The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 2

  “I’ve been looking for the secret to unlock the magic ever since I was a child. I’m not the first.” She leaned across the desk and he had to steel himself to stop from shrinking. “How do you think Lindos became High Thurge? He’s known how to use the wild magic for longer than you’ve been alive—and he won’t share the secret with anyone. But that’s changed now. And I intend to change everything with it.”

  Siss glanced around the room, casting about for something, anything that would make her change her mind. Every demi-thurge, even the lowest and meanest, even his father, understood the danger of wild magic. His mind flashed a memory of the hovel he’d only too recently left, and he wondered what advice his father would have for him now. Even for the greatest and most powerful of master-thurges, wild magic was something never spoken of, let alone even attempted. Wild magic was the power unbound, untamed by the complicated series of rules and balances imposed by the Covenant upon the thurges. No one even understood how to invoke wild magic. At least, he had thought no one did. He had suspected for some time that his mistress might have attempted it once or twice. But now she intimated that she not only could invoke it; she could use it. As she willed. And if that was true, Rihana was not only the most powerful thurge in all of Khardroon, but in all the Sylyrian League as well. He stared at his mistress. In the candlelight, her skin glowed, as if she were lit from within by some incandescence. He felt the blood rise in his face and in his loins. She was beautiful and terrible all at once and Siss knew beyond all doubt that she was capable of crushing every single one of them all at once. He wet his lips and tried once more. “But what if this Galanthir goes to the Over-Thurge of Gravenhage, and tells him what you offer? How will you answer before the Conclave? Before Lindos? There’s nothing to stop them from turning the Power against you.” In the long silence that followed Siss-Obed wondered if his expendability had outweighed his talent for diplomacy.

  To his surprise, Rihana burst out laughing. “I like that about you, Siss. You aren’t afraid of me. I can’t quite decide if you are truly courageous, completely foolish, or potentially powerful enough to challenge me someday. But we won’t wonder about that now, shall we?” She waved her hand dismissively. “Galanthir go to the Over-Thurge of Gravenhage? Or to the Conclave? I am glad you anticipate such eventualities, Siss. Because that is the very reason I’m sending you, my dear demi-thurge. You are to see that Galanthir accepts my offer—and that no one—and I do mean no one—knows of this. Ever.”

  He swallowed hard and met her eyes. In Rihana’s stare, Siss-Obed thought he could almost read his own doom. “Yes, Most Transcendent. As you will it, I obey.”

  Chapter One

  “You! Old woman!” The harsh voice echoed across the meadow beneath the cloud-studded autumn sky, and reached the old woman as she stamped her foot, impatiently trying to dislodge a troublesome pebble from the sole of her worn leather shoe. She frowned a little and raised her head in the direction of the sound. Little wisps of grey hair escaped her hood and obscured her vision. She swept her hair out of her eyes and gripped the straps that secured her harp to her back. Across the long wind-bent grass, three horsemen bore down on her so swiftly she knew she had no chance to step aside. She picked up the small pack that held the rest of her worldly possessions more out of reflex than need. If it were Dramue’s will that her life was to end here on this rock-rimmed highway, so be it. “As you will it, I obey,” she murmured.

  She narrowed her eyes as the riders cantered up, their huge round-rumped horses obviously bred for war. Their cloaks were a uniform shade of dark red, bordered in intricate designs of black. Some master-thurge’s house guard, she surmised. She noticed that one carried what could only be a woman’s petticoat, white and flounced with lace so delicate it was no more than a gossamer banner in his black-gloved hand. She straightened her back, sensing trouble. This was a public road that led eventually into the City of Sylyria. There was no reason any should deny her access.

  The riders reined their mounts a few paces from the roadside, and the animals tossed their heads, snorting and pawing impatiently. She struggled not to show her fear. One blow from one of those horses’ hooves would be enough to knock her unconscious. “Goddess blessing,” she said, her voice steady by virtue of years and years of travel upon rougher roads than this.

  “State your business here, old woman.” The speaker wore a short pointed beard and his hair was the color and texture of tousled straw. It stuck up in all directions, and the old woman was suddenly hard-pressed not to laugh.

