I felt humbled by the scene, as Mace’s blood flowed to the land that had created him. Through him an entire nation had enjoyed a rebirth of courage, a renewal of hope. But then that is what heroes do, is it not? They make us all a great gift, our lives made larger and more noble by their existence. It matters not a whit that Mace himself was less than legends make him.
For what he gave to the future was far greater than he took from the past. As long as there is evil in the world, there will be men -aye, and women – who will say. ‘Stand up and fight it. Be strong like the Morningstar.’And I knew then, as Mace lay dying, that the song would soon be all there was.
He died just before the dawn and one by one the torchbearers snuffed out their lights, allowing the last of the night to close in over the tableau. We sat with his body until sunrise and then Wulf, following his instructions, took the body deep into the forest, burying it in an unmarked grave where no man would stumble upon it.
The hunchback would not even tell me where Mace lay, save to say that each morning the sun would shine upon him and each night the stars would glitter above him like a crown.
Raul Raubert was acclaimed as the new King, Brackban becoming his chamberlain.
And so what Mace had told me so cynically came to pass. Nothing ever changes . . . The Angostins ruled in the Highlands once more, and order was established in the northern world.
Raul Raubert was a good King, and there were many fine changes to the law. His standard remained the silver star embroidered by Astiana, and from then until this day the Kings of the Highlands are called Sons of the Morningstar.
And what of the others? Astiana went on to become an Abbess, a saintly old woman who cared for the sick. She became the princess of legend, Mace’s great love, a warrior-woman who helped him defeat the Vampyres. I tried to keep Ilka’s memory alive among the people, but no one wants to hear songs about mute whores, no matter how brave. No, Astiana filled their hearts.
Piercollo travelled back to his beloved Tuscania. He wrote me once to say he had entered the contest and won it once more. He dedicated his victory to the memory of Lykos, the man who had blinded him. I was pleased at that, for evil only thrives when it breeds and Piercollo had neutered its power.
And Wulf? I used to see him in the old days. I would journey into the forest and stay at his cabin for a while; we would hunt together and talk of old times and shared memories. But as the
years passed his memory blurred and he began to remember a different story. He recalled a golden-haired man with a heart of unblemished purity and the courage of ten lions. At first I gently mocked him, but he grew angry and accused me of ‘slighting the greatest man who ever lived’. Mace’s dark side, his callousness and cruelty, his womanizing and his greed, all became signs of a reckless youth and a sense of humour.
Such is the way with heroes. Their greatness grows with the passing of time, their weaknesses shrinking. Perhaps that is as it should be.
Wulf died ten years ago. The King – Raul’s eldest grandson, Marie – had his body moved to the royal tomb at Ziraccu. A statue was raised to him – a bronze statue. The likeness is almost chilling. Grafted twice life-size, the statue stands facing the south with a longbow in hand, keen bronze eyes staring towards the borders watching for the enemy. Wulf would have liked it.
Perhaps a statue will be raised for me one day soon.
As for Owen Odell, well, for several years I journeyed, staying far from the curious eyes of men who knew me only as a legend. I took passage on a ship that sailed the length of the island and stepped ashore on the south coast, making my way to my father’s castle. I found him sitting in the long room behind the stables. He was cleaning and oiling leather bridles and stirrups and he looked up as his son entered.