The storm had come over the Steading, a wall of cloud and wind
which whipped the branches of the oak and ripped the young spring
leaves.
And in it Caoimhin came home, running breathless, panting and
stumbling as he came along the fence row, fighting the wind which
drove across his path.
So he came to the gate and up the path, and young Eadwulf who
had come out to see to the sheep saw him first:
“Caoimhin!” Eadwulf cried.
But Caoimhin passed on, running and holding his side. Blood was
on his face. Eadwulf saw that and clambered over the pen and ran
after him.
So Niall saw him, not knowing him at first, seeing only that a
man had come to the Steading: he left his securing of the barn
against the storm and came running from the other side as many did
from many points of the Steading, from the house and from the pens,
leaving their work in haste.
But when he had come into Caoimhin’s way his heart turned
in him, seeing the quiver and the bow, the gauntness of the man,
the recent scar that crossed his unshaven face, the blood that ran
on it from scratches.
“Caoimhin!” Niall said and caught him up arm to arm.
“Caoimhin!”
Caoimhin fell, collapsing to his knees, and Niall went down to
his own, holding his arms while Caoimhin’s body heaved with
his breathing. The bloody face lifted again, glazed with sweat,
pale and gaunt. His beard and hair showed dirt and grass from his
falling. “Lord,” Caoimhin said, “he’s dead,
Evald is lost and dead.”
A moment Niall stared at him blankly and Caoimhin’s hands
gripped his arms as the others gathered round. “Dead,”
Niall said, but nothing else he understood. “But you are
back, Caoimhin—You found the way.”
“Dead, hear me, Cearbhallain.” Caoimhin
found strength to shake at him. “Caer Wiell is without a
lord—it is your hour, your hour, Cearbhallain. He went into
the wood and never out again; he has crossed the fair folk and
never will he come out again. Fionn—”
“Is he with you?”
“The harper’s dead. Evald killed him.”
“Coinneach’s son.”
“Listen to me. There is no time but now. There
are men would ride with you, I have told you—”
“The harper dead.”
“Cearbhallain, are you deaf to me?” The tears poured
down Caoimhin’s face. “I came back for
you.”
Niall knelt still in the dust. Beorc was there, and set his
large hands on Caoimhin’s shoulders. Most of the Steading
gathered and was still gathering, some standing, some kneeling near,
and the latest come were shushed so the silence thickened, a deep
and terrible waiting.
“Tell me,” Niall said, “when and where. Tell
me from the beginning.”
“From time to time—” Caoimhin caught his
breath, leaning his hands now on his knees. “We met,
Coinneach’s son and I. Fionn Fionnbharr. On the road, when I
went after him. And so we parted. Only he brought word to me now
and again—how he fared, and where. He wintered in Caer Wiell
as he had said he would and the men—I have gathered old
friends, my lord, men you knew. I have never been idle, about the
roads and the hills and the fringes of the river; I have been to
Donn and Ban and all such places and back again, and sent men to
Caer Luel—”
“—in my name?”
“What less would bring them? Aye, your name. But we have
kept quiet, lord, and hunted and done little—in your name.
And we took our news from the harper when he could bring it, even
from Caer Wiell. But lately he fled the hold—fled with Evald
behind him, and so they report him dead, murdered—but Evald
himself died after, this very morning. A man of ours was hidden
near his camp; and brings word his men believe him dead—fear
other things less lucky to talk of—in this
storm—” Caoimhin fought for breath and caught his arms.
“They will be riding back to Caer Wiell this morning, today,
lordless, and leaderless—Caer Wiell is yours again. You
cannot deny it now. Men are ready to follow you—Fearghal and
Cadawg and Dryw, Ogan, the lot of them—”
“You had no right!” Niall flung Caoimhin’s
hands aside and rose, swung his arm to clear himself a space and
stopped at the shocked and staring faces of those about him, of
Lonn and the others, and turned back to look on Beorc himself, his
eyes stinging in the wind which howled and whipped about them.