  “I say the songs the goddess sends,” she replied, the old ritual answer falling off her tongue without thought. “I travel to the keep of Thane Jiroud at Castle Sarrasin. I am invited.” She raised her chin defiantly. These ruffians would not intimidate her. She noticed that one of them had ragged scratches, still raw and bleeding, across his face, and the other’s cloak was torn along one seam. What had these men been doing? she wondered. She peered at them more closely, and saw that beneath their cloaks, their clothing was disordered, and that their breeches were muddy at the knees.

  Scratch-face leaned forward and spoke in Straw-hair’s ear. All three men guffawed, and Straw-hair looked at her with contempt. “I’m sure you are, old woman.” He waved his arm. “Off with you. You’ve another two hours on foot.”

  She nodded, not taking her eyes off the men. The one who held the petticoat thrust it down on the far side of the horse, out of her sight. Her uneasiness turned to fear. Something had happened here, something that involved a woman, and one gently born by the looks of that petticoat. There was a furtive air about the men, an air of guilt. She stood her ground as Scratch-face dropped his eyes and pulled at the reins of his horse so quickly that the animal reared and wheeled. “Off with you, old woman,” he said with a quick gesture to his companions. As one, the men touched their heels to their horses’ sides and galloped off.

  She stared after them for a long moment, then scanned the line of willows that surely must bend over a brook. Nothing moved, and she thought of taking off her shoes and bathing her tired feet in the cool water. The pebble that had lodged in her shoe somewhere on the long walk between Eld and Sylyria was growing into a boulder, or at least, so it felt.

  Another gust of wind swept over the meadow, and the grass rippled and the swaying branches of the willows dipped and signed. She looked down the road, and fancied she could see the faint smudge of the walls of her destination on the horizon. If she kept on, she would arrive well before dark. For a moment, she wondered if she should investigate. But if she paused to find out what mischief those men had involved themselves in, she might be on the road after nightfall. The looks of those men decided her. The world was a cold place when one traveled alone, without so much as a roof to call one’s own. She would not invite trouble. She stamped her foot in one more futile attempt to dislodge the troublesome stone, and gripped the straps of her harp harder against her back. She coughed. The familiar tightness in her chest clenched around her heart. She thought of her old friend and student, Reyerne, now music master at the keep of the thane. One more student to assess, one more prodigy to recognize, one more Festival, and then it would be time to rest. The goddess was calling her home. With a sigh, she shrugged her pack to her shoulder and continued on her way.

  “No!” The word hung, almost visible, not six inches from the long nose of the man who stood in trembling obeisance before Jiroud, Thane of Sarrasin. “How many times and in how many ways must I say it? Invite all the songsayers you please beneath my roof; let Juilene play ’til her fingers bleed. But no daughter of mine shall make a public spectacle of herself, at the Festival or anywhere else, and that’s my final word.” Jiroud folded his arms over the gold medallion of his rank and leaned against the high carved back of his chair. The late-afternoon light slanted across his face, and the red glow of the fading sun only made him seem more formidable than he already was. Sarrasin was one of the largest domains in all of Sylyria, and anyone who met Jiroud never fo
rgot it. The medallion gleamed upon his chest, throwing off golden glints of light in all directions, and his grey hair, once an auburn as ruddy as the light, hung loose and curling about his shoulders.

  From the safety of the far side of the hearth, Juilene allowed her fingers to skip lightly over the brass strings of her harp, and watched her music master raise a stubborn chin, even as his shoulders shifted with a barely concealed sigh. The tentative notes faded, even as Reyerne’s persistent pleading continued.

  “But, Thane Jiroud,” said Reyerne, a man more known for his musical talent than his diplomacy, “this will be her only chance, her last chance, to sing and play before the goddess. Can’t you see the opportunity, the honor she will bring to your house? Not one of the noble houses—”

  “Precisely,” Jiroud said. “Not one of the noble houses has ever sent a daughter—or a son, either—to join the ranks of the songsayers at Festival. And that is precisely why I will not allow it, either.”

