Fae Song EPUB

by Williams , Deonne

  “Always my vain little bard,” Shae teased when he watched Gwynn surreptitiously try to wipe the dust from her boots against each other. He was still speaking in Southron.

  “If the Pathani High King wishes to meet us the moment we arrive, he should expect to find us dusty and travel-stained.”

  “Yes, venchar,” Gwynn said, although she took little comfort in his words. Ariadwen be praised, Gwynn thought with relief as Darion led them inside; at least it is not the throne room. It looked more like a library. Gwynn glanced at the book-lined shelves before the Ard Rhi Navarre claimed her attention.

  Navarre and his son were much the same height with the same golden eyes and snowy hair. He wore a wide gold band set with rubies on his brow, a perfect match to his gold embroidered doublet. He was unarmed, save for a magnificently decorated dagger that hung from his belt. She gave Navarre her most formal bow, faintly surprised to realize Shae was doing the same thing half a step behind her.

  Somehow, bowing just did not seem to fit his nature.

  Gwynn was startled at the cool touch of the Ard Rhi’s fingers when he placed a hand under her chin and lifted her head to meet his gaze. She stared back into his eyes; they seemed like bottomless wells of liquid gold, lit with wisdom and knowledge ancient beyond her understanding. His eyes held her there, she felt, weighing her soul, and somewhere in her mind, she hoped desperately that he did not find her wanting. Wanting in what she was not sure, but she felt the Ard Rhi searching for some unseen quality within her.

  “No, Gwynn, nothing about you displeases me,”

  Navarre said in the common tongue, releasing her eyes and 156

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  his hold in the same moment. “It has been long even by our reckoning since a child of Inishmore visited Heralith. I believe my son is correct; your gifts are at least as great as your ancestors were, perhaps more. Our blood still runs within that of the bards, and so we welcome you home.”

  Overwhelmed by the Ard Rhi’s words, Gwynn could barely stutter a response. “You are too kind and generous, Ard Rhi,” she answered in careful Pathani. He smiled before turning to Shae.

  “I welcome you to Heralith, Shae, Brashaen’s son.

  Yours are a passionate people, but you temper it with discipline and reason. I have long thought it a pity more mortals do not choose to benefit by following your example.”

  “Your praise is honor indeed.” Unlike Gwynn, Shae’s voice had an even formal tone.

  “I am sure this is not a place that a Southron, such as yourself, believed existed, let alone that you would find yourself here. Although, your people knew the Pathani long ago.”

  “I find that rather hard to believe.” Shae’s voice grew cold. “Few Southrons would welcome instruction in magic.”

  “Do you believe that magic is the only thing that mortals learned from the Pathani?” The Ard Rhi’s smile contained a hint of challenge. Shae frowned when Navarre motioned them into seats, disbelief shadowing his face.

  When Gwynn slipped the strap of her Harp case over her head before taking a seat, Navarre ask if he might see it.

  She removed the Harp and handed it to him, Navarre taking it reverently.

  “Elisan is a true master of his craft is he not? I fear he may be a bit surprised this evening, since my son is convinced that it would be better not to tell him that the Harp has returned to Heralith.”

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  “I would not begin to question your wisdom, Ard Rhi, or that of Rhi Darion,” Gwynn said, “but I would not wish to incur the anger of a great artisan.”

  “Diplomatically put,” Darion laughed.

  “It will do him good,” Navarre asserted. “I have not been able to tweak Elisan’s conceit for a very long time.”

  “As you wish.” Gwynn found herself wondering just how long ‘a very long time’ was to a Pathani.

  Just then, the steward returned with another Pathani bearing wine. He served them and stood by after the steward left while Navarre inquired about their journey to Heralith.

  He was pleased that the two had traveled with a minimum of distress. “Our gates are brutal on mortals; it grows easier with practice.”

  When their wine was finished, Navarre beckoned to the Pathani who had served them. “Syrus will be at your disposal and will show you to the rooms prepared for you.

  Rest and refresh yourselves after your journey. It is our custom to take our evening meal after sunset. We will see you then.”

  Darion remained behind with his father when the pair took their leave. Syrus guided them from the Ard Rhi’s study, down a corridor overlooking a garden, and up a curving staircase. He opened a door and spoke hesitantly in common.

  “I hope this pleases you, Tiarna.” Gwynn’s vanity was tickled by Syrus’s use of the honorific; she had rarely been addressed as ‘my lady’ before.

  She answered him in Pathani. “I have never seen such beauty as here in Heralith. To be allowed to look upon it is an honor.”

  “Then come, let me show you the rooms prepared for you,” he said, much less formal in his manner than previously.

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  Gwynn walked through the open door, her eyes growing round. They entered a room with tall windows lining the far side; beside the windows hung pale blue draperies of silk, tied back with golden chords. The furnishings were a darker shade of blue with two large chairs in front of a blue veined white marble fireplace. The lamps scattered about the room had shades of lapis, and a thick rug of blue and cream lay before the hearth.

  “Here is your first bedchamber; there is another across the sitting room, although I would not presume to separate a Southron from his charge.” Syrus opened a door next to the fireplace.

