All colour drained from Alterith’s face. ‘By the Sacrifice, man! You could burn for such remarks! The Varlish are the chosen race of the Source.’
Mulgrave’s pale eyes held the schoolmaster’s gaze. ‘Aye, I guess I could burn for the truth. Other men have.’
Alterith sighed. ‘I shall not repeat this conversation, Master Mulgrave, but I would appreciate it if you do not repeat such heresy within my hearing.’
‘Agreed. We will not talk of matters religious. In the same spirit please do not insult my intelligence with nonsense about Conn of the Vars. It is enough that we destroy the culture of the Keltoi, without polluting their proud history.’
‘Connovar’s origins are a known fact,’ insisted Alterith. The historian . . .’
‘I’ll tell you a known fact, sir teacher. Four years ago, a small church some thirty miles from here, in the province of the Finance, was undergoing renovation. They removed a cracked flagstone close to the altar. Beneath it was an old chest, and within it a number of ancient scrolls, yellow and crusty with age. Upon one scroll was written the table of Keltoi kings, and their lineage. An elderly monk spent months deciphering the Keltoi script. Many of the stories contained in the scrolls were unknown to us, dealing with myths of the Seidh. The old monk became very excited. We always knew that Connovar carried the soul-name Sword in the Storm. We did not know why. One of the scrolls explained that his name was actually Conn-a-Var, or, in pure translation, Conn son of Var. His father’s name was Var-a-Conn, Var son of Conn. He was not of the Var race at all. The scrolls also gave insights into known historical events, battles, and the philosophy of the Keltoi kings.’
‘I would have heard of such a find,’ argued Alterith. ‘It would have been priceless, and much talked of.’
‘It would have been had word leaked out,’ said Mulgrave. ‘I only knew of it because I was studying some of the works held in the church library, and I got to speak with the monk. He sent a letter to the Finance, telling him of the find. Soon after that a squad of soldiers arrived and forcibly removed the scrolls. They also took all copies the old monk had made. He wrote to the Finance, pleading to be allowed to continue his work. There was no reply. He wrote to his bishop, requesting that the king be petitioned, detailing in the letter all that he remembered from the scrolls. On my last day at the church a carriage came for him. I saw him climb into it. He was happy, for he believed he was going to be taken to the castle of the Finance, there to continue his work. His body was found two days later in a stream some three miles from the church.’
‘You are saying the Finance had him killed?’
‘I am saying nothing of the kind. The Finance disavowed all knowledge of the carriage, or the men riding with it.’
‘Then what are you saying?’
‘I am saying that history is always written by the victors. It is not about truth but about justification. The Keltoi were a proud warrior race. It does not suit us that they should remain so. So we denigrate their culture, and what we cannot denigrate we suppress. I do not know if the scrolls were true. How could I? The old monk could have been wrong in his translations. But I do know they have never surfaced again, for further discussion. That tells me much.’
Alterith sighed. ‘Why do you persist in telling me things that could put your life at risk, Master Mulgrave?’
‘Because I am a good judge of men, Master Shaddler. Your head may be filled with nonsense, but, deep down, you have a good heart.’
The teacher blushed. ‘I thank you for the . . . the half compliment, sir, but from now on let us hold to conversational topics that do not bring visions of the noose or the flame.’
Kaelin had never seen a more magnificent bull. As tall as a horse, black as a raven’s wing, the enormous beast stood in the moonlit paddock like an enormous statue cast from coal. Hidden behind a screen of gorse on the hillside above, Kaelin sat quietly beside Jaim Grymauch.