‘Ask anything of me,’ said Ruathain. ‘I will do it if you save my son.’
Vorna was too tired to be angry. ‘I am doing all I can, Ruathain. You could promise me all the stars on a necklace and I could do no more. But you can bring food every day, and a little wine. Honey is good for strength and healing.’ With that she trudged back into the cave, drew up her chair, and sat beside the dying youth.
Lightly touching his throat she felt for a pulse. It was weak and fluttering. ‘Be strong, Connavar,’ she whispered. ‘My spirit to your spirit, draw on my strength.’ Heat flared through her fingertips, and she felt the power move within her, flowing into his flesh. Only when she grew dizzy and weak did she withdraw her hand. He did not move, and his breathing was so shallow she was forced to hold a brass mirror by his mouth to see if he still lived. ‘Where have you gone to, Connavar?’ she asked. ‘Where does your spirit fly?’
She sat with him for an hour longer, then slept for a little while. She awoke with a start, and checked his breathing once more. He was barely clinging to life. The bear had ripped his back to shreds and he had lost a great deal of blood. Vorna had inserted more than one hundred and forty stitches in his wounds. He ought to be dead, she knew. There was much here that she did not understand. Why was the Morrigu so interested in this boy? Why had the Seidh not killed him when he entered Wishing Tree wood? Why was he still alive?
Vorna knew the power of her spells was great – but not all of them together should have kept Connavar breathing. The wounds were too deep for that.
Why then did he live?
Rising from the chair she crossed the cave to the rock pool and drank several cups of water. On the edge of the pool she had placed the two items Connavar had had with him when he was carried here: the gift-knife and a cloak brooch in the shape of a fawn trapped in brambles. It was a pretty piece, and reminded her once more of the mystery of Wishing Tree woods. The Seidh had no love for humans, and their law was iron. Any human venturing there risked death. Yet they had not killed him. Instead they had given him a test. But what was the purpose of it? Why a fawn? And why reward him with a knife? She had, of course, asked them. But they had not answered her.
Vorna prepared herself a breakfast of dried fruit and cheese, then returned to the bedside.
Even if he lived he would be changed by his ordeal. What fifteen-year-old would not?
True, he had shown enormous courage in facing the beast. However, youth could be like that, she knew, charged with all the confidence of perceived immortality. The young always believed they would live for ever. Connavar, if he survived, would now know differently. He would have learned that some foes could not be overcome, and that the world was an infinitely dangerous place. Would he still be as courageous? As caring?
Vorna hoped so. ‘But first you have to live,’ she told the comatose youth.
Ruathain rode a little distance ahead and Meria found herself staring at his huge, hunched shoulders. The night was cold, the wind blowing hard. Her pony was trudging on, head down against the wind, and Meria drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Stars were shining brightly and moonlight bathed the flanks of Caer Druagh. Meria felt numb – but not with the cold. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the past, dancing across the barren halls of her memory. The night of Conn’s birth, when Varaconn had returned from the mountain, his eyes bright with the fear of impending death. He had taken her hand then, and he had cried for all that he would miss.
‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded. ‘Stay and watch him grow. Ruathain will understand.’
‘Aye, he would. But what kind of man would I be if I left my sword brother to fight alone?’