Somehow, although his body felt so stiff he didn't think he could bend it, he managed to bow.

"Yes," Lord Odfrey said. "You may watch the contest if you wish, but no later than this afternoon you are to report to Sulein for lessons. It's time we concentrated on improving your mind as well as your muscles." Dain bowed again, his face on fire. His throat had swelled with anger and resentment. He couldn't protest now even if he wanted to. "That is all," Lord Odfrey said with a nod of dismissal. His dark gaze snapped to Sir Polquin. "Take down the circled shield. They'll go at unseating each other."

"And if they break their fool necks?" Sir Polquin asked. "Time to stop coddling them," Lord Odfrey replied mercilessly. "I'll not be squired by an untested sprout."

"Aye, m'lord."

Sir Polquin turned away to start issuing orders. Over by the horses, the boys cheered with new excitement. Babbling with the others as they mounted up, Thum paused briefly to glance Dain's way with a frown, but Dain couldn't bear his pity right then.

Unstrapping his padding and jerking off his cap, Dain carried it over to where the rest of the equipment was stacked and dropped it, then marched himself rigidly off the field.

Sir Terent and Sir Nynth intercepted him, their faces red in the heat. "What's amiss? Why are you leaving?"

"The lord ordered me away," Dain said, his voice tight and hard. He did not want them to see his choking disappointment, how much he cared. "He thinks I am not good enough to compete."

"Morde a day!" Sir Nynth exclaimed, his keen eyes snapping. "Of all the injustice-" "It's for his squire," Sir Terent interrupted, casting his friend a warning look. "Dain's a bit green for that."

"Aye, and what of it?" Sir Nynth retorted hotly. "I've money bet on the boy." "Better get it off," Dain said, and pushed away from them, ignoring their calls to come back.

He would not watch the contest. He would not hang about taking hearty slaps of pity or watching the knights talk about him. This was the first opportunity he'd had to prove that he really could fit in, and Lord Odfrey had taken it away from him.

How had he displeased the chevard? What had he done wrong? If the chevard wanted to punish him, Dain would have rather been flogged than humiliated like this. Perhaps Lord Odfrey had seen him in practice and believed he was no good. Dain gritted his teeth, walking even faster, and kicked the dirt in front of him. He was good now, and he could be even better. He knew it, knew already how natural andright a sword felt in his hands.

The sentries at the gates looked startled to see him. "What's amiss?" one of them called to him. "Are you ousted already?"

Why explain? Dain scowled at them. "Aye," he replied, and strode on while they laughed and called out commiseration that he didn't want. He walked across the hold to the innermost courtyard and nearly entered Sulein's tower before he stopped, scowling ferociously at the door leading inside. Lessons?

What kind of lessons? Did the chevard think him so hopeless at arms that he would make a scholar of him?

It all came welling up-the months of hard work, the stress of trying to fit in, the brutality of today's disappointment. Dain kicked the door and spun away. He wasn't going to have anything to do with the stinking old physician. He was tired of following orders, tired of doing what he was told. He hurried away, wishing he'd gone to the woods instead of coming inside the hold. As he reached the outer keep, however, he found it astir. Prince Gavril was mounting his fancy horse. The red and fawn hunting dogs were out, barking and wagging their tails in excitement. Sir Los was climbing into his saddle, as cheerless as ever. Five other knights a.s.signed to Gavril's protection were milling about as well.

Desperate not to let the prince see his disgrace, Dain dodged out of sight. No one called his name, and after a tense moment he relaxed. He hid until he heard the prince's retinue clatter away.

Hunting mad, Dain thought with scorn. The prince went out at every opportunity. Of late he'd grown even more fanatical, as though he thought that once he returned to Savroix he would never be allowed to hunt again. What did he see in this sport? Dain could not understand it, and had no wish to try. Gavril seldom returned with any game. He seemed only to want to gallop about through the Dark Forest as much as possible. Lord Odfrey had warned him again and again to stay away from there, but Gavril went anyway. The knights had orders to steer him in other, safer directions, but since spring these five men seemed to always be the ones that went forth with the prince. They were a scruffy, shifty-eyed lot, the lowest rank, hardly better than hirelances. To Dain's eye, they seemed more loyal to Gavril than they did to anyone else. Certainly they let the prince have his way and go where he wanted.

