Why, that’s—”

“Impossible,” Matkevskiet said, refusing to look at Truthseeker. Contempt and disbelief shone in his one eye. “This lie will not impress me more, sire.” “Is that scimitar of yours magicked?” Dain asked.

“Nay.”

Romsalkin raised his hands and made patting motions. “Now, now, your majesty, pray calm yourself. There’s no need for this. No need at all. Let us share wine and cool our heads.”

Dain ignored him, never taking his eyes off Matkevskiet. “Draw your weapon.” The Agya general lifted his head, his nostrils flaring at the challenge. From the rear room suddenly appeared two youths about Dain’s age. One of them he recognized as Matkevskiet’s son, the courier named Chesil who’d come to Dain at Thirst. The other looked enough like him to be a brother. Both wore expressions of horror.

“Father, do not!” Chesil said. “To raise arms against the king is mortal sin.”

“Perhaps outside would be better for combat,” Lord Omas suggested.

Alexeika had her hands on her weapons. Thum crowded closer to Dain.

“Sire, I like this not,” he whispered on Dain’s left. “Have a care.” Dain glanced at him, but said nothing. His gaze went back to Matkevskiet, whose temper was clearly battling his common sense.

“Quiet yourselves,” Dain said to the room at large. “I do not intend to fight the general. Sir, draw your weapon.”

“He will be very fast,” Alexeika whispered in Dain’s right ear. “Agyas move quicker than thought. He will catch you by surprise, if you are not careful.” Grateful for the warning, Dain flicked her a tiny smile. But he was very serious indeed as he returned his gaze to Matkevskiet.

“I gave you an order,” he said. “Will you defy me in this as well?”

The general shrugged, then slowly drew his scimitar, despite his sons’ protests.  After silencing them with a gesture, he faced Dain. “A fool will be a fool. Who am I to disobey the order of my unproven king?”

“One engagement only,” Dain said, shrugging off his fur cloak. He hefted Truthseeker in his hands, flexing his shoulders to loosen them. As the others moved back to give them room and servants hastily shoved aside Romsalkin’s desk and the precious paneatha, Dain was well-aware that his challenge could fail. It was risky to take on an opponent he did not know—moreover, an opponent he had seriously provoked.

“I have a point to make,” Dain said. “One engagement, general, but do not hold back.”

Matkevskiet smiled a cold, dangerous smile, revealing his filed teeth. The light of battle shone in his single eye, and Dain felt the menace in him like a tangible force. Civilization was a thin garment this man wore.  Swiftly Dain shoved aside his momentary qualms and moved into a crouch. He never took his gaze off his opponent and pulled all of his concentration into play.  “Thod, strengthen me,” he prayed beneath his breath.  At that moment Matkevskiet loosed a blood-curdling yell and sprang. He was a blur of motion, his scimitar whirling in his hands. And he did not simply charge at Dain in a straightforward run. Instead, he danced and kicked with complicated footwork that enabled him to leap into the air at exactly the same moment he swung his blade down at Dain’s unprotected head.

Had he hit, he would have cleaved Dain’s skull in twain.  But Dain’s special senses were guiding him. Without watching Matkevskiet, he began to counter the moves he sensed Matkevskiet would make. As a result, as the general leaped, Dain was already in motion, ducking beneath him and turning as the general spun in midair.

And when Matkevskiet landed, Dain was not where the general had obviously expected him to be. Instead, Dain was still facing him, off to the side, and already swinging Truthseeker.

The scimitar flashed in the torchlight, but as the two blades came together with all the strength both men possessed, it was the scimitar which shattered into dozens of razor-sharp pieces.

At once, Dain stepped back. Pale with astonishment, Matkevskiet stared at him.

Dain swept him a salute and sheathed Truthseeker with satisfaction.

“Ho!” Lord Omas boomed out, clapping loudly. “Well done, sire! Well done!”

Not even with the merest glimmer of a smile did Dain acknowledge the applause.  He’d just defeated and shocked a proud warrior because he was lucky enough to possess a superior weapon. The last thing he wanted was to make an enemy of Matkevskiet by dealing him humiliation.

