Grymauch had waited. They had brought Maev out to burn her at the stake, and Grymauch had marched through the crowds like a giant of old. He had scattered the guards and killed three knights of the Sacrifice. Then, having rescued Maev and seen her free, he had been shot down by the muskets of the Moidart’s soldiers.
Even now his death felt like an open wound to the Wyrd.
Everything she had told him had come to pass. His heroism had forever altered the relationship between the northern Varlish and the Rigante. Before Jaim’s death the highlanders had been treated like an inferior race and viewed with ill-concealed contempt. A fog of hatred and fear had blinded the Varlish. Jaim Grymauch had been the cleansing storm.
Now it seemed his death might have been for nothing, after all.
War, destruction, plague, and death were rampant in the southern lands. Malice hung in the air, touching all living things, disrupting the harmony of nature, and poisoning the nature of all earth magic. It even affected the Wyrd. Normally tranquil of nature, she found herself more swift to anger. Man had always feared spell casters. Almost all societies had at one time or another burned witches. Yet ironically, man himself could cast the most destructive spell of all. With his endless lust for war he could pollute the very magic that fed his world.
The Wyrd took a deep breath, then relaxed. She could feel the spirits of two Redeemers hovering near her. They hungered for her death, their minds overflowing with images of inflicted pain and suffering.
“You will not make me hate you,” she said aloud. However, even thinking of them brought anger to her heart. Best to think of nobler men, she told herself, turning her thoughts to Kaelin Ring.
The years since the death of Grymauch had been kind to him. Still in his early twenties, he was admired by the Black Rigante, holding a position of honor in the council of their leader, Call Jace, and married to his daughter, Chara. Kaelin’s first child had been born two years previously, a boy they had named Jaim. Life was good, yet the black-haired young Rigante would often wander the lonely hills around Ironlatch Farm, camping out at night in the woods, sometimes for days.
His need for solitude hurt his young wife, but she did not doubt his love for her. Had he not fought his way into the heart of an enemy castle to rescue her? Chara had spoken to the Wyrd about Kaelin’s wanderings on the day they had taken baby Jaim to Sorrow Bird Lake for the blessing. While Kaelin had sat holding the sleeping babe, Chara and the Wyrd had strolled to Shrine Hollow and sat in the shafts of spring sunshine lancing through the trees.
“Sometimes he is so distant,” said Chara. “His eyes get a faraway look, and then I know he will be gone. When he returns, he is fine for a little while. I don’t know what is wrong with him.”
The Wyrd gazed affectionately at the slim, red-haired young woman. Even now she looked scarcely old enough to be a mother. Slight of build and delicate of feature, she seemed almost childlike. “His soul was pierced when Jaim died,” said the Wyrd. “Grymauch was everything to him as a boy: a father, an older brother, a friend. He was the one constant in Kaelin’s life. He was like a mountain. You could not imagine a day when he would not be there, filling the horizon.”
“Aye, I know he was a great man,” said Chara.
The Wyrd laughed, the sound rich. “Ah, Chara! He was a drunkard, and he loved to go whoring. He was not stupid, but neither was he equipped for scholarship. Aye, he was a great man, but it was his humanity that made him great. Jaim was, believe it or not, ordinary. He was Rigante and embodied the best and the worst of the clan. That is why he remains such an inspiration. Too many men are allowing his legend to grow out of proportion. He was not so different from Rayster, Bael, or, indeed, Kaelin. Good men, strong men. Men to walk the mountains with.”
“I still
Even now his death felt like an open wound to the Wyrd.
Everything she had told him had come to pass. His heroism had forever altered the relationship between the northern Varlish and the Rigante. Before Jaim’s death the highlanders had been treated like an inferior race and viewed with ill-concealed contempt. A fog of hatred and fear had blinded the Varlish. Jaim Grymauch had been the cleansing storm.
Now it seemed his death might have been for nothing, after all.
War, destruction, plague, and death were rampant in the southern lands. Malice hung in the air, touching all living things, disrupting the harmony of nature, and poisoning the nature of all earth magic. It even affected the Wyrd. Normally tranquil of nature, she found herself more swift to anger. Man had always feared spell casters. Almost all societies had at one time or another burned witches. Yet ironically, man himself could cast the most destructive spell of all. With his endless lust for war he could pollute the very magic that fed his world.
The Wyrd took a deep breath, then relaxed. She could feel the spirits of two Redeemers hovering near her. They hungered for her death, their minds overflowing with images of inflicted pain and suffering.
“You will not make me hate you,” she said aloud. However, even thinking of them brought anger to her heart. Best to think of nobler men, she told herself, turning her thoughts to Kaelin Ring.
The years since the death of Grymauch had been kind to him. Still in his early twenties, he was admired by the Black Rigante, holding a position of honor in the council of their leader, Call Jace, and married to his daughter, Chara. Kaelin’s first child had been born two years previously, a boy they had named Jaim. Life was good, yet the black-haired young Rigante would often wander the lonely hills around Ironlatch Farm, camping out at night in the woods, sometimes for days.
His need for solitude hurt his young wife, but she did not doubt his love for her. Had he not fought his way into the heart of an enemy castle to rescue her? Chara had spoken to the Wyrd about Kaelin’s wanderings on the day they had taken baby Jaim to Sorrow Bird Lake for the blessing. While Kaelin had sat holding the sleeping babe, Chara and the Wyrd had strolled to Shrine Hollow and sat in the shafts of spring sunshine lancing through the trees.
“Sometimes he is so distant,” said Chara. “His eyes get a faraway look, and then I know he will be gone. When he returns, he is fine for a little while. I don’t know what is wrong with him.”
The Wyrd gazed affectionately at the slim, red-haired young woman. Even now she looked scarcely old enough to be a mother. Slight of build and delicate of feature, she seemed almost childlike. “His soul was pierced when Jaim died,” said the Wyrd. “Grymauch was everything to him as a boy: a father, an older brother, a friend. He was the one constant in Kaelin’s life. He was like a mountain. You could not imagine a day when he would not be there, filling the horizon.”
“Aye, I know he was a great man,” said Chara.
The Wyrd laughed, the sound rich. “Ah, Chara! He was a drunkard, and he loved to go whoring. He was not stupid, but neither was he equipped for scholarship. Aye, he was a great man, but it was his humanity that made him great. Jaim was, believe it or not, ordinary. He was Rigante and embodied the best and the worst of the clan. That is why he remains such an inspiration. Too many men are allowing his legend to grow out of proportion. He was not so different from Rayster, Bael, or, indeed, Kaelin. Good men, strong men. Men to walk the mountains with.”
“I still
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