Songsmith

2

Eydryth stared down into the witch’s face, scarcely daring to believe that here might be one who could actually guide her in finding what she sought. “Where?” she demanded, finally. “Where can I find help for one who has been mind-blasted by ancient Power?”

“There is a place of learning,” the girl said. “Old… perhaps older than Es Citadel itself. There are ancient records there, and some of them deal with healing. I have heard of legends that speak of healing stones, and a red mud that conquers even the gravest of injuries. Perhaps you can find the location of such cures in those records.”

“Where?” The songsmith’s question came with sharp impatience. “Where lies this stone? Where rests this mud?”

“I know not. Escore, perhaps… Much that we thought legend only has been proven real since the Tregarths discovered that ancient land from which the Old Race once fled, if the tales be true. At this place of ancient learning, you may well find answers.”

“I am no scholar,” Eydryth murmured doubtfully.

“But the ones who live there are, and they will aid you; they have little else to do. There is a chance you may find a mention of a cure written there, on some tattered scroll.”

“A chance,” Eydryth repeated, her mind racing. “A bare chance, seemingly.”

“You do not appear to me to be one who can afford to overlook any possibility, no matter how small,” the witch retorted.

Eydryth sighed. “You are right. What is this place?”

The other raised a cautioning hand. “Not so fast. If you aid me, I will tell you when we reach our destination. Will you swear by Blessed Gunnora, whose amulet you wear, that you will keep faith if I help you?”

Eydryth started, her hand going to the breast of her jerkin, where the amulet lay hidden. “How do you know what I wear concealed?” she asked, eyeing the younger woman suspiciously, striving to read her features in the dim light.

“My Power may be small, but it is sufficient to sense that you wear Gunnora’s symbol on your breast,” the witch snapped impatiently. “But that is not the important thing, here. Will you swear to aid me, in return for my help?”

“What aid do you seek?”

“Your assistance in escaping from the Citadel, then from Es City, and returning to Kastryn, the village of my birth. When we reach there, I will reveal to you the name of the place of ancient learning, and tell you how to reach it. Kastryn, you will find, is on the road to your eventual destination.”

Eydryth gazed at the young woman, her eyes searching that narrow, pointed-chinned face. There was beauty there, though it appeared worn, fined-down, as if, despite the girl’s youth, she had suffered much. “I might be able to discover the whereabouts of this ‘place of ancient learning’ without your aid,” she said, slowly, “now that I know what manner of place to inquire about. If people live there, someone, somewhere, will know of it.”

The witch bit her lip, her control slipping. “I have been a fool,” she whispered, in a voice edged with desperation. “I was not brought up to be a mistress of intrigue and am blunt-spoken by nature. You are right. If you ask long enough among the learned scholars of Es, you will find one who knows of the existence of Lormt, and where it lies. Go, then. I wish you success on your quest.”

She turned away, her slight shoulders drooping beneath the grey robe.

The songsmith felt sympathy stir within her, as she remembered her own despair at the thought of being kept here in this ancient stronghold by these hungry, hollow-eyed women. She reached out to put a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Wait. Tell me more. You are one of them—why do you wish to leave?”

The witch did not turn or look up. “I am one who was forced to the test, just as you were, today,” she said, dully. “But for me the stone glowed—only a spark, but the witches are desperate.”

“I could see that. Why are they so?”

“They have been forced to watch their control of this land slowly slip from them into the hands of others—Koris and his Lady Loyse, Simon Tregarth (whom they have hated ever since he took one of their number to wife) and his lady, Jaelithe. So any girl-child showing a trace of the Power, they take, in an attempt to rebuild their numbers.”

The young woman’s voice trembled. “I’d escaped the testing for two years, because I was sole support and nurse for my widowed mother. Then she died, so the next time the witch came to Kastryn, I needs must lay finger to her stone. It sparked, so they took me, brought me here… began to teach me.”

“Magic?”

“As much as I could learn, which was little enough. I am not a dullard, but my heart and will are drawn elsewhere—I possess neither the desire nor the gift to become mistress of more than a few minor illusions, plus some healcraft and herb-lore! However, these other women, to them Power is all—meat, bread, drink and breath itself! I cannot expect you to understand, songsmith, but I can never be as they are—never!”

