“Aye, your highness. Weak and doing poorly, but—”

He strode out of the room, with Megala trotting at his heels. When they’d first arrived in this terrible place, Mradvior’s wife had stolen Pheresa’s ball gown, for apparently it was dyed a shade of blue impossible to obtain in Nether.  Thereafter, they’d ignored her, for she gave them little amusement.  Presently Pheresa was installed in a tiny chamber hardly large enough to hold her encasement and the guardians. Sometimes her room was heated; sometimes it was not. More guardians had collapsed, until now she had only six to hold the spell together. Gavril could not believe Pheresa remained alive. Her survival had seemed tenuous enough when there’d been thirteen guardians, let alone less than half that number.

Now, as he hurried into her tiny, poorly lit chamber, he hoped that she was finally dying. She’d suffered long enough, and the Netherans weren’t going to help her. Why should she not at last have the relief of death?  At first, Gavril had considered it both noble and tragic to have his betrothed stricken this way. The spells, the encasement, and the trappings necessary to preserve her life had lent the situation a certain dignity, as had the dangerous quest to save her. She remained beautiful, and her helpless vulnerability rendered her appealing to him. During their journey, Gavril had felt proud of himself for taking such good care of her. In return, she’d shown him gratitude, and he’d felt sure that once she was cured, she would become a dutiful, compliant wife.

But the quest had ended in failure, and Pheresa wasn’t going to be saved.  Instead, she was dying slowly and terribly. He gazed at her now where she lay within a dim circle of candle-light. She wore a dingy white gown of cheap cloth, plain of embellishment and so poorly constructed that one of the sleeves was noticeably shorter than the other. Her thick reddish-gold hair lay matted to her skull like dull straw, and her eyes were deeply sunk into their sockets.  A dark cloud settled over his spirits, and he bowed his head, feeling a tangle of resentment, self-pity, and deep unhappiness. It was one thing to undertake a difficult endeavor with shining confidence and every hope of success; it was quite another to stand among the ruins of failure and despair.  The shining glass encasement had grown dusty and scratched. There was something tawdry about it all—the plainness of the dying girl, her cheap gown, the stink of a sickroom, the desperate exhaustion so obvious in the few remaining guardians kneeling around her.

Feeling repulsed, Gavril lifted his head and took a step back from her. For this, he had risked his life. For this, he now was kept prisoner in this vile place. He turned to leave, but at that moment Pheresa opened dull, unfocused eyes.

Gavril could barely stand to look at her pale face and wasting form. In that moment he despised her for what she’d become as much as for what she’d brought him to.

“Gavril.” Her voice was the merest whisper, and she struggled to smile. “Sweet prince, you are still with me.”

Still chained to you, he thought, and averted his face without reply.  “Don’t weep for me,” she said. “My dearest prince, how good you are. I didn’t think you loved me at first. Now I know that you care deeply. You’ve done so much for me. Thank you, my love.”

Overwhelmed with revulsion and embarrassment, Gavril felt as though he’d been swept by fire. Her words made her even more pathetic, and he was filled with the urge to turn on her viciously, to say how he hated her, how she’d put him in the gravest danger, how he wished he’d never known her. He felt like shattering the encasement and stabbing her through the heart. Even then, he decided contemptuously, she would probably think him a hero for releasing her from this misery.

Somehow, he restrained his wild urges and even forced himself to meet her gaze.

“Pheresa,” he said unsteadily, and stopped. He could think of nothing to say.  “Don’t blame yourself,” she whispered. Her brown eyes gazed up at him with tenderness. “You tried your very best. I love you for that. My last prayers will be for you.”

As her voice drifted off, her eyes fell closed. Choking, Gavril retreated from her while Megala hurried forward to tend her mistress.  “Is she . . . dead?” he asked hoarsely, gripping his sword hilt while Tanengard chanted Death, death, death, death in his mind. “Nay, your highness,” Megala replied. “The sweet lady sleeps again. But her fever burns strong today. The physicians have not come to her recently. Where are they? Can nothing be done to ease her suffering?”

Gavril envisioned endless months imprisoned here, trapped by the guards, trapped by the terrible cold and snow outside, trapped by this maiden who would not die.  His brain felt as though ants were crawling inside it. He wanted to scream, and then to laugh. Above all, he wanted to draw Tanengard and behead each of the remaining guardians. Then Pheresa would die. And then . . . he would still be a prisoner. “Your highness?”

