Ravenheart (22 page)

Galliott sighed. “You will talk yourself into a noose one of these days, Grymauch. I will be sad to see it.”

“Aye, Captain. Without rogues there’d be no need of Beetlebacks, I guess.”

Galliott laughed. “Quite so. Well, I must be leaving. We have another thirty homes to visit today.”

“Have you found Chain Shada yet, sir?” asked Maev.

“No, Maev, but we will. He will be cold and hungry by now. The Moidart has sent for Huntsekker and his trackers. They will find him.”

“I do not like the man,” said Maev. “He is a killer. What has Chain Shada been convicted of that he should be hunted by the Harvester?”

“It is not for me to question the orders of the Moidart, Maev,” said Galliott. “I share your dislike of Huntsekker. It must be said, however, that he rarely fails to find those he tracks.”

“And then he scythes off their heads,” snapped Maev. “It is vile.”

“Why should you be concerned for Shada?”

“He helped Jaim. He could have destroyed him. That is what the mob was baying for. That he did not does him credit.”

“Helped me!” muttered Grymauch. “The man cost me thirty-eight chaillings. Did you know they refused me the prize money?”

“Aye, that was unfair,” Galliott agreed, with a smile. “I’ll speak with the bishop. Maybe with a little money in your
pocket you’ll be less likely to go roguing.” Galliott walked to his horse and mounted. The Beetlebacks rode from the house and turned toward the south.

Kaelin strolled toward the old barn. Maev called out to him. “There’s nothing there for you. Let the girls get on with their work.” Then she walked up to Jaim and linked arms. “Come walk with me a ways,” she said.

“You want something from me, lass?”

“Why do you say that? Why should I not want to walk with an old friend?”

He laughed. “Now you are scaring me. Scolding I understand. Hell, I even enjoy it. But I’m not comfortable with this strange softness.” Maev forced a smile, and the two of them walked out into the calf meadow. Once there she released his arm and sat down on a split log. “Where do you think Chain Shada might have gone?”

“How would I know?”

“We owe him, Grymauch.”

“For what?”

“You didn’t see him grab the keeper of the sand. He forced the man to give you extra time after the foul blow. More important, as you just heard me say to Galliott, he did not rip your stupid head from your shoulders as the crowd urged him to.”

“Stupid head? Now that’s the Maev I know and love.”

“Be serious, will you. He knew that by not crushing you he would be in trouble. I doubt he realized his life depended on it, but even so. It was—though I hate to admit it—a noble and selfless act. He risked himself for you, Grymauch. Now he is alone and hunted. Find him.”

“Just like that? An army is seeking him, but old one-eyed Grymauch can just walk into the mountains and the big Varlish will emerge from behind a bush? I don’t think so, Maev.”

“You’ll not do this thing?” she asked, surprise in her voice.

“No.”

“This is not like you, Grymauch,” she said, staring at him intently.

He was suddenly uneasy under her green-eyed gaze. “Maybe it isn’t like me,” he admitted. “But then, maybe it’s time old Grymauch started looking out for himself. You heard what he said. Huntsekker is on his trail. I don’t want that scythe on
my
neck.”

Maev rose from the log, still holding to his gaze. “I know you, Grymauch. I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Obviously not,” he retorted, taking a step back.

“You are not frightened of Huntsekker.”

“All men are frightened of something. Shada will either escape or he won’t. No sense in us getting involved.”

Maev was about to speak, then Grymauch saw her relax. She smiled and stepped in close. “Damn, but you already have him, don’t you? Where is he? In that cave of yours?”

“Whisht, woman. Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“You went out three nights ago and only came back this morning. I thought you were whoring with Parsha Willets. But you weren’t, were you, Grymauch? You went into the mountains and found Chain Shada. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have him.”

“I don’t …,” he faltered. “Damnit, woman, but I think you’re a witch.” He glanced around to see if anyone was in earshot. “Yes, I have him, but I didn’t want to put you in peril by sharing the secret. I’ll get him across the river tomorrow night.”

“That’s my Grymauch,” she said fondly. “He’ll need coin once you bring him to the Pinance’s territory. I’ll give you two pounds for him.”

“Two pounds, is it? You’ve never given me two pounds.”

“You’re not worth two pounds,” she snapped. “Now, there is something else we must discuss. How does Kaelin seem to you?”

Grymauch shrugged. “He’s a mite withdrawn since they killed the lass. He’ll get over it.”

“He has not spoken to you, then?”

“About what?”

“The murders of Bindoe and the boy.”

“No. Why would he?”

“The killer is said to have shot Bindoe in the face and then stolen his saber.”

“So I heard.”

“Kaelin came back that morning and hid Lanovar’s pistols and a saber in the old barn.”

Jaim Grymauch stood silently for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear this,” he said at last. “Not that they didn’t deserve to die, you understand.”

Maev nodded. She knew he was thinking about the manner of their deaths and trying to come to terms with the fact that such crazed behavior had come from his beloved Kaelin. “He liked the girl, you know,” he said. “His mind must have been … unhinged.”

“Yes,” agreed Maev. “A killing frenzy.” Jaim turned away from her for a moment, staring out over the mountains. Maev could see the sadness in him. He stood silently for a while.

“Why did the soldiers not find the weapons?” he asked finally.

“I put the pistols back, Grymauch, and I buried the saber. My guess is that you showed Kaelin the pistols when I was away at some time. It doesn’t matter now. What does is that he has killed two Varlish. He is just like Lanovar, and I fear for his life. As he grows older, he will resent more and more the Varlish domination. He will not exist within it like you or I. He will resist it. He will oppose it. And they will kill him as they killed his father.”

