Songsmith

11

“Where are we, then?” Eydryth asked, forcing her voice to remain steady. With one part of her mind she wanted to scream at Alon, curse him roundly for leading them into this trap, but what good would that do? With an effort that made her jaw muscles ache, she kept a tight rein on her tongue.

“I am not entirely sure,” he said softly, and the bitterness in his voice told the songsmith that he was cursing himself far more vehemently than she could ever have done.

“Are we still in Arvon, do you think?” She gazed about them, seeing the eerily lit sky, the ravaged landscape stretching onward without discernible horizons. Fear surged within her. “Or did we come through some kind of Gate when we stepped into this blighted land?”

“I do not think so,” he said, absently fingering the crystal talisman Dahaun had placed about his neck, as though touching it would help him think. “I believe rather that we are still within the confines of that mysterious gorge we entered only a few moments ago.”

“But how can that be? There is no sun… and no horizon. We cannot see the hillsides that should surround us.”

“I know. But much of what we are seeing in this place is illusion,” he said. “Many of the false images I can dismiss by summoning true sight.” He pointed at a jagged boulder in their path. A ghostly grey vine with shadow-colored blossoms crawled up it like a viper. “That, for instance. The reality is not a boulder, but a gaping crevice in the earth, half-covered in dead vines.”

Eydryth stared at it, knowing that if she had continued onward, unwarned, she would have fallen over the edge. She licked dry lips. “Illusion… Can you break the spell, Alon?”

He gave a heartfelt sigh, leaning tiredly back against the Keplian’s shoulder. “That I cannot,” he said, sounding as if the admission cost him dearly. “Yachne’s magic is too strong.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. She had not expected him to admit defeat without even a trial. “How can you know unless you try?”

Bleak despair shadowed his face. “I know,” he insisted quietly. “This is too powerful for me.”

The songsmith opened her mouth to argue further, but after a moment she sighed softly and remained silent. The spell is not only one of illusion, she realized. It is also one of hopelessness. She could feel it affecting her, too… gnawing at the edges of her will, her determination, like a rasti chewing through a corncrib floor.

And without belief and faith, power is nothing, she thought, remembering snippets of magical lore that she had learned from her mother and Joisan. Unless Alon believes that he can undo this ensorcellment, he cannot succeed.

“Then what must we do?” she asked, trying not to let her fear show.

“We must cross the gorge,” he replied. “Yachne cannot have bespelled the entire width of Arvon. If we can find the true path through the illusion, we will emerge from it into the reality. But it will not be easy.” He shook his head, his uncertainty plain to read. “There are traps within traps here for the unwary. If we take a false step, we will surely be lost.”

“But you can see past the falseness to the truth, can’t you, Alon?” she asked. The panic that she had been holding back ever since they had walked blindly into this place was growing. What if they were trapped here, past all escape?

“The simpler, less complex illusions, yes. But Yachne’s power is now… formidable.” His mouth tightened grimly. “Simple illusion is an easy spell, but what surrounds us is far from simple… it is so detailed, so many-layered. Here there are illusions within illusions!”

“I understand…” she whispered. Catching a movement in the corner of her eye, she whirled around, but, as before, all was still… as still as death. Even so, the songsmith could not rid herself of the conviction that, just out of her sight, something had spied, then skittered giggling from one hiding place to another. From somewhere she heard a faint whine, and a gust of hot air brushed her cheek.

The ghost of a wind? she wondered, putting out a wetted finger. As if reading her thoughts, Alon nodded. “Illusion,” he said flatly. “This spell is not only complex, it is affecting more than just our vision. We will not only see what is not there, we will hear and feel it, also.”

Having grown up with the simple illusions that Elys had sometimes conjured to amuse her child, Eydryth was taken aback. Most Seeming-spells could not stand up to investigation by touch; attempting to verify the reality of an illusion by laying hand to it was usually the surest way to make it dissolve. The songsmith shuddered. “We must indeed be cautious.”

