Danyal said nothing, knowing she had no antidote to the woman’s despair.
‘Do you have a man?’ asked Tacia.
Danyal thought instantly of Waylander, then shook her head.
‘You are lucky,’ said the woman. ‘We fall in love with men, they fall in love with soft skin and bright eyes. I really loved him, you know. I would not have minded had he slept with her now and again. But why did he have to leave me for her?’
‘I am sorry. I do not know what to say.’
‘No. You’ll know one day though, when that pretty red hair of yours streaks with grey and your skin gets hard. I wish I was young again. I wish I had pretty red hair and did not know how to answer an old woman.’
‘You are not old.’
Tacia stood and laid the clothes on the chair. ‘When you are ready, come next door. I have some supper prepared – vegetables only, I’m afraid, but we still have some spices to give it flavour.’
Danyal watched the woman leave, then poured soap into her hair and scrubbed away the dirt and grease. At last she stood and dried herself before a bronzed mirror at the far end of the room.
Somehow the sight of her beauty failed to lift her as it usually did.
Dardalion wandered to the outskirts of the town, crossing a curved stone bridge over a narrow stream. The trees were thinner here – elm and birch, slender and graceful compared with the giant oaks of the forest. Flowers bloomed by the stream, bluebells seeming to float above the ground like a sapphire mist. There was tranquillity here, thought Dardalion. Harmony.
The tents of the priests were spread in a meadow in an orderly circle. Nearby was a fresh graveyard, the mounds carpeted with flowers.
Uncomfortable in his armour, Dardalion walked into the meadow and watched the eyes of the priests turn towards him. A mixture of emotions stuck him forcefully: anguish, pain, disappointment, elation, pride, despair. He absorbed them, as he absorbed the mind-faces of those who projected the feelings, and he responded with love born of sorrow.
As he came near the priests gathered around him silently, leaving a path to the tent at the centre of the circle. When he approached an elderly man stepped from the tent and bowed deeply. Dardalion fell to his knees before the Abbot and bowed his head.
‘Welcome, brother Dardalion,’ said the old man softly.
‘Thank you, Father Abbot.’
‘Will you remove the garments of war and rejoin your brethren?’
‘It is with regret that I must refuse.’
‘Then you are no longer a priest and should not kneel before me. Stand as a man, freed of your vows.’
‘I do not wish to be free of my vows.’
‘The eagle does not pull a plough, Dardalion, and the Source accepts no half-way heroes.’
The old man reached down and gently pulled Dardalion to his feet. The young warrior priest looked into his eyes, seeking righteous anger but finding only sadness. The Abbot was very old, his face webbed with the weight of his life. Yet his eyes were bright, alive with intelligence.
‘I do not wish to be free. I wish to follow a different path to the Source.’
‘All paths lead to the Source, whether for judgement or joy.’
‘Do not play word games with me, Father Abbot. I am no child. But I have seen great evil in the land and I will not sit by and watch it triumph.’
‘Who is to say where triumph lies? What is life but a search for God? A battleground, a cesspit, a paradise? I see the pain you see and it saddens me. And where I find pain I bring comfort, and where I find sorrow I bring promises of future joy. I exist to heal, Dardalion. There is no victory in the sword.’
Dardalion drew himself upright and glanced about him, feeling the weight of the unasked questions. All eyes were on him and he sighed and closed his eyes, praying for guidance. But his prayer was unanswered, and he felt no lifting of the burden upon him.