Duncan McGeary - Snowcastles

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Snowcastles

Duncan McGeary

First published 1982

Chapter One

When Greylock descended the peaks of Godshome he was excited, yet strangely

unafraid. The winds were cold and gusty, but he no longer cared-the harsh,

pitiless message in his uncle's parting words colored his cheeks far more than

the mountain winds ever could. At any other time he would have turned back,

but now the words of the Tyrant still burned in his memory, and an angry,

almost overwhelming resolve to prove his uncle wrong had cast out his last

remaining fears of leaving the High Plateau. Exiled by his uncle, Greylock

prepared to die. At times he looked over his shoulder, expecting with every

glance to see the Tyrant's soldiers rushing down the steep slopes of Godshome

after him. Already his knife had tasted blood for the first time, and he wiped

his hands desperately to remove the sticky, drying fluid; but it clung to the

cracks of his hand.

Above Greylock loomed the mighty crags of the mountain, wherein dwelt the gods

themselves. Below him were the hot humid valleys, unnaturally green and

warm;,-where, it was said, demons lived. A familiar litany came to mind almost

unbidden. "Only on the High Plateau is it good and right and proper for man to

live"-so taught the Gatekeepers, priests of the High Plateau.

Thus it was perverse impulse-anger at his uncle, and an even greater anger at

the Gatekeepers-that sent Greylock downward; to seek not the cold bosom of the

gods as was expected of him, but instead, to dare the warm clammy fingers of

demons. Never before had any of his kind chosen to go down from Godshome. If

ever his brethren left the safety of the High Plateau, it was always upward to

the sacred snows of Godshome they made their pilgrimage; never into the

dreaded and unknown depths of the Underworld.

Like every child Greylock had learned the Holy Hierarchy of Tiers early in his

life; drilled into him day after day by the gatekeepers. The Third Holy Tier,

the lofty heights of Godshome, was the domain of the gods. The High Plateau

was the Second Holy Tier of Existence, and the home of man. The First Tier of

the Underworld, the Gatekeepers had taught, was the realm of demons. Greylock

smiled grimly to himself. He was going where Keyholder had always said he

would go, if a bit sooner than his old teacher had imagined!

Demons there may be, he thought, but it was his uncle's Steward he feared the

most at this moment. When Carrell Redfrock discovered the direction his prey

had escaped, there would undoubtedly be pursuit. Next in the line of

succession by virtue of his office, the Steward would not rest until he was

certain that the only surviving blood heir was truly dead. Greylock knew that

the Steward no more believed in demons or gods than he did, but Carrell

Redfrock would be relying on the cold ice of Godshome to rid him of his rival.

He would not be certain of the deadliness of the Underworld's mythical

denizens.

His uncle, the Tyrant, had long ago fallen under the sway of the Steward

Redfrock's intrigues. One by one, Greylock's brothers and cousins had been

banished from the High Plateau, until only he survived. But his uncle had

grown old, and had ignored his youngest nephew for so long that, for a short

time, Greylock had hoped he could frustrate the Steward's schemes, and escape

the fate the other members of the royal family had suffered. Then, one day, he

too had dared to raise his voice in protest against the foolish teachings of

the Gatekeepers, as had his three brothers before him. Too late, he had

noticed the presence of his uncle's Steward hovering in the doorway.

Greylock could still summon the awesome scene that had passed before him that

morning. He could still see the Steward Redfrock standing behind the throne,

bending low, whispering the malicious rumor of his heresy into the Tyrant's

ears; could still remember his uncle looking up, searching for him, at last

seeing his only nephew across the

crowded Court; could still feel within him the fear the Tyrant's icy gaze had

created; could still hear his uncle's words ringing in his mind ....

"You are not of my family!" the Tyrant had roared. "You are Demon-spawn! I

should have destroyed you the same day I discovered the perversion of your

mother-and cyst you down to the First Tier with her. Begone Demon! I do not

wish to see your kind in my Court again."

