Sword in the Storm (14 page)

Vorna prepared herself a breakfast of dried fruit and cheese, then returned to the bedside.

Even if he lived, he would be changed by his ordeal. What fifteen-year-old would not?

True, he had shown enormous courage in facing the beast. However, youth could be like that, she knew, charged with all
the confidence of perceived immortality. The young always believed they would live forever. Connavar, if he survived, would now know different. He would have learned that some foes could not be overcome and that the world was an infinitely dangerous place. Would he still be as courageous? As caring?

Vorna hoped so. “But first you have to live,” she told the comatose youth.

Ruathain rode a little distance ahead, and Meria found herself staring at his huge hunched shoulders. The night was cold, the wind blowing hard. Her pony was trudging on, head down against the wind, and Meria drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Stars were shining brightly, and moonlight bathed the flanks of Caer Druagh. Meria felt numb—but not with the cold. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the past, dancing across the barren halls of her memory: the night of Conn’s birth, when Varaconn had returned from the mountain, his eyes bright with the fear of impending death. He had taken her hand then, and he had cried for all that he would miss.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Stay and watch him grow. Ruathain will understand.”

“Aye, he would. But what kind of man would I be if I left my sword brother to fight alone?”

“He won’t be alone. There are hundreds of warriors to stand with him.”

But he had gone. And he had died.

She had tried so hard not to blame Ruathain for his death, but the bitter seed, once planted, had grown in the empty place of her heart.

Then, three months after the angry words that had driven Ruathain away, the witch Vorna had come to her as she was picking mushrooms in the yew glade. “You are wrong about your husband,” said Vorna. “I think you know it.”

“Go away and leave me be,” Meria told her. “You do not understand.”

“I understand you are nursing a lie to your heart. It sits like a black rat, chewing on all that is good.”

“He promised to keep my Varaconn alive,” shouted Meria, her eyes filling with tears.

“Aye, it is the nature of men to make large promises. Come, walk with me.” Vorna took Meria’s arm. A mist grew up around them, seeping up from the damp earth. It was cold and dank and soon became as thick as a winter fog. Meria could hardly see Vorna’s face. Holding fast to Meria’s arm, the witch kept walking.

“Where are we?” asked Meria.

“Nowhere,” answered Vorna.

In the distance Meria heard the sound of war trumpets and the clash of blade upon blade. The sound was strangely muted. “Is there a battle?” she whispered.

“There
was
a battle,” said Vorna. “Keep walking.”

Slowly the mist cleared, and the two women found themselves walking across a ghostly battlefield. All around them were fighting men, their shapes pale and insubstantial, their cries thin and wavering. The women moved on. The fighters were oblivious to them. Meria stared around her, stunned by the chaotic ferocity of the battle. Many of the warriors wore horned helms and mail shirts, and she realized they had to be Sea Wolves, the raiders from over the water. Vorna tugged her, and she stumbled on. Now she saw the Rigante charging. Her heart thudded in her chest.

There. There was her love, Varaconn, swinging his bronze blade two-handed as he fought alongside Ruathain. Meria sighed and wiped tears from her eyes. He seemed so frail alongside the blond giant. A man with a spear ran at Varaconn. Ruathain saw him and leapt to intercept, smashing the man from his feet. Twice more, when Varaconn was in danger, Ruathain hurled himself forward to thwart the peril.

And then it was over, or so she thought. The raiders fell back. She saw Varaconn raise his sword and shout with delight. She heard his voice cry out. “I am alive!”

Suddenly a small group of raiders burst through the chasing line and ran at him. Ruathain leapt to meet them. At that moment Varaconn dropped his sword and tried to flee. Ruathain cut down the first two raiders, but the other three had caught Varaconn. One plunged his sword into the fleeing man’s back. Ruathain gave a great shout. “No!”

The raiders ran on, hacking and slashing at Rigante warriors until they were cut down. Ruathain dropped to his knees alongside his friend, pulling the body into his arms and hugging it close. Meria saw Varaconn’s hand reach up to grip Ruathain’s arm, and she saw his mouth move. But she could not hear the words. She struggled to get closer, but Vorna held her back. Varaconn’s head sagged against Ruathain’s chest.

“Time to go,” said the witch. The mist swelled around them. For a moment Meria stood, eyes straining to catch a last glimpse of her dying lover. Then he was gone. She stumbled back with Vorna, and when the mist cleared again, they were standing in the yew glade.

