Waylander sipped it and his eyes bulged.

'They call it Lentrian Fire,' commented Vanek.

'I can see why!'

'It makes for sweet dreams,' said Vanek, stretching out and resting his head on his arms. 'Wake me if they come back, will you?'

The Vagrians had retired out of bowshot and were massed together listening to their general. Waylander could not hear his words, but the gestures spoke most powerfully. He sat on a tall grey horse, his white cloak billowing in the afternoon breeze; his fist was being waved about extravagantly, and the men were cowed. Waylander scratched his chin and took a long swallow of Lentrian Fire.

What spell had the priest cast, he wondered, that could so demoralise such excellent fighting men? He glanced at the sky and raised the canteen to the clouds.

'Maybe you have some power after all,' he acknowledged.

He drank deeply and sat down abruptly, his head spinning. Then with great care he replaced the stopper in the canteen and laid it at his side.

Stupid, he told himself. The Vagrians would be back. He chuckled. Let Dardalion handle them! He took a deep breath and leaned his head against the cold stone. The sky was bright and clear, but dark shapes wheeled and dived over the fort.

'You can smell the death, can you?' said Waylander, and the raucous cries of the crows floated back to him on the wind. Waylander shivered. He had seen these birds feast before, tearing eyes from sockets and squabbling over juicy morsels from still-warm corpses. He transferred his gaze to the courtyard.

Men were working to clear away the bodies. The Vagrians were dumped outside the breach, while the Drenai dead were laid side by side against the northern wall with their cloaks over their faces. Twenty-two bodies were laid out. Waylander counted the remaining men. Only nineteen were in view – not enough to hold the fort against another charge. A shadow fell across him and he glanced up to see Jonat carrying a small bundle of his bolts.

'I thought you might need these,' said the under-officer. Waylander accepted them with a lopsided grin.

'Drink?' he asked.

'No. Thank you.'

'It's not water,' said Waylander.

'I know, I recognised Vanek's canteen! Dun Gellan would like to see you.'

'He knows where I am.'

Jonat squatted down and smiled grimly. 'I like you, Dakeyras. It would be unseemly if I had three men drag you into the Keep – unseemly and ridiculous.'

'True. Help me up.'

Waylander's legs were unsteady, but with an effort he walked alongside Jonat, through the main hall to a small room at the rear. Gellan was sitting on a pallet bed with quill in hand, completing his reports.

Jonat saluted and backed out of the door, pulling it closed behind him. For want of a better place, Waylander sat on the floor with his back to the wall.

'I was wrong,' said Gellan. 'You have changed.'

'We all change. It's part of the process of dying.'

'I think you know what I mean.'

'You tell me – it's your fort.'

'You're cold, Dak. We were friends once. Brothers. Yet out there you greeted me like a one-time acquaintance.'

'So?'

'So tell me what's happened to you.'

'If I want confession, I can find a temple. And besides, you have more important problems to consider. Like an army waiting to destroy you.'

'Very well,' said Gellan sadly, 'we might forget our past friendship. Tell me of your friend. What vast powers does he have – and from where does he come by them?'

'Damned if I know,' said Waylander. 'He is a Source priest. I stopped some men from torturing him to death, since when he has been a positive burden to me. But I have not seen any evidence of powers before today.'

'He could be valuable to us.'

'He certainly could. Why don't you talk to him?'

'I shall. Will you be coming to Skultik?'

'Probably. If we survive.'

'Yes, if we survive. Well, if you do, do not carry that crossbow.'

'It is a good weapon,' said Waylander.

'Yes, and very unusual. All officers have been told to watch for a man bearing such a weapon; it is said he killed the King.'

Waylander said nothing, but his dark eyes met Gellan's gaze and the assassin looked away. Gellan nodded. 'Go now, Dakeyras. I wish to speak to your friend.'

'Everything is not always as it seems,' said Waylander.

'I do not want to hear it. Go now.'

As Waylander left, the door opened and Dardalion entered. Gellan stood to receive him, offering his hand. The priest shook it. The clasp was firm, but not strong, thought Gellan.

'Sit down,' said Gellan, offering Dardalion the bed. 'Tell me about your friend.'

'Dakeyras or Danyal?'

'Dakeyras.'

'He rescued me … all of us. He has proved a fine friend.'

'Have you always known him as Dakeyras?'

'Of what concern is that to you, sir?'

'Then you did know him by another name?'

'I shall not divulge it to you.'

'I have already spoken to the children,' said Gellan.

'Then you do not need me to corroborate.'

'No. I knew Dakeyras once – or thought I did. A man of honour.'

'He has shown himself to be such a man over the last few days,' said Dardalion. 'Let that suffice.'

Gellan smiled and nodded. 'Perhaps. Tell me about yourself and the dread powers you showed today.'

'There is little I can tell you. I am … was … a priest of the Source. I have some powers of Travel and communication.'

'But what made the enemy run?'

'Fear,' said Dardalion simply.

'Of what?'

'Merely fear. My fear hurled into their minds.'

'Make me feel fear,' said Gellan.

'Why?'

'So that I may understand?'

'But I feel no fear at this time. I have nothing to use.'

'Will the enemy return? Can you tell me that?'

'I do not think that they will. There is a man among them – his name is Ceoris – who is urging them to attack, but they are afraid. Given time he will convince them, but within the hour your reinforcements will be here.'

'Who is coming?'

'A large man named Karnak. He has four hundred riders with him.'

'That is good news indeed. You are a useful man to know, Dardalion. What are your plans?'

'Plans? I have no plans. I have not thought …'

'We have priests in Skultik – more than two hundred. But they won't fight like you do – if they did, the Drenai could gain much. Using your powers, magnified a hundredfold, we could set entire Vagrian armies fleeing before us.'

'Yes,' said Dardalion wearily, 'but that is not the way of the Source. I became what I am from weakness. Were I as strong as so many of my brother priests I would have resisted – even as they do –such abuses of power. I cannot ask them to become what they loathe. The true power of the Source has always lain in the absence of power. Can you understand that?'

'I am not sure that I can.'

'It is like holding a spear to the chest of an enemy, then laying it aside. Even as he kills you – if such he does – he knows that he does not do it by his strength, but by your choice.'

'But – to continue with your analogy – you are still dead, yes?'

'Death is not important. You see, the Source priests believe that for life to exist there must be harmony created by balance. For every man who lives to steal or kill, there must be another who lives to give and save. Tidal love was the name they gave it at my temple; my Abbot used to teach it often. In a merchant's shop, the merchant gives you too many coins in change. You keep the coins, marvelling at your good fortune. But when you have gone he realises his mistake and is angry, both with himself and with you. So the next man who comes into the shop he cheats, to gain back his money. This man in turn realises later and he is angry, and perhaps takes out his anger on someone else. So the tide goes out, each wave affecting more and more people.