Jarl moved. “It seems that you now have a choice to make,” he observed dispassionately to Fors. For a moment it seemed to the younger mountain man that only the two of them were there. And neither Arskane nor Marphy pressed his claim farther.
Fors held his free hand to his swimming head. He had Plains blood from his mother—that was true. And the wild free life of the roving horsemen appealed to him. If he went with Marphy no secrets of the ruined country would be hidden from him now—he could learn much. He could make such maps as even the Star Men had never dreamed of possessing, see forgotten cities and loot them for his pleasure, always going on to new country beyond.
If he took the hand Arskane had half offered in support a few minutes ago he would be accepting brotherhood and the close-knit ties of a family clan such as he had never had. He would know all warmth of affection, and go to build a town, maybe in time a city, which would mark the first step back along the road the sins of the Old Ones had lost for their sons. It would be a hard life but, in its way, a rewarding one, as adventurous— though he would never rove far—as Marphy’s.
But—there was the third road. And it ran from a choice he knew only too well. When he thought he was dying-back there during the battle—his feet had taken it without his will. It led to the rare coldness of the mountain heights, into the austere chill of punishment and hurt and eternal discouragement.
So when he raised his head he dared not look at Arskane or Murphy, but he found and held Jarl’s uncompromising eyes as he asked:
“It is true that I am outlawed?”
“You have been called three times at the council fire.”
He recognized flat truth and accepted it. But he had another question:
“Since I was not there to answer in my own voice I have the right of repeal for the period of six moons?”
“You have.” ’