'I don't care! I'm not going to fight you.'
The fat man rolled to his knees, crawled a few paces, pushed himself to his feet, and ran back to the bar. Once there he fled through a doorway, slamming shut the door behind him. Bane shook his head in disbelief.
'How could he refuse to fight?' he said.
'He's just a coward. No shortage of cowards in the world,' said a grey-bearded man, sitting at a table close by. Bane looked at him. As with most of the men his skin was deeply coal-stained.
The girl was on her knees, gathering the sharp shards of the broken jugs. Bane knelt down and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked into his face and gave a weary smile. Her skin was pockmarked, and a vivid red weal showed on the left side of her face. 'I am sorry that he hurt you,' said Bane.
'He's done worse,' she said. 'And he will again.'
'Better watch out, boy!' called the grey-bearded miner.
Bane glanced up. The rear door had opened. Two thickset men, both carrying cudgels, were advancing across the room. The fat man was back in the doorway. He was smiling now. 'You want to fight someone?' he shouted. 'Well, now's your chance.'
The two men rushed forward. Bane rose, took one step to the right, then lashed out with his foot. His boot hammered into the first man's knee, just as his weight descended on it. The leg snapped backwards. With a terrible scream the man fell. The second man lashed out, the cudgel catching Bane high on the shoulder. He swayed, then delivered a left hook to the man's bearded chin. The man stumbled. Bane kicked him in the face.
The fat man was standing framed in the doorway. Bane ran forward, vaulted the bar, grabbed him by his tunic and threw him back against the wall.
'I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' wailed the man. Suddenly the sound was cut off. The fat man's jaw dropped and he sagged down the wall, falling to his knees. Bane tore his dagger from the man's chest. The dying man's eyes flickered. 'Don't hurt me!' he whispered. Blood frothed to his lips and he toppled sideways to the floor. Bane wiped his dagger blade on the man's tunic, then rose, sheathing the weapon. All around him men were sitting in stunned silence. No-one moved, save the serving girl who raised 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 girl. She would travel through the hills to the trade road, and she would rut with men for coin. There was a need in her that she thought no-one knew of. No-one save an earth maiden named Eriatha, who helped her abort several babes. But I knew. She was betrothed to Connavar, but when he fought the bear, and everyone believed he would die of his wounds, Arian took up with Casta, and married him on Feast Night. But, as we know, Connavar did not die. He survived and grew strong. He never forgave Arian, and avoided her always.
'On that dread day, when he saw her alone at the hut, all his old feelings came back. She wept and begged forgiveness. She clung to him.' Vorna sighed. 'Men are not strong, Banouin. The loins will inevitably betray the heart. Her husband was gone for the day, and Connavar bedded her.
'Back at Old Oaks his wife was waiting for the trip to the lake he had promised. When he failed to return she asked Ruathain to take her to the lake. This he did. But on the way back a group of assassins were waiting to kill Ruathain. They shot an arrow, which missed him, and killed Tae. Connavar had forgotten the warning of the Seidh. He had broken his promise – and his young wife lay dead upon the grass.
'When he heard what had happened he lost his mind for a while. The men had come from a Pannone fishing village, sent by the Fisher Laird. Connavar went to that village alone, killed the Laird and his sons, and destroyed the village by fire. Every house. He slaughtered many – including women and children. Does this behaviour sound familiar to you?'
'Aye. Bane.'
'Yes, Bane. He is his father's son. But when Connavar regained his senses he felt a terrible burden of guilt. It is a burden he carries to this day. He could never look upon Arian again. He never spoke publicly of her, or her child. Their very existence was a constantly painful reminder of his betrayal and the terrible deeds he committed.'
'I always thought', said Banouin, 'that Arian was a good woman.'
'Stupid boy!' stormed Vorna. 'Did I say she was not good? I said she had a need for men – a weakness if you like. That does not make her evil. She was a good mother to Bane, and there was great kindness in her. It is my belief that she never stopped loving Connavar. Her burden of guilt was every bit as powerful as his own.' Vorna
