"But there is so much more in the world!"
"Your father is dead!" snapped Robyn, and the bluntness of the painful admission was enough to quiet Deirdre for the moment. "The three of us-you, your sister, and I-hold the destiny of the Moonshaes in our hands. The great peace begun by King Tristan can flourish or fail. Do you believe for one moment that the Council of Lords will agree to the continuance of the Kendrick reign for old times' sake?"
"Surely they won't try to wrest the crown from you!" exclaimed the princess.
"Who knows what they'll try?" Robyn sighed. "In three days, in Corwell, we shall see. I know we have allies-the good Earls of Fairheight and Corwell, to name two. And the Grand Mayor of the Halflings, Lord Pawldo, will certainly side with us. As to the others, who can say what schemes they've set in motion."
"They wouldn't dare!" There was no fear, just an icy fury, in the younger woman's tone. The queen looked at her daughter sharply, never doubting the threat in her voice.
"If the three of us are united," Robyn said quietly, "then I'm certain there is little that the lords can-or will-do. But if we go into the council squabbling and bickering, I don't doubt that some challenge is inevitable."
"I hear you, Mother," said Deirdre softly.
"But do you understand me?" Robyn persisted. "Will you do as I ask?"
The princess stared at her mother, and Robyn saw anger flashing in those dark eyes. She barely heard the reply.
"I will."
Neither woman averted her gaze for a moment, but finally Deirdre looked away. "May I go now?" she asked angrily.
With a sigh that was more tired than angry, Robyn nodded, turning back to the window as her daughter left without another word. Once again she saw the sunlit landscape and the dazzling sea, and it was a scene that seemed to mock her. With conscious discipline, she forced her mind to turn back to her plans.
The funeral could not be a simple ceremony. It must be a festival worthy of the passing of a great High King. Yet neither would the normal rites suffice, for they had no body to bury.
Traditionally the great men and women of the Ffolk were put to rest in large barrows, mounds of earth raised over timber enclosures, where the corpse was laid together with an assortment of weapons, treasures, food, and drink-all that the deceased would need on his long journey into the afterlife.
For Tristan Kendrick, there would be no place in the barrows mound, no gifts for him to bear into the realms he now explored. Yet his queen would ensure that his passing was marked with proper ritual and ceremony. This goal had given her strength during the past weeks, and now that the event drew near, it provided a focus for her mind when it would have been so easy to collapse into grief.
Corwell! She knew instinctively that she had made the right choice in the location for the ritual of the king's passage. That pastoral kingdom, childhood home to both Tristan and Robyn, was a place where she could get away from the chaos of the high court, returning like a wounded animal to the den from which she had emerged as a cub.
Corwell was the ancestral home of the Kendricks, and both the queen and her daughters bore that name. The ancient castle-protected still by a palisade of wooden timbers, though the king had ordered a stone wall started some years back-would reinforce in the minds of the lords and kings of the Ffolk that Robyn came by her rank honestly. And that her daughters, too, bore the blood of the island's royal line.
And there was more than political truth to her choice, just as Robyn was more than a queen to the Ffolk. The kingdom of Corwell was on the isle of Gwynneth, and there Robyn would find Myrloch Vale, the heart of the reawakening power of the goddess Earthmother.
Robyn Kendrick had once been the great druid of the isles. With the passing of her goddess, the order of druids had drifted into the wilds of the Moonshaes, their numbers shrinking, their powers gone. But now, thanks primarily to the actions of the two Kendrick daughters, the goddess had surged back to life, her druids reborn.
Robyn herself was no longer a young woman. A return to the isolation of a druid's grove seemed like a strange form of exile now, something she did not desire, nor would have accepted. Yet she had seen the awakening of similar powers within Alicia-powers that Alicia denied, preferring to believe that she would become a warrior queen. Yet now the older princess wore silver bracers on her wrists, the coiled bracelets in the shape of dragons that identified her as a chosen daughter of the goddess.
"Carry me a little longer, Mother. . please."
Robyn whispered the words like a prayer and felt a lightening of her oppression. She did not feel joy-there were times she believed that happiness was a thing from her distant past-but she could steel herself to her work.
