“Of course he understands. But he’s Druss - he’s not like you or me, surgeon.” The poet chuckled and threw another pebble. “He’s an old-fashioned hero. You don’t see many these days. He’ll find a way.”
Calvar cleared his throat. “Hmmm. Well, your old-fashioned hero is currently as strong as a three-day lamb. He is deep in a melancholic state, and until he recovers from it I cannot see him improving. Feed him red meat and dark green vegetables. He needs food for the blood.” He cleared his throat again, and stood silently.
“Was there something else?” asked the poet.
Calvar cursed inwardly. People were always the same. As soon as they were sick, they sent at speed for the doctor. But when it came to the time for settling accounts… No one expected a baker to part with bread without coin. Not so a surgeon. There is the question of my fee,” he said coldly.
“Ah, yes. How much is it?”
“Thirty raq.”
“Shema’s balls! No wonder you surgeons live in palaces.”
Calvar sighed, but kept his temper. “I do not live in a palace; I have a small house to the north. And the reason why surgeons must charge such fees is that a great number of patients renege. Your friend has been ill now for two months. During this time I have made more than thirty visits to this house, and I have had to purchase many expensive herbs. Three times now you have promised to settle the account. On each occasion you ask me how much is it. So you have the money?”
“No,” admitted Sieben.
“How much do you have?”
“Five raq.”
Calvar held out his hand and Sieben handed him the coins. “You have until this time next week to find the rest of the money. After that I shall I inform the Watch. In Mashrapur the law is simple: if you do not honour your debts your property will be sequestered. Since this house does not belong to you and, as far as I know, you have no source of income, you are likely to be imprisoned until sold as a slave. Until next week then.”
Calvar turned away and strode through the garden, his anger mounting.
Another bad debt. One day I really will go to the Watch, he promised himself. He strolled on through the narrow streets, his medicine bag swinging from his narrow shoulders.
“Doctor! Doctor!” came a woman’s voice and he swung to see a young woman running towards him. Sighing he waited. “Could you come with me? It’s my son, he has a fever.” Calvar looked down at the woman. Her dress was of poor quality, and old. She wore no shoes.
“And how will you pay me?” he asked, the question springing from the residue of his anger.
She stood silent for a moment. “You can take everything I have,” she said simply.
He shook his head, his anger finally disappearing. “That will not be necessary,” he told her, with a professional smile.
He arrived home a little after midnight. His servant had left him a cold meal of meat and cheese. Calvar stretched out on a leather-covered couch and sipped a goblet of wine.
Untying his money-pouch, he tipped the contents to the table. Three raq tumbled to the wooden surface. “You will never be rich, Calvar,” he said, with a wry smile.
He had sat with the boy while the mother was out buying food. She had returned with eggs, and meat, and milk, and bread, her face glowing. It was worth two raq just to see her expression, he thought.
Druss made his way slowly out into the garden. The moon was high, the stars bright. He remembered a poem of Sieben’s: Glitter dust in the lair of night. Yes, that’s how the stars looked. He was breathing heavily by the time he reached the circular seat constructed around the bole of the elm. Take a deep breath, the surgeon had ordered. Deep? If felt as if a huge lump of stone had been wedged into his lungs, blocking all air.
The crossbow bolt had pierced cleanly, but it had also driven a tiny portion of his shirt into the wound, and this had caused the poison that drained his strength.
The wind was cool, and bats circled above the trees. Strength. Druss realised now just how much he had undervalued the awesome power of his body. One small bolt and a hastily thrust knife had reduced him to this shambling, weak shell. How, in this state, could he rescue Rowena?
Despair struck him like a fist under the heart. Rescue her? He did not even know where she was, save that thousands of miles now separated them. No Ventrian ships sailed, and even if they did he had no gold with which to purchase passage.
He gazed back at the house where golden light gleamed from Sieben’s window. It was a fine house, better than any Druss had ever visited. Shadak had arranged for them to rent the property, the owner being trapped in Ventria. But the rent was due. The surgeon had told him it would be two months before his strength began to return.
