Songsmith by Andre Norton; A. C. Crispin

Author:Andre Norton; A. C. Crispin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy - General, Epic, Witch World (Imaginary place), &WORKING, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantastic fiction, Fiction, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Fiction - Fantasy, General
ISBN: 9780812511079
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2010-01-22T07:51:59+00:00

Fourteen

The travelers abandoned their packs, except for Lydryth’s harp, caching them in the branches of a beech tree on the edge of the meadow. As she helped to secure them aloft, Lydryth wondered silently whether such precautions were foolish. The chances were excellent that neither of them would ever return to claim their belongings.

When they had finished, she tied her staff atop the saddlebags, then drew her gryphon-headed sword from its place of concealment. Slowly, the songsmith held it out to her companion. “I want you to take it,” she said. “I cannot abandon my harp, but I will not burden Monso with the weight of both of them. Besides, you may need a weapon.”

He hesitated, then reached out, fingers tracing the golden gryphon that formed the hilt. The creature’s mouth gaped open, and in its jaws it grasped a heavy bluish crystal that served as a counterbalance. The creature’s blue quan-iron eyes seemed to regard them knowingly.

Alon’s fingers traced the sinuous body of the gryphon. Wrapped with silver wire to provide a secure grip, it formed the narrow portion of the hilt above the guard. Sliding his hand around the grip, the Adept hefted the sword, then swung it, hesitantly testing its balance.

Ripples of crimson ran down the blued steel as the setting sun’s rays reflected off the blade. A tentative smile curved Alon’s mouth as his sweeps and thrusts grew surer. “It has a sweet balance in my hand,” he said wonderingly. “Almost as if it is alive, and responsive to my wishes.”

“The best swords are forged so,” she told him. “I want you to carry it, Alon. It will serve you far better than that other,” she finished, a catch in her throat. Silently, she prayed to Gunnora that he would not have to use it. Alon was still far from being a swordsman, and the finest weapon in the world could not alter that.

He turned to regard her soberly, then shook his head and held out the sword. “My thanks, but I was planning on leaving my weapon with everything else,” he said. “One cannot run with a sword in its sheath to hamper one’s strides. And to catch Yachne, I must make all possible speed.” He shrugged ruefully. “It would be different if I were able to use it effectively.”

Lydryth gazed at him, pleading now. “We will rig a sling for it across your back, so you may carry it the way the Sulcar do their great broadswords,” she told him; then, taking his swordbelt, she demonstrated by buckling it around his shoulders. After sheathing her sword in his old scabbard, she fastened the weapon into place securely. “See? Balanced thus, the weight is not much,” she insisted.

Still he hesitated.

“Alon ...,” she whispered, holding his eyes with her own. “Carry it, please. Carry it, and remember everything that I have taught you.”

He smiled ruefully. “One lunge and two parries,” he observed dryly. “I am indeed ready to take on all comers.” Then, seeing the expression in her blue eyes, he nodded, sobering.

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