'He is not dead yet.'
'Soon, Vorna. Soon.'
'You sent the bear to kill him.'
The old woman shrugged and spread her arms. The movement made the crow flutter its great wings. 'He wanted glory, Vorna. Now he has it. The story of his courage has spread to the Norvii, the Pannones and beyond - across the water. He is the boy who fought the beast. Is that not what he desired? To be famous?'
The Morrigu advanced into the cave, pausing before the fire. She gazed around her at the stark, grey walls. 'I give people what they ask for. You know that. Your mother was a whore, and you yearned for respect. For power. Did I not grant you all that you sought? You will live ten times longer than any of your tribe, and you have their respect.'
'They fear me.'
'Respect, fear, it is all the same.'
'I hate you,' hissed Vorna.
The old woman gave a harsh, dry laugh. 'Everyone hates the Morrigu. I find that charming. Still, as you say, he is not yet dead.
I shall return with the dawn.' Her jet-black eyes grew large and she loomed over the witch. 'You could, of course, save him. His mother was right. The Merging might bring him back. You, however, might not survive the winter without your powers. You could die here in this cold, lonely place. Unloved and unmourned, isn't that what you said?' The Morrigu smiled. 'I will leave you with your thoughts.'
The old woman walked out into the night. The cave was growing cold now and Vorna lit a fire. Once it was blazing brightly she made a broth from the meat and vegetables Meria had brought earlier. To this she added herbs and spices, stirring the mixture until it was ready. Pouring some of the broth into a wooden bowl she carried it to the bedside and waited for it to cool. When it had done so she filled a large cup with clear water and placed it alongside the broth.
Moving her chair to the head of the bed she laid her hands on either side of Connavar's face. For an hour she sat, honing her concentration, freeing her mind.
Then she Merged . . .
. . . and screamed as the pain tore into her. For a moment she almost passed out. Marshalling her power she sought to blanket the raw, boiling agony searing through the tortured frame. The boy's body was weak, and it took all her strength to force it to turn on its side. Then she pushed the right arm beneath the body and came up on one elbow. Tears seeped from the eyes and Vorna felt herself dying within the torn and bleeding shell that had once been Connavar. Do not give in to despair, she warned herself. Hold back the pain, and make him sit! The left arm was broken and useless. With a cry of agony she forced the body to a sitting position, then, with a trembling hand, reached for the broth, lifting it to the lips. Opening the mouth she forced the body to swallow. Nausea flowed over her, but she held it down. Then she drank the water, feeling the cold liquid seeping into fever-dried tissue. Dropping the cup she laid the body down and retreated to the security of her own exhausted frame.
The memory of the pain was almost as strong as the pain itself and she passed out, falling from the chair to the cold, stone floor of the cave.
It was night when she awoke. The fire was almost dead. With fear in her heart she pointed at the hearth, and whispered a single word of power. She knew, even as she spoke, that the magic had gone from her. She was a witch no longer.
Rising she checked Connavar's pulse. It was stronger now, his breathing deeper. She lit three lamps, and by their light examined the boy's back. The combination of mould and maggots had cleaned the wounds. With a needle she carefully pricked each maggot, lifting them one at a time from his flesh and flicking them into the fire. When at last his back was free of them she poured a cold herbal tisane over some linen and laid it on his tortured flesh.
Wrapping herself in a warm cloak she walked out into the night. The stars were bright over Caer Druagh, the breeze chill.
And in the breeze, as it rustled through the winter-naked branches above her, she thought she heard the wicked, mocking laughter of the Morrigu.
Connavar dung to the rock face. High above him the summit beckoned, far below a river of fire flowed over black rocks. Birds of prey hovered around him, pecking at the flesh of his back. One landed on his shoulder, the curved beak ripping into his face. He struck it hard, and forced himself on. Arian was waiting. He would not die ...
He was crawling across a desert. Huge ants emerged from the sand, clinging to his flesh with their mandibles, tearing at him. Ahead was an oasis. Everything in him screamed to close his eyes and float away on the bliss of sleep. Yet he did not. For in his mind was the face of a goddess. His goddess. His love. His flesh burning, he crawled on ...
