Juilene rose slowly and walked to the old woman. She saw the deep lines that marked her face, the thinness of the woman’s frame, the bluish pallor around her mouth. The old woman’s breathing was loud and labored. Juilene bent down. The old woman’s head fell back and their eyes met. With surprising strength and swiftness, the old woman grasped her wrist. “You’ve come far, and learned much, daughter. The ending shall be worth the journey.” Her voice was a harsh singsong. “The only way out of the fire is through it. Some burn to ash, some melt away, but the toughest are strengthened. Which you will be is your choice.”
As Juilene stared at the old woman in amazement, the light died from her eyes, and her lids fluttered closed. Her hand dropped to her side and with a little sigh, she went limp. Juilene gasped. As gently as she could, she reached around the woman, unstrapping the harp from her back. What in the name of the goddess had the old woman been talking about? It had sounded like madness. Poor old woman, she thought. She lifted the wrapped harp and slung it over her shoulder. So this was how a songsayer died, she thought, alone, unmourned.
She straightened and stared down at the limp corpse. She bowed her head. She could do nothing for the old woman, but take the road to Eld. She leaned down and touched the old woman’s wrinkled cheek. “Rest well, sister. Sleep long.”
Juilene climbed back to the road, the weeds lashing at her face, the sun falling heavily as a weight across her shoulders. She drew a deep breath. Pray the goddess there was at least an inn on the road to Eld.
The shadows were long and the sun was red when Juilene reached the first inn on the road to Eld. Not that one road or another made any real difference. Eld lay high in the mountains. Only a fool would go there in the middle of winter. Better to stay in the lowlands of Khardroon at least until spring made the heat intolerable. She could search for Eld then. But one road was as good as another, and at least the inn looked prosperous. The inn yard was crowded. A merchant train newly arrived, she thought, for many of the men wore the white robes and elaborate headdresses of those who plied trade between the city-states, the heavy wagons filled with barrels and boxes and long fabric-wrapped bundles. Grooms scurried to unhitch the huge horses from the wagons, and wiry stablehands swarmed through the wagons, maneuvering them into some semblance of order. She brushed a hand across her face, suddenly conscious of her shabby appearance, and hoped the landlord would let her stay.
She sidled across the courtyard, narrowly escaping being bumped and jostled. She stepped into the common room, where a young man was setting out glasses on the bar, and three women dressed in drab scurried in and out of the kitchens. She paused uncertainly in the doorway. He looked up. “I say the songs the goddess sends,” she said before he could speak.
He looked her up and down, and his mouth twisted. For a long moment, she thought he would send her away. And then he called, without turning, “Elizondo! Elizondo, come here.”
There was a heavy pounding on the steps behind the bar, and the glasses shook. An enormous man, blackly bearded, emerged from the low doorway, his bulk covered by an elaborately embroidered robe. “Now what?” His speech was so thickly accented Juilene understood his tone better than his words.
The younger man behind the bar gestured in Juilene’s direction. “A ‘sayer.”
Elizondo threw up his hands. “Thanks to the goddess.” He rushed around the bar, his robes billowing, and grasped Juilene by the shoulders. He ran his eyes up and down her body. “A songsayer? Truly? You speak the truth?”
Astonished by both his girth and the warmth of his reception, Juilene could only nod.
He narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowed. “You’re a bit thin—I can see you’ve been on the road a long time, but I suppose you’ll do. You, Allia—a bath for our songsayer—” He snapped his fingers impatiently as the girl appeared dazed. “Now!” He turned back to Juilene. “This day of all days, our ’sayer lies abed—” He leaned down closer and Juilene was blasted by his spiced breath. “A fever! And the physician says there is naught to do but let her lie. Bah—these ’sayers can be so temperamental—but you, now you are here, and you will play and sing and entertain us all tonight, no?”
Once again, Juilene could only nod. He beamed and clapped his hands. At once, hands took the harp from her back, reached for her bundle.
