Songsmith

12

For what seemed endless seconds, Eydryth fell through the swirling greyness. A scream welled in her throat, trying to burst from her lips. But before any sound could emerge, she struck solid ground, landing so hard that the breath rushed from her lungs. She pitched over, rolling, the rich smell of growing turf filling her nostrils.

When the world finally stopped its dizzying spin, Eydryth found herself staring dazedly at a blue sky dotted with white clouds. The sun shone just past its zenith. Raising her head weakly, she saw Monso regarding her, ears pricked, muzzle still dripping water from the stream flowing past his hooves.

Someone groaned.

The pain in that sound brought her up onto hands and knees. “Alon?”

The Adept was lying behind her, on the hillside. His eyes were closed; the sound of his name did not rouse him. Bright scarlet splashed the green grass by his side, soaking into the ground. That sight made the songsmith scuttle forward to seize his wrist, squeezing hard to stop the blood flow.

Finally, it halted. Eydryth sat back on her heels, her scarlet-streaked hands shaking as she tried to summon the strength to do what she could to aid him. Alon still lay unconscious, so pale his skin was greyish and his lips blue. Despite the warmth of the sun, he was shivering beneath the thin fabric of his once-white linen shirt, now a rusty brown from drying blood.

Blankets… liquids… Healcraft that Joisan had taught her came slowly to mind. Pushing herself up onto legs that trembled at first from her own weakness, she walked slowly over to the Keplian and led him back to the Adept’s side. Untying their packs, she then unsaddled the stallion, turning him loose to roll and graze, trusting that he would stay near his master.

Wrapping Alon snugly in both their cloaks, she gathered wood to build a small fire, then fetched water from the stream to heat. While she was waiting for the pot to simmer, she unpacked the small bag of simples Joisan had assembled for her so long ago. Snippets of lore gained from her foster-mother came back to her as the sometimes sweet, sometimes sharp scents of the powdered herbs made her nostrils twitch.

A restorative… verbena! A tea made with verbena…

Scenting the distinctive sharp, lemony scent, she opened the proper bag, dropping the dried leaves into the pot. When the tisane was ready, she strained it, then, propping Alon’s head on her knee, urged him to drink. His eyelids fluttered, and he roused enough to swallow the tea, but he did not regain consciousness. His shivering eased, though, and for that the songsmith was grateful.

Before tackling the wound on his wrist, she drank a cup of the brew herself. The songsmith felt as emptied as if she had been awake and without food for days. Such weariness was normal after use of the Power, she knew that. The thought sparked a bittersweet memory.

I worked magic, she thought, scarcely able to believe it. Even though it had happened only a short while ago, the memory was already raveling and faded, as if it had happened to another person, not the Eydryth of here-and-now. She sighed, shaking her head as she visualized again that hillside thorn-walled by illusion, and how she had sung the falseness away to discover the truth beneath. Did I truly do that? Or was it Alon’s magic affecting me somehow? Is it possible that I truly do hold my own kind of Power?

There were no certain answers to her questions, and no time to ponder them. Kneeling beside the fast-running water, Eydryth washed her face and hands, scrubbing her fingertips and nails with white sand from the stream bottom. Joisan maintained that keeping wounds clean was fully as important as using the proper herbs and spells for their treatment.

After washing the oozing slash with boiled water, into which she had dissolved generous pinches of saffron and yarrow, to promote healing, she frowned as she studied the extent of the cut. It needed stitching, such as she had seen her foster-mother do. But here in the wilds of Arvon, she had no needle, no boiled thread.

Eydryth considered simply bandaging the wound, but it was so deep that she thought it would take very little movement to reopen it and start the bleeding afresh. And in Alon’s present condition, any further blood loss would be dangerous—quite possibly fatal.

As she hesitated, her eye was caught by Dahaun’s small, sealed box containing the red mud from the Valley of the Green Silences. No! she thought, biting her lip. An idea had come to her, but it was not one she cared to contemplate. Dahaun said not to open the box! That mud is for Jervon—his last chance to be healed!

She glared down at Alon with sudden animosity. I will not use Jervon’s cure to heal you. I will NOT! Anger waxed hot within her. One small portion of her mind argued that her fury was irrational, but she was too angry to listen to it.

“No!” she whispered fiercely. “Jervon is my father! You are nothing to me, nothing, do you hear?”

