‘Nor I you. I think I will stay.’
Kebra cleared his throat and held out his hand.
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Conalin looked embarrassed, but he gripped it firmly. ‘I am proud of you,’ said Kebra.
They sat in pleasant silence for a while and Conalin gazed around the enormous building. ‘What was this place?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Kebra. ‘But it has the feel of a temple, don’t you think?’
‘I have never been in one,’ said Conalin. Sufia was sitting on the floor close by, rubbing at the stones with the ragged sleeve of her dress.
‘There’s pictures on the floor,’ she said, happily.
Ulmenetha moved to her side, kneeling down. ‘They are called mosaics,’ she told the child. ‘They are created with lots of coloured stones.’
‘Come look!’ Sufia called out to Conalin. He did so. There was no way of telling what the original mosaic had depicted, for many of the coloured stones had been shattered by falling masonry from the ceiling, the rest covered by the dust of centuries. There was a tiny patch of blue, and a line of red. It could have been a flower, or a section of sky.
‘It’s very pretty,’ he told her.
‘I shall clean it all up,’ she said, with the confidence of the very young, and began to scrub at a tiny section.
Tt will take you weeks,’ he said, staring around the vast temple.
‘Weeks,’ she repeated. ‘That’s all right.’ She rubbed at the stones for a few more seconds then sat back. T’m hungry now.’
Conalin picked her up, and kissed her cheek. ‘Then let us find you some food,’ he said. Perching her on his shoulders he walked back out into the sunlight. Pharis was sitting on the steps. Off to the left was a line of seven wagons. Cookfires had been lit close by, and
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the three of them moved off in search of a meal.
As they approached the cookfires an elderly soldier called out to them. The man had a wicked scar upon his face, and a black patch over what had once been his right eye. Beside him was a trestle table, stacked with pewter plates. ‘You look in need of something hot and savoury,’ he said. Moving to a huge, black cooking pot he ladled thick stew into three deep plates and handed them to the youngsters. ‘Take some spoons,’ he said, ‘but bring them back, with the plates, when you’re finished. Then I’ve some honey cakes for you.’
Conalin thanked the man. The soup was thick and nourishing, though with too much salt for the boy’s liking. But he was famished, and consumed it with relish. The old soldier did not wait for them to return the utensils, but came over with a plate of honey cakes. Sufia grabbed two, then looked anxiously up at Conalin, waiting for a rebuke. When none came she happily devoured them.
‘Why did you come here?’ Conalin asked the soldier.
‘White Wolf brought us,’ said the man.
‘Yes, but why?’
‘He didn’t say. Just offered us twenty gold pieces a man. Said there might be a battle.’
‘There will be,’ said Conalin.
‘Good. Wouldn’t want to come all this way for nothing,’ said the soldier. Collecting the plates and spoons he moved away. Moments later other soldiers began to file past the cookfires, and soon the area was crowded. Everyone seemed at ease, and many of the soldiers took time to speak with the youngsters. Conalin was confused.
‘They seem to be looking forward to fighting,’ he said to Pharis. ‘I don’t understand it.’
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‘It is what they do,’ replied the girl. ‘It is what they are. We should take some food back to the queen.’ ‘Can I carry it?’ asked Sufia. ‘Of course you can, little one.’ ‘I won’t spill any,’ she promised. ‘Not even a drop.’
Axiana watched as four veteran soldiers erected Banelion’s tent at the far end of the temple. Simple furniture was carried in, a hinged bed, several canvas-backed chairs and a folding table. Then they swept the floor inside and laid simple rugs upon it. Not once did the men look at her. It was as if she was invisible. While they were working the youngsters returned. The blonde child, Sufia, brought her a bowl of soup. She thanked her with a smile, and turned away from the soldiers while she ate.