“Please—”
But he was tired of her criticism. “I am not Netheran-raised, Alexeika. Never will I react as you would probably wish me to. My actions are governed by many factors, some of which you know nothing about.”
“I know about them,” she said resentfully. “I know you put Lady Pheresa ahead of your own throne.”
That again, he thought. As though Alexeika were somehow jealous of Pheresa, whom she’d never met. The absurdity of it only fanned his anger more. “I see,” he said in a clipped voice. “You think that because King Kaxiniz spoke unkindly about the lady you may do the same. No doubt if you were fed adequately and had sufficient sleep, you would show more charity to a maiden who has done you no ill whatsoever.”
His angry gesture cut her off. “Let us put the lady’s misfortunes aside. She is dead by now and beyond my ability to save her.”
“Dead!” Alexeika looked shocked. “How know you this?” “Her guardians were among the prisoners in Sindeul, or have you forgotten? She and Prince Gavril were betrayed. The outcome is only too obvious.” Alexeika’s dark brows knotted, and her anger seemed to fade away. “I had not made the connection. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” he snapped. “Aye, perhaps. Until the next time you see fit to judge my actions. These jealous outbursts become you ill. Did your father teach you to behave so toward your liege and king?”
Her face turned pale. “No, sire,” she whispered.
“As for the Chalice, its welfare is more important than my throne. It is my duty to return it to Nether first, as I swore to my father I would.” She stared at him, white-faced and silent.
Annoyed that he had revealed his private promise to his father, Dain glared at her. “Yes, Princess Volvn,” he said with icy formality, “an oath sworn to Tobeszijian. A promise given. Do you understand that? Do you acknowledge the obligations a son must fulfill?”
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. He left her then, wishing he could stride out into the desert and work off his fury. Instead, he circled around behind the lean-to and settled himself there with an angry grunt. She’d provoked the stupid argument; he wondered how she liked the outcome.
But he could take neither pride nor satisfaction in having crushed her. Instead, he felt faintly ashamed of himself for having been so harsh, although that only annoyed him more. She needed to be taught a lesson, and that was an end to it. In the empty silence beneath the wind, he heard her crying, the sound muffled and private.
Feeling more guilty than ever, he scowled. That was the way of females, he thought with resentment. They provoked an argument, then cried when they lost. Well, damne, perhaps she’d learn to bide her tongue. She had no business jumping to conclusions the way she did.
Just before sunset, he awakened from uneasy slumber and sat up stiffly. His skin felt burned and raw. The inside of his mouth was so dry he could not spit. The prospect of riding through another night filled him with dread and an exhaustion so pervasive he did not think he could even stand up. But he forced himself to his feet. Alexeika was awake, and very subdued. She went to check the traps and came back with a shake of her head. In silence they shared another egg. Such a meager amount of food was so inadequate against his ravenous hunger he almost didn’t want to eat at all. But afterwards he felt strong enough to break camp.
Alexeika tucked their other two eggs away in her pockets while Dain gave more water to Thum. Both Dain and Alexeika drank as much as they could hold. Wishing he had some better means to transport water, Dain filled the bowl one last time and handed it to Alexeika to carry. Recalling the darsteed, which had tried to rub off its saddle during the day, Dain tightened the girths and lifted Thum onto its withers.
Alexeika stood nearby, stiff and almost at attention. Her right hand was white-knuckled on Severgard’s hilt. “Sire,” she said formally, “I wish to beg your forgiveness. I spoke wrongly to you today and deserved your ire. Please grant me your pardon.”
Wrath, resentment, shame, and deep unhappiness were all entangled in her voice. Dain realized she must have battled long and hard with her pride to make this apology.
He also realized that her fiery spirit was far from broken, and that in the future she would likely give him more trouble.
But did he really want to crush her spirit?
Though he felt regret for some of the things he’d said to her, he did not apologize in turn. Instead, he gave her a kingly nod. “It’s not the first time we’ve fought over this same matter,” he said sternly.
She bowed her head. “No. I took your majesty’s reprimand before, yet I did not learn my lesson.”
“You have not learned it now.”
Her head snapped up, but he did not let her reply. “You apologize because you think you should, not because your heart has changed. There will be more arguments in the future.”
“Sire, I—”
“Don’t promise something you can’t keep,” he said.
“But I—”
“Perhaps it is right that you do question me,” he said. His anger was gone; he was too weary to find it again. “I think every king should have a friend fearless enough to speak her mind. Even if she’s sometimes wrong.” Alexeika stared at him in astonishment. He returned the stare a moment, then smiled. She smiled back, and when he held out his hand to her, she clasped it readily.
He found her grip strong, her long fingers so different from Pheresa’s slender, delicate ones. But thinking of Pheresa only stirred up emotions of grief and rage at her fate. Frowning, Dain swept Pheresa from his mind and climbed into the saddle.
As soon as Alexeika got on behind him, he turned the darsteed westward and set it bounding along at a ground-eating pace. His bones ached. The saddle galled him, and he wondered if there would ever be an end to this desert wasteland. Even more worrisome was the lack of pursuit, for he knew the Chief Believer would not let him go this easily. He was the linchpin of the Gantese plan of domination. Somewhere, sometime, he knew, there must be a confrontation, or a trap. He told himself to stay alert, but weariness and aches kept dulling his senses.
Yet despite his pessimism, there had been no more attempted contact by magemons. They encountered no traps. No riders appeared on the horizon behind them. No shapeshifters flew overhead to mark their location. They faced nothing but the terrible landscape and the deprivations of inadequate food and water. The following daybreak, the air stayed cooler than it had before. Different scents came to Dain’s nostrils, faintly intriguing but elusive, gone before he could identify them. He stiffened in the saddle and leaned forward as the starlight overhead faded and the day steadily brightened. They had left the desert behind. The darsteed’s cloven hooves clinked now and then on dislodged pebbles. The terrain had changed, grown hilly and broken. A breeze picked up, stirred by the rising sun. It came from the west, blowing into Dain’s face. He turned his head and prodded Alexeika awake. “What?” she asked at once, reaching for her daggers. “I smell water,” he said. His heart leaped in hope, and for the first time he allowed himself to believe they were going to make it. “Alexeika, I smell water!”
