he swung the axe, he twisted the handle flashing the blade in a complete turn before allowing it to hammer home in the log set on an oak round. It was almost theatrical and well worth the watching. It was the same with everything he did, Maeg knew; it wasn’t that he needed to impress an audience, he was merely creative and easily bored, and amused himself by adding intricacy and often beauty to the most mundane of chores.
“You will win no prizes at the Games with such pretty strokes,” she called as the last log split.
He grinned at her. “So this is why my breakfast’s late, is it? You’re too busy gawking and admiring my fine style? It was a sad day, woman, when you bewitched me away from the fine Farlain ladies.”
“The truth of it is, Caswallon, my lad, that only a foreign woman would take you-one who hadn’t heard the terrible tales of your youth.”
“You’ve a sharp tongue in your head, but then I could expect no more from Maggrig’s daughter. Do you think he’ll find the house?”
“And why shouldn’t he?”
“It’s a well-known fact the Pallides need a map to get from bed to table.”
“You tell that to Maggrig when he gets here and he’ll pin both your ears to the bedposts,” she said.
“Maybe I will, at that,” he told her, stooping to lift his doeskin shirt from the fence.
“You will not!” she shouted. “You promised you’d not aggravate the man. Did you not?”
“Hush, woman. I always keep my promises.”
“That’s nonsense. You promised you’d seal the draft from this very window.”
“You’ve a tongue like a willow switch and the memory of an injured hound. I’ll do it after breakfast-that is, if the food ever sees the inside of a platter.”
“Do the two of you never stop arguing?” asked Oracle, leaning on his quarterstaff at the corner of the house. “It’s just as well you built your house so far from the rest.”
“Why is it,” asked Maeg, smiling, “that you always arrive as the food is ready?”
“The natural timing of an old hunter,” he told her.
Maeg dished up hot oats in wooden platters, cut half a dozen slices of thick black bread, and broke some salt onto a small side dish, placing it before the two men. From the larder she took a dish of fresh-made butter and a jar of thick berry preserve. Then she sat in her own chair by the fire, taking up the tiny tunic she was knitting for the babe.
The men ate in silence until at last Caswallon pushed away his plate and asked, “How is the boy?”
Maeg stopped her knitting and looked up, her grey eyes fixed on the old man’s face. The story of Caswallon’s rescue of the lad had spread among the Farlain. It hadn’t surprised them, they knew Caswallon. Similarly it hadn’t surprised Maeg, but it worried her. Donal was Caswallon’s son and he was barely four months old. Now the impulsive clansman had acquired another son, many years older, and this disturbed her.
“He is a strong boy, and he improves daily,” said Oracle. “But life has not been good to him and he is suspicious.”
“Of what?” Caswallon asked.
“Of everything. He was a thief in Ateris, an orphan, unloved and unwanted. A hard thing for a child, Caswallon.”
“A hard thing for anyone,” said the clansman. “You know he crawled for almost two hours with those wounds. He’s tough. He deserves a second chance at life.”
“He is still frightened of the Aenir,” said Oracle.
“So should he be,” answered Caswallon gravely. “I am frightened of them. They are a bloodthirsty people and once they have conquered the Lowlands they will look to the clans.”
“I know,” said the old man, meeting Caswallon’s eye. “They will outnumber us greatly. And they’re fighters. Killers all.”
“Mountain war is a different thing altogether,” said Caswallon. “The Aenir are fine warriors but they are still Lowlanders. Their horses will be useless in the bracken, or on the scree slopes. Their long swords and axes will hamper them.”
“True, but what of the valleys where our homes are?”
“We must do our best to keep them out of the valleys,” answered Caswallon with a shrug.
“Are you so sure they’ll attack?” asked Maeg. “What could they possibly want here?”
“Like all conquerors,” Oracle answered her, “they fear all men think as they do. They will see the clans as a threat, never knowing when we will pour out of the mountains onto their towns, and so they will seek to destroy us. But we have time yet. There are still Lowland armies and cities to be taken, and then they must bring their families over from the south land and build their own farms and towns. We have three years, maybe a little less.”
