Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,241

wished he had argued against Brind’Amour more strongly.

By all measure, Duchess Deanna Wellworth was a beautiful woman, golden hair cut to shoulder length and coiffed neatly, flipped to one side and held in place by a diamond-studded pin. Though she was young—certainly she had not seen thirty winters—her dress and manner were most elegant, sophisticated, but Brind’Amour sensed the power and the untamed, wild streak within this woman. She was an enchantress, he knew, and a powerful one, and she probably used more than her magic to get men into difficult situations.

“The fleet?” she asked abruptly, for from the moment she had sat down at the long, oak table, she had made it clear that she wanted this parley concluded as quickly as possible.

“Scuttled,” Brind’Amour answered without blinking.

Deanna Wellworth’s fair features, highlighted by the most expensive makeup, but not heavily painted in typical Avon fashion, turned into a skeptical frown. “You said we would deal honestly,” she remarked evenly.

“The fleet is anchored near to the Diamondgate,” Brind’Amour admitted. The old wizard drew himself up to his full height, shoulders back and jaw firm. “Under the flag of Eriador free.”

His tone told Wellworth beyond any doubt that Greensparrow would not get his ships back. She hadn’t really expected Eriador to turn them over, anyway. “The Praetorian Guards held captive on that rock of an island?” she asked.

“No,” Brind’Amour answered simply.

“You hold near to three thousand prisoners,” Wellworth protested.

“They are our problem,” Brind’Amour replied.

Deanna Wellworth slapped her hands on the polished wood of the table and rose to leave, signaling to the Praetorian Guards flanking her. But then the other negotiator across the table from her, a blue-bearded dwarf, cleared his throat loudly, a not-so-subtle reminder of the additional force camped in the mountains, not far away. Princetown was lost, and the enemy was entrenched in force, and if an agreement could not be reached here, as Greensparrow had instructed, Avon would find itself in a costly war.

Deanna Wellworth sat back down.

“What of the cyclopian prisoners taken in Glen Durritch?” she asked, her voice edged in desperation. “I must bring some concession back to my king!”

“You are getting back the city,” Brind’Amour said.

“That was known before I was sent north,” Deanna protested. “The prisoners?”

Brind’Amour looked at Shuglin and gave a slight chuckle, an indication of agreement, and he explained with a wide and sincere smile, “We have no desire to march a thousand one-eyes back into Eriador!”

Deanna Wellworth nearly laughed aloud at that, and her expression caught Brind’Amour somewhat off his guard. It was not relief that fostered her mirth, the wizard suddenly realized, but agreement. Only then did the old wizard begin to make the connection. Mannington had always been Avon’s second city, behind Carlisle, and a seat of royalty-in-waiting.

“Wellworth?” Brind’Amour asked. “Was it not a Wellworth who sat upon Avon’s throne, before Greensparrow, of course?”

All hint of a smile vanished from Deanna’s fair face. “An uncle,” she offered. “A distant uncle.”

Her tone told the keen-minded wizard that there was much more to this one’s tale. Deanna had been in line for the throne, no doubt, before Greensparrow had taken it. How might she feel about this rogue wizard who was now her king? Brind’Amour dismissed the thoughts; he had other business now, more pressing and more important for his Eriador.

“You have your gift for your king,” he said, thus bringing the meeting to conclusion.

“Indeed,” Deanna replied, still tight-lipped after the inquiry about her royal lineage.

Luthien and Katerin watched, Oliver and Siobhan watched, and all the army of Eriador and all the dwarfs of the Iron Cross watched, as Brind’Amour, Shuglin beside him, and Duchess Deanna Wellworth close behind, ascended the tallest tower in Princetown, the great spire of the cathedral. When he was in place, his voluminous blue robes whipping about him in the stiff breeze, the wizard spoke out, spoke to all the folk of the land, Eriadoran and Avonite alike, in a voice enhanced by magic so that it echoed to every corner of Princetown.

“The time has come for the folk of Eriador to turn north,” the old wizard declared. “And for the dwarfs of the Iron Cross to go home.”

And then he said it, the words that Luthien Bedwyr and Katerin O’Hale had waited so very long to hear.

“Eriador is free!”

EPILOGUE

A KINGDOM? A DEMOCRACY?” Oliver spat derisively. “Government, ptooey!” They had been on the road for a full week, and though spring was on in full, the weather had been somewhat foul—not the expected weather considering the