Dahaun waved at the crisply baked rounds of thin bread, wedges of cheese and an assortment of fruits and early vegetables. “Can you eat as you talk?”
Alon was already reaching for a piece of fruit. “If we cannot, we will take turns,” he said. “I met this wandering songsmith while I was racing Monso in a village called Rylon Comers. …”
He continued telling about how he had met Lydryth, while the minstrel busied herself with the food. Then, when he came to the reason for her quest, he nodded to his companion, and she quickly explained about her search for a means to heal her father. “Alon wondered whether the red mud that is to be found within this Valley might not help,” she concluded, giving the Lady an inquiring glance.
Dahaun’s ever-shifting features were grave as she considered the girl’s query. “I do not know,” she said softly, “whether the mud will heal ills of the mind and spirit as well as those of the body. Never has it been so tested. But you are welcome to take some with you and try.”
“Thank you. Lady.”
“But Lydryth’s quest is but the half of it,” Alon said, after swallowing a last bite of food. “Last night, she was awakened by a strange noise that I could not hear. . . .” He continued, telling the strange tale of their journey to the ancient mirror-Gate, and of Yachne and her Power-stealing spell.
Kyllan’s expression darkened when he heard the identity of the ancient sorcerer the witch had bested. “Dinzil!” he exclaimed. “I thought that one forever gone, or dead.”
“Which he may well be, by now,” Alon said, then he proceeded to tell Tregarth of the threat to all males possessing Power. “She called us things against nature, abominations,” he finished, finally. “Yachne intends to make herself the most powerful sorceress the world has ever known.”
“Where could she have come from?” Dahaun wondered aloud.
“From some of the things she said, I believe that she was once a witch of Estcarp,” Lydryth said, and Alon nodded agreement. “One of the ones whose Power was broken when she made herself a vessel to channel the magic during the Turning.”
“When she had the raising of you, did she ever refer to being a witch?” Kyllan asked Alon.
The younger man shook his head. “She was certainly a Wise Woman, but I would have swom she had not the ability to perform such a summoning as we witnessed,” he said thoughtfully. “Opening a Gate is, as I discovered for myself today, no easy task. The Yachne that I knew before could scry, and sense the presence of the Shadow, and heal, using herbs and such. Minor magics, at best. She was no sorceress.”
“Where did she leam that spell, then?” Lydryth mused. “She said that someone had taught it to her. . . . but who?”
“Perhaps she lied, and actually uncovered it in some musty old scroll in Lormt,” Alon speculated, then he sighed. “But however she learned it, it makes little difference. The danger to us is real.”
“I will contact Kaththea and Kemoc immediately,” Kyllan said. “And tomorrow mom my lady wife will release her messenger birds to carry the news across the mountains to my father, Simon, at Etsford.”
“If only I had the Power,” Lydryth murmured softly. “Then I might be able to warn Kerovan tonight.”
“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Dahaun reassured her. “It is nearly sunset already… it will be dawn before you know it.”
Lydryth nodded, knowing the Lady of the Green Silences strove only to comfort her, but she was restless. The restorative effects of the red pool had worked only too well. . . . She was too full of energy to sleep. Rising, she went outside, seeing Monso grazing on the lush grass, and Steel Talon perched in a tree not far from the stallion. A few minutes later, Alon followed her out, carrying both their swordbelts. “Time for my lesson,” he reminded her.
Lydryth was only too glad to have something to take up her thoughts, and together they practiced his one lunge and parry. Adding to Alon’s small store of knowledge, the songsmith then demonstrated a backhand parry, and they practiced that. Before they were done, Kyllan came out to tell them that Yonan and Urik had just set off, to ride with the warning to the settlement of the Old Race who had lived in Karsten before the Homing that had turned them into refugees. But now the former Karstenians were firmly established in this new-and, at the same time, ancient-land.
His news given, Tregarth lingered, observing the lesson. “You are a good teacher,” Kyllan said to the bard when she and her student had parted, each to regain lost breath. “He has definitely mastered that lunge.”
“Unfortunately, that is the only move I have mastered,” Alon said ruefully, wiping sweat from his brow. “But one is better than none, I suppose.”
Handing her sword to Kyllan, Lydryth encouraged Tregarth to coach her student. The older man readily did so, proving an able swordsman-probably, Lydryth thought, the equal of Jervon before his accident.
As if in response to her thought of her father and his plight, Dahaun appeared through the gathering dusk, holding out to the songsmith a small wood box that appeared to be sealed with wax or resin. This she put into Lydryth’s hands. “Some of the healing mud,” she said. “Be careful not to break the seal until you are ready to use it.”
Clutching it, Lydryth ran trembling fingers over the top of the box. Could this really be the means to heal Jervon? “Lady,” she said, her voice nigh to breaking, “I thank you. … I am so grateful. . . .”
“We are the ones who are in your debt,” Dahaun assured her. “I only pray that the mud will work. You must smooth it over his brow and scalp, and allow it to dry before chipping it free.”
“I will do so,” the girl replied. “And thank you again, my lady.”
Dahaun smiled at her. “It is I who owe you for the warning that may have saved my lord,” she said. “Be very sure that we shall guard against this Yachne and her foul spells. Power rightfully belongs to whomever possesses it and wields it responsibly. It is not for her to say yea or nay as to who may work magic.”
Lydryth nodded solemn agreement.
They left the Valley in the predawn darkness, with saddlebags replenished from Dahaun’s larder. Monso snorted eagerly, seeming anxious to be on the way again, and they made a speedy return to Yachne’s cave, arriving by midmoming.
“Do you remember how she opened the Gate?” Lydryth asked, as they dismounted outside the entrance. Steel Talon glided down from a nearby hillock to perch on the stallion’s saddlebow. “Do you remember what she chanted?”
“I listened carefully,” Alon replied, frowning, then he shrugged, as if unsure of his memory. “And last night I made notes of what I recalled and studied them. We can only hope that my efforts will serve. We cannot know until we make the attempt.”
Once within the confines of the cavern, he drew forth a short wand from one of the saddlebags. “Elder,” he said, holding it up for his companion’s inspection. “Used for the darker and more powerful spells.”
Quickly, he began sketching another pentagram on the floor of the cavern, in much the same manner as Yachne had. “But you are not going to summon anyone!” Lydryth protested.
“True, but I must follow the ritual exactly as she did. I-know not what element will open the Gate,” he told her. “She did no spell of opening, such as I did, only spoke the final words to the dark mirror. Therefore something in her spell to undo Dinzil must have awakened the Gate, tapped its power, then left it waiting to function.”
Quickly, he set out candles Dahaun had supplied, lit them with a wave of his hand. “What will you use for blood?” the songsmith asked fearfully.
“My own,” he said.
“But doing so may weaken you too much!” she protested. “Use mine, Alon.”
Stubbornly, he shook his head. “I cannot use another living creature’s blood to work spells. If I needs must work Dark spells, then I will work them as cleanly as I can… lest the very working blacken my spirit beyond redemption.”
“Alon, do not be a fool! You need your strength to open that Gate! If you use my blood you will be taking from me only what I freely offer! That will not stain you!”
“No,” he maintained, and she could glimpse the stubborn gleam in his eyes. “My own blood will I use, and no other.”
Lydryth did not argue further, only drew her knife and deeply nicked her own wrist, then held it out to him. “Here.”
He gave her an angry glare, but she shook-her arm at him so that red spattered the rocky floor around them. “Don’t waste it!”