Midnight Falcon

Chapter Eleven

The winter was the harshest in living memory. Rigante cattle, already decimated by the lung blight, died in their hundreds, and, but for the king's granaries, deaths from starvation among the tribes would have numbered in their thousands. Even so, in some remote areas cut off by blizzards, whole communities suffered losses, mainly among the old and the very young. In some parts people were even eating the bark from trees in a bid to fill empty stomachs.

The people of Three Streams suffered enormous hardships, for Braefar had not kept the granaries full, instead selling off surplus grain to the Cenii during the autumn. Connavar stripped him of the title of laird and installed Govannan in his place.

For Bane, his farm in the lowlands, the winter was not as deadly. He and his men had baled enough hay to feed his winter herds, and his losses were few. Govannan came to him at midwinter, and bought cattle to feed the population of Three Streams. Bane demanded, and received, top price for his beef, paid in gold.

As the weather worsened he sent another thirty steers to the settlement, this time without charge.

A revolt began in the lands of the Northern Pannone, led by a Pannone noble named Guern. Several of the king's granaries were ransacked and looted. Connavar sent out his Iron Wolves to put down the rebellion. Guern, however, avoided any direct military clashes, he and his men going into hiding, then gathering together to strike at remote outposts. Bendegit Bran was put in command of the Wolves and lured Guern and his band into a trap. Scores were killed or taken, but Guern escaped. The situation might still have become critical, for the ransacking of granaries led to greater starvation among the Pannone. Guern could have increased his popularity by distributing his stolen grain. Instead he chose to sell it, to raise money for armour and weapons. Connavar shipped in supplies from the lands of the Ostro and the Gath to feed the Pannone, and the revolt died in its infancy. Even so, the cost had been enormous, and food supplies were severely depleted.

Then, on the first day of spring, in Connavar's fortieth year, three hundred long ships beached near Seven Willows on the eastern coast, and fifteen thousand Vars, led by King Shard, invaded the lands of the Rigante. Simultaneously in the south the emperor Jasaray, leading eight Panthers of twenty-four thousand men, came ashore in the lands of the Cenii.

Bane guided his horse carefully up the icy hill and reached the crest. He paused there, staring down at the lowlands and the endless sweep of the Narian Forest. Nestled against its eastern border was the long rectangular stone-built farmhouse, with its two barns close by, and a dozen, small round houses that served as quarters for his men. The steeply dipping road ahead was pitted and icy. He dismounted and led the horse on the long walk home. Bane's hood was topped with snow and sharp shards of ice had formed in his beard.

The first day of spring, he thought. What a mockery.

The horse slithered on the ice as Bane picked his way down the slope. The man's feet were cold and numb, his fingers frozen, even in the rabbit skin mittens. Smoke was coming from the two chimneys of the main house and Bane pictured himself sitting before a warm fire. He moved slowly, anxious not to begin sweating with over-exertion. Sweat would become ice on his skin under the thick tunic, jerkin and cloak. It would make him drowsy and weak. It would fool him into thinking the temperature was rising, and thus kill him. It was vital, Bane knew, to resist the pull of the cold, the siren song of a winter death.

As he walked his mind wandered, thinking back to Banouin and the freeing of the spirits. He wished he could forget all that had happened between them, and embrace his old friend as once he had. But it was not in his nature. He had loved Banouin as a brother, and had risked his life for him. Yet in his own hour of need Banouin had deserted him, and no amount of soul-searching could erase that deed from his memory. Banouin's friendship was part of the past, never to be rediscovered. The thought saddened him, as did the emotional withdrawal from his Rigante heritage.

Bane stumbled, and pushed himself to his feet. He felt warmer now – and knew he was in great danger. The last slow ten miles had taxed his strength and stamina. He was tempted to climb to the saddle and ride, but resisted it. The trail was too treacherous, and his horse deserved better treatment than that. He walked on, his mind full of daydreams and remembrances. He was a small child again at the Riguan Falls, and he and his mother had been swimming in the twilight. She had lit a fire, and cuddled him close.

Back on the hillside Bane blinked and looked around. He was sitting now, on a boulder. Why am I not walking? he wondered. With a great effort he rose. Weariness was upon him now, and he contemplated a short rest and sleep. That will bring back my strength, he thought. Fool! Get to the farmhouse, he told himself. You are dying here!

His legs felt numb and his limbs were trembling uncontrollably. The sun was dropping behind the mountains, the temperature plummeting, though Bane could no longer feel it. He had pushed hard during the last week, but had always been careful to make his night camp early before cold and exhaustion stripped his life away. But today he had thought to make the last eighteen miles in one long haul. It was a mistake. Through bleary eyes he looked at the distant farmhouse. He was still half an hour from his goal, and his strength was all but gone. At some point he must have let the reins go, for the horse was plodding on further down the trail. Bane staggered after it.

Twice more he fell. The second time saw him roll over and over until he came up against a snow-covered rock. He grunted with the pain of impact. Pushing his arms beneath him he tried to rise. He was hot now, and very sleepy. He swore and heaved himself to his knees. 'I will not die here,' he said, his voice slurred.

'No, you won't,' said a deep voice. A large hand took hold of Bane's arm, drawing him up until he sat on the boulder. Bane blinked, and saw a flask being offered to him. He took it and sipped the contents. The fire of uisge flowed through him. He looked up into the red-bearded face of Gryffe, his lead herdsman. The outlaw grinned at him. 'You're weak as a three-day puppy,' he said.

Bane drank again, and tried to push the stopper back into the flask. The task was beyond him. Gryffe took the flask, stoppered it, and tucked it into the pocket of his jerkin. 'Let's be getting you to a fire,' he said, throwing Bane's arm round his neck and hauling him upright.

Twenty minutes later, his ice-covered clothes removed, his body wrapped in a warm blanket, he sat before a log fire. It was excruciating. His skin felt as if hot needles were being pricked into him constantly. He drank more uisge, but Gryffe took the flask away. 'It's good to take a little when cold, but not too much.'

Gryffe's woman, the plump and plain Iswain, appeared from the kitchen, carrying a dish of thick meat broth. 'Eat!' she commanded. 'You need some proper warmth in your belly.'

Bane did so, and after a while began to feel better, the pins and needles wearing off. Iswain pulled the blanket clear of his neck and began rubbing warmed oil into the skin of his shoulders, arms, and upper back.

'Thank you,' he said, taking her callused hand and kissing the knuckles.

'That's enough of that!' said Gryffe. 'You'll spoil the wench!'

