‘You sound as if you’re in love with her yourself,’ said Michanek.
‘I think I am – a little,’ admitted Narin, reddening. ‘Is she still having those dreams?’
‘No,’ lied Michanek. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’ He moved down the battlement steps and strode through the streets towards his home. Every other house, it seemed, boasted the white chalked cross denoting plague. The market was deserted, the stalls standing empty. Everything was rationed now, the food – four ounces of flour, and a pound of dried fruit – doled out daily from storehouses in the west and east.
Why don’t you marry her!
For two reasons he could never share. One: she was already wed to another, though she did not know it. And secondly, it would be like signing his death warrant. Rowena had predicted that he would die here, with Narin beside him, one year to the day after he was wed.
She no longer remembered this prediction either, for the sorcerers had done their work well. Her Talent was lost to her, and all the memories of her youth in the lands of the Drenai. Michanek felt no guilt over this. Her Talent had been tearing her apart and now, at least, she smiled and was happy. Only Pudri knew the whole truth, and he was wise enough to stay silent.
Michanek turned up the Avenue of Laurels and pushed open the gates of his house. There were no gardeners now, and the flower-beds were choked with weeds. The fountain was no longer in operation, the fish-pool dry and cracked. As he strode to the house, Pudri came running out to him.
‘Master, come quickly, it is the Pahtair’
‘What has happened?’ cried Michanek, grabbing the little man by his tunic.
‘The plague, master,’ he whispered, tears in his dark eyes. ‘It is the plague.’
*
Varsava found a cave nestling against the rock-face to the north; it was deep and narrow, and curled like a figure six. He built a small fire near the back wall, below a split in the rock that created a natural chimney. The old man, whom Druss had carried to the cave, had fallen into a deep, healing sleep with the child, Dulina, alongside him. Having walked from the cave to check whether the glare of the fire could be seen from outside, Varsava was now sitting in the cave-mouth staring out over the night-dark woods.
Druss joined him. ‘Why so angry, bladesman?’ he asked. ‘Do you not feel some satisfaction at having rescued them?’
‘None at all,’ replied Varsava. ‘But then no one ever made a song about me. I look after myself.’
‘That does not explain your anger.’
‘Nor could I explain it in any way that would be understood by your simple mind. Borza’s Blood!’ He rounded on Druss. ‘The world is such a mind-numbingly uncomplicated place for you, Druss. There is good, and there is evil. Does it ever occur to you that there may be a vast area in between that is neither pure nor malevolent? Of course it doesn’t! Take today as an example. The old man could have been a vicious sorcerer who drank the blood of innocent babes; the men punishing him could have been the fathers of those babes. You didn’t know, you just roared in and downed them.’ Varsava shook his head and took a deep breath.
‘You are wrong,’ said Druss softly. ‘I have heard the arguments before, from Sieben and Bodasen – and others. I will agree that I am a simple man. I can scarcely read more than my name, and I do not understand complicated arguments. But I am not blind. The man tied to the tree wore homespun clothes, old clothes; the child was dressed in like manner. These were not rich, as a sorcerer would be. And did you listen to the laughter of the knife-throwers? It was harsh, cruel. These were not farmers; their clothes were bought, their boots and shoes of good leather. They were scoundrels.’
‘Maybe they were,’ agreed Varsava, ‘but what business was it of yours? Will you criss-cross the world seeking to right wrongs and protect the innocent? Is this your ambition in life?’