‘I fear losing you.’
He moved away from her and lifted a second pebble. Clouds partly obscured the moonlight and she strained to see his hand. ‘I am going to throw this to you,’ he said. ‘If you catch it, you stay and I train you. If you miss it you return to Skarta.’
‘No, that’s not fair! The light is poor.’
‘Life is not fair, Danyal. If you do not agree, then I ride away alone.’
“Then I agree.’
Without another word he flicked the stone towards her -a bad throw, moving fast and to her left. Her hand flashed out and the pebble bounced against her palm. Even as it fell her fingers snaked around it, clutching it like a prize.
She laughed. ‘Why so pleased?’ he asked her.
‘I won!’
‘No, tell me what you did.’
‘I conquered my fear.’
‘No.’
‘Well, what then? I don’t understand.’
‘You must if you wish to learn.’
Suddenly she smiled. ‘I understand the mystery, Waylander.’
“Then tell me what you did.’
‘I caught a pebble in the moonlight.’
Waylander sighed. The room was cold, but his memories were warm. Outside a wolf howled at the moon, a lonely sound, haunting and primal. And Waylander slept.
‘You move with all the grace of a sick cow,’ stormed Angel,
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as Miriel pushed herself to her knees, fighting to draw air into her tired lungs. Angry now she surged to her feet, the sword-blade lunging at Angel’s belly. Sidestepping swiftly he parried the thrust, the flat of his left hand striking her just behind the ear. Miriel hit the ground on her face.
‘No, no, no!’ said Angel. ‘Anger must be controlled. Rest now for a while.’ He walked away from her and stopped at the well, hauling up the copper-bound bucket and splashing water to his face.
Miriel rose wearily, her spirits low. For months now she had believed her sword skills to be high, better than most men, her father had said. Now she was faced with the odious truth. A sick cow, indeed! Slowly she made her way to where Angel sat on the wall of the well. He was stripped to the waist now and she saw the host of scars on the ridged muscles of his chest and belly, on his thick forearms and his powerful shoulders.
‘You have suffered many wounds,’ she said.
‘It shows how many skilful swordsmen there are,’ he answered gruffly.
‘Why are you angry?’
He was silent for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. ‘In the city there are many clerks, administrators, organisers. Without them Drenan would cease to run. They are valued men. But place them in these mountains and they would starve to death while surrounded by game and edible roots. You understand? The degree of a man’s skill is relative to his surroundings, or the challenges he faces. Against most men you would be considered highly talented. You are fast and you have courage. But the men hunting your father are warriors. Belash would kill you in two. . . three . . . heartbeats. Morak would not take much longer. Senta and Courail both learned their skills in the arena.’
‘Can I be as good?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Much as I hate to admit it I think there is an evil in men like them . . . men like me. We are natural killers, and though we may not talk of our feelings yet each of us knows the bitter truth. We
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enjoy fighting. We enjoy killing. I don’t think you will. Indeed, I don’t think you should.’
‘You think my father enjoys killing?’
‘He’s a mystery,’ admitted Angel. ‘I remember talking to Danyal about that. She said he was two men, the one kind, the other a demon. There are gates in the soul which should never be unlocked. He found a key.’
‘He has always been kind to me, and to my sister.’
‘I don’t doubt that. What happened to Krylla?’
‘She married and moved away.’
‘When I knew you as children you had a … power, a Talent. You and she could talk to each other without speaking. You could see things far off. Can you still do it?’