The Challenge: Circle of Conspiracy Trilogy (Artesans Series Book 4)

by Cas Peace

  “I am well, Sullyan, as you see.”

  Fiann’s voice was another shock. Taran had expected it to be light and youthful, but it was one of the deepest voices he had ever heard. It was perfectly modulated, yet carried unfamiliar overtones.

  Fiann rose fluidly and took the free chair at their table. Jed immediately bustled over with more drinks, giving plain water to the newcomer as before. “I have heard tales of you recently,” Fiann continued, his eyes still fixed on Sullyan’s.

  She replied lightly. “There are many tales about me. Not all of them are true.”

  “These were true,” he said. “Yet you are here, and so I conclude that you triumphed.”

  She dropped her gaze. “I did, my friend. But not without cost.”

  He laid a hand on her arm. “We gain nothing without cost.”

  “Let us talk of other things. Fiann, this is Taran Elijah, an Artesan Adept and a very good friend of mine. Taran, this is the Lord Fiann, the finest bard in all the realms. I have known him since I was a little girl. He taught me everything I know of music.”

  Fiann accepted Taran’s proffered hand, and the Adept was startled to sense a featherlike touch on his mind. He also caught echoes of what seemed to be great age and a powerful yearning.

  The bard glanced at Sullyan. “He is unaware?”

  “He has not been with us long. With your permission, my Lord?”

  Fiann inclined his head, and Sullyan turned to Taran.

  “Fiann is a bard, as I have said, but he is not quite as he appears. He is also a lord and was a great chieftain among his people before being outcast from his lands. Now he is a wanderer who has no home.

  “Fiann is a Sinnian from the Second Realm, and he is a hundred and thirty years old.”

  Taran’s mouth dropped open, but he hastily closed it when he realized they were waiting for a response.

  “A Sinnian?”

  Sullyan nodded. Taran had only ever traveled to the Fifth Realm and knew very little about the other three. “Why was he outcast?” he asked.

  Fiann’s dark eyes flickered and Sullyan said, “That is too personal a question for so brief an acquaintance, Taran.”

  The Adept felt himself blush. “Sorry.” Fiann’s face remained impassive, yet Taran felt he had taken no offence. He tried a safer topic. “How did the two of you meet?”

  Sullyan smiled. “It was on the Downs, near the village where I was raised. Fiann was doing his customary rounds of the area and we happened to meet one day. Discovering that I had a love for music, Fiann began to teach me. We would often play together when he visited us.”

  She said no more, but Taran had the feeling that there was much more to the story.

  Fiann was watching her with his dark, liquid eyes. “But then you went away,” he said, a note of deep sadness in his voice.

  She looked at her hands. “My life took a different turn, my friend. As did yours.”

  They fell silent. Taran was about to ask another question when Jed came over, inclining his head respectfully. “They’re ready for you now, my Lord.”

  Taran looked round in query. As if he had been expecting the summons, Fiann stood, but he didn’t immediately follow Jed. Instead, he held out his hand to Sullyan. She stared at him in surprise.

  “I will not play alone while you are here,” he said.

  Taran saw shy pleasure steal across Sullyan’s face. Taking the Sinnian’s hand, she rose, and together they walked through the press of locals. The inn was full to bursting now. Taran hadn’t realized how many people had come in while the three of them were talking.

  The reverential hush that had greeted the Sinnian’s first appearance now descended again. Jed had placed two chairs by the unused fireplace, and Taran saw that a selection of musical instruments was standing behind them. Most prominent among these was a harp. There was also a guitar, a fiddle, and a flute.

  The inn’s patrons settled themselves, still in silence, and Taran moved to the side of the room to get a better view. Fiann took up the fiddle, bow poised over strings. Gesturing for Sullyan to take the guitar, he murmured, “‘Larksong,’” and she nodded. With the guitar under her arm, she closed her eyes and began to play a simple country melody. The instrument had a soft and mellow tone, and Taran soon recognized the tune. Once she had played it all the way through, Fiann touched bow to strings, and thus began the most magical evening of Taran’s life.

