He is baiting me, she thought, but kept her voice civil and noncommittal. “We have been traveling for days,” she said, speaking perfect truth but deliberately twisting the meaning. “Most recently we traversed a great Waste lying to the west of these foothills, after which we found ourselves here.”
Her inquisitor could not conceal a start of surprise. His eyes narrowed in unbelief.. . and well he might be skeptical. No one that Lydryth had ever heard of before could claim to have crossed the noxious Waste that lay to the far west of Arvon. She smiled at him tentatively, wondering all the while why he and his men-at-arms (Are they indeed of humankind? she found herself thinking. Their hands seem oddly shaped….) had come here.
“Indeed,” he said softly. “That is extraordinary hearing.”
Monso rumbled a deep challenge, and the leader’s mount raised its head. The creature was too well schooled to reply, but its eyes gleamed red. “And that is an extraordinary stallion you have been riding,” the newcomer continued, with barely a pause.
“No more so than your own,” Lydryth countered pleasantly.
He smiled; that stretch of lip and flash of teeth, instead of making him seem more human, made him seem far less. “My mount is of the pure blood, yours is … something different. A cross that I would have considered impossible.”
“Obviously not,” she pointed out, “since he stands before you.” He chuckled, and the sound made the songsmith’s skin crawl, as though slimy hands had fingered her naked flesh. One of the outriders made a chortling sound, and she thought she glimpsed sharpened rows of teeth within his mouth. Or was there a muzzle beneath that helm? She could not be sure. . . .
“Excellent!” the Dark leader announced. “You are a most extraordinary-and amusing-creature yourself, my lady. Not to mention passing fair.” He swept her a bow from his saddle.
“Thank you, sir,” she managed through stiff lips. Her fear of this Dark Adept-for so she now believed him to be-was growing, making the assumed lightness of their discourse more and more difficult for her to maintain. “May I ask a boon, please?”
“Of course!” He appeared delighted, and the aura of wrongness surrounding him intensified with each passing moment,
“May we traverse your demesnes, just long enough to reach the road? Again, I offer my deepest apologies for our inadvertent blunder.”
” ‘Our’ ?” he said, then deliberately, as if noticing for the first time, looked down at Alon, who lay huddled and still. “You have a companion! One that shares your bed, perhaps, as well as your road?”
Ignoring Lydryth’s tight-lipped headshake, he went on, in tones of mock-grief, “Alas, it seems I have a rival. . . oh, my heart lies in ruins, songsmith,” he said, gauntleted hand pressed to the breast of his surcoat, where that disturbing design was growing ever more distinct. Pearly light brightened the east now; sunrise was not far off. Lydryth wondered distractedly whether these creatures could stand to encounter the light of day-many Shadowed beings could not-but neither the leader nor his outriders seemed worried by dawn’s nearness.
The Dark Adept looked down at Alon’s wan, pinched features beneath his tumbled, none-too-clean hair, then sighed deeply. “I must say, my lady songsmith, that I fail to comprehend your taste. You could do better, I am certain.”
Anger surged up in Lydryth, growing hotter by the mo- ment, and with a toss of her head she abandoned this ridiculous facade of flirtation, this mockery of courtly conversation. “You did not answer my question, sir,” she said bluntly.
“What question, fair lady?”
“About whether we have permission to cross your domain.”
“That is correct, I did not.” The Dark One studied her intently. “Remiss of me. My answer is thus. You will accompany me back to our stronghold to speak with the Lord Abbot, who is the one you must entreat. I am certain that he will grant your request to traverse our lands.”
“And how far away is your stronghold?” she demanded.
“Barely a full day’s ride,” he replied lightly. “Such a small delay will not trouble you overmuch, will it, my lady?”
Lydryth felt anger building, until it pulsed behind her eyes, hot and vital. She recognized that strength of Will, that resolve, that gathering for what it was-Power. The songsmith did not allow herself to think about the abilities of the Adept she faced, his probable mastery of magic. Instead she merely smiled grimly. “I am afraid that it would be a great inconvenience. I regret that I must decline your kind invitation, sir.”
