Ravenheart (57 page)

“ ’Tis the same thing,” he argued. “There will be scores of soldiers at the execution, pikemen and musketeers.”

“And against them will be Jaim Grymauch, the greatest of the Rigante. You know me, Jaim. You know I have pledged my life for the clan. You know I would not lie to you. Trust me when I tell you that the future of the Rigante rests now in your hands.”

He stared into the fire. “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

“Then trust your heart.”

“I can save Maev and help end the hatred?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“A long time ago I failed to save a friend. I have lived with that regret as a wound on my soul which has never healed. It would kill me to fail my Maev. You understand? I’d sooner be dead.”

“You will reach her, Jaim. I promise you that. You will hold her. Maev will live, though you will not.”

He said nothing for a while. “I am destined to die there?”

“Yes. If that is the path you choose.”

“But Maev will be safe?”

“She will go north, Jaim, and dwell among the Black Rigante.”

“I’d die willingly for Maev. But tell me this: If I took her
from the cathedral before the trial was over, would she walk the tree with me?”

“Yes, Jaim, she would. You would have some years together. Happy years. I’ll not deny it. But then the Rigante would be wiped out, the clan destroyed. Hatred and violence would swamp the highlands.”

“Tell me what to do, Wyrd.”

“I cannot do that, Jaim. You will know when the time comes. Go to Eldacre. Stay low and watch over the schoolteacher. He is staying at a lodging house in Peartree Lane. The knights will try to kill him. You must keep him safe.”

The Wyrd’s spirit had faded away, and she had opened her eyes back in the Wishing Tree woods. Her fire had burned low—almost as low as the flames of her soul. Her words had doomed Jaim Grymauch.

Now she waited. The sun drifted past noon. The air suddenly freshened, and a cool breeze blew. Closing her eyes, she felt the first rippling wave of magic flow across her. She cried out with the joy of it, forgetting for an instant what had caused it.

Here, sixty miles from the cathedral, the wave was gentle. Yet even so the magic seeped into the earth and the trees, the rocks and the water. Those closest to the center would have felt it most strongly. It was the kind of magic that changed hearts and opened minds.

Against her better judgment the Wyrd opened her spirit eyes and floated back along the wave, peeling back the curtain of time. She saw the giant Grymauch standing at the top of the cathedral steps, Maev Ring in his arms. She heard the muskets roar, she saw him stiffen as the lead shot ripped into his back.

A choking sob came from the Wyrd, and she fled back to her body. For a long while the tears flowed. When they faded away, the Wyrd was exhausted and the sun was setting. With trembling hands she lit her fire.

The magic of Jaim Grymauch was still strong in the Wishing Tree woods, and tomorrow she would begin again her
life’s work. The perils were still great, but the Rigante were about to be reborn. There would be battles ahead, and triumphs and tragedies.

But now there was a glimmer of hope.

F
OUR
V
ARLISH ATTENDED
the funeral of Jaim Grymauch: Alterith Shaddler, Huntsekker, Taybard Jaekel, and Shula Achbain. More than fifteen hundred highlanders gathered to see him laid to rest in a small plot behind Maev Ring’s house. Maev herself placed the first shovel of earth upon the coffin.

The following morning she harnessed a wagon and prepared to set off for the north.

Huntsekker offered to go with her, but she refused. She lifted the reins, then glanced down at the powerful Varlish. “I thank you, but you have a farm to run,” she said. “People rely on you.” Then she paused. “I am glad Jaim did not kill you,” she added.

“He was a good man, Mistress Ring.”

For a moment she did not answer, and Huntsekker saw she was fighting for control. “He was …,” she faltered, then took a deep breath, her eyes full of tears. “He was a rogue, you know. A drunkard who stole bulls for enjoyment. But he was always true, Master Huntsekker. Always. I think … I think that I shall miss him greatly.” Unable to say more, she flicked the reins, and the wagon moved away.

There were fires in Eldacre that night. The Feld forge went up in flames, with all the stock destroyed in the process. Jorain Feld and his brothers were ruined. Several other businesses owned by witnesses against Maev Ring were also destroyed.

