Sword in the Storm Read Online Free Page A

the settlement were drinking, feasting, and dancing. Ruathain himself was a little drunk. He would not have raised the subject if he had been sober. His mother, a tall and dignified woman who despite her iron-gray hair retained an almost ethereal beauty, listened in silence. “Have you ever done anything to offend her?” Pallae asked him.
    “Never!”
    “Are you certain, Ru? You are a lusty man like your father. Have you sown your seeds in any other field but your own?”
    “No. I promise you. I have been faithful always.”
    “Have you ever struck her?”
    “No, or even raised my voice.”
    “Then I cannot help you, my son, except to say that she holds some grievance against you. You must hope that her anger fades. I expect that it will when she has borne your son.”
    “And if it does not?”
    “Does she respect you?”
    “Of course. She knows—everyone knows—I would do nothing base.”
    “And you love her?”
    “More than I can say.”
    “Then build on that respect, Ru. It is all you can do.”
    They did not speak of it again until six years later, as Pallae lay on her deathbed. Sitting quietly beside her, holding her hand, Ruathain had hoped she would slip away quietly in her sleep. The cancer had stripped away her flesh, the pain of it causing her to writhe and cry out. Vorna’s herbs had at first dulled the agony, but lately even the strongest of them had little effect. Despite the pain and her increasing frailty, Pallae clung to life. Often delirious in the last days, she would sometimes fail to recognize Ruathain, speaking to him as if he were his father. But on the night of her death she opened her eyes and gave him a wan smile.
    “The pain has gone,” she whispered. “It is a blessed relief.” He patted her hand. “You look tired, my son,” she said. “You should go home and rest.”
    “I will. Soon.”
    “How goes it with you and Meria?”
    “The same. It is enough that I love her.”
    “That is never enough, Ru,” she told him, her voice edged with sadness. “I wanted more for you than that.” She lay silently for a moment, her breathing harsh. Then she smiled. “Is Connavar behaving himself?”
    He shook his head. “The boy was born to mischief.”
    “He is only seven, Ru. And he has a good heart. Do not be too hard on him.”
    He chuckled. “Too hard? I have tried talking to him. He sits and listens, then rushes off and gets into trouble again. I tried beating him with my belt, but that had no effect. He took his punishment without complaint and a day or so later stole a cake from the baker in the morning and left a live frog under my bedcovers in the evening.” He laughed suddenly. “Meria got into bed first. I swear she rose up toward the ceiling like a startled swan.”
    “You love him, though?”
    “Aye, I do. Last week, when I was telling Meria about a lone wolf in the high woods, Conn was listening. He stole mybest knife and went missing. Seven years old, and I eventually found him crouching in the woods, a tin pot on his head for a helm, waiting for the wolf. He has spirit. And when he grins, you could forgive him anything.”
    The lamp by the bedside guttered, and the bedroom fell into darkness. Ruathain cursed and walked back into the main living area, lifting a lantern from the far wall. He returned to her at once, but as the light fell upon her face, he saw that she had gone.
    Meria lifted Bran from the dwarf pony and hugged him close. “Did you like that, my pet?” she asked him.
    “More, Mama,” he said, reaching out toward the little gray horse.
    “Later,” she promised. “Look, there is Caval,” she said, pointing to the black war hound lying in the shade. Distracted, Bran struggled to get free. Meria lowered him to the ground, and the boy ran across to where the hound was resting. Bran threw his small arms around her neck and snuggled down alongside her. The hound licked his face. Bran giggled. A black shape glided across the sky, and a huge crow