Chapter 12: The Ring

The priest sat before the great hearth wrapped in three blankets, and his hands were the color of candle wax.

He was an old man with a shaved head and a grey beard frozen stiff.

Two guards had carried him in from the gate, because his feet would not hold him.

Teodric stood at his shoulder.

Sigrun knelt on the other side with a bowl of hot broth, and she held it to his mouth until he could swallow.

Elior stood at the foot of the chair and did not know what to do with his hands.

"You walked the high pass," Teodric said.

"In winter."

"The main road is watched, Your Grace," the priest said.

His voice was a dry whisper.

"I did not dare."

"Why did you come?"

"Because the abbot gave me an order before he died.

"Ten days ago.

"He was eighty-one, and he could not make the journey himself."

The old eyes found Elior and held him.

"You are the prince Elior.

"You have your mother's hair."

"Yes," said Elior.

His mouth was dry.

"What does the abbot of Saint Maren want with me?"

The priest took a breath.

He fumbled under the blankets, and he drew out something wrapped in a scrap of oiled leather, and a folded paper tied with black cord.

He held out the paper first.

"This is the burial record of the Abbey of Saint Maren," he said.

"Under the seal of the abbot and the signatures of three witnesses.

"I would ask you to read it, Highness."

Elior took it.

His hands felt a long way off.

The writing was small and careful, in Savennian church script.

He read the first line, and then the second, and the room went very quiet around him.

On the night of the Battle of Halren Ford, the royal barge had capsized in the rout.

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