'I will learn,' she promised.

'I doubt it can be learned. Your father became Waylander because his first family were butchered by raiders, but I don't believe the atrocity created Waylander. He was always there, beneath the surface of Dakeyras. The real question is, what lies beneath the surface of Miriel?'

'We will see,' she said.

'Then you wish me to stay?'

'Yes. I wish you to stay. But answer me one question honestly.'

'Ask.'

'What is it you fear?'

'Why would you think I fear anything?' he hedged.

'I know that you did not want to stay, and I sense you are torn between your desire to help me and a need to leave. So what is it?'

'The question is a fair one. Let us leave it that you are right. There is something I fear, but I am not prepared to talk about it. As you are not prepared to speak of the loss of your Talent.'

She nodded. 'There is one – or more – among the assassins that you do not wish to meet. Am I close?'

'We must thicken the grip on your sword,' he said. 'Cut some strips of leather – thin, no wider than a finger's width. You have glue?'

'Yes. Father makes it from fishbones and hide.'

'First bind the hilt until the size feels comfortable. When curled around it your longest finger should just touch the flesh below your thumb. When you are satisfied, glue the strips into place.'

'You did not answer me,' she said.

'No,' he replied. 'Cut and bind the strips tonight. It will give the glue time to dry. I will see you in the morning.' He rose and strode across the room.

'Angel!'

His hand was on the door latch. 'Yes.'

'Sleep well.'

Dardalion swung away from the window and faced the two priests standing before his desk.

'The argument,' he said, 'is of intellectual interest only. It is of no real importance.'

'How can that be, Father Abbot?' asked Magnic. 'Surely it is central to our beliefs?'

'In this I must agree with my brother,' put in the forked-bearded Vishna, his dark eyes staring unblinking at the Abbot. Dardalion beckoned them to be seated and leaned back in his wide leather chair. Magnic looked so young against Vishna, he thought, his pale face, soft-featured and unlined, his blond, unruly hair giving him the appearance of a youth some years from twenty. Vishna, tall and stern, his black forked beard carefully combed and oiled, looked old enough to be Magnic's father. Yet both were barely twenty-four.

'The debate is of worth only because it makes us consider the Source,' said Dardalion at last. 'The pantheistic view that God exists in everything, every stone and every tree, is an interesting one. We believe the Universe was created by the Source in a single moment of blinding energy. From Nothing came Something. What could that Something be, save the body of the Source? That is the argument of the pantheists. Your view, Magnic, that the Source is separate from the world, and that only the Chaos Spirit rules here, is also widely held. The Source, in a terrible War against His own rebellious angels, sent them hurtling to the earth, there to rule, as He rules in Heaven. This argument makes Hell of our world. And I would agree that there is strong evidence to suggest that sometimes it is.

'But in all these debates we are trying to imagine the unimaginable, and therein lies a great danger. The Source of All Things is beyond us. His actions are timeless, and so far above our understanding as to make them meaningless to us. Yet still we try to force our minds to comprehend. We struggle to encompass His greatness, to draw Him in and place Him in acceptable compartments. This leads to dispute and disruption, discord and disharmony. And these are the weapons of the Chaos Spirit.' Dardalion rose and walked around the oak desk to stand beside the two priests, laying a hand on each of them. 'The important point is to know that He exists, and to trust His judgement. You see, you could both be right, and both be wrong. We are dealing here with the Cause of All Causes, the one great truth in a universe of lies. How can we judge? From what perspec­tive? How does the ant perceive the elephant? All the ant sees is part of the foot. Is that the elephant? It is to the ant. Be patient. When the Day of Glory arrives all will be revealed. We will find the Source together – as we have planned.'

'That day is not far off,' said Vishna quietly.

'Not far,' agreed Dardalion. 'How is the training pro­gressing?'

'We are strong,' said Vishna, 'but we have problems still with Ekodas.'

Dardalion nodded. 'Send him to me this evening, after meditation.'

'You will not talk him round, Father Abbot,' ventured Magnic diffidently. 'He will leave us rather than fight. He cannot overcome his cowardice.'

'He is not a coward,' said Dardalion, masking his annoyance. 'I know this. I once walked the same road, believed the same dreams. Evil can sometimes be coun­tered with love. Indeed, that is the best way. But some­times evil must be faced with steel and a strong arm, yet do not call him a coward for holding to high ideals. It lessens you as much as it insults him.'

The blond priest blushed furiously. 'I am sorry, Father Abbot.'

'And now I am expecting a visitor,' said Dardalion. 'Vishna, wait for him at the front gate and bring him straight to my study. Magnic, go to the cellar and fetch a bottle of wine and some bread and cheese.' Both priests stood. 'One more thing,' said Dardalion, his voice little more than a whisper. 'Do not shake hands with the man, or touch him. And do not try to read his thoughts.'

'Is he evil, then?' asked Vishna.

'No, but his memories would burn you. Now go and wait for him.'

Dardalion returned to the window. The sun was high, shining down on the distant Delnoch peaks, and from this high window the Abbot could just see the faint grey line of the first wall of the Delnoch fortress. His eyes tracked along the colossal peaks of the mountains, traversing west to east towards the distant sea. Low clouds blocked the view, but Dardalion pictured the fortress of Dros Purdol, saw again the dreadful siege, heard the screams of the dying. He sighed. The might of Vagria was humbled before the walls of Purdol, and the history of the world changed in those awful months of warfare. Good men had died, iron spears ripping into their bodies . . .

The first Thirty had been slaughtered there, battling against the demonic powers of the Brotherhood. Dardalion alone had survived. He shivered, as he relived the pain of the spear plunging into his back, and the loneliness as the souls of his friends flew from him, hurtling towards the eternal serenity of the Source. The Thirty had fought on the astral plane alone, refusing to bear weapons in the world of flesh. How wrong they had been!

The door opened behind him, and he stiffened, his mouth suddenly dry. Swiftly he closed the gates of his Talent, shutting out the swelling violence emanating from his visitor. Slowly he turned. His guest was tall, wide-shouldered and yet lean, dark-eyed and stern of ap­pearance. He was dressed all in black and even the chain-mail shoulder-guard was stained with dark dye. Dardalion's eyes were drawn to the many weapons, the three knives sheathed to the man's baldric, the throwing blades in scabbards strapped to his forearms, the short sabre and crossbow bolt quiver at his side. Two more knives were hidden, he knew, in the man's knee-length moccasins. But the weapon of death that drew his gaze was the small ebony crossbow the man held in his right hand.

'Good day, Dakeyras,' said Dardalion, and there was no welcome in his voice.

'And to you, Dardalion. You are looking well.'

'That will be all, Vishna,' said the Abbot, and the tall, white-robed priest bowed and departed. 'Sit you down,' Dardalion told his visitor, but the man remained standing, his dark eyes scanning the room, the shelves packed with ancient tomes, the open cupboards bursting with manu­scripts and scrolls, the dust-covered rugs and the decaying velvet hangings at the high, arched window. 'I study here,' said Dardalion.