“But—”

“Leave her be, sire. I vow that soon enough she’ll be herself again. The less you fuss over her, the quicker she’ll be the Alexeika we know.” Dain frowned. “ ‘Tis strange advice.”

“Well, I do have sisters.”

“So did I,” Dain reminded him. “Thia never acted this way.”

“Oh? But your sister was eldin.”

“Alexeika has some eldin blood,” Dain said.

“Not as much as—”

“Hush! She’s coming.”

Alexeika returned wearing the hauberk, which fit her perfectly. She walked with her head high and her shoulders erect. Her face was now perfectly composed, and only some redness in her eyes betrayed the fact that she had indeed been crying.  Dain eyed her warily, but she seemed all right now. She rolled up her red hauberk into a bundle, stuck it under her arm, and put her cloak back on. Her new spurs jingled faintly with every step.

“Thank you, sire,” she said in a clear, calm voice. “Your majesty has been most kind in granting me this honor. I vow to serve you with—with less argument.” He smiled, and she gave him a wan smile in return.

When he beckoned to the dwarf boys, they came, though with obvious reluctance.

“A woman?” they asked in disbelief. “You make a warrior of a woman?” “Look at the sword and daggers she carries. See how her hair is braided. She is a very brave fighter.”

“Cannot be so,” one of the boys scoffed.

“Give her the blessing just the same.”

But the two boys exchanged looks and ran off without a backward glance.  Sighing, Dain gave Alexeika an apologetic shrug. “I will speak the dwarf blessing myself.”

She held up her hand. “Please don’t. ‘Tis unnecessary. Your gesture and gifts are generous enough.”

“Alexeika, what is wrong?”

Her brows lifted, and he felt the lie even before she spoke it. “Nothing, sire.

Will you give us the order now to saddle up?”

He still did not know what had gone awry, or why this had upset her. But if she did not choose to tell him, he was not going to force her. “Aye,” he said with a sigh. “Let us be gone. We have a hard journey ahead of us. By Maug’s reckoning, we’ve at least a week’s travel to cut through the forest and reach the border.  Then we’ll have to find the Agyas.”

Alexeika blinked, and in an instant the clear-thinking, cool-headed warrior he knew and valued was back. “We’ll find them,” she said. “As soon as we reach the border we’ll be able to send a messenger to them.”

He snorted dubiously. “A Netheran we can trust?”

“Horse thieves make the best couriers,” she said with a grin. “Give them enough gold, and they’ll do anything to bring Muncel down.”

“Is that all I can count on?” he asked in dismay. “Horse thieves?”

“Perhaps a few others. Remember, majesty, that I’m a thief as well.”

He disliked the brittle, mocking way in which she said that, but let it pass.

“Were a thief,” he corrected, already striding toward his darsteed to saddle it.

“You were a thief, but you’re one no longer.”

“So you think, majesty.”

He swung around and looked at her very hard. “So I know, Alexeika. Now, let’s ride.”

Eight days of hard riding through forest that grew increasingly thick and in places nearly impenetrable brought them head-on into a snowstorm. Lashed as they were by howling winds, and with the swirling snow nearly blinding them, even Dain could no longer be sure of the correct direction.  He called a halt, and his weary darsteed pawed the ground. Beside him, Alexeika and Thum were barely recognizable shapes huddled inside their snow-covered cloaks and hoods. Alexeika’s eyebrows and lashes were coated with snow. Thum’s beard was crusted over. Dain himself felt frozen to the marrow. He’d long ago lost any feeling in his fingers or toes, and he knew they were in mortal danger of freezing to death.

“Must find shelter!” he shouted over the howling wind. His lips were so stiff he could barely speak.

“How?” Thum shouted back. “Where?”

Dain frowned. He was so cold and tired he couldn’t think clearly. They needed a cave or a burrow, but neither were at hand. And if they tried to make camp here among these trees, they would surely perish.

Alexeika lifted her head bleakly. “Do we kill the animals?” Slaughtering their mounts and disemboweling them so that they could shelter inside each animal’s body cavity seemed a last resort, one Dain found himself reluctant to act on. Most important, if they survived, they would be afoot. Then too, he was not eager to see the innards of a darsteed.  The snow blew harder, all but obliterating the nearby trees and wrapping the world in a cocoon of white. Dain’s usual landmarks of sun angles, slanted growth of trees, and moss on tree bark and stones were of course gone. He could not follow scent, for the snow had covered even that. For all he knew, they’d been traveling in circles for hours.

