Deborah Chester - The Sword,The Ring,& The Chalice 2

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Book Information:

Genre: High Fantasy

Author: Deborah Chester

Name: The Ring

Series: The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice, book 2

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Part One

The chapel at Thirst Hold smelled of incense, dust, and candle wax. Kneeling beside Lord Odfrey and

listening to the slow intonations of mass, Dain kept his head bowed respectfully, despite his impatience.

Someone was snoring faintly in counterpoint to the priest’s voice. Dain grinned a little to himself, and

from the corner of his eye watched the dust motes dancing in the sunlight that streamed down through the

oculus window overhead.

Although sunlight fell on the altar, transforming the cloth into dazzling whiteness and glinting off the plain

silver and brass accoutrements, the rest of the small chapel lay in gloom. Tricks of light and shadow

played along the religious paintings on the walls, making the elongated, large-eyed faces of the saints

appear to be alive and watching the worshipers.

The twelve knights of Thirst selected to compete in the king’s tourney knelt today in a group directly

behind Lord Odfrey and Dain. No doubt each man was praying that he would be the one to win the

tourney and come home covered in glory. Eight and forty additional Thirst knights crowded behind them,

with the squires of all jammed into the back of the chapel.

Church soldiers filled the rest of the space, overflowing the benches and crowding into the central

aisle. Cloaked and spurred, jammed elbow to elbow, these strangers had not hesitated to wear their

weapons to chapel. Kneeling with creaks of their chain mail, their war helmets planted on the floor in

front of each man, they listened attentively to the nervous priest’s stumbling service.

Dain shifted his head slightly to glance at them. He had never seen church soldiers before, and he

found them a strange breed, with their white surcoats displaying a large black circle on the front and

back. Their fierce, weather-burned faces looked more impatient than tranquil, and when a response was

called for, their voices roared out the words in loud unison.

They had arrived last night in the midst of the banquet feast. Their leader, a hawkish, tawny-haired

man named the Reverend Sir Damiend, presented Lord Odfrey with a warrant signed by Cardinal

Noncire ordering Sir Damiend and his men to assist Lord Odfrey in escorting Prince Gavril safely home.

The implication, both in the wording of the warrant and in the contempt in Sir Damiend’s stony green

eyes, was that Lord Odfrey had erred greatly a few weeks past in letting the prince be almost killed, and

was no longer trusted to protect his highness.

Furious on his adoptive father’s behalf, Dain wished that Lord Odfrey would release Gavril to the

church soldiers and wash his hands entirely of the spoiled prince.

Ah, but Lord Odfrey would do his duty with gritted teeth, no matter how difficult he found it. “I’ve

received nothing from the king to confirm Cardinal Noncire’s warrant,” he had said privately to Dain last

night. Of late they’d developed the habit of meeting in the chevard’s wardroom every evening for a few

minutes’ chat before Lord Odfrey retired. Dain valued those talks; some days they were the only time he

even got to speak to Lord Odfrey. But last night, the chevard had been sorely troubled and irritable.

Pacing about his cluttered room, with its stacks of clothes, armor, bedrolls, and spare boots, Lord

Odfrey had said, “What if this is some church-planned coup and they mean to kidnap the prince? Do you

think my head would be safe from the king’s sword were I to hand off Gavril to these men? Nay, I’ll see

him to the very foot of his father’s throne before I call this duty done.”

Sighing to himself now in the chapel, Dain wished the church would abscond with Gavril and take him

to some far-off citadel to make a monk of him.

“Your highness will come forward,” the priest said. The prince, resplendent in a doublet of vivid blue

silk, went up to kneel at the altar for his special benediction. The sunlight glowed on his golden head.

With his eyes closed in prayer, and his handsome young face radiating piety, Gavril looked kind and

good.

Dain shifted his gaze away. In reality, Gavril was fanatical, bigoted, and cruel. Less than an hour ago,

he had been protesting Dain’s presence at mass, saying it was an affront for a pagan to attend.

Impatient, eager to start on their journey, and tired of kneeling on this hard stone floor, Dain shifted

slightly and received a quick jab from Lord Odfrey’s elbow. Glancing up, Dain caught the chevard’s

censorious frown.

Heat rose into Dain’s face. He bowed his head quickly, resolved not to wiggle again. But Gavril’s

prayer was going on far too long, undoubtedly meant to impress the church soldiers with its sheer length

and content. It was good to pray and seek blessing for their journey, but they did not have to spend all

day in here. Dain doubted that almighty Thod or any of the lesser gods cared how long a man could pray,

once the offerings had been made. Thod saw the hearts of men. What more was needed once the

worship rituals were finished? Impatience grew inside Dain, becoming a worm that consumed his entrails.