Her wrath had become a fire within her, raging out of control. It would serve you right if I went on without you, after you plunged us into such a morass of sorcery! she thought savagely. I ought to leave you here—leave you to die!

The young man stirred restlessly, as though even unconscious he sensed her sudden ire. Eydryth felt half-drunk with rage, with hate. For a moment her hand twitched toward her dagger; then she rose and walked straight away, not looking back.

Picking up her pack, she shouldered it, then started up the hillside. Monso whickered, pawing the ground anxiously, but she ignored the stallion. Furious, shaking, she remembered how they had escaped from Yachne’s illusion-land. She hated Alon for what he had forced her to discover about herself. I don’t want Power! she thought, incensed. It carries too much danger, too much risk! He had no right to do what he did!

Without warning, a blackness swooped out of the sky, heading straight for her eyes. A shrill scream rent the air. Eydryth ducked as it winged by her, its tailfeathers brushing the top of her head.

As she straightened up, the creature flung itself at her again, clawed talons nearly raking her face. The songsmith stumbled back, losing her footing on the hillside, then sat down so hard that lights flashed behind her eyes and a roaring filled her ears. Blinking, she stared wide-eyed at her surroundings. The creature that had swooped at her alighted on a dead tree nearby. It was a falcon, and, as she stared at it, it screamed again.

“Steel Talon!” Eydryth exclaimed, then, suddenly uncertain and shaken, she put a hand to her head. What was I doing? Abandoning Alon? Leaving him to die?

Incredulous horror filled her as she recalled the events of the past few minutes. If it had not been for Steel Talon, she might not have returned to her senses. What is wrong with me? she wondered. She remembered Alon’s cruel smile as he had watched the web-riders burn to death. Why are we behaving so? What is happening to us?

Confused, fighting down panic, she ran back down the hillside to where Alon lay. Steel Talon alighted on the cantle of the saddle, where he perched, regarding her curiously as the songsmith applied the edge of her knife to the seal on the box. Moments later, she had it open, revealing the rich, red mud. Scooping up a generous dollop, she spread it thickly across the wound. Quickly she closed the container tightly, then used a stub of candle to reseal the box with wax, hoping fervently that it would serve, and that the healing substance within would retain its potency.

Within moments after the red mud was patted into place on his wrist, the lines of pain on Alon’s countenance smoothed out. His muscles relaxed, and he appeared to fall into a deep, natural sleep. With slow, careful movements, she managed to ease off his blood-soaked shirt, then wet a cloth with hot water and used it to cleanse as much of the dried dirt and caked blood from his face, arms and chest as possible.

By the time she was finished, the sun had warmed and dried him. Though still pale, his color was better. Tucking the cloaks up snugly beneath his chin, she sat back on her heels and had another cup of tea. Then, while she chewed on a piece of journeybread, she crumbled another piece into water to make a sort of porridge. Glancing up at Steel Talon, she spoke aloud, finding her own voice strange and harsh in her ears. “After losing so much blood he really needs fresh meat, Winged One. Can you find something?”

The falcon gave a soft, piercing cry, then, in a blur of blackness, launched himself upward, winging off over the hill. By the time Eydryth had washed her patient’s tunic, then managed to gently ease him into his clean shirt, the falcon sailed into view again. Steel Talon circled low over her, something clutched in his talons—something that he dropped, so it landed half a dozen paces away.

Rising, Eydryth went over to find a small burrower. Picking the limp creature up by its long ears, she called out, “Thank you, Steel Talon!”

After skinning the animal, then chopping the meat as fine as the heavy blade of her dagger would allow, she dropped the sticky handfuls into the pot. While she waited for the thick broth to cook, she busied herself tending the Keplian’s leg.

Encouraged to find the swelling down and the wound almost completely closed, Eydryth left the pot to simmer and took her pack around the curve of the hillside, following the stream until she found a shallow pool. There she stripped and washed; her breath caught in her throat at the chill of the water, but being clean again refreshed her. Her own blood-streaked shirt and breeches she soaked to remove the stains, then scrubbed with sand and stretched over a bush in the sunlight. Pulling on clean clothing, Eydryth went back to Alon.

The broth was ready. Cooling it with a little water, she managed to rouse Alon enough to get him to swallow it. She drank a cup of the hearty—though tasteless—brew herself, wishing she had thought to season it with thyme or sage.

