"But there's nothing like solid plate for making a charge or mixing it up in a melee," Hanrald replied.
"True-to a point," Brigit allowed. "But then a good shirt of chain can provide nearly the same protection and also give you the speed to cover your back with your weapon, instead of your armor."
"You'd be talking about better chain than I've seen," Hanrald said with a rueful laugh. "Even the best armorsmiths in Callidyrr can't link together anything that'll hold the bite of a northman's axe."
"And what kind of northman would be striking at your back?" demanded Brandon, in mock offense.
"I'll welcome them at my side now," replied Hanrald seriously. "It's no small thing you've done, offering to take a company of foreigners on a quest for their king!"
Alicia flinched. The words were too close to the turmoil she wrestled with so frequently. She turned to Brigit, trying to ignore the men.
"What do you know about the barriers around Evermeet?" the princess asked.
"Very little," admitted Brigit. "And neither Erashanoor nor the sages could tell me much, though I spoke with them about it on the evening before our departure.
"There are the things called cyclones," continued the sister knight. "But whether they're funnel clouds of intense pressure or great masses of storm I can't tell you. As to the Warders, it seems that their nature has been kept-intentionally-a secret."
"We'll need spare rigging and sails, extra oars," Brandon mused. "All things we can gather in Corwell Town."
Alicia nodded. "We'll have no dearth of volunteers, I'm sure-enough to crew your vessel."
Brandon shook his head. "My own men will go, to the last hand. Best we sail with an experienced company."
"There is some hope I can offer," Brigit added slowly. She didn't sound terribly enthusiastic. "Erashanoor told me before we left that it's supposed to be possible to reach Evermeet by sea. There were paths laid through the storm belt, and the Warders are not invincible."
"That is encouraging news," the princess agreed, her hopes fanned into flame.
"Of course, we don't have any map of those paths, and if the Warders have a weakness, I'm sure I don't know what it is!" Brigit reminded her, but Alicia didn't bother to listen because it wasn't what she wanted to hear.
"My ancestors have long avoided a wide stretch of sea a thousand miles to the west of here," Brandon said. "They tell legends of an elven island, dangerous to approach. That's the place you call Evermeet?"
"Yes," Brigit replied. "A large realm, hundreds of miles from north to south."
"With a favoring wind, we might make the voyage in a week or ten days."
"And without a favoring wind?" inquired the sister knight.
This time it was the northman who shook away the question. "We can tack around any wind, and we've got oars if it comes to that!"
"It shouldn't take us too long to get everything collected once we get to town. And Brand's crew is there already, plus his longship."
At her last word, Alicia frowned, realizing that their vessel was one matter in which they must settle for less than ideal preparations. Brandon's own ship, the Gullwing, had been lost in a wreck barely two months earlier. As crown prince, he had commandeered the Coho, the longship of one of his countrymen, but the craft was smaller and, even to Alicia's unpracticed eye, appeared less seaworthy than had Brand's personal ship. The prince had long before commissioned a new longship, but Alicia had seen the vessel under construction little more than a month before. There would still be, she felt certain, much work to do on the new longship.
"The towers of Corwell," announced the High Queen abruptly, and they all cantered ahead to get a look.
None of the others could make out the shape of the hilltop fortress, but within five minutes, a squat outline began to show through the haze of distance.
"How did you see that from back there?" asked Brandon, who had always believed his own eyesight to be perfect.
"Human senses are not always the most acute. Perhaps I borrowed the eyes of something different-a hawk, say. Or perhaps your young eyes are not as keen as you think they are!"
The towers of Corwell Keep soon stood out in individual relief, and then the stone wall that had begun to replace the castle's wooden palisade came into view. Soon the waters of the firth glittered on the far horizon, stretching like a blue highway into the haze of the far west.
The companions unconsciously picked up their pace, allowing the horses to gobble the miles with long, loping strides. The steeds ran as if they could sense the snug stable and fresh oats in their near future.