We’ll starve before then, thought Druss. Levering himself to his feet, he walked on to the high wall at the rear of the garden. By the time he reached it his legs felt boneless, his breath was coming in ragged gasps. The house seemed an infinite distance away. Druss struck out for it, but had to stop by the pond and sit at the water’s edge. Splashing his face, he waited until his feeble strength returned, then rose and stumbled to the rear doors. The iron gate at the far end of the garden was lost in shadow now. He wanted to walk there once more, but his will was gone.
As he was about to enter the building he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He swung, ponderously, and a man moved from the shadows.
“Good to see you alive, lad,” said Old Thorn.
Druss smiled. “There is an ornate door-knocker at the front of the house,” he said.
“Didn’t know as I’d be welcome,” the old man replied.
Druss led the way into the house, turning left into the large meeting room with its four couches and six padded chairs. Thorn moved to the hearth, lighting a taper from the dying flames of the fire, then touching it to the wick of a lantern set on the wall. “Help yourself to a drink,” offered Druss. Old Thorn poured a goblet of red wine, then a second which he passed to the young man.
“You’ve lost a lot of weight, lad, and you look like an old man,” said Thorn cheerfully.
“I’ve felt better.”
“I see Shadak spoke up for you with the magistrates. No action to be taken over the fight at the quay. Good to have friends, eh? And don’t worry about Calvar Syn.”
“Why should I worry about him?”
“Unpaid debt. He could have you sold into slavery - but he won’t. Soft, he is.”
“I thought Sieben had paid him. I’ll not be beholden to any man.”
“Good words, lad. For good words and a copper farthing you can buy a loaf of bread.”
“I’ll get the money to pay him,” promised Druss.
“Of course you will, lad. The best way - in the sand circle. But we’ve got to get your strength up first. You need to work - though my tongue should turn black for saying it.”
“I need time,” said Druss.
“You’ve little time, lad. Borcha is looking for you. You took away his reputation and he says he’ll beat you to death when he finds you.”
“Does he indeed?” hissed Druss, his pale eyes gleaming.
“That’s more like it, my bonny lad! Anger, that’s what you need! Right, well I’ll leave you now. By the way, they’re felling trees to the west of the city, clearing the ground for some new buildings. They’re looking for workers. Two silver pennies a day. It ain’t much, but it’s work.”
“I’ll think on it.”
“I’ll leave you to your rest, lad. You look like you need it.”
Druss watched the old man leave, then walked out into the garden once more. His muscles ached, and his heart was beating to a ragged drum. But Borcha’s face was fixed before his mind’s eye and he forced himself to walk to the gate and back.
Three times….
Vintar rose from his bed, moving quietly so as not to wake the four priests who shared the small room in the southern wing. Dressing himself in a long white habit of rough wool, he padded barefoot along the cold stone of
the corridor and up the winding steps to the ancient battlements.
From here he could see the mountain range that separated Lentria from the lands of the Drenai. The moon was high, half full, the sky cloudless. Beyond the temple the trees of the forest shimmered in the spectral light.
“The night is a good time for meditation, my son,” said the Abbot, stepping from the shadows. “But you will need your strength for the day. You are falling behind in your sword work.” The Abbot was a broad-shouldered, powerful man who had once been a mercenary. His face bore a jagged scar from his right cheekbone down to his rugged jaw.
“I am not meditating, Father. I cannot stop thinking about the woman.”
“The one taken by slavers?”
“Yes. She haunts me.”
“You are here because your parents gave you into my custody, but you remain of your own free will. Should you desire to leave and find this girl you may do so. The Thirty will survive, Vintar.”
The young man sighed. “I do not wish to leave, Father. And it is not that I desire her.” He smiled wistfully. “I have never desired a woman. But there was something about her that I cannot shake from my thoughts.”