“Another oasis?” she asked, rubbing her face with her hands. She yawned and stretched while the darsteed plodded steadily onward. “Nay.” Dain lifted his face to the breeze, his nostrils sorting through various scents, which were stronger now. “Trees. A lot of water.” He grinned in excitement. “I think it must be the Charva!”
At that moment the darsteed topped a rise, and there before them flowed the river of legend, rippling and rushing along between its rocky banks. On their side the hills dropped abruptly to a narrow beach of pebbles. The river ran glistening and shallow at the edge, so clear Dain could see the bottom pebbles. Here and there it foamed white over boulders in its course. Toward the center, the waters deepened to a swift channel.
On the other side, boulders lay strewn about as though a giant’s hand had thrown them in a dicing game. The bank itself was flatter, wider, stretching gradually back toward a forest of pines, where the ground gleamed white beneath them. Dain inhaled deeply of the pines’ clean, pungent scent, and shivered in the cool dawn air. He untied his hauberk from the saddle, slipped it on, and rebelted Truthseeker and his dagger around his waist.
The darsteed stood there atop the rise, surveying the landscape before it with uneasy snorts.
Alexeika chuckled. “It doesn’t like the water. Do we release it here?” Dain shook his head. “Not if I can force it across. I know not exactly where we are, or in what realm we’ll land on the other side.”
“Pray to Thod it’s not Klad,” she said. “I know little of that land, and nothing I’ve heard is promising to our cause.”
He smiled, his keen eyes surveying the forest. “Perhaps it’s Nold. I’ll know as soon as we’re across and I find clan markings.”
“Whatever it is, let us go there as fast as we can!”
He laughed with her, his weariness forgotten, and kicked the darsteed forward. The sun was climbing ever higher behind him. It did not feel as hot on his back as on previous days, and he rejoiced in that. Despite terrible odds, they had survived the Gantese desert. Perhaps there had been no pursuit because the population of Sindeul had perished in the erupting volcano. Dain knew not what had befallen the Believers, and he did not care. He and Alexeika were going home.
The darsteed flung up its narrow head and bugled. Thinking that it feared the water, Dain kept urging it forward. The darsteed fought him every step, slinging itself from side to side, then rearing.
Dain’s temper began to fray, and he lost patience with the animal. They were so close, yet the darsteed refused to enter the water.
“We’ll have to leave it behind,” Alexeika said breathlessly, clinging to Dain’s waist.
But Dain was determined to ride into Nether on a darsteed, determined to create a legend for himself no less than his father’s had been. “Come!” Alexeika urged him. “Let’s dismount and be done.”
“Nay! I’ll try one more time.”
He wrenched the darsteed around, but at that moment a terrible, putrid stench filled the air. It was so heavy and rotten it burned his nostrils and filled his mouth. Sick dismay sank his heart.
“Nonkind!” he shouted.
Alexeika was already drawing Severgard, which glowed as though on fire. “Great Olas, protect us now,” she prayed aloud.
They came pouring into sight from farther upriver, horses and darsteeds galloping across the rocky beach. As they came, sunlight glinted off the riders’ chain mail. The hurlhounds ran in front. Their baying chilled Dain to his very bones. Here, at last, was the ambush he’d feared all along. As the Believers came galloping at them, Dain drew Truthseeker and kicked the darsteed again toward the water. Although reaching the Charva was now their only hope, the darsteed fought every step, costing them more precious minutes. Dain couldn’t help but think, with a deep stab of frustration, that had the darsteed gone into the river the first time, they’d be halfway across by now and out of reach.
“Morde a day!” he shouted aloud to the beast. “You will go!”
“Get off!” Alexeika shouted. “Let’s leave the brute!”
“And what of Thum?” he asked, unwilling to give up. “Am I to fight with him on my back?”
“We’ll swim!” Alexeika said. “Never mind fighting.”
Baying came from Dain’s left, and he saw more Believers and hurlhounds stampeding their way from the opposite end of the rocky beach. They were cut off now on two sides, with the desert behind them. There was no choice but to enter the river.
Dain touched Truthseeker to his darsteed, and the beast squalled in pain. Furiously it galloped forward, splashing into knee-deep water. When it stopped again, rearing and striking the air with its forefeet, it was something crazed, and Dain no longer could control it.
Although the fire-knights on their darsteeds reined up at the water’s edge, the red-mailed Believers on horseback charged into the shallows without hesitation. Dain gripped Thum’s unconscious form and shoved him off into the water. It was the only place of safety for his helpless friend—unless Thum drowned, and even that would be better than recapture.
Dain twisted in the saddle as the hurlhounds reached them and shoved Alexeika off the darsteed too.
Yelling furiously, she hit the shallow water and floundered there, then jumped to her feet and brandished Severgard. “Are you mad?” she shouted. “What—” “Get Thum to safety!” he shouted back. “Swim for your life!” There wasn’t time to say more, for the hurlhounds came splashing into the water, only to yelp and leap back.
The Believers on horseback galloped up and surrounded Dain. He could have jumped off and tried to swim away too, but he thought if he held these men for a few minutes it would give Thum and Alexeika a better chance to escape. Shouting defiance, he swung Truthseeker in ferocious combat. But no matter how mighty his sword, he could not fight all his foes at once. Even as he stood up in his stirrups to strike off one man’s head, he was hit in the back with a blow that seemed to break his spine. All the air was driven from his lungs, and he reeled in the saddle.
Somehow, he managed to parry another blow which came at his unprotected head. He figured he should have been dead already, but then realized they were hitting him with the flat sides of their swords, seeking to stun him and take him prisoner rather than kill him.
The Chief Believer must still want him taken alive, Dain realized, and that helped him pull himself together. He fought harder than ever, determined never to be mastered or used for their evil purposes.
His darsteed fought too. It reared up and struck with its forefeet, slashing a horse’s shoulder to the bone. The animal fell, taking its rider into the water. More red-mailed Believers rode up to take the place of those who fell. Meanwhile, the obsidian-armored fire-knights and hurlhounds remained on the bank, watching, along with something dreadful. Dain sensed the evil presence of a soultaker nearby, waiting to consume him.
