Some of the knights lifted merry cheers, but Sir Terent still looked troubled.

"Lord Odfrey disapproves of strong drink."

"It's fine mead," Gavril said. "But if you wish, feed it to the swine." Mierre stepped forward, looking red-faced and shy before the men. "It's not polite to refuse a gift from the prince," he muttered in warning. Sir Terent, thus crudely informed of proper protocol, blinked and stepped back.

"Forgive me," he said in haste. "I meant no offense to your highness." "None is taken," Gavril said sweetly. "Good night." He walked out, his small entourage trailing behind him. With every crunching step across the frozen mud of the stable-yard, his iron control slipped another notch. Seething, he whirled at last and struck Sir Los in the chest with his fist. The blow banged against Sir Los's hauberk, hurting Gavril's hand, but he was too furious to care. "You knew," he said in a low spiteful voice. "You knew about the eld and you said nothing. You knew about their oaths, and you warned me not. If I were home in Savroix, I'd have your ears and tongue cut as a reward for such service." Sir Los stared at him through the darkness. "I am your knight protector. I guard your life with my own. Would you chase the eld yourself and risk being burned or killed with his spellcraft? Better to let the knights catch him. Better for your highness to stay far away from him. He would have done you harm that day in the marsh."

Despite his anger, Gavril knew his protector's words were true. He drew in an angry breath, his chest heaving, then spun about on his heel and strode off without another word.

The others followed him in silence. After a moment he reached out and gripped Mierre by his muscular arm. "You will catch him," he said in a voice like iron. "You will trap him and bring him to me. You and Kaltienne work at this."

"Aye, your highness," Mierre said.

Gavril listened for any sound of doubt or cowardice, but Mierre sounded as confident as always. "You do not fear his spellcraft?" Gavril asked. "Not much," Mierre said. "My grandsire sometimes had eldin come about the place when I was little. They were always gentle."

"This one isn't," Gavril warned him. "I'll catch him. Worry not," Mierre said. "Besides, I know how to ward him off, if I have to."

Gavril frowned in the darkness. As he strode into the paved courtyard, he saw that the chapel lights had gone dark. All was still and quiet. It must be late, he knew. He had stayed too long with the knights.

He started to warn Mierre against using the old ways, for such were forbidden, but then he bit his tongue. For once he would look the other way and pretend he did not understand what Mierre meant.

It's for the Chalice, he a.s.sured his conscience.

"Be quick about it, if you can," he said at last. "We have free rein only while the chevard lies ill. If he recovers, we'll be back in ch.o.r.es, unable to come and go as we please."

"Aye, this is better," Mierre agreed with a grin. "Your highness?"

"Yes?"

"What about some of that mead for ourselves? We deserve it, after all we've done."

Gavril spun about and struck Mierre across the face, too furious to govern himself this time. "It's not for you!" he shouted. "Not for anyone but whom I say."

Holding his cheek, Mierre took a cautious step back. His green eyes were suddenly flat and sullen. "I beg your highness's pardon," he said. Gavril took several ragged breaths before he could haul his temper back under control. "Not the mead," he said at last, his voice more its normal tone. "Never the mead. Is that clearly understood? Never."

"Aye, your highness."

"We'll share wine or ale ... later. Tomorrow perhaps, if you bring me the eld." Gavril's voice was still unsteady. He turned away from Mierre, appalled by how close he could come to disaster if the wrong people got into that mead. It was no brew for anyone except those Gavril wanted to master. He must take care to keep the fosters well away from it. "I think," Gavril said, "that you had better leave me now."

Mierre bowed and ran off across the courtyard. Gavril lingered a moment, gulping in cold air to clear his head. Sir Los dismissed the gawking servant with a gesture and waited in patient silence.

Finally Gavril turned his steps toward the deserted chapel, where the last of the incense still wafted from the brazier hanging outside the door. Gavril stepped into the shadowy interior, which was lit only by a few votives flickering on the altar. The domed ceiling rose overhead into shadows, its gilding reflecting small glints of candlelight. It was painted with a scene of Tomias the Prophet at the Sacred Well.

