"Trust me. All will be revealed."
"I was raised at Dros Delnoch," Virae told Rek as they lay before the blazing fire. His head rested on his rolled cloak, her head nestled on his chest. He stroked her hair, saying nothing. "It's a majestic place. Have you ever been there?"
"No. Tell me about it." He didn't really want to hear, but neither did he wish to speak.
"It has six outer walls, each of them twenty feet thick. The first three were built by Egel, the Earl of Bronze. But then the town expanded and gradually they built three more. The whole fortress spans the Delnoch Pass. With the exception of Dros Purdol to the west and Corteswain to the east, it is the only route for an army to pass through the mountains. My father converted the old keep and made it his home. The view is beautiful from the upper turrets. To the south in summer the whole of the Sentran Plain is golden with corn. And to the north you can see for ever. Are you listening to me?"
"Yes. Golden views. You can see for ever," he said, softly.
"Are you sure you want to hear this?"
"Yes. Tell me about the walls again."
"What about them?"
"How thick are they?"
"They are also up to sixty feet high, with jutting towers every fifty paces. Any army attacking the Dros would suffer fearful losses."
"What about the gates?" he asked. "A wall is only as strong as the gate it shields."
"The Earl of Bronze thought of that. Each gate is set behind an iron portcullis and built of layered bronze, iron and oak. Beyond the gates are tunnels which narrow at the centre before opening out on to the level between walls. You could hold the tunnels against an enormous number of men. The whole of the Dros was beautifully designed; it's only the town which spoils it."
"In what way?" he said.
"Originally Egel designed the gap between the walls to be a killing ground with no cover. It was uphill to the next wall, which would slow down the enemy. With enough bowmen you could have a massacre. It was good psychologically, too: by the time they came to take the next wall — if they ever did — they'd know there was more killing ground to come."
"So how did the town spoil it?"
"It just grew. Now we have buildings all the way to wall six. The killing ground's gone. Quite the opposite in fact — now there's cover all the way."
He rolled over and kissed her brow.
"What was that for?" she asked.
"Does it have to be for something?"
"There's a reason for everything," she said.
He kissed her again. "That was for the Earl of Bronze," he said. "Or the coming of spring. Or a vanished snowflake."
"You don't make any sense," she told him.
"Why did you let me make love to you?" he asked.
"What sort of a question is that?"
"Why?"
"None of your damned business!" she said.
He laughed and kissed her again. "Yes, my lady. Quite right. None of my business."
"You're mocking me," she said, struggling to rise.
"Nonsense," he said, holding her down. "You're beautiful."
"I'm not. I never have been. You are mocking me."
"I will never mock you. And you are beautiful. And the more I look at you, the more beautiful you are."
"You're a fool. Let me up."
He kissed her again, easing his body close to hers. The kiss lingered and she returned it.
"Tell me about the Dros again," he said, at last.
"I don't want to talk about it now. You're teasing me, Rek; I won't have it. I don't want to think about it tonight, not any more. Do you believe in fate?"
"I do now. Almost."
"I'm serious. Yesterday, I didn't mind about going home and facing the Nadir. I believed in the Drenai cause and I was willing to die for it. I wasn't scared yesterday."
"And today?" he asked.
"Today, if you asked me, I wouldn't go home." She was lying, but she didn't know why. A surge of fear welled in her as Rek closed his eyes and leaned back.
"Yes, you would," he said. "You have to."
"What about you?"
"It doesn't make sense," he said.
"What doesn't?"
"I don't believe in what I'm feeling. I never have. I am almost thirty years old and I know the world."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about fate. Destiny. An old man in tattered blue robes without any eyes. I'm talking about love."
"Love?"
He opened his eyes, reached out and stroked her face. "I can't tell you what it meant to me when you stood beside me this morning. It was the highest point in my life. Nothing else mattered. I could see the sky — it was more blue than ever I've seen it. Everything was in sharp focus. I was more aware of living than I have ever been. Does that make any sense?"
"No," she said gently. "Not really. Do you truly think I'm beautiful?"
"You are the most beautiful woman who ever wore armour," he said, smiling.
"That's no answer. Why am I beautiful?"
"Because I love you," he said, surprised at the ease with which he could say it.
"Does that mean you're coming with me to Dros Delnoch?"
"Tell me about those lovely high walls again," he said.
5
The monastery grounds were split into training areas, some of stone, some of grass, others of sand or treacherous slime-covered slate. The abbey itself stood at the centre of the grounds, a converted keep of grey stone and crenellated battlements. Four walls and a moat surrounded the abbey, the walls a later and less war-like addition of soft, golden sandstone. By the western wall, sheltered by glass and blooming out of season were flowers of thirty different shades. All were roses.
The albino Serbitar knelt before his tree, his mind at one with the plant. He had struggled for thirteen years with the rose and understood it. There was empathy. There was harmony.
There was fragrance that pulsed for Serbitar alone. Greenfly upon the rose shrivelled and died as Serbitar gazed upon them, and the soft silky beauty of the blooms filled his senses like an opiate.
It was a white rose.
Serbitar sat back, eyes closed, mentally following the surge of new life within the tree. He wore full armour of silver mailshirt, sword and scabbard, leather leggings worked with silver rings; by his side was a new silver helm, bearing the figure One in Elder runes. His white hair was braided. His eyes were green — the colour of the rose leaves. His slender face, translucent skin over high cheekbones, had the mystic beauty of the consumptive.
He made his farewells, gently easing the gossamer panic of the plant. It had known him since its first leaf opened.
And now he was to die.
A smiling face grew in his mind and Serbitar sense-recognised Arbedark. We await you, pulsed the inner message.
I am coming, he answered.
Within the great hall a table had been set, a jug of water and a barley cake before each of thirty places. Thirty men in full armour sat silently as Serbitar entered, taking his place at the head of the table and bowing to the Abbot, Vintar, who now sat on his right.
In silence the company ate, each thinking his own thoughts, each analysing his emotions at this culmination of thirteen years' training.
Finally Serbitar spoke, fulfilling the ritual need of the Order.
"Brothers, the search is upon us. We who have sought must obtain that which we seek. A messenger comes from Dros Delnoch to ask us to die. What does the Heart of The Thirty feel on this matter?"
All eyes turned to black-bearded Arbedark. He relaxed his mind, allowing their emotions to wash over him, selecting thoughts, analysing them, forging them into one unifying concept agreed by all.
Then he spoke, his voice deep and resonant.
"The heart of the matter is that the children of the Drenai face extinction. Ulric has massed the Nadir tribes under his banner. The first attack on the Drenai empire will be at Dros Delnoch, which Earl Delnar has orders to hold until the autumn. Abalayn needs time to raise and train an army.