Alexeika drew one of her daggers. “We’d better slash their throats at the same time. Otherwise, the smell of blood will make the darsteed—” Something reached him, a faint glimmer of instinct perhaps, or the touch of a mind far distant. “Nay, not yet,” Dain said.

“Why? It’s our only chance.”

He could not answer why. Whatever he’d sensed was too indistinct for him to identify. But he gestured for her to put away her weapon. “Bide a while. Let’s keep going if we can.”

“We can’t!” she shouted harshly. “ ‘Tis futile to keep on in this.” “Come on!” He kicked the darsteed forward. The creature balked, no longer possessing the strength to rear in protest. Dain finally managed to urge it forward, one struggling step at a time.

The ponies, short-legged and stalwart, actually fared better through the deep snowdrifts. Tireless and bred to this cold country, they lowered their heads against the wind and shouldered forward.

Dain lost track of time again. He focused everything he had left on seeking that one instant of contact. Friend or foe, it no longer mattered. He simply kept urging the darsteed toward it and hoped numbly that Thum and Alexeika were able to follow. His mind was swimming, and he could no longer concentrate. He felt a strange roaring in his ears beneath the shriek of the wind, and had found himself swaying in the saddle when suddenly a glimmer of light appeared ahead.  It took a moment for his brain to absorb what he was seeing, then he blinked and came back to awareness. A pale, ghostly light shone just ahead of his struggling darsteed, and as Dain stared the light grew more distinct and clear. A cloaked figure clad in a breastplate embossed with hammer and lightning bolt was blocking his path. It was Tobeszijian, his ghostly form so thin Dain could see snow blowing through him. Astride his ethereal darsteed, whose red eyes glowed through the swirling snowfall, Tobeszijian stared at Dain without speaking. His black hair blew back from his stern and handsome face, and in silence he pointed at Alexeika, who drew rein beside Dain and squinted.  “Why do you stop?” she asked. “Are you—oh!”

“Do you see him?” Dain asked in wonder, and she nodded without taking her eyes off Tobeszijian.

She stared a moment, then seemed to collect herself. Deeply she bowed. “The king who was,” she whispered.

Tobeszijian stared at Alexeika a long time. He was still pointing at her, but at last he lowered his gloved hand. She uttered a little gasp, shuddering. Her hands clenched and unclenched on her reins.

Dain turned his gaze back to his father. For an instant their eyes met, and he felt his father’s sadness pierce him. Forever lost, forever caught between worlds, neither dead nor alive. Yet despite his compassion for Tobeszijian’s, Dain was filled with an overwhelming sense of relief. “Father!” he called out.  “Guide me before we perish!”

Tobeszijian turned his darsteed around and walked it away. Hurriedly Dain reined his darsteed in that direction and followed. “Stay close!” he shouted to Alexeika and Thum.

Alexeika turned her head and shouted to Thum, who seemed to wake up and spurred his pony closer. But soon he was lagging behind, and then Alexeika also fell back. The sturdy ponies had stamina, but their short legs could not keep up with the longer strides of the darsteeds.

Sleepily Dain recalled that he had several questions to ask his father, yet he was so cold he could not rouse himself enough to remember what they were. War, he thought hazily. Strategy and —

Abruptly his darsteed went plunging and skidding down an unseen bank into a snow-filled ravine. Scrambling desperately to keep its footing, the animal snorted flame and lashed its tail, just managing not to tumble before it landed at the bottom. The jolt snapped Dain’s teeth together.  Barely able to comprehend what had happened, he glanced around, but Tobeszijian had vanished. Dismayed, Dain had opened his mouth to call out when figures erupted from the snow on all sides, popping up from snowdrifts to surround him.  Clad in heavy furs, their eyebrows and mustaches coated white, they hardly seemed like men at all. But there was no mistaking the swords and javelins in their hands.

Up at the top of the shallow ravine, Thum’s voice called out faintly through the howling wind. “Dain! Sire, where are you?”

