CONTENTS
Life as a songsmith, a forger and singer of tales, seems to the uninitiated (that is, those who have never tried it) to be a most carefree existence, full of travel, romance and perhaps (only now and then, for spice) a little danger. In truth, it seldom reaches such memorable heights, being mostly work like unto any other.
One listens, one remembers, then one wrestles with words and musical notes to hammer all into a coherent whole, hoping fervently that the finished product will elicit smiles instead of frowns, or, worse, yawns. One learns to count the night’s takings from the clinks in the harp case, discerning the clear ring of silver from the thud of bronze and copper or (fortune be praised) the weighty, rare whisper of gold-all by sound alone. One spends nights huddled under the lash of rain, or stinging snow, with perhaps naught but a pocket of sullen fire to hold back the hungry night. One learns to heat brook water and sip it slowly in lieu of real food, trying thus to fool an empty belly...
No, my lords and ladies, gathered here in this age-held citadel to hear the songsmith and sip your wine, the life of a bard is hardly carefree.
There are times, though, when the music and the tale are worth it all. Then the tune flows like the ripple of a fine horse’s mane, words spring nearly unbidden to the singer’s lips. Such a time is now, following the toasts and congratulations that accompany a day of ceremony, high feasting and joy, here in such a lordly keep. Now, after the singing of some of the oldest, best tales, it is time for the birth of a new one... a tale that songsmiths will hold in special honor, for reasons soon to be made clear to you.
So ... an opening chord-sweep, a strum to mimic the sound of wind harrying a cold, early spring mist in the backwater alley of a darkened waterfront, and the new tale opens...
Years of salt spray borne by fierce winds had encrusted the walls guarding the steep lane leading up from the wharves, painting dirty white splotches on the age-blackened stones. The Way of the Empty-Netted Fisher was nearly deserted in the last wan illumination of sunset; only one of its many shadows possessed any substance.
That dark-cloaked, slight figure was already so unsteady from two months at sea that when a bitter cold, salt-tinged blast swept by, it staggered, nearly falling. The hapless wayfarer skidded on the slimy cobbles of the stinking, refuse-covered Way, only saved from a fall by the tall, gryphon-headed quarterstaff that served as a walking aid as well as a weapon. The traveler huddled into the half-shelter of an ancient archway to brace against another gust of wind, long-fingered hands clutching a worn hand-harp case and a much-mended backpack against the icy thrust of the coming storm.
Ahead a dim light beckoned, promising shelter from the wind and soon-to-fall sleet. As the harper neared that flickering beacon, it revealed itself to be a ship’s lantern, barely sheltered enough that its flame still lived, hanging outside a hulking, dark-timbered building. Even above the whipping breeze, sounds of tipsy revelry inside were clear.
The traveler eyed the inn with its accompanying tavern warily, realizing that The Dancing Dolphin was no accommodation that anyone with a reasonably well-filled purse would seek out for a meal, much less lodging. Beneath the much-faded lettering on the swinging sign, an improbable greyish shape sported among wildly tossing waves. The harper grimaced, but there was no arguing with the light weight of the purse carefully tucked down inside a sea-stained leather jerkin.
Forcing the door open against a particularly strong windbluster, the songsmith stumbled into the taproom. Raucous laughter and shouted arguments made a deafening din. Eyeing the tavern-master, the dark-cloaked traveler picked a cautious way across a floor made nearly as treacherous as the alley outside by slopped wine and greasy, skittering bones.
The tavern-master, a thin, red-nosed man with a balding pate and hair-tufted ears, turned at the tug on his sleeve. “Your pardon, sir,” the stranger murmured, indicating the hand-harp case. “Would there be any objection to a few songs by the fire for your customers tonight?”
The tavern-master’s eyes were on a level with the harper’s as he eyed the stranger; then, abruptly, he nodded. “Not as long as you’re willing to pay for your bed and board like anyone else, minstrel.”
“Certainly.” The stranger shook back the hood of the dark cloak, revealing a mass of curling black hair, cropped short. Small silver hoops winked from both earlobes, “I’ll begin-“
“A wench! An’ a likely-looking one at that, Mylt! By the Hounds’ Teeth, where’d you find ‘er?” A hand descended on the traveler’s shoulder, jerking her half about to face a heavy-shouldered fisherman with a wind- and ale-reddened face.
His rough handling pulled her dark cloak open, revealing the silver ornament lying pendant on the breast of her laced overjerkin. As the man took in the meaning of that symbol, he stepped back, dropped his hand. “I didn’t know-didn’t see-“ Clumsily, he touched thick fingers to his forehead in apology. “Yer pardon, songsmith...”
The bard graciously inclined her head, her fingers going to the sign of her calling ... three interlinked circles, each with a flattened, pointed side-stylized finger and thumb picks, for use with a hand-harp. “I’ll begin now,” she said to the tavernmaster, as though the interruption had not occurred.
Carrying her harp case over to the bench by the fire, the songsmith opened it, drawing forth a much-used instrument. It was of old-fashioned design, carved from aged cherry wood, its scrolls and frets enhanced by a silvery blue metal shimmering faintly in the firelight. Resting the harp across her lap, she drew three picks out of the inner pocket of her red tunic, slipping them onto her thumb and first two fingers.
She began tuning the instrument. Hearing the soft strains, the twelve fishermen, eight Sulcar sailors and two grizzled old Falconer marines present in the common room ceased talking and quietly, respectfully, gathered near the fire.
“Draw nigh, sirs!” Mylt the tavern-master loudly urged. “Pay heed to a wandering songsmith who has graciously agreed to provide us with entertainment this stormy eve. Give heed to the Lady-“ He hesitated, realizing he’d neglected to ask the bard’s name, and she whispered, with a wry smile, “Lydryth of Kar Garudwyn.”
“... the Lady Lydryth of Kar Garudwyn!” Mylt finished with a flourish. A polite silence fell.
Lydryth began playing, a rollicking, toe-tapping tune, limbering her fingers while sizing up her audience. All male, and most of them sailors or fishermen. Sea-songs would go well, then, tales of lost loves, of sweet-voiced sirens and of noble deeds. Perhaps a bawdy one to finish, making them laugh, even as they tossed coins into her harp case...
“Give heed, kind sirs, to a tune taught me aboard the Sulcar ship Osprey,” she said, hoping fervently that the cold dampness of this day’s sailing had not thickened her voice. “It concerns a force of men gathered by one of your legendary heroes during the Kolder War, one Simon Tregarth. I give you ‘The Riving of the Border.’ “
Lydryth began singing, softly at first; then, as her voice warmed up, her contralto rang out, filling the smoke- thickened air with clear, true notes:
We pledged fair Estcarp’s bounds to hold
We men who ride with Tregarth’s band
That witches might, with knowledge old,
Avenge the wrongs done in our land.
Of Falconer blood and elder race
We ride, united by one will-
To keep the invaders from this place;
Send sword and falcon forth to kill!
As she finished the second verse and began the third, the young woman glanced quickly from face to face. Her audience was leaning forward, all conversation forgotten. Tension eased from her as she realized that the people here in the Port of Eslee were equally susceptible to the “spell” cast by flying fingers and trained voice as were the folk overseas in High Hallack or her home in spell-shrouded Arvon. She hoped they’d be as generous with their coin offerings; it had taken nearly everything she’d earned on her travels through the Dales to pay for the long voyage aboard the Osprey.
Both fourth and fifth verses went even better. By now the men were nodding in rhythm to her song. Lydryth finished the ballad with a last triumphant, clarion strum, and they thumped their tankards on the board appreciatively. “Another, minstrel! Another!” One of the Sulcar sailors, massive and fair as were all his race, shouted bull-voiced over the others, “A Sulcar tune, songsmith! Give us a song for the Sons of Sul!”
Fortunately, the Sulcar sailors aboard the Osprey had taught her a multitude of songs, since they sang constantly at their work, and their music was easy for trained ears and fingers to master. Lydryth closed her eyes as she strummed, searching for the proper key... There, she had it now.
“Very well, kind sirs. I give you ‘The Fall of Sulcarkeep,’ which tells the tale of the great hero Magnus Osberic and how he destroyed his own stronghold rather than let it fall into Kolder hands.”
The tune this time was in a somber, minor key, as befitted a tragic tale. Lydryth began:
Wind and flame and earth and wave
Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep!
All sent to dig a trader’s grave;
Sulcarkeep, lost Sulcarkeep!
“ ‘Tis built to ward,” proud Osberic said,
“Sulcarkeep, strong Sulcarkeep!
There’s none without permission tread
In Sulcarkeep, fair Sulcarkeep!”
She continued, losing herself in the music. Her tawdry surroundings faded as the song bore her back into that ancient stronghold, transporting her to the fateful night. Lydryth’s voice rose into an eerie wail as she described the desperate battle throughout the doomed fortress:
Yet when the fog stole rank and thick
On Sulcarkeep, dark Sulcarkeep
Sent by a Kolder demon-trick .
To Sulcarkeep, cursed Sulcarkeep,
The trader knew his fate was nigh
In Sulcarkeep, strong Sulcarkeep
For Death came drifting from the sky
To Sulcarkeep, doomed Sulcarkeep.
With swinging axe and bloodied sword
Through Sulcarkeep, vast Sulcarkeep
They fought the mindless, soulless horde
Down Sulcarkeep, through Sulcarkeep.
The big sailor’s face was saddened and grim now, and Lydryth wondered whether he had lost a father or uncle during that terror-ridden night. It was almost as though she could see the mighty Osberic in his bear’s-head helm, his stained sword dripping red onto the blood-slicked flags of the ancient stronghold. Her voice soared up into the final sad yet strangely triumphant verses:
And when they reached the mighty heart
Of Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep
Then did witchmen and Sulcar part
In Sulcarkeep, damned Sulcarkeep
“With my own hand shall I lay waste;
My Sulcarkeep, dear Sulcarkeep!”
Said Osberic, “Now make you haste,
From Sulcarkeep, lost Sulcarkeep!”
So he unleashed the mighty power
In Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep
That made of stone a flaming flower;
Ah Sulcarkeep, Ah Sulcarkeep!
When she let the last, ebbing chord die away, there was silence for a long moment; then, as though just waking from sleep, the men stirred. The Sulcannan cleared his throat. “Well done, minstrel. Never have I heard it sung better.” A flash of bright silver spun through the air, landing in the harp case. As though the sailor’s gesture were a floodgate opening, coins spattered to join the first.
Lydryth nodded graciously, acknowledging their offerings, then gave them “The Mosswife’s Bargain.” A lighter mood prevailed as she spun out the skipping, skirling notes of “The One-Spell Wizard.” After a refreshing swallow of ale from a tankard ordered by the Sulcannan (even though she was thirsty, Lydryth dared not drink more-her belly was rumbling with hunger, and she needed a clear head to ferret out answers to questions she dared not pose too directly), she sang “Don’t Call My Name in Battle.” The song was one her father had taught her, years ago- Don’t think of him, Lydryth told herself firmly, feeling a catch in the back of her throat threatening to ruin the last verse- After the singing’s done, when you’ve money to journey on, then you can call up Jervon ‘s face to mind. Then you can think of your foster-parents, the Lady Joisan and her lord, Kerovan. Then you can think of Obred, and your chestnut mare Vyar, Hyana and Firdun and Kar Garudwyn itself, may Neave protect those within its walls! But until then, you must sing, and give no hint of what you seek, why you have traveled so far from home...