Dain shrugged, and ventured out of hiding. He hoped the prince got swept off his horse by a tree branch and broke his arrogant neck.

Across the keep, Dain heard the steady plinking of the smith's hammer. He scowled, indecisive for a moment, but then he turned his steps toward the forge. He did not want to leave the hold right now. He was afraid that if he went off into the forest, he might not return. Though perhaps that was what he should do, leave and not come back, Dain was not yet ready to make that decision. He was too angry and confused to think straight. He knew only that he did not want to be alone-his spirits felt too dark and angry for him to stand his own company. He had no wish to talk to anyone either, but the smith might put Dain to work, as he did sometimes when Dain felt lonely and missed his old life too much. Sir Bosquecel and Lord Odfrey disapproved of Dain's working in the forge. Such manual labor was beneath his rank, they said. But it was as good a place to find comfort as any. When he regained his calm, Dain would decide whether he should run away.

The smith's name was Lander. A Netheran by birth, he'd come down to Mandria years ago to escape the civil war raging in his homeland. A local woman lived with him in the village and called herself his wife, but gossip said they were not church-wed. If Lander had any family back in Nether, he never spoke of them. He would not talk about his past, except to say that he'd been born and raised in Grov, but that it was no fit place to live in now. He was an excellent smith, especially with simple repairs of hinges and plowshares. He worked inside the hold rather than in the village because he was also a skilled armorer, and the knights kept him busy grinding out the nicks in their sword blades and repairing broken links in their mail. To Dain's critical eye, Lander's skill was finer than most men's, although he lacked Jorb's exquisite artistry. But then, Jorb had surpa.s.sed everyone, including the other dwarf master armorers.

On this summer's morn, the forge blazed with the heat of its roaring fire. The air inside shimmered and danced. Shirtless, Lander wore only his leggings and a soot-blackened leather ap.r.o.n. His muscular arms and shoulders dripped with sweat.

Concentrating on tapping out a curve in a horseshoe, he barely glanced up when Dain entered the forge.

Not until he plunged the shoe into a bucket of water, sending up a great cloud of hissing steam, did he pause to wipe his streaming brow with his forearm and give Dain a quick, shy smile. "Hearty morn," he said in his foreign way. His eyes were pale blue, almost as pale as Thia's had been, like mist over a spring sky. The rest of him was bulky and hairless except for a tonsure of red curls around a bald pate.

His pale flesh never tanned even in the summertime; his thick torso looked like a chunky slab of stone.

He seemed glad to see Dain as always, but his manner was preoccupied. "That's the last," he said to himself, lifting the horseshoe from the water pail and tossing it with a clank onto a pile of similar shoes.

Putting away his set of tongs, he left his hammer lying atop the anvil while he stripped off his ap.r.o.n and wiped his face and shoulders with it. "Thought you'd be in the contest," he said. "Over already, is it?"

"Not for the others," Dain said. He scowled at the fire so he wouldn't have to look at Lander.

"Eh? What? Oh. So that's the way of it."

"I wanted to see the tournament at Savroix," Dain said, although he'd already decided not to talk about it. Lander, however, was safe. He made no judgments, offered no advice. The smith sighed sympathetically. "So would I like to go." "You?" Dain asked in surprise. He'd been so wrapped up in his own plans of late, it had never occurred to him that probably everyone in the hold wanted to see the king's tournament. "Have you ever been to Savroix?" "Nay, not I." Lander smiled in his fleeting way and wiped his sweating face again. "But it would be good to go, if I can find a way." Dain said nothing, sensing that for once the smith wanted talk. "In my homeland I was a master armorer," Lander said proudly. "Not just a smith, making horseshoes and repairing latches, but a fine swordmaker. Here, the knights will let me repair their armor. I am allowed to make new helmets, sometimes a shield, but never more than that. I am foreign-born," he said striking his chest. "That means they think I cannot make a sword for them. Not even daggers. No, they go elsewhere. To the armorer at Lunt Hold sometimes, or to the dwarves. I ask you boy, is a dwarf not foreign? How can they think this way? But they do."

