Prophet of Moonshae

13

Deirdre slept but little, her mind surging forward, out of control with ideas and ambitions and new, profound understandings. The power! Never had she imagined such might as now, she knew, lay within her very grasp!

For a few moments, her mind drifted to more conventional concerns. Reports had reached the castle from several different coastal cantrevs claiming that northmen had savagely raided and plundered the Ffolk. This serious violation had alarmed the soldiers and captains of the king's guard. Because of her mother's malaise, the officers had sought Deirdre's permission to muster the Ffolk to arms, but she had not granted them that authority. To her, it seemed that these tales of war and atrocity were unreal. Reality was what she found in her books!

Once more her thoughts turned to those ideas, those powers. She almost laughed out loud in her delight at a remembered image: She, Deirdre, raising a block of earth into a form that walked, a monstrous slave! Or doing the same with fire, or water, or even air! She knew that she would travel places in the blink of an eye, could gain the knowledge of secret counsels, of kings and wizards. .

Even of the gods themselves.

And the price, it seemed, was small. The books had shown her the way, and Malawar had been her guide. Now she stood at the brink of might, and it remained only for her to take the final step.

The oath. A pledge to Talos of a life devoted to his cause. But the cause, Deirdre knew, was one much related to her own ambitions. Indeed, she could serve her god well in her high state as princess of the isles.

Finally she closed her eyes in a semblance of sleep. She did not hear the slight gusting of wind that billowed her curtains, entering the room stealthily and gathering as a mist to hang over her bed.

Instead, she dreamed of Malawar-golden-haired, bright Malawar, with his subtle knowledge of her inner self and his soft smile that melted her heart so that she could think, when confronted by its glow, of nothing else! In her dreams, they went through the world together, outside the walls of this room, to everywhere she imagined.

And the cloudy thing in the air above her lithe body coalesced as she dreamed, watching and sharing her vision. It was much pleased, though the ephemeral form gave no sign of the fact. Two spots of red, however, glowed like sparks. They burned side by side, where the eyes might be if it were a human form, and their heat washed crimson across Deirdre's face.

But still she slept, and in her dream, Malawar took her into his arms and held her, and she knew joy. She sensed him beckon to her, and then he stood before a cave, which loomed very dark and gloomy against the ecstatic backdrop of her dream.

Yet Malawar entered that cave, and again he turned to urge her to follow. That smile twisted his face, and for the first time, it frightened her, causing her to clap a hand to her mouth and take a step backward.

But finally he entered and the blackness swallowed him. Standing still for a moment, Deirdre took a step forward, and then another.

She had no choice but to follow.

Alicia knew, as their conversation progressed, that she liked the young northern prince. Sincerity seemed to underline his voice-though the outrage remained present, masked but slightly-when he described the reports of massacre brought by the fisherman to Svenyird and the ambush attack against his column by the arrows of the High King.

"It would seem that someone seeks to indict my father's throne in these crimes, but you have my word, he's blameless!" Alicia was profoundly relieved to see that Brandon believed her.

"In fact, his anger will be as great as yours when he learns what's happened," Keane added. When King Kendrick would receive this information, the mage knew, was an open question. Until then, the queen and her daughters would rule.

The Prince of Gnarhelm had ordered Tavish's harp and staff returned to her, and then the trio of guests had spent the meal hearing Brandon's tale. They learned of the attack on the island and heard the details of the ambush that had slain Knaff the Younger. The puzzle of the attackers' nature grew more and more enigmatic and irritating.

Then Alicia described the attack of the iron golem, with its great horned helm. The princess omitted the details of Keane's sorcery, but she saw Brandon's eyes narrow as the prince studied the magic-user, picturing the enormity and fearfulness of the foe. Obviously he suspected that there was more to the thin man than first met the eye.

"It would seem that someone seeks to bring our two peoples into conflict," concluded Tavish, summing up. "But for what purpose? A vexing question, that!"

Brandon scowled fiercely, and the firelight glinted in his blue eyes. Finally he looked at Alicia, his expression frank. "Will you journey to Gnarhelm with me to tell my father, the king, what you know? It may be that more has been learned there as well. Together, we may put this issue to the test."

The princess felt her heart quicken, not entirely with curiosity. She found this handsome, strapping warrior to be a man of courage, honor, and decision. Here, basking in the warmth of a highland campfire, she decided that these three traits formed the qualities she most admired in a man.

