Songsmith

5

Eydryth waited for Monso to slow once they left the fairground, but the stallion thundered on, his speed never slackening. He was running much faster than he had during the race; she could feel Dakar fighting to bring him under control, but to no avail.

Eydryth had heard tales, sung songs, of wanderers lured into mounting Keplians, then being borne off to a fate best not envisioned. She had always wondered why the hapless riders did not simply leap from the demon-horse’s back.

Now she knew; such a plunge from the back of a Keplian galloping at full stride would mean almost certain death.

The girl knew herself to be a good—nay, an expert—rider, but even so, she was in grave danger of being unseated. The moonless night was so dark that she could not see the horse’s head past Dakar’s shoulder, and thus she was caught unawares whenever the beast swerved sharply, or, in several cases, hurdled obstacles lying in their path.

Eydryth’s left hand was locked in a death-grip on her companion’s belt, but she dared not clamp her lower legs around her mount’s sensitive flanks—to do so would have set Monso bucking and plunging like an unbroken colt. Instead she tightened her thigh muscles, struggling to keep her balance on the swaying, heaving creature she bestrode.

They hurtled down a slope at breakneck speed, and the songsmith shut her eyes, tempted to abandon her quarterstaff so that she might hold on with both hands. She felt Dakar lean forward; then the black wind of their passage carried his gasped warning. “Hold tight! There’s a stream!”

Eydryth flattened herself against him, her arm clutching him round the waist. Muscles bunched beneath her; then for a breathless instant they hung suspended, creatures of air, not earth.

With a neck-snapping jar, they landed. One hind foot skimmed the water; icy droplets spattered both riders. Dakar was fighting the Keplian again; Eydryth could feel the muscles in his back tense as he exerted all his skill to gain mastery. But the runaway snorted, shaking his head, refusing to yield to the bit.

The songsmith closed her eyes, knowing that she could not hold on much longer. She heard Dakar muttering, but could not make out what he was saying. They lunged up a slope, and Eydryth felt herself slipping… slipping…

With a suddenness that caused her to lose her seat entirely, Monso halted on the crest of a hill.

The girl was thrown forward, banging her nose painfully against Dakar’s shoulder, then flung just as abruptly backward. She slid off over the Keplian’s rump, landing in an undignified huddle directly behind the demon-horse.

Eydryth gasped for breath, but her wind was knocked out. Monso sidled nervously, switching his tail, and the harsh strands whipped across her face. The resulting sting revived the songsmith sufficiently to make her aware of her danger, and she managed to roll over, out of range, lest Monso should kick. But the Keplian made no further move, only stood head-down, blowing, seeming all at once like an ordinary horse silhouetted against the starry expanse of night sky.

“Lady Eydryth, are you hurt? Lady?” Dakar swung off, his movements stiff, lacking his usual grace. Eydryth heard a muttered curse as he stumbled, nearly falling in his turn. Then he was crouching beside her. “Lady Eydryth?”

The songsmith struggled again for breath, and this time succeeded in drawing a lungful of clean air. “Wind… knocked out,” she panted.

He aided her into a sitting position, steadying her against his raised knee. “I am sorry that was such a rough ride, Lady. He had the bit in his teeth, and I could not stop him until now.”

She nodded, then shivered, feeling suddenly weak and wobbly as a newborn foal. Reaction to tonight’s danger, she realized, trying to breathe slowly, evenly, in order to slow the racing of her heart. “I thought you had left me to those ruffians,” she whispered, finally.

“What else could you think?” he asked, in a bitter tone that she realized was directed at himself. “For that I am sorry, too. But I had to fetch my saddle and supplies… and, even more, I had to get Monso away before he could do any further harm. He would have killed those men, and such could have… awakened… something in him that must never be unleashed. There is… a darker side to his nature.”

“Naturally.” Eydryth spoke tartly as she tentatively moved her limbs, exploring bruises sustained in the fight and her fall. “He is a Keplian, after all.”

Moonrise was yet hours off; the night was too dark to allow her to see his expression, but she felt him start and heard his quick, indrawn breath. “How did you know?”

“Do not think to deny it,” she said. “I have seen a horse-demon before. And even those farmers recognized that Monso is not a normal creature. Hawrel was right—you were cheating, to race him against ordinary horses. I am surprised that the people of Rylon Corners were the first ones to realize that and object.”