Lastly he looked down at Caoimhin, who looked up at him, hurt and
worn as the world had worn him, bearing such scars as he had been
spared in the Steading, where no war could come—and all at
once his peace was shattered beyond recall. It was not a clap of
thunder, although thunder rolled; it was only a sudden clear sight,
how men fared that he once had loved, how life and death had gone
on for all the world without him. He felt robbed, for in the
stormlight everything about him seemed dimmed and less beautiful
than it had been. There was gray about the Steading, which had
never been. There were flaws in the faces about him he had never
seen. Tears started from his eyes and ran crooked in the wind.
“So, well, we ought to be on our way,” he said, and
helped Caoimhin to his feet. It was hard to look at the others, but
he must, at Beorc’s solemn face, whose red mane whipped in
the gale; at Aelfraeda, whose golden braids were immovable in
strongest winds; at Siolta and Lonn, steadfast; at Scaga whose thin
young face had hollowed almost to manhood in the passing years.
“I have a thing to see to,” Niall said to them.
“Like for the wolf and foxes—there comes a time,
doesn’t there? The deer are gone. They’ll hunt one
another in the hills.”
“You’ll want food,” said Aelfraeda.
“If you will,” Niall whispered and looked at Beorc.
“If you will—Banain—”
“She will bear you,” said Beorc, “I do not
doubt. And if she will, then what she wills.”
“I need my sword,” Niall said then, and turned away,
not having the heart for facing Beorc or Aelfraeda any longer. He
flung his arm about Caoimhin. “Come up to the house.
There’ll be ale and bread at least”
So they went. He found Scaga at his left, trudging along with him
and Caoimhin, and so he set his left hand on Scaga’s
shoulder, but the boy bowed his head and said nothing to him,
nothing at all, while the thunder rumbled over the Steading and the
wind blew the young leaves of the oak in shreds.
They came into the house, into warmth and a busy flurrying after
drink and bread and the wherewithal to feed two and more hungry men
on their way. Niall went to the corner by the fire and took his
sword, but he did not draw it, not even to see to the blade of it.
The sheath and hilt were covered with dust. Perhaps rust had gotten
to it as it lay by the hearth. But it was not a thing for bringing
to light in Beorc’s house and in Aelfraeda’s. Diarmaid
brought the remnant of the armor he had had, and this he put on
with Scaga and Lonn and Diarmaid to help him, while Caoimhin sat
shaking with weariness and cramming food into his mouth. He had no
cloak any longer. He put on the warm vest he had had on before,
hung the dusty sword on his shoulder and went out into the chill of
the storm to find Banain in the barn.
“I’ll come with you,” Scaga cried after him,
following him outside.
“No,” he shouted back to the porch. “Stay
warm. Help Aelfraeda. I’ll not be leaving without seeing you. Stay
inside.”
The thunder cracked. He turned and ran, past the gate of the
yard and down the hill to the barn and so inside, where was shelter
from the wind and the warm smell of straw and horses.
“Banain,” he whispered, coming to her in the shadow
of the stall. He brought the bridle she had been wearing when she
came to them. They had mended its broken rein for the
children’s riding; but he had never put it on her. He hugged
her about the neck and got a nudging in the ribs in return, a
whickering from the pony near her in the dark.
“Banain,” he said. “Banain.”
“Cruel,” a small voice piped.
He whirled about with his back to the mare. The Gruagach sat on
the pony’s back, peering at him across the rails of the next
stall.
“Cruel to take Banain. Cruel Caoimhin, to take his lord
away. O where is peace, Man? Never, never, for Caoimhin; now never
for Banain; never for Cearbhallain. O never go.”
“I would I never had to.” He recovered himself and
turned about again, stroking Banain’s neck. His hands were
still cold from the wind outside. He coaxed the bit into
Banain’s mouth and drew the strap past her ears. She turned
her head and butted him gently in the chest, snorted as a dark
shape landed on the rail in front of them.
