Songsmith

6

Hearing the cold determination in Eydryth’s voice, the witch and her troops halted. There came a rustle, then the sound of booted feet as Alon dismounted and walked over to stand with the songsmith, his shoulder brushing hers as they confronted the forces from Estcarp. “Here,” the young woman said, passing her quarterstaff to her ally, “unless you wish to surrender yourself to them, you must fight with me, I fear. Guard my back.”

He obeyed her, moving until they stood pressed back-to-back. Then she heard him whisper, in a voice so soft only she could hear: “You must have bade farewell to your wits, Lady! There are seven of them against our two!”

But he made no move to put down the weapon she had given him, holding it awkwardly, as though it were naught but a stick. Inwardly, the girl sighed. If we ever are free again, I must teach him to fight. How could he have survived so long as a wanderer without such lessoning?

“Well?” she demanded of their captors. “Which will it be, Lady Witch? Will you kill us, or let us depart in peace?”

“You speak with great conviction, songsmith,” the older woman replied, breathing upon the cloudy jewel she now wore set into a silver wristlet. “But it remains to be seen whether you also speak the truth.”

Above the witch-gem, their gazes locked, chill grey holding vivid blue, and Eydryth was suddenly conscious of the silence. Around them, the forest lay still—no bird sang, no insect hummed. Even the horses stood unmoving.

As the moments passed, she could feel the witch’s will testing hers, pushing and probing at her mind, measuring, sifting. She attempted to summon her old defense of her mother’s lullaby. The words… yes, the words were there:

So sleep, little seabird, sleep…

But, try as she might, the songsmith could not make the accompanying tune come to life in her mind. She could remember the notes, visualize the movement of her fingers as they formed the chords on her harpstrings, but she could not hear the music.

The girl’s eyes wavered; she broke that locked gaze, no longer able to resist. When she looked back up, the witch was smiling again, a mocking twist of the lips that had nothing of good humor about it. “It is as I thought, Lieutenant,” she addressed the officer in command of the guardsmen, “her mind does not reflect the conviction of her words. We are seven against two; no experienced fighter would sell her life cheaply by tackling such overwhelming odds. You may take her.”

Eydryth closed her eyes, sick with despair. Father, I am sorry, she thought. I have failed you—and we were so close to Lormt! Her shoulders sagged, and she swayed, suddenly so exhausted that her head spun. Alon slid an arm around her, steadying her. “All is not lost,” he whispered. “Wait. Tonight—”

“No talking, you two!” the officer commanded, pushing them apart. “Girl, hand over that sword, and let’s have no trickery about the way you do it.” He held out his hand.

Numbly, Eydryth relinquished her sword. The gryphon’s blue quan-iron eyes flashed in the sunlight, as though the beast were protesting such treatment.

One of the guards seized Alon’s arms, wrenching them behind the young man’s back so cruelly that he grunted with pain. Eydryth received like treatment as her wrists were also bound securely. “Gently!” admonished the witch, when the girl gasped at a sharp tug of the leathern thongs. “She must not be hurt, is that understood?”

Hearing a shrill scream from overhead, the songsmith looked up, just as Steel Talon stooped, sharp talons ready to tear. With a yell of dismay, the lieutenant of the guards threw up an arm to cover his eyes and flung himself down on the mossy earth.

As the falcon swooped low, then mounted into the air, circling, several of the guards raised their dart guns and fired. “No!” Eydryth shouted, struggling against her bindings.

But none of the darts even came close, and while the guards’ attention was distracted, Monso seemed to choose his moment. Without warning the stallion reared, teeth bared, then bounded forward, straight toward two of the guards’ mounts.

The mortal horses scattered, squealing in fear, before the Keplian’s charge. Within a heartbeat, the black was gone, crashing a path through the deep underbrush. The falcon had also vanished.

At least Monso and Steel Talon are still free, Eydryth thought, dully, as her guard propelled her roughly across the meadow, toward the campsite where the witch awaited them. The sun was almost gone behind the trees now; darkness crept across the soft spring turf.

She and Alon were allowed to wrap themselves in their cloaks; then one of the men produced portions of journey-bread and dried fruit, as well as a water bottle. Despite her aching misery, Eydryth forced herself to chew and swallow. Food meant strength—the strength, perhaps to escape. She could not forget Alon’s words of hope.

