Harp of Imach Thyssel

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “Gendron and I,” Flindaran said, and grinned smugly.

  “Both of you? Isn’t that a little unusual?”

  “There’s a lot to do, and the healer says Oraven isn’t well enough yet to help. Besides, Father is always… a little unusual. Hadn’t you noticed?”

  Emereck laughed, suppressing a twinge of misgiving. “Congratulations, then!”

  “It’s only for a few days,” Flindaran said with unaccustomed seriousness, “but it’s a chance to show Father what I can do.”

  “Have you and Gendron discussed it yet?”

  “Of course. He’s the eldest, so he’ll take over most of Father’s public duties. The steward handles most of the details of running the castle, of course, but there will still be a few things he can’t do, and the townspeople will—”

  Emereck relaxed as Flindaran talked on. His new responsibilities appeared to have driven all thought of the harp from Flindaran’s mind. And in a few days the Duke would return. Things would be all right, for a few days.

  Shalarn knelt beside the broken carriage-wheel, picking the splinters apart with her fingers. Over a hand span of the rim had been smashed almost beyond recognition by its collision with the rock. Her lips were pressed tightly together in an attempt to suppress the anger she felt at this latest mishap.

  “My lady?”

  Shalarn looked up into the handsome face of her guard captain. “Yes?”

  “How much longer do you expect to spend here? It’s a long ride to the next town; we’ll be lucky to make it by nightfall.”

  “We’ll stay as long as it takes me to find what I’m looking for.” Shalarn looked down again to concentrate on separating the pieces of the wheel.

  “You suspect sabotage, my lady?” The man’s tone was respectful enough, but the question itself was irritating. He might as well be trying to distract her. Shalarn sighed noisily and looked up.

  “Yes, captain, I suspect sabotage. This accident is too convenient. And there was the broken harness yesterday, and the delays in Syaskor before that.”

  “It may not mean anything, my lady.”

  “I think it does,” Shalarn snapped. “Someone is trying to keep me from reaching Minathlan.”

  “None of the men would do such a thing,” the captain said stiffly.

  Shalarn ignored him. Really, the man was becoming impossible. She would have to watch him, or the next thing she knew he would be trying to take her place.

  She pulled an old, discolored nail out of the wreckage and dropped it, then scrabbled in the dust of the road to retrieve it. Her finger had brushed something as it fell, a roughness on one side that should not have been there… She found the nail and turned it over in her hands, then was suddenly still.

  “What is it, my lady?” the captain said.

  “Sorcery,” Shalarn said grimly. A symbol was scratched on one side of the nail, leaving a thread of bright metal showing plainly against the dark surface. Shalarn’s jaw tightened as she studied it: four curved lines like overlapping half-circles opening away from each other. “The Rune of Separation. No wonder the wheel didn’t hold!”

  “My lady?” the captain sounded wary and fascinated at once, as he always did when she spoke of magic.

  “The symbol on this nail is one of the seven Change Runes, the rune of breaking. I’m surprised the wheel lasted as long as it did, carrying this.” Absently, she fingered the nail. Clever, to have used an old one. She had almost missed it entirely. Who had done it? Lanyk was involved, of course; this explained why he had insisted so strongly on her taking this clumsy, ornate vehicle. Shadows take him and his whole kingdom! But Lanyk was no sorcerer, and only a powerful mage indeed would have knowledge of the Change Runes. Who was helping the Prince of Syaskor? And how much did they know?

  Frowning, Shalarn rose. “We’ve lost enough time, captain. We’ll leave the coach; from here on, I’ll ride. See to it.”

  The captain turned and snapped a command. Shalarn’s men leaped to unharness the carriage horses and repack the essential baggage. Shalarn smiled. Tonight she would cast more specific warding spells about their camp; there would be no more delays. In a few minutes, the cavalcade was off again, leaving the coach an abandoned shell behind them.

  Kensal pushed open the door of the room and stopped short. Ryl was leaning halfway out the window, looking up into the afternoon sunlight. He kicked the door closed behind him, and she turned. “Is that wise?” he asked mildly. “You’re not fully recovered yet, and that wind is chill.”

