“Majesty, I—”

“It grows late, and we must ride at first light,” he said in dismissal, and climbed into the bedroll his squire had prepared for him.  Disgruntled, Alexeika hesitantly took up the blanket they had generously left for her use, and wrapped herself in its folds. She settled herself a little apart from the men, with her back propped against the bank for security.  Sir Alard was the last to settle himself by the fire’s glowing embers. Rolling over so that he could look at her, he smiled and said softly for her ears alone, “We have all tried to dissuade him from this quest, and cannot. You will not succeed either.”

She frowned. “Not even if we are trapped up by the World’s Rim when the deep cold comes? It is folly to seek the eldin this time of year.” It was folly to seek them at any time of year, for they refused to be found, but she did not say that aloud.

Sir Alard shrugged and burrowed deeper into his blankets, saying nothing else.

Soon the men were snoring.

Alexeika lay there, wide-awake and unable to calm herself. She listened to the sentry stamp his feet out in the darkness to keep them warm. She listened to her own heartbeat thrumming with excitement that Faldain was so near. He was stubborn, impossible to manage, ruthless beneath his courtesy, and completely fascinating. She had done everything wrong tonight, and yet he had still offered her a place in his service.

Tomorrow, she thought, I ride with the king.

If only they were riding in the right direction, instead of on this mysterious quest of his. She thought briefly of misleading him and guiding his path straight to the Agya hideouts, but at once she dismissed the temptation. He had too much eld blood in him to be so easily fooled. Besides, there was more to this matter than he’d yet revealed. She warned herself to bite her tongue and take care.

And for the first time in her life, she could not sleep.

With his horse plodding in Lord Barthomew’s wake, Prince Gavril squinted into the driving snow, and huddled deeper inside his fur-lined cloak. He was exhausted and half-frozen. His joints ached from long hours in the saddle, but he had too much pride to rest himself in one of the wagons. Cardinal Noncire had retired from riding horseback many days ago, and now rode in state beneath an arched canopy that protected him from the worst of the wind and cold, with a little portable brazier burning with coals, soft cushions to recline on, and his scrolls and books to read. Each day he invited Gavril to share his comforts, and each day Gavril gave him a curt refusal.

He had yet to forgive Noncire for his failure to learn the true whereabouts of the Chalice from Dain. After all, Gavril had warned Noncire that Dain required special handling, but the cardinal had been too arrogant, too self-confident, to listen.

As a result, Dain had deceived them all, his vile trickery sending Gavril on a futile chase to an abandoned shepherd’s hut in the meadows far west of Thirst Hold. That escapade cost them three days of time they could ill afford to spare.  Dain seemed incapable of understanding how holy and precious the Chalice was, or how vitally important it was to recover the sacred vessel.  Now, riding along the road while the wind blew right through his cloak and furs and the snow stung his face, Gavril fumed and clenched his cold fingers harder on the reins. He vowed that if ever again his path crossed with Dain’s, he would make that pagan dog pay dearly for misleading them.  In the first place, Dain should have been forthcoming about the Chalice’s whereabouts. When Noncire questioned him, Dain should have submitted himself willingly, even eagerly, to the cardinal’s interrogation. After all, he’d sworn to help save Pheresa’s life. The liar had claimed he would do anything for her.  To Gavril had fallen the unpleasant task of explaining Dain’s defection to Pheresa. She had lain there, wan of face, with her reddish-gold hair brushed and shining, and listened to him gravely. Tears had welled up in her brown eyes as he told her how Dain had betrayed her, and Gavril had pledged anew that he would never desert her, that he would do everything humanly possible to find her cure.  Yet hardly had they set out from Thirst to resume their journey when another guardian had collapsed. Despite Noncire’s previous avowal that he could replace a guardian if necessary, he immediately claimed that he was too fatigued from the effort to open Dain’s mind to be able to serve the lady. Gavril, disgusted by the cardinal’s cowardice, made no effort to coerce him. He knew the spell could not work under duress.

Thus far, Pheresa still lived, even with the spell out of balance, but at night her moans and weeping could be heard across the sleeping camp. She looked so ill and hollow-eyed that Gavril could hardly bear to visit her these days. He no longer knew how to alleviate her fears.

