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‘Why didn’t you take shelter someplace closer?’
‘There wasn’t anyplace safe. I could hear the bells from the monastery, so I just kept following the sound. It gave me something to think about.’
‘You could have bled to death.’
‘That same thought crossed my mind a few times that night.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Sephrenia said, ‘do you suppose we could move along? The night comes on very quickly here in Rendor, and it gets cold in the desert after the sun goes down.’
The monastery lay beyond the stockyards on a high, rocky hill. It was surrounded by a thick wall, and the gate was closed. Sparhawk dismounted before the gate and tugged on a stout cord hanging beside it. A small bell tinkled inside. After a moment, the shutter of a narrow, barred window cut into the stones beside the gate opened. The brown-bearded face of a monk peered out warily.
‘Good evening, brother,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Do you suppose I might have a word with your abbot?’
‘Can I give him your name?’
‘Sparhawk. He might remember me. I stayed here for a time a few years back.’
‘Wait,’ the monk said brusquely, closing the shutter again.
‘Not very cordial, is he?’ Kurik said.
‘Churchmen aren’t really welcome in Rendor,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘A bit of caution is probably only natural.’
They waited as the twilight faded.
Then the shutter opened again. ‘Sir Sparhawk!’ a voice more suited to a parade ground than a religious community boomed.
‘My Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘Wait there a moment. We’ll open the gate.’
There was a rattling of chains and the grating sound of a heavy bar sliding through thick iron rings. Then the gate ponderously swung open, and the abbot came out to greet them. He was a bluff, hearty-looking man with a ruddy face and an imposing black beard. He was quite tall, and his shoulders were massive. ‘It’s good to see you again, my friend,’ he said, clasping Sparhawk’s hand in a crushing grip. ‘You’re looking well. You seemed a bit pale and wan when you left the last time you were here.’
‘It’s been ten years, my Lord,’ Sparhawk pointed out. ‘In that length of time a man either heals or dies.’
‘So he does, Sir Sparhawk. So he does. Come inside and bring your friends.’
Sparhawk led Faran through the gate with Sephrenia and Kurik close behind. There was a court inside, and the walls surrounding it were as bleak as those surrounding the monastery. They were unadorned by the white mortar customary on the walls of Rendorish buildings, and the windows which pierced them were perhaps a trifle narrower than monastic architecture would have dictated. They would, Sparhawk noted professionally, make excellent vantage points for archers.
‘How can I help you, Sparhawk?’ the abbot asked.
‘I need refuge again, my Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘That’s getting to be sort of a habit, isn’t it?’
The abbot grinned at him. ‘Who’s after you this time?’ he asked.
‘No one that I know of, my Lord, and I think I’d like to keep it that way. Is there someplace we can talk privately?’
‘Of course.’ The abbot turned to the brown-bearded monk who had first opened the shutter. ‘See to their horses, brother.’ It was not a request, but had all the crispness of a military command. The monk straightened noticeably, though he did not quite salute.
‘Come along then, Sparhawk,’ the abbot boomed, clapping the big knight on the shoulder with one meaty hand.
Kurik dismounted and went to help Sephrenia. She handed Flute down to him and slipped from her saddle.
The abbot led them on through the main door and into a vaulted stone corridor dimly lighted at intervals by small oil lamps. Perhaps it was the scent of the oil, but the place had a peculiar odour of sanctity – and of safety – about it. That smell sharply reminded Sparhawk of the night ten years before. ‘The place hasn’t changed much,’ he noted, looking around.
‘The Church is timeless, Sir Sparhawk,’ the abbot replied sententiously, ‘and her institutions try to match that quality.’
At the far end of the corridor, the abbot opened a severely simple door, and they followed him into a book-lined room with a high ceiling and an unlighted charcoal brazier in the corner. The room was quite comfortable-looking – far more so than the studies of abbots in the monasteries of the north. The windows were made of thick triangular pieces of glass joined with strips of lead, and they were draped in pale blue. The floor was strewn with white sheep-skin rugs, and the unmade bed in the far corner was quite a bit wider than the standard monastic cot. The jammed bookcases reached from floor to ceiling.
‘Please, sit down,’ the abbot said, pointing at several chairs standing in front of a table piled high with documents.
‘Still trying to catch up, my Lord?’ Sparhawk smiled, pointing at the documents and taking one of the chairs.
The abbot made a wry face. ‘I give it a try every month or so,’ he replied. ‘Some men just aren’t made for paperwork.’ He looked sourly at the litter on his table. ‘Sometimes I think a fire in here might solve the problem. I’m sure the clerks in Chyrellos wouldn’t even miss all my reports.’ He looked curiously at Sparhawk’s companions.
‘My man Kurik,’ Sparhawk introduced his squire.