Dain looked up, but the snow was blowing so thickly he couldn’t see his friends.  Meanwhile, his circle of captors had closed in around him. Their dark eyes glittered with hostility, and Dain knew he’d be dead with a javelin through his throat before he could draw Truthseeker.

Anger warmed Dain. He’d trusted Tobeszijian to lead them to safety; instead, the ghost king had led him into a trap. Why?

“Halloo!” Thum called again, his voice even fainter than before.  One of the men pointed. “You and you, go get that one. Hey, Believer!” he said sharply to Dain. “How many of your filthy kind ride with you?” He spoke Netheran with an accent that seemed vaguely familiar to Dain. “How many?” he repeated.  Praying that Thum and Alexeika would wander on into the snowstorm and escape capture, but fearing luck had run out for all of them, Dain found himself too cold and weary to answer.

One of the men gripped his arm and jerked him off the darsteed, which squealed and snapped viciously. It was too weary to have much fight left in it, however, and as he thudded into the snow, Dain was conscious only of how slow everything seemed to be happening. He felt warmer than before. The bottom of the ravine must be sheltered a bit from the wind, he thought vaguely. His eyes drifted shut.

They jerked him up to a sitting position, and a javelin tip tapped his shoulder for attention.

“No point in questioning this one,” someone said. “He’s frozen.”

“Take his weapons. We’ll let him and his monster freeze together.” Rough hands grabbed at Dain’s cloak to pull it open, but with his last ounce of willpower, he drew his sword with fingers too stiff and clumsy to hold it firmly. “In the name of Tobeszijian, I defy you,” he mumbled.  Silence fell over the men surrounding him. The javelin resting on his shoulder slid off.

“What did he say?” someone finally asked.

“Tobeszijian. Tobeszijian! He invoked the lost king’s name.” “Aychi!” breathed another as he squatted down in front of Dain. “Look at this sword. It’s not—” “Take care, Chesil! The Believers poison their weapons.” “He’s not Gantese,” Chesil said gruffly, and pushed back Dain’s hood. Roughly he scrubbed the frost and caked snow off Dain’s brows and peered into his eyes. He jerked aside a lock of Dain’s hair and ran his gloved fingers over the tips of Dain’s ears. “Eldin! Or partly so. He’s—” “He’s Tobeszijian!” someone else said in awe.

“He’s not!” another voice protested. “Where’s his crown? This sword ain’t Mirengard. It ain’t magicked.”

“ ‘Tis! And I did hear him say his name.”

They all started talking at once. “The darsteed!”

“The sword!”

“His eyes and—gods save us! It must be!”

Dain was sinking deeper into the warmth, so welcome after his having been cold for so long, yet he thought them fools to mistake him for his father. He would never be half the man Tobeszijian was. “Not . . .,” he mumbled, and thought of Thum and Alexeika. “Find . . .”

His mind was full of fragments, like chips of ice that could not be fitted together. He heard the men talking around him, felt them shaking him, but their voices were now just a buzzing inside his head. He sank into darkness, and left them.

When he awakened, it was to a sensation of true warmth and the cozy comfort of a crackling fire. He found himself lying in a low-pitched tent made of hides, with heavy furs lying atop him and a fire burning merrily in an iron cresset. He had no idea of how long he’d lain unconscious, but through a slit in the tent flap he glimpsed darkness outside. The shadows inside his tent were deep except where the fire threw them back.

Slowly his mind pulled memories together until he remembered his capture in the snowstorm. Well, they hadn’t killed him as they’d first meant to. He checked, but his wrists and ankles weren’t bound under the furs.  Sitting up, he frowned, wondering if they still actually believed he was his father. If so, he thought, they must be rebels, and he must speak to them.  As he pushed off his furs, the tent flap opened, sending a gust of icy air whistling inside. A man ducked in with it, paused as his gaze met Dain’s, then dropped to one knee and bowed his head. He was a giant of a man, with muscular shoulders and a neck like a bull’s. A luxuriant brown mustache drooped down either side of his mouth past his chin. He was red-cheeked and brisk, with brown eyes that twinkled in the firelight.

“Your majesty,” he said, his voice deep and rich. “It is good that you are awake. With your leave I will tell the others.”

