dain paused to let his eyes adjust. The air was cold, dry, and musty, smelling of incense and candle wax. The religious murals painted on the walls—crude renderings indeed after the sophisticated art Dain had seen at Savroix—looked dusty and blurred in the shadows. Tiny motes of dust danced in the sunlight pouring down through the oculus overhead. This was a simple place of worship, built for simple folk, yet pride and reverence showed in the immaculate snowiness of the altar cloth and in the brightly polished brass Circle hanging from the ceiling. There came a pattering of footsteps, and the priest appeared, greeting Dain with restrained courtesy. As soon as he was informed of Dain’s errand, he lit a torch and led the way down a flight of shallow stone steps into the crypt below the chapel floor.
“Alas, our poor Lord Odfrey, cut down too early. Far too early,” the priest said mournfully. “The people have not yet recovered from the loss. They loved him like children love a parent. They have been lost without him here, guiding and providing for them.”
Dain took the torch from the priest’s hand and dismissed him. Glancing at Sir Polquin, he said, “Wait for me here.”
Nodding, the temporary knight protector positioned himself at the foot of the steps. “I’ll see you’re not disturbed.”
“Thank you.”
Dain made his way slowly through the tombs. He found this to be a strange and eerie place of death. Sensitive to the eternal quiet, the musty shadows, and how the slightest of sounds echoed, Dain preferred the dwarf custom of burying the dead beneath dirt or inside wood. He believed that the spirit was long gone to the third world; why not let the body decay as all living things in the forest eventually returned to the soil? But it seemed Mandrians valued stone to guard their bones.
At the far end of the crypt he came at last to Odfrey’s tomb. As yet it was only a plain box of stone. No statue lay atop it, and Dain supposed the carving was not yet finished. He would have to inquire, and make sure all was done in accordance with the customs of Odfrey’s family.
A small plaque inscribed with Odfrey’s full name and the dates of his birth and death was all that adorned the plain surface. In Dain’s eyes, it seemed fitting that Odfrey should lie in such simple state. He had lived a plain, utilitarian life, avoiding frills and finery as much as he could. Yet there was one thing his tomb lacked that Dain could supply.
Dain quietly slid his torch into a wall sconce, then drew his sword—Odfrey’s sword—from its scabbard. As plain and well-worn as its former master, the weapon had never quite fit Dain’s hand, and he knew where this blade belonged. With reverence, Dain kissed the hilt of the sword and laid it atop Odfrey’s tomb before he knelt at its base.
It felt strange to be in a place of death without the proper Elements to conduct a service of respect. Dain had no salt, no stones, no basin of water, no candles, no fresh-peeled rods of ash. He had not brought such things with him because Odfrey had not believed in them. Therefore, he would honor the man who’d befriended him and given him so much by praying as Odfrey had taught him to pray.
Closing his eyes, he offered his short, simple request to Thod the Mighty. He asked that Odfrey’s soul abide happily in the third world, reunited there with his son Hilard and his lady wife, who had both died years ago. There had been much grief and loneliness hidden in the chevard’s heart. Now Dain hoped his sorrow had vanished forever.
At the end of his prayer, Dain sighed, knowing that according to the teachings of the Reformed Church, he had done his duty.
But he was not finished. Still kneeling, he bowed his head and communed with his memories of the man who’d become like a father to him, even though they had known each other less than a year. He had respected and admired Odfrey so much. He had yearned to please the man, to make the chevard proud of him. Odfrey had been the first man Dain trusted, the first Mandrian to show him kindness. It was thanks to Odfrey that Dain had discovered his own royal heritage, for without the chevard’s quest to see him officially adopted, Dain would have never met King Verence, who’d recognized his pendant of bard crystal for what it really was.
So much had happened of late. Dain longed to be walking about the hold at Lord Odfrey’s side, seeking his counsel, for there was much ahead of him that he did not know how to handle. He wished that, just one last time, he could see the calm good sense in the chevard’s dark eyes, could hear the man talking to him about strategy and planning. In his young life, Dain had lost first his true father, who left him in the Dark Forest and never returned; then Jorb, the dwarf swordmaker who’d served as a guardian while Dain was growing up; and now Odfrey, a decent man of generous heart and open mind who’d seen past Dain’s rough edges to show him a future beyond his wildest dreams.
Suddenly, Dain could no longer hold back his feelings. He knew this was against Writ, but he could not stop the ache in his heart. Closing his eyes, he found himself praying fervently to Odfrey himself.
