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  “Scholars tend to overcomplicate matters,” said Skilgannon. “If a man runs at you with a sword it would be foolish to spend time wondering what led him to such action. Was his childhood scarred by a cruel father? Did his wife leave him for another man? Was he perhaps misinformed about your intentions, and therefore has attacked you in error?” Skilgannon laughed. “Warriors need black and white, Elder Brother. Shades of gray would kill them.”

  “True,” admitted the abbot, “and yet a greater understanding that there are shades of gray would prevent many wars beginning.”

  “But not all,” said Skilgannon, his smile fading. “We are what we are, Elder Brother. Man is a hunter, a killer. We build great cities, and yet we live just like the wolf. The strongest of us dominate the weakest. We might call our leaders kings or generals, but the effect is the same. We create the wolf pack, and the very nature of that pack is to hunt and to kill. War, therefore, becomes inevitable.”

  Cethelin sighed. “The analogy is a sad one, Lantern—though it is true. Why then did you decide to remove yourself from the pack?”

  “My reasons were selfish, Elder Brother.”

  “Not entirely, my boy. I pray that time will prove that to you.”

  At fifteen Rabalyn didn’t care about wars and battles to the east, nor about who was right and who was wrong concerning the causes. These were enormous issues that concerned him not at all. Rabalyn’s thoughts were far more focused. The town of Skepthia was all he had ever known, and he thought he had learned the rules of behavior necessary to survive in such a place. True, he often broke those rules, stealing occasional apples from Carin’s shop, or sneaking onto the estates of the absent lord to poach pheasants or hunt rabbits. If approached later and questioned he would also lie shamelessly, even though Brother Labberan taught that lies were a sin against Heaven. Broadly, however, Rabalyn had believed he understood how his small society operated. Yet in the last week he had witnessed appalling scenes that made no sense to him.

  Adults had gathered in mobs, screeching and calling for blood. People who had worked and lived in the town were suddenly called traitors, dragged from their homes and beaten. The soldiers of the Watch stood by, doing nothing. Yet these same soldiers berated him for killing pheasants. Now they ignored the killing of people.

  Brother Labberan was probably right to have called him an idiot. “Stupid boy, are you incapable of learning?” It had always seemed such fun to irritate Brother Labberan. He would never raise a hand—not even to lightly slap a child. It did not feel like fun now in his memory.

  Rabalyn rubbed at his swollen eye. It was still painful, but at least now he could see again, although bright sunshine still made the eye water. Todhe had caught him with a wicked blow just as he was pulling Bron away from the unconscious priest. With fury born of pain Rabalyn had pushed Bron to the ground, then swung and hammered a punch into Todhe’s face. The blow had been a good one, and had smashed his lips against his teeth. Even so the powerful Todhe would have beaten him senseless had the dog not rushed in and bitten his calf. Rabalyn smiled at the memory. Todhe had screamed in pain. Kalia had called the dog back and Todhe had limped away with his friends. He had turned at the alleyway arch and screamed a threat back at Rabalyn: “I’ll get you for this—and I’ll see the dog is killed too.”

  He and Kalia and several others had pulled Brother Labberan into the small schoolroom and locked the door. The old priest was in an awful state. Kalia had begun to cry, and this perturbed the three-legged hound, which started to howl.

  “What do we do when they come back?” asked Arren, a chubby boy from the northern quarter. Rabalyn saw the fear in his eyes.

  “You ought to get home,” he said.

  Arren fidgeted and looked uncomfortable. “We can’t leave Brother Labberan,” he said.

  “I’ll go to the castle,” said Rabalyn. “The priests will come for him.”

  “I can’t fight Todhe,” said Arren. “If he comes back he’ll be very angry.”

  “He won’t come back,” said Rabalyn, trying to sound decisive. “Keep the door locked behind me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Did he mean what he said, do you think?” asked Kalia, “about killing Jesper?”

  “No,” lied Rabalyn. “Wait for me. And find some blankets to cover old Labbers. He’s shivering.”

  With that Rabalyn set off through the town, heading out toward the old bridge and the long climb to the monastery. He heard the mob off to the west and saw the flames starting. Then he ran like the wind.