“Go with Allia—she’ll show you where you can refresh yourself—get her something to drink, someone—some of that hot stuff Drussa drinks—that’s right—”
Allia touched Juilene’s arm shyly. “Sister, will you come?”
Juilene, feeling a little dazed, allowed herself to be led away from the flurry, Elizondo still bellowing in a swirl of brilliant colors. “What’s all the fuss for?” she managed to ask in the corridor.
Allia looked over her shoulder and shook her head. “Master’s all a dither. Lord Diago is coming tonight. He’s on his way back to his castle, and he’d got his lady with him. And so Master’s ordered the best, the finest for dinner, and wouldn’t you know it, our songsayer falls ill and says she can’t sing.” The girl looked stricken for a moment, and then leaned closer to whisper in Juilene’s ear. “He’s called in a demi-thurge, who assures us all it’s not the Fever, but I say you can’t be sure, and Master ought to call the physician. But Master doesn’t listen to me, or to any of us, and so…” She let her voice trail off and shook her head, looking aggrieved.
Juilene bit her lip. “So no one knows what’s wrong with her?”
Allia shrugged. “Who’s to say we won’t all be dead by dawn?”
No wonder she hadn’t been turned away, Juilene thought. “And no one else knows of this, I suppose?”
“No! And he doesn’t want anyone to know, either. Master has the finest inn in all of Khardroon—he would never want word that there might be Fever in his house to get out.”
“It isn’t Fever, you silly knock-worm.” An older woman, grey hair sticking out from under a white linen coif, stood in an open doorway, her face pink, hands on her ample hips. “Stop scaring this poor girl—she looks half worn out already. Master has guests to entertain, and it will be your fault if this ’sayer can’t entertain them any more than Lucca can.” She stood aside, motioning to Juilene. “Come in, sister. Here’s a hot bath for you, and a cup of honeyed wine. Is there anything else you require?”
Juilene shook her head. “N-no. Thank you.” She set her harp and her pack down beside the door. The room was small, but spotlessly clean, its only furnishings a huge wooden tub, steaming with herbs, and two low benches against the walls. Towels were piled on one of the benches, and on the other, a tray containing a clay goblet steamed with sweet-scented herbs.
The older woman was looking at her critically. “You’ve been on the road a long time, sister?”
Juilene nodded, and glanced down at her gown. It was muddy at the hem and stained in many places. The fabric itself showed evidence of hard wear. It was the only dress she owned, since she had never earned enough to buy another. During performances, she had worn a gown that belonged to the troupe, but that had stayed in a chest with the other costumes.
“Well, it’s the way of the goddess, I suppose.” The woman shrugged. “Though why anyone would choose such a life is beyond me. Allia, take her dress to the kitchens—there’s time to make it presentable at least. Lucca is taller than you and broader; I’m afraid nothing of hers would fit you, anyway. Now out of that gown and into the bath with you—there’s time, but not much.”
Juilene unlaced her gown and stepped out of it, feeling awkward and inexplicably ashamed. What would the woman say if she knew this life hadn’t exactly been Juilene’s choice, either? She handed the garment to Allia, who disappeared without another word. The older woman nodded in satisfaction. “Wrap yourself in towels; I’ll have one of the maidservants bring you your dress. Take as much time as you wish in the tub.”
Juilene flushed. It would be the first bath she’d had since coming to Khardroon. The woman turned to go, but Juilene managed to blur
t out: “Excuse me—but what is wrong with the songsayer?”
The older woman turned and gave Juilene a measuring look. “She’s afraid of Lord Diago.”
“But—but he’s a great lord, is he not?”
“And a man with most peculiar tastes.” With another pointed look, the older woman closed the door behind herself.
The common room was crowded, and the air was smoky when Juilene made her way across the room to a place beside the hearth. A low fire burned in the polished grate, but the windows were open to catch the cool breeze. She took a seat and paused for a moment, looking over the men who clustered at the bar and in smaller groups at the tables arranged throughout the large room. The smell of roasting meat and baking bread permeated the room, and though Juilene’s mouth watered, she didn’t dare accept any offer of food. She might be dangerously close to the edge of charity, for the bath and the wine, and the light biscuits that Allia had brought her with her dress. The evening was still young; there was time to earn her dinner and perhaps even a place to sleep tonight. She had learned that although the days were warm in Khardroon, the nighttime temperatures could still dip low enough to make the outdoors uncomfortable.