“I go to fight a great war, lord,” he cast forth in his mind. “I am barely a knight, barely a lord, barely a king, yet I must fight as all three. How can I be seasoned and wily? What must I know? What must I learn to prepare myself for the trials that lie ahead of me? Oh, lord, if only your spirit could ride with me into battle, then I would not fear what is to come.” He waited a moment, but sensed no response. “It is custom with your people and mine that a son should inherit his father’s sword. I have carried yours, lord, the one that you used daily with honor, the one that you died with. And now I have brought it back to you.”
He paused, concentrating so hard that sweat beaded up along his temples. Around him pressed the silence of eternity. He heard nothing but the steady boom of his own heartbeat.
“Lord, if you are aware of me still, hear my request. I need Truthseeker in order to fight the darkness that will be my foe. You taught me that this weapon is not to be used for trivial battles. I ask for its use to regain my throne, and surely that cause is worthy. If my taking it offends you, show me the breath of your displeasure and I swear that I will not carry it away. But if you approve, fill my heart with your strength.”
He waited a long while, waited until all he could hear was the muted hissing of the torch as it burned low. He waited until his knees ached on the stone floor, but nothing came to him. No murmur of approval or disapproval. No breath of benediction or protest.
Nothing at all.
Sighing, Dain had never felt more pagan and apart from the ways of Mandria than at that moment, for surely Lord Odfrey’s soul had not heard his prayer at all. It had been futile to believe his troubles could be eased this way. Dain raised himself stiffly, then placed both hands on the stone box which surrounded Lord Odfrey’s bones and bade him farewell.
Although he’d gained no answer, at least he’d performed the courtesy of asking. Henceforth, if Odfrey’s spirit grew wroth at Dain’s use of Truthseeker and chose to haunt him, so be it. He would take what he needed. He would take what he wanted. All that was here belonged to him, by man-law, and he would claim it. He did not let himself glance back as he strode from the crypt. Once outside, he paused in the courtyard and looked at Sir Polquin. “What is the custom here, in the swearing of oaths to a new chevard?” Sir Polquin blinked at the question. “Well now, it’s custom to end the mourning with a feast—a great banquet in the Hall.”
“Go on.”
“And then toasts are drunk, and the men come forward to swear themselves into your service.”
“The vaulted swords, the honor they showed me this morning. What was that?” “Another custom of respect,” Sir Polquin replied, squinting against the‘ sunshine. “Respect due to the chevard’s heir.”
Dain’s throat was suddenly full. He struggled to swallow before he could command his voice. “And if I asked them to swear their service this afternoon, in this yard?” He swept his arm in a gesture at the paved courtyard. “Would that break custom too much, if we had the oaths before the banquet feast?” Sir Polquin stared at him hard. “What’s turning in that head of yours, sire?
What’re you up to?”
“We have little time before we must resume our journey,” Dain said. “I would see this done before I leave for Nether.”
“But surely there’s a few days yet. The poor lady’s too ill to be moved now. And word has to be sent to the nearby holds, at least the upland ones, so that the other chevards can come and stand as witnesses.”
Frustrated, Dain swore softly beneath his breath. “But if they are not present?
Does that invalidate the oaths?”
“Nay. It’s just an upland custom from the old days. It makes sure that no false claims can be brought against you.”
Dain turned to scowl across the courtyard at the opposite wall rising behind Sulein’s tower.
“Why?” Sir Polquin asked. “Have you a worry that the men’ll balk? I’ll cram my sword down their gullets if they don’t line up proper.”
“Nay, there’ll be no oaths at swordpoint, if you please, sir knight!”
“What then? What’s the hurry?”
“I can’t say. I just have a feeling . . ..” Dain abruptly made up his mind. “Let the order be given. Notify Sir Bosquecel that I want the oaths given this afternoon. A rider will take the announcement to the other holds. We’ll feast tonight, and be ready to rejoin Gavril’s company on the morrow.” Sir Polquin started to speak, then held his tongue with a frown. Dain glanced at him. “I don’t trust his highness. It troubles me to stay too long from where I can keep my eye on him.”
“Seems to me, sire, that Prince Gavril has his eye on you.” “Perhaps. But there’s also Sulein to think of, now that he’s been pressed into serving as a guardian.”
“Sulein!” Sir Polquin snorted in disgust. “Good riddance, I say. That smelly hedge-pig of a physician ought to—” “I need him,” Dain broke in.
