What was the purpose of his grand quest? The sun rose higher, and after a while he even began to doubt the accuracy of his direction. Eastward didn't seem right, after all.
"Tristan! Hey, King, wait for me!"
The voice took him by surprise but brought a welcoming surge of joy to his heart at the same time.
"Newt!" cried the High King, spinning about as much as possible in the tall saddle. "By the goddess, fellow, it's good to see you!" The blunt, tiny snout widened in Newt's unmistakable smile, while his butterfly wings buzzed easily to keep him in a steady hover.
"Hey, what a great horse! And that dog-why, you'd think Canthus was here!"
Chattering delightedly, the little faerie dragon buzzed through the air, circling Tristan and shifting through colors of red, orange, and violet.
"Canthus?" For a moment, the king was puzzled. "He is-" Then he remembered. The great, shaggy moorhound was called Ranthal. Canthus, Ranthal's grandsire, was long dead.
But Newt was here. "Come take a rest, my friend," the king said, raising his gloved hand. Delighted, Newt came to rest on the man's wrist, allowing himself to be lowered to the pommel of the deep saddle.
"Are you out here on a hunt?" asked the faerie dragon, propping himself up on his haunches.
"No, no. I ride because …" Awkwardly, Tristan's voice trailed off. Suddenly the appalling state of his mind came driving home with vengeful force. "I don't know why I'm here," he concluded miserably.
"I'll bet it's the firbolgs again," Newt said, with a conspiratorial look into the woods on either side. "They sacked Cambro, you kn-Hey, what is it?"
Tristan bolted upright in his saddle and then shouted aloud in combined relief and outrage. The king seized the tiny dragon around his belly and squeezed the air from Newt's lungs.
"Firbolgs! That's it!" he cried as the full wealth of his memory came flooding back.
He squinted into the rising sun. "And not east-I should be riding north!"
Abruptly the grim strength of his delusion became clear. Something worked against him, striving to steal his memory, his very mind! The forest around him suddenly seemed a darker, more menacing place. He quickly yanked Shallot's reins to the side, starting the great horse onto a northerly course.
How long had he wandered? He realized, to his further distress, that he had no idea as to the answer.
"When, Newt?" he pressed. "When did the firbolgs sack Cambro?"
"Well, before." The faerie dragon squinted up at the king as Shallot broke into a loping canter. "I mean, before I saw you….Oh, and I saw Robyn, too!"
"You did?" Tristan had ridden out of Corwell too quickly to hear the full tale of Robyn's experiences on her mission of reconnaissance. He bit back a question about the timing of Newt's encounter with the queen, fearing he had already overloaded the tiny serpent's recollection. "But Cambro-how many days ago was it that the firbolgs came?"
"Oh, lots," Newt said breezily. "But I knew you'd be coming along."
The king realized that the faerie dragon was being as specific as he could. Newt wasn't the one to provide precise details or painstaking answers to questions. Nevertheless, Tristan felt a great lightening of his load from the presence of his old friend.
"So-we're going to thump those firbolgs, I bet!" Newt chirped, raising his neck to look forward past Shallot's streaming mane. Then, in a moment of puzzlement, he squinted and looked to the rear. "Didn't you bring an army with you?" he asked.
Another wave of chagrin washed over Tristan. "No," he admitted. "I came alone."
The faerie dragon's eyes widened in awe. "Wow! This is going to be some battle!"
Tristan shook his head. The fierce determination that had seized him following Robyn's report seemed like a strange dementia now. What had he been thinking? For a moment, he considered spinning the horse about, thundering back to Corwell, and mustering his army, but he immediately discarded that course of action as too time-consuming. He must be near the northern fringes of the vale by now, and he couldn't admit that all this time had been wasted.
Another reason nagged at him as well-pure, royal pride. It shamed him to think of his irrational behavior, and if he returned to Corwell, he would be forced to admit his realization before all the Ffolk of his kingdom. That wasn't something he could bring himself to do.
But why had he made this mistake? That question skirted the realm of his brain but wouldn't come into focus-at least, not now.
