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In addition to his medical kit—which contained only a few of the most ordinary remedies, and measuredonly four or five inches square—Larry had his knife with the broken blade, corkscrew, and tinymagnetized blade. Kennard looked at it with raised eyebrows and a rueful grin, and shrugged. He alsohad another piece of the coarse bread, a notebook, handkerchief and a coin or two.

Kennard, who had come provided for a long journey, was better armed with his razor-sharp dagger, atinderbox and flints, and in the leather pouch at his waist he had some bread and dried meat. “Notmuch,” he said. “I had more cached near where I left my horse; I’d hoped we could dare take that road. And there is food in the forests, though I’m not so sure here as I am in the woodlands nearer home. No,we won’t starve, but there’s worse than that.”

At Larry’s questioning look, he said reluctantly, “We’re lost, Larry. I lost my bearings when we weregetting away from the banshees last night. All I know is that we’re west of Cyrillon’s hold—and nolowlander or Comyn has ever come so far into these mountains. Never. At least, if they have, theyhaven’t lived to tell about it. We can’t go back eastward toward home—we’d have to cross Cyrillon’scountry—or make a wide circle northward and get into the Dry Towns.” His face, though he tried tokeep it impassive, trembled. “That’s all desert land—sand, no water, no food, and we might as well goback and ask Cyrillon for a night’s lodging. Southward there’s the range of the Hellers —and not evenprofessional guides or mountaineers will go into them without climbing equipment, and mountain gear. I’ve done a little rockclimbing, but I’m about as fit to climb through the Hellers as you are to navigate a Terran spaceship.”

That left only one possibility. “Westward?”

“Unless we want to try to get through Cyrillon’s country again, banshees and all. As far as I know, it’s simply forest. It’s unexplored, but if we follow the setting sun, we should come out somewhere near to the lands where Lorill Hastur has his holdings. We’ll be passing to the north of the Hellers—” He drew a crude sketch-map on the ground. “We’re here. And we want to get to here. But the gods alone know what’s in between, or how long it will take us.” He looked at Larry, steadily. “I wouldn’t enjoy a trip like that, even with my father and a dozen of his huskiest soldiers. But,
 
bredu
 
, if you’ll back me up, we’ll try it.”

He met Larry’s eyes, and for an instant Larry was reminded of that moment of deep rapport betweenthem, across the blue crystal of psychic power. The word,
 
bredu
 
, had startled him. It meant, literally,
friend—
 
but the ordinary word for friend was simply
 
com’ii. Bredu
 
could mean one close, as in a familyrelationship—cousin, or brother—or it could mean
 
beloved brother
 
. It was a word which showed himthe trust that this Darkovan boy, who had saved his life, placed in him. Kennard had undertaken, alone, adesperate journey on his behalf—and was about to undertake another, with Larry’s help.

It was the most solemn moment of Larry’s life. He was almost paralyzed with his fear, and he could feel

Kennard’s fear as if it were his own; deeper, because Kennard knew more of the dangers. And yet—

Larry said quietly, “I’m ready to try it if you are—
 
bredu
.”

And in that moment he knew that he would, if necessary, give his life for Kennard—as Kennard hadrisked his for him.

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The moment lasted only a fraction of a second. Then Kennard broke the remaining piece of Cyrillon’sbread, and said, “Let’s finish this. We need the strength. Then I have this—” Briefly, from his pocket, heshowed the silk-wrapped thing that held the blue crystal. “It helped me find you, because when youlooked into it, your mind was keyed to it. So that when I was lost, all I had to do was to look in it andthink of you—and it showed me the right direction.”

Larry averted his eyes from the stone. It made him think of that moment in Cyrillon’s power. “Cyrillonmade me look into one of the things.”

The result on Kennard was electrifying. His whole face changed and turned white. “Cyrillon—has oneof
these
 
?”

