Andre Norton: Songsmith

“Have you a plan for escaping the Citadel itself?”

The girl hesitated. “I have thought of one, but I am loath to suggest it, because it holds great danger for you. Have you no trace of the Power?”

“None,” Eydryth said flatly. “But tell me your plan anyway.”

“As I told you, my Power is weak,” Avris said. “But I believe that I can manage to cloak my features with illusion for long enough to get past that guard out there. I will take on your image. He will be expecting you to leave, and thus will not regard you too closely. But a full-body Seeming is beyond me, so I must have your clothes, your pack and harp case.”

“So you will take on my features with my garments, long enough to just walk out…” the bard mused. “An ingenuous plan, but my soldier father taught me much of stealth and tactics, and it is ofttimes the simplest scheme that holds the greatest chance of success. But then what happens to me?”

“That is the flaw,” the girl said grimly. “They will question you, and if you give them any slightest reason to doubt your word, they can compel truth from you, using the Power.”

“I can say that you ensorcelled me, held me helpless with your magic,” Eydryth said, her words coming faster as she thought. “To lend credence to that, you must leave me bound, wearing only my drawers and underbodice. Perhaps it would also be wise for you to knock me unconscious.”

“I could not hurt you!” Avris protested.

“I will show you where and how to strike the blow,” the minstrel said. “One that will knock me out, but not injure me much beyond an aching head for a few hours.”

“But—”

“You will do as you must,” Eydryth said, firmly. “Remember, there is no better excuse for not raising the alarm than to be discovered bound and unconscious, with a lump behind one ear. I doubt very much that the witches will ever suspect us of conspiracy under those circumstances.”

“But what if they do suspect you? Compel the truth from you?”

The songsmith considered. “I cannot believe that they will do much to me simply for allowing my clothes and pack to be stolen. That is hardly a hanging offense, especially considering that you have Power, and I have none. They will readily believe that you compelled me to do your will. And there is also this: I am not a citizen of Estcarp… I can truthfully plead ignorance of local laws. The fact that I asked one of the witches to aid a despised male proves that.”

“Yes,” the witch agreed, thoughtfully. “Any man or woman living within the boundaries of this land for long cannot remain ignorant of the ways of the witches.” Her brows drew together in a worried frown. “But to strike you down… I cannot! We must find some other way.”

Eydryth gripped the girl’s shoulders, her strong fingers deliberately bringing pain. “You want to see your betrothed again, do you not?”

“Yes…” Avris whispered.

“Then you will do as I say. You must! Every moment we delay means a greater chance of discovery!”

The girl’s shoulders sagged. “Very well. But they will still question you. What of that?”

Eydryth smiled humorlessly. “Do not forget that I am a bard. One in my trade must be an accomplished actor or actress, remember? They will believe me.” At least, I hope they will , she added, silently.

“One more question,” the other said. “ Why ? I can see you aiding me if there was no risk to you, but this way, there is great danger. The anger of the witches is not a thing to risk lightly. So why are you moved to help me?”

Eydryth hesitated. “I am also one who has lived surrounded by those who have control over forces I cannot even discern,” she said, finally. “I would not wish such a fate on another. And if you truly can set me on the road to this place of learning, this Lormt, a place where I may find some clue that will help me in my search…” She shrugged. “Nothing in all the world could mean more to me than that.”

Avris held out her hand, and, after a moment, Eydryth took it. The small fingers felt cold in hers, but the witch’s grasp was firm. “I thank you… sister.”

While Eydryth remained concealed in the little storeroom, Avris hurriedly went in search of the items she would require to work the illusion. When she returned, carrying a small case filled with herbs and simples, they began.

It took only moments for Avris to assume Eydryth’s outer clothing; then the songsmith stood shivering as the witch stared up into her face, intently, as if memorizing every feature. “I can do it…” she whispered, almost to herself.

“Then by all means, begin,” the bard said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “This floor is c-cold.”

“Very well.” Avris rooted through her bag, emerging finally with a dried leaf, which she handed to the songsmith. “I will need your spittle for the Seeming, and several of your hairs— living ones, drawn from their roots. Place all here.”

Eydryth, long used to the principles of magic, though she could not apply them, knew better than to question or argue. She spat on the leaf, rubbing the moisture into its brownish-green surface, then plucked several hairs and placed them in the middle of it. “Here,” she said.

The witch did not reply, only took the leaf, her eyes closed as she concentrated. Raising the leaf to her lips, she blew upon it, then rolled it into a ball. Slowly, she began tracing the contours of her own face, lightly rubbing them with the leaf-ball. As she did so, she sang softly, a monotonous, minor tune, its words so ancient that Eydryth recognized them as a form of the Old Tongue, the ancient language of Power, still spoken sometimes in distant, sorcery-shrouded Arvon.

As the music called to her, Eydryth took out her hand-harp and instinctively began plucking the strings. She sang, her voice harmonizing with the witch’s, until, between them, the girls produced a faint, eerie, hair-prickling melody.

Avris stopped abruptly on a half-wail, and Eydryth started, jerked out of the reverie she had fallen into. She looked over at the witch and gasped.

Her own face stared back at her—long, oval, with a traveler’s sun-browned skin. Avris now seemed to have bright blue eyes, a straight nose, a strong, stubborn jaw, all beneath a wind-tossed cap of soft black curls. “It worked?” the girl demanded.

“Completely,” Eydryth told her, amazed. “Except that you are still shorter than I, I do not believe even your Logar could tell us apart. It is as perfect a Seeming as any I have witnessed. Your Power must be greater than you think.”

The witch shrugged. “Perhaps it is just that I am desperate. What I could not do for them, I will do to escape them. And the guard, I think, will not notice the difference in height. I will just roll up the sleeves and breeches a turn, so.”

When she was finished ordering her borrowed clothing, Avris reached into the bag again, this time withdrawing a bundle of twigs, bound with red thread. Eydryth pulled back as the girl made to brush the bard’s forehead with the twig-bundle. “What is that?” she demanded.

“Rowan,” Avris replied. “Magic cannot work within its bounds, either of the Dark or Light. Its touch will help you resist the questioning of the witches.”

Eydryth’s mouth twisted into a hard, ugly shape. “I thought I recognized it, and I want none of it! I can endure the interrogation myself, with no aid from an ill-fortuned handful of wood!”

Avris stared up at her in shock, but recovered herself quickly. “It is a foolish soldier who throws away even his smallest blade on the eve of the battle,” she pointed out. “I have trusted you, will you not trust me? I would do nothing to harm you, Eydryth.”