“Come with me, my boy. It is cold here, and I have a fire. We will talk.”
Vintar followed the burly Abbot into the western wing and the two men sat in the Abbot’s study as the sky paled towards dawn. “Sometimes,” said the Abbot, as he hung a copper kettle over the flames, “it is hard to define the will of the Source. I have known men who wished to travel to far lands. They prayed for guidance. Amazingly they found that the Source was guiding them to do just what they wished for. I say amazingly because, in my experience, the Source rarely sends a man where he wants to go. That is part of the sacrifice we make when we serve Him. I do not say it never happens, you understand, for that would be arrogance. No, but when one prays for guidance it should be with an open mind, all thoughts of one’s own desires put aside.”
The kettle began to hiss, clouds of vapour puffing from the curved spout. Shielding his hands with a cloth, the Abbot poured the water into a second pot, in which he had spooned dried herbs. Placing the kettle in the hearth, he sat back in an old leather chair.
“Now the Source very rarely speaks to us directly, and the question is: How do we know what is required? These matters are very complex. You chose to absent yourself from study, and soar across the Heavens. In doing so you rescued the spirit of a young girl and led her home to her abused body. Coincidence? I distrust coincidence. Therefore it is my belief, though I may be wrong, that the Source led you to her. And that is why she now haunts your mind. Your dealings with her are not yet concluded.”
“You think I should seek her out?”
“I do. Take yourself to the south wing library. There is a small cell beyond it. I will excuse you from all studies tomorrow.”
“But how shall I find her again, Lord Abbot? She was a slave. She could be anywhere.”
“Start with the man who was abusing her. You know his name - Collan. You know where he was planning to take her - Mashrapur. Let your spirit search begin there.”
The Abbot poured tea into two clay cups. The aroma was sweet and heady. “I am the least talented of all the priests,” said Vintar sorrowfully. “Surely it would be better to pray for the Source to send someone stronger?”
The Abbot chuckled. “It is so strange, my boy. Many people say they wish to serve the Lord of All Peace. But in an advisory capacity: ‘Ah, my God, you are most wondrous, having created all the planets and the stars. However, you are quite wrong to choose me. I know this, for I am Vintar, and I am weak.’”
“You mock me, father.”
“Of course I mock you. But I do so with at least a modicum of love in my heart. I was a soldier, a killer, a drunkard, a womaniser. How do you think I felt when He chose me to become a member of the Thirty? And when my brother priests stood facing death, can you imagine my despair at being told I was the one who must survive? I was to be the new Abbot. I was to gather the new Thirty. Oh Vintar, you have much to learn. Find this girl. I rather believe that in doing so you will find something for yourself.”
The young priest finished his tea and stood. “Thank you, Father, for your kindness.”
“You told me she has a husband who was searching for her,” said the Abbot.
“Yes. A man named Druss.”
“Perhaps he will still be in Mashrapur.”
An hour later, in the bright sky above the city, the spirit of the young priest hovered. From here, despite the distance that made the buildings and palaces seem tiny, like the building bricks of an infant, he could feel the pulsing heart of Mashrapur, like a beast upon wakening; ravenous, filled with greed and lust. Dark emotions radiated from the city, filling his thoughts and swamping the purity he fought so hard to maintain. He dropped closer, closer still.
Now he could see the dock-workers strolling to work, and the whores plying the early-morning trade and the merchants opening their shops and stalls.
Where to begin? He had no idea.
For hours he flew aimlessly, touching a mind here, a thought there, seeking knowledge of Collan, Rowena or Druss. He found nothing save greed, or want, hunger or dissipation, lust or, so rarely, love.
Tired and defeated, he was ready to return to the Temple when he felt a sudden pull on his spirit, as if a rope had attached itself to him. In panic he tried to pull away, but though he used all his strength he was drawn inexorably down into a room where all the windows had been barred. An elderly woman was sitting before a red lantern. She gazed up at him as he floated just below the ceiling.
