“I see…,” Lydryth said. “But if we journey to Kastryn-”
The young witch clutched the songsmith’s sleeve. “We? Do you mean that you will still help me escape? Even though I have no way to pay or reward you?”
“Yes,” said Lydryth, as solemnly as if she took oath, “I will aid you, sister.” The girl clasped Lydryth’s hand with both her own. “My gratitude forever! May Gunnora’s Blessings follow you-” she began, fervently.
But the minstrel shook her head, cutting off the outpouring of gratitude. “I will merit thanks only if we succeed, sister.”
“Avris,” the witch introduced herself, a little shyly. Lydryth’s eyed widened. The girl nodded defiantly, acknowledging the songsmith’s surprise that she had revealed her name. “My name is Avris,” she repeated, as if proud to openly defy the rules of the Citadel. “And you?”
“Lydryth. Now, as I was saying, if we journey to Kastryn, will those of the Citadel not know immediately where you have gone, and seek us there?”
“They may seek me, but by the time they find me, I will be of no more use to them,” Avris replied. “Logar and I will be wed in the same hour of seeing each other, and”-she grinned wryly-“once a wedded, bedded wife, my small trace of Power will vanish from me.”
Do not be too sure of that, the songsmith thought, with a wry smile of her own, as she remembered her mother, the Lady Elys, and her foster-mother, the Lady Joisan. They were women of Power, had lain with their husbands and borne children to them, just as the Lady Jaelithe had. And they, also, had retained their Power. Still, knowing the witches’ hatred of men, Lydryth concluded, Avris is probably right. They will not want her among their numbers after she has been, to their minds, “tainted” by union with a male. They will let her go.
“Besides,” the young witch was continuing, “Logar and I will not tarry to face their ire. I will convince him that we must flee immediately-perhaps make our way eastward, to that land overmountain, Escore. The Tregarth brothers and sister found refuge there-why not Logar and I?”
“You have schemed long on this,” Lydryth observed. “This is not just some idle impulse.”
“Ever since they took me, I have thought of little else!” Avris’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “Outwardly, I became resigned, applied myself to learning as best I might, so as to lull their suspicions. But all the time I was planning how to escape. Now there is no more time left-next week, I travel again to the Place of Wisdom for a final retreat, then they will lay the Witch Oath on me. I must get away before they can thus seal me to them!”
“Have you a plan for escaping the Citadel itself?”
The girl hesitated. “I have thought of one, but I am loath to suggest it, because it holds great danger for you. Have you no trace of the Power?”
“None,” Lydryth said flatly. “But tell me your plan anyway.”
“As I told you, my Power is weak,” Avris said. “But I believe that I can manage to cloak my features with illusion for long enough to get past that guard out there. I will take on your image. He will be expecting you to leave, and thus will not regard you too closely. But a full-body Seeming is beyond me, so I must have your clothes, your pack and harp case.”
“So you will take on my features with my garments, long enough to just walk out…,” the bard mused. “An ingenuous plan, but my soldier father taught me much of stealth and tactics, and it is ofttimes the simplest scheme that holds the greatest chance of success. But then what happens to me?”
“That is the flaw,” the girl said grimly. “They will question you, and if you give them any slightest reason to doubt your word, they can compel truth from you, using the Power.”
“I can say that you ensorcelled me, held me helpless with your magic,” Lydryth said, her words coming faster as she thought. “To lend credence to that, you must leave me bound, wearing only my drawers and underbodice. Perhaps it would also be wise for you to knock me unconscious.”
“I could not hurt you!” Avris protested.
“I will show you where and how to strike the blow,” the minstrel said. “One that will knock me out, but not injure me much beyond an aching head for a few hours.”
“But-”
“You will do as you must,” Lydryth said, firmly. “Remember, there is no better excuse for not raising the alarm than to be discovered bound and unconscious, with a lump behind one ear. I doubt very much that the witches will ever suspect us of conspiracy under those circumstances.” “But what if they do suspect you? Compel the truth from you?” The songsmith considered. “I cannot believe that they will do much to me simply for allowing my clothes and pack to be stolen. That is hardly a hanging offense, especially considering that you have Power, and I have none. They will readily believe that you compelled me to do your will. And there is also this: I am not a citizen ofEstcarp. . I can truthfully plead ignorance of local laws. The fact that I asked one of the witches to aid a despised male proves that.”
“Yes,” the witch agreed, thoughtfully. “Any man or woman living within the boundaries of this land for long cannot remain ignorant of the ways of the witches.” Her brows drew together in a worried frown. “But to strike you down … I cannot! We must find some other way.”
Lydryth gripped the girl’s shoulders, her, strong fingers deliberately bringing pain. “You want to see your betrothed again, do you not?” “Yes . . . ,” Avris whispered. “Then you will do as I say. You must! Every moment we delay means a greater chance of discovery!” The girl’s shoulders sagged. “Very well. But they will still question you. What of that?” Lydryth smiled humorlessly. “Do not forget that I am a bard. One in my trade must be an accomplished actor or actress, remember? They will believe me.” At least, I hope they will, she added, silently. “One more question,” the other said. “Why^ I can see you aiding me if there was no risk to you, but this way, there is great danger. The anger of the witches is not a thing to risk lightly. So why are you moved to help me?”
Lydryth hesitated. “I am also one who has lived surrounded by those who have control over forces I cannot even discern,” she said, finally. “I would not wish such a fate on another. And if you truly can set me on the road to this place of learning, this Lormt, a place where I may find some clue that will help me in my search . . .” She shrugged. “Nothing in all the world could mean more to me than that.”
Avris held out her hand, and, after a moment, Lydryth took it. The small fingers felt cold in hers, but the witch’s grasp was firm. “I thank you . . . sister.”
While Lydryth remained concealed in the little storeroom, Avris hurriedly went in search of the items she would require to work the illusion. When she returned, carrying a small case filled with herbs and simples, they began.
It took only moments for Avris to assume Lydryth’s outer clothing; then the songsmith stood shivering as the witch stared up into her face, intently, as if memorizing every feature. “I can do it… ,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“Then by all means, begin,” the bard said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “This floor is c-cold.”
“Very well.” Avris rooted through her bag, emerging finally with a dried leaf, which she handed to the songsmith. “I will need your spittle for the Seeming, and several of your hairs- living ones, drawn from their roots. Place all here.”
Lydryth, long used to the principles of magic, though she could not apply them, knew better than to question or argue. She spat on the leaf, rubbing the moisture into its brownishgreen surface, then plucked several hairs and placed them in the middle of it. “Here,” she said.
The witch did not reply, only took the leaf, her eyes closed as she concentrated. Raising the leaf to her lips, she blew upon it, then rolled it into a ball. Slowly, she began tracing the contours of her own face, lightly rubbing them with the leafball. As she did so, she sang softly, a monotonous, minor tune, its words so ancient that Lydryth recognized them as a form of the Old Tongue, the ancient language of Power, still spoken sometimes in distant, sorcery-shrouded Arvon.
As the music called to her, Lydryth took out her hand-harp and instinctively began plucking the strings. She sang, her voice harmonizing with the witch’s, until, between them, the girls produced a faint, eerie, hair-prickling melody.