  He had been taken to the abbot, and he told him about Old Labbers. The abbot ordered food brought for him and instructed him to wait. The hours wore on. A monk gave him a cold poultice to hold over his eye, and then at last a tall, frightening monk had come and sat beside him. Black-haired and hard-eyed, the man had introduced himself as Brother Lantern. He had questioned Rabalyn about the attack, then he and another monk had walked with Rabalyn back to the schoolroom, skirting the rioting mob.

  That had been two days ago, and no one had heard since whether Old Labbers was alive or dead.

  Todhe and his friends had twice tried to ambush Rabalyn, but he had been too swift for them, darting away into alleyways and scaling walls.

  Now he sat high on the northern hillside, near the old ruins of the watch tower. Kalia’s crippled dog was squatting beside him. Todhe’s father, the councilman Raseev, had put out an order for the hound to be killed. Kalia had brought Jesper to Rabalyn. The girl was distraught and Rabalyn reluctantly agreed to hide the hound and had brought him up to the watch tower. He didn’t know what to do next. A three-legged dog was not easy to hide.

  Rabalyn stroked the hound’s large head, scratching behind its spiked ears. It pushed in toward him, licking his face, and laying the stump of its amputated right foreleg onto Rabalyn’s lap. “You should have bitten him harder,” said Rabalyn. “It was just a nip. Should have taken his leg off.”

  From his high vantage point Rabalyn saw a group of youngsters emerging from the houses far below. One of them pointed up toward him. Rabalyn swore, then swiftly tethered a lead around Jesper’s neck and led the hound off down the far slope.

  If he skirted the town, and waded across the river at its narrowest point, he could reach the monastery by dusk. They’d protect Jesper, he thought.

  Abbot Cethelin sat in his study, and, in the lantern light, pored over the ancient map. It was of thin hide, two feet square, the symbols and lines of mountains and rivers carefully etched in the leather and then filled with gold leaf. As with many pieces from the pre-Ventrian era, what it lacked in accuracy it more than made up for in beauty. As he stared at the map he found himself wishing he had been blessed with the gift of spiritual flight, like his old friend, Vintar. Then he could have floated free of the monastery and up into the night sky, to stare down over lands he could now only imagine through the delicate tracing of gold upon leather.

  But that was not his gift. Cethelin’s talent was to dream visions, and to sometimes see within them faint threads—like the gold on the map. He could sense the malignant and the benevolent, constantly vying for supremacy. The large affairs of men, with their wars and their horror, were identical to the battles that raged in the valleys of each human soul. All men had a capacity for kindness and cruelty, love and hate, beauty and horror.

  There were some mystics who maintained man was little more than a puppet, his strings being tugged and manipulated by gods and demons. There were others who talked of fate and destiny, where every action of man was somehow preordained and written. Cethelin struggled to disbelieve both of these philosophies of despair. It was not easy.

  In some ways he wished he could embrace the simplistic. Evil deeds could then be laid at the door of evil men. Unfortunately his intellect would not allow him to believe it. In his long life he had seen that, far too often, evil deeds were committed by men who deemed themselves good, who indeed were good by the mores of their cultures. Emperor Gorben had built Great
er Ventria in order to bring peace and stability to a region cursed by incessant wars. To do this he had invaded all the surrounding lands, razing cities and destroying armies, plundering farms and treasuries. In the end he had his empire, and it was at peace. He also had an enormous standing army that needed to be paid. In order to pay it he had to expand the empire and had invaded the lands of the Drenai. Here his dreams had been crushed by the defeat at Skeln Pass. Now everything he had built was falling apart, and the region was descending once more into endless little wars.

  No wonder the people of the town were frightened. Armies tended to plunder towns, and the war was getting closer. Only two months ago a battle had been fought not forty miles away.

  Cethelin moved to the window and pushed it open. The night breeze was cool, the stars shining brightly in a clear sky. Flames were flickering again in the town’s northern quarter. Some other poor soul was watching his house burn, he thought, sadly.

  A dog barked in the courtyard below. Cethelin leaned out of the window and gazed down. A dark-haired youth, in a pale linen shirt and black leggings, was squatting in the gateway, a black hound beside him. Cethelin threw a cloak around his thin shoulders and left his study, descending the long staircase to the lower levels.

