‘Throw again,’ she ordered him, restringing the crossbow.
‘The wood is broken,’ he pointed out.
‘Throw the largest piece.’
Retrieving his bolts he hefted the largest chunk of wood. It was no more than four inches across and less than a foot long. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Just throw!’
With a flick of his wrist he spun the chunk high into the air. The crossbow came up, the bolt sang, plunging into the wood. Waylander applauded the shot. Miriel gave an elaborate bow.
‘Women are supposed to curtsey,’ he said.
‘And they are supposed to wear dresses and learn embroidery,’ she retorted.
‘True,’ he conceded. ‘How do you like the assassin’s bow?’
‘It has good balance, and it is very light.’
‘Ventrian ebony, and the stock is hollowed. Are you ready for some swordplay?’
She laughed. ‘Is your pride ready for another pounding?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I think we’ll have an early night.’ She looked disappointed as they gathered their weapons and set off back to the cabin. ‘I think you need a better swordmaster than I,’ he told her as they walked. ‘It is your best weapon and you are truly skilled. I’ll think on it.’
‘I thought you were the best,’ she chided.
‘Fathers always seem that way,’ he said drily. ‘But no. With bow or knife I am superb. With the sword? Only excellent.’
‘And so modest. Is there anything at which you do not excel?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, his smile fading.
Increasing his pace he walked on, his mind lost in painful memories. His first family had been butchered by raiders, his wife, his baby girls and his son. The picture was bright in his mind. He had found the boy lying dead in the flower garden, his little face surrounded by blooms.
And five years before, having found love a second time, he had watched helplessly as Danyal’s horse had struck a hidden tree root. The stallion hit the ground hard, rolling, trapping Danyal beneath it and crushing her chest. She had died within minutes, her body racked with pain.
‘Is there anything at which you do not excel?’
Only one.
I cannot keep alive those I love.
2
Ralis liked to tell people he had been a tinker since the stars were young, and it was not far from the truth. He could still remember when the old king, Orien, had been but a beardless prince, walking behind his father at the Spring Parade on the first road called the Drenai Way.
Now it was the Avenue of Kings, and much wider, leading through the triumphal arch built to celebrate victory over the Vagrians.
So many changes. Ralis had fond memories of Orien, the first Battle King of the Drenai, wearer of the Armour of Bronze, victor in a hundred battles and a score of wars.
Sometimes, when he was sitting in lonely taverns, resting from his travels, the old tinker would tell people of his meeting with Orien, soon after the Battle at Dros Corteswain. The King had been hunting boar in Skultik Forest and Ralis, young then and dark-bearded, had been carrying his pack towards the fort town of Delnoch.
They had met at a stream. Orien was sitting on a boulder, his bare feet submerged in the cold water, his expensive boots cast aside. Ralis had released the straps of his pack and moved to the water’s edge, kneeling to drink.
‘The pack looks heavy,’ said the golden-haired King.
‘Aye, it is,’ Ralis had agreed.
‘A tinker, are you?’
‘Aye.’
‘You know who I am?’
‘You’re the King,’ said Ralis.
Orien chuckled. ‘You’re not impressed? Good for you. I don’t suppose you have any ointment in that pack. I have blisters the size of small apples.’
Ralis shook his head and spread his arms apologetically. At that moment a group of young noblemen arrived on the scene, surrounding the King. They were laughing and shouting, bragging of their skills.
Ralis had left unnoticed.
As the years passed he followed the King’s exploits, almost as if gathering news of an old friend. Yet he doubted if the memory of their meeting had survived for more than a moment or two with the King himself. It was all different now, he thought, as he hitched his pack for the walk up to the cabin. The country had no king- and that wasn’t right. The Source would not look kindly upon a country without a prince.