“Thod’s bones! Why should we? We—”

“Because you must!” Dain said harshly, cutting him off. He glared at the old man. “You must! In the name of all that remains good, you must fight as you’ve never fought before. Gant means to invade Nether, and Mandria, and the world if it can. It means to destroy us all. We will stop it here. We must!” “They are twice, three times our number,” Matkevskiet argued. “We are trapped, doomed, unless we flee.”

“If you take the coward’s road,” Dain said, “then we are all surely lost to Ashnod’s dominion.”

“I will stand,” Lord Omas said.

“And I!” called out the commander of the guards.

“And I!” shouted another man, then more joined in, and more, until they were all shouting it.

A lump filled Dain’s throat. He met Matkevskiet’s one good eye, waiting for the answer he had to have.

Frustrated fury reddened the general’s face. “Then by Thod, see that you’re quick. Bring us the miracle we need!”

Dain gathered his reins, braced himself, and gazed down at the Ring, which glowed brightly on his hand. He thought of the Chalice and the place in Nold where it was hidden. Please Thod, let no one have moved it during all these years, he prayed.

“Stand back,” he said to the men trying to hold the darsteed.  As soon as the men jumped away, the beast whirled around so fast it nearly knocked Lord Omas off his feet. Hanging on by sheer determination, Dain gritted his teeth and spurred the animal into a gallop. As it bounded across the gardens, he sent all the force of his mind into the center of the Ring’s power.  Chalice! he thought.

And with a flash of golden light, he vanished into thin air, leaving only a trail of golden sparks behind him.

A light drizzle was falling in the ravine where Dain materialized. Reeling in the saddle, flooded with waves of pain and nausea, he barely noticed that he was once again in the first world, until the darsteed tried to drag him off under a branch.

Coming to with a jolt, Dain blinked and squinted, gasping for breath. This was not much of a ravine, being shallow and choked with tree saplings and brambles.  A tiny stream trickled through mossy rocks at the base of the hillside. With effort, Dain focused his mind on the task at hand. How long did it take to journey through the second world? Days? Hours? Minutes? He was now in Nold, perhaps a half-day’s ride from Thirst Hold by his rough reckoning, and far, far away from the brave souls presently fighting the Gant invasion in Grov.  How easy it would be to just remain here, Dain mused, safe and far away from that danger. But he discarded the temptation in an instant. Wiping clammy perspiration from his forehead, he forced himself to get on with what he’d come here to do.

Gazing up at the hillside, he saw the ancient stone carving, blurred with the erosion of time and an overgrowth of lichen, that marked an old shrine. His heart leaped in his chest, and suddenly he was able to push his pain aside.  He dismounted awkwardly, then met the darsteed’s snapping jaws with a strong slam of his gloved fist and staggered away from the brute.  The simple act of walking a few steps brought on fresh weakness. His head started swimming, and he could not seem to hold himself upright. Yet he struggled to keep planting one foot in front of the other, and thus splashed his way across a stream that ordinarily he could have jumped lightly over.  Climbing the hillside was nearly impossible, even when he grabbed onto shtac saplings to pull himself forward. He could manage only one or two steps at a time without having to sit down to rest, breathing heavily all the while.  The mouth of the shrine was only a few feet distant, but it looked far away. He could feel himself sinking into unconsciousness, and desperately fought to stay awake. If he swooned now, he would likely die, and so would his friends, and all the Netherans fighting in his name.

“I . . . will not . . . let Gavril kill . . . me!” he vowed through gritted teeth.

He crawled awkwardly forward, using his knees and one hand, his left arm clamped to his body to keep from moving his shoulder. Panting and sweating, he paused once to be sick, then forced himself onward.

The hillside canted on him as though it would spill him off. Moaning, he clung tightly to some brambles—which scratched his hands—clenching shut his eyes until the wave of vertigo passed. Then he drew in several breaths and inched his way forward.

Eventually the musty old smell of a trolk den reached his nostrils. Revived a little by the stink, he lifted his head and squinted, and was surprised to find himself almost in the very mouth of the cave.

By force of habit, he picked up a small stick and hurled it weakly into the cave. If anything lurked in there, that would provoke it into coming out. Trolk he did not fear, for his keen sense of smell told him the scent was a false one.  No doubt used in a protection spell long ago, its effect was fading with the passage of time.

Hurting, he half-crawled, half-scooted himself inside the cave, rested a moment, then ventured deeper.

