During my schooldays I observed many teachers. Some were good, some were bad, and some were inept beyond belief. But only one was great. Midnight Falcon is dedicated with enormous affection to Tony Fenelon, a teacher of the old school, tough, uncompromising, and devoted to the children in his care. His belief in us gave us belief in ourselves. Those of us who were heading in the wrong direction owe him more than we can ever repay.

Acknowledgements

Grateful thanks to the many test readers who helped steer me through the tough times, especially Jan Dunlop, Alan Fisher, Stella Graham, and Steve Hurt. Thanks also to my copy-editor, Nancy Webber, and to the many readers whose letters and e-mails are a constant source of inspiration.

Chapter One

Parax the Hunter had always despised vanity in others. But he knew now just how stealthily it could creep up on a man. The thought was as cold and bitter as the wind blowing over the snow-capped peaks of the Druagh mountains. From his saddlebag Parax drew a woollen cap, which he pulled over his thinning white hair. His old eyes gazed up at the majesty of Caer Druagh, oldest mountain, but he could no longer make out the sharp, jagged ridges, nor the distant stands of pine. All he could see now was the misty whiteness of the peaks against the harsh, grainy blue of the sky.

His weary pony stumbled, and the old man grabbed at the pommel of his saddle. He patted the pony's neck and gently drew rein. The beast was eighteen years old. She had always been strong and steadfast – a mount to be trusted. Not any more. Like Parax she was finding this one hunt too many.

The old man sighed. At thirty he had been at the peak of his powers, one of the foremost trackers in all the lands of the Keltoi. It did not make him boastful, for he knew he had been gifted with keen eyes and an intuitive mind. His own father, himself a great hunter and tracker, had taught him well. At five the young Parax could identify over thirty different animals by track alone: the leaping otter, the ambling badger, the cunning fox, and many more. His talent had been almost mystical. Men said he could read a man's life in the blade of grass crushed beneath a boot heel. This was nonsense, of course, but Parax had smiled upon hearing it, not recognizing the birth of vanity in that smile. What was true, however, was his ability to read a man from the trail he left; where he made his camp and placed his fire showed how well or little he understood the wilderness, how often he rested his mount, how swiftly he moved, how patient he was in the hunt. All these things spoke of a man's character, and once Parax understood his prey's character he would find him, no matter how cleverly he hid his trail.