Dazedly, she raised her head, saw Alon grimly clinging to the madly plunging stallion, but it was plain that the Adept was losing his battle. Blood was running freely from his nostrils; he had abandoned pride and was gripping the pommel of the saddle with one hand, even as he fought stubbornly to pull Monso’s head up and drive the horse forward.
As she lay there, struggling to catch her breath, Eydryth felt a strange warmth tingling along her left arm. Fearing the worst, she turned her head, but her fingers curled at her command, there was no bleeding or break. The bard saw that Monso’s buck had thrown her almost within the only opening in the giant circular grove of uncanny trees. Her left arm lay within the opening—and from it, a sensation was spreading.
Warmth… comfort… healing… light. It was all those things, and more. Much more. The light crept within her, spreading, filling her with peace, driving out the anger, the wrongness that had frightened her during the past days when she had felt it trying to possess her. The sensation of being healed of a dark sickness of the spirit was so compelling that she stared at her arm, transfixed, forgetting Alon, forgetting the battle between mount and master raging still behind her.
Cautiously, she levered herself up on her hands. Her head still spun from the fall, her ears rang with weakness, but the urge to drive out the Darkness that had been growing within her drove her onward. Eydryth crawled slowly, not halting until her entire body lay within the entrance to this strange place.
Light and warmth enveloped her, soothing body and spirit. Understanding grew as it did so, knowledge of what had been happening to her, the reason that both she and Alon had been reacting so strangely. Ever since they had jumped through that Dark Gate, a malignant Shadow had grown within them, a darkness of spirit that was now being driven out by the light and life of this hallowed Place of Power.
Healing… it was healing her, body and spirit.
After a time… she had no idea how long, though later she realized it could not have been more than a minute or two… Eydryth sighed, then levered herself up. Strength returned to her—not the black strength of raging hate and anger that had empowered her before, but a quiet healing strength that this Place of Power had bestowed upon her, a gift beyond price.
Her bruises had stopped aching, she felt renewed… refreshed.
Gazing back through the entrance, she was just in time to see Monso rear up. His front legs slashed the air as he towered like some ancient elemental horse-spirit, his eyes crimson with savage fury, strings of reddish foam dripping from his open mouth. Then, in a frenzy of rage, the stallion flung himself over backward. Helplessly Eydryth crouched, hands pressed against her mouth, certain that Alon would be killed.
But, at the last possible moment, the Adept leaped free of the saddle, landing halfway between the bard and his erstwhile steed. Monso rolled over and struggled to his feet, head hanging low, breathing in agonized gasps.
Slowly his master sat up. “Alon!” Eydryth cried, but he stared at her blankly, without recognition. Fresh horror filled her as she realized that Alon’s grey eyes had gone a strange, dead silver.
As she flung herself toward him, he shook off her grasping arm, ignoring her, then climbed to his feet and headed back for the stallion, his expression a silent curse that boded no good for his hapless mount. Purple lightning—Purple is the color of the Shadow, Eydryth remembered with a sick feeling of horror—began to crackle from between his splayed fingers.
Eydryth realized that he meant to kill the Keplian. The Shadow that had been growing within her had possessed him completely. And no wonder, she realized, as she stumbled after him, he not only went through the Dark Gate, he worked the black spell that caused it to open! That essence of the Shadow that was growing within me has affected him even more strongly. When he worked that Dark magic, Alon took the Shadow into himself, as surely as if he poisoned himself by eating rancid or rotting meat!
“Run, Monso!” Eydryth screamed. She made a futile grab for the Adept, just as a bolt of purple flamed from Alon’s fingers. It licked out, but the Keplian shied violently and it missed him. The stallion, obviously confused, the habit of obedience conflicting with his sudden fear of the master that he loved, backed slowly away. Alon stalked toward him, his bloody face dark with fury, eyes cold and sharp as argent blades. Both hands came up, fingers crooked, for another attempt.
Eydryth hit the Adept in the small of his back with her shoulder, driving him forward and down. Purple lightning crackled, snaking along the ground, leaving a blackened trail in the thick turf.
Alon rolled over, cursing aloud now. Seeing his face, the songsmith knew that now it was she who was in great danger. I have to get him into the Place of Power, she thought. Mayhap it can heal him, too!
Gritting her teeth, hating herself for what she was about to do, she clenched her fist and slammed it into his jaw, even as he struggled to regain his feet.
The Adept went down again, stunned, and she hastily grabbed his foot, began dragging him toward that haven of healing and light. “Please, Amber Lady,” she whispered through dry lips. “Please, let him be—”
Alon’s other foot, booted and heavy, smashed hard against her forearm, numbing it instantly. Eydryth cried out, dropping his leg, unable to hold on. He was already rolling away from her, coming up, turning to run—run away from the Place of Power. Fear was graven into every line of his features.
It’s the Shadow within him … she thought. It will not give him up!
“Alon, no!” she cried, bolting after him. He had nearly reached the heaving, spraddle-legged Keplian when she caught him, shoving him aside with a hard thrust of her good arm. He spun, fell, then was up again, moving with a quickness that bespoke desperation.
But already the songsmith’s fingers had closed on her quarterstaff, which was fastened along the Keplian’s side. She jerked it free with a frantic tug. “Alon…” she gasped, trying to hold his eyes with her own, reach beyond the Darkness that had engulfed him, “you… have to come… with me.”
He did not answer, only backed away. Purple light sparked from his hands, and she knew that he could kill her—kill her easily. “Don’t—” she pleaded. “Remember Jonthal…”
He blinked, confused, and for a moment his eyes were his own dark grey again. But then they hardened, brightened, and the bard knew that she had lost him.
With a sudden leap he was on her, kicking the staff. Her still-numbed fingers could not hold it, and it flew spinning from her hand. Alon’s left fist slammed into her head, near her ear, just as the fingers of his right hand dug into her throat.
Red flashes went off behind her eyes, but she reacted as Jervon had trained her, going with her attacker’s motion, giving way, using his superior strength against him. Eydryth let herself fall, rolling onto her back, spine curved, at the same moment bringing her knees up. They slammed hard into Alon’s midsection, and she heard the breath go out of him in a great wheeze.
Quickly, she shoved him over, then swung her small, callused fist into his jaw. Once… twice… His eyes glazed over, and she saw the light go out of them. He sagged, barely conscious.
Breathing now as hard as Monso, she grabbed his arms, dragged them over his head, then began tugging him back toward the entrance. Halfway there, she glanced behind her, marking the gap in the tree trunks—and that proved her undoing.
Alon suddenly came to life again, twisting in her grasp, wrenching himself away. As he spun, one leg kicked out, cutting both feet out from under her.
Eydryth went down, landing hard; then he was up and away, running haltingly, not toward Monso, now, but west, back the way they had come. The songsmith’s flailing hand closed on her quarterstaff, and, before she could even complete the idea in her mind, she was up on one knee, her good arm drawn back to its fullest extent. Her shoulder protested as she hurled the bronze-shod length after the limping man.