  “I have no fear of wind, and I am very nearly as well as ever.”

  “It’s the ‘very nearly’ that worries me. We’re running out of time.”

  “I know. But there is little I can do as yet, and to move too soon might do much harm.”

  Kensal looked at her sharply. “That’s another thing. Are you sure it was that harp-music that made you ill?”

  “What is it you fear?”

  “Shadow-born.”

  “It is their doing, certainly, but not recently. The Change they made is always with us, and the spells that defend me from it are… delicately balanced. The music of the harp carries power, and it upset that balance. That is all.”

  “What if one of those young idiots tries playing the harp again?”

  “I am better prepared for it now,” Ryl replied, but a shadow of worry crossed her face. “The remedies you have brought me are good for more than fevers.”

  “That reminds me; here.” Kensal tossed a small packet in her direction. Ryl caught it neatly, opened it, and made a face.

  “I doubt I know which is worse; the scent of this herb or its taste. Are you sure they have no mara leaves?”

  “This is a small village, and I’ve been buying from the largest herb-dealer in town,” Kensal replied. “If he doesn’t have it, no one else will either.”

  “I can accept it for another day or two, I suppose, but I will be glad when the need is over.” She rose and crossed to the water-jug. Kensal watched as she mixed the herbs with water and drank. She set the mug down and turned back to look at him. “There is something more, I think?”

  “The Duke is leaving Minathlan.”

  “What? When?”

  “Today. The market was buzzing with it. He’s leaving two of his sons in charge—the eldest and Flindaran.”

  Ryl shook her head. “Where does he go?”

  “No one knows. The villagers are all speculating, of course, but they don’t know anything, and the castle folk don’t talk much. The Duke… doesn’t encourage it.”

  “And Flindaran is to share his duties while he is away.” Ryl sighed, and was quiet for a long time; “I do not like this,” she said at last. “I do not like it at all.”

  Chapter 13

  IN SPITE OF THE Duke’s absence, Emereck’s restlessness continued. He was up at dawn the following morning. He joined a startled guard on the sentry-walk atop the castle wall and paced the perimeter of the grounds twice, then wandered through the stables, chatting with the grooms.

  As he left the stables, he saw Flindaran and Liana standing near the center of the courtyard, deep in conversation. He was about to pass by, when Flindaran looked up and saw him. “Emereck!” Flindaran called, waving him over. “Come here a minute.”

  Emereck walked over. “Good morning, minstrel,” Liana said as he joined them, and she smiled warmly. It occurred to him that she seemed always welcoming, always at peace, and that this was one of the things he liked about her.

  “Good morning, lady,” Emereck replied. “And to you, Flindaran. But what are you doing up so early?”

  Flindaran raised an eyebrow. “I don’t always sleep until noon.”

  “Of course not,” Liana said before Emereck could reply. “I’ve seen you up before the sun cleared the walls at least three or four times in my life.”

  “Are you quite sure you aren’t exaggerating?” Emereck asked her.

  Liana’s eyes danced. “Well, perhaps it was only once or twice, n
ow that I think of it.”

  “Demons take it, don’t encourage her, Emereck!” Flindaran said. “I have enough trouble with her as it is!”

  “You take yourself much too seriously,” Liana told him.

  “And you don’t take me seriously enough. How am I supposed to explain to Gendron? And what do you expect me to tell Father when he gets back?”

  “I don’t expect you to explain anything. There’s no need for it.”

  “Lee, have you ever tried not answering one of Father’s questions? I’ll have to tell him something!”

  “No, you won’t,” Liana said with unruffled calm. “If he asks, which he won’t, I’ll be the one who tells him what happened.”

  “Far be it from me to interrupt such a promising argument,” Emereck put in, “but I think it would be easier to appreciate if one of you would explain.”

  Liana turned toward him. “I have some errands to run in the village, that’s all.”

  “It sounds like a pleasant way to spend a morning,” Emereck said cautiously.

  “It’s Hesta’s job,” Flindaran said, frowning.

  “Things have changed while you were in Ciaron,” Liana said gently. “Hesta is getting old, and it’s a long walk. I’ve been doing it for months now.”