Mastering her sorrow, she strummed the opening chords to “Keylor’s Rage,” feeling weariness threaten to overwhelm and net her like a cloak thrown in battle, muffling, blinding. Two more songs, she promised herself. Only two more, then I can stop and pick up my coins, knowing I’ve given full measure for what’s been paid.
“And now, kind sirs,” she said, a few minutes later, muting the last chord of “Keylor’s Rage” with her palm, “a new song, one inspired by the story told me about the Kolder-cursed city of Sippar, on the Island of Gorm. Pay heed an’ you will to ‘The Haunted City.’”
Lydryth hushed her voice into eerie, thrumming tones, thinking as she did that Sippar-or what was left of it-lay just across the bay, barely a day’s sail away. “No children sleep in Sippar now,” she began:
No vessels ride her harbor fair;
No footstep sounds on street or stair,
For all lies turned beneath death’s plow.
When Kolder to rich Sippar came,
They drank its life, then stole the cup,
And when the demon-time was up,
An empty city cried its blame.
‘Tis said the city twice was slain,
First with the sword, then with the mind;
By warfare of an unclean kind
The unsouled walked its streets again.
Another death did Sippar die,
When Simon Tregarth struck the blow
That laid the power-wielder low,
Then unlife settled with a sigh.
The corpses lay in silent speech,
Slaves from bodies freed at last
To bury with them all that passed;
No more to fight, no more beseech.
No ship now comes to Sippar’s quay,
For none will step upon her shore
Though time has shattered every door,
The bravest let her shadows be.
Even as the final words whispered into the silence of The Dancing Dolphin, Lydryth saw her listeners shiver, then sit upright too quickly. The fellow who had accosted her when she’d first entered the tavern actually looked over his shoulder, as though a spectral hand might be descending to rest there.
Can’t have them loath to walk into the night, she thought. Something a bit bawdy will leave them laughing and free with their silver, and I need have no fears about playing something from High Hallack and them not understanding it... A bawdy is a bawdy anywhere... “Now sirs,” she called out, “for the evening’s last song, I give you ‘The Chambermaid’s Dowry.’ “
She began the opening notes to the song about the poor young chambermaid who encountered a sailor with designs upon her virtue (though, of course, he protested that he intended honorable marriage). The verses unrolled amid guffaws from the sailors as the pretty maid accepted the sailor’s praises of her beauty, along with his many gifts, but through misadventure and misdirection managed to remain chaste-until one day the sailor (determined to succeed at long last) came home from a voyage only to discover that at that very moment the girl was off being married: she’d used for her dowry the gifts he’d given her!
Lydryth was smiling herself as she sang the chorus the last time:
Oh, she was fine, that bonny lass
Like a fair ship upon the sea-
But oh! I rue the day we met
For how that maiden plundered me!
“Thank you, thank you for your attention.” She stood and bowed, sipping her ale, as they toasted her, clapping. More coins rang into the harp case. After her listeners had dispersed, Lydryth counted the night’s takings. There was plenty to pay for a private room, dinner and breakfast, plus journey funds for several days.
The tavern-keeper showed her to her room, a small, bare loft beneath the overhanging eaves. After stowing away her harp case and pack beneath the wooden bedstead, Lydryth laved her face and hands in the icy water she found waiting in the ewer, then went in search of a late supper.
The tavern was deserted of all but the overnight guests by now, so she had the entire board to herself. At her request, Mylt the tavern-master brought her a late supper. Lydryth was pleasantly surprised by the hot bowl of creamy lobster chowder, vegetable pasty and respectable vintage he set before her, and ate with a good appetite. “My thanks, sir. This is excellent fare.”
The little man nodded. “My own recipe. Guests will excuse much in the way of accommodations if the food be good and the beer well chilled. You’re welcome to bide another day, songsmith. It’s a rare bard who can hold my customers enthralled the way you did tonight.”
“Thank you, but no, I must be on my way with the morn,” she replied, taking a sip from the goblet of wine. “Tell me,” she asked, with studied indifference, “how many days’ journey to Es City itself? I’ve a fancy to see it.”
“Walking?” Mylt asked,-and at her nod considered for a moment. “At least four, more likely five. Tis a full two days on horseback.”
“Good roads?”
“Aye, and well-patrolled, too. Koris of Gorm is a just man, but not one to coddle outlaws, and they stay far off the main roads these days.”
“Koris of Gorm... Hilder’s son,” Lydryth said, remembering the history she’d learned aboard the Osprey. “ Tis said that he, for all practical purposes, now rules Estcarp, with his Lady Loyse. And that the witches concern themselves with little but regaining their waning magic.”
Mylt lowered his voice, even though the two of them were alone in the taproom. “Even so,” he agreed, “but it is not something to speak of loudly. During the Turning many years ago, a goodly number of them died or were left burned-out shells-but there are some that still hold the Power.”
“The Turning?” Lydryth ventured.
“When Duke Pagar of Karsten sought to invade from over mountain, the witches gathered together all their might and magic to shake the spine of the earth itself. The mountains dividing Karsten and Estcarp shook and fell, while thrusting up into other heights. The invaders were wiped out in a single night of destruction, and all the trails to Karsten destroyed.”
“It must have been terrible.”
“Aye, that’s certain. I was little more than a lad, then, but even so, I remember that day. It was as though a shadow lay over the entire land ... a shadow you couldn’t see, only feel. That shadow pressed upon all living things, like a fist that would grind us all into the earth, it weighed so heavy...” The tavern-keeper shivered at the memory.
Lydryth made haste to steer the conversation back to her purpose. “But you said some of the witches still retain their Power?”
“Aye, if the accounts I hear be true. But they have turned away from ruling Estcarp, even as you said. They no longer govern our land; Koris does, he and his Lady Loyse, aided by their friends and battle-companions, the outlander. Lord Simon Tregarth, and his wife, the Lady Jaelithe.” The tavernkeeper glanced around him nervously, making sure they were still alone. “Did you know that she used to be one of the witches?”
Lydryth did know, but she feigned surprise, eager to learn all she could. “Really?” He raised a hand in a half-pledge. “Truth. Before she was wife, she was witch. After they were wed, she bore her lord children, so theirs was a true marriage-and yet-“ He glanced around, then leaned so close she could smell his sour breath, see the blackened pores studding his nose. “-and yet, she still wields the Power! Even though she be no maiden!”
Lydryth summoned an appropriate expression of astonishment, though she was hardly surprised; her own mother, Elys, had not lost her Power with her maidenhead, either.
“They say that the other witches have never forgiven the Lady Jaelithe for lying with her lord, and yet not losing her gift. They regard it as a betrayal,” Mylt finished.
“Perhaps they envy her,” the girl ventured.
The tavern-master chuckled coarsely. “Not the witches of Estcarp, songsmith! To them, the men of this world are something to be barely tolerated, not desired!”
“Tell me, Mylt ... do the witches ever ... help people?” Lydryth busied herself scraping the last drops of chowder from her bowl.
“ ‘Tis said they do, from time to time. Blessing the crops and suchlike, calling storms during dry times, soothing wind and wave to protect ships in their harbors.”
“What about smaller magics ... healing and such?”
“Aye, they do some of that, too. Simples and potions and amulets against fevers ...” He poured the last of the wine into the songsmith’s goblet, then carefully stacked dishes onto the serving tray. “Will you want more, minstrel?”
“Thank you, no,” Lydryth said, finishing her wine and rising to take her leave. “Good night.”
“A good sleep to you, songsmith.”
With a final nod to her host, Lydryth started up the stair to her garret. Her steps were slow; she was so wearied by her long day that even the few sips of Mylt’s wine had made her limbs feel as though they were weighted by such brightly colored fishing sinkers as decorated the walls of The Dancing Dolphin. The floor beneath her battered leather boots seemed to move rhythmically; she might still ride the ocean’s swells aboard the Osprey. When she reached her chamber, the young woman dragged her outer garments off and burrowed beneath the coarse woolen blankets, too tired to search out her night shift.
Sleep was reaching for her with leaden arms when her eyes flew open. I forgot! But by the Amber Lady, I’m so tired... She sighed, throwing the bedclothes aside, as she reached for the gryphon-headed quarterstaff lying near to hand on the rough wooden boards. Drawing it to her in the darkness, she fumbled with her other hand for the amulet that she bore around her neck, hidden. The amber and amethyst of its fashioning felt warm and familiar in her hand, as she traced the lines of Gunnora’s symbols-a carven sheaf of ripened wheat bound by a heavily laden grapevine.
“Lady,” she whispered, “I seek Your help on my quest. I pray that You protect those I love, those who live within the Gryphon’s Citadel. Protect Lady Joisan and her lord, Kerovan. Protect their daughter and son, Hyana and Firdun. Most of all, I pray You, protect my father. Help me find someone who can heal him, so that Jervon may be himself again, after all these years. And Lady ...” Her soft words faltered in the darkness. “Please ... let me find my mother, the Lady Elys. She has been gone from us so long... Protect her wherever she may be. You who are mindful of those who carry life...”
She grasped the two symbols tightly, wishing for a sign- any sign-that her words were more than empty sounds. But the blue quan-iron eyes of the gryphon did not flare into brightness; the blessed metal had never shone for her. And the amber token of Gunnora was as dark as the night surrounding her. It was always so...
With a tired sigh, Lydryth lay back down, giving herself up to sleep, hoping only that tonight she would be too tired to dream.
* * *
The two-wheeled pony cart creaked along the stone-paved road. “Up there with you, Fancy,” the young farmer ordered, waving his willow switch at the round rump of the small bay gelding pulling it. “There’s Es City in sight, songsmith,” he called over his shoulder. “Won’t be long now.”
Lydryth carefully handed the fanner’s wife the sleeping form of Pris, their tousle-headed little girl, before scrambling up to peer out of the cart. Even in the full light of the early afternoon sun, the approaching city appeared dark with age; its rounded grey-green towers seeming to crouch atop the earth as though they had been there since even the land had been first created. Es was a good-sized city, one obviously built to serve as fortress as well as capital-a high wall ran completely around it, enclosing it.
When the farmer’s wagon rolled up to the gate, two civil but well-armed guards scrutinized cart and occupants purposefully. After they had determined that there was nothing hidden beneath the woven rugs Catkus and Leiona had come to sell, they waved them through.
As the pony cart lurched over cobbled streets, Lydryth looked around her wonderingly. Es was the largest municipality she had ever visited; Dalesfolk were not by nature citydwellers, and in all her wanderings across ancient Arvon, Lydryth had never seen any settlement larger than a village.
Close up, the mossy stone of ancient buildings reared before her imposingly, the patina of age surrounding them so tangible the young woman wondered-only half-fancifully- whether it would be felt by an exploring hand. She put out her fingers as the cart slowed around a precipitous comer in the narrow street, then drew them back. The stones themselves seemed to ward off the curious-or was what she sensed real witchery, a spell designed to protect the city?
