‘They will need to be won over,’ said Riamfada, ‘some by flattery, some by profit, and some by war.’
‘I am not sure they will all follow me.’
Riamfada sighed. ‘They will not follow you, Conn. But they will follow the king.’
‘King? You know we have no kings upon this island. The last king was overthrown hundreds of years ago.’
‘Call yourself War Chief then, or whatever title you feel will unite the tribes. But ultimately you will be a king. Believe me, it is written in starlight on silver.’
Conn sat back and put his arm around Riamfada’s slender shoulder. ‘Is this what you wanted to tell me?’
‘Keep your promises Conn,’ whispered his friend. Riamfada rose smoothly, and spread his arms. ‘Goodbye, my friend.’ The last words came like a remembered echo, and Conn was alone. He looked around and saw the Thagda standing at the edge of the clearing.
‘It is time for you to return to the world of men, Connavar,’ he said.
Vorna awoke and shivered. It was cold in the bedroom. She felt strange, light headed almost, and wondered if she was coming down with a chill. She sat up and pushed back the covers. The window was closed, but threads of brightness showed at the cracks in the shutters. Baby Banouin was sleeping still, and she could hear his breathing. Rising from the bed she moved to the fireplace and stirred the coals, seeking a few glowing cinders to which she could add a little kindling. But the fire was dead. She should have banked it last night, she thought.
Vorna had not spent long at the feast. For the last few days she had been working hard, making herbal potions for families whose children had developed fevers. One babe had died, but she had managed to help at least five others. Wrapping a heavy shawl around her shoulders she knelt before the dead fire, laid a small mound of tinder upon the ash, and with flint and file struck sparks at it. Her cold fingers were clumsy and she struggled to light the tinder. A moment of anger touched her. There was a time when she would merely have whispered a word of power for a blaze to begin.
The tinder flared, startling her. A spark must have gone deep within it. Adding small pieces of kindling she sat down and waited for it to catch, before placing larger logs upon it. Banouin stirred and gave a little cry. Vorna moved to the crib and stroked his brow. It was hot and sticky with sweat. Without thinking she closed her eyes and sought out the infection. She knew instantly it had begun in the nasal membranes, and she followed its path down to his tiny lungs. There it was breeding furiously. His heart was beating fast, his lymphatic system struggling to cope with this awesome enemy. Vorna concentrated, boosting his system with her power, feeling the infection die away.
When she opened her eyes his fever had gone. She lifted him from the crib and cuddled him close. ‘All is well now, little man,’ she said. ‘Your mam is here. All is well.’
Then the shock hit her. She had healed him.
The power had returned. Holding Banouin close she moved to a chair by the fire and sat down. She whispered the Word. The fire died instantly. She spoke it again and the flames roared back.
Banouin nuzzled at her. Opening her nightshirt she held him at her breast. His contentment and his hunger washed over her. When he had fed she carried him out to the kitchen, where she changed his soiled nappy and cleaned him. Tired from the infection he fell asleep again and she returned him to his crib.
What had happened to her?
Moving out into the main room Vorna snapped her fingers at the dead ash in the hearth. Fire sprang up instantly. In the kitchen she poured dried oats into a pan, added salt and milk and brought it back into the main room, hanging the pot over the fire. All the while she was thinking, focusing upon this curious return to witchhood. The power felt natural within her, as if it had never been away. And yet it had changed subtly. She could not identify the change. Perhaps it is not the power that has altered, but the woman I have become, she thought.