'Do you good to learn some proper manners,' said Iswain, lifting the blanket back over Bane's shoulders. She moved round to squat in front of Bane, looking deeply into his eyes. 'I think you'll be fine now,' she told him. 'A good night's rest will help. You are lucky not to have frostbite. 'Twas a foolish thing to do!'

'You tell him, girl!' said Gryffe.

Bane smiled, and gazed into Iswain's plain features. 'I could have been here earlier,' he said, 'but I wanted to be mothered by you.'

She gave a gap-toothed grin. 'Like all men you are an idiot,' she told him. 'I'll get you more broth.'

'I am full,' said Bane.

'You'll do as you're told,' she said sternly. 'I've known men come in from the cold and then die in their beds. You'll sit by this fire and eat until I tell you otherwise.'

'Aye, he will,' put in Gryffe. 'And, if it please you, I will have some of that broth. I was in the cold too.'

'No more for you,' said Iswain. 'I have no taste for fat men, and already your stomach is straining your belt.'

'That's my winter covering,' argued Gryffe. 'Protects me from the cold. Like a bear.'

'Aye, well, it is spring now,' she told him, 'and time for bears to wake up.' She walked out into the kitchen. Bane settled back in his chair.

'What's been happening?' he asked.

'Ah, we'll talk in the morning,' said Gryffe. 'You'll be in no mood for all the boring details now.'

'Bore me,' said Bane.

Iswain returned with more broth. Bane took it, ate a few spoonfuls, then looked at Gryffe. 'Talk to me,' he said.

Gryffe swore, then glanced up at Iswain. 'The man asked you a question,' she said.

'Lorca and his gang came out of the forest three days ago and drove away twenty steers and a good old bull. Boile and Cascor tried to stop them, reminding them of the agreement they had with you. Lorca said he was renegotiating that agreement. Cascor tried to argue. Lorca accused him of disloyalty – and they killed him.'

Bane finished the broth, then laid aside the wooden dish. 'I'll find Lorca tomorrow,' he said.

'He has more than seventy men with him now. I think that's why he needed the extra beef. It might be wiser to let it pass.'

'The beef I can afford to lose,' said Bane. 'But no-one comes to my home and kills one of my men without facing the consequences.'

Grale sat quietly in the doorway of the roughly built roundhouse, listening to the arguments among the group of men squatting by the central fire. He had not been with Lorca's band long enough to have a say in the debate. Asha, one of the camp's three whores, came and sat next to him. Her dark hair was matted and filthy, her clothes ingrained with dirt. 'You look in need of a little company,' she said. He looked into her dark brown eyes. They were lifeless.

'That is kind of you. Maybe later.'

'If you have no coin you can pay me another time – after a raid.'

He turned towards her. 'Come back in a little while, dearheart,' he said. 'Once the sun is down.'

She moved away. Grale rubbed at the empty socket of his left eye. Sometimes it still pained him, and he would wake at night, stifling a scream as he recalled the druid cutting free the mutilated orb and sewing shut the lids.

'We don't need Bane,' he heard Lorca say. 'It is not as if he is popular among the Rigante. We could move on the farm, gather the herds and drive them to Pannone land. There has been starvation there, and beef prices are higher than ever before.'

'I'll grant that,' said the outlaw known only as Wik, a thin, sour-faced man who looked puny alongside the hulking figure of Lorca, 'but what would we do then? Leaving the farm as it is means we get a constant supply of food. Bane has been fair in all his dealings with us.'

'Fair?' sneered Lorca. 'We supplied the men to work the cattle. We guaranteed him freedom from attack. And for what? One-tenth of his profits. Does that sound fair?'

The listening Grale wondered if any of the six men round the fire would state the obvious: that Lorca had broken the agreement by raiding the farm and killing one of Bane's men. It did not surprise him when the subject was not raised. Lorca was a man of unpredictable mood, and given to sudden acts of random violence.

'What about the men in Bane's employ?' asked Valian, a short stout man, with greasy blond hair and a drooping moustache.

'They are our men, Val,' Lorca told him. 'But if any of them have lost sight of that they can become worm meat like Cascor.'

'I think some of them will object,' put in Wik. 'I was talking to Gryffe the other day. He likes Bane. And he likes his new life as a herdsman. He's even talking of marrying Iswain the next time a druid comes by.'

'How sweet!' sneered Lorca. 'He plans, I suppose, to spend the rest of his life shovelling cow turds while his wife pops out more mouths to feed. Well, a pox upon Gryffe and any other fool who goes against us. We have seventy-three men here, and more joining us each month. More than enough to handle Bane and any who stand with him.'

Grale gazed around the huge clearing, with its forty crude roundhouses. Men and women in ragged clothes were everywhere, sitting – as was he – surrounded by squalor and stench. By the stream a woman was washing out several blankets, beating them with a rock, perhaps trying to kill the lice that infested them. At the far hut he could see Asha, on her knees, a large bearded man rutting with her in full view of everyone. No-one took any notice. Grale's heart sank. He gazed down at his mutilated left hand, and remembered the days before a Stone gladius had slashed away three of his fingers. He had been a man then. A hero. Even through his pain he had joyed in the victory of Cogden Field. Had anyone predicted that years later he would be sitting in this foul place, listening to men talk of robbery and murder, he would have laughed aloud. He was not laughing now.

A man came running into the camp. 'Riders coming!' he shouted. Instantly every man within earshot ran into his roundhouse, emerging with a weapon. Some carried daggers, others swords or axes.

Lorca surged to his feet. 'How many?' he asked.

'Two! Bane and Gryffe.'

'Two, you miserable piece of goat shit? You alarmed the camp for two?'

At that moment Bane and Gryffe came riding through the trees. Grale smiled as he remembered the first time he had met Bane, several years ago, in the clearing where the mystic lad had reminded him of Cogden Field and days of glory.

The two riders drew up close to Lorca and dismounted. Bane was carrying a long hunting lance, and a short sword hung at his hip. He moved past Lorca without a word and walked to Lorca's hut. Once there he reversed the lance and placed the haft on the frozen ground. Then he rammed it deep into the earth.

'What are you doing?' asked Lorca. 'I have no need of a lance.'

What happened next was so sudden that all the men in the clearing just stood in shock. Bane swung towards Lorca, his short sword flashing into his hand. Before the outlaw leader could react, the blade slashed into his neck, crunching through the vertebrae and slicing clear. As Lorca's body started to topple Bane struck again. This time the head rolled clear. Bane lifted it by the hair and carried it to the lance. Raising the head Bane rammed it down over the iron point and stepped back. The lance quivered from side to side, blood oozing from the severed head and spilling to the ground. Then he walked to the decapitated corpse, cleaned his sword on the dead man's clothes, and sheathed it.

