“True, but what of the valleys where our homes are?”
“We must do our best to keep them out of the valleys,” answered Caswallon with a shrug.
“Are you so sure they’ll attack?” asked Maeg. “What could they possibly want here?”
“Like all conquerors,” Oracle answered her, “they fear all men think as they do. They will see the clans as a threat, never knowing when we will pour out of the mountains onto their towns, and so they will seek to destroy us. But we have time yet. There are still Lowland armies and cities to be taken, and then they must bring their families over from the south land and build their own farms and towns. We have three years, maybe a little less.”
“Were you always so gloomy, old man?” asked Maeg, growing angry as her good humor evaporated.
“Not always, young Maeg. Once I was as strong as a bull and feared nothing. Now my bones are like dry sticks, my muscles wet parchment. Now I worry. There was a time when the Farlain could gather an army to terrify the world, when no one would dare invade the Highlands. But the world moves on . . .”
“Let tomorrow look after itself, my friend,” said Caswallon, resting a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We’ll not make a jot of difference by worrying about it. As Maeg says, we are growing gloomy. Come, we’ll walk away and talk. It will help the food to settle, and I know Maeg will not want us under her feet.”
Both men rose and Oracle walked around the table to stand over Maeg. Then he bowed and kissed her cheek. “I am sorry,” he said. “I promise I’ll not bring gloom to this house—for a while, at least.”
“Away with you,” she said, rising and throwing her arms around his neck. “You’re always welcome here—just bear in mind I’ve a young babe, and I don’t want to hear such melancholy fear for his future.”
Maeg watched them leave on the short walk through the pasture toward the mountain woods beyond. Then she gathered up the dishes and scrubbed them clean in the water bucket by the hearth. Completing her chores the clanswoman checked on the babe, once more stroking his brow and rearranging his blanket. At her touch he awoke, stretching one pudgy arm with fist clenched, screwing up his face and yawning. Sitting beside him, Maeg opened her tunic and held him to her breast. As he fed she began to sing a soft, lilting lullaby. The babe suckled for several minutes, then when he had finished, she lifted him to her shoulder. His head sagged against her face. Gently she rubbed his back; he gave a loud burp that brought a peal of laughter from his mother. Kissing his cheek, she told him, “We’ll need to improve your table manners before long, little one.” Carefully she laid him back in his cot and Donal fell asleep almost instantly.
Returning to the kitchen, Maeg found Kareen had arrived with the morning milk and was busy transferring it to the stone jug by the wall. Kareen was a child of the mountains, orphaned during the last winter. Only fifteen, it would be a year before she could be lawfully wed and she had been sent by the Hunt Lord, Cambil, to serve Maeg in the difficult early months following the birth of Donal. In the strictest sense Kareen was a servant under indenture, but in the Highlands she was a “child of the house,” a short-term daughter to be loved and cared for after the fashion of the clans. Kareen was a bright, lively girl, not attractive but strong and willing. Her face was long and her jaw square, but she had a pretty smile and wore it often. Maeg liked her.
“Beth’s yield is down again,” said Kareen. “I think it’s that damned hound of Bolan’s. It nipped her leg, you know. Caswallon should chide him about it.”
“I’m sure that he will,” said Maeg. “Would you mind seeing to Donal if he wakes? I’ve a mind to collect some herbs for the pot.”
“Would I mind? I’d be delighted. Has he been fed?”
“He has, but I don’t doubt he’ll enjoy the warmed oats you’ll be tempting him with,” said Maeg, winking.
Kareen grinned. “He’s a healthy eater, to be sure. How is the Lowland boy?”
“Healing,” Maeg told her. “I’ll be back soon.” Lifting her shawl cloak from the hook by the door, Maeg swung it about her shoulders and stepped out into the yard.
Kareen placed the last of the stone jugs by the wall, hefted the empty bucket, and walked out to the well to wash it clean.
