'When I failed, the old men wept as if they had no future. I know it isn't the same for you, but I do know what it is to bear expectation. It was something I resented. I thought of it as a burden. Now I am glad I have the chance to be part of something magnificent again.'

Isak didn't speak. He was transfixed by the outwelling of emotion, and by Mihn's unwarranted decision to reveal such a personal matter.

'Just remember,' Mihn continued as he composed himself, 'you've been blessed by the Gods. Never forget that, and never regret it.' With that, he turned and walked away to his horse. He had a spring in his step, as though a weight had been lifted from him.

'I hope you remember that too,' Isak said to Mihn's back, but whether he heard, Isak had no idea.

When the pair had disappeared behind a great outcrop of grass-topped granite, Suzerain Saroc led the procession in the opposite direction, eastwards, toward the town. As they travelled, the suzerain explained to Isak that the town was in fact owned by the abbey at its centre, run by the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings. His grandfather had bequeathed them land that hugged the banks of the river, but the second abbot, being a man of sharp business sense, had overseen the village's expansion and now the once-sleepy hamlet was a busy town.

As they drew closer, Isak began to note increasing numbers of fit young men in blue habits, beyond that of any normal monastery. The suzerain was a popular man, and stopped frequently to talk to the townsfolk. He introduced the most important to Isak, but most were too intimidated by the huge white-eye to do much beyond bow and mutter greetings. Even so, Isak felt the atmosphere was one of welcome, more than anything else, and his fears about the Brethren began to subside – until he reminded himself that it was easy enough to put on a show for one day. He would need to hear Lesarl's opinion before he accepted it wholly at face value.

At the abbey a small party stood waiting to greet them. The men were all dressed in dark blue, as befitted monks in the service of Nartis, but on their deep cuffs were thick bands of yellow, which Isak had never seen before. The abbot looked young for his position, barely forty summers, by Isak's guess, although his head was clearly bald, unlike many of his companions, who had had to resort to shaving to correctly mimic their God, Nartis.

Suzerain Saroc went through the formalities, introducing Abbot Kels and Prior Portin. There were two unnamed monks, who were standing beside a third man, dressed as a lay brother and leaning heavily on a wooden crutch, his right leg raised off the ground. The man wouldn't look at Isak, but scowled at the ground between the Duke of Tirah and Abbot Kels. There was something familiar about the man, but nothing he could put his finger on. In the distant re¬cesses of his mind, Aryn Bwr, who had been quiet since the battle, chuckled infuriatingly. Isak tried to concentrate on what people were saying, but when the injured man did at last speak, the words escaped Isak completely.

'But of course!' exclaimed the abbot in response to whatever the man had said. 'I should not have kept you here at all. My Lords, please excuse Brother Hobble, for he has just returned from the hospital with vital medicines, and as you can imagine, it is rather tiring to walk with a crutch.'

Isak motioned for the man to go, which Hobble did without another word. Aryn Bwr muttered something ironic in Elvish, as the man made his way down the street.

'Brother Hobble?' Isak enquired of the abbot, who spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

'It is the only name he will give us. He came to us several months ago, and he has been a blessing to the abbey ever since. He's a learned and pious man who I hope will soon take his vows, but he will tell us nothing of his past, or the cause of that shattered ankle that refuses to heal properly.'

'I know him,' mused Vesna. 'I've seen him at the palace, I think – a Swordmaster? His name escapes me, but I know I've met him.'

As the memory of his first morning in the palace rose in Isak's mind, a cold chill ran down his spine and his mouth went suddenly dry. A face in the crowd as he sparred with Swordmaster Kerin; a pain in the back of his knee; the bubbling anger as he sprawled flat on his back on the packed earth of the training ground; a savage blow as he lashed out at the man who had caught him, and the thumping connection with an ankle that was so hard it had jarred his wrist.

Isak hadn't even looked at the man, intent as he was on besting Kerin. Only afterwards had he noticed the man, face contorted by pain as he held his leg just above the shattered ankle – the ankle that still hadn't healed.

'Oh Gods.'

'What is it?' Vesna asked. 'Can you place him?'

Isak ignored the question and asked the abbot, 'Can you not do anything for him? Have you tried to heal it with magic?'

'Of course, my Lord,' the abbot replied, 'we are a dual-aligned abbey, dedicated to Nartis and Shotir.' He brushed the yellow cuff of his habit: Isak now realised it was the colour of the God of Healing. 'Unfortunately, our best efforts – and we do have a number of talented healers here – have proved fruitless. The damage done to Hobble's ankle is no normal injury, and our magic has had no effect. I suspect Hobble believes the hurt done to him was a divine judgment, that he has something to atone for. Certainly that impression is sustained by the vigour he goes about any task he is given, but considering how selfless the man is, I cannot begin to imagine what that might be.'

Isak stared down the road at the man limping through the crowds of townsfolk. 'Tsatach's balls,' he muttered under his breath. 'An angry boy's moment of petulance, nothing more, and he takes it as a divine judgment?' Now he knew why the last king had been so amused.

'My Lord?' said the abbot anxiously, trying to catch Isak's words.

'What does he do at the hospital?'

'He is experienced at dressing wounds and spends much of his day tending to the poor folk afflicted with leprosy. He will not turn from the most menial of tasks.'

'Leprosy?' Isak exclaimed, wide-eyed with alarm.

The abbot chuckled. 'My Lord, calm yourself. We have tended lepers in these parts for decades; I am certain there is no risk of con¬tagion. Brother Helras has been in charge of the hospital for ten years now, and has persisted in good health the entire time. You are quite safe.'

'Did Brother Hobble know that when he volunteered for the duties?'

The abbot paused. 'I'm not sure… perhaps. If not, it is a testament to the man's faith, no? Now, may I show you around the abbey and offer you refreshment?'

'The consequences of this life,' he muttered under his breath, too softly for anyone else to hear. He tells me to be thankful for what I have, yet every step of the way 1 hurt someone else. In my wake I hardly notice the futures I ruin. Oh Mihn, you've got such faith in me, but what magnificent destiny are you going to find down a road paved with broken lives?

'My Lord?'

'Oh, yes, of course. Lead the way.'

That evening, Isak found himself out in the walled garden again, star¬ing up at the hunter's moon at its zenith. The memory of Brother Hobble, struggling with his crutch and scowling down at the ground, had haunted him all day. Clearly he had not forgiven Isak for the injury, divine retribution or no, and Isak certainly couldn't blame him for that: constant pain and the end to his life as a Swordmaster were hard things to forgive – although that the latter must have been the man's own choice, knowing Swordmaster Kerin as he did. It was the heroes of war who gained Farlan titles and fame, and there were dozens of men who'd found their place in the Land through being a champion of the Ghosts.

'Contemplating the futility of existence, my Lord?'