Sword in the Storm (5 page)

“Why did you not steal it?” asked Banouin, his voice echoing in the rafters.

The boy swung around, fists clenched. The merchant emerged from the shadows and sat down on a long wooden box. Conn darted back to the pack, drew out the blade, and stood ready.

“You intend to fight me?” inquired Banouin.

“You’ll not turn me into a toad, foreigner,” said the boy.

“I would have if you had tried to leave with my knife. However, since you did not come here to steal, why did you come?”

Conn shrugged. “It was a dare. Do they have dares where you come from?”

“Yes,” said Banouin. “A friend once dared me to climb a rock face without a rope. Sixty feet high it was.”

“Did you do it?”

“Almost. I fell and broke my leg. After that I avoided stupid dares.”

At that moment a large rat scuttled from behind the packs. Banouin drew something from his sleeve. His right hand swept up, then down. A bright blade flashed across the room, and the boy saw the creature impaled against the far wall. Conn peered at the body and the small iron throwing knife jutting from it.

“Rats spread disease,” said Banouin. “Now, what were we talking about?”

“Stupid dares,” said the boy.

“Ah, yes. Put back my dagger, retrieve my knife, and come into the house. There we will talk—if you are still not frightened, that is.”

“I’ll be there,” promised the boy.

Banouin doubted it and returned to his house. Moments later Conn appeared, carrying the throwing knife, cleaned of blood. They sat and talked for an hour. At first Conn was ill at ease, but soon he was all questions. Could he learn to throw a knife? Would Banouin teach him? Where had the foreigner come from? What were the lands like to the south? From that day they had struck up a friendship they both enjoyed.

Often, in the evenings, he and Conn would sit on the boardwalk outside Banouin’s home and talk of events in the wider world, a world of mystery and adventure to the Rigante youngster. Banouin had journeyed far and often traveled on ships that crossed the great water to the lands beyond. Conn had never seen a ship and found the prospect of journeying on such a vessel dangerously exciting. Also, he had been amazed to learn, the people across the water spoke different languages. When Banouin had first told him, he had thought it to be a jest of some kind, and when the foreigner had spoken in his own tongue, it had sounded like gibberish and Conn had laughed aloud. Yet after a year he had learned many phrases in Banouin’s language.

“You have a gift for learning and language,” the foreigner said one day after a short conversation in Turgon. “Most
tribesman have difficulty mastering the placement of our verbs.”

“It is fun,” Conn told him.

“Learning should be fun,” said Banouin. “Indeed, so should life. The gods know it is short enough.” His dark eyes fixed to Conn’s gaze. “You don’t laugh as much as you did,” he said. “What is wrong?”

Connavar did not want to talk about the private grief in his household, but all the fears and anxieties caused by the separation suddenly flooded his emotions, and he found himself telling this outsider the whole terrible story. As he finished, he felt a wave of embarrassment. “I shouldn’t have spoken of it,” he said.

“That’s not true, Conn,” Banouin told him gently. “That is one of the great advantages of having friends. You can unburden your soul to them, and they will not judge you for it. Nor will they repeat what you have said.”

Conn was relieved. “But can you understand why they remain apart? They love one another. It was just words. That’s all.”

“Words are stronger than iron,” said Banouin. “Everything we do—everything we are—is born from words. A man’s prejudices are passed on to him by the words of his father and mother or by older friends he worships. Religion and myth—though both may be the same—are kept alive by words more than deeds. Last year you broke Govannan’s nose because of words. Are you friends yet?”

“No.”

“There you are, then. Words.”

“But Mother blames the Big Man for Varaconn’s death. It is not true. Varaconn died because he was a coward, because he ran away. Not being true should make a difference, shouldn’t it?”

“Perhaps it should, but it doesn’t,” Banouin told him. “I don’t think it matters to Ruathain that she was wrong. It was
that she
believed
the story. He is a man of great pride. And that pride is well founded, for he is a fair, brave, and honest man. It means much to him that others see he has these qualities, for they are rare and hard won. It is not easy to be honorable. The world is full of cunning, crafty men who have no understanding of honor or loyalty. They connive, they steal, and invariably, in the eyes of the world, they succeed. To be honest requires great effort and continuous courage. And as for fairness, that is hardest of all. Ruathain is a good man. That his wife should think him so base must have felt like a death blow.”

Conn’s heart sank. “Then you think they will never get back together?”

“I will not lie to you, Connavar. It would take a miracle. Your mother, too, has pride. And he likened her to a pox-ridden whore. She will not forgive that insult.”

“He has taken no other wife,” said Conn. “Nor has he put her aside in the council.”

“Aye, that is a spark of hope,” agreed Banouin. “But only a spark.”

“I shall never lie to any person I love,” Connavar said with feeling.

“Then you will be an unusual and foolish man,” said the merchant.

“You think it is foolish to be truthful?”

“Your mother said what she truly believed was the truth. You think she was wise?”

“No,” agreed the boy. “It was not wise. It is all so confusing.”

“Life is often confusing when you are eleven years old.” Banouin smiled. “It gets even more confusing as you grow older.”

“Is there anything I can do to bring them together?”

Banouin shook his head. “Nothing at all, boy. It is a problem for them to solve.”

