Songsmith

13

As Eydryth’s laughter finally faded away into small wheezes of savage merriment, a voice reached her ears: “Well done, songsmith.”

She whirled around, to find Alon sitting up, regarding her steadily. “How long have you been awake?” she demanded, feeling some of yesterday’s anger at him surface again.

“Long enough,” he made reply, “to see that you needed no aid in defeating that one.” He nodded in the direction of the vanished Dark Adept. “Congratulations.”

She scowled at him furiously. “Small help you were! I thought you too weak to even sit up without aid, else I would have tried to awaken you, so you could have dealt with our visitor.” The rush of Power was ebbing, emptying her, leaving her body so weak that she was suddenly forced to sit down before she toppled over. Her head ached fiercely… her flesh seemed to shrivel on her bones.

Alon shrugged carelessly. “You did not need me. And now perhaps you will believe that you possess more than a touch of Power.” He smiled without humor. “I would never have thought of using a satire. Those things will come to pass for him, you know,” he said, slanting a curious glance at her, as if asking whether she minded.

The songsmith tossed her head. “I know they will,” she said, then smiled, feeling a rush of satisfaction. Her own exultation at the defeat of the Dark One again struck her as wrong, shadowed, but she easily pushed that small, nagging prickle of conscience aside. “Now what?” she asked.

He dragged over the saddlebag containing their provisions. “First we eat and drink, then we depart,” he said simply. “We must be gone from here as swiftly as may be. There may be more where he came from.”

After they finished eating, Eydryth checked his wound. Beneath the scrap of bandage, the mud was hardened and cracking loose, so she chipped it away with a ragged fingernail. Where the gaping slash had been, there was naught but a thin, white scar. She stared at it wonderingly. If only it can work such wonders on my father! Her hope was shaken, though, when she remembered that she had broken the seal on Dahaun’s box.

Monso’s wound was much improved, and his master again chanted a healing-spell over it, while rubbing it with a paste he produced from his supplies. When Eydryth would have taken her accustomed place at the Keplian’s head, the Adept pointed to the stirrup. “Today you ride,” he said. “Such magic as you worked demands a cruel toll from the body. I will walk.”

She studied his features, still pale beneath the weathering caused by their days in the sun. “You are not strong enough yet,” she said, knowing she spoke truth.

“I slept most of yesterday,” he reminded her. “Where you barely rested at all. Up you go,” he ordered, pointing to the saddle.

Eydryth hesitated, but then, feeling her own weakness, she placed foot to stirrup. Alon steadied her as she slowly swung up onto the Keplian’s back, stifling a grunt of pain as sore muscles protested.

It seemed odd to sit in the middle of Monso’s back, rather than on his rump. The half-bred shifted restlessly, rolling an eye back at her; then his ears flattened. She tensed as she felt the coiled strength in his hindquarters and shoulders. The Keplian snorted, pawing angrily.

“Am I the first person to bestride him other than you?” she asked, suppressing a catch in her voice. Memory of those terrifying rides when Monso had bolted made her swallow.

The Adept nodded. “Keep your legs loose on his sides,” he warned, reminding her curtly of what she already knew from her years of experience while riding with the Kioga, helping them break horses. “If you are tense, he will feel your unease.” Quietly, he soothed his horse.

The songsmith nodded, forcing herself to relax in the saddle. Gradually, the hump in the Keplian’s back eased. Alon started forward, leading the half-bred. Moments later, Steel Talon swooped by, screeching a hoarse greeting.

Within an hour, the lack of sleep and the previous day’s exertions told on Eydryth; she fell into a light doze in the saddle, her body automatically swaying to the rhythm of Monso’s walk.

She awoke with a gasp and a jerk when the black half-bred abruptly halted, flinging his head up as though he had been unexpectedly jabbed by the bit. Startled, Eydryth sat up, blinking, then rubbed sleep out of her gritty eyes. Her mouth was dry, filled with a taste that made her grimace. Hunger gnawed her vitals. By the look of the sun, it was well past noon.

Ahead of them stretched a road, the first such they had seen. Eydryth glanced down at Alon, saw him leaning heavily against Monso’s shoulder, as though that support were the only thing keeping him up.

The bard swallowed, attempting to force words from the dry well that was now her throat. “Alon?” she croaked. “What chances? Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, but made no move to straighten up. Eydryth slid down out of the saddle, catching him by the arm and peering into his face. He was sweating and pale. “What happened?” she asked worriedly.

