Four

Moving with the speed of desperation, Lydryth threw herself away from the stallion’s pawing hooves. She nearly tripped over the old man, who lay frozen with fear, mouth open in a soundless scream. Grabbing the grandsire by the shoulders of his homespun jerkin, the songsmith dragged him over to the perimeter of the gathering crowd. Only then did she turn back to confront the horse.

The beast stood scant paces away, its eyes white-rimmed, snorting as it dug a sharp forefoot into the trampled earth. Its hide was lathered with sweat; the rank smell of it reached her nostrils. Lydryth realized that anger was not the only reason for the creature’s attack-this animal was frightened as well as enraged.

A broken halter hung from the runaway’s neck, and its black coat was patched with tufts of thick winter hair, like a bearskin invaded by moths. An untidy bristle of upstanding mane crested the thick neck. Lydryth ran her eyes over its conformation, noting the powerful legs, broad, muscled hindquarters, and sloping shoulders. Not tall or slender-legged enough for a sprinter, she concluded, but he looks as though he could run all day. I wonder what breed he is?

The songsmith’s blue eyes narrowed as she frowned. Something about this creature was familiar-disturbingly familiar.

The animal snorted nervously, then rolled its eyes at the milling crowd of onlookers now surrounding them. It sniffed the spring breeze, as though searching for something-or someone.

“I’ll snare his forefeet and throw him. Bring a rope!” a burly man in the crowd called.

Lydryth saw muscles tense beneath that ebon hide as the stud sidled, muscles tensing. “Ho, son ... easy now,” she whispered, extending one hand as she stepped forward. “If you jump into the crowd, you’ll surely hurt someone, so ... whoa, now. Easy ... easy ...”

Black ears swiveled sharply forward to catch the crooning sound other voice, but as Lydryth ventured another step, the horse flattened his ears, snorting an unmistakable warning. The onlookers gasped. The girl halted; then, remembering how she had soothed her own Kioga mare, Vyar, she began humming softly. The tune was the one the old man had requested only minutes ago.

Slowly, the black’s ears moved forward as it listened. Gradually, its shivering eased. The muttering of the crowd faded into silence as Lydryth began singing, the words floating liquid and eerie in the still air:

Lord Hathor and his horse were slain

By the traitor’s hand

Now in moon-dark, mist and rain

His stallion strides the land.

His soul is filled with vengeance

His eyes are filled with fire,

And he has promised treachery

Full venting of his ire.

Slowly, the songsmith stepped toward the creature... one step ... two ... a third ...

Finally, she was at the animal’s side. Lydryth held out her hand, feeling the warm puffs of breath as the horse scented her. She had to force herself to hold steady, knowing only too well the size of the teeth that were barely a handspan from her flesh. But he made no offer to snap.

Lord Hathor, he was first to die,

All in his youthful bloom

But e’er death glazed the stallion’s eyes

The beast swore fearful doom.

The girl raised a hand to stroke the horse’s neck. “No! Lady, touch him not! He will kill you!” The frantic shout came from some distance away. Lydryth’s voice wavered, and the black ears flattened. Hastily, the songsmith resumed her soothing music. She did not turn around, but out of the comer other eye the young woman glimpsed a running figure bursting out from between the farrier’s forge and the saddlemaker’s display. The newcomer began shoving a passage through the crowd.

Bending her head, Lydryth breathed gently into the red-rimmed, distended nostrils. They fluttered, but the animal did not move. She laid hand to the hot, sweaty neck, then began to stroke it gently, still singing.

Of moonlight is the horse’s mane

His blood is formed from death

His teeth are now a traitor’s bane

And fury now his breath.

When the stone-hard muscles beneath her fingers finally relaxed, the songsmith dared to grasp the broken halter. Reaching into the pocket of her jerkin, she took out a length of rawhide, using it to lace the leather straps together. All the while, she hummed softly.

Only when Lydryth was able to grasp the runaway by the now-repaired halter did she turn to regard the man who had shouted such a dire warning.

“Were you speaking to me, good sir?” she asked mildly.

The newcomer frankly gaped at her as she stood beside the now-placid horse, still humming. Of medium height and whipslender, he gave the impression of a wiry toughness and strength. His hair was as black as the stallion’s mane, his eyes dark grey. By the cast of his features he was young, but there was something ageless about him. Plainly, he was of the Old Race ... and yet- yet-

For a moment Lydryth sensed something different about the newcomer ... something that set him apart from the townspeople and farmers milling around him. Somehow, he seemed more distinct than the others. The songsmith blinked, startled; then the fleeting impression was gone. Facing her was naught but a young man, dressed simply in an unbleached linen shirt with a leather overjerkin, tan buckskin breeches, and battered, knee-high riding boots.

The stranger gave her a wry grin accompanied by a congratulatory bow. “I said, “Thank you for capturing my horse, minstrel.’” His voice was a low, pleasant baritone, and his accent was that of an educated man, at variance with his rough clothing. A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, which then began dispersing, seeing that the excitement was now over.

Lydryth smiled, still patting the horse. “You are welcome, sir. Tell me, how did he come to be loose?”

The young man rubbed the back of his neck as though it pained him. “It was my fault,” he admitted, unwrapping a leather lead-shank from about his waist and fastening it to the runaway’s halter. The beast rumbled a low greeting deep in its throat. “I was careless. I took him to graze along the riverbank, and two ruffians evidently decided that it was easier to steal a mount than to acquire one honestly.”

“They attacked you?”

“They were upon me before I knew they were there! One moment I was turning, thinking I heard a sound, the next I returned to my senses stretched out on the ground, with my horse nowhere to be seen. One of the brigands lay an arm’s length away, trampled and dead, while the other was just disappearing into the forest, cradling an arm that will require splinting, if I’m any judge.”

The man shook his head ruefully as he scratched behind the horse’s ears, causing it to rub its head against him, nearly knocking him over. “This fellow has been trained to let no one else touch him. I was certain that you were about to share his would-be thieves’ fate. But I was wrong.” The newcomer gave Lydryth a searching look that made her cheeks grow warm. “Such lovely singing was too much for even Monso to resist.”

Monso. Lydryth stared at the newcomer in shock. That means “wind-swift” in the Old Tongue. But... how does this man come to know the Old Tongue?

Her mind racing, Lydryth walked over to pick up her harp where it lay on the ground. After running her fingers over the wood and strings, she returned it to her pack.

“Is your harp damaged. Lady ... Lady Songsmith?” the man asked worriedly.

She shook her head. “It is fine. I am Lydryth ... and you are?”

He hesitated for a bare second, then bowed again. “I am called Dakar, Lady Lydryth.”

Again the bard was careful not to betray any outward reaction to his words. Dakar means “shadow” in the Old Tongue. Who is this man? Could he be from Arvon?

Dakar ran a hand down Monso’s neck, then across the broad chest. “He’s still sweating... I should walk him, lest his muscles cramp or stiffen. Will you ... will you walk with us for a moment. Lady? I have scarcely thanked you.”

“It was nothing,” Lydryth demurred, but she slung her pack over her shoulders, then followed him as he led the stallion away from the fair booths toward an open meadow lying near the racecourse. It was late afternoon now; the sun was dropping toward the dark shadow of the surrounding forest. The tiny white and gold lover’s knots dotting the turf were beginning to close their petals. The bustle of the fair faded to a faint murmur far behind them as they walked.

Dakar glanced over at the racecourse, where the track was being smoothed by a heavy stone block dragged behind two oxen. “Soon it will be time for the day’s race,” he muttered, resting a hand on Monso’s neck. He felt between the animal’s forelegs, then, satisfied that the horse was now cool, halted him, allowing his mount to crop eagerly at the spring-green grass.

The youth rested an arm across his horse’s back, leaning comfortably against the animal’s barrel. He was not tall; his eyes and Lydryth’s were nearly on a level as they stood together. “What brings you to the horse fair. Lady?” he asked.

Lydryth briefly explained her desire for a mount to carry her on her journeying, but admitted ruefully that her taste in horseflesh exceeded the wealth of her purse. Dakar nodded sympathetically. “There is fine stock to be had here. Lady, but only for those with the silver to purchase it. True bargains when buying horseflesh are rare.”

Lydryth sighed. “You are right. I had just decided I would be better off earning yet another night’s worth of silver, then trying again on the morrow. But I am anxious to proceed to Lormt-even a day’s delay seems an eternity!”

“Lormt?” he gave her a sharp, sidelong glance. Plainly, he had heard of the ancient stronghold of knowledge.

“You know of Lormt?” she asked, eagerly. “Have you ever been there?”

“Never within its walls. Lady. But I worked with a mountain guide for nearly a year, leading parties into Escore, and we were accustomed to camp outside Lormt’s walls on each trip. We watered our horses at the village well. The master chronicler, Duratan, gave my partner permission to do so.”

“Have you met any of the scholars there? Any who might know aught of ancient scrolls having to do with healing?”

Dakar shook his head. “No, always I remained with the party while Jon-“ He broke off in midname, his mouth tightening, then continued, not looking at her. “-while my partner consulted with the scholars.”

“But still, you know the way there. Is the overland route by way of South Wending the most direct road?”

He nodded. “It is. Except that there is an old forest trail after you pass South Wending that will save you half a day’s journey. The entrance is nearly overgrown, but the path itself is dear. Look for it on your left just past a tall bank of red clay with a stream running at its foot.”

“Thank you,” Lydryth said.

“You are most welcome. I only wish I could be of more help. I can tell that your journey is ... important.”

The songsmith glanced away. “You have aided me. Anything that will hasten my journeying is all to the good. I am in your debt.”

“Nonsense, my lady. I owe you far more than that, for catching Monso. Doubtless you kept him from injuring someone, or, at the least, damaging property.” Dakar stopped to gaze thoughtfully over at the oval of beaten earth where soon the races would be run. A moment later, he turned back to catch the songsmith’s gaze, hold it with his own.

“If I had coin of my own, I’d give it to you. Lady,” he said, his pleasant voice suddenly low and intense. “Regrettably, races have been few and far between here in the south of Estcarp, and at the moment I have barely enough to pay my entry fee. But if you will trust me enough to risk some of your own silver, I swear that it will profit you.”

Dakar took a brush from a pocket in his jerkin and began grooming his horse. Dried sweat rose in a dusty, salty cloud. “My beast may not be as tall, or as sleek and well groomed as these local beauties. Lady-but over a course this length, nothing can stay with him, much less pass him. Wager on us, and you’ll not lose.”

“But it’s a long way from the riverbank to the fairgrounds,” Lydryth pointed out. “He’s run himself into a lather once already today. I saw some of the racers earlier-they are fine, blooded animals, and fresh, as Monso is not. How can you defeat them?” Monso snorted explosively, then curled his upper lip, almost as though he were laughing. Dakar grinned as he curried his mount’s back. “I admit it sounds unlikely, but I know what I know. Wager on us. Lady Lydryth, and you’ll not have to sing tonight to earn extra silver.”

The minstrel gazed at both horse and master for a long moment, then nodded. “May you race as fast as ever Lord Faral did, Dakar. I will go and place my wager.”

Monso snorted again, then bobbed his head as though he understood and agreed perfectly.

An hour later, Lydryth jostled for position along the hedges dividing the racecourse from the fairground. Tucked safely into her coin purse was a flat chip of wood, marked with the amount of her wager and the odds. As she had suspected, Monso was not among those favored to win the race-too many people had seen the runaway’s mad flight across the fairgrounds. Any horse that had already spent itself so greatly was regarded as too leg-weary to prove a dangerous challenger.

The songsmith squinted, trying to make out the field against the reddish glare from the westering sun.

There! One spot of dull brown and black, contrasting vividly with the colorful caps, sashes and saddlecloths of the other entries. Dakar rode Monso onto the course, his saddle one of the light ones used by battle-couriers. Unlike the other riders with their long-legged, secure seats, he rode with his stirrups short, almost perched atop, rather than astride, his mount.

Lydryth smiled inwardly. The Kioga rode like that when they raced ... short-stirruped, crouching over their horses’ withers, rather than sitting heavily on their backs. The young woman knew from experience that Dakar’s position in the saddle would permit his horse maximum freedom of stride, while greatly lessening wind resistance.

Around her, the townspeople of Rylon Comers also noticed the stranger’s odd seat. Several rough-looking rogues that she’d seen in the wagering tent pointed and laughed, predicting that the young man would find his brains spattered on the packed earth as soon as the race began.

As the horses milled behind a rope stretched across the track, the official starter took her place. She was the mayor’s wife, a greying, buxom woman who stood beside the judges on the inside of the racecourse. In her hand was a red scarf that fluttered in the wind.

Minutes went by as the horses wheeled and sidled, their riders urging them into their appointed positions on the starting line. Lydryth noticed that none of the other animals would stand within a length of Monso. As though he had expected no less, Dakar, without being told, took up position on the far outside, where he would have the greatest distance to run-an additional handicap. Lydryth bit her lip, thinking of the silver coins she had wagered... thinking how ill she could afford to lose them. A moment later, the line of horses momentarily steadied; then suddenly the strip of red silk fluttered free.

The rope barrier dropped.

A roar of excitement erupted from the watching crowd as the racers lunged forward, trying to gain a position next to the inside hedge. Great clumps of dried mud pelted the crowd, thrown up by the thundering hooves.

Monso! Where is he?

Lydryth craned her neck, trying desperately to see, but many of the men in the crowd were taller than she. She ducked between a goodwife carrying two hens in a cage, and a blank shield whose breath proclaimed his afternoon in an alehouse. On tiptoe, fists clenched, she squinted at the course. Slowly, she was able to pick out the individual horses.

The grey in the lead, then the red chestnut... third was the dun ... the golden bay was neck-and-neck with the liver chestnut, then came the dark bay with the blaze face. But no black! Fear tightened like a fist on Lydryth’s throat. Monso!

Dakar! Where are you?

Anxiously, the bard looked back along the length of the track, fearing to see a downed horse and rider. But the hoof-scarred clay was clear. Puzzled, she turned back to the race. The horses, still closely bunched, were approaching the far turn. But as they reached the opposite side of the oval track, Lydryth made out a smaller, black shadow clinging like a sticktight to the side of the second-running chestnut!

“Go!” Lydryth whispered, not even hearing herself amid the din of the crowd. “Run, Monso!”

As if he had indeed heard her, Dakar guided the black horse perilously closer to the inside hedge; then there was free track before them! Lydryth gasped as Monso leaped forward so swiftly that it seemed as though he had only now begun to run. In the space of a heartbeat he was beside the grey leader. Then he was past-a length in front-two lengths-

Lydryth clapped a hand to her mouth, seeing that Dakar was holding his mount tight-reined, not allowing him to run full-out. His hands moved, pulling hard, working the steel bit against the comers of the horse’s mouth. And still the black, moving with the speed of an advancing tempest, continued to gain!

