Ravenheart (4 page)

Eldacre. Originally Old Oaks, the center of government in the ancient kingdom of the Rigante, once ruled by Connavar, Bane, Laguish, Borander, and Sepdannet the Leaper. Now a town of some twenty-five thousand souls with three mines, two of coal and one of gold, and five blast furnaces feeding a thriving industry making muskets for the king’s armies, iron rims for wagon wheels, ornate buckles and accoutrements for officers and gentlemen, and swords for the military and for export. It was a prosperous community, a healthy mix of the industrial and the agricultural, with seventeen churches, a massive cathedral, and the Academy for the Instruction of the Righteous. Alterith himself was a graduate of the academy, having majored in the terms of the Sacrifice and the evangelical journeys of the Saint Persis Albitane.

At last the carriage began to slow, cutting away from the main highway and onto a narrow stone road leading between a line of fir trees. Leaning to his left and looking past the hunched figure of the driver, Alterith could see the wrought-iron gates that barred the way to the Moidart’s huge country manor. It was here that the Lord of the Highlands spent the winter. Two musketeers stood sentry, the sunlight gleaming on the gold braid and bright brass buttons of their yellow jerkins. The first of them called out for the carriage to stop and, laying aside his long-barreled musket, stepped forward to inspect the vehicle. He looked closely at Alterith.

“Are you carrying any weapons, sir?” he asked.

“I am not.”

“Be so kind as to step down.”

Alterith pushed open the small door and climbed from the carriage. His black frock coat was tight-fitting but, he supposed, could still have hidden a small knife. The soldier expertly ran his hands over Alterith’s garments.

“My apologies to you, sir, for the impertinence,” said the sentry.

Alterith resumed his seat, and the second sentry opened the gates.

The sound of blades clashing was music to the ears of Mulgrave. Such was the skill of the fencing master that he did not even have to see a duel to judge the skill of the fighters. He had only to hear the sweet sword song of kissing steel. Mulgrave loved to fence and could have made his fortune as a duelist in any one of fifty major cities across the empire. The problem—though Mulgrave did not see it as such—was that he did not like to kill. There were those who thought him squeamish and others who whispered that the swordsman was a coward. None, however, were sure enough of either view to dare speak them to his face.

Mulgrave not only was a master swordsman, he
looked
like a master swordsman, tall, lean, and with reflexes that could make a man believe in magic. His eyes were a pale metallic blue, close-set and piercing, his features sharp, his mouth unsmiling. His hair, closely cropped to his skull, was the silver of polished iron despite the fact that he was not yet thirty years of age.

Selecting a slender rapier, the point capped by a small wooden ball, he bowed to the golden-haired young noble standing before him. His opponent pulled his face mask into place and took up his position.

“Are you ready?” asked the fifteen-year-old Gaise Macon.

“Always,” answered Mulgrave, donning his own mask of fine mesh.

The young man darted forward, his rapier lancing toward the chest guard of the older man. Mulgrave sidestepped, avoiding the thrust. Gaise stumbled. Mulgrave’s rapier struck the young man’s leg in a stinging blow. “A nice idea but poorly executed, my lord,” said Mulgrave. Gaise did not reply. Nor did he react to the blow except to assume once more the fighting stance. This pleased the master. Their blades touched and slid away, and the practice continued. The lad had fine balance and great speed of hand. Already he was more than a match for most men with rapier or épée. His saber work was not of a great standard, but then, he was of slight build. Maturity would add muscle to his frame and strength to his arm, Mulgrave knew.

Toward the end of the session Mulgrave allowed the young noble to score a partial hit. He did not want the lad to become discouraged.

“Enough!” said the master, offering a bow to his opponent. Gaise returned it, then swept the mask from his face, tossing it to the grass. His golden hair was sweat-streaked, his face red from his exertions—except for the star-shaped scar upon his cheekbone, which remained bone-white. Mulgrave removed his face guard and placed it on the ground.

“By the Sacrifice, you are not even warm, sir,” Gaise said with a sudden smile.

Mulgrave gave the young noble a warning look, and the smile faded. Gaise unbuckled his quilted chest guard and glanced up at the house. A silver-haired figure dressed all in black was standing at the balcony rail, looking down on them. Then he was gone.

