Black wizards - Douglas Niles [67]
A heavy sense of menace began to bear down on Robyn as the day progressed, removing any joy from her daily tasks. At first she thought that the feeling was produced by the threat to the Vale, and indeed, that must have been a part of it. Yet more and more she found her mind drifting to thoughts of Tristan.
Instead of the usual ripples of pleasure that his memory ordinarily gave her, her thoughts of the prince actually increased her anxiety. This feeling grew every time she thought of him, which was nearly every minute. She could not escape the feeling that he was in terrible danger.
She wrestled with a strong temptation to flee the grove, abandoning everything in a headlong dash to reach him. Yet even if she had known where he was – and she felt certain that he was far from Corwell – she could not have brought herself to renounce her trust with the goddess. And so once again she turned herself to her many chores.
But the work had a hollow, meaningless quality today. She was certain that it did not come from within herself.
Then she felt a strange peace fall over the grove. The squeaks and squawks of the animals quieted as she looked up. Something had already entered the grove. It was a presence mighty yet serene. Robyn walked quickly through the oaks, finally breaking into a run. She suspected the visitor's identity even before he stepped from between the oaks to regard her. She thought she saw a benign smile upon his face as she shouted with joy and ran to clasp her arms around his neck.
The smile was in her imagination, of course, for although he, too, felt great joy, Kamerynn the unicorn could not be expected to smile.
* * * * *
A cool, strong breeze flowed steadily northward, lashing the waters of the strait into rolling gray swells, lavish fought the wind, tacking back and forth, but she still made only slow headway toward Corwell.
For the hundredth time she wondered if she was doing the right thing. After all, she reminded herself, what could she have done to rescue the prince? Painfully, but pragmatically, she knew that she was no fighter – a daring escape from the heart of the enemy stronghold was something she could never hope to accomplish.
The only place that seemed to offer the chance of help was the prince's homeland. She didn't know what kind of help the lords of Corwell could offer, but she had nowhere else to turn.
And still the wind blew and the gray waves rolled.
* * * * *
"Put him in here" said the short cleric, pushing aside a wool tapestry to reveal a small room. The only furnishing was a narrow bed, but Daryth and Pawldo were grateful for the chance to lay Tristan upon even that tiny platform. Pontswain remained outside, sword held at the ready, looking up and down the long ribbon of darkened, empty road.
The cleric ran back to the doors of his chapel and saw that the road was empty. The deepest hours of night were just beginning to yield to morning.
"Cowan!" he called. "Come here!"
Moments later a lad of about fifteen emerged from a small alcove, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He blinked curiously at the visitors, and his eyes widened as he saw the bloodstained prince stretched, pale and deathlike, on the bed.
"See to their horses, lad!" barked the cleric. Cowan hurried from the chapel as the man turned back to them. "I am Patriarch Trevor, a cleric of Chauntea," he said, moving quickly to Tristan's side. The man moved with a smooth and easy grace. He took the prince's hand in one of his while pressing the other to Tristan's forehead.
"He is very near death. A few more miles on horseback. I'm certain, would have killed him." The patriarch closed his eyes, still touching the prince's wrist and face. He whispered softly, a ritual sound that lasted nearly