The blond priest blushed furiously. ‘I am sorry, Father Abbot.’
‘And now I am expecting a visitor,’ said Dardalion. ‘Vishna, wait for him at the front gate and bring him straight to my study. Magnic, go to the cellar and fetch a
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bottle of wine and some bread and cheese.’ Both priests stood. ‘One more thing,’ said Dardalion, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Do not shake hands with the man, or touch him. And do not try to read his thoughts.’
‘Is he evil, then?’ asked Vishna.
‘No, but his memories would burn you. Now go and wait for him.’
Dardalion returned to the window. The sun was high, shining down on the distant Delnoch peaks, and from this high window the Abbot could just see the faint grey line of the first wall of the Delnoch fortress. His eyes tracked along the colossal peaks of the mountains, traversing west to east towards the distant sea. Low clouds blocked the view, but Dardalion pictured the fortress of Dros Purdol, saw again the dreadful siege, heard the screams of the dying. He sighed. The might of Vagria was humbled before the walls of Purdol, and the history of the world changed in those awful months of warfare. Good men had died, iron spears ripping into their bodies . . .
The first Thirty had been slaughtered there, battling against the demonic powers of the Brotherhood. Dardalion alone had survived. He shivered, as he relived the pain of the spear plunging into his back, and the loneliness as the souls of his friends flew from him, hurtling towards the eternal serenity of the Source. The Thirty had fought on the astral plane alone, refusing to bear weapons in the world of flesh. How wrong they had been!
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
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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.’