When the captives were finished eating, the guards bound them hand and foot. Then, on the lieutenant’s order, they fastened their wrist-bindings to the trees behind them, tethering them past all hope of working free. Alon was tied too far away to speak to Eydryth, but when the guards finally left them to get their own rations, he turned his head and his eyes met hers. One eyelid closed in a quick wink; then he deliberately looked away.

As the camp settled down to its routine of night patrols and the off-duty guards crawled into their bedrolls, the girl continued to covertly watch Alon. In the darkness, she could barely discern the shape of his body against the trees, for twilight was long past, and moonrise still hours away. As she watched, he wriggled backward, clumsy because of his bound wrists and ankles, until he was braced against the trunk of the oak where his rope was secured. She could make out his profile now, outlined by the campfire.

She watched the pale blur of his face turn toward hers, as though to make sure she was watching; then, exaggeratedly, he yawned. His shoulders sagged as he settled his chin on his chest, obviously preparing for sleep.

Her heart thumping excitedly, Eydryth mimicked his actions. As the time dragged by, she found herself wondering what her companion had meant by those final words. Did Alon have some way of getting free? A blade, perhaps, sewn into the bottom of his tunic, the hem of his cloak—or, perhaps, the sole of his boot? She had heard her father speak of such places for concealing small weapons.

But Alon did not seem to be moving at all.

Eydryth listened with part of her mind to the lieutenant’s voice as he inspected the watches, then the soft sounds of the sentries pacing, all mingled with the snorts and whufflings from the horses on the picket line. She was tired; all too soon, her feigned drowsiness became genuine.

The girl tried to hold her eyes open, but they felt as weighted as a Sulcar ship’s anchor. Despite her struggles, she fell deeply asleep—

—only to jerk herself out of slumber with a gasp when something heavy landed on her booted legs. Frightened, she jerked her knees up, staring with horror at the formless black shape before her. With an offended squawk, it rose into the air, flapped to a nearby branch, then regarded her. The songsmith could see the gleam of its eyes and the white V on its breast in the moonlight.

“Steel Talon!” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

Reflexively, she glanced over at Alon, seeing that he sat bolt upright, obviously awake. He whistled softly, the call of a night-swallow, and Steel Talon silently winged his way over to him. As Alon bent forward, the falcon landed behind him.

Eydryth watched as the young man’s body jerked involuntarily, his face grimacing with pain in the moon’s glow. She bit her lip in sympathy, realizing that the bird’s cruelly hooked beak was now tearing at the leather thongs binding Alon to the tree.

Is this what he had planned? she wondered. Is he controlling the falcon’s actions somehow? Or do Falconers train their war-birds to free their masters in case of capture? She did not know.

Minutes later, Alon’s arms suddenly snapped forward, as he gave a last tug on his bonds and they parted. Eydryth watched him rub his hands together, trying to ease their numbness. Then he raised his knees, and his stiff fingers began tugging clumsily at the fastenings on his ankles,

The songsmith kept listening for the sounds of the sentries, fearing that they would be discovered, but there was nothing stirring in the dimness.

When he was free of his bonds, Alon crept cautiously over the grass toward her, raising one finger to his lips in the signal for silence.

But to Eydryth’s surprise, he did not begin working away at the thongs binding her. Instead, he put his hand on her brow and hissed in her ear, “Be patient. I will set you free in a moment.”

When she tried to frame one of the questions whirling in her mind like chaff before a thunderstorm, he shook his head, laying a finger against her lips. “Wait,” he whispered, still touching her brow. “Watch…”

The songsmith heard the sound of trotting hooves, then a snort. A black shape trotted into view, stirrups flapping loose from an empty saddle. Then a dark shape winged its way over to land on the cantle of the saddle, balancing there.

Monso! Monso and Steel Talon, together!

As Eydryth watched, the Keplian and the falcon circled the camp, still moving at that deliberate pace.

Circled once…

Twice…

Thrice…

Magic, she realized, feeling a prickle run up her spine that she remembered from times when she had seen Joisan or Kerovan use the Power. The animals are bespelling the camp!

