its head long and flat. The fire that burned Rabalyn did not come from its mouth, but from its eyes. So bright they were that it pained the youth to look upon them. ‘Go away,’ he whispered. ‘Leave me be.’
‘He is delirious,’ said the dragon.
‘The burns are festering,’ said another voice.
Rabalyn drifted into strange dreams. He was floating upon a clear lake.
The water was cool upon his skin, save for where the sun beat down on his face and arm. He tried to lower himself further into the cold liquid, but it was impossible. Aunt Athyla was there, sitting in an old chair. He realized then that he was not in a lake at all, but in a shallow bath. ‘Where have you been, child?’ asked Aunt Athyla. ‘It is very late.’
‘I’m sorry, Aunt. I don’t know where I’ve been.’
‘Do you think he will die?’ someone asked Aunt Athyla.
Rabalyn could not see the speaker. Aunt Athyla did not answer. She was unravelling a ball of wool. Only it wasn’t wool. It was fire. A ball of fire. ‘I shall make you a cloak,’ she said. ‘It will keep you warm in the winter.’
‘I don’t want it,’ he said.
‘Nonsense. It will be a lovely cloak. Here, feel the wool.’
She rubbed the fire against his face and he screamed.
Darkness swamped him. When the light came again he found himself looking at the strangest sight. A man was kneeling over him, but floating above the man’s shoulders were two curious faces. One was dark, with wide, slanted golden eyes, like a wolf; the other was pale, the mouth a long gash filled with pointed teeth. The eyes were slitted, like those of a cat.
Both faces shimmered, as if shaped from woodsmoke. The man seemed oblivious of the smoke creatures. ‘Can you hear me, Rabalyn?’ he asked.
The face was familiar, but he could not place it in his memory, and drifted off into more dreams.
When at last he awoke the pain from his burns was more bearable. He was lying on the ground, a blanket covering him. There was a bandage over his left arm. Rabalyn groaned. Immediately a man came and knelt beside him. He recognized him as one of the priests.
‘I know you,’ he said.
‘I am Brother Braygan,’ said the man, helping Rabalyn to sit and offering him a drink of water. Rabalyn took the copper cup and drained it.
‘How did you come by these burns?’
‘Todhe set fire to my aunt’s house.’
‘I am sorry. Is your aunt all right?’
‘No. She died.’
Another figure moved alongside. At first Rabalyn failed to recognize him. He was wearing a fringed jacket, and his arms were bare. A black spider had been tattooed upon his forearm. Rabalyn looked into the man’s pale eyes. He realized it was the priest, Brother Lantern. ‘They are hunting you, boy,’ said Lantern. ‘You cannot go back to the town.’
‘I know. I killed Todhe. I wish I hadn’t.’
‘He’ll have to come with us,’ said Brother Braygan.
‘What will he do in Mellicane?’ snapped Lantern. ‘Become a beggar on the streets?’
‘My mother and father are there,’ said Rabalyn. ‘I shall find them.’
‘There, that is settled then,’ said Braygan. ‘You rest for now. I have applied herbal poultices to the burns on your legs and arms. They will be painful for a while, but they will heal, I think.’
Rabalyn drifted off to sleep — and slowly sank into a lake of dreams.
When he awoke it was dark. The dreams drifted away like mist on the breeze.
Save for one. He remembered a terrible axe, and a man with eyes the colour of a winter sky. Rabalyn shivered at the memory.
In the morning Brother Lantern took a spare shirt and breeches from his pack and gave them to Rabalyn. The shirt was of a soft cloth Rabalyn had never seen before. There was a sheen to it that caught the light. It was pale blue, and upon the breast was a small snake, embroidered in gold thread. It was coiled and ready to strike. ‘My burns will stain the cloth,’
said Rabalyn. ‘I don’t want to ruin such a fine shirt.’
‘It is just an item of clothing,’ said Lantern dismissively. The breeches were of a thin, black leather, and too long for the youth. Braygan knelt at his feet, folding the leather up and over Rabalyn’s ankles. From his own pack Braygan took a pair of sandals. Rabalyn tied them on. They were an almost perfect fit.
‘There, that should suffice,’ said Braygan. ‘You look like a young nobleman.’
The next few days proved difficult for Rabalyn. The burns did not heal swiftly, the flesh puckering and splitting. Even the new skin, when it formed, was tight and easily broken. The pain was constant. He tried not to complain, for he realized that the tall warrior, who had been Brother Lantern, did not want him around. The man rarely spoke to him. On the other hand he didn’t speak much to Brother Braygan either. He just strode on ahead, sometimes disappearing from view. Whenever they passed through areas of hills he would run up the tallest slope and study their back trail.
On the morning of the fourth day the warrior — as Rabalyn had come to think of him — ushered them off the road and into thick undergrowth.
There they crouched behind a screen of bushes as five horsemen came into sight, riding hard. Rabalyn recognized the lean figure of Seregas, the Captain of the Watch.
After the horsemen had passed Rabalyn felt close to tears. His wounds were painful. He was travelling with strangers, one of whom did not like him, and the officers of the Watch were still hunting him. What if they followed him all the way to Mellicane, and reported him as a murderer?
The warrior led them deeper into the woods to the left of the trail, and for most of the day they travelled over rough country. By evening Rabalyn was exhausted. The warrior found a hidden hollow and lit a small fire.
Rabalyn did not sit too close to it. His wounds could not tolerate heat.
Brother Braygan brought him a bowl of broth. ‘Are you feeling a little better?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You are sad because of your aunt. I see it in your eyes.’
Rabalyn felt ashamed. He had been more concerned with his own plight, and guilt at his selfishness bore down on him. ‘She was a good woman,’ he said, unwilling to lie outright.
The warrior had vanished into the night, and Rabalyn felt more comfortable in his absence. ‘I wish he’d just go away,’ he said aloud.
‘Who?’ asked Braygan. Rabalyn was immediately embarrassed. He had not meant to voice the thought.
‘Brother Lantern. He frightens me.’
‘He will do you no harm, Rabalyn. Lantern is a… good man.’
‘What happened back at the church? Did the mob go there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did they burn everything?’
‘They burned nothing, Rabalyn. Tell me about your parents. Do you know where they live now?’
Rabalyn shook his head. ‘Don’t suppose they’ll want me around. They left me and my sister with Aunt Athyla years ago. They never sent word or anything. They don’t even know Lesha is dead. Truth is they’re both worthless.’
Now it was Braygan who looked uncomfortable. ‘Never say that, my friend. We all have weaknesses. No-one is perfect. You must learn to forgive.’
Rabalyn did not respond. Aunt Athyla had never spoken badly of his parents, but as he grew older he heard stories. His father had been a lazy man, twice dismissed and once jailed for a year for stealing from his employers. He was also a drunkard, and Rabalyn’s one clear memory of him was seeing him strike his mother in the face after a row. She had been hurled back against a wall, half stunned. Rabalyn had been six years old at the time, and he had run to his mother, in tears. That was when his father kicked him. ‘How is a man supposed to make something of himself?’ his father had shouted. ‘Bad enough trying to earn enough to get by, without having
