Ravenheart (3 page)

He could see the pony and open carriage already making their way slowly along the water’s edge. Alterith’s heart sank at the prospect of the four-mile journey to the Moidart’s estate. He would be frozen and blue by the time they arrived, his teeth chattering, his mind unable to function properly. Alterith hoped the Moidart himself would not be present for his arrival. The last time they had met, Alterith, limbs trembling with the cold, had tried to bow only to see his horsehair wig slide off and land on the marbled floor at the Moidart’s feet. Alterith blushed at the memory.

The sound of the pony’s hooves could be heard now, and Alterith walked down to meet the carriage, anxious for the
journey to begin as soon as possible. The driver nodded to him but said nothing. He was, as usual, wearing a thick overcoat and had a plaid blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Alterith climbed into the open-topped carriage and settled back, pushing his thin hands into the sleeves of his overcoat and trying not to think about the cold.

Kaelin Ring had no coat. He had lent it to his sick friend, Banny, though at this moment he was regretting the kindness. Banny had not come to school that day, which meant the coat was hanging on a hook in his hut and not keeping the wind’s icy fingers from tugging at Kaelin’s thin shirt.

Kaelin ran from the school yard out onto the cattle trail leading up into the hills. At least the cold made the pain in his hands less worrisome, he thought. Anger touched him then, warming him as he ran. He pictured old White Wig, tall and skinny, his thin lips constantly twisted in a contemptuous smirk, his pale eyes seeping tears whenever sunlight shone upon them. His clothes smelled of mothballs. That bony Varlish bastard will pay for every stroke he has ever laid upon me, Kaelin decided as he ran. He tried to think of punishments befitting such an ogre.

When I am a man next year, I’ll nail him by his hands to the schoolhouse gates, then I’ll take a whip to his hide. Five strokes for every one he’s laid upon me.

Suddenly Kaelin’s good humor came flooding back. He would need to be a great deal better at his arithmetic to tally such a sum. Perhaps he should ask old White Wig for extra lessons. The thought was so ridiculous that Kaelin slowed to a stop and burst out laughing. How would the conversation go? “I’m planning my vengeance on you. So would you kindly explain the multiplication so that I may lash your back to the exact number required?”

His laughter pealed out once more, then faded as he heard hoofbeats. Moving to the side of the trail, he waited. Five riders emerged from the trees. All of them were soldiers of the Moidart, or Beetlebacks, as the highlanders called them,
referring to the black breastplates of baked leather they wore. The lead rider was a portly officer named Galliott. He was known widely as Galliott the Borderer, since his main role was to track and capture criminals and outlaws before they could cross the borders and leave the Moidart’s jurisdiction. Just behind him was the thin, sallow-faced Sergeant Bindoe and three other soldiers Kaelin did not know.

Galliott drew rein and smiled at Kaelin: “Cold to be going without a coat, Master Ring.” His voice, as ever, was friendly and warm, and Kaelin found it difficult to hold a dislike for the man. But it was not impossible if he worked at it.

“Aye, it is, sir.”

“Perhaps your uncle Jaim will buy you one.”

“I’ll ask him next time he visits, sir.”

“You’ve not seen him, then?”

“Has he broken the law, Mr. Galliott?”

The officer chuckled. “Always, boy. He was born to break the law. Two nights ago he was in a fight at Cock Crow tavern. Broke a man’s arm and stabbed another in the face. Man was lucky not to lose an eye. If you see your uncle, tell him the owner of the tavern applied to the magistrate for damages to three tables, several chairs, and a window frame. Damages have been set at one chailling and nine daens, plus a two-chailling and six-daen fine. If it is paid by the end of the month, there will be no charges against Jaim. If not I am to arrest him and take him to the assizes for judgment by the Moidart.”

“If I see him, I’ll tell him, Mr. Galliott.” Kaelin shivered.

“And get yourself a coat,” said the officer. Heeling his mount, he rode away.

Kaelin watched as the riders cantered toward the town. Sergeant Bindoe glanced back, and Kaelin could feel the malice in the man. Beetlebacks were hated and feared in the highlands. Most—though not all—were Varlish and over the years had been responsible for many outrages. Only a month previously a woman living in an isolated cabin had walked into town and reported to the magistrate that she had
been raped by three Beetlebacks. One of them had been Bindoe. Her story had not been believed, and she had been birched and jailed for two weeks for fabrication while under oath. After all, it was said, what self-respecting Varlish soldier would touch a lice-infested highland slut?

