The market beyond the square was thronging with people as Jaim and Kaelin eased their way through. At the far side was an eating area, with a series of bench tables set around three fire pits and several long, stone-built grills. It was crowded, but Jaim found a couple of seats and he and Kaelin sat down to await one of the many serving maids rushing hither and yon, bearing trays laden with food.
A stout, round-shouldered woman with buck teeth approached the table and stood before Jaim. 'So, it's you, is it?' she said, her voice cold.
'Good to see you, Meg. You look lovely,' said Jaim.
'You cause any trouble today and I'll see you dungeoned. I swear I will!'
'I'm just here with my nephew for a little breakfast,' said Jaim, uneasily aware that several of the other diners were staring at him. 'Kaelin, this is Meg, the finest fishcook this side of Caer Druagh.' Kaelin rose and bowed. 'Meg, this is Kaelin, the son of Lanovar.'
The woman's hard face softened momentarily. 'Aye, you're a handsome lad,' she said. 'You have your father's looks and your mother's eyes. You are also, it seems, blessed with good manners. You should know, though, that a man is judged by the company he keeps.'
'Only until his deeds are known,' said Kaelin.
'His deeds are known,' snapped Meg, returning her attention to the one-eyed clansman. 'He is a drunkard and a trouble-maker. He should have stayed in the north with the Black Rigante. However, since you, at least, are the son of a hero I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and feed you both. You can have the soup and the bread,' she told Jaim. 'No ale, though. And it'll be payment now, if you please.'
'You're an unforgiving woman,' muttered Jaim, delving into his money pouch and producing two copper coins. Meg took the coins without a word and moved off towards the main building.
'She really dislikes you, Grymauch,' observed Kaelin.
Jaim forced a smile. 'How little you understand women. She adores me, boy. I sang her a song once and her heart is mine. Oh, I'll admit she struggles against it. 'Tis only show, however.'
Kaelin said no more on the subject. He had seen - and recognized, despite Jaim's attempt to hide it behind a display of good humour - the embarrassment and shame the big man had felt. The woman had treated Jaim scornfully, and Jaim had accepted it. This surprised Kaelin, for had it been a man who had spoken so slightingly Jaim would have reacted with sudden and extreme violence. Not that the youngster would expect Jaim to strike a woman - no clansman worthy of the name would ever commit such a heinous act - but that the warrior should meekly accept such treatment without, at the very least, rebuking the woman was beyond Kaelin's understanding. It left the youngster feeling vaguely uncomfortable. He felt that one of life's lessons had been laid out before him, yet he could not quite grasp the significance of it. He shivered as the wind shifted, then pulled up the collar of his coat.
Jaim seemed lost in thought and Kaelin did not disturb him. Instead he thought back to the four-rope gibbet and the people hanging there. He wondered what their crimes had been, and what the oldest of them had done to deserve having his eyes put out and his hands cut off. He shivered again.
"Tis getting colder,' said Jaim. 'Could snow today, I reckon.'
'What was the crime, do you think, Grymauch? You know . . . for the man on the gibbet. The one who was maimed first.'
Jaim shrugged. 'I'm not a great student of the law. I know the punishment for cattle-stealing, but I don't know what a man would need to do to suffer having his hands cut away.'
The buck-toothed woman laid a wooden tray on the bench table. Upon it were two deep bowls of fish soup and a loaf of crusty bread. 'Best not to ask about the hanging,' she told them. Dropping her voice she leaned in close to Jaim, though Kaelin could just make out what she told him. 'The trial was in secret, but it is said that a Varlish noblewoman claimed the man climbed into her bedroom and assaulted her.'
'What did the others do?' asked Kaelin.
'The woman was the man's wife, the other two his sons. Apparently they lied to the beetlebacks about his whereabouts.'
'They hanged his whole family for that?' said Kaelin, shock: making him forget to keep his voice down.
'Hush, stupid boy!' hissed Meg. 'You want to hang with them?' Red-faced and angry, she walked away.
