The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 5

  If Arimond was not the non-born knight of Lindos’s doom, he was as good as dead. The awfulness of that possibility made her stomach clench and her heart pound. No, she decided, she wouldn’t even consider that a possibility. There was no way he could not be the non-born knight; the circumstances of his birth were too idiosyncratic, too amazing. That he was even alive at all was a gift of the goddess. She had never heard of such a thing happening before. She ignored the warning voice in her head that cautioned her that she knew hardly anything about midwifery.

  She had already thought of how she would slip away from the castle, under the guise of Arimond’s company. They would tell her father and her brother that they were going to the Festival; once in the crowd, it would be an easy thing to separate from them, even if her father or brother were to insist upon accompanying her. And then together, she and Arimond would approach the gates of the master-thurge’s keep.

  She believed she had the skill to lull the wizard and his underlings into believing she was just an ordinary songsayer. She only hoped she would be able to divert his attention completely enough so that Arimond would be able to do what he had planned. The few snippets of information she’d managed to overhear about Melly’s condition had convinced her that Arimond was right. No woman—noble or not—should ever be subjected to such treatment. And it wasn’t only Lindos’s lack of control over his men—she’d heard the servants whispering of what went on in Lindos’s own bedchamber. They’d broken off when they’d noticed her, of course, but she’d heard enough to convince her that master-thurge or not, Lindos should be stopped. And if the Over-Thurge was unwilling to remove him, well… let the task fall to those who were willing to do it.

  She rose to her feet and the harp strings quivered in response. The notes rippled like a sigh under her fingers.

  She rummaged through her closet for her plainest and most serviceable gown. Wandering songsayers weren’t rich; they had only a few possessions that they carried on their backs. No, she thought as she smoothed the folds of the blue woolen gown, which even though plain was strong and beautifully woven, they had no need for many things.

  A light step behind her startled her out of her reverie. She jumped just a little but didn’t turn. Only old Neri, her nurse, had a step like that, and a scent, warm and sweet as caramel, that seemed to follow her wherever she went.

  “It’s time you were to bed, child.”

  Juilene nodded, pressing her eyes closed against the sudden flood of tears, even as she felt the old woman stand beside her. When did Neri get so short? Juilene wondered. The top of the old woman’s white head barely came to her shoulder. She sighed, though it was more a hiccup than a sigh, and she tightened her fingers around the fabric.

  The old woman laid her gnarled fingers on top of her smooth hand, gently laying aside the gown Juilene clutched. “I know,” she said. “I know.”

  Juilene pressed her lips together, and drew a deep breath. “Father and Lazare are discussing what’s to be done, but, Neri, really, what can be done? There’s nothing any of the thanes can do—Lindos is too powerful. Every thane in Sylyria can gather all they please, but will that help Melly? Will that stop Lindos?”

  “Ah, child.” Neri drew her close. “Your father and the other thanes have more recourse than you might think. After all, the Over-Thurge of Sylyria—”

  “Is dead, Neri. The new Over-Thurge will have all he can do to maintain the balance of power, with the old one’s passing. And the Conclave won’t meet now ’til spring, and until then—who’s to say how much trouble Lindos and his men can cause? Oh, Father thinks they’ll lie low for a while, because there will be such an outcry, but even so—”

  “Now, now, child. You’re overwrought. Come to bed. It’s late, and you can do nothing tonight, but make yourself sick with upset. Come.”

  With gentle tugging and prodding, the old nurse drew Juilene away from the window and sat her down before her dressing table. The gnarled old fingers removed the pins that held Juilene’s thick auburn hair in some semblance of order and picked up the brush. “But, Neri, what if Melly dies? Arimond will be mad with grief—”

  “Child.” Neri did not pause in the brushing. “There is nothing—nothing at all that you can do now. Worrying about something that may not come to pass won’t help. Lady Melly’s fate is in the hands of the goddess. You must trust in her wisdom to set the balance right.”

  “I don’t think I could bear it if Melly died, Neri.”