Gavril paid no attention to the ceiling painting, which he considered crudely drawn and ill-colored by whatever local artisans Lord Odfrey had employed. His heart was not stirred by the carvings on the altar, for they had a flavor of the old ways. Instead, he focused his gaze on the large Circle of gilded bra.s.s hanging above the altar. As always, the sight of the cheap Circle annoyed him. Lord Odfrey, he felt, should spend the money for a Circle of solid gold. Sighing, Gavril sought to clear his mind. This evening he had been crossed by many temptations. He needed a cleansed heart in order to keep his vows and the path he had chosen. Genuflecting, Gavril pressed his face against the floor and began to pray. Shivering in the shadows, his breath steaming about his face, Dain watched the prince enter the small chapel, his elegant, cloaked figure momentarily silhouetted as the door swung open to admit him. The prince's protector followed him, then all lay quiet beneath the hand of darkness. Dain had heard every word of the conversation between Prince Gavril and the larger boy called Mierre. He understood that they intended to catch him.

Sighing, Dain slipped from the courtyard and ducked into the warm, smelly kennels. He snuggled in among the dogs, who licked his hands and chin sleepily. These were not the prince's dogs. Those red brutes were kept kenneled in a separate place.

Dain could have befriended them too, but he had not yet taken the trouble. Weary and afraid, he made himself a nest in the straw and basked in the warmth of the dogs. Gavril would either hurt him or kill him if he let himself be caught. Dain grimaced angrily in the darkness and vowed not to let it happen. He was determined to stay here through the winter, but he refused to be prey for the cruel prince and his companions.

At dawn, the chapel bell rang loudly, shattering all the natural song in the world. Startled awake, Dain sat bolt upright. The dogs clambered to their feet, shook their coats, and whined in antic.i.p.ation of their morning meal of raw fish. Angry at himself for having slept so late, Dain scrambled out of the kennel and ducked into a damp alcove over one of the cisterns. Crouched in there, his back wedged against the clammy stones, he listened while the kennelmaster came shuffling along, hitching up his untied leggings with one hand and scrubbing the sleep from his face with the other.

"Merry Aelintide to you," he called out to the dogs, who barked back gleefully. Dain whispered the word to himself. Aelintide, the great harvest feast. Now he understood what the frenzied work and preparations had been for. The past few days, harvesters had been bringing food into the hold, until there seemed to be enough to feed all the world. Dain had never before seen such bounty. The dwarves were not good farmers. Jorb had sometimes grown a small patch of root vegetables to help them get through the winter. Thia loved tending it, although she preferred flowers to the mundane cabbages, turnips, toties, and fingerlings. She would stand in the patch with a hoe in hand and the sun warming her face. She sang so beautifully that the birds would come and perch on her shoulders, singing with her while bees buzzed amid her flowers in low, droning counterpoint.

But these Mandrians were not like the dwarves. Instead, they farmed large fields. Hordes of serfs hoed and pulled weeds throughout the long growing season, then in autumn they went forth to scythe, winnow, and stack sheaves. Millers wearing Thirst green took charge of the grain brought to the hold in tall-sided carts. They ground flour and baked bread to be sold back to the villagers. The aroma of baking bread made Dain weak in the knees. With his mouth watering, he had skulked about the ovens yesterday and had even risked plucking out a loaf, which was still baking and only half-cooked. Its crust burned his hands, forcing him to juggle it while he ran back into hiding. When he broke it open, a great cloud of steam hit his face. The dough was gooey in the center. He bit into it and burned his mouth. Thereafter he blew on it and nibbled, blew on it and nibbled, marveling at the texture and whiteness of the bread. He ate it all, and later was sick. But he did not care.

One of the many barns held a herd of cows that were taken outside the hold to a pasture in the morning dawn and brought back in late afternoon. They were milked every day, and plump women in kerchiefs and white ap.r.o.ns skimmed cream, churned b.u.t.ter, and made large wheels of yellow cheese that were wrapped in linen and stored in wooden hoop-shaped boxes stacked in a cool cellar. Men smoked meats in a place built especially for the purpose. Hams and haunches of mutton were hung from the rafters. Fish was filleted and hung up on wooden dowels to dry over slow, smoky fires. Barrels of salted meat were stacked in storerooms and cellars alongside sacks of brown toties and large purple turnips. Baskets ofquince, pears, and apples filled another building lined with shelves to hold them all.