The men and women of Lorca's band stood staring at the head on the lance. It was as if a spell had been cast over them. Grale cast his gaze over the group.

'Does anyone else here wish to renegotiate our agreement?' asked Bane, his voice cold.

The thin figure of Wik was the first to react. 'What if we do?' he asked.

'You'll get the same response as I have just delivered to the dear departed Lorca.'

'You think to kill all seventy of us?' asked Wik, gesturing his men forward.

'Do I need to?' asked Bane, moving in close to Wik. 'Have you not fed well through this winter? And what will you do when I am dead and gone? Seventy men, you say. And why do you have such numbers now? It is because there is food here, and many of those who joined you were starving at home. Without my farm and my cattle how many will remain, Wik? Twenty? Less?' Suddenly he laughed. 'I am through talking,' he said. 'Make your decision.' His sword flashed once more. Wik jumped back. The powerful figure of Gryffe stepped forward, a broadsword in his hands, to stand beside Bane. Grale read Wik's intent. Pride was strong in the outlaw leader, and he was about to order his men to attack.

'Wait!' shouted Grale, striding forward into the group. 'What he said makes sense. We have a constant supply of food, and when he sold his cattle to Govannan he brought us a tenth. Or, to be more precise, he brought Lorca a tenth. We made an agreement with him. Lorca broke it. And Lorca paid for his treachery. Let that be an end to it.'

'You have no say in this!' stormed Wik. 'You are not the leader here.'

'No, I am not,' said Grale. He swung and pointed to the head on the lance. 'He is! Shall we ask him for his views? I say we should call for a show of hands.' He raised his voice. 'How many here want to see our food supplies ended?' No-one raised their hands. 'Then that should settle it,' he said, turning and walking back to his roundhouse.

For a moment there was silence, and in that silence the tension eased. The seventy outlaws, weapons ready, awaited an order from Wik. Wik looked at Bane and shrugged. 'Most of us were not in favour of Lorca's actions,' he said. 'Cascor was a good man, and did not deserve to be cut down. Does our agreement still hold?'

'Of course. Though I'll need a man to replace Cascor for the spring gathering.'

Wik nodded. 'I'd offer him to you,' he said, gesturing at Grale, 'but he's only got one good hand.'

'I'll take him,' said Bane. 'If he wants to work for me.' He grinned. 'Maybe he'd prefer to stay here and become leader.' Wik scowled, then laughed.

'You are an unusual man, Bane. What made you think you could ride in here, kill Lorca, and ride out again?'

'I didn't expect to ride out,' admitted Bane. He glanced around at the waiting men. 'You'd better start thinking of limiting your numbers,' he added. 'Either that or start a new tribe. No way will you be able to feed many more than this.'

'I have been thinking the same,' agreed Wik.

The twin invasion was proving a logistical nightmare for Connavar and his generals. Fiallach was sent south with one thousand Iron Wolves and six hundred Horse Archers, and ordered to gather fighting men from the Norvii. 'Do not', Connavar urged him, 'seek a direct clash with Jasaray. Avoid a major battle at all costs, no matter what the enemy tries to do. Instead destroy his cavalry and his scouts.'

'You can rely on me, Conn,' said Fiallach.

'I do rely on you, my friend. But Jasaray is a cunning and pitiless enemy. He will stop at nothing to force you into combat.'

Meanwhile Bendegit Bran was gathering troops from all over the north, ready to march against Shard and his fifteen thousand Sea Wolves.

At Old Oaks Connavar faced a growing problem. The five thousand inhabitants of Seven Willows and the surrounding areas had been evacuated before the invasion, thanks to the uncanny talents of Banouin, who had seen Shard's ships set sail. Although the Rigante had therefore been saved losses, it meant that the food stores around Old Oaks – already low – were now almost gone. To lessen the drain on resources a large number of women and children were sent to settlements further west and south, where granaries and warehouses were still stocked with food.

The king's mother, Meria, and the wives and younger children of Bendegit Bran and Fiallach were among several hundred people who travelled south to Three Streams in the second week of spring. They travelled with an escort of twenty Iron Wolves, led by Finnigal, Fiallach's eldest son. It was his first command, and he tried to hide his disappointment at being offered such a lowly task. He had begged to be allowed to ride with his father, and if not that, then to assist Bran and the northern army. However, the king himself had decided his role, and now he would miss both battles.

'Is this a punishment?' he had asked the king.

Connavar had shaken his head. 'You are a good and brave soldier, Finn, and deserving of no punishment. There are outlaws and robber gangs in the area surrounding Three Streams. Your presence will deter them from raids. You think I would punish a man by asking him to protect my mother, and the wives and children of my closest friends?'

'No, sir. It is just that I will miss the fighting.'

Connavar had laughed then. 'Spoken like the son of Fiallach. My boy, you are seventeen years old. There will be plenty of time for battles. Trust me on this.'

Finnigal twisted in his saddle and looked back along the line of wagons. The ancient tracker Parax was seated alongside Meria in the first, and it was Meria who held the reins and urged the horses onward. The old man was slumped in his seat, his head on his chest. Finnigal rode back to the wagon.

'Shall I get one of my men to take over?' he asked Meria nervously. The king's mother was a stern woman, her tightly braided hair the colour of iron, her green eyes cold and hard.

'You think I am incapable of driving a wagon?' she asked him.

'No, lady, of course not.'

'Then be about your business, Captain Finnigal.'

Bendegit Bran's five-year-old son Orrin peeped out from under the canvas canopy. 'Are we there yet, Uncle Finn?' he called out. Finnigal's mood rose as he saw the straw-haired youngster's freckled face.

'Not yet,' he answered, with a grin. 'Soon. How is Ruathain?'

'He's sleeping again,' said Orrin. 'He's very hot.'

Finnigal swung his horse and cantered ahead of the wagons. Ruathain was dying, and it was hard to take. Only last year the seventeen-year-old had been wide-shouldered and powerful as a young bull. Now he was all bone, a shadow of what once he was. His eyes were sunken, the skin around them bruised and dark, and his face looked like that of an old man. Finnigal shivered, remembering that he too had succumbed to the Yellow Fever, but had recovered within weeks. Not so poor Ruathain.

An hour later, just before dusk, Finnigal crested the last hill above

Three Streams, and gazed down on the settlement. It was here that his father and mother had met. It was here that Connavar the King had been born. He glanced back. Maybe here Meria would learn to smile again, he thought. Then he laughed at his own stupidity. If Meria were ever to smile, her face would crack apart under the strain of it.