Jaim sighed. “Is there anything that I can do, Maev? You have but to name it.”

“I have purchased property far away in the northwest, a farm that borders the Black Rigante country. You have friends among them. Come summer I want you to take Kaelin north. I want him far from the Moidart and his Beetlebacks. I want him to find a life away from the Varlish.”

“Come summer he will be a man, Maev. He may choose not to go.”

“That’s why I need you, Jaim. He admires you, and I think he would travel with you if you asked him.”

“Why wait until the summer?”

“Life in Eldacre will be calmer then. There is too much excitement and suspicion now. Let Kaelin finish his schooling and then you can go.”

“Will you want me to come back?” he asked her.

“What kind of question is that?” she countered. He stood silently, watching her, his expression grave. Maev felt uncomfortable. “Of course I will, you lummox,” she told him. “I’d have no one to scold. Now, you be careful tomorrow. Huntsekker will be close. Vile the man may be, but he’s no fool.”

“I’ll avoid him, and don’t you worry, I’ll not take Kaelin with me.”

“Yes, you will, Jaim,” she said sadly. “He has killed now, and he is a man, with all the sorrow that brings. I want him close to you from now on. There is much he needs to learn from you. You were a killer once, and you changed. Help Kaelin change.”

“I’ll do my best, Maev.”

“Aye, I know. You’re a good man, Grymauch.”

8

T
HE FEELING OF
sadness did not fade as the Wyrd moved across the countryside toward the old log bridge. Rather, it deepened. There was no pulsating magic in the ground below her feet, no silent music in the trees. Here and there she could sense tiny fragments of what once had radiated from the land: a glint of golden light on the surface of a stream, a shard of harmony in the shadow of a great oak, a whisper of past glory on the gentle breeze.

Even that faded as, leaning heavily on her sycamore staff, she reached the bridge. Death hung in the air. Recent rains had washed away most of the blood, and the bodies had been removed. Yet the horror remained, swirling unseen over the river, tainting the trees and the grass.

To restore harmony to the scene would take days of mind-numbing toil, endless prayers, and fasting. It was ever thus, she thought. The sculptor labored for years to carve the perfect statue from marble, every muscle shaped with perfect beauty. One talentless man with a hammer then destroyed it in a moment. Creation took time and love, destruction merely a heartbeat of madness.

The Wyrd had spent half her life becoming one with the land, sacrificing all that most humans held dear: love, children, family. At times like this she could almost regret it.

“Oh, Ravenheart,” she whispered. “What have you done to yourself?”

Dusk was approaching, and the Wyrd settled down to rest, drawing her tattered cloak around her. The first of her labors
would take place when the moon was high, and she needed to be strong. From a small canvas pouch she took a pinch of shredded leaves, placing them under her tongue. The taste was bitter, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. The scents of the forest sharpened: the musty earth, the damp fur of the nearby rabbits, the harsh and pungent fox urine, the soft, heady perfume of the spring flowers by the river.

The Wyrd relaxed, allowing the weight of forest memories to flow over her. From somewhere deep within she heard the sounds of men laboring. Distant sounds, echoes from the past. Closing her eyes, she focused on the sounds. Laughter came, and with it a sense of camaraderie. The Wyrd saw the soldiers of Stone putting aside their breastplates as they cut down the trees to make this bridge, creating a passage through to the heart of Rigante territory. It would allow their army to march on Bane’s stronghold. The Wyrd could hear their voices now. The old tongue of Stone, which she did not know. Yet she could feel their soaring confidence, their belief in their invincibility. Bane would destroy that less than three weeks after this bridge was completed. The Rigante would fall upon the Stone army and annihilate it utterly.

Slowly the Wyrd opened her eyes. She could see the men now, splitting the logs and hauling them into place. They were not true spirits, merely reflections in the mirror of time. There could be no interaction with them. Their labors had merely become part of the memory of the forest.

For an hour the Wyrd rested, then she moved to the riverbank, cupping her hands and drinking deeply. As she did so, the narcotic herb she had taken linked her to another image. She
saw
Kaelin Ring sitting beside the water, weeping. The Wyrd sighed. Her spirit was in tune with the people of the Rigante, and she often experienced glimpses of their futures. Chara Ward had been full Varlish, and the Wyrd had not seen the perils she faced.

The moon was above the mountains now, though scurrying clouds obscured it for long periods. Running wet fingers through her hair, she stood and stretched. Once there had
been bears in these mountains, great ambling creatures that would hunt the salmon in the clean, sparkling waters. Once there had been wolves, running wild and free. Man had killed the bears and all but destroyed the wolves, driving them far to the north.

The Wyrd climbed to the bridge, took another pinch of shredded herbs, and sat down on the logs.

The murder of Chara Ward had been savage, born of lust and hatred. The slaying of her killers had been more than that. It had been premeditated and vicious in its execution. That it should have been Ravenheart who had committed the crime was almost more than the Wyrd could bear. In him she had hoped to find the best of the Rigante. But like his ancestor Connavar he carried the best and the worst.

The night grew chilly.

“Come to me, Jek Bindoe,” whispered the Wyrd.

Mist swirled over the logs, and the Wyrd shivered. Her skin prickled as something cold touched the back of her neck. She did not turn. Instead she emptied her mind. Within the whispering wind she heard a voice, the sound growing stronger. “Kill you, bitch! Kill you!” Icy, insubstantial fingers raked at her neck.