Andre Norton: Songsmith

“A chance,” Eydryth repeated, her mind racing. “A bare chance, seemingly.”

“You do not appear to me to be one who can afford to overlook any possibility, no matter how small,” the witch retorted.

Eydryth sighed. “You are right. What is this place?”

The other raised a cautioning hand. “Not so fast. If you aid me, I will tell you when we reach our destination. Will you swear by Blessed Gunnora, whose amulet you wear, that you will keep faith if I help you?”

Eydryth started, her hand going to the breast of her jerkin, where the amulet lay hidden. “How do you know what I wear concealed?” she asked, eyeing the younger woman suspiciously, striving to read her features in the dim light.

“My Power may be small, but it is sufficient to sense that you wear Gunnora’s symbol on your breast,” the witch snapped impatiently. “But that is not the important thing, here. Will you swear to aid me, in return for my help?”

“What aid do you seek?”

“Your assistance in escaping from the Citadel, then from Es City, and returning to Kastryn, the village of my birth. When we reach there, I will reveal to you the name of the place of ancient learning, and tell you how to reach it. Kastryn, you will find, is on the road to your eventual destination.”

Eydryth gazed at the young woman, her eyes searching that narrow, pointed-chinned face. There was beauty there, though it appeared worn, fined-down, as if, despite the girl’s youth, she had suffered much. “I might be able to discover the whereabouts of this ‘place of ancient learning’ without your aid,” she said, slowly, “now that I know what manner of place to inquire about. If people live there, someone, somewhere, will know of it.”

The witch bit her lip, her control slipping. “I have been a fool,” she whispered, in a voice edged with desperation. “I was not brought up to be a mistress of intrigue and am blunt-spoken by nature. You are right. If you ask long enough among the learned scholars of Es, you will find one who knows of the existence of Lormt, and where it lies. Go, then. I wish you success on your quest.”

She turned away, her slight shoulders drooping beneath the grey robe.

The songsmith felt sympathy stir within her, as she remembered her own despair at the thought of being kept here in this ancient stronghold by these hungry, hollow-eyed women. She reached out to put a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Wait. Tell me more. You are one of them—why do you wish to leave?”

The witch did not turn or look up. “I am one who was forced to the test, just as you were, today,” she said, dully. “But for me the stone glowed—only a spark, but the witches are desperate.”

“I could see that. Why are they so?”

“They have been forced to watch their control of this land slowly slip from them into the hands of others—Koris and his Lady Loyse, Simon Tregarth (whom they have hated ever since he took one of their number to wife) and his lady, Jaelithe. So any girl-child showing a trace of the Power, they take, in an attempt to rebuild their numbers.”

The young woman’s voice trembled. “I’d escaped the testing for two years, because I was sole support and nurse for my widowed mother. Then she died, so the next time the witch came to Kastryn, I needs must lay finger to her stone. It sparked, so they took me, brought me here… began to teach me.”

“Magic?”

“As much as I could learn, which was little enough. I am not a dullard, but my heart and will are drawn elsewhere—I possess neither the desire nor the gift to become mistress of more than a few minor illusions, plus some healcraft and herb-lore! However, these other women, to them Power is all—meat, bread, drink and breath itself! I cannot expect you to understand, songsmith, but I can never be as they are—never!”

Eydryth recalled her own childhood, spent in a stronghold steeped in sorcery… It had permeated the very air she breathed, and to the others around her, using magic was as natural as that breathing itself. Only she had possessed none of the ability—she, who had taken after her father. Her father, racked by the backlash of near-forgotten Power…

A surge of sympathy for the young woman before her made Eydryth’s throat tighten. “I understand,” she told the witch softly, “more than you can know.”

The girl’s voice broke. “And the worst of it all is, they took me without even leaving me time to send a message to Logar!”

“Logar?”

The girl turned back to face her questioner. In the candlelit dimness, her eyes sparkled, as if she were struggling to hold back tears. “Logar is my betrothed. He rides with the Borderers. The fangs of the Hounds have been partially drawn, but Alizon is still a dagger that pricks Estcarp’s side. Their remaining Hounds are wilier than ever as they slink forth to harry our northern border. Thus, each young man who is whole and able must serve with those who patrol that border for a space of three years. Logar’s time was up last month—by now he must be home, only to find me gone!”

Her mouth quivered, then tightened grimly. “We swore that when he returned, we would be wed. And I want nothing more from life than to be with him! But Logar cannot free me—for him to dare the Citadel would mean his death. But I am afraid that he might try such a foolhardy move… so I must escape, before he can!”

“I see…” Eydryth said. “But if we journey to Kastryn—”

The young witch clutched the songsmith’s sleeve. “ We ? Do you mean that you will still help me escape? Even though I have no way to pay or reward you?”

“Yes,” said Eydryth, as solemnly as if she took oath, “I will aid you, sister.”

The girl clasped Eydryth’s hand with both her own. “My gratitude forever! May Gunnora’s Blessings follow you—” she began, fervently.

But the minstrel shook her head, cutting off the outpouring of gratitude. “I will merit thanks only if we succeed, sister.”

“Avris,” the witch introduced herself, a little shyly. Eydryth’s eyed widened. The girl nodded defiantly, acknowledging the songsmith’s surprise that she had revealed her name. “My name is Avris,” she repeated, as if proud to openly defy the rules of the Citadel. “And you?”

“Eydryth. Now, as I was saying, if we journey to Kastryn, will those of the Citadel not know immediately where you have gone, and seek us there?”

“They may seek me, but by the time they find me, I will be of no more use to them,” Avris replied. “Logar and I will be wed in the same hour of seeing each other, and”—she grinned wryly—“once a wedded, bedded wife, my small trace of Power will vanish from me.”

Do not be too sure of that , the songsmith thought, with a wry smile of her own, as she remembered her mother, the Lady Elys, and her foster-mother, the Lady Joisan. They were women of Power, had lain with their husbands and borne children to them, just as the Lady Jaelithe had. And they, also, had retained their Power. Still, knowing the witches’ hatred of men , Eydryth concluded, Avris is probably right. They will not want her among their numbers after she has been, to their minds, “tainted” by union with a male. They will let her go .

“Besides,” the young witch was continuing, “Logar and I will not tarry to face their ire. I will convince him that we must flee immediately—perhaps make our way eastward, to that land overmountain, Escore. The Tregarth brothers and sister found refuge there—why not Logar and I?”

“You have schemed long on this,” Eydryth observed. “This is not just some idle impulse.”

“Ever since they took me, I have thought of little else!” Avris’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “Outwardly, I became resigned, applied myself to learning as best I might, so as to lull their suspicions. But all the time I was planning how to escape. Now there is no more time left—next week, I travel again to the Place of Wisdom for a final retreat, then they will lay the Witch Oath on me. I must get away before they can thus seal me to them!”