Ravenheart (41 page)

“Why did you not report the crime?”

“I was frightened. Would you like something to drink, sir? A little wine or something?”

“No, I am fine. Who was the killer?”

“The Moidart. Most of the servants knew Rayena had been seeing the highland boy, Lanovar Ring. The Moidart found out. Don’t know who told him. He hunted Lanovar down and killed him. Then he waited until his wife had the child, and he killed her, too. When I got out of the house, I just ran down to town. Didn’t care that my feet were wet. I sat in the tavern and said nothing to nobody. He was bleeding bad when I left, so I thought he’d probably be dead when I got back. But he wasn’t. Then word went around that assassins had come and killed the wife and stabbed the lord. I didn’t say nothing then, either. Then, when little Gaise was a few weeks old and his eyes changed color, I thought the lord would kill him, too.”

Ramus was puzzled. All babies were born with blue eyes, the natural color appearing later. But why should Gaise Macon’s peculiar green and gold eyes have put him in danger? The portrait of the Moidart’s grandmother showed that she had such eyes.

“Did you know Lanovar Ring?” he asked Maldrak.

“Met him once or twice. Fine-looking man.”

“And his eyes were also green and gold?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Just like Gaise. But the Moidart didn’t kill the boy. Gave him no love, though.”

What a quandary, thought Ramus. To be so full of hatred that he would kill his wife and then not to know whether he was raising the son of his enemy. Did Gaise inherit his looks from his great-grandmother or from the highlander who had cuckolded the Moidart? The Moidart could never know.

“Then came the night of the fire,” said Maldrak. “It was only a few months later. It was awful. The Moidart came out, but we could hear the screams of people trapped inside.”

“The Moidart was burned badly,” said Ramus. “He still suffers.”

“No, he came out unscathed,” said Maldrak. “He shouted to someone: ‘Where is my son?’ Nobody answered. The Moidart gave a terrible cry then and ran back into the inferno. I’ve never seen the like. We all thought he was dead. Then he appeared at an upper window. His cloak and shirt were on fire, and he was carrying little Gaise wrapped in a blanket. And that had started to smolder. The Moidart kicked out the window and jumped. When he hit the ground, he rolled to protect the babe. We all ran to him and beat out the flames. The baby had a little burn on his face, but he was all right. The Moidart was burned bad and had a broken ankle. After that I knew he would never kill Gaise. Not after risking everything to save him.”

The old man drifted off to sleep. When he awoke some minutes later, he blinked and seemed confused. “What happened to the priest, Apothecary? Did he go?”

“Yes.”

“Did he damn me?”

“No, my friend. He blessed you.” Maldrak winced and groaned. “Hurting a lot now,” he said. Ramus opened a bottle of potion and helped the old man drink. “Man, that’s bitter,” said Maldrak.

“It will ease the pain.”

“Am I dying, Ramus?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear. I don’t want to.”

“Drink some more. Finish the bottle.”

Maldrak did as he was bidden. Then he sank back. After a while he said: “That’s a little better. I think I’ll sleep now. I’ll be right as rain when I’ve rested. Thanks for all you’ve done for me. He blessed me, you say?”

“Aye, he did.”

“Don’t want the gates shut when I get there.”

“Rest, Maldrak. Sleep.”

The old man closed his eyes. Ramus waited quietly by the bedside. The potion was a powerful one, and soon Maldrak was sleeping deeply. Ramus had seen such cancers before. Death from them was always agonizing. Maldrak would suffer no such agony. A few drops of the potion would take away the pain. A little more and sleep could be induced. But to drink the whole bottle would slow and then stop the heart.

Ramus took hold of Maldrak’s wrist, feeling for the pulse. It fluttered weakly for a while, then faded away.

“I hope your wife is waiting for you,” he said.

Then he blew out the lantern and left the hut.

Since the attack on him eight months earlier Call Jace had been a changed man. His left arm ached continuously, and his shoulder pained him when the weather was cold or wet. His men noticed the change in his mood. Rarely did Call Jace take part in the joking and camaraderie of the Rigante, keeping to the great house or wandering by himself at Sorrow
Bird Lake. His son Bael carried out most of his duties, though Call himself always led the twice-monthly clan meetings with his captains.

The winter had been especially harsh, and that meant there was little trouble with Ranaud and his Beetlebacks, but no one doubted that the spring would see trouble. Throughout Black Mountain the word had gone out that Call Jace had been responsible, either personally or by order, for the murder of Colonel Linax. The ailing officer was said to have traveled to a meeting with Jace to discuss various aspects of the unwritten treaty between Rigante and Varlish. He had ridden out one early autumn morning in the company of Captain Ranaud. That night Ranaud had returned, telling a tale of treachery. They had arrived at the meeting place only to find a group of highlanders waiting in ambush. Colonel Linax had, according to Ranaud, been shot in the head. Ranaud himself had escaped by drawing his saber and charging the ambushers. Only the intervention of the Source had saved him.

The news split the community. Highlanders did not believe Jace would kill a man he had invited to a meeting. The Varlish felt vindicated in their mistrust and hatred of all clansmen.

Jace himself was furious. At first he had believed a renegade group of highlanders might have been responsible and had sent out scouts to track them. Except there were no tracks. The ground where Linax had been murdered was badly churned by the soldiers who had ridden out to recover the body. But higher in the hills, where the killers probably would have fled, there was no sign of a large party of travelers.

