Sword in the Storm (40 page)

While the young men of Three Streams sought out Conn’s company, seeing only a hero, tall and strong, Meria, with a mother’s eyes, saw beyond the facade and instinctively felt the terrible turmoil raging within him. Like Ruathain before her, she tried to engage Parax in conversation. With the same results. He politely rebuffed her.

Meria knew there was little point trying to question Conn herself. If he wanted to speak of his troubles, he would have done so. The problem nagged at her. It was not that Conn never smiled, just that when he did, the expression was swift and soon gone. She also noticed his mood change in the presence of his eleven-year-old brother Bendegit Bran. He would soften and hug the golden-haired boy to him, then a darkness would descend upon him and he would fall into silence. More often than not, after being with Bran, Conn would wander away by himself, returning to Ruathain’s old home or riding up into the woods. This was especially puzzling to Meria.

More confusing still was his reaction when Bran cut himself while playing with an old knife. It was a shallow wound, requiring only a couple of stitches, but when Conn saw it, his face became gray and his hands began to tremble.

Meria was at a loss to understand it.

She carried the problem to Eriatha. Every midweek afternoon they would meet and talk at Eriatha’s small house on the outskirts of Three Streams. The Earth Maiden listened as Meria talked of Conn and his curious behavior.

“Strange that he doesn’t talk about it,” said Eriatha. “In my experience men love nothing better than to talk about themselves. Have you asked him?”

“No,” admitted Meria. “Ruathain has tried. He was always more comfortable talking to him than to me. Something happened across the water. Not a battle. Something else. Whatever, it is haunting him. He is not the same.”

“I would think that war would change any man. All that blood and death.”

Meria shook her head. “Two weeks ago Ruathain took a wound to the shoulder. He was gashed by one of the bulls. Conn stitched the wound for him. There was no problem. But when Bran cut himself, I thought Conn would pass out.” Meria sighed. “I am losing sleep over this. I love him more than life, and I cannot help him.”

“I will go to him,” said Eriatha. “Perhaps he will talk to me.”

Meria smiled. “I was hoping you would say that. You will not say we have spoken?”

“Of course not.”

The following evening Eriatha walked across the first bridge and crossed the field to Conn’s house. She tapped at the door. It was opened by an old man with a silver beard. Stepping aside, he gestured for her to enter.

“You have come to see Connavar?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“He’ll be back soon. He is at the forge, talking to the smith. May I fetch you something to drink?”

“No.”

“You are Eriatha the Earth Maiden?”

“I am.”

“Did Conn send for you?”

“No.”

“Well, you take a seat by the fire, lady. I was just about to stroll down to Pelain’s tavern and enjoy a jug or two. I hope you will not think me rude to leave you here alone.” Eriatha could see an unfinished meal on the table and noted that Parax was not wearing boots or shoes. She was grateful for the lie and the courtesy behind it.

“No, I do not think you rude, friend. Go and enjoy yourself.”

Parax pulled on his boots, gathered up his cloak, and walked out into the night. Eriatha sat by the fire and glanced around the room. The walls were bare of ornament, and there was only a single threadbare rug. The floor was of hard-packed dirt, though someone had traced a pattern in it of interlocking circles. She guessed it would have been Ruathain.

It was more than an hour before Connavar entered the house. Throwing his cloak across the back of a chair, he moved toward the kitchen, then saw Eriatha. He showed no surprise. “Where is Parax?” he asked.

“At Pelain’s new tavern.”

“Have you eaten?”

“I am not hungry, Conn. I just thought I would stop by and see you. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Truth to tell, I was planning to visit you.”

Eriatha rose from her chair. She was wearing a simple gown of sky blue. Stepping in to him, she flipped it from her shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor. Conn led her to the first bedroom.

An hour later Eriatha lay awake as Conn slept beside her. The lovemaking had been almost fierce, yet it had contained moments of tenderness. He had fallen asleep swiftly and was now breathing deeply. Meria was right. He has changed, she thought. She heard Parax enter the house quietly, moving to his own bedroom and shutting the door.

The night deepened, and just as Eriatha was about to climb from the bed, Conn began to tremble. His arm, which was outside the covers, tensed, his fingers curling into a fist. He groaned then, a sound full of despair. His body shook, and he cried out. Eriatha moved in close to him, stroking his long blond-streaked red hair. “Be calm,” she whispered, “it is but a dream.”

Conn awoke, and the trembling ceased. Rolling to his
back, he wiped the sweat from his face. “It is no dream,” he said. “I was there. I saw it.”

“Tell me.”

He shook his head. “You’d not want to share it, believe me.”

“Speak it,” she insisted, her voice low. “Let it go.”

For a while she thought he was ignoring her. He lay quietly, eyes closed. Then he spoke. “After the fall of Alin and the final destruction of the Perdii army, Stone soldiers gathered up thousands of tribesmen to be sold as slaves. Thousands to be marched in chains to the lands of Stone. Others were … murdered, their arms nailed to the trunks of trees. There were hundreds of these.” He fell silent. Eriatha lay beside him, saying nothing, waiting. The worst, she knew, was still to come.

“I found Parax among the prisoners. I knew him. I asked for his release. Jasaray granted it. On the last day, as Parax and I prepared for the journey home, we saw … we saw …” He sat up and covered his face with his hands. “I cannot,” he whispered.

