Sword in the Storm (7 page)

Banouin shrugged. “I don’t know. Whatever the reason, it is sad for them both. I like them. They are good people.”

“They are Rigante,” Calasain said with a smile. “We are all good people. Welcome home, foreigner.”

Four hours later, with the dying sun bathing the mountains in fire, Banouin crested the last rise and gazed down on the settlement of Three Streams. The heaviness lifted from his heart as he saw the scattered houses and farms, the bridges over the streams, the cattle and sheep feeding on the rich grass.

And there, at the center of the settlement, was the colossal oak known as Eldest Tree, its lower branches hung with lamps.

Home, thought Banouin, savoring the word. I am home.

Connavar liked to climb, and he sat now in the topmost branches of Eldest Tree, his mind wrestling with problems he could not, at fifteen, fully understand. He loved both Ruathain and his mother, and it hurt him that they should still be living apart. His mother had insulted the Big Man, unfairly accusing him. She knew she was wrong but was too proud to apologize and humble herself. He knew that she knew but would not make a single effort to bridge the gap. It seemed so foolish to the young man.

Sometimes, in the night, he would hear Meria weeping softly, trying to muffle the sound in the thick, embroidered pillow on the bed Ruathain had crafted. It was a mystery to Connavar. All his life he had watched Meria being cool toward her husband, apparently uncaring. Now she grieved as if a child had died. Yet with all that grief she could not bring herself to take a deep breath and acknowledge she was wrong.

And the Big Man had changed. He was surly now and quick to anger. Connavar shivered when he recalled the fight with Govannan’s father, Nanncumal.

Connavar had been walking with Ruathain and Braefar when Nanncumal had stepped out from his smithy. There was no love lost between the men, for it had been Nanncumal who had caused the trouble in the first place, telling Govannan about the death of Conn’s father. The smith was a large man, powerful in the shoulders, with massive biceps.

“You keep that boy of yours away from my smithy,” he said, pointing to Connavar.

Ruathain looked at the man. “And why should I do that?”

“He’s a thief, that’s why. Stole some nails from my rack.”

“That’s a lie!” said Conn, outraged. Clenching his fists, he stepped toward the smith, but Ruathain drew him back.

Nanncumal sneered at him, then spoke again. “They were gone after you were here, sniffing around my daughter. That’s good enough for me. Now, you keep the boy away,” he said, swinging toward Ruathain. “If I catch him here again, I’ll split his ears.”

“You’ll split his ears?” repeated Ruathain, his voice terribly calm. “You’d threaten my son while I stand before you? You are not a wise man, Nanncumal.”

“He’s not your son,” snapped the smith. “He’s the get of a coward!”

Ruathain took one step forward. Nanncumal threw up his left arm to defend himself, but the blow was too fast, a heavy clubbing right hand that took the smith on the left cheek, splitting the skin. Nanncumal was hurled from his feet to smash headfirst into the fence beside the smithy. The central rail snapped under the impact. The smith struggled to rise, then slumped to the hard-packed ground. Several men came running to watch the fight, but it was over. Ruathain stepped in close to the fallen man, turning him with his boot. The smith’s eyes were open.

Ruathain spoke again, his voice still flat and cold. “Connavar’s father rode with me to the battle and fought beside me all day. You, however, were not there, I recall. You had a bellyache or some such. In fact, smith, I have never seen you in battle. Do not be so swift to call others a coward. The next time you do, I will seek you out again.”

Connavar shivered with both pleasure and pain at the memory. Nanncumal had deserved it. He knew Conn had stolen nothing. His real grievance was Conn’s friendship with his daughter Arian. Conn’s good humor faded. She had been avoiding him since the fight, and he missed her company, her quick smile, and the scent of her golden hair. Closing his eyes, he recalled the day of the chase, early in the spring.
Arian, her sister Gwydia, and several of the other settlement girls had been gathering flowers on the edge of the western wood. Connavar had been out walking and had come upon them. Arian, holding the hem of her yellow dress above her knees, was wading in a fast-moving shallow stream. Connavar called out a greeting. Leaning down, she sent a splash of water over him. Laughing, he waded after her, but she eluded him, crossing the stream and running into the woods. Conn followed, catching her around the waist. They fell together in the soft undergrowth.

“Why did you splash me?” he asked.

