It was night when she awoke. The fire was almost dead. With fear in her heart she pointed at the hearth, and whispered a single word of power. She knew, even as she spoke, that the magic had gone from her. She was a witch no longer.
Rising she checked Connavar’s pulse. It was stronger now, his breathing deeper. She lit three lamps, and by their light examined the boy’s back. The combination of mould and maggots had cleaned the wounds. With a needle she carefully pricked each maggot, lifting them one at a time from his flesh and flicking them into the fire. When at last his back was free of them she poured a cold herbal tisane over some linen and laid it on his tortured flesh.
Wrapping herself in a warm cloak she walked out into the night. The stars were bright over Caer Druagh, the breeze chill.
And in the breeze, as it rustled through the winter-naked branches above her, she thought she heard the wicked, mocking laughter of the Morrigu.
Connavar dung to the rock face. High above him the summit beckoned, far below a river of fire flowed over black rocks. Birds of prey hovered around him, pecking at the flesh of his back. One landed on his shoulder, the curved beak ripping into his face. He struck it hard, and forced himself on. Arian was waiting. He would not die … .
He was crawling across a desert. Huge ants emerged from the sand, clinging to his flesh with their mandibles, tearing at him. Ahead was an oasis. Everything in him screamed to close his eyes and float away on the bliss of sleep. Yet he did not. For in his mind was the face of a goddess. His goddess. His love. His flesh burning, he crawled on …
He was lying naked in a bramble patch, the spiked branches growing around him, through him, biting into his back, eating into the flesh of his face. The pain was terrible and now he could not move. He lay there knowing, at last, that he was dying.
A movement to his right caught his eye. A fawn was moving daintily through the brambles. Reaching his side the creature gazed into his eyes. It made no sound, but Connavar knew it was asking him to reach out, to drape his arm over the slender neck. He tried, but pain seared through him. The fawn waited. Twice more the youth tried to move. Each time the pain was greater. Anger touched him, renewing his strength. He screamed as he wrenched his arm clear of the brambles, and curled it over the neck of the fawn. The little creature settled down beside him – and began to grow. As it did so Connavar was pulled clear of the brambles, and found himself sitting on the back of a powerful stag, with great antlers. The stag swung and bounded from the thicket, coming to a halt beside a rock pool. Connavar slid from the beast’s back and drank deeply. Then he woke …
His left arm was heavily strapped, and throbbing painfully. His back felt as if a fire had been laid on his flesh. Opening his eyes he found he was lying face down on a pallet bed. For a moment he could not identify his surroundings. Then he saw Vorna, lit by the light of a flickering fire, standing with her back to him. He heard a voice, and remembered it as the old woman in the woods, the Morrigu!
‘Who would have thought you could be so stupid, Vorna? Two hundred years of life, surrendered for an arrogant boy. How does it feel to be without your powers? Are you afraid? Will the wolves eat your flesh, Vorna? Will the lions come down from their mountain lairs and tear you with their fangs?’
‘He lives,’ replied Vorna, and Connavar could hear the weariness in her voice.
‘Yes, he lives,’ hissed the Morrigu. ‘His body torn, poison seeping into his tissues, running in his blood. A whisper from death. For this you threw away the power I gifted you? You humans are so sentimental.’
‘You are neither wanted nor needed here,’ said Vorna. ‘Go and torment someone else.’