found by Agwaine.
“What are you doing?” asked Deva, stepping back.
“This must be returned to its owner,” he told her.
“I thought the old woman was dead.”
“She is-and she is not.”
Deva felt the color ooze from her face. “You’re not going to conjure her ghost?”
“No, not her ghost.” He smiled gently. “Trust me, little one. Take the sword in your hands.” He offered it to her, hilt forward. She took it; it was heavy but she was strong and held it firmly.
Taliesen closed his eyes and started to whisper sibilantly in a language Deva had never heard. The air about her began to crackle and a strange odor pervaded the wood. She wanted to run, but was frozen in fear.
The druid’s eyes opened and he leaned toward Deva. Walk into the mist,” he said. Deva blinked and stepping back she saw a thick grey mist seeping up from the ground, billowing like smoke some ten paces before her. “There is no danger, girl,” snapped Taliesen.
Deva hesitated. “What is waiting there?”
“You will see. Trust me.” Still she did not move and Taliesen’s patience snapped. “By God, are you a Farlain woman or some Lowland wench afraid of her own shadow?”
Deva steeled herself and walked forward, holding the sword two-handed, the blade pointing the way. The mist closed around her. Ahead she saw flickering lights. Her feet were cold now. She glanced down and saw, to her amazement, that she was walking in water. No, not in. Upon! Momentarily she stopped as a large silver fish swam beneath her. “Go on!” came the voice of Taliesen in her mind.
To her right she heard the sound of a waterfall but it was strangely muted, muffled. Looking straight ahead she walked across the lake pool, and saw a crowd of armed men at the poolside carrying torches. At their center stood a young woman. She was beautiful, though her hair was bright silver, and she wore dark armor.
“Stop now!” came Taliesen’s voice. Deva waited, the sword heavy in her hands. The warrior woman waded out into the pool. The water was thigh-deep as she approached where Deva stood.
“Who are you?” the armored woman asked.
“Say nothing!” ordered Taliesen. “Give her the sword.”
Obediently Deva reversed the blade, offering it to the woman.
For a moment their eyes met, and Deva felt chilled by the power in the other’s gaze. “Can you read the future, spirit?” asked the Queen. Taliesen whispered another order and Deva turned away, walking slowly back across the surface of the pool and reentering the mist.
The old druid waited for her in the sunshine. He was sitting on the grass, his cloak of feathers wrapped around his scrawny shoulders, his face grey with exhaustion.
Deva knelt beside him. “Who was she?” she asked.
“A queen in another time,” he answered. “Tell no one of what passed here today.”
The following day almost four thousand clansmen, women, and children thronged the fields, gathering around the Whorl Hill on which was set the legendary stone of Earis, by which he had pledged to lead the Farlain to safety beyond the Gate. The stone itself was black, but studded with clusters of pearl-white deposits that caught the sunlight and sparkled like tiny gems. Although a man could encompass it with his arms, it weighed more than two hundred pounds.
Around the stone stood the Hunt Lords of the clans, and in their midst Asbidag of the Aenir. The clan lords were clearly uncomfortable.
Maggrig of the Pallides was furious. The Games were a clan affair, yet last night Cambil had sprung upon them his invitation for the Aenir to enter a team. The argument had raged for over an hour.
“Are you mad?” Maggrig had stormed. “Has the addled Farlain mind finally betrayed you?”
“I am the Games Lord this year. They are on Farlain land; it is my decision,” Cambil answered, fighting to control his anger.
“Be that as it may, Cambil,” put in the white-haired Laric, Hunt Lord of the Haesten, “but should any one man be allowed to set a precedent others will be forced to follow?” He was known to be a man rarely aroused to anger. Yet his thin face was flushed now, his fists clenched.
“It is my decision,” Cambil repeated stonily.
Laric bit back his anger. “The Aenir have no friends-only vassals. They have tried to scout all our lands and been turned back. You realize that if they win outright we are obliged to allow them access? The Games Champions can travel and hunt where they will.”
“They will not win,” said Cambil. “They are not clansmen.”
“Calling you a fool serves nothing,” said Laric, “for you have proven that beyond my speculation. What breaks my heart is that one man’s foolishness could bring about the ruin of the clans.” There was a gasp from the assembled Hunt Lords and Cambil sat very still, his face ashen.
Maggrig rose. “I am tempted to take the Pallides home, away from this stupidity, yet I cannot,” he said, “for without them the Aenir would have a greater chance of victory. I suspect it is the same for every lord here. But I tell you this, Cambil. Until now I have had scant respect for you. From today even that is a thing of the past. It matters not a whit to me if the Farlain are run by a fool; that hurts only the Farlain. But when you put the Pallides at risk I cannot forgive you.”
Color drained from Cambil’s face. “How dare you! You think I care what some potbellied out-clan thinks of me? Take your ragbag carles home. With or without the Aenir your Pallides would win nothing, only humiliation.”
“Hark, the Aenir lapdog can still bark,” snapped Maggrig.
“Enough of this!” stormed Laric, as Maggrig and Cambil moved toward each other. “Listen to me. I have no love for the Farlain, nor for the Pallides. But we are clansmen and no man will violate the spirit of the Games. There will be no violence among the Hunt Lords. The thing has been done and long will it be argued over. But it is done. Now let us consider the order of events, or we’ll be here all night.”
Later, as Maggrig and Laric walked back to their tents in the moonlight, the taller Haesten lord was deep in thought. Maggrig also kept silent. Laric-the oldest Hunt Lord in Druin, approaching sixty years of age-was also by far the wisest. Maggrig liked him, though he’d swallow live coals rather than tell him so.
They reached Laric’s tent first and the older man turned to Maggrig, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Cambil is a fool. He cannot see that which should be clear to every clansman. The Aenir are tomorrow’s enemy. My land borders yours, Maggrig, and we have had many disputes ere now, but if the Aenir cross Pallides land I shall bring my clansmen to your aid.”
Maggrig smiled. It was a nice ploy, but the fact remained that for the Aenir to cross Pallides borders they must march through either Farlain land or Haesten-and the Haesten were less powerful than the Farlain. Laric was asking for an ally.
“Between us we have perhaps two thousand fighting men,” said Maggrig. “Do you think they could stop an Aenir army?”
“Perhaps.”
“Agreed, then. We will be allies. I would expect, of course, to be War Lord.”
“Of course,” said Laric. “Good night.”
The following morning Maggrig stood alongside Asbidag, biting back his anger. The two men could have been brothers. Both had striking red beards flecked with silver, both were powerfully built. Deva watched them with anxiety. They were so similar-until you looked into their eyes. There was no evil in Maggrig. Deva looked away.
Cambil’s opening speech of welcome was short, and he quickly outlined the order of the Games. The first event would be the mountain run, five miles on a twisting circuit through woods and valleys. Three hundred men were entered and the Hunt Lords had decided on six qualifying races. The first five in each race would contest two semifinals, and fifteen of the fastest, strongest clansmen would run the final on the last day.
Other qualifying events were outlined and then it was left to Deva, in a flowing dress of white linen garlanded
