Taliesen nodded. ‘What if I told you that we did ? And that it failed and the Farlain were destroyed?”
‘Now you have lost me utterly.’
‘That is what makes the chaos so terrible,’ said Taliesen. ‘There are so many alternative realities. If I told you now how many times I have tried to prevent an Aenir victory you would think me mad. The complexities and paradoxes created are legion. Armies out of their time, dead men who were destined to live and achieve greatness, women who should have borne proud sons murdered in their childhood. Destiny thwarted, changed – the Gateways themselves trembling under the weight of the chaos.’ Taliesen sighed. ‘Do you know how many times you and I have had this conversation? Of course you don’t, but it runs into scores, Caswallon. And how many times have I seen the clans destroyed, the Aenir triumphant? Hundreds. Now I grow older and more frail, and the task is as great as ever it was.’
Caswallon smiled grimly. ‘I doubt that I can learn what you have to teach, old man. You are taking the clan back to before they were born, and then I shall seek help from a Queen already dead. Do you hold more surprises for me, Taliesen?’
The Druid Lord did not answer. He leaned back, gazing at the stars, naming them in his mind until he fastened on the furthest, its light flickering like a guttering candle.
Taliesen pushed himself to his feet, his heart heavy, his mind tired. ‘Aye, I have more surprises, War Lord,’ he said. ‘If we are to win, Caswallon, which is not likely, then you will change and suffer as no Farlain has before you.’ Taliesen sighed. ‘I do not yet know how all this will come to pass, but I know that it will, for I have seen the Hawk Eternal.’
Caswallon was about to speak, but Taliesen raised his hand for silence. ‘No more words tonight, War Lord. For I am weary unto death.’
Oracle watched the Aenir in the valley below. They had slaughtered three prime steers and were preparing a feast. Since the invasion three days before not one enemy warrior had approached the cave. Heavy of heart, Oracle walked back to the entrance and on into the small room at the rear of the cave. He had seen the death of Durk, and now from beneath his narrow cot bed he pulled an oak chest, brass-edged and finely-worked. From it he took a rusting mail-shirt and helm and an old broadsword wrapped in oiled cloth. He donned the mail-shirt noting, with a wry grin, that it no longer hung well on his bony frame. Man aged less well than iron. Pushing back his white hair, he placed the helm firmly on his head. Looping sword and scabbard about his waist, he moved back into the sunlight and began the long walk into the valley.
Many were the thoughts as he strode down towards the feast. He remembered his childhood, and the first Hunt, his glory at the Games when he carried the Whorl Stone farther than any man before him. He remembered his love, Astel, a spirited lass from among the Haesten, and how she had sickened and died during their first winter together. The sense of loss crippled him still, though she remained young in his memory while he withered in reality.
The trees thinned out and he walked on.
Then had come the day when he approached the Council following his success in the war against the lowland raiders. Great days, when his name was sung throughout the Farlain. He believed they would make him King. Instead they had rejected him, and in his fury he had sworn never to return to the clan.
With a few valiant followers he had risked everything sailing to Vallon. There he overpowered the druids who manned the Gate, and journeyed to the world beyond. For two years he fought alongside the Battle Queen, Sigarni. Regret touched him as the long-suppressed memory of his shame rose to his mind. Sigarni had dismissed him, stripping him of rank. Oracle and his followers had then crossed the Gate once more to a distant land.