‘No. Would you wish him to?’
Conn shook his head. ‘It would have saddened him.’
‘There are many things to come that would sadden him more,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Vorna is pregnant with his child. Both will die. The babe will be breeched, and there will be no-one close to save either of them.’
‘No,’ said Conn, ‘that must not happen! It would be so unfair.’
‘Unfair?’ She laughed. ‘Where in this miserable world of humans do you see fairness? On the battlefield where thirty thousand lie dead? In the homes of the widows? In the eyes of the children orphaned?’
Conn fell silent, then he looked into the ancient face. ‘You could save her. You could save them both. You are Seidh.’
‘Why should I choose to?’
‘You once told me that I would ask a gift from you, and you would grant it.’
The Morrigu smiled. Think carefully, child. I did say that. And you could ask for riches, or good health all your days. You could ask for strong sons, or a loving wife. I could give you Arian. Or – and think on this – I could give you victory over the people of Stone. Thousands of lives, Connavar, could be saved by such a gift. An entire people. Without that gift it could be the Rigante burning in those pits.’ .
‘Aye, it could,’ said Conn. ‘Now will you help Vorna and the child?’
‘Before I say yes or no, let me ask you this: what if the child sickens and dies within days, or Vorna is touched by the plague within weeks? Will you still feel this gift is worthwhile?’
‘I have heard that your gifts are double edged. That when people ask for joy you give them sorrow. But if you give me your word that you will not visit evil upon Vorna or the babe then I ask again for you to help her.’
‘You know that one day I will come to you, and that there will be a price to pay for my help?’
‘And I will pay it.’
‘Then it shall be as you wish, Sword in the Storm.’
Ruathain drew back on the reins as he crested the hill. Below him was the Pannone settlement of Shining Water, built along the western banks of the Long Lake. From here he could see seven high-prowed fishing vessels out on the water, dragging their nets, and on the shoreline the black smoke towers standing like sentinels at the water’s edge. Arbon rode up alongside him.
‘Too late to turn back now,’ grunted Arbon, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.
‘Turning back was not in my mind,’ Ruathain told him. Leading twelve ponies behind them the two men rode down the hill. There were no walls to Shining Water, and the scores of houses were built well apart from one another, each with an area allocated to vegetables and corn. The day was hot, but Ruathain lifted his blue and green chequered Rigante cloak from the back of his saddle, unrolled it and fastened it in place. Arbon shook his head and, grim of face, followed his master down into what he saw as the enemy settlement.
As they rode on, people moved from their houses and workplaces to watch the riders as they passed, then walked behind them as they approached the Hall of the Laird.
The day was clear and bright. Not a breath of breeze stirred the dust beneath the ponies’ hooves. Ruathain rode on, looking neither left nor right, and pulled up his mount before the hall. It was a grim-looking building, fifty feet long, one storeyed, with shuttered windows and a thatched roof. The double doors creaked open and a middle-aged man strode out. Behind him came five younger men. It was obvious to Arbon that these were his sons, for they all possessed the same heavy brows and flat, brutal faces. There were many stories Arbon had heard concerning the Fisher Laird. And none of them were good.
‘I am Ruathain of the Rigante,’ said his master. The crowd began to mutter, and Arbon was all too aware that his back was to them. Sweat trickled down his spine, and his hand edged nearer to his knife.