  He had heard Sullyan play and sing many times and loved the sound of her voice. She had a great range and could render a song in anything from a throbbing contralto to a soaring soprano. He considered her a gifted musician, and indeed she was. But Fiann was a bard of many years’ experience, a virtuoso of his art, and he far outshone Sullyan in the mastery of his musical talent. His fiddle became the trilling song of the lark, rising high on summer breezes fragrant with meadow flowers. His audience listened in rapt silence to the rise and fall of the bird’s flight, poignantly rendered over the background of Sullyan’s melody.

  They changed tempo, now playing of tumbling streams alive with fish, and the still, sacrosanct places of the forest. Sometimes the notes were playful, like fox cubs sparring outside their den. Sometimes they were somber, invoking the slow majesty of the earth. Some of the tunes invited their listeners to clap their hands or stamp their feet in joyful abandon. Yet others caused them to fall silent in deep and reverent awe. But all the melodies were stirring, affecting everyone who heard.

  At last the medley ended, and Fiann set the fiddle aside. As Sullyan placed the guitar in its stand, the bard moved to sit behind the harp. Laying his beautiful hands on the strings, he glanced up at her. “‘Meadowsweet,’” he said, and she nodded, once more closing her eyes.

  The song, a lively country melody about a swordsman returning from war to his sweetheart, was unfamiliar to Taran, but he heard one or two people in the audience humming the tune. Sullyan’s voice was a perfect accompaniment to the harp and she followed its pitch faultlessly. Taran noticed that many of the inn’s patrons also had their eyes closed.

  That song over, Fiann stood, gesturing for Sullyan to take his place. Judging by some of the expressions Taran could see, this was either very rare or completely unheard of. Even Sullyan seemed a little overawed as she seated herself behind the instrument and spread her hands on the strings.

  Fiann said a word that Taran didn’t understand, but he saw Sullyan’s start of surprise. When she brought the harp to life, Taran knew why. It was the tune she had played for Lord Rykan in Marik’s mansion, and Fiann sang the words in the Andaryan High Language. Halfway through, he gestured minutely with one hand and Sullyan blended her voice with his in perfect harmony. The gentle beauty of it brought tears to Taran’s eyes, and he wasn’t the only one affected.

  When the final strains of the outland song died away and the throbbing harp finally stilled, Fiann brought Sullyan to her feet. Taran thought the entertainment must be over, that they intended to accept the acclaim of their audience; listeners who had not once broken the evening’s magic with applause. Instead, he turned to face Sullyan and they stood together, their hands clasped and their eyes closed.

  An expectant hush came over the crowd.

  They began to sing simultaneously, a haunting melody the like of which Taran had never heard. Fiann’s deeply resonant voice was the perfect foil for Sullyan’s lighter tones, and his range was astonishing. Then, suddenly, as though his very bones were coming alive, Taran could hear other voices, other harmonies, although the audience was rapt and no one else was singing.

  Realization shivered down his spine. Somehow, Sullyan and Fiann were singing through the substrate, although he had never known it was possible. The subliminal blend of voices flowed through his soul, thrilling his blood, and judging by the looks of delight and astonishment around him, most of the audience could feel it too.

  The song swelled to an almost unbearably poignant crescendo and the tears in Taran’s eyes were mirrored in many others. Finally, the song
quivered away to silence and the two singers broke apart. The innkeeper, recognizing a finale when he heard one, led the audience in a rapturous burst of applause that went on and on. Coins, both silver and gold, rained into mugs placed on the tables, and slowly the inn’s privileged patrons began to file out into the warm summer darkness.

  When they were gone, Jed approached the pair by the fireplace. Onto a table he poured a stream of coinage, which Fiann split into three piles. Jed gathered up one portion and the Sinnian slid another across to Sullyan.

  She stayed his hand. “No, Fiann, I have no need of it. You keep it, or share it with Jed as you will. The King provides for all my needs.”

