‘I am against the violence of evil. What else did you want to know?’
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‘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.
‘You are right again, Dardalion. I don’t understand. But then I am not a religious man. I served the Source once, but then He discarded me. Not content with that He killed my wife. Now I see His . . . Abbot, isn’t it? … playing at soldiers. No, I don’t understand. But I understand friendship. I would die for those I love, and if I had a Talent like yours I would not deny it to them. Gods, man, I would not even deny it to a man I disliked.’ Without another word the black-garbed warrior strode from the room.
Dardalion slumped back in his chair, fighting for calm. For some time he prayed. Then he meditated before
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praying again. At last he opened his eyes. ‘I wish I could have told you, my friend,’ he whispered. ‘But it would have been too painful for you.’
Dardalion closed his eyes once more and let his spirit free. Passing through flesh and bone as if his body had become water he rose like a swimmer seeking air. High now above the Temple he gazed down on the grey castle and the tall hill upon which it stood, and he saw the town spread out around the foot of the hill, the narrow streets, the wide market square and the bear-pit beyond it, stained with blood. But his spirit eyes sought out the man who had been his friend. He was moving easily down the winding path towards the trees and Dardalion felt his sorrow, and his anger.
And the freedom of the sky could not mask the sadness which swept through the Abbot.
‘You could have told him,’ whispered the voice of Vishna in his mind.
‘The balance is too delicate.’
‘Is he so important, then?’
‘Of himself? No,’ answered Dardalion, ‘but his actions now will change the future of nations – that I know. And I must not – will not – attempt to guide him.’
‘What will he do when he finds out the truth?’
Dardalion shrugged. ‘What he always does, Vishna. He will look for someone to kill. It is his way – a law made of iron. He is not evil, you know, but there is no compromise in him. Kings believe it is their will that guides history. They are wrong. In all great events there are men like Waylander. History may not recall them, but they are there.’ He smiled. ‘Ask any child who won the Vagrian War and they will tell you it was Karnak. But Waylander recovered the Armour of Bronze. Waylander slew the enemy general Kaem.’