Midnight Falcon

Chapter Seven

Bane floated in a sea of dreams, faces and images floating across his mind, merging and changing. He saw his mother Arian, then Vorna, then the elderly hunter Parax, then Falco the Gladiator… An endless stream of people flowed past him. He tried to reach out to them, but his fingers passed through them, rippling the images as if they were water. He awoke in a cold sweat and threw back the covers. The room was cold, and ice had sealed the shutters.

He sat up, and groaned as hot hammers began to beat inside his skull. Rising he dressed swiftly and left the room. In the kitchen Cara was helping the fat Gath woman, Girta, to clean the breakfast plates. 'You slept late,' said Cara. 'I could toast you some of yesterday's bread?'

'That would be welcome,' said Bane.

The pounding in his head eased off slightly, but a dull ache had begun behind his eyes. He sat down at the table and rubbed his temples. The veins below the skin were hard as copper wire. Girta dropped a muslin pouch of herbs into a cup and filled it with hot water. A sweet scent filled the room. She placed the cup in front of him. 'Wait awhile,' she said, 'then drink it. You'll feel better.'

Bane forced a smile. 'Do I look that bad?'

'You are very pale, and there are dark hollows under your eyes. Uisge hollows.' She grinned at him. Bane rubbed his eyes. He thought he had taken only a few swallows of uisge, but he remembered the strength of it. It was like swallowing fire.

A few minutes later Cara returned with a plate of hot buttered toast. Bane thanked her, and sipped his tisane. Girta was right. His head began to clear almost immediately. 'Where are Rage and Telors?' he asked.

'They had breakfast an hour ago, then went for a run,' said Cara. 'Telors said not to wake you, because you had been drinking uisge.' She gave him an accusing look. 'Grandfather says gladiators should not drink strong spirit. It is like poison, he says.'

'He's a very wise man,' observed Bane.

'He's not going to fight again,' said the girl. 'Not ever.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

She looked at Girta. 'Yesterday was a terrible day, wasn't it, Girta? Sitting here not knowing if Grandfather… It was a terrible day.'

'But today is not so terrible,' said Bane.

'Today is my birthday,' said Cara. 'I am fourteen. Grandfather and I are going into the city. He is going to buy me a horse. Not a pony! A horse. And we are going to buy more cattle. Grandfather is rich now. That's why he doesn't need to fight again.'

As Bane was finishing his breakfast Rage and Telors ran into the open ground beyond the kitchen window. Bane glanced through the window. Telors waved at him and walked over to lean on the sill. 'The young just can't handle strong drink,' he said, with a grin.

'It wasn't the drink,' said Bane. 'It was your snoring. I hardly slept a wink.'

Telors flicked snow at him from the sill, then turned as a rider came into sight. The man wore an expensive cloak edged with ermine, and fur-lined riding boots. His horse was a fine beast, well groomed and keen-eyed. Rage walked out to meet him. Bane wandered to the window. 'Who is he?' he asked Telors.

'Judging by the eagle embroidered on his tunic I'd say he's from Palantes,' Telors told him, then wandered off to join Rage.

Bane headed through to the main room and sat down by the fire. His headache was almost gone, but he felt drained of energy. The chair was deep and comfortable, and he stretched out his legs and closed his eyes.

'Someone here to see you,' said Rage. Bane sat up. The visitor, a tall man running to fat, dipped his head in a short bow. Bane picked up the scent of perfume.

'I am Jain, First Slave to Circus Palantes,' said the newcomer, his voice smooth and melodious. 'It is a pleasure to meet you.'

Bane stood and shook the proffered hand. The man's grip was soft, the fingers clammy. 'I watched you fight yesterday. You were very impressive.' Bane said nothing. 'I have spoken to Persis Albitane about you, and made him an offer for your contract. In short, Circus Palantes would like to sponsor you.'

'Sponsor me?'

'They want you to fight for them,' said Rage.

'Five hundred in gold upon your signature, and a guaranteed two hundred each time you fight. Your lodgings and personal expenses will also be paid by the circus, and we will supply you with armour and weapons.'

Bane looked at Rage. 'Is this a fair offer?'

'Yes, but no more than that.'

'What do you advise?'

'Think on it,' said Rage.

Bane looked at the man from Palantes. 'I will give you my answer tomorrow,' he said.

'You won't get a better offer,' said Jain, holding his smile in place.

'Tomorrow,' Bane repeated.

'Yes, yes, of course. Well, as I said, it was a pleasure, and congratulations on your duel.' He turned to Rage. 'My congratulations also to you, sir. We all thought Vorkas was destined to be Gladiator One. You showed us the error in that judgment.'

'Good-bye,' said Rage, opening the door for him.

The man left the farmhouse, climbed on his horse and rode away.

'As I told you,' said Rage, 'Palantes do not grieve for long. There is always another fighter waiting to be sucked dry.'

'I did not like the man,' said Bane. 'Yet his offer takes me closer to my… quest.'

'Aye, it does that,' said Rage. 'They are a disciplined circus, with good trainers and fine facilities: their own bathhouses, masseurs, surgeons. They even have a whorehouse purely for the gladiators and owners. They will rent you a house, and pay for up to four servants and a personal trainer.'

'You make it sound very tempting,' said Bane. 'Now tell me why I should refuse them.'

'No reason I can think of, boy. You dream of revenge. This will help you to prepare for that day. Either that or you'll die on the sand.'

'Circus Palantes wanted you dead,' Bane reminded him.

'Aye, they did. But there was no malice in it. No passion whatsoever. Merely a cold desire to make money. Such people do not warrant hate, merely contempt. Were I young again I would not fight for them. We are not, however, talking about me, but about you. You have no reason to despise Palantes. They do what they do. That is their nature.' Rage moved towards the doorway. 'Now I need to bathe and get ready to take Cara into the city. You think about what I have said. Discuss it with Persis. I don't doubt he'll be here within the hour.'

Two hours later, as Bane returned from a run over the hills, he saw two horses tethered outside the farmhouse. He slowed to a jog and stood for a while, stretching, allowing the cold winter wind to chill the sweat on his skin. Salt from the sweat was stinging the stitched wound in his shoulder, but his headache had cleared. The events of the night before kept returning to haunt him. Why had the Morrigu appeared to him? What was her purpose? But above it all he felt a great sadness for Rage. In the weeks he had known the ageing gladiator Bane had come to regard him highly, had seen him – despite the occasional flashes of bitterness – as a contented man. Now he knew Rage carried an enormous sorrow.

He shivered as the cold cut into his cooling skin and stepped into the kitchen. Girta was there, preparing food for the evening meal.