He was lying naked in a bramble patch, the spiked branches growing around him, through him, biting into his back, eating into the flesh of his face. The pain was terrible and now he could not move. He lay there knowing, at last, that he was dying.
A movement to his right caught his eye. A fawn was moving daintily through the brambles. Reaching his side the creature gazed into his eyes. It made no sound, but Connavar knew it was asking him to reach out, to drape his arm over the slender neck. He tried, but pain seared through him. The fawn waited. Twice more the youth tried to move. Each time the pain was greater. Anger touched him, renewing his strength. He screamed as he wrenched his arm clear of the brambles, and curled it over the neck of the fawn. The little creature settled down beside him - and began to grow. As it did so Connavar was pulled clear of the brambles, and found himself sitting on the back of a powerful stag, with great antlers. The stag swung and bounded from the thicket, coming to a halt beside a rock pool. Connavar slid from the beast's back and drank deeply. Then he woke ...
His left arm was heavily strapped, and throbbing painfully. His back felt as if a fire had been laid on his flesh. Opening his eyes he found he was lying face down on a pallet bed. For a moment he could not identify his surroundings. Then he saw Vorna, lit by the light of a flickering fire, standing with her back to him. He heard a voice, and remembered it as the old woman in the woods, the Morrigu!
'Who would have thought you could be so stupid, Vorna? Two hundred years of life, surrendered for an arrogant boy. How does it feel to be without your powers? Are you afraid? Will the wolves eat your flesh, Vorna? Will the lions come down from their mountain lairs and tear you with their fangs?'
'He lives,' replied Vorna, and Connavar could hear the weariness in her voice.
'Yes, he lives,' hissed the Morrigu. 'His body torn, poison seeping into his tissues, running in his blood. A whisper from death. For this you threw away the power I gifted you? You humans are so sentimental.'
'You are neither wanted nor needed here,' said Vorna. 'Go and torment someone else.'
Connavar heard the fluttering of wings, then saw Vorna walk to the fire. Pushing his right arm beneath him he forced himself up. The stitches on his back pulled tight. He grunted. Vorna was immediately at his side. Dizzy, he fell against her. 'Lie down, child, you are too weak to sit,' she said.
'No,' he whispered. Drawing in several deep breaths he waited for the dizziness to pass. 'I am better now,' he told her. 'Could ... I have . . . some water?' She fetched him a cup, but he was too weak to hold it and she lifted it to his lips. He drank greedily. Sweat bathed his face, burning against the vivid wound on his cheek. Reaching up he ran his fingers across it, feeling the stitches. Then he remembered the bear, the slavering jaws and the terrible fangs.
He had a fleeting vision of Govannan running to his aid, and the stricken Riamfada lying on the grass. For a moment he hesitated, almost too frightened to ask the question. 'What happened to the others?' he said, at last.
'You were the only one hurt,' she told him. 'Your father and other men from the settlement rode up and killed the bear. Rest now. We will talk tomorrow.'
Sleep came swiftly. And there were no dreams.
For another ten days Connavar drifted in and out of delirium, but on the morning of the eleventh he awoke clear headed. The pain from his back had faded, but his shoulder still throbbed. Awkwardly he climbed from the bed.
The cave was empty, but a bright fire was blazing in the hearth. He could not feel its heat, for a cold breeze was flowing from the cave mouth and Conn could see snow drifting in the opening. Fresh clothes were lying folded on the wooden table. Conn took a pair of green woollen leggings and struggled into them. It was not easy using only one arm. By the time he had them on he was bathed in sweat and feeling nauseous. Never had he felt this weak. With the heavy splint on his left arm there was no way to pull on his tunic. Draping it over his shoulders he moved to the fireside.
His memories were hazy. How long had he been in the cave? He seemed to recall his mother sitting beside him, first in a green dress, then a blue one, and finally in a heavy coat with a collar of sheepskin. It was all so confusing.
Vorna entered the cave. She was wearing a black, hooded cloak and a thick red scarf was wrapped around her neck. Snow had settled on her shoulders, and also on the bundle of wood she carried. Dropping the fuel to the hearth she swung towards him. 'How are you feeling?'