Sixty miles to the east four of Shard's long ships beached in a secluded bay, and two hundred and fifty raiders waded ashore.

Their leader, Snarri Daggerbright, was a veteran of many raids. A hulking figure with deep-set eyes and a misshapen mouth – the result of a kick from a horse some years before, which had smashed out his front teeth and crushed his nose flat against his skull – Snarri relished this mission. Shard's informant had assured him that almost all of the fighting men would have been moved either north to face Shard or south to resist Jasaray. That left only the old men and the women. Snarri felt his blood rise at the thought of the Rigante women, and the days ahead of blood and rape and cleansing fire.

He marched his men across the sand, and up into the woods, halting at the tree line to scan the surrounding land.

'Where do we strike first?' asked Dratha, his second in command.

Snarri pointed to the west. Three Streams.'

'There must be closer settlements,' said Dratha.

'Aye, there are, but Shard says that Connavar's mother, the Lady Meria, will be there. It is also where Connavar was born. Kill her and put Three Streams to the torch and it will lash the Rigante bastard with whips of fire.'

It was a source of sadness to Vorna the Witch that no matter how great the magic it could never change a human heart. Not the heart that was merely a giant muscle propelling blood through capillaries, veins and arteries, but the invisible heart at the core of every human soul.

Vorna sat at her window, watching the refugees leave their wagons and be welcomed into the homes of the people of Three Streams. Meria, and the brood of children and women with her, went to the old house that the first Ruathain had built, and soon smoke from the hearths drifted up from the chimneys. Vorna watched as two soldiers helped the boy Ruathain from the wagon. His legs all but crumpled beneath him, and they carried him into the house.

When the wagons had arrived Vorna had been standing by the first bridge. She saw Meria driving one wagon, but her old friend turned her head away as the wagon passed. It had hurt Vorna deeply. There was no reason she knew of that would cause Meria to treat her with such discourtesy. Had she not saved Meria's son from certain death? Had she not, through her magic, kept her husband Ruathain alive long after his heart should have failed?

She trudged back to the house, placed a kettle on the stove, and made herself a mug of camomile tisane.

There had been a seed of bitterness in Meria's heart ever since her first love, Varaconn, had died. She had then married Ruathain, and the bitterness had flowered, causing the marriage to founder. Then, when near tragedy brought them together again, Meria had seemed a changed woman. She laughed often, and was carefree, her green eyes alive with hopes and dreams. Then Ruathain died in the first great battle against the Vars. Meria had not laughed since.

Yet why she should shun one of her oldest friends was a mystery to Vorna, and a source of grief. Especially when one of her grandchildren hovered at the point of death. Meria knew Vorna was a healer, yet such was her apparent hatred that she would let her grandson die rather than come to the one person who might save him. Vorna sipped her tisane and moved away from the window. Banouin, she knew, had tried to heal Ruathain, and for some days he appeared to have succeeded. But then the boy suffered a relapse, his fever returning.

'I cannot understand it,' Banouin had told his mother, during a spirit visit. 'It seems as if the disease is emanating from within his own body, as if it is at war with itself. Every time I heal an injured organ it begins to wilt again, worse than before.'

Vorna had been able to offer no clue, but had thought about the problem deeply for weeks afterwards. Knowing that the boy was being brought to Three Streams she had hoped to be able to examine him herself, floating her spirit through his bloodstream, seeking to identify the cause of his illness. She knew now that she would not be asked for help.

'What did I do to you, Meria?' she asked aloud. 'What crime have I committed against your family?'

A sharp rapping sounded at the door. Vorna put down her mug and called out for the visitor to enter. A young soldier pushed open the door. He was tall and well formed, his long dark hair hanging between his shoulders in a tight braid. Vorna smiled, seeing both Gwydia and Fiallach in the boy's features. 'Welcome, Finnigal,' she said.

'You know me, lady?' he asked her.

'You look like your father,' she said, 'tall and strong, with the same ferocious glare.'

He grinned. 'Most people say I take after Mother,' he told her.

'There is that too. What can I do for you, soldier?'

'I have been asked to contact the man Bane, to purchase more cattle to feed the refugees. I understand that you are his friend, and that my request might be better-received if I went to him in your company.'

'Come in and sit,' she told him. 'May I offer you a drink? Ale, uisge, or a calming tisane.'

'The tisane would be pleasant,' he said, removing his sword belt and cloak.

'Would you like it sweetened?' she called from the kitchen.

'Aye, lady. I have a sweet tooth.'

She returned with a mug and passed it to him. Then she sat opposite him. 'Bane is your cousin. Why would you need my help to speak to a member of your own family?'

'My father dislikes him, and, though I have not met Bane, I wondered if he would refuse my request because of the bad blood between them.'

'Put your mind at ease, Finnigal. Bane would never see children go hungry because of his quarrel with Fiallach.'

'It sounds as if you like him.'

'Indeed I do. His treatment by his own family has been shameful.' She saw his face harden. 'Reserve your judgment until you have met him, Finnigal.'

'I do not judge him,' the young man told her. 'I do not know him. The Lady Meria says he is – as his name shows – accursed. Ill fortune will follow any who seek his company. She says the blood of a bastard is thin, and that, at heart, all bastards are treacherous and mean-spirited.'

'Ah well, I bow to her judgment,' said Vorna coldly. 'She knows more about mean-spiritedness than any person I have ever met.'

Finnigal rose. 'I did not come here to listen to slanders against the king's mother,' he said. 'Will you aid me with Bane?'

'No. You will not need me. Treat him with respect and he will agree to your request. Be warned though, young man – if you offer him any discourtesy you will pay for it dearly.'

'I was raised to offer courtesy to all people,' said Finnigal.

'Then you will have no problem with Bane,' she said.

Finnigal offered a slight bow, strapped on his sword belt, looped his cloak over his shoulders, and left the house.

Vorna sat quietly, seeking an inner calm, which continued to evade her.

Gwenheffyr had always been reserved, a quiet child who had grown into a shy woman. Her gentle nature radiated harmony, and no-one had ever known her to raise her voice in anger. As a child she had been often ill, and on three occasions had come close to death. 'She will not be long-lived,' some said. 'She is too delicate.'

Slim and small, her dark hair emphasizing the paleness of her features, Gwen was seen as a fragile creature. It had surprised all who knew her that she had given birth to three lusty babes.

