“M’lord—”

“Yes! Of course,” Dain said hastily, pulling himself from his worried thoughts.

“See that the chevard is bid welcome. I’ll receive him at once.”

The sentry bowed and hurried away.

Dain looked at Sir Polquin, who said grimly, “Sounds like trouble’s afoot.” “Aye. But where do I receive him?” Dain asked. “The wardroom’s been locked. Lord Odfrey’s things are still—” He choked up and suddenly could not finish his sentence.

Had Sir Terent been with him, the man would have reached out and gripped his shoulder in the way he used to comfort Dain. “Aye, lad,” he would have said softly. “ ‘Tis hard to bear.”

But the master-at-arms crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “Wardroom’s the proper place for such,” he said gruffly. “Best get used to it, now that it’s yours.”

His words were like a dash of cold water, and Dain nodded. “Very well,” he said, and spun on his heel to return the way he’d come.

A few minutes later, he was standing at Lord Odfrey’s desk in the lord’s small, homey chamber, which had grown stale and musty in its owner’s absence. He was conscious of the presence of Truthseeker, lying in the chest behind his chair.  He could feel the subtle throb of it, a whisper of its voice, as though the sword was stirring to life because of Dain’s proximity. An involuntary thrill raced up Dain’s spine. It knows, he thought in excitement. It knows I mean to carry it into battle. Cobwebs had been spun over the hearth, and their delicate tracery shimmered in the sunlight slanting in through the window. Parchments, maps, and dispatches littered the top of the desk, and that huge beautifully illustrated map of the kingdoms that Dain had once admired was still draped over the tall-backed chair.

Hearing booted footsteps approaching his door, Dain whisked the map off the chair. He was still rolling it up when a knock sounded.  Sir Polquin swung open the door, then stepped back. “Lord Renald, your grace.” The Chevard of Lunt Hold entered with a swagger. His black cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, and his scarlet surcoat was wrinkled and mud-splattered from hard riding. Young and strongly built, with an elegant chin-beard and mustache, Lord Renald looked exactly as Dain remembered him from the night of Dain’s trial in the Hall, when Dain had killed the shapeshifter and saved Gavril’s life.  Renald’s intelligent eyes were fairly snapping just now with impatience and disappointment.

“Lord Renald,” Dain said with his best court manners, “welcome to Thirst. As always, our hospitality is—” “Thank you. Most kind,” Lord Renald broke in curtly with none of his usual suavity. He seemed to notice his abruptness and checked himself. “Forgive me.  I’ve been up since before dawn, riding like I had hurlhounds on my heels.” “There’s trouble, then,” Dain said with a sinking heart. He didn’t want to get caught up in the problems of this land. His way still led north. “What sort?” As he spoke, he pointed to the chair, and Lord Renald dropped into it heavily. A servant entered with a tray of cider in cups, and Lord Renald drained his in one swallow.

Grimacing, he slammed the empty cup down. “Damne, that’s the sourest vintage I’ve yet drunk from Thirst orchards.”

Dain left his own cup untouched and seated himself behind the desk. It felt strange indeed to have Lord Odfrey’s things around him. He kept thinking that Lord Odfrey would come striding in at any moment and take charge, but of course that could not happen.

“I’m sorry there’s no stronger drink to offer,” Dain said. “The hold cellars need filling with wine and mead.”

Lord Renald shrugged, dismissing the matter. His shrewd eyes regarded Dain for a moment, sizing him up. Dain felt his face grow hot beneath that intent gaze, but he returned it with equal steadiness.

“I own myself astonished to see you here, Lord Dain,” the man said after a pause. “The word we had of you was that you were lying ill abed at Savroix. Yet you’re here, looking hale and hearty.”

“My recovery progressed quicker than expected.”

Lord Renald’s brows shot up. “And is it truth or rumor that you’re the lost king of Nether?”

The direct question took Dain aback. “You’re well-informed, my lord.”

Lord Renald’s gaze did not waver. “Truth or rumor?”

“Truth.”

The chevard rose to his feet and bowed. “Then your majesty honors me with this audience.”

