Pheresa swallowed a sigh and summoned a wan smile to please him. "Yes, Father, Savroix is certainly impressive. I did not expect it to be so large." "There's nothing like it in all the world," Lindier proclaimed, and rubbed his hands together. He closed the leather curtain and gave the order for the carriage to drive on. "Not much longer now, my dear, and then you shall be home."

She frowned, unable to hide her distaste.

"Why do you look so?" he asked.

"Do you not find this summons odd?" she replied.

"Odd? Certainly not. It is a great honor extended to you. The king has followed your progress and studies with much interest these past few years. Your conduct and deportment have been reported to him as excellent. He is well pleased and now he is impatient to meet you. What is wrong with that?"

"Nothing," she said hastily. "I am honored by this opportunity to meet the king.

But-" "But what?" Lindier snapped. "Why do you frown so? Why do you quibble? What's wrong with you?

Nerves?"

"No, your grace," she said, casting her gaze down at her clenched hands. Slowly she forced her fists to uncurl. "But must I live here now?" "Why not? It is to be your home. The king wishes to get to know you, both as your uncle and as your imminent father-in-law."

"But that is the problem, Father," she said, meeting Lindier's eyes. "It is too soon. Gavril has not proposed to me yet."

"He will, my dear. He must!"

"But he is not bound to choose me."

"Custom binds him," Lindier said grimly.

"But not law. For me to be installed here in the palace, and waiting for him when he returns next year . . .

well, it looks too forward. It looks as though I expect him to-that I am sure he will-that I-"

"Nonsense!" Lindier said heartily. "What is this mincing nicety about? Of course you expect him to propose. We all do."

"But I should not appear to be too confident."

"It is custom," Lindier repeated.

"If I offend his pride, this confidence will prove to be the gravest folly," she whispered unhappily. "I have heard that the prince is hot-tempered and stubborn. If he feels coerced or pressured too hard, he may wish to look elsewhere for his bride."

Lindier snorted and gripped her hand briefly in his. "You worry too much. The boy is young and high-spirited, but he is hardly a fool. One look at you, my dear, and he will be captivated."

She smiled at that. She could not help but be won by her father's flattery; however, as they swept through the imposing gates of the palace and rolled along the long drive, her qualms returned.

Still, the wonders and beauty of the grounds amazed her. Her father pulled aside the curtain so they could look out despite the misty rain, and she gasped at the size of the fountain, which seemed as large as a lake. Cavorting sea creatures and cherubs made of mossy stone spouted jets of water. The size and scale of them astonished her. Beyond the fountain lay gardens of riotous color and formal pattern. The flowers glowed in the gentle rain, the day's dreariness making their hues seem brighter. The walls of the palace towered before her with an immense grandeur of spires and statuary, and as she looked Pheresa's heart began to beat faster.

I shall be the mistress of all this, she thought. It was the king's wish, and surely Gavril was no longer as spoiled and horrid as he had been when he was a little child. Even if she did not like him, she liked Savroix very much. The carriage halted before a vast sweep of steps leading up to tall doors that stood open. Servants in royal livery were lined up in a double row at attention, and a purple carpet was rolled out between them.

As Pheresa was handed out of the carriage with tender care by her father, she met his excited gaze and smiled fully for the first time. In her mind, it no longer mattered if she and Gavril liked or disliked eachother. She wanted Savroix for her own. She would do whatever she had to in order to get it. Far away at Thirst Hold, Gavril's raid on the chevard's cellars worked exactly as planned. With almost everyone in the hold worried about whether Lord Odfrey would live or die, it proved a simple matter to gain entry.

Aoun and another manservant coerced into helping carried out perhaps a dozen kegs of the Saelutian mead and concealed them in an unused storeroom. Now it was the eve of Aelintide. The servants had been abustle all day, making preparations for tomorrow's feasting and celebration of harvest. Julth Rondel, steward of Thirst Hold, wanted to suspend the feast until Lord Odfrey recovered, but Gavril had insisted the celebrations go on as planned. After supper ended and while the chapel bell was ringing to call worshipers to eventide ma.s.s, Gavril collected Mierre, Sir Los, and a servant to carry a keg of the mead. He set out through the crisp night air, his breath puffing white about his face, his jeweled poniard swinging at his side, his fur-lined cloak keeping him warm.

