“Scouts report no troops anywhere, sir.”
They will be coming soon, thought Gaise. Winter Kay will bring his army north.
Gaise reined in the gelding and swung back to look down on Three Streams. On one of these hills Bane had fought a battle against Varlish raiders. He had been aided, according to some accounts, by outlaws and had saved Connavar’s mother, Meria.
Gaise had always enjoyed stories of Bane and his father, Connavar. Their uneasy relationship mirrored that of Gaise and the Moidart. It had moved Gaise to tears when he had read how Bane had returned and been reconciled with his father at the point of Connavar’s death. As a child he had longed to be reconciled with the Moidart. He would have given ten years of his life just to have the man smile and hug him. It was not to be. The Moidart had been constant in his contempt.
Pushing thoughts of his father from his mind, Gaise rode toward the woods. It surprised him that they looked just like every other stand of trees: oak, sycamore, birch, and beech. There was nothing mystical about them. What did you expect? he asked himself. Fire-breathing dragons? Unicorns? A Seidh maiden dressed in white?
As he approached the woods, a young man stepped from the shadows of the trees. He was fair-haired and dressed in a long gray, threadbare coat. His leggings and boots were of cheap cloth and leather. He appeared to be carrying no weapon. Gaise scanned the trees behind him.
“Good morning,” said the young man.
“And to you. You live near here?”
“No. Not anymore. Once I lived here.”
“In these woods?”
“For a time. I was born in Three Streams.”
“There has not been a settlement here in a hundred or so years.”
“I know,” said the man. “Sad, isn’t it? Such good land.”
“What is your business here now?” asked Gaise.
“I was waiting for you, Stormrider. I have a gift for you.”
Gaise backed his horse away and drew a pistol from its scabbard on the pommel of his saddle. “How kind of you, stranger,” he said coldly. “But I have no need of gifts. How is it that you know my Rigante name?”
“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 around. Let me see that you are carrying no weapons.”
The young man did as he was told, opening his coat to show that no knives or pistols were hidden on 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 jewelry, brooches and pins, a few rings. Only after I died did I learn the skill of blade craft. 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 signs of any men concealed there. Then he looked back at the young man and relaxed. “You are an amusing fellow. But if you wished 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 marvelous 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, 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 farther.” 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, and 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 saber. The fist guard no longer showed the image of a bear. Now it showed a rearing horse surrounded by golden clouds.
Riamfada gestured toward Gaise’s own saber, which lifted from the scabbard and floated to the ground. “Sheathe your blade, Stormrider.”
Gaise did so. It fit perfectly. “It will cut through all armor 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 on 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 laborers. 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 gray 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 saber 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 there had been thousands of soldiers, some marching in columns, others engaged in maneuvers. Wagons and carts clogged the roads, most bringing in supplies but some carrying frightened families toward the north. Rumors abounded. The king had decided to move his capital north, and Eldacre was to be the center of the war. The king was dead, and the Moidart had declared war upon his killers. Everyone, however, knew that the Pinance was dead and that his head had been held up before his own troops. That 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 had bought his daily loaf of bread. Others in the bakery had agreed. “Canny man,” someone added. “Pinance 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,” the other man said to general laughter.
It baffled Ramus that such an act could produce levity.
He had known nothing of the Moidart’s coup. Ramus 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 had been 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 had told him of the murder of the Pinance and how the Moidart had acquired a new army.
It was then that he learned that the coup had taken place before the dawn. Yet he had been left in the dungeon almost until dusk. Ramus had slept, then, for almost fourteen hours. After that he tried to reestablish his routines. He drank chamomile tisanes to calm his nerves and went back to the preparation of tinctures and creams, salves and balms.
Alterith Shaddler, the schoolmaster, came to the apothecary 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 Pinance lived. You were due to hang alongside me. “No,” said Ramus. “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 had last seen 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. He 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?” Ramus asked as he settled into the chair.
“I fear that 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. Ther
e is a ruined church on the high hills close to the winter manor house. In the late afternoon the sunlight upon it is most pleasing. I had thought to re-create 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 250 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 on to 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 Grymauch was never too fond of physical labor unless it came to stealing bulls.”
Maev Ring suddenly laughed. Her face became instantly more youthful, highlighting for Huntsekker the beauty she must once have been. Hell, man, he thought, she’s beautiful enough as she is now!
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