“Wait!” Dain said quickly before the man could rise. “Who are you? What camp is this?”

“Ah. Forgive me, sire. I am Count Omas. My father served yours in the old days.” Dain blinked at him and slowly smiled. “Then you don’t think I am Tobeszijian, Lord Omas?”

The count laughed, his voice booming strongly. “Nay! But it made a good sport for us when the scouts came in with you, bleating in panic at what they’d captured.”

“I’m glad they thought it,” Dain admitted wryly. “Otherwise, I think they would have slain me for a Believer.”

“That darsteed would make anyone think you were Gantese, except for your armor.

No fire-eater, eh?” He laughed again, slapping his knee.  Dain realized he’d been so concerned that Alexeika would be mistaken for Gantese that he’d never considered the effect his own mount might have on folk. “I thought the beast might be useful,” he said.

“Eh? Well, perhaps.” Omas pursed his lips. “It’s already eaten a camp dog and injured two grooms. We’ve got it staked with as many ropes as we can spare, and a man is standing guard with a crossbow to kill it should it break loose.” “Is this a rebel camp?” Dain asked.

“One of them. We’ve been on the march nigh twenty days, held up thrice with this blighted weather. But that’s the fate of men bent on waging war in winter.” “You got my message, then?” Dain asked, only to frown immediately. If these men had been on the move for twenty days, they’d started out well before he’d even been taken to Gant. “Nay, of course not. Forget I asked that question, my lord.” “No message from any courier of yours, sire,” Lord Omas said with puzzlement.

“Not since you sent acceptance of Lord Romsalkin’s pledge.”

“Are these Romsalkin’s men?” Dain asked.

“Aye, we are,” Omas said proudly. “When we heard that you’d been captured and taken by those heathen devils, Lord Romsalkin vowed to strike at Grov though we all died for it. And so here we are, and it’s Thod’s grace that brought you into our scout trap. Aye, Thod’s grace indeed.”

It was Tobeszijian’s mercy, Dain thought, but he said nothing.

“Hungry, your majesty?”

“Aye,” Dain replied, but as Lord Omas jumped to his feet and started out, Dain called after him, “And what word of my friends?”

The giant’s hearty face creased into a look of disquiet. “Why, your majesty, two of ‘em is all we managed to find in the storm. Come daylight we’ll search again—” “Two!” Dain said in astonishment, not understanding. “But of course you mean Sir Thum and the Princess Volvn? There are no others.” Lord Omas stared at Dain in astonishment of his own. “So the wench in chain mail claimed, but we could not believe her. Your majesty would not travel with so small a party.”

“They are all that is left,” Dain said in a voice of flint.

“Forgive me, sire! I meant no offense.” Lord Omas’s heavy brows drew together.

“A princess, you say? That piece is—I—I mean—a lady?” “General Ilymir Volvn’s daughter,” Dain said, annoyed to hear they’d not been treating her with proper respect. “She’s no drab, no wench, no camp follower. If I learn any have treated her as such, those men will answer to me!” Omas tucked in his chin, and although he could not stand at his full height in the low tent, he gave the impression of a man coming to attention. “I’ll see to it at once, your majesty. And now, if I may have leave to order your supper and see that Lord Romsalkin is notified that you’re awake?” Dain nodded dismissal, and the count vanished through the tent flap with another gust of icy wind. Fuming a little, Dain tossed off his fur covers and found himself clad only in his tunic and leggings. His boots and hauberk were nowhere to be found, but Truthseeker was hanging by its sword belt on a tent pole hook.  He belted on the weapon, and his dagger too, wondering what they’d done with his boots. He knew instinctively that Lord Omas was an honest man, but allies or not, the men in this camp were strangers, and Dain had no intention of remaining long in this tent when the situation required closer examination.  Shivering as the cold ground numbed his feet through his stockings, he stepped onto one of the fur robes and wrapped another around his shoulders.  “Sire!” called Lord Omas from without. “Permission to enter?”

“Come,” Dain said impatiently.

The man ducked inside, bringing with him another draft of freezing air and snow.  Dain ignored the servant following with a tray of food, and scowled at the count.