She sensed that Tavish and Keane awaited her decision with some trepidation, but she didn't look at them. This was a decision she was determined to make alone. For a moment, she considered rationally: The kingdom was not in danger from the northmen now that Brandon's force returned to his capital. She had fulfilled her obligation with Blackstone, having ruled that the Moonwell be preserved. And now the mystery of her attackers … Could it not be solved as likely in Gnarhelm as in Callidyrr?

"Yes, I'll accompany you. And my companions, if they should so choose."

"Of course," Tavish agreed quickly. "It's been a long time since I've enjoyed the hospitality of a northman's lodge!"

Keane nodded silently, avoiding Alicia's eyes. Instead, she saw him studying the prince of the north, and his expression toward Brandon was not entirely friendly.

They agreed to begin the march northward in the morning, and Brandon showed his guests to a comfortably soft meadow for their rest, near to but not within the camp of the northmen themselves. Here the three companions retired soon, though the early summer sunset still brightened the skies above their eternal blanket of gray.

"Are you sure this is a wise decision?" asked Keane, his tone sharp, when they had passed from the hearing of Brandon's warriors.

"Do you mistrust them?" Alicia shot back. "Didn't he-they-honor their promise when you took the Test of Strength?" Suddenly she felt a twinge of guilt, remembering the risk he had taken on their behalf. Yet the feeling didn't change the fact that she found his manner condescending, and so she said nothing further.

"The prince has proven an honorable host," Keane replied, stiffly. "And I do not suspect him of treachery. Yet what of your responsibilities to the kingdom? Shouldn't you carry word of these events to Callidyrr?"

"What word? We don't know who or what's behind these attacks. Maybe we'll learn more in Gnarhelm! If you want to go back to Callidyrr, you may. Tell them what's happened so far. I'm sure you can pop back there in the blink of an eye or something, can't you?"

The magic-user sighed. "I'll come with you, of course. Now perhaps you'll permit me the comfort of a little sleep before we start out in the morning."

Still angry, Alicia sought out her bed. Some of the northmen had thoughtfully staked a cloak over the ground for her, so that at least her head and torso wouldn't feel the beat of the rain that had resumed a short time ago. Confused, thinking that she should feel happier, she didn't gasp or scream when great snakes started to crawl from the ground around her bed, their ravenous mouths reaching out toward her slender legs.

"Cut it out, Newt!" she snapped, lying down amidst the serpents, which slowly faded to nothing. The little faerie dragon popped into sight behind her, and when she ignored him he curled up at her feet and waited for her to sleep.

Why, wondered Newt, was everyone so peevish around here?

While it was true that teleportation lay within the province of Keane's power, he wasn't about to concede this point to the stubborn princess. In fact, however, if the need was acute, he could have returned to Caer Callidyrr in somewhat less time than the blink of an eye.

Privately, in the silence of the highland night, he admitted that his reasons for objecting to their continued excursion were more personal and selfish.

It was true that he found saddles uncomfortable and nights spent outdoors unsettling-and guaranteed to provide him with a backache upon awakening. He desired nothing so much as a return to his soft feather bed and the warmth and comforts of Caer Callidyrr. Not to mention its kitchens, he reminded himself, as a belch reminded him of the pickled fish he had shared with the northmen this evening.

But none of these factors touched the heart of the reason Alicia's decision bothered him. These thoughts he dared not admit, even to himself, but they concerned the way the bright-eyed princess had studied the rock-chiseled face of Brandon Olafsson.

And the memory was twisted and made more painful by his warm memories of a brief few moments when he had sat beside the princess, watching the waters of the Blackstone Moonwell, and felt her presence as a woman who was near to him in more ways than one.

In Blackstone Manor, Sir Hanrald knew a similar disquiet, though from a somewhat different cause. At its root, however, lay the knight's attraction to the fair Alicia. He had retired early and detected a certain sense of relief in his father's mood at the time. This awareness had tingled his suspicions, which still mused over the memory of his return home and the awkward meeting in the Great Hall. His brother's injury had never been satisfactorily explained.

Even more than this, however, Hanrald had sensed an atmosphere of conspiracy between his elder brother and his father, the earl. This had been the main reason for his early departure from the Great Hall. He did not, however, fall asleep in his chambers.

Throughout Hanrald's life, his father had shunned him when affairs of importance were involved, always welcoming only Currag and Gwyeth to his counsel. At times, Hanrald felt as if he was a mere guest, a traveler who had been granted the shelter of his father's house but not greeted into the arms of the family itself.

For a moment, his mind tugged at the fringes of the stories he had heard.. rumors, just gossip really, about the mother he had never known. But he rejected those thoughts, as he always did. Now he had important work to do.

