Ravenheart (11 page)

“That is enough!” shouted Gaise Macon. “Release that man.”

The watch officers let go of Kaelin Ring, who half stumbled and then righted himself.

“Sir, this man attacked a Varlish citizen,” said Bindoe. “It was witnessed by most of the people here.”

“I also witnessed it,” Gaise Macon said coldly. “Three men against one. And he almost had the beating of them.” He turned his palomino toward Taybard Jaekel. “And you, sir. Let me inform you that had you used that knife, I would have seen you hang for murder. Now begone from here.”

In that moment all anger drained away from Taybard Jaekel. It was not the threat that caused it but the realization that he had come close to killing an unarmed man. Shame swept over him, and he swung away.

He did not go back to the market but instead ran down to the lake, where he sat on a fallen tree and offered up a prayer of thanks to the blessed Saint Persis Albitaine for preserving him from murder. Kammel Bard and Luss Campion found him there.

Taybard’s broken nose was deeply painful, and a headache was pounding at his temples. Luss had a lump on his cheekbone, and Kammel was sporting a swollen, blackened eye.

“We’ll get him another time,” said Luss Campion.

Taybard did not respond.

“We’d better be getting back to the market,” put in Kammel. “You coming, Tay?”

“No. I’ll sit here awhile.” His friends strolled away. Taybard moved to the water’s edge and gently washed the blood from his face. His head felt like it could burst at any moment. He sat down heavily, dizziness swamping him.

A white-haired woman came alongside him. “Drink this,” she said, offering him a small copper cup brimming with a murky liquid. “It will take away the pain.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Drink,” she ordered him.

Taybard did so. The taste was bitter upon the tongue, but within moments the sharp, jagged pain receded, replaced by a dull throbbing ache.

“Thank you,” he said.

“How did you hurt your nose?”

“It was … a fight.”

“Did you win?”

“No.”

“And that saddens you?”

“No. I didn’t …” He paused and took a deep breath. “I didn’t deserve to win. I almost killed a man. I would never have forgiven myself.”

“Then be glad, for you learned a lesson that some men never learn. It will change you and change you for the better. This has been a good day for you, Taybard Jaekel.”

He turned toward her, his gaze taking in her ragged clothing. “Who are you, and how do you know my name?” he asked, looking into her green eyes.

“I am the Wyrd of the Wishing Tree woods,” she told him, “and I know all the children of the Rigante.”

A heavy weariness flowed over him, and he lay down on the soft earth. “I am Varlish,” he said sleepily.

“You are Taybard Jaekel, and your line goes back to the days of greatness and beyond. In you flows the blood of Fiallach, Connavar’s iron general. He, too, was a man of uncertain rages. Yet he was loyal unto death.”

He wanted to reply, but his eyes closed, and he slipped into a velvet sleep.

Kaelin Ring could feel the blood on his face, and his head was pounding. Taybard and the others had left the scene, but the hatchet-faced Sergeant Bindoe was standing close by, staring at him malevolently. Kaelin ignored him and reached for his shoulder bag.

The golden-haired young nobleman dismounted. “You are bleeding,” he said. “Let us check the wound.”

“It is nothing,” answered Kaelin, pressing his fingers to the cut on his cheekbone. “It will seal itself.” He wanted to be away from there, away, indeed, from all things Varlish.

“I expect that it will,” said Gaise Macon. “I am sorry that I did not arrive more swiftly.”

“You were swift enough,” said Kaelin. He paused, aware of how ungrateful he sounded. “I thank you,” he managed to say, having to force the words out.

A second man approached them, tall and lean with prematurely white hair. “You fought well, lad. Fine balance. Who taught you those moves?”

“My uncle Jaim. No one can fight like him.”

“He is a good teacher.” The soldier put out his hand, and Kaelin put down his sack and shook it. The grip was firm, and despite himself, Kaelin warmed to the man. Then he spoke again: “My name is Mulgrave. The gentleman who saved you is Gaise Macon.”

“The Moidart’s son,” said Kaelin, stiffening.

“That is so,” said Gaise, his friendliness fading as he saw the cold look in Kaelin’s eyes. “You know my father?”

“No. He knew mine,” said Kaelin. With that he stepped back, swept up his sack, and walked away, his heart beating fast. He was angry now. Just for a moment he had found himself relaxing in the company of the Varlish, one moment that now felt like a betrayal of his blood. This man’s father had treacherously killed Lanovar and hundreds of other Rigante
men, women, and children. Now the son had saved his life. It was galling.

