Sword in the Storm (8 page)

“What is wrong, young lady?” he asked, his accent and rounded vowels showing him to be from the south.

“Nothing,” she said, wiping the tears from her face. “I was just … a little frightened.”

“Is there an animal close by?”

“No.” She felt foolish now and forced a smile. “I fell asleep and was dreaming.”

“You are trembling,” he said, dismounting. He was not tall—no more than an inch or two taller than she. Stepping in close, he put his arm around her. “There, there,” he said soothingly. “Don’t be frightened. It is a lovely, bright day, and there is nothing in these woods to harm you.”

The fear began to subside, but she knew it was still there, hiding, waiting. She snuggled in close to the man, feeling him pat her back and stroke her hair. She began to feel a little calmer. Then his hand slid down over her buttocks. She tensed, but his voice was soothing. “I can make all your fears go away,” he said. “I can bring you joy and make the sun shine brightly. Trust me.” He kissed her cheek and then, gently placing his hand under her chin, tilted her head toward him. His lips brushed against hers. His right hand slipped over her hips and across her belly. She shivered. He was right. The fear had gone now. And the sun was shining brightly.

What she remembered most about that first time was the warmth of skin upon skin, the man above her, his flesh wet with sweat, her body responding, full of life. No fear now, no terrifying emptiness, no thoughts of the grave.

“Was it good for you?” he asked her as they lay together on the grass.

“Yes, it was good.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen. Almost fourteen.”

“Not an Earth Maiden, then?”

“No. My father is the smith at Three Streams.”

“You are a fine girl,” he said, rising and pulling on his leggings and shirt. Reaching into his pouch, he tossed her a silver coin. “Let us keep this little tryst to ourselves, eh? A private little moment of wonder and joy.”

She nodded and said nothing more as he mounted his pony and rode away.

Two months later she was seeking the advice of Eriatha, the red-haired Earth Maiden, who informed her bluntly that she was pregnant. Arian was terrified and begged Eriatha to help her. The Earth Maiden supplied her with an herbal potion. The taste was sickening, and when it hit her stomach, the effect was hideous and painful. But the pregnancy was ended, and Arian gave Eriatha the merchant’s silver coin.

Afterward they sat in the small, round hut where Eriatha entertained her clients. Eriatha gave Arian a clay cup of sweetened cider to take away the taste of the potion. “You are too young to play this game,” said Eriatha. “Why did you do it?”

Arian haltingly told her of her sister’s death and the terrible fear it had left behind, a cold fear that the merchant’s hot, sweating, heaving body had taken away. Eriatha listened patiently, and when she spoke, it was without criticism. “We all deal with fears the best way we can,” she said. “But—and I want you to believe me—rutting with strangers carries too many dangers. I know. When I was thirteen—which seems a hundred years ago now, though it is only ten—I, too, discovered the heady joys of the game. It was with a married man, a friend of my father. When we were found out, my family disowned me, my tribe cast me out. Now I rut for money, and I live alone. I am suited to this life, Arian. You are not. And think on this: In trying to overcome
your
fear of death, you have caused the death of a child inside you. That is no small matter, girl.”

“It wasn’t a child,” insisted Arian. “It was only blood. I would never harm a child.”

Eriatha sighed. “Find another way to deal with the fear.”

“Oh, the fear is gone now,” said Arian. “I will not be so stupid again.”

But it had not gone, and three times more that year she passed silver coins to Eriatha, coins given to her by men on the road. And now a second fear had been born to torment her. What if one of the merchants should ride into Three
Streams and recognize her? What if Father should find that she had been living as an Earth Maiden? Like Eriatha, she, too, would be cast out.

Arian pushed such thoughts from her mind. Soon both fears would be ended for good. The Feast of Samain was coming, and Connavar had promised to marry her. Then there would be no need to sit, as she was doing now, by the roadside. Conn would be with her to take away the fear, to hold her close, as she should have held Baria close.

Death could not come for her while Connavar was near. He was strong and brave and warm with life.

As Arian sat on the grass thinking of Conn, two men came walking, leading a laden wagon.

Her hands were trembling, and she felt the need upon her. Rising, she tossed back her golden hair and stepped out to meet them.

