Songsmith

9

“I cannot choose between them,” Eydryth said numbly. She gave him a despairing glance. “No one could make such a choice!”

“No one should have to,” Alon agreed. “And I believe that there exists a way to save both of them. If we can reach the Valley of the Green Silences today, we can collect some of Dahaun’s healing mud to carry with us, then go back through the gate tomorrow. With Monso’s speed, we should be able to catch Yachne before she can harm your Kerovan.”

“We do not know how much of Arvon she may have to cross before she reaches Kar Garudwyn,” Eydryth said.

“She may not have to travel there,” Alon warned. “I think it more likely that she will seek out a place of the Shadow and work a summoning spell to draw him to her, as she did with Dinzil.”

“Arvon has many such places,” Eydryth whispered. “It is a gamble, Alon. If we are wrong, Kerovan’s life may well be forfeit, and Yachne may well have such Power as to be nigh invincible.”

“It is a gamble, yes,” he agreed. “But I cannot leave Escore without warning my people. They are in terrible danger, too, never forget.”

“Will the valley dwellers be able to carry the message to those the witch plans to harm?”

“Yes. Dahaun has birds that she trains to bear messages to Es City and all the different places in Escore, in case of any troubling in the land. Also, Kyllan is mind-linked with his brother, Kemoc, and his sister, Kaththea, and so may be able to warn them that way.”

Eydryth straightened, feeling the muscles in her back and neck ache with the movement. “Let us go, then. We have no time to lose.”

Alon nudged Monso with his heels and the Keplian began picking his way down the mountain slope. It was fortunate that the Gate on this side of the mountain range had deposited them far lower in the craggy heights than the one they had leaped through in Estcarp. Before they had gone a mile, they struck on a winding game trail that led downward to rolling hills. As they traveled, the songsmith kept a sharp lookout for any trace of Dinzil, but the suddenly aged sorcerer was nowhere to be seen.

Their last descent was a particularly precipitous scramble down a steep and muddy path, and, when they had negotiated it safely, Alon drew rein to allow Monso to breathe. Eydryth gazed around her, seeing no sign of anything living save a herd of pronghorns grazing on the spring turf of the next hillside. “What do you think happened to Dinzil?” she asked.

Alon hooked a leg up over the pommel of the saddle and turned sideways so he could regard her. “I do not believe that one such as Dinzil could face living as an ordinary man. If he truly was bereft of all his power, then I would wager that he lies now at the bottom of some cliff, free from his weak and aged body.”

The songsmith nodded. “You are probably—”

She broke off with a startled cry, ducking as something black suddenly dived at them from the sky above. The creature gave a piercing scream as it glided by, turning toward them again, and Eydryth recognized the white V on its breast. “Steel Talon!” she cried. “He found us!”

Alon held out his arm, bracing himself, and, with another screech, the bird landed on that improvised perch. The Adept winced as the creature’s talons dug into the leather of his sleeve. The falcon regarded each of the humans, first with one golden eye, then, cocking its head, with the other. Steel Talon cried out again, his wickedly hooked bill seeming suddenly far too close to Eydryth’s eyes.

“We forgot him,” she said, guiltily. “He is angry with us.”

“I did not forget him,” Alon said, as much to the falcon as to her. “I knew he would find us. He has been with me long enough so that he can sense my mind, even though I am not a Falconer. Those warriors can truly communicate mind-to-mind with their birds, but it does not require close contact for the bird simply to sense my whereabouts.”

Eydryth spoke to the falcon as though the bird could understand her. “Winged warrior,” she said, “I am sorry that we did not offer you the chance to travel through the Gate with us. But it was not a comfortable journey, I assure you. Doubtless flying over those mountains was much more to your liking.”

“If he wishes to accompany us tomorrow, he will have to go through the Gate with us,” Alon said. “He could not possibly follow us across two continents and an ocean—to the other side of the world.”

“How can we manage to carry him?” she asked, dubiously eyeing the falcon’s rending beak and sharp talons.

“With difficulty, I am sure,” Alon said. “I will strive to communicate the problem to him tonight, with Dahaun to help me. She can mind-speak nearly any creature.”

As he finished speaking, the falcon stretched out his wings, and, with a quick motion of his arm, Alon helped him launch himself skyward. Monso’s breathing had slowed and calmed, so they set off again. Steel Talon wheeled in the sky above them, flying so high at times that he seemed naught but a pinprick of black against the blueness.

