‘I will think on a route,’ he said. He glanced at Axiana, who was sitting just out of earshot. Tt would have been better for the world had Bison jumped with the babe,’ he said, softly.
‘Not so,’ she told him. ‘The Demon Lord has already begun the Great Spell. The child’s death will complete it, with or without a sacrifice.’
Antikas felt suddenly chill. He looked away, and remembered his fingers reaching for the babe’s throat.
‘Well,’ he said, at last, ‘that, at least, adds a golden sheen to the old man’s death.’
‘Such a deed needs no sheen,’ she told him.
‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed. He left her then and moved
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to the fire. Little Sufia was sitting quietly with Conalin and Pharis. She scampered over to Antikas. ‘Will he fly back to us?’ she asked him. ‘I keep looking in the sky.’
Antikas took a deep breath, and he looked at Conalin.
‘He will fly back one day,’ he told the child, ‘when he is most needed.’
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Chapter Eleven
Nogusta was only vaguely aware that he was riding a horse. Someone was sitting behind him, holding him in the saddle. He opened his eyes and saw that the company was moving slowly across a verdant valley. Up ahead Antikas Karios was riding Starfire. Nogusta felt a stab of irritation, but then remembered he had commanded the Ventrian to take his horse. Starfire was a spirited animal, and Nogusta was in no condition to ride him.
He glanced down at the hands supporting him. They were slender and feminine. Patting the hands he whispered, ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you need to stop and rest?’ Ulmenetha asked him.
‘No.’ His vision swam and he leaned back into the woman.
Bison was gone, and the pain of loss struck him savagely. He swayed in the saddle and felt Ulmenetha’s arms holding him firmly. Then he drifted into dreams of the past. The day passed in a haze. When they stopped to rest the horses Kebra helped him down. Nogusta did not know where he was, only that the sun was warm on his face, the grass cool against his back. It was blissful here, and he wanted to sleep for ever. From somewhere close came the cry of an infant. Then he heard a child singing a song. He seemed to remember the child had been killed by a wagon, but obviously this was not so. He was relieved -as if a burden had been lifted from him.
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At some point he was fed a thick soup. He remembered the taste, but could not recall who had fed him, nor why he had not fed himself.
Then he saw his father. They were all sitting in the main room of the house, his brothers and sisters, his mother, and his old aunt. T shall show you some magick,’ his father said, rising from the old horse hide chair he cherished. He had lifted the talisman from around his neck. The chain was long, the gold glinting in the lantern light. Father walked to the eldest of Nogusta’s brothers and tried to loop the chain over his head. But the chain shrank, and would not pass over the boy’s skull. Each of the brothers in turn marvelled at the magick. Then he came to Nogusta. The chain slid easily over his head, the talisman settling to his chest.
‘What is the trick?’ asked his eldest brother.
‘There is no trick,’ said father. ‘The talisman has chosen. That is all.’
‘That is not fair,’ said the eldest. ‘I am the heir. It should be mine.’
‘I was not the heir,’ father pointed out. ‘Yet it chose me.’
‘How does it choose?’ asked the youngest brother.
‘I do not know. But the man who made it was our ancestor. He was greater than any king.’
That night, alone in their room, his eldest brother had struck him in the face. ‘It should have been mine,’ he said. ‘It was a trick because father loves you more.’
Nogusta could still feel the pain of the blow. Only now, for some strange reason that he could not fathom, the pain was emanating from his shoulder.