Already suffering from his final illness, the Tyrant still had enough spite

and strength to rid his kingdom of the last threat from his own blood. Though

the old man must have known he was dying, he had exiled the only legitimate

claimant to the throne.

His uncle was hopelessly senile, Greylock realized sadly-or why would he have

said such things? His mother had died at his birth-so Keyholder had told him,

and the old priest had been there! Greylock could only shake his head in

dismay at his uncle's foolishness. There would be months of bloodshed when the

now hidden rivals emerged to fight for the title of Tyrant; and the ancient

tradition of the men of the High Plateau to challenge their Tyrants would make

the throne unstable for years to come. The Steward would find that not even

his brutal tactics could secure his ambition without a long and bloody

struggle.

Greylock knew that Carrell Redfrock would not cease in his efforts to destroy

him until the throne, the wealth of the royal family, and-most especially-the

Lady Silverfrost, were firmly and finally his. Once the Steward had taken

Silverfrost as his wife, his power would be as secure as Greylock's had

promised to be. If only Silverfrost had wed me long ago! Greylock thought. He

would not have been exiled if he had married the Tyrant's only daughter, no

matter what the blasphemy. But she had remained infuriatingly undecided up to

the very moment of his exile.

His face flushed in anger as he recalled his leave-taking of her from the

icetower -of Castle-Guardian, overlooking the green garden of its Icemelt.

"Why do you not do as you are told, Greylock?" she had asked petulantly. "Why

must you always do what is forbidden? If you had not been so rebellious-if

only I could have been sure of you-we would have married, and this would never

have happened." She was idly pulling the red petals of a snowflower and

letting them drop onto the fragrant shrubs far below. The petals made their

way down through the leaves and fell lightly onto the dark earth, warmed by

the volcanic activity beneath the High Plateau.

Greylock reined his impatience and tried once more to explain why he had

chosen to journey to the Underworld.

"If I go upward to the Three Peaks, I shall die. I must prove that your father

is wrong about the Gateway. If I can find the true course of the path, he will

have to take me back. Don't you see that, Silverfrost?"

"Hurry, Greylock!" his sister, Ardra, had hissed from the door of the

icetower's uppermost room, where she and Slimspear had stationed themselves

nervously to watch for any sign of discovery by the Steward's soldiers.

Silverfrost turned from the open window, her light blond hair appearing truly

silver as it caught the last rays of moonlight. Her face was

uncharacteristically serious.

"You should trust in the gods, Greylock. Just this once, you should place your

faith in them. If you did not doubt them so, Father would not have exiled

you."

"You know I do not believe there is anything on the peaks of Godshome but the

frozen bodies of other exiles; all of them blameless-sent there by the schemes

of Carrell Redfrock. I intend to return and fight him, Silverfrost! But you

must promise me that you will have nothing to do with him until I return. He

is evil!"

"You know that I loathe him!" There was no mistaking the hate in her voice. By

now, the first rays of sunlight were glinting off the white snows of the

plateau and into the window of the icetower, already raising cold sweat from

its walls.

"They are coming!" Slimspear shouted, and at the same moment Greylock heard

the sounds of soldiers rushing up the icy steps notched into the tower. Four

of the Steward's men burst into the tower room, bowling over the rotund shape

of Slimspear, and rushed toward Greylock. The first soldier was impaled on his

long royal knife, and in the stunned confusion that followed, Greylock shouted

a hasty farewell to his sister and friend, thrust on his Talons, and leaped

through the window, catching at the ice with the sharp claws to break his

fall.

Luckily, Castle-Guardian, the snowcastle of his friend Slimspear's family, was

perched on one corner of the huge glacial plateau that nestled between the

Three Peaks of Godshome, looming over the tattered remnant of the trail called

the Gateway. Since his route of escape was so near and unexpected, Greylock

was able to leave the High Plateau without further challenge.

