“At least take this,” Avris said, pushing a small bag into the songsmith’s hand. “My share of our earnings. I will have little need of money where I am going, I believe. It should be sufficient for you to buy a mount, so you may travel more swiftly.” “I cannot!” Lydryth protested. “You earned your share, just as I did.”
“Take it,” the girl said, closing the songsmith’s fingers tightly over the leather pouch. “I insist. Logar’s father tells me that there is a horse fair being held in Rylon Corners, the next town to the north of this one. A half-day’s good walk should see you there.” “Well . . .” Lydryth smiled. “It would be good to travel astride once more. I thank you, Avris.”
“We must be going, dear heart,” Logar said, sliding an arm around his bride’s shoulders. “We will name our first girl-child for you, Lady Lydryth,” he promised, clasping the songsmith’s shoulder with a sword-roughened hand. Then he swung his new wife up onto the wagonseat.
The entire village stood waving as the oxcart slowly creaked out onto the northeast road.
Lydryth refused Logar’s mother’s oner of a bed, but accepted the goodwife’s bag of provisions. She headed out of Kastryn, taking the north road, toward Rylon Corners, and, beyond that, Lormt.
* * *
It was afternoon before the songsmith reached the town, but the bustle of the horse fair was still in full swing. She threaded her way through booths offering harness and saddles, brushes and tonics, charms and hoof-gloss… all products imaginable for the health, riding and beautification of horses. Lydryth sniffed the air, smiling. It almost smells like home, here, she thought. If she closed her eyes, she could nearly imagine that she was back in the Kioga camp in the Valley of the Gryphon, “talking horse” with Obred and Guret. She thought ofVyar’s glossy coat.
None of these animals, she thought, eyeing the horses around her, are the equal of the Kioga mounts … Out I should be able to find something to bear me on my journey.
Lydryth wandered through the bustling crowd, running her hand over a flank here, lifting a forefoot there, occasionally opening an animal’s mouth to examine its teeth.
Her small hoard of coins would not permit her to purchase one of the fine, blooded animals, so she was forced to wander among the culls, scowling more and more deeply as she examined the mounts she could afford.
She had just finished examining the teeth of a rangy grey gelding while his owner, a whip-thin trader with most of his front teeth gone (Kicked out, most likely, Lydryth thought), smiled ingratiatingly at her. “You like him, bard? Seven years old, and sound as yon stone wall.”
The songsmith smiled grimly. “You mean, despite that curb on his near hock?”
“That little bump?” the man demanded indignantly. “Call that a curb? Why, I’ll eat his saddle if that ever gives him a moment’s shortness, by Volt’s Axe, I will.”
Lydryth sniffed inquiringly at the gelding’s nostrils. “Oh, I’ll wager he’ll go perfectly sound, all right-at least until that infusion you gave him wears off. What did you use? Black willow bark?”
The trader eyed her angrily. “You can’t prove that!”
“No, but I can show someone the file marks on his teeth. Not a very expert job, you know … anyone with half a brain will see right through it, and realize what you’ve done. Seven, hah! This horse is at least twice that!”
Without another word, the little man dragged the grey gelding’s head around and hustled rapidly off into the press of the fair.
Lydryth glared angrily after him for a moment, then shrugged. The fair was due to continue through tomorrow. Perhaps she should seek out some of the local farmers, ask to see their stock, rather than taking her chances with traders. There was always the possibility that she’d run into one of them who knew a trick she didn’t-and then she’d be burdened with a sick or crippled animal.
Still considering the livestock around her, the songsmith took out her hand-harp, then opened its case on the ground at her feet. While she decided what to do, she’d try earning a few more coins. Better to spend a little more, in order to get a far better bargain. Obred’s words ran through her mind: “Remember, girl, it takes just as many coins to feed a bad horse as it does a good one-so buy the best you can.”
She tuned the harp, running her fingers over the strings, humming under her breath to test her voice. Something suitable to the locale and the day, she thought, reviewing the songs she knew. Ah, I have it! “Lord Faral’s Race” will do nicely.
Lydryth softly began to sing:
Along the midnight road they ran Along the broad and gleaming span Five gallant steeds of noble pride, Not gold, but life, hung on their ride.
A few heads turned, a few footsteps slowed, and several passersby halted to listen. Encouraged, Lydryth took a breath and swung into the refrain:
Beneath Gunnora’s golden light Six horses raced into the night Against the dark and fearsome knight The Dark Light! The black knight! At midnight. . . More listeners. The songsmith’s flying fingers picked up the tempo, strumming hard as she sang louder, more ringingly:
For he had come, with helm drawn down Into the center of the town He challenged them with haughty voice And dared them to make another choice.
“If you do win, I’ll go my way, But if I win, then you will pay A bondage through eternity In servitude to mine and me.”
Then came Lord Faral, tall and proud, And raised his whip to hush the crowd;
“So let it be! Then let us race For this is a protected place.
Within Gunnora’s smile we dwell Our horses drink from Lady’s Well, Strive with us, if you so choose;
Race with me, and surely lose!”
“I will not race with one,” said he, “Five noble lords must race with me.” “Then I will my four brothers call, That none bom here become your thrall!”
A coin spun into the case; another … then a third. Lydryth continued:
They raced along an ancient way, Through misty moonlight, silver-grey But dark seeks darkness for its boon And mortal flesh meets mortal doom.
The one horse fell, and there were four and one heart burst and could no more- So three ran on into the dark Then from that black whip came a spark Of poison light; and there were two And Miroch’s gelding threw a shoe-
By now she had collected a small crowd, and the music of her harp was augmented by hand-clapping and foot-stamping. Occasional coins thudded into the case, providing an irregular counterpoint. The minstrel swung into the final verses, playing as though her fingers were charmed:
And Faral then the Black Lord paced, Step for step a time they raced But oh, the mists grew cold and dread And Faral’s stallion tossed his head.
“Abandon now,” the Dark knight said, “For see, your brothers all are dead.” “Far better here I make my grave, Then let my people be your slave!
“I service to Gunnora vow,
Both hand and heart, both foot and brow,
And I shall never be forsworn
Though life from me and mine be torn!”
Then came a radiant, golden light And lifted Faral into flight His steed’s feet did not touch the ground While the Dark horse tried to pound
Itself into the glittering stone
The Dark knight from its back was thrown
Crying out in agony,
The Dark did meet its destiny;
For they had come to Lady’s Well, That holy place of which tales tell For there, the Lady had prepared A trap from which no Dark was spared!
As she finished with a final sweeping chord, her watchers pelted the harp case with coins. “Another, minstrel!”
A little old man waved his battered straw hat at her. “You sing as sweetly as a brown wren, songsmith! Tell me, d’you know ‘Hathor’s Ghost Stallion’?”
Lydryth hesitated. “I think so … it goes like this?” she strummed a few chords, hummed a tune.
“That’s it!” the old man cried. “Haven’t heard that in-”
He broke off with a squawk of terror at the sudden drum of galloping hooves. The crowd scattered as a big black horse burst into their midst, heading for the field visible between two wagons. The grandsire tried to scuttle away, but tripped and fell.
As the horse swept toward them, Lydryth, without thinking, leaped forward so she was between the charging animal and the fallen man. The horse, a stallion, slid to a halt so violently that it half-reared.
“Steady, fellow!” Lydryth called, in a low, soothing voice. “Steady!”
The stallion’s ears flattened even further against its head; its eyes sparked red in the light of the westering sun. With an enraged scream it reared again, its deadly hooves slashing the air just above Lydryth’s head.