An Extract from Dark Thane

Chapter One

It's in the High Street, the Heart. It's made from red cobbles with a double border of grey. It has been there for a long, long time. Officially, it's known as the 'Heart of Midlothian' and people say that it marks the very centre of that district which is home to the capital city of Scotland. There is a local football team of the same name but, beyond that, the local inhabitants don't pay much attention to it; it's not very spectacular and is often covered by thick snow.

There is a custom attached to the Heart however, although people have long forgotten the meaning of that custom. Passers-by spit on it, and it is said that if you can spit in the very centre you will have good luck for a year. Spitting was once said to ward off evil and the sign which was simultaneously made with one's index and little fingers when crossing those stones has fallen into disuse in modern times.

No one remembers. The Heart of Midlothian, which marks the site of the entrance to the Old Tollbooth is also a seal, a capstone set there hundreds of years earlier by a man possessed of magic. Few such men and few magics still survived even in those times. Now there are none, except perhaps in the memory of the stones and the ghosts who linger in the darkness of the Old Town...

It was getting dark already and it was only four o' clock in the afternoon. Nathan leaned back against the cold stone of the cathedral walls and watched the crowds of people moving purposefully up and down the length of the High Street. Hugging his heavy winter coat more tightly around his angular frame to shut out the chill, he tried to pick out a likely prospect from those coming towards him.

'Force eye contact from as far away as possible,' Daniel had instructed when he dumped a couple of hundred leaflets into his arms that morning, 'It makes them uncomfortable - they have to acknowledge you to make their excuses for not stopping. That's when you strike.'

He had grinned his wide disarming grin and winked towards Esther who blushed and smiled. Nathan scowled in response, telling himself that Daniel was a complete prat and that's why he disliked him so much but deep down, knowing the truth; that he was jealous of his friend's easy charm.

A woman was walking towards him. She was well dressed in a business suit and carried a large soft-looking handbag. She had spotted Nathan and was now studiously avoiding his gaze, looking at her watch as she came closer.

'Excuse me miss...' Nathan stepped forward his hand outstretched with one of the colourful leaflets. 'Miss, do you feel that God has forsaken you?' He blurted it out too fast, he sounded desperate. 'Desperation never sold anything.' Another of Daniel's gems of wisdom. To his surprise, the woman stopped and took the leaflet, her eyes flickered over it quickly then she looked up at him.

'No,' she said quietly. She looked inordinately angry at his approach, her pale features were tense and strained looking. 'I don't believe in God.' To emphasise this she screwed the leaflet into a tight angry ball in her leather-gloved hand and dropped it at his feet. 'Get a life why don't you,' she snarled. Just before she turned her back on him she gave him a look which was mostly malicious but contained also a hint of humour. Then, unexpectedly, she knocked his arm sending his pile of leaflets flying into the air. Nathan scrambled to rescue them as they landed on the wet cobblestones.

'You cow,' he yelled. 'There was no need... I was doing you a favour. Your soul is...' but she was already over the other side of the street, no doubt congratulating herself on her idea of a joke. Nathan watched her go. 'Your soul is doomed,' he finished, his voice dropped almost to a whisper as he wondered if he could have said it with any less conviction.

'Don't worry Nathan.' It was Esther. He hadn't seen her arrive but she was already beside him, helping to scoop up the sodden leaflets. She smiled encouragingly, the only warmth in the darkening street, 'Some people... they just don't understand about being saved. They feel threatened.'

'No,' he shook his head, his expression still angry. 'Some people are just stupid and shallow.'

'But Daniel says...' she began.

'Well he's wrong Esther. God didn't save everyone before the flood did he? And he certainly didn't do it by handing out bloody leaflets. He knew when to cut his losses. This is a waste of time.' He tossed the last of the leaflets onto the pile in her arms. 'Daniel's a fool and I'm going to tell him.'

They began to walk back down the street towards the Bridges, a strong wind was blowing up from the bottom of the High Street, causing people to quicken their pace and bow their heads against the onslaught of the elements. Nathan's dark coat caught the edge of the gale and billowed out around him; he was frowning, his long legs moving fast, covering a lot of ground with each stride. Esther said nothing, walking a double-time step to keep up with her friend, but Nathan knew what she was thinking, what they were both thinking; he wouldn't have the nerve to say such a thing to Daniel.

