The cool early-morning breeze held the promise of autumn, and already the leaves on the distant trees were dappled with rusty gold. Mountain ash and copper beech glistened and their leaves looked like coins, rich and freshly minted.
Deva was always first to rise. She could hear her brother Agwaine snoring in the next room. Stripping her woollen nightdress from her slender body, she poured water into a clay bowl and washed her face. She was a tall girl, willowy and narrow-hipped. Her features were clean-cut, not beautiful, but her large, grey eyes with traces of tawny gold gave her magnificence. Most of the young men of the Farlain had paid court to her and she rejected them all. The mother of kings! That’s what the old tinker-woman had predicted at her birth. And Deva was determined to fulfil her destiny. She would not do that by marrying a Highland boy! Over the door hung a silvered mirror. Wiping the water from her face and neck she walked over to it, looking deep into her own eyes. Grey they were, but not the colour of arctic clouds, nor winter seas. They were the soft grey of a rabbit’s pelt, and the glints of gold made them warm and welcoming. She smiled at herself, tilting her head.
She knew she was attractive. She combed her fingers through her corn-gold hair, shaking her head to untangle the knots. Then she remembered the visitors her father Cambil had welcomed the night before.
Asbidag, Lord of the Aenirl She shivered, crossing her arms. The Aenir was a large man with powerful shoulders and a spreading gut.
His face was broad, his mouth cruel and his eyes evil. Deva didn’t like him.
No more did she like the woman he brought with him – Morgase, he called her. Her skin was white as any Ateris statue and she seemed just as cold.
Deva had heard much talk during the last few months about the dangers of the Aenir, and had dismissed it from her mind, believing as she did in the wisdom of her father. Last night she had thought afresh.
Asbidag brought two of his sons to the house. Both were handsome, and had they been Farlain Deva might have considered allowing them to join her at the Whorl Dance. The dark-haired Ongist had smiled at her, but his eyes betrayed his lust and she had lost interest in him. The other, Drada, had merely bowed and kissed her hand. Him she had seen before. His voice was deep, yet soft, and in his eyes she saw only a hint of mockery.
Now he was interesting …
Deva had been looking forward to the Games all summer. As the Games Maiden, elected by the Council, she would preside over the Whorl Dance and be the only woman to choose her dancing companions. No man could refuse the Games Maiden.
In her mind’s eye she could see herself walking the lines of waiting men, stopping momentarily, lifting a hand. She would halt by Gaelen and smile. As he stepped forward, she would walk on and choose Layne.
She giggled. Perhaps she would choose Gaelen …
The thoughts were delicious.
She dressed quickly in a flowing skirt of leaf-green and a russet shirt with billowing sleeves. Then she walked downstairs.
The woman Morgase was in the kitchen, talking to Drada. Their conversation ceased as she entered. ‘Good morning,’ she said as they turned.
They nodded at her and she felt uncomfortable, as if she had blundered in on a secret assignation. Moving past them, she opened the kitchen door and walked into the yard beyond.
The Games fields in the valley below were ablaze with colour. Tents of every shade and hue had sprouted overnight like immense flowers. Ropes had been staked, creating tracks and lanes, and enormous trestle tables were ready for the barter of goods. Several
cooking-pits had been dug in preparation for the barbecue and the barrels of mead were set in the centre of the field where the Whorl Stone had been placed on a bulging hill.
Already the clans were gathering. Her eyes scanned the surrounding hillsides. Everywhere was movement. They came from the Pallides, the Haesten, the Loda, the Irelas, the Dunilds, the Clouds -from every clan, large and small.