The Druid Queen

2

"Please, Alicia, reconsider! Sail with me to the north!" Brandon's arms held the princess against his brawny chest. Though the pressure of his grip was gentle, she felt suffocated, and gently she broke free.

Alicia looked up while the wind blew her bright golden hair back from her face. Her eyes of green searched the ice-blue gaze of the proud northman prince. Framed by high, proud cheekbones, her face tore at Brandon's heart so intensely that it hurt him to see it. At the same time, he found it absolutely impossible to look away.

Only a trace of this anguish showed on the sailing captain's own stern face. Dressed for sea, the northman had tied his long hair into twin braids, donning leather sandals to protect his feet. The day was warm, and so he wore merely a strap of bearskin across his loins.

"I must stay here in Corwell, at least for now, until Deirdre's better or…" She didn't want to voice the alternative.

"The goddess has a way of watching over her own, and your mother is the Earthmother's favored child. Deirdre is in very good hands." The words, soothingly spoken from behind her, told Alicia that Tavish had arrived at the waterfront. The princess felt a measure of relief as Brandon stepped back slightly, reluctant to display his feelings before anyone but his beloved.

The harpist wrapped an arm around Alicia's shoulders and pulled the younger woman close in a hug. Though Tavish neared sixty years of age, she remained as robust as, and a good deal stronger than, most women half her age. The bard's round face was split by her almost constant smile, her ever-present harp slung casually over her shoulder.

"It will be a delight to have music accompany our voyage," Brandon said, warming to the harpist's smile.

"And for my part, I look forward to seeing the lodges of the north again. I've always enjoyed the hospitality of Gnarhelm!"

"My father, I know, will be delighted with your return," the prince said sincerely. "King Kendrick couldn't hope for a more able ambassador!"

"Oh, I'm more of a tourist than an ambassador," the bard said modestly. Though she spoke the truth in bare fact, her presence in the northern kingdom would indeed serve to cement the bonds of peace that had survived for two decades between the disparate human cultures of the Moonshaes.

"Well, you two make your farewells," Tavish said genially. "I'll try to get myself loaded into the boat."

Beyond them, the Princess of Moonshae sat in the calm waters of Corwell Harbor. The planks of the graceful long-ship's hull had been scrubbed until they gleamed, the scrapes from her recent trials fully obliterated. Tavish crossed to the edge of the dock, where a small boat waited to take her and the captain out to the sleek vessel.

"Will her keel hold?" Alicia asked the prince, addressing Brandon's greatest concern during the past week.

"As strong as ever, and six inches wider in the beam!" The northman nodded, his mind reluctantly but inevitably turning to the longship that was his other great love. "But… your staff. Are you sure you want to leave your staff as part of the hull? I know it's a treasured artifact…."

"Yes … it's only right that the blessing of the goddess ride with the Princess of Moonshae," Alicia replied sincerely.

The enchanted shaft of wood, a druid's changestaff given to Alicia by her mother, had become a part of the great vessel when she used it to seal an otherwise fatal breach in the hull. Grown to the size of a small tree trunk, it remained wedged into a wide crack beside the longship's keel. Invisible to outside observation, it provided a smooth outer surface and a perfectly watertight seal beside the central timber of the hull. The ship had suffered grievous damage as Brandon captained the quest to rescue King Kendrick, and she couldn't help but feel that a gift of the staff would begin, in some small way, to restore the balance between her gratitude and guilt.

Yet all of her reflections, even her gift of the staff, Alicia knew, were simply means of avoiding the central issue confronting her now on this dock.

Tell him the truth, a voice whispered inside her head-a voice she forcefully ignored. She couldn't admit even to herself a fact that had slowly been growing in her heart and her mind: that she did not love this generous, handsome man who had risked his life and his ship to aid the rescue of her father.

She wanted to love him-indeed, a part of herself told her that she was obligated to love him. But neither of these altered the simple fact that she did not.

"I–I wish I could stay for the rest of the summer," Brandon said sincerely. "But my father must know of our safe return, and I have already been absent from my own kingdom for too long. You return to Callidyrr in the autumn?" concluded the prince.

