Astila clung to his task. Numbers. A number. No … not One. Slowly he forced himself to count, searching what was left of his memory for thoughts that were his alone. Then a name struck him. Dardalion. Was it his name? No. Another. He called out weakly, but there was no response. A number.
Thirty. That was the number of power. Thirty. The One shivered and Astila burst clear.
‘Who are you?’ asked the One.
‘Astila.’
‘Why have you withdrawn from me? We are One.’
‘I seek Dardalion within you.’
‘Dardalion?’ said the One, and deep within him the young priest stirred to life. One by one Astila called the names of The Thirty and the priests came to themselves, drawing away confused and uncertain.
Dawn was near when Astila led the group home.
Once more in their bodies, they slept for several hours.
Dardalion was the first to wake. He roused the others and called Astila to him
‘Last night you saved us,’ said Dardalion. ‘You have a gift for seeing through deceptions.’
‘But you created the One,’ said Astila. ‘Without that we would not have survived.’
‘We almost did not survive. The One was as great a danger to us as the Cloudbeast and you saved us a second time. Yesterday the Abbot gave me a warning and I said I would think on his words. We need form, Astila … discipline. I shall be the Abbot of The Thirty. But you must have a senior part. I shall be the Voice and you will be the Eyes. Together we will find the path to the will of the Source.
13
Waylander leaned back in the saddle and stared out over the Delnoch Pass to the Nadir plains beyond. Behind him the wagons had bunched for the night, ready for the perilous descent tomorrow. The pass sloped down for over a mile in a series of treacherous scree-covered ledges, and it took a brave man to drive a wagon over the narrow winding trail. Most of the refugees had paid Durmast’s men handsome sums to take over the reins for the descent, while they walked behind in comparative safety.
A cool breeze was blowing from the north and Waylander allowed himself to relax. There had been no sign of Cadoras or of the Brotherhood, and he had checked the back trails with care. Suddenly he grinned. It was said of Cadoras that when you saw him there was danger – that when you did not see him, there was death. Waylander slid from his horse’s back and led the animal to the picket ropes. Stripping off the saddle, he rubbed the horse down, fed it with grain and moved into the centre of the camp where the fires crackled under iron cooking-pots.
Durmast was sitting with a group of travellers, regaling them with tales of Gulgothir. In the red firelight his face was less brutal and his smile warm and friendly. Children sat around him, gazing in awe at the giant and relishing his outrageous stories. It was hard to believe that these people were fleeing from a terrible war; that many of them had lost friends, brothers and sons. Their relief at the prospect of escape was showing itself in over-loud laughter and jests. Waylander transferred his gaze to Durmast’s men, sitting in a group apart from the others. Hard men, Durmast had said, and Waylander knew their type. They were not hard, they were murderous. In days of peace and plenty, the worthy townsfolk who now laughed and sang would bolt their doors against such as these; you could not have paid them enough to travel with Durmast. Now they laughed like children, unable to see that their danger was just as great.
Waylander turned to fetch his blankets – and froze. Standing not ten feet away from him, facing a fire, was Danyal. The firelight danced in her red-gold hair, and she was wearing a new dress tunic of wool embroidered and edged with gold thread. Waylander swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Then she lifted a hand to her hair and turned, seeing him for the first time. Her smile was genuine and he hated her for it.