The Ruby Knight

passed through Venne a few days ago, My Lord,’ Sparhawk said carefully. ‘All manner of rumours are going about concerning your castle.’
    ‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ the count replied, passing a trembling hand across his face.
    ‘Are you unwell, My Lord?’ Sephrenia asked him.
    ‘Advancing age perhaps, Madame, and there’s only one cure for that.’
    ‘We saw no other servants in your house, My Lord,’ Bevier said, obviously choosing his words carefully.
    ‘Occuda and I are the only ones here now, Sir Bevier.’
    ‘We encountered a minstrel in the forest, Count Ghasek,’ Bevier told him almost accusingly. ‘He mentioned the fact that you have a sister.’
    ‘You must mean the fool called Arbele,’ the count replied. ‘Yes, I do in fact have a sister.’
    ‘Will the lady be joining us?’ Bevier’s tone was sharp.
    ‘No,’ the count replied shortly. ‘My sister is indisposed.’
    ‘Lady Sephrenia here is highly skilled in the healing arts,’ Bevier pressed.
    ‘My sister’s malady is not susceptible to cure.’ The count said it with a note of finality.
    ‘That’s enough, Bevier,’ Sparhawk told the young Cyrinic in a tone of command.
    Bevier flushed and rose from his chair to walk to the far end of the room.
    ‘The young man seems distraught,’ the count observed.
    ‘The minstrel Arbele told him some things about your house,’ Tynian said candidly. ‘Bevier’s an Arcian, and they’re an emotional people.’
    ‘I see,’ the melancholy nobleman replied. ‘I can imagine the kind of wild tales Arbele is telling. Fortunately, few will believe him.’
    ‘I’m afraid you’re in error, My Lord,’ Sephrenia disagreed. ‘The tales Arbele tells are a symptom of a disorder that clouds his reason, and the disorder is infectious. For a time at least, everyone he encounters will accept what he says as absolute truth.’
    ‘My sister’s arm grows longer, I see.’
    From somewhere far back in the house there came a hideous shriek, followed by peal upon peal of mindless laughter.
    ‘Your sister?’ Sephrenia asked gently.
    Ghasek nodded, and Sparhawk could see the tears brimming in his eyes.
    ‘And her malady is not physical?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Let us not pursue this further, gentlemen,’ Sephrenia said to the knights. ‘The subject is painful to the count.’
    ‘You’re very kind, Madame,’ Ghasek said gratefully. He sighed, then said, ‘Tell me, Sir Knights, what brings you into this melancholy forest?’
    ‘We came expressly to see you, My Lord,’ Sparhawk told him.
    ‘Me?’ The count looked surprised.
    ‘We are on a quest, Count Ghasek. We seek the final resting place of King Sarak of Thalesia, who fell during the Zemoch invasion.’
    ‘The name is vaguely familiar to me.’
    ‘I thought it might be. A tanner in the town of Paler – a man named Berd – ’
    ‘Yes. I know him.’
    ‘Anyway, he told us of the chronicle you’re compiling.’
    The count’s eyes brightened, bringing life to his face for the first time since they had entered the room. ‘The labour of a lifetime, Sir Sparhawk.’
    ‘So I understand, My Lord. Berd told us that your research has been more or less exhaustive.’
    ‘Berd may be a bit overgenerous in that regard.’ The count smiled modestly. ‘I have, however, gathered most of the folk-lore in northern Pelosia and even in some parts of Deira. Otha’s invasion was far more extensive than is generally known.’
    ‘Yes, so we discovered. With your permission, we’d like to examine your chronicle for clues that might lead us to the place where King Sarak is buried.’
    ‘Certainly, Sir Sparhawk, and I’ll help you myself, but the hour grows late, and my chronicle is weighty.’ He smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘Once I begin, we could be up for most of the night. I lose all track of time once I immerse myself in those pages. Suppose we wait until morning before we begin.’
    ‘As you wish, My Lord.’
    Then Occuda entered, bringing a large pot of thick stew and a stack of plates. ‘I fed her, Master,’ he said quietly.
    ‘Is there any change?’ the count asked.
    ‘No, Master. I’m afraid not.’
    The count sighed, and his face became melancholy again.
    Occuda’s skills in the kitchen appeared to be limited. The stew he provided was mediocre at best, but the count was so immersed in his studies that he appeared to be indifferent to what was set before him.
    After they had eaten, the count bade them good night, and Occuda