The place where The Raven would live forever.
But now, walking towards the heavy, bound oak door that let out on to the street, he wondered if this shrine to his past really was poisoning his mind. Diera thought so. Sol walked slowly past the portraits of his friends a decade and more dead. He didn't feel the barbs of grief as he had done in the early days but he didn't think he'd ever shake the regret that he would never stand with them again.
Sol could hear Diera's voice in his head, telling him to move on. Celebrate their triumphs, learn to smile.
He couldn't. He never had been able to, and now his head was full of disaster like it hadn't been in five years, ever since he stopped hunting demons. Sol let his gaze trail over the portraits of Erienne, beautiful of face but sad of mind; Thraun, forever troubled but so loyal; and Ilkar, sharp-featured and acerbic, before pausing as he so often did at Hirad.
The barbarian's scarred face was packed full of belief and raw power and it sported that damned smile with which he had died.
'So, old friend, what is it? I'm either right or I'm losing my mind. No in between, as you'd have said. Trouble is, I don't know what to do. I don't know where to begin. Any ideas?'
It was a moment before Sol became aware that he was actually waiting for a response.
'Talking to a picture.' Sol shook his head. 'I think we have an answer, don't we?'
Another bout of hammering on the door, and this time Sol was relieved to hear it and let it distract him from himself.
'All right, all right. I'm here.'
He strode to the door, drew back the top and centre bolts, kicked up the bottom one and turned the key in the lock. The levers moved back with a satisfying, heavy sound. He pulled the door open, stepping back as he did so. You can never be too careful.
The man who stared at him with an expression bordering on elation was young and smartly dressed very much in the style of a merchant. There was blood all over his left shoulder and chest. Sol frowned. He looked at the wound and wondered how the man was still standing.
'Unknown, is it really you? Did I really find you?'
Sol flinched at the sound of his old name. The man made to move forward, his arms reaching out.
'No one calls me that,' said Sol, his voice gruff. 'Not any more.'
'Shame,' said the man, raising his eyebrows. 'I always thought it rather suited you. It was one of Ilkar's better nicknames.'
Sol's skin prickled and his head cleared. He stepped forward and jabbed the man in the chest.
'You are treading a very fine line with the memories of my friends.'
'Don't you recognise me, big man?'
'Clearly not,' said Sol. 'And be assured that if you make one more familiar remark, I will deck you.'
'The body is unfamiliar but the soul and the shadow are mine, Unknown. And you have to help me. You have to help all of us.'
Sol felt cold. He straightened. The man's eyes held a desperate sadness, and he was frightened. Not of Sol but of something far, far more deeply embedded in his mind. There was something about him Sol couldn't grasp, something recognisable. But he'd been begged for help by passing acquaintances before. Everyone knew Sol's face and reputation.
'Who are you?'
The man smiled and a spark lit his eyes just for a heartbeat. He spread his arms.
'It's me. It's Hirad.'
Sol decked him.
'Bloody hell.' The merchant put a hand to his left eye. It was already beginning to swell. 'Didn't lose your strength when you got the wrinkles, did you?'
Sol paused for a moment and glanced up and down the street. The Thread was busy as always. Heads were turning and no doubt jaws already exercising opinions laced with ignorance. There were always stories to be invented about the first and reluctant king of Balaia. Sol stooped and grabbed the merchant by his lapels. He pulled the man upright and threw him inside the bar, where he slithered to his knees. Sol walked in and kicked the door shut behind him.
The merchant displayed no fear when Sol loomed above him.
'I'll give you one more chance. An abject apology just might save you from a few more broken bones.'
'You need to believe me, Unknown. Balaia's in trouble. The whole dimension and loads of other things only Ilkar understands.'
'Right, that's it.'
Sol grabbed the merchant by his wounded arm and dragged him to his feet. He clamped a hand around the back of the man's neck and marched him to the picture of Hirad.
'Take a good close look, you little bastard. This is Hirad Coldheart. This is the heartbeat of The Raven. A man I loved and a man I miss every single day. You will not pass yourself off as one of Balaia's great heroes. Do I make myself clear?'
The merchant nodded. 'You do. And it's a good likeness though I remember my teeth being straighter than that.'
'Fucking weasel.'
Sol hurled the merchant across his bar. The man knocked aside two chairs, sprawled across a table and collided with the back shelf, upsetting a candelabra and smashing the glass in two lanterns. He scrabbled for purchase. Sol could see his eyes. There was fear of him in them now. Too late.
Sol's cudgel for the control of the unruly was hanging in its brackets on a cross beam just above his head. He fetched it down and advanced.
'Why didn't you listen to me?' The cudgel's face slapped against his open left palm. 'No one plays with the memory of The Raven. Certainly not some puffed-up pretty boy like you. I'm going to make sure that cut on your shoulder is the least of your concerns.'
The merchant pushed himself to his feet and backed away. There was nothing behind him but the corner of the alcove into which he had been thrown. He felt the wall behind him and held out both hands.
'Unknown, please. You have to believe me. I'm not taking the piss. Please.'
'No one calls me that and walks out of here. Not any more.'
Sol pushed a chair aside and dragged the table from in front of the merchant. The back of his neck was hot. The cudgel felt good in his fist. It had been a long time since anyone had tried it on with him. It seemed that not quite everyone had got the message.
