Songsmith

14

The travelers abandoned their packs, except for Eydryth’s harp, caching them in the branches of a beech tree on the edge of the meadow. As she helped to secure them aloft, Eydryth wondered silently whether such precautions were foolish. The chances were excellent that neither of them would ever return to claim their belongings.

When they had finished, she tied her staff atop the saddlebags, then drew her gryphon-headed sword from its place of concealment. Slowly, the songsmith held it out to her companion. “I want you to take it,” she said. “I cannot abandon my harp, but I will not burden Monso with the weight of both of them. Besides, you may need a weapon.”

He hesitated, then reached out, fingers tracing the golden gryphon that formed the hilt. The creature’s mouth gaped open, and in its jaws it grasped a heavy bluish crystal that served as a counterbalance. The creature’s blue quan-iron eyes seemed to regard them knowingly.

Alon’s fingers traced the sinuous body of the gryphon. Wrapped with silver wire to provide a secure grip, it formed the narrow portion of the hilt above the guard. Sliding his hand around the grip, the Adept hefted the sword, then swung it, hesitantly testing its balance.

Ripples of crimson ran down the blued steel as the setting sun’s rays reflected off the blade. A tentative smile curved Alon’s mouth as his sweeps and thrusts grew surer. “It has a sweet balance in my hand,” he said wonderingly. “Almost as if it is alive, and responsive to my wishes.”

“The best swords are forged so,” she told him. “I want you to carry it, Alon. It will serve you far better than that other,” she finished, a catch in her throat. Silently, she prayed to Gunnora that he would not have to use it. Alon was still far from being a swordsman, and the finest weapon in the world could not alter that.

He turned to regard her soberly, then shook his head and held out the sword. “My thanks, but I was planning on leaving my weapon with everything else,” he said. “One cannot run with a sword in its sheath to hamper one’s strides. And to catch Yachne, I must make all possible speed.” He shrugged ruefully. “It would be different if I were able to use it effectively.”

Eydryth gazed at him, pleading now. “We will rig a sling for it across your back, so you may carry it the way the Sulcar do their great broadswords,” she told him; then, taking his swordbelt, she demonstrated by buckling it around his shoulders. After sheathing her sword in his old scabbard, she fastened the weapon into place securely. “See? Balanced thus, the weight is not much,” she insisted.

Still he hesitated.

“Alon…” she whispered, holding his eyes with her own. “Carry it, please. Carry it, and remember everything that I have taught you.”

He smiled ruefully. “One lunge and two parries,” he observed dryly. “I am indeed ready to take on all comers.” Then, seeing the expression in her blue eyes, he nodded, sobering. “I will carry it, dear heart. And I will remember.”

Eydryth breathed a profound sigh of relief. She could not have said why this was so important to her; she only knew that it was. The songsmith was as sure of it as if she could scry the future, the way her foster-sister, Hyana, could.

Together they returned to Monso, who stood saddled and ready before the entrance to the Fane. Eydryth’s harp was wrapped in her stained, battered cloak and lashed to the back of the saddle. Songsmith and Adept had traded footgear, to better fit them for their appointed tasks. Eydryth now wore Alon’s high, scarred riding boots… a trifle large, but she had padded the toes. The Adept had laced on a pair of her old trail buskins, loose on her now from much walking.

“Here,” he said, pulling off his heavy leather jerkin, “you had best take this. It will protect you from underbrush.”

She donned the leather garment, then pulled on her gloves. Measuring the stirrups against her arm, she shortened them several notches. Monso turned his head to sniff at her curiously while the songsmith fastened one of the flasks filled with Neave’s springwater to the saddle. Eydryth patted the Keplian. “Now it will be just the two of us, son,” she murmured. “If you allow me to stay aboard.”

Finally, she thrust Dahaun’s small box into the pocket of Alon’s jerkin, fastening the flap down to secure it. “Ready,” she announced.

Silently, Alon offered her his cupped hands for a leg up. Quickly, before she could change her mind, Eydryth gathered the reins in her left hand, then put her left foot into Alon’s hands. A quick boost… she was up.

Monso snorted, pawed the ground restlessly as she gathered up the reins. “Twenty leagues, you said?” Alon asked, turning to regard the darkening east.