Eydryth recalled her own childhood, spent in a stronghold steeped in sorcery… It had permeated the very air she breathed, and to the others around her, using magic was as natural as that breathing itself. Only she had possessed none of the ability—she, who had taken after her father. Her father, racked by the backlash of near-forgotten Power…

A surge of sympathy for the young woman before her made Eydryth’s throat tighten. “I understand,” she told the witch softly, “more than you can know.”

The girl’s voice broke. “And the worst of it all is, they took me without even leaving me time to send a message to Logar!”

“Logar?”

The girl turned back to face her questioner. In the candlelit dimness, her eyes sparkled, as if she were struggling to hold back tears. “Logar is my betrothed. He rides with the Borderers. The fangs of the Hounds have been partially drawn, but Alizon is still a dagger that pricks Estcarp’s side. Their remaining Hounds are wilier than ever as they slink forth to harry our northern border. Thus, each young man who is whole and able must serve with those who patrol that border for a space of three years. Logar’s time was up last month—by now he must be home, only to find me gone!”

Her mouth quivered, then tightened grimly. “We swore that when he returned, we would be wed. And I want nothing more from life than to be with him! But Logar cannot free me—for him to dare the Citadel would mean his death. But I am afraid that he might try such a foolhardy move… so I must escape, before he can!”

“I see…” Eydryth said. “But if we journey to Kastryn—”

The young witch clutched the songsmith’s sleeve. “We? Do you mean that you will still help me escape? Even though I have no way to pay or reward you?”

“Yes,” said Eydryth, as solemnly as if she took oath, “I will aid you, sister.”

The girl clasped Eydryth’s hand with both her own. “My gratitude forever! May Gunnora’s Blessings follow you—” she began, fervently.

But the minstrel shook her head, cutting off the outpouring of gratitude. “I will merit thanks only if we succeed, sister.”

“Avris,” the witch introduced herself, a little shyly. Eydryth’s eyed widened. The girl nodded defiantly, acknowledging the songsmith’s surprise that she had revealed her name. “My name is Avris,” she repeated, as if proud to openly defy the rules of the Citadel. “And you?”

“Eydryth. Now, as I was saying, if we journey to Kastryn, will those of the Citadel not know immediately where you have gone, and seek us there?”

“They may seek me, but by the time they find me, I will be of no more use to them,” Avris replied. “Logar and I will be wed in the same hour of seeing each other, and”—she grinned wryly—“once a wedded, bedded wife, my small trace of Power will vanish from me.”

Do not be too sure of that, the songsmith thought, with a wry smile of her own, as she remembered her mother, the Lady Elys, and her foster-mother, the Lady Joisan. They were women of Power, had lain with their husbands and borne children to them, just as the Lady Jaelithe had. And they, also, had retained their Power. Still, knowing the witches’ hatred of men, Eydryth concluded, Avris is probably right. They will not want her among their numbers after she has been, to their minds, “tainted” by union with a male. They will let her go.

“Besides,” the young witch was continuing, “Logar and I will not tarry to face their ire. I will convince him that we must flee immediately—perhaps make our way eastward, to that land overmountain, Escore. The Tregarth brothers and sister found refuge there—why not Logar and I?”

“You have schemed long on this,” Eydryth observed. “This is not just some idle impulse.”

“Ever since they took me, I have thought of little else!” Avris’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “Outwardly, I became resigned, applied myself to learning as best I might, so as to lull their suspicions. But all the time I was planning how to escape. Now there is no more time left—next week, I travel again to the Place of Wisdom for a final retreat, then they will lay the Witch Oath on me. I must get away before they can thus seal me to them!”

“Have you a plan for escaping the Citadel itself?”

The girl hesitated. “I have thought of one, but I am loath to suggest it, because it holds great danger for you. Have you no trace of the Power?”

“None,” Eydryth said flatly. “But tell me your plan anyway.”

“As I told you, my Power is weak,” Avris said. “But I believe that I can manage to cloak my features with illusion for long enough to get past that guard out there. I will take on your image. He will be expecting you to leave, and thus will not regard you too closely. But a full-body Seeming is beyond me, so I must have your clothes, your pack and harp case.”

“So you will take on my features with my garments, long enough to just walk out…” the bard mused. “An ingenuous plan, but my soldier father taught me much of stealth and tactics, and it is ofttimes the simplest scheme that holds the greatest chance of success. But then what happens to me?”

