Ravenheart (53 page)

“Aye, I am a rascal, no doubt of it,” the man said amiably. “By heaven, I’m renowned for it.”

The knight slipped the tongs back into his belt and drew his dagger. “This is your last chance, fool,” he said. “Leave now or the wrath of the righteous will end your miserable life.”

“Isn’t that the schoolteacher?” responded the man. “Never liked him. Spent too much of his time thrashing my nephew. Just goes to show how wrong it is to make swift judgments. For here he is defending a highland woman and being lashed for it. Now, my little mice, my good humor is fading. It is cold, and I am hungry. So be on your way while your faces are still pretty.”

The knight suddenly lunged. The big man’s right hand blocked the dagger, his left thundering into the knight’s face. Stepping forward, he grabbed the knight, spinning him.
Then, with one hand gripping the back of the knight’s belt and the other holding him at the nape of the neck, he rammed the man’s face into the alley wall. Shards of broken teeth scattered to the pebbles. Alterith stood transfixed. The knight holding his throat released him and leapt at the newcomer. Once again the dagger was brushed aside, and the knight was hauled into a sickening head butt that smashed his nose. That was followed by a punch to the solar plexus that doubled the knight over. He, too, was then spun and hurled headfirst into the wall, where he sank to the ground alongside his comrade.

Alterith slid down the wall. The pain in his back flared again, and he felt sick.

The big man approached him and, pushing back his hood, squatted down. Alterith recognized him as the man who had been at the farm when he had first visited Maev Ring. “What an exciting life you lead, schoolteacher,” Jaim Grymauch said, with a grin.

“I … I thank you, sir,” said Alterith. “Those men planned to murder me as they murdered Gillam Pearce.”

“Aye, I heard. I wish I’d been here sooner. Come, let us get you inside. I don’t doubt you’ll be wanting your dinner.”

“I couldn’t eat,” said Alterith.

“I could,” said the man. “I’ve been walking for fifteen hours, and I’m weak as a newborn calf.” He hauled Alterith to his feet. “So invite me to dine with you, man, for I’ve no coin.”

“Your company would be most welcome, sir. I am indebted to you.”

“I’ll not talk of debt with a man who risks his life to save my Maev.”

“She has spoken to me of you, Master Grymauch.”

“I expect it was nothing good. A hard woman is Maev.”

“Oh, it was good, sir. But she was concerned that you would … how shall I phrase it?”

“Do something foolish?” offered Jaim.

“Indeed so, sir.”

“Let us talk while we eat,” said Jaim Grymauch.

*  *  *

Kaelin Ring sat by the edge of a black river. The sky was gloomy, and though there was light enough to see the barren landscape, there was no sign of moon or stars. The trees by the river’s edge were all dead, not a leaf to be seen.

On the far side of the river Kaelin watched as a slender boat was launched into the water. A hooded ferryman stood at the stern, a long pole in his hands.

Kaelin Ring felt burdened by weariness, and he sat slumped against a gray rock, waiting as the ferryman slowly poled the boat across the calm iron surface. He felt a weight in his hand and opened his fingers. A thick, round black coin appeared there, then faded away before reappearing again. Each time he tried to close his hand around the coin, it disappeared.

The boat reached the river’s edge, and the ferryman stood waiting. Kaelin Ring pushed himself to his feet and approached the man. The ferryman held out his hand.

“Do not give him the coin,” said the Wyrd.

Kaelin turned slowly. “Why are you here?”

“To bring you home, Ravenheart. This is not your time. Nor is this the place you should cross.”

“I am very tired, Wyrd.”

“I know. Come, let us talk awhile.”

Kaelin glanced back at the ferryman.

“He will wait,” the Wyrd said swiftly.

She walked back up the slope and stopped once on level ground. Here she sat and waited. Kaelin hardly had the strength to follow, but he stumbled on before slumping down alongside her.

“Chara is waiting for you,” she said.

“Chara is lost to me, Wyrd. I thought I had saved her, but I was too late. They destroyed her spirit.”

“No, they did not. Chara Jace is Rigante. She may be young, Ravenheart, but she has an old soul. It is strong, and it will recover. Even now she sits at the bedside of the man she
loves, nursing his wounds, praying that his fever will break and that he will not die.”

“The man she loves?”