“Here we be, minstrel,” Catkus announced, drawing rein at the entrance to the marketplace. “Good fortune go with you on your travels.” The young man touched hand to the ragged brim of his straw hat in a farewell salute. “Thanks again for singing little Pris through that bout of colic the other night.”
“Thank you for the ride and the company,” Lydryth returned, scrambling off the cart, then giving a farewell wave to Catkus, Leiona and Pris.
The young woman had no need to inquire the way to the Citadel-the witches’ stronghold was the most massive building in Es, with a round tower overtopping all of the surrounding structures. She set off through the crowded streets, her pack and hand-harp slung over her back. As she walked, her eyes were drawn to the people treading the footworn streets- those who called themselves the Old Race.
Tall they were, and of unusually somber mien. They carried themselves proudly, walking straight-backed as any soldier. Their hair was as black as her own, but neither wave nor curl softened the planes of their long, oval, pointed-chinned faces. Eyes that were varying shades of grey were alert in their unlined faces. (It was well known even in the Dales that the Old Race of Estcarp evidenced little sign of aging until death was but a handful of seasons away.)
Seeing the folk of Es City reminded Lydryth vividly-and painfully-of her mother. It was strange to think that she might be distantly related to some of these people. Elys had often told her daughter that her own parents had fled from Estcarp, for reasons they had never discussed.
A guard in mended, serviceable mail barred her way at the gate leading into a central courtyard. “Your business ...” He cast a sharp glance at the symbol she wore. “... songsmith?”
“I seek audience with one of the witches,” she said, stiffening her spine to meet his flat, uncaring eyes. “A few minutes, no more.”
His gaze traveled over her. “On what matter?”
“A matter of healing,” Lydryth said, after a second’s hesitation, trying to curb her impatience. I’ve come so far! Blessed Gunnora, lend me strength! “I was told any might consult with a witch on a matter of healing.”
“Your name?”
“Lydryth.”
“Wait here.” The guardsman turned and disappeared into the huge, time-blackened portal, returning in a few minutes. “Tomorrow mom,” he told her. “Before the sun tops the city wall.”
“Many thanks,” she said, resisting the grin of relief that wanted to spread over her face. “I will be here.”
Her singing that night at The Silver Horseshoe consisted mostly of lightsome ballads, tales of wonder, good magic and love. It was hard to tone herself down when a dour old fanner requested the lugubrious “Soldier’s Lament.” She sang, and when her voice tired, she played her flute. By the time the Horseshoe’s patrons had departed for their beds, the young minstrel had earned enough to replenish the coins she’d spent during her four days on the road.
Dawn barely silvered the east when she awoke, unable to sleep longer. After breaking her fast with porridge and goat’s milk, Lydryth shouldered her pack, then footed a quick way through the twisting streets toward the Citadel. The sun had only cleared the distant horizon when she sat down to wait, half-concealed in a doorway across from the guard’s post.
Her two hours’ vigil stretched like an overwound harpstring, but finally she arose, brushing her cloak and breeches off, then picked her way across the now-crowded street.
There was a different guardsman on duty, but, after consulting a list, he ordered her to leave her quarterstaff with him, then waved her toward the darkened portal. Lydryth tugged open a massive, leather-bound door, to find herself in a long stone corridor. A young woman faced her, garbed in a shrouding robe of misty silver, with the heavy weight of her night-dark hair coiled into a silver net. Without a word, her dark grey eyes downcast, she motioned to the songsmith to follow her.
Lydryth strode after the girl-for a glance at the rounded face had convinced the minstrel that the witch was several years younger than herself-down the first corridor, then into a second, and then, finally, a third. Each hall was featureless, made of age-darkened stone, and illuminated only by a series of palely lit globes suspended in metal baskets.
When she first saw those globes, Lydryth barely repressed a gasp of surprise. She had seen similar lights before, but only once. They hung from the walls and ceilings of her home, the ancient Citadel of Kar Garudwyn. Knowing something of the age of that stronghold, she looked about her with even greater awe. This place was old.
The young witch stopped before another, smaller door. Opening it, she silently waved Lydryth through, then followed her.
A woman sat at a desk in the scroll-lined study beyond, a woman whose hawk-like features (in the way of the Old Race) betrayed little age, but whose eyes made the younger woman flinch as she faced that unswerving gaze. The woman went gowned the same as Lydryth’s guide, but with the addition of a cloudy, moon-colored jewel hanging from a chain about her neck.
The witch pushed back her chair a little and sat for a long moment in silent study. Her voice, when she finally spoke, bore a country accent, but her air of command argued that any peasant upbringing had long been put behind her. She did not introduce herself, but that did not surprise the minstrel; to give another one’s true Name was to open a chink in one’s armor of Power. “The songsmith Lydryth,” she commented, finally. “You seek healing. For whom? Yourself? You appear healthy enough to me.”
“No, not for me,” Lydryth said, forcing her eyes to continue meeting the witch’s uncompromising stare. “It is for someone else in my family.”
“And you have come from far away, haven’t you?” The woman rose to her feet, paced deliberately across the flagged floor to front the bard directly. She lacked half a head of Lydryth’s height, but the aura of command surrounding her more than made up for the physical difference. “There is the smell of sea about you, and your boots have seen much walking. Are there no healers in your own province?”
“We have our Wise Women, true enough,” Lydryth admitted. “But none so far have been able to help, for this illness is of the mind and spirit, not the body.”
The witch’s head moved in a tiny shake. “Not good, songsmith. Few indeed are the healers who can treat such. Who is so afflicted, and how did it happen?”
Lydryth took a deep breath as memory seared her. “It happened six years ago, when I was little more than a child. We were on a ... quest... when we came across a place of the old Power. It was said to be a kind of oracle that could allow one to farsee the object of one’s greatest desire. But when Jervon peered through it, it struck him down. Since then he has been as a small child, one who eats when fed, follows when led around-“
“He?” The witch’s eyes held a faint, angry spark. “Do you mean to tell me a man sought to use a source of the Power? You seek my help for one who meddled in things those of his sex cannot hope to comprehend?”
“For my father, Jervon, yes,” Lydryth stammered, wondering how she’d erred. “I was told you had ways of healing-“
She broke off as the witch’s hand snaked up to grab her chin and turn it from side to side, consideringly. “Your eyes ...,” the woman muttered to herself, “blue ... and the jaw is wider ... but still, the color of hair, the chin-“ She glared up at the younger woman. “You are a child of the Old Race-in part. Yet your mother surely betrayed her calling by choosing to marry, when we needed every bit of Power we could summon! Do you think I would help a man who lay with one of my sisters, thus depriving her of her witchhood?”
But she didn’t lose her Power! She wasn’t even born in Estcarp! Lydryth silently protested. The undisguised hatred in the witch’s eyes unnerved her; she knew that the women of Power deemed union with the males of their race as but a poor second to the holding of that Power, but nothing had prepared her for this irrational anger and hatred.
The woman’s strong, short fingers tightened on the songsmith’s chin. “And what about you?” she murmured, in a lower voice. “Did you escape the testing given all girl children? Do you hold the Power? If you do, we shall see-“ Breaking off with a hiss, she held the cloudy jewel she wore up before the bewildered minstrel’s face. “Touch it!” she commanded.
Will clashed with will as Lydryth tried to step back, away from those pale grey eyes glittering with a light that was not wholly rational. “No!”
“Touch it!”
Compelled, the younger woman blindly reached out a hesitant fingertip, felt it brush the witch’s hand, then the cool slickness of the jewel’s crystal. The witch broke their eye-hold, glancing down, and Lydryth watched the eagerness slowly fade from her expression. “Nothing ... ,” the woman murmured, her eyes fixed once more on the minstrel’s face. “Nothing, the jewel remains dead. But I was so sure...”
Perversely angered by yet another demonstration of her lack of Power, Lydryth glanced down at the jewel as she pulled her hand away and stared, suddenly arrested. Had she seen a tiny spark flicker deep within the heart of the cloudy gem? You’re imagining it, she thought angrily. Be grateful this time that you have no Power-otherwise, this half-crazed woman might well try to hold you here!
The songsmith stepped back, away from the witch. “So you cannot help me,” she said. “Or will not-which is it. Lady?”
The grey-clad, bowed shoulders shrugged; the woman’s voice was naught but the thinnest thread of sound. “Once, perhaps, before the Turning ... I do not know. But now ...” The witch shook her head, putting out a hand to grip the carven back of the chair as though she might fall without the support. She made a gesture of dismissal. “Go now, songsmith...”
“If you cannot help me, do you know of any who can?” Lydryth demanded, feeling the hope that had sustained her for the past months draining away, leaching the life and color from the entire world. “I must find someone to heal him, I must! You see, the fault for his illness lies with me... We were searching for my mother, whom he loved more than...” Sobs choked her then, and she turned away, shamed that the witch had seen her so undone.
But the woman no longer seemed aware of her presence at all. Stumbling, shoulders sagging, Lydryth blindly followed the young witch out of the room.
They threaded the dim corridors, their feet whispering against the stone flags. Slowly, the songsmith regained her control, blinking back the tears that had threatened... but her pack seemed doubly heavy, and the harp within its case made a sad, muted sound as it brushed the wall. What shall I do? Lydryth wondered numbly. Where can I go? The thought of returning home to Kar Garudwyn empty-handed was intolerable, yet her mind envisioned as an alternate naught but years of hollow wandering in alien lands.
She rounded the last comer before the entrance portal, only to nearly trip over the girl who had been guiding her. “Quietly!” the witch whispered, glancing fearfully around. “In here, we needs must talk.”
A chill hand came out of the silver-grey robe to grab Lydryth’s sleeve, drawing her into a darkened room. After a moment, the songsmith made out dusty barrels and boxes surrounding them. Some kind of a storeroom.
The minstrel watched as the young witch peered carefully out of the entrance, making sure they had gone unobserved. Then the girl shut the door and touched a finger to a candle she produced from the sleeve other robe. A spark flared; then the taper was alight. In the flickering dimness, they stared at each other.
“What’s to do?” Lydryth began, only to have the girl lay finger to her lips in a signal for whispers.
“Quiet!” the witch cautioned. “Listen a moment. I know of a place where you may find help in your quest, songsmith.”
Lydryth stared down into the witch’s face, scarcely daring to believe that here might be one who could actually guide her in finding what she sought. “Where?” she demanded, finally. “Where can I find help for one who has been mind-blasted by ancient Power?”
“There is a place of learning,” the girl said. “Old. Perhaps older than Es Citadel itself. There are ancient records there, and some of them deal with healing. I have heard of legends that speak of healing stones, and a red mud that conquers even the gravest of injuries. Perhaps you can find the location of such cures in those records.”
“Where?” The songsmith’s question came with sharp impatience. “Where lies this stone? Where rests this mud?”
“I know not. Escore, perhaps ... Much that we thought legend only has been proven real since the Tregarths discovered that ancient land from which the Old Race once fled, if the tales be true. At this place of ancient learning, you may well find answers.”
“I am no scholar,” Lydryth murmured doubtfully.
“But the ones who live there are, and they will aid you; they have little else to do. There is a chance you may find a mention of a cure written there, on some tattered scroll.”
