WORDS FROM THE WELL 37

Raðenn had almost fallen asleep again when Mal-Den said sadly, ‘We cannot be in IssKor, there is no part of it so green and pleasant as this. But where are we? Why are we here? I still feel no hunger, I still fear that all this is illusion and that we lie near to death in our prison. Worse, I hardly ever remember that my home, my people, are in terrible danger and that I am not near to help them. What are we to do, Raðenn?’
The prince fumbled his way to a standing position, stepped away from the tree and again looked up through the foliage.
‘The stars must be there. And if we can reach a clearing or the edge of the forest we shall see them. Then we can work out from their position, where in Skorn we might be. But this does not answer your other questions. If someone or something has spirited us away from Sen-Mar when we are so badly needed there, how can they be a force for good? Can Callis work some dark magic to keep us away?’
‘I do not think so. But I begin to fear now, after all these days of quietude. How do my people fare? How can we help them? And oh! Where are we?’
Raðenn said, ‘I also wonder – when are we? Are we in our own time? If a door can lead to a far place, can it also lead to a far time?’
Before Mal-Den could answer, a sliver of silver moon appeared above the trees, and shone down on them through the flickering leaves.

sue bridgwater

A SLITHER OF SILVER MOON

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