Jay D. Blakeny - The Sword,the Ring,and the Chalice 03

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Book Information:

Genre: High Fantasy

Author: Deborah Chester

Name: The Chalice

Series: The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice, book 3

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Part One

I

In upland Mandria, pewter-gray clouds scudded low over woods and marshland alike. A light but steady

drizzle—the kind that rusted mail and weapons faster than squires could polish them clean again—had

been falling all day. The road was muddy and rutted, hindering the already slow progress of the

expedition. Dain and Prince Gavril, united in their quest to save Lady Pheresa’s life, were traveling

northward with a large force of church soldiers and priests.

Clad in a quilted wool undertunic, a fine hauberk of triple-linked mail, a green surcoat, and a heavy

cloak of dark wool, Dain was riding along, lost in his own thoughts, when he sensed something unusual.

At once he spurred his horse, Soleil, off the road and into the woods that lay eastward.

His protector, Sir Terent, cantered after him, crashing through the undergrowth and slinging mud as he

came.

Reining up, Dain gestured for Sir Terent to turn back, but he was too late. The hind that had been

frozen with fright in the bushes leaped from cover and bounded away with a white flash of her tail.

Swiftly Dain tried to capture what might lie in her dim mind, but all he found there was a frantic

run/run/run/run.

Disappointed, he let the contact fade and stayed a moment beneath the shelter of the trees. Ah, it felt

good to inhale the fragrances of damp soil, mossy tree bark, the rotting leaves underfoot, and the

marshland in the distance. The frosty bite to the air stung his cheeks and numbed his fingers, but he

welcomed the cold. Foliage blazed in hues of scarlet and gold, and leaves drifted down around them,

cartwheeling across the ground wherever the wind gusted.

Sir Terent rode up beside him. Muscular and ruddy-faced, the knight protector was rough-hewn and

unpolished. But his gruff exterior belied a heart both true and loyal. Right now, he was looking puzzled.

“What set you this way, sire? Were you thinking to course game?”

“Nay,” Dain said with scorn. “Unlike Gavril, I need no sport to amuse me. I thought I sensed

something.”

“Nonkind?”

“Nay ...” Frowning, Dain turned his face eastward again. He listened, but all he could hear was the

clanking, creaking progress of the wagons and the steady plod of the church soldiers’ horses. They’d

been eight days on the road thus far, since disembarking from the royal barges at the river town of

Tu-isons, and at this slow rate of travel they’d be at least that many days more—if not longer—before

they reached the Netheran border. Since yesterday, Dain had been troubled by an uneasy feeling of

being followed. It came and went, as light and elusive as the breeze.

“Anything?” Sir Terent asked quietly, watching him.

Dain shook his head in frustration. He didn’t want to tell his protector that of late his eld senses

seemed sometimes clouded and uncertain. If he opened himself too much, there came an assault of

men-minds all jumbled with thoughts of piety, war, jealousy, worry, and vengeance. Added to that was

the odd spell woven by the priest guardians keeping Lady Pheresa alive. It wasn’t magic exactly, but

something mysterious and unexplained. Although Dain felt no serious harm in it, it made him uneasy and

restless.

He longed to get away from all of them, longed to lose himself deep in the forests, to find peace and

quiet for a time. But such a wish was only self-indulgence; he could not afford it now.

“Nothing,” he said to Sir Terent with a shrug. “I thought we might be followed.”

“If not by Nonkind, who?”

Dain frowned. He could not help but glance at the trees once more, although there was nothing to be

seen among them.

Sir Terent grunted. “Bandits, mayhap. We travel rich enough to tempt anyone.”

“If they attack, they’ll rue the exercise.”

Exchanging grins, they let their horses amble back toward thejoad. The company was still moving at a

steady pace. Church soldiers, wearing their distinctive white surcoats with the black circles on both

breast and back, trotted past. Their helmets were tied to their saddlecloths. They rode with spurs and

bridles jingling. Yet for all their noise and chatter, they stayed watchful and alert.

Although Dain had no liking for these knights and their rigid set of pious beliefs, they were well-trained

warriors, stalwart enough to ward off most trouble. No bandit with any sense would dare confront a

hundred armed knights, no matter how tempting the contents of these many wagons.

It was not bandits, however, that worried Dain. There was much unrest across these uplands. The

common folk who emerged from small villages to watch their progress cheered little and seemed relieved

to see them go. Now and then they came across an isolated homestead that had been burned out or else

stood deserted.

As for this sense of being watched, Dain wished he could determine what was bothering his instincts.