For a moment fear clutched at her; then she realized that the beasts were circling from right to left, deasil—not widdershins, not contrary to the path the sun followed in the sky. Eydryth relaxed. Nothing that followed the Left-Hand Path could move so.

When the third circle was completed, the Keplian halted, then gave a blasting snort. None of the sleeping figures around the faintly glowing campfire so much as stirred.

“Good,” Alon muttered, then rose and walked over to the nearest guardsman. A moment later he was back, in his hand a knife. With a few tugs, he severed Eydryth’s bonds. “We must go quickly,” he said, not troubling to lower his voice. “The thrice-circle will not hold past first light.”

The songsmith stared from the sleeping forms to the beasts standing a few paces away. “They did this?” she whispered, in awe. “How could a horse and a falcon cast a sleeping-spell?”

“Beasts have their own magic,” he told her. “And neither Monso nor Steel Talon is an ordinary animal, do not forget.”

“What about the sentries? And the witch?”

“Asleep, too.” He took her hands in his, began chafing them briskly. She was shocked to feel how swollen his own fingers were. When she made a sound of distress, he glanced down at them, flexing them gingerly. “The guard was not gentle,” he agreed ruefully. “They made it only too plain that I was not the favored prisoner.”

A moment later, he stood up, then reached down a hand to pull her to her feet. Both of them stamped, wriggling their toes, wincing at the pinpricks of pain as the blood flowed freely once more.

Finally, he caught up her cloak, draped it around her shoulders. “Come,” he said. “We must hurry.”

Eydryth followed him into the camp, marveling at the peacefully sleeping faces that never altered as they searched for their belongings. In the moonlight even the witch appeared different, her stern countenance rendered relaxed and vulnerable with sleep. So great was the Power of the beasts’ thrice-circle that she did not even have time to grow alarmed, Eydryth thought with awe.

“Find your weapons,” Alon called, from across the camp. “I am gathering a few supplies. We must travel fast and light.”

The songsmith located her sword and staff, then, on impulse, took the lieutenant’s blade and swordbelt from where they lay beside his slumbering form. “Here,” she said, holding the sheathed blade out to her companion, “put this on.”

He took it, then hesitantly did as she bade.

“Not like that! Lower, so it rests down on your hip… so.” She slid the leathern strap into place around his lean middle. “I will begin teaching you to use this, when we have time.”

In the moonglow she saw him smile wryly. “You think it necessary for me to learn a soldier’s skills?”

“I do,” she nodded firmly, hands on hips as she surveyed him. “If we are to company together, even for the space of a day, I want you armed. I cannot go on protecting you!”

He laughed as he picked up the bag of food he had garnered. “No, I suppose you can’t—though last night you did it very well.” He glanced down at the sword at his side. “I can hardly wait.”

After losing the tethered horses, the freed prisoners waved torches and blankets, sending the mounts racing away, snorting and kicking, into the darkness. Then Alon swung up on Monso’s back and aided Eydryth up behind him.

“To Lormt,” he said, turning the Keplian’s nose to the east.

Eydryth nodded. “To Lormt,” she echoed. “And may woe betide any who attempt to delay us further!”

Riding through the late-night darkness was frustrating, because they could not take advantage of their mount’s superior speed. Much of the way the woods were too thick, and in the open, the chance of Monso sinking a foot in some ground-dweller’s burrow and breaking a leg was too great. The travelers were forced to keep to a walk or a jog trot, when everything urged them to run—run!

Still exhausted by the events of the day, Eydryth found her eyes closing again as she perched on the Keplian’s rhythmically swaying rump. In the waning moonlight, the landscape surrounding them appeared spectral, unreal. Her eyelids closed…

She jerked awake when Monso stopped, realizing that she had been dozing with her cheek pressed against Alon’s shoulder. Warmth flooded her cheeks as she hastily straightened. “Are we there?”

“No, we are still perhaps an hour’s journey away,” he said.

The darkness was fading; a rosy glow tinged the east. Dawn was not far off.

The songsmith narrowed her eyes as she surveyed the shadowed land ahead of them, seeing upthrust ridges of grey rock and growths of new timber. In the far distance she could make out a cottage with a thatched roof. The entire countryside had a curiously raw, jumbled look to it. “What happened here to stir the land so? The Turning?”

