Glancing around one last time, he kicked some of the smaller stones with his toe, accidentally knocking them back into a complete circle. His lip curled with disdain. "This is nothing but a pagan hole, as foolish and empty as their beliefs. Let us go."

Sir Los was standing just inside the entrance. He started to exit first, but Gavril angrily darted out ahead of him.

"Come on," he said. "Let's be away from here. We've wasted enough time." He started down the hillside, leaving the knights to pick their way more slowly after him. But just as he stepped across the tiny stream, a shout rang out, and dwarves rose up from the thickets, aiming drawn bows at them from all sides. The dogs leaped to their feet, barking furiously. Fearful for their safety, Gavril shouted, "Stay!"

Sir Vedrique also shouted in alarm. One of the knights on horseback drew his sword, but a dwarf loosed a shot and the arrow hit the knight in his throat. He toppled off his horse, which bolted into the forest. The others bunched closer, their hands on their weapons, and swore loudly.

"Move not!" ordered a dwarf with a long brown beard. He looked like the youngest of the company.

His eyes were keen and fierce. "Stand where you are." Gavril halted on the edge of the stream, feeling his pulse thumping hard inside his collar. His mouth had gone dry. Suddenly his mind was filled with all the tales and legends of dwarves he'd heard in his life, tales of how fierce they were, how fearlessly they could fight, how brutally they sometimes tortured their prisoners. He thought of the huntsman Nocine, well now in body after being attacked by the Bnen dwarves last autumn, but not yet restored in mind or spirit. Refusing to be afraid, Gavril shook such thoughts away. "You there," he called out, ignoring Sir Los's choked warning to be quiet, "put away your weapons. We mean you no harm. Why should you attack us?" The brown-bearded dwarf stared at Gavril, studying him a long while. The drawn bows did not lower. After several minutes the dwarf shifted his gaze to the other men. "Who is leader?"

The insult infuriated Gavril. He opened his mouth to declare himself, but at the last moment caution held his tongue. If they should guess who he was, they might decide to hold him for ransom. He now understood why Lord Odfrey was always warning him against going too deep into the forest. Gavril had never expected to be caught like this, on foot and unable to defend himself. Sir Vedrique stepped forward, and a warning arrow skimmed in front of his face. The young knight stopped short and lifted his sword ever so slightly. "Now don't get fei; What clan are you, eh?"

"We are Clan Nega," the brown-bearded dwarf said, "You are intruding on a sacred place, an old place."

"There's nothing here," Gavril couldn't help but say. He was still full of disappointment. And angry. He wanted only to gone from this shrine that had mysteriously promised so much and had then withheld what he most wanted. "Nothing is here. Not even an altar."

Several of the dwarves glared and some of them muttered angrily in their heathenish tongue.

"Take care," Sir Vedrique murmured to Gavril, never taking his gaze off the dwarves. "We've made 'em mad enough ready."

Gavril had no liking for the reprimand, but his own good sense told him this was no time to argue.

"Ain't no offense intended here," Sir Vedrique said. "A didn't know this place was sacred. We've beenhunting boar and thought we might have found a lair." Some of the dwarves laughed. The scorn in their laugh made Gavril flush. He clenched his fists, annoyed with Vedrique. Why must the knight make them sound like fools?

"You hunt boar on foot?" the brown-bearded dwarf asked slow, incredulous smile spreading across his face. "You go in boar dens?"

Sir Vedrique shrugged. "Yon cave stinks so bad, we thought it had to be-" More laughter came from the dwarves. They chattered together in their barbarous language. Gavril fumed and threw Vedrique a glare. The knight raised his brows in return and shook his head quickly. Gavril clenched his jaw, keeping quiet with an effort.

"We didn't know this was one of your sacred places," Vedrique said. "We apologize if we have offended."

"We apologize," Sir Los said from behind Gavril.

Gavril's scowl deepened. If this tale got back to Thirst Hold he would be a laughingstock. Hunting boars on foot indeed. He was far from being such a fool. "Say it, yer highness," Sir Vedrique whispered.

"Say what?" Gavril asked, but he knew.

"Ask them for pardon," Sir Los murmured.

Gavril's back stiffened. He opened his mouth to protest, but the brown-bearded dwarf looked at him sharply. Meeting that astute, suspicious gaze, Gavril swallowed his pride as a prince and a hunter. He said, "I beg your pardon for intruding here."

The dwarf said something to his companions, and the drawn bows were relaxed. "There is good hunting in Mandria," the dwarf said sternly. "You stay off Nega lands. We want no trouble with men."

Gavril opened his mouth to say he would hunt where he pleased, but Sir Vedrique spoke first: "Aye.