She watched Maeg strolling toward the pasture woods, admiring the proud, almost regal movements and rare animal grace that could not be disguised by the heavy woolen skirt and shawl. Maeg was beautiful. From her night-dark hair to her slender ankles she was everything Kareen would never be. And yet she was unconscious of her beauty and that, more than anything, led Kareen to love her.
Maeg enjoyed walking alone in the woods, listening to the birdsong and reveling in the solitude. It was here that she found tranquillity. Caswallon, despite being the love of her life, was also the cause of great turmoil. His turbulent spirit would never be content with the simple life of a farmer and cattle breeder. He needed the excitement and the danger that came from raiding the herds of neighboring clans, stealing into their lands, ghosting past their sentries. One day they would catch and hang him.
You’ll not change him, Maeg, she thought.
Caswallon had been a child of the mountains, born out of wedlock to a flighty maid named Mira who had died soon after childbirth—supposedly of internal bleeding, though clan legend had it that her father poisoned her. She had never divulged the name of her lover. Caswallon had been raised in the house of the Hunt Lord, Padris, as foster brother to Cambil. The two boys had never become friends.
At seventeen Caswallon left the home of Padris with a dagger, a cloak, and two gold pieces. Everyone had assumed he would become a crofter, eking out a slender existence to the north. Instead he had gone alone to Pallides land and stolen a bull and four cows. From the Haesten he stole six cows, selling three in Ateris. Within a year every out-clan huntsman watched for Caswallon of the Farlain.
Maggrig, the Pallides Hunt Lord, offered two prize bulls to the man who could kill him. Caswallon stole the bulls.
At first his fellow clansmen had been amused by his exploits. But as his wealth grew, so too did the jealousy. The women, Maeg knew, adored Caswallon. The men, quite naturally, detested him. Three years ago, following the death of Padris, Cambil was elected as Hunt Lord and Caswallon’s stock among the men plunged to fresh depths. For Cambil despised him, and many were those seeking favor with the new lord.
This year, Caswallon had even declined to take part in the Games, though as defending champion he could have earned points for the clan. What was worse, he had given as his reason that he wished to stay home with his lady, who had a showing of blood in her pregnancy. He had put her to bed and undertaken the household chores himself—an unmanly action.
Yet, as his stock had fallen with the men, so it climbed in direct proportion with the women.
Now there was the business of the Lowland boy, and the almost perverse use of clan law to accommodate the act. How could he invoke Cormaach for such a one? The old law—crafted to allow for the children of a fallen warrior to be adopted by relatives of the hero—had never been invoked to bring a Lowlander into the clans.
Cambil had refused to speak publicly against Caswallon, but privately he had voiced his disgust in the Council. Yet Caswallon, as always, was impervious to criticism.
It was the same when he caught two Haesten hunters on Farlain lands. He had thrashed them with his quarterstaff, but he had not cut off their fingers. That and his marriage to Maeg had left the Council furious: a slight, they called it, on every Farlain maiden.
Against their fury Caswallon adopted indifference. And in some quarters this fanned the fury to hatred.
All of this Maeg knew, for there were few secrets among the Farlain, and yet Caswallon never spoke of it. Always he was courteous, even to his enemies, and rarely had anyone in the three valleys seen him lose his temper. This was read by many as a sign of weakness, but among the women, who often display greater insights in these matters, there was no doubt as to Caswallon’s manhood.
/> If he didn’t maim the hunters, there was a reason that had naught to do with cowardice. And Caswallon’s reasons, whatever they were, were good enough for his friends. Since no answer would justify his actions to those who hated him, Caswallon offered them exactly that—no answer.
It was a matter of sadness for Maeg that the result of the hatred would be the letting of blood and a death feud between Farlain houses. But that was a worry for tomorrow, and there were always more pressing problems of today to concern the women of the mountains.
Chapter Two
Unaware of the controversy, of which he was now a part, the boy Gaelen sat in the cave slowly unwinding the bandage around his head, gently easing it from the line of stitches on his brow and cheek.
