Then, rolling herself in her own cloak, Eydryth stretched out on the ground, and knew no more.
She awoke some time later to the sound of Monso snorting and pawing nervously. The night was far spent; the thinnest sliver of moon shed a faint light. By tomorrow it will be moon-dark, she thought absently, pushing herself up on one elbow, wondering what had awakened her from such a profound slumber. Her answer came quickly—Monso. The half-bred stood nearby, not grazing, clearly agitated and on sentry-go.
“What is it, fellow?” she asked softly.
For reply the Keplian snorted so loudly that she jumped—a noisy houufff of expelled breath.
The songsmith summoned night-sight, mentally running a melody through her mind, and clearly saw Monso, spilled ink against the softer blackness of the spring night. He was staring northward, neck arched, ears pricked so far forward they nearly touched at the tips, his ebony tail flung straight up. He snorted again, then, without warning, screamed—the ringing challenge of one stallion to another.
An answer came out of the distance—a slurred, hissing call that sounded like no creature she had ever encountered!
Thoroughly alarmed, the songsmith scrambled free of her cloak, hand reaching for her staff. When she drew her sword, the bared steel glimmered faintly in the wan light of the dying moon.
Alon mumbled something in his sleep, but did not awaken. Eydryth considered trying to rouse him, but, remembering his weakness, decided to let him sleep, if possible. Perhaps Monso’s challenge had been voiced at the leader of a band of wild horses. Such were known to roam Arvon in its remoter parts. Distance or rock formations could have distorted the sound, made it seem so eerie.
But, as she gained her feet and stared northward, that faint hope vanished. Three mounted figures were trotting toward them. The songsmith’s heart contracted within her.
Quickly she found Alon’s lead-shank, then tethered the Keplian to a stout bush. There were no trees nearby, but she thought the fastening would hold him for a lunge or two. If their callers came in peace—Please, by Your blessing, Amber Lady, let them not mean us harm!—she did not want a stallion-battle on her hands.
As their visitors approached, she strained to make out details. The one in the center was tall, and bestrode a huge black. Seeing the flash of red from the creature’s eyes, Eydryth realized that the beast was a full-blooded Keplian. Any small hope she had held that their nocturnal callers came with friendly intentions now vanished.
The two beasts flanking the Keplian seemed, at first glance, to be light grey or white horses. But as they came closer, she saw that they were not like any creatures she had ever seen.
Their heads were long and narrow, as were their necks, bodies and legs. Instead of a true horse’s short hair, they seemed to gleam faintly, as though their skins were not only smooth, but also scaled! Glimpses of sharp, curving teeth were revealed as their riders reined them down to a walk some distance away. Eydryth saw that they did not have hooves, but clawed talons, much like the falcon’s.
Like some kind of unnatural cross between horses and lizards, she thought. Like those beasts Sylvya told me of, the ones that Maleron and his hunters bestrode, when they rode as That Which Runs the Ridges…
The two armsmen wore black armor, and their faces were overshadowed by their helms, so the songsmith could make out no features.
But the central rider, the one mounted on the Keplian, wore brightly burnished chain mail and a dark red surcoat over it, worked with a crest. The songsmith stared at that device, certain that she had seen its like before, somewhere… a snake—or, rather, the bare skull of a snake—crowned, with dark rays of Power emanating from it…
Where had she seen such a crest? Eydryth’s mind spun frantically, searching, scrabbling through memory. She had been with Jervon… yes, he had been there, and that same device had been carved… yes, carved… into a gatepost!
She had it now! It had been a gatepost at Garth Howell, the school where those with the Power came to learn to use their magic!
The memory surged into Eydryth’s mind with such force that she gasped. She remembered the day she and her father had gone to the place to inquire about the Seeing Stone. The abbot, a thin, dark man with pale, ascetic features had courteously given them directions to reach the farseeing Place of Power. But before they had ridden forth, a young lay sister had drawn them aside, then whispered a few hasty words of warning. “Beware the Stone.” Eydryth could hear again that hoarse young voice in her mind. “It gives true sight, but it exacts a terrible price for it!”
And behind the girl’s head had been the gatepost, and upon it, graven deep into the granite, the same design that now faced her. The inhabitants of Arvon feared the school as a place where Power-wielders gathered, much as they feared the Grey Towers of the Wereriders. The place did not give open allegiance to the Left-Hand Path, but, over the years, there had been tales…
Eydryth’s hand itched to raise her sword, but she forced herself to stand motionless as the riders halted before her. The one mounted on the Keplian unhelmed, and she saw, with her augmented vision, that he was well-favored—even handsome, with a strong jaw and regular features. “Fair can be foul,” she remembered Sylvya telling her. “My brother Maleron was handsome. …”
And so was Dinzil, Eydryth suddenly remembered. She kept her head up, her sword pointed down, but her knees were bent, her body poised to assume fighting stance. The songsmith held her silence, forcing the newcomer to speak first.
He leaned on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes holding hers. “Fair meeting, minstrel,” he said, his tones cultured and deliberately mild. “You and your companion are traveling through our lands.”
Garth Howell’s lands, she thought, but did not reveal that she had recognized the device on his surcoat. Since it did not appear on any of the publicly displayed banners flown from the towers, she assumed that this sigil was intended to remain secret. “If we have trespassed, sir, I beg forgiveness. It was done in ignorance,” she replied, keeping her voice smooth and courteous. “We are bound for Redmantle lands and beyond.”
“Few travelers pass this way,” he said, and with her increased night vision she discerned the raking glance he gave her, the still-slumbering Adept, and Monso. “Our dominions lie rather off the known paths. How did you come to be here?”
He is baiting me, she thought, but kept her voice civil and noncommittal. “We have been traveling for days,” she said, speaking perfect truth but deliberately twisting the meaning. “Most recently we traversed a great Waste lying to the west of these foothills, after which we found ourselves here.”
Her inquisitor could not conceal a start of surprise. His eyes narrowed in unbelief… and well he might be skeptical. No one that Eydryth had ever heard of before could claim to have crossed the noxious Waste that lay to the far west of Arvon. She smiled at him tentatively, wondering all the while why he and his men-at-arms (Are they indeed of humankind? she found herself thinking. Their hands seem oddly shaped….) had come here.
“Indeed,” he said softly. “That is extraordinary hearing.”
Monso rumbled a deep challenge, and the leader’s mount raised its head. The creature was too well schooled to reply, but its eyes gleamed red. “And that is an extraordinary stallion you have been riding,” the newcomer continued, with barely a pause.
“No more so than your own,” Eydryth countered pleasantly.