The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Read online

  BY PASSION BETRAYED

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Desire won over fear and Lady Juilene reached to caress his cheek. Arimond raised himself over her, his body covering hers. She placed one hand on his chest, and gasped.

  The sapphire ring, her mother’s legacy, blazed brighter than thousands of gems combined. She stifled a scream and her eyes met his and in that moment she knew she looked into the eyes of a stranger.

  There was nothing of Arimond’s love in those eyes, only lust and desire and something that could only be hate.

  His face changed before her eyes. His hair lightened from sun-bleached gold to nearly white, his cheekbones heightened and became more prominent. His lips thinned.

  “Lindos!” she cried.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Bush displays vivid imagination.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  ALSO BY ANNE KELLEHER BUSH

  Daughter of Prophecy

  Children of Enchantment

  The Misbegotten King

  PUBLISHED BY

  WARNER BOOKS

  Copyright

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1999 by Anne Kelleher Bush

  All rights reserved.

  Aspect® name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books, Inc.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: September 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2667-9

  For my dearest Katie Liz—my rose without thorns—

  with love beyond reason or measure.

  —Mommy

  Contents

  BY PASSION BETRAYED

  ALSO BY ANNE KELLEHER BUSH

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chaper Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  THE SONGS THE GODDESS SENDS

  Prologue

  Silent as the flicker of the candle he clenched in his fist, the young thurge stole through the halls of the sleeping house. His white robe, bordered with the glyphs of the House of the Over-Thurge of Khardroon, shivered around him. His bare brown feet, smooth as the soles of an infant, made no sound on the marble floors, which even in the height of the summer heat were cool.

  But the chill that ran up his spine and lingered like a lover’s hand on the back of his neck had nothing to do with the temperature of the stone beneath his feet. He had labored long over his books that day, wrestling with the formulas concerning the tides and the moon phases of the approaching autumn. He had gone to bed with a headache from the arcane combinations that danced jigs before his closed eyes, and a prayer that somehow it all make sense in the morning. Now he doubted he would see his bed again before dawn. A summons in the middle of the night from Her Transcendence could mean only one thing. Someone or something had displeased the mighty Over-Thurge of the third most powerful city in the Sylyrian League, and he, sleepy Siss-Obed bel ’Damin, the nineteen-year-old son of a mere demi-thurge, was about to be called upon to arrange whatever might be necessary to restore Rihana’s good humor. In no way did Siss believe himself to be anything but expendable, even though his growing reputation for discretion had earned him the favorable notice of Her Transcendence. But now he wondered what quality had made her call for him in the middle of the night: his discretion or his expendability? He gripped his smoking candle until his nails dug into his flesh, and tried to convince himself it was only the heat that made his palm sweat.

  The flame threw up huge shadows against the white walls of the corridor, and as he passed by, the light glimmered off the unlit sconces of polished gold set high upon the walls. The palace of the Over-Thurge of Khardroon had never been so magnificent before Her Transcendence had come into her power. He entered the long gallery, where the wide windows were thrown open to catch the breezes off the sea. The summer night was sultry; the gauzy shrouds draped over the windows to discourage insects hung still as corpses on the hangman’s tree. He could not even hear the ships in the nearby harbor creaking on their moorings. It was as if the whole city held its breath, in anticipation of something—or someone, he mused as he pushed open the elaborately carved doors at the end of the gallery. But what could have so disturbed Her Transcendence on such a night, when surely all the good citizens of the city slept in heat-drugged stupor, and even the rest were likely to lie in snoring oblivion in their rat-infested warrens?

  He paused a moment and took a deep breath. With only the slightest waver of the candle, he opened the door and stepped into the antechamber of Her Transcendence’s suite. The light of a hundred candles stung his eyes, and an incessant buzzing rose to a fevered pitch upon his entrance. He allowed the suggestion of a frown to cross his face, even as he dropped his eyes and composed his features into the impassive mask it was wisest to wear. He gathered the folds of his robe more closely about him, and hoped she wouldn’t notice that his fingers trembled.

  “You’re late.”

  The voice cut through the thick air with the precision of a scalpel, soft and biting all at once. He raised his eyes without the least hesitation, for that was never wise, and met the dark, hooded eyes of Rihana, the Over-Thurge of Khardroon.

  She was still a young woman, not yet passed her child-bearing years, but her beauty emanated from the power that clung to her like a garment, not from any symmetry of face or form. Her full lips were red in the candlelight, and her skin had that subtle glow that told him she had used her power but only a short time ago. Her black hair was piled in a careless knot upon her head, and her dark nipples made round shadows beneath her thin white shift.

  He dropped his eyes again, and stood just inside the door, his posture that of perfect submission. “My Transcendence,” he murmured.

  Just as he spoke, the mantling on her desk shrieked. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Immediately, from across the room, a sympathetic moan arose from the gilded cage that contained at least a score of the things.

