With a flick of her fingers the scene faded and the bare, grey wall of the cave shimmered back into view. Vorna sighed. ‘You knew you were going to die, Connavar. Yet you did not run. I think that if you were my son I would give my life for you.’ She stroked his hair, and felt a tear drip onto the dry skin of her cheek. Lifting her hand she brushed it away.
‘Such sweet sentiment,’ came a voice from the cave mouth. Vorna turned. The old woman stood there, the black crow perched on her shoulder.
‘What do you want?’ asked Vorna.
‘I come to guide his soul to the Dark River.’
‘He is not dead yet.’
‘Soon, Vorna. Soon.’
‘You sent the bear to kill him.’
The old woman shrugged and spread her arms. The movement made the crow flutter its great wings. ‘He wanted glory, Vorna. Now he has it. The story of his courage has spread to the Norvii, the Pannones and beyond – across the water. He is the boy who fought the beast. Is that not what he desired? To be famous?’
The Morrigu advanced into the cave, pausing before the fire. She gazed around her at the stark, grey walls. ‘I give people what they ask for. You know that. Your mother was a whore, and you yearned for respect. For power. Did I not grant you all that you sought? You will live ten times longer than any of your tribe, and you have their respect.’
‘They fear me.’
‘Respect, fear, it is all the same.’
‘I hate you,’ hissed Vorna.
The old woman gave a harsh, dry laugh. ‘Everyone hates the Morrigu. I find that charming. Still, as you say, he is not yet dead.
I shall return with the dawn.’ Her jet-black eyes grew large and she loomed over the witch. ‘You could, of course, save him. His mother was right. The Merging might bring him back. You, however, might not survive the winter without your powers. You could die here in this cold, lonely place. Unloved and unmourned, isn’t that what you said?’ The Morrigu smiled. ‘I will leave you with your thoughts.’
The old woman walked out into the night. The cave was growing cold now and Vorna lit a fire. Once it was blazing brightly she made a broth from the meat and vegetables Meria had brought earlier. To this she added herbs and spices, stirring the mixture until it was ready. Pouring some of the broth into a wooden bowl she carried it to the bedside and waited for it to cool. When it had done so she filled a large cup with clear water and placed it alongside the broth.
Moving her chair to the head of the bed she laid her hands on either side of Connavar’s face. For an hour she sat, honing her concentration, freeing her mind.
Then she Merged . . .
. . . and screamed as the pain tore into her. For a moment she almost passed out. Marshalling her power she sought to blanket the raw, boiling agony searing through the tortured frame. The boy’s body was weak, and it took all her strength to force it to turn on its side. Then she pushed the right arm beneath the body and came up on one elbow. Tears seeped from the eyes and Vorna felt herself dying within the torn and bleeding shell that had once been Connavar. Do not give in to despair, she warned herself. Hold back the pain, and make him sit! The left arm was broken and useless. With a cry of agony she forced the body to a sitting position, then, with a trembling hand, reached for the broth, lifting it to the lips. Opening the mouth she forced the body to swallow. Nausea flowed over her, but she held it down. Then she drank the water, feeling the cold liquid seeping into fever-dried tissue. Dropping the cup she laid the body down and retreated to the security of her own exhausted frame.
The memory of the pain was almost as strong as the pain itself and she passed out, falling from the chair to the cold, stone floor of the cave.