'You think these visions will come to pass in the lands of the Rigante?' asked the druid.
'I do not know. I only know what I must do. And that is ride to the circle. Alone.'
'They will kill you, Conn. I know this Guern. He is charismatic and men follow him, but he is a vile creature, and there is no honour in him. He is big – almost as big as Fiallach – and he can fight. He's killed several men in blood feuds. And he will not be alone. You will be.'
'I have always been alone,' said Conn. 'I think we all are.'
Bane saddled a chestnut mare, then walked back into the farmhouse. Gryffe and Iswain were waiting in the main room. 'When will you be back?' asked Gryffe.
'Some day,' Bane told him. Reaching into the pocket of his black, sleeveless jerkin, he produced a rolled parchment. 'I made this deed in Three Streams the day the army moved out. It has been witnessed by three elders.' He handed it to Gryffe. 'It deeds the farm and all cattle and land to you.' He grinned at the surprise on Gryffe's features. 'You are no longer Wolfshead, Gryffe. You are a landowner.'
'I don't understand,' muttered the red-bearded warrior.
'He's not coming back,' said Iswain. She moved in to stand before Bane. 'Why are you doing this?'
He shrugged. 'I have a need to wander, Iswain.'
'It is more than that,' she said.
'If it is, then I choose not to talk about it. You said you and Gryffe were dreaming of a place of your own. Somewhere to raise children, to watch sunsets as you grow older. This is a good place, and I think you will be happy here.'
'We are happy here,' said Iswain. 'And we would both like to see you happy.'
He drew her into an embrace and kissed her plump cheek. 'When I come back we will have a feast, and I shall regale you with my adventures.' He turned to Gryffe and thrust out his hand. Gryffe ignored it and stepped in, drawing Bane into a bear hug.
'I shall hold half of all profits for you, man,' he said. 'And when you want to come home this farm will be waiting for you.' Releasing him, Gryffe smiled. 'We'll have taken your bedroom, mind. It's bigger than ours, with a better view.' The smile faded. 'You take care, Bane. Hear me?'
'I hear you, big man.' Gathering up his saddlebags Bane walked from the house. Settling the bags into place he stepped into the saddle and rode away without a backward glance.
It was a bright morning and he rode steadily east, crossing the hills and valleys until he reined in, some four hours later, on the hilltop overlooking Three Streams. It seemed so peaceful now in the spring sunshine, no hint, at first, of the bloodshed and valour, no echo of clashing swords and screaming men. Bright yellow flowers had bloomed along the slopes. Bane looked around the scene. A cast-off shoe lay in the grass close by, surrounded by flowers, and beyond it a broken sword blade, already pitted with rust.
From the woods came three boys, running and laughing. They were carrying wooden swords. Seeing Bane they paused. Bane waved at them, then heeled the mare onto the slope. He rode down into the settlement, past Eldest Tree, the colossal oak, and on to the forge, from where he could hear the steady beat of a hammer on iron. Dismounting he tied the mare's reins to a fence rail and walked into the forge. Nanncumal was watching an apprentice boy thumping his hammer upon a red-hot section of iron. The old man glanced up as Bane entered. Together they walked out into the sunshine. Nanncumal ran a cloth over his bald head, mopping up the sweat. He saw the saddlebags on Bane's mare. 'Where are you heading?' he asked.
'Across the water.'
'For what purpose?'
Bane shrugged. 'Perhaps it is to find a purpose,' he said.
Nanncumal sat down on a long bench seat. 'You did well here, boy,' he said. 'People won't forget.'
They will or they won't,' said Bane, seating himself beside his grandfather. 'It doesn't matter to me.'
Nanncumal looked away. 'I didn't do right by you, Bane. It grieves me to say that.'
'Long ago and far away,' said Bane. 'Forget it.'
'Easy to say. I loved my Arian. She was a good girl – until her sister died. They were children, sharing a bed. Little Baria was five years old. She had a fever, and her heart gave out in the night. Arian awoke and found her dead beside her. She was never the same after that. Terrified of the dark and of being alone. When Conn was savaged by that bear Arian almost went mad. I tried to talk her out of marrying Casta. It was not a good match. But she was convinced Conn would die, and she clung to Casta as if he were life itself.' The old man sighed.
'We don't need to talk about this,' said Bane. 'Mother is dead. Nothing can change that.'
'I'm talking about the living,' said Nanncumal. 'I'm talking about you and… Connavar.'
'I don't need to hear it.'
'Maybe you don't, maybe you do. But I need to say it, so humour me, Grandson. I know that you have always believed Connavar took your mother by force. It is not true. Arian told me herself that she seduced him on that day, hoping to win him back. She knew, deep down, he had never stopped loving her. The Seidh had warned Connavar never to break a promise, or great tragedy would result. He had promised to take his new wife riding. Instead he stayed for many hours with Arian. When he returned he found his wife had been murdered while he had been taking his pleasure. Connavar was insane with grief. He destroyed the murderer's village, slaughtering any who came within sword reach. In his madness he killed women and children that day.
'When you were born, and Casta saw your eyes, he knew Arian had been unfaithful and cast her out. She came home to me. I went to see Connavar, and told him of his son. We drank uisge long into the night, and he talked of his sorrow, and of his love of my daughter. Much of it I won't repeat. But he also talked of the people he had killed, and of how no amount of good deeds could wash away his guilt, and no punishment be great enough to ease his pain. I asked him if he would consider taking Arian to wife, and acknowledging you as his son. He said that his heart yearned for exactly that. His love for Arian burned as brightly as ever, and every night since he learned of the birth he had longed to ride to her and lift his son into his arms. But he could not. This was the punishment he had placed upon himself. Never to wed, never to sire children. He told me that he would never set eyes upon Arian again. And he never did. There, it is said. He was not punishing you, Bane. He was punishing himself.'
'Why are you telling me this, Grandfather?'
The old man shrugged. 'You are a good boy, with a good heart. But I know you came to hate Connavar. I thought the truth would help lance the boil.'
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.