Prologue

Life as a songsmith, a forger and singer of tales, seems to the
uninitiated (that is, those who have never tried it) to be a most
carefree existence, full of travel, romance and perhaps (only
now and then, for spice) a little danger. In truth, it seldom
reaches such memorable heights, being mostly work like unto
any other.

One listens, one remembers, then one wrestles with words
and musical notes to hammer all into a coherent whole, hop-
ing fervently that the finished product will elicit smiles instead
of frowns, or, worse, yawns. One learns to count the night's
takings from the clinks in the harp case, discerning the clear
ring of silver from the thud of bronze and copper or (fortune




2            ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

be praised) the weighty, rare whisper of gold—all by sound
alone. One spends nights huddled under the lash of rain, or
stinging snow, with perhaps naught but a pocket of sullen fire
to hold back the hungry night. One leams to heat brook water
and sip it slowly in lieu of real food, trying thus to fool an
empty belly. ...

No, my lords and ladies, gathered here in this age-held
citadel to hear the songsmith and sip your wine, the life of a
bard is hardly carefree.

There are times, though, when the music and the tale are
worth it all. Then the tune flows like the ripple of a fine horse's
mane, words spring nearly unbidden to the singer's lips. Such
a time is now, following the toasts and congratulations that
accompany a day of ceremony, high feasting and joy, here in
such a lordly keep. Now, after the singing of some of the
oldest, best tales, it is time for the birth of a new one... a tale
that songsmiths will hold in special honor, for reasons soon to
be made clear to you.

So ... an opening chord-sweep, a strum to mimic the sound
of wind harrying a cold, early spring mist in the backwater
alley of a darkened waterfront, and the new tale opens. . . .

One

Years of salt spray borne by fierce winds had encrusted the
walls guarding the steep lane leading up from the wharves,
painting dirty white splotches on the age-blackened stones.
The Way of the Empty-Netted Fisher was nearly deserted in
the last wan illumination of sunset; only one of its many
shadows possessed any substance.

That dark-cloaked, slight figure was already so unsteady
from two months at sea that when a bitter cold, salt-tinged
blast swept by, it staggered, nearly falling. The hapless way-
farer skidded on the slimy cobbles of the stinking, refuse-
covered Way, only saved from a fall by the tall,
gryphon-headed quarterstaff that served as a walking aid as




ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

well as a weapon. The traveler huddled into the half-shelter of
an ancient archway to brace against another gust of wind,
long-fingered hands clutching a worn hand-harp case and a
much-mended backpack against the icy thrust of the coming
storm.

Ahead a dim light beckoned, promising shelter from the
wind and soon-to-fall sleet. As the harper neared that flicker-
ing beacon, it revealed itself to be a ship's lantern, barely
sheltered enough that its flame still lived, hanging outside a
hulking, dark-timbered building. Even above the whipping
breeze, sounds of tipsy revelry inside were clear.

The traveler eyed the inn with its accompanying tavern
warily, realizing that The Dancing Dolphin was no accommo-
dation that anyone with a reasonably well-filled purse would
seek out for a meal, much less lodging. Beneath the much-
faded lettering on the swinging sign, an improbable greyish
shape sported among wildly tossing waves. The harper
grimaced, but there was no arguing with the light weight of the
purse carefully tucked down inside a sea-stained leather jerkin.

Forcing the door open against a particularly strong wind-
bluster, the songsmith stumbled into the taproom. Raucous
laughter andshouted arguments made a deafening din. Eyeing
the tavern-master, the dark-cloaked traveler picked a cautious
way across a floor made nearly as treacherous as the alley
outside by slopped wine and greasy, skittering bones.

The tavern-master, a thin, red-nosed man with a balding
pate and hair-tufted ears, turned at the tug on his sleeve.
"Your pardon, sir," the stranger murmured, indicating the
hand-harp case. "Would there be any objection to a few songs
by the fire for your customers tonight?"

The tavern-master's eyes were on a level with the harper's as
he eyed the stranger; then, abruptly, he nodded. "Not as long
as you're willing to pay for your bed and board like anyone
else, minstrel."

"Certainly." The stranger shook back the hood of the dark
cloak, revealing a mass of curling black hair, cropped short.
Small silver hoops winked from both earlobes, "I'll begin—"

"A wench! An' a likely-looking one at that, Mylt! By the
Hounds' Teeth, where'd you find 'er?" A hand descended on

SONGSMTTH

the traveler's shoulder, jerking her half about to face a heavy-
shouldered fisherman with a wind- and ale-reddened face.

His rough handling pulled her dark cloak open, revealing
the silver ornament lying pendant on the breast of her laced
overjerkiri. As the man took in the meaning of that symbol, he
stepped back, dropped his hand. "I didn't know—didn't
see—" Clumsily, he touched thick fingers to his forehead in
apology. "Yer pardon, songsmith. . . ."

The bard graciously inclined her head, her fingers going to
the sign of her calling . . . three interlinked circles, each with
a flattened, pointed side—stylized finger and thumb picks, for
use with a hand-harp. "I'll begin now," she said to the tavern-
master, as though the interruption had not occurred.

Carrying her harp case over to the bench by the fire, the
songsmith opened it, drawing forth a much-used instrument.
It was of old-fashioned design, carved from aged cherry wood,
its scrolls and frets enhanced by a silvery blue metal shimmer-
ing faintly in the firelight. Resting the harp across her lap, she
drew three picks out of the inner pocket of her red tunic,
slipping them onto her thumb and first two fingers.

She began tuning the instrument. Hearing the soft strains,
the twelve fishermen, eight Sulcar sailors and two grizzled old
Falconer marines present in the common room ceased talking
and quietly, respectfully, gathered near the fire.

"Draw nigh, sirs!" Mylt the tavern-master loudly urged.
"Pay heed to a wandering songsmith who has graciously
agreed to provide us with entertainment this stormy eve. Give
heed to the Lady—" He hesitated, realizing he'd neglected to
ask the bard's name, and she whispered, with a wry smile,
"Eydryth of Kar Garudwyn."

". . . the Lady Eydryth of Kar Garudwyn!" Mylt finished
with a flourish. A polite silence fell.

Eydryth began playing, a rollicking, toe-tapping tune, lim-
bering her fingers while sizing up her audience. All male, and
most of them sailors or fishermen. Sea-songs would go well,
then, tales of lost loves, of sweet-voiced sirens and of noble
deeds. Perhaps a bawdy one to finish, making them laugh,
even as they tossed coins into her harp case. . . .

"Give heed, kind sirs, to a tune taught me aboard the Sulcar

6            ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

ship Osprey," she said, hoping fervently that the cold damp-
ness of this day's sailing had not thickened her voice. "It
concerns a force of men gathered by one of your legendary
heroes during the K-older War, one Simon Tregarth. I give you
'The Riving of the Border.' "

Eydryth began singing, softly at first; then, as her voice
warmed up, her contralto rang out, filling the smoke-thick-
ened air with clear, true notes:

We pledged fair Estcarp's bounds to hold
We men who ride with Tregarth's band
That witches might, with knowledge old,
Avenge the wrongs done in our land.

Of Falconer blood and elder race

We ride, united by one will—

To keep the invaders from this place;

Send sword and falcon forth to kill!

As she finished the second verse and began the third, the
young woman glanced quickly from face to face. Her audience
was leaning forward, all conversation forgotten. Tension
eased from her as she realized that the people here in the Port
of Eslee were equally susceptible to the "spell" cast by flying
fingers and trained voice as were the folk overseas in High
Hallack or her home in spell-shrouded Arvon. She hoped
they'd be as generous with their coin offerings; it had taken
nearly everything she'd earned on her travels through the
Dales to pay for the long voyage aboard the Osprey.

Both fourth and fifth verses went even better. By now the
men were nodding in rhythm to her song. Eydryth finished the
ballad with a last triumphant, clarion strum, and they
thumped their tankards on the board appreciatively. "An-
other, minstrel! Another!" One of the Sulcar sailors, massive
and fair as were all his race, shouted bull-voiced over the
others, "A Sulcar tune, songsmith! Give us a song for the Sons
of Sul!"

Fortunately, the Sulcar sailors aboard the Osprey had

SONGSMITH                   7

taught her a multitude of songs, since they sang constantly at
their work, and their music was easy for trained ears and
fingers to master. Eydryth closed her eyes as she strummed,
searching for the proper key. . . . There, she had it now.

"Very well, kind sirs. I give you 'The Fall of Sulcarkeep,'
which tells the tale of the great hero Magnus Osberic and how
he destroyed his own stronghold rather than let it fall into
Kolder hands."

The tune this time was in a somber, minor key, as befitted
a tragic tale. Eydryth began:

Wind and flame and earth and wave
Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep!
All sent to dig a trader's grave;

Sulcarkeep, lost Sulcarkeep!

" 'Tis built to ward," proud Osberic said,
"Sulcarkeep, strong Sulcarkeep!
There's none without permission tread
In Sulcarkeep, fair Sulcarkeep!"

She continued, losing herself in the music. Her tawdry sur-
roundings faded as the song bore her back into that ancient
stronghold, transporting her to the fateful night. Eydryth's
voice rose into an eerie wail as she described the desperate
battle throughout the doomed fortress:

Yet when the fog stole rank and thick
On Sulcarkeep, dark Sulcarkeep
Sent by a Kolder demon-trick
. To Sulcarkeep, cursed Sulcarkeep,

The trader knew his fate was nigh
In Sulcarkeep, strong Sulcarkeep
For Death came drifting from the sky
To Sulcarkeep, doomed Sulcarkeep.

With swinging axe and bloodied sword
Through Sulcarkeep, vast Sulcarkeep
They fought the mindless, soulless horde
Down Sulcarkeep, through Sulcarkeep.




8            ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

The big sailor's face was saddened and grim now, and Eyd-
ryth wondered whether he had lost a father or uncle during
that terror-ridden night. It was almost as though she could see
the mighty Osberic in his bear's-head helm, his stained sword
dripping red onto the blood-slicked flags of the ancient strong-
hold. Her voice soared up into the final sad yet strangely
triumphant verses:

And when they reached the mighty heart
Of Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep
Then did witchmen and Sulcar part
In Sulcarkeep, damned Sulcarkeep

"With my own hand shall I lay waste :

My Sulcarkeep, dear Sulcarkeep!"
Said Osberic, "Now make you haste,
From Sulcarkeep, lost Sulcarkeep!"

So he unleashed the mighty power
In Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep
That made of stone a flaming flower;

Ah Sulcarkeep, Ah Sulcarkeep!

When she let the last, ebbing chord die away, there was silence
for a long moment; then, as though just waking from sleep, the
men stirred. The Sulcannan cleared his throat. "Well done,
minstrel. Never have I heard it sung better." A flash of bright
silver spun through the air, landing in the harp case. As
though the sailor's gesture were a floodgate opening, coins
spattered to join the first.

Eydryth nodded graciously, acknowledging their offerings,
then gave them "The Mosswife's Bargain." A lighter mood
prevailed as she spun out the skipping, skirling notes of "The
One-Spell Wizard." After a refreshing swallow of ale from a
tankard ordered by the Sulcannan (even though she was
thirsty, Eydryth dared not drink more—her belly was rum-
bling with hunger, and she needed a clear head to ferret out
answers to questions she dared not pose too directly), she sang
"Don't Call My Name in Battle." The song was one her father
had taught her, years ago—

SONGSMITH                   9

Don't think of him, Eydryth told herself firmly, feeling a
catch in the back of her throat threatening to ruin the last
verse- After the singing's done, when you've money to journey
on, then you can call up Jervon 's face to mind. Then you can
think of your foster-parents, the Lady Joisan and her lord,
Kerovan. Then you can think of Obred, and your chestnut mare
Vyar, Hyana and Firdun and Kar Garudwyn itself, may Neave
protect those within its walls! But until then, you must sing, and
give no hint of what you seek, why you have traveled so far from
home. . . .

Mastering her sorrow, she strummed the opening chords to
"Keylor's Rage," feeling weariness threaten to overwhelm and
net her like a cloak thrown in battle, muffling, blinding. Two
more songs, she promised herself. Only two more, then I can
stop and pick up my coins, knowing I've given full'measure for
what's been paid.

"And now, kind sirs," she said, a few minutes later, muting
the last chord of "Keylor's Rage" with her palm, "a new song,
one inspired by the story told me about the Kolder-cursed city
of Sippar, on the Island of Gorm. Pay heed an' you will to
The Haunted City.'"

Eydryth hushed her voice into eerie, thrumming tones,
thinking as she did that Sippar—or what was left of it—lay
just across the bay, barely a day's sail away. "No children
sleep in Sippar now," she began:

No vessels ride her harbor fair;

No footstep sounds on street or stair,
For all lies turned beneath death's plow.

When Kolder to rich Sippar came,
They drank its life, then stole the cup,
And when the demon-time was up,
An empty city cried its blame.

'Tis said the city twice was slain,
First with the sword, then with the mind;

By warfare of an unclean kind
The unsouled walked its streets again.

10           ANDRE NORTON ANP A.C. CRISPIN

Another death did Sippar die,
When Simon Tregarth struck the blow
That laid the power-wielder low,
Then unlife settled with a sigh.

The corpses lay in silent speech,
Slaves from bodies freed at last
To bury with them all that passed;

No more to fight, no more beseech.

No ship now comes to Sippar's quay,
For none will step upon her shore
Though time has shattered every door,
The bravest let her shadows be.

Even as the final words whispered into the silence of The
Dancing Dolphin, Eydryth saw her listeners shiver, then sit
upright too quickly. The fellow who had accosted her when
she'd first entered the tavern actually looked over his shoulder,
as though a spectral hand might be descending to rest there.

Can't have them loath to walk into the night, she thought.
Something a bit bawdy will leave them laughing and free with
their silver, and I need have no fears about playing something
from High Hallack and them not understanding it... . A bawdy
is a bawdy anywhere. . . . "Now sirs," she called out, "for the
evening's last song, I give you 'The Chambermaid's Dowry.' "

She began the opening notes to the song about the poor
young chambermaid who encountered a sailor with designs
upon her virtue (though, of course, he protested that he in-
tended honorable marriage). The verses unrolled amid guf-
faws from the sailors as the pretty maid accepted the sailor's
praises of her beauty, along with his many gifts, but through
misadventure and misdirection managed to remain chaste—-
until one day the sailor (determined to succeed at long last)
came home from a voyage only to discover that at that very
moment the girl was off being married: she'd used for her
dowry the gifts he'd given her!

Eydryth was smiling herself as she sang the chorus the last
time:

SONGSMTTH                      11

Oh, she was fine, that bonny lass
Like a fair ship upon the sea—
But oh! I rue the day we met
For how that maiden plundered me!

"Thank you, thank you for your attention." She stood and
bowed, sipping her ale, as they toasted her, clapping. More
coins rang into the harp case. After her listeners had dispersed,
Eydryth counted the night's takings. There was plenty to pay
for a private room, dinner and breakfast, plus journey funds
for several days.

The tavern-keeper showed her to her room, a small, bare
loft beneath the overhanging eaves. After stowing away her
harp case and pack beneath the wooden bedstead, Eydryth
laved her face and hands in the icy water she found waiting in
the ewer, then went in search of a late supper.

The tavern was deserted of all but the overnight guests by
now, so she had the entire board to herself. At her request,
Mylt the tavern-master brought her a late supper. Eydryth
was pleasantly surprised by the hot bowl of creamy lobster
chowder, vegetable pasty and respectable vintage he set before
her, and ate with a good appetite. "My thanks, sir. This is
excellent fare."

The little man nodded. "My own recipe. Guests will excuse
much in the way of accommodations if the food be good and
the beer well chilled. You're welcome to bide another day,
songsmith. It's a rare bard who can hold my customers en-
thralled the way you did tonight."

"Thank you, but no, I must be on my way with the morn,"
she replied, taking a sip from the goblet of wine. "Tell me,"
she asked, with studied indifference, "how many days' journey
to Es City itself? I've a fancy to see it."

"Walking?" Mylt asked,-and at her nod considered for a
moment. "At least four, more likely five. Tis a full two days
on horseback."

"Good roads?"

"Aye, and well-patrolled, too. Koris ofGorm is a just man,

12 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

but not one to coddle outlaws, and they stay far off the main    |
roads these days."                                          i

"Koris ofGorm... Hilder's son," Eydryth said, remember-   ^
ing the history she'd learned aboard the Osprey. " Tis said   ?
that he, for all practical purposes, now rules Estcarp, with his   ;

Lady Loyse. And that the witches concern themselves with   ;

little but regaining their waning magic."

Mylt lowered his voice, even though the two of them were
alone in the taproom. "Even so," he agreed, "but it is not
something to speak of loudly. During the Turning many years
ago, a goodly number of them died or were left burned-out
shells—but there are some that still hold the Power."          ;

"The Turning?" Eydryth ventured.                        ••-

"When Duke Pagar of Karsten sought to invade from over-
mountain, the witches gathered together all their might and
magic to shake the spine of the earth itself. The mountains    |
dividing Karsten and Estcarp shook and fell, while thrusting    I
up into other heights. The invaders were wiped out in a single    !
night of destruction, and all the trails to Karsten destroyed."    ;

"It must have been terrible."

"Aye, that's certain. I was little more than a lad, then, but
even so, I remember that day. It was as though a shadow lay    ;

over the entire land ... a shadow you couldn't see, only feel.
That shadow pressed upon all living things, like a fist that    '
would grind us all into the earth, it weighed so heavy...." The
tavern-keeper shivered at the memory.

Eydryth made haste to steer the conversation back to her
purpose. "But you said some of the witches still retain their
Power?"

"Aye, if the accounts I hear be true. But they have turned
away from ruling Estcarp, even as you said. They no longer
govern our land; Koris does, he and his Lady Loyse, aided by
their friends and battle-companions, the outlander. Lord
Simon Tregarth, and his wife, the Lady Jaelithe." The tavern-
keeper glanced around him nervously, making sure they were
still alone. "Did you know that she used to be one of the
witches?"

Eydryth did know, but she feigned surprise, eager to leam
all she could. "Really?"

SONGSMITH                    13

He raised a hand in a half-pledge. "Truth. Before she was
wife, she was witch. After they were wed, she bore her lord
children, so theirs was a true marriage—and yet—" He
glanced around, then leaned so close she could smell his sour
breath, see the blackened pores studding his nose. "—and yet,
she still wields the Power! Even though she be no maiden!"

Eydryth summoned an appropriate expression of astonish-
ment, though she was hardly surprised; her own mother, Elys,
had not lost her Power with her maidenhead, either.

"They say that the other witches have never forgiven the
Lady Jaelithe for lying with her lord, and yet not losing her
gift. They regard it as a betrayal," Mylt finished.

"Perhaps they envy her," the girl ventured.

The tavern-master chuckled coarsely. "Not the witches of
Estcarp, songsmith! To them, the men of this world are some-
thing to be barely tolerated, not desired!"

"Tell me, Mylt ... do the witches ever . . . help people?"
Eydryth busied herself scraping the last drops of chowder
from her bowl.

" 'Tis said they do, from time to time. Blessing the crops
and suchlike, calling storms during dry times, soothing wind
and wave to protect ships in their harbors."

"What about smaller magics . . . healing and such?"

"Aye, they do some of that, too. Simples and potions and
amulets against fevers ..." He poured the last of the wine into
the songsmith's goblet, then carefully stacked dishes onto the
serving tray. "Will you want more, minstrel?"

"Thank you, no," Eydryth said, finishing her wine and
rising to take her leave. "Good night."

"A good sleep to you, songsmith."

With a final nod to her host, Eydryth started up the stair to
her garret. Her steps were slow; she was so wearied by her long
day that even the few sips of Mylt's wine had made her limbs
feel as though they were weighted by such brightly colored
fishing sinkers as decorated the walls of The Dancing Dolphin.
The floor beneath her battered leather boots seemed to move
rhythmically; she might still ride the ocean's swells aboard the
Osprey. When she reached her chamber, the young woman
dragged her outer garments off and burrowed beneath the

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

coarse woolen blankets, too tired to search out her night shift.

Sleep was reaching for her with leaden arms when her
eyes flew open. I forgot! But by the Amber Lady, I'm so
tired. . . . She sighed, throwing the bedclothes aside, as she
reached for the gryphon-headed quarterstaff lying near to
hand on the rough wooden boards. Drawing it to her in the
darkness, she fumbled with her other hand for the amulet that
she bore around her neck, hidden. The amber and amethyst of
its fashioning felt warm and familiar in her hand, as she traced
the lines of Gunnora's symbols—a carven sheaf of ripened
wheat bound by a heavily laden grapevine.

"Lady," she whispered, "I seek Your help on my quest. I
pray that You protect those I love, those who live within the
Gryphon's Citadel. Protect Lady Joisan and her lord, Kero-
van. Protect their daughter and son, Hyana and Firdun. Most
of all, I pray You, protect my father. Help me find someone
who can heal him, so that Jervon may be himself again,
after all these years. And Lady . . ." Her soft words faltered
in the darkness. "Please ... let me find my mother, the Lady
Elys. She has been gone from us so long. . . . Protect her
wherever she may be. You who are mindful of those who carry
life. . . ."

She grasped the two symbols tightly, wishing for a sign—
any sign—that her words were more than empty sounds. But
the blue quan-iron eyes of the gryphon did not flare into
brightness; the blessed metal had never shone for her. And the
amber token ofGunnora was as dark as the night surrounding
her. It was always so. ...

With a tired sigh, Eydryth lay back down, giving herself up
to sleep, hoping only that tonight she would be too tired to
dream.

The two-wheeled pony cart creaked along the stone-paved
road. "Up there with you, Fancy," the young farmer ordered,
waving his willow switch at the round rump of the small bay
gelding pulling it. "There's Es City in sight, songsmith," he
called over his shoulder. "Won't be long now."

Eydryth carefully handed the fanner's wife the sleeping

SONGSMTTH

15

form of Pris, their tousle-headed little girl, before scrambling
up to peer out of the cart. Even in the full light of the early-
afternoon sun, the approaching city appeared dark with age;

its rounded grey-green towers seeming to crouch atop the
earth as though they had been there since even the land had
been first created. Es was a good-sized city, one obviously
built to serve as fortress as well as capital—a high wall ran
completely around it, enclosing it.

When the farmer's wagon rolled up to the gate, two civil but
well-armed guards scrutinized cart and occupants purpose-
fully. After they had determined that there was nothing hidden
beneath the woven rugs Catkus and Leiona had come to sell,
they waved them through.

As the pony cart lurched over cobbled streets, Eydryth
looked around her wonderingly. Es was the largest municipal-
ity she had ever visited; Dalesfolk were not by nature city-
dwellers, and in all her wanderings across ancient Arvon,
Eydryth had never seen any settlement larger than a village.

Close up, the mossy stone of ancient buildings reared before
her imposingly, the patina of age surrounding them so tangi-
ble the young woman wondered—only half-fancifully—
whether it would be felt by an exploring hand. She put out her
fingers as the cart slowed around a precipitous comer in the
narrow street, then drew them back. The stones themselves
seemed to ward off the curious—or was what she sensed real
witchery, a spell designed to protect the city?

"Here we be, minstrel," Catkus announced, drawing rein at
the entrance to the marketplace. "Good fortune go with you
on your travels." The young man touched hand to the ragged
brim of his straw hat in a farewell salute. "Thanks again for
singing little Pris through that bout of colic the other night."

"Thank you for the ride and the company," Eydryth re-
turned, scrambling off the cart, then giving a farewell wave to
Catkus, Leiona and Pris.

The young woman had no need to inquire the way to the
Citadel—the witches' stronghold was the most massive build-
ing in Es, with a round tower overtopping all of the surround-
ing structures. She set off through the crowded streets, her

16

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

pack and hand-harp slung over her back. As she walked, her
eyes were drawn to the people treading the footworn streets—
those who called themselves the Old Race.

Tall they were, and of unusually somber mien. They carried
themselves proudly, walking straight-backed as any soldier.
Their hair was as black as her own, but neither wave nor curl
softened the planes of their long, oval, pointed-chinned faces.
Eyes that were varying shades of grey were alert in their un-
lined faces. (It was well known even in the Dales that the Old
Race of Estcarp evidenced little sign of aging until death was
but a handful of seasons away.)

Seeing the folk of Es City reminded Eydryth vividly—and
painfully—of her mother. It was strange to think that she
might be distantly related to some of these people. Elys had
often told her daughter that her own parents had fled from
Estcarp, for reasons they had never discussed.

A guard in mended, serviceable mail barred her way at the
gate leading into a central courtyard. "Your business ..." He
cast a sharp glance at the symbol she wore. ". .. songsmith?"

"I seek audience with one of the witches," she said, stiffen-
ing her spine to meet his flat, uncaring eyes. "A few minutes,
no more."

His gaze traveled over her. "On what matter?"

"A matter of healing," Eydryth said, after a second's hesita-
tion, trying to curb her impatience. I've come. so far! Blessed
Gunnora, lend me strength! "I was told any might consult with
a witch on a matter of healing."

"Your name?"

"Eydryth."

"Wait here." The guardsman turned and disappeared into
the huge, time-blackened portal, returning in a few minutes.
"Tomorrow mom," he told her. "Before the sun tops the city
wall."

"Many thanks," she said, resisting the grin of relief that
wanted to spread over her face. "I will be here."

Her singing that night at The Silver Horseshoe consisted
mostly of lightsome ballads, tales of wonder, good magic and
love. It was hard to tone herself down when a dour old fanner

17

requested the lugubrious "Soldier's Lament." She sang, and
when her voice tired, she played her flute. By the time the
Horseshoe's patrons had departed for their beds, the young
minstrel had earned enough to replenish the coins she'd spent
during her four days on the road.

Dawn barely silvered the east when she awoke, unable to
sleep longer. After breaking her fast with porridge and goat's
milk, Eydryth shouldered her pack, then footed a quick way
through the twisting streets toward the Citadel. The sun had
only cleared the distant horizon when she sat down to wait,
half-concealed in a doorway across from the guard's post.

Her two hours' vigil stretched like an overwound harp-
string, but finally she arose, brushing her cloak and breeches
off, then picked her way across the now-crowded street.

There was a different guardsman on duty, but, after consult-
ing a list, he ordered her to leave her quarterstaff with him,
then waved her toward the darkened portal. Eydryth tugged
open a massive, leather-bound door, to find herself in a long
stone corridor. A young woman faced her, garbed in a shroud-
ing robe of misty silver, with the heavy weight of her night-
dark hair coiled into a silver net. Without a word, her dark
grey eyes downcast, she motioned to the songsmith to follow
her.

Eydryth strode after the girl—for a glance at the rounded
face had convinced the minstrel that the witch was several
years younger than herself—down the first corridor, then into
a second, and then, finally, a third. Each hall was featureless,
made of age-darkened stone, and illuminated only by a series
of palely lit globes suspended in metal baskets.

When she first saw those globes, Eydryth barely repressed a
gasp of surprise. She had seen similar lights before, but only
once. They hung from the walls and ceilings of her home, the
ancient Citadel ofKar Garudwyn. Knowing something of the
age of that stronghold, she looked about her with even greater
awe. This place was old.

The young witch stopped before another, smaller door.
Opening it, she silently waved Eydryth through, then followed
her.

18

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

A woman sat at a desk in the scroll-lined study beyond, a
woman whose hawklike features (in the way of the Old Race)
betrayed little age, but whose eyes made the younger woman
flinch as she faced that unswerving gaze. The woman went
gowned the same as Eydryth's guide, but with the addition of
a cloudy, moon-colored jewel hanging from a chain about her
neck.

The witch pushed back her chair a little and sat for a long
moment in silent study. Her voice, when she finally spoke,
bore a country accent, but her air of command argued that
any peasant upbringing had long been put behind her. She did
not introduce herself, but that did not surprise the minstrel; to
give another one's true Name was to open a chink in one's
armor of Power. "The songsmith Eydryth," she commented,
finally. "You seek healing. For whom? Yourself? You appear
healthy enough to me."

"No, not for me," Eydryth said, forcing her eyes to con-
tinue meeting the witch's uncompromising stare. "It is for
someone else in my family."

"And you have come from far away, haven't you?" The
woman rose to her feet, paced deliberately across the flagged
floor to front the bard directly. She lacked half a head of
Eydryth's height, but the aura of command surrounding her
more than made up for the physical difference. "There is the
smell of sea about you, and your boots have seen much walk-
ing. Are there no healers in your own province?"

"We have our Wise Women, true enough," Eydryth admit-
ted. "But none so far have been able to help, for this illness is
of the mind and spirit, not the body."

The witch's head moved in a tiny shake. "Not good, song-
smith. Few indeed are the healers who can treat such. Who is
so afflicted, and how did it happen?"

Eydryth took a deep breath as memory seared her. "It
happened six years ago, when I was little more than a child.
We were on a ... quest. . . when we came across a place of
the old Power. It was said to be a kind of oracle that could
allow one to farsee the object of one's greatest desire. But
when Jervon peered through it, it struck him down. Since then

SONGSMITH

19

he has been as a small child, one who eats when fed, follows
when led around—"

"He?" The witch's eyes held a faint, angry spark. "Do you
mean to tell me a man sought to use a source of the Power?
You seek my help for one who meddled in things those of his
sex cannot hope to comprehend?"

"For my father, Jervon, yes," Eydryth stammered, wonder-
ing how she'd erred. "I was told you had ways of healing—"

She broke off as the witch's hand snaked up to grab her chin
and turn it from side to side, consideringly. "Your eyes ...,"
the woman muttered to herself, "blue ... and the jaw is wider
... but still, the color of hair, the chin—" She glared up at the
younger woman. "You are a child of the Old Race—in part.
Yet your mother surely betrayed her calling by choosing to
marry, when we needed every bit of Power we could summon!
Do you think I would help a man who lay with one of my
sisters, thus depriving her of her witchhood?"

But she didn't lose her Power! She wasn't even born in Est-
carp! Eydryth silently protested. The undisguised hatred in the
witch's eyes unnerved her; she knew that the women of Power
deemed union with the males of their race as but a poor second
to the holding of that Power, but nothing had prepared her for
this irrational anger and hatred.

The woman's strong, short fingers tightened on the song-
smith's chin. "And what about you?" she murmured, in a
lower voice. "Did you escape the testing given all girl children?
Do you hold the Power? If you do, we shall see—" Breaking
off with a hiss, she held the cloudy jewel she wore up before the
bewildered minstrel's face. "Touch it!" she commanded.

Will clashed with will as Eydryth tried to step back, away
from those pale grey eyes glittering with a light that was not
wholly rational. "No!"

"Touch it!"

Compelled, the younger woman blindly reached out a hesi-
tant fingertip, felt it brush the witch's hand, then the cool
slickness of the jewel's crystal. The witch broke their eye-hold,
glancing down, and Eydryth watched the eagerness slowly
fade from her expression. "Nothing . . . ," the woman mur-

20 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

mured, her eyes fixed once more on the minstrel's face. "Noth-
ing, the jewel remains dead. But I was so sure. ..."

Perversely angered by yet another demonstration of her
lack of Power, Eydryth glanced down at the jewel as she pulled
her hand away and stared, suddenly arrested. Had she seen a
tiny spark flicker deep within the heart of the cloudy gem?
You're imagining it, she thought angrily. Be grateful this time
that you have no Power—otherwise, this half-crazed woman
might well try to hold you here!

The songsmith stepped back, away from the witch. "So you
cannot help me," she said. "Or will not—which is it. Lady?"

The grey-clad, bowed shoulders shrugged; the woman's
voice was naught but the thinnest thread of sound. "Once,
perhaps, before the Turning ... I do not know. But now
..." The witch shook her head, putting out a hand to grip the
carven back of the chair as though she might fall without the
support. She made a gesture of dismissal. "Go now, song-
smith. . . ."

"If you cannot help me, do you know of any who can?"
Eydryth demanded, feeling the hope that had sustained her for
the past months draining away, leaching the life and color
from the entire world. "I must find someone to heal him, I
must! You see, the fault for his illness lies with me.... We were
searching for my mother, whom he loved more than..." Sobs
choked her then, and she turned away, shamed that the witch
had seen her so undone.

But the woman no longer seemed aware of her presence at
all. Stumbling, shoulders sagging, Eydryth blindly followed
the young witch out of the room.

They threaded the dim corridors, their feet whispering
against the stone flags. Slowly, the songsmith regained her
control, blinking back the tears that had threatened... but her
pack seemed doubly heavy, and the harp within its case made
a sad, muted sound as it brushed the wall. What shall I do?
Eydryth wondered numbly. Where can I go? The thought of
returning home to Kar Garudwyn empty-handed was intoler-
able, yet her mind envisioned as an alternate naught but years
of hollow wandering in alien lands.

SONGSMTTH

21

She rounded the last comer before the entrance portal, only
to nearly trip over the girl who had been guiding her. "Qui-
etly!" the witch whispered, glancing fearfully around. "In
here, we needs must talk."

A chill hand came out of the silver-grey robe to grab Eyd-
ryth's sleeve, drawing her into a darkened room. After a mo-
ment, the songsmith made out dusty barrels and boxes
surrounding them. Some kind of a storeroom.

The minstrel watched as the young witch peered carefully
out of the entrance, making sure they had gone unobserved.
Then the girl shut the door and touched nnger to a candle she
produced from the sleeve other robe. A spark flared; then the
taper was alight. In the flickering dimness, they stared at each
other.

"What's to do?" Eydryth began, only to have the girl lay
finger to her lips in a signal for whispers.

"Quiet!" the witch cautioned. "Listen a moment. I know of
a place where you may find help in your quest, songsmith."

Two

£ydryth stared down into the witch's face, scarcely daring to
believe that here might be one who could actually guide her in
finding what she sought. "Where?" she demanded, finally.
"Where can I find help for one who has been mind-blasted by
ancient Power?"

"There is a place of learning," the girl said. "Old .
perhaps older than Es Citadel itself. There are ancient records
there, and some of them deal with healing. I have heard of
legends that speak of healing stones, and a red mud that
conquers even the gravest of injuries. Perhaps you can find the
location of such cures in those records."

"Where?" The songsmith's question came with sharp impa-
tience. "Where lies this stone? Where rests this mud?"

SONGSMITH                     23

"I know not. Escore, perhaps . . . Much that we thought
legend only has been proven real since the Tregarths discov-
ered that ancient land from which the Old Race once fled, if
the tales be true. At this place of ancient learning, you may
well find answers."

"I am no scholar," Eydryth murmured doubtfully.

"But the ones who live there are, and they will aid you; they
have little else to do. There is a chance you may find a mention
of a cure written there, on some tattered scroll."

"A chance," Eydryth repeated, her mind racing. "A bare
chance, seemingly."

"You do not appear to me to be one who can afford to
overlook any possibility, no matter how small," the witch
retorted.

Eydryth sighed. "You are right. What is this place?"

The other raised a cautioning hand. "Not so fast. If you aid
me, I will tell you when we reach our destination. Will you
swear by Blessed Gunnora, whose amulet you wear, that you
will keep faith if I help you?"

Eydryth started, her hand going to the breast of her jerkin,
where the amulet lay hidden. "How do you know what I wear
concealed?" she asked, eyeing the younger woman suspi-
ciously, striving to read her features in the dim light.

"My Power may be small, but it is sufficient to sense that
you wear Gunnora's symbol on your breast," the witch
snapped impatiently. "But that is not the important thing,
here. Will you swear to aid me, in return for my help?"

"What aid do you seek?"

"Your assistance in escaping from the Citadel, then from Es
City, and returning to Kastryn, the village of my birth. When
we reach there, I will reveal to you the name of the place of
ancient learning, and tell you how to reach it. Kastryn, you
will find, is on the road to your eventual destination."

Eydryth gazed at the young woman, her eyes searching that
narrow, pointed-chinned face. There was beauty there, though
it appeared worn, fined-down, as if, despite the girl's youth,
she had suffered much. "I might be able to discover the where-
abouts of this 'place of ancient learning' without your aid,"
she said, slowly, "now that I know what manner of place to

24

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMITH

25

inquire about. If people live there, someone, somewhere, will
know of it."

The witch bit her lip, her control slipping. "I have been a
fool," she whispered, in a voice edged with desperation. "I was
not brought up to be a mistress of intrigue and am blunt-
spoken by nature. You are right. If you ask long enough
among the learned scholars of Es, you will find one who
knows of the existence of Lormt, and where it lies. Go, then.
I wish you success on your quest."

She turned away, her slight shoulders drooping beneath the
grey robe.

The songsmith felt sympathy stir within her, as she remem-
bered her own despair at the thought of being kept here in this
ancient stronghold by these hungry, hollow-eyed women. She
reached out to put a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. "Wait.
Tell me more. You are one of them—why do you wish to
leave?"

The witch did not turn or look up. "I am one who was
forced to the test, just as you were, today," she said, dully.
"But for me the stone glowed—only a spark, but the witches
are desperate."

"I could see that. Why are they so?"

"They have been forced to watch their control of this land
slowly slip from them into the hands of others—Koris and his
Lady Loyse, Simon Tregarth (whom they have hated ever
since he took one of their number to wife) and his lady, Ja-
elithe. So any girl-child showing a trace of the Power, they
take, in an attempt to rebuild their numbers."

The young woman's voice trembled. "I'd escaped the testing
for two years, because I was sole support and nurse for my
widowed mother. Then she died, so the next time the witch
came to Kastryn, I needs must lay finger to her stone. It
sparked, so they took me, brought me here ... began to teach
me."

"Magic?"

"As much as I could learn, which was little enough. I am not
a dullard, but my heart and will are drawn elsewhere—I pos-
sess neither the desire nor the gift to become mistress of more

than a few minor illusions, plus some healcraft and herb-lore!
However, these other women, to them Power is all—meat,
bread, drink and breath itself! I cannot expect you to under-
stand, songsmith, but I can never be as they are—never!"

Eydryth recalled her own childhood, spent in a stronghold
steeped in sorcery. ... It had permeated the very air she
breathed, and to the others around her, using magic was as
natural as that breathing itself. Only she had possessed none
of the ability—she, who had taken after her father. Her father,
racked by the backlash of near-forgotten Power . . .

A surge of sympathy for the young woman before her made
Eydryth's throat tighten. "I understand," she told the witch
softly, "more than you can know."

The girl's voice broke. "And the worst of it all is, they took
me without even leaving me time to send a message to Logar!"

"Logar?"

The girl turned back to face her questioner. In the candlelit
dimness, her eyes sparkled, as if she were struggling to hold
back tears. "Logar is my betrothed. He rides with the Border-
ers. The fangs of the Hounds have been partially drawn, but
Alizon is still a dagger that pricks Estcarp's side. Their remain-
ing Hounds are wilier than ever as they slink forth to harry our
northern border. Thus, each young man who is whole and able
must serve with those who patrol that border for a space of
three years. Logar's time was up last month—by now he must
be home, only to find me gone!"

Her mouth quivered, then tightened grimly. "We swore that
when he returned, we would be wed. And I want nothing more
from life than to be with him! But Logar cannot free me—for
him to dare the Citadel would mean his death. But I am afraid
that he might try such a foolhardy move ... so I must escape,
before he can!"

"I see...," Eydryth 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 Eydryth, as solemnly as if she took oath, "I will
aid you, sister."




26

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

The girl clasped Eydryth'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. Eyd-
ryth's eyed widened. The girl nodded defiantly, acknowledg-
ing 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?"

"Eydryth. 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, Eydryth 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," Eydryth 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 be-
came resigned, applied myself to learning as best I might, so
as to lull their suspicions. But all the time I was planning how

SONGSMITH                  27

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," Eydryth said flatly. "But tell me your plan any-
way."

"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," Eydryth 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," Eydryth said, firmly. "Remem-
ber, there is no better excuse for not raising the alarm than to
be discovered bound and unconscious, with a lump behind

SONGSMITH                  29

28          ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

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 re-
main 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."

Eydryth gripped the girl's shoulders, her, strong fingers de-
liberately 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?"
Eydryth 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?"

Eydryth 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, Eydryth took
it. The small fingers felt cold in hers, but the witch's grasp was

firm. "I thank you . . . sister."

While Eydryth 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 Eydryth's outer
clothing; then the songsmith stood shivering as the witch
stared up into her face, intently, as if memorizing every fea-
ture. "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."

Eydryth, 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 brownish-
green 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 leaf-
ball. As she did so, she sang softly, a monotonous, minor tune,
its words so ancient that Eydryth 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, Eydryth 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.

Avris stopped abruptly on a half-wail, and Eydryth started,




30           ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

jerked out of the reverie she had fallen into. She looked over

at the witch and gasped.

Her own face stared back at her—long, oval, with a trav-
eler's sun-browned skin. Avris now seemed to have bright blue
eyes, a straight nose, a strong, stubborn jaw, all beneath a
wind-tossed cap of soft black curls. "It worked?" the girl

demanded.
"Completely," Eydryth told her, amazed. "Except that you

are still shorter than I, I do not believe even your Logar could
tell us apart. It is as perfect a Seeming as any I have witnessed.

Your Power must be greater than you think."

The witch shrugged. "Perhaps it is just that I am desperate.
What I could not do/or them, I will do to escape them. And
the guard, I think, will not notice the difference in height. I will
just roll up the sleeves and breeches a turn, so."

When she was finished ordering her borrowed clothing,
Avris reached into the bag again, this time withdrawing a
bundle of twigs, bound with red thread. Eydryth pulled back
as the girl made to brush the bard's forehead with the twig-
bundle. "What is that?" she demanded.

"Rowan," Avris replied. "Magic cannot work within its

bounds, either of the Dark or Light. Its touch will help you

resist the questioning of the witches."

Eydryth's mouth twisted into a hard, ugly shape. "I thought
I recognized it, and I want none of it! I can endure the interro-
gation myself, with no aid from an ill-fortuned handful of

wood!"
Avris stared up at her in shock, but recovered herself

quickly. "It is a foolish soldier who throws away even his
smallest blade on the eve of the battle," she pointed out. "I
have trusted you, will you not trust me? I would do nothing to

harm you, Eydryth."
The songsmith dropped her eyes, shamed, feeling the color

rise hot to her cheeks. "I am sorry. You are right. Go ahead."
But despite her resolve, she could not keep from flinching as
the twig-bundle swept across her forehead—once, twice,

thrice.

"Tie me as soon as I am unconscious," Eydryth ordered,

SONGSMITH                  31

then had to demonstrate to Avris how to weave knots that
would hold against a prisoner's struggles.

At last, nothing remained except the blow. "Here," the
songsmith said, pointing to a spot just behind her ear. "And
you must strike with sufficient force to make them believe my
story. You do me no favor if you hold back. Have you a
weapon?"

"This," the girl said, and withdrew a dagger in a sheath
from the folds of her discarded grey robe. "Will it do?"

Eydryth ran a finger over the rounded steel pommel. "It
should. Grasp it by the sheath, so as to use the blunt end.
Strike using this much force—" Eydryth wadded the witch's
discarded robe and demonstrated swinging the weapon, send-
ing it thudding into the wall, the sound of the blow muffled by
the fabric. "Now you try."

On her fourth attempt, the witch's arm swung with the
proper force. "Good. That is just the way of it. Can you do
it?"

The witch needs must run a tongue-tip over dry lips before
she could reply, but her voice was steady. "I can. I will."

"Good," Eydryth said. "I will meet you outside the walls,
in that first grove of trees to the south of the city. Hide yourself
well, and do not appear until you hear me whistle, so—" She
produced a few bars of an old marching song from High
Hallack. "And do not forget to pick up my gryphon-headed
quarterstaff from the guard on your way out. He will be
expecting you to ask for it."

"I understand."

"Good." Deliberately, the songsmith turned her back, try-
ing not to tense, forcing herself to stand still and not anticipate
the blow. "Strike when you are ready," she said. "But I would
prefer not to have to wait much long—"

Pain and darkness crashed against her skull from behind.
Eydryth felt her knees buckle, felt herself begin to fall. She let
the blackness gulp her down, swallow her, like one of the
sea-leviathans in the Sulcar tales. . . .







32

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

The songsmith's memories were blurred after that. She half-
roused to a ringing head and the sound of voices, then the
touch of hands on her half-bare body. Then the hands lifted
her, and she was careful to stay limp, let herself flop like a
boneless doll stuffed with river sand, such as the little Kioga
children cuddled.

Light met her closed eyelids then, and soon she was placed
on a soft surface. Someone covered her chilled body with a
blanket. "You may bring in the guard now," she heard a cold,
passionless voice say.

"Yes, sister," came the response, followed by the sound of
the door.

"Lady?" a gruff voice said, one tinged with fear and defi-
ance. "Th' sister said you wished t' see me?"

"So I do, Jarulf. Look at this girl, here. Do you recognize
her?"

A gasp. "But... Lady, that be th' same young woman who
left before m' shift ended! The very same!"

"I see." The cold voice was even colder now, but still calm.
"That will be all, Jarulf."

"Aye. Lady."

/ ought to be coming around by now, Eydryth cautioned
herself, and, accordingly, she moaned and tried to open her
eyes. She did not have to feign the swift stab of pain the light
brought her, or her squint. "What—what—"

The witch (for Eydryth could now see her silver-grey robe)
moved back to look down at her, her face as blank as the
stones of the walls enclosing them. She was older than the
woman the songsmith had seen before, her features fine-drawn
and aristocratic, her eyes hooded and remote in her oval face.

"You were found unconscious in a little-used storeroom,"
she said. "It seems that one of our sisterhood is missing—our
search found no trace of her. Tell me, who are you, and how
did you come there?"

The songsmith moistened her lips. "Water?" she whispered,
hopefully. "Please, water?"

"On the table. You may help yourself."

With a groan that had nothing false about it, the bard

SONGSMITH                  33

pushed herself upright, clutching the blanket against her chest.
When she saw the younger woman's shaking hands, the witch
grudgingly poured the water into a goblet for her.

The minstrel sipped, then put the cup down. "I am Eydryth,
a wandering songsmith from a distant land," she said,
hoarsely. "I had an audience with one of your number, but she
told me that she could not help me, since I was seeking healing
for my father. She said that you granted no boons to men. So
I took my leave of her. I remember following the young witch
who had been sent to guide me down the corridor, my heart
heavy . . . and that is all I remember."

"Nothing more?"

The songsmith winced as she gingerly explored the lump
behind her ear. "Naught... save that she turned back as if to
speak to me, and there was something in her hand ... some-
thing . . ." She frowned. "I know not what, save that it was
bright, and my eyes were caught by it. . . ."

"Ah," the witch said, her grey eyes raking the young
woman's face with the sharpness of fingernails. "What do you
think happened then?"

Eydryth started to shake her head, but stopped with a grim-
ace of pain. "I know not. Lady. Obviously, someone hit me,
and took my clothes... my clothes!" She glanced around her,
wildly, as if just realizing they were truly gone. "My pack
... my harp! My purse! I've been robbed!"

"Indeed," the witch said, her eyes never leaving the bard's.

"My hand-harp ... my mouth-flute! My instruments ... all
stolen! How will I earn my living?" The minstrel ran her hands
through her hair, distractedly, being careful not to overplay
her distress. "I have naught left to me—naught!"

The witch hesitated. "Since you were robbed on our prem-
ises, it is our duty, I suppose, to alleviate your situation as
much as possible. We will provide you with clothing, food,
and sufficient coin for two nights' lodging. If you are telling
the truth, and were indeed the victim of thievery."

Eydryth hesitated, betraying confusion. "The truth? Of
course I am! Why should I speak aught but the truth. Lady?"

"That is what I am wondering...," the witch said, studying

34

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

the younger woman as though she had suddenly sprouted
feathers or fur. "Why should you?"

"I am no liar." Eydryth let some other very genuine irrita-
tion and fear creep into her voice. It would have been unnatu-
ral not to react to the witch's implied accusation. "You have
no right to name me one, either."

The witch raised a mocking eyebrow. "Really? We shall see,
songsmith. We shall see."

Without another word, the witch cupped her milky jewel in
her hand and stared down into it. As Eydryth watched, light
began to emanate from the stone, all in one direction, until a
luminescent beam shone full onto the minstrel's face.

Even as she realized what the witch was doing, Eydryth
summoned all her will to project honesty, sincerity. . . . She
banished all thought of Avris waiting in the grove of trees,
concentrating instead on the story she had told, filling her
mind with it. The false images as she had described them
unfolded vividly before her eyes. . . .

"What is that you're humming?" the witch demanded, her
voice sharp with anger.

Eydryth felt the blood rush to her cheeks. "I beg your
pardon. Lady," she muttered. "An old habit of mine, and I
fear an annoying one. Since I was little, whenever I grow
frightened, I begin humming an old lullaby my mother sang to
me whilst I was in my cradle."

The lullaby ... her only heritage from the fishing village of
Wark, where her mother had grown up. Always it had been
her defense against fear, and concentrating on its music and
words had enabled her, occasionally, to keep out the pryings
of other minds when she was a child, growing up in a land rife
with sorcery, where even those who shared the nursery with
her had been gifted with Power.

The witch gave her a scornful glance. "I see. And are you
frightened now?"

"The reputation of the witches is one to inspire both awe
and fear," Eydryth equivocated. "I regret that I annoyed you.
I have lived a very solitary life for the past several years, and
solitary people ofttimes fall into the habit of speaking to them-


SONGSMTTH                     35

selves. But in my case, I hum, or sing. It keeps my voice limber,
also." •

"Well, be silent," the witch snapped. "I must concentrate."
Again the witch's mind brushed her own, darting and prob-
ing, testing the surface for any trace of falsehood. The young
woman felt a chill, dank sweat break out on her body as that
questing Power sent out tendrils that would uncover falsehood
as surely as a hound would uncover a fen-fox's burrow. She
found that she was repeating the notes and music of the lull-
aby in her mind, over and over, as a kind of litany against
letting the truth slip through.

Peace, peace little baby,
Hear not the cruel storm
Our boats have come safely,
We're sheltered and warm.

The music filled her mind, growing more and more real:

Be still, little darling
And hark to the sound
Of wind-song and wave-song
So awesome and loud . . .

Eydryth lost herself within the web of music, as she had
done ever since she had been hardly more than a babe able to
toddle about, grasping her father's sword-callused fingers to
stay upright. The chorus chimed sweetly throughout her
being, driving out the fear.

For wind-song shall free you
And wave-song shall teach you
And my song shall love you
The good seasons round . . .

So sleep, little seabird, sleep . . .

Without warning, the light from the witch's jewel died. "It
seems that you are telling the truth, minstrel," the woman

36           ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

conceded, though there was no softening of her cold grey eyes.
"I will see that clothes are brought to you, and food, and

coppers for several nights' lodging."

"Thank you. Lady," Eydryth said humbly, schooling her
face to reflect none of the triumph flaring within her. Have I
truly done it? Kept the truth from her?

"Do you wish to leave now, songsmith?"

Eydryth stretched and sighed, with a deliberate show of
weariness. "My head still aches, Lady," she said. "I will rest
until midaftemoon, if I may, then depart." Don't appear to be
too eager to rush out of here, she cautioned herself, eyeing the
witch covertly. This may well be yet another test. She resolved
that she would exercise a scout's caution when she left the
Citadel. No doubt she will have me followed.

The witch nodded, her hooded eyes expressionless. "As you
wish, songsmith." She fixed a measuring gaze on the younger
woman. "You say that you are from a faraway land," she said.

"Do the women there have Power?"

"We have our village Wise Women," Eydryth replied, cau-
tiously. "They doctor the sick with herbal potions, midwife
the women and the animals ..." She trailed off. "Why do you

ask?"
"And have you ever been tested for the presence of the

Power?" the witch demanded, deliberately ignoring the song-
smith's question.
"Yes," Eydryth said, fighting the urge to swallow, her

mouth suddenly dry. "I was tested today, by one of your

number. I failed. I have no Power."
"What manner of testing?" the witch demanded.
"She compelled me to lay finger to the'jewel she wore—such

a jewel as yours. Lady."
The witch picked up her own jewel, fingered it thoughtfully.

It glowed softly. For a moment the grey-robed woman closed
her eyes; then she opened them again. "Mistakes have been
made before," she murmured, staring speculatively at the

younger woman. "Indeed, they have. . . ."

Eydryth knew she was in great danger. What if she decides
to hold me here, put me through more of their tests? She remem-

SONGSMITH

37

bered that brief flicker she'd thought she had glimpsed deep in
the heart of the witch-jewel. Avris said the jewel barely glowed
for her. ...

As abruptly as a door opening, the witch's thoughts were as
plain to the songsmith as though she did have the Power to see
the unseen, hear thS unheard. Even now, she is thinking that I
may be able to take Avris's place among them!

A sharp rap at the door made both of them jump. The witch
hastened to open it. Eydryth recognized the newcomer as the
witch who had tested her earlier. "Sister?" she said. "You
summoned me?"

"Yes," the older witch said. "This girl tells me that you
tested her, today."

"I did. I thought that I sensed a trace of the Power . . . but
the jewel stayed dark."

"You are sure?"

"Entirely."

"Very well. Thank you, sister."

The younger witch inclined her head, then departed. Eyd-
ryth's questioner smiled faintly. "Again it seems that you were
speaking the truth, songsmith. Rest now, and I will have cloth-
ing brought to you so that you may depart when you awake."

The minstrel wet her lips. "Thank you. Lady," she said,
holding her voice steady with an effort.

"You are welcome," the witch said. "Rest well, songsmith."

She left the room, closing the door behind her. Eydryth lay
back upon the bed, but she did not close her eyes. Tests within
tests, she thought, feeling the fear uncoil within her like a
serpent. / must guard my back when I leave. She intends to let
me go, planning to have me lead her guardsmen to Avris. Then
they will capture us both!

Her fingers sought out Gunnora's amulet. Eydryth stroked
the amber sheaf of grain, felt the small amethyst points that
made up the fruit upon the heavy-laden grapevine binding it
at its base. Amber Lady, she thought. Aid me in escaping this
trap. Please, Lady! I must be free, so I can find a cure for my
father!




SONGSMTTH

39

Three

And they simply allowed you to depart? Without following
you?" Avris, arms wrapped around her knees, was still
crouched in her hiding place, a hollow beneath the roots of a
long-overturned oak. She gave her companion a skeptical

glance. "I cannot believe it!"

Eydryth, who was sitting on the slope above her, pulling on
her tall brown boots, grinned cheerfully at her companion.
"When I said I wasn't followed here, it wasn't for lack of their
trying. I had three shadows, sure enough, when I left the
Citadel, and only one of them was my own. But I lost both of
my tails in the marketplace without overmuch trouble. They
were expecting to trail someone who knew nothing of their
presence, and thus they were careless."

The songsmith slipped her battered brown leather jerkin on
over her full-sleeved green tunic. "It is good to get my own
clothes back," she said, busy with front lacings. "I refused a
skirt, and the only guardsman small enough so I could fit his
off-duty garments made but an indifferent habit of bathing."
She wrinkled her nose as she rolled the cast-off clothing into
a bundle. "Tomorrow, when we can move about freely, we
must wash these, and oil the boots, so we may sell them in
some town far from here. How do those things I bought you
fit?"

Avris gave her a mock glare of impatience as she smoothed
the front of her faded red tunic. "As you can plainly see, they
are fine! Now, by the Mercy of Gunnora, finish your story!"

The minstrel shrugged. "There is little more to relate. Just
to be safe, I holed up to wait out the night, and left the city
when the gates opened at dawn. There were guards looking for
me there, too, but I used the last of the witch's coppers to bribe
an old man to let me hide under a blanket in the back of his
farm wagon. He balanced two crates of pullets atop me, and,
next to me, tied his newly weaned bull calf. The poor thing was
bellowing loudly enough to rouse a dead man from his grave,
so the guards were not very thorough in their check—they
waved us through as quickly as possible." Eydryth dug a
finger in her ear with a grimace. "I am still half-deafened!"

"So we are safe?"

"For the moment, yes."

Avris laughed aloud exultantly as she scrambled out from
beneath the root-shadowed "cave" to stretch her arms wide
beneath the green-gold spring leaves. "Free!" She whirled
around in sheer exuberance. "I was so worried about you
. . . that I have only just realized—I am free! Free!"

Eydryth smiled at her. "The feeling of being free, with the
open road before one, is indeed a heady emotion. But curb
yourself, sister. The hunt for both of us is undoubtedly up, and
we must not allow ourselves to be recaptured. They would go
very hard with us, I think."

The witch stopped, then nodded, some of the light fading
from her eyes. "You are right. I am fortunate that you have




40

SONGSMITH

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

41

some experience in these matters. How best should we do

this?"
"I think it would be wisest for us to travel by night, until we

are at least two days' ride from Es City. And we will not head
directly for Kastryn, for that is what they will be expecting us
to do. Instead, we will circle around Es City, cross the river,
and travel northwest for a day or two."

"But how will we reach Kastryn?"

"Then we will circle to the northeast, and come on Kastryn
from the north, instead of the south. It will add many days to
our journey, to be sure, but it is the wisest course."

"If only we had horses."

Eydryth grimaced, thinking of her mare, Vyar. "If only we
did. But horses would also make us more conspicuous, and
without them, we can hide more easily. Have you money?"

"A few coins. We lived a monastic life in the Citadel, and
seldom needed it."

"Well, can you sing?"

Avris grinned. "I can try." She raised her voice in a few
measures of "The Riving of the Border." She had a clear, if

thin, soprano.

"You will do well enough." Eydryth nodded. "We will prac-
tice before we must earn our supper." The songsmith yawned
suddenly, widely, until her jaws nearly cracked. "And now,
while I can, I must sleep, since I dared not close my eyes last
night. We will eat and rest by turns, standing watches, and set
out after sunset. Are we agreed?"

"Agreed."

It was afternoon before the witch touched Eydryth's shoul-
der to rouse her. The songsmith awoke immediately, as her
father had trained her, sitting upright in her cloak with a
seasoned warrior's alertness. "You let me sleep too long!" she
exclaimed, seeing that the sun's rays were already slanting

from the west.

"I was not tired, and you needed your rest," Avris said. "I
slept last night, for I was too weary from my spelling to stay
awake, even if the Guardian and all the other witches had been
ranged around this grove." She smiled. "Fortunately, they
were not."

