‘So, the villains won today, eh, captain?’ said Sergeant Packard, genuine regret in his voice.
Galliott shook his head. ‘He came to rescue the woman he loved – and he did that. He won, sergeant. We lost. We all lost.’
‘Aye, and I’m glad we did,’ said Packard. Tonight I’m going to raise a tankard to the big bastard, and wish him well on his journey.’
Sixty miles to the south, at the centre of the Wishing Tree woods the Wyrd waited. She could have used her power to see Jaim Grymauch’s last moments, but she could not bear it. She sat in the shadow of the great stone, at the centre of the old circle, and waited, her spirit in harmony with the land. She heard the creaking of the ancient oaks, the gentle rustle of the breeze across the grass, and felt the power of the sun bathing the land. Beneath these indications of life she also held to the magic, tiny and insubstantial now, but still pulsing in the soft earth.
These woods had once known the Seidh, the old gods of Fire and Water. The Morrigu had walked here, the storm crow Babdh upon her shoulders. Riamfada had dwelt in the wood, and here had made the magical sword carried by Connavar the King. It was here still, awaiting the Stag.
He had come to her in a dream the night before, as she had hoped he would. Once more she conjured the image of a camp fire in the woods, and his spirit had taken form alongside it. ‘Welcome to my fire, Gaise Macon,’ she said.
‘Why do I wear this cloak in my dreams?’ he asked her. ‘It is badly patched and old.’
‘It is the cloak of Connavar. Each patch represents a different clan, stitched to the blue and the green of the Rigante. It was a cloak of unity. It told the world that Connavar was Keltoi, and above clan rivalry.’
‘Why do I wear it?’
The Wyrd thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘Ask yourself this: do you feel it belongs around your shoulders?’
‘Aye, I do.’
‘Then that is why you wear it. Why have you come to me, child of the Varlish?’
‘I have a commission in the King’s Cavalry. Tomorrow I join my regiment. A war has begun.’
‘I know all this. Why are you here?’
‘I have never been able to push from my mind our last meeting. I miss the mountains of my home. I miss the land. In my dreams I walk the slopes of Caer Druagh. I am drawn to it. And yet … I feel the land does not know me. It cannot feel my presence, nor my love.’
‘It knows you, Gaise. It is part of your blood,’ she told him.
‘I want a soul-name.’
‘You have always had one. You are the Stormrider.” He had sighed then, and smiled.
‘I like that. It feels like a cool breeze on my soul.’ His green and gold gaze locked to her eyes. ‘Will we meet again, lady?’
‘Oh, yes. In triumph and sorrow, Rigante.’
The Wyrd shivered at the memory, then glanced up at the sky. It was nearing noon and – at this moment – Jaim Grymauch was still alive. Regret touched the Wyrd, soft and sad and of infinite weight. He had been on his way north, and had camped in a cluster of rocks. The Wyrd’s spirit had found him there. He had been humming a song, and drinking from a flagon of uisge when she appeared at his fire. Jaim had stared blearily at the apparition, then rubbed his eye. ‘A powerful brew,’ he said, sniffing the neck of the flagon.
‘It is not the uisge,’ the Wyrd told him. ‘I have been searching for you.’
‘And you have found me. Would you care for a drop of the Water of Life?’
‘In this spirit form I cannot drink, Jaim Grymauch.’
‘Aye, you do seem somewhat insubstantial, woman. Are you here to cast some spell upon me?’
The Wyrd had smiled. ‘I cast few spells now, Grymauch. The magic is almost gone from the land.’
‘Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’