‘That’s true,’ agreed Sieben. ‘Most horses you want to ride more than once.’
Druss shook his head. ‘I don’t know what it is that you call love. And I don’t want to know.’
The trail wound to the south, the hills growing more gentle as the mountain range receded behind them. Ahead on the road they saw an old man shuffling towards them. He wore robes of faded blue and he leaned heavily on a long staff. As they neared, Sieben saw that the man was blind.
The old man halted as they rode closer. ‘Can we help you, old one?’ asked Sieben.
‘I need no help,’ answered the man, his voice surprisingly strong and resonant. ‘I am on my way to Drenan.’
‘It is a long walk,’ said Sieben.
‘I am in no hurry. But if you have food, and are willing to entertain a guest at your midday meal, I would be glad to join you.’
‘Why not?’ said Sieben. ‘There is a stream some little way to your right; we will see you there.’ Swinging his mount Sieben cantered the beast across the grass, leaping lightly from the saddle and looping the reins over the horse’s head as Druss rode up and dismounted.
‘Why did you invite him to join us?’
Sieben glanced back. The old man was out of earshot and moving slowly towards them. ‘He is a seeker, Druss. A mystic. Have you not heard of them?’
‘No.’
‘Source Priests who blind themselves in order to increase their powers of prophecy. Some of them are quite extraordinary. It’s worth a few oats.’
Swiftly the poet prepared a fire over which he placed a copper pot half filled with water. He added oats and a little salt. The old man sat cross-legged nearby. Druss removed his helm and jerkin and stretched out in the sunshine. After the porridge had cooked, Sieben filled a bowl and passed it to the priest.
‘Do you have sugar?’ asked the Seeker.
‘No. We have a little honey. I will fetch it.’
After the meal was concluded the old man shuffled to the stream and cleaned his bowl, returning it to Sieben. ‘And now you wish to know the future?’ asked the priest, with a crooked smile.
‘That would be pleasant,’ said Sieben.
‘Not necessarily. Would you like to know the day of your death?’
‘I take your point, old man. Tell me of the next beautiful woman who will share my bed.’
The old man chuckled. ‘A talent so large, yet men only require such infinitesimal examples of it. I could tell you of your sons, and of moments of peril. But no, you wish to hear of matters inconsequential. Very well. Give me your hand.’
Sieben sat opposite him and extended his right hand. The old man took it, and sat silently for several minutes. Finally he sighed. ‘I have walked the paths of your future, Sieben the Poet, Sieben the Saga-master. The road is long. The next woman? A whore in Mashrapur, who will ask for seven silver pennies. You will pay it.’
He released Sieben’s hand and turned his blind eyes towards Druss. ‘Do you wish your future told?’
‘I will make my own future,’ answered Druss.
‘Ah, a man of strength and independent will. Come. Let me at least see, for my own interest, what tomorrow holds for you.’
‘Come on, lad,’ pleaded Sieben. ‘Give him your hand.’
Druss rose and walked to where the old man sat. He squatted down before him and thrust out his hand. The priest’s fingers closed around his own. ‘A large hand,’ he said. ‘Strong . . . very strong.’ Suddenly he winced, his body stiffening. ‘Are you yet young, Druss the Legend? Have you stood at the pass?’
‘What pass?’
‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Of course. Seventeen. And searching for Rowena. Yes . . . Mashrapur. I see it now. Not yet the Deathwalker, the Silver Slayer, the Captain of the Axe. But still mighty.’ He released his hold and sighed. ‘You are quite right, Druss, you will make your own future; you will need no words from me.’ The old man rose and took up his staff. ‘I thank you for your hospitality.’