distress.
Each night, as the dream began, Deirdre stiffened reflexively in the bed, thrashing with her feet. Her chest rose and fell as if she gasped for breath. Every attempt to awaken her-many had been made-failed to wrest her from the internal trance. Indeed, they seemed only to heighten her terror, so at last there was nothing to do but wait for the nightmare to run its course.
It would not do so until the terror built to the climax that always exploded in a scream of mindless, ultimate terror. Then Deirdre would awaken, and for a short time, her father or mother would hold her as a little girl again, gently rocking her to sleep, not knowing how many hours-or minutes-might pass before the cycle began again.
'She came for me … to rescue me!' Tristan groaned softly, acutely conscious of the young woman who finally slept in the next room. 'This wouldn't have happened except for that! How can any father bear that guilt?'
The image still burned in his mind: He saw his daughter holding the crystal mirror, the powerful artifact of a dark and evil god, Talos the Stormbringer. The agent of that god had attacked them savagely, but when Deirdre had confronted the beast with the mirror, the glass had shattered and carried the monster to a horrifying demise.
But then, for Tristan, the real horror had begun. The shards of the broken mirror had swirled into a small cyclone, surrounding Deirdre, trapping her in a glittering, whirling column. Then the whirlwind collapsed, and Tristan had stared in horror as the bits of glass had knifed through his daughter's skin, piercing her in a thousand places.
Yet she had lost not a drop of blood-indeed, they could find no physical wound whatsoever upon her. This malaise instead gnawed at her spirit and her soul, they knew.
'She came willingly to your rescue,' the queen replied, her voice firm against her husband's despair. 'As did Alicia, and many others.'
'Aye-and you as well, my queen. So many paid such a grievous cost,' sighed the king, wrapping a strong arm around his wife. Unconsciously he raised the end of his arm, not allowing the stump of his wrist to touch his wife's shoulder.
She raised her hand and brought his handless arm fully around her. 'We all paid our prices-and would do so again!' Robyn declared.
Tristan shook his head, disparaging his own wound. 'When Keane gets back with Patriarch Bakar, my hand can be restored, but I suspect no such easy cure awaits Deirdre.'
At the mention of the high cleric of Chauntea, Robyn stiffened slightly. She turned to face her husband frankly. 'Even the healing of the New Gods doesn't come without its costs. Don't be too quick to assume their success.'
Finally Tristan smiled. 'Whatever that cost, I'll pay it. And you know Bakar is a good and decent man. After all, he came to Callidyrr and taught you for nearly a decade!'
'It seems like more than a lifetime ago,' Robyn said, clearly uneasy with the subject. 'I am a daughter of the goddess again.'
'Still, it wasn't long ago that Chauntea offered our hope of growth and guidance … when the Earthmother abandoned us to the New Gods.'
'She did not abandon us!' Robyn replied, her voice tight. 'It was weakness-a weakness that I did nothing to soothe! All those years she lay insensate, and I turned to the worship of another rather than labor for her return!'
'We needed the protection of a goddess during those years, and Chauntea gave us her blessing,' Tristan countered, shaking his head firmly. 'Now her patriarch, I know, will come to answer my need.'
'You're right,' Robyn said, trying to drive the tension from her body. For once her efforts were not successful. She still felt the lingering pulse of anger in her veins.
'Who knows?' asked the king, drawing his wife beneath his arm again. 'Perhaps Bakar can help Deirdre as well.' At his feet, the great dog thumped his tail against the floor again, recognizing that some of the tension had drained from his master's voice.
Keane sipped idly at his cup of strong tea, not noticing the fact that it had grown cool while time dragged by. For two days, he had lingered here at the Eagle's Nest Inn, expecting a reply from Bakar Dalsoritan, impatiently awaiting the opportunity to pursue his mission.
True, his expensive suite made for splendid accommodations. High on a hill overlooking the waterfront and wide river at Baldur's Gate, Keane's rooms had a spacious balcony with a splendid view to the west and south. Another, smaller porch provided a sheltered outdoor nook with an excellent view of the rising sun to the east and the road to the shrine, where his messenger had ridden away two days before. It was on this overlook that he spent most of his time, even to the point of sending a petite halfling barmaid up and down the stairs to keep his teacup refilled.
The magic-user lounged against the rail, his narrow face tight with concentration, belying the casual posture of his lanky frame. He was dressed practically, in woolen trousers and soft moccasins and a flowing brown shirt that left his hands free but gave him space to conceal the pouches and vials that contained the components of his trade.
The sun drew near the western horizon before he saw the sleek black horse, flanks covered with foam and nostrils flaring, pounding down the River Highway. He recognized Gapsar, the fellow he had hired to carry his message, lashing the exhausted steed with his riding crop.
'Ho! Lord Ambassador!' cried the rider, spotting Keane on his third-floor perch. 'I bring news!'
Urgency in the man's voice-or perhaps the impatience in the magic-user's own mind-propelled Keane through the apartment and down the flights of stairs into the common room. Quickly he passed through the front door and stopped before the dismounting messenger.
'What is it? Will the patriarch grant me an interview?' he demanded.
'Readily, my lord! He was most delighted to hear that an emissary of his former student would be paying a call. Indeed, my lord, he invited you to arrive at the earliest opportunity. He knows that you're a day's ride away, but he wondered if you might have means to, er, expedite the transport.'
'That's good news,' Keane said quickly, his mind immediately clicking onto the problem. He couldn't teleport directly to the shrine. Since he'd never been there, it would be dangerous and difficult to attempt to transport himself into the midst of buildings and landscape. After all, he wouldn't want to materialize in a place where something else, like a tree or hill, already existed. Such a mistake would be inevitably fatal.
Yet a sense of profound urgency consumed him. The thought of his king, so cruelly mutilated, still outraged him, and Keane was the one Tristan had relied upon to get help. Such a mission could brook no delay.
The wizard looked up and saw that the sun was perhaps an hour from the western horizon. Keane noticed the messenger standing awkwardly beside his horse, casting longing eyes toward the inn and the cool barroom beyond. The man had done his work, he reminded himself.
'Here-thanks for your efforts,' Keane noted, drawing several gold coins from his pouch and pressing them into the man's suddenly extended hand.
'I hope the news is welcome, my lord,' said the fellow, bowing. Leading his horse, he went in search of a liveryman, while Keane returned to the inn. He found the rotund innkeeper, a cheery halfling named Miles, and pressed a few more coins on the not unwilling businessman.
'I'll be gone for a short time, perhaps a couple of days,' Keane explained. 'I'd like to leave my things in the room upstairs until my return.'
'Consider them safe!' Miles proclaimed, with a deep bow. 'You will find them undisturbed when you return!'
'Splendid,' the wizard replied agreeably. All urgent matters thus attended to, he climbed the stairs to his rooms so he could make the final preparations for the trip.
Bakar Dalsoritan, High Patriarch of Chauntea, enjoyed these hours of early evening better than any part of the day. It seemed so often that the weight of his labors dragged him down during the busy days. Now, with the shrine buildings closed up tight behind him and the apprentices gone to sup, he could let the soothing aspects of his faith revive and revitalize him.
He walked along the low ridge, row upon row of lush grapes stretching to either side of him-sweet to the south, where the sun warmed them fully, and more sour to the shady north. The latter, when harvested, created a
