Sword in the Storm (21 page)

“Perhaps I should not come in,” she said.

“Then again, perhaps you should,” he said with a gentle smile. “It has been a long time since a woman graced my home.”

“Since your wife died,” she said. The pain of memory made him wince.

Vorna moved in close to him. “I am sorry, foreigner. When I had the power, I knew many things.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Do not be sorry. She was a fine and wonderful woman. I should think of her more often. But it is always so painful.”

They stood in silence for a while, enjoying the closeness. “I have never been with a man,” said Vorna.

He looked into her dark eyes and saw the fear and the loneliness. “It is merely another kind of dance,” he said softly. “Will you dance with me, Vorna?”

“I think that I will,” she said.

Back at the feast Riamfada was growing sleepy. He could not drink wine. It burned in his chest like a small fire, and he dared not drink ale for fear of wetting himself. He had sat quietly through the feast, watching his friends enjoy themselves and taking great pleasure from it. He leaned back into the V-shaped board that had been hammered in the grass for him to prevent him from falling and lifted his heavy blanket over his shoulder. It had been a joyous night. Govannan had been dancing with a young maiden from a settlement some thirty miles to the south. He had tripped over his own feet several times, but she had affected not to notice. Connavar had not
danced, and Riamfada saw him watching Arian on the far side of the bonfire. She had danced with several men, much to the chagrin of her new husband, Casta, who sat glumly nearby. Farther to the right Riamfada saw Braefar. The boy was nursing a slight burn to his leg he had incurred when he had tried to leap the feasting pit with taller, stronger boys. He had fallen back, and hot coals had pressed against his knee. He was sitting now beside his younger brother, the eight-year-old Bendegit Bran, who was asleep, curled up against the grizzled, white-muzzled old hound Caval.

Riamfada yawned and looked around for his father. Gariapha was sitting at a bench with the Long Laird. Both men were drinking and laughing. Riamfada pulled his cloak around his thin shoulders. A spasm of pain shot through his chest, and he grunted. He should not have added Banouin’s spices to the beef.

Connavar wandered over and sat down beside him. “How are you faring, little fish?” he asked.

“I am enjoying myself. But I am getting very tired.”

“I’ll carry you home.”

“No, not yet,” said Riamfada. “It is a wonderful night. I have been watching people dancing in the torchlight. Everyone is so happy.”

“And you, are you happy, my friend?” asked Conn.

“The swimming starts next week,” Riamfada said with a smile. “I have been looking forward to it all winter.” He coughed suddenly, and his emaciated body shuddered. Conn leaned in, taking Riamfada’s weight and lightly tapping his back. The coughing subsided. “I will be strong again once we are back at the falls,” he said.

“I will be with you only for a while,” said Conn. “I am traveling south with Banouin. But Govanann will be taking you at least twice a week.”

“I heard you were leaving.” Riamfada glanced across to the long dining table. Conn’s new sword was leaning there, its
bronze hilt flickering in the firelight. “Will you show me the Long Laird’s gift?” he asked. Conn strode across to the table, retrieved the weapon, and brought it back, laying it in Riamfada’s lap. With difficulty Riamfada hefted it by blade and grip, bringing it close to his face. Then he let it drop. “I cannot tell if it is good iron,” he said. “Not in this light. But the hilt is clumsily crafted, so I would guess not. One day I will make for you a special sword with a hilt designed for your hand alone. It will be a creation of beauty.”

“I am sure that it will,” said Conn. At that moment Govannan called out, urging Conn to join in the new dance. Conn looked to Riamfada. “Shall I carry you home?”

“In a little while. Go. Dance. I shall rest here.”

Conn grinned and ran to the fire, where he was soon twirling and leaping the flames to the music of the pipes. The sword lay heavily on Riamfada, and he struggled to put it to one side. As he did so, another piercing pain sliced through his chest. He grunted and fell back against the V-shaped board. He tried to watch the dancers, but the images were fading, blurring. He could no longer make out individual figures, and the music seemed to be growing more distant, as if the pipers were dancing away from him. I must be more tired than I thought, he reasoned.

Glowing lights caught his eye. They were drifting through the air toward him. Three of them. How pretty, he thought. They were mostly golden in color, but there were flashes of blue and crimson within them. They flickered before him and settled down upon the grass around him. Riamfada tried to reach out to them but found he was unable to move his hand. Strangely, this did not concern him. He was at peace. The lights flowed over him, and he heard a voice whispering in his mind.

“Come with us. Know joy.”

In that instant he had a vision of a workplace where every kind of metal could be fashioned by hand alone, without need
of heat or hammer. He saw objects of incredible beauty, among them a rose crafted of gold and silver that was so perfect that its golden petals blossomed and opened like a true plant. “I wish I could work there,” he said.

“That is what we offer you, child of man. Come with us!”

“I do not want to leave my friends,” said Riamfada, though the longing was strong within him.

“You already have.”

And he knew that it was true, for there was now no feeling in his body, no heartbeat weak and stuttering in his emaciated chest.

“Rise, Riamfada. Walk with us.”
A hand with a touch as light as a butterfly wing touched his own, drawing him upright, and he stood. There was no pain. Slowly Riamfada, surrounded by golden light, moved unseen through the dancers. There was Conn, arm in arm with Gwydia, and Govannan clapping his hands to the music. And there was Riamfada’s father, Gariapha, holding his wife close and kissing her cheek. Riamfada looked back and saw the small, frail body wedged in death against the boards. Then he looked again at his friends, enjoying their happiness one last time.

