Amid the chaos of slashing swords many deeds of individual heroism passed unseen. One young soldier battling back to back with Druss saw an enemy lancer bearing down on the old man. Unthinking, he threw himself in the way of the flashing steel point, to die writhing among the other broken bodies on the ramparts. Another soldier, an officer named Portitac, leapt into the breach near the gate tower and stepped onto the ramparts, where he seized the top of a ladder and flung himself forward, pulling the ladder out from the wall. Twenty Nadir near the top died with him on the rocks, and five others broke limbs. Many were such tales of bravery.
And still the battles raged. Rek now sported a slanting scar from eyebrow to chin, gleaming red as he battled on. Orrin had lost three fingers from his left hand but after only two days behind the lines had joined his men once more on the wall.
From the capital at Drenan the messages came endlessly:
Hold on.
Give Woundweaver time.
Just one more month.
And the defenders knew they could not hold.
But still they fought on.
Twice the Nadir tried night attacks, but on both occasions Serbitar warned the defenders and the assailants paid dearly for their efforts. At night, handholds were difficult to find and the long climb to the battlements was fraught with peril. Hundreds of tribesmen died without need for the touch of Drenai steel or a black-shafted arrow.
Now the nights were silent and in some ways as bad as the days. For the peace and tranquillity of the moon darkness acted as a weird counterpoint to the crimson agonies of the sunlight. Men had time to think: to dream of wives, children, farms, and even more potently of a future that might have been.
Hogun and Bowman had taken to walking together on the battlements at night, the grim legion general and the bright witty outlaw. Hogun found that in Bowman’s company he could forget the loss of Elicas; he could even laugh again. For his part, Bowman felt a kinship with the gan, for he, too, had a serious side, although he kept it well hidden.
But on this particular night Bowman was in a more melancholy mood, and his eyes were distant.
“What ails you, man?” asked Hogun.
“Memories,” answered the archer, leaning over the ramparts to stare at the Nadir camp fires below.
“They must be either very bad or very good to touch you so.”
“These are very bad, my friend. Do you believe in gods?”
“Sometimes. Usually when my back is against a wall and the enemy surrounds me,” said Hogun.
“I believe in the twin powers of growth and malevolence. I believe that on rare occasions each of these powers chooses a man and in different ways destroys him.”
“And these powers have touched you, Bowman?” asked Hogun gently.
“Perhaps. Think back on recent history—you will find examples.”
“I do not need to. I know where this tale is leading,” said Hogun.
“What do you know?” asked the archer, turning to face the dark-cloaked officer. Hogun smiled gently, though he noted that Bowman’s fingers were curled around the hilt of his dagger.
“I know that you are a man whose life has been marred by some secret tragedy: a wife dead, a father slain … something. There may even be some dark deed which you perpetrated and cannot forget. But even if that were the case, the very fact that you remember it with such pain means that you acted out of character. Put it behind you, man! Who among us can change the past?”
“I wish I could tell you,” said Bowman. “But I cannot. I am sorry, I am not fit company this evening. You go on. I will stay here a while.”
Hogun wanted to clap his hand on the other’s shoulder and say something witty to break the mood, as Bowman had so often done for him. But he could not. There were times when a grim-faced warrior was needed, even loved, but this was not one of them, and he cursed himself and left silently.
For over an hour Bowman stood on the ramparts, staring out over the valley, listening to the faint songs of the Nadir women drifting out from the far camp below.
“You are troubled?” said a voice.
Bowman swung around to face Rek. The young earl was dressed in the clothes in which he had arrived: thigh-length doeskin boots, a high-collared tunic with a gold-embroidered collar, and a reversed sheepskin jerkin. By his side was his longsword.
“I am merely tired,” said Bowman.
“I, too. Is my scar fading?”
Bowman peered closely at the jagged red line from brow to chin. “You were lucky not to lose an eye,” he commented.
“Useless Nadir steel,” said Rek. “I made a perfect block, and his blasted sword snapped and lashed across my face. Good gods, man, have you any idea how long I’ve protected my face?”
“It’s too late to worry about that now,” said Bowman, grinning.
“Some people are born ugly,” said Rek. “It’s not their fault, and I for one have never held it against a man that he is ugly. But others—and I count myself among them—are born with handsome features. That is a gift which should not be lightly taken away.”
“I take it you made the perpetrator pay for his deed.”
“Naturally! And you know, I think he was smiling even as I slew him. But then, he was an ugly man. I mean really ugly. It’s not right.”
“Life can be so unfair,” agreed Bowman. “But you must look on the bright side, my lord Earl. You see, unlike me, you were never stupendously handsome. Merely well featured. The brows were too thick, the mouth a shade too wide. And your hair is now growing a little thinner. Now, had you been blessed with the nearly miraculous good looks possessed by such as I, you would have truly had something to grieve over.”
“There is something in what you say,” said Rek. “You have indeed been greatly blessed. It was probably nature’s way of making it up to you for being short.”
“Short? I am almost as tall as you.”
“Ah, but what a large word ‘almost’ is. Can a man be almost alive? Almost right? In the question of height, my friend, we do not deal in subtle shades of gray. I am taller; you are shorter. But I would concur there is not a more handsome short man at the fortress.”