***

'I'm sorry. Daniel. I'm really sorry... I just lost it.'

God, get up Daniel. Get up...

But Daniel wouldn't get up. Nathan knew that really. His grip tightened on the warm iron of the poker in his hand and Nathan stared down at his handiwork, his features a curious mixture of shock and guile. The storm had not abated and the Old Town was being lashed by gale force winds and rain. Outside, the guttering of the old building was struggling to cope with the sudden torrent and the window frames rattled as though someone or something was demanding entrance. In the far corner, rain which was leaking through the roof, plinked into a rusty iron pail. But what if he does wake up? What if he's not dead, just unconscious?

Nathan squatted beside the body in the cold darkness of the room and prodded it with the end of the poker. 'Daniel,' he whispered urgently. There was no response but Daniel's blue saintly gaze seemed blankly accusing.

I am sorry you know...

Nathan sank down on the floor beside his victim.

Daniel had changed his life, 'rocked his world,' as he was so fond of saying. Now, the colours of that day seemed unbearably bright...

He had been in Princes Street Gardens, late Spring and a clear crisp day, still edgy and cold but the locals were pretending it was Summer. All around people lazed on the grass, couples ignoring their shrieking children only telling them off when they really annoyed other sun seekers. Nathan sat observing as was his habit, his knees bent up to his chin, perching like a lank, black bird; a living shadow on the bright idyll. A small girl of about three years old came up and stared at him curiously and he returned her penetrating gaze without smiling. They considered one another for long moments before her mother called her back. Just before she turned away she wrinkled her nose, 'You smell mister,' she said.

Nathan couldn't help but smile. It was true after all, and something about her confidence in uttering the flat statement was quite brilliant. He'd been sleeping rough for a few weeks and often, the choice between a shower at the Waverley Station or a fix had gone the wrong way. He rubbed his eyes as he watched her walk back to her mother who promptly scolded her for talking to strangers. His eyes were quite sore and puffy now, and he thought he'd managed to get some kind of infection in them.

'Good morning. Is anyone sitting here?' It was a male voice, soft and melodic.

Nathan looked up frowning. There was no 'here' just the grass beside him. The figure looking down on him was in shadow as the sun was behind it.

'Whatever you're selling, I've got no money,' he muttered coldly. 'And,' he added as an afterthought, 'I'm straight, so back off.'

The speaker laughed seemingly unoffended. 'I'm not selling anything. Actually, I suppose you could say I'm giving it away.' He moved to sit down, and as he did so, the sunlight was momentarily caught and diffused in his hair giving him a golden halo, an appropriate harbinger of what was to come.

No, don't think that way...

He sat close to Nathan, too close, invading his personal space which made Nathan uncomfortable; and yet, after the thought of edging away briefly flashed through his mind, he stayed where he was, next to the stranger.

'I'm Daniel,' the stranger announced. 'What's your name?'

Nathan narrowed his crusty eyelids and scrutinised this innocent abroad. 'What do you care?' he muttered.

'I'm just being friendly,' Daniel shrugged. 'It's such a nice day don't you think?'

'Nice?' Nathan snorted. He hated the word 'nice' and, generally, people who said things were 'nice' instantly aroused his suspicion as tree-hugging hippies or upper-class toffs cocooned from the harsh extremes of reality.

'Well, just...' Daniel seemed to sense his disapproval; something Nathan later learned about Daniel was his innate intuitiveness, which bordered on... miraculous.

Stop it. He was never Holy. Never Divine.

'just...' Daniel leaned back on his elbows on the grass and laughed unselfconsciously, '...nice.'

Nathan pursed his lips, unsure of whether he should laugh also.

'Look, I'll be honest,' Daniel confided. 'I wondered if you needed a meal and bath. No offence like. I know somewhere that doesn't cost anything.'

'What's the catch?'

'There's no catch. Well, we might ask you to peel the tatties or wash the dishes,' Daniel smiled...

Nathan stared down at the corpse, a stupid smile on his face.

You were so clever Danny. Gathering up your lost souls.

If Daniel had sat down and told him the truth; that he had come to save his soul, ensuring he would be Raptured at the time of the Deluge with all the other Children, he would have laughed or called him a freak. Occasionally prone to violence, that day, a year ago now, Nathan had been close to the edge, it was possible he may have attacked his saviour. As it turned out he had only prolonged Daniel's life by a year. Daniel had found drugs, coke and a small amount of weed in Nathan's room and the confrontation which ensued had brought them here, to this...