  “Ssh,” she said, one long fingertip gently touching the tiny head of the thing writhing upon the smooth surface of the desk, its pink human-shaped head at odds with the black carapace of its insect body.

  Siss-Obed swallowed hard. How could she stand the presence of the mantlings, let alone to touch one? They were a legacy of the long-ago Age of Anarchy, before the Goddess Dramue had set the world in balance, when the thurges quarreled among themselves and used their power indiscriminately. The mantlings had the faces and features of humans, with the bodies of insects. They could grow as long as a man’s longest finger, and their young were as affectionate, it was said, as puppies. Not that he would know. He had never touched one of the things, and would have sooner shared the room with dwarf dragons. At least they didn’t look at you with human eyes.

  Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed hard with effort. It would never do to let the Over-Thurge see his disgust. She might order him to touch the thing itself.

  Beneath her finger the creature had calmed, and the angry buzz from the gilded cage subsided to a low hum. He raised his eyes to hers once more. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I had gone to bed early, and your servant had a difficul
t time waking me.”

  She ran the edge of her tongue over her lips and continued to stroke the head of the mantling. “Please”—she gestured toward the gilded chair on the opposite side of her desk—“sit.”

  The black carapace of the insect tapped from side to side as the creature squirmed in mindless ecstasy. He sidled closer and sat down. Better to concentrate upon Her Transcendence than the creature on the desk.

  “Word has reached me from Gravenhage,” she began without looking up.

  “Oh?” He kept his face carefully neutral. Gravenhage lay to the north, second in power only to Sylyria of all the seven city-states of the League. The Conclave of Thurges was due to meet there in less than a month. He remembered the cold winds that blew off the mountains and shivered. He most fervently hoped the lady had not taken it into her mind to send him there any sooner than was absolutely necessary.

  Her eyes flicked over him, colder than the memory of that mountain air, impersonal as the sting of a whip. “I know you like your comforts, Siss, but I’m afraid I must send you there. Sooner than I ever expected.”

  He clasped his hands on his lap, willing them to relax. “As you will it, Transcendence, I obey.”

  She circled the mantling’s downy head with one fingertip and smiled as it preened. “The young heir of the King of Gravenhage has gotten himself into a fine coil of trouble. And it seems to me we can turn it to our advantage.”

  Of course, thought Siss-Obed, settling back. Of course it would be turned to her advantage. For if Her Transcendence didn’t take advantage of whatever tangle the young Prince of Gravenhage had happened to find himself in, the other thurges of the other city-states surely would. He leaned against the thick cushion and waited to hear more. It was never wise to try to second-guess Rihana’s intentions.

  This time she smiled directly at him. The dark depths of her eyes glittered with power and something else, something hard and hungry. He preferred to think that it was curiosity that caused his throat to close as if seized by a predator. He allowed himself one “Oh?”

  “He’s gotten his half sister with child.”

  “What?” Involuntarily he started out of his chair. “The heir of Gravenhage has no—”

  “Ah.” She held up her hand. “That’s what they wanted everyone to think. Queen Mirta kept her mouth shut a little too tightly, for no one ever guessed that General Keriaan was the father of her son. However…” Her voice trailed off and she dropped her eyes once more to the thing undulating beneath her finger. A small smile played at the comers of her lips, and Siss-Obed once again suppressed a shudder.

  “However,” he finished for her, “your spies are well paid. But what is the use of such information to Khar-droon?”

  “I intend to help, of course.” Her expression was so perfectly guileless he wanted to laugh in spite of his fear. “Something must be done about this, or the entire House and City of Gravenhage may be disgraced. Mirta has had a hard enough time controlling the various factions with the House, especially the one led by Lord Amon. What if the House of Gravenhage falls?”

  He sucked in a long slow breath. The question was merely rhetorical. He knew as well as she what would happen if the House of the Thane of Gravenhage was to fall. The delicate balance of the world order would be upset, and suddenly he felt cold all over. Could Rihana’s sudden interest mean that the throne of Gravenhage was in imminent danger of falling? But her next words were even more startling.

  “And in order to prevent such a calamity, I intend to offer my power to Galanthir.”

  “Galanthir? He’s no more than a master-thurge in the service of the Over-Thurge—why does he deserve such an honor?”

  “Keriaan is his brother—and that makes the young prince his nephew. He will do anything to spare his family and that of the ruling house the disgrace of incest. Think of what the nobles of Gravenhage would do were it known that the young prince and his own half sister…” Rihana’s words ended in a sly smile.

  “Galanthir’s appealed to you for help?”

  “No.” She snorted impatiently and the mantling whimpered its displeasure at the abrupt change in her touch. “Of course not. But I’ve read the Book this night. There may be a way to overthrow Lindos, and secure the power of the Conclave for ourselves.