“Perhaps as much as twenty-five,” she admitted. “At the last of it I will have to leave the road and go cross-country over the Kioga lands. There is only one entrance to Landisl’s Valley.”

He swung back to regard her earnestly, then put a hand atop her gloved ones as she held the reins. “At a steady gallop, you should be there by midnight,” he said. “If you do not let Monso out, you should be able to rein him where you wish to go, control his speed. But you know for yourself what can happen if he’s allowed to run all-out.”

She knew only too well. “I will be careful,” she assured him gravely. “Besides”—she forced a lighter tone—“this fellow is likely still tired from his race to the Fane today. Perhaps Neave’s water has had the same pacifying effect on him as it did on us. From now on, he’ll likely be as docile as a child’s palfrey, won’t you, Monso?” she asked, smoothing the restless Keplian’s mane.

Alon ignored her feeble attempt at humor, only stared up at her steadily. His hand as it rested atop hers tightened around her fingers until his grip was almost painful. “May the Amber Lady watch over you, my love,” he whispered. “I pray that we will see each other again. Until then… fare you well.”

Eydryth’s heart was too full for words, and she knew better than to trust her voice. Instead she leaned down, and managed to drop a kiss on his temple before Monso, uneasy with his new rider, sidled away.

Alon turned, sword across his back, then waved to summon Steel Talon. “Be my guide, winged warrior!” he shouted, then began trotting downslope as the bird circled overhead.

Monso, left behind, arched his neck and crab-stepped. Taking a deep breath, the songsmith loosened the reins a notch… then another. The Keplian paced forward, then he was trotting after his master, his strides lengthening.

Eydryth stood in her stirrups, her fingers working the reins, and through them the bit in the Keplian’s mouth… squeeze, relax, squeeze, relax…

Cautiously, she loosened rein another notch; then Monso was cantering downhill, passing Alon in two strides. As they reached the spot where they had left the road, Eydryth’s fingers tightened on the left rein as the muscles of her right leg squeezed her mount’s barrel. The Keplian obediently bore left, turning back onto the road.

She glanced up, once, just before a screen of brush blocked her view, to see Alon waving farewell as he reached the last of the downslope. Then the green branches eclipsed the Adept, and there was only the road, bare and red in the light of sunset, beckoning her east.

Still standing in her stirrups to keep her weight balanced over Monso’s shoulders, Eydryth let out another bit of rein, and then the stallion was galloping.

Galloping… galloping…

The surface beneath them was perfect for a running horse— not so hard-packed that it would cause splints or sole bruises, nor dry enough yet to raise a choking dust. Seeing the empty road before him, Monso tugged hopefully at the bit, but obeyed Eydryth’s hands when she held him back. The songsmith felt a sense of exultation fill her. To be in command of such speed, such power! It was a heady sensation as they glided along.

Twilight darkened around them, and still they encountered no one. Monso seemed content to gallop along at a speed most mortal steeds would have been hard-pressed to match.

Before long, Eydryth must needs summon her night vision, letting a thread of melody run through her mind. She hummed aloud, watching the landscape sharpen around her, saw one black ear turn back to catch her voice. She hummed louder, then found herself singing to the Keplian—a tune that, under the circumstances, seemed only too fitting:

She continued through all of “Lord Faral’s Race,” while Monso kept one ear pricked back, as though enjoying the song.

Time passed… On a moonless night, such as this one was, it was hard to guess just how much, but Eydryth could now see farmlands and an occasional house as they flashed by. They had galloped into the more populated lands of Arvon.

Once they raced through a town. Monso’s shoes struck sparks from a cobbled street, and the sound of rapid hoofbeats doubled and redoubled as they echoed off the stone and timbered houses and shops. Hanging above the door of the town-hall was a clan mantle; the songsmith’s enhanced vision saw that it was blue.

“We’re in Bluemantle lands, Monso,” she sang, ignoring the tavern door that was flung open behind her, the shouts of inquiry from startled villagers that quickly faded and were gone. “We’ve come at least ten leagues already. If we stay on this road, we’ll be crossing Redmantle lands soon. Are you wearied?”

The black half-bred snorted, almost as if in disdain at the idea. Eydryth laughed aloud, and they galloped on.

Farmlands stretched again to each side of them. A stone bridge flashed by beneath Monso’s hooves. Eydryth heard the chuckling lap of the water as it splashed the pilings, and ran a dry tongue across wind-chapped lips. For a moment she thought of halting, taking a breather, sipping some of the water from Neave’s spring, but she decided she could hold out a little longer.

