Andre Norton: Songsmith

The songsmith dropped her eyes, shamed, feeling the color rise hot to her cheeks. “I am sorry. You are right. Go ahead.”

But despite her resolve, she could not keep from flinching as the twig-bundle swept across her forehead—once, twice, thrice.

“Tie me as soon as I am unconscious,” Eydryth ordered, then had to demonstrate to Avris how to weave knots that would hold against a prisoner’s struggles.

At last, nothing remained except the blow. “ Here ,” the songsmith said, pointing to a spot just behind her ear. “And you must strike with sufficient force to make them believe my story. You do me no favor if you hold back. Have you a weapon?”

“This,” the girl said, and withdrew a dagger in a sheath from the folds of her discarded grey robe. “Will it do?”

Eydryth ran a finger over the rounded steel pommel. “It should. Grasp it by the sheath, so as to use the blunt end. Strike using this much force—” Eydryth wadded the witch’s discarded robe and demonstrated swinging the weapon, sending it thudding into the wall, the sound of the blow muffled by the fabric. “Now you try.”

On her fourth attempt, the witch’s arm swung with the proper force. “Good. That is just the way of it. Can you do it?”

The witch needs must run a tongue-tip over dry lips before she could reply, but her voice was steady. “I can. I will.”

“Good,” Eydryth said. “I will meet you outside the walls, in that first grove of trees to the south of the city. Hide yourself well, and do not appear until you hear me whistle, so—” She produced a few bars of an old marching song from High Hallack. “And do not forget to pick up my gryphon-headed quarterstaff from the guard on your way out. He will be expecting you to ask for it.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Deliberately, the songsmith turned her back, trying not to tense, forcing herself to stand still and not anticipate the blow. “Strike when you are ready,” she said. “But I would prefer not to have to wait much long—”

Pain and darkness crashed against her skull from behind. Eydryth felt her knees buckle, felt herself begin to fall. She let the blackness gulp her down, swallow her, like one of the sea-leviathans in the Sulcar tales…

The songsmith’s memories were blurred after that. She half-roused to a ringing head and the sound of voices, then the touch of hands on her half-bare body. Then the hands lifted her, and she was careful to stay limp, let herself flop like a boneless doll stuffed with river sand, such as the little Kioga children cuddled.

Light met her closed eyelids then, and soon she was placed on a soft surface. Someone covered her chilled body with a blanket. “You may bring in the guard now,” she heard a cold, passionless voice say.

“Yes, sister,” came the response, followed by the sound of the door.

“Lady?” a gruff voice said, one tinged with fear and defiance. “Th’ sister said you wished t’ see me?”

“So I do, Jarulf. Look at this girl, here. Do you recognize her?”

A gasp. “But… Lady, that be th’ same young woman who left before m’ shift ended! The very same!”

“I see.” The cold voice was even colder now, but still calm. “That will be all, Jarulf.”

“Aye, Lady.”

I ought to be coming around by now , Eydryth cautioned herself, and, accordingly, she moaned and tried to open her eyes. She did not have to feign the swift stab of pain the light brought her, or her squint. “What—what—”

The witch (for Eydryth could now see her silver-grey robe) moved back to look down at her, her face as blank as the stones of the walls enclosing them. She was older than the woman the songsmith had seen before, her features fine-drawn and aristocratic, her eyes hooded and remote in her oval face.

“You were found unconscious in a little-used storeroom,” she said. “It seems that one of our sisterhood is missing—our search found no trace of her. Tell me, who are you, and how did you come there?”

The songsmith moistened her lips. “Water?” she whispered, hopefully. “Please, water?”

“On the table. You may help yourself.”

With a groan that had nothing false about it, the bard pushed herself upright, clutching the blanket against her chest. When she saw the younger woman’s shaking hands, the witch grudgingly poured the water into a goblet for her.

The minstrel sipped, then put the cup down. “I am Eydryth, a wandering songsmith from a distant land,” she said, hoarsely. “I had an audience with one of your number, but she told me that she could not help me, since I was seeking healing for my father. She said that you granted no boons to men. So I took my leave of her. I remember following the young witch who had been sent to guide me down the corridor, my heart heavy… and that is all I remember.”

“Nothing more?”

The songsmith winced as she gingerly explored the lump behind her ear. “Naught… save that she turned back as if to speak to me, and there was something in her hand… something…” She frowned. “I know not what, save that it was bright, and my eyes were caught by it…”

“Ah,” the witch said, her grey eyes raking the young woman’s face with the sharpness of fingernails. “What do you think happened then?”

Eydryth started to shake her head, but stopped with a grimace of pain. “I know not, Lady. Obviously, someone hit me, and took my clothes… my clothes!” She glanced around her, wildly, as if just realizing they were truly gone. “My pack… my harp! My purse! I’ve been robbed!”

“Indeed,” the witch said, her eyes never leaving the bard’s.

“My hand-harp… my mouth-flute! My instruments… all stolen! How will I earn my living?” The minstrel ran her hands through her hair, distractedly, being careful not to overplay her distress. “I have naught left to me—naught!”

The witch hesitated. “Since you were robbed on our premises, it is our duty, I suppose, to alleviate your situation as much as possible. We will provide you with clothing, food, and sufficient coin for two nights’ lodging. If you are telling the truth, and were indeed the victim of thievery.”

Eydryth hesitated, betraying confusion. “The truth? Of course I am! Why should I speak aught but the truth, Lady?”

“That is what I am wondering…” the witch said, studying the younger woman as though she had suddenly sprouted feathers or fur. “Why should you?”

“I am no liar.” Eydryth let some of her very genuine irritation and fear creep into her voice. It would have been unnatural not to react to the witch’s implied accusation. “You have no right to name me one, either.”

The witch raised a mocking eyebrow. “Really? We shall see, songsmith. We shall see.”

Without another word, the witch cupped her milky jewel in her hand and stared down into it. As Eydryth watched, light began to emanate from the stone, all in one direction, until a luminescent beam shone full onto the minstrel’s face.

Even as she realized what the witch was doing, Eydryth summoned all her will to project honesty, sincerity… She banished all thought of Avris waiting in the grove of trees, concentrating instead on the story she had told, filling her mind with it. The false images as she had described them unfolded vividly before her eyes…

“What is that you’re humming?” the witch demanded, her voice sharp with anger.

Eydryth felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “I beg your pardon, Lady,” she muttered. “An old habit of mine, and I fear an annoying one. Since I was little, whenever I grow frightened, I begin humming an old lullaby my mother sang to me whilst I was in my cradle.”

The lullaby… her only heritage from the fishing village of Wark, where her mother had grown up. Always it had been her defense against fear, and concentrating on its music and words had enabled her, occasionally, to keep out the pryings of other minds when she was a child, growing up in a land rife with sorcery, where even those who shared the nursery with her had been gifted with Power.