He looked up and was about to ask Miriel to throw when she suddenly hurled the board high. The sunlight seared his eyes but he waited until the spinning board reached its highest point. Extending his arm he pressed the first bronze trigger. The bolt flashed through the air, hammering into the board, half splitting it. As it fell he released the second bolt. The board exploded into shards.

'Horrible man!' she said.

He made a low bow. 'You should feel privileged,' he told her, holding back his smile. 'I don't usually perform without payment.'

'Throw again,' she ordered him, restringing the cross­bow.

'The wood is broken,' he pointed out.

'Throw the largest piece.'

Retrieving his bolts he hefted the largest chunk of wood. It was no more than four inches across and less than a foot long. 'Are you ready?'

'Just throw!'

With a flick of his wrist he spun the chunk high into the air. The crossbow came up, the bolt sang, plunging into the wood. Waylander applauded the shot. Miriel gave an elaborate bow.

'Women are supposed to curtsey,' he said.

'And they are supposed to wear dresses and learn embroidery,' she retorted.

'True,' he conceded. 'How do you like the assassin's bow?'

'It has good balance, and it is very light.'

'Ventrian ebony, and the stock is hollowed. Are you ready for some swordplay?'

She laughed. 'Is your pride ready for another pounding?'

'No,' he admitted. 'I think we'll have an early night.' She looked disappointed as they gathered their weapons and set off back to the cabin. 'I think you need a better swordmaster than I,' he told her as they walked. 'It is your best weapon and you are truly skilled. I'll think on it.'

'I thought you were the best,' she chided.

'Fathers always seem that way,' he said drily. 'But no. With bow or knife I am superb. With the sword? Only excellent.'

'And so modest. Is there anything at which you do not excel?'

'Yes,' he answered, his smile fading.

Increasing his pace he walked on, his mind lost in painful memories. His first family had been butchered by raiders, his wife, his baby girls and his son. The picture was bright in his mind. He had found the boy lying dead in the flower garden, his little face surrounded by blooms.

And five years before, having found love a second time, he had watched helplessly as Danyal's horse had struck a hidden tree root. The stallion hit the ground hard, rolling, trapping Danyal beneath it and crushing her chest. She had died within minutes, her body racked with pain.

'Is there anything at which you do not excel?'

Only one.

I cannot keep alive those I love.

Ralis liked to tell people he had been a tinker since the stars were young, and it was not far from the truth. He could still remember when the old king, Orien, had been but a beardless prince, walking behind his father at the Spring Parade on the first road called the Drenai Way.

Now it was the Avenue of Kings, and much wider, leading through the triumphal arch built to celebrate victory over the Vagrians.

So many changes. Ralis had fond memories of Orien, the first Battle King of the Drenai, wearer of the Armour of Bronze, victor in a hundred battles and a score of wars.

Sometimes, when he was sitting in lonely taverns, resting from his travels, the old tinker would tell people of his meeting with Orien, soon after the Battle at Dros Corteswain. The King had been hunting boar in Skultik Forest and Ralis, young then and dark-bearded, had been carrying his pack towards the fort town of Delnoch.

They had met at a stream. Orien was sitting on a boulder, his bare feet submerged in the cold water, his expensive boots cast aside. Ralis had released the straps of his pack and moved to the water's edge, kneeling to drink.

'The pack looks heavy,' said the golden-haired King.

'Aye, it is,' Ralis had agreed.

'A tinker, are you?'

'Aye.'

'You know who I am?'

'You're the King,' said Ralis.

Orien chuckled. 'You're not impressed? Good for you. I don't suppose you have any ointment in that pack. I have blisters the size of small apples.'

Ralis shook his head and spread his arms apologetically. At that moment a group of young noblemen arrived on the scene, surrounding the King. They were laughing and shouting, bragging of their skills.

Ralis had left unnoticed.

As the years passed he followed the King's exploits, almost as if gathering news of an old friend. Yet he doubted if the memory of their meeting had survived for more than a moment or two with the King himself. It was all different now, he thought, as he hitched his pack for the walk up to the cabin. The country had no king – and that wasn't right. The Source would not look kindly upon a country without a prince.

Ralis was breathing heavily as he topped the last rise and gazed down on the flower-garlanded cabin. The wind died down and a beautiful silence settled over the forest. Ralis took a deep breath. 'You can both step out here,' he said softly. 'I may not be able to see you, but I know you're close by.'

The young woman appeared first. Dressed in leggings of oiled black leather and a tunic of grey wool she rose from the undergrowth and grinned at the old man. 'You're getting sharper, Ralis,' she observed.

He nodded and turned to his right. The man stepped into view. Like Miriel he wore leggings of black leather and a tunic shirt, but he also sported a black, chain-mail shoulder-guard and a baldric, from which hung three throwing knives. Ralis swallowed hard. There was some­thing about this quiet mountain man that always disturbed the ancient tinker, and had done ever since they met on this same mountainside ten years before. He had thought about it often. It was not that Dakeyras was a warrior – Ralis had known many such – nor was it in the wolf-like way that he moved. No, it was some indefinable quality that left Ralis thinking of mortality. To stand close to Dakeyras was somehow to be close to death. He shuddered.

'Good to see you, old man,' said Dakeyras. 'There's meat on the table, and cold spring water. Also some dried fruit – if your teeth can manage it.'

'Nothing wrong with my teeth, boy,' snapped Ralis. 'There may not be so many as once there were, but those that are left can still do their job.'

Dakeyras swung to the girl. 'You take him down. I'll join you presently.'

Ralis watched him move silently back into the trees. 'Expecting trouble, are you?' he asked.

'What makes you ask that?' replied the girl.

'He's always been a careful man – but he's wearing chain mail. Beautifully made, but still heavy. I wouldn't think he'd wear it in these mountains just for show.'

'We've had trouble,' she admitted.

He followed her down to the cabin, leaving his pack by the door and stretching out in a deep horsehair-padded leather chair. 'Getting too old for this life,' he grunted.

She laughed. 'How long have you been saying that?' she asked him.

'About sixty years,' he told her. Leaning back he rested his head against the chair and closed his eyes. I wonder if I'm a hundred yet, he wondered. I'll have to work it out one day – find a point of reference.

'Water or fermented apple juice?' she asked him.

Opening the pouch at his side he removed a small packet, handing it to her. 'Make a tisane of that,' he requested. 'Just pour boiling water on it and leave it for a little while.'

'What is it?' she enquired, lifting the packet to her nose and drawing in the scent.

'A few herbs, dill and the like. Keeps me young,' he added with a wide grin.

She left him then and he sat quietly, drinking in his surroundings. The cabin was well built, the main room long and wide, the hearth and chimney solidly constructed of limestone. The south wall had been timbered, and a bearskin hung there. Ralis smiled. It was neatly done, but he had walked these mountains before Dakeyras was born, and he knew about the cave. Had sheltered there a time or two. But it was a clever idea to build a cabin against a cave mouth, then disguise the entrance. A man should always have an escape route.