‘Do we have to go through any kind of a gate to get out?’

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘The city walls were pulled down during the suppression of the Eshandist Heresy. The local people didn’t bother to rebuild them.’

They emerged from the narrow street they were following into acre upon acre of stock pens filled with bawling, scrubby-looking cows. It was late afternoon by now, and the overcast had begun to take on a silvery sheen.

‘How much farther to the monastery?’ Kurik asked.

‘A mile or so.’

‘It’s quite a distance from that alley back there, isn’t it?’

‘I noticed that myself about ten years ago.’

‘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.’