David Gemmell - Morningstar

‘You gave Cataplas the skull?’ I said, astonished. ‘You have delivered a great weapon into the hands of evil men!’

‘I did it to save you,’ she argued, tears in her eyes. ‘And I was right! You returned!’

I was furious. ‘We came back…’ I began.

Mace grabbed my arm. ‘We returned,’ he said gently, ‘thanks to you, Astiana. Now let us say no more about it.’

The dawn was breaking and the first rays of the morning sun shone down upon us.

‘I did the right thing, Owen. I did!’ said Astiana, moving alongside me.

My anger died down as swiftly as it had come. ‘Of course you did,’ I told her, smiling, and I glanced at Mace.

My father would have liked him. The spell of if only had no power over the Morningstar.

It took almost a month to reach the south-eastern edges of the forest, where the distant towers of Ziraccu could be seen from the highest hills. All around us the world was changing. Corlan had intercepted five rich convoys and was becoming almost as great a legend as the Morningstar. Brackban had gathered a powerful force of some five hundred men and had fought two skirmishes with Ikenas soldiers, fighting them to a standstill in the first and routing them in the second.

Towns and villages had risen against the invader and word of the rebellion had reached Ebracum, where Edmund the King was spending the summer and autumn. In one of the ransacked convoys Corlan had found correspondence from the King to Azrek demanding action against the Morningstar, allied to a promise of more troops in the spring.

But this we did not know as we began our journey.

For the first few days, as we travelled, Ilka stayed close beside Astiana, locked in the silent commune of spirit, and I found myself envying the Gastoigne sister her ability. Longing to share it, I became morose and distant. But after some ten days, as we camped in a shallow cave, Ilka came and sat beside me, reaching out and lightly touching my hand. I heard a whisper then, deep in my mind, like the memory of a lost song.

‘Owen.’

I shivered and my hand trembled. ‘Owen,’ came the voice again, hesitant, lacking in confidence.

‘I hear you,’ I whispered.

She smiled a wondrous smile, her blue eyes wide, tears glistening there. And she said no more for a little while. I took her hand in both of mine, stroking her skin.

‘I love you,’ I told her, my voice breaking.

‘Why?’ whispered the voice in my mind.

At first I could say nothing. How does a man answer such a question? I rose, drawing her up with me, and we walked from the camp to sit beneath the bright stars. Her face was bathed in silver light, her blonde hair shining almost white in the moonlight.

‘When I first came to the village,’ I told her, holding gently to her hand, ‘I sat in despair by the lakeside. I could see only evil everywhere. And I played my harp — you remember?’ She nodded. ‘And then you came to me and you danced. You changed the music in my mind and my soul; you were a dancing flame in the winter of my heart. I think from that moment my love for you was born. You understand?’

‘Owen Odell,’ came the voice in my mind, rippling like a song, making a gentle melody of the name. Moving close beside me she kissed my cheek, and I drew her in to an embrace.

Ilka nestled beside me and we sat in companionable silence, her head against my chest, but we did not make love that night nor for many nights after. In truth I was afraid, for I was inexperienced, and I did not wish our love to be sullied by doing that which had brought her such pain in the past.

What foolishness. Love changes everything and as a bard — if not as a man — I should have known that simple fact. When at last we lay together, on a blanket spread beside a stream, I felt her joy — bright, unfettered and free. That one fumbling and inexpert union was for her, she told me later, like a bridge of light across a dark stream.

From then on we were inseparable and even Mace made no jokes at our expense, nor did he ever attempt to bed her again. I do not know to this day whether Ilka ever loved me with the same passion I felt for her. And it does not matter. She needed me and she was happy. This was everything.

Piercollo understood it better than many men would, but he was a man of music and his soul was great. ‘I am happy for you, my friend,’ he said, as we approached the end of our journey. ‘She is a good girl. And she deserves happiness — as do you.’

‘Have you ever been in love?’

For a moment he was silent, then he shook his head and his smile faded. ‘Only with the Great Song,’ he said, and walked on ahead.

My soul was light, my mood merry. Thoughts of Cataplas and Azrek were far from my mind, and the loss of the skull seemed more a reason for relief than concern. It was a burden, and we were free of it. But Wulf did not see it this way; he had made a promise to Gareth’s ghost, and felt he had been shamed. No matter how many times Mace and I tried to reassure him, he remained sullen and withdrawn.

‘I must get it back,’ he repeated. ‘I must.’

Astiana was unrepentant about surrendering the skull, which irritated me somewhat. Had she accepted that there might be the slimmest of possibilities that she was wrong, then I would have been the first to say, ‘Well, what’s done is done. Let us forget it.’ But she did not. Despite all her fine traits and her courage she had one great failing — an inability to admit to error.

It is baffling to me why so many people find it difficult to say, ‘I was wrong.’ The words, when spoken with repentance, always turn away wrath. But those who cling to their absolute Tightness, despite any evidence to the contrary, will always arouse anger in their comrades or superiors.

Nonetheless we travelled on in relative good humour, coming at last to Corlan’s camp in the village by the lake where I had first met Megan.

It was no surprise — indeed it was a great joy — to see her sitting outside her cabin with a homespun dress of brown wool clinging to her bony frame, a faded red shawl around her shoulders.

‘You took your time,’ she said as I approached her, smiling.

‘Mace wanted to return to the ruined castle, to find more weapons of enchantment.’

‘And he looks right pretty,’ she said as Mace, sporting a black, raven-winged helm and cuirass, marched across the clearing to be greeted by the blond archer, Corlan. The two men embraced as a crowd of warriors looked on, cheering.

Megan ushered Ilka and myself into her cabin and we sat by the fire in the easy silence only friends can create. Her scorched skin had healed remarkably, without scars or weals.

‘It took time,’ she told me, ‘but Osian nursed me well. I am glad that you prospered, however. And Mace. He is important, you know — more than you would believe.’

‘To whom?’ I asked, making light of her comment.

‘To you. To us. To the future — and the past.’

‘He is what he always was, Megan — an outlaw, selfish, self-obsessed and vain. The man will never be a saint.’

She chuckled and shook her head. ‘You do not believe in redemption, Owen? How disappointing. Perhaps Mace will surprise you.’

‘You believe in him?’ I asked, surprised.

‘I saw him — a long time ago — produce heroism and courage in a situation of darkness and despair. There is more to him than you see. But that is because you cannot tear yourself from stories and legends. Heroes, in a bard’s eyes at least, must be tall and fair, villains dark and terrible. Yet sometimes both can be fair and terrible, the roles shifting and changing. But we will see. All this is for another day. Now there is a more immediate problem — and I think Mace is just learning of it.’