The Harp of Imach Thyssel

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Flindaran demanded.

  “That’s part of an old song called ‘King Loren’s Lay.’ It tells how King Loren destroyed Istravar and two other cities when they attacked him.”

  Flindaran stared at the harp. “And you think—”

  “I think I know what this is,” Emereck said with deadly quietness. “It’s impossible, but it’s the only thing that fits. This is the harp that the ballad describes. The Harp of Imach Thyssel.”

  Chapter 5

  FLINDARAN LOOKED FROM EMERECK to the harp and back. “The Harp of Imach Thyssel? Isn’t that the one Marryl the Avenger used to play the shadows out of Harwood?”

  “No, that was Neriwind’s Harp,” Emereck said. Talking was a welcome distraction from the tangle of awe and fear and desire that the discovery of the harp had roused in him, and he went on, “Neriwind’s Harp has been in the Hall of Tears for nearly three hundred years, so this can’t be it. I wish it were,” he added under his breath.

  Flindaran caught the comment and frowned. “Why? Is there something wrong with this one?”

  “Not exactly. It’s just that I’d know what to expect from Neriwind’s Harp. It was made during the Wars of Binding, and it’s been used several times since then. I know enough of the songs and histories to have a good idea of what it does and what to do with it.”

  “And the Harp of Imach Thyssel?”

  “It’s even older than Neriwind’s Harp. No one knows when it was made, but it was before the Wars of Binding. It’s more powerful, too. The Master Minstrel who first told me of it said that only the Lost Gifts of Alkyra might be its equal in magic.” Unconsciously, Emereck slipped into the formal phrasing of a trained storyteller. “Twice was it used with known purpose: Once to bring fair winds to the fleet of the Kulseth sailors when their war with Varna failed and they were forced to flee, and once when Calzen, Istravar, and Toltan made war together upon the city of Imach Thyssel, and were destroyed.

  “In Imach Thyssel, the harp was called the Luck of the City, for they said that its presence kept them peaceful and prosperous, and so it was for many years. Yet despite the magic of the harp, the city was at last betrayed and destroyed. Then the Harp of Imach Thyssel was played for the third time, and for what purpose is not known. But that day, storm winds toppled the spires of Imach Thyssel on the heads of the invaders; fire took the city’s walls; the earth shook; and at the end, the sea swallowed armies and city alike. And since that day, none has seen or heard of the Harp of Imach Thyssel, the Luck of the City.”

  Silence fell. At last Flindaran shook himself and looked around. “I wish you’d warn me when you’re going to do that.”

  Emereck laughed self-consciously. “I’m sorry. It’s just habit and training.”

  “Don’t apologize; it was wonderful. But distracting. Are you sure that this is the Harp of Imach Thyssel?”

  “No,” Emereck said without conviction. Flindaran looked at him sharply. Emereck sighed. “Yes, I’m sure. I don’t know why. There have been other magic harps made, and for all I know, half-a-dozen of them could fit the description in that song. But I’m still sure.”

  “And if it is…” Flindaran leaned forward and stared at the harp with growing excitement. “Emereck, if this is the Harp of Imach Thyssel, think of what you could do with it!”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Lots of reasons.” Emereck shifted uncomfortably. “If I think about it too much, I’ll be tempted to use it. And I wouldn’t trust myself with that kind of power, even if I knew enough to be sure I wouldn’t make any mistakes.”

  “You mean you don’t want it?”

  “I want it, but I don’t want to want it, if you see what I mean. And there’s the price to consider.”

  “Price?”

  “Everyone who has ever used the Harp of Imach Thyssel has paid a price, and usually a heavy one. The Kulseth fleet escaped from the Varnan wizards, but their Prince was crippled by the power he had used. King Loren didn’t just destroy the armies that were attacking Imach Thyssel, he destroyed all three of their home cities as well, down to the last child within the walls. And his betrothed had been visiting in Istravar when the war broke out. He never really recovered from losing her. As for Imach Thyssel itself…”

  “It could just be coincidence.”

