Ravenheart Read Online Free Page B

history.
    Eldacre. Originally Old Oaks, the center of government in the ancient kingdom of the Rigante, once ruled by Connavar, Bane, Laguish, Borander, and Sepdannet the Leaper. Now a town of some twenty-five thousand souls with three mines, two of coal and one of gold, and five blast furnaces feeding a thriving industry making muskets for the king’s armies, iron rims for wagon wheels, ornate buckles and accoutrements for officers and gentlemen, and swords for the military and for export. It was a prosperous community, a healthy mix of the industrial and the agricultural, with seventeen churches, a massive cathedral, and the Academy for the Instruction of the Righteous. Alterith himself was a graduate of the academy, having majored in the terms of the Sacrifice and the evangelical journeys of the Saint Persis Albitane.
    At last the carriage began to slow, cutting away from the main highway and onto a narrow stone road leading between a line of fir trees. Leaning to his left and looking past the hunched figure of the driver, Alterith could see the wrought-iron gates that barred the way to the Moidart’s huge country manor. It was here that the Lord of the Highlands spent the winter. Two musketeers stood sentry, the sunlight gleaming on the gold braid and bright brass buttons of their yellow jerkins. The first of them called out for the carriage to stop and, laying aside his long-barreled musket, stepped forward to inspect the vehicle. He looked closely at Alterith.
    “Are you carrying any weapons, sir?” he asked.
    “I am not.”
    “Be so kind as to step down.”
    Alterith pushed open the small door and climbed from the carriage. His black frock coat was tight-fitting but, he supposed, could still have hidden a small knife. The soldier expertly ran his hands over Alterith’s garments.
    “My apologies to you, sir, for the impertinence,” said the sentry.
    Alterith resumed his seat, and the second sentry opened the gates.
    The sound of blades clashing was music to the ears of Mulgrave. Such was the skill of the fencing master that he did not even have to see a duel to judge the skill of the fighters. He had only to hear the sweet sword song of kissing steel. Mulgrave loved to fence and could have made his fortune as a duelist in any one of fifty major cities across the empire. The problem—though Mulgrave did not see it as such—was that he did not like to kill. There were those who thought him squeamish and others who whispered that the swordsman was a coward. None, however, were sure enough of either view to dare speak them to his face.
    Mulgrave not only was a master swordsman, he
looked
like a master swordsman, tall, lean, and with reflexes that could make a man believe in magic. His eyes were a pale metallic blue, close-set and piercing, his features sharp, his mouth unsmiling. His hair, closely cropped to his skull, was the silver of polished iron despite the fact that he was not yet thirty years of age.
    Selecting a slender rapier, the point capped by a small wooden ball, he bowed to the golden-haired young noble standing before him. His opponent pulled his face mask into place and took up his position.
    “Are you ready?” asked the fifteen-year-old Gaise Macon.
    “Always,” answered Mulgrave, donning his own mask of fine mesh.
    The young man darted forward, his rapier lancing toward the chest guard of the older man. Mulgrave sidestepped, avoiding the thrust. Gaise stumbled. Mulgrave’s rapier struck the young man’s leg in a stinging blow. “A nice idea but poorly executed, my lord,” said Mulgrave. Gaise did not reply. Nor did he react to the blow except to assume once more the fighting stance. This pleased the master. Their blades touched and slid away, and the practice continued. The lad had fine balance and great speed of hand. Already he was more than a match for most men with rapier or épée. His saber work was not of a great standard, but then, he was of slight build. Maturity would add muscle