‘No.’
‘There you are, then. Words.’
‘But mother blames the Big Man for Varaconn’s death. It is not true. Varaconn died because he was a coward, because he ran away. Not being true should make a difference, shouldn’t it?’
‘Perhaps it should, but it doesn’t,’ Banouin told him. ‘I don’t think it matters to Ruathain that she was wrong. It was that she believed the story. He is a man of great pride. And that pride is well founded, for he is a fair, brave and honest man. It means much to him that others see he has these qualities. For they are rare, and hard won. It is not easy to be honourable. The world is full of cunning, crafty men who have no understanding of honour or loyalty. They connive, they steal, and invariably, in the eyes of the world, they succeed. To be honest requires great effort, and continuous courage. And as for fairness, that is hardest of all. Ruathain is a good man. That his wife should think him so base must have felt like a death blow.’
Conn’s heart sank. ‘Then you think they will never get back together?’
‘I will not lie to you, Connavar. It would take a miracle. Your mother too has pride. And he likened her to a pox-ridden whore. She will not forgive that insult.’
‘He has taken no other wife,’ said Conn. ‘Nor has he put her aside in the Council.’
‘Aye, that is a spark of hope,’ agreed Banouin. ‘But only a spark.’
‘I shall never lie to any person I love,’ said Connavar, with feeling.
‘Then you will be an unusual and foolish man,’ said the merchant.
‘You think it is foolish to be truthful?’
‘Your mother said what she truly believed was the truth. You think she was wise?’
‘No,’ agreed the boy. ‘It was not wise. It is all so confusing.’
‘Life is often confusing when you are eleven years old.’ Banouin smiled. ‘It gets even more confusing as you grow older.’
‘Is there anything I can do to bring them together?’
Banouin shook his head. ‘Nothing at all, boy. It is a problem for them to solve.’
CHAPTER THREE
despite his admiration for the foreigner, connavar could not accept that he was powerless to help his mother and the Big Man. The following evening he saw the witch, Vorna, on the high southern hillside, gathering flowers for her herbal medicines. Connavar left his chores, climbed the paddock fence and ran out over the meadow and up the slope. She saw him coming and paused in her work.
‘Can I speak with you?’ he asked her.
Vorna laid down her herb sack and sat upon a small boulder. ‘Are you not frightened I will turn you into a weasel?’
‘Why would you do that?’ he asked.
‘Is that not what witches are famed for?’ she countered.
He thought about her answer for a moment. ‘Can you do that? Is your magic so strong?’
‘Perhaps,’ she told him. ‘If you annoy me you will find out. Now what do you want, for I am busy.’
‘My father is Ruathain, my mother—’
‘I know who your parents are,’ she snapped. ‘Get on with it.’
He looked into her deep-set blue eyes. ‘I want a spell cast on them, so that they will love one another again.’
She blinked suddenly, and her hard face relaxed into a rare smile. ‘Well, well,’ she said, scratching at her tangled mop of black and grey hair. ‘So, you want me to use my magic. No doubt you can give me a good reason?’
They are unhappy. We are all unhappy.’
‘And how will you pay me, young Connavar?’
‘Pay?’ he repeated, confused. ‘Are witches paid?’
‘No, we work for love alone,’ she snapped, ‘and we dine on air, and we dress in wisps of cloud.’ Leaning forward she fixed him with a piercing stare. ‘Of course witches are paid! Now let me think . . .’ Resting her chin on her hand she held his gaze. ‘It would not be a big spell, therefore I will not take your soul in payment. A leg perhaps. Or an arm. Yes, an arm. Which should it be, your left or your right?’