The Mountain Queen

Epilogue

Cressock stood beneath an old, tall tree, on the shoulder of a hill, not far from the edge of the wild forest that swept down westward from Dryman Lodge.  From here he could see the bright tables arrayed in the castle courtyard—the mute pageantry of the coronation feast.  He smiled vaguely.  His eyes were already far away.

Beside him stood Allastrial, and beside her was a sleek black stallion with cruel unblinking eyes.  The tails of the horses switched in the dappled shadow.  A fly droned.  The air stirred lazily.

"Dredging up prisoners in search of allies," Cressock said aloud in a musing voice.  "I wonder what put that idea in his head."

A man was leaning against the tree.  He had not been there a moment before.  He had appeared out of nothing, inexplicably, and yet Cressock showed no surprise.  The man was small, with a florid face, keen features, and a shock of wild red hair.  His face was ageless.  He looked very young, and very old.

"So you escaped," said Cressock softly.

"Of course," replied Xiff.  "All that fighting, all that confusion.  It wasn't hard to slip away."

"And Arthundel?"

The mischief-god shrugged.  "Still down there, I imagine.  He was in the thick of the battle when I left.  I imagine he's enjoying it.  He loves a good fight."

"And you love to play tricks."  Cressock smiled, and shook his head.  "Now a mortal child sits on the throne of the godbloods.  I'd say you've outdone yourself this time."

"That part I can't take credit for," replied Xiff.  "That was you."

Cressock's smile broadened.  A slight wind ruffled his hair.

"We are much alike," said Cressock.  "I think you are a god I could pray to."

The god detached himself from the tree-trunk, and came to stand beside Cressock, looking down with him into the valley below.  "You will have little choice," said Xiff.  "The battle in that cavern will rage for centuries.  In the meantime, I am free to wander the earth again."

"Causing trouble?"

Xiff smiled.  "'God of Mischief' was never my own choice of title.  I think of myself as the God of Change."

"We could use some change," acknowledged Cressock.

"Stay alive, Cressock," said the god.  "My work is only beginning."

The wind came up then, rustling softly in the tree's dancing limbs.  Cressock stood alone on the hilltop.  Below him, a tiny speck had begun to move upward.  The speck moved with a steady purpose.  It wore a green traveling-cloak.  Lysandra was keeping her appointment.

Cressock smiled into the wind.  His gray eyes were bright and dreaming.  They seemed to see into the future, to a thousand adventures that lay ahead.

The restless wind died away again, and when next it rose to ruffle the leaves of the ancient tree, the hilltop stood empty.