Cider-making went on all day long, filling the air with the fermenting fragrance of crushed apples. Berries were put in huge outdoor kettles and boiled into a frothy, sugary confection later spooned into lidded crocks. Young girls wearing long ap.r.o.ns left the hold at early morn and trudged back at eventide, their ap.r.o.ns full of herbs and gra.s.ses that were then chopped, dried, and stored in small clay pots with corks.

Such a flurry of work went on around the preparation and storage of food that Dain began to believe this was all the workers did, year-round. The Mandrians stored up food like the dwarves stored up treasure.

Then late yesterday afternoon the work had stopped. The hold looked abandoned, for everyone seemed to have gone indoors. When the bell rang at eventide, many of the hold folk went to chapel for ma.s.s.

Foul-smelling incense burned night and day from a smoking bra.s.s brazier hung outside the chapel door.

Dain did not understand all the rituals of man-religion, but he understood that they were praying for the recovery of Lord Odfrey.

Dain was also worried about the chevard. He could not pray to the dwarf G.o.ds for mercy, for they did not govern the chevard's fate. He knew very little about the Church of Mandria, because men-ways were also denied to him. As for the eldin G.o.ds, if there were any, he had never been taught their ways and could not call on them either.

Feeling bereft, he prayed instead to Thia's spirit, now living as light and song within the third world. In his mind he talked to her, for he had no one else. In the few days he'd hidden himself here, he'd kept himself out of sight, fearing capture and bodily harm, especially if Gavril caught him. The knights knew he was here, for sometimes they searched for him. Other times they left bits of food lying out, like lures for a trap. Dain was not so easily tricked. Already he had learned the patterns of the place, when to venture out and when to stay in hiding. The sentries patrolled the battlements and bridge spans between towers.

He had to make sure he skulked along the shadows and places where a guard overhead could not see him.

And if he was lonely, at least he did not starve. At night he drank water from the stone horse troughs.

Food was easy to scavenge, for the hold folk were wasteful and careless with it. The simpleton goosegirl left out crusts of bread to feed the plump pidges that strutted and cooed along the roofs. Careless stableboys sometimes abandoned half-eaten apples or tossed the cores away. Maidservants carried out buckets of sc.r.a.ps at midday and eventide. This bounty was shared first among the scrawny children who worked at keeping the paved courtyard swept clean of leaves and horse droppings. The sc.r.a.ps they left were then given as slop to the pigs. Once he found the food stores, Dain did not have to rob the pigs.

There was so much food, nothing would be missed. He had never seen such bounty in his life.

Now, however, as he crouched with his feet planted on the lid of the cistern and listened to the kennelmaster whistle and talk to the dogs, Dain felt a surge of loneliness so great he almost pushed himself out into open sight. But he held himself where he was, aching in a way he could not explain.

Within an hour or so, the smells of baking filled the air with scents that made his mouth water and nearly drove him mad. Strains of music told him the festival was starting. Curious to see some of it, Dain found himself a vantage point by climbing the drainpipe leading to the stable roof and pulling himself inside a window. There, in the fragrant, yellowed mounds of horse fodder, he could peer out the window and watch the celebration in relative safety. At first he did not recognize the servants who appeared and mistook them for guests. They appeared in finery that made Dain stare round-eyed. Maids he'd seen wearing tattered linsey gowns, their hair braided loosely down their back, were now transformed by gowns of bright blue, crimson, or green, worn with embroidered kirtles and linen undersleeves. Their hair was combed and braided with ribbons into tight coils about their heads. The men had shed their liveryand wore new, brightly hued doublets over their old leggings. Trestles and boards had already been made into long tables that stretched across the yard. More servants carried out platter after platter of meat, pies, bowls of steaming vegetables, more pies, wedges of cheese, loaves of bread, pastries, yet more pies, and jug after jug of cider to wash it all down. For Dain, crouched in his hiding place, this feast was the most enticing vision he'd ever seen. Wishing he, too, could be a guest, he drank in the sights and sniffed the wondrous smells. The knights, looking manly and splendid in their vivid surcoats, their beards neatly trimmed and their hair combed back, filed forth from the barracks. Led by the captain of the guard, they sat at one of the long tables, and the servants sat at the other. All the workers, from the sweeps to the stableboys to the milkmaids to the cheese-makers and so on, sat and feasted together, clinking their bra.s.s cups in toasts, tossing bones to the dogs, laughing and jesting in good fellowship.