The slopes before them now were grassy and gently rolling, so Alon put the Keplian into a steady canter. They were headed due north, Eydryth realized, judging their direction from the position of the sun. She relaxed into the stallion’s gait, balancing easily on those powerful haunches, feeling the rhythmic push and glide beneath her. Before long the steady motion had lulled her into a near-doze.

Finally, they struck on a dirt road, well-traveled by the looks of it. “Not far to go now,” Alon said, and she straightened. “I am going to let him run a little,” he warned. “So hold on!” He loosened the rein and Monso immediately surged into a full gallop—and then the Keplian, with a snort, fought to get a free head; his strides came faster and faster yet!

“Easy… easy, Monso…” Alon said, but the horse only increased speed again.

“Can you hold him?” she cried, alarmed, only to have her words whipped away by the wind of their passage.

Eydryth clung to her companion’s belt, resting her head against Alon’s back and half-closing her eyes as the landscape flashed by them so fast it made her dizzy. This was the first time she had ridden Monso at a run in daylight, and the half-bred’s speed both excited and frightened her. She could feel Alon’s back muscles bunch against her cheek as he struggled to regain full control. He spoke softly to the beast, all the while striving with every bit of horsemanship he possessed to keep the Keplian from breaking loose and running totally free.

Finally, the creature’s pace slackened slightly, and Alon again had full mastery. He turned his head slightly. “Are you still with me, lady songsmith?”

“Yes,” Eydryth managed to gasp. “But when he goes like that… I cannot help but be frightened.”

“You think I am not?” he retorted. “There is a wildness in his nature at such times that harkens back to the demon-creature that foaled him…” He was panting himself with the effort to control the Keplian. “He sensed our urgency, also.”

The Keplian’s mad run had brought them a far distance, for the mountains now were only craggy silhouettes behind them. Before them lay a land where green fields sprouted their crops and tidy farmsteads lay scattered. Eydryth had thought Escore a very empty land in comparison to Arvon, and the sight of those farms reassured her. She remembered Alon’s saying that the two lands had once been one. That must have been long and long ago, indeed, she thought. Her mind reeled at the idea of so many, many years.

The road led them toward two craggy ridges that did not quite meet, forming a narrow pass in their midst. Alon slowed Monso still more, until they were traveling at a slow, collected canter.

As the travelers reached the shadowing heights of the pass, Eydryth saw symbols etched deep into the ocher rockface of each flanking cliff. Several of those incised markings were close enough to runes from the Old Tongue that she recognized them. One of them she whispered softly as they passed it, feeling relief and sense of peace steal over her, for it was a powerful ward against the Dark.

“Euythayan…” she breathed.

“Yes,” Alon said, barely turning his head to make reply. “Until the day that Dinzil betrayed the Valley by stealing away Kaththea, none of the People of the Green Silences thought that any harm could befall them here. It was a blow to them to discover that their protections could be broken.”

“Dinzil must have been a powerful Adept indeed,” Eydryth said, troubled exceedingly by this revelation.

“He was,” Alon said, and then, evidently guessing her thoughts, he added, “And now Yachne, if she has his Power, might also be able to overcome the Valley’s wards.”

As they went on, the crags dropped away, and so did the road. Then they rounded a gentle downward curve, and Eydryth found herself looking out across a vast valley.

It was so green! Lush with grass and flowers, shaded by great trees, it seemed a dream of beauty that called out to her weary spirit, as though she had come to a second home. The sight of the Valley of the Green Silences seemed to relieve and ease the songsmith’s weary, anxious spirit, even as a healer’s balm may ease a wound. Eydryth found herself running snatches of notes and words through her mind, in hopes that she could someday capture some of the loveliness of this place in a song.

Dwellings dotted the Valley, though they could not be termed “houses,” for they grew out of the earth itself, their circular walls being formed of tree trunks or flowering bushes. Their peaked roofs were thatched with vivid blue-green feathers. As the travelers cantered slowly down the road, people came out of the houses. Many waved to Alon, and he returned their greeting, but he did not draw rein until they had reached the largest of the dwellings. As Monso halted, the doorway, which was curtained by flowering vines, moved aside, and a man came out, followed a moment later by a woman. Lord Kyllan and Lady Dahaun, Eydryth thought.

