Stormrider (37 page)

“It is his destiny to receive it.”

“I feel so lost, Riamfada,” she said. Once more the tears began to fall.

“You are not lost. I am here with you.” In that moment she felt a great warmth settle over her, as if she was a child again, safe in the arms of her mother. She remembered the small hut they shared and the little fireplace fashioned of stone. One night, when the child Caretha had endured a bad dream, her mother had carried her out and sat her on the rug in front of the fire. On a baking tray were a dozen biscuits scented with cinnamon. Her mother had held her close and given her a biscuit still warm from the oven.

Caretha had never felt so loved as in that moment.

It was a time to treasure.

The warmth left her. Riamfada had gone, and she knew she was alone again.

Then a scent of cinnamon came to her. She looked down. There on the stone beside her was a perfectly round golden biscuit. She took it up and bit into it. Then she smiled.

“Thank you, Riamfada,” she whispered.

15

Gaise Macon slept fitfully. He awoke in his tent just before dawn. Fragmented shards of his dreams clung momentarily to his conscious mind: Cordelia Lowen leaning in to kiss him, her lips cold and blue, her eyes lifeless.

He shivered and sat up.

Pushing back the blankets, Gaise climbed to his feet. Soldier stirred beside him, raising his large head and yawning, showing his teeth. Stepping over him, Gaise left the tent. Some of the soldiers had built cookfires, but most were still sleeping on the bare earth, huddled close to the ruins, seeking some shelter from the night winds.

Gaise wondered what this community had been like in the days of Connavar. It was said there was a forge where the king’s Iron Wolves had first received their armor. Ruathain had lived there and Bendegit Bran. At the center of the ruins lay the massive stump of an oak. Eldest Tree it was called when it lived. It was at the heart of many Rigante festivals. The Varlish had cut it down two hundred years earlier in an effort to stamp out clan culture. It was around that time that the romances had been published, declaring Connavar to have been a Varlish prince who had traveled to the far north to lead the barbarous people there.

Gaise wandered to a rickety bridge spanning one of the three streams. He gazed around the ruins and scanned the surrounding hills. Connavar had walked the same hills with his brothers Braefar—the traitor—and Bendegit Bran. It was here that he had met his first love. Gaise could not remember her name, but he recalled that she was the mother of the battle king, Bane. So much history had been seen by these hills.

On one of them Connavar had fought the bear to save his crippled friend Riamfada.

Gaise wished he had studied the tales more closely. As a child he had listened in awe to the stories of Seidh gods and magic and later, as a young boy, had read the mystical adventures of the man who had come to be known as Conn of the Vars, who had slept with a goddess and sired a demigod called Bane. Alterith Shaddler had stripped away the gloss of legend, offering a historical perspective based on the folktales of the Rigante.

A cool breeze whispered across the bridge. Gaise wandered back through the camp.

Mulgrave was sleeping by the remains of a low wall. Gaise felt a stab of remorse as he recalled the sorrow in his friend’s eyes. For all his skills Mulgrave was not a man made for battles and wars. There was only one way to deal with an enemy as evil as Winter Kay: kill him and all who served him. Wipe them and their memory from the face of the earth. Anger roiled in Gaise Macon’s heart as he saw again the still, lifeless form of Cordelia Lowen. He had not even been able to stay and bury her. He had left her body alongside her father and led his men from Shelding.

What a fool I was, he thought, allowing my head to be filled with thoughts of honor and chivalry. The Moidart would never have allowed himself to be trapped as he was. He would have moved his men out at the first sign of Winter Kay’s treachery, not sat like a sacrificial lamb awaiting the slaughter.

Cordelia had tried to tell him to leave, but he would not listen. Had he done so, she would now be alive, as would the two hundred Eldacre men who had trusted him to lead them. Would Connavar have sat waiting to be murdered? Would Bane have talked of honor and good faith?

Gaise walked over to the picket line and saddled his gelding. Lanfer Gosten approached him. “Scouts report no troops anywhere, sir,” he said.

“Take Soldier and give him some food. I’ll be back soon,” said Gaise.

Gosten hooked his fingers into the hound’s collar. “Yes, sir. Might I inquire where you’re going?”

“The Wishing Tree woods. I’ve always had a hankering to see them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gaise rode off. He could hear Soldier barking and wanting to follow. He glanced back. Lanfer Gosten was struggling to hold on to the hound. Once Gaise topped the rise, the barking ceased. The gelding stumbled as they moved onto the downward slope. Gaise slowed him from a canter to a walk. The horse was weary, his movements sluggish. “You’ll be able to rest soon, boy,” said Gaise, patting the gelding’s sleek gray neck. There were only a few patches of snow on the higher hills, and the rising sun shone with the warmth of spring.

“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.