DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

‘So did he,’ said Conn, with an impish grin. ‘Apparently the wind caught one of the race signposts and swung it. Govannan and those following ran into a swamp. He was game though, and still finished third. Arian says he spent most of the evening prising leeches from his buttocks. Perhaps he’ll have better luck next year.’

‘Why is it that I don’t believe the wind moved the sign?’ asked Banouin.

Conn laughed aloud. ‘Because you have a suspicious mind, Foreigner. Just like Govannan.’

‘Indeed I do,’ agreed Banouin. ‘You mentioned Arian. Are you still intent on marriage?’

‘Yes, she is the most beautiful girl. I love her dearly.’

‘You will acquire Govannan as a brother-in-law,’ pointed out Banouin.

‘Aye, he is most definitely one of the worms in the apple. Her father is another. But love will conquer all, Foreigner. A Rigante woman has the right to choose her own husband. Will you dance at my wedding?’

‘I am not a dancer, but I will attend – and happily. Now you should get off home. I am tired and in need of a good night’s sleep in a soft bed.’

‘Can I come here tomorrow? Will you teach me more of the language of your people? Will you tell me of the cities of stone?’

‘You are always welcome here, Conn. But do you not have labours to perform?’

‘Only until midday.’

‘Then I will be pleased to see you after that. Give my best wishes to your mother. Tell her I have the green satin shirt I promised.’

Connavar walked to the door. ‘Have your people won more wars?’ he asked.

‘I am afraid that they have, Conn.’

‘You must tell me all.’ …

Arian was not sure which was worse, the fear or the cure, for the two were intertwined, dancing through her mind, twisting and turning. The panic would strike unannounced, coming upon her as she walked, or lay in her bed, or washed clothes in the shallow water of the stream. Her fingers would begin to tremble, and a great emptiness would assail her, a darkness that took the heat from the sun.

She remembered the terrible day when the fear was born. Her little five-year-old sister, Baria, who slept in her bed, was coughing and feverish. Mother had given her a herbal tisane, sweetened with honey, and she had cuddled up to Arian. The older girl, close to thirteen, had pushed her away, for the child was hot, and it was a summer night, muggy and close. Baria had rolled over, clutching her rag doll. She had coughed a little more, then fallen asleep. In the middle of the night Arian awoke, struggling to remember a dream. She felt Baria’s chubby leg against her. The leg was cold.

‘Come here, little one,’ she said. ‘I will warm you.’ Rolling over she put her arms around the still figure, drawing her close. Baria was limp. For a while Arian cuddled her, but then became alarmed at the lack of movement. It was pitch dark in the room, and she could not see her sister’s face. Rising from the bed she climbed down from the loft and went to the fire. It was almost out. Kneeling by the hearth Arian added a little tinder then blew upon the fading embers. A flame licked up. Holding a candle wick to the flames she waited for it to light, then climbed back to the loft. Moving to the bedside she held the candle over Baria’s face. Pale, dead eyes stared up at her. A drop of hot wax fell on the child’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ said

Arian, without thinking. There was no answer. There would never be an answer again. Arian began to shake. She sat for a while, hot wax dribbling over her fingers.

Then she woke her parents. Her mother wailed and wept, and even her father – the gruff and surly smith – shed tears by the bedside. Govannan came to Arian, put his arm around her and drew her close, running his thick fingers through her golden hair. He said nothing, for there was nothing to say. A sweet child had vanished into the night, never to return, and the family’s grief was beyond words.