“That is the flaw,” the girl said grimly. “They will question you, and if you give them any slightest reason to doubt your word, they can compel truth from you, using the Power.”

“I can say that you ensorcelled me, held me helpless with your magic,” Eydryth said, her words coming faster as she thought. “To lend credence to that, you must leave me bound, wearing only my drawers and underbodice. Perhaps it would also be wise for you to knock me unconscious.”

“I could not hurt you!” Avris protested.

“I will show you where and how to strike the blow,” the minstrel said. “One that will knock me out, but not injure me much beyond an aching head for a few hours.”

“But—”

“You will do as you must,” Eydryth said, firmly. “Remember, there is no better excuse for not raising the alarm than to be discovered bound and unconscious, with a lump behind one ear. I doubt very much that the witches will ever suspect us of conspiracy under those circumstances.”

“But what if they do suspect you? Compel the truth from you?”

The songsmith considered. “I cannot believe that they will do much to me simply for allowing my clothes and pack to be stolen. That is hardly a hanging offense, especially considering that you have Power, and I have none. They will readily believe that you compelled me to do your will. And there is also this: I am not a citizen of Estcarp… I can truthfully plead ignorance of local laws. The fact that I asked one of the witches to aid a despised male proves that.”

“Yes,” the witch agreed, thoughtfully. “Any man or woman living within the boundaries of this land for long cannot remain ignorant of the ways of the witches.” Her brows drew together in a worried frown. “But to strike you down… I cannot! We must find some other way.”

Eydryth gripped the girl’s shoulders, her strong fingers deliberately bringing pain. “You want to see your betrothed again, do you not?”

“Yes…” Avris whispered.

“Then you will do as I say. You must! Every moment we delay means a greater chance of discovery!”

The girl’s shoulders sagged. “Very well. But they will still question you. What of that?”

Eydryth smiled humorlessly. “Do not forget that I am a bard. One in my trade must be an accomplished actor or actress, remember? They will believe me.” At least, I hope they will, she added, silently.

“One more question,” the other said. “Why? I can see you aiding me if there was no risk to you, but this way, there is great danger. The anger of the witches is not a thing to risk lightly. So why are you moved to help me?”

Eydryth hesitated. “I am also one who has lived surrounded by those who have control over forces I cannot even discern,” she said, finally. “I would not wish such a fate on another. And if you truly can set me on the road to this place of learning, this Lormt, a place where I may find some clue that will help me in my search…” She shrugged. “Nothing in all the world could mean more to me than that.”

Avris held out her hand, and, after a moment, Eydryth took it. The small fingers felt cold in hers, but the witch’s grasp was firm. “I thank you… sister.”

While Eydryth remained concealed in the little storeroom, Avris hurriedly went in search of the items she would require to work the illusion. When she returned, carrying a small case filled with herbs and simples, they began.

It took only moments for Avris to assume Eydryth’s outer clothing; then the songsmith stood shivering as the witch stared up into her face, intently, as if memorizing every feature. “I can do it…” she whispered, almost to herself.

“Then by all means, begin,” the bard said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “This floor is c-cold.”

“Very well.” Avris rooted through her bag, emerging finally with a dried leaf, which she handed to the songsmith. “I will need your spittle for the Seeming, and several of your hairs— living ones, drawn from their roots. Place all here.”

Eydryth, long used to the principles of magic, though she could not apply them, knew better than to question or argue. She spat on the leaf, rubbing the moisture into its brownish-green surface, then plucked several hairs and placed them in the middle of it. “Here,” she said.

The witch did not reply, only took the leaf, her eyes closed as she concentrated. Raising the leaf to her lips, she blew upon it, then rolled it into a ball. Slowly, she began tracing the contours of her own face, lightly rubbing them with the leaf-ball. As she did so, she sang softly, a monotonous, minor tune, its words so ancient that Eydryth recognized them as a form of the Old Tongue, the ancient language of Power, still spoken sometimes in distant, sorcery-shrouded Arvon.

As the music called to her, Eydryth took out her hand-harp and instinctively began plucking the strings. She sang, her voice harmonizing with the witch’s, until, between them, the girls produced a faint, eerie, hair-prickling melody.

Avris stopped abruptly on a half-wail, and Eydryth started, jerked out of the reverie she had fallen into. She looked over at the witch and gasped.