All he knew was that it was hostile.

A shout rang out, rousing him from his thoughts. Dain saw four knights galloping toward him, with a

familiar, red-haired figure in their midst. Feeling exasperated beyond measure, Dain scowled at them.

“Lord Faldain, hold there!” called one of the knights.

But Dain had already reined up.

Beside him, Sir Terent scowled. “Damne, they do insult you without fail.”

Since the first day of this journey, the church soldiers had steadfastly refused to address Dain by any

rank higher than chevard. Despite King Verence’s public acknowledgment of Dain as a prince of Nether,

Mandrian prejudice against the eldin grew from deep roots, fostered by the Reformed Church. Although

these knights were required to treat Dain as nobly born, they expressed their disapproval in myriad ways.

Calling him by his lesser rank was but one of them. Coming here now, with his squire Thum in tow, was

no doubt yet another.

Sir Terent’s hand went to his sword hilt. “Time they had a bit of courtesy stuffed down their gullets.”

“Nay,” Dain said sharply to him. “You know my wishes in this matter.”

Growling, Sir Terent subsided, but his green eyes were afire with resentment as the soldiers came up.

Their officer, Sir Wiltem, was a burly man of middle years whose nose had been broken often in past

conflicts. He stopped his horse directly in front of Dain’s and glared at him. “Is this your man?” he asked

curtly, gesturing at Thum.

Dain looked his friend over swiftly. Although pale enough to make his freckles stand out like spots,

Thum showed no bruise marks. He sat upright in his saddle, his gloved hands clenching the reins, his

breath steaming about his set face. He looked furious, but unharmed.

“My lord,” the officer repeated, “is this your man?”

“You know him to be Thum du Maltie, my squire,” Dain replied with equal brusqueness. “What do

you with him?”

“We were on scout patrol, and caught him sneaking away—”

“I was not!” Thum said indignantly, glaring at the knight. “Morde a day, but this is the basest slander. I

was riding on my business in plain view.”

The man ignored Thum’s protest completely and went on scowling at Dain. “Your squire has no leave

to depart the company. He can produce no writ of authority from Lord Barthomew. Nor would he tell us

his destination.”

“Release him, Sir Wiltem,” Dain said in rising annoyance. “He rides to Thirst Hold, by my order.”

“And has your lordship permission from his highness to dispatch this rider?”

Dain’s fists clenched hard on the reins. “Sir Wiltem,” he said in a voice like iron, “we ride across Thirst

land today. If anyone’s permission is required to come and go here, it is mine. Or have you forgotten I

am chevard of Thirst, and by the king’s own warrant?”

For a moment Sir Wiltem looked as though he’d swallowed a wasp, then he bowed over his saddle.

“Your pardon, my lord. It did not occur to me—”

“Plainly,” Dain snapped, cutting short his apology. His gray eyes—eld eyes—blazed at the officer,

who shifted his gaze away uneasily.

Sir Wiltem cleared his throat. “We, er, have our commander’s orders to keep all in the company

close. For the safety of—”

“And do your orders tell you to interfere with my affairs?” Dain broke in sharply.

Anger flashed in Sir Wiltem’s eyes, but Dain’s gaze never wavered. Once again Sir Wiltem was the

first to look away.

“The safety of this company is—”

“Thod’s bones, will you say that my squire’s departure threatens us?”

Sir Wiltem’s face reddened. “I follow orders, my lord,” he said stiffly.

“Then perhaps you are too zealous, sir,” Dain told him. “Be sure your orders do not again interfere

with what I tell my men to do.”

Sir Wiltem’s eyes were stony, his face impassive. The offense he’d given was serious, but clearly he’d

offered all the apology he meant to.

Without another word, he wheeled his horse around and rode away with his men, cutting through the

line of wagons lurching ponderously along the road.

Glaring after them, Thum spat eloquently.

Sir Terent flung back a fold of his cloak. “Hah, sire! That told ‘em! ’Tis good to see Wiltem put in his

place; aye, and well-whipped with reprimand. He’ll think twice ere he crosses your majesty’s will again.”

Dain was less sure. The church soldiers’ allegiance belonged

to Gavril and Noncire; Dain’s authority in this expedition was slight indeed. Although the plan was for

him to enter Nether disguised and unnoticed, he now wished he’d accepted Prince Spirin’s offer to send

an entourage of exiles with him. Aside from a few servants provided by King Verence, Dain had only his

few loyal companions from Thirst to stand by him. At times like these, he felt himself to be teetering on a

political precipice.

“Did they harm you?” he asked Thum.

