A Shadow On The Land: Legends of Astarkand #1

The Prophecy

"Hear the Dreamsender’s promise! After five hundred years, a son of my house will return to contend with wicked Vodan. He shall bear Eiathan’s dagger that I hold in my hand. He shall declare himself as Eiathan’s Heir, that the throne should pass to him.

Eiathan’s Heir shall love truth, be humble, gracious and just. He shall be quick and valiant. He shall have fought and vanquished the dragon. His name shall be Bjorn…"

Thus spoke Galthain Prince, the Seer of Astarkand, as he departed Hearthing, in the year 1134 KGA.

Chapter 1

March 30, year 534, NKR

(New Kandian Reckoning)

His Royal Highness, Prince Bjorn Horsa shielded his eyes from the glare of the sinking sun as his falcon dove for her prey. The prince kneed Caprice into a steady trot toward her landing place. Double thudding, snow-muffled hooves informed him that his friend Lord Lars Whitfrost followed.

When they reached the falcon, she mantled her wings over her prey and hissed. Her curved beak dripped crimson. The iron-tang scent of blood tainted the winter-clean air.

Dismounting, Bjorn stretched out his leather gauntlet, offering her a perch.

The falcon threatened to stab him.

He hesitated as the wind tugged at his broad-brimmed hat and stretched the hat-strings taut against his neck, waiting for a lull between wind gusts.

Nice birdie, he crooned, darting a practiced hand down to snare the falcon’s hunting jess.

She stabbed and tore at the leather glove as he put her free foot on his left fist.

What bad humor, Lars said from where he waited on his large, sturdy horse. Taller and brawnier than the prince, Lars outweighed Bjorn by at least five stone.

The bird’s sharp beak pricked Bjorn’s hand through the leather.

Be good! he growled through chapped lips. He gently grasped the back of her head to keep her from trying again. She’s getting ready to nest, and doesn’t want to share.

He pushed away again his irritation at being ordered out into the cold with broody raptors by the king, gently wrested the carcass from the falcon’s talons and inspected it. Oh, good lass! She’s caught a fine grouse.

Lars grinned and smoothed the ruffled feathers of his borrowed tercel.

Bjorn gripped the other end of the jess between his gauntlet fingers and popped a tiny hood over the falcon’s eyes. She settled between his thumb and forefinger, talons pricking through the leather. The dead grouse landed in the half-full game bag behind his saddle with a soft plop. He cinched the leather thong and reached up to scratch Caprice between his twitching ears. Caprice dipped his head and butted him in the chest.

Well, Lars? Shall we call it a day, or do you want to try for more birds? He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. The mere thought of the warmth of Hearthing Castle made the wind even colder. Darkening clouds to the east threatened more snow. In Astarkand, winter often hung on through May. Tomorrow would be April first—

At least one more. Lars slipped the hood off his tercel-hawk and released him.

With a sudden rush of wings, the tercel climbed through the air to a dizzying height. The gold royal mews’ band on the hawk’s right leg sparkled in the sun. Riding an unexpected updraft even higher, the tercel winged away from the field.

Lars shook his fist. Come back, you ungrateful bird! Spurring his horse into a lumbering gallop, he chased the tercel. It dwindled to a black speck against the snowy horizon and vanished.

Bjorn vaulted into his saddle. Blood welling from new talon-punctures trickled down into the fingers of his gauntlet as his falcon blindly sought purchase. Bent low over Caprice’s mane, the prince followed over the snow-capped furrows. His horse’s smaller hooves beat out a fast gallop that quickly overtook Lars’ lumbering pace.

As he closed the gap between them, Bjorn shouted over the wind, Let the bird go! Bjorn did not want to be stuck out in the snow all night, hunting for a stupid bird. His Majesty the king would gleefully use that as just cause for giving him more grief.

