Morningstar

CHAPTER FIVE

There are few still living who remember the old river city of Lualis, with its round castle, its wharves and lanes, timber yards and stock paddocks, and its profusion of building styles — Angostin brick, Highland wattle and clay, timbered roofs, tiled roofs, thatched roofs.

In those days, before the Deeway had become full of silt, seagoing ships could moor at Lualis, putting ashore cargoes of silks and satins, ivory, spices, dried fruit from the Orient, iron from the Viking mines of the northern continent. The city was filled with sailors, merchants, farmers, horse breeders, mercenary knights, and street women who would sell their favours for a copper farthing.

There were several inns on every street, and taverns where drunken men would gamble and drink, argue and fight. Very few of these taverns did not boast fresh bloodstains nightly on their sawdust-covered floors.

Lualis was a glamorous place, so the stories would have us believe. And they are correct. But it was not the bright glamour that shines with golden light from all great sagas. It was the kind that attaches itself to acts of violence, and men of violence. The city was dirty, vile-smelling, lawless and fraught with the risk of sudden death.

Jarek Mace loved it… We arrived on the first day of the Spring Fair, when the city was swollen with revellers. Three ships were moored at the wharves as our small party trooped in from the forest. The women and children bade their farewells to us and made their way to the more sedate northern quarter, where some had relatives. Mace, Wulf, Piercollo and I strolled to the nearest tavern, where we found a table near an open window and ordered meat broth, fresh bread and a huge jug of ale.

All around us people were talking about the Fair, the contests to come, the prize money to be won. I saw Piercollo’s dark eyes brighten with interest at the mention of a wrestling tourney and the ten gold pieces waiting for the winner. He ate with us, then said his goodbyes and wandered out of the tavern in search of his fortune. Mace watched him go, then ordered more ale.

‘What will we do here?’ I asked him.

‘There is always an archery contest,’ he said. ‘Wulf and I will win some money. Then we’ll rent a couple of women and relax for a few days.’ He smiled. ‘We’ll get one for you too, Owen.’

‘I do not need such a companion,’ I told him, rather too primly.

‘As you wish,’ he answered.

I was ill at ease in the tavern, surrounded by men with loud voices, and I left them to their drinking and strolled through the city streets to the meadow where the Fair was under way. There was a dance pole set at the centre, hung with ribbons, and a dancing bear was performing for a small crowd at the western end of the fairground. Tiny ponies were tethered nearby, awaiting their child riders, and there were stalls of sweetmeats, sugar-apples, lard-cakes, honey loaves and the like. The day was bright, the sky cloudless. People were enjoying themselves.

Several magickers were exhibiting their skills, but the crowds were thin as yet, and the performers either lacked any genuine skill or were saving their efforts for later in the day.

Carpenters were busy building a long, raised platform where the knights and their ladies would sit once the entertainments commenced. A canvas canopy, painted red and hung with white streamers, was being raised above the platform. No sudden shower would be allowed to dampen the enthusiasm of Angostin nobles.

There were soldiers everywhere, strolling through the meadow, moving in groups of three or four. I counted at least fifty on the fairground alone, and I had seen more in the city itself. Their presence made me uncomfortable though, in truth, I should have had little to fear.

Towards dusk I made my way back to the tavern. Mace had booked a room for us on the upper floor and I mounted the stairs, thinking only of sleep. The moonlit room was small, with three pallet beds set against the inner walls. A rough-hewn table and two chairs completed the furniture, and there was a single, tiny window with open shutters. The room smelt musky and damp, but I did not care. The two larger beds had been claimed by Mace and Wulf, their longbows laid upon the single blankets. I moved to the third and stretched out, not even bothering to remove my boots.

Sleep came swiftly, but I awoke when Mace and the hunchback returned after midnight, drunk and laughing. Mace tripped and fell upon me as he tried to remove his boots. Wulf made a gallant effort to fall upon his own bed, but missed and sank to the floor, where he curled up happily and slept.

‘Not… a… bad night,’ said Jarek Mace, with a lopsided grin. ‘I like this place.’

‘There is blood on your hand,’ I told him, sitting up.

‘It’s not mine,’ he answered cheerfully. With great dignity he pushed himself to his feet, swayed, then staggered to his bed.

‘Wake me early,’ he called. The first cull of the archers is before noon.’

‘You’ll be in no fit state to take part,’ I warned him.

