Ravenheart (9 page)

A
RLEBAN
A
CHBAIN SAT
by his mother’s bedside. What he saw frightened him. Shula’s eyes were sunken, her cheeks hollow. She was scarcely breathing. A large bruise had formed on the right side of her jaw, and her lips were split. Banny could not understand why Morain and the women in Eldacre had set upon his mother, but then, he had never understood why both clan and Varlish youngsters used to torment and beat him. It was not that he did not
know
why. He had been told often enough. It was understanding he lacked. His mother had fallen in love with a highlander. A union between Varlish and Pannone, though not illegal, was highly unusual, and both had suffered as a result. The clan had turned its back on his father, while the townsfolk, most of them Varlish, had shunned his mother. Even so their love had endured for some years. But it had been worn down and eroded season by season by the relentless hatred washing against it. Banny was seven when his father left home, never to return. He had gone north to find employment in an area where no one would know of his wife’s tainted blood. He would send for her and the boy, he promised, when he had found a place to settle. They never heard from him again.

From then on Banny and his mother barely scraped together a living. In the growing seasons they gathered mountain herbs for the Old Hills apothecary, Ramus. Every week she would collect the few coppers she earned, buy food at the store, and carry it home to their dugout. She always saved a farthing from every payment. This would help feed both
her and Banny through the harsh winter months. Last year’s summer had been poor, and the herbs were not so plentiful. Their money had run out weeks earlier.

Shula’s mouth was open, and Banny saw that she had lost two teeth on the upper right side. Banny’s own teeth were loose. He could move them with his tongue.

Outside the sun was shining, and for the first time in months there was genuine warmth in its rays. Banny wanted to walk out in the sunshine and feel the heat upon his skin. But he was too weary, and there was no strength in his legs.

He heard a movement and looked around. Kaelin’s aunt was coming into the room. She was an imposing woman, tall and fierce-eyed. Banny was a little frightened of her. Back in the summer, when he and Kaelin had come running into the house, she had grabbed him by the shoulder and marched him outside. “You will play out here,” she had told him. “I’ll have no fleas on my furnishings, if you please!” It had been a shaming experience.

As Maev leaned over the bed and laid her hand on Shula’s brow, Banny turned his gaze back to his mother. She would not die, he decided. It would be too unfair. A trembling began in his stomach, and he felt his throat tighten. Tears spilled from his eyes. Fighting for control, Banny sat very still, making no sound. He squeezed his eyes shut to prevent more tears from shaming him. Then he felt Maev’s hand upon his shoulder.

“Sleep is good. Sleep is healing,” she told him. “Now you come with me. You need to eat again and then to bathe. You have both lice and fleas, and there is no room for either in my house. Come now.”

Banny rose on trembling legs and followed her into the kitchen. It seemed like a palace to the twelve-year-old. He sat down at the pine table and stared at the golden sheen on the wood. Aunt Maev placed a deep bowl of beef gravy soup and a hunk of bread before him.

“Do not chew on the bread,” she said. “Your teeth are already loose, and we don’t want them falling out. Just dip it into the soup.”

“She won’t die, will she?” whispered Banny.

“Not if I have a say in it,” said Aunt Maev. “Now eat your soup, Banny. Take it slow.”

It was almost a week since Banny had eaten solid food, and that had been a gnarled root his mother had dug from the edge of the forest. It had been bitter and had made him nauseous. His stomach was still queasy, and when he gazed down at the soup, he felt suddenly sick and dizzy.

“Be strong now,” said Aunt Maev, moving swiftly alongside him. She tore off a small hunk of bread and dipped it in the warm soup. “Here. Just hold it in your mouth and let the juices run.” Banny opened his mouth, allowing her to feed him like a babe. The juices of the meat flowed on his tongue, awakening his hunger. His stomach cramped, and he almost choked on the bread. Carefully he chewed the morsel, then swallowed it. It tasted divine.

“That’s good, Banny,” whispered Aunt Maev. “Take a little more now.”

Banny sat very still, staring down at the soup bowl. It was white-glazed, but only on the inside; the outside was the golden brown of lowland clay. It was a pretty bowl. His mind swam, and he felt himself falling. He did not care. Maev’s arms held him close, and when he opened his eyes, he found to his surprise that he was still sitting at the table. It seemed to Banny that he had fallen from the world, spinning down and down into a blessed darkness where there was no hunger, no pain, no fear. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I have fleas.”