Then, knowing that she could do nothing more to aid Alon, and by now so weary that the hillside blurred around her, reminding her of Yachne’s spell-land, Eydryth lifted a corner of the cloak and crawled under it, fitting herself against Alon’s warmth, careful not to jar his injured arm. Just for a few minutes, she thought. I’ll just doze for…

Monso’s moist, hot breath in her face woke her hours later. The Keplian was nosing her hair, snuffling eagerly at the sack of grain she was using for a pillow. Rubbing her eyes and yawning until she thought her jaw would split in two, the songsmith sat up, seeing that the sun lay far to the west.

After feeding the stallion, Eydryth put a hand on Alon’s forehead to check for fever. His skin was slightly overwarm, but his color was good. The red mud, she noted, was nearly dried out. Dahaun had warned her to let it dry and harden until it cracked, before stripping it away. The songsmith wound a length of bandage around her patient’s wrist to hold it in place.

After heating the broth again, she prepared to feed the Adept as before, but this time, when she touched him, Alon’s grey eyes opened. Though clouded by bewilderment, he seemed lucid enough. “How do you feel?” she asked him.

“We are… back?” he whispered hoarsely.

She nodded. “The bridge-spell worked.”

“Yachne?”

“There has been no sign of her or of any further spells,” she told him. “Steel Talon and Monso would have given warning, I believe. After tending you, I was so weary that I could not stay awake.”

He tried to push himself up on his elbows, but she forestalled him with a hand on his chest. “Softly, Alon. You are still weak. You lost a great deal of blood.”

The Adept subsided for the moment, but the expression on his face told Eydryth that he would not accept her edict for long. “We cannot linger here,” he said, his voice strengthening a bit. “We must take up the search again.”

“It will do us little good to find Yachne if you are too weak to face her,” she countered. “Even if I possess a tiny measure of the Power myself, I am no match for a sorceress with her ability.”

His mouth tightened grimly. “I am by no means sure that I can face her with any chance of winning,” he admitted. “That spell she wove to trap us… I could not equal that.”

“But her Power is stolen,” the songsmith pointed out. “Mayhap her knowledge is lacking, even if her ability is not. Here…” she urged, dipping into the pot over the fire, “take some more soup. It will strengthen you.” Carefully she helped him sit up, then put the cup into his hands. The thick liquid sloshed; his hands were trembling. Silently the songsmith helped him steady the container. He sipped, cautiously at first, then with more assurance.

It took all of Alon’s strength to drink the soup and nibble halfheartedly at a few bits of dried fruit. He was plainly dismayed at his own weakness. “How is Monso?” he asked.

“The wound is closed. He seems nearly well.”

“He has always healed quickly,” the Adept said. His voice took on a bitter note. “Would that I could do likewise!”

“You must give yourself time to recover,” Eydryth said. “I was exhausted from the spell you worked, and I had only to back you.” She shook her head. “Nor did I lose the amount of blood you did. You need rest, and food.”

“What I need,” he said curtly, “is to find Yachne, so that I may repay her for the trials she has caused us! But by now she could be anywhere!”

Steel Talon squawked suddenly, sharply, plainly demanding attention. Alon turned to regard the bird intently, as the two obviously shared some wordless communication. As he “listened,” the Adept’s taut shoulders abruptly relaxed. “What is it?” Eydryth demanded.

“If I understand Steel Talon aright, he is telling me that the one we followed through the Gate is perhaps a half-day’s journey ahead of us, no more—and that she is not hurrying.” His mouth twisted sardonically. “Which should not surprise me. After working the spell that created that massive illusion-land, it is no wonder the witch is wearied!” He gazed thoughtfully up at the falcon. “There is something more… something clouded by anger that I cannot understand clearly. Steel Talon feels great anger toward Yachne.”

“Because she is the cause of your troubles here in Arvon?” Eydryth guessed aloud.

“Steel Talon does not feel that strongly for me,” Alon said. “It was Jon that he loved. Falconers and their birds are bound together by ties of great loyalty and affection.”

“But you have companied together for a long time,” she countered. “Steel Talon has affection for you, I can tell. When I told him that you needed fresh meat to regain your strength, he returned with some as swiftly as he could.”

“Perhaps…” he said, his voice ending with a sigh.

“You are wearied,” she told him. “Lie back and rest.”