Finally Robyn stepped to the window. The city and the harbor seemed to pause, frozen in tableau. The queen leaned outward, spreading her arms wide, and they became her wings. The human woman fell from the window, but an eagle of purest white flew away from the the castle, away from the town-away from all of Callidyrr.
In two days, that eagle would reach Corwell.
Brigit Cu'Lyrran hauled back on the reins of her white mare. Talloth reared silently, raising her rider so that the elfwoman could see over the screen of quivering aspen branches before her. Her keen eyes had detected a flash of movement up the valley several minutes before, in the direction of the Fey-Alamtine.
She had been right-the Synnorian Gate would open today! Quickly she nudged Talloth with her knees, and the fleet mare exploded into a gallop, carrying her mistress swiftly up the trail. Passing a steep upward branch to the left, a rarely used trail that led to the human kingdom of Corwell, she continued up the main path.
In a few minutes, Talloth slowed to a lope, and then a trot as the trail opened into a clearing. The mare instinctively paused before the Fey-Alamtine, the Synnorian Gate.
A wall of obsidian-black cliff shimmered before Brigit, as if an invisible sheen of water flowed across the surface, but Brigit knew that the rock was dry. The visual effect had a magical cause.
Three or four times in her life the gate had been used, and once before she had been here to witness. Those memories, from a hundred years ago, remained with her as vividly as this morning's. But today she was the only one here, and as the shimmering grew more pronounced, she knew that the gate would open soon.
As captain of the Sisters of Synnoria, Brigit spent much of her time riding the swales and valleys of this tiny elven realm in the Moonshae Islands. Synnoria, and its beautiful capital Chrysalis, bordered the Ffolk kingdom of Corwell, yet the Llewyrr had existed without human intrusion for more than ten centuries. Magical wards and rugged mountains surrounded Synnoria on all sides; indeed, many of the Ffolk believed that the Llewyrr were creatures of history or legend.
Brigit was one of the few Llewyrr to have journeyed beyond the borders of Synnoria. Twenty years earlier, she and a small company of her knights had aided the human king, Tristan Kendrick, in the Darkwalker War. Now she would happily spend the rest of her days riding these valleys and woodlands.
A burst of light washed over her like a cool dawn, and her attention riveted to the Fey-Alamtine. The glossy black wall slowly grew opaque, taking on a rosy hue and an appearance of great depth, as if she looked through a foggy window at a scene many miles away. The shimmering stopped suddenly, replaced by a fixed glow.
Brigit saw a male elf, clad in a dirty, torn cotton tunic, step through the wall, as if he emerged from the heart of the mountain, though she knew that he must have come from far beyond. He blinked in the bright daylight of Synnoria and then gasped when he saw Brigit. He was unarmed, but he clutched a triangle of silvery metal in both of his hands.
"Get out of the way," Brigit suggested gently. "The gate will not remain open indefinitely."
Blinking in surprise, the male quickly nodded and took several steps forward. A female elf, equally dirty and ragged, followed him, clutching a youngster by the hand. The elven child ran forward to clasp the leg of the male who had been the first to eme
rge.
They came through the shimmering wall in single file, and the elven horsewoman got a good look at them as they emerged into Synnoria: all of them ragged, unkempt, and dirty. Their blond hair was disheveled, trailing back in the wind and plainly revealing the pointed ears of Brigit's elven kindred. She felt no alarm now, only sympathy and a kind of general sadness at the course of advancing history.
The sister knight dismounted, leaving Talloth to wait patiently for her mistress. Brigit advanced slowly toward the leader, whom she marked as a cleric by the golden oak leaf-symbol of Corellon, god of all the elves-embroidered on his sleeves.
The young priest stared at her in mute suspicion-or hope. Brigit held up a hand and advanced at a walk. "Welcome to Synnoria," she said in the language of the elves. "I see that you have traveled the ways of the Fey-Alamtine."
"Yes-in desperate haste," replied the priest, stepping forward. He held his hand on the shoulder of the elven boy who had run to him moments before. The youngster looked up at Brigit with palpable hostility, his hand rested on the hilt of a tiny dagger-a kitchen tool, probably-that he wore in his belt. More and more ragged elves came through, until well over a hundred had assembled in the clearing before the dark cliff.
