where-I am. I would dearly love to know how the Ancient Gate was opened, but I dare not ask. I will only assume that I did it. For now you must rest, and regain your strength. Then we will talk.”
“I am so tired,” she said. “Forty years of war and loss, victory and pain. So tired. And yet it is good to be back in the Enchanted Realm.”
“Say nothing more,” he urged her. “We stand at a delicate place on the crossroads of time. Let me say only this. Two days ago you urged me to hunt down Caracis, and return to you the sword, Skallivar. You remember asking me this?”
She closed her eyes. “I remember. It was almost thirty years ago. And you did.”
“Yes,” he said, his gaze drawn to the fabled sword that stood now against the far wall beside the fire.
“You sent the goddess walking on the water of the pool below the falls. All my generals saw the miracle, and when word spread of it men came flocking to my banner. I owe you much for that, Taliesen.” Her words faded away, and she fell into a deep sleep.
Taliesen stood and walked to the sword; his thin fingers stroking the ruby pommel. He sighed and moved back into the sunlight. “The goddess upon the water,” he repeated. What did she mean? Taliesen had spent the last two days desperately trying to think of a way to achieve what the Queen told him he already had!
And he remembered the words of his master, Astole, many centuries before. “Treat the Gates with respect, Taliesen, lest you lose your mind. They are not merely doorways through time. You must understand that!”
Oh, how he understood! He glanced back at the sleeping Queen. How many times had he seen her die? Thirty? Fifty? Again the words of Astole drifted back to haunt him.
“Hold always to a Line, my boy. A single thread. Never move between the threads, for that way lies madness and despair. For every moment that the past can conjure gives birth to an infinity of futures. Cross them at your peril.”
The sun was hot upon Taliesen’s face, though the wind remained cool. “I crossed them, Astole,” he said, “and now I am trapped in a future I cannot unravel. Why is she here? How was the Gate opened? How was it that I returned her sword? Help me, Astole, for I am lost, and my people face annihilation.”
No answer came, and with a heavy heart Taliesen returned to the cave.
Chapter One
Caswallon watched the murderous assault on Ateris, a strange sense of unreality gripping him. The clansman sat down on a boulder and gazed from the mountainside at the gleaming city below, white and glorious, like a child’s castle set on a carpet of green.
The enemy had surprised the city dwellers some three hours before, and black smoke billowed now from the turrets and homes. The distant sound of screaming floated to his ears, disembodied, like the echo of a nightmare upon awakening.
The clansman’s sea-green eyes narrowed as he watched the enemy hacking and slaying. He shook his head, sadness and anger competing within him. He had no love for these doomed Lowlanders and their duplicitous ways. But, equally, this wanton slaughter filled him with sorrow.
The enemy warriors were new to Caswallon. Never had he seen the horned helms of the Aenir, the double- headed axes, nor the oval shields painted with hideous faces of crimson and black. He had heard of them, of course, butchering and killing far to the south, but of their war against the Lowlanders he knew little until now.
But then, why should he? He was a clansman of the Farlain, and they had little time for Lowland politics. His was a mountain race, tough and hardy and more than solitary. The mountains were forbidden ground for any Lowlander and the clans mixed not at all with other races.
Save for trade. Clan beef and woven cloth for Lowland sugar, fruits, and iron.
In the distance Caswallon saw a young girl speared and lifted into the air, thrashing and screaming. This is war no longer, he thought, this is merely blood sport.
Tearing his gaze from the murderous scene he glanced back at the mountains rearing like spear points toward the sky, snowcapped and proud, jagged and powerful. At their center the cloud-wreathed magnificence of High Druin towered above the land. Caswallon shivered, drawing his brown leather cloak about his shoulders. It was said that the clans were vicious and hostile to outsiders, and so they were. Any Lowlander found hunting clan lands was sent home minus the fingers of his right hand. But such punishments were intended to deter poachers. The scenes of carnage on the plain below had nothing to do with such practices; this was lust of the most vile kind.
The clansman looked back at the city. Old men in white robes were being nailed to the black gates. Even at this distance Caswallon recognized Bacheron, the chief elder, a man of little honesty. Even so, he did not deserve such a death.
By all the Gods, no one deserved such a death!
On the plain three horsemen rode into sight, the leader pulling a young boy who was tied to a rope behind his mount. Caswallon recognized the boy as Gaelen, a thief and an orphan who lived on scraps and stolen fruit. The clansman’s fingers curled around the hilt of his hunting dagger as he watched the boy straining at the rope.
The lead rider, a man in shining breastplate and raven-winged helm, cut the rope and the boy began to run toward the mountains. The riders set off after him, lances leveled.
Caswallon took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. The flame-haired boy ducked and weaved, stopping to pick up a stone and hurl it at the nearest horse. The beast shied, pitching its rider.
“Good for you, Gaelen,” whispered Caswallon.
A rider in a white cloak wheeled his mount, cutting across the boy’s path. The youngster turned to sprint away and the lance took him deep in the back, lifting him from his feet and hurling him to the ground. He struggled to rise and a second rider ended his torment, slashing a sword blade to his face. The riders cantered back to the city.
Caswallon found his hands shaking uncontrollably, and his heart pounded, reflecting his anger and shame.
How could men do such a thing to a youth?
Caswallon recalled his last visit to Ateris three weeks before, when he had driven in twenty long-horned Highland cattle to the market stalls in the west of the city. He had stolen the beasts from the pastures of the Pallides two days before. At the market he had seen a crowd chasing the red-haired youngster as he sprinted through the streets, his skinny legs pounding the marble walkway, his arms pumping furiously.
Gaelen had shinned up a trellis by the side of the inn and leaped across the rooftops, stopping only to make an obscene gesture to his pursuers. Spotting Caswallon watching, he drew back his shoulders and swaggered across the rooftops. Caswallon had grinned then. He liked the boy; he had style.
The fat butcher Leon had chuckled beside him. “He’s a character, is Gaelen. Every city needs one.”
“Parents?” asked Caswallon.
“Dead. He’s been alone five years-since he was nine or ten.”
“How does he survive?”
“He steals. I let him get away with a chicken now and then. He sneaks up on me and I chase him for a while, shouting curses.”
“You like him, Leon?”
“Yes. As I like you, Caswallon, you rascal. But then he reminds me of you. You are both thieves and you are both good at what you do-and there is no evil in either of you.”
“Nice of you to say so,” said Caswallon, grinning. “Now, how much for the Pallides cattle?”
“Why do you do it?”
“What?” asked Caswallon innocently.
“Steal cattle. By all accounts you are one of the richest clansmen in the Farlain. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Tradition,” answered Caswallon. “I’m a great believer in it.”
Leon shook his head. “One of these days you’ll be caught and hanged-or worse, knowing the Pallides. You baffle me.”
