‘What are the Games?’ asked Gaelen.
‘Tests of skill in a score of disciplines. Archery, swordsmanship, racing, jumping, wrestling… many, many events. All the clans take part. It lasts two weeks from Midsummer’s Night, and concludes with the Whorl Feast. You will see it this year – and you will never forget it.’
‘What are the prizes?’
‘Pride is the prize – and always has been.’ The old man’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘Well, pride and a small sack of gold. Caswallon took gold in the archery last year. A better bowman has never been seen in these mountains.’
Tell me of him.’
The old man chuckled and shook his head. ‘Caswallon. Always the children seek stories of Caswallon. If Caswallon were a swallow he would stay north for the winter, just to see how cold it gets. What can any man tell you of Caswallon?’
‘Is he a warrior?’
‘He is certainly that, but then most clansmen are. He is good with sword and knife, though others are better. He is an expert hunter and a good provider.’
‘You like him?’ asked Gaelen.
‘Like him? He infuriates me. But I love him. I don’t know how his wife puts up with him. But then Maeg’s a spirited lass.’ Oracle rose from the bedside and moved to the table, filling two clay goblets with water. Passing one to Gaelen, he sat down once more. ‘Aye, that’s the story to give you a taste of young Caswallon.’
‘Three years ago at the Games, he saw and fell in love with a maid of the Pallides, the daughter of their Hunt Lord Maggrig. Now, Maggrig is a formidable warrior and a man of hasty and uncertain temper. Above all things on this earth he hates and despises the Farlain. Mention the clan name and his blood boils and his face darkens.
‘So imagine his fury when Caswallon approaches him and asks for his daughter’s hand. Men close by swore his veins almost burst at the temples. And Maeg herself took one look at him and dismissed him for an arrogant fool. Caswallon took the insults they heaped on him, bowed, and departed to the archery tourney, which he won an hour later. Most of us thought that would be the last of the affair.’ Oracle rose and stretched his back, then moved to the fire and added two thick logs. He sighed and refilled his goblet.
‘Well, what happened?’ urged Gaelen.
‘Happened? Oh, yes. I’m sorry, my boy, but the mind wanders sometimes. Where was I? Caswallon’s courting of Maeg.’ Returning to the bedside, he sat down again. ‘Many of the Farlain enjoyed the jest for such it had to be. Maeg was almost twenty and unmarried and it was considered she was a frosty maiden with little interest in men.
‘Two months later, in dead of night, Caswallon slipped into the Pallides lands, past their scouts and into the heart of Maggrig’s own village. He scaled the stone wall of the old man’s house and entered Maeg’s room unseen. Just before dawn he awoke Maeg, stifled her scream with a kiss, climbed from the window and was gone into the timberline. Oh, they chased him all right. Fifty of the fleetest Pallides runners, but Caswallon was the racer to beat them all, and he made it home without a scratch.
‘Now, back at Maggrig’s house there was rare fury, for the young Farlain hunter had left a pair of torn breeches, a worn shirt, and the hide cut out in the shape of a new pair of shoes. Soon the entire highlands chuckled at the tale and Maggrig was beside himself with fury. You have to understand the symbolism, Gaelen. The trousers, shirt and hide were what you’d leave a wife to mend and make. And the fact that he’d spent the night alone in her bedroom made sure no other man would marry her.
‘Maggrig swore he’d have his head. Pallides hunters spent their days hoping Caswallon of the Farlain would darken their territory with his shadow. Finally, some three months later, as winter took its hold making the mountains impassable, the Pallides withdrew to their homes. On this night in the long hall, where the clan chiefs were celebrating the Longest Night, the doors opened and there, covered in snow and with ice in his beard, stood Caswallon.