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wind continued to back; soon they would have it broad on the starboard beam.
    A young man, his curly black hair unspeckled with grey as yet, the Hebrian King had been five years on his throne. Five years which had seen the fall of Aekir, the imminent ruin of the west at the hands of the Merduk hordes and the schism of the holy Church of God. He was a heretic: when he died his soul would howl away the eons in the uttermost reaches of hell. He was as damned as any heathen Merduk, though he had done what he had done for the good of his country—indeed, for the good of the western kingdoms as a whole.
    Abeleyn was no simpleton, but the faith of his rigidly pious father had settled deep in his marrow and he felt the thin, cold fear of what he had done worming there. Not fear for his kingdom, or for the west. He would always do what was best for them and let no qualm of conscience tug at the hem of his cloak. No—fear for himself. He felt a sudden terror at the thought of his deathbed, the demons which would gather round the spent body to drag away his screaming spirit when the time came for him to quit the world at last…
    “Grim thoughts, sire?”
    Abeleyn turned, seeing again the bright swells of the Hebrian Sea, feeling the rhythm of the living ship under his feet. There was no one near him, but a tattered-looking gyrfalcon sat perched on the ship’s weather-rail regarding him with one yellow, inhuman eye.
    “Grim enough, Golophin.”
    “No regrets, I trust.”
    “None of any import.”
    “How is the lady Jemilla?”
    Abeleyn scowled. His mistress was pregnant, scheming, and very seasick. His early departure from the Conclave of Kings had meant that she could take ship with him back to Hebrion instead of finding her own way.
    “She is below, no doubt still puking.”
    “Good enough. It will occupy her mind wonderfully.”
    “Indeed. What news, old friend? Your bird looks more battered than ever. His errands are wearing him out.”
    “I know. I will grow a new one soon. For now, I can tell you that your fellow heretics are both well on their way back to their respective kingdoms. Mark is headed south, to cross the Malvennors in southern Astarac where they are passable. Lofantyr is in the Cimbrics, having a hard time of it, it seems. I fear it will be a bitter winter, sire.”
    “I could have told you that, Golophin.”
    “Perhaps. The Fimbrian marshals are made of sterner stuff. Their party is forcing the Narboskim passes of the Malvennors. They are waist deep already, but I think they will do it. They have no horses.”
    Abeleyn grunted. “The Fimbrians were never an equestrian people. Sometimes I think that is why they have never bred an aristocracy. They walk everywhere. Even their emperors tramped about the provinces as though they were infantrymen. What else? What news of home?”
    There was a pause. The bird preened one wing for several seconds before the old wizard’s voice issued eerily from its beak once more.
    “They burned six hundred today, lad. The Knights Militant have more or less purged Abrusio of the Dweomer-folk now. They are sending parties out into the surrounding fiefs to hunt for more.”
    Abeleyn went very still.
    “Who rules in Abrusio?”
    “The Presbyter Quirion, formerly Bishop of Fulk.”
    “And the lay leaders?”
    “Sastro di Carrera for one. The Sequeros, of course. Between them they have carved up the kingdom very nicely, with the Church in overall authority, naturally.”
    “And the diocesan bishops? I always thought Lembian of Feramuno was a reasonable man.”
    “A reasonable man, but still a cleric. No, lad: their faces are all set against you.”
    “What of the army, the fleet?”
    “Ah, there you have the bright spot. General Mercado has refused to put his men at the disposal of the council, as these usurpers style themselves. The tercios are confined to barracks, and Admiral Rovero has the fleet well in hand also. The Lower City of Abrusio, the barracks and the