He tried to imagine the monster that had led the humanoids on their destructive course. A burning, almost mindless hatred seized the king as he pondered this unknown firbolg. What restless arrogance propelled him onto this destructive path? The lord of the marauding band became a focus of his rage, and Tristan forged an iron determination-one day that brute would die on his sword.
"Where's Cambro-how far away?" he asked, trying a different tack on the scatterbrained faerie dragon.
Again Newt looked at him, squinting like a tutor regarding a particularly thick-skulled pupil. "Cambro's in Myrloch Vale," he said precisely. "And you're in Myrloch Vale, too!"
"I know that!" declared the king, unable to entirely squelch his impatience. "But where in Myrloch Vale-how far from right here?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's over there somewhere." Newt gestured vaguely, but it was enough for the king. The faerie dragon had pointed to the southeast. Tristan realized that he had indeed traveled almost to the northern fringe of the vale. Perhaps he hadn't lost as much time as he'd feared.
"And the firbolgs?" the king pressed. "Do you know where they went from Cambro?"
"Nope," Newt replied, with a firm shake of his head. "Though I heard the humans talking about Winterglen."
That information, at least, was no less than the High Queen had reported when she returned from Myrloch Vale to the castle. "Which humans?" he asked, to confirm his suspicions.
"The ones Robyn talked to-the ones with the dwarves! Don't you pay attention at all?"
Tristan grimaced. He'd forgotten what a painstaking process it was to gain information from the scatterbrained faerie dragon, but-for now, at least-it proved well worth it.
"What about wolves-a wolf, anyway? Have you seen him?"
"I've seen lots of wolves!" Newt boasted. "Remember when the Darkwalker came to Corwell, and so did the wolves? Why, there were at least a thousand of them! The whole pack came running out of-"
"No! I mean wolves here, now!" blurted Tristan.
Newt looked around, his tiny eyes squinting. "Nope!" he announced, full of certainty. The king decided not to press the issue.
"We're riding to Winterglen," he announced casually. "Though I'd like to camp on Codsrun Creek tonight."
"Well, why didn't you say so?" huffed Newt. "That's way over there!" he added, pointing to the west. "Say, is that Corwellian cheese I smell?" inquired the little dragon, with a meaningful look at the king's bulging saddlebags.
With his position more or less triangulated, the king chuckled with a small measure of relief. Reaching back, he managed to pull a small morsel out of his saddlebag for Newt. "That'll have to last you until we stop for the night," he warned, knowing that the cheese would disappear within a few moments.
But Newt settled down to munch happily, and the miles rolled away behind them. The spell of delusion had passed, except for the lingering distress caused by the mysterious origin of his confusion. The king kicked Shallot harder than he intended. The great war-horse bucked once in annoyance and then set off for the north at a breakneck gallop.
"Hello, my princess," Keane said softly, folding his long legs below him and settling to the ground beside the small fire. "Do you have a few minutes for your old tutor?"
Alicia laughed and nodded. "Sorry, Keane. I know I've been busy. Just now I was almost falling asleep in my tea."
"You're setting a good pace. It's no wonder that you're as tired as the rest of us," allowed the lanky magic-user.
Indeed, Keane's own legs were cramped and sore, and the ground made an e
ven less comfortable seat than the saddle, which had come to be a fiendish torture device in the mage's mind. Yet he had carefully avoided complaining, knowing that the weight of her command weighed heavily enough upon Alicia's shoulders. And he at least had the benefit of a mount. The warriors of Corwell who marched with them traveled on foot.
"How are the men doing?" Alicia asked, as if reading his mind. "They all seem cheerful enough when I'm around, but I wonder what they really think."
"I think they'd follow you to the Abyss if you wanted them to," Keane replied truthfully. The mage had mingled with the men-at-arms during much of the march northward. He had observed the genuine affection with which they watched and spoke of the young princess who led them.
They looked up to see the sturdy, bandy-legged form of Sergeant-Major Sands approaching. The grizzled veteran stroked his long mustache until he reached the fire, where he bowed to Alicia and nodded at the magic-user.
