The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden
Page 6
“Is it so bad?” Benoit’s grey eyes searched Arimond’s, and Arimond hesitated. Benoit had hoped to marry Arimelle, had even spoken to Fallona, and had never made any secret of his intentions to Arimond. Arimond, who loved Benoit like a brother, had welcomed the thought of Benoit married to Melly. The two families, which had lived peacefully for generations side by side with Juilene’s, would continue to do so.
Finally Arimond nodded, a brief, short nod, and Benoit lowered his eyes and turned away for a moment.
“We’ve all been talking, Arimond.” An older man of more than thirty leaned closer. Edourd was a demi-thane from a nearby village; his keep was a two hours’ ride or more, and Arimond was surprised to see him. “I just happened to be riding home when I heard the news. Something must be done.”
“This isn’t the first time Lindos’s men have overstepped themselves,” put in another.
“Nor Lindos, himself,” added a third. “He’s taken over a fifth of my domain, little by little, and my case is clogged in the King’s courts, while every day, Lindos takes more and more. I’ll have no domain left at all by the time the King makes a ruling.”
“I say the thurges are festering pimples on the land,” put in yet another. “Don’t hush me—I’ll have my say. They’re like bloodsucking vines, sucking the meat out of all of us. What do we need them for anyway?”
Arimond nodded slowly, listening to the bitter litany of continuing complaints. Lindos grew stronger each year, and each year he constantly sought ways to increase his power.
“The tenth millennium approaches,” said Eduord, beneath the other voices. “Some say there will be great change—”
“And others that it’s all superstition and nothing will change at all,” interrupted Benoit. “Well, I say it’s time to take matters into our own hands. The King can’t—or won’t—act, the Over-Thurges are senile old men. Lindos isn’t the only thurge who seeks power. It’s in their nature to take as much as they can. And who is there to stop them, if not us? We can’t let this continue—we have to act, and act now.”
Arimond nodded. There was nothing in what Benoit said he didn’t agree with. Arimond glanced around. It seemed that everyone glanced their way, even the men on the other side of the room who gathered by the roaring hearth. Everyone here knew who he was, and everyone here knew what had happened to Arimelle. But could he trust everyone here not to go to Lindos? His eyes met Benoit’s and the two exchanged a long look. It might be better to continue this conversation in a place without so many ears.
The door opened with a cold gust of wind, and shut with a loud bang behind a slender woman dressed in a dark cloak. She shrugged her hood off her head and tugged at the straps that held a small pack strapped across her chest. She carried a small lute in one hand. Those nearest the door looked up at her expectantly, and the barkeep paused in wiping the clay tankards with a grimy rag. “Well?” the huge man barked.
“I say the songs the goddess sends,” responded the woman. Her voice was deeper and richer than Arimond would have expected from so slight a woman, and Arimond was reminded of Juilene, whose voice had a similar musical quality. Arimond noticed the dark shadows beneath the woman’s eyes, and the paleness of her thin cheeks, as well as the inadequacy of her cloak against the cold autumn wind. It was as well, he thought, that Juilene would never know the reality of the hardships and the deprivation of such a life.
“There are ears to hear in plenty,” said the barkeep. “Give her a place by the fire, lads.”
With only a little good-natured grumbling, a space was cleared beside the hearth, and the songsayer sank down on the warm stones, holding her hands over the flames. Her dress was not so ragged as some, observed Arimond, but there was about her the stark cast of starvation. Juilene would play at being a songsayer, and then, he would see that nothing ever happened to her, nothing at all.
A plaintive melody rose from the songsayer’s lute, above the hum of conversation, and Arimond saw many of the men turn in the woman’s direction, speculative, measuring looks on their faces. No, he thought, it was truly as well Juilene would never be forced to sell either her music or herself for a few bites to eat.
He touched Benoit’s arm. “Let’s speak more of this tomorrow, friend. I told my mother I wouldn’t be late.”
“Tomorrow, then,” said Benoit. “Here?”