Both wore soft tunics and breeches of a spring green, with belts and wristlets of pale gold studded with blue-green gems. Kyllan was tall and broad-shouldered, with the air of one who has ridden to arms many times. In that way he reminded Eydryth of her father, Jervon; he had the same air of one who is accustomed to command. Physically, though, he was plainly of the Old Race, though his jaw was wider and his mouth held more than a touch of humor about it. Eydryth recalled that his father, Simon Tregarth, was reportedly an outlander, who had come from some distant world through one of the legendary Gates.

As the Lady of the Green Silences stepped forward, the girl’s eyes widened in surprise. She gazed at her, blinked, then frankly stared. Never had she seen her like before!

Tall and slender, she seemed as graceful as a willow in her green tunic. Eydryth’s eyes fastened on her face. Her hair was as pale gold as the metal of her wristlet… no, it was the color of new-smelted copper… no, it was as black as Eydryth’s own… no, no, it was the green of the new spring leaves…

The harder the songsmith stared, the more the woman’s coloring and features seemed to blur and change. She was many women… and all of them beautiful.

“Alon!” Dahaun exclaimed, stretching forth both her hands in warm and gracious greeting. “Oh, well-come indeed! You have returned to us!”

“Greetings, Lady… Kyllan,” the Adept said. “I but wish that my visit were simply a visit, but, in truth, I come in haste, on a matter of great urgency.” He turned in the saddle to give the songsmith a steadying grip as she slid off the Keplian, then swung down himself. Catching the minstrel’s hand, he drew her forward. “But first, Dahaun, I must present my companion, the Lady Songsmith Eydryth.”

With a gracious yet courtly air, the Lady inclined her head and reached to take the girl’s hand in both of hers. “Be welcome to our home, Eydryth,” she said warmly. “This is my lord, Kyllan.” As the Lady of the Green Silences touched the girl’s hand, her features steadied, until her face was oval, her eyes grey, her hair black. She now was as plainly of the Old Race as was her lord, Kyllan.

“Good fortune to your home, Lady Dahaun, now and evermore,” Eydryth said, altering the traditional greeting a trifle. In no wise could one call this bower of living trees and vines a house.

The Lady released her guest’s hand, and her features again took on that uncanny shifting, as her lord, Kyllan, also stepped forward to greet the songsmith. Then Tregarth turned back to Alon, who was standing with Monso’s rein over his arm. He smiled with a touch of ruefulness. “If that were an ordinary mount you hold, Alon, I would offer to tend him for you, but perhaps that would not be wise of me.”

Alon grinned. “My foster-mother has told me that you have no reason to love Keplians, having once almost been undone by one of Monso’s breed. I will tend him myself.”

Dahaun (once more her hair was as green as her garb) smiled mischievously at her lord. “Do not forget what a great gift the Keplian brought you that day so long ago, my lord. Had it not been for him, we two might never have met!”

He inclined his head. “For which I give heartfelt thanks every day, my lady. Still, I have often thought that there must be easier ways for a man to first encounter his future bride than to have nearly every bone in his body smashed by a demon-horse!”

Turning back to her guest, the Lady said, “Take off your mount’s saddle and bridle, Alon. Monso will be fine, here, will you not, my beauty?” She reached a slender hand toward the creature’s forehead, then her eyes widened. “What is this?” she exclaimed.

Alon’s fingers began separating the long strands of Monso’s forelock. “The crystal I braided into his forelock, so we could open the Gate,” he said. “I forgot all about it in our haste to reach you. But… but it has changed! What—?” he broke off in wonder as his questing fingers worked the amethyst-shaded crystal free of the Keplian’s long forelock. “Look!” he cried, holding it out for all of them to see.

Instead of a netting of black horsehair, the shard from the mirror now lay encased in a delicate webbing of purest silver. “It must have transmuted when we leaped through,” Alon whispered.

Dahaun put out a hand, but stopped short of actually laying finger to the crystal. “It is a powerful talisman,” she said. Turning to her lord, she pulled free the silver cord that laced the top of his green tunic. Threading the cord through the net of silver, she formed a pendant from it. This she placed solemnly over Alon’s head, so it hung down beneath the neck of his tunic. “Keep it always, and may it protect you from all manner of evil,” she said quietly.

