‘I have not been hungry.’
Reaching out she placed her hand upon his head. ‘Here is a small gift for you.’
He felt her hand warm upon his skin, and then a wondrous cool breeze seemed to flow through his brain. His muscles relaxed, and all tension fled from him. Opening his eyes he saw the sunlight on the hillside, and joy touched him. Flowers were growing there, and the colours seemed indescribably beautiful. ‘What did you do to me?’ he asked her.
‘I gave you a little earth magic. Are you hungry now?’
‘Ravenous,’ he admitted.
‘Good. Now let us go down to Shelding and eat. We should be in time for the celebrations and the feast.’
‘What are they celebrating?’ asked Mulgrave.
‘It was announced yesterday. Heralds have been riding to every village and town. Have you not heard? We have a new king.’
‘I hope he’s better than the last one.’
‘They elected the Moidart,’ she said.
Together they left the river bank and took the road to Shelding. Flags and bunting decorated the buildings, and long trestle tables had been set up in the market square. Mulgrave and the Wyrd moved among the happy crowd.
A young woman recognized Mulgrave, and called out to her friends. ‘Here’s one of the soldiers of Gaise Macon,’ she cried. People gathered around him. Questions were shouted, too many to answer. A tankard of ale was thrust into Mulgrave’s hand.
‘Tell us about the Moidart,’ said a man. ‘They say he’s a saint.’
For the first time in many months, Mulgrave laughed, the sound rich, joyous and full of life.
EPILOGUE
IT HAD BEEN FIVE YEARS NOW SINCE RIAMFADA HAD DEPARTED THE world. Feargol missed him still. He would often stare up and out at the stars, wondering if the spirit of Riamfada had ever found the Seidh.
He was thinking of him now, as he strode down the wooded hillside, the morning sunshine glinting on his braided hair. He was a long way now from the great trees. The journey had taken several months. His moccasins were thin and all but worn out.
A huge herd of bison was grazing on the grasslands as Feargol emerged from the woods. He stopped and watched them for a while. Then he began to run, falling into an easy, rhythmic lope. He loved to run, filling his lungs with the sweet cool air, feeling his body stretch and sweat and relax.
He continued on for more than two hours, then climbed to the crest of a low hill and stopped to rest.
Ahead he could just make out the line of the coast, and the blue sea beyond. Across the vastness of that ocean lay the land of his birth. He thought of it little now. This was his land. This wondrous continent of magnificent forests and mountains, rivers and valleys. Magic was everywhere, floating in the air, seeping from the earth, bubbling in the rivers. Feargol drew it in with every breath.
Having rested he ran on, moving into sun-dappled woodland.
When he arrived at last at his destination he sat and waited, gazing down at the distant compound. Few people were stirring there. This was hardly surprising. They were dying.
Here, in a land rich with edible roots and game, they were starving to death.
Feargol had waited for this moment for most of the fifteen years he had spent in this great land. Riamfada had warned him of it. The Varlish had finally crossed the ocean. They had come in a great ship, and had begun a settlement on the coast. They had brought books, and chairs, and clothing and guns. They had carried beds and pictures and chests laden with goods from home. Not one of them had brought a fishing line. Nor a horse or mule. Not a single cow, and certainly no seed corn. They had expected to be re-supplied by sea, but those supplies had never arrived. Now they were dying.
And this was the pivotal moment that Riamfada had spoken of. What happened today would ultimately set the destiny of the world.
Feargol calmed himself, allowing his spirit to commune with the land. He felt uneasy, and had done for months now, ever since these few Varlish had landed here.