"Always in the past we've left Corwell before the gales of Harvestide. I assume Father will want to do the same this year, but I'll send word to you about our plans. It's not as if you're sailing to the ends of the world!"

She wanted to speak lightly, but the words came out more harshly than she intended. She saw the hurt on Brandon's face and tried to ease it by taking his hand. "I will write," she promised.

He nodded glumly, then kissed her. She returned his embrace, but once again she relished a sense of freedom when he released her. Why can't I tell him? The question nagged at her, but she forced it away. She watched him step into the longboat that several kindly fisherffolk had provided. Tavish already sat near the bow, busily tuning the strings of her harp, though she stopped long enough to wave a cheery good-bye to the princess on the pier.

The Prince of Gnarhelm stood tall in the stern of the little boat as he was rowed to his proud longship. Alicia stood watching, waving finally as he climbed aboard the vessel. Wind quickly billowed the longship's sail, and the Princess of Moonshae turned her prow toward the gap in the breakwater. Smoothly she sliced through the waves, shrinking in size as Brandon set a course toward the mouth of Corwell Firth.

By that time, Alicia had already started back to the castle.

Keane saw that the house across from the shrine was indeed a magnificent residence. Set high upon the hill that protected the Upper City, it might have served as a palace to the monarch of some small state. Below swept a vista of the Lower City and its great, encircling arm of the Chionthar River, here widespread and placid, though it had another fifty miles of journey before it reached the sea.

A high wall of whitewashed stone surrounded and screened the grounds, but as he approached the steel-barred gate, Keane saw an expanse of fountains and formal gardens. Several cascading spumes of water splashed merrily, casting streams of spray through the crisp morning air. Detailed mosaics of colorful tile formed a wide walkway leading from the gate toward the columned portico before a grand manor. The house, as white as the walls, gleamed in the morning sunlight.

Though Keane could easily have teleported, levitated, or slipped invisibly into the compound, the nature of his business required him to make a more formal approach. Therefore the tall, lanky wizard wore his finest leather cape, a satin shirt of blue silk, and smooth, high-topped boots of soft doeskin.

A pair of guards in red livery snapped to attention behind the gate as the mage approached. Keane bowed politely before speaking.

"Is the Exalted Inquisitor present? I request the honor of an audience with him."

"The inquisitor is a very busy man," sniffed one of the guards, with a disdainful inspection of the magic-user's finery. "Whom shall we report is calling?"

"I am Keane of Callidyrr, serving as ambassador for His Majesty, High King Tristan Kendrick of the Moonshaes."

The guard's eyes, much to Keane's satisfaction, widened slightly at the information. The man turned and started for the house at a trot while the other guard took pains to effect an absolutely rigid stance. A few minutes later the first guard returned, accompanied by a short, chubby man in a white clerical robe. The symbol of Helm, the All-Seeing Eye encircled by a ring of platinum, bobbed against the latter's ample belly.

"A royal ambassador… this is a signal honor! Come in, come in, my good lord!" The cleric beamed at Keane, waddling forward and gesturing imperiously to the guard who still stood rigidly at his station. "Open that gate, man-and be quick about it!"

"Thank you," Keane murmured as the priest bowed and smiled.

"You come from the court of the Kendricks? Your king's name is known far and wide, of course-an honorable man and a wise and beneficent ruler! But, of course, you know that already. Perhaps there is something that I can help you with? I am the bishou of this temple and shrine-Bishou Harmanius." The rank of bishou was not unknown to Keane. Harmanius was an influential man and a powerful cleric-but not powerful enough for the mage's needs.

"Actually, I'm afraid that my business must be conducted with the Exalted Inquisitor. Will he grant me the honor of an appointment?"

"Ahem… well, you see … he is a very busy person these days," the bishou demurred. "Perhaps if I could relay to him the nature of your business…?"

As they spoke, the pair passed between a pair of tall columns, climbing several large steps to approach the huge, ornately carved doors at the front of the manor. These swung open ponderously at their approach, and Keane saw another pair of scarlet-coated guards, images of immaculate tunics, obsidian-black boots, and buckles of gleaming silver, flanking the entrance.