Suddenly, Greylock tripped over some loose rubble on the path, and almost

pitched out over the steep cliff that bordered his road. Brought back to the

present by this dangerous stumble, he watched his step carefully. The

treacherous mountain trail was seldom used, and in places had crumbled away

altogether. At its widest, the trail was no more than a few yards across, and

at its most narrow there was no trail at all. Finally Greylock was forced to

use his Talons-the slivers of animal horn with which the men of the High

Plateau could grip the sheer and frozen sides of cliffs.

At first the sweet full air of the lower elevations had been like nectar to

his spirits, adding spring to his step and a broad, brave smile to his face.

Now the heat began to raise the sweat on his body, and the thicker air

threatened to burst his lungs. His tread became heavy, firm, as if he could

only by this solid step convince himself that he could go on. As it grew

warmer-unnaturally hot, his senses told him-he kept his eyes open warily for

any sign of demons.

He was by now within the layer of clouds which always carpeted the High

Plateau, hiding the Underworld, and all he could see was a few feet of gray

rock, glistening with moisture. He was relieved that he had not discarded his

outer garments, in spite of what he considered an unbear-

able temperature. At any moment now the snows would begin to fall.

But the moisture he had detected never turned white, but instead began to fall

as a thick, cloying rain. Greylock was confused by the wet droplets. Never

before had he been below the snowline, and this soaking rain was more

disconcerting to him than anything ,.he had yet faced! Even in midsummer, the

clouds dropped only snow or ice on the High Plateau; never in memory had the

temperature risen above freezing.

Suddenly-unexpectedly-he heard voices ahead. He stopped and peered fearfully

into the murk. Demons! he thought, and just as quickly he was disgusted with

his superstitious reaction. He didn't even believe in demons! He must control

this foolishness! At these stern thoughts, the voices disappeared, confirming

to Greylock that his fears were creating imaginary enemies. When he continued,

he was purposefully striving to subdue his fears, and he stupidly, almost

disastrously, failed to guard the trail behind him. Four soldiers, wearing the

black crow insignia of the Steward, and moving with nervous and stealthy speed

down the mountain path, were able to surprise him completely.

One of the soldiers could not keep from bellowing a shout of triumph at the

sight of their prey, and only this warned Greylock in time. He whirled around,

knife in hand just in time to deflect the first blow. He followed this parry

with a stab under the extended arm of the soldier, who was pinned with a

shocked look against the rock of the cliff. Then the other three soldiers were

him, and he went down heavily in a swirl of arms and legs. Greylock kicked out

strongly, and connected. One of the attackers rolled over the cliff, and

Greylock could hear his Talons scratch twice-and then heard the man scream as

the claws failed to catch. To his dismay he saw the Steward's pet, a huge

black mountain crow, fluttering onto the trail above them. The bird watched

the fight from a safe distance, smoothing its feathers fastidiously. Greylock

briefly wondered how much the bird understood, and for the first time he even

wondered if the shiny black bird could somehow communicate with its master.

Suddenly, Greylock realized that they did not mean to kill him at all, but

were seeking to capture him. Perhaps the Tyrant has changed his mind, he

thought wildly. Far more likely, the Steward Redfrock wished to witness his

rival's death personally, and had sent his noisome pet to oversee the capture.

Again Greylock thought he- could hear voices drifting up the trail, even from

beneath the heaving bodies and muffled grunts of his captors, and he cursed

his mind for playing tricks on him at such a time. He was already attributing.

intelligence to that bird; now he was hearing demons!

This time the soldiers also seemed to hear the sounds, and Greylock found

himself struggling with men who were frozen with fear. Suddenly they released

him, getting to their feet hastily, ready at that moment to face even the

wrath of the Steward Redfrock rather than confront demons. Greylock also rose,

at first wary and confused by his sudden freedom, but he quickly saw that the

soldiers were not even paying attention to him. Instead they were peering

fearfully into the thick fog. Even the crow had cocked its head at the

unexpected sounds.

