And me, Powdermill thought, miserably.
Kaelin Ring had never been close to the Moidart’s winter mansion. Few highlanders ever had unless to be taken to the lower dungeons, never more to see the light of day. The building was impressive, without a trace of gaudiness and crafted in the style of the country manors found in the south. Three stories tall and built of stone, faced beneath the eaves with white-stained timbers, it was an elegant structure of some forty rooms. The grounds were extensive and bordered by a high wall. Entry to the manor was through a huge set of wrought-iron gates guarded by four sentries in bright yellow uniforms.
Both Maev and Kaelin were searched for weapons and then escorted through to the inner buildings.
As Kaelin walked alongside Maev, he glanced at the many soldiers patrolling the grounds. The precautions seemed excessive. The Moidart was not a popular man, but he was not as hated as he had been back in the days of the clan uprisings.
Galliott the Borderer came out to meet them at the main doors. He offered a bow to Maev. It seemed to Kaelin that the soldier was uneasy in the presence of his aunt. As well he might be, since he had commanded the soldiers at her “execution” and it had been his musketeers who had shot down Grymauch.
“Welcome to the Manor, Maev Ring,” he said.
“Thank you, Captain,” she replied coolly. “You remember my nephew, Kaelin.”
“I do. You have grown, young man. Life in the north obviously agrees with you.”
“Aye,” said Kaelin.
A huge figure emerged from the doors above them. Huntsekker, wearing his old bearskin coat, came walking down the steps. He bowed as he saw Maev. “You are looking well, lady,” he said. “It is good to see you again.” Maev nodded in his direction but did not speak. Huntsekker glanced at Kaelin and smiled broadly. “Well,” he said. “Another familiar face. Last time I saw you it was with that old rascal Grymauch. Damn, but I miss him.”
Kaelin was surprised by the sincerity in the man’s voice.
“We all miss him, Harvester,” he said.
Galliott led them inside. A small white-haired man came out of a side room and walked up the stairs. He glanced back at Kaelin and gave an awkward smile, showing gold teeth. Galliott showed them to a waiting room and summoned a servant, ordering the man to fetch refreshments for the Moidart’s guests. Maev sat in a deep armchair, but Kaelin remained standing and strolled to a window. Through it he could see a stretch of lawn leading to a meadow. Beyond that he watched a squad of soldiers patrolling the perimeter wall. Galliott left them, and Maev let out a sigh. “Relax, Kaelin,” she said. “You are making me nervous.”
He turned from the window and smiled. “It is hard to feel comfortable when one is this close to evil,” he said. “The last time I saw Huntsekker, I held a pistol to his face. Had Jaim not stopped me, I would have sent him to hell.”
“I know. And yet it was Huntsekker who escorted me from the execution square. Had he not done so, I would now be dead.”
“I never understood that,” admitted Kaelin. “The man is a cold killer.”
“He liked Jaim. He did it for him.”
“How could he like him? Jaim stole his bull and made a fool of him, and he stopped him from catching Chain Shada. It makes no sense to me.”
“You of all men should know that Jaim touched hearts. No one hated him. Not even Galliott. When those musketeers came, Galliott tried to stop them from shooting. Even he didn’t want to see Jaim dead. Beware the Harvester, Kaelin, but don’t hate him.”
“Have you noticed how many guards there are?” said Kaelin, transferring his gaze back to the window. “It is like they are expecting a siege.”
At that moment the door opened, and a servant told them the Moidart would see them. Maev pushed herself to her feet, and Kaelin followed her and the servant along a paneled corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into a long study. A fire was burning in the hearth. Kaelin found his heart beating faster as he gazed upon the Moidart. The man was sitting at a desk by the window, his black and silver hair drawn back tightly from his lean face. His eyes were hooded and pale, his lips thin. He did not rise from his chair as Maev approached but gestured for her to take a seat. Kaelin he ignored.
“Welcome back to Eldacre, madam,” he said. The voice was deep and cold. There was a controlled tension in the man that put Kaelin on edge.