"Well, sleep now," Eydryth said, taking food from her pack
and breaking off a chunk ofjourneybread. "I will guard."

"No, I am not tired. Now that I am breathing free air, I feel
as though I will never be weary again." The two girls shared
food in companionable silence, until Avris spoke again: "May
I ask you something, Eydryth?"

"Ask away," the songsmith said, after swallowing a bite of
dried apple.

"Why do you hate the rowan so?"

Eydryth could feel her body stiffen; her face become a hard,
expressionless mask. "That is a long story," she said, finally.

"One that you would prefer not to tell? If so, I will under-
stand," Avris said, her gaze holding nothing but friendship,
sympathy. "But we have an hour or more yet to wait, and I do
not ask from idle curiosity, believe me, sister. I sense a great
hurt within you . . . and sometimes, such hurts may be eased
in the speaking of them to another, one who truly cares."

Eydryth sat in silence for several minutes, forgetting the
food in her hand, lost in memory. Finally, she stirred. "It
happened years ago," she whispered. "And it is something I
have never spoken of, except to those who shared those days
with me. And you may not want to call me 'sister' after you
hear what I did."

"I doubt that," Avris said, steadily. "You could never do
anything truly wrong, Eydryth. I know that."

"Not so," the songsmith said, her voice grown husky. She
cleared her throat. "You must understand that I grew up in a
far land . . . across the sea. You have probably never even
heard of Arvon."

"No, I never have," the witch conceded. "Does it lie near
that land of many Dales, the one the captured soldiers of
Alizon spoke of?"

"It lies west of High Hallack," Eydryth agreed, nodding.
"Beyond the Waste. Arvon, like this Escore you speak of, is
a very, very old land, unlike the others settled by humankind.
It abounds with uncanny places, and strange beings. Creatures
out of legend, many of them. Such as the demons called Kepli-
ans, shaped like beautiful horses .. .and the web-riders, those
fell creatures with many-jointed legs, that weave webs,




42

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

then cast them onto the wind and ride them, in search of
prey. ..."

"I have heard of such in Escore," Avris told her. "And do
you also have the Flannan, the mosswives, the Scaled Ones,
and the water-people, the Krogan?"

"No, I have not heard of them," Eydryth said. "But there
are the Winged Ones, who have the heads of birds and the
bodies of men or women, whose blood means death if spilled
on living flesh, and who will fight even when beheaded or
dismembered. ..."

Avris shuddered. "Praise Gunnora, I have never heard of
such in Escore! If I had, that land would prove no refuge at
all!"

"Fortunately, their numbers are small, and appear to be
dwindling," the songsmith said. "But not so for the Thas.
They are a constant danger."

"Thas?"

"Dwellers below ground who tunnel as naturally as some
creatures walk. They are ugly—" Eydryth shuddered at the
memory. "Small, wiry bodies, with bloated stomachs, covered
with scraggly, rootlike hair. But the worst thing is . . ." She
trailed off, then swallowed hard. "... their faces ... from their
faces, you can tell that they... they used to be of humankind."

"How dreadful!" Avris cried. "Yes, I have heard of such,
now that I hear them described. Lately they have been seen—
and smelled—lurking around the fringes of towns near the
mountains. Logar reported in one of his letters that they were
attacked by several of the things, as they slept. One man was
pulled down into the earth, never to be seen again."

The songsmith shook her head. "Your people had best ward
their borders well," she said. "The Thas are cowards, who
prefer such tactics to open battle, but they are deadly."

"Go on with your story," the witch urged.

Eydryth grimaced at the reminder. "I was hoping you
would forget."

"If you do not wish to tell me—"

"No, it is just that it is difficult to speak of...." The minstrel
shrugged. "So. I grew up in Arvon, in an ancient citadel called

SONGSMITH

43

Kar Garudwyn. Time out of mind ago, an Adept lived there;

its very walls are still steeped with sorcery. I was born of a
strange union: my mother, Elys, was the daughter of a woman
from overseas—Estcarp—and my father, Jervon, was a sol-
dier, one accustomed to the command of men, not magic."

"An odd mix," Avris commented. "But they loved each
other?"

"More than life itself," Eydryth said, matter-of-factly.
"They defended each other's backs through many a battle,
against human enemies, as well as those born of sorcery. They
were comrades and friends long before they knew each other
as man and woman."

Eydryth took a final bite of the joumeybread, then passed
the cake over to Avris. "We shared Kar Garudwyn with my
parents' closest friends, the Lord Kerovan and the Lady Joi-
san. They were as father and mother to me also, and I loved
them dearly. Also, there was Sylvya, who was our friend and
teacher. She was from the Old Times, and had powers such as
had not been seen since the very ancient days."

"Sylvya," Avris repeated, trying the alien sound of the
name on her tongue. "Was she of the Old Race, too?"

"Partly, but also in her was another, nonhuman heritage.
But she loved all of us children as though we were her own."

"Children?"

"Joisan and Kerovan had—have—two children. Hyana,
their daughter, is nigh unto a year my elder. She is a quiet,
deep-eyed girl, possessed of such innate Power that I doubt
many of the witches in your Citadel could equal her, even
when she was naught but a girl-child. But she makes no show
of such strength, only uses it to help others. She can farsee,
and her foretellings are such that no one can afford to ignore
them." Eydryth's face darkened, and she lapsed into a brood-
ing silence.

"And the other child?" the young witch prompted, when the
songsmith showed no signs of continuing.

"Firdun is five years younger than I. He also has Power, but
there is nothing quiet about Firdun! He was one of those
children whose life one constantly fears for—you may know




44

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

the kind. If there was but one apple tree in the entire orchard
with a rotten limb, that is the tree Firdun must climb, and that
would be the limb he chose to rest upon."

Avris chuckled. "I know very well. I have a cousin who has
such a daughter. Have you brothers or sisters, Eydryth?"

The songsmith shook her head. "I know not," she whis-
pered. "My mother vanished nine years ago, when I was but
ten years old."

The witch was puzzled. " 'Vanished'? You mean, she left
you and your father? Does she still live?"

"I know not," Eydryth repeated. "She did not leave us
willingly, she was taken. Some Power from the Left-Hand
Path swept her from our very midst, even as she lay resting in
her chamber one afternoon."

"How did it happen?" the witch asked, her grey eyes intent
on Eydryth's. The songsmith could feel her compassion, as
tangible as a warm hand laid upon her shoulder.

"It was my fault," the bard said, past the tightness in her
throat. "My fault. You see, when my mother discovered she
was again with child, Hyana, who was eleven, did a foreseeing
for her, because she sensed a troubling in the land.

"During her foreseeing, she saw that the child—she told us
it would be a boy—would be a final link in a chain that would
unite those of the Right-Hand Path in Arvon against the
forces of the Dark. The outcome of that conflict, Hyana told
us, was not clear, but she knew that my unborn little brother
was to be a crucial piece in a very deadly game whose first
move had not yet been made."

Avris nodded, wide-eyed.

"So we took all care that my mother would be protected.
She stopped walking outside the citadel without escort, and
never descended th&ramp leading to the valley alone. She even
gave up her rides on her smoke-colored mare. Unless she was
in her chamber, Jervon, my father, or Lord Kerovan always
accompanied her, armed and ready.

"And for those times when she needed to rest alone, Sylvya
and the Lady Joisan devised a protective spell to surround her
chamber. They braided a rope, using twigs from the rowan

SONGSMITH                  45

tree, lacing it with scarlet yam, the color of protection. They
rolled it in valerian, pennyroyal and mullein, chanting as they
did so. Finally, they placed the rope around the ceiling inside
the chamber, then bound the two ends together with a strip of
scarlet silk, above the outside of the door. Within that room,
no spell would work, no Power could enter."

"But something did enter," Avris guessed. "How?"

"Because I have no Power," Eydryth said, "and I was too
proud to admit that I could not manage without it. With his
mother and father so worried about my mother, I was set to
watch over little Firdun. Born of a father and mother who
both have Power, the gift was strong in him almost from
babyhood. He played tricks on me, the kind of tricks such a
child would play. He could cloud my mind, so that I could
look full at him sometimes, and not see him. Once I went to
wake him from his nap, only to find an adder coiled on his
pillow, fangs dripping venom—but even as I gasped, it van-
ished, and he sat up, giggling. . . ." She shook her head,
remembering.

"If only I had admitted that the boy was too much for me!
But I was five years his elder, and I was ashamed to say that
I could not control him. One day, as I sat there, telling him the
tale of the Hungry Well—which he loved, as it was a true one,
and his father was the hero—I turned, only to find that he had
left my side."

Eydryth pounded a fist against her knee. "If I had gone for
his parents, or Hyana, or even my father, somebody he would
have listened to—! But, instead, I searched for him myself,
only to find him before the door to my mother's chamber. He
was staring up at the rowan."

" 'Don't touch it, Firdun!' I shouted. He gave me an impish
grin, then his little hands clenched, and his chubby face grew
taut with effort. Even as I watched in horror, the ribbon came
untied, the rowan rope fell apart. The protective spell was
broken."

"And your mother?"

"I screamed, because I knew how vital that rowan rope was.
In moments my father was there, and Lady Joisan. They burst

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMTTH 47

into the room, only to find my mother gone. . . . She had
disappeared without a trace." She took a deep breath, control-
ling her voice with an effort. "There was only a stench left
behind. The scent of evil. Have you ever smelled it?"

Avris shook her head.

"It is an odor of such foulness, I cannot even describe it. No
one who ever once whin's such a stench can mistake it for
anything else. . . ."

"You searched for her?"

"Of course. My father nearly went mad with grief—he rode
for weeks, barely stopping to rest his horse, sleeping in the
saddle, forgetting to eat for days at a time. Lord Kerovan and
Lady Joisan rode with him, leaving Sylvya to watch over me
and Firdun. Hyana retired into her room and spent much of
her time in trance, searching, emerging gaunt-eyed and thin
.. . but there was nothing. Nothing. For more than a year we
searched, and found nothing."

"But what happened was not your fault!"

"So my father told me," Eydryth said, bitterly, "but if not
my fault, whose? You cannot blame a mischievous child of five
for such a happening. And even Firdun, young as he was,
understood that he had done something terrible. From that
day he changed, becoming much quieter, more biddable. He
never gave me another moment's trouble. . . .". Her mouth
twisted in an ironic grimace. "But the damage had already
been done. And it was my fault."

"I do not agree," Avris said. "You were naught but a child
yourself."

"A proud child, who was so ashamed to have none of the
gift the others had, that I did not admit my fault, did not
summon aid," Eydryth maintained, stubbornly.

"But that cannot be the end of your tale," Avris said, crum-
bling a rotted acom shell in her fingers. "You said that your
father was hurt."

"That happened when I was thirteen," Eydryth said, nod-
ding wearily. "We would go out and search in good weather,
riding to villages, asking, looking for any Wise Man or
Woman, or any Summoner, who might have heard rumors,

felt a troubling . . . any who might scry for a vision of my
mother." She caught Avris's questioning glance and ex-
plained, "Scrying is a means of seeing the past, the future, or
things far away."

"I have heard of such," Avris said. "How is it done in your
land?"

"By gazing into a bowl filled with liquid . . . water, ink,
wine . . ."

"Did scrying work?" Avris asked.

"No more than anything else," Eydryth said wearily, resting
her forearms on her upraised knees. "Arvon is a wide land, but
we searched for a week's ride and more in each direction. Once
we even dared the Grey Towers, and asked the Pack Leader of
the Weres, Hyron, if he had heard aught of Elys."

The songsmith shivered at the memory. "And, let me assure
you, there are few in Arvon who would even venture to ride
within the shadow of that grim fortress's walls, let alone pass
through its front gate. Especially to ask the whereabouts of a
witch. The Weres hate women of Power, and have for time out
of mind."

"Why?"

"Only they know the reason behind their prejudice." She
stared unseeing through the trunks of the oak trees, out at the
road they would soon be following. "But my father asked
them, and they answered. Even the Weres, with all their
strange powers—they who tread the border between the Light
and the Dark, between humankind and beast—even they
could tell us nothing of my mother's fate."

The songsmith lapsed into silence again, memories crowd-
ing her mind. "It sounds a hard life," Avris ventured, finally.

The bard shrugged. "I suppose it was, but at the time, it did
not seem so. My father taught me much as we companied
together, even as he and my mother had done .. . swordplay,
and scout-lore, the planning and execution of battle. How to
hunt, fish, and live off the land. If it had not been for the
reason of our search, those would have been happy days,
sleeping beneath the naked sky, riding my good Kioga mare
every day. . . ."




48

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

Eydryth smiled wryly. "In the winters, when we were forced
to shelter in Kar Garudwyn, I returned to the schoolroom.
There, I learned dutifully enough, but the space within four
walls was never my favorite place to be. I loved traveling. A
fortunate thing, I suppose, since I've had to do so much of it."

Her smile faded; then she sighed. "But the journeying with
my father ended, too. One day, he came to me as I sat playing
the hand-harp Lord Kerovan had given me (after he had
discovered it in an ancient storeroom in Kar Garudwyn).
Jervon was excited—more hopeful than I had seen him for
months. He told me that he had learned of an ancient 'Seeing
Stone' located in the north. It was said that any who had the
courage to climb up the cliff to peer into this Stone would
behold his or her most-desired sight. We set out that very
afternoon.

"It was a long ride. We passed several villages, but as our
way took us further and further north, they became fewer and
fewer. The country was nigh, and, save where rivers and
streams ran, grew steadily more arid—my father told me it
was beginning to resemble the Waste in High Hallack, the land
he and my mother had originally come from. Finally, there
was but one more settlement, a small town surrounding the
old, old sanctum of sorcery called Garth Howell. A place
where those with the Gift of Power journey to leam how to
harness and develop their innate talents."

"Like our Place of Wisdom."

"Yes. Except that in Arvon it is an accepted fact that men
as well as women may hold the Power. Both sexes are accepted
as students. We asked directions at Garth Howell, and they
pointed us to the northwest. But the lay sister who kept the
gate secretly warned Jervon, saying that the Stone could be
dangerous."

"But he did not heed her," Avris guessed.

"No, he did not. We rode, and two days later, we reached
the Seeing Stone ... a great cliff of crumbling ocher rock.
When we reached there, late in the afternoon, it seemed
to loom like something alive and malevolent. And it was
strange ..."

49

"How so?"

"One moment I was gazing at an ordinary cliff, but then,
when the shadows began stealing across the scree, I made out
hollows, and protrusions . . . and I realized that the entire
cliff-face had, at one time, been one giant form. Possibly a
female form, for I thought I glimpsed the mounds of pendu-
lous breasts, but the face . . . that was not a woman's."

"What did the face look like?"

"I don't know," Eydryth admitted, softly. "Wide, too wide
to be human. Lipless, I believe. There was still the hint of teeth
visible, as though she ... whatever she was ... as though she
smiled. Not such a smile as I would like to see on a living
countenance, Avris. But her most distinctive feature was her
Eye. There was only one. A wide, dark pit above what might
have been a nose.

"My father was off his horse almost before I could bring
Vyar to a halt, and heading for the cliff. I flung myself down,
and ran after him, calling to him to wait... wait. But his face
was as set as a man who has received a mortal wound, his teeth
clenched within the stubble of his beard. He thrust me aside,
ordering me to wait. . . and then, he was climbing."

Eydryth drew a long, shaky breath. "How he found finger
and toe holds on the cliff, I know not. But he moved as steadily
as a spider may on a stone wall. In moments, it seemed, he had
reached the Eye. I saw him lean forward, his head and shoul-
ders almost disappearing into the opening. A moment only he
remained so, then—" She shook her head. "He screamed my
mother's name once ..." She swallowed. "... in a voice I can
still hear in the worst of my dreams. Then his grasp loosened,
and he fell." .

"Down the entire cliff?" Avris gasped.

"No. His body caught on the tiniest of ledges, near the
figure's shoulder. He lay there, unmoving."

"What did you do?"

"Climbed the cliff myself, anchored our ropes with spikes,
then lowered him in a sort of harness I fashioned from his
swordbelt and mine." Eydryth looked away. "He had a lump
on the back of his head, but I do not believe it was that which

50

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

caused the problem. It was that cursed Eye—the backlash of
that ancient Power. When Jervon awoke, he was as he is now,
mind-crippled.

"He eats when food is placed before him, stands and walks
when tugged by the hand, sleeps when led to his bed. He never
speaks, never smiles . . . except faintly, sometimes, when I
played and sang for him. And so he has been, for the past six
years."

"How dreadful!" Avris whispered. "Oh, Eydryth, I pray
that Lormt will hold some answer for you." She put out her
hand, squeezed the older girl's fingers. "But I cannot see that
you are responsible for any of what happened. To climb that
cliff and rescue him all by yourself—! You were brave, and
more than brave, sister."

The songsmith gave her a somber glance. "If I was, it
availed little," she said. "Many times I have thought that my
father would have been better off if he had fallen to his death,
that day. He was a proud man, a capable man. He would have
hated what he has become. To see him as he is now, day after
day, became such torture . . ."

Eydryth shook her head. "Eventually, I could stand it no
more. I had to go looking for someone who might be able to
make him whole again. And, truly, Avris, if I can find no
means of healing him, I have promised myself that I will return
home long enough to grant him a merciful death."

The journey to Kastryn, although long and wearying, proved
uneventful. After many days of walking the roads, of search-
ing out taverns where they might sing for their supper and a
bed in the stable, and, occasionally, if none such were to be
found, bedding down on the edges of new-turned fields, the
two young women arrived in Kastryn.

Eydryth glanced around the sleeping village as they
threaded a silent way through backyards in the chill grey light
of predawn. "It is larger than I thought," she whispered.
"Which house is Logar's?"

"His father is the town smith," Avris said. "It is that stone
one, there, with the smithy beside." She pointed.

"Stay here. Let me scout," the songsmith ordered. "I think

SONGSMn-H

51

it has been long enough for all pursuit to have been given up,
but better safe than sorry, yes?"

Avris bit her lip; she was trembling with eagerness, but she
nodded. "If it is safe for me to come, whistle," she said.

Eydryth shed her pack and slid through the shadows, over
a fence, through a chicken yard, over another fence. She
glanced both ways before crossing the wagon-rutted road,
listening with all her being for the slithery clink of chain mail,
the creak of leather as a dart gun was unholstered.

Nothing.

She scurried to the silent house, scouted the deserted
smithy, then peered in the windows of the bottom floor. All
the rooms were deserted. She waited, listening, until the dark
grey had lightened sufficiently that her eyes began to discern
the colors of the early-spring flowers planted in the window
boxes.

Then, rising, she made her way to the front doorstep and
whistled.

In a moment, Avris was there, shivering with relief and
excitement. She knocked, softly but insistently, upon the door.

Finally, they heard a sleepy exclamation within, then the
sound of feet. A young man, black hair tousled, his well-
muscled body bare to the waist, swung the door open.

"Logar?" Avris breathed, pushing back her hood with
trembling hands. "It is I. . . ."

"Avris!" the young man gasped. "They came looking for
you a fortnight ago! When you did not come, I thought you
must be dead!" He stood staring at her as though wondering
if she could possibly be real.

Avris smiled diffidently. "Aren't you glad to see me?"

Logar came out of his daze with an inarticulate cry. "Glad?"
he gasped, "Glad—!" With sudden, fierce joy, he pulled her
into his arms.

Eydryth turned away, leaving them alone in their happiness.
She swallowed, feeling an odd pain within her, a loneliness
different from any she had experienced before. You have a
task to do, she reminded herself, fiercely. And you must do it
alone. ...

As she had promised, Avris and Logar were married within

52

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMITH

53

the hour. Eydryth stood by the former witch's side as Kas-
tryn's alderwoman joined the couple's hands, then offered
them sips from the same goblet, bites of cake from the same
plate. Long before noon the couple had loaded their belong-
ings into an ox-drawn wagon, and prepared to set their faces
eastward, toward the mountains and distant Escore,

"Eydryth . . . sister . . ." Avris smiled tearfully as she
embraced her friend. "How can I ever thank you for what you

have done?"
"No need," the songsmith said, returning the younger

woman's hug. "You have set me on the road to Lormt, and
you know how much that hope means to me."

"At least take this," Avris said, pushing a small bag into the
songsmith's hand. "My share of our earnings. I will have little
need of money where I am going, I believe. It should be
sufficient for you to buy a mount, so you may travel more

swiftly."
"I cannot!" Eydryth protested. "You earned your share,

just as I did."

"Take it," the girl said, closing the songsmith's fingers

tightly over the leather pouch. "I insist. Logar's father tells me
that there is a horse fair being held in Rylon Corners, the next
town to the north of this one. A half-day's good walk should

see you there."
"Well . . ." Eydryth smiled. "It would be good to travel

astride once more. I thank you, Avris."

"We must be going, dear heart," Logar said, sliding an arm
around his bride's shoulders. "We will name our first girl-child
for you, Lady Eydryth," he promised, clasping the song-
smith's shoulder with a sword-roughened hand. Then he
swung his new wife up onto the wagonseat.

The entire village stood waving as the oxcart slowly creaked

out onto the northeast road.

Eydryth refused Logar's mother's oner of a bed, but ac-
cepted the goodwife's bag of provisions. She headed out of
Kastryn, taking the north road, toward Rylon Corners, and,

beyond that, Lormt.

*   *   *

It was afternoon before the songsmith reached the town, but
the bustle of the horse fair was still in full swing. She threaded
her way through booths offering harness and saddles, brushes
and tonics, charms and hoof-gloss... all products imaginable
for the health, riding and beautification of horses. Eydryth
sniffed the air, smiling. It almost smells like home, here, she
thought. If she closed her eyes, she could nearly imagine that
she was back in the Kioga camp in the Valley of the Gryphon,
"talking horse" with Obred and Guret. She thought ofVyar's
glossy coat.

None of these animals, she thought, eyeing the horses
around her, are the equal of the Kioga mounts ... Out I should
be able to find something to bear me on my journey.

Eydryth wandered through the bustling crowd, running her
hand over a flank here, lifting a forefoot there, occasionally
opening an animal's mouth to examine its teeth.

Her small hoard of coins would not permit her to purchase
one of the fine, blooded animals, so she was forced to wander
among the culls, scowling more and more deeply as she exam-
ined the mounts she could afford.

She had just finished examining the teeth of a rangy grey
gelding while his owner, a whip-thin trader with most of his
front teeth gone (Kicked out, most likely, Eydryth thought),
smiled ingratiatingly at her. "You like him, bard? Seven years
old, and sound as yon stone wall."

The songsmith smiled grimly. "You mean, despite that curb
on his near hock?"

"That little bump?" the man demanded indignantly. "Call
that a curb? Why, I'll eat his saddle if that ever gives him a
moment's shortness, by Volt's Axe, I will."

Eydryth sniffed inquiringly at the gelding's nostrils. "Oh,
I'll wager he'll go perfectly sound, all right—at least until that
infusion you gave him wears off. What did you use? Black
willow bark?"

The trader eyed her angrily. "You can't prove that!"

"No, but I can show someone the file marks on his teeth.
Not a very expert job, you know ... anyone with half a brain




54

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CWSPIN

will see right through it, and realize what you've done. Seven,
hah! This horse is at least twice that!"

Without another word, the little man dragged the grey geld-
ing's head around and hustled rapidly off into the press of the
fair.

Eydryth glared angrily after him for a moment, then
shrugged. The fair was due to continue through tomorrow.
Perhaps she should seek out some of the local farmers, ask to
see their stock, rather than taking her chances with traders.
There was always the possibility that she'd run into one of
them who knew a trick she didn't—and then she'd be bur-
dened with a sick or crippled animal.

Still considering the livestock around her, the songsmith
took out her hand-harp, then opened its case on the ground at
her feet. While she decided what to do, she'd try earning a few
more coins. Better to spend a little more, in order to get a far
better bargain. Obred's words ran through her mind: "Re-
member, girl, it takes just as many coins to feed a bad horse as
it does a good one—so buy the best you can."

She tuned the harp, running her fingers over the strings,
humming under her breath to test her voice. Something suit-
able to the locale and the day, she thought, reviewing the songs
she knew. Ah, I have it! "Lord Faral's Race" will do nicely.

Eydryth softly began to sing:

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.

A few heads turned, a few footsteps slowed, and several
passersby halted to listen. Encouraged, Eydryth took a breath
and swung into the refrain:

Beneath Gunnora's golden light
Six horses raced into the night
Against the dark and fearsome knight
The Dark Light!

SONGSMITH

The black knight!
At midnight. . .

55

More listeners. The songsmith's flying fingers picked up the
tempo, strumming hard as she sang louder, more ringingly:

For he had come, with helm drawn down
Into the center of the town
He challenged them with haughty voice
And dared them to make another choice.

"If you do win, I'll go my way,
But if I win, then you will pay
A bondage through eternity
In servitude to mine and me."

Then came Lord Faral, tall and proud,
And raised his whip to hush the crowd;

"So let it be! Then let us race
For this is a protected place.

Within Gunnora's smile we dwell
Our horses drink from Lady's Well,
Strive with us, if you so choose;

Race with me, and surely lose!"

"I will not race with one," said he,
"Five noble lords must race with me."
"Then I will my four brothers call,
That none bom here become your thrall!"

A coin spun into the case; another ... then a third. Eydryth
continued:

They raced along an ancient way,
Through misty moonlight, silver-grey
But dark seeks darkness for its boon
And mortal flesh meets mortal doom.

The one horse fell, and there were four
and one heart burst and could no more—

56         ANDRB NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

So three ran on into the dark
Then from that black whip came a spark
Of poison light; and there were two
And Miroch's gelding threw a shoe—

By now she had collected a small crowd, and the music of
her harp was augmented by hand-clapping and foot-stamping.
Occasional coins thudded into the case, providing an irregular
counterpoint. The minstrel swung into the final verses, playing
as though her fingers were charmed:

And Faral then the Black Lord paced,
Step for step a time they raced
But oh, the mists grew cold and dread
And Faral's stallion tossed his head.

"Abandon now," the Dark knight said,
"For see, your brothers all are dead."
"Far better here I make my grave,
Then let my people be your slave!

"I service to Gunnora vow,

Both hand and heart, both foot and brow,

And I shall never be forsworn

Though life from me and mine be torn!"

Then came a radiant, golden light
And lifted Faral into flight
His steed's feet did not touch the ground
While the Dark horse tried to pound

Itself into the glittering stone

The Dark knight from its back was thrown

Crying out in agony,

The Dark did meet its destiny;

For they had come to Lady's Well,
That holy place of which tales tell
For there, the Lady had prepared
A trap from which no Dark was spared!

As she finished with a final sweeping chord, her watchers
pelted the harp case with coins. "Another, minstrel!"

SONGSMTTH

57

A little old man waved his battered straw hat at her. "You
sing as sweetly as a brown wren, songsmith! Tell me, d'you
know 'Hathor's Ghost Stallion'?"

Eydryth hesitated. "I think so ... it goes like this?" she
strummed a few chords, hummed a tune.

"That's it!" the old man cried. "Haven't heard that in—"

He broke off with a squawk of terror at the sudden drum of
galloping hooves. The crowd scattered as a big black horse
burst into their midst, heading for the field visible between two
wagons. The grandsire tried to scuttle away, but tripped and
fell.

As the horse swept toward them, Eydryth, without think-
ing, leaped forward so she was between the charging animal
and the fallen man. The horse, a stallion, slid to a halt so
violently that it half-reared.

"Steady, fellow!" Eydryth called, in a low, soothing voice.
"Steady!"

The stallion's ears flattened even further against its head; its
eyes sparked red in the light of the westering sun. With an
enraged scream it reared again, its deadly hooves slashing the
air just above Eydryth's head.

SONGSMTTH

59

Four

Moving with the speed of desperation, Eydryth threw herself
away from the stallion's pawing hooves. She nearly tripped
over the old man, who lay frozen with fear, mouth open in a
soundless scream. Grabbing the grandsire by the shoulders of
his homespun jerkin, the songsmith dragged him over to the
perimeter of the gathering crowd. Only then did she turn back
to confront the horse.

The beast stood scant paces away, its eyes white-rimmed,
snorting as it dug a sharp forefoot into the trampled earth. Its
hide was lathered with sweat; the rank smell of it reached her
nostrils. Eydryth realized that anger was not the only reason
for the creature's attack—this animal was frightened as well as
enraged.

A broken halter hung from the runaway's neck, and its
black coat was patched with tufts of thick winter hair, like a
bearskin invaded by moths. An untidy bristle of upstanding
mane crested the thick neck. Eydryth ran her eyes over its
conformation, noting the powerful legs, broad, muscled hind-
quarters, and sloping shoulders. Not tall or slender-legged
enough for a sprinter, she concluded, but he looks as though he
could run all day. I wonder what breed he is?

The songsmith's blue eyes narrowed as she frowned. Some-
thing about this creature was familiar—disturbingly familiar.

The animal snorted nervously, then rolled its eyes at the
milling crowd of onlookers now surrounding them. It sniffed
the spring breeze, as though searching for something—or
someone.

"I'll snare his forefeet and throw him. Bring a rope!" a burly
man in the crowd called.

Eydryth saw muscles tense beneath that ebon hide as the
stud sidled, muscles tensing. "Ho, son . . . easy now," she
whispered, extending one hand as she stepped forward. "If
you jump into the crowd, you'll surely hurt someone, so
. . . whoa, now. Easy . . . easy . . ."

Black ears swiveled sharply forward to catch the crooning
sound other voice, but as Eydryth ventured another step, the
horse flattened his ears, snorting an unmistakable warning.
The onlookers gasped. The girl halted; then, remembering
how she had soothed her own Kioga mare, Vyar, she began
humming softly. The tune was the one the old man had re-
quested only minutes ago.

Slowly, the black's ears moved forward as it listened. Grad-
ually, its shivering eased. The muttering of the crowd faded
into silence as Eydryth began singing, the words floating liquid
and eerie in the still air:

Lord Hathor and his horse were slain

By the traitor's hand

Now in moon-dark, mist and rain

His stallion strides the land.

His soul is filled with vengeance

His eyes are filled with fire,




60

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

And he has promised treachery
Full venting of his ire.

Slowly, the songsmith stepped toward the creature... one
step . . . two ... a third . ..

Finally, she was at the animal's side. Eydryth held out her
hand, feeling the warm puffs of breath as the horse scented
her. She had to force herself to hold steady, knowing only too
well the size of the teeth that were barely a handspan from her
flesh. But he made no offer to snap.

Lord Hathor, he was first to die,
All in his youthful bloom
But e'er death glazed the stallion's eyes
The beast swore fearful doom.

The girl raised a hand to stroke the horse's neck.
"No! Lady, touch him not! He will kill you!"
The frantic shout came from some distance away. Eydryth's
voice wavered, and the black ears flattened. Hastily, the song-
smith resumed her soothing music. She did not turn around,
but out of the comer other eye the young woman glimpsed a
running figure bursting out from between the farrier's forge
and the saddlemaker's display. The newcomer began shoving
a passage through the crowd.

Bending her head, Eydryth breathed gently into the red-
rimmed, distended nostrils. They fluttered, but the animal did
not move. She laid hand to the hot, sweaty neck, then began
to stroke it gently, still singing.

Of moonlight is the horse's mane
His blood is formed from death
His teeth are now a traitor's bane
And fury now his breath.

When the stone-hard muscles beneath her fingers finally
relaxed, the songsmith dared to grasp the broken halter.
Reaching into the pocket of her jerkin, she took out a length

SONGSMITH                  61

of rawhide, using it to lace the leather straps together. All the
while, she hummed softly.

Only when Eydryth was able to grasp the runaway by the
now-repaired halter did she turn to regard the man who had
shouted such a dire warning.

"Were you speaking to me, good sir?" she asked mildly.

The newcomer frankly gaped at her as she stood beside the
now-placid horse, still humming. Of medium height and whip-
slender, he gave the impression of a wiry toughness and
strength. His hair was as black as the stallion's mane, his eyes
dark grey. By the cast of his features he was young, but there
was something ageless about him. Plainly, he was of the Old
Race . . . and yet—

—yet—

For a moment Eydryth sensed something different about the
newcomer ... something that set him apart from the towns-
people and farmers milling around him. Somehow, he seemed
more distinct than the others. The songsmith blinked, startled;

then the fleeting impression was gone. Facing her was naught
but a young man, dressed simply in an unbleached linen shirt
with a leather overjerkin, tan buckskin breeches, and battered,
knee-high riding boots.

The stranger gave her a wry grin accompanied by a con-
gratulatory bow. "I said, "Thank you for capturing my horse,
minstrel.'" His voice was a low, pleasant baritone, and his
accent was that of an educated man, at variance with his rough
clothing. A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, which
then began dispersing, seeing that the excitement was now
over.

Eydryth smiled, still patting the horse. "You are welcome,
sir. Tell me, how did he come to be loose?"

The young man rubbed the back of his neck as though it
pained him. "It was my fault," he admitted, unwrapping a
leather lead-shank from about his waist and fastening it to the
runaway's halter. The beast rumbled a low greeting deep in its
throat. "I was careless. I took him to graze along the river-
bank, and two ruffians evidently decided that it was easier to
steal a mount than to acquire one honestly."

6Z

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"They attacked you?"

"They were upon me before I knew they were there! One
moment I was turning, thinking I heard a sound, the next I
returned to my senses stretched out on the ground, with my
horse nowhere to be seen. One of the brigands lay an arm's
length away, trampled and dead, while the other was just
disappearing into the forest, cradling an arm that will.require
splinting, if I'm any judge."

The man shook his head ruefully as he scratched behind the
horse's ears, causing it to rub its head against him, nearly
knocking him over. "This fellow has been trained to let no one
else touch him. I was certain that you were about to share his
would-be thieves' fate. But I was wrong." The newcomer gave
Eydryth a searching look that made her cheeks grow warm.
"Such lovely singing was too much for even Monso to resist."

Monso. Eydryth stared at the newcomer in shock. That
means "wind-swift" in the Old Tongue. But. . . how does this
man come to know the Old Tongue?

Her mind racing, Eydryth walked over to pick up her harp
where it lay on the ground. After running her fingers over the
wood and strings, she returned it to her pack.

"Is your harp damaged. Lady . . . Lady Songsmith?" the
man asked worriedly.

She shook her head. "It is fine. I am Eydryth . . . and you
are?"

He hesitated for a bare second, then bowed again. "I am
called Dakar, Lady Eydryth."

Again the bard was careful not to betray any outward reac-
tion to his words. Dakar means "shadow" in the Old Tongue.
Who is this man? Could he be from Arvon?

Dakar ran a hand down Monso's neck, then across the
broad chest. "He's still sweating. ... I should walk him, lest
his muscles cramp or stiffen. Will you ... will you walk with
us for a moment. Lady? I have scarcely thanked you."

"It was nothing," Eydryth demurred, but she slung her pack
over her shoulders, then followed him as he led the stallion
away from the fair booths toward an open meadow lying near
the racecourse.

SONGSMITH                  63

It was late afternoon now; the sun was dropping toward the
dark shadow of the surrounding forest. The tiny white-and-
gold lover's knots dotting the turf were beginning to close
their petals. The bustle of the fair faded to a faint murmur far
behind them as they walked.

Dakar glanced over at the racecourse, where the track was
being smoothed by a heavy stone block dragged behind two
oxen. "Soon it will be time for the day's race," he muttered,
resting a hand on Monso's neck. He felt between the animal's
forelegs, then, satisfied that the horse was now cool, halted
him, allowing his mount to crop eagerly at the spring-green
grass.

The youth rested an arm across his horse's back, leaning
comfortably against the animal's barrel. He was not tall; his
eyes and Eydryth's were nearly on a level as they stood to-
gether. "What brings you to the horse fair. Lady?" he asked.

Eydryth briefly explained her desire for a mount to carry her
on her journeying, but admitted ruefully that her taste in
horseflesh exceeded the wealth of her purse. Dakar nodded
sympathetically. "There is fine stock to be had here. Lady, but
only for those with the silver to purchase it. True bargains
when buying horseflesh are rare."

Eydryth sighed. "You are right. I had just decided I would
be better off earning yet another night's worth of silver, then
trying again on the morrow. But I am anxious to proceed to
Lormt—even a day's delay seems an eternity!"

"Lormt?" he gave her a sharp, sidelong glance. Plainly, he
had heard of the ancient stronghold of knowledge.

"You know of Lormt?" she asked, eagerly. "Have you ever
been there?"

"Never within its walls. Lady. But I worked with a moun-
tain guide for nearly a year, leading parties into Escore, and
we were accustomed to camp outside Lormt's walls on each
trip. We watered our horses at the village well. The master
chronicler, Duratan, gave my partner permission to do so."

"Have you met any of the scholars there? Any who might
know aught of ancient scrolls having to do with healing?"

Dakar shook his head. "No, always I remained with the

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

party while Jon—" He broke off in midname, his mouth tight-
ening, then continued, not looking at her. "—while my part-
ner consulted with the scholars."

"But still, you know the way there. Is the overland route by
way of South Wending the most direct road?"

He nodded. "It is. Except that there is an old forest trail
after you pass South Wending that will save you half a day's
journey. The entrance is nearly overgrown, but the path itself
is dear. Look for it on your left just past a tall bank of red clay
with a stream running at its foot."

"Thank you," Eydryth said.

"You are most welcome. I only wish I could be of more
help. I can tell that your journey is ... important."

The songsmith glanced away. "You have aided me. Any-
thing that will hasten my journeying is all to the good. I am in
your debt."

"Nonsense, my lady. I owe you far more than that, for
catching Monso. Doubtless you kept him from injuring some-
one, or, at the least, damaging property." Dakar stopped to
gaze thoughtfully over at the oval of beaten earth where soon
the races would be run. A moment later, he turned back to
catch the songsmith's gaze, hold it with his own.

"If I had coin of my own, I'd give it to you. Lady," he said,
his pleasant voice suddenly low and intense. "Regrettably,
races have been few and far between here in the south of
Estcarp, and at the moment I have barely enough to pay my
entry fee. But if you will trust me enough to risk some of your
own silver, I swear that it will profit you."

Dakar took a brush from a pocket in his jerkin and began
grooming his horse. Dried sweat rose in a dusty, salty cloud.
"My beast may not be as tall, or as sleek and well groomed as
these local beauties. Lady—but over a course this length,
nothing can stay with him, much less pass him. Wager on us,
and you'll not lose."

"But it's a long way from the riverbank to the fairgrounds,"
Eydryth pointed out. "He's run himself into a lather once
already today. I saw some of the racers earlier—they are fine,
blooded animals, and fresh, as Monso is not. How can you
defeat them?"

SONGSMITH                  65

Monso snorted explosively, then curled his upper lip, al-
most as though he were laughing. Dakar grinned as he curried
his mount's back. "I admit it sounds unlikely, but I know what
I know. Wager on us. Lady Eydryth, and you'll not have to
sing tonight to earn extra silver."

The minstrel gazed at both horse and master for a long
moment, then nodded. "May you race as fast as ever Lord
Faral did, Dakar. I will go and place my wager."

Monso snorted again, then bobbed his head as though he
understood and agreed perfectly.

An hour later, Eydryth jostled for position along the hedges
dividing the racecourse from the fairground. Tucked safely
into her coin purse was a flat chip of wood, marked with the
amount of her wager and the odds. As she had suspected,
Monso was not among those favored to win the race—too
many people had seen the runaway's mad flight across the
fairgrounds. Any horse that had already spent itself so greatly
was regarded as too leg-weary to prove a dangerous chal-
lenger.

The songsmith squinted, trying to make out the field against
the reddish glare from the westering sun.

There! One spot of dull brown and black, contrasting viv-
idly with the colorful caps, sashes and saddlecloths of the
other entries. Dakar rode Monso onto the course, his saddle
one of the light ones used by battle-couriers. Unlike the other
riders with their long-legged, secure seats, he rode with his
stirrups short, almost perched atop, rather than astride, his
mount.

Eydryth smiled inwardly. The Kioga rode like that when
they raced . . . short-stirruped, crouching over their horses'
withers, rather than sitting heavily on their backs. The young
woman knew from experience that Dakar's position in the
saddle would permit his horse maximum freedom of stride,
while greatly lessening wind resistance.

Around her, the townspeople ofRylon Comers also noticed
the stranger's odd seat. Several rough-looking rogues that
she'd seen in the wagering tent pointed and laughed, predict-

66

ANDRB NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

ing that the young man would find his brains spattered on the
packed earth as soon as the race began.

As the horses milled behind a rope stretched across the
track, the official starter took her place. She was the mayor's
wife, a greying, buxom woman who stood beside the judges on
the inside of the racecourse. In her hand was a red scarf that

fluttered in the wind.

Minutes went by as the horses wheeled and sidled, their
riders urging them into their appointed positions on the start-
ing line. Eydryth noticed that none of the other animals would
stand within a length ofMonso. As though he had expected no
less, Dakar, without being told, took up position on the far
outside, where he would have the greatest distance to run—an
additional handicap. Eydryth bit her lip, thinking of the silver
coins she had wagered... thinking how ill she could afford to

lose them.
A moment later, the line of horses momentarily steadied;

then suddenly the strip of red silk fluttered free.

The rope barrier dropped.

A roar of excitement erupted from the watching crowd as
the racers lunged forward, trying to gain a position next to the
inside hedge. Great clumps of dried mud pelted the crowd,
thrown up by the thundering hooves.

Monso! Where is he?

Eydryth craned her neck, trying desperately to see, but
many of the men in the crowd were taller than she. She ducked
between a goodwife carrying two hens in a cage, and a blank-
shield whose breath proclaimed his afternoon in an alehouse.
On tiptoe, fists clenched, she squinted at the course. Slowly,
she was able to pick out the individual horses.

The grey in the lead, then the red chestnut... third was the
dun ... the golden bay was neck-and-neck with the liver
chestnut, then came the dark bay with the blaze face. But no

black!
Fear tightened like a fist on Eydryth's throat. Monso!

Dakar! Where are you?

Anxiously, the bard looked back along the length of the
track, fearing to see a downed horse and rider. But the hoof-
scarred clay was clear. Puzzled, she turned back to the race.

SONGSMITH                     67

The horses, still closely bunched, were approaching the far
turn. But as they reached the opposite side of the oval track,
Eydryth made out a smaller, black shadow clinging like a
sticktight to the side of the second-running chestnut!

"Go!" Eydryth whispered, not even hearing herself amid
the din of the crowd. "Run, Monso!"

As if he had indeed heard her, Dakar guided the black horse
perilously closer to the inside hedge; then there was free track
before them! Eydryth gasped as Monso leaped forward so
swiftly that it seemed as though he had only now begun to run.
In the space of a heartbeat he was beside the grey leader. Then
he was past—a length in front—two lengths—

Eydryth clapped a hand to her mouth, seeing that Dakar
was holding his mount tight-reined, not allowing him to run
full-out. His hands moved, pulling hard, working the steel bit
against the comers of the horse's mouth. And still the black,
moving with the speed of an advancing tempest, continued to
gain!

Monso was a full four lengths in the lead when he swept past
the finish pole. There was no cheering from the crowd, only a
stunned silence.

" 'Tis unnatural!" the woman with the hens exclaimed fi-
nally. "That creature ran past Hawrel's Grey Arrow as though
the beast was hitched to a plow—and that grey is the fastest
horse the town's seen in a score o' years!"

"Aye," the blank-shield muttered, disgustedly snapping his
wagering chip in two. "No horse should have been able t' run
like that, after that chase cross the fairground today. No
normal horse, that is."

No normal horse.

Sudden realization made Eydryth fasten her teeth in her
lower lip to avoid crying out in recognition. Now she knew
where she'd seen Monso's like before. That spark of red in the
beast's eyes had been no reflection of the sun! That creature is
no more a mortal horse than Hathor's Ghost Stalliort\ she
thought. But. . . howl How could anyone catch and master a
Kepliani

The songsmith vividly remembered the time she had seen
one of the demon horse-spirits sent by the Dark to lure un-

68

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

wary travelers. It had been shortly after her mother disap-
peared. She, Jervon and Lord Kerovan had been out search-
ing, and had camped for the night near a stream in a seemingly
deserted valley.

Eydryth had rolled out of her blankets in the silver dimness
before dawn, only to see the creature standing just outside
their camp. The Keplian had the seeming of a tall, perfect
black stallion as it had stood cropping the dew-heavy grass.
Both she and Jervon had cried out with pleasure at the sheer
beauty of its delicate head, its straight, clean-boned legs... the
flowing lines of its arched neck and straight-backed body.

Both she and her father had started toward it, enthralled by
the creature's unearthly beauty. Both of them might well have
been ensnared past all saving, but suddenly, Kerovan stepped
into their path, the wristband that he wore glowing brightly.
As its light bathed their eyes, they staggered back, returning to
their senses, for the ancient talisman possessed the ability to
warn and guard against the presence of any evil.

Kerovan had raised his arm in a warding gesture. "Get you
gone, fell thing! Do not return!" As the wristlet's light struck
the Keplian, it had snorted with pain, then raced away.

So Monso is a Keplian. That explains much, Eydryth
thought, standing bemused, hardly hearing the disappointed
grumblings of the departing onlookers. And yet ...he does not
have that unnatural perfection of form that the creature I saw
possessed. Could he be a crossbred? Is it possible that Keplians
can mate with mortal horses?

Her speculations continued without answer as the song-
smith turned to make her way through the thinning crowd, her
goal the wagering tent and the claiming of her winnings.

The race had been the last event of the horse fair; all around
her horse traders and merchants were feeding their stock and
closing up their pavilions until the morrow, when the fair
would reopen. The sun was setting rapidly now, and by the
time she emerged from the wagering tent, blue twilight was
stealing across the land like a thief, robbing the place of color
and life.

Eydryth smiled as she walked, feeling the heavy purse

SONGSMTTH

69

weighing down the belt she wore inside her jerkin. Enough, and
more than enough to purchase a fine mount. I'll be in Lormt ere
I thought possible!

As she set off across the nearly deserted tangle of tents and
booths, Eydryth saw Dakar walking Monso not far from
where they had first met. Shrugging her pack a little higher on
her shoulders, the songsmith veered aside from her chosen
path with the intention of thanking the youth.

Torchlight sputtered in the night breeze that had sprung up,
its reflection again awakening that disturbing scarlet spark in
the black stallion's eyes. Eydryth halted, staring at the unlikely
pair. After all, what did she know of Dakar? He rode a Ke-
plian. It was therefore entirely possible—nay, probable—that
he himself was of the Left-Hand Path, one of the Dark Ones.
Legend held that they were often handsome, or beautiful
... as fair outside as they were foul within.

As she wavered, on the verge of turning away, Dakar
looked up, then waved cheerfully. "Lady Eydryth!" he called,
as she came toward him. "Did you see the race?"

The minstrel nodded. "I did. Lord Faral's horse could not
have run more swiftly!" As she reached him, she added, in a
lower tone, "Now I will be able to reach Lormt in only a few
days, thanks to my wager. I am indeed in your debt."

The young man shook his head. "Nonsense. We would have
raced for the winner's purse whether or not you were wagering
on us, my lady. I am just glad that you will be able to continue
your journeying well-mounted."

Eydryth hesitated, tempted to ask where he and Monso
would be going, now that the race day was over, but what was
the sense in that? She would never see him—or his strange
mount—again. The songsmith sighed, resolutely straightening
her shoulders beneath the heavy pack. "Farewell, then,
Dakar, and a safe journey to you on the morrow," she said.

He appeared to hesitate in his turn, then finally nodded. "A
safe journey to you . . . and may you find what you are
seeking." He held out his hand.

Eydryth clasped hands with him in a warrior's grip, feeling
the leather-callused roughness of his palm against her own

70

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

harpstring-toughened fingers. She saw his eyes widen slightly
at the strength of her grip; then he smiled, his clasp shifted,
and he bowed formally over her hand in courtly fashion.
"Fare you well, Lady Eyd—"

"Spawn of the Dark!"

"You cheated! That's no ordinary horse!"

"Cheater! You witched my Grey Arrow!"

Eydryth and Dakar started, whirling to see a group of men
approaching them, their shadowy forms huge and wavering in
the wind-whipped torchlight.

Monso's rider put up his hands in a conciliatory fashion as
the figures ranged themselves around them, hemming them in
past all escape. "Gently, goodmen, gently! If any of you feel
that my horse did not win fairly, you should have spoken to
the judges before Monso was officially declared the winner.
There was no such protest entered."

"That's because we were all bespelled!" Grey Arrow's
owner, Hawrel, a tall, rawboned farmer with the fair hair of
a Sulcannan, stepped forward. "You made fools of us all, but
we've come to our senses now, and we demand you make right
our losses!"

Monso lowered his head, snorting. One sharp hoof pawed
in unmistakable challenge. Dakar grabbed the Keplian's hal-
ter, whispering to him, and slowly the black calmed. "Very
well," his master said. "I want no trouble—for your sakes, as
much as my own. I will give you what I have."

Eydryth made a small motion of protest, but did not speak,
as Dakar slowly withdrew his winner's purse from within his
jerkin. Five . . . six . . . She counted the figures in that grim
circle, noting that several were armed with cudgels and one
with a sword. Too many to fight. And Dakar did cheat . . .
racing a Keplian against mortal horses is hardly fair—

—but neither is this\ she thought angrily, watching the
young man grimly weigh the purse in his hand, then toss it at
Hawrel's feet. "Take it, then, and leave us in peace," he said,
his shoulders sagging with sudden weariness. "I will leave your
town, and nothing could induce me to return, I assure you."

The protesters did not miss the bitter mockery in his words.

SONGSMTTH

71

Stung, they surged forward until Eydryth could recognize
other faces—Grey Arrow's bowlegged little rider ... the
broad-shouldered blank-shield who had been standing near
her in the crowd, the palm-polished grip of his sword gleaming
faintly . .. the village blacksmith ... the horse trader whose
animal she'd rejected. The sixth man wore a muffling hood
that hid his features.

"We'll not stand here and be mocked by a cheating rascal
of a boy!" the smith snarled, slapping the rasp he carried
against his callused palm. "You and that unnatural beast both
deserve a beating, and that is what you're going to receive!"

"Wait!" Dakar held up both hands, genuinely alarmed now.
"You must not! You could be killed! I want no bloodshed,
please! At least allow the songsmith to—"

"At them, then, lads!" Hawrel shouted, and in deadly si-
lence, the men rushed them. The songsmith dodged the one
wearing the hood, her quarterstaff sweeping the ground, send-
ing her attacker thudding heavily to the ground.

As he lay there, winded, Eydryth gave him a carefully cal-
culated rap on the back of the head that stretched him out,
unconscious; then she turned back to aid her companion.
Dakar was holding onto his horse, shouting commands, while
the heavyset blacksmith brandished his rasp at the young
man's head, all the while trying to pull Monso's lead-shank
away.

Hawrel grabbed the youth from behind, one hand clamping
brutally over his mouth, his other arm tightening over his
throat. The smith yanked the horse toward him, aiming a blow
at the creature's head with the rasp.

The Keplian went up on his hind legs with a piercing scream
of fury, forehooves slashing. His eyes flashed bloodied in the
torchlight as the demon-horse struck like a snake. He grabbed
the smith's arm, hoisting the man clean up into the air, his
bared teeth ripping through heavy clothing and skin alike to
lay the brawny forearm open to the bone. The injured man
dangled, shrieking.

"Monso!" Dakar shouted, tearing his mouth free of Ha-
wrel's grip. "No! Touch them not!"

72

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

Monso shook the smith as though he were a rat, then
dropped him.

The bronze-sheathed butt of Eydryth's quarterstaff came
down on the Sulcar fanner's head, sending him staggering,
freeing Dakar, who ran to his horse, drawing his belt knife.
The blank-shield rushed at him, his own knife out. Dakar
struck out, trying to fend off his attacker, but it was clear to
the songsmith that the youth was far from an experienced
fighter. Even as Eydryth leaped to defend him, the mercenary
nicked the knife out of the youth's grasp. Kicking it away, the
big man advanced, his own blade weaving expertly before him.

Eydryth swung at his arm, but Hawrel's cudgel struck her
shoulder, deflecting her stroke and sending a lance of pain
down her arm. Gasping from the hurt, she lashed out at him;

then trained muscles took over, and she was in the thick of the
fight, automatically dodging, parrying, rapping the four re-
maining attackers sharply with the staff every time they left
her an opening.

Cursing, the townsmen staggered back, out of range, wary
now. One of them stumbled over the hooded man; then they
dragged him with him. The smith was gone. Panting, Eydryth
spoke to Dakar without taking her eyes off their foes. "Are
you hurt?"

For answer, something large brushed her shoulder, sending
her staggering.

Monso!

The stallion sprang forward, Dakar clinging to his mane;

then, with a snort and a drum of hooves, mount and rider were
through and away, leaving Eydryth to face their attackers
alone.

With a bitter grimace—When will I ever learn to keep from
barging into fights that aren't mine?—the bard braced herself
for the next rush.

"So, songsmith," the blank-shield chuckled, drawing his
sword, "looks as though you've been stuck with the burnt end
of the stick, don't it? Yer sweetheart just left ye t' fend for
yourself."

Grey Arrow's rider frowned uncertainly. "I dunno," he

SONGSMITH                  73

muttered. "I don't hold with fightin' a bard. 'Tis said t' be bad
luck. Some ofuns can curse ye with a song, 'tis said. 'Sides,"
he pointed out, "she's a woman."

"The Dark Ones take her, she hits like a man, I say treat her
like one," Hawrel said, rubbing his head and glaring at Eyd-
ryth. " 'Tis a wonder my skull ain't cracked, sure enough!"

"That's a big purse she's carrying," the hooded man whis-
pered, climbing slowly to his feet. His concealing garment fell
back, revealing skin darkened by sun to the color of an ancient
bronze shield, and grizzled hair. "I watched Norden count out
her winnin's, and they was enough t' choke a donkey. We can
get the rest o' our losses back from her."

The wiry little rider shook his head. "Not me, I'm not
risking any curse-songs. And I don't hold with stealing. Count
me out, lads."

He turned and walked away into the night. The other men
hesitated. "Give us the purse, songsmith," Hawrel said. "And
we might let you off with only a few bruises to make up for
those you gave us."

Gunnora, aid me, Eydryth prayed. Let me take two of them
with me. She shook her head, not speaking.

"Your decision, then," the Sulcarman growled.

Eydryth grasped the slender barrel of the gryphon's body,
the metal cool and comforting to her staff-chafed hand, and
pulled. A blade of shining steel emerged from where it had
been fitted into the length of the quarterstaff.

Eydryth saluted her opponents with the now-revealed
sword, smiling grimly at their unconcealed surprise.

"She knows how t' use that blade," the hooded man ob-
served, uneasily. He was still not steady on his feet.

"And if she does?" the blank-shield said. "There's still three
of us, and I'm no stranger to swordplay. I'll keep her busy, and
you take her from behind."

Slowly they began spreading out to do his bidding. Eydryth
braced herself as they gathered themselves for a charge—

The thunder of racing hoofbeats suddenly filled the night!

"Songsmith! Be ready!" Dakar shouted, as he galloped to-
ward her on Monso. The hooded man grabbed a lit torch and

74

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

swiped at the Keplian. He screamed shrilly as the stallion
lashed out with a forefoot; then they burst through, knocking
Hawrel sprawling. The blank-shield fell back before the Ke-
plian's bared teeth.

Eydryth had already resheathed her sword. She handed up
her quarterstaff; then, grabbing the hand Dakar extended, she
vaulted up behind him onto the dancing, plunging horse. She
had barely enough time to snatch her weapon and grasp
Dakar's belt one-handed before Monso's haunches bunched
beneath her.

The Keplian sprang forward with a leap that nearly un-
seated her; then they were off, racing away from the torchlight,
into the dark.

Five

Eydryth waited for Monso to slow once they left the fair-
ground, but the stallion thundered on, his speed never slacken-
ing. He was running much faster than he had during the race;

she could feel Dakar fighting to bring him under control, but
to no avail.

Eydryth had heard tales, sung songs, of wanderers lured
into mounting Keplians, then being borne off to a fate best not
envisioned. She had always wondered why the hapless riders
did not simply leap from the demon-horse's back.

Now she knew; such a plunge from the back of a Keplian
galloping at full stride would mean almost certain death.

The girl knew herself to be a good—nay, an expert—rider,

76

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

but even so, she was in grave clanger of being unseated. The
moonless night was so dark that she could not see the horse's
head past Dakar's shoulder, and thus she was caught una-
wares whenever the beast swerved sharply, or, in several cases,
hurdled obstacles lying in their path.

Eydryth's left hand was locked in a death-grip on her com-
panion's belt, but she dared not clamp her lower legs around
her mount's sensitive flanks—to do so would have set Monso
bucking and plunging like an unbroken colt. Instead she tight-
ened her thigh muscles, struggling to keep her balance on the
swaying, heaving creature she bestrode.

They hurtled down a slope at breakneck speed, and the
songsmith shut her eyes, tempted to abandon her quarterstaff
so that she might hold on with both hands. She felt Dakar lean
forward; then the black wind of their passage carried his
gasped warning. "Hold tight! There's a stream!"

Eydryth flattened herself against him, her arm clutching
him round the waist. Muscles bunched beneath her; then for
a breathless instant they hung suspended, creatures of air, not
earth.

With a neck-snapping jar, they landed. One hind foot
skimmed the water; icy droplets spattered both riders. Dakar
was fighting the Keplian again; Eydryth could feel the muscles
in his back tense as he exerted all his skill to gain mastery. But
the runaway snorted, shaking his head, refusing to yield to the
bit.

The songsmith closed her eyes, knowing that she could not
hold on much longer. She heard Dakar muttering, but could
not make out what he was saying. They lunged up a slope, and
Eydryth felt herself slipping . . . slipping. . ..

With a suddenness that caused her to lose her seat entirely,
Monso halted on the crest of a hill.

The girl was thrown forward, banging her nose painfully
against Dakar's shoulder, then flung just as abruptly back-
ward. She slid off over the Keplian's rump, landing in an
undignified huddle directly behind the demon-horse.

