Bane leaned over and kissed his grandfather’s cheek, then he rose. ‘I must say farewell to Vorna,’ he said.
Nanncumal climbed to his feet. ‘And I’d better get back to the boy before he sets the forge or himself on fire.’ They stood for a moment, then Nanncumal reached out and shook Bane’s hand. ‘I doubt we’ll see each other again,’ he said.
‘Who knows? I may be back within a year.’
Nanncumal nodded, though he knew it was not the truth. ‘I hope so, Bane.’
The younger man climbed to the saddle and rode off across the settlement. He saw Meria with a young child, sitting on a porch seat before her house. She looked up. Her hand flickered as if she would wave, but then she looked away.
Vorna was not at home. Bane waited for an hour, then mounted up and set off towards the Wishing Tree woods.
The king had slept badly, the night haunted by dreams. Not all of them were bad, but even these filled him with sorrow. When young he had believed himself as immortal as the mountains. He had looked upon older people as being from a different species. Now, in his fortieth year, he found himself looking back on that young man with a sense of bewilderment. It was not as if he had not known he would one day grow old and then die. Yet despite the knowledge there was some deep instinct in him that denied its truth. He had been young, the future stretching out eternally before him. He remembered when he and Wing had last travelled with Ruathain to sell cattle in the south. Men had talked of an earth maiden who dwelt in the town, a woman of enormous beauty and great skill in love-making. When the boys saw her they had been shocked beyond belief. She was old. Older than their mother, and she was well past thirty. Conn remembered thinking, How could she let such beauty slip away? Such a stupid thought – as if anyone chose to let time erode their health and strength and dignity.
Conn sat up. His lower back ached from a night on the floor of the tent, and his neck was stiff. He stretched and groaned. The dawn sun gleamed on the eastern side of the tent, illuminating the interior. Conn glanced at the armour tree bearing his mailshirt, breastplate and helm, and the patchwork cloak Meria had made for him all those years ago.
‘If you are to be the king of all Keltoi on this side of the water,’ she said, ‘you cannot ride around the countryside in the colours of the Rigante. You must wear something that signifies you are above tribal divisions.’ He had, at first, laughed at the garment, for it had seemed then truly ugly, clashing colours and symbols, crafted from cloaks from five tribes. Now he viewed it differently. Meria had been right. The cloak had become a talisman, drawing the tribes together.
Conn poured himself some water. The memory of the dreams was strong upon him. He had seen his stepfather Ruathain. He had been standing by the shore of a lake, his arm round the shoulder of the dead grandson who bore his name. Conn had called out to him, but Ruathain did not seem to hear him.
Sitting alone in his tent Connavar the King thought back over his life, seeing again the great days, of victory and freedom, the bleak times following the deaths of Banouin, Tae and finally Ruathain. He had loved Tae, though never with the all-consuming intensity of his feelings for Arian. Even after all these years guilt for that lack lay heavy on him. She deserved belter from him, he knew, but love was not a matter of choice. A man did not – could not – say: This woman is worthy of love and therefore I will love her with all my heart. A man loved passionately or he did not. It was that simple.
Conn’s eyes felt gritty and tired. Bran, Govannan and Osta had been in the tent well into the night, discussing strategies to use against Jasaray’s forces. Bran had worked out a battle plan. It was a good one, but fraught with danger. The Rigante centre would be manned by fifteen thousand untrained tribesmen, ten thousand heavy infantry to be placed on the left and right wings. Both flanks would be protected by the Iron Wolves and the Horse Archers.