'This is not a trap, Gaise Macon. The Wyrd would have been here, but I have come in her place. Be at ease, I am no danger to you.'
'I have learned the hard way that what men say and what they do are often wildly different. Stand up and turn round. Let me see that you are carrying no weapons.'
The young man did as he was bid, opening his coat to show no knives or pistols were hidden upon his person. 'Who are you?' asked Gaise.
'I am Riamfada.'
Gaise laughed. 'You look well for your age, swordsmith.'
'I was never a swordsmith. I made jewellery, brooches and pins, a few rings. Only after I died did I learn the skill of bladecraft. But I only made one sword, Gaise Macon. Just the one. I made it for my friend, Connavar.'
Once more Gaise scanned the trees for sign of any men concealed there. Then he looked back at the young man, and relaxed. 'You are an amusing fellow. But if you wish to play the part of Seidh legend you should have dressed up a little more. Perhaps an old-fashioned conical hat, or a patchwork cloak. Now will you get to the point. What is it you want of me?'
'There was only one patchwork cloak, and I did not wear it. As I said, I have a gift for you. It is within the woods. Do you have the nerve to accompany me?'
'Nerve, fellow? Are you going to tell me it is still haunted by the Seidh?'
'No, Gaise Macon, it is not haunted. The Seidh no longer walk here. I have not walked here in centuries. It seems to me to be a sad place now. The magic is all but gone. Will you leave your horse and walk with me?'
'There is a price on my head, and my soldiers rely on me. I would be a fool to walk into a shadowed wood alone with a stranger. Especially a deranged stranger who pretends to be dead. Do I look foolish to you?'
'You look like a man carrying many sorrows, Stormrider. But no, you do not look foolish. There is no-one here to harm you, but I understand your concern.'
'What is the gift?'
'Come and see,' said the young man. Gaise chuckled and dismounted, tethering the gelding's reins to a bush.
'You don't object if I bring my pistol?'
'Not at all.'
The young man walked off into the trees. Gaise followed him. The ground was soft underfoot. Gaise paused suddenly. The man ahead was leaving no footprints.
'Wait!' called Gaise. The young man turned. 'You make no mark upon the earth.'
'That is because I am long dead and the form you see is merely an illusion. I can become solid, but it takes energy and effort and serves no real purpose. If it would make you happier I could conjure a conical cap.'
'You are a ghost?'
'I suppose that I am, in a manner of speaking. Does this disturb you?'
'I have to admit that it does,' said Gaise. 'Are you truly Riamfada?'
Truly.'
'And you knew the great king?'
'I knew him. He taught me to swim.'
'To swim? I had heard that you were a cripple.'
'My legs did not function. Conn used to carry me to the Riguan Falls. I found that I could propel myself along in the water with my arms. It was the most marvellous sensation. I have never forgotten it. Conn was a good man. No-one else bothered with a sickly cripple.'
'Is he here too, in this place?'
'I don't believe so. But then I do not know a great deal about the afterworld of spirit. He could be, I suppose.'
Riamfada walked on. Gaise followed him. The spirit paused and pointed to a dense section of undergrowth. 'It was in there that Conn freed the fawn from the brambles. It was that deed which endeared him to the Morrigu. A frightened boy in a magical wood, and yet he paused to help what he believed to be a terrified fawn.'
'I feel I must be dreaming this,' said Gaise.
'Come, we must travel a little further.' Riamfada moved on, coming at last to a sheer cliff face. He kept walking and disappeared into the solid rock. Gaise waited. 'Walk through, Stormrider,' he heard Riamfada say. 'It is only another illusion.'
Gaise stretched out his hand. No cold stone met his fingers. Taking a deep breath he stepped forward, and found himself standing in a narrow cave. Two ancient lanterns flickered into life and light. Riamfada was standing by the far wall. Leaning against it was an old-fashioned sword, the kind once carried by knights into battle. The long blade was slightly curved, and shone like the brightest silver. Keltoi runes were engraved along its length. The hilt was a mixture of gold, silver and ebony; the black quillons shaped like oak leaves, the golden fist guard embossed with the head of a bear. There was a round silver pommel, bearing a beautiful carving of a fawn trapped in brambles.
