“Let your rotted body lie in an unremembered grave,” Lydryth whispered, smiling a death’s-head grin as the dawnlight crept across her face. As Lydryth’s laughter finally faded away into small wheezes of savage merriment, a voice reached her ears: “Well done, songsmith.”
She whirled around, to find Alon sitting up, regarding her steadily. “How long have you been awake?” she demanded, feeling some of yesterday’s anger at him surface again.
“Long enough,” he made reply, “to see that you needed no aid in defeating that one.” He nodded in the direction of the vanished Dark Adept. “Congratulations.”
She scowled at him furiously. “Small help you were! I thought you too weak to even sit up without aid, else I would have tried to awaken you, so you could have dealt with our visitor.” The rush of Power was ebbing, emptying her, leaving her body so weak that she was suddenly forced to sit down before she toppled over. Her head ached fiercely… her flesh seemed to shrivel on her bones.
Alon shrugged carelessly. “You did not need me. And now perhaps you will believe that you possess more than a touch of Power.” He smiled without humor. “I would never have thought of using a satire. Those things will come to pass for him, you know,” he said, slanting a curious glance at her, as if asking whether she minded.
The songsmith tossed her head. “I know they will,” she said, then smiled, feeling a rush of satisfaction. Her own exultation at the defeat of the Dark One again struck her as wrong, shadowed, but she easily pushed that small, nagging prickle of conscience aside. “Now what?” she asked.
He dragged over the saddlebag containing their provisions. “First we eat and drink, then we depart,” he said simply. “We must be gone from here as swiftly as may be. There may be more where he came from.”
After they finished eating, Lydryth checked his wound. Beneath the scrap of bandage, the mud was hardened and cracking loose, so she chipped it away with a ragged fingernail. Where the gaping slash had been, there was naught but a thin, white scar. She stared at it wonderingly. If only it can work such wonders on my father! Her hope was shaken, though, when she remembered that she had broken the seal on Dahaun’s box.
Monso’s wound was much improved, and his master again chanted a healing-spell over it, while rubbing it with a paste he produced from his supplies. When Lydryth would have taken her accustomed place at the Keplian’s head, the Adept pointed to the stirrup. “Today you ride,” he said. “Such magic as you worked demands a cruel toll from the body. I will walk.”
She studied his features, still pale beneath the weathering caused by their days in the sun. “You are not strong enough yet,” she said, knowing she spoke truth.
“I slept most of yesterday,” he reminded her. “Where you barely rested at all. Up you go,” he ordered, pointing to the saddle.
Lydryth hesitated, but then, feeling her own weakness, she placed foot to stirrup. Alon steadied her as she slowly swung up onto the Keplian’s back, stifling a grunt of pain as sore muscles protested.
It seemed odd to sit in the middle of Monso’s back, rather than on his rump. The half-bred shifted restlessly, rolling an eye back at her; then his ears flattened. She tensed as she felt the coiled strength in his hindquarters and shoulders. The Keplian snorted, pawing angrily.
“Am I the first person to bestride him other than you?” she asked, suppressing a catch in her voice. Memory of those, terrifying rides when Monso had bolted made her swallow.
The Adept nodded. ‘Keep your legs loose on his sides,” he warned, reminding her curtly of what she already knew from her years of experience while riding with the Kioga, helping them break horses. “If you are tense, he will feel your unease.” Quietly, he soothed his horse.
The songsmith nodded, forcing herself to relax in the saddle. Gradually, the hump in the Keplian’s back eased. Alon started forward, leading the half-bred. Moments later. Steel Talon swooped by, screeching a hoarse greeting.
Within an hour, the lack of sleep and the previous day’s exertions told on Lydryth; she fell into a light doze in the saddle, her body automatically swaying to the rhythm of Monso’s walk.