“Why did you show me that?” asked Meria, her voice breaking.

“Why do you think?” Vorna walked away.

Meria called after her. “What am I to do?”

But the witch did not answer.

For days the vision she had seen haunted Meria. And the awful truth of Ru’s words sank into her like the claws of a cat.
“Any woman who would wed a man she believed had connived in the murder of her husband is no better than a pox-ridden whore. And I’ll have no part of her. Not now. Not ever.”

Not ever.

A bat flew past her pony’s head, causing it to rear. Meria was jerked back to the present. She had watched her husband die. Now her firstborn son was dying. She rode on down the
hillside. Below she could see the lights of Three Streams, lanterns hung in porches, candlelight glinting through shutters, moonlight upon the water. The wind whipped at her, tearing her shawl from her shoulders. She did not notice. Ruathain glanced back, saw the garment fly away, and swung his pony. Retrieving the shawl, he rode alongside Meria. She was sitting staring ahead. Gently he laid the shawl over her shoulders, but she did not move her hands to hold it in place, and the wind lifted it again. Ruathain caught it, then led her pony down the hill, over the first of the bridges, and on into the paddock behind the house. Meria did not dismount. She sat, staring ahead, her mind lost in memories.

Ruathain lifted her clear and carried her into the house. Braefar was sitting at the table. Nine-year-old Bendegit Bran was crouched by the fire, making toast. Ruathain moved by them into the back bedroom. Braefar ran in.

“Is Mam hurt?”

“No,” said Ruathain. “Pull back the covers and we’ll put her to bed.”

Braefar did so. Bran brought in some buttered toast. “For Mam,” he said.

“She’ll eat it in a while, boy. Leave us now.”

The boys wandered back into the hearth room. Ruathain laid Meria on the bed and pulled the covers over her. Then he sat beside her and stroked the dark hair from her brow. “Sleep now,” he said. “Get some rest.”

She blinked and looked up into his broad face. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she turned her head away.

“The boy is a fighter,” he said, misunderstanding the cause of her tears. “You rest. We’ll go out again tomorrow.”

She lay for a while, lost in thought. Then she spoke. “I am so sorry, Ru,” she said. “For everything. Can you forgive me?”

There was no answer. Sitting up, she gazed around.

Ruathain had gone.

*   *   *

For three days there was no change for the better in his condition, and on the morning of the fourth Vorna’s concern increased. She was outside the cave when Meria rode up, carrying provisions. Vorna gave a wan smile to offset the fear in Meria’s eyes, a smile that said: “Your son still lives.” The relief was immediate. Drawing rein, Meria slid from the pony, tied its reins to a bush, and carried the small sack of provisions to where Vorna sat.

“Is he awake yet?” asked the mother.

“No. And I have not yet found his spirit.”

“But he is healing?”

Meria’s desperation brought a fresh wave of weariness to the witch. Taking the provisions, she opened the sack and removed a chunk of freshly baked bread and a wax-sealed jar of honey. Meria sat silently beside her, waiting patiently as Vorna broke the seal and began to eat, tearing off small pieces of bread and dipping them into the honey. When she had finished, she faced Meria. “Given time, the lung will heal itself,” she said. “The flesh on his back, however, was badly ripped, and the wounds are turning sour. But even that is not my main concern. If his fever worsens, which I think it will, lack of water will kill him.”

“Then we must wake him, force him to drink,” said Meria.

“You think I have not tried? I told you his spirit has fled.”

“Yes, but you could Merge,” insisted Meria. “You did it for Pelain when she passed out in childbirth. You took over her body. You have done that for many women. You could do it for Connavar. Then you could make the body drink.”

“You do not understand what you are asking me to risk,” Vorna told her. “He is on the verge of death. If my spirit enters his body and the body dies, I die with it. Then there is the pain. A Merging would mean I become Connavar. His pain was so great, it sent his spirit fleeing from the agony. But I would have to endure it. And lastly, and most important, there is the fact that he is male. My power is born of the Great
Mother. It was never intended for men. They have their Druids and their blood magic.”

“If you are too frightened, then teach me!” stormed Meria.