Eydryth gasped for breath, but her wind was knocked out.
Monso sidled nervously, switching his tail, and the harsh

SONGSMITH                  77

strands whipped across her face. The resulting sting revived
the songsmith sufficiently to make her aware of her danger,
and she managed to roll over, out of range, lest Monso should
kick. But the Keplian made no further move, only stood head-
down, blowing, seeming all at once like an ordinary horse
silhouetted against the starry expanse of night sky.

"Lady Eydryth, are you hurt? Lady?" Dakar swung off, his
movements stiff, lacking his usual grace. Eydryth heard a
muttered curse as he stumbled, nearly falling in his turn. Then
he was crouching beside her. "Lady Eydryth?"

The songsmith struggled again for breath, and this time
succeeded in drawing a lungful of clean air. "Wind . . .
knocked out," she panted.

He aided her into a sitting position, steadying her against
his raised knee. "I am sorry that was such a rough ride. Lady.
He had the bit in his teeth, and I could not stop him until
now."

She nodded, then shivered, feeling suddenly weak and wob-
bly as a newbom foal. Reaction to tonight's danger, she real-
ized, trying to breathe slowly, evenly, in order to slow the
racing of her heart. "I thought you had left me to those
ruffians," she whispered, finally.

"What else could you think?" he asked, in a bitter tone that
she realized was directed at himself. "For that I am sorry, too.
But I had to fetch my saddle and supplies... and, even more,
I had to get Monso away before he could do any further harm.
He would have killed those men, and such could have . . .
awakened... something in him that must never be unleashed.
There is ... a darker side to his nature."

"Naturally." Eydryth spoke tartly as she tentatively moved
her limbs, exploring bruises sustained in the fight and her fall.
"He is a Keplian, after all."

Moonrise was yet hours off; the night was too dark to allow
her to see his expression, but she felt him start and heard his
quick, indrawn breath. "How did you know?"

"Do not think to deny it," she said. "I have seen a horse-
demon before. And even those fanners recognized that Monso
is not a normal creature. Hawrel was right—you were cheat-

78

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

ing, to race him against ordinary horses. I am surprised that
the people ofRylon Comers were the first ones to realize that
and object."

"I won the other races in a far less . . . spectacular . . .
fashion," Dakar told her, dryly. "But today, Monso was so
excited after the thieves tried to steal him that he would not be
held back."

"The word will be out, now." Eydryth ran searching fingers
anxiously over her harp, finding it—Fortune be praised!—un-
damaged. Then, sore muscles protesting, she climbed to her
feet. The wind on the hillside tugged at her cropped curls as
she turned her head, trying to discern her surroundings. She
could see little, except short-turfed hillside occasionally stud-
ded with darker clumps that must be bushes. "You and your
Keplian had both best find another method of earning your
way here in Estcarp," she muttered absently. "Next time you
are so beset, I will not be there to aid you."

Dakar also rose, standing close beside her. He peered at her
face as though he could see her, though she knew he must be
as night-blind as she. "Why did you aid me this time?" he
asked, quietly. "If you had left before it began, they would
doubtless have let you go."

"Because it was obvious that you could not aid yourself,"
Eydryth replied. "Did no one ever teach you to fight?"

"No," he answered, a rueful note in his voice. "Before this
night I never had need to defend myself physically."

And yet, from his speech and manners, he was raised in a
noble household, the songsmith thought with a frown. Which
should have included lessoning from an arms-master. Truly this
Dakar is a cipher! It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him
why he had never been taught swordplay, but Eydryth re-
pressed the urge. She had no wish to know why, she told
herself, because she could ill afford to become caught up in
another's problems . . . she had a quest of her own that was
challenge enough.

"I must walk Monso," her companion said, stripping saddle
and saddlebags from the Keplian's back.

"I suppose we should camp here," Eydryth said, reluc-

79

tantly. "It is too dark to find our way back to the road to-
night."

She saw the pale oval of his face as he nodded. "There seem
to be several trees and large boulders over there," he said,
pointing. "They would break the wind. The night is chilly
already, and will be colder yet before dawn."

"Dare we kindle a fire?" she wondered aloud.

"I doubt that Hawrel and his supporters will risk further
injury by following us," he said. "And there is no one else with
any reason to seek me out." There was an ironic note in his
voice. "If you can say the same. Lady, then by all means let us
have a fire."

Eydryth thought of the witches as she shouldered her pack
and Dakar's saddlebags; then she shook her head. She and
Avris had been nearly a full moon on the road; surely any
search the witches had ordered had been given up long ago.
Cautiously, she began picking her way across the hilltop.

Her night-sight was complete, now, and she could dimly
make out the grove of trees Dakar had mentioned. The hilltop
was large and fairly level. The grass is so short, it must be used
for grazing ... probably sheep or goats, she decided. We must
be careful to be away by dawn, lest we encounter an angry
shepherd.

The lights ofRylon Comers sparkled in the distance, seem-
ing almost farther away than the stars overhead.

Eydryth set up camp in the grove, kindling a pocket of fire
behind a huge boulder that would conceal the small blaze
from anyone in the town. Wrapping her cloak around her
shoulders, she sat down on a log, rubbing her hands before the
flames, grateful for their warmth.

A short while later, Dakar returned to feed, water and rub
down Monso. Only when his mount was comfortable and
settled for the night did the young man rest. He nodded silent
thanks for the hunks ofjoumeybread and venison jerky that
Eydryth passed him from her pack. Silent with weariness, the
two travelers ate, sharing a flask of rather sour wine Dakar
produced.

Monso finished his oats, then ambled away to graze.

80

ANDRB NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"You can leave him loose?" Eydryth asked, in surprise.

"Always he has stayed with me," Dakar said. "We are
... companions, more than mount and master."

The songsmith tugged her cloak closer around her shoul-
ders. "Before today, I would have swom that no one could
capture—much less tame—a Keplian. How did you do it?"

"Monso is not a full-blooded Keplian," her companion
explained. "His sire was a Torgian stallion that was my first
horse, his dam a Keplian mare. We found her, newly foaled,
the morning after a battle in Escore. A Grey One had killed
her mother. The filly was so young that she had not yet been
corrupted by the Dark Adepts who breed the demon-horses."

"And you were able to mate her with your Torgian?" Eyd-
ryth had seen animals of the much-valued Torgian breed,
steeds bred near the Fens of Tonnarsh to possess both swift-
ness and great stamina. "But none of the horses in the race
today would even approach Monso."

"There are many who live in Escore who use magic as
naturally as breathing," Dakar said. "One such Adept was
able to use his Power to accomplish the breeding."

"I see," Eydryth said. "Did you know him well, this Adept,
this sorcerer?"

Dakar was silent for a long moment, head bowed. The
songsmith studied his face, the angles of brow, cheekbones
and jaw touched with firelight, the rest a mask sculpted by
shadows. Finally he nodded. "Hilarion was the closest I ever
came to having a father. He and his lady, the sorceress Kath-
thea, opened their ancient citadel to me when I naught but a
boy, wandering a war-riven land with no companion but my
Torgian. In a very real sense, theirs was the first true home I
had ever known."

"Kaththea?" Eydryth's eyes widened. "I have heard that
name. Is she not the daughter of Lord Simon Tregarth and the
former witch, the Lady Jaelithe?"

"The very same."

"They say all three of their children were bom at one
birth—and that each has the Power."

"That is true," Dakar said. "When there is need, the three

SONGSMTTH                  81

of them unite and become One in shared power. However,
each also possesses his or her own abilities. Lord Kyllan with
animals. Lord Kemoc with ancient lore and Words of Power,
and the Lady Kaththea with sorcery. She has always been the
most powerful of the three."

"So you grew to manhood in a household surrounded by
these magic-wielders?"

"Each of the Tregarths now has his or her own household
in Escore," Alon replied. "But they stay very close—they can
speak without words when there is need."

Eydryth, having seen similar closeness among her own fam-
ily members, could well believe such. She nodded, memories
crowding her mind. "I know what it is like to live among those
with Power," she admitted.

"You lived in such a household also?" Dakar's eyes were
intent on her face. "In Escore?"

"No, in another place. A land called Arvon, across the sea
from Estcarp."

"Arvon . . .," he whispered. "I have heard of it. Hilarion
told me that when he first lived in Escore, before the Old Race
crossed the mountains bordering Estcarp on the east, that
there was a legend telling of two lands that had once been one
land. Escore . . . .and Arvon."

Eydryth blinked in surprise. "This Hilarion must be old,"
she said, startled into bluntness. "Time-out-of-mind old.
There are ancient runes and scrolls in the Citadel of Kar
Garudwyn, even some maps, and they show naught but waste-
land lying to the far west of my land, wasteland that becomes
a death-haunted desert."

"And what lies beyond the desert?"

"No one seemed certain. That land was blighted, poisonous
to all life, and none dared traverse it. One Adept wrote that he
had scryed far to the west, and that the land became ever more
seared, until it ended on the melted, glassy shores of an un-
canny sea inhabited by strange creatures."

"Which fits the legends Hilarion remembers." Dakar smiled
a little. "My lord is not the greybeard you envision, my lady.
He spent considerable time imprisoned beyond a Gate where

82

SONGSMITH

ANDRB NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

83

Time ran differently than it does on this world. Have you ever
heard of such?"

"Yes, I know of the Gates."

Her companion hesitated. "You seem to know much about
the uses of Power, my lady. Are you a Wise Woman, then?"

"No."

"A witch or sorceress?" he persisted.

She laughed, but the sound held a bitter note. "No, no, and
no! I am no more a Holder of Power than you are, friend
Dakar. Of all those who reside in Kar Garudwyn, only my
father and I lack the Gift."

"I, too, know what it is like to be set apart," Dakar said, his
eyes holding hers. "But... Lady ... do not be too sure that
possession of Power is always a Gift. I have been assured by
those who know that it can also be a curse, a ... shadow
. . . over the life of the person who has it."

"So have I also been told," Eydryth admitted. "But still, it
seemed to me when I was growing up that I was as lacking as
a child born without eyes, or ears. My foster-sister, Hyana,
told me time and again that was not so, but still . . ." She
shrugged. "But you know what it is like, I need not remind
you."

Her companion regarded her steadily, compassionately.
Embarrassed, the young woman glanced away, feeling her
cheeks grow warm. "Moonrise is not far off," she observed,
seeing a faint glow in the east. "We had best sleep, so we can
be up and away with first light. The first of us to wake must
call the other." She hesitated, then said in a rush, "I neglected
to thank you for risking everything to come back for me.
Please . . . accept my gratitude, Dakar."

"Only if you will accept mine," he said, his eyes holding
hers. "Both Monso and I owe you our lives."

She smiled. "We are all of us well thanked, then. Rest well,
Dakar."

After pulling off her boots, Eydryth crawled into her bed-
roll, pillowing her head on her harp case. Determined to sleep,
she closed her eyes.

Lulled by the fire's warmth, she had nearly drifted off when

the other spoke again. "Lady Eydryth . . . about tomorrow.
You will be going on to Lormt?"

"Yes," she murmured, gazing at him in the dimness, her
eyes heavy-lidded with the great weariness that had descended
upon her. "I must go on."

"But they may be searching for us," he pointed out.

Eydryth thought again of the witches. "They have your
purse," she said. "That may satisfy them."

"Perhaps it would be best if we stayed hidden in these hills
until we discover whether there is any pursuit. . .."

"I cannot rest, nor turn back," she said, with a stubborn
head-shake. "The life of someone I hold very dear depends on
me."

"I see," he said thoughtfully. "Well, since it is my fault that
you cannot return to Rylon Comers to buy a mount, I would
be pleased to take you to Lormt. I know the way. We can
make good time. Monso will not mind a double load." He
spoke with a sort of wary eagerness, as though he were bracing
himself to have her refuse his aid.

Eydryth pushed herself up on one elbow to stare at him
across the dying fire. "You would do that for me? Why?"

"It is the least I can do. The saving of one's life is no small
thing. Had it not been for you, that blank-shield would have
sheathed his blade in my vitals."

She nodded slowly. "I had forgotten that. Very well... I
would be pleased to company with you, Dakar."

He poked a twig into the coals, watched it smolder, smolder,
then burst into flame. "And another thing," he continued,
slowly. "My name is not 'Dakar.' I used that name because
... because I did not want to use my rightful one among those
who might have cause to ... grow angry with me." He gave
her a rueful half-smile. "For cheating, as you pointed out. It
seemed prudent. But I would not want to deceive a ... com-
rade-in-arms." His eyes met hers across the dying fire. "I am
Alon."

The first rays of dawn slanted across Eydryth's closed eyelids.
... Frowning, she stirred restlessly, dreaming. . ..




&»

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

In her dream she saw her mother, Elys, looking not a day
older than the last time Eydryth had seen her. The witch lay
upon a pallet draped in grey silk, asleep or entranced. Only the
slightest rise and fall of her breast proved that she still lived.
Leaden-colored vapor swirled around her still figure, alter-
nately obscuring, then revealing, her face.

"Mother!" Eydryth tried to shout, but no sound issued
from her lips.

She managed a step forward, then another, but it was akin
to walking beneath the surface of a lake or ocean; she could
make but little progress. Peering down, the girl saw that her
feet were weighed down, trapped within one of the coiling grey
fingers of mist.

"Mother!"

Still no sound, and now the girl could move no farther; her
groping hands encountered bars that she could feel but not
see.

"Mother'. Mother, I am here!"

As she struggled desperately, wildly, Elys, hands folded
across the mound of her unborn child, faded away into the
shrouding mist. ...

Eydryth awoke with tears in her eyes, only to see a face
peering into hers—a huge, golden-eyed, inhuman face, domi-
nated by a cruelly hooked beak!

The songsmith jerked upright with a startled gasp, her heart
slamming painfully. A moment later, she regained her sense of
perspective, realizing that what she was seeing was no enor-
mous monster, but a falcon. The bird was perched on the edge
of the harp case that had pillowed her head; it had been eyeing
her so closely that its beak had nearly brushed her nose.

The creature was large and black-feathered, save for a white
V on its breast. Eydryth had seen its like before; several of the
marines serving aboard the Osprey had been Falconers. But its
yellow feet bore none of the scarlet thongs a Falconer's com-
panion customarily wore—so from whence had it come?
Surely a creature out of the wild would not behave so!

"Who are you?" Eydryth whispered, as though she might
indeed be answered. "How did you come here?" From Rylon

SONGSMTTH

85

Comers? Surely not! I have heard of no Falconer villages within
the boundaries of Estcarp!

Still, the bird-helmed warriors' stronghold, the Eyrie, had
been destroyed during the Turning. Perhaps some of those
exiles were now living among the people of Estcarp. But she
had heard in her travels that this strange race of warriors who
hated their women and loved only their falcons were currently
trying to establish a foothold at Seakeep in High Hallack.

None of which speculation helped her account for the pres-
ence of this bird, eyeing her so measuringly, first with one eye,
then the other. Its head bobbed up and down with the motion.

"He calls himself Steel Talon," said a voice from behind
her.

Eydryth whirled to find Alon, fully dressed, carrying a hide
bag full of water. "Is ... is he yours? You are no Falconer!"

"You speak truth," he agreed readily. "Steel Talon belongs
to no one but himself. His master, Jonthal, was my friend and
partner. He... was killed. Murdered. Instead of willing him-
self to join his master in death, as is customary for these birds,
Steel Talon has chosen instead to live for the day in which he
will find his master's slayer... and on that day, he will wreak
a terrible vengeance."

"I see," Eydryth said, studying the bird, who stared back at
her with hot golden eyes, eyes that held intelligence in their
aurulent depths—a nonhuman kind of intelligence, but none
the less for all that. "So he travels with you?"

"After a fashion," Alon replied. "He comes and goes as he
pleases." He stepped forward to stand beside her, so they both
faced the bird. "Steel Talon, this is the Lady Eydryth," he
said, introducing her so solemnly that they might have been at
some noble gathering, rather than in a misty, dew-wet pasture
dotted with sheep dung. "Monso and I are taking her to
Lonnt, to aid her in her journey, so she will be companying
with us today and on the morrow."

The songsmith inclined her head as she would have to a
human. "Well-met, Steel Talon."

For a moment those fierce eyes met hers again, then the bird
gave a piercing cry. He rose from the boulder in a blur of ebon

86

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

wings and sailed away, out of sight. Eydryth turned to Alon.
"Well? Did he approve?"

Her companion smiled at her. "How could he not? He is an
extremely discerning creature."

The girl felt again that warmth of cheek and hoped that the
light was still so dim that Alon could not make out her blush.
Confused, she summoned words almost at random. "You
were supposed to wake me at first light. We must hurry, or the
shepherds will find us here."

Quickly they broke camp, not stopping to break their fast,
only pocketing rounds ofjoumeybread to chew as they rode.

Monso carried his double load seemingly effortlessly,
though Alon constrained him to a far slower speed than that
of the night before—much to Eydryth's relief. The Keplian's
paces were uncannily smooth as her companion varied their
speed according to the terrain: jog, canter, working trot, walk.
Once they reached the road leading to South Wending, he kept
the stallion to a slow, ground-covering canter.

Eydryth was amazed at the creature's endurance. The damp
clay of the road flowed from beneath the Keplian's tireless legs
like water running downstream. By the time they halted for
their midday meal, she estimated that they had covered nearly
ten leagues.

Standing beside Monso as he grazed, the songsmith dared
to caress the muscled black shoulder. "He is truly amazing.
Few mounts could have traveled the distance he did this morn-
ing carrying one rider—let alone two." The black raised his
head, green tufts protruding from his lips, and blew gustily
down the front of her jerkin, making the girl laugh.

"What I find amazing is that he has accepted you so com-
pletely." Alon spoke up from where he lay resting in the shade
of a tall beech growing on the bank of a stream. "Before
yesterday, he welcomed no one's touch but mine ... he would
barely suffer Hilarion's."

She walked over to drop down beside him, enjoying the feel
of the new spring grass beneath her. "How long have you had
him? How old is Monso?"

"He was born in the Year of the Werewolf," he replied.
"When I was thirteen."

SONGSMTTH                     87

Then Alon was born in the Year of the Hippogriff, even as I
was, she reflected. Before she thought, she found herself ask-
ing, "What month were you bom, Alon?"

He rolled over on his side to look at her, his expression
suddenly somber. "I know not," he said. "And when I said
that I was thirteen in the Year of the Werewolf, that was my
best guess, not something I know for truth."

"Because you are an orphan?" she guessed, remembering
his words of last night, when he had spoke of finding his first
home as Kaththea and Hilarion's fosterling.

He nodded. "I believe that I am nineteen, but I could be
older. I will never know."

Eydryth thought about the warmth and love that had sur-
rounded her while she was growing up in Kar Garudwyn, in
the years before her mother's disappearance. Perhaps, she
found herself thinking, there are worse things than growing up
without the Gift. Much worse . . .

For a moment she was tempted to ask Alon to tell her the
story of his life, but, again, she repressed that urge. / must
avoid . . . entanglements. I have a duty to fulfill, and nothing
must be allowed to alter that. . . .

"How old are you?" Alon asked quietly.

"I was bom in the Month of the Gyrfalcon . . . nineteen
years ago," she responded.

"And why...," he began, then hesitated, as though he had
changed his mind about voicing the question. A moment later
he glanced up, then grinned. "Steel Talon is back ... with an
offering. We shall dine in style this evening!"

Eydryth sat up, watching as Alon went over to where the
bird sat perched on a low limb of a nearby tree. A brown and
white, blood-streaked ball of feathers lay on the grass beneath
it. The young man picked up the chicken, shaking his head.
"Raiding hen yards again? I told you how dangerous that is!
What if the farmer had possessed a dart gun?"

The bird cocked its head, uttering a cry that, even to Eyd-
ryth's ears, sounded distinctly scornful.

"We can make do just as well with rabbit," Alon insisted.
t   Glancing more closely at the falcon's prize, he scowled. "No

88 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

wonder you caught her so easily. This one has seen many
springs."

The falcon ignored him as it began to preen its feathers.

The man sighed audibly, then looked back at Eydryth and
shrugged. "I might as well be speaking with the voice of the
wind, for all he attends."

Eydryth scrambled up to stand beside him as he began
plucking the hen. "You two really speak together?"

"Not the way the birds can communicate with their Fal-
coner comrades," he replied. "Steel Talon knows and under-
stands much of what I say to him, that I know, but ours is a
very one-sided conversation. I cannot talk with him as Jonthal
could."

The songsmith eyed the falcon, remembering tales she had
heard of how Falconers and their birds were inextricably
linked, mind-to-mind, and that the death of one partner would
almost certainly bring about the death of the other, even when
no wound or illness was present. She had heard, once or twice,
of Falconer men living after the demise of their winged com-
rades, but never had she known of a falcon surviving after its
human companion died.

Vengeance..., she thought. Alon said he was living to avenge
himself on Jonthal's murderer. ... It was on the tip of her
tongue to ask if Alon knew who had caused the death of his
partner, but, again, she restrained herself.

We will reach Lormt soon, she thought, sternly. And then we
will part forever. Save your energy for your search!

After allowing Monso to graze for another hour, Alon
resaddled the half-bred and they continued on their way. Sev-
eral times that afternoon Eydryth caught glimpses of Steel
Talon, flying so high that he was little more than a soaring
black dot against the puffy white clouds shouldering their way
across the spring blue sky.

The sun was past its zenith by the time they saw the fork in
the road with its signpost indicating the way to South Wend-
ing. They did not pass through the town, but skirted it through
pastures dotted by cattle, sheep and horses. Several miles past
the village, they reached the landmark Alon had mentioned—

SONGSMTTH

89

the vivid red-clay bank with the small trickle of a creek run-
ning along its foot.

The turnoff was small and overgrown, but as they ducked
beneath branches, Eydryth noticed that several of the tree's
bright emerald leaves lay upon the ground. Bending lower, she
observed that the track was scarred by the prints of many shod
mounts.

"Look," she said to Alon, pointing. "At least seven or eight
mounts passed this way... probably no later than this mom-
ing. Are there outlaws in this region?"

"Some," he replied uneasily. "But Koris the Seneschal,
while he is a good ruler where honest folk are concerned, has
little sympathy for those who prey upon others." He sat star-
ing at the hoof-trodden earth for a moment, then straightened
in his saddle, brightening visibly. "It is far more likely, though,
that this is simply a party from some great lord's household,
traveling to Lormt to seek out old family records. Many noble
families have been doing so since the time of the Turning."

"I see," Eydryth murmured, still studying the tracks. There
were no signs of wheel marks ... or the lighter prints that
would indicate a horse-drawn Utter. That only means that this
party does not include the very old or very young, she reminded
herself. It is likely that Alon's surmise is true.

"Why now, since the Turning?" she asked.

"Estcarp has been at peace—more or less—since the witches
reshaped the mountains. During peacetime, people have time
to pursue such studies, and the study of family branchings has
become increasingly popular."

Alon urged Monso forward; they went on.

For nearly an hour they traversed open fields, broken by
stands of closely grown woods. Both travelers were forced to
ward off branches continually, for this area, having been much
stirred about during the aftershocks of the Turning, was cov-
ered with younger trees sprouted since the forest giants had
fallen, thirty years before.

"How much farther, Alon?" Eydryth asked, batting a pro-
truding branch away from her ribs. "It will soon be dark. Can
we reach Lormt by then?"

90          ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"No, but it is not too far. We are less than a day's journey
from the ancient stronghold of learning now," he replied.
"Tomorrow at noon should see us there, even at an easy
pace." He bent low in the saddle to avoid yet another gauntlet
of low-hanging limbs. Eydryth flattened herself against his
back, and as she did so, she distinctly heard a loud rumble
from the region of his midsection. She chuckled. "Hungry, my

lord? I am, too."
Alon laughed ruefully. "I am famished, my lady. And I

regret to remind you that that hen Steel Talon stole for our
dinner was a granddam many times over, and will need slow
cooking. However, it will not be too bad. I have several rather
withered potatoes and a clove of garlic in my saddlebag. With
a few wild onions and some of those tubers, we should have

the makings for a tasty—"

He broke off as Monso halted abruptly. The Keplian
snorted a warning, pawing nervously at the ground. Like
shadows come to life, the shapes of mounted men slid into
view from where they had been concealed behind the trees.

They were surrounded.

The ambush had been well planned, Eydryth recognized
that, even as her mind frantically sought, then discarded, pos-
sibilities for escape.

The underbrush was too thick to allow them to turn off the
trail and use the Keplian's superior speed to outrun their
would-be captors. Eydryth glanced back, only to note that the

way back was also blocked.

Outlaws, she thought, and mentally prepared to sell her life

dearly. A bard's traditional impunity would not hold with
brigands; Eydryth knew she would not only be stripped other
possessions, but probably forced to submit to her attackers'

attentions as well.
Then the lead rider moved forward, out of the shadows, and

the girl recognized him as one of the guards of Estcarp. An
officer, judging by the markings of rank on his sleeves and
helmet. She felt immensely relieved, an emotion that Alon
evidently shared, for she felt him relax. "Greetings, Lieuten-
ant," he said. "For a moment we took you for ruffians. We are

SONGSMFTH

91

none such, I assure you; only two travelers bound to Lormt to
request aid of the master chronicler, Duratan, and the lore-
mistress, Nolar."

The officer did not return the young man's greeting, nor did
his tight-drawn expression ease. He spoke without turning his
head. "Lady, is this the girl you seek?"

Another figure urged a mount forward. Although mailed
and helmed like the guards, the newcomer was not of them, for
she was female. With a stab of fear, Eydryth recognized the
witch who had interrogated her within the Citadel.

"This is indeed the girl we have been seeking," the woman
spoke curtly. "Her name is Eydryth."

"So it is," the minstrel acknowledged, trying for a measure
of bravado. "But knowing my name gives you no right to

detain me!"

"You are under arrest," the witch said flatly. "You have
broken our law."

The girl stiffened. "There is some mistake. I have committed
no crime. Rather"—she allowed a measure of indignation to
enter her voice—"/ am the one who has been wronged; first,
in your Citadel when one of your number ensorcelled me and
stole my belongings, and now, by this wrongful charge of
lawbreaking!"

"You aided a fugitive," the witch said, implacably. "Where
is she? Where is the girl who companied with you?"

The minstrel considered swiftly, then decided that there was
no point in lying about Avris's fate. "She is gone. Lady. By
now she is deep in the mountains bordering Estcarp ... a
bride, she is, traveling in the company of her new husband."
Eydryth smiled thinly. "I doubt that by now she would do you
overmuch good, if marriage truly robs your sisterhood of their

powers."

"So you admit that you aided her in her escape."
"I admit only that I was compelled to do so, but it is

common knowledge that you witches can compel others to

your will!" She fenced with words, using a version of the truth

to lend her voice conviction.
The witch gazed at her, her grey eyes like shards of winter

92.

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

ice, probing the songsmith's face to determine if she spoke
truthfully. Finally she gave a faint, mocking smile that made
the fear in Eydryth's heart congeal into a hard, painful lump
within her breast. "I see...," the older woman said, finally.
"Well, that one will be but a small loss. We were after a bigger
prize, and it seems we have found it."

The mail-clad woman regarded the bard measuringly. "You
have led us quite a chase, girl. The Guardian wishes you to
appear before her for testing. It seems that you have Power,
after all. Only one with the Power could have quenched the
light of a witch-jewel."

"No!" Eydryth cried, fighting panic. "I have no Power,
Lady! I am naught but a wandering songsmith, I swear it to
whatever gods may hold sway in this land! I must get to
Lormt—the life of my father depends upon it!"

"See here," Alon spoke up, "Eydryth is not under your
jurisdiction—she is not even from this land! She—"

"Quiet, lad," the officer commanded. "You will anger the
lady."

The witch did not even glance at Alon as she said, "Bring
the youth, also. I was advised last night that the sheriff of
Rylon Comers has issued a warrant for his arrest."

Eydryth slid offMonso's back, then drew her sword from its
place of concealment. "I will not let you stop me. Lady," she
said, dropping into fighting stance. She smiled grimly. "Even
if I had Power within me—which I do not—I cannot imagine
that it will do you much good if the mortal vessel that holds
it lies dead. I must reach Lormt, and if you wish to stop me,
you must kill me."

Six

Hearing the cold determination in Eydryth's voice, the witch
and her troops halted. There came a rustle, then the sound of
booted feet as Alon dismounted and walked over to stand with
the songsmith, his shoulder brushing hers as they confronted
the forces from Estcarp. "Here," the young woman said, pass-
ing her quarterstaffto her ally, "unless you wish to surrender
yourself to them, you must fight with me, I fear. Guard my
back."

He obeyed her, moving until they stood pressed back-to-
back. Then she heard him whisper, in a voice so soft only she
could hear: "You must have bade farewell to your wits, Lady!
There are seven of them against our two!"

94         ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

But he made no move to put down the weapon she had
given him, holding it awkwardly, as though it were naught but
a stick. Inwardly, the girl sighed. If we ever are free again, I
must teach him to fight. How could he have survived so long as

a wanderer without such lessoning?

"Well?" she demanded of their captors. "Which will it be,
Lady Witch? Will you kill us, or let us depart in peace?"

"You speak with great conviction, songsmith," the older
woman replied, breathing upon the cloudy jewel she now wore
set into a silver wristlet. "But it remains to be seen whether

you also speak the truth."
Above the witch-gem, their gazes locked, chill grey holding

vivid blue, and Eydryth was suddenly conscious of the silence.
Around them, the forest lay still—no bird sang, no insect
hummed. Even the horses stood unmoving.

As the moments passed, she could feel the witch's will test-
ing hers, pushing and probing at her mind, measuring, sifting.
She attempted to summon her old defense of her mother's
lullaby. The words . . . yes, the words were there:

For wind-song shall free you
And wave-song shall teach you
And my song shall love you
The good seasons round . . .

So sleep, little seabird, sleep . . .

But, try as she might, the songsmith could not make the
accompanying tune come to life in her mind. She could re-
member the notes, visualize the movement of her fingers as
they formed the chords on her harpstrings, but she could not

hear the music.
The girl's eyes wavered; she broke that locked gaze, no

longer able to resist. When she looked back up, the witch was
smiling again, a mocking twist of the lips that had nothing of
good humor about it. "It is as I thought, Lieutenant," she
addressed the officer in command of the guardsmen, "her
mind does not reflect the conviction of her words. We are

SONGSMITH                  95

seven against two; no experienced fighter would sell her life
cheaply by tackling such overwhelming odds. You may take
her."

Eydryth closed her eyes, sick with despair. Father, I am
sorry, she thought. / have failed you—and we were so close to
Lormt! Her shoulders sagged, and she swayed, suddenly so
exhausted that her head spun. Alon slid an arm around her,
steadying her. "All is not lost," he whispered. "Wait. To-
night—"

"No talking, you two!" the officer commanded, pushing
them apart. "Girl, hand over that sword, and let's have no
trickery about the way you do it." He held out his hand.

Numbly, Eydryth relinquished her sword. The gryphon's
blue quan-iron eyes flashed in the sunlight, as though the beast
were protesting such treatment.

One of the guards seized Alon's arms, wrenching them be-
hind the young man's back so cruelly that he grunted with
pain. Eydryth received like treatment as her wrists were also
bound securely. "Gently!" admonished the witch, when the
girl gasped at a sharp tug of the leathern thongs. "She must
not be hurt, is that understood?"

Hearing a shrill scream from overhead, the songsmith
looked up, just as Steel Talon stooped, sharp talons ready to
tear. With a yell of dismay, the lieutenant of the guards threw
up an arm to cover his eyes and flung himself down on the
mossy earth.

As the falcon swooped low, then mounted into the air,
circling, several of the guards raised their dart guns and fired.
"No!" Eydryth shouted, struggling against her bindings.

But none of the darts even came close, and while the guards'
attention was distracted, Monso seemed to choose his mo-
ment. Without warning the stallion reared, teeth bared, then
bounded forward, straight toward two of the guards' mounts.

The mortal horses scattered, squealing in fear, before the
Keplian's charge. Within a heartbeat, the black was gone,
crashing a path through the deep underbrush. The falcon had
also vanished.

At least Monso and Steel Talon are still free, Eydryth

96          ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

thought, dully, as her guard propelled her roughly across the
meadow, toward the campsite where the witch awaited them.
The sun was almost gone behind the trees now; darkness crept

across the soft spring turf.
She and Alon were allowed to wrap themselves in their

cloaks; then one of the men produced portions of journey-
bread and dried fruit, as well as a water bottle. Despite her
aching misery, Eydryth forced herself to chew and swallow.
Food meant strength—the strength, perhaps to escape. She

could not forget Alon's words of hope.

When the captives were finished eating, the guards bound
them hand and foot. Then, on the lieutenant's order, they
fastened their wrist-bindings to the trees behind them, tether-
ing them past all hope of working free. Alon was tied too far
away to speak to Eydryth, but when the guards finally left
them to get their own rations, he turned his head and his eyes
met hers. One eyelid closed in a quick wink; then he deliber-
ately looked away.

As the camp settled down to its routine of night patrols and

the off-duty guards crawled into their bedrolls, the girl con-
tinued to covertly watch Alon. In the darkness, she could
barely discern the shape of his body against the trees, for
twilight was long past, and moonrise still hours away. As she
watched, he wriggled backward, clumsy because of his bound
wrists and ankles, until he was braced against the trunk of the
oak where his rope was secured. She could make out his profile

now, outlined by the campfire.

She watched the pale blur of his face turn toward hers, as
though to make sure she was watching; then, exaggeratedly, he
yawned. His shoulders sagged as he settled his chin on his

chest, obviously preparing for sleep.

Her heart thumping excitedly, Eydryth mimicked his ac-
tions. As the time dragged by, she found herself wondering
what her companion had meant by those final words. Did
Alon have some way of getting free? A blade, perhaps, sewn
into the bottom of his tunic, the hem of his cloak—or, per-
haps, the sole of his boot? She had heard her father speak of
such places for concealing small weapons.

SONGSMTTH

97

But Alon did not seem to be moving at all.

Eydryth listened with part of her mind to the lieutenant's
voice as he inspected the watches, then the soft sounds of the
sentries pacing, all mingled with the snorts and whufflings
from the horses on the picket line. She was tired; all too soon,
her feigned drowsiness became genuine.

The girl tried to hold her eyes open, but they felt as weighted
as a Sulcar ship's anchor. Despite her struggles, she fell deeply
asleep—

—only to jerk herself out of slumber with a gasp when
something heavy landed on her booted legs. Frightened, she
jerked her knees up, staring with horror at the formless black
shape before her. With an offended squawk, it rose into the
air, flapped to a nearby branch, then regarded her. The song-
smith could see the gleam of its eyes and the white V on its
breast in the moonlight.

"Steel Talon!" she whispered. "What are you doing here?"

Reflexively, she glanced over at Alon, seeing that he sat bolt
upright, obviously awake. He whistled softly, the call of a
night-swallow, and Steel Talon silently winged his way over to
him. As Alon bent forward, the falcon landed behind him.

Eydryth watched as the young man's body jerked involun-
tarily, his face grimacing with pain in the moon's glow. She bit
her lip in sympathy, realizing that the bird's cruelly hooked
beak was now tearing at the leather thongs binding Alon to
the tree.

Is this what he had planned 7 she wondered. Is he controlling
the falcon's actions somehow? Or do Falconers train their war-
birds to free their masters in case of capture? She did not know.

Minutes later, Alon's arms suddenly snapped forward, as he
gave a last tug on his bonds and they parted. Eydryth watched
him rub his hands together, trying to ease their numbness.
Then he raised his knees, and his stiff fingers began tugging
clumsily at the fastenings on his ankles.

The songsmith kept listening for the sounds of the sentries,
fearing that they would be discovered, but there was nothing
stirring in the dimness.

When he was free of his bonds, Alon crept cautiously over

98

SONGSMITH

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

99

the grass toward her, raising one finger to his lips in the signal
for silence.

But to Eydryth's surprise, he did not begin working away at
the thongs binding her. Instead, he put his hand on her brow
and hissed in her ear, "Be patient. I will set you free in a
moment."

When she tried to frame one of the questions whirling in her
mind like chaff before a thunderstorm, he shook his head,
laying a finger against her lips. "Wait," he whispered, still
touching her brow. "Watch. ..."

The songsmith heard the sound of trotting hooves, then a
snort. A black shape trotted into view, stirrups flapping loose
from an empty saddle. Then a dark shape winged its way over
to land on the cantle of the saddle, balancing there.

Monso! Monso and Steel Talon, together!

As Eydryth watched, the Keplian and the falcon circled the
camp, still moving at that deliberate pace.

Circled once ...

Twice ...

Thrice ...

Magic, she realized, feeling a prickle run up her spine that
she remembered from times when she had seen Joisan or
Kerovan use the Power. The animals are bespelling the camp!

For a moment fear clutched at her; then she realized that
the beasts were circling from right to left, deasil—not widder-
shins, not contrary to the path the sun followed in the sky.
Eydryth relaxed. Nothing that followed the Left-Hand Path
could move so.

When the third circle was completed, the Keplian halted,
then gave a blasting snort. None of the sleeping figures around
the faintly glowing campfire so much as stirred.

"Good," Alon muttered, then rose and walked over to the
nearest guardsman. A moment later he was back, in his hand
a knife. With a few tugs, he severed Eydryth's bonds. "We
must go quickly," he said, not troubling to lower his voice.
"The thrice-circle will not hold past first light."

The songsmith stared from the sleeping forms to the beasts
standing a few paces away. "They did this?" she whispered, in

awe. "How could a horse and a falcon cast a sleeping-spell?"

"Beasts have their own magic," he told her. "And neither
Monso nor Steel Talon is an ordinary animal, do not forget."

"What about the sentries? And the witch?"

"Asleep, too." He took her hands in his, began chafing them
briskly. She was shocked to feel how swollen his own fingers
were. When she made a sound of distress, he glanced down at
them, flexing them gingerly. "The guard was not gentle," he
agreed ruefully. "They made it only too plain that I was not
the favored prisoner."

A moment later, he stood up, then reached down a hand to
pull her to her feet. Both of them stamped, wriggling their
toes, wincing at the pinpricks of pain as the blood flowed
freely once more.

Finally, he caught up her cloak, draped it around her shoul-
ders. "Come," he said. "We must hurry."

Eydryth followed him into the camp, marveling at the
peacefully sleeping faces that never altered as they searched
for their belongings. In the moonlight even the witch appeared
different, her stem countenance rendered relaxed and vulnera-
ble with sleep. So great was the Power of the beasts' thrice-
circle that she did not even have time to grow alarmed, Eydryth
thought with awe.

"Find your weapons," Alon called, from across the camp.
"I am gathering a few supplies. We must travel fast and light."

The songsmith located her sword and staff, then, on im-
pulse, took the lieutenant's blade and swordbelt from where
they lay beside his slumbering form. "Here," she said, holding
the sheathed blade out to her companion, "put this on."

He took it, then hesitantly did as she bade.

"Not like that! Lower, so it rests down on your hip... so."
She slid the leathern strap into place around his lean middle.
"I will begin teaching you to use this, when we have time."

In the moonglow she saw him smile wryly. "You think it
necessary for me to leam a soldier's skills?"

"I do," she nodded firmly, hands on hips as she surveyed
him. "If we are to company together, even for the space of a
day, I want you armed. I cannot go on protecting you!"




100

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

He laughed as he picked up the bag of food he had garnered.
"No, I suppose you can't—though last night you did it very
well." He glanced down at the sword at his side. "I can hardly
wait."

After losing the tethered horses, the freed prisoners waved
torches and blankets, sending the mounts racing away, snort-
ing and kicking, into the darkness. Then Alon swung up on
Monso's back and aided Eydryth up behind him.

"To Lormt," he said, turning the Keplian's nose to the east.

Eydryth nodded. "To Lormt," she echoed. "And may woe
betide any who attempt to delay us further!"

Riding through the late-night darkness was frustrating, be-
cause they could not take advantage of their mount's superior
speed. Much of the way the woods were too thick, and in the
open, the chance of Monso sinking a foot in some ground-
dweller's burrow and breaking a leg was too great. The travel-
ers were forced to keep to a walk or a jog trot, when everything
urged them to run—run!

Still exhausted by the events of the day, Eydryth found her
eyes closing again as she perched on the Keplian's rhythmi-
cally swaying rump. In the waning moonlight, the landscape
surrounding them appeared spectral, unreal. Her eyelids
closed. . . .

She jerked awake when Monso stopped, realizing that she
had been dozing with her cheek pressed against Alon's shoul-
der. Warmth flooded her cheeks as she hastily straightened.
"Are we there?"

"No, we are still perhaps an hour's journey away," he said.

The darkness was fading; a rosy glow tinged the east. Dawn
was not far off.

The songsmith narrowed her eyes as she surveyed the shad-
owed land ahead of them, seeing upthrust ridges of grey rock
and growths of new timber. In the far distance she could make
out a cottage with a thatched roof. The entire countryside had
a curiously raw, jumbled look to it. "What happened here to
stir the land so? The Turning?"

"Yes," Alon replied. "Lormt itself was protected, though.

SONGSMITH                 101

The Ancients who constructed its walls and towers embedded
spheres of quan-iron—the blue metal like that found in the
eyes of your gryphon—in the foundations of the towers. The
base of one tower had crumbled, causing its sphere to be lost
over the ages, so, when the ground heaved, that tower fell,
taking part of another tower and the connecting wall with it.
But the other two stood fast."

They allowed Monso to crop the grass for a few minutes
while they stretched their legs, shared a few bites of food, then
laved their faces at a swift-running stream. The water had
obviously flowed down from the mountains that now
smudged the eastern horizon, for it was so chffl it made Eyd-
ryth's teeth ache.

She could barely keep her eyes from searching their trail, her
ears from straining for the sound of hoofbeats, though she
knew that their captors would only now be awakening. The
skin at the nape of her neck prickled as she envisioned the
witch's fury at discovering that her quarry had escaped once
again. "The thrice-circle spell the beasts set will be wearing off
by now," she said. "We must not tarry, Alon."

He remained unworried. "We have several hours' start on
them, and when we set off again, Monso can move at speed."

"But they know our destination." She remembered the
witch's cold grey eyes and swallowed anxiously. "And the
witch . . . she will not give up easily."

He tightened Monso's girth, his expression sobering. "Then
we must continue to elude them. I have no wish to spend my
days rotting in some jail in Rylon Comers."

Once they were astride again, he loosened the reins slightly
and bent forward. "Go," he whispered, and the Keplian, with
a snort, plunged forward eagerly.

The land around Eydryth blurred as her wind-whipped eyes
watered. She clung to Alon's belt grimly, using every bit other
riding skill and balance to stay on as Monso galloped, trying
to spot obstacles and changes of direction so they would not
catch her unawares.

The sun was nearly a handspan past the horizon when Alon
drew rein, bringing their mount to a plunging halt. "Lormt,"

102

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

he announced, breathing hard from the effort of curbing the
sidling, wheeling K-eplian.

Eydryth peered out from behind his shoulder to see a river
that ran past a cluster of half-timbered cottages and a larger
building that might have been an inn. Just beyond them lay a
high stone wall, and the outlines of massive stone towers. As
Alon had mentioned, one comer of the structure was naught
but a tumbled pile of rubble, while the outlines of another
tower could still be seen, though it was perhaps half-demol-
ished.

The travelers jogged slowly down the rutted track that
served the small village as a main thoroughfare. Eydryth was
conscious of eyes peering out at them from behind curtains
and cracks in doorways, but the only inhabitants brave
enough to venture forth were several barefoot children, still
too young to be working in the fields, or aiding with the

spinning.

Eydryth wondered whether they would beg, but they did
not; two, a boy and a girl, accompanied them, while a fourth
child, older, pelted off through one of the many gaps in the
crumbled wall, evidently to warn of their arrival.

The metal-bound gate stood permanently ajar and askew,
and they rode through that into a stone and dirt courtyard. On
the doorstep of one of the intact towers, two people were
waiting to meet them, a man and a woman.

The man held himself with the upright carriage of those who
have borne arms and marched to battle. He was slightly above
middle height, plainly of the Old Race, and went clean-shaven.
Instead of the scholar's robe Eydryth had expected, he wore a
rust-colored tunic and leather jerkin, a horsehide belt with the
hair left on, and breeches and boots.

The woman at his side wore a simple robe of rich autumn
brown, with a light green shawl flung over her shoulders
against the early-moming chill. Her hair was drawn back from
her face and caught up in a loose knot at the back of her neck.
Her features were strong and well cut, but a reddish birthmark
spread over one cheek, marring her appearance.

Eydryth had to force herself to meet the woman's eyes

SONGSMTTH

103

directly; it was hard to keep her eyes from fixing on that ugly
mark. Compassion stirred within her, as she imagined all the
cruel taunts children were wont to hurl at one whose difference
was so plain to the eye.

But after a moment's measuring glance, Eydryth realized
that this woman had come to terms with herself long ago; pity
was something she neither needed or wanted. As she hesitated,
wondering how to begin, Alon cleared his throat and sketched
a half-bow. "Fair fortune to this holding, and good morning
to you both. I am Alon, and this is the songsmith Eydryth."

The man nodded acknowledgment, his grey eyes never leav-
ing the younger man's face. "You are well-come to Lonnt,
Alon and Eydryth. I am Master Duratan, and this is my lady,
the lore-mistress, Nolar. How may we aid you?"

"The Lady Eydryth wishes to consult with you on a matter
of healing."

"Healing? That is a subject I know well." Nolar spoke for
the first tune in a soft, melodious voice. "Enter, please. We can
speak in my study."

Duratan waved the travelers past him with a courtly ges-
ture. "I will have one of the stable lads attend to your mount."

But Alon did not move as he shook his head. "It is better
that I care for the stallion myself. Master Duratan. His temper
can be ... uncertain. I will join you in a few minutes."

"Very well. I will show you to the stables." He walked over
to join Alon, and the songsmith saw that, though he held
himself as straight as possible, and there was good breadth to
his shoulders, Duratan moved with a distinct limp.

Eydryth followed the lore-mistress into the ancient build-
ing, and found herself reminded of the Citadel in Es City. The
same aura of age pervaded the stones—nay, if anything, this
place seemed to be even older. The two women passed room
after room filled with shelves, each shelf holding hundreds of
books, or, even more ancient, rune-scrolls in metal and leather
containers. Robed scholars, both male and female, moved
soft-footed through the corridors, carrying armloads of blank
parchment, and fresh quills.

They climbed the stairs into one of the towers; then Nolar

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

104

stopped before a door and opened it. The room within was
large, with a window that looked out upon the eastern hills.
Pots of herbs grew on the stone windowsill, and faded hang-
ings gave a hint of soft color to the walls, though any pictures
or stories they bore were nearly impossible to make out. The
whitewashed walls were lined with chests, each holding many
record-scrolls in bronze-reinforced or carved-wood cases.

Eydryth took a deep breath of the musty, vellum-scented air
and thought that here, if any place in the world, there might
be some scrap of healing-lore that would aid her father.

Nolar carefully moved some tattered scrolls she had evi-
dently been studying, then waved the girl to a seat. "Tell me
why you have come, Eydryth."

Taking a deep breath, the songsmith launched into her
story. She was halfway through when Duratan and Alon en-
tered the room. As she recounted the events of the past, she
noticed that the master chronicler's eyes seldom left Alon's
face; he avoided staring openly, but he watched the younger
man as avidly as Steel Talon might have eyed a rabbit that had
ventured too far from its burrow.

Why is the master chronicler so interested in Alon? she won-
dered; then a likely reason occurred to her. Duratan has proba-
bly read of the Keplians in Escore, and recognized Monsofor
one. He would naturally be curious about one who could master
such a creature.

"... and so Jervon has remained, these past years," Eydryth
concluded. "Much like a very small child . . . biddable, but
needing help in even the simplest things; eating, bathing or
dressing." She fixed the lore-mistress with a pleading gaze.
"Lady Nolar... can you think of aught that might help him?
I cannot let him continue to live thus!"

"And you say there is no scar, nor any depression in the
bone of his skull where he hit his head?"

"None. The Lady Joisan, who fostered me when my own
mother disappeared, is a Wise Woman and Healer of no little
ability. She has said that my father's problem was not caused
by injury to the body, but rather to the mind, and perhaps the
spirit. Like ..." She groped for an example. "... like a river
during floodtime, where the channel can no longer contain the

SONGSMITH

105

rush of water, and thus overflows its banks. So also with the
pathways in Jervon's mind."

"I see...," the lore-mistress murmured. She glanced at her
lord. "Much like Elgaret's case, it seems to me. Perhaps the
Stone ..."

"The Stone?" Eydryth demanded. "What Stone?"

"The Stone of Konnard," Duratan said. "It is a healing
stone of great power that lies within a cave in the mountains
far from here. A shard from it healed my lady's aunt after her
mind had been overpowered during the Turning. She was once
one of the witches."

"Shard? May we obtain one? Or borrow yours?" Eydryth's
heart was beating wildly, like a snared bird trying to escape
capture.

"Alas, the shard is no longer mine," Nolar said.

"Soon after Elgaret's healing, the shard drew me back to the
Stone, and cleaved again to it," Nolar added. "Thus, that
piece is no longer in my possession. And I do not think an-
other shard will be found, after all these years. Could you
perhaps take your father here?"

"The Stone of Konnard . . . ," Eydryth whispered, now
feeling her heart sink as she pictured traveling all those weary
months to reach Kar Garudwyn again, then of trying to bring
her father back to Estcarp, first over the mountains and
through the Waste bordering Arvon, then across the Dales of
High Hallack, over the sea, and traversing the entire land of
Estcarp—!!

Eydryth did not see any way that such a journey could be
accomplished. Jervon could and did walk every day, but only
when taken by the hand and guided so that he would not stray
off the path. He rode, but could not manage his own mount,
and must needs be led. A companion or nurse had perforce to
sleep in his chamber each night, to prevent him from wander-
ing off. . . .

The songsmith swallowed, forcing back the tightness in her
throat. There must be another way, she thought. The gods
would not be so cruel as to demand that my father make a
journey that would be so perilous for him!

Not to mention that the thought of so exposing her father's

106         ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMITO

107

mental infirmities to all and sundry was intolerable. The
thought of pitying or scornful gazes staring at Jervon's slack-
mouthed, vacant face and stumbling form made her wince.

"Bringing him would be exceedingly difficult, I know," the
lore-mistress said, echoing the girl's thoughts. "And I must
caution you that the journey to reach the Stone's resting place
is long and dangerous. Strange creatures have come out of the
mountains since the Turning, and they can pose a grave threat
to travelers."

The songsmith wanted to bow her head and weep, but she
forced herself to square her shoulders, meet Duratan's and
Nolar's eyes straightly. "What I must do, I shall," she said.
Perhaps he could travel in a covered litter . . . she thought
wearily.

"But to undertake such a journey by yourself . . . ," the
Lady Nolar began, then trailed off, shaking her head.

"I am sure that Lord Kerovan and Lady Joisan will aid me
in bringing my father to be healed," Eydryth told her, before
adding, with bitter frankness, "but one thing makes me hesi-
tate: what if we make such a journey and the Stone does not
heal Jervon? Or what if he is killed on the way there?"

Both chronicler and lore-mistress nodded back at her, obvi-
ously comprehending the reasons for her hesitation and dis-
tress.

Suddenly Alon, whom she had almost forgotten was pre-
sent, stirred beside her, clearing his throat. "Mistress Nolar,"
he said, indicating one of the rune-scrolls in the stack on the
table, "may I examine that scroll? The runes on its case remind
me of one that my master Hilarion had in his collection. That
one dealt with healing, and if this is a copy . . ."

Duratan sat up even straighter, raising his heavy eyebrows
in surprise. "Hilarion? I have heard that name, from my friend
Kemoc Tregarth."

"You know Kemoc?" Alon asked, equally surprised.

"We fought together on the Border, and became friends as
well as comrades-in-arms. After Kemoc was wounded, he
came to Lormt and I saw him again there, not long before the
Turning. Since the exodus to resettle Escore by those of the

Old Race, we have corresponded by means of travelers and
carrier birds." The master chronicler's eyes narrowed thought-
fully. "Kemoc told me much of this Hilarion, the man who
wed his sister. And you say you were his apprentice?"

Alon hesitated. "Not really. Rather, Hilarion and his lady
fostered me when I was left kinless and clanless in Karsten,
then found my way into Escore as a child. He taught me many
things ... to read and write, to cipher, and also the lore of
ancient lands."

Duratan's glance was sharp, but before he could speak
again, Alon turned back to Nolar. "Please, Lady . . . may I
examine the scroll?"

The lore-mistress gave the young man a searching look,
then nodded. "Certainly," she said. "However, please be care-
ful. As you no doubt know, such records are very fragile."

"I will take the greatest care," he promised, drawing the
cylindrical metal casing toward him. With slow, cautious
movements, he extracted the fragile record from the case, then
began to unroll it.

Eydryth leaned over his shoulder to gaze at the revealed
text. The script was faded almost to illegibility, and the runic
symbols implied a form of the Old Tongue more ancient than
any she had ever seen. The songsmith could make out only a
word here and there.

"Ah . . . ," Alon muttered, scanning the ancient writing.
"Yes, this is indeed a copy of the one I saw. And here"—he
pointed a long forefinger to a page near the end—"is the
reference I recalled—"

The young man broke off as his finger touched the smudged,
faded runes, and they suddenly flared into dazzling clarity,
glowing violet in the dusty sunlight of the study.

Duratan and Nolar both gasped, then leaped up and circled
the table to stare incredulously at the scroll. "What did you
do?" Nolar demanded, finding her voice first. "That light was
violet, the color of great Power!"

"Great Power?" Eydryth stared wide-eyed at Alon.
"You—-"

His headshake silenced her. "It was nothing I did," he




108

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

stated. "There was a spell laid on that page." His face was
suddenly drawn with weariness, as though that touch had
taken something out of him. "I have heard Hflarion speak of
such. This was an old spell of clarification so that the words
therein could be read even after the ink that formed them was
gone... providing the reader's need is great. The runes would
have done so had any of you touched them. Thus—"

With a quick motion, he grasped Eydryth's fingers, moving
them to brush against the ancient scroll. Again the runes flared
brilliantly—but this time they blazed blue-green.

Eydryth felt something almost tangible run through her
body at the touch of that ancient parchment—a tingling
warmth. Alon released her fingers, staring at her as if startled,
even though he had predicted that the scroll would react to the
touch of any with great need to know its contents.

"So it deals with healing!" Eydryth exclaimed, returning to
what was, for her, the most important thing. "What does it
say? Can we translate it?"

"It is a very ancient form of the Old Tongue," the lore-
mistress said slowly, studying the writing. "Older by far than
any I have seen."

"I can read it," Alon said. "Hilarion was bom into a time
before the First Turning that sealed off Estcarp from Escore.
This scroll dates from that time."

Duratan shook his head in wonderment. "That long ago? It
is hardly to be believed!"

"My foster-father had scrolls in his holding that were even
older than this one," the younger man muttered abstractedly,
as he studied the page. Long moments later, he announced: "I
was correct. This scroll mentions a place of healing on the
outskirts of the Valley of the Green Silences."

Duratan nodded. "Morquant's Valley! Kemoc told me of it.
His brother, Kyllan, is wedded to the Lady of the Green
Silences."

"In Escore," Alon said, "she is called Dahaun."

"She has many names," Duratan agreed. "But it is part of
the lore surrounding her that she has methods of healing in her
valley that are greater even than that of the Stone ofKonnard,

SONGSMITH                     109

powerful though that may be. If a wounded creature can but
reach her healing place, death loses its power over flesh and
bone there."

"But can her healing methods mend shattered minds and
spirits as well as bodies?" Eydryth cried, scarcely daring to
hope. "And is her secret of healing something that can be
transported?"

Alon shook his head. "The scroll does not say. It is worth
seeking out and asking, though."

"If only I could discover some healing potion or tisane that
I could take back to my father!" the girl cried, daring, for the
first time in hours, to think that her quest might succeed.

Nolar looked thoughtful. "Perhaps the Lady of the Green
Silences knows of such."

"Perhaps she does," Alon said. "I have heard that there is
little that she does not know."

"But how would I get there?" Eydryth wondered aloud,
remembering the shadows of the eastern mountains against
the sky. "It would be a journey of many days, just to climb the
heights separating Escore and Estcarp." She considered for a
moment, then asked, "Alon, do you know whether there is a
trail or a road that leads across the mountains?"

When he did not reply to her question, she looked up,
alerted by his silence, to find Alon staring expressionlessly
back at Duratan. The master chronicler was again regarding
the younger man with that measuring, avid gaze she had noted
earlier.

"I would like to talk to you about this Hilarion," Duratan
said, slowly. "And about yourself, Alon. We do not often
encounter—"

"Those who have lived in Escore," the younger man broke
in. "Yes, I know. But I am afraid that there is no time for such
conversation at the moment, sir. If I am to guide the Lady
Eydryth to the Valley of the Green Silences—" Eydryth's
heart leaped as she took in his words. "—then we must needs
leave immediately."

"Why so quickly?" Duratan demanded, with a touch of
grim humor, as though he already suspected the answer.

ANDRB NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

Alon smiled crookedly. "There are ... complications . . .
that could keep us from reaching Escore. Complications that
are even now following our trail."

"I see ...," Duratan said, still holding the younger man's
eyes with his own. "You must make haste, then, of course. But
should you ever return . . ."

"I will be happy to speak to you at length," Alon promised.

Rising, the young man looked down at the songsmith, then
extended his hand to help her up. "We must hasten," he said.
"Unless you do not wish to go?"

Eydryth grasped his fingers and rose, albeit a little un-
steadily. "Do you really mean that you will take me over the
mountains to Escore?" she whispered. "Oh, Alon ... I... I
can never repay you!"

"I am doing this as much for my own sake as for your
father's," he reminded her. "There is an arrest warrant out for
me in Rylon Corners, remember?"

"Yes, but—"

"In Escore, I can hide out until the witch and the townspeo-
ple have forgotten me completely. Then Monso and I can
reappear on the tracks in the north of Estcarp, with none the
wiser!"