The fencing master saw the look of sadness that came to the young man’s face. There was nothing Mulgrave could say or do. “You are moving well, my lord,” he told the young man. “You almost had me in trouble twice.”

“I think that he hates me,” said Gaise.

Mulgrave took a deep, slow breath. “Your history teacher is due soon, sir. You should get out of those sweat-drenched
clothes and towel yourself down. This is the weather for chills to take hold.”

“Aye, ’tis a chilly house,” Gaise Macon said sadly.

Mulgrave wanted to throw his arm around the young man’s shoulder and say something to cheer him, but he guessed that the Moidart would be watching them from behind a curtain at one of the upper windows. It saddened Mulgrave to think that Gaise had every reason to believe his father disliked him. They rarely spoke unless it was for the Moidart to criticize some aspect of the youth’s behavior, and often Gaise carried bruises on his face or arms that Mulgrave guessed came from beatings.

Mulgrave had been bodyguard to the Moidart as well as martial instructor to Gaise Macon for three years now and in that time had seen much of the Moidart’s cruelty.

“This afternoon we will try out the new pistols,” said Mulgrave. “They are beautifully balanced.”

“I will look forward to it,” answered Gaise.

How can the Moidart dislike the lad so? wondered Mulgrave. He is considerate and kind, deferential in all his dealings with his father, and has shown great dedication in learning the martial skills of riding, fencing, and shooting.

Mulgrave looked into the youth’s odd-colored eyes, one green and one tawny gold. “You did well, sir,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

“That means a great deal to me,” answered Gaise. “I shall go and change my clothes. Would you make my apologies to Mr. Shaddler and tell him I will be with him presently?”

“Of course, sir.”

Mulgrave watched the youth run lightly up the steps to the side doors. Just then the tall, spidery figure of Alterith Shaddler came into view. Mulgrave removed his chest guard and offered the teacher a short bow. “Good day to you, sir teacher,” said the swordsman.

“And to you, Master Mulgrave. I trust that you are well.”

“I am, sir. Lord Gaise has asked me to convey his apologies
for lateness. Our practice was delayed, and he is changing his clothing.”

“The martial skills are always considered ahead of the cerebral,” Alterith said without bitterness.

“Sadly, sir, I must agree with you. A true student of history would learn of the endless stupidity war brings out in men.”

“And the nobility, Master Mulgrave,” admonished the teacher. “That, too.”

“Indeed. Nobility is found in great quantities among warriors. It is notably lacking, I find, in those who send them to war.”

Alterith Shaddler blinked and licked his lips. “I must have misunderstood you, sir, for your words could be seen as a criticism of the king.”

Mulgrave smiled. “We were talking of matters historical, sir. Not political. For example, one could read the essays on war of the emperor Jasaray. There is little nobility there—merely a vaunting ambition to conquer as much of the known world as possible.”

“But there was great nobility in Conn of the Vars, who defeated him,” observed Alterith.

Mulgrave chuckled. “Conn of the Vars? He was one of us, then? Fascinating. I’d always been led to believe he was a clansman.”

“A common misconception among nonscholars, sir. The power of the Source brought him to this realm as a child in order that he could one day defeat Jasaray.”

“Ah, yes, the Source,” Mulgrave said with a grin. “I understand he is also of the Varlish.”

“I believe that you are making sport of me, sir,” Alterith said sternly.

“My apologies, sir teacher,” Mulgrave replied, with a bow, “for indeed I am. When I was a child, my mother taught me of the Sacrifice. As I understand it, the early saints were people who preached peace and love. How strange it is that in their names we have conquered many lands, burned cities, slaughtered thousands. I’ll wager the legendary Veiled Lady would
turn her face from us in shame. We are no better than the savages she sought to convert.”

All color drained from Alterith’s face. “By the Sacrifice, man! You could burn for such remarks! The Varlish are the chosen race of the Source.”

Mulgrave’s pale eyes held to the schoolmaster’s gaze. “Aye, I guess I could burn for the truth. Other men have.”

Alterith sighed. “I shall not repeat this conversation, Master Mulgrave, but I would appreciate it if you did not repeat such heresy within my hearing.”