‘Kurik,’ the abbot nodded.
‘And the lady is Sephrenia, the Pandion instructor in the secrets.’
‘Sephrenia herself?’ The abbot’s eyes widened and he rose to his feet respectfully. ‘I’ve been hearing stories about you for years, madame. Your reputation is quite exalted.’ He smiled broadly at her in welcome.
She removed her veil and returned his smile. ‘You’re very kind to say so, my Lord.’ She sat and gathered Flute up into her lap. The little girl nestled down and regarded the abbot with her large dark eyes.
‘A beautiful child, Lady Sephrenia,’ the abbot said. ‘Your daughter by any chance?’
She laughed. ‘Oh, no, my Lord Abbot,’ she said. ‘The child’s a Styric foundling. We call her Flute.’
‘What an odd name,’ he murmured. Then he returned his gaze to Sparhawk. ‘You hinted at a matter you wanted to keep private,’ he said curiously. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’
‘Do you get much news about what’s happening on the continent, my Lord?’
‘I’m kept informed, yes.’ The bearded abbot said it rather cautiously as he sat down again.
‘Then you know about the situation in Elenia?’
‘The Queen’s illness, you mean? And the ambitions of Primate Annias?’
‘Right. Anyway, a while back, Annias came up with a very complicated scheme to discredit the Pandion Order. We were able to thwart it. After the general meeting in the palace, the preceptors of the four orders gathered in private session. Annias hungers for the Archprelate’s throne, and he knows that the militant orders will oppose him.’
‘With swords if necessary,’ the abbot agreed fervently. ‘I’d like to cut him down myself,’ he added. Then he realized that he had perhaps gone too far. ‘If I weren’t a member of a cloistered order, of course,’ he concluded lamely.
‘I understand perfectly, my Lord,’ Sparhawk assured him. ‘The preceptors discussed the matter, and they concluded that all of the primate’s power – and any hope he had of extending it to Chyrellos – is based on his position in Elenia, and he’ll keep that authority only for so long as Queen Ehlana’s indisposed.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s a silly word, isn’t it? She’s barely clinging to her life, and I called it “indisposed”. Oh, well, you know what I’m talking about.’
‘We all flounder from time to time, Sparhawk,’ the abbot forgave him. ‘I know most of the details already. Last week I got word from Patriarch Dolmant about what was afoot. What did you find out in Borrata?’
‘We talked with a physician there, and he told us that Queen Ehlana has been poisoned.’
The abbot came to his feet swearing like a pirate. ‘You’re her Champion, Sparhawk! Why didn’t you go back to Cimmura and run your sword through Annias?’
‘I was tempted,’ Sparhawk admitted, ‘but I decided that it’s more important right now to see if we can find an antidote. There’ll be plenty of time later to deal with Annias, and I’d rather not be rushed when it gets down to that. Anyway, the physician in Borrata told us that he thinks the poison is of Rendorish origin, and he directed us to a couple of his colleagues here in Cippria.’
The abbot began to pace up and down, his face still dark with rage. When he began to speak, all traces of monkly humility were gone from his voice. ‘If I know Annias, he’s probably been trying to stop you every step of the way. Am I right?’
‘Fairly close, yes.’
‘And the streets of Cippria aren’t the safest place in the world – as you found out that night ten years ago. All right, then,’ he said decisively, ‘this is the way we’re going to do it. Annias knows that you’re looking for medical advice, right?’
‘If he doesn’t, then he’s been asleep.’
‘Exactly. If you go near a physician, you’ll probably need him for yourself, so I won’t let you do that.’
‘Won’t let, my Lord?’ Sephrenia asked mildly.
‘Sorry,’ the abbot mumbled. ‘Maybe I got a little carried away there. What I meant to say is that I advise against it in the strongest possible terms. What I’ll do instead is send some monks out to bring the physicians here. That way you’ll be able to talk with them without chancing the streets of Cippria. We’ll work out a way afterwards to slip you out of town.’
‘Would an Elenian physician actually agree to call on a patient at home?’ Sephrenia asked him.
‘He will if his own health is of any concern to him,’ the abbot replied darkly. He suddenly looked a bit sheepish. ‘That didn’t sound very monkly, did it?’ he apologized.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Sparhawk said blandly. ‘There are monks, and then there are monks.’
‘I’ll send some of the brothers into the city to fetch them right now. What are the names of these physicians?’
Sparhawk fished the scrap of parchment the tipsy doctor in Borrata had given him out of an inside pocket and handed it to the abbot.
The bluff man glanced at it. ‘You know this first one already, Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘He’s the one who treated you the last time you were here.’
‘Oh? I didn’t really catch his name.’