Then the Lady of the Green Silences turned back to the Keplian. “Leave Monso here,” she repeated. “He will be fine.” The black snorted, then bobbed his head up and down, exactly as if nodding agreement.

Quickly, Alon freed the stallion to graze, then the travelers followed their host and hostess into the dwelling.

Within, screens made of living vines or woven of feathers made rooms, and the floor was carpeted with soft living moss. Light filtered greenly through the roof and walls, making the interior pleasantly restful. When Alon would have launched immediately into their story, Dahaun stayed his words with a swift gesture. “Your story will wait a few minutes more,” she said, waving Eydryth toward one alcove, while Kyllan took the young Adept’s arm and steered him toward another. “You have been on the road for long and long, and need to rest, if only for a short while. Besides, we must summon the scouts to hear your tale firsthand, if they must needs carry it to others.”

Alon nodded, albeit a bit reluctantly.

Eydryth followed the Lady into a room containing two pools, one holding water tinged red with mud, the other filled with clear water. Now that she was actually here, lack of sleep and food made her so weary she stumbled as she walked. Dahaun indicated the red-colored pool, and said, “This one first, Lady Eydryth.”

Stripping off her travel-grimed clothes, the songsmith sank gratefully into the warm pool. Dahaun gathered up her stained breeches, tunic, and jerkin, promising to see that they were cleaned for use on the morrow, then left the girl to her bath. The red-tinged water was blissfully hot, and its touch revived her so completely that she felt all weariness and hunger vanishing. This pool, she thought, must share the restorative and healing abilities of the red mud pools Alon had spoken of earlier today.

Finishing off with a thorough rinse in the clear pool, she then donned the clothes her hostess had left, soft tunics, breeches and boots like unto the ones Dahaun and Kyllan wore.

When the girl emerged, feeling vastly more energetic, it was to find Alon, garbed like herself, sitting with a man of Dahaun’s race, Ethutur, talking quietly. The Lord of the Green Silences also possessed the shape-shifting ability, though not as much as Dahaun. Two small, ivory horns rose from his forehead, nearly hidden by the loose curls of his ever-changing-hued hair.

No sooner had the songsmith been introduced and seated herself upon one of the moss-grown hummocks that served as cushions on the floor than the Lady herself returned. Dahaun was accompanied by two tall children who were carrying platters of food and drink, and by two men who wore the battered boots and light mail of couriers or scouts. One of the men was a giant who towered above the other.

Kyllan introduced the two men as the Valley’s scouts, Yonan and Urik. Yonan was of middle height, and evidently descended from some Sulcar ancestor, if Eydryth guessed aright. The giant was Urik.

The boy and girl (they appeared to be perhaps five years younger than the songsmith herself) Kyllan identified as his and Dahaun’s twin children. Elona, the girl, had inherited something of her mother’s shape-changing ability, for whenever Eydryth gazed upon her, her features gradually took on subtle shifts of shape, and her hair and eyes seemed to darken and lighten, though not to the extent that Dahaun’s did. Keris, the boy, resembled his father, and his features did not change. Nor did he have the horns of the Green Men.

Dahaun waved at the crisply baked rounds of thin bread, wedges of cheese and an assortment of fruits and early vegetables. “Can you eat as you talk?”

Alon was already reaching for a piece of fruit. “If we cannot, we will take turns,” he said. “I met this wandering songsmith while I was racing Monso in a village called Rylon Corners…”

He continued telling about how he had met Eydryth, while the minstrel busied herself with the food. Then, when he came to the reason for her quest, he nodded to his companion, and she quickly explained about her search for a means to heal her father. “Alon wondered whether the red mud that is to be found within this Valley might not help,” she concluded, giving the Lady an inquiring glance.

Dahaun’s ever-shifting features were grave as she considered the girl’s query. “I do not know,” she said softly, “whether the mud will heal ills of the mind and spirit as well as those of the body. Never has it been so tested. But you are welcome to take some with you and try.”

“Thank you, Lady.”

“But Eydryth’s quest is but the half of it,” Alon said, after swallowing a last bite of food. “Last night, she was awakened by a strange noise that I could not hear…”

He continued, telling the strange tale of their journey to the ancient mirror-Gate, and of Yachne and her Power-stealing spell.

