Taking a quick drink from her flask to ease the dryness of her throat after walking, she opened her eyes wide, imagining herself seeing in the dark; then, softly, she began to hum.
To her left… there, that was a bush. As Lydryth concentrated, its outlines sharpened. And there… that was a small gully gouged by the hard spring rains. Over to her right was an ancient limb, its bare branches seeming skeletal in the uncanny vision she was acquiring.
Picking up Monso’s lead once again, humming steadily, the songsmith went on.
By midnight she was stumbling with weariness, and her throat was too raw to produce any more sound. She had discovered, however, that simply holding the melody firmly in mind, hearing it within the confines of her own head, sufficed to allow her to use this small magic she now owned.
However, there was a price. By the Amber Lady, there was a grim tax levied on anyone who would use magic. For the first time Lydryth truly understood, understood in every muscle, every sinew, why Joisan and Elys and Alon and Hyana always emerged from spell-casting sessions shaking with weariness and ravenously hungry. Several times she had halted to chew handfuls of dried fruit.
Finally, when she was beginning to weave with exhaustion and clutch Monso’s scraggly mane to stay upright, the songsmith had to halt. Her legs folded beneath her without her leave; she sank down on the grass.
She must have dozed there for several minutes, but finally she was roused by Monso’s nosing the back of her neck. Stiff muscles screamed silent protest as she hoisted herself wearily to her feet. Alon was still a-horse, though he lay slumped across Monso’s neck.
When she tried to loosen his hands, she found them locked in a death-grip on the K-eplian’s mane. She had to pry his fingers up, one by one.
Then she tugged at his body until he toppled toward her. She groaned aloud as she caught his limp weight. Though not much taller than she was, he weighed more. Struggling, she managed to ease him to the ground unharmed. Hastily wrapping him in his cloak, she left him to sleep. Food and water could wait. It was all she could do to pull Monso’s saddle off, so the Keplian could graze.
Then, rolling herself in her own cloak, Lydryth stretched out on the ground, and knew no more.
She awoke some time later to the sound ofMonso snorting and pawing nervously. The night was far spent; the thinnest sliver of moon shed a faint light. By tomorrow it will be moondark, she thought absently, pushing herself up on one elbow, wondering what had awakened her from such a profound slumber. Her answer came quickly-Monso. The half-bred stood nearby, not grazing, clearly agitated and on sentry-go.
“What is it, fellow?” she asked softly.
For reply the Keplian snorted so loudly that she jumped-a noisy houuffp. of expelled breath.
The songsmith summoned night-sight, mentally running a melody through her mind, and clearly saw Monso, spilled ink against the softer blackness of the spring night. He was staring northward, neck arched, ears pricked so far forward they nearly touched at the tips, his ebony tail flung straight up. He snorted again, then, without warning, screamed-the ringing challenge of one stallion to another.
An answer came out of the distance-a slurred, hissing call that sounded like no creature she had ever encountered!
Thoroughly alarmed, the songsmith scrambled free of her cloak, hand reaching for her staff. When she drew her sword, the bared steel glimmered faintly in the wan light of the dying moon.
Alon mumbled something in his sleep, but did not awaken. Lydryth considered trying to rouse him, but, remembering his weakness, decided to let him sleep, if possible. Perhaps Monso’s challenge had been voiced at the leader of a band of wild horses. Such were known to roam Arvon in its remoter parts. Distance or rock formations could have distorted the sound, made it seem so eerie.
But, as she gained her feet and stared northward, that faint hope vanished. Three mounted figures were trotting toward them. The songsmith’s heart contracted within her.
Quickly she found Alon’s lead-shank, then tethered the Keplian to a stout bush. There were no trees nearby, but she thought the fastening would hold him for a lunge or two. If their callers came in peace-Please, by Your blessing. Amber Lady, let them not mean us harm!-she did not want a stallionbattle on her hands.
As their visitors approached, she strained to make out details. The one in the center was tall, and bestrode a huge black. Seeing the flash of red from the creature’s eyes, Lydryth realized that the beast was a full-blooded Keplian. Any small hope she had held that their nocturnal callers came with friendly intentions now vanished.
The two beasts flanking the Keplian seemed, at first glance, to be light grey or white horses. But as they came closer, she saw that they were not like any creatures she had ever seen,
Their heads were long and narrow, as were their necks, bodies and legs. Instead of a true horse’s short hair, they seemed to gleam faintly, as though their skins were not only smooth, but also scaled! Glimpses of sharp, curving teeth were revealed as their riders reined them down to a walk some distance away. Lydryth saw that they did not have hooves, but clawed talons, much like the falcon’s.
Like some kind of unnatural cross between horses and lizards, she thought. Like those beasts Sylvya told me of, the ones that Maleron and his hunters bestrode, when they rode as That Which Runs the Ridges . . .
The two armsmen wore black armor, and their faces were overshadowed by their helms, so the songsmith could make out no features.
But the central rider, the one mounted on the Keplian, wore brightly burnished chain mail and a dark red surcoat over it, worked with a crest. The songsmith stared at that device, certain that she had seen its like before, somewhere … a snake-or, rather, the bare skull of a snake-crowned, with dark rays of Power emanating from it. …
Where had she seen such a crest? Lydryth’s mind spun i1Z frantically, searching, scrabbling through memory. She had been with Jervon . . . yes, he had been there, and that same device had been carved . . . yes, carved . . . into a gatepost! She had it now! It had been a gatepost at Garth Howell, the school where those with the Power came to leam to use their magic!
The memory surged into Lydryth’s mind with such force that she gasped. She remembered the day she and her father had gone to the place to inquire about the Seeing Stone. The abbot, a thin, dark man with pale, ascetic features had courteously given them directions to reach the farseeing Place of Power. But before they had ridden forth, a young lay sister had drawn them aside, then whispered a few hasty words of warning. “Beware the Stone.” Lydryth could hear again that hoarse young voice in her mind. “It gives true sight, but it exacts a terrible price for it!”
And behind the girl’s head had been the gatepost, and upon it, graven deep into the granite, the same design that now faced her. The inhabitants of Arvon feared the school as a place where Power-wielders gathered, much as they feared the Grey Towers of the Wereriders. The place did not give open allegiance to the Left-Hand Path, but, over the years, there had been tales …
Lydryth’s hand itched to raise her sword, but she forced herself to stand motionless as the riders halted before her. The one mounted on the Keplian unhelmed, and she saw, with her augmented vision, that he was well-favored-even handsome, with a strong jaw and regular features. “Fair can befoul,” she remembered Sylvya telling her. “My brother Maleron was handsome. …”
And so was Dinzil, Lydryth suddenly remembered. She kept her head up, her sword pointed down, but her knees were bent, her body poised to assume fighting stance. The songsmith held her silence, forcing the newcomer to speak first.
He leaned on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes holding hers. “Fair meeting, minstrel,” he said, his tones cultured and deliberately mild. “You and your companion are traveling through our lands.”
Garth Howell’s lands, she thought, but did not reveal that she had recognized the device on his surcoat. Since it did not appear on any of the publicly displayed banners flown from the towers, she assumed that this sigil was intended to remain secret. “If we have trespassed, sir, I beg forgiveness. It was done in ignorance,” she replied, keeping her voice smooth and courteous. “We are bound for Redmantle lands and beyond.”
“Few travelers pass this way,” he said, and with her increased night vision she discerned the raking glance he gave her, the still-slumbering Adept, and Monso. “Our dominions lie rather off the known paths. How did you come to be here?”