The old Duke had died without another sound, but his bowels had opened and the stench filled the room. Dace had sat quietly, staring down at the corpse. He had drawn Tarantio forward to share the scene. Tarantio remembered his father's face, bloated and swollen, his tongue protruding from his mouth, the rope tight around his neck. Death was always ugly, but this time it had a sweetness Tarantio could taste.
'Never again,' whispered Tarantio. 'I'll never kill again.'
' You won't have to,' Dace told him. 'I'll do it for you. I enjoyed it.'
With a surge of willpower Tarantio dragged control from Dace. Then he fled the castle, confused and uncertain. He had been raised on stories of heroes, of knights and chivalry. No hero would have felt as he did now. The soaring, ecstatic burst of joy Dace had experienced filled the fifteen-year-old with disgust. And yet he had also tasted that joy.
Now by the lake, with such sombre thoughts in his mind, Tarantio found sleep difficult, and when at last he did succumb, he dreamt again of the old man. 'The truth burns, Chio,' he said. The truth is a bright light, and it hurts so much.'
It rained in the night, putting out his fire, and he awoke cold and shivering. Rolling to his knees he pushed himself upright, slipped, and fell face first into the mud. The sound of Dace's laughter drifted into his mind.
'Ah, life at one with nature,' mocked Dace. Tarantio swore. 'Now, now,' said Dace. 'Always try to keep a sense of humour,'
'You like humour?' said Tarantio. 'Laugh at this, then!' Closing his eyes, he opened the inner pathways and fell back into himself. Dace tried to stop him, but the move was so sudden and unexpected that before he could summon any defences Dace found himself hurtled forward into control of the wet shivering body.
'You whoreson!' spluttered Dace, water pouring down his face.
'You try being at one with nature,' said Tarantio happily, safe and warm within the borders of the mind.
Dace tried the same manoeuvre, struggling to drag Tarantio from his sanctuary, but it did not work. Furious now, Dace looked around, then took shelter within the bole of a spreading oak. The huge tree had at one time been struck by lightning, splitting the trunk, but amazingly it had survived. Dace climbed inside. There was not much room for a full-grown man, but he removed his sword-belt and wedged his back against the dry bark and watched the downpour outside.
'You've made your point, Chio,' said Dace. 'Now let me back. I'm cold and I'm bored.'
'I like it here:
Out on the lake the rain sheeted down, and a distant rumble of thunder drummed out. Dace swore. If lightning were to strike the tree again, he would be fried alive.
He swore again. Then grinned. All life is chance, he decided. And at least, for the moment, he was out of the rain and wind.
'All right, you can come back,' said Tarantio, failing to keep the fear from showing.
'No, no. I'm just getting used to it,' responded Dace.
Lightning flashed nearby, illuminating the lake and the island at its centre. Dace bared his teeth in a wolf's-head grin. 'Come!' he yelled. 'Strike me if you dare!'
'Do you want us to die?' asked Tarantio.
' I don't much care,' replied Dace. 'Perhaps that is what makes me the best.'
The storm passed as suddenly as it had come, and the moon shone bright in a clear sky. 'Come then, brother,' said Dace. 'Come out into the world of mud and mediocrity. I have had my fun.'
Tarantio took control and eased himself from the tree, then turned back to gather dry bark and dead wood from the hole. With this he started a new fire.
'We could have been in a palace,' Dace reminded him. 'In that large soft bed with satin sheets, within the room of silvered mirrors.'
'You would have killed her, Dace. Don't deny it. I could feel the desire in you.'
The Duke of Corduin had sent a famous courtesan to him: the Lady Miriac. Miriac of the golden hair.
Her skills had been intoxicating. Even without the mirrors the night would have been the most memorable of his young life, but with them Tarantio had seen himself make love, and be made love to, from every angle, giving him memories he would carry for as long as the breath of life clung to him. He sighed.
But at the height of his passion he had felt Dace's anger and jealousy. The raw power of the emotions had frightened him.
And Tarantio had fled the arms of Miriac, and turned his back on the promise of riches.
' I would have been a great Champion,' said Dace. 'We could have been rich.'
'Why did you want to kill her?'
'She was bad for us. You were falling in love with her, and she with you. The courtesan could not resist the young virgin boy with the deadly sword. She stroked your face when you wept. How touching! How sickening! Is that why we are going to Corduin? To see the bitch?'
Tarantio sighed. 'You don't really exist, Dace. I am insane. One day someone will recognize it. Then I'll be locked away, or hanged.'
'I exist,' said Dace. 'I am here. I will always be here. Sigellus knew that. He spoke to me often. He liked me.'
With the dawn came fresh pangs of hunger. Tarantio spent an hour trying to catch another trout, but luck was not with him. He scooped a two-pound female, but she wriggled in his grasp, turned a graceful somersault in the air and returned to the depths. Drying himself, he dressed and strode off towards the higher country.
The air was thinner here, the wind cold against his face. Autumn was closing fast, and within a few short weeks the snow would come. Slowly and carefully Tarantio climbed a steep slope, moving warily among huge boulders which littered the mountainside. He wondered idly how the boulders had come to be here, since they were not of the same stone as the surrounding cliffs. Many of them had deep grooves along the base, as if haphazardly chiselled by a stonemason.
'Volcanic eruptions,' said Dace, 'way back in the past. Gatien used to talk of them, but then you had little interest in geology.'
'I remember that you liked stories of earthquakes and volcanoes. Death and destruction have always fascinated you, Dace.'
'Death is the only absolute, the only certainty.'
Finally, with the sun beginning its long, slow fall to the west, Tarantio reached level ground and stopped to rest. Several rabbits emerged from a grassy knoll and he killed one with a throwing knife. Finding a flat rock he skinned the beast, then removed the entrails, separating the heart and kidneys. There was a small stream nearby, and close to it he found a bed of nettles, and beyond it some chives. Further searching brought him the added treasure of wild onions. Returning to his camp-site, he prepared a fire. Once it had caught well, he drew his knife and cut two large square sections of bark from a silver birch. Using a forked stick he held one section of bark over the fire, warming it, making it easier to fold. Then he scored the bark and expertly folded it into a small bowl. Repeating the process with the second square, he grew impatient and the bark split. Tarantio swore at himself. Painstakingly he selected and cut another section.
Filling the first bowl with water from the stream, he returned to the fire, built a second blaze and fed it steadily with dry wood. When the coals were ready, he placed the bowl on the fire and added a handful of nettles, chopped chives and several onions. On the first fire he skewered and cooked the rabbit. The meat was greasy and tender, and he ate half of it immediately, tearing the remainder and adding it to his simmering bowl.