The most shocking news to surface after the death of Jaim Grymauch explained the absence of the bishop at the
execution. His body was found stretched out upon the judgment table of the Holy Court. His neck had been crushed. There had been no witnesses to the murder, though a priest talked of seeing a large man, with a twin-spiked silver beard walking away from the building.

The king’s regiment withdrew from the north, as did half of the Moidart’s soldiers, and an uneasy truce developed between the Beetlebacks and the Black Rigante.

When news of Grymauch’s death, and the manner of it, reached the north, Call Jace walked away alone to Shrine Hollow, carrying with him a jug of Uisge. He sat there drinking it as the sun set over Sorrow Bird Lake. He had grown to manhood in the company of Jaim Grymauch, and many were the jugs they had shared. He recalled the sound of the big man’s laughter and remembered the many escapades of their youth.

Call bowed his head and realized that tears were dropping from his eyes. He wiped them away, cursing himself for a soft fool. Then a sob broke clear of his control, and he wept uncontrollably for a while.

Only then did he remember the words of the Dweller:

“For the clans in the south will rediscover their pride and their manhood … One spark will ignite them, one glorious spark, one moment of true Rigante greatness. It will break my heart to see it and at the same time gladden my soul.”

“What are you speaking of?”

“You will know when the moment comes. You will hear of it. You will even weep, Call Jace.”

“I have not shed tears since I was a wee lad and my father died.”

“I know. Too much of your Rigante heritage is locked away, buried deep. But remember my words when the day comes.”

Kaelin Ring found him there. Call knew that the young man was suffering, and the two sat in comfortable silence as the moon rose.

“I cannot believe he has gone,” Kaelin said at last. “A part of me won’t accept it.”

“He hasn’t gone,” said Call. “You carry him here,” he added, tapping Kaelin’s chest, “in your heart, as I carry him in mine. The clan will do the same, boy. Mark my words. You don’t forget a man like Grymauch. They’ll be talking about him in a hundred years.”

“What will they say, do you think?”

“They’ll say he was a hero. They’ll say he was a legend. But best of all, boy, they’ll say he was Rigante!”

T
HE NIGHT
sky was lit by flames, and black smoke swirled across the valley as the town of Shelsans continued to burn. There were no screams now, no feeble cries, no begging for mercy. Two thousand heretics were dead, most slain by sword or mace, though many had been committed to the cleansing fires.

The young knight of the Sacrifice stood high on the hillside and stared down at the burning town. Reflections of the distant flames shone on his blood-soaked silver breastplate and glistening helm. The wind shifted, and Winter Kay smelled the scent of roasting flesh. Far below the wind fanned the hunger of the flames. They blazed higher, devouring the ancient timber walls of the old museum and the carved wooden gates of the Albitane church.

Winter Kay removed his helm. His lean, angular features gleamed with sweat. Plucking a linen handkerchief from his belt he examined it for bloodstains. Finding none, he wiped the cloth over his face and short-cropped dark hair. Putting on armor had been a waste of time this day.

The townsfolk had offered no armed resistance as the thousand knights had ridden into the valley. Instead, hundreds of them had walked from the town singing hymns and crying out words of welcome and brotherhood.

When they had seen the knights of the Sacrifice draw their longswords and heel their horses forward, they had fallen to their knees and called on the Source to protect them.

What idiots they were, thought Winter Kay. The Source
blessed only those with the courage to fight or the wit to run. He could not recall how many he had slain that day, only that his sword had been blunted by dusk and that his holy white cloak had been drenched in the blood of the evil.

Some had tried to repent, begging for their lives as they were dragged to the pyres. One man—a stocky priest in a blue robe—had hurled himself to the ground before Winter Kay, promising him a great treasure if he was spared.

“What treasure do you possess, worm?” asked Winter Kay, pressing his sword point against the man’s back.

“The orb, sir. I can take you to the Orb of Kranos.”

“How quaint,” said Winter Kay. “I expect it resides alongside the sword of Connavar and the helm of Axias. Perhaps it is even wrapped in the Veiled Lady’s robe.”

“I speak the truth, sir. The orb is hidden in Shelsans. It has been kept there for centuries. I have seen it.”