“Agreed, we will not talk of matters religious. In the same spirit please do not insult my intelligence with nonsense about Conn of the Vars. It is enough that we destroy the culture of the Keltoi without polluting their proud history.”

“Connovar’s origins are a known fact,” insisted Alterith. “The historian—”

“I’ll tell you a known fact, sir teacher. Four years ago a small church some thirty miles from here, in the province of the Pinance, was undergoing renovation. They removed a cracked flagstone close to the altar. Beneath it was an old chest, and within it a number of old scrolls, yellow and crusty with age. Upon one scroll was written the table of Keltoi kings and their lineage. An elderly monk spent months deciphering the Keltoi script. Many of the stories contained in the scrolls were unknown to us, dealing with myths of the Seidh. The old monk became very excited. We always knew that Connovar carried the soul-name Sword in the Storm. We did not know why. One of the scrolls explained it. His name was actually Conn-a-Var, or in pure translation, Conn son of Var. His father’s name was Var-a-Conn, Var son of Conn. He was not of the Var race at all. The scrolls also gave insights into known historical events, the battles, the philosophy of the Keltoi kings.”

“I would have heard of such a find,” argued Alterith. “It would have been priceless and much talked of.”

“It would have been had word leaked out,” said Mulgrave. “I knew of it only because I was studying some of the works
held in the church library, and I got to speak with the monk. He sent a letter to the Pinance, telling him of the find. Soon after that a squad of soldiers arrived and forcibly removed the scrolls. They also took all the copies the old monk had made. He wrote to the Pinance, pleading to be allowed to continue his work. There was no reply. He wrote to his bishop, requesting that the king be petitioned, detailing in the letter all that he remembered from the scrolls.

“On my last day at the church a carriage came for him. I saw him climb into it. He was happy, for he believed he was going to be taken to the castle of the Pinance, there to continue his work. His body was found two days later in a stream some three miles from the church.”

“You are saying the Pinance had him killed?”

“I am saying nothing of the kind. The Pinance disavowed all knowledge of the carriage or the men riding with it.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I am saying that history is always written by the victors. It is not about truth but about justification. The Keltoi were a proud warrior race. It does not suit us that they should remain so. So we denigrate their culture, and what we cannot denigrate we suppress. I do not know if the scrolls were true. How could I? The old monk could have been wrong in his translations. But I do know they have never surfaced again for other discussion. That tells me much.”

Alterith sighed. “Why do you persist in telling me things that could put your life at risk, Master Mulgrave?”

“Because I am a good judge of men, Master Shaddler. Your head may be filled with nonsense, but deep down you have a good heart.”

The teacher blushed. “I thank you for the … the half compliment, sir, but from now on, let us hold to conversational topics that do not bring visions of the noose or the flame.”

Kaelin had never seen a more magnificent bull. As tall as a horse, black as a raven’s wing, the enormous beast stood in the moonlit paddock like an enormous statue cast from coal.
Hidden behind a screen of gorse on the hillside above, Kaelin sat quietly beside Jaim Grymauch.

“I have never seen horns so wide,” said Kaelin. “They must be seven feet from tip to tip. Is it a freak?”

“No,” whispered Jaim. “It is an isles bull. One and a half tons of short-tempered unpredictability. One flick of that head and the horn would pass right through a man.”

“Then how are we going to steal it?”

Jaim Grymauch grinned suddenly. “We’ll use the old magic, lad. I’ll summon a Seidh spirit.”

“You shouldn’t joke about such things,” the youth said sternly.

“There’s nothing in this world that I cannot joke about,” the man told him, his smile fading. “Sometimes, deep in the night, I believe I can hear the gods laugh at us. If they did create us, Kaelin, they created us for a joke. Nothing else. And a bad joke, to boot! I’ll mock the Seidh and I’ll mock the Sacrifice. I’ll mock any damn thing I please!”

Kaelin Ring loved and trusted the scarred warrior, but he knew when to fall silent. Jaim was just like one of the bulls he lived to steal: brooding, short-tempered, and wholly unpredictable. Dawn was still a little way off, and Kaelin hunkered down into his borrowed coat. It was thick and warm and smelled of woodsmoke, coal dust, and sweat. He closed his eyes and dozed for a while. Pain woke him, and he cried out.

“Quiet, boy! What’s wrong?” hissed Jaim.