outraged, suspicious firbolgs.
But instead, the brutes continued to wage their gruff argument in the stern of the Princess of Moonshae. Tavish couldn't understand their guttural tongue, but she sensed that the fate of this captured prize was at stake.
The bard had been every bit as surprised as the northmen by the sudden rush of the giant-kin. She had ducked below one of the rowing benches as the boat had been overrun, and she had been able to squirm into a concealed niche between several water barrels and that lifesaving bench.
Now, however, she wondered what fate awaited her. Hidden in the hull of a ship manned by ungainly giants- none of whom had ever sailed before, she felt certain-Tavish had no idea what had befallen Brandon.
Then she felt a gentle bump against the wooden timbers, and she realized that the ship had been pulled up to the sturdy wooden wharf. Then, before she could digest this information, the boat rocked sickeningly, and the crescendo of giant voices rumbled much louder.
The Princess of Moonshae, Tavish realized, had been drawn to shore in the midst of the monstrous army.
The Earthmother remembered the coming of the giants, in the days of her dawning spring. Led by the hulking demigod, Grond Peaksmasher, they stormed across the Moonshaes while humankind still struggled among its own ranks for survival.
The invasion of these massive humanoids might have led to disaster, and it would have, had the giants and their master desired conquest. Yet the great creatures longed for peace, and they went to the secluded places of the Moonshaes, avoiding man, only turning him away from their haunts. They allowed him to live and to multiply, and all the while the numbers of the giants dwindled.
In the end, only the firbolgs-smallest of the giant-kin-had been left. They lived on many of the isles, and if they did not serve the Balance, neither did they work for its destruction. Over the course of centuries, the goddess learned their true nature, and it was not the nature of a threat.
Finally, when she gave them a place to dwell, she chose the realm of her heartland, and she offered them Myrloch.
9
Princess Alicia actually had a very mistaken impression of Tristan's whereabouts. Despite the fact that he had a full day's head start and traveled mounted and alone, the High King hadn't progressed much more rapidly than had the footmen of Corwell. For one thing, he hadn't known about the pass into the vale that Robyn had sketched for Alicia. Also, his untimely stag hunt had carried him far from his proper path, and he meandered a bit as he tried to find his way back.
Now Tristan's eyes opened with the dawn, but it was several minutes later before he could pull his mind from the depths of slumber. He slept out-of-doors, he saw, with a mighty sword held ready in his hand. But where was he?
Myrloch Vale, he realized, the recollection followed by a flood of confusing facts. Shallot was here, and Ranthal and the moorhounds. He wore his chain mail, and he had come here on some sort of mission.
But what?
His eyes wandered to the east, toward the bright flare of the sun as it crept above the tree-lined horizon. His mission, he recalled, was a quest of no little importance, yet now it didn't strike him as strange that he couldn't remember the nature of that purpose.
Instead, it was as if the task would only become relevant when he could put his memory in order. He tried to focus on the direction of his journey, but all he could think about was the sunrise, the gleaming dawn that beckoned in the east. Why was his mind so thick? Was something wrong?
Eastward-that must be it, he told himself. True, he felt a vague lack of conviction about that determination, but he could think of no reasonable alternative.
Thus determined, the High King of the Ffolk saddled his great war-horse and called his hounds to the trail. Obediently they loped toward the rising sun, with the proud warrior on his great steed riding grimly behind. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, ready… but for what?
Tristan's mind sharpened until the king felt a keen pulse of mental power tingling through him. For a moment, he drifted again. Why was he here?
'The Darkwalker is abroad,' he announced loudly, the words ringing as an alien sound through the pastoral wood of Myrloch Vale. He saw a momentary image of that looming, reptilian form, but it quickly faded into the mists and disappeared.
Did he campaign against the sahuagin? An image of the spine-backed fish creatures filled his mind, rank upon rank of them emerging from the sea to pillage and slay. Did they lurk in the woods, among the trees? Then, in another burst of lucidity, he knew that he wouldn't be seeking his aquatic enemies in an inland valley. No, it must be the Darkwalker.
Somehow, that thought didn't seem right either. He had a clear picture of a young prince pursuing the unnatural horror that stalked the land. Yet for some reason, he felt like a very old king.
What was the purpose of his grand quest? The sun rose higher, and after a while he even began to doubt the accuracy of his direction. Eastward didn't seem right, after all.
'Tristan! Hey, King, wait for me!'
The voice took him by surprise but brought a welcoming surge of joy to his heart at the same time.
'Newt!' cried the High King, spinning about as much as possible in the tall saddle. 'By the goddess, fellow, it's good to see you!' The blunt, tiny snout widened in Newt's unmistakable smile, while his butterfly wings buzzed easily to keep him in a steady hover.
'Hey, what a great horse! And that dog-why, you'd think Canthus was here!'
Chattering delightedly, the little faerie dragon buzzed through the air, circling Tristan and shifting through colors of red, orange, and violet.
'Canthus?' For a moment, the king was puzzled. 'He is-' Then he remembered. The great, shaggy moorhound was called Ranthal. Canthus, Ranthal's grandsire, was long dead.
But Newt was here. 'Come take a rest, my friend,' the king said, raising his gloved hand. Delighted, Newt came to rest on the man's wrist, allowing himself to be lowered to the pommel of the deep saddle.
'Are you out here on a hunt?' asked the faerie dragon, propping himself up on his haunches.
'No, no. I ride because …' Awkwardly, Tristan's voice trailed off. Suddenly the appalling state of his mind came driving home with vengeful force. 'I don't know why I'm here,' he concluded miserably.
'I'll bet it's the firbolgs again,' Newt said, with a conspiratorial look into the woods on either side. 'They sacked Cambro, you kn-Hey, what is it?'
Tristan bolted upright in his saddle and then shouted aloud in combined relief and outrage. The king seized the tiny dragon around his belly and squeezed the air from Newt's lungs.
'Firbolgs! That's it!' he cried as the full wealth of his memory came flooding back.
He squinted into the rising sun. 'And not east-I should be riding north!'
Abruptly the grim strength of his delusion became clear. Something worked against him, striving to steal his memory, his very mind! The forest around him suddenly seemed a darker, more menacing place. He quickly yanked Shallot's reins to the side, starting the great horse onto a northerly course.
How long had he wandered? He realized, to his further distress, that he had no idea as to the answer.
'When, Newt?' he pressed. 'When did the firbolgs sack Cambro?'
'Well, before.' The faerie dragon squinted up at the king as Shallot broke into a loping canter. 'I mean, before I saw you….Oh, and I saw Robyn, too!'
'You did?' Tristan had ridden out of Corwell too quickly to hear the full tale of Robyn's experiences on her mission of reconnaissance. He bit back a question about the timing of Newt's encounter with the queen, fearing he
