The newcomer frankly gaped at her as she stood beside the now-placid horse, still humming. Of medium height and whip-slender, he gave the impression of a wiry toughness and strength. His hair was as black as the stallion’s mane, his eyes dark grey. By the cast of his features he was young, but there was something ageless about him. Plainly, he was of the Old Race… and yet—
—yet—
For a moment Eydryth sensed something different about the newcomer… something that set him apart from the townspeople and farmers milling around him. Somehow, he seemed more distinct than the others. The songsmith blinked, startled; then the fleeting impression was gone. Facing her was naught but a young man, dressed simply in an unbleached linen shirt with a leather overjerkin, tan buckskin breeches, and battered, knee-high riding boots.
The stranger gave her a wry grin accompanied by a congratulatory bow. “I said, ‘Thank you for capturing my horse, minstrel.’ ” His voice was a low, pleasant baritone, and his accent was that of an educated man, at variance with his rough clothing. A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, which then began dispersing, seeing that the excitement was now over.
Eydryth smiled, still patting the horse. “You are welcome, sir. Tell me, how did he come to be loose?”
The young man rubbed the back of his neck as though it pained him. “It was my fault,” he admitted, unwrapping a leather lead-shank from about his waist and fastening it to the runaway’s halter. The beast rumbled a low greeting deep in its throat. “I was careless. I took him to graze along the river-bank, and two ruffians evidently decided that it was easier to steal a mount than to acquire one honestly.”
“They attacked you?”
“They were upon me before I knew they were there! One moment I was turning, thinking I heard a sound, the next I returned to my senses stretched out on the ground, with my horse nowhere to be seen. One of the brigands lay an arm’s length away, trampled and dead, while the other was just disappeanng into the forest, cradling an arm that will require splinting, if I’m any judge.”
The man shook his head ruefully as he scratched behind the horse’s ears, causing it to rub its head against him, nearly knocking him over. “This fellow has been trained to let no one else touch him. I was certain that you were about to share his would-be thieves’ fate. But I was wrong.” The newcomer gave Eydryth a searching look that made her cheeks grow warm. “Such lovely singing was too much for even Monso to resist.”
Monso. Eydryth stared at the newcomer in shock. That means “wind-swift” in the Old Tongue. But … how does this man come to know the Old Tongue?
Her mind racing, Eydryth walked over to pick up her harp where it lay on the ground. After running her fingers over the wood and strings, she returned it to her pack.
“Is your harp damaged, Lady… Lady Songsmith?” the man asked worriedly.
She shook her head. “It is fine. I am Eydryth… and you are?”
He hesitated for a bare second, then bowed again. “I am called Dakar, Lady Eydryth.”
Again the bard was careful not to betray any outward reaction to his words. Dakar means “shadow” in the Old Tongue. Who is this man? Could he be from Arvon?
Dakar ran a hand down Monso’s neck, then across the broad chest. “He’s still sweating… I should walk him, lest his muscles cramp or stiffen. Will you… will you walk with us for a moment, Lady? I have scarcely thanked you.”
“It was nothing,” Eydryth demurred, but she slung her pack over her shoulders, then followed him as he led the stallion away from the fair booths toward an open meadow lying near the racecourse.
It was late afternoon now; the sun was dropping toward the dark shadow of the surrounding forest. The tiny white-and-gold lover’s knots dotting the turf were beginning to close their petals. The bustle of the fair faded to a faint murmur far behind them as they walked.
Dakar glanced over at the racecourse, where the track was being smoothed by a heavy stone block dragged behind two oxen. “Soon it will be time for the day’s race,” he muttered, resting a hand on Monso’s neck. He felt between the animal’s forelegs, then, satisfied that the horse was now cool, halted him, allowing his mount to crop eagerly at the spring-green grass.
The youth rested an arm across his horse’s back, leaning comfortably against the animal’s barrel. He was not tall; his eyes and Eydryth’s were nearly on a level as they stood together. “What brings you to the horse fair, Lady?” he asked.
Eydryth briefly explained her desire for a mount to carry her on her journeying, but admitted ruefully that her taste in horseflesh exceeded the wealth of her purse. Dakar nodded sympathetically. “There is fine stock to be had here, Lady, but only for those with the silver to purchase it. True bargains when buying horseflesh are rare.”
Eydryth sighed. “You are right. I had just decided I would be better off earning yet another night’s worth of silver, then trying again on the morrow. But I am anxious to proceed to Lormt—even a day’s delay seems an eternity!”
“Lormt?” he gave her a sharp, sidelong glance. Plainly, he had heard of the ancient stronghold of knowledge.
“You know of Lormt?” she asked, eagerly. “Have you ever been there?”
“Never within its walls, Lady. But I worked with a mountain guide for nearly a year, leading parties into Escore, and we were accustomed to camp outside Lormt’s walls on each trip. We watered our horses at the village well. The master chronicler, Duratan, gave my partner permission to do so.”
“Have you met any of the scholars there? Any who might know aught of ancient scrolls having to do with healing?”
Dakar shook his head. “No, always I remained with the party while Jon—” He broke off in midname, his mouth tightening, then continued, not looking at her. “—while my partner consulted with the scholars.”
“But still, you know the way there. Is the overland route by way of South Wending the most direct road?”
He nodded. “It is. Except that there is an old forest trail after you pass South Wending that will save you half a day’s journey. The entrance is nearly overgrown, but the path itself is clear. Look for it on your left just past a tall bank of red clay with a stream running at its foot.”
“Thank you,” Eydryth said.
“You are most welcome. I only wish I could be of more help. I can tell that your journey is… important.”
The songsmith glanced away. “You have aided me. Anything that will hasten my journeying is all to the good. I am in your debt.”
“Nonsense, my lady. I owe you far more than that, for catching Monso. Doubtless you kept him from injuring someone, or, at the least, damaging property.” Dakar stopped to gaze thoughtfully over at the oval of beaten earth where soon the races would be run. A moment later, he turned back to catch the songsmith’s gaze, hold it with his own.
“If I had coin of my own, I’d give it to you, Lady,” he said, his pleasant voice suddenly low and intense. “Regrettably, races have been few and far between here in the south of Estcarp, and at the moment I have barely enough to pay my entry fee. But if you will trust me enough to risk some of your own silver, I swear that it will profit you.”
Dakar took a brush from a pocket in his jerkin and began grooming his horse. Dried sweat rose in a dusty, salty cloud. “My beast may not be as tall, or as sleek and well groomed as these local beauties, Lady—but over a course this length, nothing can stay with him, much less pass him. Wager on us, and you’ll not lose.”
“But it’s a long way from the riverbank to the fairgrounds,” Eydryth pointed out. “He’s run himself into a lather once already today. I saw some of the racers earlier—they are fine, blooded animals, and fresh, as Monso is not. How can you defeat them?”