‘I could beat most of them in the state I’m in now,’ he replied. For a little while there was silence; then he spoke again. ‘Have you heard? The Morningstar is really a Highland noble, of the Old blood. He is Rabain reborn, come to free the north.’ A cloud passed before the moon and we were plunged into darkness. I lay back, thinking about what he had said.

‘The legend is growing,’ I said at last.

He did not reply, but I knew he heard me.

True to his word Jarek Mace awoke bright of eye and in high good humour. I, who had consumed no alcohol, had a splitting headache and could have stayed in bed until well past noon, while Wulf awoke with a curse and remained silent and sullen for most of the morning.

We walked to the meadow, where I watched Jarek register for the tournament. An elderly clerk lifted a quill pen, dabbed it into a clay pot of ink and glanced up at the bowman.

‘Name?’ he asked.

‘Garik of Pottersham,’ answered Mace easily.

‘Next?’Wulf of Pottersham.’

The clerk scribbled the names on the scroll and we moved on. The wrestling had begun and we waited by the rope boundary for Piercollo to make his entrance. He won his first bout easily, and Jarek and I decided to wager two silver pennies on the Tuscanian’s next contest.

Wulf declined to bet. ‘All he has is strength,’ muttered the hunchback. He was proved wrong twice more, and Jarek and I earned ten silver pennies each. But the last fight had been tough for Piercollo, his opponent almost managing to use the Tuscanian’s great weight against him. Jarek did not agree and wagered the ten pennies on the final contest. It was over swiftly. Piercollo was matched against a man of almost equal size, and the two giants circled each other warily. This opponent was an older man, wily and skilful. Piercollo rushed in like an angry bear and the man sidestepped, grabbed the Tuscanian’s outstretched arm and spun him from his feet. Piercollo rose swiftly. Too swiftly, as Wulf pointed out, for he was still groggy from the fall. The older wrestler threw himself at the Tuscanian, hammering his forearm into Piercollo’s face, while at the same time hooking his foot around our friend’s ankle. Piercollo fell like a toppled tree. Mace cursed roundly when the Tuscanian failed to rise before the count of ten.

Then the first names were called for the archery cull. There were more than a hundred bowmen, and the first targets were set at around thirty paces. Mace and Wulf scored gold and were told to return in half an hour for the second round.

By now the workmen had almost completed the Knights’ Platform, and bench seats were being lifted on to it. I strolled across, past the piled wood of a huge bonfire, to where a dozen servants carrying cushions were arguing with one another as to which of their knights were to have the best seats. It was a common enough scene. Those knights sitting closest to the Manor Lord were seen, by the populace, to be favourites. No one wished to be placed at the end of the bench. But it would be unseemly for knights to be seen squabbling over such matters and therefore cushion-carrying servants were sent with orders to obtain for their masters places near the Manor Lord. I sat down with other interested — and knowing — fairgoers to watch. The arguments became more fierce until finally a young man in yellow livery struck an older man wearing a blue tunic. The older man staggered, then struck back. Within seconds the cushions had been hurled aside and the servants were whacking out at one another, kicking and punching.

The crowd cheered them on and at last, with the fighting over, the cushions were placed. The boy in the yellow livery looked more than downcast as he tossed his cushion to the end of the bench. When his master saw his place, he would likely be in for a worse beating than the one he had already taken.

At that moment three soldiers approached, striding to the platform and climbing the wooden steps. The leader — a lean, fierce-looking individual with a jagged scar from his right brow to his chin — was carrying a satin cushion of rich scarlet. Casually he pushed aside the cushions already there, creating a gap at the centre of the first bench. No one said a word, and not one of the servants moved as the man dropped the scarlet cushion into the gap -

’Who are they?’ I asked a man standing beside me.

‘Count Azrek s men. He must be coming to the Fair.’

‘The news made my heart hammer. I don’t know why, for Azrek would not know me and I had no reason then to fear him. Still I backed away as if the Count’s arrival was imminent, my eyes scanning the crowd. None of the nobles would attend until well into the afternoon and the Knights’ Tourney. And yet I could not control my fear. I sought out Jarek Mace and told him what I had heard, but he seemed unconcerned.

‘What difference can it make?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I answered. But the unease remained.

On impulse I returned to the tavern and gathered my harp, stopping only to pay the tavern-keeper for our lodgings. ‘Will you want the room tonight?’ he asked.

‘Probably.’

