For a time Weaver said nothing, his face gradually clouding into an expression so troubled it seemed his youth had vanished. “When I was a child,” he said, “I didn’t understand the nature of my gift. If I saw a wounded creature, a bird with a broken wing or a dog hobbling on a twisted leg, it seemed such a wondrous and simple thing to restore them with a touch. But for a long time everything I healed became a shadow of what it had been, an empty-eyed husk plodding through life and often shunned by its own kind. I didn’t know why until I came to understand that my gift doesn’t just give, it takes. Those I heal are opened to me by the touch, everything they have is laid bare and there for the taking. Their memories, their compassion, their malice . . . And their gifts. Although I try to stop it, something always comes back, bringing with it the temptation to take more, to take it all.
“I first met your brother years ago, when my mind was . . . less clear than it is today. I had occasion to heal him, Snowdance being so hard to restrain.” Weaver looked down at his hands, spreading the nimble fingers. “His gift was great, brother, and the temptation stronger than ever. So I took, just a little. If I had taken it all . . .” Weaver shook his head, shame and fear mingling on his face. “The song is faint,” he continued, “but if I listen hard enough, I can hear it, and it guides me, tells me where I need to be. It led me to follow him to Alltor, guided me to the queen when she needed healing, and to the ship that brought us to this land. And now, brother, it tells me to go to Volar, and its tune is far from faint.”
He patted Frentis’s knee and got to his feet, casting a final glance around the council chamber. “They also killed children here,” he said. “To seal the people’s choice with a blood offering to the gods. The sacrifice would be chosen by lot, their parents considering it a great honour.”
He turned and started up the steps. “I should speak to the Politai, they’re becoming ever more insistent on explanations.”
CHAPTER SIX
The red man’s lips had been part seared away, exposing teeth and gums in an obscene grin. Vaelin couldn’t escape the sense of being laughed at, the Witch’s Bastard enjoying his final triumph.
A series of gurgles came from the ruined face, spittle and blood spraying as the red man’s lidless eyes stared up at him. Was he begging? Taunting? Vaelin crouched, leaning close to try to discern some meaning amongst the choking babble. The red man jerked and convulsed, tongue sliding over his teeth as he attempted to shape the words. “O-one . . . left. Stiiillll . . . one . . . moooore . . . leeeeft.”
“Where?”
“K-kuhhhh . . . killlll . . . meeee . . .”
Vaelin stared into the thing’s bloodshot eyes, unable to read any expression as the surrounding flesh had been seared to the bone. “I will.”
The thing choked, tongue twisting behind the teeth as it fought to shape an answer. “Alpiraaah . . .”
Vaelin rose and went to Wise Bear and Erlin. “He says there’s another,” he told the shaman. “Far from here. Will it matter?”
“Matter to what?” Erlin asked.
Vaelin gave no response, keeping his gaze on Wise Bear, who glanced uncertainly at the ancient man before replying. “Other one stay in body it stole, won’t matter.”
Vaelin glanced back at the wasted, blackened thing lying amongst the rocks, various tempting notions flickering through his head.
Cara’s sobs drew his attention to the far end of the ridge where Orven’s guardsmen were constructing the pyre. She sagged in Lorkan’s arms, face buried in his chest. The Sentar stood nearby in respectful silence, their numbers halved in the struggle with the Kuritai, Kiral standing beside Alturk. The Tahlessa leaned heavily on a spear, sweating with the effort.
“Finish it,” Vaelin told Wise Bear, jerking his head at the blackened thing and moving towards the pyre. “I leave the manner of its passing to you.”
• • •
He sat on the cliff edge as the fire dwindled behind him and the sun dipped below the mountains. Out on the valley floor the tribesfolk were still picking over the Volarian dead. The aftermath of victory had seen them instantly revert to prior allegiances and the different groups squabbled over the spoils, threats and curses echoing across the valley, each chieftain no doubt stating a claim to the collected loot as leader of the army and architect of victory.
He hadn’t said any words as the fire blossomed, watching Dahrena and Marken’s fur-wrapped bodies wreathed in flame and smoke as the others said their peace. Even Alturk managed a few terse words of respect for those fallen in a common cause. They drifted away as evening fell, Cara still crying and making him wonder if she would ever stop.
“Why won’t it matter?”
