‘A difficult choice, lord. I’ll need time to think on it.’ Aran looked into the Moidart’s eyes, and felt a shiver go through him. ‘I have thought on it and will accept your kind offer,’ he said.
‘Wise,’ said the Moidart. ‘Now, these ward spells you have placed around the manor. How far can we rely on them?’
‘They will need to be recharged daily, lord. I cannot guarantee they will keep out all the spirits. It would be advisable not to discuss plans of action unless I am present to see whether any Redeemers have breached my defences. What we need are holy relics. True relics, not the dross held in the cathedral. Charms blessed by the Veiled Lady or Persis Albitane are the strongest. There are not many in the north.’
‘Can you find them?’
‘Given time, lord. Time, however, is not with us, I fear.’
‘That is true. I expect another attempt on my life any day now. The Redeemers can communicate with each other over vast distances. They have people in the north. They will have been primed to come after me. The Finance is also allied with Winterbourne. I expect he will be raising an army even as we speak.’
‘You seem to be taking this matter very calmly, my lord,’ said Aran.
‘Go and rest, Master Powdermill. Then set to work finding out what Winterbourne really wants. Find out why he fears the Wyrd. This, I believe, is the key.’
‘I will, lord,’ said Aran, rising. ‘Did you want me to spirit-travel south and find out what is happening with your son?’
‘Can you communicate with him?’
‘No, lord.’
‘Then he is on his own. Concentrate instead on what will keep us alive.’
Back in his own room Aran Powdermill pondered the questions set by the Moidart. Could the Wyrd truly be so powerful that she could prevent the Redeemers achieving their goal? Aran doubted it. Why then did they hunt her? The reason men have hunted our kind since the dawn of time, he thought. Fear. We have a natural power they neither possess nor understand. The Wyrd knew the old magic, Powdermill believed. It could both heal and kill. The fact that she hesitated to use the darker spells would not placate the Redeemers. Merely knowing she possessed greater power than they would be enough to make them want her dead.
And me, thought Powdermill, miserably.
Kaelin Ring had never been close to the Moidart’s Winter House. Few highlanders ever had – unless to be taken to the lower dungeons, never more to see the light of day. The building was impressive, without a trace of gaudiness, and crafted in the style of the country manors found in the south. Three storeys tall and built of stone, faced beneath the eaves with white-stained timbers, it was an elegant structure of some forty rooms. The grounds were extensive and bordered by a high wall. Entry to the manor was through a huge set of wrought iron gates, guarded by four sentries in bright yellow uniforms.
Both Maev and Kaelin were searched for weapons, and then escorted through to the inner buildings.
As Kaelin walked alongside Maev he glanced at the many soldiers patrolling the grounds. The precautions seemed excessive. The Moidart was not a popular man, but he was not as hated as he had been back in the days of the clan uprisings.
Galliott the Borderer came out to meet them at the main doors. He offered a bow to Maev. It seemed to Kaelin that the soldier was uneasy in the presence of his aunt. As well he might be, since he had commanded the soldiers at her abortive execution and it had been his musketeers who had shot down Grymauch.
‘Welcome to the Winter House, Maev Ring,’ he said.
‘Thank you, captain,’ she replied coolly. ‘You remember my nephew, Kaelin.’
‘I do. You have grown, young man. Life in the north obviously agrees with you.’
‘Aye,’ said Kaelin.
A huge figure emerged from the doors above them. Huntsekker, in his old bearskin coat, came walking down the steps. He bowed as he saw Maev. ‘You are looking well, lady,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you again.’ Maev nodded in his direction, but did not speak. Huntsekker glanced at Kaelin, and he smiled broadly. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Another familiar face. Last time I saw you it was with that old rascal Grymauch. Damn, but I miss him.’