Stormrider (18 page)

The source of unlimited power lay in the north. Winter Kay understood that, though he did not know why he understood it. It was like an aftertaste from holding the skull. Once his plans were formed, he would drift into strange dreams that always melted away upon awakening, leaving him drained. For days afterward he would find himself thinking about the high northlands and picturing mountains he had never seen.

At such times he would be filled with an indescribable longing.

He had, during the last year, tried to court the Moidart, inviting him south. Always the man had refused. The refusals were courteous. Winter Kay had planned to visit him the next spring, to take the skull and heal the man’s scars, drawing him into the brotherhood.

The Moidart would have proved an invaluable ally.

Such a pity that a fine man should have been cursed with a son like Gaise Macon.

8

Apothecary Ramus pondered the nature of irony. A small man, nearsighted and balding, he had never wished harm on any living soul. His life had been one of service, the gathering of herbs and medicines for the relief of pain and the curing of disease. He was also, though he would have been surprised to discover it, well loved in the town of Old Hills.

In short, if people who knew him were asked, they would say: “Ramus is a good man, a kind man.” Those with a keener eye, such as Alterith Shaddler, the spindly schoolteacher, would add: “He is a shy man with no understanding of malice or evil.” They would be able to say little more than that, for no one knew him well. In his fifty-plus years Ramus had until recently made no friends. He encouraged no visitors to his tiny cottage home and engaged in no small talk or gossip. Ramus was invariably polite to all he met, doffing his gray woolen cap to the women and nodding or bowing briefly to the men. His shyness gave him a neutrality that allowed his patients to discuss intimate details of their conditions without embarrassment. Ramus would sit quietly, listen intently, and then prescribe adequate medications or herbal remedies.

Had anyone considered that such a man would form a friendship, he probably would have opted for Alterith Shaddler, the teacher of highland children. He was also shy and, though taller than Ramus and round-shouldered, another man of gentle disposition. In fact the two men rarely spoke.

No, the friendship Ramus finally formed in the middle years of his life was not with Alterith Shaddler. In the past four years the little apothecary had been meeting a man known for his ruthlessness, disregard for human life, and merciless treatment of those he considered enemies.

Sometimes Ramus lay awake at night wondering just how such a ridiculous situation should have come to pass. He wondered still as he sat beneath the paintings in the gallery of the Moidart’s winter residence, waiting for his audience with the ruler.

It had all begun in a bizarre way four years earlier. The Moidart had summoned him to the manor, ordering him to bring fresh ointments and salves for the unhealed burn scars that festered on his back and arms. Once they were in the Moidart’s private rooms, the earl had shown Ramus a painting, a magnificent landscape of mountains, woods, and a lake. It was like nothing Ramus had ever seen. All works of painted art, while representing skillfully the images the artist desired, were mannered and two-dimensional. They were, Ramus considered, calm and detached works. This painting, however, was vivid and raw. The snow on the mountains had been applied with a knife, the paint unthinned. The trees were vibrant with cold winter color, and in staring at it Ramus could almost hear birdsong. He had looked into the Moidart’s dark, emotionless eyes, at the harsh lines of the man’s hawklike face, then back at the awesome beauty of the landscape. How could a man of such evil have created a work of such beauty?

Even now the conversation that had followed was burned into Ramus’ memory.

“The hardest part was the water upon the lake,”
said the Moidart,
“and obtaining the reflection of the mountains and trees. I discovered it by error. One merely pulls the bristles of a dry brush down in sharp motions. Would you like this painting?”

“I could not afford such a . . . a masterpiece, lord,”
said Ramus, astonished.

“I am not some peasant who needs to sell his wares. It is finished. I have no more use for it.”

“Thank you, lord. I don’t know what to say.”
He paused.
“Are there others? I would love to see them.”

“No.”

“But what of the paintings you have completed over the years?”

“Time for you to go, Master Apothecary. I have much to do. I will send the painting to you.”

The work now hung in the small living room of Ramus’ cottage, and it was this extraordinary painting that had set in motion the curious chain of events that now had Ramus sitting outside the Moidart’s rooms.

