‘Why are you telling me this, old friend?’
‘I think maybe we should all go to Prentuis and seek her out. You’d be happier; you love the woman.’
Giriak pushed himself to his feet. ‘You tell the lads that she won’t be in Prentuis. She’d have cut west to Corduin. She knew Sirano would want her dead.’
‘If you knew that, why did you send the riders south?’
Giriak shrugged. ‘Love or stupidity – one or the other.’
‘Both, maybe,’ said Necklen, with a wry smile. ‘By the way, the scouts you sent north have not returned. They are overdue by a day.’
‘They probably found a village full of young women,’ said Giriak.
‘Perhaps. But Mell was leading them, and he’s steady as they come; you can always rely on Mell. It could be that some enemy mercenaries have slipped by us.’
‘Send out a rider,’ ordered Giriak.
‘Son of a whore!’ hissed Necklen. ‘Is that the Duke?’ Giriak swung round to see Sirano striding down the road towards the rampart steps. His blond hair was lank and greasy, his face unshaven and his eyes fever-bright. He ran up the steps, his movements quick and jerky. Necklen saluted, but the Duke ignored him.
‘The enemy is coming,’ said Sirano. ‘Gather your men.’
‘What enemy, my lord?’
‘We need archers: thousands of them, lining the walls.’ Sirano stood stock-still, unblinking, his gaze fastened on the north. ‘And cauldrons of oil. The best archers . .. with strong bows.’
‘We don’t have a thousand archers, my lord,’ said Giriak. ‘Who is the enemy?’
‘This will be the spot; this is where they will attack. Tell your archers to wait until they are well within range. They have very tough skins. Strong bones. Send Karis to me. We must plan.’
Giriak and Necklen exchanged glances. Giriak stepped up to the Duke, taking him by the arm. ‘How long since you slept, my lord?’
‘Sleep? I have no time for sleep. They are coming, you see. I brought them back. It was never my intention, Giriak. Never!’
‘Sit you down, sir,’ said Necklen, taking the Duke’s other arm and leading him to a bench seat. Sirano sat, but then swivelled and stared out over the ramparts. ‘They will be here tomorrow, with the dawn,’ he said. ‘I have made a terrible mistake. And I cannot put it right. But the bowmen can. Fill the walls with them.’
‘I’ll do that, my lord,’ said Giriak, soothingly. ‘But let us first get you back to the palace. You need rest.’
He led the unresisting Duke back down to the lower level, then helped him to the saddle of his own gelding. With a wave to Necklen, he led the horse back along the deserted streets.
Chapter Eight
Sirano lay trembling on his bed, his body racked by painful sobbing. He had not cried since he was a child, but now all his defences had been torn apart like paper. Clea, who had loved him, was dead, sacrificed by him in order to gain the power of the Pearl. The Eldarin, who had offered no harm to the human race, had vanished. And now had come the crowning glory of his achievements: the return of the Daroth. Sirano lay on the broad bed, hugging the Eldarin Pearl to him. ‘Come back to me, old man,’ he pleaded. ‘For pity’s sake, come back!’
Exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep full of bad, hurtful dreams. He saw his mother killed again and again, and watched his father die, the snake wriggling in his throat. Worse than both of these, though, was the vision of the overweeningly arrogant man he had become, plunging the world into war. And for what? To prove his father wrong? To show that he, Sirano, was a towering figure in human history?
He awoke, and found himself lying not on his bed but on a field of green grass, surrounded by the scent of spring flowers. The madness brought on by exhaustion and lack of sleep had passed, and he was himself again. Beside him sat the silver-furred Eldarin elder. The creature had huge, dark eyes, that radiated sorrow.
‘Why am I here?’ asked Sirano.