‘Do not seek to leave me, Olek. I could not allow it.’
Pushing aside all dreams of the past Skilgannon climbed upon his narrow bed. He fell asleep.
And dreamed of the White Wolf.
It was a beautiful dawn, the sky bathed in gold, the few clouds drenched in colour: rich red at the base and glowing charcoal at the crown. Cethelin stood on the high tower, absorbing the beauty with all his being. The air tasted sweet and he closed his eyes and sought to still the trembling of his hands.
He did not lack faith, but he did not want to die. The distant town was quiet, though once more smoke hung in the air over ruined buildings.
Soon the mob would begin to gather, and then, like the angry sea of his dream, it would surge towards the church buildings.
Cethelin was old, and had seen such events too often in his long life.
Always they followed a pattern. The majority in the mob would, at first, merely stand around, awaiting events. Like a pack of hunting hounds, held on invisible leashes. Then the evil among them — always so few — would initiate the horror. The leashes would snap, the pack surge forward.
Cethelin felt another stab of fear at the thought.
Raseev Kalikan would be the ringleader. Cethelin tried to love all those he met, no matter how petty or cruel they might appear. It was hard to love Raseev — not because he was evil but because he was empty. Cethelin pitied him. He had no moral values, no sense of spirituality. Raseev was a man consumed by thoughts of self. He was too canny, however, to be at the forefront of the mob. Even with plans of murder already in place he would be looking to the future — to show that his hands were clean. No, it would be the vile Antol and his ghastly wife, Marja. Cethelin shivered and berated himself for such judgemental thoughts. For years Marja had attended church, making herself responsible for organizing functions and gathering donations. She saw herself as holy and wise. Yet her conversations inevitably led to the judgement of others. ‘That woman from Mellicane, Father. You know she is having an affair with the merchant, Callian. She should not be welcome at our services.’ ‘You must have heard the dreadful noise that the washerwoman, Athyla, makes during evensong.
She cannot hit a note. Could you not ask her to refrain from singing, Father?’
‘The Source hears the song from the heart, not from the throat,’
Cethelin had told her.
Then had come the awful day when — after a fundraising for the poor -
Brother Labberan discovered that Marja had ‘borrowed’ from the fund.
The sum had not been great, some forty silver pieces. Cethelin had asked her to return the money. At first she had been defiant, and denied the charge. Later, with proof offered, she maintained that she had merely borrowed the sum and had every intention of returning it. She promised it would be replaced the following week. She had never since attended any service. Nor had the money been repaid. Brother Labberan had requested the matter be brought before the Watch, but Cethelin had refused.
Since then both Marja and her husband had joined the ranks of the Arbiters, and had spoken against the church. The attack on Brother Labberan had been orchestrated by Antol, and Marja had stood by, screaming for them to kick him and make him bleed.
These two would be at the forefront of the mob. They would be the ones baying for blood.
The door to the tower was pushed open. Cethelin turned to see which of the priests had disturbed his meditations, but it was the dog, Jesper. It limped forward, then sat looking up at him. ‘The world will go on, Jesper,’
he said, patting the hound’s large head.
‘Dogs will be fed, and people will be born, and loved. I know this, and yet my heart is filled with terror.’
Raseev Kalikan was in the front rank of the crowd as it moved over the old bridge and onto the slope before the old castle buildings. Alongside him was the burly bearded figure of Paolin Meltor, the Arbiter from Mellicane. His injured leg was healing well, but walking any distance still caused him pain. Raseev had urged him to stay behind, but the Arbiter had refused. ‘It will be worth a little discomfort to watch those traitors die.’
‘Let us not talk of death, my friend. We are merely looking to see them hand over the boy who killed my son.’ There were others present during the conversation and Raseev ignored the look of shock and surprise on the face of Paolin Meltor. ‘If they refuse to do their honest duty then we must enter the monastery and arrest them all,’ he continued. Taking Paolin by the arm he led him away from the listening crowd. ‘All will be as you wish it,’ he whispered. ‘But we must think of the future. We must not be seen to go to the church as a murdering mob. We seek justice. A few angry men will lose their heads and a regrettable — deeply regrettable — massacre will take place. You understand?’
‘Whatever!’ snapped Paolin. ‘I care nothing for this… this subterfuge.
They are traitors and they deserve to die. That is enough for me.’
‘Then you must do as your conscience dictates,’ said Raseev smoothly.
Paolin moved away to walk alongside Antol and Marja. Raseev hung back just a little.
He glanced around at the crowd. It was some three hundred strong. It seemed to Raseev likely that the priests would bar the gates, but they were of wood and would burn swiftly enough. Antol had made sure some of the men were carrying jugs of oil and there was dry wood aplenty on the slopes before the castle. Barring the gates would suit Raseev. It would give the crowd time to grow angry.
The captain of the Watch, Seregas, approached Raseev as they moved on. Seregas was a canny northerner who had been stationed in Skepthia for the last two years. He had reorganized the Watch, increasing foot patrols in the more wealthy areas and the merchant district. For this service Seregas levied extra monies from shopkeepers and businessmen. It was purely voluntary. No-one was forced to pay, or threatened if they did not. Curiously, those who did not pay were certain to see their businesses or homes robbed. Taverns and eating places whose owners chose to remain outside the levy saw fights and scuffles break out, and a significant decrease in their turnover as customers stayed away from their troubled premises.
Seregas was a tall, thin man, with deep-set dark eyes and a thin mouth, partly hidden by a thick beard. The previous day he had come to Raseev’s home. Raseev had taken him to his study and poured him a goblet of wine.
‘You know the boy’s tracks led away from the church, Raseev,’ he had said.
It was not a question.
The slope is rocky. He probably doubled back.’
‘Doubtful at best.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘It is quite simple, councillor. You will ask them to surrender a boy they do not have. Therefore they must refuse. I am sure that this misunderstanding will lead to bloodshed.’
Raseev looked at him closely. ‘What is it that you want, Seregas?’
‘There is a wanted man at the church. There is a small reward for him.
I’ll take his body.’
‘Wanted by whom?’
That is none of your affair, councillor.’
Raseev had smiled. ‘You are becoming rich, Seregas. A small reward would interest you not at all. It occurs to me that — if matters get out of hand — all the bodies will be burned. Mobs and fire, Seregas.’
Seregas sipped his wine. ‘Very well, councillor, then I shall be more open with you. One of the priests is worth a great deal of money.’
‘As I asked before: to whom?’
To the Naashanite Queen. I have already sent a rider to Naashan. It should take him around five days to reach the border, and another two weeks, perhaps, for my letter to reach the capital.’
‘Who is this priest?’
‘Skilgannon.’
The Damned?’
‘The very same. We will need to keep his body for viewing. If we remove the inner organs then cover the corpse with salt it will dry and remain largely intact. Enough for them to see the tattoos. He has a spider on his forearm, a panther upon his chest and an eagle upon his back. In all other respects he also matches the description: dark-haired, tall with eyes of brilliant blue. After he arrived here the abbot sold a Ventrian pure bred