  As he walked out the hound turned toward him and growled. It lurched forward in a faintly comical manner, off balance and part hopping. Cethelin knelt and held out his hand to the beast. It cocked its head and eyed him warily. “What do you want?” the abbot asked the youth, recognizing him as the young man who had helped Brother Labberan.

  “Need a place for the dog, Father. Councillor Raseev ordered it put down.”

  “Why?”

  “It bit Todhe when he was kicking Old Labbers . . . begging your pardon, Brother Labberan.”

  “Did it hurt him badly?”

  “No. Just a nip to the calf.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now why did you think we could find a home for a three-legged dog?”

  “Figured you owed him,” said the boy.

  “For saving Brother Labberan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he useful?”

  “He fights wolves, Father. He’s not afraid of anything.”

  “But you are,” observed Cethelin, noting that the youth kept casting nervous glances back through the open gate.

  “Todhe’s looking for me. He’s big, Father. And he has friends with him.”

  “Are you seeking sanctuary too?”

  “No, not me. I’m too fast for them. I want to get back to my aunt’s house. Looks like they’ve set fires again.”

  “Who is your aunt?”

  “Aunt Athyla. She comes to church. Big woman. Sings loud and out of tune.”

  Cethelin laughed. “I know her. Laundry woman and an occasional midwife. She has a sweet soul.”

  “Aye, she does.”

  “What of your parents?”

  “They left to find work in Mellicane years ago. Said they’d send for me and my sister. They didn’t. My sister died last year when the plague struck. Me and Aunt Athyla thought we’d get it, but we didn’t. Brother Labberan gave us herbs and such. Told us to clean out the house and keep the rats away.”

  “It was a harsh time,” said Cethelin.

  “The Arbiters say the priests caused the plague.”

  “I know. Apparently we also caused the war and the harvest failures. Why is it that you don’t believe the stories?”

  The youth shrugged. “Old Labbers, I expect. Always talking about love and such. Can’t see him causing plagues. Makes no sense. Still, no one cares what I think.”

  Cethelin looked into Rabalyn’s dark eyes. He saw strength there, and compassion. In that moment he also caught a glimpse of Rabalyn’s memories: a woman being beaten by a harsh man, a small child fading toward death as Rabalyn sat by the bedside weeping. “I care, Rabalyn. Old Labbers—as you call him—cares. I shall take care of the dog until such time as you return for him.”

  “Jesper’s not my dog. Belongs to Kalia. She brought him to me and asked me to hide him. When all this blows over I’ll get her to come and see you.”

  “Walk with care, young man.”

  “You too, Father. Best lock this gate, I’d say.”

  “A locked gate will not keep out a mob. Good night to you, Rabalyn. You are a good lad.” Cethelin watched as the boy sped off. The dog gave an awkward bound as if to follow him. Cethelin called to him softly. “Here, Jesper! Are you hungry, boy? Let us go to the kitchen and see what we can find.”

  Rabalyn returned the way he had come, wading across the shallows of the river and making his way through the trees and up the old watch tower hill. From here he could see the fires burning in the northern quarter. It was here that most of the foreigners had settled, including fat Arren and his family. There were merchants from Drenan, and a few shops run by Ventrian traders. The mob, however, were more concerned with those whose family ties were in the east, in Dospilis or Datia. Both these nations were now at war with Tantria.

  Rabalyn squatted in the ruins, his keen eyes scanning the area at the base of the hill. He doubted Todhe and his friends would be waiting for him now, not with another riot looming. They would be out chanting and screaming at those they now dubbed traitors. Many of the houses in the northern quarter were empty. Scores of families had left in the last few days, heading west toward Mellicane. Rabalyn could not understand why any foreigners had chosen to stay.

  A cool wind blew across the hilltop. Rabalyn’s leggings and shoes were wet from wading the river and he shivered with the cold. Time to be getting home. Aunt Athyla would be worried, and she would not sleep until he was safe in his bed. The abbot had called her a sweet soul. This was true, but she was also massively irritating. She fussed over Rabalyn as if he were still three years old, and her conversation was absurdly repetitive. Every time he left the little cottage she would ask: “Are you going to be warm enough?” If he voiced any concerns about life, schooling or future plans, she would say: “I don’t know about that. It’s enough to have food on the table today.” Her days were spent cleaning other people’s sheets and clothes. In the evenings she would unravel discarded woollen garments and create balls of faded wool. Then she would knit scores of squares, which would later be fashioned into blankets. Some she sold. Others she gave away to the poorhouse. Aunt Athyla was never idle.

