said little.
Layne asked Gaelen about life in Ateris, and the Aenir invasion. Gaelen found the memories too painful and switched the conversation back to Caswallon. “I know you don’t want to gossip,” he said, “but I am a stranger here, and I need to know how my… father earned such dislike.”
“Caswallon is the richest man in the valley. He has the largest herds and his fields carry more wheat than any save Cambil’s. But he holds himself apart from other clansmen, and the Hunt Lord hates him.”
“He doesn’t appear rich,” said Gaelen. “In Ateris rich men have. .. had… marble palaces and carriages of gold. And many servants. They wore rings and necklets, bracelets and brooches.”
“We have no use for such finery,” Layne told him. “We live free. Caswallon supports more than one hundred crofters. If he desired, he could start a new clan. That is rich-believe me.”
“Then why doesn’t he? I mean, if he’s so disliked it would seem to be good sense. Then he would be his own Hunt Lord.”
“He would have to surrender his valley land and find somewhere else to live, and that is no longer easy. To the northeast the Haesten control the land bordering the Lowlands. North of them are the Pallides. The rest of the land for a six-day march is all Farlain, and beyond that the minor clans-the Loda, the Dunilds, and the Irelas-fight over territory. Anyway, Caswallon is Farlain and always will be.”
“I’m damned hungry,” said Lennox suddenly.
Gaelen fished in his leather hip pouch and produced a thick slice of cold meat pie. He passed it to Lennox. Thanking him, the huge youth wolfed the pie down at speed.
“My father would also be rich,” said Layne dryly, “were it not for my brother’s appetite.”
“He’s big,” said Gaelen. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone his age bigger.” Lennox was already more than six feet tall, with a bull-like neck and an enormous frame. His face was broad, his eyes deep-set and brown. His chin and cheeks were already darkening with the promise of a beard.
“And he’s as strong as he looks. Also, despite what you will hear, he’s no fool. He just says little. Isn’t that right, brother?”
“Whatever you say,” said Lennox, grinning.
“I don’t know why, but he likes to play the fool,” said Layne. “He lets people think he has no brains.”
“It does no harm,” said Lennox mildly.
“No, but it irritates me,” replied his brother, scowling. Gaelen would not have guessed them to be brothers. Layne, though tall, was of more slender build, his face fine-boned.
“I can’t think why it should, Layne,” said Lennox, smiling. “You are the thinker in the family.”
“Nonsense.” Layne swung to Gwalchmai. “Why so silent, little one?”
“I was thinking about Agwaine,” answered Gwalchmai. “I don’t like to make anyone angry.”
“He won’t be angry with you for long. And besides, I’m proud of you. What do you think, Lennox?”
“I think it took nerve to stay with us. You’ll not regret it, Gwal, my lad.”
“Do you think they’ll attack Gaelen again?” Gwal asked.
“No,” replied Layne. “When he has had time to think on it, Agwaine will realize that Gaelen acted like”-he grinned-“like a Highlander,” he said. “He will respect that.”
Gaelen blushed and said nothing.
“Well,” said Layne, “I think it’s time we told Gaelen about the Hunt.”
Caswallon stood nervously outside the door biting his lip, a habit he thought he had left behind in childhood. But then standing before the door of Leofas brought back memories, none of them pleasant.
When Caswallon was a child he had stolen a dagger from the home of the Sword Champion, Leofas. His foster father, Padris, had been furious when Cambil informed him of Caswallon’s misbehavior-and had sent the boy to Leofas to confess.
Caswallon had stood before the door then as now, on edge and fearful. The clansman chuckled. “You fool,” he told himself. But it didn’t help.
Rapping the door with his knuckles, he took a deep breath.
Leofas let him in without a word of greeting and pointed to a chair before the hearth. Removing his cloak, Caswallon sat down. The room was large, strewn with rugs of goatskin and wolf hide, and on the far wall hung a bearskin, dust-covered and patchy with age.
Caswallon stretched out his legs before the fire. “The last time I was here, you thrashed me with your belt,” he remarked.
“I recall that you deserved it,” said Leofas. He was a big man, not tall, but wide in the shoulder with a thick neck and heavy beard streaked with grey. But his blue eyes were keen, the stare forbidding.
“Indeed I did.”
“State your business, Caswallon,” snapped the older man.
Caswallon pushed himself to his feet, a knot of anger deep within him. “I don’t think that I will,” he said softly. “I am not the child who stole your knife, I am a man. I came here because Maggrig advised it, and it seemed sensible, but I’ll not sit here swallowing your discourtesies.”
Leofas raised his eyebrows, waiting as Caswallon reached for his cloak.
“Would you like a drink, boy?” he asked.
Caswallon hesitated for a moment, then dropped his cloak across the back of a chair and turned to the older man. “That would be pleasant,” he said.
Leofas left the room, returning with two jugs of ale. Then he sat opposite Caswallon. “Now will you state your business?”
“Before I do, let’s clear the air. When you were young you raided all over the Druin to build your herds. So why are you set against me?”
“That’s easily answered, and I like a man who states his grievance swiftly. When I was a lad there was open warfare between the clans.
“No man knew what it was like to be rich. Raiding was often the difference between starvation and small comfort. But times changed and clans prospered. I applauded you when you began, I thought you were spirited and cunning. But then you grew rich, and yet the raids continued. And then I knew that the raids were not a means to an end but the end itself.
“Sometimes in life a man must risk death for the sake of his family, but you risk it merely for pleasure. Most men in the mountains value their clan, for it is like a great family and we depend on one another to survive. Children of the mountains are cared for; no one man starves while another gluts himself. But you, Caswallon, you don’t care. You avoid responsibility, and your very existence eats away at what makes the clan strong. Children imitate you. They tell tales of your exploits and they want to be like you, for you are exciting, like a clansman out of time. A myth from the past.
“Cuckoo Caswallon they used to call you, because of your amorous exploits. Women yearn for you and I can understand that and don’t begrudge it. But when you creep into the bed of another man’s wife, and sire him a son, all you have done is destroy that man’s life. He cared for his wife deeply, loved her and cherished her. She surrenders all that for a few nights of passion with you. You don’t stick by her, so she despairs. And her life is ruined too.
“As for your raids… you encourage other clans to copy you. Last autumn I caught three Pallides poachers making off with my prize bull. I had to mutilate them, it was the law. But why did they do it? Why? Because Caswallon had stolen their bull. Now state your business.”
Caswallon leaned back in his chair, his heart heavy for he could not refute a word of Leofas’s damning indictment.
“Not yet, Leofas. First let me say this: Everything you accuse me of is correct and I cannot gainsay it. But I never intended evil. Cuckoo Caswallon? Sometimes a man gives in to selfishness, telling himself there is a nobler reason-he is bringing a little happiness into a dull life. But since I married Maeg I have been faithful, for I learned by my mistakes.
“As for the raids, they too were selfish, but I don’t regret them for I enjoyed every moment. If men suffered by imitating me, then it is on their heads, for my risk was as great as theirs. But that too is now a thing of the past.
“I came to you because of the Aenir; that is my business with you. I seek not your friendship nor your
