There was fragrance that pulsed for Serbitar alone. Greenfly upon the rose shrivelled and died as Serbitar gazed upon them, and the soft silky beauty of the blooms filled his senses like an opiate.
It was a white rose.
Serbitar sat back, eyes closed, mentally following the surge of new life within the tree. He wore full armour of silver mailshirt, sword and scabbard, leather leggings worked with silver rings; by his side was a new silver helm, bearing the figure One in Elder runes. His white hair was braided. His eyes were green – the colour of the rose leaves. His slender face, translucent skin over high cheekbones, had the mystic beauty of the consumptive.
He made his farewells, gently easing the gossamer panic of the plant. It had known him since its first leaf opened.
And now he was to die.
A smiling face grew in his mind and Serbitar sense-recognised Arbedark. We await you, pulsed the inner message.
I am coming, he answered.
Within the great hall a table had been set, a jug of water and a barley cake before each of thirty places. Thirty men in full armour sat silently as Serbitar entered, taking his place at the head of the table and bowing to the Abbot, Vintar, who now sat on his right.
In silence the company ate, each thinking his own thoughts, each analysing his emotions at this culmination of thirteen years’ training.
Finally Serbitar spoke, fulfilling the ritual need of the Order.
‘Brothers, the search is upon us. We who have sought must obtain that which we seek. A messenger comes from Dros Delnoch to ask us to die. What does the Heart of The Thirty feel on this matter?’
All eyes turned to black-bearded Arbedark. He relaxed his mind, allowing their emotions to wash over him, selecting thoughts, analysing them, forging them into one unifying concept agreed by all.
Then he spoke, his voice deep and resonant.
‘The heart of the matter is that the children of the Drenai face extinction. Ulric has massed the Nadir tribes under his banner. The first attack on the Drenai empire will be at Dros Delnoch, which Earl Delnar has orders to hold until the autumn. Abalayn needs time to raise and train an army.
‘We approach a frozen moment in the destiny of the continent. The Heart says we should seek our truths at Dros Delnoch.’
Serbitar turned to Menahem, a hawk-nosed young man, dark and swarthy, his hair braided in a single pony tail intertwined with silver thread. ‘And how do the Eyes of The Thirty view this thing?’
‘Should we go to the Dros the city will fall,’ said Menahem. ‘Should we refuse, the city will still fall. Our presence will merely delay the inevitable. Should the messenger be worthy to ask of us our lives, then we should go.’
Serbitar turned to the Abbot. ‘Vintar, how says the Soul of The Thirty?’
The older man ran a slender hand through his thinning grey hair, then stood and bowed to Serbitar. He seemed out of place in his armour of silver and bronze.
‘We will be asked to kill men of another race,’ he said, his voice gentle, sad even. ‘We will be asked to kill them, not because they are evil, merely because their leaders wish to do what the Drenai themselves did six centuries ago.
‘We stand between the sea and the mountains. The sea will crush us against the mountain and thus we die. The mountain will hold us against the sea, allowing us to be crushed. Still we die.
‘We are all weapon masters here. We seek the perfect death, to counterpoint the perfect life. True the Nadir aggression does not pose a new concept in history. But their action will cause untold horror to the Drenai people. We can say that to defend those people we are upholding the values of our Order. That our defence will fail is no reason to avoid the battle. For it is the motive that is pure, and not the outcome.
‘Sadly, the Soul says we must ride for Dros Delnoch.’
‘So,’ said Serbitar. ‘We are agreed. I, too, feel strongly on this matter. We came to this Temple as outcasts from the world. Shunned and feared, we came together to create the ultimate contradiction. Our bodies would become living weapons, to polarise our minds to extremes of pacifism. Warrior-priests we are, as the Elders never were. There will be no joy in our hearts as we slay the enemy, for we love all life.