“I am speaking of you, Kaelin. This is not the world you know. Your body lies in the great house. It is wracked by fever.”

“Where, then, is this place?”

“The Black River. A place of lost souls, Kaelin. The brokenhearted come here, the lost, the despairing, and the defeated. It is not for you. We must journey back to the land of the living.”

“I have no strength, Wyrd.”

“You have more strength than you know. In you runs the blood of Connavar. You are Rigante, Ravenheart.”

“Leave me be, Wyrd. I am tired, and the ferryman is waiting.”

“Maev Ring is imprisoned,” said the Wyrd. “They plan to burn her as a witch.”

“Aunt Maev? A witch? That is nonsense.”

“Aye, it is. Jaim is there now. Soon they will bring her to the stake, and fifty guards will be there to see her burn.”

“Jaim will not stand by, Wyrd.”

“No, he will not. His heart is as big as Caer Druagh and filled with the magic of the land. In every sense he
is
the Rigante: big and braw and magnificent. You love him, do you not?”

“Of course I do. He means the world to me.”

“And to me, Ravenheart, for in Jaim we see all that is wondrous in the Rigante spirit.”

“I must get to him. I must help him.”

“You cannot. Your body is weak.”

“There must be something I can do, Wyrd. Tell me. Anything!”

“You can open your heart, Kaelin, and you can hold Jaim within it. You can live your life as he would have you live it, unfettered by hatred, free to love. Not an easy path.”

“Are you saying that Jaim is going to die?”

“All that lives and breathes will someday die, Ravenheart. When Jaim’s time comes, the magic will flow out from him like a flood and touch every heart. That is his
geasa
. And believe me, when that day comes, he will not travel to this river of despair. Not Jaim Grymauch. There will be no ferryman.”

“How do I get home?” asked Kaelin.

“Do you want to?”

“I do, Wyrd.”

“Then let it be so.”

Kaelin closed his eyes.

Pain seared through his side, and he groaned and opened his eyes. Above him was a roughly plastered ceiling and two beams of dark oak. He felt a hand in his. Rolling his head upon the pillow, he saw Chara Jace sitting by the bedside. There were tears on her face. She squeezed his fingers.

“It’s good to see you, boy,” said Call Jace, leaning over the bed. “You had us scared for a while.”

“Where … is the Wyrd?” asked Kaelin.

“The Dweller has gone back to Sorrow Bird Lake,” said Chara. “But she was here through the night.”

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” said Call. “You rest, Kaelin. Let those wounds heal.”

Kaelin heard the door close and looked into Chara’s green eyes. “I love you,” he said.

“I know.”

“That’s what I wanted to say that day by the fire. I wish I had.”

“Don’t talk now. Lie quiet, Ravenheart.”

“Ranaud is dead.”

“I know that, too. You led us to a great victory. You are a hero among the Rigante. Men speak of you with awe.” She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. Seeing her smile filled him with a joy so great that his eyes misted, and he felt tears spilling to his cheeks. His throat tightened, and he could say nothing, but he clung to her hand as if his life depended on it.

“I love you, too,” she told him. Then she leaned down and kissed his cheek.

*  *  *

Galliott the Borderer had endured a troubled night. This was unusual for the Beetleback captain. Normally he slept soundly and dreamlessly, waking refreshed. Yet last night he had twisted and turned in his bed, unable to close his mind to the events of the day.

The result of the trial was not in doubt. Maev Ring would burn. Galliott tried to tell himself that this did not matter. The death of one highland woman would not shake the foundations of Varlish rule. He had rolled his pillow, thumped it to make it more comfortable, then lay on his back and then on his side. Finally, aware that his tossing and turning were disturbing Morain, he rose from his bed and walked downstairs to where the evening fire was burning low behind its screen of iron mesh.

Galliott’s house was small, the outer walls covered in ivy and the roof thatched. It was an old building with beamed ceilings and a brick-built fireplace with recesses for logs. A brass bucket sat on the hearth, half-full of coal. Galliott did not light a lantern but sat in his favorite armchair. He added three log chunks to the dying blaze and poured himself a small glass of Uisge.

Many highlanders had been executed in the last ten years on the orders of the Moidart. Some of them had been innocent. Yet it was more than innocence that worried him. He sensed it deep beneath his practiced pragmatism.

