The first person Vorna approached was young Finnigal, calling out to him as he walked from Ruathain's funeral. The soldier hesitated, unwilling to be drawn into conversation with her, but then strolled over to where she stood.
'What do you want of me, lady?' he asked, his voice coldly polite.
'Walk with me,' she commanded, then moved away from the crowd towards the first bridge. He strode alongside her.
'I have little time for idle chatter,' he said. There is much to be done.'
'I think you will find you have less time than you think,' she said, walking out onto the humpbacked wooden bridge and pausing by the rail to stare down into the rushing water below. Chunks of white ice floated beneath the bridge, thumping against the foundations. Only a few days ago the stream had been frozen solid, village children playing upon it.
Vorna swung towards the tall soldier, her dark eyes holding to his gaze. 'You stood beside the grave of your friend and recalled a time when both of you were hunting. Ruathain's horse stumbled, hurling him into a thorn bush between two jagged boulders. He rose laughing and scratched, and you pointed out to him that had he struck the boulders he would now be dead. He told you he planned to live for ever. Is that not so?'
He stepped back a pace, his face blushing. 'I did not know you were a mystic,' he said. 'It is most discourteous to enter a man's mind in that way.'
'Indeed it is,' she said, 'and I apologize for it. But it was necessary, Finnigal, so that you would give credence to what I have to tell you. And believe me I have spent many years keeping this gift secret, and only something of the greatest import would cause me to reveal it.' She glanced back at the crowd making their way to their homes. One elderly woman, almost crippled by arthritis, was being supported by two soldiers. Vorna sighed.
'Tell me what you have to say,' said Finnigal.
'There are Sea Wolves to the east of us. They are heading for Three Streams.'
'What? That is not possible!'
'It is true, Finnigal. Two hundred, perhaps more. They will be here within three days.'
The young man swung towards the east, scanning the land as if expecting to see the raiders marching over the hilltops. 'Two hundred?' he whispered. 'Are you sure?'
'I am sure.'
'Why here? There are settlements closer to the sea.'
'I do not know. What I do know is that they are coming. We must organise a withdrawal, head west for the Narian Forest. The raiders will be carrying their own supplies. They will not have the food to follow us far.'
Finnigal stared back at Three Streams. 'We have around sixty wagons. There is no way to transport all of the villagers and refugees. Narian is… what… twenty miles or so. The weather is breaking, but the land is still frozen. We couldn't make it in a day, which means a night out in the open. And when we get there what shelter would we have for the elderly and the very young? Gods, woman, many would die of the cold.'
'More will die if they stay here,' she said. 'We should head for Bane's farm. He has outbuildings and several barns, and within the forest there are sheltered clearings.'
'And outlaws,' said Finnigal. 'Murderous cut-throats who will prey on the weak.'
'That too,' she agreed.
Finnigal stood silently, and Vorna knew he was calculating the amount of time it would take a rider to reach Old Oaks, gather reinforcements and head back. More than a week. And only then if there were reinforcements to be had, considering that the king and his main force had left for Seven Willows, to confront Shard and his fifteen thousand Vars. Finnigal turned his gaze to the south. His father would be a hundred miles away by now, preparing to defend against the armies of Stone. Fear tightened his belly, and he licked his lips nervously.
'I do not like the choices,' he said, softly. 'To leave will mean deaths from the cold and the destruction of Three Streams. To stay will bring great slaughter to those I am pledged to protect.'
Vorna saw the torment in his eyes. 'I know this is hard for you, Finnigal. This is your first command, and it calls for great strength. You have that strength. I know this.'
He smiled at the compliment, but his face was pale and strained. Time, I think, to call the village elders together.'
Within the hour the thirty elected elders were seated in the great Roundhouse built by Braefar. They listened in stunned silence when Finnigal told them word had reached him of a Vars force to the east. But the silence ended when he suggested an evacuation. The first to voice a protest was Nanncumal the Smith. 'If they are sixty miles away, what makes you think they are coming here?' he asked.
Finnigal glanced to where Vorna was seated at the back. 'It is my belief, he said at last, 'that we are in great danger. I believe they plan to sack the settlement.'
'You believe?' put in the black-bearded forester Adlin. 'No disrespect to you, Finnigal, but you are young and inexperienced. Why should we risk the lives of our people because you believe they may be coming? There are at least five other settlements closer to the coast.'
'Yes there are,' agreed Finnigal, 'but this is the richest, and the Vars will know there are few troops left to guard the area. Added to which, Three Streams is the birthplace of the king, and as such is a place dear to his heart. Yes, there are risks in leaving. I know this and it grieves me. The risks if we stay are far greater.'
'You say that,' put in Neruman the Tanner, a skinny, round-shouldered man, 'but what of Lorca and his outlaws? Lorca is a vile creature who lives for rape and pillage. You are suggesting we walk blithely into his domain.'
Others of the elders began to shout questions. Lady Meria stepped into the centre of the circle, raising her hands for silence. 'I would like to know', she said, 'how this word reached you, Captain Finnigal. What was the source, and how reliable the information?'
Vorna could see the young man was taken aback by the question. He had not mentioned Vorna's vision, and she was grateful for his effort to maintain her secret. But now Vorna rose from her seat. 'I told him,' she said. Heads turned towards her.
'Ah,' said Meria, 'and how, pray, did you come by the news?'
'In a vision,' said the former witch.
'I see,' said Meria, with a sneer. 'You have a bad dream and the whole of the settlement must rush out to die in the snow, or be slain by outlaws? Your powers were lost years ago.'
'Aye, they were,' said Vorna, her anger rising. 'Lost to save your son, you ungrateful bitch!' She strode through the seated elders until she stood no more than a few feet from Meria and Finnigal. 'You all know me,' she continued. 'I have healed your wives, your husbands and your children. I have delivered your babes. I am Vorna and I do not lie. Nor do I have bad dreams. I tell you that the Sea Wolves are coming. I urge you to evacuate this settlement.'
'And I say', stormed Meria, 'that she is deluded. And I, for one, have no intention of quitting my home on a madwoman's fancy.'
'Nor I,' said Nanncumal. Others joined in, and the arguments began again. Voices were raised, and the meeting descended into a shouting match. Vorna looked at Meria, and saw the glint of dark triumph in her eyes.
'How did you become such a vile and spiteful creature?' said Vorna. Then she strode from the Roundhouse, the sounds of discord ringing in her ears.
By evening the meeting was over, the situation unresolved.
Gwen was glad when Meria left for the meeting, for she found the older woman's company unsettling. She radiated disharmony. Gwen did not like to think ill of anyone, and had tried hard to like her husband's mother. It was terribly difficult. Meria had only one passion in her life, the love of her eldest son, Connavar. Her utter focus on this one object led her to largely ignore her other two sons. Braefar had suffered the most. Gwen felt sorry for the man. Now in his late thirties he had never married and she saw, as no-one else had, how desperately he needed his mother's affection. And he was the most like her. Even down to the bitterness that endlessly corroded his finer qualities.
Gwen held baby Badraig to her breast, feeling the warmth of his body against hers. The boy was suckling hard and she winced at the sudden sharpness of pain in her nipple. 'Gently, gently,' she whispered, stroking the crown of his head. Her thoughts turned to Bran. No bitterness there, no jealousy at his brother's rise to fame and the crown.
