Danae looked around at the rest of them with a smug little smile. ‘See,’ she said. ‘Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?’
4
It was a small, single-masted coastal freighter with a leaky bottom and patched sails. It definitely did not skim the waves.
Berit and Khalad wore their mail-shirts and travelers’ cloaks and they stood in the bow looking out across the leaden expanse of the Gulf of Micae as the wretched vessel wallowed along.
‘Is that coast up ahead?’ Berit asked hopefully.
Khalad looked out across the choppy water. ‘No, just a cloudbank. We’re not moving very fast, my Lord. We won’t make the coast today, I’m afraid.’ He looked aft and lowered his voice. ‘Stay alert after the sun goes down,’ he instructed. ‘The crew of this tub is made up of waterfront sweepings, and the captain isn’t much better. I think we should take turns sleeping tonight.’
Berit glanced back along the deck at the assortment of ruffians loitering there. ‘I wish I had my axe,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t say things like that out loud, Berit,’ Khalad muttered. ‘Sparhawk doesn’t use a war-axe. Krager knows that, and one of these sailors may be working for him.’
‘Still? after the Harvest Festival?’
‘Nobody’s ever figured out a way to kill all the rats, my Lord, and it only takes one. Let’s both behave as if we’re being watched and every word we say is being overheard—just to be on the safe side.’
‘I’ll be a lot happier once we get ashore. Did we really have to make this leg of the trip by sea?’
‘It’s the custom.’ Khalad shrugged. ‘Don’t worry. We can hold off these sailors if we have to.’
‘That’s not what’s bothering me, Khalad. This scow waddles through the water like a whale with a sprained back. It’s making me queasy.’
‘Eat a piece of dry bread.’
‘I’d rather not. This is really miserable, Khalad.’
‘But we’re having an adventure, my Lord,’ Khalad said brightly. ‘Doesn’t the excitement make up for the discomfort?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘You’re the one who wanted to be a knight.’
‘Yes, I know—and right now I’m trying to remember why.’
Patriarch Emban was very displeased. ‘This is really outrageous, Vanion,’ he protested as he waddled along with the others toward the chapel in the west wing. ‘If Dolmant ever finds out that I’ve permitted the practice of witchcraft in a consecrated place of worship, he’ll have me defrocked.’
‘It’s the safest place, Emban,’ Vanion replied. ‘The pretense of “sacred rites” gives us an excuse to chase all the Tamuls out of the west wing. Besides, the chapel’s probably never really been consecrated anyway. This is an imitation castle built to make Elenes feel at home. The people who built it couldn’t have known the rite of consecration.’
‘You don’t know that it hasn’t been consecrated.’
‘And you don’t know that it has. If it bothers you all that much, Emban, you can re-consecrate it after we finish.’
Emban’s face blanched. ‘Do you know what’s involved in that, Vanion?’ he protested. ‘The hours of praying—the prostration before the altar—the fasting?’ His chubby face went pale. ‘Good God, the fasting!’
Sephrenia, Flute, and Xanetia had slipped into the chapel several hours earlier, and they were sitting unobtrusively in one corner listening to a choir of Church Knights singing hymns. Emban and Vanion were still arguing when they joined the ladies.
‘What’s the problem?’ Sephrenia asked.
‘Patriarch Emban and Lord Vanion are having a disagreement about whether or not the chapel’s been consecrated, little mother,’ Kalten explained.
‘It hasn’t,’ Flute told him with a little shrug.
‘How can you tell?’ Emban demanded.
She gave him a long-suffering look. ‘Who am I, your Grace?’ she asked him.
He blinked. ‘Oh. I keep forgetting that for some reason. Is there actually a way you can tell whether or not a place has been consecrated?’
‘Well of course there is. Believe me, Emban, this chapel’s never been consecrated to your Elene God.’ She paused. ‘There was a spot not far from here that was consecrated to a tree about eighteen thousand years ago, though.’
‘A tree?’
‘It was a very nice tree—an oak. It’s always an oak for some reason. Nobody ever seems to want to worship an elm. Lots of people used to worship trees. They’re predictable, for one thing.’
‘How could anybody in his right mind worship a tree?’
‘Who ever said that religious people were in their right minds? Sometimes you humans confuse us a great deal, you know.’
Since there was an exchange of features involved in most cases here, Sephrenia and Xanetia had experimented a bit to alter the spell which had imprinted Sparhawk’s face on Berit. No exchange was necessary for Sparhawk, however, so they modified him first. He sat beside his old friend, Sir Endrik, a veteran with whom he, Kalten and Martel had endured their novitiates.
Xanetia approached them with the color draining from her features and that soft radiance suffusing her face. She examined Endrik meticulously, and then her voice rose as she began to intone the Delphaeic spell in her oddly accented, archaic Tamul. Sephrenia stood at her side simultaneously casting the Styric spell.
Sparhawk felt nothing whatsoever as Xanetia released her spell. Then at the crucial instant, Sephrenia extended her hand, interposing it between Sir Endrik’s face and Xanetia’s and simultaneously releasing the Styric spell. Sparhawk definitely felt that. His features seemed to somehow soften like melting wax, and he could actually feel his face changing, almost as wet clay is changed and molded by the potter’s hand. The straightening of his broken nose was a bit painful, and the lengthening of his jaw made his teeth ache as they shifted in the bone.
‘What do you think?’ Sephrenia asked Vanion when the process had been completed.
‘I don’t think you could get them any closer,’ Vanion replied, examining the two men closely. ‘How does it feel to be twins, Endrik?’
‘I didn’t feel a thing, my Lord,’ Endrik replied, staring curiously at Sparhawk.
‘I did,’ Sparhawk told him, gingerly touching his re-shaped nose. ‘Does the ache go away eventually, Anarae?’ he asked.
‘Thou wilt notice it less as time doth accustom thee to the alteration, Anakha. I did warn thee that some discomfort is involved, did I not?’
‘You did indeed.’’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘It’s not unbearable.”
‘Do I really look like that?’ Endrik asked.
‘Yes,’ Vanion replied.
‘I should take better care of myself. The years aren’t being good to me.’
‘Nobody stays young and beautiful forever, Endrik,’ Kalten laughed.
‘Is that all that needs to be done to these two, Anarae?’ Vanion asked.
‘The process is complete, Lord Vanion,’ Xanetia replied.
‘We need to talk, Sparhawk,’ the Preceptor said. ‘Let’s go into the vestry where we’ll be out of the way while the ladies modify the others.’
Sparhawk nodded, stood up and followed his friend to the small door to the left of the altar. Vanion led the way inside and closed the door behind them.
‘You’ve made all the arrangements with Sorgi?’ he asked.
Sparhawk sat down. ‘I talked with him yesterday,’ he replied. ‘I told him that I had some friends that had to go to Beresa without attracting attention. He’s had the usual desertions, and he’s holding three berths open. Stragen, Talen and I’ll merge with the crew. We should be able to slip into Beresa without being noticed.’
‘I imagine that cost you. Sorgi’s prices are a little steep sometimes.’
Sparhawk massaged the side of his aching jaw. ‘It wasn’t all that bad,’ he said. ‘Sorgi owes me a couple of favors, and I gave him time to pick up a cargo to cover most of the cost.’