But why had he made this mistake? That question skirted the realm of his brain but wouldn't come into focus-at least, not now.
He tried to imagine the monster that had led the humanoids on their destructive course. A burning, almost mindless hatred seized the king as he pondered this unknown firbolg. What restless arrogance propelled him onto this destructive path? The lord of the marauding band became a focus of his rage, and Tristan forged an iron determination-one day that brute would die on his sword.
"Where's Cambro-how far away?" he asked, trying a different tack on the scatterbrained faerie dragon.
Again Newt looked at him, squinting like a tutor regarding a particularly thick-skulled pupil. "Cambro's in Myrloch Vale," he said precisely. "And you're in Myrloch Vale, too!"
"I know that!" declared the king, unable to entirely squelch his impatience. "But where in Myrloch Vale-how far from right here?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's over there somewhere." Newt gestured vaguely, but it was enough for the king. The faerie dragon had pointed to the southeast. Tristan realized that he had indeed traveled almost to the northern fringe of the vale. Perhaps he hadn't lost as much time as he'd feared.
"And the firbolgs?" the king pressed. "Do you know where they went from Cambro?"
"Nope," Newt replied, with a firm shake of his head. "Though I heard the humans talking about Winterglen."
That information, at least, was no less than the High Queen had reported when she returned from Myrloch Vale to the castle. "Which humans?" he asked, to confirm his suspicions.
"The ones Robyn talked to-the ones with the dwarves! Don't you pay attention at all?"
Tristan grimaced. He'd forgotten what a painstaking process it was to gain information from the scatterbrained faerie dragon, but-for now, at least-it proved well worth it.
"What about wolves-a wolf, anyway? Have you seen him?"
"I've seen lots of wolves!" Newt boasted. "Remember when the Darkwalker came to Corwell, and so did the wolves? Why, there were at least a thousand of them! The whole pack came running out of-"
"No! I mean wolves here, now!" blurted Tristan.
Newt looked around, his tiny eyes squinting. "Nope!" he announced, full of certainty. The king decided not to press the issue.
"We're riding to Winterglen," he announced casually. "Though I'd like to camp on Codsrun Creek tonight."
"Well, why didn't you say so?" huffed Newt. "That's way over there!" he added, pointing to the west. "Say, is that Corwellian cheese I smell?" inquired the little dragon, with a meaningful look at the king's bulging saddlebags.
With his position more or less triangulated, the king chuckled with a small measure of relief. Reaching back, he managed to pull a small morsel out of his saddlebag for Newt. "That'll have to last you until we stop for the night," he warned, knowing that the cheese would disappear within a few moments.
But Newt settled down to munch happily, and the miles rolled away behind them. The spell of delusion had passed, except for the lingering distress caused by the mysterious origin of his confusion. The king kicked Shallot harder than he intended. The great war-horse bucked once in annoyance and then set off for the north at a breakneck gallop.
"Hello, my princess," Keane said softly, folding his long legs below him and settling to the ground beside the small fire. "Do you have a few minutes for your old tutor?"
Alicia laughed and nodded. "Sorry, Keane. I know I've been busy. Just now I was almost falling asleep in my tea."
"You're setting a good pace. It's no wonder that you're as tired as the rest of us," allowed the lanky magic-user.
Indeed, Keane's own legs were cramped and sore, and the ground made an even less comfortable seat than the saddle, which had come to be a fiendish torture device in the mage's mind. Yet he had carefully avoided complaining, knowing that the weight of her command weighed heavily enough upon Alicia's shoulders. And he at least had the benefit of a mount. The warriors of Corwell who marched with them traveled on foot.
"How are the men doing?" Alicia asked, as if reading his mind. "They all seem cheerful enough when I'm around, but I wonder what they really think."
"I think they'd follow you to the Abyss if you wanted them to," Keane replied truthfully. The mage had mingled with the men-at-arms during much of the march northward. He had observed the genuine affection with which they watched and spoke of the young princess who led them.
They looked up to see the sturdy, bandy-legged form of Sergeant-Major Sands approaching. The grizzled veteran stroked his long mustache until he reached the fire, where he bowed to Alicia and nodded at the magic-user.
"The men're all bedded for the night," he said. "If there's nothing else you'll be wanting, I think I'll turn in myself."
"Thanks, Sands. You've done more for us than anyone could ask," the princess replied sincerely. She watched him swagger off, knowing that his gruff exterior concealed a real affection for his royal commander.
Although she didn't realize it, Alicia unconsciously encouraged this admiration. She remained cheerful even when they faced obstacles, such as the unexpectedly deep stream they had encountered that afternoon. The waterway hadn't been featured on Robyn's map, yet it had raged through a deep gorge and they had lost many hours looking for a suitable ford. Alicia had raced ahead of the column to find a crossing, then galloped back with a whoop and cheer that put great heart in the weary marchers.
And even though she was mounted, the princess put in as much effort as any footman, riding back and forth along the column of marching men, responding to each loud greeting with a wave or a smile, and then racing ahead to make sure they found and followed the route Robyn had marked for them on the map.
Also, the princess had scorned any privileges of royalty. Like any warrior, she built her own fire and cooked her own meals, though every evening she made the rounds of the camp and was frequently invited to join a small group of men at their own cheery blaze. This she did as much as time allowed, listening to their stories of home and hunt, sharing her own experiences in turn.
Keane had watched admiringly, seeing the way that she earned the men's loyalty, sensing in this young woman all the qualities of leadership that would one day make her a splendid monarch. Yet he could tell that she herself remained for the most part unaware of these feelings, a fact that was part of what Keane found so appealing in the young princess.
"It's so hard to tell about them," Alicia said wearily, leaning forward and allowing a bit of the fire's warmth to soak into her rough, callused hands. "Sometimes I think they're coming along out of loyalty to the king, and they're only following me because I'm going the same way."
Keane shook his head firmly. "That's not it, not at all. Your father is an important symbol to them … to all of us. But don't underestimate your own role. You represent the Ffolk's hopes for the future. It's good for them, and for you, that you can get to know each other."
Alicia smiled, albeit wanly. "Thanks, old friend. I don't know if I could do this without you here to help."
"Sure you could," he assured her. But he was privately glad she didn't have to, because he didn't want to be anywhere else.
Keane's silent addenda must have shown on his face, for the princess reached over and clasped one of his hands in hers. "How about the inquisitor?" she asked. "Did you see him settled in?"
The young wizard chuckled ruefully. "As usual, he's pitched that palace of his off to the side. Trampled a good-sized meadow to do it"
Though the patriarch of Helm had accompanied them every step of the way, he remained a distant and mysterious figure. He camped in a manner completely unlike any other member of the expedition. Each night he produced a small square of canvas from his voluminous saddlebags. Casting the object on the ground, he spoke a short incantation, and the thing quickly expanded into the structure the Ffolkmen had immediately dubbed the "palace." In truth, it was merely a tent, but the structure included several rooms and covered more ground than a typical house. Colorful silk adorned its many panels, and from three sharp peaks-one atop each of the main chambers-flagpoles extended upward. Three identical banners, each portraying the All-Seeing Eye in vivid detail, outlined in a gold border with highlights of silver thread, streamed from these shafts, proudly proclaiming the faith of the tent's sole inhabitant.