Suddenly, without warning, Daniel moved, such a tiny fluttering motion that Nathan almost missed it in the shadows of the room. Then, it came again, the fingers of his left hand spasmed slightly, twitching open.

Alive? For a moment Nathan considered the proposition. You could say it was an accident. You could say that the Devil possessed you for a moment. Daniel would like that. He could exorcise you in front of everyone. More glory for him, the Golden Boy. More power. More love...

'No,' he said aloud into the darkness. His voice was soft and low, his dark eyes round, 'Not this time Danny. It's my turn.'

Raising the poker high above his head he struck three more times. By the third blow, Daniel, his golden friend, charismatic prophet, founder of the Children of the Deluge, was unrecognisable. Half of his head was a messy pulp and now it appeared as if that handsome, classical face had been dismantled. A calm blue eye stared lifelessly from the undamaged half and the mischievous curl of the mouth could still be seen. Blood was everywhere, but Nathan seemed unaware of the warm incrimination; he sank to the floor and lay beside his friend still cradling the poker in his arms. He stared at the still beautiful side of Daniel's face and he seemed to be listening.

'No, no Daniel, don't you see?' he whispered. 'It was you. You made me do it.' He laughed quietly. A cracked broken sound. Then, as the church bells of the Old Town chimed midnight, he slept.

***

'But I don't understand Morias. Who are those people? Why are they wearing such funny clothes?'

'Shhh little one. I do not know myself yet. But the water is never wrong. Let us watch together... Ah, look, people you might recognise - here they are...'

Bright sunlight washed the meadow in warmth. All around where he sat, evening moths whirred and danced and tiny motes of pollen hung in the still air. It was late summer and the Valley of Mirranon was at its most beautiful, carpeted with wildflowers and blessed by the sweet song of skylarks whose nests were hidden in the tall grasses. Tristan cared nothing for all this; he was crying. A few feet away, his pony, which had just bucked him off, was chewing the grass unconcernedly, as though it was completely innocent of his plight. He hated horses now he decided. Nasty, windy creatures. People who talked of their nobility were full of... horseshit. He carried on crying hard and loud, vaguely aware that it was as much fright as anything else. It was hard to catch his breath and he felt as though something was clamped around his ribs. Deep down, he knew it probably wasn't the horses fault; it was part of what Father called his 'disability.' His legs were always going to be weak despite his constant exercises, and he was unable to grip as hard as he needed to control a pony, let alone a full sized horse. His parents had been against him riding at all, but Regan had persuaded them to buy him a small mount knowing how important his independence was to him... He stopped his crying and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve as the sound of an approaching horse reached him.

'Regan!' he stood up and waved, trying to appear nonchalant. She rode confidently and fast as always, her red dress and long black hair streaming out behind her; and there, there was the picture of nobility people intended when they spoke of horse and rider in such poetic terms.

'Tris. What happened?' She reined in her horse effortlessly and jumped lightly to the ground.

'I'm alright,' he shrugged as he struggled to his feet. 'Honest.'

'Liar,' she said flatly. She frowned as she waded through the long grass towards him, lifting her long riding skirt to stop it from snagging. 'I saw your fall from the top of the rise there. It looked nasty.' She stopped in front of him and took hold of his face, tilting the chin to get a better look at the cut on his temple which was bleeding quite badly. 'Sit down Tris,' she commanded slightly more gently, 'I can't do anything while you're wavering about.'

They both sat down and Regan cleaned the wound without much comment. It wasn't as deep as she had at first feared but Tristan would have the tiny white scar as a memory of this day for a long time.

'Father's right,' he volunteered eventually. 'I can't ride,' Hot tears of frustration welled up in his eyes which Regan chose to ignore, 'I can't do anything. I'm useless... a useless bloody cripple.'

Regan gripped his shoulders and shook him lightly. 'Father never said that Tris. He would never say that.'

Tristan was faintly surprised at her defence of their father; it seemed to him that both Regan and Talisker possessed a strong streak of something which at best could be strength of character, but at worst was sheer bloody-mindedness. Regan continued as she dabbed the hem of her skirt against his temple. It could not be denied that her next words were slightly grudging. 'He's a good man and he does love you even though he has trouble showing his feelings. But he can be wrong. Think how proud you'll make him when you show him you can ride Pip.'

