spilled from the barrel. ‘As I said, sheath them with care. Now leave me.’
Carefully Tarantio scabbarded the blades, then took Duvodas by the arm. ‘It is his life,’ he said. ‘Let him live it – or lose it – as he will.’
As they reached the door Sirano’s voice called out. ‘Tell me, who is in charge of Corduin’s defences?’
‘Karis,’ answered Tarantio.
Sirano smiled. ‘Give her a message for me. The Daroth burn like wax. Naked fire is a terror to them.’
The two men stepped into the corridor and silently made their way to the ground floor. Ahead of them was the door to the courtyard. Bodies lay sprawled in the corridor; Tarantio noted that all of them were older men.
‘What now?’ whispered Duvodas.
‘Now we wait,’ said Tarantio.
Chapter Twelve
In all his young life Sirano had never experienced the focus he now applied to the Five Levels of Aveas. The bottles trembled with the power he transmitted, the glass warm to the touch. Lifting the last of them he unwittingly saw the horror of his reflection – the scarred bald head, the empty eye-socket, the side of his face melted away as if white candle-wax had been poured over the skin. ‘What an evil countenance,’ he said, aloud.
Evil. The word jolted him.
Are you evil, Sirano? he asked himself. Are the Daroth evil? It was an interesting thought. There were those who believed evil was an absolute – priests and holy men, mostly. In their view evil hung in the air, touching every man, woman and child, promoting the seeds of hatred, lust and greed, planting them in hearts and minds. Others, as Sirano himself had believed, considered it to be a movable feast. What appeared as evil to one man could be considered good by another. Much depended on the moral codes and laws that governed each society. What moral codes had the Daroth broken? Perhaps none, by their reasoning. Therefore were they evil?
Sirano chuckled. What a time, he thought, to be considering philosophical points. All that he knew for certain was that he himself had broken the codes of his society. He had killed a woman who loved him, had
overseen the destruction of his people, and had brought horror and desolation to his lands. A great sadness touched him then, a sense of something lost which could never be recovered. Duvodas had spoken of redemption. For some crimes there could be no redemption . . .
Wearily Sirano rose and searched the store-room, finding a small pile of empty sacks. With his dagger he cut a four-foot length from a coil of thin rope. Making two slices in the neck of a sack, he tied the rope to it. Filling it with the six bottles, he looped the rope over his shoulder and stood, the bottles clinking against one another.
Tarantio had asked him if he wanted to die. Oh, yes, he thought. I can think of no greater relief than to fall into darkness.
Slowly he made his way out into the corridor, then along it and through a series of rooms until he came to a narrow staircase. He had last been here ten years ago, when he had endowed the monastery with a gift of gold. Then he had wandered the place and marvelled at the labyrinthine design. The large hall where now the Daroth would be feeding was on the lower level, but above and around it was a gallery. Sirano recalled his visit, trying to remember the routes through the monastery. Descending the stairs he cut left, then padded through a long library, checking his bearings by peering out of a window. Now he knew where he was. Down two more flights of stairs, and along another corridor he paused at the last door. Taking a deep breath, he eased it open and slipped through to the gallery. Smoke was swirling around the rafters and he could smell the sweet, sickly scent of roasting flesh. Glancing over the rail, he saw the Daroth below. They had torn up the slabs of the floor and broken them to form a low wall around a carefully fashioned cooking