The Druid Queen (The Druidhome Trilogy) by Douglas Niles

Author:Douglas Niles [Niles, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786961931
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2011-11-29T00:00:00+00:00

9

Partings

Princess Alicia actually had a very mistaken impression of Tristan’s whereabouts. Despite the fact that he had a full day’s head start and traveled mounted and alone, the High King hadn’t progressed much more rapidly than had the footmen of Corwell. For one thing, he hadn’t known about the pass into the vale that Robyn had sketched for Alicia. Also, his untimely stag hunt had carried him far from his proper path, and he meandered a bit as he tried to find his way back.

Now Tristan’s eyes opened with the dawn, but it was several minutes later before he could pull his mind from the depths of slumber. He slept out-of-doors, he saw, with a mighty sword held ready in his hand. But where was he?

Myrloch Vale, he realized, the recollection followed by a flood of confusing facts. Shallot was here, and Ranthal and the moorhounds. He wore his chain mail, and he had come here on some sort of mission.

But what?

His eyes wandered to the east, toward the bright flare of the sun as it crept above the tree-lined horizon. His mission, he recalled, was a quest of no little importance, yet now it didn’t strike him as strange that he couldn’t remember the nature of that purpose.

Instead, it was as if the task would only become relevant when he could put his memory in order. He tried to focus on the direction of his journey, but all he could think about was the sunrise, the gleaming dawn that beckoned in the east. Why was his mind so thick? Was something wrong?

Eastward—that must be it, he told himself. True, he felt a vague lack of conviction about that determination, but he could think of no reasonable alternative.

Thus determined, the High King of the Ffolk saddled his great war-horse and called his hounds to the trail. Obediently they loped toward the rising sun, with the proud warrior on his great steed riding grimly behind. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, ready … but for what?

Tristan’s mind sharpened until the king felt a keen pulse of mental power tingling through him. For a moment, he drifted again. Why was he here?

“The Darkwalker is abroad,” he announced loudly, the words ringing as an alien sound through the pastoral wood of Myrloch Vale. He saw a momentary image of that looming, reptilian form, but it quickly faded into the mists and disappeared.

Did he campaign against the sahuagin? An image of the spine-backed fish creatures filled his mind, rank upon rank of them emerging from the sea to pillage and slay. Did they lurk in the woods, among the trees? Then, in another burst of lucidity, he knew that he wouldn’t be seeking his aquatic enemies in an inland valley. No, it must be the Darkwalker.

Somehow, that thought didn’t seem right either. He had a clear picture of a young prince pursuing the unnatural horror that stalked the land. Yet for some reason, he felt like a very old king.

What was

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