“You are miles away,” said Maev, pouring another cup of tisane.
“I was thinking about what you said about Rayster.”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I was not speaking slightingly of the man. I admire and like him greatly.”
“I know that, Maev.”
“Kaelin needs to see the Moidart,” said Maev. “He needs to know his enemy. One day, if the Source is willing, Kaelin will destroy the man and all he stands for. He will cut his vile head from his shoulders. Then Lanovar and my Jaim—and so many others—will be avenged.”
“The Moidart did not kill Jaim, Maev.”
“His men did. And the man murdered my brother, Lanovar. Shot him, having already given his oath on a truce. Hundreds more died later, hunted down and murdered on the Moidart’s orders.”
The door opened, and Kaelin entered. Lowering Jaim to the floor, he strode to the fire. Feargol followed him, while two-year-old Jaim ran to his mother, arms outstretched. Chara hugged him, lifting him to her lap. His coat was wet through, and she carried him upstairs to change his clothes.
“The Cochland brothers have been seen around Black Mountain again,” said Kaelin.
“Someone will be losing cattle,” said Maev.
“Not us.”
“No, they are not stupid men. Though I still think you should have hanged Draig. It would have been a harsher lesson.”
Kaelin drew up a chair. Feargol stayed alongside him. Kaelin absently put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Draig is a fighter, Maev, and I don’t believe he is evil. Better to tackle him fist to fist.”
“Your face looked as if it had been kicked by a horse.”
“Was it kicked by a horse?” asked Feargol.
“No,” Kaelin told him. “Draig is a big man, and he punches hard. However, my uncle Jaim taught me to fight with my fists, and though Draig is strong and brave, he has little skill.”
“In short,” said Maev, “Uncle Kaelin caught him with one of my bulls, beat him senseless, and then let him go. The Cochlands do not raid here now.”
“Do they hate you, Uncle Kaelin?”
“I don’t think so. One day maybe you can ask them. Now go off to your room and get out of those wet clothes.”
“Can’t I stay a little while longer?”
“I need to talk to Maev. Go on with you. I’ll still be here when you get back.” The boy hesitated, then ran up the stairs.
“He is like your shadow, Kaelin. You used to be like that with Jaim.”
“I remember. I’ve been thinking of this trip south. You don’t need me, Maev, and I’ve no wish to see Eldacre again.”
“You think I have?” she snapped. “You think I want to look down at that cursed cathedral? This is not a trip taken for pleasure, Kaelin. I need you. Trust me on that. I don’t ask for much from you—or any man. Do this one thing for me.”
“What is so important?”
“I want you standing beside me when I visit Jaim’s grave,” she said, her eyes suddenly glistening with tears.
Kaelin reached out and took her hand. “I’ll be there, Maev,” he said with a sigh.
Chara was watching from the foot of the stairs. She felt a touch of anger at the older woman’s manipulation. She did not want Kaelin for a graveside visit. She wanted him to meet the Moidart.
Snow was swirling in through the shattered roof as Gaise Macon stretched out on the floor before the fire. He lay on his back, his head resting on a folded cloak. Despite his weariness he felt there was no chance of sleep. Seemingly random thoughts roiled in his mind. He found himself thinking of Eldacre Castle far to the north and his father, the Moidart. There was no comfort in the thoughts. His childhood had been one of insistent sadness, struggling to find a way to make his father love him. He never had. Even now, as a fighting soldier in his twenties, Gaise Macon could find no reason for his father’s lack of affection.
Lack of affection?
It was more than that, thought Gaise. All his life his father had found ways to cause him pain. The young general wondered if his mother’s death so soon after giving birth to him had caused the malice in the Moidart. But why should it? He was not responsible. His mother had been killed by assassins, who also had stabbed the Moidart.
It is a mystery you will never solve, he told himself.
His mind drifted, and he saw again the angry, flushed face of Lord Ferson and the meeting of staff officers after the battle. The king had not been present. He generally avoided crowds, and the cramped conditions in the huge bell tent would have been abhorrent to him. Instead he had returned with his family to a nearby estate owned by Lord Winterbourne.
