ii
The joints were well crafted, as was the furniture, a bench table, four chairs and a narrow bed. Shelves had been set on the north wall. They were bare now. There was only one window, the shutters closed tight. One side of the hearth was filled with logs. An old spider’s web stretched across them.
The empty shelves and lack of personal belongings showed that the man who had built the cabin had chosen to move on. Nogusta wondered why. The construction of the cabin showed a neat man, a patient man. Not one to be easily deterred. Nogusta scanned the walls. There was no sign of a woman’s presence here. The builder had been a man alone. Probably a trapper. And when he had finally left – perhaps the mountains were trapped out – he had carefully laid a fire for the next person to find his home. A considerate man. Nogusta felt welcome in the cabin, as if greeted by the owner. It was a good feeling.
Nogusta rose and walked out to where his horse was patiently waiting. Removing the empty feedbag he stroked his neck. There was no need to hobble him. The gelding would not leave this place of shelter. The stone chimney jutted from the wooden wall of the cabin here, and soon the fire would heat the stones. ‘You will be safe here for the night, my friend,’ Nogusta told the gelding.
Gathering his saddlebags he returned to the cabin and heaved the door back into place, wedging it against the twisted frame. Then he pulled a chair up to the fire. The cold stones of the hearth were sucking almost all the heat from the fire. ‘Be patient,’ he told himself. Minutes passed. He saw a woodlouse run along a log as the flames licked up. Nogusta drew his sword and held the blade against the wood, offering the insect a way of escape. The woodlouse approached the blade, then
iz
turned away from it, toppling into the fire. ‘Fool,’ said Nogusta. ‘The blade was life.’
The fire was blazing now and the black man rose and removed his cloak and shirt. His upper body was strongly muscled and heavily scarred. Sitting down once more he leaned forward, extending his hands to the blaze. Idly he twirled the small, ornate charm he wore around his neck. It was an ancient piece, a white-silver crescent moon, held in a slender golden hand. The gold was heavy and dark, and the silver never tarnished. It remained, like the moon, pure and glittering. He heard his father’s voice echo down the vaults of memory: ‘A man greater than kings wore this magic charm, Nogusta. A great man. He was our ancestor and while you wear it make sure that your deeds are always noble. If they remain so you will have the gift of the Third Eye.’
Ts that how you knew the robbers were in the north pasture?’
‘Yes.’
‘But don’t you want to keep it?’
‘It chose you, Nogusta. You saw the magic. Always the talisman chooses. It has done so for hundreds of years. And – if the Source wills – it will choose one of your own sons.’
If the Source wills . . .
But the Source had not willed.
Nogusta curled his hand around the talisman, and stared into the fire, hoping for a vision. None came.
From his saddlebag he took a small package and opened it. It contained several strips of dried, salted beef. Slowly he ate them.
Adding two logs to the fire he moved to the bed. The blankets were thin and dusty and he shook them out. Away from the blaze he shivered, then laughed at
himself. ‘You are getting old,’ he said. ‘Once upon a time the cold would not have affected you this way.’
Back at the fire once more he put on his shirt. A face came into his mind, sharp featured and with an easy, friendly smile. Orendo the Scout. They had ridden together for almost twenty years, serving first the old king and then his warrior son. Nogusta had always liked Orendo. The man was a veteran, and when you gave him an order you knew it would be carried out to the letter. And he had a heart. Once, several years back, Orendo had found a child lost in the snow, unconscious and half dead from the cold. He had carried him back to camp, then sat with him all night, warming blankets, rubbing the boy’s frozen skin. The child had survived.