“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 restorative 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 Horning 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 Tregarth 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.”
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 responsibly. 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 midmorning.
“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.
“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, Eydryth 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, 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, inexorably, the candles began to darken. The words Alon was mouthing 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, trembling 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 incantation had left there. Finally, shaking, his features as waxy as 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.