"Demons!" Greylock hissed, and the soldiers were gone, vanishing into the

concealing safety of the clouds. The crow cawed once as it hopped nimbly out

of the way of the retreating men, but it remained. Greylock thought with a

smile that they would probably not stop running until they were safely behind

the massive white walls of the snowcastles of the High Plateau. He threw a

rock after them, attempting in the same throw to hit the crow. But the crow

dodged the stone, and remained poised to take off at the slightest threat from

anything other than Greylock.

Greylock turned with grim determination toward the sounds. If he could not go

up, then he would have to face the owners of those ghostly voices! Listening

carefully, he found that the accents were strange, but except for a few words,

he could understand them. There were at least two people from the sounds of

the voices, an old man and a young girl. The girl was chastising her companion

unmercifully.

"I shall never listen to you again, Grandfather," she was saying. "You

promised me that there is Glyden on this mountain. You said it was just lying

around waiting to be picked up. You swore that if we did not find any we would

return home. Well, where is it?"

"There is Glyden, my dear," a mild voice answered. "We just have to go a

little higher.",

"If we keep going any higher, we shall be joining these gods of Godshome the

Townsmen were speaking of. I'm not ready to join the gods, Grandfather! I will

not go any higher until we have found some of this Glyden that is supposed to

be so abundant."

"The Townsmen also spoke of Glyden, Mara. They promised me that there is a

Room of Glyden near the top of this trail!"

"And you believed them?" she snorted. "Why don't they come up and get it

themselves? I will never forgive myself for following you on another one of

your wild chases for Glyden. It is the last time; you can be sure of that!"

"Just a little higher, Mara."

"No!"

"Well, at least you could block the wind a little, couldn't you? Are you a

Wind-Witch or not? After all, I have contributed the fire."

"You would be lost without your fire-magic, Grandfather." The girl was not

hiding her disgust. "I don't ever intend to so depend on my magic. The powers

of the wind and fire were never meant for the trivial purposes to which you

put them!"

The voices continued to argue, but Greylock was satisfied at last that the

owners of these two quarreling voices could not be demons, and he was

strangely certain that they would pose no threat to him. Nevertheless, to be

safe he drew his knife before advancing cautiously down the trail. The crow

hopped curiously after him, but he ignored it.

The clouds seemed to part reluctantly from the trail, inch by inch, until they

were hovering finally about his head. The two strangers he had overheard were

crouched over a small fire, set next to a crude wagon which spanned the trail.

Greylock saw a blue flame nakedly burning in the cupped palms of the man's

hands, yet he could feel the fire's heat even from the distance he kept

between himself and the two strangers.

Beyond this peculiar couple, Greylock was met by the sight of mile upon mile

of green valleys and winding blue rivers stretching in every direction, a

wondrous contrast to his white land of snowcastles He was astounded by the

colors, the growth, the free-flowing waters. So this was the Underworld that

the Gatekeepers spoke of in such contempt! He would never have imagined such a

beautiful vista as this!

If the effect of his sudden emergence from the clouds was astonishing to him,

it was even more so to the two strangers crouched on the trail. To them it

appeared as if Greylock had stepped out of the sky, a vision slowly

materializing until only his head was still wreathed in the white gossamer of

the clouds. On his arms, appearing as a natural extension of his hands, were

the sharp claws of his Talons. As he was slowly unshrouded, the young girl,

with her mind still on the gods waiting for them in the mountains above,

imagined the worst and screamed.

The old man's eyes widened and he stepped back in astonishment. He stumbled

against the little cart he had been pushing, and it went over the side of the

narrow trail. For a few seconds the old man tried to keep his balance, but

then the huge crow-which Greylock had forgotten in his wonder at the

Underworld's unveiling inexplicably flew at the stranger, its claws digging at

his face. The blue flame in his hands winked out as the old man protected

himself, and he toppled over the cliff after the crashing cart.

Without thinking, Greylock jumped over the side of the cliff after him. He

reached instinctively with his talons for cracks he-could only hope were

there. But his skill in climbing was such that he easily found the few holds

that existed in the rock face, and solidly planted his Talons to stop his

slide. Then he hurried down to where the old man clung desperately to the

mountainside.

