'Why indeed?' he observed.
'You had best be wary.'
'I am always wary.'
Niallad, son of the mighty Duke Elphons, and blood heir to the vanished throne of Drenan, stood naked before a full-length mirror disliking what he saw. The slender face, with its large blue eyes and full mouth, seemed to him to be that of a girl. There was no real sign yet of facial hair. His shoulders and arms were still skinny, despite the many weeks of hard physical labour he had pushed himself to complete. His chest, also hairless, carried no flesh and his ribs could clearly be seen. He looked nothing like the powerhouse that was his father. And the fears he carried would not go away. When surrounded by crowds he would start to sweat, his palms becoming clammy, his heart beating wildly. His dreams were always of darkness, an unfamiliar maze of corridors, and the stealthy footfalls of an assassin who was never seen.
Turning away from the mirror Niallad went to the chest beneath the window and opened it, pulling forth a grey tunic and dark leggings. Dressing, he pulled on his calf-length riding boots and strapped his dagger-belt to his waist. Then came a light tapping at the door. 'Come in,' he called.
The bodyguard, Gaspir, stepped inside. He pointed at the dagger-belt. 'No weapons, young lord,' he said. 'Your father's orders.'
'Yes, of course. A hall full of enemies and we carry no weapons.'
'Only the friends of the Duke are invited,' said Gaspir.
'Panagyn is no friend, and I do not trust Aric.'
The broad-shouldered bodyguard shrugged. 'Even if Panagyn were an enemy he would be a fool to attempt an assassination in a hall filled with the Duke's supporters. Put your mind at rest. Tonight is a celebration.'
'Are there many people here?' asked Niallad, trying not to show his fear.
'Only about a hundred so far, but they are still arriving.'
'I shall be down presently,' said Niallad. 'Is the food being served?'
'Aye, it looks enticing.'
'Then go down and eat, Gaspir. I will see you in a little while.'
The guard shook his head. 'You are in my charge, young lord. I will wait outside.'
'I thought you said there was no danger.'
The man stood his ground for a moment, then nodded.
'It will be as you say,' he replied at last, 'but I will watch for you. Do not be too long, sir.'
Alone now in the sanctuary of his rooms, Niallad felt the panic building. It was not even that he expected to be attacked. His mind knew it was entirely improbable. And yet he could not suppress the fear. His uncle had been in his own garden when the assassin, Waylander, shot him in the back. His own garden! With the king murdered, the country in a state of near-anarchy, the Vagrian army had poured across the border, burning towns and cities and butchering thousands.
Niallad sat down on the bed, closed his eyes, and took several deep, calming breaths. I will stand up, he thought, and walk slowly out on to the gallery. I will not look down at the mass of people. I will turn left and descend the stairs . . .
. . . into the heaving mass.
His heartbeat quickened once more. This time it was accompanied by anger. I will not be cowed by this fear, he promised himself. Rising, he marched across the room and pulled open the door. Immediately he heard the noise from below, the chattering, the laughter, the sounds of cutlery on dishes, all mixed together creating a discordant and vaguely threatening hum. Niallad walked to the banister rail at the edge of the gallery and looked down. At least a hundred and fifty people were already present. His father and mother were seated almost exactly below him, their chairs raised on a circular dais. Lord Aric was standing close by, as was the magicker, Eldicar Manushan, and little Beric. The boy looked up and saw him. Niallad smiled and waved. The men around the Duke also glanced up. Niallad nodded to them, and stepped back from the edge. In the far corner he saw the portly priest Chardyn talking to a group of women. And there, by the terrace arch, the Grey Man, standing alone. He was wearing a sleeveless jerkin of brushed grey silk, over a black shirt and leggings. His long black and silver hair was held back from his face by a slender black headband. He wore no ornaments or jewellery. No rings adorned his fingers. As if sensing eyes upon him, the Grey Man glanced up, saw Niallad, and raised his goblet. Niallad walked down the stairs towards him. He did not know the man well, but there was space around him, and the beckoning safety of the terrace beyond.
