'Then I will sleep sounder in my bed knowing that you are prepared,' she told him. 'Fiallach is also prepared. He talks of nothing but battles. I think he is rather looking forward to one.'
At last, to Tae's delight, he looked discomfited. 'Then he is doubly a fool. But I do not speak of battles. I speak of war. Battles are only a small part of the beast.'
'Beast? You think war is a living thing?'
'Aye, I do. I have seen it kill. I have seen it blacken the hearts of men. I have seen things to chill the soul.' He shivered suddenly. 'And I will not allow the beast to stain the mountains of Caer Druagh.' Taking her hand he kissed her palm. 'I am glad Fiallach pushed my brother. For being with you has gladdened my heart.' Connavar returned with her to the feasting fire, bowed low, then strolled away.
Fiallach approached her. 'You shamed me,' he said. 'That is no way for a betrothed woman to behave.'
'I am not betrothed,' she told him. 'Not to you - not to anyone.'
His pale eyes narrowed. 'We had an understanding.'
'No. You had an understanding. Not once have you asked me to marry you.'
He smiled then. 'Ah. You are angry with me. I understand. I reacted . . . hastily to the boy. We will put it right on the journey back home.'
The Long Laird glanced up at the trees as he rode back from the execution. The leaves were turning gold, and there was a chill in the air. His arthritic shoulder throbbed with pain, and the useless fingers of his left hand felt as if hot needles were being pushed into the skin. Beside him rode the white-robed Brother Solstice, and, ahead of the walking crowd, the two men travelled back to Old Oaks in silence.
When they reached the hall a young retainer took charge of the ponies. The Long Laird made straight for his sitting room, slumping down into a wide armchair close to the newly lit fire in the hearth. Brother Solstice lifted a flagon of uisge from a nearby shelf, and poured two generous measures into brightly painted cups. The Long Laird sipped the golden spirit and sighed.
'We should just have killed him,' he said. 'Quietly and without fuss.'
Brother Solstice did not answer. The trial and subsequent drowning of Senecal had depressed him. He had known the young man all his life. Senecal was not a malicious man, merely stupid and easily led. Left to his own devices he would never have murdered his parents. Under the influence of Ferol, however, he had fallen into evil.
The hunters had found him back in his own cabin, naively waiting to operate the ferry. His only defence at the trial was that Ferol had killed his parents, and he was too frightened of Ferol to run away and report it. Brother Solstice believed him, but the law was iron, and Senecal felt the full fury of it. When sentence was passed he had cried out for mercy, and refused to walk to his death. Dragged clear of the hall he had broken free and thrown himself on the ground, wrapping his arms around a tethering post. Two guards prised loose his hold, and he had been tied and put in the back of a wagon. Senecal had wept and screamed constantly on the journey to the execution site.
The Long Laird had swung his pony and ridden back to the screaming prisoner. 'In the name of Taranis!' he thundered. 'Can you not even be a man in the hour of your death?'
'Don't kill me. Please don't kill me!' whimpered Senecal. The Long Laird ordered him gagged.
His legs bound with chain, Senecal had been thrown into the swamp, hands and legs tied. The murky waters had swiftly closed over his head, his body floating down to join the other murderers in the silt below.
In the sitting room Brother Solstice finished his uisge. The Long Laird was lost in thought, staring into the fire. Brother Solstice looked at him, seeing the weariness in the time-worn face. 'By the gods, it makes you think,' whispered the Laird. 'All my life I have believed the Rigante to be a special people, quite unlike the murderous foreigners. We're not, though, are we?'
'Yes we are,' insisted the druid. 'I have travelled as far as Stone. Everywhere there are criminals and outlaws, killers, rapists, seducers. Everywhere. In the large cities crimes against people take place almost hourly. Here in the mountains a murder such as this is still - thankfully - a rare occurrence. In the main we care for one another, and we live in relative harmony with our neighbours. I have seen little that is base or cruel among the Rigante.'
The Long Laird glanced at his friend. 'You can say that after putting to death a man who connived in the butchering of his parents?'
'Maggots will always enter some fruit - even on the finest tree.'