"Merry Aelintide to you," they called out to each other in courtesy. "May Thod preserve Lord Odfrey."

"Amen," came the replies.

They feasted all afternoon, until the shadows grew long and the cows lowed in the barn for milking.

Scattering, they threw on smocks to protect their finery and went about their ch.o.r.es, feeding the animals but doing little else. A short ma.s.s was held, then torches were lit and music struck up. They danced and feasted yet more, making merry half the night. Inside the central, long building that Dain now knew as the Hall, lights shone from the windows, and the sound of music rose and fell in strange rhythms that made him long to join in. Leaving the stables, he slinked along in the shadows and peered in some of the windows of the Hall.

He glimpsed house servants wearing garments that outshone those of the outside workers. Torches and candles burned in every room of the ground floor, casting a warm glow of light over furnishings that took his breath away. Dain had sneaked looks inside before, but now the Hall seemed transformed. Gone were the floor rushes; beautiful carpets lay spread out on the floor in their stead. The homely stools and benches had vanished, replaced with chairs of fine woods. In the ample candlelight, the tapestries on the walls were no longer huge, gloomy hangings of cloth, but instead vivid depictions of men and women that seemed to shimmer with life, as though magic was woven among the threads. One of the boys called fosters came into sight. Peering through the window, Dain stiffened with alarm, but he did not slip away.

This one was not Mierre, who was dangerous, or the younger boy who was a fool. Dain did not remember this one's name, but he marveled at the gorgeous doublet and leggings the boy wore. He was tall and thin, his red hair glinting like copper in the candlelight. He wore a thin belt with a fine dagger hanging from it. A ring winked on his finger. He was not a prince, but tonight he looked like one.

All too conscious of his own tattered and filthy rags, his unkempt hair that he cut occasionally with a knife to keep it out of his eyes, Dain shivered in the cold and watched this wealthy boy warming himself before a roaring fire. Mierre, followed by the fool Kaltienne, walked into the room, carrying two cups.

Mierre handed one to the red-haired boy. They spoke together for a moment, with Kaltienne laughing.

The red-haired boy looked wary, Dain thought. Clearly they were not friends.

Then the prince walked in, and a flare of heat rose through Dain that made him forget how cold and miserable he was. He glared through the window at the prince, whose magnificence outshone that of the other boys. Gavril wore velvet and fur. His slender white fingers glittered with rings, and the gold bracelet of royalty gleamed on his wrist. His dagger hilt shone with jewels, and the prince's dark blue eyes twinkled in good humor. Lurking in the doorway was the protector, in chain mail despite the festivities, wearing his sword as he guarded the prince the way Sir Roye had sought to guard Lord Odfrey. Prince Gavril laughed merrily and raised his cup in a toast. "Let us hail Aelintide and the success of all ventures."

Everyone drank deeply, except the red-haired boy, who sputtered at what was in his cup. "This is wine!" he exclaimed. "Where did you get this?"

"I brought it with me from Savroix," the prince said, draining his cup. "But I thought it was locked away in the-" The red-haired boy met Gavril's narrowed eyes and broke off his sentence.

"Thum du Maltie, you remain a fool," Gavril said with contempt. "No one gave you permission to get it,"

Thum said. His hand was white-knuckled around his cup. "Lord Odfrey said our first day here that men in training do not drink-" "Lord Odfrey has nothing to say in this matter," Gavril said sharply. "Leave me."

Thum set down his cup and bowed low to the prince. He glanced at the other two boys, and his face turned as red as his hair. In silence, he hurried out of sight.

Kaltienne mocked him, clasping his hands under his chin and capering about, pretending to swoon. "Oh!

Oh! I have tasted wine," he cried in a high, falsetto voice. "I am corrupted. My wits are rotted. I am undone." Mierre laughed robustly, flinging back his head. Picking up Thum's cup, he drained its contents and smacked his thick lips. "Do you think he'll run and tell?"

Kaltienne stopped his antics and glowered, but Prince Gavril shrugged one elegant shoulder. "No," he said. "The Maltie honor will not let him. Now, what have you accomplished today?"