He nodded absently, gazing around them. “And there is one more thing,” he added heavily. “My instincts tell me that this spell has somehow altered even time itself… or our perception of it, at least.”

“How so?”

“It is seeming to draw time out, slow it down. Crossing this gorge will take us long enough—if we even make it—” His mouth twisted. “But however long it takes us, it will seem even longer.”

“But…” Eydryth pressed her fingers against her left side, feeling her heartbeat, reassuring in its steady rhythm. “But my heart is beating, I am breathing… I feel no different!”

“You are not different, Lady, not physically. Illusion works within the mind, though its effects can be very real-seeming indeed.” Alon glanced around them at the desolation of this violated, denuded land. “Somewhere around us lies the true path, masked by illusion, and that is what we must seek.”

“And the finding of that path will be no easy task,” Eydryth finished with what she believed to be the truth. He nodded.

“But you can find it…” she said urgently, searching for reassurance in his grim expression—and not finding it. “You have the true sight!”

“I do,” he agreed. “But constant use of the true sight is wearing… more wearying than fighting a score of armsmen. I only hope that my sight does not wane as I tire.”

“I will do whatever I can to aid you,” Eydryth promised. “We had better get started before another of those earth-tremors comes.” She turned away, then gave him a sideways glance. “Or are they, too, illusion?”

“The ones we experienced before were real,” Alon told her levelly. “If one of us were to fall into one of those crevasses as they open… death would be equally real.” Only his eyes betrayed what he was feeling—a fear as great as her own.

Eydryth swallowed, resolutely fighting down the terror that wanted to possess her, make her run screaming in any direction, heedless of danger. “I understand. Now… which way? With no sun to guide us, all trails seem the same.”

“There,” Alon said, pointing to a opening between two towering reddish spires. “Walk directly behind me, and do not step off the path I hold to.”

He handed Monso’s lead to her, then turned to go. Suddenly he halted. “May I carry your staff?” he asked. “The quan-iron in the gryphon’s-head may aid in warning against a false step.”

Wordlessly, she handed him the quarterstaff, saw him reverse it in his hand so that the gryphon’s-head pointed downward, toward the ground before him. He began walking.

Eydryth followed him, eyes on the ground, stepping in the same places his feet had rested. She kept Monso snubbed close on a short rein, forcing the Keplian to walk beside her. Fortunately the stallion’s injury served to slow his naturally long strides.

Even this extreme caution did not completely save her from mishaps. The raw, rock-studded earth beneath her feet was littered with stones that seemed almost to nudge their way beneath her toes or heels so that they could then slip treacherously out from underfoot, or turn sharply, wrenching her ankles. The dead, greyed vegetation proved another hindrance, snagging her toes, slowing and tripping her no matter how carefully she stepped. Eydryth nearly fell several times. Once only her hold on Monso’s lead saved her from a headlong plunge down a short, precipitous cliff.

Soon the songsmith was hobbling in earnest, wincing with every step. Her eyes ached from the hot, brassy glare overhead; she blinked them only when they began to sting unbearably, afraid that closing them even for an instant would cause her to miss the true path.

Even with his true sight, Alon fared little better. His riding boots were not intended for prolonged walking, even without the hindrance of a bespelled land that seemed determined to thwart every forward step. Soon he, too, was limping.

The young Adept alternated between picking out the path a few stumbling steps ahead, then halting for endless moments to scan the torn, churned vista before them, using the quarter-staff to sweep the ground before his boots.

Several times he muttered softly, extending a hand, and Eydryth saw dark violet light flare from his fingertips, coalesce into a slender arrow of brightness, then wind its way along the ground before him, vanishing ten or fifteen paces farther on.

If he can thus mark the true path for us, then we will be able to escape this maze, she thought with relief.

