If Duir had no true tears to shed for Esme, it seemed the heavens themselves wept for the drowned woman the next few days. They'd buried the human governess in a small glade some yards from the river bank to provide ample protection from floods, and then the group had ridden on. With their departure came an end to the brief respite they had enjoyed from the rains. In fact, the new storm was more severe than that at the start of the trip, a steady downpour that a stiff wind drove at their faces most of the day until shortly after they had stopped to make camp for the night.

For two days they rode steadily east in this torment, but the rain fell so hard that they had made little progress. Small rivulets suddenly were racing streams, and time was lost searching for safe passage to the far side. Duir vainly urged his uncle to find someplace to shelter them until this deluge had passed, but Yarrow was beyond reason, or so Duir decided.

"Uncle, this is madness. We all look like drowned rats! Surely a day or two at an inn somewhere would be wiser than pressing on?"

"I told the interested parties to meet us in Os Dolen in two week's time. They won't wait around longer than a few days if we are late in arriving. So keep riding, and stop sniveling. Gods! The girls are half your age and they've not whimpered at all!"

In truth, the twins were much hardier then their cousin would have ever believed possible from his first sight of them. They sat their horses with ease, calming them when necessary with cool efficiency, and best of all, they didn't constantly chatter away like some females their age Duir had met in his travels. If anything, they were perhaps too quiet. He took more care observing them, and noted the times the sisters might exchange a look and a murmur. It was on the fourth or fifth time that they did this that a suspicion began gnawing at Duir's mind. The next time they spoke, he paid more attention to the rain, and it seemed to him the storm worsened.

Could Kara and Dara be causing the rain? Their father, after all, could call the storms; perhaps they too shared this elemental gift. He mused on this, then determined to broach the subject at that night's camp.

But when they found a small grove of trees, Yarrow used his magic to light fire from sodden wood while Duir hunted about for food with a sling. A lucky shot brought down a rabbit, and he proudly returned to camp to display his kill. But the girls made small sounds of dismay as he dropped the carcass by the fire.

"Dolt!" hissed Yarrow. "Take it over to the other side of the clearing and gut and skin it where they can't see."

Duir did as ordered, resolving to tell the girls they were eating baby chickens the very first time he saw them eating eggs. He set about his task quickly, then set the meat on a spit over the fire. So intent was he on the cooking that he was unaware at first that someone else had entered the glade. It wasn't until someone's feet strode by him that he looked up to see they belonged to a dark haired man who strode purposefully over to confront Yarrow. The older elf barely had time to stand before the stranger was leaning in, his face scant inches from Yarrow's.

"Do you have any inkling of the damage you have done here, Elf Princeling? Do you?" The man was not as tall as Yarrow, but something about him seemed to cow the elf. Duir rose hastily to his feet, walking over to aid his uncle. The stranger turned towards him, his green eyes seeming lit from within. "Stay out of this, child. There is nothing you can do except die if you interfere. Step away."

Duir did as he was told, backing away to stand by the girls. He risked a glance their way, but both twins seemed composed, so he turned back to watch the others. Yarrow had recovered and was glaring back at his accuser.

"Once we reach Os Dolen and the negotiations are over, the girls will be gone, as will my nephew and I."

"There will be no negotiations. The other party has left already, and all of Os Dolen is looking for Lord Evayanvathallion's granddaughters. You've brought the affairs of princes to this island, elf. I am not pleased."

"Lord Mornaur, hear me…"

Duir blinked. Mornaur? This was the mysterious creator of Tor Dolen, and it explained why his presence was enough to fluster Yarrow.

"We've no time for this. You will all come with me to my castle. I'll decide how to dispose of the lot of you, and I shall deal with the interlopers myself. Gather your things. We leave now."

*********

Five minutes later, all that remained of the four elves' camp was the rabbit left cooking over the campfire.

Eventually, the flames burned it enough that the spit collapsed and the campfire burned itself out.

04/2002

(to be continued...)