“Aye, I know. Didn’t kill Jaim, though.”
“What?”
“He knew it was Jaim who rescued Chain Shada from me. Told me that himself. He knew I lied to him about it. Yet he did nothing.”
“Why?”
“Damned if I know, Maev. He’s a strange man.” Huntsekker tugged at the twin spikes of his silver beard. “There’s an army coming against us. We killed the Pinance, and we have his men with us. Even so we’ll be outnumbered maybe three—four—to one. There’s not enough money in the treasury to pay the army for more than a few weeks.”
“So he wants me to finance his war? Does he think I have two thousand pounds lying around my farm?”
“He thinks you have twelve thousand hidden close by.”
Maev was shocked, though she did not show it. The Moidart was wrong, but only by a few hundred pounds.
“What is your view, Huntsekker?”
“About your wealth? I don’t know. I don’t much care. You’re a canny woman, Maev. Every business you touch turns to gold. Never known anyone with such a talent.”
“I meant about the Moidart’s request.”
He drained his wine. “I don’t know. I’ve served the man for too many years. I don’t like him. I don’t think anyone likes him, save maybe the apothecary.”
“So he didn’t ask you to kill me if I refused?”
Huntsekker looked up, his eyes angry. “No, he did not. If he had, I would have killed him where he sat. You heard me make my promise to Jaim. No harm would come to you while I lived. I don’t make promises lightly, Maev Ring.”
“So why did he send you? Why not Galliott? Why not a troop of men to torture me into telling where my wealth might or might not be buried?”
“He thought you would trust me, I guess. No reason why you should.”
“He is a clever man,” said Maev. “I do trust you, Huntsekker. You know why? Because my Jaim liked you. He was a flawed man but a great one. He let you live. I railed at him for that. I thought it was stupid. I thought that you would go straight to the Moidart and that Jaim would be arrested and hanged. Jaim was right, though. You were worth his trust. You are worth mine. If you believe I should loan the Moidart this money, then I will do so.”
“Gods, woman, don’t put this on me!”
“Shall I do it, Huntsekker? Will he betray me?”
Huntsekker let out a long sigh. “If he does, I’ll kill him for it.”
“Very well. I will lend him the money. And I will come south with you to see that it is wisely spent.”
“What? He said nothing about bringing you south.”
“You said yourself that you have never known anyone with my talents. He will need to feed his army, to purchase powder and shot, swords and pistols. He will need supplies of all kinds. In short he will need a quartermaster. Together we will bring him the coin for his army, but he will need more. There is not a businessman in Eldacre or the surrounding lands who does not know that my word is good. I shall organize the supplies and ensure that my investment is returned with interest.”
“He’ll never agree!”
“On the contrary, Huntsekker. It is what he is hoping for.”
All was silent at the center of the Wishing Tree woods. The ancient standing stones, only three of them upright now, cast long moon shadows across the hilltop. Other pillars lay cracked and broken on the ground, the meaning of the runic symbols carved into the golden stone long forgotten. A black beetle scurried across the surface of one fallen stone, its tiny legs powering it over a written wisdom it would never know.
A brief moment of bright light shone between two of the standing stones. Then a small woman appeared. She staggered, then righted herself.
The Wyrd stood very still, allowing the faint nausea to seep from her system. Then she looked around at the silent trees. Her legs felt unsteady, and she sat upon a stone and saw the small beetle. It moved swiftly into the shadows, away from her gaze.
She took a deep breath. A headache was beginning now, and her mouth was dry.
A glowing sphere of light formed close by, and for a moment her heart lifted, for she believed it to be Riamfada, and his presence always comforted her. Then the light swelled and took the shape of a man’s head, crowned with antlers.
The face was handsome, the eyes keen and sparkling with intelligence. He smiled at her.
“The gateways always made my stomach uneasy,” he said, “when I took human form.”
“If you have come to kill me, do it,” she said. “I have no wish to speak with you.”