Once we’re on Redmantle lands, she promised herself. The ford at the Deepwater. We’ll rest a few minutes there…

By now her legs were aching from standing in the stirrups. Eydryth eased herself down into the saddle, though still she leaned forward, trying to rest lightly on the Keplian’s back. They were galloping now toward what appeared to be a dark blot crouching over the road like some gigantic beast, ready to engulf them within its maw.

Eydryth strained her night vision, made out trees. Of course, she remembered. The forest. We’ve reached the Bluemantle forest. We’re almost to the border of Redmantle lands…

As the Keplian galloped into the forest, they plunged into a dark so complete that even Eydryth’s night vision could scarcely pierce it. Monso snorted uneasily, slowing abruptly to an uncertain canter. Knowing that her mount’s eyes must be adjusting to the increased darkness within the forest, the songsmith did not urge him faster.

The darkness beneath the trees was cavelike, nearly complete. Eydryth concentrated harder, humming loudly, and made out the road stretching before them like a black satin ribbon laid across a black velvet gown. Monso’s strides steadied as the Keplian’s eyes also adjusted to the absence of light beneath the trees. They cantered on, not daring to go faster.

Eydryth crouched over Monso’s withers, shivering as a chill wind brushed the back of her neck like a long-dead finger. The breeze came again, harder, colder, pushing at her back, tossing her hair.

The songsmith stiffened, her nostrils flaring. That wind bore with it an odor… a rank, yet familiar, odor. Eydryth grimaced at the smell. Where had she scented its like before? She turned her head to glance behind her, seeking its source. A dank gust of wind struck her face like a foul breath.

Glowing spectrally with their own ghastly light, more than a score of web-riders were being borne along on that wind, heading straight for her and Monso!

The poisonous creatures were already so close that Eydryth could see their pincers. Their jaws dripped venom, spattering the surface of the barely seen road; gobs of sickly greenish light marked their path. Another blast of wind sent the web-riders hurtling toward the songsmith and her mount. In a moment they would be upon them!

Eydryth leaned forward with a terrified gasp, feeling that unnatural wind push again at her back. “Go, boy!” she cried, slamming her heels into Monso’s sides. “Go!” She glanced back, glimpsed pincers only an arm’s length from her eyes. “Run!” she screamed, lashing the Keplian’s neck with the reins.

By that time Monso, too, had caught wind of their pursuers. The Keplian needed no further urging. Springing forward as though shot from a dart gun, he raced through the dark woods.

Darkness blurred in Eydryth’s sight. She struggled to keep her night vision, every moment fearing that her brains would be dashed out against some low-hanging limb. But she feared the fell creatures behind them more than she feared a clean death, so she made no effort to slow Monso, only flattened herself as best she could along the Keplian’s neck, clinging to his mane with both hands.

There were occasional gaps in the tree cover overhead now, and she could see a little better. Greatly daring, the songsmith glanced back, saw that they had gained on the web-riders. Still that unnatural gale assaulted her back.

Sorcery, she realized. That wind was sent, as were these creatures. By whom? Yachne? The Adepts at Garth Howell? There was no way to know. We are not racing the web-riders, she realized, we are racing the wind! And if that wind grows stronger…

By now they were passing trees so rapidly that their trunks blurred, seeming as close together as fence posts, so fast was Monso running.

Without warning, they were out of the forest, plunging steeply downhill toward the starlit gleam of a river. The Deepwater! Eydryth realized. She struggled to keep her balance as the Keplian hurtled down the road. If he catches a foot and falls at this speed, I’ll be crushed beneath him, she thought.

Glancing back, she saw that the web-riders had scattered after leaving the narrow confines of the forest road. They were outdistancing the Shadow-creatures rapidly now.

Eydryth took hold of the Keplian’s mouth. “Monso… easy, son… we can slow a bit, now…”

Her pull on the stallion’s mouth went unanswered. The half-bred raced down the hillside toward the river with the rush of a stooping falcon. Eydryth begged, sang, pulled until her arms seemed to loosen in their sockets—to no avail.