  “The Master Minstrels don’t think so.”

  “Oh.” Flindaran paused. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. I ought to leave it here,” Emereck said, knowing even as he spoke that he could not bring himself to do it.

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “No. But I’d like to. It would be… simpler.” The harp made Emereck profoundly uneasy. He wanted to seize its magic for himself; he wanted to run from it; he wanted to play it before all the world; he wanted to hide it away and forget it existed. But he could not explain any of that to Flindaran.

  Flindaran remained silent for a long time, staring at the harp. Darkness had fallen, and the glow of the harp strings was easier to see. It was a cool, diffuse light that illuminated little beyond the harp itself, like starlight, Emereck thought. Flindaran looked up and said tentatively, “If you don’t want it, Emereck, I could take it.”

  Emereck tensed and peered into the gloom, trying to make out Flindaran’s expression. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t help,” he said cautiously. He hesitated, then asked, “Did you want it for something specific?”

  “Well…” Flindaran’s shoulders hunched slightly, then he said in a rush, “If it really is the Harp of Imach Thyssel, and it can do all those things you said, I thought… well, that it might make things in Minathlan better.”

  “Guardians of Lyra, Flindaran, are you crazy? Or haven’t you heard anything I just said?”

  “I heard you.” He waited until Emereck looked and their eyes met, then added softly, “It might be worth the price.”

  Emereck could not answer. This was a side of Flindaran that he had never seen. At last he swallowed hard and said, “No one should use that harp until one of the Guildmasters has had a chance to study it.”

  Flindaran was still watching with that disquieting expression. “Then your answer is no?”

  “The answer is no.”

  With a sigh, Flindaran sat back. “All right. It’s your harp.” He grinned suddenly. “But it was worth asking. You should have seen your face!”

  “It’s not funny. It’s bad enough that one of us will have to pay a price to that thing without you making matters worse.”

  “One of us… you mean because it healed your side?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t use it deliberately. You didn’t even play it.”

  “I don’t know whether that matters. But I suppose I’ll find out.” Emereck tried to sound cheerful, but he did not succeed in keeping the strain out of his voice.

  There was another long silence. Finally, Flindaran said, “Well, what are you going to do with it, then?”

  “There’s only one thing I can do. Take it back to the Guildhall, and hope someone there knows enough about it to decide what should be done.”

  “You’re not thinking of going straight there, are you?”

  “Of course. The sooner I get there, the less time I’ll have to spend worrying about it.”

  “I was right, you’re not thinking. Look, Ciaron is over a month’s journey from here, even if you go through the Mountains of Morravik instead of around them. You have hardly any supplies, and there are Syaski and Lithmern and demons-only-know-what-else wandering around in that direction. You’d never make it.”

  “You have another suggestion?”

  “Yes. Come to Minathlan with me, the way we planned. It should only be three or four days’ ride. That’ll give the Syaski and the Lithmern plenty of time to kill each other off or go away or something, and I can give you whatever you’ll need for the trip.”

  “Well…” Emereck hesitat
ed. He had been firmly resolved to head straight back to Ciaron, but the mention of the Syaski and the Lithmern gave him pause. If either of those countries got their hands on the Harp of Imach Thyssel… “All right. I’ll admit I don’t like the idea of dodging all those soldiers, so Minathlan it is. We’ll have to find some way of wrapping up the harp, though. I’m not about to ride around with it dangling from my saddle for all the world to see and wonder at.”

  “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all night,” Flindaran said. He poked the coals of their dinner fire into a cheerful blaze, and the ordinariness of the action made the whole unlikely situation seem more manageable. Emereck relaxed, and the conversation turned to plans for the remainder of the journey. They talked until late that night, and by the time he went to sleep, Emereck’s niggling sense of worry over Flindaran’s request for the harp had vanished.