“God-steel,” he said quietly, “has its advantages, as you can see.” The general went on staring at him, his expression quite impassive. Then he dropped to one knee and pressed his fingertips to his forehead and out in salute. When he looked up, he was beaming.

“So would your father have fought me for the cruel things I said,” he announced with pride. “Exactly like the father is the son. Tobeszijian’s son. Aychi! I give thanks to the gods that I have lived to serve my king again.” Now it was Dain’s turn to stare with astonishment. “That was a test? All that argument? All those doubts and insults?”

“They were real enough,” Matkevskiet said, rising to his feet. “You have proven your courage, young king. Now it remains to be seen whether you can prevail against the usurper. Can you lead an army?”

Dain’s gaze grew steely. “Can you follow my leadership?”

“To the death,” Matkevskiet said simply. “As I swore to follow your father.” A sense of relief swept over Dain then. He grinned for a moment, feeling almost light-headed, and everyone crowded around him. Romsalkin called for wine, and Lord Omas asked questions about Dain’s sword. Matkevskiet’s sons, looking awed, hung on every word.

“Celebration is too soon!” announced a voice that sent a chill up Dain’s spine.  The hubbub fell silent immediately, and men stepped back to give Dain a clear sight of the individual now entering the tent. Snow blew in behind him, ruffling the beyar furs he wore as clothing.

His eyes were tilted, his face curiously smooth-skinned, although Dain sensed at once that he was extremely old. He glided forward as though his feet barely moved, yet suddenly he was standing very close to Dain.  He smelled of something bitter and acrid. His gaze held secrets no mortal should know.

Dain’s heart was beating fast. This had to be the sorcerel Samderaudin, yet although he was supposed to be an ally, Dain could not help but instinctively distrust him, as he did all enchanters of this kind.

The sorcerel’s gaze burned into Dain. He lifted a bony, taloned finger in admonition. “Celebrate not yet,” he said, his voice crackling and humming with a resonance that spoke of spells and powers.

It was almost like listening to the tainted sword Tanengard, Dain thought. He frowned, forcing himself not to be distracted, and said, “You are—” “Much danger lies ahead,” Samderaudin interrupted curtly. “I have cast the future, yet it remains unclear. There is betrayal to come. You have been warned of this by Tobeszijian. Do you heed it?”

“Aye,” Dain replied with a frown, conscious of the others exchanging swift looks behind him. “But I’ve been betrayed already.”

“More is to come. More danger. More trials.” Samderaudin leaned toward him, and Dain had to fight himself not to draw back. “Death lies heavy along your path, Faldain.”

“Thank you for this warning,” Dain forced himself to say courteously. “I hope your foretelling means that I will deal much death to others, and not find it myself.”

Alexeika gasped, but he did not glance at her.

The sorcerel’s expression did not change. His eyes were yellow and intensely compelling. Dain felt the power emanating from them and found himself wanting to babble all his secrets. Gritting his teeth, he resisted, and after a moment the pressure eased.

“There is more,” Samderaudin said. He pointed at Truthseeker. “It protects you with the power of the ancients. But you will face a choice, Faldain. Count the risks before you decide. The reach of Ashnod can be very long.” Dain frowned, trying to fathom what the sorcerel meant. He opened his mouth to ask questions, but without another word Samderaudin turned and glided out.  Dain hurried after him, ignoring those who called to him. But when he stepped outside into the falling snow, the camp lay quiet and dark, and Samderaudin was nowhere to be seen.

At dawn, the army marched forth. Romsalkin’s banner of crimson and white unfurled in the frosty air. Matkevskiet’s banner of sky blue and green flew beside it. The skulls tied to a pole draped with islean pelts represented the tribe of Grethori, whom Alexeika cursed and avoided at all times. Even the rabble carried streamers of different colors to signify their regions. And above them all flew the burgundy and gold pennon of the royal house of Nether.  When its heavy folds, creased and worn from long years of storage, shook free and billowed forth in the wind, Romsalkin was visibly moved. “Ah, to see it fly again,” he said to Dain, wiping his eyes. “This does stir my heart.” Dain stared at it, seeing the hammer and lightning bolt depicted in gold across a field of burgundy, and his heart was stirred too. Before him stretched his army, a vast sea of faces cheering his name.