He wanted to go, go, go! Outside in the keep, final preparations for the journey were being made. It was

a radiant late-summer morning, with a sky like a pale blue pearl and the air fragrant with freshly scythed

hay. Furling and unfurling in the light breeze, the banners were bright with new dye.

Inside the chapel, however, the air hung stale and thick. A trickle of sweat beaded on Dain’s temple.

Just as he opened his mouth to draw in a deeper breath, everyone around him stood up and began to

chant a prayer. Startled, Dain mouthed the words, muffling his voice among the others, because he did

not know the prayer. He’d been through a hasty series of lessons, now that he was no longer to be a

pagan, but little of it had stuck. With all his heart, he hoped Lord Odfrey would not suspect how little

he’d learned thus far.

Suddenly the mass ended. At the rear of the chapel, someone thrust open the door, and light streamed

inside. The squires, Dain’s friend Thum among them, burst outdoors to freedom and yelled in excitement.

Grinning, Dain longed to go running outside with them, but his new status required him to remain at Lord

Odfrey’s heels.

He did not mind. After all, he was still getting used to the staggering idea of being the chevard’s son,

and someone important. The servants who used to kick him now had to bow when he walked by. He

was no longer an orphan, an eld pagan from the Dark Forest, with neither home nor family. Now he

wore fine clothes, and had servants of his own, and was permitted to sit at Lord Odfrey’s feet among his

dogs at evening gatherings. He was even called “lord” now by the servants, and it made him feel odd

inside sometimes, as though he had lost himself, his real self, and knew no longer where to find him.

“Lord Odfrey, about that route through Ebel Forest,” said Sir Damiend. Tucking his helmet beneath

his arm, he turned to Lord Odfrey and beckoned imperiously.

The chevard obeyed this summons, and Dain followed, seething on behalf of his father.

Sir Damiend spoke with the rolling cadence of lower Mandria. His close-cropped hair and skin were

both the color of wild honey; his eyes were hued an intense stony green. He’d been bom a lord, but he’d

surrendered his rank when he became a church knight. Still, his aristocratic origins were plain in the

haughty expression on his face and the way he conducted himself. “It would be quicker,” he said, “to ride

straight south to the Charva, then take barges along the river to Nuveron Point, then disembark and ride

on from there. Safer, too, I think.”

Lord Odfrey’s face went tight and expressionless. Dain knew the chevard had spent many hours with

his maps and reports, plotting the safest, swiftest route to Savroix. “I disagree, sir,” he said, keeping his

voice even and courteous. “Here’s why.”

As they talked, Dain’s attention wandered. He saw Gavril already exiting the chapel, with Sir Nynth,

his temporary protector, following stolidly at his heels. Dain liked and respected Sir Nynth. He was sorry

the man had drawn such disagreeable duty, although for Sir Nynth it was a rise in rank.

Earlier this week, the other two fosters, Kaltienne and Mierre, had departed for their parental homes,

leaving Gavril without his usual entourage.

Dain spared the prince no more than a glance, for he and Gavril stayed away from each other as much

as possible. A cold little truce existed between them right now, but Dain did not believe it would last.

Since the arrival of the church soldiers last night, Gavril had resumed his former arrogance and

haughtiness.

Dain was counting the days until they reached Savroix and Gavril passed out of his life forever.

“Dain,” Lord Odfrey said, startling him from his thoughts.

“Yes, lord?”

“This will take a moment. See that Sir Bosquecel has everyone organized, will you?”

Dain bowed and strode outside. With every step, his spirits rose, his excitement making his heart

hammer inside his chest.

After the gloomy little chapel, the bright sunlit outdoors made him squint. The sun was advancing into

the sky, and it was already hot. They’d lost much precious time dawdling about in the chapel.

Thirst Hold was a sprawling complex of unadorned stone buildings constructed in concentric rings.

The innermost courtyard was paved with cobbles and held the chapel, the walled gardens, and the

ancient Hall. Three stories tall and flanked by wings supporting towers, the Hall contained the great

feasting room plus the living quarters for Lord Odfrey and the other members of his household. Beyond it

stood the stableyard, including barns and fodder sheds. The guardhouse and barracks, smithy,

smokehouse, communal ovens, and other mundane buildings were located in the outermost keep.