  The old woman said nothing, her touch steady and soothing.

  “And I don’t know what Arimond will do.”

  “It would be best if he left it in the hands of the goddess, child. But if he chooses not to, that won’t be for you to prevent.”

  Juilene drew a deep breath and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The polished steel reflected the light of the candles, and the light gleamed on the wood of her harp where it rested on its stand by her bed. “Nenny—” the old childhood title slipped easily from her lips unnoticed. “If I tell you a secret—do you promise to keep it?”

  “Well, I don’t know, child.” Out of the corner of her eye, Juilene saw the old woman cock her head and raise her eyebrow in the familiar gesture of disbelief, even as she continued to brush steadily. It was one she had seen often enough, when Arimond and Melly had gotten her into trouble. “It depends what the secret is.”

  “I’ve been thinking all evening, Nenny. Ever since Mondo came and told us about Melly. Melly has always been the bravest of us. She never hesitated to try anything.”

  The old woman was silent, waiting.

  “If I told you I wanted to go to the Festival as one of the songsayers, what would you say? Would you go and tell Father?”

  The old woman hesitated, and loyalty to her master and love for her charge warred clearly on her face.

  “You know by Year’s End, Mondo and I will be married. And then I will never have the chance to join the Festival, never. You always told me I sang well enough, and now tonight you told me—”

  “Oh, child,” the old woman sighed and her voice was heavy with age. “You always were one to turn my own words against me.”

  “Nenny, listen.” Impulsively, Juilene turned and kissed the old woman. “You know the songsayers are sacred to the goddess; what harm can come to me? And Arimond will be with me—he won’t let anyone come within yards of me. Just this once—just this last time before I marry and take up all the cares for which you and the others have prepared me, for so long? It isn’t fair you know—”

  “Not fair?” The old woman blinked.

  “Not fair that Father gave me music lessons and hired tutors to come and teach me, and doesn’t mind trotting me out whenever there’re guests. You know he was to have me sing tomorrow night, though he will probably excuse me now…” Her voice trailed off, and her hands tightened involuntarily again. Every time she thought of Melly her throat tightened and she thought she might never be able to sing until she knew her friend was out of danger.

  “You think that’s something Lady Melly might have tried, if she’d been given your gifts?” Neri’s voice ended on a quaver and Juilene knew that the old woman shared her worry.

  Juilene nodded, unable to speak over the lump in her throat.

  “Well, child.” The old woman paused and drew a deep breath. “I can’t see there’s much harm to it—but how—”

  “Leave the how to Arimond and me. We’ll think of something, and it’s better if you don’t know anything at all, don’t you think?” Juilene stole a glance at her old nurse under her lashes. “That way you can’t lie to Father, and if anyone gets into trouble, it will only be the two of us.”

  Neri shook her head. “Indeed, child. Only the two of you. I can’t imagine what sort of trouble there could be over Festival, but you never know. It would do you both well to be careful—extremely careful. Your father will not look kindly upon being fooled, no matter how harmless the prank.”

  “I won’t be long.” Fallona
, Arimond’s stepmother, laid a gentle hand on his cheek as she rose to her feet from the chair beside the bed. “Branward said if she lived the night, she had a better chance of surviving. And now that she has—” It was the sixth or seventh time Arimond had heard her repeat that phrase since dawn, as if it were a charm or an incantation, warding away death.

  “Yes, Mother.” Arimond bowed as Fallona left the room with a heavy step. He had never seen his stepmother look so old. She had been a beautiful woman when his father had brought her to the keep, and in the sixteen years since her marriage to his father, she had never seemed to age. The only other time he had seen her look so old was the night his father’s body had been borne home from the Gathering at last Year’s End.

  Was it truly less than a year since his father had died, he wondered, leaving him the heir of his small domain? Arimond had thought Fallona would never smile all those dark winter days. It was only recently that some of the heavy shroud of her grief had begun to lift. And now, if his sister died… He let his thoughts trail off into the unthinkable. His stepmother was likely to retreat into a deep depression if his sister died. They were all she had left, Fallona would say, gathering both of them to her and pressing them close. She had never treated Arimond as anything less than her own son, and she was all the mother he had ever known.