“I trust you are well, my lord,” said Maev. “This is my nephew, Kaelin.”
The Moidart’s eyes flickered toward the young highlander. “The son of Lanovar,” he said. “I have heard of you.”
At the mention of his father’s name Kaelin felt a rising of anger. All color fled from his face. He stood staring at the seated man and in that moment wanted nothing more than to leap across the room and tear out his throat. He looked into the Moidart’s eyes and knew that the older man understood his feelings. He could read him as easily as a child’s book. Kaelin also saw that the Moidart’s right hand was hidden below the desktop. He took a deep breath. “Aye,” he said, “the son of Lanovar. Though sadly, I never knew him.”
The malevolent gleam left the Moidart’s eyes, and he transferred his attention back to Maev Ring. For a little while they spoke about the business of cattle, the improvement of stock, and the shipping of herds. In that time Kaelin regained his composure. Maev had been right. It was wise to have taken this opportunity to meet the Moidart. He was not like any man Kaelin had ever met. It was not just that he was chilling; there was about him a fierce intelligence that should not be underestimated.
The meeting ended, and Maev rose and curtseyed. The Moidart thanked her for taking the time to visit. As Kaelin turned away toward the door, the Moidart spoke. “Give me a few moments of your time, Master Ring.” He walked to the door, opening it for Maev, who glanced back anxiously at her nephew. The Moidart gave a thin smile. “No harm will befall him, madam, I can assure you.” He pushed shut the door and returned to his seat.
“You are an able and astute young man,” he said. “Some years ago you entered the barracks building at Black Mountain and freed a prisoner. A brilliant and well-thought-out action, requiring initiative and nerve.” Kaelin stood very still. “I mention this to show a little goodwill,” continued the Moidart. “On another day I would have had you arrested and hanged, but happily for you, this is not another day.” The Moidart looked away from Kaelin and called out. “Come in and join us, Master Powdermill!”
A panel behind Kaelin slid open, and the little man with gold teeth entered the room. “Are we alone?” asked the Moidart.
“We are, my lord.”
The Moidart swung back to Kaelin. “My understanding is that you are acquainted with a woman known as the Wyrd of the Wishing Tree woods.”
“She is a friend of mine,” said Kaelin.
“Good. There are those who want her dead.”
“Are you one of them?”
“Not today. My enemies want her dead. Therefore, I want her alive. These enemies have great powers, Master Ring. They can attack her through magic and through might. You cannot protect her from magic. You can, however, use your strength and your skill to ensure that no assassin reaches her. You can also tell her that she has an ally in the Moidart.”
“An alliance she would not welcome,” Kaelin pointed out.
“I daresay you are correct. Have you heard recently from Call Jace?”
“No, but he was well when last I saw him. I shall tell him you asked about his health.”
“He is not well now, Master Ring. Two days ago he had a stroke and is paralyzed down his left side.” The Moidart gestured toward the little man with the gold teeth. “This is Master Powdermill. Like the Wyrd he has an ability to see events over great distances. The Black Rigante are at this moment leaderless. The timing is unfortunate. By the spring an army will be marching on us. I can raise perhaps three thousand good fighting men and two thousand more in chaff and cannon fodder. Ten times that number will oppose me. A force of Rigante would be most welcome.
”
Kaelin suddenly laughed. “I find this hard to believe,” he said. “The man who murdered my mother and father and hundreds of other Rigante men, women, and children believes the clan would fight for him. I admire your gall. If an army is coming against you, I hope they take you and rip your heart out.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Moidart. “I am sure you feel better for that. Now that it is out of the way, let us look coolly at the facts. The army that will come will devastate the land, butchering the people of the north in the thousands. All the people, not just Varlish. Destruction, terror, and chaos will sweep the land. For some reason, though I have yet to ascertain why, the enemy is fascinated by Rigante history and myth. Their leader has been gathering maps of Black Rigante lands for some years. It is he who seeks to kill the Wyrd. Why her death is important to him I have as yet no idea. It is my hope that she does. All I require from you is to protect her as best you can. Powdermill will contact you, and perhaps together we can find a way to thwart the enemy.”
