Rek twisted, then nodded. ‘It is a lemon mint. Wash in the water, then crush some of the leaves and clean your body. It will refresh you and create . . . a more pleasant aroma.’
‘Thank you. Is Serbitar still travelling?’
‘He should not be. I will seek him.’ Antaheim closed his eyes for several seconds. When they opened again, Rek recognised panic and the warrior ran from the stream. In that moment all members of The Thirty surged from their blankets and raced to Serbitar by the willow.
Rek dropped his shirt and soap on the bank and moved to join them. Vintar was bending over the albino’s still form; he closed his eyes and placed his hands on the young leader’s slender face. For long moments he remained thus. Sweat broke out upon his forehead and he began to sway. When he lifted a hand, Menahem joined him instantly, raising Serbitar’s head. The swarthy warrior lifted the albino’s right eyelid: the iris was red as blood.
Virae dropped to her knees beside Rek. ‘His eyes are green normally,’ she said. ‘What is happening?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rek.
Antaheim rose from the group and sprinted for the undergrowth, returning minutes later with what appeared to be an armful of vine leaves which he tipped to the ground. Gathering dried twigs, he fashioned a small fire; then, setting up a tripod of branches, he hung a pot above the flames, filled it with water and crushed the leaves between his palms, dropping them into the pot. Soon the water began to bubble and a sweet aroma filled the air. Antaheim lifted the pan from the flames, adding cold water from his canteen, then transferred the green liquid to a leather-covered pottery mug which he passed to Menahem. Slowly they opened Serbitar’s mouth and, while Vintar held the albino’s nostrils, they poured in the liquid. Serbitar gagged and swallowed and Vintar released his nose. Menahem laid his head back on the grass and Antaheim swiftly killed the fire. There had been no smoke.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Rek as Vintar approached him.
‘We will talk later,’ said Vintar. ‘Now I must rest.’ He stumbled to his blankets and lay down, slipping instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.
‘I feel like a one-legged man in a foot race,’ said Rek.
Menahem joined them, his dark face grey with exhaustion as he sipped water from a leather canteen. He stretched his long legs out on the grass and lay on his side, supporting himself on his elbow. He turned towards Rek.
‘I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,’ he said, ‘but I did overhear you. You must forgive Vintar. He is older than the rest of us and the strain of the hunt proved too much for him.’
“The hunt? What hunt?’ asked Virae.
‘We sought Serbitar. He had journeyed far and the path was sundered. He could not return and we had to find him. Vintar guessed rightly that he had retreated into the mists and taken his chances. He had to seek him.’
‘I’m sorry, Menahem. You look worn out,’ said Rek, ‘but try to remember that we do not know what you are talking about. Into the mists? What the devil does that mean?’
Menahem sighed. ‘How can one explain colours to a blind man?’
‘One says,’ snapped Rek, ‘that red is like silk, blue is like cool water, and yellow is like sunshine on the face.’
‘Forgive me, Rek. I am tired, I did not mean to be rude,’ said Menahem. ‘I cannot explain the mists to you as I understand them. But I will try to give you some idea.
‘There are many futures but only one past. When we travel beyond ourselves we walk a straight path, journeying much as we are doing now. We direct ourselves over vast distances. But the path back remains solid, for it is locked in our memories. Do you understand?’
‘So far,’ said Rek. ‘Virae?’
‘I’m not an idiot, Rek.’
‘Sorry. Go on, Menahem.’
‘Now try to imagine there are other paths. Not just from, say, Drenan to Delnoch, but from today into tomorrow. Tomorrow has not yet happened and the possibilities for it are endless. Each one of us makes a decision that will affect tomorrow. But let us say we do travel into tomorrow. Then we are faced with a multitude of paths, gossamer-thin and shifting. In one tomorrow Dros Delnoch has already fallen, in another it has been saved, or is about to fall or about to be saved. Already we have four paths. Which is true? And when we tread the path, how do we return to today, which from where we are standing is a multitude of yesterdays? To which do we return? Serbitar journeyed far beyond tomorrow. And Vintar found him as we held the path in sight.’