Four generals and eighteen senior officers had attended the meeting, and the first part had involved a discussion about the battle’s outcome. Many of the staff officers voiced the view that it was a great victory for the king’s cause. Gaise found that laughable. Luden Macks, outnumbered almost two to one and expected to retreat, had attacked instead. Two divisions of the king’s infantry had been swept aside. The advance had been halted by the steadfast courage of the elderly Lord Buckman, commander of the King’s Guards. With troops streaming back through his lines, Buckman had formed a fighting square, sending volley after volley into the charging covenanters. It would not have been enough to stem the attack, but Gaise, from his position on the hills to the right, had led his four hundred cavalrymen in a furious charge. The covenanters had broken. In pursuing them Gaise had seen Lord Ferson and his two thousand lancers on the opposite ridge. He had sent a rider, requesting support, but the lancers had never moved.
In the bell tent Gaise listened as a number of officers poured praise on their generals, obviously seeking to win favor. It was mildly stomach-churning. “Surely, my lords,” he said, “the mere fact that we need to debate the issue at all shows that a full victory cannot be claimed. I would agree, however, that victory should have been ours. The enemy was retreating in disorder. One more charge would have routed them.”
“A matter of opinion,” snapped Lord Ferson, resplendent in a beautifully tailored battle coat of red wool embroidered with gold thread. There was not a mark on it, not a speck of dust or a smear of mud. He was a small man, his reddish-blond hair close curled and thinning at the crown. His thick mustache was waxed and raised into two points. It was said to be a new fashion in the capital, and Gaise thought it comical.
Gaise Macon had looked into the man’s ruddy face, seeing the hostility in his small, closely set blue eyes. “I disagree, my lord. I would be fascinated to know why the lancers did not move. Did my request for assistance not reach you?”
Ferson’s round face flushed crimson. “I’ll not be criticized by a glory-seeking popinjay!” he thundered.
“Had that ‘popinjay’ followed your example, General, we would not be discussing the merits of a dubious victory. The enemy would have overrun us.”
Before Ferson could respond, General Buckman raised a hand. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Let us not descend into rancor.” Past seventy and a shrewd soldier, Owen Buckman was renowned for cool courage and total loyalty to the king. When he spoke, his words were treated with respect. “Our young friend is in one respect quite correct. It would be unwise to regard this battle as decisively in our favor. Luden’s forces were intact at the close and eventually withdrew in good order. By now he will have been reinforced by Dally’s infantry. This was, it must be said, an opportunity missed.”
No one spoke for a moment. Ferson sat staring malevolently at Gaise Macon. Then the cadaverous figure of Winter Kay, Lord Winterbourne, rose. In the lantern light his unusually pale skin seemed almost translucent, stretched tight across the bones of his face. His deep-set dark eyes were heavily shadowed and showed no hint of emotion. He was wearing the heavy crimson cloak of the Redeemer knights, and by his side hung a ceremonial short sword. The soldiers in the tent fell silent, waiting for Winterbourne to speak. Next to Buckman he was the most senior officer present.
“On current count the ene
my lost more than a thousand men,” he said, his voice cold. “He attacked and was repulsed. In short, he failed in his objective. My scouts report he has now pulled back into the hills. It is my belief there will be no major battles until the spring. We now have several months to gather reinforcements, enlist fresh soldiers, and root out traitors from the surrounding towns.”
For the next hour the discussion focused on logistical issues: where the various units would spend the winter, how they would be supplied, the gathering of fuel, and the sending out of recruiting teams.
As the meeting closed Lord Buckman drew Gaise aside. “I thank you, young man, for your assistance in the field. That was a gallant charge and a most welcome sight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Taking Gaise by the arm, he led him farther from the other officers. “You are quite right about Ferson. His timidity was disgraceful. But be wary of drawing attention to it. The man, like all cowards, has a vengeful soul.”
“He should be dismissed, sir.”
“The king likes him, my boy, and we serve the king.”
Now, by the fire, Gaise was restless. His body was weary, but his mind would not relax. He sat up. The snow had stopped. Looking up through the shattered roof, he saw that stars were bright in the night sky.