The bottom of the stairwell had been recently closed off by an archway and two doors. A guard stood inside the porch. He bowed as Niallad approached the door. The porchway blocked much of the sound from the hall and Niallad toyed with the thought of engaging the guard in conversation for a while, putting off the dread moment when he must step through and face the throng. But the man lifted the lock-bar and pushed open the doors. Niallad stepped through and walked across to where the Grey Man stood.
'Good evening to you, sir,' said Niallad politely. 'I trust you are enjoying my father's celebration.'
'It was courteous of him to invite me,' said the Grey Man, extending his hand. Niallad shook it.
Up close he saw that the Grey Man's clothes were not entirely free of adornment. His belt had a beautiful, and unusual, buckle of polished iron, shaped like an arrowhead. The same design had been used on the outer rim of his calf-length boots.
The sound of rasping metal from behind caused Niallad to spin round. At a nearby table a chef was sharpening his carving knife. Niallad felt panic looming. The Grey Man spoke. 'I do not like crowds,' he said softly. 'They make me uneasy.'
Niallad struggled for calm. Was the man mocking him? 'Why is that?' he heard himself say.
'Probably because I've spent too long in my own company, riding the high country. I like the peace I find there. The meaningless chatter of these events grates on my nerves. Would you like to take some air with me on the terrace?'
'Yes, of course,' said Niallad gratefully. They stepped out through the archway and on to the paved stone beyond. The night was cool, the sky clear. Niallad could smell the sea. He felt himself becoming calmer. 'I suppose,' he said, 'that such problems with crowds dissipate after a while as one becomes more accustomed to them.'
'That is mostly the way with problems of this nature,' agreed the Grey Man. 'The trick is to allow oneself to become accustomed.'
'I don't follow you.'
'If you were faced with a snarling dog, what would you do?'
'Stand very still,' said Niallad.
'And if it attacked?'
'If I was armed I would try to kill it. If not I would shout loudly and kick at it.'
'What would happen were you to run from it?'
'It would chase and bite me. That is the way with dogs.'
'That is also the way with fear," said the Grey Man. 'You can't run from it. It will follow, snapping at your heels. Most fears recede if you face them down.'
A servant came out on to the terrace, bearing a tray upon which were crystal goblets filled with watered wine. Niallad took one and thanked the man, who bowed and departed. 'Rare to see a nobleman thank a servant,' said the Grey Man.
'Is that a criticism?'
'No. A compliment. Are you staying long in Carlis?'
'A few weeks only. My father wanted to meet with the lords of the four Houses. He is trying to avert another war.'
'Let us hope he succeeds.'
At that moment Gaspir strode out on to the terrace. He bowed. 'Your father is asking for you, young lord,' he said. Niallad offered his hand to the Grey Man, who shook it.
'Thank you for your company, sir,' said Niallad. The Grey Man bowed.
Niallad strolled away. Somehow the conversation with the Grey Man had settled his nerves, but his heart began to beat faster as he entered the throng. 'Face it down,' he told himself. 'It is merely a growling dog, and you are a man. You only have to be here for a while, then you can return to the sanctuary of your room.'
Niallad walked on, his expression grim and determined.
Waylander watched the yo
uth make his way across the hall. The bodyguard Gaspir was following him closely. Elsewhere he saw Eldicar Manushan moving among the crowds, smiling and chatting to people. Waylander saw that his long robe seemed to shimmer and change colour as he moved. At first sight it was silver grey, but the folds glinted at times with subtle shades of pink and red, lemon yellow and gold. Waylander's gaze flowed over the hall. There had been changes since last he had been here. The stairwells were now closed off, and the arches leading to the library boasted heavy doors of oak. He preferred the previous style. It was more open and inviting.
A servant offered him a drink, but he refused, and strolled into the hall. He could see the boy, Niallad, talking with his father and the tall, slim Lord Ruall. The lad seemed ill at ease once more and Waylander could see the gleam of sweat upon his face.