“No. Come to Ravenwood. I have a few things in mind, but I think it best if we discuss our plans in privacy. Jiroud of Sarrasin will stand by us, but he’s loath to move. You know how the older thanes are. But I’ve no wish to have even the slightest breath of suspicion reach Lindos. There’re too many ears here—too many who might think it more profitable to go elsewhere—if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Benoit said, casting a look over the entire room. “I’ll come. You know you can count on us.”
Chapter Three
The Eyes of Dramue burned a steady blue in the black night sky when Juilene slipped out of the gate by the kitchen gardens. In the shadow of the orchard outside the walls, Arimond stood waiting, a faceless shadow wrapped in a hooded cloak. The night was cold and the stars burned in the sky and the night birds sang only sporadically. A cold breeze rustled through the last few leaves clinging to the branches of the fruit trees. Winter would not be long in coming this year.
“Any trouble?” he murmured as he bent to press a swift kiss upon her cheek.
She shook her head as she turned to meet his mouth with hers. She heard the swift intake of his breath as their mouths met. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.
“By the goddess, Juilene,” he whispered. “This night, my blood runs hot… it’s good we have an errand, or I vow you’d be mine before the morning—” he broke off. Beneath the thick wool of his cloak, she could feel the stiff leather breastplate he wore, and she was reminded that this was no lovers’ tryst.
“It was easy,” she said, more to cover her discomposure than anything else. “Especially with Neri helping—no one even noticed. And look—look at what she gave me—” Juilene tried to pull off her glove hastily.
“Not now.” He cut her off with a gesture. “Come. The horses are over here.” He led her through the stand of fruit trees. Damp wind whined between the trees, and the twigs tangled in her hair. She clutched her harp, which she had wrapped in an oiled skin to protect it from the weather, to her chest, as he lifted her onto the horse’s back.
The trees dipped low in the whining wind, and the black branches reminded her of the grasping fingers of the skeletons carved over the family tomb. With an effort, she pushed that thought from her mind. Now was not the time she wanted to think about death.
She gripped the reins, feeling the unfamiliar weight of Neri’s gift on her finger. She was vaguely disappointed that Arimond had dismissed her so abruptly, for the ring Neri had given her that evening was not so much a gift but a birthright from her mother. She let her thumb caress the thin band on her ring finger while Arimond tied the harp securely in place and whispered another prayer. “Be with us now, Dramue,” she pleaded.
Arimond swung up onto his own mount and flapped the reins gently. They rode out of the orchard and onto the dark road that led to the thurge’s keep.
Lights shone from every house they passed, and the road was crowded with Festival-goers. The first ceremonies of the Festival were at dawn tomorrow, and many of the common folk came the night before, to set up a campsite from which they could see as much as possible of the yearly ceremonies. They passed dark shapes clustered around flickering fires by the roadside. Without fail, music filtered through the night, some songs low and mournful, others, fast and cheery. In the light of the flames, Juilene caught glimpses of dancers with skirts hiked around their knees, swirling to the tunes the songsayers played upon their instruments. For the first time she could remember, Festival time didn’t seem like a time to be festive.
As they reached the approach to the thurge’s keep, Arimond slowed his h
orse and dropped back to her side. “I’ve talked this over with Benoit and a few of the other younger thanes. They will meet us just over the last rise in the road. Here’s our plan: you and I will go into the keep, while they wait outside. After you play awhile, you’ll leave, and I’ll stay behind. When they see you come out, that will be the signal for them to attack the keep. Don’t wait for me, or anyone else. Get home as fast as you can—I want you out of danger as soon as possible.”
In the dim light, she stared up at him. “What if you are recognized?” The other possibilities, that Arimond might not be the non-born knight, were too terrible to even shape into words.
“I’ll keep my head down. And when you see me in the light, you’ll see I’m not dressed as a young thane. But I am not about to let you go in there alone.”
