The Wyrd relaxed, allowing the weight of forest memories to flow over her. From somewhere deep within she heard the sounds of men labouring. Distant noises, echoes from the past. Closing her eyes, she focused on what she was hearing. Laughter came, and with it a sense of camaraderie. The Wyrd saw the soldiers of Stone putting aside their breastplates as they cut down the trees to make this bridge, creating a passage through to the heart of Rigante territory. It would allow their army to march on Bane’s stronghold. The Wyrd could hear their voices now. The old tongue of Stone, which she did not know. Yet she could feel their soaring confidence, their belief in their invincibility. Bane would destroy that less than three weeks after this bridge was completed. The Rigante would fall upon the Stone army and destroy it utterly.
Slowly the Wyrd opened her eyes. She could see the men clearly now, splitting the logs, and hauling them into place. They were not true spirits, merely reflections in the mirror of time. There could be no interaction with them. Their labours had become part of the memory of the forest.
For an hour the Wyrd rested, then she moved to the river bank, cupping her hands and drinking deeply. As she did so the narcotic herb she had taken linked her to another image. She saw Kaelin Ring sitting beside the water, weeping. The Wyrd sighed. Her spirit was in tune with the people of the Rigante, and she often experienced glimpses of their futures. Chara Ward had been full Varlish, and the Wyrd had not seen the perils she faced.
The moon was above the mountains now, though scurrying clouds obscured it for long periods. Running wet fingers through her hair, she stood and stretched. Once there had been bears in these mountains, great, ambling creatures who would hunt the salmon in the clean, sparkling waters. Once there were wolves, running wild and free. Man had killed the bears and all but destroyed the wolves, driving them far to the north.
The Wyrd climbed to the bridge, took another pinch of shredded herbs, and sat down upon the logs.
The murder of Chara Ward had been savage, born of lust and hatred. The slaying of her killers had been more than that. It had been premeditated and cold, and vicious in its execution. That it should have been Ravenheart who committed the crime was almost more than the Wyrd could bear. In him she had hoped to find the best of the Rigante. But like his ancestor Connavar he carried the best and the worst.
The night grew chill. ‘Come to me, Jek Bindoe,’ whispered the Wyrd.
Mist swirled over the logs and the Wyrd shivered. Her skin prickled as something cold touched the back of her neck. She did not turn. Instead she emptied her mind. Within the whispering wind she heard a voice, the sound growing stronger. ‘Kill you, bitch! Kill you!’ Icy, insubstantial fingers raked at her neck.
‘You are dead, Jek Bindoe,’ she said softly. ‘You can harm no-one now.’
A shrill scream sounded. Mist flowed over her, re-forming before her eyes, taking the shape of a thin, hatchet-faced man. ‘I’ll show you dead!’ he shouted, slashing at her face. His fingers clawed at her, but all she felt were tiny whispers of cold against her skin.
Tt is time for you to go, to leave this place. The world has no more use for you, Jek Bindoe.’
‘I need to rest,’ said the ghost of Bindoe suddenly. ‘This is a dream. In the morning I’ll ride south to Scardyke. Just a dream.’
The Wyrd began to chant in the old highland tongue. The wind picked up, tugging at Bindoe’s shimmering form.
‘What are you doing? You stop that, bitch! It is hurting me.’
Then do not resist it.’
He began to swear and shout, and scream. The chanting began again. Bindoe’s voice faded, and the mist vanished.
‘Where has he gone?’ asked the ghost of Luss Campion.
To the place he has earned with his deeds,’ said the Wyrd, ‘but I do not think you will be joining him there.’