She gave him a smile and nodded towards the main room. 'You have two visitors,' she said. 'How popular you have become.' Bane went upstairs, removed his clothes and towelled himself down. Pulling on a fresh pair of leggings and a clean shirt, he tugged on his boots and returned to the ground floor.

Persis Albitane rose as he entered, his fat face beaming. Striding forward he shook hands with Bane. 'You are looking well, my friend,' said Persis. 'Allow me to introduce you to Horath, who is here representing Circus Occian. He was at the stadium yesterday.'

The man was in his early twenties, slim and dark-haired, his brown eyes deep-set. His clothes were expensive: a shirt of heavy grey silk that shone like silver, and black leggings of good wool, edged with glistening leather. At his hip he wore a jewel-encrusted dagger with a golden pommel. Bane accepted the man's handshake, which was firm and brief, then moved to a chair by the fire. 'Horath came to see me this morning,' said Persis. 'He was enquiring as to your contract with Circus Crises.'

'I am much in demand, it seems,' said Bane.

'Indeed you are, Bane,' said Horath, returning to his seat. 'The crowds in Stone would flock to see a Rigante warrior.'

'What are you offering?'

Horath smiled, and there was genuine humour in it. 'Whatever Jain offered, plus one gold piece,' he said.

'And I suppose Circus Occian will value me highly and treat me like an honoured son?'

This time Horath laughed aloud. 'There will be those who will tell you exactly that,' he said. 'The reality, as I am sure you are aware, is that you will be a valuable commodity and treated as such. When you win you will be lauded and admired, and Circus Occian will become richer. When you lose your body will be cast into a pauper's pit and you will be forgotten within days. I will then be despatched to find another fighter to replace you.'

'You make it sound very tempting,' said Bane. 'I especially liked the reference to the pauper's pit.'

'I despise deceit,' Horath told him. 'I have little appetite for pretty falsehoods and insincere flattery. I do it, of course. In the higher circles of Stone it is required practice. But not when I can avoid it. I think you would be a valuable addition to our Circus, and you will certainly help to fill the stadium.'

'They will come to see the savage barbarian?' asked Bane.

'Indeed so.'

'What is your view?' Bane asked Persis.

The fat man spread his hands. 'There are only three major circuses, Palantes, Occian and Poros. Two of them want you. Both are highly respected, and both offer you a chance to become a good – and rich – gladiator. You must decide, Bane.'

'What of Circus Orises? Do you want me to stay?'

Persis smiled. 'I will have no more death bouts. It was good to see the stadium full, but I hated watching men die for the joy of others. No, I have other plans. You would be most welcome to stay, but I have to say that, with the money I shall receive for your contract, I can expand the circus into other areas. In short, I am the wrong person to ask for advice, for I will profit greatly by your departure.'

He chuckled and turned to Horath. 'Damn, but this honesty business is infectious.'

Bane leaned back in his chair. In order to kill Voltan he needed to learn to fight as well as the Stone Knight. There was no better way of doing that than to join a major circus. Finally he looked at Horath. 'If you hire Rage and Telors as my personal trainers I will accept your offer. If they refuse then I refuse.'

'Your services do not come cheaply,' said Horath, 'but then nothing good ever does. Very well, I shall speak to Rage. I have to say that Circus Occian would be delighted to have him.' He rose from his chair, and swung his cloak round his shoulders. He and Bane shook hands, and the three men walked out into the weak sunlight. Bane swung to Persis.

'So, what will you do with all this money you are making?' he asked.

'I intend to buy an elephant,' said Persis happily.

Rage was uncomfortable, and shifted uneasily in his chair. Telors was sitting on a couch, his long legs stretched out before him. 'What do you think?' said Bane. 'Would you be interested?'

'I'm interested,' said Telors, glancing towards the old gladiator. 'What about you, Vanni?'

'I don't know. I'd like to see Stone again, and it would be good to enrol Cara in a good school, prepare her for life in the city.'

'But?' said Telors.

Rage gave a tight smile. 'I want to do it for the right reasons, yet deep inside I see it as a way of making Palantes pay.'

'Nothing wrong with revenge,' said Telors.

'It darkens the spirit,' said Rage, looking directly into Bane's eyes. 'What will you do if I refuse this offer?'

'I will stay here, and hope that you will continue to train me. I believe you to be the best, and I will learn more from you than any other man.'

'That is not so, Bane. Training can only carry you so far. The reality of combat will teach you much more. Let us understand something from the outset: you are a gifted fighter, with good heart and natural speed. It could be that you have the potential to be great. I don't yet know whether that is true. What I do know is that you are a long way from being able to… fulfil your quest. If I do agree to train you I want your promise that you will not seek that which you desire until I say that you are ready.'

'I'm not sure I can promise that,' said Bane.

'If you cannot, then we must part company.'

'Would it be easier to talk if I wasn't here?' asked Telors. 'You both seem to be skirting around something.'

Rage looked at Bane and said nothing. Bane turned to Telors. 'A man from Stone killed a woman I had come to love. I was there. I watched his sword cleave through her ribs. It is my intention to hunt this man down and kill him.'

'Understandable,' said Telors. 'So what is the problem?'

‘The man was Voltan,' said Rage.

'Oh. I see.' Telors scratched his black beard and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.

'I know he's good,' said Bane.

Telors laughed. 'He would have to lose half his talent to be merely good. Have you considered walking up behind him and plunging a knife into his back?'

'No. I want to face him.'

'I have seen hundreds of fighters,' said Telors. 'Good, bad, mediocre. Some were even great. But I have only ever seen two men whose talents were god-like. One is Vanni, the other Voltan. Men like them are rare, young 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.

'And what is your name?'

'Banouin, sir. I am a student and a copier of texts.'

'Banouin, eh? Are you a loyal citizen, Banouin?'

'I am, sir. And proud to be so.'

The Knight swung his horse and cantered back after the others. The spiritual odour of violence still hung in the air and Banouin shivered. He trudged back along the path to the Library. Last week two tutors and a dozen students had been arrested and hauled from the university. Nothing had been heard of them since. Banouin did not interest himself in politics or religion, and had no wish to be drawn into any debate. It had frightened him when old Sencra had raised the subject in his study one evening.

'Have you come across the Tree Cult, young man?'

'No, sir. Nor do I wish to.'

'Interesting ideas, though I find most of their arguments specious, and their pacifism positively revolting.'

'I do not wish to speak of them, sir.'

Sencra chuckled. 'You think the priests might come for you in the dead of night, eh? Well, so they might – were you to join the Cult. But it is not yet a crime to speak of them. You are a Keltoi. You believe in spirits and such? The Seidh, you call them?'

'I do, sir.'

'And are they benign or malevolent?'

'They can be both,' said Banouin, more comfortable now that the conversation had seemingly veered away from the Tree Cult. 'They exist separately from us. There are woods, magical places. Men do not go there.'