But soon she realized that using his Power to indicate their direction was wearing dangerously upon her companion. Each time he called up the violet arrows of light, the lines around Alon’s eyes and mouth deepened, the skin over his cheekbones grew tighter, until he seemed naught but a gaunt, greyed shadow of the man Eydryth had known. Sweat made runnels in the dust on his face; his thin shirt clung to his back, dark and soaked.

The songsmith fought back a surge of pity, reminding herself coldly that it was he who had led them into this peril in the first place. With a small, distant portion of her mind she was shocked by her own callousness, but she angrily hardened her heart as she placed one foot before the other, over and over again.

Onward they toiled, their pitifully slow progress made even more halting by their frequent stops while Alon determined the correct route. Overhead the sickly-hued sky never changed; heat pressed down on them like a muffling blanket. Thirst soon became a torment.

The travelers had three water flasks between them, hardly enough to last them even one day’s hard journey, considering that Monso must needs share their supply. The only water they had encountered within Yachne’s blighted land lay in muddy, scummed pools of such rankness that no creature could safely drink from them, or from springs that bubbled hot from the bowels of the earth, emitting eye- and throat-searing fumes.

After a time that went unmeasured except by Eydryth’s increasing thirst, pain from her wrenched ankles, and general misery from the will-sapping spell lying over the ensorcelled land, Alon halted. “Rest awhile…” he rasped. “Water…”

Slowly his knees folded and he sank to the ground, where he sat unmoving, shoulders bowed, head hanging with exhaustion.

The songsmith halted, too, then took out their packs of food and water flasks. She held out the container to Alon, who stared at it, his eyes so reddened and dulled with weariness that he seemed scarcely aware of what it was. “Here,” she said, steadying it as she removed the stopper. “Water. Drink, Alon.”

Catching the scent of water, the Keplian whickered softly, nostrils flaring. The Adept looked down at the flask, then took a deep breath, awareness returning to his gaze. He shook his head, then handed the water back to Eydryth with the ghost of a courtly flourish in the gesture. “You first, my lady,” he said, in that harsh, barely understandable whisper.

Unable to summon breath or wit to argue with him, she did as he bade, feeling the stale, warm liquid trickle down her throat like the finest of chilled wine from a High Lord’s table. Running her tongue over cracked lips to catch the last drops, she handed the flask to her companion.

But still Alon did not drink.

“Here, fellow…” he said, tugging the Keplian’s lead so the stallion stood nearly atop him. “You must be thirsty, too…”

Retrieving his leather jerkin, he spread it over his crossed knees so as to make a hollow. Then the Adept cautiously tipped half of the contents of the flask into the makeshift pail. Monso gulped the scant amount noisily. Only after the stallion had licked up all of the moisture did Alon raise the flask to his lips and drink sparingly.

The Adept shook the last drops from the now-empty flask into the jerkin for the stallion; then he crumbled journeybread for the Keplian to lip up from the garment’s battered surface. Plainly forcing himself, Alon broke off pieces of journeybread, trying not to open his cracked and bloodied mouth any wider than necessary to eat. Grimly, he chewed and swallowed the morsels. But when he held out a chunk to the songsmith, she shook her head. “I cannot. The journeybread is too dry.”

“Some fruit, then,” he said, locating the packet Dahaun had packed for them. “You need the strength, Eydryth.”

Too tired to argue, she mouthed and swallowed the overwhelming sweetness of the dried pulp. Eating did little to restore her blighted spirits, but slowly a measure of strength returned to her weary body.

She watched in dull surprise as Alon unstoppered their second flask and poured another generous measure for the horse. When Eydryth made a small, protesting movement, he shook his head. “I have traveled on short rations before. Rationing too severely does more harm than good, my lady. We are better off drinking now, attempting to keep our strength up while a measure of it still remains, rather than saving most of the water until we are too weak to go on.”

