“Monso is already going,” Lydryth cried, pointing to the Keplian, who was even now trotting up the trail. “Quickly, while he gives us a lead!” Her legs closed around Vyar’s barrel, but it took another smack with the reins to force the mare after the stallion.
The rot-trees (or so Lydryth had come to think of them) closed in around her. The soil beneath the mare’s hooves was grey, leached of life, sterile and powdery as talc. After a breath or two, Lydryth fumbled out her kerchief and tied it over her mouth and nose. She risked a swift glance back, and saw the others following her example. The horses were plainly not at ease in this “forest,” but none had balked.
Lydryth was in a fever of impatience, wanting to urge Vyar into a gallop, -but, after Kerovan’s warning about the danger of touching the trees, she restrained herself … barely. Her conviction that Alon was in trouble grew until she was quivering like a plucked harpstring. She found herself remembering every moment, every passing touch between them since they had met, and was powerless to halt the images flowing through her mind.
The wood stretched away on either side of them, quiet and poisonous, but, somewhat to Lydryth’s surprise, they met no one and nothing. She had half-expected another contingent of web-riders. If there ever existed a place more perfect to have been their spawning ground, she had never seen it.
Glancing back at the others, she saw Kerovan’s wristlet glowing brilliant blue, as it had that day she and Jervon were nearly ensorcelled by the Keplian. But they did not need the talisman to warn them against the Shadow-or to tell them they were in grave peril. The rank stench surrounding them would not allow even a moment’s forgetting.
Steel Talon sat hunched on the cantle of the Keplian’s sad- die, and Lydryth realized that the falcon was, rightfully, loath to perch on any of the limbs in this unnatural wood. She wondered how far this Place extended-they had already ridden for nearly a league.
Even as that thought crossed her mind, they came to the end of their trail. Suddenly the rot-trees ended, leaving a huge, roughly circular meadow in their midst. The “meadow” was covered in a short, sere turf, the color of ancient lichen. In its center rose an enormous rock, as large as a good-sized cottage.
Monso trotted swiftly into the meadow with a nicker of recognition. Lydryth followed the Keplian’s direction, then saw, silhouetted against that massive boulder, two figures.
Violet light surrounded one, emanating from the crystal talisman he wore. His hands were up in a warding gesture, and a violet haze wreathed them, shaped almost like a warrior’s shield. The other figure was undoubtedly Yachne, though she still wore a shapeless grey robe and hood, hiding her identity. Serpent-shaped trails of purple light shot through with darkred streaks fell from the tip of her fingers, then launched themselves across the intervening space, aimed at the Adept’s head.
“Alon!” Lydryth shouted, and was off Vyar and running toward him before the mare even came to a stop. “Alon!”
Monso bolted toward his master; then, with a suddenness that nearly knocked him off all four feet, the half-bred stopped dead, as though he had run into some invisible barrier.
Which indeed he had, as Lydryth discovered a heartbeat later, as she, too, slammed into something unyielding. She fell hard, then lay winded. A moment later Kerovan grabbed her arm, and aided her to her feet.
The songsmith saw with horror what was happening. Evidently Alon had lost his concentration on his spelling when he had heard her shout, because, even as Lydryth focused on him again, the Adept was struck by one ofYachne’s snake-bolts of Power. He reeled, stumbled, then went down to his knees, plainly dazed.
“No!” Lydryth whispered in agony. Trapped behind the unseen wall, she was forced to watch helplessly. Seeing her and the other would-be rescuers, Yachne laughed aloud, gave the newcomers a cheery “thank you!” wave, then bent to her task. Horrified, Lydryth realized that she was completing the last closing of the spell she had employed to steal Dinzil’s Power. A dead fawn lay on the “grass” not far from her, its throat slashed. The blood-circle was nearly complete.
Lydryth pounded helplessly against the unseen barrier as the witch scratched her skinny wrist with the blade of the athame. In a trice she had completed the closing other ghastly circle; then she began to chant.
Alon slumped forward onto his hands and knees as the mist began coalescing around him. “Alon!” Lydryth screamed. “Stop her! You must stop her!”
