‘No.’

‘You are welcome to share our house. It isn't much, but it is comfortable – if you don't mind children.'

'Thank you, Tacia, but I am not sure I am staying in Skarta.'

'Where else is there to go? Purdol is ready to fall, I hear, despite the promises from Karnak and Egel. They must think we are stupid. No one is going to resist the Vagrians for long … look how swiftly they have conquered the country.'

Danyal said nothing, knowing she had no antidote to the woman's despair.

'Do you have a man?' asked Tacia.

Danyal thought instantly of Waylander, then shook her head.

'You are lucky,' said the woman. 'We fall in love with men, they fall in love with soft skin and bright eyes. I really loved him, you know. I would not have minded had he slept with her now and again. But why did he have to leave me for her?'

'I am sorry. I do not know what to say.'

'No. You'll know one day though, when that pretty red hair of yours streaks with grey and your skin gets hard. I wish I was young again. I wish I had pretty red hair and did not know how to answer an old woman.'

'You are not old.'

Tacia stood and laid the clothes on the chair. 'When you are ready, come next door. I have some supper prepared – vegetables only, I'm afraid, but we still have some spices to give it flavour.'

Danyal watched the woman leave, then poured soap into her hair and scrubbed away the dirt and grease. At last she stood and dried herself before a bronzed mirror at the far end of the room.

Somehow the sight of her beauty failed to lift her as it usually did.

Dardalion wandered to the outskirts of the town, crossing a curved stone bridge over a narrow stream. The trees were thinner here – elm and birch, slender and graceful compared with the giant oaks of the forest. Flowers bloomed by the stream, bluebells seeming to float above the ground like a sapphire mist. There was tranquillity here, thought Dardalion. Harmony.

The tents of the priests were spread in a meadow in an orderly circle. Nearby was a fresh graveyard, the mounds carpeted with flowers.

Uncomfortable in his armour, Dardalion walked into the meadow and watched the eyes of the priests turn towards him. A mixture of emotions stuck him forcefully: anguish, pain, disappointment, elation, pride, despair. He absorbed them, as he absorbed the mind-faces of those who projected the feelings, and he responded with love born of sorrow.

As he came near the priests gathered around him silently, leaving a path to the tent at the centre of the circle. When he approached an elderly man stepped from the tent and bowed deeply. Dardalion fell to his knees before the Abbot and bowed his head.

'Welcome, brother Dardalion,' said the old man softly.

'Thank you, Father Abbot.'

'Will you remove the garments of war and rejoin your brethren?'

'It is with regret that I must refuse.'

'Then you are no longer a priest and should not kneel before me. Stand as a man, freed of your vows.'

'I do not wish to be free of my vows.'

'The eagle does not pull a plough, Dardalion, and the Source accepts no half-way heroes.'

The old man reached down and gently pulled Dardalion to his feet. The young warrior priest looked into his eyes, seeking righteous anger but finding only sadness. The Abbot was very old, his face webbed with the weight of his life. Yet his eyes were bright, alive with intelligence.

'I do not wish to be free. I wish to follow a different path to the Source.'

'All paths lead to the Source, whether for judgement or joy.'

'Do not play word games with me, Father Abbot. I am no child. But I have seen great evil in the land and I will not sit by and watch it triumph.'

'Who is to say where triumph lies? What is life but a search for God? A battleground, a cesspit, a paradise? I see the pain you see and it saddens me. And where I find pain I bring comfort, and where I find sorrow I bring promises of future joy. I exist to heal, Dardalion. There is no victory in the sword.'

Dardalion drew himself upright and glanced about him, feeling the weight of the unasked questions. All eyes were on him and he sighed and closed his eyes, praying for guidance. But his prayer was unanswered, and he felt no lifting of the burden upon him.

'I brought two children to Skarta – bright, lively youngsters with rare talents. And I have seen the deaths of evil men, and know that through their deaths other innocents will know life. And I have prayed constantly about my path, and my deeds, and my future. It seems to me, Father Abbot, that the Source required balance in the world. Hunters and hunted. The weakest calf in the herd is the one to be caught by wolves. Therefore the bloodlines remain strong in the herd. But too many wolves will destroy the herd, so the huntsmen track the wolves, catching the weakest and oldest.

'How many examples do we need to show that the Source is a God of equity? Why create the eagle and the wolf, the locust and the scorpion? At every turn there is balance. Yet when we see the evil of the Brotherhood at work, and the worshippers of Chaos stain the land, we sit in our tents and ponder the mysteries of the stars. Where is the balance there, Father Abbot?'

'We seek to teach the world that our values are those to be followed. But if all followed us in celibacy, where would the world be? Mankind would cease.'

'And there would be no more war,' said the Abbot. 'No more greed, lust, despair and sorrow.'

'Yes. And no love, joy, or contentment.'

'Are you content, Dardalion?'

'No. I am heartsick and lost.'

'And were you content as a priest?'

'Yes. Sublimely so.'

'And does not that show where the error lies in your thinking?'

'It does not – rather it exposes the selfishness of my soul. We seek to be altruistic, for we yearn to be blessed by the Source. But then it is not altruism, nor love, that guides us, but self-interest. We do not spread the message of love for love's sake, but for our own futures as priests of the Source. You bring comfort to those in pain? How? How can you understand their pain? We are all cerebral men, living apart from the world of reality. Even our deaths are a moral disgrace, for we welcome them as chariot rides to paradise. Where is the sacrifice? The enemy brings us what we desire and we accept death from him as a gift. A gift of Chaos – a stained, bloody, vile gratuity from the Devil himself.'

'You speak as one who has been stained by Chaos. All that you say is plausible, yet that is the strength of the Chaos Spirit. That is why he was called the Morning Star and is now the Prince of Lies. The gullible devour his promises as he devours them. I have looked inside you, Dardalion, and I find no evil. But your very purity was your downfall, when you allowed yourself to travel with the assassin Waylander. You were too confident in your purity, and the evil of the man overcame you.'

'I do not see him as evil,' said Dardalion. 'Amoral, cruel, but not evil. You are right, though, when you say he affected me. But purity is not a cloak which can be stained in a storm. He merely made me question values I had accepted.'

'Nonsense!' snapped the Abbot. 'He fed you his blood and therefore his soul. And you became one with him, even as he now struggles against the stain you have placed on his evil. You are joined, Dardalion, like symbiotic twins. He struggles to do good, while you struggle to commit evil. Can you not see it? If we listen to you, then our Order is finished, our discipline gone to the winds of the desert. What you ask is selfishness, for you seek safety among the numbers of the Source priests. If we accept you, then we lessen your doubt. We will not accept you.'

'You speak of selfishness, Father Abbot. Then let me ask you this: if our lives as priests teach us to abhor selfishness, why do we allow the Brotherhood to kill us? For if unselfishness means giving up that which we desire in order to help others, then surely fighting the Brotherhood would achieve it? We do not want to fight, we want to die, therefore when we fight we are being unselfish and helping the innocents who would otherwise be slain.'