  The ride to Minathlan took nearly eight days, not four, and it was one of the least pleasant trips in Emereck’s memory. For the first three days, it rained intermittently, and even when the drizzle stopped, the leaves above them dripped in cool, heavy splashes on their heads and horses. On the fifth day, they came out of the forest onto a rolling green plain. Shortly after that, the rain stopped and the sun appeared. The light and warmth were welcome at first, but under their influence the water began to evaporate, and soon the plain was a steambath.

  To add to Emereck’s discomfort, he was not sleeping well. It began as a simple restlessness and developed through bad dreams into full-fledged nightmares. Twice he woke sweating in the early hours of the morning, unable to recall any details of his dream beyond a deep sense of horror and grief. After that he began taking the second watch, and the dreams subsided.

  As they drew nearer to Minathlan, the country grew flatter, drier, and dustier. Flindaran seemed to stiffen as the land changed, as if he were bracing himself against something. Emereck’s uneasiness returned, though Flindaran did not bring up the subject of the harp again. He did not even mention its existence, but his request lay like a reproach in the back of Emereck’s mind as they rode past the dry, brown fields. Emereck found Flindaran’s restraint profoundly disturbing. It was unlike him, and Emereck began to wonder whether it was wise to bring the Harp of Imach Thyssel to Minathlan.

  The Cilhar sifted dead ashes through his fingers while the wind played an endlessly changing song on the statues dotting the garden behind him. “There were two of them,” he told the dark-haired woman beside him.

  “How long have they been gone?”

  “About three days. We might have gotten here before them if we hadn’t followed those Lithmern for so long.”

  Ryl shook her head. “We could have done nothing else. I owed somewhat to the people of Tinbri for bringing all that on their heads. Besides, the time wasn’t wasted. We learned a fair amount.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing.”

  “I know. I was talking more to myself than to you, I fear. One always tends to justify one’s mistakes, and this will make matters far more difficult for us.”

  “Difficult? Their trail’s three days old, and the rain will have all but washed it away. It may not be quite impossible to follow, but it’s sure to be close to it.”

  “There will be no need to strain your abilities; I think I know where they are heading. Minathlan.”

  “Minathlan?” Kensal looked startled. “I hadn’t even considered it a possibility. Why Minathlan?”

  “Because at least one of them is of the family of the Duke of Minathlan. There is no other way they could have found this castle.”

  “I don’t quite follow your logic.”

  “Castle Windsong is protected from discovery by anyone but the family of its builder, and the Dukes of Minathlan are the only remaining branch of that family. An ordinary person traveling through these woods would never realize that there was anything here, but one of the Duke’s bloodkin would be drawn to this place like steel to a lodestone.”

  “I see.” He looked at her curiously, but decided not to comment on their own presence at the castle. Every rule, after all, had exceptions. “And you’re sure they have the harp?”

  “Yes. I think the castle gave it to them.”

  “Gave it to them?”

  “Sometimes Castle Windsong has… a mind of its own.” Ryl smiled slightly as if at some private joke.

  “But why?”

  Ryl’s smile faded. “One of them, I think, must have been a real minstrel. For such a one to come to this place in company with one of the heirs of Minathlan… it was very nearly inevitable that Windsong would release the harp. I fear the blame is in part my own for rousing this place, however slightly. I should not have called upon Miramar so close by.”

  “Called on Miramar?”

  “In the courtyard of the inn. There is an ancient friendship between the… spirit of Lake Miramar and that of Castle Windsong. I should have thought that waking one might disturb the other.”

  “You did what you had to, and it’s too late now anyway.” Kensal straightened. “Shall we go?”

  “Where?”

  “To Minathlan, of course, to get you that harp.”

  Ryl smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think it will be quite that simple, my friend. The Harp of Imach Thyssel does not move easily from one owner to another. We may have to… persuade them to cooperate. And there are the Lithmern to consider as well; it seems that one of them at least has some inkling of what we seek. Are you sure you wish to continue aiding me?”

  “Everything fun is complicated. Besides, I owe Valerin a life. Mine. If it will take you and this harp to repay him, I’ll gladly help.”

  “Thank you.” She bowed her head in acknowledgment. “I only hope we will be in time.”

