He thought of the others, Philippe, in Derden, taking to his training as a healer as if born to it, Breta and Mongoose accompanying the Halvekans to their homeland where a shared outlook on life would, he was sure, await them. The four with him sat quietly as he scanned the village, his eyes lighting on a boy and girl, not as small as he remembered them, as a slender woman ushered them into a mill, rebuilt similar but not identical to the one in his memory. As they chased each other inside, the children dodged around a broad-shouldered man carrying a grain sack on his shoulder as easily as if it were filled with feathers. A fierce yearning, too long buried, surged within him.
Brann smiled at Valdis, the happiness filling him as it did each time he saw her at his side. ‘Ready to meet the family?’
‘Absolutely! Lead on, I’m starving!’ came Marlo’s voice from behind. He still sat awkwardly on his horse, but his wounds had healed enough to see him through the sea voyages to and from Halveka and, having managed that, he had been determined not to miss this final journey.
Brann was glad, the chance to watch over his friend’s recuperation as important to him as the cheer the boy had somehow never let escape him.
Gerens shook his head in despair at Marlo, but Sophaya struck the back of his head with an admonishing slap. Brann laughed and Valdis laughed with him, lifting his heart higher. The girl slid smoothly from her horse and reached to untwist a strap on the saddle to stop it irritating the animal. She caught Brann looking at her and winked.
Unbidden, the memory of a wink in a creased and weathered face in the yard behind an inn slipped into his head. A wink and a gravelly voice. When you don’t know if there is something or nothing awaiting you in death, it puts a little warmth in an old heart to know you have left something of you in those who come after.
He wiped a sleeve across his eyes. Gerens moved his horse alongside him, his voice unusually soft. ‘Cannick or Ossavian?’
Brann shrugged. ‘Either. Both.’ He looked at his friend. ‘Mostly Cannick.’ At saying the name, his throat caught and he had to fight to control the rising surge of emotion. He stared down at his horse’s neck, feeling his face flush.
Gerens stare was as level as his tone. ‘We all die. We just hope it is with dignity, and remembered.’
Brann grunted. ‘And not too soon.’
Gerens looked into the distance. ‘You will always find something yet undone or still to be seen that will render it too soon.’
‘You know what I mean.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I will miss them. Him especially.’
The dark eyes turned once more on Brann. ‘We all want to be missed. They would be glad to know that they are.’
Brann nodded and grinned suddenly. ‘Mind you, it would be good to hear the good things people feel for you occasionally without having to die first.’
‘You want me to tell you I love you, chief?’ He was frowning, but the ghost of a smile drifted across one corner of his mouth.
A small stone flickered past Brann and bounced off Gerens’s shoulder. ‘Save that for Sophaya, big boy,’ Valdis scolded him, climbing back into her saddle. ‘This one’s mine.’
Gerens turned the cold fire of his eyes upon her. ‘That’s a relief.’
Brann laughed. ‘Enough chat. Let us take our memories to those who will treasure them anew.’ He glanced at Marlo. ‘And our hunger to those who will feed it.’
He pulled the black cloak around him, fingering the repaired tear near the hem, nodded quietly to the spot twelve paces away, and nudged his horse towards his home.
****
She sat beside him, sipping from her goblet of water. He held his, not drinking, his eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the balcony.
Her sand-dry voice broke the silence. ‘So he was indeed the one.’
He nodded. ‘He was. Your seeds of destiny flowered.’
‘And you feel vindicated for the horrors you set upon him?’
He frowned. What a stupid question. ‘Had I not, he would be dead.’
She sat quietly, declining to answer. He snorted in irritation. The silence was more of a rebuke than any angry words.
‘You are angry that your plans did not come to fruition? That the ruler still rules? That you still sit here?’
He shrugged, spilling a little of his water on his robe. It did not matter; the heat would dry it before he had finished speaking. ‘A danger arose in the enacting of the last plan, a danger of such gravity that it became the focus of everything. Current plans often need to be altered. Former plans can be made anew.’
‘Nevertheless, he is still in power.’
‘Weakened power. He left the city without a garrison. No Emperor before has failed the city in that way. No Emperor should. Many know that.’ He snorted once more. ‘Weakened power in one who sees what suits his purpose, rather than building his purpose upon what he sees to be true. Where there was dire threat to the foundations of civilisation, to the order of the Empire and beyond, he sees a rebellion crushed by a loyal vassal king and the heroic death of a Source of Information who brought warning to that king.’ He looked at her, a fierceness in his eyes harking back to a time of power wielded. ‘A ruler who is led by what he wants to hear is a ruler ruled. Such opportunity attracts ambition from many quarters, ambition in the form of many voices, each vying to be the one heard and trusted. Tie many boats to a single mooring post and when a storm comes, the post becomes a shattered shard. We will wait for our time, plan for our time, act at that time.’
‘And will that action choose to involve the same instrument of fate as this past one?’
He looked at her. ‘Why should it?’
‘Because,’ she said, ‘there is a fourth prophecy.’
He dropped his goblet.
‘It says what?’
‘It says nothing, yet. It has yet to be uttered. But we know it will come. And with it, the child of this particular destiny.’
‘Woman!’ he spat. ‘Why must you always speak in riddles and half-truths?’
But he would have her no other way. And his mind was already starting to plan.
She smiled.
