‘Yes,’ agreed Maev. ‘A killing frenzy.’ Jaim turned away from her for a moment, staring out over the mountains. Maev could see the sadness in him. He stood silently for a while.
‘Why did the soldiers not find the weapons?’ he asked finally.
‘I put the pistols back, and I buried the sabre. My guess is that you showed Kaelin the pistols when I was away at some time. It doesn’t matter now. What does matter is that he has killed two Varlish. He is just like Lanovar and I fear for his life. As he grows oider he will resent the Varlish dominance more and more. He will not endure within it like you or me. He will resist it. He will oppose it. And they will kill him as they killed his father.’
Jaim sighed. ‘Is there anything I can do, Maev? You have but to name it.’
‘I have purchased property far away in the north-west, a farm that borders the Black Rigante country. You have friends among them. Come summer I want you to take Kaelin north. I want him far from the Moidart and his beetlebacks. I want him to find a life away from the Varlish.’
‘Come summer he will be a man, Maev. He may choose not to go-‘
‘That’s why I need you, Jaim. He admires you, and I think he would travel with you if you asked him.’
‘Why wait until the summer?’
‘Life in Eldacre will be calmer then. There is too much excitement and suspicion now. Let Kaelin finish his schooling and then you can go.’
‘Will you want me to come back?’ he asked her.
‘What kind of question is that?’ she countered. He stood silently, watching her, his expression grave. Maev felt uncomfortable. ‘Of course I will, you lummox,’ she told him. ‘I’d have no-one to scold. Now you be careful tomorrow. Huntsekker will be close. Vile the man may be, but he’s no fool.’
‘I’ll avoid him – and don’t you worry. I’ll not take Kaelin with me.’
‘Yes you will, Jaim,’ she said sadly. ‘He has killed now and he is a man, with all the sorrow that brings. I want him close to you from now on. There is much he needs to learn from you. You were a killer once, and you changed. Help Kaelin to change.’
‘I’ll do my best, Maev.’
‘Aye, I know. You’re a good man, Grymauch.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE FEELING OF SADNESS DID NOT FADE AS THE WYRD MOVED ACROSS the countryside towards the old log bridge. Rather it deepened. There was no pulsating magic in the ground below her feet, no silent music in the trees. Here and there she could sense tiny fragments of what once had radiated from the land: a glint of golden light on the surface of a stream, a shard of harmony in the shadow of a great oak, a whisper of past glory on the gentle breeze; but even this faded as, leaning heavily on her sycamore staff, she reached the bridge. Death hung in the air. Recent rains had washed away most of the blood, and the bodies had been removed, yet the horror remained, swirling unseen over the river, tainting the trees and the grass.
To restore harmony to the scene would take days; days of mind-numbing toil, endless prayers and fasting. It was ever thus, she thought. The sculptor labours for years to carve the perfect statue from marble, every muscle shaped with precise beauty. Then one talentless man with a hammer destroys it in a moment. Creation takes time and love, destruction merely a heartbeat of madness.
The Wyrd had spent half her life becoming one with the land, sacrificing all that most humans hold dear: love, children, family. At times like this she could almost regret it.
‘Oh, Ravenheart,’ she whispered, ‘what have you done to yourself?’
Dusk was approaching and the Wyrd settled down to rest, drawing her tattered cloak around her. The first of her labours would take place when the moon was high, and she needed to be strong. From a small canvas pouch she took a pinch of shredded leaves, placing them under her tongue. The taste was bitter and she felt her heartbeat quicken. The scents of the forest sharpened, the musty earth, the damp fur of the nearby rabbits, the harsh, pungent fox urine, the soft, heady perfume of the spring flowers by the river.