He turned to regard her soberly, then shook his head and held out the sword. “My thanks, but I was planning on leaving my weapon with everything else,” he said. “One cannot run with a sword in its sheath to hamper one’s strides. And to catch Yachne, I must make all possible speed.” He shrugged ruefully. “It would be different if I were able to use it effectively.”
Lydryth gazed at him, pleading now. “We will rig a sling for it across your back, so you may carry it the way the Sulcar do their great broadswords,” she told him; then, taking his swordbelt, she demonstrated by buckling it around his shoulders. After sheathing her sword in his old scabbard, she fastened the weapon into place securely. “See? Balanced thus, the weight is not much,” she insisted.
Still he hesitated.
“Alon . ..,” she whispered, holding his eyes with her own. “Carry it, please. Carry it, and remember everything that I have taught you.” 24i
He smiled ruefully. “One lunge and two parries,” he observed dryly. “I am indeed ready to take on all comers.” Then, seeing the expression in her blue eyes, he nodded, sobering. “I will carry it, dear heart. And I will remember.”
Lydryth breathed a profound sigh of relief. She could not have said why this was so important to her; she only knew that it was. The songsmith was as sure of it as if she could scry the future, the way her foster-sister, Hyana, could.
Together they returned to Monso, who stood saddled and ready before the entrance to the Fane. Lydryth’s harp was wrapped in her stained, battered cloak and lashed to the back of the saddle. Songsmith and Adept had traded footgear, to better fit them for their appointed tasks. Lydryth now wore Alon’s high, scarred riding boots … a trifle large, but she had padded the toes. The Adept had laced on a pair other old trail buskins, loose on her now from much walking.
“Here,” he said, pulling off his heavy leather jerkin, “you had best take this. It will protect you from underbrush.”
She donned the leather garment, then pulled on her gloves. Measuring the stirrups against her arm, she shortened them several notches. Monso turned his head to sniff at her curiously while the songsmith fastened one of the flasks filled with Neave’s springwater to the saddle. Lydryth patted the Keplian. “Now it will be just the two of us, son,” she murmured. “If you allow me to stay aboard.”
Finally, she thrust Dahaun’s small box into the pocket of Alon’s jerkin, fastening the flap down to secure it. “Ready,” she announced.
Silently, Alon offered her his cupped hands for a leg up. Quickly, before she could change her mind, Lydryth gathered the reins in her left hand, then put her left foot into Alon’s hands. A quick Roost . . . she was up.
Monso snorted, pawed the ground restlessly as she gathered up the reins. “Twenty leagues, you said?” Alon asked, turning to regard the darkening east.
“Perhaps as much as twenty-five,” she admitted. “At the last of it I will have to leave the road and go cross-country over the Kioga lands. There is only one entrance to Landisl’s Valley.” He swung back to regard her earnestly, then put a hand atop her gloved ones as she held the reins. “At a steady gallop, you should be there by midnight,” he said. “If you do not let Monso out, you should be able to rein him where you wish to go, control his speed. But you know for yourself what can happen if he’s allowed to run all-out.”
She knew only too well. “I will be careful,” she assured him gravely. “Besides”-she forced a lighter tone-“this fellow is likely still tired from his race to the Fane today. Perhaps Neave’s water has had the same pacifying effect on him as it did on us. From now on, he’ll likely be as docile as a child’s palfrey, won’t you, Monso?” she asked, smoothing the restless Keplian’s mane.
Alon ignored her feeble attempt at humor, only stared up at her steadily. His hand as it rested atop hers tightened around her fingers until his grip was almost painful. “May the Amber Lady watch over you, my love,” he whispered. “I pray that we will see each other again. Until then . . . fare you well.”
Lydryth’s heart was too full for words, and she knew better than to trust her voice. Instead she leaned down, and managed to drop a kiss on his temple before Monso, uneasy with his new rider, sidled away.
Alon turned, sword across his back, then waved to summon Steel Talon. “Be my guide, winged warrior!” he shouted, then began trotting downslope as the bird circled overhead.
Monso, left behind, arched his neck and crab-stepped. Taking a deep breath, the songsmith loosened the reins a notch . . . then another. The K-eplian paced forward, then he was trotting after his master, his strides lengthening.
Lydryth stood in her stirrups, her fingers working the reins, and through them the bit in the Keplian’s mouth .. . squeeze, relax, squeeze, relax . . .
Cautiously, she loosened rein another notch; then Monso was cantering downhill, passing Alon in two strides. As they reached the spot where they had left the road, Lydryth’s fingers tightened on the left rein as the muscles of her right leg squeezed her mount’s barrel. The Keplian obediently bore left, turning back onto the road.
She glanced up, once, just before a screen of brush blocked her view, to see Alon waving farewell as he reached the last of the downslope. Then the green branches eclipsed the Adept, and there was only the road, bare and red in the light of sunset, beckoning her east.
Still standing in her stirrups to keep her weight balanced over Monso’s shoulders, Lydryth let out another bit of rein, and then the stallion was galloping.
Galloping . . . galloping …
The surface beneath them was perfect for a running horse- not so hard-packed that it would cause splints or sole bruises, nor dry enough yet to raise a choking dust. Seeing the empty road before him, Monso tugged hopefully at the bit, but obeyed Lydryth’s hands when she held him back. The songsmith felt a sense of exultation fill her. To be in command of such speed, such power! It was a heady sensation as they glided along.
Twilight darkened around them, and still they encountered no one. Monso seemed content to gallop along at a speed most mortal steeds would have been hard-pressed to match.
Before long, Lydryth must needs summon her night vision, letting a thread of melody run through her mind. She hummed aloud, watching the landscape sharpen around her, saw one black ear turn back to catch her voice. She hummed louder, then found herself singing to the Keplian-a tune that, under the circumstances, seemed only too fitting:
Along the midnight road they ran Along the broad and gleaming span Five gallant steeds of noble pride, Not gold, but life, hung on their ride.
She continued through all of “Lord Faral’s Race,” while Monso kept one ear pricked back, as though enjoying the song.
Time passed…. On a moonless night, such as this one was, it was hard to guess just how much, but Lydryth could now see farmlands and an occasional house as they flashed by. They had galloped into the more populated lands of Arvon.
Once they raced through a town, Monso’s shoes struck sparks from a cobbled street, and the sound of rapid hoofbeats doubled and redoubled as they echoed off the stone and timbered houses and shops. Hanging above the door of the townhall was a clan mantle; the songsmith’s enhanced vision saw that it was blue.
“We’re in Bluemantle lands, Monso,” she sang, ignoring the tavern door that was flung open behind her, the shouts of inquiry from startled villagers that quickly faded and were gone. “We’ve come at least ten leagues already. If we stay on this road, we’ll be crossing Redmantle lands soon. Are you wearied?”
The black half-bred snorted, almost as if in disdain at the idea. Lydryth laughed aloud, and they galloped on.
Farmlands stretched again to each side of them. A stone bridge flashed by beneath Monso’s hooves. Lydryth heard the chuckling lap of the water as it splashed the pilings, and ran a dry tongue across wind-chapped lips. For a moment she thought of halting, taking a breather, sipping some of the water from Neave’s spring, but she decided she could hold out a little longer.
Once we’re on Redmantle lands, she promised herself. The ford at the Deepwater. We’ll rest a few minutes there. …
By now her legs were aching from standing in the stirrups. Lydryth eased herself down into the saddle, though still she leaned forward, trying to rest lightly on the Keplian’s back. They were galloping now toward what appeared to be a dark blot crouching over the road like some gigantic beast, ready to engulf them within its maw.