She was still trying to slow the Keplian when Monso, running blindly, plunged full-force into the spring-swollen waters of the ford. The Keplian half-reared, trying to leap through the water. His struggles sent him plunging sideways, away from the stone-paved bottom of the ford, into deeper water. The river now rose belly-high on him. He staggered, trying to keep his footing on the slick, muddy bottom. Water washed up over his shoulders.

Eydryth felt the stallion’s hind feet slip out from under him; then Monso was falling. The black water rose up and engulfed horse and rider.

The songsmith kicked her feet loose from the stirrups as her mount rolled over, terrified lest she be dragged down beneath his body to drown. Her head went under as she flailed desperately. Choking and gasping, she swallowed and gagged on the cold water, but managed to fight her way back to the surface, then forced her arms to move, her legs to kick. Coughing, she trod water for a moment while she caught her breath, then she swam, feeling the current drag at her like a live thing. Eydryth blinked, vainly trying to shake the water from her eyes. Her night vision was gone, fled with her concentration on the melody.

Beside her, something large moved, snorted loudly. Monso! The Keplian had recovered himself and was striking out strongly for the opposite shore. Eydryth lunged toward him, felt something brush her hand, grabbed it, then realized that she had grasped one of the trailing reins.

Swiftly she pulled herself back to the stallion, hand over hand; then she was able to grasp the pommel of the saddle. Monso surged through the water, breasting the flood, towing the woman alongside him.

Eydryth knew that she would have only moments when the stallion struck solid footing to prevent him from breaking free and racing away from her into the night. Turning to glance back over her shoulder, she saw that the web-riders were no longer following. Their phosphorescent forms glimmered as they drifted aimlessly along-the far bank of the Deepwater.

Of course, she thought. Like most creatures of the Shadow, they cannot cross running water.

Monso’s steadily stroking forefeet suddenly struck land, then the Keplian was surging forward, snorting, water cascading off his powerful body. Eydryth swung herself forward, both hands closing on the horse’s headstall and bit. “Monso, ho!” she commanded, leaning her full weight back, digging her heels into the mucky, reed-grown riverbank. “Ho, son!”

The half-bred shook his head, but after a moment he obeyed. Eydryth stumbled beside him as he struggled up, out of the water. The minstrel collapsed for a second on shore, pushing her soaked hair out of her eyes; then, wavering to her feet, she summoned up her night vision again, seeing with relief that her harp was still tied firmly in place. It would have to be dried carefully lest it warp. Then she scanned her surroundings for a place from which to mount.

The night wind cut through her sopping clothes like a sword blade as she stumbled along, making her shiver. Finding a small boulder with a flat top, Eydryth halted the trembling, sweating horse beside it. She stroked Monso, soothing him for a moment; then her foot found the stirrup and she swung back up, settling into the soaked saddle with an audible squish.

As she turned her mount and walked him up the bank, Eydryth felt exhaustion drag at her with a pull every bit as insistent as the Deepwater’s current. She patted her pocket, feeling the hard lump that was Dahaun’s box. Did the makeshift seal I placed on it hold? she wondered frantically. Or is Jervon’s cure now mingling with the mud on the bottom of the river? She was afraid to look, and could not have spared the time anyway. Biting her lip, the minstrel urged the Keplian forward.

For the next few minutes she trotted until she was sure of her path, then, cautiously, eased her mount into a canter again. The time they had lost at the ford gnawed at her… What if, even now, Yachne was setting her trap for Kerovan?

Eydryth let the soaked reins out a notch, until they were galloping again.

Redmantle lands. She knew the road well now, having accompanied her family to town many times as a girl. Only a league or so down this road, she would take a branching trail, then cut cross-country over Kioga territory.

Monso no longer needed to be held in, which worried Eydryth. She knew that swimming the Deepwater had taken a heavy toll of the stallion’s endurance, if her own weariness was any indication. She wondered whether they would make it the rest of the way to Kar Garudwyn.

At least the web-riders were well and truly gone. She risked a final glance behind, seeing only darkness. Would those who had set them on their trail send another menace? She had no way of knowing.

Some distance farther on, the songsmith slowed Monso to a canter, watching to her right as they splashed through a small stream. A moment later, she saw it—a faint trail leading away across a meadow. It might have almost been a game path, but Eydryth knew better. Reining right, she turned the Keplian onto it.