His emotions burning with suspicion and fears of betrayal, he rose from his bed more than an hour later and crept to a wall near the back of his room. Here he touched a panel, and a slab of the stone wall pivoted slowly open before him. Seizing a flickering taper, he stepped into the cobweb-draped corridor that vanished into the dusty distance beyond.

The way was known to him, not as an heir to the family home but because he had followed his older brothers on more than one occasion when Gwyeth or Currag had entered these secret chambers. Only those of Blackstone blood were shown the true secrets of the great manor, and yet the earl hadn't chosen to include his third son in these confidences.

Hanrald knew, however, that these passages connected most of the important bedrooms and guest rooms of the house to each other. He also knew that, in the winding catacombs far below his feet, dark torture chambers existed, cells that would never acknowledge the light of day. Until now, he had accepted his father's explanations that such places were no longer used. Now, however, he wasn't prepared to accept anything the earl told him at face value.

Tonight his mission did not call for an investigation of those catacombs. Instead, he followed the narrow corridor for no more than forty paces, coming to an aperture that he knew was concealed on the other side by the back wall of a great fireplace. .

… the fireplace that warmed the anteroom of his father's private chambers. This, he knew, would be the location of any clandestine meeting. He placed his faint candle far back along the passage so that no telltale glow would reveal him through a chink between the stones.

As Hanrald knelt by the secret door, stuffing a hand over his nose to stifle an impending sneeze brought about by the dusty nature of his surroundings, he heard a deep voice that he recognized as belonging to his father, Earl Blackstone.

Gently the knight pushed at the stone slab that formed the door. A faint crack of light washed through the narrow gap, and the voices came to his ears more clearly.

Surprisingly, the first words he heard dearly came from neither his father nor his brother. Instead, a third man spoke, his voice a forceful hiss.

"You yourself must journey to the palace. She will employ your aid, willingly enough I shall ensure, and the furtherance of our plans shall be guaranteed."

"But what of the High Queen? Surely she will not allow her daughter to direct the affairs of the kingdom," spoke the Earl of Fairheight.

"She lies all unknowing," replied the strange, hissing voice. "The younger princess is in fact the voice of the crown in Callidyrr."

"Mayhaps she'll be more of a feminine wench than her sister." This crude growl, Hanrald knew, issued from his brother, Gwyeth. His blood surged at the insult to the Princess Alicia, but he forced himself to restrain his temper.

"She is comely, but you would do well not to press her for advantage," whispered the strange voice, with a strong hint of menace. "For her powers of magic are great, and he who gives her offense will not live to see many sunrises."

Hanrald grinned in silent pleasure, picturing the expression on Gwyeth's face. His brother would surely be displeased by such a warning, yet-especially in view of his humiliation from the magic of Keane-the older son would take no risks where sorcery was concerned.

Then the concealed knight scowled, wishing he dared push the secret portal open farther to catch a view of the stranger who spoke with his father and brother. Yet he had already taken a great risk by opening the small crack, and further movement might reveal itself in the room by sound or even sight.

"I depart tomorrow, after I make arrangements to tend the duchy," continued the earl. "You, Gwyeth, will remain in charge of the cantrev. Also, I place in your hands the matter of this Moonwell's destruction. See that it is accomplished quickly, without fanfare."

"What of Hanrald?"

The eavesdropping knight stiffened as he heard his brother speak his name.

"I don't trust him with knowledge of our plans. I'll dispatch him on a hunt, which should serve to keep him occupied and uncurious. By the time he returns, the thing will be done."

"Splendid." Once again the visitor spoke, and this time his voice was muffled, as if he spoke through a cloth, or perhaps a deep hood. "When you next see me, it will be in the halls of Caer Callidyrr itself!"

Hanrald heard a whooshing sound, as if a wind blew through the room beyond the door, and then his brother cursed. "By the gods! Why can't he leave by the door like a normal man?"

"You have answered your own question," replied his father, his voice once again a low rumble. His tone, however, was not displeased. "Now I must prepare. I have much to do before I ride."

Hanrald heard the door to the anteroom open and close. No further sound reached his ear, and as his taper grew low, he crept back to his own chamber to ponder on what he had heard.

Followed by the column of northman warriors, Alicia and her companions led their horses at a walk down the steep mountain trails. Persistent rain often covered the trail with spattering rivulets of muddy water, making the footing treacherous and the pace slow.

