sighed. 'Their guilt was the same. And yet Connavar – as you said – is a great man, so he was forgiven. Arian was marked in men's minds as the whore who caused the death of Tae. It is unjust. Even members of her own family turned their backs on her. Govannan, mainly. But her sister Gwydia never invited her to Seven Willows.'
'Why hasn't someone told Bane this?' he asked.
'For what purpose? He loved his mother, and he thinks her almost holy. He was the one person in her life who gave her complete love. It was for her to tell him – if she chose to. And she did not.'
'It was all so tragic,' said Banouin. 'And it doesn't end, does it? Arian is dead, but Bane lives on, with all the bitterness.'
'That bitterness would not be ended merely by understanding of the truth,' said Vorna. 'Trust me on this, my son.'
'But none of this was Bane's fault,' insisted Banouin. 'His mother betrayed her husband, just as Connavar betrayed his wife. Bane is merely the innocent who has suffered.'
'They have all suffered.' She looked at her son fondly, and reached out to stroke his face. 'Men say that there is freedom in truth. Sometimes it is true. Mostly it is not. Truth can be a dagger to the heart. When your father died, and you were born, I was torn between anguish and joy. It almost broke me. And on one day, as I looked at you within your crib, I felt as if I had been cursed by love, not blessed by it. In that one moment I wished you had never been conceived, that I had never met your father. That I had never known love at all. That is a truth, Banouin. Tell me, how does it sit with you?'
'I can understand it,' he said. 'I feel no anger or hurt.'
'Suppose I had told you this when you were five years younger, hated and despised by all the other boys?'
'I would have been devastated,' he admitted. 'I would have been too young to understand.'
'Yes,' she said, 'the child would invest that truth with a perception of its own. 'My mother did not love me.' 'I was not wanted.' In many ways that is what the young Bane did. Connavar did not acknowledge him, therefore Connavar hated him, and hated his mother. Connavar was an evil creature. An enemy. This is the way Bane dealt with his perception of the truth. And it haunts him still.'
'Then there is nothing we can do?'
'I would not say that. There is great strength in him, great loyalty and love. With good friends close by he may yet find his way. That is what we can do. Remain his friends.'
'I will always be that,' Banouin had promised.
The dancing shadows on the cave wall were making Banouin sleepy. He glanced out at the skyline, and saw his friend still sitting on the cliff top. Wearily he pushed himself to his feet and trudged out to join him. 'It is a fine night,' he said, hunkering down beside the blond warrior, his feet dangling over the cliff edge.
'Aye, it is,' agreed Bane. 'Some people find the night threatening, but I love the dark. It seems timeless and calm. When I was a child, maybe five or six, my mother would take me to the Riguan Falls on warm nights. We would swim there in the moonlight. I remember that I longed to be a fish, swimming for ever. I loved those nights. When we climbed out she would light a fire, and then we would sit and eat a supper she had brought with her. After that I always felt sleepy, and she would wrap me in a blanket and hold me close, so that I slept with my head in her lap. They were the most peaceful of nights, and I never dreamt at all.'
'It is strange', said Banouin, 'how good memories can make you feel sad. I feel the same way about the Big Man. When I was young I would constantly run out into the yard to see if he was coming to visit us. And when he did I would whoop with joy and scamper off to meet him. Now, when I recall his face, and his bright blue eyes, I feel a lump in my throat. So much would have been different had he not died in that battle.'
'Perhaps. Perhaps not,' said Bane. 'I used to play that game in my head. What if…? It is a stupid game. What's done is done. It cannot be undone. If I could have this day back again I would avoid the Green Ghost. Or, if not that, then I would merely have thrashed the fat man. But I cannot have it back. Just as I cannot return to the Riguan Falls and sit with my mother, a blanket around me, the taste of a sweet cake upon my tongue.'
'Life does seem unfair sometimes,' said Banouin.