Lars reined his horse to a stop, spraying snow and frozen dirt across the field. His strong jaw jutted out in a mulish fashion. But I borrowed him from the king’s mews! The master said the crown prince favors him. I must get him back.

The prince’s falcon spread her black-tipped wings and dug into Bjorn’s leather gauntlet as he brought Caprice to a halt beside his friend. Your bird was banded, he pointed out. If a falconer catches him, he’ll be returned. Let’s gather up our friends and go home.

Come. He meant it as an order.

Lars’ stubborn jaw softened and he turned his horse around.

Together, they trotted back to the edge of the field where his cousin waited.

A prince of Astarkand never went anywhere without an entourage. Two more of Bjorn’s companions: his cousin, Trehan Horsa and Christov Ormsby; also lords, waited for him in the shelter of a clump of northern cabbage palms, the pink, tulip-tipped crowns tightly furled against the bitter wind.

As Bjorn and Lars drew near, Trehan cupped a gloved hand to his mouth and blew into it. Trehan’s frizzy hair fluffed about his ears under his hat, giving him an uncanny resemblance to the bird riding on his other gauntlet, fluffing its feathers for warmth. I thought eventide would never arrive. I had enough of this sport hours ago. Holding the gauntlet close into his body, he stepped out of the windbreak provided by the squat purple trunks and towed his reluctant mount along behind him.

Christov’s brown eyes gleamed. But what a feast! He hefted their bulging game bag.

Oh, yes. King Olaf will have us to thank at breakfast. Trehan stepped over a small, wispy-haired fleuder creeping toward the shelter of a downed frond and gave the creature a helping nudge with his boot. Its grumbling grew muffled as it burrowed into the leaf litter, and was quiet.

Lars glanced down at the empty jess and hood dangling from his hand. Furry, red-blond eyebrows drew together over eyes the color of blued steel. I’ve lost his hawk. He won’t be grateful for that. With an impatient move, he stuffed the jess and hood into his shirtfront.

Christov made a face as he secured the game bag behind his saddle. He retrieved his goshawk from its perch on the roll of Trehan’s saddle and mounted his heavy horse.

I think King Olaf is never grateful, however I try to please him. What a pity. Bjorn beckoned to Trehan, now also mounted, who fell in to ride beside him. The other two lords reined back to allow them more room.

Trehan glanced toward the distant city walls before turning his chapped face to Bjorn. Didn’t Olaf go hawking once a week when we first arrived in Astarkand? Yet today, the mews-master denied that Olaf even liked flying his hawks. His green eyes glinted, the only sign of his disgust at the lie.

Hah! Bjorn shook his head.

Wind gusted up around him, making conversation difficult. A long, blond curl hit him in the mouth. He spat out. Such a nuisance. He clapped his hat tighter against his head and shoved his curls up under the brim. When he was king, he would introduce a manlier style.

Blood from his falcon’s latest talon-punctures dried, sticking his left palm to the gauntlet. He flexed his fingers carefully. The falcon shifted her weight. There wasn’t much he could do about the maddening itch as long as the bird rode his fist.

I can better that lie! Today Olaf bade me exercise his birds and pity him his lack of fun, he said as they rode to meet his last two companions, the brothers Nathon and Nicar Plainsrider, also lords, waiting near the high road to Hearthingham.

Lars wasn’t finished complaining. Some fun, flying falcons in a temper. I’d rather hunt a―a wild sow with piglets! An enraged mother pig was a fierce opponent, one to avoid at all costs.

Nathon grinned, his eyes almost crinkling shut as his brother, Trehan, and Christov guffawed. A man with a quieter sense of humor, Nathon rarely ever laughed.

Bjorn wasn’t laughing either. He knew Lars was right. Somehow or other, they would be made to pay out of all proportion to the actual value of the missing hawk.

Well, I still must obey. How else can I gain the king’s favor?

Caprice snorted as though also deriding that highly unlikely prospect, and that did make Bjorn laugh.

His companions, however, pulled grim faces.

