The Dragon's Path

And certainly it would be beneath him to say he’d been unjust with the boy.
    “You’re mistaken,” Dawson said.
    “Lord?”
    “I’ve never seen you before, and I wouldn’t have turned a man of your courage and talent out of my service.”
    “Yes… I mean, no, my lord.”
    “That’s settled, then. Come along with me, we’ll get these little scratches daubed.”
    Coe stood.
    “My sword, my lord?”
    “Yes. We may have need of that,” Dawson said, gesturing to where it lay, grimed with blood and snow and soot. “It seems I’m frightening all the right men.”

Marcus
     
    F ire and blood. Merian shrieked her pain and fear and indignation as only a child could blend them. Her eyes were fixed on him, her arms reaching out. Marcus fought his paralysis, forced his arms to reach for her, and in moving them, woke himself.
    The screams of the dead lingered in the cool air as he lifted himself up, still expecting in his half-dream to see the wheat fields and high, stately windmills of Ellis. Instead, the wide star-crowded sky of Birancour arched above him, the looming darkness of the mountains behind him to the east without even the suggestion of dawn. The burning smell of memory gave way to the sweet, astringent scent of ice lily and the distant presentiment of salt that was the sea.
    He lay back in his bedroll and waited for the dream to fade. By long habit, he attended to his body. The constricting tightness in his throat eased first, then in his chest. The gut-punch ache in his belly faded slowly and vanished. Soon there was only the permanent hollow beneath his ribs, and he knew it was safe to stand.
    They were battle scars. Some men lost a leg or a hand. Some men lost their eyes. Marcus had lost a family. And just as old soldiers knew when rain was coming from the ache of healed bones, he suffered now. It didn’t mean anything. It was just his own private bad weather, and like bad weather,it would pass. It was only for the moment that the dreams were getting worse.
    The caravan slept, carters and mules both, in the deep night. The watch fire glittered on the hillside above him, no brighter than a star, but orange instead of blue. Marcus made his way toward it. The dry grass hushed against his boots and field mice skittered away. Yardem Hane sat silhouetted by the small fire, back turned to keep the light from blunting his eyes. Beside him sat a less familiar form. Marcus moved close enough to make out their words.
    “The
shape
of a soul?” Master Kit asked. “I think I don’t understand what you mean.”
    “Just that. A soul has a shape,” Yardem said. His wide hands patted the air in front of him. “And fate is formed by it. Whatever the world delivers to you, the shape of your soul determines what you do with it, and the actions you take make your destiny.”
    Marcus turned his foot, scraping the ground loud enough to announce himself.
    “Morning, Captain,” Yardem said without turning to look.
    “You filling our cunning man’s head with your superstitious hairwash?”
    “I am, sir.”
    “Be careful, Kit,” Marcus said, walking into the dim circle of light. “Yardem used to be a priest, you know.”
    Master Kit’s eyebrows rose and he looked his question from Marcus to Yardem. The Tralgu shrugged eloquently.
    “Ended poorly,” Yardem said.
    “It’s not a faith I’d heard of before,” Master Kit said. “I have to say I find the ideas fascinating. What shape is your own soul?”
    “I’ve never seen my soul,” Yardem said.
    Marcus sat. The warmth of the fire touched his back. High above them, a falling star streaked from east to west, fading almost before Marcus saw it. The silence felt suddenly awkward.
    “Go ahead,” Marcus said. “Tell him if you want to.”
    “Tell me what?” Master Kit asked.
    “I have seen the captain’s. I was at Wodford the day of the battle. The captain rode by, taking count of the troop, and… I saw it.”
    “And what shape was it?” Master Kit asked
    “A circle standing on its edge,” Yardem said.
    “What did you take that to mean?”
    “That he rises when brought low and falls when placed high,” Yardem said.
    “He needed magical visions to see that,” Marcus said. “Most people just take it as given.”
    “But always?” Master Kit said. “Surely if God wanted to change the shape of a man’s soul—”
    “I’ve never seen God,” Yardem said.
    “But you believe in him,” Master Kit said.
    “I’m reserving judgment,”