“Who is this enemy?” asked Kaelin. “Luden Macks?”
“No, the threat will not come from the covenanters but from Lord Winterbourne, the marshal of the king’s armies, and his Redeemers.”
“You are standing against the king?” said Kaelin, amazed. “But your own son is part of that army.”
“Indeed he is, if he still lives. Fate, Master Ring, often displays a grim sense of humor, as evidenced by this conversation. You are my natural enemy. I do not deny it. Both blood and history make us what we are. Should we both survive the coming bloodshed, which, sadly, is highly unlikely, we will become enemies again. I would certainly enjoy watching you hang. At this moment, however, you are important to me. Will you protect the Wyrd?”
“I shall. She is my friend. I do not desert my friends in their need.”
“Most touching. Think also on what I said about the Rigante, Master Ring. If Eldacre falls, you cannot stand alone. I will also supply one thousand pounds in gold to distribute among the Rigante warriors and their families should you decide to fight alongside me.”
Kaelin Ring felt tension easing from his frame. “You need to be a little more persuasive,” he said. “All I have is your word that these things are happening. You say an army is coming against you. This I believe. Perhaps the king has finally decided to rid himself of your evil. Or perhaps it is exactly as you say. The problem is that your word is worthless. A long time ago you promised my father safe conduct at a meeting to make peace. You murdered him there.”
“He actually died a little later,” said the Moidart, “but that is by the by. Interestingly enough, that is the only time I have ever broken my word. I won’t say that I have been haunted by it ever since or any other such nonsense, but it was regrettable. I will say that because of this small regret I did not later seek out and kill the big fool who tried to rescue him on that day. Grymauch was his name. He charged in wearing a scarf wrapped around his face. It was a ludicrous disguise. He was the biggest clansman in the area, and everyone knew he was Lanovar’s right-hand man. However, this is also irrelevant. I do not dispute, Master Ring, that in the eyes of the Rigante I am evil. It is a matter of perspective. History is largely concerned with achievers, men who change the course of their nation. To the people of Stone, the Emperor Jasaray was a great man and a hero and Connavar was a vicious and evil savage. To the Rigante, Jasaray was a vile conqueror and Connavar a hero. Heroes and villains, Master Ring, are largely interchangeable, depending on historical circumstance. It is almost amusing. I loathe the clans. Always have. Their independence of thought prevents any cohesion of purpose. They were conquered because of this. And conquered peoples are weak. I abhor weakness. Yet—and here is the sweet irony, Master Ring—if we succeed in this venture, we will protect the Rigante, and future generations will talk about the blessed, heroic Moidart who stood tall against the forces of evil. The Varlish in the south will view me—a man who admires them above all races—as a grotesque traitor. Perspective, Master Ring. I cannot convince you of the truth at this time, but I expect the Wyrd, if she still lives, will do so.”
“Then you had better pray she does live,” said Kaelin.
“I don’t pray, Master Ring. I act. Given the choice, I would now be allied to the enemy and on the verge of becoming richer and more powerful. Unfortunately, that enemy chose to threaten my son. They sent men to kill me. So here I am getting ready to battle in a cause I do not believe in, against an enemy with superior forces and superior powers. The one advantage I have is that the enemy has displayed stupidity. My hope is they will do so again.”
“That stupidity would be . . . ?” inquired Kaelin.
“Coming against me, Master Ring. Oh, and the small matter of trying to kill the child . . . Feargol. They failed not once but twice.”
“Twice?”
The Moidart swung to Aran Powdermill. “Tell him.”
“They sent killers out to murder your wife and son and Feargol Ustal. They did not succeed,” he added swiftly. “Draig Cochland and his brother got to them first and helped them escape into Call Jace’s territory.”
“They are safe?”
“Aye, they are,” said Aran Powdermill. “Though your man Senlic is dead, as is Eain Cochland.”
“I shall return north,” said Kaelin. “If the Wyrd tells me your words are true, I will do all I can to raise a Rigante force and march them to Eldacre.”
