'King's army, probably. Maybe dwarves. Who knows?' Garisa said with a shrug.
'Northmen, too,' observed Thurgol. For the first time, he wondered about the odd chance that had brought the crew of this vessel to the aid of Codscove. Twenty years earlier, the firbolgs had allied themselves with the long-haired raiders of the sea, both groups waging war against the Ffolk. Yet here were the sons of those same men, sailing up to a battle and joining in on the side of their former enemies against their allies of that same campaign!
'Northmen come after us,' Garisa suggested. 'We got their ship. They won't like it.'
'Yup,' Thurgol agreed.
He wondered what kinds of men-what nature of enemy-they would find upon Oman's Isle. Looking forward, he saw that the sunset now cloaked the Icepeak in a mantle of rich purple light, while the lands below it and the sea around them had all fallen into shadow.
The moving scene seemed heavy with promise, certainly magical in its potential. The picture lingered before his eyes for almost another hour, until the last rays of sunlight vanished from the world, and the outline of the Icepeak was silhouetted only by the stars.
Once more Robyn stood atop the high tower of Corwell, watching the stars break into the clear night sky. She longed to take wing, to fly across the isle and find her husband. His strange quest had unsettled her more with each passing day, until she could hardly stand to think about it.
Yet she had to content herself with the knowledge that Alicia and Keane rode on the king's trail, and the hope that they would reach him in time for… in time for what?
In time to save his life. A flicker of guilt rose within her as she realized that Tristan's life did loom as the most important thing. Her husband, her daughters, the people, and the cantrevs-these were the true joys of life. All of them, but most strongly her own family, formed for the queen the boundaries of her life, the factors that caused her joy and gave her purpose.
Yet there was still that guilt. Couldn't she serve her goddess and serve a family as well? She tried to tell herself that it was so, but then came the memory of that rampage in Myrloch Vale-an attack she hadn't sensed, that hadn't caused her the faintest inkling of trouble. Did she serve her goddess poorly? Had her life become too focused on people, not attentive enough to the will of her goddess?
That was just one more thing she didn't know. Robyn tried, with minimal success, to tell herself that her ignorance of Tristan and his enemies was the result of distance. She thought of the enigma dwelling in the very castle below her, and realized that it was not her husband who should now be the source of her greatest concern.
In fact, Deirdre's health now seemed as vibrant as ever. Though the princess refused any attempts to discuss her condition, she ate regular meals, apparently slept through the nights-at least, Robyn hadn't heard evidence of the nightmare in more than a week.
Deirdre, however, had taken to sleeping with her door bolted, so the queen had had little chance to observe her slumber. She could have entered the apartment by invoking the power of the goddess, of course-say, in the body of a mouse or a swallow-but Robyn didn't feel justified in such intrusive behavior.
At least, not yet. Still, she found it hard to put her finger on exactly what disturbed her about the dark-haired young woman. Was it Deirdre's total nonchalance, the ease with which she now treated all aspects of life? She had never been a cheerful or outgoing person, but now she seemed infused with a new serenity, a placid acceptance of daily things that took Robyn quite by surprise.
At the same time, the High Queen saw something sinister, a bit frightening, in her daughter's rapid transformation. She recalled as well as her husband the slivers of the enchanted mirror slicing into Deirdre's skin, then vanishing and leaving no wounds. What would be the effect if such a talisman, fusing itself into the young sorceress, actually had become a part of her?
It was a question that Robyn was afraid to answer, and so for the last week, she had simply passed the time in the castle, knowing that her daughter avoided her company but not at all sure what to do about it.
Yet tonight, as the sun had vanished into the west and the multitudinous stars had broken through the mantle of the sky, all her calm emotions, all her serenity, seemed to the queen like a cruel masquerade. She didn't know what to fear, yet she felt that something was powerfully amiss. Though her unease could perhaps have been caused by fear for her husband or for her eldest daughter, she knew this wasn't the case. By the time full darkness had claimed the heavens, she knew that she had to descend from the tower and confront Deirdre.
Never had the spiraling stairway seemed so long as it did to Robyn Kendrick on that unseasonably chill summer night. She pulled her woolen cape more tightly about her, though the stonework of the tower walls effectively blocked any trespassing hint of a breeze. Torches flickered from wall sconces, only a pair of them to light the long descent, so the queen still had to watch her step carefully.
Reaching the door to the keep, she hesitated, restrained by unnamed fear. Finally she entered the upper hallway, striding purposefully into the royal apartments, across the foyer to the door blocking access to Deirdre's chamber.
Here Robyn stopped again, but only for a moment. Drawing a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked firmly on the solid wooden portal.
The sharp sound rang eerily through the silence of the keep. It seemed that even the normally bustling kitchen was quiet. She could hear nothing else in the wide halls, the empty and open great room below.
She waited for several moments, and when she heard nothing within the room, she knocked again, more firmly. This time it seemed that the echo had an empty, vague quality, a lack of resonance. She knocked again, confirming that the sound was somehow improper.
The next noise in the keep came from outside the walls, but it filled her with unspeakable terror. 'Murder!' came the cry. 'Murder on the parapet!'
The queen stepped to a window and looked along the top of the castle wall. Several guards gathered around a motionless shape-a body, she sensed, as if she could feel the warmth of blood pooling around the form. A body that lay outside the door closest to the royal chambers … closest to Deirdre's room!
A sense of urgency infused Robyn Kendrick, and she returned to her daughter's door. The High Queen placed the palms of her hands flat against the door. She cast a simple enchantment, and the wooden panels flared warm to her touch.
Magic! Something arcane protected the door, or the room within, and this was enough for the High Queen.
'Arqueous telemite!' she cried, drawing upon the power of her goddess. Her hands pressed against the wood, seizing the essence of the trees that the Earthmother had grown, taking the firm grain and straight lines and warping those shapes in the name of Robyn's own magic.
The spell twisted the solid planks that formed the door, warping them so powerfully that they popped free from the iron bands confining them. With rending shrieks, the hinges tore from the walls of stone, leaving the doorway to the room blocked only by a tangle of twisted wreckage.
Pulling sharply against the planks, Robyn broke the pieces away with two quick tugs. In another moment, she stepped through the entrance, seeing immediately that Deirdre was not in her bed.
A glimmer of candlelight in the adjoining parlor caught her eye, and Robyn raced through the bedroom, noticing that her footsteps made no noise even as she kicked pieces of the door out of her path. She understood immediately that Deirdre had concealed the room beneath a magical spell of silence, a fact that only increased her sense of alarm.
She pushed through the hanging curtain dividing the parlor from the sleeping chamber, and for a moment, she saw Deirdre before her. The queen's younger daughter sat in a trancelike silence, her eyes closed, her hands clasped on her knees before her. Several pairs of candles flamed about the room, flickering from the wind of Robyn's entry. Four platters sat on the floor before her-shallow bowls of dark, thick liquid. The pungent smell of fresh blood assaulted the High Queen's nostrils.
Still, unnaturally, there was no sound. Robyn opened her mouth, demanding Deirdre's attention, but no words emerged-and the princess remained inert and entranced.
Then the candles flared brightly, the tiny flames surging upward to illuminate the room with a brightness like sunlight. Robyn felt as though she were mired in mud, watching her daughter's face, cold and icily aloof, etched in the detail of the clear white light.