“We’ll be in Nether soon,” he told her day after day while the belief in her eyes gradually dimmed.

At first she’d tried to ask him questions about the remedy the Netherans promised. What was it? How would it work? But in the last week, she’d grown too weak to bother. She only stared at him with grave, pain-filled eyes, clearly no longer trusting him to save her. And what if he did fail? For the first time in his life, Gavril was not entirely sure he would triumph. He found such a possibility disquieting, and it was difficult not to resent the lady for having brought him to such a state. If Pheresa died soon, in a way it would almost be a relief.

Such thoughts shamed him, making him pray long into the nights in atonement. But sweet mercy of Tomias, he was tired of responsibility, tired of this long trek, tired of the endless small difficulties of traveling with an invalid, tired of the boring exhaustion of it all.

Nevertheless, here he was, pressing on at the head of their company. Nether was a country as bleak and forbidding as anything he’d ever seen. The snow was driving harder in their faces today, and Gavril had never been colder in his life. There was no way to get warm, not even when they set up camp for the night. No fire, tent, or blankets could ward off the numbing cold, which seemed to freeze the very marrow of his bones. Aching, tired, and miserable, he slept poorly, if at all, yet he kept forcing himself and his men onward.  Since they’d crossed the Netheran border, it had snowed every day. They could not find adequate forage for their horses. The kine bawled hungrily at night.  Their own food supplies grew short, and there seemed to be almost nothing they could purchase or scavenge. This was a land marred by hovels of starving peasants, blighted crops withering unharvested in paltry fields, meager villages lacking the most basic amenities, and this bleak climate of unremitting cold.  Worse, time was running out. He’d intended to reach Grov and return home to Savroix by Selwinmas, but that holy day was drawing nigh. After it would come winter. He had to get out of this Thodforsaken realm before the weather became too harsh for travel. The thought of being trapped here all winter filled him with dread.

As for Dain, ever since his escape from Thirst Hold in the dead of night, along with one of his protectors, du Maltie, and one other Thirst knight, there had been no sight of him, no trail to follow, no whisper along the border that he’d been sighted. It was as though the forest had swallowed him. And no matter how much Gavril craved vengeance, there was no time to spare in hunting him down.  Noncire swore that Dain would forever go in want of his wits, but Gavril did not believe him. Gavril no longer believed much of anything the cardinal said. Dain hadn’t been too insane to escape Thirst or elude them since. Gavril believed that Dain must carry blasphemous protections of magic and evil that gave him more lives than a cat.

Blessed Thod, Gavril prayed now, have mercy on me and let me find this creature, that I may destroy him once and for all. “Your highness.” The voice of Lord Barthomew intruded on Gavril’s thoughts. Seeing the church knight commander blocking the road, Gavril reined up with a scowl. Around him, his squires and Lord Kress drew rein as well.

“Yes?” Gavril snapped.

“The Netherans, your highness. They’ve passed along a message that we approach Grov.”

Gavril’s ill temper fell away, and excitement made him straighten in his saddle.

“Where?”

Lord Barthomew pointed, and Gavril saw Commander Ognyoska of their Netheran escort a short distance ahead, beckoning to him. Since they’d crossed the border, this large, armed force of Netheran soldiers had traveled with them, claiming to be escorts. Ognyoska said that he and his men rode along for Gavril’s protection, but Gavril considered their presence an insult, most especially since there were exactly the same number of Netheran knights to match his church soldiers.

But right now, Gavril forgot his resentment and felt overwhelming relief at having finally reached their destination. Spurring his horse forward, he joined Ognyoska.

A burly, taciturn man with a thick mustache and a tall hat of black beyar hide, Ognyoska wore a cloak of shaggy fur. His chain mail was rusted in places, his horse was a spindly, rough-coated nag, and his marriage ring was tarnished. When he grinned at Gavril, he showed a mouthful of rotten teeth.  Pointing ahead into the swirling snow, the commander spoke with more animation than he’d showed in days. His translator, a scrawny man going bald and suffering from a perpetual head cold, sniffed and said, “Compliments to your royal highness. The city lies ahead. Permit Commander Ognyoska to show you the vista.” Glancing at Lord Kress and Lord Barthomew to make sure they stayed close by, Gavril spurred his black stallion ahead of the pennon-bearers to follow Ognyoska to the top of a small rise.