‘I’m not surprised. You were delirious most of the time.’ The abbot squinted at the parchment. ‘This other one died about a month ago,’ he said, ‘but Doctor Voldi here can probably answer just about any question you might have. He’s a little impressed with himself, but he’s the best physician in Cippria.’ He rose, went to the door, and opened it. A pair of youthful monks stood outside. They were, Sparhawk noted, quite similar to the two young Pandions who normally stood guard outside Vanion’s door in the chapterhouse in Cimmura. ‘You,’ the abbot sharply ordered one of them, ‘go into the city and bring Doctor Voldi to me. Don’t take no for an answer.’
‘At once, my Lord,’ the young monk replied. With a certain amusement, Sparhawk noted that the monk’s feet twitched slightly as if he were about to snap his heels together.
The abbot closed the door and returned to his seat. ‘It should be about an hour, I expect.’ He looked at Sparhawk’s grin. ‘Something funny, my friend?’ he asked.
‘Not at all, my Lord. It’s just that your young monks have a very crisp manner about them.’
‘Does it really show that much?’ the abbot asked, looking a little abashed.
‘Yes, my Lord. If you know what you’re looking for, it does.’
The abbot made a wry face. ‘Fortunately, the local people aren’t very familiar with that sort of thing. You’ll be discreet about this discovery, won’t you, Sparhawk?’
‘Of course, my Lord. I was fairly sure about the nature of your order when I left here ten years ago, and I haven’t told anyone yet.’
‘I should have guessed, I suppose. You Pandions tend to have very sharp eyes.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll have some supper sent up. There’s a fairly large partridge that grows hereabouts, and I have an absolutely splendid falcon.’ He laughed. ‘That’s what I do instead of making out the reports I’m supposed to send to Chyrellos. What do you say to a bit of roast fowl?’
‘I think we could manage that,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘And in the meantime, could I offer you and your friends some wine? It’s not Arcian red, but it’s not too bad. We make it here on the grounds. The soil hereabouts isn’t much good for anything but raising grapes.’
‘Thank you, my Lord Abbot,’ Sephrenia replied, ‘but might the child and I have milk instead?’
‘I’m afraid that all we have is goat’s milk, Lady Sephrenia,’ he apologized.
Her eyes brightened. ‘Goat’s milk would be just fine, my Lord. Cow’s milk is so bland, and we Styrics prefer something a bit more robust.’
Sparhawk shuddered.
The abbot sent the other young monk to the kitchen for milk and supper, then poured red wine for Sparhawk, Kurik, and himself. He leaned back in his chair then, idly toying with the stem of his goblet. ‘Can we be frank with each other, Sparhawk?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Did any word get to you in Jiroch about what happened here in Cippria after you left?’
‘Not really,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I was a bit submerged at that time.’
‘You know how Rendors feel about the use of magic?’
Sparhawk nodded. ‘They call it witchcraft, as I recall.’
‘They do indeed, and they look on it as a worse crime than murder. Anyway, just after you left, we had an outbreak of that sort of thing. I got involved in the investigation since I’m the ranking churchman in the area.’ He smiled ironically. ‘Most of the time Rendors spit as I go by, but the minute somebody whispers “witchcraft”, they come running to me with their faces white and their eyes bulging out. Usually the accusations are completely false. The average Rendor couldn’t remember the Styric words of the simplest spell if his life depended on it, but charges crop up from time to time – usually based on spite, jealousy, and petty hatreds. This time, though, the affair was quite different. There was actual evidence that somebody in Cippria was using magic of a fair degree of sophistication.’ He looked at Sparhawk. ‘Were any of the men who attacked you that night at all adept in the secrets?’
‘One of them is, yes.’
‘Perhaps that answers the question then. The magic seems to have been a part of an attempt to locate something – or someone. Maybe you were the object of that search.’
‘You mentioned sophistication, my Lord Abbot,’ Sephrenia said intently. ‘Could you be a bit more specific?’
‘There was a glowing apparition stalking the streets of Cippria,’ he replied. ‘It seemed to be sheathed in lightning of some kind.’
She drew in her breath sharply. ‘And what exactly did this apparition do?’
‘It questioned people. None of them could remember the questions afterwards, but the questioning appears to have been quite severe. I saw a number of the burns with my own eyes.’
‘Burns?’
‘The apparition would seize whomever it wanted to question. Wherever it touched them, it left a burned place. One poor woman had a burn that encircled her entire forearm. I’d almost say that it was in the shape of a hand – except that it had far too many fingers.’
‘How many fingers?’
‘Nine, and two thumbs.’
She hissed. ‘A Damork,’ she said.
‘I thought you said that the Younger Gods had stripped Martel of the power to summon those things.’ Sparhawk said to her.