With infinite care he rubbed away the clotted blood sealing the eyelid and gently prized the eye open. At first his vision was blurred, but slowly it cleared and perspective returned, though a pink haze disturbed him. By the hearth was a silver mirror. Gaelen picked it up and gazed at his reflection. No expression crossed his face as he looked upon his scars, but something cold settled on his heart as he saw the eye.
It was totally red, suffused with blood, giving him a demonic appearance. The top of his head had been shaved to allow the stitches to be inserted, though now the hair was growing again. But it was growing white around the scar.
A change came over him then, for he felt the fear of the Aenir drift away like morning mist, making way for something far stronger than fear.
Hatred filled him, instilling in his soul a terrible desire for vengeance.
For three weeks Gaelen stayed in or around the cave, watching the rain and the sunshine that followed it turn the mountain gorse to gold. He saw the snow recede from the mountain peaks and the young deer emerge from the woods to the fast-flowing streams. In the distance he saw a great brown bear stretching to claw his territorial mark on the trunk of a wiry elm, and the rabbits hopping in the long grass of the meadow in the pink light of dawn.
At night he talked to Oracle, the two of them sitting on a rug before the fire. He heard the history of the clans, and began to learn the names of the legendary heroes—Cubril, the man known as Blacklatch, who first carried the Whorl stone; Grigor, the Flame-dancer who fought the enemy even as his house burned around him; Ironhand and Dunbar. Strong men. Clansmen.
Not all of them were from the Farlain, that was the strange thing to Gaelen. The clansmen hated each other, yet would glory in tales of heroes from other clans. “It’s no use trying to understand it yet, Gaelen,” the old man told him. “It’s hard enough for us to understand ourselves.”
On the last evening of the month Oracle removed the boy’s stitches and pronounced him fit to rejoin the world of the living.
“Tomorrow Caswallon will come, and you’ll meet with him and make your decision. Either you’ll stay or you’ll go. Either way, you and I will part friends,” said Oracle gravely.
Gaelen’s stomach tightened. “Couldn’t I just stay here with you for a while?”
Oracle cupped the boy’s chin in his hand. “No, lad. Much as I’ve enjoyed your company it cannot be. Be ready at dawn, for Caswallon will come early.”
For much of the night Gaelen was unable to sleep, and when he did he dreamed of the morning, saw himself looking foolish before this great clansman whose face he couldn’t quite see. The man told him to run, but his legs were sunk in mud; the man lost his temper and stabbed him with a spear. He awoke exhausted and sweat-drenched and rose instantly, making his way to the stream to bathe.
“Good morning to you.”
Gaelen swung to see a tall man sitting on a granite boulder. He wore a cloak of leaf-green and a brown leather tunic. Slung across his chest was a baldric bearing two slim daggers in leather sheaths, and by his side a hunting knife. Upon his long legs were leggings of green wool, laced with leather thongs crisscrossed to the knee. His hair was long and dark, his eyes sea-green. He seemed to be about thirty years of age, though he could have been older.
“Are you Caswallon?”
“I am indeed,” said the man, standing. He stretched out his hand. Gaelen shook it and released it swiftly. “Walk with me and we’ll talk about things to interest you.”
Without waiting for a reply Caswallon turned and walked slowly through the trees. Gaelen stood for a moment, then grabbed his shirt from beside the stream and followed him. Caswallon halted beside a fallen oak and lifted a pack he had stowed there. Opening it he pulled clear some clothing; then he sat upon the vine-covered trunk, waiting for the boy to catch up.
Caswallon watched him closely as he approached. The boy was tall for his age, showing the promise of the man he would become. His hair was the red of a dying fire, though the slanted sunlight highlighted traces of gold, and there was a streak of silver above the wound on his brow. The scar on his cheek still looked angry and swollen, and the eye itself was a nightmare. But Caswallon liked the look of the lad, the set of his jaw, the straight-backed walk, and the fact that the boy looked him in the eye at all times.
“I have some clothes for you.”
“My own are fine, thank you.”
“Indeed they are, Gaelen, but a grey, threadbare tunic will not suit you, and bare legs will be cut by the brambles and gorse, as naked feet will be slashed by sharp or jagged stones. And you’ve no belt to carry a knife. Without a blade you’ll be hard-pressed to survive.”