As Gavril drew rein there, the wind died down for a moment and the snow stopped swirling in his face.

Ognyoska gestured proudly. “Grov!” he stated.

A valley bathed in misty white lay before them. Bordered on one side by the half-frozen Velga River, the city sprawled across the valley floor with clusters of wooden houses painted in garish colors, gilded church spires, and defense towers of stone. Although it was barely mid-afternoon, dusk was drawing near and many windows already shone with light. The falling snow blurred the scene, softening the outlines of the buildings. Plenty of people could be seen thronging the streets of frozen mud, and barges bobbed on the river amidst small ice floes. Across the city, rising high atop a bluff that overlooked the river, stood the palace of Nether’s kings, a fortress of massive stone walls and tall towers wreathed in mist and snow flurries.

Gavril had not expected the city to be this big. It fully rivaled Savroix-en-Charva in size. But large or not, it was no doubt populated with barbarians, if the Netherans he’d met thus far were anything to judge by. Still, his relief grew as he stared at the city. Suddenly the hard journey and its difficulties seemed worthwhile, and his spirits lifted.

But a new problem loomed before him. Part of the cost of Pheresa’s cure was to deliver Dain alive into the hands of Cardinal Pernal. How, Gavril wondered bleakly, was he to explain to the Netheran cardinal that he would not be delivering Dain as promised? He’d received no communications from Pernal in days, and he had not wanted to send news to the Netheran that Dain had escaped through the incompetency of his men.

Well, he couldn’t repine over it now. There must be something else the Netherans would accept in Dain’s place, he told himself. Perhaps the wagons of costly gifts would be enough.

Swinging his gaze away from the city, Gavril looked at Ognyoska. “Where are we to go? To the palace?”

The translator chattered between them. “No, no,” he said earnestly. “Not enough space for all in King Muncel’s court. Your highness will lodge in fine house.  All has been made ready for comfort.”

“House?” Gavril stiffened in affront. “Whose house? How dare you suggest that I take up residence in some ordinary dwelling? I—” Ognyoska spoke again in Netheran, his words coming rapid-fire. The translator blew his red nose and sniffed miserably.

“Your highness mistakes my words,” he said with a mendicant smile and a little bow from atop his donkey. “This is house of very fine personage. Very fine. Will be satisfactory much. It belongs to family of Count Mradvior and is grand indeed. You will see.”

Scowling, Gavril did not see why he should not stay in the palace or even reside with King Muncel in his stronghold at Belrad. However, when Ognyoska shouted orders they moved forward, following the road down into the city as twilight closed about them.

With wolves howling in the woods and nightfall making the cold bite even deeper, all Gavril could think about was getting indoors and finding fire and food.  Grov itself was an ominous place, however. As he drew near, Gavril felt the strangeness of the city reach out to him. Unease prickled along his spine and he rode with one hand clutching the hilt of his sword.

Since they’d entered Nether, he’d resumed carrying Tanengard, despite Noncire’s protests. Gavril felt as though a missing piece of him had been restored, making him whole again, for the sword was no longer silent. It muttered constantly in the back of his mind, a closer companion than even his protector.  Just now, the blade was glowing white inside its scabbard, which meant Nonkind lurked nearby. Dry-mouthed, he stared hard into every deep shadow and sat tense and alert in his saddle, certain that death was going to attack.  In silence, the townspeople pushed back to let them pass.  No cheers of greeting were raised, and yet the crowd—ominously quiet—grew ever larger as they passed. Hordes of beggars followed at their heels. With the grim-faced Netheran knights trotting at front and rear, and the church soldiers angry still at having these foreign nursemaids, as they called them, it was a solemn procession indeed that wended its way through the fetid streets.  Garbage and filth lay where it had been tossed. Starving mongrels scavenged what they could, snarling as they ran from the horsemen. Most of the buildings Gavril saw stood in disrepair. Some had been grand in the past but were now deserted.  Weeds grew up through broken steps and snow drifted in through open windows.  They crossed a fine square, paved in stone and surrounded by beautiful villas, but whatever statues had once stood on a trio of bases in the center had been pulled down and smashed to bits.