Monso was a full four lengths in the lead when he swept past the finish pole. There was no cheering from the crowd, only a stunned silence.

“ ‘Tis unnatural!” the woman with the hens exclaimed finally. “That creature ran past Hawrel’s Grey Arrow as though the beast was hitched to a plow-and that grey is the fastest horse the town’s seen in a score o’ years!”

“Aye,” the blank-shield muttered, disgustedly snapping his wagering chip in two. “No horse should have been able t’ run like that, after that chase cross the fairground today. No normal horse, that is.”

No normal horse.

Sudden realization made Lydryth fasten her teeth in her lower lip to avoid crying out in recognition. Now she knew where she’d seen Monso’s like before. That spark of red in the beast’s eyes had been no reflection of the sun! That creature is no more a mortal horse than Hathor’s Ghost Stallion! she thought. But... howl How could anyone catch and master a Keplian!

The songsmith vividly remembered the time she had seen one of the demon horse-spirits sent by the Dark to lure un- wary travelers. It had been shortly after her mother disappeared. She, Jervon and Lord Kerovan had been out searching, and had camped for the night near a stream in a seemingly deserted valley.

Lydryth had rolled out of her blankets in the silver dimness before dawn, only to see the creature standing just outside their camp. The Keplian had the seeming of a tall, perfect black stallion as it had stood cropping the dew-heavy grass. Both she and Jervon had cried out with pleasure at the sheer beauty of its delicate head, its straight, clean-boned legs... the flowing lines of its arched neck and straight-backed body.

Both she and her father had started toward it, enthralled by the creature’s unearthly beauty. Both of them might well have been ensnared past all saving, but suddenly, Kerovan stepped into their path, the wristband that he wore glowing brightly. As its light bathed their eyes, they staggered back, returning to their senses, for the ancient talisman possessed the ability to warn and guard against the presence of any evil.

Kerovan had raised his arm in a warding gesture. “Get you gone, fell thing! Do not return!” As the wristlet’s light struck the Keplian, it had snorted with pain, then raced away.

So Monso is a Keplian. That explains much, Lydryth thought, standing bemused, hardly hearing the disappointed grumblings of the departing onlookers. And yet ...he does not have that unnatural perfection of form that the creature I saw possessed. Could he be a crossbred? Is it possible that Keplians can mate with mortal horses?

Her speculations continued without answer as the songsmith turned to make her way through the thinning crowd, her goal the wagering tent and the claiming of her winnings.

The race had been the last event of the horse fair; all around her horse traders and merchants were feeding their stock and closing up their pavilions until the morrow, when the fair would reopen. The sun was setting rapidly now, and by the time she emerged from the wagering tent, blue twilight was stealing across the land like a thief, robbing the place of color and life.

Lydryth smiled as she walked, feeling the heavy purse weighing down the belt she wore inside her jerkin. Enough, and more than enough to purchase a fine mount. I’ll be in Lormt ere I thought possible!

As she set off across the nearly deserted tangle of tents and booths, Lydryth saw Dakar walking Monso not far from where they had first met. Shrugging her pack a little higher on her shoulders, the songsmith veered aside from her chosen path with the intention of thanking the youth.

Torchlight sputtered in the night breeze that had sprung up, its reflection again awakening that disturbing scarlet spark in the black stallion’s eyes. Lydryth halted, staring at the unlikely pair. After all, what did she know of Dakar? He rode a Keplian. It was therefore entirely possible-nay, probable-that he himself was of the Left-Hand Path, one of the Dark Ones. Legend held that they were often handsome, or beautiful ... as fair outside as they were foul within.

As she wavered, on the verge of turning away, Dakar looked up, then waved cheerfully. “Lady Lydryth!” he called, as she came toward him. “Did you see the race?”

The minstrel nodded. “I did. Lord Faral’s horse could not have run more swiftly!” As she reached him, she added, in a lower tone, “Now I will be able to reach Lormt in only a few days, thanks to my wager. I am indeed in your debt.”

The young man shook his head. “Nonsense. We would have raced for the winner’s purse whether or not you were wagering on us, my lady. I am just glad that you will be able to continue your journeying well-mounted.”

Lydryth hesitated, tempted to ask where he and Monso would be going, now that the race day was over, but what was the sense in that? She would never see him-or his strange mount-again. The songsmith sighed, resolutely straightening her shoulders beneath the heavy pack. “Farewell, then, Dakar, and a safe journey to you on the morrow,” she said.

He appeared to hesitate in his turn, then finally nodded. “A safe journey to you ... and may you find what you are seeking.” He held out his hand.

Lydryth clasped hands with him in a warrior’s grip, feeling the leather-callused roughness of his palm against her own harpstring-toughened fingers. She saw his eyes widen slightly at the strength of her grip; then he smiled, his clasp shifted, and he bowed formally over her hand in courtly fashion. “Fare you well, Lady Eyd-“

“Spawn of the Dark!”

“You cheated! That’s no ordinary horse!”

“Cheater! You witched my Grey Arrow!”

Lydryth and Dakar started, whirling to see a group of men approaching them, their shadowy forms huge and wavering in the wind-whipped torchlight.

Monso’s rider put up his hands in a conciliatory fashion as the figures ranged themselves around them, hemming them in past all escape. “Gently, goodmen, gently! If any of you feel that my horse did not win fairly, you should have spoken to the judges before Monso was officially declared the winner. There was no such protest entered.”

“That’s because we were all bespelled!” Grey Arrow’s owner, Hawrel, a tall, rawboned farmer with the fair hair of a Sulcannan, stepped forward. “You made fools of us all, but we’ve come to our senses now, and we demand you make right our losses!”

Monso lowered his head, snorting. One sharp hoof pawed in unmistakable challenge. Dakar grabbed the Keplian’s halter, whispering to him, and slowly the black calmed. “Very well,” his master said. “I want no trouble-for your sakes, as much as my own. I will give you what I have.”

Lydryth made a small motion of protest, but did not speak, as Dakar slowly withdrew his winner’s purse from within his jerkin. Five ... six ... She counted the figures in that grim circle, noting that several were armed with cudgels and one with a sword. Too many to fight. And Dakar did cheat ... racing a Keplian against mortal horses is hardly fair-but neither is this! she thought angrily, watching the young man grimly weigh the purse in his hand, then toss it at Hawrel’s feet. “Take it, then, and leave us in peace,” he said, his shoulders sagging with sudden weariness. “I will leave your town, and nothing could induce me to return, I assure you.”

The protesters did not miss the bitter mockery in his words.

Stung, they surged forward until Lydryth could recognize other faces-Grey Arrow’s bowlegged little rider ... the broad-shouldered blank-shield who had been standing near her in the crowd, the palm-polished grip of his sword gleaming faintly ... the village blacksmith ... the horse trader whose animal she’d rejected. The sixth man wore a muffling hood that hid his features.

“We’ll not stand here and be mocked by a cheating rascal of a boy!” the smith snarled, slapping the rasp he carried against his callused palm. “You and that unnatural beast both deserve a beating, and that is what you’re going to receive!”

“Wait!” Dakar held up both hands, genuinely alarmed now. “You must not! You could be killed! I want no bloodshed, please! At least allow the songsmith to-“

“At them, then, lads!” Hawrel shouted, and in deadly silence, the men rushed them. The songsmith dodged the one wearing the hood, her quarterstaff sweeping the ground, sending her attacker thudding heavily to the ground.

As he lay there, winded, Lydryth gave him a carefully calculated rap on the back of the head that stretched him out, unconscious; then she turned back to aid her companion. Dakar was holding onto his horse, shouting commands, while the heavyset blacksmith brandished his rasp at the young man’s head, all the while trying to pull Monso’s lead-shank away.

Hawrel grabbed the youth from behind, one hand clamping brutally over his mouth, his other arm tightening over his throat. The smith yanked the horse toward him, aiming a blow at the creature’s head with the rasp.

The Keplian went up on his hind legs with a piercing scream of fury, forehooves slashing. His eyes flashed bloodied in the torchlight as the demon-horse struck like a snake. He grabbed the smith’s arm, hoisting the man clean up into the air, his bared teeth ripping through heavy clothing and skin alike to lay the brawny forearm open to the bone. The injured man dangled, shrieking.

“Monso!” Dakar shouted, tearing his mouth free of Hawrel’s grip. “No! Touch them not!”

Monso shook the smith as though he were a rat, then dropped him.

The bronze-sheathed butt of Lydryth’s quarterstaff came down on the Sulcar fanner’s head, sending him staggering, freeing Dakar, who ran to his horse, drawing his belt knife. The blank-shield rushed at him, his own knife out. Dakar struck out, trying to fend off his attacker, but it was clear to the songsmith that the youth was far from an experienced fighter. Even as Lydryth leaped to defend him, the mercenary nicked the knife out of the youth’s grasp. Kicking it away, the big man advanced, his own blade weaving expertly before him.

Lydryth swung at his arm, but Hawrel’s cudgel struck her shoulder, deflecting her stroke and sending a lance of pain down her arm. Gasping from the hurt, she lashed out at him; then trained muscles took over, and she was in the thick of the fight, automatically dodging, parrying, rapping the four remaining attackers sharply with the staff every time they left her an opening.

Cursing, the townsmen staggered back, out of range, wary now. One of them stumbled over the hooded man; then they dragged him with him. The smith was gone. Panting, Lydryth spoke to Dakar without taking her eyes off their foes. “Are you hurt?”

For answer, something large brushed her shoulder, sending her staggering.

Monso!

The stallion sprang forward, Dakar clinging to his mane; then, with a snort and a drum of hooves, mount and rider were through and away, leaving Lydryth to face their attackers alone.

With a bitter grimace-When will I ever learn to keep from barging into fights that aren’t mine?-the bard braced herself for the next rush.

“So, songsmith,” the blank-shield chuckled, drawing his sword, “looks as though you’ve been stuck with the burnt end of the stick, don’t it? Yer sweetheart just left ye t’ fend for yourself.”

Grey Arrow’s rider frowned uncertainly. “I dunno,” he muttered. “I don’t hold with fightin’ a bard. ‘Tis said t’ be bad luck. Some of uns can curse ye with a song, ‘tis said. ‘Sides,” he pointed out, “she’s a woman.”

“The Dark Ones take her, she hits like a man, I say treat her like one,” Hawrel said, rubbing his head and glaring at Lydryth. “ ‘Tis a wonder my skull ain’t cracked, sure enough!”

“That’s a big purse she’s carrying,” the hooded man whispered, climbing slowly to his feet. His concealing garment fell back, revealing skin darkened by sun to the color of an ancient bronze shield, and grizzled hair. “I watched Norden count out her winnin’s, and they was enough t’ choke a donkey. We can get the rest o’ our losses back from her.”

The wiry little rider shook his head. “Not me, I’m not risking any curse-songs. And I don’t hold with stealing. Count me out, lads.”

He turned and walked away into the night. The other men hesitated. “Give us the purse, songsmith,” Hawrel said. “And we might let you off with only a few bruises to make up for those you gave us.”

Gunnora, aid me, Lydryth prayed. Let me take two of them with me. She shook her head, not speaking.

“Your decision, then,” the Sulcarman growled.

Lydryth grasped the slender barrel of the gryphon’s body, the metal cool and comforting to her staff-chafed hand, and pulled. A blade of shining steel emerged from where it had been fitted into the length of the quarterstaff.

Lydryth saluted her opponents with the now-revealed sword, smiling grimly at their unconcealed surprise.

“She knows how t’ use that blade,” the hooded man observed, uneasily. He was still not steady on his feet.

“And if she does?” the blank-shield said. “There’s still three of us, and I’m no stranger to swordplay. I’ll keep her busy, and you take her from behind.”

Slowly they began spreading out to do his bidding. Lydryth braced herself as they gathered themselves for a charge-

The thunder of racing hoofbeats suddenly filled the night!

“Songsmith! Be ready!” Dakar shouted, as he galloped toward her on Monso. The hooded man grabbed a lit torch and swiped at the Keplian. He screamed shrilly as the stallion lashed out with a forefoot; then they burst through, knocking Hawrel sprawling. The blank-shield fell back before the Keplian’s bared teeth.

Lydryth had already resheathed her sword. She handed up her quarterstaff; then, grabbing the hand Dakar extended, she vaulted up behind him onto the dancing, plunging horse. She had barely enough time to snatch her weapon and grasp Dakar’s belt one-handed before Monso’s haunches bunched beneath her.

The Keplian sprang forward with a leap that nearly unseated her; then they were off, racing away from the torchlight, into the dark.

Five

Lydryth waited for Monso to slow once they left the fairground, but the stallion thundered on, his speed never slackening. He was running much faster than he had during the race; she could feel Dakar fighting to bring him under control, but to no avail.

Lydryth had heard tales, sung songs, of wanderers lured into mounting Keplians, then being borne off to a fate best not envisioned. She had always wondered why the hapless riders did not simply leap from the demon-horse’s back.

Now she knew; such a plunge from the back of a Keplian galloping at full stride would mean almost certain death.

The girl knew herself to be a good-nay, an expert-rider, but even so, she was in grave danger of being unseated. The moonless night was so dark that she could not see the horse’s head past Dakar’s shoulder, and thus she was caught unawares whenever the beast swerved sharply, or, in several cases, hurdled obstacles lying in their path.

Lydryth’s left hand was locked in a death-grip on her companion’s belt, but she dared not clamp her lower legs around her mount’s sensitive flanks-to do so would have set Monso bucking and plunging like an unbroken colt. Instead she tightened her thigh muscles, struggling to keep her balance on the swaying, heaving creature she bestrode.

They hurtled down a slope at breakneck speed, and the songsmith shut her eyes, tempted to abandon her quarterstaff so that she might hold on with both hands. She felt Dakar lean forward; then the black wind of their passage carried his gasped warning. “Hold tight! There’s a stream!”

Lydryth flattened herself against him, her arm clutching him round the waist. Muscles bunched beneath her; then for a breathless instant they hung suspended, creatures of air, not earth.

With a neck-snapping jar, they landed. One hind foot skimmed the water; icy droplets spattered both riders. Dakar was fighting the Keplian again; Lydryth could feel the muscles in his back tense as he exerted all his skill to gain mastery. But the runaway snorted, shaking his head, refusing to yield to the bit.

The songsmith closed her eyes, knowing that she could not hold on much longer. She heard Dakar muttering, but could not make out what he was saying. They lunged up a slope, and Lydryth felt herself slipping ... slipping...

With a suddenness that caused her to lose her seat entirely, Monso halted on the crest of a hill.

The girl was thrown forward, banging her nose painfully against Dakar’s shoulder, then flung just as abruptly backward. She slid off over the Keplian’s rump, landing in an undignified huddle directly behind the demon-horse.

