Had anyone considered that such a man would form a friendship, he probably would have opted for Alterith Shaddler, the teacher of highland children. He was also shy and, though taller than Ramus and round-shouldered, another man of gentle disposition. In fact the two men rarely spoke.
No, the friendship Ramus finally formed in the middle years of his life was not with Alterith Shaddler. In the past four years the little apothecary had been meeting a man known for his ruthlessness, disregard for human life, and merciless treatment of those he considered enemies.
Sometimes Ramus lay awake at night wondering just how such a ridiculous situation should have come to pass. He wondered still as he sat beneath the paintings in the gallery of the Moidart’s winter residence, waiting for his audience with the ruler.
It had all begun in a bizarre way four years earlier. The Moidart had summoned him to the manor, ordering him to bring fresh ointments and salves for the unhealed burn scars that festered on his back and arms. Once they were in the Moidart’s private rooms, the earl had shown Ramus a painting, a magnificent landscape of mountains, woods, and a lake. It was like nothing Ramus had ever seen. All works of painted art, while representing skillfully the images the artist desired, were mannered and two-dimensional. They were, Ramus considered, calm and detached works. This painting, however, was vivid and raw. The snow on the mountains had been applied with a knife, the paint unthinned. The trees were vibrant with cold winter color, and in staring at it Ramus could almost hear birdsong. He had looked into the Moidart’s dark, emotionless eyes, at the harsh lines of the man’s hawklike face, then back at the awesome beauty of the landscape. How could a man of such evil have created a work of such beauty?
Even now the conversation that had followed was burned into Ramus’ memory.
“The hardest part was the water upon the lake,” said the Moidart, “and obtaining the reflection of the mountains and trees. I discovered it by error. One merely pulls the bristles of a dry brush down in sharp motions. Would you like this painting?”
“I could not afford such a . . . a masterpiece, lord,” said Ramus, astonished.
“I am not some peasant who needs to sell his wares. It is finished. I have no more use for it.”
“Thank you, lord. I don’t know what to say.” He paused. “Are there others? I would love to see them.”
“No.”
“But what of the paintings you have completed over the years?”
“Time for you to go, Master Apothecary. I have much to do. I will send the painting to you.”
The work now hung in the small living room of Ramus’ cottage, and it was this extraordinary painting that had set in motion the curious chain of events that now had Ramus sitting outside the Moidart’s rooms.
A nobleman known as the Pinance, a rival earl to the Moidart from the lands immediately to the southwest, had visited Ramus the following year, suffering from what was delicately known as “a social complaint.” The visit had been in secret. The Pinance had arrived late one evening accompanied only by two armed retainers. Ramus had greeted him courteously and, while his men waited outside, examined the man. The Pinance was well known for his voracious sexual appetite, and it was his love of the company of whores that had led to the painful and to Ramus mildly disgusting condition. Ramus had applied a poultice to the area, then prescribed a treatment he had perfected some years before. As Ramus had been preparing the herbs and writing out his instructions, the Pinance had glanced up at the painting. “I like this greatly, Apothecary,” he had said. “Would you sell it to me?”
“I cannot, lord. It was a gift.”
“I will give you fifty pounds for it.”
Ramus had been astonished. It would take him years to earn fifty pounds. It was a colossal sum.
“I . . . I am sorry, lord. The price is not the issue.”
The Pinance, a heavyset man with dyed black hair, had smiled. “Then direct me to the artist. I desire his work at my castle.”
“He is a very private man, lord, but I shall contact him on your behalf,” Ramus had said.
The Pinance had stood for a moment. “If he paints me a scene such as this, the fifty pounds stands. I never met a rich artist, so tell him I require the painting before the autumn. Lots of mountains, mind. I like to look at mountains.”
“I will, lord,” Ramus had said miserably.
After the Pinance had gone, Ramus had sat quietly by the fire, wondering how to extricate himself from such an invidious position. The Pinance was nearly as ruthless as the Moidart and not a man to defy, yet the Moidart loathed him. There was no way he would paint a picture for him.