  “Ariadwen preserve me,” Gwynn gasped when she passed into the next room. This room also was in blue, but the accents were of rose. A huge bed hung with blue silk embroidered in dark rose stood against the far wall. A rug matching the rose stitching on the hangings covered the floor, and the pile was so deep Gwynn felt guilty walking on it in her boots. Her eyes moved to a line of tall windows.

  When Syrus went over and opened one wide, she realized it was a door, not just a window.

  “You can enter the garden from here,” he told her,

  “and there is another door from the sitting room as well.”

  Gwynn looked out on a terrace that allowed access to the garden by a spiraling set of staircases. Distant fountains lent soft music to the air while a dozen different sweet aromas stole into the room. Gwynn turned from the garden’s vista and giggled at her friend. Shae was standing in front of the bedroom fireplace with a dazed expression on his face.

  “What’s wrong, venchar? Too much lavish decoration for my ever practical Southron?”

  “Something akin to that,” Shae muttered. He was saved from further interrogation when another Pathani entered the room.

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  “This is Lesia,” Syrus said. “She will be attending you.”

  “It is my pleasure,” she said. “Your belongings have been put away, and I have prepared a bath for you.” She looked at Shae. “I would not touch the possessions of a Southron without their permission, but I will attend to your belongings as well if you like.”

  “That would be fine.”

  Syrus excused himself, saying he would be back to guide them to supper. “If there is anything else you require, Lesia will see to it or find me.”

  Gwynn wasted no time when she heard the word bath. Her boots were quickly off, her Harp was on the bed, and she was heading through the door Lesia had indicated.

  A few moments later, a blood-curdling shriek sent Shae dashing after her. In two strides, he went through a dressing room to find Gwynn standing transfixed just inside the second doorway. He yanked her back through it into the dressing room while searching for the cause of her scream.

  Shae’s eyes swept an empty bathing chamber that would have made one
of the famously hedonistic shiel of Samhayne green with envy. There was nothing in the room that appeared amiss and he stared at her in confusion. “What is wrong?” he demanded.

  Gwynn waved a hand at the room beyond. “It’s pink!

  Pink marble, a huge bath made of pink marble! Did you ever see such a thing?”

  “You scared a year off of my life over a pink marble tub?” he grated. His fingers closed on her shoulders. “Maybe I should drown you in it. Better yet, to show you my forgiving nature, I’ll just help you in.” Before Gwynn could say a word, he swung her over his shoulder and began striding toward the tub. Divining his intent, she began to struggle wildly, but Shae’s steely grip did not loosen. Her 160

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  squeal of dismay was drowned out by a splash when he dumped her into the water. Gwynn came up dripping and swearing. “Not only can you speak different languages; you can swear in them as well. Impressive,” Shae choked out while Gwynn started to climb from the tub. Then she caught sight of a shocked Lesia standing in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry, Lesia, some mortals can be uncivilized brutes. At least, he spared my new boots.”

  “Here, it seems you might need these.” Lesia handed Shae a stack of towels while eyeing the puddles on the floor.

  Shae produced his most charming smile and caught Lesia’s eyes with his own. “Southrons tend to play a little rough,” he told her, looking like a naughty little boy despite his height and broad shoulders. “I really didn’t intend to make more work for you,” he said, spreading the towels to soak up the water.

  It seemed Pathani women were no more immune to his charm than mortal ones were because Lesia blushed and smiled. “It’s no trouble at all, I’ll take care of it; just let me fetch some more towels.” She slipped out the door.

  “My, you are good at what you do.” There was manifest admiration in Gwynn’s voice. She climbed out of the tub and sat on the edge trying to peel off her soaked jerkin. “I bet you could charm a cat from its cream.”

  “Not all my talents involve skill at arms.” Shae’s voice was smug.

  “That’s one way of putting it.” Gwynn managed to wriggle out of her jerkin and hurled it at Shae. He snatched the wet doeskin out of the air a full arm’s length from her intended target of his head. “Now go away; the water is getting cold.”

  “As you wish, lady bard.” Shae dropped her jerkin on a towel and then ducked when a sponge flew in his direction.

  He sauntered off into the other room, chuckling over 161

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  Gwynn’s frustrated curses.

  Shae coaxed a meal out of Lesia in the late afternoon, because his rumbling stomach convinced him that he could not wait for dinner after sunset. He was on the terrace polishing his long sword when Gwynn returned from the garden laden with blossoms. Shae raised an eyebrow at her bare feet.

  “I couldn’t help it. The grass feels better than the rugs,” she told him. “You should try it.”

  “I will take your word for it.” Shae sounded doubtful.

  “Perhaps later.”

  “I may just hold you to that,” she warned. “The sight of you cavorting barefoot in a faery garden sounds too good to miss.”

  “Southrons do not cavort, and even if we did, it would not be in a faery garden!” Shae growled.

  Gwynn giggled and carried her flowers through the door. Sometimes, she did miss having a permanent home, and having a garden was one of the things she missed the most. When she was little, she had spent whole days in the gardens of Baron Holger, following the gardener around and learning about his beloved flowers. There was a beautiful vase on the mantelpiece begging to be filled and she had not been able to resist. After she had arranged the flowers in it and placed it back on the mantel, her eyes were drawn to the lamp beside it.

