The following morning Maggrig stood alongside Asbidag, biting back his anger. The two men could have been brothers. Both had striking red beards flecked with silver, both were powerfully built. Deva watched them with anxiety. They were so similar – until you looked into their eyes. There was no evil in Maggrig. Deva looked away.
Cambil’s opening speech of welcome was short, and he quickly outlined the order of the Games. The first event would be the mountain run, five miles on a twisting circuit through woods and valleys. Three hundred men were entered and the Hunt Lords had decided on six qualifying races. The first five in each race would contest two semi-finals, and fifteen of the fastest, strongest clansmen would run the final on the last day.
Other qualifying events were outlined and then it was left to Deva, in a flowing dress of white linen garlanded with flowers, to signal the start of the first race. The named atheletes, Gaelen and Agwaine among them, jostled for position as Deva’s arm swept up, hovered momentarily, then flashed down and the race began.
Caswallon watched the start, saw Gaelen running smoothly in the centre of the pack and, knowing the youth would qualify easily, strolled to the market stalls on the edge of the field.
The stalls were doing brisk business in brooches, daggers, trinkets and tools, cloth, furs, blankets and shoes, meats, cheeses, fruit and vegetables. Caswallon eased through the massed crowds seeking a necklace for Maeg. Finding nothing to his taste, he bought a jug of mead and an oatmeal loaf. There were still one or two empty tables at the edge of the field and he chose a place away from the crowd where he would be alone with his thoughts. Since his talk with Maeg he had been less obsessed with the Aenir threat but now, as was his way, he thought the problem through, examining every angle.
Morgase and Drada were sitting less than thirty paces away, but hidden by the crowd Caswallon did not see them. Morgase was bored, and her eyes flickered over the mass of people seeking something of even passing interest. She saw the tall man walking to the empty table and her gaze lingered, her eyes widening in alarm. He wore a leaf-green cloak and a tunic of polished brown leather, while across his chest hung a baldric bearing two slim daggers. By his side was a long hunting-knife. His trews were green laced with leather thongs. Morgase stared intently at the face. The short trident beard confused her, but the eyes were the same deep green she remembered so well.
And with such hatred …
She stood and walked over to where he sat. ‘Good morning,’ she said, her throat tight, her anger barely controlled.
Caswallon looked up. Before him was a woman dressed in black, a sleek-fitting gown that hid nothing of her slender figure. Her dark hair was braided and curled like a crown on her head and pinned with gold. He rose. ‘Good morning, Lady.” He gestured for her to be seated and asked if he could bring her refreshments. Then she saw Drada approaching, carrying two goblets of wine.
‘How are you, Caswallon?’ asked Drada.
‘Well. Will you introduce me to the lady?’
‘You do not know me then?’ asked Morgase, surprised.
‘I have been known to be forgetful, Lady, but not insane. Such beauty as yours is unforgettable.’
She seemed confused, uncertain. ‘You are very like someone I once knew. Uncannily like.’
‘I hope he was a friend,’ said Caswallon.
‘He was not.’
‘Then allow me to make up for it,’ he said, smiling. ‘Will you join me?’
‘No, I must go. But please, since you two know each other, why don’t you finish your drinks together?’
The men watched her walk away. ‘A strange woman,’ said Drada.
‘Who is she?’
‘Morgase, my father’s consort. Beautiful but humourless.’
‘She thought she knew me.”
‘Yes. Are you taking part in the Games?’
‘I am.’
‘In what event?’ asked Drada.
‘Short sword.’
‘I thought you were a runner?”
‘I was. You are well-informed. And you?’
‘No, I’m afraid I excel at very little.’
‘You seem to excel in the field of selection,’ said Caswallon. ‘Rarely have I seen men train as hard.’