The travelers jogged slowly down the rutted track that served the small village as a main thoroughfare. Eydryth was conscious of eyes peering out at them from behind curtains and cracks in doorways, but the only inhabitants brave enough to venture forth were several barefoot children, still too young to be working in the fields, or aiding with the spinning.
Eydryth wondered whether they would beg, but they did not; two, a boy and a girl, accompanied them, while a fourth child, older, pelted off through one of the many gaps in the crumbled wall, evidently to warn of their arrival.
The metal-bound gate stood permanently ajar and askew, and they rode through that into a stone and dirt courtyard. On the doorstep of one of the intact towers, two people were waiting to meet them, a man and a woman.
The man held himself with the upright carriage of those who have borne arms and marched to battle. He was slightly above middle height, plainly of the Old Race, and went clean-shaven. Instead of the scholar’s robe Eydryth had expected, he wore a rust-colored tunic and leather jerkin, a horsehide belt with the hair left on, and breeches and boots.
The woman at his side wore a simple robe of rich autumn brown, with a light green shawl flung over her shoulders against the early-morning chill. Her hair was drawn back from her face and caught up in a loose knot at the back of her neck. Her features were strong and well cut, but a reddish birthmark spread over one cheek, marring her appearance.
Eydryth had to force herself to meet the woman’s eyes directly; it was hard to keep her eyes from fixing on that ugly mark. Compassion stirred within her, as she imagined all the cruel taunts children were wont to hurl at one whose difference was so plain to the eye.
But after a moment’s measuring glance, Eydryth realized that this woman had come to terms with herself long ago; pity was something she neither needed or wanted. As she hesitated, wondering how to begin, Alon cleared his throat and sketched a half-bow. “Fair fortune to this holding, and good morning to you both. I am Alon, and this is the songsmith Eydryth.”
The man nodded acknowledgment, his grey eyes never leaving the younger man’s face. “You are well-come to Lormt, Alon and Eydryth. I am Master Duratan, and this is my lady, the lore-mistress, Nolar. How may we aid you?”
“The Lady Eydryth wishes to consult with you on a matter of healing.”
“Healing? That is a subject I know well.” Nolar spoke for the first time in a soft, melodious voice. “Enter, please. We can speak in my study.”
Duratan waved the travelers past him with a courtly gesture. “I will have one of the stable lads attend to your mount.”
But Alon did not move as he shook his head. “It is better that I care for the stallion myself, Master Duratan. His temper can be… uncertain. I will join you in a few minutes.”
“Very well. I will show you to the stables.” He walked over to join Alon, and the songsmith saw that, though he held himself as straight as possible, and there was good breadth to his shoulders, Duratan moved with a distinct limp.
Eydryth followed the lore-mistress into the ancient building, and found herself reminded of the Citadel in Es City. The same aura of age pervaded the stones—nay, if anything, this place seemed to be even older. The two women passed room after room filled with shelves, each shelf holding hundreds of books, or, even more ancient, rune-scrolls in metal and leather containers. Robed scholars, both male and female, moved soft-footed through the corridors, carrying armloads of blank parchment, and fresh quills.
They climbed the stairs into one of the towers; then Nolar stopped before a door and opened it. The room within was large, with a window that looked out upon the eastern hills. Pots of herbs grew on the stone windowsill, and faded hangings gave a hint of soft color to the walls, though any pictures or stories they bore were nearly impossible to make out. The whitewashed walls were lined with chests, each holding many record-scrolls in bronze-reinforced or carved-wood cases.
Eydryth took a deep breath of the musty, vellum-scented air and thought that here, if any place in the world, there might be some scrap of healing-lore that would aid her father.
Nolar carefully moved some tattered scrolls she had evidently been studying, then waved the girl to a seat. “Tell me why you have come, Eydryth.”
Taking a deep breath, the songsmith launched into her story. She was halfway through when Duratan and Alon entered the room. As she recounted the events of the past, she noticed that the master chronicler’s eyes seldom left Alon’s face; he avoided staring openly, but he watched the younger man as avidly as Steel Talon might have eyed a rabbit that had ventured too far from its burrow.
Why is the master chronicler so interested in Alon? she wondered; then a likely reason occurred to her. Duratan has probably read of the Keplians in Escore, and recognized Monso for one. He would naturally be curious about one who could master such a creature.
“… and so Jervon has remained, these past years,” Eydryth concluded. “Much like a very small child… biddable, but needing help in even the simplest things; eating, bathing or dressing.” She fixed the lore-mistress with a pleading gaze. “Lady Nolar… can you think of aught that might help him? I cannot let him continue to live thus!”
“And you say there is no scar, nor any depression in the bone of his skull where he hit his head?”
“None. The Lady Joisan, who fostered me when my own mother disappeared, is a Wise Woman and Healer of no little ability. She has said that my father’s problem was not caused by injury to the body, but rather to the mind, and perhaps the spirit. Like…” She groped for an example. “… like a river during floodtime, where the channel can no longer contain the rush of water, and thus overflows its banks. So also with the pathways in Jervon’s mind.”
“I see…” the lore-mistress murmured. She glanced at her lord. “Much like Elgaret’s case, it seems to me. Perhaps the Stone…”
“The Stone?” Eydryth demanded. “What Stone?”
“The Stone of Konnard,” Duratan said. “It is a healing stone of great power that lies within a cave in the mountains far from here. A shard from it healed my lady’s aunt after her mind had been overpowered during the Turning. She was once one of the witches.”
“Shard? May we obtain one? Or borrow yours?” Eydryth’s heart was beating wildly, like a snared bird trying to escape capture.
“Alas, the shard is no longer mine,” Nolar said.
“Soon after Elgaret’s healing, the shard drew me back to the Stone, and cleaved again to it,” Nolar added. “Thus, that piece is no longer in my possession. And I do not think another shard will be found, after all these years. Could you perhaps take your father here?”
“The Stone of Konnard…” Eydryth whispered, now feeling her heart sink as she pictured traveling all those weary months to reach Kar Garudwyn again, then of trying to bring her father back to Estcarp, first over the mountains and through the Waste bordering Arvon, then across the Dales of High Hallack, over the sea, and traversing the entire land of Estcarp—!!
Eydryth did not see any way that such a journey could be accomplished. Jervon could and did walk every day, but only when taken by the hand and guided so that he would not stray off the path. He rode, but could not manage his own mount, and must needs be led. A companion or nurse had perforce to sleep in his chamber each night, to prevent him from wandering off…
The songsmith swallowed, forcing back the tightness in her throat. There must be another way, she thought. The gods would not be so cruel as to demand that my father make a journey that would be so perilous for him!