We'll not trespa.s.s again."

"Then go," the brown-bearded dwarf said. "And come not ever again to this place."

Sir Vedrique gave Gavril a light nudge in the back with the tip of his sword. Furious, his face on fire, Gavril strode over to his horse and climbed into his saddle. He would look at no one. In silence, Sir Vedrique and Sir Los mounted. "Get that man," Gavril said in a low, angry voice, pointing at the dead knight. The body was lifted across the withers of one of the horses, since the dead man's own mount had run off. The small party rode away at a nervous trot, the dwarves watching them go.

Gavril still burned with humiliation. As soon as they were safely out of earshot, and the cave and its guardians far behind them, he drew rein and glared at Sir Vedrique.

"How dare you make a fool of me," he said. "You are dismissed from my service." Annoyance crossed Sir Vedrique's face. He hesitated a moment, then bowed. "As yer highness says."

"It is bad enough that we were caught in such a position," Gavril went on, glaring at all of them now.

"How could the rest of you let them sneak up on us like that? Taking us like-" "We heard naught," one of the knights said defensively. "That's hardly an excuse," Gavril said. "It's your duty to protect me. Andwhat did you do instead? Sat there with your hands in the air and your mouths open. I'm through with all of you."

"Since you ain't going hunting no more in Nold," Sir Vedrique said coldly, "mayhap it's just as well that we are dismissed. My rump's getting galled from so much riding on this quest of yers."

Gavril gritted his teeth. He wanted to lash out at all of them and tell them just how stupid and worthless they were. But Sir Los was frowning at him in warning. Gavril remembered that these men's allegiance to him was of the lightest kind. They had sworn him no oath as they had to Lord Odfrey. Nor were these the best of Lord Odfrey's men. Of the five ranks of knighthood, these were all at the bottom. The worst paid, they were chronically broke, gambling away what little they earned. If they could be bribed with ale and coinage, their characters were thin at best. Gavril realized suddenly that if he went too far in insulting them, there might be another unfortunate accident here in the forest. Sir Los would die to protect him, but Sir Los was outnumbered four to one.

Sir Vedrique's hostile expression eased a bit when Gavril said nothing else. Slumping in his saddle, the knight pointed at the dead man. "We'd better make ourselves a story."

Gavril frowned. "Story? Why should we explain?"

Some of the men laughed.

Sir Vedrique, however, was not laughing. "If you think Sir Bosquecel will not be asking questions when we bring in a dead man, yer highness needs to think again."

"Then you will explain it," Gavril said. "I need not trouble myself." "Here!" Sir Vedrique said sharply.

"We've come out with you into this d.a.m.ned forest, where none of us are supposed to be. What will I say, that one of us shot him instead of a stag we were coursing? 'We made a mistake, Sir Bosquecel.

Sorry, and we'll take more care the next time'?"

"Mind your tone," Sir Los growled, but the younger knight went on glaring at Gavril.

"I'll see you're paid extra for your trouble," Gavril said.

"Aye, that goes without saying. As for this corpse-"

Sir Los drew rein abruptly and blocked the path of the rider bringing the dead man. "Bury him here and say he deserted."

Everyone stared at Sir Los, and Gavril's bad temper abruptly cooled. It was one thing to claim he hunted on Thirst land and did not defy Lord Odfrey's orders against exploring the Dark Forest; it was another to conceal a murder, to hide the body and lie about it. Such a lie would have to be kept forever.

Feeling strange and cold, Gavril gripped his Circle. The men stared at him, waiting for him to decide. The dead knight, oaf that he was, deserved more than a hasty grave scratched in the forest. Rites should be said to protect his body at least, but there was no one among them who could do the task. Gavril himself knew the correct prayers, but he had no intention of blaspheming by trying to act as a priest.

This was wrong. Gavril felt he should ride back to Thirst and deliver a frank confession to Lord Odfrey of what he'd done and why. But his quest was private, a deeply personal thing. Lord Odfrey would condemn him for it, would point out all the unpleasant details such as disobedience, unnecessary risk, and now, disaster. Gavril felt that today's crushing disappointments were all he could bear. He was runningout of time, and he had failed to accomplished the one objective that could have made him great.

Enduring a reprimand from Lord Odfrey would be too much.

He looked up and met Sir Los's eyes. The protector's rounded face gave nothing away. It never did.

"See that it's done," Gavril said harshly.

As he watched the work commence, he knew he was making a mistake. The dead man was of the faithful. He should not be buried out here in secret, in unhallowed ground, certain prey for anything evil that wished to dig him up. Still, the arrow had caught him in the throat. Surely his soul had been released and was now safely where it belonged. Wrong or not, concealment would solve many problems.