“Sadly, I do not have the power as yet to wither away your flesh, Caretha.” The light swelled further, shaping itself into the full figure of a tall man. “I remember when these woods were but a tiny part of a huge forest. It was here that I first learned how to breathe air and to run.”
“What do you want, Cernunnos?”
“From you? Nothing. I merely felt the power of the gateway and was curious to know what had activated it. I had some small hope that it would be one of my old friends, perhaps the Morrigu.”
“They have all gone now. As you should be gone.”
“I expect they left in despair,” he said. “One day I shall find them again. I will encourage them to come back and see the world as it ought to be.”
“And how is that?”
“Without humans in it.”
The Wyrd sat quietly, trying to gather her thoughts. “Who, then, will you rule? Who will dance and die at your bidding? Where will you find your pleasures?”
“You think it pleasures me to see humans die?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I expect that you are right. A child stamping on ants, you said. Would that it were so simple. These woods once pulsed with magic. The land was fertile beyond belief. Now the earth is merely dirt, and the trees struggle to exist. Where has the magic gone, Caretha?”
“I don’t want to talk to you. You represent everything I detest.”
“Not so! I represent everything you have longed for. You have watched man desecrate the land. You have prayed for the return of the Seidh to protect it. Now I am here.”
The Wyrd felt her anger swell but fought to control it. “You are worse than any man could ever be. Your rule saw only torment, war, and death.”
“You humans are so short-lived. It is why you can only ever see the moment. For you it is all that exists. Man is the destroyer, Caretha. Man devours the magic. Man consumes the life force of the world. His hatred and his pettiness, his lusts and his greeds. When I first knew man, he was a creature who had just learned to stand upright. He spoke in grunts. And yet we who were spirit saw in him vast potential. He was capable of great love. We watched him, and we saw also—to our amazement—that he could add to the magic of the world. The Seidh could not. We were born of the magic and could manipulate it. We could not create it. Imagine the excitement among us, Caretha. Here was a creature with the potential to reshape the universe. Were we jealous of it? We were not. We sought to guide it, to help it evolve. Soon—well, in your terms a few hundred thousand years—we began to see problems develop. Yes, man could make magic. He could also drain it. Hatred, envy, and lust dissipated the power. Some of the Seidh knew then that man was the great enemy of the universe. I was not among them. I still believed he could achieve greatness. The Morrigu and I and some others took on fleshly forms and moved among the humans. We found people like you, Caretha. We inspired you. We gave you gifts of talent and power. We struggled for eons to help you. But we could not overcome the one great flaw in the plan. A single human like you can spend her entire life creating magic, but one vile man, with one vile act, can consume it in an instant. The experiment failed. Some, like the Morrigu, refused to see it. She watched man destroy a thousand worlds across the vastness of the universe yet still had hope that on one he could achieve the potential she longed for. This one. Now she, too, is gone. Look around you, Caretha. Where is her legacy? Famine and death, war and destruction. Brooding hatr
eds fester in the souls of men, and the Wishing Tree woods have no magic in them.”
“There are still places of magic,” she said.
“Of course there are. It will take more than a few generations of mankind to destroy it utterly. Have you seen Uzamatte?”
Her heart sank. “Yes. It is wonderful.”
“Once the Wishing Tree woods were like that.”
“There are people living around Uzamatte who feed the magic,” she said. “They do not drain it.”
“Ah, Caretha, if only all people were like you. One day soon the people on this side of the ocean will journey across the mighty sea. They will discover the wonders of the lands there, and they will seek to settle them. This is not prophecy. This has happened on other worlds whose histories mirror this one almost perfectly. The new settlers will arrive. They will begin to die. The people who dwell in that land will take pity on those poor travelers. They will bring them food. They will show them love. In return, as the centuries pass, that love will be repaid by murder and death and betrayal. These newcomers will spread, and they will—in a few hundred years—devour the magic that has taken a million years to create. They will rip up the earth and tear down the trees. They will create poisons to pollute the rivers. This is the human way, Caretha. Mankind is what it is. It does what it does. Mankind is a plague.”