Gavril shot Megala a wild look, then whirled around and fled the room. He collared the first servant he encountered. “Your master. I want him at once!” The servant looked bewildered. “Count wants you,” he replied in his thick Netheran accent. “I come to bring you.”

A little surprised, for he hadn’t spoken to the count in days, Gavril followed the servant to the sumptuous chamber where he’d first met Mradvior. It seemed to be the count’s favorite room. When Gavril arrived, the count was sitting near the warm tiled stove, sipping spiced wine from a jewel-encrusted cup and munching on toasted nuts.

He grinned at Gavril and raised his cup in greeting. “Your highness!” he said

merrily. “I have a surprise for you. Tonight begins the festival of lights. It

is a great favorite here in Grov. I shall take you in a sleigh down to the river

if you give your word not to—”

“I want to see the king,” Gavril said angrily.

“Yes, yes, it takes time. But the festival is really—”

“A plague on your festival! I want to see the king! I demand to see him.” Tossing more nuts in his mouth, Mradvior shrugged. “Why? Your royal father will pay your ransom. Be patient, and enjoy yourself. Enjoy Netheran hospitality.” “No, thank you,” Gavril snapped. “I have asked repeatedly for audience with King Muncel. What is necessary to achieve it? Bribes? Promises of—” “No, no, no.” Mradvior grew serious. “You are fine prince, fine young man. I like you. And so I will give you advice. Is good the king has not sent for you.” He pointed at Gavril. “You do not ever tell him I say this to you, eh?”

Gavril shrugged. “I want to see him. Now, with no more delay.”

“Why?”

Gavril’s anger swelled inside him. “That is no concern of yours.”

“If you have question, or request, ask me. I will find out answer.”

“No,” Gavril said through his teeth. “I want to speak to the king myself.”

“Is not good for you to do this,” Mradvior insisted.

“Morde a day!” Gavril screamed, losing his temper completely. He drew Tanengard and used it to smash a small table to pieces.

Mradvior jumped to his feet, dropping his fancy cup and scattering the toasted nuts over the floor. His protector came running, but Gavril turned aside from the count and started pacing back and forth. “I want to see the king!” he shouted, still brandishing his sword. “Make it so, Lord Mradvior, and do it now!”

“As you command,” Mradvior said warily. “So will I inquire.”

“Insist, damn you! Don’t inquire!”

Bowing repeatedly, Mradvior backed away from him and beckoned to two of his guards. “Watch his highness,” he said in a low voice. “Do not let him destroy more furniture.”

Overhearing, Gavril snorted to himself with bleak amusement and kept pacing back and forth. It pleased him to hold Tanengard in his hands, pleased him to swing it about and attack imaginary foes.

After a long while, one of Mradvior’s minions came for him, followed by a servant carrying Gavril’s cloak and gloves. Smiling, Gavril put them on and followed the man outside.

Snow was falling, and the air felt damp and bitterly cold. Shivering beneath his heavy cloak, Gavril climbed into the horse-drawn sleigh next to Mradvior and allowed servants to spread a heavy robe of beyar fur across his lap. Mounted guards, snow collecting in the folds of their fur hats, surrounded the sleigh.  An order was given, and the sleigh went racing toward the tall gates, which swung open at their approach. The gliding smoothness of the sleigh amazed Gavril. It was far more comfortable than a wagon.

The mounted guards stayed close, pressing on all sides, so that it was impossible to see anything of the streets or the city.

Mradvior’s dark mustache turned white with snow. He sat tensely, looking neither right nor left. A large basin of salt was balanced on his lap, and in his hand he clutched a long dagger. He seemed unwilling to talk to Gavril.  The prince wondered what Mradvior was afraid of, yet the count seemed unwilling to talk. At last they passed through a set of tall gates and wound through a wood up a short hill to a castle fortress. An entire army seemed to be camped on the grounds. Gantese marched by, and in the distance Gavril heard an animal bugle loudly.

He jumped, his heart thudding in his chest. “A shapeshifter?” he gasped out.

“Darsteed,” Mradvior told him without expression. “Foul creatures.” In its scabbard, Tanengard glowed white. Gripping the hilt for courage, Gavril saw a black, scaly monster that looked like a dog—but that was much larger, and horrible—go padding around the corner of a tent. His mouth went dry, and his grip tightened.

