man. They are the stuff of legend. Some years ago Voltan was due to be fighting a young pretender. Someone managed to poison his wine. Voltan almost died. Two days later, having lost ten pounds in weight, his body weakened by fever, he stepped out into the arena and killed his man.'
'I don't care how good he is,' said Bane. 'I will kill him when we meet.'
Telors spread his hands, and glanced at Rage. 'What do you think?'
'I'll accept the offer – if you make the promise,' Rage told Bane.
'How soon will you know if I can beat him?'
'A year. Perhaps two.'
Bane sat silently for a moment. 'Very well. I promise to wait a maximum of two years. After that I will make my own decision. Is that sufficient?'
'It will do,' said Rage.
'I have missed Stone,' said Telors. 'There is a whorehouse off the Avenue Gabilan that is second to none. Paradise could not be more satisfying than a night spent there.'
'Then it is agreed,' said Rage. 'We will go to Stone with you.'
Banouin left the Great Library and wandered along the tree-lined white gravel path leading to the artificial lake. Once there he settled himself on his favourite bench of curved stone, set beneath a tall weeping willow. The branches trailed all around him like a green veil, the tendrils caressing the grass. It was a place of quiet beauty, and Banouin experienced a dream-like state here, a freedom from the cares and worries of this alien world. For years, as a child among the Rigante, he had pictured himself in this place of calm and tranquillity. In the depths of his despair he had thought of this park. When Forvar and the others tormented him, he had dreamt of escaping them all and coming here. And still – almost two years after his departure from the lands of the Rigante – the Park of Phesus remained a special place of harmony. He never tired of the park, even in winter, when the lake was frozen, and snow covered the ground. He would wrap up warmly and come to this bench, and sit and dream.
And yet…? Truth to tell there was something missing. Banouin was, he realized, mostly content, but never happy. As with the Rigante, he had not made friends here. There were people he liked – like old Sencra, his history tutor, and Menicas the Keeper of Texts – but no young people. Banouin knew the names of many of his fellow students, and would smile and exchange greetings with them. But none had invited him to their parties and gatherings, nor sought greater intimacy with him. Banouin had come to the realization that Bane was probably right about him. He was a loner, and people recognized this – and avoided him. Yet this alone, he knew, was not the reason for his lack of happiness. He could sense that much. The real reason, however, was one that he did not wish to analyse.
The two years in the city had been kind to him. The letters of introduction from Appius had allowed him access to the university, and, through the goodwill of the general Barus, to apply for Stone citizenship, which was granted. Then his tutor, Sencra, had offered him employment as a copier of text. The payment was not great, but it enabled Banouin to hire a suite of rooms close to the university. Luckily he did not have expensive tastes, nor desire to frequent the eating houses, theatres and stadiums. Banouin was content merely to study, to copy ancient texts, and to wander the city, marvelling at its architecture: the broad roads and avenues, the colossal structures, the magnificent statues and parks.
Often he sat alone in the Antiquities section of the Great Library, and this solitude puzzled him. For here were stored the histories and philosophies of many ancient races. Yet few Stone scholars bothered to study them. Banouin had found a map of the stars, the parchment so brittle it almost cracked under his fingers. He copied it with great care and replaced it in its niche. There were other maps, of far distant lands, and parchments written in languages none could now speak. He pored over them, trying to make sense of the glyphs and strokes. What knowledge was contained here? he wondered. Sencra had chuckled when Banouin brought one such parchment to him. 'It is probably just a tale of magical heroes,' he said. 'Of no importance.'
'How can we know that, sir?'
'Quite simply, my boy. We know that Stone is the greatest city ever built, and that our culture is the finest the world has seen. Therefore we will find little of consequence in ancient writings. Our own philosophers are far in advance of any in the ancient world.'
Banouin did not find this convincing, but he did not argue with Sencra. The old man was a good tutor, mostly easygoing and kind. But he reacted badly to any criticism.
Banouin sat under the willow and found himself thinking of Caer Druagh. He glanced around to see if anyone was close by, then, satisfied he was alone, lay back and closed his eyes. His spirit drifted clear of his body, floating up through the willow. It was one of the reasons Banouin loved this spot. Here – and only here – could he release his spirit from the cage of flesh. When he had first developed this talent it had filled him with fear, but he had learned swiftly that he had merely to wish himself back in his body and it would be so. Gradually during the first year he had ventured further abroad, finally soaring back to Caer Druagh and hovering over the settlement of Three Streams. The sheer joy at seeing the cluster of wooden homes had surprised him.
This time he saw there was a new building, huge and conical, to the north of the settlement. Banouin floated inside. It was a meeting hall, and several hundred Rigante were there, enjoying a feast. Connavar's half brother, Braefar, was sitting at the head of the table, a slim yellow-haired man, with quick darting eyes. He was laughing at some jest and drinking from a golden goblet.
Banouin drew back and flew on to his mother's house. Vorna was dozing before the fire, her head resting on a cushion. She looked tired, thought Banouin.
Vorna's dark eyes flared open and she looked directly at him. She yawned, stretched and sat up. 'Are you well, my son?' she asked him.
'I am,' he told her. 'But you look weary.'
'I returned from Old Oaks last night. There is plague there. Forty dead. I think I have cleansed the settlement. Have you heard from Bane?'
'No. He is becoming famous now. Six kills and fifteen other victories in less than two years. He has become a Name.'
'You should make your peace with him. He was a good friend to you.'
'He is a killer of men, and we have nothing in common.'
'You think not? You are both Rigante, born in the shadow of Caer Druagh.'
'I am a citizen of Stone, Mother,' he reminded her.
'Aye, you are. But that was through choice. You are Rigante by blood, and your soul-name was heard in the mountains and the Wishing Tree woods.'
'We have had this conversation before,' he said, with a smile. 'I did not accept it then, nor do I accept it now. I am content, Mother. I am who I am.'
'You do not yet know who you are,' she told him. 'And contentment is not enough.'
'It is good to see you well,' he said.
And opened his eyes back in the Park of Phesus. As always, following his astral journeys, he returned refreshed and curiously uplifted. Rising from the bench he pushed aside the willow branches and walked out to the edge of the artificial lake. Just below the surface he could see multicoloured fish gliding through the water. He looked up, and saw the distant towers and rooftops of Stone, glistening white in the afternoon sun.
Stone was the future. One day all over the world there would be cities like this, places of great beauty and culture. Wars would have a place only in history texts.
He heard the sound of running feet, and swung to see a young man racing along the tree-lined path. He was being chased by several men on horseback. The first came alongside him, knocking him to the ground. Then the horsemen leapt from their saddles and beat the young man with cudgels. Banouin stood very still. He could see from their black cloaks and armour that they were Knights of Stone. One of them glanced at Banouin.
The Knights hauled the young man to his feet. His hands were tied and he was forced to stumble along ahead of the riders. One of the Knights peeled his horse from the group and rode back to Banouin.
Waves of violent thought radiated from the rider, washing over Banouin. His mind reeled, his stomach turned. Summoning his talent he released a ripple of calm and harmony, focusing it on the Knight.
'You know that man?' asked the rider.
Banouin shook his head. 'I have seen him in the Library, sir, but I do not know his name.' Banouin centred a field of harmony around the rider, feeling the harshness within the man subsiding.