‘You’re not thinking of leaving today?’

‘We may. Not sure. My friends… are traveling men. Don’t like towns, you know.’

‘You’ll miss the Burning.’

‘Tragic, I know, but still…’

I stepped out into the open and drew a deep breath, fighting for calm.

Back at the fair Wulf and Mace had progressed through to the last sixteen of the bowmen, and were thus guaranteed at least a penny for their efforts. When I found them they were discussing the merits of the other archers.

Piercollo joined us. ‘Not enough for a ship,’ he said, opening his huge hand and showing us the four silver coins he had won.

‘You did well,’ I told him. Mace said nothing to the big man and I knew he blamed him for the loss on his bet.

The archery tourney continued and Wulf reached the last four, but was eliminated by a tall forester wearing a black eye-patch. This infuriated the hunchback.

‘Everyone knows a good bowman needs two eyes to judge distance. How does he do it?’ he complained. But he was four pennies richer and his mood had improved.

The final was set just before the Knight’s Tourney. Mace and Eye-patch were matched against each other.

Legend has it that Jarek Mace won by splitting his opponent’s shaft from fifty paces. He didn’t; he lost. They loosed some twenty shafts, then the string of Jarek’s bow snapped, his arrow falling some ten paces forward. That should have disqualified him, but Eye-patch opened the pouch at his side and removed a spare string which he handed to Mace. Swiftly Jarek restrung his bow, but his next arrow was two fingers’ width outside the gold and Eye-patch won the tourney with a splendid shot that struck dead centre.

Jarek Mace swung away without a word of congratulation and collected his two gold coins; then, with a face like thunder, he strode to where we waited at the edge of the crowd.

‘Shorter string,’ he snapped. ‘Different tension. He should have allowed me a practice shot. Bastard!’

‘He needn’t have allowed you anything,’ I pointed out. But Mace was not to be mollified. He was never a good loser.

We purchased meat-pies and sat in the shade some thirty paces from the Knight’s Platform. Crowds were now filling the meadow and we saw the nobles arriving and taking their places on the dais.

‘That is Azrek,’ muttered Piercollo.

I looked up and saw a tall young man, with straight black hair and a long, curved nose. He wore a simple tunic and leggings of black satin, edged with silver thread, and a black shirt which glistened like the finest silk. My blood felt cold and I looked away.

‘Handsome fellow,’ said Mace. ‘Lacks colour, though. The shirt should have been cream, with puff sleeves, shot with grey silk. Now that would have been stylish.’

The jousting that followed lasted for several hours, but none of us was interested and we strolled through the crowds, playing occasional games of chance at the gambling stalls.

But just before dusk the stallholder refused another wager.

‘There’s time for one more game, surely?’ said Mace, who had lost several pennies.

‘No, it’ll be the Burning soon,’ answered the man, ‘and I want to get a good position.’

‘Who is for burning?’ asked Wulf.

‘They caught a witch; they say she’s a friend of the Morningstar.’

‘Her name?’ whispered Jarek Mace.

‘Name? Hold on, I did hear it… Margan, Macan… something like, anyway. You know the name?’

I was about to speak but Mace’s elbow struck me painfully in the side.

‘No,’ he said. And turned away.

I moved swiftly after him, grabbing his arm. ‘That’s Megan! They’re going to burn Megan!’

‘I know,’ he answered.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Well, we have two choices,’ he said grimly. ‘Firstly we can fight our way through the fifty soldiers and the crowd, cut her free, kill all the knights and make our escape on stolen stallions. Or else we can forget it, buy some food and have a quiet evening remembering past friends. What would you choose?’

I swung to Wulf. ‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Is she not a friend of yours?’

‘Aye,she is. But Jarek is right. There’s nothing we can do — save die with her. You think she’d want that?’

‘Their reaction to Megan’s plight stunned me. What kind of men were these, I wondered? The answer was not long in coming. Jarek Mace was a wolfshead who cared for nothing and no one, save himself, and the hunchback was a man whom I had first seen cutting the fingers from one of his victims in order to steal the dead man’s rings. What more could I have expected?

And yet I was still surprised, and deeply saddened, by their easy acceptance of the cruel fate awaiting the iron-haired witch woman. I stood, my legs trembling, and walked back into the throng, wishing I had never ventured into this dark forest.

