Ravenheart (15 page)

Riamfada brought her to a little clearing. A fire was burning, and upon it was a copper pot hanging from a tripod. Steam was rising from the pot. It filled the clearing with a sweet smell, a perfume she had never forgotten. Riamfada sat by the fire and plucked a small blue flower from the ground close by. He held it up for her to see. The flower was almost
dead, its petals fading and brown at the edges. He closed his hand around it and reached out. The child leaned forward. His hand opened. What he held was no longer dying but vibrant with color, the blue of a summer sky at sunset, its center white as new snow. His fingers curled over the bloom once more. This time, when they opened, the flower had gone, replaced by a small silver brooch in the shape of the bloom.

“That is a clever trick,” she said. “Can I touch it?”

“You may touch it and you may keep it, Caretha.”

The child pinned it to her dress. “It is very beautiful,” she said.

“Only you will be able to see it.”

“Why?”

“Because it is magic, and it is yours alone.”

“Does it work spells?”

“Not yet. But it will.”

“When?”

“When I have taught you all you need to know.”

She touched the brooch. It was warm and made her fingers tingle. “Do you live near here?” she asked him.

“No. I died near here,” he replied.

Back in the present the Wyrd smiled, recalling that the child had not been at all surprised at such a statement. Her memories of Riamfada were fond ones, and she felt refreshed. Glancing down, she touched the tiny brooch on her faded green dress. It tingled still.

Rising, she returned to her work.

Unwrapping the crystal from its covering of black velvet, she held it in her hands and began again the chant Riamfada had taught her so many years before. Freeing her mind of all stresses and burdens, she focused on all that was clean and clear: the freshness of the air, the birdsong in the trees, the rustling of the leaves above and around her. She pictured the energy flowing from the sun, golden and invigorating; from the waters of the stream, white as a saint’s conscience; from the trees, healing and green.

“I am a vessel, empty and pure,” she chanted, feeling the
power begin to fill her. The crystal in her hands became warmer and warmer. Slowly the color changed from white to gray and then to black. Threads of gold grew within it like blades of yellow grass. They thickened and swelled until the crystal itself had ceased to be, replaced by a block of what appeared to be solid gold.

The Wyrd let out a weary sigh. Rising to her feet, she carried the golden block to the center of the clearing and laid it on the sun-dried yellowing grass. Kneeling beside it, she spoke the seven words of power.

The crystal began to glow. Around it the grass thickened, becoming emerald green. The Wyrd closed her eyes. Blue flowers sprang to life as the magic rippled out from the crystal, flowing across the clearing until it touched the ancient oaks.

When she opened her eyes, the clearing was verdant, the grass rich and velvet, the trees swelling with new life. The air tasted as sweet as honey, and the sunlight sparkled on the waters of the stream.

She lay down on the grass and fell into a deep sleep.

In it she saw Riamfada. He was walking in the shadow of mountains she had never seen. It was a land of exquisite beauty, filled to overflowing with magic: vast lakes swarming with birds, huge plains rich with grass and wildlife.

“Where is this place?” she asked him.

“Home,” he told her.

It had taken Chain Shada no more than a few minutes to realize that he disliked the bishop of Eldacre. Within the hour he had come to loathe him. The Source alone knew what he would have felt if he had had to spend a day in the man’s company.

He and Gorain had dined with the bishop at his fabulously appointed mansion behind Albitane Cathedral. Built of limestone faced with marble, the mansion boasted eastern rugs of silk, curtains of lace, furniture covered with the softest leather. Red-liveried servants were everywhere, polishing
and cleaning, fetching and carrying. The bishop was at the center of it all like a vast, bloated red spider. To be honest, Chain realized, he had begun to loathe the man on sight. As a fighting man and an athlete he despised gluttons, and the bishop was so fat that it seemed his skin would burst. Chain could not take his eyes from the golden rings the man wore on every finger.

The meal he had promised them turned out to be a feast: three roasted geese, a suckling pig, several roast chickens, and platters of steamed vegetables coated in butter. There were cakes and pastries, wines, ales, and spirits, and the twenty guests tore into the meal as if they had not eaten in a month. Chain ordered a steak with gravy and some fried bread. He drank no wine or ale and was irritated that Gorain did not abstain from the golden Uisge.

“You are fighting in less than two hours,” he warned him.

Gorain grinned at him. “I fight better on a full stomach.”

No one fights better on a full stomach, thought Chain, but he did not argue. This was, after all, more a pleasure excursion than a real tourney.

The bishop sat Chain beside him on his right and began by telling him how privileged he was to have the legendary Chain Shada at his table. “I have seen almost all of your bouts. Remarkable. I was a fighter in my youth, you know.” He made a pudgy fist. “I had quite a mighty punch.”

And now you have a mighty paunch, thought Chain. A serving maid refilled the bishop’s golden goblet with rich red wine. The fat man grinned at her, then reached out, patting her behind. Chain looked away. He had noted that no words of thanks had been offered to the Source for the food, and now he had seen that the bishop was a lecher as well as a glutton. It was dispiriting, to say the least.

He listened politely to the bishop’s conversation, the story of his vastly successful life, the seemingly endless anecdotes illustrating his wisdom, his intellect, and the huge respect he enjoyed throughout the empire. “…  The king complimented me on it. He said he had rarely met a man with so much …”

Wind, thought Chain.

