Not ever.
A bat flew past her pony’s head, causing it to rear. Meria was jerked back to the present. She had watched her husband die. Now her first-born son was dying. She rode on down the hillside. Below she could see the lights of Three Streams, lanterns hung in porches, candlelight glinting through shutters, moonlight upon the water. The wind whipped at her, tearing her shawl from her shoulders. She did not notice. Ruathain glanced back, saw the garment fly away and swung his pony. Retrieving the shawl he rode alongside Meria. She was sitting staring ahead. Gently he laid the shawl over her shoulders, but she did not move her hands to hold it in place, and the wind lifted it again. Ruathain caught it, then led her pony down the hill, over the first of the bridges and on into the paddock behind the house. Meria did not dismount. She sat, staring ahead, her mind lost in memories.
Ruathain lifted her clear and carried her into the house. Braefar was sitting at the table. Nine-year-old Bendegit Bran was crouched by the fire making toast. Ruathain moved by them into the back bedroom. Braefar ran in.
‘Is Mam hurt?’
‘No,’ said Ruathain. ‘Pull back the covers and we’ll put her to bed.’
Braefar did so. Bran brought in some buttered toast. ‘For Mam,’ he said.
‘She’ll eat it in a while, boy. Leave us now.’
The boys wandered back into the hearth room. Ruathain laid Meria on the bed, and pulled the covers over her. Then he sat beside her and stroked the dark hair from her brow. ‘Sleep now,’ he said. ‘Get some rest.’
She blinked and looked up into his broad face. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she turned her head away.
‘The boy is a fighter,’ he said, misunderstanding the cause of her tears. ‘You rest. We’ll go out again tomorrow.’ She lay for a while, lost in thought. Then she spoke.
‘I am so sorry, Ru,’ she said. ‘For everything. Can you forgive me?’
There was no answer. Sitting up she gazed around.
Ruathain had gone.
For three days there was no change for the better in Connavar’s condition, and on the morning of the fourth Vorna’s concern increased. She was outside the cave when Meria rode up, carrying provisions. Vorna gave a wan smile, to offset the fear in Meria’s eyes, a smile that said: ‘Your son still lives.’ The relief was immediate. Drawing rein Meria slid from the pony, tied its reins to a bush, and carried the small sack of food to where Vorna sat.
‘Is he awake yet?’ asked the mother. :
‘No. And I have not yet found his spirit.’
‘But he is healing?’
Meria’s desperation brought a fresh wave of weariness to the witch. Taking the provisions she opened the sack and removed a chunk of fresh-baked bread and a wax-sealed jar of honey. Meria sat silently beside her, waiting patiently as Vorna broke the seal and began to eat, tearing off small pieces of bread and dipping them into the honey. When she had finished she faced Meria. ‘Given time the lung will heal itself,’ she said. ‘The flesh on his back, however, was badly ripped and the wounds are turning sour. But even that is not my main concern. If his fever worsens – which I think it will – lack of water will kill him.’
‘Then we must wake him – force him to drink,’ said Meria.
‘You think I have not tried? I told you his spirit has fled.’
‘Yes, but you could Merge,’ insisted Meria. ‘You did it for Pelain when she passed out in childbirth. You took over her body. You have done that for many women. You could do it for Connavar. Then you could make the body drink.’
‘You do not understand what you are asking me to risk,’ Vorna told her. ‘He is on the verge of death. If my spirit enters his body, and the body dies, I die with it. Then there is the pain. A Merging would mean I become Connavar. His pain was so great it sent his spirit fleeing from the agony. But I would have to endure it. And lastly – and most important – there is the fact that he is male. My power is born of the Great Mother. It was never intended for men. They have their druids and their blood magic.’