Suddenly a scent came to him. Summer pine. With it flowed a breath of warm breeze. Gaise turned toward the far side of the room. Gone was the smoke-blackened wall, the ruined paintings, the charred furniture. Instead, tall pine trees were growing there, and beyond them Gaise could see sloping hills of verdant green. A small white-haired figure moved into sight, sitting down on a flat stone. Gaise smiled. He had not seen her in years, not since she had given him the Rigante soul-name of Stormrider.
Rising from the rug, he walked across to the pine wood. “It is good to see you, Wyrd,” he said.
The white-haired woman looked up at him and smiled. Her face was ageless, though she looked weary. “I cannot stay long, Stormrider,” she said.
“How have you made this happen?” he asked, gesturing toward the trees. “It is mighty magic.”
“No,” she said, “not mighty at all. I have merely invaded your dreams. Look back. There you sleep by the fire.”
Gaise glanced around. His lean body was resting on its back, his head on a folded cloak. He saw with surprise that the sleeping face was drawn and haggard, the eyes dark-rimmed. “I look ghastly,” he said.
“Aye, you do. But you will wake refreshed. I’ll see to that.”
Sunlight lanced through the trees. Gaise felt the warmth on his face. Sitting down opposite the Wyrd, he watched as the entrance to the ruined room shrank away, covered by a screen of bushes and trees. Birds were singing, and he heard the soft lapping of a stream running over rocks. It was as if a burden had been lifted from his soul. “Why have you come to me?” he asked the little woman. “Is there something you need me to do?”
“I need you to stay alive, Gaise Macon.”
“I’ll do my best,” he answered with a smile.
“Have you found the answer yet?” she said.
“To which question?”
“Why would a coward challenge you?”
He shrugged. “The nature of a coward is to avoid danger. If such a man courts peril, there can be only two reasons. Either he is not a coward at all, or there is no danger.”
“Exactly. So how could it be that a pistol duel would offer no danger?”
“The pistols would contain a charge and wadding but no ball.”
“One of them would be loaded. Not yours, I fear.”
Gaise nodded. “I know. Such treachery could not come from one coward. For such a foul enterprise to succeed there would need to be a conspiracy to murder me.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“I intend to win, Wyrd.”
“There is more to this than Ferson’s conceit,” said the Wyrd. “There is a source of evil radiating its power. It is too strong for me to pierce. I have tried to find ways to read the future. All I see are fragmented images. I see you bearing a lost sword. I see a man with eyes of gold and green, yet he is not you. The more I search, the less I find. I fear I am neither strong enough nor wise enough to find the way.”
Gaise heard the despair in her voice. Reaching out, he took her hand. “What can I do to help you?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Enemies are seeking my death, and I don’t know why. The power of a great evil is at work, and I don’t know what it desires. Death is closing in on me, Stormrider. Day by day it gets closer. What I am sure of is that you must survive. It is vital.”
A cold breeze touched Gaise, and he saw a movement in the trees. The Wyrd sprang to her feet. “They have found me,” she cried.
Gaise rose alongside her. The sunshine disappeared. Two figures moved out of the gloom, dark swords in their hands. Their faces were gray and scaled. Iron circlets ringed their brows, and their eyes were swimming in blood. The Wyrd threw up her hands. Lightning flashed, and a clap of thunder exploded. Gaise was hurled from his feet. He spun over and over, down through swirling blackness. He heard a shriek that chilled his blood.
Then he woke with a start, his heart pounding. Rolling to his feet, he ran across the room to where his saddle sat on a cracked bench. From the holsters stitched to the pommel mounting he drew two heavy pistols and cocked them. Then he stood in the gloom and waited.
A lean figure moved through the doorway. Gaise swept up a pistol and pointed it.
“I’d be obliged if you would refrain from shooting me, sir,” said Mulgrave.
Gaise sagged back against the wall. “What is wrong, sir?” asked Mulgrave, moving across to take the young noble’s arm. He helped Gaise to the fire, and both men sat down on the rug.