I wager you can’t. Nicar, Nathon’s brother, tightened his hawk’s jess and hood as their horses broke into a swift trot.

And I wager you can. Nathon rarely took exception to the words of Bjorn or his other companions, but he wouldn’t let Nicar have the last word. Ever. He had lost his hat. He gripped the hood of his cloak against a wild gust of wind and snugged his bird closer to his chest as he added, Or why are we in Astarkand?

Nicar’s freckled face crinkled into a smile wider than his brother’s. How much? I remind you that it’s Olaf you’re wagering on!

I wager a crown the king will be impressed enough to capitulate at last.

What kind? A coronet or a gold piece, Nicar demanded as they neared the southern gate of Hearthingham.

Both! Nathon sounded exasperated. A king’s crown for Bjorn and a gold piece for you. You needn’t try to match me. You’re going to lose.

As Nicar sputtered, Bjorn chided, Now, Nathon, once Father Diernan anointed me and set me apart to the kingship, Astarkand’s crown—my crown—became a sure bet, unworthy of any man’s wager.

But, but—he won’t give it up! You know he won’t, Nathon protested.

The prince schooled his face into a look of polite inquiry. That just makes it all the more interesting, don’t you think?

Nathon’s eyes narrowed in a way that made it crystal clear he did not agree.

Bjorn laughed.

Christov arrived first at the closed gate and yanked on the bell-pull. A muffled tolling sounded high above them on the wall.

Who goes there? a guardsman shouted down. A peep-slot screeched open in the gate.

Prince Horsa and his men, Trehan yelled.

Bars grated and thumped on the far side of the gate before one broad panel creaked open. The man on the ground planted himself in the middle of the opening. Why are you lords out so late?

His Majesty’s orders, Bjorn said. When the guard didn’t move, he added, May we pass?

The man frowned and scratched his head. After a long minute, he stepped aside and, with a shrug, sloppily saluted.

Bjorn rode through. He called back over his shoulder, My thanks! Have a good evening!

Behind him, he heard the guard grumbling as he forced the gate closed and seated the bar with a clank.

That was rude. Trehan’s words reverberated with indignation. Sparks glinted in his green eyes in that way that meant he would demand a word in private with Bjorn on the matter later. They had exchanged a great many such words lately as Olaf’s royal whims pushed his men and their tempers to the breaking point.

They want a bribe. I can’t really blame them. Christov rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck before taking a firmer grip on his reins. Their pay is pitiful.

Nathon shook his head. Well, they won’t get one from us.

Nicar frowned at his brother. So they’ll keep on being rude?

We can’t bribe them. What if it gets back to Olaf? Nathon glared at him.

Lars rode forward and pushed his horse between them. Have your man lose a handful of coins to them at dice, Nicar. That’s bound to sweeten them up.

I’ll do it, but only if Bjorn agrees, Nicar said. His eyes had grown dark and troubled in the shadow of his hat.

Do it.

Yes, my lord. Nicar smiled triumphantly at Nathon. After all, we can’t have them being rude to our prince! It sets a bad precedent.

Nathon, quite uncharacteristically, had nothing to say.

Leaving the gate behind, Bjorn and his men clattered up the brick-paved street that climbed to the drawbridge of Hearthing Castle. The guards raised the portcullis, lined up along the edge of the guard-walk, and thumped their fists to their breastplates. The prince knew they weren’t any wealthier than the men on the city gates, but they’d never dare show him any disrespect. If they did, the seneschal would have them whipped.

The prince thundered across the drawbridge and into the tunnel beneath the thick walls. He and his men awoke an army of echoes that faded away behind them as they emerged into the courtyard.

Dismounting carefully without upsetting his falcon, he glumly surveyed the wide expanse of frosty flagstones. Fragrant pine-smoke from the guardhouse chimney stained the becalmed, wall-bound air milky blue. His liegemen and a few castle servants waited alone in the twilight. Again.