Kaelin trudged on past the school and up into the hills. The blood dried on his face, the bruises on his flesh throbbing in the cool wind. He had known fear—real fear—for the first time in his life when he had seen Taybard Jaekel advancing on him, the knife glittering in his hand. He saw the scene again and shivered. It was not the knife that frightened him or even the prospect of death. It was that he had been helpless, his arms pinned. He would have been slaughtered like a feast bull.

The strange thing was that he had never hated Taybard. He did not much like Luss Campion or Kammel Bard, but Taybard, he had always felt, was essentially good-hearted. He had once, so Banny had told Kaelin one day, stepped in to save Banny from taking a beating. He had also been heavily involved in the rescue of little Jassie Wirrall when she had fallen into the weir and almost drowned. Taybard had hurled himself into the rushing torrent, grabbing the child and holding her head above the water until Galliott had thrown a rope and dragged them both to the bank.

He found it hard to understand the youth’s hatred of him. Yes, Taybard was Varlish, but only nominally. Everyone knew there was clan blood in his line.

Kaelin walked on, keeping a wary eye out for Taybard and his companions in case they had decided to waylay him farther from town.

Up ahead was a cluster of dwellings used by the families of timber yard workers. Several women were hanging clothes out to dry on rope lines strung across the open ground. The houses had been built more than a hundred years before, the outer shells constructed of gray granite slabs, the sloping roofs of black slate. Freezing in winter, cold in summer, they stood colorless and drab against the bright green wooded hills. One of the younger women saw Kaelin and called out. He glanced up to see Chara Ward moving toward him.

Kaelin paused, his mood lifting. Chara was tall for a girl,
and she walked in a way that caused Kaelin’s pulse to race and his mind to focus on thoughts that were entirely inappropriate. She was dressed in a pale blue blouse and a flowing gray skirt that hugged her body as she walked. As she neared him, she smiled, her hand moving up to sweep back the long blond wisps of hair that had fallen clear of her bright blue headband. The lifting of the hand caused the blouse to press against her body. Kaelin could not keep his eyes from the plump, perfect outline of her breasts. Guiltily he looked away. As she came closer, Chara saw the blood on Kaelin’s face.

“What happened to you?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

“A scrap. Nothing serious,” he answered.

“Who did that to you?”

“It is not important.” He shuffled from foot to foot as she came closer, her hand reaching out to touch his face.

“It is very swollen. You should come inside and let me bathe the cut.”

“It is nothing, Chara. You look beautiful today,” he said, catching hold of her hand and kissing the fingers.

She smiled, and a faint blush touched her cheeks. “You shouldn’t do that,” she whispered. “Mother is watching.”

Kaelin recalled that Chara’s mother had recently been sick with yellow blight, a fever that caused the skin to pale. Yellow blight was rarely fatal, but sufferers lost great amounts of weight and were liable to bouts of weakness that might last for months. “Is she better now?” he asked.

“She is still a little weak, but she is improving. Thank you for asking. Will you come in and sit with us for a while?”

“I would like to,” he told her, “but I must be getting home. I have medicine for Banny and his mother.”

“I heard about the attack,” said Chara. “It was shameful. I sometimes think Morain has a streak of wickedness in her. Will Shula be all right?”

“I don’t know. She is very ill.”

For a few moments they stood together in comfortable silence. Then Chara spoke again.

“Will you be attending the feast come Sacrifice Day?”

“I thought that I might,” he said.

“Would you like to walk there together?” she asked.

“You know that I would. But it might be best if we did not.”

“I don’t care what people say, Kaelin.”

“It is not about what they
say
.”

“I’m not frightened of them, either. You are my friend, Kaelin. I value that friendship, and I’ll not hide it to please bigots.”

An older woman called out: “There is work still to be done, child.”

Chara laughed. “I must be going. Will I see you at midday, then, or will you want to be walking there sooner?”

“Midday is good,” he said. She smiled and swung away.

Kaelin watched her and found himself imagining her without the skirt and blue blouse. Then he caught the older woman staring at him. It was as if she could read his thoughts. He blushed and continued his way along the lane.

Cutting across the fields, he was within sight of his home when he saw the Wyrd sitting at the edge of the trees. He had not seen her in some months and waved at her. She gestured for him to join her. Kaelin strolled over, laid down his bag, and sat beside her on a fallen tree.

