“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 I 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.
It took all of Alon’s strength to drink the soup and nibble halfheartedly at a few bits of dried fruit. He was plainly dismayed 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 “listened,” 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 thoughtfully 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… 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 supplies, 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 their 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 little 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 concentrated, 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 songsmith 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 Keplian’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 much taller than she was, he weighed more. Struggling, she managed to ease him to the ground unharmed. Hastily wrapping 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.