He must have moved dinner up an hour to spite me.

Is all well? Bjorn greeted Sir Kyle Tanshaw, his mentor, as he hastened forward accompanied by a castle groom. Both of them stood taller than the prince. Everyone in the courtyard was probably taller, but he resisted the urge to double-check.

My lord, the king desires your presence at the high table at once. A gust of wind whipped Kyle’s homespun cloak about and mussed his graying locks. His pale blue eyes squinted against the frosty wind as he looked down to meet his protégé’s dismayed expression.

Bjorn tossed Caprice’s reins to the groom and handed the falcon to Lars. He doffed his hat and ran a hand through his snarled locks, trying to restore order. His chin stubble itched and his hunting cloak stank of horses, birds, and sweat. I’ve got to clean up! I need hot water and towels, and my blue cloak.

He yanked off his gauntlets, wincing as the left-handed one came away from the recent gouges. He needed to tend those, too.

But you’ve no time at all, my lord. The king said, ‘directly!’ The entire hall heard him. Kyle tried to hustle the younger man in the direction of the hall’s great doors. You must be seen to obey–if you still desire the king’s favor.

Have I got any choice? Bjorn demanded. In a fit of rebellion, he paused at the courtyard well where a leather bucket of water stood ready. A rime of ice on the surface crackled as he smashed a fist through it. He gasped at the stinging cold as he hastily rinsed his hands and patted them dry on his breeches. Right then, I’m going.

He headed for the heavy, carved doors to Hearthing Hall, where the king feasted almost every night with his court. Kyle matched his pace.

What else has gone awry tonight?

You’re to sit at Olaf’s left hand–

Bjorn felt a hot flush rising from the general area of his collar as he finished the sentence, –For the fifth time this week. How embarrassing! First, ordered to return from hunting after the supper bell sounded, given no time to clean up or to change and now, to have to sit beside the king! And Weinolf— O woe and tribulation! Olaf’s son must be–

He paused, his hand on the great brass handle of one of the heavy doors, as the possible costs of the king’s dubious show of favor occurred to him. Beside him, the door guards stamped to keep their boots from freezing to the paving stones.

–Livid, his mentor informed him. He’s very jealous of that seat closest to his father’s ear. I heard he dreams of challenging you to a duel. Beware, my lord–

Surely the king’s heir can’t be that foolish. If Olaf would grant him lands at last, Bjorn would gladly take his men out from under the large royal feet...but just until he came to his senses and abdicated in Bjorn’s favor. Exasperation threatened to leak out of the very pores of the prince’s skin.

His mentor cleared his throat.

Something must have shown on his face. Bjorn hastily imagined slamming a heavy wooden door on his feelings, and dropping heavy crossbars into place. Right! Not now. He could always have feelings later. In private.

And still, his inner voice couldn’t resist nagging him from behind that hefty barricade, But—what kept Olaf from honoring the prophecy? His salvation was as much at stake as everyone else’s! After all, if Olaf didn’t abdicate in Bjorn’s favor, then the ancient enemy of Astarkand, Prince Vodan of the elves, would destroy Olaf and his family along with all the rest.

Bjorn stepped past the doors into the hot, smoky, echoing hall. Five, large roaring fireplaces built into the hall’s walls sucked greedily at the draft of air flowing in around him as he shut the door.

Off-key music from musicians gathered around the farthest hearth rose above the crowd’s noise in bursts of sound. A group of knights shouted with laughter on the nearer benches. Dogs snarled and fought over a spilled platter of meat near the great hearth as the steward boxed the ears of a servant who clutched a platter dripping with gravy and shrieked.

Bjorn winced and shook his head. He forced himself to wade through the racket to the high table where the duke of Brask shouted at King Olaf’s ear. Beyond Olaf, an empty seat waited, and beyond that, Weinolf, Olaf’s heir.