“Twisted my foot,” he muttered. “Need a moment…”

“You have walked too far,” she said, taking down the water flask and lifting it to her lips, first rinsing the vileness from her mouth, then drinking thirstily. She handed it to him, watched him drink, then said, “You ride now. I’ll walk.”

“No,” he said, sealing the flask. His tone brooked no opposition. “Climb back on. I can walk.”

“Walk?” She let her scorn at the idea fill her voice. “Oh, of a certainty! And run, too, no doubt! Don’t be a fool!”

His grey eyes hardened until they appeared as light and flat as pebbles in a streambed. “I told you, I will walk.” He jerked his head at the Keplian’s empty saddle. “Climb back up. Now.”

“You cannot order me,” she stated, her voice cold and soft. “You will be an even greater fool if you attempt that.”

The Adept flushed angrily. “Watch your tongue, songsmith. It is wagging too freely.”

“What I say and where I go—and how I reach my destination”—her own anger was growing, and she clenched both fists—“are my concern, not yours!”

His mouth tightened to a grim slash, and around him the air seemed to shiver and glow. Fear touched the bard, and she took a hasty step backward before she could stop herself.

Alon opened his mouth to say something—and, from his expression, it was no pleasantry—but his words were never uttered. Without warning, Steel Talon screamed shrilly; then Monso thrust his big black head against his master’s chest, nearly knocking him over. The Adept swore as his injured foot gave way beneath him. He barely managed to stay on his feet. By the time he had recovered his balance, Eydryth had regained control of her temper.

Pointing down at the Keplian’s leg, she said, “He is nearly healed. If we go slowly, there is no reason we both cannot ride.”

Her companion hesitated. She watched as he tried unobtrusively to rest his weight on his right foot, then repressed a wince. Finally, Alon nodded. “Very well,” he snapped.

Limping, he went over to the stallion and climbed up; then, reluctantly, he turned in the saddle to offer a hand to the songsmith. Pointedly, she ignored his grudging offer of aid, managing instead to swing up behind him unassisted.

Scowling blackly, Alon signaled Monso forward, and the Keplian walked steadily toward the road. But when they reached that earthen track, Alon turned the stallion’s head southeast. Eydryth nudged him. “Kar Garudwyn lies that way,” she said urgently, pointing due east, to their left.

He ignored her.

Urgently, the songsmith tugged at his arm. “You are heading the wrong way!”

Stubbornly, he shook his head.

“Alon!” She struck him lightly on the shoulder. “Halt!”

His voice, when it finally came, was little more than a sullen growl. “No.”

“Alon, we must go due east, not this way! What do you hope to gain by this?”

Finally he signaled the Keplian to stop, then turned to look at her. “Yachne’s death,” he said flatly. “The sorceress is that way,” he added, pointing southeast.

“But… but…” she stammered with indignation, feeling an anger that was being rapidly quenched by fear. He truly means to do it! “We have already decided that it would be best to go straight to Kar Garudwyn. We cannot turn aside from our path! Kerovan, remember? We must save Kerovan!”

“When Yachne is dead, she will prove no threat to anyone on this world,” he said, and there was a vicious undertone to his voice that made Eydryth’s breath catch in her throat. “Steel Talon tells me that she has headed this way, and is still little more than a half-day’s journey ahead of us.”

“I am not going!” Eydryth cried. “I will go on alone to warn Kerovan!”

“Go then,” he snarled, “and take my curse!”

Fury surged hot within her, but something in Alon’s eyes as he stared at her made her swallow and remain silent. She shifted her weight so she could slide down the near side of Monso’s rump. “I’ll go,” she whispered.

Steel Talon suddenly plunged out of the air, screaming shrilly. Monso shied. If the Keplian had leaped to the right, Eydryth would have been left hanging in midair, her destination the green meadow grass. But instead Monso moved to his left, dropping and lunging so that the songsmith found herself again in the middle of his rump.

Instinctively, she grabbed Alon around the waist, just as the stallion plunged forward with a heart-stopping buck. “No!” Alon yelled, struggling to regain control. The Adept’s legs closed on the stallion’s sides, trying to drive the half-bred forward, so his head would come up. He bent over, hands squeezing and releasing on the reins, trying to dislodge the bit from the Keplian’s teeth—

—and succeeded only too well. Grunting, Monso flung his head up. His heavy stallion’s crest with its crowning bristle of mane struck his rider full in the face. The Adept sagged, limp. He would have fallen were it not for Eydryth’s enclosing arms.

Even the smallest crowhop would have unseated his riders by then, but Monso had apparently abandoned his efforts to rid himself of his passengers. Instead, the Keplian’s strides began to lengthen. He broke into a swift canter, and then he was galloping.