'Creatures of spirit, are they?'

'Aye, sir. Yet they can appear in the flesh, so to speak. Connavar the King was helped by both the Thagda and the Old Woman of the Forest.'

'The Thagda… ah yes, the Tree Man. I remember reading of him. He has a body of bark, and lichen for a beard.' Sencra chuckled. 'And the Old Woman… the Morrigu, isn't it?'

Banouin shivered. 'It is best not to speak her name, sir. It brings ill luck.'

'It seems to me that there are similarities between the Tree Cult and the beliefs of the Keltoi. Both speak of spirit and matter, and the necessity of harmony between the two. As far as I can understand the principle it is that the body is an imperfect vessel for the spirit, and that the spirit cannot function to its full potential while the body is driven by carnal desires, or anger, or hatred. What do you think?'

'I think, with respect, we should not be talking about this,' said Banouin. 'It is dangerous.'

'You Keltoi are said to be insanely courageous and great fighters,' said Sencra. 'You disappoint me. Very well, let us discuss the works of Habidaes, and the Iron Rule.'

Banouin remembered the conversation as he walked towards the Library. He was a citizen of Stone, not a Keltoi, and it stung him that even here his tribal shortcomings should be thrown in his face.

The Library was huge and white, fifty massive pillars supporting two hundred rooms under a domed roof. Exquisite statues had been placed all around the building, and other equally magnificent carvings adorned the walls, and the many niches set within the columns. Banouin climbed the forty-two steps to the main doors and entered the Hall of Nature. Here, set on plinths, were scores of stuffed animals and birds of every kind. A huge elephant, covered in fur, stood at the far end, trunk lifted, caught in mid-cry. The tusks were more than ten feet long. There were crocodiles, turtles, several bears – one albino white – and other creatures from distant lands: a striped horse, a huge spotted lion, and an animal with an immensely long neck. This last was half rearing, its dead lips nibbling at an artificial tree set on the gallery of Level Two.

Banouin climbed the stairs to Level Three and the Antiquities section. Upon entering he was surprised to see four young men in the far corner, sitting huddled together. They looked up as he entered, scrutinized him, then returned to their whispers.

Taking a scroll from the Shelf of the Keltoi, Banouin moved to a small table set against the wall. Then he carefully opened the scroll and began to read. The author of the piece had been dead for two hundred years, and much of what he said concerning the Keltoi people was wildly inaccurate. In one section he talked of human sacrifices and the eating of human flesh, claiming it to be a fetish among the tribes. Banouin had never heard of human sacrifice being practised by any Keltoi. Irritated by the lack of scholarship in the scroll Banouin returned it, and drew another.

This dealt with – among other matters – the spiritual beliefs among tribesmen, and talked of tree worship. It also maintained, with great seriousness, that the Keltoi were a child-like race, incapable of serious intellectual thought, who believed thunderstorms to be the clashing shields of the gods. It pointed out, however, that, if treated with firm discipline, the Keltoi made good slaves.

Banouin returned this to its place. At the back of the shelf he saw a faded scroll that had slipped from its niche. Carefully he lifted it clear. It was bound with an old ribbon, frayed at the edges. It contained, in note form, a description of a Keltoi ritual, in which a druid blessed the land of a farmer, whose crops had been blighted since he built his farmhouse three years before. The druid maintained that a battle had been fought on this land a hundred years before, and the spirit had departed from it. In order to bring the spirit back the druid arranged for a wedding feast to be held on the land. Hundreds of Keltoi were invited, and they danced and sang, and made merry throughout the day and long into the night. The writer, a Stone merchant, had added a postscript to the scroll, saying that the following season the farmer enjoyed a successful crop.

The writing was crisp, authoritative and beguiling. There was no comment concerning the scenes witnessed, merely detailed observation. Banouin wanted to read on, but he became aware of a growing tension within the large room. It was flowing from the group of young men talking in the corner. Fear was present, and an immense sadness. Banouin pretended to read. He wished he could float from his body and listen to their conversation, but such separation was impossible here. For his spirit to soar Banouin had to be close to the willow.

He strained to hear what they were saying, but could make out no words. At last they stood to leave. Banouin returned to his studying, but glanced up as they passed. The last of them, a tall handsome young man with close-cropped black hair, paused at Banouin's table. 'You are Banouin the Healer?' he asked.

Banouin's heart sank. He had helped his tutor, Sencra, removing a huge abscess from his back, and twice now had been recommended by the old man to his friends. Banouin had masked the use of his power by first applying sweet-smelling poultices, filled with aromatic herbs, like mint or lavender. Having done this he would then close his eyes and heal the wound. With Sencra it had been an abscess, with both the other older men it had been inflammation of the joints caused by arthritis. Banouin wished he had never used the skill at all, for he did not want to stand out in Stone. He wanted peace and relative anonymity.

'I do have some skills with herbs,' he said. 'A small skill, however,' he added.

'Maro, son of Barus,' said the young man, offering his hand.

'Your father was kind to me when I arrived,' Banouin answered. 'Please convey to him my best regards.'

Maro smiled. 'He is away fighting again – but I'll try to remember for when he gets back.'

Despite the smile Banouin could tell Maro was worried about him. Tension and fear were still radiating from the young man, and from his fellows, waiting in the corridor outside.

'I have not seen you here before,' said Banouin. 'What are you studying?'

'History, obviously. Why else would we be here?'

'I meant what period of history,' said Banouin smoothly.

'The early history of the city,' answered Maro. 'We all have examinations in the spring. You? What brings you here?'

'I am paid to copy the oldest and most fragile of the parchments and scrolls. Strange, really, since many of them lie unread for years. Some are even in languages no-one now knows how to read. Yet still I copy them as faithfully as I can.'

Maro relaxed. 'Well, perhaps I will see you here again. Good day to you.'

Banouin tried to return to his studies, but his heart was not in it.

Seeing the Knights beat and arrest the student had brought his dilemma home. While he loved the architecture of the city, and its libraries and museums, he could no longer blind himself to the terror being faced by many of the inhabitants. Cultists were rounded up daily, and herded to the dungeons below the Crimson Temple. Many would be hanged, others burned. Only last week forty men had been taken to the Circus Palantes stadium, where they had been tied to stakes and surrounded by oil-soaked brushwood. They had then been set alight. The crowd, apparently, cheered as the screams sounded.

Banouin had not wanted to see the evil in Stone. But it was all around him.

You must stay clear of trouble, he told himself. Do not engage in any religious debate. One day the Terror will be over. Until that day keep yourself safe.

