White Wolf by David Gemmell Page B

drought had struck the nations of the southeast. Cadia, Matapesh, and Panthia had suffered crop failures and there had been great hardship. Scores of thousands had died in Panthia, the worst hit of all. Now, however, the Panthians were among the richest of nations. Aunt Athyla listened as Rabalyn explained all this to her. “Ah, well, that’s nice,” she said. Some days later, when he refused to finish a meal that contained a disgusting green vegetable he loathed, she shook her head and said: “Those little children in Panthia would be glad of it.”
    It had irritated him then, but he smiled as he thought of it now. It was easy to smile and think fond thoughts when Athyla was asleep. As soon as she was awake the irritation would return. Rabalyn couldn’t stop it. She would say something stupid and his temper would flare. Almost daily he made promises to himself not to argue with Athyla. Most arguments ended the same way. The spinster would begin to cry and call him ungrateful. She would point out that she had beggared herself to raise him, and he would reply: “I never asked you to.”
    His leggings were still damp, and he stripped them off and hung them over a chair near the fire.
    Returning to the kitchen, he filled the old black kettle with water from the stone jug and carried it back to the fire. Adding fuel to the coals he then hung the kettle over the flames. Once the water was boiling he made two cups of elderflower tisane, sweetening them with a little crystalized honey.
    Athyla awoke and yawned. “Hello dear,” she said. “Have you had something to eat?”
    “Yes, Aunt. I made you some tisane.”
    “How is your eye, dear. Better now?”
    “Yes, Aunt. It’s fine.”
    “That’s good.” She winced as she leaned forward toward where Rabalyn had left her tisane. Swiftly leaving his chair he passed her the cup. “Not so much noise tonight,” she said. “I think all this unpleasantness is over now. Yes, I’m sure it is.”
    “Let us hope so,” said Rabalyn, rising from his chair. “I’m going to bed, Aunt. I’ll see you in the morning.” Leaning over he kissed her cheek, then made his way to his own room. It was tiny, barely space enough for the old bed and a chest for his clothes.
    Too weary to undress he lay on his bed and tried to sleep. But his thoughts were all of Todhe and the revenge he would seek. Rabalyn had always avoided trouble with the councillor’s son. Todhe was malicious and vengeful when he failed to get his own way, and merely surly and unpleasant to those he deemed not important enough to draw into his inner circle. Rabalyn was no fool and had remained wholly neutral in the only area where they were forced to come together—the little schoolroom. When Todhe spoke to him, which was a rare occurrence, Rabalyn was always courteous and careful to avoid giving offense. He didn’t think of it as cowardice—though he was scared of Todhe—but more as good common sense. On rare occasions when he witnessed Todhe and his friends bullying other boys—like fat Arren—he had convinced himself it was none of his business and walked away.
    However, the beating of Old Labbers had been brutal and sickening, and Rabalyn found that he did not regret the punch that had begun this enmity with Todhe. His reget was that he had not had the courage to rush in on the adults who began the beating. No matter how much he thought of the dreadful incident he could make no sense of it. Old Labbers had never done anything to harm anyone in the town. Quite the reverse. During the plague he had gone from house to house ministering to the sick and the dying.
    The world was indeed a strange place. As he lay in his bed Rabalyn thought about the lessons he had attended. He hadn’t taken much notice of them, save for the stories about heroic battles and mighty warriors. Rabalyn had formed the impression that wars were fought by good people against evil people. The evil people were always from foreign countries.