“Yes,” Alon replied. “Lormt itself was protected, though. The Ancients who constructed its walls and towers embedded spheres of quan-iron—the blue metal like that found in the eyes of your gryphon—in the foundations of the towers. The base of one tower had crumbled, causing its sphere to be lost over the ages, so, when the ground heaved, that tower fell, taking part of another tower and the connecting wall with it. But the other two stood fast.”

They allowed Monso to crop the grass for a few minutes while they stretched their legs, shared a few bites of food, then laved their faces at a swift-running stream. The water had obviously flowed down from the mountains that now smudged the eastern horizon, for it was so chill it made Eydryth’s teeth ache.

She could barely keep her eyes from searching their trail, her ears from straining for the sound of hoofbeats, though she knew that their captors would only now be awakening. The skin at the nape of her neck prickled as she envisioned the witch’s fury at discovering that her quarry had escaped once again. “The thrice-circle spell the beasts set will be wearing off by now,” she said. “We must not tarry, Alon.”

He remained unworried. “We have several hours’ start on them, and when we set off again, Monso can move at speed.”

“But they know our destination.” She remembered the witch’s cold grey eyes and swallowed anxiously. “And the witch… she will not give up easily.”

He tightened Monso’s girth, his expression sobering. “Then we must continue to elude them. I have no wish to spend my days rotting in some jail in Rylon Corners.”

Once they were astride again, he loosened the reins slightly and bent forward. “Go,” he whispered, and the Keplian, with a snort, plunged forward eagerly.

The land around Eydryth blurred as her wind-whipped eyes watered. She clung to Alon’s belt grimly, using every bit of her riding skill and balance to stay on as Monso galloped, trying to spot obstacles and changes of direction so they would not catch her unawares.

The sun was nearly a handspan past the horizon when Alon drew rein, bringing their mount to a plunging halt. “Lormt.” he announced, breathing hard from the effort of curbing the sidling, wheeling Keplian.

Eydryth peered out from behind his shoulder to see a river that ran past a cluster of half-timbered cottages and a larger building that might have been an inn. Just beyond them lay a high stone wall, and the outlines of massive stone towers. As Alon had mentioned, one corner of the structure was naught but a tumbled pile of rubble, while the outlines of another tower could still be seen, though it was perhaps half-demolished.

The travelers jogged slowly down the rutted track that served the small village as a main thoroughfare. Eydryth was conscious of eyes peering out at them from behind curtains and cracks in doorways, but the only inhabitants brave enough to venture forth were several barefoot children, still too young to be working in the fields, or aiding with the spinning.

Eydryth wondered whether they would beg, but they did not; two, a boy and a girl, accompanied them, while a fourth child, older, pelted off through one of the many gaps in the crumbled wall, evidently to warn of their arrival.

The metal-bound gate stood permanently ajar and askew, and they rode through that into a stone and dirt courtyard. On the doorstep of one of the intact towers, two people were waiting to meet them, a man and a woman.

The man held himself with the upright carriage of those who have borne arms and marched to battle. He was slightly above middle height, plainly of the Old Race, and went clean-shaven. Instead of the scholar’s robe Eydryth had expected, he wore a rust-colored tunic and leather jerkin, a horsehide belt with the hair left on, and breeches and boots.

The woman at his side wore a simple robe of rich autumn brown, with a light green shawl flung over her shoulders against the early-morning chill. Her hair was drawn back from her face and caught up in a loose knot at the back of her neck. Her features were strong and well cut, but a reddish birthmark spread over one cheek, marring her appearance.

Eydryth had to force herself to meet the woman’s eyes directly; it was hard to keep her eyes from fixing on that ugly mark. Compassion stirred within her, as she imagined all the cruel taunts children were wont to hurl at one whose difference was so plain to the eye.

But after a moment’s measuring glance, Eydryth realized that this woman had come to terms with herself long ago; pity was something she neither needed or wanted. As she hesitated, wondering how to begin, Alon cleared his throat and sketched a half-bow. “Fair fortune to this holding, and good morning to you both. I am Alon, and this is the songsmith Eydryth.”

The man nodded acknowledgment, his grey eyes never leaving the younger man’s face. “You are well-come to Lormt, Alon and Eydryth. I am Master Duratan, and this is my lady, the lore-mistress, Nolar. How may we aid you?”

