‘So he does, Sir Sparhawk. So he does. Come inside and bring your friends.’

Sparhawk led Faran through the gate with Sephrenia and Kurik close behind. There was a court inside, and the walls surrounding it were as bleak as those surrounding the monastery They were unadorned by the white mortar customary on the walls of Rendorish buildings, and the windows which pierced them were perhaps a trifle narrower than monastic architecture would have dictated. They would, Sparhawk noted professionally, make excellent vantage points for archers.

‘How can I help you, Sparhawk?’ the abbot asked.

‘I need refuge again, my Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk replied. That’s getting to be sort of a habit, isn’t it?’

The abbot grinned at him. ‘Who’s after you this time?’ he asked.

‘No one that I know of, my Lord, and I think I’d like to keep it that way. Is there someplace we can talk privately?’

‘Of course.’ The abbot turned to the brown-bearded monk who had first opened the shutter. ‘See to their horses, brother.’ It was not a request, but had all the crispness of a military command. The monk straightened noticeably, though he did not quite salute.

‘Come along then, Sparhawk,’ the abbot boomed, clapping the big knight on the shoulder with one meaty hand.

Kurik dismounted and went to help Sephrenia. She handed Flute down to him and slipped from her saddle.

The abbot led them on through the main door and into a vaulted stone corridor dimly lighted at intervals by small oil lamps. Perhaps it was the scent of the oil, but the place had a peculiar odour of sanctity – and of safety – about it. That smell sharply reminded Sparhawk of the night ten years before. ‘The place hasn’t changed much,’ he noted, looking around.

‘The Church is timeless, Sir Sparhawk,’ the abbot replied sententiously, ‘and her institutions try to match that quality’

At the far end of the corridor, the abbot opened a severely simple door, and they followed him into a book-lined room with a high ceiling and an unlighted charcoal brazier in the corner. The room was quite comfortable-looking – far more so than the studies of abbots in the monasteries of the north. The windows were made of thick triangular pieces of glass joined with strips of lead, and they were draped in pale blue. The floor was strewn with white sheep-skin rugs, and the unmade bed in the far corner was quite a bit wider than the standard monastic cot. The jammed bookcases reached from floor to ceiling.

‘Please, sit down,’ the abbot said, pointing at several chairs standing in front of a table piled high with documents.

‘Still trying to catch up, my Lord?’ Sparhawk smiled, pointing at the documents and taking one of the chairs.