Tris studied her face for a moment, his boyish mind trying to pinpoint what it was that bothered him about her tone. 'He loves you too Ree,' he muttered. She smiled in response but didn't say anything so he changed the subject. 'Who chose such a babyish name for my pony anyway?' he complained. 'Would you respect anyone who named you Pip?'

Regan grinned; she had a beautiful smile which transformed her dark intense looking features, it was at its best when she had mischief afoot. 'Well, Ma named him, so we can't really change it.' They both glanced over to the rather tatty looking grey pony which was happily absorbed in cropping the lower branches off a nearby tree. 'We could... no,' Regan trailed off, 'never mind.'

'What? What is it?' Tris was ever ready to go along with any of his sister's ideas.

'Well, we could give it a secret name. One that only you and I - and the horse - know. Something more suitable.' She appeared deadly earnest and glowered over at the unfortunate beast. 'I think your pony is a big horse trapped in a small horse's body.'

'You mean like me?' Tristan remarked mildly.

Regan coloured and appeared slightly flustered, she hadn't meant to be so careless with her remark at all. 'Well, in a way, yes,' she rallied. 'He's strong-willed and demands respect, he's obviously of above average intelligence...'

'Oh yes,' Tristan enthused, carried along with the idea.

'... he'd also look much handsomer if he was groomed once in a while.'

Tris giggled, his pains forgotten. 'So, what should we call him?' he wondered.

Regan held out her hand and helped her brother to stand up. 'Let's go and ask him shall we?'

'Ask him?'

They walked over to Pip and Regan caught hold of him quite easily, the evening sun was making him docile. She reached her arm over his withers and held onto him.

'Now Tris, look into his eyes...'

'What for?' Tris began to complain, feeling self-conscious.

'Just do it,' she commanded seriously. 'That's right. Now keep looking in his eyes and think to yourself - what does he want to be called?'

'Well...' Tris stared into the soft brown eyes of the horse. Regan was right, he was a big horse in a little body; when you really considered his face he was solemn and thoughtful looking. For a moment, Tris let his imagination wander; what would Pip have been like if he had been born a bigger breed?

'Well?' Regan was becoming impatient.

'Majesty,' he smiled.

'Are you sure?' For a moment she looked as though she was going to laugh at him and Tristan began to loose confidence.

'I - I...'

'No it's good; really,' she nodded. 'You'd better tell him eh?'

Tristan reached out and stroked the velvety nose of the pony. He kept his gaze fixed on the eyes of the beast and spoke softly. 'Now then. You and me are going to start over Pip. I know... I know it's hard being little and clumsy. People don't respect you like they do the big sleek horses...' his voice sank almost to a whisper as he felt unexpectedly emotional. 'But I know Pip. I see your big heart. I see how clever you are. You're special to me because I know that you could be a King amongst horses. So, from today, when we are together, I'll only call you Majesty. Because we both know what's in here don't we?' He touched his chest lightly and then kissed the newly named Majesty on the nose. He never saw Regan hastily wipe away her tears he was so absorbed in the idea of the secret.

They rode home at a walking pace through the sunlit meadow and Tristan fancied that he sensed a change in his pony. Years later as an adult he would smile and shake his head at the memory but at the time, Regan had given her brother a gift to treasure. As they rode though, Tris glanced over at his sister, her face was solemn and tired looking.

'Ree, are you still dreaming about the birds?' She nodded. 'You must tell someone Ree. It can't be good for you to loose so much sleep.'

'I don't think there's anything to be done about it Tris. Anyway, I've told you - that will have to do...'

Tris smiled and turned his attention back to Majesty. He felt pleased that his sister would only tell him her secret.

'Years later, in a fit of vicious rage she had the elderly beast slaughtered to punish Tristan for defying her. They were ten years old then Nimah - not much younger than you - when Tris made a new relationship with his pony. Six years later, around their coming of age, everything would change. But even as they rode homeward that very day, dark clouds were gathering in the North. Another child - an intelligent, wilful child - was yearning for adulthood... See, there he sits in our mirror; pensive is he not... Well may he be...'