For a little while both sat in silence, lost in their thoughts. Brother Solstice wondered at the wisdom of his words. Yes, he believed the Rigante to be special, but how much of that uniqueness lay in the mountain lifestyle, where neighbours were forced to rely one upon another, and where every man and woman had a part to play in the life of the tribe? And how much was in the hands of the Seidh? According to druid teachings there was magic in the land, magic born of Spirit. The Seidh, so the druids believed, were the guardians of that Spirit. Solstice had felt the power many times in his life, climbing to high peaks and staring out over the landscape, his own spirits soaring as the magic of the mountains flowed through him.
Nursing his uisge he studied the face of the old man sitting by the fire. The Long Laird had ruled the Northern Rigante for almost forty years, with wisdom, with love, with cunning and subtlety, and - as today - with ruthless regard for the law. The years had not been kind to the Long Laird. His huge torso was now stripped of flesh, his joints creaking and painful, his heart close to its final beat.
'Another winter coming,' whispered the Long Laird. 'The years are passing by too swiftly.' The old man rubbed his shoulder.
'You should drink more nettle tea - and less uisge,' said Brother Solstice. 'It will help ease the pain.'
The Long Laird grinned. 'It won't make me young again.'
'Is that what you want? To make all those foolish mistakes once more?'
The Long Laird stroked his silver beard. 'I've had my life, my friend, and I've lived it to the full. I have no regrets. Most of my enemies are dead. Most of my friends are too, come to think of it. But I walked through this life as a man of pride. No, I don't want to do it all again, but I miss the heady joy of youth, the running, the fighting, the whoring.'
'You have seen an earth maiden three times this week,' observed Brother Solstice. 'So you are not missing the whoring.'
The old man chuckled. 'You are right. But I mainly ask her here now for the company, for the warmth in my bed. I miss my wife. Sometimes in the night I think I hear Llysona call my name.' He shivered and held out his good hand to the fire.
'You speak of her as if she is dead, my friend.'
'I am dead to her. There is no doubt of that.' The Long Laird looked into the druid's eyes. 'You think if I went to her she would forgive me and come back?'
'Not a chance,' replied Brother Solstice. 'Would you, if the situation was entirely reversed?'
The Long Laird shook his head sadly. 'No, I wouldn't.' He laughed suddenly. 'Entirely reversed? I think if I'd found Llysona in bed with my sister I'd have died of shock.'
'To entirely reverse it she would have to have been in bed with your brother,' said the druid, pedantically.
'I know, I know. I was looking for a little levity. Damn, it's not as if the sister was worth it. She promised much and delivered little. But I miss Llysona - and the babe, watching her grow.'
'The babe is now seventeen and will probably wed next spring.'
'You see what I mean?' said the Long Laird. 'The years are flying by like winter geese.' The comfortable silence returned and they drank second cups of uisge. Then the Long Laird spoke again. 'You think the Sea Wolves will raid in force in the spring?'
'Impossible to say,' admitted Brother Solstice. 'There have been occasional raids these last few years. But none on our coast. What makes you think they might?'
'Maybe they won't. But we've been lucky for too long. I wish I had a son. There is no-one to follow me. No-one I trust, anyway.'
&n
bsp; 'You trust Maccus. He is a good man.'
'Aye, he is. But what little ambition he had died with his wife. As to the rest? Fiallach is lacking in wisdom, and he is not liked. The others are all petty rivals. If any one of them became laird you would see no end of petty grievances. Perhaps even civil disobedience. At worst there would be a war. Then, if the Sea Wolves came in real force, they might win. And that, my friend, is an intolerable thought.'
'What will you do?' asked Brother Solstice.
'I'm not sure. I like the look - and the sound - of young Connavar. He has the makings of greatness. Bringing back the stallions was a fine idea. Given a few years we'll have bigger, stronger, faster war mounts. But he's young. If I had five years to train him . . .'
'Give him some mission to perform. Then you can see how he handles himself.'
'Mission?' queried the Long Laird. 'What kind of mission?'
'Send him to Llysona at the coast.'
'For what purpose?'
