Snarri pointed to the west. Three Streams.’
‘There must be closer settlements,’ said Dratha.
‘Aye, there are, but Shard says that Connavar’s mother, the Lady Meria, will be there. It is also where Connavar was born. Kill her and put Three Streams to the torch and it will lash the Rigante bastard with whips of fire.’
It was a source of sadness to Vorna the Witch that no matter how great the magic it could never change a human heart. Not the heart that was merely a giant muscle propelling blood through capillaries, veins and arteries, but the invisible heart at the core of every human soul.
Vorna sat at her window, watching the refugees leave their wagons and be welcomed into the homes of the people of Three Streams. Meria, and the brood of children and women with her, went to the old house that the first Ruathain had built, and soon smoke from the hearths drifted up from the chimneys. Vorna watched as two soldiers helped the boy Ruathain from the wagon. His legs all but crumpled beneath him, and they carried him into the house.
When the wagons had arrived Vorna had been standing by the first bridge. She saw Meria driving one wagon, but her old friend turned her head away as the wagon passed. It had hurt Vorna deeply. There was no reason she knew of that would cause Meria to treat her with such discourtesy. Had she not saved Meria’s son from certain death? Had she not, through her magic, kept her husband Ruathain alive long after his heart should have failed?
She trudged back to the house, placed a kettle on the stove, and made herself a mug of camomile tisane.
There had been a seed of bitterness in Meria’s heart ever since her first love, Varaconn, had died. She had then married Ruathain, and the bitterness had flowered, causing the marriage to founder. Then, when near tragedy brought them together again, Meria had seemed a changed woman. She laughed often, and was carefree, her green eyes alive with hopes and dreams. Then Ruathain died in the first great battle against the Vars. Meria had not laughed since.
Yet why she should shun one of her oldest friends was a mystery to Vorna, and a source of grief. Especially when one of her grandchildren hovered at the point of death. Meria knew Vorna was a healer, yet such was her apparent hatred that she would let her grandson die rather than come to the one person who might save him. Vorna sipped her tisane and moved away from the window. Banouin, she knew, had tried to heal Ruathain, and for some days he appeared to have succeeded. But then the boy suffered a relapse, his fever returning.
‘I cannot understand it,’ Banouin had told his mother, during a spirit visit. ‘It seems as if the disease is emanating from within his own body, as if it is at war with itself. Every time I heal an injured organ it begins to wilt again, worse than before.’
Vorna had been able to offer no clue, but had thought about the problem deeply for weeks afterwards. Knowing that the boy was being brought to Three Streams she had hoped to be able to examine him herself, floating her spirit through his bloodstream, seeking to identify the cause of his illness. She knew now that she would not be asked for help.
‘What did I do to you, Meria?’ she asked aloud. ‘What crime have I committed against your family?’
A sharp rapping sounded at the door. Vorna put down her mug and called out for the visitor to enter. A young soldier pushed open the door. He was tall and well formed, his long dark hair hanging between his shoulders in a tight braid. Vorna smiled, seeing both Gwydia and Fiallach in the boy’s features. ‘Welcome, Finnigal,’ she said.
‘You know me, lady?’ he asked her.
‘You look like your father,’ she said, ‘tall and strong, with the same ferocious glare.’
He grinned. ‘Most people say I take after Mother,’ he told her.
‘There is that too. What can I do for you, soldier?’
‘I have been asked to contact the man Bane, to purchase more cattle to feed the refugees. I understand that you are his friend, and that my request might be better-received if I went to him in your company.’