Gaise stepped closer, kneeling down to examine the weapon. It was stunningly beautiful. 'This is the only sword I ever made,' said Riamfada. 'I am not fond of weapons of death. This is your gift, Stormrider.'
Gaise rose to his feet and backed away. 'It would not be fitting. I am not Rigante. I am the son of a Varlish lord, a conqueror. This should go to someone like Kaelin Ring or Call Jace.'
'It is the Sword in the Storm, Gaise Macon. Who else should carry it but the Stormrider?'
'It is a Rigante treasure. I have no right to take it.'
'You have Rigante blood, through your father. You are of the line of Connavar. And who has a greater right to offer this gift than the being who crafted it?'
'I could not use it, Riamfada. It is huge and cumbersome, and not suited to modern cavalry warfare.'
'Try it, Gaise.'
Reluctantly Gaise Macon reached for the hilt. It was far too large for his hand, yet, as his fingers curled around it the hilt seemed to shrink. He raised the blade. It was remarkably light. Gaise blinked. The black quillons narrowed, the golden fist guard swirled around his hand. The blade shivered in the light, becoming more slender. Within a few heartbeats Gaise found himself holding a cavalry sabre. The fist guard no longer showed the image of a bear. Now it showed a rearing horse, surrounded by golden clouds.
Riamfada gestured towards Gaise's own sabre, which lifted from the scabbard and floated to the floor. 'Sheathe your blade, Stormrider.'
Gaise did so. It fitted perfectly. 'It will cut through all armour and never require sharpening. The blade will not dull or dent, and while you carry it no Redeemer spirit will be able to see you. You will still be discernible to human eyes, but you will be invisible to those who seek to spy on you with spirit eyes. The runes upon the blade are old and powerful. Ward spells they were once called. No demonic force can harm you while this blade is by your side. And now you should go. The Moidart has need of you, and there is much to do before Winter Kay brings his army north.'
'Will you help us in this war?'
'No. I will be taking a child to a distant place. I will be raising him there, and teaching him the wonders of a beautiful land. Then I too will depart this earth, and seek out the realms of spirit.'
'You will die?'
Riamfada smiled. 'I have already died, Gaise. My spirit was taken by the Seidh, who gave me new life. I am not immortal, though, and my time is now short. I have no regrets. I have seen wonders indescribable, and known people whose lives made my heart sing. Some, like Conn, were warriors, others have been mystics and poets, farmers and labourers. One was a schoolteacher. These people and their lives have inspired me. Perhaps when I leave this world I will see them again. Perhaps not. But you and I will not meet again in this world, Gaise Macon. I wish you well.'
The world shimmered and went dark. Gaise Macon staggered and almost fell. Reaching out, he grabbed at the trunk of a tree to steady himself. The grey gelding whinnied in surprise at the sudden movement. Gaise blinked. He was standing again at the edge of the Wishing Tree woods. There was no cave, no bramble thicket, and no mysterious stranger.
'Damn, it was a dream after all,' he said aloud. 'I am more tired than I thought.' He drew the sabre idly from its scabbard.
The Keltoi runes shone, and the golden fist guard gleamed bright in the morning light.
Sheathing the blade once more Gaise stepped into the saddle.
'My thanks to you, Riamfada,' he called out. There was no answer, though it seemed the breeze picked up, rustling in the branches above him. With a wave he turned his horse and rode back to Three Streams.
Apothecary Ramus sat outside the Moidart's offices as a seemingly endless stream of people exited and entered the rooms. He had never seen such relentless activity within the castle. On the ride to Eldacre he had seen thousands of soldiers, some marching in column, others engaged in manoeuvres. Wagons and carts clogged the roads, most bringing in supplies, but some carrying frightened families towards the north. Rumours abounded. The king had decided to move his capital north and Eldacre was to be the centre of the war. The king was dead and the Moidart had declared war upon his killers. Everyone, however, knew that the Finance was dead, and that his head had been held up before his own troops. This act of savagery had - much to the surprise of the apothecary - impressed a great number of people.
