The Diamond Throne

asked fiercely.
    ‘Sephrenia wouldn’t let us, so my men gave them a switching instead.’
    ‘That’s all?’
    ‘They used thorn bushes for switches. Thorns grow very long down in Arcium, and I instructed my men to be thorough about it.’
    ‘A bit extreme, perhaps,’ Dolmant said.
    ‘It seemed fitting at the time, your Grace The Church Knights have close ties with the Styrics and we don’t like people who mistreat our friends.’
    The pale winter sun was sliding into a bank of chill purple cloud behind them when they arrived at a run-down wayside inn. They ate a barely adequate meal of thin soup and greasy mutton and retired early.
    It was clear and cold the following morning. The road was frozen iron-hard, and the bracken lining its sides was white with frost. The sun was very bright, but there was little warmth to it. They rode at a loping canter, wrapped tightly in their cloaks to ward off the biting chill.
    The road undulated across the hills and valleys of central Elenia, passing through fields lying fallow under the winter sky Sparhawk looked about as he rode. This was the region where he and Kalten had grown up, and he felt that peculiar sense of homecoming all men feel when returning after many years to the scenes of their childhood. The self-discipline which was so much a part of Pandion training usually made Sparhawk suppress any form of emotionalism, but, despite his best efforts, certain things sometimes touched him deeply.
    About midmorning, Kurik called ahead. ‘There’s a rider coming up behind us,’ he reported. ‘He’s pushing his horse hard.’
    Sparhawk reined in and wheeled Faran around. ‘Kalten,’ he said sharply.
    ‘Right,’ the big blond man replied, thrusting his cloak aside so that his sword hilt was clear.
    Sparhawk also cleared his sword, and the two of them rode several hundred yards back along the road to intercept the oncoming horseman.
    Their precautions, however, proved unnecessary. The rider was the young novice, Berit. He was wrapped in a plain cloak, and his hands and wrists were chapped by the morning chill. His horse, however, was lathered and steaming. He reined in and approached them at a walk. ‘I have a message for you from Lord Vanion, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said.
    ‘What is it?’ Sparhawk asked him.
    ‘The Royal Council has legitimized Prince Lycheas.’
    ‘They did what?’
    ‘When the kings of Thalesia, Deira, and Arcium insisted that a bastard could not serve as Prince Regent, the Primate Annias called the council into session, and they declared the prince to be legitimate. The primate produced a document that stated that Princess Arissa had been married to Duke Osten of Vardenais.’
    ‘That’s absurd,’ Sparhawk fumed.
    ‘That’s what Lord Vanion thought. The document appeared to be quite genuine, though, and Duke Osten died years ago, so there wasn’t any way to refute the claim. The Earl of Lenda examined the parchment very closely, and finally even he had to vote to legitimize Lycheas.’
    Sparhawk swore
    ‘I knew Duke Osten,’ Kalten said. ‘He was a confirmed bachelor There’s no way he’d have married. He despised women.’
    ‘Is there some problem?’ Patriarch Dolmant asked,riding back down the road to join them with Sephrenia, Kurik, and Talen close behind him.
    ‘The Royal Council has voted to legitimize Lycheas,’ Kalten told him. ‘Annias produced a paper that says that Princess Arissa was married.’
    ‘How strange,’ Dolmant said.
    ‘And how convenient,’ Sephrenia added.
    ‘Could the document have been falsified?’ Dolmant asked.
    ‘Easily, your Grace,’ Talen told him. ‘I know a man in Cimmura who could provide irrefutable proof that Archprelate Cluvonus has nine wives – including a lady Troll and an Ogress.’
    ‘Well, it’s done now,’ Sparhawk said. ‘It puts Lycheas one step closer to the throne, I’m afraid.’
    ‘When did this happen, Berit?’ Kurik asked the novice.
    ‘Late last night.’
    Kurik scratched at his beard. ‘Princess Arissa’s cloistered at Demos,’ he said. ‘If Annias came up with this scheme just recently, she may not know she’s a wife.’
    ‘Widow,’ Berit corrected.
    ‘All right – widow, then. Arissa’s always been rather proud of the fact that she lay down with just about every man in Cimmura – begging your pardon, your Grace – and that she did it on her own terms without ever having been to the altar. If someone approached her right, it shouldn’t be too