She sat now at Ruathain's bedside, little Orrin beside her. Her youngest child, Badraig, was asleep in his cot close by. 'Why doesn't he get better?' asked Orrin, peering at Ruathain's face, eerily pale in the lantern light, and damp with sweat.

'I am sure that he will… soon,' said Gwen, putting her arm round Orrin and kissing his head.

Orrin took hold of Ruathain's skeletal hand, and began twisting the white gold and moonstone ring on his brother's finger. 'It will fall off soon,' said the boy.

Gwen nodded, and tears began to form. She took a deep breath. 'Time for you to sleep, little man,' she said.

'I'm not tired, Mam,' argued Orrin.

'Then just lie down for a little while, then come out and join us by the hearth,' said Gwen, leading Orrin to the second bed. The little boy climbed onto the bed and slid his legs under the covers.

'I won't sleep,' he said.

Then I'll see you soon by the fire,' she told him, leaning down and kissing his cheek. Rising from the bedside she took a last look at Ruathain, and walked out of the room. Meria was sitting by the fire, a white shawl around her shoulders. Gwen moved past her to the door and pulled on a pair of shoes. Then she took a cloak from the peg by the door.

'Where are you going?' asked Meria.

'I thought', said Gwen softly, 'that I would ask Vorna to tend Ruathain.'

Meria glanced up, her features hard. 'To what point?' she asked. 'Her son has great talent as a healer – far greater than hers. If he could not heal the boy, then calling upon her would be a waste of time.'

'Even so…'

'And she is no friend to our family,' snapped Meria. 'I would not wish to see her invited to my home. Let us speak no more of it.'

Gwen sighed, replaced the cloak on its peg and moved to the chair opposite. For a while she looked into the fire, thinking of how strong and healthy Ruathain had been before this dreadful illness. Sadness swept over her. 'I think he is going to die,' she said, tears in her eyes. 'Vorna might know of some remedy…'

'I said we will speak no more of it!'

Gwen sat very quietly, Meria's anger causing her to tremble. She had always hated raised voices and argument. Closing her eyes she thought of Bran, and wondered how such a warm and compassionate soul could have sprung from a harsh and unfeeling woman like Meria. Gwen wished she could have known Bran's father, the first Ruathain. Men still spoke of him with fondness, and talked of his love of family and his affinity with children. Meria had never once hugged Gwen's sons, or shown any genuine affection towards them. It was a mystery to Gwen. Opening her eyes she glanced across at Meria. The older woman seemed to be dozing. Gwen rose from the chair and moved back into the bedroom.

Orrin was fast asleep, his thumb in his mouth. Ruathain was lying very still, his skin gleaming in the lantern light. She stroked his brow. The skin was hot, but he seemed more comfortable. Gwen sat down beside him, holding his hand.

She was still there two hours later when his breathing grew more shallow. Suddenly his eyes opened. He looked at Gwen and gave a smile. She felt him squeeze her fingers.

Then he died.

Bane could not sleep. Throwing back the covers he climbed from his bed, pulled on a knee-length tunic of pale grey wool, and walked out into the main room. The fire was almost dead and he blew it to life, adding fresh fuel. The events of the day would not leave him. Riding into Lorca's camp had been an act of almost suicidal stupidity, and he was angry with himself. Had it not been for the crippled warrior Grale, he would now be dead, his body dumped in the forest, food for foxes and worms.

From the back bedroom he could hear Gryffe snoring. The sound was somehow comforting, although, in a way he could not quite fathom, it left Bane feeling isolated and alone. He sat quietly, feeling the heat of the fire wash over him. Truth to tell, he missed Rage and Telors. All the while he had been in Stone he had thought of the mountains and forests of Caer Druagh with a fondness covered by the warmth of the word home. Yet now he was here the same warmth touched him when he remembered Rage. It was as if contentment was always somewhere else, floating before him like a wraith, ever beckoning, never found.

He heard the gentle creak of a bedboard and then the soft padding of feet upon the rugs of the floor. Bane glanced up to see plump Iswain move into the room, carefully and quietly pulling shut the bedroom door behind her.

She walked over to him. 'Shall I fetch you something to eat?' she said, keeping her voice low.

Looking into her round and friendly face he met her gaze. Her dark eyes seemed sorrowful in the firelight. 'Are you all right?' he asked her.

'Aye, I am fine. I could prepare a tisane.'

'No. I need nothing.'

They sat in silence for a little while, Iswain taking up the iron poker and prodding at the burning logs.

'Talk to me,' he said softly. 'What is troubling you?'

She took a deep breath, and seemed about to speak. But then she shook her head. 'Everything is all right now. My man is asleep in his bed. There is food in the larder, and no enemies close by. Who can ask for more than that?'

True,' he told her.

'Gryffe says that the next time a druid passes we will Walk the Tree. He says that when the summer is here he will buy me a ring, and that, one day, we might have a farm of our own. He is a good man, Gryffe.'

'I know that.'

'Do you?' she asked, her voice accusing. 'Do you really?'

'Of course. Why do you doubt me?'

'He is asleep in his bed,' she said again. 'But he might have been lying dead beside you today, and not snoring beside me. You took him to a place of death. You did not tell him what you planned. You just rode in and killed Lorca. And my man stood beside you. Did you think of him at all?'

Bane was silent for a moment. 'No,' he said. 'I did not.'

'I thought not.' She sighed. 'He was an outlaw – a nithing! You gave him back his self-respect. I love you for that, Bane. But my man is worth more than to die for your pride.'

'I told him I was going alone, Iswain, but he would not hear of it.'

'Of course he wouldn't,' she snapped. 'Are you blind? Can you not see what you mean to these men you have brought from the forest? Do you not know what your trust has done for them? All of them have been branded worthless. They have been cast out from their tribes and their communities. They came – in the main – to consider themselves worthless. Then you came along, and lifted them. You treated them like men again. You valued them, trusted them, and they in turn value you. Why do you think young Cascor died? He was not the bravest of men, but he stood up to Lorca on your behalf. And why? Because his chieftain had ordered him to protect the cattle.'

'I am no chief, Iswain, no laird or leader. These men are not my serfs or slaves. They are here as long as they choose to be and they work for coin.'

'Pah! Have you no understanding of the nature of men? You think Cascor died for five copper coins a month? You think my man stood beside you in Lorca's camp for his two silvers? You are the king here, Bane. And a king – though he has power – also has responsibility for those who serve him. I love Gryffe…' Her voice faltered, and he saw tears falling to her cheeks. 'There, it is said! Iswain the whore is in love! And Iswain wants the ring that Gryffe has promised her – even though it be iron or brass. Iswain wants the little farm.'