Dain hurried through the milling chaos of the stableyard. Grooms were struggling with fretting horses

that were tired of waiting. A saddled war charger lashed out with a hind foot and sent a stableboy flying

through the air.

Panicky chickens clucked and squawked foolishly ahead of a trio of horses being led by another boy

to be watered.

In the outer keep, the confusion grew worse. Loaded supply wagons were being maneuvered into a

line. Yoked kine bawled in confusion and were whipped all the harder by their sweating, frustrated

drivers. Dain blinked in amazement i at how many wagons there were. He and Thum had wan- [ dered

around them last night, but they seemed to have dou- i bled in number since then. Of course, more than

half of them belonged to Gavril, for the prince brought many luxurious possessions for his year’s stay. But

besides Gavril’s wagons, all of which were painted with gaudy colors, there was one for the bedrolls and

clothes chests, one for all the armor and jousting weapons, and one for extra saddles and tack. Lord

Odfrey’s crest marked his individual wagon. Dain saw that Lord Odfrey’s manservant Lyias was already

perched there, with his feet propped up on Dain’s clothes chest.

Sulein the physician, his red conical hat exchanged for a strange, flat square tied atop his head, was

trying to per-suade Lyias to let him put his collection of bags and chests in the chevard’s wagon.

Dain swung away hurriedly before the physician could see him and threaded his way through the

church soldiers, who were collecting their mounts with quick efficiency.

Across the way, Sir Bosquecel was busy bawling orders at his men. A groom passed Dain, leading a

saddled charger at a rapid trot. The sixty knights who were going were considered Thirst’s best, and

although not all would be competing in the tourney, they preened and swaggered equally. Wearing

polished mail that glinted and shone in the hot sunlight, they endured a barrage of heckling from the

envious knights staying home.

Dain delivered Lord Odfrey’s message to Sir Bosquecel, who nodded tersely. Free now to find Thum,

Dain grinned and started to look for his friend, but a muscular arm snaked out through the chaos and

gripped him around the middle.

Hauled backward so fast he nearly lost his footing, Dain stumbled and managed to twist free. He

found himself confronting Lander, the Netheran smith who had gotten him into major trouble only a few

weeks before. Slab-shouldered and clad in a soot-streaked leather apron, the smith was looking about

nervously with darting, pale eyes. Wisps of his thin red hair stood on end.

“You!” Dain said angrily. He turned away, but Lander gripped his arm and held him fast.

“Not so fast, boy,” he said. “Come with me.”

Dain pulled free and smoothed the wrinkles in his sleeve. “I have things to do.”

“This is important. You were in on the beginning. You’ll see it finished.”

“What are you talking about?” Dain asked impatiently.

“The sword, boy. The sword!” Lander glanced about and raised his finger to his lips. “Come.”

“I saw your entry for the sword contest. It’s not worth carting all the way to Savroix. Lord Odfrey

accepted it out of kindness, nothing more.”

Lander’s pale eyes blinked. “Harsh words you say to me, boy. And after all we’ve been through

together. Harsh words.” Dain recalled the man’s boasting of the magnificent sword he would make from

magicked metal. Together they’d ventured into the Dark Forest of Nold to buy the steel from a

half-crazed dwarf. Lander had sworn that he possessed the skill of a master swordmaker, but he’d

produced only that sword of plain steel, utilitarian and well-balanced, but with no artistry other than its

simple rosettes at the guard. When Lander had presented it to Lord Odfrey last night as his entry in the

contest for the king’s new sword, Dain had seen the faint line that creased Lord Odfrey’s brow. But the

chevard had promised to enter the weapon in the contest.

Dain had felt it was an embarrassment to Thirst Hold and shouldn’t be entered. Lord Odfrey had

silenced Dain’s protests, saying he’d given his word to Lander. “But it’s not worthy!” Dain had said. “A

man’s best effort is always worthy,” Lord Odfrey had told him. “It is a plain weapon, unsuitable for a

king, but the blade is good and serviceable. It will not win, of course, but the smith’s reward will come

from having his work seen by his majesty.”

Dain had not understood that at all, and right now he wished Lander would go away and leave him

alone.

“Now, boy, listen close,” Lander said, leaning over. “The real sword is for you to take, see? Not Lord

Odfrey. You.”

“What?”

Lander muttered something in Netheran and gripped Dain by the front of his doublet. He hurried Dain

over to his smithy, and they stepped inside. Today, the circular hearth held only cold ashes instead of its

usual fire. The tools were neatly put away. The shutters that were usually propped wide open on all sides

of the small structure remained closed. Lander did not open them now.

