‘Good morning to you, gentlemen,’ said Mulgrave, coolly.
‘And to you,’ replied the first, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with black hair and deep set eyes. ‘I am Petar Olomayne, and this is my cousin, Sholar Astin.’
‘Welcome to Shelding,’ said Mulgrave.
‘We are on our way south, to the shrine at Meadowlight,’ said Petar Olomayne.
‘A long journey. Will you be staying overnight in Shelding?’
‘Possibly, captain.’ The two knights offered a bow, then led their horses away towards the village square. Mulgrave watched them go. He had heard of Petar Olomayne. The man was a noted swordsman, having fought five duels. He had also been decorated for courage following the Battle of Nollenby. The other one -Sholar Astin – he did not know, though he knew his type. Cold-eyed and heartless.
Mulgrave thought of Ermal Standfast, the little priest who had saved his life. The two Redeemers wore the same priestly garb as Ermal, and had studied the same texts, passing the same examinations. Yet where one lived to love, the others loved to kill. It was baffling to Mulgrave.
Later that day, in the rectory behind the crooked church, he spoke to Ermal regarding his confusion. The priest sipped his sweet tisane. ‘No need for confusion, my dear Mulgrave,’ he said. ‘Beautiful wine and sour vinegar come from exactly the same source. Curiously if one leaves a bottle of wine open for long enough it will become vinegar. Happily in this house wine never survives long enough to go bad.’
‘I was raised in Shelsans,’ said Mulgrave. ‘The priests there used to preach the words of the Veiled Lady. They talked of human life being sacred, and told of how the early cultists refused to fight. They believed in love and forgiveness.’
‘As do I,’ said Ermal.
‘Does it not strike you as strange that the people of Shelsans were massacred not by pagans who believed in gods of death and violence, but by people who professed to follow the same religion?’
‘Not strange, Mulgrave. Infinitely sad. Are you still having the nightmares?’
‘No. She does not appear to me any more.’
‘Is this why you are still a soldier?’
Mulgrave shook his head. ‘Gaise Macon is my friend. I cannot desert him now.’
‘Friendship does carry responsibility,’ agreed Ermal.
‘I sense a but in that comment,’ said Mulgrave.
‘But a man needs to look after his own soul, Mulgrave. Your upbringing in Shelsans taught you that killing is to be abhorred. And something is calling to you.’
‘Aye, I know.’ Mulgrave finished his tisane and rose to leave. ‘Is there anything you need?’ he asked.
‘I am content, my friend,’ answered Ermal. Then he grinned. ‘Though if another bottle of apple brandy should find its way into your possession I would be delighted to share it with you.’
In all his twenty-two years of life Gaise Macon had known few moments of true happiness. His childhood had been spent in the gloomy environs of Eldacre Castle, under the baleful eye of the Moidart. No playmates to run with, no toys to brighten his days. His youth had been no less strained. He had known one day of enormous pleasure when he had joined the local Varlish school, but then, seeing the boy’s pleasure, the Moidart had taken him from it, hiring a series of tutors to teach the boy.
Reading proved his salvation. In books Gaise could travel far from the cold misery of Eldacre. He could journey back in time, to the great days of Stone, and read the campaigns of the legendary Jasaray. He could ride with the Iron Wolves of Connavar, and fight again the wars of the Battle King Bane. He did not outwardly glory in these pursuits, for had he done so the Moidart would certainly have removed these pleasures also.
His greatest happiness had been supplied by two very different men, one a soldier, the other a teacher. Mulgrave had been the first shining light to enter the boy’s life, brought to Eldacre to teach him the arts of personal warfare: to ride a war horse, and to use the sword, the pistol, and even the bow. Mulgrave had soon learned of the Moidart’s cruelty towards Gaise, and the teacher and his student had entered into a secret friendship. They did not laugh together in public, nor were they seen to be outwardly affectionate. But on long rides together Gaise would open his heart to his friend. The second man to impact on the life of Gaise Macon was a skinny schoolteacher named Alterith Shaddler. He taught Gaise history and arithmetic – but also smuggled into Eldacre books of verse, and works of imaginative history, in which the characters spoke, one to another, leaving the reader convinced he was in the same room with them. These fictions, as Alterith called them, were the water of life to a parched soul. Gaise devoured them. Here he found what was lacking in his own life: stories of honour and chivalry, friendship and love. Gaise dreaded to think what kind of man he would have become without these yardsticks to measure himself against. Even now he found himself having to rein in the more ruthless side of his nature. One of his deepest regrets was hanging the soldier who lost the Emburley rifle. One moment of anger. One careless command and a man’s life had been snuffed out. Such was the legacy carried by the Moidart’s son.