Eriatha the Earth Maiden opened the door to her hut and beckoned the young man inside. Conn ducked under the low door and entered the dwelling. The hut was small and round. There were no windows and no upper rooms, just a central fire within a circle of stones, the smoke drifting up through a hole in the cone-shaped roof. By the western wall was a wide bed and a coverlet stuffed with goose down. There were two high-backed chairs and two old rugs by them on the hard-packed dirt floor. This was not where Eriatha lived, Conn knew, merely where she plied her trade.

Ruathain had told him she was from the Pannone tribe, and the Big Man had supplied the coin for Conn to give her. “Treat her with respect, Conn,” Ruathain said. “She is a good woman and pays her tithe to the settlement. Last year, when the floods were upon us, she was out from dawn till dusk shoring up the river defenses. She did not stint in her work.”

“I do not need a whore,” said Conn.

“All skills have to be learned, boy. Any man—like any
dog—can rut without instruction. But if you love your wife, you will want to bring her pleasure, too. Eriatha can teach you how. Then you won’t have to blunder around your own bedchamber on your wedding night.”

“You could teach me,” said Conn.

Ruathain’s laughter rang out. “No, Conn, I could
tell
you. Eriatha will
teach
you.”

Now he was there and trying not to look at the bed. “I thank you for your welcome,” he said formally as she invited him to sit. Eriatha gave a practiced smile and a bow. She was a small woman, slender but not thin, her red hair hanging loose to her pale, freckled shoulders. Her dress was of soft wool dyed blue and boasted no adornments, no embroidered wire, no brooches. She sat opposite him, so close that their knees were almost touching. Conn looked into her face. She was older than he had thought at first, perhaps as old as twenty-five. From a distance she looked much younger. They sat in silence for a few moments. She seemed at ease, but Conn was growing more uncomfortable. His hand moved toward his money pouch.

“Not yet,” she said. “First tell me why you have come to me.” Her voice was deep for a woman, the sound husky.

“I am to be married,” said Conn. “The Big Man … my father …” His voice trailed away. He found his embarrassment rising.

Eriatha leaned forward and took his hand. “Your father,” she said, “wants you to be a good husband and to be able to satisfy your wife on your wedding night.”

“I will be able to do that,” Conn said defensively.

“Of course you will, lover,” she told him. “Tell me, are you skilled with the sword?”

Conn relaxed. This line of conversation was much more to his liking. “Yes, I am. I am fast and strong, and Banouin tells me my balance is good.”

“And were you skilled the first time you picked up a blade?”

“Of course not. But I am a fast learner.”

“Making love is no different, Connavar. There is an art to it. Two lovers are like two dancers, moving in unison to a music only the soul can hear. All men can rut, Connavar. There is no skill in that. But to make love … now therein lies a greater joy.”

Smoothly she rose from her seat and slid her dress over her shoulders, allowing it to fall to the rug. Then she knelt and removed his boots. Rising, she took Conn’s hand. He stood before her, tense and wishing he had never come there. Lifting his hand, she pressed it to her breast. The nipple was hard under his palm. He could smell perfume in her hair. Eriatha moved in closer, her arm circling his neck.

“I think I should go,” he said. “This was a mistake.”

“Are you afraid?”

The question was asked in a whisper, but it sounded in his ears like a voice of thunder. Instead of making him tense, it somehow relaxed him. He grinned. “Yes, I suppose that I am. Do you think me foolish?”

“No,” she said, her fingers unlacing the front of his shirt, her hands sliding up over his chest. Dipping his head, he kissed her. Her mouth was warm, the taste of her tongue sweet. She undid his belt, and he felt her warm hands on his hips, the heat of the fire on the bare skin of his legs. She dropped to her knees before him, pushing her cheek against his swollen penis. Taking it in her hand, she kissed the glans, running her tongue over the tip. He groaned and heard her give a throaty chuckle.

“Are you still afraid, Connavar?” she asked.

“No.” Stooping, he took her by the arms and lifted her to her feet.

