‘I need someone to take Ustarte from here to a place of – relative – safety. It must be someone with wit and courage, someone who will not panic when the chase begins. I am not asking you to do this, Keeva. I do not have that right. If you choose to return to your room I will think none the worse of you.’
‘Where is this place of safety?’
‘About a day’s ride from here.’ He moved in closer to her. ‘Give it some thought. I will be with Ustarte.’
Keeva stood alone in the weapons room. Stepping forward, she laid her hand on the hunting jerkin. The leather was soft and lightly oiled. Drawing the hunting knife from its sheath, she hefted it. It was perfectly balanced, and double-edged. Conflicting thoughts assailed her. She owed her life to the Grey Man, and the debt lay heavy upon her. Equally she loved life in the palace. Proud as she was of her part in the fight against the demons, Keeva had no wish to face any further dangers. She had been lucky in.the raid upon the village. Camran could have killed her straight away. That luck had doubled with the coming of the Grey Man. But, surely, there was a limit to one person’s luck? Keeva felt she would cross that limit were she to agree to escort the priestess.
‘What should I do, Uncle?’ she whispered.
There was no answer from the dead, but Keeva remembered his oft-repeated advice.
‘When in doubt, do what is right, girl.’
Chapter Ten
Waylander moved to the bedside. Ustarte’s golden eyes were open. He sat beside her. ‘You were wrong to do that,’ she said, her voice almost a whisper.
‘I gave her a choice.’
‘No, you didn’t. She owes you her life. She will feel obliged to do as you ask.’
‘I know, but I don’t have too many choices,’ he admitted.
‘You could become a friend to Kuan-Hador,’ she reminded him.
He shook his head. ‘I would have remained neutral, but they brought death to my house and to my people. I cannot forgive that.’
‘It is more than that,’ she said.
He laughed then, with genuine good humour. ‘I forget for a moment that you can read minds.’
‘And speak with spirits,’ she reminded him.
His smile faded. On the first night he had tended her Ustarte had woken and told him that the spirit of Orien, the Battle King of the Drenai, had appeared to her. It had shaken Waylander, for the same spirit had appeared to him years before, offering him the chance to redeem himself by finding the Armour of Bronze.*
* From the novel Waylander (1986)
‘Has he come to you again?’
‘No. He harbours no ill-will towards you. He wanted you to know that.’
‘He should. I killed his son.’
‘I know,’ she said sadly. ‘You were a different man then, and almost beyond redemption. But the goodness in you fought back. He has forgiven you.’
‘Strangely, that is harder to bear than hate,’ he said.
‘That is because you cannot forgive yourself.’
‘Can you read the minds of spirits?’ he asked her.
‘No – but I liked him.’
‘He was a king,’ said Waylander, ‘a great king. He saved the Drenai, and forged a nation. When he was old, his sight failing, he abdicated in favour of his son, Niallad.’
‘I know this from your own memories,’ she said. ‘He hid the Armour of Bronze. You found it.’
‘He asked me to. How could I refuse?’
‘Some men would have. And now he has asked a second favour of you.’
‘It makes no sense to me. Finding the Armour of Bronze helped the Drenai overcome a great enemy. But going to a feast? Why would a dead king care about a feast?’
‘He did not say. But I think you will be in danger if you go. You know that?’
‘I know.’
Keeva moved in from the weapons room. Waylander turned to see her standing in the doorway. She was wearing the dark shirt and leggings and a pair of fringed riding boots. The hunting knife was belted at her waist. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a pony-tail. Waylander rose from the bedside. ‘The clothes fit well,’ he said. Moving past her he walked to a cabinet on the far wall of the weapons room. Opening it, he withdrew a small double-winged crossbow. Calling out to Keeva he carried the weapon to a bench. Under the light of a lantern he examined the crossbow, lightly oiling the bolt grooves. As Keeva came alongside he passed the weapon to her. ‘I had this made for my daughter, Miriel,’ he said, ‘but she preferred the more traditional hunting bow. It is considerably lighter than my own bow and the killing range is no more than fifteen paces.’