Dain frowned. The scents of ash and metal were as familiar to him as the rhythmic ping-ping-ping of a

smithy’s hammer. He had been raised by Jorb, master armorer among the dwarves. The forge felt like

home, and although in the past year Dain had come here for comfort and reminders of a childhood spent

among hammers and tools, that part of his life was now closed forever. It was better to stay away and let

his memories lie.

While Dain hesitated in the doorway, tempted to escape, Lander started rummaging inside a wooden

cupboard.

Dain watched him with a frown. “You mean you actually made the sword you said you would? A

magicked one?”

Lander jerked upright and made wild gestures. “Hush! Not so loud. Of course I made it. Every night,

after my usual work was done, I worked on it. This blade was forged in darkness, where no one but

myself could see it.”

“Lander—”

“I told you I could do it, boy, and I have!” Lander laughed gleefully, and he did not sound quite sane.

“I have the craft, the art. Now I will prove it to the world. Behold this.”

With a flourish, he pulled a long scabbard out of the cupboard and held it up. His pallid face shone

with pride and madness.

Dain felt pity for him. Only dwarves could create the kind of legendary weapon Lander wanted to

make. The man’s ambitions had undone him.

“Look at it, boy!” Lander whispered insistently. “Besides mine, your hand will be the first to draw it.”

Dain could not resist that. He stepped closer and saw a magnificent hilt protruding from the end of the

plain leather scabbard. The guard was a swirl of ivy, wrought incredibly from the metal. Each leaf was

finely detailed, almost lifelike. The hilt itself was wrapped with gold wire. It shone and glittered in the

muted light that filtered in through the shutters.

“Draw it!” Lander insisted. “Put your hand on it.”

Dain stretched out his hand, and heard the sword hum in response. He hesitated, a little afraid to touch

it.

“Does it sing to you?” Lander asked, his pale eyes boring into Dain. “Can you hear its voice?”

Dain could, and he did not like it. He remembered how uncomfortable it had been to ride home with

the magicked metal in the cart, how it had hummed and resonated inside him until he thought it might

drive him mad. All the great swords had their individual songs. Truthseeker—Lord Odfrey’s own

ancestral sword, made of god-steel—was a blade that Dain could listen to for all eternity. But there was

nothing clear and pure about this sword that Lander had wrought. It sang of darkness and yearning and

lust ana fury.

Lander pressed closer. ‘Touch it!“ he growled. ”Take it, boy. Now!“

Frowning, Dain let his fingers curl around the hilt. The sword came to life with such violence he almost

believed light had flashed inside him. Dazed and half-blinded, he pulled out the shining blade. Through

him the sword hummed and roared for war.

“Tanengard!” he said aloud, and swung the sword aloft.

It fit his hand perfectly. Power shone off its blade, and he craved this sword with such fierceness he

thought he would die if he could not own it.

Lander reached up and plucked the sword from his hand. Dain growled in anger, but quick as thought

Lander sheathed the weapon.

Dain blinked and swayed. His head was still buzzing. He felt tired and lost without the sword, yet he

knew it was an evil thing, or could be, in the wrong hands. Dain found it a relief to hold it no longer.

Lander wrapped it up in a cloth, chuckling and muttering to himself.

“You have crafted a war sword,” Dain said.

“Of course I did, boy!” Lander said proudly. “It’s made for a king, and kings must be strong. When

Verence puts his hand on my creation, he won’t be able to let go. And I will win the contest, and all in

the land will know the name of Lander the Smith.”

“It’s a fearsome weapon,” Dain told him.

Lander laughed. ‘Thank you, boy. Thank you.“

“Too fearsome. It’s not easy to handle.”

“You’re a boy,” Lander said, brushing off his advice. “The king is a man. He’ll handle it.”

Dain frowned, hurt by that. He gave up what he was trying to say. Clearly Lander had no intention of

listening to him.

“Tanengard,” Lander crooned, stroking the weapon through its cloth wrapping. “I wondered what

your name was. I cannot hear your song. It took this eld boy to hear what you had to say.”

“Is that the only reason you brought me in here?” Dain asked, suddenly angry. “Just to get its name?”

“How else?” Lander replied.

Dain spun on his heel and started for the door. “You treat me like a dancing beyar that does tricks.”

“Wait, boy! Wait! You must take this.”

Lander hurried after him and thrust the wrapped sword in his arms.

Dain held it awkwardly. “What am I to do with it?”

“Are you daft? I can’t give my prize into Lord Odfrey’s keeping,” Lander said. “One look at it and he

would condemn me for sorcery.”