“I love them,” he said.

“We know.”

Taking him by the hand, they led him toward the Wishing Tree Woods.

“Can I run?” asked Riamfada.

They released his hands. He suddenly felt the grass beneath his naked feet, the night breeze upon his chest.

And Riamfada ran toward the distant trees.

In the house of Banouin Vorna’s eyes flared open. Slipping quietly from the bed, she moved to the window and saw the lights flowing toward the Wishing Tree Woods. Despite the loss of her power she could still commune with the Seidh and recognize their magic. And she could discern the difference
between Seidh spirit and human souls. Transferring her gaze to the distant lights, she tried to make out who the Seidh had taken, but she could not. What she did know, however, was that the human was full of joy.

“What are you looking at?” Banouin asked sleepily.

“A small miracle,” she told him, returning to the bed and sliding under the covers. He took her in his arms, and she settled her head upon his shoulder.

“I hope you have no regrets,” he whispered. “For I have none.”

“How old are you, foreigner?”

“Forty-nine.”

“I regret not doing this twenty years ago.”

His fingers stroked through her black and silver hair. “I fear that sex is not always as good as this,” he said.

“Prove it,” she said, sliding her thigh over his legs.

They made love until the dawn and then slept for several hours. Banouin awoke first, rekindled the fire in the main room, and cooked a breakfast of hot oats sweetened with honey and a hot tisane of dried elder flower petals. He carried the tisane to Vorna and woke her gently. Then he left her to dress.

She joined him in the main room, and they ate in companionable silence. “How long will you be gone?” she asked him.

“Four, five months. Will you miss me?”

“I think that I will,” she admitted.

“That is good,” he told her with a smile.

She fell silent and sipped her tisane. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

Vorna glanced up. “I was thinking of you and your
geasa.”

Banouin smiled. “A wonderful people are the Rigante, but they do suffer some odd customs. Why is it that every tribesman is forced to carry such a curse? It seems nonsense to me.”

“The
geasa
is not a curse,” she said. “It is a protective
prophecy. The village witch, or holy woman, or sometimes the Druid lays hands on a newborn and seeks a vision. What they are looking for is a pivotal moment in the child’s future. Mostly
geasas
do not foretell death. They will point to areas of success or happiness. Eighteen years ago I placed a
geasa
on a baby girl. It was that if she ever saw a three-legged fox, she should follow it. Last year she saw a fox that had three legs, and she followed her
geasa
. She found a young man sitting by a stream. He was a Pannone, traveling with his uncle. He fell in love with her in that moment, and they were wed at the Feast of Samain.”

“Well, you are far too young to have been at my birth, lady. And I am far too old to concern myself with superstitious fears.” Suddenly he grinned. “But tell me my
geasa
anyway—if you know it.”

“I know it, Banouin. I sensed it on the first day I saw you. Drink no wine when you see the lion with eyes of blood.”

He laughed. “I would have thought that to see such a beast I would already have to have drunk far too much wine.”

“You will know when the moment comes, Banouin. Be vigilant. I do not want to lose you now. Promise me you will remember my words.”

“I will remember, and you will not lose me,” he said. “What is Connavar’s
geasa
?”

“He will die on the day he kills the hound that bites him.”

“Then I shall see that he steers clear of dogs,” said Banouin. “But let me understand this. If a man does not break his
geasa
, does he live forever?”

“No.”

“Very well, another question, then: Nothing can kill me until I have seen a lion with eyes of blood?”

“No,” she answered with a smile. “Sometimes—though not often—a man will die ahead of his time. A chance arrow, a fall from a horse, a plague or a sickness. All that is certain is that if you break your
geasa
, you will die on that day.”

“I see. So with a
geasa
and ten silver coins I could buy a pony.”

“It is always best to avoid mocking what we do not understand,” she told him sternly.

Banouin was instantly contrite. “I am sorry if it sounded like mockery. I am feeling lighthearted and full of warmth. But I promise you I would never sneer at Rigante customs. I love your people and their culture. But I was talking to Ruathain about
geasas
, and he told me his: ‘Be not the king’s shield.’ He was laughing about it, since the Rigante have no kings.”

“Ruathain is not my concern at this time,” she told him. “I did not make his prophecy. Do you promise me you will remember the lion?”

Banouin placed his hand on his heart. “I promise you,” he said. Reaching out, he took her hand. “Now, will you stay here with me until I leave next week?”

“That would cause much talk in the settlement.”

“We could walk the tree together,” he said softly, still holding to her hand. The words hung in the air.

“Marriage is not a commitment to be made lightheartedly,” she said.

“No, it is not.”

“Tell me why I should,” she whispered.

“Does it need words?” he asked, moving in close, his fingers stroking her face.

“It
always
needs words, foreigner.”

His kissed her cheek, then lightly brushed his lips across her ear. “I love you,” he told her.

“And I you,” she replied. “We will walk around the tree.”

7

T
HE WIND WAS
picking up, the waves choppy beneath the small ship, causing it to rear and shudder. Connavar gripped the bow rail and stared back longingly at the chalk cliffs. Gulls wheeled and banked above the ship, filling the air with their screeching cries. Conn glanced up, his thoughts venomous. He found the noise wearing on his nerves. The deck lurched beneath his feet. Conn’s fingers tightened on the rail. His stomach heaved. A sailor ambled past him and grinned. Conn felt like burying his fist in the man’s face, but to do so would have meant letting go of the rail.