just like you . . .’
‘She’s born of the Republic. And you know what the Republic has done to generals who failed to rally to its side,’ she said sadly. ‘Why did you talk to her? What were you thinking? You’ve been willing enough to lie until now, and suddenly you’ve given yourself away!’
‘What do I care about the Republic . . . ? It means nothing to me.’
She snatched her hand from him and gave him a withering look, as if he were an unruly child who had done something naughty.
‘She can have you arrested at any moment—’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he sighed as he rose to his feet.
He walked painfully over to the basin at the far side of the chamber and was glad to see that it was already filled with warm water. He carefully undid the top buttons of his shirt and then, with a mounting impatience, he pulled it off over his head.
‘It matters to me,’ Mildrel insisted.
She hadn’t moved from her spot next to the unmade bed, her hands clutched together. Looking over his shoulder he saw her haloed by the sunlight, so beautiful, so dignified, in her controlled anger.
‘I don’t represent anything to anyone here,’ he replied. ‘Not any more. It’s been too long . . . What danger could I pose to them? The girl knows that all too well.’
He leaned over the basin, plunging his hands in and splashing his face. The warmth of the water soothed the worn skin of his face and he rubbed his eyelids, still sore from the effects of alcohol and the bright midday sun. His memories of the purges which had followed the fall of the Empire were as hazy as the steam rising from the water. So many knights had been judged by the Republic, so many proud, steadfast men had been sentenced, so much honour had been besmirched in public trials dictated by popular sentiment. He had survived it all, running before the heralds of the newborn Republic like a dog, even hiding out for two years in the forests of the North. And there Dun-Cadal Daermon and the others who had served the cursed Emperor were all finally forgotten . . .
‘That’s true. The only person you’re a danger to is yourself. Andthat’s been the case for longer than you think; it wasn’t the fall of the Empire that brought down the great Dun-Cadal Daermon.’
He froze, his arms resting on the edge of the basin and drops of water running down his face. The young boy’s image haunted him, and every time it aroused the same feelings of pain and dismay. His memories were nothing but an open, festering wound.
‘Losing Frog destroyed you.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Really?’ She laughed, but it was a mocking, perfidious, disdainful sound. ‘And do you know what you’re talking about, with strange women? Did you even ask yourself what she wanted?’
Mildrel walked slowly towards the door, keeping her eyes on the old warrior’s bare back. A large scar crossed one of his shoulder blades, the kiss of an axe, from the days when he’d defended his ideal of a glorious civilisation, heart and soul. How she had loved to feel that scar beneath her fingers . . .
‘She’s a historian from Emeris,’ Dun-Cadal said as he continued to wash. ‘She wanted to speak to a soldier of the Empire.’
‘And she stumbled across you by sheer accident,’ she mocked him, opening the door. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, it’s foolish to be nostalgic for the old times in Masalia. Especially when so many councillors have been invited to celebrate Masque Night in the city.’
She waited for a reaction but Dun-Cadal was silent, his gaze lost in the steam from the basin. Since his arrival in Masalia he had paid no attention to anything but filling his tankard. Mildrel could bear it no longer. Only when she had shut the door behind her and her footsteps were no more than a distant echo did he straighten up.
He could not be angry with her, not for being worried about him. She had always worried. Worse still, she was always right. He had
‘She’s born of the Republic. And you know what the Republic has done to generals who failed to rally to its side,’ she said sadly. ‘Why did you talk to her? What were you thinking? You’ve been willing enough to lie until now, and suddenly you’ve given yourself away!’
‘What do I care about the Republic . . . ? It means nothing to me.’
She snatched her hand from him and gave him a withering look, as if he were an unruly child who had done something naughty.
‘She can have you arrested at any moment—’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he sighed as he rose to his feet.
He walked painfully over to the basin at the far side of the chamber and was glad to see that it was already filled with warm water. He carefully undid the top buttons of his shirt and then, with a mounting impatience, he pulled it off over his head.
‘It matters to me,’ Mildrel insisted.
She hadn’t moved from her spot next to the unmade bed, her hands clutched together. Looking over his shoulder he saw her haloed by the sunlight, so beautiful, so dignified, in her controlled anger.
‘I don’t represent anything to anyone here,’ he replied. ‘Not any more. It’s been too long . . . What danger could I pose to them? The girl knows that all too well.’
He leaned over the basin, plunging his hands in and splashing his face. The warmth of the water soothed the worn skin of his face and he rubbed his eyelids, still sore from the effects of alcohol and the bright midday sun. His memories of the purges which had followed the fall of the Empire were as hazy as the steam rising from the water. So many knights had been judged by the Republic, so many proud, steadfast men had been sentenced, so much honour had been besmirched in public trials dictated by popular sentiment. He had survived it all, running before the heralds of the newborn Republic like a dog, even hiding out for two years in the forests of the North. And there Dun-Cadal Daermon and the others who had served the cursed Emperor were all finally forgotten . . .
‘That’s true. The only person you’re a danger to is yourself. Andthat’s been the case for longer than you think; it wasn’t the fall of the Empire that brought down the great Dun-Cadal Daermon.’
He froze, his arms resting on the edge of the basin and drops of water running down his face. The young boy’s image haunted him, and every time it aroused the same feelings of pain and dismay. His memories were nothing but an open, festering wound.
‘Losing Frog destroyed you.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Really?’ She laughed, but it was a mocking, perfidious, disdainful sound. ‘And do you know what you’re talking about, with strange women? Did you even ask yourself what she wanted?’
Mildrel walked slowly towards the door, keeping her eyes on the old warrior’s bare back. A large scar crossed one of his shoulder blades, the kiss of an axe, from the days when he’d defended his ideal of a glorious civilisation, heart and soul. How she had loved to feel that scar beneath her fingers . . .
‘She’s a historian from Emeris,’ Dun-Cadal said as he continued to wash. ‘She wanted to speak to a soldier of the Empire.’
‘And she stumbled across you by sheer accident,’ she mocked him, opening the door. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, it’s foolish to be nostalgic for the old times in Masalia. Especially when so many councillors have been invited to celebrate Masque Night in the city.’
She waited for a reaction but Dun-Cadal was silent, his gaze lost in the steam from the basin. Since his arrival in Masalia he had paid no attention to anything but filling his tankard. Mildrel could bear it no longer. Only when she had shut the door behind her and her footsteps were no more than a distant echo did he straighten up.
He could not be angry with her, not for being worried about him. She had always worried. Worse still, she was always right. He had
Similar Books