Maev said nothing, but she dipped more bread into the now-cold soup and lifted it to his lips. Banny ate until both the soup and the bread were gone. “I think we’ll forget about the bath for now,” said Maev. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Banny’s legs were unsteady, but Maev helped him up the stairs to a small room. The window shutters were closed, but thin lines of golden light could be seen between the slats. They shone on a patchwork blanket that covered the single bed of pine that nestled against the far wall. Maev drew back the coverlet and the two thick blankets beneath. “Let’s get you
out of these clothes,” she said. She took hold of the torn and filthy shirt he was wearing. Banny raised his arms, and she lifted it clear. His ragged trews were held up by a length of string. He fumbled with the knot. Maev gently moved his hands aside and swiftly undid it. Banny stepped out of the garment, too weary to feel shame at being naked before a woman.

He sat down on the white undersheet and became aware of the ingrained dirt on his arms and hands and the red flea bites on his belly and thighs. “I should bathe,” he said.

“Later, Banny. Lay your head upon the pillow, there’s a good boy.”

He had no strength to refuse. The pillow yielded beneath him, soft and inviting, and he felt the blankets and a soft oversheet being drawn up around his thin shoulders.

Once more the world spun away, and Banny’s mind cried out in the joy of it.

The apothecary Ramus was a small man. Round-shouldered and stooping, he rarely looked into the eyes of his customers. He would nod continuously as he listened to their requests and, when they had finished, mutter, “Good, yes, very good,” as if complimenting them. His movements were quick and sure, his judgment of weight uncanny. He would tip powder or shredded leaf into small bags of muslin and rarely weigh them. Occasionally a new customer would ask to see the item weighed on his small brass scales. He would nod and smile and say, “Good, yes, very good.” The scales would then show the exact weight in ounces the customer had asked for.

But then, the silver-haired Ramus had been an apothecary for twenty-nine years. Judgment to the quarter ounce, he considered, was a small enough skill to acquire in almost three decades and certainly not one to cause undue pride. Ramus was not wealthy, nor was he poor. He lived in a small house with a slate roof and a half acre of ground on which he grew many herbs. Other plants and fungi were gathered for him by women who lived in the barren empty areas of the high hills.
The apothecary Ramus had no friends and no wife, for he was not a man comfortable with intimacy of any kind. Neither did he have enemies. He was not even disliked, which was unusual for a Varlish living among clan folk. Ramus was punctiliously polite to all, Varlish or Keltoi, and never offered an opinion except on matters herbal and never entered into debate with anyone. It was, he had long ago decided, safer that way.

Ramus cast a quick, nervous glance at the black-haired youth standing at his counter. He felt uneasy around Kaelin Ring, though in truth he could not think why. “Fever, you say? What is the nature of the fever, Master Ring?” He listened intently as the young man told him of finding Shula Achbain and her son on the verge of death from starvation and cold.

“Aunt Maev said to ask you to select herbs to heal them. She told me to ask also for fat hen and something for a festering wound.”

“Good, yes, very good,” said Ramus. “Please take a seat, Master Ring, while I prepare the necessary ingredients.” Ramus was anxious to please Maev Ring. She had become a powerful personality in Old Hills and, truth be told, in Eldacre itself. More than sixty women were now employed by her in the making of dresses, shirts, blouses, and other articles of clothing. It was said that she was a shareholder in three other ventures, though Ramus knew of only two. Maev Ring now had minority interests in the businesses of Gillam Pearce the bootmaker and Parsis Feld, owner of the forge and armory in Eldacre town. Both men had been in danger of bankruptcy and debtor’s prison, but Maev Ring had settled their debts. As soon as she acquired her stake in the businesses, their fortunes changed. Orders came in, and prosperity followed. Other merchants talked of Maev Ring being lucky. It was easy to see how they would think that, but Ramus was not fooled. Once might be luck, not twice. No. Maev Ring was a clever woman with a sharp eye for opportunity.

The apothecary stood for a moment surveying the scores of earthenware jars on his shelves. Each jar was marked with
a symbol or a series of letters. The first he chose bore the legend “DHS” in black. Uncorking the jar, he scooped out a portion of the contents and then, with his left hand, opened a small bag of muslin into which he tipped the powder.