'Ah, you don't mess with our Moidart,' the baker had said proudly, when Ramus bought his daily loaf of bread. Others in the bakery had agreed.
'Canny man,' someone added. 'Finance bit off more than he could chew when he came north.'
'Never much of a brain on him,' said the baker.
'No, but the Moidart used his head,' said the other, to general laughter. It baffled Ramus that such an act could produce levity.
The apothecary had known nothing of the Moidart's coup. He had waited in the dank, dark dungeon for a full night and a day, cold and terrified. When the door finally opened and light flooded in he had screamed with terror. 'Whisht, man!' snapped Huntsekker. 'You're free.'
'Free?'
'Aye. Come on out and stop your wailing. I have a pounding headache and the noise is making me irritable.'
Ramus had tottered out. He was offered no food or transport, and had trudged back to Old Hills, arriving at his home just over two hours later. Not a word from the Moidart. It was on the way home that he had passed a group of soldiers, two of whom he knew. They told him of the murder of the Finance, and how the Moidart had acquired a new army.
It was then he learned that the coup had taken place before the dawn. Yet he had been left in the dungeon almost to dusk. Ramus had slept then for almost fourteen hours. After that he tried to reestablish his routines. He drank camomile tisanes to calm his nerves, and went back to the preparation of tinctures and creams, salves and balms.
Alterith Shaddler, the schoolmaster, came into the shop complaining of a toothache. Ramus examined him and pointed out that the tooth needed to be pulled. He saw the fear in Alterith's eyes. 'I am not good with pain, apothecary. Is there not some other remedy?'
Aye, thought Ramus, you'd not have suffered this pain had the Finance lived. Rumour has it that you were due to hang alongside me. 'No,' he said. 'I am sorry. I can give you something to dull the pain, but it will get worse. Better to have it pulled today. I can do it for you immediately.'
‘I’ll think on it,' said Shaddler.
'Do not take too long.'
After three days Ramus was beginning to feel like his old self. Then came the summons from the Moidart.
Ramus sat quietly, his bag of balms upon his lap. Colonel Galliott came by, but he did not speak. The man looked terribly tired. He seemed to have aged ten years since Ramus last saw him. He was followed by a slender young man with fair hair. Ramus heard him announced by the Moidart's servant as Bendegit Law.
Time dragged on. Ramus was thirsty, and he stopped a passing servant and requested something to drink. ‘I’ll send someone,' said the man. Then he rushed off. No-one came.
After three hours the bustle around him slowed down. Servants moved along the hallway, lighting lanterns. Ramus saw the man he had asked for water, and repeated his request. ‘I’ll get it now, apothecary,' he said, apologetically. This time he did come back. Ramus thanked him and drank deeply.
He heard his name called and moved to the door. Another servant opened it and announced him. Ramus stepped inside. The Moidart was sitting at a desk, upon which was a mass of papers. He leaned back in his chair, his hooded eyes focusing on the newcomer. 'Did you bring the balms?'
'Yes, my lord.'
'Well, don't just stand there. I do not have all day. Bring them to me.'
Ramus moved forward and laid his bag upon the desk. Opening it he produced three jars, wax-sealed. Upon each was a hand-painted label with carefully written instructions. The Moidart lifted one. 'You only make these for me, do you not?'
'Yes, my lord.'
'And you have been doing so for years.'
'Yes, my lord.'
'It puzzles me why you write the instructions so carefully upon each jar. After all this time I know how to apply the balms.'
'Yes, my lord.'
'You are sounding like a parrot bird,' said the Moidart. 'Sit down, Ramus. Relax. No-one is going to hang you today.'
'Is the war coming to Eldacre, my lord?' asked Ramus, as he settled into the chair.
'I fear it is. A more stupid and wasteful business there never was. Fields will not be planted, food will run low, tax revenues will dry up - save from the makers of swords and munitions.'
'And many will lose their lives.'
'Yes. Productive men will cease to be productive. So how are you faring after your brush with death?'
'I am fine, my lord. And you?'
'In pain. But then I am always in pain. There is no time to paint now, and I miss it. There is a ruined church on the high hills close to the Winter House. In the late afternoon the sunlight upon it is most pleasing. I had thought to recreate it on canvas.'
