The Seeds of Destruction

Githrin looked about him, then back at his mother. She stood on the raised platform, and quite near to the King. She smiled at him. She had never taken her eyes off him since he had appeared with the other boys in the courtyard, the blue streaks of woad daubed onto their breast and legs, and their hair limed and braided. He was easily a head taller than most of the others, some of whom were many moons older, and she was so proud of him. He looked away again, and across to the King, but the King did not even afford Githrin a glance, gave instead all his attention to Ulleand, standing to Githrin's right. But it was always this way. Ulleand and the King were as close as brothers, but then, Ulleand had been brought here as a small child of some five summers, whereas Githrin had come later, and did not spend all his time at the Castle, but was taken by his mother to her land in the West. Ulleand rarely went back to his father's house. Ulleand's father had been a sword-bearer, and had walked at the last King's back, why then should their sons not be equally close? Endork stood watching his son gravely, almost impassively, and any anticipation of the pride he may feel to have Ulleand take his place by the King was well hidden. So many of the twenty or so boys had their fathers to watch them, even those low-born,and in this, Githrin did, at least, have something in common with the King, although Githrin's father was barely even a distant memory to him. He looked now to the boy at his left. Here was a new face, and much younger, by appearences, than many of the rest gathered there. He smiled back, nervously. Githrin spoke,

"How are you known?"

"Dohran, son of Brund, of Canolvan."

"Ah, I have heard well of your father. I wish you good hunting. May a sword sing loud to you."

Dovrhan, Son of Brund grinned,

"Oh, one will, I know it. But I thank you, and also wish you well."

Githrin nodded, then looked across to the High Chancellor, waiting for the signal for the hunt to begin. At last, the horn sounded through the early morning mist, and they were off, running into the damp woods, and who knew where the hunt would take them and what they would find?

Githrin knew himself to be lost. This was a part of the woods which he had never before been to, and he thought he had either run or ridden through most of it. Yet, he cannot work out how he came to be so lost, for he has not come so very far, and just a little distance past, he had known exactly where he was. The trees, which have been so dense that they blocked out the sun, now seem to thin a little, and he can see a clearing ahead. Perhaps from there he will find his way again. Yet, the clearing does not help him. It contains a pool, not very large, but easily deep enough to swim in. He knows all the good swimming places around the castle, in the rivers, the deeper streams, and he has swum in all of them, yet this one he has never seen before. The sun shines brightly on the water, the softly rippled surface glittering and gleaming, hurting his eyes with the brightness. And this too is a mystery, for it was only a little past dawn when he set out, surely he has not been running through the woods for so long, though by the position of the sun, it is well past mid-day. Yet, suddenly, he is aware of how thirsty he is, and of how heavy his limbs feel. He makes his way out of the cover of the trees, feeling so weary that he struggles to take another step, then, from out of nowhere it seems, a boar comes hurtling towards him and, as he tries to jump out of its way, he slips and falls down heavily, knocking his head on a stone, lying senseless on the soft mossy ground.

He awoke to a sound that caused his heart to sink. It was the blowing of the horn, telling all that a seeker has returned with a sword. A companion had been chosen. He rises up a little stiffly, and sits beneath a silvery birch, and tries not to weep.

This, of all the things he could do, would make his mother most proud, be some recompense for the years of neglect, all the slights and insults they had both suffered from the King's father and his court. The finding of one of the sacred swords would show to all that he had the right to remain here. But now he feared that this was just so much wind-blossom, then he heard the second blast of the horn and put his face into his hands, fighting back his tears. Soon afterwards, he heard the third blast, followed by the re-call, so that all searching the woods might know that the three sword-bearers were chosen, and any further searching would be futile. He could not face returning empty handed, could not face his mother's smile, her telling him he must not mind, that it did not matter so much, because he did mind terribly, and it did matter to him. Nothing mattered more. He thought about not returning at all, of running away. He felt overcome with the weariness of his life, and when he had cried those tears which refused to be checked, he curled up, still beneath the birch tree.

He awoke with a start as a young woman calls his name. He did not know that the dewinne novices would be sent to find them. She speaks again,

"Githrin, son of Greag, it is time for you to wake and return."