Epilogue
The storyteller swept in a circle as he uttered the final words, savouring the silence of the moment before the applause. Then savouring the applause still more, he pulled his hood to shroud his face in shadow and swept without another word up the steps between the villagers risen to their feet in appreciation. It was always good to carry a final sense of mystery and drama as you left, to be remembered for your return.
His horse was waiting, as requested, saddled and with his payment and fresh food in his saddlebags. The dawn sun was rising and bringing with it the delicate first light of day, and as he paused to rest his eyes on the soothing colours of nature, his attention caught the mounted figures sitting silently at the top of the hill. His hand strayed to the sword hanging on his saddle but his shout of alarm stilled in his throat. There was a familiarity about the figures.
He smiled.
He had kicked the horse into motion before his feet were even in the stirrups, and urged it into a canter up the slope. As he drew up before them, he threw back his hood, revealing the smile that had become a grin and the intricate symbols covering his scalp.
The man on the horse at the front, much the same as he remembered as if the intervening years had never passed, laughed in delight. ‘Grakk of Khardorul, you are a hard man to find. It has been too long, my friend.’
Grakk scowled with mock anger. ‘Then you seek as poorly as you fight, Brann of the Arena.’ He looked fondly at the faces at Brann’s back, also as familiar to his eyes as if he had supped with them the night before. One was unexpected. Valdis winked at him, as if to say that Brann would not gallivant this time without her. He looked back at the boy, now grown to man. ‘But the reason for your seeking?’
Brann looked at him with the same good humour in his eyes as ever. ‘We have been summoned, would you believe.’
‘You mean you have been s
ummoned.’
Brann shrugged. But Grakk noticed he did not deny it. Brann did, however, grin mischievously. ‘Do you think you might be ready for another adventure?’
Grakk smiled. ‘Always.’
Acknowledgements
And so I find myself somewhere in my ‘real’ life that, not so long ago, seemed as imaginary as were the trials, tribulations and adventures that awaited Brann and his companions: I am at the end of the Seeds of Destiny trilogy. It worked out differently from the story I had envisaged when I wrote the first words of the first draft of Hero Born, but then all of my stories evolve and change as they are written, so there is no surprise in that. However, Hero Risen would not have worked out at all if it were not for certain significant and crucial people, and it is with gratitude that goes beyond the written word that I acknowledge them – well, with gratitude and the fear that, should their huge, vital and indispensable contributions go unmentioned, I would deserve to be hunted down by someone with the cold tenacity and colder brutality of Gerens. And we all know that Gerens is far better as a friend than an enemy.
And therefore, I extend my warmest and most wholehearted thanks to…
My wife, Valerie, who I have previously described as my confidence and my reality check, my rock and my refuge, and this remains as true as ever, though I would add to that my inspiration and my energy; and my family, Martyn, Johnny, Melissa, Nicky, Adam and Nathan, and the still-younger ones – Joshua, Riah, Jayden, Ashton and Clayton – who continue to encourage me, make me laugh, fill me with wonder and, most importantly, keep me rooted in the important parts of life.
My parents, Ian and Diane, and my brother, Gordon, whose enthusiasm for my writing keeps my spirits high when pressure weighs heavy and, not least, for being my chief publicists; and my parents-in-law, Frank and Nan, whose relationship with me is a such a vital part of my life and, as with my own parents, whose relationship with each other is an inspiration.
My first-two-chapter-testers, Claire and Melissa, whose opinions are so critical and whose enthusiasm for the stories and the characters is appreciated and humbling in equal measure.
And, of course, to those professionals, skilled beyond my understanding, who made it all possible: Lily Cooper, Richenda Todd and Janette Currie, who edited with keen eyes and deft ‘red pens’ that showed not just technical skill in their craft but a feel and a care for the characters and the story; Ben Gardiner, whose evocative cover design was yet again classy and just right for this book while at the same time maintaining the distinctive style of the previous covers in the series; Anne-Janine Nugent, who had the unenviable task of making me look more human than wooden in my publicity photos, and found the talent to somehow achieve it; everyone at HarperVoyager whose work goes unseen by me but is no less appreciated for it; and, of course, Natasha Bardon, who oversees all with a personal touch and who, when Hero Born was just a submission and a dream, saw something in it and launched me on the path that has brought me to this point.
And, of course, the readers: those who have bought each book and enjoyed it enough to move onto the next. A story can only be told if there is someone to tell it to, and a writing a book without readers is like crafting a ship in the desert. Thank you for allowing me to sail my ship on waters that continue to be a glorious wonder to me.
About the Author
Andy Livingstone was born on New Year’s Day in 1968 and grew up with an enthusiastic passion for sport (particularly football) and reading. An asthmatic childhood meant that he spent more time participating in the latter than the former and an early childhood encounter with The Hobbit awakened a love of epic and heroic fantasy that has never let him go. He is a press officer and former journalist and lives in Lanarkshire, Scotland, with his wife, Valerie, and two teenage sons, Adam and Nathan. He also has four adult stepchildren, Martyn, Jonathon, Melissa and Nicolas, and four grand-bundles-of-energy: Joshua, Riah, Jayden and Ashton. He can be found on Twitter @markethaven and at his website, www.andylivingstone.com
Also By Andy Livingstone
Hero Born
Hero Grown
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Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3) Page 51