Gwalchmai finished last of the eight finalists, but was satisfied, for by next year he would have added height and strength to his frame and believed he could win. For Lennox the Games were a sad affair, for his injured arm robbed him of the chance to lift the Whorl Stone.
Summer drifted into a mild autumn and on into a vicious winter.
Caswallon and Gaelen spent their time forking hay to the cattle and journeying high into the mountains to rescue sheep trapped in snowdrifts. It was a desperately hard time for all the clans, yet Gaelen absorbed the knowledge Caswallon imparted readily.
In winter, Caswallon told him as they sheltered from a fierce blizzard high on the eastern range, it is vital not to sweat. For sweat turns to ice beneath the clothing and a man can freeze to death in minutes. All movement should be slow and sure, and all camps prepared hours before dusk.
That afternoon, trapped by a fierce snow squall, Caswallon had led them to a wooded ridge. Here he had pulled four saplings together, tying them with thongs. Then he carefully threaded branches between them and built a fire in the center. As the snow continued it piled against the branches, creating a round shelter with thick white walls. The fire within heated the walls to solid ice and the two men were snug and safe.
“Make the storm work for you,” said Caswallon, stripping off his sheepskin jerkin and allowing the fire’s heat to reach his skin. “Take off your outer clothes, Gaelen.”
“I’ll freeze,” answered the young man, rubbing his cold hands together.
“Clothes keep heat in, but similarly they can keep heat out. Remove your coat.”
Gaelen did as he was told, grinning sheepishly as the heat in the shelter struck him.
Later Gaelen found himself staring into the glowing coals, his mind wandering. He rubbed his eyes and scratched at the jagged scar above.
“What are you thinking?” Caswallon asked.
“I was thinking of the Queen.”
“What about her?”
“About her coming again.”
“She is dead, Gaelen. Dead and buried.”
“I know. But she seemed so sure. I wonder who she was.”
“A queen-and I would guess a great one,” said Caswallon. Silence settled around them, until Caswallon suddenly grinned. “What’s this I hear about you and Deva?”
At the mention of Agwaine’s sister Gaelen began to blush.
“Aha!” said Caswallon, sitting up. “There is more to this business than rumor.”
“There’s nothing,” protested Gaelen. “Really, there’s nothing. I’ve hardly even spoken to her. And when I do, my tongue gets caught in my teeth and I seem to have three feet.”
“That bad?”
“It’s not anything. I just…” Glancing up, he saw Caswallon raise his right eyebrow, his face mock-serious. Gaelen began to giggle. “You swine. You’re mocking me.”
“Not at all. I’ve never been one to mock young love,” said Caswallon.
“I’m not in love. And if I was, there would be no point. Cambil cannot stand me.”
“Do not let that worry you, Gaelen. Cambil is afraid of many things, but if young Deva wants you he will agree. But then it’s a little early to think of marriage. Another year.”
“I know that. And I was not talking about marriage… or love. A man can like a girl, you know.”
“Very true,” admitted Caswallon. “I liked Maeg the first moment I saw her.”
“It is not the same thing at all.”
“You’ll make a fine couple.”
“Will you stop this? I’m going to sleep,” said Gaelen, curling his blanket around him. After a few moments he opened his eyes to see Caswallon was still sitting by the fire looking down at him.
Gaelen grinned. “She’s very tall-for a girl, I mean.”
“She certainly is,” agreed Caswallon, “and pretty.”
“Yes. Do you really think we’d make a good couple?”
“No doubt of it.”
“Why is it that whenever I talk to her the words all tumble out as if they’ve been poured from a sack?”
“Witchcraft,” said Caswallon.
“A pox on you,” snorted Gaelen. “I’m definitely going to sleep.”
The winter passed like a painful memory. Losses had been high among the sheep and calves, but spring was warm and dry, promising good harvests in summer.
Cambil accepted an invitation from Asbidag, leader of the Northern Aenir, to visit Ateris, now called Aesgard. Cambil took with him twenty clansmen. He was treated royally and responded by inviting Asbidag and twenty of his followers to the Summer Games.
Caswallon’s fury stunned Maeg, who had never seem him lose control. His face had turned chalk-white, his hands sweeping across the pine tabletop and smashing pottery to shards.
“The fool!” he hissed. “How could he do such a thing?”
“You think the danger is that great from twenty men?” Maeg asked softly, ignoring the ruined jugs and goblets.
Caswallon said nothing. Taking his cloak and staff, he left the house and set off in a loping run toward the hills and the cave of Oracle.
Taliesen sealed shut the door to his private chambers and opened a small, hidden recess in the wall. Reaching in he touched a sensor and light bathed the small room, radiating from panels set in the four walls. With another touch he activated the viewer. The oak veneer of his crudely carved desktop slid back and revealed a dark screen, which rose into a vertical position. Taliesen moved to the rear wall. Scores of paper sheets were pinned to the paneling here, each covered in lines and scrawled with symbols. To the unskilled eye the drawings would appear to be of winter trees, with hundreds of tiny, leafless branches. Taliesen stared at them, remembering the perilous journeys through the Gateways that each represented. Here and there, on every sheet a branch would end with a single stroke drawn through it. By each was a hastily drawn star. Taliesen counted them. Forty-eight. On the desktop, beside the dark screen, was a newly drawn tree that showed no stars. Taliesen pinned it to the wall.
This was the tree of the Hawk Eternal.
The tree where Sigarni regained her sword that was stolen. Where she did not die in some last despairing battle, but survived to reach the Farlain and save the children. Taliesen gazed at the drawing. “Simple to see,” he said, “but where are you? Which of the Time Lines will bring me to you?”
Seating himself before the screen, he opened the right-hand desk drawer and removed a round earring with a spring clip. It was in the shape of a star. Clipping it to his ear, he closed his eyes. The screen flickered, then brightened. Taliesen took a deep, calming breath and opened his eyes.
“Be careful,” he warned himself. “Do not seek to see too much. Concentrate on the minutiae.” The screen darkened, and with a soft curse Taliesen reached up and touched the star upon his ear, pressing it firmly. The screen leaped to life, and the old druid stared hard at the scene that appeared there.
For more than an hour he watched, occasionally scribbling short notes to aid his memory. Then he removed the earring, touched a button below the desktop, and stood. The screen folded down; the oak veneer covered it once more.
Taliesen studied the notes, adding a line here and there. Rising, he moved to the wall, pinning the notes alongside the tree of the Hawk Eternal. He shook his head. “Somewhere there is a rogue element,” he said, “and it has not yet shown its face. What, where, and when?” A thought struck him and his mouth tightened. “Or perhaps I should be asking: Who?” he mused.
“Pah! Do not be so foolish,” he told himself. “There is no one. You are the Master of the Gates, and the rogue element is a figment of your paranoia. If there was someone you would have found him by now. Or seen greater evidence to point toward him. You are an old fool! The secret lies with the Hawk Eternal-and you will teach him.”
His eyes were drawn to the stars scrawled on the sheets. Focusing on each, he dragged the painful memories from the depths of his mind. The most galling of them was the last. Having defeated Earl Jastey, Sigarni contracted a fever and died in the night. By Heaven, that was hard to take. Taliesen had all but given up then.
