Gemmell, David – Morningstar

‘Owen.’I shivered and my hand trembled. ‘Owen,’ came the voice again, hesitant, lacking in confidence.

‘I hear you,’ I whispered.

She smiled a wondrous smile, her blue eyes wide, tears glistening there. And she said no more for a little while. I took her hand in both of mine, stroking her skin.

‘I love you,’ I told her, my voice breaking.

‘Why?’ whispered the voice in my mind.

At first I could say nothing. How does a man answer such a question? I rose, drawing her up with me, and we walked from the camp to sit beneath the bright stars. Her face was bathed in silver light, her blonde hair shining almost white in the moonlight.

‘When I first came to the village,’ I told her, holding gently to her hand, ‘I sat in despair by the lakeside. I could see only evil everywhere. And I played my harp – you remember?’ She nodded. ‘And then you came to me and you danced. You changed the music in my mind and my soul; you were a dancing flame in the winter of my heart. I think from that moment my love for you was born. You understand?’Owen Odell,’ came the voice in my mind, rippling like a song, making a gentle melody of the name. Moving close beside me she kissed my cheek, and I drew her in to an embrace.

Ilka nestled beside me and we sat in companionable silence, her head against my chest, but we did not make love that night nor for many nights after. In truth I was afraid, for I was inexperienced, and I did not wish our love to be sullied by doing that which had brought her such pain in the past.

What foolishness. Love changes everything and as a bard – if not as a man -I should have known that simple fact. When at last we lay together, on a blanket spread beside a stream, I felt her joy – bright, unfettered and free. That one fumbling and inexpert union was for her, she told me later, like a bridge of light across a dark stream.

From then on we were inseparable and even Mace made no jokes at our expense, nor did he ever attempt to bed her again. I do not know to this day whether Ilka ever loved me with the same passion I felt for her. And it does not matter. She needed me and she was happy. This was everything.

Piercollo understood it better than many men would, but he was a man of music and his soul was great. ‘I am happy for you, my friend,’ he said, as we approached the end of our journey. ‘She is a good girl. And she deserves happiness – as do you.’Have you ever been in love?’For a moment he was silent, then he shook his head and his smile faded. ‘Only with the Great Song,’ he said, and walked on ahead.

My soul was light, my mood merry. Thoughts of Cataplas and Azrek were far from my mind, and the loss of the skull seemed more a reason for relief than concern. It was a burden, and we were free of it. But Wulf did not see it this way; he had made a promise to Gareth’s ghost, and felt he had been shamed. No matter how many times Mace and I tried to reassure him, he remained sullen and withdrawn.

‘I must get it back,’ he repeated. ‘I must.’Astiana was unrepentant about surrendering the skull, which irritated me somewhat. Had she accepted that there might be the slimmest of possibilities that she was wrong, then I would have been the first to say, ‘Well, what’s done is done. Let us forget it.’ But she did not. Despite all her fine traits and her courage she had one great failing – an inability to admit to error.

It is baffling to me why so many people find it difficult to say, ‘I was wrong.’ The words, when spoken with repentance, always turn away wrath. But those who cling to their absolute Tightness, despite any evidence to the contrary, will always arouse anger in their comrades or superiors.