He lifted his arm in response and glanced at his generals. “Let us ride to war.” They marched to Grov, struggling against the obstacles of harsh weather and inadequate provisions. This was the wrong time of year to wage war, yet now that their course was set, none of them was willing to wait for spring—Dain because he was anxious to rescue Pheresa, and the others because they had already waited too many years to strike at the tyrant they hated.

They made no contact with the Mandrian army rumored to be on the march. The scouts found no evidence of it. Romsalkin dismissed the rumor as a falsehood.  The journey became a sort of king’s progress, for every pathetic village they passed by turned out to stare at them, sometimes in terror and sometimes in hope. Dain would not let the Agyas loot such places, for clearly the people were starving already. Instead, they plundered the royal storehouses in larger towns.  “I am the king,” Dain declared. “And I take what is mine!” Sometimes Muncel’s soldiers put up token resistance; often they fled their posts at the granaries. Meanwhile, word of Dain’s coming flashed from town to town, spreading across the land with every woodcutter, every fur trapper, every merchant or peddler who had not yet denned up for the long cold.  “No help for it,” Romsalkin would mutter, fretting at night when Dain and his advisers met in the huge tent to plan strategies. “Muncel has plenty of time to prepare for us. We can lay siege to the city fortress or Belrad, if he chooses to meet us there. He can defend it better.”

“Ought to take Belrad first,” Matkevskiet suggested. “Give him no bolt-hole.”

“Split off a detachment to see to that,” Dain said. “But I must take Grov first.

‘Tis the capital that must be claimed for my own.”

Muttering, they would peer at the map again. The Nonkind worried both old strategists terribly, for they claimed that Muncel had an entire auxiliary force of soulless warriors, dead men who would fight without tiring or stopping. And the cache of magicked armor and swords that Samderaudin had indeed provided was insufficient to supply every man in Dain’s force.

“We need more sorcerels,” Matkevskiet kept saying glumly, squinting his one eye.

“Without them we’ll be outmatched.”

Dain frowned at such pessimism. “If Mandrians can fight Nonkind without magic or even salt, who are we to bemoan what we have?”

Romsalkin’s white beard bristled. “Mandrians, pah!” he said, forgetting that Thum stood at Dain’s back. “What do they ever face but little raids from time to time? Nay, your majesty, I’m talking about a vast Nonkind force to be reckoned with.”

Eventually they agreed on a plan. Grov was bordered on one side by the Velga River, but to the southwest lay a sweep of rolling meadows and a bit of valley where the city sprawled. There they would meet Muncel’s forces. It was by far the best ground available.

For Dain, used to fighting when and where the emergency struck, such advance planning was very interesting. He wondered, however, if Muncel would adhere to the formal rules of battle or if he would instead pour Nonkind at them from all directions.

“Of course he will,” Alexeika muttered one night when she and Thum gathered with Dain inside his tent. It was larger than the first one he’d slept in, but nothing like Romsalkin’s magnificent dwelling. Although he’d been offered the use of Romsalkin’s quarters, Dain was content to use this plain tent of ordinary size. It gave him privacy for these quiet talks with his friends.  Restless and clearly on edge, Alexeika got up from her stool and began to pace back and forth in the limited confines. The fire in the cresset cast shadows and highlights across her face. “Muncel did not hesitate to use deceit and trickery against my father. He will do the same to you, sire.”

“Then we must prepare some tricks of our own,” Dain said thoughtfully.  “Romsalkin intends to put all the men with magicked swords and armor at the front, but I think we had better deploy them at our rear and sides.” “You mean, make a ring of such protected men?” Thum asked.

“Aye.”

Chesil Matkevskiet twitched aside the tent flap and peered in. “Forgive me for interrupting, sire, but Lord Omas is here to see you.”

Dain glanced up. “Ah, yes, admit him.”

