"Never mind the damned ritual, just speak and begone!"
"Steady, Rek, steady! It's his way," said Horeb.
"Maybe. But he's going a long way towards spoiling my day. They never give good news anyway. The old bastard's probably going to tell me I shall catch the plague."
"He wishes the truth," said Horeb, following the ritual, "and will use it wisely and well."
"Indeed he does not and will not," said the seer. "But destiny must be heard. You do not wish to hear words of your death, Regnak the Wanderer, son of Argas, and so I will withhold them. You are a man of uncertain character and only a sporadic courage. You are a thief and a dreamer and your destiny will both haunt and hunt you. You will run to avoid it, yet your steps will carry you towards it. But then this you know, Longshanks, for you dreamt it yester-eve."
"Is that it, old man? That meaningless garbage? Is that fair trading for a silver coin?"
"The earl and the legend will be together at the wall. And men shall dream, and men shall die, but shall the fortress fall?"
The old man turned and was gone.
"What was your dream last night, Rek?" asked Horeb.
"You surely don't believe that idiocy, Horeb?"
"What was your dream?" the innkeeper persisted.
"I didn't dream at all. I slept like a log. Except for that bloody candle. You left it on all night and it stank. You must be more careful. It could have started a fire. Every time I stop here, I warn you about those candles. You never listen."
2
Rek watched in silence as the groom saddled the chestnut gelding. He didn't like the horse — it had a mean eye and its ears lay flat against its skull. The groom, a young slim boy, was crooning gently to it as his shaking fingers tightened the girth.
"Why couldn't you get a grey?" asked Rek. Horeb laughed.
"Because it would have taken you one step too many towards farce. Understatement is the thing, Rek. You already look like a peacock and as it is, every Lentrian sailor will be chasing you. No, a chestnut's the thing." More seriously he added, "And in Graven you may wish to be inconspicuous. A tall white horse is not easily missed."
"I don't think it likes me. See the way it looks at me?"
"Its sire was one of the fastest horses in Drenan; its dam was a war horse in Woundweaver's lancers. You couldn't get a better pedigree."
"What is it called?" asked Rek, still unconvinced.
"Lancer," answered Horeb.
"That has a nice ring to it. Lancer… Well, maybe… just maybe."
"Daffodil's ready, sir," said the groom, backing away from the chestnut. The horse swung its head, snapping at the retreating boy who stumbled and fell on the cobbles.
"Daffodil?" said Rek. "You bought me a horse called Daffodil?"
"What's in a name, Rek?" answered Horeb innocently. "Call it what you like — you must admit it's a fine beast."
"If I didn't have a fine sense for the ridiculous, I would have it muzzled. Where are the girls?"
"Too busy to be waving goodbye to layabouts who rarely pay their bills. Now, be off with you."
Rek advanced gingerly towards the gelding, speaking softly. It turned a baleful eye on him, but allowed him to swing into the high-backed saddle. He gathered the reins, adjusted his blue cloak to just the right angle over the horse's back and swung the beast towards the gate.
"Rek, I almost forgot…" called Horeb, pushing back towards the house. "Wait a moment!" The burly innkeeper disappeared from sight, emerging seconds later carrying a short bow of horn and elm and a quiver of black-shafted arrows. "Here. A customer left this behind in part payment some months ago. It looks a sturdy weapon."
"Wonderful," said Rek. "I used to be a fine bowman."
"Yes," said Horeb. "Just remember when you use it that the sharp end is pointed away from you. Now begone — and take care."
"Thanks, Horeb. You too. And remember what I said about candles."
"I will. On your way, boy. Be lucky now."
Rek rode from the south gate as the watchmen trimmed the lantern wicks. The dawn shadows were shrinking on the streets of Drenan and young children played beneath the portcullis. He had chosen the southern route for the most obvious of reasons. The Nadir were marching from the North and the fastest way from a battle was a straight line in the opposite direction.
Flicking his heels, he urged the gelding forward towards the south. To his left the rising sun was breasting the blue peaks of the eastern mountains. The sky was blue, birds sang and the sounds of an awakening city came from behind him. But the sun was rising, Rek knew, on the Nadir. For the Drenai it was dusk on the last day.
Topping a rise he gazed down on Graven Forest, white and virginal under the winter snow. And yet it was a place of evil legends which normally he would have avoided. The fact that instead he chose to enter showed he knew two things: first, the legends were built around the activities of a living man; second, he knew that man.
Reinard.
He and his band of bloodthirsty cut-throats had their headquarters in Graven and were an open, festering sore in the body of trade. Caravans were sacked, pilgrims were murdered, women were raped. Yet an army could not seek them out, so vast was the forest.
Reinard. Sired by a prince of Hell, born to a noblewoman of Ulalia. Or so he told it. Rek had heard that his mother was a Lentrian whore and his father a nameless sailor. He had never repeated this intelligence — he did not, as the phrase went, have the guts for it. Even if he had, he mused, he would not keep them long once he tried it. One of Reinard's favourite pastimes with prisoners was to roast sections of them over hot coals and serve the meat to those poor unfortunates taken prisoner with them. If he met Reinard, the best thing would be to flatter the hell out of him. And if that didn't work, to give him the latest news, send him in the direction of the nearest caravan and ride swiftly from his domain.
Rek had made sure he knew the details of all the caravans passing through Graven and their probable routes. Silks, jewels, spices, slaves, cattle. In truth he had no wish to part with this information. Nothing would please him better than to ride through Graven quietly, knowing the caravanners' fate was in the lap of the gods.
The chestnut's hooves made little sound on the snow, and Rek kept the pace to a gentle walk in case hidden roots should cause the horse to stumble. The cold began to work its way through his warm clothing and his feet were soon feeling frozen within the doeskin boots. He reached into his pack and pulled out a pair of sheepskin mittens.
The horse plodded on. At noon, Rek stopped for a brief, cold meal, hobbling the gelding by a frozen stream. With a thick Vagrian dagger he chipped away the ice, allowing the beast to drink, then gave him a handful of oats. He stroked the long neck and the chestnut's head came up sharply, teeth bared. Rek leapt backwards, falling into a deep snowdrift. He lay there for a moment, then smiled.
"I knew you didn't like me," he said. The horse turned to look at him and snorted.
As he was about to mount, Rek glanced at the horse's hind-quarters. Deep switch scars showed by the tail.
Gently, his hand moved over them. "So," he said, "someone took a whip to you, eh, Daffodil? Didn't break your spirit did they, boy?" He swung into the saddle. With luck, he reckoned, he should be free of the forest in five days.
Gnarled oaks with twisted roots cast ominous dusk shadows across the track and night breezes set the branches to whispering as Rek walked the gelding deeper into the forest. The moon was rising above the trees, casting a ghostly light on the trail. Teeth chattering, he began to cast about for a good camping site, finding one an hour later in a small hollow by an ice-covered pool. He built a stall in some bushes to keep the worst of the wind from the horse, fed it and then built a small fire by a fallen oak and a large boulder. Out of the wind, the heat reflected from the stone, Rek brewed tea to help down his dried beef; then he pulled his blanket over his shoulders, leaned against the oak and watched the flames dance.