“Is that necessary? If we know where it is…”
“Lord Flindaran seems impetuous. I fear what the Harp might do in his hands.”
“The minstrel seems a more immediate concern,” Kensal said practically. “He has the Harp, after all. I’m glad Flindaran didn’t decide to keep it. Taking something from a Duke’s son could be a bit awkward.”
Ryl smiled and shook her head slowly. “The minstrel is his friend and guest.”
“If we can get it quickly enough, Flindaran won’t become a problem.”
“Do not underestimate—” Ryl stopped. Her head turned, and she went pale.
Automatically, Kensal reached for his sword. “What is it?” Even as he spoke, he knew the answer; the silver harpnotes rang through the room, faint but clear.
“He’s playing it,” Ryl whispered. “By the Four Lights, he’s playing it!”
Kensal darted a sharp look in her direction. Her face was ice-white, and her hands were clenched in her lap. She seemed to be bracing herself against something, like a man holding up a falling wall that threatens to crush him. Kensal’s eyes widened. He jumped to his feet and slammed the window shutters closed. The harpnotes continued without change.
Ryl’s eyes closed. Her lips pressed together, and she began to shake. Kensal crossed back to her and knelt uncertainly beside her chair. He opened his mouth, then closed it again; distracting her could be dangerous to them both. Finally, he raised his hands and laid them slowly and carefully on top of Ryl’s clenched fists.
Strength drained out of him. Ryl’s shaking did not lessen, but it did not grow any worse. He wondered how long he could continue to feed her his energy, and what would happen to them both when he had no more to give. He felt himself weakening, but he did not move.
The music drew Emereck through the maze of castle corridors, and he followed it without hesitation. He passed several servants, all frozen in attitudes of listening, and ran up a flight of stairs. A door blocked his way, flanked by a half-ensorcelled guard. Before the man could move to stop him, Emereck burst into the room beyond. He saw Talerith and Gendron turning toward him with expressions of bemused astonishment, and an unfamiliar man bending intently over a still figure in a large, canopied bed. Emereck’s eyes swept past them to the source of the music.
Flindaran sat beside the bed, holding the Harp of Imach Thyssel. Some trick of light made it seem polished and undented, as it must have looked when it was new. There was a look of exultation on Flindaran’s face as his hands moved surely over the strings. A detached part of Emereck’s mind noted that Flindaran had not made a single mistake in his playing, though he could hardly be described as even a passable harpist with an ordinary instrument. Flindaran looked up and saw him, but his hands never paused.
In three strides Emereck was across the room. He jerked the Harp from Flindaran’s hands. The music ceased, leaving only a faint echo. He set the Harp carefully on a small table behind him, then turned back to face Flindaran. “You fool!” he said angrily. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
As Shalarn began the chant, the four candles lit simultaneously with slender ribbons of fire that were almost as long as the candles themselves. Even as their light flared through the chamber, she felt the faraway tugging cease. Grimly, she continued the spell, forcing herself to ignore the cold certainty of failure that was growing in her mind.
She finished the spell without hope; the silver chain had never even trembled in her hand. As she ended the chant, the candles winked out. She lifted the chain and sphere away from the map, then crossed to a chair and sank into it. She sat motionless for several moments, recovering from the exhaustion of performing sorcery hastily and without proper preparation.
And for what? She could try again later to trace the touch of magic that had awakened her, but it would be a long and tedious process. Even if she succeeded, she would be only one of those seeking for its source; she could not be the only wizard awakened by that pull. She had lost whatever advantage she might have gained by quick action. She slapped a hand against the arm of the chair in frustration.
Well, it was past mending now. She rose and went back to the chest. More by touch than sight, she found a small lamp and lit it. She replaced the gold sphere carefully in its velvet bag, then turned back to the table to put away the map and the candles. She froze, and then gave a low cry of triumph.
