They left Kurik’s farmstead early the following morning. Aslade and her four sons stood in the doorway waving as they rode out. Kurik remained behind for a few personal farewells, promising to catch up with them a bit later.

‘Are we going through the city?’ Kalten asked Sparhawk.

‘I don’t think so,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘We can take the road that goes around the north side. I’m fairly sure that we’ll be seen, but let’s not make it easy for them.’

‘Would you mind a personal observation?’

‘Probably not.’

‘You really ought to give some thought to letting Kurik retire, you know. He’s getting older and he should be spending more time with his family instead of trailing along behind you all over the world. Besides, so far as I know, you’re the only Church Knight who still has a squire. The rest of us have learned to get along without them. Give him a good pension and let him stay home.’

Sparhawk squinted at the sun which was just rising above the wooded hilltop lying to the east of Demos. ‘You’re probably right,’ he agreed, ‘but how would I go about telling him? My father placed Kurik in my service before I completed my novitiate. It has to do with being hereditary Champion of the royal house of Elenia.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It’s an archaic position that requires archaic usages. Kurik’s a friend more than a squire, and I’m not going to hurt him by telling him that he’s too old to serve any more.’

‘It’s a problem, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Sparhawk said, ‘it is.’

Kurik came riding up behind them as they were passing the cloister where Princess Arissa was confined. His bearded face was a bit glum, but then he straightened his shoulders and assumed a businesslike expression.

Sparhawk looked gravely at his friend, trying to imagine life without him. Then he shook his head. It was totally impossible.

The road leading towards Chyrellos passed through an evergreen forest where the morning sun streamed down through the boughs to spatter the forest floor with gold. The air was crisp and bright, although there was no frost. After they had gone about a mile farther, Berit resumed his narrative. ‘The Knights of the Church were consolidating their position in Rendor,’ he told Talen, ‘when word reached Chyrellos that Emperor Otha of Zemoch had massed a huge army and was marching into Lamorkand.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Talen interrupted him. ‘When did all this happen?’

‘About five hundred years ago.’

‘It wasn’t the same Otha Kalten was talking about the other day then, was it?’

‘So far as we know, it was.’

‘That’s impossible, Berit.’

‘Otha is perhaps nineteen hundred years old,’ Sephrenia told the boy

‘I thought this was a history,’ Talen accused, ‘not a fairy tale.’