“Ah, but you are a treat to these old eyes, my pretty,” she said. Suddenly shocked, Vintar realised that his form was naked and he clothed himself in an instant in robes of white. She gave a dry laugh. “And modest too.” The smile faded, and with it her good humour. “What are you doing here? Hmmm? This is my city, child.”
“I am a priest, lady,” he said. “I am seeking knowledge of a woman called Rowena, the wife of Druss, the slave of Collan.”
“Why?”
“My Abbot instructed me to find her. He believes the Source may want her protected.”
“By you?” Her good humour returned. “Boy, you can’t even protect yourself from an old witch. Were I to desire it, I could send your soul flaming into Hell.”
“Why would you desire such a terrible thing?”
She paused for a moment. “It might be a whim, or a fancy. What will you give me for your life?”
“I don’t have anything to give.”
“Of course you do,” she said. Her old eyes closed and he watched her spirit rise from her body. She took the form of a beautiful woman, young and shapely, with golden hair and large blue eyes. “Does this form please you?”
“Of course. It is flawless. Is that how you looked when younger?”
“No, I was always ugly. But this is how I choose for you to see me.” She glided in close to him and stroked his face. Her touch was warm, and he felt a ripple of arousal.
“Please do not continue,” he said.
“Why? Is it not pleasurable?” Her hand touched his robes and they disappeared.
“Yes, it is. Very. But my vows… do not allow for the pleasures of the flesh.”
“Silly boy,” she whispered into his ear. “We are not flesh. We are spirit.”
“No,” he said sternly. Instantly he transformed himself into the image of the old woman sitting at the table.
“Clever boy,” said the beautiful vision. “Yes, very clever. And virtuous too. I don’t know if I like that, but it does have the charm of being novel. Very well. I will help you.”
He felt the invisible chains holding him disappear, as did the vision. The old woman opened her eyes.
“She was at sea, heading for Ventria when the ship came under attack. She leapt into the water, and the sharks took her.”
Vintar reeled back and cried out, “It’s my fault! I should have sought
her sooner.”
“Go back to your Temple, boy. My time is precious, and I have clients waiting.”
Her laughter rang out and she waved her hand dismissively. Once more he felt the pull on his spirit. It dragged him out, hurling him high into the sky over Mashrapur.
Vintar returned to the tiny cell at the Temple, merging once more with his body. As always he felt nauseous and dizzy and lay still for a few moments, experiencing the weight of his flesh, feeling the rough blanket beneath his skin. A great sadness fell upon him. His talents were far beyond those of normal men, yet they had brought him no pleasure. His parents had treated him with cold reverence, frightened by his uncanny skills. They had been both delighted and relieved when the Abbot came to them one autumn evening, offering to take the boy into his custody. It mattered nothing to them that the Abbot represented a Temple of the Thirty, where men with awesome talents trained and studied with one purpose only - to die in some battle, some distant war, and thus become one with the Source. The prospect of his death could not grieve his parents, for they had never treated him as a human being, flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood. They saw him as a changeling, a demonic presence. He had no friends. Who wants to be around a boy who can read minds, who can peek into the darkest corners of your soul and know all your secrets? Even in the Temple he was alone, unable to share in the simple camaraderie of others with talents the equal of his.
And now he had missed an opportunity to help a young woman, indeed to save her life.
He sat up and sighed. The old woman had been a witch, and he had felt the malevolence of her personality. Even so the vision she created had aroused him. He could not even withstand such a petty evil.
And then the thought struck him, like a blow between the eyes. Evil! Malice and deceit walked hand in hand beneath the darkness of evil. Perhaps she lied!
He lay back and forced his mind to relax, loosening the spirit once more. Soaring from the Temple, he sped across the ocean, seeking the ship and praying that he was not too late.
Clouds were gathering in the east, promising a storm. Vintar swooped low over the water, spirit eyes scanning the horizon.
The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6 Page 13