  The bard held her gaze for a moment before passing a few more coins to Jed. The rest he kept for himself. The innkeeper took his share and, after enquiring what time they required their mounts the next day, bade them all goodnight. Taran also made a move toward the stairs, but halted when he realized Sullyan hadn’t left the table.

  She was gazing into the Sinnian’s eyes, the bard’s face showing the first sign of expression Taran had seen. It was a look of pain, and it caused Sullyan to reach out, taking up one of his hands.

  “Is it so bad, my Lord?” she murmured.

  He sighed. “It is becoming so.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  A slight shake of the head was her answer. Then he said, “But I do have something to ask of you.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Name it, my friend.”

  He sat down again, a sudden weariness evident in his body. Sullyan sat too, concern in her golden eyes.

  “It will not be long now,” said Fiann, his voice so low that Taran could hardly hear him. “When the time comes, will you perform the rite for me?”

  She bowed her head, but not before Taran had caught the glitter of tears in her eyes. “You know I will, my Lord. You have no need to ask.”

  She brushed his face gently with her hand and the bard smiled at her. Taran’s breath caught in his throat. Seeing such an expression of trusting love on that beautiful face nearly stopped his heart.

  “Then I am content.”

  The bard stood, gathering the night’s earnings into a pouch at his belt. He drained the last of his water and wrapped his instruments in their respective leather covers, leaving them standing by the hearth. Sullyan watched him in silence. He passed behind her on his way to the door, trailing one hand lightly across her shoulders. She didn’t turn her head but continued to sit, unmoving.

  Once the tavern door had closed and she still showed no sign of rising, Taran came back to her. “Isn’t he staying at the inn?”

  She raised her head and Taran saw the unshed tears. “No, Taran. Sinnians will not sleep within stone walls. Jed takes care of his horses and instruments, but Fiann will sleep under the stars. He will be gone before dawn.”

  Despite the undercurrent of deep grief in her voice, Taran simply had to know. “What exactly was he asking of you?”

  She sighed. “Fiann is very old, even for a Sinnian, and they live much longer than Albians. Since becoming an outcast, he has spent more time than is good for him away from his own realm. He returns when he can, but the strain of outland living is now taking its toll on his health. He knows he will not live much longer.

  “He spends much of his time in Albia, so it is more than likely he will die here. If he does, he will be far from the customs of his people and will be denied the rites his faith requires. These are vitally important to him, both as a Sinnian and as a bard. I am familiar with those rites and, as I am now the nearest Fiann has to a family, he was asking me to conduct those rites at his death.”

  Taran nodded in understanding. “But how will you know when and where it happens?”

  Despite her somber mood, Sullyan smiled faintly. “Did your father teach you nothing about Sinnians?” The Adept shook his head. “Sinnians are natural Artesans, able to control their metaforce from birth. Their natural rank is Adept, and although some are capable of raising themselves to Adept-elite, most see no reason to bother. They also set great store by family. In their culture, their family is their life. Sinnians are bonded to their loved ones in a way we can hardly conceive. For them, banishment is a death sentence, for it severs those ties. In a small way, Lord Fiann and I share a similar bond. Believe me, I will know when his time comes.”

  For a moment, Taran was silent. Then he asked, “Can you tell me why he was outcast?”

  She raised unseeing eyes to the door through which he had passed. “Fiann made a bad marriage, a forbidden marriage. You see, not only is Fiann a gifted bard, he was also the leader of his clan. As chieftain, it was his duty to wed the daughter of another clan chief in order to cement an alliance. But while on his traditional rounds one summer he fell in love, lost his heart so deeply that it could never be taken back. This brought disgrace and ridicule on his people, and the other clan attacked. They survived the war, but Fiann was blamed for bringing death and destruction instead of protection. For this he was outcast, and even though his wife is now dead, he can never return to his clan.”

  “He married an enemy’s daughter, then?”

  “No,” she said, her eyes full of pain. “He married an Albian.”

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, just as he finished dressing, Taran felt Sullyan’s gentle touch on his mind. Shrugging into his combat jacket as a precaution against the rain that threatened to fall, he opened the door. Sullyan was standing in the passageway, pack in hand. She too was wearing her jacket, gold rank insignia and battle honors showing proudly against the dark leather.