It was a shallow place. He’d expected to find it running deep into the hillside, but instead it formed a small, roughly circular room. The ceiling was tall enough to allow him to stand, had he been capable of doing so.  Pausing on the cold, slightly damp ground, Dain looked around through the gloom.  Almost no light filtered inside, yet it seemed as though the shadows were dissipating a bit. Glancing down, he saw the Ring glowing white on his finger.  It cast about the same amount of light as a glowstone, and when he lifted his hand its radiance strengthened enough to dimly illuminate the cave.  Near the back wall, he saw a V-shaped fissure about halfway up. He frowned, remembering how his father had once stood there. That’s where the Chalice had been left.

Only it wasn’t there now.

Disappointment crashed through him. Gone, he thought dully. Someone had found it, taken it. Who? Where was it now? Why had the finder not proclaimed it?  He felt his strength and determination trickling from him like the blood seeping down his back. “No,” he moaned. “Great Thod, no.”

He sank onto his side on the cold ground. He was so tired. He’d come so far, tried his best. How cruel fate was to cheat him now.

Yet something inside him would not let him wallow in this self-pity. He thought of his father, who’d destroyed himself trying to keep the Chalice safe. He thought of his mother, poisoned by villains. He thought of Thia, born a royal princess but raised in a dwarf’s burrow. He thought of Lord Odfrey, who’d been the first man to show him kindness. He thought of King Verence, who’d taught him how to be a king. He thought of Sir Terent, a Mandrian who had sworn fealty to him and followed him unto death. He thought of Thum and Alexeika, both friends on whom he’d come to rely so heavily.

And the anger in his heart against Alexeika faded. Lying there, he simply let it go. Had she given him the Ring the day she found it, the Chalice would still have not been here.

Of course, now her moods made sense. He understood why she’d been so upset the day he’d knighted her and given her a hauberk and spurs. Her tears and prickly temper sprang from guilt, festering in her heart all that time. Why she’d done it did not matter; her change of heart had redeemed her.  He thought of Gavril, who’d come into the Dark Forest on a quest to find the Chalice. Gavril, who’d lost first his faith and then his soul and finally his life, because of too much arrogant pride and a tainted sword he could not relinquish.

As for Pheresa, Dain regretted he could not save her. He’d wanted to make her grateful to him, to turn her love from Gavril to him. He’d thought that if he could bring her a cure he would win her heart. But it was no good to force love from gratitude.

Besides, he hadn’t saved her, hadn’t been the big hero he’d longed to be.  Nay, he’d done what his father had done—abandoned his people and vanished. Were they cursing his name now, while they were dying?

He would go back to them, he vowed. Although he returned without the Chalice, he would stand with them to meet his death in combat. In some ways, he’d been just as arrogant, foolish, and overconfident as Gavril. But he would go back to his people, empty-handed, and stand with them to the last.  Sighing, he forced himself to sit up. As he waited for the cave to stop spinning, he noticed a few scattered stones on the ground, as well as some sticks propped against the wall.

Another dim memory came to him. His father had knelt there once on the moist soil and placed those stones just so. Thia had helped him. Then they’d prayed together.

For his family’s honor, Dain decided to do the same before he left.  Gasping, he crawled forward and slowly, one by one, placed the stones in a circle. The sticks had been peeled of their bark long ago. They had darkened with age and no longer gleamed white, but they were ash and therefore sacred. He ran his hand up and down their lengths, cleaning dirt and cobwebs off them, before he crossed them carefully. He had no Element candles to light, no bronze knives of ritual, no bell, and no green vines, but he did have salt He took out a small handful from his salt purse and poured it carefully in a thin white line just inside the stone circle. When that was done, he knelt, feeling clammy and weak and very tired, and uttered the simple prayer that Thia had taught him when he was little. He even said the nonsense words they used to say afterwards, nonsense words that he now recognized as Netheran and sacred.  Then he lifted his gaze upward. “Forgive me, O Thod,” he prayed simply, his heart pouring out its trouble. “Forgive me for the sin of pride. I wanted to prove to all men that I could do better than my father. I was angry with him for deserting us, and I meant to prove myself his superior. I am not. I am merely a man who tried but could not do all that I meant to . . . just like my father.” Closing his eyes, he bowed his head and let the silence soak through him.

Turn around.

The voice echoed through his mind, and made his heart jump in fear. He opened his eyes with a gasp, not certain he’d heard rightly. Yet the voice had been clear.

Not yet willing to think that Thod might have actually spoken to him, Dain turned his head and looked behind him.

The cave was suddenly filled with radiant white light. His heart started pounding rapidly in his chest. He looked around, then stared at the rough rock wall and decided the light seemed to be brightest there.  Dain crawled to it on his knees, and there, lying on its side between some small boulders and the wall, was a tall, flared vessel of white metal, glowing with a power that seemed to reach out and enfold him.

