‘We’ll think of that later,’ said the Moidart. ‘What powers does the Orb possess according to your study?’
‘Regeneration and renewal are most mentioned. The healing of wounds, the increase of physical strength. Delay of the signs of ageing. These virtues were said to be enjoyed by the Dezhem Bek – the servants of the Orb.’
The Ravenous Ravens,’ said the Moidart.
‘You are well read, my lord.’
‘Not at all. Young Master Coper explained it to me.’
‘Ah yes.’
‘Why were they called ravenous?’
‘I had always thought it was alliteration, lord. Poetry,’ he added.
‘I know what alliteration means. The word ravenous, however, is interesting. Eternally hungry. For what? Power? Bloodshed? The Redeemers have built a reputation for excess. Is it because they desire it – or they need it? Coper talks of touching the skull and feeling a thrill of power – a satisfaction unlike anything he has experienced before. He says the feeling is most exquisite after violent activity. By which he meant torture and murder. I fancy he did not find it quite so exquisite today – as the victim.’
I expect that you did, thought Aran, miserably.
‘Give the matter some thought, Master Powdermill. I need to know the limits of their power, and the drawbacks to it. Do you know the Wyrd of Wishing Tree woods?’
Aran jerked. The change of tack was sudden. He struggled to gather his thoughts. ‘I have met her, lord. She is of the Old Way. There are not many left now.’
‘Fewer since Winter Kay began seeking them out and killing them. She is one of the last. Why would he want her dead?’
‘I have no idea, lord.’
Then use your brain,’ snapped the Moidart. ‘I do not expect you to be able to answer these questions instantly. I pose them so you can consider the answers. These Dezhem Bek must desire something. In order to achieve it they need to kill a mad woman of the forest. Looked at another way, they fear her. As matters stand, Master Powdermill, we cannot win against these Redeemers. They not only have the power of the Orb, but are masters of the army. Therefore we need to know what knowledge this woman possesses. Not so?’
‘I see your point, lord,’ said Aran. ‘According to the legends Kranos was slain by a great hero. Some even say it was his son. He cannot again return to the world of blood and flesh. Yet his body was invested with enormous powers, and so his Orb – his skull -carries great magic. It seems inconceivable that such magic could be threatened by a Rigante Wicca woman.’
‘I do not believe it is necessarily the magic which is threatened,’ said the Moidart. ‘The magic is merely the power which drives them towards whatever they desire. It is that goal which the Wyrd threatens. If a man has a race horse and someone seeks to cripple it he does not do so because he does not like the horse. He does it so that it will not win a race. It is the race we must identify. In legend what do these Dezhem Bek desire?’
Aran considered the question. He had not studied the texts for many years. ‘I do not think I can help you with this problem, my lord,’ he said, at last. ‘You need a scholar of greater wit than I.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I was rather hoping to return to my home, having fulfilled the service I promised.’
‘Your hopes are immaterial to me. And you are not thinking clearly. Do you believe you can appear at my side, engineer the deaths of three Redeemers, be seen by Lord Winterbourne himself, and then depart to your home with no fear of reprisal? God’s teeth, man, they will be hunting you till the day you die. Believe me, you will be safer in my service.’
‘As you wish, lord,’ said Aran, determined to be gone from Eldacre as soon as the household was sleeping.
‘I will also supply you with an extra ten pounds for every month you serve me up to a full year. If we are both alive at year’s end I will double the entire amount and give you lands and a fine house. It is up to you, Master Powdermill. Serve me and become rich, or run off into the night and answer to the Redeemers or the Harvester – whichever finds you first.’