Lydryth gasped for breath, but her wind was knocked out. Monso sidled nervously, switching his tail, and the harsh strands whipped across her face. The resulting sting revived the songsmith sufficiently to make her aware of her danger, and she managed to roll over, out of range, lest Monso should kick. But the Keplian made no further move, only stood head down, blowing, seeming all at once like an ordinary horse silhouetted against the starry expanse of night sky.

“Lady Lydryth, are you hurt? Lady?” Dakar swung off, his movements stiff, lacking his usual grace. Lydryth heard a muttered curse as he stumbled, nearly falling in his turn. Then he was crouching beside her. “Lady Lydryth?”

The songsmith struggled again for breath, and this time succeeded in drawing a lungful of clean air. “Wind ... knocked out,” she panted.

He aided her into a sitting position, steadying her against his raised knee. “I am sorry that was such a rough ride. Lady. He had the bit in his teeth, and I could not stop him until now.”

She nodded, then shivered, feeling suddenly weak and wobbly as a newborn foal. Reaction to tonight’s danger, she realized, trying to breathe slowly, evenly, in order to slow the racing of her heart. “I thought you had left me to those ruffians,” she whispered, finally.

“What else could you think?” he asked, in a bitter tone that she realized was directed at himself. “For that I am sorry, too. But I had to fetch my saddle and supplies... and, even more, I had to get Monso away before he could do any further harm. He would have killed those men, and such could have ... awakened... something in him that must never be unleashed. There is ... a darker side to his nature.”

“Naturally.” Lydryth spoke tartly as she tentatively moved her limbs, exploring bruises sustained in the fight and her fall. “He is a Keplian, after all.”

Moonrise was yet hours off; the night was too dark to allow her to see his expression, but she felt him start and heard his quick, indrawn breath. “How did you know?”

“Do not think to deny it,” she said. “I have seen a horsedemon before. And even those fanners recognized that Monso is not a normal creature. Hawrel was right-you were cheating, to race him against ordinary horses. I am surprised that the people of Rylon Comers were the first ones to realize that and object.”

“I won the other races in a far less ... spectacular ... fashion,” Dakar told her, dryly. “But today, Monso was so excited after the thieves tried to steal him that he would not be held back.”

“The word will be out, now.” Lydryth ran searching fingers anxiously over her harp, finding it-Fortune be praised!-undamaged. Then, sore muscles protesting, she climbed to her feet. The wind on the hillside tugged at her cropped curls as she turned her head, trying to discern her surroundings. She could see little, except short-turfed hillside occasionally studded with darker clumps that must be bushes. “You and your Keplian had both best find another method of earning your way here in Estcarp,” she muttered absently. “Next time you are so beset, I will not be there to aid you.”

Dakar also rose, standing close beside her. He peered at her face as though he could see her, though she knew he must be as night-blind as she. “Why did you aid me this time?” he asked, quietly. “If you had left before it began, they would doubtless have let you go.”

“Because it was obvious that you could not aid yourself,” Lydryth replied. “Did no one ever teach you to fight?”

“No,” he answered, a rueful note in his voice. “Before this night I never had need to defend myself physically.”

And yet, from his speech and manners, he was raised in a noble household, the songsmith thought with a frown. Which should have included lessoning from an arms-master. Truly this Dakar is a cipher! It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he had never been taught swordplay, but Lydryth repressed the urge. She had no wish to know why, she told herself, because she could ill afford to become caught up in another’s problems ... she had a quest of her own that was challenge enough.

“I must walk Monso,” her companion said, stripping saddle and saddlebags from the Keplian’s back.

“I suppose we should camp here,” Lydryth said, reluctantly. “It is too dark to find our way back to the road tonight.”

She saw the pale oval of his face as he nodded. “There seem to be several trees and large boulders over there,” he said, pointing. “They would break the wind. The night is chilly already, and will be colder yet before dawn.”

“Dare we kindle a fire?” she wondered aloud.

“I doubt that Hawrel and his supporters will risk further injury by following us,” he said. “And there is no one else with any reason to seek me out.” There was an ironic note in his voice. “If you can say the same. Lady, then by all means let us have a fire.”

Lydryth thought of the witches as she shouldered her pack and Dakar’s saddlebags; then she shook her head. She and Avris had been nearly a full moon on the road; surely any search the witches had ordered had been given up long ago. Cautiously, she began picking her way across the hilltop.

Her night-sight was complete, now, and she could dimly make out the grove of trees Dakar had mentioned. The hilltop was large and fairly level. The grass is so short, it must be used for grazing ... probably sheep or goats, she decided. We must be careful to be away by dawn, lest we encounter an angry shepherd.

The lights of Rylon Comers sparkled in the distance, seeming almost farther away than the stars overhead.

Lydryth set up camp in the grove, kindling a pocket of fire behind a huge boulder that would conceal the small blaze from anyone in the town. Wrapping her cloak around her shoulders, she sat down on a log, rubbing her hands before the flames, grateful for their warmth.

A short while later, Dakar returned to feed, water and rub down Monso. Only when his mount was comfortable and settled for the night did the young man rest. He nodded silent thanks for the hunks of journeybread and venison jerky that Lydryth passed him from her pack. Silent with weariness, the two travelers ate, sharing a flask of rather sour wine Dakar produced.

Monso finished his oats, then ambled away to graze.

“You can leave him loose?” Lydryth asked, in surprise.

“Always he has stayed with me,” Dakar said. “We are ... companions, more than mount and master.”

The songsmith tugged her cloak closer around her shoulders. “Before today, I would have sworn that no one could capture-much less tame-a Keplian. How did you do it?”

“Monso is not a full-blooded Keplian,” her companion explained. “His sire was a Torgian stallion that was my first horse, his dam a Keplian mare. We found her, newly foaled, the morning after a battle in Escore. A Grey One had killed her mother. The filly was so young that she had not yet been corrupted by the Dark Adepts who breed the demon-horses.”

“And you were able to mate her with your Torgian?” Lydryth had seen animals of the much-valued Torgian breed, steeds bred near the Fens of Tonnarsh to possess both swiftness and great stamina. “But none of the horses in the race today would even approach Monso.”

“There are many who live in Escore who use magic as naturally as breathing,” Dakar said. “One such Adept was able to use his Power to accomplish the breeding.”

“I see,” Lydryth said. “Did you know him well, this Adept, this sorcerer?”

Dakar was silent for a long moment, head bowed. The songsmith studied his face, the angles of brow, cheekbones and jaw touched with firelight, the rest a mask sculpted by shadows. Finally he nodded. “Hilarion was the closest I ever came to having a father. He and his lady, the sorceress Kaththea, opened their ancient citadel to me when I naught but a boy, wandering a war-riven land with no companion but my Torgian. In a very real sense, theirs was the first true home I had ever known.”

“Kaththea?” Lydryth’s eyes widened. “I have heard that name. Is she not the daughter of Lord Simon Tregarth and the former witch, the Lady Jaelithe?”

“The very same.”

“They say all three of their children were born at one birth-and that each has the Power.”

“That is true,” Dakar said. “When there is need, the three of them unite and become One in shared power. However, each also possesses his or her own abilities. Lord Kyllan with animals. Lord Kemoc with ancient lore and Words of Power, and the Lady Kaththea with sorcery. She has always been the most powerful of the three.”

“So you grew to manhood in a household surrounded by these magic-wielders?”

“Each of the Tregarths now has his or her own household in Escore,” Alon replied. “But they stay very close-they can speak without words when there is need.”

Lydryth, having seen similar closeness among her own family members, could well believe such. She nodded, memories crowding her mind. “I know what it is like to live among those with Power,” she admitted.

“You lived in such a household also?” Dakar’s eyes were intent on her face. “In Escore?”

“No, in another place. A land called Arvon, across the sea from Estcarp.”

“Arvon ...,” he whispered. “I have heard of it. Hilarion told me that when he first lived in Escore, before the Old Race crossed the mountains bordering Estcarp on the east, that there was a legend telling of two lands that had once been one land. Escore ...and Arvon.”

Lydryth blinked in surprise. “This Hilarion must be old,” she said, startled into bluntness. “Time-out-of-mind old. There are ancient runes and scrolls in the Citadel of Kar Garudwyn, even some maps, and they show naught but wasteland lying to the far west of my land, wasteland that becomes a death-haunted desert.”

“And what lies beyond the desert?”

“No one seemed certain. That land was blighted, poisonous to all life, and none dared traverse it. One Adept wrote that he had scryed far to the west, and that the land became ever more seared, until it ended on the melted, glassy shores of an uncanny sea inhabited by strange creatures.”

“Which fits the legends Hilarion remembers.” Dakar smiled a little. “My lord is not the greybeard you envision, my lady. He spent considerable time imprisoned beyond a Gate where

Time ran differently than it does on this world. Have you ever heard of such?”

“Yes, I know of the Gates.”

Her companion hesitated. “You seem to know much about the uses of Power, my lady. Are you a Wise Woman, then?”

“No.”

“A witch or sorceress?” he persisted.

She laughed, but the sound held a bitter note. “No, no, and no! I am no more a Holder of Power than you are, friend Dakar. Of all those who reside in Kar Garudwyn, only my father and I lack the Gift.”

“I, too, know what it is like to be set apart,” Dakar said, his eyes holding hers. “But... Lady ... do not be too sure that possession of Power is always a Gift. I have been assured by those who know that it can also be a curse, a ... shadow ... over the life of the person who has it.”

“So have I also been told,” Lydryth admitted. “But still, it seemed to me when I was growing up that I was as lacking as a child born without eyes, or ears. My foster-sister, Hyana, told me time and again that was not so, but still ...” She shrugged. “But you know what it is like, I need not remind you.”

Her companion regarded her steadily, compassionately. Embarrassed, the young woman glanced away, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “Moonrise is not far off,” she observed, seeing a faint glow in the east. “We had best sleep, so we can be up and away with first light. The first of us to wake must call the other.” She hesitated, then said in a rush, “I neglected to thank you for risking everything to come back for me. Please ... accept my gratitude, Dakar.”

“Only if you will accept mine,” he said, his eyes holding hers. “Both Monso and I owe you our lives.”

She smiled. “We are all of us well thanked, then. Rest well, Dakar.”

After pulling off her boots, Lydryth crawled into her bedroll, pillowing her head on her harp case. Determined to sleep, she closed her eyes.

Lulled by the fire’s warmth, she had nearly drifted off when the other spoke again. “Lady Lydryth ... about tomorrow. You will be going on to Lormt?”

“Yes,” she murmured, gazing at him in the dimness, her eyes heavy-lidded with the great weariness that had descended upon her. “I must go on.”

“But they may be searching for us,” he pointed out.

Lydryth thought again of the witches. “They have your purse,” she said. “That may satisfy them.”

“Perhaps it would be best if we stayed hidden in these hills until we discover whether there is any pursuit...”

“I cannot rest, nor turn back,” she said, with a stubborn head-shake. “The life of someone I hold very dear depends on me.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, since it is my fault that you cannot return to Rylon Comers to buy a mount, I would be pleased to take you to Lormt. I know the way. We can make good time. Monso will not mind a double load.” He spoke with a sort of wary eagerness, as though he were bracing himself to have her refuse his aid.

Lydryth pushed herself up on one elbow to stare at him across the dying fire. “You would do that for me? Why?”

“It is the least I can do. The saving of one’s life is no small thing. Had it not been for you, that blank-shield would have sheathed his blade in my vitals.”

She nodded slowly. “I had forgotten that. Very well... I would be pleased to company with you, Dakar.”

He poked a twig into the coals, watched it smolder, smolder, then burst into flame. “And another thing,” he continued, slowly. “My name is not ‘Dakar.’ I used that name because ... because I did not want to use my rightful one among those who might have cause to ... grow angry with me.” He gave her a rueful half-smile. “For cheating, as you pointed out. It seemed prudent. But I would not want to deceive a ... comrade-in-arms.” His eyes met hers across the dying fire. “I am Alon.”

The first rays of dawn slanted across Lydryth’s closed eyelids... Frowning, she stirred restlessly, dreaming... &” In her dream she saw her mother, Elys, looking not a day older than the last time Lydryth had seen her. The witch lay upon a pallet draped in grey silk, asleep or entranced. Only the slightest rise and fall of her breast proved that she still lived. Leaden-colored vapor swirled around her still figure, alternately obscuring, then revealing, her face.

“Mother!” Lydryth tried to shout, but no sound issued from her lips.

She managed a step forward, then another, but it was akin to walking beneath the surface of a lake or ocean; she could make but little progress. Peering down, the girl saw that her feet were weighed down, trapped within one of the coiling grey fingers of mist.

“Mother!”

Still no sound, and now the girl could move no farther; her groping hands encountered bars that she could feel but not see.

“Mother’. Mother, I am here!”

As she struggled desperately, wildly, Elys, hands folded across the mound of her unborn child, faded away into the shrouding mist...

Lydryth awoke with tears in her eyes, only to see a face peering into hers-a huge, golden-eyed, inhuman face, dominated by a cruelly hooked beak!

The songsmith jerked upright with a startled gasp, her heart slamming painfully. A moment later, she regained her sense of perspective, realizing that what she was seeing was no enormous monster, but a falcon. The bird was perched on the edge of the harp case that had pillowed her head; it had been eyeing her so closely that its beak had nearly brushed her nose.

The creature was large and black-feathered, save for a white V on its breast. Lydryth had seen its like before; several of the marines serving aboard the Osprey had been Falconers. But its yellow feet bore none of the scarlet thongs a Falconer’s companion customarily wore-so from whence had it come? Surely a creature out of the wild would not behave so!

“Who are you?” Lydryth whispered, as though she might indeed be answered. “How did you come here?” From Rylon

Comers? Surely not! I have heard of no Falconer villages within the boundaries of Estcarp!

Still, the bird-helmed warriors’ stronghold, the Eyrie, had been destroyed during the Turning. Perhaps some of those exiles were now living among the people of Estcarp. But she had heard in her travels that this strange race of warriors who hated their women and loved only their falcons were currently trying to establish a foothold at Seakeep in High Hallack.

None of which speculation helped her account for the presence of this bird, eyeing her so measuringly, first with one eye, then the other. Its head bobbed up and down with the motion.

“He calls himself Steel Talon,” said a voice from behind her.

Lydryth whirled to find Alon, fully dressed, carrying a hide bag full of water. “Is ... is he yours? You are no Falconer!”

“You speak truth,” he agreed readily. “Steel Talon belongs to no one but himself. His master, Jonthal, was my friend and partner. He... was killed. Murdered. Instead of willing himself to join his master in death, as is customary for these birds, Steel Talon has chosen instead to live for the day in which he will find his master’s slayer... and on that day, he will wreak a terrible vengeance.”