"The men're all bedded for the night," he said. "If there's nothing else you'll be wanting, I think I'll turn in myself."
"Thanks, Sands. You've done more for us than anyone could ask," the princess replied sincerely. She watched him swagger off, knowing that his gruff exterior concealed a real affection for his royal commander.
Although she didn't realize it, Alicia unconsciously encouraged this admiration. She remained cheerful even when they faced obstacles, such as the unexpectedly deep stream they had encountered that afternoon. The waterway hadn't been featured on Robyn's map, yet it had raged through a deep gorge and they had lost many hours looking for a suitable ford. Alicia had raced ahead of the column to find a crossing, then galloped back with a whoop and cheer that put great heart in the weary marchers.
And even though she was mounted, the princess put in as much effort as any footman, riding back and forth along the column of marching men, responding to each loud greeting with a wave or a smile, and then racing ahead to make sure they found and followed the route Robyn had marked for them on the map.
Also, the princess had scorned any privileges of royalty. Like any warrior, she built her own fire and cooked her own meals, though every evening she made the rounds of the camp and was frequently invited to join a small group of men at their own cheery blaze. This she did as much as time allowed, listening to their stories of home and hunt, sharing her own experiences in turn.
Keane had watched admiringly, seeing the way that she earned the men's loyalty, sensing in this young woman all the qualities of leadership that would one day make her a splendid monarch. Yet he could tell that she herself remained for the most part unaware of these feelings, a fact that was part of what Keane found so appealing in the young princess.
"It's so hard to tell about them," Alicia said wearily, leaning forward and allowing a bit of the fire's warmth to soak into her rough, callused hands. "Sometimes I think they're coming along out of loyalty to the king, and they're only following me because I'm going the same way."
Keane shook his head firmly. "That's not it, not at all. Your father is an important symbol to them … to all of us. But don't underestimate your own role. You represent the Ffolk's hopes for the future. It's good for them, and for you, that you can get to know each other."
Alicia smiled, albeit wanly. "Thanks, old friend. I don't know if I could do this without you here to help."
"Sure you could," he assured her. But he was privately glad she didn't have to, because he didn't want to be anywhere else.
Keane's silent addenda must have shown on his face, for the princess reached over and clasped one of his hands in hers. "How about the inquisitor?" she asked. "Did you see him settled in?"
The young wizard chuckled ruefully. "As usual, he's pitched that palace of his off to the side. Trampled a good-sized meadow to do it"
Though the patriarch of Helm had accompanied them every step of the way, he remained a distant and mysterious figure. He camped in a manner completely unlike any other member of the expedition. Each night he produced a small square of canvas from his voluminous saddlebags. Casting the object on the ground, he spoke a short incantation, and the thing quickly expanded into the structure the Ffolkmen had immediately dubbed the "palace." In truth, it was merely a tent, but the structure included several rooms and covered more ground than a typical house. Colorful silk adorned its many panels, and from three sharp peaks-one atop each of the main chambers-flagpoles extended upward. Three identical banners, each portraying the All-Seeing Eye in vivid detail, outlined in a gold border with highlights of silver thread, streamed from these shafts, proudly proclaiming the faith of the tent's sole inhabitant.
"I've told him not to do that!" Alicia objected. "Everyone else sleeps on a small patch of ground. Why does he need a full hectare?"
Keane ignored the obvious reply concerning the huge cleric's girth and addressed the more pertinent issue. "To him, the whole concept of Myrloch Vale is superstition, or perhaps even blasphemy, and he's persistent, to say the least, in maintaining his own way of doing things."
"There's something more there," Alicia said quietly. Something in her voice drew Keane's eyes to hers, and he saw that the princess was actually afraid of Parell Hyath. "It's not just that he's of a different faith. It's as if he thinks of the goddess as an enemy!"
"If he shows any kind of threat," Keane vowed, "you can be sure that I'll be there to stop him!"
"I know." The pressure of her hand increased, and the wizard's heart swelled with joy. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, to pull her against his chest and shelter her from the world. But this he couldn't do, nor was such protection, he sensed, what she needed or desired.