“Rightly so,” Dain muttered, wondering how Lander had managed to invoke the spells now crawling

inside the blade.

Lander scowled at him but went on as though he had not spoken. “You will take it to Savroix for me.

At the last minute before the sword contest, you will switch swords. Put Tanengard before the king and

keep the plain one for yourself.” He beamed. “That’s your reward. I haven’t forgotten your help, see?

And you want a sword of your own, don’t you? One made by me will soon be worth a great deal. You

will be the envy of your friends.”

“But I—”

“Go now. Go! I depend on you.”

Dain’s uneasiness grew. This whole business seemed dishonest and sneaky. And Tanengard’s spell

included a lure that would make it next to impossible for the king to choose any other weapon once he’d

touched this one. It was not right to enspell a king. Dain had the horrible suspicion that consorting with

Lander would get him into terrible trouble again, far worse than the last time.

“I don’t want to,” he said, trying to hand the sword back to Lander. “Take it to Lord Odfrey. Tell him

you gave him the wrong sword by mistake. He doesn’t have to see it.”

“Are you mad?” Lander asked, staring at him. “Of course he’ll see it. And as soon as he does, he’ll

want it for himself. No, boy. You’re to guard it. Only you can resist it and keep it safe.”

“You have a high opinion of my resistance,” Dain muttered, fearing he, too, might surrender to the

madness he now held in his arms.

“You’re eld. Of course you can resist.”

“It’s too strong,” Dain said. “I wonder that you can even bring yourself to give it to me.”

“You know that as its maker I am immune,” Lander said, but his darting eyes and red face gave away

his lie.

“A magicked sword is one thing, but there are too many spells in this one. What if you drive the king

mad?”

“No true warrior could fail with Tanengard,” Lander said. “King Verence has a mighty heart. Yes, it is

a brutal sword. But he needs it now to defend us against the darkness. Tell me true, boy: Would you

want this sword in any other man’s hand save his?”

“No.”

“Then it’s settled. Good journey to you.”

“But—”

From outside came a shout. “Dain!”

There was no more time to protest. Dain was pushed outside the smithy, with Tanengard still in his

arms. He glanced around, saw the Thirst knights mounted and the church soldiers climbing into their

saddles. The air was bright and clear, the sunlight hot, the shouts and merriment loud. Out here,

Tanengard did not seem as dark and strong as it had before. Dain realized that sometimes swords of this

kind mirrored the souls of their makers. It could be some darkness inside Lander that was tainting this

weapon, Dain mused; perhaps separation and distance would diminish that link, making it eventually fade.

Dain hoped so, for it seemed that he was now committed to getting the sword into the hands of the king,

come what may.

“Dain!” Sir Terent shouted, riding by on his horse. “Quit dawdling, if you intend to go. Lord Odfrey

has been asking for you.”

Dain gulped, realizing he was about to be left behind. Tucking the sword under his arm, he ran to the

baggage wagons.

Lyias, of course, saw him. “What is that, Lord Dain? May I help you?”

“No,” Dain said gruffly. “It’s nothing.” He stuffed it hastily out of sight among the bedrolls.

“Is that Dain?” called out an accented voice. Sulein came riding his donkey from around the other side

of the wagon. “Ah, yes,” he said with one of his intense smiles. His dark, wiry beard was combed today,

and his eyes glowed with excitement. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.” Dain’s heart sank.

Sulein’s discussions ranged from simple questions to entire lectures on philosophy and mathematics.

“Forgive me,” he said as fast as he could. “I must attend Lord Odfrey.”

“But, Dain—” “I must go.”

Mounting his horse, he kicked it hard to catch up with Lord Odfrey at the head of the line.

The chevard had reined up at the gates. Sitting tall in his saddle, with the sunlight sparking no glints

from his dark hair, he adjusted his gloves impatiently and frowned as Dain came trotting alongside,

disorderly and out of breath. On his other side, Gavril shot Dain a faint, disdainful sneer. Sir Damiend did

not look at Dain at all.

“Forgive me, lord,” Dain said, a little out of breath. “I

was—“

“No excuses,” the chevard said sternly. “You have delayed his highness. Ask his pardon before you

seek mine.”

Anger shot through Dain. He would sooner have his finger chopped off than apologize to Gavril. The

prince was smiling openly now, staring at Dain with his brows lifted.

For a moment Dain refused to do it. But then he recalled some wise advice he’d received from Sir

Terent only a few days ago.