“But what if the captain of his guards or some of his soldiers recognize you? What if he knows you himself? There’s no way any of them will know me, but you’re a different matter.”
He stared at her for a long moment. The horses’ hooves beat a steady tattoo on the road, and a gust of wind whistled and tugged at her cloak. She shivered. “I can’t let you go in there alone, Juilene. I’ve seen how men look at songsayers, especially young ones, pretty ones. I’d rather risk discovery than risk you being in danger—any kind of danger. I wish there were some other way we could get into the keep without involving you. But right now this is the best way, and I’m not sending you in alone.”
She knew further arguing was useless. Arimond had made up his mind; there was nothing she could say to sway him. She urged her horse on, and they rode in silence the rest of the distance. When they reached a small copse of trees just beyond the thurge’s gatehouse, Arimond pulled his horse to a halt once more, and swung out of the saddle. He held up his arms and she slid off the saddle. For a long moment, he held her close again, his cheek pressed against the top of her hood. “You’ll see, Jewels,” he whispered. “Everything will be fine, I promise.”
She lifted her head. In the starlight, only the ghostly outline of his face was visible. She tried to suppress a shudder. Goddess, why must everything make me think of death? She shook her head to clear such thoughts away. “Look,” she said, pulling off her glove, her voice a little shrill, “see what Neri gave me tonight? It belonged to my mother.” She held up her hand. A dark, dull band of stone encircled her ring finger. “It’s the sapphire ring—do you remember it? The one that warns whenever danger is about—”
“That’s nice, dear.” He pressed another kiss on the top of her head. “And I have something for you, too.” He fumbled inside the neckline of his tunic and withdrew an oddly shaped pendant on a long leather string. “Here”—he placed it over her head—“put this under your clothes.”
She fingered the thing. Whatever it was gave off a vaguely peppery scent. She felt something cold and hard, like a stone, and something that could only be a feather. “What is this thing?”
“Branward gave it to me. It’s a charm, a protection against magic. It should help protect us from any spell Lindos might try to use. Make sure it’s under your clothes.”
While Juilene tugged and arranged her clothing so the charm was covered, Arimond gave a long, low whistle followed by three short ones. Juilene frowned as she patted her neckline into place. She was as important a part to this scheme as any of the others and Arimond was treating her like a child. She pulled her glove back on, hoping that the ring didn’t manifest its legendary power at all. She held her cloak tighter around her shoulders as dark forms carrying shuttered lanterns emerged from around the trunks of the trees. As they drew closer, she saw the colors of many of the neighboring houses of thanes, and that nearly all the houses in the entire district were represented by at least one or two members. One or two of the younger members, she realized as the lantern light illuminated their identities. They bowed and murmured greetings in her direction, and then looked to Arimond in silence.
A bright shock of red hair flashed in the dim light, and Benoit bowed low before her. “Lady Juilene of Sarrasin,” he said, “I’m sorry to see you in such dangerous circumstances.”
“Dangerous but necessary,” said Arimond. “Is everything in order?”
“Everything. We but await your signal.”
“Good. Wait here. When Juilene returns, you’ll know what to do.”
“As you will it, my thane, I obey.” Benoit grinned, and Arimond clasped his arm.
“Then come, let’s go.” Arimond motioned to Juilene. She clutched her harp in its oiled wrappings. Her heart pounded slowly in her chest. Surely Lindos would hear it over her music.
She heard soft words of encouragement, murmured wishes of good fortune as they started up the road. Her hands shook so much she hoped she would be able to play the harp. She swallowed hard and forced a smile at Benoit. “Yes,” she said, surprised at how strong her voice sounded. “I’ll meet you here—afterward.”
Arimond wrapped an arm around her shoulders, caressing her, as he drew her close to him. She felt the swell of the muscles beneath his clothes, and momentarily, she felt a strong urge to refuse to continue. What madness was this, she wondered, what if they failed?