Brandon walked beside the princess, while Tavish and Keane trailed a bit to the rear. The Ffolk knew that Newt buzzed somewhere around them, but after a stern rebuke from the princess in the morning, the faerie dragon had reluctantly pledged to refrain from practical jokes. Instead, he had become invisible and gave no clue as to his location.

The hulking Wultha walked, close behind the magic-user, squinting at him with his tiny eyes and often scratching his head, as if still trying the grasp the events of the previous night. Nevertheless, the huge man's manner was friendly, even respectful, to the mage, a fact Keane found reassuring in the extreme.

Brandon had posted scouts on either flank of the column, so their progress was of necessity slow. Yet this didn't seem to annoy the prince, for he talked with Alicia of the wonders of his realm, as if they had all the time in the world.

"The march will take several days," explained the prince. "We're closer to Callidyrr than Gnarhelm."

"It will be pleasant to see some of your realm," replied Alicia honestly. She wondered if her enthusiasm came from the prospect of new scenery-especially masked by rain, as it had been so far-as much as from the company of the rugged warrior at her side.

"You have never been to a city of the north?" inquired Brandon somewhat awkwardly. He didn't know why, but his usual bluff self-confidence was held firmly in check by the presence of the beautiful auburn-haired woman beside him.

"No. I have seen Corwell, and Westphal on Snowdown-and the towns of Callidyrr, of course. I've even seen Waterdeep and some of the wonders of the Sword Coast. But never have I been among your people, our neighbors."

"My father's lodge is the greatest building north of the mountains!" Brandon proclaimed, his arms spreading expansively. "And Gnarhelm has many great captains, each of whom dwells in his own splendid lodge! But the bay and the shipyard truly make the city the place that I love."

Alicia, for her part, enjoyed listening to the prince of the north. She felt a sense of growing peace. The attack of the iron golem seemed like a distant nightmare, and even the billowing gray clouds overhead couldn't darken her mood. The wind whipped full into their faces, and frequent showers doused them, but she pulled her cloak tightly about her and enjoyed the snug comfort of her wrap. Then, as the latest squall passed away, she uncovered her head again as Brandon spoke to her.

"Your father is a great king," said the prince of the north. "My kinsman, Grunnarch the Red, has spoken very highly of him."

"I know the Red King," Alicia responded, inordinately delighted that she had found some common ground with Brandon. "He has visited Callidyrr several times. My father says that he is a ruler of vision and courage."

"Aye, many times over. It was no easy task to persuade his warriors to go to the aid of the Ffolk a score of years ago."

"But because he did, you and I might be friends-else, for certain, we would have met at sword's point!" Alicia reflected with a quiet laugh.

Brandon looked at her in surprise, at first thinking she mocked him by suggesting that he would fight a woman. Then he remembered that the Ffolk were odd that way. Indeed, this princess dressed like a warrior, and she wore her sword as one who knew its purpose. Interesting, how these features in no way seemed to detract from her femininity. Yet, were a woman of his own people to behave thus, she would have been counted a lunatic or worse.

"I am truly glad, Princess, that such was not the case," he declared, meeting her green eyes with his own of sea blue. He wanted to say much more, but he couldn't.

Alicia met his look, but if she sensed the feeling there, she didn't show it. "And so, Prince Brandon, am I," was all she said.

Yak remained hidden in the cave for several hours, recognizing the futility of resistance against the hideous dragon. Finally, toward dawn, the firbolg emerged into the darkness that was only slightly less complete than it had been within the sheltering niche.

A circuitous route back to his tribe showed Yak that, to the best of his discernment, all the humans had perished at the hands of the savage seaborne attackers. Fortunately the Claws of the Deep and their giant serpentine ally had apparently vacated the isle when their killing was done.

Finally Yak and the other firbolgs headed back toward the pastoral vale of the Moonwell and the small village of his tribe. Though he didn't display his fear, the great firbolg's heart nearly burst from tension as he approached the place. If the dragon had found it, he knew, all of his kin might have perished in the butchery of a few moments. Even worse, to the reverent creature, the Moonwell they had so diligently tended might have been so polluted by blood or soot that it was no longer a fit place of purity and worship.

Yak's sigh of relief was heavy and real when they crested the rim of the little vale, and he saw that the houses and pool remained intact. Sunrise had lightened the clouds, though the gray filter cast everything in a haze, and Yak even saw many of his tribe gathered in the center of the village. They looked expectantly toward him as he trudged down the steep slope and into the little swale.

"What did your searches reveal?" he asked them.