'I love that you are the protector of our memories. But we're in trouble. You have to listen. I know you've been having dreams. Ilkar's been-'
'It's about respect,' said Sol. 'And the young never seem to show any these days. I try and be reasonable but some of you just don't do reason, do you? So be it.'
Sol stepped into range and cocked the cudgel for a blow to the legs. The merchant tried to protect himself with his hands.
'Unknown, no! I can show you where you died. Where your body still lies. Please.'
It was an arrow to the heart of him. Sol froze and swallowed hard. The cudgel dropped from his hand. The fury drained from him and the strength left his legs. He sagged to his knees, supporting himself with a hand on the table top. His fingers rested on last night's candle wax.
'No one knows about that,' he said, his voice a whisper, blood pounding in his head. 'How can you know about that?'
'Because I am Hirad, Unknown. I know how I look. The body is different but the soul is the same. And we need you. The Raven dead need you. You are our beacon. The rally flag on the battlefield. And we have to make a stand or we are all lost. The living and the dead.'
'What are you talking about?' Sol stared at the merchant, looking for the lie in his eyes. 'A soul cannot return. You cannot be here.'
'Think I want to be? It hurts, Unknown. Badly. Ilkar will be here soon enough, I'm sure. He'll make you understand.'
Sol put his head in his hands. 'This can't be happening. Not really. I have . . . dreams.'
'Told you.'
Sol snapped his head up. So like him, those words. So typical. The merchant was standing over him, offering a helping hand.
'If you promise to hear me not hit me, I'll help you up. We could have a glass of wine. Does Blackthorne still do that red of his? I wonder if I can taste it?'
The merchant wore a crooked smile. Sol glanced over at the picture of Hirad and shuddered. He allowed himself to be helped to his feet.
'I have truly lost my mind.' Sol gestured to a chair. 'Pick it up and sit on it. I'll get us a drink. While my back is turned, you have the option to leave. If I come back and find out you're lying, I will kill you where you sit.'
'I have missed your administrative guidance,' said the merchant.
Sol jabbed a finger into his chest again. 'Don't push your luck.'
He blew out his cheeks and wiped a hand across his head on the way back to the bar. There were footsteps on the stairs. Diera appeared and treated him to a scowl as she tied on her apron. She looked beyond him into the inn.
'Been rearranging the furniture, have you? Can't say I like the upturned chair and broken glass look. What the hell has been going on? And who is that? We aren't open yet.'
Sol stared at her for a moment, considering the lie that would best placate her. He dismissed every option. He plucked two pewter goblets from the bar top and wrapped his little finger around the neck of a stoppered bottle of wine. Half empty and not the good stuff.
'He says he's Hirad Coldheart, back from the dead.'
'And you believe him?' she asked. Sol said nothing. 'My darling husband, where have you gone?'
Diera cupped her hands around his face. A single tear fell from her left eye. She sucked her lip, turned and walked out of the back door and into the yard, where the children still played.
Chapter 3.
'I take it the good Lady Unknown doesn't believe me?'
Sol said nothing while he poured them each a goblet of wine. He sniffed his to make sure it was still drinkable and took a hearty sip. The Gresse red had a mellow flavour and a strong aftertaste.
'Good with stew,' he said.
'I'll remember that next time I'm cooking.'
Sol stared at the man. Young and proud-looking. Shoulder-length brown hair tied in a ponytail. Sharp green eyes stared back above a crooked nose and a mouth in which the teeth were starting to discolour. The wound in his left shoulder was deep. Deep enough to be fatal. Sol could see torn flesh and bone showing through the ripped clothing. He should have been pumping blood onto the inn floor. Sol was thankful for the mercy.
'Who are you?' he asked.
'I'll repeat it until you believe me, you know,' said the merchant, eyes twinkling briefly. 'You do believe me really, don't you?'
'Let's just say I'll listen to you. Give you a chance this side of doubt. But believe? What's to believe?'
The merchant took a sip of wine and a look of almost beatific pleasure crossed his face. 'Now that was almost worth coming back for.'
'Almost?'
'Another time, Unknown. But for now accept that returning from the dead isn't all it might be.'
'If you say so.'
Sol cursed himself, feeling drawn in already and wanting more. He wanted it to be true, that much he would readily admit.
'Look, think about this logically.'
Sol laughed. 'Logically? Now that is something very much in the Hirad mould. The ability to choose absolutely the wrong word at will. You appear at my door, sporting a wound that should have put you on the slab, and claim to be my friend returned from ten years dead. Logic? Please.'
'All right not logic then, just what is in front of your eyes. Rely on what you know.'
'I know Hirad Coldheart is dead. I am still counting the days, wishing it wasn't true.'
'And you also know that this wound has carved through my left collarbone and has torn nerve, sinew and artery. It's a killing blow and you've seen enough to know one, right?'
'Which means I'm looking at a fake of some sort. Because dead men cannot walk.'
'Put your finger in, then. Give it a wiggle.'
The merchant demonstrated. Sol winced.
'Isn't that painful?'
'It's fucking agony.'
'Well, stop it, then.'
'Do you want a go?'
Sol stared at the merchant yet again. Memories thronged his mind and dragged to the fore emotions long-buried. Thousands of words that should have been said. Wrong body, wrong voice. An impossible return. And yet there in the cock of his head and the manner of his speech. So much familiarity.
'It cannot be you,' he said. 'How can it be you?'
'I take it you've had your fair share of fakes?'
'You could say that,' said Sol.
'What people will do for a free drink, eh?'