With a little sigh, she ran her fingers over the strings of the old woman’s harp, and the instrument rippled pleasantly, like the greeting of an old friend. She leaned down and examined it more closely. It was smaller than her own harp had been, and clearly of great age. The wooden frame was dull, and scratches and gouges bore testimony to a long life upon the road. There had once been a pattern carved into the wood, but over the years, it had been largely erased. Now the scratches and the gouges overlaid their own pattern upon the wood. But it was her only real possession now, her only means to earn her bread. Perhaps not quite the only means, she thought, remembering the coin Eral had pressed into her hand the night he had taken her virginity, but the only respectable means, the only way that did not lead to servitude and ultimate degradation. Lindos had tried to ensure that, she thought.
A few of the men were glancing at her now, at her hands as they moved over the strings, at her hair. One or two of the bolder ones ran up and down her body with their eyes, and she felt herself flushing. She lowered her head to the harp and closed her eyes. Her fingers plucked at the strings, easily as water rushing over rocks. She felt as if the harp played of itself; that her fingers were the instrument’s, not the other way around. She hugged the harp closer, and the sounds vibrated through her body. It was like a living thing, responding to her touch, and she felt as if she wove the music from the air, from some hidden place, to grace the crowded inn. The last notes rippled and faded away, and she opened her eyes.
The inn was packed. A man and a woman, more richly clothed than all the rest, stood in the very center of the semicircle surrounding her. The woman’s smile was tinged with sadness, and the man’s made Juilene cringe for some reason she could not name.
“You play like the goddess,” he said. His eyes were black and steady in his sunburnt face, and he gazed at her as if she were a morsel on a tray. She looked up into his eyes, and suppressed a little cry. His eyes reminded her of Lindos, for the pupils were as flat and as expressionless as a reptile’s.
Juilene shivered but kept her back straight, refusing to be cowed. She knew that she had just played better than she ever had before. Something had happened here, although she could not put it into words. “When the goddess speaks, the goddess sings,” she replied, trying to meet his eyes without fear.
He broke into loud laughter, and the cold gleam disappeared, but Juilene thought he only masked it. “That she does, little sister.” He turned away, clapping one of the other men on the back. “Elizondo—Elizondo—where are you, old pirate? Give us the best of your cellars.”
Juilene watched the men cluster, their faces eager as a dog’s at the hunt. This must be Lord Diago, and the lady must be his wife. She looked at the woman, who still stood a few paces from Juilene’s chair and smiled at her. “Goddess blessing, lady.”
“And to you, little sister.” Her accent was different from her husband’s. The woman smiled back. There were dark shadows under her eyes and her face was thin, her complexion, unlike most of the people of Khardroon, pale. Juilene realized that the lady had not been born in Khardroon—had likely come here upon her marriage. She looked at the woman more closely. Her hair was hidden by a linen coif, but that only added to her pallor. She looked as though she had been ill for a long time. She took a chair on the opposite side of the fire, and Juilene marked how slow her movements were. The woman could only be at most ten or twelve years her senior, but she moved like a woman more than twice that age. “Play on, if you will.”
Juilene glanced over at the bar, where Elizondo and his servants bustled back and forth, pouring wine, serving platters piled high with meats and cheeses and delicacies of every description. “Will you eat, my lady?”
The woman’s thin fingers plucked restlessly at her skirt “I—I have little appetite, my dear—” She was interrupted by a slim, dark-haired man who leaned over her chair and whispered in her ear. “Ah, very well, Cariad, if you insist. Fetch me something, anything.” She smiled up at him, and he glanced in Juilene’s direction.