He had servants assigned to his use now, and a squire to oversee his weapons and mail. Young Chesil, hero worship shining in his dark face, short braided hair swinging energetically, served as Dain’s aide, running messages back and forth for him daily. Sir Thum stayed close by, ready to give Dain counsel whenever he was confronted by something he did not instantly understand. There was much to learn and much to do. He received dispatches and letters daily, many of them from Prince Spirin and other notable exiles of the old Netheran court. There were petitions to join Dain’s court, blessings, pleas to grant the return of lands confiscated by Muncel, and a barrage of other matters that left Dain feeling overwhelmed whenever he tried at night to cope with them. Although his command of the Netheran language had improved swiftly, he still found it difficult to read and even harder to write. He needed clerks to handle the paperwork, and at last he ordered Thum to simply sack up all the letters, reports, and requests, to be dealt with later, if and when they took Grov.  This evening, although the hour grew late, Lord Omas came ducking through the tent flap with his usual massive briskness. Little icicles had formed on his long mustache. Icy beads of moisture glistened on his cloak from the sleet falling outside. The wind moaned and thumped against the sides of the tent.  “Your majesty!” Lord Omas boomed, bowing low. He stripped off his gloves, then slapped them against his palm. “I stand ready to serve.” Dain gestured at the warmed wine they’d been drinking, and Lord Omas took a cup with a grateful sigh.

“Ah, that does warm the insides. Thank you, sire.”

“I have made inquiries,” Dain said, gazing up at the giant. “I’m informed you have your own hold.”

“Aye, ‘tis so small and so unimportant and so out of the way that even the usurper didn’t want it,” Omas replied cheerfully. “I have a standing army of twenty knights, all of whom are now here among your majesty’s forces. The original warrant granted to my ancestor was for the hold to guard a mountain pass for an old trade route up near the World’s Rim.” “Guard against what?”

“Grethori devils mostly. Even the Nonkind don’t venture that far.” Omas grinned.

“Sometimes we see boat raiders from the Sea of Vvord, but not often.”

“And Romsalkin is your liege?”

“Aye, majesty. But only in the levying of armed men and an annual tribute.”

“I ask these questions because I have a request of you,” Dain said carefully.  “But I do not wish to offend you by discounting any obligations you may have elsewhere.”

“No offense can be given by my king,” Omas said, his twinkling brown eyes looking serious for once. He was plainly intelligent, despite his size, muscle, and cheerful manner. Dain had been observing him for days, and at no time had that instant sense of trust and liking he’d felt for the man in their first meeting left him. “Please tell me your majesty’s request,” Omas said now, “and I will—” “Make no promise until you hear it,” Dain interrupted swiftly. He leaned forward on his stool. “I would have you serve me as my lord protector. But only if you have no obligation elsewhere, and if such service would please you. Speak freely if you wish it not, and I will hold nothing against you.” A tide of red flooded Lord Omas’s face, spreading up from his throat to burn his cheeks. He seemed, for once, at a loss for words. Then he dropped to his knees and bowed low.

“Your majesty,” he said hoarsely. “This honor is profound. I . . . But how can you trust me so? Your majesty hardly knows me.”

“You are a good man,” Dain told him. “Clearly your heart is honest and brave.

And you are big enough to make two protectors,” he added with a wry smile.

“Would such service please you?”

Lord Omas was blinking hard. He looked both stunned and overwhelmed. “Aye,” he said in a choked voice.

“Would your duties take you too much away from your family?” “Nay.” Something bleak and transitory crossed Omas’s face. “My lady wife is dead. I have twin sons, presently fostered for training.” Dain rose to his feet. “Then it is settled. You are my protector, and my life is entrusted to you.”

Lord Omas put his hand atop Dain’s foot and bowed even lower. “I pledge myself to your majesty’s service, to the death and beyond.”

“Good.” Dain smiled at him. “Go without for a moment and make what preparations are necessary. You will begin your duties immediately.” Lord Omas climbed to his feet with a radiant smile, almost knocked his head on the top of the tent, and hurried out.

“At last!” Alexeika said as soon as he was gone. “I was beginning to think your majesty would never choose someone. It’s been a worry to us all, seeing you go about without a protector.”

Dain gave her a nod, but his gaze went to Thum, who was looking pensive and sour. He knew Thum had secretly hoped to be named his protector, but it would not do.