The danger to her was negligible—even if she were recognized, what was the worst that was likely to occur? She could be dragged back to her father’s keep, protesting it was all a girlish prank. Oh, she would be punished, but no real damage was likely to occur. But what if Arimond was wrong?
Goddess guide us, she prayed silently. She held her cloak close against her throat as a sudden gust of wind blew harder, whipping her skirts around her legs.
“Here.” He took the harp from her, and beneath its protective wrap the harp gave a sudden thrum. Startled, he looked at her with the first vestige of fear.
“It’s all right,” she said. “You just made the strings vibrate.”
She gripped his arm more firmly and gathered her skirts to keep them from flying so wildly in the wind. “Come,” she said. “Let’s go.” She knew the others watched as they started off down the road. “Arimond,” she began, when they were well out of earshot, and not yet in sight of the walls of the keep, “how much do you know about the Power? About magic?”
He shot a quick glance at her. “Why do you ask?”
“Because we, you and I and all your friends, are about to go marching into the keep of one of the most powerful master-thurges in Sylyria, according to all the talk.”
“We have several advantages,” said Arimond slowly, “for a thurge needs time to prepare his spell. He can’t act in the moment—you know that. They’re vulnerable to surprise—and we intend to exploit that. And the kinds of spells he can perform—that’s limited, too, by the time of day, the position of the sun and the moon, the conjunctions of the stars, the tides, even the direction of the winds. Believe me, it’s not his magic we have to fear—it’s his men at arms who pose the gravest threat. And getting in with you will give me a chance to assess just how well prepared they are.”
Juilene sighed. Arimond’s words made sense, but why then was she plagued by such a deep sense of foreboding? Perhaps it was only her lack of experience, combined with Lindos’s reputation. She shifted her harp in her arms as the road turned sharply to the left.
The walls of Lindos’s keep rose before them in the night, the walls limned with thurge-light, which glowed a weird yellowish green against the black sky. Juilene gripped Arimond’s arm harder. Her mouth was dry and her hands shook. Arimond murmured something encouraging and drew her on. At the gates, they paused. Guards loitered in the gateway, although the gates themselves were flung open wide. Just inside, she could see into the open courtyard of the keep, and men and women gathered around bonfires, laughing and joking. At Festival, surely even Lindos relaxed, she thought.
She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She clutched her harp closer and this time it gave an angry twang as though it resented the rough handling. Goddess, help me, she whispered, and started forward.
“I say the songs the goddess sends,” she whispered, clinging to the ritual phrase as though it were a protective charm.
“Eh, what?” There was a loud chorus of laughter behind her as a voice rose, shaky and unsure, more a wail than a song in the night.
I sound better than that, Juilene thought, and this time she spoke up. “I say the songs the goddess sends.”
“Only if you can say them better than that one in there.” Another jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “His Transcendence sent that one out to us—not good enough for the hall, he says.”
“Maybe we should let her sing for us, Teck,” the first said.
Juilene summoned every ounce of courage she possessed. “I must sing for the master of this keep, and then, should the goddess grant, I will sing for you as well.” She tried to speak with the same simple dignity she had heard the songsayers use who came to sing before her father.
“And what about this one?” The second soldier frowned at Arimond. “You sing, too?”
“He’s—he’s my brother,” Juilene stammered. “He must stay with me.”
“Why?” asked the first, trying to peer under the heavy hood Arimond wore low over his face.
“The—the goddess has his wits.” Juilene’s jaw was stiff with tension. “We go to the temple tomorrow to beg them back.”
“Let them in, you fool.” A third leaned over the first’s shoulder. “It’s Festival. You know how he feels about this sort.”
“Don’t we all,” the second leered.
Juilene swallowed once more, and hoped they wouldn’t notice how the hand that held her cloak shook, nor how white-knuckled was the hand that held the harp. The torches turned her cheeks to orange, and the guards nudged each other and snickered and nodded as she passed. Her face burned. These were the men who had used Melly so shamefully. Thank the goddess they honored the Festival, if nothing else.