Rigante Series 03 - Ravenheart Read Online Free PDF Page A

balcony rail looking down on them. Then he was gone.
    The fencing master saw the look of sadness that came to the young man's face. There was nothing Mulgrave could say or do. 'You are moving well, my lord,' he told the young man. 'You almost had me in trouble twice.'
    'I think that he hates me,' said Gaise.
    Mulgrave took a deep, slow breath. 'Your history teacher is due soon, sir. You should get out of those clothes and towel yourself down. This is the weather for chills to take hold.'
    'Aye, 'tis a chilly house,' said Gaise Macon, sadly. Mulgrave wanted to throw his arm around the young man's shoulder and say something to cheer him, but he guessed that the Moidart would be watching them from behind a curtain at one of the upper windows. It saddened Mulgrave to think that Gaise had every reason to believe his father disliked him. They rarely spoke, unless it was for the Moidart to criticize some aspect of the youth's behaviour, and often Gaise carried bruises to his face or arms that Mulgrave guessed came from beatings suffered. The fencing master had been bodyguard to the Moidart as well as martial instructor to Gaise Macon for three years now, and in that time had seen much of the Moidart's cruelty.
    'This afternoon we will try out the new pistols,' he said. 'They are beautifully balanced.'
    'I will look forward to it,' answered Gaise.
    How could the Moidart dislike the lad so, wondered Mulgrave? He is considerate and kind, deferential in all his dealings with his father, and has shown great dedication in learning the martial skills of riding, fencing and shooting. He looked into the youth's odd-coloured eyes, one green, one tawny gold. 'You did well, sir,' he said.
    'I'm proud of you.'
    'That means a great deal to me,' answered Gaise. 'I shall go and change my clothes. Would you make my apologies to Mr Shaddler and tell him I will be with him presently?'
    'Of course, sir.'
    Mulgrave watched the youth run lightly up the steps to the side doors. Just then the tall, spidery figure of Alterith Shaddler came into view. Mulgrave removed his own chest guard and offered the schoolteacher a short bow. 'Good day to you, sir teacher,' he said.
    'And to you, Master Mulgrave. I trust that you are well?'
    'I am, sir. The Lord Gaise has asked me to convey his apologies for lateness. Our practice was delayed and he is changing his clothing.'
    'The martial skills are always considered ahead of the cerebral,' said Alterith, without bitterness.
    'Sadly, sir, I must agree with you. A true student of history would learn of the endless stupidity war brings out in men.'
    'And the nobility, Master Mulgrave,' admonished the teacher. That too.'
    'Indeed. Nobility is found in great quantities among warriors. It is notably lacking, I find, in those who send them to war.'
    Alterith Shaddler blinked and licked his lips. 'I must have misunderstood you, sir, for your words could be seen as a criticism of the king.'
    Mulgrave smiled. 'We were talking of matters historical, sir. Not political. For example one could read the Essays on War of the Emperor Jasaray. There is little nobility there - merely a vaunting ambition to conquer as much of the known world as possible.'
    'But there was great nobility in Conn of the Vars who defeated him,' observed Alterith.
    Mulgrave chuckled. 'Conn of the Vars? He was one of us then? Fascinating. I'd always been led to believe he was a clansman.'
    'A common misconception among non-scholars, sir. The power of the Source brought him to this realm as a child, in order that he could one day defeat Jasaray.'
    'Ah yes, the Source,' said Mulgrave, with a grin. 'I understand He is also of the Varlish.'
    'I believe that you are making sport of me, sir,' said Alterith, sternly.
    'My apologies, sir teacher,' replied Mulgrave, with a bow, 'for indeed I am. When I was a child my mother taught me of the Sacrifice. As I understand it the early saints were people who preached peace and love. How strange it is that, in their names, we