Sword in the Storm (39 page)

“You dare to threaten me?” muttered Fiallach.

“What did my brother do to warrant a beating from you?” asked Connavar, his voice still even, almost conversational. The lack of aggression confused the tall warrior.

Before he could reply, the youngster called out. “I just asked the lady to dance, Conn. That’s all. Then he struck me.”

Brother Solstice moved from the crowd. “What is the problem here?” he asked.

“There is no problem,” Connavar answered, with an easy smile. “Merely a misunderstanding.” Approaching Tae, he bowed. “Would you like to dance?” he asked her.

“I would,” she told him. He took her arm and led her out, then called to the pipers. The music began immediately. Other dancers joined them, but as she moved, Tae kept glancing back to where Fiallach stood, glaring at them from beyond the fire. Connavar moved well, and for a little while Tae pushed from her mind all thoughts of Fiallach. As the music died away, she took Connavar by the arm. “He will not forget,” she said.

“Who won’t forget?” he asked.

“Fiallach. He is a vengeful man.”

“Oh. Do not concern yourself. I understand you live by the coast.”

Tae was pleased that he had taken the time to inquire after her. “Yes. It is very beautiful there. Do you like the sea?”

“I like looking at it more than I like traveling on it.” They
moved away from the dancers to the food area, where Connavar fetched her a goblet of apple juice. Then they sat quietly away from the crowd.

“Are you truly unworried about Fiallach?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “He will come after me or he won’t. There is nothing I can do to prevent him. Why, then, should I worry? What would it achieve?”

“He has decided to marry me,” she said. “I worry about that. Even though it achieves nothing.”

“And what will your decision be?”

“I don’t know. I rode my father’s chariot once, and the horses bolted. I just had to let them run themselves out.”

He smiled then. “You think Fiallach will run himself out?”

“Perhaps. Who knows? Did you ask me to dance because you wanted to dance with me or to annoy Fiallach?”

“A little of both,” he admitted.

“Would you have asked me if Fiallach had not attacked your brother?”

“No.”

The answer annoyed her. “Well, you have achieved your purpose. So I will bid you good night.”

“Wait!” he said as she rose. Connavar stood. “I have just returned from a war, a hideous war.” He fell silent for a moment. Then he looked into her eyes. “I have no time for personal pleasure. One day that war will flow across the water. I have to prepare.”

“
You
have to prepare? Forgive me. I know you are a hero. Everyone says so. But you are not a chieftain. Why, then, should
your
being prepared make a difference?”

“Because I will it so,” he said. Just as it had been when he had spoken with Fiallach, the tone of his voice was level, without a hint of arrogance or false pride.

“Then I will sleep sound in my bed knowing that you are
prepared
,” she told him. “Fiallach is also prepared. He talks
of nothing but battles. I think he is rather looking forward to one.”

At last, to Tae’s delight, he looked discomfited. “Then he is doubly a fool. But I do not speak of battles. I speak of war. Battles are only a small part of the beast.”

“Beast? You think war is a living thing?”

“Aye, I do. I have seen it kill. I have seen it blacken the hearts of men. I have seen things to chill the soul.” He shivered suddenly. “And I will not allow the beast to stain the mountains of Caer Druagh.” Taking her hand, he kissed her palm. “I am glad Fiallach pushed my brother. For being with you has gladdened my heart.” Connavar returned with her to the feasting fire, bowed low, then strolled away.

Fiallach approached her. “You shamed me,” he said. “That is no way for a betrothed woman to behave.”

“I am not betrothed,” she told him. “Not to you, not to anyone.”

His pale eyes narrowed. “We had an understanding.”

“No.
You
had an understanding. Not once have you asked me to marry you.”

He smiled then. “Ah. You are angry with me. I understand. I reacted … hastily to the boy. We will put it right on the journey back home.”

The Long Laird glanced up at the trees as he rode back from the execution. The leaves were turning gold, and there was a chill in the air. His arthritic shoulder throbbed with pain, and the useless fingers of his left hand felt as if hot needles were being pushed into the skin. Beside him rode the white-robed Brother Solstice, and ahead of the walking crowd the two men traveled back to Old Oaks in silence.

