her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a cry.
Bane strode from the Green Ghost. Banouin ran after him. 'We had better leave this settlement,' he said. They might decide to hang you.'
'I did nothing wrong,' argued Bane.
'You knifed an unarmed man,' Banouin pointed out.
'He wasn't a man. He struck a woman and he wouldn't fight. He had no honour. He was a vile thing, no better than vermin.'
'I warned you, Bane. You kill too quickly,' said Banouin sadly.
'And you nag worse than a wife,' snapped Bane. 'But you are right. Let's be gone from this place. Killing him has quite spoiled my day.'
'Not as badly as it spoiled his,' said Banouin.
They rode several miles from Sighing Water and camped in a cave overlooking the sea. Banouin lit a fire, but Bane wandered out and sat on the cliff top, watching the moon shining above the dark water. Banouin left him there for a while and tended the fire. Bane was in one of his dark, gloomy moods, and would not appreciate company for a while.
There was little food left, and Banouin ate a stick of smoke-dried meat they had purchased several days before. He leaned back and stared at the cave wall, watching the fire shadows dance upon the grey stone.
Bane did kill too swiftly. The fat man was a bully and a coward, but that was no reason for him to die choking on his own blood. Worse, he knew that Bane had gone to the place seeking trouble. He knew the look that came into his friend's strange eyes, a kind of glint, a shining that always precipitated violence. And yet Bane had always been kind to him, seeming to understand his hatred of violence and his longing for a life of quiet study. The younger man had protected him, and been willing to be ostracized by his fellow tribesmen rather than give up their friendship.
It was all so baffling. When Bane was happy he could charm the hardest heart, and make friends with anyone. People genuinely liked him. Banouin thought back to the cut-throat river crew, and their fondness for his companion. It was chilling to think that if any one of them had said the wrong word Bane could just as easily have killed them. Would he have been different had Connavar accepted him?
Adding dry sticks to the fire he remembered asking his mother some weeks ago why a great man like the king had turned his back on his son.
'That is a complex question,' said Vorna. 'But it presupposes that greatness in one area must mean greatness in all. This is not even close to the truth. Connavar is a good man, and I love him dearly, but he is harsh and unforgiving. There is also within him - as there is within Bane - a burning need for violence that is barely held in check.' She had looked into his eyes, then risen from her chair and moved to the window, which she pulled shut, despite the stifling summer heat that filled the house. 'I want no-one to overhear what I am to tell you, Banouin, and I do not want you to repeat it. Ever. Do I have your promise?'
'Of course, Mother.'
She sat down in her chair and took a deep breath. 'Many years ago Connavar wed a young Rigante woman named Tae. He loved her deeply. He had risked his life to save her from the Sea Wolves, and he had brought her to Three Streams. Then he became Laird, and they moved to Old Oaks. One day, Connavar went to the Wishing Tree woods to commune with the Seidh. There he was warned never to break a promise, no matter how small.
'One day, soon after, he had told Tae that he would be back at Old Oaks at around noon, in order to accompany her on a ride to a pretty lake they had heard of. But as he was riding home he saw a woman standing outside a hut built in the hills.'
'And that was Arian,' put in Banouin.
'I am telling this story.'
'But I know it already,' he argued. 'He made love to Arian, and Bane was born.'
'Listen!' hissed Vorna. 'Arian was his childhood sweetheart but she was . . .' Vorna hesitated. 'This must never be repeated!'
'I have already promised that. Go on.'
'She knew many men - even as a young
Bane strode from the Green Ghost. Banouin ran after him. 'We had better leave this settlement,' he said. They might decide to hang you.'
'I did nothing wrong,' argued Bane.
'You knifed an unarmed man,' Banouin pointed out.
'He wasn't a man. He struck a woman and he wouldn't fight. He had no honour. He was a vile thing, no better than vermin.'
'I warned you, Bane. You kill too quickly,' said Banouin sadly.
'And you nag worse than a wife,' snapped Bane. 'But you are right. Let's be gone from this place. Killing him has quite spoiled my day.'
'Not as badly as it spoiled his,' said Banouin.
They rode several miles from Sighing Water and camped in a cave overlooking the sea. Banouin lit a fire, but Bane wandered out and sat on the cliff top, watching the moon shining above the dark water. Banouin left him there for a while and tended the fire. Bane was in one of his dark, gloomy moods, and would not appreciate company for a while.
There was little food left, and Banouin ate a stick of smoke-dried meat they had purchased several days before. He leaned back and stared at the cave wall, watching the fire shadows dance upon the grey stone.
Bane did kill too swiftly. The fat man was a bully and a coward, but that was no reason for him to die choking on his own blood. Worse, he knew that Bane had gone to the place seeking trouble. He knew the look that came into his friend's strange eyes, a kind of glint, a shining that always precipitated violence. And yet Bane had always been kind to him, seeming to understand his hatred of violence and his longing for a life of quiet study. The younger man had protected him, and been willing to be ostracized by his fellow tribesmen rather than give up their friendship.
It was all so baffling. When Bane was happy he could charm the hardest heart, and make friends with anyone. People genuinely liked him. Banouin thought back to the cut-throat river crew, and their fondness for his companion. It was chilling to think that if any one of them had said the wrong word Bane could just as easily have killed them. Would he have been different had Connavar accepted him?
Adding dry sticks to the fire he remembered asking his mother some weeks ago why a great man like the king had turned his back on his son.
'That is a complex question,' said Vorna. 'But it presupposes that greatness in one area must mean greatness in all. This is not even close to the truth. Connavar is a good man, and I love him dearly, but he is harsh and unforgiving. There is also within him - as there is within Bane - a burning need for violence that is barely held in check.' She had looked into his eyes, then risen from her chair and moved to the window, which she pulled shut, despite the stifling summer heat that filled the house. 'I want no-one to overhear what I am to tell you, Banouin, and I do not want you to repeat it. Ever. Do I have your promise?'
'Of course, Mother.'
She sat down in her chair and took a deep breath. 'Many years ago Connavar wed a young Rigante woman named Tae. He loved her deeply. He had risked his life to save her from the Sea Wolves, and he had brought her to Three Streams. Then he became Laird, and they moved to Old Oaks. One day, Connavar went to the Wishing Tree woods to commune with the Seidh. There he was warned never to break a promise, no matter how small.
'One day, soon after, he had told Tae that he would be back at Old Oaks at around noon, in order to accompany her on a ride to a pretty lake they had heard of. But as he was riding home he saw a woman standing outside a hut built in the hills.'
'And that was Arian,' put in Banouin.
'I am telling this story.'
'But I know it already,' he argued. 'He made love to Arian, and Bane was born.'
'Listen!' hissed Vorna. 'Arian was his childhood sweetheart but she was . . .' Vorna hesitated. 'This must never be repeated!'
'I have already promised that. Go on.'
'She knew many men - even as a young
Similar Books
