True, there were rewards. Mace had enjoyed several parades. But notwithstanding these distractions, he still had a legend to live up to, whereas in truth he was merely a common soldier and a skilled swordsman. How could he — despite the expectation of the people — hope to defeat the Battle King?
We made good time, for the rains held off and the ground was firm, and within two days we had reached an area of level ground high in the mountains, a verdant plateau with several villages and an ancient castle built upon an island at the centre of a long loch. It was a pretty spot, untouched by war. Fat cattle grazed on the new grass, and sheep and goats could be seen on the hillsides.
We were tired of walking and made our way down to the lakeside. An elderly man approached us; he was carrying a loaf of bread which he broke into three pieces for us, an ancient Highland custom of welcome. We bowed our thanks and I described Mace, asking him if such a man had passed by.
‘You mean the Morningstar?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I answered, surprised. ‘We are friends of his.’
He nodded sagely. ‘Well, if you’re his friends I don’t doubt he’ll find you,’ said the old man knowingly.
‘He would if he was told that Owen Odell, Wulf and Piercollo had travelled far to see him.’
‘And you’d be Odell the Wizard?’
It would have taken too long to correct him, so I merely nodded. He said nothing more and walked away to his hut. The three of us sat down and finished the bread, which was a little stale but still tasty.
‘He’s here,’ said Wulf, ‘and I’ll wager he won’t see us.’
As the day wore on and the sun fell lower, it seemed that Wulf would be proved right. Just after dusk the old man came out of his hut, bringing with him a pot of stewed beef and several clay bowls. I thanked him and questioned him about the settlement — how long it had been here, and so on. He sat with us for a while, talking of the Highlands and his life. He had been a soldier for twenty years, and had fought in three Oversea Wars. But he had come home a decade before, and was now a fisherman and content. I asked him about the castle at the centre of the lake.
‘Been there since before my great-grandfather’s time,’ he said. ‘No one recalls now when it was built, but it was after them Vampyre Wars the stories tell of, I reckon. Never been used for war, though. Armies don’t come here. Nothing for them: no plunder, no gain. Been a monastery now for more than a hundred years. Lowis monks. Fine spirit they produce there, made from grain. Take your head off, it will! Not that they allow much of it to leave the monastery. Maybe a barrel at midwinter. By God, there’s some celebration around that time.’
The name struck a chord with me and I remembered the conversation with Brackban. Mace had spoken with the Bishop of Lowis.
‘Can you row me across the lake?’ I asked the old man.
‘I could, I reckon,’ he said, ‘if I had a mind to.’
‘I am not a killer, sir. I have no evil intent towards the Morningstar. But it is vital that I see him.’
‘I know you’re no murderer, boy. Been around enough of them in my life. Him, now,’ he said, gesturing a gnarled finger at Wulf, ‘he’s a rough ‘un. Wouldn’t want him against me on a dark night.’
Wulf gave a lopsided grin. ‘You’re safe, old man.’
‘Aye, I am. But if I hadn’t liked the look of you, I’d have poisoned that stew.’
‘The way it tasted, I thought you had,’ replied Wulf.
The old man gave a dry chuckle. ‘All right, I’ll take you across, Owen Odell. But only you, mind!’
I followed him along the shoreline to where an ancient coracle was pulled up on the bank; it was made of dry rushes and resembled my old bathtub back home. ‘She leaks somewhat, but she’ll get us there,’ he promised, and together we pulled the old craft out on to the dark water. I clambered in and he followed me, settling down on his knees and picking up a wide-bladed oar which he used expertly as the coracle moved out onto the lake.
Water seeped in, drenching my leggings, and I began to wonder if this was a good night to learn to swim. The old man glanced back over his shoulder and chuckled. ‘Seems like I didn’t use enough pitch,’ he said, ‘but don’t you worry, she won’t sink.’
The island of the castle loomed before us, dark and unwelcoming. The coracle scraped on shingle and the old man leapt nimbly out, dragging the craft towards the land. I stood and splashed into the shallow water, wading ashore; a cold breeze blew and I shivered.
‘You’ll be grateful for the wet,’ said the boatman. ‘The monks’ll take pity on you and offer you some of their water-of-life.’
I thanked him and set off up a narrow path that led to the main gates of the castle. There were no sentries on the walls, and no sound from within. I bunched my hand into a fist and pounded on the gate. At first nothing happened, but after several attempts and a growing soreness in my hand I heard the bar being lifted. The gate swung open and a small man with shaven head came into sight; he was wearing a long grey habit bound with a rope of silken thread.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded gruffly.
‘A little courtesy,’ I responded, ‘and shelter for the night.’
‘There’s shelter to be had in the village,’ he told me.
‘I thought this was a House of God,’ I said, my temper rising.
‘That does not make it a haven for vagrant ruffians,’ he replied.
‘I am not a violent man…’ I began.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then do not allow yourself to fall into bad habits. Good night to you.’
Before I could reply he had stepped back, and began to close the gate. I threw my weight against it — rather too sharply, for the gate crashed into him, hurling him to the ground. I stepped inside. ‘My apologies,’ I told him, reaching out a hand to help him up. He rolled to his knees, ignoring my offer of aid, then heaved himself upright.
‘Your non-violent behaviour is not impressive,’ he said.
‘Neither is your grasp of God’s hospitality,’ I responded.
‘Owen!’ came a familiar voice and I turned and looked up. Standing by an open doorway, framed in lantern-light, stood Jarek Mace.
‘Yes, it is me,’ I said. ‘Wulf and Piercollo are waiting for you at the village.’
‘You are just the man I wanted to see,’ he said. ‘Come up. There’s something I want to show you.’
The greeting had been cheerful, and deeply irritating. Not, ‘How did you find me, Owen? By God, you must be a skilled magicker.’ No guilt over his shameful treatment of me during the winter. No apology for the slap, or the slights.
I mounted the stairs fighting to suppress a growing anger. The room he was in was a mess, littered with scrolls and manuscripts carelessly pulled from their protective leather sheaths. ‘I think I’ve found it,’ he said. ‘I am not a good reader, but I can make out the name Rabain.’
‘What on earth are you looking for?’
‘The Bishop of Lowis told me that I was part of a prophecy. Can you imagine that? Someone, thousands of years ago, named me. Me! The whole story. So he said. Well, if that is true, we’ll be able to see the ending.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘You don’t believe in prophecies?’
I shook my head. ‘How can any of us know the future? It hasn’t happened yet. And every man has a hundred choices to make every day. It was for this that you scared the wits out of Brackban?’