“Then take them from here and see them destroyed. When first you gave them to me I felt their evil. I hoped that you would become free of the dark power. I watched you suffer, and I took pride in the strength you showed. But I could not discard them, or sell them as you suggested. It would have been like loosing a plague on a troubled world. They are yours, Skilgannon. Take them. Take them far from here.”
Laying the bundle on a nearby table, Skilgannon loosed the thongs that bound it and lifted clear the blanket. Lying there were the Swords of Night and Day. Sunlight from the window gleamed on the carved ivory handles, and glinted upon the single polished black haft. Taking hold of the silver-edged baldric connecting both ends of the haft he swung the weapons to his back. There was something else in the bundle, a bulging leather pouch. He hefted it.
“There are twenty-eight golden Raq in that pouch,” said Cethelin. “All that remains of the money from the stallion I sold for you. The rest was used to purchase food for the poor during the drought year.”
“Did you know who I was when I came here, Elder Brother?”
“Yes.”
“Why then did you let me stay?”
“No man is beyond redemption. Even the Damned. It is our duty to love the unlovable, and by so doing open their hearts to the Source. Do I regret it? Yes. Would I do it again? Yes. You recall I asked you if you would grant me a favor? Do you still hold to that?”
“Of course.”
“I am sending Braygan to Mellicane with a message for the elders. Go with him and see him safely into their charge.”
“Braygan is a pure soul. Do you not think he might be corrupted by my evil?”
“Perhaps. Yes, he is pure and unsullied. He is also untried and understands little of the harshness of this world. If he can walk with you to Mellicane and remain pure then he will be a better priest for it. If he cannot then he should seek a future outside of the church. Farewell Skilgannon.”
“I preferred it when you called me Brother Lantern.”
“Brother Lantern died outside these walls, Skilgannon. He fled when the blood flowed. One day he may return. I will pray for that day. Go now. The sight of you offends me.”
Skilgannon said no more. Turning away from the old priest, he moved to the door and stepped outside. Naslyn was waiting. Reaching out he gripped Skilgannon’s arm. “I thank you, Brother,” he said.
“For your life?”
“For giving me the courage to stay.” Naslyn sighed. “I am no philosopher. Maybe Cethelin is right. Maybe we should just offer our love to the world and let the world rip our hearts out. I have no answers, man. But given the choice between having Cethelin in this world, or that foul baker, Antol, I know which I’d choose.” He looked Skilgannon in the eye. “You are a brave man, and I respect you. Where will you go?”
“First to Mellicane. After that? I do not know.”
“May the Source be with you, wherever you journey.”
“He and I are not on speaking terms, I fear. Take care, Naslyn.”
5
* * *
Rabalyn lay very still, knowing that if he moved the dragon would see him. He could feel the fire of its breath on his arm, his chest, and on the left side of his face. The pain was searing. The youth did not look at the dragon. He lay with his eyes closed, using all his strength not to cry out. His body began to shake. The dragon’s fire ceased, and then a terrible cold settled over him. He knew then that the dragon had been replaced by a Frost Demon. Aunt Athyla had spoken of such creatures in the far north. They would creep close to homes and chill the bones of the sick and weak. If anything, the cold was worse than the dragon’s heat. It ate into his flesh.
Rabalyn struggled to his knees and opened his eyes. He was in a small hollow, surrounded by trees and bushes. Weak sunlight was filtering through the branches overhead. His hand touched a thick fallen branch. He grabbed it and wielded it like a club, then looked around for the Frost Demon. Sweat was dripping into his eyes.
There was no demon. No dragon. His throat was awfully dry, and his arms and face prickled with pain.
“Dreaming,” he said, aloud. The trembling grew worse. His naked body was soaked with sweat and dew and the light breeze blowing through the woods felt like a winter blizzard. Rabalyn rose on unsteady legs and made it to a thick bush. Crouching down he groaned as fresh pain flared from his thigh. He glanced down and saw that the skin was puckered and raw. He lay down. It seemed warmer here, and, for a few moments, he felt almost normal. The warmth grew. And grew. Sweat bathed his features and dripped from his face.