After a moment the young man wavered to his feet, then stared down in horror as the thickening mist suddenly billowed up, nearly waist-high. “No!” Lydryth sobbed. She was scarcely aware of her father putting an arm around her, as she turned to Hyana. “Does Yachne’s wall extend all the way around this clearing?” she gasped.
Her foster-sister nodded. “I can see it. A barrier of pale light, nearly as tall as the tops of these loathsome trees.”
“Can you break the spell?” the songsmith implored Joisan and Kerovan.
The Wise Woman shook her head. “I have been trying to do just that, ever since we came here, but this is no spell I have ever encountered before.”
Laughing delightedly, Yachne walked closer to Alon. The Adept was struggling to force the mist back down into the ground, using the glow given off by his crystal talisman. But, slowly, a finger-width at a time, he was losing that battle. The mist by now was up to his chest. Lydryth knew that if it completely enclosed him, the Alon as she knew him now would be forever lost-to himself as well as to her.
“Alon!” she screamed. “The sword! Remember the sword!” Cold iron or steel, she knew, was ofttimes a powerful weapon against evil magic. And the gryphon-sword had quan-iron, that bane of all Darkness, embedded in its hilt. “The sword!” she cupped her hands around her mouth to help her voice carry. “Try the sword!”
Still obviously dazed from Yachne’s Power-blast, Alon shook his head, one hand still clutching his crystal talisman. Lydryth realized that he could no longer hear her-somehow Yachne’s spell must also be muffling sound.
The sorceress came closer to her victim now, just as Monso screamed in rage and rose onto his hind legs. The stallion’s powerful forefeet battered at the invisible barrier, but to no avail.
The mist was creeping up toward Alon’s chin. Lydryth turned to Hyana, clutching the other woman’s hands in both of hers desperately. “Can you mind-send?” she demanded.
Hyana hesitated. “I can with my mother and father… and Firdun. Sometimes with you.”
“Try to mind-send to Alon, Hyana! Tell him to use the sword! Try, please!
The other frowned, but obediently closed her eyes, concentrating. The sword, Lydryth thought. Alon, use the sword. It may break the mist! Use the sword!
Yachne was standing before Alon, now, her hands weaving in the air as she continued her chant. The mist thickened even further. …
Alon fumbled at his back, as if in a dream. “Yes!” Lydryth whispered. “Yes, Alon! The sword … oh, please, use it!”
The Adept bent, disappearing from view behind the mist that by now nearly reached his eyes. Lydryth clenched her fists so hard that her hands ached, but she was hardly aware of the pain. The sword! Is he unbuckling it, unsheathing it? What is he doing?
Yachne gave a final, commanding cry, using a Word that made the air seem to curdle with darkness. Mist lapped over the top of the pillar enclosing Alon. Lydryth shut her eyes, unable to watch-then immediately opened them again. She could not look, but she swiftly discovered that she could not bear to look away.
Amber Lady, she prayed silently, tears slipping from her eyes, help him!
Purple light wreathed the sorceress’s arms as she began to draw Alon’s Power into herself, just as she had done with Dinzil. Help him! Somebody help him!
A shrill scream rent the air, just as something small and black fell upon Yachne like a stone, wicked talons aiming for her eyes. The only one of them who could fly over the barrier-Steel Talon!
The witch ducked, barely missing the winged death stooping out of the skies. The purple light wreathing her arms faltered, halted completely as she threw up both arms. A lash of dark lightning crackled from her fingers, striking the small black shape with the white V on its chest-
-even as the blade of Lydryth’s sword poked through the mist surrounding Alon, cutting it away as though it were a solid substance. It slashed an opening; then, before Yachne was more than half-aware that her captive was making a bid for escape, Lydryth saw Alon’s dim form move within that pillar of deadly mist.
Weight balanced on the balls of his feet, knees flexed, arm extended-it was the one lunge she had taught him, and he did it perfectly. The length of shining steel licked out like a cleansing streak of blue-white fire, thrusting through the hole in the mist, burying its sharpness just below the breast of the woman’s tattered grey robe, impaling the witch.