"The creatures attacked all along the shore," said one called Beaknod. "We took shelter as you directed us, for we arrived too late to influence any of the fights."

"Aye," huffed another, Loinwrap, a strapping warrior with a face like a granite cliff and muscles to match. "Though it did not sit well, this cowering and watching a fight. Still," he admitted, "your wisdom cannot be denied. The monsters did not learn of our village."

"Nor," said Yak pointedly, "of the well. That is the important thing."

"Why is it so important, if our whole island is sacked in its protection?" questioned Loinwrap, who was no theologian.

Yak sighed. "Why bring children into the world? Why sow grain in the spring? Why do we bother to breathe? You may as well ask me these things, for they are all answered the same.

"I know humans," continued the chief of the village. "They will soon seek one to blame for these deaths, and we must ensure that such charges do not fall against us."

"Why?" countered Loinwrap again. "On our rock, we have naught to fear from humans!"

"Contrarily," disputed Yak, who had indeed learned something of the nature of mankind. "If they decide we are to blame, then we shall have no peace against the numbers of them who come here."

"And how do we change this?" inquired an elderly female, Yildegarde.

"I shall sail to Alaron and speak with them myself," announced the firbolg, enjoying the gaping mouths of his tribe members as they regarded him with astonishment. "You, Beaknod, and you, Loinwrap-you will come, too."

"Whyfor is the sea like a woman?" inquired the painted halfling, with a sweeping bow to the throne. The bells dangling from his many-pointed cap jingled, and his costume ballooned around him, humorously exaggerating the gesture. Within the lofty seat, Svenyird Olafsson, King of Gnarhelm and Proud Master of the Surrounding Seas, guffawed heartily.

"Tell me, fool. Whyfor is the ocean the same as a wench?"

"Because when once she grasps a man full in her embrace, he will never again be free of her!" The voice, from the door of the great lodge, drew all attention away from the suddenly perspiring hauling.

"Brandon-my son! Welcome!" boomed the king, rising and holding open his arms in an expansive greeting. "But your mission has finished early! Do you bring word from Callidyrr?"

"Far better, Father. I come with an emissary of the kingdom to the south. She is the High Princess Alicia, daughter of King Kendrick and now ambassador to our realm of Gnarhelm!"

The painted jester stepped back, and the prince led his guests to the great throne. The assembled northmen stared at the woman who followed Brandon into the lodge. Though she wore riding breeches and a stout travel-stained tunic, she walked with a bearing that bespoke her royalty. She approached the throne of King Svenyird and performed a gesture that was half bow, half curtsy.

"Greetings, king of the north. I bring salutations and warm wishes from my father and inform you of his own desire that peace between our peoples shall last well past the times of our children's children!"

"Good speech," agreed the king. "And welcome to mine own lodge. Come, we will talk as soon as you have rested. I grow weary of the prattling of my fool.

"We shall make feast tonight!" proclaimed Svenyird, feeling more relief than he cared to admit now that he was reassured the Ffolk did not plan to make war against him.

"We have news, sire," said Brandon, pressing forward and trying to catch his father's eye.

But the king was in no mood for serious talk now. "It shall be our first topic of conversation after we eat! Now, my son, don't be a boor! Show our guests to quarters in my lodge!"

"Aye, sire," agreed Brandon, with a quick look at Alicia. She seemed to enjoy his awkwardness, and he flushed. "Well, let's find some place for you to stay," he grunted, leading the three Ffolk from the Great Hall of the smoky lodge.

"You, Danrak, must be the one." Meghan spoke firmly, the strength in her voice belying her cronelike appearance.

"But there are many more worthy," protested the druid, suddenly frightened. "Mikal, who tamed the great brown bear … or Isolde, daughter of the glen! Surely they are wiser than I!"

Meghan's lips twisted, and she allowed her eyes to smile a little. "Wiser. . perhaps. But you, Danrak-you are elf-reared, and of us all, you have strength enough that you might endure the trials before you. And then there are the dreams. . the tokens."

The last remark could brook no argument. Danrak bit his tongue, further objections dying unsaid. He looked at the bedraggled Ffolk around him and realized that she spoke the truth. These, the ones who remained of the druid apprentices of twenty years before, made a battered lot, ill-used by the passage of time.

Mikal, whose beard had streaked silver before Danrak shaved his first whiskers, was indeed too old to make the trip. Now he leaned upon the great bear that, during the last dozen years, he had reared and tamed. It served as his steed, in fact, and was the sole reason the withered druid had arrived at this council. And for the quest before them, Danrak knew that no companion could help.