'You think the Sea Wolves might attack. If they do they will sail up the estuary to Seven Willows. Therefore you send a warrior to organize possible defences, and to advise Llysona. Then we will see what diplomatic skills Connavar can muster.'
'She already has Fiallach. He's a hard and proud man. He'll take no advice from a boy.'
'Connavar is not a boy, my friend. He is a few months younger than you were when your father died. Besides, that is partly what makes it a mission. If Connavar cannot . . . make his presence felt, then he would not prove a good laird.'
'How long have you been thinking about this, Druid?'
'A little while,' answered Brother Solstice, with a smile.
'Since the Fire Night when he danced with my daughter? I may be old, but I still know how to listen. Maccus told me that Connavar forced Fiallach to back down. In front of a crowd. Theirs will not be an easy meeting in future.'
'I think Tae took quite a fancy to the lad,' observed the druid.
The Long Laird chuckled. 'So now you are a matchmaker.' His smile faded. 'Has it occurred to you that Fiallach might challenge and kill him?'
'Aye, or a tree may fall on him, or his horse throw him, or an illness strike him. You are looking for an heir. I believe Connavar may be that man. If he is then he will prove himself at Seven Willows.'
The Long Laird shook his head and gave a wry grin. 'You know the Sea Wolves were the main reason Llysona chose Seven Willows. She knew I would worry. It must have annoyed her terribly when the Sea Wolves didn't attack. Probably knew she was there. By Taranis, I'd rather face a hostile army than come again under the lash of that tongue.'
'And Connavar?'
'I will ask him if he wishes to undertake the mission. Perhaps he will refuse.'
'A barrel of ale against a goblet of wine that he leaps at the chance.'
'I'll take that wager,' said the Long Laird.
While the young men of Three Streams sought out Conn's company, seeing only a hero, tall and strong, Meria - with a mother's eyes - saw beyond the facade, and instinctively felt the terrible turmoil raging within him. Like Ruathain before her she tried to engage Parax in conversation. With the same results. He politely rebuffed her.
Meria knew there was little point in trying to question Conn herself. If he wanted to speak of his troubles he would do so. The problem nagged at her. It was not that Conn never smiled, just that when he did so the expression was swift and soon gone. She also noticed his mood change in the presence of his eleven-year-old brother, Bendegit Bran. He would soften and hug the golden-haired boy to him, then a darkness would descend upon him, and he would fall into silence. More often than not, after being with Bran, Conn would wander away by himself, returning to Ruathain's old home, or riding up into the woods. This was especially puzzling to Meria.
More confusing still was his reaction when Bran cut himself while playing with an old knife. It was a shallow wound, requiring only a couple of stitches, but when Conn saw it his face became grey and his hands began to tremble.
Meria was at a loss to understand it.
She carried the problem to Eriatha. Every midweek afternoon they would meet and talk at Eriatha's small house on the outskirts of Three Streams. The earth maiden listened as Meria talked of Conn and his curious behaviour.
'Strange that he doesn't talk about it,' said Eriatha. 'In my experience men love nothing better than to talk about themselves. Have you asked him?'
'No,' admitted Meria. 'Ruathain has tried. He was always more comfortable talking to him than to me. Something happened across the water. Not a battle. Something else. Whatever, it is haunting him. He is not the same.'
'I would think that war would change any man. All that blood and death.'
Meria shook her head. 'Two weeks ago Ruathain took a wound to the shoulder. He was gashed by one of the bulls. Conn stitched the wound for him. There was no problem. But when Bran cut himself I thought Conn would pass out.' Meria sighed. 'I am losing sleep over this. I love him more than life, and I cannot help him.'
'I will go to him,' said Eriatha. 'Perhaps he will talk to me.'
Meria smiled. 'I was hoping you would say that. You will not say we have spoken?'
'Of course not.'
The following evening Eriatha walked across the first bridge and crossed the field to Conn's house. She tapped at the door. It was opened by an old man with a silver beard. Stepping aside he gestured for her to enter.
'You have come to see Connavar?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'He'll be back soon. He is at the forge, talking to the smith. May I fetch you something to drink?'
'No.'
'You are Eriatha, the earth maiden?'
