‘That is a good thing to do. Promises are sacred.’
‘I like to think so.’ Skilgannon unrolled his blankets and threw one to the young man. The priest gratefully wrapped it round his thin shoulders.
‘What is the promise?’
Skilgannon had considered telling the young man that it was none of his business. Instead he found himself talking of his time in Naashan, and the death of Dayan. Lastly he tapped the locket and said: ‘So, I search. It is all that is left to me.’
The young man had said nothing then, and had stretched himself out on the ground and gone to sleep.
But soon after dawn, as Skilgannon was saddling the gelding, the priest approached him.
‘I have given much thought to your words about the Source,’ he said. ‘And I think it is true that He sent you to me. Not just for my own safety. I am apprenticed to the Temple of the Resurrection. I am journeying there now. I will take you with me.’
Fate was a mysterious creature. It almost made one believe in the Source.
Almost.
The temple had been shielded by a powerful ward spell, and only when the young priest took Skilgannon to the hidden gateway did it fade. He looked up at what had been the blank rock of a massive mountain, and now saw the many windows carved into the stone. More than that he saw a great shield of gold, gleaming on the high peak.
His heart had soared. Finally his dream would be realized, and Dayan would live again, to enjoy the life she should have known.
Thinking on it now Skilgannon smiled ruefully.
The priests of the Resurrection had made him welcome. Yet he had languished inside the temple for almost a month before the Chief Abbot had summoned him. The man’s name was Vestava.
Round-shouldered and slender, he had kindly eyes.
‘We cannot do what you wish,’ he said. ‘We can take the bones you carry, and we can resurrect, if you will, a girl child, who, in time, will look exactly like your wife. Indeed she will be, in almost every way, identical to the woman you knew. But she will not be Dayan, Skilgannon. She cannot be.’
The shock had been great, the disappointment intense. ‘I will find another temple,’ he said. ‘There will be someone who can do this.’
‘There will not,’ said Vestava. ‘We have searched the Void and her spirit has passed through to the Golden Valley. She will be at peace there, having found joy. Believe me on this.’
‘I will not accept it,’ he said, anger flaring.
‘You need to question your motives here, my boy,’ said the older man.
‘What does that mean?’
‘You are an intelligent man. You also have great courage. However, this quest was not to resurrect Dayan, but to salve your own conscience. In short, it was not for her. It was for you. I know you, Skilgannon, and I know your deeds. You carry a terrible weight upon your soul. I cannot ease that. Let me ask you this: did you love Dayan with all your heart?’
‘This is none of your business, priest.’
‘You did not love her. So what would you do if I brought her back? Chain yourself to her out of duty?
You think a woman would not realize that your heart was not hers? You would have me draw her back from a place of perfection so that she could spend unhappy years with an unhappy man in an unhappy world?’
Skilgannon quelled his anger and sighed. ‘What do I do now?’
‘You have helped one of our brothers, and for this we are grateful. We will, if you wish it, give life to the bones you carry. In this way Dayan’s flesh will once more walk the earth. She may grow to find love, and have children of her own. For most people this is the kind of immortality they understand. It is their gift to the future. They live on through their children.’
Skilgannon rose from his seat and wandered to a window, staring out over the bleak desert landscape.
‘I need time to think on this,’ he said. ‘May I stay here for a while?’
‘Of course, my son.’
For several days Skilgannon had dwelt in the temple, observing the priests, wandering the halls and passageways. It was a place of great serenity. There were beautiful halls, and libraries, where men studied without urgency. Every piece of furniture, every painting had been chosen to enhance the harmonious atmosphere. All the harshness and violence of the world outside seemed far away. Men from all nations studied here, without rancour. The tranquillity of the temple allowed Skilgannon to open his mind to truths he had hidden deep.
Vestava’s words haunted him. He could no longer deny the truth of them. Finally he returned to Vestava. ‘I have given over my life to this quest,’ he said. ‘I told myself it was for Dayan. But you are right, priest. It was for me. A poultice for the wound on my soul.’
‘What do you wish us to do?’
‘Give life to the bones. She was pregnant when she died. At least this way a part of her will feel the sun once more upon her face.’
‘A wise decision, my son. You are disappointed. I understand that. It will be as you wish. I will watch over the child, and see her grow strong, if that is the will of the Source. She will be like any other child, and subject to the whims of fate, disease, or war. I will, however, do my best to see her happy. Come back to us in a few years and watch her grow for a while. It will ease your heart.’
‘I may do that,’ he had said. That afternoon he had ridden from the temple, and had not looked back.
Up ahead Harad took off his pack and dropped it to the ground. Then he wandered down to a rippling stream and drank deeply. Skilgannon joined him. They sat in silence for a while. Harad looked intently at Skilgannon, then shivered.
‘What is wrong, Harad?’
‘I can’t get the dream from my mind,’ said the young logger. ‘Grey skies, dead trees, no water and no life. Demons everywhere. It was so real. I have never dreamt anything like it before.’
‘You were in the Void,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It is a dark and dangerous place.’
‘How do you know of this?’
‘I know many things, Harad. I know that you are a good, strong man, and that you will carry Druss’s axe with pride and do his memory honour. I know that you are short-tempered, but that you have a fine heart and an honest soul. I know that you have courage beyond reason, and would be a true friend and a terrible enemy. Ah yes,’ he said, with a smile, ‘I also know you prefer red wine to ale.’
‘Aye, that is true. So, I ask again, how do you know all this? Speak truly.’
‘You are a Reborn, Harad.’
‘I have heard the word. But what does it mean?’
‘A good question. I do not have the best of answers. The priests of the Resurrection have great magic.
They can take the bones of dead heroes and somehow cause them to be born again. Don’t ask me how.
I have no understanding of magic, nor do I wish to acquire any. What I do know is that you were created from a shard of bone.’
‘Pah!’ said Harad. ‘I was born to my mother. I know this.’
‘A long time ago. .’ Skilgannon sighed, ‘a very long time ago, my wife died of the plague. For years I sought the Temple of the Resurrection, hoping that by some miracle they could restore her to life through a piece of her bone and a lock of her hair. When at last I found it I was told by the abbot there that my quest was impossible. What they could do was to allow her to be reborn. By some magical process they could take the bones and a willing woman, and the result would be a birth — a rebirth, I suppose. But they said that my Dayan would not return as I knew her. Her soul had already passed beyond the Void. What there would be was a child in every way identical to the wife I had lost.’
‘And she would be without a soul?’ asked Harad.
‘I understand souls less than I understand magic, Harad. All I know is that I agreed to let them use Dayan’s bones in this way. Some years later I returned, and saw a little girl with golden hair. She was a happy child, full of laughter. When I saw her the last time she was sixteen, and had fallen in love.’