Sword in the Storm (47 page)

“Instead you rewarded me with a knife.”

“I have to say that I liked the child, especially when he carried me from the thicket. The touch was gentle. Do you remember checking my body for wounds before telling me to find my mother?”

“Yes. Are there any real fawns in the woods?”

“None. Riamfada sends you his love. He is happy here.”

“He is Seidh now?” asked Conn.

“No, not Seidh. You cannot become a Seidh, Connavar, any more than you can become a dog or a horse. We are different races. But we have imbued his spirit with some of our powers.”

“He can walk now?”

From the Thagda came a deep, rumbling sound Conn took to be laughter. Then he changed the subject. “Tell me, how is your new bride?”

“She is beautiful. I thank you for helping me save her.”

“It was a small matter.”

“May I ask another favor?”

“You may ask. I do not say that I will grant it.”

“Could you give Vorna back her powers?”

The Thagda was silent for a while. Conn did not disturb him. When at last he spoke, his voice had softened even further. “I liked the child you were,” he said. “I like the man you have become. You remember your promises. I have known few men who do. And I have lived a long time. Very well, I will allow your request. Tell me, Connavar. What will you say if I make a request of you?”

“I will say yes.”

“Whatever it might be?”

“Not if I perceive it to be evil. Other than that, yes, anything.”

“Evil? An interesting concept. When you have walked this world for ten thousand years, you begin to see matters differently. The fox eats the partridge chicks. For the fox it is a delightful breakfast. For the mother partridge it is an evil calamity. It all becomes merely a case of whose perspective one takes: the partridge or the fox.”

“More than a thousand children were slaughtered in the Perdii valleys,” said Conn, “because they had no value in the slave markets of Stone.”

“In my life,” replied the Thagda, “I have seen tens of millions die. I will see you die, Connavar, and your sons and their sons. How many men have you killed and deprived the world of their sons? How many children became orphans because of your blade? You think those children see you as good or evil? It is in my experience that the race of man does little that is good and much that is self-serving and ultimately evil. But
I did not bring you here to debate. Walk with me. There is someone who wishes to speak with you.”

They walked on deeper into the wood. There, sitting by a tree, his twisted limbs heavily bound, sat Riamfada as Conn had last seen him, his face pale and pinched, his eyes large. Conn’s heart leapt. He ran forward and dropped to his knees beside his friend. “Oh, but it is good to see you, little fish. How are you faring?”

Riamfada gave a happy smile, then reached out and took Conn’s hand. Conn was surprised to feel flesh as firm as his own. “I am well, Conn. Better than I have ever been.”

Conn glanced at the ruined legs. “I thought you could walk?”

“I can. I can walk, run, dance. I can soar into the air and see the mountains from below the clouds. I thought it would be more … comfortable … for you to see me as you remembered me.”

“I have missed you,” said Conn, sitting beside him. “We all have.”

“I have not missed you,” Riamfada said, with a shy smile. “I have been with you. I have watched you. I was there, though you could not see me, when we healed you in the land of the Perdii.”

“Why did you not show yourself?”

Riamfada grinned. “I thought I had when I left you my sword. Did you like it? It will never rust or need sharpening. It will be bright and keen for as long as you live, Conn.”

“Aye, it is a fine weapon. But why did you not speak with me?”

“I am with the Seidh now, my friend. There are strict rules concerning contact with … mortals. We break them very rarely. But I asked if I could speak with you one last time.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“As am I. I wish I could tell you everything I know, Conn. It would gladden your heart and spare you much pain. But
I cannot. All I am allowed to say is this: Keep all your promises, no matter how small. Sometimes, like the pebble that brings the avalanche, something tiny can prove to be of immense power.”

“I always keep my promises, little fish.”

“Remember, Conn: no matter how small.”

Conn laughed. “I will remember.”

“So what are your plans now?”

“I have blacksmiths all over the Rigante lands making mail shirts. These I will give to warriors who will become part of a small, elite fighting force. I brought back stallions, big warhorses, and I am breeding a new herd of stronger mounts. Did you know I am the Long Laird’s heir?”

