‘Of course.’
‘I did not wish to be overly familiar. It is a nickname, is it not?’
‘A shortened form of Regnak. My foster-father, Horeb, shortened it when I was a child. It was a kind of joke. I disliked robust games and never wanted to explore or climb high trees. I wasn’t reckless, he said; so he dropped the “less” and called me Rek. As I said, it’s not much of a joke, but the name stuck.’
‘Do you think,’ asked Serbitar, ‘that you will be comfortable at Dros Delnoch?’
Rek smiled. ‘Are you asking me if I have the nerve?’
‘Speaking bluntly? Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘I don’t know. Have you?’
The ghost of a smile hovered on the pale, fleshless face as the albino considered the question. His slender fingers tapped gently at the desk top.
‘The question is a good one. Yes, I have the nerve. My fears are unconnected with death.’
‘You have read my mind,’ said Rek. ‘You tell me if I have the nerve. I mean it. I don’t know if I can stand a drawn-out siege; it is said that men fail under such pressure.’
‘I cannot tell you,’ Serbitar answered, ‘if you will hold or fail. You are capable of both. I cannot analyse all the permutations of a siege. Ask yourself this: What if Virae fell? Would you stay on?’
‘No,’ said Rek instantly. ‘I would saddle a fast horse and be gone. I don’t care about Dros Delnoch. Or the Drenai empire.’
‘The Drenai are finished,’ said Serbitar. “Their star has fallen.’
‘Then you think the Dros will fall?’
‘Ultimately it must. But I cannot see that far into the future as yet. The Way of the Mist is strange. Often it will show events still to come, but more often it will show events never to be. It is a perilous path which only the true mystic walks with certainty.’
‘The Way of the Mist?’ asked Rek.
‘I’m sorry, why should you know? It is a road on another plane . . . a fourth dimension? A journey of the spirit like a dream. Only you direct the dream and see what you desire to see. It is a concept hard to verbalise to a non-Speaker.’
‘Are you saying your soul can travel outside the body?’ asked Rek.
‘Oh yes, that is the easy part. We saw you in Graven Forest outside the cabin. We helped you then by influencing the axeman, Grussin.’
‘You made him kill Reinard?’
‘No. Our powers are not that great. We merely pushed him in a direction he was considering already.’
‘I’m not sure I am entirely comfortable knowing you have that sort of power,’ said Rek, avoiding the albino’s green eyes.
Serbitar laughed, his eyes sparkling, his pale face mirroring his joy.
‘Friend Rek, I am a man of my word. I promised never to use my gift to read your mind and I shall not. Nor will any of The Thirty. Do you think we would be priests, forsaking the world, if we wished harm to others? I am the son of an earl, but if I wished I could be a king, an emperor mightier than Ulric. Do not feel threatened. We must be at ease one with the other. More – we must be friends.’
‘Why?’ asked Rek.
‘Because we are about to share a moment which comes only once in a lifetime,’ said Serbitar. ‘We are going to die.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Rek. ‘I do not see that going to Dros Delnoch is just another way of committing suicide. It’s a battle, that’s all. No more, no less than that. A wall can be defended. A smaller force can hold a larger. History is full of examples: Skeln Pass, for example.’
‘True,’ said Serbitar. ‘But they are remembered because they are exceptions. Let us deal in facts. The Dros is defended by a force less than a third of full complement. Morale is low, fear is rife. Ulric has a force in excess of half a million warriors all willing – lusting even – to die for him in battle. I am a weaponmaster and a student of war. Dros Delnoch will fall. Clear your mind of any other conclusion.’