Darkwell - Douglas Niles [18]
"I am your king, the High King of the Ffolk." Tristan spoke softly, and as he had hoped, the mob grew silent to hear his words. "This day marks a new beginning for us, for the Ffolk of all the isles. Let this be the sign of a new reign, as the northmen come to our town and join us at our table!"
"Wise words! Hail to the king!" someone cried out.
Tristan looked around in surprise, and saw the beaming face of Friar Nolan, the cleric of the new gods who had worked long and hard trying to convert the Ffolk of Corwell. Though his success had been limited, he was widely regarded as a man of great wisdom, and his healing magic had benefited many a resident of Corwell.
"Hail to the king!" cried another man, and soon the crowd took up the chant. Several Ffolk even came forward to help lash the longship to the dock. The pudgy friar, his bald pate bobbing through the group, pushed his way to Tristan's side.
"Splendid words, sire! You embark upon a wise course. The gods will surely smile upon you!"
"Some of them, anyway," the young king replied with a grin. "And thank you for your own words – most timely remarks, good friar!"
"Welcome home, sire!" cried another young man, pushing to his side. Tristan recognized him as Randolph, the young but very capable captain of the guard, whom he had left in charge of the castle upon his departure.
Before the king could respond, however, he was swept away, lifted to the shoulders of his countrymen and carried on a triumphant march to Caer Corwell itself. They carried Robyn beside him, and his spirits brightened further as he saw her smiling above the tumult. Though she had been moody and depressed the last few days of the voyage, he hoped that their arrival at home – and the fact that they planned to strike out for Myrloch Vale in the morning-would improve her spirits.
But first there would be a feast. It would be a celebration of the new king, his homecoming, and his success in the campaign on Callidyrr.
Tristan regained his feet in the castle courtyard and led Robyn and Randolph into the Great Hall of the keep, where they finally left the crowd behind. "Where's Pontswain?" he asked. "We must talk before the feast."
"I'll send a guardsman to find him. Lord Pontswain's tending to the last business of the food and drink. We trust you will be pleased, sire."
"No doubt. Now tell me, how fares life in Corwell?"
"We have missed you, but fare well. The Ffolk have been fairly bursting with pride since news of your coronation, sire. Great effort has been expended preparing for your homecoming!"
"And what news?"
"The only excitement was the presence of a band of outlaws, raiding cantrevs Dynnatt and Koart. We caught and hanged them. They seemed to be northmen who did not flee with their brethren last year."
Randolph went on to describe the state of the kingdom, from the poor harvest and meager catches of fish to the great successes of the huntsmen in the highlands. "The food reserves for winter are adequate. It seems that a great deal of wildlife has fled south from Myrloch Vale. Hunting has never been better."
"And what news of the vale?" asked Robyn.
"Puzzling, that. Shepherds say their sheep will not venture near it. The huntsmen who have climbed along the high ridge to look into the vale report vast desolation. Trees have died, and even the lake itself has lost its gleam. It is disturbing news indeed, sire, but the blight does not seem to have reached Corwell."
"Welcome home, my king!" Lord Pontswain burst into the hall, bowing deeply. He was a handsome man, clean-shaven, with a broad mane of elegantly curled brown hair that was the envy of many a maid. "I trust your voyage was comfortable."
"Indeed. Please be seated." Pontswain had been Tristan's chief rival for the throne of Corwell before the High Kingship had made that rivalry moot. Now he seemed to devote all of his energies to the welfare of his king. The transition had been so sudden, and so dramatic, that Tristan still didn't quite trust