“Why did you invite me to take part in your tourney?” he asked, more to change the subject than to hear the answer.

“These highlanders need keeping in their place,” the bishop told him. “They are a troublesome, rebellious people. Only recently they tried to kill our Moidart. It will be good for them to see the superiority of the Varlish fighting man.”

“And they shall,” said Gorain, leaning in to the bishop. “I shall break their bones, their hopes, and their hearts.” He drained his goblet and raised it toward the serving girl.

“You have drunk enough Uisge,” said Chain.

“What are you, my mother?” Gorain asked with a laugh.

Something inside Chain Shada snapped. He looked at Gorain and for the first time allowed himself to see beyond the man’s talent. Yes, he had the potential to be great, but not the discipline.

Chain took a deep breath. “No, I am not your mother,” he said. “I am the man who thought you were the heir to my crown. I was wrong. Do as you please, Gorain. You are my protégé no longer.” Chain rose from his seat and bowed to the bishop. “My thanks for the meal, sir. And now I must prepare.”

“Wait, Chain,” Gorain called out. “There’s no need for this. I’m sorry. All right?”

Chain ignored him and walked away.

Gorain’s face darkened. “I don’t need you,” he called out. “I’ll fight my way to the top without you.”

Chain was angry with himself as he left the mansion. He turned away the offer of a carriage to return him to his lodgings and strolled out through the gates and down the wide avenue that led to the cathedral. It was an imposing building, twin-spired and shaped like a vast white crown. The doors were open, and he walked inside, enjoying the cool, calm atmosphere. Statues of the saints lined the walkways, and the rows of pews were scattered with red velvet cushions. A young priest was placing sheets of paper on the seats.

“Good day, Brother,” he said. “May the Source bless you.”

“Mostly he has,” said Chain. Many of the statues were decked with golden laurels, and there were paintings on the wall in gilded frames. “This is a rich church, I see.”

“Indeed, Brother. Our congregation numbers the finest citizens of Eldacre, rich and powerful men who see to our every need.”

“In my experience the rich are seldom the finest,” Chain told him. “But I am just a poor fighting man, born in a hovel. What would I know?”

The priest gave him an uncertain smile, then carried on laying prayer sheets on the pews.

Chain walked around the cathedral for a while, then returned to the sunlight.

Be honest with yourself, he thought. You always knew Gorain was undisciplined and uncouth. So why end it now? He still has more talent than any fighter you’ve seen in ten years. He could still make you a fortune.

You are thirty-six years old, he reminded himself. Soon you’ll have to retire or endure the indignity of some young, strong challenger beating you to your knees.

Why now? The question came back at him. It was seeing Gorain in the company of the fat lecher and realizing that Gorain himself was little better. He was a braggart and, like most braggarts, filled with fear. Some men fought because they loved winning, others because they feared losing. Gorain was in the latter group. He would never be a champion.

“I’ll fight on for a while,” Chain told himself aloud. “And when some young bastard sinks me, he’ll at least know he beat the best.”

5

T
AYBARD
J
AEKEL DID
not enjoy feast days, though he pretended to. Sometimes he could almost convince himself. Today was not one of those days. Dressed in his best shirt and breeches and an old coat of his father’s, he joined others from Old Hills on the two-hour walk to Eldacre. The threadbare white wig had belonged to his grandfather, and he could feel the sweat prickling his scalp as he walked.

The day was fine, but there were rain clouds in the distance, and the air was still chilly with the memory of winter. Some way ahead he could see Kaelin Ring walking with Chara Ward. She looked beautiful in a simple dress of corn yellow and a pale blue shawl. Taybard watched her closely. Every now and again she would reach out and touch Kaelin’s arm as she chatted to him or lean in to whisper something, allowing her shoulder to brush against his. Taybard tried not to stare. He transferred his gaze to Kaelin’s aunt Maev. She was strolling beside the huge one-eyed clansman Jaim Grymauch. Everyone said he was little more than an outlaw destined for the rope, but Taybard had a sneaking admiration for the man. The previous summer he had fought three tough men in a tavern brawl, emerging victorious. Behind them came Banny and his mother, Shula. Taybard liked Banny. There was no malice in the boy, and Taybard had stopped Luss Campion and Kammel Bard from tormenting him. For some reason Luss hated Banny, though when pressed, he could not explain why.

There were maybe fifty people on the road now, with more joining as they passed the outer houses of the village.

Slowly they trooped up the hill, cresting it to see the distant castle and the sprawling town below. The wind was picking up. Taybard was relieved to see the rain clouds being pushed back over the mountains.

Luss Campion and Kammel Bard emerged from the last house, saw him, and strolled to join him.

Both young men were wearing black coats and sporting ill-fitting wigs. “Looks like the rain will keep off,” said Luss.

“Aye.”

Luss and Kammel were also wearing their best clothes, though, as in Taybard’s case, “best” meant least mended. There was a patch on Luss’ coat, and Kammel’s breeches were thin, the original black now showing as powder gray. Taybard’s polished shoes had holes in the soles and had been packed with paper.

True, they were smarter than most of the clan folk, but once they were segregated at the feast, all three of them would look exactly what they were: “kilted Varlish.” All around them would be the citizens of Eldacre in their finery, spending silver money at the many stalls. Taybard had three copper daens in his pocket: enough for a jug of ale and a piece of pie in the Varlish area.