Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [39]
The bedraggled party slowly climbed the road toward the gates. Their appearance aroused considerable alarm, and as they drew near to the castle, a dozen men-at-arms ran from the gates to see who to help. As the group limped into the courtyard, the king himself emerged from the great hall and stalked toward them.
“What happened?” he demanded, confronting the prince as Tristan dismounted. The king saw the body on the withers of the horse, and his face turned white.
“Father, there are Firbolgs abroad in Llyrath Forest! We followed them, and they attacked us. Arlen gave his life to save us.”
The king’s face was blank as he looked at the rest of the party. His eyes quickly dismissed Keegan, driving the wagon, but lingered upon Keren, then moved on. “And the houndmaster?”
“He lives,” said Robyn.
“Send for the cleric!” called the king to a man-at-arms who immediately mounted a horse and raced for the temple in the village. Robyn started to say something, but stopped as the king’s iron gaze challenged her for a moment.
“And who are you?” The king turned his attention to Keren.
“Father, allow me to present Keren Donnell – bard of the harp. He intervened to save us after Arlen died.”
“What would you have done if you’d had to rely on yourself?” snorted the king, with stinging scorn. Tristan flinched, but made no reply. King Kendrick turned again to the bard.
“My thanks, sir – though I don’t know that the kingdom will be any the better for it. Your fame, of course, has preceded you, and I’m honored to have the greatest bard of the Ffolk as a guest.” He spoke the pleasantries mechanically, as if they were statements to get out of the way. “And what brings you to Corwell?”
“A message, my lord, from the High King to yourself.”
“I might have known,” grumbled King Kendrick. “It has been a long time since we have felt the hand of Caer Callidyrr in our quiet part of the world.”
“I fear that your part of the world is not as quiet as you would wish,” commented the bard softly.
“Indeed,’ muttered the king, looking at Arlen’s lifeless form. “Whatever your missive, it must wait for the morrow – we shall have a funeral tonight.” He turned his back on the companions, and his voice boomed across the courtyard.
“Gretta! Start cooking for a funeral feast of high honor! Warren – send for a wagonload of ale! You men, prepare the barrow!” Caught up in the preparations, the king marched into the hall to oversee the details.
Tristan, Robyn, and Keren helped Daryth to a bed, and the prince directed the bard to guest quarters. He felt like apologizing for his father’s rudeness, but Keren seemed to take no notice of it, so the prince did not raise the subject.
Daryth moaned feverishly as Robyn and Tristan stood beside him. “I wish there were something more we could do,” Robyn said, holding a cool cloth to his head.
Suddenly the door burst open, and the beaming, pudgy figure of Friar Nolan waddled into the room.
“My poor children,” he said. “How awful! I heard about the Firbolgs and Arlen. Dear me!” He bustled to the side of the young man in the bed, and then turned to the pair.
“What are you doing here?” asked Robyn, suspicious.
“Do not think you can tamper with the will of the goddess! Leave! And take your new gods with you!”
“That is the farthest thing from my mind,” promised the cleric. “I simply wish to see if I can make the young man feel any better. You don’t object to that, do you?”
“I don’t trust you and your new gods,” stated the girl flatly. “But do what you can to help him.”
“You two must leave me,” countered the cleric simply, as he bent to pull open one of