Savagely he fought. He did not know how many came against him, or how many he sent tumbling into the blood-churned water under the darsteed’s feet. Then his mount bolted, nearly unseating him, and Dain realized it was heading back to the bank, all but maddened by its partial immersion in running water. If it left the river, he knew, he would be doomed. With all his strength he wrenched the creature around, the darsteed rearing and fighting him all the way. A blow smote his shoulder, rendering his whole arm numb. He did not know how he managed to retain his grip on Truthseeker, for he could not feel his fingers, much less command them. Unable to lift his sword and gritting his teeth against the pain, he pressed Truthseeker to the darsteed’s rump and commanded it with his mind at the same time.
Crazed with agony, the animal bounded past the circle of attackers and jumped into the deeper water, where the swift-moving current made it stagger. One of the Believers forced his horse to follow and swung at Dain from behind. Glimpsing him from the corner of his eye, Dain twisted in a weak effort to parry the blow. But as he did so, the floundering darsteed lost its footing in the current.
The water swept it over, and Dain went plunging with it beneath the surface, hopelessly tangled in the stirrups.
The darsteed flailed, legs churning, while Dain struggled to get free. He hardly knew which way was up. His lungs were bursting with the clawing, desperate need for air. Yet no matter how he kicked and jerked in an effort to free his feet and get away from the darsteed, he could not seem to make it. A force caught him, and he tumbled upward. Breaking the surface briefly, he gulped in air before he was dragged down and away. He realized vaguely that it was the current, sweeping him and the darsteed together into deeper and deeper waters.
Alexeika meant to consign Thum to the mercy of the gods and make a stand with Faldain, but as she jumped to the side to avoid one of the riders rushing at her king, she stepped into a hole and fell. The current grabbed her, and suddenly she was struggling to stay afloat. Her chain mail dragged her under the surface before she was able to kick her way back up. Gulping air and water, she managed to slide Severgard into its scabbard, thus freeing both hands to swim, but her mail and the heavy sword weighed her down so much she could barely keep her head above water.
Behind her, she heard the shouting and clanging swords of battle. Her heart was screaming, for she knew Faldain could not prevail against so many. With all her strength she tried to swim back to him, but the current was too strong for her. Although she was an excellent swimmer, the deep still waters of the northern fjords were nothing like this river, which swept and tumbled her relentlessly along. She realized that if she were to survive, she had to keep swimming, keep angling against the current in an effort to reach the opposite shore. As she struggled along, she was swept into a pile of logs caught against some boulders. The impact shook her bones, but she was able to clutch one of the water-slick logs and hang on for a few minutes, long enough to catch her breath and cough some of the water from her lungs.
Shoving her dripping hair out of her face, she stared upriver, but she’d been carried too far away around a bend. She could not see Faldain, and no longer heard the battle sounds, for the rushing water was too loud. She clung there, her hands slipping periodically, and her face twisted with wrenching grief for all their shattered hopes. Angrily she struck the water with one hand, struck it again and again and again before she stopped and began to sob.
At that moment a body came bobbing past her, and her heart lurched before she saw the red mail and realized that it was a Believer.
“Go to perdition!” she shouted, then lost her handhold and slid back into the water.
The rest, however brief, had revived her strength a bit. Although the strong current still swept her along, she renewed her struggles to keep swimming despite being seriously hampered by boots and clothing. No matter how much Severgard pulled her down, she refused to throw it away. She would drown with it rather than lose it now.
She collided with another body, this one feebly trying to swim and keep its head above water. Furiously she gripped the man with one hand while she drew her dagger.
But just before she struck, she recognized the dark red hair and realized this man wore no mail. Her fury faded in an instant.
“Thum!” she cried out, aghast at what she’d nearly done. She pulled him close, got her arm around him, then kicked with all her might as she struck out for the bank.
Eventually, when she thought her arms would fall off at the shoulder from sheer exhaustion, she reached shallow water. Her feet touched bottom, slipping as the pebbles and mollusk shells rolled treacherously beneath her. Staggering, she emerged from the river, pulling Thum along with the last dregs of her strength. A slim, brown-furred weasyn, startled by her appearance, retreated from the water’s edge with a fish in its mouth, and dashed into the forest. She stumbled and fell to her hands and knees in the water, crying with grief and fatigue, but after a moment she forced herself up and pulled Thum completely out of the water and laid him down gently on the pebble-strewn bank. It was a miracle that he still lived, she mused, then decided that Mandrians must be tougher than they looked. As she knelt over him and pumped the water from his lungs, his hazel-green eyes flickered open momentarily. “Dain?” he whispered.
Grief overcame Alexeika. She stopped working on him and sat down with her knees drawn up tight within the circle of her arms. She was dripping wet; her clothing was plastered to her body, making her shiver in the crisp early morning air. In sudden fury, she hurled a stone, then another and another until she started sobbing.
The sunlight grew brighter. Birds were singing in the forest behind her. She’d not heard birds the entire time they were in Gant. Yet now that she was back in a normal place, it somehow didn’t matter. Nothing did, for Faldain was lost forever.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She remembered how he’d shoved her into the water, then turned to face the enemy closing in around him. She’d seen no fear on his handsome face, only courage and determination as he put her safety ahead of his own. He was a natural-born champion, a king to his very fingertips. Yet, what good were his courage and valor now? He’d saved her and Thum but lost himself—and Nether—forever.
“You brave, stubborn fool!” she whispered.
During their days together in the desert, riding at his back with a proximity that made her entrails melt, she’d grown sensitive to his every mood, his every change of expression. When he’d stripped to the waist, revealing powerful muscles and thews, she’d had to busy herself to hide her trembling. During the hot days, she’d often lain awake just so she could watch him sleep, imprinting every detail of his face on her memory.
But no matter how handsome he was, his inner qualities were even finer, for he was kindhearted, gentle, and compassionate. Of course, he had many faults as well. He could be prickly and defensive, seeing criticism too often in remarks that were meant kindly. There could not be a more stubborn man alive. He kept too much to himself, which caused misunderstandings. Yet there was such generosity in him, such a concern for and awareness of the plight of others. Not once had he lost patience with his injured friend Thum or contemplated abandoning him in the wasteland. Even when he’d lost his temper with Alexeika, he’d seen that she drank her fill of water and taken care to share their meager food equally. He’d even given eggs to that hideous darsteed, as though taking pity on it.
