Bracing herself, Eydryth brought the knife up to the flesh of his wrist. It would be far easier to cut myself, she thought, forcing herself to keep singing. Amber Lady, aid me! Do not let me hurt him! Let us escape from this place, I beg of You!
Touching the blade to skin, she resolutely drew it across and down. A tiny trickle of red followed, and she forced herself to cut deeper… deeper. The trickle strengthened, began to drip… then flow.
The songsmith had spilled blood before, but never like this. She felt darkness creeping up on the edges of her vision, and only the hard grasp on her fingers kept her from fainting or being sick. Still, she sang, never missing a note.
Alon began to mutter hoarsely, chanting in a language she did not recognize, as blood splashed on the edge of the abyss. Eydryth was conscious of a sudden pull upon her inner strength. Alon’s blood was only the outward sign of what was happening here. There was a draining, a flow from her to him, that made her almost falter. Summoning all her will, her determination, she stood firm, singing, and watched the abyss.
From that steady drip of scarlet, something was growing. Eydryth’s eyes widened as she saw something taking shape… a bridge! An actual curved span, shadowy, but gaining substance! It was red… as red as blood, pulsing to the beat of both their hearts… and with each beat, it gained substance.
Alon’s face was pale now, beneath his tan, but his chanting grew louder. Blood spattered. Eydryth was singing loudly now, forcing the words to ring out true and strong, forcing herself to believe in what she was seeing.
The bridge shimmered scarlet in the light, stretching across the chasm, into the grey mist. Careful not to loose her grip on Alon’s hand, the songsmith raised her foot, touched it to the bridge. It was solid—it took her weight. But will it hold the stallion’s?
“Come on, Monso,” she sang, incorporating the order into one of the verses. One-handed, she grasped the Keplian’s rein and pulled him so he fronted that span. She tugged at his lead, indicating she wanted him to cross. “Go on, boy!” she sang, her voice ringing out in a musical command. “Go!”
The stallion pawed at the bridge, obviously dubious, but the scent of water, and the solid feel of Alon’s creation beneath his questing hoof, convinced him. With a snort, the half-bred plunged forward. His hooves clattered on the bridge, as he surged up onto it, then disappeared into the mist. A last flick of his black tail, then he was gone.
Did he fall? Eydryth wondered, but resolutely forced herself not to even consider that possibility. She guided Alon to step onto the span, nerving herself to place both feet on that crimson surface. Together, they edged along, the Adept chanting, Eydryth singing.
A moment later, the most wonderful music she had ever heard reached the songsmith’s ears, even above the sound of her own singing. It was the sound of a horse drinking, great, gulping slurps of water. “Thank you, Amber Lady!” Eydryth sang, careful not to look down. She pulled Alon faster, as they made a crablike progress.
They were slightly more than halfway across when Eydryth felt the Adept stagger. Casting an anxious glance at him, she saw that his face was grey. His eyes rolled back in his head; showing only the whites. Knees buckling, he swayed. The shining crimson surface beneath their feet began to quiver.
Eydryth slung her free arm around Alon’s waist, holding him against her. The bridge shivered, fading. Resolutely squeezing her own eyes shut, Eydryth lunged forward, leaping into the mist, dragging Alon with her.
A heartbeat later she felt herself falling… falling…
12
For what seemed endless seconds, Eydryth fell through the swirling greyness. A scream welled in her throat, trying to burst from her lips. But before any sound could emerge, she struck solid ground, landing so hard that the breath rushed from her lungs. She pitched over, rolling, the rich smell of growing turf filling her nostrils.
When the world finally stopped its dizzying spin, Eydryth found herself staring dazedly at a blue sky dotted with white clouds. The sun shone just past its zenith. Raising her head weakly, she saw Monso regarding her, ears pricked, muzzle still dripping water from the stream flowing past his hooves.
Someone groaned.
The pain in that sound brought her up onto hands and knees. “Alon?”
The Adept was lying behind her, on the hillside. His eyes were closed; the sound of his name did not rouse him. Bright scarlet splashed the green grass by his side, soaking into the ground. That sight made the songsmith scuttle forward to seize his wrist, squeezing hard to stop the blood flow.
Finally, it halted. Eydryth sat back on her heels, her scarlet-streaked hands shaking as she tried to summon the strength to do what she could to aid him. Alon still lay unconscious, so pale his skin was greyish and his lips blue. Despite the warmth of the sun, he was shivering beneath the thin fabric of his once-white linen shirt, now a rusty brown from drying blood.
Blankets… liquids… Healcraft that Joisan had taught her came slowly to mind. Pushing herself up onto legs that trembled at first from her own weakness, she walked slowly over to the Keplian and led him back to the Adept’s side. Untying their packs, she then unsaddled the stallion, turning him loose to roll and graze, trusting that he would stay near his master.
Wrapping Alon snugly in both their cloaks, she gathered wood to build a small fire, then fetched water from the stream to heat. While she was waiting for the pot to simmer, she unpacked the small bag of simples Joisan had assembled for her so long ago. Snippets of lore gained from her foster-mother came back to her as the sometimes sweet, sometimes sharp scents of the powdered herbs made her nostrils twitch.
A restorative… verbena! A tea made with verbena…
Scenting the distinctive sharp, lemony scent, she opened the proper bag, dropping the dried leaves into the pot. When the tisane was ready, she strained it, then, propping Alon’s head on her knee, urged him to drink. His eyelids fluttered, and he roused enough to swallow the tea, but he did not regain consciousness. His shivering eased, though, and for that the songsmith was grateful.
Before tackling the wound on his wrist, she drank a cup of the brew herself. The songsmith felt as emptied as if she had been awake and without food for days. Such weariness was normal after use of the Power, she knew that. The thought sparked a bittersweet memory.
I worked magic, she thought, scarcely able to believe it. Even though it had happened only a short while ago, the memory was already raveling and faded, as if it had happened to another person, not the Eydryth of here-and-now. She sighed, shaking her head as she visualized again that hillside thorn-walled by illusion, and how she had sung the falseness away to discover the truth beneath. Did I truly do that? Or was it Alon’s magic affecting me somehow? Is it possible that I truly do hold my own kind of Power?
There were no certain answers to her questions, and no time to ponder them. Kneeling beside the fast-running water, Eydryth washed her face and hands, scrubbing her fingertips and nails with white sand from the stream bottom. Joisan maintained that keeping wounds clean was fully as important as using the proper herbs and spells for their treatment.
After washing the oozing slash with boiled water, into which she had dissolved generous pinches of saffron and yarrow, to promote healing, she frowned as she studied the extent of the cut. It needed stitching, such as she had seen her foster-mother do. But here in the wilds of Arvon, she had no needle, no boiled thread.