‘Of course it isn’t true,’ said Browyn, with a smile. ‘But it is the sort of thing old people are expected to say. The real truth – if such a spectacular beast exists – is that I was a bridge-builder with no taste for violence whatever. And I have to admit that it is not a skill I ever wished to acquire.’ His keen blue eyes stared hard at the younger man. ‘I hope you don’t consider that an offensive remark.’
‘Why would I? I agree with the sentiments. You sit there for a while. I’ll clear up the mess.’
Browyn eased his bruised frame back on to the bench seat and stared into the fire. Sleep came easily, and he dreamt of youth and the race he had run against the three great champions. Five long miles. He had finished ninth, but the memory of running alongside such athletes remained with him, like a warming fire in the room of memories.
When he awoke, the shutters of the small windows on either side of the main door were closed. His two lanterns, hanging in their iron brackets on the west wall, were lit, and the cabin was filled with the aroma of cooking meat and spicy herbs. Browyn stretched and sat up, but he groaned as the pain from his bruises flared.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked the young man. Browyn blinked and looked around. The cabin was now neat and tidy, only the broken shelves giving evidence of the day’s savagery. Nervously he opened the path to his talent and sought out the image of the young man’s soul. With relief he saw that there was only one. The beating he had taken at the hands of the raiders must have confused him, he thought. Tarantio’s soul was bright, and as untainted by evil as any human spirit could be. Which, Browyn realized sadly, merely meant that the darkness was considerably smaller than the light.
‘My name is Browyn. And I am feeling a little better. Welcome to my home, Tarantio.’
‘It is good to be here,’ the young man told him. ‘I took the liberty of raiding your food store. I also found some onions growing nearby and I have made a thick soup.’
‘Did you see to the horse?’
‘I did,’ said Tarantio. ‘I fed him some oats, and he is tethered close by.’
They ate in silence, then Browyn slept again for an hour. He was embarrassed when he woke. ‘Old men do this, you know,’ he said. ‘We cat-nap.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighty-two. Doesn’t seem possible, does it? In a world gone mad, one bridge-builder can reach eighty-two, while young men in the fullness of their strength rush around with sharp swords and cut themselves to pieces. How old are you, Tarantio?’
‘Twenty-one. But sometimes I feel eighty-two.’
‘You are a strange young man – if you don’t mind me pointing it out?’ Tarantio smiled and shook his head. ‘You killed that swine very expertly, which shows that you are a man accustomed to violence. And yet you have cleaned my cabin in a manner which would have brought words of praise from my dear wife – a rare thing, I can tell you. And you cook better than she did – which sadly is no rare thing. Those men were afraid of you. Are you famous?’
‘They were the kind of men to be afraid,’ Tarantio said softly, ‘and reputations have a habit of growing on their own. The deed itself can be an acorn, but once men hear of it the tale soon becomes a mighty oak.’
‘Even so, I would like to hear of the acorn.’
‘I would like to hear about bridge-building. And since I am the guest, and you the host, my wishes should be paramount.’
‘You have been well trained, boy,’ said Browyn admiringly. ‘I think I like you. And I do know something of the acorn. You were the student of Sigellus the Swordsman. I knew him, you know.’
‘No-one knew him,’ said Tarantio sadly.
The old man nodded. ‘Yes, he was a very enigmatic man. You were friends?’
‘I think that we were – for a while. You should rest now, Browyn. Give those bruises a chance to heal.’ ‘Will you be here when I wake?’ ‘I will.’