Finally, he drew away slightly, stared down at her wordlessly. Lydryth rested her forehead against his shoulder, leaning against him as he stroked her tangled hair. The silence stretched between them, until finally he broke it. “Oh, my,” she heard him whisper. She smiled, shaking her head, repressing a sudden urge to laugh.
“Is that all you can think of to say?” she murmured, gently mocking.
“I can think of a thousand things to say,” he told her, his lips moving against her temple, her cheekbone. “But what I cannot decide is which of them to say first.” He chuckled softly. “Perhaps you should start.”
She shook her head, smiling slightly, wistfully. “I cannot. There is too much to say.” Lydryth raised her head, gazed at him, then laid her cheek against his, feeling the faint prickle of unshaven cheek against the softness of her own skin. “To even make a good beginning at saying what I want to say to you, would require the rest of the day … at least.”
“You may have the day. I will take the night,” he said, his tone still light, but the grey eyes held such intensity that her breath caught in her throat. Her heart was pounding so hard she wondered whether he could hear it. Confused, yet feeling such joy as she had never known, Lydryth glanced away from him, then froze.
The sun was already far to the west. The night that he spoke of would be here only too soon. Memory of the reason they were here rushed back, filling her, and, when Alon followed her gaze, she saw the same realization in his eyes.
“I wish . . . ,” she said slowly. “Oh, Alon … I wish! But, my dear heart … we cannot linger here. Kerovan’s life depends upon us.”
His expression hardened; then he nodded. “Yachne must be stopped. I will think of a way to restrain her without harming her. Right now”-his glance turned tender for one final moment-“I feel strong enough to accomplish anything.”
He sighed; then his arms tightened around her, and she returned the embrace. Then, slowly, formally, they both stepped back a pace, deliberately leaving the words unsaid, the caresses unmade.
As she heard a grunt from behind her, Lydryth glanced over her shoulder to see Monso, legs flailing the air as the stallion rolled. Alon went over to his mount, felt his chest and shoulders, then examined the healing wound on his leg.
“He can have water, now,” he said, then, catching the Keplian’s rein, led him toward the entrance, heading for the spring.
But as they neared that gap in the trees marking the entrance to the Fane, the half-bred halted, eyes rolling wildly, then backed away, ears flattened.
“What ails him?” Alon demanded, staring at the frightened creature. “Cannot beasts enter this place?”
Lydryth glanced inside the Fane, saw Steel Talon sitting perched on one of the rocks. “I think I know,” she said. “Steel Talon can enter this place because he is a natural creature. Monso is a half-bred, created by sorcery, and no natural being. Nothing of the Shadow can exist within the Fane of Neave, which is where I believe we are.”
“And Monso is part . . . part demon-horse,” Alon said slowly. “But. . . how then did he know where to bring us, so that we could be cleansed . . . healed?”
“I do not know,” Lydryth said, with equal gravity. She glanced thoughtfully at the falcon. “Unless Steel Talon told him …”
They both fell silent, remembering the way the falcon’s cries had seemingly triggered the Keplian’s actions. Finally, Alon shook his head. “Even if poor Monso cannot enter this Fane,” he said, “surely he can drink from the water?”
“He can,” she assured him. “I gave him some earlier.” Once again they rigged a makeshift trough from Alon’s jerkin; then, flask by flask, the Adept allowed the horse to drink, slowly letting him swallow his fill.
Finally, the Keplian’s thirst was satisfied. Alon fed him a measure of grain, and while he munched, both humans ministered to him, brushing him until the black coat shone once more in the red-tinged light of the westering sun.
Steel Talon winged over to sit on the cantle of the saddle, and, as he worked, Alon glanced frequently at the falcon, as if the bird were reporting to him. Having seen him do such before, Lydryth was not surprised to see Alon’s expression darken with concern. “What is it?” she asked softly.
“Steel Talon has seen the witch. She is still heading southeast, toward a place that my winged friend thinks of as ‘the dead place, the sick trees place, the Power-cage place,’ which I take to mean that Yachne has discovered a place that is the opposite of this one.” He nodded at the Fane. “It is my guess that she will use this evil place to focus her magic as she seeks to entrap Kerovan.”
“How far away?”
“Several hours from here, on foot.” He stared east, obviously thinking hard. “How far away is K-ar Garudwyn, by your best estimate?”
Lydryth considered. “I believe that Kar Garudwyn lies perhaps twenty leagues distant,” she said, pointing east. “That is, if I correctly remember the legends of where the Fane lies, in relation to Redmantle lands. My home is just beyond their boundaries.”
He stepped forward, caught her hands in his. “Carrying double, Monso would have no chance to make that distance tonight, Lydryth. And someone must go after Yachne.”
She gazed at him, her breath catching in her throat. ‘What. . . what are you suggesting?”
“We split up.” His voice was low, urgent. “I will go after Yachne, afoot. I am young, and Neave’s spring did its work well. My leg is healed. Steel Talon can lead me to the sorceress-I will do my best to catch her before she can harness the Power of that Shadowed place.”
“And I?” she asked, feeling fear catch in her throat like a harsh crust of bread. “What would you have me do?”
He drew a deep breath. “Lydryth … you must ride Monso to Kar Garudwyn. You alone know the way . . . your family will listen to you, where they would distrust a stranger.”
The songsmith stared past Alon’s shoulder at the grazing stallion, placid enough now. She shivered. To ride the demonhorse alone, across leagues of countryside, racing wildly through a moonless night? What if Monso threw her, or turned against her? She remembered that terrifying speed, and her mouth went dry. “Alon … I do not think I can,” she whispered.
He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her until she tore her eyes from the stallion and stared back up at him. “You must,” he said. “There is naught else to be done, Lydryth! You must take Monso, and ride as if all the Shadows of this earth were on your trail-which may well be the case. But it is the only way to warn Kerovan in time!”
She bit her lip, then took a deep breath, nodding. “Help me saddle him,” she said.
Fourteen
The travelers abandoned their packs, except for Lydryth’s harp, caching them in the branches of a beech tree on the edge of the meadow. As she helped to secure them aloft, Lydryth wondered silently whether such precautions were foolish. The chances were excellent that neither of them would ever return to claim their belongings.
When they had finished, she tied her staff atop the saddlebags, then drew her gryphon-headed sword from its place of concealment. Slowly, the songsmith held it out to her companion. “I want you to take it,” she said. “I cannot abandon my harp, but I will not burden Monso with the weight of both of them. Besides, you may need a weapon.”
He hesitated, then reached out, fingers tracing the golden gryphon that formed the hilt. The creature’s mouth gaped open, and in its jaws it grasped a heavy bluish crystal that served as a counterbalance. The creature’s blue quan-iron eyes seemed to regard them knowingly.
Alon’s fingers traced the sinuous body of the gryphon. Wrapped with silver wire to provide a secure grip, it formed the narrow portion of the hilt above the guard. Sliding his hand around the grip, the Adept hefted the sword, then swung it, hesitantly testing its balance.
Ripples of crimson ran down the blued steel as the setting sun’s rays reflected off the blade. A tentative smile curved Alon’s mouth as his sweeps and thrusts grew surer. “It has a sweet balance in my hand,” he said wonderingly. “Almost as if it is alive, and responsive to my wishes.”
“The best swords are forged so,” she told him. “I want you to carry it, Alon. It will serve you far better than that other,” she finished, a catch in her throat. Silently, she prayed to Gunnora that he would not have to use it. Alon was still far from being a swordsman, and the finest weapon in the world could not alter that.