Remembering that her father had once told her something of the same thing, the minstrel nodded, accepted the second flask, then drank. “But only if you take more, too,” she said, handing it to her fellow-traveler. At her insistence, he took several more swallows, then stoppered the remainder carefully.

“How far have we come?” she whispered, trying not to move her parched lips more than necessary to make her voice heard. “How much farther to the end of this place?”

He shrugged grimly. “We have come farther than Yachne would ever have suspected we could,” he said. “Of that I am sure. The way out should lie just over that hill.” He pointed. Eydryth saw that his hand was shaking, despite his effort to steady it.

“What hill?” she whispered.

“You cannot see it?”

“Of course not.” Old anger made her tone sharper than she had intended. “I see only a thicket of dead bushes laced with thorny vines, all of it so interwoven it might as well be a hanging in the great hall of a keep.”

Alon gazed at her speculatively. “The thicket is illusion.”

“I will take your word for it.” The asperity was still there in her voice, though Eydryth was not sure precisely why she felt so nettled with him. Was it the witch’s spell that was causing her to feel such frustration and hopelessness? Or her anger at Alon for leading them into this trap of Yachne’s? She did not know. At his steady, measuring glance, her mouth tightened defiantly and she looked away, studying the vegetation that Alon insisted was not really there.

“Will we feel the vines and thorns?” she whispered, eyeing the sharp, greyish brambles apprehensively. “Or is this illusion one that confuses only the eye?”

“I fear that it is one of the more tangible ones,” he said. “Monso I can blindfold and lead, but you…” He shook his head.

“If I try and make my way through that, I will be flayed alive…” she muttered, staring at the vicious thorns. “Perhaps if my eyes were covered, also…” She trailed off with an inquiring glance.

Grimly, he shook his head again. “For you, the illusion is the reality. Whether you see it or not will make but little difference. As long as the false is real within your own mind, you will feel the results.”

“Can we go around?” she glanced at both sides of the thicket.

“Hardly. There”—he pointed to the left of the thicket—“is a scattering of large boulders, crowded so close that a dog would be hard-pressed to thread a way between them, much less something of Monso’s size. And there”—he indicated the right—“is one of the steaming pools. Can you not smell it?”

Eydryth’s nostrils twitched, then wrinkled. She could definitely detect the noxious fumes that proclaimed the reality of his assertion.

“Is that the only way we can go?” Panic clutched at her mind. Perhaps if she muffled her face and hands with pieces of blanket, and moved very slowly, she could avoid serious injury…

“That is the only true path,” he said. “See for yourself.” Rising to his feet, he muttered softly, then held out both hands. Purple light slowly outlined his fingers, dripped with painful slowness to the ground, where it gathered and coalesced into one of the sinuous arrow-shapes she had seen earlier. The light writhed forward, toward the center thicket, marking their path. But this time it waned quickly, fading almost before she fixed her eyes on it. Alon staggered, gasping, and had to brace himself against Monso’s shoulder. “The marker…” he muttered hoarsely. “Did you see it?”

“Yes, I saw where it pointed. I will just have to go slowly, I suppose.”

Alon shook his head, teeth clamping onto his torn lower lip as he pushed himself upright. “No,” he said. “That will not work.”

“But I cannot—”

“Yes, you can!” His eyes held hers with a fierceness he had never shown before. “I have neither time nor strength to allow you to cling to your own comforting illusions, Lady,” he rasped. “What you must needs do is break this Seeming for yourself.”

She stared at him blankly. “But I have no Power! You know that!” she protested finally, her voice shrill.

“I know that you believe that you have no Power,” he countered. “And I know also that that belief is what holds you back.”

“Just as your belief that Yachne’s spell is too powerful for you to break is holding you back?” she demanded coldly. “I never took you for a coward, Alon, until now. How dare you lead us into this trap, then blame me for not having abilities I have never possessed?” Her accusation was filled with venom that made him flinch away as though she had actually struck him.