Eydryth managed to grab the pommel of the saddle with both hands, then heaved herself up and over the cantle, until she was jammed into the seat with Alon. Groping for the reins, she snatched them from the Adept’s lax fingers, and, peering past his shoulder, began sawing at the stallion’s mouth.

Monso ignored her efforts. He was running now, moving with those long, swift strides that marked his fastest pace. “Monso!” she shouted into the whipping wind. Eydryth’s surroundings blurred as tears filled her eyes. “Easy, boy! Ho, now!” One black ear turned back to catch her words, but there was no other reaction.

They were heading east now, in the direction of Kar Garudwyn, flashing down the soft-packed road with the headlong rush of a forest fire. Alon’s weight swayed dangerously in the saddle, and the songsmith stiffened her arms to keep him from pitching headlong onto the verge. At the speed they were now traveling, such a fall could have been fatal.

Wedged into the saddle as she was, Eydryth herself was in little danger of falling, for Monso ran straight and leveled-out, his strides so smooth that very little motion was perceived by his rider. But as for control over the Keplian… she had none. The stallion might as well have had a halter on his head instead of a bridle, for all the attention he paid to the bit or her attempts to slow him.

Eydryth felt light-headed from fear. Monso was moving so fast that time itself seemed blurred. Had the Keplian been running for minutes? Hours? There was no way to know.

Summoning up all her strength, she attempted to sing soothingly, as she had done that day at the horse fair. But her words were blown away by the wind of their passage. Grimly, she tried putting pressure on only one rein, hoping she could so direct the Keplian into a slowly diminishing circle, but, again, her efforts were useless.

Alon stirred before her, then moaned, beginning to struggle feebly as consciousness returned. “Hold still!” Eydryth screamed in his ear. “Don’t move, or we’ll both fall!”

She knew he must have heard her, because, moments later, his hands closed over hers on the reins. Together they fought to slow Monso—still to no avail.

There was something ahead of them… to the left, off the road. A strange shape, like that of a giant, grey-stemmed mushroom with a spring-green cap, set on the crest of a hill. A black streak winged past them, stooping out of the air, and she heard Steel Talon’s shrill shriek. Monso abruptly veered off the road, and, if anything, increased his pace as he headed up the hill toward the crest.

Eydryth closed her eyes, offering up a silent plea to Gunnora that the racing Keplian would not encounter a burrower’s hole or a stoat’s den—or the sunken remains of a fence—at this insane speed.

The steepness of the hillside did not slow the Keplian.

Monso was now moving so swiftly that Eydryth felt as though she were astride Steel Talon, flying, rather than riding a land-bound creature.

As they reached the top of the hill, Eydryth blinked, and suddenly the mushroom-shape before them sprang into clear view: it was a circular grove of mammoth trees with pale-grey trunks, topped with feathery green boughs that sprouted only from their uppermost heights. Monso slowed to a gallop as he began moving around the perimeter of the huge grove.

The trees stood so symmetrically in a circle that their planting must have been the work of some hand, not nature’s happenstance. A loud, rasping sound now reached the songsmith’s ears, and she realized that Monso was finally winded, his breath rasping like iron filings. White foam curded his neck.

“Can you stop him now?” she shouted into Alon’s ear.

“I’m trying,” came his grim reply.

But the Keplian galloped on, around the narrow trunks that almost formed a natural barrier, so close together did they grow. They were on the eastern side of the hill now, following the curve of the grove.

Eydryth glanced down at the thick green grass beneath them. “Should we jump?”

“You jump,” Alon ordered, leaning back against the reins, his shoulders working. “But I stay with—”

He broke off as Steel Talon again flew past them, screaming his piercing cry. Immediately Monso planted his forehooves in the turf, tucked his hindquarters beneath him, and skidded to a halt. Both riders were thrown forward, slamming into him and each other with bruising force.

Alon began to curse the stallion, then, in a frenzy of anger, lashed the black’s neck with the end of his reins. Eydryth was shocked by the savagery in his voice, the vicious snap of his blows against the sweating black hide.

Steel Talon screamed again.

Their mount lunged forward in a huge leap, bucking like a demon-horse possessed. Eydryth clung grimly through one leap—two—then felt herself slipping as the Keplian sunfished, flinging his hind legs up and out behind her head, then twisting in midair like a serpent writhing with a broken back.