He crossed the hold, walking at first with the general stream of knights and servants going to the ma.s.s to pray for Lord Odfrey's recovery, then splitting off and proceeding onward. He noted with approval the long trestle tables and harvest pole already placed in the stableyard. As he approached the guardhouse, he saw lights in the windows and heard the sounds of comradely singing. Sentries patrolled the battlements in silence, keeping the normal discipline of the hold. Although the raiders had been defeated, the dwarf attack had greatly unsettled the serfs. It had been with difficulty that they were persuaded to leave the safety of the hold yesterday. Those who had been burned out were sent off to make new homes for themselves, each survivor given a sack of essentials such as a cooking pot, a hank of salted meat, a length of new-woven linsey to make clothes, and a Circle to hang over their new hearth. Such largess emboldened them greatly, and most set off without further persuasion, pausing only to touch the door of the chapel with prayers for Lord Odfrey.

Pausing outside the door of the guardhouse, Gavril waited for Sir Los to step ahead of him and pound on the thick wooden panels. The singing died down, and the door swung open. "What's the word o' the master?" asked a gruff voice from within.

"Nothing," Sir Los replied in his terse way. "His highness requests entry." The door opened wide, and the knights within rose to their feet, sc.r.a.ping back stools and benches in a great crash of noise.

Gavril drew a deep breath. He was almost trembling inside with antic.i.p.ation, but he forced his emotions under rigid control. He did not want his excitement misunderstood.

"The knights of Thirst Hold bid your highness enter, with welcome," said the man at the door.

He bowed low, and Gavril stepped inside.

The guardhouse was a round, stout structure, built of brick and stone. One half of it held cells for miscreants and suspicious characters awaiting judgment and floggings. The rest of the building was a single, open chamber filled with tables and benches. The knights ate their meals here. In their off-duty hours they diced, studied war strategies, a.s.sembled to hear reports and dispatches of trouble on the border, and dictated letters to scribes.

Seeing one such individual now standing in the far corner, still clutching his pen in ink-stained fingers, Gavril frowned and pointed at the man. "Scribe, you are excused," he said.

The scribe's throat-apple jerked up and down. With a hasty bow, he gathered up sc.r.a.ps of parchment, his inkwell, his leather roll, and his a.s.sortment of battered pens. Bowing again, he scuttled past Gavril and his party, and exited out the door into the night. Gavril glanced around at the silent, respectful faces. One man, Sir Bosquecel, captain of the guard, was conspicuously absent. No doubt he had gone to ma.s.s. Having counted on that, Gavril concealed an inner smile of satisfaction. "Come to the fire, your highness," Sir Terent said. He was the man who had opened the door to them. Balding and ruddy-faced, he gestured toward the hearth, where a modest fire burned amidst crumbled embers and white ashes. "Please accept our hospitality and have a chair. Sir Nynth, pour his highness and these companions a cup of cider."

Gavril allowed himself to be ushered closer to the fire, but he did not sit down, and he did not accept the hastily poured cup offered to him. "Please, sir knights. Allow me to offer you a gift instead." He gestured, and his servant set the keg on the closest table. "Saelutian mead, good sirs," Gavril said proudly, beaming at them. "The best quality, fit for the best knights in service in upland Mandria. Let us drink a toast to your recent success in battle." Silence fell over the room. Many of the knights looked away. Some frowned at Gavril. Others looked shocked.

Taken aback by their unexpected reaction, Gavril allowed his smile to fade from his face. He stared back at them, his pulse beginning to race inside his collar. "What's amiss?" he asked, and hated it that he had to ask such a question. In that instant he felt like an unschooled boy in a company of men. He did not like the feeling at all.

When no one immediately replied, he frowned and gestured at the keg. "This gift is both costly and rare, worthy of the valor you displayed against the dwarf raiders. Will you not drink it with me, on this eve of Aelintide?" Red-faced, Sir Terent drew himself to his full stature, standing head and shoulders above Gavril. He cleared his throat and said with hesitation, "Your highness is most generous. Thanks do we give you for this gift, but we'll not accept it."

Gavril's face was on fire. He did not understand, and there was no chamberlain on hand to murmur a swift explanation in his ear. Social gaffes were unbecoming to princes of the realm. So far no one had dared to laugh at him. Their expressions stayed most solemn. But he held himself rigidly, feeling like a fool and insulted past bearing at their refusal.

When he could master his voice, he said, "May I know why you refuse?" Sir Terent's eyes held kindness and dismay. Bowing his bald head, he said quietly, "Prayed we have to Tomias the Prophet, asking that Lord Odfrey's life be spared. Gave we our oaths of personal sacrifice. While strong drink is permitted on Aelintide, our vows were made not to partake of it until Lord Odfrey is whole again."

Gavril's head snapped up. His pulse was throbbing in his throat now. His face flamed hotter than ever, and certainty that it was red upset him even more. Someone should have told him about this. Someone would pay for letting him make such a mistake.

