Occasionally a wall would ooze shut behind her, forcing her onward, or a tall white Slayer would appear to block her path. Then she would turn desperately down any unblocked passageway, her dress whirling around her legs, seeking even temporary freedom.
Freedom: it was little more than an intellectual exercise, since it was clear that even if she stumbled across the right tools she'd be unable to dig herself to freedom. But it was a useful abstract to concentrate on as she ran, and it helped to keep her from going mad.
She thought also of Colwyn and the burning fresh love that had drawn them so close so quickly, saw him buried under a wave of Slayers as he'd tried to hack his way through to her in the castle courtyard. What must he be thinking of her now? Would he be more at peace believing her still alive, with a chance for rescue, or better off thinking her dead?
No matter. She had no way of conveying a message to him. Her palm burned as she thought of him and she remembered the gentle, comforting heat of the flame she'd taken from the font during the ceremony. It gave her strength, that memory. Strength to keep hoping, strength to run on.
Once, a gown resplendent with jewels and metallic thread appeared like a vision before her. Above it floated a crown of precious metal and strange mien. It held her transfixed with its beauty for a long moment, until she saw the threat that lay beyond. To some it might appear raiment fit for a queen but Lyssa was far more perceptive than that. It was beautiful, yes, but so were many burial shrouds.
She turned from it and rushed on.
There were too many dead trees around for Colwyn's liking. They'd reached a defile in the rocks, a place of desolation and broken stone. At least the morning fog had dissipated. Walls without substance, his father had once called such fogs. The mark of difficult country.
The sun hung somewhere overhead, masked by the sheer walls that rose around them. Birds and other less wholesome things called out hesitantly, as though uncertain of safety. Lonely sounds fit for a lonely place. He would be glad when they had passed beyond.
Something nudged him in the small of the back and he felt his passenger shifting position. Ergo sat behind the saddle and by now it must be wearying to him.
"How are you doing back there, my magnificent little friend?"
"Not magnificently, I fear. I have spent all morning debating the benefits of riding thus versus walking. My feet opt for their present status but another part of me disagrees most strenuously."
"I'm sorry. When we reach a town we'll have to see about acquiring a mount for you."
"With what? I left my last place of residence in such a rush that I was compelled to leave the bulk of my fortune behind."
"It's your help I need, not your money. I am willing to help those who help me."
Ergo perked up, the soreness that attended his fundament temporarily forgotten. "You have money, then?"
"Enough to provide you with a horse, anyway." That told Ergo little, which was precisely what Colwyn wanted him to know.
Ergo peered around his companion's side, raised his voice. "You are not a great chooser of roads, old man."
' 'Our road has been chosen for us," Ynyr replied importantly.
"I was referring to that which passes beneath our horses' hooves, not that which conveys our spirits."
"As you prefer," said Ynyr. "To place your question on a less exhalted plain, this particular road avoids the most dangerous bogs and marshlands while saving us half a day of travel. No highways lead to our current destination. I should think that, given your present seat, you would be particularly appreciative of any time saved."
Ergo's muttered reply was somewhat less than grateful.
The canyon narrowed further and Colwyn's unease intensified as it did so.
"Ynyr, shouldn't we be out of these rocks by now? It seems we've been riding through them for ages."
"I'm sorry, my boy, but this is the only way to avoid the marshlands. Rest easy. We'll emerge into more open country soon enough."
They rode on. With a sensitive portion of his anatomy continuing to shout its protests, Ergo finally descended to give his feet some exercise, walking alongside Colwyn's horse. Through sleepy eyes quickly opened he thought he saw a half-solid shape behind the rocks. A man could see anything he wanted to in such a place. Here the boulders became a sculpted horse, there a ship far out at sea, there a man's •contorted face, there another. .. and another.
He stared wide-eyed at the jumble of rocks on either side of the path they trod. Another face appeared briefly alongside the last. It wasn't like stone to repeat its illusions so often or so faithfully. He moved close to the horse and his voice became an anxious whisper.
"Robbers! On both sides, Colwyn."
"I've been watching them." Colwyn's reply was calm. "They've been paralleling us for several minutes now, choosing their spot. Restrain yourself. They're only men. We don't know for sure that they're robbers. You leap to conclusions."
"I would gladly leap there if I thought it a safer place. Faces as ugly as those I've seen could only belong to robbers. What do you think such men are about, hiding themselves in this kind of country? Picking berries?" Aware of the fear in his voice he hastened to cover it with bravado.
"Well, not to worry. I'll turn them all into pigs. Now, where did I put that porcine formulation?" He started rummaging through his slips of paper.
Two men rose from opposite sides of the trail, flung their massive axes toward him simultaneously. Each ax blade locked itself over his neck, their weight pinning the unfortunate Ergo to the ground.
"That does it!" he yelled from where he lay, struggling with the pinioning blades. He was more angry now than frightened. "You'll oink and squeal for the rest of your lives!"
Unfortunately, the only pig that appeared near the trail found itself neatly trapped beneath the interlocking ax handles. It oinked and squealed with considerable vigor.
Contrary to Ergo's prejudicial observation, the man who stepped clear of the rocks to confront Colwyn was not especially ugly, but it was plain for anyone to see that he hadn't lived an easy life at court, either. There were scars on his face that had not been put there by farming implements, and his expression was hard and cold. Muscles rippled beneath his shirt sleeves like snakes dreaming under leather.
"You are surrounded by a hundred men," he informed Colwyn. "Throw down your weapons and surrender your money."
Colwyn dismounted to study his challenger. "A hundred is not enough."
That brought forth an amused smile. "Well, well, what have we here? A fighter?" He looked curiously at Colwyn, then at Ynyr. "A welcome change from the usual quavering traveler. A few moments diversion, they say, is refreshing for the soul."
"I would agree with you, were I not in a hurry. If we are to talk of souls, stranger, have a care for your own, lest it find itself liberated sooner than you think. And if it's pleasurable diversion you intend, you're short about ninety men."
The man laughed good-humoredly. "Not only a fighter, but a counter too!"
A second man stepped out of the fog. His expression was sour, his attitude one of irritated boredom. He was stocky and rotund, but Colwyn could see the muscle beneath the fat. His hand held a peculiar and lethal-looking bolo.
"What is this small talk? Idle chatter is for idle men. Kill them and be done with it, Torquil."
"Softly go, Rhun." The man named Torquil was studying the nonchalant horseman cautiously. "I don't kill without reason."
"Nor do I," Colwyn assured him, eyeing the one called Rhun with unconcealed distaste. "The both of you can be thankful for that."
Rhun took a step forward, brandishing the bolo. It was designed not for bringing down fleeing fowl, but for killing.