‘I would like that, Vorna.’ Moving into the room he stroked the babe’s head. Then he kissed the mother on the cheek.
As he rode away Vorna felt his sorrow. It lay heavy upon him, like a cloak of lead.
Ruathain also noticed the change in Connavar, and it saddened him. He tried to tackle the problem head on as they stood in the paddock field viewing the stallions. ‘What is wrong, boy?’
‘Nothing that you can help with, Big Man. I will deal with it in my own time. However, there is something I would like you to do for me. These stallions are, I believe, vital to our future. You have two pony herds. My stallions will, I am hoping, sire a new breed of war mounts, faster, stronger than any ponies we now possess. Having a more powerful mount will allow a rider to wear heavier armour.’
Ruathain took a deep breath. ‘They are fine horses. And I will breed them as you ask me. But the horses are not my main concern, Conn. You are. What has changed you? Banouin’s death? Your time among the people of Stone? What?’
Conn looked away, and when he turned back his expression had softened. ‘You are right. I am changed. But I do not wish to speak of it yet. I cannot. The memories are too fresh. We will talk soon, Big Man.’ Conn turned away and strode back to Ruathain’s old house, which he now shared with Parax. Ruathain watched him go, then walked across the paddock field to where Parax was feeding grain to the stallions.
Parax glanced up at the tall warrior, then patted the long neck of the chestnut stallion. ‘Fine beasts, eh?’ he said.
‘Fine indeed. Are you settling in?’
‘It is a good house.’ Parax moved away from the stallion and climbed to sit on the paddock fence. Ruathain joined him.
‘My son tells me you met in the lands of the Perdii.’
‘Aye. I was hunting him for Carac. He’s a canny lad, and a fighter.’
Ruathain looked into the man’s dark eyes. ‘What is the matter with him?’ he said.
Parax shrugged. ‘He is your son, Ruathain. Best you ask him.’
‘I am asking you.’
Parax climbed down from the fence. ‘We have spoken much about you, Big Man. He loves you dearly. And he trusts you completely. But understand this: he carries a weight on his soul, and it is for him to speak of it. Not I. And he will, when he is ready. Give him time, Ruathain. The air here is good, and the mountains are beautiful. Here he has people who love him. One day – and I hope it is soon – the weight will lift a little. Then – perhaps – you will see the son you knew.’
‘Perhaps?’
Parax shrugged. ‘I cannot say for certain. No man could. But as I said before, he is a fighter. Give him time.’
Conn emerged from the house carrying a heavy sack; he walked across the paddock field and on past the family home, crossing the first of the bridges and heading towards the forge of Nanncumal. The bald and burly smith was working at his anvil when Conn entered. Seeing him, Nanncumal gave a brief smile and continued hammering at the horseshoe before dunking it in a half-barrel of water. Steam hissed up. The smith put down his hammer and tongs and wiped the sweat from his broad face with a dry cloth.
‘What brings you to my forge?’ he asked the younger man. Conn opened the sack and pulled forth a long, gleaming mailshirt, created from hundreds of small, interlocked rings. He tossed it to the smith, who caught it, then carried it out into the sunlight to examine it. Nanncumal sat down on a wide bench seat, crafted from oak. Conn sat beside him. The smith silently studied the mailshirt for some time. The rings were tiny, the garment handling like thick cloth. ‘It is stunning,’ he said, at last. ‘Beautifully made. Months of careful work here, Connavar. By a master. Thank you for showing it to me.’
‘Can you duplicate it?’
‘In all honesty? No, I don’t think I can. I wish I had the time to try.’