  Reyerne sighed and ran his fingers with their callused tips and long nails through his shock of unruly white hair. Fourteen years in Jiroud’s service had inured him to the thane’s wrath. “My lord, I beg you. Your daughter has a rare and unique gift. I know that most of the songsayers who appear before the Festival are mere charlatans, mere amateurs. But the Lady Juilene is the genuine thing—she more than any other pupil I have ever had deserves the honor and the recognition. One of the greatest of them all will be here before nightfall—just to hear your daughter sing.”

  “That’s as may be,” answered Jiroud. He looked up and for a moment, Juilene felt her father’s keen eye fall upon her. She bent her head and hid her face behind the curtain of her curly auburn hair. It wouldn’t be wise to attract too much of his attention at the moment. “Any songsayer is welcome beneath my roof. But my answer is still no. The songsayers may be sacred to the goddess in theory, Reyerne, but you and I both know that too many are little more than—than—” Jiroud glanced at Juilene, clearly struggling for a delicate way in which to express himself. “The reality is far different. Most of them are nothing but common harlots who offer much more than a song in exchange for a bed. I won’t have my daughter mistaken for one of that sort.”

  “But, lord, can’t you agree that when one is given a gift by the goddess as precious and rare as the Lady Juilene’s, it should be used, appreciated, not hidden beneath a barrel to shine all alone by itself? What would the goddess have been thinking when she bestowed this gift upon your daughter?”

  Jiroud’s thick grey eyebrows rushed together and met above his hawk nose. “I don’t presume to guess what the goddess was thinking when she bestowed the gift, as you call it, upon Juilene. But I remind you she also saw fit to make her the daughter of one of the most important families in all of Sylyria—in all the League, I might add. And there are certain things a daughter in Juilene’s position just doesn’t do—and parading around at Festival in the company of harlots and drunkards, thieves and cutpurses, surely is one of them.” His face flushed, and he snapped his fingers at the seneschal, who, along with two other men, idled uncomfortably just inside the doorway that led from the kitchens. “Damn it, man, stop fingering that message like a whore. Where’s that demi-thurge? I thought I paid well for fair weather, and now you bring me this.” Jiroud held out his hand for the rolled parchment that the seneschal reluctantly laid in his palm.

  Reyerne stiffened. When Jiroud was in one of his rages, it wasn’t wise to confront him. Accordingly, the music master dropped his eyes and allowed his shoulders to sag an infinitesimal, albeit visible, amount. He sighed audibly as he withdrew. Juilene clutched the harp closer, and shifted on her stool. She held her finger up to her mouth as her music master approached with heavy steps. It definitely wouldn’t do to call any further attention to themselves right now. She watched as the demi-thurge, a slight, stoop-shouldered man of middle years, shuffled to the front of the dais. Dust clung to the front of his robe, his hair looked as if it had never seen a comb, and Juilene could never remember his name.

  “With all due respect, Thane Jiroud,” he began, “there is no way to guarantee safe passage of a cargo. Not from pirates and weather. What you demanded was simply too complicated for this time of year, when the winds off the Outer Ocean are too unpredictable—”

  Jiroud glared at the demi-thurge. “Excuses. You like the security of my roof—of my kitchens well enough. You’ll take my money and my food. And in exchange, what do you give me? Excuses. All you thurges—some days I think we’d be better off without the lot of you hanging ’round.”

  “I beg your pardon, Thane Jiroud,” said the demi-thurge, “but not every thane agrees with your assessment of our worth. Why, only last Festival, the thurges of Sylyria were commended for their—”

  “Quiet,” snarled Jiroud. “I was there.” He shook his head. “What do you suggest now, Master Demi-Thurge? My cargo’s in the hands of Parmathian pirates—what’s left of it.”

  “I will, if my thane wishes,” replied the demi-thurge with an air of injured dignity, “consult with Master-Thurge Lindos. It is entirely possible that I made mistakes in my calculations—I am ready to take responsibility for whatever difficulties that has caused.”

  Juilene bit her lip. Her father was behaving like a boor and a bully. The poor thurge looked so uncomfortable. Beside her, Reyerne looked no less discomfitted. One of these days, her father was likely to burst a blood vessel in his head with all his bellowing, and it looked as if today might be the day. Certainly it was not a good day to ask her father anything. But every year since she had turned fourteen—the minimum age for a songsayer to appear at Festival and perform before the goddess—Reyerne had approached her father and asked, no, begged permission for her to play and sing before the city. And every year her father said no.

