Black Wizards (25 page)

Death reached out with cold fingers to seek the Prince of Corwell. Tristan only vaguely felt the chill presence beside him, for all of his feelings were blanketed in a gray fog.

The pounding cadence of the galloping horse penetrated his consciousness only barely, and he did not sense Daryth’s arms around him holding him in the saddle. The pain of his wound had long since vanished. His only discomfort now came from straining for air in his wounded lung.

For a time, the prince was ready to yield to the dark figure that rode
beside him. The struggle to breathe was too exhausting to continue. The blessed relief promised by the one who held those arms outspread seemed the most pleasant recourse.

“Tristan. Look to me, my prince!”

For a second, he didn’t react to the distant voice. When he did, it was as if his body was mired in thick mud; he couldn’t open his eyes or turn without expending great effort. But finally, he saw.

An ocean of mist spread around him, muffling the sounds of the horse’s hooves. The jolting gait became smooth, even comfortable. He could see that they were racing across this plain of fog, and then the mist parted to reveal a wide, smooth lake. It seemed to him that they were galloping along the shore, though he couldn’t see any ground below him. In truth, he did not look down.

“Tristan.”

The voice again reached seductively for his mind, and he struggled to see who was speaking. Then he saw the white figure, standing serenely on the waters of the lake. Her arms were spread wide, beckoning. Queen Allisynn stood some vague distance away. It seemed that she was very far, yet he could see tears welling in the corners of her eyes. He could hear her voice, though she spoke in the softest of whispers.

How beautiful she was! Her blond hair billowed like a flag in a gentle breeze, while her snowy gown seemed more like water than cloth as it flowed across her body. She looked very sad, and the prince wanted to hold her, to comfort her.

And then he understood her sadness.

His quest, had failed! He had disappointed her. A black sense of despair grasped him, and once again he saw the specter of death seated beside him.

Desperately, he struggled to reach the queen, but his body would not move fast enough. A sob forced itself from his throat, and already her image grew dim.

“My queen!” he croaked. He struggled to hold out a hand to her so that she could pull him to her side.

“Stay there!” she cried, her voice growing stern. “Do not come to me. You must not come to me!”

He made no reply, but his throat choked with sorrow, and tears
flooded his eyes. The agony of watching her slip away was more than he could bear. Yet somehow, though his ghostly horse raced like the wind and the queen stood still upon the water, she remained beside him.

“You must go on, my prince.” Again he heard her. She began to fade from view, but her voice was stronger than ever. “Go to Caer Callidyrr. Only from the High King himself will you learn the secret of your destiny. And prince, beware his wizard. Beware Cyndre!” She had almost disappeared from his sight, and despair threatened to drown the prince in his well of self-pity.

“My lady …” he moaned softly.

“No,” she said, and suddenly her image was clear again, “Your lady is another—a woman who needs you, and who can help you! Call to your lady, my prince, do not call to me!”

And then she was gone, and in her place stood a green-eyed druid with flowing black hair. Her beauty brought a lump to his throat. By the goddess, how he needed Robyn! He must see her again. He must live!

“Robyn,” he croaked, quietly, and the sound became a sob.

But then his companions slowed the pace of their flight, as the black horses grew winded. The pain returned, lancing through his chest and throat in fiery agony. The taste of blood was bitter in his mouth.

But with the pain came awareness, an understanding that he did want to live, that he had a mission to perform. With this understanding he banished the specter of death from his side. The prince was unconscious to his surroundings; he did not feel his companions lift him from the saddle nor see them enter the battered door of a frail country chapel. But he was aware of his life.

And he was determined to keep it.

The courtier timidly approached the great throne, his powdered wig trembling as he walked.

“Your Majesty,” the man began, his voice cracking. “The … um … the wizard cannot be found.”

“Imbecile!” barked the king, “Out of my sight! Fool! Do not return until you have found him!”

The king rose and stalked down the stairway leading to his throne.
He reached the bottom of the staircase and turned to the side in agitation, wrapping the robe about his legs and almost tripping himself.

“Out!” he screamed. “All of you! Go away!” The courtiers, jesters, and ladies-in-waiting in the huge chamber all turned and fled for the doors. In seconds the vast room was empty except for the king.

And one other.

Cyndre stood beside the throne, his black robe billowing and swelling around him. The king turned back, pacing, and suddenly saw him. He gasped and clapped a hand to his mouth, but quickly straightened to march purposefully up the steps.

“Where have you been? I have had every messenger in the palace searching for you! Why can’t you be where you’re supposed to be?”

“I came as soon as I could, sire. I was in the midst of some arcane meditation. To interrupt it would have been extremely dangerous.” The wizard made a slight, almost imperceptible gesture. The king’s shoulders sagged as he turned to flop wearily into his throne.