“I see,” Lydryth said, studying the bird, who stared back at her with hot golden eyes, eyes that held intelligence in their aurulent depths-a nonhuman kind of intelligence, but none the less for all that. “So he travels with you?”

“After a fashion,” Alon replied. “He comes and goes as he pleases.” He stepped forward to stand beside her, so they both faced the bird. “Steel Talon, this is the Lady Lydryth,” he said, introducing her so solemnly that they might have been at some noble gathering, rather than in a misty, dew-wet pasture dotted with sheep dung. “Monso and I are taking her to Lonnt, to aid her in her journey, so she will be companying with us today and on the morrow.”

The songsmith inclined her head as she would have to a human. “Well-met, Steel Talon.”

For a moment those fierce eyes met hers again, then the bird gave a piercing cry. He rose from the boulder in a blur of ebon wings and sailed away, out of sight. Lydryth turned to Alon. “Well? Did he approve?”

Her companion smiled at her. “How could he not? He is an extremely discerning creature.”

The girl felt again that warmth of cheek and hoped that the light was still so dim that Alon could not make out her blush. Confused, she summoned words almost at random. “You were supposed to wake me at first light. We must hurry, or the shepherds will find us here.”

Quickly they broke camp, not stopping to break their fast, only pocketing rounds of journeybread to chew as they rode.

Monso carried his double load seemingly effortlessly, though Alon constrained him to a far slower speed than that of the night before-much to Lydryth’s relief. The Keplian’s paces were uncannily smooth as her companion varied their speed according to the terrain: jog, canter, working trot, walk. Once they reached the road leading to South Wending, he kept the stallion to a slow, ground-covering canter.

Lydryth was amazed at the creature’s endurance. The damp clay of the road flowed from beneath the Keplian’s tireless legs like water running downstream. By the time they halted for their midday meal, she estimated that they had covered nearly ten leagues.

Standing beside Monso as he grazed, the songsmith dared to caress the muscled black shoulder. “He is truly amazing. Few mounts could have traveled the distance he did this morning carrying one rider-let alone two.” The black raised his head, green tufts protruding from his lips, and blew gustily down the front of her jerkin, making the girl laugh.

“What I find amazing is that he has accepted you so completely.” Alon spoke up from where he lay resting in the shade of a tall beech growing on the bank of a stream. “Before yesterday, he welcomed no one’s touch but mine ... he would barely suffer Hilarion’s.”

She walked over to drop down beside him, enjoying the feel of the new spring grass beneath her. “How long have you had him? How old is Monso?”

“He was born in the Year of the Werewolf,” he replied. “When I was thirteen.” Then Alon was born in the Year of the Hippogriff, even as I was, she reflected. Before she thought, she found herself asking, “What month were you born, Alon?”

He rolled over on his side to look at her, his expression suddenly somber. “I know not,” he said. “And when I said that I was thirteen in the Year of the Werewolf, that was my best guess, not something I know for truth.”

“Because you are an orphan?” she guessed, remembering his words of last night, when he had spoke of finding his first home as Kaththea and Hilarion’s fosterling.

He nodded. “I believe that I am nineteen, but I could be older. I will never know.”

Lydryth thought about the warmth and love that had surrounded her while she was growing up in Kar Garudwyn, in the years before her mother’s disappearance. Perhaps, she found herself thinking, there are worse things than growing up without the Gift. Much worse ...

For a moment she was tempted to ask Alon to tell her the story of his life, but, again, she repressed that urge. I must avoid ... entanglements. I have a duty to fulfill, and nothing must be allowed to alter that...

“How old are you?” Alon asked quietly.

“I was born in the Month of the Gyrfalcon ... nineteen years ago,” she responded.

“And why...,” he began, then hesitated, as though he had changed his mind about voicing the question. A moment later he glanced up, then grinned. “Steel Talon is back ... with an offering. We shall dine in style this evening!”

Lydryth sat up, watching as Alon went over to where the bird sat perched on a low limb of a nearby tree. A brown and white, blood-streaked ball of feathers lay on the grass beneath it. The young man picked up the chicken, shaking his head. “Raiding hen yards again? I told you how dangerous that is! What if the farmer had possessed a dart gun?”

The bird cocked its head, uttering a cry that, even to Lydryth’s ears, sounded distinctly scornful.

“We can make do just as well with rabbit,” Alon insisted. t Glancing more closely at the falcon’s prize, he scowled. “No wonder you caught her so easily. This one has seen many springs.”

The falcon ignored him as it began to preen its feathers.

The man sighed audibly, then looked back at Lydryth and shrugged. “I might as well be speaking with the voice of the wind, for all he attends.”

Lydryth scrambled up to stand beside him as he began plucking the hen. “You two really speak together?”

“Not the way the birds can communicate with their Falconer comrades,” he replied. “Steel Talon knows and understands much of what I say to him, that I know, but ours is a very one-sided conversation. I cannot talk with him as Jonthal could.”

The songsmith eyed the falcon, remembering tales she had heard of how Falconers and their birds were inextricably linked, mind-to-mind, and that the death of one partner would almost certainly bring about the death of the other, even when no wound or illness was present. She had heard, once or twice, of Falconer men living after the demise of their winged comrades, but never had she known of a falcon surviving after its human companion died.

Vengeance..., she thought. Alon said he was living to avenge himself on Jonthal’s murderer... It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if Alon knew who had caused the death of his partner, but, again, she restrained herself.

We will reach Lormt soon, she thought, sternly. And then we will part forever. Save your energy for your search!

After allowing Monso to graze for another hour, Alon resaddled the half-bred and they continued on their way. Several times that afternoon Lydryth caught glimpses of Steel Talon, flying so high that he was little more than a soaring black dot against the puffy white clouds shouldering their way across the spring blue sky.

The sun was past its zenith by the time they saw the fork in the road with its signpost indicating the way to South Wending. They did not pass through the town, but skirted it through pastures dotted by cattle, sheep and horses. Several miles past the village, they reached the landmark Alon had mentioned- the vivid red-clay bank with the small trickle of a creek running along its foot.

The turnoff was small and overgrown, but as they ducked beneath branches, Lydryth noticed that several of the tree’s bright emerald leaves lay upon the ground. Bending lower, she observed that the track was scarred by the prints of many shod mounts.

“Look,” she said to Alon, pointing. “At least seven or eight mounts passed this way... probably no later than this morning. Are there outlaws in this region?”

“Some,” he replied uneasily. “But Koris the Seneschal, while he is a good ruler where honest folk are concerned, has little sympathy for those who prey upon others.” He sat staring at the hoof-trodden earth for a moment, then straightened in his saddle, brightening visibly. “It is far more likely, though, that this is simply a party from some great lord’s household, traveling to Lormt to seek out old family records. Many noble families have been doing so since the time of the Turning.”

“I see,” Lydryth murmured, still studying the tracks. There were no signs of wheel marks ... or the lighter prints that would indicate a horse-drawn Utter. That only means that this party does not include the very old or very young, she reminded herself. It is likely that Alon’s surmise is true.

“Why now, since the Turning?” she asked.

“Estcarp has been at peace-more or less-since the witches reshaped the mountains. During peacetime, people have time to pursue such studies, and the study of family branchings has become increasingly popular.”

Alon urged Monso forward; they went on.

For nearly an hour they traversed open fields, broken by stands of closely grown woods. Both travelers were forced to ward off branches continually, for this area, having been much stirred about during the aftershocks of the Turning, was covered with younger trees sprouted since the forest giants had fallen, thirty years before.

“How much farther, Alon?” Lydryth asked, batting a protruding branch away from her ribs. “It will soon be dark. Can we reach Lormt by then?”

“No, but it is not too far. We are less than a day’s journey from the ancient stronghold of learning now,” he replied. “Tomorrow at noon should see us there, even at an easy pace.” He bent low in the saddle to avoid yet another gauntlet of low-hanging limbs. Lydryth flattened herself against his back, and as she did so, she distinctly heard a loud rumble from the region of his midsection. She chuckled. “Hungry, my lord? I am, too.”

Alon laughed ruefully. “I am famished, my lady. And I regret to remind you that that her Steel Talon stole for our dinner was a granddam many times over, and will need slow cooking. However, it will not be too bad. I have several rather withered potatoes and a clove of garlic in my saddlebag. With a few wild onions and some of those tubers, we should have the makings for a tasty-“

He broke off as Monso halted abruptly. The Keplian snorted a warning, pawing nervously at the ground. Like shadows come to life, the shapes of mounted men slid into view from where they had been concealed behind the trees.

They were surrounded.

The ambush had been well planned, Lydryth recognized that, even as her mind frantically sought, then discarded, possibilities for escape.

The underbrush was too thick to allow them to turn off the trail and use the Keplian’s superior speed to outrun their would-be captors. Lydryth glanced back, only to note that the way back was also blocked.

Outlaws, she thought, and mentally prepared to sell her life dearly. A bard’s traditional impunity would not hold with brigands; Lydryth knew she would not only be stripped other possessions, but probably forced to submit to her attackers’ attentions as well. Then the lead rider moved forward, out of the shadows, and the girl recognized him as one of the guards of Estcarp. An officer, judging by the markings of rank on his sleeves and helmet. She felt immensely relieved, an emotion that Alon evidently shared, for she felt him relax. “Greetings, Lieutenant,” he said. “For a moment we took you for ruffians. We are none such, I assure you; only two travelers bound to Lormt to request aid of the master chronicler, Duratan, and the loremistress, Nolar.”

The officer did not return the young man’s greeting, nor did his tight-drawn expression ease. He spoke without turning his head. “Lady, is this the girl you seek?”

Another figure urged a mount forward. Although mailed and helmed like the guards, the newcomer was not of them, for she was female. With a stab of fear, Lydryth recognized the witch who had interrogated her within the Citadel.

“This is indeed the girl we have been seeking,” the woman spoke curtly. “Her name is Lydryth.”

“So it is,” the minstrel acknowledged, trying for a measure of bravado. “But knowing my name gives you no right to detain me!”

“You are under arrest,” the witch said flatly. “You have broken our law.”

The girl stiffened. “There is some mistake. I have committed no crime. Rather”-she allowed a measure of indignation to enter her voice-“I am the one who has been wronged; first, in your Citadel when one of your number ensorcelled me and stole my belongings, and now, by this wrongful charge of lawbreaking!”

“You aided a fugitive,” the witch said, implacably. “Where is she? Where is the girl who companied with you?”

The minstrel considered swiftly, then decided that there was no point in lying about Avris’s fate. “She is gone. Lady. By now she is deep in the mountains bordering Estcarp ... a bride, she is, traveling in the company of her new husband.” Lydryth smiled thinly. “I doubt that by now she would do you overmuch good, if marriage truly robs your sisterhood of their powers.”

“So you admit that you aided her in her escape.”

“I admit only that I was compelled to do so, but it is common knowledge that you witches can compel others to your will!” She fenced with words, using a version of the truth to lend her voice conviction. The witch gazed at her, her grey eyes like shards of winter ice, probing the songsmith’s face to determine if she spoke truthfully. Finally she gave a faint, mocking smile that made the fear in Lydryth’s heart congeal into a hard, painful lump within her breast. “I see...,” the older woman said, finally. “Well, that one will be but a small loss. We were after a bigger prize, and it seems we have found it.”

The mail-clad woman regarded the bard measuringly. “You have led us quite a chase, girl. The Guardian wishes you to appear before her for testing. It seems that you have Power, after all. Only one with the Power could have quenched the light of a witch-jewel.”

“No!” Lydryth cried, fighting panic. “I have no Power, Lady! I am naught but a wandering songsmith, I swear it to whatever gods may hold sway in this land! I must get to Lormt-the life of my father depends upon it!”

“See here,” Alon spoke up, “Lydryth is not under your jurisdiction-she is not even from this land! She-“

“Quiet, lad,” the officer commanded. “You will anger the lady.”

The witch did not even glance at Alon as she said, “Bring the youth, also. I was advised last night that the sheriff of Rylon Comers has issued a warrant for his arrest.”

Lydryth slid off Monso’s back, then drew her sword from its place of concealment. “I will not let you stop me. Lady,” she said, dropping into fighting stance. She smiled grimly. “Even if I had Power within me-which I do not-I cannot imagine that it will do you much good if the mortal vessel that holds it lies dead. I must reach Lormt, and if you wish to stop me, you must kill me.”

Six

Hearing the cold determination in Lydryth’s voice, the witch and her troops halted. There came a rustle, then the sound of booted feet as Alon dismounted and walked over to stand with the songsmith, his shoulder brushing hers as they confronted the forces from Estcarp. “Here,” the young woman said, passing her quarterstaff to her ally, “unless you wish to surrender yourself to them, you must fight with me, I fear. Guard my back.”

He obeyed her, moving until they stood pressed back-to-back. Then she heard him whisper, in a voice so soft only she could hear: “You must have bade farewell to your wits, Lady! There are seven of them against our two!” But he made no move to put down the weapon she had given him, holding it awkwardly, as though it were naught but a stick. Inwardly, the girl sighed. If we ever are free again, I must teach him to fight. How could he have survived so long as a wanderer without such lessoning?

“Well?” she demanded of their captors. “Which will it be, Lady Witch? Will you kill us, or let us depart in peace?”

“You speak with great conviction, songsmith,” the older woman replied, breathing upon the cloudy jewel she now wore set into a silver wristlet. “But it remains to be seen whether you also speak the truth.” Above the witch-gem, their gazes locked, chill grey holding vivid blue, and Lydryth was suddenly conscious of the silence. Around them, the forest lay still-no bird sang, no insect hummed. Even the horses stood unmoving.

As the moments passed, she could feel the witch’s will testing hers, pushing and probing at her mind, measuring, sifting. She attempted to summon her old defense of her mother’s lullaby. The words ... yes, the words were there:

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 ...

But, try as she might, the songsmith could not make the accompanying tune come to life in her mind. She could remember the notes, visualize the movement of her fingers as they formed the chords on her harpstrings, but she could not hear the music. The girl’s eyes wavered; she broke that locked gaze, no longer able to resist. When she looked back up, the witch was smiling again, a mocking twist of the lips that had nothing of good humor about it. “It is as I thought, Lieutenant,” she addressed the officer in command of the guardsmen, “her mind does not reflect the conviction of her words. We are seven against two; no experienced fighter would sell her life cheaply by tackling such overwhelming odds. You may take her.”

Lydryth closed her eyes, sick with despair. Father, I am sorry, she thought. I have failed you-and we were so close to Lormt! Her shoulders sagged, and she swayed, suddenly so exhausted that her head spun. Alon slid an arm around her, steadying her. “All is not lost,” he whispered. “Wait. Tonight-“

“No talking, you two!” the officer commanded, pushing them apart. “Girl, hand over that sword, and let’s have no trickery about the way you do it.” He held out his hand.

