The Diamond Throne. David Eddings

      ‘Is Sephrenia still here?’ Sparhawk asked.

      ‘Yes,’ the second knight replied. ‘She and Vanion came from Demos shortly after the Queen fell ill, and she hasn’t gone back to the motherhouse yet.’

      ‘Good. I need to talk with her as well.’

      The three of them halted at the castle gate. ‘This is Sir Sparhawk, a member of our order,’ the first knight declared to the two who had remained at the gate. ‘We have confirmed his identity and vouch for his right to enter the house of the Knights Pandion.’

      ‘Pass then, Sir Sparhawk, and may peace abide with thee whilst thou remain within this house.’

      ‘I thank thee, Sir Knight, and may peace also be thine.’

      The knights drew their mounts aside, and Faran moved forward without any urging.

      ‘You know the ritual as well as I do, don’t you?’ Sparhawk murmured.

      Faran flicked his ears.

      In the central courtyard, an apprentice knight who had not yet been vested with his ceremonial armour or spurs hurried forward and took Faran’s reins. ‘Welcome, Sir Knight,’ he said.

      Sparhawk hooked his shield to his saddlebow and swung down from Faran’s back with his armour clinking. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Do you have any idea of where I might find Lord Vanion?’

      ‘I believe he’s in the south tower, my Lord.’

      ‘Thanks again.’ Sparhawk started across the courtyard, then stopped. ‘Oh, be careful of the horse,’ he warned. ‘He bites.’

      The novice looked startled and then cautiously stepped away from the big, ugly roan, though still firmly holding the reins.

      The horse gave Sparhawk a flat, unfriendly stare.

      ‘It’s more sporting this way, Faran,’ Sparhawk explained. He started up the worn steps that led into the centuries-old castle.

      The inside of the chapterhouse was cool and dim, and the few members of the order Sparhawk met in those halls wore cowled monk’s robes, as was customary inside a secure house, although an occasional steely clink betrayed the fact that, beneath their humble garb, the members of this order wore chain mail and were inevitably armed. There were no greetings exchanged, and the cowled brothers of Pandion went resolutely about their duties with bowed heads and shadowed faces.

      Sparhawk put the flat of his hand out in front of one of the cowled men. Pandions seldom touched each other. ‘Excuse me, brother,’ he said. ‘Do you know if Vanion is still in the south tower?’

      ‘He is,’ the other knight replied.

      ‘Thank you, brother. Peace be with you.’

      ‘And with you, Sir Knight.’

      Sparhawk went on along the torchlit corridor until he came to a narrow stairway which wound up into the south tower between walls of massive, unmortared stones. At the top of the stairs there was a heavy door guarded by two young Pandions. Sparhawk did not recognize either of them. ‘I need to talk with Vanion,’ he told them. ‘The name is Sparhawk.’

      ‘Can you identify yourself?’ one of them asked, trying to make his youthful voice sound gruff.

      ‘I’ve just done so.’

      It hung there while the two young knights struggled to find a graceful way out of the situation. ‘Why not just open the door and tell Vanion that I’m here?’ Sparhawk suggested. ‘If he recognizes me, fine. If he doesn’t, the two of you can try to throw me back down the stairs.’ He laid no particular emphasis on the word try.

      The two looked at each other, then one of them opened the door and looked inside. ‘A thousand pardons, my Lord Vanion,’ he apologized, ‘but there’s a Pandion here who calls himself Sparhawk. He says that he wants to talk with you.’

      ‘Good,’ a familiar voice replied from inside the room. ‘I’ve been expecting him. Send him in.’

      The two knights looked abashed and stepped out of Sparhawk’s way.

      ‘Thank you, my brothers,’ Sparhawk murmured to them. ‘Peace be with you.’ And then he went on through the door. The room was large, with stone walls, dark green drapes at the narrow windows, and a carpet of muted brown. A fire crackled in the arched fireplace at one end, and there was a candlelit table surrounded by heavy chairs in the centre. Two people, a man and a woman, sat at the table.

      Vanion, the Preceptor of the Pandion Knights, had aged somewhat in the past ten years. His hair and beard were iron-grey now. There were a few more lines in his face, but there were no signs of feebleness there. He wore a mail shirt and a silver surcoat. As Sparhawk entered the room, he rose and came around the table. ‘I was about to send a rescue party to the palace for you,’ he said, grasping Sparhawk’s armoured shoulders. ‘You shouldn’t have gone there alone, you know.’

      ‘Maybe not, but things worked out all right.’ Sparhawk removed his gauntlets and helmet, laying them on the table. Then he unfastened his sword from its studs and laid it beside them. ‘It’s good to see you again, Vanion,’ he said, taking the older man’s hand in his. Vanion had always been a stern teacher, tolerating no shortcomings in the young knights he had trained to take their places in Pandion ranks. Although Sparhawk had come close to hating the man during his novitiate, he now regarded the blunt-spoken preceptor as one of his closest friends, and their handclasp was warm, even affectionate.

      Then the big knight turned to the woman. She was small and had that peculiar neat perfection one sometimes sees in small people. Her hair was as black as night, though her eyes were a deep blue. Her features were obviously not Elene, but had that strangely foreign cast that marked her as a Styric. She wore a soft, white robe, and there was a large book on the table in front of her. ‘Sephrenia,’ he greeted her warmly, ‘you’re looking well.’ He took both of her hands in his and kissed her palms in the ritual Styric gesture of greeting.

      ‘You have been long away, Sir Sparhawk,’ she replied. Her voice was soft and musical and had an odd, lilting quality to it.

      ‘And will you bless me, little mother?’ he asked, a smile touching his battered face. He knelt before her. The form of address was Styric, reflecting that intimate personal connection between teacher and pupil which had existed since the dawn of time.

      ‘Gladly.’ She lightly touched her hands to his face and spoke a ritual benediction in the Styric tongue.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said simply.

      Then she did something she rarely did. With her hands still holding his face, she leaned forward and lightly kissed him. ‘Welcome home, dear one,’ she murmured.

      ‘It’s good to be back,’ he replied. ‘I’ve missed you.’

      ‘Even though I scolded you when you were a boy?’ she asked with a gentle smile.

      ‘Scoldings don’t hurt that much.’ He laughed. ‘I even missed those, for some reason.’

      ‘I think that perhaps we did well with this one, Vanion,’ she said to the preceptor. ‘Between us, we’ve made a good Pandion.’

      ‘One of the best,’ Vanion agreed. ‘I think Sparhawk’s what they had in mind when they formed the order.’

      Sephrenia’s position among the Knights Pandion was a peculiar one. She had appeared at the gates of the order’s motherhouse at Demos upon the death of the Styric tutor who had been instructing the novices in what the Styrics referred to as the secrets. She had neither been selected nor summoned, but had simply appeared and taken up her predecessor’s duties. Generally, Elenes despised and feared Styrics. They were a strange, alien people who lived in small, rude clusters of houses deep in the forests and mountains. They worshipped strange Gods and practised magic. Wild stories about hideous rites involving the use of Elene blood and flesh had circulated