Stormrider (12 page)

“You are awake early,” said Kaelin, sitting up and yawning.

“Senlic shouldn’t be working so hard,” she said. “You should let him rest more.”

“I have tried,” he said. “He needs to feel useful.”

Other men were moving into sight now, and she saw a team of horses being led off to the rear of the barn. “I wish you weren’t going with Maev,” she said.

He climbed out of the bed and moved to stand behind her. She felt his arms slide around her. “Will you miss me?”

“That’s a stupid question. Of course I’ll miss you. As will Jaim and Feargol.”

“I’ll be back within twenty days. Now, why not come back to bed and give me something to remember you by.”

“You’ll remember,” she said, spinning out of his grasp. “And you have men standing out there in the cold waiting for you. So get yourself dressed. I’ll go and prepare you some breakfast.”

Chara left the room and walked downstairs. Maev was already there.

“Is there anything you want me to bring back from Eldacre?” asked the older woman.

“Just my husband,” Chara answered coldly.

Senlic Carpenter was weary as he limped toward the main house, and his spirits were low. As a Rigante he had prided himself on his lack of fear, his courage. But he was frightened now. Not of dying, for all men had at some time to pass from this life. No, Senlic’s fear was of becoming sickly and a burden on those he had served. He did not want to end his life lying in a bed, incontinent and rambling. The stroke had almost killed him. On some mornings he wished that it had. He would at least have died as a man.

Senlic paused at the gate. Patch sat down beside him. “I wonder when I got old,” he said aloud, the words slurring. It seemed to have crept up on him almost unnoticed. Yes, his hair had grayed, and he found himself a little slower. He had noticed aches in his limbs during the coldest of the weather. Now, though, he felt so . . . so ancient.

He had bade farewell to Kaelin and Maev and most of the farm workers. Once he would have regretted not joining them on the journey to Eldacre. Senlic liked visiting cities occasionally to marvel at the great buildings and enjoy afternoons in taverns and evenings in whorehouses, where they played music. He did not regret it now. A visit to a whorehouse would only fill him with shame. Patch caught sight of a rabbit out in the meadow and gave a low growl. “You’ll not catch him, boy,” said Senlic. Patch cocked his head and stared up at the man. “You want to try, though, eh? Go on, then. Go get him!” Patch bounded off across the snow. The rabbit sat and watched him, then sprang away. Patch tried to turn and slithered on the snow. The sight lifted Senlic’s mood. Yapping furiously, Patch gave chase once more.

The sound of the dog barking brought little Feargol Ustal running from the main house. “Will he catch the rabbit?” the six-year-old asked Senlic.

“No, son. Not a hope.”

“Has he ever caught a rabbit?”

“Not once in nine years of life. Doesn’t stop him trying, though.” Senlic thought about it for a moment. “It’s not strictly true, come to think on it. He did bring a rabbit back to me once. It had been struck by a hawk but had managed to get away. It had a wound on one of its hind legs. Patch picked it up and brought it to me. Carried it like a little puppy—ever so careful—then laid it at my feet.”

“Did you eat it?”

“Funnily enough, we didn’t. I figured it had earned its life by escaping the hawk. So we kept it for a while and fed it. The leg got better, and I carried it back to the meadow and let it go.”

“Why didn’t Patch kill it?” asked the redheaded child.

“Maybe he thought it deserved another chance at life. I don’t know. Can’t tell what a dog is thinking. You should have mittens on, boy. It’s rare cold today.”

Feargol stared off to the south. “I wish Uncle Kaelin had let me go to Eldacre,” he said.

“You still wearing that charm I gave you?”

“Yes,” said the boy happily, delving inside his coat and lifting out the small silver pendant.

“And all the dreams have gone, yes?”

“Yes, they have. Its wonderful. How did it make them go away?”

Senlic shrugged. “It’s magic, lad. Don’t know how it works, only that it does. Do you still see pictures in your head?”

“Sometimes,” the boy answered, warily. “Maev says they are daydreams and of no . . .” He struggled for the word. “. . . condequinces,” he said at last.

“Consequence,” corrected Senlic. “It means importance. Maev is a person to listen to on most things. She’s a clever woman, hard and bright. She’s wrong on this, though, lad. I have the sight, too—or once I did. Tell me about the pictures.”