He saw again the knife slam into Todhe’s neck, and Aunt Athyla’s body lying before the burning house.
The dragon returned. This time Rabalyn looked at it, uncaring and unafraid. Its body was golden and scaled, its head long and flat. The fire that burned Rabalyn did not come from its mouth, but from its eyes. So bright they were that it pained the youth to look upon them. “Go away,” he whispered. “Leave me be.”
“He is delirious,” said the dragon.
“The burns are festering,” said another voice.
Rabalyn drifted into strange dreams. He was floating upon a clear lake. The water was cool upon his skin, save for where the sun beat down on his face and arm. He tried to lower himself further into the cold liquid, but it was impossible. Aunt Athyla was there, sitting in an old chair. He realized then that he was not in a lake at all, but in a shallow bath. “Where have you been, child?” asked Aunt Athyla. “It is very late.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt. I don’t know where I’ve been.”
“Do you think he will die?” someone asked Aunt Athyla.
Rabalyn could not see the speaker. Aunt Athyla did not answer. She was unraveling a ball of wool. Only it wasn’t wool. It was fire. A ball of fire. “I shall make you a cloak,” she said. “It will keep you warm in the winter.”
“I don’t want it,” he said.
“Nonsense. It will be a lovely cloak. Here, feel the wool.”
She rubbed the fire against his face and he screamed.
Darkness swamped him. When the light came again he found himself looking at the strangest sight. A man was kneeling over him, but floating above the man’s shoulders were two curious faces. One was dark, with wide, slanted golden eyes, like a wolf, the other was pale, the mouth a long gash filled with pointed teeth. The eyes were slitted, like those of a cat. Both faces shimmered, as if shaped from woodsmoke. The man seemed oblivious to the smoke creatures. “Can you hear me, Rabalyn?” he asked.
The face was familiar, but he could not place it in his memory, and drifted off into more dreams.
When at last he awoke the pain from his burns was more bearable. He was lying on the ground, a blanket covering him. There was a bandage over his left arm. Rabalyn groaned. Immediately a man came and knelt beside him. He recognized him as one of the priests.
“I know you,” he said.
“I am Brother Braygan,” said the man, helping Rabalyn to sit and offering him a drink of water. Rabalyn took the copper cup and drained it. “How did you come by these burns?”
“Todhe set fire to my aunt’s house.”
“I am sorry. Is your aunt all right?”
“No. She died.”
Another figure moved alongside. At first Rabalyn failed to recognize him. He was wearing a fringed jacket, and his arms were bare. A black spider had been tattooed upon his left forearm. Rabalyn looked into the man’s pale eyes. He realized it was the priest, Brother Lantern. “They are hunting you, boy,” said Lantern. “You cannot go back to the town.”
“I know. I killed Todhe. I wish I hadn’t.”
“He’ll have to come with us,” said Brother Braygan.
“What will he do in Mellicane?” snapped Lantern. “Become a beggar on the streets?”
“My mother and father are there,” said Rabalyn. “I shall find them.”
“There, that is settled then,” said Braygan. “You rest for now. I have applied herbal poultices to
the burns on your legs and arms. They will be painful for a while, but they will heal, I think.”
Rabalyn drifted off to sleep—and slowly sank into a lake of dreams. When he awoke it was dark. The dreams drifted away like mist on the breeze.
Save for one. He remembered a terrible ax, and a man with eyes the color of a winter sky. Rabalyn shivered at the memory.
In the morning Brother Lantern had taken a spare shirt and breeches from his pack and given them to Rabalyn. The shirt was of a soft cloth Rabalyn had never seen before. There was a sheen to it that caught the light. It was pale blue, and upon the breast was a small snake, embroidered in gold thread. It was coiled and ready to strike. “My burns will stain the cloth,” said Rabalyn. “I don’t want to ruin such a fine shirt.”
