He nodded, but she knew she had not reached him. He smiled and laid his hand on her shoulder. 'One day you'll find a love and then we can talk on equal terms. I do not mean that to sound patronising. You are bright and intelligent. You have courage and wit. But sometimes it is like trying to describe colours to a blind man. Love, as I hope you will find, has great power. Even death cannot destroy it. And I still love her.' Leaning forward he drew her towards him, kissing her brow. 'Now skin that beast. And I'll see you at dusk.'

She watched him walk away, a tall man moving with grace and care, his black and silver hair drawn back into a tightly-tied ponytail, his crossbow hanging from his belt.

And then he was gone – vanished into the shadows.

The waterfall was narrow, no more than six feet wide, flowing over white boulders in a glittering cascade to a leaf-shaped bowl thirty feet across and forty-five long. At its most southern point a second fall occurred, the stream surging on to join the river two miles south. Golden leaves swirled on the surface of the water, and with each breath of breeze more spiralled down from the trees.

Around the pool grew many flowers, most of them planted by the man who now knelt by the graveside. He glanced up at the sky. The sun was losing its power now, the cold winds of autumn flowing over the mountains. Waylander sighed. A time of dying. He gazed at the golden leaves floating on the water and remembered sitting here with Danyal and the children, on another autumn day ten lifetimes ago.

Krylla was sitting with her tiny feet in the water, Miriel swimming among the leaves. 'They are like the souls of the departed,' Danyal had told Krylla. 'Floating on the sea of life towards a place of rest.'

He sighed again and returned his attention to the flower-garlanded mound beneath which lay all he had lived for.

'Miriel fought a lion today,' he said. 'She stood and did not panic. You would have been proud of her.' Laying his ebony-handled crossbow to one side he idly dead-headed the geraniums growing by the headstone, removing the faded, dry red blooms. The season was late and it was unlikely they would flower again. Soon he would need to pull them, shaking dry the roots and hanging them in the cabin, ready for planting in the spring.

'But she is still too slow,' he added. 'She does not act with instinct, but with remembered learning. Not like Krylla.' He chuckled. 'You remember how the village boys used to gather around her? She knew how to handle them, the tilt of the head, the sultry smile. She took that from you.'

Reaching out he touched the cold, rectangular marble head-stone, his index finger tracing the carved lines.

Danyal, wife of Dakeyras, the pebble in the moonlight

The grave was shaded by elms and beech, and there were roses growing close by, huge yellow blooms filling the air with sweet fragrance. He had bought them in Kasyra, seven bushes. Three had died as he journeyed back, but the remainder flourished in the rich clay soil.

'I'm going to have to take her to the city soon,' he said. 'She's eighteen now, and she needs to learn. I'll find a husband for her.' He sighed. 'It means leaving you for a while. I'm not looking forward to that.'

The silence grew, even the wind in the leaves dying down. His dark eyes were distant, his memories solemn. Smoothly he rose and, taking up the clay bowl beside the headstone, he moved to the pool, filled the bowl and began to water the roses. Yesterday's rain had been little more than a shower and the roses liked to drink deep.

Kreeg crouched low in the bushes, his crossbow loaded. How easy, he thought, unable to suppress a smile.

Find Waylander and kill him. He had to admit that the prospect of such a hunt had frightened him. After all, Waylander the Slayer was no mean opponent. When his family were slain by raiders, he roamed the land until he had hunted down every one of the killers. Waylander was a legend among the Guild, a capable swordsman, but a brilliant knife-fighter and a crossbowman without peer. More than this he was said to possess mystical abilities, always sensing when danger was near.

Kreeg sighted the crossbow at the tall man's back. Mystical abilities? Pah. In one heartbeat he would be dead.

The man at the graveside picked up a clay bowl and moved towards the pool. Kreeg shifted his aim, but his intended victim crouched down, filling the bowl. Kreeg lowered his bow a fraction, slowly letting out his held breath. Waylander was side-on now, and a sure killing shot would have to be to the head. What was he doing with the water? Kreeg watched the tall man kneel by the roses, tipping the bowl and splashing the contents around the roots. He'll go back to the grave, thought Kreeg. And once there I'll take him.

So much in life depended on luck. When the kill order came to the Guild, Kreeg had been out of money and living off a whore in Kasyra, the gold he had earned from killing the Ventrian merchant long since vanished in the gambling dens of the city's south side. Now Kreeg blessed the bad luck that had dogged him in Kasyra. For all life, he knew, was a circle. And it was in Kasyra that he had heard of the hermit in the mountains, the tall widower with the shy daughter. He thought of the message from the Guild.

Seek out a man named Dakeyras. He has a wife Danyal and a daughter Miriel. The man has black and silver hair, dark eyes, and is tall, close to fifty years of age. He will be carrying a small double crossbow of ebony and bronze. Kill him and bring the crossbow to Drenan as proof of success. Move with care. The man is Waylander. Ten thousand in gold is waiting.

In Kasyra Kreeg had despaired of earning such a fabulous sum. Then – blessed be the gods – he had told the whore of the hunt.

'There's a man with a daughter called Miriel who lives in the mountains to the north,' she said. 'I've not seen him, but I met his daughters years ago at the Priests' School. We learned our letters there.'

'Do you remember the mother's name?'

'I think it was something like Daneel. . . Donalia . . .'

'Danyal?' he whispered, sitting up in bed, the sheet falling from his lean, scarred body.

'That's it,' she said.

Kreeg's mouth had gone dry, his heart palpitating. Ten thousand! But Waylander? What chance would Kreeg have against such an enemy?

For almost a week he toured Kasyra, asking about the mountain man. Fat Sheras the miller saw him about twice a year, and remembered the small crossbow.

'He's very quiet,' said Sheras, 'but I wouldn't like to see his bad side, if you take my meaning. Hard man. Cold eyes. He used to be almost friendly, but then his wife died – five … six years ago. Horse fell, rolled on her. There were two daughters, twins. Good-looking girls. One married a boy from the south and moved away. The other is still with him. Shy child. Too thin for my taste.'

Goldin the tavern-keeper, a thin-faced refugee from the Gothir lands, also remembered him. 'When the wife was killed he came here for a while and drank his sorrows away. He didn't say much. One night he just collapsed and I left him lying outside the door. His daughters came and helped him home. They were around twelve then. The city elders were talking of removing them from his care. In the end he paid for places at the Priests' School and they lived there for almost three years.'

Kreeg was uplifted by Goldin's tale. If the great Waylander had taken to drinking heavily then he was no longer to be feared. But his hopes evaporated as the tavern-keeper continued.

'He's never been popular. Keeps to himself too much,' said Goldin. 'But he killed a rogue bear last year, and that pleased people. The bear slaughtered a young farmer and his family. Dakeyras hunted it down. Amazing! He used a small crossbow. Taric saw it – the bear charged him and he just stood there, then, right at the last moment, as the bear reared up before him he put two bolts up through its open mouth and into the brain. Taric says he's never seen the like. Cold as ice.'