He moved towards Mulgrave and shook his hand. The swordsman saw the sheen of sweat upon the old priest’s features.
‘May the Source be with you always,’ said Mulgrave.
Ermal Standfast’s eyes shone with repressed tears. ‘I do not think He cares overmuch about weak men like me,’ he said.
Then he took his old coat from its hook and struggled into it. Mulgrave walked with him to the wagon. They spoke no more and Mulgrave stood silently as the vehicle trundled over the snow. Ermal did not call out a farewell. Nor did he wave.
Mulgrave returned to the silent house. The fire was still burning, though there were no chairs to sit upon. Even the old hearth rug was gone. The swordsman sat down upon the floor. Ermal’s words had been strange. Mulgrave knew he was trying to tell him something, but had spoken as if they were being overheard. The white-haired woman was in the north, not the south. She had not been hunted by death, but by the Dezhem Bek.
‘I have been having those same dreams, Mulgrave. The very same ones that you told me about.’
Ermal had also dreamt of them.
‘I don’t want hungry carrion birds pecking at my eyes. You understand? They are here. You only have to look in the trees around us to see them waiting to feed.”
Hungry carrion birds. The Ravenous Ravens. The Dezhem Bek.
They are here.
Winter Kay had long believed himself to be above rage. He saw the outpourings of violent anger as indications of a lesser intellect. Which was why he was struggling to control the volcanic state of his own temper. How could Marl Coper have been so stupid? Could he not detect the simple ward spells around the manor? And to shoot the Harvester without bothering to find the body? Such complacency deserved torture and death. Winter Kay poured himself a cup of cold water and sipped it. Calm yourself, he thought. Think!
All of his plans over the years had been meticulously orchestrated, with almost complete success in every quarter. Orders had been given and carried out. Good men had been recruited, while the weak and the difficult had been brushed aside or killed. The king was now an irrelevance, the Covenanters about to be destroyed, and the wonderful wholeness of the strategy on the verge of a triumphant completion.
He wandered to the window and stared down at the castle grounds. Some of his guests were wandering the gardens. Several riders were cantering across the open land beyond the western wall on a hawking venture. The lead rider, wearing a purple sash, was the king. The sun was shining now with the promise of spring. Winter Kay took a deep breath.
Let us seek a little perspective here, he told himself. I was complacent in the question of Gaise Macon. Person was a cowardly fool, Macon brighter than I had anticipated. It will not save him now. Thoughts of Macon’s impending demise helped relax him. Yet what of the Moidart? This was a real source of regret. The man would have been a great help in the cause. I should have gone to him sooner, thought Winter Kay. I should have healed his burns and made him one of us.
Too late now.
A light tapping sounded at the door. ‘Come in, Velroy,’ he called.
Eris Velroy entered and bowed. The man looked tired, his face ashen. His eyes darted to the box on the table, containing the Orb of Kranos.
‘Sit down, man,’ said Winter Kay. Velroy pushed a hand through his thick, sandy hair, then rubbed at his dark-ringed eyes. He slumped to a seat. ‘You managed to break through the ward spell?’
‘It was not necessary, my lord. The Moidart had no spell placed over the dungeon. I think he wanted us to see the torture of Marl. It was ghastly.’
‘No doubt. The Moidart is highly skilled in such practices. He frightens you, doesn’t he?’
‘He does, my lord,’ admitted Velroy.
‘Where is the Finance now?’
‘He is gathering his forces. They will march on Eldacre at week’s end. Twelve thousand men, boosted by a division of five hundred knights. They have few cannon, though, as yet. The Finance believes that the Moidart will move his men into Eldacre Castle and seek to hold out there.’