“A chance,” Lydryth repeated, her mind racing. “A bare chance, seemingly.”
“You do not appear to me to be one who can afford to overlook any possibility, no matter how small,” the witch retorted.
Lydryth sighed. “You are right. What is this place?”
The other raised a cautioning hand. “Not so fast. If you aid me, I will tell you when we reach our destination. Will you swear by Blessed Gunnora, whose amulet you wear, that you will keep faith if I help you?”
Lydryth started, her hand going to the breast of her jerkin, where the amulet lay hidden. “How do you know what I wear concealed?” she asked, eyeing the younger woman suspiciously, striving to read her features in the dim light.
“My Power may be small, but it is sufficient to sense that you wear Gunnora’s symbol on your breast,” the witch snapped impatiently. “But that is not the important thing, here. Will you swear to aid me, in return for my help?”
“What aid do you seek?”
“Your assistance in escaping from the Citadel, then from Es City, and returning to Kastryn, the village of my birth. When we reach there, I will reveal to you the name of the place of ancient learning, and tell you how to reach it. Kastryn, you will find, is on the road to your eventual destination.”
Lydryth gazed at the young woman, her eyes searching that narrow, pointed-chinned face. There was beauty there, though it appeared worn, fined-down, as if, despite the girl’s youth, she had suffered much. “I might be able to discover the whereabouts of this ‘place of ancient learning’ without your aid,” she said, slowly, “now that I know what manner of place to inquire about. If people live there, someone, somewhere, will know of it.”
The witch bit her lip, her control slipping. “I have been a fool,” she whispered, in a voice edged with desperation. “I was not brought up to be a mistress of intrigue and am bluntspoken by nature. You are right. If you ask long enough among the learned scholars of Es, you will find one who knows of the existence of Lormt, and where it lies. Go, then. I wish you success on your quest.”
She turned away, her slight shoulders drooping beneath the grey robe.
The songsmith felt sympathy stir within her, as she remembered her own despair at the thought of being kept here in this ancient stronghold by these hungry, hollow-eyed women. She reached out to put a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Wait. Tell me more. You are one of them-why do you wish to leave?”
The witch did not turn or look up. “I am one who was forced to the test, just as you were, today,” she said, dully. “But for me the stone glowed-only a spark, but the witches are desperate.”
“I could see that. Why are they so?”
“They have been forced to watch their control of this land slowly slip from them into the hands of others-Koris and his Lady Loyse, Simon Tregarth (whom they have hated ever since he took one of their number to wife) and his lady, Jaelithe. So any girl-child showing a trace of the Power, they take, in an attempt to rebuild their numbers.”
The young woman’s voice trembled. “I’d escaped the testing for two years, because I was sole support and nurse for my widowed mother. Then she died, so the next time the witch came to Kastryn, I needs must lay finger to her stone. It sparked, so they took me, brought me here ... began to teach me.”
“Magic?”
“As much as I could learn, which was little enough. I am not a dullard, but my heart and will are drawn elsewhere-I possess neither the desire nor the gift to become mistress of more than a few minor illusions, plus some healcraft and herb-lore! However, these other women, to them Power is all-meat, bread, drink and breath itself! I cannot expect you to understand, songsmith, but I can never be as they are-never!”
Lydryth recalled her own childhood, spent in a stronghold steeped in sorcery... It had permeated the very air she breathed, and to the others around her, using magic was as natural as that breathing itself. Only she had possessed none of the ability-she, who had taken after her father. Her father, racked by the backlash of near-forgotten Power ...
A surge of sympathy for the young woman before her made Lydryth’s throat tighten. “I understand,” she told the witch softly, “more than you can know.”
The girl’s voice broke. “And the worst of it all is, they took me without even leaving me time to send a message to Logar!”
“Logar?”
The girl turned back to face her questioner. In the candlelit dimness, her eyes sparkled, as if she were struggling to hold back tears. “Logar is my betrothed. He rides with the Borderers. The fangs of the Hounds have been partially drawn, but Alizon is still a dagger that pricks Estcarp’s side. Their remaining Hounds are wilier than ever as they slink forth to harry our northern border. Thus, each young man who is whole and able must serve with those who patrol that border for a space of three years. Logar’s time was up last month-by now he must be home, only to find me gone!”
Her mouth quivered, then tightened grimly. “We swore that when he returned, we would be wed. And I want nothing more from life than to be with him! But Logar cannot free me-for him to dare the Citadel would mean his death. But I am afraid that he might try such a foolhardy move ... so I must escape, before he can!”
“I see...,” Lydryth said. “But if we journey to Kastryn-“
The young witch clutched the songsmith’s sleeve. “We? Do you mean that you will still help me escape? Even though I have no way to pay or reward you?”
“Yes,” said Lydryth, as solemnly as if she took oath, “I will aid you, sister.” The girl clasped Lydryth’s hand with both her own. “My gratitude forever! May Gunnora’s Blessings follow you-“ she began, fervently.
But the minstrel shook her head, cutting off the outpouring of gratitude. “I will merit thanks only if we succeed, sister.”
“Avris,” the witch introduced herself, a little shyly. Lydryth’s eyed widened. The girl nodded defiantly, acknowledging the songsmith’s surprise that she had revealed her name. “My name is Avris,” she repeated, as if proud to openly defy the rules of the Citadel. “And you?”
“Lydryth. Now, as I was saying, if we journey to Kastryn, will those of the Citadel not know immediately where you have gone, and seek us there?”
“They may seek me, but by the time they find me, I will be of no more use to them,” Avris replied. “Logar and I will be wed in the same hour of seeing each other, and”-she grinned wryly-“once a wedded, bedded wife, my small trace of Power will vanish from me.”
Do not be too sure of that, the songsmith thought, with a wry smile of her own, as she remembered her mother, the Lady Elys, and her foster-mother, the Lady Joisan. They were women of Power, had lain with their husbands and borne children to them, just as the Lady Jaelithe had. And they, also, had retained their Power. Still, knowing the witches’ hatred of men, Lydryth concluded, Avris is probably right. They will not want her among their numbers after she has been, to their minds, “tainted” by union with a male. They will let her go.
“Besides,” the young witch was continuing, “Logar and I will not tarry to face their ire. I will convince him that we must flee immediately-perhaps make our way eastward, to that land overmountain, Escore. The Tregarth brothers and sister found refuge there-why not Logar and I?”
“You have schemed long on this,” Lydryth observed. “This is not just some idle impulse.”
“Ever since they took me, I have thought of little else!” Avris’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “Outwardly, I became resigned, applied myself to learning as best I might, so as to lull their suspicions. But all the time I was planning how to escape. Now there is no more time left-next week, I travel again to the Place of Wisdom for a final retreat, then they will lay the Witch Oath on me. I must get away before they can thus seal me to them!”
“Have you a plan for escaping the Citadel itself?”
The girl hesitated. “I have thought of one, but I am loath to suggest it, because it holds great danger for you. Have you no trace of the Power?”
“None,” Lydryth said flatly. “But tell me your plan anyway.”
“As I told you, my Power is weak,” Avris said. “But I believe that I can manage to cloak my features with illusion for long enough to get past that guard out there. I will take on your image. He will be expecting you to leave, and thus will not regard you too closely. But a full-body Seeming is beyond me, so I must have your clothes, your pack and harp case.”
“So you will take on my features with my garments, long enough to just walk out...,” the bard mused. “An ingenuous plan, but my soldier father taught me much of stealth and tactics, and it is ofttimes the simplest scheme that holds the greatest chance of success. But then what happens to me?”
“That is the flaw,” the girl said grimly. “They will question you, and if you give them any slightest reason to doubt your word, they can compel truth from you, using the Power.”
“I can say that you ensorcelled me, held me helpless with your magic,” Lydryth said, her words coming faster as she thought. “To lend credence to that, you must leave me bound, wearing only my drawers and underbodice. Perhaps it would also be wise for you to knock me unconscious.”
“I could not hurt you!” Avris protested.
“I will show you where and how to strike the blow,” the minstrel said. “One that will knock me out, but not injure me much beyond an aching head for a few hours.”
“But-“
“You will do as you must,” Lydryth said, firmly. “Remember, there is no better excuse for not raising the alarm than to be discovered bound and unconscious, with a lump behind one ear. I doubt very much that the witches will ever suspect us of conspiracy under those circumstances.”
“But what if they do suspect you? Compel the truth from you?”
The songsmith considered. “I cannot believe that they will do much to me simply for allowing my clothes and pack to be stolen. That is hardly a hanging offense, especially considering that you have Power, and I have none. They will readily believe that you compelled me to do your will. And there is also this: I am not a citizen of Estcarp. I can truthfully plead ignorance of local laws. The fact that I asked one of the witches to aid a despised male proves that.”
“Yes,” the witch agreed, thoughtfully. “Any man or woman living within the boundaries of this land for long cannot remain ignorant of the ways of the witches.” Her brows drew together in a worried frown. “But to strike you down ... I cannot! We must find some other way.”
Lydryth gripped the girl’s shoulders, her, strong fingers deliberately bringing pain. “You want to see your betrothed again, do you not?”
“Yes ...” Avris whispered.
“Then you will do as I say. You must! Every moment we delay means a greater chance of discovery!”
The girl’s shoulders sagged. “Very well. But they will still question you. What of that?”
Lydryth smiled humorlessly. “Do not forget that I am a bard. One in my trade must be an accomplished actor or actress, remember? They will believe me.” At least, I hope they will, she added, silently.
“One more question,” the other said. “Why I can see you aiding me if there was no risk to you, but this way, there is great danger. The anger of the witches is not a thing to risk lightly. So why are you moved to help me?”
Lydryth hesitated. “I am also one who has lived surrounded by those who have control over forces I cannot even discern,” she said, finally. “I would not wish such a fate on another. And if you truly can set me on the road to this place of learning, this Lormt, a place where I may find some clue that will help me in my search ...” She shrugged. “Nothing in all the world could mean more to me than that.”
Avris held out her hand, and, after a moment, Lydryth took it. The small fingers felt cold in hers, but the witch’s grasp was firm. “I thank you ... sister.”
While Lydryth remained concealed in the little storeroom, Avris hurriedly went in search of the items she would require to work the illusion. When she returned, carrying a small case filled with herbs and simples, they began.
It took only moments for Avris to assume Lydryth’s outer clothing; then the songsmith stood shivering as the witch stared up into her face, intently, as if memorizing every feature. “I can do it... ,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“Then by all means, begin,” the bard said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “This floor is c-cold.”
“Very well.” Avris rooted through her bag, emerging finally with a dried leaf, which she handed to the songsmith. “I will need your spittle for the Seeming, and several of your hairs- living ones, drawn from their roots. Place all here.”
Lydryth, long used to the principles of magic, though she could not apply them, knew better than to question or argue. She spat on the leaf, rubbing the moisture into its brownish-green surface, then plucked several hairs and placed them in the middle of it. “Here,” she said.
The witch did not reply, only took the leaf, her eyes closed as she concentrated. Raising the leaf to her lips, she blew upon it, then rolled it into a ball. Slowly, she began tracing the contours of her own face, lightly rubbing them with the leafball. As she did so, she sang softly, a monotonous, minor tune, its words so ancient that Lydryth recognized them as a form of the Old Tongue, the ancient language of Power, still spoken sometimes in distant, sorcery-shrouded Arvon.
