reach its fruition. It was a scheme that, despite its risks, had a strong element of merit. Appropriately, it would begin with a familiar tribal ritual-the Cant of the Peaksmasher.
Slowly, with careful, deliberate rhythm, Garisa shuffled her feet. Raising a knotty fist, in which she clasped a worn rope, she shook the line, causing the clattering of tiny bells to jangle in time with her dance.
Firbolgs and trolls alike followed with their eyes the giantess through her ritual, carefully formalized steps. Then abruptly she spun through a full circle, in a whirl of jangling bells and cackling laughter. Stepping rapidly, she returned to her original place beside the fire, once again fixing her fellow villagers with a gaze of mystery and raw suspense. The fact that they had heard the coming story many times before did nothing to mellow the tension. If anything, it brought the giant-kin to an even higher pitch of readiness.
'In the days before humans,' Garisa began, her tone singing, the rhythm of her speech retaining its careful tempo, 'there came the greatest giant of them all to an island in the Trackless Sea.'
'Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!' The chanted response rumbled from every firbolg throat like imminent thunder from the growing darkness.
'Grond saw that this land was good. In the shelter of its reefs, he beheld the gleaming image of the full moon, and he called his place Moonshae.'
'Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!'
'He took his mighty blade-the blade that had carried him through legions of elves, against swarms of dragons and pestilential creatures of hideous evil-he took his blade and he carved for himself a home on Moonshae.'
'Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!'
'The axe with the shaft of silver-the axe with the blade of gleaming gemstone! And with his cutting edge, Grond carved the Moonshaes, cut the rock into pieces and left it as many isles. He carved the highland and grotto; he carved the vale and lake,' Garisa chanted.
'Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!'
'And from the highest rock, he carved the images of his children. He carved the firbolg, the giant-kin! He made them proud and he made them great. He made them the masters of his world.'
'Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!'
'But the rubble from his blade fell under his feet, and the refuse was crushed to gravel. And as the magic of Grond's axe showered around him, some of the brightness fell upon the gravel… and these crumbled pieces of stone came to life.' Now Garisa's voice fell, the tone becoming low and threatening.
'Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!'
'And the stones of the path came to life, and they scuttled out of the sun, away from the glory of Grond and his firbolgs! For these stones were the dwarves, and forever they resented the might of the great one who had made such grandeur of his first children, but left the dwarves mere tiny, misshapen runts.'
'Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!'
'And the hearts of the dwarves were black with treachery. They tumbled under the great lord's feet and made him to think he stood upon the firmament. But then, as he raised his axe to strike again, the dwarves stole away. They carried the stones from beneath the Peaksmasher's feet, and as he tumbled to the earth, the diamond blade chopped a mighty piece from the mountain.'
'Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!'
'And the slide of rock and ice entrapped him, and made of him a piece of the Moonshaes, a sturdy beam of the world itself. And the firbolgs wept and grieved, and the dwarves took up the Silverhaft Axe and carried it away.'
'Honored is the name of Grond-Grond Peaksmasher!' chanted the firbolg tribe, moved as a single, solid spirit by the tale of their origin.
'And still the Silverhaft Axe remains in the hands of the dwarves! Still they laugh at our grief. Still they taunt us with their prosperity, torment us with their greed….'
'This cannot pass!' Thurgol stormed, bounding to his feet and raising his fist in the air.
'The axe!' shouted another giant-kin, as if on cue. 'Claim it back! Claim it in the name of the Peaksmasher's children!'
'Aye! The axe! Kill the bearded runts!' A chorus of cries rumbled through the camp, growing into a crescendo of fury. Even the wolfdogs sensed the frenzy, adding their yaps and howls to the din rising into the night.
Thurgol sat quietly, watching the growing fervor from beneath his hooded eyelids. The council, he knew at last, had carried him perfectly to his goal.
'Did she sleep at all last night?' Alicia could tell from the haggard look of her mother and father as they joined her at breakfast that Deirdre had had another rough night. Though Alicia's own room was nearby, in the upper chambers of Caer Corwell's keep, she did not share the adjoining apartments where her sister currently stayed with their parents. Thus she was spared the experience of Deirdre's nightmares as they happened, though her parents' attitudes in the morning left little doubt as to the night's ordeal.
Surprisingly, Tristan looked at Robyn instead of answering his eldest daughter's question. The queen's eyes were hooded, dark with concern.
'She did … unusually so,' Robyn finally said.
'Isn't that good?' asked the princess, sensing the worry in her mother's response.
'I don't know,' sighed the queen. 'The nightmares came first. She kicked and thrashed in her sleep, tossing her head from side to side and gasping for air as if she couldn't breathe. In the end-when, in the past, she's always awakened screaming-she fell into a deep sleep. It frightened me as much as the nightmares, as if she had given herself up to whatever it was that pursued her. I tried to wake her, but she was beyond reach-or comprehension.'
'What can we do? Is it enough to wait for this to pass?'
Again Alicia saw the sharp look between her parents, but then Robyn lowered her eyes in silent defeat. Tristan answered the question.
'When Keane gets here with the patriarch, we'll ask him to examine her,' he said slowly while Robyn's eyes remained downcast. He spoke to his wife as much as to his daughter. 'We've got to try it! Nothing else seems to work, and we can't give her up! I can't!'
'Nor can I,' Robyn replied, surprising Alicia with the softness of her tone.
The princess understood that, with the resurgence of the Earthmother, the druid queen must regard with suspicion the intervention of any other gods into the Moonshaes. The 'New Gods,' they had once been called, for they were seen to compete with the treasured nature goddess who had so long made these isles an enchanted, magical place.
Yet some problems were beyond the abilities of even the Great Druid to solve, and it seemed that Deirdre's malaise was one of these. Alicia, like her father, hoped that a cleric of one of the New Gods might offer her sister some hope of succor. Yet she could sympathize with her mother as well. Alicia herself had been touched by the magic of the Earthmother, and she understood the special role that the benign goddess played in the life of the Moonshaes. She worried about any threat to that serene balance, the eternal equilibrium of light and dark, good and evil, that provided the fulcrum of her faith.
They spent several silent minutes picking dully at their bread and cheese. Somehow, to Alicia, the former tasted dry and stale, the latter crumbly and sharp-though both were fresh, in varieties she had enjoyed all her life.
'It's not like Keane to waste his time when he's on business for the king. What can be keeping him, anyway?' demanded Tristan, breaking the silence with frustrated words.
'He's not wasting time!' Alicia immediately leaped to her former tutor's defense, surprising her father with the vehemence of her statement
'What makes you so sure?' he pressed, more interested in her reaction than in her answer, for if the truth be told, Tristan felt certain beyond any doubt that the faithful Keane labored diligently in service of his king.
Alicia flushed. The emotions that compelled her beliefs were not feelings she felt ready to discuss with her parents; indeed, she was just beginning to understand them herself. 'He's a loyal subject, that's all. If he's taking overly long, it just means that he's run into unforeseen problems.'
'Perhaps the patriarch is busy … or absent,' surmised the queen, with a sideways look at her daughter. 'Keane would certainly try to find some other avenue, some other source of help, rather than return empty-