As they rode, more and more details became apparent-the buildings dotting the snug town, many puffing small wafts of cooksmoke from their chimneys. . fishing ships, a trading galleon, and a pair of longer vessels as well, dotting the placid waters of Corwell Harbor.
And then Brandon gave a shout of triumph that took them all by surprise. The northman's face was locked in an expression of fierce joy. Alicia stared at the Prince of Gnarhelm and then followed his eyes to the firth.
Two longships in the harbor? She squinted, recognizing first the Coho by her battered hull and limp, swaybacked look. The other vessel was anchored just beyond, and though she was the same type of ship, she was as different from the Coho as a galleon was from a canoe.
The second longship was more than half again as long as the Coho, and her hull planks were so clean that they gleamed. Her gunwales were long and straight, and a proud figurehead rose high above the prow. The ship was quite simply the grandest vessel Alicia had ever seen.
"She's here!" shouted the prince of the north, raising his fist triumphantly.
"Who's here?" inquired Keane, peevish from the long ride.
Brandon took them all in with his smile, the wide grin of a man who has just sworn his love for life or has beheld his newborn son for the first time.
And then Alicia knew. She remembered the partially completed hull she had seen in Gnarhelm that spring, the sleek vessel that Brandon had told her would be his own. Even among the builders' stays she had been a grand vessel, and the princess had no doubt that the same ship now awaited them in the harbor of Corwell.
"This is a ship I would take to the edge of the world and sail her along the brink!" declared the northman, his voice thick with pride. "The work was finished in record time, and I left word in Gnarhelm, weeks ago, to bring her here as soon as she was ready to sail."
Now Alicia saw that he eyed her seriously, his expression unusually tentative.
"We shall sail to Evermeet on the grandest vessel of Gnarhelm," Brandon said, his voice thick with pride. "And that vessel required a name befitting her grandness. I hope you can forgive my presumption."
Alicia started at the uncharacteristic humility in his tone. Then her blood thrilled and her throat choked as she understood what he meant.
"She is called the Princess of Moonshae," Brandon finished quietly. Deeply touched, Alicia could only nod her thanks, but even through her tear-streaked eyes she could see the warmth and affection shining from the northman's face.
For a long time, Deirdre tried to avoid her mirror, even going to the extent of covering it with the leather wrap and stacking books and scrolls on top of it. In truth, she was terribly tired. She had spent the night in Synnoria relearning her teleportation spell and then, before dawn, she used it to return to Corwell.
Then she had fallen into a slumber that had lasted for two full days-and even now, on the third day, her mind was reluctant to focus. Instead, she found her thoughts drifting to the mirror.
Finally she gave up her resistance, slowly lifting the top books from the stack. She quickly pushed the other volumes out of the way and tore away the cover. Palpable relief swept over her when she saw the comforting reflection in the glass.
Then the picture shimmered, and she settled down to observe her sister and her companions making their plans.
The companions' return to Caer Corwell was marked by an enthusiastic crowd of Ffolk who
poured out of the town to line the roadway as soon as the party was sighted. The appearance of the elf among them was greeted by wild cheers.
Immediately upon reaching the courtyard, Robyn ordered a grand feast for those lords and Ffolk still in Corwell. The occasion was a farewell banquet for those who would embark to Evermeet-and also, a memorial and tribute to the queen's lifelong friend, Lord Pawldo of Lowhill.
Tavish sang songs about love and triumphant heroes while the guests mingled about the great hall, beginning the carousing that would go on far into the night. Dozens of kegs were tapped, and ales from palest amber to darkest mahogany overfilled deep and oft-inverted mugs, while the smells of succulent roasts drifted through the hall. Nevertheless, this was not nearly such a grand gathering as the festival of ten days earlier.
The entire affair was held within the keep of the palace.
Keane sensed the preparations for the feast as a vague background confusion against his concentration on the mission before them. The voyage to Evermeet, he guessed, offered the companions a less than fifty percent chance of survival. He had tried to dissuade the queen and the princesses together, and each separately, from participating in the quest. He hadn't expected to succeed with even one of the accursedly stubborn females, but in the case of Deirdre, he found an ally in the queen.