"It concerns a matter of great importance to my king-a service he desires. Naturally it involves a sizable donation to the coffers of the church." Keane added the incentive on his own responsibility, suspecting from the opulence around him that it would be an effective inducement. He was not disappointed.

"Of course, the business of an esteemed monarch like King Kendrick must supersede lesser concerns," noted the cleric, without a hint of irony so far as Keane could tell. "I shall relay your request immediately. Would you be so kind as to wait in here?" Harmanius indicated a large parlor lined with marble walls, the floor buried beneath an array of lush, silken rugs.

"My pleasure," Keane replied. The cleric bustled into the temple while the magic-user walked slowly about the large chamber, dazzled by the wonders on display.

A large doorway of cut glass led into an enclosed garden, and from it sunlight spilled into the room. Paintings hung along the walls, mostly battle scenes, in which the banner of the All-Seeing Eye floated proudly above the victorious troops. One canvas made a mural along a good-sized wall, depicting the toppling of Maztican gods from their pyramid-shaped temples while the local peoples bestowed gifts of gold and silver on the bishou who had enlightened them. The mage spent several minutes studying the scene, noticing the strong flavor of righteous triumph tinged with bleak and abject conquest.

"Lord Ambassador?"

Keane turned suddenly, surprised that someone had entered the room without being heard. He felt a flash of guilt, as if he had been caught eavesdropping. "Ah, yes-forgive me. I was just admiring your artwork." He recovered smoothly from his surprise to bow formally to the man he knew must be the Exalted Inquisitor of Helm.

"Splendid, is it not? It commemorates the founding of Helmsport, on the coast of Maztica. Perhaps you know that it has become the major port on that savage shore?"

The cleric, Keane saw, was a very tall man-nearly as tall as the mage himself. He was stout, but not obese. Instead, the inquisitor carried the strong suggestion of a workman's strength in his barrel chest and large hands. A neatly trimmed beard of rust red framed the priest's chin, and his blue eyes sparkled with intensity and, perhaps, curiosity.

"I had heard something of that, yes," noted the mage as the cleric lead him to a pair of comfortable chairs arrayed before a currently unlighted hearth.

"Please, be seated. Allow me to introduce myself-Parell Hyath, Helm's inquisitor along this coast. Harmanius tells me you wish to discuss a matter of import to your king."

"That's correct." Keane had already decided that he wouldn't mention the unfortunate demise of Bakar Dalsoritan. No need to inform the inquisitor that he was the mage's second choice. Instead, he quickly launched into the explanation.

"His Majesty King Kendrick has recently been rescued from a dire imprisonment. His health is good, but his captors, in an act of sheer brutality, cut off one of his hands. He has commissioned me to … negotiate for the services of a devout man of the gods, a man such as yourself. I am prepared to offer generous inducements should you be willing to return to the isles with me and perform a spell of regeneration on the king."

Parell Hyath's blue eyes narrowed subtly, but his lips pursed tightly together.

"This is a worthy cause, to be sure-but I'm afraid that the matter of timing creates a bit of difficulty. My business here in Baldur's Gate is sure to occupy me for the rest of the year… though perhaps after that?"

Keane shook his head regretfully. He wondered if the cleric spoke the truth or simply raised the issue for negotiation purposes. "I'm sorry, Lord Inquisitor, but His Majesty was most insistent that I return as soon as possible. Isn't there a way that you could make the journey quickly, returning here to resume your business, and not incidentally earn a respectable fee for your good efforts?"

The magic-user knew that clerics did not possess the wizard's ability to teleport instantaneously from one place to another, which had been the means Keane used to reach Baldur's Gate from Corwell. But he also knew that other paths were open to the servants of the gods, such as gates through the astral planes and other-dimensional paths that allowed equally rapid transport.

For a moment, he wondered if the cleric really spoke the truth, for the man's lips remained locked in that firm position, causing his beard to twist into a tight circle around his mouth. But then he relaxed slightly.

