The Sword of the Spirits by John Christopher Page A

outset he speaks for the others. It is a council of Captains but one man is its voice. How long before he has a Prince’s power, and once he has that will he not take the name?”
    It was something that had occurred to me also. Blaine would fight him to the end, but Blaine was no match for him in craft. Nor would Blaine’s arming of the Wilsh be soon forgotten.
    I said: “This may be. But if such a pretext can be used once it can be used again. It sets the authority of Captains above that of Prince.”
    â€œI do not think so, Perry.” My own name was an insult. He smiled complacently. “I am safe from challenge from my Captains.”
    â€œAs short a time since as yesterday morning, I thought the same.”
    Impatience and anger had sharpened my voice. He frowned at that. There were tones to use to Princes, and this was not among them. His own voice turned hard.
    â€œBut I am not likely to lose my head over a wench,” he said.
    He stared at me, weak blue eyes narrowed in a spite that must always have lain hidden behind the flattery he showed me at my court.
    â€œNor burn harvest crops. Nor call a dwarf warrior, offending warriors of true human stock. Nor take another Prince’s city as my own.”
    He watched me. Anger burned my mind, forging bitter words to answer him. But I held them back. I had offended him already. Offending him further might well be enough to earn me a place in his cells. And once in them, the Great alone knew when I would be freed.
    So I said: “You are right, sire. I am punished for my faults.”
    His smile returned. He clapped his hands and a polymuf brought another dish to the table.
    â€œTry this meat, Perry. We have done well for boar this year.”
    I was shivering. “I am not hungry, sire.”
    Matthew leaned forward. “But I would have you eat.”
    There was no ally here but a Prince I must obey. I took meat and forced myself to eat it.
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    Tired though I was I had little sleep that night. My thoughts were baying hounds that leaped round me, their stricken prey, savage and merciless. I tried to kill them, but from each blow they rose and gave louder tongue. And the hounds wore mocking faces: Harding, Blaine, Greene. Most of all, Edmund and Blodwen. They laughed at me and at each other; but the first was the laughter of scorn, the second of joy and desire.
    And with this I sweated and shivered. In the morning my limbs were heavy and my head ached with a pain that throbbed behind my eyes. The shivering would not stop. Matthew noticed it when I went to pay my respects on departure. He asked:
    â€œAre you well, Perry?”
    â€œWell enough, sire.”
    â€œYou do not look well. You are welcome to stay longer, and I can have my surgeon sent to you. Or at least one of his assistants.”
    I gritted my teeth. My need to be clear of this man and his court put aside for a moment my other thoughts of hatred and revenge. I said:
    â€œI am very well, sire. I will not trespass further on your kindness.”
    Hans when he saw me was alarmed. He too urged me to stay in Andover, at an inn if not at the palace. We had enough gold to pay for a lodging. But I would not listen to him; I had to be out in the open.
    He said: “Do we make for Salisbury now, sire?”
    We had gone north, out of our direct way, to avoid Romsey land. I did not know what resentments lingered there and might be exercised against one who had conquered them as Prince but now was powerless.
    â€œWe ride that way,” I said, “but we will not enter the city.” He looked at me. “While I lack power I will stay away from cities.”
    â€œAnd in Sanctuary the Spirits will give you power?”
    My head was light and heavy at the same time. I laughed.
    â€œIf they do not, I think no one else will!”
    We were riding down the main street that led from the palace. Three black-robed figures walked the