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, Lydryth 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 journeybread and dried fruit, as well as a water bottle. Despite her aching misery, Lydryth 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 Lydryth, 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, Lydryth 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.
Lydryth 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.
Lydryth 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 7 she wondered. Is he controlling the falcon’s actions somehow? Or do Falconers train their warbirds 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. Lydryth 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 Lydryth’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 Lydryth 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. Lydryth 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 Lydryth’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.”
Lydryth 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 stem countenance rendered relaxed and vulnerable with sleep. So great was the Power of the beasts’ thricecircle that she did not even have time to grow alarmed, Lydryth 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 leam 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.”