After they had eaten and drunk, emptying the third and last flask between them, they made their way down the raw rock of the hillside, then walked the short distance to the edge of the drop. Making sure both feet were planted as securely as possible, Lydryth took hold of Monso’s right stirrup and leaned forward, gazing downward.
Sheer red rock for as far down as she could see, disappearing finally into the swirling grey mist.
Alon picked up a stone, held it suspended over the gorge, then released it. It fell. . . and fell. . .
. .. and fell. They never heard it strike bottom.
Lydryth stared at the wall of mist before them. It was perhaps two of Monso’s lengths distant. “You believe that if we can plunge into that mist, we shall be released from the spell and back in the real Arvon,” she said finally.
Alon nodded.
“How shall we cross the gap?” she asked, keeping her voice level, as though they were discussing a problem with a solution, rather than quick and certain death.
“We must make a bridge,” he repeated.
“Using what?”
“Ourselves,” he said flatly. “Our Power. My blooA Your music.”
She gazed at him wide-eyed. “You are mad,” she whispered.
Alon shook his head at her wamingly. “You have already learned the value of belief, Lydryth. You will need all of it you can summon. Do not let doubt intrude. I am sane, never doubt it. This”-he waved at the abyss-“is our way out. On the other side lies the Arvon we left.”
She caught again that faint scent of flowers. Monso sniffed the air; then the Keplian’s nostrils widened and he nickered, pawing. “He smells the water,” Alon said.
Lydryth bit her lip, then took a deep breath. What choice, after all, did she have? “Very well,” she said quietly. “I believe. [ How shall we do it?” !
He gave her a quick, approving nod. “We will need to combine our Power,” he said. “Create a Seeming of our own. One of the ones so strong that it has solidity, substance. It will not be easy,” he finished, wamingly. “But it can be done.”
“I am ready,” she said resolutely. “Tell me what to do.”
“In the first place, you must concentrate,” he told her. “If the earth trembles this time, you must not let it disturb you, do you understand?”
She nodded.
The Adept took his knife out of its sheath, handed it to her. “When I nod, you must cut,” he said, tapping his wrist. “Cut deeply enough so that the blood flows freely, but not so deep that we cannot staunch the wound later.” Lydryth hesitated, then took the knife he held out. “I would do it myself,” Alon said, with a note of apology, “but we must link hands for this. Whatever happens, do not let go.”
“I understand,” she said, studying the blue veins running along the inside of his forearm, planning the best place to do as he bade. “Then what?”
“You must sing. You will feel the Power leaving you, joining with the blood to create the bridge. Use your music to strengthen your Power-and our bridge. Sing, and stop for nothing! As soon as the bridge is solid, you must send Monso across, then lead me. I will have my eyes closed, holding the spell in my mind’s eye, and I will not be able to see what I-we-have wrought.”
He gazed at her intently. “IfGunnora smiles upon us, by the time I next see you, we will be back in Arvon.”
Lydryth touched the symbol of the Amber Lady that she wore upon her neck. Then, quickly, she checked that all their supplies were securely lashed to Monso’s saddle. “We are ready,” she told Alon.
Solemnly, he unbuttoned his left sleeve, rolled it up so his arm was bared. The he held out both hands to her. Lydryth grasped his right hand tightly with her left, then raised the knife.
Alon closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, then nodded. “First, the music,” he muttered.
Lydryth began to hum softly…. Choosing a tune nearly at random, she was taken aback to realize it was “Hathor’s Ghost Stallion,” the melody she had been singing when first they had met. As she began to sing the words, his fingers squeezed hers. “Now,” he whispered.
Bracing herself, Lydryth brought the knife up to the flesh of his wrist. It would be far easier to cut myself, she thought, forcing herself to keep singing. Amber Lady, aid me! Do not let me hurt him! Let us escape from this place, I beg of You!
Touching the blade to skin, she resolutely drew it across and down. A tiny trickle of red followed, and she forced herself to cut deeper… deeper. The trickle strengthened, began to drip .. . then flow.
The songsmith had spilled blood before, but never like this. She felt darkness creeping up on the edges of her vision, and only the hard grasp on her fingers kept her from fainting or being sick. Still, she sang, never missing a note.
Alon began to mutter hoarsely, chanting in a language she did not recognize, as blood splashed on the edge of the abyss. Lydryth was conscious of a sudden pull upon her inner strength. Alon’s blood was only the outward sign of what was happening here. There was a draining, a flow from her to him, that made her almost falter. Summoning all her will, her determination, she stood firm, singing, and watched the abyss.
From that steady drip of scarlet, something was growing. Lydryth’s eyes widened as she saw something taking shape … a bridge! An actual curved span, shadowy, but gaining substance! It was red … as red as blood, pulsing to the beat of both their hearts . . . and with each beat, it gained substance.
Alon’s face was pale now, beneath his tan, but his chanting grew louder. Blood spattered, Lydryth was singing loudly now, forcing the words to ring out true and strong, forcing herself to believe in what she was seeing.
The bridge shimmered scarlet in the light, stretching across the chasm, into the grey mist. Careful not to loose her grip on Alon’s hand, the songsmith raised her foot, touched it to the bridge. It was solid-it took her weight. But will it hold the stallion’s?
“Come on, Monso,” she sang, incorporating the order into one of the verses. One-handed, she grasped the Keplian’s rein and pulled him so he fronted that span. She tugged at his lead, indicating she wanted him to cross. “Go on, boy!” she sang, her voice ringing out in a musical command. “Go!”
The stallion pawed at the bridge, obviously dubious, but the scent of water, and the solid feel of Alon’s creation beneath his questing hoof, convinced him. With a snort, the half-bred plunged forward. His hooves clattered on the bridge, as he surged up onto it, then disappeared into the mist. A last flick of his black tail, then he was gone.
Did he fall? Lydryth wondered, but resolutely forced herself not to even consider that possibility. She guided Alon to step onto the span, nerving herself to place both feet on that crimson surface. Together, they edged along, the Adept chanting, Lydryth singing.
A moment later, the most wonderful music she had ever heard reached the songsmith’s ears, even above the sound of her own singing. It was the sound of a horse drinking, great, gulping slurps of water. “Thank you. Amber Lady!” Lydryth sang, careful not to look down. She pulled Alon faster, as they made a crablike progress.
They were slightly more than halfway across when Lydryth felt the Adept stagger. Casting an anxious glance at him, she saw that his face was grey. His eyes rolled back in his head; showing only the whites. Knees buckling, he swayed. The shining crimson surface beneath their feet began to quiver.
Lydryth slung her free arm around Alon’s waist, holding him against her. The bridge shivered, fading. Resolutely squeezing her own eyes shut, Lydryth lunged forward, leaping into the mist, dragging Alon with her.
A heartbeat later she felt herself falling . . . falling. .. . Twelve
For what seemed endless seconds, Lydryth fell through the swirling greyness. A scream welled in her throat, trying to burst from her lips. But before any sound could emerge, she struck solid ground, landing so hard that the breath rushed from her lungs. She pitched over, rolling, the rich smell of growing turf filling her nostrils.
When the world finally stopped its dizzying spin, Lydryth found herself staring dazedly at a blue sky dotted with white clouds. The sun shone just past its zenith. Raising her head weakly, she saw Monso regarding her, ears pricked, muzzle still dripping water from the stream flowing past his hooves.
Someone groaned.
The pain in that sound brought her up onto hands and knees. “Alon?”