His mouth tightened, his shoulders that had hunched before her bitter anger slowly straightened. “You possess ‘the Gift,’ as you call it, Eydryth. I have known that since the first night we met. I also saw that the truth was too frightening for you to face, so I let you hold to your mistaken belief. But now you must face the truth!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eydryth snarled. “The heat has addled your wits!”

“No, it has not. Only your lack of belief in yourself keeps you from seeing through that illusion. Only your lack of belief in your own Power holds us prisoner. Why do you think the witch of Estcarp pursued you so single-mindedly? You have blinded yourself to the truth from fear—but now it is time to face truth—and use the Power within you!”

“No!” she choked, furious at him. “You lie!”

Blind with rage, she lurched to her feet and struck out at him, flailing, kicking, but he avoided her blows, seizing her shoulders in his hands. Whirling her around, he pulled her back against him, gripping her hard. Hands and arms that could curb Monso’s headlong rushes tightened on her flesh and bone, holding her past any ability of hers to struggle free. Eydryth gasped with the pain. “Look!” he ordered, his mouth so close to her ear that she could hear him clearly, despite the harsh rasp that served him now for a voice. “That thicket is not there! That thicket is the lie! Look well, songsmith, and see past the falsehood to the truth, which is the hillside!”

Unable to break his grip, she subsided, then stared sullenly at the pale grey vegetation. “I see only the thicket,” she muttered.

“You are not trying!” he said fiercely. “You must try! Concentrate! See the hillside!”

She fixed her eyes on the spot, feeling them throb and burn from the glare overhead. The outlines of the vegetation began to shimmer slightly—or was it her imagination?

“I cannot…” She was shaking now, feeling a different sort of fear seize her.

“You must believe! You can, I swear it by my life, you can do it!”

She focused, stared until her vision blurred, tears of pain nearly blinding her as she forced herself not to blink. See a hillside—there is a hillside, she insisted to herself. Vegetation swam before her; then there was something… something reddish showing through…

“I see…” She was forced to blink, then it was gone. She sagged back against his chest, limp with defeat. “I cannot, Alon!” she pleaded.

“You can,” he insisted, supporting her, though she could feel him trembling with weariness. “Eydryth… try humming while you look.”

She craned her neck to fix him with an incredulous glance, but he only nodded firmly. “Go on… try.”

Eydryth turned back to the tangle of shadowy vines, then began to hum, scarcely aware of what tune she had chosen.

The greyness swam before her dazzled eyes, and she blinked to clear her vision, concentrating…

As if it had always been there before her, she now saw a hill with a trail leading straight up it, narrow and precipitous between jagged boulders!

Eydryth gasped, and with the interruption of the music, the grey curtain of vines returned. “Alon!” she whispered. “I saw it!”

“Good,” he said, not at all surprised, and released her. “Your gift must be linked to music, Eydryth. When you tamed Monso, you sang. When you fooled the witch back in Es City, you were humming, were you not?”

She cast her mind back to events that now seemed years— instead of mere days—ago. “Yes, I was,” she said after a moment. “My mother’s lullaby…” She regarded him, completely bewildered. “But… Alon… how can this be? I have never heard of such a talent!”

“Neither have I,” he admitted. “But, now that I think of it, much of magic is dependent upon sounds—chants, incantations, even songs. Remember the crystal Gate? The spell to open it depended on the correct note being sung!”

She nodded, bemused. “This discovery explains… much,” she said slowly.

“At the moment, our concern must be escaping from this place and tracing Yachne,” he reminded her. Quickly, he stripped off his shirt, then used its sleeves to tie it snugly over Monso’s eyes. “If he cannot see where he is going, I do not believe the illusion will prevail for him,” he told the songsmith. “This would not work for one of us, for our minds are more complex, and thus not so easily fooled. Are you ready, my lady?”

Eydryth nodded firmly. “I am.”

“Can you see the hillside?”