“Aunt Chara says you should come in and have a hot drink. She says it will do you good.”

“Aye, that’s true. We’ll go in together.”

Once inside, Senlic struggled to remove his heavy topcoat. It was not easy with a left arm he could not lift. He saw Chara moving toward him and wanted to tell her to mind her business, but he was too tired and her help was welcome. He sat at the breakfast table and sipped the hot honey tisane she had prepared for him. It had more than a dash of Uisge in it, for which he was grateful. Feargol clambered onto the seat beside him. “Tell me about the pictures,” said Senlic.

“I saw a man with golden hair in a pistol fight. He had his ear shot off,” said Feargol.

“What else?”

“There’s a place with trees, big huge trees, bigger than any trees in the mountains. They are red. One of them has a trunk almost as big as this house.”

“I think Maev is right about some of these visions,” Chara said, with a smile. “Trees as big as houses. I have never heard the like.”

“Across the ocean,” said Senlic. “I saw them once in a dream. There were people living there, and their skins were like the trees, reddish brown.”

“They have feathers in their hair and on their shirts,” said Feargol.

“That’s right, lad. What was really strange was that none of them had beards.”

“You shouldn’t encourage the boy,” said Chara. “Big trees and men without beards.”

“Its true,” said Senlic. “By the Source, it is. I always thought that one day I would cross the ocean and walk those mountains. What else have you seen, boy?”

“There’s a sad man who paints pictures. He sits alone all the time. I watched him paint a picture. It was like magic. He dipped his brush in dark paint and smeared it on the square. Then he dipped another brush in white paint and mixed some blue in it. Then he dabbed at the picture, and all the dark smears suddenly became mountains with snow on them. He’s very clever.”

“Why do you say he’s a sad man?” asked Chara. “If he can paint like that, he should be happy.”

“He’s not happy,” said Feargol. “He hurts all the time. He has all these scars on his body, and they bleed and have pus in them. And he writes these long letters. Then he burns them.”

“Who does he write the letters to?” asked Senlic.

“I don’t know. I can’t read.”

“Does he have a wife?”

“No. He lives in a great big house. Much bigger than this one. And there are soldiers everywhere.”

“You should try to see happy things,” said Chara. “Not sad men who paint pictures or people having their ears shot off.”

“I never know what I am going to see,” said Feargol. “It’s always a surprise. I would like to have one of the sad man’s pictures. I would hang it in my room.”

Outside the house Patch began to bark again. This time it was not the excited yapping of the chase. Senlic pushed himself to his feet and walked to the window.

“What is it?” asked Chara.

“The Cochland brothers,” answered Senlic. “Do you have a pistol?”

Eain Cochland was cursing himself for his decision to walk the eighteen miles to Ironlatch Farm with his brother, Draig. He had been prompted to the action by simple boredom and still had no real understanding of why Draig wanted to warn Kaelin Ring. Added to which he could still feel the stab of emotional pain he had suffered at hearing that his brother liked the man. In some ways it felt like a betrayal. He had long grown used to the fact that Draig did not like him, but the hurt was lessened by the fact that Draig did not like anybody.

Now, as well as his hurt feelings, his legs were aching, his feet and hands were cold, and he was hungry. It was vastly unlikely that they would be invited inside, and the whole enterprise was an enormous waste of time and effort. It was not that he wanted to see the little boy killed or that he did not care. It was just that he did not care
enough
to suffer cold hands and feet.

As they approached the gate, a small black and white mongrel ran toward them, barking furiously. The dog ran toward Draig, who dropped to one knee on the snow and held out his hand. Eain stiffened. One of these days his idiot brother was going to have his fingers bitten off.

Not today, though. The dog did what all dogs did when Draig offered his hand. It stopped barking, stood looking suspiciously at the hand, then eased itself forward to sniff the fingers. “Good lad,” said Draig softly, sliding his hand over the dog’s head and ruffling its ears.

The farmhouse door opened, and two people emerged. One was the old cattle handler Senlic Carpenter. Eain had not laid eyes on him for two years, and he was stunned at the change in the man’s appearance. His hair, which had been dark gray was now white, and he looked around 110 years old. Beside him came Chara Ring. Eain felt suddenly uncomfortable. She was a mile beyond pretty! Her red hair was more closely cropped than was usually popular among highland women, but it merely highlighted her beauty. Eain’s thoughts plunged toward the carnal. Then he noticed the long pistol in her hand. He glanced back at Senlic and saw that he, too, was armed. His rising ardor vanished. He swung toward Draig. “Looks like they won’t be welcoming us with a pipe band,” he said. Draig rose to his feet and reached for the gate.