“Where are my boots?” he demanded. “My hauberk? My cloak?” Omas blinked as though taken by surprise. He turned on the servant, and pelted him with rapid-fire questions in a dialect that Dain did not understand.  The servant—short, old, and wearing a collar of slavery—replied in the same language.

“Ah, yes,” Lord Omas said, turning back to Dain. “Your cloak is being dried. The rust on your hauberk is being polished by my youngest squire. Your boots are being cleaned as well.”

“I want them,” Dain said. “And I want to speak to Lord Romsalkin as soon as possible.”

Lord Omas bowed. “At once, majesty. I shall inform his lordship of your summons—” “Nay!” Dain broke in. “I’ll go to him.”

“But that’s not—” Omas choked off his protest. “As your majesty wishes.” “Get my boots and a cloak I can use,” Dain said. “Have them here by the time I finish my supper.”

Omas started out, but Dain gripped his sleeve. “And tell my companions I wish to see them.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Have they eaten? Are they well?”

“I believe so, your majesty.”

Dain was aware he had this man of high rank and perhaps some authority jumping like a squire, but he gave Omas a curt nod. “That’s all for now.” “Yes, your majesty.” Omas bowed, then rushed out.

The servant remained behind. He had brought not only food, which was plain fare but steaming hot, but a pail of warm water to wash in.  Grateful for these civilized amenities, Dain cleaned up and then, with a ravenous appetite, applied a wooden spoon to the contents of his bowl. It did not take him long to eat, but by the time he finished, his boots—hardly recognizable for their gleam—had been delivered, along with his hauberk. The latter was freshly oiled, and mended where the sleeve had hung in tatters before. The servant helped him put on these articles, and by then someone was outside, handing over a cloak of magnificent lyng fur, pale cream with variant shades of gray stripes.

Awed by its beauty, Dain could not help running his palms over the soft, silky fur. He wondered who had surrendered such a fine, warm garment to his use.  The servant threw it around his shoulders before Dain ducked outside, into a bitter night indeed. The storm had abated, but the breeze was still brisk enough to feel knife-sharp. Snowflakes continued to fall, dusting his hair and collecting on the long tips of lyng fur.

He found both Thum and Alexeika standing out there, waiting for him and jigging up and down to keep themselves warm.

Both of them bowed to him, but Dain wasn’t willing to stand on formal ceremony.  Grinning in relief to see that both of them were well, he strode forward with his hands outstretched, but then noticed a crowd of knights gathered in the shadowy background, staring at him in awed silence. Dain realized he must now act like a true monarch. No longer could he rush about informally as just another knight and comrade-at-arms.

Recalling all he’d ever learned from King Verence, he beckoned Thum and Alexeika to him. “You are well?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, sire,” Alexeika replied with dignity.

“I shall never feel warm again,” Thum complained, “but, aye, sire, we’ve been well treated here.”

Dain gave him a fleeting smile, but his gaze shot again to Alexeika. Although she was acting subdued, he saw fury flash in her eyes before she averted them from his. There had been insults indeed given to her, he knew, and his own ire came up protectively.

“Alexeika?” he asked again.

She was tight-lipped and stiff. “Your majesty might as well know there’s been trouble. I had to stab an oaf for giving me insult and—” “Did you kill him?” Dain asked swiftly.

Her eyes flashed again. “Nay, but I wish I had.”

“We can’t afford to lose a single man for the battle to come,” he told her, but gently to let her know he didn’t disapprove of what she’d done. “If you must stab others, make sure you avoid their vitals.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and suddenly there was muted laughter in her eyes instead of rage. “I’ll remember that, sire.” Lord Omas approached them. Glancing his way, Dain stepped close to Thum and Alexeika. “Stay near,” he said quietly. “These are Romsalkin’s men. They are friends by their former pledge, but let us take care until we know how things truly lie.”

At once Thum’s eyes grew serious and wary. Alexeika nodded her understanding.

With them at his back, Dain faced the count.