“Never go,” said the Gruagach.
“I have no choice.”
“Always, always comes a choice. O Man, the Gruagach warns
you.” It shifted and hugged itself upon its rail.
“Wicked Caoimhin, wicked.”
Niall took the cheekstrap and backed Banain out of her warm nest
of straw and comfort. The Gruagach followed, a scurrying in the
straw: it came out into the light of the half-open door
well-dusted, with straws in its hair, and hugged itself and rocked.
“Never go,” it said.
A sadness came on Niall. He would never have expected such a
feeling toward the Gruagach, but he knew that where he fared would
be nothing like the creature, never in all the cold strange world.
Already it seemed small and wizened and more afraid than
frightening. He held out his hand as he would have to a child.
“Gruagach,” he said, “take care of the people I
love. And this place. I have stayed too long.”
The Gruagach touched his hand with fingertips, so, so lightly,
and cocked his head and looked up at him, then shivered and bounded
away to the top of the apple-bin, burying his head in his arms.
“She sees, she sees,” he wept, “o the terrible
face, the terrible lights of her eyes, she sees!”
“Who?” asked Niall.
“What—sees?”
“She is waked,” the Gruagach cried, looking from
between his arms. “She is waked, waked, waked! and the harp
of Kings is broken. O the terrible sword, the sharp, the wicked
sword! O never go, Man, O Man, the Gruagach warns you, never
go.”
“Who is she?”
“In the forest, deep and still. The harp came there
because it had to come. Things of Eald must. Beware, o beware of
Donn.”
The thunder rumbled and muttered over them. Banain threw her
head. “I have no choice,” Niall said shivering.
“I never had. Farewell.”
He flung open the door and led Banain out. He would have shut it
for the pony’s sake, but the Gruagach was in the doorway. He
swung up to Banain’s back and rode up toward the house, from
which the others were coming down.
So he should not have the chance to come into the house again.
He felt cheated—of even that little time. The world seemed
the colder as the wind howled and whipped at him and Banain, who
danced and fretted under him for distaste of this weather and for
the thunder—and never yet it rained. Something keened. It was
not the wind. He looked up and behind him and saw the Gruagach
perched on the rooftop of the barn, a lumpish knot of hair.
“Man,” it wailed. “O Man.”
The others came about him, Caoimhin and Beorc and Aelfraeda and
all the house so far as he could judge. “Here,” said
Niall, flinging a leg over Banaia’s back. “Caoimhin,
you must ride. You’re spent.”
Caoimhin would not, not without arguing about it; but Niall slid
down and put him up, and on his own shoulders he took the healthy
pack Aelfraeda had put up for them. He kissed her cheek and pressed
Beorc’s hand. He looked round on all the faces, and they
seemed already far from him, slipping away from him, a love he did
not know how to hold onto any longer.
“Scaga,” he said, missing one. “Where is
Scaga?”
Everyone looked around, but the boy was not to be found.
“He was with me,” said Siolta, “only a moment
ago.”
“He is hurt,” said Lonn.
So Niall shook his head heavily, well understanding that.
“Come,” he said to Caoimhin, and hitched the cords of
the pack on his shoulder. “Good-bye,” he said.
“Good-bye.”
“Farewell,” said Beorc, “and wisely. A
blessing beyond that I cannot give you, though I would.”
Niall turned his shoulder then and walked beside Caoimhin on
Banain. The wind battered at them, and never a drop of rain fell
from the black clouds above. The grass and the tender crops
flattened in waves, and now and again the lightning flashed in the
clouds. He looked back more than once and waved each time, but now
they all seemed hazy, shadowed under the storm that had come over
the Steading. His heart felt heavier and heavier and his steps were
leaden.
“Have care,” a small voice wailed from the hilltop
at his right “Have care.” It was the Gruagach, sitting
on a stone in a sea of blowing grass. “O Man, it is no common
rain this brings.”
“That fell creature,” Caoimhin muttered.