When they reached the hall, a young retainer took charge of the ponies. The Long Laird made straight for his sitting room, slumping down into a wide armchair close to the newly lit fire in the hearth. Brother Solstice lifted a flagon of Uisge
from a nearby shelf and poured two generous measures into brightly painted cups. The Long Laird sipped the golden spirit and sighed.

“We should have just killed him,” he said. “Quietly and without fuss.”

Brother Solstice did not answer. The trial and subsequent drowning of Senacal had depressed him. He had known the young man all his life. Senacal had not been a malicious man, merely stupid and easily led. Left to his own devices, he would never have murdered his parents. Under the influence of Ferol, however, he had fallen into evil.

The hunters had found him back in his own cabin, naively waiting to operate the ferry. His only defense at the trial had been that Ferol had killed his parents and he had been too frightened of Ferol to run away and report it. Brother Solstice believed him, but the law was iron, and Senacal felt the full fury of it. When sentence had been passed, he had cried out for mercy and refused to walk to his death. Dragged clear of the hall, he had broken free and thrown himself on the ground, wrapping his arms around a tethering post. Two guards had prized loose his hold, and he had been tied and put in the back of a wagon. Senacal had wept and screamed constantly on the journey to the execution site.

The Long Laird had swung his pony and ridden back to the screaming prisoner. “In the name of Taranis!” he had thundered. “Can you not even be a man in the hour of your death?”

“Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me!” Senacal had whimpered. The Long Laird had ordered him gagged.

His legs bound with chains, Senacal had been thrown into the swamp. With his hands and legs tied, the murky waters had swiftly closed over his head, his body floating down to join the other murderers in the silt below.

In the sitting room Brother Solstice finished his Uisge. The Long Laird was lost in thought, staring into the fire. Brother
Solstice looked at him, seeing the weariness in the timeworn face. “By the gods, it makes you think,” whispered the laird. “All my life I have believed the Rigante to be a special people, quite unlike the murderous foreigners. We’re not, though, are we?”

“Yes we are,” insisted the Druid. “I have traveled as far as Stone. Everywhere there are criminals and outlaws, killers, rapists, seducers. Everywhere. In the large cities crimes against people take place almost hourly. Here in the mountains a murder such as this is still—thankfully—a rare occurrence. In the main we care for one another, and we live in relative harmony with our neighbors. I have seen little that is base or cruel among the Rigante.”

The Long Laird glanced at his friend. “You can say that after putting to death a man who connived in the butchering of his parents?”

“Maggots will always enter some fruit, even on the finest tree.”

For a little while both sat in silence, lost in their thoughts. Brother Solstice wondered about the wisdom of his words. Yes, he believed the Rigante to be special, but how much of that uniqueness lay in the mountain lifestyle, where neighbors were forced to rely one upon another and where every man and woman had a part to play in the lives of the tribe? And how much was in the hands of the Seidh? According to Druid teachings, there was magic in the land, magic born of spirit. The Seidh, so the Druids believed, were the guardians of that spirit. Solstice had felt the power many times in his life, climbing to high peaks and staring out over the landscape, his spirit soaring as the magic of the mountains flowed through him.

Nursing his Uisge, he studied the face of the old man sitting by the fire. The Long Laird had ruled the northern Rigante for almost forty years with wisdom, with love, with cunning and subtlety, and—as today—with ruthless regard
for the law. The years had not been kind to the Long Laird. His huge torso was now stripped of flesh, his joints creaking and painful, his heart close to its final beat.

“Another winter coming,” whispered the Long Laird. “The years are passing by too swiftly.” The old man rubbed his shoulder.

“You should drink more nettle tea and less Uisge,” said Brother Solstice. “It will help ease the pain.”

The Long Laird grinned. “It won’t make me young again.”

“Is that what you want? To make all those foolish mistakes once more?”

The Long Laird stroked his silver beard. “I’ve had my life, my friend, and I’ve lived it to the full. I have no regrets. Most of my enemies are dead. Most of my friends are, too, come to think of it. But I walked through this life as a man of pride. No, I don’t want to do it all again, but I miss the heady joy of youth, the running, the fighting, the whoring.”