Even so Ramus had gone to Eldacre Castle and requested a meeting. He had arrived in the Moidart’s private quarters on the topmost floor and had stood nervously before the earl’s desk. Always before it had been the Moidart who had summoned the apothecary, and Ramus felt ill at ease from having initiated the meeting. The Moidart sat back in his chair, his dark eyes watching the little man.
“Make this brief, Apothecary, for I have much to do today.”
“Yes, lord. I . . . I have a problem that I am unable to resolve . . .”
“Your problems do not interest me.”
“Indeed no, lord. A patient visited me two nights ago—”
“His name?”
Ramus had dreaded this moment. He took a deep breath. “It was the Pinance.”
“I know. He arrived with two retainers. What is the problem?”
“He wanted to buy the painting you gave me. He offered me fifty pounds for it. I told him no.”
“That was stupid.”
“Perhaps so, lord, but I would not part with it for any amount of money,” said Ramus. It was no lie, and Ramus was no flatterer. The transparent honesty of the statement took the Moidart by surprise. For a moment only the shock registered on his gaunt face, and then he rose from his chair.
“It seems the problem is therefore resolved,” he said.
“No, lord. The Pinance has instructed me to contact the artist and commission a painting for him. He wishes to hang it in his castle.”
Ramus had never heard the Moidart laugh or even seen the man smile. But he laughed now. “The Pinance wants to hang one of my paintings in his castle.” His laughter boomed out. “Ah, Ramus, what a fine treat.” He walked to a tall window and stood staring out over the northern hills. Then he swung back. “Write to him. Tell him the artist is working on a larger painting and requires seventy-five pounds for it.”
“Seventy-five, lord?”
“Tell him you will have it delivered in two months.”
“You . . . you will paint a picture for the Pinance?” asked Ramus, aghast. “It is said you . . . dislike him.”
“Dislike does not begin to describe it. It will please me greatly, however, that he will unknowingly hang my painting on his wall. One day, when the time is right, I will let him know the name of the artist.” The Moidart laughed again. “And now you must go.”
Two months later Ramus stood again before the Moidart, handing him a bulging money pouch containing seventy-five gold coins. This time there was no laughter. The Moidart spread the money out on his desk and stared at it, his face pensive.
“Is there a problem, lord?” asked Ramus.
“Did he like the painting?”
“He was awed by it, sir, as was I. It was majestic.” It was another mountain scene, only this time it was of a storm in a bay, waves crashing upon black rocks, gulls wheeling in the sky. “The Pinance stood and stared at it for the longest time. His relatives were there also, and many retainers. They were all stunned by it.”
The Moidart sighed. “In all my life this is the first money I have ever earned with the skill of my hands. A most peculiar feeling. That will be all, Ramus.”
And yet it had not been. Other nobles had visited the Pinance and, similarly awestruck, had contacted Ramus. The word spread south about the mysterious artist and his magnificent work. The apothecary was inundated
with requests. Not wishing to annoy the Moidart with another meeting, Ramus sent the letters on to him.
He was summoned to the Moidart’s summer residence in Eldacre Castle and this time led through to the lord’s private living quarters. They were surprisingly spartan, lacking adornment of any kind. The furniture was comfortable but far from new, the rugs threadbare. There were no curtains at the double-aspect windows, and the frame of one window was split, water dripping through from the heavy rain outside. Despite the fire the room was drafty and cold. It seemed strange to Ramus that a man as rich as the Moidart should live in conditions akin to poverty. But then, the man was cloaked in contradiction. A cold-hearted killer and an artist who produced works of dazzling beauty. Why should there not be other contradictory indications? he thought.
The Moidart bade him sit, which was also surprising since he had never before offered Ramus a seat. It was with some trepidation that the apothecary sat in the lord’s presence.
“I have decided to accept another commission,” said the Moidart, lifting one of the letters Ramus had sent him. “You will arrange it.”
“Of course, lord.”