On the far side of the meadow, before the Knights’ Platform, a large crowd had assembled to watch the Burning. There was blood upon the grass and a man in the crowd informed me that, moments before, a lance had pierced the helm of a young jouster, putting out both his eyes. I arrived in time to see the corpse being carried away by stretcher-bearers. A sudden trumpet blast rent the air and two soldiers marched into sight. Behind them, being led by a rope around her neck, came Megan, her hands bound behind her.

She moved like a queen, stately and slow. There was no sign of panic in her, nor did she look at the crowd. Upon her tall, thin body she wore only the single white robe of the condemned. The crowd were hushed, awed I think by her dignity. My eyes strayed to the waiting stake, atop a mass of dry wood some six feet high. My mouth was dry, my heart heavy.

The soldiers and their prisoner halted before the Lord of Lualis and the black-garbed figure of Count Azrek. The Lord of Lualis, a round-faced, balding Angostin, rose ponderously to his feet. ‘Do you have anything to say to your judges, witch?’ he said, his voice booming like a drum.

If Megan answered I did not hear her. She stood, straight of back, her head held high. The Lualis Lord cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. ‘This woman has been found guilty of witchcraft and treason,’ he shouted. ‘She practised black arts and, in communion with the murderous outlaw known as Morningstar, has overseen the butchery of the honest men and women of her own village and others who travelled the forest roads. The sentence is just. Is there any man here who would cast doubt upon the verdict?’

‘I would!’ I called. The Lualis Lord looked surprised, but in truth he was less surprised than I. The crowd parted before me as if I had the plague and I walked forward, stepping over the rope that held back the spectators.

I cannot explain now why I ventured out, save to say that I could not bear Megan to be killed without at least showing that I cared. It was folly, and could achieve nothing. For a successful defence against conviction I would have needed witnesses, or at the least a champion.

As I moved nearer I avoided Azrek’s dark eyes, but I could feel his venomous gaze upon me. Soldiers around the platform tensed and took up their weapons, but they did not look at me. Instead they spread out and scanned the crowd.

‘And who might you be, peasant?’ the Lord asked.

‘No peasant, my Lord. I am Owen Odell, an Angostin from the southern coast. My father is the Lord Aubertain, thrice decorated by the father of our glorious King, Edmund.’

It was — even at that moment of tension and fear — more than irritating to use the name of my father as a talisman. I did not like the man, nor ever did, I think, and as a child I was determined one day to ride away where men would never have heard of his name. Yet here I was, making the sound of it a shield.

‘You have proof of identity?’ asked the Lord.

‘I need none, sir, for I am not on trial here,’ I answered. This show of arrogance was convincing of itself and he fell silent for a moment.

‘How do you know of this woman?’

‘I spent the winter in her village — before it was sacked and destroyed, not by the Morningstar but by the soldiers of Count Azrek. I saw the results of their butchery. And at no time did I witness the practising of dark magick by Megan, or any other in the village. Nor did I hear talk of treason.’

‘You are suggesting that soldiers in the service of the King would attack and kill innocent people? Are you mad, sir?’

‘I saw what I saw, my lord,’ I told him.

‘Is there any other witness to corroborate your accusations?’ I watched his eyes scan the crowd. Azrek too was sitting forward, his body tense, his eyes gleaming.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I am alone.’

For a moment there was silence, and I sensed disappointment in the Lualis Lord. He turned to me, his small round eyes bleak and angry. ‘Without corroboration I have no choice but to let the verdict stand. Are you sure there is no one else you would wish to call upon?’

And then I knew. They were waiting for the Morningstar to make his appearance. Had the situation not been so tragic I believe I would have laughed aloud. Instead I shook my head.

Count Azrek leaned forward, tapping the fat man’s arm. There followed a brief, whispered conversation. Finally the Lord nodded and sat down, allowing the Count to rise in his place.

‘You have spoken with great calumny against me,’ he said, his voice emotionless, his unblinking eyes staring into mine. ‘I demand the right of Challenge.’

Strangely I felt no fear. ‘As you wish,’ I told him, ‘but even though I die here, nothing will cloak for long the evil that seeps out from you.’

He showed no expression and transferred his gaze to the soldiers holding Megan.

‘Let the sentence be carried out!’ he called. The men took hold of Megan and, unresisting, she was led to the pyre and forced to clamber high upon the piled wood before her hands were unbound and lashed to the stake.

