Then it was his turn. He squeezed Barda’s hand and moved to the Belt. The faces of the watchers in the front row swam before his eyes.
Jasmine, solemn, Filli and Kree on her shoulder. Ailsa, paws clasped to her mouth. Nanion, chief of D’Or, eager. Doom, watchful. Dain, pale and intent.
Lief placed his hand upon the golden topaz. For you, Barda, he thought. For Mother and Father, and all at home. “Lief, of Del,” he said clearly.
He looked down. The Belt was almost hidden by the hands that touched it. Seven hands of every color, every shape, pressed together in one purpose.
Zeean was speaking again, saying the words that had been agreed.
“Together we, representatives of the seven tribes, renew our ancient vow to unite under the power of the Belt of Deltora, and swear loyalty to Adin’s rightful heir.”
“We swear,” the seven said as one.
And Lief felt the Belt warm under his hand. A thrill ran through him. The topaz was gleaming golden through his fingers. His mind sharpened. The Belt grew hotter, hotter until he was forced, like his companions, to draw his hand away. But by that time, he knew.
The heir was here, in this room.
He looked up. His gaze swept over the people in front of him. Fixed on one. One whose body was trembling, but whose face was shimmering with light as he stepped forward.
Dain.
How could I not have seen? Lief thought, staring in wonder as gasps of shock sighed through the crowd. How could I not have guessed?
Dain, whose very name was a clue, an anagram, made up as it was from the letters that also formed the name “Adin.” Dain, who had grown up on an isolated farm, not far from where they now stood. Who had learned the ancient royal art of archery, and as much as his parents could teach him of Deltora’s history. Dain — who was quiet, obedient, and dutiful like his father, dark and delicate like his Toran mother. The name he had given his mother — Rhans — was only Sharn in another form. Yet no one had seen it.
How well he had kept his great secret! Only once had he come close to revealing it. When he had lain by the cracked stone in Tora’s heart, stunned and broken by shock and despair.
The tension in the room seemed to crackle as Lief picked up the Belt and moved slowly forward.
Dain waited. The trembling had stopped. He was holding his head high, now. A quiet dignity seemed to have settled over his shoulders like a fine cloak. The smooth skin of his face and hands glowed with light.
My father served and protected his father, thought Lief. Now I will serve and protect him.
He stretched out his hands. The Belt hung loosely between his fingers, for the first time catching the light. He felt a strange reluctance to let it go. He glanced at Jasmine. She nodded, her eyes shining.
This is what we have striven for, Lief thought. This is what was meant to be. He stared at the Belt, taking one last look at the stones that gleamed in the steel medallions. So hard-won, so beautiful …
Then he blinked. The ruby was not red, but palest pink. The emerald was dull as a stone. The amethyst had paled to soft mauve. The blood rushed to Lief’s head, and his heart begin to pound.
“Danger! Evil!” he gasped. “Here —”
A bloodcurdling shriek split the air. Something huge burst, slavering, through the door. Then, with a sound like thunder, a blast of wind tore through the room, blowing out the candles, throwing Lief backwards into darkness. He scrambled blindly on the hard floor, clutching the Belt, crying out for Jasmine, for Dain. The wind beat in his face. He could hear crashing and thudding as people fell and furniture flew, splintering against the walls.
“Lief! The Belt!” he heard Dain screaming. “To me! Oh, quickly —”
His cry was drowned out by the wind, by screaming, by something roaring with savage fury.
Lief staggered to his feet and began battling through the howling darkness in the direction from which the voice had come. Something flew through the air and hit him in the chest with tremendous force, hurling him back against Barda’s bed. He slumped over it, gasping for breath, struggling to rise.
Then there was a tremendous, rumbling crash from the doorway and the wind stopped, as suddenly as it had begun.
A ghastly silence fell, broken only by the moans and sobs of injured people. His head spinning, Lief pushed himself away from the bed. As he did so, Barda stirred.
“Cold …” Barda whispered. Lief realized that his fall had dragged the blankets from the bed. Feverishly feeling around in the dark, he found them and did his best to spread them over Barda once more. Then, wincing at the pain in his chest, he managed to stand. “Dain!” he heard Doom shouting. “Dain! Answer me!”
But there was no reply.
Someone lit a torch, using the coals of the fire. Glock. Lief caught a glimpse of his brutish face, weirdly lit by flickering light. Glock had a great bruise on his forehead. One of his eyes was swelling and darkening. But still he held the torch high, sweeping it from side to side so that great shadows leaped around the walls.
Lief saw Ailsa, curled on the floor like a great stone; Gla-Thon, staggering from among the remains of the table that had held the belt; Doom, his face smeared with blood; Zeean clutching Manus for support; Jasmine murmuring to Filli. The door was torn from its hinges. The opening was blocked by a mass of collapsed wood and rubble …
And Dain was gone. His dagger was lying on the floor where he had dropped it. Dazed, Lief walked over to it. Then he bent and picked it up. The tip of the blade was stained with blood. Dain had tried to fight his attacker. But he had stood no chance.
Sliding the dagger into his belt, Lief thought of the moment he had hesitated before handing over the Belt of Deltora. Perhaps if he had not given in to that feeling of reluctance — if he had passed the Belt to Dain at once — none of this would have happened. Dain would have been safe. They would all have been safe.
Sick with pain and guilt, he looked down at his hands, and his stomach lurched as he realized he was no longer holding the Belt. He looked around wildly, then realized that, of course, he must have dropped it on Barda’s chest when he fell against the bed. It was safe there, covered in blankets. He would get it in a moment. When his head had stopped spinning. When he could breathe properly again. When this sickness passed.
He slid to the ground and crouched there, like a wounded animal.
“Dain has been taken!” Fardeep was whispering.
“It was a creature of darkness that did the deed,” snarled Glock. “I saw it, as it burst in. A wolf — huge — with a yellow mouth. Then, it changed to a fiend. Even larger. And slimy red, like blood!”
A terrible thought came to Lief’s mind. He wet his lips, afraid to put it into words.
Glock’s eyes narrowed. He pointed a stubby finger at Lief. “You know something!” he growled. “I see it in your face. What was this thing?”
The words caught in Lief’s throat as he spoke. “It sounds — like …”
“Like the last and most wicked of all the sorceress Thaegan’s children,” Doom finished for him. “The only one of that foul brood that still prowls the northeast. Ichabod.”
“We have been betrayed,” hissed Gla-Thon.
Glock bared his teeth and glared around the room. His eyes fixed on Manus. “You came from the northeast, Ralad man,” he snarled, clenching his fists. “You led the monster here! Admit it!”
Quaking, too shocked and afraid to speak, Manus shook his head. Nanion of D’Or moved to stand beside him. “If we were followed, we were unaware of it,” he said sternly. “Keep your insults to yourself, Jalis.”
“Do … not … fight.” The words were soft, mumbled. But they broke the angry silence like a shout. For it was Barda who had spoken — Barda, struggling to sit up, to look around him. Jasmine shrieked piercingly and flew to his side, her hair wildly tangled, her small face pale in the glow of the lantern she had coaxed to life.