‘Man is a complex creature, Caretha. You also spoke the truth. We were shaped by the Seidh for their own purposes.’
‘He said Uzamatte would be destroyed, its magic devoured in a few short centuries.’
‘That is why we are taking Feargol to that land. We will do what we can to protect it. Go home now. Go back to Sorrow Bird.’
‘I need to speak with the Stormrider.’
‘Now is not the time. His darkness would burden you. I will speak with him. I will take him to the cave. It is fitting, after all, when you think on it.’
‘Do not let him be evil, Riamfada,’ said the Wyrd. ‘I had such hopes for him.’
‘Hold to them. There are two wars now, the one being waged with sword and cannon upon the land, and the second being fought within the emotional valleys of the Stormrider’s soul. You and I cannot take part in either. Go home and prepare Feargol.’
She nodded. ‘If he is evil, will you still give him the gift?’
‘It is his destiny to receive it.’
‘I feel so lost, Riamfada,’ she said. Once more the tears began to fall.
‘You are not lost. I am here with you.’ In that moment she felt a great warmth settle over her, as if she were a child again, safe in the arms of her mother. She remembered the small hut they shared, and the little fireplace, fashioned of stone. One night, when the child Caretha had endured a bad dream, her mother had carried her out and sat her on the rug in front of the fire. On a baking tray were a dozen biscuits, scented with cinnamon. Her mother had held her close, and given her a biscuit. It was still warm from the oven.
Caretha had never felt so loved as in that moment. It was a time to treasure.
The warmth left her. Riamfada had gone and she knew was alone again. Then a scent of cinnamon came to her. She looked down. There on the stone beside her was a perfectly round, golden biscuit. She took it up and bit into it. Then she smiled.
‘Thank you, Riamfada,’ she whispered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GAISE MACON SLEPT FITFULLY. HE AWOKE IN HIS TENT JUST BEFORE THE dawn. Fragmented shards of his dreams clung momentarily to his conscious mind: Cordelia Lowen leaning in to kiss him, her lips cold and blue, her eyes lifeless.
He shivered and sat up.
Pushing back his blankets, he climbed to his feet. Soldier stirred beside him, raising his large head and yawning, showing his teeth. Gaise stepped over him and left the tent. Some of the soldiers had built cook fires, but most were still sleeping on the bare earth, huddled close to the ruins, seeking some shelter from the night winds.
Gaise wondered what this community had been like in the days of Connavar. It was said there was a forge, where the king’s Iron Wolves had first received their armour. Ruathain had lived here, and Bendegit Bran. At the centre of the ruins lay the massive stump of an oak. Eldest Tree it was called when it lived. It was at the heart of many Rigante festivals. The Varlish had cut it down two hundred years ago in an effort to stamp out clan culture. It was around this time that the romances had been published declaring Connavar to have been a Varlish prince, who had travelled to the far north to lead the barbarous people there.
Gaise wandered to a rickety bridge spanning one of the three streams. He gazed around the ruins, and scanned the surrounding hills. Connavar had walked these same hills, with his brothers Braefar the traitor and Bendegit Bran. It was here that he had met his first love. Gaise could not remember her name, but he recalled that she was the mother of the battle king, Bane. So much history had been seen by these hills.
On one of them Connavar had fought the bear, to save his crippled friend, Riamfada.
Gaise wished he had studied the tales more closely. As a child he had listened in awe to the stories of Seidh gods and magic, and later, as a young boy, had read the mystical adventures of the man who had come to be known as Conn of the Vars, who had slept with a goddess and sired a demigod called Bane. Alterith Shaddler had stripped away the gloss of legend, offering a historical perspective, based on the folk tales of the Rigante.