Vanion that I’m here?’ Sparhawk suggested. ‘If he recognizes me, fine. If he doesn’t, the two of you can try to throw me back down the stairs.’ He laid no particular emphasis on the word try.
The two looked at each other, then one of them opened the door and looked inside. ‘A thousand pardons, my Lord Vanion,’ he apologized, ‘but there’s a Pandion here who calls himself Sparhawk. He says that he wants to talk with you.’
‘Good,’ a familiar voice replied from inside the room. ‘I’ve been expecting him. Send him in.’
The two knights looked abashed and stepped out of Sparhawk’s way.
‘Thank you, my brothers,’ Sparhawk murmured to them. ‘Peace be with you.’ And then he went on through the door. The room was large, with stone walls, dark green drapes at the narrow windows, and a carpet of muted brown. A fire crackled in the arched fireplace at one end, and there was a candlelit table surrounded by heavy chairs in the centre. Two people, a man and a woman, sat at the table.
Vanion, the Preceptor of the Pandion Knights, had aged somewhat in the past ten years. His hair and beard were iron-grey now. There were a few more lines in his face, but there were no signs of feebleness there. He wore a mail shirt and a silver surcoat. As Sparhawk entered the room, he rose and came around the table. ‘I was about to send a rescue party to the palace for you,’ he said, grasping Sparhawk’s armoured shoulders. ‘You shouldn’t have gone there alone, you know.’
‘Maybe not, but things worked out all right.’ Sparhawk removed his gauntlets and helmet, laying them on the table. Then he unfastened his sword from its studs and laid it beside them. ‘It’s good to see you again, Vanion,’ he said, taking the older man’s hand in his. Vanion had always been a stern teacher, tolerating no shortcomings in the young knights he had trained to take their places in Pandion ranks. Although Sparhawk had come close to hating the man during his novitiate, he now regarded the blunt-spoken preceptor as one of his closest friends, and their handclasp was warm, even affectionate.
Then the big knight turned to the woman. She was small and had that peculiar neat perfection one sometimes sees in small people. Her hair was as black as night, though her eyes were a deep blue. Her features were obviously not Elene, but had that strangely foreign cast that marked her as a Styric. She wore a soft, white robe, and there was a large book on the table in front of her. ‘Sephrenia,’ he greeted her warmly, ‘you’re looking well.’ He took both of her hands in his and kissed her palms in the ritual Styric gesture of greeting.
‘You have been long away, Sir Sparhawk,’ she replied. Her voice was soft and musical and had an odd, lilting quality to it.
‘And will you bless me, little mother?’ he asked, a smile touching his battered face. He knelt before her. The form of address was Styric, reflecting that intimate personal connection between teacher and pupil which had existed since the dawn of time.
‘Gladly.’ She lightly touched her hands to his face and spoke a ritual benediction in the Styric tongue.
‘Thank you,’ he said simply.
Then she did something she rarely did. With her hands still holding his face, she leaned forward and lightly kissed him. ‘Welcome home, dear one,’ she murmured.
‘It’s good to be back,’ he replied. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Even though I scolded you when you were a boy?’ she asked with a gentle smile.
‘Scoldings don’t hurt that much.’ He laughed. ‘I even missed those, for some reason.’
‘I think that perhaps we did well with this one, Vanion,’ she said to the preceptor. ‘Between us, we’ve made a good Pandion.’
‘One of the best,’ Vanion agreed. ‘I think Sparhawk’s what they had in mind when they formed the order.’
Sephrenia’s position among the Knights Pandion was a peculiar one. She had appeared at the gates of the order’s motherhouse at Demos upon the death of the Styric tutor who had been instructing the novices in what the Styrics referred to as the secrets. She had neither been selected nor summoned, but had simply appeared and taken up her predecessor’s duties. Generally, Elenes despised and feared Styrics. They were a strange, alien people who lived in small, rude clusters of houses deep in the forests and mountains. They worshipped strange Gods and practised magic. Wild stories about hideous rites involving the use of Elene blood and flesh had circulated among the more gullible in Elene society for centuries, and periodically mobs of drunken peasants would descend on unsuspecting Styric villages, bent on massacre. The Church vigorously denounced such atrocities. The Church Knights, who had come to know and respect their alien tutors, went perhaps a step further than the Church, letting it be generally known that unprovoked attacks on Styric settlements would result in swift and savage retaliation. Despite such organized protection, however, any Styric who entered an Elene village or town could expect taunts and abuse and, not infrequently, showers of stones and offal. Thus, Sephrenia’s appearance at Demos had not been without personal risks. Her motives for coming had been unclear, but over the years she had served faithfully; to a man the Pandions had come to love and respect her. Even Vanion, the preceptor of the order, frequently sought her counsel.
Sparhawk looked at the volume lying on the table before her. ‘A book, Sephrenia?’ he said in mock amazement. ‘Has Vanion finally persuaded you to learn how to read?’
‘You know my beliefs about that practice, Sparhawk,’ she replied. ‘I was merely looking at the pictures.’ She pointed at the brilliant illuminations on the page. ‘I was ever fond of bright colours.’
Sparhawk drew up a chair and sat, his armour creaking.
‘You saw Ehlana?’ Vanion asked, resuming his seat across the table.
‘Yes.’ Sparhawk looked at Sephrenia. ‘How did you do that?’ he asked her. ‘Seal her up like that, I mean?’
‘It’s a bit complex.’ Then she stopped and gave him a penetrating look. ‘Perhaps you’re ready, at that,’ she murmured. She rose to her feet. ‘Come over here, Sparhawk,’ she said, moving towards the fireplace.
Puzzled, he rose and followed her.
‘Look into the flames, dear one,’ she said softly, using that odd Styric form of address she had used when he was her pupil.
Compelled by her voice, he stared at the fire. Faintly, he heard her whispering in Styric, and then she passed her hand slowly across the flames. Unthinking, he sank to his knees and stared into the fireplace.
Something was moving in the fire. Sparhawk leaned forward and stared hard at the little bluish curls of flame dancing along the edge of a charred oak log. The blue colour expanded, growing larger and larger, and within that nimbus of coruscating blue, he seemed to see a group of figures that wavered as the flame flickered. The image grew stronger, and he realized that he was looking at the semblance of the throne room in the palace, many miles away. Twelve armoured Pandions were crossing the flagstone floor bearing the slight figure of a young girl. She was borne, not upon a litter, but upon the flat sides of a dozen gleaming sword blades held rock-steady by the twelve black-armoured and visored men. They stopped before the throne, and Sephrenia’s white-robed figure stepped out of the shadows. She raised one hand, seeming to say something, though all Sparhawk could hear was the crackling flames. With a dreadful jerking motion, the young girl sat up. It was Ehlana. Her face was distorted and her eyes wide and vacant.
Without