The stranger had slid twenty feet down the side of the pass before he had

caught precariously at the hardy scrub brush that lined even the steepest of

the slopes, wedged into every open crack in the mountainside. But the roots

were dangerously shallow and the brush was slowly giving way to the old man's

weight. He was in danger at any moment of sliding further down the steep

slope, which ended in a sheer drop.

Greylock reached down with one arm while digging in with his Talons, and

grasped the desperate man's wrist, knowing that he was probably causing the

stranger pain, but hoping that the strength of his grip would also reassure

him. He grabbed the man further by the back of his neck and dragged him, not

gently, up to safety. Within a few minutes, the two men had crawled exhausted

and covered with scratches over the lip of the trail: The old man fell into

the waiting arms of the girl, glancing around him fearfully.

"Have you been hurt, Grandfather? That awful raven is gone now."

"Hush, girl!" the old man replied, as if the fall had never taken place. "Why

did you scream? He is only a man, as anyone can see!"

"Grandfather!" she repeated, but this time in anger, not concern. "At least

you could show gratitude to this stranger for saving your life."

"Yes, I have never seen such climbing!"

Greylock shrugged away the-girl's thanks, and the amazement the man expressed

at his feat of climbing. How could he tell them that he had always had an

affinity for the rocks and stones of the mountains. He did not deserve praise

for this commonplace skill.

The two strangers and Greylock stood back now and examined each other openly.

That the girl had mistaken him for a god was understandable, for Greylock was

as tall and as handsome as any picture of a god she had ever seen. His black

curly hair fell about his shoulders, and despite the cold, his chest was bare.

He was not heavy, but finely muscled, and he moved with quickness and grace,

as they had just witnessed. The only feature that marred his aspect was a

thick lock of gray hair which fell over his forehead, though he could not yet

have reached his twentieth year. Right now, he was staring back with startled

black eyes.

Most of this gaze was reserved for the other man. Greylock could not

understand how a man this old could still be living! On the High Plateau such

a man would long ago have sought the comfort of the gods before it was too

late, or he was too enfeebled to reach the heights. Surely this man was on his

way to Godshome now, and therefore could demand of Greylock whatever help and

assistance he needed! The old man must be near death, Greylock thought, for

the skin was drawn tight about his face and speckled with brown spots. Only

the mass of brown hair belied for a moment Greylock's impression of great age,

but then the man's severely deformed back obviously showed that he was very

old.

He paid little attention to the girl during the first, brief scrutiny. That

she was blond and greeneyed, and had reached an awkward age between child and

woman was all he noticed. Obviously she had shot up in height recently, and

she needed much more weight on her bones to be pretty.

"Who are you?" he finally demanded of them. "What are you doing down here?"

"Why are we down here?" the old man seemed startled by this unexpected

question. "My name is Moag, a wandering conjuror of fire-magic. And this is my

granddaughter, Mara, who also serves as my assistant. But I think before we

answer any more questions, we should ask who you are, and why you are up

here!"

Greylock was satisfied by their words and manner that this strange duo of

conjurors were not Carrell Redfrock's spies. But then why were they here?

Could they truly have journeyed from the Underworld? He was astonished to find

any people on the trail at all, despite his claims of openmindedness. Only now

was his mind beginning to play with the startling idea that they had not come

from the High Plateau.

"I am Prince Greylock," he said grandly. "I come from above the clouds, from a

land of snowcastles and icetowers. I have been banished by my uncle, who is

Tyrant of the High Plateau, and I seek the source of the Gateway." He could

see from their amazed reactions that they were as surprised by his origin as

he was of their existence. "Now, why have you come to the Gateway?"

The old man hesitated, but then greed got the better of his caution. "We have

come in search of Glyden."

"What is Glyden?" It was one of the few words he had not understood.