The Kioga were not a people to leave well-marked trails to their grazing grounds. Whenever trading parties ventured outside their territory, they used small, insignificant trails such as this one, careful not to allow them to become too well marked.

Eydryth galloped across the meadow, but when the trail began looping through a small wood, she needs must slow to a canter. As they came around a bend in the path, a puddle of darkness suddenly blocked their way.

It seemed to crouch before them, making the songsmith wonder for a moment whether it was some kind of wild beast. But no, it was only a washed-out gully filled with debris from the spring floods. Bending low on the Keplian’s neck, the bard gave her mount free rein, urging him on.

Monso soared into the air, clearing the entire gap. For a moment Eydryth felt as though they were flying; then the Keplian’s forehooves came back to earth with scarcely a jar.

“Good boy!” she cried, shakily. Alon trained him well, she thought, steadying him and increasing speed to a hand-gallop. She was fighting her own exhaustion and chill, now, and the continual drain of using her newfound Power to see in the darkness was wearing her down even faster than the exertion of the ride.

Twice more they leaped trees that had fallen across the path—the first was low, scarcely more than thigh-high had Eydryth been standing. The second came as they rounded a last turn on the woodland trail. At first it seemed to her aching eyes naught more than a small tree resting in a patch of shadow from the woods.

But, just as they drew too close to safely halt, the songsmith realized to her horror that her magically enhanced night vision had played tricks upon her. What she had taken for shadow was substance, and the tree trunk now looming before them would have been chin-high on even a tall man!

All Eydryth’s instincts screamed out for her to sit back and drag the Keplian to a halt, but she realized immediately that it was too late. The stallion was headed straight for the tree, too fast to stop without crashing into the obstacle. Stifling a scream, Eydryth closed her legs on his sides, bent low over the black neck, and shut her eyes. The Keplian’s leap as he soared into the air nearly unseated her.

Eydryth held her breath, expecting any moment to feel Monso smash into the trunk. But somehow, the stallion cleared it, though she heard bark scrape beneath them. They hung in midair for what seemed forever; then they were over, and falling… falling. Horse and rider landed hard and off-balance—but safe.

As the stallion recovered his stride, breathing now in hard, panting gasps, the minstrel clutched him around the neck, nearly sobbing with relief. “Thank you… thank you, Monso…” she stammered.

A short distance later, they left the last of the trees to pound across a long, gradually sloping field. Monso’s breathing was now labored. They had nearly reached the opposite side of the field when the challenge that Eydryth had been anticipating ever since they had turned off the road rang out. “You! Rider! Halt! You are on Kioga land! Halt and identify yourself and your business here!”

Knowing that the sentry was armed with a wickedly barbed lance, Eydryth sat back in the saddle, reining Monso to a quick halt. For once, the stallion seemed to welcome the chance to stand still and regain his wind.

After a moment, Monso’s breathing eased; then, scenting the Kioga mount, the Keplian rumbled a deep challenge. The songsmith heard the mortal horse whicker with fear as it approached. Her night vision made out the shadow blot of a rider mounted upon a grey mare; then the Kioga tribesman lit a torch. Eydryth shielded her eyes from the sudden, dazzling light.

“It is I, Eydryth, Jervon’s daughter,” she called. “Who of the Kioga rides on sentry-go tonight?”

“Eydryth?” The tribesman’s voice was sharp with suspicion. “If you are the Lady Eydryth, prove it. Tell me your dun gelding’s name.”

She laughed wearily, at last recognizing the speaker’s weather-beaten, mustached features as her eyes adjusted to the light. “My mare is a red chestnut, Guret, as you well know. Her name is Vyar.”

“Eydryth!” Guret gasped. “What are you doing here? You left so long ago! And now to return in the middle of the night…” He urged his grey closer, controlling her with firm legs, forcing her to hold steady despite her fear of Monso. “And astride such a mount! Wherever did you get him?”

The songsmith sighed, shaking her head. “It is a very long story, my friend, one that I have not time to tell. Let me only say that Lord Kerovan is in grave danger, and I ride to warn him. As soon as my warning is delivered, I, and possibly others from Kar Garudwyn, will ride forth from the valley this same night. I left a friend behind, possibly in great danger, to ride here tonight. I must return to aid him.”

“A… friend,” Guret said, evidently catching some inflection in Eydryth’s voice that she had not been aware of herself.