Desertion was a simple explanation; no motive for it need be supplied. The knights used the dead man's sword to dig the grave, since the weapon could not be kept anyway and the dulling of its blade did not matter. Gavril sat atop his horse, his dogs nosing his stirrup and whining. How he wished he could ride on and leave this dismal, gloomy forest behind. He would never come back. His dreams and best intentions had been for naught. He had imperiled his conscience for this holy mission, had prayed and sacrificed, and still he had failed. His quest to find the missing Chalice was over.

Four days later, Dain and Lander returned. The plodding mule drew them along the muddy ruts of the river road, where Dain saw a column of black smoke rising above the trees beyond the marsh. Already edgy, he frowned and nudged Lander in the ribs.

"Look yon," he said.

The smith hunched his shoulders and slapped the reins harder on the mule's rump. His face was haggard from fear and lack of sleep, "Think you the hold is burning?"

Dain shook his head. Already his senses told him that the hold was standing firm. Nor had there been death in the deserted village they now pa.s.sed through. The killing had happened farther ahead, south of the hold, perhaps where that smoke was coming from. Images of agony and blood flashed through his mind. For an instant he seemed to be elsewhere, as though his spirit had been yanked backward in time to the vicinity of that recent battle. He could even hear the screams of the dying mingling with the shrieks of Nonkind. The very air hung thick with the stench of evil.

Dain shivered despite the sultry heat of the afternoon, and with great effort he wrenched his mind back to the here and now. Thirst knights had fought. Some had died in the four days Dain and Lander had been gone; Dain didn't want to know which ones. Already his heart felt torn with horror and grief over how suddenly and unexpectedly danger had come to Thirst in his absence. He should not have left. He should have been here with his comrades, fighting alongside them. Instead, he had been off in the Dark Forest, striking bargains that Lander could have made alone.

Dain clenched his fists on his knees, gritting his teeth as the cart wheels jounced over the ruts. He wanted to jump down and race ahead on foot, but at the same time he feared what he might find.

It was a hot, sultry day, the air sticky and close with no breeze stirring. Although the sun shone strong and bright, the world seemed to have stilled itself, waiting for trouble the way small rodents hide under the blades of gra.s.s when vixlets hunt the meadow. On the distant horizon, storm clouds were ma.s.sing.

Now and then Dain heard a distant rumble of thunder.

The weary mule slowed down as they pa.s.sed through the village's abandoned huts. Crude doors stood ajar. Kettles and brooms lay on the ground where they'd been flung down. A half-mended fishing nethung on a pole frame, with the mending cords still swinging by their knotted ends in the breeze. A noise from behind them made Dain spin around on the cart seat, his hand reaching for his dagger.

"Demons!" Lander shouted, and whacked the mule so hard it shambled forward into a trot.

Nearly overbalanced, Dain gripped the smith's shoulder. "Have care!" he said.

"It's just a dog."

Lander glanced back unwillingly, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. The mongrel, spotted black and white with burrs matted in its floppy ears, slunk away between two huts. Its tail wagged nervously against the wall, making a hollow thunk of sound.

"A dog," Dain repeated in relief, his heart beating too fast. Lander gulped in several deep breaths.

Perspiration beaded down his face, darkening his fringe of red hair. Hastily he drew a circle on his chest.

"Thod is merciful."

Sheathing his dagger, Dain gripped Lander's slack hand and shook the reins to make the mule walk on.

"Let's get to Thirst before dark." Lander mumbled something and gave the mule a halfhearted tap with the whip. Dain sighed. He'd sweated through his tunic so much it had plastered itself to his back. He wished he was carrying salt in his pockets. When he lived with Jorb he never left the burrow without filling his pockets from the barrel kept standing always at the door, a wooden scoop jammed upright in its center. But while he'd been living at Thirst, he'd lost the habit. Men depended on swords and stout walls to protect them. Right now, Dain and Lander had neither. At the end of the village grew a copse of trees that blocked a clear view of the road beyond. Dain disliked the place, for the bushes grew close and thick, and he could not see ahead. He smelled no Nonkind, but the flick of men-minds suddenly a.s.saulted his senses. At the same moment, a squad of hors.e.m.e.n in armor burst upon them from the cover of the trees.

Before Dain could draw his dagger, they were surrounded, and a lance tip hovered at Lander's throat.

The smith sat frozen, his face red, his mouth hanging open. He tried to speak, but could only sputter.

Dain sat beside him with his dagger half-drawn. Already he'd noted with alarm that these knights did not wear the dark green of Thirst. Their surcoats were scarlet, and their cloaks black. The eyes of strangers glittered through the slits of their helmets.