As he met Bjorn’s glance, Weinolf’s face suffused with color as rich as his red velvet surcoat. Then he stuck out a petulant lip and glowered at the delicacies heaped on his plate.

Good evening, your Majesty. Bjorn dipped his head in a brief bow to Olaf as he slid into the empty chair. Your Highness, he murmured to Weinolf.

If Weinolf grunted a welcome, the general noise drowned him out. Olaf’s heir was very long in the torso. Bjorn’s head came only to the middle of Weinolf’s ear. Normally he wouldn’t resent this in a man, but Weinolf was ever determined to find an advantage. His frequent jibes about Bjorn’s stature had worn thin.

Ah! And I trust you had good hunting? Olaf shouted. His blue eyes gleamed above a curled and oiled beard. His cheeks bloomed in the warmth of the hall on either side of a red bulbous nose that outdid Bjorn’s out-curved beak for size. His robes reeked of attar of roses.

Putting his amusement at the king’s over-use of fragrance to good use, Bjorn gave the king a quick smile and shouted back, Great sport, your Majesty. Thirty-seven pigeons and five grouse...on the table at breakfast. I regret that you couldn’t join us!

But the king had already returned to his conversation with the duke of Brask.

Royally ignored, Bjorn took the opportunity to make the sign of the cross and murmur a quiet prayer thanking God for His provision.

As he accepted a slice of the boar’s head from a servant, he observed a fleeting, odd expression cross Weinolf’s narrow face. What, did Kandians never pray?

Yet, Olaf employed a very unpleasant, hunchbacked priest. He stank of sweat, alcohol, and nameless decay. He muttered constantly and smiled at all the wrong times, such as when any other person might gasp at hearing a tale of great misfortune. He often drank large quantities of ale and wine, as he was doing this very evening, huddled in a ratty fur cape by the great hearth to the left on the far side of the room.

Bjorn had observed the gentlemen of the court walking clear around the castle to avoid meeting him. Amazingly, the prince had never encountered the man one-on-one. Every time the priest saw Bjorn coming, he turned and hurried off. Sooner or later, the prince vowed he would have his questions answered about this odd behavior, and about why the court had a priest and yet no chapel or cathedral; no designated place of worship.

But first things first. Bjorn kept hoping that his religious practice would elicit questions from the Kandians which might lead to a discussion about God and the prophecy. Why wasn’t the king obeying the prophecy?

Olaf turned back to him, his smile showing all his teeth. Another time, perhaps. My duties are very pressing.

Oh–the invitation to go hawking. Bjorn nodded, and lifted an eyebrow at his cousin, who frowned at him as he sat at a lower table in a swirl of green cloak. Trehan nodded and hastily arranged his face in a more pleasant expression.

A servant arrived at Bjorn’s elbow, poured half a cup of wine into his goblet and topped the cup with water. He sipped the thin, sour vintage, trying not to wrinkle his lips in disgust. Bah. Olaf’s wine showed worse deterioration every day. Was last year’s harvest so very poor?

Your cousin seems unhappy. Is there a problem, your...Highness? Weinolf asked in a sly tone, his eyes narrowing.

Bjorn took a large bitter-berry roll from a basket on the table. Not much of one, I trust. Doubtless Caprice needs a new shoe, as I suspected. He dipped the roll into the gravy on his plate and bit off a chunk, savoring the tanginess.

Weinolf grunted.

Bjorn quirked an eyebrow at him and kept chewing.

I doubt ‘tis so simple, Weinolf dug again. My man tells me that Kresic’s manners displease you. Has he forced his attentions on the wenches again?

Bjorn sipped from his goblet as he considered the prince’s niggling words. What had the blackguard been up to now? His Majesty has rightly reminded me that Kresic is no longer my business. He mentally patted himself on the back for delivering this line with a straight face.