“Were you always so gloomy, old man?” asked Maeg, growing angry as her good humor evaporated.
“Not always, young Maeg. Once I was as strong as a bull and feared nothing. Now my bones are like dry sticks, my muscles wet parchment. Now I worry. There was a time when the Farlain could gather an army to terrify the world, when no one would dare invade the Highlands. But the world moves on…”
“Let tomorrow look after itself, my friend,” said Caswallon, resting a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We’ll not make a jot of difference by worrying about it. As Maeg says, we are growing gloomy. Come, we’ll walk away and talk. It will help the food to settle, and I know Maeg will not want us under her feet.”
Both men rose and Oracle walked around the table to stand over Maeg. Then he bowed and kissed her cheek. “I am sorry,” he said. “I promise I’ll not bring gloom to this house-for a while, at least.”
“Away with you,” she said, rising and throwing her arms around his neck. “You’re always welcome here-just bear in mind I’ve a young babe, and I don’t want to hear such melancholy fear for his future.”
Maeg watched them leave on the short walk through the pasture toward the mountain woods beyond. Then she gathered up the dishes and scrubbed them clean in the water bucket by the hearth. Completing her chores the clanswoman checked on the babe, once more stroking his brow and rearranging his blanket. At her touch he awoke, stretching one pudgy arm with fist clenched, screwing up his face and yawning. Sitting beside him, Maeg opened her tunic and held him to her breast. As he fed she began to sing a soft, lilting lullaby. The babe suckled for several minutes, then when he had finished, she lifted him to her shoulder. His head sagged against her face. Gently she rubbed his back; he gave a loud burp that brought a peal of laughter from his mother. Kissing his cheek, she told him, “We’ll need to improve your table manners before long, little one.” Carefully she laid him back in his cot and Donal fell asleep almost instantly.
Returning to the kitchen, Maeg found Kareen had arrived with the morning milk and was busy transferring it to the stone jug by the wall. Kareen was a child of the mountains, orphaned during the last winter. Only fifteen, it would be a year before she could be lawfully wed and she had been sent by the Hunt Lord, Cambil, to serve Maeg in the difficult early months following the birth of Donal. In the strictest sense Kareen was a servant under indenture, but in the Highlands she was a “child of the house,” a short-term daughter to be loved and cared for after the fashion of the clans. Kareen was a bright, lively girl, not attractive but strong and willing. Her face was long and her jaw square, but she had a pretty smile and wore it often. Maeg liked her.
“Beth’s yield is down again,” said Kareen. “I think it’s that damned hound of Bolan’s. It nipped her leg, you know. Caswallon should chide him about it.”
“I’m sure that he will,” said Maeg. “Would you mind seeing to Donal if he wakes? I’ve a mind to collect some herbs for the pot.”
“Would I mind? I’d be delighted. Has he been fed?”
“He has, but I don’t doubt he’ll enjoy the warmed oats you’ll be tempting him with,” said Maeg, winking.
Kareen grinned. “He’s a healthy eater, to be sure. How is the Lowland boy?”
“Healing,” Maeg told her. “I’ll be back soon.” Lifting her shawl cloak from the hook by the door, Maeg swung it about her shoulders and stepped out into the yard.
Kareen placed the last of the stone jugs by the wall, hefted the empty bucket, and walked out to the well to wash it clean.
She watched Maeg strolling toward the pasture woods, admiring the proud, almost regal movements and rare animal grace that could not be disguised by the heavy woolen skirt and shawl. Maeg was beautiful. From her night- dark hair to her slender ankles she was everything Kareen would never be. And yet she was unconscious of her beauty and that, more than anything, led Kareen to love her.
Maeg enjoyed walking alone in the woods, listening to the birdsong and reveling in the solitude. It was here that she found tranquillity. Caswallon, despite being the love of her life, was also the cause of great turmoil. His