  Now he was beginning to understand. Rihana had only a passing interest in the affairs of the thanes of Gravenhage. It was Lindos who was her target, Lindos, Over-Thurge of Sylyria and High Thurge of the Conclave. As High Thurge, Lindos was the most powerful thurge in the entire world. Rihana would do anything to bring about his downfall in order to take his place. “What do you intend to do?” She smiled once more, and this time he shivered visibly. He reminded himself to relax. “And what do you want of me, Most Transcendent?”

  Her lips quirked a little at a title. It was the one reserved for only the High Thurge, whose will was considered a divine manifestation of the goddess. “You know me well for someone who’s been in my service only a few years, Siss-Obed,” she murmured as she allowed her eyes to linger on him.

  A needle of fear slivered through him. Was this a good thing, or a bad? He lowered his eyes. “I have always been observant, Transcendent One.”

  She laughed softly. “Yes. So I’ve noticed.” She stroked the head of the mantling, which had fallen into a deep sleep. “And that’s why I want you to go to Gravenhage. Ostensibly, as my agent, you will make the arrangements for my arrival—find suitable lodging, arrange for servants, that sort of thing, you know.” She paused and he waited.

  “But most importantly, you are to seek out this Galanthir. And when you judge the time to be right, you are to offer him the help of Khardroon. Do you understand?”

  He spread his hands, more than a little confused. “But what help am I to offer, Transcendence? How can the Power of Khardroon assist?”

  She paused once more. She stroked her chin with long fingers, pinning him to the chair with her pointed gaze. At last she pushed her chair back from the desk and rose. Noiselessly, she padded to the wide window and gazed out at the silent courtyard far below. “What I am to tell you, Siss-Obed, you will reveal to no one. Do you understand?”

  “You have my word, Transcendence.”

  She turned and the smile on her face made him shudder. “I’ll have much more than that if you betray me, Siss-Obed. But never mind.” She turned back to the window and spoke softly, so softly that he had to lean forward to hear her. “We do not so much wish to bring down the throne of Gravenhage as we wish to bring about Lindos’s doom—do you understand?”

  “Yes, Transcendence.”

  “And the Book is clear—Lindos’s doom is the non-born knight.”

  “Non-born knight? What’s that? How can there be a knight who isn’t born?”

  This time her smile was genuine. “I have puzzled over that for longer than you can imagine, Siss. And the answer came clear to me tonight. So this is what we are going to offer to Galanthir. We will offer to send his nephew—Cariad, that’s his name—back in time. And we’ll tell him that the Book reveals that the House of Gravenhage will be secured if he does.”

  “And will it?” asked Siss, momentarily confused.

  She waved her hand impatiently. “How should I know? The Book only hints of the present future—not one which will be incurred should the past change. But it won’t matter. For once Cariad is in the past, he will be the non-born knight of Lindos’s doom. I will send him to a time before Lindos was ever Over-Thurge of Sylyria—when Lindos was only a master-thurge—not much more powerful than the demi-thurges who served him. Lindos’s fate shall be sealed before he ever has the chance to become Over-Thurge of Sylyria.” She paused once more, and drew a deep breath, her breasts swelling under the thin white fabric of her gown. “And nothing—and no one—shall prevent me from becoming High Thurge of the Conclave.”

  So that was it. Siss-Obed stared at her, his thoughts now a jumbled swirl of terror and confusion. Not only was the House of Gravenhage about t
o pay a high price for the help that would come from Khardroon. But he suspected that the real price was hidden far more deeply than anyone, even Rihana herself, might ever know. “Back in time?” he whispered, more to himself than to the lady. “Is such a thing possible?”

  She smiled again, and turned back to face the night. “All things are possible, Siss, if one but dares. You’re a thurge—a young one, but a thurge nonetheless. You should know that.”

  “But—but to alter time? Won’t that upset the Balance—the Order?” Genuinely perplexed, all his fears forgotten, as well as his careful control, he gazed at his mistress.

  “It may,” she said softly, so softly he had to lean forward once more to hear. “But the Covenant was only meant to last ten thousand years, Siss. And the tenth millennium approaches.”

  “And what if you anger the goddess herself, lady?” whispered Siss. His gaze dropped to the abomination sleeping on her desk.

  “I don’t believe in the goddess, Siss. And here’s a little secret: neither do most of us. The Covenant is nothing but an outworn set of rules that haven’t changed with the world. It’s time new ones were written.” She turned back to him, a smile stretched across her full bloodred lips, and this time he recognized the look in her eyes. It was the one worn by predators when the prey is finally within reach.

  “But what of the other Over-Thurges? Never mind Lindos—what of the others?” Shock made him persist even in the face of her most dangerous expression. “Do you think the Conclave will sit idly by and allow—”

  “Allow?” She spat the word back at him. “Those fools in the Conclave—what use is the Power if they are afraid to use it? Think of them all: sanctimonious old men who allow themselves to be bound by an outworn writ, a writ that constrains us to study but almost never to use. Bound magic. Faugh,” she spat. “What use are such men to me? What use is such magic to me? And what have I to fear?’

  “Wild magic,” Siss whispered. “You mean to use wild magic.”