He turned to regard the sun, hovering only a handspan over the distant hills. Crimson and yellow splashed the western clouds. “I can rest atop Monso. He can bear my weight, I believe, if we do no more than walk.”

Eydryth opened her mouth to protest, but halted as he shook his head. “I know what you are about to say, but I will not be able to rest while we are so close to Yachne’s bespelled ground. What if somehow we became entrapped there again?”

Eydryth glanced back uneasily at that faintly shimmering, raw-cut gorge. “Could that happen?”

“I know not. The spell she used was beyond my ability… I cannot judge. I only know that I will rest better on Monso’s back, going away from this place, than I ever could so near to it.”

The songsmith sighed and gave in. Truth to tell, now that Alon had brought up the possibility that the spell-land might ensnare them again, she would not be able to relax near it, either. “Very well,” she said. “I will lead Monso, and we will walk—but only for an hour or so, understand?”

He nodded. “I can sleep on horseback. I have done it before.”

Leaning on Eydryth for support, he managed to walk the short distance to the streamside, where he laved his hands and face with the chill water, afterward drinking deeply. Then, while Eydryth saddled the Keplian and repacked their supplies, Alon swallowed another measure of the strengthening tisane.

When they were ready to start, Eydryth led the Keplian to a position downhill from the Adept. With her aid, he was able to place foot to stirrup, then clamber into the saddle, grunting with the effort. When he settled into place, she saw that his teeth were fastened in his lower lip, and sweat beaded his forehead.

Clumsily, favoring his injured arm, he drew his cloak around him, and they started off, the setting sun at their backs.

Fortunately, their path lay across gently rolling meadows, and Eydryth could see well enough to continue until full dark, thus putting several hillsides between them and Yachne’s trap. When she reached the crest of the third such hillside, she halted, breathing a bit heavily, but feeling her spirits lift to be moving once again in the direction of their goal. She refused to let herself contemplate what might lie at the end of their search.

Looking up at Alon in the growing darkness, she saw that his eyes were closed, and he was slumped in the saddle, dozing. If only I could go on a little farther before halting, she thought, glancing back at the faint line of reddish-orange that still marked the western sky. Monso, like all horses, has good night vision and will not need much guidance. If only I had the Power to see in the dark as Alon can!

An instant later that idly framed thought brought her up short. But I do have the Power! Perhaps I can use it, even as he does!

Taking a quick drink from her flask to ease the dryness of her throat after walking, she opened her eyes wide, imagining herself seeing in the dark; then, softly, she began to hum.

To her left… there, that was a bush. As Eydryth concentrated, its outlines sharpened. And there… that was a small gully gouged by the hard spring rains. Over to her right was an ancient limb, its bare branches seeming skeletal in the uncanny vision she was acquiring.

Picking up Monso’s lead once again, humming steadily, the songsmith went on.

By midnight she was stumbling with weariness, and her throat was too raw to produce any more sound. She had discovered, however, that simply holding the melody firmly in mind, hearing it within the confines of her own head, sufficed to allow her to use this small magic she now owned.

However, there was a price. By the Amber Lady, there was a grim tax levied on anyone who would use magic. For the first time Eydryth truly understood, understood in every muscle, every sinew, why Joisan and Elys and Alon and Hyana always emerged from spell-casting sessions shaking with weariness and ravenously hungry. Several times she had halted to chew handfuls of dried fruit.

Finally, when she was beginning to weave with exhaustion and clutch Monso’s scraggly mane to stay upright, the songsmith had to halt. Her legs folded beneath her without her leave; she sank down on the grass.

She must have dozed there for several minutes, but finally she was roused by Monso’s nosing the back of her neck. Stiff muscles screamed silent protest as she hoisted herself wearily to her feet. Alon was still a-horse, though he lay slumped across Monso’s neck.

When she tried to loosen his hands, she found them locked in a death-grip on the Keplian’s mane. She had to pry his fingers up, one by one.

Then she tugged at his body until he toppled toward her. She groaned aloud as she caught his limp weight. Though not much taller than she was, he weighed more. Struggling, she managed to ease him to the ground unharmed. Hastily wrapping him in his cloak, she left him to sleep. Food and water could wait. It was all she could do to pull Monso’s saddle off, so the Keplian could graze.

Then, rolling herself in her own cloak, Eydryth stretched out on the ground, and knew no more.