It was then that I saw the floating sphere gliding effortlessly over the heads of the spectators. Many people paused to look up at it, pointing to it as it passed. Several times it hovered over individuals before moving on. Perfectly round and swirling, like smoke encased in glass, I watched it glide to a halt above a tall man in a buckskin shirt. At first I thought it was Jarek Mace, but the man turned towards me as he looked up at the sphere and I saw that he was beardless and wide-jawed. The Search-spell moved on.

Even within my grief and anger I was impressed by the skill of the unknown magicker who had cast the spell. A searching is always difficult, but in a crowd such as this only the very best would dream of sending out a sphere.

A great cry went up from the crowd as the two soldiers pushed burning torches into the dry wood at the base of the bonfire. Flames licked at the sticks and timbers, smoke drifting lazily up to swirl around the white-garbed woman. Her face was serene, showing no fear, and as her eyes met mine she smiled. Then the thick smoke enveloped her.

At that moment the Search-spell found its prey and a shaft of white light flashed into the evening air, hanging for several heartbeats above the head of Jarek Mace. In sudden fear the mob melted away from him and the white light became golden, bathing him. Already handsome, he appeared at once godlike, his fringed buckskin shirt of molten gold, his skin of burnished bronze. And he smiled as he executed an elaborate and perfect bow.

‘It’s the Morningstar!’ bellowed the Lualis Lord. Take him!’

Soldiers ran forward as the light faded. An arrow from Wulf took the first low in the groin and the man pitched to the ground and began to scream. With no time to string his bow Jarek Mace swung the weapon like a staff, knocking a man from his feet. Then his sword flashed into the air, and the clanging of blades rang across the meadow. Another arrow sliced the air, this time from Eye-patch, and a soldier fell, pierced through the temple.

Mace backed away before the attack of five men, and I saw the immense figure of Piercollo lift a barrel of beer above his head and run forward to hurl it at the soldiers. It hammered into the first, catapulting him into his fellows, then shattered, spilling foaming ale upon the fallen soldiers.

A crossbowman in the black livery of Azrek sent a bolt towards Mace. It missed and thudded into the shoulder of a woman in the crowd. Panic followed and the mob ran in all directions, hampering the efforts of the gathering soldiers. Mace ducked his head and disappeared into the throng.

An arrow sailed over my head and I swung to see it miss Azrek by a hand’s breadth, punching through the throat of a man sitting behind him. Now the knights too, and their ladies, scrambled for cover.

‘Don’t stand there gawping, child, untie me!’

The voice appeared inside my head. Swinging to the fire I ran to the rear, where the flames had not yet reached. Scrambling up to the stake, coughing and spluttering, I reached Megan. Around her there was no smoke; it swirled just out of reach, as if she stood inside an invisible globe.

‘Your powers are great,’ I said.

‘What a fine time for compliments!’ she snapped. ‘Perhaps we should sit down here and discuss the finer points of magick.’

I cut through her bonds and took her by the hand. Swiftly she cast a spell. Instantly her white robe changed to the colour of rust and a leather cap appeared, covering her white hair. Smoke billowed around us like a mist as we descended to the meadow, dispersing only when we were some distance from the pyre. People were running and screaming around us, and we were not challenged as we slowly made our way across the meadow, past the outskirts of the river city and on into the sanctuary of the trees.

At last safe, we made camp in a shallow cave, lighting no fire and needing none.

‘It was a foolish act,’ she told me, ‘but I am grateful for it.’

‘I could not stand by and watch you murdered.’

‘I know, Owen. You have a fine soul.’

Always uncomfortable with compliments, I changed the subject. ‘I hope Mace escaped them.’

She chuckled. ‘Yes, he did. Did you like the way I changed the sorcerer’s Search-spell?’

‘The golden light? It was a master’s touch, and I should have known it was you. He looked like a hero from legend.’

‘The people will long remember it.’

‘Perhaps, but the memory will fade once Mace is gone, when they see he is no Morningstar.’

‘If they ever see it. He chose the name, Owen, and now, I think, the name has chosen him.’

‘That is a riddle I cannot fathom.’

‘Give it time, my boy. Tell me, how will the events of today be seen?’

I smiled then. ‘A dramatic rescue by the Lord of the Forest. Not all the Count’s men could prevent it.’

She nodded, her face solemn. ‘Mace was lucky today. They didn’t need a Search-spell. He was in full view all day at the contest.’

‘Why then did they not take him? Were you using your powers?’

