Stormrider (24 page)

“Vases do not interest me. Could this Kranos have been from my lands?”

“Why would you think so, lord?”

“Coper tells me that Winter Kay has spent years acquiring maps of the highlands north of Eldacre. He has also studied Rigante history and is fascinated by their myths.”

“I suppose Kranos
could
have come from the north,” said Aran. “There are certainly the remains of ancient structures in various sites.”

“We’ll think of that later,” said the Moidart. “What powers does the orb possess, according to your study?”

“Regeneration and renewal are the most often mentioned. The healing of wounds, the increase of physical strength. Delay of the signs of aging. These virtues were said to be enjoyed by the
Dezhem Bek
, the servants of the orb.”

“The Ravenous Ravens,” said the Moidart.

“You are well read, my lord.”

“Not at all. Young Master Coper explained it to me.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Why were they called ravenous?”

“I had always thought it was alliteration, lord. Poetry,” he added.

“I know what ‘alliteration’ means. The word ‘ravenous,’ however, is interesting. Eternally hungry. For what? Power? Bloodshed? The Redeemers have built a reputation for excess. Is it because they desire it—or need it? Coper talks of touching the skull and feeling a thrill of power, a satisfaction unlike anything he has experienced before. He says the feeling is most exquisite after violent activity. By which he meant torture and murder. I fancy he did not find it quite so exquisite today as the victim.”

I expect that you did, Aran thought miserably.

“Give the matter some thought, Master Powdermill. I need to know the limits of their power and the drawbacks to it. Do you know the Wyrd of Wishing Tree woods?”

Aran jerked. The change of tack had been sudden. He struggled to gather his thoughts. “I have met her, lord. She is of the old way. There are not many left now.”

“Fewer since Winter Kay began seeking them out and killing them. She is one of the last. Why would he want her dead?”

“I have no idea, lord.”

“Then use your brain,” snapped the Moidart. “I do not expect you to be able to answer these questions instantly. I pose them so you can consider the answers. These
Dezhem Bek
must desire something. In order to achieve it they need to kill a madwoman of the forest. Looked at another way, they fear her. As matters stand, Master Powdermill, we cannot win against these Redeemers. They not only have the power of the orb but are masters of the army. Therefore, we need to know what knowledge this woman possesses. Not so?”

“I see your point, lord,” said Aran. “According to the legends, Kranos was slain by a great hero. Some even say it was his son. He cannot again return to the world of blood and flesh. Yet his body was invested with enormous powers, and so his orb—his skull—carries great magic. It seems inconceivable that such magic could be threatened by a Rigante Wicca woman.”

“I do not believe it is necessarily the magic which is threatened,” said the Moidart. “The magic is merely the power which drives them toward whatever they desire. It is that
goal
which the Wyrd threatens. If a man has a racehorse and someone seeks to cripple it, he does not do so because he does not like the horse. He does it so that it will not win a race. It is the race we must identify. In legend, what do these
Dezhem Bek
desire?”

Aran considered the question. He had not studied the texts for many years. “I do not think I can help you with this problem, my lord,” he said at last. “You need a scholar of greater wit than I.” He took a deep breath. “I was rather hoping to return to my home, having fulfilled the service I promised.”

“Your hopes are immaterial to me. And you are not thinking clearly. Do you believe you can appear at my side, engineer the deaths of three Redeemers, be seen by Lord Winterbourne himself, and then depart to your home with no fear of reprisal? God’s teeth, man, they will be hunting you till the day you die. Believe me, you will be safer in my service.”

“As you wish, lord,” said Aran, determined to be gone from Eldacre as soon as the household was sleeping.

“I will also supply you with an extra ten pounds for every month you serve me up until a full year. If we are both alive at year’s end, I will double the entire amount and give you lands and a fine house. It is up to you, Master Powdermill. Serve me and become rich or run off into the night and answer to the Redeemers or the Harvester, whichever finds you first.”

“A difficult choice, lord. I’ll need time to think on it.” Aran looked into the Moidart’s eyes and felt a shiver go through him. “I have thought on it and will accept your kind offer,” he said.

“Wise,” said the Moidart. “Now, these ward spells you have placed around the manor. How far can we rely on them?”

“They will need to be recharged daily, lord. I cannot guarantee they will keep out all the spirits. It would be advisable not to discuss plans of action unless I am present to see whether any Redeemers have breached my defenses. What we need are holy relics. True relics, not the dross held in the cathedral. Charms blessed by the Veiled Lady or Persis Albitane are the strongest. There are not many in the north.”

“Can you find them?”

“Given time, lord. Time, however, is not with us, I fear.”

“That is true. I expect another attempt on my life any day now. The Redeemers can communicate with each other over vast distances. They have people in the north. They will have been primed to come after me. The Pinance is also allied with Winterbourne. I expect he will be raising an army even as we speak.”

“You seem to be taking this matter very calmly, my lord,” said Aran.

“Go and rest, Master Powdermill. Then set to work finding out what Winterbourne really wants. Find out why he fears the Wyrd. This, I believe, is the key.”

“I will, lord,” said Aran, rising. “Did you want me to spirit travel south and find out what is happening with your son?”

“Can you communicate with him?”

“No, lord.”

“Then he is on his own. Concentrate instead on what will keep
us
alive.”

Back in his own room Aran Powdermill pondered the questions set by the Moidart. Could the Wyrd truly have been so powerful that she could prevent the Redeemers from achieving their goal? Aran doubted it. Why, then, did they hunt her? The reason men have hunted our kind since the dawn of time, he thought. Fear. We have a natural power they neither possess nor understand. The Wyrd knew the old magic, Powdermill believed. It could both heal and kill. The fact that she hesitated to use the darker spells would not placate the Redeemers. Merely knowing she possessed greater power than they would be enough for them to want her dead.

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.”