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ligaments on the inside of the limb. Speaking to it gently Tarantio moved around the horse, stroking its long nose and looking into its bright, brown eyes. Lastly he checked the legs. They were powerful, with no sign of heat or swelling, and the gelding had been recently re-shod. Moving to the rear of the horse, Tarantio watched the swelling of its rib-cage; its breathing was even and slow. 'Well, well,' said Tarantio softly, patting the gelding's flank, 'he may have been a vile man, but he certainly looked after you. I'll try to do the same.'
    Browyn moved alongside him, checking the gelding's nose and mouth. 'I'd say around nine years old,' said the old man, 'with plenty of speed and strength.'
    Tarantio stood back from the gelding, casting his eye along the line of its back, the length of the neck and the shape of the head. 'Without the cow-hocked stance, he would bring around four hundred in silver. As he is, he would fetch less than fifty.'
    'There's no sense in it,' agreed Browyn. 'He is a fine animal.'
    Browyn relaxed. In that moment a great weariness descended upon him. The aftershock of the attack caused him to tremble and Tarantio took his arm. 'You need to sit down,' said the warrior. 'Come, I'll help you inside.'
    The cabin was a mess, papers strewn about the floor among shards of smashed pottery and two broken shelves. There was a beautifully carved bench seat by a large open hearth and Tarantio half carried the old man to it. Browyn sank down gratefully, and Tarantio fetched him a cup of water. Browyn began to shiver.
    The fire had died down, and Tarantio added logs from a stack in the hearth.
    'Age makes fools of all of us,' said Browyn miserably. 'There was a time when I would have fancied my chances of taking all three.'
    'Is that true?' Tarantio asked him.
    'Of course it isn't true,' said Browyn, with a smile. 'But it is the sort of thing old people are expected to say.
    The real truth - if such a spectacular beast exists - is that I was a bridge-builder with no taste for violence whatever. And I have to admit that it is not a skill I ever wished to acquire.' His keen blue eyes stared hard at the younger man. 'I hope you don't consider that an offensive remark.'

    'Why would I? I agree with the sentiments. You sit there for a while. I'll clear up the mess.'
    Browyn eased his bruised frame back on to the bench seat and stared into the fire. Sleep came easily, and he dreamt of youth and the race he had run against the three great champions. Five long miles. He had finished ninth, but the memory of running alongside such athletes remained with him, like a warming fire in the room of memories.
    When he awoke, the shutters of the small windows on either side of the main door were closed. His two lanterns, hanging in their iron brackets on the west wall, were lit, and the cabin was filled with the aroma of cooking meat and spicy herbs. Browyn stretched and sat up, but he groaned as the pain from his bruises flared.
    'How are you feeling?' asked the young man. Browyn blinked and looked around. The cabin was now neat and tidy, only the broken shelves giving evidence of the day's savagery. Nervously he opened the path to his talent and sought out the image of the young man's soul. With relief he saw that there was only one. The beating he had taken at the hands of the raiders must have confused him, he thought. Tarantio's soul was bright, and as untainted by evil as any human spirit could be. Which, Browyn realized sadly, merely meant that the darkness was considerably smaller than the light.
    'My name is Browyn. And I am feeling a little better. Welcome to my home, Tarantio.'
    'It is good to be here,' the young man told him. 'I took the liberty of raiding your food store. I also found some onions growing nearby and I have made a thick soup.'
    'Did you see to the horse?'
    'I did,' said Tarantio. 'I fed him some oats, and he is tethered close by.'

    They ate in silence, then Browyn slept again for an hour. He was