“Please be seated,” Dain said. “You’ve ridden hard. Rest yourself.” Lord Renald hesitated, then resumed his seat. “Morde a day, but you’re a casual king.”

“I’m not crowned yet,” Dain replied.

Lord Renald grinned and suddenly looked not much older than Dain himself. “Aye, that’s a valid point. May I bring my business here before your majesty?” Dain nodded.

“I come looking for Prince Gavril. The word is that he’s on his road northward to Nether.”

“Aye, he is.”

“Well, damne! Isn’t he here?”

“No.”

“Morde. These raids keep me sore pressed of late. Thod knows I have better things to do than chase in every direction in search of his highness. But I’m bidden to tell him he must turn back.”

“Turn back!” Dain echoed in surprise. “But why?”

“That should be obvious.”

Dain found himself flushing. “You must explain. It is not obvious to me.” Lord Renald looked at him as though he were a fool. “Has his highness—have you—given no thought to the reports we’ve been sending to Savroix since early autumn?”

“His highness is on a mission of mercy. He does not intend to turn back.” Lord Renald grunted. “I have received direct orders from King Verence to stop Prince Gavril and turn him homeward. If he’d sought shelter for the night at Lunt, as I expected him to, it would have been an easy matter. As ‘tis, now I must hunt him. I tell you, Lord Dain, I have neither the time nor the manpower to spare for such a task.”

Understanding now why Gavril had been so intent on avoiding Lunt and other holds, Dain drew in his breath sharply. “He must have received a warning.” “What?”

“He must have been warned of the king’s intent,” Dain said. “He’s insisted we camp on the road every night since we left Tuisons and started overland. Not even here to Thirst will he come.”

A line appeared between Lord Renald’s brows. “And have you also a missive from the king, telling you to turn his highness back?”

“Nay. Unless it’s come without my being told.” Dain leaned forward. “I arrived but this morning.”

Lord Renald rose to his feet. “Then you’ve a host of things to do. And I have more riding before me.”

“Will you not bide long enough to take a midday meal here?”

Lord Renald seemed pleased by the offer. “Your grace is indeed hospitable.

Certainly you’ve grown more polished than you were when I saw you last.” Flushing at the compliment, Dain also rose to his feet. “At Savroix, it was necessary to learn quickly.”

“So I imagine. Well now, thank you for your kindness, but I dare not tarry while this task is on me.”

“His highness is camped but a few miles from here. No more than a league, if that far,” Dain said.

Lord Renald stared at him in astonishment. “Then why does he not come here? Why risk—” “I told you. He obviously intends to avoid receiving his father’s order.” The chevard frowned, a muscle working in his jaw. “Well, no matter what he intends, his highness is to return to Savroix at once. He can’t evade the order now, no matter how he tries.”

“But why must he turn back?” Dain asked. “There is Lady Pheresa to consider. If we abandon the journey now, she will surely perish.” Lord Renald shrugged. “I know nothing of that. I have my orders, and his highness is soon to have his.”

“But what has alarmed King Verence so?” Dain asked. “Trouble with Nonkind?” “Aye, all the usual mess and more,” the chevard said with feeling. “There have been three trolk attacks on Lunt in the past month. We’ll probably eat our Aelintide feast with our hands on our weapons.”

“Trolks haven’t banded together in years.”

“They’re at it now. As many as fifty to a pack sometimes. Thod knows how we’ll keep them off if they continue to come. But there’s some new trouble between King Verence and Nether, or so I hear. That’s why his majesty doesn’t want the prince to continue northward.”

“The treaty,” Dain said in dismay. “There must be a disagreement on terms.”

“Aye. Now I’d best go.”

“Wait, my lord,” Dain said quickly. “There is a favor I would ask you.” “Better to ask it after I speak to his highness,” Lord Renald said, and turned to go.

“It’s about my oath service,” Dain said quickly.

Lord Renald halted in his tracks, then swung back. “You have a kingdom north of here. Will you claim a mere hold for yourself as well?” “Thirst is mine,” Dain said harshly. “By Verence’s warrant and Lord Odfrey’s wish.”

