High overhead, the largest of all the moths turned away for home.

But Gabriel was sometimes an impatient hunter, and he followed it across the sky with his thought, leaving his wounded body to collapse to the cobbles.

He had never tried this particular form of aethereal movement, and it was terrifying—like being at court while naked. He was bereft of many of his powers—a thing of wind and fancy.

But rage bore him up. Rage cancelled out rational thought and kept him to his mission. He followed the fleeing thing up into the light of the moon, and out, running north to its master.

It didn’t get more than three miles. Gabriel took it in the air and subsumed it, and like a conjuror he caught the single strand of aethereal will by which it was bound to its distant master and he—kept it.

And then he had to find his way back to his body.

When he did, he found it bruised, and with a burn the size of his hand with an ashy black centre high on his back, from which emerged an ugly dark trickle of something that stank.

He touched the growing dampness on his back and his vision tunnelled.

He was in a bed in the infirmary of the abbey. He let his eyes flutter open, and there was the Prior.

“I got them all,” he said grimly. “Is she alive?”

Prior Wishart allowed himself a tired smile. “She’s alive. But your officers have decided that you are not going anywhere today. There are new events, and new reports—the busy world has gone on without you.” He sat on the edge of Ser Gabriel’s bed. “I am not a cruel man—she lives and thrives. Her power cleared the cursed venom from your back at sunrise. I think she is now asleep.”

Ser Gabriel was pinned in the bed by the Prior. He wriggled, clearly reaching for his clothes.

“Give me a moment of your time, Prince Gabriel,” the Prior said.

He handed his charge a cup of warm wine.

“Poppy?” Ser Gabriel asked.

“Only honey,” the Prior said. “You will need all your wits today.”

An hour later—almost noon—they all gathered at the Abbot’s long table in his hall. Ser Gabriel sat with the Prior, and Ser Michael and Ser Alcaeus—with two imperial messenger birds supported on missal stands—sat opposite a swollen-faced Amicia and Ser Thomas, with Ser Gavin and Ser Ricar of the Order, the infidel, Ser Payam, and Ser Christos. There were two other knights of the Order and two lay knights. The Order had many secular members—knights who donated their time, especially to defend caravans or pilgrims.

But next to Ser Gelfred, at the head of the table, sat a young man in blue and yellow checky, whose curling beard and open-faced good looks were marred by youthful rage.

But he mastered himself and rose and bowed to all present.

Ser Gelfred rose with him. “Gentlemen and ladies, Prince Tancredo of Occitan.”