“It is just an item of clothing,” said Lantern, dismissively. The breeches were of a thin, black leather, and too long for the youth. Braygan knelt at his feet, folding the leather up and over Rabalyn’s ankles. From his own pack Braygan took a pair of sandals. Rabalyn tied them on. They were an almost perfect fit.
“There, that should suffice,” said Braygan. “You look like a young nobleman.”
The next few days proved difficult for Rabalyn. The burns did not heal swiftly, the flesh puckering and splitting. Even the new skin, when it formed, was tight and easily broken. The pain was constant. He tried not to complain, for he realized that the tall warrior, who had been Brother Lantern, did not want him around. The man rarely spoke to him. On the other hand he didn’t speak much to Brother Braygan either. He just strode on ahead, sometimes disappearing from view. Whenever they passed through areas of hills he would run up the tallest slope and study their back trail.
On the morning of the fourth day the warrior—as Rabalyn had come to think of him—ushered them off the road and into thick undergrowth. There they crouched behind a screen of bushes as five horsemen came into sight, riding hard. Rabalyn recognized the lean figure of Seregas, the captain of the Watch.
After the horsemen had passed, Rabalyn felt close to tears. His wounds were painful. He was traveling with strangers, one of whom did not like him, and the officers of the Watch were still hunting him. What if they followed him all the way to Mellicane, and reported him as a murderer?
The warrior led them deeper into the woods to the left of the trail, and for most of the day they traveled over rough country. By evening Rabalyn was exhausted. The warrior found a hidden hollow and lit a small fire. Rabalyn did not sit too close to it. His wounds could not tolerate heat.
Brother Braygan brought him a bowl of broth. “Are you feeling a little better?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You are sad because of your aunt. I see it in your eyes.”
Rabalyn felt ashamed. He had been more concerned with his own plight, and guilt at his selfishness bore down on him. “She was a good woman,” he said, unwilling to lie outright.
The warrior had vanished into the night, and Rabalyn felt more comfortable in his absence.
“I wish he’d just go away,” he said, aloud.
“Who?” asked Braygan. Rabalyn was immediately embarrassed. He had not meant to voice the thought.
“Brother Lantern. He frightens me.”
“He will do you no harm, Rabalyn. Lantern is a . . . good man.”
“What happened back at the church? Did the mob go there?”
“Yes.”
“Did they burn everything?”
“They burned nothing, Rabalyn. Tell me about your parents. Do you know where they live now?”
Rabalyn shook his head. “Don’t suppose they’ll want me around. They left me and my sister with Aunt Athyla years ago. They never sent word or anything. They don’t even know Lesha is dead. Truth is they’re both worthless.”
Now it was Braygan who looked uncomfortable. “Never say that, my friend. We all have weaknesses. No one is perfect. You must learn to forgive.”
Rabalyn did not respond. Aunt Athyla had never spoken badly of his parents, but as he grew older he heard stories. His father had been a lazy man, twice dismissed and once jailed for a year for stealing from his employers. He was also a drunkard, and Rabalyn’s one clear memory of him was seeing him strike his mother in the face after a row. She had been hurled back against a wall, half stunned. Rabalyn had been six years old at the time, and he had run to his mother, in tears. That was when his father kicked him. “How is a man supposed to make something of himself?” his father had shouted. “Bad enough trying to earn enough to get by, without having to feed and clothe ungrateful brats.”
Rabalyn hated weakness. And he had never understood why his mother had deserted her children to go off with a man so lacking in virtue. He had only told the priests about his parents being in Mellicane so that they would not leave him to his fate. He had no intention of seeking them out. Let them rot wherever they are, he thought.
Braygan moved to the small fire and added several dry sticks. “So what happened when the mob went to the church?” asked Rabalyn.
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Why?”
“It was ugly, Rabalyn. Horrible.”
The priest’s face showed his sorrow, and Rabalyn watched him sitting quietly and staring into the fire. “Is Jesper all right?” asked the boy.
“Jesper?”
“Kalia’s dog.”
“Oh yes, the dog is fine. Abbot Cethelin is looking after him.”
