‘Why do you think I would not kill you, once my strength has returned?’
‘The Guild allows no Nadir members. Therefore you were to be paid by Morak. Judging by the lumps on your skull I would say that Morak has terminated your employment. What would you gain by killing me?’
‘Nothing,’ agreed Belash. Except the honour of being the man who slew the Soul Stealer. And surely the Mountains would look kindly upon the man who avenged the theft of the treasure? Surely they would then grant him the vengeance he sought.
Waylander moved forward. ‘Can you walk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then follow me.’ The tall man strode away, his broad back an inviting target.
Not yet, thought Belash. First let me find my strength.
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The table was forty feet long and three feet wide, and had once been covered by fine linens and decorated with golden plates and goblets. The finest of foods had graced the plates, and nobles had carved their meats with knives of gold. Now there was no fine linen, and the plates were of pewter, the goblets of clay. Bread and cheese lay upon the plates, cool spring water in the goblets. At the table sat twenty-eight priests in white robes. Behind each priest, glittering in the lantern light, was a suit of armour, a bright silver helm, a shining cuirass and a scabbarded sword. And against each suit of armour rested a long wooden staff.
Ekodas sat at the head of the table, Dardalion beside him.
‘Let me present my own arguments,’ pleaded Ekodas.
‘No, my son. But I will do them justice, I promise you.’
‘I did not doubt that, sir. But I cannot do justice to yours.’
‘Do your best, Ekodas. No man can ever ask for more than that.’ Dardalion lifted a finger to his lips, then closed his eyes. All heads bowed instantly and the union began. Ekodas felt himself floating. There was no sight, no sound, no feeling. Just warmth. He sensed Vishna, and Magnic, Palista, Seres … all the others flowing all around him.
‘We are One,’ pulsed Dardalion.
‘We are One,’ echoed the Thirty.
And the prayer-song began, the great hymn to the Source, mind-sung in a tongue unknown to any of them, even Dardalion. The words were unfathomable, but the sensations created by the sounds produced a sweet magic, filling the soul with light.
Ekodas was transported back to his childhood, to see again the tall, gangling dark-haired youth with the violet eyes, working behind his father in the fields, planting the
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seed, gathering the harvest. Those were good days, though he did not know it at the time. Shunned by the other youths of the village he had no friends, and no one to share his small joys, his discoveries. But now, as he soared within the hymn he saw the love his parents gave him, despite their fears at his Talent. He felt the warm hugs from his mother, and his father’s calloused hand ruffling his hair.
And such was the power of the hymn he could even see, without hate, the Vagrian soldiers attacking his home, watch the axe that dashed his father’s brains to the floor, the plunging knife that snatched his mother from life. He had been in the barn when the Vagrians rode in. His parents had been slain within the first minute of the raid. Ekodas had leapt from the high hay-stall and run towards the soldiers. One turned and lashed out with a sword. It cut the boy’s shoulder and neck, glancing up to slash across his brow.
When he awoke he was the only living Drenai for miles around. The Vagrians had even butchered the farm animals. All the buildings were burning, and a great pall of smoke hung over the land. He walked the two miles to the village on the third day after the raid. Bodies lay everywhere, and though the smoke was gone now, great flocks of crows circled in the sky. He gathered what food remained -a half-charred side of ham, a small sack of dried oats -and found a shovel which he carried back to his home, digging a deep grave for his parents.