“Tell it, Connavar. You need to tell it.”

He took a deep breath and sighed. “We rode out of Alin and saw perhaps five hundred young children sitting on a hillside, being guarded by soldiers. We went past them and up the hill. Soon we could hear the sounds of screaming. We rode on. In a clearing a half mile from the settlement Stone soldiers were killing children. There were hundreds of bodies: babes, infants, toddlers. A huge grave had been dug. I saw a man swing a babe by its feet against a tree.” His voice tailed away. “I wanted to draw my sword and race down into the soldiers, killing as many as I could. I should have done that. I will regret not doing so for as long as I live.”

“Had you done it, they would have killed you, then carried on slaying the babes.”

“I know that, as I know that I was filled with the need to return to Caer Druagh and do all in my power to prevent such
horror from touching my own people. But I cannot forget that I turned my back on those children and rode away. No hero would have done that. And there is something else … I killed a man back in Alin, just before the war. He had betrayed Banouin. As I was preparing to kill him, a group of children ran by outside. They were laughing. I told him that the days of laughter for his people were coming to an end, that I would do all in my power to wipe them from the face of the earth. And I did.”

“You fought as a warrior, Conn. You killed no children. And you could not have saved them.”

“At the very least I could have died for them.”

“Maybe one day you will,” she whispered. “But I don’t understand. Why did they kill them?”

Conn gave a harsh laugh. “There is only a small market for young children. So they took away some of the prettier ones and slaughtered the others. More than a thousand in Alin alone. Now, everywhere I ride, people say, ‘There is Connavar, the man who killed the evil king.’ The evil king.” He let out a deep sigh, then rubbed his hand across his face. “As far as I know, Carac murdered four people: his brother, his brother’s wife, his brother’s son, and Banouin. Jasaray, the conquering hero of Stone, has now slaughtered untold thousands. And I helped him. He rewarded me with stallions and six chests of gold. Now, when I sleep, I see the faces of the children. They are calling out to me to save them. And I do nothing. Connavar the hero. Connavar the coward, more like.”

“You are not a coward, Connavar, and you know it,” she said. “And you will protect the children. The children of Rigante. I have heard what you have been saying to Ruathain and the others. The armies of Stone will one day cross the water. When they do, you will stand against them. The past is dead and gone. You cannot change it. The future waits. Had you ridden down and killed a few soldiers, you would have died
for it. And thousands more children yet to be born would face a terrible doom. Think on that.”

“I do think of it. As I think of this one little boy who saw my garb and recognized me as a tribesman. He ran toward me crying for help. A soldier threw a spear through his chest. That boy will haunt me all my days.”

“Perhaps it is right that he should,” she said softly. “And despite it, you will live your life as a man, a good man. You did not kill those children, and you could not have saved them. There is a limit to the power of any single man, even a hero. You were the boy who fought the bear. Now you are the man who killed the king. Yet still you are only a man. You are not responsible for the woes of the world or the evil of other men. You understand? If the past must haunt you, then use it wisely. You cannot alter the past, but you can use it to alter the future. The terror you saw has strengthened you, Connavar. It has given you purpose. Bless the dead for that. And move on.”

Conn leaned back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Eriatha looked closely at him and knew that her words had struck home. He seemed more relaxed. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and smiled. “You are very wise,” he said. “And I will heed what you say.” Lifting her hand, he kissed the palm. “I am grateful you came here tonight. You were right. I did need to speak of it. I feel that at least a part of the weight has lifted from my soul.”

“Good. I shall leave you now. I can hear my own bed calling me.”

“Stay,” he said, his voice gentle.

And she stayed.

13

T
HE LAND APPROACHING
Seven Willows was rugged and beautiful, the hillsides covered with pale blue heather and yellow gorse shining gold in the sunshine. Conn reined in his steeldust pony at the top of the last rise and stared down over the wide valley below and the distant sparkling sea.

In the center of the verdant valley stood Seven Willows, a large stockaded town of perhaps three hundred homes with some twenty farms dotted around it. Cattle, sheep, and goats could be seen grazing on the hillsides, and farther away fields of golden corn were being harvested. Parax moved alongside him.

“A pretty place,” he said.

“Pretty and exposed,” Connavar replied, pointing toward the estuary. “A good landing place for long ships. No cover to protect a defending force and only the wooden stockade of the town to hold them. Any force stronger than a few hundred could take that town in less than a day.” He cast his gaze around the valley. “It should have been constructed farther to the west on one of those flat-topped hills. The gradient would slow an advancing force, giving archers more time to thin them out.”

“Maybe so,” the old man agreed. “But they haven’t been attacked in ten years, so they must be doing something right. Can we ride down? The wind is too chilly up here, and my ears are freezing.”

Conn grinned at him and heeled his pony down the trail. “You’re getting old,” he called back.

“
Getting
old? I was old when you were born, whipper-snapper! Now I’m ancient and should be treated with more respect.”

The sun was high and hot as they reached the valley floor, and Parax removed his pale green cloak, rolled it, and hooked it to the wooden crosspieces of his saddle. As they rode on, they passed farmers gathering their crops. Several children stopped their work to stare at the riders. Conn waved to them, but they did not wave back.