Alexeika knew she was wrong to feel jealous of the maiden he’d loved. She’d tried every means she could think of to gain his attention, from demonstrating her skills at swordplay to unbraiding her hair to picking arguments with him. She believed that had she ever managed to win his heart, he would have been as faithful and loyal to her as he’d been to poor Lady Pheresa. How Alexeika craved such devotion and wished that for a single day she could have known it. What a king he would have made, this handsome, stalwart, brave, loyal, generous Faldain.
And because she’d been jealous and petty, she’d ensured his doom. Slowly Alexeika reached for the cord that hung about her neck beneath her hauberk. She pulled out the Ring of Solder, which she’d picked up the day it fell from dead Sulein’s hand. Now, holding it aloft so that the large milky stone shone in the sunlight, she faced her guilt and shame. Had she given this to Faldain immediately, he could have recovered the Chalice, perhaps even saved the maiden he loved. He would be free today, maybe already united with his army. He would not be a prisoner of the Gantese, would not at this moment be enduring the horror of losing his soul. Even as she sat here, mourning him, he was being turned into Nonkind, doomed to serve Ashnod’s bidding forever.
It was all her fault. She, who had been raised from birth to serve Faldain’s cause, had instead destroyed him.
She lowered her head to her knees, and wept with all her heart. A faint noise startled her from her misery. Fighting back her tears, Alexeika felt a wild stab of hope that Faldain had somehow escaped the Believers and survived unharmed.
She looked up swiftly, but it was not her young king who stood nearby, but instead a band of perhaps twenty dwarves. Shaggy of beard and dressed in coarsely woven clothing as drab as the forest colors of stone, moss, and bark, they stared at her in hostile silence with bows and war clubs in their hands. Dismayed, Alexeika realized her troubles were far from over. Perhaps justice intended her to meet her end at the hands of these strangers, but she dismissed the thought quickly. She tucked the Ring of Solder out of sight, knowing it was her duty to return to Nether with it. She needed to determine how it could be used to withstand Gant’s attack against her homeland. She might even have to use it against Faldain’s soulless shell.
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, but she put aside her grief and tried to think of how to handle this newest kind of trouble.
Some of the dwarf clans were civilized and peaceful; they traded with men of other lands and worked hard for the gold they hoarded in their burrows. Others were wild—almost feral—and warlike. They raided loot to live on and dealt peaceably with no one except members of their own clan. She did not know much about dwarves, but she very much feared she was facing the latter kind.
Slowly, trying to make no sudden moves that the dwarves might misconstrue, Alexeika rose to her feet and forced herself to hold out her hands empty of weapons.
Even that peaceful move alarmed them. Several drew their bows and aimed arrows at her. The rest stiffened, glaring at her with more menace than ever. She knew almost nothing of the dwarf tongue; there were too many confusing dialects. “Peace,” she said awkwardly. “Peace to you.” The dwarves stared at her as though they did not understand. No other words came to her, and in frustration she spoke in Netheran. “I mean you no harm.”
One of them shot an arrow at her. It struck the ground just short of her foot, and Alexeika flinched. Her heart thudded against her rib cage, and suddenly she found it hard to breathe. Still, she knew she must not let fear master her if she was to survive.
“Peace!” she said again. “I have no quarrel with you.” “Gant!” one of the dwarves shouted at her. His yellow eyes glared from beneath bushy brows, and his brown beard was atangle with twigs and bits of leaves. Nearly rigid with contempt and hatred, he jabbed his finger at her. “Gant!”
“I just escaped from there,” she said. “I and my . . .”
Her voice trailed off, for the dwarf was still pointing at her in plain loathing. Glancing down at herself, she realized it must be her red chain mail that had upset them. Comprehension filled her. Of course. They obviously thought her a Believer.
“You don’t understand,” she said, although she wasn’t sure how she was going to explain. “I’m not—” An arrow whizzed past her face, missing her by such a close margin she felt the fletchings brush her cheek.
The spokesman shouted at her, gesturing in emphasis, but she could not understand what he was saying. Aware that at any moment they were likely to shoot an arrow through her throat, Alexeika pulled Severgard from its scabbard and held it up.
Several raised their war clubs in response, but when she made no effort to attack they hesitated.
Glaring at them, she raised Severgard higher so that they could all see it. Its huge sapphire glittered in the sunlight, and the blade gleamed. “Look at it!” she said. “A magicked blade, my ancestral sword, and dwarf-forged. It was mined from the Mountains of the Gods.”
They understood that much, for some of them murmured and exchanged swift looks. “Its name is Severgard. Do you know it? Was it made by an ancestor of your clan?”
They stared at her, but no one answered.
“Severgard!” she repeated. “Magicked and forged to fight Nonkind. No Believer from Gant could hold such a weapon.”
“Gant!” the spokesman said angrily. “Gant!”
“Nay!” she shouted back. “I am Netheran! I took this armor from a foe I defeated. It is my war trophy. Do you understand? I am not Gantese. Nor is he!” She pointed Severgard at Thum. “He’s Mandrian. Netheran and Mandrian, not Gantese.”
“Nether,” the dwarf said slowly. His yellow eyes assessed the weapon she held.
“Nether.”
“Yes! I am from Nether.” She bared her teeth at him. “No fangs, see? I am from Nether.”
He looked at her teeth without coming closer, then pointed toward the forest. She stared at him a moment, but he stamped his feet and pointed with angry jabs, indicating that she should go in that direction. She slowly slid Severgard back into its scabbard, then bent over Thum in an effort to rouse him. Dwarves surrounded her, and some pushed her hands away. They picked Thum up, draped his thin length across their shoulders, and marched away with him. More dwarves crowded behind Alexeika, prodding her forward. She fought down her panicky feelings, assuring herself that all she needed was a way to communicate with them. If they could be made to understand that she was not Gantese, she did not think they would harm her. Even now, as she followed her captors into the forest of sweet-smelling pines, her feet silent on the fallen needles, she felt heartened because they had not sought to disarm her. She was not a prisoner yet. She must keep her wits about her, and not let fear overcome her good sense. They walked deep into the forest. The pines grew thicker together, and were interspersed occasionally with stands of shtac and harlberries. Some of the latter bushes still had fruit clinging stubbornly to their branches. She grabbed what she could, but found the berries frost-burned and shriveled to tasteless knots. She ate them anyway, for she was nearly light-headed with hunger. Sometimes they had to push their way through the fragrant pine boughs in order to keep to the trail. Now and then a fallen log lay across it, but they climbed over it rather than go around. The dwarves seemed oddly loath to leave the trail. She wondered why.