"I see," he said, his voice tight. "Forgive me. I meant no disrespect of your oaths. Had I known-" "But wasn't your highness at morning ma.s.s?" Sir Nynth asked, frowning. "Yes, of course I was," Gavril replied.

"We gave our oaths then," Sir Nynth said.

Gavril swallowed, feeling more a fool than ever. He had heard no such oaths, but then he hadn't been paying attention. Having conducted his private devotionals at dawn in his own prayer-cabinet, he'd spent his time at ma.s.s deep in thought, planning this evening. With a scowl, he promised himself that everyone in his service would be punished for letting this happen.

"Perhaps your highness simply forgot," Sir Terent said. "Or perhaps your highness didn't hear."

These huge, ill-educated oafs were trying to be kind. Gavril wanted to choke. He glanced at the door, ready to plunge outside and escape this nightmare, but for the second time Sir Terent offered him a cup of that dreadful cider. "Drink with us, your highness, but we'll remain sober if it please you." "Very well."

He could do little else but take the cup. With ill grace he quaffed it, and shuddered at the taste.

Laughing in restored good humor, the knights raised their own cups and drank after him.

"Now then," Sir Terent said, pushing forward the room's only tall-backed chair.

"Take our seat of honor and bide with us for a time."

Rough-mannered or not, the offer was a gracious one. Gavril knew it was rare for knights to consort with boys in training such as himself. Ordinarily only those holding the rank of full knight could enter here, much less be invited to stay longer than a few minutes. But although he accepted the honor, and seated himself stiffly in the chair, he was still smarting from his thwarted plans to bribe them. Now he would have to think of a different approach. "Tell me, Sir Terent," he said. "Do you think the dwarves have truly been routed? Or will there be more trouble?"

"None from that lot!" shouted someone in the back of the room. Others swiftly silenced him.

Sir Terent turned red-faced again. "If there are more Bnen uprisings, there may be trouble all winter.

That's what we don't know yet." "Ah." Gavril leaned forward, thrilled to be discussing strategy. For a moment he almost forgot his own plans. "Have you sent scouts into the forest?" "The captain's not yet given the order. He may be waiting till after Aelintide, but more than likely he'd rather get his information right here." "I don't understand."

Sir Terent grinned and said, "From our eld."

Gavril frowned. "What eld?"

"The young 'un what took us into battle," said Sir Deloit in his thick uplander accent. Grizzled and old, with a puckered scar running through his left eye, he slammed his fist on the table with a grunt of admiration. "Like a gift from Thod, he was, appearing on our road at just the right time. Led us true, he did, straight to 'em. And like a burr did he stick to our lord and master. Naught harmed him, though he be right in the thick of battle. A gift from Thod, he was, all right. It's him we want to ask about dwarf uprisings." A terrible suspicion began to coil through Gavril's mind. There couldn't be two eldin in the vicinity. Not two young ones. Could there? Again, he had not been told this gossip. It did not matter to him that he'd been so busy organizing and carrying out the recovery of his stolen wine and mead that he'd paid no heed to anything else. Someone should have informed him. Leaning back in his chair, Gavril shot a dagger glance in Sir Los's direction. The protector's gaze shifted uneasily, and Gavril's anger boiled higher. Sir Los had known but had not told him. Unforgivable.

Sir Nynth, an ugly dark-haired man with keen eyes, edged closer. "Tell us, your highness. How do we go about taming our eld? Getting him to come forth from hiding and trust us?"

Gavril blinked at him in startlement. "Say you that the eld is inside the hold?"

"Aye," Sir Terent said with a nod. Gavril clenched his hands upon the chair arms. "What does he look like, this eld?"

"He's about your highness's height, but skinny. Black-haired. Young."

Gavril drew in his breath sharply. "I've seen this pagan before." The knights exchanged delighted glances. "Does your highness know him? Know his name?" Sir Terent asked eagerly.

"No."

"Sir Bosquecel says he is called Dain," Sir Alard contributed in his soft voice. "That's not an eldin name," another knight farther back protested. "They're all called by names as long as your arm, names that tangle your tongue right up." "We're trying to get him to trust us and come out of hiding," Sir Terent explained.

"Are you sure he hasn't left?" Gavril asked. "Perhaps when the villagers departed yesterday-" "Nay. I saw him slinking past the food cellars like a cat midday," said the one-eyed old knight. "I maybe got only one eye, but it sees sharp. He's still hanging about. We got to catch him, see?"

"Yes, of course you must," Gavril said. "It will not do to have a pagan running freely about the hold."

"Aye, he ought to be brought in and given proper shelter," Sir Terent said with a smile that showed where his front teeth had been knocked out in some past battle. "And thanked rightly for what he did for us. Nocine the huntsman owes the boy his life."

"Nocine?" Gavril echoed.