“Lord Omas,” he said, “please escort me to your liege commander.” There was no mistaking Romsalkin’s tent. A wondrous relic from an earlier age, it was huge enough to be divided into three rooms by walls of hard-woven cloth.  The whole edifice creaked and shifted with every gust of wind, the ropes creaking and snapping taut against the poles. Beyar skins and worn, moth-eaten carpets covered the frozen ground. Torches on stakes provided illumination. A campaign table spread with a faded map, a miscellaneous collection of stools, and a table holding a paneatha with icons of the gods dangling from its bronze branches all served to furnish the central room of the tent, which is where Dain, Thum, and Alexeika were escorted to meet Lord Romsalkin.  The latter proved to be a short, barrel-chested man with sparse tufts of white hair standing up on his head and a short white beard trimmed to an emphatic point. Wearing an old, rather battered breastplate buckled on over his hauberk and a sword of ancient design, Romsalkin threw down his pen with such enthusiasm he overset an inkpot and blotted the entire page of vellum he’d been writing on.  “Damne, what a mess!” he said in disgust. Snapping his fingers at a page, he pointed at the dripping ink and went to greet Dain with hardly a pause. “Your majesty!” he said with gruff pleasure, and dropped to one knee. “I have looked forward to this day for lo these many years. Thod be praised that I have lived to see you.”

“Lord Romsalkin,” Dain said formally, “your friendship and loyalty is much appreciated. This is Sir Thum du Maltie, my adviser. And this is Princess Alexeika Volvn, daughter of General Volvn.”

Romsalkin gave Thum a nod of his head and a glance of swift appraisal, but at Alexeika’s introduction, his brows shot up and he looked stunned.  “Ilymir’s daughter?” he said. Tears shimmered in his eyes, and he reached out his hands to clasp hers. “My dear, dear child. What a blow we suffered when he died.”

“Yes,” she said with perfect composure. Watching her, Dain realized that she had indeed been trained in courtly manners, her rough ways notwithstanding. At the moment she was as formal, indeed as regal, as any fine lady of high breeding. He could not help but mentally contrast her dignified behavior tonight with those times when she’d been spitting mad and cursing like a knight, her hair falling out of its braid and dirt streaked across her face. No doubt Alexeika had more surprises up her sleeves for them all. He wished he’d seen her stab the man who’d dared offend her earlier tonight.

“I realize your lordship and my father did not always agree on strategy,” she went on calmly, “but I heard him speak much of you at times.” Romsalkin released her hand and barked out a laugh. “Cursed me, more like. Aye, my dear. We used to fight like vixlets after the same prey round King Tobeszijian’s wardroom.”

Stiff and hostile no longer, she grinned back at him.

Dain sensed no deceit in the man, and stepped forward, eager to get on with the matters at hand. “Forgive my haste, but there is much to be done. I’ve heard from Lord Omas that you’re marching on Grov.”

“Aye!” Romsalkin growled, punching the air with his fists. “No force to speak of, just my two hundred men and a small company of Grethori riders I’ve enticed along by promising ‘em free looting afterwards. But, by Thod, I intend to give the usurper a sharp lick before I go down. Aye, so I do!” “I would rather see Muncel licked than you,” Dain said. “Can your men wait here while word is sent to Matkevskiet?”

“Word’s already gone to him, the sly dog. All these years, holding his men back, never helping us strike against the usurper. Depend on his help? Pah! I’d as soon wait for a pack of Believers to come and join our cause.” “I have his pledge of four thousand men,” Dain said. “I’ve sent a messenger to him, but can another go forth?”

“Enough messages have gone forth,” Romsalkin said. His shrewd eyes glanced from Dain to Omas and back again. “So you would have us fight together, eh?” Dain smelled a trick, and grew tense. “If all the little rebel factions do not unite into one force, then they are fools who deserve no change in their government,” he said harshly.

“And your majesty thinks that of me,” Romsalkin said. He was serious now, his gaze intent. Rocking up and down on his toes with his hands clasped at his back, he never let his eyes stray from Dain’s face. “Leader of a little faction.” “Nay, leader of two hundred knights pledged to my cause,” Dain replied, and drew Truthseeker. Slamming the blade atop the map with a crash that made Romsalkin’s aides jump, he said, “Exactly what size is this Grethori company, and can any more be coaxed into joining us? Can they be trusted? How many other men have been levied? Prince Spirin notified all the rebel leaders of my discovery at Savroix. You’ve had plenty of time to assemble and contact each other. Stop trying to test me, my lord, and give me a blunt report of exactly where I stand.”