As the music called to her, Lydryth took out her hand-harp and instinctively began plucking the strings. She sang, her voice harmonizing with the witch’s, until, between them, the girls produced a faint, eerie, hair-prickling melody.
Avris stopped abruptly on a half-wail, and Lydryth started, jerked out of the reverie she had fallen into. She looked over at the witch and gasped.
Her own face stared back at her-long, oval, with a traveler’s sun-browned skin. Avris now seemed to have bright blue eyes, a straight nose, a strong, stubborn jaw, all beneath a wind-tossed cap of soft black curls. “It worked?” the girl demanded.
“Completely,” Lydryth told her, amazed. “Except that you are still shorter than I, I do not believe even your Logar could tell us apart. It is as perfect a Seeming as any I have witnessed. Your Power must be greater than you think.”
The witch shrugged. “Perhaps it is just that I am desperate. What I could not do for them, I will do to escape them. And the guard, I think, will not notice the difference in height. I will just roll up the sleeves and breeches a turn, so.”
When she was finished ordering her borrowed clothing, Avris reached into the bag again, this time withdrawing a bundle of twigs, bound with red thread. Lydryth pulled back as the girl made to brush the bard’s forehead with the twigbundle. “What is that?” she demanded.
“Rowan,” Avris replied. “Magic cannot work within its bounds, either of the Dark or Light. Its touch will help you resist the questioning of the witches.”
Lydryth’s mouth twisted into a hard, ugly shape. “I thought I recognized it, and I want none of it! I can endure the interrogation myself, with no aid from an ill-fortuned handful of wood!”
Avris stared up at her in shock, but recovered herself quickly. “It is a foolish soldier who throws away even his smallest blade on the eve of the battle,” she pointed out. “I have trusted you, will you not trust me? I would do nothing to harm you, Lydryth.”
The songsmith dropped her eyes, shamed, feeling the color rise hot to her cheeks. “I am sorry. You are right. Go ahead.” But despite her resolve, she could not keep from flinching as the twig-bundle swept across her forehead-once, twice, thrice.
“Tie me as soon as I am unconscious,” Lydryth ordered, then had to demonstrate to Avris how to weave knots that would hold against a prisoner’s struggles.
At last, nothing remained except the blow. “Here,” the songsmith said, pointing to a spot just behind her ear. “And you must strike with sufficient force to make them believe my story. You do me no favor if you hold back. Have you a weapon?”
“This,” the girl said, and withdrew a dagger in a sheath from the folds of her discarded grey robe. “Will it do?”
Lydryth ran a finger over the rounded steel pommel. “It should. Grasp it by the sheath, so as to use the blunt end. Strike using this much force-“ Lydryth wadded the witch’s discarded robe and demonstrated swinging the weapon, sending it thudding into the wall, the sound of the blow muffled by the fabric. “Now you try.”
On her fourth attempt, the witch’s arm swung with the proper force. “Good. That is just the way of it. Can you do it?”
The witch needs must run a tongue-tip over dry lips before she could reply, but her voice was steady. “I can. I will.”
“Good,” Lydryth said. “I will meet you outside the walls, in that first grove of trees to the south of the city. Hide yourself well, and do not appear until you hear me whistle, so-“ She produced a few bars of an old marching song from High Hallack. “And do not forget to pick up my gryphon-headed quarterstaff from the guard on your way out. He will be expecting you to ask for it.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” Deliberately, the songsmith turned her back, trying not to tense, forcing herself to stand still and not anticipate the blow. “Strike when you are ready,” she said. “But I would prefer not to have to wait much long-“
Pain and darkness crashed against her skull from behind. Lydryth felt her knees buckle, felt herself begin to fall. She let the blackness gulp her down, swallow her, like one of the sea-leviathans in the Sulcar tales...
The songsmith’s memories were blurred after that. She half-roused to a ringing head and the sound of voices, then the touch of hands on her half-bare body. Then the hands lifted her, and she was careful to stay limp, let herself flop like a boneless doll stuffed with river sand, such as the little Kioga children cuddled.
Light met her closed eyelids then, and soon she was placed on a soft surface. Someone covered her chilled body with a blanket. “You may bring in the guard now,” she heard a cold, passionless voice say.
“Yes, sister,” came the response, followed by the sound of the door.
“Lady?” a gruff voice said, one tinged with fear and defiance. “Th’ sister said you wished t’ see me?”
“So I do, Jarulf. Look at this girl, here. Do you recognize her?”
A gasp. “But... Lady, that be th’ same young woman who left before m’ shift ended! The very same!”
“I see.” The cold voice was even colder now, but still calm. “That will be all, Jarulf.”
“Aye. Lady.”
I ought to be coming around by now, Lydryth cautioned herself, and, accordingly, she moaned and tried to open her eyes. She did not have to feign the swift stab of pain the light brought her, or her squint. “What-what-“
The witch (for Lydryth could now see her silver-grey robe) moved back to look down at her, her face as blank as the stones of the walls enclosing them. She was older than the woman the songsmith had seen before, her features fine-drawn and aristocratic, her eyes hooded and remote in her oval face.
“You were found unconscious in a little-used storeroom,” she said. “It seems that one of our sisterhood is missing-our search found no trace of her. Tell me, who are you, and how did you come there?”
The songsmith moistened her lips. “Water?” she whispered, hopefully. “Please, water?”
“On the table. You may help yourself.”
With a groan that had nothing false about it, the bard pushed herself upright, clutching the blanket against her chest. When she saw the younger woman’s shaking hands, the witch grudgingly poured the water into a goblet for her.
The minstrel sipped, then put the cup down. “I am Lydryth, a wandering songsmith from a distant land,” she said, hoarsely. “I had an audience with one of your number, but she told me that she could not help me, since I was seeking healing for my father. She said that you granted no boons to men. So I took my leave of her. I remember following the young witch who had been sent to guide me down the corridor, my heart heavy ... and that is all I remember.”
“Nothing more?”
The songsmith winced as she gingerly explored the lump behind her ear. “Naught... save that she turned back as if to speak to me, and there was something in her hand ... something ...” She frowned. “I know not what, save that it was bright, and my eyes were caught by it...”
“Ah,” the witch said, her grey eyes raking the young woman’s face with the sharpness of fingernails. “What do you think happened then?”
Lydryth started to shake her head, but stopped with a grimace of pain. “I know not. Lady. Obviously, someone hit me, and took my clothes... my clothes!” She glanced around her, wildly, as if just realizing they were truly gone. “My pack ... my harp! My purse! I’ve been robbed!”
“Indeed,” the witch said, her eyes never leaving the bard’s.
“My hand-harp ... my mouth-flute! My instruments ... all stolen! How will I earn my living?” The minstrel ran her hands through her hair, distractedly, being careful not to overplay her distress. “I have naught left to me-naught!”
The witch hesitated. “Since you were robbed on our premises, it is our duty, I suppose, to alleviate your situation as much as possible. We will provide you with clothing, food, and sufficient coin for two nights’ lodging. If you are telling the truth, and were indeed the victim of thievery.”
Lydryth hesitated, betraying confusion. “The truth? Of course I am! Why should I speak aught but the truth. Lady?”
“That is what I am wondering...,” the witch said, studying the younger woman as though she had suddenly sprouted feathers or fur. “Why should you?”
“I am no liar.” Lydryth let some other very genuine irritation and fear creep into her voice. It would have been unnatural not to react to the witch’s implied accusation. “You have no right to name me one, either.”
The witch raised a mocking eyebrow. “Really? We shall see, songsmith. We shall see.”
Without another word, the witch cupped her milky jewel in her hand and stared down into it. As Lydryth watched, light began to emanate from the stone, all in one direction, until a luminescent beam shone full onto the minstrel’s face.
Even as she realized what the witch was doing, Lydryth summoned all her will to project honesty, sincerity... She banished all thought of Avris waiting in the grove of trees, concentrating instead on the story she had told, filling her mind with it. The false images as she had described them unfolded vividly before her eyes...
“What is that you’re humming?” the witch demanded, her voice sharp with anger.
Lydryth felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “I beg your pardon. Lady,” she muttered. “An old habit of mine, and I fear an annoying one. Since I was little, whenever I grow frightened, I begin humming an old lullaby my mother sang to me whilst I was in my cradle.”
The lullaby ... her only heritage from the fishing village of Wark, where her mother had grown up. Always it had been her defense against fear, and concentrating on its music and words had enabled her, occasionally, to keep out the pryings of other minds when she was a child, growing up in a land rife with sorcery, where even those who shared the nursery with her had been gifted with Power.
The witch gave her a scornful glance. “I see. And are you frightened now?”
“The reputation of the witches is one to inspire both awe and fear,” Lydryth equivocated. “I regret that I annoyed you. I have lived a very solitary life for the past several years, and solitary people ofttimes fall into the habit of speaking to themselves. But in my case, I hum, or sing. It keeps my voice limber, also.”
“Well, be silent,” the witch snapped. “I must concentrate.” Again the witch’s mind brushed her own, darting and probing, testing the surface for any trace of falsehood. The young woman felt a chill, dank sweat break out on her body as that questing Power sent out tendrils that would uncover falsehood as surely as a hound would uncover a fen-fox’s burrow. She found that she was repeating the notes and music of the lullaby in her mind, over and over, as a kind of litany against letting the truth slip through.
Peace, peace little baby,
Hear not the cruel storm
Our boats have come safely,
We’re sheltered and warm.
The music filled her mind, growing more and more real:
Be still, little darling
And hark to the sound
Of wind-song and wave-song
So awesome and loud ...
Lydryth lost herself within the web of music, as she had done ever since she had been hardly more than a babe able to toddle about, grasping her father’s sword-callused fingers to stay upright. The chorus chimed sweetly throughout her being, driving out the fear.
For wind-song shall free you
And wave-song shall teach you
And my song shall love you
The good seasons round ...
So sleep, little seabird, sleep ...
Without warning, the light from the witch’s jewel died. “It seems that you are telling the truth, minstrel,” the woman conceded, though there was no softening of her cold grey eyes. “I will see that clothes are brought to you, and food, and coppers for several nights’ lodging.”
“Thank you. Lady,” Lydryth said humbly, schooling her face to reflect none of the triumph flaring within her. Have I truly done it? Kept the truth from her?
“Do you wish to leave now, songsmith?”
Lydryth stretched and sighed, with a deliberate show of weariness. “My head still aches, Lady,” she said. “I will rest until midafternoon, if I may, then depart.” Don’t appear to be too eager to rush out of here, she cautioned herself, eyeing the witch covertly. This may well be yet another test. She resolved that she would exercise a scout’s caution when she left the Citadel. No doubt she will have me followed.
The witch nodded, her hooded eyes expressionless. “As you wish, songsmith.” She fixed a measuring gaze on the younger woman. “You say that you are from a faraway land,” she said. “Do the women there have Power?”
“We have our village Wise Women,” Lydryth replied, cautiously. “They doctor the sick with herbal potions, midwife the women and the animals ...” She trailed off. “Why do you ask?”