The Uisge was warming, and he felt his muscles slowly relax.

Earlier that morning he had been surprised to see the schoolteacher Alterith Shaddler walking to the Holy Court flanked by a dozen highlanders. It was like an honor guard. Then one of Galliott’s informants came to him, telling him of the return of Jaim Grymauch. “Widow Barley says he downed two of the Sacrifice knights last night as they were setting upon the teacher.” Galliott paid the man three daens for the information.

Within the hour Sir Gayan Kay came to his office, demanding
that officers seek out and find the villain who had savagely assaulted two of his men the night before. Galliott sat quietly while the knight spoke. Gayan Kay was a tall man, broad-shouldered and lean of hip. Like all the knights of the Sacrifice he was highly trained in all matters martial, an expert in the use of sword, ax, mace, and dagger. Most knights, Galliott knew, were also highly proficient with musket and pistol. They made deadly enemies, and not merely as a result of their dueling skills. Enemies of the order always died, some by assassination, most by burning, and Galliott had no wish to be added to the death list. So he listened politely, determined not to offend the knight. When Gayan Kay had concluded his report, Galliott asked: “They were attacked by one man, you say? Do you have a description?”

“He was powerfully built, maybe six and a half feet tall. He was obviously demon-possessed, for no mortal man could so easily defeat two of my knights. He had but one eye. The other was covered by a black piece of cloth.”

“Well, Sir Gayan, such a man should stand out in a crowd. I will inform my soldiers to watch out for him.”

“You have no idea as to his identity?”

“Indeed I have, sir. Leave the matter with me.”

“Will you share this information?”

“It would do you little good, Sir Gayan. The man is a highlander and a rogue. He has many hiding places, but I will not need to search them.”

“And why is that, pray?”

“Because he is a close friend of Maev Ring. He will come to the execution, and he will try to save her. That is his nature.”

“Someone else she has bewitched.”

As Galliott sat by the fire, he recalled his reply. Where the anger had come from he had no idea even now, but he could still recall its cold power. He had looked up at the arrogant knight and been unable to keep the contempt from his voice. “There is no one else present, Sir Gayan, so let us drop this ludicrous pretense. Maev Ring is no more a witch than I am.
She is a victim of the greed of small men and the corruption of the mighty. Her death will be a stain on the Varlish. The man who will try to save her is not bewitched—save by love and notions of honor. He is a great man. By the Source, I wish I had one-tenth of his courage.”

Sir Gayan Kay stood and stared malevolently at Galliott. “How many men will you have under your command at the execution?”

“Fifty. I will do my utmost to see he is arrested
before
he commits any indiscretion.”

“If he is there on the day, I shall kill him,” said the knight.

Galliott suddenly laughed. “Kill Jaim Grymauch? Not on your best day. He is not a tiny bootmaker or a skinny schoolteacher. He’s a man, by heaven!”

“I see that this area has many heretics,” Sir Gayan said coldly. “When this is over, I shall make it my business to root them all out. There is no place in all of Varlain for those who offer defense to our enemies. You will come under the question on that day, Captain Galliott.”

“Try to tackle Jaim Grymauch and you won’t live to see it,” Galliott told him.

Sir Gayan Kay gave a thin smile. “Watch carefully when the witch burns, Galliott. Listen to her screams. Before the year is out they will be yours.”

The threat had frightened Galliott. It still caused a small knot in his stomach as he sat before his fire. Yet curiously he did not regret speaking out. He had watched the events of the trial that day and had felt a growing sense of unease. It had begun when Alterith Shaddler’s clerics had failed to arrive and there was no one at the defense table taking notes. Alterith had asked for a recess while he sought reasons for their absence. That had been refused.

The first person to be called had been Onray Shelan, the talented gunsmith who had designed many of Parsis Feld’s new range of pistols and muskets. Shelan was a man in his mid-thirties, a full Varlish of impeccable breeding. When his name had been called by Alterith Shaddler, there had been
some consternation in the judgment panel. The prosecutor, Arlin Bedver, had leapt to his feet, voicing an instant objection. “Master Shelan’s name is not on the roll of material witnesses,” he pointed out.

“Indeed not,” replied Alterith Shaddler, “for he can offer no evidence to contradict allegations of witchcraft. I am calling Master Shelan to speak of his work for Parsis Feld.”