The Exile Read Free

at his father. Even at this late juncture there was still a chance that a new claim could be staked.
    Roth made no move to join the claimants.
    Kilian, Druse, Cuinn, Grudnew, Orin and Phelan stood before the druid awaiting judgement. Only Kilian's face betrayed any trace of emotion. The warrior's pride was plain for all to see. Sláine knew that he was the obvious choice. His father had schooled him in the relative merits of the would-be kings.
    "Are these all who would guide and serve as protector of our people?" Cathbad intoned, turning slowly in a circle. He cast ash from the holy fire on each of the cardinals, north, south, east and west, letting the powder disperse on the four winds. The ash was from the rowan tree, one of the sacred woods. "Blessed be our protectors, beloved of Danu; may the Goddess look upon the Sessair with grace and favour in the days ahead. May she grant our new king strength when strength is called for and wisdom when wisdom is lacking. May the new king of the Sessair have the bearing of the mountain and the relentless nature of the stream, carrying us forwards into the sea of tomorrow. Let him flow around obstacles and stand undaunted in the face of our enemies. Let the essences of the earth, of river and mountain, embody our leader."
    One by one, Cathbad walked the line of men, marking them with a thumbprint of white ash on the bridges of their noses.
    "Who is the river?"
    None of the men answered.
    "Who here stands as the mountain?"
    Still no one spoke.
    "Who here is rightful heir to Calum Mac Cathair?"
    Cathbad walked the line of men again. This time he paused behind Grudnew. No one dared breathe as the old man laid a cadaverous hand on the new king's shoulder.
    Grudnew remained unmoving as the druid placed the mask of the Horned God over his face.
    While all eyes were on the new king accepting the horned mask, Sláine looked along the line of men, at those passed over. His father had taught him that the measure of a man was in how he took defeat. Sláine found it a fascinating notion that the greatest strength came in the mastery of failure and not in the simplest successes. Kilian flinched physically as Cathbad proclaimed: "The king is dead! Long live the king!" to the raucous cheers of the gathering.
    Sláine made himself a silent promise:
    He would be the mountain.
    He would be the river.

Two
     
    Beltain's Fire
     
    Beltain promised to be a rare treat. With a new king, the traditional celebrations took on an added air of importance among the men of the Sessair. Grudnew would light the huge Beltain bonfire, and with it, signal the beginning of the games. Murias was abuzz with anticipation. The men drove themselves hard. They ran, they sparred, and they tossed cabers and hurled spears, forcing themselves into greater and greater feats of prowess. Their spears sank into the earth a step further on, they crossed the finish line a step sooner, and they punched harder, climbed higher, and dived deeper. They forced themselves to do everything better because to do less was to fail. Grudnew was an unknown entity. He had not curried favour or promised alliances as Kilian, Orin and Phelan had. He hadn't fallen into the first - and perhaps most fatal - trap of kingship: elevating fools because of friendship. He kept his own council. He watched the men, judging them on their abilities, allowing for their weaknesses and seeking out the strengths in others to complement and compensate for them.
    Every king gathered his faithful to his side. Every leader had his chosen ones. Grudnew was no fool. He understood that the men he chose to surround himself with stood as the foundations for his reign. It was through them that the Sessair would find greatness, not through him. He was one man. They were the heart of the tribe.
    And so the competition for Grudnew's favour would be fierce.
    Each man approached the games with the sure and certain knowledge that his place in the tribe depended very much on his showing