“Why so quickly?” Duratan demanded, with a touch of grim humor, as though he already suspected the answer.
Alon smiled crookedly. “There are… complications… that could keep us from reaching Escore. Complications that are even now following our trail.”
“I see…” Duratan said, still holding the younger man’s eyes with his own. “You must make haste, then, of course. But should you ever return…”
“I will be happy to speak to you at length,” Alon promised.
Rising, the young man looked down at the songsmith, then extended his hand to help her up. “We must hasten,” he said. “Unless you do not wish to go?”
Eydryth grasped his fingers and rose, albeit a little unsteadily. “Do you really mean that you will take me over the mountains to Escore?” she whispered. “Oh, Alon… I… I can never repay you!”
“I am doing this as much for my own sake as for your father’s,” he reminded her. “There is an arrest warrant out for me in Rylon Corners, remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“In Escore, I can hide out until the witch and the townspeople have forgotten me completely. Then Monso and I can reappear on the tracks in the north of Estcarp, with none the wiser!”
Eydryth smiled knowingly. “You are only saying that because you want no one to know what a kind thing you are doing, aiding me. You’d rather play the rogue, concerned only with saving his own hide.” Her expression sobered and her eyes held his. “But I know the truth. Accept my thanks, Alon.”
“Do you need supplies for your journey?” the lore-mistress asked.
At her words, Eydryth let go of Alon’s hand, and both travelers turned to her. “Perhaps a round or two of journey-bread, should you have it,” she said, as they headed for the door. “And… Mistress Nolar… thank you. Both of you.”
Scant minutes later found them in the courtyard, while Alon packed the provisions the lore-mistress had provided into Monso’s saddlebags. Just as he finished, the master chronicler reappeared, leading a bay mare. Duratan was carrying a handful of rags and twine.
“What size shoes does he wear?” the chronicler demanded without preamble, nodding at the Keplian half-bred.
Alon eyed the rags, twine and the bay horse’s feet; then he smiled gratefully. “Size aught,” he said. “You chose correctly.”
“Like most Borderers, I did my share of makeshift smithing,” the master chronicler commented, handing the younger man the cloths.
Taking the string, Eydryth aided Alon in tying the rags around the Keplian’s hooves, so he would leave no prints.
When they were finished, Duratan swung himself up into the bay’s saddle, then held out a hand to Nolar. “My lady,” he said, with a smile touching his deep-set grey eyes, “it occurs to me that it has been long since we visited the southernmost farms to see if any are in need of your healing skills. Perhaps today would be a good day to do that.”
Nolar chuckled. “Let me get my bag of simples,” she said, and ran to fetch them. When she returned, she caught her lord’s hand; then, with a swirl of russet skirts, she scrambled up onto the bay mare’s rump.
Very canny, Eydryth thought approvingly. Now the bay’s hoofprints will sink deep enough to match the ones Monso has been leaving.
“What will you say when they find you?” Alon asked worriedly.
“I will say, truthfully, that all our other mounts are in use,” Duratan replied serenely, “and so my lady and I must needs ride double.” He smiled at Alon. “Remember your promise, lad. I will be waiting for the day when we can have that long talk.”
Alon nodded. “I will not forget.”
“Well, then…” The master chronicler raised a hand in a half-salute. “A good journey to you both. May you find what you are seeking.” Nolar nodded farewell as Duratan turned the horse and sent the animal trotting out of the courtyard.
Eydryth and Alon watched them go; then they, too, set off, leading the stallion, so as to further confound their pursuers. Only when the ground beneath their boots was hard-packed soil broken by the thrusts of rock outcrops did they take the muffling rags off Monso’s hooves and mount.
Perched once more behind her escort, Eydryth looked ahead of them, to the nearby slopes of the foothills, then beyond to the mountains, many with their peaks still snow-splotched. Uneasily she turned to regard their back trail. “Do you think the witch and her guards will be fooled by Duratan’s and Nolar’s trick?”
Alon sighed. “For another hour or so, perhaps. But as soon as they see Nolar and Duratan, they will know the truth.”
“Then the witch will scry, or farsee, and so discover which trail we have taken,” Eydryth agreed. She indicated the rock-strewn countryside surrounding them. “And Monso’s speed will be of little use to us when the ground is this broken.”
He nodded silently. After a moment, she wet her lips. “Do you think the mountains will stop her?”
Alon shook his head. “Have they stopped you?” he asked, simply. “That lady is as determined to capture you as you are to see your father healed.”
Eydryth knew that he spoke the truth; her fingers tightened convulsively on the leather of his belt. “Are you sure, Alon, that you wish to continue companying with me? You could let me off here and tell me where to find the mountain trail and the pass into—”
“No,” he said, turning in the saddle to look at her. There was no mistaking the gleam of determination in his eyes. “We go together, or not at all. Do not forget that they want me, too.”
But Eydryth knew better; if Alon would only abandon her, the guards of Estcarp would not bother pursuing a miscreant wanted only for a bit of racetrack chicanery. She was the one the witch wanted. The hunt was well and truly up, and she was the quarry.
I must make him leave me, she resolved, ignoring the pang that struck her at the thought. No matter what it takes.
7
They rode the sun down that day, not halting to make camp until the stars glimmered against the deep purple of the late-evening sky. For most of their hours in the saddle Alon held Monso to a ground-covering jog, but whenever they reached stretches of high moorland where the footing was good, he let the Keplian run. When they finally stopped, they were high in the foothills, with the true mountains looming over them like fortresses of ragged stone.
After they dismounted, Eydryth moved around their campsite in a stumbling, dreamlike state, helping Alon rub the stallion down, then forcing herself to eat, knowing her body needed the food. Sleep claimed her the moment she crawled into her bedroll.
The travelers awoke before dawn to a drizzling rain. Heads ducked beneath the hoods of their cloaks, they hastily swallowed mouthfuls of damp journeybread, breaking camp while it was still dark.
Leading the Keplian, they started out. As they reached the crest of the nearest hillock, breathing heavily and slipping in the mud, Alon halted, turning to look back along their trail. After a moment he nudged Eydryth and pointed.
The girl squinted in the misty rain, narrowing her eyes until she made out what her companion was indicating—the dull red glow of several campfires, far behind them.
“We have nearly a full day’s start on them,” she said, but the aching lump of fear was back in her throat, nearly choking her.
“They will gain on us today,” Alon said grimly. “They will be covering gentle slopes, while we will be climbing in earnest before the day is out.”
“Is there another pass we could take?”
“Not that Monso could traverse… not for many leagues,” he replied. “However… there is a chance that the witch will not be able to climb these eastern mountains. There is a mind-block set upon those of the Old Race, concerning these mountains and Escore. Lord Kemoc Tregarth was the first to discover it. But now that everyone knows of Escore, it may also be that the witch can overcome the effects of that ancient sorcery, since she knows that the spell exists.”