“I won the other races in a far less… spectacular… fashion,” Dakar told her, dryly. “But today, Monso was so excited after the thieves tried to steal him that he would not be held back.”

“The word will be out, now.” Eydryth ran searching fingers anxiously over her harp, finding it—Fortune be praised!—undamaged. Then, sore muscles protesting, she climbed to her feet. The wind on the hillside tugged at her cropped curls as she turned her head, trying to discern her surroundings. She could see little, except short-turfed hillside occasionally studded with darker clumps that must be bushes. “You and your Keplian had both best find another method of earning your way here in Estcarp,” she muttered absently. “Next time you are so beset, I will not be there to aid you.”

Dakar also rose, standing close beside her. He peered at her face as though he could see her, though she knew he must be as night-blind as she. “Why did you aid me this time?” he asked, quietly. “If you had left before it began, they would doubtless have let you go.”

“Because it was obvious that you could not aid yourself,” Eydryth replied. “Did no one ever teach you to fight?”

“No,” he answered, a rueful note in his voice. “Before this night I never had need to defend myself physically.”

And yet, from his speech and manners, he was raised in a noble household, the songsmith thought with a frown. Which should have included lessoning from an arms-master. Truly this Dakar is a cipher! It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he had never been taught swordplay, but Eydryth repressed the urge. She had no wish to know why, she told herself, because she could ill afford to become caught up in another’s problems… she had a quest of her own that was challenge enough.

“I must walk Monso,” her companion said, stripping saddle and saddlebags from the Keplian’s back.

“I suppose we should camp here,” Eydryth said, reluctantly. “It is too dark to find our way back to the road tonight.”

She saw the pale oval of his face as he nodded. “There seem to be several trees and large boulders over there,” he said, pointing. “They would break the wind. The night is chilly already, and will be colder yet before dawn.”

“Dare we kindle a fire?” she wondered aloud.

“I doubt that Hawrel and his supporters will risk further injury by following us,” he said. “And there is no one else with any reason to seek me out.” There was an ironic note in his voice. “If you can say the same, Lady, then by all means let us have a fire.”

Eydryth thought of the witches as she shouldered her pack and Dakar’s saddlebags; then she shook her head. She and Avris had been nearly a full moon on the road; surely any search the witches had ordered had been given up long ago. Cautiously, she began picking her way across the hilltop.

Her night-sight was complete, now, and she could dimly make out the grove of trees Dakar had mentioned. The hilltop was large and fairly level. The grass is so short, it must be used for grazing… probably sheep or goats, she decided. We must be careful to be away by dawn, lest we encounter an angry shepherd.

The lights of Rylon Corners sparkled in the distance, seeming almost farther away than the stars overhead.

Eydryth set up camp in the grove, kindling a pocket of fire behind a huge boulder that would conceal the small blaze from anyone in the town. Wrapping her cloak around her shoulders, she sat down on a log, rubbing her hands before the flames, grateful for their warmth.

A short while later, Dakar returned to feed, water and rub down Monso. Only when his mount was comfortable and settled for the night did the young man rest. He nodded silent thanks for the hunks of journeybread and venison jerky that Eydryth passed him from her pack. Silent with weariness, the two travelers ate, sharing a flask of rather sour wine Dakar produced.

Monso finished his oats, then ambled away to graze.

“You can leave him loose?” Eydryth asked, in surprise.

“Always he has stayed with me,” Dakar said. “We are… companions, more than mount and master.”

The songsmith tugged her cloak closer around her shoulders. “Before today, I would have sworn that no one could capture—much less tame—a Keplian. How did you do it?”

“Monso is not a full-blooded Keplian,” her companion explained. “His sire was a Torgian stallion that was my first horse, his dam a Keplian mare. We found her, newly foaled, the morning after a battle in Escore. A Grey One had killed her mother. The filly was so young that she had not yet been corrupted by the Dark Adepts who breed the demon-horses.”

“And you were able to mate her with your Torgian?” Eydryth had seen animals of the much-valued Torgian breed, steeds bred near the Fens of Tormarsh to possess both swiftness and great stamina. “But none of the horses in the race today would even approach Monso.”

“There are many who live in Escore who use magic as naturally as breathing,” Dakar said. “One such Adept was able to use his Power to accomplish the breeding.”

