Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01]

by The Stone Maiden

  Every move he made had an eerie familiarity, as if he had practiced for this very challenge many times. A strange sense of calm and confidence filled him. He let go of thought, let his ability and his cool, hard rage take over the task of fighting.

  He saw an opening and made a lightning strike that caught Cormac's arm and sent a spray of blood over both of them. Cormac faltered, and Sebastien's downward stroke sliced into his opponent's iron-hewn thigh. Cormac, chillingly undisturbed by the injuries, raised his sword and brought it down in a move that, had Sebastien not shuffled aside, would have broken his skull.

  Cormac wheeled and brought the claymore in a wide arc. As Sebastien parried on a downward swing, the tip of his blade touched earth. Cormac struck into the blade, snapping it neatly.

  Lifting his broken weapon, Sebastien stepped backward, breath heaving, watching Cormac's grinning advance. He ducked to avoid the swing of the claymore, rolled over the ground and lay on his back, knees raised, about to spring up as Cormac lunged at him with a roar.

  Someone shouted his name, and a sharp and shining edge appeared near his foot. He scooped up the long hilt of the claymore that slid toward him, and straightened to his feet. Now he held a blade the equal of the other, with a skill that was far superior. He hoped that would be enough, for Cormac was a relentless opponent; he never even saw him pause to breathe.

  Accustomed by his practices to the weight and length of the claymore, Sebastien wrapped two hands around the cold leather hilt and felt a surge of power and assurance. He spared no thought for Lorne or Alainna, but he felt their presences nearby, and he felt his own anger flare brighter on their behalf. He advanced with cool control, his gaze steady as a rock, his fury a torch. Cormac retreated, weapon waving.

  Sebastien created a wicked pattern of forceful, rapid looping strokes, punctuated with blow after blow against steel. Cormac backed away, slashing repeatedly as he went, his blows falling short, his thrusts weakening.

  Sebastien blocked every strike, every arc, his muscles burning, aching, his inner core white hot with purpose. The healing wound in his side pulled and ached, but did not deter him. Neither did he feel any hindrance from the scar along his left eyelid, for fighting with claymores required brute strength and wide, sweeping blows, honest and bold, without subtlety.

  They neared the granite pillar, and the crowd moved back. Cormac howled and lunged, and Sebastien skipped away, bringing the flat of his sword smacking against Cormac's uplifted blade.

  The angle was awkward, and Sebastien could not hold Cormac's blade at bay for long before it began to force his downward. He stumbled back, and his heel struck the stone pillar. Arms uplifting, body straining to keep the opposing blade from severing a limb, he leaned his shoulders against cold, massive granite.

  Cormac's claymore pressed down on his own, until he could smell cold steel inches from his face, and felt the smooth skin of the stone along his back. He strained, still resisting, and drew a breath, determined not to surrender. Then, on the next inhale, a sense of new strength surged through him, as if the Maiden herself breathed her power into him.

  He pushed outward almost easily, forcing Cormac back, and stepped sideways, skimming his shoulders along the stone to slide out from under Cormac's pressing advance.

  The Highlander overbalanced and stumbled against the face of the stone, pushing off in an effort to whirl. Sebastien waited, ready, blade upright, feet widely planted.

  Cormac lunged like a roaring, raging boar, head down, blade outstretched. Sebastien took the brunt on the flat of the sword and threw Cormac backward again. The other man fell back, his foot catching in the same hollow that Sebastien had avoided before, and went down.

  His head slammed into the pillar stone with such staggering force that Sebastien knew, even before Cormac slumped to the ground, that he was dead.

  Breath heaving painfully in his chest, he leaned on the sword planted upright in the earth. No one moved, and he did not look at them. The silence was as deafening as the ringing of steel had been just moments before.

  He swiped his forearm across his sweat-coated face and wrenched the great sword out of the ground, then turned to walk away. The crowd parted at his approach, some of them drifting toward Cormac. He saw Struan and the other MacNechtans go to their fallen kinsman, but he did not stop to speak to them, nor did they stop him, though their expressions were dark and troubled.