Trembling with the shock of his discovery, he stared at it in disbelief. Then he reached out an unsteady hand, and let his fingers brush along the vessel’s side.  The metal felt warm to his touch, as though it were alive.  He heard the Chalice’s song chiming inside the metal. It was a song of hope, peace, and purity. A song of healing and strength. Awed, he reached down and reverently picked it up.

As he held it aloft, its light streamed down over him in rivers of brightness until his head and body glowed with it. He felt his wound close, the festering evil left by Tanengard cleansed away. Strength returned to his limbs, and his exhaustion faded.

“My son,” a deep voice said quietly from behind him.

Startled, Dain turned around, and found himself staring at Tobeszijian. The ghost king looked almost solid in the light cast by the Chalice. Standing in his armor and spurs, his sword belted at his hip, he stood tall and somber, staring at his son.

Dain swallowed hard. “Father.”

“You have done well in all that has been set before you.” Dain frowned, feeling as though he did not deserve such praise. “My reasons were wrong,” he confessed. “I—” “You have done well,” Tobeszijian said. “Now you must face the greatest task of all.”

“Yes,” Dain agreed. “I must go back to them quickly.” Tobeszijian’s pale eyes bored into Dain. “When we talked before, I told you that a king’s sword should be passed to his son. Now the time has come.” “But you can’t do that,” Dain said.

Tobeszijian frowned. “God-steel does not belong in the first world. It was never meant to be left there, or to be used by mortals.”

Dain thought of the bowl he’d stolen from the Chief Believer and lost when he was submerged in the Charva River. Now he glanced down at Truthseeker hanging at his hip. It had become a part of him. He could not imagine life without it. Or battle. “I couldn’t have escaped Gant without this sword.” “It has served you well. But it is wrong to keep it past its purpose.”

“But Lord Odfrey told me his ancestor was given the weapon as a reward.” “So was he told, but ‘tis untrue. Many tales change and grow false through centuries of retelling. Truthseeker was taken as plunder by Odfrey’s ancestor.” Dain frowned. “But Lord Odfrey told me this sword was holy and to be kept with honor.”

“Was it honorable for Lord Odfrey to hide it from all?”

“He brought it out at my trial,” Dain argued.

“Concealed beneath a cloth. He kept it hidden, spoke little of it, feared it.

This is not honorable, my son.”

Dain swallowed more protests. “Have I been dishonorable with it?” he asked humbly.

“Only once.”

And Dain knew instantly that his father referred to his showing off by breaking Matkevskiet’s scimitar. Ashamed, he walked silently to the rear of the cave and placed the Chalice in the fissure. Then he slowly unbuckled his sword belt.  Reluctance filled him, and he thought of Samderaudin’s warning about having to choose between Truthseeker and something else. He did not want to relinquish this magnificent sword. He’d bonded with it in combat. He knew its song well.  Yet with a sudden chill he thought of Gavril, and remembered how the prince’s obsession with Tanengard had led him to tragedy. No possession should ever become that precious, he thought.

And he laid Truthseeker in its scabbard on the ground inside the circle of stones and salt.

“Truly you have learned wisdom,” Tobeszijian said.

Dain turned back to him and saw his father grown smaller and dimmer as though fading away. But Mirengard lay on the ground, gleaming with life and beauty.  Once before, for a moment only, Dain had been able to reach into the second world and touch its hilt. Now he stared at his father’s sword in amazement.  “Pick it up,” Tobeszijian told him.

When he obeyed, the sword felt solid in his hands. He lifted it, marveling at how this could happen, yet suddenly anything seemed possible under the power of the Chalice. He curled his fingers around the hilt, and felt it ply itself to fit his hand. Warmth flashed between it and his palm, and the sword sang to him, sweet and high. Unlike the dwarf-made swords Dain had known all his life, this weapon was eldin-forged. It sang of truth and justice and nobility of spirit. It felt light and perfectly balanced in his hand. Instantly he understood what his father had been trying to tell him. Although he’d adapted to Truthseeker and learned to use it boldly, he remembered back to the first few days when handling it had been almost frightening.

“God-steel really isn’t for mortals to own,” he said now. “Is it?” “Nay. It can come to possess you, give you false confidence, lead you down paths you should not follow. Mirengard will never possess you, never fail you, never tempt you wrongly. Use it well, my son. Use it for justice and right.” “I shall,” Dain promised, his throat suddenly choked.

