Ravenheart Read Free

Grymauch,” he said.
    “I know that.”
    “I am now. My son is about to be … born, and I’ve … given him no soul-name.”
    In the distance a wolf howled.

1
    T HE THIN CANE slashed through the air. The fourteen-year-old youth winced but uttered no cry. Blood seeped from a split in the skin of his right palm. The tall, bony schoolmaster loomed over the black-haired boy. He was about to speak but saw the blood on the tip of his bamboo cane. Alterith Shaddler gazed at it with distaste, then laid the bamboo on the shoulder of the lad’s gray shirt. Drawing the cane back and forth, he cleaned it, leaving thin crimson streaks on the threadbare garment.
    “There are those,” said Alterith Shaddler, his voice as cold as the air in the stone schoolroom, “who doubt the wisdom of trying to teach the rudiments of civilized behavior to highland brats. Since knowing you, boy, I am more inclined to count myself among their number.”
    Alterith placed the cane upon the desktop, straightened his threadbare white horsehair wig, and clasped his hands behind his back. The youth remained where he was, his hands now at his sides. It was a shame that he had been forced to draw blood, but these clan youngsters were not like Varlish boys. They were savages who did not feel pain in the same way. Not once did any of them make a sound while being thrashed. Alterith was of the opinion that the ability to feel pain was linked to intelligence. “No sense, no feeling,” as his old tutor, Mr. Brandryth, was apt to say regarding clan folk.
    The schoolmaster looked into the youth’s dark eyes. “You understand why I punished you?”
    “No, I do not.”
    Alterith’s hand lashed out, slapping the boy hard upon the cheek. The sound hung in the air. “You will call me ‘sir’ when you respond to me. Do you understand
that
?”
    “I do … sir,” answered the youth, his voice steady but his eyes blazing with anger.
    Alterith was tempted to slap him again for the look alone—and would have if the distant ringing of the dusk bell had not sounded from the Saint Persis Albitane School. Alterith glanced to his right, gazing through the open window and across the old parade square to the main school building. Already Varlish youngsters were emerging from the great doors, carrying their books. One of the masters came in sight, his midnight-blue academic cape shimmering in the afternoon sunshine. Alterith looked with longing at the old building. Within it were libraries filled with historical tomes, fine works of philosophy, and diaries of famous Varlish soldiers and statesmen. There were three halls and even a small theater set aside for great plays. The teacher sighed and returned his gaze to the cold stone walls of his own classroom. It was a former stable, the stalls having been ripped out and replaced with twenty ancient desks and chairs. Twenty chairs and fifty students, the unlucky ones sitting in ranks around the walls. There were no books there, the children using slate boards and chalk for their work. The walls were bare except for a single map of the Moidart’s domain and beside it the daily prayer for the Moidart’s continued health.
    What a waste of my talents, he thought.
    “We will recite the prayer,” he said, offering the customary short bow. The fifty pupils in the class rose and, as they had been taught, returned the bow. Then the chant began.
    “May the Source bless the Moidart and keep him in good health. May his lands be fertile, his people fed, his honor magnified, his laws be known, his word be obeyed, for the good of the faithful.”
    “Good day to you all,” said Alterith.
    “Good day, sir,” they chanted.
    Alterith looked down into the eyes of the black-hairedyouth. “Begone, Master Ring. And bring a better attitude with you tomorrow.”
    The lad said nothing. He took one backward step, then spun on his heel and walked away.
    One day, thought Alterith Shaddler, Kaelin Ring will hang. He has no respect for