Eydryth smiled knowingly. "You are only saying that be-
cause you want no one to know what a kind thing you are
doing, aiding me. You'd rather play the rogue, concerned only
with saving his own hide." Her expression sobered and her
eyes held his. "But I know the truth. Accept my thanks,
Alon."

"Do you need supplies for your journey?" the lore-mistress
asked.

At her words, Eydryth let go of Alon's hand, and both
travelers turned to her. "Perhaps a round or two of journey-
bread, should you have it," she said, as they headed for the
door. "And ... Mistress Nolar ... thank you. Both of you."

Scant minutes later found them in the courtyard, while Alon
packed the provisions the lore-mistress had provided into
Monso's saddlebags. Just as he finished, the master chronicler
reappeared, leading a bay mare. Duratan was carrying a hand-
ful of rags and twine.

r

SONGSMTTH

"What size shoes does he wear?" the chronicler demanded
without preamble, nodding at the Keplian half-bred.

Alon eyed the rags, twine and the bay horse's feet; then he
smiled gratefully. "Size aught," he said. "You chose cor-
rectly."

"Like most Borderers, I did my share of makeshift smith-
ing," the master chronicler commented, handing the younger
man the cloths.

Taking the string, Eydryth aided Alon in tying the rags
around the Keplian's hooves, so he would leave no prints.

When they were finished, Duratan swung himself up into
the bay's saddle, then held out a hand to Nolar. "My lady,"
he said, with a smile touching his deep-set grey eyes, "it occurs
to me that it has been long since we visited the southernmost
farms to see if any are in need of your healing skills. Perhaps
today would be a good day to do that."

Nolar chuckled. "Let me get my bag of simples," she said,
and ran to fetch them. When she returned, she caught her
lord's hand; then, with a swirl of russet skirts, she scrambled
up onto the bay mare's rump.

Very canny, Eydryth thought approvingly. Now the bay's
boo/prints will sink deep enough to match the ones Monso has
been leaving.

"What will you say when they find you?" Alon asked wor-
riedly.

"I will say, truthfully, that all our other mounts are in use,"
Duratan replied serenely, "and so my lady and I must needs
ride double." He smiled at Alon. "Remember your promise,
lad. I will be waiting for the day when we can have that long
talk."

Alon nodded. "I will not forget."

"Well, then . . ." The master chronicler raised a hand in a
half-salute. "A good journey to you both. May you find what
you are seeking." Nolar nodded farewell as Duratan turned
the horse and sent the animal trotting out of the courtyard.

Eydryth and Alon watched them go; then they, too, set off,
leading the stallion, so as to further confound their pursuers.
Only when the ground beneath their boots was hard-packed

112

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

soil broken by the thrusts of rock outcrops did they take the
muffling rags off Mouse's hooves and mount.

Perched once more behind her escort, Eydryth looked
ahead of them, to the nearby slopes of the foothills, then
beyond to the mountains, many with their peaks still snow-
splotched. Uneasily she turned to regard their back trail. "Do
you think the witch and her guards will be fooled by Duratan's
and Nolar's trick?"

Alon sighed. "For another hour or so, perhaps. But as soon
as they see Nolar and Duratan, they will know the truth."

"Then the witch will scry, or farsee, and so discover which
trail we have taken," Eydryth agreed. She indicated the rock-
strewn countryside surrounding them. "And Monso's speed
will be of little use to us when the ground is this broken."

He nodded silently. After a moment, she wet her lips. "Do
you think the mountains will stop her?"

Alon shook his head. "Have they stopped you?" he asked,
simply. "That lady is as determined to capture you as you are
to see your father healed."

Eydryth knew that he spoke the truth; her fingers tightened
convulsively on the leather of his belt. "Are you sure, Alon,
that you wish to continue companying with me? You could let
me off here and tell me where to find the mountain trail and
the pass into—"

'Wo," he said, turning in the saddle to look at her. There
was no mistaking the gleam of determination in his eyes. "We
go together, or not at all. Do not forget that they want me,
too."

But Eydryth knew better; if Alon would only abandon her,
the guards of Estcarp would not not bother pursuing a mis-
creant wanted only for a bit of racetrack chicanery. She was
the one the witch wanted. The hunt was well and truly up, and
she was the quarry.

/ must make him leave me, she resolved, ignoring the pang
that struck her at the thought. No matter what it takes.

Seven

They rode the sun down that day, not halting to make camp
until the stars glimmered against the deep purple of the late-
evening sky. For most of their hours in the saddle Alon held
Monso to a ground-covering jog, but whenever they reached
stretches of high moorland where the footing was good, he let
the Keplian run. When they finally stopped, they were high in
the foothills, with the true mountains looming over them like
fortresses of ragged stone.

After they dismounted, Eydryth moved around their camp-
site in a stumbling, dreamlike state, helping Alon rub the
stallion down, then forcing herself to eat, knowing her body
needed the food. Sleep claimed her the moment she crawled
into her bedroll.

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

114

The travelers awoke before dawn to a drizzling rain. Heads
ducked beneath the hoods of their cloaks, they hastily swal-
lowed mouthfuls ofdampjoumeybread, breaking camp while
it was still dark.

Leading the K-eplian, they started out. As they reached the
crest of the nearest hillock, breathing heavily and slipping in
the mud, Alon halted, turning to look back along their trail.
After a moment he nudged Eydryth and pointed.

The girl squinted in the misty rain, narrowing her eyes until
she made out what her companion was indicating—the dull
red glow of several campfires, far behind them.

"We have nearly a full day's start on them," she said, but
the aching lump of fear was back in her throat, nearly choking
her.

"They will gain on us today," Alon said grimly. "They will
be covering gentle slopes, while we will be climbing in earnest
before the day is out."

"Is there another pass we could take?"

"Not that Monso could traverse ... not for many leagues,"
he replied. "However ... there is a chance that the witch will
not be able to climb these eastern mountains. There is a mind-
block set upon those of the Old Race, concerning these moun-
tains and Escore. Lord Kemoc Tregarth was the first to
discover it. But now that everyone knows of Escore, it may
also be that the witch can overcome the effects of that ancient
sorcery, since she knows that the spell exists."

Remembering her resolve that he and Monso should leave
her before they risked being recaptured, Eydryth gave her
companion a sidelong glance. "If there is a nearby pass that is
only accessible to those traveling on foot, perhaps it would be
best if you directed me to it. Then you could go on to the other
pass with Monso."

A muscle in his jaw tightened, and he did not look at her.
"Why?"

She took a deep breath. "Because from this point on,
Monso will only slow us down. I know you will not abandon
him, but I have no wish to be caught because I have held back
to stay with you two."

SONGSMITH

115

The wan light of early dawn made Alon's unshaven face
appear even more drawn and haggard as he gave her a long,
measuring glance. "Do not concern yourself unduly," he said
finally, in a tone that held the barest touch of sarcasm. "When
we begin to hold you back, then it will be time enough for you
to go on alone. Lady."

Fighting back an urge to apologize, to blurt out that she was
only doing this for his own good, Eydryth nodded, no longer
meeting his eyes. "Very well," she said, keeping her voice cold
and hard with an effort. "But I shall be the judge."

"And jury-of-peers, and no doubt executioner, too," he
said, giving her a crooked, mocking smile. "But for now, we
must go."

They went on, afoot much of the time, stumbling upward
over rocky slopes dotted with scrubby firs and prickly gorse.
The songsmith walked blindly, barely noticing her surround-
ings enough to pick her path. Alon's last remark had disturbed
her greatly. She had heard beneath the mockery a note of
bitter pain; her words had hurt him more than he would ever
reveal.

He is lonely, she thought, remembering how pleased he had
been to have someone to talk with about Monso and Steel
Talon. At the thought of the falcon, she glanced around, but
saw no black speck outlined against the sky.

"Where is Steel Talon?" she asked, struggling not to gasp
out the words. "I have not seen him since he and Monso made
the thrice-circk."

"When I awoke this morning, I saw him perched in a grove
of these scrub firs," Alon replied. "He seldom flies when it is
wet, preferring to catch me up later. He will find us, never
fear."

Eydryth nodded, wishing that she had such a choice availa-
ble to her. A trickle of chill water found its way down the back
other neck, through the soaked hood other cloak, making her
shiver.

Finally, about an hour before sunset, the rain slackened,
then stopped, and the sun came out. Alon promptly halted in
his tracks, beside one of the stunted scrub oaks. Pulling off his

It 6

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

cloak, he hastily shook the water off a limb and spread the
garment to dry.

The bard considered urging him to continue on, but her feet
and her muscles hurt so from all the climbing that she said
nothing, only sought out another tree to hang her cloak.

"Dare we build a fire?" she wondered aloud. "All the wood
is so wet it will surely smoke."

Alon shrugged. "The witch will know our whereabouts
whether we have a fire or not. And I for one"—he pulled off
his sodden leather jerkin—"would rather have the warmth."
He rubbed his jaw, then grimaced. "Not to mention hot water
for shaving."

Once the fire was kindled, reluctant and smoky even as
Eydryth had predicted, the songsmith pulled off her own jer-
kin so her tunic could dry; then she drew her sword from its
place of concealment. "Time for your first lesson," she an-
nounced solemnly.

At the look of astonishment on Alon's now smooth-skinned
features, she smiled thinly, pointing with the tip of her blade
to the one he wore. "Go on, draw it. Learning the basic stance
and one or two moves will warm you up and loosen muscles
stiff from walking in the rain."

"But. . ." He hesitated, then shrugged and obeyed.

Eydryth surveyed his drawn weapon with a practiced eye.
"A general-issue sword, but the Estcarpian smiths know their
craft. Double-edged and pointed . . . you will leam to use
either point or edge. First of all, hold it out in front of you
. . . so."

When he obeyed, she inspected his hand, touching the back
of his wrist lightly, running her fingers up the length of his
bared arm. "Good strength," she said. "I am not surprised,
seeing that you can rein in Monso. Now place your feet like
this. . . ." She moved into position, right foot ahead of left,
crouching slightly. "Yes, that's correct, now bend your knees
a little, thus. . . ."

Brow furrowed with concentration, he obeyed. "Good,"
she said. "Shoulders a bit forward, right more than left, eyes
front, good..." She faced him, her own blade out. "You must

r

SONGSMTTH

117

leam to let your body think for you, while keeping your mind
calm and detached so it can plan your next move.

"Look not at any one area, but rather let your eyes take in
the entire form of your opponent. Not only his blade, but also
the movement of head, shoulders—the entire torso. Eventu-
ally you will leam to note the placing of his body without
having to think about it, and then you can begin to anticipate
an opponent's moves from small shifts in his carriage, or from
the way his eyes move. The eyes often reveal the next tactic
even before the wrist or body knows what it will be."

"What do I do with my left hand?" Alon asked, concentra-
ting grimly on holding the sword in the correct position.

"For now, just hold it so," she demonstrated. "It will help
you balance. In time I will teach you to use your left hand,
with a cloak wrapped around it, or with a dagger, to parry
strokes."

"Is that how you fight? With a sword and dagger?"

"That is my preferred style, yes," she said. "Now put your
blade back in its sheath."

Her student looked rather relieved to have gotten off so
easily. "Are we done?"

"Hardly. But I have no desire to have you cut me should I
miss a parry. The scabbard will make a good protector."
When he'd obeyed, she said, "Good. Now . . . back into
position."

Alon did so, grunting a little. "My legs will be stiff from
this."

"No doubt," she agreed. "Now let me demonstrate a basic
lunge and a basic parry for you to practice tonight. . . ."

Quickly she shifted her weight forward, her sword driving
before her like a steel wind. The point halted just touching the
fabric of the tunic covering Alon's midsection. With a startled
gasp, he leaped back, wide-eyed. "Have a little caution, I beg
you!" he sputtered. "You . . . you could have spitted me!"

"Certainly," Eydryth agreed calmly. "But I did not. Watch
me again." She demonstrated the lunge while he looked on.
"You must leam to feel the force and direction of the blade as
though it were a part of your body, controlling it precisely.

118

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

Your blade moves first, propelled by your wrist and arm.
Your body follows, and then, last of all, let yourself step
forward. Now, you try it. . .."

His first attempt made her shake her head reprovingly.
"Concentrate, Alon. The steel is an extra length of arm for you
now, and you must treat it so. Again."

Again.

And yet again.

Finally, on the young man's dozenth try, his teacher nod-
ded, satisfied. "Better! Now try to touch point to this." She
suspended Monso's feed bag over a branch. "Aim for the
center buckle."

It took him nine attempts to touch blade to the target.

"Good! Much better!"

Alon's tight-jawed concentration broke into a wide grin.
"The next time we are accosted by soldiers, my lady, you will
not stand alone!"

Eydryth smiled tolerantly at his enthusiasm. "Now for the
first of the parties. Cross swords with me, so."

Once in position, the songsmith made a small twisting mo-
tion with her wrist, and Alon's hand was suddenly empty. He
stared from it to his sword, lying on the ground, and sighed.
"I see that I have much yet to leam."

She nodded. "But you are doing well, for the first time. Now
... again for the parry. This time, keep your wrist flexible, not
stiff, so you can follow the motion of your blade and keep hold
of it. Then it will be your turn to try. . .."

By the time the lesson was over, the light was fading rapidly,
and Alon's tunic was wet now with sweat, rather than rain. He
hung it up to dry, then pulled on another shirt. "I will be back
presently," he told Eydryth and started back down their trail,
out of sight.

The songsmith began making camp, shaking her head over
the dampness that had invaded her bedroll, even through its
tallow-soaked covering. Unfastening the saddlebag, she took
out the meat jerky and her small cooking pot. Simmered in
water with crumbled joumeybread to thicken it, the jerky
would make a hot, though tasteless, meal.

It was full dark by the time Alon returned. Eydryth had let

SONGSMITH                     119

the fire die down to coals, so she could make out his form only
as a dark blot against the yellow stars that marked the camp-
fires of their pursuers.

"They are closer," she said, eyeing the distance between
them measuringly as Alon sat down with a weary sigh. He
murmured a quick thanks for the plate she offered him.

"If they can keep up their pace, by this time tomorrow they
will be almost upon us," the bard observed as she spooned up
the last of her own meal. Hesitantly she bit her lip, then
declared, "Tomorrow morning we had best go our separate

ways, Alon."

"No," her companion said flatly. "They cannot possibly
catch us tomorrow. The rocks will slow them, as today they

slowed us."

"If not tomorrow, then surely the day after. We must part,
so that I can go on faster alone!"

He turned his head to regard her, but she could not read his
features in the faint light of the campfire. "If they are closer
tomorrow night," he said evenly, "I will do as you say. Fair

enough?"

"Yes," Eydryth said, feeling her throat grow tight as a
harpstring. "Alon... I... I am grateful to you, for trying to
aid me. I... I wish you weB."

He made no reply.

T
They reached the first slope of the mountain pass by the next
evening, but Eydryth took no joy in their accomplishment. On
the morrow they would be fortunate to make half the distance
they had covered today, and a detachment of guardsmen, with
no horses to lead over the thin, stony soil, would have no
trouble catching them.

Turning to scan the rocky hills over which they had so
laboriously toiled, Eydryth frowned, puzzled. There was no
sign of the witch and her troop. When she pointed this out to
Alon, her companion suggested that perhaps their pursuers

had lost the trail.
"But she can follow us by her witch-jewel," Eydryth argued.

"You said so yourself."
"The use of the Power wears hardly upon the user," he said.

120

SONGSMITH                 121

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"She may have weakened, finally. Or, it may be that she could
not force herself to travel this far east."

The songsmith shook her head slowly, remembering the
Estcarpian woman's determined expression. "If she had to be
tied upon her mount and led, she would not give up. It is more
likely that they are camped tonight in one of the valleys in-
stead of on top of a ridge where we could see them."

"We have lost them," Alon insisted. "I scanned our path
frequently today, and there was no sign of them. I believe that
tonight we may rest without fear." He turned away from her,
calling back over his shoulder, "I will be back presently."

Steel Talon had brought them a rabbit earlier that day, so
Eydryth busied herself skinning it and putting it into their
cooking pot with several handfuls of vegetables and a few
pinches of herbs. Then she took her sword out of the quarter-
staff and practiced with it, lunging and parrying with an imagi-
nary opponent. At last, sweating and panting, she halted, only
to see last rays of the setting sun hang over the mountain peak
towering above her, then vanish.

Still Alon did not return. He must be delaying deliberately,
she thought with mounting irritation. It is grown too dark now

for a lesson.

Scowling, she strode off down the slope, determined to give
her errant pupil a lecture on the importance of daily practice
if he wished to achieve any proficiency.

As she walked, however, she was struck by a sudden
thought. What if he has been captured, and I am now marching

into a trap?

The songsmith began moving with a scout's caution, shift-
ing her weight with care on the stony ground lest she send a
pebble skittering, taking advantage of every boulder, every
scrap of concealment her rugged surroundings had to offer.

It was thus that she came upon her companion as he knelt
on the stony ground, chanting softly. In one hand he held a
swatch of black horsehair, which he was sweeping over a
distinct hoofprint in a patch of loamy soil. Straining her ears,
Eydryth caught snatches of what he was chanting, and real-
ized it was that arcane form of the Old Tongue.

As she watched, tight-lipped with angry realization, Alon
fell silent. He rose to his feet, arms held high, and suddenly the
hoofprint, a scrape on a rock caused by a horse's metal shoe,
and a mound of horse droppings all glowed violet—

—and vanished.

Mist rose out of the ground and began coiling down the
hillside, snaking along their back trail. The songsmith knew
instinctively that it would erase all traces of their passage as it
flowed over the earth.

Alon stood for a moment more, arms raised; then he sighed
audibly and his shoulders sagged. Magic does indeed wear
hardly upon the user, Eydryth thought bitterly, her cheeks hot
with fury and shame, remembering how she had confided in
him about growing up in Kar Garudwyn. How could I have
been such a fool as to not realize the truth?

Only a moment did the young man allow himself to rest;

then he trudged back up the slope, obviously hurrying as fast
as his tired legs would take him.

Eydryth let him draw even with her hiding place, then
stepped out, barring his path. "I see now why you were so
confident that the witch could no longer trail us," she said, her
voice pitched low despite her anger.

He halted and stood staring at her for a long moment, his
face a pale oval in the last glow of twilight. Finally he said, "I
am sorry. You are right to be angry."

"By the Sword Arm of Karthen the Fair, I certainly am!"
Eydryth hissed, so furious that she found she was trembling.
"I trusted you, and all the while you were doubtless laughing
at me up your sleeve! The great Adept—for you are no simple
village Wise Man, or one who merely dabbles in arcane lore,
that much even I can tell—the Adept, companying with the
poor Powerless songsmith, using his magic to protect her—"
She swallowed, the taste of anger like bile in her mouth. "Well,
I can protect myself from now on! I don't need you!"

"I know that," he said, quietly.

His ready admission took her aback.

"You assumed without asking that I had no Power," he
reminded her. "I did not lie outright."




122 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"You allowed me to believe what was not true," Eydryth
flared. "That is the same thing!"

"You have the right of it," he agreed, wearily. "But . . .
Lady ... by the time I realized what a mistake I had made, I
was in too deep to extricate myself gracefully. I knew you
would be angry, and I did not want to hurt you." He hesitated,
then continued, in a low voice. "And yesterday, when you
began saying that we must part, I knew that if you were to
leam the truth, then you would indeed go your separate way—
and I did not want that to happen."

As he spoke, Eydryth heard a note in his voice that broke
through her ire. Her face flushed again, but not from anger,
and she could feel her heart pounding, as though she had been
sprinting. "I did not want you to risk falling into the witch's
hands again on my behalf," she said awkwardly. "That would
be poor repayment indeed for your aid."

"And my lack of truthfulness was poor exchange for your
candor," he said. He stepped closer to her in the darkness. "I
can only say that I am sorry. I was wrong, but the thought of
never seeing you again was . . ." He hesitated. ". . . not
something I wished to contemplate."

Eydryth backed away in confusion, half of her struggling to
find words to answer him, half not wanting to hear any more.

"Shall I go, then?" he asked, with an undercurrent of sad-
ness in his calm tones. "Must we indeed part?"

Mastering her conflicting emotions, Eydryth managed to
say, levelly enough, "If you are certain that the witch has been
foiled in her hopes of finding us, then I see no reason why we
cannot continue on to the Valley of the Green Silences."

Silently he nodded, and they walked together back to the
place where they had made camp.

The smell of stew tantalized the travelers when they reached
the place where Monso waited, cropping determinedly at the
scrubby clumps of grass nestled between the rocks. Alon fed
the Keplian, then they sat down to their own meal.

When they finished, Eydryth gazed at her companion across
their campfire and said, quietly, "You know my story, Alon.
I feel I have the right now to know yours. How came you

SONGSMTTH                  123

to be in Rylon Comers, racing Monso? A man with your
abilities ..."

She saw lines appear around his mouth as he grimaced, then
he said bitterly, "It is true, most Adepts spend their days in
other pursuits than cheating at horse racing. But believe me
when I tell you that until I encountered you, and we were
captured, I had not used magic in more than a year."

"So you put the guards and the witch to sleep?"

"I directed my Power through the beasts, yes."

"I should have guessed," Eydryth said, then in a burst of
honesty admitted, "Perhaps I did guess—but I did not want to
let myself see what lay plainly before my eyes. Duratan and
Nolar . . . they knew, didn't they?"

"I believe so."

The songsmith stirred the dying fire with a branch until it
blazed up, then tossed the stick into the glowing red heart of
the coals. "From living in Kar Garudwyn, I know that it is no
small thing to ignore one's Power. The Gift will out, no matter
what. Why had you given up using your magic?"

"Because I killed my best friend with it," Alon replied.

She stared at him, shocked. Silence held between them for
a little while; then Alon sighed and said, "It is a long story. I
know not who I truly am, or what my parentage is. I was
fostered by a Lord Parian, for he believed me to be the son of
a slain kinsman of his. Whether that story was the truth, I
know not."

He paused, and Eydryth asked, "Why do you doubt that
tale?"

"Because Yachne told Lord Parian that I was born to his
kinsman, but there was no other evidence to support that tale.
And Yachne . . ." He hesitated. "I never trusted her, though
she cared for me and raised me for my first dozen years."

"Who was this Yachne?"

"A Wise Woman, of that I am sure. She appeared at Lord
Parian's keep with me as a babe in arms, telling him the story
of who I was and how I had been born. She claimed to have
been my lady mother's servant."

"And she had the Power?"

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

124

"Yes. In many ways, I believe, she lessoned me subtly in its
use from the time I could walk and talk. But I do not believe
that she ever had any warmth or liking for me—only for what
she thought I might be able to do for her."

Eydryth thought of what a barren existence he had evi-
dently led—without true kin, or caring—and felt her heart
tighten within her. "Perhaps," she ventured awkwardly, "this
. . . Yachne . . . felt true affection for you, but had difficulty
showing it. That is often the case with certain people."

Alon shook his head decisively. "Even by the time I was a
lad of twelve, I knew better. She never acted like a mother, or
an aunt, or even a fond teacher. She taught me as though she
had a use for me, and I feared the day I would be put to that
use." He stared bleakly at her across the yellow flames. "I
learned from her, but I did not love her—though she never
abused me or treated me with anything but a rather aloof
kindness. She took very good care of me, but always I feared
her more than a little."

"Did you worry that she meant you harm?"

"No ..." He hesitated. "But I never wanted to be a dagger
for her honing." Alon smiled wryly, but there was pain in his
eyes. "However, I know with certainty that that is what I was
to Yachne. That is all I was to her."

"So what set you free of the Wise Woman and Lord Par-
ian?"

"There was a raid by one who was in league with a powerful
Dark One. Everyone in Lord Parian's keep was killed, save for
me. I managed to conceal myself from the raiders."

"By sorcerous means," Eydryth guessed, and was not sur-
prised when he nodded assent. "Everyone was killed?" she
continued. "Yachne too?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "I never saw her body, but I
have no reason to believe she was spared. If she had still lived,
it seemed to me, she would have come to my rescue. I was
valuable to her, after all," he finished, with a bitter grimace.

"And then?" Eydryth prompted, when he fell silent once
more. "What did you do then?"

"I made my way to Escore, and, as I told you, I was fostered
there by Hilarion and Kaththea. But several years after I came

SONGSMTTH

125

to live with them, they had a child of their own . . . then, two
years later, another.

"By that time I was near-grown, and Hilarion had taught
me much of what he knew. They would have had me stay, but
I was restless to see the land where I had been born—if Kar-
sten was indeed that place, since I have no way of knowing.
And I felt that my foster-parents should be able to raise their
children without distraction. So I set off with Monso."

Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned his chin in his
hands, staring intently into the dwindling fire, as though he
saw events from the past pictured there. "Once on the other
side of the mountains, I encountered Jonthal, Steel Talon's
master. I'd had a Falconer friend, Nirel, when I was a child,
so I spoke to him, where I was cautious in speaking to other
men. We became friends, and soon we were leading parties
over the mountains from Karsten and Estcarp into Escore.
Jonthal handled the business, and I rode with the travelers to
protect them from the dangers that had been unleashed fol-
lowing the Turning ... the Thas and the Grey Ones, mostly."

"I can see how a party could travel safely under your pro-
tection," Eydryth agreed. "No wonder you never needed to
learn swordplay!"

"You have convinced me otherwise," he said. "Now that we
have no further fear of Estcarpian pursuit, I will practice
daily."

"Good," she said. "But pray continue your account."

"Jonthal always warned me that I was overconfident," Alon
resumed his story with a tired sigh. "But I laughed at his fears.
One night in Kars, we were dining in a tap-house, when a boy
delivered a message, saying that a prospective client wished to
see us. Jonthal did not wish to go, as the summons had come
from a part of Kars City where even the City Guards did not
venture, save in force, but I insisted. We needed the money,
and what was there to fear, I said? My Power would protect
us."

He laughed softly, bitterly, with such pain in the sound that
Eydryth's heart ached to hear him. "And it did not?" she
prompted, when he sat in silence, head bowed.

"You have the right of it. We walked into an alley, peering

1Z6

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

at the doorways for the third one on the right, and they were
upon us before we knew what had happened. Something kept
me from sensing them, though my magic should have warned
me. Hired toughs, four of them, armed with swords. Jonthal
drew and engaged one, and I forced sleep upon the minds of
two others. The fourth took to his heels. When I turned back
to my friend, it was in time to see the cutthroat's blade driving
straight for his throat.

"With every bit of Will I possessed, I lashed out—and the
Power went awry. I..." For the first time his voice faltered.
"I will never know the reason why, but I must have made
... a mistake. The force I unleashed struck Jonthal, while the
assassin stood unscathed. My friend was dead before he struck
the stinking cobbles of that thrice-cursed alley." Alon stared
fixedly at his hands. "I killed him."

"You were trying to save him," Eydryth pointed out. "If
you had not struck, he would have died by the assassin's
steel."

"Perhaps ... or perhaps he might have parried it at the last
moment. He was a good swordsman."

"You did not harm him intentionally," she continued ear-
nestly. "It is not unknown in battle for a man to be slain
accidentally by a comrade's sword-thrust. Mistakes happen.
What occurred was not your fault, and you should forgive
yourself for it." She sighed. "Guilt is a very crippling burden."

He stared at her intently in the waning firelight. "You above
all others should know, Lady. You are still blaming yourself
for something that was in no way your fault." Alon considered
silently for a moment. "I will make a bargain with you, Eyd-
ryth."

"What kind of bargain?" the songsmith asked warily.

"I will endeavor to forgive myself, if you will do likewise.
You are not to blame for your mother's disappearance, your
father's mind-clouding. You are, if anything, far less culpable
than I."

She bit her lip; then, slowly, she nodded. "Very well. I will
try not to hold myself responsible, if you will do likewise."

"Done," he said, and held out his hand to seal their pact.

SONGSMITH

Eydryth reached out across the coals of the campfire, feeling
the heat of them on her skin, to grasp his fingers tightly.

Since the travelers were no longer troubled by worries of
pursuit, they climbed at a much more leisurely pace the next
day. The snowcapped peaks towered above them, but the pass
toward which they toiled was no more than a half-day's jour-
ney away. As they climbed higher, frost rimed the rocks under-
foot, and the last of the underbrush was left behind. Now only
grey-green lichens grew. Monso could find no forage at all.

Gasping from the thin air, Alon and Eydryth halted long
before sunset to camp when they found a nearly level ledge
that Alon reported as the only campsite this side of the pass.
After they had rested and eaten, Alon insisted on taking on his
sword and practicing a few lunges and parries. Huddled into
her cloak, Eydryth watched, now and then correcting his
stance or movements. But the young Adept was making
praiseworthy progress, and she told him so.

Finally Alon halted, sweating despite the chill air, and sank
down onto his bedroll, gasping. "Enough for tonight,
teacher?"

"Indeed yes," she said. "Tomorrow—if either of us has the
strength after making the final pull through the pass—I will
demonstrate another kind of parry for you to practice."

"When will I be ready to match blades with a live opponent
as opposed to a brave feed sack?"

She smiled. "At your current rate of progress? Oh ...
perhaps another month."

His face fell, and she hastily amended, "But you are learning
faster than most, Alon! You must cultivate patience, if you
hope to succeed."

He scowled. "Patience has never been one of my virtues."
With a sigh, he reached for a piece of journeybread. Since
there was no wood to be had above the treeline, they were
making a cold supper.

Later, as they sat together companionably, watching the
shadows of evening close in around them, he suddenly asked,
"What song is that? It has a lovely tune."

128 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

Eydryth started, not realizing she had been humming aloud.
"I don't know," she said, feeling foolish. "What did it sound
like?"

Alon produced a few off-key snatches of melody. Hearing
him, the songsmith felt herself coloring and was grateful for
the encroaching darkness. The words that accompanied the
tune came unbidden to her mind:

Golden the sunlight on the hill,
Silver the moonlight on the sea:

Though fair these things are to see, still,
No fairer than my love to me!

Though merry the glint of dancing brook,
Though sweet the carol when birds rejoice,
No merrier than my sweetheart's look,
No sweeter than my sweetheart's voice.

Not gold nor silver, brook nor bird,
Nor sun nor moon, though wondrous all
Can touch my heart as does his word
Nor gladden me as does his call!

"It is an old song from High Hallack," she said, reluctantly.

"Hearing you hum it just now reminded me that I haven't
heard you sing since that day at the fairground when you
serenaded Monso. Your voice is so fair ... can you sing it for
me?"

Eydryth shook her head. "I have forgotten the words," she
lied, crossing her fingers behind her back in a gesture suddenly
recalled from childhood.

"That's a pity. Please . . . hum it again, so I can remember
the melody."

Eydryth complied, grateful that he could not see her blush.
You have no time for entanglements! she reminded herself
fiercely.

That night, they bedded down side by side, sharing their
blankets, as was customary between companions on the trail
when camping fireless in cold weather. Alon slung his cloak

SONGSMITH

1Z9

over Monso's back, then commanded the stallion to fold his
legs beneath him so they could huddle together in the wind-
break created by the Keplian's body. Tired from the day's
journey, both travelers fell asleep quickly.

Eydryth awakened late that night to find the waning moon
shining on her face and Alon snuggled close against her be-
neath their blankets. In his sleep he had flung an arm across
her waist. The warmth of his breath stirred the curls at the

backofher neck.

The young woman bit her lip, wondering how to extricate
herself gracefully before he could awaken. She was acutely
conscious of his body pressed against hers, his hand so close
to her breast, even beneath the bulky layers of her clothing.
Each breath he drew seemed to echo inside her own body.

As she hesitated, strangely reluctant to move, a glimmer of
light caught her eye from a nearby mountain slope. Eydryth
squinted, certain that she had been mistaken, but as the
quarter-moon emerged from behind a bank of racing clouds,
it was there again, shining brightly. The light beckoned to the
bard, beckoned with a pure white light in the darkness.

What is it? she wondered, feeling it tug at her with an almost
physical pull. She seemed to hear a strange music, high-
pitched, uncanny—nothing that could be produced by any
instrument or throat that she knew.

Wriggling gently out of Alon's hold, she sat up, her teeth
chattering in the cold as the chill struck her like a blow. The
Adept mumbled something inarticulate as his fingers quested
blindly, seeking after her vanished warmth.

The glow softened, waned, then went out as another cloud
covered the moon. The songsmith stared, hardly daring to
blink lest she lose the spot where it had been. Long heartbeats
later, as the rag of cloud gusted past, it was there once more,
shining . ., beckoning.

The songsmith heard a soft snort, then turned to see
Monso's head, an inky shadow against the light-colored
rocks. The creature's ears were pricked up. The glow of the
unknown beacon reflected eerily in the Keplian's eyes.

Hearing that high, eldritch music again, Eydryth turned to

130

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

her companion and shook his arm impatiently. "Alon! Rouse
you! Waken, please!"

He came to alertness quickly, as any wayfarer must learn to
do if he is to survive long on the trail. "What is it?" he
demanded, sitting up, then cursing softly in the cold and pull-
ing the blankets up around his shoulders.

"I know not," the bard said, pointing at the light and trying
to repress her shivering. "Could it be some trap set by the
witch?"

Alon handed over her cloak. "No ... I would sense that
one's presence. This is ... greater. Much greater. Not living,
but still... it is of the Power."

"What kind of Power? Surely not the Dark!" Eydryth pro-
tested. The light was so clean, so bright!

"I cannot be sure," Alon said. "I can sense little about it.
But if it is activated by the moon, then it must be of the Light.
And ... it is drawing me ... it has the power to ... to
summon."

"I know," she said. "It has been calling to me, also. Alon,
this is important, I know it is! We must go there—quickly,
before the moon sets!"

Eight

Jt was a perilous journey they made by the light of the waning
moon, stumbling and skidding over frozen, frost-rimed
ground. As they ascended the mountainside, their way grew
rougher, more broken, until they were picking a path between
rocks and boulders streaked with glistening trails of ice. Eyd-
ryth led the way, her strides quick and impatient despite the
poor footing. She gasped when a stone turned beneath her
heel; only her companion's quick grasp on her arm saved her
from a precipitous fall. "Slowly," he cautioned.
"But the moon's light will soon be gone. . . ."
"True, but if by moonset we are all resting at the bottom of
yon gorge with broken necks, it will matter but little to us

132 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

whether it shines or not." Monso snorted, as if in agreement.
"Perhaps we should stop," Alon suggested, surveying the rug-
ged path before them. "We could wait for daylight."

"No," she replied. "Without the moon's glow to guide us,
we will never find that beacon. It does not shine by the sun's
light, I am certain of that. Can you see in the dark?" she asked,
remembering that her mother had always been able to do so,
claiming that the ability was held by many with the kinship of
Power.

"Not as well as Monso," he said. "But perhaps better than
you can."

"Then you lead."

Slowly, he edged past her on the narrow ledge. "Hook your
fingers in my belt," he instructed.

Eydryth obeyed. "Hurry, Alon!"

As they went on, an overhanging thrust of rock darkened
their path even further. The songsmith clung to her compan-
ion's belt, prepared to follow blindly, but she heard the Adept
mutter beneath his breath; then light shone from his right
hand, each finger outlined in the white-violet glow. Spreading
his fingers, he held them palm-down, so the light illuminated
the path beneath their feet.

How long can he maintain that? she wondered worriedly.
Will keeping such a spell going draw so much energy from him
that he cannot complete our climb? Should we stop and try again
on the morrow? The moon will rise again. ...

She nearly voiced her concerns aloud, but then she shook
her head and remained silent. Eydryth could not explain the
urgency building within her, but it drove her across the moun-
tain's flank with grim purpose. The high-pitched notes rever-
berated inside her head with a siren summons, making chills
not born of the cold trace themselves down her spine. Alon, by
his own admission, could not hear them.

But it was clear that Monso could. The Keplian pricked his
ears and turned his head with each uncanny repetition.

The songsmith narrowed her eyes, using her gryphon-
headed staff to test each step before trusting her full weight to
the treacherous path. Slowly, the travelers picked their way

r

133

across the loose rocks of the final slope. Finally, gasping and
shivering, they halted, staring up at their destination. It was
close, but to attain the ledge from whence the glow emanated,
they would have to scramble up a trail so steep that it made
the songsmith's head swim to contemplate it.

"How can we climb that?" she asked, despairingly.

"Monso can," Alon said after a moment. "Grab hold of the
stirrup; use it to steady yourself." He took up position on the
other side of the Keplian. "Ready?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, her mouth dry from fear and anticipa-
tion.

"Monso, hup\" Alon cried, and the black surged forward,
scrambling, powerful hindquarters thrusting, steel-shod fore-
hooves clawing a purchase in the crusted, frozen earth. Eyd-
ryth launched herself beside the Keplian, endeavoring not to
drag the creature off balance. Using her quarterstaff, she
pulled herself up, the frigid air tearing her throat with each
sobbing breath.

With a final gasp and heave, the three travelers were over
the side of the ledge.

The feeble moonlight shone down full upon a huge sheet of
crystal embedded in the mountainside. Eydryth stared at it, so
exhausted that she could do naught but gasp, the air stabbing
her lungs. She leaned against Monso's heaving side, feeling her
knees buckle. Finally her legs steadied; only then was she able
to walk over to gaze into the reflective surface.

"What is it?" she whispered, feeling a strange reluctance to
speak aloud.

"A thing of Power," Alon said, coming up behind her, his
voice equally quiet. Their own outlines swam before them,
eerily limned by the moonglow. "For some reason we have
been summoned here ... by what power or agency I cannot
guess."

"The moon is so bright on the crystal," Eydryth breathed,
"that surely this thing is of the Light."

"I believe so," her companion agreed. "But often Light and
Dark are balanced precariously in this world . . . and many
things of the Light have their Dark shadows."

134

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMTTH

135

"What do you—," the songsmith began, only to break off
as a cloud eclipsed the moon, and their own reflections dis-
solved like snowflakes encountering water. But the crystal
surface did not stay blank; rather, it glowed darkly, as though
a fire made from shadows had been kindled within it. Shapes
slowly coalesced into recognizability ... a large, rocky cave,
its walls sheeted with water that glinted dully in the light of a
single torch that smoldered sullenly.

"What. . . what are we seeing?" Eydryth cried.

"I cannot be sure," Alon said, "but I think this . .. mirror
... is actually a Gate, one of those that lead to other places—
perhaps even other worlds. We are seeing what lies on the
other side of this Gate, I believe."

The songsmith caught her breath sharply, for even as Alon
finished speaking, a figure shuffled into view, leaning on a
short walking staff, and stood silhouetted against the dark
mouth of the cave. At first they could make out nothing except
that it was alive, and human, for the light was so wan and its
clothing so shapeless and drab that age or features—even its
sex—were impossible to discern.

It stopped; then they heard its voice, low and commanding,
causing the first torch to flare into life and causing another to
ignite with a reluctant sputter.

Eydryth squinted against the sudden light. In a moment her
eyes adjusted and she could see again. The newcomer was a
woman, clothed in a tattered grey hooded robe. Her features
were shadowed by her hood, but from the appearance of her
hands, and the presence of the walking staff, the songsmith
thought she must be well past middle years. But she moved
spryly enough as she bustled around the cave, humming tune-
lessly as she set out candles, then traced a design upon the
stony floor with a wand she produced from her sleeve.

The lines she drew glowed blue as they formed a distinct
shape. "A pentagram," Eydryth breathed, recognizing the
age-old symbol that was prerequisite to a spell of summoning.
"Is she a witch of Estcarp?"

"She wears no jewel," Alon pointed out, "but the color of
her Power is correct. The witches deal in theurgy, the harness-
ing of will, faith and emotion to work their magic. Blue is the
color of theurgy."

The woman stared at her pentagram, gave a satisfied nod,
then raised a hand. The dark candles she had placed at the
points of the star-shape burst into flame. She stepped out of
her watchers' line of vision for a moment, but soon returned,
carrying a net that writhed as the creature tangled within
struggled vainly to escape, uttering small, piercing shrieks of
fear.

Beside her, Alon stiffened with horrified recognition. "A
Flannan!" he whispered.

Eydryth had heard of the small creatures that could take on
the guise of either bird or small, winged mannikin. In Arvon
and High Hallack they were naught more than legend, but the
people of Estcarp told of how they had been seen in Escore
near Dahaun's Valley of the Green Silences.

Flannan made flighty, unreliable allies, due to their capri-
cious nature, but never had they been allied with the Dark.
Snapping out a few short words that made Alon draw in his
breath with a hiss, the woman thrust her hand into the net bag.
Then the witch (for so Eydryth now thought other) withdrew
the small creature, clutching the Flannan by the scruff of its
scrawny neck. It was not in its bird-form ... its body bore
arms and legs in addition to the wings that trailed limply down
its back. The creature halted its struggles and now dangled
bonelessly from the woman's hand, either drugged or be-
spelled into calmness.

The songsmith watched in shock as the witch reached into
a sheath at her belt and withdrew a black-hilted athame.
"No!" Eydryth whispered, in an agony of helplessness. She
grasped Alon's arm, her fingers digging in painfully as the
woman brought the blade up to the Flannan's throat, and,
with a quick, ruthless thrust, pricked it deeply. Red flowed in
a steady stream.

Eydryth had seen death dealt before, but always in clean
and open battle—never like this. She pressed a hand to her
mouth to stifle a cry, as the witch, chanting softly, began to




136 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

encircle the pentagram, dribbling the weakly spasming Flan-
nan's blood onto the stone floor of the cave.

As the blood of the dying creature congealed upon the cold
rock, the blue light darkened, taking on a sickly purplish tinge.
The yellow flames atop the dark candles blackened, until they
were the same color as the wax. As she neared the end of her
obscene task, grasping the limp and now plainly dead manni-
kin, the witch's chanting grew louder.

"What is she doing?" Eydryth whispered, fignting the urge
to cower, hands over her ears, to shut out the sound. The
witch's chanting was growing physically painful to hear.

"Some kind of summoning," Alon replied in a strained
whisper. Eydryth glanced at his face in the moonlight and saw
that he looked as sickened as she felt. "And a powerful one.
She is invoking the Name of one of the most deadly of the
Dark Adepts."

Circle complete, the witch's voice rose still higher as she
gestured with her wand, raising her arms so high that her
sleeves fell back from her flabby flesh and bony wrists. A
blackish purple mist coiled upward out of the circle, hiding the
pentagram from their view.

With a last, high-pitched cry of triumph, a sound that made
Eydryth gasp and clap her hands over her ears, the witch fell
silent. For long moments she stood poised; then she began to
laugh delightedly. The skin at the back of the girl's neck
crawled as though leeches had fastened there.

Within the smoky confines of the circle, trapped by the
protective boundaries of the pentagram, something now
moved, at first slowly, then thrashing wildly in frantic strug-
gles. A deep male voice cried out in fear, then cursed foully.

Flashes of Power crackled within the boundary cast by the
circle-spell. Power that bore the dark purple hue of the
Shadow. With a low, crooning sound, the witch stretched out
her arms toward the circle, and the lines of Power arced to-
ward her, encircled her wrists, then flowed up her arms, writh-
ing like serpents formed from the essence of the Darkness.
They crossed the witch's breast, met over her heart, then




SONGSMITH

137

pulsed, as though pumping their substance into her body. She
gasped, transfixed with pain or pleasure, it was impossible to
tell which.

But there was no doubt about the reaction of that dimly
seen figure trapped within the circle. The man screamed in
agony, as those lines of Power pulsed, feeding themselves into
the witch. The prisoner's shriek rose higher and higher—

—abruptly, there was silence. The lines of Power disap-
peared into the witch's body, and slowly the mist faded away.

Eydryth saw that a man now stood within the pentagram,
a tall man with a haughty, handsome face that bore the unmis-
takable stamp of the Old Race. He could have been Alon's
father, or older brother, for the resemblance between them
was strong. The stranger was wearing a hunter's or forester's
garb ... short cloak, leather jerkin, brown breeches and high,
soft boots. An ornate jeweled dagger hung at his belt, and a
more businesslike short sword rode his hip.

As the last wisps of mist vanished, he stared at the woman
who fronted him in the darkened cave with horrified realiza-
tion distorting his well-cut features.

"My Power—," he began in a choked voice.

"Is now mine, Lord Dinzil!" the witch crowed exultantly.

"But . . . why?" he asked dazedly.

The woman's features were still shadowed from Eydryth's
view, but her voice bore a cruel smile. "You are a male, and
for a male to have sorcerous abilities is a thing against na-
ture." Her head lifted proudly. "Women are the only rightful
vessels of Power. I lost most of mine, many years ago, but now
. .." She flexed her fingers and purple light outlined them for
a moment. ". . . what I lost, I have regained .. . aye, all that,
and more . . . more!" -

"Dinzil!"Alon whispered softly. "I should have known...."

"Who is he?" Eydryth asked, glancing up at him.

Her companion shook his head. "Later."

Suddenly the Dark Adept gave a low moan of distress and
staggered. He put one hand to his head, then pulled it away
with a cry of dismay, the fingers splayed widely. Eydryth could

138

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMTTH 139

clearly make out the prominent veining and mottled skin of
the elderly. As she watched, they crooked suddenly with the
painful joint-rheum suffered by the aged. The Adept's features
took on years as dry bread soaks up broth. Lines scored his
cheeks; silver frosted his black hair. "My Power . . . ," the
sorcerer whispered, "my Power . . ."

"Was all that was keeping you young, I fear, my lord," the
witch told him calmly. "Now that it is gone, your years will
come upon you . . . and those years are many, are they not?"

Dinzil did not answer her. Shudders racked his tall body,
and with each spasm he seemed to shrink and wither apace.
His hair grew white and sparse, wisping around a face that
now resembled aged parchment crumpled by a careless hand.
Then his lips parted in a gasp of agony and teeth cascaded out,
rattling down onto the stone at his feet. Dinzil held out a
now-withered claw to the witch, and they heard a voice, no
longer strong and resonant, but shrill and breathless emerge
from his near-toothless mouth. "I would curse you if I still
could, witchwoman . . . curse you with my last breath."

The witch laughed.

"Ah, yes," the ancient man that had been Dinzil, the Dark
Adept, wheezed, "laugh while you may, witchwoman. But
even if my ill wishes have no teeth left to rend you, still you will
find yourself cursed. The Left-Hand Path is a most demanding
one. The Dark levies a heavy price on the spirits of its servants.
You will realize before you die exactly what you have called
into yourself, and therein lies my curse. May it fall soon!"

" You are the one who should worry about death, my lord,"
the witch mocked him. She raised a hand to push back her
hood a little, and they saw that it had changed, was now
firm-fleshed and slender. A lock of hair escaped from beneath
the loosened hood, and that hair was now sable, as Dinzil's
had been.

With a careless wave the witch caused the candles to snuff
out; then she indicated the cave mouth. "And now, our busi-
ness is done, my lord. You are no longer welcome here, so may
I suggest that you take your leave? You will find the land
without this cave to be a familiar one, I daresay... though the

inhabitants hereabouts have little reason to love you, I be-
lieve."

With a courage and dignity that Eydryth had to admire,
Dark Adept or no, Dinzil drew himself up as straight as he
might, then tottered feebly toward the entrance. "Here, you
will doubtless need this, grandsire," the witch said mockingly,
handing him the walking staff that had been hers. For a mo-
ment Eydryth thought that he would fling the stick at his
tormentor, but he did not speak or look back.

The witch quickly eradicated the traces of her spell with her
wand; then she picked up a pack from the comer and slung it
over her shoulder. "And now," she muttered, "to essay that
mirror."

She turned to face her watchers, and for the first time they
were able to discern her features clearly. Eydryth saw that she
was plainly of the Old Race, a woman of early middle years,
with strong, boldly marked features that were too thin and
driven to hold any beauty.

Just then the songsmith heard Alon's soft gasp of recogni-
tion. "Yachne!" he whispered. "How—why—"

Eydryth's mouth dropped open. The Wise Woman who had
taught him his first magic! Was it indeed she on the other side
of this arcane mirror-portal, engaged in a Dark rite? She re-
membered Alon's face as he'd spoken of her, remembered his
words: "But I never wanted to be a dagger for her honing."

The woman walked toward them, raised her wand, then
muttered a few words. A purple glow awoke within the depths
of the crystal mirror, painting her features with a sickly light.
As she stared into her side of the crystal, her eyes abruptly
widened. For the first time, she was aware of her watchers.

"Who—," she began; then she broke off, her gaze holding
Alon's. "Why, it is my young charge, all grown up," she said
after a moment, then smiled in a fashion that made Eydryth
put hand to the hilt of the sword resting within her quarter-
staff.

"Young Alon, well-met, well-met indeed! I was planning to
seek you out, though perhaps not so soon. There are others I




ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

140

must visit first, before I will be ready to take on one who
apprenticed with Hilarion."

"You know—" Alon broke off even before Eydryth could
nudge him to silence. Power this woman might have, knowl-
edge, also, no doubt, but they did not need to give her aught
that she did not already know.

"Oh, I know... I know much, my fine young Adept. Much
more than I did even a half-hour ago, as you no doubt wit-
nessed. How did you happen by, Alon? Chance? That seems
unlikely. Well, perhaps you were drawn by my spelling. After
all, Power does call to Power, does it not?"

Alon remained silent, and the witch, for the first time,
turned her attention to Eydryth. "And who is your fair com-
panion, Alon? Your bride? Or is she something less... formal,
perhaps? Your leman?"

The songsmith had heard battle-taunts before, and did not
allow her face to change at Yachne's insult, but Alon stepped
forward with an angry imprecation. "No, Alon," Eydryth
said, softly, catching his arm, "that's what she wants."

"Perceptive girl," the witch said, amused. There was a wild
glitter in her eyes that Eydryth thought was not wholly due to
the purple glow from her side of the crystal. The younger
woman swallowed, suddenly more frightened than she had
been all night. "And what symbol it is that you bear on that
staff of yours?" Yachne asked, her eyes narrowing with specu-
lation. A moment later, she gave a shout of laughter. "Oh,
very good! Very good indeed! The gryphon-lord! Landisl's
vessel, Kerovan himself, gave that to you, did he not? Perhaps
. . . yes, I shall visit him next!"

"Visit him for what?" Eydryth demanded, mostly to stall
for time, for she had a sick feeling that she already knew
whereof the witch spoke.

"I must visit them all, my dear," Yachne said, in a mock-
confiding tone. "All the abominations, all the unnatural crea-
tures that possess Power without any right to it. Males!" She
spat. "They hold my sisters in bondage, subject to their dis-
gusting lusts, their violence and greed. There are enough males
with undeserved Power to make me the most powerful sorcer-


SONGSMITH                      14-1

ess this world has ever seen. Lord Kerovan, that disgusting
half-blooded monster, shall indeed be next. . . ."

A face appeared before them, one that Eydryth knew well,
black-haired, with amber eyes that were slitted of pupil, like
unto a goat's. "And also his son, Firdun." The image in the
crystal altered to that of Eydryth's foster-brother. "He is
young, but they told me that he will be one of the Seven, so he
must be taken care of. . . ."

"Who is 'they'? And what are 'the Seven'?" Alon broke in,
sharply, but Yachne ignored him. Her eyes were half-closed as
she dreamily regarded the images she was conjuring. "And of
course I must not forget Simon Tregarth, and his unnatural
whelps...." Three strongly marked faces, one older, the next
two so alike in age and feature they could only be brothers,
appeared in turn.

"And then you, my dear young Alon, I am afraid that you
must be next. ..." Alon's own features glimmered before
them. "I will be quick, my dear, so fear not. You will not
suffer, that I promise. And if you wish, I shall let you remain
alive, so you can be with your young lady, here." She smiled
at him gently. "Perhaps you could take up farming, since you
will no longer be fitted for a life as a sorcerer!"

"You're mad," Alon said softly, and, for the first time since
they had met, Eydryth heard fear in his voice.

"Certainly not!" she glared at him, shaken out of her rev-
erie. "I have thought it through most carefully. The strongest
of the abominations is Hilarion himself, and I shall need all of
your combined Power before I can best him."

A last image formed on the crystal surface, that of a man
who was still barely past youth in feature, but whose eyes bore
the wisdom—much of it sad—of ages past.

"Yachne," Alon said, and Eydryth could tell that he was
fighting to keep his voice even, "where did you leam that spell?
When I knew you—before—you did not possess such abili-
ties."

She smiled at him. "My abilities were not something you
could measure, my dear. But you have the right of it... I did
not know this spell until they taught it to me."

142

SONGSMITH                   143

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"Who?" he prodded.

But abruptly her urge to confide vanished, and she shook
her head, her eyes as bright and cunning as those of a rasti run
mad. "No, I think not, young Alon. That you must discover
for yourself—if you dare. And now—" Her hand moved
quickly over the surface of the crystal, and she chanted softly
beneath her breath. "—I bid you farewell. . . ."

As the last syllable left her lips, she strode toward them.
Eydryth gasped with terror. Fighting she knew, either with
fists or steel, but Yachne was something far outside her experi-
ence, and instinct made her recoil. She ducked behind Alon,
despising herself for such cowardice but unable to control her
reaction.

When she dared to look again, expecting to find the witch
before them on the ledge, there was only the view of the empty
stone cave. "But. . . where did she go?" she asked, in blank
astonishment. "I thought she would step through and be
here."

"She activated her side of the crystal," Alon said absently,
standing before the mirrored surface and studying it, head
tilted to one side. "She went through it, to somewhere else.
Probably to seek out this Kerovan she spoke of."

"Kerovan! No ... oh, no!" Eydryth buried her face in her
hands, trying by force of will to control her panic. Finally she
was able to raise her head and say, tersely, "Do you remember
my telling you of the lord and lady who raised me after my
mother vanished and my father was mind-blasted? That was
Lord Kerovan and his lady, Joisan! Alon, we must stop
Yachne!"

"If she has all of Dinzil's abilities, she will make a formida-
ble opponent," he said bleakly.

"Who is—or, rather, was—this Dinzil?"

"The strongest of the Dark Adepts from the days when
Escore lay under the lash of the Shadow," he told her. "He
kidnapped and nearly seduced Kaththea, my foster-mother,
when she was but a maid. Seduced her, not in body, but in
mind, so she turned from her family, and the Light, to the
Darkness. It was only by the courage of her brother, Kemoc,
who dared to enter the Dark Tower and seek her out, that she

was saved. Dinzil disappeared after his forces were defeated.
We always suspected that he had passed through some Gate
of his own devising."

"Until Yachne summoned him."

"Yes. This Kerovan, he is a sorcerer also?"

"Kerovan has, in the past, wielded the magic of the ancient
gryphon-lord, Landisi," Eydryth said. "But he cannot rely
upon Landisl's Power. He has abilities of his own, true, but
whether they would prove enough to best one like Yachne..."
She shuddered. "She is mad, Alon."

"Yes."

"If we cannot stop her, we must at least warn Kerovan of

his danger!"

"I agree," Alon said. "But for us to essay this Gate will take
some doing. I have never opened one before."

"Did Hilarion teach you to do so?"

"He taught me the principles involved. But he warned me
against such an action, reminding me of the time that he
opened a Gate, entered another world, then found himself
trapped and enslaved for thousands of our years."

Eydryth remembered that Alon had mentioned such before,
and bit her lip. "But to be able to step from one place to
another—one land to another, in a single heartbeat—we must
chance it! We have no hope of catching her, else."

"I know," he said heavily. "Let me study how this can be
accomplished, while you pack our gear and prepare as hearty
as a meal as possible. Using the Power drains the energy
. . . food will offset that loss by a small measure."

Eydryth nodded, and, in the grey light of predawn, went to
do as he bade. She found that she was too upset to have much
appetite, but forced herself to eat, not knowing when they
would have the chance again. Alon chewed and swallowed
mechanically, never taking his eyes from the portal, occasion-
ally muttering snatches of arcane words beneath his breath, as
if trying them out.

"Eydryth," he said, as the sun's rising flushed the snow-
capped peaks that towered above them to the east with crim-
son, "lend me that talisman you bear, please."

"Talisman . .. ," she repeated uncertainly; then, following




ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

144

his gaze, she drew her gryphon-hiked sword with its two bits
of quan-iron embedded for eyes. "Here."

"There are ways and ways to open Gates," the young Adept
said, "but since this one is made of crystal, I believe that it may
be activated by sound. Crystals give off musical notes when
struck." So saying, he tapped the center of the mirrored sur-
face with the gryphon's head. A clear, ringing tone filled the
air—a note holding some of the same eerieness as the faintly
heard sound that had awakened the songsmith last night.

"Mmmmmmm . . . ," Alon sang, trying, without notable
success, to match that tone. Not only was his voice too deep,
his sense of pitch and key were far off the mark. He frowned,
then turned to his companion. "My lady, can you sing that
note?"

"It is high," she said, consideringly, "and I am an alto. But
perhaps . . . Strike it again, please."

He did so, and Eydryth raised her voice. She fell far short.
of her goal. "I have not sung in days," she said, "but perhaps
if I warm up . . ."

"Try," he urged.

The songsmith attempted several scales, and then, in a few
minutes, when her throat improved, sang several songs to
exercise her range. Alon grinned as she finished with "The
One-Spell Wizard." "Let us hope that I have more than one
spell to my name," he said dryly.

"Strike the crystal again," the bard ordered, and when he
did so, her voice soared up, matching the note perfectly.

As Eydryth's voice hung in the air, the crystal glowed violet,
bathing Alon's face and hands in its light. Something flashed
outward from its surface, and he exclaimed with surprise to
find himself holding a perfectly formed crystal, clear on one
end, amethyst on the other. And yet, Eydryth realized with
amazement, as she let the sound die away, the surface of the
mirror remained unmarred!

"What is it?" she asked, as he examined the mirror's gift,
holding it up to the sunlight so that it made prisms across his
features.

"Our key for unlocking this Gate," he said. "I only hope it

T

SONGSMITH                     •145

works. Monso!" he called, and the Keplian, snorting warily,
came over to him.

Alon reached out and caught the creature's long, thick fore-
lock, then quickly began twisting and twining the horsehair
around the crystal to anchor it against the stallion's forehead.
"What are you doing?" Eydryth asked curiously.

"I won't leave Monso behind," he said. "We will need him,
if we are to catch up with Yachne, who is traveling afoot."

