“I cannot be sure,” Alon said. “I can sense little about it. But if it is activated by the moon, then it must be of the Light. And … it is drawing me … it has the power to … to summon.”
“I know,” she said. “It has been calling to me, also. Alon, this is important, I know it is! We must go there-quickly, before the moon sets!”
Eight
Jt was a perilous journey they made by the light of the waning moon, stumbling and skidding over frozen, frost-rimed ground. As they ascended the mountainside, their way grew rougher, more broken, until they were picking a path between rocks and boulders streaked with glistening trails of ice. Lydryth led the way, her strides quick and impatient despite the poor footing. She gasped when a stone turned beneath her heel; only her companion’s quick grasp on her arm saved her from a precipitous fall. “Slowly,” he cautioned. “But the moon’s light will soon be gone. . . .” “True, but if by moonset we are all resting at the bottom of yon gorge with broken necks, it will matter but little to us whether it shines or not.” Monso snorted, as if in agreement. “Perhaps we should stop,” Alon suggested, surveying the rugged path before them. “We could wait for daylight.”
“No,” she replied. “Without the moon’s glow to guide us, we will never find that beacon. It does not shine by the sun’s light, I am certain of that. Can you see in the dark?” she asked, remembering that her mother had always been able to do so, claiming that the ability was held by many with the kinship of Power.
“Not as well as Monso,” he said. “But perhaps better than you can.”
“Then you lead.”
Slowly, he edged past her on the narrow ledge. “Hook your fingers in my belt,” he instructed.
Lydryth obeyed. “Hurry, Alon!”
As they went on, an overhanging thrust of rock darkened their path even further. The songsmith clung to her companion’s belt, prepared to follow blindly, but she heard the Adept mutter beneath his breath; then light shone from his right hand, each finger outlined in the white-violet glow. Spreading his fingers, he held them palm-down, so the light illuminated the path beneath their feet.
How long can he maintain that? she wondered worriedly. Will keeping such a spell going draw so much energy from him that he cannot complete our climb? Should we stop and try again on the morrow? The moon will rise again. …
She nearly voiced her concerns aloud, but then she shook her head and remained silent. Lydryth could not explain the urgency building within her, but it drove her across the mountain’s flank with grim purpose. The high-pitched notes reverberated inside her head with a siren summons, making chills not born of the cold trace themselves down her spine. Alon, by his own admission, could not hear them.
But it was clear that Monso could. The Keplian pricked his ears and turned his head with each uncanny repetition.
The songsmith narrowed her eyes, using her gryphonheaded staff to test each step before trusting her full weight to the treacherous path. Slowly, the travelers picked their way r across the loose rocks of the final slope. Finally, gasping and shivering, they halted, staring up at their destination. It was close, but to attain the ledge from whence the glow emanated, they would have to scramble up a trail so steep that it made the songsmith’s head swim to contemplate it.
“How can we climb that?” she asked, despairingly.
“Monso can,” Alon said after a moment. “Grab hold of the stirrup; use it to steady yourself.” He took up position on the other side of the Keplian. “Ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, her mouth dry from fear and anticipation.
“Monso, hup\” Alon cried, and the black surged forward, scrambling, powerful hindquarters thrusting, steel-shod forehooves clawing a purchase in the crusted, frozen earth. Lydryth launched herself beside the Keplian, endeavoring not to drag the creature off balance. Using her quarterstaff, she pulled herself up, the frigid air tearing her throat with each sobbing breath.
With a final gasp and heave, the three travelers were over the side of the ledge.
The feeble moonlight shone down full upon a huge sheet of crystal embedded in the mountainside. Lydryth stared at it, so exhausted that she could do naught but gasp, the air stabbing her lungs. She leaned against Monso’s heaving side, feeling her knees buckle. Finally her legs steadied; only then was she able to walk over to gaze into the reflective surface.
“What is it?” she whispered, feeling a strange reluctance to speak aloud.
“A thing of Power,” Alon said, coming up behind her, his voice equally quiet. Their own outlines swam before them, eerily limned by the moonglow. “For some reason we have been summoned here … by what power or agency I cannot guess.”
“The moon is so bright on the crystal,” Lydryth breathed, “that surely this thing is of the Light.”
“I believe so,” her companion agreed. “But often Light and Dark are balanced precariously in this world . . . and many things of the Light have their Dark shadows.”
“What do you-,” the songsmith began, only to break off as a cloud eclipsed the moon, and their own reflections dissolved like snowflakes encountering water. But the crystal surface did not stay blank; rather, it glowed darkly, as though a fire made from shadows had been kindled within it. Shapes slowly coalesced into recognizability … a large, rocky cave, its walls sheeted with water that glinted dully in the light of a single torch that smoldered sullenly.
“What. . . what are we seeing?” Lydryth cried.
“I cannot be sure,” Alon said, “but I think this . .. mirror … is actually a Gate, one of those that lead to other places- perhaps even other worlds. We are seeing what lies on the other side of this Gate, I believe.”
The songsmith caught her breath sharply, for even as Alon finished speaking, a figure shuffled into view, leaning on a short walking staff, and stood silhouetted against the dark mouth of the cave. At first they could make out nothing except that it was alive, and human, for the light was so wan and its clothing so shapeless and drab that age or features-even its sex-were impossible to discern.
It stopped; then they heard its voice, low and commanding, causing the first torch to flare into life and causing another to ignite with a reluctant sputter.
Lydryth squinted against the sudden light. In a moment her eyes adjusted and she could see again. The newcomer was a woman, clothed in a tattered grey hooded robe. Her features were shadowed by her hood, but from the appearance of her hands, and the presence of the walking staff, the songsmith thought she must be well past middle years. But she moved spryly enough as she bustled around the cave, humming tunelessly as she set out candles, then traced a design upon the stony floor with a wand she produced from her sleeve.
The lines she drew glowed blue as they formed a distinct shape. “A pentagram,” Lydryth breathed, recognizing the age-old symbol that was prerequisite to a spell of summoning. “Is she a witch of Estcarp?”
“She wears no jewel,” Alon pointed out, “but the color of her Power is correct. The witches deal in theurgy, the harnessing of will, faith and emotion to work their magic. Blue is the color of theurgy.”
The woman stared at her pentagram, gave a satisfied nod, then raised a hand. The dark candles she had placed at the points of the star-shape burst into flame. She stepped out of her watchers’ line of vision for a moment, but soon returned, carrying a net that writhed as the creature tangled within struggled vainly to escape, uttering small, piercing shrieks of fear.
Beside her, Alon stiffened with horrified recognition. “A Flannan!” he whispered.
Lydryth had heard of the small creatures that could take on the guise of either bird or small, winged mannikin. In Arvon and High Hallack they were naught more than legend, but the people of Estcarp told of how they had been seen in Escore near Dahaun’s Valley of the Green Silences.
Flannan made flighty, unreliable allies, due to their capricious nature, but never had they been allied with the Dark. Snapping out a few short words that made Alon draw in his breath with a hiss, the woman thrust her hand into the net bag. Then the witch (for so Lydryth now thought other) withdrew the small creature, clutching the Flannan by the scruff of its scrawny neck. It was not in its bird-form … its body bore arms and legs in addition to the wings that trailed limply down its back. The creature halted its struggles and now dangled bonelessly from the woman’s hand, either drugged or bespelled into calmness.