‘Do you know what a geasa is?’ asked the woman.
‘No.’
‘It is a prophecy – of a kind. King Connavar’s geasa was that he would be killed on the day he slew the dog which bit him. And he was. What you have seen today is part of your geasa. You are the Stag, Gaise Macon. You will stand against the wolves.’
‘And who is the Hound who will rescue me?’
‘He will be a kinsman.’
‘I have no kinsmen. Only my father. I doubt he would risk himself for me.’
‘All will be revealed in its own time. Would you like a name that the mountains can hear, that the leaves can whisper and the rivers sing?’
‘I am Varlish. Why would I want a Keltoi soul-name?’
‘Come to me again when you do,’ she told him.
That was when he had felt the cold sweep over him, and had awoken in his bed. Now he was troubled, and did not know why. He sat by the fire until it began to die down. He reached for the coal bucket, only to see that he had used all four lumps. Anger swelled again, and with it the first seeds of rebellion stirred in his heart. He was the heir to the earldom. One day he would be the Moidart. Yet he sat here in this cold room, with no fuel for his fire, despite the huge store of coal stacked alongside the rear kitchen wall.
Gaise rose smoothly to his feet, pulled on his boots, took up the brass coal bucket and opened his bedroom door. Beyond it was the gallery overlooking the entrance hall. No lanterns were burning and Gaise stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. The faintest sign of light could be seen at the foot of the stairs, where a heavy velvet curtain had not been fully closed. Gaise moved across the gallery landing until he reached the safety rail. Keeping his hand to the bar he edged to his left and onto the stairs. His heart was beating fast now. If the Moidart discovered him stealing coal he would no doubt punish him severely. In that moment Gaise did not care. Slowly he descended into the hallway, then through to the kitchen. Here it was lighter, for there were no curtains to the panelled glass of the window. The rear door leading to the yard beyond was not locked. This surprised Gaise, for the Moidart was strict about security within the Winter House. Gaise smiled. When he returned with his coal he would lock the door, thus saving some poor servant from a flogging.
He stood silently, waiting for one of the sentries to pass by the kitchen window. It would not be wise for the Moidart’s son to be seen collecting coal. All the guards were obliged to note down every unusual activity while on watch. The Moidart scanned their records every week. Gaise waited. The grounds of the Winter House, though large, were easily patrolled at night. It would not take a man more than a few minutes to walk the perimeter of the house. Time dragged on. No guard passed the window. Gaise felt a flicker of annoyance. It was getting very cold standing here in naught but his night clothes.
Moving to the door, he lifted the latch. The guards were obviously huddled somewhere out of the cold. Gaise stepped outside and made his way to the coal store. With great care he half filled the bucket, then returned to the kitchen.
A dark figure flitted past the window. Gaise jerked. The man was moving fast and Gaise barely glimpsed him, yet he saw enough to know that it was no soldier. Retracing his steps Gaise walked back to the hallway – and saw that the main doors were now ajar.
Fear touched him. Stories of night creatures, demons and blood-drinkers swept up from the depths of his imagination. Angrily he forced them away. He had seen a man. No more than that. Probably one of the servants returning from an assignation with a serving girl. Gaise reached the staircase and began to climb. The coal bucket was heavy, and his arms were still weary from the sword work earlier in the day.