Eriatha led him to the bed, and they lay down side by side. Conn moved above her. Her legs swung expertly over his hips,
and he entered her. The warmth alone was joyful, but it was as nothing compared to the sense of harmony that engulfed him. This was perfection of a kind he had never experienced or even dreamed of. Skin on skin, her lips upon his, their bodies moving together. Lost in ecstasy, he began to move faster and faster, his entire being focused on the movement, the warmth, and the wetness.

There was no sense of time or place now. The universe was the hut, the world this bed. Nothing mattered save the desperate need within him to thrust harder and harder. His body was soaked in sweat. Rearing up on his elbows, he gave one final thrust. He cried out as he came, then sank to the bed, breathing heavily.

They lay in silence for several minutes. Then Eriatha began to stroke his chest and belly. Arousal came swiftly, and he made to mount her again.

She pushed him away. “No, lover. Now is the time for your education to begin. You have already shown me you can rut. And you do it wonderfully well. Now let us see how you swift a learner you really are.”

“What must I learn?” he asked her.

“To treat your lover’s body as if it were your own. To bring the same pleasure to her that she brings to you, with hand and mouth and body. And to learn patience, Connavar, and control. Will you be able to do what I tell you?”

He smiled. “Let us see,” he said.

“Then we will lie here for a while and merely touch,” she said. “And I will show you the secrets of the game.”

Throughout the evening and into the night she taught him. He would never know that she feigned her first orgasm, nor would he ever learn how surprised she was that the second and third were entirely natural.

At the last they sat quietly on the bed, sipping cider. “I wish there was more I could teach you, Connavar,” she said. “But
you are—as you promised—a fast learner. And you will bring your wife great joy. Who is the lucky girl?”

“Arian—she is the blacksmith’s daughter. You must have seen her. She has golden hair and the face of a goddess.”

“Yes, I have seen her. She is very pretty,” said Eriatha, climbing from the bed and putting on her faded blue dress.

Conn sensed the change in her mood. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” she answered. “But it is late and time for you to go.”

“Was it something I said?” he asked, rising and moving to his clothes.

“Foolish boy,” she said, gently stroking his face. “You have said and done nothing to offend me. Quite the reverse, in fact. Go home and leave me to get some rest. You have tired me out, and I need my sleep.”

Conn dressed and stepped to the door. Taking her hand, he kissed it. “I will never forget this night,” he said.

“Nor I. Go home.”

Only when he had left and was walking home through light rain did he remember that he had not given her the coin. Slowly he trudged back to the hut and was about to knock on the door when he heard the sound of weeping coming from within the darkened hut. The sound was plaintive and, more than that, infinitely private. Silently he took three silver coins from his pouch and left them by the door.

Then, lifting his hood into place, he walked home.

As summer waned and the corn was cut, threshed, and stored, the young men of the settlement took to the high woodlands with their elders to replenish the winter fuel stores. Younger boys, carrying long canvas sacks slung over their shoulders, gathered branches for kindling, then hauled them down the hill. Several work teams of adults selected trees for cutting, then set to with ax and saw. There were many dead trees, and they were felled first, and then stripped of branches so
that the older boys could saw the trunks into rounds that could be rolled downhill.

On either side of a fallen trunk Connavar and Braefar dragged and pushed a four-foot double-handed saw. Stripped to the waist, sweat streaking their tanned skin, they worked the serrated blade deep into the wood. Braefar had an old cloth wrapped around his blistered right hand. Blood had stained the cloth. Younger than Conn by a year, he was a head shorter and twenty pounds lighter than his half brother. It was as if nature had played a cruel trick on the swordsman Ruathain. The son of the slender Varaconn looked more like Ruathain every day, tall and powerful, already showing prodigious energy and strength, while the swordsman’s own son was sparrow-boned and puny.

It was a source of some shame to Braefar, who, though he could outrun the fastest Rigante tribesman and shoot a bow as well as most men, could not yet wield a bronze longsword or wrestle a bull calf to the ground. His skin was soft, and no matter how hard he worked, he could build no calluses. Every time he was called on to use the copper saw, his hands bled.

The two young men had worked all morning, and as the sun neared noon, they laid aside the two-man saw and sat in the shade of a spreading oak to eat. Scattered clouds drifted across the blue sky, dappling the green valleys with shadow, and darker clouds hovered around the Druagh peaks, threatening rain in the late afternoon.