The bard felt the wind of her own passage as she was hurled into the air. Following instinct learned from years of training horses with the Kioga, she curled into a ball, ducking her head to protect it. Monso was bellowing with fury, and she had one final moment to hope that he did not land on her during one of his frenzied leaps.

As she struck the ground, Eydryth managed to roll, absorbing most of the impact on the soft turf. Even so, she gasped, feeling as though a giant hand had wrung her chest and back.

Dazedly, she raised her head, saw Alon grimly clinging to the madly plunging stallion, but it was plain that the Adept was losing his battle. Blood was running freely from his nostrils; he had abandoned pride and was gripping the pommel of the saddle with one hand, even as he fought stubbornly to pull Monso’s head up and drive the horse forward.

As she lay there, struggling to catch her breath, Eydryth felt a strange warmth tingling along her left arm. Fearing the worst, she turned her head, but her fingers curled at her command, there was no bleeding or break. The bard saw that Monso’s buck had thrown her almost within the only opening in the giant circular grove of uncanny trees. Her left arm lay within the opening—and from it, a sensation was spreading.

Warmth… comfort… healing… light. It was all those things, and more. Much more. The light crept within her, spreading, filling her with peace, driving out the anger, the wrongness that had frightened her during the past days when she had felt it trying to possess her. The sensation of being healed of a dark sickness of the spirit was so compelling that she stared at her arm, transfixed, forgetting Alon, forgetting the battle between mount and master raging still behind her.

Cautiously, she levered herself up on her hands. Her head still spun from the fall, her ears rang with weakness, but the urge to drive out the Darkness that had been growing within her drove her onward. Eydryth crawled slowly, not halting until her entire body lay within the entrance to this strange place.

Light and warmth enveloped her, soothing body and spirit. Understanding grew as it did so, knowledge of what had been happening to her, the reason that both she and Alon had been reacting so strangely. Ever since they had jumped through that Dark Gate, a malignant Shadow had grown within them, a darkness of spirit that was now being driven out by the light and life of this hallowed Place of Power.

Healing… it was healing her, body and spirit.

After a time… she had no idea how long, though later she realized it could not have been more than a minute or two… Eydryth sighed, then levered herself up. Strength returned to her—not the black strength of raging hate and anger that had empowered her before, but a quiet healing strength that this Place of Power had bestowed upon her, a gift beyond price.

Her bruises had stopped aching, she felt renewed… refreshed.

Gazing back through the entrance, she was just in time to see Monso rear up. His front legs slashed the air as he towered like some ancient elemental horse-spirit, his eyes crimson with savage fury, strings of reddish foam dripping from his open mouth. Then, in a frenzy of rage, the stallion flung himself over backward. Helplessly Eydryth crouched, hands pressed against her mouth, certain that Alon would be killed.

But, at the last possible moment, the Adept leaped free of the saddle, landing halfway between the bard and his erstwhile steed. Monso rolled over and struggled to his feet, head hanging low, breathing in agonized gasps.

Slowly his master sat up. “Alon!” Eydryth cried, but he stared at her blankly, without recognition. Fresh horror filled her as she realized that Alon’s grey eyes had gone a strange, dead silver.

As she flung herself toward him, he shook off her grasping arm, ignoring her, then climbed to his feet and headed back for the stallion, his expression a silent curse that boded no good for his hapless mount. Purple lightning—Purple is the color of the Shadow, Eydryth remembered with a sick feeling of horror—began to crackle from between his splayed fingers.

Eydryth realized that he meant to kill the Keplian. The Shadow that had been growing within her had possessed him completely. And no wonder, she realized, as she stumbled after him, he not only went through the Dark Gate, he worked the black spell that caused it to open! That essence of the Shadow that was growing within me has affected him even more strongly. When he worked that Dark magic, Alon took the Shadow into himself, as surely as if he poisoned himself by eating rancid or rotting meat!

“Run, Monso!” Eydryth screamed. She made a futile grab for the Adept, just as a bolt of purple flamed from Alon’s fingers. It licked out, but the Keplian shied violently and it missed him. The stallion, obviously confused, the habit of obedience conflicting with his sudden fear of the master that he loved, backed slowly away. Alon stalked toward him, his bloody face dark with fury, eyes cold and sharp as argent blades. Both hands came up, fingers crooked, for another attempt.

Eydryth hit the Adept in the small of his back with her shoulder, driving him forward and down. Purple lightning crackled, snaking along the ground, leaving a blackened trail in the thick turf.

Alon rolled over, cursing aloud now. Seeing his face, the songsmith knew that now it was she who was in great danger. I have to get him into the Place of Power, she thought. Mayhap it can heal him, too!