  This year was different though. Her exasperation flared into full-fledged resentment as her fingers fell across the strings more heavily than they should, and Reyerne raised an eyebrow. Her mouth twitched an apology. But why apologize? This was the last year she would ever be able to appear before the Festival. Songsayers were supposed to be single—they couldn’t be married, for the Goddess Dramue in her incarnation had remained unmarried. And this year, on the eve of her twentieth birthday, she was to be married to her childhood sweetheart and the heir to the neighboring domain, Arimond of Ravenwood. Thus, with one stroke, her father accomplished two things at once: his daughter’s happiness and the uniting of two distant septs of one of the oldest families in all the Sylyrian League. Though, really, thought Juilene as she caressed the smooth strings of polished brass, really he had accomplished three. He had insured that she, his only daughter, would never seek employment as a songsayer.

  She plucked a few strings experimentally and watched her father beneath carefully lowered lids. For all the lip service her father paid the goddess, he had no idea what music meant to her or to anyone else for that matter. He was a tall man, still in his prime, still vital, still a force to be reckoned with, and his whole life was consumed with the cares of his domain. Jiroud’s scowl deepened as he chewed a stick of uster-wood, reading and rereading the parchment scroll from his agent in the port city of Khardroon. The pirates who roamed the waters of the Parmathian Straits were a notorious menace to shipping and trade, and Jiroud had sought to ensure a safe passage by means of the magic. Juilene pressed her lips together in a suppressed sigh, and glanced at Reyerne.

  The music master’s hair stuck up in all directions, a sure sign of distress, and his whole body quivered. “I am sorry, my lady,” he began. “I tried. I thought this year—surely, this year, your father would relent. Perhaps after Galicia hears you sing—”

  She shook her head and shrugged. “I doubt it, Reyerne. Look at Father’s mood. Could the goddess herself change his mind? I know you meant well, asking her to come and hear me, but I’m not surprised. I never thought for a moment Father would allow it. You know what he thinks of songsayers.”

  Reyerne sighed again. “Y
es. I do. And for the most part I agree with him. It is a most debased occupation. But you—you, my lady—your gift is real. Who better to honor the goddess in her own profession?”

  Juilene looked down at the harp she held, at her long nails necessary to play the brass strings. “It won’t be the same after I marry Arimond, Reyerne, you know that. I won’t have time for singing or for playing. Maybe it’s just as well that I stop now.” She finished with an angry glance in her father’s direction.

  “No, my lady, please don’t say that.” Reyerne bent down and covered her hand with his. On the broad palm, she felt the same smooth calluses as on hers.

  She looked into his faded brown eyes, and all the anger she felt for her father melted into sympathy for her tutor. She had studied with Reyerne for more than twelve years. In all that time, Reyerne had refused offers of other employment, the opportunity to move on to other households, even to teach at the Academy in Sylyria, where the best of the songsayers trained. There were some unkind enough to say that Reyerne did not so much refuse to leave Juilene as he refused to leave his sinecure. But Juilene knew the depth of the old man’s devotion.

  He drew another deep breath and slowly straightened. “Forgive me, my lady. Galicia is a very old friend of mine, a songsayer of highest repute. Perhaps she will be able to change your father’s mind.”

  “If she does,” Juilene said with a sad smile, “she will be the first.”

  “I have known her since I was very young, for I was fortunate enough to study under her when I was not much older than you are now. Surely the goddess herself has willed that Galicia intends to be in Sylyria for the Festival this year. For even if your father won’t change his mind, I want her to hear you play. She cannot help but be impressed.”

  Juilene smiled. Everyone who heard her play said the same things. It would be good to play just once at the Festival—just once to sit before the anonymous, faceless crowds and offer her songs to the goddess. It would be a fitting end to her years of study. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine the scene—the crowds clustered close about her feet, the flickering torchlight, the eager faces fastened on her hands and on her harp. With her hands and her voice, she would weave a spell as real as any thurge, and she would feel the acclaim, know that with her music, she had pleased them all and taken them to a place only she could show them. But Reyerne was speaking, and the vision faded abruptly. “I—I have begun to make arrangements, in fact.”