/ must make him leave me, she resolved, ignoring the pang that struck her at the thought. No matter what it takes.
Seven
They rode the sun down that day, not halting to make camp until the stars glimmered against the deep purple of the lateevening sky. For most of their hours in the saddle Alon held Monso to a ground-covering jog, but whenever they reached stretches of high moorland where the footing was good, he let the Keplian run. When they finally stopped, they were high in the foothills, with the true mountains looming over them like fortresses of ragged stone.
After they dismounted, Lydryth moved around their campsite in a stumbling, dreamlike state, helping Alon rub the stallion down, then forcing herself to eat, knowing her body needed the food. Sleep claimed her the moment she crawled into her bedroll.
The travelers awoke before dawn to a drizzling rain. Heads ducked beneath the hoods of their cloaks, they hastily swallowed mouthfuls ofdampjoumeybread, breaking camp while it was still dark.
Leading the K-eplian, they started out. As they reached the crest of the nearest hillock, breathing heavily and slipping in the mud, Alon halted, turning to look back along their trail. After a moment he nudged Lydryth and pointed.
The girl squinted in the misty rain, narrowing her eyes until she made out what her companion was indicating-the dull red glow of several campfires, far behind them.
“We have nearly a full day’s start on them,” she said, but the aching lump of fear was back in her throat, nearly choking her.
“They will gain on us today,” Alon said grimly. “They will be covering gentle slopes, while we will be climbing in earnest before the day is out.”
“Is there another pass we could take?”
“Not that Monso could traverse … not for many leagues,” he replied. “However … there is a chance that the witch will not be able to climb these eastern mountains. There is a mindblock set upon those of the Old Race, concerning these mountains and Escore. Lord Kemoc Tregarth was the first to discover it. But now that everyone knows of Escore, it may also be that the witch can overcome the effects of that ancient sorcery, since she knows that the spell exists.”
Remembering her resolve that he and Monso should leave her before they risked being recaptured, Lydryth gave her companion a sidelong glance. “If there is a nearby pass that is only accessible to those traveling on foot, perhaps it would be best if you directed me to it. Then you could go on to the other pass with Monso.”
A muscle in his jaw tightened, and he did not look at her. “Why?”
She took a deep breath. “Because from this point on, Monso will only slow us down. I know you will not abandon him, but I have no wish to be caught because I have held back to stay with you two.”
The wan light of early dawn made Alon’s unshaven face appear even more drawn and haggard as he gave her a long, measuring glance. “Do not concern yourself unduly,” he said finally, in a tone that held the barest touch of sarcasm. “When we begin to hold you back, then it will be time enough for you to go on alone. Lady.”
Fighting back an urge to apologize, to blurt out that she was only doing this for his own good, Lydryth nodded, no longer meeting his eyes. “Very well,” she said, keeping her voice cold and hard with an effort. “But I shall be the judge.”
“And jury-of-peers, and no doubt executioner, too,” he said, giving her a crooked, mocking smile. “But for now, we must go.”
They went on, afoot much of the time, stumbling upward over rocky slopes dotted with scrubby firs and prickly gorse. The songsmith walked blindly, barely noticing her surroundings enough to pick her path. Alon’s last remark had disturbed her greatly. She had heard beneath the mockery a note of bitter pain; her words had hurt him more than he would ever reveal.
He is lonely, she thought, remembering how pleased he had been to have someone to talk with about Monso and Steel Talon. At the thought of the falcon, she glanced around, but saw no black speck outlined against the sky.
“Where is Steel Talon?” she asked, struggling not to gasp out the words. “I have not seen him since he and Monso made the thrice-circk.”
“When I awoke this morning, I saw him perched in a grove of these scrub firs,” Alon replied. “He seldom flies when it is wet, preferring to catch me up later. He will find us, never fear.”
Lydryth nodded, wishing that she had such a choice available to her. A trickle of chill water found its way down the back other neck, through the soaked hood other cloak, making her shiver.
Finally, about an hour before sunset, the rain slackened, then stopped, and the sun came out. Alon promptly halted in his tracks, beside one of the stunted scrub oaks. Pulling off his
It 6 cloak, he hastily shook the water off a limb and spread the garment to dry.
The bard considered urging him to continue on, but her feet and her muscles hurt so from all the climbing that she said nothing, only sought out another tree to hang her cloak.
“Dare we build a fire?” she wondered aloud. “All the wood is so wet it will surely smoke.”
Alon shrugged. “The witch will know our whereabouts whether we have a fire or not. And I for one”-he pulled off his sodden leather jerkin-“would rather have the warmth.” He rubbed his jaw, then grimaced. “Not to mention hot water for shaving.”
Once the fire was kindled, reluctant and smoky even as Lydryth had predicted, the songsmith pulled off her own jerkin so her tunic could dry; then she drew her sword from its place of concealment. “Time for your first lesson,” she announced solemnly.
At the look of astonishment on Alon’s now smooth-skinned features, she smiled thinly, pointing with the tip of her blade to the one he wore. “Go on, draw it. Learning the basic stance and one or two moves will warm you up and loosen muscles stiff from walking in the rain.”
“But. . .” He hesitated, then shrugged and obeyed.
Lydryth surveyed his drawn weapon with a practiced eye. “A general-issue sword, but the Estcarpian smiths know their craft. Double-edged and pointed . . . you will leam to use either point or edge. First of all, hold it out in front of you . . . so.”
When he obeyed, she inspected his hand, touching the back of his wrist lightly, running her fingers up the length of his bared arm. “Good strength,” she said. “I am not surprised, seeing that you can rein in Monso. Now place your feet like this. . . .” She moved into position, right foot ahead of left, crouching slightly. “Yes, that’s correct, now bend your knees a little, thus. . . .”
Brow furrowed with concentration, he obeyed. “Good,” she said. “Shoulders a bit forward, right more than left, eyes front, good…” She faced him, her own blade out. “You must r leam to let your body think for you, while keeping your mind calm and detached so it can plan your next move.
“Look not at any one area, but rather let your eyes take in the entire form of your opponent. Not only his blade, but also the movement of head, shoulders-the entire torso. Eventually you will leam to note the placing of his body without having to think about it, and then you can begin to anticipate an opponent’s moves from small shifts in his carriage, or from the way his eyes move. The eyes often reveal the next tactic even before the wrist or body knows what it will be.”
“What do I do with my left hand?” Alon asked, concentrating grimly on holding the sword in the correct position.
“For now, just hold it so,” she demonstrated. “It will help you balance. In time I will teach you to use your left hand, with a cloak wrapped around it, or with a dagger, to parry strokes.”
“Is that how you fight? With a sword and dagger?”
“That is my preferred style, yes,” she said. “Now put your blade back in its sheath.”
Her student looked rather relieved to have gotten off so easily. “Are we done?”
“Hardly. But I have no desire to have you cut me should I miss a parry. The scabbard will make a good protector.” When he’d obeyed, she said, “Good. Now . . . back into position.”
Alon did so, grunting a little. “My legs will be stiff from this.”
“No doubt,” she agreed. “Now let me demonstrate a basic lunge and a basic parry for you to practice tonight. . . .”
Quickly she shifted her weight forward, her sword driving before her like a steel wind. The point halted just touching the fabric of the tunic covering Alon’s midsection. With a startled gasp, he leaped back, wide-eyed. “Have a little caution, I beg you!” he sputtered. “You . . . you could have spitted me!”