“My, but you have been busy today, Ravenheart,” she said. “So much of import in so little time.”

“I have merely been to town and had a scrap,” he told her.

“You have seen the stag and set in motion events that will shape the future of the Rigante.”

He shook his head and looked into her green eyes. “I have seen no stag.”

“What did you think of Gaise Macon?”

“What was there to think? He is a Varlish nobleman.”

“Did you like him?”

“I don’t know him.”

“Come, come, Ravenheart, I have no time for word games—unless of course they are mine. Did you like him?”

“Aye, sadly I did.”

“Nothing sad about it,” she told him. “Gaise Macon is a
fine young man—doomed but fine. I’m glad you took to him, and I am delighted he took up for you.”

“Why do you say he is doomed?”

“He lives to ride the storm horse. No man can ride it for long. Those who do are bonny and brave—aye, and doomed.”

Kaelin chuckled. “Every time we meet, you add a little riddle to the conversation. Stags and storm horses.”

“You enjoy it, though?”

“Aye, I do. Will you come home with me and share a meal?”

“No, though it is kind of you to ask. I have a long journey ahead. I am going back to the Wishing Tree woods. I need to rest awhile and seek the wisdom of the Seidh.”

“I thought they had gone from the world.”

“Not from the world, Kaelin. Only from Caer Druagh. There are still places where they walk the wild woods and leave their magic in every footstep.”

“Why did you say I had seen a stag?”

“Not a stag, Kaelin.
The
stag.”

“You have lost me.”

“Of course I have.” She smiled at him, and he wondered anew just how old she was. When she smiled, her face seemed suddenly youthful. “I am as old as I choose to be,” she said.

Kaelin jerked as if stung. “You can read my thoughts?”

The Wyrd’s laughter pealed out. “That is no great talent. You are still young, and your expressions are honest. You have not yet learned to disguise what you are thinking. Though you should—at least when you are around Chara’s mother.”

Kaelin chuckled. “She’s a fine-looking girl. I think she knows magic, for my heart beats like a drum whenever she is close.”

“All women know
that
magic,” said the Wyrd.

“Even you?” The words were out before he could stop them. “I am sorry,” he said swiftly. “That was rude.”

“Yes, but it was honest. Yes, even the Wyrd. I have chosen
to hold that magic within me. It strengthens my powers to be celibate. Why that should be, I don’t know.” Her green eyes locked to his dark gaze. “However, my time in Old Hills is short, and I’ve little of it to waste on matters philosophical.”

“Nor I,” said Kaelin. “Aunt Maev will be angry about the fight, and I need to be getting home. I don’t doubt she’ll scold me over it. Scolding is one of her talents.”

“Aye, she’s a hard woman. Difficult to live with.”

Kaelin laughed. “I’ll vouch for that.”

“You know how you came to live with her?”

Kaelin looked away. “I know my mother was killed two nights after I was born. The Beetlebacks came into the village. They slew all who could not escape to the woods. After that Aunt Maev raised me.”

“It was a night of sickening slaughter,” said the Wyrd, her voice low. “Some women managed to run to the woods. However, Maev, instead of fleeing, ran back to your mother’s hut. The soldier who killed Gian was standing over her body when Maev slammed a dagger into his throat. She killed him, Kaelin. She avenged Gian and took you from your crib and carried you to safety.”

“She has never spoken of it,” said Kaelin. “I did not know.”

“She is Rigante, Ravenheart, and in her flows the blood of Ruathain and Meria, two of the great heroes of our past. Aye, and Lanach and Bedril, who held the pass. Maev is old blood. As are you. As is Gaise Macon.”

“Varlish blood. Murderer’s blood.”

“Chara Ward is of Varlish blood, Kaelin,” said the Wyrd. “Do you hate her?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then think before you speak, Ravenheart. Chara Ward is good and kind.” The Wyrd suddenly seemed sad. Kaelin expected her to speak, but instead she reached down to a canvas sack at her feet and opened it. From it she took a muslin pouch. “Now, listen to me. Ramus has given you good herbs, and they will help Shula a little. They will not, however, save her life. When you get home, put this in a pint—no more—of
boiling water, then leave it until the water is merely warm to the touch. Make her drink at least half of it. When she does so, she will fall into a deep sleep. It will be like death. You may not be able to detect a pulse. Do not fret. She will recover, but she will sleep for at least three days. You understand?”