Briefly, Larry told him about it, and Kennard wet dry lips with his tongue. “Avarra guard and guide us! He may not know how to use it, but if he should ever learn, or if he should whelp a telepath by one of hiswomen, the Gods themselves couldn’t save Darkover from their evil powers! Not to mention,” he addedgrimly, “that he might track us with it—as I tracked you.”

“He’s afraid of it,” Larry said, and told Kennard how he knew, but Kennard shook his head. “He might still risk it; he’d evidently risk a lot to have you. Oh, Zandru, what shall I do, what shall I do!” He covered his face with his hands and sat motionless, the blue stone clutched in his hand. Finally he looked up and his face was gray and drawn with terror.

“We—must destroy Cyrillon’s stone,” he said at last. “I know what I must do, but I’m afraid, Larry, I’m

afraid!” It was a cry of terror. “But I must!”

“Why?”

Kennard looked grim. He rolled back his sleeve and showed Larry a curious mark, like a tattoo. “Because I am sworn,” he said, grimly, “that I will die rather than let any of our Comyn weapons fall intothe hands of such people.”

Larry felt a cold wrench of terror twisting his insides.

To go back, deliberately, into Cyrillon’s power and destroy the stone…

“What do we do?” he asked, deliberately light and sarcastic, “walk up to his front door and ask him

politely to let us have it?”

Kennard shook his head. “Worse than that,” he said, his voice barely audible, “and I can’t do it alone.

I’ll have to have your help. Aldones guard us! If I could only reach father with this—but I can’t—”

“What is it? What do you have to do?”

“You wouldn’t understand—” Kennard began hotly; then with an effort, said, “Sorry. You’re in this, too, and you’ll have to help me. I have to take
 
this
 
”—he motioned toward the blue crystal in his hand—“and destroy Cyrillon’s—with it. And we have to do it
 
now
 
.”

“But how can I?” Larry was frightened and bewildered. “I am not a telepath.”

“You must be,” said Kennard urgently, “you fought Cyrillon to a standstill with the thing! I don’t

understand it either. I never heard of a Terran telepath. But evidently you and I are in rapport. Maybe

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you got it from me, I’m not sure. But we’ll try.”

He unwrapped the crystal and Larry averted his eyes. The thought of looking into the thing again madehim literally sick to his stomach. The memory of Cyrillon’s forcing made his abused shoulder ache insympathy.

But Kennard had to do it—Kennard, who had risked death to save him. Larry said steadily? “What do Ihave to do?”

Kennard sat cross-legged, gazing into the stone, and Larry was inescapably reminded of the three Adepts who had brought the rain to the forest fire. Uncommanded, he took his place across from Kennard. Kennard said, silently, “Just go into link with me—and hold hard. Don’t let go, whateverhappens.”

The twisting blueness of the crystal engulfed all space. Larry felt Kennard like a spot of fire and tensed,throwing all his energies, all his will toward supporting him—

He felt a blue blaze, slumbering, blaze up and waken.

It flared out, flaming electric blue, and Larry felt himself struggling, drowning. His body ached, his wholehead tingled, earth spun away, he reeled alone in blue space as blue flame met blue flame and he felt Kennard tremble, spin out and vanish in unfathomable distance. The fire was drowning him…

Then from somewhere a huge surge of strength seemed to roar through him, the same strength that hadflung Cyrillon howling across the room. He poured it against the alien blue. The flames met, merged,sank—

The forest was green and bright around them and Larry gulped in air like a drowning man. Kennard laywhite and drained on the leaves, his hand limply clutching the crystal. But there was no blue fire in itsheart now. It was colorless stone, which as Larry looked glimmered once or twice and evaporated in atiny puff of blue vapor. Kennard’s hand was empty.

Kennard sat up, his chest heaving. He said, “It’s gone. I destroyed it—even though I had to destroy thisone too. And it might have guided us to Lorill Hastur’s lands.” His frown was bitter. “But better thanhaving a starstone in Cyrillon’s possession. Now all we have to face are ordinary dangers. Well”— Heshrugged, and struggled to his feet. “We’ve got a lot of country to cover, and all we have to do is tofollow the sun’s path westward. Let’s get started.”