“That—that beast,” he said breathlessly.

“Hmm? I didn’t see it.”

“ ‘Twas vile,” Gavril said. “Like a—” He stopped, unable to go on.

Mradvior stared at him. “Haven’t you seen Nonkind before?” “Of course I have! I—” Gavril thought of the shapeshifter, a horrifying, shrieking, winged creature that had clawed him with its talons. He still bore deep scars on his legs, still remembered his terror, still recalled how his gold Circle had not deflected the monster’s attack.

Suddenly the bowl of salt that Mradvior held made perfect sense. Staring at it, Gavril swallowed hard.

“Have you any salt in your pockets?” Mradvior asked him, proffering the bowl.

“Take some.”

Gavril frowned, affronted as always by the man’s familiarity, and turned his head away. “No, thank you.”

“Take some. Is best to be prepared.”

“Nothing would dare attack me,” Gavril said, and heard the hollow bravado in his voice. “Certainly not in the presence of your king.”

“If you want to think so. But is never good, to be in presence of king.”

Gavril ignored him.

The sleigh crossed a moat and drawbridge into what seemed more like a cave than a fortress. They passed through a long, rough-hewn tunnel, the runners scraping noisily over paving stones, before they eventually emerged in a cramped courtyard surrounded by towering walls.

Here, the sleigh stopped. Gavril and Mradvior climbed out. The guards dismounted and flanked them on either side as they walked up a set of massive stone steps to enter the fortress through a set of tall, thick doors studded with nails.  Contrary to Gavril’s expectations, there was no heat inside. Nor was there much light. He found himself squinting against a pervasive gloom, for only now and then could there be found a burning torch in a wall sconce. The walls were black with grime and smoke, the floors filthy with matted rushes, worn and rat-chewed carpets, bits of bone, and trash. Servants and officials lurked in corners and behind stone pillars, breaking off conversations as Gavril and Mradvior passed.  They climbed a flight of steps into a gallery of long chambers, where one opened directly into another. Again, there were no windows, only a few arrow slits cut high up into the walls. Snow drifted through these openings, and icy drafts whipped through the rooms.

Fur- and velvet-clad courtiers huddled in small clusters. Some were dicing or playing assorted games next to charcoal braziers. Others plinked mournful tunes on lutes and zithrens. And a few talked and drank, passing dishes of little morsels from one to another.

They stared at Gavril openly, making no attempt to mask their curiosity. He walked with his chin held high, annoyed by having to come here under close guard, without his entourage, his heralds, his banners, or the usual fanfare. He was mortified by such treatment, yet with his gloves held elegantly in one hand and the other resting on his sword hilt, he swaggered along like the prince he was, staring back at the curious with all the hauteur he possessed.  He wore a fur-lined doublet of pale blue velvet today, tied with lacings of silver. His snowy, immaculate linen showed at the throat. His leggings and boots were made of supple leather, and his sword belt was chased with silver. His bracelet of royalty glinted gold on his wrist, and his dark blue eyes glowed with defiance and contempt for this ragged, ill-mannered court.  They came at last to a closed door, guarded by knights who held pikes across it.

An official shivering in a woolen cloak lurked there.

Mradvior spoke very softly to him, and the official shot Gavril a wide-eyed look before slipping past the guards into the chamber.

“The king waits in yon room?” Gavril asked.

Mradvior bowed and nodded. He seemed nervous.

Gavril turned around and began to pace back and forth. “I will not be kept waiting like this. Let whomever his majesty is receiving be sent out, that I may enter.”

As though someone had overheard him, the guards stepped aside and the door swung open. Young pages—pallid, scrawny boys with frightened eyes—hurried out, crying, “Make way! Make way!”

Mradvior drew a sharp breath and jumped aside. As he did so he gripped Gavril’s sleeve to pull him out of the way. “Unhand me!” Gavril said. “How dare you!” The count shot him a look of warning. “Be quiet, be quiet,” he whispered, glancing past Gavril and bowing low. “Call no attention to yourself.” Puzzled, Gavril swung back just as a litter of carved and gilded wood was carried out by eight sweating bearers. Cushioned with scarlet, purple, and gold silk and adorned with long tassels that swung and bobbed, the litter contained a creature such as Gavril could not even have imagined. It might have been a man .  . . once. But its skin was charred to a black, leathery texture from the top of its knobby, hairless skull all the way to the elongated, bare feet protruding from the hem of its silk robes. Its hands were strangely shaped, very narrow with fingers of unusual length. Each digit ended in a long, black talon that looked needle-sharp. A stink of sulfur and brimstone hung about this apparition.  Draped on its neck was a collar studded with enormous rubies that glowed blood red.