“I see,” Eydryth said. “Did you know him well, this Adept, this sorcerer?”

Dakar was silent for a long moment, head bowed. The songsmith studied his face, the angles of brow, cheekbones and jaw touched with firelight, the rest a mask sculpted by shadows. Finally he nodded. “Hilarion was the closest I ever came to having a father. He and his lady, the sorceress Kaththea, opened their ancient citadel to me when I naught but a boy, wandering a war-riven land with no companion but my Torgian. In a very real sense, theirs was the first true home I had ever known.”

“Kaththea?” Eydryth’s eyes widened. “I have heard that name. Is she not the daughter of Lord Simon Tregarth and the former witch, the Lady Jaelithe?”

“The very same.”

“They say all three of their children were born at one birth—and that each has the Power.”

“That is true,” Dakar said. “When there is need, the three of them unite and become One in shared power. However, each also possesses his or her own abilities. Lord Kyllan with animals, Lord Kemoc with ancient lore and Words of Power, and the Lady Kaththea with sorcery. She has always been the most powerful of the three.”

“So you grew to manhood in a household surrounded by these magic-wielders?”

“Each of the Tregarths now has his or her own household in Escore,” Alon replied. “But they stay very close—they can speak without words when there is need.”

Eydryth, having seen similar closeness among her own family members, could well believe such. She nodded, memories crowding her mind. “I know what it is like to live among those with Power,” she admitted.

“You lived in such a household also?” Dakar’s eyes were intent on her face. “In Escore?”

“No, in another place. A land called Arvon, across the sea from Estcarp.”

“Arvon…” he whispered. “I have heard of it. Hilarion told me that when he first lived in Escore, before the Old Race crossed the mountains bordering Estcarp on the east, that there was a legend telling of two lands that had once been one land. Escore… and Arvon.”

Eydryth blinked in surprise. “This Hilarion must be old,” she said, startled into bluntness. “Time-out-of-mind old. There are ancient runes and scrolls in the Citadel of Kar Garudwyn, even some maps, and they show naught but wasteland lying to the far west of my land, wasteland that becomes a death-haunted desert.”

“And what lies beyond the desert?”

“No one seemed certain. That land was blighted, poisonous to all life, and none dared traverse it. One Adept wrote that he had served far to the west, and that the land became ever more seared, until it ended on the melted, glassy shores of an uncanny sea inhabited by strange creatures.”

“Which fits the legends Hilarion remembers.” Dakar smiled a little. “My lord is not the greybeard you envision, my lady. He spent considerable time imprisoned beyond a Gate where Time ran differently than it does on this world. Have you ever heard of such?”

“Yes, I know of the Gates.”

Her companion hesitated. “You seem to know much about the uses of Power, my lady. Are you a Wise Woman, then?”

“No.”

“A witch or sorceress?” he persisted.

She laughed, but the sound held a bitter note. “No, no, and no! I am no more a Holder of Power than you are, friend Dakar. Of all those who reside in Kar Garudwyn, only my father and I lack the Gift.”

“I, too, know what it is like to be set apart,” Dakar said, his eyes holding hers. “But… Lady… do not be too sure that possession of Power is always a Gift. I have been assured by those who know that it can also be a curse, a… shadow… over the life of the person who has it.”

“So have I also been told,” Eydryth admitted. “But still, it seemed to me when I was growing up that I was as lacking as a child born without eyes, or ears. My foster-sister, Hyana, told me time and again that was not so, but still…” She shrugged. “But you know what it is like, I need not remind you.”

Her companion regarded her steadily, compassionately. Embarrassed, the young woman glanced away, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “Moonrise is not far off,” she observed, seeing a faint glow in the east. “We had best sleep, so we can be up and away with first light. The first of us to wake must call the other.” She hesitated, then said in a rush, “I neglected to thank you for risking everything to come back for me. Please… accept my gratitude, Dakar.”

“Only if you will accept mine,” he said, his eyes holding hers. “Both Monso and I owe you our lives.”

She smiled. “We are all of us well thanked, then. Rest well, Dakar.”

After pulling off her boots, Eydryth crawled into her bedroll, pillowing her head on her harp case. Determined to sleep, she closed her eyes.

