‘Bevier,’ Emban said with a pained look. ‘Are you by any chance striving for sainthood?’ He looked at Dolmant. ‘It’s really a very good idea, though, Sarathi. It would keep the faithful busy. There’s no question about that.’
‘You’d better stop Wargun then, Your Grace,’ Ulath advised. ‘He’s poised in Kadum. As soon as the ground gets dry enough to hold a horse, he’s going to march into Zemoch and kill anything that moves.’
‘I’ll take care of that,’ Emban promised, ‘even if I have to ride to Kadum myself and arm-wrestle him into submission.’
‘Azash is – was – a Styric God,’ Dolmant said, ‘and Elene priests have never had much success trying to convert Styrics. Sephrenia, could you possibly help us? I’ll even find some way to give you authority and official status.’
‘No, Dolmant,’ she said firmly.
‘Why is everybody saying no to me today?’ he asked plaintively. ‘What’s the problem, little mother?’
‘I won’t assist you in converting Styrics to a heathen religion, Dolmant.’
‘Heathen?’ Ortzel choked.
‘It’s a word that’s used to describe someone who isn’t of the true faith, Your Grace.’
‘But the Elene faith is the true faith.’
‘Not to me, it isn’t. I find your religion repugnant. It’s cruel, rigid, unforgiving and smugly self-righteous. It’s totally without humanity, and I reject it. I’ll have no part of this ecumenicism of yours, Dolmant. If I should aid you in converting the Zemochs, you’ll turn next to western Styricum, and that is where you and I will fight.’ She smiled then, a gentle, surprising smile that shone through the pervading gloom. ‘As soon as she’s feeling better, I think I’ll have a little talk with Aphrael. She may just take an interest in the Zemochs herself.’ The smile she directed at Dolmant at that point was almost radiant. ‘That would put us on opposite sides of the fence, wouldn’t it, Sarathi?’ she suggested. ‘I wish you all the best, though, old dear, but as they say, may the better man – or woman – win.’
The weather altered only slightly as they rode westward. The rain had ceased for the most part, but the sky remained cloudy, and the blustery wind still had the chill of winter in it. Their destination was Demos. They were taking Kurik home. Sparhawk was not really looking forward to telling Aslade that he had finally managed to get her husband killed. The gloom which had fallen over the earth following the death of Azash was heightened by the funereal nature of their journey. The armourers at the Pandion chapterhouse in Chyrellos had hammered the dents out of the armour of Sparhawk and his friends, and had even buffed off most of the rust. They rode now with a somewhat ornate black carriage that bore Kurik’s body.
They made camp in a grove not far back from the road some five leagues from Demos, and Sparhawk and the other knights saw to their armour. They had decided by unspoken agreement that they would wear their formal garb the next day. When he was satisfied that his equipment was ready for tomorrow, Sparhawk started across the camp towards the black carriage which stood some distance from the fire. Talen rose from his place to join him. ‘Sparhawk,’ he said as they walked.
‘Yes?’
‘You’re not really serious about this notion are you?’
‘Which notion was that?’
‘Putting me in training to become a Pandion.’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I made some promises to your father.’
‘I’ll run away.’
‘Then I’ll catch you – or send Berit to do it.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘You didn’t really expect life to throw honest dice, did you?’
‘Sparhawk, I don’t want to go to knight school.’
‘We don’t always get what we want, Talen. This is something your father wanted, and I’m not going to disappoint him.’
‘What about me? What about what I want?’
‘You’re young. You’ll adjust to it. After a while, you might even find that you like it.’
‘Where are we going right now?’ Talen’s tone was sulky.
‘I’m going to visit your father.’
‘Oh. I’ll go back to the fire then. I’d rather remember him the way he was.’
The carriage creaked as Sparhawk climbed up into it and sat down beside his squire’s silent body. He did not say anything for quite some time. His grief had run itself out now and had been replaced with only a profound regret. ‘We’ve come a long way together, haven’t we, my old friend?’ he said finally. ‘Now you’re going home to rest, and I have to go on alone.’ He smiled faintly in the darkness. ‘That was really very inconsiderate of you, Kurik. I was looking forward to growing old with you – older that is.’
He sat quietly for a time. ‘I’ve taken care of your sons,’ he added. ‘You’ll be very proud of them – even of Talen, although he may take a while to come around to the idea of respectability.’
He paused again. ‘I’ll break the news to Aslade as gently as I can,’ he promised. Then he laid his hand on Kurik’s. ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ he said.
The part he had dreaded the most, telling Aslade, turned out not to be necessary, since Aslade already knew. She wore a black country dress when she met them at the gate of the farm on which she and her husband had laboured for so many years. Her four sons, as tall as young trees, stood with her, also in their best clothes. Their sombre faces told Sparhawk that his carefully-prepared speech was unnecessary. ‘See to your father,’ Aslade told her sons.
They nodded and went to the black carriage.
‘How did you find out?’ Sparhawk asked her after she had embraced him.
‘That little girl told us,’ she replied simply. ‘The one you brought with you when you were on your way to Chyrellos that time. She just appeared at the door one evening and told us. Then she went away.’
‘You believed her?’
Aslade nodded. ‘I knew that I must. She’s not at all like other children.’
‘No, she isn’t. I’m very, very sorry, Aslade. When Kurik started getting older, I should have made him stay at home.’
‘No, Sparhawk. That would have broken his heart. You’re going to have to help me with something right now, though.’