They emerged from the tent and looked around. It was still snowing, and the stubborn mist hung back among the trees. Sephrenia and Kurik sat by the small fire in front of her tent.

‘Where is she?’ Kalten asked, looking out into the settling snow.

‘She’s here,’ Sephrenia said calmly, sipping her tea.

‘I can’t see her.’

‘You don’t have to, Kalten. All you really need to know is that she’s here.’

‘It’s not the same, Sephrenia.’ His voice was just slightly disappointed.

‘She finally went and did it, didn’t she?’ Kurik laughed.

‘Did what?’ Sephrenia asked him.

‘She poached a group of Church Knights right out from under the nose of the Elene God.’

‘Don’t be silly. She wouldn’t do that.’

‘Oh, really? Take a look at Kalten there. That’s the closest thing to adoration I’ve ever seen on his face. If I put together something that looked like an altar right now, he’d probably genuflect.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ Kalten said, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘I just like her, that’s all. She makes me feel good when she’s around.’

‘Of course,’ Kurik said sceptically.

‘I don’t know that we should pursue this line of thought when Bevier joins us,’ Sephrenia cautioned. ‘Let’s not confuse him.’

The others also emerged from their tents smiling broadly. Ulath was actually laughing.

Their mood had lightened enormously, and the bleak morning seemed almost sunny. Even their horses seemed alert, almost frisky. Sparhawk and Berit went to where they were picketed to feed them their morning ration of grain. Faran normally greeted the morning with a flat look of dislike, but on this particular day the big, ugly roan seemed calm, even serene. He was looking intently at a large, spreading beech tree. Sparhawk glanced at the tree and then froze. The tree was half-concealed by mist, but he seemed quite clearly to see the familiar figure of the little girl who had just banished their despair with her joyful song. She appeared to be exactly the same as she had been the first time he had seen her. She sat upon a limb holding her shepherd’s pipes to her lips. The headband of plaited grass encircled her glossy black hair. She still wore the short, belted linen smock, and her grass-stained little feet were crossed at the ankles. Her large, dark eyes looked directly at him, and there was the hint of a dimple on each of her cheeks.

‘Berit,’ Sparhawk said quietly, ‘look.’

The young apprentice turned, and then he suddenly stopped. ‘Hello, Flute,’ he greeted her, sounding strangely unsurprised.

Aphrael blew him a little trill of recognition and continued her song. Then the mist swirled about the tree, and when it cleared, she was no longer there. Her melody, however, continued.

‘She looks well, doesn’t she?’ Berit said.

‘How could she look otherwise?’ Sparhawk laughed.