The prisoner was tall, his clothes, though travel stained, expensive: a tunic shirt of fine blue wool, edged with silver thread, over leggings of soft black leather. Brother Solstice stared at the man’s face. His eyes were pale blue, his hair blond, his mouth full under a drooping moustache. It was a good face, the kind of face you would trust, square jawed, fine boned.
Brother Solstice glanced at the Long Laird, seated on the dais above him. The Laird raised a heavy hand to quell the rising, angry murmurs from the crowd that accompanied the arrival of the prisoner. ‘We’ll have silence, if you please,’ said the Long Laird, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. Obedience was instantaneous. Brother Solstice smiled. The Long Laird had a manner most princes would give a limb for. Past sixty now, his left arm arthritic and useless, his back bent, the Long Laird remained a commanding figure. The Laird stroked his silver beard, then leaned forward to squint at the prisoner, who stood between two guards, back straight, his arms bound behind him. The Long Laird waved the guards back and the prisoner stood on his own at the centre of the hall, the crowd pressing in around him like a human horseshoe.
The Long Laird leaned back in his chair and called Ruathain forward. Brother Solstice watched the man closely. He had met Ruathain on a number of occasions, and liked him. There would be no need to waste his power on seeking to ascertain whether the Three Streams man spoke the truth. Ruathain always spoke the truth. A butterfly wing of doubt touched him. Do not be complacent, Brother Solstice warned himself. A man’s life is at stake here. Closing his eyes he reached within himself, opening the hidden door to his power. Warmth flowed through him and he opened his eyes.
The scene before him was the same – save that the colours were infinitely brighter. Ruathain’s green tunic shirt shone with the glory of spring, and around his exposed face and hands was an aura of pale, golden light. Everything about the man was revealed to Brother Solstice: his pride, his courage, his need for honesty, his fears – even his dreams. And under the light Brother Solstice could see the darkness that touched every soul, but, in this man, was held in check with chains stronger than iron.
I like you, Ruathain, he thought.
Under the questioning of the Long Laird Ruathain told of the discovery of the murdered man and the girl, the chase, and the eventual discovery of the defendant purchasing supplies. He also added that the other three men had been killed in combat by his son, Connavar.
The Long Laird called the young man from the crowd. Brother Solstice leaned forward. Here too was the same golden light, but beneath it the darkness roiled like a caged lion, seeking a way to break free. The Druid gazed at Connavar, at the jagged red scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, and recalled the story of the boy and the bear. Then he saw the knife at the boy’s belt. A shiver went through him.
A Seidh blade!
The druid’s eyes narrowed, and he felt his skin tingle. What are you, boy, he wondered?
The Long Laird questioned the youngster, who told of his fight with the three hunted men. The story was outlined without embellishment, and became the more dramatic for it. At the conclusion the audience clapped their hands and cheered. Connavar reddened.
‘How old are you, lad?’ asked the Long Laird.
‘Two months from sixteen, Lord,’ answered Connavar.
‘We have heard of you, and your battle with the beast. You are a fine Rigante, and a youngster we can be proud of. As your laird I name you a man before your time. From this moment forward you have a man’s rights in council and in life. You may ask a gift from me – and I shall grant it.’
Connavar stood silently for a moment. ‘I need no gift, Lord, but I did come here to seek your permission to travel with Banouin the Foreigner to his home across the southern sea.’