'I have felt better,' he admitted.
'The poison is gone from your body. Soon you will be able to go home. Perhaps tomorrow.'
Conn sat down on the rug in front of the fire. Vorna removed her cloak, brushed the snow from it, and hung it on a peg. Drawing up a chair she sat and held her hands out to the blaze. The skin of her fingers was blue with cold.
'Was the . . . old woman here?' he asked. 'Or did I dream it?'
'She was here.'
He shivered as a freezing draught whispered over him, touching the fire, causing the flames to dance. Vorna rose immediately and fetched a blanket which she laid around his shoulders. Conn looked up at her. 'She said you gave up your power to save me.'
'That is no concern of yours,' she snapped.
Conn was not deterred. 'What will you do without your power?'
Vorna placed a fresh log upon the fire. She looked at the youth and smiled. 'I have not lost my skill with herbs and potions. Only the magic is gone.'
'Will it return?'
She shrugged. 'It will or it won't. I'll waste no sleep over it. So tell me, Connavar, why did you fight the bear?'
He shivered at the memory, seeing again the immensity of the beast; the horror of its blood-smeared jaws. 'I had no choice.'
'Nonsense. Life is full of choices. You could have dropped your burden and run.'
'Had I been carrying a burden I would have done just that,' said Conn, softly. 'But is that what you think I should have done?'
'It matters not what I think,' said Vorna, lifting a copper kettle to hang above the blaze. 'You did what you did. Nothing can change it now.' Her dark eyes glinted in the firelight. 'Would you do it again, Connavar?'
He thought about the question. 'I don't know,' he said, at last. 'I have never known pain like it. Nor fear.' He sighed. 'But I hope I would.'
'Why?'
'Because a true man does not desert his friends. He does not run from evil.'
Steam hissed from the kettle. Wrapping her hand in a cloth Vorna lifted it clear of the flames, setting it down on the hearthstone. Silently she prepared two herbal tisanes, sweetened with honey.
The cave was warm now, and Connavar felt sleepy once more. When the pottery cups had cooled Vorna handed one to Conn. 'Drink,' she said. 'It will help your body to repair itself. Tomorrow I will remove the splints. The bones of your arm have already knitted. Happily I accomplished this before my power was gone.'
'I will find a way to return it to you. To repay you,' he promised.
She smiled, and, in a rare gesture of affection, pushed her fingers through his red-gold hair. 'It was not a loan, Connavar. It was a gift, freely given. And it cheapens a gift to talk of repayment.'
'I am sorry, Vorna. I did not mean to offend you.'
'No offence was taken. You have much to learn, Connavar. There are some things even a hero cannot achieve. Have you not understood that yet? You cannot give Riamfada the power to walk. You cannot bring Ruathain and Meria together. You cannot kill a raging bear with a knife - even a blade cast by the Seidh. And you certainly cannot bring back my magic. But what you have done is far more important.'
'What is it that I have done?' he asked.
'You have lifted the hearts of all who have heard the tale of the boy and the bear. During that time you made men feel proud to be Rigante, for they shared in your courage. One of them stood against the beast. One of them faced death with true courage. You are now, and always will be, a part of Rigante legends. And when you are long dead the story will still be told. It will inspire other young men to be courageous. Now let me get you back to bed. Ruathain is coming to see you tomorrow. If you are well enough I will allow him to take you home.'
'What will you do?' he asked, sleepily.
'Survive,' she said.
Ever since he could climb Braefar had spent much of his free time sitting on the thatched roof of his house, high above the cares of the world. From here he could see the whole of Three Streams: the wooden houses, the thatched round-huts of the itinerant workers, the forges, the bakeries and the high barns for winter storage. He would often sit in the early morning and watch as people moved through the settlement, women heading down to the lower stream to wash clothing, men saddling their ponies to ride out and work their cattle or patrol the borders. He would wait for Nanncumal the smith to light his fire, then listen for the sound of his hammer on the anvil.
On the roof Braefar was a king, gazing down on his people.
Here he was secure, unafraid and content.
But not today.