“The Lady Eydryth wishes to consult with you on a matter of healing.”

“Healing? That is a subject I know well.” Nolar spoke for the first time in a soft, melodious voice. “Enter, please. We can speak in my study.”

Duratan waved the travelers past him with a courtly gesture. “I will have one of the stable lads attend to your mount.”

But Alon did not move as he shook his head. “It is better that I care for the stallion myself, Master Duratan. His temper can be… uncertain. I will join you in a few minutes.”

“Very well. I will show you to the stables.” He walked over to join Alon, and the songsmith saw that, though he held himself as straight as possible, and there was good breadth to his shoulders, Duratan moved with a distinct limp.

Eydryth followed the lore-mistress into the ancient building, and found herself reminded of the Citadel in Es City. The same aura of age pervaded the stones—nay, if anything, this place seemed to be even older. The two women passed room after room filled with shelves, each shelf holding hundreds of books, or, even more ancient, rune-scrolls in metal and leather containers. Robed scholars, both male and female, moved soft-footed through the corridors, carrying armloads of blank parchment, and fresh quills.

They climbed the stairs into one of the towers; then Nolar stopped before a door and opened it. The room within was large, with a window that looked out upon the eastern hills. Pots of herbs grew on the stone windowsill, and faded hangings gave a hint of soft color to the walls, though any pictures or stories they bore were nearly impossible to make out. The whitewashed walls were lined with chests, each holding many record-scrolls in bronze-reinforced or carved-wood cases.

Eydryth took a deep breath of the musty, vellum-scented air and thought that here, if any place in the world, there might be some scrap of healing-lore that would aid her father.

Nolar carefully moved some tattered scrolls she had evidently been studying, then waved the girl to a seat. “Tell me why you have come, Eydryth.”

Taking a deep breath, the songsmith launched into her story. She was halfway through when Duratan and Alon entered the room. As she recounted the events of the past, she noticed that the master chronicler’s eyes seldom left Alon’s face; he avoided staring openly, but he watched the younger man as avidly as Steel Talon might have eyed a rabbit that had ventured too far from its burrow.

Why is the master chronicler so interested in Alon? she wondered; then a likely reason occurred to her. Duratan has probably read of the Keplians in Escore, and recognized Monso for one. He would naturally be curious about one who could master such a creature.

“… and so Jervon has remained, these past years,” Eydryth concluded. “Much like a very small child… biddable, but needing help in even the simplest things; eating, bathing or dressing.” She fixed the lore-mistress with a pleading gaze. “Lady Nolar… can you think of aught that might help him? I cannot let him continue to live thus!”

“And you say there is no scar, nor any depression in the bone of his skull where he hit his head?”

“None. The Lady Joisan, who fostered me when my own mother disappeared, is a Wise Woman and Healer of no little ability. She has said that my father’s problem was not caused by injury to the body, but rather to the mind, and perhaps the spirit. Like…” She groped for an example. “… like a river during floodtime, where the channel can no longer contain the rush of water, and thus overflows its banks. So also with the pathways in Jervon’s mind.”

“I see…” the lore-mistress murmured. She glanced at her lord. “Much like Elgaret’s case, it seems to me. Perhaps the Stone…”

“The Stone?” Eydryth demanded. “What Stone?”

“The Stone of Konnard,” Duratan said. “It is a healing stone of great power that lies within a cave in the mountains far from here. A shard from it healed my lady’s aunt after her mind had been overpowered during the Turning. She was once one of the witches.”

“Shard? May we obtain one? Or borrow yours?” Eydryth’s heart was beating wildly, like a snared bird trying to escape capture.

“Alas, the shard is no longer mine,” Nolar said.

“Soon after Elgaret’s healing, the shard drew me back to the Stone, and cleaved again to it,” Nolar added. “Thus, that piece is no longer in my possession. And I do not think another shard will be found, after all these years. Could you perhaps take your father here?”

“The Stone of Konnard…” Eydryth whispered, now feeling her heart sink as she pictured traveling all those weary months to reach Kar Garudwyn again, then of trying to bring her father back to Estcarp, first over the mountains and through the Waste bordering Arvon, then across the Dales of High Hallack, over the sea, and traversing the entire land of Estcarp—!!