Kyllan’s expression darkened when he heard the identity of the ancient sorcerer the witch had bested. “Dinzil!” he exclaimed. “I thought that one forever gone, or dead.”

“Which he may well be, by now,” Alon said, then he proceeded to tell Tregarth of the threat to all males possessing Power. “She called us things against nature, abominations,” he finished, finally. “Yachne intends to make herself the most powerful sorceress the world has ever known.”

“Where could she have come from?” Dahaun wondered aloud.

“From some of the things she said, I believe that she was once a witch of Estcarp,” Eydryth said, and Alon nodded agreement. “One of the ones whose Power was broken when she made herself a vessel to channel the magic during the Turning.”

“When she had the raising of you, did she ever refer to being a witch?” Kyllan asked Alon.

The younger man shook his head. “She was certainly a Wise Woman, but I would have sworn she had not the ability to perform such a summoning as we witnessed,” he said thoughtfully. “Opening a Gate is, as I discovered for myself today, no easy task. The Yachne that I knew before could scry, and sense the presence of the Shadow, and heal, using herbs and such. Minor magics, at best. She was no sorceress.”

“Where did she learn that spell, then?” Eydryth mused. “She said that someone had taught it to her… but who?”

“Perhaps she lied, and actually uncovered it in some musty old scroll in Lormt,” Alon speculated, then he sighed. “But however she learned it, it makes little difference. The danger to us is real.”

“I will contact Kaththea and Kemoc immediately,” Kyllan said. “And tomorrow morn my lady wife will release her messenger birds to carry the news across the mountains to my father, Simon, at Etsford.”

“If only I had the Power,” Eydryth murmured softly. “Then I might be able to warn Kerovan tonight.”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Dahaun reassured her. “It is nearly sunset already… it will be dawn before you know it.”

Eydryth nodded, knowing the Lady of the Green Silences strove only to comfort her, but she was restless. The restorative effects of the red pool had worked only too well… She was too full of energy to sleep. Rising, she went outside, seeing Monso grazing on the lush grass, and Steel Talon perched in a tree not far from the stallion. A few minutes later, Alon followed her out, carrying both their swordbelts. “Time for my lesson,” he reminded her.

Eydryth was only too glad to have something to take up her thoughts, and together they practiced his one lunge and parry. Adding to Alon’s small store of knowledge, the songsmith then demonstrated a backhand parry, and they practiced that. Before they were done, Kyllan came out to tell them that Yonan and Urik had just set off, to ride with the warning to the settlement of the Old Race who had lived in Karsten before the Horning that had turned them into refugees. But now the former Karstenians were firmly established in this new—and, at the same time, ancient—land.

His news given, Tregarth lingered, observing the lesson. “You are a good teacher,” Kyllan said to the bard when she and her student had parted, each to regain lost breath. “He has definitely mastered that lunge.”

“Unfortunately, that is the only move I have mastered,” Alon said ruefully, wiping sweat from his brow. “But one is better than none, I suppose.”

Handing her sword to Kyllan, Eydryth encouraged Tregarth to coach her student. The older man readily did so, proving an able swordsman—probably, Eydryth thought, the equal of Jervon before his accident.

As if in response to her thought of her father and his plight, Dahaun appeared through the gathering dusk, holding out to the songsmith a small wood box that appeared to be sealed with wax or resin. This she put into Eydryth’s hands. “Some of the healing mud,” she said. “Be careful not to break the seal until you are ready to use it.”

Clutching it, Eydryth ran trembling fingers over the top of the box. Could this really be the means to heal Jervon? “Lady,” she said, her voice nigh to breaking, “I thank you… I am so grateful…”

“We are the ones who are in your debt,” Dahaun assured her. “I only pray that the mud will work. You must smooth it over his brow and scalp, and allow it to dry before chipping it free.”

“I will do so,” the girl replied. “And thank you again, my lady.”

Dahaun smiled at her. “It is I who owe you for the warning that may have saved my lord,” she said. “Be very sure that we shall guard against this Yachne and her foul spells. Power rightfully belongs to whomever possesses it and wields it responsibly. It is not for her to say yea or nay as to who may work magic.”

Eydryth nodded solemn agreement.