A nobleman known as the Pinance, a rival earl to the Moidart from the lands immediately to the southwest, had visited Ramus the following year, suffering from what was delicately known as “a social complaint.” The visit had been in secret. The Pinance had arrived late one evening accompanied only by two armed retainers. Ramus had greeted him courteously and, while his men waited outside, examined the man. The Pinance was well known for his voracious sexual appetite, and it was his love of the company of whores that had led to the painful and to Ramus mildly disgusting condition. Ramus had applied a poultice to the area, then prescribed a treatment he had perfected some years before. As Ramus had been preparing the herbs and writing out his instructions, the Pinance had glanced up at the painting. “I like this greatly, Apothecary,” he had said. “Would you sell it to me?”

“I cannot, lord. It was a gift.”

“I will give you fifty pounds for it.”

Ramus had been astonished. It would take him years to earn fifty pounds. It was a colossal sum.

“I . . . I am sorry, lord. The price is not the issue.”

The Pinance, a heavyset man with dyed black hair, had smiled. “Then direct me to the artist. I desire his work at my castle.”

“He is a very private man, lord, but I shall contact him on your behalf,” Ramus had said.

The Pinance had stood for a moment. “If he paints me a scene such as this, the fifty pounds stands. I never met a rich artist, so tell him I require the painting before the autumn. Lots of mountains, mind. I like to look at mountains.”

“I will, lord,” Ramus had said miserably.

After the Pinance had gone, Ramus had sat quietly by the fire, wondering how to extricate himself from such an invidious position. The Pinance was nearly as ruthless as the Moidart and not a man to defy, yet the Moidart loathed him. There was no way he would paint a picture for him.

Even so Ramus had gone to Eldacre Castle and requested a meeting. He had arrived in the Moidart’s private quarters on the topmost floor and had stood nervously before the earl’s desk. Always before it had been the Moidart who had summoned the apothecary, and Ramus felt ill at ease from having initiated the meeting. The Moidart sat back in his chair, his dark eyes watching the little man.

“Make this brief, Apothecary, for I have much to do today.”

“Yes, lord. I . . . I have a problem that I am unable to resolve . . .”

“Your problems do not interest me.”

“Indeed no, lord. A patient visited me two nights ago—”

“His name?”

Ramus had dreaded this moment. He took a deep breath. “It was the Pinance.”

“I know. He arrived with two retainers. What is the problem?”

“He wanted to buy the painting you gave me. He offered me fifty pounds for it. I told him no.”

“That was stupid.”

“Perhaps so, lord, but I would not part with it for any amount of money,” said Ramus. It was no lie, and Ramus was no flatterer. The transparent honesty of the statement took the Moidart by surprise. For a moment only the shock registered on his gaunt face, and then he rose from his chair.

“It seems the problem is therefore resolved,” he said.

“No, lord. The Pinance has instructed me to contact the artist and commission a painting for him. He wishes to hang it in his castle.”

Ramus had never heard the Moidart laugh or even seen the man smile. But he laughed now. “The Pinance wants to hang one of
my
paintings in
his
castle.” His laughter boomed out. “Ah, Ramus, what a fine treat.” He walked to a tall window and stood staring out over the northern hills. Then he swung back. “Write to him. Tell him the artist is working on a larger painting and requires seventy-five pounds for it.”

“Seventy-five, lord?”

“Tell him you will have it delivered in two months.”

“You . . . you will paint a picture for the Pinance?” asked Ramus, aghast. “It is said you . . . dislike him.”

“Dislike does not begin to describe it. It will please me greatly, however, that he will unknowingly hang
my
painting on
his
wall. One day, when the time is right, I will let him know the name of the artist.” The Moidart laughed again. “And now you must go.”

Two months later Ramus stood again before the Moidart, handing him a bulging money pouch containing seventy-five gold coins. This time there was no laughter. The Moidart spread the money out on his desk and stared at it, his face pensive.

“Is there a problem, lord?” asked Ramus.

“Did he like the painting?”

“He was awed by it, sir, as was I. It was majestic.” It was another mountain scene, only this time it was of a storm in a bay, waves crashing upon black rocks, gulls wheeling in the sky. “The Pinance stood and stared at it for the longest time. His relatives were there also, and many retainers. They were all stunned by it.”

The Moidart sighed. “In all my life this is the first money I have ever earned with the skill of my hands. A most peculiar feeling. That will be all, Ramus.”

And yet it had not been. Other nobles had visited the Pinance and, similarly awestruck, had contacted Ramus. The word spread south about the mysterious artist and his magnificent work. The apothecary was inundated with requests. Not wishing to annoy the Moidart with another meeting, Ramus sent the letters on to him.