“A good choice, sire,” Thum said without enthusiasm. “He’s twice the size of Sir Terent.”

“There will never be another Sir Terent,” Dain said quietly. “As for you—” “Ah, yes,” Thum said too quickly. “Too much a scholar to make a good knight.” “Too good a knight and adviser to make a protector,” Dain corrected him. “Why should I waste your talents in such a post? I would rather have you at my side, my friend, than at my back.”

Thum turned red, and he seemed placated. “Destined to be your chancellor someday, no doubt,” he said lightly.

He spoke in jest, but Dain remained serious. “Exactly.” While Thum’s eyes widened and he choked in astonishment, Dain picked up his cup and raised it high. “A toast to my protector,” he said. “And now the two of you can stop fretting over me.”

Alexeika drank the toast, but her gaze remained uneasy. “As long as there are enemies to be faced, we will continue to worry. Do not forget Samderaudin’s warning.”

But on the morning they finally reached Grov, the sorcerel’s mysterious foretelling was the last thing on Dain’s mind. Geared for battle in breastplate, mail, spurs, and helmet, his fur cloak warm and heavy on his shoulders and the darsteed he rode spitting fire, Dain drew rein on a gentle rise and found himself gazing at his father’s city.

This was a cold, cheerless day, as gray and bleak as mist. The air smelled of snow, though as yet none had started to fall.

Down in the city proper, there seemed to be little or no activity. A church bell was ringing, but without urgency. Across the city where the river was half-frozen and dotted with small ice floes, a long team of kine struggled to pull a floating barge laden with logs. On the hill rising steeply behind the city jutted the spires and towers of the palace, the place where Dain had been born.

He stared, drinking in the sight of this place he had not seen since he was two years old. Nothing looked familiar to him, but as he drew in a long breath, the myriad scents of the land, the river, and the city came to him, and vague memories stirred deep in his mind. He recalled sitting in a room bright with shades of yellow, green, and blue as sunshine poured in through enormous windows. He was sitting on a stool so high his legs dangled, drinking from a silver cup that had tiny animals carved on the handle. He remembered playing with them, imagining them to be alive and his playmates. And from somewhere in the next room came the murmur of feminine voices, then the sound of his mother’s laughter, light and full of song.

He heard it clearly, and with a gasp of surprise, he reached inside his hauberk and pulled forth his pendant of bard crystal. Swiftly he rubbed his fingers across its faceted sides, and its song came forth, in exactly the same musical key as his mother’s laughter.

Only then, for the first time in his life, did he understand how this small part of her had always been with him. He had not, had never, lost all of her as he’d thought.

Emotions rushed him, and his eyes stung a moment with tears. Then he tucked the bard crystal away, and firmed his mouth and blinked his eyes dry. She had died there, in that palace. And he had come to avenge her.  “Where is my uncle?” he asked, pointing at the empty meadow.  “Morde a day!” Romsalkin said, puffing through his beard. “I thought their army would be here to meet us.”

General Matkevskiet came galloping up on his stallion. He was not wearing his helmet, and his long gray braids flew out behind his head as he rode. “More trickery!” he said furiously. “He knew we were coming with a force nearly equal to his. Why is he not here? Does he expect us to send him an invitation?” Dain’s head came up, and he gazed at the right-hand side of the city a long moment, gazed at a small fortress of gray stone perched near the river. His senses were sweeping forth, but he already knew the answer he sought.  “Muncel is not here,” he said.

“What?” Romsalkin exploded. “What does your majesty say? Not here? How can this be?”

“The army lies hidden in that pesthole of squalor and filth they call a city,” Matkevskiet said angrily. “They will spring out and ambush us the moment we ride into the streets.”

“No,” Dain said.

Sitting nearby on his horse, his strange eyes on fire and his fur clothing bundled shapelessly about him, Samderaudin swept forth his hands in a gesture that made the air crackle and pop. “They are not there,” he said. “It is as the king says.”

Dain was already spurring the darsteed forward, ignoring calls for him to come back. Alexeika and Lord Omas plunged after him, their horses kicking up sprays of snow.