“He is the one who bred and trained Monso, here,” she said, stroking the panting Keplian’s foam-drenched neck.

“Then he must be a master horseman,” the Kioga man said. “To capture and train a Keplian.”

“I will tell you the entire story—or Alon will—as soon as may be,” Eydryth promised, “but not now. Guret, I have ridden across nigh half of Arvon tonight. I must make it to Kar Garudwyn as soon as possible!”

He nodded. “I will help you, Lady. But stay only a moment.” One-handed, he pulled the gaudily embroidered blanket he wore as a protection against the night’s chill over his head, shaking his long, dark braids to free them. “Here, wear this. You look like a half-drowned yearling,” he said, extending the blanket.

Gratefully, the songsmith slipped it over her head, relishing the heat of Guret’s body still trapped within its warm folds. The Kioga man jerked a thumb behind him. “You ride, Lady. I will call another for sentry duty, then go down-valley myself to catch up the castlefolk’s mounts and have them saddled and ready.”

She flashed him a grateful smile. “Bring Vyar, too,” she said. “This fellow deserves to rest for some time. I thank you for your aid, Guret.”

Eydryth urged Monso onward. The stallion stumbled as he obeyed, and Guret gave her mount a measuring glance. “Will he make it? Do you want to take Takala here, in his stead?”

“No, Guret.” She patted Monso’s shoulder. “Even exhausted, this one could outrun your mare. Every moment counts. Thank you again for your help.”

He raised the flickering torch in salute as she turned and left him.

Once past the circle cast by Guret’s light, Eydryth was hard-pressed to regain her night-sight. She relied mostly on Monso’s eyes to pick his way uphill at a slow canter.

Long minutes later, the songsmith caught sight of a familiar landmark—a huge granite outcropping. She slowed Monso to a walk, following the bulge of the gigantic thrust of rock. When it split in twain to become a narrow pass, she turned down it. Midway down that dark throat, two pillars of quan-iron stood, topped with winged globes.

The entrance to the valley. She was almost home.

With a gasp of thankfulness that sounded perilously akin to a sob of weariness, the songsmith urged Monso toward the entrance. The land beyond was filled with a swirling mist, part of the spell-laid protection that encompassed the valley where Landisl, the powerful gryphon-being, had once made his ancient home.

But as Monso tried to step past that barrier, the Keplian halted, tossing his head snorting. He sidled away, much as he had at the entrance to the Fane of Neave.

Of course, Eydryth thought. The wards on the valley. Monso is part Shadow-creature, so he may not pass them…

But if she had to abandon the Keplian and run the rest of the way, it would take her an hour or more to reach the castle on the mountainside! Eydryth stared determinedly at the barrier, reaching within herself for the Power Alon had assured her she bore. She began to sing, raising her voice in a wordless appeal, concentrating on an image in her mind of portals giving way before them, allowing them free entrance.

Her voice filled the narrow cut, and, slowly the winged globes began to pulse in time to the rise and fall of her melody. Holding firm the image in her mind of portals opening, Eydryth urged Monso forward again.

Slowly, now favoring the foreleg the web-riders had injured, the Keplian walked between the pillars.

The glamourie that always surrounded one who rode into the valley began to make swirling images before Eydryth’s eyes, but she continued to sing as she urged Monso forward, and a few strides farther on, it abruptly vanished. Eydryth looked to her right, and saw, glowing blue against the darkness, near the summit of the mountain, the spires of Kar Garudwyn—a name which meant, in the Old Tongue, “High Castle of the Gryphon.”

Home. Her heart leaped within her.

“Just a little farther, Monso. Then you can rest,” she muttered, stroking the Keplian. Summoning the dregs of her energy, she began to hum, and her night vision slowly crept back. As soon as she could see the path before her, Eydryth chirruped to Monso, then, when he did not respond, used her bootheels to goad the stallion into a canter.

She kept her legs and heels in his sides until the Keplian had increased speed to a hand-gallop along the trail. She felt ashamed doing it, knowing that she was abusing an animal that had already given his all, an animal now on the verge of total exhaustion and collapse, but they still had more than a league to go.