Numbly, Lydryth relinquished her sword. The gryphon’s blue quan-iron eyes flashed in the sunlight, as though the beast were protesting such treatment.

One of the guards seized Alon’s arms, wrenching them behind the young man’s back so cruelly that he grunted with pain. Lydryth received like treatment as her wrists were also bound securely. “Gently!” admonished the witch, when the girl gasped at a sharp tug of the leathern thongs. “She must not be hurt, is that understood?”

Hearing a shrill scream from overhead, the songsmith looked up, just as Steel Talon stooped, sharp talons ready to tear. With a yell of dismay, the lieutenant of the guards threw up an arm to cover his eyes and flung himself down on the mossy earth.

As the falcon swooped low, then mounted into the air, circling, several of the guards raised their dart guns and fired. “No!” Lydryth shouted, struggling against her bindings.

But none of the darts even came close, and while the guards’ attention was distracted, Monso seemed to choose his moment. Without warning the stallion reared, teeth bared, then bounded forward, straight toward two of the guards’ mounts.

The mortal horses scattered, squealing in fear, before the Keplian’s charge. Within a heartbeat, the black was gone, crashing a path through the deep underbrush. The falcon had also vanished.

At least Monso and Steel Talon are still free, Lydryth thought, dully, as her guard propelled her roughly across the meadow, toward the campsite where the witch awaited them. The sun was almost gone behind the trees now; darkness crept across the soft spring turf. She and Alon were allowed to wrap themselves in their cloaks; then one of the men produced portions of journeybread and dried fruit, as well as a water bottle. Despite her aching misery, Lydryth forced herself to chew and swallow. Food meant strength-the strength, perhaps to escape. She could not forget Alon’s words of hope.

When the captives were finished eating, the guards bound them hand and foot. Then, on the lieutenant’s order, they fastened their wrist-bindings to the trees behind them, tethering them past all hope of working free. Alon was tied too far away to speak to Lydryth, but when the guards finally left them to get their own rations, he turned his head and his eyes met hers. One eyelid closed in a quick wink; then he deliberately looked away.

As the camp settled down to its routine of night patrols and the off-duty guards crawled into their bedrolls, the girl continued to covertly watch Alon. In the darkness, she could barely discern the shape of his body against the trees, for twilight was long past, and moonrise still hours away. As she watched, he wriggled backward, clumsy because of his bound wrists and ankles, until he was braced against the trunk of the oak where his rope was secured. She could make out his profile now, outlined by the campfire.

She watched the pale blur of his face turn toward hers, as though to make sure she was watching; then, exaggeratedly, he yawned. His shoulders sagged as he settled his chin on his chest, obviously preparing for sleep.

Her heart thumping excitedly, Lydryth mimicked his actions. As the time dragged by, she found herself wondering what her companion had meant by those final words. Did Alon have some way of getting free? A blade, perhaps, sewn into the bottom of his tunic, the hem of his cloak-or, perhaps, the sole of his boot? She had heard her father speak of such places for concealing small weapons.

But Alon did not seem to be moving at all.

Lydryth listened with part of her mind to the lieutenant’s voice as he inspected the watches, then the soft sounds of the sentries pacing, all mingled with the snorts and whufflings from the horses on the picket line. She was tired; all too soon, her feigned drowsiness became genuine.

The girl tried to hold her eyes open, but they felt as weighted as a Sulcar ship’s anchor. Despite her struggles, she fell deeply asleep-only to jerk herself out of slumber with a gasp when something heavy landed on her booted legs. Frightened, she jerked her knees up, staring with horror at the formless black shape before her. With an offended squawk, it rose into the air, flapped to a nearby branch, then regarded her. The songsmith could see the gleam of its eyes and the white V on its breast in the moonlight.

“Steel Talon!” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

Reflexively, she glanced over at Alon, seeing that he sat bolt upright, obviously awake. He whistled softly, the call of a night-swallow, and Steel Talon silently winged his way over to him. As Alon bent forward, the falcon landed behind him.

Lydryth watched as the young man’s body jerked involuntarily, his face grimacing with pain in the moon’s glow. She bit her lip in sympathy, realizing that the bird’s cruelly hooked beak was now tearing at the leather thongs binding Alon to the tree.

Is this what he had planned? she wondered. Is he controlling the falcon’s actions somehow? Or do Falconers train their warbirds to free their masters in case of capture? She did not know.

Minutes later, Alon’s arms suddenly snapped forward, as he gave a last tug on his bonds and they parted. Lydryth watched him rub his hands together, trying to ease their numbness. Then he raised his knees, and his stiff fingers began tugging clumsily at the fastenings on his ankles.

The songsmith kept listening for the sounds of the sentries, fearing that they would be discovered, but there was nothing stirring in the dimness.

When he was free of his bonds, Alon crept cautiously over the grass toward her, raising one finger to his lips in the signal for silence.

But to Lydryth’s surprise, he did not begin working away at the thongs binding her. Instead, he put his hand on her brow and hissed in her ear, “Be patient. I will set you free in a moment.”

When she tried to frame one of the questions whirling in her mind like chaff before a thunderstorm, he shook his head, laying a finger against her lips. “Wait,” he whispered, still touching her brow. “Watch...”

The songsmith heard the sound of trotting hooves, then a snort. A black shape trotted into view, stirrups flapping loose from an empty saddle. Then a dark shape winged its way over to land on the cantle of the saddle, balancing there.

Monso! Monso and Steel Talon, together!

As Lydryth watched, the Keplian and the falcon circled the camp, still moving at that deliberate pace.

Circled once ...

Twice ...

Thrice ...

Magic, she realized, feeling a prickle run up her spine that she remembered from times when she had seen Joisan or Kerovan use the Power. The animals are bespelling the camp!

For a moment fear clutched at her; then she realized that the beasts were circling from right to left, deasil-not widdershins, not contrary to the path the sun followed in the sky. Lydryth relaxed. Nothing that followed the Left-Hand Path could move so.

When the third circle was completed, the Keplian halted, then gave a blasting snort. None of the sleeping figures around the faintly glowing campfire so much as stirred.

“Good,” Alon muttered, then rose and walked over to the nearest guardsman. A moment later he was back, in his hand a knife. With a few tugs, he severed Lydryth’s bonds. “We must go quickly,” he said, not troubling to lower his voice. “The thrice-circle will not hold past first light.”

The songsmith stared from the sleeping forms to the beasts standing a few paces away. “They did this?” she whispered, in awe. “How could a horse and a falcon cast a sleeping-spell?”

“Beasts have their own magic,” he told her. “And neither Monso nor Steel Talon is an ordinary animal, do not forget.”

“What about the sentries? And the witch?”

“Asleep, too.” He took her hands in his, began chafing them briskly. She was shocked to feel how swollen his own fingers were. When she made a sound of distress, he glanced down at them, flexing them gingerly. “The guard was not gentle,” he agreed ruefully. “They made it only too plain that I was not the favored prisoner.”

A moment later, he stood up, then reached down a hand to pull her to her feet. Both of them stamped, wriggling their toes, wincing at the pinpricks of pain as the blood flowed freely once more.

Finally, he caught up her cloak, draped it around her shoulders. “Come,” he said. “We must hurry.”

Lydryth followed him into the camp, marveling at the peacefully sleeping faces that never altered as they searched for their belongings. In the moonlight even the witch appeared different, her stem countenance rendered relaxed and vulnerable with sleep. So great was the Power of the beasts’ thricecircle that she did not even have time to grow alarmed, Lydryth thought with awe.

“Find your weapons,” Alon called, from across the camp. “I am gathering a few supplies. We must travel fast and light.”

The songsmith located her sword and staff, then, on impulse, took the lieutenant’s blade and swordbelt from where they lay beside his slumbering form. “Here,” she said, holding the sheathed blade out to her companion, “put this on.”

He took it, then hesitantly did as she bade.

“Not like that! Lower, so it rests down on your hip... so.” She slid the leathern strap into place around his lean middle. “I will begin teaching you to use this, when we have time.”

In the moonglow she saw him smile wryly. “You think it necessary for me to learn a soldier’s skills?”

“I do,” she nodded firmly, hands on hips as she surveyed him. “If we are to company together, even for the space of a day, I want you armed. I cannot go on protecting you!” He laughed as he picked up the bag of food he had garnered. “No, I suppose you can’t-though last night you did it very well.” He glanced down at the sword at his side. “I can hardly wait.”

After losing the tethered horses, the freed prisoners waved torches and blankets, sending the mounts racing away, snorting and kicking, into the darkness. Then Alon swung up on Monso’s back and aided Lydryth up behind him.

“To Lormt,” he said, turning the Keplian’s nose to the east.

Lydryth nodded. “To Lormt,” she echoed. “And may woe betide any who attempt to delay us further!”

Riding through the late-night darkness was frustrating, because they could not take advantage of their mount’s superior speed. Much of the way the woods were too thick, and in the open, the chance of Monso sinking a foot in some grounddweller’s burrow and breaking a leg was too great. The travelers were forced to keep to a walk or a jog trot, when everything urged them to run-run!

Still exhausted by the events of the day, Lydryth found her eyes closing again as she perched on the Keplian’s rhythmically swaying rump. In the waning moonlight, the landscape surrounding them appeared spectral, unreal. Her eyelids closed...

She jerked awake when Monso stopped, realizing that she had been dozing with her cheek pressed against Alon’s shoulder. Warmth flooded her cheeks as she hastily straightened. “Are we there?”

“No, we are still perhaps an hour’s journey away,” he said.

The darkness was fading; a rosy glow tinged the east. Dawn was not far off.

The songsmith narrowed her eyes as she surveyed the shadowed land ahead of them, seeing upthrust ridges of grey rock and growths of new timber. In the far distance she could make out a cottage with a thatched roof. The entire countryside had a curiously raw, jumbled look to it. “What happened here to stir the land so? The Turning?”

“Yes,” Alon replied. “Lormt itself was protected, though. The Ancients who constructed its walls and towers embedded spheres of quan-iron-the blue metal like that found in the eyes of your gryphon-in the foundations of the towers. The base of one tower had crumbled, causing its sphere to be lost over the ages, so, when the ground heaved, that tower fell, taking part of another tower and the connecting wall with it. But the other two stood fast.”

They allowed Monso to crop the grass for a few minutes while they stretched their legs, shared a few bites of food, then laved their faces at a swift-running stream. The water had obviously flowed down from the mountains that now smudged the eastern horizon, for it was so chill it made Lydryth’s teeth ache.

She could barely keep her eyes from searching their trail, her ears from straining for the sound of hoofbeats, though she knew that their captors would only now be awakening. The skin at the nape of her neck prickled as she envisioned the witch’s fury at discovering that her quarry had escaped once again. “The thrice-circle spell the beasts set will be wearing off by now,” she said. “We must not tarry, Alon.”

He remained unworried. “We have several hours’ start on them, and when we set off again, Monso can move at speed.”

“But they know our destination.” She remembered the witch’s cold grey eyes and swallowed anxiously. “And the witch ... she will not give up easily.”

He tightened Monso’s girth, his expression sobering. “Then we must continue to elude them. I have no wish to spend my days rotting in some jail in Rylon Comers.”

Once they were astride again, he loosened the reins slightly and bent forward. “Go,” he whispered, and the Keplian, with a snort, plunged forward eagerly.

The land around Lydryth blurred as her wind-whipped eyes watered. She clung to Alon’s belt grimly, using every bit other riding skill and balance to stay on as Monso galloped, trying to spot obstacles and changes of direction so they would not catch her unawares.

The sun was nearly a handspan past the horizon when Alon drew rein, bringing their mount to a plunging halt. “Lormt,” he announced, breathing hard from the effort of curbing the sidling, wheeling Keplian.

Lydryth peered out from behind his shoulder to see a river that ran past a cluster of half-timbered cottages and a larger building that might have been an inn. Just beyond them lay a high stone wall, and the outlines of massive stone towers. As Alon had mentioned, one comer of the structure was naught but a tumbled pile of rubble, while the outlines of another tower could still be seen, though it was perhaps half- demolished.

The travelers jogged slowly down the rutted track that served the small village as a main thoroughfare. Lydryth was conscious of eyes peering out at them from behind curtains and cracks in doorways, but the only inhabitants brave enough to venture forth were several barefoot children, still too young to be working in the fields, or aiding with the spinning.

Lydryth wondered whether they would beg, but they did not; two, a boy and a girl, accompanied them, while a fourth child, older, pelted off through one of the many gaps in the crumbled wall, evidently to warn of their arrival.

The metal-bound gate stood permanently ajar and askew, and they rode through that into a stone and dirt courtyard. On the doorstep of one of the intact towers, two people were waiting to meet them, a man and a woman.

The man held himself with the upright carriage of those who have borne arms and marched to battle. He was slightly above middle height, plainly of the Old Race, and went clean-shaven. Instead of the scholar’s robe Lydryth had expected, he wore a rust-colored tunic and leather jerkin, a horsehide belt with the hair left on, and breeches and boots.

The woman at his side wore a simple robe of rich autumn brown, with a light green shawl flung over her shoulders against the early-morning chill. Her hair was drawn back from her face and caught up in a loose knot at the back of her neck. Her features were strong and well cut, but a reddish birthmark spread over one cheek, marring her appearance.

Lydryth had to force herself to meet the woman’s eyes directly; it was hard to keep her eyes from fixing on that ugly mark. Compassion stirred within her, as she imagined all the cruel taunts children were wont to hurl at one whose difference was so plain to the eye.

But after a moment’s measuring glance, Lydryth realized that this woman had come to terms with herself long ago; pity was something she neither needed or wanted. As she hesitated, wondering how to begin, Alon cleared his throat and sketched a half-bow. “Fair fortune to this holding, and good morning to you both. I am Alon, and this is the songsmith Lydryth.”

The man nodded acknowledgment, his grey eyes never leaving the younger man’s face. “You are well-come to Lonnt, Alon and Lydryth. I am Master Duratan, and this is my lady, the lore-mistress, Nolar. How may we aid you?”

“The Lady Lydryth wishes to consult with you on a matter of healing.”

“Healing? That is a subject I know well.” Nolar spoke for the first tune in a soft, melodious voice. “Enter, please. We can speak in my study.”

Duratan waved the travelers past him with a courtly gesture. “I will have one of the stable lads attend to your mount.”

But Alon did not move as he shook his head. “It is better that I care for the stallion myself. Master Duratan. His temper can be ... uncertain. I will join you in a few minutes.”

“Very well. I will show you to the stables.” He walked over to join Alon, and the songsmith saw that, though he held himself as straight as possible, and there was good breadth to his shoulders, Duratan moved with a distinct limp.

