Ravenheart by David Gemmell Page A

respond.
    “We’d better be getting back to the market,” put in Kammel. “You coming, Tay?”
    “No. I’ll sit here awhile.” His friends strolled away. Taybard moved to the water’s edge and gently washed the blood from his face. His head felt like it could burst at any moment. He sat down heavily, dizziness swamping him.
    A white-haired woman came alongside him. “Drink this,” she said, offering him a small copper cup brimming with a murky liquid. “It will take away the pain.”
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “Drink,” she ordered him.
    Taybard did so. The taste was bitter upon the tongue, but within moments the sharp, jagged pain receded, replaced by a dull throbbing ache.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    “How did you hurt your nose?”
    “It was … a fight.”
    “Did you win?”
    “No.”
    “And that saddens you?”
    “No. I didn’t …” He paused and took a deep breath. “I didn’t deserve to win. I almost killed a man. I would never have forgiven myself.”
    “Then be glad, for you learned a lesson that some men never learn. It will change you and change you for the better. This has been a good day for you, Taybard Jaekel.”
    He turned toward her, his gaze taking in her ragged clothing. “Who are you, and how do you know my name?” he asked, looking into her green eyes.
    “I am the Wyrd of the Wishing Tree woods,” she told him, “and I know all the children of the Rigante.”
    A heavy weariness flowed over him, and he lay down on the soft earth. “I am Varlish,” he said sleepily.
    “You are Taybard Jaekel, and your line goes back to the days of greatness and beyond. In you flows the blood of Fiallach, Connavar’s iron general. He, too, was a man of uncertain rages. Yet he was loyal unto death.”
    He wanted to reply, but his eyes closed, and he slipped into a velvet sleep.
    Kaelin Ring could feel the blood on his face, and his head was pounding. Taybard and the others had left the scene, but the hatchet-faced Sergeant Bindoe was standing close by, staring at him malevolently. Kaelin ignored him and reached for his shoulder bag.
    The golden-haired young nobleman dismounted. “You are bleeding,” he said. “Let us check the wound.”
    “It is nothing,” answered Kaelin, pressing his fingers to the cut on his cheekbone. “It will seal itself.” He wanted to be away from there, away, indeed, from all things Varlish.
    “I expect that it will,” said Gaise Macon. “I am sorry that I did not arrive more swiftly.”
    “You were swift enough,” said Kaelin. He paused, aware of how ungrateful he sounded. “I thank you,” he managed to say, having to force the words out.
    A second man approached them, tall and lean with prematurely white hair. “You fought well, lad. Fine balance. Who taught you those moves?”
    “My uncle Jaim. No one can fight like him.”
    “He is a good teacher.” The soldier put out his hand, and Kaelin put down his sack and shook it. The grip was firm, and despite himself, Kaelin warmed to the man. Then he spoke again: “My name is Mulgrave. The gentleman who saved you is Gaise Macon.”
    “The Moidart’s son,” said Kaelin, stiffening.
    “That is so,” said Gaise, his friendliness fading as he saw the cold look in Kaelin’s eyes. “You know my father?”
    “No. He knew mine,” said Kaelin. With that he stepped back, swept up his sack, and walked away, his heart beating fast. He was angry now. Just for a moment he had found himself relaxing in the company of the Varlish, one moment that now felt like a betrayal of his blood. This man’s father had treacherously killed Lanovar and hundreds of other Rigantemen, women, and children. Now the son had saved his life. It was galling.
    Kaelin trudged on past the school and up into the hills. The blood dried on his face, the bruises on his flesh throbbing in the cool wind. He had known fear—real fear—for the first time in his life when he had seen Taybard Jaekel advancing on him, the knife