“And have you ever been tested for the presence of the Power?” the witch demanded, deliberately ignoring the songsmith’s question.
“Yes,” Lydryth said, fighting the urge to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry. “I was tested today, by one of your number. I failed. I have no Power.”
“What manner of testing?” the witch demanded.
“She compelled me to lay finger to the jewel she wore-such a jewel as yours. Lady.”
The witch picked up her own jewel, fingered it thoughtfully. It glowed softly. For a moment the grey-robed woman closed her eyes; then she opened them again. “Mistakes have been made before,” she murmured, staring speculatively at the younger woman. “Indeed, they have...”
Lydryth knew she was in great danger. What if she decides to hold me here, put me through more of their tests? She remembered that brief flicker she’d thought she had glimpsed deep in the heart of the witch-jewel. Avris said the jewel barely glowed for her...
As abruptly as a door opening, the witch’s thoughts were as plain to the songsmith as though she did have the Power to see the unseen, hear the unheard. Even now, she is thinking that I may be able to take Avris’s place among them!
A sharp rap at the door made both of them jump. The witch hastened to open it. Lydryth recognized the newcomer as the witch who had tested her earlier. “Sister?” she said. “You summoned me?”
“Yes,” the older witch said. “This girl tells me that you tested her, today.”
“I did. I thought that I sensed a trace of the Power ... but the jewel stayed dark.”
“You are sure?”
“Entirely.”
“Very well. Thank you, sister.”
The younger witch inclined her head, then departed. Lydryth’s questioner smiled faintly. “Again it seems that you were speaking the truth, songsmith. Rest now, and I will have clothing brought to you so that you may depart when you awake.”
The minstrel wet her lips. “Thank you. Lady,” she said, holding her voice steady with an effort.
“You are welcome,” the witch said. “Rest well, songsmith.”
She left the room, closing the door behind her. Lydryth lay back upon the bed, but she did not close her eyes. Tests within tests, she thought, feeling the fear uncoil within her like a serpent. I must guard my back when I leave. She intends to let me go, planning to have me lead her guardsmen to Avris. Then they will capture us both!
Her fingers sought out Gunnora’s amulet. Lydryth stroked the amber sheaf of grain, felt the small amethyst points that made up the fruit upon the heavy-laden grapevine binding it at its base. Amber Lady, she thought. Aid me in escaping this trap. Please, Lady! I must be free, so I can find a cure for my father!
“And they simply allowed you to depart? Without following you?” Avris, arms wrapped around her knees, was still crouched in her hiding place, a hollow beneath the roots of a long-overturned oak. She gave her companion a skeptical glance. “I cannot believe it!”
Lydryth, who was sitting on the slope above her, pulling on her tall brown boots, grinned cheerfully at her companion. “When I said I wasn’t followed here, it wasn’t for lack of their trying. I had three shadows, sure enough, when I left the Citadel, and only one of them was my own. But I lost both of my tails in the marketplace without overmuch trouble. They were expecting to trail someone who knew nothing of their presence, and thus they were careless.”
The songsmith slipped her battered brown leather jerkin on over her full-sleeved green tunic. “It is good to get my own clothes back,” she said, busy with front lacings. “I refused a skirt, and the only guardsman small enough so I could fit his off-duty garments made but an indifferent habit of bathing.” She wrinkled her nose as she rolled the cast-off clothing into a bundle. “Tomorrow, when we can move about freely, we must wash these, and oil the boots, so we may sell them in some town far from here. How do those things I bought you fit?”
Avris gave her a mock glare of impatience as she smoothed the front of her faded red tunic. “As you can plainly see, they are fine! Now, by the Mercy of Gunnora, finish your story!”
The minstrel shrugged. “There is little more to relate. Just to be safe, I holed up to wait out the night, and left the city when the gates opened at dawn. There were guards looking for me there, too, but I used the last of the witch’s coppers to bribe an old man to let me hide under a blanket in the back of his farm wagon. He balanced two crates of pullets atop me, and, next to me, tied his newly weaned bull calf. The poor thing was bellowing loudly enough to rouse a dead man from his grave, so the guards were not very thorough in their check-they waved us through as quickly as possible.” Lydryth dug a finger in her ear with a grimace. “I am still half-deafened!”
“So we are safe?”
“For the moment, yes.”
Avris laughed aloud exultantly as she scrambled out from beneath the root-shadowed “cave” to stretch her arms wide beneath the green-gold spring leaves. “Free!” She whirled around in sheer exuberance. “I was so worried about you ... that I have only just realized-I am free! Free!”
Lydryth smiled at her. “The feeling of being free, with the open road before one, is indeed a heady emotion. But curb yourself, sister. The hunt for both of us is undoubtedly up, and we must not allow ourselves to be recaptured. They would go very hard with us, I think.”
The witch stopped, then nodded, some of the light fading from her eyes. “You are right. I am fortunate that you have some experience in these matters. How best should we do this?”
“I think it would be wisest for us to travel by night, until we are at least two days’ ride from Es City. And we will not head directly for Kastryn, for that is what they will be expecting us to do. Instead, we will circle around Es City, cross the river, and travel northwest for a day or two.”
“But how will we reach Kastryn?”
“Then we will circle to the northeast, and come on Kastryn from the north, instead of the south. It will add many days to our journey, to be sure, but it is the wisest course.”
“If only we had horses.”
Lydryth grimaced, thinking of her mare, Vyar. “If only we did. But horses would also make us more conspicuous, and without them, we can hide more easily. Have you money?”
“A few coins. We lived a monastic life in the Citadel, and seldom needed it.”
“Well, can you sing?”
Avris grinned. “I can try.” She raised her voice in a few measures of “The Riving of the Border.” She had a clear, if thin, soprano.
“You will do well enough.” Lydryth nodded. “We will practice before we must earn our supper.” The songsmith yawned suddenly, widely, until her jaws nearly cracked. “And now, while I can, I must sleep, since I dared not close my eyes last night. We will eat and rest by turns, standing watches, and set out after sunset. Are we agreed?”
“Agreed.”
It was afternoon before the witch touched Lydryth’s shoulder to rouse her. The songsmith awoke immediately, as her father had trained her, sitting upright in her cloak with a seasoned warrior’s alertness. “You let me sleep too long!” she exclaimed, seeing that the sun’s rays were already slanting from the west.
“I was not tired, and you needed your rest,” Avris said. “I slept last night, for I was too weary from my spelling to stay awake, even if the Guardian and all the other witches had been ranged around this grove.” She smiled. “Fortunately, they were not.”
“Well, sleep now,” Lydryth said, taking food from her pack and breaking off a chunk of journeybread. “I will guard.”
“No, I am not tired. Now that I am breathing free air, I feel as though I will never be weary again.” The two girls shared food in companionable silence, until Avris spoke again: “May I ask you something, Lydryth?”
“Ask away,” the songsmith said, after swallowing a bite of dried apple.
“Why do you hate the rowan so?”
Lydryth could feel her body stiffen; her face become a hard, expressionless mask. “That is a long story,” she said, finally.
“One that you would prefer not to tell? If so, I will understand,” Avris said, her gaze holding nothing but friendship, sympathy. “But we have an hour or more yet to wait, and I do not ask from idle curiosity, believe me, sister. I sense a great hurt within you ... and sometimes, such hurts may be eased in the speaking of them to another, one who truly cares.”
Lydryth sat in silence for several minutes, forgetting the food in her hand, lost in memory. Finally, she stirred. “It happened years ago,” she whispered. “And it is something I have never spoken of, except to those who shared those days with me. And you may not want to call me ‘sister’ after you hear what I did.”
“I doubt that,” Avris said, steadily. “You could never do anything truly wrong, Lydryth. I know that.”
“Not so,” the songsmith said, her voice grown husky. She cleared her throat. “You must understand that I grew up in a far land ... across the sea. You have probably never even heard of Arvon.”
“No, I never have,” the witch conceded. “Does it lie near that land of many Dales, the one the captured soldiers of Alizon spoke of?”
“It lies west of High Hallack,” Lydryth agreed, nodding. “Beyond the Waste. Arvon, like this Escore you speak of, is a very, very old land, unlike the others settled by humankind. It abounds with uncanny places, and strange beings. Creatures out of legend, many of them. Such as the demons called Keplians, shaped like beautiful horses ...and the web-riders, those fell creatures with many-jointed legs, that weave webs, then cast them onto the wind and ride them, in search of prey...”
“I have heard of such in Escore,” Avris told her. “And do you also have the Flannan, the mosswives, the Scaled Ones, and the water-people, the Krogan?”
“No, I have not heard of them,” Lydryth said. “But there are the Winged Ones, who have the heads of birds and the bodies of men or women, whose blood means death if spilled on living flesh, and who will fight even when beheaded or dismembered...”
Avris shuddered. “Praise Gunnora, I have never heard of such in Escore! If I had, that land would prove no refuge at all!”
“Fortunately, their numbers are small, and appear to be dwindling,” the songsmith said. “But not so for the Thas. They are a constant danger.”
“Thas?”
“Dwellers below ground who tunnel as naturally as some creatures walk. They are ugly-“ Lydryth shuddered at the memory. “Small, wiry bodies, with bloated stomachs, covered with scraggly, rootlike hair. But the worst thing is ...” She trailed off, then swallowed hard. “... their faces ... from their faces, you can tell that they... they used to be of humankind.”
“How dreadful!” Avris cried. “Yes, I have heard of such, now that I hear them described. Lately they have been seen- and smelled-lurking around the fringes of towns near the mountains. Logar reported in one of his letters that they were attacked by several of the things, as they slept. One man was pulled down into the earth, never to be seen again.”
The songsmith shook her head. “Your people had best ward their borders well,” she said. “The Thas are cowards, who prefer such tactics to open battle, but they are deadly.”
“Go on with your story,” the witch urged.
Lydryth grimaced at the reminder. “I was hoping you would forget.”
“If you do not wish to tell me-“
“No, it is just that it is difficult to speak of...” The minstrel shrugged. “So. I grew up in Arvon, in an ancient citadel called
Kar Garudwyn. Time out of mind ago, an Adept lived there; its very walls are still steeped with sorcery. I was born of a strange union: my mother, Elys, was the daughter of a woman from overseas-Estcarp-and my father, Jervon, was a soldier, one accustomed to the command of men, not magic.”
“An odd mix,” Avris commented. “But they loved each other?”
“More than life itself,” Lydryth said, matter-of-factly. “They defended each other’s backs through many a battle, against human enemies, as well as those born of sorcery. They were comrades and friends long before they knew each other as man and woman.”
Lydryth took a final bite of the journeybread, then passed the cake over to Avris. “We shared Kar Garudwyn with my parents’ closest friends, the Lord Kerovan and the Lady Joisan. They were as father and mother to me also, and I loved them dearly. Also, there was Sylvya, who was our friend and teacher. She was from the Old Times, and had powers such as had not been seen since the very ancient days.”
“Sylvya,” Avris repeated, trying the alien sound of the name on her tongue. “Was she of the Old Race, too?”
“Partly, but also in her was another, nonhuman heritage. But she loved all of us children as though we were her own.”
“Children?”
