Mylt lowered his voice, even though the two of them were alone in the taproom. “Even so,” he agreed, “but it is not something to speak of loudly. During the Turning many years ago, a goodly number of them died or were left burned-out shells-but there are some that still hold the Power.”
“The Turning?” Lydryth ventured.
“When Duke Pagar of Karsten sought to invade from over mountain, the witches gathered together all their might and magic to shake the spine of the earth itself. The mountains dividing Karsten and Estcarp shook and fell, while thrusting up into other heights. The invaders were wiped out in a single night of destruction, and all the trails to Karsten destroyed.”
“It must have been terrible.”
“Aye, that’s certain. I was little more than a lad, then, but even so, I remember that day. It was as though a shadow lay over the entire land … a shadow you couldn’t see, only feel. That shadow pressed upon all living things, like a fist that would grind us all into the earth, it weighed so heavy….” The tavern-keeper shivered at the memory.
Lydryth made haste to steer the conversation back to her purpose. “But you said some of the witches still retain their Power?”
“Aye, if the accounts I hear be true. But they have turned away from ruling Estcarp, even as you said. They no longer govern our land; Koris does, he and his Lady Loyse, aided by their friends and battle-companions, the outlander. Lord Simon Tregarth, and his wife, the Lady Jaelithe.” The tavernkeeper glanced around him nervously, making sure they were still alone. “Did you know that she used to be one of the witches?”
Lydryth did know, but she feigned surprise, eager to leam all she could. “Really?” He raised a hand in a half-pledge. “Truth. Before she was wife, she was witch. After they were wed, she bore her lord children, so theirs was a true marriage-and yet-” He glanced around, then leaned so close she could smell his sour breath, see the blackened pores studding his nose. “-and yet, she still wields the Power! Even though she be no maiden!”
Lydryth summoned an appropriate expression of astonishment, though she was hardly surprised; her own mother, Elys, had not lost her Power with her maidenhead, either.
“They say that the other witches have never forgiven the Lady Jaelithe for lying with her lord, and yet not losing her gift. They regard it as a betrayal,” Mylt finished.
“Perhaps they envy her,” the girl ventured.
The tavern-master chuckled coarsely. “Not the witches of Estcarp, songsmith! To them, the men of this world are something to be barely tolerated, not desired!”
“Tell me, Mylt … do the witches ever . . . help people?” Lydryth busied herself scraping the last drops of chowder from her bowl.
” ‘Tis said they do, from time to time. Blessing the crops and suchlike, calling storms during dry times, soothing wind and wave to protect ships in their harbors.”
“What about smaller magics . . . healing and such?”
“Aye, they do some of that, too. Simples and potions and amulets against fevers …” He poured the last of the wine into the songsmith’s goblet, then carefully stacked dishes onto the serving tray. “Will you want more, minstrel?”
“Thank you, no,” Lydryth said, finishing her wine and rising to take her leave. “Good night.”
“A good sleep to you, songsmith.”
With a final nod to her host, Lydryth started up the stair to her garret. Her steps were slow; she was so wearied by her long day that even the few sips of Mylt’s wine had made her limbs feel as though they were weighted by such brightly colored fishing sinkers as decorated the walls of The Dancing Dolphin. The floor beneath her battered leather boots seemed to move rhythmically; she might still ride the ocean’s swells aboard the Osprey. When she reached her chamber, the young woman dragged her outer garments off and burrowed beneath the coarse woolen blankets, too tired to search out her night shift.
Sleep was reaching for her with leaden arms when her eyes flew open. I forgot! But by the Amber Lady, I’m so tired. . . . She sighed, throwing the bedclothes aside, as she reached for the gryphon-headed quarterstaff lying near to hand on the rough wooden boards. Drawing it to her in the darkness, she fumbled with her other hand for the amulet that she bore around her neck, hidden. The amber and amethyst of its fashioning felt warm and familiar in her hand, as she traced the lines of Gunnora’s symbols-a carven sheaf of ripened wheat bound by a heavily laden grapevine.
“Lady,” she whispered, “I seek Your help on my quest. I pray that You protect those I love, those who live within the Gryphon’s Citadel. Protect Lady Joisan and her lord, Kerovan. Protect their daughter and son, Hyana and Firdun. Most of all, I pray You, protect my father. Help me find someone who can heal him, so that Jervon may be himself again, after all these years. And Lady . . .” Her soft words faltered in the darkness. “Please … let me find my mother, the Lady Elys. She has been gone from us so long. . . . Protect her wherever she may be. You who are mindful of those who carry life. . . .”
She grasped the two symbols tightly, wishing for a sign- any sign-that her words were more than empty sounds. But the blue quan-iron eyes of the gryphon did not flare into brightness; the blessed metal had never shone for her. And the amber token ofGunnora was as dark as the night surrounding her. It was always so. …
With a tired sigh, Lydryth lay back down, giving herself up to sleep, hoping only that tonight she would be too tired to dream.
The two-wheeled pony cart creaked along the stone-paved road. “Up there with you, Fancy,” the young farmer ordered, waving his willow switch at the round rump of the small bay gelding pulling it. “There’s Es City in sight, songsmith,” he called over his shoulder. “Won’t be long now.”
Lydryth carefully handed the fanner’s wife the sleeping form of Pris, their tousle-headed little girl, before scrambling up to peer out of the cart. Even in the full light of the earlyafternoon sun, the approaching city appeared dark with age; its rounded grey-green towers seeming to crouch atop the earth as though they had been there since even the land had been first created. Es was a good-sized city, one obviously built to serve as fortress as well as capital-a high wall ran completely around it, enclosing it.
When the farmer’s wagon rolled up to the gate, two civil but well-armed guards scrutinized cart and occupants purposefully. After they had determined that there was nothing hidden beneath the woven rugs Catkus and Leiona had come to sell, they waved them through.
As the pony cart lurched over cobbled streets, Lydryth looked around her wonderingly. Es was the largest municipality she had ever visited; Dalesfolk were not by nature citydwellers, and in all her wanderings across ancient Arvon, Lydryth had never seen any settlement larger than a village.
Close up, the mossy stone of ancient buildings reared before her imposingly, the patina of age surrounding them so tangible the young woman wondered-only half-fancifully- whether it would be felt by an exploring hand. She put out her fingers as the cart slowed around a precipitous comer in the narrow street, then drew them back. The stones themselves seemed to ward off the curious-or was what she sensed real witchery, a spell designed to protect the city?
“Here we be, minstrel,” Catkus announced, drawing rein at the entrance to the marketplace. “Good fortune go with you on your travels.” The young man touched hand to the ragged brim of his straw hat in a farewell salute. “Thanks again for singing little Pris through that bout of colic the other night.”
“Thank you for the ride and the company,” Lydryth returned, scrambling off the cart, then giving a farewell wave to Catkus, Leiona and Pris.
The young woman had no need to inquire the way to the Citadel-the witches’ stronghold was the most massive building in Es, with a round tower overtopping all of the surrounding structures. She set off through the crowded streets, her pack and hand-harp slung over her back. As she walked, her eyes were drawn to the people treading the footworn streets- those who called themselves the Old Race.
Tall they were, and of unusually somber mien. They carried themselves proudly, walking straight-backed as any soldier. Their hair was as black as her own, but neither wave nor curl softened the planes of their long, oval, pointed-chinned faces. Eyes that were varying shades of grey were alert in their unlined faces. (It was well known even in the Dales that the Old Race of Estcarp evidenced little sign of aging until death was but a handful of seasons away.)