Gritting her teeth, hating herself for what she was about to do, she clenched her fist and slammed it into his jaw, even as he struggled to regain his feet.

The Adept went down again, stunned, and she hastily grabbed his foot, began dragging him toward that haven of healing and light. “Please, Amber Lady,” she whispered through dry lips. “Please, let him be—”

Alon’s other foot, booted and heavy, smashed hard against her forearm, numbing it instantly. Eydryth cried out, dropping his leg, unable to hold on. He was already rolling away from her, coming up, turning to run—run away from the Place of Power. Fear was graven into every line of his features.

It’s the Shadow within him … she thought. It will not give him up!

“Alon, no!” she cried, bolting after him. He had nearly reached the heaving, spraddle-legged Keplian when she caught him, shoving him aside with a hard thrust of her good arm. He spun, fell, then was up again, moving with a quickness that bespoke desperation.

But already the songsmith’s fingers had closed on her quarterstaff, which was fastened along the Keplian’s side. She jerked it free with a frantic tug. “Alon…” she gasped, trying to hold his eyes with her own, reach beyond the Darkness that had engulfed him, “you… have to come… with me.”

He did not answer, only backed away. Purple light sparked from his hands, and she knew that he could kill her—kill her easily. “Don’t—” she pleaded. “Remember Jonthal…”

He blinked, confused, and for a moment his eyes were his own dark grey again. But then they hardened, brightened, and the bard knew that she had lost him.

With a sudden leap he was on her, kicking the staff. Her still-numbed fingers could not hold it, and it flew spinning from her hand. Alon’s left fist slammed into her head, near her ear, just as the fingers of his right hand dug into her throat.

Red flashes went off behind her eyes, but she reacted as Jervon had trained her, going with her attacker’s motion, giving way, using his superior strength against him. Eydryth let herself fall, rolling onto her back, spine curved, at the same moment bringing her knees up. They slammed hard into Alon’s midsection, and she heard the breath go out of him in a great wheeze.

Quickly, she shoved him over, then swung her small, callused fist into his jaw. Once… twice… His eyes glazed over, and she saw the light go out of them. He sagged, barely conscious.

Breathing now as hard as Monso, she grabbed his arms, dragged them over his head, then began tugging him back toward the entrance. Halfway there, she glanced behind her, marking the gap in the tree trunks—and that proved her undoing.

Alon suddenly came to life again, twisting in her grasp, wrenching himself away. As he spun, one leg kicked out, cutting both feet out from under her.

Eydryth went down, landing hard; then he was up and away, running haltingly, not toward Monso, now, but west, back the way they had come. The songsmith’s flailing hand closed on her quarterstaff, and, before she could even complete the idea in her mind, she was up on one knee, her good arm drawn back to its fullest extent. Her shoulder protested as she hurled the bronze-shod length after the limping man.

The gryphon-headed staff whirled through the air, low and parallel to the ground, to strike hard against Alon’s booted legs. The Adept went down again, and this time he lay unmoving.

Sobs nearly overcame her for a second—Amber Lady, what have I done? Then the bard was up and running. If I’ve killed him…

Eydryth reached Alon’s side. Dropping to her knees, she cautiously rolled him over. The man’s face was a hideous mask of bruised flesh and bloody scratches, but his chest was moving. Eydryth touched fingers to his throat, felt the throb of the pulse there. She drew breath into her aching lungs; then tears again coursed down her face—but this time they were of relief.

Quickly, before Alon could regain consciousness, the songsmith began dragging him again toward the entrance, halting only when he lay completely within the gap in the trees. She sagged to her knees beside him, fingers gripping his cold hand, hardly daring to hope. For the first time, she glanced past the trunks of the entrance, to see what lay inside this tree-barriered enclosure.

The circular expanse of ground within was covered with soft turf, sprinkled liberally with wildflowers. Scarlet and indigo, amber and pale yellow, violet and dusky rose… never had she seen such a profusion. In the middle of them were tumbled rocks, and in the sudden silence of this Place, Eydryth could distinctly hear the bubbling of a spring.

Water… The thought made her tremble with sudden thirst. Water to drink, water to wash Alon’s wounds… water for Monso…

Moving unsteadily, she made her way over to the Keplian, pulled off his saddle, then emptied all their water flasks, slinging them over her shoulder. With stumbling, eager strides she reentered the Place of Power. The heady scents of the wild-flowers rose up around her like incense as she trod that many-hued carpet.

