






Isolt, understandably, bolts. So do Rojan, Cattia, and Dundee, heedless of the wolves who snap at them as they flee, and the melee threatens for a moment to turn into a rout.
Brangain, impressively, does not, facing down the spirit with impressive calm. "Father?…" she whispers. The undead laird turns his ghastly face on her and advances slowly, claymore held in only one hand, and she moves toward him, one hand raised in mute appeal.
Marcel hurries to Brangain's side, and for a moment father and daughter consider each other.
"Daughter," he says, and the wolves cease their bloody work and begin to slink toward him.
Whatever he might have said next is lost in the strange, anguished wailing that rises from the neighborhood of the sacred oak. A mist forms at the base of the tree, coalescing into the form of a tall woman in plain druidic dress, throat torn and eyes pecked out, and as she takes form the castle seems to melt away and a great wood spring up around you.
"
False son, false father," this second apparition speaks--though her mouth does not move, and the trees themselves seem to be the source of her voice. "
You shall not know peace, now or ever. I will see to this. I speak for the gods, and I say you shall have no joy in any of your children..."
"You do not speak for all of them!" Tara says sharply, bringing up her holy symbol and advancing on her. "Marcel, get her out of here."
Rual turns on Tara, snarling; Tristen moves to place himself between Rual and Brangain, Marcel begins to draw her away
and there is a roll of thunder, and the air shifts and ripples like heat haze, there is a sound like rushing water or the cheering of a crowd...








"She's fine, I'm sure. It's not uncommon for the faithful to be overcome when they arrive. Er, brother, could you see to…you said she's the Baroness von Zarovich?"
You are standing in a grove of trees which grow together thickly overhead to form a space very like a cathedral vault. At its center is a small stone structure, surely only big enough to hold eight or ten and a time; you are part of a line of people who are passing through it. The tall young redhead, having recruited his fellow to see to Lena, continues. "We also have a tapestry of St. Brangain and St. Marcel in the chapel, lifting the stone the angel revealed to them to find the Shield. There are a number of interesting legends associated with this place even before they built the chapel here--over on our right you can see the ruins of the great hall of the last Laird ApBlanc, who was St. Brangain's father--I mean her natural father, of course, not St. Marcel. Many visitors here say that they see him, or even speak with him."
By now you are at the door of the chapel, and your guide falls silent and ushers you forward, the previous group of pilgrims filing out as you come in.
The shard of the Shield of Ezra lies under glass on a low wooden altar draped in a white-and-green cloth, flanked by two watchful anchorites and probably secured in other, less obvious ways as well. The people in the tapestry do not resemble Brangain or Marcel in the slightest, except in complexion, but the weaver has captured something in their posture and the way they seem about to turn toward each other that speaks of fulfillment and joy. The chapel is filled with an almost palpable sense of peace.