“Why? According to what I hear from Terent, you’ve never liked the foreign scoundrel. Haven’t from the first day of your being here. Why, your grace even ran off in the forest just to escape having lessons with him.” This last was not true, but Dain had long ago given up trying to set common misconception straight. “I need him,” he repeated. “He has something that belongs to me, and until I can get it away from him—” “Tell me what it is, and I’ll have it off his miserable hide in a twinkling,” Sir Polquin said fiercely. “Why didn’t your grace speak up about it sooner?” “He’s concealed it with a spell, and I can’t get it away from him until he releases it.”
“Morde!” Sir Polquin stared wide-eyed at Dain. “Even more reason to get rid of him. Why Lord Odfrey put up with his nasty ways, I’ve never understood. He only brought him here to see if he could cure Master Hilard. Which he didn’t.” “Believe me,” Dain said, “once I have my property, you may do with him as you will.”
“A thief,” Sir Polquin muttered, glaring beneath his knotted brows. “Well, now.
I’ll have to see what I can do.”
“Nothing at present,” Dain reminded him. “Not as long as he’s a guardian.”
“Probably put himself there just to keep himself out of our clutches. Fear not:
Terent and I will get him.”
“You can’t as long as he’s a guardian.”
“Casting spells is against Writ,” Sir Polquin said sternly. “Thod may strike him down for it. But what is it he’s taken?”
“He wears a ring, very old, carved with runes and set with a smooth white stone,” Dain said, striving to keep his voice casual. He dared not tell even Sir Polquin just how valuable this ring was. “If you ever see it on his hand, that means the spell concealing it has faded. It can be plucked from his finger then, and only then.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, sire. But I never saw you wearing such a ring when you came to Thirst.”
Dain frowned. Sir Polquin’s memory remained as sharp as ever, and he was notoriously hard to fool. “It belonged to my father,” he said with honesty. “How Sulein came by it, I know not. But it’s important.”
“Then I’ll warn Terent, and we’ll keep watch for it. Now for this business of the oath-giving. By your leave, I’ll send a page to summon Sir Bosquecel.” Shortly thereafter the captain of the guard arrived. He looked thinner and grayer these days, but he still carried himself straight and erect. Although he blinked at Dain’s request, he bowed in immediate, unquestioning obedience as a knight and hold officer was expected to.
“The oath service can take place just after midday, m’lord,” he said brusquely. “I’m sorry to hear that you cannot be staying with us long, but I’ll have the men ready.”
“Thank you,” Dain said, grateful for the man’s efficiency. Sir Bosquecel saluted, then strode away to attend to his duties, and Dain turned toward his wardroom.
But he’d barely reached the steps leading indoors when there came a shout from the sentries atop the wall. “Riders on the approach!”
Dain looked around with a grin. “It’s Gavril! He’s brought her here after all.” Feeling a rush of joy, he threw away his new dignity and ran for the steps leading up to the sentry walk. With Sir Polquin at his heels, Dain hurried along, his shoulder brushing the stone crenellations. At the vantage point overlooking the southwest, he paused and leaned out to watch the group approaching.
The crisp wind ruffled his hair. He saw a small party of ten riders riding beneath the Lunt colors of scarlet and black, and disappointment stabbed him. At his shoulder, Sir Polquin grunted. “Those aren’t the prince’s colors. Why, it’s men from Lunt. Odd that they’ve come here. Probably just a patrol checking in to see that all’s well.” Shortly thereafter, the Lunt men were admitted through the gates, and a sentry knight came striding up to where Dain still waited on the ramparts.
“M’lord,” he said in a thick uplander accent. “It’s Lord Renald come asking for audience wi’ ye.”
Dain frowned, impatient with the prospect of a visit he had no desire for. His time here was short; he had many things to do.
Sir Polquin breathed down the back of Dain’s neck. “Here’s your chevard witness for the oath-giving. Come like a gift of providence.”
Some of Dain’s impatience faded. “Did Chevard Renald say what business brings him hence?” he asked the sentry.
“Nay, m’lord,” the knight replied. “Seems a bit rattled. There’s been plenty of trouble hereabouts wi’ raids and such like. Mayhap he’s seeking Thirst men to ride forth wi’ Lunt.”
Dain thought of Pheresa lying in a tent with only a fence of wattle built around her. She had no salt or sticks of peeled ash to protect her from Nonkind raiders. Only those damned church soldiers, who were too arrogant to learn or listen.