Reaching out he took her hand. 'I am sorry, Iswain,' he said. 'You

are right. These men have shown me loyalty beyond the payment I give them. I will remember what you have said. I promise you that.'

Wiping away the tears she took hold of his hand in both of hers. 'You brought me out of the forest too, Bane,' she said. 'I didn't mean to scold you.'

He smiled. 'You scold away whenever you feel the need. There must always be honesty between us, Iswain. I value that greatly. Now go back to bed.'

'Are you sure you don't want a tisane?'

'I am sure.'

Rising she kissed his cheek and left the room.

Some minutes later, in warm leggings and fur-lined boots, a black cloak over his shoulders, Bane walked out into the night. There were dark patches on the hillsides, where the snow was melting, and there was a warmth in the air that promised the final death of winter. The sky was lightening, the dawn awakening.

He trudged across the snow, past the new corral and the roundhouse barn, and the silent huts of his workers. On the far hills he could see around a dozen of his steers. Several had risen and were cropping the new grass.

A grey-muzzled hound moved into the open and padded across to him. Bane patted its head and stroked its scarred flank. The hound sat down beside the man, and when Bane moved off towards the woods it went with him. The hound had appeared some weeks before, half starved, several old wounds on its side weeping pus. The herdsman Cascor had taken it in and fed it, cleaning its sores with a mixture of wine and honey.

Reaching the woods Bane looked back at his farmhouse and the silent forest beyond it. He felt calmer, more at peace than ever before in his life. It was a good feeling, and he clung to it.

The wind picked up, whispering through the branches above him. His cloak billowed out, alarming the hound, who yelped and fled several paces from him. Then Bane heard his name on the whispering wind, and spun round. There was no-one close by.

'Bane!'

'Who is there?' he called out, advancing beyond the tree line into the wood. In the east the first rays of the morning sun had turned the sky to pale gold. Bane walked on.

A crow swooped by him, settling on a twisted branch. Cocking its head it watched the warrior. 'Where are you, Old Woman?' Bane called. 'Show yourself!'

There was no response. But the crow flew from the branch, angling its flight deeper into the wood. Bane swore softly and followed, the hound padding at his heels. Some fifty paces further on the crow was waiting, perched on a boulder beside a deep rock pool. Bane scanned the trees for sign of the Morrigu.

'Is this some game we are playing?' he called out.

The muddy water in the pool began to bubble and steam. A mist rose from it, coalescing into a large, glimmering globe that hung motionless in the air above the pool. Bane watched it. The mist flattened until the globe became a shining shield the colour of polished iron. Sunlight touched it. For a moment only the shield was transformed into a mirror and Bane saw himself reflected in it. Then his image faded. At first he thought the mist was clearing. It peeled back from the centre, creating a ring which hung in the air. Inside the ring Bane could see blue sky and drifting clouds. He stepped closer and found himself staring at a sheltered bay. Four long ships were beached there. The scene shifted and he saw two hundred or so Sea Raiders marching across the snow-covered land. They became smaller and smaller, as if Bane was flying higher and higher above them. He could see the Druagh mountains now, mist clinging to the slopes. And in the distance, some sixty miles from the raiders, the settlement of Three Streams.

Bane's heart began to beat faster, and he drew in a sharp breath. How soon would the raiders reach the settlement? Two days? Three? Was it sixty miles or less? Panic touched him.

The scene in the ring of mist changed again, and he was looking down upon the settlement. Hundreds of people were gathered on the hillside, and Bane saw a body, wrapped and tied in a blanket, being lowered into a deep grave. He recognized most of the people there – his grandfather, Nanncumal the Blacksmith, was standing beside his daughter, Gwydia. Neruman the Tanner was present, as was the forester Adlin. A woman with a harsh face stepped to the graveside, throwing a handful of dirt down into the hole. Beside her a dark-haired young woman covered her face with her hands and wept, while a little straw-haired boy clung to her dress. Around twenty soldiers were close by, dressed in the chain mail and iron helms of Connavar's Iron Wolves. Some way back from the crowd, a dark shawl around her shoulders, her silver-streaked hair blowing in the breeze, stood Vorna.

Slowly her image grew larger, as if Bane was approaching her. 'Vorna!' he called.

She spun and gazed up, directly into his eyes. He heard her voice echo inside his head, though her lips did not move. 'Bane? Where are you?'

'I am in the woods near my farmhouse.'

'How are you doing this?'

'I do not know, Vorna. The Morrigu's crow is here. But that is not important now. Listen to me: there is a large force of Sea Wolves heading towards Three Streams from the east. I think they are at least three days away, but they may arrive sooner. How many soldiers are there with you?'

'Twenty. They are led by Finnigal, Fiallach's son.'

'Twenty will not be enough – the raiders are ten times that number. You must convince people to leave the settlement, and strike west towards my farm and the Narian Forest. Load all the food you can onto wagons, and burn the rest. Leave nothing for the raiders. I will come to you as soon as I can. Can you do this? Can you convince them?'

'Not all of them,' said the voice of Vorna in his mind. 'There are more than eleven hundred refugees here, many of them older people, or women with young children. Without proofs of invasion many of them will choose to stay in the shelter of the community, rather than risk walking out into the snow and the cold. But I will do what I can.'

The vision faded. The mist ring disappeared. The crow cawed and flapped its wings, rising higher and higher above the trees until Bane could see it no more.

The young warrior ran back to the house, waking Gryffe and sending him into the forest with orders to find Wik and bring him and all the other outlaws to the farm.

'Why would they come?' asked the bleary-eyed Gryffe.

'Tell Wik there is gold to be had for every man. He'll come. But tell them to come ready to fight.'

The first person Vorna approached was young Finnigal, calling out to him as he walked from Ruathain's funeral. The soldier hesitated, unwilling to be drawn into conversation with her, but then strolled over to where she stood.

'What do you want of me, lady?' he asked, his voice coldly polite.

'Walk with me,' she commanded, then moved away from the crowd towards the first bridge. He strode alongside her.

'I have little time for idle chatter,' he said. There is much to be done.'

'I think you will find you have less time than you think,' she said, walking out onto the humpbacked wooden bridge and pausing by the rail to stare down into the rushing water below. Chunks of white ice floated beneath the bridge, thumping against the foundations. Only a few days ago the stream had been frozen solid, village children playing upon it.