Her own face stared back at her—long, oval, with a traveler’s sun-browned skin. Avris now seemed to have bright blue eyes, a straight nose, a strong, stubborn jaw, all beneath a wind-tossed cap of soft black curls. “It worked?” the girl demanded.

“Completely,” Eydryth told her, amazed. “Except that you are still shorter than I, I do not believe even your Logar could tell us apart. It is as perfect a Seeming as any I have witnessed. Your Power must be greater than you think.”

The witch shrugged. “Perhaps it is just that I am desperate. What I could not do for them, I will do to escape them. And the guard, I think, will not notice the difference in height. I will just roll up the sleeves and breeches a turn, so.”

When she was finished ordering her borrowed clothing, Avris reached into the bag again, this time withdrawing a bundle of twigs, bound with red thread. Eydryth pulled back as the girl made to brush the bard’s forehead with the twig-bundle. “What is that?” she demanded.

“Rowan,” Avris replied. “Magic cannot work within its bounds, either of the Dark or Light. Its touch will help you resist the questioning of the witches.”

Eydryth’s mouth twisted into a hard, ugly shape. “I thought I recognized it, and I want none of it! I can endure the interrogation myself, with no aid from an ill-fortuned handful of wood!”

Avris stared up at her in shock, but recovered herself quickly. “It is a foolish soldier who throws away even his smallest blade on the eve of the battle,” she pointed out. “I have trusted you, will you not trust me? I would do nothing to harm you, Eydryth.”

The songsmith dropped her eyes, shamed, feeling the color rise hot to her cheeks. “I am sorry. You are right. Go ahead.”

But despite her resolve, she could not keep from flinching as the twig-bundle swept across her forehead—once, twice, thrice.

“Tie me as soon as I am unconscious,” Eydryth ordered, then had to demonstrate to Avris how to weave knots that would hold against a prisoner’s struggles.

At last, nothing remained except the blow. “Here,” the songsmith said, pointing to a spot just behind her ear. “And you must strike with sufficient force to make them believe my story. You do me no favor if you hold back. Have you a weapon?”

“This,” the girl said, and withdrew a dagger in a sheath from the folds of her discarded grey robe. “Will it do?”

Eydryth ran a finger over the rounded steel pommel. “It should. Grasp it by the sheath, so as to use the blunt end. Strike using this much force—” Eydryth wadded the witch’s discarded robe and demonstrated swinging the weapon, sending it thudding into the wall, the sound of the blow muffled by the fabric. “Now you try.”

On her fourth attempt, the witch’s arm swung with the proper force. “Good. That is just the way of it. Can you do it?”

The witch needs must run a tongue-tip over dry lips before she could reply, but her voice was steady. “I can. I will.”

“Good,” Eydryth said. “I will meet you outside the walls, in that first grove of trees to the south of the city. Hide yourself well, and do not appear until you hear me whistle, so—” She produced a few bars of an old marching song from High Hallack. “And do not forget to pick up my gryphon-headed quarterstaff from the guard on your way out. He will be expecting you to ask for it.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Deliberately, the songsmith turned her back, trying not to tense, forcing herself to stand still and not anticipate the blow. “Strike when you are ready,” she said. “But I would prefer not to have to wait much long—”

Pain and darkness crashed against her skull from behind. Eydryth felt her knees buckle, felt herself begin to fall. She let the blackness gulp her down, swallow her, like one of the sea-leviathans in the Sulcar tales…

The songsmith’s memories were blurred after that. She half-roused to a ringing head and the sound of voices, then the touch of hands on her half-bare body. Then the hands lifted her, and she was careful to stay limp, let herself flop like a boneless doll stuffed with river sand, such as the little Kioga children cuddled.

Light met her closed eyelids then, and soon she was placed on a soft surface. Someone covered her chilled body with a blanket. “You may bring in the guard now,” she heard a cold, passionless voice say.

“Yes, sister,” came the response, followed by the sound of the door.

“Lady?” a gruff voice said, one tinged with fear and defiance. “Th’ sister said you wished t’ see me?”

“So I do, Jarulf. Look at this girl, here. Do you recognize her?”

A gasp. “But… Lady, that be th’ same young woman who left before m’ shift ended! The very same!”

“I see.” The cold voice was even colder now, but still calm. “That will be all, Jarulf.”

