‘Praise God!’ the old nun exclaimed. ‘And will you soon be removing our unwanted guests from within our walls?’

‘Soon, mother. Very soon.’

‘We shall cleanse the chambers the princess has contaminated then – and offer prayers for her soul, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘How very, very touching,’ Arissa said sardonically, appearing to have slightly recovered. ‘If this grows any more cloying, I think I’ll vomit.’

‘You’re starting to irritate me, Arissa,’ Sparhawk said coldly. ‘I don’t recommend it. If I weren’t under the queen’s orders, I’d strike off your head here and now. I’d advise you to make your peace with God, because I’m quite sure you’ll be meeting Him face to face before long.’ He looked at her with extreme distaste. ‘Get her out of my sight,’ he told Kalten and Ulath.

About fifteen minutes later, Kalten and Ulath came back from within the cloister.

‘All secure?’ Sparhawk asked them.

‘It’d take a blacksmith an hour to open those cell-doors,’ Kalten replied. ‘Shall we go then?’

They had gone no more than a half-mile when Ulath suddenly shouted, ‘Look out, Sparhawk!’ and roughly shoved the big Pandion from his saddle.

The crossbow bolt whizzed through the empty air where Sparhawk had been an instant before and buried itself to the vanes in a tree at the roadside.

Kalten’s sword came whistling from its sheath, and he spurred his horse in the direction from which the bolt had come.

‘Are you all right?’ Ulath asked, dismounting to help Sparhawk to his feet.

‘A little bruised is all. You push very firmly, my friend.’

‘I’m sorry, Sparhawk. I got excited.’

‘Perfectly all right, Ulath. Push as hard as you like when these things happen. How did you happen to see the bolt coming?’

‘Pure luck. I happened to be looking that way, and I saw the bushes move.’

Kalten was swearing when he rode back. ‘He got away,’ he reported.

‘I’m getting very tired of that fellow,’ Sparhawk said, pulling himself back into the saddle.

‘You think it might be the same one that took a shot at you back in Cimmura?’ Kalten asked him.

‘This isn’t Lamorkand, Kalten. There isn’t a crossbow standing in the corner of every kitchen in the kingdom.’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘Let’s not make an issue of this when we see Vanion again,’ he suggested. ‘I can sort of take care of myself, and he’s got enough on his mind already.’

‘I think it’s a mistake, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said dubiously, ‘but it’s your skin, so we’ll do it your way.’

The knights of the four orders were waiting in a well-concealed encampment a league or so to the south of Demos. Sparhawk and his friends were directed to the pavilion where their friends were conversing with Preceptor Abriel of the Cyrinic Knights, Preceptor Komier of the Genidians and Preceptor Darellon of the Alciones. ‘How did Princess Arissa take the news?’ Vanion asked.

‘She was moderately discontented about it all,’ Kalten smirked. ‘She wanted to make a speech, but since about all she really wanted to say was, “You can’t do this,” we cut her off.’

‘You did what?’ Vanion exclaimed.

‘Oh, not that way, My Lord Vanion,’ Kalten apologized. ‘Poor choice of words there perhaps.’

‘Say what you mean, Kalten,’ Vanion told him. ‘This is no time for misunderstandings.’

‘I wouldn’t actually behead the princess, Lord Vanion.’

I would,’ Ulath muttered.

‘May we see the Bhelliom?’ Komier asked Sparhawk.

Sparhawk looked at Sephrenia, and she nodded, although a bit dubiously.

Sparhawk reached inside his surcoat and removed the canvas pouch. He untied the drawstring then shook the Sapphire Rose out into his hand. It had been several days since he had felt even the faintest twinge of that shadowy, unnamed dread, but it returned once again as soon as his eyes touched the Sapphire Rose, and once again that shapeless shadow, even darker and larger now, flickered just beyond his field of vision.

‘Dear God,’ Preceptor Abriel gasped.

‘That’s it, all right,’ the Thalesian Komier grunted. ‘Get it out of sight, Sparhawk.’

‘But –’ Preceptor Darellon protested.

‘Did you want to keep your soul, Darellon?’ Komier asked bluntly. ‘If you do, don’t look at that thing for more than a few seconds.’

‘Put it away, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia said.

‘Have we had any news about what Otha’s doing?’ Kalten asked as Sparhawk dropped Bhelliom back into its pouch.

‘He appears to be holding firm at the border,’ Abriel replied. ‘Vanion told us about the confession of the bastard Lycheas. It’s very likely that Annias has asked Otha to stand on the border making menacing noises. Then the Primate of Cimmura can claim that he knows a way to stop the Zemochs. That should sway a few votes his way.’

‘Do we think that Otha knows Sparhawk’s got Bhelliom?’ Ulath asked.

‘Azash does,’ Sephrenia said, ‘and that means Otha does as well. Whether the news reached Annias yet is anybody’s guess.’

‘What’s happening in Chyrellos?’ Sparhawk asked Vanion.

‘The latest word we have is that Archprelate Cluvonus is still hanging on by a thread. There’s no way we can hide the fact that we’re coming, so we’re just going to bull our way on through to Chyrellos. There’s been a change of plans now that Otha’s made his move. We want to reach Chyrellos before Cluvonus dies. It’s obvious that Annias is going to try to force the election as soon as he can now. He can’t really start giving orders until after that. Once Cluvonus dies, though, the Patriarchs Annias controls can start calling for votes. Probably the first thing they’ll vote on is the sealing of the city. That won’t be a matter of substance, so Annias probably has the votes to get it passed.’

‘Can Dolmant make any kind of estimate about how the vote stands just now?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘It’s close, Sir Sparhawk,’ Preceptor Abriel told him. Abriel was the leader of the Cyrinic Knights in Arcium. He was a solidly-built man in his sixties with silvery hair and an ascetic expression. ‘A fair number of Patriarchs aren’t in Chyrellos.’