Not to mention that the thought of so exposing her father’s mental infirmities to all and sundry was intolerable. The thought of pitying or scornful gazes staring at Jervon’s slack-mouthed, vacant face and stumbling form made her wince.
“Bringing him would be exceedingly difficult, I know,” the lore-mistress said, echoing the girl’s thoughts. “And I must caution you that the journey to reach the Stone’s resting place is long and dangerous. Strange creatures have come out of the mountains since the Turning, and they can pose a grave threat to travelers.”
The songsmith wanted to bow her head and weep, but she forced herself to square her shoulders, meet Duratan’s and Nolar’s eyes straightly. “What I must do, I shall,” she said. Perhaps he could travel in a covered litter… she thought wearily.
“But to undertake such a journey by yourself…” the Lady Nolar began, then trailed off, shaking her head.
“I am sure that Lord Kerovan and Lady Joisan will aid me in bringing my father to be healed,” Eydryth told her, before adding, with bitter frankness, “but one thing makes me hesitate: what if we make such a journey and the Stone does not heal Jervon? Or what if he is killed on the way there?”
Both chronicler and lore-mistress nodded back at her, obviously comprehending the reasons for her hesitation and distress.
Suddenly Alon, whom she had almost forgotten was present, stirred beside her, clearing his throat. “Mistress Nolar,” he said, indicating one of the rune-scrolls in the stack on the table, “may I examine that scroll? The runes on its case remind me of one that my master Hilarion had in his collection. That one dealt with healing, and if this is a copy…”
Duratan sat up even straighter, raising his heavy eyebrows in surprise. “Hilarion? I have heard that name, from my friend Kemoc Tregarth.”
“You know Kemoc?” Alon asked, equally surprised.
“We fought together on the Border, and became friends as well as comrades-in-arms. After Kemoc was wounded, he came to Lormt and I saw him again there, not long before the Turning. Since the exodus to resettle Escore by those of the Old Race, we have corresponded by means of travelers and carrier birds.” The master chronicler’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Kemoc told me much of this Hilarion, the man who wed his sister. And you say you were his apprentice?”
Alon hesitated. “Not really. Rather, Hilarion and his lady fostered me when I was left kinless and clanless in Karsten, then found my way into Escore as a child. He taught me many things… to read and write, to cipher, and also the lore of ancient lands.”
Duratan’s glance was sharp, but before he could speak again, Alon turned back to Nolar. “Please, Lady… may I examine the scroll?”
The lore-mistress gave the young man a searching look, then nodded. “Certainly,” she said. “However, please be careful. As you no doubt know, such records are very fragile.”
“I will take the greatest care,” he promised, drawing the cylindrical metal casing toward him. With slow, cautious movements, he extracted the fragile record from the case, then began to unroll it.
Eydryth leaned over his shoulder to gaze at the revealed text. The script was faded almost to illegibility, and the runic symbols implied a form of the Old Tongue more ancient than any she had ever seen. The songsmith could make out only a word here and there.
“Ah…” Alon muttered, scanning the ancient writing. “Yes, this is indeed a copy of the one I saw. And here”—he pointed a long forefinger to a page near the end—“is the reference I recalled—”
The young man broke off as his finger touched the smudged, faded runes, and they suddenly flared into dazzling clarity, glowing violet in the dusty sunlight of the study.
Duratan and Nolar both gasped, then leaped up and circled the table to stare incredulously at the scroll. “What did you do?” Nolar demanded, finding her voice first. “That light was violet, the color of great Power!”
“Great Power?” Eydryth stared wide-eyed at Alon. “You—”
His headshake silenced her. “It was nothing I did,” he stated. “There was a spell laid on that page.” His face was suddenly drawn with weariness, as though that touch had taken something out of him. “I have heard Hilarion speak of such. This was an old spell of clarification so that the words therein could be read even after the ink that formed them was gone… providing the reader’s need is great. The runes would have done so had any of you touched them. Thus—”
With a quick motion, he grasped Eydryth’s fingers, moving them to brush against the ancient scroll. Again the runes flared brilliantly—but this time they blazed blue-green.
Eydryth felt something almost tangible run through her body at the touch of that ancient parchment—a tingling warmth. Alon released her fingers, staring at her as if startled, even though he had predicted that the scroll would react to the touch of any with great need to know its contents.
“So it deals with healing!” Eydryth exclaimed, returning to what was, for her, the most important thing. “What does it say? Can we translate it?”
“It is a very ancient form of the Old Tongue,” the lore-mistress said slowly, studying the writing. “Older by far than any I have seen.”
“I can read it,” Alon said. “Hilarion was born into a time before the First Turning that sealed off Estcarp from Escore. This scroll dates from that time.”
Duratan shook his head in wonderment. “That long ago? It is hardly to be believed!”
“My foster-father had scrolls in his holding that were even older than this one,” the younger man muttered abstractedly, as he studied the page. Long moments later, he announced: “I was correct. This scroll mentions a place of healing on the outskirts of the Valley of the Green Silences.”
Duratan nodded. “Morquant’s Valley! Kemoc told me of it. His brother, Kyllan, is wedded to the Lady of the Green Silences.”
“In Escore,” Alon said, “she is called Dahaun.”
“She has many names,” Duratan agreed. “But it is part of the lore surrounding her that she has methods of healing in her valley that are greater even than that of the Stone of Konnard, powerful though that may be. If a wounded creature can but reach her healing place, death loses its power over flesh and bone there.”
“But can her healing methods mend shattered minds and spirits as well as bodies?” Eydryth cried, scarcely daring to hope. “And is her secret of healing something that can be transported?”
Alon shook his head. “The scroll does not say. It is worth seeking out and asking, though.”
“If only I could discover some healing potion or tisane that I could take back to my father!” the girl cried, daring, for the first time in hours, to think that her quest might succeed.
Nolar looked thoughtful. “Perhaps the Lady of the Green Silences knows of such.”
“Perhaps she does,” Alon said. “I have heard that there is little that she does not know.”
“But how would I get there?” Eydryth wondered aloud, remembering the shadows of the eastern mountains against the sky. “It would be a journey of many days, just to climb the heights separating Escore and Estcarp.” She considered for a moment, then asked, “Alon, do you know whether there is a trail or a road that leads across the mountains?”
When he did not reply to her question, she looked up, alerted by his silence, to find Alon staring expressionlessly back at Duratan. The master chronicler was again regarding the younger man with that measuring, avid gaze she had noted earlier.
“I would like to talk to you about this Hilarion,” Duratan said, slowly. “And about yourself, Alon. We do not often encounter—”
“Those who have lived in Escore,” the younger man broke in. “Yes, I know. But I am afraid that there is no time for such conversation at the moment, sir. If I am to guide the Lady Eydryth to the Valley of the Green Silences—” Eydryth’s heart leaped as she took in his words. “—then we must needs leave immediately.”