And without belief and faith, power is nothing, she thought, remembering snippets of magical lore that she had learned from her mother and Joisan. Unless Alon believes that he can undo this ensorcellment, he cannot succeed.
“Then what must we do?” she asked, trying not to let her fear show. “We must cross the gorge,” he replied. “Yachne cannot have bespelled the entire width of Arvon. If we can find the true path through the illusion, we will emerge from it into the reality. But it will not be easy.” He shook his head, his uncertainty plain to read. “There are traps within traps here for the unwary. If we take a false step, we will surely be lost.”
“But you can see past the falseness to the truth, can’t you, Alon?” she asked. The panic that she had been holding back ever since they had walked blindly into this place was growing. What if they were trapped here, past all escape?
“The simpler, less complex illusions, yes. But Yachne’s power is now . . . formidable.” His mouth tightened grimly. “Simple illusion is an easy spell, but what surrounds us is far from simple … it is so detailed, so many-layered. Here there are illusions within illusions!”
“I understand …,” she whispered. Catching a movement in the comer other eye, she whirled around, but, as before, all was still… as still as death. Even so, the songsmith could not rid herself of the conviction that, just out of her sight, something had spied, then skittered giggling from one hiding place to another. From somewhere she heard a faint whine, and a gust of hot air brushed her cheek.
The ghost of a wind? she wondered, putting out a wetted finger. As if reading her thoughts, Alon nodded. “Illusion,” he said flatly. “This spell is not only complex, it is affecting more than just our vision. We will not only see what is not there, we will hear and feel it, also.”
Having grown up with the simple illusions that Elys had sometimes conjured to amuse her child, Lydryth was taken aback. Most Seeming-spells could not stand up to investigation by touch; attempting to verify the reality of an illusion by laying hand to it was usually the surest way to make it dissolve. The songsmith shuddered. “We must indeed be cautious.”
He nodded absently, gazing around them. “And there is one more thing,” he added heavily. “My instincts tell me that this spell has somehow altered even time itself… or our perception of it, at least.”
“How so?” “It is seeming to draw time out, slow it down. Crossing this gorge will take us long enough-if we even make it-” His mouth twisted. “But however long it takes us, it will seem even longer.” “But…” Lydryth pressed her fingers against her left side, feeling her heartbeat, reassuring in its steady rhythm. “But my heart is beating, I am breathing … I feel no different!”
” You are not different. Lady, not physically. Illusion works within the mind, though its effects can be very real-seeming indeed.” Alon glanced around them at the desolation of this violated, denuded land. “Somewhere around us lies the true path, masked by illusion, and that is what we must seek.”
“And the finding of that path will be no easy task,” Lydryth finished with what she believed to be the truth. He nodded.
“But you can find it…,” she said urgently, searching for reassurance in his grim expression-and not finding it. “You have the true sight!” “I do,” he agreed. “But constant use of the true sight is wearing… more wearying than fighting a score of annsmen. I only hope that my sight does not wane as I tire.”
“I will do whatever I can to aid you,” Lydryth promised. “We had better get started before another of those earthtremors comes.” She turned away, then gave him a sideways glance. “Or are they, too, illusion?”
“The ones we experienced before were real,” Alon told her levelly. “If one of us were to fall into one of those crevasses as they open … death would be equally real.” Only his eyes betrayed what he was feeling-a fear as great as her own.
Lydryth swallowed, resolutely fighting down the terror that wanted to possess her, make her run screaming in any direction, heedless of danger. “I understand. Now … which way? With no sun to guide us, all trails seem the same.”
“There,” Alon said, pointing to a opening between two towering reddish spires. “Walk directly behind me, and do not step off the path I hold to.”
He handed Monso’s lead to her, then turned to go. Suddenly he halted. “May I carry your staff?” he asked. “The quan-iron in the gryphon’s-head may aid in warning against a false step.”
Wordlessly, she handed him the quarterstaff, saw him reverse it in his hand so that the gryphon’s-head pointed downward, toward the ground before him. He began walking.
Lydryth followed him, eyes on the ground, stepping in the same places his feet had rested. She kept Monso snubbed close on a short rein, forcing the Keplian to walk beside her. Fortunately the stallion’s injury served to slow his naturally long strides.
Even this extreme caution did not completely save her from mishaps. The raw, rock-studded earth beneath her feet was littered with stones that seemed almost to nudge their way beneath her toes or heels so that they could then slip treacherously out from underfoot, or turn sharply, wrenching her ankles. The dead, greyed vegetation proved another hindrance, snagging her toes, slowing and tripping her no matter how carefully she stepped. Lydryth nearly fell several times. Once only her hold on Monso’s lead saved her from a headlong plunge down a short, precipitous cliff.
Soon the songsmith was hobbling in earnest, wincing with every step. Her eyes ached from the hot, brassy glare overhead; she blinked them only when they began to sting unbearably, afraid that closing them even for an instant would cause her to miss the true path.
Even with his true sight, Alon fared little better. His riding boots were not intended for prolonged walking, even without the hindrance of a bespelled land that seemed determined to thwart every forward step. Soon he, too, was limping.
The young Adept alternated between picking out the path a few stumbling steps ahead, then halting for endless moments to scan the torn, churned vista before them, using the quarterstaff to sweep the ground before his boots.
Several times he muttered softly, extending a hand, and Lydryth saw dark violet light flare from his fingertips, coalesce into a slender arrow of brightness, then wind its way along the ground before him, vanishing ten or fifteen paces farther on. If he can thus mark the true path for us, then we will be able to escape this maze, she thought with relief.
But soon she realized that using his Power to indicate their direction was wearing dangerously upon her companion. Each time he called up the violet arrows of light, the lines around Alon’s eyes and mouth deepened, the skin over his cheekbones grew tighter, until he seemed naught but a gaunt, greyed shadow of the man Lydryth had known. Sweat made runnels in the dust on his face; his thin shirt clung to his back, dark and soaked.
The songsmith fought back a surge of pity, reminding herself coldly that it was he who had led them into this peril in the first place. With a small, distant portion of her mind she was shocked by her own callousness, but she angrily hardened her heart as she placed one foot before the other, over and over again.
Onward they toiled, their pitifully slow progress made even more halting by their frequent stops while Alon determined the correct route. Overhead the sickly-hued sky never changed; heat pressed down on them like a muffling blanket. Thirst soon became a torment.
The travelers had three water flasks between them, hardly enough to last them even one day’s hard journey, considering that Monso must needs share their supply. The only water they had encountered within Yachne’s blighted land lay in muddy, scummed pools of such rankness that no creature could safely drink from them, or from springs that bubbled hot from the bowels of the earth, emitting eye- and throatsearing fumes.
After a time that went unmeasured except by Lydryth’s increasing thirst, pain from her wrenched ankles, and general misery from the will-sapping spell lying over the ensorcelled land, Alon halted. “Rest awhile . . . ,” he rasped. “Water . . .”
Slowly his knees folded and he sank to the ground, where he sat unmoving, shoulders bowed, head hanging with exhaustion.
The songsmith halted, too, then took out their packs of food and water flasks. She held out the container to Alon, who stared at it, his eyes so reddened and dulled with weariness that he seemed scarcely aware of what it was. “Here,” she said, steadying it as she removed the stopper. “Water. Drink, Alon.”