What a bitter jest! Kresic’s antics threatened to make Bjorn and his men a stench in the nostrils of the entire court. The worst irony was how he had turned down several excellent opportunities to execute Kresic on the way to Astarkand because he wanted another warrior to help fight the dragon. Bjorn stifled a snort at how that had turned out.

The king broke off his conversation with Duke Brask to frown at his son.

Weinolf smirked and bit into his bread.

Olaf turned his attention to Bjorn. My good duke desires me to act on your behalf and grant you lands. Of course, I intend–but where? As you are probably aware, I haven’t executed a lord for treason or even confiscated his lands in half a dozen years. Of late, I haven’t even dispossessed any bankrupt merchants or major landowners. I have no unclaimed land to grant you. He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness that Bjorn didn’t believe for a moment.

What breathtaking hubris! Offering to grant him lands—he, Bjorn Horsa, direct descendant of Ethan Horsa the first king of Astarkand, and Heir to Eiathan, the last Horsa prince, the one Olaf had sworn, upon taking office, to abdicate in favor of, so Eiathan’s Heir could save Astarkand! Didn’t Olaf care about all the lives he placed in jeopardy by breaking his oath?

Bjorn held his peace, though his temper clambered again at the barred door to be set free. No. That would never do. He must be patient!

How did the king think he would get away with this, when Bjorn laid claim to all of Astarkand by presenting Eiathan’s dagger? No matter what, Astarkand owned him, heart, body, and soul, just as the Dreamsender foreordained. It wasn’t as though he could give up and leave!

The far side of the Bleuet, the Duke of Brask leaned forward. Is un-peopled.

Olaf glanced his way, too. With good reason...the wind blows with a vengeance there across very thin soil. My entire kingdom would accuse me of mistreating a prince of the realm, would they not, Dragonsbane?

Two years of pointless discussion about petty things like this! His face twitched into a familiar frown. He quickly smoothed it away.

He supposed this royal whim had its humorous side, though he fervently hoped the Dreamsender would put an end to the jest soon. Just taking the throne away from Olaf was out of the question.

If you say so, He answered without enthusiasm. He wondered if he could be Eiathan’s Heir on the far side of the Bleuet as well as elsewhere in Astarkand, if only to get out from under the big royal feet, but—why didn’t the king step aside and let him take the throne of his fathers, as he was supposed to do upon the presentation of Eiathan’s dagger?

He opted to play along. I’d prefer fertile land and good hay for my horses—

Disregarding the conversation at the high table, a minstrel began to sing a ballad lauding Bjorn’s fight with the dragon.

The prince repressed a wince. What terrible timing!

That rules out the northern edge of Muirre, too, Weinolf shouted over the singing. What a pity.

He decided to be amused. Out of sight, out of mind? Though he could never be out of sight or mind enough, with the minstrels always singing about him.

What’s this? Brask lifted his cup to Weinolf. Do the hero-songs make you jealous, your Highness?

When he saw Weinolf’s resentful expression, Bjorn cleared his throat and looked away. How he wished the minstrels would cease embellishing his exploits!

He risked his life and his men’s lives to obey the prophecy–and Weinolf imagined he was there to steal his glory? Ridiculous. He couldn’t even take the Kandian crown! And it would never be Weinolf’s. He hoped Olaf’s son wouldn’t decide to contend with him over the kingship too.

Out of sight, out of smell, wouldn’t you agree, Father? Weinolf flicked his disdainful eyes over Bjorn’s dusty person. With an effort, he refrained from replying in kind. The king’s heir had perfumed his expensive velvets almost as heavily as his Sire’s.

Olaf waggled a be-ringed finger at his son in reproof. Insolent cub. I gave him no time to change or ‘tis certain he would have. I need his input on the issue of land. Well, Dragonsbane? Which corner of my kingdom do you find tolerable?

Bjorn dipped his head. Sire, the Quenchen Frontier has good land. I am unable to recommend any other place sight unseen. Perhaps if I went on a tour of the kingdom? What have you got in the north to hide?