Kaelin leaned in towards Jaim. 'You think she was telling trie truth?' he asked.
'Probably, boy. Eat your soup.'
'I've lost my appetite, Grymauch.'
'Eat anyway. You'll need your strength later.'
'I think I can hate the Varlish without knowing them all,' said Kaelin suddenly.
'I hope not,' said Jaim sadly.
The moon was bright in a clear sky above Moon Lake, the dark water glistening and still. Jaim Grymauch crept down the hillside.,, his young apprentice moving silently behind him. With great care they approached the outbuildings of the Moidart's estate. Jaim led Kaelin to a log stack, and the two of them crouched down behind it and waited. After a short while two guards came wandering along the shoreline, talking in low voices. They passed the paddock on the western side, skirted the fence, then swung towards where Jaim and Kaelin were hidden.
The black bull stirred, its great head swinging towards the walking men and fixing them with a baleful stare. 'Should have killed it,' Kaelin heard one of the guards say. 'It near ripped Ganna apart.'
'He's a fine beast, though,' said the other. 'No denying it.'
‘I’ll remind you of those words when you're lying on the ground with your guts in your hand.'
The men were closer now and Kaelin, peering through a gap in the logs, could see their faces in the moonlight. Both looked powerful. They wore no swords, but one carried a staff while the other had a long knife scabbarded at his hip.
Jaim drew the youngster back as the guards strolled past the log stack. As they moved out of sight the huge warrior came smoothly to his feet and followed them. Kaelin heard a grunt, then a stifle
Kaelin saw blood seeping through Jaim's left shirtsleeve. 'You are hurt,' he whispered.
Jaim did not answer. He knelt by the guard, his fingers pressed against the man's throat. 'Is he dead?' asked Kaelin, worried now. Jaim relaxed.
'No, thank goodness. I'd not want a man to die for the sake of a bull.' Reaching out, he took the club from Kaelin's hand. 'The wood has split through. When I heard the crack I thought you had broken his neck. But his pulse is strong and I think he'll be fine. Damn, boy, there was a time I could have taken four men without help.'
They dragged the unconscious men back behind the log stack. Jaim took a ball of tough twine from a pocket sewn into his cloak. Rolling the first man to his belly he looped twine around the ankles then up to the hands, which he tied behind the guard's back. Only when all four guards were securely bound and gagged did Jaim set about bandaging his own wound, a shallow cut to the forearm. 'You can't go into that paddock smelling of blood,' said Kaelin. 'Let us just leave!'
'No, Kaelin. I've set my mind on a stroll with the beast,' said Jaim with a smile.
Then he walked out towards the paddock. The gate was held closed by a hinged iron hoop. Jaim lifted it clear and stepped into the enclosure. Kaelin watched him from the log stack, fear causing his heart to pound. He saw the bull's tail twitch. The animal pawed at the ground. Then Jaim spoke, his voice soft, his tone mesmeric.
"There was a time,
br /> The old man said,
Before the Dream,
Beneath the Sky,
When bulls were born
With iron horns,
And golden eyes.'
Jaim continued to move across the paddock. Kaelin was scarcely breathing now as the big man approached the deadly horns.
'That was the time,
The old man said,
Between the Stars,
Before the Ring,
When bulls could fly
And graze the sky
On silver wings.'
The black bull was no longer pawing at the ground, and he did not turn his mighty head as the man walked by his horns. Kaelin watched as Jaim stroked the bull's dark flanks. It seemed as if even the wind died as Jaim spoke, and Kaelin believed he could hear a soft, distant music echoing from the stars. He blinked and watched the bull. Moonlight was gleaming upon its horns, and Kaelin's mouth was dry as the one-eyed warrior stood beside the beast.
'Then came the time, The old man said, Beyond the Song, Beside the Lie, When bulls wore rings Instead of wings And learned to die.'
Still stroking the bull Jaim moved completely around it then strolled back towards the gate. He stopped at the entrance and held out his hand.
