I had no idea where we were heading, nor did I care. The air was fresh, my limbs were young and full of strength, and my eyes could scarce drink in the wonder of my surroundings.
I know it may seem callous, considering the tragedy so recently behind us, but it seemed to me then that nothing could surpass my joy. I was alive and surrounded by beauty on a massive scale.
But then we met Piercollo. . . .
Of us all he came closest to being the reality within the myth. There are more stories about him than any of us, including the Morningstar. And while the greater part of them are inventions or distortions, if life had placed him in those fictitious situations of peril he would have reacted just as the storytellers claim.
Added to which, there was never any malice in Piercollo. I do not believe he ever truly learned to hate. And what a voice! When he sang, such was the warmth and emotion that he could stave off winter. I’d swear that if he burst into song in an icy glade the snow would melt and spring flowers push up through the frozen earth just to hear him.
Of them all, I miss him the most.
We were walking down into a shaded glen. The sun was high, just past noon on a warm spring day. Jarek Mace was leading us and we were moving north-west towards the distant market town of Lualis. As usual I brought up the rear, walking behind Wulf
whose mood on this day was sullen, the loss of his family heavy upon him.
Then we heard the sound of a man singing, his voice rich, the language unknown to me. But the song soared out above and through the trees with a power I could scarce believe. My skin tingled with the excitement of it, and I knew that this . . . unknown . . . singer was performing for the forest, just as I had months before with my harp. He was singing from the heart, carrying the music from the well of his soul and releasing it into the air like a flock of golden birds.
Mace dropped back to where Wulf and I stood spellbound.
‘What the hell is that?’ asked Jarek Mace. Wulf’s hand slashed the air, commanding silence, and we stood for several minutes and listened. At last the song faded. Mace looked at us both, then chuckled and shook his head. Stringing his bow, he strode off in the direction from which the song had come. As we followed him there came the aroma of roasting meat. We had breakfasted on wild turkey and were far from hungry, yet the smell made the mouth water and the stomach growl. Suddenly it was as if I had not eaten in days, such was my new-found appetite.
We came to a clearing beside a swift-flowing stream. There, beside a trench fire-pit upon which a whole sheep was being turned upon a spit, sat a huge black-bearded man. He was wearing a purple shirt and hose of wool, and about his shoulders was a chequered black and white shawl. He glanced up as we emerged from the trees, but did not stand or greet us.
‘Good day to you,’ said Jarek Mace. ‘I see we are in time for lunch’ You are in time to watch me eat my lunch,’ agreed the man amiably. The voice was deep, and heavily accented. He smiled as he spoke, but the smile did not reach the sombre brown eyes.
‘That is hardly civil,’ Jarek told him. ‘Here we are, three hungry travelers, and you with a complete sheep almost ready for the carving.’ He moved to the fire trench, where several pots bubbled beside the sheep. ‘Ah, liver broth, vegetables, wild onions and herbs. Quite a feast for one man?’Yes, I am looking forward to it. But I prefer to eat in privacy. So why not be on your way?’Mace grinned and stepped back from the fire trench. ‘Has it
occurred to you, my large friend, that we could just confiscate this meal? You are one against three.’The large man sighed and rose ponderously to his feet. Sitting down he had seemed large enough, but now, standing, he was an alarming size. Somewhere around seven inches above six feet tall, his breadth of shoulder was immense and he towered over Mace.