'I would like to see that, my lord.'
'My son is coming home. He escaped the treachery, fought his way clear.'
'That must have been a great relief to you.'
'Aye. I need a good cavalry general now. That will be all, apothecary.'
'Yes, my lord,' said Ramus, clambering to his feet.
'I fear I will paint no more, so there will be no further need for you to attend the castle. I shall send riders to collect the balms in future.'
'I am sorry to hear that, my lord. Perhaps when the war is over you will feel differently.'
But the Moidart had returned his attention to the papers on his desk and did not answer.
Huntsekker disliked riding, but at this moment he would far sooner have been on horseback. Instead he was driving a four horse wagon along a narrow road, Maev Ring sitting beside him. In the back of the wagon, hidden under sacks of grain, lay eight large wooden boxes, each containing two hundred and fifty pounds in silver chaillings. Under Maev Ring's direction Huntsekker had dug them up the previous night. It had taken all his strength to haul them from the earth. Each one weighed as much as a full grown man.
Huntsekker was a powerful man, but by the time he had hauled the boxes from the small wood to the farmhouse and loaded them onto the wagon he was exhausted. Once back inside the house he sank gratefully into a chair, his hands and arms still trembling from the effort of heaving the last of the boxes to the wagon floor. 'Smaller chests would have been wise, I think,' he told Maev.
'My Jaim had no problem carrying them out there,' she observed.
‘I’ll wager he grumbled worse than I did,' said Huntsekker. 'Jaim Grymauck was never too fond of physical labour - until it came to stealing bulls.'
Maev Ring suddenly laughed. Her face became instantly more youthful, highlighting for Huntsekker the beauty she must once have possessed. Hell, man, he thought, she's beautiful enough as she is now!
'You are correct,' said Maev, with a smile. 'He complained bitterly and swore it had ruined his back.'
'Why did you bury it?' he asked.
'A highland woman with so much coin? What would she spend it on, Huntsekker? I have acquired many business interests in my life. Each has cost me a great deal of coin, and yet each has then supplied ten times the outlay in profit. I seem to make money far faster than I can spend it.'
'You make that sound like a complaint. Most men
would give their left arms for such a talent.'
'Yes, that is exactly the kind of thinking that shows why they do not possess it in the first place. One doesn't become rich by risking one's limbs. The problem with men is that they bring obsessive pride into their undertakings. Often it blinds them to their own shortcomings. Making money is easy. If I were Varlish I would own a palace, and the king would probably have made me a duchess. As a Rigante I am not allowed to use a bank, nor to own large parcels of land. So I bury my wealth. Since Jaim died I have used smaller boxes.'
'Shame we didn't dig those up,' muttered Huntsekker.
'We will leave soon after first light,' she said. 'You may sleep in Kaelin's room. It is at the top of the stairs on the left.'
Huntsekker had not slept well. His dreams had been all of Maev Ring, and her smile, and he awoke discomfited and uneasy. Now, as they sat close together on the wagon's driving seat, he could smell the scent of her hair.
'You are not a talkative man,' she observed.
'Not unless I have something to say.'
'I recall you were married once.'
'Twice. First wife left me while I was in the army. Second wife died. Sixteen years ago now. Selma. Good girl.'
'You were still young then. Why did you not remarry?'
'Why didn't you?' he countered.
'I wish I had,' she said.
'To Grymauch?'
'Of course to Grymauch,' she snapped. 'What a stupid question.'
'Wouldn't have worked,' he said.
'Would you care to explain that?' she asked coldly.
'No. Don't think I would.'
'Well, that is truly irritating.'
'No more than you should expect from a stupid man,' he retorted.
'I didn't say you were stupid. I said the question was stupid. There is a difference. If I offended you I apologize.'
The wagon reached a slight rise. Huntsekker flicked the reins across the backs of the team. 'It's not important,' he said. 'I can be as stupid as the next man. I never pretended to be clever. Neither did Jaim.'
'I never understood why you liked him. He stole your bull and he prevented you from killing Chain Shada. I would have thought you would have hated him.'