'But now you remember it all?'

'Yes.'

'I did my best, Miriel… Do not read my thoughts . . . my life.'

'It is too late.'

He nodded and stood. 'Then do not hold me in too great a contempt.'

'Oh, Father!' Stepping forward she embraced him. 'How could I hold you in contempt? I love you. I always have.'

Relief washed over him, and he closed his eyes as he held her. 'I wanted you to be happy – like Krylla. I wanted a good life for you.'

'I have had a good life. And I have been happy,' she told him. She drew back from him and smiled, lifting her hand to stroke his cheek. 'The packs are ready, and we should move.' She closed her eyes. 'Belash has found the horses and will be here soon.'

Taking hold of her shoulders he drew her in to him once more. 'You could head south with Angel,' he said. 'I have money in Drenan.'

She shook her head. 'You need me.'

'I do not want to see you . . . hurt.'

'Everyone dies, Father,' she said. 'But this is no longer just a private war between you and Karnak. I wonder if it ever was.'

'What is it, then?'

'I don't know yet, but Karnak did not send the Brother­hood. When I killed the last man he had an image in his mind. He was thinking of a tall man, with black hair, greased to his skull. Slanted eyes, long robes of dark purple. He it was who sent them. And he is the same man who tried to hurt Krylla and me; the man who summoned the demons.'

'From where did the Dark Knights come?'

'Dros Delnoch, and before that Gulgothir.'

'Then that is where the answers lie,' he said.

'Yes,' she agreed, sadly.

Angel watched the Nadir leading the five horses across the clearing. Disgusting little savage, he thought! Everything about Belash sickened him, the slanted, soulless eyes, the cruel mouth, the man's barbaric method of killing. It made Angel's skin crawl. He glanced north at the distant mountains. Beyond these the Nadir bred like lice, living their short, violent lives engaged in one bloody war after another. There had never been a Nadir poet, nor an artist nor a sculptor. And never would be! What a vile people, thought Angel.

'Uses that knife well,' observed Senta.

'Bastard Nadir,' grunted Angel.

'I thought your first wife was part-Nadir?'

'She was not!' snapped Angel. 'She was . . . Chiatze. They're different. The Nadir are not human. Devils, all of them.'

'Canny fighters, though.'

'Talk about something else!' demanded Angel.

Senta chuckled. 'How did you know they were coming? You walked away and fetched your sword from the cabin.'

Angel frowned, then smiled, his mood clearing. 'I smelt horse dung – the breeze was blowing from the south. I thought they might be more assassins. I wish they had been. Shemak's balls, but I was frightened when that spell fell upon me. I'm still not over it. To just stand, unable to move, while a swordsman approached me . . .' He shud­dered. 'It was like my worst nightmare.'

'Not something I'd like to repeat,' agreed Senta. 'Waylander said they were the Brotherhood. I thought they were wiped out in the Vagrian Wars.'

Angel's pale eyes scanned the bodies. 'Well, they obviously weren't.'

'What do you know of them?'

'Precious little. There are legends of a sorcerer who founded the order, but I can't remember his name, nor where they began. Ventria, I think. Or was it further east? They were called the Blood Knights at one time, because of the sacrifices. Or was it the Crimson Knights?'

'Forget it, Angel. I think "precious little" covered it.'

'I never was much of a history student.'

Belash approached them. 'They are the Knights of Blood,' he said. "The first of their temples was built in Chiatze three hundred years ago, founded by a wizard named Zhi Zhen. They became very powerful and tried to overthrow the Emperor. Zhi Zhen was captured after many battles and impaled on a golden spike. But the Order did not die out. It spread west. The Vagrian General Kaem used Brotherhood priests at the Siege of Purdol. Now they have reformed in Gothir, under a wizard named Zhu Chao.'

'You are well-informed,' said Senta.

'One of them killed my father.'

'Well, they can't be all bad,' said Angel.

Belash stood for a moment, his flat features expression­less, his dark eyes locked to Angel's face. Then he nodded slowly and walked away.

'That shouldn't have been said,' chided Senta.

'I don't like him.'

'That's no excuse for bad manners, Angel. Insult the living, not the dead.'

'I speak my mind,' muttered Angel, but he knew Senta was right, and the insult left a bad taste in his mouth.

'Why do you hate them so?'

'I witnessed a massacre. Sixty miles north of the Delnoch Pass. My father and I were travelling from Namib. We were in the hills, and we saw the Nadir attack a convoy of wagons. I'll never forget it. The torture went on long into the night. We slipped away, but the screams followed us. They follow me still.'

'I lived in Gulgothir for a while,' said Senta. 'I have relatives there, and we used to ride to the hunt. One day, high summer it was, the hunting party spotted three Nadir boys, walking beside a stream. The huntmaster shouted something and the riders broke into a gallop, spearing two of the boys as they stood there. The third ran. He was chased and cut a score of times, not enough to bring him down, but enough to keep him running. Finally he fell to the ground, exhausted and, I would guess, dying. The huntsmen, Gothir nobles all, leapt from their horses and hacked him to pieces. Then they cut off his ears for trophies.'

'There is a point to this tale?' enquired Angel.

'Savagery breeds savagery,' said Senta.

That's today's sermon, is it?'

'By Heaven but you are in a foul mood, Angel. I think I'll leave you to enjoy it alone.'

Angel remained silent as Senta moved back into the cabin.

Soon they would be heading north. Into Nadir country. Angel's mouth felt dry and the flames of fear grew in his belly.

Ekodas loved the forest, the majestic trees living in quiet brotherhood, the plants and flowers cloaking the earth, and the serenity born of eternal life. When the world was young, the earth still warm, the first trees had grown here, living, breathing. And their descendants were still here, endlessly watching the small, fleeting lives of men.

The young priest, his white robes now stained with mud, moved alongside a huge oak, reaching out to lay his hand upon the rough bark. He closed his eyes. The tree had no heart to hear, yet there was still the pulsing beat of life within the trunk, the slow flowing of sap through the capillaries, the stretching of growth in new wood.

Ekodas was at peace here.

He walked on, his mind open to the sounds of the forest, the late birdsong, the skittering of small animals in the undergrowth. He sensed the heartbeat of a fox close by, and smelt the musky fur of an old badger. He stopped. And smiled. The fox and the badger were sharing a burrow.

An owl hooted. Ekodas glanced up. The light was fading, the sun dipping into the western sea.

He turned and began the long climb towards the temple. The debate came back to him then and he sighed, regretting the weakness which had driven him to betray his principles. Deep down he knew that Dardalion himself was now unsure of the path on which they stood. The Abbot had almost wanted to be free of the destiny he had planned for so long. Almost.

Yet if love had won the day then everything Dardalion had striven for would have seemed as nothing. A tragic waste of life and Talent. I could not do that to you, Dardalion, thought Ekodas. I could not make a mockery of your life.

The young priest drew in a deep breath, seeking to feel once more the calm of the forest. Instead there came a sharp, jagged stab in his mind. Anger. Fear. Arousal. Lust. Focusing his Talent, he scanned the trees. And sensed two men . . . and . . . yes, a woman.