‘No. There was no need. Azrek has a serpent’s subtlety and he assumed Mace would be more… circumspect. He believed there would be a rescue attempt, but probably expected Mace to come disguised and only arrive when the crowds were thick. Hence the Search-spell. But Mace, with his casual arrogance, chose the best place to be, hiding in plain sight where no one would look.’

‘As you say, Megan, he is a lucky man.’

‘Luck has to be paid for, Owen,’ she whispered, ‘and sometimes the price is very high.’ Without another word she lay down and closed her eyes.

I shivered, for in that moment, my ghostly friend, I think my soul caught a glimpse of the future.

Then I too slept.

I awoke in the night to find a cool breeze whispering across the mouth of the cave, bringing with it the stealthy sounds of men moving through the undergrowth. Reaching out I touched Megan lightly on the shoulder. Her eyes opened and, in the moonlight, she saw me touch my fingers to my lips, warning her to keep silent.

Dropping to my stomach I wormed my way to the cave-mouth, peering out at the silhouetted trees. At first I saw nothing, but then the dark figure of a soldier, his breastplate gleaming in the eldritch light, edged forward. He was joined by another… and another. The first knelt, his pale hand extending down to the ground, tracing a line. Then he took a shining object from the pouch at his side and laid it on the ground. Immediately a faint blue-white light sprang up from the track. I swallowed hard, realizing that Megan and I had walked from that direction and feeling instinctively that the hunter was examining a footprint, mine or Megan’s, and he was carrying a Search-stone.

The cave itself was partly screened by thick bushes, but in the bright moonlight there was no hope of the entrance escaping the keen eyes of the hunters.

It is a fearful thing to be hunted, but it is doubly unmanning during the hours of night. I don’t know why this should be so, save to note that our most primal fears are of the dark. Moonlight, though beautiful, is cold and unearthly. Nothing grows by moonlight, but all is revealed.

I glanced up, praying for clouds and total darkness, an all-covering blanket of black that would shield us from the soldiers. But almost immediately my fears welled anew and I imagined the hunters, aided by the Search-stone, creeping forward purposefully within that darkness, unseen and deadly, their cold blades seeking my heart. No, I prayed again. No darkness. Please!

I was trembling now, but Megan’s hand came down upon my arm, gripping my wrist, then patting the skin. I glanced towards her and licked my dry lips with a drier tongue.

‘Fear not,’ she whispered. ‘They will not see us.’ Extending her hand she pointed at the leading soldier. He cried out and dropped the stone, which fell to the earth and blazed with a fierce light, causing the soldiers to shield their eyes. Leaning her back against the cave wall, Megan gestured with her right hand. The entrance shimmered and, as I looked towards the soldiers, it seemed I was viewing them through a screen of water.

Slowly they approached the rock wall. There were some twenty of them gathered now, lean and wolflike, swords in their hands. They halted some few feet before us, scanned the ground, then moved on.

After a while there was silence beyond the cave.

‘What did you do?’ I ventured at last.

‘Think through your fear, Owen,’ she advised. ‘Do not let it master you. The illusion is no more than you could have achieved. Any man who can create the Dragon’s Egg should find little difficulty in displaying a wall of rock where there is none.’

I felt foolish then, for she was right. The rock-face was dark; it would take little skill to cast an image across the cave-mouth, and the soldiers had been half-blinded by the destruction of the stone.

‘But I could not have destroyed their stone,’ I pointed out defensively.

‘No,’ she agreed, ‘that you could not do. Azrek has a powerful magus at his side, and I think you will need my… skills before this game is played out.’

‘What you did was sorcery,’ I said softly. ‘No trick with light and gentle heat. You burned a stone to dust and ash.’

‘I am allied to no dark powers, Owen. Sorcery and magick are not as far removed from one another as you would like to believe. Magick is — as you rightly say, merely tricks with light, illusions. But sorcery is a different kind of… trick. All I did with the stone was to create enormous heat. It is not difficult, it is merely a more powerful variation of the Warming spell.’

‘How is it done?’ I asked her.

‘I cannot teach you sorcery in a single night, Owen, nor would I wish to try. But here is your first lesson: when you rub your hands together you create heat. Well, a stone is not as solid as it looks. It is made of more component parts than there are stars in the sky. I make them rub against one another. The heat generated is immense.’