  He looked up. Alainna stood alone, straight as a pillar, head high, watching him. He did not know when she had left her post beside Lome, but he knew, from the deep, haunted blue of her eyes, that she had seen much of the struggle.

  Then she ran to him, crying out. He lifted an arm and gathered her in, her body firm and warm against his, her hair like a cloud beneath his cheek. A soft kiss on his mouth and the brush of her hands were a balm for every ache and sorrow he had ever had. He held her close and squeezed his eyes shut as they stood, motionless and silent.

  He pulled back. "Lome?" he asked apprehensively.

  "He is alive, but ach, I do not know how much longer he will survive. We are afraid to move him—"

  He let go of her and strode toward the figures huddled on the ground. Dropping to one knee beside the old man, he laid his sword flat on the earth. Alainna knelt beside him. He looked at Una, with her worried eyes and small, trembling head, and at Morag and Esa, flanking her like two angels wrapped in plaids.

  Lome opened his eyes. Relief rushed through Sebastien to see that keen blue gaze turn toward him.

  "Is he gone?" Lome rasped.

  Sebastien nodded. "Gone. Dead."

  "Good." Lome closed his eyes. "And I will follow him."

  "You will not, old man," Una said.

  "Make my bed, woman, and sing my dirge," Lome said. Una shook her head and grasped his hand.

  Sebastien glanced at Alainna. Her gaze met his, wide and needing, and he wanted to wrap his arms around her. Instead, he put out a hand, and she took it quickly, fervently.

  Lome plucked Sebastien's sleeve. "I heard the ring of steel," he said. "It was a good sound."

  "It was a good fight," Lulach said, dropping to his knees beside Lome. Niall was with him, and leaned forward too.

  "Sebastien Ban has defeated our enemy's leader, as we wanted him to do when he came here," Niall said.

  "I knew he would," Lorne said. More people gathered around, their bare calves and skirt hems wreathing him where he lay, with Sebastien and a few others closest beside him. "I knew he was the warrior we needed most. The one Alainna needed most."

  "Hush," Alainna said. "Save your breath."

  "Sebastien will not stay with us, now that our enemy is defeated," Niall said. "He has duties elsewhere."

  "But this is his home," Lorne said.

  Sebastien rested his hand over Lome's, unable to speak for the tightness in his throat. When Lome pulled on his sleeve, Sebastien leaned toward him.

  "Sebastien Ban," he said, "you remind me of my son—golden and strong, brave."

  Sebastien squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "My thanks."

  "A good Highland man," Lome said.

  He swallowed hard, began to shake his head in denial, then smiled ruefully. "One day, perhaps."

  "A good day for Clan Laren, that will be." Lome smiled a little, and a pale light glimmered in his eyes.

  Such love swelled in Sebastien in that moment that he felt as if he would do anything for this man, sacrifice anything—his pride, his name, his life itself, to save him. Nothing was too precious to give up, if the bard could live on.

  "We must take him inside," Una said, looking at Sebastien.

  He nodded and fetched his plaid, discarded on the ground, which he folded to form a hammock. Many hands joined to lift Lome gently to the plaid, and several men prepared to hoist it. As Sebastien took a fistful of the cloth himself, Alainna stopped him.

  "They want to speak with you," she said, and pointed at Struan MacNechtan and his kinsmen.

  He nodded grimly. He bent to g
rab the claymore from the ground and straightened. Giric, Ruari, Etienne and a few others followed him.

  Struan waited, his brown eyes stormy beneath russet brows. He crossed his arms over his chest. "My brother is dead."

  "I am sorry for it." Sebastien planted the sword upright in the earth and gripped the hilt. "The combat was fair."

  "It was." Struan glanced at his kinsmen. "Hostaging a woman and attacking an old bard was a great dishonor for Cormac, and for the whole of our clan. That should not have happened, but it did. My brother was ever filled with anger that not all of us shared. What he brought upon himself was only justice."

  Sebastien watched him steadily, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "This day ended the ancient spell that has threatened your clan for generations. It is a day that should end the feud, not begin a new one."