She summoned music, hummed between parched lips, then nodded as the trail took shape before her eyes. “Then… after you, my lady,” Alon said, in his cracked, rasping voice. He bowed, waving her past with a courtly gesture. The contrast between his formal manner and his appearance made Eydryth shake her head. His face, with its livid weal caused by the web-rider’s slash, was blistered and seared by the heat, and his bare chest and shoulders were streaked with dust and muddy sweat. For a moment she wondered if he had gone quite mad—he certainly appeared demented.

But no, his eyes were sane. He believed in her. The least she could do was to believe in herself. Taking a deep breath, Eydryth hummed steadily, and they started up the long, rocky trail. The songsmith concentrated on filling her mind with the music. She was so intent upon her task that she did not feel the earth-tremor until it struck, making her stagger, making her gasp—

—whereupon, instantly, she was surrounded by bushes and dead vines. A thousand thorns jabbed her. Only by the grace of fortune were her eyes spared that assault.

“Concentrate!” she heard Alon’s shout from behind her.

Already she was summoning the music again, and the feel of the entangling growth was gone. She took a step forward, felt no obstruction, took another, and only then dared open her eyes. The hillside lay before her.

Eydryth slogged her way toward the top of the hill, alert for more quakes, kicking loose stones from her path, humming like an insect gone mad.

“You may stop now, and breathe,” Alon’s rasping whisper reached her. “We are beyond the illusion-thicket.”

The songsmith halted, regarding her arms with a silent thanksgiving to Gunnora that she had not panicked. Dozens of small pinpricks oozed a single droplet of scarlet apiece. Cautiously, she explored her grimy face with even dirtier fingertips, discovering several more stabs.

“For an illusion,” she said to Alon as he came up beside her, “that was all too real.” She held out her arm.

He nodded grimly. “At least we are past. You have learned a valuable lesson today, Lady. When one is working any kind of spell or counterspell, it can be disaster to let one’s concentration break. The first year or so as an apprentice is spent learning to focus and not to be distracted. You had to master that lesson in the space of minutes.”

“Be assured it is a lessoning I shall not soon forget.”

He stepped up beside her, and together they made their way to the crest of the hillside. As weary as they were, it took them a long time, and they were gasping when they reached it. There they halted, gazing down at what now lay before them.

A short walk beyond, the blighted land ended abruptly in a chasm so deep and so black that Eydryth could not discern any bottom to it. A wall of thick grey mist seemed to rise out of the opening, roiling and drifting as though blown by a wind, though she could feel none. The mist extended before them, as high as she could see in each direction, blocking their sight of what, if anything, lay beyond.

They had reached the end of their road… they could go no farther.

Tears of despair filled the songsmith’s eyes, and she sank weakly to her knees, pressing both hands to her broken lips. Sobs shook her, wrenched her shoulders. To have come all this way, only to have it end thus. To have come all this way for nothing!

Alon sighed, dropping to sit beside her. His bare shoulders bowed forward as he buried his face in his hands, obviously as shaken as she.

“We shall have to go back,” Eydryth whispered, after a while. It was either that or die right here, and she wasn’t… quite… ready to die. “Perhaps there is another way…”

He shook his head, then, with an effort that was palpable, straightened his shoulders. Retrieving his shirt from Monso’s head, he pulled it on, buttoning it with none-too-steady fingers. “We cannot,” he said. “Our way out lies there.” He pointed across the chasm. “That mist hides the real Arvon. We must find some way to cross over the chasm… to bridge that gap.”

Eydryth stared at him, certain that he was now completely bereft of his wits. “But… how?”

“We must make a bridge.”

“There is no way! We have nothing to build with—even if a bridge could span that void, which I do not for one moment believe!”

“It is the only way out,” he maintained stubbornly. “Arvon—the real Arvon—is there.” He pointed. “I can sense it. By the Sword Arm of Karthen the Fair, I can smell it! Cannot you?”