His handsome face hardened, and he laid hand to the hilt of his sword, then drew it smoothly. “And I am afraid that I must insist.”
She laughed outright, saw him start with surprise. “Then, sir, I must resist!” she cried, deliberately rhyming him. An idea was surging through her mind like Monso at full gallop, an idea built on generations of tradition-and on the Power she could feel herself becoming a vessel to hold. Lyrics and melody crowded her mind, pouring in without conscious thought.
“With that?” Recovering, he smiled grimly and pointed at her sword.
“No…,” Lydryth said, then slowly, deliberately, sheathed the blade. Picking up her hand-harp case, she took out the instrument, struck a ringing chord that seemed to swell and resound in the air, until it was nearly deafening. “With this!”
The Power filled her as she began to strum, then sing:
Would you then offend me, sir? I’ll stand on minstrel’s right: May your bright blade blind you, That you see not where it falls, May your heartthrob fill your ears That you hear not succor’s call. May every briar bind you, And fling you to your knees, May a loose-willed wench deny you, When you would seek her ease.
She saw the two unhuman outriders surreptitiously edge their mounts away from their overlord, watched his open consternation as her satire-filled with the Power she could feel emanating from her, thrumming forth from her harp- dominated the air. Ancient lore had it that one who offended a bard could be ill-wished, cursed, even unto death.
Lydryth poured into her song all her rage, all her frustration, all her anger at Yachne. The witch is probably behind this, she thought, feeling the words emerge from her mouth so poisoned that they might have been dipped in venom. The forces of the Dark want to delay us. which will aid her. Well, we shall see about that!
Her mind working fast, she fingered the harp in ringing chords, wishing for a fleeting moment that she had thought to put her finger picks on. The quan-iron strings stung her fingers. More words fell into place as she hastily composed the second verse of the satire. A rapid strum, then she continued, her voice rising with every note:
Then would you draw sword on me? Why sir, so let this be! Now let the moon-mad guide you Down illusion’s wandering ways, Now let you outlive your children, In an eternity of days:
Let cowardice o’ertake you When you would be most brave;
And let your rotted body lie In an unremembered grave!
The Keplian squealed, frightened, in response to a cruel jab from a spaded bit. The outriders backed their mounts away from their leader. Guttural, gobbling sounds broken with hisses emerged from the misshapen mouths the songsmith could glimpse beneath the creatures’ helmets. Lydryth had never heard their language before, but, even so, she could not mistake the fear in their voices.
The Dark Adept’s features writhed in pain and fear. Lydryth’s fingers plucked the strings other harp, sending forth the music, and her anger, directed straight at him. She knew beyond legend, beyond knowledge, beyond instinct . . . she knew in her bones that her words held Truth as well as Power. Her curse would come to pass. She was singing the Dark Adept’s fate, sealing it with her own magic.
“Let your rotted body lie in an unremembered grave!” She flung the last line at him again, seeing it strike with the force of an actual blow. With a wordless snarl, the leader spun his mount on its haunches and spurred it back in the direction they had come. The two outriders followed, but slower, staying well away from their master’s vicinity-as though they feared that the fate Lydryth had cursed him with might fall upon them, too, if they ventured too close.
Just as the flaming edge of the sun glimmered over the nearest hill, they vanished into the forested slope, heading north.
Lydryth stared after them, savoring her victory. She felt strong, triumphant, burning as though a fire of angry hatred blazed within her. As she remembered the Dark Adept’s expression, and the fate she had called down upon him, the songsmith threw back her head and laughed-laughed long and loud … laughed until she had no breath left, and needs must gasp after it. Some small comer other mind was shrieking at her that it was wrong to so exult in the downfall of another-even a Dark One-but she ignored that prickle of conscience.