Eydryth did not see any way that such a journey could be accomplished. Jervon could and did walk every day, but only when taken by the hand and guided so that he would not stray off the path. He rode, but could not manage his own mount, and must needs be led. A companion or nurse had perforce to sleep in his chamber each night, to prevent him from wandering off…

The songsmith swallowed, forcing back the tightness in her throat. There must be another way, she thought. The gods would not be so cruel as to demand that my father make a journey that would be so perilous for him!

Not to mention that the thought of so exposing her father’s mental infirmities to all and sundry was intolerable. The thought of pitying or scornful gazes staring at Jervon’s slack-mouthed, vacant face and stumbling form made her wince.

“Bringing him would be exceedingly difficult, I know,” the lore-mistress said, echoing the girl’s thoughts. “And I must caution you that the journey to reach the Stone’s resting place is long and dangerous. Strange creatures have come out of the mountains since the Turning, and they can pose a grave threat to travelers.”

The songsmith wanted to bow her head and weep, but she forced herself to square her shoulders, meet Duratan’s and Nolar’s eyes straightly. “What I must do, I shall,” she said. Perhaps he could travel in a covered litter… she thought wearily.

“But to undertake such a journey by yourself…” the Lady Nolar began, then trailed off, shaking her head.

“I am sure that Lord Kerovan and Lady Joisan will aid me in bringing my father to be healed,” Eydryth told her, before adding, with bitter frankness, “but one thing makes me hesitate: what if we make such a journey and the Stone does not heal Jervon? Or what if he is killed on the way there?”

Both chronicler and lore-mistress nodded back at her, obviously comprehending the reasons for her hesitation and distress.

Suddenly Alon, whom she had almost forgotten was present, stirred beside her, clearing his throat. “Mistress Nolar,” he said, indicating one of the rune-scrolls in the stack on the table, “may I examine that scroll? The runes on its case remind me of one that my master Hilarion had in his collection. That one dealt with healing, and if this is a copy…”

Duratan sat up even straighter, raising his heavy eyebrows in surprise. “Hilarion? I have heard that name, from my friend Kemoc Tregarth.”

“You know Kemoc?” Alon asked, equally surprised.

“We fought together on the Border, and became friends as well as comrades-in-arms. After Kemoc was wounded, he came to Lormt and I saw him again there, not long before the Turning. Since the exodus to resettle Escore by those of the Old Race, we have corresponded by means of travelers and carrier birds.” The master chronicler’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Kemoc told me much of this Hilarion, the man who wed his sister. And you say you were his apprentice?”

Alon hesitated. “Not really. Rather, Hilarion and his lady fostered me when I was left kinless and clanless in Karsten, then found my way into Escore as a child. He taught me many things… to read and write, to cipher, and also the lore of ancient lands.”

Duratan’s glance was sharp, but before he could speak again, Alon turned back to Nolar. “Please, Lady… may I examine the scroll?”

The lore-mistress gave the young man a searching look, then nodded. “Certainly,” she said. “However, please be careful. As you no doubt know, such records are very fragile.”

“I will take the greatest care,” he promised, drawing the cylindrical metal casing toward him. With slow, cautious movements, he extracted the fragile record from the case, then began to unroll it.

Eydryth leaned over his shoulder to gaze at the revealed text. The script was faded almost to illegibility, and the runic symbols implied a form of the Old Tongue more ancient than any she had ever seen. The songsmith could make out only a word here and there.

“Ah…” Alon muttered, scanning the ancient writing. “Yes, this is indeed a copy of the one I saw. And here”—he pointed a long forefinger to a page near the end—“is the reference I recalled—”

The young man broke off as his finger touched the smudged, faded runes, and they suddenly flared into dazzling clarity, glowing violet in the dusty sunlight of the study.

Duratan and Nolar both gasped, then leaped up and circled the table to stare incredulously at the scroll. “What did you do?” Nolar demanded, finding her voice first. “That light was violet, the color of great Power!”