“I have been so worried!” he whined. “Has there been any word of that upstart from Corwell?”

“We have had word of his arrival at Llewellyn. A strong garrison of the Scarlet Guard is posted there. I am certain that we will hear of his capture very soon.” The wizard’s voice was soothing, and the king began to relax.

“I’m sorry I shouted at you, Cyndre. My nerves are not what they used to be.” The wizard did not reply, and his thin smile of amusement was masked by his robe.

“When he is captured,” continued King Carrathal, “I want him brought to me immediately. I am curious about this prince. I wish to learn why he pretends to my throne.”

“At the earliest opportunity, sire, I will have him delivered to you,” replied Cyndre, silently adding, “his corpse will not tell you much.”

“You will protect me from him, won’t you?”

“Of course, sire. You know that you have nothing to worry about. Perhaps you need something to take your mind off this little distraction—an execution, perhaps. Is there a prisoner you would like put to death? Perhaps that sister of the outlaw, O’Roarke?”

“No, not yet!” The king spoke firmly. “I still hope to make him see reason. I will never be able to do that if she is dead.”

The wizard gestured subtly and whispered to the king.

“Very well,” sighed Carrathal. “Have her put to death in the morning.” For a moment, a look of stark horror flashed across the king’s face. Once again, he saw the ghosts arrayed against him and sensed their number growing. But then he yawned listlessly. “Thank you, Cyndre. Sometimes I wonder what I would do without …”

The king could not finish his sentence, for he had already fallen asleep.

“I shan’t be gone for more than a day,” explained the Great Druid. Her manner was solemn. “Try to keep them from fighting. Talk to the leaders—they will help you.”

Robyn nodded, trying to conceal her doubts. The grove of the Great Druid had, overnight, filled with terrified animals. Many deer, rabbits, wild pigs, squirrels, mice, and other little mammals were overrunning the place, nervously trying to avoid the few wolves, foxes, badgers, and weasels that had also come here for protection.

But protection from what? They still knew very little about whatever menaced the grove, save that it had caused an unprecedented fear among the wild creatures.

“If you have to, ask Grunt for help,” said Genna. “He will complain a lot, but he could be your best ally.”

“I will,” said Robyn. Indeed, the old brown bear was a cantankerous and surly fellow, but she knew him to be an unusually steady and reliable animal,

“I will hurry,” added the druid. “Take care, my child.”

Genna turned toward the south and her short body shifted and blurred before Robyn’s eyes. She grew smaller, and her brown robe slowly became a coat of golden feathers. Her arms became wings, and her nose became a beak. The smooth head, no longer even vaguely human, turned to look at Robyn, and the young druid saw the blessing glittering from the small, black eyes. Then the wings struck boldly downward, and the great eagle that was Genna Moonsinger sprang into the air and climbed steadily skyward. She rose without faltering, circling over the grove until she was no more than a speck in the
southern sky.

A heavy sense of menace began to bear down on Robyn as the day progressed, removing any joy from her daily tasks. At first she thought that the feeling was produced by the threat to the Vale, and indeed, that must have been a part of it. Yet more and more she found her mind drifting to thoughts of Tristan.

Instead of the usual ripples of pleasure that his memory ordinarily gave her, her thoughts of the prince actually increased her anxiety. This feeling grew every time she thought of him, which was nearly every minute. She could not escape the feeling that he was in terrible danger.

She wrestled with a strong temptation to flee the grove, abandoning everything in a headlong dash to reach him. Yet even if she had known where he was—and she felt certain that he was far from Corwell—she could not have brought herself to renounce her trust with the goddess. And so once again, she turned herself to her many chores.

But the work had a hollow, meaningless quality today. She was certain that it did not come from within herself.

Then she felt a strange peace fall over the grove. The squeaks and squawks of the animals quieted as she looked up. Something had already entered the grove. It was a presence mighty yet serene. Robyn walked quickly through the oaks, finally breaking into a run. She suspected the visitor’s identity even before he stopped from between the oaks to regard her. She thought she saw a benign smile upon his face as she shouted with joy and ran to clasp her arms around his neck.

The smile was in her imagination, of course, for although he, too, felt great joy, Kamerynn the unicorn could not be expected to smile.

A cool, strong breeze flowed steadily northward, lashing the waters of the strait into rolling gray swells. Tavish fought the wind, tacking back and forth, but she still made only slow headway toward Corwell.

For the hundredth time she wondered if she was doing the right thing. After all, she reminded herself, what could she have done to rescue the prince? Painfully, but pragmatically, she knew that she was no fighter—a daring escape from the heart of the enemy stronghold was something she could never hope to accomplish.

The only place that seemed to offer the chance of help was the prince’s homeland. She didn’t know what kind of help the lords of Corwell could offer, but she had nowhere else to turn.