They left the Valley in the predawn darkness, with saddlebags replenished from Dahaun’s larder. Monso snorted eagerly, seeming anxious to be on the way again, and they made a speedy return to Yachne’s cave, arriving by midmorning.

“Do you remember how she opened the Gate?” Eydryth asked, as they dismounted outside the entrance. Steel Talon glided down from a nearby hillock to perch on the stallion’s saddlebow. “Do you remember what she chanted?”

“I listened carefully,” Alon replied, frowning, then he shrugged, as if unsure of his memory. “And last night I made notes of what I recalled and studied them. We can only hope that my efforts will serve. We cannot know until we make the attempt.”

Once within the confines of the cavern, he drew forth a short wand from one of the saddlebags. “Elder,” he said, holding it up for his companion’s inspection. “Used for the darker and more powerful spells.”

Quickly, he began sketching another pentagram on the floor of the cavern, in much the same manner as Yachne had. “But you are not going to summon anyone!” Eydryth protested.

“True, but I must follow the ritual exactly as she did. I know not what element will open the Gate,” he told her. “She did no spell of opening, such as I did, only spoke the final words to the dark mirror. Therefore something in her spell to undo Dinzil must have awakened the Gate, tapped its power, then left it waiting to function.”

Quickly, he set out candles Dahaun had supplied, lit them with a wave of his hand. “What will you use for blood?” the songsmith asked fearfully.

“My own,” he said.

“But doing so may weaken you too much!” she protested. “Use mine, Alon.”

Stubbornly, he shook his head. “I cannot use another living creature’s blood to work spells. If I needs must work Dark spells, then I will work them as cleanly as I can… lest the very working blacken my spirit beyond redemption.”

“Alon, do not be a fool! You need your strength to open that Gate! If you use my blood you will be taking from me only what I freely offer! That will not stain you!”

“No,” he maintained, and she could glimpse the stubborn gleam in his eyes. “My own blood will I use, and no other.”

Eydryth did not argue further, only drew her knife and deeply nicked her own wrist, then held it out to him. “Here.”

He gave her an angry glare, but she shook her arm at him so that red spattered the rocky floor around them. “Don’t waste it!”

Without further argument, he seized her wrist in his hands and began to chant softly, allowing the trickling blood to form an enclosing circle. Before many heartbeats had passed, Eydryth began to feel weak from the steady draining, but she forced herself to mask her dizziness. When they were about two-thirds of the way around the circle, though, she stumbled. In answer Alon’s fingers clamped hard over the slash, and he muttered softly under his breath. The bleeding slowed and stopped.

“Go and bandage that,” he ordered, “then get Steel Talon and Monso ready to go. Don’t speak to me again until the spell is complete… I will need full concentration.” Then, drawing his own belt knife, he nicked his own wrist deeply and set to completing the circle of blood.

As he finished, his chant grew louder… Slowly, inexorably, the candles began to darken. The words Alon was mouthing now made Eydryth’s head spin. She wanted to cover her ears, just as she had before, hearing Yachne. The Adept’s own lips twisted as he spoke, as though the words he pronounced tasted of bile.

The very air within the cavern grew as dark as the candles, curdling with foulness, murky with unseen shapes. Horrors seemed to gibber from the shadows, but every time Eydryth turned to look, there was nothing there. Resolutely, she forced herself to ignore them, and Alon, also.

Quickly she checked the fastenings of Monso’s saddlebags, fastened her quarterstaff into place beneath the stirrup on the horse’s off side; then she spread her cloak on the stony floor. “It is time, Steel Talon,” she said to the falcon still perched atop the pommel of the saddle.

With a harsh screech, the bird glided down and stood upon the cloak. Eydryth gathered up the edges, folding them up around the bird, thus protecting her flesh from those raking talons, that sharp beak. With the swathed falcon in her arms, she straightened up, turning to regard the Adept, only to see Alon, his head thrown back, a dark shadow half-obscuring his features, voice a last, loud call that she recognized from Yachne’s attempt.

The sound of that terrifying summons coming from her companion’s throat was enough to send the girl stumbling back against Monso’s side. The Keplian rolled his eyes, trembling violently.

Slowly, the deep, shadow-shot purple expanse of the dark mirror glowed foully to life. Their Gate was open.