"It just might be possible," he allowed, "though I can make no promises. By the way, what sort of, er, 'inducement' did your king have in mind?"

"I'm authorized to offer as much as fifty thousand pieces of gold or the equivalent in jewels, gems, or platinum." Keane knew the amount would put a significant dent in the royal treasury, but it was a fee he felt certain that the king would pay. In addition, he could see, with some satisfaction, that the offer had cut right to the core of the inquisitor's being. Hyath blinked, and this time he forgot to purse his lips. Keane saw his eyes slowly widen as he no doubt considered the charitable works that such a sum would allow him to accomplish.

"As I explained," the priest said after a few moments reflective silence, "my time is difficult to rearrange. But there is a possibility…."

"I truly hope so," Keane prodded. "Do you need a day to decide? I'm afraid I won't be able to linger much longer than that. I'll have to seek help in Waterdeep, or Amn…."

"Bah!" The cleric shook his head derisively. "Neither of them offers a cleric worthy of the title patriarch!"

"You'll forgive me"-Keane's voice was soft, precisely polite-"but I'll have to see that for myself."

The inquisitor smiled then, his expression surprisingly friendly. Nevertheless, the Ffolkman thought he detected a hint of craftiness in the cleric's visage.

"I'll do it," Hyath agreed suddenly. "Give me until tomorrow morning to make my arrangements. Then we can depart. We'll travel together, I hope."

"Certainly," Keane agreed smoothly, not at all sure how the cleric intended to make the journey.

"If you will accept the accommodations of my humble abode for the night, we can be off at first light. Will you be my guest?"

"I'll have to get my bags, but it'll be a pleasure."

"We'll send a man for them. Come, allow Bishou Harmanius to show you the gardens while I attend to my business. The roses are in full bloom, and I've been told that our hedges are the finest along the Sword Coast."

The cleric was already in motion as Keane rose to follow him from the parlor. As if he had known his patriarch's intentions, the bishou awaited them in the central hall, beside a circular marble fountain. The inquisitor instructed him as to his plans, then turned back to Keane.

"Please, treat this home as your own. I'll see you again at dinner-and then, as I told you, we'll depart for Corwell at first light."

The fire burned high, consuming many oak trunks with insatiable tongues and greedy fingers of flame. A keg of firbolg rotgut, horrific of stench and searing of taste, made the rounds of the throng, passed from giant-kin to troll and back again. Thurgol sat near the fire, enjoying the warmth of the gathering and the exalted status that gave him his prime seat. Even the presence of the great troll Baatlrap, squatting across the blaze from him, did nothing to detract from his pleasure.

The eyes of a wolfdog flashed golden in the firelight. The creature raised its shaggy head and blinked at the approach of a stooped firbolg clad in a billowing dress. The giant-kin hag regarded the great canine for a second, and then the beast swiftly rose and slinked away from the fire, yielding its place to the giant female.

Garisa reached the fireside and turned to glare at her comrades. Shaman of the village for many decades, she used the authority of her office to silence the throng merely by the persuasive power of her gaze. Even the trolls ceased their bickering yaps, regarding the female firbolg with expressions of fear, awe, and suspicion.

Thurgol was pleased. If the night was to culminate in success, then it was important that all of them give careful attention to Garisa's words, her story and her prophecy. Though the shaman and the chieftain had discussed in minimal detail what was to occur this night, Thurgol wasn't sure how the old female intended to go about it.

Their task was aided by the fact that Garisa held a unique and honored status in Blackleaf. The old crone of a firbolg was more skilled at healing and medicinal applications than any other resident of that community. In addition, however, she had discovered at an early age that she possessed a modicum of magical ability.

Charming a young warrior into a marriage that had elevated her to most envied female in the tribe, Garisa had worked to develop other talents, such as the healing incantation that worked so well for the broken bones and deep gouges that were the lot of the firbolg warrior's life. Thus her exalted status had remained even after her mate had fallen in the tragic conflict the humans had called the Darkwalker War.