Finally he was done, and the mirror's gift rested within a
little bag twined from horsehair that hung between Monso's
eyes. Alon then swung up into the saddle, offering a hand to
the songsmith. He still held her quarterstaff in his right hand.

"When I sound the note," he instructed, "you must sing it,
holding it as long as possible—no matter what you may see or
feel, do not, I entreat you, stop, or all our lives may be forfeit!"

"I understand," she said steadily.

Urging Monso forward with his legs, Alon reached out
toward the mirror. But the Keplian shied back from the
strange surface, snorting. "Easy, easy lad," he soothed the
beast. "I know that this is passing strange, but you must stand
steady while I strike!"

Twice more did Alon urge the stallion forward, only to have
him shy away at the last moment. "Monso!" Alon com-
manded, a commanding ring to his voice. "Get hup!"

The half-bred took a final reluctant step forward, to stand
so close to the crystal surface that his breath misted across it
like a cloud. Alon struck the surface with the gryphon's head,
and Eydryth matched the tone and held it—

—held it—

—then saw before her the mirror's surface change, glow, as
it became misty . . . translucent. "Go!" yelled Alon, bending
down and slapping the stallion's neck hard.

With a startled grunt the Keplian surged forward, his sud-
den leap nearly unseating Eydryth. Almost her voice faltered,
but she forced herself not to waver.

Before her the Keplian's forehooves disappeared into the
amethyst smoke, then his muzzle, neck, shoulders.... Eydryth

146

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

closed her eyes as the mist struck her face, bringing with it a
vast dizziness and disorientation.

But she held the note steady, despite it all, and a moment
later felt beneath her the shock of Monso's hooves striking
solid rock.

They were in the witch's cavern.

With a sobbing breath, the songsmith finally relinquished
the crystal's note, and gazed around her in despair. "Where
are we? I thought we would go where Yachne went!"

Alon turned Monso, careful of the surrounding stone walls,
to gaze at the mirror within the cavern. "To do that, we must
go through that mirror," he said, sounding so exhausted that
Eydryth wondered how he managed to sit upright upon the
Keplian.

"Then let us go!" she urged.

He shook his head grimly. "At the moment, I do not believe
that would be the wisest course," he said quietly.

"Whyever not?" she demanded, wanting to shake him in her
impatience to warn her foster-father of his danger. "We must
save Kerovan! We can't afford to waste time!"

"Do not forget that she is walking, while we will be riding,"
he reminded her. "And after such a major feat of sorcery as
opening not one, but two Gates, I feel sure that Yachne must
needs rest for today." Alon sighed wearily. "But, my lady,
those are not my two most pressing reasons for wanting to
wait."

"Then what are they?"

"This is the first," Alon said, and, dropping Monso's reins,
made a pass through the air with the quarterstaffand muttered
beneath his breath. He was using, Eydryth thought, the same
words as Yachne had voiced.

Obediently the mirror came to life, glowing with a sickly
blackish-purple radiance that made Eydryth turn her head
away with a cry of dismay. "This mirror represents the Dark-
side of the moon-crystal we leaped through. For us to use it to
get to Arvon may be exceedingly dangerous."

"To our spirits," the songsmith agreed, through stiff lips.
Seeing that eerie phosphorescent glow, she could well believe
that he spoke truth.

SONGSMTTH

"Even so."

"But Alon, we will have to risk it! Arvon is hundreds of
leagues away, across the sea! We could never track Yachne in
time, otherwise!"

"You may have the right of it," he agreed. "But do not for-
get that there is a second reason not to go immediately. . . ."

"Which is?" she asked, conscious suddenly of a great tired-
ness in her own body. It seemed all she could do to hold on to
Alon's belt.

"I will show you." He reined Monso around and walked
the Keplian out of the mouth of the cave, down a rocky
trail, until they rounded a bend and stood upon a mountain-
side.

The sun was rising against the eastern horizon, with no
mountains to block its rays. Alon indicated the surrounding
countryside. "We are in Escore, my lady. If I am not mistaken,
where we sit is not more than a half-day's ride from the Valley
of the Green Silences."

"Dahaun's Valley!" Eydryth said, remembering their dis-
cussion with Nolar and Duratan. "The place of healing!"

"Yes. I have known about that Valley since I was a youth,
of course, but I could not reveal my knowledge of such with-
out giving myself away to you," he said ruefully. "So I made
shift to 'discover' that scroll in Nolar's study."

"When all the time you knew!" she said, giving him a
mock glare. "But is it true? Can the Lady Dahaun heal my
father?"

"I cannot be sure. On one edge of the Valley lies a place of
healing. There are pools of a red mud there that can overcome
any injury or sickness. Death, if a victim can but reach that
spot, has no power there. Whether Dahaun's red mud will
work on an injury of the mind . . ." He shrugged. "I know
not."

"But Kerovan ... Yachne..." She made a helpless gesture.
"She will destroy him if we do not stop her!"

"Are you prepared to give up your quest, sacrifice your
father's chance to be healed in order to save this Lord Kero-
van?"

Eydryth stared bleakly out over the rolling green hills of

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

148

Escore, feeling as though her heart had been ruthlessly seized
by unseen hands and was being pulled apart within her breast.
Blessed Gunnora, what shall I do? I cannot choose between one
and the other! I cannot! Amber Lady, help me!




Nine

"/ cannot choose between them," Eydryth said numbly. She
gave him a despairing glance. "No one could make such a
choice!"

"No one should have to," Alon agreed. "And I believe that
there exists a way to save both of them. If we can reach the
Valley of the Green Silences today, we can collect some of
Dahaun's healing mud to carry with us, then go back through
the gate tomorrow. With Monso's speed, we should be able to
catch Yachne before she can harm your Kerovan."

"We do not know how much of Arvon she may have to
cross before she reaches Kar Garudwyn," Eydryth said.

"She may not have to travel there," Alon warned. "I think

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

150

it more likely that she will seek out a place of the Shadow and
work a summoning spell to draw him to her, as she did with
Dinzil."

"Arvon has many such places," Eydryth whispered. "It is a
gamble, Alon. If we are wrong, Kerovan's life may well be
forfeit, and Yachne may well have such Power as to be nigh
invincible."

"It is a gamble, yes," he agreed. "But I cannot leave Escore
without warning my people. They are in terrible danger, too,
never forget."

"Will the valley dwellers be able to carry the message to
those the witch plans to harm?"

"Yes. Dahaun has birds that she trains to bear messages to
Es City and all the different places in Escore, in case of any
troubling in the land. Also, Kyllan is mind-linked with his
brother, Kemoc, and his sister, Kaththea, and so may be able
to warn them that way."

Eydryth straightened, feeling the muscles in her back and
neck ache with the movement. "Let us go, then. We have no
time to lose."

Alon nudged Monso with his heels and the Keplian began
picking his way down the mountain slope. It was fortunate
that the Gate on this side of the mountain range had deposited
them far lower in the craggy heights than the one they had
leaped through in Estcarp. Before they had gone a mile, they
struck on a winding game trail that led downward to rolling
hills. As they traveled, the songsmith kept a sharp lookout for
any trace of Dinzil, but the suddenly aged sorcerer was no-
where to be seen.

Their last descent was a particularly precipitous scramble
down a steep and muddy path, and, when they had negotiated
it safely, Alon drew rein to allow Monso to breathe. Eydryth
gazed around her, seeing no sign of anything living save a herd
of pronghoms grazing on the spring turf of the next hillside.
"What do you think happened to Dinzil?" she asked.

Alon hooked a leg up over the pommel of the saddle and
turned sideways so he could regard her. "I do not believe that
one such as Dinzil could face living as an ordinary man. If he

SONGSMTTH                   151

truly was bereft of all his power, then I would wager that he
lies now at the bottom of some cliff, free from his weak and
aged body."

The songsmith nodded. "You are probably—"

She broke off with a startled cry, ducking as something
black suddenly dived at them from the sky above. The crea-
ture gave a piercing scream as it glided by, turning toward
them again, and Eydryth recognized the white V on its breast.
"Steel Talon!" she cried. "He found us!"

Alon held out his arm, bracing himself, and, with another
screech, the bird landed on that improvised perch. The Adept
winced as the creature's talons dug into the leather of his
sleeve. The falcon regarded each of the humans, first with one
golden eye, then, cocking its head, with the other. Steel Talon
cried out again, his wickedly hooked bill seeming suddenly far
too close to Eydryth's eyes.

"We forgot him," she said, guiltily. "He is angry with us."

"I did not forget him," Alon said, as much to the falcon as
to her. "I knew he would find us. He has been with me long
enough so that he can sense my mind, even though I am not
a Falconer. Those warriors can truly communicate mind-to-
mind with their birds, but it does not require close contact for
the bird simply to sense my whereabouts."

Eydryth spoke to the falcon as though the bird could under-
stand her. "Winged warrior," she said, "I am sorry that we did
not offer you the chance to travel through the Gate with us.
But it was not a comfortable journey, I assure you. Doubtless
flying over those mountains was much more to your liking."

"If he wishes to accompany us tomorrow, he will have to go
through the Gate with us," Alon said. "He could not possibly
follow us across two continents and an ocean—to the other
side of the world."

"How can we manage to carry him?" she asked, dubiously
eyeing the falcon's rending beak and sharp talons.

"With difficulty, I am sure," Alon said. "I will strive to
communicate the problem to him tonight, with Dahaun to
help me. She can mind-speak nearly any creature'."

As he finished speaking, the falcon stretched out his wings,

152, ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

and, with a quick motion of his arm, Alon helped him launch
himself skyward. Monso's breathing had slowed and calmed,
so they set off again. Steel Talon wheeled in the sky above
them, flying so high at times that he seemed naught but a
pinprick of black against the blueness.

The slopes before them now were grassy and gently rolling,
so Alon put the Keplian into a steady canter. They were
headed due north, Eydryth realized, judging their direction
from the position of the sun. She relaxed into the stallion's
gait, balancing easily on those powerful haunches, feeling the
rhythmic push and glide beneath her. Before long the steady
motion had lulled her into a near-doze.

Finally, they struck on a dirt road, well-traveled by the
looks of it. "Not far to go now," Alon said, and she straight-
ened. "I am going to let him run a little," he warned. "So hold
on!" He loosened the rein and Monso immediately surged into
a full gallop—and then the Keplian, with a snort, fought to get
a free head; his strides came faster and faster yet!

"Easy ... easy, Monso ...," Alon said, but the horse only
increased speed again.

"Can you hold him?" she cried, alarmed, only to have her
words whipped away by the wind of their passage.

Eydryth clung to her companion's belt, resting her head
against Alon's back and half-closing her eyes as the landscape
flashed by them so fast it made her dizzy. This was the first
time she had ridden Monso at a run in daylight, and the
half-bred's speed both excited and frightened her. She could
feel Alon's back muscles bunch against her cheek as he strug-
gled to regain full control. He spoke softly to the beast, all the
while striving with every bit of horsemanship he possessed to
keep the Keplian from breaking loose and running totally free.

Finally, the creature's pace slackened slightly, and Alon
again had full mastery. He turned his head slightly. "Are you
still with me, lady songsmith?"

"Yes," Eydryth managed to gasp. "But when he goes like
that... I cannot help but be frightened."

"You think I am not?" he retorted. "There is a wildness in
his nature at such times that harkens back to the demon-

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153

creature that foaled him...." He was panting himself with the
effort to control the Keplian. "He sensed our urgency, also."

The Keplian's mad run had brought them a far distance, for
the mountains now were only craggy silhouettes behind them.
Before them lay a land where green fields sprouted their crops
and tidy farmsteads lay scattered. Eydryth had thought Escore
a very empty land in comparison to Arvon, and the sight of
those farms reassured her. She remembered Alon's saying that
the two lands had once been one. That much have been long
and long ago, indeed, she thought. Her mind reeled at the idea
of so many, many years.

The road led them toward two craggy ridges that did not
quite meet, forming a narrow pass in their midst. Alon slowed
Monso still more, until they were traveling at a slow, collected
canter.

As the travelers reached the shadowing heights of the pass,
Eydryth saw symbols etched deep into the ocher rockface of
each flanking cliff. Several of those incised markings were
close enough to runes from the Old Tongue that she recog-
nized them. One of them she whispered softly as they passed
it, feeling relief and sense of peace steal over her, for it was a
powerful ward against the Dark.

"Euythayan . . . ," she breathed.

"Yes," Alon said, barely turning his head to make reply.
"Until the day that Dinzil betrayed the Valley by stealing
away Kaththea, none of the People of the Green Silences
thought that any harm could befall them here. It was a blow
to them to discover that their protections could be broken."

"Dinzil must have been a powerful Adept indeed," Eydryth
said, troubled exceedingly by this revelation.

"He was," Alon said, and then, evidently guessing her
thoughts, he added, "And now Yachne, if she has his Power,
might also be able to overcome the Valley's wards."

As they went on, the crags dropped away, and so did the
road. Then they rounded a gentle downward curve, and Eyd-
ryth found herself looking out across a vast valley.

It was so green! Lush with grass and flowers, shaded by
great trees, it seemed a dream of beauty that called out to her

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

154

weary spirit, as though she had come to a second home. The
sight of the Valley of the Green Silences seemed to relieve and
ease the songsmith's weary, anxious spirit, even as a healer's
balm may ease a wound. Eydryth found herself running
snatches of notes and words through her mind, in hopes that
she could someday capture some of the loveliness of this place
in a song.

Dwellings dotted the Valley, though they could not be
termed "houses," for they grew out of the earth itself, their
circular walls being formed of tree trunks or flowering bushes.
Their peaked roofs were thatched with vivid blue-green feath-
ers. As the travelers cantered slowly down the road, people
came out of the houses. Many waved to Alon, and he returned
their greeting, but he did not draw rein until they had reached
the largest of the dwellings. As Monso halted, the doorway,
which was curtained by flowering vines, moved aside, and a
man came out, followed a moment later by a woman. Lord
Kyllan and Lady Dahaun, Eydryth thought.

Both wore soft tunics and breeches of a spring green, with
belts and wristlets of pale gold studded with blue-green gems.
Kyllan was tall and broad-shouldered, with the air of one who
has ridden to arms many times. In that way he reminded
Eydryth of her father, Jervon; he had the same air of one who
is accustomed to command. Physically, though, he was plainly
of the Old Race, though his jaw was wider and his mouth held
more than a touch of humor about it. Eydryth recalled that his
father, Simon Tregarth, was reportedly an outlander, who had
come from some distant world through one of the legendary
Gates.

As the Lady of the Green Silences stepped forward, the
girl's eyes widened in surprise. She gazed at her, blinked, then
frankly stared. Never had she seen her like before!

Tall and slender, she seemed as graceful as a willow in her
green tunic. Eydryth's eyes fastened on her face. Her hair was
as pale gold as the metal other wristlet... no, it was the color
of new-smelted copper... no, it was as black as Eydryth's own
... no, no, it was the green of the new spring leaves. . . .

The harder the songsmith stared, the more the woman's

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155

coloring and features seemed to blur and change. She was
many women . . . and all of them beautiful.

"Alon!" Dahaun exclaimed, stretching forth both her hands
in warm and gracious greeting. "Oh, well-come indeed! You
have returned to us!"

"Greetings, Lady . . . Kyllan," the Adept said. "I but wish
that my visit were simply a visit, but, in truth, I come in haste,
on a matter of great urgency." He turned in the saddle to give
the songsmith a steadying grip as she slid off the Keplian, then
swung down himself. Catching the minstrel's hand, he drew
her forward. "But first, Dahaun, I must present my compan-
ion, the Lady Songsmith Eydryth."

With a gracious yet courtly air, the Lady inclined her head
and reached to take the girl's hand in both of hers. "Be wel-
come to our home, Eydryth," she said warmly. "This is my
lord, Kyllan." As the Lady of the Green Silences touched the
girl's hand, her features steadied, until her face was oval, her
eyes grey, her hair black. She now was as plainly of the Old
Race as was her lord, Kyllan.

"Good fortune to your home, Lady Dahaun, now and ever-
more," Eydryth said, altering the traditional greeting a trifle.
In no wise could one call this bower of living trees and vines
a house.

The Lady released her guest's hand, and her features again
took on that uncanny shifting, as her lord, Kyllan, also
stepped forward to greet the songsmith. Then Tregarth turned
back to Alon, who was standing with Monso's rein over his
arm. He smiled with a touch of ruefulness. "If that were an
ordinary mount you hold, Alon, I would offer to tend him for
you, but perhaps that would not be wise of me."

Alon grinned. "My foster-mother has told me that you have
no reason to love Keplians, having once almost been undone
by one of Monso's breed. I will tend him myself."

Dahaun (once more her hair was as green as her garb)
smiled mischievously at her lord. "Do not forget what a great
gift the Keplian brought you that day so long ago, my lord.
Had it not been for him, we two might never have met!"

He inclined his head. "For which I give heartfelt thanks

156

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

every day, my lady. Still, I have often thought that there must
be easier ways for a man to first encounter his future bride
than to have nearly every bone in his body smashed by a
demon-horse!"

Turning back to her guest, the Lady said, "Take off your
mount's saddle and bridle, Alon. Monso will be fine, here, will
you not, my beauty?" She reached a slender hand toward the
creature's forehead, then her eyes widened. "What is this?" she
exclaimed.

Alon's fingers began separating the long strands ofMonso's
forelock. "The crystal I braided into his forelock, so we could
open the Gate," he said. "I forgot all about it in our haste to
reach you. But. . . but it has changed! What—?" he broke off
in wonder as his questing fingers worked the amethyst-shaded
crystal free of the Keplian's long forelock. "Look!" he cried,
holding it out for all of them to see.

Instead of a netting of black horsehair, the shard from the
mirror now lay encased in a delicate webbing of purest silver.
"It must have transmuted when we leaped through," Alon
whispered.

Dahaun put out a hand, but stopped short of actually laying
finger to the crystal. "It is a powerful talisman," she said.
Turning to her lord, she pulled free the silver cord that laced
the top of his green tunic. Threading the cord through the net
of silver, she formed a pendant from it. This she placed sol-
emnly over Alon's head, so it hung down beneath the neck of
his tunic. "Keep it always, and may it protect you from all
manner of evil," she said quietly.

Then the Lady of the Green Silences turned back to the
Keplian. "Leave Monso here," she repeated. "He will be fine."
The black snorted, then bobbed his head up and down, exactly
as if nodding agreement.

Quickly, Alon freed the stallion to graze, then the travelers
followed their host and hostess into the dwelling.

Within, screens made of living vines or woven of feathers
made rooms, and the floor was carpeted with soft living moss.
Light filtered greenly through the roof and walls, making the
interior pleasantly restful. When Alon would have launched

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157

immediately into their story, Dahaun stayed his words with a
swift gesture. "Your story will wait a few minutes more," she
said, waving Eydryth toward one alcove, while Kyllan took
the young Adept's arm and steered him toward another. "You
have been on the road for long and long, and need to rest, if
only for a short while. Besides, we must summon the scouts to
hear your tale firsthand, if they must needs carry it to others."

Alon nodded, albeit a bit reluctantly.

Eydryth followed the Lady into a room containing two
pools, one holding water tinged red with mud, the other filled
with clear water. Now that she was actually here, lack of sleep
and food made her so weary she stumbled as she walked.
Dahaun indicated the red-colored pool, and said, "This one
first, Lady Eydryth."

Stripping off her travel-grimed clothes, the songsmith sank
gratefully into the warm pool. Dahaun gathered up her
stained breeches, tunic, and jerkin, promising to see that they
were cleaned for use on the morrow, then left the girl to her
bath. The red-tinged water was blissfully hot, and its touch
revived her so completely that she felt all weariness and hunger
vanishing. This pool, she thought, must share the restorative
and healing abilities of the red mud pools Alon had spoken of
earlier today.

Finishing off with a thorough rinse in the clear pool, she
then donned the clothes her hostess had left, soft tunics,
breeches and boots like unto the ones Dahaun and Kyllan
wore.

When the girl emerged, feeling vastly more energetic, it was
to find Alon, garbed like herself, sitting with a man of Da-
haun's race, Ethutur, talking quietly. The Lord of the Green
Silences also possessed the shape-shifting ability, though not
as much as Dahaun. Two small, ivory horns rose from his
forehead, nearly hidden by the loose curls of his ever-chang-
ing-hued hair.

No sooner had the songsmith been introduced and seated
herself upon one of the moss-grown hummocks that served as
cushions on the floor than the Lady herself returned. Dahaun
was accompanied by two tall children who were carrying plat-

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ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

ters of food and drink, and by two men who wore the battered
boots and light mail of couriers or scouts. One of the men was
a giant who towered above the other.

Kyllan introduced the two men as the Valley's scouts,
Yonan and Urik. Yonan was of middle height, and evidently
descended from some Sulcar ancestor, if Eydryth guessed
aright. The giant was Urik.

The boy and girl (they appeared to be perhaps five years
younger than the songsmith herself) Kyllan identified as his
and Dahaun's twin children. Elona, the girl, had inherited
something of her mother's shape-changing ability, for when-
ever Eydryth gazed upon her, her features gradually took on
subtle shifts of shape, and her hair and eyes seemed to darken
and lighten, though not to the extent that Dahauh's did. Keris,
the boy, resembled his father, and his features did not change.
Nor did he have the horns of the Green Men.

Dahaun waved at the crisply baked rounds of thin bread,
wedges of cheese and an assortment of fruits and early vegeta-
bles. "Can you eat as you talk?"

Alon was already reaching for a piece of fruit. "If we can-
not, we will take turns," he said. "I met this wandering song-
smith while I was racing Monso in a village called Rylon
Comers. ..."

He continued telling about how he had met Eydryth, while
the minstrel busied herself with the food. Then, when he came
to the reason for her quest, he nodded to his companion, and
she quickly explained about her search for a means to heal her
father. "Alon wondered whether the red mud that is to be
found within this Valley might not help," she concluded, giv-
ing the Lady an inquiring glance.

Dahaun's ever-shifting features were grave as she consid-
ered the girl's query. "I do not know," she said softly,
"whether the mud will heal ills of the mind and spirit as well
as those of the body. Never has it been so tested. But you are
welcome to take some with you and try."

"Thank you. Lady."

"But Eydryth's quest is but the half of it," Alon said, after
swallowing a last bite of food. "Last night, she was awakened
by a strange noise that I could not hear. . . ."

159

He continued, telling the strange tale of their journey to the
ancient mirror-Gate, and of Yachne and her Power-stealing
spell.

Kyllan's expression darkened when he heard the identity of
the ancient sorcerer the witch had bested. "Dinzil!" he ex-
claimed. "I thought that one forever gone, or dead."

"Which he may well be, by now," Alon said, then he pro-
ceeded to tell Tregarth of the threat to all males possessing
Power. "She called us things against nature, abominations,"
he finished, finally. "Yachne intends to make herself the most
powerful sorceress the world has ever known."

"Where could she have come from?" Dahaun wondered
aloud.

"From some of the things she said, I believe that she was
once a witch of Estcarp," Eydryth said, and Alon nodded
agreement. "One of the ones whose Power was broken when
she made herself a vessel to channel the magic during the
Turning."

"When she had the raising of you, did she ever refer to being
a witch?" Kyllan asked Alon.

The younger man shook his head. "She was certainly a Wise
Woman, but I would have swom she had not the ability to
perform such a summoning as we witnessed," he said thought-
fully. "Opening a Gate is, as I discovered for myself today, no
easy task. The Yachne that I knew before could scry, and
sense the presence of the Shadow, and heal, using herbs and
such. Minor magics, at best. She was no sorceress."

"Where did she leam that spell, then?" Eydryth mused.
"She said that someone had taught it to her. . . . but who?"

"Perhaps she lied, and actually uncovered it in some musty
old scroll in Lormt," Alon speculated, then he sighed. "But
however she learned it, it makes little difference. The danger to
us is real."

"I will contact Kaththea and Kemoc immediately," Kyllan
said. "And tomorrow mom my lady wife will release her
messenger birds to carry the news across the mountains to my
father, Simon, at Etsford."

"If only I had the Power," Eydryth murmured softly. "Then
I might be able to warn Kerovan tonight."

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ANDKE NORTON AND A.C. CWSPIN

"Tomorrow will be soon enough," Dahaun reassured her.
"It is nearly sunset already... it will be dawn before you know
it."

Eydryth nodded, knowing the Lady of the Green Silences
strove only to comfort her, but she was restless. The restora-
tive effects of the red pool had worked only too well. . . . She
was too full of energy to sleep. Rising, she went outside, seeing
Monso grazing on the lush grass, and Steel Talon perched in
a tree not far from the stallion. A few minutes later, Alon
followed her out, carrying both their swordbelts. "Time for
my lesson," he reminded her.

Eydryth was only too glad to have something to take up her
thoughts, and together they practiced his one lunge and parry.
Adding to Alon's small store of knowledge, the songsmith
then demonstrated a backhand parry, and they practiced that.
Before they were done, Kyllan came out to tell them that
Yonan and Urik had just set off, to ride with the warning to
the settlement of the Old Race who had lived in Karsten
before the Homing that had turned them into refugees. But
now the former Karstenians were firmly established in this
new—and, at the same time, ancient—land.

His news given, Tregarth lingered, observing the lesson.
"You are a good teacher," Kyllan said to the bard when she
and her student had parted, each to regain lost breath. "He
has definitely mastered that lunge."

"Unfortunately, that is the only move I have mastered,"
Alon said ruefully, wiping sweat from his brow. "But one is
better than none, I suppose."

Handing her sword to Kyllan, Eydryth encouraged Tre-
garth to coach her student. The older man readily did so,
proving an able swordsman—probably, Eydryth thought, the
equal of Jervon before his accident.

As if in response to her thought of her father and his plight,
Dahaun appeared through the gathering dusk, holding out to
the songsmith a small wood box that appeared to be sealed
with wax or resin. This she put into Eydryth's hands. "Some
of the healing mud," she said. "Be careful not to break the seal
until you are ready to use it."

SONGSMITH

161

Clutching it, Eydryth ran trembling fingers over the top of
the box. Could this really be the means to heal Jervon?
"Lady," she said, her voice nigh to breaking, "I thank you.
... I am so grateful. . . ."

"We are the ones who are in your debt," Dahaun assured
her. "I only pray that the mud will work. You must smooth
it over his brow and scalp, and allow it to dry before chipping
it free."

"I will do so," the girl replied. "And thank you again, my
lady."

Dahaun smiled at her. "It is I who owe you for the warning
that may have saved my lord," she said. "Be very sure that we
shall guard against this Yachne and her foul spells. Power
rightfully belongs to whomever possesses it and wields it re-
sponsibly. It is not for her to say yea or nay as to who may
work magic."

Eydryth nodded solemn agreement.

They left the Valley in the predawn darkness, with saddlebags
replenished from Dahaun's larder. Monso snorted eagerly,
seeming anxious to be on the way again, and they made a
speedy return to Yachne's cave, arriving by midmoming.

"Do you remember how she opened the Gate?" Eydryth
asked, as they dismounted outside the entrance. Steel Talon
glided down from a nearby hillock to perch on the stallion's
saddlebow. "Do you remember what she chanted?"

"I listened carefully," Alon replied, frowning, then he
shrugged, as if unsure of his memory. "And last night I made
notes of what I recalled and studied them. We can only hope
that my efforts will serve. We cannot know until we make the
attempt."

Once within the confines of the cavern, he drew forth a short
wand from one of the saddlebags. "Elder," he said, holding it
up for his companion's inspection. "Used for the darker and
more powerful spells."

Quickly, he began sketching another pentagram on the floor
of the cavern, in much the same manner as Yachne had. "But
you are not going to summon anyone!" Eydryth protested.

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ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"True, but I must follow the ritual exactly as she did. I-know
not what element will open the Gate," he told her. "She did no
spell of opening, such as I did, only spoke the final words to
the dark mirror. Therefore something in her spell to undo
Dinzil must have awakened the Gate, tapped its power, then
left it waiting to function."

Quickly, he set out candles Dahaun had supplied, lit them
with a wave of his hand. "What will you use for blood?" the
songsmith asked fearfully.

"My own," he said.

"But doing so may weaken you too much!" she protested.
"Use mine, Alon."

Stubbornly, he shook his head. "I cannot use another living
creature's blood to work spells. If I needs must work Dark
spells, then I will work them as cleanly as I can... lest the very
working blacken my spirit beyond redemption."

"Alon, do not be a fool! You need your strength to open
that Gate! If you use my blood you will be taking from me
only what I freely offer! That will not stain you!"

"No," he maintained, and she could glimpse the stubborn
gleam in his eyes. "My own blood will I use, and no other."

Eydryth did not argue further, only drew her knife and
deeply nicked her own wrist, then held it out to him. "Here."

He gave her an angry glare, but she shook-her arm at him
so that red spattered the rocky floor around them. "Don't
waste it!"

Without further argument, he seized her wrist in his hands
and began to chant softly, allowing the trickling blood to form
an enclosing circle. Before many heartbeats had passed, Eyd-
ryth began to feel weak from the steady draining, but she
forced herself to mask her dizziness. When they were about
two-thirds of the way around the circle, though, she stumbled.
In answer Alon's fingers clamped hard over the slash, and he
muttered softly under his breath. The bleeding slowed and
stopped.

"Go and bandage that," he ordered, "then get Steel Talon
and Monso ready to go. Don't speak to me again until the
spell is complete ... I will need full concentration." Then,

SONGSMITH                 163

drawing his own belt knife, he nicked his own wrist deeply and
set to completing the circle of blood.

As he finished, his chant grew louder. . . . Slowly, inexora-
bly, the candles began to darken. The words Alon was mouth-
ing now made Eydryth's head spin. She wanted to cover her
ears, just as she had before, hearing Yachne. The Adept's own
lips twisted as he spoke, as though the words he pronounced
tasted of bile.

The very air within the cavern grew as dark as the candles,
curdling with foulness, murky with unseen shapes. Horrors
seemed to gibber from the shadows, but every time Eydryth
turned to look, there was nothing there. Resolutely, she forced
herself to ignore them, and Alon, also.

Quickly she checked the fastenings of Monso's saddlebags,
fastened her quarterstaff into place beneath the stirrup on the
horse's off side; then she spread her cloak on the stony floor.
"It is time. Steel Talon," she said to the falcon still perched
atop the pommel of the saddle.

With a harsh screech, the bird glided down and stood upon
the cloak. Eydryth gathered up the edges, folding them up
around the bird, thus protecting her flesh from those raking
talons, that sharp beak. With the swathed falcon in her arms,
she straightened up, turning to regard the Adept, only to see
Alon, his head thrown back, a dark shadow half-obscuring his
features, voice a last, loud call that she recognized from
Yachne's attempt.

The sound of that terrifying summons coming from her
companion's throat was enough to send the girl stumbling
back against Monso's side. The Keplian rolled his eyes, trem-
bling violently.

Slowly, the deep, shadow-shot purple expanse of the dark
mirror glowed foully to life. Their Gate was open.

Alon turned to regard his accomplishment with a look of
such revulsion stamped across his features that Eydryth cried
out in dismay. Then he staggered over into the corner of the
cave and was thoroughly sick, heaving as though he could
physically expel from his spirit the stain that Yachne's incan-
tation had left there. Finally, shaking, his features as waxy as

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

164

the candles he had used (candles, Eydryth noted with part of
her mind, that were now as pitchy black as they had been
white before), he straightened, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

He spat one final time, then, obviously holding himself erect
by force of will, walked over to Monso and mounted. Grimly,
he held out his hand for the bundle that was Steel Talon, and,
when the songsmith handed it to him, he hugged the falcon's
shrouded form against his chest.

"Can you get up?" he asked. He smiled a shaky, apologetic
smile. "I seem to be short of hands to aid you, at the moment."

"As long at Monso doesn't kick, I can," she said.

"No, he would not kick you," he assured her.

Stepping behind the stallion, the songsmitb patted his rump.
"Easy, boy." Then she backed away a few paces and came
forward again at a run to vault neatly up over the Keplian's
rump into her accustomed position behind Alon.

"Very nice," Alon said, admiration lightening the sick wea-
riness that tinged his voice. "That is a feat I never learned."

"Obred, the Kioga herd-master, taught me," she said ab-
sently.

"And now for Arvon ... I hope," he whispered. "Hold
tight."

He urged the Keplian forward.

With a squeal, of fear, the stallion plunged beneath them,
back humping in protest. Alon shouted a harsh order, heels
thumping against the creature's sides. Still the horse resisted,
shaking his head and snorting with terror. The smell of his
fear-sweat was rank in Eydryth's nostrils.

"Get up\" Alon shouted, then followed the order with a
curse that made Eydryth gasp. His heels rammed his mount's
sides again, even as he slashed the reins savagely across the
black's neck, whipping him hard.

With a suddenness that sent Eydryth's head snapping pain-
fully back, Monso launched himself at the Gate.

Their first such crossing had been disturbing enough, but
this one was agony. A great shadow seemed to envelop them,
and they hung suspended in a darkness so profound that
Eydryth feared she had been blinded by it.

SONGSMITH                 165

Her spirit quailed before the sense of evil, of wrongness that
this Gate held. She found that her mouth was open as she tried
desperately to scream, but no sound emerged. It was like the
worst of nightmares, where the dreamer struggles vainly to
awaken—except that she knew this was no dream.

How long that passage took—minutes, years, centuries—
she could not tell. But at last she heard Monso's hooves strike
hard ground with a thump, even as the world reappeared
around them.

In the west, the sun was setting—and it had been well before
noon in Escore! Eydryth stared around her, noting the colors
and varieties of vegetation, the shapes of the distant moun-
tains, then sniffed the air. "We did it," she said, softly. "This
is Arvon."

"Good," Alon said, grim with exhaustion. He halted
Monso, then slipped off him, murmuring apologies for having
whipped him. "I am sorry, son," he whispered, then stooped
to lay Eydryth's cloak on the ground. Steel Talon shook him-
self free, then flew to the branch of a nearby oak, screeching
an ear-piercing protest against such a form of travel.

Numb, the songsmith slipped off the Keplian's back, then
stood trembling, watching Alon repentently stroke his horse.
Monso shoved his nose against him with a soft nicker.

"That was terrible," Eydryth whispered, when her voice was
once more under her control—barely. "I could never do that
again . . . never."

"Nor could I," Alon agreed, soberly. His face was set in
new, harsh lines, making him appear far older, far harder than
he had only yesterday. "If it weren't for Yachne, we would
never have had to take such a desperate route. When I catch
up to her, she will pay for this."

"Will we able to capture her? And, if we do, is there some
way she can be stripped of that terrible spell?" Eydryth asked,
shivering as she remembered the witch's power.

"If there is, I don't know it," Alon said grimly. A cold,
hating glint awakened in his eyes, disturbing Eydryth pro-
foundly. His voice rang out suddenly with the strength of one
taking a sacred vow. "But worry not. After I find her, I swear

166

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

to every god that is and ever was that she will present no
further threat to anyone!"

Eydryth stared at him in horror. "Surely you do not
mean . . . ," she began, only to have him nod, his mouth
naught but a grim slash.

"Oh, but I do," he said softly, in a cold voice so cruel that
the songsmith backed away a step. "When I find her, I intend
to kill her." He slanted a warning look at his companion.
"And don't even think about trying to stop me. Lady Song-
smith."

Ten




168

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

They passed no farmsteads, no villages, saw no distant
lights. Herds ofpronghorns and deer stared at them curiously,
not particularly alarmed at their presence. "Man is not a
predator they know," Alon observed. "We are indeed far from
any villages or farmsteads. How far do you think we are from
Kar Garudwyn?"

"Four days' ride—perhaps more—but that is only a guess,"
she replied. "If my reckoning is correct, we should strike the
edge ofBluemantle lands late tomorrow or early the next day.
Then we will make better time, traveling the roads."

"Perhaps we should not go to Kar Garudwyn immediately.
Perhaps we should seek Yachne first," he suggested.

Eydryth shifted position, trying unsuccessfully to ease the
sore muscles in her thighs and buttocks and sighed deeply.
"No," she said, after a moment's consideration. "We must go
to Kar Garudwyn first."

"Why?" he challenged. "Yachne is the threat. The sooner I
deal with her, the sooner your foster-father will be safe."

Eydryth repressed a shudder as she remembered precisely
how her companion proposed to "deal" with the renegade
witch. But she forced herself to mask her feelings as she re-
sponded, evenly, "Because if we can but reach Kar Garudwyn,
there is a Place of Power nearby, where Kerovan can seek
refuge. It is called the Setting Up of the Kings. From what I
know of the workings of magic, if Kerovan went there,
Yachne's summoning spell could not pull him away; he would
be protected."

"If it is a place of great Power, that could be true," Alon
conceded reluctantly.

"Also," the songsmith added, "after Kerovan is safe, we
would then have help in our search for Yachne."

"What kind of help?" he asked, skeptically.

"My foster-sister, Hyana, could probably scry out the
witch's whereabouts. Then Joisan and Sylvya would ride with
us to seek her. All of them are Wise Women to be reckoned
with."

Alon's only reply was a noncommittal grunt. Eydryth bit
her lip, concerned about him. This surly, brooding man

SONGSMITH

169

seemed not at all the companion she had been coming to
regard as a friend during the past six days. Can it be only six
days? she wondered, dazedly. It seems as though I have known
him forever. ...

They halted for the night only when it grew so dark (the
moon would not rise until long after midnight) that even
Monso and Alon were having difficulty picking a path, and
Eydryth had been riding blind for a long time. They camped
in a meadow that was surrounded on three sides by forest
some distance away. Tall growths of tangled wild rosebushes
shielded them from the brisk northern breeze, their blossom-
ing fragrance pervading the air, heady and sweet,

By the time they had unpacked and tended the Keplian, the
travelers were almost too tired to eat, themselves. Hastily they
swallowed a cold meal, since Eydryth advised against lighting
a fire. "It would be best not to flaunt our presence," she
cautioned Alon as they spread out their bedrolls.

"Why?" Alon said. "We have seen no sign of anyone but
ourselves. Every land has its brigands, but would outlaws
roam so far from homesteads and villages?"

"I know not," she said quietly. "My concern lies with the
possible presence of other . . . dangers. Arvon, like Escore,
holds perils for the unwary." She glanced cautiously around
her. "Perhaps we should stand watches."

"Monso will warn if anyone comes," Alon pointed out. "If
we are to make good time on the morrow, we will need a full
night's sleep." Eydryth agreed, knowing that any animal's
senses were far superior to her own.

But even though she was weary, snuggled warmly in her
cloak and blankets, slumber eluded the songsmith, chased
away by her uneasy thoughts, and questions that only time
would answer. Will Dahaun 's red mud cure my father? Will we
reach Kerovan in time to warn him? Will our warning be enough
to save him, or will Yachne be able to summon him to her no
matter where he may be. or how we try to protect him?

And lastly, and most worrisome of all: Alon is changing
before my eyes. He is suspicious and morose . . . not himself.

170

ANDRE NORTON AND'A.C. CRISPIN

Why? And, more importantly, what can I do to halt what is

happening?

Her eyelids were finally growing heavy. With a sigh, Eyd-
ryth let them close. ...

She awakened with a start when Monso snorted loudly. It
seemed that sleep had only claimed her for a moment, but the
waning moon had risen, shedding a pallid light over the
meadow. Eydryth lay in her blankets, every sense alert, listen-
ing. Monso snorted again. Last year's dead grass and bushes
crackled as he pawed restlessly.

The songsmith turned her head on her arm, moving slowly,
as if she still slept, but her eyes were open, scanning the distant
woods, the field surrounding them. In the darkness, nothing
moved. Nothing ... for many heartbeats, nothing. . . .

Then, at the comer of her vision, something flickered.
Alarmed now, Eydryth sat up, straining her eyes in the dim
moonlight. Many faintly glowing shapes were drifting toward
their campsite, borne on the night breeze. The songsmith
reached for her companion's shoulder, nudged it. "Alon!" she
whispered.

He awoke with a start, then sat up. "What... what is it?"

"Rouse you! Danger!"

As he rubbed blearily at his eyes, still groggy with sleep,
Eydryth threw aside her blanket, pulled on her boots, then
picked up the quarterstaff that lay beside her. With one swift
movement, her sword was in her hand. She stood poised and

ready.

Once more she attempted to discern what those wafting
shapes were. They glowed a sickly greenish color against the
distant blackness of the forest, a green shot through with
streaks of pale purple. Eydryth had seen slime growths on the
walls of caves glow eerily in just the same way. What could
these floating creatures be?

Monso suddenly sounded a stallion's shrill battle-challenge,
teeth bared to snap, forelegs ready to strike. The Keplian's
nostrils flared widely; then he snorted again, as though he
scented something noxious. Eydryth hastily fastened a lead-
shank to the stallion's halter, then tied him to a scrubby tree
beside their packs.

SONGSMTTH

171

By the time she finished, Alon was on his feet—boots on,
sword out and ready. As they stood together, his shoulder
brushed Eydryth's; for a moment she fought the urge to lean
against him, take his hand. Human comfort seemed very desir-
able in the face of the strange creatures bobbing ever closer to
them. "What is it?" he whispered.

Eydryth pointed to those faintly luminous wind-riding
shapes. "Look over there. Five ... six ... ten ... at least a
dozen of them, perhaps more."

"A dozen of what?" he demanded.

She shrugged, knowing he could see her clearly in the moon-
light, even though his face was naught but a dim blur to her
own eyes. "I cannot be sure . . . but I believe they may be
web-riders."

He gave her a quick, incredulous glance. "But they are only
tales . . . legends! I have traveled the length and breadth of
Escore, and never have I heard of them as anything but stories
to terrify children when told before a roaring fire in midwin-
ter!"

"In Arvon, like Escore, many old tales prove to have all-
too-real substance," she reminded him. "And if they are in-
deed web-riders ... we may not live to see the mom, Alon."

Just then the minstrel caught a faint whiff of an odor that
made her nose wrinkle. Rank it was, as though their visitors
were long-dead and decayed. "Whatever they are, their smell
tells me they come from the Left, not the Right-Hand Path."

Alon sniffed, too. Eydryth saw the white blur his hand made
as he traced a glowing sign in the air. With a muttered curse,
he jerked his fingers back, as if they had been burned. "You
have the right of it," he agreed. "There is no doubt that they
mean us harm."

"Could Yachne have sent them?"

"Possible. It is also possible that they are denizens of this
land. Perhaps they are the reason that no one lives here."

The thought made Eydryth shudder as she watched those
distant shapes drifting closer . . . closer. "Can you see them
clearly?" she whispered to Alon.

"They appear to be greenish-white creatures riding atop
those purple filaments," he said, his voice hardly more than a

172

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

breath against her ear. "They are perhaps two handspans in
width, with long, many-jointed legs. ..."

"Like spiders?"

"More like some ugly cross between a spider and a crab,"
he said. "They seem half-transparent, as though they are so
light that they wove those webs, then cast them adrift on the
night breeze and leaped upon them to ride them here." He
shuddered in his turn. "They are fanged, and have pincers, or
claws. I would wager that they are poisonous, like spiders."

"You have just described a web-rider," she said grimly.

"I know."

Eydryth glanced around her, wondering whether they
should make a stand here, or try to run. Her breath caught in
her throat, and her fingers clamped onto Alon's forearm with
a force that made him gasp. "More of them . .. many more
. . . ," she whispered. "We are surrounded!"

As the fell creatures bobbed closer, Eydryth could make out
what Alon had described. Their eyes gleamed tiny and reddish
in the faint moonlight. Their pincers and fangs dripped with
venom. Could they be intelligent? There was no way to know.
One thing was certain . . . they were at a grave disadvantage
trying to fight in the darkness. "Can you summon light?" she
asked the Adept. "Enough so I can see to use my sword?"

"I can," he said, and made several gestures. A wan violet
light flickered unevenly over the tramped-down grass marking
their campsite. "But I do not believe that swordplay is the best

way to fight them."

"Then what is?" she countered, edging around him until
they stood back-to-back, her sword in her hand. By now the
web-riders were so close that some of them were little more
than a sword-length from the perimeter of their campsite. The
creatures seemed to be at the mercy of the breeze, with little
ability to direct their floating webs. That is one small thing in
our favor, Eydryth thought.

"I may be able to—," Alon began; then he broke off as
Monso screamed again and lunged toward the circling invad-
ers, The lead-shank parted with a snap. "No, Monso!" Alon
shouted, dashing up to catch the K-eplian's halter. But the

SONGSMITH

173

stallion reared violently, pulling his master clean off his feet,
then, with a toss of his head, flung Alon down. Eydryth heard
him land with a thud, heard him gasping, trying to regain the
breath that had been driven from his lungs.

The songsmith started after the black half-bred as he
plunged at the web-riders, shrieking his battle cry. A flashing
forehoof struck, sending one of their attackers fluttering to the
ground. Monso pounced like a cat, trampling the downed
web-rider into the short turf.

Eydryth managed to grab Monso's halter, then halt him.
She was surprised at his sudden docility, but the reason for it
soon became clear. As he took a step backward, the stallion
nearly fell when his right foreleg buckled beneath him. The
songsmith glanced down at the leg, but the light was too dim
for her to see clearly. Bending down, she ran an expert hand
down the slim, sinewed length, discovering a rapidly swelling
area above the knee. It was hot and throbbing. "Alon!" she
cried. "He's been stung or bitten!"

The Adept was already hobbling toward them, still wheez-
ing. He flung himselfdown beside the Keplian. "We'll have to
get a poultice on it immediately, to draw out the poison,"
Eydryth gasped. "I have herbs and bandages in my—"

Alon shook his head, halting her words. "Just hold them off
for a moment," he ordered. Eydryth straightened, her sword
at the ready. The web-riders ringed them now, but none had
crossed into the light Alon had summoned. The songsmith
kept one eye on them, while stealing glances at her companion
as he grasped the stallion's leg in both hands, all the while
muttering under his breath. Violet light shimmered from be-
tween his fingers.

Catching a flash of motion in the comer of her eye, the bard
whirled, raising sword into guard position. She was barely in
time to duck and parry as a glowing shape swooped down at
her head. Seen this close, the web-rider appeared more crab
than insect as its pincers snapped viciously, barely a handspan
from her eyes.

Repelled, she slashed upward, her sword catching the crea-
ture in its midsection, slicing it in two. It made a shrill noise

474        ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

that hurt her ears as the blade clove its body. Even as she
winced back from that eerie sound, a glowing greenish ichor
sprayed outward from the dying thing, sending a spray of
droplets spattering across her right hand.

Eydryth screamed with pain as the web-rider's "blood"
seared her hand. Her skin felt as though she had been doused
with liquid fire. Clamping her teeth onto her lip, she quickly
caught up her blanket and wiped the noxious slime off her
flesh, but the ichor still burned fiercely; her vision blurred with

the pain of it.

Swallowing, she forced herself to flex her fingers, pick up
her dropped sword. Perhaps some virtue emanated from the
quan-iron in its gryphon's-head hilt, for, as she touched it, the
pain eased a little, though she still had to stifle a groan every

time she moved her fingers.

The web-riders were now closing in on every side as the
breeze picked up. Eydryth caught up the blanket, wrapped it
around her left hand and forearm, using it as makeshift shield
to buffet the drifting creatures away.

With her right hand, she wove intricate patterns with the
point and edge other sword, parrying and thrusting, trying to
watch everywhere at once. Even as she strove, she recognized
that her efforts could not save them for long; sooner or later
an attacker would swoop at her from behind her back, and she
would find herself stung or bitten.

For long moments Eydryth held them off, moving with a
precision that she had never employed against a human oppo-
nent. Suddenly she sensed something behind her, nearly

brushing her hair!

Stifling a shriek, she whirled, only to see Alon behind her,
his hand sweeping in a blow aimed at her head. She ducked,
wondering if he had gone mad, but a second later, with a
muffled curse, he grabbed her shoulder, holding her steady,
then knocked a web-rider off her head with his bare hand.
Eydryth shrank back as he struck it to the earth with the
songsmith's quarterstaff. Quickly he pounded the staff's steel-
shod butt into the center of the creature's back. The web-rider
squealed, convulsed and died.

SONGSMITH                 175

"We have to get away!" the songsmith shouted, pointing to
the east. "Into the woods, where the wind cannot carry them!
How is Monso? Can he move?"

"I drew the poison out," he gasped, "but he'll need—" He
broke off as he batted away another of their attackers.

"But can we get away?"

"We don't have to run," he promised grimly. "Just hold
them off until I get my wand.. . ."

Quickly he upended the saddlebag, spilling its contents,
then grabbed the branch of elder. Extending it before him, he
began to hum, then thread the fingers of his free hand through
the air, as though combing it, or gathering up something
invisible. The breeze against Eydryth's face intensified, tossing
her hair into her eyes, plucking at the loose sleeves other shirt.

Even as he continued those gathering motions with one
hand, Alon began to make circling motions in the air with the
wand. The wind picked up, now blowing so hard that Eydryth
staggered, then braced herself against it. Something long and
dark lashed her face, stinging her eyes, and for a terror-
stricken moment she thought one of the web-riders had landed
there, but her attacker proved to be naught but Monso's tail.
She brushed the clinging horsehair aside, realizing that the
sudden gale must be Alon's doing. Blinking, she looked about
her for the web-riders.

With that first gust, the noxious creatures had been blown
away from their intended prey. Eydryth sighed with relief and
lowered her sword, painfully loosing her swollen fingers from
their tight clench about its hilt, holding it now with her left
hand.

As the minstrel watched, fascinated, Alon began to make
circling motions with the tip of the wand, just as if he were
stirring soup. The wind began to swirl around the massed
web-riders, blowing them against each other. Each glowing
shape was caught up by that tiny maelstrom, caught past all
escaping. Within moments their attackers resembled a small,
sickly greenish cyclone.

"Good!" Eydryth raised her voice to be heard above the
wind. "How far away can you be from that thing and still keep




ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

i76

them so prisoned?" She wondered whether she could find
some way to cut them down while they were helpless. Cold
iron seemed to work against them... but the throbbing of her
hand was a warning against close-quarters sword-wielding.

If we can get far enough away before his power over the
web-riders fails, then we can surround ourselves with trees and
a protective circle, so no menace can come at us again this night,
she thought. Then she remembered the Keplian's injured leg.
Monso could not carry them; they would be limited to the
distance they could make afoot.

"I have other plans for these vermin," Alon told her, in a
voice that was cold and even with suppressed rage. So saying,
he closed his eyes, concentrating. After a moment, sweat
sheened his forehead. The whirlwind with its spinning,
squeaking inhabitants seemed to glow even brighter—

—and then, without warning, exploded into flame!

Even though she had been considering ways to kill the evil
things herself, Eydryth bit back a cry of protest. Kill them, yes,
but to bum them alive—!

For many heartbeats the trapped creatures struggled
against the inferno that was consuming them, shrilling pro-
tests in high-pitched hisses and cries. Then, just when the
songsmith thought she could stand the sounds no more, and
must run gibbering away into the night, silence fell. Of their
attackers, there remained naught but ash drifting on the soft
breeze.

Eydryth clenched her teeth as the pain other wounded hand
reawakened, but it was not the pain that made her stomach
turn over queasily. In the waning moonlight, she had caught
a glimpse of Alon's face as he contemplated his victory.

The Adept was smiling.

It took the travelers until the first faint flush of dawn to tend
each other's wounds (Alon had a livid welt along the side of
his jaw where the venom from one of the creatures had
sprayed). After poulticing and binding up each other's
wounds, they turned their attention to the Keplian. The stal-
lion's leg showed only a slight swelling now, but Alon worked
again at drawing out any remaining vestiges of poison.

r

SONGSMTTH

177

The stallion could not be ridden until the swelling was com-
pletely gone, but Alon decided that he would be able to carry
their packs.

Finally, when all their tasks were over, Eydryth sat on her
bedroll, regarding the pearl-touched sky with a listless indif-
ference. She knew that she should climb to her feet and set off
across those meadows again, but her body cried out for res-
pite. She felt that she could not have been more wearied if she
had walked every step from Escore to Arvon without halting.

"We ought to go," she murmured to Alon, who was sitting
beside her, slumped over with his elbows resting on his drawn-
up knees, head bowed with an exhaustion like unto her own.

He managed to raise his head, stared at her with dark-
ringed eyes. "Monso needs a few hours to recover from any
lingering effects of that creature's venom," he said. "And nei-
ther of us will get far afoot without rest. Sleep, Eydryth. I
intend to."

Feeling like a traitor—What if Yachne is even now closing in
on Kerovan?—Eydryth nevertheless realized that her compan-
ion had the right of it. She nodded at him, then tumbled over
onto her blankets, pulled an edge other battered cloak across
her and knew no more.

Alon's nudge roused her midmom, and, with a groan, she
rolled over and sat up groggily. A bath, she thought longingly.
If only we had Dahaun's red pools hereabouts. Her nostrils
wrinkled at the smell of food, simmering in a pot over a small,
nearly smokeless fire.

"Here," the Adept said, extending a cup filled with thick,
hot gruel that was flavored with dried fruit. "Try this. You
need to eat."

"I cannot...," she protested, feeling her stomach lurch. "I
don't feel as though I could ever eat again."

He gave her a level glance. "Food will aid your body in
overcoming the effects of the web-rider's poison," he said. "If
you do not eat, you'll be too weak to walk, and, remember,
Monso goes unburdened today, save for our packs." The cup
moved toward her again. "Try . . . please."

Dubiously, she took the thick stuff, sipped cautiously. As

178

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

soon as she had downed the first few swallows, the churning
in her middle quieted. The world around her seemed to solid-
ify, brighten; a measure of strength returned to her limbs.

When it was time to go, she was able to stand and walk
unassisted. As the travelers set out. Steel Talon swooped to-
ward them, alighting on a nearby branch. The falcon screamed
excitedly, flapping his wings with agitation. Alon stopped to
stare at the bird intently. "What was he trying to tell you?"
Eydryth asked, when he began walking again.

"I cannot be sure," he said. "Contact between us is tenuous
at best. But he believes that his quest may be coming to an end.
He feels that soon he may be able to join his master."

Eydryth glanced over her shoulder at the bird, seeing him
wing upward into the skies. "Poor Steel Talon . . ."

Alon's expression was grim. "We cannot help him. Best we
concentrate on helping ourselves and those who are depending

upon us."
They walked throughout the rest of the morning, trying to

keep a steady, swift pace, chewing hunks ofjoumeybread for
their nooning without halting, then slogging determinedly into
the afternoon. Eydryth thought longingly of the swiftness with
which the Keplian had borne them as she forced herself to
keep up with the others. Every muscle in her body seemed to

be sprained or bruised.

Alon was quiet again, brooding, and she did not like the
look in his eyes when she happened to meet them. His
thoughts, she could tell, were far from lightsome. Something
was growing in him, some darkness of spirit that she feared.

In the early afternoon they climbed a long, sloping hill, then
halted on its summit to breathe and scan the countryside
before them. The hill sloped downward to a raw gorge of
boulder-strewn, earth-colored land that seemed to be filled
with a faint haze, despite the sun's brightness overhead. The
rift extended as far in either direction as the songsmith could

see.
"Our path lies straight across yon gorge," she said, eyeing

it dubiously. "But I like not the looks of it."
"Kar Garudwyn lies in that direction?" he asked, pointing.

179

"Yes. But that looks like very rough ground. Do you think
we should turn aside, find a way around it?"

"Finding a way around would take us many extra hours of
walking." Alon pointed out the truth. "The entire stretch is no
more than half a mile wide. Despite its raw look, the ground
appears solid. If we take it slowly over those rocks, there
should be no danger."

Leading Monso, he started off down the hill. Eydryth fol-
lowed, growing ever more repelled by this strange, narrow
floor to this small divide. For a moment she wanted to shout
to Alon not to venture onto this ground, but she forced herself
to silence, remembering the urgency of their journey.

/( will not take more than a half-hour to cross, she judged,
eyeing the land before them, trying to find comfort in her
thought. Alon has the right ofit... finding a way around would
delay us by half a day or more. . . .

Ahead of her, Alon stepped from the green verge of grass
onto that churned earth. He waved at her. "It is solid. Come
ahead!"

The songsmith nerved herself to step over that border. She
took a few strides, then gasped as a section of ground that had
seemed perfectly steady turned abruptly, twisting her ankle.
She barely saved herself from a fall by quick use of her staff.
Hobbling forward, she felt another chunk of earth turn be-
neath her heel. "Alon!" she cried. "Wait!"

He stumbled, nearly falling, catching himself on Monso's
ragged mane, then halted and stood staring about him, his
expression one of bewilderment and growing unease. Eydryth
limped up to join him; then she, in turn, regarded the land-
scape surrounding them.

The green hillsides had vanished. Now the rock-strewn
gorge seemed to stretch before them—and behind them—into
infinity. Overhead, the sun had vanished, but a brassy, glaring
sky made the land about them shimmer with heat. There was
no living vegetation. Rather, dead trees seemed to have been
cast down like a child's jackstraws, and the underbrush was
withered to a spectral ashy grey. Shadowy vines looped and
coiled, snaking across the broken, churned ground. They were

180

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

not living, for they bore no hint of green, rather resembled

long-dead serpents.

As they stood there, a tremor rippled through the soil be-
neath their feet, making them both cry out and clutch at
Monso, who threw up his head and whinnied with terror. A
long crevice opened in the rocky ground, even as they
watched. Finally the shaking quieted and their feet were once
more planted on steady footing.

"Alon ..." Eydryth's words died on her lips, and she could
only stand mute, knowing her fear must be written upon her

features.

He nodded, shoulders sagging heavily. "I have been a fool.
If only I weren't so tired I could have sensed it..." His mouth
tightened grimly. "The entire place . . . ensorcelled. This is
Yachne's doing. Her trap. And I marched us straight into it."

Eleven

'Where are we, then?" Eydryth asked, forcing her voice to
remain steady. With one part of her mind she wanted to
scream at Alon, curse him roundly for leading them into this
trap, but what good would that do? With an effort that made
her jaw muscles ache, she kept a tight rein on her tongue.

"I am not entirely sure," he said softly, and the bitterness in
his voice told the songsmith that he was cursing himself far
more vehemently than she could ever have done.