Gavril glanced back over his shoulder at Pheresa’s wagon and was glad the cloth canopy remained in place, not so much to shield her from the eyes of the curious as to keep her from seeing what a dreadful place he’d brought her to.  What have I done? he asked himself.

In the very heart of this dreadful city, he found himself riding at last through tall gates of intricately worked iron and entered a compound of ornate gardens, pools, and fountains blanketed with snow and ice.

The house itself was an immense structure that towered at least four stories overhead. Broad steps of pale stone jutted forth from its red-painted entrance, and mythical creatures carved from finest agate guarded either side.  Servants clad in livery came out to greet them with welcoming smiles and steaming flagons of hot drink. Distracted by the spiced and rather appealing brew, which warmed him from the first sip, Gavril saw Ognyoska’s knights close the iron gates just as the crowd surged forward. Now the peculiar silence was broken, and many people howled like wolves, reaching through the gates with imploring hands and crying out words Gavril did not understand.  Shouting, the guards drove the horde of people back with pikes, for it seemed they might break open the gates if left unchecked. Some even attempted to climb over, only to be knocked off by the guards.

It made no sense to Gavril, who turned his back on the sight and went inside, leaving the church soldiers to be directed to barracks in another wing of the compound. Stout men came forth to gently carry Lady Pheresa’s glass encasement up the steps, which had been swept clean of snow.

Warmth was Gavril’s first impression as he strode through the tall doors. The air was so comfortable he immediately felt overdressed in his gloves and heavy cloak. A long vestibule painted in garish colors of scarlet, black, and blue stretched before him, but he saw no hearth or burning fire. Puzzled at first and fearing the use of some magic, he soon realized the warmth was radiating from a tall construction of glazed tiles standing in one corner.  Unctuous servants ushered him forward into a spacious chamber of regal proportions. The ceiling, carved and gilded in a riot of creatures and floral motifs, soared high overhead.

Noncire, puffing in his fur-lined cloak, his long black traveling robes snow-soaked at the hem, waddled up beside Gavril and smiled in approval as he glanced around. “Very fine.”

Indeed, Gavril could find no fault with the soft carpets underfoot, the exotic woods which paneled the walls, or the marquetry and carving of the furniture.  More servants appeared like magic to anticipate his every wish. And so efficient were they that he felt instantly at home. His initial misgivings faded.  Lady Pheresa had been set down in the center of the room. Her serving woman hovered nearby, and Gavril strode over to check on his lady. Pulling back a corner of the blanket covering her encasement, he found her either asleep or unconscious; her skin was pasty white, with a light sheen of perspiration. He wanted to wake her and tell her the good news of their arrival, but just then the guardians filed in silently to surround her, and Gavril retreated from them.  Throwing off his cloak and gloves, he accepted another flagon of the spiced drink and stood near the tile stove to bask in its wonderful warmth. What a luxury to feel the frozen marrow in his bones thawing. For the first time since he’d left Savroix, he felt warm enough.

A gray-haired Netheran, clad in a velvet tunic trimmed with islean fur and a heavy gold chain studded with jewels, appeared and bowed deeply to Gavril.  “I am Lord Mradvior,” he announced in heavily accented Mandrian while Gavril’s brows rose in both astonishment and affront. “All is to your comfort, yes? All is to your liking?”

Gavril set down his flagon and turned his back on the man. leaving Noncire to quietly explain Mandrian protocol to him.

“Ah, yes,” Mradvior said. He smiled, but there was a flash of anger in his dark eyes. “I understand. But your highness is a guest in my house, by orders of our esteemed majesty the king. I will, I think, introduce myself as I please.” There was something slightly hostile in the man’s tone. Still annoyed by his presumption, Gavril turned around with the intention of ordering his men to usher Mradvior out.