“Speak it fair,” said Niall. “O Caoimhin,
speak it only fair.”
But it was gone, the rock deserted. Banain tossed her head and
snorted in the wind.
“Here, lord, she can carry two,” Caoimhin said.
“Ride with me.”
“No,” said Niall. A last time he looked back, but a
hill was passing between him and those behind: he waved a last time,
but they perhaps did not see. He felt a loneliness and desolation,
blinked as some wind-borne dust hit his eyes and rubbed at them as
he walked along, blind for the moment. When he had gotten them
clear he looked back again, squinting in the gusts.
The fences at least should have been in sight. There was only
the blowing grass. “Caoimhin,” he said, “the
fences are gone.”
Caoimhin looked, but never said a word. Again Niall rubbed his
eyes, feeling a great cold settle into his bones, as if the wind
had finally gotten through. Caoimhin had found his way back again,
the thought came to him; Caoimhin had come as the harper had come,
never reckoning how hard it was—for need, for need of
him. A haste had come on him, all the same, a blind numb
haste to go back to the world again: Ogan, Caoimhin had named the
names—Ogan and Dryw and the others, names that he had known,
bloody names of bloody years, of his years with the
King—
And Caer Wiell, to go home again, to whatever home was
left—
“Niall!” he heard cry from the hill above him, a
human, cracking voice, wind-thinned. “Caoimhin!
Niall!”
“Scaga,” Niall said, and bis heart turned over in
him. “Scaga, no.”
But the boy came running—boy: he was near a man. He came
down the hill and joined them, panting as if his ribs would crack,
for he had come the longer, harder way.
“Go back,” Niall said, shaking him by the arms.
“I will follow,” Scaga said reasonably,
“lord.”
Niall flung his arms about him; there was nothing left to do.
Caoimhin had gotten down off Banain and hugged him too.
So they went, down among the hills, Caoimhin riding mostly and
they two jogging along beside, then taking turn about.
“By the river we will find them,” Caoimhin said.
“There.”
The storm had come over the Steading, a wall of cloud and wind
which whipped the branches of the oak and ripped the young spring
leaves.
And in it Caoimhin came home, running breathless, panting and
stumbling as he came along the fence row, fighting the wind which
drove across his path.
So he came to the gate and up the path, and young Eadwulf who
had come out to see to the sheep saw him first:
“Caoimhin!” Eadwulf cried.
But Caoimhin passed on, running and holding his side. Blood was
on his face. Eadwulf saw that and clambered over the pen and ran
after him.
So Niall saw him, not knowing him at first, seeing only that a
man had come to the Steading: he left his securing of the barn
against the storm and came running from the other side as many did
from many points of the Steading, from the house and from the pens,
leaving their work in haste.
But when he had come into Caoimhin’s way his heart turned
in him, seeing the quiver and the bow, the gauntness of the man,
the recent scar that crossed his unshaven face, the blood that ran
on it from scratches.
“Caoimhin!” Niall said and caught him up arm to arm.
“Caoimhin!”
Caoimhin fell, collapsing to his knees, and Niall went down to
his own, holding his arms while Caoimhin’s body heaved with
his breathing. The bloody face lifted again, glazed with sweat,
pale and gaunt. His beard and hair showed dirt and grass from his
falling. “Lord,” Caoimhin said, “he’s dead,
Evald is lost and dead.”
A moment Niall stared at him blankly and Caoimhin’s hands
gripped his arms as the others gathered round. “Dead,”
Niall said, but nothing else he understood. “But you are
back, Caoimhin—You found the way.”
“Dead, hear me, Cearbhallain.” Caoimhin
found strength to shake at him. “Caer Wiell is without a
lord—it is your hour, your hour, Cearbhallain. He went into
the wood and never out again; he has crossed the fair folk and
never will he come out again. Fionn—”
“Is he with you?”
“The harper’s dead. Evald killed him.”
“Coinneach’s son.”