“Nay, I’m well,” his friend replied. Lanky, tall, and still growing, Thum du Maltie had of late grown a

small brown chin-beard and narrow mustache which made him look more mature than his actual years. A

well-born, quiet-spoken young man, Thum seldom lost his temper. But right now, his ire was hot, and his

hazel-green eyes were snapping.

“I tried to outrun them, but they cut me off,” he said. “I had a bad moment or two when I thought they

might run me through. Thod’s bones, they acted like I was a dire enemy instead of a mere messenger.”

“Those knights weren’t scouting,” Sir Terent said scornfully. “They acted with direct intent, or I’m

a—”

“And did they search you?” Dain asked, interrupting him.

Thum shook his head. “Their saying I refused to tell them my business is a lie! They never asked, just

rounded me up and forced me to come back with them.” He frowned at Dain. “It’s wondrous strange.”

“No stranger than refusing to spend the night at any hold we’ve passed thus far,” Dain said

thoughtfully. He looked ahead at the wagons rolling up the muddy road. “There’s need for haste, but this

goes too far. The lady cannot keep up such a pace.”

Thum sighed. “We’re crawling. Mud or not, these kine could pull faster if—”

“For her, it’s fast enough,” Dain said sharply, then softened his tone. “Well, no matter now. My

message must still go to the hold.”

Thum gathered his reins at once. “Then I’m to ride again?”

Dain nodded. “Let’s hope you reach it unhindered this time.”

“I’ll ride like the wind to make up for lost time.” Thum wheeled his horse around, then spurred away in

a gallop, his cloak billowing out behind him. In three huge bounds, horse and rider reached the trees and

vanished from sight.

“I can send Polquin to follow him in case he’s set upon again,” Sir Terent offered.

Dain frowned. “Nay. If I know Thum, he won’t be caught a second time.”

“He’ll be lucky to reach Thirst’s gates before eventide, delayed like this. If they won’t open for him—”

“He’ll get there,” Dain said, refusing to think of Thum being left stranded for the night outside the hold

walls, shivering with cold and prey to whatever evil might lurk in the darkness. “He’ll think of that, and

he’ll take no chances.”

“Aye, he’s a smart lad.” Sir Terent inhaled deeply and glanced overhead at the drizzling sky. “It’s

good indeed to be back on Thirst soil, sire.”

Dain smiled at him. “We’ve been away too long.”

“That we have.”

“Before tomorrow’s nightfall,” Dain promised him, “we’ll be in our Hall, drinking Thirst cider.”

“With roast pig in our trenchers?”

Dain laughed. “Perhaps so. But now it’s time to talk to his highness about his meddling.”

Sir Terent sobered at once. “Now, Dain—uh, I mean, sire,” he said uneasily. “It ain’t wise to go

picking a quarrel. Could be this was all Lord Barthomew’s idea.”

“Barthomew cannot scratch himself without Gavril’s suggestion.”

Sir Terent grinned. “Aye, ‘tis true enough. Still, it ain’t wise to fuss with his highness—”

“This is my land,” Dain said grimly. “And I owe Gavril no oath of fealty for it. He should not interfere

with me here.”

Sir Terent looked alarmed. “His highness will do whatever he chooses. You know that.”

“/ know that tomorrow night Lady Pheresa will rest inside Thirst’s walls as long as she needs to.”

Not giving Sir Terent time to think up any more objections, Dain kicked Soleil forward and rode to the

front of the column.

He passed the numerous wagons piled high with provisions, tents, clothes chests, and countless gifts of

great cost which Gavril intended to give to King Muncel for his assistance in their quest to save Pheresa.

The lady herself traveled in the foremost wagon, lying in her glass encasement with a blanket spread

over it to shield her from curious eyes. Next to her sat Megala, her serving woman, today a cold huddled

figure in her damp cloak. On either side of Pheresa’s wagon rode the thirteen guardians on donkeys.

These priests were entrusted with the difficult task of sustaining the spell of faith which kept her alive.

Cowled and silent, each guardian was attended by a monk assigned to lead the donkeys and bring food

and drink when needed. It was paramount that the guardians never be distracted, never be required to

perform the most mundane task, never even be spoken to directly. All their attention and energy had to

remain focused on their difficult task.

And that it was difficult Dain had no doubt. Several times he’d heard some of the guardians moan

aloud whenever Pheresa suffered most.