Only, none of the guards in the room wore white surcoats. Aside from himself, Kress, Noncire, and the guardians, everyone else present was a stranger.  Alarmed, Gavril wondered what had become of his companions—his squires and minstrels, the royal physicians, the assistant priests, and most important, Lord Barthomew.

“Where are the church knights?” he asked sharply. “Kress! Where is Lord Barthomew?”

“Your knights have been shown to their quarters,” Mradvior said before Kress could reply. “There they will stay. Your highness has no need of armed men to protect him while he is the guest of our most excellent majesty.” Gavril felt uneasy. He realized he was deep inside a foreign kingdom, inside a strange and foreign city, now isolated from his own men and at the dubious mercy of his hosts. For the first time he understood his father’s fears and why Verence had been so reluctant to let him come here.  However, Gavril refused to let himself be rattled. Facing Count Mradvior with all the icy disdain he could summon, he said, “Your hospitality is most gracious. When will I see King Muncel?”

“Ah, very soon. Very soon. An audience has been arranged. His majesty is always pressed by the many demands of his high estate, but he, too, is anxious to meet.  In the meantime, I am to see to your every comfort. If you wish anything—” “Lady Pheresa,” Gavril cut in. “Her comfort is paramount. She has need, at this moment, of her physicians.”

“Of course. Her affliction is surely most curious.” As he spoke, Mradvior walked over to Pheresa and swept the blanket to the floor. He stared at her, his eyes gleaming. “Well, well, a beauty.”

“Stand away from her!” Gavril commanded furiously. “How dare you invade her privacy in such a way.”

Mradvior ignored his protest and walked around the circle of guardians, now and then tapping one of them on the shoulder. Gavril saw one of these men, Dain’s peculiar physician Sulein, twitch violently and sway where he knelt.  Alarm filled Gavril’s throat. He stepped forward with his hand outstretched.  “You must not distract the guardians, Count Mradvior. Her life depends on their complete concentration.”

“Really?” Mradvior’s thick brows shot up, and he smiled. “This is most fascinating. I will tell the king of these details. They will amuse him, I am sure.”

Gavril’s hands curled into fists. He could not believe this creature’s insolence. But without his men to put Mradvior out, Gavril could do little to silence him.

“The lady’s affliction,” Gavril said through his teeth, “is surely too tragic to afford amusement to anyone of civility and kindness.” Mradvior tossed back his head in a bellow of laughter so loud several of the guardians swayed. Gavril watched them in alarm, wondering how to get this idiot away from them.

“Ah, your highness,” Mradvior said at last, wiping his eyes. He laughed again.

“You will find that his majesty is neither civil nor kind.” “If you have any regard for the lady’s malady, please grant her some privacy and quiet,” Gavril said, resenting having to plead on her behalf. He’d never begged for anything in his life. “She needs her physicians at once. The journey has taken its toll on her.”

“Do you want her moved again?” Mradvior asked, looking surprised. “This chamber is surely good enough. It is warm and dry.”

“She requires a solitary chamber where no one will disturb her and the guardians,” Gavril said impatiently. “Please.”

Mradvior shrugged and issued a series of rapid orders in Netheran. Servants came to lift Pheresa’s encasement and carry her away, with the silent guardians filing out in her wake. Megala followed fearfully.

Noncire leaned over Gavril’s shoulder. “I am not sure this separation is wise, your highness,” he murmured into Gavril’s ear. “Perhaps it would have been better to keep her close by.”

Gavril glared at him. “Your advice comes too late.”

Noncire’s answer was cut off by Mradvior, who said, “There! She will be placed in my wife’s apartments. Perhaps she will amuse the ladies of my household, for they will be curious to see her style of hair and gown.” Dismay sank through Gavril. “I pray they will not disturb her. She needs her physicians, for she—” “My physician attends her now,” Mradvior said with a shrug. “It is enough.” Gavril shut his mouth on more protests. “Then I wish to bathe and dine.  Afterwards I will write letters. Have you messengers that will carry them for me? Or may I dispatch my own men?”

“All will be seen to, your highness.”