“They’d have to have been ghosts,” Rayster told him upon his return. “The whole area is unmarked. Not a single boot print. No evidence of a recent campfire, no discarded bones from a meal.”

“They must be somewhere!” snapped Jace. “An armed group cannot simply kill a Beetleback and then vanish.”

“No, indeed,” agreed Rayster.

“Then how do you explain the killing?”

Rayster shrugged. “We can eliminate the claim that a group of raiders killed the colonel. There were no raiders. Unlikely as it sounds, the only person who could have killed him is Ranaud himself.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“We know there was no meeting planned with you. Our people in Black Mountain say that Ranaud himself arranged it. He is known as a clan hater. Linax was not. The colonel’s death has left Ranaud in command and given him freedom to act against you.”

Call cursed. “Damn, but it galls me to think people believe me to be so stupid as to arrange a meeting and then kill a Beetleback. It is insane. If I wanted Linax dead, I’d have planned it with at least a little subtlety.”

As the vicious winter finally gave way to the brighter, warmer days of spring, fresh news reached Call. A regiment of the king’s army and an artillery battalion were said to be preparing for a march to the Black Mountains. Five thousand men and fifty cannon would be heading north in less than a month.

Ranaud had also reinstated the law concerning highlanders carrying weapons. Any clansman found with sword, pistol, or musket would be summarily hanged.

Worse was to follow. A young clansman was arrested for wearing a Black Rigante cloak. Put on trial for treason, he had been beheaded in the town square. Call Jace sent out two hunting parties in the hope of assassinating Colonel Ranaud. Unfortunately, the man was wily and rarely rode without fifty men at his back. One of the parties was ambushed. They managed to escape, but not without losing three men and killing five Beetlebacks.

For several months Call Jace had journeyed at least once a week to Sorrow Bird Lake, seeking the wisdom of the Dweller. Throughout the winter she was missing, but then, in the first week of spring, he saw her small boat moored in the bay. He sat in Shrine Hollow until she came to him. His arm
was aching badly, and his mood was sour. “Where do you go, woman?” he asked her. “Why do you spend so little time with your people?”

“I spend almost all my time with my people, Call Jace. What do you require of me?”

Her voice, as ever, was cool, her manner distant. “You do not like me, Dweller. I know this, but I have never asked why. Now I am asking.”

The white-haired woman remained silent at first, staring at him intently. When she finally spoke, there was sadness in her voice. “It is not about dislike, Call Jace. The Varlish are a cold race, and they—and others like them—are draining the magic from the land. What they do not realize is that in the end the magic is all we have. Without it the world will die. Why do I seem cold to you? You may have the blood of a Rigante, but you have the soul of a Varlish. Nothing you do adds magic to the earth. You scheme, you plot, you murder. Every day a little more of the magic dies.”

“I always appreciate straight talking,” he said sourly. “I live with regrets for some of my deeds. I will answer for them to the Source one day. I don’t doubt that. I will, though, leave the Rigante stronger than I found them. Or do you wish to deny me that also?”

“I do not deny you your achievements, Call Jace. I admire you for some of them. You did not ask me about my admiration.”

“Ah, well, your likes and dislikes are not important now. Tell me why this Ranaud would kill his own colonel.”

“He lusts after glory, highlander. He wants to be famous. He thinks there are no battles left to fight—save one. If he defeats the Rigante, he will be honored. His name will be enshrined in the history of the Varlish. He is, like all vain men, a fool. If he were to wait but a little while, he could have all the battles he dreams of. A civil war is coming among the Varlish. It will drench the land in blood.”

“I care nothing for wars among the Varlish,” said Call. “My only desire is to save my own people.”

“That does you credit, Call Jace.”

“How do I fight him?”

“You do not need me to guide you in the planning of a war,” she told him. “What is to come is hateful to me. You must hold out until the winter. After that the Moidart will need all his troops, for the clans in the south will rediscover their pride and their manhood.”

Call gave a derisive laugh. “Nothing could make those puppies wolves again. You think I am like the Varlish? All in the south are tainted with Varlish thinking.”

“Yes, they are. The flame in their hearts has gone out. But they are like dried grass, Call Jace. 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, for the magic will flow out and be carried upon the winds. It will flow over the land and feed the parched souls of every highlander. Even you.”

“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. Now go and prepare for your war, Call Jace. Choose your captains wisely.”

As the snows melted, Call instructed Bael and Rayster to double the training of clan warriors.

“Can we win this war?” Bael asked him.

“One day at a time, boy. We will need to hide supplies farther back in the mountains in case they breach the gates and take the valley. Food, salt, powder, and shot. We must also build secondary lines of defense. The West Hills is where to start. Build gates across the pass and move two cannon back there.”

“If they push us back into the West Hills, there’ll be nowhere
else to run, Father,” said Bael. “We’ll have our backs to the sea.”

“I know. Call a meeting for tomorrow. It is time to appoint group leaders and plan our campaign.”

15

T
HE EXECUTION OF
Killon Ustal stunned the highland community of Black Mountain. The youngster had been wooing a town girl and had gone to see her one morning. The law regarding the wearing of Rigante colors had not been enforced for more than a decade, and Killon had been wearing an old cloak to ward off the winter cold. News of his arrest reached Ironlatch only two days later. His brothers, Finbarr and Jabe, had gone into town prepared to pay whatever fine the magistrates demanded. They came back with his decapitated body.