The spring welled into a hollow in the middle of the largest boulder. Eydryth rolled up her sleeves as she knelt on the edge of a sun-warmed boulder, looking down.

Clear, cold, seeming to gleam with an inner Light, the water from the spring bubbled up. She held out her hands, dipped them gratefully into the coldness, then cupped them, brought forth a sparkling handful, sipped.

The water coursed down her throat like a cool blessing. Eydryth drank her fill, then laved her face, her hands, washing away sweat and dirt, feeling more renewed with each passing moment. The pain from her bruises and strained muscles vanished.

Gazing around her, marveling at the effect of that water, the songsmith wondered yet again just what manner of place this was. Obviously a Place of Power… Then, suddenly, the knowledge surfaced in her mind, recalled from tales heard long ago.

The Fane of Neave.

It was said to lie in the northwestern portion of this ancient land. Dark sorcery could not enter the Fane, could not exist within it. Small wonder that that inner darkness that had been growing within her had utterly disappeared once she crossed the border of this place. Neave… Neave was one of the Oldest Ones. Neave was all things natural, and good, and fruitful.

Even now, when couples were wed in Arvon, they drank a toast, each in turn, invoking Neave with their bridal cup, asking Neave to bless their union, make it devoted and fruitful.

The Fane of Neave. It had to be.

“Thank you, O Neave,” Eydryth breathed, her voice soft and earnest. “Thank you…”

A sense of peace, quiet benediction, filled her. After a moment she bent to her task again, refilling the water flasks with the springwater.

Carrying them, she went back to the entrance, her step once more swift and assured. Glancing down at Alon as she passed, she saw that he still lay unmoving, but the lines of pain and fear had smoothed out on his bruised, battered countenance. He seemed now to be in a natural sleep.

Once outside the Fane, she whistled softly, then saw the Keplian some distance away, cropping desultorily at the grass. Eydryth walked over to Monso, checked first his wound, and was relieved to discover that he had not reopened it, fortune be praised. Scenting the water, he nudged her, rumbling low in his throat.

She dared not let him drink much so soon after running so hard, but she gave the stallion several carefully rationed sips from Neave’s spring, using their small cooking pot. The thirsty creature lapped the cool liquid with his huge, pale-pink tongue, reminding her for all the world of a cat. Wetting down a corner of her cloak, she swiped and rinsed the sweat from the sable hide until the salty stiffness was gone.

By the time she had finished, Monso had begun to graze, tearing hungrily at the grass. Relieved that Neave’s spring had worked its restorative effect again, and that the Keplian no longer was on the verge of foundering with exhaustion, she went back to the Adept.

Sitting down cross-legged beside him, she carefully lifted his head into her lap, then wiped his face and hands. At the touch of that cool water, she saw the bruises and swellings visibly lessen, until they seemed only shadows of the original injuries.

Then, steadying his head against her thigh, she held the flask to his lips, urging him softly to drink. Alon sipped a little, swallowed, sipped again. He sighed deeply as the last lines of pain smoothed away from his face; then, a moment later, he opened his eyes. Eydryth offered a silent invocation of thanks, for his eyes were his own again, dark grey, gentle, and, at the moment, bewildered.

“What happened?” he whispered.

She touched finger to his lips, cautioning him to be quiet.

“In a moment,” she promised. “Drink some more, Alon. You must be very thirsty.”

He sighed, nodding, never taking his eyes from her face as he drank again, this time deeply. “We are in a safe place,” Eydryth told him, when he finished. “A Place of Power. Monso ran away… do you remember?”

Alon turned his head, and his eyes left hers to fasten on the Keplian, hungrily cropping grass. “He is fine,” she reassured him. “I will give him more to drink in a little while. The water from this spring is very restoring. How do you feel?”

“Well… now. But I cannot remember how I came here. I remember walking an endless dead land… and you singing… and a bridge of blood. I remember a Dark One… that you vanquished. Or was I dreaming?” he whispered uncertainly.

“No dream,” she replied, simply.

He turned his head as it lay pillowed in her lap, seeing the entrance to the Fane, the wildflower sward, the boulders surrounding the spring. “Where are we?” he whispered, finally.

“The Fane of Neave,” she replied. “Or so I believe.”

“A Place of Power…” he said.

“Yes. How do you feel now?” she asked again.

“Well,” he replied. “The pain is gone. I feel as though I may have been… ill. Was I sick?” he asked, almost childlike in his bemusement.

“Yes. But you are well now,” she assured him. “We are safe here.”

“I have been… cleansed,” he said after a moment, as if just realizing it. His eyes held hers intently for a long moment. “So have we both,” he added.

