In a moment, Avris was there, shivering with relief and excitement. She knocked, softly but insistently, upon the door.
Finally, they heard a sleepy exclamation within, then the sound of feet. A young man, black hair tousled, his well-muscled body bare to the waist, swung the door open.
“Logar?” Avris breathed, pushing back her hood with trembling hands. “It is I…”
“Avris!” the young man gasped. “They came looking for you a fortnight ago! When you did not come, I thought you must be dead!” He stood staring at her as though wondering if she could possibly be real.
Avris smiled diffidently. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
Logar came out of his daze with an inarticulate cry. “Glad?” he gasped. “Glad—!” With sudden, fierce joy, he pulled her into his arms.
Eydryth turned away, leaving them alone in their happiness. She swallowed, feeling an odd pain within her, a loneliness different from any she had experienced before. You have a task to do, she reminded herself, fiercely. And you must do it alone…
As she had promised, Avris and Logar were married within the hour. Eydryth stood by the former witch’s side as Kastryn’s alderwoman joined the couple’s hands, then offered them sips from the same goblet, bites of cake from the same plate. Long before noon the couple had loaded their belongings into an ox-drawn wagon, and prepared to set their faces eastward, toward the mountains and distant Escore.
“Eydryth… sister…” Avris smiled tearfully as she embraced her friend. “How can I ever thank you for what you have done?”
“No need,” the songsmith said, returning the younger woman’s hug. “You have set me on the road to Lormt, and you know how much that hope means to me.”
“At least take this,” Avris said, pushing a small bag into the songsmith’s hand. “My share of our earnings. I will have little need of money where I am going, I believe. It should be sufficient for you to buy a mount, so you may travel more swiftly.”
“I cannot!” Eydryth protested. “You earned your share, just as I did.”
“Take it,” the girl said, closing the songsmith’s fingers tightly over the leather pouch. “I insist. Logar’s father tells me that there is a horse fair being held in Rylon Corners, the next town to the north of this one. A half-day’s good walk should see you there.”
“Well…” Eydryth smiled. “It would be good to travel astride once more. I thank you, Avris.”
“We must be going, dear heart,” Logar said, sliding an arm around his bride’s shoulders. “We will name our first girl-child for you, Lady Eydryth,” he promised, clasping the songsmith’s shoulder with a sword-roughened hand. Then he swung his new wife up onto the wagonseat.
The entire village stood waving as the oxcart slowly creaked out onto the northeast road.
Eydryth refused Logar’s mother’s offer of a bed, but accepted the goodwife’s bag of provisions. She headed out of Kastryn, taking the north road, toward Rylon Corners, and, beyond that, Lormt.
It was afternoon before the songsmith reached the town, but the bustle of the horse fair was still in full swing. She threaded her way through booths offering harness and saddles, brushes and tonics, charms and hoof-gloss… all products imaginable for the health, riding and beautification of horses. Eydryth sniffed the air, smiling. It almost smells like home, here, she thought. If she closed her eyes, she could nearly imagine that she was back in the Kioga camp in the Valley of the Gryphon, “talking horse” with Obred and Guret. She thought of Vyar’s glossy coat.
None of these animals, she thought, eyeing the horses around her, are the equal of the Kioga mounts… but I should be able to find something to bear me on my journey.
Eydryth wandered through the bustling crowd, running her hand over a flank here, lifting a forefoot there, occasionally opening an animal’s mouth to examine its teeth.
Her small hoard of coins would not permit her to purchase one of the fine, blooded animals, so she was forced to wander among the culls, scowling more and more deeply as she examined the mounts she could afford.
She had just finished examining the teeth of a rangy grey gelding while his owner, a whip-thin trader with most of his front teeth gone (Kicked out, most likely, Eydryth thought), smiled ingratiatingly at her. “You like him, bard? Seven years old, and sound as yon stone wall.”
The songsmith smiled grimly. “You mean, despite that curb on his near hock?”
“That little bump?” the man demanded indignantly. “Call that a curb? Why, I’ll eat his saddle if that ever gives him a moment’s shortness, by Volt’s Axe, I will.”
Eydryth sniffed inquiringly at the gelding’s nostrils. “Oh, I’ll wager he’ll go perfectly sound, all right—at least until that infusion you gave him wears off. What did you use? Black willow bark?”
The trader eyed her angrily. “You can’t prove that!”
“No, but I can show someone the file marks on his teeth. Not a very expert job, you know… anyone with half a brain will see right through it, and realize what you’ve done. Seven, hah! This horse is at least twice that!”
Without another word, the little man dragged the grey gelding’s head around and hustled rapidly off into the press of the fair.
Eydryth glared angrily after him for a moment, then shrugged. The fair was due to continue through tomorrow. Perhaps she should seek out some of the local farmers, ask to see their stock, rather than taking her chances with traders. There was always the possibility that she’d run into one of them who knew a trick she didn’t—and then she’d be burdened with a sick or crippled animal.
Still considering the livestock around her, the songsmith took out her hand-harp, then opened its case on the ground at her feet. While she decided what to do, she’d try earning a few more coins. Better to spend a little more, in order to get a far better bargain. Obred’s words ran through her mind: “Remember, girl, it takes just as many coins to feed a bad horse as it does a good one—so buy the best you can.”
She tuned the harp, running her fingers over the strings, humming under her breath to test her voice. Something suitable to the locale and the day, she thought, reviewing the songs she knew. Ah, I have it! “Lord Faral’s Race” will do nicely.
Eydryth softly began to sing:
A few heads turned, a few footsteps slowed, and several passersby halted to listen. Encouraged, Eydryth took a breath and swung into the refrain:
More listeners. The songsmith’s flying fingers picked up the tempo, strumming hard as she sang louder, more ringingly: