Often he sat alone in the Antiquities section of the Great Library, and this solitude puzzled him. For here were stored the histories and philosophies of many ancient races. Yet few Stone scholars bothered to study them. Banouin had found a map of the stars, the parchment so brittle it almost cracked under his fingers. He copied it with great care and replaced it in its niche. There were other maps, of far distant lands, and parchments written in languages none could now speak. He pored over them, trying to make sense of the glyphs and strokes. What knowledge was contained here? he wondered. Sencra had chuckled when Banouin brought one such parchment to him. ‘It is probably just a tale of magical heroes,’ he said. ‘Of no importance.’
‘How can we know that, sir?’
‘Quite simply, my boy. We know that Stone is the greatest city ever built, and that our culture is the finest the world has seen. Therefore we will find little of consequence in ancient writings. Our own philosophers are far in advance of any in the ancient world.’
Banouin did not find this convincing, but he did not argue with Sencra. The old man was a good tutor, mostly easygoing and kind. But he reacted badly to any criticism.
Banouin sat under the willow and found himself thinking of Caer Druagh. He glanced around to see if anyone was close by, then, satisfied he was alone, lay back and closed his eyes. His spirit drifted clear of his body, floating up through the willow. It was one of the reasons Banouin loved this spot. Here – and only here – could he release his spirit from the cage of flesh. When he had first developed this talent it had filled him with fear, but he had learned swiftly that he had merely to wish himself back in his body and it would be so. Gradually during the first year he had ventured further abroad, finally soaring back to Caer Druagh and hovering over the settlement of Three Streams. The sheer joy at seeing the cluster of wooden homes had surprised him.
This time he saw there was a new building, huge and conical, to the north of the settlement. Banouin floated inside. It was a meeting hall, and several hundred Rigante were there, enjoying a feast. Connavar’s half brother, Braefar, was sitting at the head of the table, a slim yellow-haired man, with quick darting eyes. He was laughing at some jest and drinking from a golden goblet.
Banouin drew back and flew on to his mother’s house. Vorna was dozing before the fire, her head resting on a cushion. She looked tired, thought Banouin.
Vorna’s dark eyes flared open and she looked directly at him. She yawned, stretched and sat up. ‘Are you well, my son?’ she asked him.
‘I am,’ he told her. ‘But you look weary.’
‘I returned from Old Oaks last night. There is plague there. Forty dead. I think I have cleansed the settlement. Have you heard from Bane?’
‘No. He is becoming famous now. Six kills and fifteen other victories in less than two years. He has become a Name.’
‘You should make your peace with him. He was a good friend to you.’
‘He is a killer of men, and we have nothing in common.’
‘You think not? You are both Rigante, born in the shadow of Caer Druagh.’
‘I am a citizen of Stone, Mother,’ he reminded her.
‘Aye, you are. But that was through choice. You are Rigante by blood, and your soul-name was heard in the mountains and the Wishing Tree woods.’
‘We have had this conversation before,’ he said, with a smile. ‘I did not accept it then, nor do I accept it now. I am content, Mother. I am who I am.’
‘You do not yet know who you are,’ she told him. ‘And contentment is not enough.’
‘It is good to see you well,’ he said.
And opened his eyes back in the Park of Phesus. As always, following his astral journeys, he returned refreshed and curiously uplifted. Rising from the bench he pushed aside the willow branches and walked out to the edge of the artificial lake. Just below the surface he could see multicoloured fish gliding through the water. He looked up, and saw the distant towers and rooftops of Stone, glistening white in the afternoon sun.