In an earlier decade, perhaps, Deirdre would have followed the druidical calling of her mother. Now, however, the druids who still lived served primarily as caretakers of the shrinking tracts of wild land that could still be found among the kingdoms of the Ffolk. Their powers of magic, which had allowed them great control over aspects of nature, had been broken by the passing of the goddess Earthmother twenty years earlier.
Keane often reflected on, and taught, the great irony: It had been the great victories of Tristan Kendrick that brought the Ffolk to a pinnacle of unity and power they had not known for hundreds of years. Bearing a blade of legend, the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, the young king had used the aid of the druids and the ancient folk of the isles, the dwarves of Mountainhome and the Llewyrr elves of Synnoria.
Yet the price of that victory had been a change in godship, from the hallowed nature worship of the goddess Earthmother to the agricultural domination offered by Chauntea, a goddess of crops, irrigation, and tamed, quiet pastures. The great mother had perished at the moment of the Ffolk's ultimate triumph, and now Chauntea and the other New Gods ruled the land.
Keane's reflections were interrupted as they reached the doors to the Great Hall of Caer Callidyrr. The huge oaken panels loomed and then swung outward, opened by a pair of blue-cloaked guardsmen.
King Kendrick chose to hold counsel in his Great Hall more often than in his imposing throne room. He said that his visitors showed a greater tendency to talk when gathered around the huge hearth with its perennial blaze.
"Hello, Father," said Alicia, ignoring the king's brief look of annoyance.
"Come in," Tristan said impatiently. "You, too, Keane."
Tristan Kendrick, High King of the Folk, was a man who had grown into the role. He sat in a huge armchair, his long brown hair still thick, though streaks of gray lightened its fringes. His beard, worn full in the traditional manner of the Ffolk, covered the upper half of his chest.
Emblazoned in silver on his blue tunic was a lone wolf's head, the king's personal crest. Over the hearth, snarling from the wall, was mounted the head of a great bear, symbolizing the unity of the four lands of the Ffolk.
Another man sat in a nearby chair, and raven-haired Deirdre almost disappeared into a small sofa a few feet back from the fire. Overhead, the heavy oaken support timbers crossed back and forth, soot-covered and stained. The dark wooden ceiling was lost in the overhead shadows, though long, slitted windows along each side of the room stood open, admitting the fresh air for once instead of sealing out the perpetual storm.
"You know Earl Blackstone, Master of Fairheight," began the king, gesturing toward the visitor. "The Lords of Ironsmith and Umberland were here briefly to discuss their iron and coal production. They have gone to attend to business in the city."
"My lord." Alicia nodded politely to the black-haired, stern-visaged noble, wishing privately that she had arrived while the other two lords were still present. She knew Umberland and Ironsmith to be unprepossessing rural lords, neither of them too bright but both loyal and direct.
Not so the Earl of Fairheight. She looked at him surreptitiously as she seated herself. The earl's thick eyebrows grew together over his great beak of a nose, and his full black beard parted in a smile that sent a slight shiver down Alicia's back. As always, she felt an uneasiness when she was around Blackstone that she could not totally explain.
Among her father's subjects, Angus Blackstone was the most powerful noble in all Callidyrr, presiding over the cantrevs of the Fairheight Mountains. These were the towns of miners and smelters, the Ffolk who had supported the kingdom during these years. Yet whenever she was forced to be in the same room with him, which was blessedly rare, she felt a sense of menace that made her want to pull a cloak tightly about her shoulders and keep her eyes watchfully upon the swaggering earl.
"To business." Tristan spoke brusquely, and Alicia sensed that the king was annoyed by Blackstone. "Continue your tale," he instructed the brawny nobleman.
Blackstone's demeanor grew grim. "He came out of nowhere, raving like a lunatic. My son set the hounds on him, but he worked some kind of sorcery. The hounds ran, leaping the palisade, and disappeared into the night."
"Have you had sign of them since?" inquired the king.
"No, sire. They may as well have chased a shadow off the face of the earth! Then the madman went berserk, in a fury. My son Currag had to slay him to defend himself!"
"The body?" asked the king.
"We burned it-like a witch, or any other foul sorcerer! The bastard claimed the life of my oldest son!" fumed Earl Blackstone. "It was sorcery, Your Highness. I know this!"
He finished the gruesome tale of the discovery of Currag's body the following morning, smashed on the stones of the courtyard, and how, even after the brutal force of the fall, his face retained that hideous, tortured grimace of terror.
"You have two sons remaining, I believe?" Tristan ventured sympathetically.
"Aye. Gwyeth and Hanrald. The former, Gwyeth, is my heir now. He's a good knight, Your Majesty."
Alicia thought it curious that he said nothing about his youngest son, Sir Hanrald. She wondered about a knight who could be a disappointment even to one so base as Blackstone.
"The ravings." Deirdre, out of the shadows, surprised them by speaking to the earl. "What did the lunatic say?"
The nobleman turned toward the younger princess, his dark brows knitting in concentration. "He came out of the storm. He hollered about doom, I recall. And he told the guards to flee … said it was their only chance of survival. To escape the power that would rise, or some such idiocy."
"What else?" persisted Deirdre, her voice sharp. "There must have been more."
Blackstone bristled. "I don't know! I can't remember!"
"Enough." King Kendrick spoke to the lord. "When my envoy reaches Fairheight, you will make your guards, and any other witnesses, available for interview. That is all."
"Yes, sire." Blackstone nodded in assent.
"Now," Tristan continued, "tell me of the matter that brings you all the way to Caer Callidyrr."
"Certainly, sire. It is a matter of some good news, I should think. Naturally you know of the wealth of gold my miners have pulled from the Granite Crest."
"Indeed. It has given me the profits to purchase food for years-food without which thousands of my people would have starved."
"Well, Your Majesty, it appears that the vein extends for a greater extent than we had any previous right to hope. Our initial explorations indicate a find of more vast and wealthy extent than any previous gold mine in the islands."
"Splendid! The additional tariff shall do much to see that our coffers can be filled by winter. Is it simply this news that brings you to the castle? Or, as I suspect, is there more?"
Blackstone sighed, apparently in real regret. "A small thing. . trifling, really. I regret to trouble Your Majesty with it."
"A Moonwell." said Keane, speaking without thinking.
"I beg your pardon?" King Kendrick scowled, turning toward the young man who had spoken. Even his favored young tutor had bounds of propriety to observe. Lord Blackstone, meanwhile, glared darkly at Keane.
"It's the reason he comes here," Keane blurted, as if regretting his earlier remark but now determined to amplify his decision. "Gaining access to the new vein will require him to destroy a Moonwell."
"Is this true?" The king turned to regard the lord.
"Yes-if you can call the stagnant cesspool a Moonwell!" Blackstone forged ahead, his anger toward Keane thickening his voice. "We all know that the power of the Earthmother is gone, and with her went the enchantment of her pools-all of them! I know that some wild-eyed druids still tend them, but just to keep the waters free from weeds! Their power exists only in memory!"