“Great Power?” Eydryth stared wide-eyed at Alon. “You—”

His headshake silenced her. “It was nothing I did,” he stated. “There was a spell laid on that page.” His face was suddenly drawn with weariness, as though that touch had taken something out of him. “I have heard Hilarion speak of such. This was an old spell of clarification so that the words therein could be read even after the ink that formed them was gone… providing the reader’s need is great. The runes would have done so had any of you touched them. Thus—”

With a quick motion, he grasped Eydryth’s fingers, moving them to brush against the ancient scroll. Again the runes flared brilliantly—but this time they blazed blue-green.

Eydryth felt something almost tangible run through her body at the touch of that ancient parchment—a tingling warmth. Alon released her fingers, staring at her as if startled, even though he had predicted that the scroll would react to the touch of any with great need to know its contents.

“So it deals with healing!” Eydryth exclaimed, returning to what was, for her, the most important thing. “What does it say? Can we translate it?”

“It is a very ancient form of the Old Tongue,” the lore-mistress said slowly, studying the writing. “Older by far than any I have seen.”

“I can read it,” Alon said. “Hilarion was born into a time before the First Turning that sealed off Estcarp from Escore. This scroll dates from that time.”

Duratan shook his head in wonderment. “That long ago? It is hardly to be believed!”

“My foster-father had scrolls in his holding that were even older than this one,” the younger man muttered abstractedly, as he studied the page. Long moments later, he announced: “I was correct. This scroll mentions a place of healing on the outskirts of the Valley of the Green Silences.”

Duratan nodded. “Morquant’s Valley! Kemoc told me of it. His brother, Kyllan, is wedded to the Lady of the Green Silences.”

“In Escore,” Alon said, “she is called Dahaun.”

“She has many names,” Duratan agreed. “But it is part of the lore surrounding her that she has methods of healing in her valley that are greater even than that of the Stone of Konnard, powerful though that may be. If a wounded creature can but reach her healing place, death loses its power over flesh and bone there.”

“But can her healing methods mend shattered minds and spirits as well as bodies?” Eydryth cried, scarcely daring to hope. “And is her secret of healing something that can be transported?”

Alon shook his head. “The scroll does not say. It is worth seeking out and asking, though.”

“If only I could discover some healing potion or tisane that I could take back to my father!” the girl cried, daring, for the first time in hours, to think that her quest might succeed.

Nolar looked thoughtful. “Perhaps the Lady of the Green Silences knows of such.”

“Perhaps she does,” Alon said. “I have heard that there is little that she does not know.”

“But how would I get there?” Eydryth wondered aloud, remembering the shadows of the eastern mountains against the sky. “It would be a journey of many days, just to climb the heights separating Escore and Estcarp.” She considered for a moment, then asked, “Alon, do you know whether there is a trail or a road that leads across the mountains?”

When he did not reply to her question, she looked up, alerted by his silence, to find Alon staring expressionlessly back at Duratan. The master chronicler was again regarding the younger man with that measuring, avid gaze she had noted earlier.

“I would like to talk to you about this Hilarion,” Duratan said, slowly. “And about yourself, Alon. We do not often encounter—”

“Those who have lived in Escore,” the younger man broke in. “Yes, I know. But I am afraid that there is no time for such conversation at the moment, sir. If I am to guide the Lady Eydryth to the Valley of the Green Silences—” Eydryth’s heart leaped as she took in his words. “—then we must needs leave immediately.”

“Why so quickly?” Duratan demanded, with a touch of grim humor, as though he already suspected the answer.

Alon smiled crookedly. “There are… complications… that could keep us from reaching Escore. Complications that are even now following our trail.”

“I see…” Duratan said, still holding the younger man’s eyes with his own. “You must make haste, then, of course. But should you ever return…”

“I will be happy to speak to you at length,” Alon promised.

Rising, the young man looked down at the songsmith, then extended his hand to help her up. “We must hasten,” he said. “Unless you do not wish to go?”

Eydryth grasped his fingers and rose, albeit a little unsteadily. “Do you really mean that you will take me over the mountains to Escore?” she whispered. “Oh, Alon… I… I can never repay you!”

“I am doing this as much for my own sake as for your father’s,” he reminded her. “There is an arrest warrant out for me in Rylon Corners, remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“In Escore, I can hide out until the witch and the townspeople have forgotten me completely. Then Monso and I can reappear on the tracks in the north of Estcarp, with none the wiser!”