“No point opening that,” said Senlic Carpenter. “You’re not welcome here.”

“You look like you ought to be dead, old fool,” snarled Draig. “Do not annoy me or I’ll finish you where you stand.”

“Try it,” said Chara Ring, her voice cold. “I’ll put a ball through your skull before you’ve moved two paces.”

“That just about does it, Draig,” said Eain. “Let’s go home and leave these two to their day.”

“Aye, be off with you,” said Senlic.

Draig swallowed hard, and Eain could feel his brother’s anger rising. “I need to see Kaelin Ring,” said Draig.

“He’s not here,” said Chara.

“Maev Ring, then.”

“She’s not here, either.”

“Let’s go home,” Eain prompted, again. “We’re not welcome.”

“Aye, you are right,” muttered Draig. Just as he was turning away, a small redheaded boy appeared in the doorway. Eain glanced at him. He was pulling on a white cap with ear protectors. Once it was in place he ran across the snow to stand between Chara and Senlic.

“You’d be Feargol, the boy who killed the bear,” said Draig.

“It killed my daddy,” said Feargol.

“Go inside now,” Chara told the child. “This is no place for you. These two men are leaving.”

“They only just came,” said Feargol. Chara did not answer, but she moved the pistol to her side.

Draig stared hard at Senlic Carpenter. “It was once said you had the sight, Carpenter. I see that’s no longer true.” He glanced around at the farm buildings. “Not many men here. I hope they’re not gone long.”

Chara once more raised the pistol. Draig looked at her. Eain tugged at his brother’s sleeve. There was no doubting her willingness to shoot.

“I also hope,” said Draig, “that you are as good with that pistol as you claim. Chances are you’ll need to be.”

“You should ask them if they want to rest,” said Feargol. “You should give them something warm to drink.”

“Be quiet, boy!” snapped Senlic. “Highland hospitality does not extend to rogues and thieves.”

“Would you like a biscuit?” asked Feargol, stepping forward and pulling a crumbling oatcake from the pocket of his coat. He ran to the gate and pushed his hand through the gap in the slats. Draig dropped to one knee and took the offering. Then, with a sigh, he rose.

“Don’t say anything!” urged Eain. “We’re not going to get involved!”

“The boy is in danger,” said Draig. “That’s why we came. That’s why we walked twenty miles.”

“Eighteen miles,” said Eain.

“Whatever!” snapped Draig, casting a murderous glance at his brother. He looked back at Senlic. “If you had the sight, you’d know I was telling you the truth.”

Senlic stepped forward and met Draig’s gaze. “I don’t have it anymore, Cochland. But the boy does.” He looked down at Feargol. “You think these are bad men?” he asked.

“I think we should give them something hot to drink,” said Feargol. “My daddy always did when people came to us from the cold.”

Chara walked to the gate. “Are you armed?” she asked.

“Aye,” said Draig, opening his long bearskin coat and showing her the butts of the two pistols in his belt. Eain saw the concern on her face.

“Walk ahead of me to the house,” she told Draig. “I’ll not have it said I turned away any man in this weather, not even a Cochland.”

Eain wanted to tell her what to do with her damned hospitality, but the cold was really beginning to get to him and he longed to sit down in the warmth. He followed Draig into the house and shivered with pleasure as the heat from the fire touched his skin.

Draig sat down at the table and munched on the oatcake biscuit the boy had given him. Chara whispered something to Senlic, who went and stood by the far wall, his pistol now in his hand. Feargol clambered up on the bench seat alongside Draig and stared at him. “Who is the man with the little beard shaped like an arrow?” the boy asked.

“I see the boy does have the sight,” Draig said to Senlic.

“He is coming here,” said Feargol.

“I know,” Draig told him. “He’s not close now, though, is he?” he added, suddenly nervous.

“I don’t think so.”

Chara gave Draig a mug of warm tisane, then poured another for Eain. As Eain took it from her, their hands touched. He felt himself blushing and looked away without thanking her.

“Now, what is this danger you spoke of?” asked Chara.