The evasive answer set Gavril’s teeth on edge. If he was a prisoner, he wished Mradvior would come out and say so openly.

“Please notify Cardinal Pernal of my arrival. As soon as possible, he must come to me.”

Mradvior’s smile faded. He pressed his palms together and sighed. “Regrettably, his eminence is away.”

“Where?”

“Far from here. He has gone on a long journey.”

“And when will he return?”

For some reason this question seemed to amuse Mradvior very much. “Not for a very long time.”

“But I have been exchanging letters with him,” Gavril protested. “We were engaged in negotiations for—” “Ah, yes, negotiations for the return of the pretender,” Mradvior broke in with a bow. “But I am informed by Commander Ognyoska that the pretender is not with you.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Gavril shot a look of blame at Noncire. “He escaped us.” “Pity.” Mradvior’s smile disappeared, and his dark eyes bored into Gavril with implacable force. “Ognyoska had orders to give the pretender a proper greeting at the border. His majesty will be . . . disappointed.”

An involuntary shiver ran up Gavril’s spine. “It could not be helped.” “Oh, you need not make your excuses to me, your highness. It is King Muncel you will be held accountable to.”

Anger flashed through Gavril. He tossed his head. “I am accountable to no one, Count Mradvior. As Heir to the Realm of Mandria, I—” “Oh, your highness is of very great importance,” Mradvior agreed. “Very great.  Yes, yes, this is understood.”

“Your highness,” Kress whispered hoarsely at Gavril’s shoulder. “This feels like a trap.”

Gavril was amazed it had taken Kress this long to grasp the obvious. Glaring at his protector, all he said was “Netheran manners are poor, but they do understand the rules of safe conduct and hospitality.” “Yes, yes! We do understand,” Mradvior said with a smile. “You will be treated very well during your stay here. Of course, how long you stay depends on many factors.”

“The health of the lady,” Gavril said sharply. “If she can be cured quickly, I hope to depart before—” Mradvior shook his head as though she were of no importance. “Not the lady, no.  You will stay as long as it takes King Verence to become generous.”

Stiffening with alarm, Gavril gripped his sword hilt. “What do you mean?” Mradvior gave him a sly grin. “Yes, yes, I think he will be anxious to see his son and only heir come home again. We Netherans are not fools, your highness.  When you give us such a ripe opportunity, how can we resist grabbing it?”

“Speak plainly, sir. Say what you mean!” But Mradvior only laughed.  “We had an agreement,” Gavril said angrily. “We came here under stated truce and a flag of pilgrimage to save the lady’s life.”

“Well, she’ll be a curiosity for the court, I am sure,” Mradvior said with a shrug. “Everyone is agog to see her. We have heard the rumors of her beauty.  This spell which keeps her alive is strange magic indeed, which the king wants to study.”

“Take me to King Muncel at once!” Gavril commanded.

“When it is time for your appointed audience, of course.”

“No! I demand to see him now.”

“When it is time for your appointed audience.”

Gavril muttered under his breath and strode for the door. The guards who stood in front of it, however, refused to budge. Gavril glared at them, trying hard to keep his dignity even as his heart started pounding.

“Let me pass!” he commanded.

“They do not obey your highness’s orders,” Mradvior said from behind him. “Your highness may have full run of my house, but your highness may not leave.” Gavril stiffened and turned back to face him. “Am I a prisoner here?”

Mradvior spread wide his hands with a shrug. “I prefer the word guest.”

“You cannot hold me. To do so is tantamount to a declaration of war.” “Yes, yes, of course,” Mradvior replied. “But since King Verence has refused agreement to the terms of the new treaty, Nether and Mandria are no longer friends.”

Gavril listened to this news and felt sick. Was this why his father wanted him to turn back? Why had his message not said so in plain explanation? But even worse, what had possessed Verence to be so stubborn at this delicate time?  “Still,” Mradvior was saying merrily, “what do the terms matter? You will bring a very fine ransom that will swell King Muncel’s treasury. Of course if your father does not act quickly, you cannot be released before the deep cold, and then I’m afraid it will be thaw-time before you can journey homeward. Do you think the lady will live that long?”

