The gryphon-headed staff whirled through the air, low and parallel to the ground, to strike hard against Alon’s booted legs. The Adept went down again, and this time he lay unmoving.
Sobs nearly overcame her for a second—Amber Lady, what have I done? Then the bard was up and running. If I’ve killed him…
Eydryth reached Alon’s side. Dropping to her knees, she cautiously rolled him over. The man’s face was a hideous mask of bruised flesh and bloody scratches, but his chest was moving. Eydryth touched fingers to his throat, felt the throb of the pulse there. She drew breath into her aching lungs; then tears again coursed down her face—but this time they were of relief.
Quickly, before Alon could regain consciousness, the songsmith began dragging him again toward the entrance, halting only when he lay completely within the gap in the trees. She sagged to her knees beside him, fingers gripping his cold hand, hardly daring to hope. For the first time, she glanced past the trunks of the entrance, to see what lay inside this tree-barriered enclosure.
The circular expanse of ground within was covered with soft turf, sprinkled liberally with wildflowers. Scarlet and indigo, amber and pale yellow, violet and dusky rose… never had she seen such a profusion. In the middle of them were tumbled rocks, and in the sudden silence of this Place, Eydryth could distinctly hear the bubbling of a spring.
Water… The thought made her tremble with sudden thirst. Water to drink, water to wash Alon’s wounds… water for Monso…
Moving unsteadily, she made her way over to the Keplian, pulled off his saddle, then emptied all their water flasks, slinging them over her shoulder. With stumbling, eager strides she reentered the Place of Power. The heady scents of the wild-flowers rose up around her like incense as she trod that many-hued carpet.
The spring welled into a hollow in the middle of the largest boulder. Eydryth rolled up her sleeves as she knelt on the edge of a sun-warmed boulder, looking down.
Clear, cold, seeming to gleam with an inner Light, the water from the spring bubbled up. She held out her hands, dipped them gratefully into the coldness, then cupped them, brought forth a sparkling handful, sipped.
The water coursed down her throat like a cool blessing. Eydryth drank her fill, then laved her face, her hands, washing away sweat and dirt, feeling more renewed with each passing moment. The pain from her bruises and strained muscles vanished.
Gazing around her, marveling at the effect of that water, the songsmith wondered yet again just what manner of place this was. Obviously a Place of Power… Then, suddenly, the knowledge surfaced in her mind, recalled from tales heard long ago.
The Fane of Neave.
It was said to lie in the northwestern portion of this ancient land. Dark sorcery could not enter the Fane, could not exist within it. Small wonder that that inner darkness that had been growing within her had utterly disappeared once she crossed the border of this place. Neave… Neave was one of the Oldest Ones. Neave was all things natural, and good, and fruitful.
Even now, when couples were wed in Arvon, they drank a toast, each in turn, invoking Neave with their bridal cup, asking Neave to bless their union, make it devoted and fruitful.
The Fane of Neave. It had to be.
“Thank you, O Neave,” Eydryth breathed, her voice soft and earnest. “Thank you…”
A sense of peace, quiet benediction, filled her. After a moment she bent to her task again, refilling the water flasks with the springwater.
Carrying them, she went back to the entrance, her step once more swift and assured. Glancing down at Alon as she passed, she saw that he still lay unmoving, but the lines of pain and fear had smoothed out on his bruised, battered countenance. He seemed now to be in a natural sleep.
Once outside the Fane, she whistled softly, then saw the Keplian some distance away, cropping desultorily at the grass. Eydryth walked over to Monso, checked first his wound, and was relieved to discover that he had not reopened it, fortune be praised. Scenting the water, he nudged her, rumbling low in his throat.
She dared not let him drink much so soon after running so hard, but she gave the stallion several carefully rationed sips from Neave’s spring, using their small cooking pot. The thirsty creature lapped the cool liquid with his huge, pale-pink tongue, reminding her for all the world of a cat. Wetting down a corner of her cloak, she swiped and rinsed the sweat from the sable hide until the salty stiffness was gone.
By the time she had finished, Monso had begun to graze, tearing hungrily at the grass. Relieved that Neave’s spring had worked its restorative effect again, and that the Keplian no longer was on the verge of foundering with exhaustion, she went back to the Adept.
Sitting down cross-legged beside him, she carefully lifted his head into her lap, then wiped his face and hands. At the touch of that cool water, she saw the bruises and swellings visibly lessen, until they seemed only shadows of the original injuries.
Then, steadying his head against her thigh, she held the flask to his lips, urging him softly to drink. Alon sipped a little, swallowed, sipped again. He sighed deeply as the last lines of pain smoothed away from his face; then, a moment later, he opened his eyes. Eydryth offered a silent invocation of thanks, for his eyes were his own again, dark grey, gentle, and, at the moment, bewildered.
“What happened?” he whispered.
She touched finger to his lips, cautioning him to be quiet.
“In a moment,” she promised. “Drink some more, Alon. You must be very thirsty.”
He sighed, nodding, never taking his eyes from her face as he drank again, this time deeply. “We are in a safe place,” Eydryth told him, when he finished. “A Place of Power. Monso ran away… do you remember?”
Alon turned his head, and his eyes left hers to fasten on the Keplian, hungrily cropping grass. “He is fine,” she reassured him. “I will give him more to drink in a little while. The water from this spring is very restoring. How do you feel?”
“Well… now. But I cannot remember how I came here. I remember walking an endless dead land… and you singing… and a bridge of blood. I remember a Dark One… that you vanquished. Or was I dreaming?” he whispered uncertainly.
“No dream,” she replied, simply.
He turned his head as it lay pillowed in her lap, seeing the entrance to the Fane, the wildflower sward, the boulders surrounding the spring. “Where are we?” he whispered, finally.
“The Fane of Neave,” she replied. “Or so I believe.”
“A Place of Power…” he said.
“Yes. How do you feel now?” she asked again.
“Well,” he replied. “The pain is gone. I feel as though I may have been… ill. Was I sick?” he asked, almost childlike in his bemusement.
“Yes. But you are well now,” she assured him. “We are safe here.”
“I have been… cleansed,” he said after a moment, as if just realizing it. His eyes held hers intently for a long moment. “So have we both,” he added.
“Yes. Nothing of the Shadow can exist here. This is a protected place.”
“The past days…” He put out a hand, grasped hers tightly, urgently, and Eydryth watched memory flood back. “I was… sick. Poisoned by the Shadow. I said things…” He halted, nearly choking, his eyes widening with alarm. “Eydryth… I was planning to… to kill Yachne!”
“I know,” she said, gently. “But you were not yourself. Nor was I myself, when I drove away that Dark One.”