“Did Odfrey know your true identity?”

Dain met the chevard’s probing eyes and made no reply.  After a moment Lord Renald blinked. “Morde,” he said softly. “I always knew there was more to Odfrey than duties and battle. The only reason he accepted Prince Gavril as a foster here was to measure what kind of man—aye, and king—he would grow into. How you fell into his hands as well, Thod only knows.” “Will you witness my oath service?” Dain asked again.

“I’ll come back for it, if the raids allow.”

“My lord, I’m having it this day.”

“Your grace seems to be in a great hurry.”

“I am.”

Lord Renald waited, but when Dain explained nothing more, he raised his brows.  “I find it interesting that a pagan such as yourself seeks to follow our conventions.”

Dain’s shoulders stiffened. “I was named knight and chevard by his majesty, King Verence,” he said curtly. “No longer am I considered pagan, but a lord of Mandria—” “Mandria or Edonia?” Lord Renald asked with equal sharpness. “Rumor says you favor division.”

“You hear perhaps too many rumors, my lord. This one is wrong,” Dain declared.  “I favor keeping Thirst strong enough to withstand what Gant will one day send at it.”

“Nether will be coming at it soon enough,” Lord Renald said. “This treaty offered to King Verence mocks us, and I pray to Thod he will reject it, even if it means war.”

“Nether is not an enemy yet,” Dain said.

“Are you promising to keep it allied to Mandria?”

Dain’s head lifted at that challenge. “King Verence and my father were friends, and they kept friendship between their realms. I would do the same.” “Easy to say. Harder, perhaps, to do. I have been to Nether once, four years past. ‘Tis a filthy land, full of pestilence and thieves.”

Dain’s nostrils flared, but he kept his temper. “Once more will I ask you, Lord Renald. Will you, as Chevard of Lunt, witness my oath service as Chevard of Thirst?”

“Do you understand that by so doing I put myself and my hold at risk?”

“How so?”

“Obviously you mean to lead Thirst knights into Nether,” Lord Renald said.  “There can be no other reason for such haste. I know my king. He will be furious if you do this. I do not care to risk his ire.”

“You are more at risk if you fail to convey his message to Prince Gavril.”

“How so? You said his highness is close by.”

“I did not say he would be easy to find. Is he on the main highway or a lesser road? How much time have you to search for him?”

“Damne! What games do you play with me now?” Dain crossed his arms over his chest and simply watched Lord Renald. “ ‘Twas you who said you haven’t much time.”

“ ‘Tis unfriendly to force a man to take risks he shouldn’t.” Dain shrugged.

“You uplanders are perhaps too cautious.”

“We uplanders have reason to be!” Lord Renald retorted. “My grandfather survived the War of Union, when Edonia was brought to heel. He survived, but he struggled thereafter with harsh taxation and was forced to surrender half his lands. The lowlanders have stamped their feet hard on our necks, and only in recent years have the penalties eased. We are trusted now, but we paid a bitter price for it.  I’ll not be accused of joining the divisionists.”

“I do not ask you to do that,” Dain replied. He saw that he was not going to budge Lord Renald by any means of persuasion he’d tried thus far. It was time for frank speaking. “I’m no intriguer, my lord. I do not plot political strategies here. When I ride into Nether, possibly I shall never return. But if I do not validate my warrant of inheritance by receiving the oaths of Thirst’s men . . . if I do not follow the customs and complete my duties as an adopted son of Odfrey’s, then my departure and absence will render Thirst unclaimed. Its ancient charter will be dissolved, and it will pass into King Verence’s hands. I have heard that Prince Gavril is counting on this and intends to use the hold for a hunting lodge.”

Lord Renald blinked.

Dain nodded. “Perhaps you do not care if the Thirst crest is chiseled off the walls and the royal seal replaces it. But I care. This is perhaps the last thing I can do to preserve Odfrey’s ancestral lands as they were meant to be. I seek to honor his wishes as best I can.”