“What is that?” asked Kaelin Ring. Ramus jerked. He had not heard the young man leave his seat and move once more to the counter. It unnerved him a little. Had it been anyone else, he would have asked him politely to return to his seat. But this boy was the nephew of Maev Ring and therefore needed to be treated with a little more respect.

“It is the leaf of the dwarf honeysuckle,” said Ramus. “I shall give you four half-ounce bags. The powders must be boiled with sugar to make a jelly. It will help dispel the fever.

“For the festering wound I shall also make up a potion with honey wort and saffron. Your aunt will know what to do with it. You may expect some immoderate movements of the bowels in the early stages of their recovery. To alleviate this I recommend myrtle berry extract. This is, however, expensive. It is six daens a bottle, and you will need two bottles.”

“A whole chailling?” said Kaelin Ring, astonished.

“Aye, Master Ring. The myrtle tree does not grow in the highlands. Indeed, no one has successfully grown it on this side of the sea. The extract needs to be shipped from Goriasa and then brought overland. It is, however, as effective as it is costly.”

“I’ll take the one bottle,” said Kaelin. “But I’ll have to owe you.”

“Not a problem, Master Ring. I trust you implicitly.” Ramus carefully gathered all the herbs and powders, then took up a swan feather quill and dipped it into a small pot of ink. In immaculate copperplate script he wrote out the details of the purchase and the sums required, sanded the finished receipt, and, when he was sure the ink had dried, folded the paper and handed it to Kaelin. The young man pocketed it, then heaved a large canvas shoulder bag to the worktop. It was already half-full. Ramus opened the flap at the top and packed his powders and potions among the contents. The
bottle of myrtle extract he placed within a wooden box half-filled with straw. “Be careful with this, Master Ring.”

“I will, sir.”

A commotion began outside, and Ramus could hear voices being raised.

The outside door was thrust open, and a young man pushed inside. He was red-faced, his eyes wide with excitement. “There was an attempt on the Moidart’s life,” he said. “Assassins broke into his home last night. There are soldiers all over Eldacre, and there have been many arrests.”

“Was the Moidart injured?” inquired Ramus.

“No one is saying, sir.”

“Thank you, Master Lane. Most kind of you to let me know.”

The young man nodded excitedly, moved back to the street, and entered the bakery next door. His voice could just be heard through the thick walls, but only the occasional word sounded clearly. “Moidart … assassins … arrests …”

“We live in perilous times, Master Ring,” Ramus said with a sigh.

Kaelin Ring lifted the canvas bag to his shoulder, offered a short bow to the apothecary, and walked out to the cobbled street beyond.

Ramus could see people gathering in the street and wandered back into his storeroom, sitting himself down in an old wicker chair. Leaning back against the embroidered cushions, he closed his eyes. So much violence in the world, he thought sadly.

On the table beside his chair was a package of herbs and ointments he had prepared for the Moidart only that morning, soothing balms for the old burns on the skin of the lord’s arms and neck. Those wounds had come from yet another act of violence, when assassins had set fire to the old Winter House. Eleven people had died in the blaze—all of them servants. Before that, some fourteen years ago, there had been the murder attempt that had seen the Moidart’s wife strangled and the Moidart himself stabbed in the groin while trying to
save her. He had almost died from that wound. It had been the Moidart’s good fortune that Ramus had been summoned. There was much internal bleeding, but the apothecary had managed to stem the flow and halt the onset of infection. Even so, it was a full four months before the wounded man recovered sufficient strength to walk unaided. Years later the angry scar was still occasionally leaking pus and causing the Moidart bouts of fever.

Ramus sighed. Acts of violence were beyond his imagination. Never in his life had he desired to hurt anyone.

This latest attempt on the Moidart’s life would cause great anger among the Varlish. It was likely there would be riots and bloodshed in Eldacre, followed by more arrests and hangings.

Ramus felt the weight of sadness heavy upon him.

Thirty-two years earlier his own father had been hanged for stealing a sheep. He had not stolen the sheep, and the true culprit was discovered later. The lord of Goriasa had sent five pounds in gold coin as recompense for the mistake. The family had used part of the money to pay for Ramus’ tuition at the apothecary college. His mother had spent her remaining years hating the lord, her soul corroded by bitterness and resentment. Ramus’ brother, Aborain, had taken to the hills for a life of outlawry and murder, culminating in his execution on the same scaffold that had claimed his father.