Gareth took on a big man whose name I did not catch and eventually won, though to my untutored eye the contest looked very even. Then a pair of others battled it out with heavy broad-swords, which restricted the combatants-well-muscled men, the two of them-to ponderous swings and lurching movements. It was dramatically clear how the new blades changed the manner of fighting.

"A broadsword like those can cleave a man's skull in two," explained Clodagh calmly. "Or hew off his arm or leg. But what makes them lethal also hampers the user. Once you start the swing, the whole weight of your body goes into it."

"I see."

"And that means," put in Brenna, "that if your weapon comes down in the wrong place, your opponent can kill you while you're still trying to retrieve it."

Quite soon Johnny called a halt. The combatants were glistening with sweat and breathing hard as they came forward to acknowledge the crowd's applause. When the cheering died down, Johnny stood to speak again.

"While our visitors are here, we'll have an open session like this once every seven days. Next time, you Connacht men are welcome to partic.i.p.ate. It'll be on the basis of challenges. If you want to take part, let Rat know a few days beforehand. Choose an opponent, one of yours or one of ours. If that man accepts, the bout goes ahead. Rat, stand up."

Rat obliged.

"Rat's been fighting since I was a babe in swaddling," Johnny said. "He's in charge of the challenge days. Connacht men, we'll expect to see each of you partic.i.p.ate at least once before your departure." Judging by the buzz of talk among the men, I thought Rat was likely to have more takers than there would be time for. "I'll answer everyone's questions after this final bout. Ready, men?"

Now it seemed Cathal was to fight, and his opponent was Kalev. As they stepped out onto the open ground, what looked like the entire complement of Inis Eala warriors came in ones and twos to settle on the benches around the practice area, until every seat was full and folk were standing all around the outside of the circle.

"Big audience," I whispered to my sister.

"The men like to watch Cathal fight," Clodagh murmured. She sounded calm, but she had gripped my hand hard enough to bruise me.

Both combatants wore the same kind of clothing as the other fighters had: padded wool garments with a leather breast-piece over the tunic, protective straps buckled around forearms and shins, and a cap-like leather helm. Each bore one of the lightweight swords.

Now that his bout was over, Niall had come to sit between Brenna and Alba. "Count of fifty," I heard him say to the man behind him.

"I'll give you seventy."

"Done. Don't like your chances."

"Five-and-forty," someone else was saying.

"Wagers?" I asked, wondering how you could lay a wager without naming the man you expected to win.

"That's right," Niall said, touching a clenched fist with that of the man behind him, which seemed to denote an agreement. "You don't wager on anyone beating Cathal. Not unless he's fighting Johnny. We put our stake on how long his opponent can last. Mind you, Johnny may have asked them to keep it going today, since this is in the nature of a demonstration. I might lose my two coppers. Doesn't matter; I'll win them back soon enough."

"I see." I watched as the two men adopted the fighting pose, swords at the ready, eyes intent on each other, ready to read a move when it was no more than a gleam in the opponent's eye. "And if Cathal fights Johnny, who gets your wager?"

Niall grinned. "We don't wager on those bouts. Johnny always seems to have a little something in reserve. Must be his father's magic. They say Bran was a superb fighter. Fearless."

I did not look at Clodagh. If Cathal had chosen to use his father's magic, he could have defeated any human opponent, even the superbly gifted Johnny.

Kalev and Cathal were of similar build, tall and spare; they appeared well-matched. It was apparent within moments why this bout had been kept until last: it was a cut above anything we had seen. I was surprised at Kalev's adept touch, his lightning-quick feet, for when I had seen him before he always looked a little awkward, as if he had hardly grown into his height. But of course he would not have been selected for this particular bout unless he had been able to make his opponent work hard, at least for the count of fifty or seventy or whatever it was to be.

"Kalev's good," I hissed into Clodagh's ear as the crowd yelled and stamped its feet in encouragement.

"One of our best." She was still holding my hand uncomfortably tight.

The two men were pressed together, their weapons locked, their eyes hard. The swords sc.r.a.ped, the sound harsh as the scream of a crow, and the position broke. The combatants circled each other. Kalev was breathing hard. Several men around me were counting on their fingers.

Kalev stepped to the left, feinted to the right, came up behind Cathal, ready to strike. But Cathal was not there; his move had been so swift I had hardly seen it. My eyes met Clodagh's.