Lord Renald looked increasingly thoughtful as he listened. “I see. But if you keep ownership of Thirst, the hold will have no chevard to manage it, or to help protect this part of the border.”

“If I survive what lies before me, I shall remedy that,” Dain said. “I should like a son of mine to return here.”

Lord Renald shot him a wry look. “In that case Thirst would belong to Nether, and it would still be lost to the uplands.”

“But it will not belong to Prince Gavril,” Dain said through his teeth.  “Is that all this is? A ploy to keep his highness from seizing the hold for his own?”

Dain hesitated, then nodded. “Aye.”

Lord Renald laughed. “At least that’s honest. Is this how you mean to get back at his highness for having falsely accused you at trial here?” “It’s not about revenge,” Dain said stiffly, thinking of that night in Thirst’s Hall when he’d saved Gavril’s life from the shapeshifter. “It’s . . . Much lies between us, my lord. ‘Tis complicated to explain.”

“Never mind,” Lord Renald said with a shrug. “I know enough about feuds. They never stop, and they can consume you if you are not careful.” Dain said nothing, just gazed steadily at the man.

“Very well, King Dain,” Lord Renald conceded with a sigh. “I will witness your oath service and see you rightfully placed as chevard. If you fail at being a king, perhaps you can come back and run this hold, eh?” Dain’s smile soured a bit. As an endorsement of support, it wasn’t much, but he supposed he should be grateful that Lord Renald was agreeing at all.  “I thank you,” he said formally. “Come, let us eat together. Then as soon as the ceremony is finished, I will direct you to Prince Gavril’s camp.” “He will hate us both for this,” Lord Renald said with a sigh.

“Aye, he will,” Dain agreed. “But I, at least, am used to it.” Despite the brightness of the midday sun, the wind blew cold. The banners of Thirst Hold snapped in the breeze while a trumpet rang out and drumbeats rolled.  In solemn procession, the knights of Thirst marched forth from the guardhouse before an awestruck crowd of servants, villagers, and serfs. Each knight wore full armor and carried arms. Each knight led his charger, with his shield tied to his saddle. The horses were caprisoned for war with armored saddlecloths and head plates. Their iron shoes scraped and rang on the paving stones as they filed into the innermost courtyard. The knights came in order of rank. Sir Bosquecel led the line, followed by Sir Alard and the other first-rank knights, then the middle-rank knights, then the sentry-rank knights, and at the rear, the elderly or battle-maimed knights who no longer rode to war but served light duties as door guards and strategists. Behind this procession came the delegation of squires, squirming and nervous in their dark green tunics and wool cloaks.

Atop the stone steps leading to the Hall, Dain sat in a tall-backed chair. He still wore his mail hauberk, but had donned one of Lord Odfrey’s dark green surcoats for the occasion. His thick black hair had been braided up the back of his skull, warrior fashion, revealing his pointed ears. A narrow circlet of gold—a gift from Prince Spirin before Dain left Savroix—rested on his brow for the first time. His magnificent ruby ring gleamed on his finger.  Behind his chair stood Sir Terent, looking pale and drawn but proud. Sir Polquin was beside him, with his bullish shoulders drawn back and his head high. It was a king’s right to have two protectors if he chose, and Dain had just named Sir Polquin to the second position a few minutes earlier. For once, the master-at-arms had been struck speechless, but his eyes were shining over the honor bestowed on him.

To Dain’s left stood Lord Renald with his small band of Lunt knights. To his right were the priest and Thum, who kept grinning despite his attempts to stay solemn.

The procession of knights halted at the foot of the steps, and the drums fell silent.

The herald stepped forward. “By the right of inheritance and the warrant of his majesty, King Verence, this man Faldain is proclaimed Chevard of Thirst.  According to law, the oaths of service which bind these assembled men of arms to Odfrey, Lord of Thirst, are hereby dissolved and void.” Some of the knights bowed their heads. Dain’s keen ears caught the faintest murmur of whispering among the house servants and pages looking on.  This was the moment, Dain told himself, where everything could go awry. Freed of all allegiance, the knights could now ride forth from Thirst and pledge their service elsewhere. No one could forcibly bind them to Dain, whether he was the lawful chevard or not. He sat there trying to look impassive, but his mouth was dry and his heart was thumping hard inside his chest. If he had not been eld he would not have been much worried, but uplanders were notoriously prejudiced against those of his kind.