For a time, they watched the fire in silence, seeing the dry aspen slowly turn to coal, the pieces falling away from their individual limbs to form a soft bed of embers. The gentle glow within, of deep and iridescent orange, made a pleasant companion to the darkness and to each other.
"How much longer until we're out of Myrloch Vale?" Alicia wondered.
"We could cross into Winterglen tomorrow," Keane noted. They followed a course to the west of Codsrun Creek, and five days' march must certainly have carried them out of the wide valley.
"I wish there'd been some sign of Father."
Keane shook his head, trying to hide his own concern. "This is a big place. The chance of us crossing his trail anywhere along the way is pretty remote."
"Then what if he has caught up with this army of firbolgs and trolls? Is that any better?" Alicia demanded.
"There's always the dwarves," Keane reminded her. "Finellen's likely to spot him just as she did with Hanrald and Brigit. And she's not about to let him charge off on any suicidal attacks."
"I wish I could believe that. But it seemed so shocking, so sudden. One minute he's standing there talking to us, and the next he's astride Shallot, pounding across the moors! If he hasn't come to his senses, who knows what could have happened to him!"
"That bothers me, too," Keane admitted. "It was too sudden. Your father's not a sluggish man, but it's not like him to do something so drastic without a little more reflection."
"Greetings, fellow travelers!" The hearty voice emerged from the darkness, followed quickly by the bulky form of Parell Hyath, Exalted Inquisitor of Helm. The silver and golden thread gleamed against the white silk of his voluminous robe. Somehow he kept the garment immaculate, even after five days on horseback, five nights sleeping in his tent.
Keane cursed silently as the princess sat up straight, removing her hand from his.
"Hello," Alicia replied stiffly. His was an invasive presence, but throughout the march, she had forced herself to treat him with civility. Tonight, however, his arrival might as well have doused ice water over the fire.
"Does our quarry draw near? Are there reports from your scouts?" the patriarch inquired, settling himself on a fallen log a little back from the low fire.
"The men of Llyrath have found the path of the firbolgs," she replied. "But it's a cold trail, nearly a week old."
&n
bsp; "Any sign of your father, then?" Hyath's eyebrows, which nearly met in the middle, came together in a questioning, even concerned, frown.
"No, nothing," Alicia said bitterly. She turned back to Keane. "We've got to pick up the pace! Too much time has passed already, and I don't want it to be too late by the time we get there!"
"Now, my child … I don't believe-" the cleric began, but Alicia cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"We don't know what to believe! That's why it's so important to move quickly." She stopped to think, and both men tactfully remained silent for a few moments.
"Tomorrow we'll break camp an hour before dawn," she declared. "The packs are lighter now, with so much of the food gone, so we'll also add another hour to the evening's march."
Alicia's eyes saddened, and she looked at Keane. "That is, if you think that the men…"
"I said they'd follow you to the Abyss, and I meant it!" he replied.
"I hope you're right," she said sadly. For a moment, Keane wondered if he felt any of the warmth in her voice that had been so full just a few moments before. He might have, or it could have been just a figment of his imagination.
"What about the plan? We win the fight-then we get a boat!" snarled Baatlrap, confronting Thurgol on the dock-side of Codscove. The huge troll's thin lips were drawn back, revealing his jagged fangs, while he held his massive and knobby fists planted firmly on his hips.
The firbolg chieftain and his twelve kinsman had, with great difficulty, pulled the Princess of Moonshae to wharfside. Thurgol clambered out of the rocking ship and bumped into the troll, knocking Baatlrap backward a step.
"The boat came to shore!" barked the firbolg. He was too delighted with his prize to pay more than mild attention to the hulking troll. "We took it!"
The pair stood amid the throng of huge, boisterous humanoids on the waterfront of Codscove. Wounded trolls, as they healed, limped across the trampled commons to join them. The remnants of the human defenders, recognizing their cause as lost, had fled the field several minutes before. For the time being, even the trolls were too tired to pursue.
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