Andre Norton - Songsmith

Knowing that the sentry was armed with a wickedly barbed lance, Eydryth sat back in the saddle, reining Monso to a quick halt. For once, the stallion seemed to welcome the chance to stand still and regain his wind.

After a moment, Monso’s breathing eased; then, scenting the Kioga mount, the Keplian rumbled a deep challenge. The songsmith heard the mortal horse whicker with fear as it approached. Her night vision made out the shadow blot of a rider mounted upon a grey mare; then the Kioga tribesman lit a torch. Eydryth shielded her eyes from the sudden, dazzling light.

“It is I, Eydryth, Jervon’s daughter,” she called. “Who of the Kioga rides on sentry-go tonight?”

“Eydryth?” The tribesman’s voice was sharp with suspicion. “If you are the Lady Eydryth, prove it. Tell me your dun gelding’s name.”

She laughed wearily, at last recognizing the speaker’s weather-beaten, mustached features as her eyes adjusted to the light. “My mare is a red chestnut, Guret, as you well know. Her name is Vyar.”

“Eydryth!” Guret gasped. “What are you doing here? You left so long ago! And now to return in the middle of the night…” He urged his grey closer, controlling her with firm legs, forcing her to hold steady despite her fear of Monso. “And astride such a mount! Wherever did you get him?”

The songsmith sighed, shaking her head. “It is a very long story, my friend, one that I have not time to tell. Let me only say that Lord Kerovan is in grave danger, and I ride to warn him. As soon as my warning is delivered, I, and possibly others from Kar Garudwyn, will ride forth from the valley this same night. I left a friend behind, possibly in great danger, to ride here tonight. I must return to aid him.”

“A… friend,” Guret said, evidently catching some inflection in Eydryth’s voice that she had not been aware of herself.

“He is the one who bred and trained Monso, here,” she said, stroking the panting Keplian’s foam-drenched neck.

“Then he must be a master horseman,” the Kioga man said. “To capture and train a Keplian.”

“I will tell you the entire story—or Alon will—as soon as may be,” Eydryth promised, “but not now. Guret, I have ridden across nigh half of Arvon tonight. I must make it to Kar Garudwyn as soon as possible!”

He nodded. “I will help you, Lady. But stay only a moment.” One-handed, he pulled the gaudily embroidered blanket he wore as a protection against the night’s chill over his head, shaking his long, dark braids to free them. “Here, wear this. You look like a half-drowned yearling,” he said, extending the blanket.

Gratefully, the songsmith slipped it over her head, relishing the heat of Guret’s body still trapped within its warm folds. The Kioga man jerked a thumb behind him. “You ride, Lady. I will call another for sentry duty, then go down-valley myself to catch up the castlefolk’s mounts and have them saddled and ready.”

She flashed him a grateful smile. “Bring Vyar, too,” she said. “This fellow deserves to rest for some time. I thank you for your aid, Guret.”

Eydryth urged Monso onward. The stallion stumbled as he obeyed, and Guret gave her mount a measuring glance. “Will he make it? Do you want to take Takala here, in his stead?”

“No, Guret.” She patted Monso’s shoulder. “Even exhausted, this one could outrun your mare. Every moment counts. Thank you again for your help.”

He raised the flickering torch in salute as she turned and left him.

Once past the circle cast by Guret’s light, Eydryth was hard-pressed to regain her night-sight. She relied mostly on Monso’s eyes to pick his way uphill at a slow canter.

Long minutes later, the songsmith caught sight of a familiar landmark—a huge granite outcropping. She slowed Monso to a walk, following the bulge of the gigantic thrust of rock. When it split in twain to become a narrow pass, she turned down it. Midway down that dark throat, two pillars of quan-iron stood, topped with winged globes.

The entrance to the valley. She was almost home.

With a gasp of thankfulness that sounded perilously akin to a sob of weariness, the songsmith urged Monso toward the entrance. The land beyond was filled with a swirling mist, part of the spell-laid protection that encompassed the valley where Landisl, the powerful gryphon-being, had once made his ancient home.

But as Monso tried to step past that barrier, the Keplian halted, tossing his head snorting. He sidled away, much as he had at the entrance to the Fane of Neave.

Of course , Eydryth thought. The wards on the valley. Monso is part Shadow-creature, so he may not pass them …

But if she had to abandon the Keplian and run the rest of the way, it would take her an hour or more to reach the castle on the mountainside! Eydryth stared determinedly at the barrier, reaching within herself for the Power Alon had assured her she bore. She began to sing, raising her voice in a wordless appeal, concentrating on an image in her mind of portals giving way before them, allowing them free entrance.

Her voice filled the narrow cut, and, slowly the winged globes began to pulse in time to the rise and fall of her melody. Holding firm the image in her mind of portals opening, Eydryth urged Monso forward again.

Slowly, now favoring the foreleg the web-riders had injured, the Keplian walked between the pillars.

The glamourie that always surrounded one who rode into the valley began to make swirling images before Eydryth’s eyes, but she continued to sing as she urged Monso forward, and a few strides farther on, it abruptly vanished. Eydryth looked to her right, and saw, glowing blue against the darkness, near the summit of the mountain, the spires of Kar Garudwyn—a name which meant, in the Old Tongue, “High Castle of the Gryphon.”

Home. Her heart leaped within her.

“Just a little farther, Monso. Then you can rest,” she muttered, stroking the Keplian. Summoning the dregs of her energy, she began to hum, and her night vision slowly crept back. As soon as she could see the path before her, Eydryth chirruped to Monso, then, when he did not respond, used her bootheels to goad the stallion into a canter.

She kept her legs and heels in his sides until the Keplian had increased speed to a hand-gallop along the trail. She felt ashamed doing it, knowing that she was abusing an animal that had already given his all, an animal now on the verge of total exhaustion and collapse, but they still had more than a league to go.

I’m tired, too, son , Eydryth thought, patting the Keplian’s neck. “Come on, you can do it,” she whispered, thinking it would be such a relief to stop… just to fall out of the saddle and lie on the ground and sleep… sleep…

Kerovan’s image filled her mind, making her stiffen her shoulders. Just a little farther …

The Keplian’s strides now were labored; his breath rasped loud in her ears. He was clearly favoring his injured foreleg. Biting her lip, the songsmith forced him onward, slapping the reins lightly against his neck.

Her night-sight was gone; the darkness blurred around her.

Eydryth swayed in the saddle, then forced herself to grip the pommel. Where was she? How far had she come?

There! Off to her right… the entrance to the ramp that led up the mountainside! To one who had not lived here all her life, it would seem naught but a sheer wall of rock, but Kerovan had long ago adjusted the spell that held it concealed so that his foster-daughter could come and go as she pleased.

Crouching low on the Keplian’s back, she turned him toward that opening in the mountainside, then lashed down hard with the reins, driving him forward and upward with her seat, heels and voice. “Almost there, Monso!” she gasped. “Go, boy! For Alon!”