“Listen to me. There is no time but now. There
are men would ride with you, I have told you—”
“The harper dead.”
“Cearbhallain, are you deaf to me?” The tears poured
down Caoimhin’s face. “I came back for
you.”
Niall knelt still in the dust. Beorc was there, and set his
large hands on Caoimhin’s shoulders. Most of the Steading
gathered and was still gathering, some standing, some kneeling near,
and the latest come were shushed so the silence thickened, a deep
and terrible waiting.
“Tell me,” Niall said, “when and where. Tell
me from the beginning.”
“From time to time—” Caoimhin caught his
breath, leaning his hands now on his knees. “We met,
Coinneach’s son and I. Fionn Fionnbharr. On the road, when I
went after him. And so we parted. Only he brought word to me now
and again—how he fared, and where. He wintered in Caer Wiell
as he had said he would and the men—I have gathered old
friends, my lord, men you knew. I have never been idle, about the
roads and the hills and the fringes of the river; I have been to
Donn and Ban and all such places and back again, and sent men to
Caer Luel—”
“—in my name?”
“What less would bring them? Aye, your name. But we have
kept quiet, lord, and hunted and done little—in your name.
And we took our news from the harper when he could bring it, even
from Caer Wiell. But lately he fled the hold—fled with Evald
behind him, and so they report him dead, murdered—but Evald
himself died after, this very morning. A man of ours was hidden
near his camp; and brings word his men believe him dead—fear
other things less lucky to talk of—in this
storm—” Caoimhin fought for breath and caught his arms.
“They will be riding back to Caer Wiell this morning, today,
lordless, and leaderless—Caer Wiell is yours again. You
cannot deny it now. Men are ready to follow you—Fearghal and
Cadawg and Dryw, Ogan, the lot of them—”
“You had no right!” Niall flung Caoimhin’s
hands aside and rose, swung his arm to clear himself a space and
stopped at the shocked and staring faces of those about him, of
Lonn and the others, and turned back to look on Beorc himself, his
eyes stinging in the wind which howled and whipped about them.
Lastly he looked down at Caoimhin, who looked up at him, hurt and
worn as the world had worn him, bearing such scars as he had been
spared in the Steading, where no war could come—and all at
once his peace was shattered beyond recall. It was not a clap of
thunder, although thunder rolled; it was only a sudden clear sight,
how men fared that he once had loved, how life and death had gone
on for all the world without him. He felt robbed, for in the
stormlight everything about him seemed dimmed and less beautiful
than it had been. There was gray about the Steading, which had
never been. There were flaws in the faces about him he had never
seen. Tears started from his eyes and ran crooked in the wind.
“So, well, we ought to be on our way,” he said, and
helped Caoimhin to his feet. It was hard to look at the others, but
he must, at Beorc’s solemn face, whose red mane whipped in
the gale; at Aelfraeda, whose golden braids were immovable in
strongest winds; at Siolta and Lonn, steadfast; at Scaga whose thin
young face had hollowed almost to manhood in the passing years.
“I have a thing to see to,” Niall said to them.
“Like for the wolf and foxes—there comes a time,
doesn’t there? The deer are gone. They’ll hunt one
another in the hills.”
“You’ll want food,” said Aelfraeda.
“If you will,” Niall whispered and looked at Beorc.
“If you will—Banain—”
“She will bear you,” said Beorc, “I do not
doubt. And if she will, then what she wills.”
“I need my sword,” Niall said then, and turned away,
not having the heart for facing Beorc or Aelfraeda any longer. He
flung his arm about Caoimhin. “Come up to the house.
There’ll be ale and bread at least”
So they went. He found Scaga at his left, trudging along with him
and Caoimhin, and so he set his left hand on Scaga’s
shoulder, but the boy bowed his head and said nothing to him,
nothing at all, while the thunder rumbled over the Steading and the
wind blew the young leaves of the oak in shreds.
