She watched him walk away, a tall man moving with grace and care, his black and silver hair drawn back into a tightly-tied ponytail, his crossbow hanging from his belt.
And then he was gone – vanished into the shadows.
*
The waterfall was narrow, no more than six feet wide, flowing over white boulders in a glittering cascade to a leaf-shaped bowl thirty feet across and forty-five long. At its most southern point a second fall occurred, the stream surging on to join the river two miles south. Golden leaves swirled on the surface of the water, and with each breath of breeze more spiralled down from the trees.
Around the pool grew many flowers, most of them planted by the man who now knelt by the graveside. He glanced up at the sky. The sun was losing its power now, the cold winds of autumn flowing over the mountains. Waylander sighed. A time of dying. He gazed at the golden leaves floating on the water and remembered sitting here with Danyal and the children, on another autumn day ten lifetimes ago.
Krylla was sitting with her tiny feet in the water, Miriel swimming among the leaves. ‘They are like the souls of the departed,’ Danyal had told Krylla. ‘Floating on the sea of life towards a place of rest.’
He sighed again and returned his attention to the flower-garlanded mound beneath which lay all he had lived for.
‘Miriel fought a lion today,’ he said. ‘She stood and did not panic. You would have been proud of her.’ Laying his ebony-handled crossbow to one side he idly dead-headed the geraniums growing by the headstone, removing the faded, dry red blooms. The season was late and it was unlikely they would flower again. Soon he would need to pull them, shaking dry the roots and hanging them in the cabin, ready for planting in the spring.
‘But she is still too slow,’ he added. ‘She does not act with instinct, but with remembered learning. Not like Krylla.’ He chuckled. ‘You remember how the village boys used to gather around her? She knew how to handle them, the tilt of the head, the sultry smile. She took that from you.’
Reaching out he touched the cold, rectangular marble head-stone, his index finger tracing the carved lines.
Danyal, wife of Dakeyras,
the pebble in the moonlight
The grave was shaded by elms and beech, and there were roses growing close by, huge yellow blooms filling the air with sweet fragrance. He had bought them in Kasyra, seven bushes. Three had died as he journeyed back, but the remainder flourished in the rich clay soil.
‘I’m going to have to take her to the city soon,’ he said. ‘She’s eighteen now, and she needs to learn. I’ll find a husband for her.’ He sighed. ‘It means leaving you for a while. I’m not looking forward to that.’
The silence grew, even the wind in the leaves dying down. His dark eyes were distant, his memories solemn. Smoothly he rose and, taking up the clay bowl beside the headstone, he moved to the pool, filled the bowl and began to water the roses. Yesterday’s rain had been little more than a shower and the roses liked to drink deep.
*
Kreeg crouched low in the bushes, his crossbow loaded. How easy, he thought, unable to suppress a smile.
Find Waylander and kill him. He had to admit that the prospect of such a hunt had frightened him. After all, Waylander the Slayer was no mean opponent. When his family were slain by raiders, he roamed the land until he had hunted down every one of the killers. Waylander was a legend among the Guild, a capable swordsman, but a brilliant knife-fighter and a crossbowman without peer. More than this he was said to possess mystical abilities, always sensing when danger was near.
Kreeg sighted the crossbow at the tall man’s back. Mystical abilities? Pah. In one heartbeat he would be dead.
The man at the graveside picked up a clay bowl and moved towards the pool. Kreeg shifted his aim, but his intended victim crouched down, filling the bowl. Kreeg lowered his bow a fraction, slowly letting out his held breath. Waylander was side-on now, and a sure killing shot would have to be to the head. What was he doing with the water? Kreeg watched the tall man kneel by the roses, tipping the bowl and splashing the contents around the roots. He’ll go back to the grave, thought Kreeg. And once there I’ll take him.