Pirae had betrayed him at every turn. Sullen and spoiled, she had spent much of his fortune on ludicrously expensive clothes, silks and satins, jewel-encrusted gowns, baubles of every kind. She had never shown the slightest interest in any worthy cause. And then, at the age of forty, had stood against the might of the priests and defied them, knowing they would kill her.
'And all for a tree!' he said aloud.
'Why does the thought of the Tree upset you so much?' asked Lia.
'What?'
'You mentioned the Tree again.'
'I didn't realize I said it aloud.'
'The Tree is merely a representation of the power of the Source; spirit that flows upward, outward, inward and downward, mirroring the seasons. It has nothing to do with tree worship. That is a silly lie put about by the priests.'
'And why can you not understand?' he countered. 'The priests represent power in Stone. To go against them is wilful and dangerous. It has left us here, in this forsaken cesspit of a land.'
'I was happy to stay,' she reminded him.
To stay and die,' he pointed out.
'Some things are worth dying for.'
'Aye, but not trees,' he said.
The team halted before the bridge. Appius stood and stared at the raging river as it gushed past the supports. The structure looked insubstantial and neglected. With a silent curse he sat down and cracked the whip. The horses moved out onto the wooden boards. Below, in the black churning water, the swollen body of a dead bull was swept along by the flood. It rammed against one of the supports, which buckled and fell away. The wagon lurched. Appius rose in his seat, cracking his whip once more. The frightened horses lunged into the traces.
Then the bridge collapsed.
Appius was thrown clear, his head striking a post. Then he was pitched unconscious into the water.
Banouin had been miserable for most of the day, and not just because of the hissing winds and the driving rain. He had not slept well, his dreams full of anxiety and humiliation. Happily he could not remember most of the dreams, but one had clung to his conscious mind. He was standing naked in the centre of Stone, and crowds of people were laughing at him. Deep down he knew the reason for the dream, and it made him feel like a traitor and an ingrate.
It was quite simply the thought of Bane's accompanying him to Stone that had brought about this mood of depression, and the anxiety dreams that accompanied it. Banouin's plan had been to purchase suitable clothing, cut his hair, and enrol in the university. In short to become a citizen of Stone, to blend into the life of that wondrous place. No more jeers and taunts, no more feelings of inadequacy. He had planned to become a scholar, living a quiet life of contemplation and study. Now he was riding towards the city of his dreams in the company of a man of ferocious violence, the epitome of the best and worst of Rigante manhood.
Yet this man had protected him for much of his young life, and had endured the hatred of his peers for doing so. The thoughts that plagued Banouin left him feeling melancholy and unworthy.
The rain eased away for a while during mid-morning, and Bane tossed back his hood and rode in closer to his friend. 'You are not such a lively companion today,' he said.
Banouin forced a smile. 'It's the rain.'
'Come now,' said Bane, slapping him on the shoulder. 'I've known you too long. When you wear that long face there is something troubling you. Are you still concerned about the fat man?'
'No. I was thinking about my life among the Rigante,' said Banouin, which was at least partly true.
'What about it?'
'It was not happy,' said Banouin lamely. 'It is hard to be hated for something you can do nothing about. I am not responsible for the blood which flows in my veins. Why could they not just accept me as Vorna's son?'
Bane shrugged. 'Aye, life was difficult for you, right enough.'
'I never did anything to harm any of them,' continued Banouin, anger creeping into his voice. 'And they hated me. You, on the other hand, constantly got into fights and rows, and they liked you. Or they would have had you let them. There's no sense to it.'
Bane turned towards him, and looked as if he was about to speak. Then he changed his mind and rode on a little ahead, the grey picking his way carefully through the mud. It was an abrupt end to the conversation, and Banouin thought back over his last statement, to see if he had unwittingly said anything offensive. Puzzled, he urged the chestnut forward. As he came alongside his friend he glanced at Bane's face. There was no anger there, but no good humour either. 'What? What did I say?' asked Banouin.
'For a man who wants to be a scholar,' said Bane, 'you see things too simply.'
'Would you care to elaborate?'