“Aye, Lady.”

I ought to be coming around by now, Eydryth cautioned herself, and, accordingly, she moaned and tried to open her eyes. She did not have to feign the swift stab of pain the light brought her, or her squint. “What—what—”

The witch (for Eydryth could now see her silver-grey robe) moved back to look down at her, her face as blank as the stones of the walls enclosing them. She was older than the woman the songsmith had seen before, her features fine-drawn and aristocratic, her eyes hooded and remote in her oval face.

“You were found unconscious in a little-used storeroom,” she said. “It seems that one of our sisterhood is missing—our search found no trace of her. Tell me, who are you, and how did you come there?”

The songsmith moistened her lips. “Water?” she whispered, hopefully. “Please, water?”

“On the table. You may help yourself.”

With a groan that had nothing false about it, the bard pushed herself upright, clutching the blanket against her chest. When she saw the younger woman’s shaking hands, the witch grudgingly poured the water into a goblet for her.

The minstrel sipped, then put the cup down. “I am Eydryth, a wandering songsmith from a distant land,” she said, hoarsely. “I had an audience with one of your number, but she told me that she could not help me, since I was seeking healing for my father. She said that you granted no boons to men. So I took my leave of her. I remember following the young witch who had been sent to guide me down the corridor, my heart heavy… and that is all I remember.”

“Nothing more?”

The songsmith winced as she gingerly explored the lump behind her ear. “Naught… save that she turned back as if to speak to me, and there was something in her hand… something…” She frowned. “I know not what, save that it was bright, and my eyes were caught by it…”

“Ah,” the witch said, her grey eyes raking the young woman’s face with the sharpness of fingernails. “What do you think happened then?”

Eydryth started to shake her head, but stopped with a grimace of pain. “I know not, Lady. Obviously, someone hit me, and took my clothes… my clothes!” She glanced around her, wildly, as if just realizing they were truly gone. “My pack… my harp! My purse! I’ve been robbed!”

“Indeed,” the witch said, her eyes never leaving the bard’s.

“My hand-harp… my mouth-flute! My instruments… all stolen! How will I earn my living?” The minstrel ran her hands through her hair, distractedly, being careful not to overplay her distress. “I have naught left to me—naught!”

The witch hesitated. “Since you were robbed on our premises, it is our duty, I suppose, to alleviate your situation as much as possible. We will provide you with clothing, food, and sufficient coin for two nights’ lodging. If you are telling the truth, and were indeed the victim of thievery.”

Eydryth hesitated, betraying confusion. “The truth? Of course I am! Why should I speak aught but the truth, Lady?”

“That is what I am wondering…” the witch said, studying the younger woman as though she had suddenly sprouted feathers or fur. “Why should you?”

“I am no liar.” Eydryth let some of her very genuine irritation and fear creep into her voice. It would have been unnatural not to react to the witch’s implied accusation. “You have no right to name me one, either.”

The witch raised a mocking eyebrow. “Really? We shall see, songsmith. We shall see.”

Without another word, the witch cupped her milky jewel in her hand and stared down into it. As Eydryth watched, light began to emanate from the stone, all in one direction, until a luminescent beam shone full onto the minstrel’s face.

Even as she realized what the witch was doing, Eydryth summoned all her will to project honesty, sincerity… She banished all thought of Avris waiting in the grove of trees, concentrating instead on the story she had told, filling her mind with it. The false images as she had described them unfolded vividly before her eyes…

“What is that you’re humming?” the witch demanded, her voice sharp with anger.

Eydryth felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “I beg your pardon, Lady,” she muttered. “An old habit of mine, and I fear an annoying one. Since I was little, whenever I grow frightened, I begin humming an old lullaby my mother sang to me whilst I was in my cradle.”

The lullaby… her only heritage from the fishing village of Wark, where her mother had grown up. Always it had been her defense against fear, and concentrating on its music and words had enabled her, occasionally, to keep out the pryings of other minds when she was a child, growing up in a land rife with sorcery, where even those who shared the nursery with her had been gifted with Power.

The witch gave her a scornful glance. “I see. And are you frightened now?”

“The reputation of the witches is one to inspire both awe and fear,” Eydryth equivocated. “I regret that I annoyed you. I have lived a very solitary life for the past several years, and solitary people ofttimes fall into the habit of speaking to themselves. But in my case, I hum, or sing. It keeps my voice limber, also.”

