Nolar carefully moved some tattered scrolls she had evidently been studying, then waved the girl to a seat. “Tell me why you have come, Lydryth.”
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 Monsofor one. He would naturally be curious about one who could master such a creature.
“… and so Jervon has remained, these past years,” Lydryth 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?” Lydryth 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?” Lydryth’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 . . . ,” Lydryth 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-!!
Lydryth 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 slackmouthed, 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,” Lydryth 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.
Lydryth 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?” Lydryth 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 Hflarion 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 Lydryth’s fingers, moving them to brush against the ancient scroll. Again the runes flared brilliantly-but this time they blazed blue-green.
Lydryth 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!” Lydryth exclaimed, returning to what was, for her, the most important thing. “What does it say? Can we translate it?”