Winter Kay hauled the man to his feet by his white hair. He was short and stocky, his face round, his eyes fearful. From all around them came the screams of the dying cultists. Winter Kay dragged the man toward the town. A woman ran past him, a sword jutting from her breast. She staggered several steps, then fell to her knees. A knight followed her, wrenching the sword clear and decapitating her. Winter Kay walked on, holding his prisoner by the collar of his robe.

The man led him to a small church. In the doorway lay two dead priests. Beyond them were the bodies of a group of women and children.

The prisoner pointed to the altar. “We need to move it, sir,” he said. “The entrance to the vault is below it.”

Sheathing his sword, Winter Kay released the man. Together they lifted the altar table clear of the trapdoor beneath. The priest took hold of an iron ring and dragged the trapdoor open. Below it was a narrow set of steps. Winter Kay gestured the priest to climb down and then followed him.

It was gloomy inside. The priest found a tinderbox and struck a flame, lighting a torch that was set in a bracket on the gray wall. They moved down a narrow corridor that opened
out into a circular room. There were already torches lit there, and an elderly man was sitting before an oval table. In his hands was a curiously carved black box some eighteen inches high. Winter Kay thought it was polished ebony. The old man saw the newcomers and gently laid the box upon the table.

“The orb is within it,” said the captured priest.

“Oh, Pereus, how could you be so craven?” asked the elderly man.

“I don’t want to die. Is that so terrible?” the prisoner replied.

“You will die anyway,” the old priest said sadly. “This knight has no intention of letting you live. There is not an ounce of mercy in him.”

“That is not true,” wailed the prisoner, swinging toward Winter Kay.

“Ah, but it is,” the knight told him, drawing his sword. The little priest tried to run, but Winter Kay sprang after him, delivering a ferocious blow to the back of the man’s head. The skull cracked open, and the priest crumpled to the stone floor. “Is that truly the Orb of Kranos?” Winter Kay asked.

“Aye, it is. Do you have any inkling of what that means?”

“It is a relic of ancient times. A crystal ball, some say, through which we can see the future. Show it to me.”

“It is not crystal, Winter Kay. It is bone.”

“How is it you know my name?”

“I have the gift, Sir Knight, though at this moment I wish I did not. So kill me and be done with it.”

“All in good time, priest. My arm is tired from constant work today. I’ll let it rest awhile. Show me the orb.”

The elderly priest stepped away from the table. “I have no wish to see it. The box is not locked.”

Winter Kay strode forward. As he reached out for the lid, he realized the box was not made of wood at all but had been cast from some dark metal. “What are these symbols etched upon it?” he asked.

“Ward spells. The orb radiates evil. The box contains it.”

“We shall see.” Winter Kay flipped open the lid. Within the
box was an object wrapped in black velvet. Putting down his bloody sword, Winter Kay reached in and lifted it out. Carefully he folded back the cloth. The priest was right. It was no crystal ball. It was a skull, an iron circlet upon its brow. “What nonsense is this?” demanded Winter Kay. Reaching out, he touched the yellowed brow. The skull began to glow, as if a bright candle had been lit within its hollow dome. Winter Kay felt a powerful surge of warmth flow along his fingers and up his arm. It was exquisite. It continued to flow through his body, up through his chest and neck and into his head. He cried out with the pleasure of it. All weariness from the day of slaughter fell away. He felt invigorated.

“This is a wondrous piece,” he said. “I feel reborn.”

“Evil knows its own kind,” said the old man.

Winter Kay laughed aloud. “I am not evil, fool. I am a knight of the Sacrifice. I live to destroy evil wherever I find it. I do the work of the Source. I cleanse the land of the ungodly. Now tell me what magic has been placed in this skull.”

“Only what was always there. That … that creature was once a mighty king. A great hero destroyed him and freed the world of his evil. However, the darkness within him cannot die. It seeks to reach out and corrupt the souls of men. It will bring you nothing but sorrow and death.”

“Interesting,” said Winter Kay. “There is an old adage: ‘The enemy of my enemy must therefore be my friend.’ Since you are named by the church as the enemy, then this must be a vessel for good. I find no evil in it.”