Mierre frowned, exchanging a wary look with Kaltienne. "Accomplished?" "In searching for the eld!"

Gavril said angrily. "We have been at your highness's heels all day," Mierre said.

"Exactly. Getting nothing done. I want him caught while everyone is too busy to notice what we're doing."

"I looked this morning," Kaltienne said. "But the hold is vast, with pa.s.sages running everywhere. We could search for days, even months before we-" Mierre nudged him in the ribs, but too late.

Gavril's face darkened. "You will find him tomorrow. By what means I care not.

But you will do it."

"But, your highness-"

Gavril snapped his fingers. "Would you rather I order you to search all night in the cold and the dark?"

The other boys silenced their protests and bowed.

Glaring at them both, Gavril strode away. They followed like whipped dogs. Outside, in the frosty darkness, Dain's hands curled into fists. He hated the prince, hated him with more pa.s.sion than he'd felt even against the Bnen. For a moment he was tempted to sneak inside the Hall and confront Gavril. But there was the protector to consider. Dain restrained his impulses and crept away to wait until the last of the revelers grew tired and went to bed. When they finally did, Dain crawled under the tables, scavenging with the cats and a stray dog or two for whatever was left of the feast.

Besting a fierce old tom for a bone with a good bit of meat and gristle still attached to it, Dain gnawed it clean, then broke it between his hands and sucked out the marrow. "Merry Aelintide to me," he muttered. In the morning, bells rang across the land, echoing from long distances. The chapel bell withinthe hold rang also, but with a m.u.f.fled clapper. People appeared soon thereafter, rushing through minimal ch.o.r.es in a slapdash way, then resuming their festivities.

Dain wondered how long the merriment would last. In his experience, when the dwarves feasted long into the night, come the morning after they quarreled and suffered from ale-head. Dain had expected similar behavior, but then remembered that most of the Mandrians had drunk cider the day before, not ale. A few individuals crept about wincing and moaning, but they got scant sympathy. Still in their finery, people set up a tall pole caped like a man with a huge yellow gourd for a head and a paper crown on its head. "The king of Aelintide," they sang to it, and danced and made merry all morning. From comments he overheard and the general air of mild disappointment, Dain learned that the knights had been expected to joust for entertainment, but had refrained out of respect for Lord Odfrey's illness.

The servants, however, made do in the afternoon, with the men playing peculiar games of contest involving the juggling of sticks and leather b.a.l.l.s, handstands, footraces, the balancing of eggs on their noses, and other silliness. Their efforts were cheered on loudly by the spectators. The stableboys drew lots and pulled off their tunics for wrestling, until they were sweaty and winded from their efforts. At that time, Prince Gavril and the bull-shouldered Mierre came out and exhibited thinsword dueling.

As he had the day before, Dain watched from the fodder loft of the stables. Despite his dislike of the prince, he couldn't help but be fascinated by the intricate footwork and fancy sword-play. The duel was like a dance, every movement graceful yet potentially deadly. Prince Gavril made a striking figure in the sunshine, his hair gleaming gold, his lean, fit body lithe and quick in comparison to the lumbering movements of his opponent. "Mierre, hold your arm higher," he would call out, then strike in a rapid staccato of beat, feint, attack.

Mierre parried clumsily. Clearly he'd been given only the rudiments of training. His big hand swallowed the hilt of his thinsword. He had the hands and muscles for wielding a broadsword, not this delicate weapon.

While several of the knights watched from the crowd, the prince circled Mierre and attacked again in a flurry of beautiful moves, ending with a flourish and a solid smack of his blunted sword tip against Mierre's chest. Applause broke out from the spectators, and Prince Gavril bowed with a broad smile before clapping Mierre on his shoulder and speaking a quick word in his ear. The larger boy bowed and hurried away, and the prince sauntered over to speak to a pretty maid in a blue gown, who curtsied and blushed at his attention. Some of the knights looked less than impressed by Gavril's exhibition. One of them took Mierre's thinsword and ran his fingers along its blade, flexing it and shaking his head.

Dain drew back from the window, frowning at his tangle of emotions. He'd never seen a thinsword before today, but suddenly he ached to learn how to use one. He hated the prince, yet Gavril's skill was admirable. Dain shoved the hair out of his face, unprepared for his envy.