Lydryth followed the lore-mistress into the ancient building, and found herself reminded of the Citadel in Es City. The same aura of age pervaded the stones-nay, if anything, this place seemed to be even older. The two women passed room after room filled with shelves, each shelf holding hundreds of books, or, even more ancient, rune-scrolls in metal and leather containers. Robed scholars, both male and female, moved soft-footed through the corridors, carrying armloads of blank parchment, and fresh quills.

They climbed the stairs into one of the towers; then Nolar stopped before a door and opened it. The room within was large, with a window that looked out upon the eastern hills. Pots of herbs grew on the stone windowsill, and faded hangings gave a hint of soft color to the walls, though any pictures or stories they bore were nearly impossible to make out. The whitewashed walls were lined with chests, each holding many record-scrolls in bronze-reinforced or carved-wood cases.

Lydryth took a deep breath of the musty, vellum-scented air and thought that here, if any place in the world, there might be some scrap of healing-lore that would aid her father.

Nolar carefully moved some tattered scrolls she had evidently been studying, then waved the girl to a seat. “Tell me why you have come, Lydryth.”

Taking a deep breath, the songsmith launched into her story. She was halfway through when Duratan and Alon entered the room. As she recounted the events of the past, she noticed that the master chronicler’s eyes seldom left Alon’s face; he avoided staring openly, but he watched the younger man as avidly as Steel Talon might have eyed a rabbit that had ventured too far from its burrow.

Why is the master chronicler so interested in Alon? she wondered; then a likely reason occurred to her. Duratan has probably read of the Keplians in Escore, and recognized Monso for one. He would naturally be curious about one who could master such a creature.

“... and so Jervon has remained, these past years,” Lydryth concluded. “Much like a very small child ... biddable, but needing help in even the simplest things; eating, bathing or dressing.” She fixed the lore-mistress with a pleading gaze. “Lady Nolar... can you think of aught that might help him? I cannot let him continue to live thus!”

“And you say there is no scar, nor any depression in the bone of his skull where he hit his head?”

“None. The Lady Joisan, who fostered me when my own mother disappeared, is a Wise Woman and Healer of no little ability. She has said that my father’s problem was not caused by injury to the body, but rather to the mind, and perhaps the spirit. Like ...” She groped for an example. “... like a river during floodtime, where the channel can no longer contain the rush of water, and thus overflows its banks. So also with the pathways in Jervon’s mind.”

“I see...,” the lore-mistress murmured. She glanced at her lord. “Much like Elgaret’s case, it seems to me. Perhaps the Stone ...”

“The Stone?” Lydryth demanded. “What Stone?”

“The Stone of Konnard,” Duratan said. “It is a healing stone of great power that lies within a cave in the mountains far from here. A shard from it healed my lady’s aunt after her mind had been overpowered during the Turning. She was once one of the witches.”

“Shard? May we obtain one? Or borrow yours?” Lydryth’s heart was beating wildly, like a snared bird trying to escape capture.

“Alas, the shard is no longer mine,” Nolar said.

“Soon after Elgaret’s healing, the shard drew me back to the Stone, and cleaved again to it,” Nolar added. “Thus, that piece is no longer in my possession. And I do not think another shard will be found, after all these years. Could you perhaps take your father here?”

“The Stone of Konnard ... ,” Lydryth whispered, now feeling her heart sink as she pictured traveling all those weary months to reach Kar Garudwyn again, then of trying to bring her father back to Estcarp, first over the mountains and through the Waste bordering Arvon, then across the Dales of High Hallack, over the sea, and traversing the entire land of Estcarp-!!

Lydryth did not see any way that such a journey could be accomplished. Jervon could and did walk every day, but only when taken by the hand and guided so that he would not stray off the path. He rode, but could not manage his own mount, and must needs be led. A companion or nurse had perforce to sleep in his chamber each night, to prevent him from wandering off...

The songsmith swallowed, forcing back the tightness in her throat. There must be another way, she thought. The gods would not be so cruel as to demand that my father make a journey that would be so perilous for him!

Not to mention that the thought of so exposing her father’s mental infirmities to all and sundry was intolerable. The thought of pitying or scornful gazes staring at Jervon’s slackmouthed, vacant face and stumbling form made her wince.

“Bringing him would be exceedingly difficult, I know,” the lore-mistress said, echoing the girl’s thoughts. “And I must caution you that the journey to reach the Stone’s resting place is long and dangerous. Strange creatures have come out of the mountains since the Turning, and they can pose a grave threat to travelers.”

The songsmith wanted to bow her head and weep, but she forced herself to square her shoulders, meet Duratan’s and Nolar’s eyes straightly. “What I must do, I shall,” she said. Perhaps he could travel in a covered litter ... she thought wearily.

“But to undertake such a journey by yourself ... ,” the Lady Nolar began, then trailed off, shaking her head.

“I am sure that Lord Kerovan and Lady Joisan will aid me in bringing my father to be healed,” Lydryth told her, before adding, with bitter frankness, “but one thing makes me hesitate: what if we make such a journey and the Stone does not heal Jervon? Or what if he is killed on the way there?”

Both chronicler and lore-mistress nodded back at her, obviously comprehending the reasons for her hesitation and distress.

Suddenly Alon, whom she had almost forgotten was present, stirred beside her, clearing his throat. “Mistress Nolar,” he said, indicating one of the rune-scrolls in the stack on the table, “may I examine that scroll? The runes on its case remind me of one that my master Hilarion had in his collection. That one dealt with healing, and if this is a copy ...”

Duratan sat up even straighter, raising his heavy eyebrows in surprise. “Hilarion? I have heard that name, from my friend Kemoc Tregarth.”

“You know Kemoc?” Alon asked, equally surprised.

“We fought together on the Border, and became friends as well as comrades-in-arms. After Kemoc was wounded, he came to Lormt and I saw him again there, not long before the Turning. Since the exodus to resettle Escore by those of the Old Race, we have corresponded by means of travelers and carrier birds.” The master chronicler’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Kemoc told me much of this Hilarion, the man who wed his sister. And you say you were his apprentice?”

Alon hesitated. “Not really. Rather, Hilarion and his lady fostered me when I was left kinless and clanless in Karsten, then found my way into Escore as a child. He taught me many things ... to read and write, to cipher, and also the lore of ancient lands.”

Duratan’s glance was sharp, but before he could speak again, Alon turned back to Nolar. “Please, Lady ... may I examine the scroll?”

The lore-mistress gave the young man a searching look, then nodded. “Certainly,” she said. “However, please be careful. As you no doubt know, such records are very fragile.”

“I will take the greatest care,” he promised, drawing the cylindrical metal casing toward him. With slow, cautious movements, he extracted the fragile record from the case, then began to unroll it.

Lydryth leaned over his shoulder to gaze at the revealed text. The script was faded almost to illegibility, and the runic symbols implied a form of the Old Tongue more ancient than any she had ever seen. The songsmith could make out only a word here and there.

“Ah ... ,” Alon muttered, scanning the ancient writing. “Yes, this is indeed a copy of the one I saw. And here”-he pointed a long forefinger to a page near the end-“is the reference I recalled-“

The young man broke off as his finger touched the smudged, faded runes, and they suddenly flared into dazzling clarity, glowing violet in the dusty sunlight of the study.

Duratan and Nolar both gasped, then leaped up and circled the table to stare incredulously at the scroll. “What did you do?” Nolar demanded, finding her voice first. “That light was violet, the color of great Power!”

“Great Power?” Lydryth stared wide-eyed at Alon. “You—“

His headshake silenced her. “It was nothing I did,” he stated. “There was a spell laid on that page.” His face was suddenly drawn with weariness, as though that touch had taken something out of him. “I have heard Hflarion speak of such. This was an old spell of clarification so that the words therein could be read even after the ink that formed them was gone... providing the reader’s need is great. The runes would have done so had any of you touched them. Thus-“

With a quick motion, he grasped Lydryth’s fingers, moving them to brush against the ancient scroll. Again the runes flared brilliantly-but this time they blazed blue-green.

Lydryth felt something almost tangible run through her body at the touch of that ancient parchment-a tingling warmth. Alon released her fingers, staring at her as if startled, even though he had predicted that the scroll would react to the touch of any with great need to know its contents.

“So it deals with healing!” Lydryth exclaimed, returning to what was, for her, the most important thing. “What does it say? Can we translate it?”

“It is a very ancient form of the Old Tongue,” the loremistress said slowly, studying the writing. “Older by far than any I have seen.”

“I can read it,” Alon said. “Hilarion was born into a time before the First Turning that sealed off Estcarp from Escore. This scroll dates from that time.”

Duratan shook his head in wonderment. “That long ago? It is hardly to be believed!”

“My foster-father had scrolls in his holding that were even older than this one,” the younger man muttered abstractedly, as he studied the page. Long moments later, he announced: “I was correct. This scroll mentions a place of healing on the outskirts of the Valley of the Green Silences.”

Duratan nodded. “Morquant’s Valley! Kemoc told me of it. His brother, Kyllan, is wedded to the Lady of the Green Silences.”

“In Escore,” Alon said, “she is called Dahaun.”

“She has many names,” Duratan agreed. “But it is part of the lore surrounding her that she has methods of healing in her valley that are greater even than that of the Stone of Konnard, powerful though that may be. If a wounded creature can but reach her healing place, death loses its power over flesh and bone there.”

“But can her healing methods mend shattered minds and spirits as well as bodies?” Lydryth cried, scarcely daring to hope. “And is her secret of healing something that can be transported?”

Alon shook his head. “The scroll does not say. It is worth seeking out and asking, though.”

“If only I could discover some healing potion or tisane that I could take back to my father!” the girl cried, daring, for the first time in hours, to think that her quest might succeed.

Nolar looked thoughtful. “Perhaps the Lady of the Green Silences knows of such.”

“Perhaps she does,” Alon said. “I have heard that there is little that she does not know.”

“But how would I get there?” Lydryth wondered aloud, remembering the shadows of the eastern mountains against the sky. “It would be a journey of many days, just to climb the heights separating Escore and Estcarp.” She considered for a moment, then asked, “Alon, do you know whether there is a trail or a road that leads across the mountains?”

When he did not reply to her question, she looked up, alerted by his silence, to find Alon staring expressionlessly back at Duratan. The master chronicler was again regarding the younger man with that measuring, avid gaze she had noted earlier.

“I would like to talk to you about this Hilarion,” Duratan said, slowly. “And about yourself, Alon. We do not often encounter-“

“Those who have lived in Escore,” the younger man broke in. “Yes, I know. But I am afraid that there is no time for such conversation at the moment, sir. If I am to guide the Lady Lydryth to the Valley of the Green Silences-“ Lydryth’s heart leaped as she took in his words. “-then we must needs leave immediately.”

“Why so quickly?” Duratan demanded, with a touch of grim humor, as though he already suspected the answer. Alon smiled crookedly. “There are ... complications ... that could keep us from reaching Escore. Complications that are even now following our trail.”

“I see ...,” Duratan said, still holding the younger man’s eyes with his own. “You must make haste, then, of course. But should you ever return ...”

“I will be happy to speak to you at length,” Alon promised.

Rising, the young man looked down at the songsmith, then extended his hand to help her up. “We must hasten,” he said. “Unless you do not wish to go?”

Lydryth grasped his fingers and rose, albeit a little unsteadily. “Do you really mean that you will take me over the mountains to Escore?” she whispered. “Oh, Alon ... I... I can never repay you!”

“I am doing this as much for my own sake as for your father’s,” he reminded her. “There is an arrest warrant out for me in Rylon Corners, remember?”

“Yes, but-“

“In Escore, I can hide out until the witch and the townspeople have forgotten me completely. Then Monso and I can reappear on the tracks in the north of Estcarp, with none the wiser!”

Lydryth smiled knowingly. “You are only saying that because you want no one to know what a kind thing you are doing, aiding me. You’d rather play the rogue, concerned only with saving his own hide.” Her expression sobered and her eyes held his. “But I know the truth. Accept my thanks, Alon.”

“Do you need supplies for your journey?” the lore-mistress asked.

At her words, Lydryth let go of Alon’s hand, and both travelers turned to her. “Perhaps a round or two of journeybread, should you have it,” she said, as they headed for the door. “And ... Mistress Nolar ... thank you. Both of you.”

Scant minutes later found them in the courtyard, while Alon packed the provisions the lore-mistress had provided into Monso’s saddlebags. Just as he finished, the master chronicler reappeared, leading a bay mare. Duratan was carrying a handful of rags and twine.“What size shoes does he wear?” the chronicler demanded without preamble, nodding at the Keplian half-bred.

Alon eyed the rags, twine and the bay horse’s feet; then he smiled gratefully. “Size aught,” he said. “You chose correctly.”

“Like most Borderers, I did my share of makeshift smithing,” the master chronicler commented, handing the younger man the cloths.

Taking the string, Lydryth aided Alon in tying the rags around the Keplian’s hooves, so he would leave no prints.

When they were finished, Duratan swung himself up into the bay’s saddle, then held out a hand to Nolar. “My lady,” he said, with a smile touching his deep-set grey eyes, “it occurs to me that it has been long since we visited the southernmost farms to see if any are in need of your healing skills. Perhaps today would be a good day to do that.”

Nolar chuckled. “Let me get my bag of simples,” she said, and ran to fetch them. When she returned, she caught her lord’s hand; then, with a swirl of russet skirts, she scrambled up onto the bay mare’s rump.

Very canny, Lydryth thought approvingly. Now the bay’s hoofprints will sink deep enough to match the ones Monso has been leaving.

“What will you say when they find you?” Alon asked worriedly.

“I will say, truthfully, that all our other mounts are in use,” Duratan replied serenely, “and so my lady and I must needs ride double.” He smiled at Alon. “Remember your promise, lad. I will be waiting for the day when we can have that long talk.”

Alon nodded. “I will not forget.”

“Well, then ...” The master chronicler raised a hand in a half-salute. “A good journey to you both. May you find what you are seeking.” Nolar nodded farewell as Duratan turned the horse and sent the animal trotting out of the courtyard.

Lydryth and Alon watched them go; then they, too, set off, leading the stallion, so as to further confound their pursuers. Only when the ground beneath their boots was hard-packed soil broken by the thrusts of rock outcrops did they take the muffling rags off Mouse’s hooves and mount.

Perched once more behind her escort, Lydryth looked ahead of them, to the nearby slopes of the foothills, then beyond to the mountains, many with their peaks still snow-splotched. Uneasily she turned to regard their back trail. “Do you think the witch and her guards will be fooled by Duratan’s and Nolar’s trick?”

Alon sighed. “For another hour or so, perhaps. But as soon as they see Nolar and Duratan, they will know the truth.”