Robyn would not allow the entire family to embark on the quest, and she had decreed that it would be Deirdre who remained behind. The younger daughter had agreed with this suggestion too willingly for Keane's peace of mind. He let his mind consider the younger princess with an undeniable shiver of concern.
How had she known about the Elf-Eater-its rampage, or the means to vanquish it? And what unerring sense had brought her right to the scene of the fight, just when her presence could make a difference? How much did she know-and how did she learn it? A cautionary part of him wanted to remain in Corwell to observe the frightening development of Deirdre's power.
Yet Keane never questioned the importance of his own presence on the mission to rescue the king. Without his spells, the expedition's slim survival chances would be drastically decreased, in the mage's well-considered and unemotional opinion.
He spent many hours in study, and in the transcribing of spells from his great, leather-bound spellbook to a smaller volume that he would take with him aboard the Princess of Moonshae. Abruptly the lean magic-user straightened up and sighed, reminded by a pang of jealousy that they would be placing themselves in Brandon Olafsson's hands for the duration of their voyage.
Not that he had any doubts as to the young northman's proficiency as a sailor. In fact, the root of his jealousy was quite the opposite-Brand was such a fine sailor that he was bound to gain stature in the eyes of the Princess Alicia. Keane, on the other hand, would go on being. . well, Keane.
Still, there was no question of him remaining behind. He thought of Alicia, touching the private part of his heart, the only place where he dared admit the truth. Keane had finally allowed himself to admit that he loved the princess, had loved her since she was little more than a girl. Always he had remained aloof, keeping this part of himself locked away, but he could no longer deny it. He would follow Alicia Kendrick to the farthest corner of the Realms if she set out in that direction.
Of course, Brandon Olafsson would probably be there waiting for them, Keane reflected ruefully. He came to the same woeful conclusion when he considered his other competitor. Hanrald, Earl of Fairheight, seemed like such a confident and capable suitor, and if he didn't press his case with as much vigor as Brandon, he remained a strong and manly presence. Gloomily the magic-user pondered his rivals-if he himself could even be called a participant in that contest.
There were times when he felt that such was not the case. He thought of Alicia's undiluted vitality. In the Palace of the Ages, she had been the one to voice the humans' resentment of Llewyrr arrogance. He had admired her when she had challenged the Serene Matriarch, even as he realized that he could not have uttered such statements himself.
Both the other men were closer to Alicia's age at twenty, and while Keane had a mere eight years on them, there were times when he felt three decades older. Alicia, Brand, and Hanrald were also all people of action. The two Ffolk were splendid riders, the northman a magnificent sea captain. Keane, on the contrary, felt equally uncomfortable bouncing on horseback or pitching deck.
Stop this! Angrily he rebuked himself, realizing that he might precipitate a dive into a dangerous depression. Fifteen minutes had passed since last he had dipped his quill into the inkwell! With a shake of his head, he forced himself to look at his work. Eventually the discipline that had enabled him, at a relatively young age, to master many spells that most magic-users never learned in all their lives allowed him to focus on his preparations.
Three hours later, he was done. He took another fifteen minutes to shave and don a clean tunic and trousers, arriving in the great hall just as the main course-roasts of venison and boar-was served.
As luck would have it, Hanrald had saved him a place at the head table, placing the tutor between the earl himself and Deirdre. Brigit and Alicia sat across the table from them.
"Nice you could join us," said Alicia, her tone cool. Obviously she had expected him earlier.
"I had a little work to do … if I'm going to be ready to sail tomorrow."
"At least we have an afternoon tide," Brandon noted, from down the table. He leaned forward and grinned at Keane. He obviously enjoyed the mage's exchange with Alicia.
"I'll be ready," Keane promised, his tone more grim than he intended. He saw Alicia looking at him curiously. Was that concern on her face or annoyance?
