‘I don’t want a father,’ said Gaelen. ‘I get by on my own.’
‘Then you will leave,’ agreed Oracle, amiably. ‘And Caswallon will give you a cloak, a dagger, and two gold coins for the road.’
‘And if I stay?’
‘Then you will move into Caswallon’s house.’
Needing time to think, Gaelen broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the now lukewarm broth.
Become a clansman? A wild warrior of the mountains? And what would it be like to have a father? Caswallon, whoever he was, wouldn’t care for him. Why should he? He was just a wounded doe brought home on a whim. ‘When must I decide?’
‘When your wounds are fully healed.’
‘How long will that be?”
‘When you say they are,’ said the old man.
‘I don’t know if I want to be a clansman.’
‘Reserve your judgement, Gaelen, until you know what it entails.’
That night Gaelen awoke in a cold sweat, screaming.
The old man ran from the back of the cave, where he slept on a narrow pallet bed, and sat down beside the boy. ‘What is it?’ he asked, stroking Gaelen’s brow, pushing back the sweat-drenched hair from the boy’s eyes.
The Aenir! I dreamed they had come for me and I couldn’t get away.’
‘Do not fear, Gaelen. They have conquered the lowlands, but they will not come here. Not yet. Believe me. You are safe.”
They took the city,’ said Gaelen, ‘and the militia were overrun. They didn’t even hold for a day.’
‘You have much to learn, boy. About war. About warriors. Aye, the city fell, and before it other cities. But we don’t have cities here, and we need no walls. The mountains are like a fortress, with walls that pierce the clouds. And the clansmen don’t wear bright breastplates and parade at festivals, they don’t march in unison. Stand a clansman against a lowlander and you will see two men, but you will not be seeing clearly. The one is like a dog, well-trained and well-fed. It looks good and it barks loud. The other is like a wolf, lean and deadly. It barks not at all. It kills. The Aenir will not come here yet. Trust me.’
When he woke Gaelen found a fresh-baked honey malt loaf, a jug of goat’s milk and a bowl containing oats, dried apple and ground hazelnuts awaiting him at the table. There was no sign of Oracle.
Gaelen’s side was sore and fresh blood had seeped through the linen bandages around his waist, but he pushed the pain from his mind and ate. The oats were bland and unappealing, but he found that if he crushed the honey-cake and sprinkled it over the mixture the effect was more appetising.
His stomach full, he made his way outside the cave and knelt by a slender stream that trickled over white rocks on its journey to the valley below. Scooping water to his face, he washed, careful to avoid dampening the bandage over his injured eye. He had thought to take a short walk, but even the stroll to the stream had tired him and he sat back against a smooth rock and gazed down into the valley.
It was so calm here. Set against the tranquillity of these mountain valleys the events at Ateris seemed even more horrifying. Gaelen saw again the crows settling on fat Leon, squabbling and fighting over a strip of red flesh.
The boy was not surprised by the Aenir savagery. It seemed a culmination of all that life had taught him about people. In the main, they were cruel, callous and uncaring, filled with greed and petty malice. The boy knew all about suffering. It was life. It was being frozen in winter, parched in summer, cold-soaked and trembling when it rained. It was being thrashed for the sin of hunger, abused for the curse of loneliness, tormented for being a bastard, and despised for being an orphan.
Life was not a gift to be enjoyed, it was an enemy to be battled, grimly, unremittingly.
The old man had been kind to him, but he has his reasons, thought Gaelen sourly. This Caswallon is probably paying him for his time.