surrounding areas had been evacuated before the invasion, thanks to the uncanny talents of Banouin, who had seen Shard's ships set sail. Although the Rigante had therefore been saved losses, it meant that the food stores around Old Oaks – already low – were now almost gone. To lessen the drain on resources a large number of women and children were sent to settlements further west and south, where granaries and warehouses were still stocked with food.
The king's mother, Meria, and the wives and younger children of Bendegit Bran and Fiallach were among several hundred people who travelled south to Three Streams in the second week of spring. They travelled with an escort of twenty Iron Wolves, led by Finnigal, Fiallach's eldest son. It was his first command, and he tried to hide his disappointment at being offered such a lowly task. He had begged to be allowed to ride with his father, and if not that, then to assist Bran and the northern army. However, the king himself had decided his role, and now he would miss both battles.
'Is this a punishment?' he had asked the king.
Connavar had shaken his head. 'You are a good and brave soldier, Finn, and deserving of no punishment. There are outlaws and robber gangs in the area surrounding Three Streams. Your presence will deter them from raids. You think I would punish a man by asking him to protect my mother, and the wives and children of my closest friends?'
'No, sir. It is just that I will miss the fighting.'
Connavar had laughed then. 'Spoken like the son of Fiallach. My boy, you are seventeen years old. There will be plenty of time for battles. Trust me on this.'
Finnigal twisted in his saddle and looked back along the line of wagons. The ancient tracker Parax was seated alongside Meria in the first, and it was Meria who held the reins and urged the horses onward. The old man was slumped in his seat, his head on his chest. Finnigal rode back to the wagon.
'Shall I get one of my men to take over?' he asked Meria nervously. The king's mother was a stern woman, her tightly braided hair the colour of iron, her green eyes cold and hard.
'You think I am incapable of driving a wagon?' she asked him.
'No, lady, of course not.'
'Then be about your business, Captain Finnigal.'
Bendegit Bran's five-year-old son Orrin peeped out from under the canvas canopy. 'Are we there yet, Uncle Finn?' he called out. Finnigal's mood rose as he saw the straw-haired youngster's freckled face.
'Not yet,' he answered, with a grin. 'Soon. How is Ruathain?'
'He's sleeping again,' said Orrin. 'He's very hot.'
Finnigal swung his horse and cantered ahead of the wagons. Ruathain was dying, and it was hard to take. Only last year the seventeen-year-old had been wide-shouldered and powerful as a young bull. Now he was all bone, a shadow of what once he was. His eyes were sunken, the skin around them bruised and dark, and his face looked like that of an old man. Finnigal shivered, remembering that he too had succumbed to the Yellow Fever, but had recovered within weeks. Not so poor Ruathain.
An hour later, just before dusk, Finnigal crested the last hill above
Three Streams, and gazed down on the settlement. It was here that his father and mother had met. It was here that Connavar the King had been born. He glanced back. Maybe here Meria would learn to smile again, he thought. Then he laughed at his own stupidity. If Meria were ever to smile, her face would crack apart under the strain of it.
Sixty miles to the east four of Shard's long ships beached in a secluded bay, and two hundred and fifty raiders waded ashore.
Their leader, Snarri Daggerbright, was a veteran of many raids. A hulking figure with deep-set eyes and a misshapen mouth – the result of a kick from a horse some years before, which had smashed out his front teeth and crushed his nose flat against his skull – Snarri relished this mission. Shard's informant had assured him that almost all of the fighting men would have been moved either north to face Shard or south to resist Jasaray. That left only the old men and the women. Snarri felt his blood rise at the thought of the Rigante women, and the days ahead of blood and rape and cleansing fire.
He marched his men across the sand, and up into the woods, halting at the tree line to scan the surrounding land.
'Where do we strike first?' asked Dratha, his second in command.
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.'
'Come in and sit,' she told him. 'May I offer you a drink? Ale, uisge, or a calming tisane.'
