their arrival. A band of men and women, dressed as elegantly as any group of noble lords and ladies, advanced through the crowd behind a herald bearing a banner of black, white, and red. They numbered more than a dozen, though none of them were armed, and the few pieces of armor worn by the men appeared purely ceremonial in nature, as evidenced by detailed engraving and graceful but impractical shoulder epaulets.
'Who are those people?' Robyn said, abruptly realizing that she didn't recognize the lords or their banner.
'I recall that tricolor symbol,' offered Randolph. 'A curragh entered the harbor this morning under a sail of the same colors. I assumed they were a clan from one of the outlying islands.'
The High Queen shook her head emphatically. 'I would know if they were,' she stated. Robyn scrutinized the leading lord, an enormously fat individual with multiple chins concealed under a thin beard. He wore a blue velvet cap that flowed like a pancake out to either side of his head.
It was a style that was new to the Moonshaes, Robyn reflected. It should have looked ridiculous, but the huge man somehow gained from it a sense of noble dignity.
The herald dipped the tricolor banner in deference to the great bear of the Ffolk, the pennant that floated above Robyn's table.
'Greetings, stranger,' offered the queen, accepting the lord's deep bow with easy grace. 'Will you join our feast? There is plenty for all of your party, but first you must introduce yourselves.'
'The High Queen's kindness is, as legend claims, ever flowing! ' the lord proclaimed with a grand sweep of his arm. 'We had but hoped to find meager lodgings in your town, but this invitation overwhelms my humble self!'
Alicia noticed that Keane, seated beside her, had stopped eating. The wizard's eyes were fixed on the visiting lord's face. Keane was not smiling.
'It is the way of the Ffolk to be hospitable,' said Robyn, an edge of curtness to her voice. 'Especially when they know who their guests are and from whence they come.'
'Allow me to present my entourage. We journey here from a place that is far away, but we bear a most important message for my noble queen!'
'And the land, sir? What place is that? And how are you called?' pressed Robyn. The edge of iron in her voice could not be ignored.
'My name? If you insist that I have one, it shall be what you give me,' proclaimed the obese figure, his own voice growing more firm.
'Cease your riddles, sir. If you have a message, produce it. I grow tired of your rudeness and prattling.' Robyn gestured subtly with her hand, and Keane mumbled a soft word, performing the delicate motions of a spell with his hands concealed beneath the table.
Alicia noticed several files of men-at-arms, bearing cocked and loaded crossbows, working into position on either side of the visitors. For the first time, the princess noticed that Lord Randolph had left the table. The earl must have sensed danger earlier and summoned the company of guardsmen.
'My message, then,' said the stranger, with another overly flourishing bow.
One of his attending lords, a foppish fellow in a large yellow hat-this one
The round face split into a wide grin, creasing the short beard into the rolls of chin. A plump hand, festooned with rings, reached into the pouch, but then the fellow turned back to the queen, obviously enjoying the suspense.
'This is more than a gift, royal lady. In fact, I return to you something which you have lost. Indeed, I presume it is something you have missed very much.'
The hand came forth from the pouch, holding a limp, sickly pale object. Alicia couldn't see what it was, but then the man tossed it contemptuously toward the queen. It landed on the table before her, and the princess couldn't suppress a scream of horror.
The thing was a human hand, bled pallid and shriveled from long immersion in brine. The ragged stump of the wrist showed the mark of a brutal wound, inflicted by tooth or jagged-bladed sword. For a moment, Alicia's stomach heaved, but she resisted the urge to turn away. Instead, she looked at the appendage more closely, and as she did, her shock turned to horror, and then to a cold, brutal rage.
On a finger of the hand she saw a ring, a jeweled signet that she well knew, for it bore the seal of a king, the head of a great bear. And with that recognition came the understanding that fueled her emotions.
For she knew that this was her father's hand.
Deirdre poked through the darkest shelves of the great library of Caer Callidyrr. The great white castle was nearly empty, with most of the court gone to Corwell for the council. She would go there, too, but her journey, on the wings of sorcery, would last mere seconds. She had no intention of arriving any earlier than necessary.
As she did so often when her time belonged to herself, Deirdre came to this library. Driven by memories or desires-she didn't know which-she explored the vast, dark shelves and must-covered tomes and scrolls.
It was here, after all, that so much of her awakening knowledge had kindled itself into the flame of her current power, here where the mysterious one had come to her, infusing her with the mastery of great magic, allowing her potential to grow wildly. She hadn't known his name, but she had called him Malawar.
For a time, she had trusted him, learned from him-even given herself to him in in faith and affection-until in the end he had cruelly betrayed her. Now she knew the reason he had kept his identity secret. His power was centered in his name, and if she had learned it, she could have mastered him. As it was, she had barely been able to evade his own attempt to control her.
She had only discovered his true face at the end, but ultimately she had banished the thing, driving it away from her world. Yet in her contest with this potent being, something had happened to her-some reserve within her had broken open, allowing her to draw power from him, to tap resources normally barred to human spell-casters. She had gained astounding abilities in a short period of time, but even so she felt as though she had only begun to scrape the surface of her potential.
Every once in a while she had to wonder, with a little tremor of apprehension, whether this all had come to her free. Sooner or later, would she be called upon to pay? Angrily, as always, she brushed aside those apprehensions.
Worries faded as she pressed through new tomes, dusty volumes that hadn't felt the touch of human hand in decades, perhaps longer. Some compulsion drove her to seek in these shadowy niches where she had never looked before. Carrying a long taper, she poked through stiff curtains and examined heavy, dust-laden shelves.
Finally, in one of the back alcoves, she felt a sudden thrill of discovery, though she didn't know what she had found. Setting the candle down on a shelf, she reached forward to grasp a long, flat object, wrapped in brittle leather as protection against dust and disturbance. Slowly, breathlessly, she tore the stiff and moldy skin away, revealing a glimmering surface of pure reflection.
She studied herself in the mirror, astounded by the clarity of the image staring back at her. Even here, in an alcove virtually devoid of light, she saw each detail of her white skin and her dark black hair that swept across her forehead and framed each side of her coldly beautiful face. 'I
The mirror seemed to beckon her like a bottomless well of crystal water. For a brief moment, she felt herself falling, a dizzying sensation that swirled around her even as she felt her feet firmly planted on the floor. Then she looked into the glass again, and her reflection slowly faded from view. She felt a sense of wonder, a trembling excitement that numbed her fingers as she gripped the frame tightly.
Deirdre allowed her mind to wander beyond the walls of the castle, beyond the island of Alaron. In moments, her attention soared, and the image in the mirror shifted to match. She saw a great expanse of water, steel gray even under a pale blue sky-the Sea of Moonshae. Trees lined the horizon, then great highlands sprouted from the land, and she knew that she beheld the island of Gwynneth.
Next pastoral Corwell appeared, and she sought the small castle where her parents had been raised. Caer Corwell looked the same as always, jutting peremptorily atop its little knoll. The mirror zoomed in, and the princess saw the field dotted with tents and tables, in the midst of some incomprehensibly boring feast.
