It seemed strange to him that a woman who had spent her life in the pursuit of every illicit pleasure should have come to her end with courage and dignity. He glanced at Lia. She was not his daughter. She had been sired by one of Pirae’s many lovers. He doubted if even Pirae had known which one. Yet he loved Lia more than he had ever loved anything. She was sunlight upon his soul; cool clear water in the desert of his life.
Pirae had betrayed him at every turn. Sullen and spoiled, she had spent much of his fortune on ludicrously expensive clothes, silks and satins, jewel-encrusted gowns, baubles of every kind. She had never shown the slightest interest in any worthy cause. And then, at the age of forty, had stood against the might of the priests and defied them, knowing they would kill her.
‘And all for a tree!’ he said aloud.
‘Why does the thought of the Tree upset you so much?’ asked Lia.
‘What?’
‘You mentioned the Tree again.’
‘I didn’t realize I said it aloud.’
‘The Tree is merely a representation of the power of the Source; spirit that flows upward, outward, inward and downward, mirroring the seasons. It has nothing to do with tree worship. That is a silly lie put about by the priests.’
‘And why can you not understand?’ he countered. ‘The priests represent power in Stone. To go against them is wilful and dangerous. It has left us here, in this forsaken cesspit of a land.’
‘I was happy to stay,’ she reminded him.
To stay and die,’ he pointed out.
‘Some things are worth dying for.’
‘Aye, but not trees,’ he said.
The team halted before the bridge. Appius stood and stared at the raging river as it gushed past the supports. The structure looked insubstantial and neglected. With a silent curse he sat down and cracked the whip. The horses moved out onto the wooden boards. Below, in the black churning water, the swollen body of a dead bull was swept along by the flood. It rammed against one of the supports, which buckled and fell away. The wagon lurched. Appius rose in his seat, cracking his whip once more. The frightened horses lunged into the traces.
Then the bridge collapsed.
Appius was thrown clear, his head striking a post. Then he was pitched unconscious into the water.
Banouin had been miserable for most of the day, and not just because of the hissing winds and the driving rain. He had not slept well, his dreams full of anxiety and humiliation. Happily he could not remember most of the dreams, but one had clung to his conscious mind. He was standing naked in the centre of Stone, and crowds of people were laughing at him. Deep down he knew the reason for the dream, and it made him feel like a traitor and an ingrate.
It was quite simply the thought of Bane’s accompanying him to Stone that had brought about this mood of depression, and the anxiety dreams that accompanied it. Banouin’s plan had been to purchase suitable clothing, cut his hair, and enrol in the university. In short to become a citizen of Stone, to blend into the life of that wondrous place. No more jeers and taunts, no more feelings of inadequacy. He had planned to become a scholar, living a quiet life of contemplation and study. Now he was riding towards the city of his dreams in the company of a man of ferocious violence, the epitome of the best and worst of Rigante manhood.
Yet this man had protected him for much of his young life, and had endured the hatred of his peers for doing so. The thoughts that plagued Banouin left him feeling melancholy and unworthy.
The rain eased away for a while during mid-morning, and Bane tossed back his hood and rode in closer to his friend. ‘You are not such a lively companion today,’ he said.
Banouin forced a smile. ‘It’s the rain.’
‘Come now,’ said Bane, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘I’ve known you too long. When you wear that long face there is something troubling you. Are you still concerned about the fat man?’