Stormrider by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online Page B

touched her, and she fought it back.
    Pulling shut the door, she walked out to the frozen shore, the snow crunching beneath her booted feet. She shivered, though not from the winter cold. She could feel the dark spirits hovering around her, waiting. By now they would have sent killers to find her, cold-souled men who would ride north and seek to enter Rigante lands. They would not find it easy. Call Jace did not allow strangers to travel the inner passes. The Wyrd sighed. She did not doubt they would find a way. Circling the small island, she returned to her hut. The fire was burning low, but she did not build it up. Too much heat and she would fall asleep. Then they would find her spirit as it wandered and, in her weary state, snuff out her life like an unwanted candle flame.
    It was most galling. The Redeemers saw themselves as so deadly. They believed themselves all-powerful. The truth was that the Wyrd could, if she chose, kill all of them. Aye, that was tempting! She could become a creature of avenging fire and burn their souls to damnation. Would it not advance the cause of good to destroy them? she wondered.
    “Aye, and therein lies the path to your own destruction,” she said aloud.
    The power granted to her by the spirit of Riamfada all those years ago had come at a price. “It is born of love,” he had said within the tranquil setting of the Wishing Tree woods. “It is of harmony and joy. You may use it to heal, to enhance, to bring together. Never to destroy.”
    “I don’t want to destroy anything,” she had told him.
    “Let us hope that is always true.”
    Oh, there had been times in the past when she had wished to cause harm. When the Moidart had betrayed Lanovar to his death, when the greedy bishop of Eldacre had tried to have Maev Ring burned for witchcraft. Evil men who deserved death. Yet the temptation had never been as great as it was now. Is it just because my own life is threatened? she asked herself. Is my desire merely to save myself? The Wyrd hoped that was not true.
    She gazed around her small, single-room hut, her eyes lingering on the objects gathering dust on the shelves. There was an old green cap that had belonged to Ruathain, stepfather to Connavar the King, and a bronze cloak brooch Connavar’s mother had given him when he was twelve. A bronze and silver wristband lay alongside the brooch. This had been worn by Vorna the Witch, long ago when the Rigante had been kings of the highlands. There were other items: scarves, belts, jugs, and cups. All had been owned by heroes of the clan. Nothing there was worth more than a single chailling in the markets, and yet they were beyond price. She had but to touch them, and her mind would fill with color and she would hear the voices of their owners drifting down through the centuries. Closing her eyes, she would see fragments of their lives: Connavar fighting the bear to save his crippled friend, Ruathain holding his sons in his arms, Bane gathering the army to defend the homeland . . .
    Moving to the nearest shelf, the Wyrd reached out, picking up an old cloth heavily stained with dried blood.
    “Oh, Jaim,” she said, “you were the best of them.”
    This cloth had been used by Maev Ring to wipe the blood from Jaim’s face after his epic fight with the Varlish fistfighting champion Gorain. The one-eyed Jaim Grymauch had stood toe to toe with the champion and, incredibly, had defeated him. “You had a heart as big as the mountains,” said the Wyrd, a tear in her eye.
    The greatest regret of her long life had come the day she had told Jaim Grymauch of the arrest of Maev Ring. Jaim had loved her and had been determined to rescue her. The Wyrd had asked him to wait. He could have gone to the cathedral, where she had been imprisoned for the trial, dealt with the guards, and freed her. He would have lived then and known happiness. But no. The Wyrd told him that the future well-being of the Rigante depended on his delaying his rescue.
    So Jaim