  How do you bring a mage light to life? Gwynn asked herself. She looked at it thoughtfully. She really knew very little about formal magic. Did you light one like a candle?

  How did it burn with no wick or fuel? Did you call fire but without a fire’s heat?

  She laid her hand against the translucent shade and remembered the feeling she had drawn from the lamp she had touched in the corridor downstairs. Like fire but not, 162

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  glowing without heat. The golden light of called fire sparked from her hand, but Gwynn didn’t release it. She bent it to her will, carefully recalling the other light’s properties and persuaded it to do her will with a cajoling little tune. There was a sudden flare, but no heat, and the lamp on the mantel sprang to life. A perfect mage light glowed within the lapis shade. She stared at it, shocked and thrilled.

  “You made it look too easy.” Shae spoke from a hand span behind her. “Rayna’s mages used to mutter obscure incantations, wiggle their fingers, and make strange faces to get that done.”

  “I just remembered the way the other lamp felt and I tried for the same thing. I didn’t really think it would happen.” She looked at him, disquiet in her gray eyes. “Do you think it is supposed to be so easy?”

  “Darion told you that mortals make magic harder than it needs to be, and you told me that mages place too much importance on simple things.”

  “That is true…” Gwynn’s voiced trailed off, but she was still troubled. “Making a mage light is different than calling fire, although not as different as I thought, but I’m not a mage, I’m a bard.”

  “According to all of you, there are bards who have been quite capable of magic in one form or another. I’m torn on this subject, but I’ve always been taught if you have been gifted with a talent, you owe it to yourself to pursue it.” A sudden frown creased Shae’s handsome features. “Harkir’s Forge, listen to me. I’m telling my charge to study magic. I think the Pathani are making us both unbalanced.”

  Gwynn sighed and threw herself into one of the chairs by the hearth. “So much has happened so quickly, it would be easy to think we are going mad. Darion appearing as he did when I haven’t seen him in years. Then we find out about my Harp and his belief that I have some gift for magic. After 163

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  which, he brings us to Heralith for Ariadwen’s sake!”

  “How do you think I feel? Until last night, I didn’t believe that the Faery Folk actually existed!” Shae sighed too as he sat beside her.

  “I see your point. Oh gods, Shae, what are we doing here?” Gwynn asked plaintively, rubbing her temples.

  “You are here to understand your Harp. Learn all you can, then we will get back on the road to Samhayne.”

  “Is it that simple venchar?” Gwynn had her doubts.

  “We will do our best to make it that way. Little one, I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  “You are probably right.”

  Lesia entered just then, carrying something across both arms and headed toward the bedroom. “Come along, you must choose something to wear this evening.”

  “I’m wearing my burgundy doublet,” Gwynn said, but her curiosity forced her to follow Lesia into the bedroom.

  Lying across the bed were three gorgeous dresses. Gwynn was not opposed to wearing dresses, but they were not well suited to her life on the road. Never, however, had she owned or worn a dress like one of these. She ran her hand over the first one of pale green silk; the material was so fine the entire dress looked like it could have been drawn through a ring. “Where did they come from?” she asked Lesia, staring at the second dress of royal blue.

  “Rhian Selene, Rhi Darion’s sister. She said that since you traveled so much, you might miss having pretty things.

  The Rhian wants you to try them on, so I can make the necessary adjustments.”

  “She doesn’t even know me.”

  “She knows of you from Rhi Darion and she cannot wait to meet you. This is her way of welcoming you to Heralith,” Lesia told her. “It would offend her if you refused.”

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  “I would never want to do that!” Gwynn e
xclaimed.

  “Of course, I will try them.”

  The dresses were nothing like the ones currently in fashion among mortal women. There were no layers of petticoats or corsets for which Gwynn was thankful; constraint for fashion’s sake was ridiculous to her. These dresses had narrow sleeves that left her shoulders bare, clinging closely to the upper part of her body and then flaring into a wide, flowing skirt. Gwynn’s slender figure fit perfectly into them. The only adjustments required were to the length of the sleeves and skirts.

  “Only one more thing.” Lesia was placing the last pin in the hem of the last dress. “Which one would you like to wear this evening?”

  “I couldn’t ask you to have one ready,” Gwynn said looking at the long shadows across the garden.

  “Which one will it be?” Gwynn ran her hand down the dress she had on. It was pale gray, but to call it gray was to do it a terrible injustice. It had a sheen that alternated between pearl and silver, like the moonlight peeking through a veil of thin clouds.

  “This one, I think. They are all lovely, but I will wear this one tonight.” Buried deep in her saddlebags was a set of jewelry her mother had given her years before. The thin silver chain with a pendant moonstone, matching hairpins, and a silver filigree belt also set with moonstones had rarely been worn. Viviene had said while her daughter might insist on someday following the road, a lady should always have something hidden away for special occasions. Gwynn was grateful for her mother’s long-ago thoughtfulness; she could not imagine a more special occasion than a visit to Heralith and the court of the Pathani.