running track to the twelve men contesting the weights. They were drawing lots to decide which man would first attempt the hurling and Drada and Ongist settled on the grass as the draw was decided.
One man approached a cart on which was set a block of marble. It was shaped as a ball and carefully inscribed with the names of Ateris’s greatest poets. Before today it had rested on a velvet-covered stand in the city library.
It weighed over sixty pounds.
The man placed his hand on either side of the sphere, bent his knees, and lifted it to his chest. He approached the marker stake, hoisted the sphere above his head, and with a grunt of effort, threw it forward. With a dull thud it buried itself in the ground some five paces ahead. Three officials prized it loose with spears and rolled it back to the marker stake, lifting it for the next thrower.
Drada and Ongist watched with scant interest as the men took their turns until, at last, Orsa stripped himself of his shirt and stood grinning by the stake. He waved to his brothers.
Two officials lifted the sphere into his arms. Even before they were clear Orsa shifted the weight to his right hand, dipped his shoulder, and hurled the sphere into the air. It sailed over the other marks by some three paces; as it landed it shattered into a score of pieces.
“Must have hit a buried rock,” muttered Ongist.
Orsa ambled across to them. “Easy,” he said, pointing at the ruined marble.
Drada nodded. “You are still the strongest, brother.”
“No need for proof,” said Orsa. “Waste of time.”
“True,” Drada agreed.
“I’m hungry,” said Orsa, wandering away without another word. Drada watched him go, marveling anew at the sheer size of the man. His upper arms were as large as most men’s thighs.
“By Vatan, he’s a monster,” said Ongist.
Drada looked away. In a family of monsters it seemed ironic that Ongist should so describe the only one among them who hated no one.
High on the hillside the three clansmen stood to depart. They had seen enough. “I think Maeg is right,” said Caswallon. “Tell me, Gaelen, do you think you could beat that white-haired runner?”
“I fear we will find out next month,” said Gaelen. “I think I can. But he wasn’t stretched today; he set his own pace. Still, if they do bring a team I hope that giant comes with them. I’d love to see him against Lennox.”
Chapter Six
Deva awoke in the first moments of dawn, as the sun lanced its light through the slats of her window. She yawned and stretched, rolling to her side to watch the dust motes dance in the sunbeams. Kicking aside the down- filled quilt, she opened the shutters and leaned on the stone sill, breathing deeply.
The cool early-morning breeze held the promise of autumn, and already the leaves on the distant trees were dappled with rusty gold. Mountain ash and copper beech glistened and their leaves looked like coins, rich and freshly minted.
Deva was always first to rise. She could hear her brother Agwaine snoring in the next room. Stripping her woolen nightdress from her slender body, she poured water into a clay bowl and washed her face. She was a tall girl, willowy and narrow-hipped. Her features were clean-cut, not beautiful, but her large, grey eyes with traces of tawny gold gave her magnificence. Most of the young men of the Farlain had paid court to her and she rejected them all. The mother of kings! That’s what the old tinker woman had predicted at her birth. And Deva was determined to fulfill her destiny. She would not do that by marrying a Highland boy! Over the door hung a silvered mirror. Wiping the water from her face and neck she walked over to it, looking deep into her own eyes. Grey they were, but not the color of arctic clouds, nor winter seas. They were the soft grey of a rabbit’s pelt, and the glints of gold made them warm and welcoming. She smiled at herself, tilting her head.
She knew she was attractive. She combed her fingers through her corn-gold hair, shaking her head to untangle the knots. Then she remembered the visitors her father Cambil had welcomed the night before.
Asbidag, Lord of the Aenir! She shivered, crossing her arms. The Aenir was a large man with powerful shoulders and a spreading gut. His face was broad, his mouth cruel, and his eyes evil. Deva didn’t like him.
No more did she like the woman he brought with him-Morgase, he called her. Her skin was white as any Ateris statue and she seemed just as cold.
Deva had heard much talk during the last few months about the dangers of the Aenir, and had dismissed it from her mind, believing as she did in the wisdom of her father. Last night she had thought afresh.
Asbidag brought two of his sons to the house. Both were handsome, and had they been Farlain Deva might have considered allowing them to join her at the Whorl Dance. The dark-haired Ongist had smiled at her, but his eyes betrayed his lust and she had lost interest in him. The other, Drada, had merely bowed and kissed her hand. Him she had seen before. His voice was deep, yet soft, and in his eyes she saw only a hint of mockery.
Now he was interesting…
Deva had been looking forward to the Games all summer. As the Games Maiden, elected by the Council, she would preside over the Whorl Dance and be the only woman to choose her dancing companions. No man could refuse the Games Maiden.
In her mind’s eye she could see herself walking the lines of waiting men, stopping momentarily, lifting a hand. She would halt by Gaelen and smile. As he stepped forward, she would walk on and choose Layne.
She giggled. Perhaps she would choose Gaelen…
The thoughts were delicious.
She dressed quickly in a flowing skirt of leaf-green and a russet shirt with billowing sleeves. Then she walked downstairs.
The woman Morgase was in the kitchen, talking to Drada. Their conversation ceased as she entered. “Good morning,” she said as they turned.
They nodded at her and she felt uncomfortable, as if she had blundered in on a secret assignation. Moving past them, she opened the kitchen door and walked into the yard beyond.
The Games fields in the valley below were ablaze with color. Tents of every shade and hue had sprouted overnight like immense flowers. Ropes had been staked, creating tracks and lanes, and enormous trestle tables were ready for the barter of goods. Several cooking pits had been dug in preparation for the barbecue and the barrels of mead were set in the center of the field where the Whorl Stone had been placed on a bulging hill.
Already the clans were gathering. Her eyes scanned the surrounding hillsides. Everywhere was movement. They came from the Pallides, the Haesten, the Loda, the Irelas, the Dunilds, the Clouds-from every clan, large and small.
Today they would muster and pitch their tents. Tomorrow Cambil, the Games Lord, would announce the order of events. And then Deva would start the first race.
Movement to her left caught her eye. She turned and watched as the Druid Lord approached her. “Good morning, Taliesen,” she said, smiling to hide her apprehension. She didn’t like the old man; he made her skin crawl and she had often heard her father speak of his eldritch magic.
“Good morning, Deva. How is the Games Maiden?”
“I am well, my lord. And you?”
“I am as you see me.”
“You never seem to change.”
“All men change. You cannot fight the years. I wondered if you might do me a small service?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. Will you walk with me a way?”
“Where?” she asked, fear taking the place of apprehension.
“Do not worry. I shall not harm you. Come.”
The old man moved away toward the western woods and Deva followed some paces behind. Once in the trees Taliesen stopped and retrieved a long bundle lying behind a fallen trunk. Unwrapping it, he removed the sword