"Are we still in Arvon, do you think?" She gazed about
them, seeing the eerily lit sky, the ravaged landscape stretching
onward without discernible horizons. Fear surged within her.
"Or did we come through some kind of Gate when we stepped
into this blighted land?"

182         ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"I do not think so," he said, absently fingering the crystal
talisman Dahaun had placed about his neck, as though touch-
ing it would help him think. "I believe rather that we are still
within the confines of that mysterious gorge we entered only

a few moments ago."

"But how can that be? There is no sun... and no horizon.
We cannot see the hillsides that should surround us."

"I know. But much of what we are seeing in this place is
illusion," he said. "Many of the false images I can dismiss by
summoning true sight." He pointed at a jagged boulder in
their path. A ghostly grey vine with shadow-colored blossoms
crawled up it like a viper. "That, for instance. The reality is
not a boulder, but a gaping crevice in the earth, half-covered

in dead vines."

Eydryth stared at it, knowing that if she had continued
onward, unwarned, she would have fallen over the edge. She
licked dry lips. "Illusion ... Can you break the spell, Alon?"

He gave a heartfelt sigh, leaning tiredly back against the
Keplian's shoulder. "That I cannot," he said, sounding as if
the admission cost him dearly. "Yachne's magic is too

strong."

Her eyes widened in surprise. She had not expected him to
admit defeat without even a trial. "How can you know unless

you try?"

Bleak despair shadowed his face. "I know," he insisted qui-
etly. "This is too powerful for me."

The songsmith opened her mouth to argue further, but after
a moment she sighed softly and remained silent. The spell is
not only one of illusion, she realized. It is also one of hopeless-
ness. She could feel it affecting her, too . . . gnawing at the
edges of her will, her determination, like a rasti chewing

through a corncrib floor.

And without belief and faith, power is nothing, she thought,
remembering snippets of magical lore that she had learned
from her mother and Joisan. Unless Alon believes that he can
undo this ensorcellment, he cannot succeed.

"Then what must we do?" she asked, trying not to let her

fear show.

SONGSMITH                 183

"We must cross the gorge," he replied. "Yachne cannot
have bespelled the entire width of Arvon. If we can find the
true path through the illusion, we will emerge from it into the
reality. But it will not be easy." He shook his head, his uncer-
tainty plain to read. "There are traps within traps here for the
unwary. If we take a false step, we will surely be lost."

"But you can see past the falseness to the truth, can't you,
Alon?" she asked. The panic that she had been holding back
ever since they had walked blindly into this place was growing.
What if they were trapped here, past all escape?

"The simpler, less complex illusions, yes. But Yachne's
power is now . . . formidable." His mouth tightened grimly.
"Simple illusion is an easy spell, but what surrounds us is far
from simple ... it is so detailed, so many-layered. Here there
are illusions within illusions!"

"I understand ...," she whispered. Catching a movement
in the comer other eye, she whirled around, but, as before, all
was still... as still as death. Even so, the songsmith could not
rid herself of the conviction that, just out of her sight, some-
thing had spied, then skittered giggling from one hiding place
to another. From somewhere she heard a faint whine, and a
gust of hot air brushed her cheek.

The ghost of a wind? she wondered, putting out a wetted
finger. As if reading her thoughts, Alon nodded. "Illusion," he
said flatly. "This spell is not only complex, it is affecting more
than just our vision. We will not only see what is not there, we
will hear and feel it, also."

Having grown up with the simple illusions that Elys had
sometimes conjured to amuse her child, Eydryth was taken
aback. Most Seeming-spells could not stand up to investiga-
tion by touch; attempting to verify the reality of an illusion by
laying hand to it was usually the surest way to make it dis-
solve. The songsmith shuddered. "We must indeed be cau-
tious."

He nodded absently, gazing around them. "And there is one
more thing," he added heavily. "My instincts tell me that this
spell has somehow altered even time itself... or our percep-
tion of it, at least."




184         ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"How so?"
"It is seeming to draw time out, slow it down. Crossing this

gorge will take us long enough—if we even make it—" His
mouth twisted. "But however long it takes us, it will seem even

longer."
"But..." Eydryth pressed her fingers against her left side,

feeling her heartbeat, reassuring in its steady rhythm. "But my
heart is beating, I am breathing ... I feel no different!"

" You are not different. Lady, not physically. Illusion works
within the mind, though its effects can be very real-seeming
indeed." Alon glanced around them at the desolation of this
violated, denuded land. "Somewhere around us lies the true
path, masked by illusion, and that is what we must seek."

"And the finding of that path will be no easy task," Eydryth
finished with what she believed to be the truth. He nodded.

"But you can find it...," she said urgently, searching for
reassurance in his grim expression—and not finding it. "You

have the true sight!"
"I do," he agreed. "But constant use of the true sight is

wearing... more wearying than fighting a score of annsmen.
I only hope that my sight does not wane as I tire."

"I will do whatever I can to aid you," Eydryth promised.
"We had better get started before another of those earth-
tremors comes." She turned away, then gave him a sideways

glance. "Or are they, too, illusion?"

"The ones we experienced before were real," Alon told her
levelly. "If one of us were to fall into one of those crevasses as
they open ... death would be equally real." Only his eyes
betrayed what he was feeling—a fear as great as her own.

Eydryth swallowed, resolutely fighting down the terror that
wanted to possess her, make her run screaming in any direc-
tion, heedless of danger. "I understand. Now ... which way?
With no sun to guide us, all trails seem the same."

"There," Alon said, pointing to a opening between two
towering reddish spires. "Walk directly behind me, and do not

step off the path I hold to."

He handed Monso's lead to her, then turned to go. Sud-
denly he halted. "May I carry your staff?" he asked. "The

SONGSMTTH

185

quan-iron in the gryphon's-head may aid in warning against a
false step."

Wordlessly, she handed him the quarterstaff, saw him re-
verse it in his hand so that the gryphon's-head pointed down-
ward, toward the ground before him. He began walking.

Eydryth followed him, eyes on the ground, stepping in the
same places his feet had rested. She kept Monso snubbed close
on a short rein, forcing the Keplian to walk beside her. Fortu-
nately the stallion's injury served to slow his naturally long
strides.

Even this extreme caution did not completely save her from
mishaps. The raw, rock-studded earth beneath her feet was
littered with stones that seemed almost to nudge their way
beneath her toes or heels so that they could then slip treacher-
ously out from underfoot, or turn sharply, wrenching her
ankles. The dead, greyed vegetation proved another hin-
drance, snagging her toes, slowing and tripping her no matter
how carefully she stepped. Eydryth nearly fell several times.
Once only her hold on Monso's lead saved her from a head-
long plunge down a short, precipitous cliff.

Soon the songsmith was hobbling in earnest, wincing with
every step. Her eyes ached from the hot, brassy glare over-
head; she blinked them only when they began to sting unbear-
ably, afraid that closing them even for an instant would cause
her to miss the true path.

Even with his true sight, Alon fared little better. His riding
boots were not intended for prolonged walking, even without
the hindrance of a bespelled land that seemed determined to
thwart every forward step. Soon he, too, was limping.

The young Adept alternated between picking out the path
a few stumbling steps ahead, then halting for endless moments
to scan the torn, churned vista before them, using the quarter-
staff to sweep the ground before his boots.

Several times he muttered softly, extending a hand, and
Eydryth saw dark violet light flare from his fingertips, coalesce
into a slender arrow of brightness, then wind its way along the
ground before him, vanishing ten or fifteen paces farther on.

186 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

If he can thus mark the true path for us, then we will be able to
escape this maze, she thought with relief.

But soon she realized that using his Power to indicate their
direction was wearing dangerously upon her companion. Each
time he called up the violet arrows of light, the lines around
Alon's eyes and mouth deepened, the skin over his cheekbones
grew tighter, until he seemed naught but a gaunt, greyed
shadow of the man Eydryth had known. Sweat made runnels
in the dust on his face; his thin shirt clung to his back, dark
and soaked.

The songsmith fought back a surge of pity, reminding her-
self coldly that it was he who had led them into this peril in the
first place. With a small, distant portion of her mind she was
shocked by her own callousness, but she angrily hardened her
heart as she placed one foot before the other, over and over
again.

Onward they toiled, their pitifully slow progress made even
more halting by their frequent stops while Alon determined
the correct route. Overhead the sickly-hued sky never
changed; heat pressed down on them like a muffling blanket.
Thirst soon became a torment.

The travelers had three water flasks between them, hardly
enough to last them even one day's hard journey, considering
that Monso must needs share their supply. The only water
they had encountered within Yachne's blighted land lay in
muddy, scummed pools of such rankness that no creature
could safely drink from them, or from springs that bubbled
hot from the bowels of the earth, emitting eye- and throat-
searing fumes.

After a time that went unmeasured except by Eydryth's
increasing thirst, pain from her wrenched ankles, and general
misery from the will-sapping spell lying over the ensor-
celled land, Alon halted. "Rest awhile . . . ," he rasped.
"Water . . ."

Slowly his knees folded and he sank to the ground, where he
sat unmoving, shoulders bowed, head hanging with exhaus-
tion.

The songsmith halted, too, then took out their packs of

SONGSMITH                 187

food and water flasks. She held out the container to Alon, who
stared at it, his eyes so reddened and dulled with weariness
that he seemed scarcely aware of what it was. "Here," she said,
steadying it as she removed the stopper. "Water. Drink,
Alon."

Catching the scent of water, the Keplian whickered softly,
nostrils flaring. The Adept looked down at the flask, then took
a deep breath, awareness returning to his gaze. He shook his
head, then handed the water back to Eydryth with the ghost
of a courtly flourish in the gesture. "You first, my lady," he
said, in that harsh, barely understandable whisper.

Unable to summon breath or wit to argue with him, she did
as he bade, feeling the stale, warm liquid trickle down her
throat like the finest of chilled wine from a High Lord's table.
Running her tongue over cracked Ups to catch the last drops,
she handed the flask to her companion.

But still Alon did not drink.

-"Here, fellow . ..," he said, tugging the Keplian's lead so
the stallion stood nearly atop him. "You must be thirsty,
too...."

Retrieving his leather jerkin, he spread it over his crossed
knees so as to make a hollow. Then the Adept cautiously
tipped half of the contents of the flask into the makeshift pail.
Monso gulped the scant amount noisily. Only after the stallion
had licked up all of the moisture did Alon raise the flask to his
lips and drink sparingly.

The Adept shook the last drops from the now-empty flask
into the jerkin for the stallion; then he crumbled joumeybread
for the Keplian to lip up from the garment's battered surface.
Plainly forcing himself, Alon broke off pieces of joumeybread,
trying not to open his cracked and bloodied mouth any wider
than necessary to eat. Grimly, he chewed and swallowed the
morsels. But when he held out a chunk to the songsmith, she
shook her head. "I cannot. The joumeybread is too dry."

"Some fruit, then," he said, locating the packet Dahaun had
packed for them. "You need the strength, Eydryth."

Too tired to argue, she mouthed and swallowed the over-
whelming sweetness of the dried pulp. Eating did little to

188

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

restore her blighted spirits, but slowly a measure of strength
returned to her weary body.

She watched in dull surprise as Alon unstoppered their
second flask and poured another generous measure for the
horse. When Eydryth made a small, protesting movement, he
shook his head. "I have traveled on short rations before.
Rationing too severely does more harm than good, my lady.
We are better off drinking now, attempting to keep our
strength up while a measure of it still remains, rather than
saving most of the water until we are too weak to go on."

Remembering that her father had once told her something
of the same thing, the minstrel nodded, accepted the second
flask, then drank. "But only if you take more, too," she said,
handing it to her fellow-traveler. At her insistence, he took
several more swallows, then stoppered the remainder care-
fully.

"How far have we come?" she whispered, trying not to
move her parched Ups more than necessary to make her voice
heard. "How much farther to the end of this place?"

He shrugged grimly. "We have come farther than Yachne
would ever have suspected we could," he said. "Of that I am
sure. The way out should lie just over that hill." He pointed.
Eydryth saw that his hand was shaking, despite his effort to
steady it.

"What hill?" she whispered.

"You cannot see it?"

"Of course not." Old anger made her tone sharper than she
had intended. "I see only a thicket of dead bushes laced with
thorny vines, all of it so interwoven it might as well be a
hanging in the great hall of a keep."

Alon gazed at her speculatively. "The thicket is illusion."

"I will take your word for it." The asperity was still there in
her voice, though Eydryth was not sure precisely why she felt
so nettled with him. Was it the witch's spell that was causing
her to feel such frustration and hopelessness? Or her anger at
Alon for leading them into this trap ofYachne's? She did not
know. At his steady, measuring glance, her mouth tightened
defiantly and she looked away, studying the vegetation that
Alon insisted was not really there.

SONGSMITH

189

"Will we feel the vines and thorns?" she whispered, eyeing
the sharp, greyish brambles apprehensively. "Or is this illusion
one that confuses only the eye?"

"I fear that it is one of the more tangible ones," he said.
"Monso I can blindfold and lead, but you .. ." He shook his
head.

"If I try and make my way through that, I will be flayed
alive . . .," she muttered, staring at the vicious thorns. "Per-
haps if my eyes were covered, also ..." She trailed off with an
inquiring glance.

Grimly, he shook his head again. "For you, the illusion is
the reality. Whether you see it or not will make but little
difference. As long as the false is real within your own mind,
you will feel the results."

"Can we go around?" she glanced at both sides of the
thicket.

"Hardly. There"—he pointed to the left of the thicket—"is
a scattering of large boulders, crowded so close that a dog
would be hard-pressed to thread a way between them, much
less something ofMonso's size. And there"—he indicated the
right—"is one of the steaming pools. Can you not smell it?"

Eydryth's nostrils twitched, then wrinkled. She could defi-
nitely detect the noxious fumes that proclaimed the reality of
his assertion.

"Is that the only way we can go?" Panic clutched at her
mind. Perhaps if she muffled her face and hands with pieces of
blanket, and moved very slowly, she could avoid serious in-
jury. . . .

"That is the only true path," he said. "See for yourself."
Rising to his feet, he muttered softly, then held out both
hands. Purple light slowly outlined his fingers, dripped with
painful slowness to the ground, where it gathered and coa-
lesced into one of the sinuous arrow-shapes she had seen
earlier. The light writhed forward, toward the center thicket,
marking their path. But this time it waned quickly, fading
almost before she fixed her eyes on it. Alon staggered, gasping,
and had to brace himself against Monso's shoulder. "The
marker . . . ," he muttered hoarsely. "Did you see it?"

190

SONGSMITH

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

191

"Yes, I saw where it pointed. I will just have to go slowly,
I suppose."

Alon shook his head, teeth clamping onto his torn lower lip
as he pushed himself upright. "No," he said. "That will not
work."

"But I cannot—"

"Yes, you can!" His eyes held hers with a fierceness he had
never shown before. "I have neither time nor strength to allow
you to cling to your own comforting illusions, Lady," he
rasped. "What you must needs do is break this Seeming for
yourself."

She stared at him blankly. "But I have no Power! You know
that!" she protested finally, her voice shrill.

"I know that you believe that you have no Power," he
countered. "And I know also that that belief is what holds you
back."

"Just as your belief that Yachne's spell is too powerful for
you to break is holding you back?" she demanded coldly. "I
never took you for a coward, Alon, until now. How dare you
lead us into this trap, then blame me for not having abilities
I have never possessed?" Her accusation was filled with venom
that made him flinch away as though she had actually struck
him.

His mouth tightened, his shoulders that had hunched before
her bitter anger slowly straightened. "You possess 'the Gift,'
as you call it, Eydryth. I have known that since the first night
we met. I also saw that the truth was too frightening for you
to face, so I let you hold to your mistaken belief. But now you
must face the truth!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Eydryth snarled. "The heat has ad-
dled your wits!"

"No, it has not. Only your lack of belief in yourself keeps
you from seeing through that illusion. Only your lack of belief
in your own Power holds us prisoner. Why do you think the
witch of Estcarp pursued you so single-mindedly? You have
blinded yourself to the truth from fear—but now it is time to
face truth—and use the Power within you!"

"No!" she choked, furious at him. "You lie!"

Blind with rage, she lurched to her feet and struck out at
him, flailing, kicking, but he avoided her blows, seizing her
shoulders in his hands. Whirling her around, he pulled her
back against him, gripping her hard. Hands and arms that
could curb Monso's headlong rushes tightened on her flesh
and bone, holding her past any ability others to struggle free.
Eydryth gasped with the pain. "Look!" he ordered, his mouth
so close to her ear that she could hear him clearly, despite the
harsh rasp that served him now for a voice. "That thicket is
not there! That thicket is the lie! Look well, songsmith, and see
past the falsehood to the truth, which is the hillside!"

Unable to break his grip, she subsided, then stared sullenly
at the pale grey vegetation. "I see only the thicket," she mut-
tered.

"You are not trying!" he said fiercely. "You must try! Con-
centrate! See the hillside!"

She fixed her eyes on the spot, feeling them throb and burn
from the glare overhead. The outlines of the vegetation began
to shimmer slightly—or was it her imagination?

"I cannot...." She was shaking now, feeling a different sort
of fear seize her.

"You must believe! You can, I swear it by my life, you can
do it!"

She focused, stared until her vision blurred, tears of pain
nearly blinding her as she forced herself not to blink. See a
hillside—there is a hillside, she insisted to herself. Vegetation
swam before her; then there was something . . . something
reddish showing through. . . .

"I see . . ." She was forced to blink, then it was gone. She
sagged back against his chest, limp with defeat. "I cannot,
Alon!" she pleaded.

"You can," he insisted, supporting her, though she could
feel him trembling with weariness. "Eydryth ... try humming
while you look."

She craned her neck to fix him with an incredulous glance,
but he only nodded firmly. "Go on ... try."

Eydryth turned back to the tangle of shadowy vines, then
began to hum, scarcely aware of what tune she had chosen.




192

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMITH

193

The greyness swam before her dazzled eyes, and she blinked to
clear her vision, concentrating. ...

As if it had always been there before her, she now saw a hill
with a trail leading straight up it, narrow and precipitous
between jagged boulders!

Eydryth gasped, and with the interruption of the music, the
grey curtain of vines returned. "Alon!" she whispered. "I saw
it!"

"Good," he said, not at all surprised, and released her.
"Your gift must be linked to music, Eydryth. When you tamed
Monso, you sang. When you fooled the witch back in Es City,
you were humming, were you not?"

She cast her mind back to events that now seemed years—
instead of mere days—ago. "Yes, I was," she said after a
moment. "My mother's lullaby . . ." She regarded him, com-
pletely bewildered. "But... Alon ... how can this be? I have
never heard of such a talent!"

"Neither have I," he admitted. "But, now that I think of it.
much of magic is dependent upon sounds—chants, incanta-
tions, even songs. Remember the crystal Gate? The spell to
open it depended on the correct note being sung!"

She nodded, bemused. "This discovery explains ... much,"
she said slowly.

"At the moment, our concern must be escaping from this
place and tracing Yachne," he reminded her. Quickly, he
stripped off his shirt, then used its sleeves to tie it snugly over
Monso's eyes. "If he cannot see where he is going, I do not
believe the illusion will prevail for him," he told the songsmith.
"This would not work for one of us, for our minds are more
complex, and thus not so easily fooled. Are you ready, my
lady?"

Eydryth nodded firmly. "I am."

"Can you see the hillside?"

She summoned music, hummed between parched lips, then
nodded as the trail took shape before her eyes. "Then... after
you, my lady," Alon said, in his cracked, rasping voice. He
bowed, waving her past with a courtly gesture. The contrast
between his formal manner and his appearance made Eydryth

shake her head. His face, with its livid weal caused by the
web-rider's slash, was blistered and seared by the heat, and his
bare chest and shoulders were streaked with dust and muddy
sweat. For a moment she wondered if he had gone quite
mad—he certainly appeared demented.

But no, his eyes were sane. He believed in her. The least she
could do was to believe in herself. Taking a deep breath,
Eydryth hummed steadily, and they started up the long, rocky
trail. The songsmith concentrated on filling her mind with the
music. She was so intent upon her task that she did not feel the
earth-tremor until it struck, making her stagger, making her
gasp—

—whereupon, instantly, she was surrounded by bushes and
dead vines. A thousand thorns jabbed her. Only by the grace
of fortune were her eyes spared that assault.

"Concentrate!" she heard Alon's shout from behind her.

Already she was summoning the music again, and the feel
of the entangling growth was gone. She took a step forward,
felt no obstruction, took another, and only then dared open
her eyes. The hillside lay before her.

Eydryth slogged her way toward the top of the hill, alert for
more quakes, kicking loose stones from her path, humming
like an insect gone mad.

"You may stop now, and breathe," Alon's rasping whisper
reached her. "We are beyond the illusion-thicket."

The songsmith halted, regarding her arms with a silent
thanksgiving to Gunnora that she had not panicked. Dozens
of small pinpricks oozed a single droplet of scarlet apiece.
Cautiously, she explored her grimy face with even dirtier fin-
gertips, discovering several more stabs.

"For an illusion," she said to Alon as he came up beside her,
"that was all too real." She held out her arm.

He nodded grimly. "At least we are past. You have learned
a valuable lesson today, Lady. When one is working any kind
of spell or counterspell, it can be disaster to let one's concen-
tration break. The first year or so as an apprentice is spent
learning to focus and not to be distracted. You had to master
that lesson in the space of minutes."




ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

194

"Be assured it is a lessoning I shall not soon forget."

He stepped up beside her, and together they made their way
to the crest of the hillside. As weary as they were, it took them
a long time, and they were gasping when they reached it. There
they halted, gazing down at what now lay before them.

A short walk beyond, the blighted land ended abruptly in a
chasm so deep and so black that Eydryth could not discern
any bottom to it. A wall of thick grey mist seemed to rise out
of the opening, roiling and drifting as though blown by a
wind, though she could feel none. The mist extended before
them, as high as she could see in each direction, blocking their
sight of what, if anything, lay beyond.

They had reached the end of their road... they could go no
farther.

Tears of despair filled the songsmith's eyes, and she sank
weakly to her knees, pressing both hands to her broken lips.
Sobs shook her, wrenched her shoulders. To have come all this
way, only to have it end thus. To have come all this way for
nothing!

Alon sighed, dropping to sit beside her. His bare shoulders
bowed forward as he buried his face in his hands, obviously as
shaken as she.

"We shall have to go back," Eydryth whispered, after a
while. It was either that or die right here, and she wasn't. . .
quite . . . ready to die. "Perhaps there is another way. . . ."

He shook his head, then, with an effort that was palpable,
straightened his shoulders. Retrieving his shirt from Monso's
head, he pulled it on, buttoning it with none-too-steady fin-
gers. "We cannot," he said. "Our way out lies there." He
pointed across the chasm. "That mist hides the real Arvon. We
must find some way to cross over the chasm ... to bridge that

gap."

Eydryth stared at him, certain that he was now completely
bereft of his wits. "But... how?"

"We must make a bridge."

"There is no way! We have nothing to build with—even if
a bridge could span that void, which I do not for one moment
believe!"

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195

"It is the only way out," he maintained stubbornly.
"Arvon—the real Arvon—is there." He pointed. "I can sense
it. By the Sword Arm of Karthen the Fair, I can smell it!
Cannot you?"

She gave him a sideways glance, then, as he regarded her
steadily, ventured a sniff. "I smell . . . ," she whispered. "I
smell flowers! And water! Is that another illusion?"

"No," he said. "It is real. The other hillside is there. We
must cross the chasm to reach it, Eydryth. We must make a
bridge."

"Out of what? We have nothing!"

He did not answer, only unfastened the last water flask from
Monso's saddle. "Drink," he said, holding it and the packet of
food out to her. "And eat. Force yourself. You will need all
your strength for what is about to come."

Bewildered, she did as he bade. Scenting the water, Monso
whickered pleadingly, but this time the Adept shook his head
at the stallion. "I am sorry, old son," he said, giving the
Keplian a comforting pat, "but if we succeed, your thirst will
be eased very quickly."

"And if we fail?" asked Eydryth, giving him a sidelong
glance. She could not imagine what he had in mind.

"If we fail," he said grimly, "then neither thirst nor hunger
will torture us for much longer, so the result will be the same."

After they had eaten and drunk, emptying the third and last
flask between them, they made their way down the raw rock
of the hillside, then walked the short distance to the edge of the
drop. Making sure both feet were planted as securely as possi-
ble, Eydryth took hold of Monso's right stirrup and leaned
forward, gazing downward.

Sheer red rock for as far down as she could see, disappear-
ing finally into the swirling grey mist.

Alon picked up a stone, held it suspended over the gorge,
then released it. It fell. . .

and fell. . .

. .. and fell. They never heard it strike bottom.

Eydryth stared at the wall of mist before them. It was per-
haps two of Monso's lengths distant. "You believe that if we

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

496

can plunge into that mist, we shall be released from the spell
and back in the real Arvon," she said finally.

Alon nodded.

"How shall we cross the gap?" she asked, keeping her voice
level, as though they were discussing a problem with a solu-
tion, rather than quick and certain death.

"We must make a bridge," he repeated.

"Using what?"

"Ourselves," he said flatly. "Our Power. My blooA Your
music."

She gazed at him wide-eyed. "You are mad," she whispered.

Alon shook his head at her wamingly. "You have already
learned the value of belief, Eydryth. You will need all of it you
can summon. Do not let doubt intrude. I am sane, never doubt
it. This"—he waved at the abyss—"is our way out. On the
other side lies the Arvon we left."

She caught again that faint scent of flowers. Monso sniffed
the air; then the Keplian's nostrils widened and he nickered,
pawing. "He smells the water," Alon said.

Eydryth bit her lip, then took a deep breath. What choice,
after all, did she have? "Very well," she said quietly. "I believe.    [
How shall we do it?"                                        !

He gave her a quick, approving nod. "We will need to
combine our Power," he said. "Create a Seeming of our own.
One of the ones so strong that it has solidity, substance. It will
not be easy," he finished, wamingly. "But it can be done."

"I am ready," she said resolutely. "Tell me what to do."

"In the first place, you must concentrate," he told her. "If
the earth trembles this time, you must not let it disturb you,
do you understand?"

She nodded.

The Adept took his knife out of its sheath, handed it to her.
"When I nod, you must cut," he said, tapping his wrist. "Cut
deeply enough so that the blood flows freely, but not so deep
that we cannot staunch the wound later." Eydryth hesitated,
then took the knife he held out. "I would do it myself," Alon
said, with a note of apology, "but we must link hands for this.
Whatever happens, do not let go."

"I understand," she said, studying the blue veins running

SONGSMITH

197

along the inside of his forearm, planning the best place to do
as he bade. "Then what?"

"You must sing. You will feel the Power leaving you, join-
ing with the blood to create the bridge. Use your music to
strengthen your Power—and our bridge. Sing, and stop for
nothing! As soon as the bridge is solid, you must send Monso
across, then lead me. I will have my eyes closed, holding the
spell in my mind's eye, and I will not be able to see what
I—we—have wrought."

He gazed at her intently. "IfGunnora smiles upon us, by the
time I next see you, we will be back in Arvon."

Eydryth touched the symbol of the Amber Lady that she
wore upon her neck. Then, quickly, she checked that all their
supplies were securely lashed to Monso's saddle. "We are
ready," she told Alon.

Solemnly, he unbuttoned his left sleeve, rolled it up so his
arm was bared. The he held out both hands to her. Eydryth
grasped his right hand tightly with her left, then raised the
knife.

Alon closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, then nod-
ded. "First, the music," he muttered.

Eydryth began to hum softly.... Choosing a tune nearly at
random, she was taken aback to realize it was "Hathor's
Ghost Stallion," the melody she had been singing when first
they had met. As she began to sing the words, his fingers
squeezed hers. "Now," he whispered.

Bracing herself, Eydryth brought the knife up to the flesh of
his wrist. It would be far easier to cut myself, she thought,
forcing herself to keep singing. Amber Lady, aid me! Do not let
me hurt him! Let us escape from this place, I beg of You!

Touching the blade to skin, she resolutely drew it across and
down. A tiny trickle of red followed, and she forced herself to
cut deeper... deeper. The trickle strengthened, began to drip
.. . then flow.

The songsmith had spilled blood before, but never like this.
She felt darkness creeping up on the edges of her vision, and
only the hard grasp on her fingers kept her from fainting or
being sick. Still, she sang, never missing a note.

Alon began to mutter hoarsely, chanting in a language she

198

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

199

did not recognize, as blood splashed on the edge of the abyss.
Eydryth was conscious of a sudden pull upon her inner
strength. Alon's blood was only the outward sign of what was
happening here. There was a draining, a flow from her to him,
that made her almost falter. Summoning all her will, her deter-
mination, she stood firm, singing, and watched the abyss.

From that steady drip of scarlet, something was growing.
Eydryth's eyes widened as she saw something taking shape
... a bridge! An actual curved span, shadowy, but gaining
substance! It was red ... as red as blood, pulsing to the beat
of both their hearts . . . and with each beat, it gained sub-
stance.

Alon's face was pale now, beneath his tan, but his chanting
grew louder. Blood spattered, Eydryth was singing loudly
now, forcing the words to ring out true and strong, forcing
herself to believe in what she was seeing.

The bridge shimmered scarlet in the light, stretching across
the chasm, into the grey mist. Careful not to loose her grip on
Alon's hand, the songsmith raised her foot, touched it to the
bridge. It was solid—it took her weight. But will it hold the
stallion's?

"Come on, Monso," she sang, incorporating the order into
one of the verses. One-handed, she grasped the Keplian's rein
and pulled him so he fronted that span. She tugged at his lead,
indicating she wanted him to cross. "Go on, boy!" she sang,
her voice ringing out in a musical command. "Go!"

The stallion pawed at the bridge, obviously dubious, but the
scent of water, and the solid feel of Alon's creation beneath his
questing hoof, convinced him. With a snort, the half-bred
plunged forward. His hooves clattered on the bridge, as he
surged up onto it, then disappeared into the mist. A last flick
of his black tail, then he was gone.

Did he fall? Eydryth wondered, but resolutely forced herself
not to even consider that possibility. She guided Alon to step
onto the span, nerving herself to place both feet on that crim-
son surface. Together, they edged along, the Adept chanting,
Eydryth singing.

A moment later, the most wonderful music she had ever

heard reached the songsmith's ears, even above the sound of
her own singing. It was the sound of a horse drinking, great,
gulping slurps of water. "Thank you. Amber Lady!" Eydryth
sang, careful not to look down. She pulled Alon faster, as they
made a crablike progress.

They were slightly more than halfway across when Eydryth
felt the Adept stagger. Casting an anxious glance at him, she
saw that his face was grey. His eyes rolled back in his head;

showing only the whites. Knees buckling, he swayed. The
shining crimson surface beneath their feet began to quiver.

Eydryth slung her free arm around Alon's waist, holding
him against her. The bridge shivered, fading. Resolutely
squeezing her own eyes shut, Eydryth lunged forward, leaping
into the mist, dragging Alon with her.

A heartbeat later she felt herself falling . . . falling. .. .




Twelve

For what seemed endless seconds, Eydryth fell through the
swirling greyness. A scream welled in her throat, trying to
burst from her lips. But before any sound could emerge, she
struck solid ground, landing so hard that the breath rushed
from her lungs. She pitched over, rolling, the rich smell of
growing turf filling her nostrils.

When the world finally stopped its dizzying spin, Eydryth
found herself staring dazedly at a blue sky dotted with white
clouds. The sun shone just past its zenith. Raising her head
weakly, she saw Monso regarding her, ears pricked, muzzle
still dripping water from the stream flowing past his hooves.

Someone groaned.

SONGSMITH

201

The pain in that sound brought her up onto hands and
knees. "Alon?"

The Adept was lying behind her, on the hillside. His eyes
were closed; the sound of his name did not rouse him. Bright
scarlet splashed the green grass by his side, soaking into the
ground. That sight made the songsmith scuttle forward to
seize his wrist, squeezing hard to stop the blood flow.

Finally, it halted. Eydryth sat back on her heels, her scarlet-
streaked hands shaking as she tried to summon the strength to
do what she could to aid him. Alon still lay unconscious, so
pale his skin was greyish and his lips blue. Despite the warmth
of the sun, he was shivering beneath the thin fabric of his
once-white linen shirt, now a rusty brown from drying blood.

Blankets... liquids... Healcraft that Joisan had taught her
came slowly to mind. Pushing herself up onto legs that trem-
bled at first from her own weakness, she walked slowly over to
the Keplian and led him back to the Adept's side Untying
their packs, she then unsaddled the stallion, turning him loose
to roll and graze, trusting that he would stay near his master.

Wrapping Alon snugly in both their cloaks, she gathered
wood to build a small fire, then fetched water from the stream
to heat. While she was waiting for the pot to simmer, she
unpacked the small bag of simples Joisan had assembled for
her so long ago. Snippets of lore gained from her foster-
mother came back to her as the sometimes sweet, sometimes
sharp scents of the powdered herbs made her nostrils twitch.

A restorative . . . verbena! A tea made with verbena . . .

Scenting the distinctive sharp, lemony scent, she opened the
proper bag, dropping the dried leaves into the pot. When the
tisane was ready, she strained it, then, propping Alon's head
on her knee, urged him to drink. His eyelids fluttered, and he
roused enough to swallow the tea, but he did not regain con-
sciousness. His shivering eased, though, and for that the song-
smith was grateful.

Before tackling the wound on his wrist, she drank a cup of
the brew herself. The songsmith felt as emptied as if she had
been awake and without food for days. Such weariness was

202

ANDRB NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

normal after use of the Power, she knew that. The thought
sparked a bittersweet memory.

/ worked magic, she thought, scarcely able to believe it. Even
though it had happened only a short while ago, the memory
was already raveling and faded, as if it had happened to an-
other person, not the Eydryth of here-and-now. She sighed,
shaking her head as she visualized again that hillside thom-
walled by illusion, and how she had sung the falseness away to
discover the truth beneath. Did I truly do that? Or was it Alon 's
magic affecting me somehow? Is it possible that I truly do hold
my own kind of Power?

There were no certain answers to her questions, and no time
to ponder them. Kneeling beside the fast-running water, Eyd-
ryth washed her face and hands, scrubbing her fingertips and
nails with white sand from the stream bottom. Joisan main-
tained that keeping wounds clean was fully as important as
using the proper herbs and spells for their treatment.

After washing the oozing slash with boiled water, into
which she had dissolved generous pinches of saffron and yar-
row, to promote healing, she frowned as she studied the extent
of the cut. It needed stitching, such as she had seen her foster-
mother do. But here in the wilds ofArvon, she had no needle,
no boiled thread.

Eydryth considered simply bandaging the wound, but it was
so deep that she thought it would take very little movement to
reopen it and start the bleeding afresh. And in Alon's present
condition, any further blood loss would be dangerous—quite
possibly fatal.

As she hesitated, her eye was caught by Dahaun's small,
sealed box containing the red mud from the Valley of the
Green Silences. No! she thought, biting her lip. An idea had
come to her, but it was not one she cared to contemplate.
Dahaun said not to open the box! That mud is for Jervon—his
last chance to be healed!

She glared down at Alon with sudden animosity. / will not
use Jervon's cure to heal you. / will NOT! Anger waxed hot
within her. One small portion other mind argued that her fury
was irrational, but she was too angry to listen to it.

SONGSMTTH

203

"No!" she whispered fiercely. "Jervon is my father! You are
nothing to me, nothing, do you hear?"

Her wrath had become a fire within her, raging out of
control. It would serve you right if I went on without you. after
you plunged us into such a morass of sorcery! she thought
savagely. / ought to leave you here—leave you to die!

The young man stirred restlessly, as though even uncon-
scious he sensed her sudden ire. Eydryth felt half-drunk with
rage, with hate. For a moment her hand twitched toward her
dagger; then she rose and walked straight away, not looking
back.

Picking up her pack, she shouldered it, then started up the
hillside. Monso whickered, pawing the ground anxiously, but
she ignored the stallion. Furious, shaking, she remembered
how they had escaped from Yachne's illusion-land. She hated
Alon for what he had forced her to discover about herself. /
don't want Power! she thought, incensed. It carries too much
danger, too much risk! He had no right to do what he did!

Without warning, a blackness swooped out of the sky,
heading straight for her eyes. A shrill scream rent the air.
Eydryth ducked as it winged by her, its tailfeathers brushing
the top of her head.

As she straightened up, the creature flung itself at her again,
clawed talons nearly raking her face. The songsmith stumbled
back, losing her footing on the hillside, then sat down so hard
that lights flashed behind her eyes and a roaring filled her ears.
Blinking, she stared wide-eyed at her surroundings. The crea-
ture that had swooped at her alighted on a dead tree nearby.
It was a falcon, and, as she stared at it, it screamed again.

"Steel Talon!" Eydryth exclaimed, then, suddenly uncertain
and shaken, she put a hand to her head. What was I doing?
Abandoning Alon? Leaving him to die?

Incredulous horror filled her as she recalled the events of the
past few minutes. If it had not been for Steel Talon, she might
not have returned to her senses. What is wrong with me? she
wondered. She remembered Alon's cruel smile as he had
watched the web-riders bum to death. Why are we behaving
so? What is happening to us?

204

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMTTH

205

Confused, fighting down panic, she ran back down the hill-
side to where Alon lay. Steel Talon alighted on the cantle of
the saddle, where he perched, regarding her curiously as the
songsmith applied the edge other knife to the seal on the box.
Moments later, she had it open, revealing the rich, red mud.
Scooping upa generous dollop, she spread it thickly across the
wound. Quickly she closed the container tightly, then used a
stub of candle to reseal the box with wax, hoping fervently
that it would serve, and that the healing substance within
would retain its potency.

Within moments after the red mud was patted into place on
his wrist, the lines of pain on Alon's countenance smoothed
out. His muscles relaxed, and he appeared to fall into a deep,
natural sleep. With slow, careful movements, she managed to
ease off his blood-soaked shirt, then wet a cloth with hot water
and used it to cleanse as much of the dried dirt and caked
blood from his face, arms and chest as possible.

By the time she was finished, the sun had warmed and dried
him. Though still pale, his color was better. Tucking the cloaks
up snugly beneath his chin, she sat back on her heels and had
another cup of tea. Then, while she chewed on a piece of
joumeybread, she crumbled another piece into water to make
a sort of porridge. Glancing up at Steel Talon, she spoke
aloud, finding her own voice strange and harsh in her ears.
"After losing so much blood he really needs fresh meat,
Winged One. Can you find something?"

The falcon gave a soft, piercing cry, then, in a blur of
blackness, launched himself upward, winging off over the hill.
By the time Eydryth had washed her patient's tunic, then
managed to gently ease him into his clean shirt, the falcon
sailed into view again. Steel Talon circled low over her, some-
thing clutched in his talons—something that he dropped, so it
landed half a dozen paces away.

Rising, Eydryth went over to find a small burrower. Picking
the limp creature up by its long ears, she called out, "Thank
you. Steel Talon!"

After skinning the animal, then chopping the meat as fine as
the heavy blade of her dagger would allow, she dropped the

sticky handfuls into the pot. While she waited for the thick
broth to cook, she busied herself tending the Keplian's leg.

Encouraged to find the swelling down and the wound al-
most completely closed, Eydryth left the pot to simmer and
took her pack around the curve of the hillside, following the
stream until she found a shallow pool. There she stripped and
washed; her breath caught in her throat at the chill of the
water, but being clean again refreshed her. Her own blood-
streaked shirt and breeches she soaked to remove the stains,
then scrubbed with sand and stretched over a bush in the sun-
light. Pulling on clean clothing, Eydryth went back to Alon.

The broth was ready. Cooling it with a little water, she
managed to rouse Alon enough to get him to swallow it. She
drank a cup of the hearty—though tasteless—brew herself,
wishing she had thought to season it with thyme or sage.

Then, knowing that she could do nothing more to aid Alon,
and by now so weary that the hillside blurred around her,
reminding her ofYachne's spell-land, Eydryth lifted a comer
of the cloak and crawled under it, fitting herself against Alon's
warmth, careful not to jar his injured arm. Just for a few
minutes, she thought. I'll just doze for . . .

Monso's moist, hot breath in her face woke her hours later.
The Keplian was nosing her hair, snuffling eagerly at the sack
of grain she was using for a pillow. Rubbing her eyes and
yawning until she thought her jaw would split in two, the
songsmith sat up, seeing that the sun lay far to the west.

After feeding the stallion, Eydryth put a hand on Alon's
forehead to check for fever. His skin was slightly overwarm,
but his color was good. The red mud, she noted, was nearly
dried out. Dahaun had warned her to let it dry and harden
until it cracked, before stripping it away. The songsmith
wound a length of bandage around her patient's wrist to hold
it in place.

After heating the broth again, she prepared to feed the
Adept as before, but this time, when she touched him, Alon's
grey eyes opened. Though clouded by bewilderment, he
seemed lucid enough. "How do you feel?" she asked him.




206

SONGSMITH

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

207

"We are ... back?" he whispered hoarsely.

She nodded. "The bridge-spell worked."

"Yachne?"

"There has been no sign of her or of any further spells," she
told him. "Steel Talon and Monso would have given warning,
I believe. After tending you, I was so weary that I could not
stay awake."

He tried to push himself up on his elbows, but she fore-
stalled him with a hand on his chest. "Softly, Alon. You are
still weak. You lost a great deal of blood."

The Adept subsided for the moment, but the expression on
his face told Eydryth that he would not accept her edict for
long. "We cannot linger here," he said, his voice strengthening
a bit. "We must take up the search again."

"It will do us little good to find Yachne if you are too weak
to face her," she countered. "Even if I possess a tiny measure
of the Power myself, I am no match for a sorceress with her
ability."

His mouth tightened grimly. "I am by no means sure that
/ can face her with any chance of winning," he admitted.
"That spell she wove to trap us ... I could not equal that."

"But her Power is stolen," the songsmith pointed out.
"Mayhap her knowledge is lacking, even if her ability is not.
Here...," she urged, dipping into the pot over the fire, "take
some more soup. It will strengthen you." Carefully she helped
him sit up, then put the cup into his hands. The thick liquid
sloshed; his hands were trembling. Silently the songsmith
helped him steady the container. He sipped, cautiously at first,
then with more assurance,                                 j

It took all ofAlon's strength to drink the soup and nibble
halfheartedly at a few bits of dried fruit. He was plainly dis-
mayed at his own weakness. "How is Monso?" he asked.

"The wound is closed. He seems nearly well."

"He has always healed quickly," the Adept said. His voice
took on a bitter note. "Would that I could do likewise!"

"You must give yourself time to recover," Eydryth said. "I
was exhausted from the spell you worked, and I had only to
back you." She shook her head. "Nor did I lose the amount
of blood you did. You need rest, and food."

"What I need," he said curtly, "is to find Yachne, so that I
may repay her for the trials she has caused us! But by now she
could be anywhere!"

Steel Talon squawked suddenly, sharply, plainly demanding
attention. Alon turned to regard the bird intently, as the two
obviously shared some wordless communication. As he "lis-
tened," the Adept's taut shoulders abruptly relaxed. "What is
it?" Eydryth demanded.

"If I understand Steel Talon aright, he is telling me that the
one we followed through the Gate is perhaps a half-day's
journey ahead of us, no more—and that she is not hurrying."
His mouth twisted sardonically. "Which should not surprise
me. After working the spell that created that massive illusion-
land, it is no wonder the witch is wearied!" He gazed thought-
fully up at the falcon. "There is something more... something
clouded by anger that I cannot understand clearly. Steel Talon
feels great anger toward Yachne."

"Because she is the cause of your troubles here in Arvon?"
Eydryth guessed aloud.

"Steel Talon does not feel that strongly for me," Alon said.
"It was Jon that he loved. Falconers and their birds are bound
together by ties of great loyalty and affection."

"But you have companied together for a long time," she
countered. "Steel Talon has affection for you, I can tell. When
I told him that you needed fresh meat to regain your strength,
he returned with some as swiftly as he could."

"Perhaps . . .," he said, his voice ending with a sigh.

"You are wearied," she told him. "Lie back and rest."

He turned to regard the sun, hovering only a handspan over
the distant hills. Crimson and yellow splashed the western
clouds. "I can rest atop Monso. He can bear my weight, I
believe, if we do no more than walk."

Eydryth opened her mouth to protest, but halted as he
shook his head. "I know what you are about to say, but I will
not be able to rest while we are so close to Yachne's bespelled
ground. What if somehow we became entrapped there again?"

Eydryth glanced back uneasily at that faintly shimmering,
raw-cut gorge. "Could that happen?"

"I know not. The spell she used was beyond my ability ...




208                                                                                                    209

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

I cannot judge. I only know that I will rest better on Monso's
back, going away from this place, than I ever could so near to
it."

The songsmith sighed and gave in. Truth to tell, now that
Alon had brought up the possibility that the spell-land might
ensnare them again, she would not be able to relax near it,
either. "Very well," she said. "I will lead Monso, and we will
walk—but only for an hour or so, understand?"

He nodded. "I can sleep on horseback. I have done it
before."

Leaning on Eydryth for support, he managed to walk the
short distance to the streamside, where he laved his hands and
face with the chill water, afterward drinking deeply. Then,
while Eydryth saddled the Keplian and repacked their sup-
plies, Alon swallowed another measure of the strengthening
tisane.

When they were ready to start, Eydryth led the Keplian to
a position downhill from the Adept. With her aid, he was able
to place foot to stirrup, then clamber into the saddle, grunting
with the effort. When he settled into place, she saw that his
teeth were fastened in his lower lip, and sweat beaded his
forehead.

Clumsily, favoring his injured arm, he drew his cloak
around him, and they started off, the setting sun at their backs.

Fortunately, their path lay across gently rolling meadows,
and Eydryth could see well enough to continue until full dark,
thus putting several hillsides between them and Yachne's trap.
When she reached the crest of the third such hillside, she
halted, breathing a bit heavily, but feeling her spirits lift to be
moving once again in the direction of their goal. She refused
to let herself contemplate what might lie at the end of then-
search.

Looking up at Alon in the growing darkness, she saw that
his eyes were closed, and he was slumped in the saddle, dozing.
If only I could go on a tittle farther before halting, she thought,
glancing back at the faint line of reddish-orange that still
marked the western sky. Monso, like all horses, has good night
vision and will not need much guidance. If only I had the Power
to see in the dark as Alon can!

An instant later that idly framed thought brought her up
short. But I do have the Power! Perhaps I can use it. even as he
does!

Taking a quick drink from her flask to ease the dryness of
her throat after walking, she opened her eyes wide, imagining
herself seeing in the dark; then, softly, she began to hum.

To her left... there, that was a bush. As Eydryth concen-
trated, its outlines sharpened. And there... that was a small
gully gouged by the hard spring rains. Over to her right was
an ancient limb, its bare branches seeming skeletal in the
uncanny vision she was acquiring.

Picking up Monso's lead once again, humming steadily, the
songsmith went on.

By midnight she was stumbling with weariness, and her
throat was too raw to produce any more sound. She had
discovered, however, that simply holding the melody firmly in
mind, hearing it within the confines of her own head, sufficed
to allow her to use this small magic she now owned.

However, there was a price. By the Amber Lady, there was
a grim tax levied on anyone who would use magic. For the first
time Eydryth truly understood, understood in every muscle,
every sinew, why Joisan and Elys and Alon and Hyana always
emerged from spell-casting sessions shaking with weariness
and ravenously hungry. Several times she had halted to chew
handfuls of dried fruit.

Finally, when she was beginning to weave with exhaustion
and clutch Monso's scraggly mane to stay upright, the song-
smith had to halt. Her legs folded beneath her without her
leave; she sank down on the grass.

She must have dozed there for several minutes, but finally
she was roused by Monso's nosing the back of her neck. Stiff
muscles screamed silent protest as she hoisted herself wearily
to her feet. Alon was still a-horse, though he lay slumped
across Monso's neck.

When she tried to loosen his hands, she found them locked
in a death-grip on the K-eplian's mane. She had to pry his
fingers up, one by one.

Then she tugged at his body until he toppled toward her.
She groaned aloud as she caught his limp weight. Though not




210

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMITH

much taller than she was, he weighed more. Struggling, she
managed to ease him to the ground unharmed. Hastily wrap-
ping him in his cloak, she left him to sleep. Food and water
could wait. It was all she could do to pull Monso's saddle off,
so the Keplian could graze.

Then, rolling herself in her own cloak, Eydryth stretched
out on the ground, and knew no more.

She awoke some time later to the sound ofMonso snorting
and pawing nervously. The night was far spent; the thinnest
sliver of moon shed a faint light. By tomorrow it will be moon-
dark, she thought absently, pushing herself up on one elbow,
wondering what had awakened her from such a profound
slumber. Her answer came quickly—Monso. The half-bred
stood nearby, not grazing, clearly agitated and on sentry-go.

"What is it, fellow?" she asked softly.

For reply the Keplian snorted so loudly that she jumped—a
noisy houuffp. of expelled breath.

The songsmith summoned night-sight, mentally running a
melody through her mind, and clearly saw Monso, spilled ink
against the softer blackness of the spring night. He was staring
northward, neck arched, ears pricked so far forward they
nearly touched at the tips, his ebony tail flung straight up. He
snorted again, then, without warning, screamed—the ringing
challenge of one stallion to another.

An answer came out of the distance—a slurred, hissing call
that sounded like no creature she had ever encountered!

Thoroughly alarmed, the songsmith scrambled free of her
cloak, hand reaching for her staff. When she drew her sword,
the bared steel glimmered faintly in the wan light of the dying

moon.

Alon mumbled something in his sleep, but did not awaken.
Eydryth considered trying to rouse him, but, remembering his
weakness, decided to let him sleep, if possible. Perhaps
Monso's challenge had been voiced at the leader of a band of
wild horses. Such were known to roam Arvon in its remoter
parts. Distance or rock formations could have distorted the
sound, made it seem so eerie.

But, as she gained her feet and stared northward, that faint

hope vanished. Three mounted figures were trotting toward
them. The songsmith's heart contracted within her.

Quickly she found Alon's lead-shank, then tethered the Ke-
plian to a stout bush. There were no trees nearby, but she
thought the fastening would hold him for a lunge or two. If
their callers came in peace—Please, by Your blessing. Amber
Lady, let them not mean us harm!—she did not want a stallion-
battle on her hands.

As their visitors approached, she strained to make out de-
tails. The one in the center was tall, and bestrode a huge black.
Seeing the flash of red from the creature's eyes, Eydryth real-
ized that the beast was a full-blooded Keplian. Any small hope
she had held that their nocturnal callers came with friendly
intentions now vanished.

The two beasts flanking the Keplian seemed, at first glance,
to be light grey or white horses. But as they came closer, she
saw that they were not like any creatures she had ever seen,

Their heads were long and narrow, as were their necks,
bodies and legs. Instead of a true horse's short hair, they
seemed to gleam faintly, as though their skins were not only
smooth, but also scaled! Glimpses of sharp, curving teeth were
revealed as their riders reined them down to a walk some
distance away. Eydryth saw that they did not have hooves, but
clawed talons, much like the falcon's.

Like some kind of unnatural cross between horses and lizards,
she thought. Like those beasts Sylvya told me of, the ones that
Maleron and his hunters bestrode, when they rode as That
Which Runs the Ridges . . .

The two armsmen wore black armor, and their faces were
overshadowed by their helms, so the songsmith could make
out no features.

But the central rider, the one mounted on the Keplian, wore
brightly burnished chain mail and a dark red surcoat over it,
worked with a crest. The songsmith stared at that device,
certain that she had seen its like before, somewhere ... a
snake—or, rather, the bare skull of a snake—crowned, with
dark rays of Power emanating from it. ...

Where had she seen such a crest? Eydryth's mind spun




i1Z

SONGSMTTH

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

213

frantically, searching, scrabbling through memory. She had
been with Jervon . . . yes, he had been there, and that same
device had been carved . . . yes, carved . . . into a gatepost!
She had it now! It had been a gatepost at Garth Howell, the
school where those with the Power came to leam to use their

magic!

The memory surged into Eydryth's mind with such force
that she gasped. She remembered the day she and her father
had gone to the place to inquire about the Seeing Stone. The
abbot, a thin, dark man with pale, ascetic features had courte-
ously given them directions to reach the farseeing Place of
Power. But before they had ridden forth, a young lay sister
had drawn them aside, then whispered a few hasty words of
warning. "Beware the Stone." Eydryth could hear again that
hoarse young voice in her mind. "It gives true sight, but it
exacts a terrible price for it!"

And behind the girl's head had been the gatepost, and upon
it, graven deep into the granite, the same design that now
faced her. The inhabitants of Arvon feared the school as a
place where Power-wielders gathered, much as they feared the
Grey Towers of the Wereriders. The place did not give open
allegiance to the Left-Hand Path, but, over the years, there

had been tales ...

Eydryth's hand itched to raise her sword, but she forced
herself to stand motionless as the riders halted before her. The
one mounted on the Keplian unhelmed, and she saw, with her
augmented vision, that he was well-favored—even handsome,
with a strong jaw and regular features. "Fair can befoul," she
remembered Sylvya telling her. "My brother Maleron was

handsome. ..."

And so was Dinzil, Eydryth suddenly remembered. She kept
her head up, her sword pointed down, but her knees were bent,
her body poised to assume fighting stance. The songsmith held
her silence, forcing the newcomer to speak first.

He leaned on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes holding
hers. "Fair meeting, minstrel," he said, his tones cultured and
deliberately mild. "You and your companion are traveling
through our lands."

Garth Howell's lands, she thought, but did not reveal that
she had recognized the device on his surcoat. Since it did not
appear on any of the publicly displayed banners flown from
the towers, she assumed that this sigil was intended to remain
secret. "If we have trespassed, sir, I beg forgiveness. It was
done in ignorance," she replied, keeping her voice smooth and
courteous. "We are bound for Redmantle lands and beyond."

"Few travelers pass this way," he said, and with her in-
creased night vision she discerned the raking glance he gave
her, the still-slumbering Adept, and Monso. "Our dominions
lie rather off the known paths. How did you come to be here?"

He is baiting me, she thought, but kept her voice civil and
noncommittal. "We have been traveling for days," she said,
speaking perfect truth but deliberately twisting the meaning.
"Most recently we traversed a great Waste lying to the west of
these foothills, after which we found ourselves here."

Her inquisitor could not conceal a start of surprise. His eyes
narrowed in unbelief.. . and well he might be skeptical. No
one that Eydryth had ever heard of before could claim to have
crossed the noxious Waste that lay to the far west of Arvon.
She smiled at him tentatively, wondering all the while why he
and his men-at-arms (Are they indeed of humankind? she found
herself thinking. Their hands seem oddly shaped....) had come
here.

"Indeed," he said softly. "That is extraordinary hearing."

Monso rumbled a deep challenge, and the leader's mount
raised its head. The creature was too well schooled to reply,
but its eyes gleamed red. "And that is an extraordinary stal-
lion you have been riding," the newcomer continued, with
barely a pause.

"No more so than your own," Eydryth countered pleas-
antly.

He smiled; that stretch of lip and flash of teeth, instead of
making him seem more human, made him seem far less. "My
mount is of the pure blood, yours is ... something different.
A cross that I would have considered impossible."

"Obviously not," she pointed out, "since he stands before
you."




ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

214

He chuckled, and the sound made the songsmith's skin
crawl, as though slimy hands had fingered her naked flesh.
One of the outriders made a chortling sound, and she thought
she glimpsed sharpened rows of teeth within his mouth. Or
was there a muzzle beneath that helm? She could not be
sure. . . .

"Excellent!" the Dark leader announced. "You are a most
extraordinary—and amusing—creature yourself, my lady.
Not to mention passing fair." He swept her a bow from his
saddle.

"Thank you, sir," she managed through stiff lips. Her fear
of this Dark Adept—for so she now believed him to be—was
growing, making the assumed lightness of their discourse
more and more difficult for her to maintain. "May I ask a
boon, please?"

"Of course!" He appeared delighted, and the aura of wrong-
ness surrounding him intensified with each passing moment,

"May we traverse your demesnes, just long enough to reach
the road? Again, I offer my deepest apologies for our inadver-
tent blunder."

" 'Our' ?" he said, then deliberately, as if noticing for the
first time, looked down at Alon, who lay huddled and still.
"You have a companion! One that shares your bed, perhaps,
as well as your road?"

Ignoring Eydryth's tight-lipped headshake, he went on, in
tones of mock-grief, "Alas, it seems I have a rival. . . oh, my
heart lies in ruins, songsmith," he said, gauntleted hand
pressed to the breast of his surcoat, where that disturbing
design was growing ever more distinct. Pearly light brightened
the east now; sunrise was not far off. Eydryth wondered dis-
tractedly whether these creatures could stand to encounter the
light of day—many Shadowed beings could not—but neither
the leader nor his outriders seemed worried by dawn's near-
ness.

The Dark Adept looked down at Alon's wan, pinched fea-
tures beneath his tumbled, none-too-clean hair, then sighed
deeply. "I must say, my lady songsmith, that I fail to compre-
hend your taste. You could do better, I am certain."

Anger surged up in Eydryth, growing hotter by the mo-


SONGSMTTH

245

ment, and with a toss of her head she abandoned this ridicu-
lous facade of flirtation, this mockery of courtly conversation.
"You did not answer my question, sir," she said bluntly.

"What question, fair lady?"

"About whether we have permission to cross your domain."

"That is correct, I did not." The Dark One studied her
intently. "Remiss of me. My answer is thus. You will accom-
pany me back to our stronghold to speak with the Lord
Abbot, who is the one you must entreat. I am certain that he
will grant your request to traverse our lands."

"And how far away is your stronghold?" she demanded.

"Barely a full day's ride," he replied lightly. "Such a small
delay will not trouble you overmuch, will it, my lady?"

Eydryth felt anger building, until it pulsed behind her eyes,
hot and vital. She recognized that strength of Will, that re-
solve, that gathering for what it was—Power. The songsmith
did not allow herself to think about the abilities of the Adept
she faced, his probable mastery of magic. Instead she merely
smiled grimly. "I am afraid that it would be a great inconve-
nience. I regret that I must decline your kind invitation, sir."

