‘He’s not alive now,” said Caswallon. ‘He died there in that forest.’
Taliesen shook his head. ‘Unlikely. He had remarkable powers of recuperation,’ said the druid. ‘He is twice as old as I am. And I once saw a spear pierce his chest, the point emerging alongside his spine. He made me draw it from him; I did, and watched the wound heal within seconds.’
‘Alive or dead, he cannot help us now,’ said Caswallon. ‘So what do we do?’
‘We try again – if you feel strong enough. Do you?’
‘Is there a choice, druid?’
Taliesen shook his head. Maggrig loomed over the druid. ‘Except that after the last mistake,’ he said, ‘you might now waft him away to the centre of the Aenir camp, and he can demand their surrender.’
‘It was not a mistake,’ snapped the druid. ‘It was destiny.’
‘Well, if there is a moment of destiny,’ promised Maggrig, ‘I’ll pierce your scrawny ears with your teeth!’
That will be hard to do – after I’ve turned you to a toad!’ Taliesen countered.
‘Enough!’ said Maeg sharply. ‘Go back to the Gate – all of you. I need to speak to my husband.’ Maggrig swallowed his anger and followed Taliesen and the old warrior Leofas from the room.
When they had gone, Maeg took Caswallon’s hand and looked deep into his sea-green eyes. ‘I love you, husband,’ she said, ‘more than life. I want so much to ask you – to beg you – to refuse Taliesen. Yet I will not.. . even though my heart is rilled with fears for you.’
He nodded, then lifted her hand to his lips. ‘You are mine, and I am yours,’ he said. ‘You are the finest of women, and I have not the words to tell you what you mean to me.’ He fell silent as a single tear rolled to Maeg’s cheek. ‘I love you, Maeg. But I must do what I can to save my people.’
The clansman stood, and hand in hand he and Maeg walked to the Gate. It stood open, the bright sunshine of another world blazing down upon hills and mountains. Taliesen stood waiting on the other side. Maeg kissed Caswallon and he felt the wetness of her tears on his cheek. Maggrig gripped his hand. ‘Take care, boy,’ he said gruffly.
Recovering his sword, Caswallon stepped through the archway on to the hillside above Citadel town.
‘Remember, Caswallon,’ said Taliesen, ‘the Queen must have her army assembled within ten days. Take her to the Falls where we fought the demons. Tell her Taliesen needs her help.”
‘You think she will remember you – after all these years?’
‘She saw me only yesterday,” said Taliesen. ‘Well… yesterday to her. And now it is time to go. Come back here at dawn in four days and report on your progress.’
Leaving the druid behind him, Caswallon set off down the slope towards the city. There were sentries at the gates, but many people were passing through and the clansman was not challenged. As he walked Caswallon gazed at the buildings; they were not like the houses of Ateris, being higher and more closely packed, built of red brick and stone, the windows small.
There were narrow, open sewage channels on both sides of the street, and the stench from them filled the nostrils. Crowds of revellers were gathering on every side, drunken clansmen and mercenaries, many singing, others dancing to the tune of the pipes. Caswallon threaded his way through them, heading for the Citadel above the town.
At the gates he was stopped by two guards wearing bronze breastplates and leather kilts. Both carried lances. ‘What is your business here?’ asked the shorter of the two.
‘I seek the Queen,’ replied Caswallon.
‘Many men seek the Queen. Not all are allowed to find her.”
‘It is a matter of importance,’ said Caswallon.
‘Do I know you?’ asked the guard. ‘You seem familiar.’
‘My business is urgent,’ said Caswallon. The man nodded once more, then called a young soldier from the ramparts. ‘Take this man to the city hall. Ask for Obrin.’
The soldier saluted and walked away. Caswallon followed. The man stopped before a wide flight of marble steps, at the top of which were double doors of bronze-studded oak. Before the doors were four more guards in bronze breastplates, each of these wore crimson cloaks and leather breeches cut short at the calf. The soldier led the way up the stairs and whispered to one of the sentries; the man tapped at the door and passed a message inside. After a wait of several more minutes the door opened once more and an officer came out. He was tall and of middle years, his beard iron-grey, his eyes a frosty blue. He looked at Caswallon and smiled. Taking the clansman by the arm, he led him inside the hall. ‘The Queen is holding a victory banquet,’ he said, ‘but you will not find her in a good mood.’