Vorna swung towards the tall soldier, her dark eyes holding to his gaze. 'You stood beside the grave of your friend and recalled a time when both of you were hunting. Ruathain's horse stumbled, hurling him into a thorn bush between two jagged boulders. He rose laughing and scratched, and you pointed out to him that had he struck the boulders he would now be dead. He told you he planned to live for ever. Is that not so?'

He stepped back a pace, his face blushing. 'I did not know you were a mystic,' he said. 'It is most discourteous to enter a man's mind in that way.'

'Indeed it is,' she said, 'and I apologize for it. But it was necessary, Finnigal, so that you would give credence to what I have to tell you. And believe me I have spent many years keeping this gift secret, and only something of the greatest import would cause me to reveal it.' She glanced back at the crowd making their way to their homes. One elderly woman, almost crippled by arthritis, was being supported by two soldiers. Vorna sighed.

'Tell me what you have to say,' said Finnigal.

'There are Sea Wolves to the east of us. They are heading for Three Streams.'

'What? That is not possible!'

'It is true, Finnigal. Two hundred, perhaps more. They will be here within three days.'

The young man swung towards the east, scanning the land as if expecting to see the raiders marching over the hilltops. 'Two hundred?' he whispered. 'Are you sure?'

'I am sure.'

'Why here? There are settlements closer to the sea.'

'I do not know. What I do know is that they are coming. We must organise a withdrawal, head west for the Narian Forest. The raiders will be carrying their own supplies. They will not have the food to follow us far.'

Finnigal stared back at Three Streams. 'We have around sixty wagons. There is no way to transport all of the villagers and refugees. Narian is… what… twenty miles or so. The weather is breaking, but the land is still frozen. We couldn't make it in a day, which means a night out in the open. And when we get there what shelter would we have for the elderly and the very young? Gods, woman, many would die of the cold.'

'More will die if they stay here,' she said. 'We should head for Bane's farm. He has outbuildings and several barns, and within the forest there are sheltered clearings.'

'And outlaws,' said Finnigal. 'Murderous cut-throats who will prey on the weak.'

'That too,' she agreed.

Finnigal stood silently, and Vorna knew he was calculating the amount of time it would take a rider to reach Old Oaks, gather reinforcements and head back. More than a week. And only then if there were reinforcements to be had, considering that the king and his main force had left for Seven Willows, to confront Shard and his fifteen thousand Vars. Finnigal turned his gaze to the south. His father would be a hundred miles away by now, preparing to defend against the armies of Stone. Fear tightened his belly, and he licked his lips nervously.

'I do not like the choices,' he said, softly. 'To leave will mean deaths from the cold and the destruction of Three Streams. To stay will bring great slaughter to those I am pledged to protect.'

Vorna saw the torment in his eyes. 'I know this is hard for you, Finnigal. This is your first command, and it calls for great strength. You have that strength. I know this.'

He smiled at the compliment, but his face was pale and strained. Time, I think, to call the village elders together.'

Within the hour the thirty elected elders were seated in the great Roundhouse built by Braefar. They listened in stunned silence when Finnigal told them word had reached him of a Vars force to the east. But the silence ended when he suggested an evacuation. The first to voice a protest was Nanncumal the Smith. 'If they are sixty miles away, what makes you think they are coming here?' he asked.

Finnigal glanced to where Vorna was seated at the back. 'It is my belief, he said at last, 'that we are in great danger. I believe they plan to sack the settlement.'

'You believe?' put in the black-bearded forester Adlin. 'No disrespect to you, Finnigal, but you are young and inexperienced. Why should we risk the lives of our people because you believe they may be coming? There are at least five other settlements closer to the coast.'

'Yes there are,' agreed Finnigal, 'but this is the richest, and the Vars will know there are few troops left to guard the area. Added to which, Three Streams is the birthplace of the king, and as such is a place dear to his heart. Yes, there are risks in leaving. I know this and it grieves me. The risks if we stay are far greater.'

'You say that,' put in Neruman the Tanner, a skinny, round-shouldered man, 'but what of Lorca and his outlaws? Lorca is a vile creature who lives for rape and pillage. You are suggesting we walk blithely into his domain.'

Others of the elders began to shout questions. Lady Meria stepped into the centre of the circle, raising her hands for silence. 'I would like to know', she said, 'how this word reached you, Captain Finnigal. What was the source, and how reliable the information?'

Vorna could see the young man was taken aback by the question. He had not mentioned Vorna's vision, and she was grateful for his effort to maintain her secret. But now Vorna rose from her seat. 'I told him,' she said. Heads turned towards her.

'Ah,' said Meria, 'and how, pray, did you come by the news?'

'In a vision,' said the former witch.

'I see,' said Meria, with a sneer. 'You have a bad dream and the whole of the settlement must rush out to die in the snow, or be slain by outlaws? Your powers were lost years ago.'

'Aye, they were,' said Vorna, her anger rising. 'Lost to save your son, you ungrateful bitch!' She strode through the seated elders until she stood no more than a few feet from Meria and Finnigal. 'You all know me,' she continued. 'I have healed your wives, your husbands and your children. I have delivered your babes. I am Vorna and I do not lie. Nor do I have bad dreams. I tell you that the Sea Wolves are coming. I urge you to evacuate this settlement.'

'And I say', stormed Meria, 'that she is deluded. And I, for one, have no intention of quitting my home on a madwoman's fancy.'

'Nor I,' said Nanncumal. Others joined in, and the arguments began again. Voices were raised, and the meeting descended into a shouting match. Vorna looked at Meria, and saw the glint of dark triumph in her eyes.

'How did you become such a vile and spiteful creature?' said Vorna. Then she strode from the Roundhouse, the sounds of discord ringing in her ears.

By evening the meeting was over, the situation unresolved.

Gwen was glad when Meria left for the meeting, for she found the older woman's company unsettling. She radiated disharmony. Gwen did not like to think ill of anyone, and had tried hard to like her husband's mother. It was terribly difficult. Meria had only one passion in her life, the love of her eldest son, Connavar. Her utter focus on this one object led her to largely ignore her other two sons. Braefar had suffered the most. Gwen felt sorry for the man. Now in his late thirties he had never married and she saw, as no-one else had, how desperately he needed his mother's affection. And he was the most like her. Even down to the bitterness that endlessly corroded his finer qualities.