Alon turned to regard his accomplishment with a look of such revulsion stamped across his features that Eydryth cried out in dismay. Then he staggered over into the corner of the cave and was thoroughly sick, heaving as though he could physically expel from his spirit the stain that Yachne’s incantation had left there. Finally, shaking, his features as waxy as the candles he had used (candles, Eydryth noted with part of her mind, that were now as pitchy black as they had been white before), he straightened, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

He spat one final time, then, obviously holding himself erect by force of will, walked over to Monso and mounted. Grimly, he held out his hand for the bundle that was Steel Talon, and, when the songsmith handed it to him, he hugged the falcon’s shrouded form against his chest.

“Can you get up?” he asked. He smiled a shaky, apologetic smile. “I seem to be short of hands to aid you, at the moment.”

“As long at Monso doesn’t kick, I can,” she said.

“No, he would not kick you,” he assured her.

Stepping behind the stallion, the songsmith patted his rump. “Easy, boy.” Then she backed away a few paces and came forward again at a run to vault neatly up over the Keplian’s rump into her accustomed position behind Alon.

“Very nice,” Alon said, admiration lightening the sick weariness that tinged his voice. “That is a feat I never learned.”

“Obred, the Kioga herd-master, taught me,” she said absently.

“And now for Arvon… I hope,” he whispered. “Hold tight.”

He urged the Keplian forward.

With a squeal of fear, the stallion plunged beneath them, back humping in protest. Alon shouted a harsh order, heels thumping against the creature’s sides. Still the horse resisted, shaking his head and snorting with terror. The smell of his fear-sweat was rank in Eydryth’s nostrils.

“Get up!” Alon shouted, then followed the order with a curse that made Eydryth gasp. His heels rammed his mount’s sides again, even as he slashed the reins savagely across the black’s neck, whipping him hard.

With a suddenness that sent Eydryth’s head snapping painfully back, Monso launched himself at the Gate.

Their first such crossing had been disturbing enough, but this one was agony. A great shadow seemed to envelop them, and they hung suspended in a darkness so profound that Eydryth feared she had been blinded by it.

Her spirit quailed before the sense of evil, of wrongness that this Gate held. She found that her mouth was open as she tried desperately to scream, but no sound emerged. It was like the worst of nightmares, where the dreamer struggles vainly to awaken—except that she knew this was no dream.

How long that passage took—minutes, years, centuries— she could not tell. But at last she heard Monso’s hooves strike hard ground with a thump, even as the world reappeared around them.

In the west, the sun was setting—and it had been well before noon in Escore! Eydryth stared around her, noting the colors and varieties of vegetation, the shapes of the distant mountains, then sniffed the air. “We did it,” she said, softly. “This is Arvon.”

“Good,” Alon said, grim with exhaustion. He halted Monso, then slipped off him, murmuring apologies for having whipped him. “I am sorry, son,” he whispered, then stooped to lay Eydryth’s cloak on the ground. Steel Talon shook himself free, then flew to the branch of a nearby oak, screeching an ear-piercing protest against such a form of travel.

Numb, the songsmith slipped off the Keplian’s back, then stood trembling, watching Alon repentently stroke his horse. Monso shoved his nose against him with a soft nicker.

“That was terrible,” Eydryth whispered, when her voice was once more under her control—barely. “I could never do that again… never.”

“Nor could I,” Alon agreed, soberly. His face was set in new, harsh lines, making him appear far older, far harder than he had only yesterday. “If it weren’t for Yachne, we would never have had to take such a desperate route. When I catch up to her, she will pay for this.”

“Will we able to capture her? And, if we do, is there some way she can be stripped of that terrible spell?” Eydryth asked, shivering as she remembered the witch’s power.

“If there is, I don’t know it,” Alon said grimly. A cold, hating glint awakened in his eyes, disturbing Eydryth profoundly. His voice rang out suddenly with the strength of one taking a sacred vow. “But worry not. After I find her, I swear to every god that is and ever was that she will present no further threat to anyone!”

Eydryth stared at him in horror. “Surely you do not mean…” she began, only to have him nod, his mouth naught but a grim slash.

“Oh, but I do,” he said softly, in a cold voice so cruel that the songsmith backed away a step. “When I find her, I intend to kill her.” He slanted a warning look at his companion. “And don’t even think about trying to stop me, Lady Songsmith.”