“The claims of Faldain begin,” the herald announced, his voice ringing forth across the assembly. “He is knight-at-arms, Chevard of Thirst, and uncrowned King of Nether. He asks for your oaths of service, which you may give or withhold by the laws of Mandria.”

The drumbeats resumed.

Dain rose to his feet and went down the steps to where the knights stood in a long row before their horses. Behind him, Sir Terent and Sir Polquin followed.  It was required that Dain go to each knight in turn, the action a symbol of his humble supplication. Once the oaths were given, his every command would have to be obeyed without question or hesitation, but until then he was to think of how bereft and insignificant he would be without his men. The ceremony and its meanings had all been explained to him, and he felt nervous and stiff in the knees.

As he reached Sir Bosquecel, he stopped and turned to face the man, who stared back from beneath his upraised visor.

“Ask the question,” Sir Terent mumbled in Dain’s ear.  Thus prompted, Dain said, “I come to you in need, Sir Bosquecel. What am I given?”

The hold commander drew his sword and knelt before Dain to lay his weapon on the ground between them. “I give you my sword in service, loyalty, and honor,” he replied, his voice firm and clear. “I swear to obey and fight in the name of Faldain, until my days be ended. Aelmn.”

“Aelmn,” intoned the priest, stepping up to anoint Sir Bosquecel’s brow in blessing.

Drawing in an unsteady breath, Dain moved to the next man in line. “Sir Alard,” he said. “I come to you once more in need. Although you gave your oath before, what will you give now?”

Sir Alard knelt and laid his sword on the ground between them. He gave the same answer Sir Bosquecel had, with equal assurance and conviction in his voice.  The priest anointed him, while Dain moved to the next man and the next. By the end of the ceremony, Dain felt numb from repeating the same words over and over.  Only four knights had withdrawn, refusing to serve. They were new men, strangers, and of the lower ranks. The rest, however, now stood proud and erect as Dain came striding back up the line. When he started to climb steps, they swung their swords aloft and shouted his name.

“Faldain! Faldain of Thirst!”

He turned to face them, pride and gratitude tangled in his throat, and returned the salute. Then he resumed his seat while the squires came, one by one, up the steps to kneel before him and make their pledges. After the squires came the servants, beginning with Julth Rondel and continuing down to the lowest scullions. Many sounded nervous or even frightened as they spoke their pledges.  One woman covered her face with her hands lest he gaze into her eyes and enspell her. Two of the maids broke into tears, but the rest kept their composure.  Dain smiled at each servant who dared meet his gaze. He spoke to them with kind gentleness, taking care to do or say nothing to alarm them.  At last it was all done. The villagers gawked from afar at their new master. The serfs had no pledge to make; they were bound from one lord to another with no choice in the matter. A brief benediction was spoken by the priest, and the herald announced Dain’s invitation that all help themselves to the cider barrels in celebration.

Feeling as though a heavy weight had come off his shoulders, Dain left his chair and found himself surrounded by his men, all talking at once and grinning like fools.

Lord Renald came over with a cool smile on his lips, but he offered Dain his hand in friendship. “Well done. You have won their loyalty, and I hope Lunt and Thirst will continue to share the accord they have known in times past.” “It’s my hope as well,” Dain replied. “And now for my end of our agreement. You will find Prince Gavril less than a—” Suddenly distant trumpets sounded and a shout rose from the lone lookout on the walls. Muttering curses, the sentry knights bolted for the ramparts.  Lord Renald gripped his sword hilt. “It’s trolks. Morde a day, but I shouldn’t have left—” A wide-eyed page came running up to Dain. “Lord grace,” he said, garbling Dain’s titles, “ ‘tis Prince Gavril coming to the gates.”