“Yes. Nothing of the Shadow can exist here. This is a protected place.”

“The past days…” He put out a hand, grasped hers tightly, urgently, and Eydryth watched memory flood back. “I was… sick. Poisoned by the Shadow. I said things…” He halted, nearly choking, his eyes widening with alarm. “Eydryth… I was planning to… to kill Yachne!”

“I know,” she said, gently. “But you were not yourself. Nor was I myself, when I drove away that Dark One.”

“I could never harm her,” he went on dully. “She raised me… cared for me. If she bore me no affection, that still does not lessen the debt I owe her for that. And remembering that I had planned to kill her makes me—” He broke off, and the songsmith could see more memories surface. The Adept drew a hard, sharp breath. “Eydryth—! I tried to kill Monso!”

“You did not harm him,” she made swift reply.

He sat up with a lurch, his eyes wide with horror. She saw him begin to shake, as though with an ague. “But the Amber Lady, Eydryth, it all comes back… I did my best to kill you!”

“I am fine,” she said, smiling, but she could not meet his gaze, suddenly afraid of the intensity she knew would be there. “As you can plainly see. Alon…” She swallowed, her throat tight. “Alon, you were not yourself. Neither of us remained untouched, but you— Working that spell to open the Dark Gate meant that you were more affected than I. If it were not for the Fane, we would both have been lost to ourselves.”

His hands came up, closed on her shoulders with a grip that made her gasp. “Eydryth… look at me. Look at me.” He waited, and after a moment she managed to raise her eyes to his, color rising hot into her cheeks at what she read there. “If anything happened to you…” He struggled for words, his voice grown thick and unsteady. “I would not… could not… without you… there is nothing…” He drew a deep, ragged breath. “Nothing, do you understand?”

She could summon no words of her own, could only stare at him, wide-eyed, feeling his breath touch her face, so close were they now.

Was it Alon who first leaned forward? Was it she? Or had they both moved at the same moment? Eydryth was never sure. She only knew that his hands had moved from her shoulders to gently cup her face; she only knew that their mouths met.

It was a gentle, tentative caress, a mere brushing of lips. Even though she had almost no experience at this herself, the songsmith realized immediately, instinctively, that Alon was no more lessoned in such matters than she—and found that knowledge pleased her, though why, she could not have told.

After a moment, he drew away, eyes searching her face, his fingers softly, hesitantly tracing her cheekbones, threading through the tumbled curls over her temples, pushing them back from her eyes. Eydryth struggled to speak, but Alon shook his head sternly, his fingers brushing her lips, halting any words.

Rising to his feet, he reached out a hand. As if spellbound (though this was a different magic from any she had yet encountered, if no less strong) she reached up, laid her fingers in his. He pulled her up to her feet, then into his arms, holding her tightly.

There was nothing tentative about this second kiss. Eydryth clung to him, shaken, as new feelings, desires, awoke within her, making her face honestly for the first time the knowledge that had been growing inside her ever since they had met. Until now she had pushed away her own longings, refused to acknowledge them, buried them as deeply as she could. But that was over now. Now there could be no denying, no going back… nor did she wish to.

Finally, he drew away slightly, stared down at her wordlessly. Eydryth rested her forehead against his shoulder, leaning against him as he stroked her tangled hair. The silence stretched between them, until finally he broke it. “Oh, my,” she heard him whisper. She smiled, shaking her head, repressing a sudden urge to laugh.

“Is that all you can think of to say?” she murmured, gently mocking.

“I can think of a thousand things to say,” he told her, his lips moving against her temple, her cheekbone. “But what I cannot decide is which of them to say first.” He chuckled softly. “Perhaps you should start.”

She shook her head, smiling slightly, wistfully. “I cannot. There is too much to say.” Eydryth raised her head, gazed at him, then laid her cheek against his, feeling the faint prickle of unshaven cheek against the softness of her own skin. “To even make a good beginning at saying what I want to say to you, would require the rest of the day… at least.”

“You may have the day. I will take the night,” he said, his tone still light, but the grey eyes held such intensity that her breath caught in her throat. Her heart was pounding so hard she wondered whether he could hear it. Confused, yet feeling such joy as she had never known, Eydryth glanced away from him, then froze.

The sun was already far to the west. The night that he spoke of would be here only too soon. Memory of the reason they were here rushed back, filling her, and, when Alon followed her gaze, she saw the same realization in his eyes.

“I wish…” she said slowly. “Oh, Alon… I wish! But, my dear heart… we cannot linger here. Kerovan’s life depends upon us.”

