It was an outlook that differed fundamentally from her mother's interpretation of immortal will, as personified by the goddess Earthmother. Deirdre had heard often enough the central tenet of her mother's faith: According to Robyn, the Moonshaes were uniquely enchanted because of the purity of their goddess. If other deities-the druids called them "New Gods," though Deirdre knew this was a preposterous misstatement-exercised equal power in the isles, then the goddess must inevitably fade.
But for the first time, Deirdre examined this situation in a somewhat dispassionate light. What was such an inherently terrible thing about the acceptance of the New Gods? Hadn't Hyath already shown her how competition for worshipers bred strength, not weakness?
"Did you sleep without dreams last night?" inquired the patriarch.
"I don't know," Deirdre replied with a bemused shake of her head. "I certainly felt well rested in the morning, and Father tells me he didn't hear anything during the night."
"Splendid news," the cleric said benignly. "Tell me, did you have a chance to think about our conversation of last night?"
"Yes, I did. It's true that there's a lot of good land in Myrloch Vale, as you pointed out. Yet for some reason none of the Ffolk have ever farmed there."
"Superstitions perhaps?" supplied the Exalted Inquisitor.
"Yes-ancient fears of the goddess. It's as I told you. Many of the Ffolk don't realize that there are other gods who will watch and protect them."
"The spreading of this message is a great, even an historical, task-one that must be undertaken without any further delay."
For a long time, Deirdre kept silent. The implications of the patriarch's suggestions were not lost upon her. She found them strangely disturbing, but also motivating, in a sense that she couldn't quite identify.
"In any event, dear child, I'm delighted to see that your strength returns with such youthful vigor. If only your father would respond as well…."
"He seems robust enough," Deirdre noted.
"In the flesh, to be sure," the cleric explained. "But it is the wasting of the spirit wherein lies his danger. By refusing to accept the requirements of Helm, he denies the aid of a very powerful ally, one who could surely heal his wound and raise him to undreamed of greatness!"
Deirdre shook her head. "My father is a king of the Ffolk, and he holds the goddess in nearly the same reverence as does my mother. It's a thrall that I admit I can't understand. After all, he's shown a willingness to accept many other new concepts during his rule. Yet-for now at least-if Helm requires him to reject the worship of the Earthmother, I don't believe he will do so."
" 'Reject'-such a strong word," the Exalted Inquisitor soothed. "There only need be an implicit acknowledgment of the rights and places of other gods-an equal standing with the Earthmother, no more."
Deirdre sighed. It sounded so simple, so right when the patriarch explained things. Yet she knew that in her own life, the situation was a great deal more confused. She sensed an expanse of power and potential that dwarfed anything she had previously known, and she was reluctant, even unwilling, to abandon the spark that had been ignited.
A cry from the castle guards roused her from her meditation. At first she thought that an alarm had been sounded, but as she threw open the windows, she heard the joy and relief in the guardsman's voice.
"The High Queen returns!" he cried as other guards joined in the welcome. Deirdre saw the familiar form of the white hawk circling the castle, settling quickly toward the ground.
"A small army of firbolgs and trolls is on the march. They've sacked Cambro, and now they move to the north, toward the shoreline and the Strait of Oman."
Robyn spoke bluntly, standing before the hearth of the library while Tristan, her daughters, Keane, and the inquisitor listened to her report.
"Have they attacked any humans-any Ffolk?" asked Tristan grimly. The High King paced in agitation, his new sword swinging easily at his side and his gold circlet crown resting atop the fullness of his long, gray-brown hair.
"Yes-isolated villages … little more than groups of farmsteads. Codscove lies in their line of march, though they must be a few days away from there still."
"Thus is the prophecy of Helm fulfilled!" crowed the Exalted Inquisitor. He turned to face Tristan. "Your Majesty! This is the evil indicated by my god. Wipe it from the isles, and you will earn the blessings of his power."
"I can do no less, in any event," said Tristan. "Yet I fail to see how this makes any great service for Helm."
"Indeed," Robyn agreed. "The dwarves already march against this force, and I assured them that your help would be forthcoming. Finellen was reluctant to delay her attack, but I convinced her to give you time to get there with a body of men."
"Of course," Tristan agreed, though he sounded vaguely distracted. "That's what I must do. However many of the villains there are, I can't imagine that we'll have trouble dispatching them."
The king turned back to the cleric, an expression of puzzlement on his face. "That's why I can't see where this could be the will of your god any more than of my own goddess."
"Perhaps there is a thing about your quest that you have not fully grasped… that we have not yet understood."
Tristan, his hand on the hilt of his sword, whirled in agitation. He seemed about to say something, but then angrily shut his mouth, half-drawing the sword from its elegant scabbard. Quickly he resheathed the weapon and resumed his furious pacing.
"We have no time!" Robyn interrupted in irritation. "It will take the better part of a day to muster your men, and who knows how long to march them to Winterglen! Why waste that time arguing which god is served by your duty?"
"That's just it!" Tristan said, turning to his wife with real anguish on his face. "I'm confused about that duty. What if I'm missing something… going about this the wrong way?" He raised his left arm, with its all-too-abrupt termination.
"Call up the men!" Robyn repeated in tight-lipped urgency. "At least you can gather them to-"
"No!" Tristan barked the word so sharply that the High Queen bit her lip, glowering at the patriarch in barely concealed fury. "That's too easy!" the king continued. "There must be more to it… something I don't understand!"
"What are you talking about?" demanded the queen.
"My quest, you called it." Tristan seemed to be speaking to himself. "And time-that's important, too. Both of you, I think, have given me the guidance I need."
"What do you mean?" asked Robyn, concerned with the stubborn set of her husband's chin.
"There is a way I can face these giants and do honor to the gods, and also a way to reach them in far less time than needed for a column of men."
"No!" Robyn gasped, sensing his intent.
"Yes!" declared Tristan, rising from his chair and standing like the High King that he was in the center of the room. He drew the sword from its scabbard, and the silvery steel gleamed like a beacon in the room. The righteous gleam of the blade challenged even the brilliance of full daylight.
"I ride at once to face these monsters, and I journey in a fashion that places my success or failure in the hands of the gods!"
"You can't mean-" the queen persisted, but her husband cut her off with a chop of his hand.
"Indeed I do-for I shall go alone!"
The image of her father's quest flamed in Deirdre's eyes as she settled into bed on the night following his departure. Tension had crackled through the library following his announcement, with her mother actually reduced to tears at one point by the king's single-minded determination. Alicia, too, had created a scene, declaring that she would ride at her father's side. She had been rudely silenced by the determined king.