‘Why would you want my arm?’ he asked, taking a step back from her.
‘Perhaps I collect the arms of small boys.’
‘I am not small! And you are mocking me, witch. Go ahead, turn me into a weasel. And when you do I’ll run up your leg and bite your arse!’
Though Vorna did not show it, she was impressed by the child. Few Rigante youngsters would have dared to come this close to her, and not even the adults would have spoken to her in this manner. She was feared, and quite rightly. She knew the boy was frightened, but even so he had stood up to her.
‘You are right, I am mocking you,’ she admitted. ‘So now let us speak plainly. My spells can kill, or they can heal. I can also prepare potions to make a man love a woman. That is not difficult. But Ruathain already loves Meria. And, though she only realized it when he was gone, she loves Ruathain. The problem is pride, Connavar, and I will cast no spells to take that away from either of them.’ Dipping into the pouch at her side she pulled forth a few dark seeds. ‘Do you know what these are?’ she asked him. ‘No.’
‘They are from the foxglove flower. A tiny amount of them can give a dying heart fresh life. Like a miracle. But just a pinch too much and they become the deadliest poison. Pride is like that. Too little and a man has no sense of self-worth. The world will wear him down to dust. Too much and he becomes arrogant, vain and boastful. But just enough and he is a man to walk the mountains with. Ruathain is that man. To tinker with his pride would be to destroy all that he is. As for Meria, she is wise enough to know that she has lost him. I cannot help you, Connavar. I doubt even the Seidh could help you.’
‘But they might?’ he asked. His response worried her. ‘Do not even consider such an action,’ she warned him. ‘The Seidh are more dangerous than you could possibly imagine. Go home and leave your parents to solve their own problems.’ As he walked away she called out: ‘And if I ever do turn you into a weasel, it will be a weasel with no teeth.’
Swinging round he gave a dazzling grin, then ran back to the paddock field.
That night, just before midnight, he crept from his bed and dressed quietly. In the bed alongside his own Braefar stirred, but did not wake. From her place under the western window the hound, Caval, raised her great black head and watched him. Connavar tugged on his shoes then knelt beside the hound, patting her brow and scratching behind her ears. He thought of taking her with him. It would be good to have company on such a quest. Then he considered the dangers and decided against. What right had he to risk Caval’s life? He moved to the wall and eased his way past the curtain that separated his sleeping quarters from the main living area. The house was dark and he moved with care towards the kitchen, from which he took an old, long-bladed bronze knife, which he tucked into his belt. Lifting the latch bar on the kitchen door he slipped out into the night, heading north towards the Wishing Tree woods.
The moon was high, but its light did not penetrate the darkness of the trees. Connavar’s heart was beating fast as he climbed the slope. He had never seen a Seidh, but he knew many stories of them: spirit beings of great magic and dark prophecy, some of their names enshrined in Rigante legend. Bean-Nighe, the washerwoman-of-the-ford. Warriors doomed to die would see her kneeling by a river washing bloodstained clothing. Connavar did not wish to see her, or her sister, Bean-Si, also known as the Haunting or the Yearning. One look at her stone-white face would fill a man with such sorrow that his heart would burst. The Seidh he was hoping to encounter was known as the Thagda, the old man of the forest. It was said that if you approached him, and touched his cloak of moss, he would grant three wishes.