There was an excited stir, but Emban held up one hand. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘do we dare distract one of these towering military geniuses from the vital task of defending Chyrellos? I think not. Where then should we look?’ He paused. ‘I must now break a solemn promise I made to one of my brothers,’ he confessed. ‘I pray that both he and God will be able to find it in their hearts to forgive me. We do, in fact, have a man with military training in our midst, dear brothers. He has modestly concealed this fact, but a modesty which deprives us of his talent in this time of crisis is no virtue.’ His broad round face took on an expression of genuine regret. ‘Forgive me, Dolmant,’ he said, ‘but I have no choice in this matter. My duty to the Church comes even before my duty to a friend.’

Dolmant’s eyes were frosty.

Emban sighed. ‘I expect that when we conclude this meeting, my dear brother from Demos will thrash me thoroughly, but I’m well padded, and the bruises won’t be all that visible – I hope. In his youth, the Patriarch of Demos was an acolyte in the Pandion order, and –’

There was a sudden amazed babble in the chamber.

Emban raised his voice. ‘Preceptor Vanion of that order, who was himself a novice at the self-same time, assures me that our saintly brother from Demos was a consummate warrior and might very well have risen to the rank of Preceptor himself had not our holy mother found other uses for his vast talents.’ He paused again. ‘Praise God, my brothers, that we were never faced with that decision. Choosing between Vanion and Dolmant would likely have been a task beyond our combined wisdom.’ He continued for a time, heaping praise upon Dolmant. Then he looked around. ‘What is our decision, my brothers? Shall we beseech our brother of Demos to guide us in this time of our gravest peril?’

Makova stared at him. His mouth opened a couple of times as if he were on the verge of speaking, but each time, he clamped it tightly shut.

Sparhawk put his hands on the bench in front of him, leaned forward and spoke quietly to the elderly monk sitting in front of him. ‘Has Patriarch Makova been suddenly struck dumb, neighbour?’ he asked. ‘I’d have thought he’d be climbing the walls by now.’

‘In a very real sense the Patriarch of Coombe has been struck dumb, Sir Knight,’ the monk replied. ‘There’s a long-standing custom – even a rule – in the Hierocracy that a Patriarch may not speak to his own candidacy for any post – no matter how remote that candidacy may be. It’s considered immodest.’

‘Sensible custom, that one,’ Sparhawk said.