'Come walk with me tonight, my friend, On moonlit trails we'll talk awhile, Of olden days when bulls were gods With iron horns and golden eyes. We'll walk together to the end Of weary trails and dusty miles.'
For a moment the bull remained statue still, then it seemed to shiver, as if waking from a trance. It walked forward slowly, towards the outstretched hand. Jaim's fingers curled around the ring in the bull's nose, and, together, man and beast walked from the enclosure and away into the night.
Gaise Macon awoke with a start, his heart pounding. He sat up and looked around. Moonlight was shining through the open window, illuminating the leather-topped desk and the assortment of quills, ink pots and papers scattered there. The breeze had lifted some of the papers, causing them to flutter to the floor. Gaise pushed back the covers and swung his legs from the bed. As always when he woke the star-shaped scar on his right cheekbone was itching, the white, puckered burn feeling tight and uncomfortable. He rubbed the spot gently, then gathered up his papers.
Mr Shaddler had set him an essay on the warrior King Connovar, and Gaise had scoured the library for information. Much of it was either contradictory, or cloaked in ridiculous fable. Mr Shaddler had urged him to prepare his piece 'only on what is truly known. Try to avoid conjecture, Lord Gaise.' It was an odd assignment. Mr Shaddler would normally direct him to specific historical tomes.
In the end Gaise had employed a different method of analysis. He had removed all references to gods, demons and sprites, treating them as exaggerated representations of more human virtues and frailties. Connovar was, for example, said to have been enchanted by Arian, a Seidh goddess of mischief and torment. By her he had a son, Bane, half man, half god. It seemed to Gaise that Arian was more likely to have been a Rigante woman who bore Connovar a bastard son.
He had worked for some hours, his thoughts focused entirely on this man from the far past. Perhaps it was this that had caused the dream.
It had been so intense, so real. He had become aware of walking in a wood, the smell of decaying leaves and moss filling his nostrils. He had felt the breeze cool upon his skin, the earth wet and cold beneath his bare feet. There was no fear; in fact quite the opposite. He felt at one with the forest, in harmony with the beating hearts of the unseen animals all around him: the fox by the river bank, the white owl perched on the high branch, the tiny mouse in the mound of leaves, the badgers wakening below ground.
The smell of wood smoke drifted to him, and he walked towards a small camp fire set within a group of stones. A white-haired woman was sitting there. There were tools at her feet: a small axe, a long knife with a curved serrated blade, a shorter knife with a hilt of bone. In her hands was a length of curved wood. She was carefully stripping away the bark.
'What are you making?' he asked her.
She glanced up at him, and he saw that her eyes were green, her face unlined. It was a face of great beauty, ageless and serene. 'I am crafting a boughstave longbow.'
'Is that elm?'
'No, it is yew.'
Gaise sat down and watched her. 'It does not look like a bow,' he said, seeing the knots and dimples on the rough wood.
'The bow is hidden within the stave. It is beautiful and complete. It merely needs to be found. One must seek it with love and care, gently and with great patience.'
Gaise shivered at the memory.
The room was cold. His father allowed him only one bucket of coal per week and, with only four lumps left, and three more days to go, Gaise had decided not to light the fire last night. Instead he had put on warm woollen leggings and a nightshirt before climbing into bed. The sheet and the two thin blankets did little to keep him warm and he had draped an old cloak over the blankets to add a little weight and warmth.
The young noble swung the old cloak around his shoulders and padded across to the fireplace. There was kindling there and several chunks of wood beside the coal bucket. Anger flared in the young man. The Moidart desired him to be tough, so he said. That was why he kept his son cold in the winter, why he mocked his every effort, why he had killed Soldier. This last thought leapt unbidden from an unhealed wound in the young man's mind. He had loved that dog, and, even though three years had passed, the hurt he felt at its slaying still clung to him with talons of grief. It had been an accident, the Moidart had said. The hunting musket had a faulty hammer spring. It had struck flint before the Moidart placed his finger on the trigger. The red-haired retriever had been sitting alongside the Moidart, and the lead ball had smashed his skull.