I’m tired, too, son, Eydryth thought, patting the Keplian’s neck. “Come on, you can do it,” she whispered, thinking it would be such a relief to stop… just to fall out of the saddle and lie on the ground and sleep… sleep…

Kerovan’s image filled her mind, making her stiffen her shoulders. Just a little farther…

The Keplian’s strides now were labored; his breath rasped loud in her ears. He was clearly favoring his injured foreleg. Biting her lip, the songsmith forced him onward, slapping the reins lightly against his neck.

Her night-sight was gone; the darkness blurred around her.

Eydryth swayed in the saddle, then forced herself to grip the pommel. Where was she? How far had she come?

There! Off to her right… the entrance to the ramp that led up the mountainside! To one who had not lived here all her life, it would seem naught but a sheer wall of rock, but Kerovan had long ago adjusted the spell that held it concealed so that his foster-daughter could come and go as she pleased.

Crouching low on the Keplian’s back, she turned him toward that opening in the mountainside, then lashed down hard with the reins, driving him forward and upward with her seat, heels and voice. “Almost there, Monso!” she gasped. “Go, boy! For Alon!”

The Keplian’s steel-shod hooves clattered against the stone as they entered the stone tunnel that slanted up, round and round, leading to Kar Garudwyn. The walls and ceiling glowed faintly blue, as did all the stone from which the mountain citadel was constructed.

There was barely enough room within the ramped tunnel for the Keplian and his rider. Eydryth had to lie flat along his neck, and even then her shoulders and head brushed the stone walls and ceiling. Several times she bumped hard against the unyielding rock as the stallion turned and twisted, head ducked low, sides heaving like a smith’s bellows, climbing… climbing.

“Almost there…” Eydryth whispered, though no sound escaped her dry lips. “Almost there, Monso… keep going!”

Somehow, the Keplian climbed.

When horse and rider finally scrambled out of the enclosed rampway they were faced with the lighted glory that had been Landisl’s ancient citadel. Kar Garudwyn was a towering structure with tall, strangely twisted spires and multitudes of narrow, arched windows and doorways. A muted blue light emanated from those openings.

Halting Monso on the stone-paved walkway, the songsmith took a deep breath, then shouted: “Rouse you! Kerovan! Joisan! Sylvya! There is danger! Wake!”

Her family must have realized as soon as someone entered the rampway that a newcomer was on the way, for she had scarcely finished her first summons before two fully-dressed figures appeared in the huge arched doorway.

Joisan and, at her side, Kerovan!

Eydryth felt a vast relief sweep her as she saw her foster-father unharmed. A moment later Firdun—He’s grown so tall! she thought distractedly—then his sister, Hyana, appeared. Lastly, Sylvya was there. The halfling woman had a cap of downy feathers instead of hair, and round eyes much larger than any of full humankind heritage.

“Eydryth!” Joisan exclaimed, starting down the steps toward her foster-daughter. “My dear, what—”

Kerovan’s lady halted and broke off as Monso swayed, then groaned loudly. The Keplian’s head dropped forward until his nose touched the stones beneath his forefeet. His agonized, rasping breaths suddenly filled the night.

Before his dazed rider could leap off, the stallion quivered like an arrow driven deep into a target; then slowly, ponderously, his legs buckled and he sank down on his knees. Eydryth barely managed to get her right leg out of the way as the Keplian rolled over on his left side, then lay unmoving.

Slowly, stumbling, the songsmith stepped over and away from the still black form, its legs stiffly outthrust; then she gazed up at her family, tears streaming down her face. “I’ve killed him,” she said, in a voice that even she could barely hear. “Oh, Alon… I’m so sorry. Monso… so sorry…”

“Eydryth…” Joisan was hastening down the steps toward her, arms held out.

The minstrel drew herself up, forced herself to speak clearly, despite the roaring sound that still made even her own voice difficult to hear. “I came to warn you. Kerovan… you are in great danger. It is the sorceress Yachne. She has great Power, and she plans to steal yours. She will try to take you with her spell… tonight. You must protect yourself. You must…”

Eydryth’s words faltered, then trailed off. At first she thought the ground was moving beneath her; then she realized that it was she who was swaying back and forth. She tried to stiffen her knees, but she could not feel her legs. A high, thin note reverberated in her ears. Accompanying that monotonous shrilling was a wave of blackness even darker and colder than thg depths of the Deepwater. The darkness rose up around her, drowning her, pulling her down.

Before her stunned family could reach her, Eydryth crumpled to the pavement beside Monso.