Well, praise be to God that somebody can sleep.

Memory came slouching back. He was on the royal progress with his grandfather and grandmother. He and Melkin were in his tent in the middle of some field outside Hernysadharc, the capital, and it was cold because spring was still a fortnight away. Tonight there had been a meal and too much talk. Also too much wine, although now he was wishing he had drunk more of it—a great deal more, to chase the chill from his bones, the deep, feverish body-cold of another foul dream.

His eyes were wet, he realized, his cheeks damp. He’d been crying in his sleep.

Papa. I couldn’t catch up to him . . . There seemed to be a hole where his heart should be, as though the wind were blowing right through him. Angry, he wiped his face with his sleeve.

Weeping like a child. Idiot! Coward! What if someone saw me?

Wine was what he needed. Morgan knew from experience that a large cup of sour, reliable red would warm the cold hole in his vitals and push the dream out of his thoughts. But he had no wine. He had drunk all that had been offered while he dined with the king and queen, but it hadn’t been enough to give him a dreamless night.

For a moment he considered simply trying to go back to sleep. The wind was blowing chill outside, and the camp was full of people who would gladly scurry to his grandparents with the tale if they saw him out staggering around at this hour of the night. But the memory of that endless forest track, of the horror of never being able to catch up to his father, was too much.

Wine. Yes, it would be good to hear the foolish arguments of his friends, an ordinary, reassuring thing. And it would be even better to be drunk again, drunk enough this time that he would not hear the voices in the forest, would not feel the chill of being left behind, perhaps would not even dream.

Morgan dragged himself to his feet and pushed his way out of the tent in search of accommodating oblivion. He had a good idea of where to look.

No royal proclamation or official announcement of any kind designated the tent shared by the Nabbanai knights Sir Astrian and Sir Olveris as the home of the makeshift tavern. The presence of seasoned drinker Sir Porto and a reasonably constant supply of wine was enough.

The sprawling royal camp was dark, but a pair of lanterns made the tent seem nearly festive. Old Sir Porto stared down into his cup and nodded. “Bless us when we are weak, O Lord,” he said in his most doleful tones. “And save some blessings, if You please, because soon we will be weak again.” He took a long swallow, then wiped his damp mouth and scruffy white beard with the back of his hand. “That is the last,” he said. “God be kind, what I wouldn’t give for a little of that red stuff from Onestris they keep back at the Maid. A man’s vintage, that is. This . . . this grape water is scarcely old enough to know of the existence of sin.”

“One does not need to know about sin to enjoy it,” said Sir Astrian.

“Please, my lord,” said the young woman on Astrian’s lap. She was struggling hard to stand, but having no success. “I will be punished if I don’t get back to my work! Let me go.”

Astrian did not loosen his grip, and kept her on his knee with small adjustments of balance. “What?” he demanded. “Would you return to the shocking boredom of the ostler’s wagons?” He reached up and pulled at the girl’s bodice until her bosom threatened to overspill.

“My lord!” She snatched to hold up the fabric, and his hands, unchecked, strayed elsewhere.

The tent flap jiggled but did not open. Something good-sized was caught in it, and the poles of the tent swayed as though in a gale.

“The heir to all the lands of Osten Ard appears to be tangled,” said Sir Astrian. “Somebody set him free and be rewarded with a sizeable estate.”

“I will give you a sizeable boot in your arse,” said the voice whose owner was writhing in the flap like a butterfly trying to escape its cocoon. “As soon as I find you.”

“Someone go to our noble prince’s aid—make haste!” cried Astrian. “I would myself, but at the moment I am engaged in fierce battle.” He finally managed to pull down hard enough to overcome the young woman’s resistance and her bare breasts sprang into view. Instead of surrendering and trying to cover herself, though, the girl redoubled her efforts to escape, cursing and flailing.

“The bubs, the bubs!” sang Sir Astrian. “The bubs, the bubs, in all Nabban did ring! On the day they hanged our Redeemer, though no hands did pull the cord, The bubs in every tower tolled, to prove Aedon our lord!”

With help from dour, black-haired Sir Olveris, Prince Morgan finally emerged from the tent flap. Morgan’s hair, a shade too brown for golden, clung in strands across his face, damp with melting snowflakes. His brows, a shade darker and thicker than his hair, rose in slow, slightly distracted dismay as he saw the serving girl fighting to free herself. “God’s Eyes, Astrian, what are you doing? Let the poor girl go. And someone pour me a cup of something strong.” He looked around. “What? No succor for your lord? I call you traitors.”

“We have finished the last, Highness,” said Porto, guiltily wiping his upper lip. “The place is as dry as the dunes of Nascadu.”

“God curse it!” Morgan seemed genuinely upset. “Nothing to drown a night of foul dreams? Ah, well—distract me, then, Astrian. You owe me another game and I am ready to take my money back. And this time we are not using your dice, you cunning near-dwarf.”

“Cruel words,” said Astrian, grinning. The ostler’s maid was still trying to get off his lap and looked ready to weep. “I am not the tallest man in this kingdom, true, but I am not so low as you make me. My head reaches Olveris’s neck, and since there is nothing of much use above that point, he and I are as good as even.”

“Sweet Aedon!” Morgan lowered himself carefully onto a wooden stool, scowling ferociously. “Are you still mauling her? I said let the girl go, Astrian! If she doesn’t want to be here, let her be on her way.” He kicked at Astrian’s leg, then folded away his frown to show the young woman a smile made slightly less courtly by the extreme redness of his face. “He begs your pardon, lass.”

“Of course I do, my prince.” Astrian released his prey just as she was straining away from him, so that she would have fallen to the ground if Olveris had not caught her and held her up until she gained her balance. The tall knight said nothing, as was his wont, but rolled his eyes at Astrian as he returned to his own seat atop a wooden chest.

“My apologies for Sir Astrian,” Morgan said to the girl. “He is a rude fellow. And what is your name, my dear?”

She was as red-faced with exertion as the prince was with drink and her eyes were wide as a frightened horse’s, but when she had pushed herself back into her bodice she did her best to curtsey to Morgan. “Thank you, your Highness. I am Goda, and I only came here to tell these . . . men that Lord Jeremias said they were to have no more wine. As it is, he said, they have already drunk much of what was meant for the return journey.” Despite the angry force of her words she was near tears.

“It is a good thing that there will be mead in Hernysadharc, then.” Morgan waved permission for her to go. She lifted her skirts and almost ran from the tent.

“If they ever let us into the city.” Porto’s voice was doleful as a funeral bell. “Soon, we will die of thirst here in this field.”

“I must say, Highness,” Astrian said, “you look as though you’ve already found a bit of something to ease this sad journey. Did you bring it back to share with your brothers of the road?”

“Share?” Morgan shook his head. “I had to spend the longest evening of my life at the royal table with my grandmother and grandfather, having my sins . . . my sins and yours, that is . . . listed for me in exis . . . excu . . . exquisite detail. Then I tried to sleep, and . . .” He scowled and waved the idea away with his hand. “It matters not. I deserved every drop I could guzzle, and it was still nowhere near enough.” He sighed. “Still, if there’s nothing left to drink, we might as well gamble.” With the young woman now long gone, Morgan let himself slump, revealing what he truly was—a very young man who had drunk too much.