The fear in Vorna grew. Reaching out with her Talent she touched his mind. Grief, anguish and emptiness filled her, and with it a desire for death. 'Wait!' she said, as he walked to the door. 'If you have no plans there is something I would like you to do for me.'
'I'd do anything for you, Vorna. You know that.'
'Find Banouin. Travel with him and keep him safe. It would mean a great deal to me,' she added, as he paused in the doorway, 'to know that you were together.'
Bane glanced out of the open door. 'Ah, here they come,' he said. 'Riding like the wind! Time for me to go.' Then he grinned, and Vorna relaxed, for it was the old Bane she saw now, bright and full of life. 'Don't worry about Banouin,' he said. 'I'll find him and ride with him.'
'I hoped that you would,' she said. 'But it does my heart good to hear you say it. Now go quickly.'
He gave a wide smile, stepped back into the room and hoisted her high, planting a kiss on both her cheeks. 'You take care,' he told her. 'There are not many in this world that I love.'
Bane put her down. Vorna reached up and stroked his face. 'Ride now!'
He ran from the house. Vorna stood in the doorway and watched as he thundered the grey across the meadow, leapt the three-rail fence, and galloped towards the southern hills.
The twenty hunters swung their mounts and gave chase.
'You will not catch him,' said Vorna softly.
Not for the first time Banouin reined in his chestnut gelding and looked back towards the north. Through a gap in the tall pines he could still just see the distant peaks. He glanced to the south, and the beckoning lowlands, and knew that as soon as he crested the last rise Caer Druagh would become but a memory. Sadness touched the young man, and this he found surprising.
Banouin had never enjoyed life among the Rigante. As a child he had loathed the boisterous play, the emphasis on physical strength, the feuding and the fighting. The Rigante, he had discovered to his cost, were a hot-headed, volatile people, quick to anger. And yet his spirit was heavy as he thought of his departure.
The day was bright and clear, the sun warm. Banouin pushed his hand through his dark, shoulder-length hair. I must cut it before crossing the water, he thought. Citizens of Stone wear their hair short, close-cropped. They also shave daily as beards or moustaches are for barbarians. His thoughts drifted away from the wild Druagh mountains, and he pictured the legendary city of Stone: the city of his father.
People had always spoken highly of the first Banouin – the little Foreigner who had come to live among the People, and who had married the former witch, Vorna. A fine man, they said, kind and brave. He had been murdered by the Perdii king nineteen years ago.
With one last glance at Caer Druagh, Banouin heeled the gelding forward and started down the slope.
'What was my father like?' he had once asked his mother.
'He was not tall, but he was handsome and dark-haired, like you.'
'Did he have blue eyes like ours?'
'No, they were dark.'
'Did people bully him when he was a boy?'
'We never spoke of his childhood, my son. They did not bully him as a man, however.'
Banouin rode on. He had crossed the river yesterday, and was, as far as he could judge, a day's ride from the Southern Rigante settlement of Gilrath. His horse – a gift from the king – was still fresh and strong, though it was a little too spirited for Banouin's taste. Each morning it would stare at him balefully, and, when saddled, would buck several times, jarring Banouin's bones. The young rider felt the horse did not like him, and was only allowing him to ride under sufferance.
'He's a good mount,' Connavar had told him. 'He will not let you down.' Banouin always felt uncomfortable in the presence of the king. He was a man of immense physical power, a known warrior and leader, but it was the eyes that disturbed Banouin. They were just like Bane's, one green, the other gold. And when he looked at you it seemed as if he could read your heart.
'Thank you, sir. And thank you for all your kindness to my mother and me.'
'Whisht, boy, I have done little enough. Are you sure you want to undertake this journey?'
'I am sure, sir. I want to see the land of my father.'
'A man should always know where he comes from,' said Connavar. 'And find pride in it. Your father was a great man. He taught me much of value. I treasure his memory.'
Banouin had been envious of that. He would love to have memories of his father that he could treasure. Instead, when he thought back to his early childhood, he could recall only the Big Man, Ruathain, who had carried him on his shoulders, and taken him out to see the cattle herds.
Even now, so many years after Ruathain's death, Banouin still felt a deep sadness when he thought of him. With his wide smile, his long yellow hair, and the colossal breadth of his shoulders, he had seemed to the child to be immortal and invulnerable. When he had died after the Pannone battle Banouin's small world had been rocked to its foundations.
Within the year the child had discovered other causes for sorrow. The Stone army had landed far to the south, and tales of battles and slaughter began to flow north. The other Rigante children had turned on Banouin, sneering at his blood line, mocking him, taunting him. Then the beatings had begun, and the child had lived in almost permanent fear.
For years he suffered, most especially at the hands of Forvar. The red-headed boy seemed to take enormous delight in causing him pain. Once he had tied Banouin to a tree and prepared a fire around his feet. He did not light it, but constantly pretended to. The nine-year-old Banouin had wet himself in fear.
Childhood had few happy memories for Banouin. What joy there was – apart from his friendship with Bane – had come from his daydreams. He would travel to Stone and become a citizen. They had schools there, and universities. A man could study and learn, and live peacefully without fear of violence and threats. A merchant told him once that there was a great library in Stone, containing more than twelve thousand scrolls, and many artefacts of wonder. From that moment Banouin had wanted nothing more than to journey there, and sit in peaceful contemplation. He had badgered Brother Solstice the druid to teach him to read and write in Turgon, the language of Stone, and he had spent many useful months at Old Oaks talking to Stone merchants, building a mental picture of the city of his dreams. He knew the names of each of the five hills, the positions of the parks and monuments. The Great Library had been built in the Park of Phesus, beside an artificial lake. It was approached along an avenue of flowering trees. In spring their blossom was pink and white, in autumn the leaves turned to red and gold. Marble benches were set around the lake, and students would sit there in the sunshine, and discuss philosophy with their tutors.
Banouin shivered with pleasure at the thought. No more running through the woods in fear. No more to hear the screaming and shouting of wild Rigante youngsters, and listen to their bragging about their exploits in future battles. He doubted that the citizens of Stone ever boasted about who could fart the loudest or piss the farthest.
For several hours Banouin rode on. Then he began to look for a place to camp. Angling away from the open land he steered his mount into a grove of trees, seeking a sheltered spot beside a stream. The gelding sniffed the air, and its head came up. Releasing the reins Banouin allowed the animal to find its own way to water. Easing through the dense undergrowth he saw a long oval pond, decorated with white water lilies and surrounded by willows, whose branches trailed in the clear water. Several white swans were gliding gracefully upon the surface. It was an idyllic spot. Banouin dismounted and unsaddled the gelding, holding it back from the water while he brushed it down.
An hour later, with the chestnut hobbled and cropping grass, Banouin sat by the waterside watching golden fish just below the surface. He relaxed, savouring the moment. Then his Talent touched him – an icy needle of fear pricking at his mind. His mother had always said that one day he would discover how to fully use the skills he inherited from her, but he never had. He experienced no visions, had no healing touch, and could not read the minds of men. But when danger was close Banouin would always know. That – so far – was the limit of his power.
And danger was close.
Banouin's mouth was dry as he slowly rose from the water's edge and turned. Three men were emerging from the trees – tough, grim-faced men. They wore no cloaks. Their clothes were ragged, their breeches poorly crafted from buckskin. All wore swords and knives. Banouin struggled to contain his fear.
