Turning again toward the north, he scanned the hillside for the cave the old man had spoken of. The babe in his arms gave out a thin piercing wail and Caswallon cursed again. The sun was slowly sinking behind the western peaks. As it fell below the clouds a shaft of bright light lit the hillside, and Caswallon saw the dark shadow of the cave entrance, some thirty paces above him and to the right.
The barking of hounds was closer. Twisting, he saw four sleek black shapes emerge from the tree line below, no more than fifty paces behind him. Holding firm to the child, Caswallon sprinted up the slope and into the cave. It was like a short tunnel. Behind him the dying sun was bright against the rocks, yet ahead was a forest bathed in moonlight.
Caswallon spun, for the first of the hounds had reached the cave. As it leaped his sword slashed down across its neck, smashing through flesh and bone. Turning again, he saw the moonlit forest begin to fade. Taking two running steps he hurled himself through the Gateway. He fell heavily, bracing his arm and shoulder so that the babe would be protected.
Rolling to his feet he swung to face his enemies-and found himself staring at a solid wall of grey stone. The sound of a waterfall came to him and he sheathed his sword and walked toward it. I know this place, he thought. But the trees are different. This was Ironhand’s Pool, and if he climbed above the falls he would see High Druin in the distance. The wind shifted, bringing the smell of wood smoke to his nostrils. Moving to his left into the wind, the smell grew stronger. Ahead was a cottage of stone, with a thatched roof, and a cleared yard containing a small flower garden and a coop for chickens. Caswallon ran to the cottage, tapping softly at the door. It was opened by a young woman with long fair hair. “What do you want?” she asked, her eyes wide with fear.
“Food for a babe,” he answered, handing her the child. Her eyes changed as she gazed at the small face.
“Come inside.”
Caswallon followed her. At a pine table sat a large man with a heavy beard of red-gold.
“Welcome,” said the man. Caswallon noticed that one of his hands was below the table, and guessed a blade was hidden there.
“I found the babe in the forest,” he said lamely.
The man and woman exchanged glances. “Do you know whose child it is?” the man asked.
“I know nothing of her,” said Caswallon.
“We lost our own daughter three days ago,” said the man. “That is her crib there, in the corner. You can leave the child with us, if you will. My wife is still milk-swelled-as you can see.” The woman had opened her shirt and was feeding the babe.
Caswallon pulled up a chair and seated himself opposite the man, looking deep into his clear grey eyes. “If I leave her with you, will you care for her as you would your own?”
“Aye,” said the man. “Walk with me awhile.” He rose, sheathing the hunting knife he had held below the table. He was taller than Caswallon, and broader in the shoulder. Stepping out into the night he walked to the far side of the cabin, seating himself on a bench crafted from pine. Caswallon sat beside him. “Who are you?” he asked. “Your clothes are clan, but you are not Loda.”
“I am Caswallon of the Farlain.”
“I have dealings with the Farlain. How is it I have never heard of you?”
Caswallon let out a sigh and leaned back against the bench. “Is there a town near here, on the edge of the Lowlands, called Ateris?”
The man shook his head. “There is Citadel town. The Outlanders control it now. And I ask you again-who are you?”
“I am a clansman, as I have said.” He laughed suddenly. “Were our positions reversed, my friend, and you were to tell me the story of how you found the babe, I would think you mad.”
“I am not you,” said the man. “So speak.”
Quietly Caswallon told him of the Aenir invasion and of his journey through the Gateway, of the dying priest, and the men and hounds who had sought the death of the child. The man did not interrupt, but listened intently. As he finished Caswallon stood and looked down into the man’s deep-set grey eyes, awaiting a response.
At that moment the ground trembled. Thrown off balance, Caswallon lurched to the right. The moonlight brightened and gazing up, both men saw two moons shining in the sky. For moments only the land was bathed in silver brilliance, then the second moon faded.
As it did so the figure of Taliesen appeared beside them. The old man stumbled and fell to his knees as the crofter leaped to his feet, his knife snaking into his hand. “No!” shouted Caswallon. “He is the druid I told you of.”
Taliesen tried to stand, failed, and sat glumly on the ground. “I think the journey almost killed me,” he grumbled. As Caswallon helped him to his feet, the little sorcerer sighed. “You have no idea of the energy I have expended to arrive here. Who is this?”
“I am Cei,” said the crofter.
“I must see the child,” said Taliesen, shaking himself free of Caswallon’s support and moving off to the cabin.
Cei approached Caswallon. “You were wrong. I did not think you mad. Yesterday an old man came to us as we were mourning the death of our babe. He told us he would come, and that he would bring us joy-and sorrow.”
“This man, was he bald and wearing grey robes?”
Cei nodded.
Both men returned to the cabin, to find Taliesen kneeling beside the crib where the baby was sleeping. When Caswallon and Cei looked closely they saw that the child’s silver hair was now corn-gold.
Taliesen stood and turned toward the crofter. “Enemies will come after this babe,” he said. “Be warned. I have changed the color of her hair. As I have told your wife, you must raise her as your own; no one must know how she came here. Your wife says the death of your child is not known among your friends in the clan. Keep it that way.”
“Who is she?” asked Cei. “Why is she in danger?”
“She is your daughter. You need know no more than that-save that she is of the blood royal,” said Taliesen. “Now we must go.”
Lennox added fuel to the fire and the flames leaped and twisted. He wasn’t cold, he merely wanted to see the child’s face in sleep. Her thumb had slipped from her open mouth and she was breathing evenly. Lennox carefully hitched her into the crook of his right arm, stretching his back.
Gaelen yawned and stretched, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Seeing Lennox still awake, he moved around the fire to join him. “How is she?”
“She is all right now. She says her father was eaten by wolves.. . and her sister.”
“It’s unlikely,” said Gaelen. “She would not have escaped a pack. A dream, do you think?”
“I don’t know. She said the wolves were as big as me.”
“Wolves attack at night and they move fast. A child that small might think them overlarge.”
“I agree, Gaelen, but she’s clan; her father was clan. How could he be surprised by wolves? It makes no sense. I can’t remember a clansman ever being killed by a pack. Wolves don’t attack men. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Perhaps he had no fire, or had been forced to flee without weapons. Perhaps the wolves were starving.”
The two men sat in silence for a while, then Gaelen spoke. “More likely it was the Aenir and the child was confused. Many of them wear wolfskin cloaks. And at the Games I saw a man with a wolf’s head for a helm. An attack at night?”
“She says her mother was killed by men with swords. I don’t think she’s that confused. I think you should walk warily tomorrow,” said Lennox.
“We’ll miss you on the trip,” said Gaelen, gripping Lennox’s shoulder.
“Yes, but you don’t need me. She does. I’ll get her to the island and then join my father. We’ll see you in Axta Glen.”
“I hope so. I pray there is an army of Highlanders ready to be gathered. But if not I shall still see you there, Lennox. Even if I am alone. I promise you.”
“I know you will, cousin. I’ll look forward to it.”