Kaelin waited until the Beetlebacks were out of sight and then ran on. The wind was less fierce within the woods, and he was soon sweating as he ran. The trail wound up, ever higher. He stopped at a break in the trees and gazed down over the hills below. Hundreds of small dwellings dotted the countryside, and many more, he knew, were hidden from his gaze, their sod roofs blending them into the land. Cattle and sheep and goats were grazing on the new spring grass, and some way to the west Kaelin saw more Beetlebacks riding along the Eldacre Road where it met the shores of the lake.

Cutting away from the main trail, he darted up a side slope, hurdling a fallen tree and sprinting along the final stretch to the crack in the cliff face. It had rained in the night, and glancing down, Kaelin saw that he was leaving footprints in the earth. He continued to run along the line of the cliffs until he reached higher ground, then climbed to the rock face. The face was sheer for some fifty feet, but Jaim Grymauch had taught him to overcome his fear of heights and glory in the joy of the climb. Wedge holds, hand hams, pressure holds—all were second nature to Kaelin Ring now, and he smoothly climbed the wall of rock, traversing back until he was once more alongside the crack in the face. Swinging himself inside, he edged along the narrow gap and then climbed again, emerging into a deep cave. A fire was burning in a roughly made hearth, and a man was sitting beside it, gently burnishing the blade of an enormous broadsword. Kaelin leapt to the floor of the cave and ran to the fire. The man glanced up. He had but one eye, the other covered by a strip of black cloth wound around his bald head, and his face was scarred and pitted. There was a large purple bruise on his cheek, and a cut on his lip was almost healed. Splashes of dried blood had stained the black cloak and kilt he wore.

“I hope you learned a goodly amount today,” said Jaim Grymauch.

Kaelin settled down opposite the big man. “I learned that Connavar was a Varlish prince and not a clansman at all,” he said.

“Aye, I’ve heard that. Did they also tell you that he shit pearls and pissed fine wine?” Putting aside the broadsword, Jaim reached out and took Kaelin’s hand, turning the palm toward the firelight. “I see that you’ve been insolent again. What was it this time?”

“I told old White Wig that Connavar was Rigante and that the man who wrote about him being Varlish was a stinking liar.”

“I’m a great believer in diplomacy, Kaelin, and it pleases me to see you mastering it at such a tender age.”

“Oh, and I saw Mr. Galliott. He says you’ve to pay one chailling and nine daens for damages and you’ve been fined another two chaillings and six daens. He says it must be paid by the end of the month or you’ll be taken before the Moidart.”

“So how much do I owe in all?”

“A lot,” answered Kaelin.

“I’m not good with numbers, boy. Calculate it for me.”

Kaelin closed his eyes. Best to calculate the daens first, he thought. Nine plus six made … he counted it on his fingers. Fifteen. Suddenly he thought of Banny again, wondering if his cough had improved. Jerking himself back to the problem, he calculated that fifteen daens made one chailling and three daens. To which he had to add the fine: two chaillings. Making three chaillings and three daens. He told Jaim the figure.

“You’ve lost a chailling,” said Jaim.

“I have not!”

“Forget the daens for a moment. How many chaillings was the fine?”

“Two.”

“And how many for the damages?”

“One.”

“Well that makes three already. Now you have fifteen daens. That makes one chailling and three daens. So I owe them four chaillings and three daens.”

Kaelin scowled. “You told me you were bad at figures.”

“I
am
bad at figures. I’m just not as bad as you.” The warrior sighed. “I’m getting old, Kaelin. Was a time when the damages and fine always came to more than five chaillings. But now I’m weary before I’ve bent the second chair over some poor fool’s head.”

“You’re not old,” said Kaelin, moving to sit beside the grizzled warrior and enjoying the warmth of the fire. “You’ll never be old.”

“That’s probably true.” He glanced at Kaelin. “You staying long, boy?”

“Only an hour or so. Aunt Maev has chores for me. Why don’t you come back and have supper with us.”

Jaim shook his head. “I’m feeling solitary.”

“You want me to go?”

Jaim grinned, then winced as the scab on his lip parted. He dabbed at it with a finger. “No, I don’t want you to go. Sitting like this reminds me of times I sat with your father. You look just like him save for the eyes. His were strange, one green and one gold. You have your mother’s eyes. She was a good woman, Gian. Deserved better.”