“Aye. And I have seen the horses. They are beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” snorted Conn. “They are magnificent. Used well, they will help us against the Stone army.”

“You will need more than big horses, Conn.”

“Aye, I will need a disciplined army, well supplied.”

“You will not defeat them with the Rigante alone. You will need the Norvii, the Pannones, and all the other, smaller tribes.”

Conn nodded. “This has been troubling me. All the lairds are singularly independent.”

“They will need to be won over,” said Riamfada, “some by flattery, some by profit, and some by war.”

“I am not sure they will all follow me.”

Riamfada sighed. “They will not follow you, Conn. But they will follow the king.”

“King? You know we have no kings on this island. The last king was overthrown hundreds of years ago.”

“Call yourself war chief, then, or whatever title you feel will unite the tribes. But ultimately you will be a king. Believe me, it is written in starlight on silver.”

Conn sat back and put his arm around Riamfada’s slender shoulder. “Is this what you wanted to tell me?”

“Keep your promises, Conn,” whispered his friend. Riamfada rose smoothly and spread his arms. “Good-bye, my friend.” The last words came like a remembered echo, and Conn was alone. He looked around and saw the Thagda standing at the edge of the clearing.

“It is time for you to return to the world of men, Connavar,” he said.

Vorna awoke and shivered. It was cold in the bedroom. She felt strange, light-headed almost, and wondered if she was coming down with a chill. She sat up and pushed back the covers. The window was closed, but threads of brightness showed at the cracks in the shutters. Baby Banouin was sleeping still, and she could hear his breathing. Rising from the bed, she moved to the fireplace, stirring the coals and seeking a few glowing cinders to which she could add a little kindling. But the fire was dead. I should have banked it last night, she thought. Vorna had not stayed long at the feast. For the last few days she had been working hard, making herbal potions for families whose children had developed fevers. One babe had died, but she had managed to help at least five others. Wrapping a heavy shawl around her shoulders, she knelt before the dead fire, laid a small mound of tinder on the ash, and with flint and file struck sparks at it. Her cold fingers were clumsy, and she struggled to light the tinder. A moment of anger touched her. There was a time when she would merely have whispered a word of power to get a blaze to begin.

The tinder flared, startling her. A spark must have gone deep within it. Adding small pieces of kindling, she sat down and waited for it to catch before placing larger logs on it. Banouin stirred and gave a little cry. Vorna moved to the crib and stroked his brow. It was hot and sticky with sweat. Without thinking, she closed her eyes and sought out the infection. She knew instantly it had begun in the nasal membranes,
and she followed its path down to his tiny lungs. There it was breeding furiously. His heart was beating fast, his lymphatic system struggling to cope with this awesome enemy. Vorna concentrated, boosting his system with her power, feeling the infection die away.

When she opened her eyes, his fever had gone. She lifted him from the crib. Vorna cuddled him close. “All is well now, little man,” she said. “Your mam is here. All is well.”

Then the shock hit her. She had healed him.

The power had returned. Holding Banouin close, she moved to a chair by the fire and sat down. She whispered the word. The fire died instantly. She spoke it again, and the flames roared back.

Banouin nuzzled at her. Opening her nightshirt, she held him at her breast. His contentment and hunger washed over her. When he had fed, she carried him out to the kitchen, where she changed his soiled diaper and cleaned him. Tired from the infection, he fell asleep again, and she returned him to his crib.

What had happened to her?

Moving out into the main room, Vorna snapped her fingers at the dead ash in the main hearth. Fire sprang up instantly. In the kitchen she poured dried oats into a pan, added salt and milk, and brought it back into the main room, hanging the pot over the fire. All the while she was thinking, focusing on this curious return to witchhood. The power felt natural within her, as if it had never been away, yet it had changed subtly. She could not identify the change. Perhaps it is not the power that has altered but the woman I have become, she thought.

She sensed a presence close by and was not surprised when she heard the tapping at the door. “Come in,” she called.

The Morrigu materialized in the chair by the fire, holding out her wrinkled hands to the blaze. “A cold morning,” said the Seidh. “And how are you today?”

“I am well. Would you care for some oats and honey?”

