‘I want no part in them,’ she said.
‘You have little choice in the matter. And you will feel differently when you wake. In spirit form you are free of much more than merely the flesh. The human body has many weapons. Rage, which increases muscle power; fear, which can hone the mind wonderfully; love, which binds with ties of iron; and hate, which can move mountains. There are many more. But in astral form you are connected only tenuously to these emotions. It was rage and the need for revenge which saved your life, which drove you on to wear the Red. That rage is still there, Sigarni, a fire that needs no kindling, an eternal blaze that will light the road to greatness. But it rests in the flesh, awaiting your return.’
‘You were correct, old one. I do not understand all you say. How do I return to my flesh?’
‘Not yet. First go from the cave. Walk to the pool.’
She shook her head. ‘There is a ghost there.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Call him.’
Sigarni was on the point of refusing when Taliesen lifted his hand and pointed to the fire. The flames leapt up to form a sheer bright wall some four feet high. Then, at the centre, a small spot of colourless light appeared, opening to become a pale glistening circle. It glowed snow-white, then gently became the blue of a summer sky. Sigarni watched spellbound as the blue faded and she found herself staring through the now transparent circle into her own cabin. She was there, talking with Gwalchmai. The conversation whispered into her mind.
‘Who was the ghost?’ asked the image of Sigarni. ‘Go and ask him, woman. Call for him.’She shivered and looked away. ‘I can’t.’
Gwalch chuckled. ‘There is nothing you cannot do, Sigarni. Nothing.’ ‘Oh, come on, Gwalch, are we not friends? Why won’t you help me?’ ‘I am helping you. I am giving you good advice. You don’t remember the night of the Slaughter. You will, when the time is right. I helped take the memory from you when I found you by the pool. Madness had come upon you, girl. You were sitting in a puddle of your own urine. Your eyes were blank, and you were slack-jawed. I had a friend with me; his name was Taliesen. It was he-and another- who slew the Slaughterers. Taliesen told me we were going to lock away the memory and bring you back to the world of the living. We did exactly that. The door will open one day, when you are strong enough to turn the key. That’s what he told me.’
Now the circle shrank to a dot and the flames of the fire returned to normal. ‘Am I strong enough to turn the key?’ she asked Taliesen.
‘Go to the pool and find out,’ he advised. ‘Call for him!’
Sigarni stood silently for a moment, then moved past the old man and out into the night. The rain was still hammering down, but she could not feel it nor, strangely, could she hear it. Water tumbled over the falls in spectacular silence, ferocious winds tore silently at the trees and their leaf-laden branches, lightning flared in the sky, but the voice of the accompanying thunder could not be heard.
The huntress moved to the poolside. ‘I am here!’ she called. There was no answer, no stirring upon the water. Merely silence.
‘Call to him by name,’ came the voice of Taliesen in her mind.
And she knew, and in knowing wondered how such an obvious realization should have escaped her so long. ‘Ironhand!’ she called. ‘It is I, Sigarni. Ironhand!’
The waters bubbled and rose like a fountain, the spray forming an arched Gateway lit by an eldritch light. A giant of a man appeared in the Gateway, his silver beard in twin braids, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He wore silver-bright armour and carried a long, leaf-bladed broadsword that glistened as if it had been carved from moonlight. He raised the sword in greeting, and then sheathed it at his side and spoke, his voice rich and resonant. ‘Come to me, Sigarni,’ he said. ‘Walk with me awhile.’