Lulled by the fire’s warmth, she had nearly drifted off when the other spoke again. “Lady Eydryth… about tomorrow. You will be going on to Lormt?”

“Yes,” she murmured, gazing at him in the dimness, her eyes heavy-lidded with the great weariness that had descended upon her. “I must go on.”

“But they may be searching for us,” he pointed out.

Eydryth thought again of the witches. “They have your purse,” she said. “That may satisfy them.”

“Perhaps it would be best if we stayed hidden in these hills until we discover whether there is any pursuit…”

“I cannot rest, nor turn back,” she said, with a stubborn head-shake. “The life of someone I hold very dear depends on me.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, since it is my fault that you cannot return to Rylon Corners to buy a mount, I would be pleased to take you to Lormt. I know the way. We can make good time. Monso will not mind a double load.” He spoke with a sort of wary eagerness, as though he were bracing himself to have her refuse his aid.

Eydryth pushed herself up on one elbow to stare at him across the dying fire. “You would do that for me? Why?”

“It is the least I can do. The saving of one’s life is no small thing. Had it not been for you, that blank-shield would have sheathed his blade in my vitals.”

She nodded slowly. “I had forgotten that. Very well… I would be pleased to company with you, Dakar.”

He poked a twig into the coals, watched it smolder, smolder, then burst into flame. “And another thing,” he continued, slowly. “My name is not ‘Dakar.’ I used that name because… because I did not want to use my rightful one among those who might have cause to… grow angry with me.” He gave her a rueful half-smile. “For cheating, as you pointed out. It seemed prudent. But I would not want to deceive a… comrade-in-arms.” His eyes met hers across the dying fire. “I am Alon.”

The first rays of dawn slanted across Eydryth’s closed eyelids… Frowning, she stirred restlessly, dreaming…

In her dream she saw her mother, Elys, looking not a day older than the last time Eydryth had seen her. The witch lay upon a pallet draped in grey silk, asleep or entranced. Only the slightest rise and fall of her breast proved that she still lived. Leaden-colored vapor swirled around her still figure, alternately obscuring, then revealing, her face.

“Mother!” Eydryth tried to shout, but no sound issued from her lips.

She managed a step forward, then another, but it was akin to walking beneath the surface of a lake or ocean; she could make but little progress. Peering down, the girl saw that her feet were weighed down, trapped within one of the coiling grey fingers of mist.

“Mother!”

Still no sound, and now the girl could move no farther; her groping hands encountered bars that she could feel but not see.

“Mother! Mother, I am here!”

As she struggled desperately, wildly, Elys, hands folded across the mound of her unborn child, faded away into the shrouding mist…

Eydryth awoke with tears in her eyes, only to see a face peering into hers—a huge, golden-eyed, inhuman face, dominated by a cruelly hooked beak!

The songsmith jerked upright with a startled gasp, her heart slamming painfully. A moment later, she regained her sense of perspective, realizing that what she was seeing was no enormous monster, but a falcon. The bird was perched on the edge of the harp case that had pillowed her head; it had been eyeing her so closely that its beak had nearly brushed her nose.

The creature was large and black-feathered, save for a white V on its breast. Eydryth had seen its like before; several of the marines serving aboard the Osprey had been Falconers. But its yellow feet bore none of the scarlet thongs a Falconer’s companion customarily wore—so from whence had it come? Surely a creature out of the wild would not behave so!

“Who are you?” Eydryth whispered, as though she might indeed be answered. “How did you come here?” From Rylon Corners? Surely not! I have heard of no Falconer villages within the boundaries of Estcarp!

Still, the bird-helmed warriors’ stronghold, the Eyrie, had been destroyed during the Turning. Perhaps some of those exiles were now living among the people of Estcarp. But she had heard in her travels that this strange race of warriors who hated their women and loved only their falcons were currently trying to establish a foothold at Seakeep in High Hallack.

None of which speculation helped her account for the presence of this bird, eyeing her so measuringly, first with one eye, then the other. Its head bobbed up and down with the motion.

“He calls himself Steel Talon,” said a voice from behind her.

Eydryth whirled to find Alon, fully dressed, carrying a hide bag full of water. “Is… is he yours? You are no Falconer!”

