Just after dawn he awoke. Braefar was already dressed and was tugging on a pair of calf-length boots. Conn yawned and rolled over in the bed. ‘You slept a long time,’ said Braefar.
‘I was out last night,’ said Conn. Sitting up he told his brother of his adventure with the fawn in Wishing Tree woods. Braefar listened politely.
‘You were dreaming,’ he said, at last.
‘I was not!’
Then where are the cuts you spoke of?’ Conn gazed down at his arms, then threw back the covers and checked the flesh of his thighs and calves. His skin was unmarked. Rolling from the bed he picked up his discarded leggings. Not a nick or tear could be seen. Braefar grinned at him. ‘Better get dressed, Dreamer. Or there’ll be no breakfast left.’
Alone, and mystified, Conn pulled on his leggings and reached for his tunic shirt. As he lifted it from the floor a knife fell clear, clattering to the wooden floor. But it was not the old, wooden-hilted bronze knife that he had taken to the woods. The weapon glinting in the dawn light had a blade of shining silver, and a hilt carved from stag horn. The cross-guard was of gold, and set into the pommel was a round, black stone, etched with a silver rune. It was the most beautiful knife Conn had ever seen.
His fingers curled around the hilt. It fitted his hand perfectly. Wrapping it in an old cloth he left the house and ran across to Banouin’s home. The Foreigner was asleep, but woke to see Conn sitting by his bed. He yawned and pushed back the covers.
‘I am not a farmer,’ he said. ‘I do not usually rise this early.’
‘It is important,’ said the boy, handing the man a goblet of cold water. Banouin sat up and drank.
‘Tell me,’ he said. Conn talked of his trip to the Wishing Tree woods, his rescue of the fawn and his return. Then he told of how he had found the knife. Banouin listened in weary silence. His expression changed when Conn unwrapped the blade. Banouin lifted it reverently, then swung from the bed and carried it to the window to examine it in daylight. ‘It is magnificent,’ he whispered. ‘I do not know the nature of the metal. It is not silver, nor is it iron. And this stone in the hilt . . .’
‘It is a Seidh weapon,’ said Conn. ‘It is a gift to me.’
‘I could sell this for a hundred . . . no, five hundred silvers.’
‘I do not want to sell it.’
‘Then why did you bring it to me?’
‘I cannot tell anyone I went to the Wishing Tree woods. It is forbidden. And I cannot lie to my mam. I thought you could advise me.’
‘It fits my hand to perfection,’ said Banouin. ‘As if it was made for me.’
‘Mine too,’ said Conn.
‘That cannot be, boy. My hand is much larger than yours.’ He passed the knife to Conn, who gripped the hilt.
‘See,’ said Conn, raising the weapon. His fist covered the hilt completely, the golden cross-guard resting under his thumb, the black pommel stone touching the heel of his palm. Slowly Banouin transferred the knife to his own hand. The hilt seemed to swell in his grip.
‘It is a magical blade,’ said Banouin. ‘I have never seen the like.’
‘What should I do?’ asked Conn.
‘Do you trust me?’ countered the Foreigner.
‘Of course. You are my friend.’
‘Then give the blade to me.’
‘Give … I don’t understand. It is mine!’
‘You asked for my help, Conn,’ said Banouin. ‘If you trust me, do as I ask.’
The boy stood very still for a moment. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I give you the knife.’
‘It is now mine?’ asked the Foreigner.
‘Yes. It is yours. But I still do not understand.’
Banouin, still holding the knife, gestured for Conn to follow him and walked from the bedroom to the hearth. Taking a long stick he stirred the ashes of last night’s fire, blew some embers to life and added kindling. When the fire was under way once more he hung a copper kettle over it. ‘I have always liked to start the day with a tisane,’ he said. ‘Something warm and sweet. Dried elderflower and honey is a personal favourite. Would you like some?’