R. Salvatore: The Witch_s Daughter

“You have done well,” Thalasi said. “I will forget your unfortunate intrusion.” The Black Warlock led Burgle’s gaze over to the wall of the Throne Room, to the dried crimson stain.

Burgle slouched low and tried to appear very small, wanting only to be dismissed.

“Indeed,” Thalasi went on, “your service has more than amended the foolishness of Grok. And I always reward such devoted service.”

Burgle stayed low and trembled. Thalasi had recently given a similar speech to the other guard who had been in attendance on that fateful day. And only a moment later, when a smile lit the talon guard’s face, the Black Warlock had pulled the talon’s heart right out of its chest.

“You shall be a commander of the legions,” Thalasi decreed. “Captain Burgle. And let any who disobey your commands answer to me!”

Burgle straightened, eyes wide, hardly believing its unexpected fortune.

“Go now,” Thalasi instructed. “Gather the leaders of the tribes. Tell them that we ride to war on the waning of the summer’s highest moon.”

For the rest of the day the Black Warlock studied his talon army from the window of the Throne Room. Thousands of the creatures milled about the mountainside beyond Talas-dun’s high black walls, separated by definitive borders into tribal clusters, each bearing the disgusting standards-a severed hand, a bloodied eyeball, and others of similar sort-of their respective chieftains. Thalasi knew that their devotion was wrought solely of fear; a leader of a talon tribe was its undisputed ruler, until another warrior of the tribe summoned the courage to challenge it and defeat it. Once Thalasi brought those revered leaders under his thumb, the rest of the rabble would fall into line.

Weapons clanged as skirmishes broke out among the rival tribes. “Such hateful things,” Thalasi remarked, seeing his troops at play. He would do nothing to temper the anger; a few dead soldiers were a small price to pay for the level of bloodlust the battles maintained in the talons.

Thalasi’s eyes wandered out beyond the encampments, beyond the dark mountains, viewing the rolling fields of Calva. A different angle than the eyes that looked south from Avalon.

But the same destination.

Belexus and Andovar led the horses to a small glade on the southern edge of the enchanted forest, the appointed spot for the meeting that both of them, especially Andovar, so eagerly awaited.

Bellerian was already there when they arrived, the wizard Ardaz, holding the bridle of a fine roan stallion, at his side.

“We have bringed the third horse, as ye requested,” Belexus said to his father, not understanding the presence of the roan.

“So ye have,” replied Bellerian. “But the fourth’ll be needed. Ye’re to have company on the first leg o’ yer journey.”

“Yerself?” Belexus asked, aiming the question at the Silver Mage.

“With your permission, of course. I would not intrude, heavens no,” Ardaz replied, bowing low. “I have some business-so very important, you know-far to the east. A farmer’s tale of some ruins, an unknown village or something or other. Could be important, you know, I do dare say!”

Always patient, the three rangers did their best to show interest in the wizard’s rambling story, however confusing.

“But my course goes south, only a bit,” Ardaz explained. He winked and dropped his voice to a secretive whisper. “Want to keep the old bones in the civilized world as long as I can, you know. No need for hard ground when the bed of a Calvan inn is nearby.”

A great squawk erupted from the trees, and two birds glided down to the group. The larger, a raven, landed plop on Ardaz’s shoulder and immediately transformed into the more familiar form of his black cat, Desdemona.

But Belexus and Andovar hardly noticed the magical polymorph, entranced by the more dramatic transformation of the second bird, a white dove. The bird landed on the ground before them and puffed into a cloud of white smoke that swayed about, forming into a shapely column.

And Brielle stepped from the column.

Andovar had to consciously remember to breathe. He had seen the witch a few times, though only from afar, and was not the least bit disappointed at the closer view. Quite the opposite; the beauty of Brielle could withstand any inspection.

“Me Lady,” Belexus stammered, and he fell to one knee.

Brielle’s expression, somewhat embarrassed, showed that she was indeed touched by the great ranger’s respect. She looked over at Andovar and he dropped similarly, though he still could not find words to address the witch.

Brielle bade them both rise. She had seen them before, of course; the witch saw everything that moved through her forest. And she had known before her formal meeting with Bellerian that the two rangers would take fine care of her daughter. Still, her mothering instincts of that special little girl would not so easily let go.

“Ye’ll take care o’ me girl?” she asked, more to measure the desire of Belexus and Andovar in having Rhiannon along than to question their ability. The two would not disobey the requests of Bellerian, and would surely take Rhiannon if the Ranger Lord asked them to, but Brielle did not want to impose. “And bring her back to me at the summer’s wane?”

“We shall indeed,” Belexus assured her. “And honored we are that ye’d trust us with such a task.”

The Emerald Witch glanced to Bellerian. “They do ye proud, Ranger Lord,” she said. Then to Belexus and Andovar, she added, “And know that never I doubted ye, either of ye. But do ye truly want me girl along?”

Now Andovar piped in, unable to control his excitement. “As we want the warming of spring,” he cried suddenly and eagerly. “I beg of ye fairest Lady, let the lass come. We’ll watch her and protect her, do no’ be doubtin’, and suren the joy o’ Rhiannon’ll brighten our days.”

“Enough said, I do believe,” Ardaz chuckled from the side. “Are you appeased, dear sister?”

“And how long will ye be riding with them?” Brielle asked him.

Ardaz fumbled his fingers over his beard; he hadn’t really considered his exact course. “To the northern villages… er, it would seem… perhaps as far as Torthenberry,” he replied. “A few days, one would expect, though I must get to those ruins. A farmer’s tale, you know. Could be important, indeed it-”

“Yes, me brother,” Brielle stopped him, “so ye’ve said many times.” Indeed, Ardaz had talked of little other than his coming exploration since the farmer’s tale had reached his ears last midwinter. He had delayed going to investigate only because he refused to miss the celebration of Rhiannon’s twentieth birthday.

Brielle looked again at the eager faces of the rangers and gave a resigned shrug. “Come on, then,” she called to the thick boughs beyond the glade.

The branches rustled and the raven-haired daughter of the fair witch, outfitted for the road, stepped shyly out into the open.

“Here are yer new companions,” Brielle said to her. “Ye know their names.” She turned back to Belexus and Andovar, standing in a stupor equal to their shock upon first seeing the elder witch of Avalon. For Rhiannon, stepping into the glade, was obviously possessed of that same unearthly beauty, that same wild spirit, so far beyond the experiences of the two men, or of any mortal men.

“Me daughter,” Brielle told them, though she saw right away that Rhiannon needed no introduction.

“Me greetings, fair lass,” said Belexus. “Glad we are that ye might be joining us.”

“And glad I am to be going,” replied Rhiannon. She looked over at the three waiting horses. “Are we to ride, then? Never have I… I mean-”

“Pallendara’s a long walk,” said Andovar, drawing a smile from the young woman. “She’s yers.” He indicated a black and white mare, small and sleek.