She awoke some time later to the sound of Monso snorting and pawing nervously. The night was far spent; the thinnest sliver of moon shed a faint light. By tomorrow it will be moon-dark, she thought absently, pushing herself up on one elbow, wondering what had awakened her from such a profound slumber. Her answer came quickly—Monso. The half-bred stood nearby, not grazing, clearly agitated and on sentry-go.

“What is it, fellow?” she asked softly.

For reply the Keplian snorted so loudly that she jumped—a noisy houufff of expelled breath.

The songsmith summoned night-sight, mentally running a melody through her mind, and clearly saw Monso, spilled ink against the softer blackness of the spring night. He was staring northward, neck arched, ears pricked so far forward they nearly touched at the tips, his ebony tail flung straight up. He snorted again, then, without warning, screamed—the ringing challenge of one stallion to another.

An answer came out of the distance—a slurred, hissing call that sounded like no creature she had ever encountered!

Thoroughly alarmed, the songsmith scrambled free of her cloak, hand reaching for her staff. When she drew her sword, the bared steel glimmered faintly in the wan light of the dying moon.

Alon mumbled something in his sleep, but did not awaken. Eydryth considered trying to rouse him, but, remembering his weakness, decided to let him sleep, if possible. Perhaps Monso’s challenge had been voiced at the leader of a band of wild horses. Such were known to roam Arvon in its remoter parts. Distance or rock formations could have distorted the sound, made it seem so eerie.

But, as she gained her feet and stared northward, that faint hope vanished. Three mounted figures were trotting toward them. The songsmith’s heart contracted within her.

Quickly she found Alon’s lead-shank, then tethered the Keplian to a stout bush. There were no trees nearby, but she thought the fastening would hold him for a lunge or two. If their callers came in peace—Please, by Your blessing, Amber Lady, let them not mean us harm!—she did not want a stallion-battle on her hands.

As their visitors approached, she strained to make out details. The one in the center was tall, and bestrode a huge black. Seeing the flash of red from the creature’s eyes, Eydryth realized that the beast was a full-blooded Keplian. Any small hope she had held that their nocturnal callers came with friendly intentions now vanished.

The two beasts flanking the Keplian seemed, at first glance, to be light grey or white horses. But as they came closer, she saw that they were not like any creatures she had ever seen.

Their heads were long and narrow, as were their necks, bodies and legs. Instead of a true horse’s short hair, they seemed to gleam faintly, as though their skins were not only smooth, but also scaled! Glimpses of sharp, curving teeth were revealed as their riders reined them down to a walk some distance away. Eydryth saw that they did not have hooves, but clawed talons, much like the falcon’s.

Like some kind of unnatural cross between horses and lizards, she thought. Like those beasts Sylvya told me of, the ones that Maleron and his hunters bestrode, when they rode as That Which Runs the Ridges…

The two armsmen wore black armor, and their faces were overshadowed by their helms, so the songsmith could make out no features.

But the central rider, the one mounted on the Keplian, wore brightly burnished chain mail and a dark red surcoat over it, worked with a crest. The songsmith stared at that device, certain that she had seen its like before, somewhere… a snake—or, rather, the bare skull of a snake—crowned, with dark rays of Power emanating from it…

Where had she seen such a crest? Eydryth’s mind spun frantically, searching, scrabbling through memory. She had been with Jervon… yes, he had been there, and that same device had been carved… yes, carved… into a gatepost!

She had it now! It had been a gatepost at Garth Howell, the school where those with the Power came to learn to use their magic!

The memory surged into Eydryth’s mind with such force that she gasped. She remembered the day she and her father had gone to the place to inquire about the Seeing Stone. The abbot, a thin, dark man with pale, ascetic features had courteously given them directions to reach the farseeing Place of Power. But before they had ridden forth, a young lay sister had drawn them aside, then whispered a few hasty words of warning. “Beware the Stone.” Eydryth could hear again that hoarse young voice in her mind. “It gives true sight, but it exacts a terrible price for it!”