That was why the druids had gathered here, upon the far northern shore of Gwynneth, where the land reached with rocky fingers into the Sea of Moonshae. Standing at the very headland of Gwynneth, the druids overlooked many miles of gray water. The coasts of Alaron, to the east, and Oman, to the west, lay far over the gray horizons, and to the north lay hundreds of miles of chill, rolling sea.

It was stormy water, and a surface that must be crossed by the druid sent on this quest.

A rocky promontory dropped sharply a hundred feet or more into the foaming surf. The steady cadence of the sea came to them from below like a booming tempo that marked away the minutes remaining to them. Danrak felt, with a cold shudder, that those minutes had become all too few. Perhaps not the entire time of his life had been good, but he surprised himself by realizing, when faced with its possible and potentially imminent end, how much he wanted to keep living, to sample many more minutes of existence.

Closing his eyes, Danrak offered a quiet prayer to the goddess. Though he felt no response to his act of faith, the litany soothed him, and he felt better prepared to face the challenge implicit in Meghan's remarks.

"Here, Danrak," said a softly female voice. "I made this for you-just the way it was in my dream." Petite Isolde, her black hair framing a round and very serious face, held an object in her hand.

"Thank you, sister," he said, clasping the small feather in his hand.

"And here, brother," offered Kile, extending a small curved object, the crossed talons of a great wolf's paw.

"You, too, Kile?" Danrak could not help asking. "You had this dream?"

"Aye, and I carved the claw as it was in the dream."

A young druid called Lorn gave Danrak a shiny pebble, which he said had come from a shallow streambed. Danrak saw that it bore a circular spot, like the pupil of an eye. Lorn had smoothed and polished the bauble until now it glowed more brightly than gold.

One by one the others gave him the gifts they had made-things of animal, or plant, or earth. With each bestowal, Danrak felt a flowing of love and a slowly growing sense of power. Each of the druids had spent months in the preparation of the talisman, and now all of their might, limited though it was, flowed together into one. All of them had made the objects of their dreams, and in those dreams, they had given them to Danrak.

Only Danrak had had no dream, had seen no token. Yet he couldn't ignore the combined will and prescience of the others.

"I will go on the quest as the goddess commands," announced Danrak, when they had finally finished. He carried the talismans about his person, in belt pouches and pockets and, in some cases, pinned to his woolen tunic.

"May her benevolence watch over you," said Meghan quietly, her voice catching. Danrak was surprised and touched to see tears gathering in her eyes.

The others stood back, forming a loose ring around him. Trying to suppress the trembling in his knees, Danrak stepped to the edge of the promontory. He didn't look down, yet he remained acutely conscious of the surf pounding against the jagged boulders far below.

It had been decades since any druid had gained power from the goddess, either to cast a spell or to employ the innate abilities of their order. This had been the reason for the talismans, but none of them knew if their hopes had any basis in truth.

Now Danrak took the pebble from Lorn. He looked at it and stroked it with his fingertips. Finally he touched it to his forehead, and then cast it into the distance, watching as it soared to the north and then suddenly veered to the right, to the east. He felt a strong sense of destiny and purpose and now, with the flight of the stone, he knew where to go.

Still, it took an act of faith to see if his intuition-indeed, the hopes and plans of all the druids-had been correct. They didn't know if the years of toil and craftsmanship had indeed been able to impart to them some sense of the old art, the old skills that had gained for the order mastery over the wild places of Moonshae.

Slowly, reverently, Danrak took the feathered token given him by Isolde from a pouch at his side. He looked at the woman and saw her as she had been twenty years ago, a red-cheeked girl bursting with the faith of nature, then confused when that faith had seemed to desert her.

Now she smiled, and once again Danrak saw her as that girl. He tried to remember some of his own faith when the goddess had been real, her power accessible to any druid of serious nature and righteous virtue. Surprising himself, he felt the memories flow into him, bringing a surge of joy the like of which he had never known.

He held the feathered token lightly between his fingers, feeling the wind carry the plumes away as he slowly toppled forward. An image came into his mind, of a white gull dipping along the shore of a sea. Wind rushed into his face, roaring in his ears, and the shoreline whirled below him, rushing upward terribly fast.

And then, instead of striking the rocks, he flew.

From the Log of Sinioth:

My princess, you tantalize me with your dreams. Soon-very soon now-you shall make your pledge, and we will share the same master. Then the secrets will be yours and mine to share.

And then, too, will we share the land of your people.