The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One by Jules Watson Page A

not jostle his foster-brother that he took no notice of where they were going. Then the bearers were laying the litter down on the ground, and he looked up.
    They were outside a small roundhouse near the crest of the dun, and a woman was emerging from the covering over the door. Eremon knew that hair, those fine features, from the day of his arrival.
    She is the healer ? He should not be surprised; many female druids were healers, after all. But she looked so young and frail; she could not be more than eighteen. Would she be good enough to save his brother?
    Without a glance at Eremon, she went to kneel at Conaire’s side, taking his hand. She felt his pulse, sniffed his breath, checked his eyes, and finally peeled back the pad of torn wool, sticky with blood, that covered his groin. The boar’s tusk had in fact just missed Conaire’s most precious organ, and gone deep into the upper thigh instead. At her probing fingers, Conaire stirred and cried out in pain, and his eyes opened.
    The woman looked up at Eremon, and in place of the cold eyes on the beach, he saw the professional frown of a healer. ‘How long ago did it happen?’ she asked.
    ‘Nearly two days, now.’ Then the words burst out: ‘Can you help him?’
    Her frown deepened, and all she said was, ‘Take him inside.’
    Eremon barely noted what the inside of her house was like, but was conscious somewhere that it smelled different, earthier, the air tinged with the strange, sharp scents of herbs and ground roots.
    The woman was confidently issuing a stream of orders to a little, dark serving woman, to put water on to boil, and to gather linseed and mossand bandages. He helped to ease Conaire on to a small pallet in an alcove divided from the rest of the room by a wicker screen.
    It was crowded now, with Finan, Rori and even Aedan milling around helplessly, until the servant shooed them away, scolding like a small, wiry crow. At length, only Eremon and the healer remained by the bedside.
    Eremon leaned over Conaire, his hand gentle on his brow. It was the first time his foster-brother had been conscious since crossing the strait from the island, when the boat was tossed by waves, and Conaire, groaning, had thankfully slipped away into a faint.
    ‘When I said we should prove our strength, my brother, I did not mean that you must try to kill yourself.’ Eremon said it lightly, but his chest was tight.
    Conaire tried smiling, his forehead sheened with sweat. ‘I thought something big was needed.’ His voice was hoarse, and he broke into a cough. ‘It was a good leap.’
    Eremon squeezed his shoulder. ‘Yes, it was. But now I want you to put the same effort into getting well.’
    Conaire could only close his eyes in exhaustion, and Eremon looked up to find the druid watching him closely, as she soaked a cloth in a bronze basin by the bed. ‘You’ve got to help him,’ he said, heedless of the plea in his voice. Let her think him weak; right now he did not care.
    She answered him bluntly, but her hands were gentle as she laid the cool cloth on Conaire’s forehead. ‘The wound itself is not serious, otherwise he would be dead by now. But … wounds from the boar often turn bad. I do not know why. This is what we must fight.’
    Conaire’s eyes flickered open again. ‘It has been long since I gave to the Boar, Eremon. Perhaps He is angry …’
    Eremon picked up the hand that lay limply on the blanket, and held it. ‘Then I will sacrifice for you! I will give him so much that his eye never falls on you again, except with favour!’
    Conaire tried to smile, but the smile turned into a wince as the wound cramped again.
    ‘I will do all I can for him,’ the woman murmured. She hesitated. ‘It is best for him to have quiet now. Go and make your sacrifice. The shrine is at the brow of the hill. And I will pray to the Mother of All, the Great Goddess.’
    Unhearing, his eyes still on Conaire’s face, Eremon muttered, ‘I thank you,’ and rushed off as if