“Thank you then. But I will pay you for them when I can.”
“As you will. Try them.” Caswallon threw him a green woolen shirt edged with brown leather and reinforced at the elbows and shoulders with hide. Gaelen slipped off his own dirty grey tunic and pulled on the garment. It fitted snugly, and his heart swelled; it was, in truth, the finest thing he had ever worn. The green woolen leggings were baggy but he tied them at the waist and joined Caswallon at the tree to learn how to lace them. Lastly a pair of moccasins were produced from Caswallon’s sack, along with a wide black belt bearing a bone-handled knife in a long sheath. The moccasins were a little too tight, but Caswallon promised him they would stretch into comfort. Gaelen drew the knife from its scabbard; it was double-edged, one side ending in a half-moon.
“The first side is for cutting wood, shaving, or cleaning skins; the second edge is for skinning. It is a useful weapon also. Keep it sharp at all times. Every night before you sleep, apply yourself to maintaining it.”
Reluctantly the boy returned the blade to its sheath and strapped the belt to his waist.
“Why are you doing this for me?”
“A good question, Gaelen, and I’m glad you asked it early. But I’ve no answer to give you. I watched you crawl and I admired you for the way you overcame your pain and your weakness. Also you made it to the timberline, and became a child of the mountains. As I interpreted clan law, that made you clan responsibility. I took it one stage further, that is all, and invited you into my home.”
“I don’t want a father. I never did.”
“And I already have a son of my blood. But that is neither here nor there. In clan law I am called your father, because you are my responsibility. In terms of Lowland law—such as the Aenir will not obliterate—I suppose I would be called your guardian. All this means is that I must teach you to live like a man. After that you are alone—should you so desire to be.”
“What would you teach me?”
“I’d teach you to hunt, and to plant, to read signs; I’d teach you to read the seasons and read men; I’d teach you to fight and, more importantly, when to fight. Most vital of all, though, I’d teach you how to think.”
“I know how to think,” said Gaelen.
“You know how to think like an Ateris thief, like a Lowland orphan. Look around and tell me what you see.”
“Mountains and trees,” answered the boy without looking around.
“No. Each mountain has a name and reputation, but together they combine to be only one thing. Home.”
“It’s not my home,” said Gaelen, feelin
g suddenly ill at ease in his new finery. “I’m a Lowlander. I don’t know if I can learn to be a clansman. I’m not even sure I want to try.”
“What are you sure of?”
“I hate the Aenir. I’d like to kill them all.”
“Would you like to be tall and strong and to attack one of their villages, riding a black stallion?”
“Yes.”
“Would you kill everyone?”
“Yes.”
“Would you chase a young boy, and tell him to run so that you could plunge a lance into his back?”
“NO!” he shouted. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“I’m glad of that. No more would any clansman. If you stay among us, Gaelen, you will get to fight the Aenir. But by then I will have shown you how. This is your first lesson, lad, put aside your hate. It clouds the mind.”
“Nothing will stop me hating the Aenir. They are vile killers. There is no good in them.”
“I’ll not argue with you, for you have seen their atrocities. What I will say is this: A fighter needs to think clearly, swiftly. His actions are always measured. Controlled rage is good, for it makes us stronger, but hatred swamps the emotions—it is like a runaway horse, fast but running aimlessly. But enough of this. Let’s walk awhile.”
As they strolled through the woods Caswallon talked of the Farlain, and of Maeg.
“Why did you go to another clan for a wife?” asked Gaelen as they halted by a rippling stream. “Oracle told me about it. He said it would show what kind of man you are. But I didn’t understand why you did it.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” said the older man, leaning in close and whispering. “I’ve no idea myself. I fell in love with the woman the very first moment she stepped from her tent into the line of my sight. She pierced me like an arrow, and my legs felt weak and my heart flew like an eagle.”
“She cast a spell on you?” whispered Gaelen, eyes widening.