Jahl loved the sounds of the sea; the crashing of the surf and the screaming of the seabirds made a constant chaotic music. He sat with his feet in a rock-pool and gazed out at the line of the breakers as though hypnotized - something indefinable in that moment when the wave peaked and then died had captured his young soul. Feeling the cold spray on his face and the salt fingers of the wind tussle his hair almost made him forget that, once again, his mother was angry with him and he with her.

Unlike most ten year olds Jahl had the innate perception to realise that his mother was not entirely omnipotent - and this was ironic really, because his mother, the Lady Phyrr, was in fact, a Goddess. She had caught him practising a spell, a summoning, and she was furious. He had almost succeeded too, he was sure he had seen something flickering and moving in the darkness before she had crashed in and yelled some stupid words of banishment.

'Are you trying to get yourself killed?' she fumed. 'You are mortal, you stupid child...'

'How will I learn if you won't teach me Phyrr?' he complained. 'How can I develop my skills?'

She had reached out and slapped him, a stinging blow around his head. 'You are not going to develop those skills Jahl,' she stormed. 'We've been through this countless times. You are a normal little boy.'

'How can I be a normal little boy - that's the most stupid thing I've ever heard,' he shouted back defiantly before running from the room in tears of rage.

Now, by the seashore as the breeze cooled his still smarting cheek, he reflected with satisfaction that she could not deny he was right. Jahl had no friends, they lived in isolation from the world in the northernmost tip of Sutra bounded on the east and west by the cruel Northern Ocean; often beyond the breakers, ice floes and icebergs drifted by in the grey, storm tossed waters. He knew Phyrr had been thinking about sending him away soon, in fact, she regretted not having done so when he was a baby... Jahl felt that if he could prove to her that he had magic ability like her own, she might reconsider this idea - she might concede that he had some God-like abilities and as such, should not be treated like or considered to be a normal little boy.

It began to rain, a serious lashing downpour sweeping in from the ocean. Jahl sighed and covered his head with the loose hood of the riding cloak he wore. He didn't want to go in, not yet, actually, what he most wanted was to try again. Casting his gaze around he noted a gaping hole in the nearby cliffside; at high tide this hole would fill with booming waves which would shoot up inside the cavern and vent out onto the cliff-top like the spume of some great whale - now though it would provide a dank shelter and perhaps enough darkness to continue with his work. Grabbing his shoes from the rocks nearby Jahl ran towards the cave-mouth, his bare feet splashing through the pools and puddles, his haste more from salacious anticipation than a desire to escape the downpour. Like any ten year old, the consequences of his actions were far from his mind, only the thrill and desire to succeed at his task. He jumped from puddle to rock-pool with a carelessness which belied his purpose. To any casual observer he might appear like a normal little boy - but Jahl was on his way to summon a demon.

It started well. In a calmer, darker corner of the cavern where the light and the waves seldom reached even at high tide, Jahl drew the symbols he had been learning in the sand with a stick. He had the naïve lettering of a young boy, still un-styled, un-formed by the character of its creator. The sand was dry and he wiggled his toes in its cold grainy surface trying not to become distracted by the irritation of the grains sticking to his damp feet. He wondered briefly if it was perhaps too dark; what if he summoned a demon which was as black as darkness and it said nothing to him? - he might never know he had succeeded... However, once all the symbols were complete, they began to glow from beneath the sand as if they were composed of a kind of solid fire. Their light illuminated the rock walls of the cavern with a soft orange glow. Some other boy might have felt nervous about this, might pause and question himself; not so Jahl. With a single-mindedness which he had inherited from his mother, he continued. Standing with his legs wide apart, his feet burrowed into the sand, he began the incantation which he estimated would take twenty minutes.

He was wrong. His earlier attempt - thwarted by his mother - had not been entirely unsuccessful. A demon had indeed been awoken, pulled through from the deepest pits of darkness, this summoning, indeed any summoning, meant pain for such a creature although it was always bound to come. Worse still, in this earlier instance, the demon was not dealt with and then allowed to return to oblivion, Phyrr's intervention had caused it to be left in limbo for many pain-wracked hours. In short, the demon, when it came, was very, very angry...