  Struan glanced again at his kinsmen, then turned back to Sebastien. "That may be," he said. "For now, we will not fight you. There has been one death already, and there may yet be another. We will bury my brother, and decide among ourselves what shall be done."

  "Will you lead your clan now?" Sebastien asked.

  "Until Cormac's son, Eoghan, is old enough, I will."

  Sebastien nodded. "I have hope for the future of Clan Nechtan. I sense in you a fair man, Struan."

  "And I see one in you. Know this," he said sternly. "My brother invited his own death with every action he took, over many years, against Clan Laren. As that clan grew weaker, he thought himself stronger. We cautioned him against this, but he was our chief, and so we followed him. It was fitting, his death." He looked intently at Sebastien. "Your hand did not take his life," he added. "I saw it. The Maiden took his life. Her power is still strong. We are not so foolish as to dismiss that."

  "Then heed it well," Sebastien said.

  Struan frowned, then pivoted abruptly and gestured to his men. They went to the stone pillar to collect Cormac's body.

  Sebastien turned. The others had gathered round Lome in the hammocked plaid, and he hurried to join them.

  Alainna took the claymore from him, hoisting its weight in her hands. The men had left a place for Sebastien at a front corner of the litter. He lifted in tandem with his comrades, feeling how light the burden, how easily they moved together. He was proud to walk among them.

  Alainna fell into step beside him. They moved past the tall and silent presence of the Stone Maiden, through the long shadow cast over the meadow that edged the loch. As they headed toward the rocky slope that led to the fortress of Kinlochan, the entire clan began a low, melodious chant.

  I am weary, and I a stranger,

  Lead me to the land of angels.

  Be my eyes in time of darkness,

  Be my shield against hosts of faery,

  Be my wings till I find my home.

  Listening, Sebastien felt his heart wrench. He had been a stranger here once, but he was a stranger no longer. This was home to him. He knew that now with the fullness of his heart.

  He loved these people, loved the old man carried on his own plaid as if the man were the father he had never known. Tears stung his eyes, and he blinked them away.

  He glanced at Alainna. She walked beside him, carrying his sword, her hair spilling around her like a hearth fire, her eyes bright like a summer sky. What welled in him then had the solidity of rock, the purity of fire. He loved her more than he had ever loved anyone, more than he loved his own life.

  More than he valued his own pride, his own name.

  The love he felt for her calmed him, stirred him, made him a finer man than he had ever been. A thousand strands tied him to her, to her kin, to this place.

  Yet the pattern was not complete. He felt a longing still in his heart, a deep aching. If he could find the last missing strand and enter it into the weave, he would be a part of this place forever.

  Chapter 31

  The rain began in the night while they kept a vigil for Lorne with prayers and healing chants. Alainna sat with Una and the others in a bedchamber on the uppermost floor of the tower, which Una and Lorne shared.

  Sebastien was there, too, a golden strength, his voice calm, his hand kind as he offered help to Alainna or Una, as he sat with the old bard, talking, or watching him sleep.

  Alainna had little chance to speak to Sebastien alone, but she cherished their casual words, the smiles, and gentle brushing touches. Despite the tension of those hours, she felt a peacefulness when he was there, and a yearning when he was not.

  She saw his concern for Lorne in his gray eyes, saw the downturn of his mouth and the creased brow. Wanting to smooth them away, kiss them away, she left him alone. She sensed a distancing within him, a need for solitude that she understood, for she was the same way.

  Later, as dawn approached and the rain drummed hard on the roof and the outside walls, she went down to the hall to sit with the others. Giric and Ruari played chess while Niall and Lulach watched. Beitris sat winding thread on a spindle. Donal, Aenghus, the knights and squires had gone to rest on their pallets.

  Sebastien stood by the doorway, looking out at the rain, his brow furrowed in thought. Finan stood beside him, his head lifted beneath the man's hand.

  Alainna watched Beitris cut three strands of red yarn and weave them into a pattern of nine knots, chanting prayers of healing as her fingers flew in a rhythm. Alainna knew that Beitris, like each of them in their way, was calling back Lome's soul. None of them would let him go.

  Dawn came, silvery through the rain, and Una descended the steps. Alainna looked up. Her great-aunt appeared old and frail, her hair white as down, the tremor in her head like the shaking of a flower.