Dain could not bear to look at her encasement, traveling well-secured with ropes to keep it from

shifting. Each time he thought of her, afflicted with poison and paralyzed inside this mysterious Mandrian

spell that kept her alive, he wanted to cry aloud with anguish. She was so beautiful and good. She had

never done anyone harm. She deserved nothing as terrible as this affliction. Every morn when he awoke,

he renewed his vow to find a way to save this sweet maid who’d stolen his heart.

As he trotted past her wagon, he glanced at the servant woman. “How does the lady?” he called out.

Megala, clutching her cloak beneath her chin, bowed to him nervously and would not directly meet his

eld eyes. “Well enough, sir,” she replied. “The pains trouble her, I think. She cries a little in her sleep,

poor lamb.”

Fresh worry filled Dain. The spell holding Pheresa safe sometimes grew weak and allowed the poison

to progress further through her body. That’s when her pain came back.

Unhappy to hear that the lady was failing again, Dain spurred Soleil onward and rode past the flag

bearers. Gavril’s blue and gold pennon hung slack in today’s rain, as did the cardinal’s yellow one and

the black and white banner of the church soldiers. Yet another man carried the brown flag of pilgrimage,

although its display was unnecessary until they reached the Netheran border.

At the very front of the column, Gavril rode astride a magnificent black horse caprisoned in silver.

Surrounded by his personal guards, lord protector, noble-born squires, Lord Barthomew and two other

church knight officers, a minstrel, and various advisers, Gavril glowed with proud self-importance.

Although he remained as handsome as ever, of late he’d begun to look thin and sometimes haggard. It

was rumored he did not sleep well. Among the men it was said that the prince’s worry for his betrothed

affected him. Dain, however, believed that Gavril was pining for Tanengard. Against all common sense,

the tainted sword had been brought with them, locked away in a box among the baggage. Dain had

silenced its terrible song for a while, but he knew eventually its power would begin to stir anew. When it

did, Gavril would not be able to resist its call.

Still, however hard his personal demons might drive him, Gavril had not lost his taste for finery. Today,

his gold-colored chain mail shone brightly despite dreary rain and mud. A vivid blue cloak lined with pale,

exquisite lyng fur protected him from the elements. His gauntlets were stitched of costly blue leather, with

his crest embroidered on the cuffs.

At his side rode Cardinal Noncire, whose obese bulk flowed over the saddle in all directions. Robed

in black wool with a yellow sash of office beneath his fur-lined cloak, the cardinal looked like an immense

pillow balanced precariously atop his stout, slow-moving horse. Hooded against the rain, Noncire

appeared grim and miserable as he conversed with the prince.

As Dain rode up, Gavril’s guards glanced his way, instantly alert, and his protector wheeled about to

put himself between Dain and the prince.

“Lord Kress, who is that?” Gavril called out, pretending he could not see Dain clearly.

“It is I,” Dain said impatiently.

“Ah, Faldain,” Gavril said in his mocking way. “Move aside, Kress, and let our visitor approach.”

The protector reined back his horse, and Dain rode up between Gavril and Noncire.

The cardinal stared at Dain through his small, beady eyes, and instinctively Dain stiffened in his saddle.

He did not trust this cunning schemer, who spoke so softly and kindly, yet had a heart of flint. Noncire

was neither friend nor ally to Dain, and never would be. After giving Dain a cold stare, he bowed his

head slightly in a token gesture of courtesy.

Dain nodded back to him and turned his attention to Gavril. He had his temper in hand. He intended to

start with diplomacy. “My thanks for your reception,” he said politely.

The prince, his handsome face looking tired beneath a thin, light brown mustache, eyed Dain with even

more coldness than had the cardinal. “What do you want?”

“I offer invitation and hospitality,” Dain said. “On the morrow, let us stop at Thirst Hold and bide

there.”

A twisted smile appeared fleetingly on Gavril’s face. He glanced across Dain at Noncire. “It seems

that our kingly companion wishes to play host.”

Noncire stroked his gray goatee. “The offer is well-intentioned, your highness. A rest in some comfort

would be most welcome to all, I’m sure.”

“There is no comfort to be had at Thirst, lord cardinal. ‘Tis a dour, drafty, inhospitable place, fit only

for uplander barbarians.”

“ ‘Tis better than pitching tents on the mud,” Dain said mildly. “Why not avail ourselves of what the

hold can offer? I will not forbid your highness wine, if it’s Thirst cider you fear.”

His small joke made Noncire smile, but Gavril seemed un-amused by the reference to their foster

days, when Chevard Odfrey had kept Gavril’s wines locked in the cellars and insisted all hold folk stay

sober.

“No,” Gavril said. “We will not stop there.”