  The riots had unnerved her. When the first killings had taken place Rabalyn had run home and told her. At first she had disbelieved him, but when the truth was established Athyla refused to talk of it with the boy. “It will all settle down,” she said. “Best not to get involved.”

  That evening she had sat with her balls of wool, looking old and gray. Rabalyn had moved alongside her. “Are you all right, Aunt?”

  “We don’t have any foreign blood,” she said. “It will be all right. Everything will be all right.”

  Her face was drawn and tight, just as it had been when Lesha had died—a mixture of bafflement and sorrow.

  Rabalyn left the hilltop and made his way down toward the town.

  The streets were deserted. He could hear the mob far off, chanting and screaming. The wind changed and he smelled smoke in the air. Pausing in a darkened alleyway arch he peered out across the short open stretch between the houses and his aunt’s little cottage. No one was in sight, but Rabalyn decided to take no chances. Squatting down in the shadows he scanned the area. There was a dry stone wall running along the north side of the cottage, and a line of scrub bushes around the gate. Rabalyn waited silently. Just as he was convinced there was no danger he saw someone rise briefly from behind the bushes and creep across to the wagon outside the baker’s house. It looked like Bron, a friend of Todhe’s. A touch of anger flared in Rabalyn. He was hungry and tired, and his clothes were still wet. He wanted nothing more than to get inside the cottage and warm himself by the fire.

  Backing down the alley he ran through Market Street, cutting through the smith’s yard. Searching around
he found a foot-long rod of rust-speckled iron in a pile of discarded metal. Hefting it he crept on, climbing a low wall and emerging between two lines of houses. From here he could see two young men crouched behind the miller’s wagon. One was indeed Bron. The other was Cadras, whose father worked for Todhe’s family as a general servant. Cadras was a decent enough lad, neither malicious nor vengeful. But he was malleable and followed Todhe’s lead in everything. Rabalyn waited. After a while Bron ducked down and crept back to the hedge outside Aunt Athyla’s cottage. Rabalyn saw Todhe emerge and haul Bron down. The iron rod felt heavy in Rabalyn’s hand. It was comforting to be armed, and yet he did not want to use the weapon. Todhe’s father, Raseev, virtually ran the council and any harm to his son would be swiftly, and harshly, punished.

  Rabalyn decided to outwait them.

  Which might have worked had a fourth youth not crept up behind Rabalyn and leapt upon him, pinning his arms.

  “He’s over here!” shouted the youth. Rabalyn recognized the voice as that of Archas, Bron’s older brother. Rabalyn leaned forward, then threw his head back into Archas’s face. The hold around his chest loosened. Rabalyn squirmed clear, then spun and hit Archas across the cheek with the iron rod. The youth was thrown from his feet.

  Rabalyn could hear the others running toward him. He should have run, but his blood was up now, and a raging fury swept through him. With a cry he leapt to meet them. The iron rod cracked against Bron’s skull, causing the youth to stumble. Rabalyn ducked to his right and swung the rod again—this time at Todhe. The big youth threw up his arm to protect his head. The rod hammered against the upraised arm, causing Todhe to scream in pain. A fist struck Rabalyn in the back. He stumbled and swung toward the new assailant. It was Cadras. Rabalyn hit him in the belly, then leapt in and head-butted him. Cadras cried out and fell. Rabalyn backed away from them, holding the rod high. Todhe was already running away. Bron had struggled to a sitting position and was looking dazed. Suddenly he leaned forward and vomited. Cadras pushed himself to his knees and put a hand to his smashed nose. Blood was running over his mouth and chin. Rabalyn stood looking at them both. Beyond the injured pair Archas was lying unconscious. Dropping the iron rod Rabalyn moved to where the youth lay on his face. Gently turning him he was relieved to hear Archas groan. “Lie still,” said Rabalyn. “Gather your wits.” There was blood on Archas’s face, and a huge lump over his left eye.