“Very good, Master Ring,” said the Moidart, extending his hand. Kaelin Ring stared at it, then looked into the man’s pale eyes. The Moidart gave a wry smile. “Yes, I suppose that the sweetness of irony can be pushed only so far.”
Mulgrave was tired as he strolled across the bridge toward the little church. He had slept poorly the last few nights, his mind roiling with unresolved questions. Outlying scouts had been reporting troop movements, which made little sense during a cease-fire, and the previous day sixty wagons had arrived, removing all powder and supplies from the new depot constructed on the orders of Cordley Lowen. It seemed to Mulgrave a waste of time, money, and effort to construct a depot and then almost immediately abandon it. Added to which, it meant that the soldiers of the Eldacre Company now had only the ammunition and powder they were carrying. Should Luden Macks break the cease-fire, the Eldacre men would be unable to fight for more than a day. Mulgrave had put these worries to Gaise Macon.
“We will probably be ordered elsewhere within the next few days,” the young general had said. “Obviously, the high command has decided to move the lines.”
“The high command, sir, is Lord Winterbourne. Do you feel comfortable knowing that our men now have no source of ammunition? Tomorrow they are removing the food supplies.”
“No, I don’t feel comfortable, my friend. It is most galling to be left in a reactive situation. We can do nothing. We must await orders. However, we can ensure that the scouts move farther afield. I want to know of any further troop movements in the area.”
“Why so, sir?”
“The line is being drawn back. Save for us. We are now sitting out in the open with no reinforcements to call upon. The nearest loyalist forces are now six miles east of us. I can make no sense of it. If Macks was to attack, we could be surrounded and wiped out before any help arrived.”
“If any help was ordered to arrive,” said Mulgrave.
“Tell the scouts they are to avoid being seen.”
Mulgrave smiled. “That is the point of being a scout, sir, surely?”
“I mean by our own allies as well as the troops of Luden Macks.”
The words had chilled Mulgrave.
Now, as he made his way to Ermal Standfast’s cottage, he found himself relaxing. The little priest’s company was always a joy. Yet when he arrived, he saw a small wagon outside the main door. As he approached it, he found that it was packed with items of Ermal’s furniture and a great many boxes. There were bundles of books tied with string. Two men emerged from the house carrying an old leather chair. They nodded to Mulg
rave as they passed.
The swordsman entered the cottage. The main room was almost empty, and Ermal came into sight from the lower bedroom, carrying yet another bundle of books. He saw Mulgrave and gave a nervous smile. The two men returned. Ermal handed them the books, asking them to place them in the wagon. After they had done this, he gave them each a silver chailling. The men touched their caps and walked out.
“What is happening here?” asked Mulgrave.
“I am . . . er . . . leaving for the south, Mulgrave.”
“This is a swift decision. Only yesterday you said you were looking forward to the spring.”
“Yes, it is a little swift. But the decision is made.”
“What is wrong, Ermal?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I have a sister in Varingas. I . . . feel the need to put the fears of war far behind me.”
“It seems to me that you are frightened, Ermal.”
The little man’s shoulders sagged. Mulgrave saw him glance nervously toward the ceiling. “Yes, I am frightened. Wars do that to me. I would like to live quietly in the capital. You remember telling me of your dreams of the white-haired old woman who lived in the south by the sea? Yes, of course you do,” he added swiftly. “She felt that death was hunting her. I have been having the same dreams, Mulgrave. The very same ones that you told me about. I am not a young man anymore. I just want to live out my life, and study my books, and help people where I can with a few medicines and powders. I am not a warrior, Mulgrave. I want no part in the violence that is all around me. I don’t want hungry carrion birds pecking at my eyes. You understand? They are here. You only have to look in the trees around us to see them waiting to feed. I wish you well, Mulgrave. Now I must go.”
He moved in toward Mulgrave and shook his hand. Mulgrave saw the sheen of sweat upon the old priest’s features.
“May the Source be with you always,” said Mulgrave.
Ermal Standfast’s eyes shone with repressed tears. “I do not think he cares overly much about weak men like me,” he said.
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