Ahead she heard a drum pounding. Its steady, primitive sound filled her with unease. Now and then through spaces in the trees, she glimpsed a cleared expanse of white ground where no forest grew. She could not clearly see what it was, but she did not think it snow.
At midday, they reached a large clearing in the pines and an enormous dwarf camp. Countless tents were pitched very close together. On the far side of the clearing, a stand of thick-trunked oaks of tremendous age stood clumped together, bare-branched and massive against a backdrop of dark green pines. An ancient stone altar covered with small bronze offering bowls stood beneath the oaks.
A rope pen held a collection of short, shaggy ponies and donkeys. A grizzled oldster with his beard plaited in several sections sat on a stump, busily carving an ash quarterstaff with the faces of wood spirits while children watched him. There were wagons and carts holding peddler wares. Dwarves of all ages milled around. Some wore coarse linsey; others were garbed in furs and looked as wild as the Dark Forest they undoubtedly came from. Makeshift forges stood side by side in rows, and the air smelled of both heated metal and cooking. A young female dwarf emerged from a hole in the ground next to the surface roots of a large tree. After shaking the soil from her hair, she went running toward the crowd.
Startled, Alexeika realized the old tree must hold a burrow. She looked at it again in amazement, wondering what else its massive girth contained. Such an air of excitement pervaded the camp that Alexeika’s arrival was largely ignored. Laughter punctuated the chatter, and folk called out shrilly to each other, beckoning. Some went running to join the throng congregated around a blazing bonfire.
Halted by her escort, Alexeika waited while one of the dwarves hurried off and the others crowded close around her.
The drum was pounding louder than ever. Alexeika’s head started pounding with it, and she was ready to sink to the ground in weariness when she heard a bugling snort.
Her head whipped around, and she stared at the spot where the crowd was clustered most thickly. Her heart was thudding. She told herself she was mistaken, but then the darsteed’s head lifted into sight, its red eyes aglow. Staring, she felt her throat choke with a hope she dared not admit even to herself.
It couldn’t be, she told herself.
The Believers had outnumbered Faldain too greatly for him to escape. The darsteed’s presence here meant only that it had been abandoned when Faldain was captured. Somehow it must have crossed the river, only to be captured by these dwarves.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
She stretched on tiptoe, trying to see. “Faldain!” she shouted. “King Faldain!” Her captors gawked at her. People in the crowd fell quiet. Many turned to look at her, and as they did, the crowd parted between her and the darsteed. And there stood Faldain with his hauberk half-laced and a darkening bruise on his cheek. He held a stone jar of ointment in his hand, and had apparently been smearing the stuff on the darsteed where large patches of its black, scaly hide were peeling off.
He smiled at Alexeika, smiled with such warmth and obvious pleasure she felt it all the way across camp.
With a wordless cry, she went running to him. Her head was roaring. She could not feel the ground. All she could see was Faldain’s face, his smile. And with every step she thought joyously, He is alive. He is alive.
She did not know how he’d escaped the Believers. At the moment she did not care. His being here seemed like a complete miracle to her. Either he had more luck than any man alive, or the gods themselves were guarding his safety. Each time she believed him lost, he reappeared somehow.
But then she stumbled and came to a halt, breathless and afraid. The gods were giving her a second chance, but how could she confess now what she’d concealed and kept from him? He would hate her for it.
Faldain thrust his rag and jar of ointment into someone’s hands, and beckoned to her. Sunlight shone into the clearing, bathing him in such brightness his chain mail glinted with every move he made. His black hair brushed his shoulders, and his pale gray eyes held all the future. He looked tall and hale and magnificent. She dropped to her knees before him, and bowed her head.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “I thought your majesty lost.” “Nay,” he said, and his voice rang out deep and assured in the sudden hush about them. “I was able to get into deep water and thus escaped.” He made it sound so easy. Alexeika looked at the bruise on his face and knew it had not been.
The dwarves were watching avidly, nudging each other and whispering. Her yellow-eyed captor caught up with her and said something in the dwarf tongue. Faldain replied fluently.
“Gant!” the dwarf said, pointing at her vehemently.
Faldain shook his head and explained. As he spoke, Alexeika slowly rose to her feet. She was shivering in her wet clothing and breathing hard in an effort to control herself.
All her emotions seemed to be overwhelming her at once. To be angry at him, then to think him lost, then to find him safe . . . it was too much. The Ring pressed against her skin, concealed beneath her clothing like a badge of guilt. She realized she must give it to him, must tell him everything. And yet, if she did he would dismiss her from his service, for how could he ever trust her again? Although she knew she deserved such punishment, she could not bear to be driven from him now, not when she’d found him again. His hand gripped her shoulder, startling her. “What’s amiss?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”
“Nay, sire. I’m well.”
But her voice quavered through her answer, fooling him not. She tried to pull back, but his fingers tightened with painful strength.
“Thank you for saving Thum’s life,” he said. “Maug tells me you did not let him drown, and I owe you much for—” This time she did twist away from his touch, by rising to her feet. “Your majesty owes me nothing!” she said too vehemently. Then she made the mistake of meeting his gaze, and sudden tears filled her eyes. She was appalled by her weakness, yet there seemed to be nothing she could do about it. “Forgive me, sire,” she mumbled, pressing her hand to her face. “I thought . . .
I was sure . . .” She could not go on.
Faldain took her hand, too brown and callused to be a lady’s, and squeezed it in reassurance. He even brushed a wayward strand of hair from her face. He was so close she felt overwhelmed by his physical proximity. His kind concern shone in his eyes, and seeing it, she wept all the more.
For it was not his kindness she wanted as her body had craved water in the desert; it was his love.
“All is well now,” he said gently. “Be at peace, my lady. These are dwarves of the Nega Clan. They will help us.”
She sniffed, and nodded, but could not stop her tears.
Faldain stepped away from her and beckoned to two dwarf females in long tunics. Broad-faced, with large, perceptive eyes and hair the matted texture of moss, they came shyly forward. Faldain spoke rapidly to them in dwarf before turning back to her. “Go with these women, Alexeika. I have told them you are unwell. They will see that you’re fed and are given a quiet place to rest.” She was horribly embarrassed by her weakness. She’d tried so hard to be as strong as any warrior, and now she’d broken down. “I’m sorry, sire,” she whispered, wiping at her tears. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” he said in concern. “Get some rest. When you are well again, we’ll talk of our next strategy.”
