‘Obler has,’ Vanion replied. ‘King Wargun is still at sea, though.’

A thin man dressed in a severe black cassock sat near the window He appeared to be in his late fifties and had silvery hair. His face was ascetic and his eyes were very keen. Sparhawk crossed the room and knelt respectfully before him. ‘Your Grace,’ he greeted the Patriarch of Demos.

‘You’re looking well, Sir Sparhawk,’ the churchman told him. ‘It’s good to see you again.’ Then he looked over Sparhawk’s shoulder. ‘Have you been going to chapel, Kurik?’ he asked the squire

‘Uh – whenever there’s opportunity, your Grace,’ Kurik answered, flushing slightly.

‘Excellent, my son,’ Dolmant said. ‘I’m sure that God is always glad to see you. How are Aslade and the boys?’

‘Well, your Grace. Thank you for asking.’

Sephrenia had been looking critically at the patriarch. ‘You haven’t been eating properly, Dolmant,’ she told him.

‘Sometimes I forget,’ he said. Then he smiled slyly at her ‘My overwhelming concern with the conversion of the heathen fills all my waking thoughts. Tell me, Sephrenia, are you ready at last to put aside your pagan ways and embrace the true faith?’

‘Not yet, Dolmant,’ she replied, also smiling. ‘It was nice of you to ask, though.’

He laughed. ‘I thought I’d get the question out of the way early so we can converse without having it hanging over our heads.’ He looked curiously at Flute, who was walking about the room examining the furnishings. ‘And who is this beautiful child?’ he asked.

‘She’s a foundling, your Grace,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘We came across her near the Arcian border. She doesn’t talk, so we call her Flute.’

Dolmant looked at the little girl’s grass-stained feet. ‘And was there no time to bath her?’ he asked.

‘That would not be appropriate, your Grace,’ Sephrenia replied.

The patriarch looked puzzled at that. Then he looked again at Flute. ‘Come over here, child,’ he said.

Flute approached him warily

‘And will you not speak – even to me?’

She raised her pipes and blew a questioning little note.

‘I see,’ Dolmant said. ‘Well, then, Flute, will you accept my blessing?’

She looked at him gravely, then shook her head.

‘She is a Styric child, Dolmant,’ Sephrenia explained. ‘An Elene blessing would have no meaning for her.’

Flute then reached out and took the patriarch’s thin hand and placed it over her heart. Dolmant’s eyes grew suddenly very wide and his expression troubled.

‘She will give you her blessing, however,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘And will you accept it?’

Dolmant’s eyes were still wide. ‘I think perhaps that I should not,’ he said, ‘but God help me, I will – and gladly’

Flute smiled at him and then kissed both of his palms. Then she pirouetted away, her black hair flying and her pipes sounding joyously. The patriarch’s face was filled with wonder.