Prophet of Moonshae - Douglas Niles [36]
The sahuagin cast the weapons among the ruins of the huts and homes there. Then, like silent ghosts, they slipped back into the sea.
* * * * *
The High Queen of the Isles, Robyn Kendrick, removed the wet compress from her head and leaned back, deploring the weakness that sapped her spirit. The news about Caer Allisynn had struck her like a physical blow, and she couldn't help believing that its departure represented another disastrous portent in these years of catastrophe.
She felt desperately alone and sorely missed her husband, the king. Though he had left her often before, never had she felt such a looming presence of despair.
Finally, late in the night, she fell asleep in her great chambers, the rooms she shared with the king when he was present. Now she slept alone.
She didn't notice the black, vaporous form that slipped beneath her door, having drifted through the castle halls all the way from the library. Nor did the queen's sleep suffer disturbance as the cloud gathered over her bed, once again shaping itself into the image of the queen that her daughter had so delightedly created earlier that night.
When the cloud sank onto the bed, growing dense upon her face, she started and struggled for a brief moment. But when she drew her breath to scream, she inhaled the dark vapor and grew suddenly rigid.
In another moment, she grew still, beset by a darkness that was much deeper than slumber.
* * * * *
Musings of the Harpist
Are we too late? Or even worse, do we travel in the wrong direction entirely, misguided by whim and hope away from any real prospect of success? What is the true path? Where does it end?
Are we three striving to save a lone Moonwell, while the surging seas of chaos and destruction batter against the full circumference of our shores? Or as I suspect, does our destiny involve far more than this single pond?
One thing above all else gives me hope-the growth of the Princess Alicia. In the year since I have seen her, she has come into full womanhood. She regards the challenge with the optimism of youth, and she will face each obstacle with fortitude.
I will do what I can to embellish this fortitude with wisdom.
6
A Moonwell Dying
As the first son of a young monarch, Brandon Olafsson stood one step removed from the kingship of Gnarhelm. Indeed, there were those among his people who whispered that he would make a better ruler than his father, Svenyird, ruler of the northmen occupying the rugged northern portion of that greatest island of the Moonshaes, Alaron. Brandon was young, of proven courage and keen wit. And no one could deny that the old king's step had slowed, his eyes grown cloudy and his brain, all too often, confused.
Yet Brand would have been the first to whip the speaker of such treason, for he was a loyal and trustworthy prince of these hardy seafaring people. He was content to champion his family, and, as his nation's most accomplished sailor, to sally forth on whatever missions his father might deem necessary.
For a long year, however, there had been no such journey. The young warrior had become irritable, feeling his skills growing stale, his muscles stiff. Though these afflictions occurred mainly within his mind, they were nonetheless real. To a young man, leader of a warlike people, times of peace were trying. Brandon-bigger, faster, and stronger than any of his countrymen-felt this tension more than most. He was a caged animal, restlessly pacing before his enclosing bars.
He had found some small amusement in hunting the great white bear of the northern coasts. Together with the other young men, he gathered to tell stories during the long hours of winter darkness and the slow spring awakening. Nevertheless, they had been seasons of almost maddening monotony for Brandon and his warrior kin.
Thus it was that when Sigurd the fisherman returned from a voyage that had taken him far beyond the sheltered waters of Salmon Bay, frantically racing ashore and shouting an alarm, Brandon had been among