Still obviously dazed from Yachne’s Power-blast, Alon shook his head, one hand still clutching his crystal talisman. Eydryth realized that he could no longer hear her—somehow Yachne’s spell must also be muffling sound.
The sorceress came closer to her victim now, just as Monso screamed in rage and rose onto his hind legs. The stallion’s powerful forefeet battered at the invisible barrier, but to no avail.
The mist was creeping up toward Alon’s chin. Eydryth turned to Hyana, clutching the other woman’s hands in both of hers desperately. “Can you mind-send?” she demanded.
Hyana hesitated. “I can with my mother and father… and Firdun. Sometimes with you.”
“Try to mind-send to Alon, Hyana! Tell him to use the sword! Try, please!
The other frowned, but obediently closed her eyes, concentrating. The sword, Eydryth thought. Alon, use the sword. It may break the mist! Use the sword!
Yachne was standing before Alon, now, her hands weaving in the air as she continued her chant. The mist thickened even further…
Alon fumbled at his back, as if in a dream. “Yes!” Eydryth whispered. “Yes, Alon! The sword… oh, please, use it!”
The Adept bent, disappearing from view behind the mist that by now nearly reached his eyes. Eydryth clenched her fists so hard that her hands ached, but she was hardly aware of the pain. The sword! Is he unbuckling it, unsheathing it? What is he doing?
Yachne gave a final, commanding cry, using a Word that made the air seem to curdle with darkness. Mist lapped over the top of the pillar enclosing Alon. Eydryth shut her eyes, unable to watch—then immediately opened them again. She could not look, but she swiftly discovered that she could not bear to look away.
Amber Lady, she prayed silently, tears slipping from her eyes, help him!
Purple light wreathed the sorceress’s arms as she began to draw Alon’s Power into herself, just as she had done with Dinzil.
Help him! Somebody help him!
A shrill scream rent the air, just as something small and black fell upon Yachne like a stone, wicked talons aiming for her eyes. The only one of them who could fly over the barrier—Steel Talon!
The witch ducked, barely missing the winged death stooping out of the skies. The purple light wreathing her arms faltered, halted completely as she threw up both arms. A lash of dark lightning crackled from her fingers, striking the small black shape with the white V on its chest—
—even as the blade of Eydryth’s sword poked through the mist surrounding Alon, cutting it away as though it were a solid substance. It slashed an opening; then, before Yachne was more than half-aware that her captive was making a bid for escape, Eydryth saw Alon’s dim form move within that pillar of deadly mist.
Weight balanced on the balls of his feet, knees flexed, arm extended—it was the one lunge she had taught him, and he did it perfectly. The length of shining steel licked out like a cleansing streak of blue-white fire, thrusting through the hole in the mist, burying its sharpness just below the breast of the woman’s tattered grey robe, impaling the witch.
Yachne stiffened with a shriek of mingled pain and fury as Eydryth’s gryphon-hilted sword, with all the strength of Alon’s arm behind it, transfixed her.
The mist vanished as the witch toppled over backward— and lay unmoving.
At the same moment, Eydryth and the others staggered forward as the barrier that had kept them helpless on the outside of the meadow disappeared.
“Alon, oh, Alon!” The songsmith ran straight to the Adept, grabbing his shoulders, hugging him ecstatically, but only for a moment did he return her embrace. His face set, he gently put her aside, then walked forward to pick up a small, stricken form lying on the ground next to the dying sorceress.
Eydryth cried out softly with grief and pity. Steel Talon was not dead yet… but he soon would be, that was plain. “Oh, no!” she whispered.
Tears stood in the Adept’s eyes as he cradled the dying falcon against him. “Steel Talon…” he whispered brokenly. “You saved me…”
Eydryth lifted a hand to gently touch that fierce beak, staring at those dimming eyes. She thought that she glimpsed a strange satisfaction deep in them. Alon glanced up at her, startled. “Steel Talon is… content,” he whispered.
Eydryth nodded as understanding suddenly flooded through her. “Because he has fulfilled the quest that was the only thing keeping him alive, is that not so?” she asked. “He dies content, knowing that he has gained his revenge.”
Alon nodded. “Yachne… it was Yachne that night, when Jonthal died. She set the trap… for me. But it was Jonthal who died…”
Steel Talon’s fierce eyes seemed to blaze even more fiercely; then the bird abruptly stiffened, jerked several times, and sagged, limp. Alon swallowed, then turned to walk away, toward Monso.
Eydryth started after him, but Jervon caught her arm. “No,” her father said gently. “Give him a moment to grieve in private. He would wish it so.”
The songsmith took a deep breath; then she nodded. They watched as Alon walked over to Monso, gave the stallion a quick pat, then carefully, tenderly, wrapped the falcon’s body in his undertunic. He tied the small, wrapped form to the saddle. She knew, without being told, that the Adept intended to give the bird proper burial on clean ground.
Eydryth turned back to her family, and saw Joisan and Hyana crouched beside Yachne. The songsmith was faintly surprised to see that the sorceress still lived, though it was plain that no healcraft could aid her.
Dropping to her knees beside the witch, Eydryth stared down at her, thinking how suddenly small and shrunken she appeared. Yachne opened grey eyes to regard her, and the younger woman realized that the gleam of madness that had so frightened her before was gone. The witch struggled to draw breath. “Am… am I dying?” she whispered.
Joisan hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. If I could help you, I would, but your wound is beyond any ability of mine to heal.”
Sweat stood out on the dying woman’s face. “Yes… feel it. Hurts… hurts so…”
“I am sorry,” Joisan said. “I can try to sing you into a painless state, if you so wish. That is all I can do to ease your passing.”
The witch nodded. “Alon?” she whispered. “Where is Alon?”
Eydryth hastily beckoned the Adept, who was even now returning to them, to come quickly. When he reached the woman who had cared for him as a child, he dropped down beside her, took her hand. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “So sorry. I wish there had been some other way.”
“Not… not your fault,” she whispered. “I see clearly now… been so long since I could do that…”
“Hush,” Alon said, fighting to keep his voice from breaking. “Don’t try to talk.”
“Must… must talk…” she insisted. “It was the Turning… the Turning.” She gasped for breath. “I was… witch of Estcarp before then…”
“So we guessed,” Eydryth said. “And you lost your powers after the Turning?”
The former witch nodded. “Angry. Wanted what should have been mine forever… wanted it back…” Joisan carefully wiped Yachne’s dry lips with a cloth moistened in water. The old woman (for all her borrowed “youth” had vanished) sucked gratefully at the moisture. Joisan aided her as she swallowed a sip from a water flask. “Then I found out… about the ones who still had the Power… the males. They had what should have been mine…”
After a moment she went on, “Wandered… long time. Garth Howell… they took me in. They were there, too, the males with the Power… the creatures against nature… but they offered me a way…” She sucked in breath, then writhed for a moment. Finally, sweat pouring down her face, she subsided. “The spell. The abbot taught me… spell. As long as I would take the Power from you…” She gasped, staring at Alon. “That was the price… one I was willing to pay… and gladly. I am sorry for that, Alon…”