Sword in the Storm (16 page)

A cold wind was blowing, but Braefar could scarcely feel it through his anger. Look at them, he thought. Fools every one! Could they not see that what Connavar had shown was not courage but stupidity? Only an idiot would face a bear with a knife. Never had Braefar known such resentment. He had adjusted to being small and slight, to knowing he would never be as strong as Connavar, and though he had envied his brother’s skill and strength, he had never been jealous. Until now.

It was all so terribly unfair.

Ever since that dread day people seemed to talk of nothing but the fight with the beast and how Conn had leapt at it. They praised the bravery of Govannan, who had run to his aid, first with a knife and then by striking the beast with a rock.

“And what did you do, Braefar?” they asked him.

“I had no weapon,” he replied.

“Ah,” they said. Such a little sound, such a wealth of meaning.

Braefar knew what they were thinking. He was a coward. The other two boys had fought, while he had merely stood, petrified.

The ponies were closer now. He saw Govannan run alongside Connavar and reach up to shake his hand. Men cheered loudly as he did so. The two heroes together again!

Braefar felt sick.

Ruathain had come to him on that first, terrible night as Connavar had lain close to death. He had asked him to describe the fight. Braefar had done so.

“I couldn’t help them, Father. I had no weapon,” he had said.

His father had patted his shoulder. “There was nothing you could have done, Wing. I am just glad you are alive.”

But Braefar had seen the disappointment in Ruathain’s eyes. It had cut him like a knife.

Since then he had played out the fight with the bear many times in his mind. If he had run in, even to throw a stone, all would be different. Now, as he watched the hero’s ride home, he pictured himself sitting in the saddle, listening to the cheers of his people. If Banouin had given me such a knife, he thought, I, too, could have shared the applause.

The riders halted before the house. Ruathain helped Conn to the ground, then half carried him inside. The crowd drifted away.

Braefar climbed from the roof, in through the loft, and down the wooden ladder to the ground floor. Conn was sitting at the long table, Meria fussing over him. His skin looked gray, his eyes red-rimmed and tired. A horrible red scar disfigured his face, and his left arm was heavily bandaged. Ruathain was standing silently by the doorway.

“Welcome home,” Braefar said lamely.

Conn looked up and gave a tired smile. “Good to see you, Wing,” he said.

“You need rest,” said Meria. “Come, let me help you to your bed.” Conn did not resist. Pushing himself to his feet, he allowed his mother to support him. Slowly they moved past Braefar.

Later, as Braefar climbed into his own bed alongside Conn’s, he saw that his brother was awake.

“I would have helped if I’d had a weapon,” he said.

“I know that, Wing.”

There was kindness in the voice, and understanding.

Braefar hated him for it. And he said the one thing he knew would cause the most pain. “I suppose you haven’t heard about Arian. She married Casta at the Feast of Samain.”

His brother groaned in the darkness. Instantly Braefar felt shame. “I’m sorry, Conn. I tried to tell you that she didn’t care for you.”

6

T
HE WINTER WAS
one of the fiercest in Rigante memory, with freezing blizzards and temperatures so low at times that trees shattered as their sap froze. So much snow fell that huge drifts blocked the high passes, and the weight of fallen snow caved in the roof of Nanncumal’s forge. Ponies could not carry the feed to cattle trapped in the high valleys, and men wearing snowshoes struggled through the drifts, bales of hay on their shoulders.

Ruathain and Arbonacast almost died trying to reach Bear Valley, where many of the herd had taken refuge. Caught in a blizzard, they had dug under the snow-buried branches of a tall pine and crouched there huddled together throughout the deadly night. In the morning they had crawled clear, hefted their bales, and located the herd. Two of the younger bulls had died. But old Mentha, indomitable and powerful as ever, had, with eight of his cows, found shelter in the lee of a cliff face.

Back in the settlement Connavar’s weakness lasted throughout the bitter winter. He lost weight and succumbed to three fevers, none of them life-threatening. He developed a hacking cough, his shoulder ached continuously, and his injured lung did not seem to be repairing itself, leaving him constantly out of breath. Meria worried over him constantly and could not understand his loss of spirit.

Braefar knew that he was sick at heart over losing Arian, and his envy of his brother faded. He tried to cheer him, encouraging
him to exercise and build his strength. But Connavar seemed to have little energy and even less desire. He slept in the afternoons, lying by the hearth, wrapped in a blanket.

Even when he did try to exercise, the freezing sleet and bitter winds would drive him back inside. One day, when the sky was the dull gray of a sword blade, he walked as far as the second bridge and paused by the frozen stream.

Arian, wrapped in a heavy green shawl, came out to stand beside him. “You look stronger,” she said. Conn ignored her and made to walk on. She took hold of his arm. He winced as pain flared into his shoulder. “Don’t hate me,” she said. “They told me you were dying.”

He swung his head and looked into her eyes. She fell back a step when she saw the fury there. “Aye,” he said, “I do understand. Had I been told you were dying, I, too, would have rushed off to a feast and shagged the first woman I saw. Get away from me, whore. You are nothing to me now. Less than nothing.” It was a lie, a terrible lie, yet the hurt on her face as he spoke lifted him.

Slowly he trudged away through the snow. And as he walked, he realized that Arian had supplied him with one last gift. His anger had returned, and with it the desire to be strong again.

