Andre Norton: Songsmith

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 of Gunnora 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 farmer’s wife the sleeping 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 purposefully. 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 municipality 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 tangible 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 corner 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 returned, 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 building in Es, with a round tower overtopping all of the surrounding structures. She set off through the crowded streets, her 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 unlined 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, stiffening 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 hesitation, 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 morn,” 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 farmer 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 consulting 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 shrouding 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 of Kar 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.

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.”