Juilene played a softer air. The hum of conversation resumed as the patrons went back to their drinking. She stole a peek in Cariad’s direction. He was talking with his companions and hadn’t seemed to notice either her playing or the applause. She allowed herself one soft sigh, and pressed her cheek against the scarred wood. She was behaving like a moonstruck girl, and surely, she was anything but that.
“I see you decided to stay.” Cariad startled her so that she plucked the wrong string and the mistake resonated to the rafters. More than one person turned to look at her.
Juilene flushed. “Yes. Yes, I did. Thank you, for what you did for me.”
“It was nothing, my lady. I was glad to do it. But I disturb your playing.” He bowed and turned to go.
“Wait,” she cried. She stopped in the middle of the song. He looked back, one eyebrow raised. “I—I just wanted to ask you—are you well?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Well, my lady? Do I look ill?”
“No—not at all.” What was it about this man that addled her thoughts and tied her tongue? “What I meant was—I can’t believe that nothing happened to you—you are quite well?”
He turned back to face her as a slow smile spread across his face. It lifted the somber corners of his eyes, and lit the golden flecks within the blue, and Juilene thought she had never seen a man smile so beautifully. “Yes, my lady. I am quite well, quite unaffected.” He spread his hands. “Do you see? No bumps or bruises, save those I earned myself.”
“Oh,” she said, flustered. “Good. I—I didn’t want anything to happen to you, because of me.”
“Rest easily, my lady.” The smile was gone as quickly as the sun on a cloudy day. “If any harm comes to me, it will be by far more dangerous hands than yours.” He bowed once more and walked away, his shoulders stiffened, as though braced against an unseen enemy.
Chapter Ten
The leaves of the calendar tree turned, a rapid succession of such peaceful days that Juilene scarcely believed her good fortune. The little money pouch she wore in her bosom grew heavy with coins, and when the pouch bulged to capacity, she went to Elizondo, who changed the brass and copper for silver. These she sewed into a secret lining she had made in her cloak. She scarcely needed a cloak, for she was never out at night, and the days were seldom cool enough to warrant more than a light shawl.
Cariad appeared every evening. He was always dressed in the now familiar colors of Thane Diago’s house, and he always sat with a small group of soldiers from the keep. She was able to recognize many of the patrons by sight now, if not by name, though Lem was happy to tell her as many tales as she would believe after the inn closed its doors for the night.
Cariad spoke to her every evening, an almost courtly exchange of pleasantries that only served to puzzle her further. There was so much about him she didn’t understand. His air of command, his gallantry, was more like the men of her father’s rank and even higher, than that of an ordinary knight in the service of a thane. Sometimes she had the unnerving feeling she was speaking to someone even more highly born than she. And she had the sense that in speaking to her, he found an equal, someone who knew and understood the things he knew and understood. But his speech was oddly accented, a few of his expressions and turns of phrase wholly foreign. He referred to his home as “my country”—something no one ever did. The city-states of the League were as firmly bonded together as any family. Did that mean that Cariad came from a country even farther away? From across the Outer Oceans? She had heard of travelers with strange customs arriving in the port cities, and she supposed that such a thing was not so uncommon, really. But if he was from across the sea, why did he seem so familiar with all things of the League?
She tried to remember if any of the merchants and travelers who had visited her father’s keep had sounded like Cariad, and she tried to draw him out as much as she dared. But each time the conversation turned to his background, he found an excuse to end it. She was learning not to ask questions.
But he watched her, she knew that, and he smiled at her with growing frequency. She knew she blushed under his scrutiny, and she knew she had never played so well. He had given her a great gift, and somehow had managed to escape harm. But he refused to speak of his home or his family, and answered her only with the briefest and most cursory of replies if she broached those subjects. He would talk to her of Lona and her children, and she learned from him that Diago had gone away again, on some unknown business that only brought a frown to Cariad’s brow whenever the subject happened to come up.
Year’s End passed, and Juilene found her days slipping into a pleasant routine. She rose late, for seldom did she see her bed before the small hours of the morning, and practiced in the afternoons. Her evenings were spent before the fire, lost in the music of the harp. Her singing had improved, as well, she thought; she was no longer so shy and the acoustics of the inn made her voice seem to fill every corner.
The old harp gleamed beneath her care, the brass strings resonated with a quality of sound she attributed to the instrument’s age. And if of a winter’s night, it seemed that the gouges and the dents in the wood frame seemed less and less, Juilene pretended not to notice. She knew that each time she played especially well, the harp rang with a richness she had never heard in any other instrument, and in the firelight, it seemed to pulsate like a living thing. There was something odd about the harp, something that made her nearly afraid to touch it, at times. But there was also a deep sense of peace that accompanied her playing, and so she scolded herself for any qualms. Besides, in the cold light of day, the harp appeared as shabby and as dull as ever.
One evening, she slipped into her usual place and saw Cariad already there. He was sitting alone at a table near her chair, and she smiled when she saw him. She had noticed some days ago that he was gradually moving closer.