Dain sighed. “Why is my offer not pleasing? I have sent a rider ahead to tell them we draw near. All

will be prepared for our arrival.”

Gavril frowned. “Damne, I gave orders against such—”

“So I learned,” Dain said grimly. “But my rider has been dispatched all the same.”

Fire sparked in Gavril’s dark blue eyes. “Do you dare defy me?”

“Thirst is mine, by your father’s generosity,” Dain said, knowing the reminder would twist Gavril’s

guts. “‘Tis not defiance to order my men to meet certain responsibilities.”

“You—”

“Please,” Dain said, wanting to keep Gavril from working up his notorious temper. “I offer this for

Lady Pheresa’s sake. She grows worse. She needs rest.”

“We’ll camp early today,” Gavril said.

“Sleeping in a tent in the midst of a forest, with rain, mud, and inconvenience, is hardly the rest she

needs,” Dain said, trying to stay patient. “At Thirst she can be made comfortable for a few days until

she—”

“A few days! Thod’s grace, are you mad?” Gavril shouted. “There is no time for lolling at our ease

while you play host.”

“This is a hard journey we make. Surely—”

“You have done nothing but urge us forward since we left Savroix. When we were on the royal barge,

you complained about how slowly the rowmen took us upriver against the current. When I would have

taken Lord Ardelon’s recommendation to follow the king’s road north, you insisted we take this one

instead. No doubt because it runs past Thirst Hold.”

Dain frowned. “This road is the shortest route—”

Gavril’s lip twisted. “Yet how convenient for you. And how remarkable that now, after all your

urgency and fretting, it seems you are no longer in such a hurry. Let us dally at Thirst, you say. Let us

feast and take our ease and make merry.”

“I only—”

“It is not Pheresa you think about, but rather yourself.”

“Nay!” Dain said angrily.

Gavril’s eyes flashed. “You want time at Thirst to foment more unrest among the divisionists. You

want to busy yourself raising an army among men inclined to forget they are loyal Mandrians first.

You—”

“Have done,” Dain snapped. “Let it be Thirst or any other hold in the land. I care not. Only deliver the

lady to a place of comfort. She suffers, and I seek only to alleviate that.”

Gavril’s eyes grew hot and jealous. He glared at Dain. “You would do well to remember that

Pheresa’s welfare is my responsibility. Not yours. She is under excellent care. The physicians who attend

her have assured me not an hour past that she remains strong.”

“Her servant woman says otherwise.”

“Morde!” Gavril said as though driven to the limits of his patience. “What care I for the opinion of an

ignorant servant? Shall I listen to her instead of learned men?”

“She—”

“And why should I listen to you?” Gavril went on furiously. “What knowledge of science do you

possess?”

Dain’s mouth clamped tight. He sat there, feeling his pulse thud in his throat and temples.

Noncire cleared his throat. “Perhaps, your highness—”

“Perhaps what?” Gavril interrupted rudely. “Do you intend that I should listen to the advice of this

pagan who would be a king?”

Dain’s eyes narrowed at the insult. Behind him, Sir Terent inhaled sharply. For a moment, as Dain

glared at Gavril, he saw only haze and fire. Then came a vision of himself, clad in rags, with a leather

collar buckled around his neck and a chain leading from it like a dog’s leash.

This, Dain realized, stunned by his first direct glimpse into Gavril’s mind, must be what Gavril really

thought of him. This was what Gavril actually wanted from him. To the prince, Dain would always remain

a pagan dog, fit only to sniff out the whereabouts of the missing Chalice.

Rage burned inside Dain, rekindling his hatred of Gavril, which he’d banked low on this expedition for

Pheresa’s sake. Now it came up inside him like the spew of a volcano, hot and violent, and it was all he

could do not to draw his weapon and challenge the prince then and there.

Somehow, his good sense held him silent, though it took a severe struggle with himself to control his

ire. His chest felt on fire, and his voice was hoarse when at last he said, “Tomorrow I shall ride to Thirst,

and deal with matters there as are needed. I am sorry your highness does not feel the lady merits its

hospitality. No more will be said.”

“Your time would be better spent searching for these mys-terious eld-folk you claim can cure her!”

Gavril said. “At Savroix, you boasted you could find them. Yet where are they? Why do you not

produce them? Instead of causing trouble among my father’s subjects, why don’t you confine yourself to

accomplishing your sole task on this quest?”

Dain glared at him, stiff with frustration. It was futile to keep arguing, he realized.

Just as he started to back Soleil away, however, Megala stood up in the front wagon and screamed.