The crushed herbs no longer made a small pile above the mark that indicated the castle in which she stood. They had spread into a thin line that led southeast and ended in a second, smaller pile. Shalarn moved forward to study it more closely, and her lips parted in a smile. She had not realized that it was so close. Tomorrow she would make her excuses to Lanyk and be on her way to Minathlan.
The figure in the forest stood listening for a long time. Finally, he relaxed and shook his head. Drops of water flew, striking nearby leaves and branches and knocking still more droplets free. He threw a long, considering look northward. Absently, he fingered a small gold ring that bore the image of a tree with three moons tangled in its branches. At last he turned and started back the way he had come, moving swiftly now as well as silently.
Kensal knew he was weakening rapidly, but he clung stubbornly to his post. Finally, the music stopped. He stayed where he was. At last Ryl’s shaking stopped too. He let his hands fall to his side as she opened her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome,” Kensal said. His voice sounded harsh and rusty, as though he had not used it for a long time. He tried again. “Next time, you’d better find someone younger for that. I almost feel my age.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Ryl’s face. “I will… try to remember. Old man.”
He licked his lips. “What happened?”
“Someone played the Harp. I was not prepared for such a happening.”
“Prepared?”
“I will explain later. Now I must rest.”
“You’re all right?”
“Mostly.” Ryl’s voice began to fade. “I need rest now, that is all. Do not worry. I only need to… rest.”
With the last word, Ryl closed her eyes. Kensal looked at her for a long time. Finally, he tried to rise. He almost fell; he had not realized how weakened he was. He tried again, pulling himself up on the arms of the chair, and made it. Carefully, he made his way back to his chair and collapsed into it.
A long time later he raised his head. Ryl lay sprawled awkwardly in the chair where he had left her. Except for the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest, she looked dead. He sighed and stood up. This time his legs held him. He crossed the room and placed his arms under her, testing his strength constantly to be certain it would last. He decided it would. He picked her up and staggered to the bed. When Ryl was arranged in a more comfortable-looking position, he pulled a chair over to the bedside and settled down to wait.
A tall shadow, cloaked and hooded, stood frowning in Lanyk’s tower. So that was what they wanted! No wonder the Dark Ones had been reluctant to explain fully. And no wonder they had been so free with information and… other things. They needed hands to bring it to them. Well, if they wanted the thing that had made that music, they would have to find someone else to run their errand. Someone foolish enough to give away such power.
The shadow’s eyes narrowed. Time enough for such things later, when the music-maker was safe in Syaskor. First it must be located, and men sent after it. Warding spells must be cast to confuse any other wizards and magicians who might have noticed. And there was Shalarn—she might well have heard the music too, and felt its power. She must be delayed. That Captain of hers would be useful there. The hooded shadow smiled very, very slightly and slid away to plan.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Flindaran jumped to his feet facing Emereck. His face was hard. “Move aside, Emereck.”
“No. You have no right—”
“My brother’s dying! Move aside, or I’ll throw you.”
“No!”
Flindaran’s lips tightened, and he reached for Emereck. Then, behind him, a raspy voice said, “What’s all the shouting?”
“Oraven!” Flindaran whirled and knelt beside the bed.
“I might have known it would be you,” Oraven said with tired good humor. “Can’t you do anything without making noise?”
“Oraven, you—” Flindaran stopped and looked anxiously across at the healer.
“Quite remarkable,” the little man said placidly in answer to the unspoken question. “He’ll need rest, of course, but I believe the crisis is over.” He looked speculatively in Emereck’s direction. “Interesting instrument you have there.”
“Not at all,” Emereck said coldly.
“I see. Pity.” The healer shrugged.
“Oraven’s really all right?” Talerith said breathlessly.
“Yes, of course I am,” Oraven said. “Except…”
“Except what?” Flindaran demanded instantly.
Oraven grinned broadly. “Except that I feel like sleeping for a week. Stop fussing over me, Flindaran!”
“Flindaran, you did it!” Talerith cried. “Oh, you’re wonderful!”