“Women have always found me the perfect height,” said Bowman. “At least when I dance with them, I can whisper love words in their ears. With your long shanks, their heads would nestle near your armpit.”
“Get a lot of time for dancing in the forest, do you?” asked Rek amiably.
“I didn’t always live in the forest. My family …” Bowman stuttered to silence.
“I know your family background,” said Rek. “But it’s about time you talked about it. You’ve carried it too long.”
“How could you know?”
“Serbitar told me. As you know, he has been inside your mind … when you carried his messages to Druss.”
“I suppose the entire damned fortress knows,” said Bowman. “I will leave at dawn.”
“Only Serbitar and I know the story—and the truth of it. But leave if you will.”
“The truth of it is that I killed my father and brother.” Bowman was white-faced and tense.
“Twin accidents—you know it well!” said Rek. “Why must you torture yourself?”
“Why? Because I wonder at accidents in life. I wonder how many are caused by our own secret desires. There was a footracer once, the finest I ever saw. He was preparing for the great games, to run for the first time against the fastest men from many nations. On the day before the race he fell and twisted his ankle. Was it really an accident, or was he frightened to face the great test?”
“Only he will ever know,” said Rek. “But therein lies the secret. He knows, and so should you. Serbitar tells me that you were hunting with your father and brother. Your father was to the left, your brother to the right, when you followed a deer into the thicket. A bush before you rustled, and you aimed and let the arrow fly. But it was your father, who had come unannounced. How could you know he would do such a thing?”
/> “The point is that he taught us never to shoot until we saw the target.”
“So you made a mistake. What else is new on the face of the world?”
“And my brother?”
“He saw what you had done, misunderstood, and ran at you in a rage. You pushed him away, and he fell, striking his head on a rock. No one could wish such a burden on himself. But you have nursed it, and it is now time for you to release it.”
“I never loved my father or my brother,” said Bowman. “My father killed my mother. He left her alone for months and had many mistresses. When my mother took one lover, he had him blinded and her slain … horribly.”
“I know. Don’t dwell on it.”
“And my brother was made in his image.”
“This also I know.”
“And do you know what I felt when they were both lying dead at my feet?”
“Yes. You were exultant.”
“And is that not terrible?”
“I don’t know if you have considered this, Bowman, but think on it. You blame the gods for bringing a curse upon you, but the curse really fell on the two men who deserved it.
“I don’t know yet whether I fully believe in fate, but certain things do happen in a man’s life which he cannot explain. My being here, for instance. Druss’s conviction that he will die here, for he has made a pact with death. And you … But I do believe that you were merely the instrument of … who knows? … a law of natural justice, perhaps.
“Whatever you believe about yourself, know this: Serbitar searched your heart, and he found no malice there. And he knows.”
“Perhaps,” said Bowman. Then he grinned suddenly. “Have you noticed that when Serbitar removes that horse-hair helm, he is shorter than I am?”
The room was Spartanly furnished: a rug, a pillow, and a chair, all bunched beneath the small window by which the albino stood naked and alone. Moonlight bathed his pale skin, and the night breeze ruffled his hair. His shoulders were bowed, his eyes closed. Weariness was upon him like no other weariness he had felt in all his young life. For it was born of the spirit and the truth.
The philosophers often talked of lies sitting under the tongue like salted honey. This, Serbitar knew, was true enough. But more often the hidden truth was worse. Far worse. For it settled in the belly and grew to engulf the spirit.
Below him were the Vagrian quarters that housed Suboden and the three hundred men who had come from Dros Segril. For several days he had fought alongside his personal bodyguard and become again the Prince of Dros Segril, son of Earl Drada. But the experience had been painful, for his own men had made the sign of the protective horn as he approached. They rarely spoke to him, and then only to answer a direct question speedily. Suboden, blunt-speaking as always, had asked the albino to return to his comrades.
“We are here, Prince Serbitar, because it is our duty. This we will accomplish best without you beside us.”
More painful than this, however, was the long discussion he had had with the Abbot of Swords, the man he revered, loved as a father, mentor, and friend.
Serbitar closed his eyes and opened his mind, soaring free of the body prison and sweeping aside the curtains of time.
Back he traveled, back and farther back. Thirteen long, wearisome, joy-filled years flowed past him, and he saw again the caravan that had brought him to the Abbot of Swords. Riding at the head of ten warriors was the giant red-bearded Drada, the young Earl of Segril—battle-hardened, volatile, a pitiless enemy but a true friend. Behind him ten of his most trusted warriors, men who would die for him without a moment’s hesitation, for they loved him above life. At the rear is a cart upon which, on a straw pallet covered with silken sheets, lies the young prince, a canvas screen shielding his ghost-white face from the sun.
Drada wheels the black horse round and gallops back to the cart. He leans on his saddle horn and glances down at the boy. The boy looks up; framed against the bright sky, he can see only the flaring wings of his father’s battle helmet.
The cart is moving again, into the shade of the ornate black gates. They swing open, and a man appears.
“I bid you welcome, Drada,” he says, the voice at variance with the silver armor he wears, for it is a gentle sound, the voice of a poet.