Their eyes met, and something about him made Juilene hold his gaze for a moment. There was kindness in his look, and an impersonal fleeting interest, and for the first time in a long time, Juilene wanted more. But why, she wondered, as she dropped her eyes, a blush creeping up her cheeks. He turned away to do his lady’s bidding. She noticed that while he was slim, his shoulders were broad. He wore a short tunic and a white shirt. The sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing well-muscled forearms. His breeches and his tunic were the same dark blue the other men wore, and she realized he must be one of the lord’s knights. A slim dagger at his belt was the only weapon he wore, but the sheath was richly decorated. It was no house soldier’s weapon, but his boots, though polished to a high sheen, were well worn. He negotiated the crowd with a sure grace. His hair and eyes were dark, and his skin was nearly as dark as the other men’s but there was something different about the look of him that told her he was no more a native of Khardroon than either she or the lady.”
“I am Lona,” the lady said simply. “And Cariad—” The Lady nodded in his direction. “I do not know what I would do without him.”
Juilene nodded and bent her head over her harp once again.
“And you, little sister? Your name?”
“I—I—my name is Juilene.” Her hands shook a little on the strings and she willed herself to regain control. What on earth had this man done to so unsettle her? There was nothing of the look of Arimond about him—he was as dark as Arimond was fair, slim in build where Arimond had been broad. But all Arimond’s strength had not saved him, Juilene thought, and unbidden tears formed at the corners of her eyes.
“My lady.”
His voice made her open her eyes. He stood before Lady Lona, holding out a plate piled high with fruit and a few dainty tarts.
“Ah, you appeal to my sweet tooth.” Lona smiled up at him, and he smiled back, a sweeter smile than Juilene might have expected from one who had such an air of gravity about him.
She let her fingers find a tune on the harp, something low and coaxing, the sort of music she had heard her father’s musicians play at mealtimes. Cariad settled down in a chair just behind Lona, in the shadows, and Juilene sought to lose herself in the music once more. The rest of the men in the tavern were milling around, talking excitedly, and few paid her any attention at all. Elizondo still hustled from kitchen to bar and back, sweat rolling down his cheeks, his gaudy silken robes billowing in all directions.
“Can you give us a tale?” Lona leaned forward, her fingers hovering over her plate. Cariad rose and walked across the room to the bar. Juilene felt a vague disappointment.
She looked at Lona. “If you wish, my lady.” She glanced into the fire, where the flames licked gently at the slow-burning wood. There was kindness
in this woman’s eyes, more kindness than she had seen in many weeks, and an idea came to her. Why not, she thought, and she struck a minor chord on the harp.
“In a distant land, not so long ago, there lived a lady who loved a thane. They had known each other from childhood, and they had loved each other for nearly as long. It had been decided that they should be wed, and so the plans were made. They were both very happy. But there was in that same district, a thurge who was cruel and abused his power. The young thane decided that this thurge should not be allowed to continue in his evil ways, so he set out with his companions to stop the thurge, and put an end to the trouble which he was causing in the district. The lady had great foreboding in her heart, but because she loved her betrothed, she tried to help him. And one night, the thane came to the place where the lady slept. ‘It’s done,’ he said to her. ‘Come with me, and I will show you.’
“So the lady rose up and went with him, because she loved him with all her heart. And he led her to the place where the thurge lived. He took her to the thurge’s very bedchamber, and there, as he tried to force himself upon her, his disguise fell away, and the lady saw that it was truly the wicked thurge himself.”
Lona gasped a little, and Juilene glanced over her shoulder. Cariad sat in the shadows, his face hidden, but his whole aspect told her he was listening intently. “‘What have you done with my beloved?’ asked the lady,” Juilene continued. “‘Where is he?’
“The evil one laughed, and waved his hand, and the illusion on the room fell away. The lady saw her beloved hanging in chains upon the wall—dead. ‘There is your beloved,’ answered the thurge.
“‘Why have you brought me here?’ asked the lady.
“‘To show you what happens to those who would stand in my way,’ he answered. ‘And to offer you a choice.’
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 15