Gavril’s jaw dropped and, ignoring Mradvior’s surreptitious tug at the hem of his doublet, he stared openly. The creature lifted its gaze to his and stared back. It had a man’s eyes, distinctly human no matter what the rest of him looked like.

No word was spoken between them. Gavril barely drew breath. He could make no sound. Inside, his heart was hammering as though he’d run a long distance.  Certain he was gazing on the god of darkness itself, Gavril fumbled inside his doublet for his gold Circle and clutched it hard.

The creature went on its way, and Gavril saw three other vile things emerge from the chamber in its wake. Huge and moon-faced, they stank of carrion. As they shambled past him, Gavril felt a nameless unease coil about his entrails.  As soon as they were gone, he struggled to draw a deep breath. He felt light-headed and strange. He wished he’d never come to this Thodforsaken place.  “What—what—” He could not seem to force the words past his lips.  “Those were magemons,” Mradvior said. “Taken away, it looks to be. The king will be angry.” “What are magemons?”

“Gantese magicians. Very powerful. Yes, yes, makers of very powerful magic. Very dangerous. Sorcerel work alone, but magemons cast their spells in teams. Very strong.” Mradvior frowned. “Is against Writ to have them here. The king dares much.”

Feeling as though he’d been struck, Gavril stared at the count and found nothing to say.

Mradvior scuttled away, beckoning to the official, who had now reappeared. The two put their heads together and consulted in whispers.  Gavril turned and stared down the gallery at the departing magemons and the burned creature. Forbidden, blasphemous purveyors of magic . . . everything that was wrong and unholy. To even see such as they was to be defiled. And Muncel openly consorted with such unspeakable evil. It was amazing, Gavril thought in shock, that Thod had not struck the king down for the evil he did.  “Best to go,” Mradvior said, returning. “Best to come another day.” “Certainly not,” Gavril said with a huff. “I will not be brushed off like a mere courtier. How dare you suggest it.”

“Is better to be gone when king is angry, your highness,” Mradvior said.  Disdaining the man’s cowardice, Gavril stepped past the count. “Announce me,” he said to the official hovering at the doorway.

The man only stared at him with bulging eyes. From inside the king’s chamber came a howl of temper, followed by a shattering crash.  Blanching, the official retreated.

“Come away, your highness,” Mradvior called softly. “Is not a good time.” Ignoring him, Gavril walked unannounced into the king’s chamber, where he saw a cluster of wary-eyed courtiers on one side of a large, sparsely furnished room.  Pacing back and forth before a heavily carved throne was a black-haired man garbed in a long velvet tunic trimmed with ermine at cuffs and hem. A half-grown lyng, wearing a studded collar and tethered by a chain, lay near the throne, idly switching its tail and watching the proceedings through slitted, feral eyes. Servants were crouched on their knees, foreheads touching the floor. An overturned table lay in the midst of broken glass. Wine spread in a large puddle from the mess.

Those who noticed Gavril’s entrance ignored him. The king—busy pacing and gesticulating—paid Gavril no heed either.

“This meddling goes too far, Tulvak Sahm,” he said furiously to a tall, foreign-looking man clad in long robes and a peaked hat. “I will not submit to it!”

“Your majesty has no choice . . . at present,” the man replied in a quiet, singsong voice.

Although they were speaking in Netheran, Gavril understood what they were saying. Since childhood, he’d been thoroughly versed in the languages of all Mandria’s allies. That did not mean, however, that he would deign to speak anything but his own language.

Short of shouting to bring attention to himself, there was nothing to do but wait. Gavril glanced around. As an audience chamber, this room was half the size of Savroix’s. Paneled with wood painted in gaudy colors and lit with torches, it held no fine art at all. A tiled stove checkered in colors of bright blue and red radiated the first heat Gavril had felt since entering this appalling fortress. An enormous mobile of king’s glass, cut into rectangular prisms, quivered and danced in the air, singing softly as it refracted light.  “A plague on Gant!” the king shouted. “A plague on the Chief Believer and the minion he has sent to interfere with me! I will not stand for such interference.”