His expression hardened; then he nodded. “Yachne must be stopped. I will think of a way to restrain her without harming her. Right now”—his glance turned tender for one final moment—“I feel strong enough to accomplish anything.”

He sighed; then his arms tightened around her, and she returned the embrace. Then, slowly, formally, they both stepped back a pace, deliberately leaving the words unsaid, the caresses unmade.

As she heard a grunt from behind her, Eydryth glanced over her shoulder to see Monso, legs flailing the air as the stallion rolled. Alon went over to his mount, felt his chest and shoulders, then examined the healing wound on his leg.

“He can have water, now,” he said, then, catching the Keplian’s rein, led him toward the entrance, heading for the spring.

But as they neared that gap in the trees marking the entrance to the Fane, the half-bred halted, eyes rolling wildly, then backed away, ears flattened.

“What ails him?” Alon demanded, staring at the frightened creature. “Cannot beasts enter this place?”

Eydryth glanced inside the Fane, saw Steel Talon sitting perched on one of the rocks. “I think I know,” she said. “Steel Talon can enter this place because he is a natural creature. Monso is a half-bred, created by sorcery, and no natural being. Nothing of the Shadow can exist within the Fane of Neave, which is where I believe we are.”

“And Monso is part… part demon-horse,” Alon said slowly. “But… how then did he know where to bring us, so that we could be cleansed… healed?”

“I do not know,” Eydryth said, with equal gravity. She glanced thoughtfully at the falcon. “Unless Steel Talon told him…”

They both fell silent, remembering the way the falcon’s cries had seemingly triggered the Keplian’s actions. Finally, Alon shook his head. “Even if poor Monso cannot enter this Fane,” he said, “surely he can drink from the water?”

“He can,” she assured him. “I gave him some earlier.” Once again they rigged a makeshift trough from Alon’s jerkin; then, flask by flask, the Adept allowed the horse to drink, slowly letting him swallow his fill.

Finally, the Keplian’s thirst was satisfied. Alon fed him a measure of grain, and while he munched, both humans ministered to him, brushing him until the black coat shone once more in the red-tinged light of the westering sun.

Steel Talon winged over to sit on the cantle of the saddle, and, as he worked, Alon glanced frequently at the falcon, as if the bird were reporting to him. Having seen him do such before, Eydryth was not surprised to see Alon’s expression darken with concern. “What is it?” she asked softly.

“Steel Talon has seen the witch. She is still heading southeast, toward a place that my winged friend thinks of as ‘the dead place, the sick trees place, the Power-cage place,’ which I take to mean that Yachne has discovered a place that is the opposite of this one.” He nodded at the Fane. “It is my guess that she will use this evil place to focus her magic as she seeks to entrap Kerovan.”

“How far away?”

“Several hours from here, on foot.” He stared east, obviously thinking hard. “How far away is Kar Garudwyn, by your best estimate?”

Eydryth considered. “I believe that Kar Garudwyn lies perhaps twenty leagues distant,” she said, pointing east. “That is, if I correctly remember the legends of where the Fane lies, in relation to Redmantle lands. My home is just beyond their boundaries.”

He stepped forward, caught her hands in his. “Carrying double, Monso would have no chance to make that distance tonight, Eydryth. And someone must go after Yachne.”

She gazed at him, her breath catching in her throat. ‘What… what are you suggesting?”

“We split up.” His voice was low, urgent. “I will go after Yachne, afoot. I am young, and Neave’s spring did its work well. My leg is healed. Steel Talon can lead me to the sorceress—I will do my best to catch her before she can harness the Power of that Shadowed place.”

“And I?” she asked, feeling fear catch in her throat like a harsh crust of bread. “What would you have me do?”

He drew a deep breath. “Eydryth… you must ride Monso to Kar Garudwyn. You alone know the way… your family will listen to you, where they would distrust a stranger.”

The songsmith stared past Alon’s shoulder at the grazing stallion, placid enough now. She shivered. To ride the demon-horse alone, across leagues of countryside, racing wildly through a moonless night? What if Monso threw her, or turned against her? She remembered that terrifying speed, and her mouth went dry. “Alon… I do not think I can,” she whispered.

He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her until she tore her eyes from the stallion and stared back up at him. “You must,” he said. “There is naught else to be done, Eydryth! You must take Monso, and ride as if all the Shadows of this earth were on your trail—which may well be the case. But it is the only way to warn Kerovan in time!”

She bit her lip, then took a deep breath, nodding. “Help me saddle him,” she said.