Behind her, Gendron was eyeing his brother with an expression of surprised respect. Under other circumstances, Emereck would have found it amusing. Flindaran flushed very slightly and glanced at Emereck, but he did not speak.
“Quite so. But Lord Oraven should sleep now,” the healer said firmly.
“Not yet,” Oraven objected. He smothered a yawn. “I’ve got to talk to Father first.”
“Then by all means do so,” said the Duke from the doorway.
Like dolls on strings each head turned toward the door. “Father!” Talerith exclaimed.
The Duke surveyed the room. “There appear to be a remarkable number of people present,” he commented. “Since Oraven is apparently both out of danger and greatly in need of rest—”
“Oh, Father, it was wonderful!” Talerith said with a gushing enthusiasm that set Emereck’s teeth on edge. “Flindaran did it all; he found that Harp on his way home, and—”
Sweet demons, Emereck thought as Talerith chattered on, Flindaran must have told her everything! His anger surged, but he knew he could not confront Flindaran now in the presence of the Duke and so many others. He fought it down.
“I am quite aware of what Flindaran has done, my dear,” Lord Dindran said. His eyes flickered to his son. “More so, perhaps, than he appears to be.”
“Sir?” said Flindaran.
“I doubt that there is anyone in the city who did not hear your… er… performance.”
“The whole city?” Flindaran repeated numbly.
“The instrument would appear to carry well.”
“I’m sorry. But I had to do it! Oraven—”
The Duke held up a hand. “Spare me your justifications, I beg you. I have neither time nor inclination to listen.”
“Father, you’re not being fair!” Talerith objected angrily. “Flindaran saved Oraven’s life!”
Lord Dindran looked at her. Talerith flushed. “I think it is time for all of you to go,” the Duke said, and waited.
Gendron bowed immediately and went to the door. Talerith moved slowly after him. Emereck turned and picked up the Harp; when he turned back Talerith was glaring at him from the open doorway.
“That’s Flindaran’s harp!” she said angrily.
“Talerith—” Flindaran said rising hastily.
“Well, it is! He’s just a common minstrel. He can’t take it. You can’t let him!”
Flindaran shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think you understand, Talerith. Emereck and I found the Harp together.”
“You saved Oraven with it,” Talerith said stubbornly. “It’s yours. He wouldn’t have done anything for Oraven if he’d had it.”
“No doubt the two of you find this conversation extremely edifying,” the Duke said. “I, however, do not. You will oblige me by continuing it elsewhere.”
“But, Father, you can’t—”
“Did I ask for your opinion, my dear?” the Duke said sweetly. “I do not recall it.”
Talerith turned bright red. “I beg your pardon, Father.”
“Very good. No doubt you will also beg your brother’s pardon, since it is his rest you are delaying.”
“I’m sorry, Oraven,” Talerith said. She threw her father a look of mingled fear and rebelliousness, and swept out of the room.
Flindaran started to follow, then hesitated. “Sir, if I may explain—”
“In the morning. And I shall be less interested in your explanations than in what you propose to do now that the Harp is no longer a secret.”
“Of course, sir.” Flindaran bowed and left. Emereck followed his example. The Duke did not comment; he did not appear to notice Emereck at all. As the door closed behind him, Emereck heard the Duke say, “Now, Oraven, I am entirely at your service.”
Flindaran was waiting in the corridor. Emereck walked past him without speaking, but Flindaran turned and fell into step beside him. Emereck glanced at him and shifted the Harp of Imach Thyssel to his opposite arm.
Flindaran flushed. “Emereck… I’m sorry.”
“Sorry!” Emereck did not try to keep the bitterness from his voice. “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! No real harm’s been done.”
“No harm! Everyone in the city knows about the Harp now.”
“You’re overdramatizing.”
Emereck stopped and glared. “I heard the music myself, and I was all the way out in the courtyard. And I’m not the only one; everyone in the castle heard it as well.”