“My lady!” she cried out. “My lady! Help her!”

The driver of Pheresa’s wagon yanked his team to a lurching halt. Gripping the encasement to keep

her balance, Megala screamed again.

Horrified, Dain cried out, “Pheresa!”

As Dain spurred Soleil in that direction, one of the guardians groaned loudly, clutched his head, and

fell off his donkey. Church soldiers, frozen till then, rushed to his aid.

Dain reached the wagon and flung himself off Soleil just as the guardian priest was lifted from the mud.

The man’s hood fell back to reveal his face, withered and drawn as though he’d aged a century. Dain

stared at him with astonishment, for to his knowledge none of the guardians were old. This man’s eyes

were open and staring fixedly, and his head lolled as though he were dead.

Others crowded around, everyone talking at once. Dain elbowed and pushed his way through the

confusion and climbed into Pheresa’s wagon just as Megala screamed again.

She reached out her hands to Dain. “Help her,” she pleaded. “Help my sweet lady!”

When Dain twitched aside a corner of the blanket, he saw Pheresa writhing inside the encasement.

Her eyes were shut, but she was red-faced and clawing the glass with her Fingernails.

Flinging aside all caution, he reached for the lid, but strong hands seized him from behind and pulled

him back. Furious, Dain struggled, but Sir Terent had him clamped in a stout hug and would not release

him.

“Let me go!” Dain shouted. “Damne! Let me go!”

“I won’t let you kill yourself. Come away!” Sir Terent shouted back.

Cursing, Dain twisted to get free. As he did so, the blanket slid off the glass entirely, revealing Pheresa

in her agony to everyone.

“Cover her!” Gavril commanded, riding up on his black horse. “In Thod’s name, cover her now!”

Megala bent to pick up the blanket. A knight swung himself into the wagon and helped her spread the

cloth over the encasement.

Meanwhile, Dain was hauled bodily out of the wagon by Sir Terent. As soon as Dain’s feet hit the

ground, he struggled and cursed with all his might, but Sir Terent’s hold was an expert one, and Dain

could not break it.

Sir Polquin arrived at a run, took one look at them, and helped Sir Terent manhandle Dain over to one

side, well out of the way.

Sputtering and fuming, Dain cursed them both. The royal physicians came hurrying past him, and

someone shouted for the men crowding round to let them through. Men and horses milled all around, and

the servants came crowding up to whisper and gawk.

When he felt Sir Terent’s hold slacken, Dain wrenched free. “How dare you pull me off that wagon!”

“I’m sworn to keep yer grace alive,” Sir Terent said simply. “If you touch her, you’ll die.”

That wasn’t strictly true. Dain would be in danger only if he tried to draw the poison afflicting her into

himself. But he did not have the healing gifts, and he knew he lacked sufficient skill to withstand the

eld-poison in her veins. He started to explain all this yet again to Sir Terent, then told himself it was of no

use.

Frowning, he turned and headed back in Pheresa’s direction, where men were still shouting and

hurrying to and fro. “I must know what—”

“No, sire!” Sir Terent called out in alarm. He ran to block Dain’s path, and there was fear in his face.

“In Thod’s name, don’t risk it!”

Amazed, Dain stopped in his tracks. He had never seen Sir Terent like this before.

“Please,” Sir Terent pleaded.

“She will not harm me. You need not—”

“She will, sire. She will,” Sir Terent insisted. “I know you have a generous heart and you would gladly

risk yourself on her behalf, but you must not.”

Sighing, Dain gave up the argument. By then Sulein had come squelching through the mud, looking

alarmed. “Sulein,” Dain said to him, “make haste, and tell me what can be done for her?”

“As I told your majesty before, the spell they have cast over her is weaker than they believe,” Sulein

said, steepling his long fingers together. “If one of the guardians has collapsed, the spell is now out of

balance. It may fail completely.”

“Morde!” Dain said in fresh alarm. He gripped Sulein’s sleeve. “Come! We must help her.”

“Your majesty forgets I am forbidden to attend the lady.”

“But you know what to do. You can help her, can’t you?”

Not giving Sulein a chance to answer, Dain stepped around Sir Terent and headed grimly toward the

spot where Gavril was now standing, asking a question of one of the physicians.

“The spell cannot hold long without thirteen guardians, your highness,” the physician replied loudly.

“The potion my colleague is giving her will ease her only if the spell can be rebalanced—”

“Agreed,” Sulein said as he and Dain halted beside the prince’s group.

Gavril’s face clouded over, and the physician turned to look at Dain and Sulein with raised eyebrows.