“The prince is leaving us,” the ruddy-faced knight had said. “And you’re staying. The world’s been

laid at your feet, lad. Be patient and bide a little longer. Soon enough he’ll be gone, to trouble you no

more.”

With those words in mind, Dain forced himself to meet Gavril’s vivid blue gaze. “Forgive me, your

highness,” he said in as courteous a voice as he could muster. He let no sullenness be heard in his tone,

for Lord Odfrey was watching him closely. “Truly I did not intend to delay your departure. I am sorry

and ask your pardon.”

“Prettily said,” Gavril replied, begrudgingly. “But must this eld ride here in front as my equal?”

Lord Odfrey frowned. “I thought your highness might enjoy a companion on the road.”

“No, thank you,” Gavril said loftily, sneering at Dain. “I prefer to converse with Sir Damiend.”

The commander of the church forces smiled and bowed over his saddle. “Your highness does me

honor.”

With his face burning, Dain looked at Lord Odfrey. “With your permission, lord, I will ride with the

others from Thirst.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Gavril said quickly before Lord Odfrey could respond.

“My son is not going to ride at the rear like a servant,” Lord Odfrey told him.

Gavril’s eyes met his with wide innocence. “But, my lord, he is not officially your son yet. Until then, he

has no rank and need not be set higher than his proper place.”

A muscle jumped in Lord Odfrey’s clamped jaw. Behind him, Sir Roye’s weathered face grew

watchful and alert for trouble. Sir Damiend’s black cloak blew in the hot wind, and his green eyes never

left Lord Odfrey.

Dain could smell a trap around Lord Odfrey. Anxiously he said, “Lord, have you any message that I

may convey to Sir Terent?”

After a moment, Lord Odfrey’s dark eyes stopped burning holes into Gavril. He shifted his gaze to

Dain and nodded. “Yes, give him this map.”

He handed the roll of parchment to Dain. His face was like stone, but Dain sensed his anger and

blazing humiliation. It does not matter, Dain wanted to tell him. The insult is small at best.

“Ride behind his highness until we reach the road,” Lord Odfrey commanded Dain. “Then you will

give the map to Sir Terent.”

“Yes, lord,” Dain said.

Gavril smirked in seeming satisfaction with his little victory. “You may give the orders to depart, my

lord.”

Lord Odfrey bowed and passed the command along.

Then they were riding out, saluted by Sir Bosquecel, who’d been left in command of the hold. There

rose a fanfare of horns and cheering serfs. Little boys ran beside them, brandishing sticks in mock

swordplay and yelling. Dogs barked in their wake. Women called out from windows and the ramparts,

waving ribbons and kerchiefs.

Lord Odfrey and Sir Roye took the lead, with Sir Damiend and Sir Nynth flanking Prince Gavril. Dain

rode behind the prince like his squire, taking care not to let his restive horse crowd Gavril’s mount. The

company of fifty church soldiers, in their black cloaks and white surcoats, came thereafter, leaving the

Thirst knights to guard the slow-moving wagons and donkey-mounted servants at the rear.

As soon as they left the hold, trotted over the practice field, and clattered onto the great road that led

south, Dain dropped back. In a few minutes he reached the rear of the column. There, he joined up with

Thum, who rode with eyes shining like stars and a big, silly grin on his freckled face.

“We’re really going,” he said. “Can you believe it? I’ve pinched myself twice already to make sure I

do not dream this.”

Dain grinned back. His excitement beat inside his chest, and it was all he could do to keep from

spurring his horse to gallop wildly down the road. At that moment life seemed just about perfect... except

for Tanengard, hidden back there in the chevard’s wagon. He could hear its presence, like an incessant

whisper in the back of his mind. Dain regretted ever knowing Lander. He wished, with all his heart, that

he’d left the smith’s accursed sword behind. Already it was burdening his heart, like a shameful secret he

had to carry.

“Why are you scowling so?” Thum asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dain replied. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Sulein riding on his donkey beside the

chevard’s wagon. Dain wondered if the physician could sense the sword’s presence too.

Worried, Dain felt tempted to sling the sword into the bushes and abandon it, but he knew that would

be an unwise thing to do. Its powers were too potent and might corrupt anyone who found it.

“Something is amiss,” Thum insisted. “You look like you’ve eaten green berries.”

Dain shrugged. “It’s just something I have to tell Lord Odfrey. Tonight.”

“What have you done now?”

Dain met his friend’s dismayed eyes. “Nothing. I’ve done nothing.”

“If you confess tonight when we camp,” Thum said gloomily, “you aren’t too far from Thirst to be sent

back.”