Gwen held baby Badraig to her breast, feeling the warmth of his body against hers. The boy was suckling hard and she winced at the sudden sharpness of pain in her nipple. 'Gently, gently,' she whispered, stroking the crown of his head. Her thoughts turned to Bran. No bitterness there, no jealousy at his brother's rise to fame and the crown. She pictured his broad face, and felt a fresh outpouring of sadness. He would be distraught to learn of Ruathain's death – even though they had both known it was coming. Gwen's eyes welled with tears and she blinked them away. Badraig had finished feeding now, and his head flopped against her as he slept. Gwen rose from the rocking chair and took him to his cot, laying him gently down and covering him with a soft woollen blanket. Transferring her gaze to the bed she saw Orrin still sleeping. The boy had complained of feeling unwell, and Gwen had guessed it to be from the grief and tension of the funeral. Better for him to sleep than to sit by remembering the day.

Returning to the main room she glanced around the well-crafted walls, the shelves and the cabinets. There was a feeling of peace here and contentment that must have come from Meria's first husband, Ruathain. It certainly had never emanated from Meria herself. Gwen's own house at Golden Rocks was like this, built with care and filled with objects that spoke of love and devotion. On the far wall of the main room at home there was a piece of polished oak, carved into a heart, bearing her name. It was the first gift Bran had given her, eighteen and a half years ago. They had met at the Samain Feast. Gwen, being shy, had sat herself away from the crowd, and Bran had seen her and wandered over. Watching the golden-haired young man heading for her Gwen had felt fearful. She wished for no company, and turned her head away, hoping he would pass by. But he had not.

He had halted before her and asked, politely, if he could sit. Her shyness had, at first, made speech impossible, so she merely nodded. The dancing had begun by the fire, the music of the pipes blaring out. 'Do you dance?' he asked her. She shook her head. 'I like to dance sometimes,' he said, his voice soft, almost musical. 'Last week I was riding in the high hills above the loch, and the setting sunlight kissed the waters, turning them to gold. I felt like leaping from my pony and dancing with joy.'

'And did you?' she found herself asking.

'Aye, I did. A proper fool I must have looked, cavorting over the grass. My horse stood watching me, and I could see in his eyes that he thought me mad. But then he is an old horse, and he views the world with great cynicism.'

'How does one tell if a horse is cynical?' she enquired. He was sitting beside her, looking back towards the fire. This made Gwen feel a little more at ease, for she did not like to be stared at. His profile was very fine, and she saw in his face a gentleness often missing from Rigante men.

'Well,' he said at last, 'my horse and I have many conversations. I tell him of my hopes and dreams as I ride, and he listens. Occasionally, when I speak of my more romantic beliefs, he will toss his head and snort. That is his way of telling me that the world is not as I would wish it to be.'

'He sounds very wise, your horse.'

'Indeed he is.'

They sat in silence for a while, and Gwen was surprised to find that his company was not at all intrusive. He applied no pressure, was not inquisitive. He merely sat, completely at ease, watching the fire dancers as they leapt and twirled. She wanted to ask his name, but that would have meant initiating a conversation, so she too watched the dancers.

After a while he spoke again. 'Do you know the land to the east of Golden Rocks, where the woods back onto cliffs of sandstone and the river widens?'

'Yes,' she told him. 'It is very pretty there.'

'I plan to build a house there. I plan to build it with stone.'

'Stone? Why would you have a house of stone?'

'I want it to last. I want my children and my children's children to come there, and know the joy I experienced. I intend to have large windows facing west, so that the setting sun can shine upon my hearth. I mentioned this to my horse, and he did not snort once.'

'Then you must do it,' she said. 'One should never ignore the advice of a wise horse.'

He laughed then, and she smiled. Never before had she made a joke, and though it was not a particularly good one it was a breakthrough for Gwen. She wished he would tell her his name.

'Do you have other wise animals?' she asked him.

'No. I have a very stupid hound. We call him the Old One. He does not like other dogs, but will pad across the meadows in the early morning, ignoring all the rabbits. They are so used to him that they carry on feeding as he passes by. He likes rabbits. One of my other hounds – a young rascal named Piga – took off one morning on a rabbit hunt. The Old One charged at him, nipping his shoulder and driving him from the meadow. Then he sat down, and all the rabbits came back out of their burrows and began feeding again. I am very much mocked by my fellows for the antics of the Old One.'

A red-headed woman approached them. 'There you are,' she called. 'Come, Bran, as the Master of the Feast you should be at table.'

He waved at her. That is my mother, Meria. Commanding, isn't she? Well, I must go and do my duty.' He rose and strolled away.

Gwen found that she missed his company even as he began the walk back to the feast tables. Suddenly he turned and strolled back. 'Come,' he said, holding out his hand. 'We can dine together.'

Fear flickered once more, but she took his hand and he raised her to her feet. They were married five weeks later.

Now, as she gazed around the house in which Bran had grown to manhood, Gwen felt only sadness. Her son had been so strong, so quick and so full of life. It amazed her how swiftly that strength had evaporated. And now he was gone.

The door opened and Meria strode in. 'Can you believe the stupidity of that woman?' she said. The calm atmosphere disappeared in an instant.

'Which woman?' asked Gwen, returning to her chair.

'Vorna. She had a dream that Sea Wolves were coming across the land to Three Streams, and that we should all just leave and run away into the wilderness. I'm sure some people will. Idiots all of them.'

'It is said she once had great power.'

'Aye she did. But not any more. Now she is merely wilful.'

'Why do you hate her so?' asked Gwen.

'She befriended the bastard Bane – the man who has sworn to kill Connavar. Can you imagine that? Such treachery? She should have been hanged!'

Gwen said nothing. She walked back into the bedroom, anxious to be away from Meria and her radiated unpleasantness. Orrin was still sleeping. It had been over four hours now, and he rarely slept so long in the daytime. Gwen sat beside the bed and gently shook his shoulder. 'Time to wake, little one. I shall toast some bread for you.'

He did not stir. Gwen rolled him to his back. His eyes were dark-ringed, his skin gleaming with sweat. 'No!' she whispered. Then she cried out: 'Orrin! Orrin!'

Meria came into the room. 'What on earth is this noise about?' she asked. Then she saw the still figure of the child. 'Oh no!' she said, rushing to the bedside. 'It cannot be!' She placed her fingers upon the child's throat, feeling for the pulse. 'He is alive,' she said. 'But his heart is racing!'

'It is just like my Ru,' cried Gwen. Meria said nothing. The evidence was all too clear.

Gwen gathered the child in her arms and lifted him from the bed.

'What are you doing?' Meria asked.

'I am taking him to Vorna.'

'I forbid it!' shouted Meria, storming to her feet.

'I have one dead son,' replied Gwen. 'I will not lose another because of you.'

She carried Orrin out into the dusk and across the field to the house of Vorna.