“You speak truth,” he agreed readily. “Steel Talon belongs to no one but himself. His master, Jonthal, was my friend and partner. He… was killed. Murdered. Instead of willing himself to join his master in death, as is customary for these birds, Steel Talon has chosen instead to live for the day in which he will find his master’s slayer… and on that day, he will wreak a terrible vengeance.”

“I see,” Eydryth said, studying the bird, who stared back at her with hot golden eyes, eyes that held intelligence in their aurulent depths—a nonhuman kind of intelligence, but none the less for all that. “So he travels with you?”

“After a fashion,” Alon replied. “He comes and goes as he pleases.” He stepped forward to stand beside her, so they both faced the bird. “Steel Talon, this is the Lady Eydryth,” he said, introducing her so solemnly that they might have been at some noble gathering, rather than in a misty, dew-wet pasture dotted with sheep dung. “Monso and I are taking her to Lormt, to aid her in her journey, so she will be companying with us today and on the morrow.”

The songsmith inclined her head as she would have to a human. “Well-met, Steel Talon.”

For a moment those fierce eyes met hers again, then the bird gave a piercing cry. He rose from the boulder in a blur of ebon wings and sailed away, out of sight. Eydryth turned to Alon. “Well? Did he approve?”

Her companion smiled at her. “How could he not? He is an extremely discerning creature.”

The girl felt again that warmth of cheek and hoped that the light was still so dim that Alon could not make out her blush. Confused, she summoned words almost at random. “You were supposed to wake me at first light. We must hurry, or the shepherds will find us here.”

Quickly they broke camp, not stopping to break their fast, only pocketing rounds of journeybread to chew as they rode.

Monso carried his double load seemingly effortlessly, though Alon constrained him to a far slower speed than that of the night before—much to Eydryth’s relief. The Keplian’s paces were uncannily smooth as her companion varied their speed according to the terrain: jog, canter, working trot, walk. Once they reached the road leading to South Wending, he kept the stallion to a slow, ground-covering canter.

Eydryth was amazed at the creature’s endurance. The damp clay of the road flowed from beneath the Keplian’s tireless legs like water running downstream. By the time they halted for their midday meal, she estimated that they had covered nearly ten leagues.

Standing beside Monso as he grazed, the songsmith dared to caress the muscled black shoulder. “He is truly amazing. Few mounts could have traveled the distance he did this morning carrying one rider—let alone two.” The black raised his head, green tufts protruding from his lips, and blew gustily down the front of her jerkin, making the girl laugh.

“What I find amazing is that he has accepted you so completely.” Alon spoke up from where he lay resting in the shade of a tall beech growing on the bank of a stream. “Before yesterday, he welcomed no one’s touch but mine… he would barely suffer Hilarion’s.”

She walked over to drop down beside him, enjoying the feel of the new spring grass beneath her. “How long have you had him? How old is Monso?”

“He was born in the Year of the Werewolf,” he replied. “When I was thirteen.”

Then Alon was born in the Year of the Hippogriff, even as I was, she reflected. Before she thought, she found herself asking, “What month were you born, Alon?”

He rolled over on his side to look at her, his expression suddenly somber. “I know not,” he said. “And when I said that I was thirteen in the Year of the Werewolf, that was my best guess, not something I know for truth.”

“Because you are an orphan?” she guessed, remembering his words of last night, when he had spoke of finding his first home as Kaththea and Hilarion’s fosterling.

He nodded. “I believe that I am nineteen, but I could be older. I will never know.”

Eydryth thought about the warmth and love that had surrounded her while she was growing up in Kar Garudwyn, in the years before her mother’s disappearance. Perhaps, she found herself thinking, there are worse things than growing up without the Gift. Much worse…

For a moment she was tempted to ask Alon to tell her the story of his life, but, again, she repressed that urge. I must avoid… entanglements. I have a duty to fulfill, and nothing must be allowed to alter that…

“How old are you?” Alon asked quietly.

“I was born in the Month of the Gyrfalcon… nineteen years ago,” she responded.

“And why…” he began, then hesitated, as though he had changed his mind about voicing the question. A moment later he glanced up, then grinned. “Steel Talon is back… with an offering. We shall dine in style this evening!”

Eydryth sat up, watching as Alon went over to where the bird sat perched on a low limb of a nearby tree. A brown and white, blood-streaked ball of feathers lay on the grass beneath it. The young man picked up the chicken, shaking his head. “Raiding hen yards again? I told you how dangerous that is! What if the farmer had possessed a dart gun?”

