Andre Norton - Songsmith

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.

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 saddlebags, then drew her gryphon-headed sword from its place of concealment. Slowly, the songsmith held it out to her companion. “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.”

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 effectively.”

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 shoulders. After sheathing her sword in his old scabbard, she fastened 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.”

He smiled ruefully. “One lunge and two parries,” he observed 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 of her 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 curiously while the songsmith fastened one of the flasks filled with Neave’s springwater to the saddle. Eydryth patted the Keplian. “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 boost… 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 Valley.”

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. Taking a deep breath, the songsmith loosened the reins a notch… then another. The Keplian 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 fingers 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.