Gazing around her, marveling at the effect of that water, the songsmith wondered yet again just what manner of place this was. Obviously a Place of Power . . . Then, suddenly, the knowledge surfaced in her mind, recalled from tales heard long ago.
The Fane of Neave.
It was said to lie in the northwestern portion of this ancient land. Dark sorcery could not enter the Fane, could not exist within it. Small wonder that that inner darkness that had been growing within her had utterly disappeared once she crossed the border of this place. Neave . . . Neave was one of the Oldest Ones. Neave was all things natural, and good, and fruitful.
Even now, when couples were wed in Arvon, they drank a toast, each in turn, invoking Neave with their bridal cup, asking Neave to bless their union, make it devoted and fruitful.
The Fane of Neave. It had to be.
“Thank you, 0 Neave,” Lydryth breathed, her voice soft and earnest. “Thank you. . ..”
A sense of peace, quiet benediction, filled her. After a mo- meat she bent to her task again, refilling the water flasks with the springwater.
Carrying them, she went back to the entrance, her step once more swift and assured. Glancing down at Alon as she passed, she saw that he still lay unmoving, but the lines of pain and fear had smoothed out on his bruised, battered countenance. He seemed now to be in a natural sleep.
Once outside the Fane, she whistled softly, then saw the Keplian some distance away, cropping desultorily at the grass. Lydryth walked over to Monso, checked first his wound, and was relieved to discover that he had not reopened it, fortune be praised. Scenting the water, he nudged her, rumbling low in his throat.
She dared not let him drink much so soon after running so hard, but she gave the stallion several carefully rationed sips from Neave’s spring, using their small cooking pot. The thirsty creature lapped the cool liquid with his huge, pale-pink tongue, reminding her for all the world of a cat. Wetting down a comer of her cloak, she swiped and rinsed the sweat from the sable hide until the salty stiffness was gone.
By the time she had finished, Monso had begun to graze, tearing hungrily at the grass. Relieved that Neave’s spring had worked its restorative effect again, and that the Keplian no longer was on the verge of foundering with exhaustion, she went back to the Adept.
Sitting down cross-legged beside him, she carefully lifted his head into her lap, then wiped his face and hands. At the touch of that cool water, she saw the bruises and swellings visibly lessen, until they seemed only shadows of the original injuries.
Then, steadying his head against her thigh, she held the flask to his lips, urging him softly to drink. Alon sipped a little, swallowed, sipped again. He sighed deeply as the last lines of pain smoothed away from his face; then, a moment later, he opened his eyes. Lydryth offered a silent invocation of thanks, for his eyes were his own again, dark grey, gentle, and, at the moment, bewildered.
“What happened?” he whispered.
She touched finger to his lips, cautioning him to be quiet.
“In a moment,” she promised. “Drink some more, Alon. You must be very thirsty.”
He sighed, nodding, never taking his eyes from her face as he drank again, this time deeply. “We are in a safe place,” Lydryth told him, when he finished. “A Place of Power. Monso ran away … do you remember?”
Alon turned his head, and his eyes left hers to fasten on the Keplian, hungrily cropping grass. “He is fine,” she reassured him. “I will give him more to drink in a little while. The water from this spring is very restoring. How do you feel?”
“Well… now. But I cannot remember how I came here. I remember walking an endless dead land .. . and you singing … and a bridge of blood. I remember a Dark One . . . that you vanquished. Or was I dreaming?” he whispered uncertainly.
“No dream,” she replied, simply.
He turned his head as it lay pillowed in her lap, seeing the entrance to the Fane, the wildflower sward, the boulders surrounding the spring. “Where are we?” he whispered, finally.
“The Fane of Neave,” she replied. “Or so I believe.”
“A Place of Power . . . ,” he said.
“Yes. How do you feel now?” she asked again.
“Well,” he replied. “The pain is gone. I feel as though I may have been … ill. Was I sick?” he asked, almost childlike in his bemusement.
“Yes. But you are well now,” she assured him. “We are safe here.”
“I have been… cleansed,” he said after a moment, as if just realizing it. His eyes held hers intently for a long moment. “So have we both,” he added.
“Yes. Nothing of the Shadow can exist here. This is a protected place.”
“The past days…” He put out a hand, grasped hers tightly, urgently, and Lydryth watched memory flood back. “I was … sick. Poisoned by the Shadow. I said things…” He halted, nearly choking, his eyes widening with alarm. “Lydryth … I was planning to … to kill Yachne!”
“I know,” she said, gently. “But you were not yourself. Nor was I myself, when I drove away that Dark One.”
“I could never harm her,” he went on dully. “She raised me … cared for me. If she bore me no affection, that still does not lessen the debt I owe her for that. And remembering that I had planned to kill her makes me-” He broke off, and the songsmith could see more memories surface. The Adept drew a hard, sharp breath. “Lydryth-! I tried to kill Monso!”
“You did not harm him,” she made swift reply.
He sat up with a lurch, his eyes wide with horror. She saw him begin to shake, as though with an ague. “But the Amber Lady, Lydryth, it all comes back… I did my best to kill you\”
“I am fine,” she said, smiling, but she could not meet his gaze, suddenly afraid of the intensity she knew would be there. “As you can plainly see. Alon …” She swallowed, her throat tight. “Alon, you were not yourself. Neither of us remained untouched, but you- Working that spell to open the Dark Gate meant that you were more affected than I. If it were not for the Fane, we would both have been lost to ourselves.”
His hands came up, closed on her shoulders with a grip that made her gasp. “Lydryth . . . look at me. Look at me.” He waited, and after a moment she managed to raise her eyes to his, color rising hot into her cheeks at what she read there. “If anything happened to you . . .” He struggled for words, his voice grown thick and unsteady. “I would not. . . could not . . . without you . . . there is nothing . . .” He drew a deep, ragged breath. “Nothing, do you understand?”
She could summon no words of her own, could only stare at him, wide-eyed, feeling his breath touch her face, so close were they now.
Was it Alon who first leaned forward? Was it she? Or had they both moved at the same moment? Lydryth was never sure. She only knew that his hands had moved from her shoulders to gently cup her face; she only knew that their mouths met.
It was a gentle, tentative caress, a mere brushing of lips. Even though she had almost no experience at this herself, the songsmith realized immediately, instinctively, that Alon was no more lessoned in such matters than she-and found that knowledge pleased her, though why, she could not have told.
After a moment, he drew away, eyes searching her face, his fingers softly, hesitantly tracing her cheekbones, threading through the tumbled curls over her temples, pushing them back from her eyes. Lydryth struggled to speak, but Alon shook his head sternly, his fingers brushing her lips, halting any words.
Rising to his feet, he reached out a hand. As if spellbound (though this was a different magic from any she had yet encountered, if no less strong) she reached up, laid her fingers in his. He pulled her up to her feet, then into his arms, holding her tightly.
There was nothing tentative about this second kiss. Lydryth clung to him, shaken, as new feelings, desires, awoke within her, making her face honestly for the first time the knowledge that had been growing inside her ever since they had met. Until now she had pushed away her own longings, refused to acknowledge them, buried them as deeply as she could. But that was over now. Now there could be no denying, no going back . . . nor did she wish to.