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the Druid of his own Clan; yellow eyes, he had had, that went right through you and let in a cold wind behind them. But he was dead long ago, and now the Clan had no one to officiate at the Rites any more. But it was still a great day, and between the roast boar and the warrior-dancing the boys who had turned nine since last harvest, and so were due to begin their training, were thrust into the firelit Council circle, to be looked over and approved by the Clan.
    Beric, sitting cross-legged among Cunori’s hounds, and watching the new warriors one by one salute the setting sun with upraised spear, thought of the time when he would have finished his training: when he would stand where the New Spears stood now, and turn toward the setting sun and bring his spear crashing down across his new shield, and take his place for the first time among the warriors of the Clan. Then he would ride with his Spear Brothers on the war trail, and have a voice at the Council Fire, and the right to wear the warrior scarlet. That would be good.
    He came out of a proud and happy dream that had lasted him through a large meal of sizzling boar-flesh eaten off the point of his dagger, to find that dusk had turned to dark, and the Chieftain had raised his voice from beside the Council Fire, and was calling for the nine-year-olds. Beric hastily thrust his dagger back into his belt, wiped off some of the boar’s grease on to the nearest hound, and went to answer the summons. From all over the open space the nine-year-olds were gathering, five from the village, twice as many more from the outlying Clan, scrambling over outstretched legs and picking their way between the many hounds, to arrive at last in the firelit circle under the critical gaze of the chief hunters and warriors of the Clan. There they stood, staring
straight before them or grinning uncertainly at their fathers and each other, and not quite sure what to do with their arms and legs, while the elders of the Clan looked them over.
    Cunori sat close to the Chieftain by right of kinship. He looked up as Beric entered the ring, and gave him a quick nod of encouragement, which sent a warm wave of pride through him. Beric knew how he had come into Cunori’s household, but he knew it only as a story, not as anything that really touched him. In his world, the only world he knew, Cunori was his father and Guinear his mother, and Arthmail and Arthgal his brothers. And just now his one thought was to make a good showing before the Clan so that his father might be proud of the eldest son of his house.
    The elders of the Clan were looking them over carefully, nodding to each other. ‘A likely lot,’ they said, ‘a good lot this year, a very good lot, on the whole. But that one—that one,’ and Beric found that they were looking at him, eyes all round the circle looking at him, doubtfully. Then the big red-haired Chieftain with the gold torc round his neck beckoned him closer; and Beric went with very stiff legs and stood in front of him, suddenly afraid.
    ‘What shall we do with this one, my brothers?’ said the Chieftain. ‘This foster son of the house of Cunori? It is time that we chose the trail for him. Nine years he has lived among us, but he is not one of us, and shall we then take him into the Spear Brotherhood of the Clan?’
    Cunori spoke up hotly from his place near the Chieftain. ‘He is one of us in all things but that he was not born of our blood.’
    It is a large “But”,’ said another man, leaning forward into the firelight.
    Cunori rounded on him. ‘Is it a larger “But” than beats in your own veins, Istoreth? You who claim descent from the Seal Folk, the People of the Sea? Was not that Seal forefather of yours accepted into the Spear Brotherhood?’
    ‘The Seal People are of our world,’ said Istoreth fiercely. ‘The Red Crests are not, and this fosterling of yours carries
his breed in his face. I have been eastward across the frontier to sell pelts, and I have