“Hardly the ill-trained boy described in those dispatches to Muncel we intercepted,” a new voice said.

Dain turned his head and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with long, iron-gray hair tied in a multitude of tiny braids. Tawny-skinned, he had an old, deeply puckered scar running across his forehead and down through his left eye. White with blindness, it made a stark contrast to his dark, sighted eye. Garbed in vivid blue with a crimson sash across his chest and a curved scimitar hanging at his side, this individual strode in from the rear room of the tent and stood surveying Dain with frank appraisal.

Dain stared right back, not exactly pleased with this trick. “You are General Ingor Matkevskiet,” he said.

The Agya leader bowed with a haughty, fierce expression. “I am.” “And is Samderaudin the sorcerel also here?” Dain asked. “With the weapons and armor he promised?”

Matkevskiet’s lips curved in a fleeting smile while his gaze went on stabbing into Dain. “Yes,” he said. “But he is busy casting your horoscope to see what fate will grant us.”

“Fate will grant us what we’re willing to fight for,” Dain said impatiently.

“How many more men besides your four thousand?” His gaze shifted to Romsalkin.

“And your two hundred-plus?”

“The Grethori can’t be trusted, sire,” Alexeika said softly behind him. “Don’t count them.”

Dain accepted her warning, but his gaze remained on his allies. “How many more?” “Seven hundred,” Matkevskiet answered, then admitted, “Most are farmers and rabble, untrained and worthless except to rush to the front line. I believe even a few thieves and bandits have volunteered. We would be better off without such men. They will be in our way.”

Romsalkin turned on him, white beard bristling. “And I still say they can be used.”

Matkevskiet frowned back, but before they could argue, Dain interrupted. “Then our numbers are sufficiently equal.” He met their surprised glances coolly. “My intelligence reports state that Muncel has a standing army of five thousand.  Unless he can send for additional troops from Gant, and get them quickly, we have enough to give him a scare.”

“Aye, that’s so,” Romsalkin agreed with a nod.

Matkevskiet sneered. “To scare the usurper is not enough. We must crush him!” Dain gave him a steely look. “I will fight to the death to bring down the man who murdered my mother. Can we set forth at dawn?” “If the weather clears enough, aye,” Romsalkin said eagerly. He grinned at Dain and gave Matkevskiet a nod. “I like the boy’s spirit. Aye, that I do.” But the general was still eying Dain with distrust. “A fearless boy is a battle-green boy. I will lead the men, but only if Samderaudin himself fends off the Nonkind that will be sent against us.”

“Perhaps his majesty will be able to persuade Samderaudin to—” “I do not come here as a diplomat,” Dain said in disbelief and rising anger. “I come here to lead an army.”

“No,” Matkevskiet said. “The fighting is ours to do.”

Romsalkin bristled. “And what makes you think my men will follow an arrogant Agya dog like you—” “So this is why Nether perishes under the heel of a sniveling, despicable, half-mad tyrant,” Dain said. Anger cracked through his voice with so much vehemence and contempt that the torches in the tent flickered and nearly went out.

Both Romsalkin and Matkevskiet dropped their argument and faced him in startlement.

“You deserve what has befallen you,” Dain went on harshly. “This petty bickering, this stupidity! Why have you waited eighteen years to depose the man, letting him build an army of Nonkind and filth, letting him pillage the land and sicken it until it won’t feed the people? Why did you not join forces and fight?”

Matkevskiet narrowed his good eye and said nothing, but Romsalkin lifted his head defensively.

“We had no king to lead us,” he said. “Tobeszijian vanished, and we waited for him to come back.”

“Aye, waited,” Dain said scathingly. “Waited and plotted, but did nothing! How many battles have your men fought against Muncel’s forces, Lord Romsalkin?”

“Now see here—”

“How many? Open, declared battles?”

“Why—why—a few,” Romsalkin said uneasily. His gaze flicked at Alexeika, then fell away. Her face, Dain saw, was set and grim. “Better to hit targets and sprint away, doing what harm we could on the run.”

“Volvn took five hundred men forth,” Dain said.

“And died in a futile gesture, wasting himself and his men,” Matkevskiet said coldly.