They came into the house, into warmth and a busy flurrying after
drink and bread and the wherewithal to feed two and more hungry men
on their way. Niall went to the corner by the fire and took his
sword, but he did not draw it, not even to see to the blade of it.
The sheath and hilt were covered with dust. Perhaps rust had gotten
to it as it lay by the hearth. But it was not a thing for bringing
to light in Beorc’s house and in Aelfraeda’s. Diarmaid
brought the remnant of the armor he had had, and this he put on
with Scaga and Lonn and Diarmaid to help him, while Caoimhin sat
shaking with weariness and cramming food into his mouth. He had no
cloak any longer. He put on the warm vest he had had on before,
hung the dusty sword on his shoulder and went out into the chill of
the storm to find Banain in the barn.
“I’ll come with you,” Scaga cried after him,
following him outside.
“No,” he shouted back to the porch. “Stay
warm. Help Aelfraeda. I’ll not be leaving without seeing you. Stay
inside.”
The thunder cracked. He turned and ran, past the gate of the
yard and down the hill to the barn and so inside, where was shelter
from the wind and the warm smell of straw and horses.
“Banain,” he whispered, coming to her in the shadow
of the stall. He brought the bridle she had been wearing when she
came to them. They had mended its broken rein for the
children’s riding; but he had never put it on her. He hugged
her about the neck and got a nudging in the ribs in return, a
whickering from the pony near her in the dark.
“Banain,” he said. “Banain.”
“Cruel,” a small voice piped.
He whirled about with his back to the mare. The Gruagach sat on
the pony’s back, peering at him across the rails of the next
stall.
“Cruel to take Banain. Cruel Caoimhin, to take his lord
away. O where is peace, Man? Never, never, for Caoimhin; now never
for Banain; never for Cearbhallain. O never go.”
“I would I never had to.” He recovered himself and
turned about again, stroking Banain’s neck. His hands were
still cold from the wind outside. He coaxed the bit into
Banain’s mouth and drew the strap past her ears. She turned
her head and butted him gently in the chest, snorted as a dark
shape landed on the rail in front of them.
“Never go,” said the Gruagach.
“I have no choice.”
“Always, always comes a choice. O Man, the Gruagach warns
you.” It shifted and hugged itself upon its rail.
“Wicked Caoimhin, wicked.”
Niall took the cheekstrap and backed Banain out of her warm nest
of straw and comfort. The Gruagach followed, a scurrying in the
straw: it came out into the light of the half-open door
well-dusted, with straws in its hair, and hugged itself and rocked.
“Never go,” it said.
A sadness came on Niall. He would never have expected such a
feeling toward the Gruagach, but he knew that where he fared would
be nothing like the creature, never in all the cold strange world.
Already it seemed small and wizened and more afraid than
frightening. He held out his hand as he would have to a child.
“Gruagach,” he said, “take care of the people I
love. And this place. I have stayed too long.”
The Gruagach touched his hand with fingertips, so, so lightly,
and cocked his head and looked up at him, then shivered and bounded
away to the top of the apple-bin, burying his head in his arms.
“She sees, she sees,” he wept, “o the terrible
face, the terrible lights of her eyes, she sees!”
“Who?” asked Niall.
“What—sees?”
“She is waked,” the Gruagach cried, looking from
between his arms. “She is waked, waked, waked! and the harp
of Kings is broken. O the terrible sword, the sharp, the wicked
sword! O never go, Man, O Man, the Gruagach warns you, never
go.”
“Who is she?”
“In the forest, deep and still. The harp came there
because it had to come. Things of Eald must. Beware, o beware of
Donn.”
The thunder rumbled and muttered over them. Banain threw her
head. “I have no choice,” Niall said shivering.
“I never had. Farewell.”
He flung open the door and led Banain out. He would have shut it
for the pony’s sake, but the Gruagach was in the doorway. He
swung up to Banain’s back and rode up toward the house, from
which the others were coming down.
So he should not have the chance to come into the house again.
