I have my father to thank for being free of the spell cast by these two words.
‘Foolish regret weighs more than iron,’ he would say. ‘Every man alive makes mistakes; that’s how he learns. Only the weakling talks of life’s unfairness, or claims he is jinxed by bad luck. The strong man shrugs his shoulders and walks on.’I remember one winter evening, as we were gathered around the fire, when one of my brothers, Braife, was crying because his favourite hound had been killed in a fight with wolves. He was weeping not just because of the loss, but because he had chosen to carry a spear that day and not a bow. With the bow, he said, he might have driven the wolves back.
‘Most likely,’ agreed Aubertain, ‘but you weren’t carrying the bow. It was not even a mistake, nor yet an error of judgement. You were hunting boar, and for that a man needs a long spear. Everything you did was correct, but the dog died. When I was a young knight in the Overseas War I had a friend called Ranuld, a bright, witty, shining man. We were riding together through a forest, hunting deer, when he suggested trying to the east. I maintained the deer would be in the west – and it was to the west
that we rode. We had travelled no more than a mile when a band of robbers leapt from hiding in the undergrowth. We drove them off, of course, killing three, but when they had gone Ranuld fell from his horse. He had a deep dagger wound in his chest, and it had pierced the lung. He died in my arms then. I screamed my bitterness to the heavens and I regret his death to this day, but not with guilt. I chose the west because the forest was more dense there and the ground was low, indicating water and good feed for deer. It was not my fault that he died. Nor was it your fault, Braife, that the hound was slain.’Forgive me, my ghostly friend, for this departure from the tale, but it has relevance.
I thought I saw a darting shadow in the trees, and I did not mention it to Mace or to Wulf. I wish I had, but in my mind at the time I dismissed it as a trick of the fading light or a fox moving stealthily.
But it was Cataplas. . . and I should have guessed it and warned Mace. We could have hunted him down and prevented so many tragedies. Yet I did not think of it. Perhaps Cataplas protected himself with a spell, perhaps I was tired. I do not know. And, despite the whispering memory of my father’s advice, I still regret that missed moment.
We moved into the shelter. Raul was talking to Astiana, while Piercollo and Ilka were preparing supper. The brothers and Scrymgeour were gambling, using bone dice, and Wulf was sitting by himself with the wrapped skull in his lap.
It was a warm evening, with a gentle breeze blowing over the ruins, and I played my harp after supper, summoning sweet melodies of summer dances to entertain the company. Wulf did not join in with his flute and Piercollo, despite my cajoling, declined to sing.
The hours flowed by. Wulf and Ilka were asleep, but Astiana was entertaining the others with tales of the Elder Days. At first I listened, for there were several I had not heard, but then she moved on to the stories of the Gabala Knights and I wandered away to sit facing the forest, staring out into the darkness.
The stars were bright and there were few clouds. Wrapped in a blanket I sat for perhaps an hour before I felt the need to sleep. It was like warmth stealing over me, bringing with it the memories of childhood – fires in the hearth, my brothers nestling alongside me,
the great warhound Nibal on the floor beside the bed, his huge head resting on his paws. I leaned my head to the wall beside me. But I could feel no rough stones; it was as if a feather pillow had been placed there. My body felt light, my mind drifting, and it seemed that I floated gently down, through warm water, into the mindless security of pre-birth.