Three days later old Sencra was arrested. Four black-cloaked Knights entered the university, marched through to the lecture hall, and dragged Sencra from the podium. At first the old man was furious, shouting at them to release him. Then a Knight cuffed him on the ear, sending him sprawling. Now Sencra's cries were piteous.

Banouin was one of a hundred students gathered to hear the tutor, and he could not believe what he was seeing. Sitting as he always did close to the door, Banouin found himself rising from his seat and moving to stand before the Knights as they dragged the crying man towards the exit.

'Of what is he accused?' Banouin heard himself say, his voice echoing in the domed hall. The first of the Knights loomed over the young man.

'Do you seek to hinder us?' he asked.

'Of what is he accused?' repeated Banouin. 'Sencra is a good citizen and a fine teacher.'

The Knight looked into Banouin's eyes. 'He has been named as a Tree Cultist. He will be taken to the Temple for a hearing.'

'It is a mistake,' said Banouin. 'Sencra has always spoken against such cults.'

'It is true! It is true!' wailed Sencra. 'It is a mistake!'

The Knight stepped in close to Banouin. 'You are trying my patience, young man. And I have no more time for debate.'

Banouin was about to speak again when the man's fist lashed into his temple, sending him sprawling to the floor. He lay there, his head spinning. Hands helped him to his feet, and he was led away from the hall to a small side room, where someone sat him in a chair.

Maro brought a damp cloth and dabbed at his temple. Banouin was surprised to see blood upon the cloth. 'I must get to the Temple,' said Banouin. 'This is not right.'

'Sit still,' said Maro. 'Right has nothing to do with it.'

'He is not a Cultist,' said Banouin.

'Of course he's not. But he has been named.'

Another young man entered, bearing a cup of water, which he offered to Banouin. He sipped the liquid. His stomach felt queasy, and his head was pounding. 'I… need to lie down,' he whispered. Once more he was helped to his feet. He leaned against Maro, feeling the room spin.

They took him along the corridor, and into a second, windowless room, laying him upon a cot bed. Banouin lost consciousness almost immediately. When he awoke he saw a lantern had been lit on the far wall. He lay very still. His stomach was still uneasy, but the pain in his head had eased. He touched his temple. There was a lump there, and a scab had formed upon it.

'How are you feeling?' asked Maro. Banouin rolled onto his side and saw the dark-haired young man sitting at the bedside.

'They took him away,' said Banouin.

'Aye, they did.'

Banouin closed his eyes. 'Why?'

'Stone is in the grip of the Terror. There's no point in asking why another innocent man is taken. There have never been more than a thousand Cultists in Stone. Yet four thousand people have been executed in just three years: hanged, burned, or beheaded. Some of the richer, more influential citizens have been allowed to take poison.'

Banouin did not reply. He felt the mists drawing away from his vision. He had so wanted to believe in Stone and all it stood for that he had blinded himself to the truth. By not talking about the Terror – not even thinking about it – he had created for himself the image of the perfect city, a place of learning and culture.

'I want to go to my home,' he said, struggling to sit.

'Where do you live?'

'I have rooms near the White Plaza.'

'I'll help you,' said Maro, taking his arm. Banouin stood, and swayed. Maro helped him out into the corridor and through the deserted university, out into the wide avenue beyond. It was almost dusk and the fresh air revived Banouin. He began to walk unaided. Within minutes they reached the White Plaza, where the fading sun made rainbows dance around tall fountains, and early evening diners were sitting at tables outside the many eating houses. Servants were lighting coloured lanterns and hanging them from ropes strung between the buildings. The sound of laughter echoed from one group.

Banouin sat down on the rim of a fountain pool. Maro joined him. 'How does the emperor gain by these… these killings?' asked Banouin.

'In the beginning he profited because the first people arrested were supporters of the republic. In short they were Jasaray's enemies. But now? I don't believe he gains at all. Quite the reverse, in fact. Nalademus becomes more powerful day by day.'

'Then why doesn't Jasaray stop it?'

'He can't. Most of his Panthers are committed to the war in the east. There are now more Knights in the city than loyal soldiers. Were he to move against Nalademus he would lose. He will probably lose anyway. Jasaray is over sixty, with no wife and no sons. He will be toppled before the year is out.'

'And Nalademus will be emperor?'

'That is my belief. But my father says Jasaray is a cunning old fox, and shouldn't be dismissed lightly.'

'Does your father know you are a Cultist?' asked Banouin, keeping his voice low.

'I am not a Cultist – though I have listened to their teachers. I think their philosophy of love and harmony is wonderful, but I have not the strength for it. And I have no wish to embrace my enemies and make them my friends. I will meet my enemies with a sharp sword and a strong arm. Though when I listen to the Veiled Lady I could almost believe.'

An empty pony trap came clattering by. Banouin shouted to the driver, asking if the trap was for hire. The man drew rein. 'Where did you want to go?' he asked.

'The Crimson Temple.'

'Climb in, young sir,' the driver told him.

'Are you insane?' whispered Maro, grabbing Banouin's arm.

'I must speak up for Sencra,' he said.

Maro shook his head. 'My father said you Rigante were courageous to the point of madness. Now I see he was right.'

'I am not courageous, Maro. All my life I have been a coward. But this I must do.'

'You must be very fond of the old man.'

'Not even that – though I like him well enough.'

'Well, why then?' asked Maro, confused.

'Because it is right to do so,' said Banouin. 'If they take him for the burning, and I do not speak, it will be as if I lit the torch myself. You understand?'

'You can't save him, my friend.'

'It is not about saving him. It is about saving me,' said Banouin, climbing into the rear seat of the pony trap.

The driver cracked his whip and the trap moved out along the avenue.

Banouin leaned back against the cushioned seat and watched as the city of Stone slid slowly by him. Crowds were moving along the avenue, seeking places to dine before attending the many theatres, and scores of pony traps and carriages flowed by, filled, for the most part, with expensively dressed nobles. Huge lanterns, set on iron posts, were being lit in the main thoroughfares, smaller lights being hung from ropes and wires in the side streets.

Stone at night was like a gleaming jewel. But the beauty of it was lost on the young Rigante. He sat silently in the carriage, his heart heavy.

'Which of the Temple entrances did you require?' asked the driver.

'I'm not sure. How many are there?'

'There's the main entrance off the Lion Road, but they'll be closing that soon. Then there's the Administrative Centre, the Museum, and the Knights' Barracks.'

'I have a friend who was wrongly arrested today.'

The driver tensed. Banouin could feel the rising fear in him. 'You'll want the Prison Building,' he said.

The trap moved on, cutting left through the Remembrance Garden, and under the Arch of Triumph, moving further into the centre of the city. There were not so many people here, and fewer lanterns lit.

