Towards midnight, as Banouin sat quietly beneath Eldest Tree, nursing his sixth mug of strong ale and watching the young dancers twirling in the firelight, the former witch, Vorna, came and sat beside him. She had put on weight in the last few weeks, which had the effect of giving her a more youthful appearance. Banouin was surprised to note that he found her attractive. He gazed into his ale. Could it be that powerful? he wondered.
‘You do not dance, you do not sing,’ she said. ‘You merely sit and watch.’
‘There is joy in that for me,’ he told her. ‘I love the Rigante, the people, their customs. Everything.’
‘I too.’ The music faded as the pipers moved away to refresh themselves.
‘I notice that you do not dance, Vorna. Nor have I heard you sing.’
She smiled, leaned back against the huge tree, and gazed up through its branches to the crescent moon above. ‘I dance in my mind, I sing in my heart.’
‘You sound happy.’
‘Merry,’ she said. ‘I have drunk too much wine. But, yes, I am happy too. The spring is here, and my people have survived the winter.’
‘There is more to it than that,’ he said, raising his voice slightly as the music of the dance started up again.
She smiled at him. ‘Yes, there is more. I feel alive for the first time. My heart is open. There is great strength in magic, and enormous knowledge to be gained. Even so, the magic separated me from my people. In some ways it separated me from me. I feel whole. Complete. Can you understand that?’
‘No, but I am happy for you.’
‘Will you dance with me, Foreigner?’
‘I think that I will,’ he said, carefully placing his mug on the ground and pushing himself to his feet. For a moment the ground swayed under him, then he took her arm, and joined the other dancers under the moonlight.
He was not as drunk as he feared, and found himself moving in perfect time to the music, twirling and leaping, and drawn deeper into the heart of the joy that filled the Rigante. It was a heady and powerful experience, and he lost all sense of time. At the last Vorna took his arm and led him away.
Banouin found himself at his own front door. There was no lock, only a latch which he lifted, pushing the door open. Stepping aside he gestured Vorna to enter. She stood hesitantly in the doorway.
‘Perhaps I should not come in,’ she said. ..
‘Then again, perhaps you should,’ he said, with a gentle smile. ‘It has been a long time since a woman graced my home.’
‘Since your wife died,’ she said. The pain of memory made him wince. Vorna moved in close to him.
‘I am sorry, Foreigner. When I had the power I knew many things.’
He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Do not be sorry. She was a fine and wonderful woman. I should think of her more often. But it is always so painful.’
They stood in silence for a while, enjoying the closeness. ‘I have never been with a man,’ said Vorna. He looked into her dark eyes and saw the fear there, and the loneliness.
‘It is merely another kind of dance,’ he said, softly. ‘Will you dance with me, Vorna?’
‘I think that I will,’ she said.
Back at the feast, Riamfada was growing sleepy. He could not drink wine. It burned in his chest like a small fire, and he dared not drink ale for fear of wetting himself. He had sat quietly through the feast, watching his friends enjoy themselves, and taking great pleasure from it. He leaned back into the V-shaped board that had been hammered in the grass for him, to prevent him falling, and lifted his heavy blanket over his shoulder. It had been a joyous night. Govannan had been dancing with a young maiden from a settlement some thirty miles to the south. He had tripped over his own feet several times, but she affected not to notice. Connavar had not danced, and Riamfada saw him watching Arian on the far side of the bonfire. She had danced with several men, much to the chagrin of her new husband, Casta, who sat glumly nearby. Further to the right Riamfada saw Braefar. The boy was nursing a slight burn to his leg, caused when he had tried to leap the feasting pit with other taller, stronger boys. He had fallen back and hot coals had pressed against his knee. He was sitting now beside his younger brother, the eight-year-old Bendegit Bran, who was asleep, curled up against the grizzled, white-muzzled old hound, Caval.