She awoke with a gasp and a jerk when the black half-bred abruptly halted, flinging his head up as though he had been unexpectedly jabbed by the bit. Startled, Lydryth sat up, blinking, then rubbed sleep out of her gritty eyes. Her mouth was dry, filled with a taste that made her grimace. Hunger gnawed her vitals. By the look of the sun, it was well past noon.
Ahead of them stretched a road, the first such they had seen. Lydryth glanced down at Alon, saw him leaning heavily against Monso’s shoulder, as though that support were the only thing keeping him up.
The bard swallowed, attempting to force words from the dry well that was now her throat. “Alon?” she croaked. “What chances? Are you hurt?” He shook his head, but made no move to straighten up. Lydryth slid down out of the saddle, catching him by the arm and peering into his face. He was sweating and pale. “What happened?” she asked worriedly.
“Twisted my foot,” he muttered. “Need a moment. . .”
“You have walked too far,” she said, taking down the water flask and lifting it to her lips, first rinsing the vileness from her mouth, then drinking thirstily. She handed it to him, watched him drink, then said, “You ride now. I’ll walk.”
“No,” he said, sealing the flask. His tone brooked no opposition. “Climb back on. I can walk.”
“Walk?” She let her scorn at the idea fill her voice. “Oh, of a certainty! And run, too, no doubt! Don’t be a fool!”
His grey eyes hardened until they appeared as light and flat as pebbles in a streambed. “I told you, /will walk.” He jerked his head at the Keplian’s empty saddle. “Climb back up. Now.”
“You cannot order me,” she stated, her voice cold and soft. “You will be an even greater fool if you attempt that.”
The Adept flushed angrily. “Watch your tongue, songsmith. It is wagging too freely.”
“What I say and where I go-and how I reach my destination”-her own anger was growing, and she clenched both fists-“are my concern, not yours!”
His mouth tightened to a grim slash, and around him the air seemed to shiver and glow. Fear touched the bard, and she took a hasty step backward before she could stop herself.
Alon opened his mouth to say something-and, from his expression, it was no pleasantry-but his words were never uttered. Without warning, Steel Talon screamed shrilly; then Monso thrust his big black head against his master’s chest, nearly knocking him over. The Adept swore as his injured foot gave way beneath him. He barely managed to stay on his feet. By the time he had recovered his balance, Lydryth had regained control of her temper.
Pointing down at the Keplian’s leg, she said, “He is nearly healed. If we go slowly, there is no reason we both cannot ride.” Her companion hesitated. She watched as he tried unobtrusively to rest his weight on his right foot, then repressed a wince. Finally, Alon nodded. “Very well,” he snapped.
Limping, he went over to the stallion and climbed up; then, reluctantly, he turned in the saddle to offer a hand to the songsmith. Pointedly, she ignored his grudging offer of aid, managing instead to swing up behind him unassisted.
Scowling blackly, Alon signaled Monso forward, and the Keplian walked steadily toward the road. But when they reached that earthen track, Alon turned the stallion’s head southeast. Lydryth nudged him. “Kar Garudwyn lies that way,” she said urgently, pointing due east, to their left.
He ignored her.
Urgently, the songsmith tugged at his arm, “You are heading the wrong way!”
Stubbornly, he shook his head.
“Alon!” She struck him lightly on the shoulder. “Halt!”
His voice, when it finally came, was little more than a sullen growl. “No.”
“Alon, we must go due east, not this way! What do you hope to gain by this?”
Finally he signaled the Keplian to stop, then turned to look at her. “Yachne’s death,” he said flatly. “The sorceress is that way,” he added, pointing southeast.
“But… but…,” she stammered with indignation, feeling an anger that was being rapidly quenched by fear. He truly means to do it! “We have already decided that it would be best to go straight to Kar Garudwyn. We cannot turn aside from our path! Kerovan, remember? We must save Kerovan!”
“When Yachne is dead, she will prove no threat to anyone on this world,” he said, and there was a vicious undertone to his voice that made Lydryth’s breath catch in her throat. “Steel Talon tells me that she has headed this way, and is still little more than a half-day’s journey ahead of us.”