Eydryth smiled knowingly. “You are only saying that because you want no one to know what a kind thing you are doing, aiding me. You’d rather play the rogue, concerned only with saving his own hide.” Her expression sobered and her eyes held his. “But I know the truth. Accept my thanks, Alon.”

“Do you need supplies for your journey?” the lore-mistress asked.

At her words, Eydryth let go of Alon’s hand, and both travelers turned to her. “Perhaps a round or two of journey-bread, should you have it,” she said, as they headed for the door. “And… Mistress Nolar… thank you. Both of you.”

Scant minutes later found them in the courtyard, while Alon packed the provisions the lore-mistress had provided into Monso’s saddlebags. Just as he finished, the master chronicler reappeared, leading a bay mare. Duratan was carrying a handful of rags and twine.

“What size shoes does he wear?” the chronicler demanded without preamble, nodding at the Keplian half-bred.

Alon eyed the rags, twine and the bay horse’s feet; then he smiled gratefully. “Size aught,” he said. “You chose correctly.”

“Like most Borderers, I did my share of makeshift smithing,” the master chronicler commented, handing the younger man the cloths.

Taking the string, Eydryth aided Alon in tying the rags around the Keplian’s hooves, so he would leave no prints.

When they were finished, Duratan swung himself up into the bay’s saddle, then held out a hand to Nolar. “My lady,” he said, with a smile touching his deep-set grey eyes, “it occurs to me that it has been long since we visited the southernmost farms to see if any are in need of your healing skills. Perhaps today would be a good day to do that.”

Nolar chuckled. “Let me get my bag of simples,” she said, and ran to fetch them. When she returned, she caught her lord’s hand; then, with a swirl of russet skirts, she scrambled up onto the bay mare’s rump.

Very canny, Eydryth thought approvingly. Now the bay’s hoofprints will sink deep enough to match the ones Monso has been leaving.

“What will you say when they find you?” Alon asked worriedly.

“I will say, truthfully, that all our other mounts are in use,” Duratan replied serenely, “and so my lady and I must needs ride double.” He smiled at Alon. “Remember your promise, lad. I will be waiting for the day when we can have that long talk.”

Alon nodded. “I will not forget.”

“Well, then…” The master chronicler raised a hand in a half-salute. “A good journey to you both. May you find what you are seeking.” Nolar nodded farewell as Duratan turned the horse and sent the animal trotting out of the courtyard.

Eydryth and Alon watched them go; then they, too, set off, leading the stallion, so as to further confound their pursuers. Only when the ground beneath their boots was hard-packed soil broken by the thrusts of rock outcrops did they take the muffling rags off Monso’s hooves and mount.

Perched once more behind her escort, Eydryth looked ahead of them, to the nearby slopes of the foothills, then beyond to the mountains, many with their peaks still snow-splotched. Uneasily she turned to regard their back trail. “Do you think the witch and her guards will be fooled by Duratan’s and Nolar’s trick?”

Alon sighed. “For another hour or so, perhaps. But as soon as they see Nolar and Duratan, they will know the truth.”

“Then the witch will scry, or farsee, and so discover which trail we have taken,” Eydryth agreed. She indicated the rock-strewn countryside surrounding them. “And Monso’s speed will be of little use to us when the ground is this broken.”

He nodded silently. After a moment, she wet her lips. “Do you think the mountains will stop her?”

Alon shook his head. “Have they stopped you?” he asked, simply. “That lady is as determined to capture you as you are to see your father healed.”

Eydryth knew that he spoke the truth; her fingers tightened convulsively on the leather of his belt. “Are you sure, Alon, that you wish to continue companying with me? You could let me off here and tell me where to find the mountain trail and the pass into—”

“No,” he said, turning in the saddle to look at her. There was no mistaking the gleam of determination in his eyes. “We go together, or not at all. Do not forget that they want me, too.”

But Eydryth knew better; if Alon would only abandon her, the guards of Estcarp would not bother pursuing a miscreant wanted only for a bit of racetrack chicanery. She was the one the witch wanted. The hunt was well and truly up, and she was the quarry.

I must make him leave me, she resolved, ignoring the pang that struck her at the thought. No matter what it takes.