The Sword of the Spirits by John Christopher

it.”
    â€œNot that, sire. I come to travel with you.”
    â€œNo. That too warms me. But the journey I go I must make alone. Return to your home, Hans.”
    He said quietly, in his deep rasping voice:
    â€œI have no home here now.”
    I recalled what he had said a moment before: “we dwarfs.” He had left Dwarftown to serve me as a warrior. That was something which could not survive my going. He had lost everything as I had done, and it mattered as much to him as it did to me.
    â€œThen come with me,” I said. I laughed. “The High Seers must take us both together.”
    â€œThe High Seers?” He was startled. “You go to Sanctuary, sire?”
    Dwarfs did not pay much attention to the Spirits, but it was a dread thought to envisage going to the place men said was their stronghold. I said:
    â€œYou need not go there if you fear it. We will find a place where you can wait for me. In Salisbury, perhaps.”
    â€œI will go where you go, sire. I do not fear it.”
    â€œGood!” I said. “But no ‘sires,’ Hans. ‘Sire’ is for Princes and I am Prince no longer. You may call me Captain: they have left me that.”
    Hans shook his head. “You are Prince to me, sire. And always will be.”
    It was strange that the loyalty of a single man, a dwarf, could mean more than a city’s acclamation. I turned my face away.
    â€œSaddle yourself a horse, Hans,” I said. “Take which you will. All are sound beasts. This was the Prince’s stable.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    We spent that night at the court of Prince Matthew of Andover.
    The last time I had been his guest had been onmy journey south with Ezzard, after Peter called me back from Sanctuary. But we had met more recently, when he came to Winchester for the ball in Blodwen’s honor. I had had much flattery from him then.
    He was a stupid amiable man, with a thin dull face and scanty reddish hair. His chief concern, as far as one could see, was ceremony. The army of Andover might not do conspicuously well in battle, but no other city’s troops could match them in turnout and parade drill. The guard that saluted us at the gate wore a breastplate that he must have sat up all night polishing.
    The pigeons, I knew, would have brought news of what had happened in Winchester. People gathered in small knots as we rode through the streets, silent and curious. At the palace—not a large building but freshly painted in stripes of black and white—we dismounted, and I left Hans with the horses. I was admitted to Matthew’s council chamber, and he wasted no time in making the position clear.
    He remained seated as I crossed the room toward him. I bowed and said:
    â€œGreetings, sire.”
    He did not return the bow. With a stiff face, he said:
    â€œGreetings, Captain Perry.”
    But once he had established what we two were—himself a Prince and I a landless wanderer—he could permit some amiability to show again. He ordered a room to be prepared for me in the palace, and bade me join him that evening at his table. And I mustered the grace somehow to thank him for his hospitality.
    I told myself that I could spurn no possible ally, even this fool with his passion for putting things neatly in rows. At supper that night I talked of what had happened. This embarrassed him but he offered cold sympathy. I led him to the point I wished to make, putting it broadly enough to penetrate his narrow skull but delicately as befitted one who was no longer a royal cousin but a vagabond. The point was this: if one city could unmake its Prince and replace him by a council of Captains, others might do likewise.
    He took it but was not impressed. From stupidity again, I thought, and lack of imagination, but I misjudged him there. He said, with morecunning than I would have given him credit for:
    â€œWho proposed your deposition in that council? Harding. So at the