Slowly, now favoring the foreleg the web-riders had injured, the Keplian walked between the pillars.
The glamourie that always surrounded one who rode into the valley began to make swirling images before Lydryth’s eyes, but she continued to sing as she urged Monso forward, and a few strides farther on, it abruptly vanished. Lydryth looked to her right, and saw, glowing blue against the darkness, near the summit of the mountain, the spires of Kar Garudwyn-a name which meant, in the Old Tongue, “High Castle of the Gryphon.”
Home. Her heart leaped within her.
“Just a little farther, Monso. Then you can rest,” she muttered, stroking the Keplian. Summoning the dregs of her energy, she began to hum, and her night vision slowly crept back. As soon as she could see the path before her, Lydryth chirruped to Monso, then, when he did not respond, used her bootheels to goad the stallion into a canter.
She kept her legs and heels in his sides until the Keplian had increased speed to a hand-gallop along the trail. She felt ashamed doing it, knowing that she was abusing an animal that had already given his all, an animal now on the verge of total exhaustion and collapse, but they still had more than a league to go.
I’m tired, too, son, Lydryth thought, patting the Keplian’s neck. “Come on, you can do it,” she whispered, thinking it would be such a relief to stop . . . just to fall out of the saddle and lie on the ground and sleep . . . sleep. . . .
Kerovan’s image filled her mind, making her stiffen her shoulders. Just a little farther . . .
The Keplian’s strides now were labored; his breath rasped loud in her ears. He was clearly favoring his injured foreleg. Biting her lip, the songsmith forced him onward, slapping the reins lightly against his neck.
Her night-sight was gone; the darkness blurred around her.
Lydryth swayed in the saddle, then forced herself to grip the pommel. Where was she? How far had she come?
There! Off to her right… the entrance to the ramp that led up the mountainside! To one who had not lived here all her life, it would seem naught but a sheer wall of rock, but Kerovan had long ago adjusted the spell that held it concealed so that his foster-daughter could come and go as she pleased.
Crouching low on the Keplian’s back, she turned him toward that opening in the mountainside, then lashed down hard with the reins, driving him forward and upward with her seat, heels and voice. “Almost there, Monso!” she gasped. “Go, boy! For Alon!”
The Keplian’s steel-shod hooves clattered against the stone as they entered the stone tunnel that slanted up, round and round, leading to Kar Garudwyn. The walls and ceiling glowed faintly blue, as did all the stone from which the mountain citadel was constructed.
There was barely enough room within the ramped tunnel for the Keplian and his rider. Lydryth had to lie flat along his neck, and even then her shoulders and head brushed the stone walls and ceiling. Several times she bumped hard against the unyielding rock as the stallion turned and twisted, head ducked low, sides heaving like a smith’s bellows, climbing . . . climbing.
“Almost there . . .,” Lydryth whispered, though no sound escaped her dry lips. “Almost there, Monso . . . keep going!”
Somehow, the Keplian climbed.
When horse and rider finally scrambled out of the enclosed rampway they were faced with the lighted glory that had been Landisl’s ancient citadel. Kar Garudwyn was a towering structure with tall, strangely twisted spires and multitudes of narrow, arched windows and doorways. A muted blue light emanated from those openings.
Halting Monso on the stone-paved walkway, the songsmith took a deep breath, then shouted: “Rouse you! Kerovan! Joisan! Sylvya! There is danger! Wake!”
Her family must have realized as soon as someone entered the rampway that a newcomer was on the way, for she had scarcely finished her first summons before two fully-dressed figures appeared in the huge arched doorway.
Joisan and, at her side, Kerovan!
Lydryth felt a vast relief sweep her as she saw her fosterfather unharmed. A moment later Firdun-He’s grown so tall! she thought distractedly-then his sister, Hyana, appeared. Lastly, Sylvya was there. The halfling woman had a cap of downy feathers instead of hair, and round eyes much larger than any of full humankind heritage.
