He walked back to his room and pulled the narrow chest from beneath the bed. From it he took a cream- coloured shirt of linen edged with white satin. It was collarless and sleeveless. He draped it across the bed and pulled clear a pair of leather leggings and a broad brown belt. These he laid alongside the shirt. Stripping off his blood-drenched robes, he tossed them to the floor and put on the clothes from the chest. He tugged on a pair of knee-length brown riding boots, then stood and stamped his feet.
The boots felt tight after two years of wearing open sandals. Lastly he lifted clear a riding jacket of greased buckskin. This was also sleeveless, but long leather fringes, tipped with silver, had been placed over both shoulders. The silver was tarnished now and black, as were the silver rings
— five on each side — which decorated the outer sides of his boots from knee to ankle. Donning the jacket, he strolled from the room without a backward glance.
Brother Braygan was waiting in the courtyard. ‘It was a nasty gash,’ he told Skilgannon. ‘Naslyn stitched it. I think he will be fine.’
‘That is good.’
‘You are leaving us?’
‘How can I stay, Braygan? Even without the deaths they know who I am.
Hunters will come, killers seeking bounty.’
‘So you really are the Damned?’
‘I am.’
‘It is hard to believe. The stories must be… exaggerated.’
‘No, they are not. Everything you have heard is true.’
Moving away from him Skilgannon mounted the steps to Cethelin’s chambers. He found him upon his bed, Naslyn beside him. The black-bearded priest rose as he entered and left quietly. Skilgannon approached the bed and looked down at the grey face of the elderly abbot.
‘I am sorry, Elder Brother.’
‘As am I, Skilgannon. I thought my dream meant a candle of love. It did not. It meant a warrior’s flame. Now everything we set out to do here is sullied. We are the priests who killed to save ourselves.’
‘Would you sooner have died out there?’
‘Yes, Skilgannon, I would. Or rather the priest that I am would. The man that I am is grateful for a few more days, months or years of life. Go to the closet over there. At its base you will find a bundle wrapped in an old blanket. Fetch it here.’
Skilgannon did as he was bid. As he touched the bundle he knew instinctively what was hidden within it. His pulse began to race. ‘Open it,’
ordered Cethelin.
‘I do not want them.’
‘Then take them from here and see them destroyed. When first you gave them to me I felt their evil. I hoped that you would become free of the dark power. I watched you suffer, and I took pride in the strength you showed.
But I could not discard them, or sell them as you suggested. It would have been like loosing a plague on a troubled world. They are yours, Skilgannon.
Take them. Take them far from here.’
Laying the bundle on a nearby table Skilgannon loosed the thongs that bound it and lifted clear the blanket. Lying there were the Swords of Night and Day. Sunlight from the window gleamed on the carved ivory handles, and glinted upon the single polished black sheath. Taking hold of the silver-edged baldric connecting both ends of the sheath he swung the weapons to his back. There was something else in the bundle, a bulging leather pouch. He hefted it.
‘There are twenty-eight golden raq in that pouch,’ said Cethelin. ‘All that remains of the money from the stallion I sold for you. The rest was used to purchase food for the poor during the drought year.’
‘Did you know who I was when I came here, Elder Brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why then did you let me stay?’
‘No man is beyond redemption. Even the Damned. It is our duty to love the unlovable, and by so doing open their hearts to the Source. Do I regret it? Yes. Would I do it again? Yes. You recall I asked you if you would grant me a favour? Do you still hold to that?’
‘Of course.’
‘I am sending Braygan to the elders in Mellicane. Go with him and see him safely into their charge.’
‘Braygan is a pure soul. Do you not think he might be corrupted by my evil?’
‘Perhaps. Yes, he is pure and unsullied. He is also untried and understands little of the harshness of this world. If he can walk with you to Mellicane and remain pure then he will be a better priest for it. If he cannot then he should seek a future outside the church. Farewell, Skilgannon.’
‘I preferred it when you called me Brother Lantern.’
‘Brother Lantern died outside these walls, Skilgannon. He fled when the blood flowed. One day he may return. I will pray for that day. Go now. The sight of you offends me.’
Skilgannon said no more. Turning away from the old priest he moved to the door and stepped outside. Naslyn was waiting. Reaching out, he gripped Skilgannon’s arm. ‘I thank you, Brother,’ he said.
‘For your life?’
‘For giving me the courage to stay.’ Naslyn sighed. ‘I am no philosopher.
Maybe Cethelin is right. Maybe we should just offer our love to the world and let the world rip our hearts out. I have no answers, man. But given the choice between having Cethelin in this world, or that foul baker, Antol, I know which I’d choose.’ He looked Skilgannon in the eye. ‘You are a brave man, and I respect you. Where will you go?’
‘First to Mellicane. After that? I do not know.’
‘May the Source be with you, wherever you journey.’
‘He and I are not on speaking terms, I fear. Take care, Naslyn.’
CHAPTER FIVE
RABALYN LAY VERY STILL, KNOWING THAT IF HE MOVED THE
DRAGON would see him. He could feel the fire of its breath on his arm, his chest, and the left side of his face. The pain was searing. The youth did not look at the dragon. He lay with his eyes closed, using all his strength not to cry out. His body began to shake. The dragon’s fire ceased, and then a terrible cold settled over him. He knew then that the dragon had been replaced by a Frost Demon. Aunt Athyla had spoken of such creatures in the far north. They would creep close to homes and chill the bones of the sick and weak. If anything the cold was worse than the dragon’s heat. It ate into his flesh.
Rabalyn opened his eyes and struggled to his knees. He was in a small hollow, surrounded by trees and bushes. Weak sunlight was filtering through the branches overhead. His hand touched a thick fallen branch.
He grabbed it and wielded it like a club. Then looked around for the Frost Demon. Sweat was dripping into his eyes.
There was no demon. No dragon. His throat was awfully dry, and his arms and face prickled with pain.
‘Dreaming,’ he said aloud. The trembling grew worse. His naked body was soaked with sweat and dew and the light breeze blowing through the woods felt like a winter blizzard. Rabalyn rose on unsteady legs and made it to a thick bush. Crouching down, he groaned as fresh pain flared from his thigh. He glanced down and saw that the skin was puckered and raw.
He lay down. It seemed warmer here, and, for a few moments, he felt almost normal. The warmth grew. And grew. Sweat bathed his features and dripped from his face.
He saw again the knife slam into Todhe’s neck, and Aunt Athyla’s body lying before the burning house.
The dragon returned. This time Rabalyn looked at it, uncaring and unafraid. Its body was golden and scaled,