"What is Glyden?" Moag exclaimed, not bothering to hide his disappointment;

but the girl did not seem at all surprised.

"I told you there was no Glyden, Grandfather."

"Hush, Granddaughter. Perhaps he has a different name for it." A crafty,

hopeful look had entered the wizard's eyes. "It is a heavy, yellow metal,

easily melted and malleable. Do you know of any in these mountains?"

By now Greylock was convinced that these two strangers had indeed emerged from

the Underworld, where there should have been only demons. Perhaps no other

citizen of the High Plateau, he thought, even Carrell Redfrock, would have

been open to such an idea; but Greylock had entertained such ideas since

childhood. For the first time he began to hope that there might be a future

for him beyond the High Plateau after all. But he would need these two

strangers to help him survive the Underworld, at least at first. How could he

convince them to accompany him?

From the old man's description of "Glyden," Greylock was fairly certain that

he knew of what metal they were speaking. He had to suppress a smile at the

wizard's naked greed, as Moag waited for an answer from the man from the land

of snowcastles. Obviously, this "Glyden" they spoke of had great value in the

Underworld. Perhaps he could use this greed to his own advantage, Greylock

thought.

"A yellow metal?" he asked, letting a naive bafflement cross his features.

Then he allowed the hilt of his royal knife to be shown. "A metal such as

this?"

The old magician almost leaped forward in his eagerness, but Greylock

immediately shifted the knife back so that its long blade was facing forward

again. Moag stopped at the sight of the gleaming steel.

"Yes, that is Glyden," he exclaimed uneasily. "I have promised my

granddaughter that I would find her some nuggets for a ring. A worthless

metal, of course, but it makes very nice trinkets. Where did you find it?"

Again Greylock had to suppress a smile at the wizard's transparent questions.

"Why, Glyden is quite common on the High Plateau! As you say, it is handy for

jewelry. We also use it to decorate our buildings-for roofs, and streets, and

such."

Which was not quite true of course. Only the Tyrant and his family possessed

Glyden, and even then it was used only for jewelry and weapons. Castle-Tyrant,

the largest and most ornate of the snowcastles, had some etchings of Glyden on

the inner walls, but that was all. No one knew where the metal had come from.

Legends placed it in -a "Room of Aurim" somewhere along the Gateway-of which

the pitiful mountain trail they were now on was the lower reaches. The story

Greylock had overheard the wizard tell earlier would not help the old man in

his search-it was a tale which every child of the High Plateau knew and

nurtured, in hopes of finding the "Room of Aurim." No trace of the metal had

been found in its natural state.

Yet there was no denying the existence of the precious metal. It was far more

valuable on the High Plateau than Greylock hinted; but judging from the

wizard's reactions, not quite as valuable as it was in the Underworld.

The wizard Moag cleared his throat and glanced quickly at his granddaughter,

who was still staring at the handsome stranger in amazement.

After leaving the last of the minor fiefdom of Trold, the wizard and his

granddaughter had imagined that they were nearing the very ends of the world

in their search for Glyden. The names of the lands they had passed through

reflected this common belief of the Underworlders. First there had beep Far

Valley, with its BorderKeep nestled within. Then the endless-seeming, never-

changing Twilight Dells. And finally the mountains themselves, dominated by

the three spires of Godshome, their white tops barely visible from a great

distance. Beyond that, no one they had questioned could say-or seemed to care.

But the lure of Glyden and the many legends of its abundance had drawn the

wizard halfway across the known world, and into the unknown. He would not stop

now, just because of a lack of maps! So it was easy for Moag to believe a

stranger's incredible story of riches, of a land where the houses were built

of Glyden. After all, it was what he had come to hear. "I thank you for your

information, Greylock. We will not forget your kindness." Moag motioned for

Mara to move along with an urgent wave of his hand from behind his back. "But

we must be on our way. I have kept my granddaughter waiting for her ring of

Glyden much too long. We'll just visit your land of snowcastles and icetowers

for a little while, and perhaps pick up a few nuggets. Not enough for anyone

to notice, of course." He said this in a rush, all the while trying to angle

unobtrusively past Greylock.

