“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.”
“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 judgment, 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 appetizing.
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.
Gaelen sighed. When he was strong enough he would run away to the north and find a city the Aenir had not sacked, and he would pick up his life again-stealing food and scraping a living until he was big enough, or strong enough, to take life by the throat and force it to do his bidding.
Still dreaming of the future, he fell asleep in the sunshine. Oracle found him there at noon and gently carried him inside, laying him upon the broad bed and covering him with the bearskin cloak. The fur was still thick and luxuriant, yet it was thirty years since Oracle had killed the bear. An epic battle fought on a spring day such as this… The old man chuckled at the memory. In those days he had been Caracis, Hunt Lord of the Farlain, and a force to be considered. He had killed the bear with a short sword and dagger, suffering terrible wounds from the beast’s claws. He never knew why it had attacked him; the large bears of the mountains usually avoided man, but perhaps he had strayed too close to its den, or maybe it was sick and hurting.
Whatever the cause it had reared up from the bushes, towering above him. In one flowing motion he had hurled his hunting knife into its breast, drawn sword and dagger, and leaped forward, plunging both blades through the matted fur and into the flesh beyond. The battle had been brief and bloody. The beast’s great arms encircled him, its claws ripping into his back. He had released the sword and twisted at the dagger with both hands, seeking the mighty heart within the rib cage.
And he had found it.
Now the bear, the lord of the high lonely forest, was a child’s blanket, and the greatest of the Farlain warriors was a dry-boned ancient, known only as Oracle.
“Time makes fools of us all,” he whispered.
He looked down at the boy’s face. He was a handsome lad, with good bones and a strong chin, and his flame-red hair contained a glint of gold, matching the tawny flecks in his dark eyes.
“You will break hearts in years to come, Gaelen, my lad.”
“Hearts…?” said Gaelen, yawning and sitting up. “I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?”
“No. Old men talk to themselves. How are you feeling?”
“Good.”
“Sleep is the remedy for many of life’s ills. Especially loss of blood.”
“It’s peaceful here,” said Gaelen. “I don’t normally sleep so much, even when I’ve been hurt. Is there anything I can do to help you? I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Young man, you are not a burden. You are a guest. Do you know what that means?”
“No.”
“It means you are a friend who has come to stay for a while,” the old man told him, laying his hand on the boy’s arm. “It means you owe me nothing.”
“Caswallon pays you to look after me,” said Gaelen, pulling his arm away from Oracle’s touch.
“No, he does not. Nor will he. Though he may bring a joint of venison, or a sack of vegetables the next time he comes.” Oracle left the bedside to add several chunks of wood to the fire. “It’s so wasteful,” he called back, “keeping a fire here in spring. But the cave gets cold and my blood is running thin.”
“It’s nice,” said Gaelen. “I like to see a fire burning.”
“Chopping wood keeps my body from seizing up,” said the old man, returning to the bedside. “Now, what would you like to know?”
Gaelen shrugged. “About what?”
“About anything.”
“You could tell me about the clans. Where did they come from?”
“A wise choice,” said Oracle, sitting at the bedside. “There are more than thirty clans, but originally there
