‘What’s Brackban got to do with it?’
‘You disappeared, Jarek. And without you there is no rebellion.’
‘Well, if we find the right ending I’ll come back with you,’ he said, picking up an old scroll and passing it to me. ‘Read it!’
Sitting down with my back to a lantern, I held up the scroll and unrolled it. The first line explained that it was the eighth copy and gave the name of the monk and the year the copy was made. I passed this on to Jarek — who was singularly unimpressed.
‘I don’t care who copied the damn thing! Just read the story.’I scanned the opening lines. ‘It is not about Rabain; he is just mentioned in it. The story is of a knight called Ashrael…’
Clearly exasperated, Mace took a deep breath. ‘Read it aloud!’ he hissed.
‘These are the exploits, faithfully recorded, of the knight known as Ashrael…’ I stopped and glanced up. ‘If they were faithfully recorded, Jarek, then they have already happened. This is not a prophecy.’Then there must be another scroll!’ he stormed.
But I was reading on, idly skimming the fine, flowing script. ‘Wait!’ I said. ‘This is curious.’ I began to pick out phrases from the story, reading them aloud. ‘The Lady of the Dream told this tale, and bade me mark it for future times. The days of the Vampyre Kings will come again, and the knight Ashrael will find the Sword that was Lost… Great shall be the grief within the city.. from the depths of the earth Ashrael will rise… mighty will be the King who strides the land… Ashrael will light the torch that guides the ancient hero home… Rabain shall appear at the last battle, his armour gold, his stallion white, his cloak a cloud, his sword lightning.’
‘It hasn’t got my name in it,’ snapped Mace.
‘But it has. Ashrael, the last star to fade as the sun rises. The Morning Star!’ I read on. ‘It is all here, Jarek: the invasion, the coming of the hero known as the Morningstar. Even the Burning of the Witch and the rescue… and the Vampyre Kings reborn, Ashrael coming up from the bowels of the earth. We entered through the sewers. Dear God, it’s uncanny.’
‘But how does it end?’ he asked.
‘Mighty will be the King who strides the land, his hand a hammer, his dreams of blood… Edmund, the Hammer of the Highlands. Ravens will gather above the meadow, and from the past Rabain shall appear at the last battle, his armour gold, his…’
‘Yes, yes,’ stormed Mace. ‘But what about me?’
‘It doesn’t say. It just concludes that Rabain will appear and join the attack, and that Ashrael’s name will live on for as long as men revere heroes.’
‘Well, that’s no damn good!’ He slumped down in a chair and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘You were right. There’s no prophecy!’
‘No, I was wrong, I never had a chance to talk of Megan’s last words, and who she was. Now listen to me.’ And I told him most of what Megan had said, word for word. His interest quickened when I came to describe her parting from Rabain, and his golden armour and white cloak. ‘That’s the answer she was waiting for, Jarek. She wanted to see Rabain one more time. She wanted to know why he had to ride to some battle in the future that should have meant nothing to him. He is coming! Just like the legends always promised. When the need is great, Rabain will live again! Think of it! The Morningstar and Rabain on the same battlefield. How can we lose?’
‘Hold on, bard! Megan… Horga… said he came back. That doesn’t mean we are going to win, does it? I’m not going to face up to Edmund just in the hope of seeing a hero from the past and maybe watch him cut to pieces.’
‘What will you do then?’
‘I don’t know — but I’ll tell you this… I wish I had never met you. I would have been far happier, I know that.’
‘Knowing what you know, would you really change anything?’ I asked him. ‘If you could go back to that day in the forest, would you walk past my fire?’
He sighed, then grinned. ‘Maybe not. I had my parades, Owen. In Kapulis and Porthside they threw flowers before me. And women? I could have had them form a queue. But there’s a price to be paid for these few months of pleasure — and it’s not a price I can afford… even with the prospect of meeting Rabain. Can three thousand men defeat ten thousand in an open battle? Against the finest warlord I have ever seen?’
‘There’s only one way to find out, my friend. And no one lives for ever. Face it, Jarek, would you want to grow old and toothless, with women looking on you with disdain?’
‘I am twenty-four years old. That’s a little early to consider losing my teeth! And I expect to mature like fine wine.’
I smiled dutifully, and then let the silence grow. ‘I don’t want to go back, Owen,’ he said at last. ‘It has the wrong… feel. I cannot see us winning the battle. And I couldn’t watch as men who believed in me were cut down, their dreams destroyed. I couldn’t!’
No one will force you to, Jarek. No one. Tomorrow I will go back to Wulf and Piercollo. I will not tell them I have seen you. We will wait until noon, and then make our way back to Ziraccu.’
‘Do you think me a coward?’ he asked.
‘After all that you have done? How could I? Whatever else, you stood your ground and fought the Vampyre Kings. You gave the people hope. And because of you they found their courage again, and their pride. I shall tell Brackban that you were murdered by agents of the King. That way the legend will live on. But you must leave this land and never return.’
‘I understand that. Thank you, Owen. Will you make up a song about me?’
‘If I survive the battle, I shall. And about Wulf and Piercollo. And Ilka, Corlan and Megan. I think it will be a good song.’
He stood then and extended his hand.
I took it… and left the monastery castle.
At the lakeside, I found the old man still waiting.
‘Did you see your friend?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I told him. ‘The Morningstar was not there.’
‘What are we waiting for?’ demanded Wulf as I sat quietly in the sunshine, my eyes drawn to the castle on the island. It was more than an hour past noon, and I stood.
‘Nothing at all,’ I said. ‘Let’s be on our way.’
‘Where to?’ he asked. ‘Still north-west?’
‘No. Let’s go back to Ziraccu.’
‘I thought we were looking for Mace,’ he said. ‘What in the Devil’s name is going on, Owen?’
‘It was a fool’s errand and I am tired of it,’ I lied. Wulf swore and Piercollo stared at me, his one dark eye watching my face. But he said nothing until we were well on our way and Wulf was scouting ahead.
‘He was there, friend Owen. Why did you lie?’
‘I gave him the chance to join us and he did not take it. There was no more to be said. Let the world think he died; it is better that way.’
‘It is hard to be adored by so many.’
‘You speak as if you have knowledge of it.’
‘I do. In my country the voice is considered the greatest of musical instruments. We are singers. Every year there is a competition — a great gathering of voices. I won that competition six times. People would travel hundreds of leagues to hear me perform. It began to bear me down. Every day I would practise, until the joy was gone. That is why I took the offer to come to the land of the Ikenas. I ran away, Owen. Fame did not agree with me. Perhaps it is the same for Mace.’
‘I think he is just afraid of dying,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘I do not think you are right. I think he was more afraid of winning.’
I stopped and turned to him. ‘Winning? But then he would achieve all his dreams — riches, power, women.’
‘No, my friend. That would be the end of his dreams. What is there after a war but rebuilding, reorganizing? Endless days of petitions and laws and all the petty day-to-day running of a state. It is no different from having a shop or a store. Bills to pay, stock to order, workers to instruct. It would be dull, Owen. What need would the people have for a Morningstar?’