  Una smiled and sat beside Alainna. "He is well enough, at last," she said. "And he will heal, I think." And she put her head in her hands and began to cry.

  Alainna reached out and embraced her. Then she looked up toward Sebastien, who had turned by the door. She saw the gleam of great emotion in his eyes, and his gaze held hers for a long moment.

  She wanted so desperately to go to him, to feel his arms surround her, to sink into the love she felt for him. But Una sobbed, and she bowed her head to comfort her.

  And when she lifted her head again, he was gone.

  She felt that loss, and felt a weariness. She longed to go after him, but Una needed her, and she was not certain that Sebastien did.

  A hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up to see Esa.

  "Go to him," Esa said. "I saw from the window. He has taken his horse and gone to the gate. Go to him. Do not let him leave. He is the friend of your soul, and you of his. That bond must not be broken."

  Alainna rose and ran to the door. She pulled the door open and flew down the wooden steps to the bailey. Finan went with her as she crossed the rain-soaked yard.

  The gate was open, and he was not there. Rain poured down in a steady patter. She sped through the gate, with raindrops streaming over her face, and saw the deserted slope, the loch roughened in the rain, the Stone Maiden, solitary and mysterious on the opposite shore, with the grass beginning to green around the base.

  She stood in the gate and waited. But he was gone, and he had not said farewell. She thought of another time when she stood in the open gate waiting for him in freezing veils of snow. Now she stood enveloped and soaked by fine sheets of rain. And he did not appear, as she hoped he would.

  She stood there with the dog, both drenched. After a while, she pulled the upper part of her arisaid over her head, a futile gesture, for the wool was just as wet as she was.

  Finally, she sobbed heavily and covered her wet face. The deerhound pressed his shoulder against her hip as if to offer her his comfort and his simple strength.

  * * *

  He rode the Arabian through the rain across the wet meadow, hoofbeats thumping on wet ground. The plaid he wore tossed over his tunic protected him surprisingly well from the downpour, and he pulled part of it over his head like a hood. Ahead of him was the small group of horsemen that he had sighted from
the tower. Even from a distance he could tell that they wore armor and carried the banner of the king. He had ridden out here to meet them and to learn their business.

  As he drew nearer, he recognized Robert, and waved, calling out. His friend waved in turn and rode forward.

  "Robert!" Sebastien cried, reining in his horse when Robert did, facing him across a torrent of rain, raising his voice to be heard above the patter. "What brings you back here so soon? I thought you would stay in Dunfermline! Is there word back from King William?"

  "Word from William, aye," Robert answered. "And more. When we reached Dunfermline, there was word already there for you from the duke of Brittany."

  "The duke!" Sebastien said. Alarm went through him. "Does he summon us back into his service?"

  "He is content to let us stay in the service of King William," Robert said. "Duke Conan sent a reply to the king's letter regarding the welfare and whereabouts of your son."

  "Word of my son!" Sebastien leaned forward, easing the restless Arabian in a slight turn. "Where is the letter?" He extended his hand through the rain.

  Robert smiled and pointed. "There," he said. "A small package sent to you from the duke. His own namesake."

  Sebastien turned. Three other riders came toward him. One of them, a monk, supported a child in front of him, wrapped in a fur-lined mantle.

  He stared, heart pounding. Then he leaped down from his horse and ran forward. The monk stopped his horse and waited, opening the cloak so that Sebastien could see the small, oval face shadowed within, the wide brown eyes, the glossy silk of pale golden hair.

  "Conan," he breathed, reaching up. "Conan."

  "Papa," his son said, and went easily into Sebastien's arms.

  * * *

  The rain drummed on the earth, soaking her shoes, splashing mud on the hem of her skirt. Alainna shivered and touched Finan's head, his wet coat darkened to iron gray, his eyes mournful beneath the tufted brow as he looked at her.

  She turned away from the gate. She had known that Sebastien had to go, but she had never imagined he would go so soon, without a farewell. Once he had learned that Lome would recover, he had left quietly. Perhaps he had not wanted to break her heart.