Phyrr was already running across the storm-swept beach when the first thin, boyish scream issued from the cave. Although the deluge obscured her range of vision, she could see the flickering lights escaping the cave-mouth in a release of energy which she knew represented a challenge which would be extremely difficult even for her to contain. She cursed loudly but then resolved to save her breath for running. When she entered the cave, the sight which confronted her was beyond the wildest nightmare of most mothers.

The demon had materialised and struck out at its summoner in the instant it came to physical being. The self-congratulatory sound Jahl was about to make was cut short in his young throat as a black, taloned hand, the size of his scrawny torso, shot out and grabbed hold of him, pulling him close to a face which had bright yellow teeth and eyes, and breath which stank like the pits of hell from whence it came. That was the moment Jahl screamed; as he felt sure the creature was simply going to bite his head off. The reality was far worse - this creature killed by absorption. After a cursory glance at its young tormentor, it clasped him to the bulk of it's shapeless, leathery body. Jahl screamed again and then passed out as he felt the burning of the contact between himself and the demon. As he lost consciousness he remembered the final word of binding, too late.

'Put him down now!' Phyrr's voice echoed around the cavern, its tone of maternal fury as elemental as the rocks. 'Put him down you bastard creature,' she shrieked. She could not kill the beast for fear of injuring Jahl, but began to speak words which Jahl had not learned, containment and submission; they ripped from her throat as fast as she dare speak them without loosing their form but her desperation was palpable. Jahl was being subsumed into the black mass of the demon - his head lolling back limply from his shoulders - and she feared him lost already. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the last words were spoken and the demon captured to her will. If her son was dead she thought, she would trap the beast here in the world, ensuring its eternal agony in vengeance.

'Stand still,' she commanded. The demon obeyed, although this did not stop its process of absorption which was involuntary. All that could be seen of Jahl was his head and face, his eyes were closed. Phyrr walked up to the immobilised demon and touched Jahl's temple, feeling the tiny flutter of his obstinate heartbeat. But now, she had something of a dilemma - there was only one magic she knew which could separate the boy's body from that of the beast; she must mark his face with symbols of warding and protection, but, so marked, the magics of chaos would ever be drawn to Jahl, his whole life. If she did not teach him all she knew of chaos, the chances of his survival even to eleven, were negligible. Sighing, she drew her dagger from her waist and a vial of blue powder she had the foresight to bring. She began to cut and scar her boy's beautiful face, tapping the powder loose and muttering different words from before. Phyrr could not heal - her own damaged eyes were proof of that - but at least her simple spell would ease his pain.

'And so, unwittingly, Jahl received his hearts desire; the knowledge he sought must now be learned quickly for his own protection. And as she cried and cut and tipped the blue powder, the Lady Phyrr was well aware that people should be careful what they wish for...'

***

It was painful today. Sometimes Tristan's twisted limbs pained his as though they had a sudden prescience that they were in fact bent the wrong way. His neck especially hurt, dull pains throbbed down the length of his spine and there was nothing to be done except wrap himself in a blanket and keep warm. His father was outside in the barn and Regan, well, who knew where she was. Regan was a law unto herself sometimes disappearing for days on end and returning completely unrepentant. Talisker said little about this but Tristan could tell he worried about his wayward daughter. Regan could easily have put his worries to rest, she was usually only at her friend Morag's farm across the valley, but she chose not to tell him where she was, it was part of her game.

Perhaps due to his disability, Tristan had become a great observer of people. He knew that Regan and his father had played a hurtful game with one another since the death of Una, his mother. Neither of them were really aware of this, but they were distant and cold with each other, going through their daily lives as though just passing through the time. No one spoke of Una, and Tristan, living in the middle of this frozen grief and anger, missed her desperately.

He was watching the view through the window vaguely waiting for Regan's return when he saw a rider crest the hill. He knew straight away it wasn't his sister, the rider, obviously a man, sitting further back in the saddle than a woman, wore a black riding cloak over a dark green plaid. As the figure grew closer, riding fast, the hood of the cloak fell back caught by the wind and Tristan, although alone in the house, whooped with glee. Ignoring the pain in his legs he rushed to the door and began to run towards the stable.

'Father, father, come quickly! It's Uncle Sandro! The Seanachaidh's coming!'

Talisker came rushing from the barn, a rare smile on his face which made him look younger than Tristan had seen for sometime. They stood together watching the rider approach, Tristan hopping up and down and waving at his uncle.

