‘How could you know?’
‘Serbitar told me. As you know, he has been inside your mind . . . When you carried his messages to Druss.’
‘I suppose the entire damned fortress knows?’ said Bowman. ‘I will leave at dawn.’
‘Only Serbitar and I know the story – and the truth of it. But leave if you will.’
‘The truth of it is that I killed my father and brother.’ Bowman was white-faced and tense.
‘Twin accidents – you know it well!’ said Rek. ‘Why must you torture yourself?’
‘Why? Because I wonder at accidents in life. I wonder how many are caused by our own secret desires. There was a foot-racer once – the finest I ever saw. He was preparing for the Great Games, to run for the first time against the fastest men from many nations. On the day before the race he fell and twisted his ankle. Was it really an accident – or was he frightened to face the great test?’
‘Only he will ever know,’ said Rek. ‘But therein lies the secret. He knows and so should you. Serbitar tells me that you were hunting with your father and brother. Your father was to the left, your brother to the right, when you followed a deer into the thicket. A bush before you rustled, and you aimed and let the arrow fly. But it was your father, who had come unannounced. How could you know he would do such a thing?’
‘The point is that he taught us never to shoot until we saw the target.’
‘So you made a mistake. What else is new on the face of the world?’
‘And my brother?’
‘He saw what you had done, misunderstood and ran at you in a rage. You pushed him away and he fell, striking his head on a rock. No one could wish such a burden on themselves. But you have nursed it, and it is now time for you to release it.’
‘I never loved my father or my brother,’ said Bowman. ‘My father killed my mother. He left her alone for months and had many mistresses. When my mother took one lover he had him blinded and her slain . . . horribly.’
‘I know. Don’t dwell on it.’
‘And my brother was made in his image.’
‘This also I know.’
‘And do you know what I felt when they were both lying dead at my feet?’
‘Yes. You were exultant.’
‘And is that not terrible?’
‘I don’t know if you have considered this, Bowman, but think on it. You blame the gods for bringing a curse upon you – but the curse really fell on the two men who deserved it.
‘I don’t know yet whether I fully believe in fate, but certain things do happen in a man’s life which he cannot explain. My being here, for instance. Druss’s conviction that he will die here, for he has made a pact with death. And you . . . But I do believe that you were merely the instrument of . . . who knows? . . . a law of natural justice perhaps.
‘Whatever you believe about yourself, know this: Serbitar searched your heart and he found no malice there. And he knows.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Bowman. Then he grinned suddenly. ‘Have you noticed that when Serbitar removes that horsehair helm he is shorter than I am?’
*
The room was spartanly furnished: a rug, a pillow and a chair, all bunched beneath the small window by which the albino stood, naked and alone. Moonlight bathed his pale skin and the night breeze ruffled his hair. His shoulders were bowed, his eyes closed. Weariness was upon him like no other weariness he had felt in all his young life. For it was born of the spirit and the truth.
The philosophers often talked of lies sitting under the tongue like salted honey. This, Serbitar knew, was true enough. But more often the hidden truth was worse. Far worse. For it settled in the belly and grew to engulf the spirit.
Below him were the Vagrian quarters which housed Suboden and the three hundred men who had come from Dros Segril. For several days he had fought alongside his personal bodyguard and become again the Prince of Dros Segril, son of Earl Drada. But the experience had been painful, for his own men had made the sign of the Protective Horn as he approached. They rarely spoke to him, and then only to answer a direct question speedily. Suboden, blunt-speaking as always, had asked the albino to return to his comrades.