“Lydryth!” Joisan exclaimed, starting down the steps toward her foster-daughter. “My dear, what-”
Kerovan’s lady halted and broke off as Monso swayed, then groaned loudly. The Keplian’s head dropped forward until his nose touched the stones beneath his forefeet. His agonized, rasping breaths suddenly filled the night.
Before his dazed rider could leap off, the stallion quivered like an arrow driven deep into a target; then slowly, ponderously, his legs buckled and he sank down on his knees. Lydryth barely managed to get her right leg out of the way as the Keplian rolled over on his left side, then lay unmoving.
Slowly, stumbling, the songsmith stepped over and away from the still black form, its legs stiffly outthrust; then she gazed up at her family, tears streaming down her face. “I’ve killed him,” she said, in a voice that even she could barely hear. “Oh, Alon . . . I’m so sorry. Monso … so sorry . . .”
“Lydryth …” Joisan was hastening down the steps toward her, arms held out.
The minstrel drew herself up, forced herself to speak clearly, despite the roaring sound that still made even her own voice difficult to hear. “I came to warn you. Kerovan … you are in great danger. It is the sorceress Yachne. She has great Power, and she plans to steal yours. She will try to take you with her spell. . . tonight. You must protect yourself. You must…”
Lydryth’s words faltered, then trailed off. At first she thought the ground was moving beneath her; then she realized that it was she who was swaying back and forth. She tried to stiffen her knees, but she could not feel her legs. A high, thin note reverberated in her ears. Accompanying that monoto- Z56 nous shrilling was a wave of blackness even darker and colder than the depths of the Deepwater. The darkness rose up around her, drowning her, pulling her down.
Before her stunned family could reachAer, Lydryth crumpled to the pavement beside Monso.
Fifteen
“£ydryth.” A voice reached her ears … a familiar voice. “Lydryth . . . ,” it called again. “Sister, awaken, please. . . .” Fingers stroked her aching head, easing the pain behind her temples. She was resting on something soft and warm. “Here,” the voice said. “Some water . . . drink. Sister.”
Cool liquid in her mouth, trickling down her throat, easing the dryness. The songsmith swallowed eagerly, then opened her eyes to see Hyana’s face hovering above hers.
“Lydryth . . . Sister, how do you feel?” she asked, concerned. Hyana resembled her mother, with her light chestnut hair, green eyes and the fair complexion of a Daleswoman. Only her high cheekbones and pointed chin marked her as being Kerovan’s daughter, also.
“Oh, Hyana,” Lydryth whispered. “What ofKerovan? Is he safe?”
“He is,” a new voice said, and the songsmith turned her head as Firdun appeared beside his sister. “Father is fine.”
As her foster-brother smiled reassuringly at her, Lydryth was again reminded of how much he had grown. At fourteen, he was more youth now than lad, tall and leggy. He had his father’s long, oval face, dark hair, and eyes that in some lights appeared yellowish brown, and in others pale grey.
“Where is Kerovan?” Lydryth asked. Her mind seemed to be filled with wool rather than thought. She could see from the expression on her foster-siblings’ faces that they were barely holding themselves back from a thousand questions. “He is in danger. I rode from near Garth Howell to warn him. . . .”
“Have no fear for Father,” Firdun assured her. “Even now he is sitting on Landisl’s throne in the Great Hall, ringed about with enough charms and talismans to set up a booth at a fair.” He flashed his irreverent grin. “And complaining loudly because Mother warned him not to leave the protections. He is demanding to know what chances out here. I told him I would do my best to find out.”
“Where is Joisan? And Sylvya?” Lydryth demanded.
“They left me to tend you, while they are tending to your . . . mount,” Hyana replied.
“Tending to him?” Lydryth repeated blankly. “But . . . Monso is dead….”
Her foster-sister shook her head, her long braids, wrapped with colorful embroidered ribbons in the Kioga fashion, bouncing on her shoulders as she did so. “The creature lives,” she said. “But for how long . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head.