"Leave you? What are you talking about? It doesn't matter to me, you fool. I was just sorry for you. Oh, Rek — you're such an idiot. I'm not some tavern girl who squeals at the sight of a rat. I'm a woman who has grown up alongside men. Soldiers. Fighting men. Warriors. You think I would leave you because you are baresark?"
"I can control it," he said, holding her tightly to him.
"Where we are going, Rek, you will not have to," she said.
Serbitar left the monastery balcony and poured a goblet of spring water from a stone jug.
"How did he do it?"
Vintar sat back on a leather chair. "There is a well of courage within him, fuelled by many things of which we can only guess. But when Menahem fed him fear, he responded with violence. Because what Menahem could not have understood is that the man fears fear itself. Did you glimpse that memory of his childhood during Menahem's probe?"
"The tunnels, you mean?"
"Yes. What do you make of a child who fears the dark and yet seeks out dark tunnels to travel through?"
"He tried to end his fears by facing them," said Serbitar.
"He still does. And that's why Menahem almost died."
"He will be useful at Dros Delnoch," said Serbitar, smiling.
"More than you know," said Vintar. "More than you know."
"Yes," Serbitar told Rek as they sat within the oak-panelled study overlooking the courtyard. "Yes, we can read minds. But I assure you we will not again attempt to read yours — or that of your companion."
"Why did he do that to me?" asked Rek.
"Menahem is the Eyes of The Thirty. He had to see that you were worthy to ask of us… the service. You expect us to fight with your forces, to analyse enemy tactics and to use our skills in defence of a fortress about which we care nothing. The messenger has to be worthy."
"But I am not the messenger, I am merely a companion."
"We shall see… How long have you known of your… affliction?"
Rek turned his gaze to the window and the balcony beyond. A wren landed on the railing, sharpened his beak on the stone and then flew off. Light clouds were forming, fleece islands in the clear blue of the sky.
"It has happened only twice. Both times in the Sathuli wars. Once when we were surrounded after a dawn raid on a village, and the second time when I was part of a guard unit for a spices caravan."
"It is common among warriors," said Serbitar. "It is a gift of fear."
"It saved my life both times, but it scares me," said Rek. "It is as if someone else takes over my mind and body."
"But that is not so, I assure you. It is you alone. Do not fear what you are, Rek — may I call you Rek?"
"Of course."
"I did not wish to be overly familiar. It is a nickname, is it not?"
"A shortened form of Regnak. My foster-father, Horeb, shortened it when I was a child. It was a kind of joke. I disliked robust games and never wanted to explore or climb high trees. I wasn't reckless, he said; so he dropped the "less' and called me Rek. As I said, it's not much of a joke, but the name stuck."
"Do you think," asked Serbitar, "that you will be comfortable at Dros Delnoch?"
Rek smiled. "Are you asking me if I have the nerve?"
"Speaking bluntly? Yes, I suppose I am."
"I don't know. Have you?"
The ghost of a smile hovered on the pale, fleshless face as the albino considered the question. His slender fingers tapped gently at the desk top.
"The question is a good one. Yes, I have the nerve. My fears are unconnected with death."
"You have read my mind," said Rek. "You tell me if I have the nerve. I mean it. I don't know if I can stand a drawn-out siege; it is said that men fail under such pressure."
"I cannot tell you," Serbitar answered, "if you will hold or fail. You are capable of both. I cannot analyse all the permutations of a siege. Ask yourself this: What if Virae fell? Would you stay on?"
"No," said Rek instantly. "I would saddle a fast horse and be gone. I don't care about Dros Delnoch. Or the Drenai empire."
"The Drenai are finished," said Serbitar. "Their star has fallen."
"Then you think the Dros will fall?"
"Ultimately it must. But I cannot see that far into the future as yet. The Way of the Mist is strange. Often it will show events still to come, but more often it will show events never to be. It is a perilous path which only the true mystic walks with certainty."
"The Way of the Mist?" asked Rek.
"I'm sorry, why should you know? It is a road on another plane… a fourth dimension? A journey of the spirit like a dream. Only you direct the dream and see what you desire to see. It is a concept hard to verbalise to a non-Speaker."
"Are you saying your soul can travel outside the body?" asked Rek.
"Oh yes, that is the easy part. We saw you in Graven Forest outside the cabin. We helped you then by influencing the axeman, Grussin."
"You made him kill Reinard?"
"No. Our powers are not that great. We merely pushed him in a direction he was considering already."
"I'm not sure I am entirely comfortable knowing you have that sort of power," said Rek, avoiding the albino's green eyes.
Serbitar laughed, his eyes sparkling, his pale face mirroring his joy.
"Friend Rek, I am a man of my word. I promised never to use my gift to read your mind and I shall not. Nor will any of The Thirty. Do you think we would be priests, forsaking the world, if we wished harm to others? I am the son of an earl, but if I wished I could be a king, an emperor mightier than Ulric. Do not feel threatened. We must be at ease one with the other. More — we must be friends."
"Why?" asked Rek.
"Because we are about to share a moment which comes only once in a lifetime," said Serbitar. "We are going to die."
"Speak for yourself," said Rek. "I do not see that going to Dros Delnoch is just another way of committing suicide. It's a battle, that's all. No more, no less than that. A wall can be defended. A smaller force can hold a larger. History is full of examples: Skeln Pass, for example."
"True," said Serbitar. "But they are remembered because they are exceptions. Let us deal in facts. The Dros is defended by a force less than a third of full complement. Morale is low, fear is rife. Ulric has a force in excess of half a million warriors all willing — lusting even — to die for him in battle. I am a weaponmaster and a student of war. Dros Delnoch will fall. Clear your mind of any other conclusion."
"Then why come with us? What will you gain from it?"
"We die," said Serbitar, "and then live. But I shall say no more of that at this time. I do not wish to depress you, Rek. If it would serve a purpose, I would fill you with hope. But my whole battle strategy will be built around delaying the inevitable. Only then can I function — and serve your cause."
"I hope you will keep that opinion to yourself," said Rek. "Virae believes we can hold. I know enough of warfare and morale to tell you plainly that if your theory were to spread among the men, there would be wholesale desertions; we would lose on the first day."
"I am not a fool, Rek. I say this to you because it needs to be said. I shall be your advisor at Delnoch and you will need me to speak the truth. I shall have no real dealings with the soldiers, neither will The Thirty. Men will avoid us anyway, once they know what we are."
"Perhaps. Why do you say you will be my advisor? Earl Delnar commands; I shall not even be an officer there."
"Let us say," said Serbitar, "that I will be the adviser to your cause. Time will explain all far better than I. Have I depressed you?"
"Not at all. You have told me everything is hopeless, that we are all dead men and the Drenai are finished. Depressed? Not at all!"
Serbitar laughed and clapped his hands. "I like you, Rek," he said. "I think you will hold firm."