'For what purpose?' asked Bane. 'You are leaving the Rigante. The past is gone.'
'I would still like to know.'
Bane glanced at the roiling clouds above. The rain would soon start again. A clap of thunder sounded in the distance, which made the horses react nervously. Bane stroked the long neck of the grey and whispered soothing words to it. Then he looked at Banouin. 'There's an example for you,' he said. 'The horses were spooked. What did you do?'
'What do you mean?'
Bane hauled on the reins, and angled in close. Banouin's chestnut was still skittish and he calmed it. 'You complain about this horse all the time,' said Bane. 'It bucks. It doesn't like you. Yet when it is frightened you don't pet it or speak to it. To you it is just a beast of burden to carry you to the sea. You sit upon it, but you do not ride it. You have made no attempt to communicate with the horse, to become its friend.'
'What have horses to do with what we were talking about?'
Bane shook his head. 'You really don't see, do you? You have complained all your life about people disliking you. Yet when have you done anything for anyone else? Last year when Nian's barn caught fire, and everyone rushed there to try to save it, where were you? You stayed home. As we walked back through Three Streams, covered in soot and ash, you came walking by, clean and bright. You might just as well have been carrying a sign that said, "I care nothing for any of you, or your troubles." One day you will realize that you are what you are because you chose to be that way. It has little to do with your blood.'
'That is not fair! A man with half an eye could see that Nian's barn was beyond saving. It was a waste of effort.'
'That waste of effort brought people closer together. It showed that people cared for one another, and were willing to take risks for one another. When his barn was destroyed Nian could at least sit back and know he had true friends who would stand beside him. And two days later those same people got together again to raise a new barn. Was that a waste of effort? And you were missing on that day, too.'
The clouds opened, and rain lashed down over them. Bane pulled his hood into place and drew his leather cloak around his shoulders. Banouin was furious, but any words he could have summoned would have been whipped away by the storm. Bane's comments ate away at him as they rode. All his life he had been taunted and beaten by the Rigante. Why then should he care about their barns or their lives?
Towards dusk, with the rain easing, and the sky brightening to the west, the two companions were riding along the bank, of a swollen river. Up ahead a broken-backed wagon was caught up against the bank. A horse was thrashing in the water, desperately trying to keep its head above the flood. Bane kicked the grey into a run and rode alongside, leaping from the saddle and clambering over the ruined wagon. Unbuckling his sword belt he threw it to the bank, then leapt into the river alongside the weakening horse. With his dagger Bane sawed at the traces, then ducked under the water.
Banouin watched from the bank. Three times Bane surfaced and dived again. At last the horse moved clear of the wagon, but it was too exhausted to climb the slope. Bane swam alongside it. Then he shouted up at Banouin. 'Don't just sit there, you bastard! There's a rope in the back of the wagon.' Shocked by the outburst Banouin stepped down from the saddle and climbed to the wagon. There were several
chests here, and two coiled ropes. Taking them both he looped them over his shoulders, then climbed down the side of the wagon. He slipped and almost fell, but grabbed at the half submerged wheel. The wagon tilted. For a moment Banouin thought it would roll over him and, almost panic-stricken, he lunged at the bank and scrabbled up through the mud. Taking up one of the rope coils he made a loop. His hands were shaking as he approached the slippery mud slope above the water, and twice he failed to drop the loop over the flailing horse's head. But the third throw was a success. The loop drew tight and Banouin tried to haul the horse from the water. His feet slipped, and the weary beast slid back, and fell to its side. A flailing hoof cracked against Bane's skull and he cried out. Banouin saw him fall back into the torrent. He was swept along for a hundred yards, then grasped a low branch and hauled himself clear. When he returned Banouin saw a wide, blood-smeared gash on his forehead. Pushing past Banouin, Bane ran to the grey, and vaulted to the saddle. Easing the grey forward he took the rope from Banouin and looped it around the horn of his saddle. Carefully Bane and the grey drew the exhausted horse from the water. It scrambled up the bank, and stood shivering in the fading light. Bane dismounted and moved alongside it, stroking its neck and flanks. 'You fought well, brave heart,' he said, keeping his voice low. Suddenly the wagon broke clear of the bank, turned over and floated away, carrying with it the body of a second horse, which had been submerged.
Blood was dripping from Bane's brow. He wiped it away. 'I'm sorry,' said Banouin. 'I should have thought of tying the rope to a saddle.'
Bane said nothing for a moment, then he shrugged. 'We rescued the horse, so it all ended well.' Banouin examined his wound. It was not deep, and required no stitches, but it was bleeding profusely, and a lump was forming above Bane's left eye.
The wind died down, and a faint sound came to Banouin. He swung round. 'Did you hear that?' he asked.
'Yes. It sounded like a cry.'
It came again, more clearly. 'Help us!'
Ahead of them the river bank rose steeply, the waterline below strewn with boulders. Banouin ran ahead, climbing the slope. He gazed down at the rushing water, and saw a young woman clinging to a jutting rock some thirty feet from the shoreline. White water was crashing against the rocks, and at any moment she was likely to be swept away. Then he saw that she was also holding on to another figure, a white-haired man, who was feebly trying to haul himself further on to the rock.
Bane joined him, and gazed first at the trapped pair, then down at the shoreline. 'Can't get the horses down there,' he said. Then he swore softly.
'What can we do?' asked Banouin.
Bane ran back to where Banouin had left the ropes, looped a coil over his shoulder and carefully made his way down to the water's edge. Banouin climbed down the slope to where Bane was standing. The blond warrior was tying one end of the rope to his waist.
'You can't go into that torrent,' said Banouin.
'What do you suggest, my friend?' said Bane, his eyes angry. 'Perhaps we should sit and watch them die, rather than take part in a waste of effort.'
'That's not what I meant,' said Banouin sadly. 'I meant that you can't go in. Your head is bleeding and you are exhausted from getting the horse clear. And even if you did reach them I would not have the strength to pull you all in. I'll go.'
Bane offered no argument. He removed the rope from his waist and tied it around Banouin. 'You'll have to enter the water further upstream,' he said. 'Otherwise the current will sweep you straight past them. Strike out at an angle. When you get close swing round, so that your legs can take the impact of the rocks. Otherwise you'll smash your ribs.' He looked into Banouin's eyes. 'Are you sure you want to do this?'
'Of course I don't want to,' snapped Banouin. 'Now let's get on with it.'
The two men ran back along the bank for around a hundred paces; then, with Bane letting out the rope, Banouin dived into the water and began to swim, using a fast overhand crawl. The current was far more vicious than he had realized, and his arms tired fast as he swam. Bane was racing back along the shoreline, holding onto the end of the rope, but he was still some way behind as Banouin saw the rocks rushing towards him. Desperately he swung his body, but he did not have time to fully extend his legs and was dashed against the stone. Agonizing pain seared through his shoulder and right wrist as he struck the rock. He would have been swept clear had the woman not grabbed him. She hauled him back and he managed to get a handhold on the rock.
'Your friend will not be able to pull us all clear,' she shouted. 'You help my father. I will make it to the shore along the rope.'
Banouin was in too much pain to argue. The girl took hold of the rope and began to pull herself along it. Banouin reached out with his right arm and tried to hold on to the white-haired man, but his fingers were numb. The old man gave a weak smile and hooked his fingers into Banouin's sleeve. As his weight came down on the arm Banouin cried out. The man let go instantly, and almost went under. Swinging, Banouin hooked his legs around the man's body, drawing him close. He surfaced.
'Put your arm round my neck,' Banouin told him. The old man did so. Banouin transferred his gaze to the shore. The girl made it to the bank, then joined Bane at the rope. Bane raised his hand, gesturing Banouin to let go.
Grabbing the old man with his left hand he pushed himself clear of the relative safety of the rocks. Water surged over them both, and the rope tightened. For a while Banouin thought he was going to die, as his lungs came close to bursting. Then he bobbed to the surface and felt the pull of the rope. His feet touched bottom. The old man was unconscious now, but still Banouin clung to him.