And behind the girl’s head had been the gatepost, and upon it, graven deep into the granite, the same design that now faced her. The inhabitants of Arvon feared the school as a place where Power-wielders gathered, much as they feared the Grey Towers of the Wereriders. The place did not give open allegiance to the Left-Hand Path, but, over the years, there had been tales…

Eydryth’s hand itched to raise her sword, but she forced herself to stand motionless as the riders halted before her. The one mounted on the Keplian unhelmed, and she saw, with her augmented vision, that he was well-favored—even handsome, with a strong jaw and regular features. “Fair can be foul,” she remembered Sylvya telling her. “My brother Maleron was handsome. …”

And so was Dinzil, Eydryth suddenly remembered. She kept her head up, her sword pointed down, but her knees were bent, her body poised to assume fighting stance. The songsmith held her silence, forcing the newcomer to speak first.

He leaned on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes holding hers. “Fair meeting, minstrel,” he said, his tones cultured and deliberately mild. “You and your companion are traveling through our lands.”

Garth Howell’s lands, she thought, but did not reveal that she had recognized the device on his surcoat. Since it did not appear on any of the publicly displayed banners flown from the towers, she assumed that this sigil was intended to remain secret. “If we have trespassed, sir, I beg forgiveness. It was done in ignorance,” she replied, keeping her voice smooth and courteous. “We are bound for Redmantle lands and beyond.”

“Few travelers pass this way,” he said, and with her increased night vision she discerned the raking glance he gave her, the still-slumbering Adept, and Monso. “Our dominions lie rather off the known paths. How did you come to be here?”

He is baiting me, she thought, but kept her voice civil and noncommittal. “We have been traveling for days,” she said, speaking perfect truth but deliberately twisting the meaning. “Most recently we traversed a great Waste lying to the west of these foothills, after which we found ourselves here.”

Her inquisitor could not conceal a start of surprise. His eyes narrowed in unbelief… and well he might be skeptical. No one that Eydryth had ever heard of before could claim to have crossed the noxious Waste that lay to the far west of Arvon. She smiled at him tentatively, wondering all the while why he and his men-at-arms (Are they indeed of humankind? she found herself thinking. Their hands seem oddly shaped….) had come here.

“Indeed,” he said softly. “That is extraordinary hearing.”

Monso rumbled a deep challenge, and the leader’s mount raised its head. The creature was too well schooled to reply, but its eyes gleamed red. “And that is an extraordinary stallion you have been riding,” the newcomer continued, with barely a pause.

“No more so than your own,” Eydryth countered pleasantly.

He smiled; that stretch of lip and flash of teeth, instead of making him seem more human, made him seem far less. “My mount is of the pure blood, yours is… something different. A cross that I would have considered impossible.”

“Obviously not,” she pointed out, “since he stands before you.”

He chuckled, and the sound made the songsmith’s skin crawl, as though slimy hands had fingered her naked flesh. One of the outriders made a chortling sound, and she thought she glimpsed sharpened rows of teeth within his mouth. Or was there a muzzle beneath that helm? She could not be sure…

“Excellent!” the Dark leader announced. “You are a most extraordinary—and amusing—creature yourself, my lady. Not to mention passing fair.” He swept her a bow from his saddle.

“Thank you, sir,” she managed through stiff lips. Her fear of this Dark Adept—for so she now believed him to be—was growing, making the assumed lightness of their discourse more and more difficult for her to maintain. “May I ask a boon, please?”

“Of course!” He appeared delighted, and the aura of wrongness surrounding him intensified with each passing moment.

“May we traverse your demesnes, just long enough to reach the road? Again, I offer my deepest apologies for our inadvertent blunder.”

“ ‘Our’?” he said, then deliberately, as if noticing for the first time, looked down at Alon, who lay huddled and still. “You have a companion! One that shares your bed, perhaps, as well as your road?”

Ignoring Eydryth’s tight-lipped headshake, he went on, in tones of mock-grief, “Alas, it seems I have a rival… oh, my heart lies in ruins, songsmith,” he said, gauntleted hand pressed to the breast of his surcoat, where that disturbing design was growing ever more distinct. Pearly light brightened the east now; sunrise was not far off. Eydryth wondered distractedly whether these creatures could stand to encounter the light of day—many Shadowed beings could not—but neither the leader nor his outriders seemed worried by dawn’s nearness.

The Dark Adept looked down at Alon’s wan, pinched features beneath his tumbled, none-too-clean hair, then sighed deeply. “I must say, my lady songsmith, that I fail to comprehend your taste. You could do better, I am certain.”