For Braefar the homecoming of the hero was proving a painful affair. He sat watching as the two riders made their slow way down the snow-covered hillside. At first only a few people came out to meet them, but, as word spread, more and more Rigante ran from their homes, forming two lines and clapping their hands as the riders approached.
Nanncumal was there, with his son Govannan and his daughters, and the bread maker, Borga, with his wife Pelain. Then the metal crafter Gariapha and his wife Wiocca came running to join the crowd. Scores of men, women and children lined the way.
A cold wind was blowing but Braefar could scarcely feel it through his anger. Look at them, he thought. Fools every one! Could they not see that what Connavar had shown was not courage but stupidity? Only an idiot would face a bear with a knife. Never had Braefar known such resentment. He had adjusted to being small and slight, to knowing he would never be as strong as Connavar, and though he had envied his brother's skill and strength, he had never been jealous. Until now.
It was all so terribly unfair.
Ever since that dread day people seemed to talk of nothing but the fight with the beast, and how Conn had leapt at it. They praised the bravery of Govannan, who had run to his aid, first with a knife and then striking the beast with a rock.
'And what did you do, Braefar?' they asked him.
'I had no weapon,' he replied.
'Ah,' they said. Such a little sound, such a wealth of meaning.
Braefar knew what they were thinking. He was a coward. The other two boys had fought, while he merely stood, petrified.
The ponies were closer now. He saw Govannan run alongside Connavar and reach up to shake his hand. Men cheered loudly as he did so. The two heroes together again!
Braefar felt sick.
Ruathain had come to him on that first, terrible night, as Connavar lay close to death. He had asked him to describe the fight. Braefar had done so. 'I couldn't help them, Father. I had no weapon,' he said.
His father patted his shoulder. 'There was nothing you could have done, Wing. I am just glad you are alive.'
But Braefar had seen the disappointment in Ruathain's eyes. It cut him like a knife.
Since then he had played out the fight with the bear many times in his mind. If he had run in, even to throw a stone, all would be different. Now, as he watched the hero's ride home, he pictured himself sitting in the saddle, listening to the cheers of his people. If Banouin had g
iven me such a knife, he thought, I too could have shared the applause.
The riders halted before the house. Ruathain helped Conn to the ground, then half carried him inside. The crowd drifted away.
Braefar climbed from the roof, in through the loft and down the wooden ladder to the ground floor. Conn was sitting at the long table, Meria fussing over him. His skin looked grey, his eyes red rimmed and tired. A horrible red scar disfigured his face, and his left arm was heavily bandaged. Ruathain was standing silently by the doorway.
'Welcome home,' said Braefar, lamely. Conn looked up and gave a tired smile.
'Good to see you, Wing,' he said.
'You need rest,' said Meria. 'Come, let me help you to your bed.' Conn did not resist. Pushing himself to his feet he allowed his mother to support him. Slowly they moved past Braefar.
Later, as Braefar climbed into his own bed alongside Conn's he saw that his brother was awake.
'I would have helped if I'd had a weapon,' he said.
'I know that, Wing.'
There was kindness in the voice, and understanding. Braefar hated him for it. And said the one thing he knew would cause the most pain.
'I suppose you haven't heard about Arian. She married Casta at the Feast of Samain.'
His brother groaned in the darkness. Instantly Braefar felt shame. 'I'm sorry, Conn. I tried to tell you that she didn't care for you.'
CHAPTER SIX
the WINTER WAS ONE OF THE FIERCEST IN RIGANTE MEMORY:
freezing blizzards, and temperatures so low at times that trees shattered as their sap froze. So much snow fell that huge drifts blocked the high passes, and the weight of fallen snow caved in the roof of Nanncumal's forge. Ponies could not carry the feed to cattle trapped in the high valleys, and men wearing snowshoes struggled through the drifts, bales of hay upon their shoulders.
Ruathain and Arbonacast almost died trying to reach Bear Valley, where many of the herd had taken refuge. Caught out in a blizzard they had dug under the snow-buried branches of a tall pine, and crouched there huddled together throughout the deadly night. In the morning they had crawled clear, hefted their bales and located the herd. Two of the younger bulls had died. But old Mentha, indomitable and powerful as ever, had, with eight of his cows, found shelter in the lee of a cliff face.