The women led her away to a tent that smelled of soil and moss. Tiny glowstones cast faint illumination in its shadowy interior. While one pulled off Alexeika’s boots, the other brought her food and drink. Ravenous, Alexeika wolfed it down without heed for the unfamiliar spices and flavorings. They brought her a pail of water for washing, and dry clothes, then discreetly withdrew, lowering the flap behind them.
Alexeika found herself intensely grateful for the solitude. Aware that it was her exhaustion which had left her so vulnerable, she wept some more, then lay down to sleep.
It was not an easy slumber, for she dreamed of battles and blood. She dreamed of her father, striding along the battlefield in search of his soul, a soul she’d released. She ran after him, crying out, “I’m sorry, Papa! I’m sorry!” But he ignored her, pacing back and forth in a desperate search. “I must have my soul back!” he said. “I was not ready to die.”
When at last she awoke, twilight had cast murky shadows in her tent, and the little glowstones shone more brightly. The air felt cold. Finding a comb, Alexeika used it, then washed the dried sticky tears from her face. Her eyes felt puffy and sore. She was hungry again, and finally ventured outside her tent.
A youth with square shoulders and short, bandy legs had obviously been waiting for her to appear. Giving her a shy smile, he beckoned for her to follow and escorted her across camp to a large fire where many were seated on the ground, eating roasted stag and jabbering nonstop.
Several in the company fell silent when she appeared, and eyed her with wary unease, but in anticipation of such a reaction Alexeika had removed her red mail hauberk and wore only her tunic and leggings, with her weapons belted around her lean middle. The dwarves made room for her, and soon the talk picked up again. Faldain found her there soon after, sitting cross-legged on the cold ground and shivering a bit in the crisp night air while she gnawed on a meaty bone. At the sound of his voice, she tossed her food aside and scrambled hastily to her feet.
“Forgive me for my unseemly display earlier, sire,” she said, stammering a little in mortification. “I don’t know what came over me.” He sent her a peculiar look. “Did your father force you to act like a son?”
His odd question surprised her. She frowned. “What? Nay, sire. Why?” “It’s just that you seem to hold yourself to a warrior’s standard of conduct rather than a lady’s.”
Heat rushed up into her face, and she was mortified anew. “I—I just find it easier to fight if I hold myself—” “Alexeika,” he broke in gently, giving her a faint smile. “I do not criticize you. I just want you to know that you need not apologize for acting womanly today.”
“For weeping like a gutless fool,” she said bitterly.
He laughed at that. “You’re far from gutless. Come. Put aside your dark mood and walk with me.”
Happiness flared to life instantly inside her. Smiling back, she accompanied him to the edge of the clearing, well away from the others. “ ‘Tis their annual fair,” Dain explained. “Cousins meet cousins. Family is reunited with family. Daughters see their parents again. ‘Tis a special occasion for them. They have contests of skill at the forges and do much celebrating.” “Oh.”
“Tomorrow they will begin conducting the worship ceremonies. Youths will be initiated into adulthood. Marriages will be performed.” She gazed at his profile, telling herself to find her courage now and give him the Ring. Instead she asked, “What is it your majesty wants to talk over with me?”
He pointed into the darkness. “Out there lies the Field of Skulls.”
She gasped, and everything else fled her mind. “Thod’s mercy, but it can’t be.
That’s a legend, nothing more.”
He gazed at her intently, his face half in shadow. “So even in Nether you have heard of it.”
“Aye, of course, but it’s just a tale, not reality.”
“It exists,” Faldain said grimly. “I have known about it all my life. Jorb, my dwarf guardian, told Thia and me many stories of the terrible battles that were fought in antiquity on that ground.”
Thinking of the old legends she’d heard as a child, Alexeika felt chilled. “It’s no place for men to walk,” she whispered.
“Yet I must walk there,” Faldain said. “Tonight.”
“Why?” As soon as the question was out of her mouth, she grimaced and shook her head. “Forgive me, sire. I do not mean to question you.” “Of course you do,” he said, but tolerantly. “Now come, and tell me how it is too dangerous and how I must not risk myself there.” He was teasing, but she remained serious as she answered: “If it’s really the Field of Skulls, so many died on it that nothing grows there to this day. So many bones lie on the field that the ground is still white with them. It’s supposed to still be laced with potent powers and spells. It is not safe.” “I know that, Alexeika.”
“And still you are curious.”
He snorted. “I’m no amulet hunter. My purpose is not to gawk and marvel.” A sense of dread seized her, and she reached out to him, though she dared not touch his arm. “Why must you go there? Why take the risk of disturbing the ghosts of long-dead warriors? It is no place for men.” “Alexeika, be quiet,” he said in rebuke. “I go there to seek my father.”
Astonished, she stared at him in silence.
“I have learned that the potency which lingers on the Field can still enhance anyone’s powers. For that reason I believe I can summon Tobeszijian to me.” Shivering, she stared at Faldain in awe. “You could raise the ghosts of a thousand slain warriors with a summoning. Do you truly dare it?” He screwed up his face in worry. “It is not as though I have never seen him in visions. But since I left Mandria he has not come to me. There is much I need to ask him, Alexeika.”
“This is a terrible risk. What if you summon things you cannot withstand?” He shrugged. “Truthseeker will guard me. Alexeika, there is a favor I seek from you.”
“Yes?”
“As a sorcerelle—”
“Nay!” she said vehemently. “I am not!”
“But ‘twas you who summoned me, long ago, in a spell.” She gasped, guilt and embarrassment flying through her. “Sire, I—I was foolish then. I hardly knew what I was doing. I could have harmed you.” “But you did not. Why did you seek me?”
She averted her face in shame. “I didn’t. I mean, I wanted our priest to summon a vision of you to encourage the people after my father’s terrible defeat, but Uzfan wouldn’t do it.”
“And so you did it instead. Why does this not surprise me?” “Not by intention,” she explained, wishing the ground would swallow her. “I was grieving for my father, and I wanted to see him so, I tried to summon him. You came instead. My gift goes awry. No matter what I seek to do with it, something else happens. Something unexpected.”
“Still, you are the only sorcerelle available to me.”