Garisa had also learned to weave simple illusions. She never altered anything very much, but she could create the appearance of a mist in the air, and shape it to match the image she desired. This particular attribute had proven very useful throughout her century-plus of life. And during that entire time, she had kept her slight mastery of illusion a secret from every single one of her fellow villagers.

All the firbolgs of Blackleaf, of course, knew of her skill with herbs. Too, she had a reputation for making accurate predictions based on the reflections created by a few copper coins cast into a bowl of water. Hadn't she correctly guessed the outcome of that wild young Bree filly's mating? She had predicted that within five years the brazen young female would be discovered in the arms of another young buck. Naturally the husband, who had commissioned Garisa's foretelling, spent most of those five years accusing and spying upon his unfortunate bride, until the prophecy had been fulfilled.

Garisa continued to enjoy a unique status among firbolg females, being privy to the decisions of the chieftains and elders. Even young Thurgol, who had come to power when the shaman was already an old giantess, had employed her experience and skills when he had first taken the reins of village leadership, wresting them from old Klatnaught, who had grown just a step too slow to hold on to his post.

Then, of course, the trolls had come. Nearly twenty years ago the gangly humanoids, with their emotionless black holes of eyes-"dead" eyes, Garisa thought-had approached Thurgol with an offer to work for the firbolgs, in exchange for sharing the bounty and shelter of the village. The old shaman had been a lone voice of dissent amid a listless chorus of "ayes," and so the trolls had put up some shacks at the edge of the village and settled in.

In fact, the alliance looked innocuous enough on the surface. After all, there had originally been fewer than two dozen trolls, not nearly enough to threaten two hundred firbolgs. For a year or two, the trolls had labored dutifully, hunting and harvesting for their share of Myrloch Vale's provender.

By this time, there were some fifty of them, though none of the firbolgs ever really noticed the addition of individual members. The green-skinned brutes formed a strong and vocal faction, and Garisa found herself increasingly overruled in the rude and informal councils of the giant-troll clan.

Now Thurgol had come to her with this perilous path of warfare against the dwarves. Garisa blamed the trolls for this, as for most everything else. But unlike Thurgol and virtually every other firbolg and troll in the band, she had at least a dim understanding of the changes occurring in Myrloch Vale.

Garisa remembered the druids, remembered them with fear and envy. For most of her lifetime, they had preserved this valley as a sacred wilderness, forcing the firbolg clans into the highlands around the fertile bottomland. There the giant-kin had dwelled for generations, surviving in more or less pastoral existence, though an occasional conflict brought them to blows with their human, dwarven, and Llewyrr elven neighbors.

Two decades ago, when the druids had vanished, nothing had blocked the firbolgs from moving into the well-watered valley, so the tribe had quickly migrated down from their rocky heights. Now Thurgol wanted to fight for possession of that valley, when to Garisa many a highland hilltop beckoned the giant-kin back to their ancient homes.

Yet she was Thurgol's loyal ally, and together the two of them had concocted the plan that, tonight, would reach its fruition. It was a scheme that, despite its risks, had a strong element of merit. Appropriately, it would begin with a familiar tribal ritual-the Cant of the Peaksmasher.

Slowly, with careful, deliberate rhythm, Garisa shuffled her feet. Raising a knotty fist, in which she clasped a worn rope, she shook the line, causing the clattering of tiny bells to jangle in time with her dance.

Firbolgs and trolls alike followed with their eyes the giantess through her ritual, carefully formalized steps. Then abruptly she spun through a full circle, in a whirl of jangling bells and cackling laughter. Stepping rapidly, she returned to her original place beside the fire, once again fixing her fellow villagers with a gaze of mystery and raw suspense. The fact that they had heard the coming story many times before did nothing to mellow the tension. If anything, it brought the giant-kin to an even higher pitch of readiness.

"In the days before humans," Garisa began, her tone singing, the rhythm of her speech retaining its careful tempo, "there came the greatest giant of them all to an island in the Trackless Sea."

"Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!" The chanted response rumbled from every firbolg throat like imminent thunder from the growing darkness.

