That left only one possibility. “Westward?”
“Unless we want to try to get through Cyrillon’s country again, banshees and all. As far as I know, it’s simply forest. It’s unexplored, but if we follow the setting sun, we should come out somewhere near to the lands where Lorill Hastur has his holdings. We’ll be passing to the north of the Hellers—” He drew a crude sketch-map on the ground. “We’re here. And we want to get to here. But the gods alone know what’s in between, or how long it will take us.” He looked at Larry, steadily. “I wouldn’t enjoy a trip like that, even with my father and a dozen of his huskiest soldiers. But, bredu, if you’ll back me up, we’ll try it.”
He met Larry’s eyes, and for an instant Larry was reminded of that moment of deep rapport between them, across the blue crystal of psychic power. The word, bredu, had startled him. It meant, literally, friend—but the ordinary word for friend was simply com’ii. Bredu could mean one close, as in a family relationship—cousin, or brother—or it could mean beloved brother. It was a word which showed him the trust that this Darkovan boy, who had saved his life, placed in him. Kennard had undertaken, alone, a desperate journey on his behalf—and was about to undertake another, with Larry’s help.
It was the most solemn moment of Larry’s life. He was almost paralyzed with his fear, and he could feel Kennard’s fear as if it were his own; deeper, because Kennard knew more of the dangers. And yet—
Larry said quietly, “I’m ready to try it if you are—bredu.”
And in that moment he knew that he would, if necessary, give his life for Kennard—as Kennard had risked his for him.
The moment lasted only a fraction of a second. Then Kennard broke the remaining piece of Cyrillon’s bread, and said, “Let’s finish this. We need the strength. Then I have this—” Briefly, from his pocket, he showed the silk-wrapped thing that held the blue crystal. “It helped me find you, because when you looked into it, your mind was keyed to it. So that when I was lost, all I had to do was to look in it and think of you—and it showed me the right direction.”
Larry averted his eyes from the stone. It made him think of that moment in Cyrillon’s power. “Cyrillon made me look into one of the things.”
The result on Kennard was electrifying. His whole face changed and turned white. “Cyrillon—has one of these?”
Briefly, Larry told him about it, and Kennard wet dry lips with his tongue. “Avarra guard and guide us! He may not know how to use it, but if he should ever learn, or if he should whelp a telepath by one of his women, the Gods themselves couldn’t save Darkover from their evil powers! Not to mention,” he added grimly, “that he might track us with it—as I tracked you.”
“He’s afraid of it,” Larry said, and told Kennard how he knew, but Kennard shook his head. “He might still risk it; he’d evidently risk a lot to have you. Oh, Zandru, what shall I do, what shall I do!” He covered his face with his hands and sat motionless, the blue stone clutched in his hand. Finally he looked up and his face was gray and drawn with terror.
“We—must destroy Cyrillon’s stone,” he said at last. “I know what I must do, but I’m afraid, Larry, I’m afraid!” It was a cry of terror. “But I must!”
“Why?”
Kennard looked grim. He rolled back his sleeve and showed Larry a curious mark, like a tattoo. “Because I am sworn,” he said, grimly, “that I will die rather than let any of our Comyn weapons fall into the hands of such people.”
Larry felt a cold wrench of terror twisting his insides. To go back, deliberately, into Cyrillon’s power and destroy the stone . . .
“What do we do?” he asked, deliberately light and sarcastic, “walk up to his front door and ask him politely to let us have it?”
Kennard shook his head. “Worse than that,” he said, his voice barely audible, “and I can’t do it alone. I’ll have to have your help. Aldones guard us! If I could only reach father with this—but I can’t—”