Alexeika stiffened. Her eyes were aflame, and her hand was on her sword hilt, but she did nothing, said nothing, much to Dain’s relief. He did not want her interference now.

“Volvn was my father’s best general,” Dain said. It was the truth, by all accounts that he’d heard, but to say so to these men was a deliberate affront.  He saw both stiffen. “Why did you not join with him, follow his leadership in overthrowing Muncel?”

“And do what, crown Volvn our next king?” Romsalkin blustered. “A preposterous notion.”

“Better that, than to roll over tamely beneath Muncel’s domination.” Romsalkin turned bright red. Matkevskiet glared at Dain, as intent on him as an eagle sighting its prey.

“And where was Tobeszijian, our rightful king, all this time?” he asked now, his voice thin with contempt. “Why did he desert us?”

“He did not,” Dain said, just as sharply. “He hid the Chalice and myself and my sister, then he rode back into Nether to begin civil war.” “Easy to say. He ran. Took the Chalice and ran,” Matkevskiet said, years of pent-up resentment spilling forth. “Why did he not come to his Agyas? We would have protected the royal children and the Chalice!”

Dain frowned. “So that’s what this is about. Old insults. Old resentments. My father’s reasons are not yours to question.”

“They are if he deserted his duty. He deserted us!” Matkevskiet said fiercely.

“If he’d deserted you, he would be living in exile at his ease,” Dain retorted.  “He did all he could, and now he is lost in the second world forever, trapped there in a fate more wretched than death.”

Matkevskiet actually blinked, and Romsalkin’s mouth fell open.

“By Thod!” the latter cried. “Is this true?”

“Would I say it were it not?” Dain retorted.

“Merciful gods, we must have prayers said for his soul at once,” Romsalkin said.  Catching Lord Omas’s eye, he said, “Inform the priests. Damne, what a terrible thing.”

Matkevskiet went on staring at Dain. “Your father is accounted for, but what of you, young king-to-be? Where have you been all these years?” “Growing up, so I could come here today and lead your men,” Dain said icily.

“You’re wrong to think me green, general, but I’ll not fault you for it now.  Hear me. If I do not lead the battle and the men you’ve promised me, then I say break your pledge and take your men home.”

Someone in the tent gasped. Matkevskiet’s single eye bored into Dain without even a blink. “A bold bluff,” he said.

“Think you so?”

“Aye. Tell me this. Have you the Ring of Solder?”

Dain knew where these questions were going. His heart sank, but he did not hesitate to give his answer. “Nay. It is gone forever.”

“Have you the Chalice?”

“I know where my father hid it.”

“Have you Mirengard, which the son of our king must carry?”

“It remains in the second world with my father,” Dain answered.  Matkevskiet’s gaze shot scornfully to Romsalkin, who was frowning. “And this boy would lead us into the field, my lord. Brave bluster means nothing in combat. If the gods are merciful and we should prevail, I will see him crowned, because I loved his father. But no Agya warrior will follow him into battle. I do not squander men with an untried boy.”

“Alas,” Romsalkin said, turning to Dain with regret. “It seems we must listen to the general, sire. Really, the fact that you are present and awaiting the outcome of the battle will hearten the men—” “Morde a day!” Dain exclaimed in disbelief. “I tell you I will not sit in a tent like some court daisy. Would any Agya warrior fight for such a fool, fight with all his heart and soul? I think not.”

“The Agyas fight as I tell them to fight,” Matkevskiet said darkly.  “Then send them home,” Dain replied. “I thank you for your offer, general, but I decline your pledge.”

Matkevskiet laughed. “He’s mad, Romsalkin. Send my warriors home and leave himself but two hundred trained men and assorted rabble? Such foolishness only confirms my doubts.”

“You dare judge me,” Dain said harshly, blowing out his breath in an effort to keep his fraying temper. “I come here more seasoned than you know, but you dare to find me wanting. My sword is not Mirengard, general. Nay, it’s not a magicked blade, not like Severgard, which Alexeika here carries.” He held out Truthseeker. “Look at it! Or do you know god-steel when you see it!” “God-steel!” Romsalkin echoed, his eyes bulging. “Thod’s bones, it can’t be.