Silence fell over Gavril and his small group. The hauteur on their faces angered Dain, for their pride

and bigotry put Pheresa at more risk.

Cardinal Noncire gave Dain a very slight inclination of his head. “I fear your majesty’s creature has no

place here,” he said quietly, with a hostile glance at Sulein. “His opinion is not requested.”

“Hear him,” Dain said with equal coldness. “For once, put aside your prejudice against all who are

foreign. Master Sulein’s knowledge is more useful than you suppose.”

Gavril sniffed and swung his gaze back to the royal physician. “And what is necessary to rebalance

the—the means by which she is kept alive?”

“Another guardian must be substituted or the spell will fail completely,” Sulein said before the other

physician could answer.

“Silence him!” Gavril shouted at Dain. “He has not my leave to speak.”

Ignoring the prince, Dain turned to Sulein. “Could you take the fallen guardian’s place?” he asked.

“Truthfully,” he added in warning before Sulein answered. “This is no time for ambition or vanity.”

Sulein’s dark eyes flashed in umbrage. “Your majesty maligns me,” he complained. “But, yes, I

possess the power and the skills for this kind of spell.”

Gavril stepped up to them, his dark blue eyes snapping with fury. “He is dismissed, I said! This

blasphemer will not go near my lady.”

“Then she’ll die,” Dain said harshly. At that moment, he’d never despised Gavril more. “Or is that

what you really want?”

A white ring appeared around Gavril’s mouth. He reached for his sword. Dain did the same.

Before either of them could draw, Sir Terent and Lord Kress jumped between them.

“Please, please, excellencies!” Cardinal Noncire called out. “Consider the lady. This is no time for

fighting.”

Dain took his hand off his sword hilt and stood there hot-cheeked and fuming while Gavril’s face grew

paler and paler until his eyes were like burning coals.

Noncire turned to Sulein, and although a look of distaste crossed his fleshy face, his small black eyes

never wavered. “Give me the truth, Master Sulein. Can you contribute to the weavings of faith emanating

from the guardians?”

“Yes, I can,” Sulein replied.

“You are not of the Circle,” Noncire continued. “Are you foe to it? If I permit you to join your skills

with theirs, will you destroy what has been wrought or assist it?”

Sulein bowed to him. “I will assist. This, I swear on all that is held most sacred.”

“Don’t let him near her!” Gavril shouted. He would have rushed at Sulein, but his protector blocked

his path. Gavril swore and struck the man with his fist, but Lord Kress grimly held firm. “Keep him away

from her!” Gavril said. “I command it!”

Dain started to protest, but instead stretched out his hand in appeal to the cardinal. “Does it break the

laws of Writ to let a nonbeliever give assistance?”

Noncire frowned, but before he could reply, Sulein pulled a Circle from his pocket and held it up. “But

I am a believer in the Circle,” he announced. “Because I am not Mandrian-born does not mean I have

not heard the message of Tomias the Prophet.”

Dain’s head jerked around, and he stared at the physician with astonishment before he swiftly lowered

his gaze. He felt certain that Sulein was lying. The physician seemed to accept any art or magic that

would advance his greedy ambitions, but he was no member of the Reformed Church.

Noncire seemed taken aback. Finally, however, he extended his hand in benediction to Sulein, who

bowed low.

“Your highness, this changes everything,” the cardinal said to Gavril.

“No!” the prince shouted. “No!”

“Your highness, if this man can help keep the lady alive, then surely we must permit him to do so.”

“I do not trust him.”

“Does it matter, if he can help?”

While Gavril stared openmouthed at his former tutor, Dain stepped close to Sulein and glared at him.

“You play a dangerous game, Sulein,” he said very softly, for their ears alone.

The physician’s eyes were glowing. “I will never fathom the hidden secrets of these priests’ power

unless I partake of it,” he murmured back.

Angrily Dain gripped his arm. “Do not put her life at risk—”

“I won’t.” Sulein put his hand atop Dain’s, and the Ring of Solder that he wore on his

finger—concealed by a small spell of invisibility—flickered momentarily into sight before vanishing again.

The sight of it, as always, had the power to distract Dain, to tempt him, to tantalize and exasperate

him. He realized Sulein had let him glimpse it now to silence his protests. And although he fell silent, Dain

burned inside with resentment. He’d tried every persuasion he could think of to get the Ring from Sulein,

for by right it belonged to him, as it had been his father’s before him. Without the Ring he believed he had

little chance of finding . But Sulein kept it as a guarantee that Dain would someday grant him a high

position in Nether’s future court, as well as give him part of that kingdom’s treasury.

