Surely that is a fate dire enough for any—”

“The rabble will make a martyr of him,” Muncel said. “It will cause more unrest.”

“But the pretender will still be dead,” Tulvak Sahm murmured.  Gavril’s wandering attention suddenly focused on what they were saying. The “pretender” they referred to could only be Dain, pagan fiend that he was.  “So your majesty’s men have captured the upstart,” Gavril said loudly, daring to interrupt the king’s conversation despite Mradvior’s hiss of warning. He walked forward, clapping his hands together. “Well done.”

A knight clad in a mail hauberk and fur-trimmed surcoat stepped into Gavril’s path. “Halt!”

Gavril struck a disdainful pose, but obeyed. Angered to be treated like some oaf, he told himself these Netherans clearly had no understanding of the proper deference due a prince of royal blood.

“Again, your majesty, I say well done,” he called out in Mandrian. “ ‘Twas my intention to bring Faldain to you in chains as a gift, but, alas, he escaped my men through vile trickery.”

Muncel stared at Gavril in astonishment. Far from a handsome man, at this close range the king looked even less well-favored. Lines of dissipation were grooved around his eyes and mouth, and his mouth was pinched together. His deep-set brown eyes held chronic dissatisfaction. Gray streaked his black hair and beard, making him look older than he probably was. Stooped and perhaps shortsighted, he lacked the aura of noble majesty which rested so impressively on Verence’s broad shoulders.

“Who is this?” he asked.

Belatedly the official at the door announced, “Your majesty, the Prince of Mandria!”

Gavril stood proudly with his head held high, pleased to be the center of attention at last. “I am Prince Gavril of Mandria,” he said, giving the correct form of his title. “Heir to the Realm.”

Pointing at him, Muncel laughed. “So, Mradvior! You have brought the little cock to me, eh? How he does crow and strut.”

Some of the courtiers present joined in the king’s derisive laughter.  Heat flooded Gavril’s face and burned the tips of his ears, but calling on all his willpower, he managed to keep his temper. “I thank your majesty for granting me this audience.”

Muncel’s laughter died. He swung around to the tall, odd-looking man standing beside him. “Eh?” he said sharply. “What does he say?” The man translated.

“I have been a guest in your majesty’s fair city for many days now,” Gavril continued, pausing occasionally to allow translation. “It is time your majesty and I had a discussion. I want—” “Has the ransom come?” Muncel broke in.

“Nay, your majesty,” replied a courtier with a deep bow. “King Verence has sent no reply to your majesty’s demands.”

Muncel leaned forward, peering at the man who spoke. “Nothing?”

“Not a single word.”

Muncel’s face turned purple. He swung around and glared at Gavril. “That southern dog! I hold his son and heir, and still he defies me. Gant meddles.  Mandria ignores me. What is next? War?”

“If your majesty will hear me,” Gavril said impatiently.

Muncel gestured angrily. “Get rid of him.”

When the protector shoved Gavril back, the prince’s temper snapped and he drew Tanengard. “How dare you touch me!” he shouted.

Even as the courtiers called out in alarm, the protector drew his weapon and attacked. Gavril parried, expecting his magicked sword to easily vanquish this opponent. But everything seemed to go wrong at once. The protector had the strength of three men. He overpowered Gavril and knocked Tanengard from his hands in the first exchange of blows.

Before he knew what was happening, Gavril found himself flat on the floor with the protector’s sword at his throat.

Dazed by how fast it had happened, Gavril dared not move. His heart was pounding, and to his shame he was afraid that he would die here and now.  “Desist!” Tulvak Sahm called out. “Majesty, he should not be harmed . . . at least not until his ransom is paid.”

“It will be paid!” Gavril said through his teeth. “And to the last dreit. That, I swear!”

“What?” Muncel asked Tulvak Sahm. “He says it will be paid?”

“Yes, majesty. He swears it.”

Stooping, Muncel peered down at Gavril. His eyes were like stone. They held no humanity, compassion, or mercy. Gavril reflected that the burned creature who’d ridden out of here on that fancy litter had eyes more human than Muncel’s. Here, he thought with a shudder, is true evil.

Tulvak Sahm picked up Tanengard and examined the weapon with interest. “A magicked blade, majesty,” he said, sounding amused. “Poorly made. Shall I let your majesty hear its song?”

“No,” Gavril whispered, agonized with jealousy. No one was supposed to hear Tanengard except himself. It was his and his alone.

“There are spells and lures woven through the metal,” Tulvak Sahm said, letting his fingertips brush the blade lightly. “Look at him, majesty. He’s caught fast like a moth in a spider’s web. See how much he hates it that I hold his sword?” Muncel barely glanced at Tanengard. “The workmanship is terrible. Break it.” “No!” Gavril cried out before he could stop himself. With his last remnants of pride, he barely kept himself from pleading.

“And do I release him from its spell first?” Tulvak Sahm asked, tilting his head to one side. His strange, slanted eyes regarded Gavril coldly. “He will go mad if he is not released before it is destroyed.”

Muncel walked over to his throne and sat down. He looked petulant and bored. “I care not.”

“It is best, majesty, to keep him in good health until he is ransomed. Verence may demand verification of his well-being before he pays.” “Verence is a lying dog!” Muncel said harshly. “And full of trickery. Clearly he cares nothing for this boy. He must have other sons.” “He does not!” Gavril declared hotly.

The Netherans exchanged speculative glances, and Gavril realized it would have been wiser to keep quiet. Swallowing hard, he burned with humiliation.  “Is this how you treat your equals?” he asked, feeling he had nothing left to lose. “This discourtesy, these constant insults . . . they ill-become a monarch.  But then, you are only a king by theft and treachery.”

Muncel jumped to his feet. “Get him out! Get him out!” The protector grabbed Gavril by the front of his doublet and shoved him from the chamber with such force that he fell sprawling on the floor. Gavril heard the door slam shut behind him, cutting off the babble and noise inside.  Seething, he picked himself up slowly, glad he’d delivered some insults of his own. Really, Muncel was nothing but an arrogant monster, a ruffian, a usurper, nothing more.

Mradvior hurried to help Gavril up. “Come, come,” he said in haste. “We go. We must hurry.”

“You are not to touch me!” Gavril roared at him.

But Mradvior gripped his sleeve anyway. “We go now. You have made the king more angry than before. Is not good to stay here.”

Planting his feet, Gavril wrenched his arm free. “I’ll go nowhere without my sword!” he shouted. “They are not to break it. Not to dishonor me like this.