She murmured a greeting, and picked up her harp. He leaned back in his chair, head cocked, listening. She played a song that she remembered learning only just before her life had changed. She had struggled with it, for the words and music had not come as easily as other songs, and she wondered as she shifted the chords why it suddenly seemed so easy.
“Still in the winter, deep in the darkness,
All the world wrapped in white and in cold.
When I cried out, your voice came in answer,
So softly, so calmly, speaking so near.
At the window, the snow fell, the first of the year,
You said to me, hear how the bells ring so clear.
Then I knew nothing of safe harbors in storms,
But hot tears brought healing, and patient you waited,
My candle in the night, silent as light.
I watched you through long days of yearning,
Days that were empty as blank, starless skies
And you offered to me a hand like the dawning,
You made me smile when my heart should have broken,
You ended the darkness, you shone like the morning,
You fell like rain upon parched summer earth,
And I bloom like a rose in the depths of the winter.”
The music swelled, the melody as fluid as water. Juilene’s fingers plucked surely at the strings, her body swaying a little in time. The last notes faded, and she looked up. The inn was silent. The maids peered around the door from the kitchens, Lem leaned upon the bar, a faraway look in his eyes, Elizondo’s bulk filled the outer doorway. All the patrons were still. A few stared at her, a few into their mugs and goblets, a few into places she knew she would never see. She dared to peek at Cariad.
He was staring past her, into the flames, wearing an expression she couldn’t read. She lowered her harp. Lem began to clap, and the others followed suit. “Well sung, little sister, well sung!”
Juilene blushed. Mugs were raised in her direction, and Elizondo gave her an approving look as he disappeared back upstairs.
“When the goddess speaks, the goddess sings,” Lem called f
rom behind the bar as he poured a goblet of her favorite apple wine. “For you, little sister.”
Cariad rose and fetched the goblet. Juilene raised her eyes to his. He offered her the wine. “Well sung,” he said.
She laid her harp down and sipped the wine. The liquid stung the roof of her mouth. “Is there anything wrong?”
Cariad sank down into the chair. “No. Nothing to concern you.”
“You look troubled. Is Lady Lona all right?” She had gleaned from their conversations that the lady was in frail health, and that Cariad feared for both the lady and her oldest son.
He gave her a quick smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That was a beautiful song.” He glanced over his shoulder as a cool gust of wind accompanied the entrance of a bent figure in a dark cloak who leaned upon a cane.
Juilene followed his gaze. The old man pushed a hood away from his face and made his way to the bar, where he rested his walking stick and slid awkwardly onto a stool.
“Welcome, traveler. What can I bring you?” asked Lem from the far side of the bar.
Cariad narrowed his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Juilene leaned forward and touched his sleeve.
“Ale,” answered the old man, and Juilene looked up, wary. The old man spoke with a Sylyrian accent.
“Travel far?” Lem placed a brimming mug in front of the old man.
The old man nodded, and lifted the mug. He swallowed hard and set it down, wiping foam off his beard. “All the way from Sylyria. Have you heard the news?”
Lem shrugged, glancing around at the other patrons. “All the news from Sylyria has not been good lately. Have you anything more to tell us?”
The old man nodded again in the middle of a swallow. “Indeed,” he said. “There’s a new Over-Thurge in the city.”
“Ah, you’re a month or more late with that news, stranger.” Another man, dressed in a rich tunic of unrelieved black, spoke from the shadowy corner on the far side of the hearth. His face was indistinct, and Juilene realized with a shock he had been sitting there a long time. She had not seen him come in. “We heard weeks ago that Nod won the title.”
“So he did,” said the old man. “But Nod is dead. And a new Over-Thurge sits in his place. A master-thurge but lately come into his power. Such a thing has not happened in the span of the Covenant.”
The shadowed man made a little noise of disbelief. “What master-thurge rises so quickly? What’s his name, and who are you, that you know so much?”
“I have just come from Sylyria,” answered the old man. “And the master-thurge who reigns there is named Lindos.”
Juilene gasped. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the color drain from Cariad’s face. He gripped his dagger with a white-knuckled hand, and that surprised her even more. What did Lindos mean to Cariad that he should react so to the name?
The stranger rose in one fluid motion, and as he left his place in the shadows, Juilene saw the intricate gold belt that he wore around his waist. His cloak was black and bordered with intricate glyphs of gold and Cariad sucked his breath in, his eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.
He shook his head, motioning her to silence, as he watched the interaction between the richly dressed stranger and the poor one.
“Why do you travel so shabbily, brother?”
The old man smiled, and his teeth were long and looked very sharp. Suddenly Juilene shivered. Brother? Surely it wasn’t possible that the old man was a thurge, and yet the black-clad stranger addressed him as the thurges addressed their own. The old man looked like a wolf. “I travel quickly. Khardroon is but a stop on my journey. I have business in Parmathia. And you, brother? This is not your home, either.”
The black-garbed stranger smiled and spread his hands. “I await the return of the Thane Diago, the master-thurge of this district and the thane of this domain.”
