"He's got Cynara—" the Dreamer muttered dizzily, "Cynara—who in Zandru's hells are you?" He picked himself up, gazing at me with a stunned, blank look. "My name's Kenscott," I said briefly. Suddenly, feeling it was the best way to establish my good-faith, I pulled out the Toy Gamine had put in my hand. "I've seen Rhys. He sent—this."
Narayan stared at the thing in my hand, a double grief in his young face. "Rhys—" he muttered, "I felt he was—gone!" With bent head, he reached out to take the small thing from me.
In his hand it came alive. The small jewelled Toy seemed suddenly brilliant, flaring, dazzling with a wild burst of faceted light, blue, golden, crimson, flame-color. Gamine's low sweet voice breathed, "In the Dreamer's hands!"
"In my hands," Narayan murmured in a choked, almost a tranced ecstasy. I broke in on their raptures rudely. "Here, Narayan! Is it Adric who's got Cynara?"
He gulped; swallowed hard; thrust the Toy into a pocket and came back to himself, but that light was still in his eyes. He spoke with a hard restraint. "Yes. Adric surprised me—knocked me out. When I came to, they were gone." He blinked once or twice; rubbed his eyes; then, resolutely fumbled for the little Toy and extended it to me. "Here. Keep this till we get to the Dreamer's Keep."
I took it without comment. Gamine slipped away; came back, leading horses. "I couldn't find a single guard," the cold voice murmured, "I wonder where they are?"
"Adric knows," said Narayan, tight-lipped.
We mounted.
The wind was rising. Above us the moons swung slowly in an indigo sky. Sparks flew from our hooves against the frosty stones. We were racing against time, and a nightmare panic had me while I gripped the saddle of my racing horse. It took all my concentration to stick on the animal's back, but I was acquiring balance and a feel for riding. The ill wind was blowing some good, I thought inanely. Narayan's blond hair was frosty pale in the moonlight, and the eerie Gamine was a nightmare ghost, a phantom from nowhere. Far away we heard the spatter of gunfire, the screams of dying men, the ring of swords and spears. Thinly Gamine chanted in the night. Narayan's face looked haunted. "There are the guards—attacking—" he jerked out over the hoof-noises.
The scream of falcons rang swiftly above Gamine's chant. The too-familiar beat of wings slapped around my head, and I flung up my arm to knock away one serpentine neck. My terrified horse plunged and I rocked in the saddle nearly falling. Another bird swooped down on Narayan—another—then there were swarms of them, gold and purple and green, crimson, blue, flame-color. The air was thick with their wings. Gamine screamed; I saw Narayan beat the air with his cloak. The veiled Spell-singer, crouched in the saddle, was lashing at them with the whip from her saddle. The lash kept the falcons at bay, but the razor talons caught at the blue shroudings. Narayan, whip in one hand, sword in the other, beat round him in great arcs, and I heard one bird's death-cry sending ringing echoes to the sky. I flung round me with my knife—