3

D
ESPITE HIS ADMIRATION
for the foreigner, Connavar could not accept that he was powerless to help his mother and the Big Man. The following evening he saw the witch Vorna on the high southern hillside, gathering flowers for her herbal medicines. Connavar left his chores, climbed the paddock fence, and ran out over the meadow and up the slope. She saw him coming and paused in her work.

“Can I speak with you?” he asked her.

Vorna laid down her herb sack and sat on a small boulder. “Are you not frightened I will turn you into a weasel?”

“Why would you do that?” he asked.

“Is that not what witches are famed for?” she countered.

He thought about her answer for a moment. “Can you do that? Is your magic so strong?”

“Perhaps,” she told him. “If you annoy me, you will find out. Now, what do you want? I am busy.”

“My father is Ruathain, my mother—”

“I know who your parents are,” she snapped. “Get on with it.”

He looked into her deep-set blue eyes. “I want a spell cast on them so that they will love one another again.”

She blinked suddenly, and her hard face relaxed into a rare smile. “Well, well,” she said, scratching at her tangled mop of black and gray hair. “So you want me to use my magic. No doubt you can give me a good reason.”

“They are unhappy. We are all unhappy.”

“And how will you pay me, young Connavar?”

“Pay?” he repeated, confused. “Are witches paid?”

“No, we work for love alone,” she snapped, “and we dine on air, and we dress in wisps of cloud.” Leaning forward, she fixed him with a piercing stare. “Of course witches are paid! Now let me think …” Resting her chin on her hand, she held to his gaze. “It would not be a big spell; therefore, I will not take your soul in payment. A leg, perhaps. Or an arm. Yes, an arm. Which should it be, your left or your right?”

“Why would you want my arm?” he asked, taking a step back from her.

“Perhaps I collect the arms of small boys.”

“I am not small! And you are mocking me, witch. Go ahead, turn me into a weasel. And when you do, I’ll run up your leg and bite your arse!”

Though Vorna did not show it, she was impressed by the child. Few Rigante youngsters would have dared to come this close to her, and not even the adults would have spoken to her in this manner. She was feared, and quite rightly. She knew the boy was frightened, but even so he had stood up to her.

“You are right; I am mocking you,” she admitted. “So now let us speak plainly. My spells can kill, or they can heal. I can also prepare potions to make a man love a woman. That is not difficult. But Ruathain already loves Meria. And though she only realized it when he was gone, she loves Ruathain. The problem is pride, Connavar, and I will cast no spells to take that away from either of them.” Dipping into the pouch at her side, she pulled forth a few dark seeds. “Do you know what these are?” she asked him.

“No.”

“They are from the foxglove flower. A tiny amount of them can give a dying heart fresh life. Like a miracle. But just a pinch too much and they become the deadliest poison. Pride is like that. Too little and a man has no sense of self-worth. The world will wear him down to dust. Too much and he becomes
arrogant, vain, and boastful. But just enough and he is a man to walk the mountains with. Ruathain is that man. To tinker with his pride would be to destroy all that he is. As for Meria, she is wise enough to know that she has lost him. I cannot help you, Connavar. I doubt even the Seidh could help you.”

“But they might?” he asked.

His response worried her. “Do not even consider such an action,” she warned him. “The Seidh are more dangerous than you could possibly imagine. Go home and leave your parents to solve their own problems.” As he walked away, she called out. “And if I ever do turn you into a weasel, it will be a weasel with no teeth.”

Swinging back, he gave a dazzling grin, then ran back to the paddock field.

That night, just before midnight, he crept from his bed and dressed quietly. In the bed alongside his own, Braefar stirred but did not wake. From her place under the western window the hound Caval raised her great black head and watched him. Connavar tugged on his shoes, then knelt beside the hound, patting her brow and scratching behind her ears. He thought of taking her with him. It would be good to have company on such a quest. Then he considered the dangers and decided against it. What right had he to risk Caval’s life? Rising, he moved to the wall and eased his way past the curtain that separated his sleeping quarters from the main living area. The house was dark, and he moved with care toward the kitchen, from which he took an old long-bladed bronze knife, which he tucked into his belt. Lifting the latch bar on the kitchen door, he slipped out into the night, heading north toward the Wishing Tree Woods.

The moon was high, but its light did not seem to penetrate the darkness of the trees. Connavar’s heart was beating fast as he climbed the slope. He had never seen a Seidh, but he knew many stories of them—spirit beings of great magic and dark
prophecy. Some of their names were enshrined in Rigante legend, such as Bean-Nighe, the Washerwoman of the Ford. Warriors doomed to die would see her kneeling by a river washing bloodstained clothing. Connavar did not wish to see her or her sister Bean-Si, also known as the Haunting or the Yearning. One look at her stone-white face would fill a man with such sorrow that his heart would burst. The Seidh he was hoping to encounter was known as the Thagda, the old man of the forest. It was said that if one approached him and touched his cloak of moss, he would grant three wishes.

Connavar slowed in his climb. It also was said that if he took a dislike to a man, he would open his coat, and from his belly would come a mist that would eat away flesh of a human, leaving only dried bones.

The boy stopped at the tree line. His mouth was dry, his hands shaking. This is stupid, he told himself. He stared at the forbidding line of trees. They seemed now so sinister, and he imagined the horrors that might await him. Anger flared, drowning his fear. I am not like my father, he thought. I am not a coward. Taking a deep breath, he strode forward into the woods.