"Grond saw that this land was good. In the shelter of its reefs, he beheld the gleaming image of the full moon, and he called his place Moonshae."

"Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!"

"He took his mighty blade-the blade that had carried him through legions of elves, against swarms of dragons and pestilential creatures of hideous evil-he took his blade and he carved for himself a home on Moonshae."

"Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!"

"The axe with the shaft of silver-the axe with the blade of gleaming gemstone! And with his cutting edge, Grond carved the Moonshaes, cut the rock into pieces and left it as many isles. He carved the highland and grotto; he carved the vale and lake," Garisa chanted.

"Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!"

"And from the highest rock, he carved the images of his children. He carved the firbolg, the giant-kin! He made them proud and he made them great. He made them the masters of his world."

"Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!"

"But the rubble from his blade fell under his feet, and the refuse was crushed to gravel. And as the magic of Grond's axe showered around him, some of the brightness fell upon the gravel… and these crumbled pieces of stone came to life." Now Garisa's voice fell, the tone becoming low and threatening.

"Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!"

"And the stones of the path came to life, and they scuttled out of the sun, away from the glory of Grond and his firbolgs! For these stones were the dwarves, and forever they resented the might of the great one who had made such grandeur of his first children, but left the dwarves mere tiny, misshapen runts."

"Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!"

"And the hearts of the dwarves were black with treachery. They tumbled under the great lord's feet and made him to think he stood upon the firmament. But then, as he raised his axe to strike again, the dwarves stole away. They carried the stones from beneath the Peaksmasher's feet, and as he tumbled to the earth, the diamond blade chopped a mighty piece from the mountain."

"Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!"

"And the slide of rock and ice entrapped him, and made of him a piece of the Moonshaes, a sturdy beam of the world itself. And the firbolgs wept and grieved, and the dwarves took up the Silverhaft Axe and carried it away."

"Honored is the name of Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!" chanted the firbolg tribe, moved as a single, solid spirit by the tale of their origin.

"And still the Silverhaft Axe remains in the hands of the dwarves! Still they laugh at our grief. Still they taunt us with their prosperity, torment us with their greed…."

"This cannot pass!" Thurgol stormed, bounding to his feet and raising his fist in the air.

"The axe!" shouted another giant-kin, as if on cue. "Claim it back! Claim it in the name of the Peaksmasher's children!"

"Aye! The axe! Kill the bearded runts!" A chorus of cries rumbled through the camp, growing into a crescendo of fury. Even the wolfdogs sensed the frenzy, adding their yaps and howls to the din rising into the night.

Thurgol sat quietly, watching the growing fervor from beneath his hooded eyelids. The council, he knew at last, had carried him perfectly to his goal.

"Did she sleep at all last night?" Alicia could tell from the haggard look of her mother and father as they joined her at breakfast that Deirdre had had another rough night. Though Alicia's own room was nearby, in the upper chambers of Caer Corwell's keep, she did not share the adjoining apartments where her sister currently stayed with their parents. Thus she was spared the experience of Deirdre's nightmares as they happened, though her parents' attitudes in the morning left little doubt as to the night's ordeal.

Surprisingly, Tristan looked at Robyn instead of answering his eldest daughter's question. The queen's eyes were hooded, dark with concern.

"She did … unusually so," Robyn finally said.

"Isn't that good?" asked the princess, sensing the worry in her mother's response.

"I don't know," sighed the queen. "The nightmares came first. She kicked and thrashed in her sleep, tossing her head from side to side and gasping for air as if she couldn't breathe. In the end-when, in the past, she's always awakened screaming-she fell into a deep sleep. It frightened me as much as the nightmares, as if she had given herself up to whatever it was that pursued her. I tried to wake her, but she was beyond reach-or comprehension."

"What can we do? Is it enough to wait for this to pass?"

Again Alicia saw the sharp look between her parents, but then Robyn lowered her eyes in silent defeat. Tristan answered the question.

"When Keane gets here with the patriarch, we'll ask him to examine her," he said slowly while Robyn's eyes remained downcast. He spoke to his wife as much as to his daughter. "We've got to try it! Nothing else seems to work, and we can't give her up! I can't!"

