David Gemmell - Legend

"Assuredly. The question is what method he will choose."

"I think I will leave you to worry about that," said Rek. "I can only take in so much gloom in one day."

Serbitar did not answer him. Rek reined his mount and waited for Virae.

That night they camped by a mountain stream, but lit no fires. In the early evening Vintar recited poetry, his voice soft and melodious, his words evocative.

"They are his own work," Serbitar whispered to Virae, "though he will not own to them. I know not why. He is a fine poet."

"But they are so sad," she said.

"All beauty is sad," replied the albino. "For it fades."

He left her and retreated to a nearby willow, sitting with his back to the tree, a silver ghost in the moonlight.

Arbedark joined Rek and Virae, handing them honey cakes he had purchased at the port. Rek glanced over at the lonely figure of the albino.

"He travels," said Arbedark. "Alone."

As the dawn bird-song began, Rek groaned and eased his aching body away from the probing tree roots which were denting his side. His eyes opened. Most of The Thirty were still asleep, though tall Antaheim stood sentry by the stream. At the willow Serbitar remained where he had been during the recital.

Rek sat up and stretched, his mouth dry. Pushing back his blanket he walked to the horses, removed his pack, rinsed his mouth with water from his canteen and went to the stream. Taking out a bar of soap, he stripped the shirt from his chest and knelt by the swift rushing water.

"Please don't do that," said Antaheim.

"What?"

The tall warrior walked across to him, squatting by his side. "The soap bubbles will carry on downstream. It is not wise thus to announce our movements."

Rek cursed himself for a fool and apologised swiftly.

"That is not necessary. I am sorry to have intruded. Do you see that plant there, by the lichen rock?"

Rek twisted, then nodded. "It is a lemon mint. Wash in the water, then crush some of the leaves and clean your body. It will refresh you and create… a more pleasant aroma."

"Thank you. Is Serbitar still travelling?"

"He should not be. I will seek him." Antaheim closed his eyes for several seconds. When they opened again, Rek recognised panic and the warrior ran from the stream. In that moment all members of The Thirty surged from their blankets and raced to Serbitar by the willow.

Rek dropped his shirt and soap on the bank and moved to join them. Vintar was bending over the albino's still form; he closed his eyes and placed his hands on the young leader's slender face. For long moments he remained thus. Sweat broke out upon his forehead and he began to sway. When he lifted a hand, Menahem joined him instantly, raising Serbitar's head. The swarthy warrior lifted the albino's right eyelid: the iris was red as blood.

Virae dropped to her knees beside Rek. "His eyes are green normally," she said. "What is happening?"

"I don't know," said Rek.

Antaheim rose from the group and sprinted for the undergrowth, returning minutes later with what appeared to be an armful of vine leaves which he tipped to the ground. Gathering dried twigs, he fashioned a small fire; then, setting up a tripod of branches, he hung a pot above the flames, filled it with water and crushed the leaves between his palms, dropping them into the pot. Soon the water began to bubble and a sweet aroma filled the air. Antaheim lifted the pan from the flames, adding cold water from his canteen, then transferred the green liquid to a leather-covered pottery mug which he passed to Menahem. Slowly they opened Serbitar's mouth and, while Vintar held the albino's nostrils, they poured in the liquid. Serbitar gagged and swallowed and Vintar released his nose. Menahem laid his head back on the grass and Antaheim swiftly killed the fire. There had been no smoke.

"What's going on?" asked Rek as Vintar approached him.

"We will talk later," said Vintar. "Now I must rest." He stumbled to his blankets and lay down, slipping instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"I feel like a one-legged man in a foot race," said Rek.

Menahem joined them, his dark face grey with exhaustion as he sipped water from a leather canteen. He stretched his long legs out on the grass and lay on his side, supporting himself on his elbow. He turned towards Rek.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," he said, "but I did overhear you. You must forgive Vintar. He is older than the rest of us and the strain of the hunt proved too much for him."

"The hunt? What hunt?" asked Virae.

"We sought Serbitar. He had journeyed far and the path was sundered. He could not return and we had to find him. Vintar guessed rightly that he had retreated into the mists and taken his chances. He had to seek him."

"I'm sorry, Menahem. You look worn out," said Rek, "but try to remember that we do not know what you are talking about. Into the mists? What the devil does that mean?"

Menahem sighed. "How can one explain colours to a blind man?"

"One says," snapped Rek, "that red is like silk, blue is like cool water, and yellow is like sunshine on the face."

"Forgive me, Rek. I am tired, I did not mean to be rude," said Menahem. "I cannot explain the mists to you as I understand them. But I will try to give you some idea.

"There are many futures but only one past. When we travel beyond ourselves we walk a straight path, journeying much as we are doing now. We direct ourselves over vast distances. But the path back remains solid, for it is locked in our memories. Do you understand?"

"So far," said Rek. "Virae?"

"I'm not an idiot, Rek."

"Sorry. Go on, Menahem."

"Now try to imagine there are other paths. Not just from, say, Drenan to Delnoch, but from today into tomorrow. Tomorrow has not yet happened and the possibilities for it are endless. Each one of us makes a decision that will affect tomorrow. But let us say we do travel into tomorrow. Then we are faced with a multitude of paths, gossamer-thin and shifting. In one tomorrow Dros Delnoch has already fallen, in another it has been saved, or is about to fall or about to be saved. Already we have four paths. Which is true? And when we tread the path, how do we return to today, which from where we are standing is a multitude of yesterdays? To which do we return? Serbitar journeyed far beyond tomorrow. And Vintar found him as we held the path in sight."

"You used the wrong analogy," said Rek. "It is nothing like explaining colours 'to a blind man.' Rather is it more like teaching archery to a rock. I haven't the remotest idea what you are talking about. Will Serbitar be all right?"

"We don't know yet. If he lives, he will have information of great value."

"What happened to his eyes? How did they change colour?" asked Virae.

"Serbitar is an albino — a true albino. He needs certain herbs in order to maintain his strength. Last night he journeyed too far and lost his way. It was foolhardy. But his heartbeat is strong and he is now resting."

"Then he won't die?" said Rek.

"That we cannot say. He travelled a path which stretched his mind. It could be he will suffer the Pull; this happens sometimes to Travellers. They move so far from themselves that they just drift, like smoke. If his spirit is broken, it will pass from him and return to the mist."

"Can't you do anything?"

"We have done all we can. We cannot hold him forever."

"When will we know?" asked Rek.

"When he awakes. If he awakes."

The long morning wore on and Serbitar still lay unmoving. The Thirty volunteered no conversation and Virae had walked upstream to bathe. Bored and tired, Rek took the despatches from his pouch. The bulky scroll sealed in red wax was addressed to Earl Delnar. Rek broke the seal and spread the letter wide. In flowing script the message read: