Gwalchmai found him there just before midnight. The young archer was dressed in his finest clothes, a cloak of soft brown leather over a green embroiderd tunic. ‘No one should be alone on Whorl Night,’ said Gwal, easing in to sit opposite his comrade.
‘I was just waiting for a girl with a swollen left leg, then we could hobble away together,’ said Gaelen, pouring more mead wine into his goblet.
‘I have two legs, but have not found a partner,’ said Gwal, helping himself to Gaelen’s wine.
‘Come now, Gwal, there must be five hundred maidens here.’
‘They are not what I want,’ said Gwalchmai sadly. Gaelen glanced at his friend. Gwal’s hair was flame-red in the firelight, his face no longer boyish but lean and handsome.
‘So what do you want… a princess?’
Gwalchmai shrugged. ‘That is hard to answer, Gaelen. But I know I shall never wed.’
Gaelen said nothing. He had known for some time, as had Layne and Lennox, that Gwalchmai had no interest in the young maidens of the Farlain. The boys did not understand it, but only Gaelen suspected the truth. In Ateris he had seen many who shared Gwalchmai’s secret longings. ‘You know what I am, don’t you?’ said Gwalchmai, suddenly.
‘I know,’ Gaelen told him. ‘You are Gwalchmai, one of the Beast Slayers. You are a clansman, and I am proud to have you for my friend.’
‘Then you don’t think … ?’
‘I have told you what I think, cousin,’ said Gaelen, reaching forward to grip Gwalchmai’s shoulder.
True enough. Thank you, my friend.’ Gwalchmai sighed – and changed the subject. ‘Where is Caswallon?’
‘Escorting the Aenir back to Aesgard.’
‘I am not sorry to see them go,’ said Gwal.
‘No. Did you hear about Borak?’
The runner? What about him?’
‘He was found this evening hanging from a tree on the west hill.’
‘He killed himself?’
‘It seems so,’ said Gaelen.
‘They’re a strange people, these Aenir. I hope they don’t come back next year.’
‘I think they will, but not for the Games,’ said Gaelen.
‘You’re not another of those war-bores?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘What could they gain? There are no riches in Druin.’
‘War is a prize in itself for the Aenir. They live for it.’
Gwalchmai leaned forward on his elbows, shaking his head. ‘What a night! First I lose in the archery, then I get maudlin, and now I’m sitting with a man who prophesies war and death.’
Gaelen chuckled. ‘You were unlucky in the tourney. The wind died as the Aenir took his mark, and it gave him an edge.’
‘A thousand blessings on you for noticing,’ said Gwal, grinning. ‘Have you ever been drunk?”
‘No.’
‘Well, it seems the only enjoyment left to us.”
‘I agree. Fetch another jug.’
Within an hour their raucous songs had attracted a small following. Lennox and Agwaine joined them, bringing fresh supplies, then Layne arrived with Deva.
The drink ran out just before dawn and the party moved to sit beside a dying fire. The songs faded away, the laughter eased, and the talk switched to the Games and the possible aftermath. Deva fell asleep against Layne; he settled her to the ground, covering her with his cloak.
Gaelen watched him gently tuck the garment around her and his heart ached. He looked away, trying to focus on the conversation once more. But he could not. His gaze swept up over the mountains, along the reddening skyline. Caswallon had told him his theory of the Aenir plan to demoralise the clans. The scale of their error was enormous. By the end they achieved only the opposite. Men of every clan had cheered Agwaine and Lennox against a common enemy; they had united the clans in a way no one had in a hundred years.
He heard someone mention his name and dragged his mind back to the present.
‘I’m sorry you missed the race,’ said Agwaine.
‘Don’t be. You were magnificent.’
‘Caswallon advised me.’
‘It was obviously good advice.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry he and my father are not friends.’
‘And you?’
“What about me?’
‘How do you feel now… about Caswallon, I mean?’
‘I am grateful. But I am my father’s son.”