The bird cocked its head, uttering a cry that, even to Eydryth’s ears, sounded distinctly scornful.

“We can make do just as well with rabbit,” Alon insisted. Glancing more closely at the falcon’s prize, he scowled. “No wonder you caught her so easily. This one has seen many springs.”

The falcon ignored him as it began to preen its feathers.

The man sighed audibly, then looked back at Eydryth and shrugged. “I might as well be speaking with the voice of the wind, for all he attends.”

Eydryth scrambled up to stand beside him as he began plucking the hen. “You two really speak together?”

“Not the way the birds can communicate with their Falconer comrades,” he replied. “Steel Talon knows and understands much of what I say to him, that I know, but ours is a very one-sided conversation. I cannot talk with him as Jonthal could.”

The songsmith eyed the falcon, remembering tales she had heard of how Falconers and their birds were inextricably linked, mind-to-mind, and that the death of one partner would almost certainly bring about the death of the other, even when no wound or illness was present. She had heard, once or twice, of Falconer men living after the demise of their winged comrades, but never had she known of a falcon surviving after its human companion died.

Vengeance… she thought. Alon said he was living to avenge himself on Jonthal’s murderer. … It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if Alon knew who had caused the death of his partner, but, again, she restrained herself.

We will reach Lormt soon, she thought, sternly. And then we will part forever. Save your energy for your search!

After allowing Monso to graze for another hour, Alon resaddled the half-bred and they continued on their way. Several times that afternoon Eydryth caught glimpses of Steel Talon, flying so high that he was little more than a soaring black dot against the puffy white clouds shouldering their way across the spring blue sky.

The sun was past its zenith by the time they saw the fork in the road with its signpost indicating the way to South Wending. They did not pass through the town, but skirted it through pastures dotted by cattle, sheep and horses. Several miles past the village, they reached the landmark Alon had mentioned— the vivid red-clay bank with the small trickle of a creek running along its foot.

The turnoff was small and overgrown, but as they ducked beneath branches, Eydryth noticed that several of the tree’s bright emerald leaves lay upon the ground. Bending lower, she observed that the track was scarred by the prints of many shod mounts.

“Look,” she said to Alon, pointing. “At least seven or eight mounts passed this way… probably no later than this morning. Are there outlaws in this region?”

“Some,” he replied uneasily. “But Koris the Seneschal, while he is a good ruler where honest folk are concerned, has little sympathy for those who prey upon others.” He sat staring at the hoof-trodden earth for a moment, then straightened in his saddle, brightening visibly. “It is far more likely, though, that this is simply a party from some great lord’s household, traveling to Lormt to seek out old family records. Many noble families have been doing so since the time of the Turning.”

“I see,” Eydryth murmured, still studying the tracks. There were no signs of wheel marks… or the lighter prints that would indicate a horse-drawn litter. That only means that this party does not include the very old or very young, she reminded herself. It is likely that Alon’s surmise is true.

“Why now, since the Turning?” she asked.

“Estcarp has been at peace—more or less—since the witches reshaped the mountains. During peacetime, people have time to pursue such studies, and the study of family branchings has become increasingly popular.”

Alon urged Monso forward; they went on.

For nearly an hour they traversed open fields, broken by stands of closely grown woods. Both travelers were forced to ward off branches continually, for this area, having been much stirred about during the aftershocks of the Turning, was covered with younger trees sprouted since the forest giants had fallen, thirty years before.

“How much farther, Alon?” Eydryth asked, batting a protruding branch away from her ribs. “It will soon be dark. Can we reach Lormt by then?”

“No, but it is not too far. We are less than a day’s journey from the ancient stronghold of learning now,” he replied. “Tomorrow at noon should see us there, even at an easy pace.” He bent low in the saddle to avoid yet another gauntlet of low-hanging limbs. Eydryth flattened herself against his back, and as she did so, she distinctly heard a loud rumble from the region of his midsection. She chuckled. “Hungry, my lord? I am, too.”