“I’m not! Having a trace of eldin blood in my veins does not make me such a creature.”
“You have more power than you will admit.”
She frowned. “Uzfan said I could not be trained. I cannot control my gift as you do yours.”
“Eldin females are always more adept than malefolk,” he persisted. “Go forth with me, Alexeika, and part the veils of seeing. Show me Lady Pheresa, and whether she yet lives or lies dead.”
Alexeika felt as though a pail of icy water had been dashed over her.
Stiffening, she stood there and could not speak.
He gave her a strange look. “Must I plead with you?”
Rage burned her heart. How could he ask her to do such a thing for him?
Desperately she sought an excuse, any excuse, to refuse. “Sire, I—I cannot!”
“Of course you can.”
“No,” she said, retreating from him. “I tell you, I cannot. Please!” “Nonsense!” he snapped. “Is it only when you have a blade in your hand that you know courage?”
That hurt. Breathing hard, she whirled to leave him, but he seized her arm and held her fast.
“Nay, my warrior-maid,” he said fiercely. “I must know her fate.”
“You said all her guardians had been taken from her. You said she was dead.” “I believe she is,” he replied raggedly. “But Cardo, the clan leader here, has heard that armies are massing on the Netheran border.” Her head snapped up. “Truly?”
“Aye. Now is the time for quick action, yet I will not proceed blindly. If she’s alive, by some slim chance, she could be used as a pawn in negotiations, ransomed, threatened as a hostage, anything. I must know the truth with absolute certainty.”
Alexeika nodded, forcing herself to calm down and listen. “Aye,” she agreed reluctantly. “The usurper is not above using any tactic to his advantage. He has so little honor that he would even threaten a sick woman.” “Well?” Faldain demanded. “Will you part the veils?”
“And if my seeing goes awry?”
He gestured impatiently. “I’ve told you, the power lying across the Field of Skulls enhances every gift. Why should you fail?”
Because I love you too much, and I hate her more, Alexeika thought. Again she told herself to give him the Ring of Solder and flee, but she could not do it. Her will was too weak, her feelings too strong. She would do anything, sacrifice her own honor, to stay with him as long as she could. It shamed her, but even shame could not help her do the right thing.
“Alexeika! Damne, must I beg you?” he cried, then grimaced and made a gesture of apology. “Nay. I will not force you to do this. I ask it as a favor. But tell me now if you will do it or not.”
She felt both cold and on fire. The lie kept spreading around her, and she could not break its hold now, for it had gone on too long, had grown too strong to rectify. But how was she to answer his request? Even if she did part the veils, what would her jealousy and secrets wring from the seeing? She was terrified to find out, yet to refuse him anything seemed beyond her ability. He had asked for her help, and her love would not let her say no.
“Aye, sire,” she said woodenly, “I’ll do it.”
“Good!” Laughing, he clapped his hands together. “Run and fetch your cloak.”
“Now?” she asked, appalled. “But is this the most propitious time?” “We must act without delay,” he said. “As soon as the dwarves go to their rest tonight, we’ll venture forth.”
Part Four
They were coming again.
Propped up limply in the tall-backed chair like a child’s rag doll waiting for its owner to return, Pheresa heard the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching. Closer they came.
Closer.
She tried to rouse herself, tried to force herself to sit up straight, to receive them with dignity, but she could not move. Her limbs were leaden, lifeless. Her heart beat sluggishly inside her breast, and she could barely blink her eyes.
She sat in a long, empty gallery. On one side were a series of tall windows overlooking the snowy vista. Along the opposite wall were floor-to-ceiling mirrors, evidence of incredible past wealth, although many were now cracked and broken, begrimed, and fly-spotted. A few globes of king’s glass hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Originally there must have been many such globes, but now their empty chains dangled. Long ago, someone had attempted to bind the remaining globes in protective cloth, but it had rotted away except for a few tattered strips.
Sometimes she dreamed of what this gallery had once looked like, with so much shining glass reflecting the candlelight while courtiers danced and made merry. Now it was a place of ghosts and broken dreams, eerie with shadows and cobwebs, with only rats dancing in the dead of night.
Megala, her serving woman, had vanished without explanation, and Pheresa feared the worst. A deaf-mute caretaker, terribly disfigured, and afraid of her, came limping in twice a day to build a meager fire in the tiled stove and to bring trays of food. Sometimes Gavril appeared to eat; often, however, he forgot and simply went on wandering aimlessly about the palace, prowling and talking to himself. If he did not come, there was no one to feed Pheresa. Unable to move more than her fingertips, unable to grasp a bowl of thin, greasy soup, much less lift it to her lips, she sometimes had to sit there with the food tantalizingly close yet impossible to reach. Hours would pass while the soup congealed and the bread grew stale. If the bold rats ate it in front of her, she would cry, averting her eyes and holding back her screams.
She knew instinctively that if she ever broke, if she ever let herself utter those internal screams, she would never stop.
The only brightness to her dreary days was when the potion was brought to her by Master Vlana, a court physician. Sometimes Count Mradvior came along. He would chat with her after the potion’s effects took hold and she regained enough strength to converse. But on the days when the magician, the creature called a sorcerel, came to observe her condition, Pheresa’s fear left her trembling and silent. She could barely bring herself to meet Tulvak Sahm’s peculiar eyes, lest he enspell her. He always smelled of mysterious spices and something bitterly pungent. Ashes powdered his clothing, and when he bent over her to tap her fingernails or to peer into her eyes, his breath reeked of sulfur. At the far end of the gallery, the door swung open. She heard the low murmur of voices and knew they were coming now to give her a new dose of the potion that kept her alive. Anticipation leaped inside her, yet at the same time she raged at her helplessness. What good was life of this kind, a half-life of immobility and dependence, chained perpetually to whatever degree of care and mercy these cruel individuals chose to give her?
What fools she and Gavril had been to come here. How naive, young, and trusting they’d been to believe the Netherans possessed either honor or compassion. Gavril had brought them right into a trap, despite all the warnings, and then he’d been so shocked, so surprised when their flag of pilgrimage was violated. His reaction had made Pheresa, once she regained consciousness and understood the whole situation, reevaluate her opinion of him. Although previously she’d deplored his careless indifference, his arrogance, his conceit, his occasional cruelty, she’d never doubted his intelligence or courage. However, since reviving in this ruined palace and finding herself a prisoner, Pheresa had lost all confidence in him. At times he looked lost and afraid. Other times he boasted of bold plans to escape, plans which were ludicrous and impossible. She believed he had gone mad, and some days as she sat here in this chair, unable to move while he paced up and down the battered floor, his once-fine velvet doublet soiled, his golden hair uncombed, his dark blue eyes gleaming feverishly, she wondered why she did not go mad as well.