Banouin's headache was returning, and he felt a little sick. He considered seeking a vision. He had not used this talent since the dreadful day back in Accia, when he saw the Knights of Stone coming for Appius and his daughter, and knew what they would do. Sweat broke out on his brow, and his stomach tightened. Those without the power would never understand the panic that had swept over him. To sit with living people who were already dead, to watch them smile and laugh, and know that tomorrow they would scream in agony, their lives torn from them. To be filled with power – and yet powerless. Banouin had been consumed by the desire to run, to leave, to put the vision behind him. He had wanted to save himself and his friend.

But Bane was a Rigante, and even the knowledge of certain death could not prevent him from trying to save Appius and Lia. How Banouin envied such courage.

There is the entrance,' said the driver, drawing the pony to a halt some way from the gates. Banouin paid him and stepped down. The driver swung the trap and moved away swiftly.

Banouin walked towards the building. Like all great structures in Stone it was dressed in white marble and decorated with statues. The huge bronze latticed gates were open, and two Knights carrying iron-tipped spears stood guard outside them. Their cloaks were white, indicating they were Guardsmen, the elite who protected Nalademus.

The young Rigante approached the first of the guards. 'I am seeking someone in authority,' he said.

'You wish to name traitors?' asked the man.

'No, sir. My tutor was arrested today, and I wish to speak on his behalf.'

'If he was arrested, then he's a traitor,' said the Knight. 'You wish to speak in defence of a traitor?'

'He is not a traitor, sir. He was falsely accused.'

'Oh, is that right?' said the Knight, with a sneer. 'Well, then. Wait here.' He walked back inside the gates and clanged his spear point against a bronze bell hanging outside the guardhouse. A middle-aged servant emerged from the building, spoke to the guard, then ran towards the main building. Banouin waited patiently. After some time two more Knights appeared, grim-faced men with emotionless eyes.

The first guard approached Banouin. 'These men will take you to where you can make your complaint,' he said.

'Thank you, sir.'

Banouin followed the two Knights along a path of white gravel, and through a tree garden to a side door leading to a narrow corridor. Their footsteps echoed inside the building. They climbed stairs, turning first left, then right, and soon Banouin felt lost within the maze of corridors and rooms. At last they halted before double doors, which the soldiers opened. Beyond the doors was a large room, with high, arched windows. The walls were unadorned, but a beautiful mosaic pattern had been laid upon the floor, a series of interconnected lines of shimmering gold on a field of white. In the centre of the room was a semicircular table, behind which sat a priest. His head was shaved, his beard dyed blood red. He glanced up as the Knights entered, then sat back in his chair, idly fingering the pale grey pendant that hung from his neck.

'You are here to defend a traitor, I understand?' he said, his voice sibilant.

Banouin stood very still, and opened the pathway to his Talent. He could feel the emotions of the Knights on either side of him. Both were enjoying this scene, and waiting for the moment when they would drag him screaming to the cells. Reaching out he touched the mind of the Crimson Priest, and recoiled. His thoughts were of torture and vileness. Banouin was about to speak when he felt the presence of a fourth, unseen man. He focused the Talent. The man was observing the proceedings from behind a velvet curtain. Banouin sensed a cold, calculating mind, and a powerful, magnetic personality. The observer was also in pain, and struggling to deal with it.

'Well, do you have a tongue?' asked the priest at the table.

'I do, sir, but I have to say that I am confused. My understanding was that, following arrest, a suspected man would then face a hearing to decide his guilt or innocence. Yet you, not knowing which arrested man I have come to speak for, have already decided his guilt. How is this so?'

The priest's pale face reddened. 'You dare to question me? Give me your name!'

'I am Banouin the Healer, student to Sencra, who teaches history at the university.'

'I do not like your attitude, Banouin. It lacks respect. To disrespect a priest of Stone is to disrespect Stone itself. That alone is treachery. As to your foul master… His hearing was held two hours ago. He was found guilty and will face the consequences.'

The velvet curtain flickered at the far end of the room, and a huge man, carrying a golden staff and wearing a voluminous red robe moved into sight. The Crimson Priest stood and bowed. Both the guards dipped their heads. Banouin also bowed, but then looked up into the man's swollen face. It was impossibly large, and white hair framed it like a lion's mane. The man moved with great difficulty, pain etched on his features. The Crimson Priest moved away from the chair, and the figure in the red robe eased his enormous weight down upon it.

'You call yourself a healer,' said the newcomer, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. 'What do you heal?'

'I can ease all pains, lord,' Banouin told him, 'and cure many ailments.'

'All pains?'

'Yes, lord.'

'How old are you?'

'Twenty-one, lord.'

'Twenty-one,' repeated the man. 'Where did you learn these wondrous skills? At the university?'

'No, lord. I was born among the Rigante tribe. My mother is a healer, and she taught me the mysteries of herbal lore. And also the gift of diagnosis.'

The huge man winced as he leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on the table. 'And how would you diagnose my condition, Banouin the Healer?'

'You are suffering from anasarca, lord. Your body is swollen with water – a sign that either your heart, liver or kidneys are not functioning as they should. Do you sleep upright now?'

'Yes. I choke if I lie down.'

'Then your heart is weak, lord.'

'Can your… herbs make it stronger?'

'I can heal you within ten days,' said Banouin.

'Ten days? So confident?'

'Yes, lord.'

'What if I were to tell you that, should you fail, I will have your eyes pierced by hot irons, your tongue ripped from your mouth, and your limbs sawn away? Would you still be so confident?'

The words were spoken with chilling relish, and Banouin gazed into the man's cold eyes. 'You have an illness, lord. I can cure it,' he said softly. 'I do not lie. As, indeed, I do not lie when I say that my tutor, Sencra, is no Cultist. Whoever named him as such is the liar. He has spoken to me often about what he regards as the stupidity of the Cultists. And of his admiration for the work you are doing, lord,' lied Banouin smoothly.

'Are you saying that you will heal me only if I release your friend?'

The words hung in the air, and Banouin knew his answer had to be the right one. 'No, lord, I will heal you because I can. What I am saying is that Sencra is innocent.'

'I will look into the matter. What herbs will you need?'

'A small amount of figwort seed, and leaves from a number of flowering plants, including marigold. Also some nettles. And some oil, perfumed with lavender. I shall return with these items tomorrow, and the healing can begin.'

Nalademus pushed himself to his feet. 'My guards will go with you, and you will return with them within the hour. The healing will begin tonight,' he said.

Just under two hours later Banouin was ushered into the lavish private apartments of Nalademus, the Stone elder. Velvet curtains hung over the windows, and ornaments of gold and silver adorned the many shelves and tables. The couches were all covered with richly embroidered silk, and even the lanterns glinted with gold.

