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. I will not use Jervon’s cure to heal you. I will NOT! Anger waxed hot within her. One small portion of her mind argued that her fury was irrational, but she was too angry to listen to it.
“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. I ought to leave you here—leave you to die!
The young man stirred restlessly, as though even unconscious 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. I 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 creature 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 burn to death. Why are we behaving so? What is happening to us?
Confused, fighting down panic, she ran back down the hillside 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 of her knife to the seal on the box. Moments later, she had it open, revealing the rich, red mud. Scooping up a 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 journeybread, 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, something 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 almost 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 sunlight. 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 of Yachne’s spell-land, Eydryth lifted a corner 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.
“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 forestalled 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.”