“Then the witch will scry, or farsee, and so discover which trail we have taken,” Lydryth agreed. She indicated the rock-strewn countryside surrounding them. “And Monso’s speed will be of little use to us when the ground is this broken.”

He nodded silently. After a moment, she wet her lips. “Do you think the mountains will stop her?”

Alon shook his head. “Have they stopped you?” he asked, simply. “That lady is as determined to capture you as you are to see your father healed.”

Lydryth knew that he spoke the truth; her fingers tightened convulsively on the leather of his belt. “Are you sure, Alon, that you wish to continue companying with me? You could let me off here and tell me where to find the mountain trail and the pass into-“

"No,” he said, turning in the saddle to look at her. There was no mistaking the gleam of determination in his eyes. “We go together, or not at all. Do not forget that they want me, too.”

But Lydryth knew better; if Alon would only abandon her, the guards of Estcarp would not bother pursuing a miscreant wanted only for a bit of racetrack chicanery. She was the one the witch wanted. The hunt was well and truly up, and she was the quarry.

I must make him leave me, she resolved, ignoring the pang that struck her at the thought. No matter what it takes.

Seven

They rode the sun down that day, not halting to make camp until the stars glimmered against the deep purple of the late evening sky. For most of their hours in the saddle Alon held Monso to a ground-covering jog, but whenever they reached stretches of high moorland where the footing was good, he let the Keplian run. When they finally stopped, they were high in the foothills, with the true mountains looming over them like fortresses of ragged stone.

After they dismounted, Lydryth moved around their campsite in a stumbling, dreamlike state, helping Alon rub the stallion down, then forcing herself to eat, knowing her body needed the food. Sleep claimed her the moment she crawled into her bedroll.

The travelers awoke before dawn to a drizzling rain. Heads ducked beneath the hoods of their cloaks, they hastily swallowed mouthfuls o damp journeybread, breaking camp while it was still dark.

Leading the Keplian, they started out. As they reached the crest of the nearest hillock, breathing heavily and slipping in the mud, Alon halted, turning to look back along their trail. After a moment he nudged Lydryth and pointed.

The girl squinted in the misty rain, narrowing her eyes until she made out what her companion was indicating-the dull red glow of several campfires, far behind them.

“We have nearly a full day’s start on them,” she said, but the aching lump of fear was back in her throat, nearly choking her.

“They will gain on us today,” Alon said grimly. “They will be covering gentle slopes, while we will be climbing in earnest before the day is out.”

“Is there another pass we could take?”

“Not that Monso could traverse ... not for many leagues,” he replied. “However ... there is a chance that the witch will not be able to climb these eastern mountains. There is a mindblock set upon those of the Old Race, concerning these mountains and Escore. Lord Kemoc Tregarth was the first to discover it. But now that everyone knows of Escore, it may also be that the witch can overcome the effects of that ancient sorcery, since she knows that the spell exists.”

Remembering her resolve that he and Monso should leave her before they risked being recaptured, Lydryth gave her companion a sidelong glance. “If there is a nearby pass that is only accessible to those traveling on foot, perhaps it would be best if you directed me to it. Then you could go on to the other pass with Monso.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened, and he did not look at her. “Why?”

She took a deep breath. “Because from this point on, Monso will only slow us down. I know you will not abandon him, but I have no wish to be caught because I have held back to stay with you two.”

The wan light of early dawn made Alon’s unshaven face appear even more drawn and haggard as he gave her a long, measuring glance. “Do not concern yourself unduly,” he said finally, in a tone that held the barest touch of sarcasm. “When we begin to hold you back, then it will be time enough for you to go on alone. Lady.”

Fighting back an urge to apologize, to blurt out that she was only doing this for his own good, Lydryth nodded, no longer meeting his eyes. “Very well,” she said, keeping her voice cold and hard with an effort. “But I shall be the judge.”

“And jury-of-peers, and no doubt executioner, too,” he said, giving her a crooked, mocking smile. “But for now, we must go.”

They went on, afoot much of the time, stumbling upward over rocky slopes dotted with scrubby firs and prickly gorse. The songsmith walked blindly, barely noticing her surroundings enough to pick her path. Alon’s last remark had disturbed her greatly. She had heard beneath the mockery a note of bitter pain; her words had hurt him more than he would ever reveal.

He is lonely, she thought, remembering how pleased he had been to have someone to talk with about Monso and Steel Talon. At the thought of the falcon, she glanced around, but saw no black speck outlined against the sky.

“Where is Steel Talon?” she asked, struggling not to gasp out the words. “I have not seen him since he and Monso made the thrice-circle.”

“When I awoke this morning, I saw him perched in a grove of these scrub firs,” Alon replied. “He seldom flies when it is wet, preferring to catch me up later. He will find us, never fear.”

Lydryth nodded, wishing that she had such a choice available to her. A trickle of chill water found its way down the back other neck, through the soaked hood other cloak, making her shiver.

Finally, about an hour before sunset, the rain slackened, then stopped, and the sun came out. Alon promptly halted in his tracks, beside one of the stunted scrub oaks. Pulling off his cloak, he hastily shook the water off a limb and spread the garment to dry.

The bard considered urging him to continue on, but her feet and her muscles hurt so from all the climbing that she said nothing, only sought out another tree to hang her cloak.

“Dare we build a fire?” she wondered aloud. “All the wood is so wet it will surely smoke.”

Alon shrugged. “The witch will know our whereabouts whether we have a fire or not. And I for one”-he pulled off his sodden leather jerkin-“would rather have the warmth.” He rubbed his jaw, then grimaced. “Not to mention hot water for shaving.”

Once the fire was kindled, reluctant and smoky even as Lydryth had predicted, the songsmith pulled off her own jerkin so her tunic could dry; then she drew her sword from its place of concealment. “Time for your first lesson,” she announced solemnly.

At the look of astonishment on Alon’s now smooth-skinned features, she smiled thinly, pointing with the tip of her blade to the one he wore. “Go on, draw it. Learning the basic stance and one or two moves will warm you up and loosen muscles stiff from walking in the rain.”

“But...” He hesitated, then shrugged and obeyed.

Lydryth surveyed his drawn weapon with a practiced eye. “A general-issue sword, but the Estcarpian smiths know their craft. Double-edged and pointed ... you will learn to use either point or edge. First of all, hold it out in front of you ... so.”

When he obeyed, she inspected his hand, touching the back of his wrist lightly, running her fingers up the length of his bared arm. “Good strength,” she said. “I am not surprised, seeing that you can rein in Monso. Now place your feet like this...” She moved into position, right foot ahead of left, crouching slightly. “Yes, that’s correct, now bend your knees a little, thus...”

Brow furrowed with concentration, he obeyed. “Good,” she said. “Shoulders a bit forward, right more than left, eyes front, good...” She faced him, her own blade out. “You must learn to let your body think for you, while keeping your mind calm and detached so it can plan your next move.

“Look not at any one area, but rather let your eyes take in the entire form of your opponent. Not only his blade, but also the movement of head, shoulders-the entire torso. Eventually you will learn to note the placing of his body without having to think about it, and then you can begin to anticipate an opponent’s moves from small shifts in his carriage, or from the way his eyes move. The eyes often reveal the next tactic even before the wrist or body knows what it will be.”

“What do I do with my left hand?” Alon asked, concentrating grimly on holding the sword in the correct position.

“For now, just hold it so,” she demonstrated. “It will help you balance. In time I will teach you to use your left hand, with a cloak wrapped around it, or with a dagger, to parry strokes.”

“Is that how you fight? With a sword and dagger?”

“That is my preferred style, yes,” she said. “Now put your blade back in its sheath.”

Her student looked rather relieved to have gotten off so easily. “Are we done?”

“Hardly. But I have no desire to have you cut me should I miss a parry. The scabbard will make a good protector.” When he’d obeyed, she said, “Good. Now ... back into position.”

Alon did so, grunting a little. “My legs will be stiff from this.”

“No doubt,” she agreed. “Now let me demonstrate a basic lunge and a basic parry for you to practice tonight...”

Quickly she shifted her weight forward, her sword driving before her like a steel wind. The point halted just touching the fabric of the tunic covering Alon’s midsection. With a startled gasp, he leaped back, wide-eyed. “Have a little caution, I beg you!” he sputtered. “You ... you could have spitted me!”

“Certainly,” Lydryth agreed calmly. “But I did not. Watch me again.” She demonstrated the lunge while he looked on. “You must learn to feel the force and direction of the blade as though it were a part of your body, controlling it precisely.

Your blade moves first, propelled by your wrist and arm. Your body follows, and then, last of all, let yourself step forward. Now, you try it...”

His first attempt made her shake her head reprovingly. “Concentrate, Alon. The steel is an extra length of arm for you now, and you must treat it so. Again.”

Again.

And yet again.

Finally, on the young man’s dozenth try, his teacher nodded, satisfied. “Better! Now try to touch point to this.” She suspended Monso’s feed bag over a branch. “Aim for the center buckle.”

It took him nine attempts to touch blade to the target.

“Good! Much better!”

Alon’s tight-jawed concentration broke into a wide grin. “The next time we are accosted by soldiers, my lady, you will not stand alone!”

Lydryth smiled tolerantly at his enthusiasm. “Now for the first of the parties. Cross swords with me, so.”

Once in position, the songsmith made a small twisting motion with her wrist, and Alon’s hand was suddenly empty. He stared from it to his sword, lying on the ground, and sighed. “I see that I have much yet to learn.”

She nodded. “But you are doing well, for the first time. Now ... again for the parry. This time, keep your wrist flexible, not stiff, so you can follow the motion of your blade and keep hold of it. Then it will be your turn to try...”

By the time the lesson was over, the light was fading rapidly, and Alon’s tunic was wet now with sweat, rather than rain. He hung it up to dry, then pulled on another shirt. “I will be back presently,” he told Lydryth and started back down their trail, out of sight.

The songsmith began making camp, shaking her head over the dampness that had invaded her bedroll, even through its tallow-soaked covering. Unfastening the saddlebag, she took out the meat jerky and her small cooking pot. Simmered in water with crumbled journeybread to thicken it, the jerky would make a hot, though tasteless, meal.

It was full dark by the time Alon returned. Lydryth had let the fire die down to coals, so she could make out his form only as a dark blot against the yellow stars that marked the campfires of their pursuers.

“They are closer,” she said, eyeing the distance between them measuringly as Alon sat down with a weary sigh. He murmured a quick thanks for the plate she offered him.

“If they can keep up their pace, by this time tomorrow they will be almost upon us,” the bard observed as she spooned up the last of her own meal. Hesitantly she bit her lip, then declared, “Tomorrow morning we had best go our separate ways, Alon.”

“No,” her companion said flatly. “They cannot possibly catch us tomorrow. The rocks will slow them, as today they slowed us.”

“If not tomorrow, then surely the day after. We must part, so that I can go on faster alone!”

He turned his head to regard her, but she could not read his features in the faint light of the campfire. “If they are closer tomorrow night,” he said evenly, “I will do as you say. Fair enough?”

“Yes,” Lydryth said, feeling her throat grow tight as a harpstring. “Alon... I... I am grateful to you, for trying to aid me. I... I wish you well.”

He made no reply.

T They reached the first slope of the mountain pass by the next evening, but Lydryth took no joy in their accomplishment. On the morrow they would be fortunate to make half the distance they had covered today, and a detachment of guardsmen, with no horses to lead over the thin, stony soil, would have no trouble catching them.

Turning to scan the rocky hills over which they had so laboriously toiled, Lydryth frowned, puzzled. There was no sign of the witch and her troop. When she pointed this out to Alon, her companion suggested that perhaps their pursuers had lost the trail. “But she can follow us by her witch-jewel,” Lydryth argued.

“You said so yourself.”

“The use of the Power wears hardly upon the user,” he said. “She may have weakened, finally. Or, it may be that she could not force herself to travel this far east.”

The songsmith shook her head slowly, remembering the Estcarpian woman’s determined expression. “If she had to be tied upon her mount and led, she would not give up. It is more likely that they are camped tonight in one of the valleys instead of on top of a ridge where we could see them.”

“We have lost them,” Alon insisted. “I scanned our path frequently today, and there was no sign of them. I believe that tonight we may rest without fear.” He turned away from her, calling back over his shoulder, “I will be back presently.”

Steel Talon had brought them a rabbit earlier that day, so Lydryth busied herself skinning it and putting it into their cooking pot with several handfuls of vegetables and a few pinches of herbs. Then she took her sword out of the quarterstaff and practiced with it, lunging and parrying with an imaginary opponent. At last, sweating and panting, she halted, only to see last rays of the setting sun hang over the mountain peak towering above her, then vanish.

Still Alon did not return. He must be delaying deliberately, she thought with mounting irritation. It is grown too dark now for a lesson.

Scowling, she strode off down the slope, determined to give her errant pupil a lecture on the importance of daily practice if he wished to achieve any proficiency.

As she walked, however, she was struck by a sudden thought. What if he has been captured, and I am now marching into a trap?

The songsmith began moving with a scout’s caution, shifting her weight with care on the stony ground lest she send a pebble skittering, taking advantage of every boulder, every scrap of concealment her rugged surroundings had to offer.

It was thus that she came upon her companion as he knelt on the stony ground, chanting softly. In one hand he held a swatch of black horsehair, which he was sweeping over a distinct hoofprint in a patch of loamy soil. Straining her ears, Lydryth caught snatches of what he was chanting, and realized it was that arcane form of the Old Tongue.

As she watched, tight-lipped with angry realization, Alon fell silent. He rose to his feet, arms held high, and suddenly the hoofprint, a scrape on a rock caused by a horse’s metal shoe, and a mound of horse droppings all glowed violet-and vanished.

Mist rose out of the ground and began coiling down the hillside, snaking along their back trail. The songsmith knew instinctively that it would erase all traces of their passage as it flowed over the earth.

Alon stood for a moment more, arms raised; then he sighed audibly and his shoulders sagged. Magic does indeed wear hardly upon the user, Lydryth thought bitterly, her cheeks hot with fury and shame, remembering how she had confided in him about growing up in Kar Garudwyn. How could I have been such a fool as to not realize the truth?

Only a moment did the young man allow himself to rest; then he trudged back up the slope, obviously hurrying as fast as his tired legs would take him.

Lydryth let him draw even with her hiding place, then stepped out, barring his path. “I see now why you were so confident that the witch could no longer trail us,” she said, her voice pitched low despite her anger.

He halted and stood staring at her for a long moment, his face a pale oval in the last glow of twilight. Finally he said, “I am sorry. You are right to be angry.”