‘You are mocking me, lady. A stone is a stone. If it was, as you say, made up of many parts, then air would be trapped within it and it would float on water.’

She shook her head. ‘All that you see in this world is not all that there is, Owen Odell. And your logic is flawed. I can make a stone float, or give a feather such weight that you could not carry it. But these lessons can be for another day. For now I want you to tell me why you did not create the rock-wall illusion.’

‘I did not think,’ I admitted. ‘I was frightened — close to panic.’

‘Yes, you were. Fear is good, for it makes us cautious and aids survival. Not so with terror. It is like slow poison, paralysing the limbs and blurring the mind. You have courage, Owen, else you would not have stood up for me at the Burning. But you are undisciplined. Never, when in danger, ask yourself, “What will they do to me?” Instead think, “What can I do to prevent them?” Or did you think that magick, and all the connected powers, were merely discovered in order to entertain revellers in inns, taverns and palaces?’

I was ashamed of my cowardice and said nothing, my thoughts hurtling back to childhood where my father had constantly berated me for lack of skill in the manly arts. I did not climb trees, for fear of the heights, nor learn to swim, for fear of drowning. High horses frightened me and the clashing of sword-blades made me cry. My brothers took to the game of war like young lions, and upon them he showered praise. But Owen was a weakling, worthless, a creature to be avoided. The great Aubertain — how I hated him for his cruel courage, his arrogance and his pride.

I gloried in his one weakness — fire. A long time before, when he himself was a child, he had been burned upon his left arm: the scars were still visible, white, ugly and wrinkled, stretching from wrist to elbow. Even into middle age he would jump if a fire-log cracked and spat sparks.

And then, one summer’s evening, a storehouse near the castle caught fire. Every villager and soldier ran to the blaze, human chains forming to ferry buckets of water from the deep wells to the men at the head of the lines. The fire was beyond control and bright sparks flew into the night sky, carried by the breeze to rest upon the thatched roofs of nearby cottages.

My father, brothers and I organized work parties, carrying water into homes as yet untouched and drenching the thatch. There was a two-storeyed house close by. Sparks entered through an open window, igniting the straw matting that covered the ground floor. Flames billowed up.

I remember a woman screaming, ‘My baby! My baby!’ She was pointing to an upper window. My father was standing beside me at the time and I saw upon his face a look of sheer terror. But then, with a snarl, he tore loose his cloak, wrapped it around his face and shoulders and ran into the burning building.

Moments later I saw him at the upper window with the babe in his arms. Climbing to the sill he leapt to the yard below, his hair and beard on fire. He landed awkwardly and we heard his leg snap, but he twisted his body as he fell to protect the infant he held. Men ran forward then, smothering the flames that writhed about him. The mother retrieved her babe, and my father was carried back to the castle.

I am ashamed to say that my hatred for him swelled, roaring up like the blaze around me.

‘Why so melancholy?’ asked Megan, and I shivered as my mind fled back to the present.

‘I was thinking of my father.’ I told her then of the unhappiness of my childhood, and the story of the great fire that all but destroyed the estate.

‘Do you still think you hate him, Owen?’

‘No, but his treatment of me still causes me pain. The memories are jagged and sharp.’

‘You are much like him.’

‘You misread me, Megan. He is a warrior, a killer, a knight. I am none of these things, nor would wish to be.’

‘What do you wish to be?’

I looked out at the night sky, considering her question.

‘I would like to be content, Megan. Happy. I have known in the woods moments of genuine joy, like when Piercollo sang or when Mace brought the treasure back to the people. But not the happiness I dream of.’

‘And what would bring it to you?

’I do not know. Love, perhaps? A family and a quiet home? Fame? To be known as the greatest bard in the Angostin kingdoms?’

‘These will not bring you what you seek,’ she told me, her voice soft.

‘No? How can you be sure?’

‘There is a man you must first find. He will give you the answers.’

‘He would need to be a great teacher, this man. Who is he?’

You will know him when you meet him,’ she answered. ‘Is your father still alive?’

I shrugged. ‘I have no knowledge of his affairs. I have not contacted my family for more than six years. But, yes, I would think he is still alive. He was strong as an ox and would now be only forty-two years of age.’

‘When this is over, Owen, seek him out.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘To tell him you love him.’

‘I wanted to laugh in her face, to ram home the stupidity of her words. But I could not. And anger flared in me then, a hot silent fury that was washed away by the sudden tears stinging my eyes.