"Aye. Saved him with spellcraft."

Disapproval sank through Gavril like a stone through water. He stared at Sir Terent with a stern face.

"Spellcraft is against Writ."

"Aye, of course," the knight agreed with a casualness that made Gavril determined to write down his name as soon as he returned to his chambers tonight. He was starting to compile lists of such names, ferreting out the unfaithful for Cardinal Noncire's information. Sir Terent leaned forward. "But he is what he is. Can't help it, I figure. Anyway, we want to thank him. Make him our mascot and-" Gavril shot to his feet, causing Sir Terent to break off. "Make him your what?" the prince shouted.

"Our mascot," Sir Terent repeated.

"He brought us wondrous luck," Sir Nynth said.

Other knights were nodding.

"Aye," Sir Deloit said. "Took us through forest so twisted we couldn't never found our way back out again. But he knew all the ways. Saw trails we didn't see. Sniffed his way through, most like. But he didn't get lost once in all the day. Quick-witted too, he is. If ever we go back into Nold, it's that boy I want guiding me."

Other voices lifted in agreement. Listening to them, Gavril somehow managed to master his shock and outrage. Uplanders were notorious backsliders, always letting their faith falter in favor of the old ways. Many were lenient toward pagans, just as these knights were tonight. They saw no contradiction between that and their oaths of faithfulness to the Writ.

But beyond that, Gavril was thinking of the qualities the knights kept mentioning about this Dain. He remembered the eld he had hunted only a few days ago, the eld with black hair and eyes of pagan gray, the eld who had defied him and fought back with a fearlessness that now made Gavril wonder. Could this eld be put to his use? If Dain truly knew his way about the Dark Forest, then did he know how to find the Field of Skulls? And beyond that, did he perhaps know where to find the Chalice of Eternal Life?

Even if Gavril bribed these oafs into searching the forest for him, it was clear they knew not where to look. A corner of Gavril's heart warned him against the temptation of using pagans in his service. It was opening the gate to worse temptations. But he felt strong in his faith, and certain that he could withstand whatever might try to turn him from the truth of Writ. Was it sinfully wrong to use a pagan in his search for the missing Chalice?

Gavril envisioned putting Dain in a harness, a collar and chain on his throat like a leashed dog. He would ride through the Dark Forest with Dain trotting ahead of him, hunting the Chalice, leading the way to success. "Your highness?" Sir Terent said, jolting Gavril from his thoughts. He blinked stupidly, trying to gather his wits and remember what had been said around him. "Yes?"

"I asked what we should do to catch him," Sir Terent said. "I'm sorry if your highness is too tired. It's just-I thought since your highness has been schooled so much in the Writ and the faith, you might know more about the pagan ways than we do. You might know how to make him trust us."

Gavril hesitated only a second, then he smiled. "Of course. I would be most pleased to a.s.sist you."

Sir Terent bowed, his ruddy face showing grat.i.tude. Sir Deloit banged his gnarled hand on the table.

"And I say that we ought to try tolling him out with food. Leave it about, easy like, and he'll come for it.

Bound to be hungry by now."

"An excellent idea," Gavril said.

"Then we'll do that," Sir Terent said. He glanced at the other knights with a smile and nod.

"I must take my leave now," Gavril told them. "I will think on this matter and give you what help I can.

Perhaps I and the other fosters will try our hand at pursuing him."

As he spoke, he glanced over his shoulder at Mierre, who gave him a quick smile. "Chasing him is likely going to scare him worse," the old knight started in, but someone put a hand on his shoulder to silence him.

Gavril frowned. He'd had enough advice from that quarter. "Good night to you, sir knights," he said with gracious courtesy. "Good Aelintide as well." They bowed, chorusing, "Good Aelintide, your highness."

"I will wish you luck, also, in tomorrow's games and melee." Sir Terent's smile vanished, and again an uncomfortable silence fell over the room. "There will be none."

Gavril stared in fresh surprise. "No contests?"

"Not while our lord lies so gravely ill." "I see." Gavril felt his face growing hot again. He tried to hide his discomfiture by adjusting the heavy folds of his cloak. "Well, then, let us be glad there is still to be a feast."

He turned to go, and Sir Los hurried ahead of him to thrust open the door.

"Wait, your highness!" Sir Terent called after him.

Gavril turned back to see the knight coming with the keg.

"No," Gavril said, lifting his hand. "Keep my gift."

"We cannot accept it," Sir Terent said.

"You said you will not drink it until Lord Odfrey is well." Gavril forced a smile to his lips, still desirous of addicting the company to this wondrous mead so that their allegiance would thereafter belong to him.

"Save it until that time, then drink it in celebration."