He felt cheated—of even that little time. The world seemed
the colder as the wind howled and whipped at him and Banain, who
danced and fretted under him for distaste of this weather and for
the thunder—and never yet it rained. Something keened. It was
not the wind. He looked up and behind him and saw the Gruagach
perched on the rooftop of the barn, a lumpish knot of hair.
“Man,” it wailed. “O Man.”
The others came about him, Caoimhin and Beorc and Aelfraeda and
all the house so far as he could judge. “Here,” said
Niall, flinging a leg over Banaia’s back. “Caoimhin,
you must ride. You’re spent.”
Caoimhin would not, not without arguing about it; but Niall slid
down and put him up, and on his own shoulders he took the healthy
pack Aelfraeda had put up for them. He kissed her cheek and pressed
Beorc’s hand. He looked round on all the faces, and they
seemed already far from him, slipping away from him, a love he did
not know how to hold onto any longer.
“Scaga,” he said, missing one. “Where is
Scaga?”
Everyone looked around, but the boy was not to be found.
“He was with me,” said Siolta, “only a moment
ago.”
“He is hurt,” said Lonn.
So Niall shook his head heavily, well understanding that.
“Come,” he said to Caoimhin, and hitched the cords of
the pack on his shoulder. “Good-bye,” he said.
“Good-bye.”
“Farewell,” said Beorc, “and wisely. A
blessing beyond that I cannot give you, though I would.”
Niall turned his shoulder then and walked beside Caoimhin on
Banain. The wind battered at them, and never a drop of rain fell
from the black clouds above. The grass and the tender crops
flattened in waves, and now and again the lightning flashed in the
clouds. He looked back more than once and waved each time, but now
they all seemed hazy, shadowed under the storm that had come over
the Steading. His heart felt heavier and heavier and his steps were
leaden.
“Have care,” a small voice wailed from the hilltop
at his right “Have care.” It was the Gruagach, sitting
on a stone in a sea of blowing grass. “O Man, it is no common
rain this brings.”
“That fell creature,” Caoimhin muttered.
“Speak it fair,” said Niall. “O Caoimhin,
speak it only fair.”
But it was gone, the rock deserted. Banain tossed her head and
snorted in the wind.
“Here, lord, she can carry two,” Caoimhin said.
“Ride with me.”
“No,” said Niall. A last time he looked back, but a
hill was passing between him and those behind: he waved a last time,
but they perhaps did not see. He felt a loneliness and desolation,
blinked as some wind-borne dust hit his eyes and rubbed at them as
he walked along, blind for the moment. When he had gotten them
clear he looked back again, squinting in the gusts.
The fences at least should have been in sight. There was only
the blowing grass. “Caoimhin,” he said, “the
fences are gone.”
Caoimhin looked, but never said a word. Again Niall rubbed his
eyes, feeling a great cold settle into his bones, as if the wind
had finally gotten through. Caoimhin had found his way back again,
the thought came to him; Caoimhin had come as the harper had come,
never reckoning how hard it was—for need, for need of
him. A haste had come on him, all the same, a blind numb
haste to go back to the world again: Ogan, Caoimhin had named the
names—Ogan and Dryw and the others, names that he had known,
bloody names of bloody years, of his years with the
King—
And Caer Wiell, to go home again, to whatever home was
left—
“Niall!” he heard cry from the hill above him, a
human, cracking voice, wind-thinned. “Caoimhin!
Niall!”
“Scaga,” Niall said, and bis heart turned over in
him. “Scaga, no.”
But the boy came running—boy: he was near a man. He came
down the hill and joined them, panting as if his ribs would crack,
for he had come the longer, harder way.
“Go back,” Niall said, shaking him by the arms.
“I will follow,” Scaga said reasonably,
“lord.”
Niall flung his arms about him; there was nothing left to do.
Caoimhin had gotten down off Banain and hugged him too.
So they went, down among the hills, Caoimhin riding mostly and
they two jogging along beside, then taking turn about.
“By the river we will find them,” Caoimhin said.
“There.”