“You may keep two percent of the commission.”
“Thank you, but that is not necessary.”
“I will decide what is necessary, Apothecary.”
“Yes, lord.”
The Moidart reached across to a small table on which stood a flagon of water and a single goblet. He poured himself a drink and sat quietly for a while. Ramus did not know what he was supposed to do. He had not been dismissed, so he sat awkwardly, waiting for the Moidart to speak. When at last he did speak, he did not look at Ramus. “I was taught that to earn money with one’s hands was below the dignity of a nobleman. Yet I took great pleasure in the Pinance’s commission. I thought perhaps it was because he was my enemy and I had fooled him in some way. This was not so. Now I shall paint again. I do not, however, desire anyone to know that the work is mine.” His cold eyes held to Ramus’ gaze. “It is against my instincts to trust anyone, Apothecary, and yet it seems I must trust you.”
“And you can, my lord.”
During the next few years the Moidart earned more than two and a half thousand pounds through his paintings. They were hung in great houses all across the Varlish realm.
Now the two men met once a month. There was little in the way of easy conversation, yet Ramus had come to look forward to the meetings. Indeed, he had come to like the Moidart. It remained a puzzle to the little apothecary.
As he sat in the gallery, he found himself admiring the portrait of the Moidart’s grandmother. He had last seen her just before her death fourteen years before, a bent and heavily wrinkled woman nearing ninety. In this portrait she was young and incredibly beautiful. What captivated Ramus was her eyes, one green and one gold, just like her great-grandson’s. Ramus had always liked Gaise Macon and had often wondered how such a charming young man could have been sired by a monster like the Moidart. Now he felt he knew, for when they discussed painting, the Moidart seemed human, almost affable at times. The coldness left his voice, and he spoke with passion and feeling about light, shade, and color, about shadow and perspective, composition and texture. In the beginning Ramus would say little. The Moidart was a touchy host at best. One did not initiate conversation; one merely responded. On one particular afternoon, however, Ramus, enduring a pounding headache that cut through his necessary caution, had ventured a criticism of a particular work. “It seems crowded,” he said. Almost as soon as the words were uttered Ramus felt a chill go through him.
“You are right, Apothecary,” said the Moidart, peering at the landscape. “Too much is happening there. Excellent. I shall repaint it.”
Now Ramus felt at ease speaking frankly about the paintings, though he never made the mistake of speaking frankly about anything else.
The captain of the castle, Galliott the Borderer, came out of the Moidart’s office and greeted Ramus. Galliott was a handsome middle-aged man, broad-shouldered and every inch the soldier. “Good day to you, Apothecary. I trust you are in good health.”
“I am, sir, and it is kind of you to ask.”
“The lord will see you now.”
Ramus offered a short bow and entered the office.
The Moidart was standing by the window, dressed in his habitual black riding shirt and breeches, his long black and silver hair tied in a ponytail. He swung toward Ramus and nodded a greeting. As usual he did not begin with any pleasantries.
“Do you hear news from the war, Apothecary?”
“Sometimes, lord.”
“Does it ever concern my son?”
“Indeed so. He is much lauded for his daring cavalry tactics.”
“Has anyone spoken to you of him having enemies?”
“No, lord.”
“Ah, well, it matters not. Come and see the new work. I have to admit I am pleased with it.”
It was a winter scene, cold and brilliant, with snow clouds, deep and threatening, crowning the majestic peak of Caer Druagh. A tiny figure could be seen toiling through a blizzard, head bent against a fierce wind. Small though it was against the majesty of nature, the figure radiated an intensity of purpose, a determination to survive and prevail. For a time the two men spoke of the use of color, the addition of a dash of midnight blue giving life to the arctic white of the snow. Ramus was more interested in the forlorn figure. Every line and curve of the work seemed to draw the eye toward him. Never before had the Moidart introduced a human form into his work.
Ramus peered more closely at the painting. There was something about the figure that was vaguely familiar, but he could not quite place it. He stepped back and looked again. There was just the suggestion—the merest speck of gray—to suggest a beard. Then he had it.