“To cool the fire in your eyes,” she told him. His right arm was resting across her, his hand on her slim waist. He glanced down at her bare legs. Sunlight was dappling the fair skin. Suddenly his throat was tight, and he could feel his heart beating wildly. He looked into her blue eyes. The pupils were large, and he could see himself reflected there, as if he floated within her. He felt as if he were slowly falling through water, and before he could resist the impulse, he was kissing her. Arian’s mouth was warm. Her tongue touched his lips. Connavar groaned. His hand slid down to her thigh. Suddenly she struggled free and rolled away from him. Sitting up, she pushed her hands through her long blond hair. “I see the water did not cool you enough,” she said. Conn could scarcely speak. She giggled suddenly and put her hand over her mouth. Conn followed her gaze and, glancing down, saw the embarrassing bulge in his trews. Blushing, he rolled to his knees, then struggled to stand.

Arian ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. “Do not be angry with me,” she said, mistaking the blush of shame for a more violent emotion.

Conn drew her close. “I am not angry,” he said. “I love you. Next year, at the Feast of Samain, I will speak with your father. We will be wed.”

Pulling away from him, she smiled. “Perhaps I will agree,” she said. “Perhaps I won’t.”

Conn did not know what to say, but his eyes narrowed. “Now you are getting angry,” said Arian, gaily, stepping in close and stroking his face. He tried to grab her, but she spun away, then ran back to the other girls.

Sitting high in the tree, Conn recalled the heat from the skin of her thigh. Discomfort flared in him.

A movement to the south caught his eye. A line of ponies was moving down the far slope. Conn’s heart leapt. Banouin was back!

Swiftly he scrambled down the tree, dropping to the ground and setting off toward Banouin’s house. He heard the hooves of the pack ponies on the last wooden bridge and called out to the foreigner.

Banouin saw him and grinned. The foreigner seemed smaller, and his short-cropped dark hair was flecked with silver. He was old, Conn knew, close to fifty. But he was still fit and strong. The foreigner dismounted. The fifteen-year-old was now several inches taller than the man. “How goes it with you, Connavar?” he asked.

“Banias tol var,”
answered the boy.

Banouin clapped his hands. “That is good, Conn. You remembered.”

“I do not forget anything,” the young man answered seriously. “It is good to see you again. Let me help you unload the ponies. Then you can tell me about your travels.”

Banouin moved to his warehouse and unlatched the door. Together he and Connavar removed the packs, carried them inside, then turned the ponies loose in the paddock field beyond.

Banouin’s house was, like all Rigante dwellings, built entirely of wood. But he had laid a mosaic stone floor in the main living room, and there were three couches there and no chairs. The room was clean and free of dust.

“I see you have been looking after my home,” said Banouin. “I thank you for that.”

“I shall fetch some food,” said Conn, rising and moving toward the door.

Banouin was about to protest, but the youngster was gone, running across the field back toward his own home a quarter mile distant. He returned with a canvas sack containing a large portion of meat pie, several ripe apples, a round of cheese wrapped in muslin, a loaf of fresh bread, and a pottery jar full of rich salted butter.

After they had eaten, Banouin lit two lamps and stretched out on the sofa. “What I really miss from my homeland,” he said, “is a warm scented bath at the end of a journey. Every town this size would have a bathhouse, and many of the houses would boast their own bathrooms.”

“Do your people bathe a lot?” asked Connavar.

“Every day.”

“Why? Do they smell bad?”

“If they don’t bathe, they smell foul.”

“How unfortunate for them,” said Connavar.

Banouin chuckled. “It is a strange thing. The more you bathe, the more you need to. I had a bath two months ago in Turgony. It was wonderful. Then I set off on the road home. Within three days I stank. After ten I could almost not bear my own company. Then the odor faded away.” Banouin rose from the couch, removed his long coat, and threw it over a couch. Connavar saw the bloodied bandage on his upper arm.

“How did you get the wound?” he asked.

“Four days ago I was accosted by robbers. Three Norvii outcasts. One of them managed to scratch me with his knife. It is not a serious wound.”

“Did you kill them?”

“No, you bloodthirsty young savage. I broke the knifeman’s arm. Then they ran away.”

“You should have killed them. They may lie in wait for you again next spring.”

“If they do, I shall bear your advice in mind. Now tell me what’s been happening in Three Streams.”