His handsome face hardened, and he laid hand to the hilt of
his sword, then drew it smoothly. "And I am afraid that I must
insist."

She laughed outright, saw him start with surprise. "Then,
sir, I must resist!" she cried, deliberately rhyming him. An idea
was surging through her mind like Monso at full gallop, an
idea built on generations of tradition—and on the Power she
could feel herself becoming a vessel to hold. Lyrics and melody
crowded her mind, pouring in without conscious thought.

"With that?" Recovering, he smiled grimly and pointed at
her sword.

"No...," Eydryth said, then slowly, deliberately, sheathed
the blade. Picking up her hand-harp case, she took out the
instrument, struck a ringing chord that seemed to swell and
resound in the air, until it was nearly deafening. "With this!"

The Power filled her as she began to strum, then sing:

Would you then offend me, sir?
I'll stand on minstrel's right:

216         ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

May your bright blade blind you,
That you see not where it falls,
May your heartthrob fill your ears
That you hear not succor's call.
May every briar bind you,
And fling you to your knees,
May a loose-willed wench deny you,
When you would seek her ease.

She saw the two unhuman outriders surreptitiously edge
their mounts away from their overlord, watched his open
consternation as her satire—filled with the Power she could
feel emanating from her, thrumming forth from her harp—
dominated the air. Ancient lore had it that one who offended
a bard could be ill-wished, cursed, even unto death.

Eydryth poured into her song all her rage, all her frustra-
tion, all her anger at Yachne. The witch is probably behind this,
she thought, feeling the words emerge from her mouth so
poisoned that they might have been dipped in venom. The
forces of the Dark want to delay us. which will aid her. Well, we
shall see about that!

Her mind working fast, she fingered the harp in ringing
chords, wishing for a fleeting moment that she had thought to
put her finger picks on. The quan-iron strings stung her fin-
gers. More words fell into place as she hastily composed the
second verse of the satire. A rapid strum, then she continued,
her voice rising with every note:

Then would you draw sword on me?
Why sir, so let this be!
Now let the moon-mad guide you
Down illusion's wandering ways,
Now let you outlive your children,
In an eternity of days:

Let cowardice o'ertake you
When you would be most brave;

And let your rotted body lie
In an unremembered grave!

SONGSMTTH

217

The Keplian squealed, frightened, in response to a cruel jab
from a spaded bit. The outriders backed their mounts away
from their leader. Guttural, gobbling sounds broken with
hisses emerged from the misshapen mouths the songsmith
could glimpse beneath the creatures' helmets. Eydryth had
never heard their language before, but, even so, she could not
mistake the fear in their voices.

The Dark Adept's features writhed in pain and fear. Eyd-
ryth's fingers plucked the strings other harp, sending forth the
music, and her anger, directed straight at him. She knew
beyond legend, beyond knowledge, beyond instinct . . . she
knew in her bones that her words held Truth as well as Power.
Her curse would come to pass. She was singing the Dark
Adept's fate, sealing it with her own magic.

"Let your rotted body lie in an unremembered grave!" She
flung the last line at him again, seeing it strike with the force
of an actual blow. With a wordless snarl, the leader spun his
mount on its haunches and spurred it back in the direction
they had come. The two outriders followed, but slower, stay-
ing well away from their master's vicinity—as though they
feared that the fate Eydryth had cursed him with might fall
upon them, too, if they ventured too close.

Just as the flaming edge of the sun glimmered over the
nearest hill, they vanished into the forested slope, heading
north.

Eydryth stared after them, savoring her victory. She felt
strong, triumphant, burning as though a fire of angry hatred
blazed within her. As she remembered the Dark Adept's ex-
pression, and the fate she had called down upon him, the
songsmith threw back her head and laughed—laughed long
and loud ... laughed until she had no breath left, and needs
must gasp after it. Some small comer other mind was shriek-
ing at her that it was wrong to so exult in the downfall of
another—even a Dark One—but she ignored that prickle of
conscience.

"Let your rotted body lie in an unremembered grave," Eyd-
ryth whispered, smiling a death's-head grin as the dawnlight
crept across her face.




SONGSMTTH

219

As Eydryth's laughter finally faded away into small wheezes of
savage merriment, a voice reached her ears: "Well done, song-
smith."

She whirled around, to find Alon sitting up, regarding her
steadily. "How long have you been awake?" she demanded,
feeling some of yesterday's anger at him surface again.

"Long enough," he made reply, "to see that you needed no
aid in defeating that one." He nodded in the direction of the
vanished Dark Adept. "Congratulations."

She scowled at him furiously. "Small help you were! I
thought you too weak to even sit up without aid, else I would
have tried to awaken you, so you could have dealt with our
visitor." The rush of Power was ebbing, emptying her, leaving

her body so weak that she was suddenly forced to sit down
before she toppled over. Her head ached fiercely... her flesh
seemed to shrivel on her bones.

Alon shrugged carelessly. "You did not need me. And now
perhaps you will believe that you possess more than a touch
of Power." He smiled without humor. "I would never have
thought of using a satire. Those things will come to pass for
him, you know," he said, slanting a curious glance at her, as
if asking whether she minded.

The songsmith tossed her head. "I know they will," she said,
then smiled, feeling a rush of satisfaction. Her own exultation
at the defeat of the Dark One again struck her as wrong,
shadowed, but she easily pushed that small, nagging prickle of
conscience aside. "Now what?" she asked.

He dragged over the saddlebag containing their provisions.
"First we eat and drink, then we depart," he said simply. "We
must be gone from here as swiftly as may be. There may be
more where he came from."

After they finished eating, Eydryth checked his wound. Be-
neath the scrap of bandage, the mud was hardened and crack-
ing loose, so she chipped it away with a ragged fingernail.
Where the gaping slash had been, there was naught but a thin,
white scar. She stared at it wonderingly. If only it can work
such wonders on my father! Her hope was shaken, though,
when she remembered that she had broken the seal on Da-
haun's box.

Monso's wound was much improved, and his master again
chanted a healing-spell over it, while rubbing it with a paste he
produced from his supplies. When Eydryth would have taken
her accustomed place at the Keplian's head, the Adept pointed
to the stirrup. "Today you ride," he said. "Such magic as you
worked demands a cruel toll from the body. I will walk."

She studied his features, still pale beneath the weathering
caused by their days in the sun. "You are not strong enough
yet," she said, knowing she spoke truth.

"I slept most of yesterday," he reminded her. "Where you
barely rested at all. Up you go," he ordered, pointing to the
saddle.

Eydryth hesitated, but then, feeling her own weakness, she




220

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

placed foot to stirrup. Alon steadied her as she slowly swung
up onto the Keplian's back, stifling a grunt of pain as sore
muscles protested.

It seemed odd to sit in the middle of Monso's back, rather
than on his rump. The half-bred shifted restlessly, rolling an
eye back at her; then his ears flattened. She tensed as she felt
the coiled strength in his hindquarters and shoulders. The
Keplian snorted, pawing angrily.

"Am I the first person to bestride him other than you?" she
asked, suppressing a catch in her voice. Memory of those,
terrifying rides when Monso had bolted made her swallow.

The Adept nodded. 'Keep your legs loose on his sides," he
warned, reminding her curtly of what she already knew from
her years of experience while riding with the Kioga, helping
them break horses. "If you are tense, he will feel your unease."
Quietly, he soothed his horse.

The songsmith nodded, forcing herself to relax in the sad-
dle. Gradually, the hump in the Keplian's back eased. Alon
started forward, leading the half-bred. Moments later. Steel
Talon swooped by, screeching a hoarse greeting.

Within an hour, the lack of sleep and the previous day's
exertions told on Eydryth; she fell into a light doze in the
saddle, her body automatically swaying to the rhythm of
Monso's walk.

She awoke with a gasp and a jerk when the black half-bred
abruptly halted, flinging his head up as though he had been
unexpectedly jabbed by the bit. Startled, Eydryth sat up,
blinking, then rubbed sleep out of her gritty eyes. Her mouth
was dry, filled with a taste that made her grimace. Hunger
gnawed her vitals. By the look of the sun, it was well past
noon.

Ahead of them stretched a road, the first such they had seen.
Eydryth glanced down at Alon, saw him leaning heavily
against Monso's shoulder, as though that support were the
only thing keeping him up.

The bard swallowed, attempting to force words from the
dry well that was now her throat. "Alon?" she croaked. "What
chances? Are you hurt?"

SONGSMITH                 221

He shook his head, but made no move to straighten up.
Eydryth slid down out of the saddle, catching him by the arm
and peering into his face. He was sweating and pale. "What
happened?" she asked worriedly.

"Twisted my foot," he muttered. "Need a moment. . ."

"You have walked too far," she said, taking down the water
flask and lifting it to her lips, first rinsing the vileness from her
mouth, then drinking thirstily. She handed it to him, watched
him drink, then said, "You ride now. I'll walk."

"No," he said, sealing the flask. His tone brooked no oppo-
sition. "Climb back on. I can walk."

"Walk?" She let her scorn at the idea fill her voice. "Oh, of
a certainty! And run, too, no doubt! Don't be a fool!"

His grey eyes hardened until they appeared as light and flat
as pebbles in a streambed. "I told you, /will walk." He jerked
his head at the Keplian's empty saddle. "Climb back up.
Now."

"You cannot order me," she stated, her voice cold and soft.
"You will be an even greater fool if you attempt that."

The Adept flushed angrily. "Watch your tongue, songsmith.
It is wagging too freely."

"What I say and where I go—and how I reach my destina-
tion"—her own anger was growing, and she clenched both
fists—"are my concern, not yours!"

His mouth tightened to a grim slash, and around him the air
seemed to shiver and glow. Fear touched the bard, and she
took a hasty step backward before she could stop herself.

Alon opened his mouth to say something—and, from his
expression, it was no pleasantry—but his words were never
uttered. Without warning, Steel Talon screamed shrilly; then
Monso thrust his big black head against his master's chest,
nearly knocking him over. The Adept swore as his injured foot
gave way beneath him. He barely managed to stay on his feet.
By the time he had recovered his balance, Eydryth had re-
gained control of her temper.

Pointing down at the Keplian's leg, she said, "He is nearly
healed. If we go slowly, there is no reason we both cannot
ride."

222        ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

Her companion hesitated. She watched as he tried unobtru-
sively to rest his weight on his right foot, then repressed a
wince. Finally, Alon nodded. "Very well," he snapped.

Limping, he went over to the stallion and climbed up; then,
reluctantly, he turned in the saddle to offer a hand to the
songsmith. Pointedly, she ignored his grudging offer of aid,
managing instead to swing up behind him unassisted.

Scowling blackly, Alon signaled Monso forward, and the
Keplian walked steadily toward the road. But when they
reached that earthen track, Alon turned the stallion's head
southeast. Eydryth nudged him. "Kar Garudwyn lies that
way," she said urgently, pointing due east, to their left.

He ignored her.

Urgently, the songsmith tugged at his arm, "You are head-
ing the wrong way!"

Stubbornly, he shook his head.

"Alon!" She struck him lightly on the shoulder. "Halt!"

His voice, when it finally came, was little more than a sullen
growl. "No."

"Alon, we must go due east, not this way! What do you
hope to gain by this?"

Finally he signaled the Keplian to stop, then turned to look
at her. "Yachne's death," he said flatly. "The sorceress is that
way," he added, pointing southeast.

"But... but...," she stammered with indignation, feeling
an anger that was being rapidly quenched by fear. He truly
means to do it! "We have already decided that it would be best
to go straight to Kar Garudwyn. We cannot turn aside from
our path! Kerovan, remember? We must save Kerovan!"

"When Yachne is dead, she will prove no threat to anyone
on this world," he said, and there was a vicious undertone to
his voice that made Eydryth's breath catch in her throat.
"Steel Talon tells me that she has headed this way, and is still
little more than a half-day's journey ahead of us."

"I am not going!" Eydryth cried. "I will go on alone to warn
Kerovan!"

"Go then," he snarled, "and take my curse!"

Fury surged hot within her, but something in Alon's eyes as

SONGSMITH                 223

he stared at her made her swallow and remain silent. She
shifted her weight so she could slide down the near side of
Monso's rump. "I'll go," she whispered.

Steel Talon suddenly plunged out of the air, screaming
shrilly. Monso shied. If the Keplian had leaped to the right,
Eydryth would have been left hanging in midair, her destina-
tion the green meadow grass. But instead Monso moved to his
left, dropping and lunging so that the songsmith found herself
again in the middle of his rump.

Instinctively, she grabbed Alon around the waist, just as the
stallion plunged forward with a heart-stopping buck. "No!"
Alon yelled, struggling to regain control. The Adept's legs
closed on the stallion's sides, trying to drive the half-bred
forward, so his head would come up. He bent over, hands
squeezing and releasing on the reins, trying to dislodge the bit
from the Keplian's teeth—

—and succeeded only too well. Grunting, Monso flung his
head up. His heavy stallion's crest with its crowning bristle of
mane struck his rider full in the face. The Adept sagged, limp.
He would have fallen were it not for Eydryth's enclosing arms.

Even the smallest crowhop would have unseated his riders
by then, but Monso had apparently abandoned his efforts to
rid himself of his passengers. Instead, the Keplian's strides
began to lengthen. He broke into a swift canter, and then he
was galloping.

Eydryth managed to grab the pommel of the saddle with
both hands, then heaved herself up and over the cantle, until
she was jammed into the seat with Alon. Groping for the reins,
she snatched them from the Adept's lax fingers, and, peering
past his shoulder, began sawing at the stallion's mouth.

Monso ignored her efforts. He was running now, moving
with those long, swift strides that marked his fastest pace.
"Monso!" she shouted into the whipping wind. Eydryth's sur-
roundings blurred as tears filled her eyes. "Easy, boy! Ho,
now!" One black ear turned back to catch her words, but there
was no other reaction.

They were heading east now, in the direction of Kar Garud-
wyn, flashing down the soft-packed road with the headlong

224

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMITH

225

rush of a forest fire. Alon's weight swayed dangerously in the
saddle, and the songsmith stiffened her arms to keep him from
pitching headlong onto the verge. At the speed they were now
traveling, such a fall could have been fatal.

Wedged into the saddle as she was, Eydryth herself was in
little danger of falling, for Monso ran straight and leveled-out,
his strides so smooth that very little motion was perceived by
his rider. But as for control over the Keplian... she had none.
The stallion might as well have had a halter on his head
instead of a bridle, for all the attention he paid to the bit or her
attempts to slow him.

Eydryth felt light-headed from fear. Monso was moving so
fast that time itself seemed blurred. Had the Keplian been
running for minutes? Hours? There was no way to know.

Summoning up all her strength, she attempted to sing
soothingly, as she had done that day at the horse fair. But her
words were blown away by the wind of their passage. Grimly,
she tried putting pressure on only one rein, hoping she could
so direct the Keplian into a slowly diminishing circle, but,
again, her efforts were useless.

Alon stirred before her, then moaned, beginning to struggle
feebly as consciousness returned. "Hold still!" Eydryth
screamed in his ear. "Don't move, or we'll both fall!"

She knew he must have heard her, because, moments later,
his hands closed over hers on the reins. Together they fought
to slow Monso—still to no avail.

There was something ahead of them ... to the left, off the
road. A strange shape, like that of a giant, grey-stemmed
mushroom with a spring-green cap, set on the crest of a hill.
A black streak winged past them, stooping out of the air, and
she heard Steel Talon's shrill shriek. Monso abruptly veered
off the road, and, if anything, increased his pace as he headed
up the hill toward the crest.

Eydryth closed her eyes, offering up a silent plea to Gun-
nora that the racing Keplian would not encounter a bur-
rower's hole or a stoat's den—or the sunken remains of a
fence—at this insane speed.

The steepness of the hillside did not slow the Keplian.

Monso was now moving so swiftly that Eydryth felt as though
she were astride Steel Talon, flying, rather than riding a land-
bound creature.

As they reached the top of the hill, Eydryth blinked, and
suddenly the mushroom-shape before them sprang into clear
view; it was a circular grove of mammoth trees with pale-grey
trunks, topped with feathery green boughs that sprouted only
from their uppermost heights. Monso slowed to a gallop as he
began moving around the perimeter of the huge grove.

The trees stood so symmetrically in a circle that their plant-
ing must have been the work of some hand, not nature's
happenstance. A loud, rasping sound now reached the song-
smith's ears, and she realized that Monso was finally winded,
his breath rasping like iron filings. White foam curded his
neck.

"Can you stop him now?" she shouted into Alon's ear.

"I'm trying," came his grim reply.

But the Keplian galloped on, around the narrow trunks that
almost formed a natural barrier, so close together did they
grow. They were on the eastern side of the hill now, following
the curve of the grove.

Eydryth glanced down at the thick green grass beneath
them. "Should we jump?"

"You jump," Alon ordered, leaning back against the reins,
his shoulders working. "But I stay with—"

He broke off as Steel Talon again flew past them, screaming
his piercing cry. Immediately Monso planted his forehooves in
the turf, tucked his hindquarters beneath him, and skidded to
a halt. Both riders were thrown forward, slamming into him
and each other with bruising force.

Alon began to curse the stallion, then, in a frenzy of anger,
lashed the black's neck with the end of his reins. Eydryth was
shocked by the savagery in his voice, the vicious snap of his
blows against the sweating black hide.

Steel Talon screamed again.

Their mount lunged forward in a huge leap, bucking like a
demon-horse possessed. Eydryth clung grimly through one
leap—two—then felt herself slipping as the Keplian sunfished,




226

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SONGSMITH

227

flinging his hind legs up and out behind her head, then twisting
in midair like a serpent writhing with a broken back.

The bard felt the wind other own passage as she was hurled
into the air. Following instinct learned from years of training
horses with the Kioga, she curled into a ball, ducking her head
to protect it. Monso was bellowing with fury, and she had one
final moment to hope that he did not land on her during one
of his frenzied leaps.

As she struck the ground, Eydryth managed to roll, absorb-
ing most of the impact on the soft turf. Even so, she gasped,
feeling as though a giant hand had wrung her chest and back.

Dazedly, she raised her head, saw Alon grimly clinging to
the madly plunging stallion, but it was plain that the Adept
was losing his battle. Blood was running freely from his nos-
trils; he had abandoned pride and was gripping the pommel of
the saddle with one hand, even as he fought stubbornly to pull
Monso's head up and drive the horse forward.

As she lay there, struggling to catch her breath, Eydryth felt
a strange warmth tingling along her left arm. Fearing the
worst, she turned her head, but her fingers curled at her com-
mand, there was no bleeding or break. The bard saw that
Monso's buck had thrown her almost within the only opening
in the giant circular grove of uncanny trees. Her left arm lay
within the opening—and from it, a sensation was spreading.

Warmth . . . comfort. .. healing . . . light. It was all those
things, and more. Much more. The light crept within her,
spreading, filling her with peace, driving out the anger, the
wrongness that had frightened her during the past days when
she had felt it trying to possess her. The sensation of being
healed of a dark sickness of the spirit was so compelling that
she stared at her arm, transfixed, forgetting Alon, forgetting
the battle between mount and master raging still behind her.

Cautiously, she levered herself up on her hands. Her head
still spun from the fall, her ears rang with weakness, but the
urge to drive out the Darkness that had been growing within
her drove her onward. Eydryth crawled slowly, not halting
until her entire body lay within the entrance to this strange
place.

Light and warmth enveloped her, soothing body and spirit.
Understanding grew as it did so, knowledge of what had been
happening to her, the reason that both she and Alon had been
reacting so strangely. Ever since they had jumped through that
Dark Gate, a malignant Shadow had grown within them, a
darkness of spirit that was now being driven out by the light
and life of this hallowed Place of Power.

Healing ... it was healing her, body and spirit.

After a time... she had no idea how long, though later she
realized it could not have been more than a minute or two
... Eydryth sighed, then levered herself up. Strength returned
to her—not the black strength of raging hate and anger that
had empowered her before, but a quiet healing strength that
this Place of Power had bestowed upon her, a gift beyond
price.

Her bruises had stopped aching, she felt renewed ... re-
freshed.

Gazing back through the entrance, she was just in time to
see Monso rear up. His front legs slashed the air.as he towered
like some ancient elemental horse-spirit, his eyes crimson with
savage fury, strings of reddish foam dripping from his open
mouth. Then, in a frenzy of rage, the stallion flung himself
over backward. Helplessly Eydryth crouched, hands pressed
against her mouth, certain that Alon would be killed.

But, at the last possible moment, the Adept leaped free of
the saddle, landing halfway between the bard and his erstwhile
steed. Monso rolled over and struggled to his feet, head hang-
ing low, breathing in agonized gasps.

Slowly his master sat up. "Alon!" Eydryth cried, but he
stared at her blankly, without recognition. Fresh horror filled
her as she realized that Alon's grey eyes had gone a strange,
dead silver.

As she flung herself toward him, he shook off her grasping
arm, ignoring her, then climbed to his feet and headed back
for the stallion, his expression a silent curse that boded no
good for his hapless mount. Purple lightning—Purple is the
color of the Shadow, Eydryth remembered with a sick feeling
of horror—began to crackle from between his splayed fingers.




228        ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

Eydryth realized that he meant to kill the Keplian. The
Shadow that had been growing within her had possessed him
completely. And no wonder, she realized, as she stumbled after
him, he not only went through the Dark Gate, he worked the
black spell that caused it to open! That essence of the Shadow
that was growing within me has affected him even more strongly.
When he worked that Dark magic, Alon took the Shadow into
himself, as surely as if he poisoned himself by eating rancid or
rotting meat!

"Run, Monso!" Eydryth screamed. She made a futile grab
for the Adept, just as a bolt of purple flamed from Alon's
fingers. It licked out, but the Keplian shied violently and it
missed him. The stallion, obviously confused, the habit of
obedience conflicting with his sudden fear of the master that
he loved, backed slowly away. Alon stalked toward him, his
bloody face dark with fury, eyes cold and sharp as argent
blades. Both hands came up, fingers crooked, for another
attempt.

Eydryth hit the Adept in the small of his back with her
shoulder, driving him forward and down. Purple lightning
crackled, snaking along the ground, leaving a blackened trail
in the thick turf.

Alon rolled over, cursing aloud now. Seeing his face, the
songsmith knew that now it was she who was in great danger.
I have to get him into the Place of Power, she thought. Mayhap
it can heal him, too!

Gritting her teeth, hating herself for what she was about to
do, she clenched her fist and slammed it into his jaw, even as
he struggled to regain his feet.

The Adept went down again, stunned, and she hastily
grabbed his foot, began dragging him toward that haven of
healing and light. "Please, Amber Lady," she whispered
through dry lips. "Please, let him be—"

Alon's other foot, booted and heavy, smashed hard against
her forearm, numbing it instantly. Eydryth cried out, drop-
ping his leg, unable to hold on. He was already rolling away
from her, coming up, turning to run—run away from the Place
of Power. Fear was graven into every line of his features.

SONGSMITH                 229

It's the Shadow within him...» she thought. It will not give
him up!

"Alon, no!" she cried, bolting after him. He had nearly
reached the heaving, spraddle-legged Keplian when she
caught him, shoving him aside with a hard thrust of her good
arm. He spun, fell, then was up again, moving with a quick-
ness that bespoke desperation.

But already the songsmith's fingers had closed on her quar-
terstaff, which was fastened along the Keplian's side. She
jerked it free with a frantic tug. "Alon...," she gasped, trying
to hold his eyes with her own, reach beyond the Darkness that
had engulfed him, "you . . . have to come . .. with me."

He did notanswer, only backed away. Purple light sparked
from his hands, and she knew that he could kill her—kill her
easily. "Don't—" she pleaded. "Remember Jonthal. ..."

He blinked, confused, and for a moment his eyes were his
own dark grey again. But then they hardened, brightened, and
the bard knew that she had lost him.

With a sudden leap he was on her, kicking the staff. Her
still-numbed fingers could not hold it, and it flew spinning
from her hand. Alon's left fist slammed into her head, near her
ear, just as the fingers of his right hand dug into her throat.

Red flashes went off behind her eyes, but she reacted as
Jervon had trained her, going with her attacker's motion,
giving way, using his superior strength against him. Eydryth
let herself fall, rolling onto her back, spine curved, at the same
moment bringing her knees up. They slammed hard into
Alon's midsection, and she heard the breath go out of him in
a great wheeze.

Quickly, she shoved him over, then swung her small, cal-
lused fist into his jaw. Once... twice... His eyes glazed over,
and she saw the light go out of them. He sagged, barely
conscious.

Breathing now as hard as Monso, she grabbed his arms,
dragged them over his head, then began tugging him back
toward the entrance. Halfway there, she glanced behind her,
marking the gap in the tree trunks—and that proved her undo-
ing.

230

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMITH

231

Alon suddenly came to life again, twisting in her grasp,
wrenching himself away. As he spun, one leg kicked out,
cutting both feet out from under her.

Eydryth went down, landing hard; then he was up and
away, running haltingly, not toward Monso, now, but west,
back the way they had come. The songsmith's nailing hand
closed on her quarterstaff, and, before she could even com-
plete the idea in her mind, she was up on one knee, her good
arm drawn back to its fullest extent. Her shoulder protested as
she hurled the bronze-shod length after the limping man.

The gryphon-headed staif whirled through the air, low and
parallel to the ground, to strike hard against Alon's booted
legs. The Adept went down again, and this time he lay unmov-
ing.

Sobs nearly overcame her for a second—Amber Lady, what
have I done? Then the bard was up and running. If I've killed
him. . .

Eydryth reached Alon's side. Dropping to her knees, she
cautiously rolled him over. The man's face was a hideous mask
of bruised flesh and bloody scratches, but his chest was mov-
ing. Eydryth touched fingers to his throat, felt the throb of the
pulse there. She drew breath into her aching lungs; then tears
again coursed down her face—but this time they were of relief.

Quickly, before Alon could regain consciousness, the song-
smith began dragging him again toward the entrance, halting
only when he lay completely within the gap in the trees. She
sagged to her knees beside him, fingers gripping his cold hand,
hardly daring to hope. For the first time, she glanced past the
trunks of the entrance, to see what lay inside this tree-barri-
ered enclosure.

The circular expanse of ground within was covered with soft
turf, sprinkled liberally with wildflowers. Scarlet and indigo,
amber and pale yellow, violet and dusky rose... never had she
seen such a profusion. In the middle of them were tumbled
rocks, and in the sudden silence of this Place, Eydryth could
distinctly hear the bubbling of a spring.

Water... The thought made her tremble with sudden thirst.
Water to drink, water to wash Alon's wounds . . . water for
Monso . . .

Moving unsteadily, she made her way over to the Keplian,
pulled off his saddle, then emptied all their water flasks, sling-
ing them over her shoulder. With stumbling, eager strides she
reentered the Place of Power. The heady scents of the wild-
flowers rose up around her like incense as she trod that many-
hued carpet.

The spring welled into a hollow in the middle of the largest
boulder. Eydryth rolled up her sleeves as she knelt on the edge
of a sun-wanned boulder, looking down.

Clear, cold, seeming to gleam with an inner Light, the water
from the spring bubbled up. She held out her hands, dipped
them gratefully into the coldness, then cupped them, brought
forth a sparkling handful, sipped.

The water coursed down her throat like a cool blessing.
Eydryth drank her fill, then laved her face, her hands, washing
away sweat and dirt, feeling more renewed with each passing
moment. The pain from her bruises and strained muscles van-
ished.

Gazing around her, marveling at the effect of that water, the
songsmith wondered yet again just what manner of place this
was. Obviously a Place of Power . . . Then, suddenly, the
knowledge surfaced in her mind, recalled from tales heard
long ago.

The Fane of Neave.

It was said to lie in the northwestern portion of this ancient
land. Dark sorcery could not enter the Fane, could not exist
within it. Small wonder that that inner darkness that had been
growing within her had utterly disappeared once she crossed
the border of this place. Neave . . . Neave was one of the
Oldest Ones. Neave was all things natural, and good, and
fruitful.

Even now, when couples were wed in Arvon, they drank a
toast, each in turn, invoking Neave with their bridal cup,
asking Neave to bless their union, make it devoted and fruit-
ful.

The Fane of Neave. It had to be.

"Thank you, 0 Neave," Eydryth breathed, her voice soft
and earnest. "Thank you. . .."

A sense of peace, quiet benediction, filled her. After a mo-




AjNDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

232

meat she bent to her task again, refilling the water flasks with
the springwater.

Carrying them, she went back to the entrance, her step once
more swift and assured. Glancing down at Alon as she passed,
she saw that he still lay unmoving, but the lines of pain and
fear had smoothed out on his bruised, battered countenance.
He seemed now to be in a natural sleep.

Once outside the Fane, she whistled softly, then saw the
Keplian some distance away, cropping desultorily at the grass.
Eydryth walked over to Monso, checked first his wound, and
was relieved to discover that he had not reopened it, fortune
be praised. Scenting the water, he nudged her, rumbling low in
his throat.

She dared not let him drink much so soon after running so
hard, but she gave the stallion several carefully rationed sips
from Neave's spring, using their small cooking pot. The
thirsty creature lapped the cool liquid with his huge, pale-pink
tongue, reminding her for all the world of a cat. Wetting down
a comer of her cloak, she swiped and rinsed the sweat from the
sable hide until the salty stiffness was gone.

By the time she had finished, Monso had begun to graze,
tearing hungrily at the grass. Relieved that Neave's spring had
worked its restorative effect again, and that the Keplian no
longer was on the verge of foundering with exhaustion, she
went back to the Adept.

Sitting down cross-legged beside him, she carefully lifted his
head into her lap, then wiped his face and hands. At the touch
of that cool water, she saw the bruises and swellings visibly
lessen, until they seemed only shadows of the original injuries.

Then, steadying his head against her thigh, she held the flask
to his lips, urging him softly to drink. Alon sipped a little,
swallowed, sipped again. He sighed deeply as the last lines of
pain smoothed away from his face; then, a moment later, he
opened his eyes. Eydryth offered a silent invocation of thanks,
for his eyes were his own again, dark grey, gentle, and, at the
moment, bewildered.

"What happened?" he whispered.

She touched finger to his lips, cautioning him to be quiet.

SONGSMITH

233

"In a moment," she promised. "Drink some more, Alon. You
must be very thirsty."

He sighed, nodding, never taking his eyes from her face as
he drank again, this time deeply. "We are in a safe place,"
Eydryth told him, when he finished. "A Place of Power.
Monso ran away ... do you remember?"

Alon turned his head, and his eyes left hers to fasten on the
Keplian, hungrily cropping grass. "He is fine," she reassured
him. "I will give him more to drink in a little while. The water
from this spring is very restoring. How do you feel?"

"Well... now. But I cannot remember how I came here. I
remember walking an endless dead land .. . and you singing
... and a bridge of blood. I remember a Dark One . . . that
you vanquished. Or was I dreaming?" he whispered uncer-
tainly.

"No dream," she replied, simply.

He turned his head as it lay pillowed in her lap, seeing the
entrance to the Fane, the wildflower sward, the boulders sur-
rounding the spring. "Where are we?" he whispered, finally.

"The Fane of Neave," she replied. "Or so I believe."

"A Place of Power . . . ," he said.

"Yes. How do you feel now?" she asked again.

"Well," he replied. "The pain is gone. I feel as though I may
have been ... ill. Was I sick?" he asked, almost childlike in his
bemusement.

"Yes. But you are well now," she assured him. "We are safe
here."

"I have been... cleansed," he said after a moment, as if just
realizing it. His eyes held hers intently for a long moment. "So
have we both," he added.

"Yes. Nothing of the Shadow can exist here. This is a pro-
tected place."

"The past days..." He put out a hand, grasped hers tightly,
urgently, and Eydryth watched memory flood back. "I was
... sick. Poisoned by the Shadow. I said things..." He halted,
nearly choking, his eyes widening with alarm. "Eydryth ... I
was planning to ... to kill Yachne!"

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

234

"I know," she said, gently. "But you were not yourself. Nor
was I myself, when I drove away that Dark One."

"I could never harm her," he went on dully. "She raised me
... cared for me. If she bore me no affection, that still does not
lessen the debt I owe her for that. And remembering that I had
planned to kill her makes me—" He broke off, and the song-
smith could see more memories surface. The Adept drew a
hard, sharp breath. "Eydryth—! I tried to kill Monso!"

"You did not harm him," she made swift reply.

He sat up with a lurch, his eyes wide with horror. She saw
him begin to shake, as though with an ague. "But the Amber
Lady, Eydryth, it all comes back... I did my best to kill you\"

"I am fine," she said, smiling, but she could not meet his
gaze, suddenly afraid of the intensity she knew would be there.
"As you can plainly see. Alon ..." She swallowed, her throat
tight. "Alon, you were not yourself. Neither of us remained
untouched, but you— Working that spell to open the Dark
Gate meant that you were more affected than I. If it were not
for the Fane, we would both have been lost to ourselves."

His hands came up, closed on her shoulders with a grip that
made her gasp. "Eydryth . . . look at me. Look at me." He
waited, and after a moment she managed to raise her eyes to
his, color rising hot into her cheeks at what she read there. "If
anything happened to you . . ." He struggled for words, his
voice grown thick and unsteady. "I would not. . . could not
. . . without you . . . there is nothing . . ." He drew a deep,
ragged breath. "Nothing, do you understand?"

She could summon no words of her own, could only stare
at him, wide-eyed, feeling his breath touch her face, so close
were they now.

Was it Alon who first leaned forward? Was it she? Or had
they both moved at the same moment? Eydryth was never
sure. She only knew that his hands had moved from her shoul-
ders to gently cup her face; she only knew that their mouths
met.

It was a gentle, tentative caress, a mere brushing of lips.
Even though she had almost no experience at this herself, the
songsmith realized immediately, instinctively, that Alon was
no more lessoned in such matters than she—and found that

SONGSMITH

235

knowledge pleased her, though why, she could not have told.

After a moment, he drew away, eyes searching her face, his
fingers softly, hesitantly tracing her cheekbones, threading
through the tumbled curls over her temples, pushing them
back from her eyes. Eydryth struggled to speak, but Alon
shook his head sternly, his fingers brushing her lips, halting
any words.

Rising to his feet, he reached out a hand. As if spellbound
(though this was a different magic from any she had yet en-
countered, if no less strong) she reached up, laid her fingers in
his. He pulled her up to her feet, then into his arms, holding
her tightly.

There was nothing tentative about this second kiss. Eydryth
clung to him, shaken, as new feelings, desires, awoke within
her, making her face honestly for the first time the knowledge
that had been growing inside her ever since they had met.
Until now she had pushed away her own longings, refused to
acknowledge them, buried them as deeply as she could. But
that was over now. Now there could be no denying, no going
back . . . nor did she wish to.

Finally, he drew away slightly, stared down at her word-
lessly. Eydryth rested her forehead against his shoulder, lean-
ing against him as he stroked her tangled hair. The silence
stretched between them, until finally he broke it. "Oh, my,"
she heard him whisper. She smiled, shaking her head, repress-
ing a sudden urge to laugh.

"Is that all you can think of to say?" she murmured, gently
mocking.

"I can think of a thousand things to say," he told her, his
lips moving against her temple, her cheekbone. "But what I
cannot decide is which of them to say first." He chuckled
softly. "Perhaps you should start."

She shook her head, smiling slightly, wistfully. "I cannot.
There is too much to say." Eydryth raised her head, gazed at
him, then laid her cheek against his, feeling the faint prickle of
unshaven cheek against the softness of her own skin. "To even
make a good beginning at saying what I want to say to you,
would require the rest of the day ... at least."

"You may have the day. I will take the night," he said, his

236         ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMITH

237

tone still light, but the grey eyes held such intensity that her
breath caught in her throat. Her heart was pounding so hard
she wondered whether he could hear it. Confused, yet feeling
such joy as she had never known, Eydryth glanced away from
him, then froze.

The sun was already far to the west. The night that he spoke
of would be here only too soon. Memory of the reason they
were here rushed back, filling her, and, when Alon followed
her gaze, she saw the same realization in his eyes.

"I wish . . . ," she said slowly. "Oh, Alon ... I wish! But,
my dear heart ... we cannot linger here. Kerovan's life de-
pends upon us."

His expression hardened; then he nodded. "Yachne must be
stopped. I will think of a way to restrain her without harming
her. Right now"—his glance turned tender for one final mo-
ment—"I feel strong enough to accomplish anything."

He sighed; then his arms tightened around her, and she
returned the embrace. Then, slowly, formally, they both
stepped back a pace, deliberately leaving the words unsaid, the
caresses unmade.

As she heard a grunt from behind her, Eydryth glanced over
her shoulder to see Monso, legs flailing the air as the stallion
rolled. Alon went over to his mount, felt his chest and shoul-
ders, then examined the healing wound on his leg.

"He can have water, now," he said, then, catching the Ke-
plian's rein, led him toward the entrance, heading for the
spring.

But as they neared that gap in the trees marking the en-
trance to the Fane, the half-bred halted, eyes rolling wildly,
then backed away, ears flattened.

"What ails him?" Alon demanded, staring at the frightened
creature. "Cannot beasts enter this place?"

Eydryth glanced inside the Fane, saw Steel Talon sitting
perched on one of the rocks. "I think I know," she said. "Steel
Talon can enter this place because he is a natural creature.
Monso is a half-bred, created by sorcery, and no natural
being. Nothing of the Shadow can exist within the Fane of
Neave, which is where I believe we are."

"And Monso is part . . . part demon-horse," Alon said

slowly. "But. . . how then did he know where to bring us, so
that we could be cleansed . . . healed?"

"I do not know," Eydryth said, with equal gravity. She
glanced thoughtfully at the falcon. "Unless Steel Talon told
him ..."

They both fell silent, remembering the way the falcon's cries
had seemingly triggered the Keplian's actions. Finally, Alon
shook his head. "Even if poor Monso cannot enter this Fane,"
he said, "surely he can drink from the water?"

"He can," she assured him. "I gave him some earlier." Once
again they rigged a makeshift trough from Alon's jerkin; then,
flask by flask, the Adept allowed the horse to drink, slowly
letting him swallow his fill.

Finally, the Keplian's thirst was satisfied. Alon fed him a
measure of grain, and while he munched, both humans minis-
tered to him, brushing him until the black coat shone once
more in the red-tinged light of the westering sun.

Steel Talon winged over to sit on the cantle of the saddle,
and, as he worked, Alon glanced frequently at the falcon, as
if the bird were reporting to him. Having seen him do such
before, Eydryth was not surprised to see Alon's expression
darken with concern. "What is it?" she asked softly.

"Steel Talon has seen the witch. She is still heading south-
east, toward a place that my winged friend thinks of as 'the
dead place, the sick trees place, the Power-cage place,' which
I take to mean that Yachne has discovered a place that is the
opposite of this one." He nodded at the Fane. "It is my guess
that she will use this evil place to focus her magic as she seeks
to entrap Kerovan."

"How far away?"

"Several hours from here, on foot." He stared east, obvi-
ously thinking hard. "How far away is K-ar Garudwyn, by
your best estimate?"

Eydryth considered. "I believe that Kar Garudwyn lies per-
haps twenty leagues distant," she said, pointing east. "That is,
if I correctly remember the legends of where the Fane lies, in
relation to Redmantle lands. My home is just beyond their
boundaries."

He stepped forward, caught her hands in his. "Carrying




238 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

double, Monso would have no chance to make that distance
tonight, Eydryth. And someone must go after Yachne."

She gazed at him, her breath catching in her throat.
'What. . . what are you suggesting?"

"We split up." His voice was low, urgent. "I will go after
Yachne, afoot. I am young, and Neave's spring did its work
well. My leg is healed. Steel Talon can lead me to the sorcer-
ess—I will do my best to catch her before she can harness the
Power of that Shadowed place."

"And I?" she asked, feeling fear catch in her throat like a
harsh crust of bread. "What would you have me do?"

He drew a deep breath. "Eydryth ... you must ride Monso
to Kar Garudwyn. You alone know the way . . . your family
will listen to you, where they would distrust a stranger."

The songsmith stared past Alon's shoulder at the grazing
stallion, placid enough now. She shivered. To ride the demon-
horse alone, across leagues of countryside, racing wildly
through a moonless night? What if Monso threw her, or
turned against her? She remembered that terrifying speed, and
her mouth went dry. "Alon ... I do not think I can," she
whispered.

He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her until she tore her
eyes from the stallion and stared back up at him. "You must,"
he said. "There is naught else to be done, Eydryth! You must
take Monso, and ride as if all the Shadows of this earth were
on your trail—which may well be the case. But it is the only
way to warn Kerovan in time!"

She bit her lip, then took a deep breath, nodding. "Help me
saddle him," she said.

Fourteen

The travelers abandoned their packs, except for Eydryth's
harp, caching them in the branches of a beech tree on the edge
of the meadow. As she helped to secure them aloft, Eydryth
wondered silently whether such precautions were foolish. The
chances were excellent that neither of them would ever return
to claim their belongings.

When they had finished, she tied her staff atop the saddle-
bags, then drew her gryphon-headed sword from its place of
concealment. Slowly, the songsmith held it out to her compan-
ion. "I want you to take it," she said. "I cannot abandon my
harp, but I will not burden Monso with the weight of both of
them. Besides, you may need a weapon."

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

240

He hesitated, then reached out, fingers tracing the golden
gryphon that formed the hilt. The creature's mouth gaped
open, and in its jaws it grasped a heavy bluish crystal that
served as a counterbalance. The creature's blue quan-iron eyes
seemed to regard them knowingly.

Alon's fingers traced the sinuous body of the gryphon.
Wrapped with silver wire to provide a secure grip, it formed
the narrow portion of the hilt above the guard. Sliding his
hand around the grip, the Adept hefted the sword, then swung
it, hesitantly testing its balance.

Ripples of crimson ran down the blued steel as the setting
sun's rays reflected off the blade. A tentative smile curved
Alon's mouth as his sweeps and thrusts grew surer. "It has a
sweet balance in my hand," he said wonderingly. "Almost as
if it is alive, and responsive to my wishes."

"The best swords are forged so," she told him. "I want you
to carry it, Alon. It will serve you far better than that other,"
she finished, a catch in her throat. Silently, she prayed to
Gunnora that he would not have to use it. Alon was still far
from being a swordsman, and the finest weapon in the world
could not alter that.

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 effec-
tively."

Eydryth 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 shoul-
ders. After sheathing her sword in his old scabbard, she fas-
tened 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."

SONGSMTTH

24i

He smiled ruefully. "One lunge and two parries," he ob-
served 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."

Eydryth 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. Eydryth'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. Eydryth 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 curi-
ously while the songsmith fastened one of the flasks filled with
Neave's springwater to the saddle. Eydryth patted the Ke-
plian. "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, Eydryth 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 Val-
ley."

242

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMTTH

243

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."

Eydryth'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. Tak-
ing 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.

Eydryth 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, Eydryth's fin-
gers 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, Eydryth 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 Eydryth's hands when she held him back. The song-
smith 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, Eydryth 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 Eydryth 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




244

SONGSMITH

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

245

sparks from a cobbled street, and the sound of rapid hoofbeats
doubled and redoubled as they echoed off the stone and tim-
bered houses and shops. Hanging above the door of the town-
hall 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. Eydryth laughed aloud, and they galloped on.

Farmlands stretched again to each side of them. A stone
bridge flashed by beneath Monso's hooves. Eydryth 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.
Eydryth 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.

. Eydryth strained her night vision, made out trees. Of course,
she remembered. The forest. We've reached the Bluemantle
forest. We're almost to the border of Redmantle lands. . . .

As the Keplian galloped into the forest, they plunged into
a dark so complete that even Eydryth's night vision could
scarcely pierce it. Monso snorted uneasily, slowing abruptly to
an uncertain canter. Knowing that her mount's eyes must be
adjusting to the increased darkness within the forest, the song-
smith did not urge him faster.

The darkness beneath the trees was cavelike, nearly com-


plete. Eydryth concentrated harder, humming loudly, and
made out the road stretching before them like a black satin
ribbon laid across a black velvet gown. Monso's strides stead-
ied as the Keplian's eyes also adjusted to the absence of light
beneath the trees. They cantered on, not daring to go faster.

Eydryth crouched over Monso's withers, shivering as a chill
wind brushed the back other neck like a long-dead finger. The
breeze came again, harder, colder, pushing at her back, tossing
her hair.

The songsmith stiffened, her nostrils flaring. That wind bore
with it an odor ... a rank, yet familiar, odor. Eydryth
grimaced at the smell. Where had she scented its like before?
She turned her head to glance behind her, seeking its source.
A dank gust of wind struck her face like a foul breath.

Glowing spectrally with their own ghastly light, more than
a score of web-riders were being borne along on that wind,
heading straight for her and Monso!

The poisonous creatures were already so close that Eydryth
could see their pincers. Their jaws dripped venom, spattering
the surface of the barely seen road; gobs of sickly greenish
light marked their path. Another blast of wind sent the web-
riders hurtling toward the songsmith and her mount. In a
moment they would be upon them!

Eydryth leaned forward with a terrified gasp, feeling that
unnatural wind push again at her back. "Go, boy!" she cried,
slamming her heels into Monso's sides. "Go!" She glanced
back, glimpsed pincers only an arm's length from her eyes.
"Run!" she screamed, lashing the Keplian's neck with the
reins.

By that time Monso, too, had caught wind of their pursuers.
The Keplian needed no further urging. Springing forward as
though shot from a dart gun, he raced through the dark
woods.

Darkness blurred in Eydryth's sight. She struggled to keep
her night vision, every moment fearing that her brains would
be dashed out against some low-hanging limb. But she feared
the fell creatures behind them more than she feared a clean
death, so she made no effort to slow Monso, only flattened




ANDRB NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

246

herself as best she could along the Keplian's neck, clinging to
his mane with both hands.

There were occasional gaps in the tree cover overhead now,
and she could see a little better. Greatly daring, the songsmith
glanced back, saw that they had gained on the web-riders. Still
that unnatural gale assaulted her back.

Sorcery, she realized. That wind was sent, as were these
creatures. By whom? Yachne? The Adepts at Garth Howell?
There was no way to know. We are not racing the web-riders,
she realized, we are racing the wind! And if that wind grows
stronger ...

By now they were passing trees so rapidly that their trunks
blurred, seeming as close together as fence posts, so fast was
Monso running.

Without warning, they were out of the forest, plunging
steeply downhill toward the starlit gleam of a river. The Deep-
water! Eydryth realized. She struggled to keep her balance as
the Keplian hurtled down the road. If he catches afoot and
falls at this speed, I'll be crushed beneath him, she thought.

Glancing back, she saw that the web-riders had scattered
after leaving the narrow confines of the forest road. They were
outdistancing the Shadow-creatures rapidly now.

Eydryth took hold of the Keplian's mouth. "Monso . . .
easy, son ... we can slow a bit, now. ..."

Her pull on the stallion's mouth went unanswered. The
half-bred raced down the hillside toward the river with the
rush of a stooping falcon. Eydryth begged, sang, pulled until
her arms seemed to loosen in their sockets—to no avail.

She was still trying to slow the Keplian when Monso, run-
ning blindly, plunged full-force into the spring-swollen waters
of the ford. The Keplian half-reared, trying to leap through
the water. His struggles sent him plunging sideways, away
from the stone-paved bottom of the ford, into deeper water.
The river now rose belly-high on him. He staggered, trying to
keep his footing on the slick, muddy bottom. Water washed
up over his shoulders.

Eydryth felt the stallion's hind feet slip out from under him;

then Monso was falling. The black water rose up and engulfed
horse and rider.

SONGSMTTH

247

The songsmith kicked her feet loose from the stirrups as her
mount rolled over, terrified lest she be dragged down beneath
his body to drown. Her head went under as she flailed desper-
ately. Choking and gasping, she swallowed and gagged on the
cold water, but managed to fight her way back to the surface,
then forced her arms to move, her legs to kick. Coughing, she
trod water for a moment while she caught her breath, then she
swam, feeling the current drag at her like a live thing. Eydryth
blinked, vainly trying to shake the water from her eyes. Her
night vision was gone, fled with her concentration on the
melody.

Beside her, something large moved, snorted loudly. Monso!
The Keplian had recovered himself and was striking out
strongly for the opposite shore. Eydryth lunged toward him,
felt something brush her hand, grabbed it, then realized that
she had grasped one of the trailing reins.

Swiftly she pulled herself back to the stallion, hand over
hand; then she was able to grasp the pommel of the saddle.
Monso surged through the water, breasting the flood, towing
the woman alongside him.

Eydryth knew that she would have only moments when the
stallion struck solid footing to prevent him from breaking free
and racing away from her into the night. Turning to glance
back over her shoulder, she saw that the web-riders were no
longer following. Their phosphorescent forms glimmered as
they drifted aimlessly along the far bank of the Deepwater.

Of course, she thought. Like most creatures of the Shadow,
they cannot cross running water.

Monso's steadily stroking forefeet suddenly struck land,
then the Keplian was surging forward, snorting, water cascad-
ing off his powerful body. Eydryth swung herself forward,
both hands closing on the horse's headstall and bit. "Monso,
ho!" she commanded, leaning her full weight back, digging her
heels into the mucky, reed-grown riverbank. "Ho, son!"

The half-bred shook his head, but after a moment he
obeyed. Eydryth stumbled beside him as he struggled up, out
of the water. The minstrel collapsed for a second on shore,
pushing her soaked hair out of her eyes; then, wavering to her
feet, she summoned up her night vision again, seeing with

248

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMITH

-249

relief that her harp was still tied firmly in place. It would have
to be dried carefully lest it warp. Then she scanned her sur-
roundings for a place from which to mount.

The night wind cut through her sopping clothes like a sword
blade as she stumbled along, making her shiver. Finding a
small boulder with a flat top, Eydryth halted the trembling,
sweating horse beside it. She stroked Monso, soothing him for
a moment; then her foot found the stirrup and she swung back
up, settling into the soaked saddle with an audible squish.

As she turned her mount and walked him up the bank,
Eydryth felt exhaustion drag at her with a pull every bit as
insistent as the Deepwater's current. She patted her pocket,
feeling the hard lump that was Dahaun's box. Did the make-
shift seal I placed on it hold? she wondered frantically. Or is
Jervon's cure now mingling with the mud on the bottom of the
river? She was afraid to look, and could not have spared the
time anyway. Biting her lip, the minstrel urged the Keplian
forward.

For the next few minutes she trotted until she was sure of
her path, then, cautiously, eased her mount into a canter
again. The time they had lost at the ford gnawed at her.
... What if, even now, Yachne was setting her trap for Kero-
van?

Eydryth let the soaked reins out a notch, until they were
galloping again.

Redmantle lands. She knew the road well now, having ac-
companied her family to town many times as a girl. Only a
league or so down this road, she would take a branching trail,
then cut cross-country over Kioga territory.

Monso no longer needed to be held in, which worried Eyd-
ryth. She knew that swimming the Deepwater had taken a
heavy toll of the stallion's endurance, if her own weariness was
any indication. She wondered whether they would make it the
rest of the way to Kar Garudwyn.

At least the web-riders were well and truly gone. She risked
a final glance behind, seeing only darkness. Would those who
had set them on their trail send another menace? She had no
way of knowing.

Some distance farther on, the songsmith slowed Monso to

a canter, watching to her right as they splashed through a
small stream. A moment later, she saw it—a faint trail leading
away across a meadow. It might have almost been a game
path, but Eydryth knew better. Reining right, she turned the
Keplian onto it.

The Kioga were not a people to leave well-marked trails to
their grazing grounds. Whenever trading parties ventured out-
side their territory, they used small, insignificant trails such as
this one, careful not to allow them to become too well marked.

Eydryth galloped across the meadow, but when the trail
began looping through a small wood, she needs must slow to
a canter. As they came around a bend in the path, a puddle of
darkness suddenly blocked their way.

It seemed to crouch before them, making the songsmith
wonder for a moment whether it was some kind of wild beast.
But no, it was only a washed-out gully filled with debris from
the spring floods. Bending low on the Keplian's neck, the bard
gave her mount free rein, urging him on.

Monso soared into the air, clearing the entire gap. For a
moment Eydryth felt as though they were flying; then the
Keplian's forehooves came back to earth with scarcely a jar.

"Good boy!" she cried, shakily. Alon trained him well, she
thought, steadying him and increasing speed to a hand-gallop.
She was fighting her own exhaustion and chill, now, and the
continual drain of using her newfound Power to see in the
darkness was wearing her down even faster than the exertion
of the ride.

Twice more they leaped trees that had fallen across the
path—the first was low, scarcely more than thigh-high had
Eydryth been standing. The second came as they rounded a
last turn on the woodland trail. At first it seemed to her aching
eyes naught more than a small tree resting in a patch of
shadow from the woods.

But, just as they drew too close to safely halt, the songsmith
realized to her horror that her magically enhanced night vision
had played tricks upon her. What she had taken for shadow
was substance, and the tree trunk now looming before them
would have been chin-high on even a tall man!

All Eydryth's instincts screamed out for her to sit back and




250

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMITH

251

drag the Keplian to a halt, but she realized immediately that
it was too late. The stallion was headed straight for the tree,
too fast to stop without crashing into the obstacle. Stifling a
scream, Eydryth closed her legs on his sides, bent low over the
black neck, and shut her eyes. The Keplian's leap as he soared
into the air nearly unseated her.

Eydryth held her breath, expecting any moment to feel
Monso smash into the trunk. But somehow, the stallion
cleared it, though she heard bark scrape beneath them. They
hung in midair for what seemed forever; then they were over,
and falling . . . falling. Horse and rider landed hard and
off-balance—but safe.

As the stallion recovered his stride, breathing now in
hard, panting gasps, the minstrel clutched him around the
neck, nearly sobbing with relief. "Thank you . . . thank you,
Monso . . . ," she stammered.

A short distance later, they left the last of the trees to pound
across a long, gradually sloping field. Monso's breathing was
now labored. They had nearly reached the opposite side of the
field when the challenge that Eydryth had been anticipating
ever since they had turned off the road rang out. "You! Rider!
Halt! You are on Kioga land! Halt and identify yourself and
your business here!"

Knowing that the sentry was armed with a wickedly barbed
lance, Eydryth sat back in the saddle, reining Monso to a
quick halt. For once, the stallion seemed to welcome the
chance to stand still and regain his wind.

After a moment, Monso's breathing eased; then, scenting
the Kioga mount, the Keplian rumbled a deep challenge. The
songsmith heard the mortal horse whicker with fear as it ap-
proached. Her night vision made out the shadow blot of a
rider mounted upon a grey mare; then the Kioga tribesman lit
a torch. Eydryth shielded her eyes from the sudden, dazzling
light.

"It is I, Eydryth, Jervon's daughter," she called. "Who of
the Kioga rides on sentry-go tonight?"

"Eydryth?" The tribesman's voice was sharp with suspi-
cion. "If you are the Lady Eydryth, prove it. Tell me your dun
gelding's name."

She laughed wearily, at last recognizing the speaker's
weather-beaten, mustached features as her eyes adjusted to the
light. "My mare is a red chestnut, Guret, as you well know.
Her name is Vyar."

"Eydryth!" Guret gasped. "What are you doing here? You
left so long ago! And now to return in the middle of the
night.. ." He urged his grey closer, controlling her with firm
legs, forcing her to hold steady despite her fear of Monso.
"And astride such a mount! Wherever did you get him?"

The songsmith sighed, shaking her head. "It is a very long
story, my friend, one that I have not time to tell. Let me only
say that Lord Kerovan is in grave danger, and I ride to warn
him. As soon as my warning is delivered, I, and possibly others
from Kar Garudwyn, will ride forth from the valley this same
night. I left a friend behind, possibly in great danger, to ride
here tonight. I must return to aid him."

"A ... friend," Guret said, evidently catching some inflec-
tion in Eydryth's voice that she had not been aware of herself.

"He is the one who bred and trained Monso, here," she
said, stroking the panting Keplian's foam-drenched neck.

"Then he must be a master horseman," the Kioga man said.
"To capture and train a Keplian."

"I will tell you the entire story—or Alon will—as soon as
may be," Eydryth promised, "but not now. Guret, I have
ridden across nigh half of Arvon tonight. I must make it to
Kar Garudwyn as soon as possible!"

He nodded. "I will help you. Lady. But stay only a mo-
ment." One-handed, he pulled the gaudily embroidered blan-
ket he wore as a protection against the night's chill over his
head, shaking his long, dark braids to free them. "Here, wear
this. You look like a half-drowned yearling," he said, extend-
ing the blanket.

Gratefully, the songsmith slipped it over her head, relishing
the heat of Guret's body still trapped within its warm folds.
The Kioga man jerked a thumb behind him. "You ride. Lady.
I will call another for sentry duty, then go down-valley myself
to catch up the castlefolk's mounts and have them saddled and
ready."

She flashed him a grateful smile. "Bring Vyar, too," she




252

ANDBE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMITH

253

said; "This fellow deserves to rest for some time. I thank you
for your aid, Guret."

Eydryth urged Monso onward. The stallion stumbled as he
obeyed, and Guret gave her mount a measuring glance. "Will
he make it? Do you want to take Takala here, in his stead?"

"No, Guret." She patted Monso's shoulder. "Even ex-
hausted, this one could outrun your mare. Every moment
counts. Thank you again for your help."

He raised the nickering torch in salute as she turned and left
him.

Once past the circle cast by Guret's light, Eydryth was
hard-pressed to regain her night-sight. She relied mostly on
Monso's eyes to pick his way uphill at a slow canter.

Long minutes later, the songsmith caught sight of a familiar
landmark—a huge granite outcropping. She slowed Monso to
a walk, following the bulge of the gigantic thrust of rock.
When it split in twain to become a narrow pass, she turned
down it. Midway down that dark throat, two pillars of quan-
iron stood, topped with winged globes.

The entrance to the valley. She was almost home.

With a gasp ofthankfulness that sounded perilously akin to
a sob of weariness, the songsmith urged Monso toward the
entrance. The land beyond was filled with a swirling mist, part
of the spell-laid protection that encompassed the valley where
Landisi, the powerful gryphon-being, had once made his an-
cient home.

