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wooden tub as tall as Dain s shoulder, with steps mounting it.
Sir Roye whipped the cap off Dain s head and untied him. Dain tried to shake
some circulation back into his arms, but as he turned around, Sir Roye gripped
him with both hands and pulled his ragged tunic over his head before Dain
could stop him.
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Wincing at the pain in his shoulder, Dain sucked in his breath and tried not
to yell.
Despite the fire, the room was cold. Shivering, Dain tried to grab his tunic
from Sir
Roye s hand, but the knight held it out of his reach.
Get in the tub, he ordered. Why?
Sir Roye glared at him. Because you stink worse than the dogs. Because I
won t take no filthy, gint-eyed knave to my lord with him lying there fevered
out of his poor wits.
You wash, and make it quick.
Although he longed to be clean, the idea of a cold bath did not appeal to
Dain. He tilted his head at Sir Roye and could not resist saying, But have
you not heard that we eldin melt when we get wet? We are supposed to be but
watery elements, formed into a cloud of appearance, and that is why we
Sir Roye smacked his head, knocking him backward. Get in the tub, and cease
that heathen chatter of yours.
To Dain s surprise, the water was tepid, not icy cold as he d expected. He
enjoyed splashing about, sluicing off the dirt and filth he d accumulated in
recent days. A servant came with a bucket and emptied some heated water into
the tub. Dain laughed at such luxury, and even ducked his head under the
water, then surged up, shaking himself like a dog.
Sir Roye climbed the steps and prodded him with a wooden pole. Out, he
commanded.
Dain obeyed, dripping and shivering. A servant wrapped him in cloth and shoved
him over to stand before the fire. While Dain dried himself, Sir Roye glared
at him thoughtfully.
What happened to your side?
Dain glanced down at the bruised and discolored web of skin between his lower
ribs and his hipbone. Oh, the lord s horse bit me the day we fought the
dwarves.
Sir Roye grunted to himself and grasped Dain firmly while he prodded the
wound.
Dain sucked in air between his teeth and fought the urge to shove Sir Roye
away, knowing it would only get him struck again.
Hurt? Sir Roye asked.
No, Dain lied, glaring at him.
Could make a fearsome scar, Sir Roye said. He touched the bruises on Dain s
shoulder. And here?
I fell out of a tree last night, trying to escape I mean, while I was
climbing over the garden wall, Dain amended hastily. I fell off the wall.
A worse lie has never been spoken, Sir Roye said, but he released Dain and
gestured for the servant to hand him clean clothes.
They were very fine, these garments, as fine as Dain had seen Thum, Mierre,
and
Kaltienne wearing not as fine as the prince s clothes, but soft and well made.
Dain fingered them, awed by such generosity.
Don t just stand there gawking, Sir Roye said gruffly, scowling at Dain.
Get them on.
But they are the clothes of a lord, Dain said in protest. They are too
good.
Aye, they are, Sir Roye snapped. His face turned red, and he scowled more
fiercely than ever. They belonged to Lord Odfrey s son. You re his size,
close enough. He had dark hair too. Now get dressed. And when you re through
giving his lordship comfort, you can have your own filthy rags back again.
Dain blinked, understanding with a bump of reality that this clothing was not
a gift to be kept. His mouth twisted wryly and he tugged on the leggings,
keeping his head down to hide his expression. His pendant of bard crystal
swung and thumped into his bare chest as he straightened and reached for the
doublet to pull it on. The servant handed
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him a linen shirt instead. What do you wear? Sir Roye asked. A pagan
amulet?
Yes, Dain said, his voice muffled as he swiftly pulled the shirt over his
head. He yanked the garment down before Sir Roye could reach out and touch the
pendant. It was not for the likes of the knight to touch. Now the doublet went
on. It fit well enough, except for being a little narrow in the chest and too
short in the arms. Pushing back his wet hair from his face and letting it drip
down the back of his collar, Dain looked at the knight and shrugged. Well?
he asked.
Sir Roye frowned at him, and some emotion sadness perhaps touched his yellow
eyes. Aye, he said softly. I see the resemblance now. Damne.
I look like the lord s son? Dain asked. The one who died?
Morde a day! Sir Roye said in startlement. Who told you about that?
Do I? Dain asked. For a moment he entertained the wild hope that perhaps
Lord
Odfrey was his missing father, the man who d given him and Thia into Jorb s
keeping, then never returned for them. But as fast as the thought entered his
mind, he dismissed it, knowing it could not be so. What was the boy s name?
he asked.
Hilard, Sir Roye replied, lost in memory. A gentle boy, scholarly. Rather
read than ply a sword. But a good horseman. Dependable. His lordship was
always short with the lad. Impatient with his faults. Wanted him to be a
fighter. Wasn t until the stranguli took him that the chevard learned how much
he loved that boy.
When did he die? Dain asked quietly, hearing old grief echoing in Sir Roye s
gruff voice.
Sir Roye scowled at him. Five years past. He was about your age and size.
Dark-haired. Thin.
Does grieving last so long? Dain asked, staring at the man in dismay. Does
the loss never go away, never stop hurting? Whatever Sir Roye might have
answered was interrupted by the door s slamming open. The page who d opened
the door so forcefully jumped aside, and Prince Gavril strolled in, followed
by his hulking, silent protector and a red-faced Mierre.
See, your highness? Mierre said, pointing furiously at Dain. I told you
someone let him out of the garden. He has not the power to fly
A gesture from Prince Gavril silenced him abruptly. Gavril walked farther into
the room, his dark blue eyes narrowed with anger, his mouth tight-lipped. The
sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows sparked golden glints from
his hair. He wore leggings of the softest doeskin and a long doublet of russet
wool with the sleeves slashed to show his creamy linen. His bracelet of
royalty gleamed golden on his wrist, and a jeweled dagger glittered at his
belt.
What are you about, Sir Roye? he asked coldly. Bathing a pagan while your
lord and master lies dying?
Sir Roye turned to face him like a grizzled old dog. What I do is not
accountable to you, highness.
Prince Gavril blinked at such gruff defiance. For a moment he seemed unable to
find words. Then his frown deepened. Harboring a pagan is against Writ. I
ordered his capture as soon as I learned he was sneaking about the hold. He is
my prisoner
Did you catch him? Sir Roye countered.
I ordered his
But you didn t catch him, did you? Sir Roye persisted.
Gavril was scowling now. I need not sully my hand. My order is enough.
Not in Thirst, it ain t. The chevard rules here, your highness. You re a
foster, and your orders ain t taken above his lordship s.
Gavril turned bright red. His eyes flashed to Dain, who was listening to this
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