“You must trust me, sire,” Sulein said softly. “I know exactly what I am doing.”

Noncire came over to them. “His highness has agreed. On his behalf do I thank you, Master Sulein,

for your willingness to serve.”

Sulein glided away in the cardinal’s wake. While Pheresa’s encasement was unloaded from the wagon

and carried a short distance off the road, wattle panels were unloaded from another wagon and hastily

assembled around her tent for privacy. The guardians were led by their attendant monks into the small

enclosure, with Sulein following. Soon Dain heard them all chanting in unison.

Aching with worry, he had the feeling that he might never see Sulein or Pheresa alive again.

Church soldiers dispersed the gawkers and issued orders for camp to be made. Soon the whole

company was abustle with chores and tasks. The fallen guardian was buried, and laments for the dead

rose across the camp in eerie counterpoint to the chanting on Pheresa’s behalf.

Sir Polquin directed Dain’s servants to put up his tent, and soon they had their own small enclave in

place, with a fire crackling and kettles of water aboil.

Restless and unable to occupy himself, Dain started to walk over to Pheresa’s enclosure to keep

watch there, but he saw Gavril and his minions go by on the same errand.

Frowning, Dain abandoned the intention. Some of Gavril’s words had scorched themselves across his

mind earlier that day, and he could not forget them. Pheresa was indeed Gavril’s lady, not his. No matter

how much he still loved her, he could not rightfully intrude.

Instead he paced back and forth, and wisely Sir Polquin and Sir Terent left him alone.

At twilight there came the sound of hoofbeats on the road, and a lone horseman was halted by the

sentries.

Watching, Dain saw the silhouette of a thin, upright figure and for a second thought it was Thum

returning against orders. But he sensed none of Thum’s warm, kindhearted spirit. This was a stranger, no

doubt a courier bringing fresh dispatches to Gavril.

The sentries permitted the man to enter camp, and he rode through the tents slowly, his gaze scanning

the faces around him.

“The lazy knaves,” Sir Terent said, squinting. “You’d think they’d escort him straight to the prince.”

“These church soldiers were born in sloth and idleness,” Sir Polquin said critically.

Ever since that black day on the banks of the Charva River, when Nonkind had attacked Lord

Odfrey’s forces while they were escorting Gavril home to Savroix, Sir Polquin’s contempt for the church

soldiers’ cowardice had grown rather than abated. These knights were not the same men, but all were

judged by Thirst men under the shadow cast by the infamy of the soldiers who’d chosen to surround

Gavril, staying out of danger, while the Thirst knights fought to their deaths.

Dain lost interest in the newcomer and started for his tent to collect one of the scrolls he’d been

studying on this journey. He’d set himself to learn Netheran, and tried to work on his lessons daily.

Just then, however, the courier rode up to their fire and drew rein. “Faldain of Nether?” he asked in a

heavily accented voice.

Jumping up, Sir Terent set his hand on his sword hilt, even as Dain turned around in astonishment.

“We are all Mandrians here,” the knight protector said in a growl, but the courier was looking at Dain.

With an audible gasp, he dismounted and took two steps before Sir Terent blocked his path. The

courier dropped to his knees in the mud and bowed low.

“Your majesty,” he said. “Da venetne skekse? Skekse van yt

Thod!“

Dain stared at him in curiosity. The courier had the look of a man who’d ridden long and hard. He was

young, hardly older than Dain himself, with prominent cheekbones and slightly tilted eyes that told of

some eld blood. His hair, which was black and straight, was divided into innumerable plaits knotted with

carved wooden beads at their ends. Swinging with every movement of his head, these beads clacked

softly together. Both of his ears were pierced and sported multiple small gold rings that glinted in the

firelight. His skin had a tawny cast to it, his beard was sparse and very black, and his eyes were dark

brown. They shone at Dain with a degree of reverence and awe that made him uncomfortable, for he felt

he had done nothing as yet to deserve either.

“Rise,” Dain said. “Come near the fire and get warm.”

The courier obeyed with visible gratitude, and looked around curiously at Dain’s modest trappings.

Dain wondered if he’d expected to see someone attired in fine velvets and furs, wearing more jewels than

a single ruby ring, and waited on hand and foot by liveried servants. Still, he sensed no criticism in the

young man, and no doubt.

Although pale with exhaustion, the courier refused offers of food and drink. “My duty, sire, is to give

Jay D. Blakeny - The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice 03 - The Chalice

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