And soon she will be the mother of my child. I will be loyal to her. I owe her that.’
Then he had taken the Swords of Night and Day, and ridden back to the war.
Now alone in his small room Skilgannon placed his hand over the locket round his neck. ‘If the temple exists, Dayan,’ he whispered, ‘I will find it.
You will live again.’
He stayed for a while kneeling upon the floor, lost in thoughts of the past. Had he been a coward to refuse the demands of his heart? Was his love for Jianna so great, or not great enough? Could he have defeated the princes as well as the Ventrian overlords and their supporters? His mind told him no. He and Jianna would have been dragged down and betrayed.
His arrogance whispered the opposite. ‘You could have beaten them all, and been as one with the woman of your soul’s desire.’
Such thoughts were reinforced by what had happened following the gift of the swords. During the next two years all enemies had fallen before him.
One by one the cities held by Ventrian supporters had been taken, or had surrendered to his conquering armies without a fight. Yet, as Jianna’s power grew, she had begun to change. Their relationship cooled. She took many lovers, men of power and ambition, then leached away their strength before tossing them aside. Poor, demented Damalon had been the last. He had followed at her heels like a puppy, begging for scraps.
Jianna had sent Damalon away on that last night, after the massacre of Perapolis, and had entertained Skilgannon in her battle tent. He had arrived with the blood of the slaughtered on his clothes. Jianna, dressed in a gown of shimmering white, her black hair braided with silver wire, looked at him disdainfully. ‘Could you not have bathed before coming into my presence, general?’
‘A tidal wave could not wash this blood from me,’ he said. ‘It will be upon me all my days.’
‘Is the mighty Skilgannon growing soft?’
‘It was wrong, Jianna. It was evil on the grandest scale. Babies with their skulls smashed against walls, children with their guts torn out. What kind of a victory was this?’
‘My victory,’ she snapped. ‘My enemies are dead. Their children are dead. Now we can rebuild and grow without fear of revenge.’
‘Aye, well, you’ll have no need of a soldier now. So, with your leave, I’ll return to my home and do my best to forget this awful day.’
‘Yes, go home,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘Go to your Dayan. Rest for a few weeks. Then return. There will always be a need for good soldiers. We have retaken the cities of Naashan, but I wish to reestablish the old borders that were in place when my father was king.’
‘You will invade Matapesh and Cadia now?’
‘Not immediately — but soon. Then Datia and Dospilis.’
‘What has happened to you, Jianna? Once we talked of justice and of peace and prosperity and freedom. These are the virtues we fought for. We had only contempt for the vanity of Gorben and the desire of conquerors to build empires.’
‘I was little more than a child then,’ she snapped. ‘Now I have grown.
Children talk of silly dreams. I now deal in realities. Those who support me I reward. Those who stand against me die. Do you no longer love me, Olek?’
‘I will always love you, Sashan,’ he said simply.
Her features softened then, and for a moment she was the girl he had saved in the forest of Delian. Then the moment passed. Her dark eyes narrowed and held his gaze.
‘Do not seek to leave me, Olek. I could not allow it.’
Pushing aside all dreams of the past Skilgannon climbed upon his narrow bed. He fell asleep.
And dreamed of the White Wolf.
It was a beautiful dawn, the sky bathed in gold, the few clouds drenched in colour: rich red at the base and glowing charcoal at the crown. Cethelin stood on the high tower, absorbing the beauty with all his being. The air tasted sweet and he closed his eyes and sought to still the trembling of his hands.
He did not lack faith, but he did not want to die. The distant town was quiet, though once more smoke hung in the air over ruined buildings.
Soon the mob would begin to gather, and then, like the angry sea of his dream, it would surge towards the church buildings.
Cethelin was old, and had seen such events too often in his long life.
Always they followed a pattern. The majority in the mob would, at first, merely stand around, awaiting events. Like a pack of hunting hounds, held on invisible leashes. Then the evil among them — always so few — would initiate the horror. The leashes would snap, the pack surge forward.
Cethelin felt another stab of fear at the thought.
Raseev Kalikan would be the ringleader. Cethelin tried to love all those he met, no matter how petty or cruel they might appear. It was hard to love Raseev — not because he was evil but because he was empty. Cethelin pitied him. He had no moral values, no sense of spirituality. Raseev was a man consumed by thoughts of self. He was too canny, however, to be at the forefront of the mob. Even with plans of murder already in place he would be looking to the future — to show that his hands were clean. No, it would be the vile Antol and his ghastly wife, Marja. Cethelin shivered and berated himself for such judgemental thoughts. For years Marja had attended church, making herself responsible for organizing functions and gathering donations. She saw herself as holy and wise. Yet her conversations inevitably led to the judgement of others. ‘That woman from Mellicane, Father. You know she is having an affair with the merchant, Callian. She should not be welcome at our services.’ ‘You must have heard the dreadful noise that the washerwoman, Athyla, makes during evensong.
She cannot hit a note. Could you not ask her to refrain from singing, Father?’
‘The Source hears the song from the heart, not from the throat,’
Cethelin had told her.
Then had come the awful day when — after a fundraising for the poor -
Brother Labberan discovered that Marja had ‘borrowed’ from the fund.
The sum had not been great, some forty silver pieces. Cethelin had asked her to return the money. At first she had been defiant, and denied the charge. Later, with proof offered, she maintained that she had merely borrowed the sum and had every intention of returning it. She promised it would be replaced the following week. She had never since attended any service. Nor had the money been repaid. Brother Labberan had requested the matter be brought before the Watch, but Cethelin had refused.
Since then both Marja and her husband had joined the ranks of the Arbiters, and had spoken against the church. The attack on Brother Labberan had been orchestrated by Antol, and Marja had stood by, screaming for them to kick him and make him bleed.
These two would be at the forefront of the mob. They would be the ones baying for blood.
The door to the tower was pushed open. Cethelin turned to see which of the priests had disturbed his meditations, but it was the dog, Jesper. It limped forward, then sat looking up at him. ‘The world will go on, Jesper,’
he said, patting the hound’s large head.
‘Dogs will be fed, and people will be born, and loved. I know this, and yet my heart is filled with terror.’
Raseev Kalikan was in the front rank of the crowd as it moved over the old bridge and onto the slope before the old castle buildings. Alongside him was the burly bearded figure of Paolin Meltor, the Arbiter from Mellicane. His injured leg was healing well, but walking any distance still caused him pain. Raseev had urged him to stay behind, but the Arbiter had refused. ‘It will be worth a little discomfort to watch those traitors die.’
‘Let us not talk of death, my friend. We are merely looking to see them hand over the boy who killed my son.’ There were others present during the conversation and Raseev ignored the look of shock and surprise on the face of Paolin Meltor. ‘If they refuse to do their honest duty then we must enter the monastery and arrest them all,’ he continued. Taking Paolin by the arm he led him away from the listening crowd. ‘All will be as you wish it,’ he whispered. ‘But we must think of the future. We must not be seen to go to the church as a murdering mob. We seek justice. A few angry men will lose their heads and a regrettable — deeply regrettable — massacre will take place. You understand?’