“You almost sound as though you accept your fate.”
“Hawkwood brought me here thinking you could cure me. We both know you cannot. And perhaps I do not want to be cured any more. Golophin, have you thought of that? This Aruan is incredibly powerful. I could be too. All I need is time, time to think and research.”
“This tower and everything in it is at your disposal, Bard, you know that.”
“Thank you.”
“But I have one question. When you unlock this reservoir of power, if you ever do, what will you do with it? Aruan is intent on establishing himself in the Old World, perhaps not tomorrow or this month or even this year, but soon. He intends some kind of sorcerous hegemony. He’s been working towards it for centuries, from what you tell me. When that day comes, then it will be the ordinary kings and soldiers of the world versus him and his kind. Our kind. Where do the lines get drawn?”
Bardolin would not look at him. “I don’t know. He has a point, don’t you think? For centuries we’ve been persecuted, tortured, murdered because of the gift we were born with. It is time it was stopped. The Dweomer-folk have a right to live in peace.”
“I agree. But starting a war is not the way to secure that right. It will make the ordinary folk of the world more fearful of us than ever.”
“It is time the ordinary folk of the world were made to regret their blind bigotry,” Bardolin snarled, and there was such genuine menace in his voice that Golophin, startled, could think of nothing more to say.
H AWKWOOD had not ridden a horse for longer than he could remember. Luckily, the animal he had hired seemed to know more about it than he did. He bumped along in a state of weary discomfort, his destination visible as a grey finger of stone shimmering in the spring haze above the hills to the north. There was another rider on the road ahead, a woman by the looks of things. Her mount was lame. Even as he watched, she dismounted and began inspecting its hooves one by one. He drew level and reined in, some battered old remnant of courtesy surfacing.
“Can I help?”
The woman was well-dressed, a tall, plain girl in her late twenties with a long nose and a wondrous head of fiery hair that caught the sunshine.
“I doubt it,” and she went back to examining her horse.
His appearance was against him, Hawkwood knew. Though he had bathed and changed and suffered a haircut at the hands of Donna Ponera, Galliardo’s formidable wife, he still looked like some spruced-up vagabond.
“Have you far to go?” he tried again.
“He’s thrown a shoe. God’s blood. Is there a smithy hereabouts?”
“I don’t know. Where are you heading for?”
The girl straightened. “Not far. Yonder tower.” She gave Hawkwood a swift, unimpressed appraisal. “I have a pistol. You’ll find easier pickings elsewhere.”
Hawkwood laughed. “I’ll bet I would. It so happens I also am going to the tower. You know the Mage Golophin then?”
“Perhaps.” She looked him over with more curiosity now. He liked the frankness of her stare, the strength he saw in her features. Not much beauty there, in the conventional sense, but definite character. “My name is Hawkwood,” he said.
“I am Isolla.” She seemed relieved when her name elicited no reaction from him. “I suppose we may as well travell the rest of the way together. It’s not so far. Is Golophin expecting you?”
“Yes. And you?”
A slight hesitation. “Yes. You may as well dismount, instead of staring down at me.”
“You can ride my horse if you like.”
“No. I only ride sidesaddle anyway.”
So she was well-born. He could have guessed that from her clothes. Her accent intrigued him, though. It was of Astarac.
“You know Golophin well?” he asked her as they walked side by side leading their mounts.
“Well enough. And you?”
“Only by reputation. He is looking after a sick friend of mine.”
“Are you all right? You have a strange gait.”
“I have not ridden a horse in a long time. Or walked upon solid earth for that matter.”
“What, do you possess wings that take you everywhere?”
“No, a ship. She put in only this morning.”
He saw a light dawn in her eyes. She looked him up and down again, this time with some wonder. “Richard Hawkwood the mariner—of course! I am a dunce. Your name is all over the city.”
“The very same.” He waited for her to give some fuller account of herself, but in vain. They strolled together companionably enough after that, the miles flitting by with little more conversation. For some reason Hawkwood was almost disappointed when they finally knocked on the door of Golophin’s tower. There was something about this Isolla that finally made him feel as though he had come home.
I’ve been at sea too long, he told himself.
“C URIOSITY,” Golophin said, annoyed. “In a man it is a virtue, leading to enlightenment. In a woman it is a vice, leading to mischief.” He looked at Isolla disapprovingly, but she seemed unabashed.
“That’s a saying dreamt up by a man. I am not some gossiping lady’s maid, Golophin.”
“You should not be behaving like one then. Ah, Captain Hawkwood, I thank you for delivering our princess safe and sound, since she was pig-headed enough to come out here.”
“Princess?” Hawkwood asked her. Some absurd little hope died within him.
“It’s not important,” she said uncomfortably.
“You are looking at the next Queen of Hebrion, no less,” Golophin said. “As if the world needed another queen. Make yourself useful, Isolla. Pour us some wine. There’s a jug of it cooling in the study.”
She left the room, undismayed by the old wizard’s disapproval. And indeed, as soon as she had left the room a smile spread across his face.
“She should have been a man,” he said with obvious affection.
Hawkwood disagreed, but kept his opinion to himself.
“So, Captain, we meet at last. I am glad you came.”
“Where’s Bardolin?”
“Asleep. It will speed his healing.”
“Is he… has he—?”
“The beast is dormant for now. I have been able to help him control it.”
“You can cure him, then?”
“No. No-one can. But I can help him manage it. He has been telling me of your voyage. A veritable nightmare.”
“Yes. It was.”
“Not many could have survived it.”
Hawkwood went to the window. It looked out from the tower’s great height over southern Hebrion, the land green and serene under the sun, the sea a sparkle on the horizon.
“I think we were meant to survive it—Bardolin was anyway. They allowed us to escape. I sometimes wonder if they even guided our course on the voyage home. Bardolin told you of them, I suppose. A race of monstrosities. He thinks some of them are in Normannia already, and more are coming. They have plans for us, the wizards of the west.”
“Well, we are forewarned at least—thanks to you. What are your own plans now, Captain?”
The question took Hawkwood by surprise. “I hadn’t thought about it. Lord, I’ve only been back on dry land a day. So much has happened. My wife died in Abrusio, my house is gone. All I have left is my ship, and she is in a sorry state. I suppose I was thinking of going to the King, to see if he had anything for me.” He realised how that sounded, and flushed.
“You have earned something, that much is true,” Golophin reassured him gently. “I am sure Abeleyn will not be remiss in recognising that. Your expedition may have been a failure, but it has also been a valuable source of information. Tell me, what think you of Lord Murad?”