Dain nodded with sympathy.

Lander cast Dain a sideways look. "You know the dwarf swordmakers."

"Jorb was the best."

Lander sighed. "Aye, they all say so. But now there is no Jorb. So will they let me make them new swords for the tournament? No. But there is a way for me to show them what I can do."

Dain traced his finger along the worn handle of the hammer. He knew better than to pick it up without permission. "Make some swords, I guess," he said, without much interest in Lander's problems. "Showthem what you can do." "Hah! Better idea than that I have." Lander tugged him by his sleeve over to a storage cabinet and pulled out a sheet of grubby vellum. He glanced around as though to make sure no one was watching, and showed the drawing to Dain. "What do you think of this?"

The sword depicted was beautiful. Its long tapering blade was carved with rosettes and scrollwork. The hilt guard made the Circle so many Mandrians wanted, thinking the symbol would shield them from harm in battle, and was carved to look like tendrils of gold ivy. The hilt itself was long enough for a two-handed grip, and wrapped ornately with silver and gold wire. Dain's brows lifted. He was impressed, and yet a drawing was not a sword. "I could make this sword," Lander said, tapping the vellum with a grimy fingertip. "I could!"

"Do it then," Dain said. He rolled up the vellum to hand it back, but Lander grabbed it and whacked him across his chest with it.

"There is a way to make it better, to make it wondrous," Lander said. He leaned close enough for Dain to smell his sour breath. His pale eyes flashed with pa.s.sion. "I need magicked metal."

Dain couldn't help it. He laughed.

Muttering furiously, Lander shoved him away and thrust his drawing back in the cabinet. "I should never show you my dream," he said. "Fool I am." "No, I wasn't laughing at you," Dain tried to rea.s.sure him.

"It's just-I thought that was forbidden here. Using magicked metal, I mean." Lander shrugged.

"Mandrians have strange ideas. It is not always good to pay attention to what they fear. I have held some of the great swords. I know how they live in the hand. The difference is like night and day." "Even if you got that kind of metal," Dain said, thinking the man was crazy to have such dreams, "and even if you made it, no one here could afford such a weapon."

"Hah!" Lander said, beaming and pouncing on him again. "Now you understand. The king's birthday, it is a big occasion. Yes, and this year the king will give his sword to his son for knighthood. It is the custom, yes?" "I know not," Dain replied, wondering where Lander was going with this. He hadn't come to the forge to be a confidant.

But Lander wasn't letting him go. "Yes, the custom. From father to son goes the sword. Valor is pa.s.sed from the old hand to the young. But the king must have new sword to replace what he gives away. And so there is a contest among the smiths of the land. The sword that is chosen ... Well, then everyone in Mandria will know that Lander can make them best. Lander is a master, as good as any dwarf."

Dain nodded and started edging away. "I wish you luck, Lander. Now I had better go before-"

"Wait." Lander blocked his path and leaned down, his pale eyes intense. "You were Jorb's apprentice.

That means you know his secrets. You know where he got such metal."

Suddenly wary, Dain drew back. "No, I -"

"Yes, yes." Lander gripped Dain's sleeve and glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. "Do you know the dwarf called Baldrush?" Dain frowned, still wary. "Maybe."

"Yes! Yes, you do know," Lander said eagerly. "I will make this worth your while, Dain."

"I won't go to him-"

"Already done," Lander said with pride. He pointed at the two-wheeled cart parked near the forge. "Ihave been working extra to finish my work so I can leave today. I will meet Baldrush and bargain with him for this metal." Lander grinned, his pale eyes atwinkle with excitement. "Advise me, Dain. You know this Baldrush. Tell me how to make a good bargain with him." Dain dropped to his haunches in the dwarf way. "Let us discuss his terms, then." A few minutes later, Dain and Lander sauntered out of the forge.

Dain blinked in the bright sunshine, feeling sure Lander would be cheated in Nold. He wanted his metal too much. He had saved forty gold dreits in his strongbox, a veritable treasure. But forty dreits was Baldrush's asking price. "Too high," Dain said. "Thirty is more than fair. Forty is too much." "Can you make him take thirty?" Lander asked. "Of course I will pay it all, if I must."