Count Mradvior’s arrival ended her reverie. He walked up to her, then smiled and gave her a courtly bow. Of them all, she found him the least objectionable. Although he was not a kind man, he was at least civil. She understood that civility was a form of respect, and was grateful for it, but she never forgot that he was her enemy, one of her jailers.
There was no point in attempting to gain his sympathies. Today, he gave her a searching look, frowned, and stepped aside for Master Vlana. Pheresa shifted her eyes so that she could watch the count gaze at her tray of untouched food. He wandered away, out of her range of sight, but she knew he would go to the opposite end of the room and feel the stove, which had grown cold. The deaf-mute had not come this morning, and Pheresa was nearly frozen.
“Bones of Tomias,” Mradvior said in annoyance, striding back to them. “I can see my breath in here. Where is the fire? Where is that wretched half-wit?” Clucking and mumbling to himself, Vlana stirred up the potion in a brass cup and pulled her erect, holding her firmly by the back of her skull while he put the cup to her lips.
She sipped weakly, shuddering at the bitter taste. It was so foul she thought she might spew it back up, but it always stayed down, lying queasily in her stomach for a few minutes until its effects spread renewed strength through her body.
When she finished the last swallow, she sighed and let her eyelids close for a moment. It was easier to breathe now. When she could curl her stiff fingers in her lap, she opened her eyes.
Everything looked brighter, more in focus. She could feel her mind sharpen, and she wanted to weep for having lost all in her young existence except this tiny fraction of life. She wished now that she’d spent her days at Savroix more gaily. Instead of hiding in her room and trying to keep both her dignity and reputation intact, she wished she’d gone to all the dances, flirted in the gardens, and banqueted like a glutton. She’d missed so much, and now . . . and now . . .
“Here, my lady, why do you weep?” Mradvior asked, standing by her chair. “This is a momentous day. Yes, yes, momentous.”
“She must have some food,” the physician murmured, gesturing at one of his minions. “And warmth. She is far too cold.”
Pheresa let them fuss over her while she kept her gaze on Mradvior. His dark eyes were snapping with excitement, and she did not trust him. “Well?” he asked her. “Will you not question me about the surprise I bring? Are you not curious?”
Impatience tightened inside her, but she held back the retort she wanted to make. The count always enjoyed these little games. Despising him, she said, “Of course I am curious.”
He beamed, apparently satisfied with her answer. “Ah, then I will tell you. Look here what I have brought.”
As he spoke he snapped his fingers at a page, and the boy brought forward a sword that Pheresa recognized with an unpleasant jolt. “Tanengard!” she said in revulsion.
“A good surprise for his highness, eh?” Mradvior said, beaming from ear to ear.
“Ah, yes, I think he will be very happy. Where is he?” Thinking that Gavril’s madness would only be intensified by the return of this evil sword, Pheresa gave her head a minute shake. “Somewhere, exploring.” Mradvior glanced at the page. “Find his highness and bring him here at once. We have little time to make him ready.”
“For what?” Pheresa asked, then hope filled her. “Has the ransom come?”
“No,” Mradvior replied flatly. “Today you will amuse the court.”
“I don’t understand.”
But he didn’t explain, for at that moment Gavril came striding in, haughty and defiant. “Mradvior!” he said in displeasure. “How dare you summon me like some lackey. I was—” The count held out the sword, and Gavril stopped in mid-sentence. His blue eyes widened, and a smile slowly spread across his face.
“Tanengard!”
Clutching the weapon, he spun away and hurried over to the nearest window, where he examined every inch of it. As his fingers stroked the blade, he made little cooing sounds in his throat.
Feeling pity mingled with disgust, Pheresa shifted her gaze back to Mradvior.
“What do you intend to do with us?” she asked.
His broad smile did not reach his dark eyes. “You will see. Look at this fine gown I have brought as a gift. Also, a lap robe of the softest fur. And here, jewels to make a lady’s eyes sparkle.”
As he spoke he tossed the necklace in her lap. She worked her fingers slowly until she was able to draw the chain and its bright sapphires into her hand. The color was too garish, the weight of the jewels too light.
She frowned. “Colored glass. Fakes!”
But Mradvior had strode over to cajole Gavril and paid her no heed. A group of servants came in. Some took Gavril away to don new clothes. The rest surrounded Pheresa. Handling her as though she were a life-sized doll, they peeled off her cheap gown and arrayed her in finery of heavy crimson silk. Once the color had been richly breathtaking, but it was now sun-faded to a pale coral. Pheresa saw the ripped seams that were pinned deftly to look mended. She even saw the bloodstains on the skirt that a maid folded out of sight. Revulsion shivered through her. Who would save the clothing of a long-dead corpse? These people were mad.
The gown was too large for her, but the servants tucked and pinned it at the back and propped Pheresa up in her chair. Jeweled slippers were placed on her pale, slender feet, with rags stuffed into the toes to make them fit. The cheap, gaudy necklace was fastened about her throat.
Gavril returned, beaming in good humor and looking handsome in an old-fashioned tunic of rich green and a jaunty fur cap. Swaggering about with Tanengard on his hip, he flicked Pheresa’s cheek with his fingertip while servants positioned a chair for him next to hers.
Seating himself, Gavril smiled as the servants unrolled a dusty red carpet across the battered floor. A dingy piece of needlework in a hoop was placed in Pheresa’s lap. She glared at it, wishing she could fling it across the room. His head cocked, Mradvior studied them before ordering the servants to add more props to the tableau he was creating.
Angered by the indignity of this situation, Pheresa turned her head fractionally to the side. “Gavril,” she said with all the sharpness she possessed, “what is this about?”
“Why, my lady, at last we’re to be paid the respect due us,” Gavril said pleasantly. He smiled at her with a charm that once would have melted her heart. “The Netheran court comes to visit us today. Is this not a pretty reception we’re going to provide? Over there will be refreshments. I asked Mradvior for musicians, but he said they will come later.”