The high steward walked ahead, our escort behind. We wound our way through the huge camp, passing tents of all sizes, until at last we came to a big circle of fires surrounded by vigilant guards armed with spears. Within this stood the largest tent I had ever seen. It was as big as three County cottages combined. Instead of the usual cone covered in animal skins, it was a giant oblong made from a heavy brown material.

I was uneasy and a little scared. Even if we could somehow persuade this prince to allow me to fight the Shaiksa, I saw nothing ahead but failure and death. I did not share Grimalkin’s optimism. How could I hope to defeat such a formidable foe in single combat?

Majcher scowled at us, then went inside, leaving us surrounded by guards. A few moments later he reappeared, spoke briefly to Grimalkin, and then held up the tent flap so that we could enter without bowing our heads.

I gasped in astonishment at the inside of the tent. I could have been entering a palace. The walls were hidden by silken tapestries; most of the floor was covered with the same brown fabric as the tent walls, but there was a raised central dais constructed of polished wood and adorned with a variety of expensive woven carpets. Upon this stood a huge gleaming throne, fashioned from some alloy that contained silver. Upon it reclined Prince Stanislaw, a big man with close-cropped gray hair, a large nose, and close-set eyes. He was not young, probably the wrong side of fifty.

I’d always thought of a prince as a young man preparing to replace his aging father on the throne. But this wasn’t a kingdom; it was a principality, and this was its ruler.

Behind the throne stood a huge barrel-chested warrior, his arms folded, a stern expression on his face. His breastplate was engraved with the arms of the prince: a wolf howling at the moon. He seemed far from happy to see us.

Grimalkin would certainly need her magic to bend this prince to her will.

She bowed low and then addressed the prince, gesturing toward me. We were supposedly equal in rank, so I gave him the briefest of bows; more of a nod, really. In return, he gazed at me in silence, studying me like a predator judging the distance to its prey. Then he gave me a condescending smile and spoke to Grimalkin again.

“He says that he thinks it best that you return to your father,” she translated. “I don’t think he’s impressed by your youthful appearance. He has a new champion who he believes will have a real chance against Kauspetnd—that’s the fat warrior standing behind the throne who has yet to smile.”

I almost let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps this strong-minded prince could not be manipulated. This might put an end to Grimalkin’s scheme.

“Despite the prophecies of the three magowie, the princelings here have their own take on events,” Grimalkin continued. “If his champion wins, then Prince Stanislaw will lead the attack on the Kobalos, and the glory and prestige will fall to him. But I will tell him that you are prepared to fight his champion for the right to fight the Shaiksa assassin. Neither prince nor champion are likely to refuse, as there are precedents; already there has been much jostling for power here. As your champion, I could fight him on your behalf, but it’s best if you show your bravery and fighting prowess.”