Prophet of Moonshae

'Now,' said the golden-haired man, 'think of someone you know-your mother, for example. Call a picture of her into your mind.'

Deirdre imagined High Queen Robyn as she had looked at dinner that night.

'Pass your hand through the smoke.'

She did so, then gasped as the thick cloud slowly seethed and coalesced, until at last it formed the image of her mother, floating in the air before them.

'Did I do that?' she gasped, amazed and delighted.

'Of course. This is just one proof of the things you are learning, the powers that will become yours.'

Deirdre wanted to question him further, to learn more about the things she would know, but suddenly he seemed strangely preoccupied. He scoured the tomes and scrolls and the shelves while she followed eagerly behind.

'Here,' he said, finally drawing down another book, also bound in the red leather that signified a tome by one of the wizards of Thay. 'When you have finished Dudlis, you should read this. I will return when you have completed it.'

Deirdre's heart quickened. 'This means you'll be back soon?'

He smiled patronizingly. 'This one, I suspect, will take you a good while to read. But fear not, dear child. I shall return when you are ready.'

'Please!' she cried, her voice louder than it should have been. He raised a hand, his expression pained, as she continued. 'Can't you stay for a little longer? We have to… to talk. I need to know more about you! Please stay!'

But the wind puffed through a window that was already empty.

Deep within the darkened confines of Kressilacc, the weight of the sea fell so heavily that the press of the storm was as nothing. Yet even here, far beyond the reach of sun and air, the coming of Gotha was seen. The priestesses of Talos knew this, and so they told their king.

'The treasures-take them forth!' commanded Sythissal, waving a webbed hand tipped by five claws. Each of the talons was a foot long and studded with rings. He gestured at the gold-encrusted swords and jeweled shields his warriors had claimed by plundering a trading vessel of the Ffolk.

'No! We must choose carefully!' Nuva, his favorite of the yellow-tailed priestesses, argued persuasively. 'We should not give all the treasures-not in our first offering.'

'But how shall we choose?' The great king, reclining in his throne made from the bow of a shattered longship, scowled, his long, fishlike mouth twisting downward. His eyes, milky and opaque, gaped dully at the slender female who coiled affectionately in liquid circles around him.

'It has been given me to see in a vision,' she whispered, her voice like oil on the turbulent waters. 'We should take these swords, these that bear the sigil of the King of Moonshae, and place them on an island to the north.'

'Which island? Do we meet the messenger?' Sythissal disliked these instructions, feeling himself once again drawn into the schemes of the priestesses.

'I will show you where. I do not know if the messenger of Talos will be present, yet the placing of these items will commence the plan of our god.'

When Sythissal remembered the vividness of his own dream, the premonition of a messenger's arrival, he could only agree.

Thus it was that, hours later, King Sythissal emerged from the surf at the shore of Gotha's island at the head of a column of his warriors. They bore with them several swords from the Ffolks' merchant vessel. Oddly, the priestess had compelled them to break the blade of one of them.

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.