"Nor can I," Robyn replied, surprising Alicia with the softness of her tone.

The princess understood that, with the resurgence of the Earthmother, the druid queen must regard with suspicion the intervention of any other gods into the Moonshaes. The "New Gods," they had once been called, for they were seen to compete with the treasured nature goddess who had so long made these isles an enchanted, magical place.

Yet some problems were beyond the abilities of even the Great Druid to solve, and it seemed that Deirdre's malaise was one of these. Alicia, like her father, hoped that a cleric of one of the New Gods might offer her sister some hope of succor. Yet she could sympathize with her mother as well. Alicia herself had been touched by the magic of the Earthmother, and she understood the special role that the benign goddess played in the life of the Moonshaes. She worried about any threat to that serene balance, the eternal equilibrium of light and dark, good and evil, that provided the fulcrum of her faith.

They spent several silent minutes picking dully at their bread and cheese. Somehow, to Alicia, the former tasted dry and stale, the latter crumbly and sharp-though both were fresh, in varieties she had enjoyed all her life.

"It's not like Keane to waste his time when he's on business for the king. What can be keeping him, anyway?" demanded Tristan, breaking the silence with frustrated words.

"He's not wasting time!" Alicia immediately leaped to her former tutor's defense, surprising her father with the vehemence of her statement

"What makes you so sure?" he pressed, more interested in her reaction than in her answer, for if the truth be told, Tristan felt certain beyond any doubt that the faithful Keane labored diligently in service of his king.

Alicia flushed. The emotions that compelled her beliefs were not feelings she felt ready to discuss with her parents; indeed, she was just beginning to understand them herself. "He's a loyal subject, that's all. If he's taking overly long, it just means that he's run into unforeseen problems."

"Perhaps the patriarch is busy … or absent," surmised the queen, with a sideways look at her daughter. "Keane would certainly try to find some other avenue, some other source of help, rather than return empty-handed."

King Tristan smiled wanly, unconsciously holding his hand over the blunt wrist of his left arm. "You're right, of course. I've had enough demonstrations of loyalty-from all of you-that such complaints are unbecoming. I apologize," he said to Alicia, nodding formally.

The princess blushed even more deeply, for she sensed the teasing in his words. "He'll be back soon!" she finished lamely.

"Brandon departed yesterday?" Tristan mentioned idly. Alicia didn't know if he was changing the subject or pursuing his original tack mercilessly. It was common knowledge that the Prince of Gnarhelm had sought her hand in marriage, and the fact that he had sailed away alone gave a clear enough indication of her reply.

"Yes. He had matters in his father's kingdom to tend. He-he plans to come to Callidyrr over the winter." She wasn't sure how she felt about that. The memory of his determination brought back the sensation of being trapped that she had struggled with earlier.

"A good man, that," the king continued, his appetite growing more hearty as his mind drifted away from his ailing daughter and his own semicrippling wound. "I remember his father, King Olafsson, though I haven't seen him in twenty years. Still, he made a fine impression when we signed the Treaty of Oman."

"The treaty that made it possible for his son to help us," Robyn pointed out. The northmen and Ffolk had been mortal enemies for many centuries until the signing of that historic pact. The peace, arranged by High King Kendrick and the kings of the north, had been reaffirmed during the recent troubles. Also, although Alicia had not been aware of this, the prospect of a unifying marriage had been considered and anticipated by both peoples.

"Indeed," Tristan reminisced. "It was King Olafsson who suggested the place for the ceremony. He thought that the image of the Icepeak above, with the surrounding groves of the Grampalt Highlands, made the proper setting for a peace between two such diverse populations."

"The Icepeak… that's the highest mountain in the isles, isn't it?" Alicia asked.

"So high that its summit remains shrouded by ice and snow the full year around," Robyn confirmed.

"I remember often enough sailing through the strait on the voyages from Callidyrr to Corwell," Alicia observed. "A few times the weather was clear enough that we could see the mountain. I remember the first time I saw it. Never did I think that any piece of the world could soar so high into the air!"