“Kress!” Gavril shouted, and sprang forward as he drew Tanengard. Behind him, he heard Kress draw steel. His protector took on some of the guards, who shouted in Netheran as they engaged in combat.

Gavril charged Mradvior, who carried no weapon other than a small dagger.  Although he wanted to run the villain through, Gavril intended to hold him at swordpoint and force a way to freedom.

Noncire called out a warning that Gavril ignored.

Just as he reached the count, however, an invisible force slammed into him.  Tanengard grew too heavy to hold, and as he went staggering back, he dropped the sword.

Across the room, Kress screamed in agony. Gavril looked over his shoulder in time to see one of the guards yanking his sword from the protector’s chest.  Blood spurted, and Kress crumpled to the floor.

Looking around wildly, Gavril found himself entirely on his own. He lunged toward Tanengard, but the invisible force struck him again, and knocked him away from the sword.

Fearful of this magic, he retreated a step and desperately tried to remember his Sebein training in how to properly channel Tanengard’s special powers. If he could just close his eyes and concentrate a moment, he would remember how to—

“In the name of Tomias, begone!” Noncire shouted sternly, and the memory shattered in Gavril’s mind.

Enraged, he turned on the cardinal. “This is no time for piety! How dare you interfere!”

“And how dare you risk your soul when your very life is in mortal danger?” the cardinal retorted. “Do not reach for that weapon in anger, your highness. I warn you most urgently. It will consume you as it did before.” Gavril opened his mouth to argue, but by then Mradvior had picked up Tanengard and was examining it with interest.

“A magicked blade,” he said, pursing his lips. “I thought Mandrians never carried them.”

“You thought wrong,” Gavril said proudly.

Noncire clutched his sleeve. “Have a care, highness.” Furious with him, Gavril shook off his grasp. He sprang at Mradvior again, intending to wrest Tanengard from his hand.

This time the invisible force walloped him so hard the world grew dim. Only his quick grab at a table kept him from falling.

Noncire gripped his shoulders to steady him. “Desist, I beg you! He is using magic and you will only do yourself harm.”

“I will not be made a fool by this blackguard!” As he straightened, Gavril tried to reach for his Circle, but it was inside his hauberk where he could not get at it.

Chuckling, Mradvior came forward and handed Tanengard to him hilt-first. “My master-at-arms would be interested to know where this weapon was forged. It has an unusual vibrancy in the blade. Does it not affect you? Some men go mad when they carry something flawed like this.”

As Gavril’s hand closed on the hilt, he felt Tanengard’s rage ignite from his own, and he was filled with an overwhelming urge to strike. With one blow, he could send Mradvior’s head rolling across the soft carpet.  “Gavril!” Noncire said urgently. “In the name of Tomias, take care! He wants you to act rashly.”

The prince bared his teeth, but he saw the taunting challenge in Mradvior’s dark eyes, and knew that Noncire’s warning was true.

Struggling to master his emotions, Gavril slid Tanengard into its scabbard. He could not fight spellcasting, no matter how much he might want to try. He must bide his time for the right moment, and then, by Thod, he would run Mradvior through.

Looking disappointed at his restraint, Mradvior beckoned to a wide-eyed servant.

“His highness looks fatigued. Conduct him and his eminence to their apartments.

Oh, and clean up this mess.”

Feeling hollow, Gavril walked past Kress’s body to follow the servant through a door and up a long flight of stairs to an elegant suite of rooms. Gavril hardly spared a look for his new surroundings. He seemed unable to concentrate. He had been tricked. He’d been made into a fool. First by Dain, and now . . .  “Highness,” the servant said, handing him what looked like a clear stone. “Speak aloud where you wish to go, and the stone will guide you.” “Great Tomias!” Gavril said in startlement. He dropped the stone, which bounced on the thick rug and rolled partway under a chair.

Clucking in distress, the servant retrieved it, seemed about to repeat his instructions, then bowed and carefully set the stone on a small table of inlaid wood. Bowing again, he backed out past Noncire, and vanished.  Gavril’s fear rushed up and over him like a gigantic wave. He shut his eyes, fighting the desire to scream aloud. “What in Thod’s name have we come to?” he whispered.