But Greylock could not let them pass so easily, and quickly gave out the last

piece of his hasty scheme. "Surely you do not mean to enter the High Plateau!

They would consider you demons, of course." Recalling all the horrid legends

of the Underworld, he chose the worst of them. "Did you know that they kill

demons-then eat them?"

This last was a wild exaggeration, borrowed from the most horrible of stories

about demons; but Greylock thought it likely that any strangers to the High

Plateau would be instantly killed, on the assumption that they were demons.

"Eaten?" Moag finally managed to sputter, and for a few moments Greylock did

not think his story would be believed. Then Moag fell silent, and he seemed to

be weighing the risks. Glyden must be a great temptation indeed, Greylock

thought, for the old man to even consider the risk of being devoured!

Suddenly, however, it was the girl who seemed to have grown suspicious. She

had stood back and watched the conversation with narrowed eyes.

Now she asked, "You say Glyden is a common material where you come from,

Greylock. Yet you, by your own account a prince, have a royal knife encrusted

with this valueless metal."

"Yes, it is true," Greylock said with a tone of regret. "I am in disgrace in

my uncle's eyes. I was fortunate to have been allowed a weapon at all."

"Why are you bruised and bleeding? Have you been in a fight?" She barraged him

with questions, while he tried desperately to think of an answer that would be

believable.

"I must have cut myself sliding after your grandfather."

"Where did that raven come from? Was it a pet of yours?" she demanded.

"Hush, Mara! Quit pestering him!" The old man had ended his gloomy reverie, to

Greylock's relief, just in time to forestall more embarrassing questions from

the girl. Now he was looking at Greylock speculatively. "You say that you are

the Tyrant's nephew. Would you also be the heir?"

This was the kind of question Greylock had wanted. "So I would have been. But

my uncle grows unfortunately senile, and banished his own heir."

"Your uncle is very old then?"

Greylock nodded.

"Well, Granddaughter," the wizard said heartily. "You must restrain your

impatience for a ring of Glyden a little while longer. We must help this young

man gain his rightful throne, which he has been so unfairly denied by the

capricious whims of an old Tyrant. We must help each other, Prince Greylock! I

have some influence in the world below." Mara snorted at this, and the wizard

glared at her sternly. "I shall get the help we need!"

"Do not-tell me of the capricious whims of an old Tyrant!" Mara said

scornfully. "And quit pretending that it is I who wants Glyden, Grandfather!

You are not fooling anyone. If you are going to be taken in by another wild

story of Glyden, then I cannot stop you!"

The girl's admonition prompted Greylock to look at her closely for the first

time. Her blond hair had once again fallen into her eyes. She was constantly

brushing her locks aside, he had already noticed, with a quick, impatient

flick of her hand. Her eyes narrowed at every movement, and she seemed to

scrutinize every word that was said. Though she was many years the younger,

she seemed by her manner to be the older of the pair-that is, if age could be

measured by suspicion.

Greylock sensed that the time would soon come when he would no longer be able

to read the old man so well, or see through his blandishments. He guessed that

if he had not overheard them on the trail, he would be doubting the wizard's

motivations even now. Greylock decided then that he would have to keep a close

watch on the girl's suspicious but open expression instead-to keep a semblance

of honesty in the new relationship.

"Well, Prince Greylock?" the wizard repeated. "Shall we be partners? All that

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v1.0(1stMay2000)Ifyoufindandcorrecterrorsinthetextpleaseupdatetheversionnumberby0.1andredistributeSnowcastlesbyDuncanMcGearyFirstpublished1982ChapterOneWhenGreylockdescendedthepeaksofGodshomehewasexcited,yetstrangelyunafraid.Thewindswerecoldandgusty,buthenolongercared-theharsh,pitilessmessageinhisun...

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Duncan McGeary - Snowcastles

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