“So it begins.” Cariad spoke so softly Juilene wasn’t certain he had spoken at all. She looked from the old man to the thurge and back at Cariad. He had sat back in his chair, and he was staring into the flames, but she knew he was listening intently.
She cleared her throat. She had to know. If the old man were indeed a thurge from Sylyria, perhaps there was word of her father. “I beg your pardon, Transcendence, but may I ask a question of you?”
The moment was broken as the old thurge’s eyes shifted to her. “Of course, little sister. Say on.”
“What word of the thanes? The thanes of Sylyria, who challenged Lindos, at Festival time?”
The old thurge’s face grew grim. He rose from his stool and made his slow way to sit at a table beside her bench. His eyes were cloudy, the color obscured by whitish disks, and Juilene realized with a shock that the old man was blind. “It is not a good time to be a thane in Sylyria, my child.” His voice was low, but there was a rough kindness in the timbre. “Be glad you are not a member of such a house.”
“Why not?” whispered Juilene. “What has happened there?”
“Be glad it does not concern you, little sister. You’ve run into enough trouble with thurges in your time, haven’t you? The spell you carry blazes like a black light under the moon. Say your songs, and be grateful the goddess has placed you outside the sphere of such events.”
Juilene opened her mouth and shut it quickly. There was no way to ask any more without blurting out too much about herself. Everyone was likely to wonder why she cared so intensely about the fate of the thanes of Sylyria. She twisted her fingers in her gown.
Cariad rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Will you walk with me, my lady?”
She stared up at him, wondering how he could even think of walking when the news was so terrible. He gazed into her eyes intently, and she understood. There was something he wanted to say to her alone. She rose and placed her hand in his. “If it pleases you, my knight,” she said with forced gaiety. The old man’s eyes were closed; the black-garbed thurge had seated himself once more in the shadows. The other patrons were deep in conversation or their mugs. No one paid the least attention to them.
“Come.”
She got to her feet, brushing off her skirts with her free hand. It shook a little and she wondered if he noticed. His hand was warm, the palm smoothly callused. His grip was firm but not uncomfortable. He held the door open for her as she paused long enough to say to Lem: “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Lem waved to her with a wink.
The door closed behind them with a whispered sigh. Cariad offered her his arm.
“Where are we gong?” Juilene asked. The night was very clear but a cool breeze whispered through the long leaves of the willows that shaded the courtyard of the inn.
“I needed some air,” he said. “And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, you looked as if you could use it, too.” He shrugged his cloak off his shoulders and wrapped it around her. “There. That better?”
She smiled up at him. The cloak was warm from his body. She snuggled it up to her chin, and his scent, woodsmoke and horses and leather and something else, something indefinable but most definitely him, enveloped her like a blanket. He led her across the road and seated himself on a low stone fence across from the inn.
Yellow light blazed from nearly every window, and smoke, pale pink in the light of the red-orange moon, twisted in lazy curls into the black sky. She sat down next to him, acutely conscious of his thigh next to hers. She clasped her hands together on her lap. The full moon cast everything in a rosy hue.
“You’re worried about your family.” It was a statement, not a question.
She nodded. “I hear so little of so much—snatches of sentences, a word here, a phrase there. I know there’s trouble in Sylyria, but I don’t dare ask too many questions. I just wish I knew what was happening with my family.”
He glanced around, as though to ascertain they were alone. “There’s trouble all over.”
“Why do you say that?”
Cariad shook his head. “I’m not one of th
ose who believes there isn’t room for thane and thurge within the League. But Sylyria isn’t the only place there’s conflict.” He sighed. “I’ll wish there were more I could do to ease your fears, but what little I can do, I will. I can ask Lady Lona to send a messenger to Sylyria, to inquire about your family. You do understand, though, that the news is not likely to be good?”
Juilene drew a deep breath. “Cariad, that’s very kind of you, but I can’t let you do that. If a messenger were to suddenly appear, asking about my family, my father is not a foolish man. He would guess that I was involved somehow, sooner or later. He would probably have the poor messenger apprehended and would refuse to let him return until he told my father everything he wanted to know.”
Cariad smiled, a sad, gentle smile that made Juilene swallow hard and twine her hands tight into her lap. “I think the messenger would be discreet, my dear. But we hear things, too, you know—messages come for Diago, even in his absence. There’s talk that the King of Sylyria has gone into exile.”
“Exile? The King leave Sylyria?”
Cariad shrugged. “It may be a rumor, nothing more.”
Juilene opened her mouth, but no words seemed to want to shape themselves upon her lips. What was it about this quiet, slender man, who seemed to make every thought she had turn to confusion in her mind?
He patted her hand. “Think about it. The offer stands.” He lapsed once more into silence.
Juilene reached out timidly and covered his hand with hers. “Cariad, what troubles you? What did you mean inside, when you said, ‘so it begins’?”
He pressed her hand between both of his so swiftly it took her breath away. “I wish I could tell you.” Their fingers twined together of their own accord. He turned to her, and the look he wore took her breath away. “Juilene, what would you say—” He broke off, and turned his head away, swearing softly beneath his breath.
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 18