The breath which touched against his cheek was soft and came in a pattern as if the stranger wept. Vasan was already by Guret.
The horse without orders accomplished the most demanding of all its training, kneeling. Guret boosted the stranger up and was glad to see that hands came forth to tangle in Vasan’s mane. Then he vaulted up behind and headed back toward the camp.
He found those awaiting him alert. Since it was faintly dawn, he supposed that his night search had taken longer than he thought. Lero was instantly by his side.
“Shield brother—what—”
Both Firdun and Kethan crowded in on the other side to free him of his burden. Only moments later they had the stranger stretched out on a bedroll. Over them still blew the perfume of the tree flowers which were again folding into their tight buds. And under that tent of trees Aylinn came on the run, her healer’s bag bumping against her shoulder.
In better light Guret was able to see his prize for the first time. The stranger was very slender and slight of figure, and the pale face turned up to them, eyes closed, was that of a boy hardly into youth. Kethan had reached for one of the limp hands and now turned it over. Cut deep into the flesh were the bloody marks of bonds. There were bruises showing darkly on his face also, and as Firdun investigated further, pulling off boots, he uttered an exclamation of anger at the show of more bond marks between scratches, and even a bite which might have come from the things the boy had fought.
They aided Aylinn to strip him. Ribs stood out as if he had been nearly starved. She busied herself with her potions, tending each wound with swift speed and all her care.
“’Tis young Hardin of Hol, Silvermantle.” Elysha stood over them now. “But he is of Garth Howell!”
For a second or two Aylinn paused and then shook her head firmly. “Not so—look and be sure.” She took up her moonflower wand, which had been slipped through the side thong of her healer’s sack.
Out the wand swung under her firm grip. The flower now topping it had not closed, as had those over them. Rather, it was brighter than the moonflowers she had always carried to center her Power.
Slowly she passed the flower above that young body, head to foot and back again. When she had finished, he stirred and his eyes opened. His first sight must have been of Aylinn, for he cowered into the covering on which they had laid him.
“Unclean.” Once more there were tears visible in his eyes. “I am no longer—”
“Look.” Aylinn commanded sharply. “Look and believe!”
“The evil one broke the true bonds.” His bandaged hand arose to half-hide his face. “He called upon one of the Great Dark Ones and I was given—”
“No one can be given without his will,” Aylinn stated sternly. “Did you then surrender your will to this one of the Great Dark?”
His head turned from side to side. “No, no—not willingly. But then I was in another place and saw—and the will of that which looked upon me made me crawl at its feet.”
“You wear marks of bondage,” Aylinn said, “and those are freshly torn. Thus where you went was not willingly. Nor are you any hound of the dark to howl at his master’s bidding.” She turned to Kethan and Firdun, who stood behind her now. “Bring him—gently!”
Thus they carried him between them and he was very light of weight, until they came again before the throne and its silent occupant. He had closed his eyes as they arrived and there was a look upon him of one who had thrown away all the good life could offer.
“Lift him up!” again Aylinn ordered decisively. “Place him there.” She pointed to the lap of the veiled one. The boy let out a weak cry, tried to struggle from their hold, but together they settled him where Aylinn indicated.
Then they stepped back almost as one while the healer, her moonflower blazing on the rod, again touched the forehead of the boy.
“Lady—mother—life-giver—this one has suffered from the evil which stands ready to assault us all. Look into his heart; know that he did not fail through any fault of his choosing. Cherish him as a newborn, cherish him as one growing—give him back his knowing of self.”
The answer came as a victory cry to reach into all their minds:
“This is My son, born by My will. The Dark has wrought ill to bring him down. But that which was and is truly Hardin—is free.”
The boy gasped and uttered a short cry and then went limp. Aylinn nodded and Kethan and Firdun lifted him down to settle him on one of the bedrolls.
“He will rest,” the girl said, “and when he rouses again he will know that what he fears was only that—a fear to be swept away.”
“You know him?” Ibycus had turned to Elysha.
“I saw him once—on the day that tangle-witted father of his dispatched him to Garth Howell. His mother had the Moon talent, you see, and Lord Prytan was without power. He tried to get his lady to promise not to seek out the Lady—but one does not tell the sea to stop washing upon the shore. Thus when she was on a mission to the Voices he had the boy taken.
“Knowing a little of Prytan I can guess that it was more of a bargain than a gift. Who knows what those of Garth Howell might have promised in return? To have a fresh young soul dedicated to the Lady and nurtured carefully in Her ways to offer to some Power who wished to batten on riven knowledge—yes, that would suit Garth Howell. They might even offer Prytan a few small tricks in return, but no true talent.”
“His mother?” queried Aylinn.
“The last rumor was that she had not returned from the Voices. At least she was never seen in Silvermantle lands again.”
“How did you find him?” Ibycus, still staring down at the sleeping boy, asked Guret. Guret told them his tale of the missing horse and the battle by the stream.
“So—can we not think now,” Ibycus replied slowly, “that this Hardin accompanied the party into the east? Their present mage seems fond of sacrifices. And the urings—they can be commanded, though they are not too forceful in combat. So the boy escapes—or—” Now he paused and held up the ring. “Or seems to, so that he can join in some way with us and they can have eyes and ears in our camp.” He gave a short bark of laughter.