  He looked up sharply. “There’s a time limit? You hadn’t told me that.”

  “It wasn’t relevant when all we had to do was pick up the harp and take it north. But now… We should have three weeks, four at the most. And every day it will become more difficult.”

  “Then we’re for Minathlan, and quickly.” Kensal started for the horses.

  “Not quite so fast. I’ve one thing left to do, unless it will disturb you to ride with one who has a stranger’s face.”

  He turned, frowning. “A stranger’s face won’t disturb me, but is it really necessary?”

  “I don’t want one of them recognizing me when we arrive; I wish to study them before they grow suspicious.”

  “You’re sure it’s safe?”

  “I’m safer here than anywhere but Silvermist itself, which is why I wish to make the change before we leave. It will not take long.” As she finished speaking, she closed her eyes.

  Kensal saw her form shimmer and grow; there was a ripple of motion, and suddenly a different woman stood before him. She looked younger, barely twenty, and her hair was dark blond. Where the dark-haired woman had been almost beautiful, this woman was almost plain. She was taller and more solidly built, and her movements were slightly awkward. She smiled. “Will it do, do you think?”

  “If I hadn’t seen you do it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. I don’t suppose you could teach me that trick? Particularly the getting younger part…”

  Her laugh held an undercurrent of sadness. “I’m afraid not.”

  “I thought you would say that. Have you anything else to do here? Then we’d better get started.” He helped her to mount, and they left the castle without looking back.

  In the highest tower of the castle of Lanyk, Prince of Syaskor, a tall figure in a hooded cloak stood staring out a south window. The information had been correct; something important was moving. First had come the arrival of that sorceress, Shalarn, and now there was the business with the Cilhar at the inn. Lanyk’s men had bungled it, of course. They should have waited to attack until the disguised Lithmern had the man fast. But Lanyk’s men had no more patience than their ruler, and they had lost him.

  The Lithmern captain had not done well, either. Of cours
e, no one had expected the innkeeper to be a sorceress. The hooded one frowned. Who was she? The Dark Ones in the north had given no warning of her presence, but surely they must have known. Someone with the power to undo one of their spells could not have gone unnoticed.

  At least Shalarn did not know that the leader of her men was working for someone else as well. The unseen lips curved. Did the Lithmern sorceress really think the captain could have cast the spell of black mist without help? But Shalarn seemed to have no suspicions.

  So the effort at the inn had not been totally wasted. The captain of Shalarn’s men was now firmly committed; he would be very useful. And Lanyk was at last convinced that magic would be used against him. He would be more amenable to reason now, more inclined to listen to advice. And the net of subtle power and influence, three years in the making would close even tighter around the Prince of Syaskor.

  The hooded one was very patient indeed.

  Chapter 6

  EMERECK’S FIRST IMPRESSION OF Castle Minathlan was of a weathered mountain of gray stone. It was a huge, almost shapeless pile, surrounded by a litter of thatched huts and a maze of narrow streets. The people in the village seemed friendly, and Flindaran greeted many of them by name as they rode up to the gates.

  Inside the castle courtyard, Flindaran led Emereck to a quiet corner and said, “Wait here while I find out who’s here and which rooms are free. I’ll be back in a minute or so.”

  “But not before I’ve finished unloading, I’ll wager.”

  “Would I do that?”

  Emereck nodded as he dismounted. Flindaran grinned and left. Emereck began unloading the horses, taking particular care with the bundle that contained the Harp of Imach Thyssel. He suppressed a desire to unwrap it right there in the courtyard, and reached instead for the case that held his own harp.

  “Welcome to Castle Minathlan, minstrel.”

  The unexpected voice behind him made Emereck jump, and he almost dropped the harp-case. He turned and met the level gray gaze of a woman standing behind him. She was young, and her chestnut hair was pulled back from her face in a severe style. “Fair morning to you, mistress,” he said. He took in her dusty leather attire and the sheathed sword by her side, and added, “Or should I name you Warrior?”