  Even in the gloomy passage, he could see that her face was pale. “Are you all right, Sullyan?”

  She waved the question away. “I am well enough, Taran, I thank you. Are you ready?”

  Unwilling to question her further, he snatched up his own pack and followed her down to the snug, where Jed was laying out breakfast.

  While they were eating, Jed’s two boys sauntered in and announced that their mounts were ready. Once Taran had eaten his fill and Sullyan had drunk her fellan, they went outside and she made a show of inspecting the horses. The lads watched her, affecting unconcern. When she pronounced herself satisfied, they grinned and scampered off.

  Jed reappeared and handed Sullyan a replenished pack of supplies. He also carried two small stone jars of ale, which he presented to Taran with a smile. “Something to remember the Hazel Tree by.”

  Taran accepted, deeply touched by the gesture.

  Having thanked the innkeeper for his hospitality, Sullyan mounted Drum, leaving the King’s colt free.

  Taran hesitated. “I haven’t settled my account yet,” he said.

  She regarded him from Drum’s tall back, her face still pale but her manner serene. “The King has already paid, Taran. You owe nothing.”

  “But not my share, surely?” He had not expected this.

  She nudged the stallion forward, giving Jed a farewell wave. Taran vaulted onto his mount and moved off after her.

  “Elias pays a network of innkeepers to hold rooms available for those traveling on King’s business. It saves us from having to search out suitable lodging in busy times. It also ensures good quality service.”

  “But I’m not a member of the King’s forces,” protested Taran. “I’m quite willing to pay my way.”

  She glanced at him, her face still showing a measure of discomfort, which Taran attributed to Fiann’s somber request the evening before. Her expression warmed as she acknowledged his desire not to take advantage of his position.

  “Oh, but you are, my friend. You may not have taken a formal Oath, but let me assure you, the King considers you very much a part of his forces. Did he not award you battle honors for your part in repelling Rykan’s invasion last year?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And will you not be a member of the King’s College of Artesans?”

  “I… yes—”

  “Make no mistake, Taran El
ijah, you are as much a part of the Manor as I am.”

  Unable to argue, Taran rode on in silence.

  They made good time without pressing the horses, and Darius trailed them faithfully, just as Drum had done. Taran was surprised that the young colt would follow them with no direction from rider or lead-rein, and remarked on it.

  “Horses are herd creatures,” said Sullyan. “They like their own kind around them. Darius will not willingly leave his herd companions, and that includes you and me. I have reinforced his instincts with training, and he is an agile learner. All Mandias’s progeny are quick to learn. Darius will not disappoint the King.”

  They stopped only briefly for a light noon meal and to rest the horses. There were a few other travelers on the road, some of whom were obviously also heading for Port Loxton. Everyone they met accorded them respectful nods, mindful of their rank badges and weapons. Taran wore his sword by his side and Sullyan bore hers at her back, an ostentatious statement of their abilities.

  Around the middle of the afternoon, as they were approaching the outskirts of a small village, Taran caught sight of a low hill surmounted by an ancient stone circle. It reminded him of the tor at Caer Vellet where Sullyan and Robin were wed nine months ago. It clearly awakened memories for her too, for she left the road and sent Drum up the hill, right to the edge of the ring, where she halted. She sat silently, staring into the open space enclosed by the stones, her eyes unfocused.

  Taran followed her and sat by her side for some time. He recalled that the same tor at Caer Vellet had also been the site of Commander Vanyr’s funeral pyre, and wondered which memory held more power for her. To ease her from her reverie, he eventually said, “I’ve often wondered what these places were for, who built them, and why.”

  Sullyan turned her head slowly and regarded him with an odd look.

  “What?” he said.

  She gave a small sigh. “Taran Elijah, are you telling me that you have never raised the power of Earth within a stone circle?”

  He frowned and shook his head, embarrassed by her surprise. He had obviously handed her yet another example of how flawed his early training had been, and he cursed himself for speaking his thought aloud.