'Go away, Dardalion, you are tainted beyond my humble counsel.'

'I will fight them alone,' said Dardalion bowing stiffly.

As he turned the priests moved back to allow him a path, and he walked it without turning his head to see their faces, his mind closed to their emotions.

Clearing their ranks, he crossed the stone bridge and paused to stare at the stream. He no longer felt uncomfortable in the armour, and the burden was gone from his soul. The sound of footsteps caused him to turn and he saw a group of priests crossing the bridge, all of them young. The first to come was a short, stocky man with bright blue eyes and close-cropped blond hair.

'We wish to speak with you, brother,' he said. Dardalion nodded, and they formed a half-circle around him and sat down on the grass. 'My name is Astila,' said the blond priest, 'and these of my brethren have been waiting for you. Do you object to communing with us?'

'For what purpose?'

'We wish to know of your life, and the change you have undergone. We will best understand that by sharing your memories.'

'And what of the stain to your purity?'

'There are enough of us to withstand it, if such it be.'

'Then I agree.'

The group bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Dardalion shuddered as the priests flowed into his mind and he merged into the oblivion of their mass. A kaleidoscope of memories flickered and flashed. Childhood, joy and torment. Study and dreams. The mad rush of images slowed as the mercenaries tied him to the tree and went to work with their knives, and the pain returned. Then … Waylander. The rescue. The cave. The blood. The savage joy of battle and death. The walls of Masin. But through it all the constant prayers for guidance. All unanswered. Nausea swept though him as the priests returned to their bodies.

He opened his eyes and almost fell but sucking in air, he steadied himself.

'Well?' he asked. 'What did you find?'

'You were stained,' said Astila, 'in the first moments when Waylander's blood touched you. That is why you cut your opponent to pieces. But since then you have struggled – as the Abbot pointed out – to restrain the evil.'

'But you think I am wrong?'

'Yes. And yet I will join you. We will all join you.'

'Why?'

'Because we are weak, even as you are weak. Poor priests we have been, despite our struggles. I am prepared to be judged by the Source for all my deeds, and if His judgement says eternal death then so be it. But I am tired of watching my brothers slain. I am sickened by the deaths of the children of the Drenai, and I am ready to destroy the Brotherhood.'

'Then why have you not done so before now?'

'That is not an easy question to answer. I can only speak for myself, but I feared that I might become as one with the Brotherhood. For my hatred was growing – I did not know if a man could retain any purity, any sense of God. You have, so I will follow you.'

'We were waiting for a leader,' said another man.

'And you have found one. How many are we?'

'With you, thirty.'

'Thirty,' said Dardalion. 'It is a beginning.'

11

Waylander dismissed the two female servants and rose from the bath, brushing flower petals from his body. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked to a full-length mirror and shaved slowly. His shoulder ached, the muscles were tense and knotted from the battle at Masin and an ugly bruise was flowering along his ribs. He pressed it lightly and winced. Ten years ago such a bruise would have long since vanished; ten years before that, no bruise would have flowered at all.

Time was a greater enemy than any he had faced.

He stared into his own dark brown eyes, then scanned the fine lines of his face and the grey hair fighting for dominance at his temples. His gaze flickered down. The body was still strong, but the muscles were looking stretched and thin, he thought. Not many years left for a man in his occupation.

Waylander poured himself some wine and sipped it, holding it on his tongue and enjoying the sharp, almost bitter flavour.

The door slid open and Cudin entered; he was short and fat, sweat shining on his face. Waylander nodded a greeting. The merchant was followed by a young girl carrying clothing. She laid it on a gilded chair and left the room with eyes downcast, which Cudin hovered, rubbing his hands nervously.

'Everything as you requested, my dear fellow?'

'I will also need a thousand in silver.'

'Of course.'

'Have my investments gone well?'

'Well, these are hard times, But I think you will find the interest has been substantial. I have lodged the greater part of the eight thousand in Ventria, for the spice trade, so the war should not affect it. You may collect it at Isbas, at the bank of Tyra.'

'Why so nervous, Cudin?'

'Nervous? Not I – it is the heat.' The fat man licked his lips and tried to smile, but he was not successful.

'Someone has been looking for me, yes?'

'No … yes. But I told them nothing.'

'Of course not; you know nothing of my movements. But I shall tell you what you promised them – you said that you would let them know if ever I called on you. And you told them about the bank at Tyra.'

'No,' whispered Cudin.

'Do not be afraid, merchant, I do not blame you. You are not a friend and there is no reason to risk yourself for me; I would not expect it. Indeed, I would think you a fool if you did. Have you informed them yet of my arrival?'

The merchant sat down beside the pile of clothing. His flesh seemed to sag as if the muscles of his face had suddenly ceased to function.

'Yes, I sent a messenger into Skultik. What can I say?'

'Who came to you?'

'Cadoras the Stalker. Gods, Waylander, he has the eyes of Hell. I was terrified.'

'How many men did he have with him?'

'I do not knoow. I remember he said "they" would be camped at the Opal Creek.'

'How long ago was this?'

'Five days. He knew you were coming.'

'Have you seen him since?'

'Yes. He was in a tavern, drinking with the giant outlaw – the one who looks like a bear. You know him?'

'I know him. Thank you, Cudin.'

'You will not kill me?'

'No. But had you not admitted it to me …'

'I understand. Thank you.'

'There is nothing to thank me for … Now on another matter – there are two children recently brought to Skarta, now lodged with the Source priests. Their names are Krylla and Miriel. You will see they are looked after? There is also a woman, Danyal; she too will have need of money. For this service you will keep the interest from my investments. You understand?'

'Yes. Krylla, Miriel, Danyal. I understand.'

'I came to you, Cudin, because of your reputation for honest dealings. Do not fail me.'

The merchant backed from the room and Waylander moved to the clothing. A fresh linen shirt lay at the top of the pile and he lifted it to his face; it smelled of roses. Slipping it on, he tied the cuffs. Next was a pair of black troos in thick cotton, and then a woollen-backed leather jerkin and a pair of thigh-length black riding boots. Moving to the window, he hefted his mailshirt and placed it over his shoulders. The rings were freshly greased, the metal cold to his body. He dressed swiftly, buckling on his knife-belt and sword. His crossbow lay on the broad bed with a fresh quiver of fifty bolts; he clipped both to his belt and left the room.

Outside in the hall the girl waited and Waylander gave her four silver pieces. She smiled and moved away, but he called her back when he saw the bruise on her upper arm.

'I am sorry for being rough on you,' he said.

'Some men are worse,' she replied. 'You didn't know you were doing it.'

'No. I did not.' He gave her another silver piece.