Nalademus was sitting propped up on a couch, cushions all around him. In the lantern light his face had a waxy sheen. He had removed his crimson robe, and the bare flesh of his shoulders seemed impossibly stretched and swollen.

Banouin placed his medicine pack on a table.

'Did you obtain all you needed?' asked Nalademus.

'Yes, lord. Though the apothecary was terrified to see Knights of Stone at his door.'

'Terror has its uses,' said the sick man. The two guards positioned themselves by the door, and stood silently. 'You mentioned figwort earlier,' said Nalademus. 'I take it you mean to use the seed.'

'Yes, lord. It will help your heart.'

'I understand the seed is a deadly poison.'

'Indeed it is,' agreed Banouin. 'A little too much and the patient dies. I will not use too much.'

Nalademus's head sagged back on the cushion. 'What I told you about hot irons was no idle threat. You understand this?'

'I understand. Now what you must understand is that I need you to relax. Your body is under great stress, and that is not helping your heart. What have your own surgeons prescribed?'

'I have been bled constantly, and I have swallowed several gallons of noxious potions. Now you will prepare me another.'

Banouin mixed some ground seeds with powdered camomile and elder flower, then added it to a goblet of water. This he passed to Nalademus. The Stone elder drained it in a single swallow. 'Lean your head back on the cushion,' said Banouin, 'and close your eyes.' Nalademus did so. Banouin took hold of his right arm. The flesh was clammy and hot. Closing his eyes Banouin gathered his Talent, then let it flow within the stricken body. The heart, as he had feared, was not strong, and the kidneys were on the point of collapse. He waited for the digitalis to begin its work. This would have an immediate twofold action, as Vorna had explained to him years before. The heart contractions would be strengthened, the beat slowed. This meant increased power to the muscle, and a longer period of relaxation between beats. With Nalademus there would also be a third advantage. Pressure from a stronger heart would force more blood into his fading kidneys, aiding the diuretic effect. This alone, however, would not save Nalademus. In normal circumstances, even with the aid of digitalis he would be dead within weeks.

Still holding onto the man's arm Banouin strengthened the kidneys, and directed energy into the liver, which was also in the first stages of terminal disease.

'I feel it working,' whispered Nalademus. 'There is not so much pain. You have done well.'

'I need you to lie upon the floor, lord,' said Banouin.

'I will not be able to breathe.'

'Yes you will. Your heart is stronger now. But I have to help move the water that is flooding your muscle tissue.' This was a lie. It was important, however, for Nalademus to believe that the healing was the result of physical medicine and natural practices. Banouin had no wish for his power to be recognized.

He helped Nalademus to stretch out on a thick rug, and placed a cushion under his head. Then he began a series of smooth massaging strokes on the man's chest, shoulders and arms. Lastly he placed his hands on the Stone elder's temples, and gently pressed his fingers to the skin. Nalademus closed his eyes and his breathing deepened.

Banouin rose to his feet and stretched his aching back. Then he called the guards to assist him in helping Nalademus to his feet and through to the bedroom. Nalademus lay down. 'It feels so good to stretch out on a bed,' he said. 'I have been sleeping in chairs for weeks.'

'Do not overstretch yourself tomorrow, lord. You are stronger, but your kidneys will need time to heal.'

'I feel better than I have in months, Banouin. But I will heed what you say.'

'I also think, lord, that I should stay close for the next few days. There may be a relapse.'

Nalademus smiled. 'I have a room prepared for you.' With a grunt he sat up and walked through a narrow doorway. Banouin waited, and after a while the Stone elder returned. 'By the Stone,' he said. 'I've not pissed like that in five years.'

Banouin forced a smile. 'You will find that the action is repeated a great deal over the next few days, lord. There is a great amount of liquid to be expelled.'

Nalademus sat down on the bed. 'This has been a fortunate day for me, young man. It has also proved fortunate for your tutor, Sencra. I did re-examine the evidence, and he will be released forthwith.'

'Thank you, lord. That is most kind of you.'

'My kindness is legendary,' said Nalademus coldly. 'Now my guards will show you to your rooms.'

Lanterns had been lit in the suite of rooms assigned to him, and Banouin stood in the doorway and marvelled at the opulence of the interior. A magnificent fresco had been painted around the main room: a vineyard scene with leaves and grapes. The vines seemed to be growing out of the walls, and the grapes looked good enough to pluck from the plaster. The furniture was elegantly crafted, and the rugs below his feet were woven silk.

Banouin stepped inside and the guards pulled shut the door. There was no fireplace in the main room, but warm air was circulating up through two metal grilles in the floor and the temperature was comfortable, despite the open doors leading to the balcony.

He strolled outside, and found himself overlooking the Knights' Barracks, and the bronze gates through which he had walked with some trepidation earlier. Alone at last, Banouin allowed himself to relax. His hands began to tremble. There was a curved seat on the balcony and he sank gratefully into it. Doubts assailed him. He was pleased that Sencra had been freed, and felt a small pride in his achievement. Against that, however, was the knowledge that he was in the process of saving a monster. It had been hard to touch the swollen flesh of Nalademus. Evil emanated from the man, like a seeping, invisible mist, corrupting as it touched. Banouin shivered and walked back into the warmth of the room.

The tables and shelves contained many small ornaments, mostly porcelain figures and objects of coloured glass. Banouin stared at them for a moment. These, he realized, were personal items, gathered by a man – or woman – who took pleasure in the delicate beauty of the pieces. He moved to a closet at the far wall and opened it. The shelves and hooks within were bare, but, unnoticed in a corner, a single sandal lay against the wall. Moving around the suite he opened all the drawers, and found not a solitary item in any of them. Whoever had dwelt here had left in a great hurry, not even bothering to pack the beautiful porcelain. Perhaps they will return for it, he thought.

Someone tapped at the outer door. Banouin walked through the apartment. A young man was waiting outside, bearing a silver tray on which was a selection of cooked meats and vegetables, and a jug of water. The servant bowed his head and entered the suite, laying the tray upon a lacquered table.

'Who dwelt here before me?' asked Banouin. The servant bowed again, and Banouin saw fear in his eyes. Then the young man hurried away. 'Thank you,' Banouin called after him.

Moments later there was another knock at the door. This time it was two older servants. One was carrying folded clothes, the other a copper bucket filled with hot water. Banouin saw that the clothes were his own. The first servant laid the clothing in the empty closet, then withdrew. The second moved through the suite to a room Banouin had not noticed, behind a panelled door. He followed the servant, and watched him pour the hot water into a tub shaped like a giant shell. Other servants entered the room, each carrying buckets. Within minutes the shell tub was three-quarters full. The first servant returned, carrying fresh towels, and a small phial of perfume, which he added to the water. Then they all withdrew. Not one spoke a word.