“Braefar won the solstice race two weeks ago. There isn’t a happier lad in the land now,” said Conn. “He’s been strutting around like a gamecock.”

“What about you?”

“I came in second.”

Banouin sat back. He could see the gleam of amusement in Conn’s eyes and guessed there was more to the tale. “What about Govannan? I thought he was the fastest runner among you youngsters.”

“So did he,” Conn said with an impish grin. “Apparently the wind caught one of the race signposts and swung it. Govannan and those following ran into a swamp. He was game, though, and still finished third. Arian says he spent most of the evening prizing leeches from his buttocks. Perhaps he’ll have better luck next year.”

“Why is it that I don’t believe the wind moved the sign?” asked Banouin.

Conn laughed aloud. “Because you have a suspicious mind, foreigner. Just like Govannan.”

“Indeed I do,” agreed Banouin. “You mentioned Arian. Are you still intent on marriage?”

“Yes, she is the most beautiful girl. I love her dearly.”

“You will acquire Govannan as a brother-in-law,” pointed out Banouin.

“Aye, he is most definitely one of the worms in the apple. Her father is another. But love will conquer all, foreigner. A Rigante woman has the right to choose her own husband. Will you dance at my wedding?”

“I am not a dancer, but I will attend—and happily. Now you should get off home. I am tired and in need of a good night’s sleep in a soft bed.”

“Can I come here tomorrow? Will you teach me more of the language of your people? Will you tell me of the cities of stone?”

“You are always welcome here, Conn. But do you not have labors to perform?”

“Only until midday.”

“Then I will be pleased to see you after that. Give my best wishes to your mother. Tell her I have the green satin shirt I promised.”

Connavar walked to the door. “Have your people won more wars?” he asked.

“I am afraid that they have, Conn.”

“You must tell me all.”

Arian was not sure which was worse, the fear or the cure, for the two were intertwined, dancing through her mind, twisting and turning. The panic would strike unannounced, coming upon her as she walked, or lay in her bed, or washed clothes in the shallow water of the stream. Her fingers would begin to tremble, and a great emptiness would assail her, a darkness that took the heat from the sun.

She remembered the terrible day when the fear was born. Her little five-year-old sister, Baria, who slept in her bed, was coughing and feverish. Mother had given her an herbal tisane sweetened with honey, and she had cuddled up to Arian. The older girl, close to thirteen, had pushed her away, for the child was hot and it was a summer night, muggy and close. Baria had rolled over, clutching her rag doll. She had coughed a little more, then fallen asleep. In the middle of the night Arian awoke, struggling to remember a dream. She felt Baria’s chubby leg against her. The leg was cold.

“Come here, little one,” she said. “I will warm you.” Rolling over, she put her arms around the still figure, drawing her close. Baria was limp. For a while Arian cuddled her, but then she became alarmed at the lack of movement. It was
pitch dark in the room, and she could not see her sister’s face. Rising from the bed, she climbed down from the loft and went to the fire. It was almost out. Kneeling by the hearth, Arian added a little tinder, then blew on the fading embers. A flame licked up. Holding a candle wick to the flames, she waited for it to light, then climbed back to the loft. Moving to the bedside, she held the candle over Baria’s face. Pale, dead eyes stared up at her. A drop of hot wax fell to the child’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” Arian said without thinking. There was no answer. There would never be an answer again. Arian began to shake. She sat for a while, hot wax dribbling over her fingers.

Then she woke her parents. Her mother wailed and wept, and even her father—the gruff and surly smith—shed tears by the bedside. Govannan came to Arian, putting his arm around her and drawing her close, running his thick fingers through her golden hair. He said nothing, for there was nothing to say. A sweet child had vanished into the night, never to return, and the family’s grief was beyond words.

The following day, while walking in the high woods, the fear had come upon Arian. Her legs gave way beneath her, and she sank, sobbing, to the ground. “I don’t want to die,” she said. “Not ever. I don’t want to be that cold.”

The fear, once begun, continued to grow. She sat by the tree, terror feeding on her soul, gnawing at her. She heard the sound of a walking horse and, desperate for company, pushed herself to her feet and ran toward the sound. The rider was a middle-aged man with a round, kindly face. He was not Rigante, and she guessed him to be a merchant or an emissary heading for the hall of the Long Laird. Drawing on the reins, the rider stopped.