Every day after that he would stand in the cold for up to an hour, splitting logs with the long-handled ax. It was painfully slow. He would stop every few minutes, trying to regain his breath, sweat coursing down his face. When weariness came upon him, he would think of Arian and allow the anger to fuel his muscles.

Gradually, as the first warm breezes of spring drifted across the mountains, his strength improved. He began to take longer walks, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion, a point that arrived with remarkable swiftness.

His left shoulder continued to trouble him, especially on
cold or rainy days. Ruathain set him several exercises to strengthen and stretch the muscles. There was a young oak some thirty paces from Ruathain’s house with a thick branch that jutted out eight feet above the ground. Every day Connavar would stand beneath it, jump, and curl his hands around the wood. Then he would haul himself up until his chin touched the branch, lower himself, and repeat the move. The first time was incredibly awkward. He could not raise his left arm without pain and was forced to jump, hold on with his right, then maneuver the left over the branch. Once in place, with Ruathain watching, he hung for several heartbeats and managed one lift.

He cursed aloud as he fell to the ground. Ruathain moved to his side. “You must think of your strength as a deer you are hunting,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” Conn answered, rubbing his throbbing shoulder.

“You do not take a bow and rush out into the woods. You search until you know all the deer’s habits, then you find a place to wait. Even when you see him, you do not shoot too soon, and you never loose a shaft at a deer on the run. His blood will be up, and that makes the meat tough and hard to chew. The hunter needs patience. Endless, quiet, calm patience. Your strength is the deer. You must seek it calmly, methodically. Plan your strategy. Look for small gains. Come here every morning. Do not try too many lifts. You will disappoint yourself and damage your wounded muscles. Today you almost made one. Tomorrow look for two.”

“I am sick of being weak,” said Conn.

“You are
weak
because you have been
sick
. As I said, look for a small improvement every day. When you walk, mark the spot where you feel that you cannot go on. The following day seek to go ten paces past it.”

Conn felt calmer as they spoke. “Have you ever been wounded?” he asked.

“Once, when I was a year older than you. Not as badly. I took a spear in the right shoulder. I thought my strength would never return. But it did. Trust me, Connavar. You will be stronger than you were before. Now let us walk for a while.”

It was a bright clear day, but in the distance rain clouds were hovering over Caer Druagh. Ruathain led the youth up a short hill, stopping several times to allow him to catch his breath. At the top the two of them sat down and stared out over the valley. Ruathain’s herds were grazing, and Conn could see Arbonacast sitting his pony on the far slope.

“I do not see Mentha,” said Conn. “I thought he survived the winter.”

“He did,” said Ruathain. “And a young bull challenged him for mastery of the herd. He and Mentha fought for several hours.” Ruathain gave a sad smile. “Mentha finally beat him. It was his last moment of triumph. We found him the following morning. His heart had given out in the night.”

“That is sad,” said Conn. “He was a bonny bull.”

“Aye, he was. But he died as a king, undefeated and unbowed.”

“Do you think it mattered to him?”

Ruathain shrugged. “I like to think so. How are you feeling?”

“I’m having trouble getting my breath.”

“The lung worries me. Tomorrow, when I take her provisions, you will ride with me to see Vorna.”

Conn glanced at the Big Man. Every two days throughout the winter Ruathain had traveled to Vorna’s cave, carrying provisions. At first he had ridden out, but when the winter was at its coldest he had trudged in snowshoes through the drifts. Once there, he had gathered wood for her and made sure she was safe. “You have been good to her,” said Conn. “I thank you for it.”

“A man stands by his friends,” said Ruathain. “No matter
what. You understand this better than most.” He smiled suddenly. “Have I told you how proud you made me?”

Conn laughed aloud. “Only every day.”

“It cannot be said often enough. Now let us walk back. Take your time.”

As they made their slow way across the fields, Conn saw a thin plume of smoke rising from the chimney of Banouin’s house. The merchant had not returned for the winter, and this had depressed Conn, for he feared that the Norvii robbers had indeed lain in wait for him and that he lay dead in some forest thicket.

Ruathain saw him staring at the smoke. “The foreigner arrived back last night,” he said, “with twenty-five heavily laden ponies. Only the gods know how he brought them through the storm.”

For the first time that winter Conn forgot his weakness. “I feared he was dead.”

Ruathain shook his head. “He’d be a hard man to kill,” he said, his expression suddenly grim. “He is far tougher than he looks. I hope all his people are not like him.”

“Do you not like him?” asked Conn, surprised at the Big Man’s mood change.

“He is a foreigner, and his people make war on all their neighbors. Before you can go to war in a strange land, you must first send out scouts to study the terrain. If his people ever cross the water and attack our land, who do you think will have supplied them with maps?”

Conn was no fool, and the Big Man’s words struck home. Even so, he did not want to consider them. Banouin was a friend, and until he was proved to be a spy, Conn was willing to put aside any doubts about his actions. Yet the seed had been planted, and in Banouin’s company he found himself listening with even more care as the foreigner told the stories of his travels.

“Did you know,” said Banouin as they sat before his hearth drinking watered wine, “that the story of your fight with the bear has reached the southern coast?”

“It was not a fight,” Conn said, with a shy grin. “I stabbed it twice, and it ripped me apart.”

“According to the tale being sung there, you fought it for a long time and it was almost dead when the other men arrived. Oh, yes, and you were protecting not a crippled boy but a beautiful young maiden out gathering flowers.”