Black wizards - Douglas Niles [3]
Robyn caught her breath sharply, for the questions were painful ones. She had come to the Vale nearly a year before and had had no contact with her previous home. Genna insisted that such diligence was the only way Robyn could properly develop her skills. She thought carefully before answering, more for her own benefit than Newt's.
"I miss him very much – more, each day, it seems. And I want to be with him. Perhaps, someday, I will be. But for now, I must learn what I can of the order of the druids – find out for myself if I am destined to serve, as my mother did and my aunt does, as a druid of the isles. This is something I have to do, and if Genna tells me that the only way I will learn is by performing mundane tasks around her grove, then so be it."
"Of course," Newt said nonchalantly. "Tristan's probably got plenty to do at Caer Corwell, anyway. Festivals and hunts… all those pretty country lasses and barmaids. I don't imagine for a minute that a prince of the Ffolk would waste his hot summer afternoons in a cool alehouse, of course, but just supposing he…"
"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed Robyn, more harshly than she intended. Newt had an uncanny ability to aggravate her.
She did miss Tristan. But, she reminded herself, she was doing the right thing by following in the footsteps of the mother she had never known – the mother that had left her a book and a staff as proof of her druidic legacy.
Wasn't she?
She remembered the sense of awe and wonder with which she had opened her mother's book, only a year ago. It had been given to her by her stepfather, King Kendrick of Corwell – Tristan's father. Through its pages, Robyn had begun to understand the nature of the work she was capable of doing. She saw that she had the power to serve the goddess, Earthmother, and to use druidic magic to maintain the balance of nature in the islands that were her home.
Now she recalled the smooth ashwood staff, plain and unadorned, that had nonetheless become her most treasured possession. Crafted by her mother's own hands, it was both a receptacle and a tool for the earthpower of druidic magic. Not only had it saved her life, but it had been instrumental in rescuing the kingdom itself from the terror of the Darkwalker. Now it stayed safely within the Great Druid's cottage, awaiting her need.
Wistfully, she wondered about her mother – as she did so often. Her Aunt Genna had described her to Robyn in such detail that she now seemed completely familiar. Sometimes Robyn felt as though she had indeed known her mother. As always, a great sadness washed over her at the thought that she would never truly know the woman who had brought her into the world.
A sudden sound – the snapping of a dry twig – cracked through her thoughts, and Robyn froze. She knew every creature that visited the grove, and none of them would make such a careless noise. Even Grunt, the cantankerous brown bear who lived with them in the grove, moved his bulk silently among the plants.
The cracking was repeated, and Robyn located its source in a clump of bushes behind her. A sharp prickle of fear ran along her spine, and she reached for the stout stick leaning against a nearby stump. Slowly, she turned.
The bushes rustled, indicating that a large creature was moving toward her. Suddenly, they parted to reveal the staggering figure of a man. At least, she thought it was a man – the shaggy, matted hair and beard, the filthy, spindly limbs, and the dazed, sunken eyes looked more beastly than human. The creature shuffled forward like an ape, clad only in a tattered rag tied with a crude belt.
But a sound croaked from an unmistakably human throat as the figure collapsed on the ground at her feet.
* * * * *
The boat's slim prow slipped through the black waters of Corwell Firth. The boat blended perfectly into the moonless night, as did the eight cloaked figures within. Each of them used a narrow paddle to move the craft away from a huge galleon that sat quietly in Corwell Harbor.