"Don't say that," Dain told him, appalled. "You should tell him thirty is all that you have. And don't sound too willing to pay that. Twenty-five would be better."

"No, no, twenty-five is not fair price," Lander said, shaking his head. "You would have me insult him.

Already he does not want to sell the metal to me. If I offer twenty-five, he will say I am cheating him in the man-way, and he will leave."

"Thirty, then," Dain said firmly, believing Baldrush would talk Lander into the full amount.

The smith was nodding at Dain. "You come with me. You make the bargain."

Dain smiled. "I must ask Sir Bosquecel for permission-"

"Run, then!" Lander said eagerly. "Run and do it while I get my tunic and some food for the journey. It is a day and a half by cart to go and as long to come back. The mule is slow. You'll come?"

"If I get Baldrush to take thirty dreits instead of forty, will you give me the difference?"

"You?" Lander asked in wonder. "What would a boy like you want with so much money?"

"I need it to buy a sword of my own."

"Ah," Lander said, nodding. "But ten gold dreits is too much wealth for a boy.

Whatever you save me off the asking price, half of it will I give you."

Dain grinned. "Done!"

He spit on his palm and held out his hand. Lander spit on his palm and gripped Dain's fingers in a bone-crushing clasp. They shook on the deal. "Run and get what you need," Lander said. "And ask the captain for permission. I will not take you against his orders."

But as Dain hurried across the keep into the stableyard, he heard cheers rising from the practice field.

Defiance unfurled inside him. He decided not to ask Sir Bosquecel's permission. He wasn't going to ask anyone. He'd tried doing things the Mandrian way, following their endless rules, and he'd ended up being punished anyway. Jorb had always warned Dain to beware men, for they turned and betrayed without warning. Today he'd seen it proven true, and in Lord Odfrey, whom he'd trusted above all others. Now that Lander had presented him with an opportunity too good to pa.s.s up, Dain intended to start looking after himself in the ways Jorb had taught him.

Hurrying inside the Hall, Dain ran upstairs, taking two steps at a time, and fetched his cloak, spare footgear, and the blanket off his bed. Rolling these into an untidy bundle, he hurried outside again,dashing past the steward, who stared openmouthed at him.

By the time Dain returned to the keep, Lander had hitched his mule to the cart and was holding the reins impatiently. He had crammed on a wide-brimmed straw hat to protect his bald head from the sun. Dain smelled the pouch of provisions in the back of the cart and hoped Lander had brought enough food.

Lander stared at him. "Where did you go? I thought the captain was at the joust, judging the contest."

"No," Dain said, keeping his lie simple. "Ready?"

Dain climbed onto the cart seat, and Lander yelled at the mule. They rolled out through the gates past the sentries, who didn't challenge them. Lander and his mule cart were a familiar sight, coming and going frequently. The sun was hot, beating down on Dain's head without mercy. As the mule struck a steady trot, a slight breeze cooled Dain's face. He smiled to himself, suddenly homesick for the cool gloominess of the Dark Forest, and did not look back at the hold behind him.

Away in the Dark Forest, Gavril placed his hand on the front of his saddle and leaned forward eagerly to peer at the cave entrance. "Just there, yer highness," Sir Vedrique was saying as he pointed. "Look at the top of the cave. See yon stone with the old runes carved in it? Bound to be one of them old shrines, no doubt of it."

Gavril squinted, trying to see through the greenish gloom. The undergrowth and vines were so thick he could barely see the cave itself, much less any runes carved atop it, but at last he spied a mossy stone.

His heart leaped inside his chest, and he felt breathless. This could be it. His quest might end today. His prayers would at last be answered.

He dismounted, feeling light-headed, and pushed his way through his milling pack of dogs. Giving them the command to lie down, Gavril wanted to laugh aloud. Just in time he reined back his emotions, preserving his dignity. He must not set too much hope in this old shrine. He had been disappointed before. For months he'd searched diligently, venturing as deep into the Dark Forest as he dared, wishing always that he could go farther. But today, for some unexplainable reason, he believed success was at hand. The Chalice was here. He could almost feel its holy power. His heart was thudding with antic.i.p.ation. When he started up the hillside, Sir Los called out in alarm and hurried after him.