"We are the Thy-Tach," continued the cleric. Brigit saw that he held the Alamtine Triangle in his hand. She had seen one example of the rare artifact before, the last time a tribe had come through the gate. "Our village was attacked by some monstrous horror, a three-legged creature as big as a hill. We had no recourse but flight!"
"Easy-you're safe now," the knight said, reaching out a hand to clasp the priest on the shoulder. Her touch seemed to steady him.
"My name is Pallarynd," said the priest quietly. "I thank you for your kind welcome."
"I've seen tribes come through the gate of the Fey-Alamtine before in my lifetime, and the shock of the transition is always upsetting. That's why you'll need to rest here for some time before you continue on," Brigit explained.
"It really worked, didn't it?" asked Pallarynd, his tone amazed, looking back at the Fey-Alamtine. The magical gate again looked like a shimmering wall of wet obsidian. "Torcelly had kept this ancient triangle for centuries. She'd never tell me what it was for, but she said that we might need it sometime. Now it has brought the village here, most of us alive."
"It's the way we ensure the survival of our race," Brigit replied. "Only on Evermeet can the elves reign over all the land. Everywhere else the humans press, or, even worse, other creatures. It is the Fey-Alamtine that gives hope to those elves such as yourselves, too isolated or too threatened to flee on foot."
"We're halfway there now, aren't we?" mused Pallarynd, to himself as much as the knight.
"Yes," Brigit said, with a soft smile at the young elf beside the priest. The little fellow squinted, still suspicious, but at least his hand fell away from the knife. The cleric squeezed his shoulder and the boy took the older elf's hand.
Pallarynd turned to his people. The Thy-Tach pressed close to hear his words. "To think we have come safely to Synnoria, the outpost of our people on the Moonshae Islands! The Fey-Alamtine has led us here, and when it is time, it shall lead us on the final leg of our migration as we travel to the eternal elvenhome, Evermeet!"
The Thy-Tach elves, in their ragged leggings and woods-brown tunics, whispered quietly among themselves. Their losses were too recent, and too horrifying, for the elves to feel any joy. Yet as the sister knight turned back down the valley, their relief was palpable to Brigit. She urged Talloth into a fleet canter. The Thy-Tach would find shelters, beds, and food awaiting them when they reached Chrysalis.
The keen bow of the Coho sliced the smooth waters of Corwell Firth. Under the steady eye of her captain, Brandon of Gnarhelm, the small longship glided toward the narrow harbor mouth a mile or two away. Soon they passed the breakwater, gliding toward the dock at the conclusion of a smooth five-day journey from Callidyrr.
Two women stood in the bow of the ship. One of them was heavyset, with a smile as broad as the sun and a merry twinkle in her eyes, seemingly amused by everything they saw. The woman's hair was gray, tied in a bun behind her neck, and the wrinkles lining her face gave a grandmotherly cast to her age, but she stood at the gunwale with one foot balanced on the rail, as light on her feet as any young sailor. Around her shoulders was strapped a dark-grained harp, silver strings winking in the sunlight, and a smooth, well-polished body shimmering from the reflections of the waves.
The second woman was much younger, and strikingly beautiful. Her fair hair, like straw tinted with copper, trailed behind her in the wind, but though her lips creased into a smile at the sight of her family home, her good humor did not extend to her eyes. She looked up at the castle, rising above the town and the firth on its rocky knoll, and she missed her father more than ever.
"Look-there's Lord Pawldo!" announced Tavish, the bard.
The diminutive figure of the halfling, clad in an elegant blue waistcoat and shiny, high-topped black boots, waved enthusiastically from the wharf. As the skilled northmen crew, with a few strokes of the oars, brought the vessel bumping gently against the dock, the Lord Mayor Pawldo of Lowhill, longtime friend of the Kendrick family, rushed up to the princess and embraced her. Alicia bravely tried not to cry, but this was the first time she had seen her old friend since her father's death. She couldn't bear the embrace of the halfling, such a great companion of her father's, without shedding tears of grief.
"There, there, child," whispered Pawldo, and for a brief moment, Alicia felt like a little girl. The strength of his shoulder to cry on was a great relief.
But in another moment, she stepped back and wiped her eyes. Pawldo gave her a hand as she stepped up from the hull onto the dock, and again she was a High Princess, returned to the town of her family's clan.