Dain had not thought of that. His eyes widened as he considered the horrible possibility of being sent

back to Thirst with the sword. “Then I’d better wait,” he decided.

“Dain—”

“Hush!” Dain said impatiently. “It’s nothing, I tell you.”

“But—”

“When we get to Savroix,” Dain said, “what do you intend to see first? The Bridge of Foretelling or

the sword swallowers at the town fair?”

Thus distracted, Thum began to chatter about the coming attractions. Dain let him talk, but in the back

of his mind his uneasiness grew. Now the secret had forced him to lie to his best friend. And if he waited

until they reached the banks of the Charva or even crossed the famous river before he mentioned the

sword to Lord Odfrey, then he would be faced with the disagreeable task of explaining why he’d waited

so long. Perhaps it would be better to say nothing at all, and just drop Tanengard quietly into the deep

waters, to be concealed there for all time.

As for what Lander would ask him later when he got home... well, that was too far away to worry

about now. He supposed he would have to lie to the smith as well. Dain frowned to himself, realizing with

shame that already he was failing to measure up to his new father’s high standards. But once he got rid of

Tanengard, he would be honest and truthful. Never again would he let anything stain his honor. Thus did

Dain close his mind to the problem.

That night, camped in Ebel Forest, Dain was awakened by his own shouting. He sat up wildly, fighting

his blankets, and found himself gripped by a pair of strong hands that shook him hard.

“Dain, Dain, easy now,” Lord Odfrey’s voice said in the darkness. “It’s only a dream, lad. It’s only a

dream.”

Blinking awake, Dain shuddered in his father’s grip, then drew up his knees and rested his face against

them. Lord Odfrey held his shoulder a moment longer, gave him an awkward pat, and released him.

The campfires had burned down to muted embers. Sleeping forms lay rolled in blankets. Along the

edges of the camp, the sentries kept watch in the darkness.

Dain rubbed the clammy sweat from his face. He felt breathless and very tired, as though he’d ran a

long distance. His mouth burned with thirst. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Lord Odfrey filled his own cup from the waterskin and pressed it into Dain’s hands. The cold silver felt

good against his hot palms. He drank the water in gulps, and sighed.

“Thank you, lord,” he whispered. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Lord Odfrey murmured. “I’ll sleep little until we are safe across the Charva and in the

lowlands.”

Dain understood the reason for his unease. The Mandri-ans believed the Nonkind could not cross the

Charva’s swift waters. There had never been a Nonkind raid in lower Man-dria, so perhaps it was true.

But even on this side of the river, Dain had sensed no danger. He sensed no danger now. The only

monsters here were those in his dreams.

“Was your nightmare very bad?” Lord Odfrey asked with sympathy.

Dain shrugged. Already the distorted shapes and images that had filled his mind were fading. He

started to hand back the chevard’s cup, then held it up a moment, frowning at it.

“There was a cup like this, long ago,” he said slowly.

“Not as large, but silver. Eldin silver.”

“Yes?” Lord Odfrey said in encouragement. Dain’s frown deepened. “I don’t know how I know that.

I never saw such a cup while I lived with Jorb. Perhaps my sister used to talk about it. She told me many

tales.”

“Was your dream about something that happened to you long ago?”

“I don’t think so,” Dain said, rubbing his eyes. They ached and were wet, as though he had been

crying in his sleep. He was glad that the night concealed him, for it was unmanly to weep the tears of a

child. “It was all bright colors, brighter than anything I’ve ever seen before. I was in a room like the sun,

all yellow and gold, but there was darkness in it, a black mist that was searching for me, coming for me.”

He drew in a ragged breath, feeling the cold, sick fear grip him again. “I couldn’t ran from it. I couldn’t

get away.”

Lord Odfrey gripped his arm. “You’re safe now, lad. It isn’t here.”

Absorbing his comfort, Dain tried to control his foolish emotions. He realized he’d probably awakened

the others sleeping nearby, although if so, they were kindly pretending to sleep on.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and straightened his shoulders. He handed back the chevard’s cup. “Thank

you. I’m well now.”

In silence, Lord Odfrey gave him another pat and returned to his own blankets. Dain sat a while,

feeling the night breeze cool his hot face. He absorbed the sounds of the forest around him—the faint

rustlings, the gliding sweep of a predator’s wings, the soft sighings of the tree canopies overhead. The air

smelled of wood ash, horses, and men, but beyond the camp smells lay the scents of wood bark, moss,

damp soil, and leaf mold. Reaching inside his tunic, Dain curled his fingers around his pendant of bard

crystal for comfort and sat there in the darkness a long while. He wished he could go off by himself into

the forest, but he knew Lord Odfrey was not yet asleep. The man had enough worries already troubling

his mind. Dain would give him no more by slipping away.

