‘That was the Troll-Gods, Kurik. Let’s get Bhelliom into the steel pouch so that it doesn’t happen to you again.’ He took up the canvas pouch and began to untie the strings.

‘Wouldn’t it be easier just to leave it inside the canvas sack?’ Kurik asked.

‘It might make it easier to put it into the steel one, but the time’s coming when I might have to take it out in a hurry. I don’t want any knots getting in my way when Azash is breathing down the back of my neck.’

‘Sound thinking, My Lord.’

Sparhawk lifted the Sapphire Rose in both hands and held it directly in front of his face. ‘Blue-Rose,’ he said to it in Troll, ‘I am Sparhawk-from-Elenia. Do you know me?’

The Rose flickered sullenly.

‘Do you acknowledge my authority?’

The Rose grew dark, and he could feel its hatred.

He inched his right thumb up along his palm and turned the ring on his finger around. Then he held the ring against the flower-gem – not the band this time but the blood-stained stone itself. He pressed his hand firmly against the Sapphire Rose.

Bhelliom shrieked, and he could feel it writhing in his hand like a live snake. He relaxed the pressure slightly. ‘I’m glad we understand each other,’ he said. ‘Hold open the pouch, Kurik.’

There was no resistance. The jewel seemed almost eager to enter its imprisonment.

‘Neat,’ Kurik said admiringly as Sparhawk wrapped a strand of soft iron wire around the top of the steel-link pouch.

‘I thought it might be worth a try,’ Sparhawk grinned. ‘Are the others up yet?’

Kurik nodded. ‘They’re standing in line over by the fire. You might give some thought to issuing a general amnesty, Sparhawk. Otherwise, they’ll fill up half the morning with apologies. Be particularly careful about Bevier. He’s been praying since before daylight. It’s likely to take him a long time to tell you just how guilty he feels.’

‘He’s a good boy, Kurik.’

‘Of course he is. That’s part of the problem.’

‘Cynic’

Kurik grinned at him.

As the two of them crossed the camp, Kurik looked up at the sky. ‘The wind’s died,’ he observed, ‘and the dust seems to be settling. Do you suppose –?’ He left it tentative.

‘Probably,’ Sparhawk said. ‘It sort of fits together, doesn’t it? Well, here goes.’ He cleared his throat as he approached his shamefaced friends. ‘Interesting night, wasn’t it?’ he asked them conversationally. ‘I was really getting attached to that little white deer. She had a cold, wet nose, though.’

They laughed, sounding a bit strained.