The others had no choice but to follow. Thus did Dain lead his army into Grov unchallenged. It was hardly a triumph. On all sides he saw the signs of hasty flight and damage, belongings strewn about and dropped as people had fled, signs of looting as though Muncel’s army had pillaged as it left. The few inhabitants remaining were in hiding.

Dain glimpsed faces peering at him from broken windows and sensed others, concealed and terrified. As for Grov itself, he saw at once how glorious its past had been. The architecture of its buildings made him marvel. He admired the broad central avenue that led through the heart of the city. There were streets of enormous palaces that must have belonged to the noble families. But past glory was nearly obscured by the squalor of the present. Dain rode past smashed and torn-down statues, saw how the palaces had been damaged and burned. Entire wings stood roofless and windowless. Some buildings had trees growing up through them. The ones still lived in were shabby and unkempt.  The lesser sections of the city appalled him. Narrow streets of mud twisted in all directions through a maze of wooden buildings. Nonkind stench lingered here, keeping everyone alert and on edge. But no attacks came, no ambushes, no traps.  There were only a few pitiable individuals in rags fleeing from sight, stinking piles of refuse and filth, starving dogs skulking for what they could find in the garbage, and vermin too bold to run.

Dain’s face grew stony as he struggled to hide his shock. He’d heard all the stories, of course, but never had he believed a city could be as terrible as this. Muncel lived here, kept his court here. Had he no pride in what he’d stolen? Was he truly so insane, so indifferent to everyone except himself that he was willing to let his city look like this?

“Sire,” Thum whispered as he rode up alongside Dain. His hazel-green eyes were wide and disbelieving. “This is a dreadful place. It’s ruined. There’s nothing left.”

“Aye,” Alexeika said, pointing at a section of the city which had been burned.

“They tried to destroy it before they fled.”

Dain sighed. “Small wonder Muncel deserted this.”

“Nothing to fight for,” Thum said with scorn.

“Wrong,” Dain said, pulling himself back together. He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “This is my city, the city of Netheran kings. Lord Tamski!”

An officer riding near Dain came alert. “Yes, sire?”

“Organize patrols. I want every section swept, to make sure no pockets of resistance remain.”

“Yes, sire!” Tamski wheeled his horse and galloped away.

“Lord Romsalkin,” Dain said, “please see that the church bells are set ringing.”

Tears had dried on Romsalkin’s cheeks, but he scowled fiercely at Dain’s order.

“Aye, sire. I will! Does your majesty want the Glorias rung?”

Dain had no idea what he referred to, but nodded. “Whatever is appropriate.”

Romsalkin galloped off, shouting to the men he wanted with him.

“And you, majesty?” Matkevskiet asked, watching Dain closely with his one eye.

“Where do you go now?”

“Muncel’s fortress must be secured,” Dain said.

“Aye, but where do you go now?”

Dain drew a deep breath, thinking of Pheresa and his past. “I go to my father’s palace,” he said.

Runtha’s Folly, some had called it. Dain—heavily surrounded by a guard of Agya warriors, Thum and Alexeika at his side, and Lord Omas at his back—rode across the wooded grounds of the sprawling palace compound. Although it had been allowed to become overgrown, and woolly thickets now choked the place, he saw signs of old cultivation, plantings that were not wild varieties, and occasional traceries of the last few blooms of some delicate shrub now frozen by winter’s blast.

Today was Selwinmas, celebrated in Mandria as the day the monk Selwin became the first convert to Tomias’s reformed teachings. Here in Nether, Dain had learned, Selwinmas was more commonly referred to as wintertide, the first official day of the deep cold and the shortest day of the year.

So far, there was nothing to celebrate.

He kicked the darsteed and galloped right up to the broad steps of the palace.  The building’s surfaces were carved into fantastic creatures or twining vines or twisting branches or cavorting beasts. There was too much to look at, too much to see.

Dain did not try. He could feel his mother’s bones somewhere near, somewhere out in the gardens beneath the snow. There were memories here, perhaps not all of them his own. He sensed old emotions, lingering like ghosts: emotions of fear, anger, hatred, and love all jumbled and mixed together in something he was not yet ready to deal with.

