The Adept was lying behind her, on the hillside. His eyes were closed; the sound of his name did not rouse him. Bright scarlet splashed the green grass by his side, soaking into the ground. That sight made the songsmith scuttle forward to seize his wrist, squeezing hard to stop the blood flow.
Finally, it halted. Lydryth sat back on her heels, her scarletstreaked hands shaking as she tried to summon the strength to do what she could to aid him. Alon still lay unconscious, so pale his skin was greyish and his lips blue. Despite the warmth of the sun, he was shivering beneath the thin fabric of his once-white linen shirt, now a rusty brown from drying blood.
Blankets… liquids… Healcraft that Joisan had taught her came slowly to mind. Pushing herself up onto legs that trembled at first from her own weakness, she walked slowly over to the Keplian and led him back to the Adept’s side Untying their packs, she then unsaddled the stallion, turning him loose to roll and graze, trusting that he would stay near his master.
Wrapping Alon snugly in both their cloaks, she gathered wood to build a small fire, then fetched water from the stream to heat. While she was waiting for the pot to simmer, she unpacked the small bag of simples Joisan had assembled for her so long ago. Snippets of lore gained from her fostermother came back to her as the sometimes sweet, sometimes sharp scents of the powdered herbs made her nostrils twitch.
A restorative . . . verbena! A tea made with verbena . . .
Scenting the distinctive sharp, lemony scent, she opened the proper bag, dropping the dried leaves into the pot. When the tisane was ready, she strained it, then, propping Alon’s head on her knee, urged him to drink. His eyelids fluttered, and he roused enough to swallow the tea, but he did not regain consciousness. His shivering eased, though, and for that the songsmith was grateful.
Before tackling the wound on his wrist, she drank a cup of the brew herself. The songsmith felt as emptied as if she had been awake and without food for days. Such weariness was normal after use of the Power, she knew that. The thought sparked a bittersweet memory.
/ worked magic, she thought, scarcely able to believe it. Even though it had happened only a short while ago, the memory was already raveling and faded, as if it had happened to another person, not the Lydryth of here-and-now. She sighed, shaking her head as she visualized again that hillside thomwalled by illusion, and how she had sung the falseness away to discover the truth beneath. Did I truly do that? Or was it Alon ‘s magic affecting me somehow? Is it possible that I truly do hold my own kind of Power?
There were no certain answers to her questions, and no time to ponder them. Kneeling beside the fast-running water, Lydryth washed her face and hands, scrubbing her fingertips and nails with white sand from the stream bottom. Joisan maintained that keeping wounds clean was fully as important as using the proper herbs and spells for their treatment.
After washing the oozing slash with boiled water, into which she had dissolved generous pinches of saffron and yarrow, to promote healing, she frowned as she studied the extent of the cut. It needed stitching, such as she had seen her fostermother do. But here in the wilds ofArvon, she had no needle, no boiled thread.
Lydryth considered simply bandaging the wound, but it was so deep that she thought it would take very little movement to reopen it and start the bleeding afresh. And in Alon’s present condition, any further blood loss would be dangerous-quite possibly fatal.
As she hesitated, her eye was caught by Dahaun’s small, sealed box containing the red mud from the Valley of the Green Silences. No! she thought, biting her lip. An idea had come to her, but it was not one she cared to contemplate. Dahaun said not to open the box! That mud is for Jervon-his last chance to be healed!
She glared down at Alon with sudden animosity. / will not use Jervon’s cure to heal you. / will NOT! Anger waxed hot within her. One small portion other mind argued that her fury was irrational, but she was too angry to listen to it.
“No!” she whispered fiercely. “Jervon is my father! You are nothing to me, nothing, do you hear?”
Her wrath had become a fire within her, raging out of control. It would serve you right if I went on without you. after you plunged us into such a morass of sorcery! she thought savagely. / ought to leave you here-leave you to die!
The young man stirred restlessly, as though even unconscious he sensed her sudden ire. Lydryth felt half-drunk with rage, with hate. For a moment her hand twitched toward her dagger; then she rose and walked straight away, not looking back.
Picking up her pack, she shouldered it, then started up the hillside. Monso whickered, pawing the ground anxiously, but she ignored the stallion. Furious, shaking, she remembered how they had escaped from Yachne’s illusion-land. She hated Alon for what he had forced her to discover about herself. / don’t want Power! she thought, incensed. It carries too much danger, too much risk! He had no right to do what he did!
Without warning, a blackness swooped out of the sky, heading straight for her eyes. A shrill scream rent the air. Lydryth ducked as it winged by her, its tailfeathers brushing the top of her head.
As she straightened up, the creature flung itself at her again, clawed talons nearly raking her face. The songsmith stumbled back, losing her footing on the hillside, then sat down so hard that lights flashed behind her eyes and a roaring filled her ears. Blinking, she stared wide-eyed at her surroundings. The creature that had swooped at her alighted on a dead tree nearby. It was a falcon, and, as she stared at it, it screamed again.
“Steel Talon!” Lydryth exclaimed, then, suddenly uncertain and shaken, she put a hand to her head. What was I doing? Abandoning Alon? Leaving him to die?
Incredulous horror filled her as she recalled the events of the past few minutes. If it had not been for Steel Talon, she might not have returned to her senses. What is wrong with me? she wondered. She remembered Alon’s cruel smile as he had watched the web-riders bum to death. Why are we behaving so? What is happening to us? Confused, fighting down panic, she ran back down the hillside to where Alon lay. Steel Talon alighted on the cantle of the saddle, where he perched, regarding her curiously as the songsmith applied the edge other knife to the seal on the box. Moments later, she had it open, revealing the rich, red mud. Scooping upa generous dollop, she spread it thickly across the wound. Quickly she closed the container tightly, then used a stub of candle to reseal the box with wax, hoping fervently that it would serve, and that the healing substance within would retain its potency.
Within moments after the red mud was patted into place on his wrist, the lines of pain on Alon’s countenance smoothed out. His muscles relaxed, and he appeared to fall into a deep, natural sleep. With slow, careful movements, she managed to ease off his blood-soaked shirt, then wet a cloth with hot water and used it to cleanse as much of the dried dirt and caked blood from his face, arms and chest as possible.
By the time she was finished, the sun had warmed and dried him. Though still pale, his color was better. Tucking the cloaks up snugly beneath his chin, she sat back on her heels and had another cup of tea. Then, while she chewed on a piece of joumeybread, she crumbled another piece into water to make a sort of porridge. Glancing up at Steel Talon, she spoke aloud, finding her own voice strange and harsh in her ears. “After losing so much blood he really needs fresh meat, Winged One. Can you find something?”
The falcon gave a soft, piercing cry, then, in a blur of blackness, launched himself upward, winging off over the hill. By the time Lydryth had washed her patient’s tunic, then managed to gently ease him into his clean shirt, the falcon sailed into view again. Steel Talon circled low over her, something clutched in his talons-something that he dropped, so it landed half a dozen paces away.
Rising, Lydryth went over to find a small burrower. Picking the limp creature up by its long ears, she called out, “Thank you. Steel Talon!”
After skinning the animal, then chopping the meat as fine as the heavy blade of her dagger would allow, she dropped the sticky handfuls into the pot. While she waited for the thick broth to cook, she busied herself tending the Keplian’s leg.