“Then why do you wish to return, Cernunnos?”
“Why, to destroy man, of course. To eradicate him from the planet. I will help him play his vile games, develop his weapons, perfect his murderous nature. Then the world can be at peace.”
“You cannot destroy all of mankind through war,” she said.
“Oh, but you can. Man is capable, given time, of creating weapons that can obliterate nations. I shall merely increase the speed of such invention.”
“Why do you tell me this, Cernunnos?”
“Perhaps even a god does not like being misunderstood.”
“I do not misunderstand you. You deceive yourself. You and the Seidh took a creature with enormous potential, and you began to mold it in your own image. You created man as he is. If we are a plague, then we are a plague of your making. And I do not believe the Morrigu left here in despair at humans. I believe she left because, as you said, the Seidh could not create magic. They, too, devoured it. They, too, therefore, were parasites. So spare me your specious reasons for becoming a part of the hatred that curses us. You are not a god, Cernunnos. You are just another sad, tormented creature consumed by rage and a need to justify your actions. The Rigante will stop you. And better than that we will find a way to preserve our world and rebuild the magic. We will conquer our demons.”
Cernunnos laughed then, and there was no malice in the sound. “Spoken as I would expect by someone with my blood in her veins. Go, then, Caretha. Seek out young Gaise Macon. In him you will find all that I have said to be true. Hatred consumes him. Even if he could defeat me—which he cannot—you would all lose eventually. The only way he can win is to become more vile than that which he faces. He knows this.”
“I pray to the Source of All Things that you are wrong.”
Once again he laughed, and this time there was an edge of bitterness. “I, too, once prayed to that paralyzed and senile force. No more. Fare thee well, kinswoman. Fight your valiant, losing battle. If all were indeed like you, there would be no need for what is to follow.”
The light faded. The Wyrd struggled to her feet.
Despair, like a mountain upon her heart, overcame her, and she sank back to the stone.
Once more a light formed. This time a sense of peace came with it, and with the peace tears flowed.
“Did you hear?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the voice of Riamfada in her mind.
“Everything he said had the feeling of truth, Riamfada. We have proved to be a plague upon the world.”
“Man is a complex creature, Caretha. You also spoke the truth. We were shaped by the Seidh for their own purposes.”
“He said Uzamatte would be destroyed, its magic devoured in a few short centuries.”
“That is why we are taking Feargol to the land. We will do what we can to protect it. Go home now. Go back to Sorrow Bird.”
“I need to speak with the Stormrider.”
“Now is not the time. His darkness would burden you. I will speak with him. I will take him to the cave. It is fitting, after all, when you think on it.”
“Do not let him be evil, Riamfada,” said the Wyrd. “I had such hopes for him.”
“Hold to them. There are two wars now: the one being waged with sword and cannon upon the land and the second being fought within the emotional valleys of the Stormrider’s soul. You and I cannot take part in either. Go home and prepare Feargol.”
She nodded. “If he is evil, will you still give him the gift?”
“It is his destiny to receive it.”
“I feel so lost, Riamfada,” she said. Once more the tears began to fall.
“You are not lost. I am here with you.” In that moment she felt a great warmth settle over her, as if she was a child again, safe in the arms of her mother. She remembered the small hut they shared and the little fireplace fashioned of stone. One night, when the child Caretha had endured a bad dream, her mother had carried her out and sat her on the rug in front of the fire. On a baking tray were a dozen biscuits scented with cinnamon. Her mother had held her close and given her a biscuit still warm from the oven.
Caretha had never felt so loved as in that moment.
It was a time to treasure.
The warmth left her. Riamfada had gone, and she knew she was alone again.
Then a scent of cinnamon came to her. She looked down. There on the stone beside her was a perfectly round golden biscuit. She took it up and bit into it. Then she smiled.