'I am.'
'Did Conn send for you?'
'No.'
'Well, you take a seat by the fire, lady. I was just about to stroll down to Pelain's tavern and enjoy a jug or two. I hope you will not think me rude to leave you here alone.'
Eriatha could see an unfinished meal upon the table, and noted that Parax was not wearing boots or shoes. She was grateful for the lie, and the courtesy behind it.
'No, I do not think you rude, friend. Go and enjoy yourself.'
Parax pulled on his boots, gathered up his cloak and walked out into the night. Eriatha sat by the fire and glanced around the room. The walls were bare of ornament, and there was only a single, threadbare rug. The floor was of hard-packed dirt, though someone had traced a pattern in it, of interlocking circles. She guessed it would have been Ruathain.
It was more than an hour before Connavar entered the house. Throwing his cloak across the back of a chair he moved towards the kitchen, then saw Eriatha. He showed no surprise. 'Where is Parax?' he asked.
'At Pelain's new tavern.'
'Have you eaten?'
'I am not hungry, Conn. I just thought I would stop by and see you. Do you mind?'
'Not at all. Truth to tell I was planning to visit you.'
Eriatha rose from her chair. She was wearing a simple gown of sky blue. Stepping towards him, she flipped it from her shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor. Conn led her to the first bedroom.
An hour later Eriatha lay awake, as Conn slept beside her. The lovemaking had been almost fierce, and yet containing moments of tenderness. He had fallen asleep swiftly, and was now breathing deeply. Meria was right. He had changed, she thought. She heard Parax enter the house quietly, move to his own bedroom and shut the door.
The night deepened, and just as Eriatha was about to climb from the bed, Conn began to tremble. His arm, which was outside the covers, tensed, his fingers curling into a fist. He groaned then, a sound full of despair. His body shook, and he cried out. Eriatha moved in close to him, stroking his long blond-streaked red hair. 'Be calm,' she whispered, 'it is but a dream.'
Conn awoke, and the trembling ceased. Rolling onto his back he wiped the sweat from his face. 'It is no dream,' he said. 'I was there. I saw it.'
Tell me.'
He shook his head. 'You'd not want
to share it, believe me.'
'Speak it,' she insisted, her voice low. 'Let it go.'
For a while she thought he was ignoring her. He lay quietly, eyes closed. Then he spoke. 'After the fall of Alin, and the final destruction of the Perdii army, Stone soldiers gathered up thousands of tribesmen to be sold as slaves. Thousands to be marched in chains to the lands of Stone. Others were . . . murdered, their arms nailed to the trunks of trees. There were hundreds of these.' He fell silent. Eriatha lay beside him, saying nothing. Waiting. The worst, she knew, was still to come.
'I found Parax among the prisoners. I knew him. I asked for his release. Jasaray granted it. On the last day, as Parax and I prepared for the journey home, we saw . . . we saw . . .' He sat up and covered his face with his hands. 'I cannot,' he whispered.
'Tell it, Connavar. You need to tell it.'
He took a deep breath and sighed. 'We rode out of Alin and saw perhaps five hundred young children sitting on a hillside, being guarded by soldiers. We went past them, and up the hill. Soon we could hear the sounds of screaming. We rode on. In a clearing, a half-mile from the settlement, Stone soldiers were killing children. There were hundreds of bodies - babes, infants, toddlers. A huge grave had been dug. I saw a man swing a babe by its feet against a tree . . .' His voice tailed away. 'I wanted to draw my sword and race down into the soldiers, killing as many as I could. I should have done that. I will regret not doing so for as long as I live.'
'Had you done it they would have killed you, then carried on slaying the babes.'
'I know that. As I know that I was filled with the need to return to Caer Druagh and do all in my power to prevent such horror from touching my own people. But I cannot forget that I turned my back on those children and rode away. No hero would have done that. And there is something else ... I killed a man back in Alin, just before the war. He had betrayed Banouin. As I was preparing to kill him a group of children ran by outside. They were laughing. I told him that the days of laughter for his people were coming to an end, that I would do all in my power to wipe them from the face of the earth. And I did.'