Kaelin looked away and added some sticks to the fire. His mother had been killed two nights after he was born. Beetlebacks had raided the settlement. Few had escaped. Aunt Maev had been one of them, carrying the infant Kaelin in her arms.

“What was the fight in the tavern about?” asked Kaelin, changing the subject.

“I don’t remember.”

“You stabbed a man in the face, Grymauch. You ought to remember.”

“Aye, that’s true, I guess.” The big man stretched himself
out beside the fire. “It was probably over a woman. Most fights are.”

“Have you ever lost a fight?”

Jaim was silent for a moment. “I think that in a way I have lost every fight I’ve ever had.” He sat up. “I’m like the Rigante, Kaelin. I have fought men in the highlands, in the south, and across the great ocean. No man has ever bested me in battle, and yet I sit in a hidden cave nursing my bruises. I own no cattle. I have no land.”

“You should wed Aunt Maev.”

Jaim’s laughter pealed out. “She’s too good a woman for the likes of me, lad. As she’d tell you herself.”

“You like her, though?”

“Of course I like her. She’s a woman to walk the mountains with.”

“She’s mean with her money, though,” said Kaelin.

“Aye, she’s careful. She needs to be. The Varlish don’t like to see any highlander gathering wealth. It makes them uncomfortable.”

“Why? She pays her tax to the Moidart and the king.”

“They mock us and tell us we are stupid, but secretly they fear us, Kaelin. Wealth is power. The Varlish have no desire to see powerful highlanders. Now, enough talk. You tell Maev I’ll be needing you at the week’s end. The pass is open, and I’ve a hankering to see the ocean.”

Kaelin laughed. “Will it just be the two of us?”

“Of course. Together we’re an army, boy.”

“And whose cattle will it be? Old Kocha?”

“I’ve not made up my mind. I like to spread my favors.” Jaim chuckled. “They say the Moidart has brought in a new bull from the isles. Ten pounds, he paid for it.”

“How much is that in chaillings?” asked Kaelin.

“Two hundred chaillings.”

“For a bull?” Kaelin was amazed that such a sum could have been paid. “Are you joking with me, Grymauch?”

“I never joke about the price of cattle. I’m wondering how much Pinance would pay for it.”

“How much do you think?” asked Kaelin.

“At least enough for my fine,” Jaim Grymauch answered with a wide grin.

The ride had not proved quite as uncomfortable as Alterith Shaddler had feared. The wind had died down, the temperature hovering a few degrees above freezing. There was still snow on the high ground and the wheels of the carriage crunched over icy puddles, but Alterith believed he could finally feel spring in the air.

The carriage slowed as it neared the top of a rise. The driver cracked his whip above the pony’s ears. The little beast lunged forward. Alterith felt a moment of motion sickness and took a deep breath. Then the carriage topped the rise, and the schoolteacher found himself gazing down over the magnificence of the Eldacre valley. The first sight to catch the eye was the mighty castle rearing like a giant tombstone on a hill above the town.

The ancestral home of the Moidart, Eldacre Castle was a monument to the power and ingenuity of the Varlish race. Alterith’s heart swelled each time he saw it. It had walls forty feet high, boasting twenty jutting turrets and four massive gates of seasoned oak reinforced with iron. Fifteen thousand workers had labored for seven years to build it. The finest stonemasons and carpenters had been brought in from the south at vast expense. Many of them had stayed on in the valley after the castle was built, including Alterith’s own ancestors, one of whom had been responsible for fashioning the curved rafters of the chapel within the great keep.

For three hundred years Eldacre Castle had been an impregnable fortress in times of war and a mighty symbol of Varlish superiority in times of peace. Just the sight of her massive walls and turrets, fashioned with murder holes and oil vents, was enough to quell any thoughts of rebellion within renegade highland hearts.

The carriage picked up speed as it moved down the hill.
Alterith’s motion sickness returned. “Slow down, for pity’s sake!” he yelled.

“Mustn’t be late, sir,” answered the driver.

Alterith sat miserably, praying that he would not be sick. It was bad enough that his wig had fallen off at the Moidart’s feet. The prospect of arriving before the Moidart in a vomit-stained coat was more than he could bear. The Moidart would in all probability dismiss him, and Alterith could ill afford to lose the extra two chaillings a month. Steeling himself, he clung to the strap on the inside of the carriage door and tried to focus his mind on something other than his heaving stomach. He chose history.