Connavar heard the fluttering of wings, then saw Vorna walk to the fire. Pushing his right arm beneath him he forced himself up. The stitches on his back pulled tight. He grunted. Vorna was immediately at his side. Dizzy, he fell against her. ‘Lie down, child, you are too weak to sit,’ she said.
‘No,’ he whispered. Drawing in several deep breaths he waited for the dizziness to pass. ‘I am better now,’ he told her. ‘Could … I have . . . some water?’ She fetched him a cup, but he was too weak to hold it and she lifted it to his lips. He drank greedily. Sweat bathed his face, burning against the vivid wound on his cheek. Reaching up he ran his fingers across it, feeling the stitches. Then he remembered the bear, the slavering jaws and the terrible fangs.
He had a fleeting vision of Govannan running to his aid, and the stricken Riamfada lying on the grass. For a moment he hesitated, almost too frightened to ask the question. ‘What happened to the others?’ he said, at last.
‘You were the only one hurt,’ she told him. ‘Your father and other men from the settlement rode up and killed the bear. Rest now. We will talk tomorrow.’
Sleep came swiftly. And there were no dreams.
For another ten days Connavar drifted in and out of delirium, but on the morning of the eleventh he awoke clear headed. The pain from his back had faded, but his shoulder still throbbed. Awkwardly he climbed from the bed. The cave was empty, but a bright fire was blazing in the hearth. He could not feel its heat, for a cold breeze was flowing from the cave mouth and Conn could see snow drifting in the opening. Fresh clothes were lying folded on the wooden table. Conn took a pair of green woollen leggings and struggled into them. It was not easy using only one arm. By the time he had them on he was bathed in sweat and feeling nauseous. Never had he felt this weak. With the heavy splint on his left arm there was no way to pull on his tunic. Draping it over his shoulders he moved to the fireside.
His memories were hazy. How long had he been in the cave? He seemed to recall his mother sitting beside him, first in a green dress, then a blue one, and finally in a heavy coat with a collar of sheepskin. It was all so confusing.
Vorna entered the cave. She was wearing a black, hooded cloak and a thick red scarf was wrapped around her neck. Snow had settled on her shoulders, and also on the bundle of wood she carried. Dropping the fuel to the hearth she swung towards him. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I have felt better,’ he admitted.
‘The poison is gone from your body. Soon you will be able to go home. Perhaps tomorrow.’
Conn sat down on the rug in front of the fire. Vorna removed her cloak, brushed the snow from it, and hung it on a peg. Drawing up a chair she sat and held her hands out to the blaze. The skin of her fingers was blue with cold.
‘Was the . . . old woman here?’ he asked. ‘Or did I dream it?’
‘She was here.’
He shivered as a freezing draught whispered over him, touching the fire, causing the flames to dance. Vorna rose immediately and fetched a blanket which she laid around his shoulders. Conn looked up at her. ‘She said you gave up your power to save me.’
‘That is no concern of yours,’ she snapped.
Conn was not deterred. ‘What will you do without your power?’
Vorna placed a fresh log upon the fire. She looked at the youth and smiled. ‘I have not lost my skill with herbs and potions. Only the magic is gone.’
‘Will it return?’
She shrugged. ‘It will or it won’t. I’ll waste no sleep over it. So tell me, Connavar, why did you fight the bear?’
He shivered at the memory, seeing again the immensity of the beast; the horror of its blood-smeared jaws. ‘I had no choice.’