“Joisan and Kerovan had-have-two children. Hyana, their daughter, is nigh unto a year my elder. She is a quiet, deep-eyed girl, possessed of such innate Power that I doubt many of the witches in your Citadel could equal her, even when she was naught but a girl-child. But she makes no show of such strength, only uses it to help others. She can farsee, and her foretellings are such that no one can afford to ignore them.” Lydryth’s face darkened, and she lapsed into a brooding silence.
“And the other child?” the young witch prompted, when the songsmith showed no signs of continuing.
“Firdun is five years younger than I. He also has Power, but there is nothing quiet about Firdun! He was one of those children whose life one constantly fears for-you may know the kind. If there was but one apple tree in the entire orchard with a rotten limb, that is the tree Firdun must climb, and that would be the limb he chose to rest upon.”
Avris chuckled. “I know very well. I have a cousin who has such a daughter. Have you brothers or sisters, Lydryth?”
The songsmith shook her head. “I know not,” she whispered. “My mother vanished nine years ago, when I was but ten years old.”
The witch was puzzled. “ ‘Vanished’? You mean, she left you and your father? Does she still live?”
“I know not,” Lydryth repeated. “She did not leave us willingly, she was taken. Some Power from the Left-Hand Path swept her from our very midst, even as she lay resting in her chamber one afternoon.”
“How did it happen?” the witch asked, her grey eyes intent on Lydryth’s. The songsmith could feel her compassion, as tangible as a warm hand laid upon her shoulder.
“It was my fault,” the bard said, past the tightness in her throat. “My fault. You see, when my mother discovered she was again with child, Hyana, who was eleven, did a foreseeing for her, because she sensed a troubling in the land.
“During her foreseeing, she saw that the child-she told us it would be a boy-would be a final link in a chain that would unite those of the Right-Hand Path in Arvon against the forces of the Dark. The outcome of that conflict, Hyana told us, was not clear, but she knew that my unborn little brother was to be a crucial piece in a very deadly game whose first move had not yet been made.”
Avris nodded, wide-eyed.
“So we took all care that my mother would be protected. She stopped walking outside the citadel without escort, and never descended the ramp leading to the valley alone. She even gave up her rides on her smoke-colored mare. Unless she was in her chamber, Jervon, my father, or Lord Kerovan always accompanied her, armed and ready.
“And for those times when she needed to rest alone, Sylvya and the Lady Joisan devised a protective spell to surround her chamber. They braided a rope, using twigs from the rowan tree, lacing it with scarlet yam, the color of protection. They rolled it in valerian, pennyroyal and mullein, chanting as they did so. Finally, they placed the rope around the ceiling inside the chamber, then bound the two ends together with a strip of scarlet silk, above the outside of the door. Within that room, no spell would work, no Power could enter.”
“But something did enter,” Avris guessed. “How?”
“Because I have no Power,” Lydryth said, “and I was too proud to admit that I could not manage without it. With his mother and father so worried about my mother, I was set to watch over little Firdun. Born of a father and mother who both have Power, the gift was strong in him almost from babyhood. He played tricks on me, the kind of tricks such a child would play. He could cloud my mind, so that I could look full at him sometimes, and not see him. Once I went to wake him from his nap, only to find an adder coiled on his pillow, fangs dripping venom-but even as I gasped, it vanished, and he sat up, giggling...” She shook her head, remembering.
“If only I had admitted that the boy was too much for me! But I was five years his elder, and I was ashamed to say that I could not control him. One day, as I sat there, telling him the tale of the Hungry Well-which he loved, as it was a true one, and his father was the hero-I turned, only to find that he had left my side.”
Lydryth pounded a fist against her knee. “If I had gone for his parents, or Hyana, or even my father, somebody he would have listened to-! But, instead, I searched for him myself, only to find him before the door to my mother’s chamber. He was staring up at the rowan.”
“ ‘Don’t touch it, Firdun!’ I shouted. He gave me an impish grin, then his little hands clenched, and his chubby face grew taut with effort. Even as I watched in horror, the ribbon came untied, the rowan rope fell apart. The protective spell was broken.”
“And your mother?”
“I screamed, because I knew how vital that rowan rope was. In moments my father was there, and Lady Joisan. They burst into the room, only to find my mother gone... She had disappeared without a trace.” She took a deep breath, controlling her voice with an effort. “There was only a stench left behind. The scent of evil. Have you ever smelled it?”
Avris shook her head.
“It is an odor of such foulness, I cannot even describe it. No one who ever once whiff’s such a stench can mistake it for anything else...”
“You searched for her?”
“Of course. My father nearly went mad with grief-he rode for weeks, barely stopping to rest his horse, sleeping in the saddle, forgetting to eat for days at a time. Lord Kerovan and Lady Joisan rode with him, leaving Sylvya to watch over me and Firdun. Hyana retired into her room and spent much of her time in trance, searching, emerging gaunt-eyed and thin ... but there was nothing. Nothing. For more than a year we searched, and found nothing.”
“But what happened was not your fault!”
“So my father told me,” Lydryth said, bitterly, “but if not my fault, whose? You cannot blame a mischievous child of five for such a happening. And even Firdun, young as he was, understood that he had done something terrible. From that day he changed, becoming much quieter, more biddable. He never gave me another moment’s trouble...”. Her mouth twisted in an ironic grimace. “But the damage had already been done. And it was my fault.”
“I do not agree,” Avris said. “You were naught but a child yourself.”
“A proud child, who was so ashamed to have none of the gift the others had, that I did not admit my fault, did not summon aid,” Lydryth maintained, stubbornly.
“But that cannot be the end of your tale,” Avris said, crumbling a rotted acorn shell in her fingers. “You said that your father was hurt.”
“That happened when I was thirteen,” Lydryth said, nodding wearily. “We would go out and search in good weather, riding to villages, asking, looking for any Wise Man or Woman, or any Summoner, who might have heard rumors, felt a troubling ... any who might scry for a vision of my mother.” She caught Avris’s questioning glance and explained, “Scrying is a means of seeing the past, the future, or things far away.”
“I have heard of such,” Avris said. “How is it done in your land?”
“By gazing into a bowl filled with liquid ... water, ink, wine ...”
“Did scrying work?” Avris asked.
“No more than anything else,” Lydryth said wearily, resting her forearms on her upraised knees. “Arvon is a wide land, but we searched for a week’s ride and more in each direction. Once we even dared the Grey Towers, and asked the Pack Leader of the Weres, Hyron, if he had heard aught of Elys.”
The songsmith shivered at the memory. “And, let me assure you, there are few in Arvon who would even venture to ride within the shadow of that grim fortress’s walls, let alone pass through its front gate. Especially to ask the whereabouts of a witch. The Weres hate women of Power, and have for time out of mind.”
“Why?”
“Only they know the reason behind their prejudice.” She stared unseeing through the trunks of the oak trees, out at the road they would soon be following. “But my father asked them, and they answered. Even the Weres, with all their strange powers-they who tread the border between the Light and the Dark, between humankind and beast-even they could tell us nothing of my mother’s fate.”
The songsmith lapsed into silence again, memories crowding her mind. “It sounds a hard life,” Avris ventured, finally.
The bard shrugged. “I suppose it was, but at the time, it did not seem so. My father taught me much as we companied together, even as he and my mother had done ... swordplay, and scout-lore, the planning and execution of battle. How to hunt, fish, and live off the land. If it had not been for the reason of our search, those would have been happy days, sleeping beneath the naked sky, riding my good Kioga mare every day...” Lydryth smiled wryly. “In the winters, when we were forced to shelter in Kar Garudwyn, I returned to the schoolroom. There, I learned dutifully enough, but the space within four walls was never my favorite place to be. I loved traveling. A fortunate thing, I suppose, since I’ve had to do so much of it.”
Her smile faded; then she sighed. “But the journeying with my father ended, too. One day, he came to me as I sat playing the hand-harp Lord Kerovan had given me (after he had discovered it in an ancient storeroom in Kar Garudwyn). Jervon was excited-more hopeful than I had seen him for months. He told me that he had learned of an ancient ‘Seeing Stone’ located in the north. It was said that any who had the courage to climb up the cliff to peer into this Stone would behold his or her most-desired sight. We set out that very afternoon.
“It was a long ride. We passed several villages, but as our way took us further and further north, they became fewer and fewer. The country was nigh, and, save where rivers and streams ran, grew steadily more arid-my father told me it was beginning to resemble the Waste in High Hallack, the land he and my mother had originally come from. Finally, there was but one more settlement, a small town surrounding the old, old sanctum of sorcery called Garth Howell. A place where those with the Gift of Power journey to learn how to harness and develop their innate talents.”
“Like our Place of Wisdom.”
“Yes. Except that in Arvon it is an accepted fact that men as well as women may hold the Power. Both sexes are accepted as students. We asked directions at Garth Howell, and they pointed us to the northwest. But the lay sister who kept the gate secretly warned Jervon, saying that the Stone could be dangerous.”
“But he did not heed her,” Avris guessed.
“No, he did not. We rode, and two days later, we reached the Seeing Stone ... a great cliff of crumbling ocher rock. When we reached there, late in the afternoon, it seemed to loom like something alive and malevolent. And it was strange ...”
“How so?”
“One moment I was gazing at an ordinary cliff, but then, when the shadows began stealing across the scree, I made out hollows, and protrusions ... and I realized that the entire cliff-face had, at one time, been one giant form. Possibly a female form, for I thought I glimpsed the mounds of pendulous breasts, but the face ... that was not a woman’s.”
“What did the face look like?”
“I don’t know,” Lydryth admitted, softly. “Wide, too wide to be human. Lipless, I believe. There was still the hint of teeth visible, as though she ... whatever she was ... as though she smiled. Not such a smile as I would like to see on a living countenance, Avris. But her most distinctive feature was her Eye. There was only one. A wide, dark pit above what might have been a nose.
“My father was off his horse almost before I could bring Vyar to a halt, and heading for the cliff. I flung myself down, and ran after him, calling to him to wait... wait. But his face was as set as a man who has received a mortal wound, his teeth clenched within the stubble of his beard. He thrust me aside, ordering me to wait... and then, he was climbing.”
Lydryth drew a long, shaky breath. “How he found finger and toe holds on the cliff, I know not. But he moved as steadily as a spider may on a stone wall. In moments, it seemed, he had reached the Eye. I saw him lean forward, his head and shoulders almost disappearing into the opening. A moment only he remained so, then-“ She shook her head. “He screamed my mother’s name once ...” She swallowed. “... in a voice I can still hear in the worst of my dreams. Then his grasp loosened, and he fell.” .
“Down the entire cliff?” Avris gasped.
“No. His body caught on the tiniest of ledges, near the figure’s shoulder. He lay there, unmoving.”
“What did you do?”
“Climbed the cliff myself, anchored our ropes with spikes, then lowered him in a sort of harness I fashioned from his swordbelt and mine.” Lydryth looked away. “He had a lump on the back of his head, but I do not believe it was that which caused the problem. It was that cursed Eye-the backlash of that ancient Power. When Jervon awoke, he was as he is now, mind-crippled.
“He eats when food is placed before him, stands and walks when tugged by the hand, sleeps when led to his bed. He never speaks, never smiles ... except faintly, sometimes, when I played and sang for him. And so he has been, for the past six years.”
