Two men, in red cloaks, approached the tent. Winter Kay bade them enter. Both were tall and lean. Removing their iron helms they bowed low.
‘Did you kill the woman?’ he asked them.
‘No, lord. We failed.’ Their faces were very pale and haggard, their eyes deep set. They looked exhausted. This was not uncommon following heavy use of the forbidden herb. He saw them looking longingly towards the metal box containing the Orb.
‘Tell me what happened.’
The first man spoke: ‘The trance was deep, lord, and, as you said, we could feel her energy. We entered her dream. She sensed us. Before we could strike she sent up a great and blinding light. Then she was gone. There was a spirit with her. A man.’
‘What kind of man?’
The Redeemer glanced at his comrade. The second man spoke: ‘I believe it was Macon, lord. I cannot be sure.’
Winter Kay rose from his seat and moved to the rear of the tent. Carefully he opened the lid of the metal box, drawing aside the black velvet. ‘Come,’ he said. The two Redeemers stumbled forward. ‘Make obeisance,’ he commanded them. Both men drew sharp daggers and cut the palms of their hands. Then they held them above the skull. Blood dripped to the bone. It began to glow.
The Redeemers waited for Winter Kay’s order, then each lightly touched the skull. They stiffened. One of them gave a groan of pleasure.
‘Enough!’ said Winter Kay.
The Redeemers stepped back. No longer were their faces pale, and the cuts on their hands had sealed.
‘In the name of the Source,’ said Winter Kay, ‘Gaise Macon must die. You will be the loaders at the duel. Whichever pistol he chooses must not be armed. You will appear to drop the ball into the muzzle, but keep it secreted in your hand.’
‘Yes, lord. We understand.’
‘The man is in communion with our enemy. He has sold his soul to evil.’
‘Yes, lord.’
Winter Kay placed his hands on both men’s shoulders, drawing them in close. ‘If, by some freak of chance, Gaise Macon should survive this duel, you will make it your bounden duty to see him dead before the next full moon.’
‘You wish us to challenge him, lord?’ asked the first.
‘No. Merely kill him. Do it quietly. Suffocate him in his bed, poison his food, stab him in a darkened alley. The method is immaterial. Just bring me, as a token, his golden eye.’
The snow clouds had cleared in the night, and the midday sky was now bright blue. The temperature had dropped to well below freezing, and ice had formed on the muddy path leading through to the area of the duel. Only a few months before this had been a secluded garden set within the grounds of one Lord Dunstan’s private chapel. Dunstan would have walked here with his wife and his daughters after Holy Day services. They would, perhaps, have admired the roses that lined the paths asthey repaired to their mansion to enjoy a fine meal. Now Dunstan was dead, shot to pieces on Bladdley Moor, with most of his Covenant regiment. His fine house was a ruined shell, and the chapel – the last refuge of a group of diehard rebels – had been ripped apart by cannon shell, the spire lying in broken fragments across the northern tip of the garden.
Gaise Macon, dressed in a fur-lined charcoal grey jacket, grey breeches and knee-length riding boots, walked alongside the swordsman, Mulgrave, who had donned his high collared, leaf green uniform, and wore an officer’s short cape. Both men could have been out for a pre-lunch stroll, and Gaise Macon was chatting amiably as they approached the area of the duel. A long trestle table had been set at the centre of the garden. Behind it stood two red-cloaked Redeemers. Lord Winterbourne was standing alongside the shorter Lord Person. Person’s embroidered red topcoat was loosely draped across his shoulders. Beneath it he wore a beautifully crafted shirt of expensive white lace. Beyond the low wall round the garden stood hundreds of Person’s men. Off to the right a number of Eldacre soldiers had also gathered.