long road stretching towards Demos was teeming with traffic. Carts and wagons rattled by, and drably dressed peasants with heavy bundles on their shoulders plodded slowly towards the market places of Cimmura. The raw winter wind bent the yellow grass at the sides of the road. Sparhawk rode a few paces in advance of the others, and the travellers on their way to Cimmura gave way to him. Faran was prancing again as they rode along at a steady trot.
‘Your horse seems restive, Sparhawk,’ the Patriarch Dolmant, wrapped in a heavy black ecclesiastical cloak over his cassock, observed.
‘He’s just showing off,’ Sparhawk replied back over his shoulder. ‘He has some notion that it impresses me.’
‘It gives him something to do while he’s waiting for the chance to bite somebody.’ Kalten laughed.
‘Is he vicious?’
‘It’s the nature of the war horse, your Grace,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘They’re bred for aggressiveness. In Faran’s case they just went too far.’
‘Has he ever bitten you?’
‘Once. Then I explained to him that I’d rather he didn’t do it any more.’
‘Explained?’
‘I used a stout stick. He got the idea almost immediately.’
‘We’re not going to get too far this afternoon, Sparhawk,’ Kurik called from his position at the rear of the party where he rode with their pair of pack horses. ‘We started late. There’s an inn I know of about a league ahead. What do you think of the idea of stopping there, getting a good night’s sleep, and starting out early in the morning?’
‘It makes sense, Sparhawk,’ Kalten agreed. ‘I don’t enjoy sleeping on the ground that much any more.’
‘All right,’ Sparhawk said. He glanced at Talen, who was riding a tired-looking bay horse beside Sephrenia’s white palfrey. The boy kept looking back over his shoulder apprehensively. ‘You’re being awfully quiet,’ he said.
‘Young people aren’t supposed to talk in the presence of their elders, Sparhawk,’ Talen replied glibly. ‘That’s one of the things they taught me in that school Kurik sent me to. I try to obey the rules – when it doesn’t inconvenience me too much.’
‘The young man is pert,’ Dolmant observed.
‘He’s also a thief, your Grace,’ Kalten warned. ‘Don’t get too close to him if you have any valuables about you.’
Dolmant looked sternly at the boy. ‘Aren’t you aware of the fact that thievery is frowned upon by the Church?’
‘Yes,’ Talen sighed, ‘I know. The Church is very strait-laced about things like that.’
‘Watch your mouth, Talen,’ Kurik snapped.
‘I can’t, Kurik. My nose gets in the way.’
‘The lad’s depravity is perhaps understandable,’ Dolmant said tolerantly. ‘I doubt that he’s received much instruction in doctrine or morality.’ He sighed. ‘In many ways, the poor children of the streets are as pagan as the Styrics.’ He smiled slyly at Sephrenia, who rode with Flute bundled up in an old cloak in front of her saddle.
‘Actually, your Grace,’ Talen disagreed, ‘I attend Church services regularly and I always pay close attention to the sermons.’
‘That’s surprising,’ the Patriarch said.
‘Not really, your Grace,’ Talen said. ‘Most thieves go to church. The offertory provides all sorts of splendid opportunities.’
Dolmant looked suddenly aghast.
‘Look at it this way, your Grace,’ Talen explained with mock seriousness. ‘The Church distributes money to the poor, doesn’t she?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I’m one of the poor, so I take my share when the plate goes by. It saves the Church all the time and trouble of looking me up to give me the money. I like to be helpful when I can.’
Dolmant stared at him, then suddenly burst out laughing.
Some few miles further along, they encountered a small band of people dressed in the crude, homespun tunics that identified them as Styrics. They were on foot and, as soon as they saw Sparhawk and the others, they ran fearfully out into a nearby field.
‘Why are they so frightened?’ Talen asked, puzzled.
‘News travels very rapidly in Styricum,’ Sephrenia replied, ‘and there have been incidents lately.’
‘Incidents?’
Briefly, Sparhawk told him what had happened in the Styric village in Arcium. Talen’s face went very pale. ‘That’s awful!’ he exclaimed.
‘The Church has tried for hundreds of years to stamp out that sort of thing,’ Dolmant said sadly.
‘I think we stamped it out fairly completely in that part of Arcium,’ Sparhawk assured him. ‘I sent some men out to deal with the peasants who were responsible.’
‘Did you hang them?’ Talen asked fiercely.
‘Sephrenia wouldn’t let us, so my men gave them a switching instead.’
‘That’s all?’
‘They used thorn bushes for switches. Thorns grow very long down in Arcium, and I instructed my men to be thorough about it.’
‘A bit extreme, perhaps,’ Dolmant said.
‘It seemed fitting at the time, your Grace. The Church Knights have close ties with the Styrics and we don’t like people who mistreat our friends.’
The pale winter sun was sliding into a bank of chill purple cloud behind them when they arrived at a run-down wayside inn. They ate a barely adequate meal of thin soup and greasy mutton and retired early.
It was clear and cold the following morning. The road was frozen iron-hard, and the bracken lining its sides was white with frost. The sun was very bright, but there was little warmth to it. They rode at a loping canter, wrapped tightly in their cloaks to ward off the biting chill.
The road undulated across the hills and valleys of central Elenia, passing through fields lying fallow under the winter sky. Sparhawk looked about as he rode. This was the region where he and Kalten had grown up, and he felt that peculiar sense of homecoming all men feel when returning after many years to the scenes of their childhood. The self-discipline which was so much a part of Pandion training usually made Sparhawk suppress any form of emotionalism, but, despite his best efforts, certain things sometimes touched him deeply.
About midmorning, Kurik called ahead. ‘There’s a rider coming up behind us,’ he reported. ‘He’s pushing his horse hard.’
Sparhawk reined in and wheeled Faran around. ‘Kalten,’ he said sharply.
‘Right,’ the big blond man replied, thrusting his cloak aside so that his sword hilt was clear.
Sparhawk also cleared his sword, and the two of them rode several hundred yards back along the road to intercept the oncoming horseman.
Their precautions, however, proved unnecessary. The rider was the young novice, Berit. He was wrapped in a plain cloak, and his hands and wrists were chapped by the morning chill. His horse, however, was lathered and steaming. He reined in and approached them at a walk. ‘I have a message for you from Lord Vanion, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ Sparhawk asked him.
‘The Royal Council has legitimized Prince Lycheas.’
‘They did what?’
‘When the kings of Thalesia, Deira, and Arcium insisted that a bastard could not serve as Prince Regent, the Primate Annias called the council into session, and they declared the prince to be