2
UNAWARE OF THE controversy, of which he was now a part, the boy Gaelen sat in the cave slowly unwinding the bandage around his head, gently easing it from the line of stitches on his brow and cheek.
With infinite care he rubbed away the clotted blood sealing the eyelid and gently prised the eye open. At first his vision was blurred, but slowly it cleared and perspective returned, though a pink haze disturbed him. By the hearth was a silver mirror. Gaelen picked it up and gazed at his reflection. No expression crossed his face as he looked upon his scars, but something cold settled on his heart as he saw the eye.
It was totally red, suffused with blood, giving him a demonic appearance. The top of his head had been shaved to allow the stitches to be inserted, though now the hair was growing again. But it was growing white around the scar.
A change came over him then, for he felt the fear of the Aenir drift away like morning mist, making way for something far stronger than fear.
Hatred filled him, instilling in his soul a terrible desire for vengeance.
For three weeks Gaelen stayed in or around the cave, watching the rain and the sunshine that followed it turn the mountain gorse to gold. He saw the snow recede from the mountain peaks and the young deer emerge from the woods to the fast-flowing streams. In the distance he saw a great brown bear stretching to claw his territorial mark on the trunk of a wiry elm, and the rabbits hopping in the long grass of the meadow in the pink light of dawn.
At night he talked to Oracle, the two of them sitting on a rug before the fire. He heard the history of the clans, and began to learn the names of the legendary heroes – Cubril, the man known as
Blacklatch, who first carried the Whorl stone; Grigor, the Flame-dancer who fought the enemy even as his house burned around him; Ironhand and Dunbar. Strong men. Clansmen.
Not all of them were from the Farlain, that was the strange thing to Gaelen. The clansmen hated each other, yet would glory in tales of heroes from other clans. ‘It’s no use trying to understand it yet, Gaelen,’ the old man told him. ‘It’s hard enough for us to understand ourselves.’
On the last evening of the month Oracle removed the boy’s stitches and pronounced him fit to rejoin the world of the living.
Tomorrow Caswallon will come, and you’ll meet with him and make your decisions. Either you’ll stay or you’ll go. Either way, you and I will part friends,’ said Oracle gravely.
Gaelen’s stomach tightened. ‘Couldn’t I j ust stay here with you for a while?’
Oracle cupped the boy’s chin in his hand. ‘No, lad. Much as I’ve enjoyed your company it cannot be. Be ready at dawn, for Caswallon will come early.’
For much of the night Gaelen was unable to sleep, and when he did he dreamed of the morning, saw himself looking foolish before this great clansman whose face he couldn’t quite see. The man told him to run, but his legs were sunk in mud; the man lost his temper and stabbed him with a spear. He awoke exhausted and sweat-drenched and rose instantly, making his way to the stream to bathe.
‘Good morning to you.’
Gaelen swung to see a tall man sitting on a granite boulder. He wore a cloak of leaf-green and a brown leather tunic. Slung across his chest was a baldric bearing two slim daggers in leather sheaths, and by his side a hunting-knife. Upon his long legs were leggings of green wool, laced with leather thongs criss-crossed to the knee. His hair was long and dark, his eyes sea-green. He seemed to be about thirty years of age, though he could have been older.
‘Are you Caswallon?’
‘I am indeed,’ said the man, standing. He stretched out his hand. Gaelen shook it and released it swiftly. ‘Walk with me and we’ll talk about things to interest you.’
Without waiting for a reply Caswallon turned and walked slowly through the trees. Gaelen stood for a moment, then grabbed his shirt from beside the stream and followed him. Caswallon halted beside a