  Now he stood just inside the doorway of his sister’s bedchamber, where a low fire burned in the polished grate, and a shaft of pale morning sun cut through the drawn drapes like a blade. Melly lay on her back, her arms by her sides, her hair spilling over the clean white linen of the pillow. The covers were drawn up to her chin. Her cheeks were swollen bruises and one eye was as huge and purple as a plum.

  He sank down into the chair beside her, wishing he could hold her hand. But both her hands were wrapped in bandages, her right had was swollen to three times its normal size. If she did recover, there was some question whether she would ever have the use of her right hand again. Food for Parmathian sucker vines, he thought. I’d like to wrap each and every one of Lindos’s men in one of them, and watch while the suckers did their work, leaving only empty shells. The vines spread like brushfire across any area where they gained a foothold, and were more feared than animal predators. Lindos’s men richly deserved such a fate.

  “Arimelle,” he murmured. “Melly.” He leaned forward, as close as he dared, watching the labored rise and fall of her chest beneath the white sheets. “I swear to you, Melly, and before the goddess, I’ll see you avenged. I’ll see Lindos dead, and his men brought to answer before the Gathering. They aren’t thurges—those misbred whelps of his. They’re only men like the rest of us, and I will see them answer before the thanes, I swear it. And Lindos will go to his grave, knowing you were the one who ultimately brought down his doom.”

  In the dim room, the only answer was the soft snap and hiss of the fire. He stared at his sister, trying desperately to see if there was some hope, some flicker of response. But there was nothing, and he sighed, closing his eyes. He’d not slept at all.

  “Arimond?”

  Juilene’s soft voice startled him out of his reverie and he jumped in his chair. “Juilene?” he said in a loud whisper as she stepped into the room, her harp in her arms. “What are you doing here?”

  Juilene pushed her hood off her face, staring down at the bed. “Father came to speak to your mother again. I wanted to come, too—I brought my harp…” Her voice trailed off as she gazed at Arimelle, lying still in her bandages on the bed. “Oh, goddess, Arimond, I didn’t realize how bad—” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as Arimond leaped to his feet.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Juilene. You shouldn’t see this.” He strode around the bed.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she cradled the harp close. “Arimond, Arimond, how could anyone do this—”

  “Come with me.” He wrapped one arm firmly around her shoulders and propelled her out of the room. He held her close to his chest and stroked her hair. “You shouldn’t have seen that, Juilene. She’s beyond your music, right now. There isn’t anything any of us can do for her, but wait and hope.”

  Juilene took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “They must be monsters. How could anyone do such a thing?”

  Arimond looked grim. “Now do you understand why I must see Lindos punished? Now do you understand why someone must stop him?” When Juilene nodded, he pressed a quick kiss on top of her forehead. “Go on, now. Go back to your father. I must wait here until my mother comes back. I’ll take you home when I can.”

  Wordlessly, Juilene turned away. Arimond watched her go, anger churning in his gut. He went back into his sister’s sickroom and sank down once more into the chair. He wished he could touch her, but he didn’t dare. With another muttered curse, he spoke aloud. “I’ll see that dog dead.”

  “Strong words, young thane.”

  At the sound of a man’s voice, he looked up, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his side.

  “Forgive me, Thane Arimond.” The house physician, Branward, stepped farther into the room, his bag of instruments held in his hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you so.”

  “Physician.” Arimond sagged. “I could have killed you.”

  Branward nodded. “You’re in a killing mood, young thane.”

  Arimond raised his eyebrow. The physician was not so very old, perhaps only five years or so older than his mother, and he had served in his father’s household since the time he and Fallona had been married. He had more times than Arimond could count bound up fingers and toes in the endless scrapes Arimond had gotten into as a child, had patiently attended Arimond through all the customary illnesses of childhood. “And would you blame me, physician?”