“By the Sword Arm of Karthen the Fair, I certainly am!” Lydryth hissed, so furious that she found she was trembling. “I trusted you, and all the while you were doubtless laughing at me up your sleeve! The great Adept-for you are no simple village Wise Man, or one who merely dabbles in arcane lore, that much even I can tell-the Adept, companying with the poor Powerless songsmith, using his magic to protect her-“ She swallowed, the taste of anger like bile in her mouth. “Well, I can protect myself from now on! I don’t need you!”

“I know that,” he said, quietly.

His ready admission took her aback.

“You assumed without asking that I had no Power,” he reminded her. “I did not lie outright.”

“You allowed me to believe what was not true,” Lydryth flared. “That is the same thing!”

“You have the right of it,” he agreed, wearily. “But ... Lady ... by the time I realized what a mistake I had made, I was in too deep to extricate myself gracefully. I knew you would be angry, and I did not want to hurt you.” He hesitated, then continued, in a low voice. “And yesterday, when you began saying that we must part, I knew that if you were to learn the truth, then you would indeed go your separate way- and I did not want that to happen.”

As he spoke, Lydryth heard a note in his voice that broke through her ire. Her face flushed again, but not from anger, and she could feel her heart pounding, as though she had been sprinting. “I did not want you to risk falling into the witch’s hands again on my behalf,” she said awkwardly. “That would be poor repayment indeed for your aid.”

“And my lack of truthfulness was poor exchange for your candor,” he said. He stepped closer to her in the darkness. “I can only say that I am sorry. I was wrong, but the thought of never seeing you again was ...” He hesitated. “... not something I wished to contemplate.”

Lydryth backed away in confusion, half of her struggling to find words to answer him, half not wanting to hear any more.

“Shall I go, then?” he asked, with an undercurrent of sadness in his calm tones. “Must we indeed part?”

Mastering her conflicting emotions, Lydryth managed to say, levelly enough, “If you are certain that the witch has been foiled in her hopes of finding us, then I see no reason why we cannot continue on to the Valley of the Green Silences.”

Silently he nodded, and they walked together back to the place where they had made camp.

The smell of stew tantalized the travelers when they reached the place where Monso waited, cropping determinedly at the scrubby clumps of grass nestled between the rocks. Alon fed the Keplian, then they sat down to their own meal.

When they finished, Lydryth gazed at her companion across their campfire and said, quietly, “You know my story, Alon. I feel I have the right now to know yours. How came you to be in Rylon Comers, racing Monso? A man with your abilities ...”

She saw lines appear around his mouth as he grimaced, then he said bitterly, “It is true, most Adepts spend their days in other pursuits than cheating at horse racing. But believe me when I tell you that until I encountered you, and we were captured, I had not used magic in more than a year.”

“So you put the guards and the witch to sleep?”

“I directed my Power through the beasts, yes.”

“I should have guessed,” Lydryth said, then in a burst of honesty admitted, “Perhaps I did guess-but I did not want to let myself see what lay plainly before my eyes. Duratan and Nolar ... they knew, didn’t they?”

“I believe so.”

The songsmith stirred the dying fire with a branch until it blazed up, then tossed the stick into the glowing red heart of the coals. “From living in Kar Garudwyn, I know that it is no small thing to ignore one’s Power. The Gift will out, no matter what. Why had you given up using your magic?”

“Because I killed my best friend with it,” Alon replied.

She stared at him, shocked. Silence held between them for a little while; then Alon sighed and said, “It is a long story. I know not who I truly am, or what my parentage is. I was fostered by a Lord Parian, for he believed me to be the son of a slain kinsman of his. Whether that story was the truth, I know not.”

He paused, and Lydryth asked, “Why do you doubt that tale?”

“Because Yachne told Lord Parian that I was born to his kinsman, but there was no other evidence to support that tale. And Yachne ...” He hesitated. “I never trusted her, though she cared for me and raised me for my first dozen years.”

“Who was this Yachne?”

“A Wise Woman, of that I am sure. She appeared at Lord Parian’s keep with me as a babe in arms, telling him the story of who I was and how I had been born. She claimed to have been my lady mother’s servant.”

“And she had the Power?”

“Yes. In many ways, I believe, she lessoned me subtly in its use from the time I could walk and talk. But I do not believe that she ever had any warmth or liking for me-only for what she thought I might be able to do for her.”

Lydryth thought of what a barren existence he had evidently led-without true kin, or caring-and felt her heart tighten within her. “Perhaps,” she ventured awkwardly, “this ... Yachne ... felt true affection for you, but had difficulty showing it. That is often the case with certain people.”

Alon shook his head decisively. “Even by the time I was a lad of twelve, I knew better. She never acted like a mother, or an aunt, or even a fond teacher. She taught me as though she had a use for me, and I feared the day I would be put to that use.” He stared bleakly at her across the yellow flames. “I learned from her, but I did not love her-though she never abused me or treated me with anything but a rather aloof kindness. She took very good care of me, but always I feared her more than a little.”

“Did you worry that she meant you harm?”

“No ...” He hesitated. “But I never wanted to be a dagger for her honing.” Alon smiled wryly, but there was pain in his eyes. “However, I know with certainty that that is what I was to Yachne. That is all I was to her.”

“So what set you free of the Wise Woman and Lord Parian?”

“There was a raid by one who was in league with a powerful Dark One. Everyone in Lord Parian’s keep was killed, save for me. I managed to conceal myself from the raiders.”

“By sorcerous means,” Lydryth guessed, and was not surprised when he nodded assent. “Everyone was killed?” she continued. “Yachne too?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “I never saw her body, but I have no reason to believe she was spared. If she had still lived, it seemed to me, she would have come to my rescue. I was valuable to her, after all,” he finished, with a bitter grimace.

“And then?” Lydryth prompted, when he fell silent once more. “What did you do then?”

“I made my way to Escore, and, as I told you, I was fostered there by Hilarion and Kaththea. But several years after I came to live with them, they had a child of their own ... then, two years later, another.

“By that time I was near-grown, and Hilarion had taught me much of what he knew. They would have had me stay, but I was restless to see the land where I had been born-if Karsten was indeed that place, since I have no way of knowing. And I felt that my foster-parents should be able to raise their children without distraction. So I set off with Monso.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned his chin in his hands, staring intently into the dwindling fire, as though he saw events from the past pictured there. “Once on the other side of the mountains, I encountered Jonthal, Steel Talon’s master. I’d had a Falconer friend, Nirel, when I was a child, so I spoke to him, where I was cautious in speaking to other men. We became friends, and soon we were leading parties over the mountains from Karsten and Estcarp into Escore. Jonthal handled the business, and I rode with the travelers to protect them from the dangers that had been unleashed following the Turning ... the Thas and the Grey Ones, mostly.”

“I can see how a party could travel safely under your protection,” Lydryth agreed. “No wonder you never needed to learn swordplay!”

“You have convinced me otherwise,” he said. “Now that we have no further fear of Estcarpian pursuit, I will practice daily.”

“Good,” she said. “But pray continue your account.”

“Jonthal always warned me that I was overconfident,” Alon resumed his story with a tired sigh. “But I laughed at his fears. One night in Kars, we were dining in a tap-house, when a boy delivered a message, saying that a prospective client wished to see us. Jonthal did not wish to go, as the summons had come from a part of Kars City where even the City Guards did not venture, save in force, but I insisted. We needed the money, and what was there to fear, I said? My Power would protect us.”

He laughed softly, bitterly, with such pain in the sound that Lydryth’s heart ached to hear him. “And it did not?” she prompted, when he sat in silence, head bowed.

“You have the right of it. We walked into an alley, peering at the doorways for the third one on the right, and they were upon us before we knew what had happened. Something kept me from sensing them, though my magic should have warned me. Hired toughs, four of them, armed with swords. Jonthal drew and engaged one, and I forced sleep upon the minds of two others. The fourth took to his heels. When I turned back to my friend, it was in time to see the cutthroat’s blade driving straight for his throat.

“With every bit of Will I possessed, I lashed out-and the Power went awry. I...” For the first time his voice faltered. “I will never know the reason why, but I must have made ... a mistake. The force I unleashed struck Jonthal, while the assassin stood unscathed. My friend was dead before he struck the stinking cobbles of that thrice-cursed alley.” Alon stared fixedly at his hands. “I killed him.”

“You were trying to save him,” Lydryth pointed out. “If you had not struck, he would have died by the assassin’s steel.”

“Perhaps ... or perhaps he might have parried it at the last moment. He was a good swordsman.”

“You did not harm him intentionally,” she continued earnestly. “It is not unknown in battle for a man to be slain accidentally by a comrade’s sword-thrust. Mistakes happen. What occurred was not your fault, and you should forgive yourself for it.” She sighed. “Guilt is a very crippling burden.”

He stared at her intently in the waning firelight. “You above all others should know, Lady. You are still blaming yourself for something that was in no way your fault.” Alon considered silently for a moment. “I will make a bargain with you, Lydryth.”

“What kind of bargain?” the songsmith asked warily.

“I will endeavor to forgive myself, if you will do likewise. You are not to blame for your mother’s disappearance, your father’s mind-clouding. You are, if anything, far less culpable than I.”

She bit her lip; then, slowly, she nodded. “Very well. I will try not to hold myself responsible, if you will do likewise.”

“Done,” he said, and held out his hand to seal their pact. Lydryth reached out across the coals of the campfire, feeling the heat of them on her skin, to grasp his fingers tightly.

Since the travelers were no longer troubled by worries of pursuit, they climbed at a much more leisurely pace the next day. The snowcapped peaks towered above them, but the pass toward which they toiled was no more than a half-day’s journey away. As they climbed higher, frost rimed the rocks underfoot, and the last of the underbrush was left behind. Now only grey-green lichens grew. Monso could find no forage at all.

Gasping from the thin air, Alon and Lydryth halted long before sunset to camp when they found a nearly level ledge that Alon reported as the only campsite this side of the pass. After they had rested and eaten, Alon insisted on taking on his sword and practicing a few lunges and parries. Huddled into her cloak, Lydryth watched, now and then correcting his stance or movements. But the young Adept was making praiseworthy progress, and she told him so.

Finally Alon halted, sweating despite the chill air, and sank down onto his bedroll, gasping. “Enough for tonight, teacher?”

“Indeed yes,” she said. “Tomorrow-if either of us has the strength after making the final pull through the pass-I will demonstrate another kind of parry for you to practice.”

“When will I be ready to match blades with a live opponent as opposed to a brave feed sack?”

She smiled. “At your current rate of progress? Oh ... perhaps another month.”

His face fell, and she hastily amended, “But you are learning faster than most, Alon! You must cultivate patience, if you hope to succeed.”

He scowled. “Patience has never been one of my virtues.” With a sigh, he reached for a piece of journeybread. Since there was no wood to be had above the treeline, they were making a cold supper.

Later, as they sat together companionably, watching the shadows of evening close in around them, he suddenly asked, “What song is that? It has a lovely tune.” Lydryth started, not realizing she had been humming aloud. “I don’t know,” she said, feeling foolish. “What did it sound like?”

Alon produced a few off-key snatches of melody. Hearing him, the songsmith felt herself coloring and was grateful for the encroaching darkness. The words that accompanied the tune came unbidden to her mind:

Golden the sunlight on the hill,

Silver the moonlight on the sea:

Though fair these things are to see, still,

No fairer than my love to me!

Though merry the glint of dancing brook,

Though sweet the carol when birds rejoice,

No merrier than my sweetheart’s look,

No sweeter than my sweetheart’s voice.

Not gold nor silver, brook nor bird,

Nor sun nor moon, though wondrous all

Can touch my heart as does his word

Nor gladden me as does his call!

“It is an old song from High Hallack,” she said, reluctantly.

“Hearing you hum it just now reminded me that I haven’t heard you sing since that day at the fairground when you serenaded Monso. Your voice is so fair ... can you sing it for me?”

Lydryth shook her head. “I have forgotten the words,” she lied, crossing her fingers behind her back in a gesture suddenly recalled from childhood.

“That’s a pity. Please ... hum it again, so I can remember the melody.”

Lydryth complied, grateful that he could not see her blush. You have no time for entanglements! she reminded herself fiercely.

That night, they bedded down side by side, sharing their blankets, as was customary between companions on the trail when camping fireless in cold weather. Alon slung his cloak over Monso’s back, then commanded the stallion to fold his legs beneath him so they could huddle together in the windbreak created by the Keplian’s body. Tired from the day’s journey, both travelers fell asleep quickly.

Lydryth awakened late that night to find the waning moon shining on her face and Alon snuggled close against her beneath their blankets. In his sleep he had flung an arm across her waist. The warmth of his breath stirred the curls at the back of her neck.

The young woman bit her lip, wondering how to extricate herself gracefully before he could awaken. She was acutely conscious of his body pressed against hers, his hand so close to her breast, even beneath the bulky layers of her clothing. Each breath he drew seemed to echo inside her own body.

As she hesitated, strangely reluctant to move, a glimmer of light caught her eye from a nearby mountain slope. Lydryth squinted, certain that she had been mistaken, but as the quarter-moon emerged from behind a bank of racing clouds, it was there again, shining brightly. The light beckoned to the bard, beckoned with a pure white light in the darkness.

What is it? she wondered, feeling it tug at her with an almost physical pull. She seemed to hear a strange music, highpitched, uncanny-nothing that could be produced by any instrument or throat that she knew.

Wriggling gently out of Alon’s hold, she sat up, her teeth chattering in the cold as the chill struck her like a blow. The Adept mumbled something inarticulate as his fingers quested blindly, seeking after her vanished warmth.

The glow softened, waned, then went out as another cloud covered the moon. The songsmith stared, hardly daring to blink lest she lose the spot where it had been. Long heartbeats later, as the rag of cloud gusted past, it was there once more, shining .., beckoning.

The songsmith heard a soft snort, then turned to see Monso’s head, an inky shadow against the light-colored rocks. The creature’s ears were pricked up. The glow of the unknown beacon reflected eerily in the Keplian’s eyes.

Hearing that high, eldritch music again, Lydryth turned to her companion and shook his arm impatiently. “Alon! Rouse you! Waken, please!”

He came to alertness quickly, as any wayfarer must learn to do if he is to survive long on the trail. “What is it?” he demanded, sitting up, then cursing softly in the cold and pulling the blankets up around his shoulders.

“I know not,” the bard said, pointing at the light and trying to repress her shivering. “Could it be some trap set by the witch?”

Alon handed over her cloak. “No ... I would sense that one’s presence. This is ... greater. Much greater. Not living, but still... it is of the Power.”

“What kind of Power? Surely not the Dark!” Lydryth protested. The light was so clean, so bright!

“I cannot be sure,” Alon said. “I can sense little about it. But if it is activated by the moon, then it must be of the Light. And ... it is drawing me ... it has the power to ... to summon.”

“I know,” she said. “It has been calling to me, also. Alon, this is important, I know it is! We must go there-quickly, before the moon sets!”