"State your name and business here," ordered a gruff voice. Lander whimpered in the back of throat, and it was Dain who answered: "This is Lander, smith of Thirst Hold. I am called Dain."

"Easily said, but harder to prove-"

"By what right do you question us?" Dain demanded. "Who are you! What hold is yours?"

The lance remained at Lander's throat. Dain could feel the smith's rigid tension. His fear hung sour on the air.

The knight who had spoken now dipped his head slightly to Dain. He flipped up his visor, revealing a thin, chiseled face made distinguished by an elegant chin beard and mustache. His eyes were dark brown, and although he did not smile the fierceness had relaxed in his gaze. "A bold tongue you have, boy," he replied. " 'Tis a pity I can believe you not. Neither of you have the look of Mandria. You wear no livery to mark you as Thirst folk."

Lander pulled back his head, taking his throat a few inches away from the steel tip of that lance, which so far had not wavered. "Livery!" he repeated, sounding offended. "Does a smith wear the tabard of a varlet?" "Nay, but smiths do not journey far from their forge either," the man replied.

One of the other knights rode up beside him and spoke softly, to his ear alone. The bearded knight frowned, then nodded and gave Dain a closer scrutiny. "Dain, is it?"

"Yes."

"Are you Chevard Odfrey's foster eld who ran away four days past?" Dain's chin lifted haughtily. "I am both eld and a foster," he said. "I did not run away."

The knight's gaze grew cold, but he made no response. Instead, he rode alongside the cart and peered down at its cargo. "What are you hauling?" "Metal for my work," Lander said. His voice was swift, high, and nervous. "There's much to do before the great tournament in Savroix a month from now. A few times a year I go to the dwarves of Nold to buy what I need." Again they got a sharp look. Feeling the hostility emanating from these strangers, Dain frowned. He did not take his hand off his dagger. "You've been in the Dark Forest, then," the knight said. "Aye," Lander said. "And a mortal bad time in getting back. The whole world has turned upside down these past few days. Nonkind everywhere, and all sorts of-" Dain pinched his side to silence him and glared up at the knight. "By what authority do you question us?" he demanded. "What names do you bear? Who is your liege? What hold do you-"

"Hush," Lander whispered furiously to him. "Cause us no trouble. Curb your tongue, boy!"

Dain ignored him. "What is your name, sir knight?" he called out to the bearded man.

The man seemed momentarily amused. "I am Lord Renald, chevard of Lunt Hold." Dain stared, realizing belatedly that he should have noticed the quality of the man's splendid armor, the good breeding of his horse, the aristocratic air in his cultured voice. Gulping at his breach of courtesy, Dain bowed awkwardly to the man.

"Your pardon, lord," he said with more courtesy. "But what brings you here to Thirst lands? Have you been fighting the Nonkind?"

"You know there's been a battle," Lord Renald said, frowning. One of the other knights swore violently.

"Aye, he knows it, the sly demon-caller-" Lord Renald's head whipped around, and the other knight abruptly fell silent. "Let them pa.s.s," Lord Renald said, reining his horse aside.

The lance trained on Lander swung away from his throat.

The riders blocking the road reined their horses aside, leaving the way clear. Lander clucked to his mule, but Dain's suspicions grew. There was much wrong, much he did not understand.

Lord Renald sent Lander a stern look. "Head straight to the hold. Make no stops until you reach the gates. The way is clear, but it's been won at a hard cost." "Yes, m'lord," Lander said, bobbing up and down with grat.i.tude. "Thank you, m'lord."

The chevard gestured at one of his men. "Go with them. Make sure the boy arrives and is presented to Lord Odfrey with my compliments." The man inclined his head, his eyes glittering angrily through the slitsin his helmet. "Aye, m'lord. Though wouldn't it be faster to take him up behind my saddle and ride straight there-" "No," Lord Renald said firmly. "Let him return as he left. The affair is not our concern."

"When men die on a field of-"

"Sir Metain, you have your orders."

The knight bowed. "Aye, m'lord."

"If you please, Lord Renald," Dain said in puzzlement, trying to sort out what their exchange meant.

"What is-" "Hush," Lander commanded him, elbowing him. "Hold your fool tongue and let us go."

"But-"

Lander whipped the mule, sending the cart lurching forward. They bounced out from beneath the trees and up onto the paved road. In silence the knights of Lunt watched them go, their black cloaks blending into the shadows of the copse, their red surcoats vivid, like splashes of blood.

Sir Metain came trotting after them, grim and silent on his war charger. Lander's face burned bright red.