Sword in the Storm (12 page)

“I am yours,” he said, “now and always.”

“I will never be frightened again,” she told him. The words jarred, and he did not understand them, though he heard the relief in her voice and did not question her further.

Now, as he lay in his bed, he could not tear his mind from Braefar’s words.

“She is a flirt. Why can’t you see that?”

Of course he could see it and could remember vividly the sound of her laughter as she stood in the dark with Casta. That alone would not have been enough to trouble him, but there was also the unfocused passion. He had not sensed it at the time, his blood roaring and his senses aroused, but looking back, he felt that Arian had not even known who he was before her first orgasm. Only afterward had she responded.

Pushing away his doubts, he concentrated on the one great truth of the night. She had told him she loved him.

And within a few days she would be his wife, the mother of his children, the one eternal love of his heart.

The following morning was bright, clear, and cold. On the high hill to the north of the settlement Ruathain drew on the reins and stared gloomily down over the meadows where his herds were grazing. Six hundred long-haired, sharp-horned highland cattle were gathered there. A cold wind blew down from the north. Ruathain shivered, for he had left his cloak at home and wore only a blue tunic shirt and thin leggings. He
glanced at the northern sky. It was gray and forbidding, heralding what he feared would be a hard, bitter winter.

The Feast of Samain was twelve days away. Touching heels to his pony, he rode slowly through the herd, occasionally leaning over to smear blue ocher on the backs of selected cows and bullocks. The eight-day feast was always a time of great joy for the peoples of the Rigante. This year it was to be held in Three Streams, and tribesmen would travel from all over the land to the settlement. Hundreds of tents would be pitched, and by the last day more than nine thousand tribesmen would be gathered there.

But Ruathain’s thoughts were not of feasting and dancing. He was a cattle breeder, and the winter was a time not only of danger, hardship, and struggle but also of loss. Only the hardiest of the breeding stock would survive. Vicious cold would kill some; falls and snapped legs would destroy others. Added to this the wolves would come, and the great cats, and even—occasionally—bears roused from their hibernation.

Choosing which stock should be given the chance to survive was always hard, as was slaughtering the less fortunate to feed the feasters. Dipping his hand into the bucket slung from his saddle horn, he rode alongside Bannioa. He had hand reared her as a calf when her mother had been killed by a lioness, and she had proved a good breeder. But she was eight years old now and had been barren for two years. Leaning over, he smeared the ocher on her broad back.

Beyond her was the old bull Mentha. Would he survive the coming cold, the wolves, and the lions? And if he did, would he still be able to subdue the younger bulls come spring and sire fine sons from his herd?

Ruathain’s chief herdsman, Arbonacast, rode alongside him. He said nothing, sitting silently alongside his lord. “Well?” Ruathain asked, as the silence grew.

Arbonacast saw that his lord was staring at Mentha. The herdsman shrugged. “I’d give him the chance.”

“Give him the chance? Is that sentiment?” asked Ruathain.

“Partly. But he is a fine bull. And insatiable.” On the hillside below, as if sensing they were talking about him, old Mentha’s massive head came up. His long horns, wickedly curved at the tips and stretching for almost seven feet, glinted in the sunlight.

Ruathain sighed. “He can’t last forever, Arbon.”

“Nothing does,” said the herdsman.

Ruathain glanced at the man. Arbonacast was short and slightly built with black hair peppered with silver and bristling black brows over deep-set gray eyes. His face was a sea of fine lines, a map charting fifty years of hardship and struggle. It was a strong face, hard and lean, and Ruathain trusted him as he did no other man.

“One more winter, then. But if he survives and still loses his herd to a younger bull, it is the feasting pit for him.”

“Bad winter coming, I think,” said Arbon, swinging his horse and riding out over the hillside.

Ruathain turned for home. Of course it would be a bad winter. Just as it had been a bad spring, summer, and autumn. There were no good times without Meria. He still saw her daily, watched her walking to the stream or sitting in the sunshine. But he had not had a conversation with her in three years. Ruathain ensured that food was delivered to his old home, and coin when he had it. And he spoke often with his sons. Yet most nights he would dream of her. They were together again, and he was lying beside her in a sunlit meadow, stroking her hair and gazing into her green eyes. Then he would wake and groan as reality struck home like a cold knife to his heart.

He spoke to no one of his anguish and tried to conduct his life as he always had.

Without the joy it was not possible, and almost everyone in Three Streams became aware very swiftly that Ruathain was not the man he had been. Gone was the bluff good humor and
the easygoing charm. In the old Ruathain’s place was a restless man, short-tempered and hostile.

In the spring he and five other men had ridden out to intercept some Norvii cattle raiders. In the short fight that had followed Ruathain had killed two. It was unusual for men to die in such raids. Prisoners were often taken and held for small ransoms, but on those rare occasions when men died it was usually accidental, a clumsy fall from a horse or a rider caught in a stampede. On this day Ruathain had charged in among the Norvii, his iron sword singing out. Two men had gone down instantly, the others throwing down their weapons.

Ruathain had ridden toward the prisoners, his eyes bright with battle fury. Arbonacast had cut his pony across his lord’s path. “It is over now, I think,” he had said. For a moment the Rigante riders had thought he would strike his own man, but Ruathain had dragged on his reins and ridden back to Three Streams.

Although he did not speak of it, he thought of the two dead men often. Both had been young and on their first raid. An initiation into manhood. Neither had expected to die. Ruathain felt great guilt over the slayings. He could have—should have—unhorsed them with the flat of his blade. He was thinking of them now as he rode down to his house. Unsaddling the pony, he turned it out into the paddock.

As he did so, he heard the sound of hoofbeats and swung to see a rider galloping across the eastern bridge. It was another of his herdsmen, Arbon’s son, Casta, who should have been gathering stock in the southern hills. The young man dragged on his reins.

“What is it, boy?” asked Ruathain.

“Rogue bear, lord. It attacked three children outside a Norvii settlement. Killed two, made off with the third. They hunted it and claim to have wounded it. But it was last seen heading west through the woods.”

“They drove it into our lands and didn’t have the guts to follow it.”

“It seems so, lord. They say it is big—the largest bear they have ever seen.”

“Where did they corner it?”

“Six miles east of the Riguan Falls.”

Fear touched Ruathain. His boys had gone swimming at the falls.

“Gather the men,” he told Casta. “Bring lances and ropes.” Running into the house, he buckled on his iron sword and lifted his hunting lance.

5

D
ESPITE THE COLD
, Riamfada had no wish to leave the water. He knew this was the last day he would swim that year, for winter was approaching fast and there had already been flurries of snow in the hills. He floated on his back, then rolled and watched the late-afternoon sunlight sparkling on the waterfall. A rainbow flared into life to the right of the falls. Riamfada stared at it, lost in wonder. Then a wispy cloud drifted past the sun, and the rainbow faded. If only I could work with such colors, he thought. High above him he heard Govannan call out. Glancing up, he saw the smith’s son leap from the ledge and spin into a dive. Govannan surfaced, flicked the water from his long hair, and swam over to him.

“Had enough, little fish?” he asked.

“Just a little more,” said Riamfada.

“Your lips are turning blue. I think it’s time you got dry.” Treading water, Govannan glanced at the bank, where Connavar and Braefar had lit a small fire. Three other youngsters were sitting huddled around the flames. Riamfada had been disappointed to find Galanis and his brothers at the falls. They always stared at him, and invariably the conversation would turn to his crippled legs. They were recent arrivals at the settlement, their father having come up from the south to work for Ruathain.

Reluctantly Riamfada struck for the shore, Govannan swimming alongside him. When they reached the bank, the
smith’s son lifted Riamfada clear, carrying him to the fire. Conn dried his legs, then wrapped a warm cloak around him. “Going to be a cold winter,” he said.

“It will be a long one,” Riamfada said sadly.

Govannan toweled himself down then dressed and walked to the shoreline, where he began skimming stones across the water. Connavar wandered down and also hefted a handful of stones. Immediately a contest began to see who could skim the farthest.

Braefar sat alongside Riamfada. “They are at it again,” he said. “Everything is a competition with those two.” Riamfada shivered. Braefar helped him into his clothes and added more fuel to the fire.

“Perhaps a spell was cast on you,” said Galanis. He was a tall, rangy, red-haired youth with a pockmarked sallow face.

“A spell? What do you mean?” replied Riamfada, his heart sinking.

“My brothers and I were wondering if the Seidh put a curse on your legs.”

The other two young men, Baris and Gethenan, were also staring at him now.

“I don’t think anyone cursed me,” he said. “The year I was born there were many children afflicted. They all died. Vorna says it was a sickness that attacked the mothers.”

“I’d sooner be dead than a cripple,” said Baris.

“Oh, shut up, Baris,” snapped Braefar. “What a stupid thing to say.”

“Well, it’s true,” said Baris, reddening.

“It is probably true for you,” said Riamfada. “But then, you have enjoyed a life of walking and running. For you the loss of your legs would be terrible. But I have never had the use of my legs, so I have grown accustomed to my condition.”

“What is the surprise you promised us?” asked Braefar, anxious to change the subject. Riamfada smiled, and called
out to Conn and Govannan. The two young men wandered back from their skimming contest.

“I had a seven,” said Van. “Beat him by two.”

“You found the best stone,” grumbled Connavar.

Once they were seated, Riamfada untied his belt pouch and laid it in his lap. “I have some presents for the three of you,” he said. “You have been very kind to me, and I wanted to repay you. I hope you won’t be offended.” Unfastening the string loop, he pulled open the pouch. From it he drew a cloak brooch of gleaming bronze, which he passed to Govannan. It was in the shape of a leaping deer and engraved with swirls of silver. “It is a wondrous piece,” said Van. “I have never seen anything so beautiful.” From the pouch Riamfada took a second brooch. It was a copy of a wicker shield, cunningly crafted from intertwined wires of silver. Braefar turned it over in his hands. Lastly Riamfada handed Conn a brooch: a bronze fawn trapped in silver brambles, encased in a band of bright gold.

“I do not know what to say,” said Conn.

“Then let me speak for you, Brother,” said Braefar. “We thank you, little fish. These are very fine gifts.”

“Nothing for us then?” put in Galanis. “I didn’t realize carrying cripples reaped such fine rewards.”

“Watch your mouth!” stormed Govannan, “or you’ll be wearing your teeth as a necklace.”

“Where we come from blunt speech is considered a virtue,” replied Galanis.

“There is a difference between blunt speech and rudeness,” said Braefar. “You had best learn that if you wish to be accepted among us. For example, I do not recall any of us pointing out that you are the ugliest trio we have ever seen. Your face, Galanis, looks like a woodpecker tried to nest in it. Still, I expect that back where you came from that would be considered blunt speaking.”