Andre Norton: Songsmith

The sun was slantingtoward the west, far past noon, when a squalling yowl of indignation—sounding almost like a cat whose tail has been assaulted by an unwary foot—filled the clearing. Eydryth and Alon, hand in hand, went together to gaze upon where Jervon, grinning broadly, stood holding the Seventh Defender of Arvon.

He was much too small, the songsmith decided, to bear such a portentious title… and seemed almost too small to bear the name his fond parents had bestowed upon him. “Trevon,” Elys whispered, from her nest of blankets in the wagon, as she regarded the squirming red morsel her lord held so proudly.

“Hope,” Alon said. “In the Old Tongue, that means ‘hope.’ ”

“I know,” Eydryth told him, putting her arm around his waist and leaning wearily against him. “And hope is something we will need sorely in the coming years, if Hyana’s foretelling about a great conflict here in Arvon comes to pass—a war like unto the one you finished fighting in Escore not so long ago.”

The Adept nodded soberly, but there was a light in his grey eyes. “And apparently you and I have a role to play in that conflict,” he whispered softly. “Hope. We will need it.” He gazed intently at Trevon. “We will need him .”

Some hours later, the party left the clearing, leaving behind a mound of freshly turned earth where Yachne lay. Alon, astride Monso, suddenly pointed. “Look!”

Eydryth, beside him on Vyar, gasped. “The grass! It has turned green!”

Hyana’s voice rose, also filled with wonderment. “Look! Look at the woods!”

The rot-trees were changing, altering, as they neared them. Oak, rowan, beech and maple and evergreen now stood, instead of those stark black-and-white ghosts of trees. “The wood!” Eydryth cried, staring amazed. “It is healing itself!”

Beside her, Alon smiled, then reached over to take her hand. They rode on together, side by side, and the new tide of living greenness went before them, swelling outward, like a wave upon the shore.

Eydryth’s fingers swept a last, ringing chord, sending the note bounding around the Great Hall in Kar Garudwyn like a child on the morning of Midwinter Feast. “And so,” she said softly, as that final note began to die away, “they returned to Kar Garudwyn, after cleansing and healing that Place of Power. And their joy was very great.”

Clapping rang out as she bowed, applause from the assembled guests and family members. Even Trevon smiled toothlessly, gurgling in his mother’s lap.

“A fine song, Eydryth!” Jervon said. “ ‘The Ballad of the Songsmith’ is the best you’ve written so far!”

She smiled fondly at her father. “It is always best to write what you know,” she said wryly.

Suddenly the bard was conscious of someone leaning over the back of her chair, and, turning her head, she saw (though she had known the newcomer’s identity within her heart immediately) that it was Alon. He smiled at the assembled guests. “A great success, my lady. I liked it very much. Especially the requiem to Steel Talon.”

Then, lowering his voice, he added, “But perhaps our visitors are wearied. It has been a long day of feasting, and evening is now upon us.”

Laughter boomed out from Obred, the Kioga chieftain. “I heard that, Lord Alon!”

Eydryth and Alon both colored, and the Kioga leader laughed harder. “We can take a hint, Lord Alon, and you have the right of it—it is indeed time to go. But,” Obred said, smiling, “you must expect such minor inconveniences if you would wed a songsmith. Especially one as good as the Lady Eydryth. Hearing her play and sing, one is loath to depart a gathering where she performs.”

Alon grinned at the burly leader. “I well understand, Obred. It was hearing her voice that made me fall under her spell in the first place.”

Eydryth put aside her hand-harp, then stood up, smoothing the skirt of her blue wedding gown. “You forget, my lord,” she said, under her breath, as she put her hand on her new husband’s arm, and made to follow him out of the hall, “ ’twas Monso fell under my spell first! You merely followed his example!”

“And a very good example it was, too,” Alon said, as he led her in the opposite direction from the departing guests, toward the stairs. They stopped, smiled and waved amid a last chorus of toasts and good-wishings.

Eydryth paused at the top landing to gaze back along the gallery, where they could see Kerovan and Joisan, Sylvya, Firdun, Hyana, and Elys and Jervon all bidding farewell to the wedding guests. The happiness of seeing them all together again filled her heart until it felt as though it would burst. “I will have to write a song about today,” she said softly.

Alon slipped an arm around her, then gently brushed back a wayward curl. “Cannot it wait until tomorrow?” he asked mock-plaintively. “Or will you forget it if you do not write it down immediately?”

Eydryth laid her head against her lord’s shoulder. “It can wait,” she promised, with a smile, then kissed him. “The best songs cannot be forgotten.”