He was summoned to the Moidart’s summer residence in Eldacre Castle and this time led through to the lord’s private living quarters. They were surprisingly spartan, lacking adornment of any kind. The furniture was comfortable but far from new, the rugs threadbare. There were no curtains at the double-aspect windows, and the frame of one window was split, water dripping through from the heavy rain outside. Despite the fire the room was drafty and cold. It seemed strange to Ramus that a man as rich as the Moidart should live in conditions akin to poverty. But then, the man was cloaked in contradiction. A cold-hearted killer and an artist who produced works of dazzling beauty. Why should there not be other contradictory indications? he thought.

The Moidart bade him sit, which was also surprising since he had never before offered Ramus a seat. It was with some trepidation that the apothecary sat in the lord’s presence.

“I have decided to accept another commission,” said the Moidart, lifting one of the letters Ramus had sent him. “You will arrange it.”

“Of course, lord.”

“You may keep two percent of the commission.”

“Thank you, but that is not necessary.”

“I will decide what is necessary, Apothecary.”

“Yes, lord.”

The Moidart reached across to a small table on which stood a flagon of water and a single goblet. He poured himself a drink and sat quietly for a while. Ramus did not know what he was supposed to do. He had not been dismissed, so he sat awkwardly, waiting for the Moidart to speak. When at last he did speak, he did not look at Ramus. “I was taught that to earn money with one’s hands was below the dignity of a nobleman. Yet I took great pleasure in the Pinance’s commission. I thought perhaps it was because he was my enemy and I had fooled him in some way. This was not so. Now I shall paint again. I do not, however, desire anyone to know that the work is mine.” His cold eyes held to Ramus’ gaze. “It is against my instincts to trust anyone, Apothecary, and yet it seems I must trust you.”

“And you can, my lord.”

During the next few years the Moidart earned more than two and a half thousand pounds through his paintings. They were hung in great houses all across the Varlish realm.

Now the two men met once a month. There was little in the way of easy conversation, yet Ramus had come to look forward to the meetings. Indeed, he had come to
like
the Moidart. It remained a puzzle to the little apothecary.

As he sat in the gallery, he found himself admiring the portrait of the Moidart’s grandmother. He had last seen her just before her death fourteen years before, a bent and heavily wrinkled woman nearing ninety. In this portrait she was young and incredibly beautiful. What captivated Ramus was her eyes, one green and one gold, just like her great-grandson’s. Ramus had always liked Gaise Macon and had often wondered how such a charming young man could have been sired by a monster like the Moidart. Now he felt he knew, for when they discussed painting, the Moidart seemed human, almost affable at times. The coldness left his voice, and he spoke with passion and feeling about light, shade, and color, about shadow and perspective, composition and texture. In the beginning Ramus would say little. The Moidart was a touchy host at best. One did not initiate conversation; one merely responded. On one particular afternoon, however, Ramus, enduring a pounding headache that cut through his necessary caution, had ventured a criticism of a particular work. “It seems crowded,” he said. Almost as soon as the words were uttered Ramus felt a chill go through him.

“You are right, Apothecary,” said the Moidart, peering at the landscape. “Too much is happening there. Excellent. I shall repaint it.”

Now Ramus felt at ease speaking frankly about the paintings, though he never made the mistake of speaking frankly about anything else.

The captain of the castle, Galliott the Borderer, came out of the Moidart’s office and greeted Ramus. Galliott was a handsome middle-aged man, broad-shouldered and every inch the soldier. “Good day to you, Apothecary. I trust you are in good health.”

“I am, sir, and it is kind of you to ask.”

“The lord will see you now.”

Ramus offered a short bow and entered the office.

The Moidart was standing by the window, dressed in his habitual black riding shirt and breeches, his long black and silver hair tied in a ponytail. He swung toward Ramus and nodded a greeting. As usual he did not begin with any pleasantries.

“Do you hear news from the war, Apothecary?”

“Sometimes, lord.”

“Does it ever concern my son?”

“Indeed so. He is much lauded for his daring cavalry tactics.”

“Has anyone spoken to you of him having enemies?”

“No, lord.”

“Ah, well, it matters not. Come and see the new work. I have to admit I am pleased with it.”