“How dreadful!” Avris whispered. “Oh, Lydryth, I pray that Lormt will hold some answer for you.” She put out her hand, squeezed the older girl’s fingers. “But I cannot see that you are responsible for any of what happened. To climb that cliff and rescue him all by yourself-! You were brave, and more than brave, sister.”
The songsmith gave her a somber glance. “If I was, it availed little,” she said. “Many times I have thought that my father would have been better off if he had fallen to his death, that day. He was a proud man, a capable man. He would have hated what he has become. To see him as he is now, day after day, became such torture ...”
Lydryth shook her head. “Eventually, I could stand it no more. I had to go looking for someone who might be able to make him whole again. And, truly, Avris, if I can find no means of healing him, I have promised myself that I will return home long enough to grant him a merciful death.”
The journey to Kastryn, although long and wearying, proved uneventful. After many days of walking the roads, of searching out taverns where they might sing for their supper and a bed in the stable, and, occasionally, if none such were to be found, bedding down on the edges of new-turned fields, the two young women arrived in Kastryn.
Lydryth glanced around the sleeping village as they threaded a silent way through backyards in the chill grey light of predawn. “It is larger than I thought,” she whispered. “Which house is Logar’s?”
“His father is the town smith,” Avris said. “It is that stone one, there, with the smithy beside.” She pointed.
“Stay here. Let me scout,” the songsmith ordered. “I think it has been long enough for all pursuit to have been given up, but better safe than sorry, yes?”
Avris bit her lip; she was trembling with eagerness, but she nodded. “If it is safe for me to come, whistle,” she said.
Lydryth shed her pack and slid through the shadows, over a fence, through a chicken yard, over another fence. She glanced both ways before crossing the wagon-rutted road, listening with all her being for the slithery clink of chain mail, the creak of leather as a dart gun was unholstered.
Nothing.
She scurried to the silent house, scouted the deserted smithy, then peered in the windows of the bottom floor. All the rooms were deserted. She waited, listening, until the dark grey had lightened sufficiently that her eyes began to discern the colors of the early-spring flowers planted in the window boxes.
Then, rising, she made her way to the front doorstep and whistled.
In a moment, Avris was there, shivering with relief and excitement. She knocked, softly but insistently, upon the door.
Finally, they heard a sleepy exclamation within, then the sound of feet. A young man, black hair tousled, his wellmuscled body bare to the waist, swung the door open.
“Logar?” Avris breathed, pushing back her hood with trembling hands. “It is I...”
“Avris!” the young man gasped. “They came looking for you a fortnight ago! When you did not come, I thought you must be dead!” He stood staring at her as though wondering if she could possibly be real.
Avris smiled diffidently. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
Logar came out of his daze with an inarticulate cry. “Glad?” he gasped, “Glad-!” With sudden, fierce joy, he pulled her into his arms.
Lydryth turned away, leaving them alone in their happiness. She swallowed, feeling an odd pain within her, a loneliness different from any she had experienced before. You have a task to do, she reminded herself, fiercely. And you must do it alone...
As she had promised, Avris and Logar were married within the hour. Lydryth stood by the former witch’s side as Kastryn’s alderwoman joined the couple’s hands, then offered them sips from the same goblet, bites of cake from the same plate. Long before noon the couple had loaded their belongings into an ox-drawn wagon, and prepared to set their faces eastward, toward the mountains and distant Escore,
“Lydryth ... sister ...” Avris smiled tearfully as she embraced her friend. “How can I ever thank you for what you have done?”
“No need,” the songsmith said, returning the younger woman’s hug. “You have set me on the road to Lormt, and you know how much that hope means to me.”
“At least take this,” Avris said, pushing a small bag into the songsmith’s hand. “My share of our earnings. I will have little need of money where I am going, I believe. It should be sufficient for you to buy a mount, so you may travel more swiftly.”
“I cannot!” Lydryth protested. “You earned your share, just as I did.”
“Take it,” the girl said, closing the songsmith’s fingers tightly over the leather pouch. “I insist. Logar’s father tells me that there is a horse fair being held in Rylon Corners, the next town to the north of this one. A half-day’s good walk should see you there.”
“Well ...” Lydryth smiled. “It would be good to travel astride once more. I thank you, Avris.”
“We must be going, dear heart,” Logar said, sliding an arm around his bride’s shoulders. “We will name our first girl-child for you, Lady Lydryth,” he promised, clasping the songsmith’s shoulder with a sword-roughened hand. Then he swung his new wife up onto the wagonseat.
The entire village stood waving as the oxcart slowly creaked out onto the northeast road.
Lydryth refused Logar’s mother’s offer of a bed, but accepted the goodwife’s bag of provisions. She headed out of Kastryn, taking the north road, toward Rylon Corners, and, beyond that, Lormt.
* * *
It was afternoon before the songsmith reached the town, but the bustle of the horse fair was still in full swing. She threaded her way through booths offering harness and saddles, brushes and tonics, charms and hoof-gloss... all products imaginable for the health, riding and beautification of horses. Lydryth sniffed the air, smiling. It almost smells like home, here, she thought. If she closed her eyes, she could nearly imagine that she was back in the Kioga camp in the Valley of the Gryphon, “talking horse” with Obred and Guret. She thought of Vyar’s glossy coat.
None of these animals, she thought, eyeing the horses around her, are the equal of the Kioga mounts ... Out I should be able to find something to bear me on my journey.
Lydryth wandered through the bustling crowd, running her hand over a flank here, lifting a forefoot there, occasionally opening an animal’s mouth to examine its teeth.
Her small hoard of coins would not permit her to purchase one of the fine, blooded animals, so she was forced to wander among the culls, scowling more and more deeply as she examined the mounts she could afford.
She had just finished examining the teeth of a rangy grey gelding while his owner, a whip-thin trader with most of his front teeth gone (Kicked out, most likely, Lydryth thought), smiled ingratiatingly at her. “You like him, bard? Seven years old, and sound as yon stone wall.”
The songsmith smiled grimly. “You mean, despite that curb on his near hock?”
“That little bump?” the man demanded indignantly. “Call that a curb? Why, I’ll eat his saddle if that ever gives him a moment’s shortness, by Volt’s Axe, I will.”
Lydryth sniffed inquiringly at the gelding’s nostrils. “Oh, I’ll wager he’ll go perfectly sound, all right-at least until that infusion you gave him wears off. What did you use? Black willow bark?”
The trader eyed her angrily. “You can’t prove that!”
“No, but I can show someone the file marks on his teeth. Not a very expert job, you know ... anyone with half a brain will see right through it, and realize what you’ve done. Seven, hah! This horse is at least twice that!”
Without another word, the little man dragged the grey gelding’s head around and hustled rapidly off into the press of the fair.
Lydryth glared angrily after him for a moment, then shrugged. The fair was due to continue through tomorrow. Perhaps she should seek out some of the local farmers, ask to see their stock, rather than taking her chances with traders. There was always the possibility that she’d run into one of them who knew a trick she didn’t-and then she’d be burdened with a sick or crippled animal.
Still considering the livestock around her, the songsmith took out her hand-harp, then opened its case on the ground at her feet. While she decided what to do, she’d try earning a few more coins. Better to spend a little more, in order to get a far better bargain. Obred’s words ran through her mind: “Remember, girl, it takes just as many coins to feed a bad horse as it does a good one-so buy the best you can.”
She tuned the harp, running her fingers over the strings, humming under her breath to test her voice. Something suitable to the locale and the day, she thought, reviewing the songs she knew. Ah, I have it! “Lord Faral’s Race” will do nicely.
Lydryth softly began to sing:
Along the midnight road they ran
Along the broad and gleaming span
Five gallant steeds of noble pride,
Not gold, but life, hung on their ride.
A few heads turned, a few footsteps slowed, and several passersby halted to listen. Encouraged, Lydryth took a breath and swung into the refrain:
Beneath Gunnora’s golden light
Six horses raced into the night
Against the dark and fearsome knight
The Dark Light! The black knight!
At midnight...
More listeners. The songsmith’s flying fingers picked up the tempo, strumming hard as she sang louder, more ringingly:
For he had come, with helm drawn down
Into the center of the town
He challenged them with haughty voice
And dared them to make another choice.
“If you do win, I’ll go my way,
But if I win, then you will pay
A bondage through eternity
In servitude to mine and me.”
Then came Lord Faral, tall and proud,
And raised his whip to hush the crowd;
“So let it be! Then let us race
For this is a protected place.
Within Gunnora’s smile we dwell
Our horses drink from Lady’s Well,
Strive with us, if you so choose;
Race with me, and surely lose!”
“I will not race with one,” said he,
“Five noble lords must race with me.”
“Then I will my four brothers call,
That none born here become your thrall!”
A coin spun into the case; another ... then a third. Lydryth continued:
They raced along an ancient way,
Through misty moonlight, silver-grey
But dark seeks darkness for its boon
And mortal flesh meets mortal doom.
The one horse fell, and there were four
and one heart burst and could no more-
So three ran on into the dark
Then from that black whip came a spark
Of poison light; and there were two
And Miroch’s gelding threw a shoe-
By now she had collected a small crowd, and the music of her harp was augmented by hand-clapping and foot-stamping. Occasional coins thudded into the case, providing an irregular counterpoint. The minstrel swung into the final verses, playing as though her fingers were charmed:
And Faral then the Black Lord paced,
Step for step a time they raced
But oh, the mists grew cold and dread
And Faral’s stallion tossed his head.
“Abandon now,” the Dark knight said,
“For see, your brothers all are dead.”
“Far better here I make my grave,
Then let my people be your slave!
“I service to Gunnora vow,
Both hand and heart, both foot and brow,
And I shall never be forsworn
Though life from me and mine be torn!”
Then came a radiant, golden light
And lifted Faral into flight
His steed’s feet did not touch the ground
While the Dark horse tried to pound
Itself into the glittering stone
The Dark knight from its back was thrown
Crying out in agony,
The Dark did meet its destiny;
For they had come to Lady’s Well,
That holy place of which tales tell
For there, the Lady had prepared
A trap from which no Dark was spared!
As she finished with a final sweeping chord, her watchers pelted the harp case with coins. “Another, minstrel!”
A little old man waved his battered straw hat at her. “You sing as sweetly as a brown wren, songsmith! Tell me, d’you know ‘Hathor’s Ghost Stallion’?”
Lydryth hesitated. “I think so ... it goes like this?” she strummed a few chords, hummed a tune.
“That’s it!” the old man cried. “Haven’t heard that in-“
He broke off with a squawk of terror at the sudden drum of galloping hooves. The crowd scattered as a big black horse burst into their midst, heading for the field visible between two wagons. The grandsire tried to scuttle away, but tripped and fell.
As the horse swept toward them, Lydryth, without thinking, leaped forward so she was between the charging animal and the fallen man. The horse, a stallion, slid to a halt so violently that it half-reared.
“Steady, fellow!” Lydryth called, in a low, soothing voice. “Steady!”
The stallion’s ears flattened even further against its head; its eyes sparked red in the light of the westering sun. With an enraged scream it reared again, its deadly hooves slashing the air just above Lydryth’s head.