Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [167]
His gaze met hers like steel crossing steel. “I stand here, a man in a place devoted to all that is feminine. The wisdom of the goddess mother you serve is foreign and strange to me. It is the source of all that is mysterious in a woman. But I answer you now as a man, with a man’s wisdom. To enter combat with joy is to mock and cheapen death. You think because I spent years fighting in the arena for the entertainment of spectators that I view killing as a game. But it is not a game. Battle requires respect. To seek to kill is not a matter of pride. It should be a matter of necessity, nothing more and nothing less.”
She bowed her head to him. “I stand rebuked.”
He wanted only to flee, to find a place of privacy where he could mourn for Elandra. But that was only emotion talking. He shut it away, refusing to listen. This place of women was making him weak. He could not afford to look back at his choice, or to regret it. He must look ahead, or he might break his word after all.
“You may go,” the Magria said.
“Are you to tell me nothing else?”
The Magria lifted her brows. “What else remains to be told?”
“How I am to kill the dark god,” he said.
She smiled. “But I have answered you already.”
“You said I was to have faith.” He shook his head. “I have no sword, no knowledge, no armor capable of withstanding—”
“Walk your path, Lord Caelan,” she interrupted coldly, looking disappointed with him. “Keep your word. That is practicing faith. You will know when the dark god comes.”
“But—”
“This time has finished. You must go back.” She beckoned to the dream walker, who came forward to stand beside Caelan. “May the goddess mother fill your heart with courage. May the god of war strengthen your arms. May the gods of light unite in you, that you may prevail.”
She lifted her hands, and the wind blew in a gust that nearly knocked him off his feet. By the time he regained his balance and stood braced against its force, the Magria had vanished.
“Walk with me,” said the gray-haired sister. She gave him a kindly smile and brushed her hand over his face.
He closed his eyes instinctively for a second, opening them to find himself back in the cellar in the gloom and candlelight. Orlo was sponging his face, and the dream walker was gone. He lay there on the straw pallet, and felt feverish and hot. Disappointment filled him. Had it been only a dream? Had they done nothing to take away his wounds?
His head jerked away from Orlo’s touch.
“Easy,” Orlo said to him. “I don’t want you moving now that the bandage is changed.”
“Where is the sister?” Caelan asked. His mouth felt furry and thick, as though he had been sleeping with it open. “Where did she go?”
“Hush yourself,” Orlo said, trying to soothe him. “She left long ago while you were sleeping.”
Caelan frowned, feeling betrayed. What were these games they played with him? “Didn’t she heal me?”
Orlo sat back on his heels and scowled. “The bleeding has stopped. Your wound is closing. Now the witch is gone, and I have seen enough magic practiced to last me a lifetime. Why did you never tell me the truth?”
Caelan’s frown deepened. Dream or reality? Had he talked with the Magria? Her words merged with the crash of the restless waves, the two blending into each other. It was a haze, unreal to him now.
The sound of pealing bells, so flat and discordant, distracted him. He heard the beating of drums, a throbbing sound that pulled at him. A crowd was cheering.
Puzzled, he looked up at the smoky beams of the ceiling. “What is that?”
“The assembly,” Orlo said.
“What is the hour?” he asked wearily. “Dawn?”
“Why, no,” Orlo replied, tossing his sponge in a wooden pail of water. “It’s nearly noon. The square is filled with the pathetic few remnants of Tirhin’s subjects, such as they are.” He snorted. “The owner of this miserable hole and his whole family have ventured out to watch the ceremony. I’m not going.”
Caelan rubbed his