Anger touched the witch, but she fought to hold it back. There was no energy to waste at this time. “You could not learn it, Meria, for you have been touched by man. I have not. That was the price I paid to receive the power. No warm penetration for Vorna, no children to watch playing under the sun. Yes, I have used the Merging and borne the pain of childbirth for other women. But never for Vorna.” Despite her attempt to control it, the anger seeped through. “Vorna lives alone and will die alone, unloved and unmourned. Too frightened? Aye, I am frightened. I am thirty-seven years old. I surrendered my youth and my dreams to help my people. Now you say, Give it all up, Vorna. Lose your power that my son may take a drink of water before he dies.”

“Is he doomed, then?” asked Meria, her voice breaking.

“I do not know. That is the simple truth of it. And the struggle to keep him alive is all but killing me.”

Meria sighed, then reached out and took Vorna’s thin hand in her own. Vorna was unused to the touch of others, and the simple warmth of the contact caused her to tremble. Meria instantly withdrew her hand. “I am sorry, Vorna. Forgive me. I do not wish to seem ungrateful. But tell me, is there a way I can help him? I would give my life for his.”

“I know,” Vorna replied wearily. “You are his mother, and you love him dearly. I wish I could tell you that there was a role for you. I know it would ease your pain. But there is not, Meria, save in prayer. Go home now, for I must return to his side.”

As Vorna struggled to her feet, Meria put her arms around her, kissing her cheek. Vorna felt the warmth of tears touching her skin. “Whatever happens, I will always be grateful to you,” she said. Vorna patted Meria’s back, then pulled away and walked back to the cave.

For several hours she rested, then she moved to Connavar’s side. The fever was building, and his heartbeat was wildly erratic. The tortured flesh of his back was an angry color, and pus was seeping through the stitches. From a shelf on the western wall Vorna took a large pottery jar, resting it on a slab of rock. Then she rubbed dried lavender onto a linen scarf and wrapped it around her face, covering her mouth and nose. Vorna drew in several deep breaths, then returned to the jar and loosened the wooden lid. A stench filled the cave. Even the lavender mask could not overcome the hideous smell, and Vorna felt her stomach heave. Reaching into the jar, she removed what had once been a slab of bacon but was now covered in a slimy blue-green mold, writhing with maggots. This mold she gently smeared over Connavar’s back.

Moving from the cave, she washed her hands in the stream, then removed the linen scarf. Daylight was fading when she returned to the boy’s side. The stench had gone, and the maggots were feeding on his infected flesh.

Sitting beside him, she placed her hand on his red-gold hair. He would not last the night. “Where are you, Connavar?” she whispered. “Where does your spirit walk?”

There was no movement from the boy, only the writhing of fat maggots on his back.

Meria’s face came to Vorna’s mind. She saw again the sad green eyes, the pride, and the willingness to die for her son. If I had a son, would I be willing to die for him? Vorna wondered. “You will never know,” she said aloud.

Her right hand still on his head, she gestured with the left toward the far wall. It shimmered and seemed to dissolve. Blue sky shone over hills of rich green grass. Three youths were running, one of them carrying the boy Riamfada. Vorna watched as the bear burst from the undergrowth, moving after them. She gestured again. Now she could see Connavar’s face clearly. He was sweating under his burden. He glanced back, then stopped and set Riamfada on the grass. Vorna leaned
forward, staring at Connavar, reading his expression, feeling his rising fear. She watched him leap at the giant beast, plunging his knife into its chest—and winced as the bear’s claws tore into him.

With a flick of her fingers the scene faded, and the bare gray wall of the cave shimmered back into view. Vorna sighed. “You knew you were going to die, Connavar. Yet you did not run. I think that if you were my son, I would give my life for you.” She stroked his hair and felt a tear drip to the dry skin of her cheek. Lifting her hand, she brushed it away.

“Such sweet sentiment,” came a voice from the cave mouth. Vorna turned. The Old Woman stood there, the black crow perched on her shoulder.

“What do you want?” asked Vorna.

“I come to guide his soul to the Dark River.”

“He is not dead yet.”

“Soon, Vorna. Soon.”

“You sent the bear to kill him.”

The Old Woman shrugged and spread her arms. The movement made the crow flutter its great wings. “He wanted glory, Vorna. Now he has it. The story of his courage has spread to the Norvii, the Pannones, and beyond—across the water. He is the boy who fought the beast. Is that not what he desired? To be famous?”