“You have seen an Earth Maiden three times this week,” observed Brother Solstice. “So you are not missing the whoring.”

The old man chuckled. “You are right. But I mainly ask her here now for the company, for the warmth in my bed. I miss my wife. Sometimes in the night I think I hear Llysona call my name.” He shivered and held out his good hand to the fire.

“You speak of her as if she were dead, my friend.”

“I am dead to her. There is no doubt of that.” The Long Laird looked into the Druid’s eyes. “You think if I went to her, she would forgive me and come back?”

“Not a chance,” replied Brother Solstice. “Would you if the situation were entirely reversed?”

The Long Laird shook his head sadly. “No, I wouldn’t.” He laughed suddenly. “Entirely reversed? I think if I’d found Llysona in bed with
my
sister, I’d have died of shock.”

“To entirely reverse it she would have had to have been in bed with your brother,” the Druid said pedantically.

“I know, I know. I was looking for a little levity. Damn, it’s not as if the sister was worth it. She promised much and delivered little. But I miss Llysona and the babe, watching her grow.”

“The babe is now close to seventeen and will probably wed next spring.”

“You see what I mean?” said the Long Laird. “The years are flying by like winter geese.” The comfortable silence returned, and they drank second cups of Uisge. Then the Long Laird spoke again. “You think the Sea Wolves will raid in force in the spring?”

“Impossible to say,” admitted Brother Solstice. “There have been occasional raids these last few years, but none on our coast. What makes you think they might?”

“Maybe they won’t. But we’ve been lucky for too long. I wish I had a son. There is no one to follow me. No one I trust, anyway.”

“You trust Maccus. He is a good man.”

“Aye, he is. But what little ambition he had died with his wife. As to the rest? Fiallach is lacking in wisdom, and he is not liked. The others are all petty rivals. If any one of them became laird, you would see no end of petty grievances, perhaps even civil disobedience. At worst there would be a war. Then, if the Sea Wolves came in real force, they might win. And that, my friend, is an intolerable thought.”

“What will you do?” asked Brother Solstice.

“I’m not sure. I like the look and the sound of young Connavar. He has the makings of greatness. Bringing back the stallions was a fine idea. Given a few years, we’ll have bigger, stronger, faster war mounts. But he’s young. If I had five years to train him …” His voice tailed away.

“Give him some mission to perform. Then you can see how he handles himself.”

“Mission?” queried the Long Laird. “What kind of mission?”

“Send him to Llysona at the coast.”

“For what purpose?”

“You think the Sea Wolves might attack. If they do, they will sail up the estuary to Seven Willows. Therefore, you send a warrior to organize possible defenses and advise Llysona. Then we will see what diplomatic skills Connavar can muster.”

“She already has Fiallach. He’s a hard and proud man. He’ll take no advice from a boy.”

“Connavar is not a boy, my friend. He is a few months younger than you were when your father died. Besides, that is partly what makes it a mission. If Connavar cannot … make his presence felt, then he would not prove a good laird.”

“How long have you been thinking about this, Druid?”

“A little while,” Brother Solstice answered with a smile.

“Since the fire night when he danced with my daughter? I may be old, but I still know how to listen. Maccus told me that Connavar forced Fiallach to back down. In front of a crowd. Theirs will not be an easy meeting in future.”

“I think Tae took quite a fancy to the lad,” observed the Druid.

The Long Laird chuckled. “So now you are a matchmaker.” His smile faded. “Has it occurred to you that Fiallach might challenge and kill him?”

“Aye, or a tree may fall on him, or his horse throw him, or an illness strike him. You are looking for an heir. I believe Connavar may be that man. If he is, then he will prove himself at Seven Willows.”

The Long Laird shook his head and gave a wry grin. “You know, the Sea Wolves were the main reason Llysona chose Seven Willows. She knew I would worry. It must have annoyed her terribly when the Sea Wolves didn’t attack. Probably knew she was there. By Taranis, I’d rather face a hostile army than come again under the lash of that tongue.”

“And Connavar?”

“I will ask him if he wishes to undertake the mission. Perhaps he will refuse.”

“A barrel of ale against a goblet of wine that he leaps at the chance.”

“I’ll take that wager,” said the Long Laird.