“Well, be silent,” the witch snapped. “I must concentrate.” Again the witch’s mind brushed her own, darting and probing, testing the surface for any trace of falsehood. The young woman felt a chill, dank sweat break out on her body as that questing Power sent out tendrils that would uncover falsehood as surely as a hound would uncover a fen-fox’s burrow. She found that she was repeating the notes and music of the lullaby in her mind, over and over, as a kind of litany against letting the truth slip through.

The music filled her mind, growing more and more real:

Eydryth lost herself within the web of music, as she had done ever since she had been hardly more than a babe able to toddle about, grasping her father’s sword-callused fingers to stay upright. The chorus chimed sweetly throughout her being, driving out the fear.

Without warning, the light from the witch’s jewel died. “It seems that you are telling the truth, minstrel,” the woman conceded, though there was no softening of her cold grey eyes. “I will see that clothes are brought to you, and food, and coppers for several nights’ lodging.”

“Thank you, Lady,” Eydryth said humbly, schooling her face to reflect none of the triumph flaring within her. Have I truly done it? Kept the truth from her?

“Do you wish to leave now, songsmith?”

Eydryth stretched and sighed, with a deliberate show of weariness. “My head still aches, Lady,” she said. “I will rest until midafternoon, if I may, then depart.” Don’t appear to be too eager to rush out of here, she cautioned herself, eyeing the witch covertly. This may well be yet another test. She resolved that she would exercise a scout’s caution when she left the Citadel. No doubt she will have me followed.

The witch nodded, her hooded eyes expressionless. “As you wish, songsmith.” She fixed a measuring gaze on the younger woman. “You say that you are from a faraway land,” she said. “Do the women there have Power?”

“We have our village Wise Women,” Eydryth replied, cautiously. “They doctor the sick with herbal potions, midwife the women and the animals…” She trailed off. “Why do you ask?”

“And have you ever been tested for the presence of the Power?” the witch demanded, deliberately ignoring the songsmith’s question.

“Yes,” Eydryth said, fighting the urge to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry. “I was tested today, by one of your number. I failed. I have no Power.”

“What manner of testing?” the witch demanded.

“She compelled me to lay finger to the jewel she wore—such a jewel as yours, Lady.”

The witch picked up her own jewel, fingered it thoughtfully. It glowed softly. For a moment the grey-robed woman closed her eyes; then she opened them again. “Mistakes have been made before,” she murmured, staring speculatively at the younger woman. “Indeed, they have…”

Eydryth knew she was in great danger. What if she decides to hold me here, put me through more of their tests? She remembered that brief flicker she’d thought she had glimpsed deep in the heart of the witch-jewel. Avris said the jewel barely glowed for her…

As abruptly as a door opening, the witch’s thoughts were as plain to the songsmith as though she did have the Power to see the unseen, hear the unheard. Even now, she is thinking that I may be able to take Avris’s place among them!

A sharp rap at the door made both of them jump. The witch hastened to open it. Eydryth recognized the newcomer as the witch who had tested her earlier. “Sister?” she said. “You summoned me?”

“Yes,” the older witch said. “This girl tells me that you tested her, today.”

“I did. I thought that I sensed a trace of the Power… but the jewel stayed dark.”

“You are sure?”

“Entirely.”

“Very well. Thank you, sister.”

The younger witch inclined her head, then departed. Eydryth’s questioner smiled faintly. “Again it seems that you were speaking the truth, songsmith. Rest now, and I will have clothing brought to you so that you may depart when you awake.”

The minstrel wet her lips. “Thank you, Lady,” she said, holding her voice steady with an effort.

“You are welcome,” the witch said. “Rest well, songsmith.”

She left the room, closing the door behind her. Eydryth lay back upon the bed, but she did not close her eyes. Tests within tests, she thought, feeling the fear uncoil within her like a serpent. I must guard my back when I leave. She intends to let me go, planning to have me lead her guardsmen to Avris. Then they will capture us both!

Her fingers sought out Gunnora’s amulet. Eydryth stroked the amber sheaf of grain, felt the small amethyst points that made up the fruit upon the heavy-laden grapevine binding it at its base. Amber Lady, she thought. Aid me in escaping this trap. Please, Lady! I must be free, so I can find a cure for my father!