In tales of old the sun shines brighter, the winter snow becomes beautiful, an Elven cloak upon the land. And the hero rides a white stallion and searches for the monster who has kidnapped the princess. Always he finds her, slaying the beast who took her.
Still angry, Mace wandered away from the camp-site. I followed and found him sitting upon a ledge of rock. ‘Do not lecture me, Owen,’ he warned.
‘I am not here to lecture. She was wrong, and you were quite right.’
‘You don’t believe that, you are merely trying to ease my irritation. I saw your eyes when I told you of the gold in the keep. You were disappointed. Just as when I refused to fight fifty soldiers to save Megan.’
‘Perhaps I was,’ I agreed, ‘but that does not make me right. You are not responsible for the dreams of others. Yet you did take the name, and it is the name that haunts you.’
‘I know. And you would like me to live up to it. I can’t, Owen. Not even if I tried. It is not in my nature, my friend. Can you understand that? I know what I am. When I was a child I longed for friendship. But I was the son of the whore, and no one wanted me to join their games. I learned to live without them. I joined the circus when I was little more than twelve. The master there beat me ceaselessly, using pain to teach me. I walked the high wire, I swung upon the flying bar, I danced with the bear. I learned to juggle and to tumble, but always he was there with his crop or his cane. I learned then, Owen, that a man stands alone in this world. He does not ask to enter it, and he begs not to be taken from it. In between there is fear, hardship and a little pleasure. I choose to seek pleasure.’ He lapsed into silence for a moment, his eyes distant. ‘Why did the whore refuse me, Owen? I have never been unkind to her.’
‘She does not wish to remain a whore,’ I told him.
‘Why? What else is there for her?’
‘She will be my wife,’ I said, speaking the words before I even realized they were there.
Where I expected a sneering comment, or worse a scornful laugh, he merely nodded sagely. ‘You could do worse?’ he said, with a shrug.
‘How long before we reach the Ringwearer?’ I asked, changing the subject and suppressing my anger.
‘Maybe too long,’ he replied. ‘We can travel no faster.’
‘What about horses? We could buy them in Willow.’
He shook his head. ‘We can move faster without them. Trust me. I just hope that this Gareth is a canny fighter, for there is no doubt the enemy will be upon him before we arrive.’
I tried not to think about the perils facing Gareth — the killers, the sorcery of Cataplas, the demons he could summon.
I could only hope we would be in time.
The weather was kind for most of the journey to Willow, the sun shining, and the only hours of rainfall coming during the fifth night when we were sheltered in a deep cave with a fine fire to keep the chill from our bones. Piercollo’s wound was healing well, though I must admit that I shuddered when I saw Astiana remove the bandage and bathe the ruined eye. The red-hot iron had destroyed the muscles around the now empty socket and crimson scars radiated out from the wound. Mace cut an eye-patch from a piece of black leather, and this held in place a poultice of herbs prepared by Astiana. Piercollo bore his pain with dignity and courage and, on the fourth day, even resumed cooking for the company. It was a welcome relief, for Wulf was perhaps the worst cook I can remember. According to Mace, he could make fresh rabbit taste like goats’ droppings.
We ate well for the next three days, Piercollo gathering herbs and wild onions and Wulf snaring rabbits and a hedgehog or two. One morning we even dined on a fungus growing from the side of a tree. Ox-heart, Piercollo called it, and indeed it dripped red when torn from the bark. It had a savoury taste and, when cooked with sliced onions, was most welcome to the palate.
On the morning of the eighth day of travel we climbed to a hilltop overlooking the village of Willow. There were some thirty houses here and no sign of a keep or tower. The largest building was a church, situated at the village centre. For some time we sat looking down at the settlement, watching for soldiers, but seeing none we ventured in.
There was a tavern on the eastern side of Willow and, bidding farewell to Astiana, who headed for the church, we entered the building, taking a table near a shuttered window and ordering meat, bread and ale. There was no ale to be had, we were told, but the village was renowned, said the innkeeper, for its cider. It was indeed very fine, and after several tankards I felt a great warmth for Willow growing inside me.
Mace called the innkeeper to our table and bade him sit with us. There were no other customers and the man, a round-faced Highlander named Scoris, eased himself down on to the bench alongside me. He smelled of apples and woodsmoke, a most pleasing combination. I warmed to him instantly.
‘We are seeking a man named Gareth,’ said Mace.
‘By God he is becoming popular,’ replied Scoris. ‘Has he discovered a gold mine?’
‘I take it we are not the first to ask for him?’ I asked.
‘No. Two days ago — or was it three? — Kaygan the Swordsman came here. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘No. Who is he?’ asked Mace.
‘Mercenary soldier. It is said he’s killed seventeen men in one-to-one combat. He’s Azrek’s champion now, so he says. He put on a show here. Never seen the like. Tossed an apple in the air and cut it into four slices before it fell. And sharp? His sword cut through two lit candles, sliced through them but left them standing.’
‘What kind of blade does he carry?’ enquired Mace, his voice soft in tone but his eyes betraying his interest.
‘Sabre.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Tall man, much as yourself. Only slimmer. Golden hair and slanted eyes, like one of them foreigners in the old stories. Only he ain’t no foreigner. Born in Ziraccu — almost a Highlander.’
‘What did he want with Gareth?’ I asked Scoris.
‘He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. He was a showman, all right, but not a man to question, if you take my point. Friendly enough on the surface, but he has dead eyes. Never question a man with dead eyes.’
‘What did you tell him?’ put in Wulf.
‘Same as I’ll tell you. Gareth is a hermit. Strange young man, white-haired, though ‘e’s no more than twenty-five, maybe thirty. Lives up in the hills somewhere. Comes to the village maybe twice a year for supplies — salt, sugar and the like. He’s no trouble to anyone and he pays for his food in old coin. Some say he has a treasure hid in the mountains, and a few years back a group of ne’er-do-wells journeyed up into the high country to take it from him. They didn’t come back and they weren’t missed, I can tell you. I expect Kaygan heard the treasure stories and wants it for himself.’
‘We seek no treasure,’ I told him, ‘though I think you are right about Kaygan. How shall we find Gareth?’
‘Just head north. If he wants to be found you’ll see him.’
‘How many men were with the swordsman?’ queried Mace.
‘Seven. They had a tracker with them, Cheos. Local man. He’s good. They say he could trail the north wind to its lair in the ice wastes.’
‘You have been very helpful,’ I said. ‘Many thanks.’
‘Ah, it was nothing,’ replied the innkeeper with a wave of his hand. Mace produced two silver pennies which he laid before the man, but Scoris shook his head. ‘I’ll not have it said,’ he told us, dropping his voice, ‘that I charged the Morningstar for breakfast.’