David Gemmell - Morningstar

Hungry, the young nobleman made his way downstairs to the larder, helping himself to a sweet honey-cake and washing it down with soured apple juice.

What a loathsome place, he decided as he opened the shuttered window and gazed out over the night-dark mountains. No theatres, no palaces of lascivious amusements, no dances, no readings of the latest works of literature. What clods these people must be, in their primitive dwellings, with their dull little lives.

But the journey would be worth it for the book. He would tour no taverns, nor tell saga stories around flickering camp-fires. Oh, no. His father would pay a hundred monks to copy the tale and bind it in leather for sale and private readings among the nobility.

First, however, there was the old man. Agraine smiled. It would be easy to charm the ancient poet — soft words, a honey tongue. The story would spill out soon enough. God knows, the elderly love to prattle!

Taking a second cake, the young man mounted the stairs, approaching the room where first he had spoken with Owen Odell. The door was ajar and he heard voices.

Moving silently forward he leaned in close to the crack by the door-hinge, closing his right eye and straining to see into the room. But a floorboard creaked and the voices within fell silent.

‘Come in, Agraine,’ called the old poet.

Sheepishly the young man opened the door.

‘I did not mean to…’ His voice trailed away, for standing in the centre of the room was a golden-haired woman of lustrous beauty, clothed only in a shimmering gown of green silk. Agraine’s mouth fell open and clumsily he executed a bow. ‘I am sorry, Lord Odell. I had no idea you had other guests.’

‘It was a surprise to me, my boy,’ the old man told him. ‘This is an old friend of mine… Megan.’

Agraine was sharp enough to spot the lie, but he kept his thoughts to himself and smiled at the woman. ‘It is a great pleasure, my lady. Do you live close?’

She laughed, the sound like sweet music. ‘Very close. And I have come to invite… Lord Odell… to visit my home. I was just explaining it to him when we heard you arrive.’

The old man chuckled as if at some private jest. ‘You will, I hope, excuse me, young man. For I must leave you to break your fast alone.’

‘It is freezing outside, and there is deep snow in the valley,’ stuttered Agraine, unwilling to allow the vision to depart from his company.

‘You are quite wrong,’ said the golden-haired woman. ‘It is springtime and the flowers are in bloom.’

They were both smiling now, and Agraine felt the red flush of embarrassment burning his cheeks. With great effort Owen Odell rose from his chair, his bony hand descending on the young man’s shoulder, ‘I am sorry, my boy; we do not mean to mock. But Megan is right. Where we travel it will be springtime. And there is a young man — little older than yourself — who is waiting to speak with an old poet. It is a circle, you see. Forgive me.’

The golden-haired woman was standing beside the open door and the wind was sending flurries of snow against her bare feet. Taking Odell’s arm, she led the old man out into the winter night Agraine stood for a moment, unable to gather his thoughts. Then he ran to the door.

The two of them were only a few paces out into the snow-covered clearing, Megan supporting the poet who moved with slow shuffling steps. They stopped and the woman raised her hand. Light rose from her fingers in a fountain of sparkling gold, raining down over both figures. Round and round, like shimmering stars, the golden flakes whirled about the poet and his lady.

Agraine blinked against the light — and the sudden darkness that followed it.

He blinked again. The clearing was deserted.

Owen Odell was gone.