“Why is Brother Lantern not dressed like a priest?”
“He has left the order. Like me he is . . . was . . . an acolyte. He had not taken his final vows. Would you like something to eat?”
“I’d like to know what happened at the church,” said Rabalyn. “What was so horrible?”
Braygan sighed. “Men died, Rabalyn. The abbot was stabbed.”
“Brother Lantern stopped them, didn’t he?”
Braygan glanced at the boy. “How would you know that?”
“I don’t know it. Just guessed really. I saw him knock over that Arbiter attacking you. He didn’t seem afraid. Then he just ordered the crowd to carry the Arbiter into the tavern. I guessed he’d do the same if the mob came to the church. Who did he kill?”
“As I said, I do not want to talk about it. Perhaps you should ask Lantern when he returns.”
“He won’t talk about it. And he doesn’t like me.”
Braygan smiled sheepishly. “He doesn’t like me much either.”
“Then why are you traveling together?”
“The abbot asked him to see me safely to Mellicane.”
“What will you do when you get there?”
“Deliver letters to the church elders, and then take my vows before the bishop.”
“Is it a long way?”
“Just over a hundred and fifty miles. Lantern thinks the journey will take another twelve, perhaps fifteen days.”
“What about the war? Will we see soldiers?”
“I do hope not,” said Braygan, suddenly fearful. “There are several settlements between here and the capital. We will purchase provisions from them and keep away from the major roads.”
“Have you ever been to the capital?”
“No. Never”
“Kalia has. She said they have huge beasts there, who fight in the Arena. And Kellias the Pedlar told us that some of them were going to be fighting in the war. He said they were called Joinings, and that the king had promised an army of them to fight off our evil enemies.”
“I do not like to speak of such things,” said Braygan, attempting a stern tone, and failing miserably.
“I’d like to see one,” added Rabalyn.
“Be careful of what you wish for, boy,” said Lantern, silently emerging from the trees. “The Joinings are a curse, and anyone who seeks to use them is a fool.”
On the morning of the sixth day, tired and hungry, their provisions almost exhausted, they arrived at a way station just outside a small village nestling in the hills. Skilgannon scanned
the area. There were three wooden structures and a corral containing no horses. Smoke was drifting lazily from the chimney of the largest building. Beyond the way station there was no sign of movement in the village, save for a fox that darted across the main street, disappearing into an alley.
Skilgannon told Rabalyn and Braygan to wait at the edge of the trees, then strode down to the corral. As he approached it a burly man appeared from the main building. He was tall and round shouldered, his hair close-cropped, but his brown beard thick and shaggy.
“Good morning to you,” he said.
“And to you. Where are your horses?”
“Soldiers took them. The station is closed until further notice.”
Skilgannon glanced toward the silent village. “All gone,” said the man. “The Datians are less than a day from here. So people grabbed what they could and fled.”
“But not you.”
The man shrugged. “Nowhere to go, son. This is my home. There’s still food left, so if you and your friends want breakfast you are welcome.”
“That is kind of you.”
“Glad to have the company, tell you the truth. My name is Seth,” he said, stepping forward and extending his hand. Skilgannon shook it. Seth glanced down at the spider tattoo. “There’s men looking for you,” he added. “They were here yesterday. Big reward, they said.”
“Huge,” agreed Skilgannon.
“Best you don’t stay too long then,” said Seth, with a grin. “Expect they’ll be back.” Then he turned and walked back into the way station.
Skilgannon summoned the others. The main area inside the station was taken up by a storage area, now empty, but several tables and a dozen chairs had been set by the western wall. Seth seated them, then wandered away to the kitchen. Skilgannon rose and followed him. The big man took up a frying pan and placed it atop a large stove. Wrapping a cloth around his hand he pulled clear the iron cover and moved the pan to the flames. Then from the larder he took a large chunk of smoked ham, and carved eight slices. As they were placed in the pan they began to sizzle. Skilgannon’s stomach tightened as the smell of frying bacon filled the air.
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