Above the witch-gem, their gazes locked, chill grey holding vivid blue, and Eydryth was suddenly conscious of the silence. Around them, the forest lay still—no bird sang, no insect hummed. Even the horses stood unmoving.
As the moments passed, she could feel the witch’s will testing hers, pushing and probing at her mind, measuring, sifting. She attempted to summon her old defense of her mother’s lullaby. The words… yes, the words were there:
So sleep, little seabird, sleep…
But, try as she might, the songsmith could not make the accompanying tune come to life in her mind. She could remember the notes, visualize the movement of her fingers as they formed the chords on her harpstrings, but she could not hear the music.
The girl’s eyes wavered; she broke that locked gaze, no longer able to resist. When she looked back up, the witch was smiling again, a mocking twist of the lips that had nothing of good humor about it. “It is as I thought, Lieutenant,” she addressed the officer in command of the guardsmen, “her mind does not reflect the conviction of her words. We are seven against two; no experienced fighter would sell her life cheaply by tackling such overwhelming odds. You may take her.”
Eydryth closed her eyes, sick with despair. Father, I am sorry, she thought. I have failed you—and we were so close to Lormt! Her shoulders sagged, and she swayed, suddenly so exhausted that her head spun. Alon slid an arm around her, steadying her. “All is not lost,” he whispered. “Wait. Tonight—”
“No talking, you two!” the officer commanded, pushing them apart. “Girl, hand over that sword, and let’s have no trickery about the way you do it.” He held out his hand.
Numbly, Eydryth relinquished her sword. The gryphon’s blue quan-iron eyes flashed in the sunlight, as though the beast were protesting such treatment.
One of the guards seized Alon’s arms, wrenching them behind the young man’s back so cruelly that he grunted with pain. Eydryth received like treatment as her wrists were also bound securely. “Gently!” admonished the witch, when the girl gasped at a sharp tug of the leathern thongs. “She must not be hurt, is that understood?”
Hearing a shrill scream from overhead, the songsmith looked up, just as Steel Talon stooped, sharp talons ready to tear. With a yell of dismay, the lieutenant of the guards threw up an arm to cover his eyes and flung himself down on the mossy earth.
As the falcon swooped low, then mounted into the air, circling, several of the guards raised their dart guns and fired. “No!” Eydryth shouted, struggling against her bindings.
But none of the darts even came close, and while the guards’ attention was distracted, Monso seemed to choose his moment. Without warning the stallion reared, teeth bared, then bounded forward, straight toward two of the guards’ mounts.
The mortal horses scattered, squealing in fear, before the Keplian’s charge. Within a heartbeat, the black was gone, crashing a path through the deep underbrush. The falcon had also vanished.
At least Monso and Steel Talon are still free, Eydryth thought, dully, as her guard propelled her roughly across the meadow, toward the campsite where the witch awaited them. The sun was almost gone behind the trees now; darkness crept across the soft spring turf.
She and Alon were allowed to wrap themselves in their cloaks; then one of the men produced portions of journey-bread and dried fruit, as well as a water bottle. Despite her aching misery, Eydryth forced herself to chew and swallow. Food meant strength—the strength, perhaps to escape. She could not forget Alon’s words of hope.
When the captives were finished eating, the guards bound them hand and foot. Then, on the lieutenant’s order, they fastened their wrist-bindings to the trees behind them, tethering them past all hope of working free. Alon was tied too far away to speak to Eydryth, but when the guards finally left them to get their own rations, he turned his head and his eyes met hers. One eyelid closed in a quick wink; then he deliberately looked away.
As the camp settled down to its routine of night patrols and the off-duty guards crawled into their bedrolls, the girl continued to covertly watch Alon. In the darkness, she could barely discern the shape of his body against the trees, for twilight was long past, and moonrise still hours away. As she watched, he wriggled backward, clumsy because of his bound wrists and ankles, until he was braced against the trunk of the oak where his rope was secured. She could make out his profile now, outlined by the campfire.
She watched the pale blur of his face turn toward hers, as though to make sure she was watching; then, exaggeratedly, he yawned. His shoulders sagged as he settled his chin on his chest, obviously preparing for sleep.
Her heart thumping excitedly, Eydryth mimicked his actions. As the time dragged by, she found herself wondering what her companion had meant by those final words. Did Alon have some way of getting free? A blade, perhaps, sewn into the bottom of his tunic, the hem of his cloak—or, perhaps, the sole of his boot? She had heard her father speak of such places for concealing small weapons.
But Alon did not seem to be moving at all.
Eydryth listened with part of her mind to the lieutenant’s voice as he inspected the watches, then the soft sounds of the sentries pacing, all mingled with the snorts and whufflings from the horses on the picket line. She was tired; all too soon, her feigned drowsiness became genuine.
The girl tried to hold her eyes open, but they felt as weighted as a Sulcar ship’s anchor. Despite her struggles, she fell deeply asleep—
—only to jerk herself out of slumber with a gasp when something heavy landed on her booted legs. Frightened, she jerked her knees up, staring with horror at the formless black shape before her. With an offended squawk, it rose into the air, flapped to a nearby branch, then regarded her. The songsmith could see the gleam of its eyes and the white V on its breast in the moonlight.
“Steel Talon!” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”
Reflexively, she glanced over at Alon, seeing that he sat bolt upright, obviously awake. He whistled softly, the call of a night-swallow, and Steel Talon silently winged his way over to him. As Alon bent forward, the falcon landed behind him.
Eydryth watched as the young man’s body jerked involuntarily, his face grimacing with pain in the moon’s glow. She bit her lip in sympathy, realizing that the bird’s cruelly hooked beak was now tearing at the leather thongs binding Alon to the tree.
Is this what he had planned? she wondered. Is he controlling the falcon’s actions somehow? Or do Falconers train their war-birds to free their masters in case of capture? She did not know.
Minutes later, Alon’s arms suddenly snapped forward, as he gave a last tug on his bonds and they parted. Eydryth watched him rub his hands together, trying to ease their numbness. Then he raised his knees, and his stiff fingers began tugging clumsily at the fastenings on his ankles,
The songsmith kept listening for the sounds of the sentries, fearing that they would be discovered, but there was nothing stirring in the dimness.
When he was free of his bonds, Alon crept cautiously over the grass toward her, raising one finger to his lips in the signal for silence.
But to Eydryth’s surprise, he did not begin working away at the thongs binding her. Instead, he put his hand on her brow and hissed in her ear, “Be patient. I will set you free in a moment.”
When she tried to frame one of the questions whirling in her mind like chaff before a thunderstorm, he shook his head, laying a finger against her lips. “Wait,” he whispered, still touching her brow. “Watch…”