Reaching the new door to the library, Waylander tried to open it, but it was locked from the other side. Eldicar Manushan strolled over to him. 'Your garb is most elegant, sir,' he said. 'Your lack of adornment makes most men here look like peacocks. Including me,' he added, with a grin.
'An unusual robe,' observed Waylander.
'It is my favourite,' said Eldicar. 'It is woven from the silk of a rare worm. Heat and light bring about changes in colour. In bright sunshine the robe becomes golden. It is a delightful piece.' Stepping in close, the magicker lowered his voice. 'Have you considered what we spoke about?'
'I have thought on it.'
'Will you be a friend to Kuan-Hador?'
'I think not.'
'Ah, that is a shame. But it is also a worry for another day. Enjoy your evening.' The magicker's hand tapped lightly on Waylander's back. In that moment Waylander felt a sudden chill. His senses sharpened, his heartbeat quickened. Eldicar moved away back into the crowd.
The thought came to him that he should leave this place.
Waylander walked back towards the terrace. He saw Niallad, climbing the stairs. He was moving slowly, as if at ease, but Waylander could sense the tension in him. Niallad reached the gallery, then turned to his right, entering his room. Sadness touched Waylander.
'Such a grim face for so lively an evening,' said the priest Chardyn.
'I was thinking of the past,' Waylander told him.
'Not a pleasant past, it seems.'
Waylander shrugged. 'If a man lives long enough he will gather bad memories among the good.'
'That is true, my friend. Though some are worse than others. It is worth remembering that the Source is ever forgiving.'
Waylander laughed. 'We are alone here, priest. No one else can hear us. You do not believe in the Source.'
'What makes you think that?' asked Chardyn, dropping his voice.
'You stood your ground against the demons - and that makes you a brave man, but you had no spells, no belief that your god was stronger than the evil to come. I knew a Source priest once. He had faith. I know it when I see it.'
'And you, sir?' queried Chardyn. 'Do you have faith?'
'Oh, I believe, priest. I do not want to, but I believe.'
'Then why did the Source not strike down the demons as I prayed he would?'
Waylander smiled. 'Who is to say he did not?'
'Eldicar Manushan destroyed them, and though I may not be holy myself I also know holiness when I see it.'
'You think the Source only uses good men for his purposes? I have seen differently. I knew a man once, a killer and a robber. He had, to all intents and purposes, the morals of a gutter rat. This man gave his life for me, and before that had helped to save a nation.'
Chardyn smiled. 'Who can say for certain that it was the Source who inspired him? Where were the miracles, the light in the sky, the glowing angels?'
Waylander shrugged. 'My father told me a story once, about a man who lived in a valley. A great storm rose up and the river overflowed. The valley began to flood. A horseman rode by the man's small house and said to him, "Come, ride with me, for your house will soon be under water." The man told him that he needed no help, for the Source would save him. As the waters rose the man took refuge on his roof. Two swimmers came by and called out to him, "Jump into the water. We will help you reach dry land." Again he waved them away, saying that the Source would protect him. As he sat perched on his chimney, thunder filling the sky, a boat came by. "Jump in," called the boatman. Again the man refused. Moments later the water swept him away and he drowned.'
'What is the point of this story?' asked Chardyn.
'The man's spirit appeared before the Source. The man was angry. "I believed in you," he said, "and you failed me." The Source looked at him and said, "But, my son, I sent a rider, two swimmers and a boat. What more did you want?"'
Chardyn smiled. 'I like that. I shall use it in one of my sermons.' Then he fell silent.
Within the hall Eldicar Manushan, Lord Aric and Lord Panagyn had moved to the stair doors. A guard opened them and they moved through. Elsewhere Waylander saw other guests quietly leaving the hall. Most were followers of Panagyn. His expression hardened. His heart began to beat faster and a sense of danger rose in him. Moving to the terrace doors he saw a squad of soldiers marching through the gardens.
The five-man squad climbed the steps to the terrace. Waylander took the priest by the arm and drew the surprised man out into the night. The guards ignored them, and pushed shut the heavy doors, dropping a crossbar into place before marching off.