Sandro dismounted and embraced Talisker warmly before turning to Tris. 'Tristan... hey you've grown!' he ruffled Tris' hair affectionately. 'Have I brought a story for you!' he grinned. But Tris could tell he had serious business, behind his smile there was something worryingly sombre. 'Tris, I have to speak to your Father. Would you stable and feed Jagger for me?' For some reason, Talisker laughed when he heard the name of Sandro's horse, it seemed perfectly reasonable to Tristan. Jagger was a massive beast, at least eighteen hands and jet black.

'Oh Tris has a special way with horses,' Talisker nodded, 'he can handle any beast.'

Tristan glowed with pride at his father's remark and began to lead Jagger into the stables talking quietly to him.

He didn't quite understand about the Seanachaidh and his Father. When he was young his mother had told him they were special men who came from another world to fight at Ruannoch Were and Soulis Mor. Although she had seemed perfectly serious at the time, Tristan was sure this must have been a story worthy of the Seanachaidh to impress a son with his father's prowess in battle. He did know that both men were veterans of the battles although his Father never spoke of it - he also knew he was born in Soulis Mor at the time and his parents moved to the valley when he was only months old. There was something about Uncle Sandro; his skin was quite a nice colour, kind of gold, but lighter than a Sidhe's... perhaps he really came from a far southern clan or perhaps even from over the sea. Whichever it was, there was something unusual about the Seanachaidh which meant that his rare visits were special and exciting. Tris began rubbing down Jagger and realised he could hear snippets of the men's conversation as they were still outside the barn.

'You can't be serious Sandro,' his father's voice was incredulous, 'he's just a boy.'

'Come on Duncan,' Sandro chided gently, 'things aren't like that here and you know it. Fourteen is considered adult - old enough to die in battle.' Tristan held his breath, afraid that any noise would give away his eavesdropping or drown out his father's response.

'Don't remind me,' Talisker responded grimly, 'I saw them die too. Just children. But Tristan... you know he's different... I planned on keeping him with me.'

'Let's go in,' Sandro said quietly. 'We should discuss this over a drink eh? I've brought letters from Isbister...'

'Yeah, I need a drink. Sorry Sandro, that's what living in the wilderness does for you, I've no manners left. Come on...'

Their voices faded as they walked back towards the house. Tristan, who would normally be thrilled at stabling such an amazing beast as Jagger, continued his task automatically, his mind racing. The Seanachaidh had come to discuss his future!

He didn't go into the house after he'd finished with Jagger, as much as he wanted to know, he sensed his Father would need time to talk things through with Sandro - perhaps the Seanachaidh wanted an apprentice... they did take an apprentice occasionally he had heard... but then, people would not want to see him at their feasts or celebrations. Those who knew him had come to accept and love him but Tristan was enough of a pragmatist to know wider acceptance was not probable for him. It began to rain softly and Tris took shelter within the doorway of the stable listening to the indignant chorus of the birds, deep in thought.

'What are you doing out in the rain? You know it gives you the aches Trissy.' It was Regan, she had come up on the pathway behind the stable and he was so lost in thought he hadn't heard her. He told her about Sandro as she led her pony into the stalls and put his blanket on. When he told her what he'd overheard she stopped what she was doing.

'So they're in there deciding your future. And you're out here. Why?'

'I'm - I'm just waiting. Giving them time...' he explained.

She took his hand and looked him in the eye. 'You have every right to make your own decisions Tris,' she said sternly. 'Let's go in.'

As they walked into the warmth of the house, both Talisker and Sandro turned and looked at Tristan. Sandro did not even greet Regan immediately although he smiled a tight, slightly dismissive smile towards her. Regan - almost always centre of attention - bridled at this.

'What's going on Father?' she squeezed Tristan's hand tightly.

'Come and sit down you two,' Talisker sighed. 'There's some things you should have been told a long time ago. And now, circumstances have forced my hand. I'm sorry, some of this may come as a bit of a shock.' Tristan sat beside his father and Regan next to Sandro. Both looked expectantly at Talisker who groaned softly. 'I wish your mother was here... she was always good at this kind of thing...'

'What kind of thing?' Regan demanded.

