DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

‘Nonsense. Life is full of choices. You could have dropped your burden and run.’

‘Had I been carrying a burden I would have done just that,’ said Conn, softly. ‘But is that what you think I should have done?’

‘It matters not what I think,’ said Vorna, lifting a copper kettle to hang above the blaze. ‘You did what you did. Nothing can change it now.’ Her dark eyes glinted in the firelight. ‘Would you do it again, Connavar?’

He thought about the question. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, at last. ‘I have never known pain like it. Nor fear.’ He sighed. ‘But I hope I would.’

‘Why?’

‘Because a true man does not desert his friends. He does not run from evil.’

Steam hissed from the kettle. Wrapping her hand in a cloth Vorna lifted it clear of the flames, setting it down on the hearthstone. Silently she prepared two herbal tisanes, sweetened with honey.

The cave was warm now, and Connavar felt sleepy once more. When the pottery cups had cooled Vorna handed one to Conn. ‘Drink,’ she said. ‘It will help your body to repair itself. Tomorrow I will remove the splints. The bones of your arm have already knitted. Happily I accomplished this before my power was gone.’

‘I will find a way to return it to you. To repay you,’ he promised.

She smiled, and, in a rare gesture of affection, pushed her fingers through his red-gold hair. ‘It was not a loan, Connavar. It was a gift, freely given. And it cheapens a gift to talk of repayment.’

‘I am sorry, Vorna. I did not mean to offend you.’

‘No offence was taken. You have much to learn, Connavar. There are some things even a hero cannot achieve. Have you not understood that yet? You cannot give Riamfada the power to walk. You cannot bring Ruathain and Meria together. You cannot kill a raging bear with a knife – even a blade cast by the Seidh. And you certainly cannot bring back my magic. But what you have done is far more important.’

‘What is it that I have done?’ he asked.

‘You have lifted the hearts of all who have heard the tale of the boy and the bear. During that time you made men feel proud to be Rigante, for they shared in your courage. One of them stood against the beast. One of them faced death with true courage. You are now, and always will be, a part of Rigante legends. And when you are long dead the story will still be told. It will inspire other young men to be courageous. Now let me get you back to bed. Ruathain is coming to see you tomorrow. If you are well enough I will allow him to take you home.’

‘What will you do?’ he asked, sleepily.

‘Survive,’ she said.

Ever since he could climb Braefar had spent much of his free time sitting on the thatched roof of his house, high above the cares of the world. From here he could see the whole of Three Streams: the wooden houses, the thatched round-huts of the itinerant workers, the forges, the bakeries and the high barns for winter storage. He would often sit in the early morning and watch as people moved through the settlement, women heading down to the lower stream to wash clothing, men saddling their ponies to ride out and work their cattle or patrol the borders. He would wait for Nanncumal the smith to light his fire, then listen for the sound of his hammer on the anvil.

On the roof Braefar was a king, gazing down on his people.

Here he was secure, unafraid and content.

But not today.

For Braefar the homecoming of the hero was proving a painful affair. He sat watching as the two riders made their slow way down the snow-covered hillside. At first only a few people came out to meet them, but, as word spread, more and more Rigante ran from their homes, forming two lines and clapping their hands as the riders approached.

Nanncumal was there, with his son Govannan and his daughters, and the bread maker, Borga, with his wife Pelain. Then the metal crafter Gariapha and his wife Wiocca came running to join the crowd. Scores of men, women and children lined the way.

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