The smell of roasted meat suddenly filled the stable, rising above the horse fragrance.

Startled, Dain jumped to his feet in alarm and sniffed the air. He could detect nothing except the smell of the meat and dust from the fodder he'd disturbed. He clamped his hand across his nose and mouth to hold back a sneeze. His mouth was watering, and his stomach growled to fierce, insistent life. No one was supposed to be in here except the horses; Dain had counted all the stableboys earlier to make sure.

He listened hard, but he heard no unusual sounds. When he tried to focus his mind to sweep forth, all he could think about was the meat and how hungry he was.

Last night's sc.r.a.ps, after two days of watching people gorge themselves, was not enough to hold himtogether.

Outside, music struck up, accompanied by shouts and laughter. Dain didn't bother to look out the window this time. He was tired of merriment he could not join. His stomach rumbled again, and he pressed his hand against his middle. It had to be a trap. If some of the stableboys or anyone else had ducked in here for private merrymaking, there would be the sound of voices and giggling. Instead, all he heard was quiet, broken by the occasional snort of one of the horses in the stalls below.

Easing over to the window, Dain stared down at the people, who were now lining up to dance. He saw Gavril talking to one of the knights. Thum was also in the crowd, looking shy and talking to no one. Of Mierre and Kaltienne, there was no sign.

Anger touched Dain. So they thought he was some stray animal, stupid enough to be enticed with food.

He was hungry, but not yet so desperate he would throw away his freedom for a mouthful of meat.

Refusing to panic, he tried to figure out what he should do. The first step was clear. He had to get out of this building quickly before he found himself trapped up here in the loft. How they'd located him hardly mattered.

Dain decided he'd better leave the hold completely. His hopes of staying seemed futile and not worth the risk of being caught by Gavril or his minions. He would steal enough provisions to last him well, then journey north into Nether in search of the eldin as Thia had asked him to do.

He was not eager to go there. All his life, Jorb had told him it was not safe for him and Thia to seek their own kind. In the past, eldin had lived scattered through parts of Nold and even in the mountains of upper Mandria. But now, few were sighted. Jorb said most had gone into the wilds of Nether. It was said to be a cold, austere land, ruled by a dour king named Muncel, a land of cruel men and harsh ways, savage and unfriendly. But Dain did not think the eldin were welcome even in Nether. Gossip among the customers and traders who came to Jorb's forge said the eldin had been driven into hiding in the northernmost mountains, as far perhaps as the fjords themselves, and could not be found. A cheer went up from outside. Dain crawled through the fodder to look and saw a long line of people dancing back and forth around the courtyard. A blushing maiden was standing next to the gourd and pole king of Aelintide. As the line of people pa.s.sed her, the men bowed and the women curtsied. "Harvest queen!"

they shouted to her.

Dain frowned, no longer interested in their rituals. He heard a shuffle from below, and a quick grunt of exasperation, and knew his time had run out. He could make larger decisions about where to go later.

Right now, he'd better keep his wits focused on the problem at hand.

To the sound of stealthy creaks coming from the simple pole ladder leading to the loft, Dain turned back to the window and thrust his head and shoulders through the small opening, twisting painfully to fit. In his haste, he inadvertently caused the open shutter to bang.

"Hey!" shouted Mierre's voice. "Come this way. I think he's up here!" Cursing softly beneath his breath, Dain hoped the merrymakers were enjoying their dancing too much to look up and see him. The drainpipe could be seen from the yard. He dared not try to go that way.

With one hand bracing himself on the slate roof tiles, he looked straight down into the narrow s.p.a.ce between the stables and the cow barn next to it. If he slipped, he had a long way to fall.

Squinting against the sunshine, Dain pulled up his legs and stood on the sill of the small window. Boostinghimself, he scrambled up onto the roof and climbed rapidly, slipping and sliding on the tiles as he went.

Behind him, he heard a frustrated grunt. Mierre's voice called out, "He went through the window. I can't fit."

"I'll go!" said Kaltienne.

"Get after him then," Mierre said. "And if the pagan can fly, see that you do it too. I've no head for heights. I'm going down."

"Coward," Kaltienne taunted him.

"Listen! He's going over the roof. Hear that?"