"He's just very quick," my sister said. "No tricks; at least, not the kind you're thinking of."

She was right. It became plain, as Kalev tried one technique after another and Cathal was always a little too fast for him, that my brother-in-law was simply the better fighter.

The Connacht men were on the edge of their seats, silent amid the raucous throng. Johnny was not shouting. He was not even watching the fight, it seemed to me, but observing the behavior of the visitors, as if he had started a.s.sessing their quality before they had even begun their training.

"Eight-and-forty, nine-and-forty," Niall was muttering. "A pox on it."

Kalev was still on his feet. His contribution had been far more than mere self-defence. Several good blows had met their targets, but Cathal's speed-almost, but not quite, uncanny-gave him the advantage. Kalev's features were intent, his eyes narrowed. If he knew defeat was inevitable, that wasn't stopping him from putting all he had into the fight.

"Eight-and-fifty, nine-and-fifty . . . "

Suddenly Kalev was in retreat, backing across the open ground before the swift and deadly action of Cathal's sword arm. He staggered, went down on one knee, braced himself as best he could to hold back the onslaught. With his weapon's hilt gripped in both hands, Cathal performed a twisting maneuver, and Kalev's sword fell to the ground.

"Cease." Johnny's tone was level; if he had any opinion on the skill just demonstrated by his men, he gave no indication of it. Kalev got up, retrieved his weapon, came to stand by Cathal. The crowd roared its appreciation, and the two men acknowledged it with the customary slight dip of the head. Kalev looked tired. Cathal was impa.s.sive. "Well done, all who partic.i.p.ated today," Johnny said. "That's the end of our display. Food and drink for everyone in the dining hall shortly. Connacht men, gather around. We'll give you some further details and introduce you to your tutors. And I'll answer any questions."

The women and children, and many of the men, headed for the exit.

"Wait, Sibeal, we'll go out when the worst of the crowd is through the gate," Clodagh said. "I'm getting so big now, I tend to be in people's way."

"Closer to seventy," Niall muttered to himself, after checking his fingers several times over. "Ah, well, it's only a couple of coppers." He headed down to join the group of men gathering around Johnny.

My sister and I were heading out at the back of the throng when I heard raised voices behind me, an intense exchange in Norse. Then came Knut's voice, speaking in heavily accented Irish.

"I fight. New sword, seven days. I fight that one."

We turned, Clodagh and I. Knut had moved against the flow of the crowd, and now stood in the group next to Johnny. Jouko had hold of the Norseman's arm and was addressing him in a fierce undertone, probably saying something like, be quiet, you fool, this is not how it's done. He might as well not have been there. Knut's attention was all on Johnny. His gaze was fierce, his shoulders were set square and his booted feet were apart; it was a warrior's pose. He had certainly grabbed the attention of the group. The Connacht men eyed him with curiosity; the Inis Eala men with bemused astonishment.

It was hard to surprise Johnny, but for a moment I saw him lost for words.

"Jouko," said Rat, "explain to Knut that the bouts are only for the men in training, our summer visitors. Besides, n.o.body's going to be proficient with the new sword in seven days. Even supposing a man could be, he wouldn't last to the count of ten against Cathal."

So it was Cathal that the Norseman had challenged. Knut must be stupid. Hadn't he seen that last bout?

Knut's response to Jouko was emphatic.

"Knut is keen to test his skills against Cathal's." There was a note of apology in Jouko's translation. "He asks this as a special favor of you, Johnny. He does not expect to be part of the training, only to have the use of one of Sam's blades for practice until the next challenges. He is a fighting man, and wishes to show you what he can do. I'm sorry. I did explain, as well as I could."

"I fight," Knut said in Irish. "Show heart. Strong. Fight best man here."

Cathal unfolded his long frame from his seat and stood to face the Norseman. "Then you don't want me," he said. "Johnny is my superior with the sword, whether it's the old broadsword or the new weapon. And I don't suppose you have the gall to challenge him."

There was a little silence, broken only by Jouko's murmured translation.

"Me, you. Good fight." Knut's gaze met Cathal's, blue eyes fiercely intent, black ones, if anything, mildly amused. Among the men there was a stirring, a whispering, as everyone waited for Johnny's response.