“If they planned such, it will not hold now. The lad is cleansed of all touch of the Dark. They would have to recapture him and once more attempt ensorcellment. But that he can give us information is an unexpected boon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Gryphon’s Eyrie, Arvon, Western Trail, the Waste
A lon hunched over the table, hands planted on either side of the glass hemisphere, its curved surface up. His face was gaunt and marked with the lines of hours of strain. Now he shook his head so violently Eydryth shivered. All his talent was summoned, but lacking focus.
He nodded toward her again and patiently, as she had for nearly all the morning, she played her harp and crooned wordlessly, striving this time to alter in the slightest the sounds, so that she might have the good fortune to hit on that which would be his aid.
They had discovered during the past days of labor that the full melding of Power did not reach what Alon needed. As a last resort Eydryth had suggested trying her own talent—the harp and song which had been her protection and weapon.
“No.” Small feet thudded across the room and Trevor was pounding on her knee. “No so—so!” His child’s voice was several notes higher than the scale which she had always considered the most powerful, likely to provide what she needed.
Eydryth swallowed. Her throat felt dry, as if she had been singing half the night in some inn for a grudged ration of dry bread and stale cheese.
Alon leaned back a little. His attention had turned to Trevor, who was continuing to demand his sister’s attention with a cry of “No—so.”
Eydryth reached for the goblet of herb-infused water Joisan had set there earlier before the rest of them had withdrawn to ensure such silence as was possible for this experiment. She allowed the liquid to rinse about her mouth and then swallowed.
Trevor had stil
led his protest but had planted himself firmly before her, his fists on his hips, looking up as if he were supervising labor. When his sister put down the goblet, he came a little closer. Reaching out one finger, he touched a harp string.
They were made of quan iron, finally spun as threads, those strings. Nearly everlasting and embedded with a force no living mage could explain.
Eydryth heard the note. It was like a faint echo from the slight touch. She prided herself on the fact that she could remember any note she had heard—just as any ballad listened to once was recorded in her memory.
Now she touched the string in turn, with the familiarity of one to whom this instrument was a part of life itself.
It rang forth. She listened and again summoned it. This time she strove to fit her own voice to it. Three times she tried, Trevor crowding ever closer, looking anxiously up into her face. Then note and murmured croon melded.
Alon’s head jerked around to the hemisphere. It was no longer stubbornly clear. At the same time Trevor fashioned something which was not unlike a word—if “Ahhhhlaa” could be given that title. And it almost became one with the notes Eydryth added one to another, fluting still but in a different range.
The hemisphere before Alon was no longer vacant. A weaving of violet-blue swirled within it. As the harp continued and Eydryth and Trevor added their parts, Alon began an incantation.
At first his voice sounded hurried, as if he must reach some goal in a very limited time, and then the girl could sense that he was forcing himself to keep a measured beat. Beat—yes! The ancient words were also fitting themselves to that eerie music.
They were getting through—by the will of the Lady they were getting through! Not by the apparatus Alon had earlier used, which had so hopelessly failed them, but by this.
Her fingers felt sticky with sweat as they swept the strings. Her voice was once again drying her throat. Eydryth settled herself to endure. Trevor seemed to have no ill effects and his “Aaaaalaa” was clear and carrying.
Within the hemisphere the blue whirled vigorously and then was gone. They were looking at a face they had hardly dared hope to see again—Hilarion. There was excitement and exultation in his expression.
The warding— The words were mind-sent, not spoken. The warding— Symbols flashed in a wild pattern through Eydryth’s head. Some she recognized as representing certain powers still known; others were strange.
Alon sat staring down at the small representation of Hilarion, his hands on the sides of his head as if to hold within all that was being fed him.
At last there was an ending. “We have warded.” That was intelligible speech again. “Do you do likewise?”
However, the mist was upon Hilarion once again, sweeping across the hemisphere, and he was gone. Eydryth reached quickly for the herb drink and emptied two swift gulps down her aching throat. Then she offered it to Trevor, who drank more slowly as if he did not need refreshment so badly. She was watching Alon as he leaned back in his seat.
From the pile of parchments in a muddle not too far from his hand he drew one, and with his writing stick was setting down a mixture of lines, curves, triangles, and spheres. Did he remember it all? Certainly he must, for he had studied with Hilarion since boyhood and was adept-bred himself.
“So.” He let the writing stick fall and roll from him, his attention only for the symbols he had outlined. He looked up at Eydryth and Trevor then, and for a moment or so he was the youth she had met in Estcarp, all somberness gone from his face.
“Ibycus has destroyed one gate,” she said hesitatingly.
“Yes, but it should be visited once again—the new warding full-set!” He flung out an arm and pulled Trevor to him in a hug. “How knew you the way, little brother?”
“I just did.” All that temporary authority appeared to have deserted the boy. “We go to hunt gates now?”
Alon shook his head. “Not yet—we have others hunting them for us. Also we must keep an eye on Garth Howell.” Some of the tension had again stiffened his features. “But we must tell Ibycus.”