  “This early in the morning?”

  “It won’t be early by the time I get there. The market opens at dawn, and the shopkeepers don’t wait much past it.”

  “Well, you can’t go alone. I don’t believe Father would allow it.”

  “Father isn’t here. And Minathlan is not Ciaron; the village is quite safe.”

  “I don’t care,” Flindaran said stubbornly. “You can’t go unescorted. It isn’t—it isn’t proper.”

  Liana looked at him mischievously. “Neither am I. Besides, Hesta never took anyone with her.”

  “Hesta isn’t my sister.”

  “Half-sister, Flindaran. There’s a difference.”

  “You’re still my sister, and you’re still the Duke’s daughter. And I know how Talerith—”

  “Talerith enjoys having guards and waiting-women around. I just feel silly.”

  “That has nothing to do with it!” Flindaran ran a hand through his hair in exasperation and looked at Emereck. “You see my problem?”

  “Yes; you’ve finally found someone who’s as stubborn as you are.”

  Flindaran gave him a look. “Well, you’re a minstrel. You convince her!”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll accompany her myself—if she is willing to have me,” Emereck added hastily. He wondered suddenly why it had never occurred to him to leave the castle grounds. It would be a relief to get away from Minathlan, even if only for a little while.

  Liana studied him. “It would make things easier,” she conceded. “I warn you, though, I expect to have a lot to carry on the way back, and it’s all uphill.”

  “Then I must certainly join you,” Emereck replied, bowing.

  Flindaran stared at him. “Emereck, I didn’t mean to make you—”

  “You aren’t making me; I expect to have a delightful morning.”

  “Shopping? For supplies for the castle? In a village this size?”

  “It will give me a chance to see the town,” Emereck said firmly.

  “Have it your own way, then,” Flindaran said. “I have to get back to Gendron; he’s got a list of things for me to do that will take all day. Enjoy yourselves!” He sketched a bow and started off across the courtyard. Emereck looked after him in surprise, then turned back to Liana. Their eyes met, and they both burst out laughing.

  “Poor Flindaran,” Liana said as they left the castle. “He tries so hard to take care of his little half-sister, only I don’t really need taking care of. But all he can see is that I’m like Talerith, and—”

  “You aren’t at all like Talerith!” Emereck said.

  “I’m more like her than I am like Kiannar, at least in the kinds of things I enjoy. Walking and talking and music and so on.”

  “Walking you shall have in abundance,” Emereck said, gesturing at the cobbled road that led down toward the village. “And I will try to fulfill my half of the responsibility for talking. I’m glad you included music as well, though; if I run out of things to say I can always sing.”

  Liana laughed. “Altogether a thoroughly enjoyable morning.”

  The market occupied roughly a quarter of the main square of the village, with shops and workplaces creeping out along its edges. Rough wooden carts, piled high with winter wheat, new carrots, and early greens, filled most of the open center. The narrow aisles between them were crowded with people, dogs, and an occasional chicken or pig. Most of the throng was on foot, though now and then a horseman could be seen over the tops of their heads. The people were mainly tradesmen, peasants, and farmers, with a few servants in livery scattered among them. Once Emereck saw a man in silks and velvet who could only be one of the town’s nobility.

  To Emereck, accustomed to the crowded bustle of Ciaron, the number of people seemed unremarkable, but Liana sighed. “It’s busy today; this will take longer than I’d expected. I hope you hadn’t planned on getting back to Minathlan before noon.”

  “It makes no difference to me,” Emereck said, not quite truthfully. He was relishing his freedom from the oppressive atmosphere of the castle, and already he was reluctant to return.

  Liana nodded and led him across the square. They stopped frequently to exchange greetings with various citizens of Minathlan. Liana was clearly popular among the villagers, and Emereck attracted a number of curious glances. Not all of them were entirely friendly; several of the young men they passed appeared to resent Emereck’s position at Liana’s side. On consideration, Emereck couldn’t blame them.

  Their first stop was an apothecary’s. “This will be a long wait, I’m afraid,” Liana said as they entered. “He takes his time mixing remedies. This way.”