“I am all right now, my friend,” said Gaise, uncocking the pistols and laying them on the floor. “I had a . . . nightmare.” He shivered and rubbed a hand across his face. It came away wet with sweat. “What brings you here, Mulgrave? It’s not dawn yet.”
“Sad news, sir. Word has just reached us that Lord Buckman has died in his sleep.”
Gaise sighed. He had not known the man well, but he felt a sense of deep loss. “He was too old for campaigning,” he said. “Yet without him we would have been ripped apart. Damn, but I liked the old man.”
“He was a fine gentleman and a brave one. He’ll be hard to replace.” Mulgrave reached out, placing his hand on Gaise’s brow. “You are very pale, sir, and you are still sweating. Perhaps I should fetch the surgeon.”
“It is not necessary. The dream was very real. I shall be fine now.”
“Would it help to talk of it, sir?”
Gaise shook his head. “No.” Rising, he pulled on his heavy gray topcoat. “Let’s see if we can find some breakfast.”
Winter Kay, the Lord of Winterbourne, was a warrior in the truest sense. The lord of the Redeemers and a knight of the Sacrifice, he lived only for war. For such a man ultimate victory would be anathema. Victory would mean an end to war, a passing of glory, and a life thereafter of tedious mediocrity. War was life lived to the fullest. It brought out the best in men.
As a younger man he had not fully understood that awesome fact. Deep down, however, he had sensed it. All his life he had lusted after combat. Before he was twenty he had fought three duels, two with swords and one with pistols. He had ridden with the knights of the Sacrifice in the eastern wars, taking part in the sack of Alterin and the Battle of Skeyne. He had been second in command at the massacre of Shelsans, when two thousand devotees of the new tree cult had been put to the sword or taken alive and burned.
It was there that the Source had blessed Winter Kay and delivered into his hands the Orb of Kranos.
In the years that followed he had taken the orb on all his travels, gathering to him other knights pledged to fight for the honor of the Source. He had hoped his younger brother, Gayan, would have been among their number. But he had been slain by a highlander at the cathedral city of Eldacr
e. It was a source of constant sorrow to Winter Kay.
In time he had formed the Redeemers, the finest of the knights. And he had learned how to feed the magic of the orb so that it in turn could empower his Redeemers. Mortal wounds healed overnight; strength and speed were enhanced. It was too early yet to tell, but Winter Kay also believed that even the aging process was slowed. At forty-nine he could still ride, fight, and react with the same speed and strength as when he was in his twenties. And more than this, the power of the orb allowed its followers to free themselves from the shackles of the flesh, their spirits soaring out into the skies, traveling wherever they wished. Winter Kay himself had gained even more, for he was never far from the skull. At night visions came to him in his sleep, bright and vivid. He saw a great city and palaces of marble. Then there were the blessed times when the ghost of Kranos himself would speak to him, filling his mind with the promises of a golden tomorrow, a time of immortality and excess.
Only one small cloud marred Winter Kay’s horizon.
Gaise Macon.
Was he the man with the golden eye the priest had prophesied? “I will go gladly, Winter Kay. Which is more than can be said for you when the one with the golden eye comes for you.”
Winter Kay sat in his tent staring down at the walnut case and the two silver-inlaid pistols nestling there. Gaise Macon would not prove a danger after this afternoon. Jerad Ferson was a coward, but he was also a fair shot. At twenty paces he would put a ball into the young man’s chest, and that would be an end to it.
Two men in red cloaks approached the tent. Winter Kay bade them enter. Both were tall and lean. Removing their iron helms, they bowed low.
“Did you kill the woman?” he asked them.
“No, lord. We failed.” Their faces were very pale and haggard, their eyes deep-set. They looked exhausted. This was not uncommon after heavy use of the forbidden herb. He saw them looking longingly toward the metal box containing the orb.
“Tell me what happened.”
The first man spoke: “The trance was deep, lord, and as you said, we could feel her energy. We entered her dream. She sensed us. Before we could strike, she sent up a great and blinding light. Then she was gone. There was a spirit with her. A man.”