“Through that?” Trevor wanted to know, pointing to the hemisphere.
“No—that has done its duty, little one. It has held more power than we can control. See—” He tapped the crystal with a fingertip and it shattered, the broken bits in turn becoming dust. Now he turned to the girl. “Rest, heart’s lady. We shall need the full meld to search out Ibycus, and that at moonrise.”
She had laid aside her harp and now he had an arm about her shoulders, was drawing her up against him. She needed that steadying, for she felt that without it she could not keep her feet.
But that Alon had managed to do this—and those at Lormt . . . Hilarion, the others had found the answer. It was enough to make one feel dizzy with relief.
They might still have Garth Howell to reckon with, but who knew— Perhaps with study Alon could turn this same formula on that haunt of Darkness and seal it also. After this hour Eydryth could believe anything was possible.
• • •
Ibycus had taken a place close beside the boy, who now appeared in the depths of slumber. Now and again he regarded his ring, staring into its dull stone as if he would summon up answers to questions his mind proposed but could not solve. Though the day advanced, they made no move to travel onward. All of them could guess that locked in the sleeper was the information they needed the most now.
The Kioga kept out of the grove, their attention mainly for the mounts, since they wanted no more such wanderings as had drawn Guret away. He described several times to the tribesmen the nature of those ground-clinging creatures which had held horse and man at bay.
“Those of the Mantle Lands have mounts indeed,” Obred remarked as he chewed his noon rations. “But they are not close kin to their herds as we, the People, have always been. How was it, then, that this young lordling has also the gift of calling? And why Vasan, who had not chosen him at the fall roundup?”
“I think”—Lero glanced around him as if to make sure there were no others than his own tribesmen about him—“that the Mother of Mares has some purpose in all this.”
As one, the three of them made the touch to forehead and then heart which honored that sacred name. There were many stories of the way the Mother dealt with those in which She had some interest, and it could be that the strange wandering gelding indeed had a purpose—to bring Guret to the scene before the stranger was pulled down. He remembered now the odd fact that the urings (as the stranger named them) had fled him even before his sword started harvesting their lives. Her Hand over him? Perhaps; only a shaman could have borne witness to that.
“Where does the old mage think to lead us now?” Obred changed the subject.
“That is his choice and we have yet to hear it,” returned Guret.
• • •
Ibycus held his ring-befingered hand out over the boy lying still within the sanctuary of the fane.
“Hardin of Hol?” he called softly as one might to awaken one from rest. “Hardin of Hol.”
The boy’s eyes did not open, but his head turned from one side to another and a faint frown line showed between his brows. Like all those of the Mantle Lands, he was plainly of the Old Race, pale of skin in spite of life in the open, dark of hair with the delicate, slanting brows of the same shade. Though he had not yet reached his full man’s growth, the firmness of his jaw and his well-formed features showed that he was indeed well to look upon.
“Hardin of Hol!” called Ibycus for the third time, and this time more loudly.
Aylinn sat cross-legged at the boy’s head, her healer’s eyes sharp to catch the difference in him. At her back was Kethan, the weight of Uta resting across his legs, a low purr to be heard now and then.
But Elysha was on the other side of Hardin’s body and now she put out a hand warning off Ibycus. The mage looked up with a frown to which she paid no attention; rather, she leaned forward a fraction and spoke herself.
“Hardin, son of Ylassa
. . . .”
There was a small choking cry from the boy in answer to that and his eyes opened, staring straight at her.
“Mother—” he began and then, so swiftly he caught them all by surprise, he drew in upon himself, one hand pawing at his side as if to palm a weapon. “You are—” It was clear that he was fully conscious now. But he paused, his eyes surveying her sharply.
“Last midsummer we shared a guesting cup,” Elysha returned in an ordinary voice. “I was the Lady Ylassa’s chamber guest.”
He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Yes. You brought her the message—you rode with her out of Hol.” He was on his knees now and he grabbed at her shoulders, digging his fingers in as he gave her a vigorous shake. “Shadow creeper, her blood debt is mine.” With the force of his attack he overbore her backward.
Kethan sprang to action with Firdun. Thin and wasted as the boy seemed to be, his rage was such that it took the two of them to hold him.
Elysha arose, smoothing some tatters from her shirt at the edge of her jerkin. But it was Aylinn who swung past her to where the three still struggled, and her wand blazed.
Hardin gave a choked cry and all the strength seemed instantly wiped out of him. He flung back his head and his eyes went wide. He stared now at the great seated figure as if nothing else existed now in his confused world.
“Hardin.” Still smoothing her torn sleeve, Elysha deliberately moved so she stood between him and the throne, that he could see her fully. “The Lady Ylassa is safe. She was called by the Voices and serves them now.”
“My lord—he said—” the boy choked on the words and was plainly struggling for control. “When he ordered me with him on a hunt . . .” Now there was another note in his voice, anger was returning. “We—he said we were to guest in Garth Howell. But—they gave me of the guesting cup and when I drank—” Again he sought for and found self-control. “I was a prisoner and they said that he—he had given me freely to them and I was of value because I was her son!”