‘I see you are feeling better,’ said the old man, stepping from the shadows.
The boy jumped and winced as the stitches pulled. Looking round, he saw a tall, frail, white-bearded man dressed in grey robes, belted at the waist with a goat-hair rope.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Gaelen. And you?’
‘I no longer use my name, but it pleases the Farlain to call me Oracle. If you are hungry I shall warm some broth; it is made from the liver of pigs and will give you strength.’
Oracle moved to the fire, stooping to lift a covered pot to the flames. ‘It will be ready soon. How are your wounds?’
‘Better.’
The old man nodded. The eye caused me the most trouble. But I think it will serve you. You will not be blind, I think. The wound in your side is not serious, the lance piercing just above the flesh of the hip. No vital organ was cut.’
‘Did you bring me here?’
‘No.’ Using the iron rod, Oracle lifted the lid from the pot. Taking a long-handled wooden spoon from a shelf, he stirred the contents. Gaelen watched him in silence. In his youth he must have been a mighty man, thought the boy. Oracle’s arms were bony now, but the wrists were thick and his frame broad. The old man’s eyes were light blue under thick brows, and they glittered like water on ice. Seeing the boy staring at him, he chuckled. ‘I was the Farlain Hunt Lord,’ he said, grinning. ‘And I was strong. I carried the Whorl boulder for forty-two paces. No man has bettered that in thirty years.”
‘Were my thoughts so obvious?’ Gaelen asked .
‘Yes,’ answered the Oracle. The broth is ready.”
They ate in silence, spooning the thick soup from wooden bowls and dipping chunks of oatmeal loaf into the steaming liquid.
Gaelen could not finish the broth. He apologised, but the old man shrugged.
‘You’ve hardly eaten at all in five days, and though you are ravenous your stomach has shrunk. Give it a few moments, then try a little more.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You ask few questions, young Gaelen. Is it that you lack curiosity?’
The boy smiled for the first time. ‘No, I just don’t want any answers yet.”
Oracle nodded. ‘You are safe here. No one will send you back to the Aenir. You are welcome, free to do as you wish. You are not a prisoner. Now, do you have any questions?’
‘How did I get here?’
‘Caswallon brought you. He is a clansman, a Hunt Master.’
‘Why did he save me?’
‘Why does Caswallon do the things he does? I don’t know. Caswallon doesn’t know. He is a man of impulse. A good friend, a terrible enemy, and a fine clansman – but still a man of impulse. When he was a youth he went tracking deer. He was following a doe when he came upon it caught in a Pallides snare. Now the Farlain have no love for the Pallides, so Caswallon cut the deer loose – only to find it had an injured leg. He brought the little beast home upon his back and nursed it to health; then he released it. There’s no accounting for Caswallon. Had the beast been fit he would have slain it for meat and hide.’
‘And I am like that injured doe,’ said Gaelen. ‘Had I run into the trees unharmed, Caswallon might have killed me.’
‘Yes, you are sharp, Gaelen. I like quick wits in a boy. How old are you?’
The boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Fourteen, fifteen …’
‘I’d say nearer fourteen, but it doesn’t matter. A man is judged here by how he lives and not by the weight of his years.’
‘Will I be allowed to stay, then? I thought only clansmen could live in the Druin mountains?”
‘Indeed you can, for indeed you are,’ said Oracle.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You are a clansman, Gaelen. Of the Farlain. You see, Caswallon invoked the Cormaach. He has made you his son.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he had no choice. As you said yourself, only a clansman can live here and Caswallon – like all other clansmen -cannot bring strangers into the Farlain. Therefore in the very act of rescuing you he became your guardian, responsible in law for everything you do.’