Anger surged up in Eydryth, growing hotter by the moment, and with a toss of her head she abandoned this ridiculous facade of flirtation, this mockery of courtly conversation. “You did not answer my question, sir,” she said bluntly.

“What question, fair lady?”

“About whether we have permission to cross your domain.”

“That is correct, I did not.” The Dark One studied her intently. “Remiss of me. My answer is thus. You will accompany me back to our stronghold to speak with the Lord Abbot, who is the one you must entreat. I am certain that he will grant your request to traverse our lands.”

“And how far away is your stronghold?” she demanded.

“Barely a full day’s ride,” he replied lightly. “Such a small delay will not trouble you overmuch, will it, my lady?”

Eydryth felt anger building, until it pulsed behind her eyes, hot and vital. She recognized that strength of Will, that resolve, that gathering for what it was—Power. The songsmith did not allow herself to think about the abilities of the Adept she faced, his probable mastery of magic. Instead she merely smiled grimly. “I am afraid that it would be a great inconvenience. I regret that I must decline your kind invitation, sir.”

His handsome face hardened, and he laid hand to the hilt of his sword, then drew it smoothly. “And I am afraid that I must insist.”

She laughed outright, saw him start with surprise. “Then, sir, I must resist!” she cried, deliberately rhyming him. An idea was surging through her mind like Monso at full gallop, an idea built on generations of tradition—and on the Power she could feel herself becoming a vessel to hold. Lyrics and melody crowded her mind, pouring in without conscious thought.

“With that?” Recovering, he smiled grimly and pointed at her sword.

“No…” Eydryth said, then slowly, deliberately, sheathed the blade. Picking up her hand-harp case, she took out the instrument, struck a ringing chord that seemed to swell and resound in the air, until it was nearly deafening. “With this!”

The Power filled her as she began to strum, then sing:

She saw the two unhuman outriders surreptitiously edge their mounts away from their overlord, watched his open consternation as her satire—filled with the Power she could feel emanating from her, thrumming forth from her harp— dominated the air. Ancient lore had it that one who offended a bard could be ill-wished, cursed, even unto death.

Eydryth poured into her song all her rage, all her frustration, all her anger at Yachne. The witch is probably behind this, she thought, feeling the words emerge from her mouth so poisoned that they might have been dipped in venom. The forces of the Dark want to delay us, which will aid her. Well, we shall see about that!

Her mind working fast, she fingered the harp in ringing chords, wishing for a fleeting moment that she had thought to put her finger picks on. The quan-iron strings stung her fingers. More words fell into place as she hastily composed the second verse of the satire. A rapid strum, then she continued, her voice rising with every note:

The Keplian squealed, frightened, in response to a cruel jab from a spaded bit. The outriders backed their mounts away from their leader. Guttural, gobbling sounds broken with hisses emerged from the misshapen mouths the songsmith could glimpse beneath the creatures’ helmets. Eydryth had never heard their language before, but, even so, she could not mistake the fear in their voices.

The Dark Adept’s features writhed in pain and fear. Eydryth’s fingers plucked the strings of her harp, sending forth the music, and her anger, directed straight at him. She knew beyond legend, beyond knowledge, beyond instinct… she knew in her bones that her words held Truth as well as Power. Her curse would come to pass. She was singing the Dark Adept’s fate, sealing it with her own magic.

“Let your rotted body lie in an unremembered grave!” She flung the last line at him again, seeing it strike with the force of an actual blow. With a wordless snarl, the leader spun his mount on its haunches and spurred it back in the direction they had come. The two outriders followed, but slower, staying well away from their master’s vicinity—as though they feared that the fate Eydryth had cursed him with might fall upon them, too, if they ventured too close.

Just as the flaming edge of the sun glimmered over the nearest hill, they vanished into the forested slope, heading north.

Eydryth stared after them, savoring her victory. She felt strong, triumphant, burning as though a fire of angry hatred blazed within her. As she remembered the Dark Adept’s expression, and the fate she had called down upon him, the songsmith threw back her head and laughed—laughed long and loud… laughed until she had no breath left, and needs must gasp after it. Some small corner of her mind was shrieking at her that it was wrong to so exult in the downfall of another—even a Dark One—but she ignored that prickle of conscience.

“Let your rotted body lie in an unremembered grave,” Eydryth whispered, smiling a death’s-head grin as the dawnlight crept across her face.