Talisker seemed to gather his strength. 'It's about you Tris. We... Una and I... we're not your real parents. We adopted you. Una was the midwife at your delivery and your mother died in childbirth. Your father...' he broke off, unable to say the hurtful truth to his son. Sandro took a deep swig of his beer and took over.

'Your father was not a good man Tristan. He didn't understand about your physical problems. He disowned you at birth. Una had promised your mother just before she died that she would look after you and so she did. She brought you to live with her and Duncan here.'

There was silence for long moments while Tristan digested this information. Only the quiet sparking of the fire and the light patter of rain on the roof of the house could be heard. Regan reached across the table and took hold of her brother's hand. 'It doesn't matter Tris,' she said quietly, 'we're your family. Ma loved you, that's what matters.' Tris said nothing, but the light of the fire reflected unshed tears in his eyes. Regan rounded on her father. 'Why are you telling him this now?' she blazed. 'What difference does it make? You should have just left it alone.'

Talisker was notoriously slow to anger but as he looked at his daughter, Sandro blanched to see a flare in those blue eyes he hadn't seen for many years. 'Do you think I would just spring this on you both for no reason? You always think the worst Ree don't you? You never stop to think I...'

'There's more' she said flatly, seemingly unphased by Talisker's anger, 'isn't there?'

'Yes. Tristan's father confessed his disowning of Tris on his deathbed five years ago to Isbister, Thane of Soulis Mor.'

'But why should she...' Regan began.

'Because Tristan's mother was the Thane's younger sister and the Thane never married or had children. Tris is - by birth - successor to the throne of Soulis Mor.'

Both Regan and Tristan gasped and stared incredulously at one another. Regan was the first to break into a broad smile. 'My brother will be Thane of Soulis Mor,' she grinned.

'No,' Talisker shook his head. 'Your brother is Thane of Soulis Mor. Isbister died two weeks ago.'

There was another stunned silence and then Tristan spoke; his voice was shaking and he was working hard to keep calm. To Duncan and Sandro his voice within the confines of the silent cabin, sounded achingly young. 'What will happen now father?'

'Well, Sandro here rode out to tell us as soon as Isbister passed away. She left instruction that you are to succeed her so they will be sending an escort to take you to Soulis Mor as soon as her funeral is over. The other Thanes are coming for the ceremonies so they'll stay for your coronation.' Talisker swallowed hard, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. 'You must go and be Thane Tristan. It seems it is your birthright.'

'But you'll come with me father won't you?' It was evident from Tristan's voice that he sensed Talisker's answer before he finished asking the question. Talisker stood up and walked over to the fire; leaning on the lintel he stared into the flames and said nothing.

'No Tristan. Your father won't be coming.' Sandro intervened. 'Terrible things happened at Soulis Mor, to both of us and all the warriors that were in the final battle...'

'But you've been back there,' Regan frowned. 'Other warriors must have stayed on in the city...'

'I won't go back Regan,' Talisker said.

Regan lost her temper immediately and sprang from her seat knocking it to the ground behind her. 'Anything could happen to Tristan there,' she fumed. 'People might not want him to be Thane. He could be killed. Will you just abandon him to his fate? What would mother say - your precious Una - if she knew you were a coward?' Without waiting for a reply she rushed to the door but just before she left, she turned, her face a picture of fury. Tears were rolling down her cheeks but she seemed oblivious to them. 'You coward!' she screamed. Slamming the door she ran out into the rain.

'Regan wait!' Sandro stood up to follow her but Talisker motioned him to stop.

'Let her go Sandro. She's right after all.'

'No. She's not right. It was worse for you - you could see the souls. You've got to make her understand that. And what was all that about her mother? When did she become so...'

'Hostile? It's been a while. Since before Una died. I'm sorry Tristan,' Talisker came back to the table and patted his son on the shoulder. 'I've tried... really hard, but your sister... there's something eating away at that girl but she won't let me help her.'

Tristan nodded but said nothing at first. He took the pitcher of beer and refilled his father's flagon and then, taking another leather pint from the shelf, he poured a drink for himself. Talisker and Sandro watched in silence; Tristan had never drunk alcohol before but now seemed a good time to start. Finally, he smiled a wistful little smile at the two men.

'Tell me all about it father,' he said quietly. 'All about the battle, why it was worse for you than the other warriors, about my mother and about Soulis Mor. If I'm leaving here to rule it... I just need to know everything.'