  Branward raised his brow. “We are sworn not to kill, my lord.” On silent feet, he moved to Arimelle’s bedside. “If you will excuse me?”

  With a short nod, Arimond rose. At the door he paused. “Physician?”

  Branward glanced up. “My thane?”

  “You—you have some touch of the power, do you not?”

  The physician made a little gesture with his hands, and straightened. “I am merely a demi-thurge, my thane, and my training in the use of the power is limited to the healing arts. I have never had a reason to study further.”

  Arimond nodded. “But you do know certain—certain charms—certain spells to dispel certain effects of the magic?”

  “Only the most rudimentary, my thane, although I, like any other thurge, am capable of discerning the effects of the power when it is used upon another. And I can assure you, it may have been the thurge’s men who did this to your sister, but there is no trace of the power upon her. Her ills are only those of the flesh, nothing more.”

  Arimond nodded. “Yes, I know, physician. Thank you.” His whole body thrummed with suppressed tension. If Branward could provide him with even the simplest protection from Lindos’s power, his plan had a much better chance of succeeding. Now was simply not the time to broach the subject. In the shadowy corridor, he met Fallona.

  “Branward was—” she began.

  “He’s with her now.”

  Fallona sighed and squeezed his hand. “Thank you for sitting with her. I want someone with her if—when she wakes.” She gazed up at Arimond with misty eyes.

  “I understand, Mother.” He patted her hand. “I’m going to take Juilene back to Sarrasin—I’ll be back in—”

  “Arimond, you won’t do anything foolish?” Fallona drew back and stared up at him, her brows knit together.

  “I’m only going to take Juilene home. I might stop at the tavern on the way back here. But I’ll be within calling distance if anything—” He broke off when he saw the stricken look in Fallona’s eyes. “If Arimelle wakes,” he finished.

  “Please”—she clutched at his sleeve—“you mean it? You won’t do anything foolish? If one of his men come in, you’ll ignore him, won’t you?”

  “Mother.” Gently, Arimond disengaged her hand.
“I said I wouldn’t do anything foolish. I’ll be back very soon. I just need to—to think by myself for a while.” He patted her hand once more. “Gilles will know where to find me.”

  The door to Arimelle’s chamber opened, and the physician peered out into the hall. “My lady.” He motioned to Fallona. “Will you send for more linen?”

  Fallona nodded sharply. “At once, physician.”

  Arimond leaned down and kissed Fallona’s cheek. “I won’t be later than sunset.”

  * * *

  Despite the relatively early hour, the tavern was crowded with smoke and men, and the conversation rose higher and higher as voices argued and fell in jerky rhythm. Arimond heard the excited babble as he rode up, tossing the reins of his horse to one of the stable boys who swarmed in the yard of the tavern, eager for a tip. The sun was not yet past its zenith, and already it sounded as though it were standing room only at the bar.

  He pushed open the massive door and stepped into the crowd. The air was smoky and hot, and the tavern was packed full, so full that there was scarcely room for Arimond to negotiate his way to the bar. Word had traveled quickly. He could see it in the expressions of those who recognized him, in the murmured greetings, and in the suddenly subdued atmosphere that descended like a shroud the closer he got to the bar.

  On the other side of the polished oak bar, he recognized the coppery hair of his closest friend, Benoit, who broke off speaking when he caught sight of Arimond.

  Arimond leaned over the bar to order a mug of ale when he heard Benoit say, “On my tab, good Janney—here, Arimond, come join us.”

  With quiet greetings to men he knew at least by sight and reputation, Arimond managed to make his way around the bar. Benoit waved him closer, ale foaming over the lip of the mug he held out. “My friend,” said Benoit as Arimond took the mug and nodded gravely to the others in Benoit’s group, “we’ve all heard the terrible news. I am so sorry.”

  The other men muttered greetings and condolences, and Arimond shook hands with at least half a dozen who pressed in close. “Thank you, Ben, thank you all. Melly’s not quite on the mend yet, but Branward says each day she lives, her chances are better.”