He sat upon the battlements and stared back at the Keep. For how many years had he longed to take this fortress? How many of his dreams had been filled with pictures of the Keep in flames?
And now he was defending it with the lives of his followers.
He shrugged. A man with his eyes on the sky does not see the scorpion below his feet. A man with his eyes on the ground does not see the dragon in the air.
He paced the ramparts, coming at last to the gate tower and the stone inscription carved there: GEDDON.
The Wall of Death.
The air was thick with the smell of death and the morning would see the crows fly in to the feast. He should have killed Rek in the woods. A promise to an unbeliever was worth nothing, so why had he kept it? He laughed suddenly, accepting the answer; because the man had not cared.
And Joachim liked him.
He passed a Drenai sentry who saluted him and smiled. Joachim nodded, noting the uncertainty of the smile.
He had told the Earl of Bronze that he and his men would stay for one more day and then return to the mountains. He had expected a plea to remain – offers, promises, treaties. But Rek had merely smiled.
‘It is more than I would have asked for,’ he said.
Joachim was stunned, but he could say nothing. He told Rek of the traitor and of the Nadir attempt to cross the mountains.
‘Will you still bar the way?’
‘Of course. That is Sathuli land.’
‘Good! Will you eat with me?’
‘No, but I thank you for the offer.’
No Sathuli could break bread with an unbeliever.
Rek nodded. ‘I think I will rest now,’ he said. ‘I will see you at dawn.’
In his high room in the Keep Rek slept, dreaming of Virae, always of Virae. He awoke hours before dawn and reached out for her. But the sheets beside him were cold and, as always, he felt the loss anew. On this night he wept, long and soundlessly. Finally he rose, dressed and descended the stairs to the small hall. The manservant, Arshin, brought him a breakfast of cold ham and cheese, with a flagon of cold water, laced with honey mead. He ate mechanically until a young officer approached with the news that Bricklyn had returned with despatches from Drenan.
The burgher entered the hall, bowed briefly and approached the table, laying before Rek several packages and a large sealed scroll. He seated himself opposite Rek and asked if he could pour himself a drink. Rek nodded as he opened the scroll. He read it once, smiled, then laid it aside and looked across at the burgher. He was thinner and perhaps even greyer than the first time Rek had seen him. He was still dressed in riding clothes, and his green cloak was dust-covered. Bricklyn drained the water in two swallows and refilled his cup; then he noticed Rek’s eyes upon him.
‘You have seen the message from Abalayn?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Thank you for bringing it. Will you stay?’
‘But of course. Surrender arrangements must be made and Ulric welcomed to the Keep.’
‘He has promised to spare no one,’ said Rek softly.
Bricklyn waved his hand. ‘Nonsense! That was war talk. Now he will be magnanimous.’
‘And what of Woundweaver?’
‘He has been recalled to Drenan and the army disbanded.’
‘Are you pleased?’
‘That the war is over? Of course. Though I am naturally saddened that so many had to die. I hear that Druss fell at Sumitos. A great shame. He was a fine man and a magnificent warrior. But it was as he would wish to go, I am sure. When would you like me to see Lord Ulric?’
‘As soon as you wish.’
‘Will you accompany me?’
‘No.’
‘Then who will?’ asked Bricklyn, noting with pleasure the resignation mirrored in Rek’s face.
‘No one.’
‘No one? But that would not be politic, my lord. There should be a deputation.’
‘You will travel alone.’
‘Very well. What terms shall I negotiate?’
‘You will negotiate nothing. You will merely go to Ulric and say that I have sent you.’