Bane called Gryffe and Valian to him, then he walked over to Finnigal. ‘With your permission, Captain, I’ll take some men and pursue the Vars, keep them on the move.’
Finnigal reached out and shook Bane’s hand. ‘I appreciate everything you’ve done. I never was in command, but I’ll not forget your courtesy. Go on! Give chase. And then come back and we’ll have a drink together . . . cousin.’
Chapter Thirteen
The gloomy predictions of Prasalis, of sixty outlaws ‘dead or dying’, would have been accurate but for the arrival of Vorna. Eighteen of the men with mortal wounds were brought back from the brink, as were three of the badly wounded Iron Wolves. There were no survivors among the Vars, for the outlaws moved among the wounded, killing all who still breathed. The folk of Three Streams stripped the dead of their weapons and armour, and, according to the orders of Finnigal, the forty-two outlaw dead were buried in a mass grave, the bodies of the Vars burnt on a massive funeral pyre. Bane and his twenty riders returned to the settlement at dusk, having hunted down the fleeing Vars, killing all but three who escaped into the woods to the west. Bane did not stay in Three Streams, but rode on back to his farm.
In her home Vorna dozed in her chair by the fire, dreaming of past days, when the sun seemed brighter, the world infinitely less perilous. Her husband, Banouin, was by her side, and they walked the hills close to the Wishing Tree woods. These were the days after she had brought Connavar back from the dead, after his fight with the bear; days when the lands of the Rigante were largely peaceful and good men like the mighty Ruathain, Banouin and the Long Laird seemed immortal, everlasting.
But nothing lasts, thought Vorna, coming out of her doze. Even the mountains will one day be gone, vanished under ice or swallowed into the depths of the ocean. She thought of the men she had healed today. Merging with them to mend their injuries she had touched their souls. Many among the outlaws were dark and twisted, and yet, on this day, a bright spark had flickered in them. She wondered if those sparks would catch, the light growing within them, or whether they would burn out quickly, leaving the men much as before.
There was, she knew, such a small distance for a man to walk between good and evil. Connavar the King was considered a good man, devoting his life to the welfare of all Keltoi on this side of the water. Yet once – blinded by rage and despair – he had ridden into a Pannone village, and butchered men, women and children. Sadness touched Vorna then and her eyes filled with tears.
‘No point crying for what is already past,’ she told herself.
There came a knock at the door. Vorna took a deep breath. She knew who had come to her house, and was not relishing the visit. ‘Come in, Meria,’ she called.
The king’s mother moved hesitantly into the firelit room. In the gentle flickering light she looked younger, more like the woman Vorna had once known. But she is not that woman, Vorna reminded herself.
‘I hope you do not mind me calling so late,’ said Meria.
‘What is it you want?’ asked Vorna, keeping her voice neutral.
‘I . . . wanted to thank you for saving my grandson.’
‘Sit yourself,’ said Vorna, knowing the answer was not the whole truth.
Meria removed her pale green and blue chequered cloak and sat down in the chair opposite. Folding the cloak carefully she rested it over her lap. ‘I have been foolish, Vorna,’ she said, not looking at the witch, but staring instead at the flames of the fire. ‘In all my life I have only truly loved one man. My Varaconn.’
‘But not Ruathain,’ said Vorna harshly, ‘who died for you?’
‘No,’ admitted Meria. ‘Not Ru, who deserved better.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘It is said that the people of Stone have three words for love. I do not know what they are, but Brother Solstice explained them to me once. There is love of family or friends, there is the fierce, protective love we have for our children, and there is the all-consuming erotic love, burning with the flames of devotion and adoration. It is perhaps wrong to say that I did not love Ru. For I loved him deeply as one would a big brother. But Varaconn was my love and my life. When he died a part of me – perhaps the best part of me – was laid to rest in the earth beside him.’ The fire was burning low and Meria leaned down to add a log to the flames. ‘I thought I had remembered his face, the contours, the smile. I had recalled him as looking like my Connavar, save that his hair and beard were golden. But I had not, Vorna. Over the years I had forgotten.’