  The shop was large and smelled of dust and herbs. High racks of glass jars and clay herb-pots combined with cluttered shelves of other merchandise to divide the room into a series of twisting aisles. The apothecary himself was a tall, thin man who peered nearsightedly down at Liana while she explained what she wanted. Then, nodding vigorously, he disappeared into the rear of the shop.

  Liana looked after him for a moment, then came over to Emereck. “Would you mind waiting here without me? I’d like to go watch.”

  “Not at all,” Emereck said, though he was a bit puzzled by her curiosity.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust his abilities,” she said apologetically. “But it’s for Oraven, and… well, I just don’t want to take chances.”

  “I understand,” Emereck replied, and Liana smiled and left him. A moment later, the apothecary’s assistant came in. He gave Emereck one sullen, sidelong glance, then ignored him and began straightening up the shelves.

  Emereck retreated to the far end of the room, where he would be out of the way. The herb-jars were fewer there, and the welter of miscellaneous merchandise was greater. There was no apparent order to any of it; three heavy iron kettles were stacked next to a delicate fan made of feathers, and a woolen shawl occupied the same counter as a wicked-looking set of hunting knives.

  A shadow on one of the lower shelves caught Emereck’s eye, and he bent to look more closely. It was a small wooden drum, brightly painted in the fashion of Rathane. Emereck squatted down and pulled it out to examine it more closely; as he did, he heard the door of the shop open and close. A moment later he heard voices on the other side of the room. One of them sounded familiar, and he poked his head around the shelves to see who it was.

  The apothecary’s assistant was handing a small packet to a white-haired man in green leather. Emereck blinked, startled. The customer was the Cilhar, Kensal Narryn. Emereck started to rise to greet him, then paused. What was Kensal doing in Minathlan? He and Flindaran hadn’t said where they were going, so Kensal could not have followed them deliberately. Unless Kensal knew of the Harp
of Imach Thyssel and was following it… Emereck gave himself a mental shake. He was being a fool; everyone couldn’t be after the harp. The Cilhar’s presence must be mere coincidence.

  He looked up just as Kensal dropped a few coins on the counter, turned, and left. Emereck watched the door close behind him, then rose. He felt an uneasy guilt at his suspicions, but he was unable to dismiss them. What, after all, did he know about the Cilhar beyond his name? He walked over to the apothecary’s assistant and said as casually as he could, “Interesting customer; I’d not thought to see a Cilhar so far from the Mountains of Morravik.”

  “I’d ’a been just as happy if he’d stayed there,” the assistant growled. “Thinks he’s better than everyone else, he does.”

  “Is he difficult to deal with, then?”

  “Oh, aye. Knows exactly what he wants and expects it fresh every day, no matter what. Nearly tore the place apart yesterday when it wasn’t waiting for him when he wanted it.”

  “He comes in every day? And I thought all Cilhar were healthy as dune-cats!”

  “Oh, it’s not for him, more’s the pity. It’s for his lady-friend.” The assistant spat.

  “A lady? With a Cilhar?” Emereck felt a twinge of misgiving. If Ryl had accompanied Kensal to Minathlan, it would be a little too much to ascribe to coincidence.

  “A wonder, ain’t it? They came to Minathlan about a week ago, and she took sick the night the ghost-music played.”

  With effort, Emereck concealed his reaction. The assistant did not notice. “He’s been down here every day since,” the man continued, “buying sleeping herbs and fever potions. He don’t need ’em any more, neither; my cousin who works at the inn says the woman’s nearly well. Does that stop him? No, he comes in with his high and mighty airs…”

  Emereck stopped listening. If what this man was saying was true, Kensal and his companion must have come to Minathlan barely two days after Emereck’s own arrival. They had been here when Flindaran played the harp, and Emereck was suddenly certain that it was the music that had caused the woman’s mysterious illness. But why had she been the only one affected? Or had she been? Emereck slipped a question into the assistant’s grumbles, and was answered. No one else had become ill; on the contrary, several healings had been attributed, rightly or wrongly, to the unexplained harp-music.