“I bring you my son,” answers the earl, his voice gruff, soldierly.
Vintar moves to the cart and looks down on the boy. He places a hand on the pale forehead, smiles, and pats the boy’s head.
“Come walk with me, boy,” he says.
“He cannot walk,” says Drada.
“But he can,” says Vintar.
The boy turns his red eyes toward Vintar questioningly and for the first time in his lonely life feels a touching of minds. There are no words. Vintar’s gentle poet’s face enters with a promise of strength and friendship. The fragile muscles on Serbitar’s skeletal body begin to shake as an infusion of power regenerates wasted cells.
“What is the matter with the boy?” Drada’s voice fills with alarm.
“Nothing. Say farewell to your son.”
The red-bearded warrior turns his horse’s head to the north and gazes down at the white-haired child. “Do as you are told. Be good.” He hesitates, pretends his horse is skittish. He is trying to find words for a final farewell, but he cannot. Always he has found difficulty with this red-eyed child. “Be good,” he says again, then raises an arm and leads his men northward on the long journey home.
As the wagon pulls away, bright sunlight streams onto the pallet and the boy reacts as if lanced. His face mirrors pain; his eyes squeeze shut. Vintar gently seeks his mind and pulses: “Stand now and follow the pictures I will place on your eyelids.”
At once the pain eases, and the boy can see more clearly than ever before. And his muscles lift him at last, a sensation he thought he had forgotten since a year ago, when he collapsed in the snow of the Delnoch mountains. From that moment to this he has lain paralyzed, unspeaking.
Now he stands, and with eyes tightly shut he sees more clearly. Without guilt he realizes he has forgotten his father and is happy for it.
The spirit of the older Serbitar tastes again the total joy that flooded the youth that day as, arm in arm with Vintar the soul, he walked across the courtyard until at last, in a brightly lit corner, they came to a tiny rose cutting nestling by a high stone wall.
“This is your rose, Serbitar. Love it. Cherish it and grow with it. One day a flower will form on that tiny plant. And its fragrance will be for you alone.”
“Is it a white rose?”
“It is whatever you will it to be.”
And through the years that followed Serbitar found peace and joy in comradeship, but never more than in the experience of true contentment with Vintar the soul on that first day.
Vintar had taught him to recognize the herb Lorassium and eat of its leaves. At first they had made him drowsy and filled his mind with colors. But as the days had passed, his powerful young mind had mastered the visions and the green juices had strengthened his weak blood. Even his eyes had changed color to reflect the power of the plant.
And he had learned to run again, savoring the joy of the wind in his face, to climb and wrestle, to laugh and live.
And he had learned to speak without speaking, move without moving, and see without seeing.
Through all these blissful years Serbitar’s rose had blossomed and grown.
A white rose …
And now it had all come to this! One glimpse into the future had destroyed thirteen years of training and belief. One speeding shaft, viewed through the mists of time, had changed his destiny.
Serbitar had stared horror-struck at the scene below him on the battle-scarred walls of the Dros. His mind had recoiled from the violence he saw there, and he had fled, comet-swift, to a far corner of a distant universe, losing himself and his sanity among exploding stars and new suns’ birthing.
And still Vintar had found him.
“You must return.”
r /> “I cannot. I have seen.”
“As have I.”
“Then you know that I would rather die than see it again.”
“But you must, for it is your destiny.”
“Then I refuse my destiny.”
“And your friends? Do you refuse them also?”
“I cannot watch you die again, Vintar.”
“Why not? I myself have seen the scene a hundred times. I have even written a poem about it.”
“As we are now—shall we be again, after death? Free souls?”
“I do not know, but I would have it so. Now return to your duty. I have pulsed the Thirty. They will keep your body alive for as long as they can.”
“They always have. Why should I be the last to die?”
“Because we would have it so. We love you, Serbitar. And always have. A shy child you were, who had never tasted friendship. Suspicious you were of the slightest touch or embrace—a soul crying alone in a cosmic wilderness. Even now you are alone.”
“But I love you all.”
“Because you need our love.”
“Not so, Vintar!”
“Do you love Rek and Virae?”
“They are not of the Thirty.”
“Neither were you until we made it so.”
And Serbitar had returned to the fortress and felt ashamed. But the shame he had felt earlier was as nothing compared with the feeling he now experienced.
Was it but an hour since that he had walked the ramparts with Vintar, and complained of many things, and confessed to many sins?
“You are wrong, Serbitar. So wrong. I also feel blood lust in battle. Who does not? Ask Arbedark or Menahem. While we are still men, we will feel as other men do.”
“Then is it for nothing that we are priests?” cried Serbitar. “We have spent years of our lives studying the insanity of war, of man’s lust for power, his need for bloodshed. We raise ourselves above the common man with powers that are almost godlike. Yet in the final analysis we come to this, lusting after battle and death. It is for nothing!”
“Your conceit is colossal, Serbitar,” said Vintar, an edge to his voice and the suggestion of anger showing in his eyes. “You speak of ‘godlike.’ You speak of the ‘common man.’ Where in your words is the humility we strive for?