Alon laughed ruefully. “I am famished, my lady. And I regret to remind you that that hen Steel Talon stole for our dinner was a granddam many times over, and will need slow cooking. However, it will not be too bad. I have several rather withered potatoes and a clove of garlic in my saddlebag. With a few wild onions and some of those tubers, we should have the makings for a tasty—”

He broke off as Monso halted abruptly. The Keplian snorted a warning, pawing nervously at the ground. Like shadows come to life, the shapes of mounted men slid into view from where they had been concealed behind the trees.

They were surrounded.

The ambush had been well planned, Eydryth recognized that, even as her mind frantically sought, then discarded, possibilities for escape.

The underbrush was too thick to allow them to turn off the trail and use the Keplian’s superior speed to outrun their would-be captors. Eydryth glanced back, only to note that the way back was also blocked.

Outlaws, she thought, and mentally prepared to sell her life dearly. A bard’s traditional impunity would not hold with brigands; Eydryth knew she would not only be stripped of her possessions, but probably forced to submit to her attackers’ attentions as well.

Then the lead rider moved forward, out of the shadows, and the girl recognized him as one of the guards of Estcarp. An officer, judging by the markings of rank on his sleeves and helmet. She felt immensely relieved, an emotion that Alon evidently shared, for she felt him relax. “Greetings, Lieutenant,” he said. “For a moment we took you for ruffians. We are none such, I assure you; only two travelers bound to Lormt to request aid of the master chronicler, Duratan, and the lore-mistress, Nolar.”

The officer did not return the young man’s greeting, nor did his tight-drawn expression ease. He spoke without turning his head. “Lady, is this the girl you seek?”

Another figure urged a mount forward. Although mailed and helmed like the guards, the newcomer was not of them, for she was female. With a stab of fear, Eydryth recognized the witch who had interrogated her within the Citadel.

“This is indeed the girl we have been seeking,” the woman spoke curtly. “Her name is Eydryth.”

“So it is,” the minstrel acknowledged, trying for a measure of bravado. “But knowing my name gives you no right to detain me!”

“You are under arrest,” the witch said flatly. “You have broken our law.”

The girl stiffened. “There is some mistake. I have committed no crime. Rather”—she allowed a measure of indignation to enter her voice—“I am the one who has been wronged; first, in your Citadel when one of your number ensorcelled me and stole my belongings, and now, by this wrongful charge of lawbreaking!”

“You aided a fugitive,” the witch said, implacably. “Where is she? Where is the girl who companied with you?”

The minstrel considered swiftly, then decided that there was no point in lying about Avris’s fate. “She is gone, Lady. By now she is deep in the mountains bordering Estcarp… a bride, she is, traveling in the company of her new husband.” Eydryth smiled thinly. “I doubt that by now she would do you overmuch good, if marriage truly robs your sisterhood of their powers.”

“So you admit that you aided her in her escape.”

“I admit only that I was compelled to do so, but it is common knowledge that you witches can compel others to your will!” She fenced with words, using a version of the truth to lend her voice conviction.

The witch gazed at her, her grey eyes like shards of winter ice, probing the songsmith’s face to determine if she spoke truthfully. Finally she gave a faint, mocking smile that made the fear in Eydryth’s heart congeal into a hard, painful lump within her breast. “I see…” the older woman said, finally. “Well, that one will be but a small loss. We were after a bigger prize, and it seems we have found it.”

The mail-clad woman regarded the bard measuringly. “You have led us quite a chase, girl. The Guardian wishes you to appear before her for testing. It seems that you have Power, after all. Only one with the Power could have quenched the light of a witch-jewel.”

“No!” Eydryth cried, fighting panic. “I have no Power, Lady! I am naught but a wandering songsmith, I swear it to whatever gods may hold sway in this land! I must get to Lormt—the life of my father depends upon it!”

“See here,” Alon spoke up, “Eydryth is not under your jurisdiction—she is not even from this land! She—”

“Quiet, lad,” the officer commanded. “You will anger the lady.”

The witch did not even glance at Alon as she said, “Bring the youth, also. I was advised last night that the sheriff of Rylon Corners has issued a warrant for his arrest.”

Eydryth slid off Monso’s back, then drew her sword from its place of concealment. “I will not let you stop me, Lady,” she said, dropping into fighting stance. She smiled grimly. “Even if I had Power within me—which I do not—I cannot imagine that it will do you much good if the mortal vessel that holds it lies dead. I must reach Lormt, and if you wish to stop me, you must kill me.”