Free In the Realm of the Wolf by David Gemmell Page A

not to believe me, then I will leave in the morning, and I will not claim the fortune.”
    Still she said nothing.
    “I don’t know what else I can say to you.” He shrugged and sat back.
    “You told me we were going to work,” she said softly. “On my mind. What did you mean?”
    He spread his hands and stared into the fire. “Did your father ever tell you about the test he set Danyal?”
    “No. But I heard you say I would fail it.”
    “Yes, you would.” And Angel told her of the pebble in the moonlight and talked on of the warrior’s heart, the willingness to risk everything, but the confidence to believe the risk was calculated.
    “How do I achieve this?” she asked.
    “I don’t know,” he admitted.
    “The two men you trained—did they have it?”
    “Ranuld believed he did, but he tied up in his first fight, his muscles tense, his movements halting. Sorrin had it, I think, but he met a better man. It comes from an ability to close off the part of the imagination that is fueled by fear. You know, the part that pictures terrible wounds and gangrene, pumpingblood and the darkness of death. But at the same time the mind must continue to function, seeing the opponent’s weaknesses, planning ways through his defenses. You have seen my scars. I have been cut many times, but always I won. And I beat better men, faster men, stronger men. I beat them because I was too obstinate to give up. And their confidence would begin to fail, and the windows of their minds would creep open. Their imagination would seep out, and they would begin to doubt, to fear. And from that moment it did not matter that they were better or faster or stronger. For I would grow before their eyes, and they would shrink before mine.”
    “I will learn,” she promised.
    “I doubt it can be learned. Your father became Waylander because his first family was butchered by raiders, but I don’t believe the atrocity
created
Waylander. He was always there, beneath the surface of Dakeyras. The real question is, What lies beneath the surface of Miriel?”
    “We will see,” she said.
    “Then you wish me to stay?”
    “Yes, I wish you to stay. But answer me one question honestly.”
    “Ask.”
    “What is it
you
fear?”
    “Why would you think I fear anything?” he hedged.
    “I know that you did not want to stay, and I sense you are torn between your desire to help me and a need to leave. So what is it?”
    “The question is a fair one. Let us leave it that you are right. There
is
something I fear, but I am not prepared to talk about it. As you are not prepared to speak of the loss of your talent.”
    She nodded. “There is one—or more—among the assassins you do not wish to meet. Am I close?”
    “We must thicken the grip on your sword,” he said. “Cut some strips of leather—thin, no wider than a finger’s width. You have glue?”
    “Yes. Father makes it from fish bones and hide.”
    “First bind the hilt until the size feels comfortable. When curled around it, your longest finger should just touch the flesh below your thumb. When you are satisfied, glue the strips into place.”
    “You did not answer me,” she said.
    “No,” he replied. “Cut and bind the strips tonight. It will give the glue time to dry. I will see you in the morning.” He rose and strode across the room.
    “Angel!”
    His hand was on the door latch. “Yes.”
    “Sleep well.”

4
     
    D ARDALION SWUNG AWAY from the window and faced the two priests standing before his desk.
    “The argument,” he said, “is of intellectual interest only. It is of no real importance.”
    “How can that be, Father Abbot?” asked Magnic. “Surely it is central to our beliefs.”
    “In this I must agree with my brother,” put in the forked-bearded Vishna, his dark eyes staring unblinking at the abbot.
    Dardalion beckoned them to be seated and leaned back in his wide leather chair. Magnic looked so young next to Vishna, he thought, his pale face soft-featured and