Banouin removed his tunic and sandals and climbed into the tub. The water rose around him, the sweet perfume filling his nostrils. The feeling was exquisite. Splashing water to his face and hair he lay back, remaining in the bath until the water cooled. As he climbed out his foot touched something in the base of the tub. Reaching down his finger hooked into a ring of metal. He tugged it. Immediately the water began to bubble down the exposed hole. In panic he struggled to replace the plug, frightened that he was flooding the apartments below. He could hear water splashing from outside the tub room window. Moving to it he glanced out. An exit pipe protruded from the wall, the water gushing to the ground below. Banouin smiled, returned to the tub and pulled the plug once more, then ran back to the window, leaned out, and watched the water flow away. For some reason this small activity lifted his spirits and he returned to the main room and ate the food left for him. Weariness was heavy upon him and he went into the bedroom. The bed was of gilded wood, but curiously the mattress was slightly overlarge, jutting over the wooden frame. He lay down upon it, and immediately his anxiety returned. Sitting up swiftly he realized that something had touched his Talent. He lay back once more and honed his concentration.

In an instant he saw a vision of two soldiers looming above the bed, and the swollen, angry face of Nalademus beyond them. The soldiers had knives in their hands and were reaching for him. In terror he sat bolt upright.

The vision vanished from his mind.

Clambering from the bed he grabbed the edge of the mattress and pushed it back. In the lantern light he saw a patch of wet upon the planks of the bedframe below it. When he touched it with his finger it felt sticky. Banouin lifted his hand, and saw that it was blood. Running to the washroom he cleaned his hand, then hurled the bloodstained towel to the floor. His heart was hammering, his mind awash with fear.

The man who had lived in this room had been murdered that day, killed in his bed while Nalademus watched. Then servants had removed the blood-drenched mattress, replacing it with another that did not quite fit. The murdered man had not been killed swiftly, for the blood had continued to flow, seeping through the mattress to the frame beneath. What had been his perceived crime? Banouin wondered.

Back in the main room Banouin drank some water, and gazed once more at the little porcelain figures. When at last exhaustion overcame him he walked back to the bed, pulled the mattress back in place.

Then slept fitfully on the couch.

A bad dream awoke him in the middle of the night, and he sat up shivering with fear. The memory of the dream drifted out of his consciousness like water falling through his fingers. All he could remember were sharp knives pricking at his skin.

Rising to his feet Banouin wandered out to the balcony. Stars were bright in a clear sky and he felt the tension easing from him. He wished he could close his eyes and let his spirit soar free, but that was impossible here, surrounded by stone. A cold wind blew and Banouin walked back to the couch and threw the blanket round his shoulders. Back inside the room he felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if the walls were closing in on his spirit. Returning to the balcony he sat down under the starlight, and gazed out over the city of Stone.

From here he could see the towers of the university building, and the awesome, moonlit majesty of the Palace of the Republic, where the emperor now dwelt. Stone is truly magnificent at night, he thought. And found himself filled with both sadness and shame. This was the city of his dreams, and because of that he had blinded himself to the truth. Yes, Stone was beautiful, but it was the beauty of the tomb, its glorious exterior merely hiding corruption and decay within.

The buildings had been designed and constructed by men of awesome talent, using only the finest materials. Those materials had been purchased by conquest, by the butchering of neighbouring races and civilizations. The foundation of Stone was blood. Every column, every statue, every block of every road was drenched in it.

Anger flared in Banouin, fuelled by self-loathing. Why did I not see it? he asked himself. The truth was as nakedly bright as the moon above. He had seen it, but had pushed it away to a dark, and hopefully forgotten, corner of his mind, concentrating instead on the more positive aspects of city life: the university and the Great Museum, the libraries and the architecture. In this way his selfish dream had stayed alive. But coming here, to the Temple, this place of concentrated evil, had lit a torch, and by its light all the ugliness of Stone was laid bare.

He wished he could run from here, all the way to the Park of Phesus, to sit beneath the willow and free his spirit to soar in the sweetness and purity of the night.

'Come sit with me, Banouin,' came a voice. Banouin surged to his feet and spun round. The doorway to his room had disappeared. Where the frame had been was now a bower of honeysuckle, thick and heavily scented. The room had disappeared also, and he saw the Morrigu, heavily veiled and sitting on a tree trunk just beyond the honeysuckle. A fire was glowing in a circle of stones before her, and Banouin could smell the musky odours of the forest: wet earth and rotting leaves.

The Morrigu beckoned to him, and he moved to the fire, squatting down beside it and pushing his hands into the soft earth. The scent and sounds of the forest soaked into him, filling his spirit. Drawing his hands from the earth he held them to his face, and drew in a deep breath.

'Look at you, citizen of Stone,' said the Morrigu, 'grubbing your hands into the soil like an animal. Do you miss the dirt, Banouin?'

'You may mock me, lady, and perhaps I deserve it. But I never smelled a sweeter scent in all my life.'

'And do you know why?'

'Yes I do,' he told her. There is life in this earth, vibrant life. There are seeds waiting to grow, and insects are burrowing through the soil. It is rich and fertile, and crying out for growth. It is beautiful,' he said.

'Ah then, perhaps you can take a handful back to the city with you. You can carry it to the university and say to them: "Look, the Rigante boy has brought you some mud." And they will garland you with flowers, and perhaps declare a day of celebration in your honour.'

'You are in a foul mood today,' he said.

'I delivered you, Banouin. Your little eyes were closed against the brightness of the lantern's glare. They have remained closed ever since. Now they begin to open. You want me to applaud? You hold that earth in your hands and you talk of its fertility. All that is true. But why is it feeding you now? Why does it lift you? Answer me that!'

'I… I don't know.'

'Stupid child. It is not your flesh that it feeds. It is your spirit. And from your spirit comes your power. I have watched you in Stone, running to old willow and freeing your spirit to fly back to Caer Druagh. Oh, how happy you were. Did you never question why old willow brought you freedom? Or why you could not use your talents to the full anywhere else in Stone? No, of course you did not. You were so full of your selfish dreams. Old willow stands on the last sacred spot in these five hills. All the others are covered now. Entombed. And the spirit of the land withers and dies.'

'I know it now,' said Banouin. 'I understand that Stone is a city of evil. And I am sorry it has taken me so long to realize it.'

