‘Do you miss your garden?’ asked Acuas.
‘No, I do not. And that makes me sad.’
‘Did you enjoy your life as a priest?’ said Katan.
Decado looked at the slender young man with the gentle face. ‘Do you enjoy life as a warrior?’ he countered.
‘No. Not in the least.’
‘In some ways I enjoyed my life. It was good to hide for a while.’
‘From what were you hiding?’ asked Balan.
‘I think you know the answer to that. I deal in death, my friend — I always have. Some men can paint, others create beauty in stone or in words. I kill. But pride and shame do not match well and I found the disharmony daunting. In the moment of the kill there was bliss, but afterwards . . .’
‘What happened afterwards?’ asked Acuas.
‘No man alive could match me with the blades, therefore all my enemies became defenceless. I was no longer a warrior, but a murderer. The thrill lessened, the doubts grew. When the Dragon was disbanded I travelled the world seeking opponents, but found none. Then I realised there was only one man who could test me, and I decided to challenge him. On the way to his home in Ventria I was trapped in a sandstorm for three days. It gave me time to think about what I was doing. You see, the man was my friend and yet, had it not been for the storm, I would have killed him. It was then that I returned home to the Drenai and tried to change my life.’
‘And what became of your friend?’ asked Katan.
Decado smiled. ‘He became a Torchbearer.’
9
The council chamber had seen better days; now woodworm pockmarked the inlaid elm around the walls and the painted mosaic showing the white-bearded Druss the Legend had peeled away in ugly patches, exposing the grey of mould growing on the plaster.
Some thirty men and about a dozen women and children were seated on wooden benches, listening to the words of the woman sitting at the Senate chair. She was large, big-boned and broad of shoulder. Her dark hair swept out from her head like a lion’s mane and her green eyes blazed with anger.
‘Just listen to yourselves!’ she roared, pushing herself to her feet and smoothing the folds in her heavy green skirt. ‘Talk, talk, talk! And what does it all mean? Throw yourselves on Ceska’s mercy? What in hell’s name does that mean? Surrender, that’s what! You, Petar – stand up!’
A man snuffled to his feet, head bowed and blushing furiously.
‘Lift your arm!’ bellowed the woman and he did so. The hand was missing and the stump showed evidence still of the tar that had closed the wound.
‘That is Ceska’s mercy! By all the gods, you cheered loud enough when my men of the mountains swept the soldiers from our lands. You couldn’t do enough for us then, could you? But now they are coming back, you want to squeal and hide. Well, there is nowhere to hide. The Vagrians won’t let us cross their borders, and for damn sure Ceska won’t forgive and forget.’
A middle-aged man rose to his feet alongside the helpless Petar. ‘It’s no use shouting, Rayvan. What choices do we have? We cannot beat them. We shall all die.’
‘Everybody dies, Vorak,’ stormed the woman. ‘Or had you not heard? I have six hundred fighting men who say we can defeat the Legion. And there are five hundred more who are waiting to join us when we can lay our hands on more weapons.’
‘Suppose we do turn back the Legion,’ said Vorak, ‘what happens when Ceska sends in his Joinings? What use will your fighting men be then?’
‘When the time comes, we shall see,’ she promised.
‘We shall see nothing. Go back where you came from and leave us to make peace with Ceska. We don’t want you here!’ shouted Vorak.
‘Oh, speaking for everyone now, are we, Vorak?’ Rayvan stepped from the dais and marched towards the man. He swallowed hard as she loomed over him, then her hand gripped his collar and propelled him towards the wall. ‘Look up there and tell me what you see,’ she commanded.