‘Find the boy Bane,’ the king had said, ‘before the hunters kill him – or he kills them.’
Parax had looked into the king’s odd-coloured eyes, one green, one tawny gold, and he had longed to admit the truth, to say simply, ‘My skills are gone, my friend. I cannot help you.’
But he could not. The words clung within his throat, on talons of false pride. He was one of the king’s trusted advisers. He was Parax – the greatest hunter in the known world, a living legend. The moment he voiced the truth he would become merely a useless old man, to be discarded and forgotten. Instead he had bowed awkwardly and ridden from Old Oaks, his mind in torment, panic lying heavily upon him. His fading eyes could no longer read the trails and he had been forced to follow the hunting pack for days, hoping they would lead him to the young outlaw.
Then had come the final ignominy. He had lost the hunting pack. Twenty riders!
Parax had wept then, tears of bitterness. Once he could have tracked a sparrow in flight, now he could not find the spoor of twenty horses. He had been following about a mile behind them, but had dozed in the saddle. His paint pony, tired and thirsty, had scented water and pulled away from the trail, wandering to the east. Parax had awoken with a start as the pony climbed a steep, wooded hillside. The old man had almost fallen from the saddle. Heavy clouds obscured the sun, and Parax had no idea where he was. The pony led him to a bubbling stream, where Parax dismounted. His back ached and his mouth was dry. Kneeling, he cupped water into his hands and drank.
‘Outlived my usefulness,’ he said aloud. The pony whinnied and stamped its foot. ‘You know how old I am?’ he asked his mount. ‘Seventy-two. I once trailed a robber for three weeks. Caught him on the high slopes, up in the rocks. The king paid me twenty silver coins and named me the Prince of Trackers.’ Removing his old woollen cap he splashed water to his face and beard. He was hungry. There were muslin-wrapped slices of smoked bacon in his pack, along with black bread and a small round of cheese. He wanted to unpack them and prepare a fire, but then the late-afternoon sun broke through the clouds, and he dozed, his head resting on a round rock.
He dreamt of better days before his eyes failed, days of laughter and joy after the young king had driven the Stone soldiers from the northland. Laughter and joy – save for the king himself. The Demon King, they called him, because of his ferocity, and because men recalled the terrible revenge he took for his wife’s murder. Connavar, then a mere Rigante Laird, had single-handedly wiped out the murderer’s village, burning it to the ground and killing men, women and children. From that day on Parax had never heard him laugh, had never seen joy in his eyes.
In his dream Parax saw the king, standing in the moonlight on the battlements of Old Oaks. Only now there were ghosts floating around them both, a young woman with long dark hair and a pale face, and a giant of a man with a braided yellow beard. They were reaching out to the king. His scarred features paled as he saw them. Parax knew them both. The girl was his dead wife, Tae, the man his stepfather, Ruathain.
‘You broke your promise, my husband,’ said the ghost of Tae.
Connavar bowed his head. ‘Oh, Tae,’ he said, ‘I am so ashamed.’
‘Will you still take me riding?’
Connavar gave out a groan and fell to his knees. Parax stood silently by, knowing the cause of the king’s grief. He had promised to ride with Tae to a distant lake, but on his way home had met with a woman he had once loved. Arian had held to him, and he had bedded her. Hours later, upon his return to Old Oaks, he discovered that Tae had ridden out with Ruathain and had been killed during a surprise attack by men who had a blood feud with his stepfather. Connavar remained on his knees, head bowed. The giant figure of Ruathain loomed over him. ‘Family is everything, Conn. I thought I taught you that.’