Bane laughed. 'Aye, but there are good times. Your mother and I rescued a badger cub once. It was blind and she healed it. Then we took it back to the woods and watched it amble away to a new life. That was a grand night. I like to think that cub went on to become a fine beast, with a mate and cubs of his own. Maybe he did. Or maybe he was killed by hunters. Fortunately I'll never know.' Bane picked up a stone, and hurled it high over the cliff, watching it drop to the water below. 'I hope the sea is as calm as this when we cross,' he said.
'You are coming across the water with me?'
'Of course. I promised your mother I'd see you safe all the way to Stone.'
'I'll be safe,' said Banouin, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. 'I don't think you'll like Stone.'
'If I don't I shall bid you farewell,' said Bane. 'Anyway, I'm tired. I think I'll get some sleep.' Rising smoothly he wandered back to the cave.
Banouin sat alone for a while, lost in thought. He loved Bane, but the thought of arriving in Stone with him was a daunting and depressing one. Like taking a wild bear to a wedding dance. The thought shamed him, but he could not push it away.
Bane lay in the cave, trying to deal with the now familiar waves of sorrow, and seeking a way through the desolation he felt. Parax had been right. He had planned to lead the hunters a merry chase, and then go down fighting, putting an end to this bitter existence. Bane had not consciously realized it, and only when Parax had spoken the words had the truth of them registered. It was not that he particularly wanted to die. He loved life, the feel of the warm sun on his face, the sound of a waterfall, the call of a hunting falcon. Nor was it merely the death of Arian, or the continuing hurt of his rejection by Connavar.
Rather it was a combination of these and many other pressures, not least the sense of isolation following the early years of being shunned by his fellows, and then, as he grew older, being offered only menial tasks because he could not master the relatively simple skills of reading and writing. It was almost as if the king had decreed this onerous duty on the peoples of the Rigante, Pannone and Norvii merely to add to the already unbearable pressures of Bane's life.
He lay back in the cave and felt his anger rising. Vorna had probably saved his life by asking him to look after her son. And now that son, Bane's only friend, was ashamed of him. He had seen the look in his eye when he talked of accompanying him to Stone, the sudden shock and dismay. He did not let Banouin know that he had seen it, and it hurt the more because he had to hide his pain.
But then he had always hidden the pain. When have you ever let people see the real man? he wondered. When have you ever let fall the mask? Cheerful Bane, bright Bane, Bane the storyteller, the singer of bawdy songs. In other settlements but Three Streams Bane was popular with all he met, but the man they laughed and joked with was not the man behind the mask.
Even with his mother Bane hid his feelings. She had anguish enough, he had thought, and so he joked and laughed with her. No-one else could bring a smile to her face. No-one else really tried.
Now she was gone. Even Vorna's skills had not been enough to save her. This had confused Bane, for Vorna had taken the cancer from the blind badger and restored its sight, and Bane had railed at her.
'Magic alone was not enough,' Vorna had said. 'Arian no longer had the will to go on.'
Bane understood it now. He had felt it for himself, up in the hills as the hunters searched.
He felt it now in this cold cave.
Thoughts of Arian filled his mind. When, he wondered, had she finally lost the will to live? Often she would walk the high hills, staring towards the north. Bane always believed she was waiting for Connavar, hoping he would one day ride by, and that he would stop and talk to her. He never did.
Two years ago, at fifteen, Bane had decided to meet with the king – meet with him in a way that would force Connavar to speak with him. And when they spoke Bane would ask him why he shunned them. The plan was simple enough. All Bane had to do was win the Beltine Race, five miles over rough country. The problem was that there were at least seven other youngsters faster than he among the Rigante of Three Streams alone.
So Bane trained every day for months, building his stamina, pounding along mud-covered trails, running up high hills, pushing himself to the point of collapse. In the early weeks he would sometimes stagger to a halt and vomit beside the trail. Then he would run on, lungs afire, muscles burning. Gradually he became stronger, driven on always by the thought of meeting his father, seeing at last pride in his eyes.
The race had been hard fought. One boy from the Northern Pannone had stayed with him for four of the five