Just now, he was not interested in ghosts. He sought the living.  “Sir Thum!” he said crisply, dismounting even as the Agya commander in charge of his guards protested that he must wait until they secured the palace. “We must look for Pheresa.”

Thum seemed startled. “They wouldn’t leave her here. Surely they took her and Prince Gavril with them.”

“Hostages would be in the fortress, sire,” the commander said.

Dain met Alexeika’s eyes, and he wondered for a moment why she remained silent.

“Nay,” he insisted. “They were kept here. Come!”

He strode inside, forcing the swearing Agyas to leap off their horses and hurry after him. Lord Omas was almost treading on his heels, saying with every step, “Let me go first, sire. Let me go first.”

But Dain wouldn’t listen. The place was eerie and silent, full of shadows, and empty in a way that chilled his bones.

He hurried through one enormous stateroom after another, barely registering the faded or destroyed magnificence, the rotted hangings, the broken windows that let in icy drafts. His boots echoed loudly on the floors as he searched. Later, much later, he would have to explore every inch of it for himself, but not now.  There was no sense of Pheresa, nor of Gavril. He knew that, and yet he steeled his heart against the truth, telling himself they must be here. The alternative was too heartbreaking.

“They are not here!” Alexeika finally said, as they halted partway up the broad staircase. It had once been painted in the most fantastic mixture of colors, but all was faded now. As a rat went scrambling out of sight above them, its red eyes looking vicious, Alexeika planted herself in front of Dain. Her blue-gray eyes were wide and pleading. “Please! Abandon this search. They are gone.  Everyone is gone. In Belrad, perhaps, they will be found.” A part of him wanted to agree with her, but he’d come so far, had endured so much. He couldn’t accept it, refused to believe that once more he’d failed the lady he loved.

Gently he pushed Alexeika out of his way and continued up the staircase. “We haven’t found the room I saw yet,” he said.

She turned as he passed her and reached out as though tempted to grip his arm.

“Don’t!” she cried out. “Please don’t!”

Ignoring her, he went up to the next story. There, through a set of tall, heavily gouged and battered doors, he found the room of mirrors and bard crystal that he’d sought. For a moment, as he entered, reflections seemed to come at him from all sides. He remembered a day in his childhood when sunshine had poured in through the tall row of windows, only to be reflected back again by the mirrors.  The bard crystal globes overhead had spun in the summer breezes, singing and refracting light in glorious colors. He remembered, too, the vision of Pheresa as he’d last seen her, sitting in a gown of pale red, with candles blazing, and people in jewels and velvet surrounding her.

And then all the memories and overlapping impressions faded, allowing his mind to clear. He looked down the length of the gallery and saw Gavril and Pheresa sitting in tall chairs, just as Thum’s hand clamped on his elbow.  “Great mercy of Thod!” Thum exclaimed hoarsely. “They are here!” Dain stared at the pair, sitting at the far end of the gallery. Neither of them moved or spoke; perhaps they were dead.

Swallowing hard, Dain slowly peeled Thum’s hand off his arm. His ears were roaring, and he paid no heed to anything that was said. When he walked forward, his footsteps thudded loudly on the boards. Lord Omas hastened ahead of him to reach the royal couple first.

Gavril sat there, clad in dirty velvet. His blond hair was long and unkempt, his beard untrimmed, his eyes reddened and staring fixedly. He clutched Tanengard in his begrimed hands, and only an occasional blink showed any life in him.  Shocked, Dain stared at his old enemy, unable to reconcile this Gavril with the one he’d always known. So arrogant and sure of himself, so favored, so handsome, so falsely pious, Gavril had many faults, but he’d always been strong, vigorous, and full of zest. Now, it seemed the Netherans had broken him. He was a wreck, a shadow of himself, so deeply withdrawn into the ruin of his mind that he seemed completely unaware that they were here.

“Gavril,” Dain said. “Prince Gavril!”

The prince did not respond. It was as though he did not hear Dain, did not see him standing there. His dark blue eyes stared emptily.  Frowning, Dain turned to Pheresa. She sat slumped in her chair, clad in a filthy, torn gown of faded silk, a necklace of tawdry glass around her throat.  Pale and sweating, she was unconscious. The moment he touched her hand and felt its fever heat, he knew the eld-poison still consumed her. She was very near her end.

