‘That is enough!’ shouted Gaise Macon. ‘Release that man.’
The Watch officers let go of Kaelin Ring, who half stumbled, then righted himself.
‘Sir, this man attacked a Varlish citizen,’ said Bindoe. ‘It was witnessed by most people here.’
‘I also witnessed it,’ said Gaise Macon, coldly. ‘Three men against one. And he almost had the beating of them.’ He turned his palomino towards Taybard Jaekel. ‘And you, sir, let me inform you that had you used that knife I would have seen you hang for murder. Now begone from here.’
In that moment all anger drained away from Taybard Jaekel. It was not the threat that caused it, but the realization that he had come close to killing an unarmed man. Shame swept over him and he swung away.
He did not go back to the market, but instead ran down to the lake, where he sat upon a fallen tree and offered up a prayer of thanks to the blessed St Persis Albitane for preserving him from murder. Kammel Bard and Luss Campion found him there. Luss had a lump on his cheekbone, and Kammel was sporting a swollen, blackened eye. Taybard’s broken nose was deeply painful and a headache was pounding at his temples.
‘We’ll get him another time,’ said Luss Campion.
Taybard did not respond.
‘We’d better be getting back to the market,’ put in Kammel. ‘You coming, Tay?’
‘No. I’ll sit here awhile.’ His friends strolled away. Taybard moved to the water’s edge and gently washed the blood from his face. His head felt as if it could burst at any moment. He sat down heavily, dizziness swamping him.
A white-haired woman came alongside him. ‘Drink this,’ she said, offering him a small copper cup, brimming with a murky liquid. ‘It will take away the pain.’
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Drink,’ she ordered him.
Taybard did so. The taste was bitter upon the tongue, but within moments the sharp, jagged pain receded, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘How did you hurt your nose?’
‘It was … a fight.’
‘Did you win?’
‘No.’
‘And that saddens you?’
‘No. I didn’t. . .’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t deserve to win. I almost killed a man. I would never have forgiven myself.’
‘Then be glad, for you learned a lesson that some men never learn. It will change you, and change you for the better. This has been a good day for you, Taybard Jaekel.’
He turned towards her, his gaze taking in her ragged clothing. ‘Who are you, and how do you know my name?’ he asked, looking into her green eyes.
‘I am the Wyrd of the Wishing Tree woods,’ she told him, ‘and I know all the children of the Rigante.’
A heavy weariness flowed over him and he lay down on the soft earth. ‘I am Varlish,’ he said, sleepily.
‘You are Taybard Jaekel, and your line goes back to the days of greatness and beyond. In you flows the blood of Fiallach, Connavar’s iron general. He too was a man of uncertain rages. Yet he was loyal unto death.’
He wanted to reply, but his eyes closed, and he slipped into a velvet sleep.
Kaelin Ring could feel the blood on his face, and his head was pounding. Taybard and his cronies had left the scene, but the hatchet-faced Sergeant Bindoe was standing close by, staring at him malevolently. Kaelin ignored him and reached for his shoulder bag. The golden-haired young nobleman dismounted. ‘You are bleeding,’ he said. ‘Let us check the wound.’
‘It is nothing,’ answered Kaelin, pressing his fingers to the cut on his cheekbone. ‘It will seal itself.’ He wanted to be away from here, away, indeed, from all things Varlish.
‘I expect that it will,’ said Gaise Macon. ‘I am sorry I did not arrive more swiftly.’
‘You were swift enough,’ said Kaelin. He paused, aware of how ungrateful he sounded. ‘I thank you,’ he managed to say, having to force the words out. A second man approached them, tall and lean with prematurely white hair.
‘You fought well, lad. Fine balance. Who taught you those moves?’
‘My uncle Jaim. No-one can fight like him.’