The prince paid his protector no heed as he struggled through the briars and tangled vines. He crowded Sir Vedrique's spurred heels. "Hurry, hurry," he said breathlessly.

They crossed the bottom of a small, shallow ravine with a stream running through it. Partway up the slope was the cave's entrance.

This place was hushed and tranquil, like an outdoor chapel. Even birdsong seemed muted and distant.

Sunlight stabbed down intermittently through the dense canopy overhead, gilding leaves and moss in its soft golden light. The closer they came, the slower Sir Vedrique walked. Growling with impatience, Gavril tried to push past him, but the young knight flung his arm across Gavril's chest to block his way.

"Nay, yer highness. Can't take too much care with these old places. There's power here still."

"And maybe trolk," muttered one of the other knights. Gavril scowled and glanced back to see who had spoken. The four remaining knights of his party sat on their horses, huddled together as though they feared this old pagan place. Gavril swung his gaze away scornfully. There was nothing to fear. He pulled out his Circle and let it swing atop his linen doublet. "What are trolk?" Sir Los asked. Sir Vedrique paused to send him a snaggletoothed grin. "Old myths, protector.

Ain't nothing to fear."

"Hurry," Gavril said. "We can talk later. I am not afraid."

Sir Vedrique frowned. "Wait here, yer highness. Let Sir Los and me go first." Resenting their caution, Gavril seethed. Impatiently he waited, tapping his fingers on his belt, while Sir Los and Sir Vedrique pushed ahead of him. At the mouth of the cave, Sir Vedrique took his sword and hacked away much of the thicket growing across it. Then Sir Los drew his weapon and ventured inside. He seemed to be in there forever, while Gavril stood fidgeting, agonized with jealousy. What if Sir Los found the Chalice first? How unfair for him to get the glory when it was Gavril who had prayed daily for the honor.

Realizing what he was thinking, Gavril felt ashamed of himself. Scowling, he turned his back on the cave and struggled to master his feelings. "Your highness," Sir Los called out.

Gavril spun around and saw the protector emerging. When Sir Los beckoned, Gavril hurried into the cave. It was darker inside than he'd expected, and it stunk with something old and sour. Wrinkling his nostrils, he lifted his hand to his face and tried to breathe through his mouth.

"What is this stink?" he asked. "Has some beast died in here?" "That's trolk musk," Sir Vedrique said quietly. "Real old. Maybe an old spell lingering on."

"A spell!" Gavril said in horror, then caught himself and swallowed. "Of course. This is a pagan shrine.

But the magic cannot harm us if our faith is strong. Sir Los, we need light."

The protector found an old stick lying on the ground just inside the cave. He pulled out his tinderbox and set it alight. In silence, he handed the makeshift torch to Gavril.

Holding it aloft, Gavril walked swiftly through the cave. It was quite small, barely tall enough for him to stand upright, and shallow. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and dead leaves had drifted in. As Gavril strode back and forth, his excitement faltered. Why, this old cave wasn't any kind of shrine. It didn't even have an altar, just a circle of scattered stones and some sticks wedged against the back wall.

Scowling, he knelt down to study a stone no bigger than his own head. With his fingertips he traced the carvings there, carvings he could not read and did not wish to. Behind the stone he saw a glint of something, and his excitement leaped high again.

He lifted his torch, and its ruddy flickering light spread over a small, nearly concealed pile of dusty artifacts.

Rusted and tarnished, the basin and ill-a.s.sorted collection of cups and vessels which he saw were nothing at all, nothing but junk. Maybe a long time ago, some dwarves had crawled in here and drunk themselves senseless. He tossed down the basin, making a clatter, and picked up a tall, flared vessel. A spider was crawling along its rim. Gavril flicked it away and tapped the cup. It sounded dull. He rubbed it, but its surface was so encrusted with tarnish and grime it couldn't be cleaned.

Disgusted, Gavril flung it down with the rest, and rose to his feet.

"Any of that rubbish useful?" Sir Vedrique asked.

"No," Gavril said. He thought of the Chalice, of how it was said to shine with a glorious power so strongit could fill a dark room with light. It certainly was not here in this filthy lair.