The men had come back late last night, empty-handed and grim-faced. As soon as it was light they had gone out again in another search party; but when they returned after breakfast without any success Mother’s face twisted into a funny shape, and she went into the house with Father and stayed there for a long time. Balor was not allowed in to see them.
“Leave them be for now, young ‘un,” Elred told him. “They’ve enough to worry about without you bothering them.”
He took Balor to the smithy, where he let him pound iron for a few hours until his face was black with smuts and his eyes watered, and he had forgotten about Banac completely. But by late afternoon Elred had run out of things for him to do, and he sent him home, warning him not to bother Mother and Father more than was necessary. When Balor ducked through the door he found them huddled to one side, whispering urgently in tense voices — and still Banac was nowhere to be seen.
He sat down beside the fire with Grandfather, who was patiently mending clothes. Still Mother and Father whispered fiercely at each other, and as Balor watched them he started to wonder if he should say something. Supposing there had been an accident? Supposing Banac was hurt? He was the only one who knew where he had gone. Should he say something now? But then he would get in trouble.
He fidgeted, working up the courage to open his mouth. Guilt grew inside him, fuelled by the knowledge that it was he who had told Banac to go to the forest in the first place, until at last he could bear it no more. He had to say something. It did not matter what happened afterwards. Banac could be in serious trouble.
He stood up and opened his mouth; but before the first word came out he was interrupted by a sudden shout from outside, calling Father’s name. Father and Mother stopped in mid-sentence, not sure what they had heard. The shout came again, and they both rushed for the door, Father hobbling as fast as he could on his crutch.
“We’ve found him!” Balor heard someone cry, again and again. “We’ve found him! We’ve found him!”
Everything after that was confused. Banac was carried into the house by one of the men, limp and floppy like a rag doll, and laid down by the hearth. People rushed here and there, bringing water, blankets, food, and fire, and through it all Mother cried and cried, burying her head in Father’s shoulder as he looked on, his face locked-up and serious — the face he wore when he did not want anyone to know what he was thinking.
Then a man was brought in, a man Balor did not know; and with a shock Balor saw that the man’s skin was unnaturally pale, and his long, matted hair was bright yellow. The man shivered violently despite being wrapped in a heavy blanket, and his forehead was beaded with perspiration. His eyes were wide and staring, his head darting this way and that like a baby, taking everything in. He mumbled incoherently in a language Balor did not recognise. When some of the other men tried to lie him down on the boys’ bed he jerked away from them, kicking and hitting. It was only when they left him alone for a few moments that he sat down of his own accord, clutching at the blanket and shivering all the while. And it was only then, when the blanket fell away slightly, that Balor saw the golden torc at the man’s wrist.
He had no time to think about it. Already more and more people were crowding into the house, pushing him aside. He tried to look through their legs, but he could only catch occasional glimpses of what was happening.
“What’s it doing here?” he heard someone say.
“Don’t ask me,” someone else replied. “It’s bad luck, that’s what it is. Nothing good ever came from such things.”
“Best to get it out quickly.”
“Throw it back into the sea where it came from, I say.”
“Aye!”
Angry mutters filled the room. When Balor looked up he saw dark frowns everywhere.
Then the room fell silent, and all heads turned towards the door as the Scholar entered the house, ducking his head under the lintel. He straightened up and looked round at the jostling company, and expectant faces looked back.
“So what’s this I hear?” he said. “Truly, there is a beremer in this house?”
“There is,” said Father, limping forward. “My son found him, out in the woods.”
“And there he should have stayed!” To everyone’s surprise the Scholar’s tone was cutting. More than one eyebrow in the room was raised. The temperature seemed to drop a degree as all eyes turned to Father to see how he would respond.
Father smiled tolerantly. “Of course you are jesting, master Scholar,” he said. “Beremer or not, we men of Padascel will have pity on any wounded creature that comes our way.”
“Will we?” The Scholar did not look amused. He glanced down at the figure on the bed as if it was something dead and rotting. “Since when did we start giving pity to enemies of the crown? Some might consider such behaviour to be little less than treachery, might they not?”
Again everyone turned to Father. His calm expression flickered, but only for a moment.
“It is not treason to heal,” he said.
“It is treason to harbour a beremer.”
“Our law permits us to care even for an enemy, if he is sick.”
“Our law does not permit us to take an enemy into our home.”
“Well, I think that in my home I may do as I please.”
A small space had cleared around the two men. They faced each other like combatants about to draw swords. No-one spoke. No-one dared step between them.
The Scholar opened his mouth, but he was interrupted by someone else entering the house behind him. Everyone turned. It was one of the Stewards of the long-hall, a young man named Aebel, clothed in his ceremonial armour and carrying his ceremonial spear. He was barely old enough to sport a full beard, but he carried the weight of the authority of the Elder of the village, and he looked sternly at the Scholar and Father.
“The Elder requests your presence,” he said. “You are to come with me.”
Father and the Scholar looked at each other to see if the other man knew anything about it, but each found the other as puzzled as he. Aebel gestured politely to the door.
“Please,” he said, and his tone made it clear they had no choice. After muttering something under his breath the Scholar followed him; Father paused only to kiss Mother on the cheek and whisper something in her ear, then he, too, followed Aebel and the Scholar out of the house.
Once they were gone everyone relaxed. But only for a moment, because Mother was quickly upon them, waving them out of the door.
“Go on,” she said. “Out! The Elder will deal with it I’m sure. Until then my patient needs peace and quiet. Go on. You’ll see no more here tonight.”
Grumbling and muttering, the villagers made their way out of the door. Balor saw more than one suspicious glance at the figure on the bed; then they were gone, and the house was empty once more.
Mother immediately went down to the other end of the house to rummage through her store of herbs. Balor sidled over to Banac’s bed, ready to question his brother about what had happened; but before he could say anything Banac was leaning up on his elbows, an urgent expression on his face.
“Quick!” he whispered. “You have to follow them!”
Balor was taken aback. “Who?”
Banac glanced over at Mother to make sure she was not listening. “Who do you think?” he hissed. “Father and Aebel, idiot! I want to know why Agwaen wants to see him so badly. It’s because of him, I know it.”
Balor did not need to ask who Banac meant by ‘him’. But doubt checked him. “Why do I need to go? Can’t we just ask Father when he comes back?”
“What do you think?” Banac grasped at his hair in frustration. “Father won’t say anything! You saw the look on the Scholar’s face — something big’s happening, something important, something bad.”
“But—”
Banac shoved Balor off the bed towards the door. “Stop asking questions and go!”
And such was the force in his voice that Balor did not protest. He was not sure why he had to do what he was doing, but he could not think of any argument. He made sure Mother was truly busy tending to the stranger, then he slipped out of the door and into the dusk.
* * *
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