Not for a moment had Gaise believed the tale. As a child he had loved a white pony, which the Moidart then sold. After that it had been Soldier, which the Moidart slew. When Gaise had first attended school, and made friends, he had arrived home full of joy. The Moidart had removed him from the school, hiring Alterith Shaddler and others to tutor him privately. Then there were the beatings, administered when Gaise failed to achieve the high grades the Moidart demanded for his school work. These had stopped since Gaise had reached fifteen, though it was not, he believed, his coming of age that had ended the beatings. It was more to do with the rheumatics that had afflicted the Moidart's shoulders and back. He could no longer lay on the lash as once he had.
Gaise wondered if life would have been different had his mother survived the assassination attempt. Perhaps then his father would not have hated him so. He shivered again, as a cold wind blew through the curtainless window behind him.
Gathering the cloak more tightly about his shoulders he leaned forward and, upon an impulse, picked up the pewter tinder box, struck a flame, and applied it to the crumpled paper and wood shavings beneath the kindling in the fireplace. The paper caught first, orange flames licking out over the kindling. Gaise felt the first of the warmth touch him, and he shivered again, this time with pleasure. As the larger kindling accepted the fire Gaise added several chunks of wood and two of his precious coals.
Fire shadows danced on the walls around him and a golden glow filled the room. Gaise felt the muscles of his shoulders losing their tension, and he relaxed before the flames. It must have been thus for the caveman, he thought, safe and warm, free for a time from the many perils of the day. He thought again of Connovar and pictured him sitting before an open fire, planning the battles against the armies of Stone.
The dream came back to him then, the walk in the woods and the damp, musty earth, the woman crafting the bow. She was quite small, with long white hair pulled back from her face and tied in a single braid hanging between her shoulders.
'How do you know that a beautiful bow is within the stave?'
'The yew whispered it to me. That is why I picked it up.'
'Wood cannot speak,' he said.
'It cannot speak to those without
a name, young man,' she told him, her voice low and musical.
'I have a name,' he had told her. 'I am Gaise Macon.'
'Not a name recognized by the trees that surround you. Not a name whispered in the valleys, or borne on the wind towards Caer Druagh. Not a soul-name.'
'You are speaking nonsense. Who are you?'
'I am the flame in the crystal, Gaise Macon. My mother was the shadow on the oak. Her mother was the sheltering cloud. You wish to hear the names of all my line?'
'I note you do not mention the men involved in your ancestry,' said Gaise. 'Did they have no soul-names?'
'Sadly they did not,' she said. 'My grandfather was a Varlish captain, my father a merchant from Goriasa, across the water, where they have robed the magic in stone, and thus imprisoned it. When this happens men forget the magic of soul-names.'
'Why did you bring me here?'
'I brought you nowhere, Gaise Macon. You walked to my fire. You will walk away from my fire. Or run or fly. Whatever pleases you.'
'I am dreaming,' said the young man. 'You are not real.'
'Aye, you are dreaming. But it is a real dream, Gaise. A dream of meaning. A moment of magic, if you will. Would you like to see a story?'
'You mean hear a story?’
‘I know what I mean, Gaise Macon.' Then, yes, I would like to see a story.'
The woman raised her hand and pointed towards a small stream, a little way to her right. Water rose up from it in a shimmering sphere as large as a man's head. It floated some three feet above the grass and hovered before the astonished young noble. Then it swelled and flattened, becoming a circular mirror, in which Gaise could see his own reflection. He saw that he was wearing a patchwork cloak of many colours, fastened with a silver brooch. The brooch was the crest of his house, a fawn trapped in brambles. He was about to ask the woman about the cloak when the mirror shimmered, and he found himself gazing on a distant moonlit mountainside. Two men were there. The images came closer, and he saw that one of the men was wounded. The scene changed. Now a stag was at bay, a great and majestic beast surrounded by wolves. His heart went out to the stag. A black hound, blood upon its flanks, charged at the predators. They scattered, though not before three were dead.