The door opened behind him, and he stiffened, his mouth suddenly dry. Swiftly he closed the gates of his Talent, shutting out the swelling violence emanating from his visitor. Slowly he turned. His guest was tall, wide-shouldered and yet lean, dark-eyed and stern of appearance. He was dressed all in black and even the chain-mail shoulder-guard was stained with dark dye. Dardalion’s eyes were drawn to the many weapons, the three knives sheathed to the man’s baldric, the throwing blades in scabbards strapped to his forearms, the short sabre and crossbow bolt quiver at his side. Two more knives were hidden, he knew, in the man’s knee-length moccasins. But the weapon of death that drew his gaze was the small ebony crossbow the man held in his right hand.
‘Good day, Dakeyras,’ said Dardalion, and there was no welcome in his voice.
‘And to you, Dardalion. You are looking well.’
‘That will be all, Vishna,’ said the Abbot, and the tall, white-robed priest bowed and departed. ‘Sit you down,’ Dardalion told his visitor, but the man remained standing, his dark eyes scanning the room, the shelves packed with ancient tomes, the open cupboards bursting with manuscripts and scrolls, the dust-covered rugs and the decaying velvet hangings at the high, arched window. ‘I study here,’ said Dardalion.
The door opened and Magnic entered, bearing a tray on which stood a bottle of wine, two loaves of black bread and a hunk of blue-veined cheese. Placing them on the desk the blond priest bowed and departed.
‘They are nervous of me,’ said Waylander. ‘What have you told them?’
‘I told them not to touch you.’
Waylander chuckled. ‘You don’t change, do you? Still the same priggish, pompous priest.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, that is your affair. I did not come here to criticise you. I came for information.’
‘I can offer you none.’
‘You don’t know yet what I am going to ask. Or do you?’
‘You want to know who hired the assassins and why.’
‘That’s part of it.’
‘What else?’ asked Dardalion, filling two goblets with wine and offering one to his guest. Waylander accepted it, taking the drink with his left hand, politely sipping the contents and then replacing the goblet on the desk top, there to be forgotten. The sound of clashing sword-blades rose up from the courtyard below. Waylander moved to the window and leaned out.
‘Teaching your priests to fight? You do surprise me, Dardalion. I thought you were against such violence.’
‘I am against the violence of evil. What else did you want to know?’
‘I have not heard from Krylla since she moved away. You could … use your Talent and tell me if she is well.’
‘No.’
‘That is it? A simple no – not a word of explanation?’
‘I owe you no explanations. I owe you nothing.’
‘That’s true,’ said Waylander coldly. ‘I saved your life, not once but many times, but you owe me nothing. So be it, priest. You are a fine example of religion in action.’
Dardalion reddened. ‘Everything you did was for your own ends. I used all my powers to protect you. I watched my disciples die while I protected you. And yes, for once in your life you did the decent deed. Good for you! You don’t need me, Waylander. You never did. Everything I believe in is mocked by your life. Can you understand that? Your soul is like a blazing torch of dark light, and I need to steel myself to stand in the same room as you, closing off my Talent lest your light corrupt me.’
‘You sound like a windy pig, and your words smell about as fine,’ snapped Waylander. ‘Corrupt you? You think I haven’t seen what you are doing here? You had armour made in Kasyra, and helms bearing runic numbers. Knives, bows, swords. Warrior priests: isn’t that a contradiction, Dardalion? At least my violence is honest. I fight to stay alive. I no longer kill for hire. I have a daughter I am trying to protect. What is your excuse for teaching priests to kill?’
‘You wouldn’t understand!’ hissed the Abbot, aware that his heartbeat was rising and that anger was threatening to engulf him.