Olaf detained him in the city, coming up with one extravagant entertainment after another for his men, but always to the south, often unattended by any of the landed lords at court. His orders reeked of mysterious chicanery, but thus far, Bjorn had been unable to discover the nature of the king’s machinations. What was he missing?

Ah. Well. Olaf narrowed his eyes and stared at the far wall, as if he seriously considered Bjorn’s suggestion. No–it hasn’t come to that yet, I believe. I shall write to Lord Engleswulf. Perhaps he would be glad of your company.

He should be delighted. No one of sense wants to live near the Quenchen. Weinolf almost shouted with mirth. But I forgot! You’re southern-born. You like it hot.

Bjorn set his jaw at Weinolf’s flippant reference to the volcano that on occasion covered the Quenchen floodplain in ash. Lord Engleswulf’s horses and men thrive there. The soil is very rich. But he wouldn’t be returning to the Quenchen. The Dreamsender would surely make a way.

Put out to pasture, poor things. Still laughing, Weinolf gulped his wine, and choked.

Take care, Weinolf. Bjorn thumped the spluttering young man on the back. Your laughter has hurt you.

Weinolf jerked away. How dare you touch me!

I meant no offense. Bjorn picked up his fork again. I saw you needed help and I gave it. What harm is there in that?

Weinolf shoved away from the table. His chair hit the floor with a crash as he stalked off. An awkward hush fell as the entire court stared after him or turned their gaze on the high table.

With a lamentable lack of diplomatic timing, the musicians chose that moment to begin playing All Hail, Lord Dragonsbane.

Chapter 2

The seneschal refused the offered seat, and glared at Bjorn. Your man Kresic assaulted my daughter’s honor.

Earl Igan loomed over Molere’s shoulder. You will give Molere satisfaction or I shall meet you in the lists.

Kresic the Black is not Prince Horsa’s man. His conduct is none of the prince’s concern. His Majesty has commanded so, the Duke of Brask argued. My Lord Earl, you cannot use this excuse to grind His Royal Highness into the dust—

Or the minstrels will abuse me and Olaf will hound me from his kingdom? The earl’s great bulk heaved with laughter. I think not. And I dislike talebearers. His full lips set in a pout as he met the duke’s look of displeasure.

Hah for that! Molere snapped his fingers. I won’t get any satisfaction from that scoundrel. The king won’t even let me beat him. My Stella hoped to make a fine marriage. Now— He gripped his sword hilt and glared at them all.

My lord Molere, you can’t demand satisfaction over a mere kiss, Brask protested.

Molere turned purple.

Why, she isn’t even hurt, and as for your daughter’s reputation—

What will soothe your daughter’s humiliation? Bjorn interrupted before Brask’s next words enflamed Molere’s indignation into unappeasable wrath. Only an empty-headed widgeon would walk alone in corridors peopled by even worse louts than Kresic. The seneschal had men to spare. He should guard her. He shouldn’t expect his authority to protect his pretty daughter from harm. Not in this court. A crown, two crowns?

Molere’s eyes narrowed. What’s in your purse?

More than you can afford to demand, Bjorn said. If you want more than two, you’d better fight me for them yourself. He pulled out his sword and made a show of inspecting the blade. A star sapphire the size of his eye glimmered in the pommel.

That’s a very fine blade. Weinolf spoiled his almost respectful tone by sneering as he added, For such a soft southerner. I wager that I could win it from you.

I doubt it. Bjorn met Earl Igan’s glance. We’re not well-matched, my lord. More mealy-mouthed politeness, that! Earl Igan’s lumbering bulk versus Bjorn’s lithe quickness? They were horribly matched! This had to be some kind of a bluff. He decided to be conciliatory. I would restrain Kresic if I could.

Igan pursed his fat lips and peered down his bulbous nose. You know you’re outclassed?