"Your request will be given consideration, Knut." Johnny's tone was calm as always. "As Rat explained, the bouts are intended as part of our visitors' training, and to keep our men's skills sharp. If you and your wife are still here on the island in seven days, and if Rat judges it wise to allow you the use of one of Sam's blades in the meantime, you may get a chance to prove yourself."

If this was intended as a not-too-subtle suggestion that Knut had bitten off more than any man could chew, it was lost on the Norseman. "I fight. You give me sword, I show."

"There's no doubting your courage," Johnny said, giving him a look that was impossible to read. "Any other questions?"

"Come on, Sibeal." Clodagh grabbed my sleeve and headed toward the gate. No sign of Svala; she had already left. Perhaps Knut's behavior was as embarra.s.sing to her as hers was to him.

At breakfast Cathal had asked me to make sure Clodagh rested in the afternoon. After a bite to eat, she and I went to the married quarters, where I sat by her bedside and told stories until she fell asleep, blanket tucked over her expanding form. With her flame-colored curls spread across the pillow and her features smoothed by the sleep that had quickly overtaken her, she looked young and vulnerable. Not for the first time, I felt like an older sister, not a younger.

I tiptoed out and made my way to the infirmary. I visited the privy, brushed my hair and washed my face. Then I went to stand beside the sleeping Ardal, half of me wanting him to wake up so he would know I was there, the other half knowing this peaceful slumber was what he most needed.

Muirrin was hanging bunches of seaweed up to dry. "This kind's called newt's tail," she explained. "It's effective in an infusion for easing cramps. Tastes not unlike cress." When I did not reply, she looked over at me and added, "He's doing better, Sibeal. He's been resting a lot more comfortably, and Evan says his water's not so dark."

I looked down at the sleeping man. "Has he said anything today? Talked to you at all?"

"Don't expect too much, Sibeal. Breathing is enough of a mountain for him to climb. In fact, he asked for you, in quite presentable Irish. I told him you'd be here later."

A small, warm glow had awoken within me. "Thank you," I said.

A silence followed. When I looked across, my sister's hands had stilled at their work and she was studying me intently. "Does his fate matter so much to you?" Muirrin asked quietly.

I nodded, pleating a corner of Ardal's blanket in my fingers. Fang was nowhere to be seen. She'd be needed later. The nights were cold; I did not envy Gull the three trips he made each night out to the privy and back. I had become almost rea.s.sured by the pattern of them, the creaking of the back door as he went out, the creaking as he came back in. I was used to falling asleep quickly once I knew Gull was inside again. But I was always glad of the warmth of my blankets and the shelter of my little chamber.

"Why, Sibeal?"

I believe our fates are tied up together. I could not say that to the ever-practical Muirrin. "I believe I can help him," I said. "Later, I mean, when he's stronger."

"Well, it does look as if you may get your opportunity. I think we'll be able to pull him through this. Your man's a fighter. Sibeal, you're not crying, are you?"

"Of course not. Muirrin, I'm going to my room awhile now. I've agreed to tell a story after supper, and I must decide on one."

I managed to hold back the tears just long enough to get past the curtain that screened my chamber. I sank down on the pallet, put my head in my hands and allowed myself to weep.

CHAPTER 5.

*Sibeal*

And so," I said later, to the hushed audience in the dining hall, "Osgar drew his sword and gave battle, and he slew the Gray Man; and at the sight of her brother lying in his blood, Ailne fell stone dead from grief. And as for the Fianna, they feasted long into the night on the fine food and drink they found in that place, and slept late into the morning. But when they awoke, all was gone: the dun, the rich tapestries, the fine accoutrements, even the grim cell in which their captor had immured them. There was only the gra.s.s and the trees and the sun rising in the sky, telling them it was time to move on. You'd have thought nothing at all had happened to them, save for the sheepskin Conan wore on his back, as if it were part of his own body. In all the years of his life, that skin stayed with him, and when his wife cut his hair for him, she had to shear his wool as well. As she was a practical woman like my sister here," I gave a nod in Clodagh's direction, "she kept it until she had enough, then spun and wove it into all manner of useful items. And that is the end of my tale."