Forcing back his multitude of question and curiosity, Larry reached out for his now-drying clothes andbegan to draw them on. He knew Kennard well enough, by now, to know that he had had all theexplanation the other lad would ever give him. Silently, he pocketed his little knife, his medical kit, thrusthis feet into his boots. Still silently, he followed Kennard as the Darkovan started down the western slopeof the mountain, down into the trackless wasteland that lay between Cyrillon’s castle and the lands of Lorill Hastur.

All that day and all the next they spent forcing their way down through the pathless underbrush, followingthe westward sun-route, sleeping at night in hollows of dead leaves, eating sparingly of the bread andmeat remaining of Kennard’s provision. On the night of the second day it came to an end, and they wentsupperless to bed, munching a few dried berries like rose-hips, which were sour and flavorless, but whicheased hunger a little.

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The next day was dreadful, forcing their way through the thinning underbrush, but they halted early, and

Kennard, turning to Larry, said, “Give me your handkerchief.”

Obediently, Larry handed it over. It was crumpled and filthy, and he couldn’t imagine what Kennardwanted it for, but he sat and watched Kennard rip it into tiny strips and knot them until he had a fairlylong strip of twisted cloth. He searched, on silent feet, till he found a hole in the ground; then, bending abranch low, rigged a noose and snare. He motioned to Larry to lie flat and still, following suit himself. Itseemed hours that they lay there silent, Larry’s body growing cramped and stiff, and Kennard turningangry eyes on him when he ventured to ease a sore muscle by moving it ever so slightly.

A long time later, some small animal poked an inquisitive snout from the hole; instantly, Kennard jerkedthe noose tight and the small creature kicked, writhing, in the air.

Larry winced, then reflected that, after all, he had been eating meat all his life and this was no time to getsqueamish. He watched, feeling vaguely useless and superfluous, as Kennard wrung the creature’s neck,skinned and gutted it, and gathered dead twigs for a fire.

“It would be safer not to,” he said, with a wry smile, “but I haven’t any taste for raw meat—and if

they’re still on our trail after this long, we’re out of luck anyhow.”

The small furred thing was not much bigger than a rabbit; they finished every scrap of the meat andgnawed the bones. Kennard insisted on himself covering the fire and scraping leaves over the placewhere it had been, so that no sign of their camp remained.

When they slept that night, Larry lay long awake, feeling somehow ill at ease; half envying Kennard’swoodcraft—he was lost and helpless in these woods without the other boy’s knowledge—yet possessedby a nagging disquiet that had nothing to do with that. The woods were filled with strange noises, thefar-away cries of night birds and the padding of strange beasts, and Larry tried to tell himself that he wassimply uneasy about the strangeness of it all. The next morning when they prepared to go on, he keptglancing around until Kennard noticed and asked him, rather irritably, what was the matter.

“I keep hearing—and not quite seeing—things,” Larry said reluctantly.

“Imagination,” Kennard said, shrugging it off, but Larry’s disquiet persisted.

That day was much like the former. They struggled down exhausting slopes, forcing their way throughbrushwood; they scrambled through country that looked like smooth forest but was matted with deadtrees and deep ravines.

At night Kennard snared a bird and was about to light a fire to cook it when he noticed Larry’s disquiet.

“Whatever is the matter with you?”

Larry could only shake his head, silently. He knew—without knowing
 
how
 
he knew—that Kennard

must not
 
light that fire, and it seemed so senseless that he was ready to cry with the tension of it.

Kennard regarded him with a look halfway between impatience and pity.

“You’re worn out, that’s what’s the matter,” he said, “and for all I know you’re still half-poisoned by the drug they gave you. Why don’t you lie down and have a sleep? Rest and food will help you more than anything else.” He took out his tinderbox and began to strike the fire—Larry cried out, an inarticulate sound, and leaped to grab his wrist, spilling tinder. Kennard, in a rage, dropped the box and struck

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Larry, hard, across the face.

“Damn you, look what you’ve made me do!”