The Morrigu shook her ancient head. “Thank you, no. But it is good to find you in a welcoming mood.”

Vorna smiled and moved to the hearth, where she stood stirring the hot oats and milk with a long wooden spoon. “I have not had the chance to thank you for delivering my babe,” she called out. “That was a kind act.”

The Morrigu pushed her finger into the boiling porridge. Lifting it clear, she sucked it. “Not enough salt,” she said.

Vorna added another pinch and continued to stir. “Why did you save me?”

“Why should I not?” countered the old woman. “I can do as I wish. I can save, I can kill, I can curse, or I can bless. Perhaps it was a whim.”

“Was it a whim also that made you return my powers?”

“It was a favor. I have changed my mind. I will join you for breakfast. It is a long time since I ate. Before you were born, in fact.”

Vorna laughed. “Then you must be hungry.”

The Morrigu held out her hand. A pottery jar full of fresh honey appeared there. “I have a sweet tooth,” she said.

They ate their breakfast in silence by the fire, and when they were finished, the Morrigu waved her hand and the dishes and utensils disappeared. Vorna looked at the Old Woman. Her face was gray, the skin dry, her eyes cloudy. “Are you well?” she asked suddenly.

“Well enough,” snapped the Morrigu.

“You mentioned a favor.”

The Morrigu leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “Connavar asked the Thagda to return your powers. The Thagda agreed. The child certainly remembers his promises. Unusual in men, I find.”

“What is it you want of him?” asked Vorna.

“Why should I want anything?”

“Come now,” said Vorna, “even without powers I was not stupid. The Seidh avoid humankind. But not Connavar. You
gave him his first knife; you healed him in the lands of the Perdii. You warned him of the danger to his lady. You took his friend’s spirit to live among you rather than let it roam the dark. Why is he special to you?”

“I also sent a bear to rip his flesh,” the Morrigu reminded her.

“Aye, you did, and I have spent a great deal of time thinking on that. In those first days in my cave I did everything to keep him alive. Even so he should not have lived. You held his soul in place. I know this now. Just as I know you goaded me to give up my power in order to save him. You did not want him dead. You need him. Why?”

“Such a clever girl, Vorna. It is why I have always liked you. Connavar is important to us. Not just for what he is but for what he represents. More than that I will not say. I will offer this advice to you, though. If you value your newfound friends, do not let them know your powers have returned. Continue to treat them with herbs and such. Let your powers be invisible to them. Mortals are so fickle with their favors.”

“You do not like us much, do you?” said Vorna.

“I like some of you, my dear. Truly I do.”

With that she disappeared.

The morning was bright and cold, and Fiallach had risen early, his eyes bleary from the night’s excesses. He recalled the feast and the dark-haired Gwydia, whose company he had enjoyed. She was almost eighteen, and he remembered asking her why she had not yet wed. She told him the right man had not asked her. He shivered at the memory. Then he thought of Tae and how beautiful she had looked. Fiallach sighed, walked from the hut, and drew a bucket of cold water from the well outside. The sky was bright with the promise of the dawn. Fiallach splashed his face, then rubbed wet fingers through his long yellow hair. He stared for a moment at the Druagh mountains, tall and proud against the lightening sky. This is good land, he thought.

Few people were stirring at that early hour, and, pulling on his boots, Fiallach strolled through the settlement, back down to the feast area. The remains of the food had been gathered, and not a scrap remained. This was good practice, for if it had been left to lay, it would have encouraged wolves or bears to move down into the settlement.

“Good morning,” said Gwydia, walking from behind the smithy. Fiallach turned. Her dark hair was bound now, and she was wearing a dress of sky blue and a woolen shawl the color of cream. Like him she could have enjoyed only around two hours of sleep, yet she looked fresh, her eyes bright.

“You are abroad early,” he said.

“I always rise early. I like this time of day, watching the sun clear the mountains.”

“So do I,” he said. “Will you walk with me awhile?”

She smiled and unselfconsciously took his arm. Together they crossed a bridge and strolled out of the settlement and up into the high meadow. In the distance Fiallach could see two eagles soaring high against the backdrop of the mountains. “It would be nice to be an eagle,” she said, “don’t you think?”