“That is Huntsekker,” he said.
The Moidart seemed surprised. He, too, reexamined his own work. “I suppose that it could be,” he admitted, “though it was not a conscious plan. The figure was an afterthought. The piece seemed to lack focus without it.”
Ramus was less comfortable now. Huntsekker was a reminder of the Moidart’s darker side. The man was a killer known throughout the north as the Harvester. He hunted down the Moidart’s enemies, removing their heads with a wickedly sharp sickle blade.
The little apothecary shivered.
The Moidart noted his distaste and said nothing. Ramus was that rarest of men, gentle and absurdly honest. There was no malice in him and, more astonishingly, no understanding of malice.
But then, he did not exist in a world of danger and treachery. He did not have enemies at every turn, subtle and vicious, waiting for their moment to strike.
The Moidart glanced back at the painting. Yes, the man facing the deadly blizzard was Huntsekker. It seemed so obvious now. Who else could survive such a storm?
Huntsekker paused at the crest of the hill and gazed down at the small row of shanty houses at the edge of the river. There were boats moored just beyond them, long flat-bottomed craft, garishly painted. Huntsekker had never understood the appeal of living on water. He liked his feet to be on solid ground, his home to be fashioned from wood and stone.
The moon was high and bright, its light gleaming on the silver spikes of his forked beard, the night wind ruffling the ankle-length coat of shaggy bearskin he wore. Huntsekker leaned on his staff and ran his gaze along the riverfront. Several open fires had been set on the shore, and a crowd of river men and women sat around them. They were drinking cheap spirits, and Huntsekker could hear laughter. Several children were playing at the water’s edge, skimming stones out over the icy water.
The big man hoped there were no troublemaking strangers among them. Though he would never admit it, he was tired, and the cold wind had brought on a headache that was drumming at his temples.
Slowly and carefully he made his way down the hill, heading for the house of Aran Powdermill. It stood a little beyond the other homes, and Huntsekker could see the glare of golden light
coming from the lower window.
Reaching level ground, he tried to skirt the revelers. There were maybe thirty people in the group, roughly dressed, many of them with bright scarves around their heads. Two of the men saw him and called out. Huntsekker ignored them and plodded on, but he heard them run after him and turned to face them.
“It is customary for strangers to visit our fire,” said the first man with a wide, challenging grin. He was powerfully built and tall, maybe twenty years younger than Huntsekker. A red scarf was tied around his head, and he wore a heavy topcoat of faded crimson. The second man was leaner. He, too, wore a red scarf and sported a thick, shaggy black beard. He had moved a little to Huntsekker’s left, and his hand was resting on the hilt of a knife at his belt. Some things never change, Huntsekker thought wearily. He would be invited to join them. They would ply him with drink. At some point he would be asked to pay for his enjoyment. The amount—curiously—would be exactly the number of coins in his money pouch.
“I am not the stranger here,” Huntsekker said coldly. “You are. Now go back to your fire and your women and leave me in peace.”
“We don’t like your tone,” snapped the second man.
“Do I look like I care, rat breath?” said Huntsekker.
“Well, now,” said the first man, his smile fading. “It looks like we have someone here who thinks he’s tough. Is that what you think, fat man?” he asked, stepping in close.
Huntsekker smiled. Reaching up, he idly tugged the spikes of his beard. Then his left fist snapped forward, slamming into the big man’s face. Dropping his staff, Huntsekker followed this with a right cross that spun the river man from his feet. He lay there unmoving. Lazily Huntsekker turned toward the second man, who was staring in stunned amazement at his fallen comrade. The man swallowed hard, glanced back at the watching people by the fire, then reached for his knife.
“Do not be foolish,” said Huntsekker, so softly that the crowd could not hear. “You are gutless and frightened. You know that if you draw that blade, I will kill you. So pick up your friend and take him back to the fire. Then ask some of the others who did this to him. When you hear my name, try not to piss in your breeches.”