'Trust me, child, you still do not realize the significance. This world – all worlds – survive only because of the harmony between spirit and matter. The dirt in your hands is charged with spirit, fresh and full and wondrously magical. Without the spirit it would be lifeless. No seeds would grow, no insects thrive. Once – when I was young – this world was ablaze with spirit. Throw a seed into the air and wherever it landed it would sprout and grow tall. The Seidh prospered here – along with scores of thousands of spirit creatures. Men called us gods, and worshipped us. And we helped man. We raised him from the earth, and taught him to look at the stars. Did we do this because we loved man? No. It was because we saw in man a creature capable of feeding the spirit of the world. Each act of selflessness, of love, of courage and compassion added to the world's energy.' She gave a harsh laugh and threw another dry stick to the fire. 'Of course every act of greed and vileness drained the spirit. It will surprise you not at all to learn that evil men devour the spirit many times faster than good men can enhance it. Like a statue, I suppose. A good craftsman can create a masterpiece in four or five years. A fool with a hammer can destroy it in a few heartbeats.

'We laboured long to find a balance. We struggled to teach man the error of his ways. Quite simply we failed. And one by one the spirit creatures left this world in search of other, more pleasant homes. The more foolish of us stayed behind, still trying to teach errant, arrogant man. And, as the spirit withered, so too did we. You asked me once why I chose to look this way. I did not choose it, Banouin. You chose it. You and your race.'

'I am sorry,' he said, the words sounding lame and entirely inadequate.

'Don't tell me how sorry you are, Banouin. Show me!'

The world spun. Banouin opened his eyes. He was still sitting on the balcony. There was no ivy clinging to the door frame, no fire dying in the circle of stones.

But upon his hands there was the smell of sweet earth.

For three days Nalademus continued to improve, but on the fourth he suffered a pounding headache. Banouin heard him hurling crockery across the room, and shouting obscenities at a servant. He hurried along the corridor.

'I'll pluck out your eyes, you clumsy oaf!' screamed Nalademus, as the servant cowered by the door, his head in his hands.

Banouin felt the rage from Nalademus like a blow, which almost made him step back. Instead he fastened to the emotion, gentling it, and radiating it back to its bearer, softened and changed. The Stone elder stood towering over the servant and his fists unclenched. He shook his massive head. 'Get out,' he told the frightened man. 'Go on, away with you.' The servant scrambled clear and sped along the corridor. Nalademus turned to Banouin. 'My head is splitting.'

'Sit down, lord. I shall soothe it for you.' The big man sank into a deep chair and Banouin moved behind him. Nalademus tensed instantly. 'I will do you no harm, lord,' said Banouin softly, placing his fingers on the elder's temples. Closing his eyes Banouin drew out the pain, easing the rigid muscles of the neck and shoulders.

'That is good,' whispered Nalademus. 'The pain is almost gone.'

'I fear it is my fault, lord. Some of the herbs I use do have secondary effects. Headaches are not uncommon, and they can be extremely severe. I shall lessen the amounts.'

Banouin moved away from the elder, but Nalademus bade him sit in a chair opposite. 'You have great skills, young man. How may I show my gratitude to you?'

'You already have, lord, by freeing Sencra. By your leave, I will remain here for two more days until your recovery is complete, then return to my studies and my work at the university.'

'You will reside here, Banouin,' said Nalademus. 'You will receive a handsome salary, and a carriage will take you to the university on any days you choose.'

'Thank you, lord,' said Banouin, his heart sinking.

'Now tell me about Bendegit Bran.'

Banouin's jaw dropped. 'Why, lord?' he stammered.

'He arrived in the city ten days ago, as a guest of our emperor. He and a brutish general named Fiallach travelled under escort from Goriasa. They are staying in a villa overlooking the bay. I will probably have to meet them myself, and would be grateful if you could tell me something of them.'

Banouin gathered his thoughts. 'Bran is the half-brother of our king, Connavar, lord. He is also a general of the Horse Archers, and governs the northern lands of the Pannone. He is a good man, and was always very kind to me and my mother.'

'Is he a married man?'

'Yes. He had two children when I left Caer Druagh.'

'What of his ambitions? Does he seek to rule himself?'

'I don't believe so, lord. He is devoted to Connavar. Might I ask why the emperor invited them here?'

'That is for the emperor to know, Banouin. Not mere servants like you and me.' Banouin sensed the anger underlying the words. 'And what of Fiallach?'

'He is a mighty warrior – probably the strongest man in all Rigante lands. He must be over fifty now, but he is awesome to behold, six feet six inches tall, with enormous shoulders. He is ferocious in battle, utterly fearless and without mercy. He is one of three generals who lead divisions of the Iron Wolves, Connavar's heavy cavalry.'

'You like him?' asked Nalademus.

'He is a hard man to like, lord. But I do not dislike him.'

'And you would class him as loyal to Connavar?'

'Utterly. They were enemies once, when Connavar was a young man. Both loved the same girl, and she chose Connavar. But they have been friends now for twenty years.'

'And what of Braefar?'

'Is he here too, lord?'

'No, but I have heard him spoken of.'

'He is the Laird of Three Streams, and another half-brother to Connavar. He is a very clever man.'

'Do I hear a but in your voice?'

'I believe he feels he should have had greater duties than he has. He complains publicly about his talents being underused.'

'And are they underused?' asked Nalademus softly.

'I don't believe they are,' said Banouin. 'Whenever Connavar has offered him more responsibility something has always gone wrong. Braefar always blamed others for their shortcomings, accepting no responsibility for the errors and mistakes.'

'Interesting,' said Nalademus. 'I thank you for your time. Now I must get to work. I shall have a carriage ready for you to attend the university. Please convey my good wishes to Sencra.'

'I shall, lord,' said Banouin, rising. 'And I shall return by dusk to prepare more medicine.'

Banouin bowed and left the Stone elder.

An hour later he was strolling through the main hallway of the university building, and out into the Park of Phesus. A light rain was falling, but Banouin ignored it and ran along the white path to the willow. Pushing aside the trailing branches he sat down on the curved stone bench and relaxed his mind. His spirit soared free, floating high above the city. Swiftly he sped over the waters of the bay, hovering over the fine villas with waterside views. One by one he flew through them, seeking out his countrymen.

And then he saw them, walking together in a terraced garden. Bran seemed worried, his handsome features grim as he listened to his companion. Fiallach looked older, and there was silver in his braided yellow hair and drooping moustache. It felt good to be close to them, and Banouin realized in that moment just how much he missed the mountains of home. He wanted to eavesdrop on their conversation, but decided that would be rude, and flew back to his body.

He opened his eyes, and saw the dark-haired Maro leaning over him. 'I thought you had fainted,' said Maro. 'Are you all right?'

'I am fine.'

'We thought the worst when you failed to return. Then Sencra came back, and told us you had spoken up for him with Nalademus himself. That was a fine deed, Banouin.'

'He was innocent. I just explained it, that's all.'

'Heroes should always be modest,' said Maro. 'Or so my father always tells me. Come, let's go to the library. You can tell me of your adventures.'