The Ffolk were not a great people to observe formality and ceremony, so there was no turnout of the castle guard or any such display at the wharf. Earl Randolph was present, however, and he quickly joined Pawldo in greeting Alicia and her party.
The earl had been a young captain who fought for King Kendrick twenty years earlier, in the Darkwalker War. When Tristan went to rule in Callidyrr, he appointed the loyal warrior as seneschal in Corwell, and later made him an earl. Now Randolph's eyes, too, were moist as he bowed to the princess. She introduced her companions as they climbed from the Coho's shallow hull.
"Do you recall young Hanrald Blackstone?" she asked Randolph. "Now the Earl of Fairheight?" Hanrald bowed formally, then extended a hand to his fellow earl.
"Indeed-your service to our lady princess has been well told by the bards!" proclaimed Randolph. "It is an honor to have you as my guest."
"And Brandon Olafsson, Prince of Gnarhelm," continued Alicia. "He provides us with the fast transport-and more, for without his aid, we would not have broken the thrall of the Stormbringer."
"King Kendrick has done our people a lasting service when he made peace with the northmen," said Randolph, bowing with easy grace to the prince. "My honor is doubled to have such an esteemed ally as another guest!"
Brandon flushed in embarrassment. Such niceties of diplomacy always discomfited him. "Well, thank you," he finally remembered to say. "And the transportation might have been faster," he reminded Alicia, "if we'd had the use of my own Gullwing."
The prince's eyes swept the horizon wistfully, as if he expected that proud longship, sunk by the tempest of Talos the Stormbringer, to come sailing toward them. Alicia knew that one of Brandon's countrymen had willingly given him use of the Coho, but the love he had felt for his own vessel was clearly lacking with the new longship.
"Your mother will arrive soon?" inquired Earl Randolph, drawing Alicia's attention.
"Yes. She rides the wind now, as she did when she was younger. The love of the Earthmother, I think, is the only thing that lifts her spirits."
"And your sister?" inquired Randolph, with a meaningful look along the hull of the longship. The rest of the crew, l
onghaired northmen sailors to the last unshaven face, stared back. It was quite obvious that Princess Deirdre was not present.
"She, too, arrives under powers other than sail," Alicia said, mildly irritated at the thought of Deirdre's icy arrogance when she had declined Brandon's invitation to sail on the Coho. Her younger sister's dalliance with magic seemed to Alicia to be a vexing pastime. It annoyed her that Deirdre planned to teleport from Alaron to Gwynneth. Still, Alicia had trouble understanding the stark concern that others, notably Keane and Robyn, had expressed about Deirdre's mysterious powers.
"Many of the lords have gathered," noted the earl, pointing to the field full of colorful tents that lay between the town and the castle. Different banners flew from many, and at first glance, Alicia saw the boar of Lord Koart and the unicorn of Dynnatt, two of the local cantrevs. Farther away streamed the white banner of King Truac of Snowdown. Soon all the lords and kings of the Ffolk would be gathered for the High Queen's court.
And above the field rose Caer Corwell, with its partially completed stone wall joining the wooden palisade. The towers of the keep rose beyond the wall, and the whole structure crowded the steep-sided knoll that placed it in command of all the ground for miles in every direction.
Suddenly the little castle seemed like home to her-a home she missed very much. Though she had spent most of her life living in Caer Callidyrr, her time in Corwell had included many idyllic summers. Now, as that season came once again to the Moonshaes, she wanted nothing quite so much as to pass through those great doors and enter the cooling shelter of the family hall.
Talos the Stormbringer, god of maelstrom and cyclone, deity of destruction and chaos, brooded malevolently as he pondered his lust for revenge. A monstrously powerful god, Talos was not used to frustration, yet a short while ago, when he had thought that he stood at the brink of his mightiest accomplishment, he had instead suffered the greatest defeat in a long and combative existence.
The crux of his hatred, and his defeat, was the island group called the Moonshaes and the people known as the Ffolk. These enchanted isles were places of sublime and ancient power, but power that had of late drifted in a vacuum. A yawning space had beckoned the Destructor like a bottomless pit, urging his own claim to the lands and seas.
The Coral Kingdom tdt-2 Page 2