Astonished, Dain stared at the child. He couldn’t help but think how close the ceremony had come to being interrupted by Gavril’s arrival.  “Tell me swiftly,” he said to the page. “Does the whole company come with his highness, or rides he alone?”

“It’s everyone!” the page replied. “Such a large number of wagons, and the church soldiers are carrying demons tied to a pole.”

Dain and Lord Renald exchanged startled looks.

“Alive?” Dain asked.

“Nay, my lord grace,” the little boy replied with excitement. “Their heads are cut off, and are swinging in a sack beside them. I saw—” The trumpets sounded again, and two men in white surcoats came riding into the courtyard. The crowd parted, and Dain walked down the steps to meet them.  As he drew near, he saw it was Lord Barthomew and Sir Wiltem. The commander was glancing around at the crowd and signs of panoply with narrowed eyes. When he saw Dain, he stiffened in his saddle.

“Lord Faldain,” Lord Barthomew said with a sneer, “I am to convey to you compliments of his highness. Prince Gavril and his party seek the hospitality of Thirst Hold.”

The formal request was worded with correct courtesy, but the tone that delivered it held contempt and mockery.

Behind Dain, Sir Terent growled in his throat like an old dog, and Sir Polquin turned red over the affront.

Ignoring Lord Barthomew’s insulting tone, Dain felt relief that Gavril was finally showing some common sense. “Bid his highness and companions welcome,” Dain replied formally. “Report to Sir Bosquecel for instructions in how your knights will be billeted here.”

After Lord Barthomew had bowed and ridden off, looking surly, Dain turned and issued orders to the steward.

“Lady Pheresa must not be stared at by the servants,” he said sternly. “Above all, we must respect her privacy. Give her an excellent chamber, one that is easily kept warm. Let there be chairs and cushions to soften the furnishings.  Damne, I wish we’d known sooner to prepare for her.” A few minutes thereafter, Gavril came riding into the courtyard on his black stallion, his banners flying and his entourage in tow. His pack of dogs barked and milled around the horses in excitement. Today he wore his golden breastplate, polished to a blinding sheen. His dark blue cloak flowed from his shoulders to hang in heavy folds over the hindquarters of his prancing mount.  The sunlight glinted on his blond hair, and his vivid blue eyes were glittering with anger as he saw the gathering of knights in their finery.  Dismounting onto a tiny velvet stool that his page hurried to place beneath his stirrup, Gavril ignored the crowd staring at him and started up the steps, Lord Kress at his heels.

Dain met Gavril halfway. With his brows knotted in acute dislike, the prince looked Dain up and down.

“So you would wear a crown now,” he said scornfully, referring to the circlet on Dain’s brow.

“This is no crown,” Dain replied. “By Nether custom, the circlet is worn as a badge of royalty, just as you wear your bracelet.”

Gavril’s cheeks flushed at the comparison, but he made no further protest. “I thought you intended to keep your identity discreet.”

“My intentions have changed.”

“Clearly. Well, it seems I have interrupted your ceremony. What a pity. I would urge you to continue, but alas, seeing Lady Pheresa settled will occupy us both.”

Dain smiled, keeping his voice as silky as Gavril’s. “Your highness is kind, but there is no interruption. My oath service has been completed, and all is well.” Gavril’s smile dropped from his face, to be replaced by a thunderous scowl.  “Impossible! You are too hasty. The oath service cannot possibly have been conducted this quickly.”

“It has.”

“But improperly. There are no witnesses. At least four chevards must be present—” “My pardon for correcting your highness,” Lord Renald said quietly, stepping forward, “but according to law a minimum of only one chevard is needed for witnessing.”

Gavril’s cheeks were ablaze. He glared at Lord Renald, then shifted his gaze back to Dain. “How convenient to find Lunt here as well. You have been busy indeed this day.”

Bowing, Dain kept silent. He was eager to get away from the prince and devote his attention to Pheresa.

“Your highness,” Lord Renald was saying, “I bear messages from your father the king, which I am to speak to you without delay.”

Gavril took a step back. “Not now.”