She gave him a sideways glance, then, as he regarded her steadily, ventured a sniff. “I smell…” she whispered. “I smell flowers! And water! Is that another illusion?”

“No,” he said. “It is real. The other hillside is there. We must cross the chasm to reach it, Eydryth. We must make a bridge.”

“Out of what? We have nothing!”

He did not answer, only unfastened the last water flask from Monso’s saddle. “Drink,” he said, holding it and the packet of food out to her. “And eat. Force yourself. You will need all your strength for what is about to come.”

Bewildered, she did as he bade. Scenting the water, Monso whickered pleadingly, but this time the Adept shook his head at the stallion. “I am sorry, old son,” he said, giving the Keplian a comforting pat, “but if we succeed, your thirst will be eased very quickly.”

“And if we fail?” asked Eydryth, giving him a sidelong glance. She could not imagine what he had in mind.

“If we fail,” he said grimly, “then neither thirst nor hunger will torture us for much longer, so the result will be the same.”

After they had eaten and drunk, emptying the third and last flask between them, they made their way down the raw rock of the hillside, then walked the short distance to the edge of the drop. Making sure both feet were planted as securely as possible, Eydryth took hold of Monso’s right stirrup and leaned forward, gazing downward.

Sheer red rock for as far down as she could see, disappearing finally into the swirling grey mist.

Alon picked up a stone, held it suspended over the gorge, then released it. It fell… and fell…

… and fell. They never heard it strike bottom.

Eydryth stared at the wall of mist before them. It was perhaps two of Monso’s lengths distant. “You believe that if we can plunge into that mist, we shall be released from the spell and back in the real Arvon,” she said finally.

Alon nodded.

“How shall we cross the gap?” she asked, keeping her voice level, as though they were discussing a problem with a solution, rather than quick and certain death.

“We must make a bridge,” he repeated.

“Using what?”

“Ourselves,” he said flatly. “Our Power. My blood. Your music.”

She gazed at him wide-eyed. “You are mad,” she whispered.

Alon shook his head at her warningly. “You have already learned the value of belief, Eydryth. You will need all of it you can summon. Do not let doubt intrude. I am sane, never doubt it. This”—he waved at the abyss—“is our way out. On the other side lies the Arvon we left.”

She caught again that faint scent of flowers. Monso sniffed the air; then the Keplian’s nostrils widened and he nickered, pawing. “He smells the water,” Alon said.

Eydryth bit her lip, then took a deep breath. What choice, after all, did she have? “Very well,” she said quietly. “I believe. How shall we do it?”

He gave her a quick, approving nod. “We will need to combine our Power,” he said. “Create a Seeming of our own. One of the ones so strong that it has solidity, substance. It will not be easy,” he finished, warningly. “But it can be done.”

“I am ready,” she said resolutely. “Tell me what to do.”

“In the first place, you must concentrate,” he told her. “If the earth trembles this time, you must not let it disturb you, do you understand?”

She nodded.

The Adept took his knife out of its sheath, handed it to her. “When I nod, you must cut,” he said, tapping his wrist. “Cut deeply enough so that the blood flows freely, but not so deep that we cannot staunch the wound later.” Eydryth hesitated, then took the knife he held out. “I would do it myself,” Alon said, with a note of apology, “but we must link hands for this. Whatever happens, do not let go.”

“I understand,” she said, studying the blue veins running along the inside of his forearm, planning the best place to do as he bade. “Then what?”

“You must sing. You will feel the Power leaving you, joining with the blood to create the bridge. Use your music to strengthen your Power—and our bridge. Sing, and stop for nothing! As soon as the bridge is solid, you must send Monso across, then lead me. I will have my eyes closed, holding the spell in my mind’s eye, and I will not be able to see what I—we—have wrought.”

He gazed at her intently. “If Gunnora smiles upon us, by the time I next see you, we will be back in Arvon.”

