Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [44]
Robyn’s head rested upon the prince’s shoulder as Tristan listened, enthralled by the piercing strains. He felt Robyn quake, and felt the soft wetness of her tears as they moistened his tunic. He held her to comfort her, and listened, to comfort himself. But he could find no solace in the music.
Such was the Song of Arlen.
*****
The funeral feast faded away with the late hours of the night. Only a few people remained in the great hall, including Tristan, Robyn, Pawldo, Allian, and Keren. Once again, the bard took up his harp, and sang a song of history and legend.
The bard’s listeners fought sleep, so they might hear the words and music that so beautifully caressed them. Although they were not altogether successful, those that slept heard the song as part of their dreams.
And who was to say where the song ended, and the dream began?
*****
Sated from its gory feast, the Pack sprawled in sleep, the effects of hunger abated. Already the Pack had grown larger, swelled by a stream of arrivals. Soon the wolves grew restless again. Slowly, one after another, they rose and gathered until the singing cry of their leader drove them to their steady lope. Over heath, and through fen, the Pack moved as if it now had a deeper purpose. Without haste, but also without hesitation, hundreds of shaggy bodies flowed across the land.
Night fell and the Pack did not slow. If anything, its pace took on a sense of urgency as if it flowed toward a nearby destination. As the moon climbed higher into a cloudless sky, illuminating the rugged landscape with a silvery glow, the Pack filed into a narrow gulch, and entered a secluded and rocky glen. Finally, the Pack paused around a bright pool.
Hundreds of wolfish faces gleamed in the reflected light of the pool-light that was amplified more than nature decreed, for this was a Moonwell. More and more of the Pack crowded into the glen, until every foot of space was occupied. And still the Pack grew, spilling out of the glen, and down the narrow valley below it.
For hours the wolves watched the shining waters, until dawn colored the eastern sky. As creatures of one mind, the Pack rose and began to run. Numbering in the thousands, the Pack filled the narrow valley from side to side, rushing like a tide, inexorably toward the sea.
BOOK II
VI
MESSAGE AT MIDNIGHT
AS THE LAST to enter, Tristan swung the heavy wooden door shut behind him, and bolted it at a look from his father. The room, even with the great fire blazing, felt cool and dark. Deer and bearskin rugs covered the floor, and the long council table of polished oak dominated the center of the room. A large wolf’s head – symbol of the Kendrick clan – glared across the room from its mount above the fireplace.
The councilors took seats around the table, the king seated at the head. The king’s council chamber was the most formal room in the entire castle. Located at the center of the keep, it had no windows upon the outside world. Instead, it drew its light from the fire on the broad hearth.
Three cantrev lords sat upon one side of the table. Each of these men presided over a small, rural community, arbitrating disputes, serving as a spokesman between the king and the people, and organizing and commanding a company of men-at-arms in times of emergency. Lords Dynnatt, Koart, and Nowll ruled several of the communities within a few hours’ ride of Caer Corwell, and had arrived early in the day for the meeting with the bard. Robyn and Tristan sat opposite them. Keren sat at the foot, and a chair at the king’s right hand remained conspicuously empty.
Arlen would have sat there.
“Pardon the lack of formalities,” said the king. “But let us get directly to business.”
“Ahem,” interrupted Dynnatt, a burly warrior whose features disappeared behind shaggy hair and a bushy beard. He nodded toward Robyn, while looking at the king.
“Should the maiden be present?