“There is more,” Tobeszijian said. He pointed behind Dain. Dain turned around, but saw nothing. Then light seemed to flash, dazzling his eyes. He squinted and blinked and suddenly there lay at his feet the breastplate of embossed gold, its hammer and lightning bolt gleaming brightly. Dain gasped in amazement at such a gift, and as soon as he picked it up he felt its power go tingling through his hands, for like Mirengard, it was magicked.

Dain buckled it on with excitement, hung Mirengard on his belt, and faced Tobeszijian, feeling for the first time that he truly was a king.  “Father!” he said with a smile, then stopped in dismay, for Tobeszijian looked dimmer and mistier than ever. He was fading away, and Dain was not yet ready to let him go.

“I can do no more for you,” Tobeszijian said softly. “I can do no more.

Farewell.”

“Wait!” Dain called out to him. “Please . . . what can I do for you, Father? How can I help you?”

“Go to your army. Help Nether, for it needs you sorely now.”

“Aye,” Dain agreed. “But are you not Nether also?”

Tobeszijian was barely visible now, but Dain saw him smile. His pale, stern face was transformed completely, and he came closer once more.  “Would you do this?” he asked eagerly.

Dain spread out his hands. “Ask whatever you wish.” “Let me ride into battle one last time . . . with you,” Tobeszijian said. “Let me be inside you, a part of you, guiding you. Let me take my revenge on Muncel.  Let me return also to my people, as I once promised to do.” Tears burned Dain’s eyes. He thought of the long years Tobeszijian had existed in his terrible, lonely limbo, and how much pain lay in that request. Although he did not understand how it could be done, he could not refuse.  “Of course, Father,” he said. “How is it to be done?”

Tobeszijian walked forward and silently stepped into him. Dain felt himself sway, then there was Tobeszijian’s mind wrapped around his. His body felt strange—still strong, but not like his at all. Yet when Dain glanced down at his hands he recognized them for his own, down to the old scars on his knuckles and the new callus on his thumb.

They shared no thoughts. There was no internal discussion, yet Dain felt as though his spirit and Tobeszijian’s had somehow become one.  He took the Chalice from its niche and tucked it beneath his cloak to protect it from the drizzle outside. Then he walked away from the cave, and did not let himself look back.

Outside, the leafless trees with their rain-darkened bark seemed in sharper focus than ever before. The gloomy clouds overhead dragged their bellies on the topmost branches, and the drizzle quickly became a downpour.  The darsteed stood where he’d left it. As Dain came down the hillside, it flung up its narrow head and glared at him with red eyes, snorting uncertainly. It backed up a step as though it did not recognize him, yet the merest touch of his mind forced it to obey.

Dain mounted, secured the Chalice well, and stared at the Ring, glowing brighter than ever on his hand.

“Home,” he said, and in a flash he was there.

The transition was too abrupt, too sudden to comprehend at once. In one blink he had left the rain-soaked forest of Nold behind and was suddenly in the snow-covered meadow outside Grov, surrounded on all sides by men shrieking and fighting with all their might.

Dain’s arrival in a golden shower of sparks caused the men fighting close by to break off and stagger back. Even the Believers paused to stare.  He sat there astride the flame-snorting darsteed, clad in the gold breastplate and shimmering with a bright radiance that streamed from him to puddle momentarily on the ground, melting the snow wherever it touched down. As Dain drew his new sword, it flashed blinding white, and its radiance obviously dazzled the closest Believers, who groaned and flinched away, some even shielding their eyes with their hands. The darsteed reared high, bugling for battle, and Dain spied his royal banner flying next to a solitary tree of massive and ancient girth.

Fearlessly, Dain aimed the darsteed in that direction and went galloping through the midst of the men, forcing them to break off their fighting and jump out of his way. A few Believers who weren’t frozen with astonishment tried to stop him, but their weapons seemed unable to touch him.

It was the Chalice’s presence, he knew.

Boldly he galloped right through the heart of the battlefield, with man after man stumbling out of his way. Then cheering came in his wake, a rousing wave in the distance that swelled ever louder behind him. The Netheran knights and Agya warriors shouted and brandished their weapons.

“Faldain! Faldain!” they shouted with new hearts and restored courage.  Reaching the tree and the banners streaming from their poles, Dain saw Romsalkin and Matkevskiet, protected within a spell circle cast by Samderaudin. They stared at him in astonishment.

Without a word, Dain wheeled the darsteed around and let it rear again. As it did so, he pulled out the Chalice from beneath his cloak and held it aloft for all the army to see.

