The news split the community. Highlanders did not believe Jace would kill a man he had invited to a meeting. The Varlish felt vindicated in their mistrust and hatred of all clansmen. Jace himself was furious. At first he believed a renegade group of highlanders might have been responsible, and had sent out scouts to track them. Except there were no tracks. The ground where Linax had been murdered was badly churned by the soldiers who had ridden out to recover the body. But higher in the hills, where the killers would likely have fled, there was no sign of a large party of travellers.
‘They’d have to have been ghosts,’ Rayster told him on his return. The whole area is unmarked. Not a single boot heel. No evidence of a recent camp fire, no discarded bones from a meal.’
‘They must be somewhere!’ snapped Jace. ‘An armed group cannot simply kill a beetleback and then vanish.’
‘No indeed,’ agreed Rayster.
Then how do you explain the killing?’
Rayster had shrugged. ‘We can eliminate the claim that a group of raiders killed the colonel. There were no raiders. Unlikely as it sounds the only person who could have killed him is Ranaud himself.’
‘That is ridiculous.’
‘We know there was no meeting planned with you. Our people in Black Mountain say that Ranaud himself arranged it. He is known as a clan hater. Linax was not. The colonel’s death has left Ranaud in command – and given him freedom to act against you.’
Call cursed. ‘Damn, but it galls me to think people believe me to be so stupid as to arrange a meeting and then kill a beetleback. It is insane. If I wanted Linax dead I’d have planned it with at least a little subtlety.’
As the vicious winter finally gave way to the brighter, warmer days of spring fresh news reached Call. A regiment of the king’s army and an artillery battalion were said to be preparing for a march to the Black Mountains. Five thousand men and fifty cannon would be heading north in less than a month. Ranaud had also reinstated the law concerning highlanders carrying weapons. Any clansman found with sword, pistol or musket would be summarily hanged.
Worse was to follow. A young clansman was arrested for wearing a Black Rigante cloak. Put on trial for treason he had been beheaded in the town square. Call Jace sent out two hunting parties in the hope of assassinating Colonel Ranaud. Unfortunately the man was wily, and rarely rode without fifty men at his back. One of the parties was ambushed. They managed to escape, but not without losing three men, and killing five beetlebacks.
For several months Call Jace had journeyed at least once a week to Sorrow Bird Lake, seeking the wisdom of the Dweller. Throughout the winter she was missing, but then in the first week of spring he saw her small boat moored in the bay. He sat in Shrine Hollow until she came to him. His arm was aching badly, and his mood was sour. ‘Where do you go, woman?’ he asked her. ‘Why do you spend so little time with your people?’
‘I spend almost all my time with my people, Call Jace. What do you require of me?’ Her voice, as ever, was cool, her manner distant.
‘You do not like me, Dweller. I know this, but I have never asked why. Now I do.’
The white-haired woman remained silent at first, gazing at him intently. When she finally spoke there was sadness in her voice. ‘It is not about dislike, Call Jace. The Varlish are a cold race, and they – and others like them – are draining the magic from the land. What they do not realize is that, in the end, the magic is all we have. Without it the world will die. Why do I seem cold to you? You may have the blood of a Rigante, but you have the soul of a Varlish. Nothing you do adds magic to the earth. You scheme, you plot, you murder. Every day a little more of the magic dies.’
‘I always appreciate straight talking,’ he said sourly. ‘I live with regrets for some of my deeds. I will answer for them to the Source one day. I don’t doubt that. I will, though, leave the Rigante stronger than I found them. Or do you wish to deny me that also?’