Uproarious applause told me I had chosen it well-it was a story they would all know already, concerning the great warrior Finn and his band, and how they fell foul of Ailne and her fey brother. Such tales made good entertainment without sparking debate or touching the heart too deeply; it was suitable for tonight. Knut was shouting approval with the rest of them. Svala was absent. Perhaps she was all alone down in the fisherman's cottage, huddled over a small fire, or sitting by a single, guttering candle. No, that was wrong. I imagined her on the sh.o.r.e, staring out into the west in the dark; or walking, her bare feet steady and sure across the pebbles of the beach. Or sitting on the rocks under the rising moon, waiting for the seals to swim by. Her heart aching, aching for a loss that could never be made good . . .

Someone thrust a cup of mead into my hand. I almost dropped it into my lap, so startled was I-for a moment, the wave of sorrow had borne me to another place.

"All right, Sibeal?" Gareth came to take the cup from me and set it on the table close by.

"I'm fine, but-"

"You will stay for the music, Sibeal?" It was Alba, her hair tied back in a ribbon, her fiddle and bow in her hands. She glanced sideways as she waited for my reply, and one of the Connacht men, a handsome, red-haired fellow, smiled as if he had been waiting for her to notice him. Alba grinned, showing her dimples. Behind her, Niall was plucking notes on his harp, frowning, tightening a peg or two.

I had been about to plead exhaustion and make my escape. "Of course," I said. "I've been looking forward to it."

Alba and her brother were expert musicians. They were joined by a deft-fingered fellow on the whistle and two very fine drummers. I could see that people were itching to dance, but holding back out of respect for Knut and the recent losses. It seemed to me that Knut would have been up and dancing himself, with or without his wife-he was tapping his foot-if anyone had suggested it. On another occasion I would have enjoyed the music. Tonight, I could only wait until I might leave without offending anyone.

"May I introduce myself and my friend here?" A courteous voice: the warrior standing in front of me was one of the visitors, not Alba's redhead but a shorter man with a genial smile and a head of dark curls. "I'm Brendan, son of Marcan, and he's Fergus. Both of us from the district of Long Hill, originally. That was a fine tale."

"Thank you. I am Sibeal, daughter of Lord Sean of Sevenwaters, as you know. Johnny's cousin. A druid, or on the way to becoming one."

"May we sit here, Sibeal?"

I nodded; I could hardly say no. Then I had one of them on either side of me, and the music playing on, and all I could think about was Ardal lying awake in the infirmary, like a little boy waiting for his mother to come and tuck him in. Though, of course, it was nothing like the same.

". . . and my father's land stretches from the west coast across to Hidden Lake," one of the men was saying.

"Mm," I murmured, considering whether I might amuse Ardal with a story, should he still be awake when I finally got there.

". . . hoping to end it, once and for all. Fursa Ui Conchobhair has long had his eye on Curnan's holdings; if we don't put a stop to it now, it'll soon go much further than cattle raids . . . "

"Mm."

Clodagh was looking tired again, despite her afternoon sleep. She sat at the far table with Cathal, her head resting on his shoulder. The music continued, but folk with children were beginning to extricate them from the crowd and shepherd them off to bed. Johnny was deep in conversation with the leader of the Connacht men, perhaps mapping out the next day's activities. They were moving objects about on the table as if to indicate a battle plan: this spoon is the bridge over the stream, and this bowl the lake . . .

I realized that one of the men had just asked me a question, and I had no idea what it was. Which of them was Brendan and which Fergus? As I floundered for something to say, the tall figure of Kalev loomed before me.

"That was a fine story, Sibeal. If you wish, I will escort you back to the infirmary-I need to speak to Evan. When you are ready."

A savior in unlikely form. "Thank you," I said, rising to my feet. "I'll bid you good night," I said to the two Connacht men, smiling at each of them and allowing Kalev to take my arm. "Thank you," I murmured again as we moved away between the tables. "I did need rescuing."

Kalev flushed. "They expect much of you. More than is reasonable."

"I'm happy to contribute a tale or two. It's part of a druid's job."

He said nothing until we were out of doors and walking across to the infirmary. The wind was rising; the torches made long flaming banners, lighting the way.

"You tell tales, you tend to the sick, you speak prayers for the dead, you bestow your smile on the man who fights and on the man who pa.s.ses you the basket of bread," Kalev said, surprising me. "You are young."

I thought about this awhile. "I started down this path when I was much younger," I told him. "It's a calling. It doesn't seem unreasonable. Only when-" I stopped myself. After all, I did not know this man very well.