Servingmaids brought more pitchers of ale and a few bottles of Calishite rum. They drank toasts with the latter and washed down the rum with the former.
As they talked and ate, Keane found his eyes drawn to Brigit. The elfwoman was mostly silent, speaking only in answer to questions, and then in a soft tone that precluded further discussion in the crowded hall.
She really is beautiful, he realized. For once, the sister knight did not wear her silvered plate mail. Her petite form, clad in a gauzy dress, seemed almost frail by comparison to the robust, though hardly large, Alicia. Both of them had light-colored hair, but Alicia's was tinged with red and long, carelessly bound with a scarf that left many rogue strands free to tickle her cheeks and sweep across her shoulders. Brigit's, on the other hand, curled softly in a much shorter cut. When she wore her helm, none of the thin strands, as yellow as spun gold, were visible. Though the elfwoman didn't bind it in any visible way, her hair lay soft and lightly curling against her scalp, hiding the tips of her pointed ears and accentuating the delicate shape of her features.
Brigit joined Alicia for each toast, and as the evening wore on, the two females grew louder and more boisterous. Gradually the sister knight's elven reserve dropped away, and when she and Alicia joined Tavish for a ribald chorus of "The Murderous Maid," the whole hall resounded with cheers.
"Humans!" cried Brigit, slowly stifling her laughter as she settled back into her chair. "I wouldn't have believed it, but your festive spirit is catching!"
"Obviously," murmured Deirdre, too quietly for anyone but Keane to hear. The mage cast a quick look at the princess, who had been silent during the course of the dinner.
"You should try it," Keane couldn't resist pointing out.
Deirdre looked at him frankly, her lip curling into a faint sneer. "Some of us have more important things to do."
Keane looked at his former student with concern. The chaos of the banquet was not the place to talk with her. Tomorrow, he told himself-before we sail-I will speak with her. She hasn't listened before, but perhaps. .
".. when the firbolgs saw the Sisters of Synnoria ride over the hill, their faces dropped into every expression of astonishment you could imagine." Keane looked up, realizing that Queen Robyn was relating the story of the battle of Freeman's Down, the first time she and Tristan had fought with the
aid of Brigit and the sister knights.
"It was a costly day," continued the queen, her voice dropping sadly. "Many brave Ffolk perished at the ditch, and one of the knights, fell, too. But we held them."
"Just as we'll hold them now," concluded Alicia softly. "May the goddess protect our efforts!"
Through the mirror of scrying, Talos watched the development of the humans' plans. Many options existed for thwarting those plans. Naturally the one he selected called for the use of his favorite avatar. Coss-Axell-Sinioth, now dwelling as master of the Coral Kingdom, would again serve his god in Corwell.
The command of Talos penetrated the depths of the sea, tickling the evil brain of his avatar as Sinioth lolled among the coral pillars of his submarine grotto. The giant squid oozed upward from the bottom, into the pale green of the shallows, as if here it could better absorb the message of its evil god.
"Arise, Coss-Axell-Sinioth, and hear the words of your master!"
"Speak, O Awesome One, and I obey!"
"You will again don the guise of a man," ordered Talos. "And quickly. You must go ashore in Corwell. There is a task you must do for me there. …"
When Sinioth heard the wishes of Talos, he could only gurgle in appreciative glee.
9
Corwell Town
The streets of Corwell were dark and generally abandoned at this late hour. A few guardsmen marched about, spending most of their time lingering beneath the occasional oil street-lamps, while late-night revelers stumbled from this inn to that tavern, seeking a little more entertainment before giving themselves up to the night.
Of course, every decent Ffolk was home in bed-at least, that would have been the opinion expressed by any city guard one bothered to ask. And for the most part, the man-at-arms would have been right.
This was especially so in the case of one dark side street, and a particularly ill-lighted tavern at the blackest end of that dingy lane, a place frequented by the lowest class of sailors and anyone else lacking the few copper pieces necessary to find better accommodations or entertainment.
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