‘I already know what I’m going to do, your Excellency,’ Sparhawk told him bleakly.

‘At the moment, we can’t do anything,’ Vanion said, moving in rather quickly. ‘All we can do is wait for Krager’s next note.’

‘Truly,’ Ulath agreed. ‘Krager’s going to give Sparhawk instructions. Those instructions might give us some clues about whose idea this really is,’

* * *

‘You noticed it, too, didn’t you?’ Berit said to Khalad that evening when the two of them were getting ready for bed.

‘Noticed what?’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Khalad. You see everything that’s going on around you. Nothing gets by you. Sparhawk and Sephrenia were behaving very peculiarly when Flute and Danae were talking to each other.’

‘Yes,’ Khalad admitted calmly. ‘So what?’

‘Aren’t you curious about why?’

‘Has it occurred to you that “why” might not be any of our business?’

Berit stepped round that. ‘Did you notice how much the two little girls resemble each other?’

Khalad shrugged. ‘You’re the expert on girls.’

Berit suddenly blushed and silently cursed himself for blushing.

‘It isn’t a secret, you know,’ Khalad told him. ‘Empress Elysoun’s fairly obvious. She doesn’t hide her feelings any more than she hides – well, you know.’

‘She’s a good girl,’ Berit quickly came to her defense. ‘It’s just that her people don’t pay any attention to our kind of morality. They can’t even comprehend the notion of fidelity.’

‘I’m not throwing rocks at her. If the way she behaves doesn’t bother her husband, it certainly doesn’t bother me. I’m a country boy, remember? We’re more realistic about things like that. I just wouldn’t get too attached to her, Berit. Her attention may wander in time.’

‘It already has,’ Berit replied. ‘She doesn’t want to discontinue our friendship, though. She wants to be friendly to me and to him – and to the half-dozen or so others she neglected to mention earlier.’

‘The world needs more friendliness, Berit,’ Khalad grinned. There wouldn’t be so many wars if people were friendlier.’

Krager’s next note arrived two days later, and it was authenticated by another lock of Ehlana’s hair. The thought of the sodden drunkard violating his Queen’s pale blonde hair enraged Berit for some obscure reason. Vanion once again read the note to them while Sparhawk sat somewhat apart, gently holding the lock of his wife’s hair in his fingers.

‘ “Sparhawk, old boy,”’ the note began. ‘ “You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? I always admired the way Martel sort of tossed that off when everything was going his way. It was possibly the only thing about him that I admired.

‘ “Enough of these fond reminiscences. You’re going to be making a trip, Sparhawk. We want you to take your squire and travel by the customary overland route to Beresa in southeastern Arjuna. You’ll be watched, so don’t take any side-trips, don’t have Kalten and the other baboons trailing along behind you, don’t have Sephrenia disguised as a mouse or a flea hidden in your pocket, and most definitely don’t use Bhelliom for anything at all – not even for building campfires. I know we can depend on your absolute co-operation, old boy, since you’ll never see Ehlana alive again if you misbehave.

‘ “It’s always a pleasure to talk with you, Sparhawk, particularly in view of the fact that it’s your hands that are chained this time. Now stop wasting time. Take Khalad and the Bhelliom and go to Beresa. You’ll receive further instructions there. Fondly, Krager”.’

Chapter 3

They talked and talked and talked, and every ‘maybe’ or ‘possibly’ or ‘probably’ or ‘on the other hand’ set Sparhawk’s teeth on edge. It was all pure speculation, useless guessing that circled and circled and never got to the point. He sat slightly apart from them holding the lock of pale hair. The hair felt strangely alive, coiling round his fingers in a soft caress.

It was his fault, of course. He should never have permitted Ehlana to come to Tamuli. It went further than that, though. Ehlana had been in danger all her life, and it had all been because of him – because of the fact that he was Anakha. Xanetia had said that Anakha was invincible, but she was wrong. Anakha was as vulnerable as any married man. By marrying Ehlana, he had immediately put her at risk, a risk that would last for as long as she lived.

He should never have married her. He loved her, of course, but was it an act of love to put her in danger? He silently cursed the weakness that had led him to even consider the ridiculous notion when she had first raised it. He was a soldier, and soldiers should never marry – particularly not scarred, battered old veterans with too many years and too many battles behind them and too many enemies still about. Was he some selfish old fool? Some disgusting, half-senile lecher eager to take advantage of a foolish young girl’s infatuation? Ehlana had extravagantly declared that she would die if he refused her, but he knew better than that. People die from a sword in the belly, or from old age, but they do not die from love. He should have laughed in her face and rejected her absurd command. Then he could have arranged a proper marriage for her, a marriage to some handsome young nobleman with good manners and a safe occupation. If he had, she would still be safely back in Cimmura instead of in the hands of madmen, degenerate sorcerers and alien Gods to whom her life meant nothing at all.

And still they talked on and on and on. Why were they wasting all their breath? There wasn’t any choice in the matter. Sparhawk would obey the instructions because Ehlana’s life depended on it. The others were certain to argue with him about it, and the arguments would only irritate him. The best thing would probably be just to take the Bhelliom and Khalad and slip out of Matherion without giving them the chance to drive him mad with their meaningless babble.

It was the touch of a springlike breeze on his cheek and a soft nuzzling on his hand that roused him from his gloomy reverie.

‘It was not mine intent to disturb thy thought, Sir Knight,’ the white deer apologized, ‘but my mistress would have words with thee.’

Sparhawk jerked his head round in astonishment. He no longer sat in the blue-draped room in Matherion, and the voices of the others had faded away to be replaced by the sound of the gentle lapping of waves upon a golden strand. His chair now sat on the marble floor of Aphrael’s temple on the small verdant island that rose gem-like from the sea. The breeze was soft under the rainbow-colored sky, and the ancient oaks around the alabaster temple rustled softly.