'One moment of pain can rule you, but it doesn't have to. Lord has been dwelling on the death of his love for so many years that it has become his life and might even be his death,' Isak said. 'Listen to me. Harlequins may be wonderful; they may be blessed – but you can be more than that.'

Mihn gaped at his lord, mouth half-open to protest, when Isak went on, 'Think about it. What do Harlequins do? They teach us where we came from, and hope we heed the warnings of history. They have so many skills, but they hardly use them. They have so much knowledge, but when do they ever exploit it for the good of anyone, even themselves? You have all of these gifts, and one more – you don't

wear the mask.'

'I don't understand,' Mihn muttered.

The Harlequins' masks hide them from the Land. Unlike a Harlequin, 1 can't hide behind my mask forever. 1 have to be a part of the Land – it's up to me whether my influence will be for good or bad. You might not be able to tell the stories, but you can influence them. Tila is forever laughing at my ignorance, but it could be a crucial failing if the Gods involve themselves in our lives. You can fight better than any normal I've met, but it's your knowledge of the Gods, of the entire Land and its languages, that I need – and 1 won't find that in

any other soldier.'

Isak realised that he was trembling. The whole subject of being a failure was a little close to his heart. 'Think it over. We'll be back in the saddle soon, but you have until we leave Nerlos Fortress to make up your mind. After that, we'll be outside Farlan territory. You can decide to become a ranger, or an assassin or a court jester, or whatever you wish, but if you want purpose in your life, here it is, for the taking.'

CHAPTER 24

As the first cold rays of dawn reached out over the Land, a figure made his way on to a deserted stretch of battlements on the south-western corner of Nerlos Fortress. He was dressed only in a rough black shirt and billowing trousers, hardly suitable for the cool morning, but as he padded on to the corner-platform between two stretches of walkway he appeared unperturbed by either the wind or the cold stone against his bare feet.

He knelt, facing the sun as it crept up towards the cloud that covered most of the sky, then bowed and, eyes half-closed, whispered a mantra. The words drifted away on the wind as he repeated the bow and the prayer ten more times, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.

He sat back on his heels and beamed contentedly at the sunrise for a few minutes, then closed his eyes again and stretched out his right leg, laying it flat against the stone pointing north, then extended his left leg to the south, all with apparent ease. More words slipped through his lips, less formal, perhaps, but still full of reverence, as he leaned forward and placed his hands against the stone floor, tensing slightly, and eased his weight on to his palms. His legs wavered for a moment as he found his body's centre of balance, then he drew them together, pointing straight up.

He straightened his arms and moved his weight on to one hand, twisting so he was facing down the empty walkway. In times of peace there was only a single lookout on the highest tower and no one else had risen with the dawn. He bent his body into a crescent shape, then Propelled his body around and back up to a standing position.

And what was that?' The voice made Mihn pause and he peered into the darkened doorway suspiciously until Isak stepped out into the crisp sunlight.

'I was praying.'

Isak raised an eyebrow. 'Praying? I've never seen a priest do that.'

'You don't need to be a priest to pray, my Lord. Every child should be taught the devotionals to each of the Upper Circle.'

'No doubt they should – 1 can probably even remember some of them – but what was that last bit? If everyone had to do that at temple 1 might have gone more often.' Isak's laughter died when he

saw Mihn's grave expression.

'That was a personal prayer, something we were taught in our tribe. It's different for each person, a way of giving thanks for something you enjoy, or a particular ability-'

'So I should be killing someone each morning? That's all they made me good for.' Isak immediately regretted snapping, but Mihn's calm

was not disrupted.

'Not at all. I believe you have several things to be grateful for: your strength, your health, your position. And there are your gifts-'

'Fine, I understand, just stop preaching. If you've decided to stay and piously whine at me as your life's calling, I take everything back,' Isak shifted uncomfortably. It- hadn't even occurred to him to say a prayer of thanks for his gifts. There had been little chance when Nartis was invading his dreams, and then he'd got caught up in his new life… one had to hope that the Gods weren't like people. Isak had seen family feuds grow out of those feast days where gifts were traditional. The idea of appearing ungrateful to the God of Storms was not appealing.

Mihn broke into his reverie. Then I will try not to piously whine at you every morning – but yes, I have decided to stay with you. For a man whose first recourse is violence, you can be eloquent at times. The casual listener might believe you had given the subject some thought.'

Isak grinned. 'If you've quite finished, you can go and fetch me some jugs of water.'

Mihn narrowed his eyes. For all of his power, Isak was still a young man, and one who'd rarely had a chance to enjoy himself at that. 'Some might think Carel's observation that he found it hard to wake up early these days was not intended as a hint.'

'I know, but they're the sort of people who pray every morning. I on the other hand, have no morals – by divine mandate. And who am I to defy the will of the Gods?' Mihn sighed. 'Who indeed?'

Jeil moved swiftly through the trees, his bow held ready. Over the rushing sound of the river nearby he heard a faint birdcall, the short double-trill of a goldcrest, and he stopped to crouch behind an ancient hawthorn. Borl's mimicry of birdcalls was brilliant, one of the reasons he had been picked to escort Isak to Narkang. It was the perfect way to keep his companions informed of enemy movements without giving himself away, and it meant Jeil, who was faster, could hunt them down from his calls.

This was the first person they had encountered since disembarking from the riverboat they had used to travel the border between Tor Milist and Scree towards Helrect. It was an obvious ambush point, as only coracles could traverse this section of the river, and they were no use for transporting horses.

The goldcrest trilled again and Jeil tensed, ready to step out, when a second call sounded from somewhere up ahead. He swore silently: either Borl's mimicry was too good and had attracted a real bird, or their prey had caught on. Jeil hunkered down and kept completely still, listening hard. The Land was unnaturally quiet – until a piercing whistle broke the stillness, no bird sound, this, but a warning that Jeil had been seen. The ranger rose and drew his sword, stabbing it into the earth within easy reach before fully drawing his bow.

'Enough of the birdsong,' called a voice no more than thirty yards ahead. 'I know you're there, so come out.'

He heard footsteps crunching over dead branches advancing towards him and stepped around the hawthorn, still certain that no one could have seen or heard him. The silk of his bowstring caressed his cheek as he caught sight of the speaker. He wasn't much to look at: dressed in roughly patched leathers and a ragged wolf's pelt, with a longbow slung over his shoulder and a short-handled axe at his belt. 'I'm alone,' he said. 'I've been waiting for you all morning.' He looked about fifty summers, with traces of white on the week's growth of beard. An easy smile hovered on his lips, one that put Jeil on edge.