“Oh, Thod,” he said in despair, kneeling before her. “And I thought you well.” “Sire, don’t touch her,” Thum said uneasily. “You might contract the poison yourself.”

“Poison?” the Agya commander asked in alarm. “What poison? Or is it a spell that’s been cast here?”

“Sire,” Alexeika said in a hollow voice. “Nonkind are nearby.”

He smelled nothing, sensed nothing. “No.”

“I say they are!” Alexeika shouted. She drew Severgard, and the blade was glowing white with power. “The sword does not lie!”

The Agya commander shouted orders, and his warriors ran to the doors and all corners of the room, their weapons drawn and ready.  Dain looked around swiftly. “Sir Thum, we must get Pheresa out of here. Find a blanket, a tapestry, anything to wrap her in. Quickly!” Thum hurried away to do Dain’s bidding.

Alexeika circled around behind the chairs, alert and brandishing Severgard in her hands. “I like this not. Something is wrong here. It’s a trap, and these two are the bait.”

“Perhaps,” Dain said, intent on Pheresa. How drawn and thin she looked. Her bones were pushing through her skin, as though the Netherans had starved her.  And Gavril looked hardly better. Dain thought of what King Verence would say were he to see his fine son in such a state.

“Where is Sir Thum?” he asked impatiently. “Lord Omas, do you see aught we can use to wrap her in? ‘Tis freezing in here. I wonder she has not already perished of such cold.”

“Faldain!” Alexeika screamed in warning.

It was the only warning Dain had as Gavril came suddenly to life, rising from his chair and swinging Tanengard with deadly intent.  Bent as he was over Pheresa, Dain had no chance to draw his weapon before Tanengard clanged across the back of his breastplate and bit deep into his shoulder. The blow drove him down across her unconscious body.  He tumbled to the floor, awash in a sea of incredible pain. The magicked blade had sliced through his armor like a hot blade through butter, and it filled him with an agony beyond anything an ordinary wound might have caused. Unable to move, he was conscious of nothing except this all-consuming pain. He cried out, his body wanting only to flee the pain, to escape it, but there was no getting away. It hurt so horribly he wondered if his arm had been hacked off. Then at last, the pain eased enough for him to draw in a breath. He felt blood gushing down his back, and shuddered.

“Faldain!” Alexeika shouted again, her voice distorted by the roaring in his ears.

From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Gavril looming over him. Then Tanengard’s blade came flashing down once more.

With all his strength, Dain forced himself to reach past the agony and move. He managed to roll over, and Tanengard thudded into the floor where his head had been just a second before. The sword caught there, and Gavril—his expression still empty—tugged at it, to no avail.

Dain scrambled away from him, hampered by his injury and all but pinned against the chairs. Gavril could have turned on him, could have plunged his dagger through Dain’s heart in those few seconds, but he continued to tug at his sword with mindless intensity.

Scooting frantically to get away, Dain saw a gaping hole in Gavril’s neck just beneath the back curve of his skull. Horror flashed through Dain at the sight of it. Despite his long dislike, and even occasional hatred, of Gavril, no enemy deserved this fate.

Gavril’s soul had been eaten. He was Nonkind.

The smell reached Dain then, a foul, putrid wave of decay that burned his nostrils and left him gasping.

Desperately he grabbed for Truthseeker, missed, and grabbed again. Although the pain had now localized itself in the back of his left shoulder, his whole body had become strangely weak. He felt his head swimming, and tried again to draw his sword. But Alexeika gripped him by his cloak and dragged him away from Gavril.

“Dear Thod,” she was gasping. “Dear Thod!”

And time, which had seemed frozen since Gavril had struck the first blow, flowed forward again. Now everything seemed to be happening at once, with men shouting and running. Omas was bellowing, and only Dain seemed unable to flow with time or to hear what anyone was saying or to move as he wanted to.  He knew he had to warn them, but he lacked the breath.  Gavril pulled Tanengard free. Lifting it, he turned and came at Dain again, moving like a jerky puppet.

Lord Omas charged between them, and alarm gave Dain the strength and breath he’d been reaching for.