back against the dry bark and watched the downpour outside.
‘You’ve made your point, Chio,’ said Dace. ‘Now let me back. I’m cold and I’m bored.’
‘I like it here:
Out on the lake the rain sheeted down, and a distant rumble of thunder drummed out. Dace swore. If lightning were to strike the tree again, he would be fried alive.
He swore again. Then grinned. All life is chance, he decided. And at least, for the moment, he was out of the rain and wind.
‘All right, you can come back,’ said Tarantio, failing to keep the fear from showing.
‘No, no. I’m just getting used to it,’ responded Dace.
Lightning flashed nearby, illuminating the lake and the island at its centre. Dace bared his teeth in a wolf’s-head grin. ‘Come!’ he yelled. ‘Strike me if you dare!’
‘Do you want us to die?’ asked Tarantio.
‘I don’t much care,’ replied Dace. ‘Perhaps that is what makes me the best.’
The storm passed as suddenly as it had come, and the moon shone bright in a clear sky. ‘Come then, brother,’ said Dace. ‘Come out into the world of mud and mediocrity. I have had my fun.’
Tarantio took control and eased himself from the tree, then turned back to gather dry bark and dead wood from the hole. With this he started a new fire.
‘We could have been in a palace,’ Dace reminded him. ‘In that large soft bed with satin sheets, within the room of silvered mirrors.’
‘You would have killed her, Dace. Don’t deny it. I could feel the desire in you.’
The Duke of Corduin had sent a famous courtesan to him: the Lady Miriac. Miriac of the golden hair. Her skills
had been intoxicating. Even without the mirrors the night would have been the most memorable of his young life, but with them Tarantio had seen himself make love, and be made love to, from every angle, giving him memories he would carry for as long as the breath of life clung to him. He sighed.
But at the height of his passion he had felt Dace’s anger and jealousy. The raw power of the emotions had frightened him.
And Tarantio had fled the arms of Miriac, and turned his back on the promise of riches.
‘I would have been a great Champion,’ said Dace. ‘We could have been rich.’
‘Why did you want to kill her?’
‘She was bad for us. You were falling in love with her, and she with you. The courtesan could not resist the young virgin boy with the deadly sword. She stroked your face when you wept. How touching! How sickening! Is that why we are going to Corduin? To see the bitch?’
Tarantio sighed. ‘You don’t really exist, Dace. I am insane. One day someone will recognize it. Then I’ll be locked away, or hanged.’
‘I exist,’ said Dace. ‘I am here. I will always be here. Sigellus knew that. He spoke to me often. He liked me.’
With the dawn came fresh pangs of hunger. Tarantio spent an hour trying to catch another trout, but luck was not with him. He scooped a two-pound female, but she wriggled in his grasp, turned a graceful somersault in the air and returned to the depths. Drying himself, he dressed and strode off towards the higher country.
The air was thinner here, the wind cold against his face. Autumn was closing fast, and within a few short weeks the snow would come. Slowly and carefully Tarantio climbed
a steep slope, moving warily among huge boulders which littered the mountainside. He wondered idly how the boulders had come to be here, since they were not of the same stone as the surrounding cliffs. Many of them had deep grooves along the base, as if haphazardly chiselled by a stonemason.
‘Volcanic eruptions,’ said Dace, ‘way back in the past. Gatien used to talk of them, but then you had little interest in geology.’
‘I remember that you liked stories of earthquakes and volcanoes. Death and destruction have always fascinated you, Dace.’
‘Death is the only absolute, the only certainty.’
Finally, with the sun beginning its long, slow fall to the west, Tarantio reached level ground and stopped to rest. Several rabbits emerged from a grassy knoll and he killed one with a throwing knife. Finding a flat rock he skinned the beast, then removed the entrails, separating the heart and kidneys. There was a small stream nearby, and close to it he found a bed of nettles, and beyond it some chives. Further searching brought him the added treasure of wild onions. Returning to his camp-site, he prepared a fire. Once it had caught well, he drew his knife and cut two large square sections of bark from a silver birch. Using a forked stick he held one section of bark over the fire, warming it, making it easier to fold. Then he scored the bark and expertly folded it into a small bowl. Repeating the process with the second square, he grew impatient and the bark split. Tarantio swore at himself. Painstakingly he selected and cut another section.