The cheering swelled to new heights, rising to a frenzy now.  Dain looked over his shoulder, knowing that all the encouragement this gave his men would more than be matched by the furious determination of the Gantese to capture it, “A priest!” he shouted. “Here. Take it with reverence.” He leaned down to hand the Chalice to a bearded old man who’d come running forth to take it. The priest was crying openly, and his hands trembled so that Dain feared he might drop the sacred vessel. “Fill it with water, and see that the Lady Pheresa drinks from it at once,” he commanded.

“Yes, your majesty,” the priest answered, sinking to his knees.

“Romsalkin,” Dain said. “Go with him. Guard the Chalice with your life.” The old lord drew himself to his fullest height. His eyes were shining, even as Lord Omas came galloping up wild-eyed.

“Your majesty!” he shouted in disbelief. “You are whole again, but how—” “Never mind,” Dain snapped, seeing the Gantese forces charging anew. Their war cries rang in his ears. “Stay with me.”

“Aye, sire.”

“Matkevskiet!” Dain said to the general. “Stop hiding here under spells and get out your trumpet. I want your warriors redeployed.”

Matkevskiet was staring at him in openmouthed wonder. He looked as though he’d never seen Dain before, and yet as though he knew him well but could not believe his eyes.

“Divide them,” Dain said, certain something in his voice or manner was now like Tobeszijian’s. “Send a wedge charging straight into the heart of their right flank. That’s where the Nonkind are, and that is their weakness.” “Surely that is their strength.”

“Their strength lies in the magemons surrounding Muncel,” Dain said crisply.  “The rest of your warriors I want with me. I intend to cut a path to Muncel. Get to it!”

Matkevskiet wheeled his charger around and raised his horn to his lips in a series of sharp blats that only the Agyas understood.  Dain turned to Samderaudin. “Is protection all you can do?” he asked. “Or can you hurl fire spells and cyclones at them? To confuse them, to keep the worst of the Nonkind off the men?”

But the sorcerel was staring at him. Instead of answering Dain’s question, he said, “So this is the choice you’ve made. This is the path you’ve chosen. The riskiest one of all. Welcome home, my liege.”

Dain could see a company of Gantese fire-knights closing in. He had no time to discuss anything philosophical now. “If you can spell-fight, do so!” he ordered, and charged his darsteed straight at the oncoming foes.  Lord Omas rode with him, shouting defiance at the top of his considerable lungs.  Together they met the foremost Believers, and were soon surrounded and fighting with all their strength and prowess. They were outnumbered far too greatly to prevail, and Dain had a tricky time at first in adjusting to the balance and heft of Mirengard, much less its failure to hack through the fire-knights’ obsidian armor.

“Stop fighting the sword,” came a voice in his mind. “Let it fight for you.” And then he got the knack of it and settled himself into the song and rhythm of a magicked sword untainted and pure.

Moments later, more Netherans joined him and Lord Omas, helping to drive the fire-knights back. During a moment of respite, Dain glanced around and saw the Agyas coming at a full gallop toward him, with the general at their head.  Grethori, screaming at the top of their lungs over a dreadful screech of war pipes, rode behind them.

Dain did not wait for them to catch up, but spurred the darsteed forward. “We go to Muncel!” he shouted.

At first they cut through the thin Gantese defenses easily, but the Believers rallied and began to concentrate in front of them, holding them away from Muncel. Dain’s charge slowed, and then practically stopped. They fought their way through, one foot at a time, trampling over the bodies of the fallen and driving their foes slowly back. And now Dain found himself fighting Netheran knights as often as he fought Believers. There was a terrible desperation in their faces as they saw him and forced themselves to attack. They had sold themselves to the wrong side in this civil war, and they knew it. Although they fought, often they had little heart in it. As some were quickly slain, others began to throw down their arms and flee.

It was a trickle of desertion at first, then a stream. More and more of Muncel’s knights fled the field. Dain was close enough now to see his uncle standing beneath an awning, shaking his fist and screaming at the deserters. Hurlhounds chased after them, bringing many down.

But the Believers did not flee. They grew fiercer than ever, and now they were joined by Nonkind troops, shambling, dead-eyed men, some with lolling heads, all mindlessly stabbing and chopping under the direction of the Believers who controlled them.

Mirengard cut them down so easily it was sickening. As quickly as he could, Dain broke through their line, and suddenly there were no more knights ahead of him.  The darsteed raced right up to the very boundaries of the protection spell shimmering around Muncel and his generals.

For the first time in his life, Dain came face-to-face with his uncle. He saw a sour-faced man with a coward’s eyes, stooped in posture, and filled with hatred.  A rage not his own filled Dain. He wanted to seize this man by the throat and throttle the life from him. Realizing that these were his father’s feelings rather than his, Dain pointed his gory sword at Muncel.