‘He is dying,’ said Ruathain, struggling to control his emotions. ‘His shoulder and left arm are smashed beyond repair, his lung is punctured. The witch says she will use all her power to save him. But we had to leave him with her. She refused my request to stay at his side. Said my presence would disturb the spells she must cast.’
‘I am truly sorry, sir,’ said Govannan.
The swordsman nodded. When he spoke his voice was close to breaking. ‘You should feel proud, boy. Today you stood beside my son and faced a terrible enemy. Believe me, that will have changed you. You are no longer merely the smith’s eldest son. You are a man in your own right. And more than that, you are a hero.’ He took a deep breath, then dropped to one knee in front of Riamfada. ‘Do not blame yourself. Even without you these lads could not have outrun the bear. Heroes come in many forms. Not all of them are fighters. When you asked Conn to leave you and save himself, you were prepared to sacrifice your life for his. You understand? You too should feel proud. Now I must get you home.’
Vorna was close to exhaustion when she heard the ponies approaching the cave. She had known they would come. One did not need the powers of a witch to realize that a mother would not be parted from her son when his life hung in the balance. And as for the man, Vorna had seen the anguish on his face earlier that day. He could not stay away. Rising from Conn’s bedside she took up her staff and walked out into the night. Ruathain and Meria had dismounted and were approaching the entrance.
What a fine pair they make, she thought, the tall broad-shouldered warrior and the proud woman beside him. She looked into their faces, saw the determination there. Meria’s green eyes showed anger and the readiness of defiance. Vorna raised her hand. ‘The man cannot enter,’ she said, wearily. ‘If he does he will shatter the web of spells and the boy will die. The mother can follow me, but know this: she puts her son in peril by doing so.’
‘How can a mother’s love imperil her son?’ demanded Meria.
‘Can you think of a single reason why I should lie to you?’ countered Vorna. ‘I have cast spells, delicate, fragile spells. The sound of your footfalls could disturb them. And they – and my powers – are all that hold Connavar to the land of the living.’
‘Then I shall move silently. But I must see him.’
Vorna had known this would be her answer. Moving in close she whispered: ‘You must not speak within the cave, nor sigh, nor cry out. You must not, under any circumstances, touch Connavar. Do you understand this?’
‘Will he live?’ asked Meria.
‘I do not know. But tell me you understand what I have said. It is vital that you obey me. Not one word. Not one sound must you utter. If you cannot do this then stay away.’
‘I will do as you say,’ said Meria.
‘He hovers on the edge of the abyss of death,’ said Vorna. ‘His wounds are terrible to behold. Prepare yourself now, and be strong.’ Taking Meria by the arm she led her into the lamplit cave. Connavar was lying face down on a pallet bed. The hair had been shaved from his left temple and a long jagged cut had been stitched from his scalp to his chin. His back was a blood-covered mass of stitches, his left arm held in wooden splints. He looked so pale. Meria stood very still, Vorna’s hand clamped to her arm. The witch drew her back. ‘No sound,’ she whispered. ‘Not until we are once more under the stars.’
Hand held over her mouth, Meria backed away from her son, then turned and ran from the cave. Vorna followed her. Ruathain stepped forward as they emerged. ‘How is he?’ he asked.
‘He should be dead,’ Vorna told him, ‘but I have cast all the healing spells I know.’
‘Is he conscious?’
‘No. You must go now, for I have much to do.’