'What are you doing?' asked Chardyn. 'How will we get back in?'
'Trust me, priest, you do not want to go back in.' Waylander leant in close. 'I don't often offer advice,' he said, 'but were I you I would leave this place now.'
'I don't understand.'
'All exits from the hall have been blocked. The stairs are sealed off. That is no longer a banqueting hall, priest. It is a killing ground.'
Without another word Waylander walked away into the night.
Reaching the western postern gate he paused and glanced back at the palace, silhouetted against the night sky. Anger flared in him, but he quelled it. Everyone in that lower hall was destined for death. They would be slaughtered like cattle.
Is that why you wanted me there, Orien? he wondered. So that I could die for killing your son?
He dismissed the thought even as it came to him. There had been no malice in the old king. Waylander had murdered his son, and yet the old man had given him the chance to find the Armour of Bronze and, at least in part, redeem himself for his past sins. So why had he come to Ustarte? There was no mystical armour to find, no great and perilous quest to undertake. Waylander had attended the gathering, which was all that had been asked of him.
Then why did you want me here?
Into his mind came the face of a frightened youth, a boy who feared crowds and lived in terror of assassination. Orien's grandson.
With a soft curse Waylander turned and ran back towards the palace.
Within the hall a trumpet sounded, and all conversation ceased. Lord Aric and Eldicar Manushan appeared at the North Gallery rail above the throng.
'My dear friends,' said Aric. 'Now comes a moment you have all anticipated with great relish - as indeed have I. Our friend Eldicar Manushan will entertain you with wonders beyond description.' Thunderous applause broke out, and the magicker raised his hands.
With all the doors closed the temperature in the great room began to rise. As he had at Waylander's palace, the magicker created small swirling globes of white mist, which floated and danced above the spectators, cooling the air and bringing applause.
A huge, black-maned lion appeared in the centre of the hall, and rushed towards the revellers. Several screams sounded - followed by a rush of relieved laughter as the lion became a flock of small blue songbirds, which rose up towards the rafters. The audience clapped wildly. The birds circled the hall, then gathered together, merging into the form of a small flying dragon, with golden scales and a long snout with flaring nostrils. It swooped upon the crowd, sending out a roaring blaze of fire, which engulfed
the spectators by the western wall. Once more screams were followed by laughter and applause as the victims saw that not a single scorch had blemished the beauty of their satin robes and silken jackets.
On the dais the Duke Elphons clapped politely, then reached out and took the hand of his wife, Aldania, sitting beside him. A tall, slim man to the Duke's left leant in to his lord and whispered something. Elphons smiled and nodded.
At that moment Eldicar Manushan's voice boomed, 'Dear friends, I thank you for your gracious applause, and now offer a climax to the evening's entertainment, which I am sure will make what has gone before seem trivial in the extreme.'
Dark plumes of smoke began to form in the centre of the hall, twisting and snaking, braiding together like copulating serpents. The braid broke in a dozen places, and huge dark hounds leapt out, snarling, their massive fangs dripping venom. The last of the smoke floated close to the seats of the Duke and his lady. It rose up before them, forming a dark doorway, through which stepped a swordsman. He wore an ornate helm, created from layered strips of black metal, and a black silk, ankle-length tunic, split at the waist. He carried two swords, long and curved, the blades so dark they seemed to have been carved from the night sky. A third sword, scabbarded, was thrust into the black silk sash around his waistv
Stepping forward he bowed to the Duke - then flung one of his swords into the air. The second followed it. Swiftly he drew the third, and this, too, he sent spinning into the air, just as the first blade returned to his hand. He began to leap and twirl, while juggling the blades. Meanwhile the twelve black hounds moved stealthily towards the spectators.
Faster and faster the swordsman spun the blades.
What happened next was so swift that few registered the act. The swordsman's hand flicked out. One of the swords flew straight into the chest of Lord Ruall. Instantly the second lanced through the throat of Elphons, Duke of Kydor. The third plunged through the heart of Lady Aldania.
For a moment only, there was silence in the hall.