“People heard music, so what? If you’d quit shouting about it, no one will know where it came from.”
“How do you expect to keep it secret? Do you plan to lock up the guard and the healer and your sister?”
“Oh demons, Emereck, what’s so important about keeping it secret anyway?”
“How am I going to get it back to Ciaron quietly if everyone knows what and where it is? I had a chance when you and the Duke were the only ones who knew about it, but now…”
“You’re exaggerating!”
“I suppose you think no one else would want it?” Emereck said with biting sarcasm.
“Leave it here, then.”
“After what you’ve done? You had no right to take the Harp!”
“I had to! I don’t expect you to understand—”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Emereck said bitterly. “I’m just a ‘common minstrel.’ ”
“I didn’t mean that, and you know it! You don’t have any brothers. How could you understand?”
“Why don’t you try understanding? Or didn’t it occur to you to ask what I thought?”
“Oraven was dying! You weren’t there, and I didn’t have time to find you.”
“You didn’t even try.”
“I tell you, there was no time! What was I supposed to do, apologize to Oraven’s corpse because I went looking for you instead of helping him? I thought you’d be willing to listen.”
“You didn’t think,” Emereck shouted. “You never think! You just go rushing into things without considering anything but what you want. Flindaran, the great hero!”
Flindaran’s face was white with anger. “At least I do things instead of just thinking about them! Oraven would be dead now if I’d stopped to listen to you.”
“And what about the price? Did you think of that when you used the Harp?”
“I don’t believe there’s any ‘price’ for playing it!”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Flindaran glanced back down the corridor in the direction of Oraven’s room. He hesitated, and his eyes turned to the harp Emereck held. His face took on a faraway expression. “It was worth it.”
“Worth it!” Emereck spat the words.
“Yes, worth it! You’ll never know that, because you’ll never dare to play it yours
elf. You’re afraid of the Harp because you’re afraid of yourself. I may have made mistakes, but at least I had the courage to try!”
“You’d have done better to have the courage not to try!”
“Don’t lecture me! That harp’s as much mine as it is yours. We both found it.”
“The Harp of Imach Thyssel belongs to the Minstrel’s Guild!”
“Take it, then! Take it, and much good may it do you!” Flindaran spun on his heel and left.
Emereck stood looking after him. Slowly his anger drained away, leaving only a numb resentment and a tingling sensation where his right arm rested on the Harp. Hastily, he shifted the instrument to his other arm and began walking toward his own rooms.
Emereck slept very poorly during the remainder of the night, and again his dreams were nightmares of torture. He awoke determined to leave Minathlan as soon as possible. He spent nearly an hour composing a suitably polite message to the Duke, requesting an interview. To his surprise, it was granted at once, and at mid-morning he found himself standing in the Duke’s study once more.
“I give you good morning, my lord,” Emereck said.
“And I you,” Lord Dindran replied politely, and waited.
“And Lord Oraven? How does he do?”
“Considerably better than might have been expected under… other circumstances.” The Duke studied Emereck for a moment. “Shall we dispense with this pretense? You asked to see me.”
“My lord, I—I wish to leave Minathlan. At once. I came to take my leave of you.”
“I see.” The Duke leaned back in his chair. “I rather thought it might be that.”
“Then you have no objection?”
“I have never had any objection to your leaving whenever you wish. The Harp of Imach Thyssel is another matter entirely.”
Emereck stiffened. “The Harp belongs in a Guildhall, and the sooner it gets there, the better for us all!”
“Your faith in your Guild Masters is touching,” Lord Dindran commented dryly.
“You disagree?”
“Not at all. The Harp of Imach Thyssel undoubtedly belongs in a Minstrel’s Guildhall—if, indeed, it can be said to belong anywhere. Which of the Guildhalls will have the dubious honor of watching over it is for them to decide.”
[Lyra 03] - The Harp of Imach Thyssel Page 10