“It is a very ancient form of the Old Tongue,” the loremistress said slowly, studying the writing. “Older by far than any I have seen.”
“I can read it,” Alon said. “Hilarion was bom 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 ofKonnard, 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?” Lydryth 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?” Lydryth 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 Lydryth to the Valley of the Green Silences-” Lydryth’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?”
Lydryth 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!”
Lydryth 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, Lydryth let go of Alon’s hand, and both travelers turned to her. “Perhaps a round or two of journeybread, 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. r “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, Lydryth 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, Lydryth thought approvingly. Now the bay’s boo/prints 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.
Lydryth 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 Mouse’s hooves and mount.
Perched once more behind her escort, Lydryth looked ahead of them, to the nearby slopes of the foothills, then beyond to the mountains, many with their peaks still snowsplotched. 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,” Lydryth agreed. She indicated the rockstrewn 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.”
Lydryth 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-”
‘Wo,” 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 Lydryth knew better; if Alon would only abandon her, the guards of Estcarp would not 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.