I didn’t say so. Bjorn slid his sword into its scabbard with a slick-edged whisper as he met Earl Igan’s hard stare. The prince quirked his lips in a confident smile, willing the man to back down. The earl stood taller and bulkier, but Bjorn knew Igan seldom used his heavy, Kandian-style armor. The Kandian plate armor weighed more than Bjorn’s lightweight suit. Igan couldn’t enter the lists without suiting up, but it would slow him down, and Bjorn often practiced in his own lighter suit.

Also, the earl was a favorite who slipped in and out of the king’s apartments at any hour. Although Igan wouldn’t win if they dueled, and their dueling would have its comic aspects, Bjorn believed his own victory would be politically disastrous, almost as bad as if he dueled with Weinolf and won. Was Igan’s jealousy of his recent seating at supper also so great that he would risk an embarrassing defeat to make Bjorn lose any semblance of the king’s favor?

Very well. Two crowns for Lord Molere, Igan grumbled.

Relieved, Bjorn fished the gold coins out of his purse. The same weight as Kandian kroners, the coins bore a running horse, the crest of Bjorn’s house, instead of Olaf’s coiled serpent. Lord Molere took them and left, his lips still puckered in displeasure. Farman held the door open, a silent invitation for the Kandian men to take their leave and go.

Earl Igan was about to follow him out the door when Weinolf reached out and slapped Bjorn’s right cheek. The sharp sound echoed off the walls.

That’s for getting away with everything, Weinolf snarled as the sting set in. For usurping my seat at table and my position, for losing my favorite hawk, and for forgetting my title. You might weasel out of fighting Igan, but you’ll face me.

Earl Igan spun round on his heel. Your Highness—

Quiet, Igan, or you’ll never get my father’s ear again. Be in the lists, Dragonsbane, at half-past nine. Weinolf shoved past the earl and stomped down the hall.

Igan growled, I don’t need him to gain his father’s ear!

You’ll be a fool if you win, Prince Horsa. The Duke of Brask’s countenance had turned an interesting color. Was he fighting tears or laughter? And losing is unhealthy...for you. Then he was wringing his hands. Oh dear, oh dear! Now, what to do? He certainly appeared to be genuinely distressed...but was he, really?

Bjorn gritted his teeth as he resisted the urge to rub at his red cheek. Never fear, my lords. I’ve brothers of my own.

The duke protested, Punishment won’t make him love you.

Bjorn snorted. He might learn a little respect.

That lad respects no one except his father. Earl Igan stomped out of the room, making the floor shake.

Prince Horsa, the duke entreated. I beg you consider the way your—our—fate hangs in the balance—

You have made every effort to persuade Olaf to grant me lands. Thank you. Bjorn bowed to the duke. He watched Brask’s face as he added, For your sake, if the king sets the grant in writing now, I’ll be on my way tonight in spite of the bitter cold and the snow.

The duke gaped open-mouthed at him. It took him a moment to recover enough to stammer, B-but-but men will call you craven!

Bjorn laughed. Will they, when they call me ‘Dragonsbane’ for only wounding the great beast? That blow wasn’t fatal. I’ve said so all along.

But the king has retired and wishes not to be disturbed. The duke spread his hands as if helpless, when Bjorn knew very well that Brask could interrupt the king’s repose at any hour without hearing one word of complaint. Like Igan, he held the king’s ear.

Bjorn’s smile turned cold at this evidence of Brask’s true intentions toward him. Stalling now, are you? I wonder what game you think we’re playing now?

Then I shall fight Weinolf in the ring, but keep my honor. Have faith in my good judgment, my lord duke. We shall win through yet. Oh, I will, whatever happens with you!

Chapter 3

A little while later, after Trehan headed off to his own room, Bjorn crawled between smooth, chill linen sheets, feeling every wayward tuft of straw that poked up through the impression he’d worn into the mattress beneath him. A hot brick wrapped in a rag warmed the end of the bed.

As he waited for sleep to take