Eydryth touched the symbol of the Amber Lady that she wore upon her neck. Then, quickly, she checked that all their supplies were securely lashed to Monso’s saddle. “We are ready,” she told Alon.

Solemnly, he unbuttoned his left sleeve, rolled it up so his arm was bared. The he held out both hands to her. Eydryth grasped his right hand tightly with her left, then raised the knife.

Alon closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, then nodded. “First, the music,” he muttered.

Eydryth began to hum softly… Choosing a tune nearly at random, she was taken aback to realize it was “Hathor’s Ghost Stallion,” the melody she had been singing when first they had met. As she began to sing the words, his fingers squeezed hers. “Now,” he whispered.

Bracing herself, Eydryth brought the knife up to the flesh of his wrist. It would be far easier to cut myself, she thought, forcing herself to keep singing. Amber Lady, aid me! Do not let me hurt him! Let us escape from this place, I beg of You!

Touching the blade to skin, she resolutely drew it across and down. A tiny trickle of red followed, and she forced herself to cut deeper… deeper. The trickle strengthened, began to drip… then flow.

The songsmith had spilled blood before, but never like this. She felt darkness creeping up on the edges of her vision, and only the hard grasp on her fingers kept her from fainting or being sick. Still, she sang, never missing a note.

Alon began to mutter hoarsely, chanting in a language she did not recognize, as blood splashed on the edge of the abyss. Eydryth was conscious of a sudden pull upon her inner strength. Alon’s blood was only the outward sign of what was happening here. There was a draining, a flow from her to him, that made her almost falter. Summoning all her will, her determination, she stood firm, singing, and watched the abyss.

From that steady drip of scarlet, something was growing. Eydryth’s eyes widened as she saw something taking shape… a bridge! An actual curved span, shadowy, but gaining substance! It was red… as red as blood, pulsing to the beat of both their hearts… and with each beat, it gained substance.

Alon’s face was pale now, beneath his tan, but his chanting grew louder. Blood spattered. Eydryth was singing loudly now, forcing the words to ring out true and strong, forcing herself to believe in what she was seeing.

The bridge shimmered scarlet in the light, stretching across the chasm, into the grey mist. Careful not to loose her grip on Alon’s hand, the songsmith raised her foot, touched it to the bridge. It was solid—it took her weight. But will it hold the stallion’s?

“Come on, Monso,” she sang, incorporating the order into one of the verses. One-handed, she grasped the Keplian’s rein and pulled him so he fronted that span. She tugged at his lead, indicating she wanted him to cross. “Go on, boy!” she sang, her voice ringing out in a musical command. “Go!”

The stallion pawed at the bridge, obviously dubious, but the scent of water, and the solid feel of Alon’s creation beneath his questing hoof, convinced him. With a snort, the half-bred plunged forward. His hooves clattered on the bridge, as he surged up onto it, then disappeared into the mist. A last flick of his black tail, then he was gone.

Did he fall? Eydryth wondered, but resolutely forced herself not to even consider that possibility. She guided Alon to step onto the span, nerving herself to place both feet on that crimson surface. Together, they edged along, the Adept chanting, Eydryth singing.

A moment later, the most wonderful music she had ever heard reached the songsmith’s ears, even above the sound of her own singing. It was the sound of a horse drinking, great, gulping slurps of water. “Thank you, Amber Lady!” Eydryth sang, careful not to look down. She pulled Alon faster, as they made a crablike progress.

They were slightly more than halfway across when Eydryth felt the Adept stagger. Casting an anxious glance at him, she saw that his face was grey. His eyes rolled back in his head; showing only the whites. Knees buckling, he swayed. The shining crimson surface beneath their feet began to quiver.

Eydryth slung her free arm around Alon’s waist, holding him against her. The bridge shivered, fading. Resolutely squeezing her own eyes shut, Eydryth lunged forward, leaping into the mist, dragging Alon with her.

A heartbeat later she felt herself falling… falling…