By late afternoon the next day, they neared the river. There was an air of anticipation in everyone.

Even the church soldiers, although they did not relax their tight vigilance, occasionally spoke to each other

and could be seen to smile.

Many of the Thirst knights rode slouched in their saddles, laughing and talking idly to each other. Lord

Odfrey no longer looked as tense and cautious as when they’d first set out. The Thirst knights had a bet

laid—much to the disap- | proval of the church soldiers—as to who would be the first j to see the

Charva, Lord Odfrey or Prince Gavril.

“A stupid wager,” Dain muttered to Thum. “Even if Lord Odfrey does see it first, he will let the prince

claim the win.”

Thum’s freckled face looked serious as he nodded agree- j ment. “I fear our knights would bet on

anything, even a race between dung beetles across the stableyard.”

“They should save their betting money for who will win the tournament.”

Thum’s green eyes shone. “I cannot wait to get there. I wish we could gallop our horses the whole

way.”

Dain shifted in the saddle and winced at the ache in his hips. “And arrive with gall sores.”

Thum’s laughter rang out, echoing through the treetops. Birds flew through the canopy, squawking in

affront. Dain leaned over and broke off a twig, sniffed the torn bark, then tasted it.

The twig had a clean, minty flavor. He chewed on it, marveling at this gentle forest, with its springy

carpet of golden-green moss underfoot and large, well-spaced trees of ancient size. Dappled sunlight

shifted in patterns across the riders’ faces, glinting here and there off a bridle chain or spur rowel. The air

was warm and humid, almost sultry beneath the trees, and fragrant with varieties of shrubs and saplings

Dain did not always recognize.

He couldn’t help but compare these woods with the Dark Forest where he had grown up. That was a

place of constant danger, with such a tangle of undergrowth, thicket, briers, and close-set trees no decent

road such as this could be built through its heart.

Now and then, a faint breeze sprang up. When it shifted, Dain’s keen nostrils caught a whiff of the

river. Its smell was clean, telling him the water ran swiftly in its course. He had heard much of the

legendary Charva, but until today he had never seen it. Indeed, he had never traveled so far from Nold in

his life. He felt his mind and heart expanding in all directions, as though something small and tight inside

him was unfurling. The world was much larger than he’d ever supposed. Now he was becoming a part of

it. In only a short year, his life had changed completely, and it was still changing. At times he could hardly

believe it.

“Are you listening to me?” Thum asked, breaking his thoughts.

Dain blinked and looked at him with a shy grin. “No.”

“I thought not. I said the first thing we’re going to do when we get there is—”

Someone ahead shouted, and the column slowed down.

“It’s the river!” Dain said in excitement.

He and Thum kicked their horses forward, leaving the road to race ahead of the column up to where

Lord Odfrey and Sir Damiend had reined up. The forest ended at the edge of a bluff overlooking the

swift, gray-green waters below.

Such a river. Dain’s mouth fell open at the size of it. Wide and clean, it coursed along a straight route

here beside this rocky bluff, but to the west Dain could see where the land flattened and the river began

to meander. Across it, far on the horizon, lay strips of rolling meadowland bordered by trees and

hedgerows. A distant curl of smoke showed him the location of a village, too far away to be seen.

The road curved away from the edge of the bluff, winding along a gentle decline to the cleared land on

either side of the river’s banks.

“Where’s the ferry point?” Thum asked. “We can’t be far.”

Dain stood up in his stirrups and shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun. “That way,” he said,

pointing.

A short distance away, Lord Odfrey and Sir Damiend sat in their saddles, poring over the map and

talking in low, serious voices.

The excitement in Thum’s face faded. He looked almost pensive. “All my life I’ve wanted to see this

river,” he said. “Now I have.”

“Aye.”

“When we cross at the ferry point, we’ll be in upper Man-dria no longer,” Thum said. His voice had

gone quiet, and held a strange tone of wistfulness and regret.

Dain looked at him in puzzlement. “Don’t you want to go on?”

“Of course! That’s not it,” Thum said at once. He glanced past Dain at someone else, and his face

turned red. “Never mind.”

“He means, pagan,” Gavril said, riding up, “that he’s an uplander with old treachery in his heart.”

Deborah Chester - The Sword, The Ring, & The Chalice 2 - The Ring

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