“Thank you, Riamfada,” she whispered.
15
* * *
Gaise Macon slept fitfully. He awoke in his tent just before dawn. Fragmented shards of his dreams clung momentarily to his conscious mind: Cordelia Lowen leaning in to kiss him, her lips cold and blue, her eyes lifeless.
He shivered and sat up.
Pushing back the blankets, Gaise climbed to his feet. Soldier stirred beside him, raising his large head and yawning, showing his teeth. Stepping over him, Gaise left the tent. Some of the soldiers had built cookfires, but most were still sleeping on the bare earth, huddled close to the ruins, seeking some shelter from the night winds.
Gaise wondered what this community had been like in the days of Connavar. It was said there was a forge where the king’s Iron Wolves had first received their armor. Ruathain had lived there and Bendegit Bran. At the center of the ruins lay the massive stump of an oak. Eldest Tree it was called when it lived. It was at the heart of many Rigante festivals. The Varlish had cut it down two hundred years earlier in an effort to stamp out clan culture. It was around that time that the romances had been published, declaring Connavar to have been a Varlish prince who had traveled to the far north to lead the barbarous people there.
Gaise wandered to a rickety bridge spanning one of the three streams. He gazed around the ruins and scanned the surrounding hills. Connavar had walked the same hills with his brothers Braefar—the traitor—and Bendegit Bran. It was here that he had met his first love. Gaise could not remember her name, but he recalled that she was the mother of the battle king, Bane. So much history had been seen by these hills.
On one of them Connavar had fought the bear to save his crippled friend Riamfada.
Gaise wished he had studied the tales more closely. As a child he had listened in awe to the stories of Seidh gods and magic and later, as a young boy, had read the mystical adventures of the man who had come to be known as Conn of the Vars, who had slept with a goddess and sired a demigod called Bane. Alterith Shaddler had stripped away the gloss of legend, offering a historical perspective based on the folktales of the Rigante.
A cool breeze whispered across the bridge. Gaise
wandered back through the camp.
Mulgrave was sleeping by the remains of a low wall. Gaise felt a stab of remorse as he recalled the sorrow in his friend’s eyes. For all his skills Mulgrave was not a man made for battles and wars. There was only one way to deal with an enemy as evil as Winter Kay: kill him and all who served him. Wipe them and their memory from the face of the earth. Anger roiled in Gaise Macon’s heart as he saw again the still, lifeless form of Cordelia Lowen. He had not even been able to stay and bury her. He had left her body alongside her father and led his men from Shelding.
What a fool I was, he thought, allowing my head to be filled with thoughts of honor and chivalry. The Moidart would never have allowed himself to be trapped as he was. He would have moved his men out at the first sign of Winter Kay’s treachery, not sat like a sacrificial lamb awaiting the slaughter.
Cordelia had tried to tell him to leave, but he would not listen. Had he done so, she would now be alive, as would the two hundred Eldacre men who had trusted him to lead them. Would Connavar have sat waiting to be murdered? Would Bane have talked of honor and good faith?
Gaise walked over to the picket line and saddled his gelding. Lanfer Gosten approached him. “Scouts report no troops anywhere, sir,” he said.
“Take Soldier and give him some food. I’ll be back soon,” said Gaise.
Gosten hooked his fingers into the hound’s collar. “Yes, sir. Might I inquire where you’re going?”
“The Wishing Tree woods. I’ve always had a hankering to see them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gaise rode off. He could hear Soldier barking and wanting to follow. He glanced back. Lanfer Gosten was struggling to hold on to the hound. Once Gaise topped the rise, the barking ceased. The gelding stumbled as they moved onto the downward slope. Gaise slowed him from a canter to a walk. The horse was weary, his movements sluggish. “You’ll be able to rest soon, boy,” said Gaise, patting the gelding’s sleek gray neck. There were only a few patches of snow on the higher hills, and the rising sun shone with the warmth of spring.
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