Leaving the girl to hold the rope Bane waded in and hauled them both to the bank. Banouin collapsed and lay back, breathing heavily. He heard the old man groan, then Bane was alongside him.
'My arm is broken,' said Banouin. Bane tenderly examined the swollen wrist.
'Aye, I think it is. We'll bind it tight and get you to a healer.'
The girl came and knelt beside him. Her hair was short and dark, her violet eyes large beneath strong brows. Just looking at her beauty made the pain recede. 'You are very brave,' she said, her voice low, almost husky.
He could think of nothing intelligent to say, and tried to smile instead. Then he began to tremble violently. 'What is wrong?' asked the girl.
'It is just shock,' he heard Bane say. 'Get a fire going and I'll tend to him.'
Bane half carried him to the tree line, and laid him down beneath a spreading pine. It was quite dry here. A little way to the left the old man was lying on his back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The girl was trying to start a fire, rasping Bane's knife against a flint rock and sending sparks into a small pile of shredded dry leaves. Banouin was still shivering, and was now feeling nauseous. His arm was throbbing, his fingers swelling. Bane brought him a blanket, which he draped over his shoulders.
Banouin lay down and closed his eyes. 'You did well,' he heard his friend say.
Then he fell asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
The former General, Appius, sat on the balcony enjoying the sunshine and the distant view of the sea. From the walled garden below the scent of jasmine drifted up to him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was back in his own home, overlooking the harbour of Cressia and the white cliffs of Dara Island. Appius sighed, his good humour evaporating.
This poorly constructed house, with its creaking timbers and draughts, was not his home. Accia was a frontier settlement, and the attempts by the outcasts to make the Stone settlement even a rough copy of the home city were almost pathetic. The houses were timber-built, and merely dressed with stone and plaster. The roads -save for the open area outside the Council building - were not paved, and there were no playhouses, theatres or arenas. The one bathhouse was still uncompleted - the funds having been delayed - and the race track boasted no seating.
The residents were the flotsam and jetsam of Stone society: corrupt politicians, exiled merchants, or c
riminals escaping justice. Even the three hundred soldiers stationed here were rejects, governed by officers who had committed some breach of discipline or were otherwise out of favour.
In the twenty-four hours Appius had been in the house of Barus he had already been visited by two disgraced citizens, the merchant Macrios - accused of bribery and fraudulent dealings - and Banyon, the former senator - whose nepotistic behaviour had been the talk of Stone. He had greeted them courteously, accepted their welcomes graciously, then bid them good day.
It hurt the pride of the old soldier that he was now one of them, a man living in disgrace in a frontier town, far from civilization. He wondered if they looked at him in the same way he viewed them. Did they wonder what grubby crime he had committed to be banished here? Appius shuddered inwardly. All his life he had fought to be a man of honour and dignity. He had never accepted a brass coin in bribes from merchants anxious to supply his Panther regiments. Not once in his adult life had he acted in petty jealousy, greed, or envy. Yet here he was, living among criminals and runaways in a shoddy replica of a Stone city. The plaster of the balcony balustrade was already cracking, and flakes had fallen to the terracotta tiles of the floor. He gazed out over the settlement. From here some of the houses seemed almost habitable, but he knew if he approached them he would see the same poor workmanship.
Spinning on his heel the old soldier strode back into the main room. The furniture, three couches and four deep chairs, had all been shipped from Stone, and their quality only made worse the contrast with the badly plastered walls and clumsily wrought ceiling. But then what carpenter or stonemason worth his salt would want to live here? he thought.
There was a tap at the door, and the stoop-shouldered surgeon Ralis entered.
'How is he?' asked Appius, gesturing the man to a chair. Ralis sat and ran his thin hand over his balding head.
'The fever has broken. He will be fine. I have instructed one of the servants to sit with him. I would guess he swallowed river water and it contained some effluent that has upset his system. I managed to get him to swallow a herbal tincture. That should settle his stomach. And I have set his arm. It was a clean break. His heartbeat is strong, and I would think he should be back on his feet in a day or two.'