Houses were being sold in Ziraccu for a twentieth of their worth and rich refugees left in their hundreds every day.
I had intended to wait in Ziraccu until the spring, but on the seventh day of midwinter — having not eaten for several days — I realized the time had come to make my way north.
I had no winter clothing and stole a blanket from my lodgings which I used as a cloak. I wrapped my hand-harp in cloth, gathered my few possessions and climbed from the window of my room, sliding down the roof and jumping into the yard.
The snow was deep everywhere and I was faint from hunger by the time I reached the northern gate. Three sentries, sitting around an iron brazier glowing with coals, were eating warmed slices from a large meat-pie. The smell of beef and pastry made my head spin, and I asked them for a slice. Naturally they refused, but recognizing me for a bard and a magicker, told me they would give me food if I performed well. I asked them what kind of performance they required.
They wanted the dancing girl and her partner — several partners in fact.
I learned then that principles rarely survive an empty belly, and for a large slice of meat-pie I gave them what they required. No subtlety, no silken veils. A small orgy performed above a brazier of coals. Warmer, and with a full belly, I walked out into the night, leaving the lights of Ziraccu behind me.
When I reached the foothills I turned for one last look at the city. Lanterns were glowing in the windows of the houses on the heights, and Ziraccu appeared as a jewelled crown. The moon hung above the highest hill of the city, and spectral light bathed the marble walls of the count’s palace. It was hard to believe, in that moment, that this was a country at war. The mountains loomed in the distance, proud and ageless, in what seemed a great circle around Ziraccu. It was a scene of great beauty.
Two months later the city was conquered by Edmund and his general, Azrek.
The slaughter was terrible.
But on that night all was quiet and I walked for upwards of an hour towards the distant forest. The temperature had plummeted to well below freezing, but a magicker has no fears of the cold. I cast a small spell which warmed the air trapped within my clothing and strolled on.
The night was clear, the stars bright. There was no breeze and a wonderful silence lay upon the land. There is such beauty in night-snow, it fills the soul with music. I had a need upon me to lose the images I had created for the guards, and only music could free me. I waited until I had reached the outskirts of the forest; then I found a hollow, cleared away a section of snow and magicked a fire. There are some who can hold the Fire spell for hours, never needing fuel. I could not achieve this, but I could maintain the flames for long enough to burn into gathered wood. I found several broken branches and added them to my flames. Soon I had a fine, small blaze. I did not need the heat but there is a comfort in fire, especially in lonely places. I did not fear trolls or demons, for they rarely came close to the habitats of Man, and I was but two hours from Ziraccu and still on the trade route. But there were wolves and wild boar in the forest and my fire, I hoped, would keep them from me.
Unwrapping my harp I tuned the strings and then played several melodies, tunes of the dance, light and rippling. But soon the unheard rhythms of the forest made themselves known to me and I began to play the music the forest wished to hear.
I was inspired then, my fingers dancing upon the strings, my heart pounding to the beat, my eyes streaming tears. Suddenly a voice cut through my thoughts, and my heart lurched inside my chest.
‘Very pretty,’ said Jarek Mace. ‘It will bring every robber within miles to your fire!’
His appearance had changed since last I saw him. He had grown a thin moustache and a small beard shaped like an arrowhead; it gave him a rakish, sardonic look. His hair had been expertly cut, and he wore a headband of braided leather. His clothes were also different, a sheepskin cloak with a deep hood, a woollen shirt edged with leather and a deerhide jerkin. His boots were the same, thigh-length, but he had gained a pair of leather trews that glistened as if oiled. A scabbarded longsword was belted at his waist and he carried a longbow and a quiver of arrows. He was every inch the woodsman.
‘Well, at least one robber has been brought to my fire,’ I muttered, angry at the intrusion.
He grinned and sat down opposite me, laying his bow against the trunk of an oak tree. ‘Now who would rob you, bard? You are all bones and your clothes are rags. I’ll wager there is nothing left in the pocket of your boot?’
‘That’s a wager won,’ I told him. ‘I did not expect to find you here.’
He shrugged. ‘I stayed for a while in Ziraccu, then headed north after the suicide.’
‘Suicide? What suicide?’
‘The woman whose jewels I stole. The stupid baggage tied a rope to her neck and threw herself from the staircase. After that they were really after my blood. I can’t see why, I didn’t ask her to do it.’
I sat and looked at him in disbelief. A woman who had loved him so desperately that she had killed herself when he left her. And yet he showed no remorse, or even sorrow. Indeed I don’t think the event touched him at all.
‘Did you feel nothing for her?’ I asked him.
‘Of course I did; she had a wonderful body. But there are thousands of wonderful bodies, bard. She was a fool and I have no time for fools.’
‘And who do you have time for?’
He leaned forward, holding his hands out to the fire. ‘A good question,’ he said at last. But he did not answer it. He seemed well-fed and fit, though he carried no pack or blankets. I asked him where he was staying, but he merely grinned and tapped his nose.
‘Where are you heading?’ he asked me.
‘I am heading north.’
‘Stay in the forest,’ he advised. ‘The Ikenas fleet attacked Torphpole Port and landed an army there. I think the forest will be safer for a while. There are plenty of towns and villages here, and the tree-line extends for two-hundred miles. I can’t see the Ikenas invading it; it will be safer than the lowlands.’
‘I need to earn my bread,’ I told him. ‘I do not wish to become a beggar, and I have little skill at husbandry or farming. And anyway a bard is safe — even if there is a war.’
‘Dream on!’ snapped Mace. ‘When men start hacking away with swords no one is safe, not man, woman nor child. It is the nature of war; it is bestial and unpredictable. Face it, you are cut off here. Make the best of it. Use your magick. I’ve known men walk twenty miles to see a good, ribald performance.’
‘I do not give ribald performances,’ I told him curtly, the memory of the meat-pie display surging from the recesses of my mind.
‘Shame,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would consider the shell game? A magicker ought to be magnificent at it. You could make the pea appear wherever the least money was bet.’
‘Cheat, you mean?’
‘Yes, cheat,’ he answered.
‘I… I… that would be reprehensible. And anyway the magick would soon fade if I put it to such use. Have you no understanding of the art? Years of study and self-denial are needed before the first spark of magick can be found in a soul. Years! It cannot be summoned for personal gain.’
‘Forgive me, bard, but when you perform in taverns is that not for personal gain?’
‘Yes, of course. But that is honest work. To cheat a man requires… deceit. Magick cannot exist in such circumstances.’
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then added several small sticks to the fire. ‘What of the Dark Magickers?’ he asked. ‘They summon demons and kill by witchery. Why does their magick not leave them?’