“We have come to betrayal and villainy,” Noncire said softly. Shrugging off his cloak, he looked at the ornate furnishings and heavy hangings. “Well, Gavril, your pride has brought you here. Since you refused to listen to anyone’s counsel except your own, you—” “Oh, end your recriminations,” Gavril said sharply, recovering from his momentary weakness. He began to pace back and forth. “I take no blame for this.  I came here in good faith. Is it my fault that I have been betrayed?”

“Yes.”

Gavril glared at him. “How dare you say so!”

“Why should I not tell the truth? I am equally a prisoner here, but no one will ransom me, I think.”

Gavril resumed pacing. Another wave of indignation swept over him. “We had Muncel’s assurance, his word!”

“This situation cannot be entirely unexpected,” Noncire said scornfully. “The risk has always been a factor. King Verence feared something like this—” “My father is the very reason we are now prisoners!” Gavril said furiously. “I blame him entirely for this.”

Noncire’s small black eyes turned stony with disappointment. “Of course you do.” “Why don’t you make yourself useful? Instead of casting blame, you can better serve me by finding a way to reach Cardinal Pernal and—what? Why do you shake your head at me?”

“Did your highness not understand Mradvior’s hints? Cardinal Pernal is surely dead.”

“You imagine things!” Gavril said with a sharp laugh of disbelief. “Why should he be dead?”

“Because in this realm, enemies of the king vanish, never to be seen again.” “Fie! We know Pernal to be Muncel’s chief spiritual adviser. He has been so for years. You can hardly label him one of Muncel’s enemies.” “If you wish to delude yourself, do so,” Noncire said with uncharacteristic asperity. “I think he is dead.”

“Then find someone else to aid us.”

Noncire’s fat face never changed expression. “I think it must be your highness who finds a way out of this predicament.”

“How so?”

“When you meet with King Muncel—”

“If I meet with him,” Gavril said glumly.

“I believe you shall. He will want to gloat over his catch, if nothing else.” Gavril ground his teeth together and abandoned this useless conversation. The fact of having been tricked made him boil. That Muncel dared betray him seemed inconceivable. Never in his life had Gavril met with more disrespect or insult than today. And yet, had his father not bungled the treaty with Nether, none of this would have happened. Gavril’s eyes narrowed. It seemed Verence wasn’t as concerned for his son’s welfare as he pretended. Well, let him pay a hefty ransom for their return. Perhaps that would teach him to be less careless with his treaties in the future.

“It is said that King Muncel has an uncertain temper,” Noncire was saying. “When you talk to him, take care that you do not arouse it.”

Gavril turned on him impatiently. “I do not require your counsel on this.”

“I think you do!” Noncire said sharply. “All our lives are at risk here.”

“He will not dare kill me,” Gavril said haughtily.

Noncire’s fat face turned red. It was one of the few times he had ever displayed his temper. “You might consider the safety of those you have brought here with you,” he said very quietly indeed.

Gavril shrugged. “Do not lose your nerve simply because Mradvior has wielded a bit of magic. Muncel and Mradvior know that if I am harmed, my father will send no ransom.”

“And your men are therefore expendable?” Noncire said in rebuke. “Like Lord Kress?”

“I cannot help the man now,” Gavril said in irritation. “What is the point of dwelling on his loss?”

“And Lady Pheresa?”

“Ah, yes. I must see that she gets the care she needs. You will work to negotiate our freedom.”

“With whom?”

Gavril shrugged. “You must have allies in the church here. Contact them.”

“And if I cannot?”

“Stop arguing with me, and do as you are told!” Gavril shouted. “I wish to Thod I’d never brought you along.”

“I wish to Thod I had not come.”

Hot, angry silence fell between them. Gavril looked at his former tutor with contempt. Although the man had once seemed to be so intelligent and clever, he’d proven himself both spineless and weak.

“You’re here at your own insistence,” he reminded the cardinal icily.  “Someone must protect your soul.” Noncire pointed at Tanengard. “Your blasphemy in carrying that vile weapon puts you in mortal danger.”