But as Monso tried to step past that barrier, the Keplian
halted, tossing his head snorting. He sidled away, much as he
had at the entrance to the Fane of Neave.         ,.

Of course, Eydryth thought. The wards on the valley. Monso
is part Shadow-creature, so he may not pass them. ...

But if she had to abandon the Keplian and run the rest of
the way, it would take her an hour or more to reach the castle
on the mountainside! Eydryth stared determinedly at the bar-
rier, reaching within herself for the Power Alon had assured
her she bore. She began to sing, raising her voice in a wordless
appeal, concentrating on an image in her mind of portals
giving way before them, allowing them free entrance.

Her voice filled the narrow cut, and, slowly the winged
globes began to pulse in time to the rise and fall other melody.
Holding firm the image in her mind of portals opening, Eyd-
ryth urged Monso forward again.

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 Eydryth's
eyes, but she continued to sing as she urged Monso forward,
and a few strides farther on, it abruptly vanished. Eydryth
looked to her right, and saw, glowing blue against the dark-
ness, 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 mut-
tered, stroking the Keplian. Summoning the dregs of her en-
ergy, she began to hum, and her night vision slowly crept back.
As soon as she could see the path before her, Eydryth chir-
ruped 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, Eydryth 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.




254

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMTTH

255

Eydryth 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 Kero-
van 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 to-
ward 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 moun-
tain citadel was constructed.

There was barely enough room within the ramped tunnel
for the Keplian and his rider. Eydryth 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 . . .," Eydryth 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 struc-
ture with tall, strangely twisted spires and multitudes of nar-
row, 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! Joi-
san! 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!

Eydryth felt a vast relief sweep her as she saw her foster-
father 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.

"Eydryth!" Joisan exclaimed, starting down the steps to-
ward 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, ponder-
ously, his legs buckled and he sank down on his knees. Eyd-
ryth 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 . . ."

"Eydryth ..." 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..."

Eydryth'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

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

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, Eydryth crum-
pled to the pavement beside Monso.

Fifteen

"£ydryth." A voice reached her ears ... a familiar voice.
"Eydryth . . . ," 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.

"Eydryth . . . Sister, how do you feel?" she asked, con-
cerned. 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.




258 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"Oh, Hyana," Eydryth 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, Eydryth
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?" Eydryth 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 protec-
tions. 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?" Eydryth demanded.

"They left me to tend you, while they are tending to your
. . . mount," Hyana replied.

"Tending to him?" Eydryth 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.

"I thought I had ridden him to death," Eydryth murmured.
Indeed, her brain was not working well ... or was it her
hearing that was lacking? It did not seem possible that Monso
could still be alive, after the way the Keplian had collapsed.

"No, he lives," Hyana assured her. "But... he is very weak,
Eydryth. Mother is using her healcraft, but she does not know
whether he can be saved."

SONGSMITH                 259

Memory rushed back, propelling Eydryth upward, off
Hyana's lap. Ignoring Hyana's and Firdun's efforts to restrain
her, the bard sat up. "The water!" she cried, looking wildly
about her for Monso's tack. "The water in my flask. The water
from Neave's spring—perhaps it can save him!"

Firdun held something up before her eyes. "This flask?"

"Yes!" Eagerly, the minstrel grabbed it. She hesitated, feel-
ing her own weakness. She needed strength, too, or she would
never be able to do what she must during the remainder of this
night. Where was Alon by now? Confronting Yachne?

Determinedly, the girl unstoppered the flask, held it to her
lips. Carefully, deliberately, she counted swallows, allowing
herself only five.

She could feel the restorative effect of the blessed springwa-
ter working on her tired body almost immediately. After a
minute, Eydryth was able to climb to her feet unaided, then
walk steadily across the stone flags to where Joisan and Sylvya
crouched beside the stricken Keplian.

As she neared them, the songsmith was horrified to see that
the gaping wound on Monso's foreleg had opened. The leg
was covered with both fresh and dried blood. The stallion
must have run for leagues after the wound had opened, and
she had not seen it in-the darkness. "Monso . . .," she whis-
pered, sinking down beside him and stroking his neck. He lay
unmoving, barely breathing. Eydryth felt tears well up again,
and resolutely fought them back. Weeping would not help
Monso, but Neave's springwater might!

"Joisan ... Sylvya ..." She clasped hands briefly with each
of these women who had helped to raise her. There would be
time later, after everything possible had been done for Monso,
for embraces and loving greetings. "I have something that
may help. We have to drench him with this," she said, holding
up the flask. "He is too weak to swallow, so I will have to pour
the water down his gullet while you hold his head up."

"Water?" Joisan asked. Eydryth saw that the Wise Woman
had her bag of simples and her healcraft supplies arranged
beside her. The wound was already cleansed. A curved needle
and a length of pronghorn sinew were laid out on the clean

260

SONGSMITH                   261

ANDRB NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

cloth beside her foster-mother. "What kind of water? How can
mere water aid him?"

"Not just any water," the minstrel explained. "This is water
from Neave's spring. It has great restorative effects." She held
out her own hands, palm up. "I just drank some, and see how
it has aided me. Otherwise, I would not be on my feet any
more than Monso is."

Joisan gave her a measuring glance, then nodded quickly.
"Firdun! Hyana!" she called. "Come, help me hold this crea-
ture's head up so Eydryth can drench him!"

It took three of them to raise Monso's head so that his neck
lay at the proper angle for him to swallow. Then Eydryth used
both hands to pry open the unconscious stallion's jaws. Pull-
ing his tongue out to one side of his mouth, she drew the
stopper from the flask, then, cautiously, poured the water
down the pale pink tunnel with its enormous teeth.

She poured . . . rubbed the Keplian's throat until he swal-
lowed, reflexively, then poured another measure down.

This time Monso swallowed on his own. Eydryth replaced
the stopper, saving the remaining water for a later dose.
Gently, her helpers eased the big head back down onto the
pavement.

Monso's eyelids lifted, then closed again. The stallion
groaned, but did not awaken. His breathing grew stronger,
more distinct, however, and Joisan, who kept one hand on his
chest, behind his foreleg, looked up excitedly. "His heartbeat
is strengthening!"

Sylvya laid her head against his shoulder, then glanced up
at her friend, her enormous round eyes beneath her downy
head-covering full of warning. "It is indeed! You had best do
your stitchery while the beast remains unconscious, Joisan!"

Nodding agreement, the Wise Woman bent to her task,
again cleansing the wound, then aligning the gaping edges,
pulling them closed with careful, precise stitches, knotting and
securing each one separately.

"Eydryth, I am anxious to know the whole of your story,"
Joisan said as she worked, not looking up from her task.

The songsmith sighed. "So much has happened that I

scarcely know where to start! Oh, Joisan ... we must save
Monso, if that is possible. He is Alon's horse... and Alon may
even now be in terrible danger! We must help him!"

Joisan gave her a quick, sideways glance. "Who is Alon?"

Eydryth could not help it; she felt her cheeks grow hot.
Firdun and Hyana, who were crouching nearby, exchanged
speculative glances. "Alon ...," the girl muttered, still blush-
ing. "He is ... Monso—this Keplian's—owner and master,"
she began. "He is my ... friend ..."

The Wise Woman smiled slightly, and gave her fosterling a
fond look. "Friend," she repeated blandly.

Eydryth grew very busy checking to see that the water flask
was indeed stoppered tightly. "He is an Adept who helped me
on my quest to find a way to heal Jervon," She patted the box
in Alon's jerkin pocket. "I have the cure with me. Praise
Gunnora it will—"

She broke off at the click of hooves upon the steps. They all
turned to see Kerovan descending. The Lord of Kar Garud-
wyn was of the heritage of the Old Ones, and was plainly not
of full humankind. His eyes were amber, with slitted, uncanny
pupils, and he stood upon cloven hooves rather than feet.
Otherwise he was human, with black hair and features typical
of the Old Race.

Eydryth's mouth fell open, then she leapt up. "Kerovan,
you must not leave your protections! Yachne may be trying to
bespell you even now!"

"I could no longer remain inside," her foster-father said
testily, even as he enveloped her in a tight embrace. His
strength and warmth felt wonderful after the perils of the
night. Eydryth felt tears threaten again as she leaned against
him for a moment; then he held her away, looking full into her
face. "Eydryth... Daughter... scold me if you must, but, by
the Nine Words of Min, tell me what chances tonight!"

Joisan carefully knotted the last stitch, then looked up at
her lord, her brows drawing together in a frown. "Kerovan,"
she said sternly. "Eydryth says that you are in danger. You
must not—"

He shook his head impatiently. "You cannot expect me to




262

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

sit in there and remain idle while there is a threat to my home
and family, Joisan!" Kerovan turned to his foster-daughter,
one hand going to the hilt of his sword. "Who is this Yachne
you spoke of? How does she threaten us?" he demanded, all
his years of soldiering coming to the fore.

The songsmith silently struggled to order the events of the
past days into some kind of coherent account. As she hesi-
tated, Joisan threw a blanket over the still-recumbent Keplian,
then turned back to her lord. Suddenly the Wise Woman
stiffened, then pointed at her husband's feet with a cry of
dismay. "Kerovan! Look!" she exclaimed.

Eydryth stepped back and stared, wide-eyed. On the stone
around Kerovan's hooves a dark mist—one that she well re-
membered from Yachne's cave—was slowly forming!

"Kerovan!" she gasped, pointing. "That is Yachne's spell!
She means to draw you to her, then drain you of all Power!
You must break the ensorcellment!"

Joisan bolted forward, hands going out to her lord, but he
motioned her back, staring down at the dark purple mist now
swirling around his legs. "No, my lady," he ordered, in a voice
that brooked no argument. "Do not seek to touch me, lest you
be taken also."

Eydryth felt as though she were trapped in a nightmare with
no waking. She twisted her hands in impotent anguish. "Oh,
Kerovan . . . can you stop it? Don't let it take you!"

He raised one hand into the air, slowly, formally, in a beck-
oning gesture that was not aimed at anyone present. "Yes," he
said a moment later, calmly. "I can stop it." The lord's
strange, inhuman eyes seemed to glow with an inner light as
he began chanting in the Old Tongue.

The stunned onlookers watched as a glowing shape began
forming around the heir to the gryphon-lord, encompassing
him as he stood. Eydryth glimpsed a fierce head that reminded
her of Steel Talon's, then a huge, raised paw. Tawny hind-
quarters like unto a lion's merged into an eagle's foreparts.

The unhuman shadow's eyes glowed golden-amber ... and
its eyes were Kerovan's eyes. But the rest of that uncanny,
dimly glimpsed shape was that of Landisl's messenger, guard-


SONGSMITH

263

ian and protector, the gryphon. Telpher. All her life Eydryth
had heard the tales of how Landisi, the gryphon-lord, and
Telpher, his servant, had protected both Joisan and Kerovan
during their adventures . . . but never had she seen Landisl's
heir summon the guardian spirit until now.

Slowly, almost contemptuously, Telpher's shadowy form
raised a massive paw, then dragged it through the thickening
mist, breaking the spell-circle.

Then both mist and shadowy gryphon-image abruptly van-
ished. Kerovan stood, hooves planted firmly upon the stone
pavement, unharmed.

Eydryth staggered forward with a cry of gladness, fiung her
arms around her foster-father, clutching him tightly. The rest
of his family crowded around, exclaiming with relief.

"You . .. you broke the spell!" Eydryth stammered finally,
stepping back to look up at him. "And so easily . . . where
Dinzil could not help himself." She frowned, thinking of how
hard they had striven to reach Kerovan with the warning,
remembering the Deepwater, Monso's collapse ... and, most
frightening of all, her abandonment of Alon. Had it all been
for naught? "Perhaps . . ." Her voice faltered. "Perhaps my
warning was not necessary. Perhaps I did not need to leave
Alon. . . ."

Joisan by now was close-pressed against her lord's side, one
arm around him, the other encircling her foster-daughter. The
Wise Woman shook her head, "Not so, Eydryth," she said
solemnly.

Kerovan echoed his wife's gesture. "My lady has the right
of it, Eydryth," he said. "I was warned, and thus could defeat
the spell when it attempted to ensnare me. But had you not
come here tonight, this Yachne's ensorcellment would have
found me asleep and unprepared. . . ." He shook his head
grimly. "And I have no doubt that I would have been
trapped."

"You have a long story to tell us. Sister," Hyana said. "And
you spoke of an Alon who is in danger. . . ."

"There is so much to tell, and so little time!" Eydryth said.
"I must see Jervon immediately—I may have found the means

264

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMITH

Z65

to heal him! And then we must all ride to aid Alon, because I
fear that Yachne will try and take him, since she could not prey
upon Kerovan. He went to seek her, but he is wearied, and was
wounded yesterday. I fear greatly for him. . . ."

"Eydryth... dear one..." Sylvya was staring at the young
woman in open amazement, as if she had never seen her
before. "I sense so many changes... you are so different! You
have been places, done things. . . changed .. ." Quickly, the
woman from the ancient past of Arvon traced a symbol in the
air, and it glowed blue, tinged with green.

The songsmith drew herself up. "You have the right of it,
Aunt," she said, smiling faintly, proudly. Then, humming
softly, she drew a sign of her own in the air—the shape of a
musical note. It hung before them, outlined as if in a trail of
turquoise fire. "I have discovered Power of my own kind," she
said. "Through my music. Else I could not have gotten Monso
past the valley's wards."

Amazement spread across their faces; then they all stepped
forward, besieging the songsmith with questions. Kerovan
had to shout to be heard above the excited inquiries. "We
must have the entire story, sitting down!" he ordered, now
very much the lord of the hold. "And I for one will be most
interested to hear about this mysterious Alon!"

Eydryth felt warmth again reddening her cheeks. She cast
about again for words to tell the group about Alon, but still
could find none. She smiled at her family, feeling their love,
their concern, enclose her like warm arms after a nightmare.
"I will tell you everything," she promised, "as soon as may be.
But first. . ." She took out Dahaun's box, then opened it to
peer cautiously within. To her vast relief, the healing red mud
still lay within, seeming as fresh as the time she had used it to
treat the Adept's wrist. "First Jervon. I cannot sit still until I
have seen my father."

"Is that the cure you have brought?" Kerovan asked, peer-
ing skeptically into the little box. "Mud?"

Joisan put out a finger, touched the moist earth tentatively,
then drew back as if it had stung her. "Where did you find
this?" she gasped.

"From the Lady of the Green Silences in Escore," Eydryth
said. She glanced down at the sleeping horse, then picked up
her harp from where it lay on the ground, still wrapped in her
cloak. "If we are fortunate, there may be enough mud in
Dahaun's box to help Monso's wound, also." She smiled at all
of them. "But first, oh, first I must see my father!"

Joisan smiled warmly as her fosterling. "Go, by all means,
my dear. In the meantime, Kerovan and I will prepare food—I
believe we have all worked up an appetite, with all these
midnight alarums and excursions. Firdun and Sylvya will
watch over your mount."

"Come, Sister," Hyana said, taking the songsmith's arm, "I
will accompany you."

Carrying her harp and the little box, Eydryth followed her
foster-sister through the halls ofKar Garudwyn, along a corri-
dor lit by the light-globes like unto those she had seen in Es
city, in the witches' citadel. For a moment she found herself
remembering Avris and wondered how her friend now fared.
Then they came to Jervon's door, and paused outside, trem-
bling suddenly.

What ifDahaun 's mud does not work? she wondered, feeling
her mouth go dry with fear. / have traveled so long . . . it has
been so many years .. . please, Amber Lady . . . please, Neave!
I beg of you, give my father back to me!

Hyana placed a steadying hand upon her arm. Eydryth
nodded at her foster-sister, straightened her shoulders, then
walked in.

Jervon was lying on his pallet. A Kioga girl sat in a chair,
dozing. A servant or a member of the family always watched
over the Power-blasted man, lest he wander away or harm
himself inadvertently, like the very young child he now resem-
bled.

The girl, whom Eydryth remembered was named Karlis,
stared wide-eyed at the newcomer. "Eydryth!" she blurted.
"Welcome home, Lady!"

The songsmith greeted the servant; then Hyana smiled reas-
suringly at the girl. "We will watch him for a while," she said,
and Karlis took her leave.




266

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMITH

267

Eydryth walked slowly over to her father's pallet. Even in
his sleep, the slackness around his mouth, the vacant expres-
sion on his face, betrayed his malady. Sitting down beside him,
his daughter took his hand gently. Beneath tumbled russet-
brown curls, he opened blue eyes that had once been the same
vivid color as his daughter's, but now were faded, empty of
reason. "Father . . .," the songsmith whispered, stroking his
hair, "I've come home."

Jervon grinned, then babbled at her, mixing random words
with nonsense syllables. At least he still recognizes me, the girl
thought, wiping a smear ofwetness from his chin when he had
finished his greeting—if such it could be termed. "Just hold
still, now," she whispered, then began to gently stroke Da-
haun's healing mud across his forehead, covering it with a thin
layer of the cool redness.

Jervon twitched, raised his hands to swipe fretfully at the
healing substance. "No, don't wipe it off," Eydryth said, and
together, she and Hyana held his hands down until he sub-
sided, eyeing them both nervously.

"When he quiets," Eydryth^aid softly, "I want you to take
the mud that is left to Joisan. Tell her to spread it over the
Keplian's wound. Then have her rinse the container in a
bucket of water, so that he may be offered that water to drink
when he awakens and can stand again."

"I understand," her foster-sister said, softly.

Jervon gazed at them, then at the water jug that stood in its
place on the bureau. He waved at it, babbling again. "He
wants a drink," Eydryth said, recognizing the gesture and
sounds.

But before she held the goblet Hyana filled to Jervon's lips,
Eydryth, acting on impulse, dropped a dollop of the red mud
into the liquid, then stirred it with a forefinger until it dis-
solved. "Here, Father," she said, aiding him as he sat up.
Jervon drank thirstily, then smiled vacantly and lay back
down. He tossed restlessly, still wanting to scratch at the mud
now drying across his forehead. "No, no," Eydryth whis-
pered. "Leave it where it is. Father. ..."

Hyana was holding the container, eyeing the red mud still

within it. "Whoever this Lady of the Green Silences is, she is
someone with great Power," she said. "I can feel her magic
through this container."

"Dahaun has great Power, yes," Eydryth said. "That is part
of the story I have yet to tell you. Shhhh," she said, turning her
attention back to her father, "lie still, dear Father. Rest easy."

"Perhaps if you sang to him ...," Hyana suggested. "That
always used to quiet him, even on his worst days."

Eydryth nodded, then picked up her hand-harp. A moment
to tune it, then she began gently plucking the strings, hum-
ming as she searched in her mind for a song. Alon's face swam
before her eyes, and before she knew what she was about, she
was singing:

When the hills were purple with heather
And spring rode over the Dale
When my love and I were together,
I could dream of a bridal veil.

Before the Hounds came to rend us,
We did own the spring and the moor—
Now war has become my love's mistress
And my young heart is weary and sore.

Still in dreams do I walk our fair valley
Still in dreams I remember his voice,
In that lost time still do we dally
And still now is he my heart's choice.
For a bond, once formed, is not broken
And a promise, once having been spoken
Must be kept, regardless of cost.

She sang the old song quietly, as tears filled her eyes and
slipped quietly down her face. When she was finished, Jervon
had fallen asleep again. The red mud had dried, and was now
hardening into its crust upon his forehead. Hyana placed a
hand on her sister's shoulder. "You love him, do you not?"
she murmured. "This . . . Alon."

"Yes, I love him," Eydryth whispered, leaning her face




ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

268

against Hyana's shoulder, unable to meet the older girl's eyes.
"I love him . . . more than I can say."

Hyana hugged her gently, stroking her foster-sister's curls.
"Tell me, does he return your love?"

Silently, the songsmith nodded. "But I fear for him," she
murmured. "He was heading into great danger."

"We will aid you. Sister," Hyana promised, drawing back
and clasping Eydryth's hands in a reassuring grip. "I will tell
Mother and Father to prepare to ride forth tomorrow."

Eydryth shook her head. "Tomorrow may be too late. We
must go as soon as possible. Tonight. Alon went alone to track
Yachne, to a Place of Power—Dark Power. I dare not delay
until daylight."

Hyana looked grave. "There is no moon tonight," she said
quietly. "The Power of the Shadow is at its strongest, now.
Especially in one of the Dark Places."

The songsmith nodded. "I know. That is all the more reason
to go before dawn."

Joisan and Kerovan's daughter nodded, then, quietly,
slipped from the room, leaving Eydryth alone with her father.

The songsmith sat beside him, his hand clasped in hers,
watching him sleep. Softly, she sang to him again, as memories
ran through her mind like playful children. Jervon... carrying
her on his shoulders when she was very small. Jervon, practic-
ing swordplay in the courtyard with Kerovan, his face flushed
and full of life. Jervon, teaching her to lunge and parry with
her own wooden sword. Jervon, picking her up after her first
hard fall from a horse, his face drawn with worry . .. Jervon,
standing with his arm around his wife, the last time she had
seen them together before Elys disappeared . . .

Eydryth's memories dissolved into dreams as she dozed,
sitting on her father's bed, still holding his hand.

The songsmith started awake when the door opened to
admit Joisan. Her foster-mother had changed her dress for
riding trousers and thigh-high boots to protect her from un-
derbrush. She wore a padded leather jerkin and heavy tunic,
and her chestnut hair was braided tightly.

In her arms, she carried a bundle of clothing. "I brought

SONGSMTTH

269

some of your clothes," she whispered. "So you can change out
of those damp ones." She gazed down at Jervon. "How fares
he?"

Eydryth tapped the mud with a testing forefinger. "It is dry,
and cracking," she said. "Dahaun said to remove it when—"

She broke off as Jervon opened his eyes. His gaze traveled
from Joisan to Eydryth; then he blinked, and it sharpened.
"Joisan?" he whispered, staring at the Wise Woman.

Both women gasped in sudden hope and amazement. "Jer-
von!" Joisan exclaimed, her hand going out to clasp her
friend's. "Jervon, you know me?"

"Of course I know you," he replied, obviously bewildered.
"But. . . who is this?" He pointed at Eydryth.

The songsmith gulped, then raised the hand she still held to
her cheek. Her tears splashed down, hot and salty. "Father..."
she whispered. "Oh, Father! Thank you. Amber Lady! Thank
you, Dahaun!"

Jervon stared at her, his eyes widening incredulously. He sat
up, grasping her shoulders hard. "EydrythT' he whispered. "Is
that you? But... but ..."

Joisan hugged her foster-daughter, who was now crying too
hard to speak. "Yes, Jervon. It is Eydryth. You have been
... ill... for a time. A long time. It was only tonight that your
daughter brought home a cure for your malady, and it was
thus that you have awakened at last!"

Jervon reached out to hug Eydryth, cradling her against his
shoulder. Joy welled up in her, such joy as made all her strug-
gles, her sacrifices, seem as nothing by comparison to the
feeling of having her father's arms around her, hearing his
voice speak her name.

After a moment, Jervon spoke again, his voice strained and
still bewildered... but already he was beginning to grasp that
there had been changes . . ; vast changes . . . that he yet
remained unaware of. "Time . . ." he whispered. "Joisan
. . . how much time?"

The Wise Woman drew a deep breath. "Six years, Jervon,"
she said, steadily, giving him the truth.

"Oh, no ..." Jervon whispered. "My child .. . grown into

270

SONGSMITH                 271

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

a woman. My wife . . ." Sudden hope brightened his voice.
"What of Elys?"

"Still missing, Father," Eydryth said, pulling back a little to
look at him, run her fingers over his dear, familiar face. Ten-
derly, she chipped away the last of the red mud. Now that his
expression was animated, full of life again, it seemed that the
intervening years had wrought but little change in him.

Her father stared at her. "You look so much like her," he
said, wonderingly. "You have grown into a beauty, Daugh-
ter."

"What is the last thing you remember. Father?" she asked.

"The Seeing Stone," he said. "I climbed ... I looked . . ."
He drew a quick breath. "Eydryth, I saw her! I saw Elys that
day! She lay within a Place of Power—one I would recognize
if I saw it again. In my vision, she was lying upon a pallet, her
hands folded upon her breast. Our son . . ." He drew a deep,
ragged breath. "Our son was still within her. I could see the
swell other belly. Elys was surrounded by a mist, a glamourie
of some kind, that shields her from view... but"—he grasped
his daughter's hands tightly—"she is alive, Eydryth! Alive!"

"Oh, Father!" she whispered. "If only we can find her
. . . save her!"

"We will," he promised, and his words bore the ring of a
sacred vow. "We will."

Joisan stood up, one hand resting on each shoulder. "I must
carry these happy tidings to my lord," she said. "And then
. . . Eydryth, we are all still waiting for your story."

The songsmith smiled up at her foster-mother. "I will be
with you shortly," she said.

"We will both be there," Jervon amended. "If there is a
story to be told, I want to hear it, also." He smiled ruefully.
"I have much catching up to do, it seems."

Less than an hour later, Eydryth, dressed in fresh clothing, her
hunger truly satisfied for the first time in days, sat on one of
the stone benches in the Great Hall, finishing her food, her tale
(cut to the bare bones) told. "And so," she concluded, "Alon
went to track the witch alone. I fear for him." She glanced at

her family's faces. "So much so that I ride back out tonight.
Guret must already be waiting with the horses saddled."

"I will ride with you. Sister!" Firdun was the first to speak.
"I have no fear of a sorceress!"

"And that lack of fear is precisely why you will remain
here," Kerovan told his impetuous son, grimly. "/ will ride
with Eydryth."

"And so will I," Hyana and Joisan said, together.

"And I." Jervon was only a heartbeat behind. The former
invalid was dressed now in riding garb. Thanks to the walks
and rides his companions had taken him on, he was not
wasted, although he had complained bitterly at his own thin-
ness and lost muscle tone.

Now he smiled at his daughter and squeezed her hand, his
blue eyes sparkling with teasing laughter. "We must rescue
this young sorcerer, if only so that I may inquire as to his
intentions toward my daughter." He shook his head. "What
a night! I have regained myself after years of lost time, only to
discover that I now have a sorceress of no little power as a
daughter, and an Adept as a prospective son. My head is
spinning!"

Eydryth shook her head, willing herself not to blush again.
She had said naught about what had happened in the Fane of
Neave, beyond the bare fact that the Place of Power had cured
both she and Alon of the Shadow-taint. And she knew that
Hyana had not betrayed her confidence. But her family knew
her well, and her voice had given her away every time she had
spoken Alon's name, she feared.

"Father!" she said, mock-reprovingly. "I said nothing of
. . . of. . ."

"You did not have to," Jervon said gently; then he sobered.
"After so long unaware of anything, I see tonight as if I have
been new-forged. My daughter is a woman, and a Wise
Woman at that. All of this will take me some time."

"Thanks to the Lady of the Green Silences, we will all have
that time," Joisan said. "But for now, I suggest that we ride!"

In the end, it was decided that Sylvya and Firdun would
remain behind . . . over Firdun's bitter protests. Kerovan




272 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMITH

273

reminded his son that he could track his sister by mind-link,
and thus keep those at Kar Garudwyn informed as to their
progress. As soon as all was in readiness, Joisan, Kerovan,
Eydryth, Hyana and Jervon left the Great Hall together.

Outside Kar Garudwyn, Monso stood, chewing a mouthful
of hay, awaiting them. The Keplian's ordeal had left him thin
and worn, but Dahaun's red mud had again worked its magic,
and his leg was nearly healed. The stallion had finished the
water from Neave's spring, and the water that Sylvya had
given him after rinsing Dahaun's box in it. Looking at him,
Eydryth could scarcely believe that only two hours had passed
since they had arrived at Landisl's citadel.

She patted the Keplian, then swiftly saddled and bridled
him. "Surely you do not intend to ride him?" Joisan said. "He
needs rest, not more riding!"

Eydryth shook her head. "I will ride Vyar," she told her
foster-mother. "But Alon will need a mount, if we find him.
And Monso will not be content to wait here for his master's
return. No stall or fence could hold him if he wishes to come
with us ... and he does," she said, smiling as the stallion
whickered, then pawed, as if he understood her perfectly.

She removed the reins from the Keplian's bit, so he would
run no risk of stepping on them, coiling them and tying them
on the saddle. Even as she had predicted, Monso clattered
after them as they descended the ramp to the valley.

Within minutes, the rescue party set out, trotting slowly in
single file, with Jervon, who did not have the night-sight,
riding in their midst.

By the time they had reached the road, and set out along it,
Eydryth was barely able to hold herself back from galloping
full speed along it. Her worry for Alon gnawed at her like
some wild creature.

As they moved westward at a ground-eating trot, she
chafed, realizing for the first time how slow a mortal horse's
gaits were, in comparison to Monso's. The riderless stallion
ranged ahead of them, scenting the air as though trying to
trace his master that way.

Suddenly Monso shrilled his stallion's scream into the

night, then reared before them. Fearing that the half-bred had
gone berserk, the riders drew rein, watching the Keplian anx-
iously as he stood pawing nervously in the middle of the road.
The half-bred screamed yet again—

—and this time he was answered!

A shrill cry broke through the night air, and Eydryth sud-
denly discerned a blacker-than-black shape winging toward
them. A shape that bore a white V on its breast.

"Steel Talon!" she gasped, as the falcon came to rest on the
cantle of Monso's saddle. She knew that the falcon would not
normally fly at night, and her heart began slamming within
her.

"This is the falcon you spoke of?" Kerovan asked.

"Yes," Eydryth whispered, through dry lips. The bird
looked straight at the songsmith and screamed again. "He has
come to lead us to Alon," she said, suddenly sure that she
spoke truth. "He is even now in terrible danger!"




SONGSMITH

275

Sixteen

5'teel Talon led them, winging from tree to bush, alighting
always a short distance away, then voicing his shrill cry.
Monso cantered after the falcon, and Eydryth and her family
followed the Keplian.

Roads stretched before them in the darkness of the waning,
now-overcast night—first the broad, well-traveled highway
Eydryth had taken to reach Kar Garudwyn, then another,
narrower way that turned south off the main route somewhere
in Bluemantle lands. This secondary road soon deteriorated to
little more than an overgrown, cart-rutted track.

All of the party, except for Jervon, could summon night
vision at need, so they took turns riding point. In that way, no
one person had to bear that burden alone. When Kerovan

rode at the head of the group, Jervon rode beside him. As they
companied side by side, Eydryth could hear the soft rise and
fall of Kerovan's voice, broken every so often by a quiet
question or comment from her father. She guessed that Kero-
van was attempting to fill in the missing years for his newly
recovered friend.

Dawn was still more than an hour away when the little party
reached the Place of Power that was Yachne's destination. For
the past hour, the riders had crossed moorland and picked
their way across marshy hallows, for the trail had deteriorated
to a game path, then dwindled away completely. If it had not
been for the Keplian and the falcon, they would have been
completely lost.

As they rounded a stand of brush, Eydryth, who was riding
in the fore with Hyana, saw Monso stop. The stallion snorted,
then stuck out his upper lip, exposing his teeth, as if he scented
something foul. Steel Talon alighted on the cantle of Alon's
saddle a moment later. "Our destination lies just ahead," Eyd-
ryth's foster-sister said in a hushed voice. "I can sense that
from the falcon."

Peering through the night, Eydryth concentrated her night
vision, making out a faint light from somewhere ahead. It
brightened the way ahead, seeming as strong as the glow of a
forest fire Eydryth had once seen—a forest fire that had
burned itself down to embers. But the bard knew instinctively
that whatever caused this light had no kinship with honest fire
or once-living wood. The glow that now rose ahead of them
was unclean.

Vyar, Eydryth's Kioga mare, suddenly halted, ears pointing
forward, then abruptly flattening as her nostrils flared. The
songsmith felt her shiver; then, without warning, the horse
ducked her head down to her chest and began backing away.
If Eydryth had not driven her forward with her legs, she would
have turned tail and bolted.

Hyana's gelding shied also. Even in the darkness the song-
smith could see the ring of white encircling the terrified crea-
ture's eye. Kerovan's voice came from behind them, floating
softly on the pitchy air. "What chances?"

"The horses," Eydryth kept her own voice soft. "They are




276        ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

balking. They smell something ahead that they do not care to
approach."

"Must we go on afoot?" Joisan asked.

"I do not know. Perhaps."

But, after a brief struggle (and a firm smack with the reins),
the songsmith was able to force her mount onward. Vyar was
trembling beneath her, but, having managed the Keplian,
Eydryth found a mortal horse far easier to handle. Once he
was given a lead to follow, Hyana's grey, Raney, fell in behind
Vyar.

Stiff-legged, trembling, the mare followed Monso toward
the source of that glow. It seemed to Eydryth to be a forest,
one that had died—died so swiftly that the leaves had had no
chance to drop from the branches. They shone white, a rank,
phosphorescent white, like the lichens which grew in some
caves. The branches and trunks which sprouted those eldritch
leaves were dull black, as if they had turned in a trice to solid
pillars of rot. And from many of those branches hung lengths
of dead, silvery moss, veiling the depths of the forest from
their eyes like concealing tapestries.

If it had not been for the stomach-wrenching reek that
emanated from that strange wood, that eye-searing aura of
total wrongness, the place might have been termed strangely
beautiful. As they halted just outside of the strange wood,
Eydryth looked over at Hyana. "What do you make of it,
Sister?" she asked, knowing that the other had the gift of
seeing beyond the ken of humankind, into the spirit and future
of things.

"Truly, this is a case where fair is foul and foul, fair,"
Hyana replied. "If your Alon has followed the witch within, he
has endangered not merely his body, but his innermost es-
sence. To die in this place would leave one not only dead, but
damned without hope of succor or mercy."

"A path." Jervon, ever the practical strategist, pointed to a
distinct trail. "But there is no telling whether it leads to the
right place."

"If there is a path, then it is that way we must go," Kerovan
said. "Touching one of those 'trees'—if such they ever truly

SONGSMITH                 277

were—would be as poisonous as inviting the strike of an
adder." Eydryth saw that the wristlet he always wore was
softly glowing, warning, as was its nature, against evil.

"Will the horses take it?" Joisan asked, soothing her golden
chestnut. "Varren is not happy even standing here, much less
entering that place."

"Monso is already going," Eydryth 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 Eydryth 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, Eydryth 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.

Eydryth 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 quiver-
ing 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 Eydryth'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-

278

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

SONGSMITH

279

die, and Eydryth 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 rid-
den 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. Eydryth 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 dark-
red streaks fell from the tip of her fingers, then launched
themselves across the intervening space, aimed at the Adept's
head.

"Alon!" Eydryth 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 Eydryth 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. Evi-
dently Alon had lost his concentration on his spelling when he
had heard her shout, because, even as Eydryth 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!" Eydryth 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, Eydryth 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.

Eydryth 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!" Eydryth 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 bil-
lowed up, nearly waist-high. "No!" Eydryth 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. Eydryth 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




ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

280

shook his head, one hand still clutching his crystal talisman.
Eydryth 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. Eydryth
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, concen-
trating. The sword, Eydryth 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!" Eydryth
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. Eydryth 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. Eydryth 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.

SONGSMTTH                  281

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 bar-
rier—Steel Talon!

The witch ducked, barely missing the winged death stoop-
ing 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 Eydryth'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, Eydryth 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 cleans-
ing 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.

Yachne stiffened with a shriek of mingled pain and fury as
Eydryth's gryphon-hilted sword, with all the strength of
Alon's arm behind it, transfixed her.

The mist vanished as the witch toppled over backward—
and lay unmoving.

At the same moment, Eydryth and the others staggered
forward as the barrier that had kept them helpless on the
outside of the meadow disappeared.

"Alon, oh, Alon!" The songsmith ran straight to the Adept,
grabbing his shoulders, hugging him ecstatically, but only for
a moment did he return her embrace. His face set, he gently
put her aside, then walked forward to pick up a small, stricken
form lying on the ground next to the dying sorceress.

Eydryth cried out softly with grief and pity. Steel Talon was
not dead yet... but he soon would be, that was plain. "Oh,
no!" she whispered.

282 SONGSMITH 283

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

Tears stood in the Adept's eyes as he cradled the dying
falcon against him. "Steel Talon...," he whispered brokenly.
"You saved me. . . ."

Eydryth lifted a hand to gently touch that fierce beak, star-
ing at those dimming eyes. She thought that she glimpsed a
strange satisfaction deep in them. Alon glanced up at her,
startled. "Steel Talon is ... content," he whispered.

Eydryth nodded as understanding suddenly flooded
through her. "Because he has fulfilled the quest that was the
only thing keeping him alive, is that not so?" she asked. "He
dies content, knowing that he has gained his revenge."

Alon nodded. "Yachne ... it was Yachne that night, when
Jonthal died. She set the trap ... for me. But it was Jonthal
who died. . . ."

Steel Talon's fierce eyes seemed to blaze even more fiercely;

then the bird abruptly stiffened, jerked several times, and
sagged, limp. Alon swallowed, then turned to walk away,
toward Monso.

Eydryth started after him, but Jervon caught her arm.
"No," her father said gently. "Give him a moment to grieve
in private. He would wish it so."

The songsmith took a deep breath; then she nodded. They
watched as Alon walked over to Monso, gave the stallion a
quick pat, then carefully, tenderly, wrapped the falcon's body
in his undertunic. He tied the small, wrapped form to the
saddle. She knew, without being told, that the Adept intended
to give the bird proper burial on clean ground.

Eydryth turned back to her family, and saw Joisan and
Hyana crouched beside Yachne. The songsmith was faintly
surprised to see that the sorceress still lived, though it was
plain that no healcraft could aid her.

Dropping to her knees beside the witch, Eydryth stared
down at her, thinking how suddenly small and shrunken she
appeared. Yachne opened grey eyes to regard her, and the
younger woman realized that the gleam of madness that had
so frightened her before was gone. The witch struggled to
draw breath. "Am ... am I dying?" she whispered.

Joisan hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. If I could help you, I
would, but your wound is beyond any ability of mine to heal."

Sweat stood out on the dying woman's face. "Yes . . . feel
it. Hurts . . . hurts so . . ."

"I am sorry," Joisan said. "I can try to sing you into a
painless state, if you so wish. That is all I can do to ease your
passing."

The witch nodded. "Alon?" she whispered. "Where is
Alon?"

Eydryth hastily beckoned the Adept, who was even now
returning to them, to come quickly. When he reached the
woman who had cared for him as a child, he dropped down
beside her, took her hand. "I am sorry," he said quietly. "So
sorry. I wish there had been some other way."

"Not... not your fault," she whispered. "I see clearly now
. . . been so long since I could do that . . ."

"Hush," Alon said, fighting to keep his voice from break-
ing. "Don't try to talk."

"Must... must talk ...," she insisted. "It was the Turning
... the Turning." She gasped for breath. "I was . . . witch of
Estcarp before then. ..."

"So we guessed," Eydryth said. "And you lost your powers
after the Turning?"

The former witch nodded. "Angry. Wanted what should
have been mine forever . . . wanted it back . . ." Joisan
carefully wiped Yachne's dry lips with a cloth moistened in
water. The old woman (for all her borrowed "youth" had
vanished) sucked gratefully at the moisture. Joisan aided her
as she swallowed a sip from a water flask. "Then I found out
... about the ones who still had the Power... the males. They
had what should have been mine. . . ."

After a moment she went on, "Wandered . . . long time.
Garth Howell. . . they took me in. They were there, too, the
males with the Power ... the creatures against nature ... but
they offered me a way...." She sucked in breath, then writhed
for a moment. Finally, sweat pouring down her face, she
subsided. "The spell. The abbot taught me ... spell. As long
as I would take the Power from you ..." She gasped, staring
at Alon. "That was the price . . . one I was willing to pay
. . . and gladly. I am sorry for that, Alon. . . ."

"Me?" He was plainly startled. "Why? I have never encoun-




ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

284

tered the denizens of Garth Howell, never banned them. I was
half the world away! Why me?"

"They fear you . . . ," she whispered. "You are one of the
Seven." She stared then at Eydryth, and Hyana. "As are they.
The Seven . . ."

"The Seven what?" Eydryth wondered.

"Defenders . . . defenders of this land . . . defenders of
Arvon," Yachne replied. She was laboring now for breath,
and it was pain to hear her. "There will be ... Seven. Last has
not yet ... been born." Her gaze turned again to Eydryth.
"Your brother," she muttered. "Will be the last. If he is ever
born."

Eydryth grabbed the old woman's hand in both of hers.
"What know you of my brother?" she demanded fiercely.

"Promise . . . promise you will ease my passing . . ." the
sorceress said.

"I swear by Gunnora's amulet," she vowed. "Where is my
brother, Yachne?"

"Here .. . and not-here. Within the stone that is not-stone.
Beyond the cage, beneath the flesh . . . uhhhh ..." With a
rattling moan, she trailed off.

To Eydryth, the words had no meaning. She began to de-
mand further explanation, but Joisan nudged her. "She is
beyond speech. Daughter," she whispered. "Shall we fulfill
our promise?"

Together, Joisan and Eydryth sang softly, and all of the
group watched the lines of pain smooth away from the aged
features. When Yachne died, minutes later, her countenance
was almost peaceful.

They covered her face with a fold from her ragged mantle,
then withdrew to the other side of the massive stone to speak
together for the first time. Joisan looked up at the eastern side
of the Shadow Place. "Dawn is breaking," she said softly.
"We have lived through this night . . . something that I
doubted, a few hours ago."

Alon stared around him at his rescuers. "I thank you for
coming to my aid. Without your"—he nodded at Hyana—
"mind-sending, I would never have remembered that sword."

SONGSMITH

285

"Alon, this is Hyana, my foster-sister," Eydryth said, re-
membering her manners. "And this is Lord Kerovan and
Lady Joisan, my foster parents." Pride tinged her voice as she
hooked her arm through Jervon's. "And this is my father,
Jervon."

Alon had bowed in turn as each introduction was made, but
when he heard this last, he blinked in surprise. "Dahaun's
mud worked!" he cried. "This is ... this is wonderful hearing!
Sir," he added hastily.

Jervon smiled. "I owe you much, young sorcerer," he said.
"And I gather from everything that my daughter has not said,
that we have a great deal to discuss, you and I." He held out
his hand. "Well-met, Alon!"

This time it was the Adept's turn to color, but he grasped
the older man's hand with a strong grip, and met his eyes
steadily. "You have the right of it... sir," he said. "Well-met,
indeed, Jervon. You are a most fortunate man. We had no
idea whether Dahaun's red mud would restore an injured
mind."

"I am fortunate indeed," Jervon said. "To have a daughter
such as mine. Although"—he gave Alon an equally level
stare—"I have gained the impression that I must now resign
myself to sharing her."

Alon's mouth quirked slightly. "Perceptive, as well as fortu-
nate," he said.

Kerovan chuckled, then reached into his saddlebag and
brought out hunks ofjoumeybread and another water flask.
"Here, Alon, you must be hungry."

The little group sat in a circle, sharing food and water, while
dawn slowly brightened the eldritch woods around them. The
events of the night weighed heavy upon the songsmith now,
and she felt at once so tired that she could have lain down and
slept next to Yachne's stiffening corpse, and so keyed up with
frustration that she felt as though she must needs scream
aloud.

Catching her father's eye upon her, she gave him a wan
smile. "To come so close to finding her . . . and fail. Yachne
knew where my mother is."

286

SONGSMTTH

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

287

He nodded. "It is hard," he said. "But we will not give up."

"Here and not-here," Alon repeated, puzzling aloud.
"Stone that is not-stone." He shook his head. "What can it
mean?"

None of them could think of an answer. But Alon refused
to give up, worrying at the riddle as though it were a bone and
he a hound. "Here . . ." He glanced around the clearing.
"What could be here, and yet not-here? Stone and not-stone?
Stone ... stone is rock, it is granite, it is limestone, and quartz
. . ." He trailed off, staring down at the crystal he wore.
"Crystal!" he exclaimed. "It is stone, yet not-stone. Could that
be what Yachne meant?"

All of them turned to survey their surroundings in the grow-
ing light. "There is no stone except that one," Jervon said,
finally, pointing to the monstrous boulder. "And that appears
grey, not crystal."

The Adept rose and walked over to the stone. Eydryth
walked beside him, and together they gazed upon it. "Here
and not-here," Alon said. "Stone and not-stone. It sounds
rather like those mirror Gates we used, does it not?"

It was obvious that he was having some insight that Eydryth
could not follow. "But that stone is nothing like this one," she
said, touching the crystal talisman he wore with her fingers,
tapping it with a nail. It rang, ever so faintly, and Alon, who
had been staring at the huge rock, gasped.

"Do that again!" he commanded, holding the crystal out to
her. "And match the note with your voice, as you did once
before!"

Puzzled, she obeyed him, making the crystal ting, then at-
tempting to match the note.

"I see it!" Alon exclaimed, wide-eyed. "Eydryth, look at the
stone as you do so!"

Again she sounded the crystal, echoed it with a sung note.
And, before her eyes, the great stone grew translucent!

She could see within it ... and, in the crystalline depths,
there was a pallet, and upon the pallet, a human shape!

"It is a Gate!" she exclaimed in astonishment. By that time
the others, arrested by their excited voices, had come over to
discover what chanced.

Once more Alon performed his demonstration, and this
time it was Jervon's turn to grow wide-eyed. "That is Elys!"
he gasped. "That is what I saw in the Seeing Stone! I knew I
would recognize it if I ever saw it again!"

"We must break the illusion that this is a solid boulder,"
Joisan said. "We must link and attempt to open the Gate."

"How?" Kerovan asked. "You and Alon seem to be the
ones who have done so in the past."

"I believe we should link hands and Power," Joisan said.
"Then pour our Power into Eydryth. The crystal responds to
sound, and she is our singer. Her voice is the key that will
unlock this Gate." The Wise Woman glanced at Alon, and he
nodded agreement.

So it was that they linked hands, concentrated. Within mo-
ments Eydryth began to feel light-headed, as though she were
some kind of rod that was being used to conduct a thunder-
bolt. Opening her mouth, she sang—and her voice rang out
with greater volume and clarity than she had ever possessed
before.

Slowly, the boulder cleared again . . . became crystal . . .
then became mist. With Jervon close behind them, the group
took a step forward, straight into that mist.

They were in a place, and it was filled with light—but it was
a Dark light, as though Shadow had been turned to flame, and
given substance. The place had no horizons, no boundaries.
There was no sky ... nothing. Their feet rested on something,
but it was difficult to tell what. Eydryth swallowed as she was
assailed by sudden vertigo. It was extremely disconcerting to
have no reference points.

Except one. Before her was the pallet, and on it, Elys lay
sleeping. Eydryth saw the gentle mound of her belly beneath
her robe. "She has been here the entire time," Joisan whis-
pered.

"But why?" Kerovan asked. "Why take her and confine
her? If these Adepts at Garth Howell are so powerful, and yet
evil enough to do this, then why not simply do away with
her?"

"Because to murder a woman who is carrying is such a great
transgression that even the masters and mistresses of Garth




288 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

Howell would not dare to do so," Hyana replied. "Gunnora
is a powerful spirit who protects the unborn, and those who
carry them. They dared not harm Elys outright. They feared
Gunnora's reprisal too much."

Eydryth walked forward, and they followed her. The song-
smith's eyes adjusted more to the strangeness of this Place,
and she could see lines of Dark light arcing over her sleeping
mother's form, as though she lay within a cage.

"Beyond the cage, beneath the flesh," Alon whispered.
"The Seventh Defender ofArvon sleeps before us."

"How can we free her?" Hyana asked. "I know of no spell
to undo this kind of sorcery."

"Nor do I," Joisan admitted.

"Landisi cannot help us here," Kerovan said. "This Place is
outside our world, and not within any that he ever trod."

Eydryth scarcely heard her family's comments. She stared
at those lines of Dark light. And the longer she stared at those
lines of Dark light arcing over the pallet, the more they seemed
to her to akin to harpstrings. As though they could be ...
plucked. Music. Music had been the key to so many of the
spells they had encountered. . . .

"Alon . . .," the minstrel whispered hoarsely, "lend me all
your strength!"

"You have it," he replied, and a moment later his fingers
tightened around hers. Power flooded her... poured into her
in a wave of warmth.

Humming, the songsmith formed in her mind the image of
a giant finger pick. Concentrating fiercely, she forced herself to
see it, glimpse it hovering over those "strings."

Then, with an effort that made her break out in a sweat, she
moved her giant mind-pick downward, made it pluck one of
those "strings."

A sound so loud it staggered her boomed out. Eydryth
waited, but the cage remained in place. She concentrated
again, and "plucked" another string. Then another.

"That's three," Alon said. "One of the numbers of Power."

"What are the others?" she asked. "Three did not work, as
you can see."

SONGSMITH                 289

"Seven," he said. "And nine."

"Seven," she said. "Seven Defenders . . . and, Alon"—her
voice grew more excited, as she swiftly counted—"there are
seven 'strings'!"

"Try it," he urged.

Shaking with the effort it took, the songsmith plucked the
strings steadily . . . until finally all seven had been sounded.

Nothing happened. Eydryth fought back tears of disap-
pointment.

"Seven ... it must be related to seven," Alon whispered. "It
cannot be coincidence. Spells are often constructed with repe-
titions of certain numbers, words, sounds. . . ."

"Seven Defenders, seven strings . . . ," Eydryth whispered.
"Seven sevens . . ."

"Try it," Alon urged again.

Eydryth began. Wielding the huge "mind-pick" was taking
an increasing toll of her strength . . . and of the borrowed
Power she was getting from Alon. The songsmith knew she
was draining him every bit as surely as Yachne had planned to.
His hand in hers began to tremble.

And still she sounded the notes. Seven different notes, in a
complex pattern, choosing them nearly at random . . . but
aware all the time that a melody was being shaped. A melody
of love, of longing. A child's love for her mother, a husband's
love for his wife ... all of that and more she forged into that
melody.

Fourteen . . . twenty-one . . . thirty-five . . . Blackness was
nibbling at the edges of her vision, like a voracious rasti.
Forty-two . . . forty-nine!

With a suddenness that made them all blink and stagger, the
lines of Dark light vanished!

Alon and Eydryth stumbled forward; then Alon caught her
arm, held her back. "Let your father go first," he whispered.

The songsmith hesitated, then halted, knowing the Adept
was right.

Slowly, reverently, Elys's lord approached the pallet; then
his fingers went out, stroked his sleeping wife's cheek.
"Elys . . ." he whispered. "Oh, my heart . . . my lady . . ."

290

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN SONGSMITH

291

Gently, he kissed her forehead, her lips; then Jervon raised
her hand, prisoned safely within his own, to his face. A tear
broke free, ran down his stubbled cheek, to trickle at last
over her finger. At that touch, the sleeping woman's eyelids
fluttered, then lifted. She gazed up at him, bewildered.
"Jervon ..." she whispered. "My lord . . ."

"My lady," he murmured, in a hushed, ragged voice. "Oh,
Elys!" Quickly, he scooped her up into his arms, and, when
Kerovan would have aided him, unsure that his friend was up
to bearing her weight, shook his head fiercely at the other.

Silently, the group trailed behind them as Jervon strode
forward, carrying his precious burden, and vanished through
the Gate, leaving that uncanny Place behind forever.

When they emerged back into the clearing, it was into full
sunlight. Elys seemed to have suffered no ill effects from her
long ensorcellment, and as soon as her husband set her on her
feet, she held out a hand to her daughter. "Eydryth?" she
whispered. "Can it be?"

"Mother!" the songsmith said, and then the two of them
were hugging and weeping with joy. Eydryth felt as though her
heart could hold no more happiness. To have both her parents
returned to her in the space of a single day!

When, at length, Elys was able to relinquish her hold on her
child (as though she were afraid one of them might be torn
away again), she greeted her friends. "Tell me what has
chanced," she begged, "for I remember naught."

Voices rose in an excited babble as each tried to render his
or her own version of all the lost years. When their story was
finished, the witch's lovely features were troubled, but Elys
had been a warrior for years in a war-torn land, as well as a
witch, so she did not cry out or rail when she discovered that
the Adepts at Garth Howell had stolen nine years of her life
from her.

Instead she shook her head, staring around her. "I remem-
ber nothing," she said simply. "As far as I know, I lay down
to nap in Kar Garudwyn, then awoke here. It is you"—she
gazed at her husband and grown daughter, her friends and

shield-mates—"my loved ones, who have suffered, not I!" Her
mouth tightened. "I swear by All the Powers That Be, there
will be a reckoning." Her voice was quiet, but a note in it sent
shivers down Eydryth's back.

In silent accord, the group turned to make their way across
the clearing to where the horses were tethered. But scarcely
had she taken more than a step when Elys suddenly gasped,
putting a hand to the small other back. "Elys?" Joisan was at
her side immediately, her arm circling her friend, supporting
her. "Is it the baby?"

Eydryth's mother nodded. "And none too soon, appar-
ently," she said, with a grim attempt at humor, "since I have
been carrying him, if what you tell me is true, for nine years!"

The single group quickly separated into three. Hyana and
Joisan, both experienced healers and midwives, tended Elys as
the hours passed. Jervon and Kerovan rode out of the clearing
in quest of supplies and transportation for Elys, and returned
some time later with their horses hitched to an ancient wagon
they had managed to persuade a local farmer to lend them.
They had left their swords with the man as a pledge of good
faith in lieu of the future payment in gold they promised.

Eydryth and Alon worked together to bury Yachne, then
spent their time talking, tending Monso and the other horses,
catching each other up on the desperate hours of the past
night. The songsmith learned that the Adept had been caught
and tricked into entering Yachne's illusion-cloaked circle with
a vision of herself, lying upon the ground with a broken leg.

The sun was slanting toward the west, far past noon, when
a squalling yowl of indignation—sounding almost like a cat
whose tail has been assaulted by an unwary foot—filled the
clearing. Eydryth and Alon, hand in hand, went together to
gaze upon where Jervon, grinning broadly, stood holding the
Seventh Defender of Arvon.

He was much too small, the songsmith decided, to bear such
a portentious title... and seemed almost too small to bear the
name his fond parents had bestowed upon him. "Trevon,"
Elys whispered, from her nest of blankets in the wagon, as she
regarded the squirming red morsel her lord held so proudly.




292

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

"Hope," Alon said. "In the Old Tongue, that means
'hope.'"

"I know," Eydryth told him, putting her arm around his
waist and leaning wearily against him. "And hope is some-
thing we will need sorely in the coming years, if Hyana's
foretelling about a great conflict here in Arvon comes to
pass—a war like unto the one you finished fighting in Escore
not so long ago."

The Adept nodded soberly, but there was a light in his grey
eyes. "And apparently you and I have a role to play in that
conflict," he whispered softly. "Hope. We will need it." He
gazed intently at Trevon. "We will need him."

Some hours later, the party left the clearing, leaving behind
a mound of freshly turned earth where Yachne lay. Alon,
astride Monso, suddenly pointed. "Look!"

Eydryth, beside him on Vyar, gasped. "The grass! It has
turned green!"

Hyana's voice rose, also filled with wonderment. "Look!
Look at the woods!"

The rot-trees were changing, altering, as they neared them.
Oak, rowan, beech and maple and evergreen now stood, in-
stead of those stark black-and-white ghosts of trees. "The
wood!" Eydryth cried, staring amazed. "It is healing itself!"

Beside her, Alon smiled, then reached over to take her hand.
They rode on together, side by side, and the new tide of living
greenness went before them, swelling outward, like a wave
upon the shore.

Epilogue

£ydryth's fingers swept a last, ringing chord, sending the note
bounding around the Great Hall in Kar Garudwyn like a child
on the morning of Midwinter Feast. "And so," she said softly,
as that final note began to die away, "they returned to Kar
Garudwyn, after cleansing and healing that Place of Power.
And their joy was very great."

Clapping rang out as she bowed, applause from the assem-
bled guests and family members. Even Trevon smiled tooth-
lessly, gurgling in his mother's lap.

"A fine song, Eydryth!" Jervon said. " 'The Ballad of the
Songsmith' is the best you've written so far!"

She smiled fondly at her father. "It is always best to write
what you know," she said wryly.




ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

294

Suddenly the bard was conscious of someone leaning over
the back of her chair, and, turning her head, she saw (though
she had known the newcomer's identity within her heart im-
mediately) that it was Alon. He smiled at the assembled guests.
"A great success, my lady. I liked it very much. Especially the
requiem to Steel Talon."

Then, lowering his voice, he added, "But perhaps our visi-
tors are wearied. It has been a long day of feasting, and
evening is now upon us."

Laughter boomed out from Obred, the Kioga chieftain. "I
heard that. Lord Alon!"

Eydryth and Alon both colored, and the Kioga leader
laughed harder. "We can take a hint, Lord Alon, and you
have the right of it—it is indeed time to go. But," Obred said,
smiling, "you must expect such minor inconveniences if you
would wed a songsmith. Especially one as good as the Lady
Eydryth. Hearing her play and sing, one is loath to depart a
gathering where she performs."

Alon grinned at the burly leader. "I well understand, Obred.
It was hearing her voice that made me fall under her spell in
the first place."

Eydryth put aside her hand-harp, then stood up, smoothing
the skirt of her blue wedding gown. "You forget, my lord,"
she said, under her breath, as she put her hand on her new
husband's arm, and made to follow him out of the hall," 'twas
Monso fell under my spell first! You merely followed his exam-
ple!"

"And a very good example it was, too," Alon said, as he led
her in the opposite direction from the departing guests, toward
the stairs. They stopped, smiled and waved amid a last chorus
of toasts and good-wishings.

Eydryth paused at the top landing to gaze back along the
gallery, where they could see Kerovan and Joisan, Sylvya,
Firdun, Hyana, and Elys and Jervon all bidding farewell to the
wedding guests. The happiness of seeing them all together
again filled her heart until it felt as though it would burst. "I
will have to write a song about today," she said softly.

Alon slipped an arm around her, then gently brushed back

SONGSMITH                 295

a wayward curl. "Cannot it wait until tomorrow?" he asked
mock-plaintively. "Or will you forget it if you do not write it
down immediately?"

Eydryth laid her head against her lord's shoulder. "It can
wait," she promised, with a smile, then kissed him. "The best
songs cannot be forgotten."