‘No!’ said Fell sharply. ‘Fill another cup and I’ll talk – though only the gods know why. It doesn’t help.’ Accepting the drink he swallowed deeply, feeling the fiery liquid burn his throat. ‘Son of a whore, Gwalch! Is this made of rat’s piss?’
‘Only a touch,’ said the old man. ‘Just for colour. Now go on.’
‘Why her? That’s the question I ask myself. I’ve had more than my fair share of beautiful women. Why is it only she can fire my blood? Why?
‘Because she’s special.’ Gwalch rose from the table and moved to the hearth. A fire had been expertly laid and he ignited his tinder-box, holding it below the cast-iron fire-dog until flames began to lick at the dry twigs at the base. Kneeling, he blew on the tongues of flame until the thicker pieces caught. Then he stood. ‘Women like her are rare, born for greatness. They’re not made to be wives, old before their time, with dry breasts drooping like hanged men. She’s starlight where other women are candle flames. You understand? You should feel privileged for having bedded her. She has the gift, Fell. The gift of eternity. You know what that means?’
‘I don’t know what any of this means,’ admitted the forester.
‘It means she’ll live for ever. In a thousand years men will speak her name.’
Fell lifted his cup and stared into the amber liquid. ‘Drinking this rots the brain, old man.’
‘Aye, maybe it does. But I know what I know, Fell. I know you’ll live for her. And I know you’ll die for her. Hold the right, Fell. Do it for me! And they’ll fall on you with their swords of fire, and their lances of pain, and their arrows of farewell. Will you hold, Fell, when she asks you?’ Gwalch leaned forward and laid his head on his arms. ‘Will you hold, Fell?’
‘You’re drunk, my friend. You’re talking gibberish.’
Gwalch looked up, his eyes bleary. ‘I wish I was young again, Fell. I’d stand alongside you. By God, I’d even take that arrow for you!’
Fell rose unsteadily, then helped Gwalch to his feet, carefully steered the old man to the bed and laid him down. Returning to the fire, he stretched himself out on the bearskin rug and slept.
It was the closest Sigarni could come to flight. She stood naked on the high rock beside the falls and edged forward, her toes curling over the weather-beaten edge. Sixty feet below the waters of the pool churned as the falls thundered into it. The sun was strong on her back, the sky as blue as gem-stone. Sigarni raised her arms and launched her body forward. Straight as an arrow she dived, arms flung back for balance, and watched the pool roar up to meet her. Bringing her arms forward at the last moment she struck the water cleanly, making barely a splash. Down, down she sank until her hands touched the stone at the base of the pool spinning, she used her feet to propel her body upwards. Once more on the surface she swam with lazy grace to the south of the pool, where Lady anxiously waited. Hauling herself clear of the water, she sat on a flat rock and shook the water from her hair. The sound of the falls was muted here, and the sunlight was streaming through the long leaves of a willow, dappling the water with flecks of gold. It would be easy to believe the legends on a day like today, she thought. It seems perfectly natural that a king should have chosen this place to leave the world of men, and journey into the lands of heaven. She could almost see him wading out, then turning, his great sword in his bloodstained hand, the baying of the hounds and the guttural cries of the killers ringing in his ears. Then, as the warriors moved in for the kill, the flash of light and the opening Gateway.
All nonsense. The greatest King of the Highlands had been slain here. Sorain Ironhand, known also as Fingersteel. Last spring, during one of her dives, Sigarni’s hands had touched a bone at the bottom of the pool. Bringing it to the surface she found it to be a shoulder-blade. For an hour or more she scoured the bottom of the pool. Then she found him, or rather what was left of his skeleton, held to the pool floor by heavy rocks. The right hand was missing, but there were rust-discoloured screw holes in the bones of the wrist, and the last red remnants of his iron hand close by.