"There are summits on the mainland that are higher," the king allowed. "But none within the Moonshaes that even comes close."

The king was silent for a moment, then looked at Alicia with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "And now the son of Svenyird Olafsson is smitten with my daughter! What a way to seal the peace, eh, my queen?"

"Father!" objected the princess as her mother smiled.

Tristan held up his hand in a gesture of peace. "You didn't imagine it was a secret, did you? Besides, it's time you gave some thought to a husband. He'll marry onto the throne of the High King, remember."

"I believe Alicia knows her own mind-well enough for now, in any event," interjected Robyn, coming to her daughter's rescue. Thankfully the princess made haste with the rest of her breakfast, mumbling some excuse about her horses as she rose from the table and all but raced for the doors.

An acolyte awakened Keane as the first rays of sunlight began to lighten the eastern horizon. He met the Exalted Inquisitor in the plaza, where they shared a quick breakfast of fruit and wine. By the time pale blue stretched across the full arc of the sky, the cleric announced that he was ready to depart.

Bishou Harmanius arrived then with a long, narrow roll of silk. Keane discerned that the fabric was merely a wrapping, protecting a straight object some five feet long. The inquisitor took no note of his underling's arrival.

"What shall I do?" inquired Keane, still mystified as to Hyath's intended mode of transport.

"All questions are answered for the patient man," intoned the inquisitor. "For now, just wait there."

Dressed in splendid white robes etched in trim of gold and silver thread, the inquisitor struck a grand pose, closing his eyes and clasping his hands reverently over his solid stomach.

The words of his prayer mingled into a low chant, in a language that Keane did not recognize. The cleric spoke for more than a minute, his tone modulating from harsh to mild, flowing up and down the scale almost as if he sang.

Abruptly Keane detected a brightening in the air before the cleric. Slowly the illumination grew more distinct, taking on a shape and solidity where before had been only the clear morning air. Soon a spinning wheel of fire resolved itself from the arcane pyrotechnics, crackling and hissing, casting showers of sparks to the paving stones of the courtyard. The shape expanded, and gradually Keane made out two blazing figures-like horses, but made from light and fire. Above the flaming wheel, he saw a platform, well shielded and quite wide enough to carry several riders.

It was the image of a chariot, only both the vehicle and the prancing steeds in harness were etched in colors and lines of fire. The beasts kicked and pranced in their traces, eager to run … or to fly. like ghosts, the apparitions flared before Keane, and the wizard knew he beheld an example of very powerful clerical magic.

"The Chariot of Sustarre," explained the patriarch proudly. "It will carry us in royal fashion."

"Indeed," Keane agreed, more awed than he would have liked to admit.

Now the inquisitor turned to Harmanius, and the bishou passed the silk-wrapped package to his master. Carrying the object in one hand, Hyath stepped into the chariot, turning once to beckon to Keane.

The mage hesitated a bare moment, then climbed in beside the inquisitor. Fire crackled all around him, but he felt no unusual heat, though the chill of the morning air had been fully dispersed.

Then, before he could catch his breath, the cleric shouted another word and the chariot took to the air.

Deirdre finally let herself go, giving up the resistance, the panicked flight and terrified evasions that never allowed her to elude the darkness. With her surrender came a sense of impending destiny, and as she faced her own image, she found that her slumber again restored her, revitalizing and empowering nerve and muscle and mind.

She sensed many things as she looked into her eyes. Certainly the fear, the dark, shrouded terror, still lingered there, but no longer did these emotions boil to the surface. Instead, they lay deep within her, fueling the flames of other things … of might and power, greatness and control.

And even more.

Talos the Destructor sensed the growing power of the woman, and he knew well that she was more than she had been now, more than any human was. The soul of his own immortal might had entered her, and now, with each passing evening, that presence sealed its grip upon her will and her soul.

His presence stirred evil and chaos throughout the Moonshae Islands, nourished by the woman's spirit, driven by a growing reality of vengeance. As the power of Talos swelled, others began to take notice-others who included not only mortals but also gods.