Song Magick (22 page)

Telyn breathed out a sigh of relief, the last
of the worry draining away to leave her limp and boneless in the
chair. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I have heard an intriguing tale from
Mithrais and Cormac,” Rodril said, his eyes fixed on hers. “The
actions today of the Gwaith’orn are unprecedented: they’ve never
roused themselves to defend even a warden, much less a simple
bard.”

Telyn thought she heard reproach in his
voice, and she flushed with shame, for she bitterly regretted that
Aric’s life had been lost on her behalf. Rodril was quick to note
her course of thought, and placed his hand over hers where it
rested on the arm of the chair.

“I do not judge, Lady Bard, I merely observe.
I don’t blame you for Aric’s death. We Tauron accept certain risks
with our duties, and know full well that our lives belong to the
Wood.” Rodril paused. “I’ve heard enough from Mithrais to know that
the Gwaith’orn expect something extraordinary from you. If that’s
so, it is doubly certain that Aric did not die in vain.”

The look on Rodril’s face was that same
hopeful awe which Cormac had directed toward her, strange in that
fierce countenance. Telyn passed a hand over her eyes, unable to
quell a small twinge of rebellion that so much seemed to rest on a
task that she had yet to define.

The warmth of the wine she had consumed was
spreading through her body, and Telyn suspected that it may have
been enhanced with something to ensure she slept. She felt it
loosening her tongue, and she spoke unguardedly to Rodril.

“I’m afraid that their trust in me is
misplaced,” she said in a low voice. “I barely know what it is that
they expect of me, or why it is important.”

“Believe that it will become clearer,” he
told her. “The Tauron offer you any assistance that we may render
in serving the Gwaith’orn—you have only to ask. But for now, you
have only one task, and that is to rest and heal.” He rose, ducking
back through the rafters, and opened the door. After conferring in
a low voice with someone outside, Rodril turned back to her. “No
one else will disturb you. Good night.”

“Thank you, Rodril. Good night,” Telyn said,
and the door shut behind him. She moved with increasingly heavy
limbs to the bed, where she removed her bloody clothing and dressed
in the simple white robe which had been left for her before
climbing between the linens. Whatever had been in the wine worked
with speed, and she was asleep in moments.

* * * *

Telyn’s growling stomach would not allow her
to rest any longer, and she reached for a piece of bread and the
cup of broth. The unseen individual whom had brought the tray of
food had apparently been in the room more than once. There was
washing water already warm beside the hearth; folded towels
occupied one chair, a stack of clothing and a comb on the
other.

She finished the meal with an appetite that
still surprised her, and then set about untangling her hair, which
was no small feat after three days in the Wood. The curls finally
surrendered and submitted to being combed, and Telyn plaited the
sides back tightly, letting the rest tumble down her back.

She washed quickly and donned the clothing
that had been left for her. The fawn-colored kirtle and darker
brown belted tunic fit tolerably well, although she would have
preferred her customary leggings. Telyn pulled on her boots, the
only footwear she possessed at the moment, and opened the door of
her room.

The hallway was empty. Five other doors lined
the walls. Most of them were open, revealing comfortably appointed
rooms identical to the one Telyn had slept in, and all were vacant.
Telyn’s room was furthest from the stair she remembered climbing
the previous night. She turned to the right and found the staircase
easily, descending into the great room below.

The room was nearly deserted except for a
small knot of men near the fireplace, and Telyn saw a familiar
yellow head in the center of the group, giving a spirited but
fairly accurate rendition of the battle with The Dragon. Cormac saw
her approaching, and the broad grin spread across his features. He
excused himself from the group and came to meet her. His right arm
was still in a sling, but he looked no worse for the wear despite
his part in the battle. He attempted a bow, and reddened as Telyn
took the opportunity to kiss him soundly on the cheek.

“I haven’t had the chance to thank you
properly for saving my life, Cormac,” she told him quietly. “If not
for your generous gift, I wouldn’t be standing here now. I’m afraid
that I owe you a flute.”

“Oh, I meant it when I told you I’m no
musician,” Cormac said, embarrassed. “Rodril said it was the best
thing that could have happened to the flute.”

“How cruel!” Telyn couldn’t help but laugh.
“Is Rodril still here?”

“No, he left last night to help prepare for
Aric’s return to the Circle.” Cormac’s sunny grin vanished; he
looked young and vulnerable, and close to tears. Telyn squeezed his
hand comfortingly. “There will be rites in a few days. Will you be
there?” he asked earnestly.

“If it is permitted, I shall be,” Telyn
promised. “Are you leaving now?”

“No, I will be here until the healers are
satisfied.” Cormac looked at the group he had been regaling with
the tale of The Dragon, who were now watching them curiously.
“Those are some of Lord Gwidion’s men. They have come to take you
and Mithrais to the manor.”

Telyn glanced at the men, who bowed slightly
in her direction. “Where is Mithrais?”

“In that room, second from the left.” Cormac
nodded toward a closed door. “There’s someone with him, but I know
he’ll want to see you.”

Telyn smiled at him, feeling a great swell of
gratitude toward the young warden. “I’m indebted to you, Cormac. I
will keep my promise about traveling to Ilparien. They shall hear a
proper bardic tale of your bravery. You have my word on it.” She
began to turn away, and Cormac stopped her.

“Telyn, there is something else,” he said
fervently, and continued at her quizzical look, “I don’t know
exactly what the Gwaith’orn have told you, but I...I can help
you.”

“Thank you, Cormac.” Telyn hugged him,
knowing that she had a valuable friend. Cormac returned the embrace
awkwardly with his good arm, and Telyn turned away quickly before
the self-doubt could rise into her eyes. First Rodril, now Cormac
had all but sworn their service to her because of the Gwaith’orn’s
mysterious charge.

She paused before the closed door, knocking
softly, and an unfamiliar voice called, “Enter.”

Telyn pushed open the door cautiously.
Immediately she saw Mithrais sitting in a chair facing the door,
his wounded leg propped on a small bench. His eyes lit when he saw
her and he automatically tried to rise, then, wincing, held his
hand out to her instead with a sheepish grin. Telyn closed the door
and hurried to him, kneeling beside his chair, and Mithrais touched
the blossoming bruises on her face with gentle fingers.

“You’re well?” he asked softly.

“Yes. And you?” Telyn saw that the left side
of Mithrais’ forehead was badly bruised, a cut that had not
required the surgeon’s needle standing out in angry red relief
against the knot. His hair was loose about his shoulders once more,
dark chestnut waves against a pale linen shirt.

“Now that I’ve seen you, I am.” He kissed
her. “There is someone you must meet,” he said, taking her hand,
and spoke to the room’s other occupant. “This is Telyn Songmaker, a
true bard, formerly of Amorion’s court. Telyn, this is my brother
Gilmarion, heir to Cerisild.”

Telyn’s head turned quickly, and she stood up
beside Mithrais’ chair. The man in the opposite chair rose, looking
from Mithrais to Telyn with a surprised expression. “Well, well.
Perhaps my little brother isn’t destined to be a tree-monk, after
all.”

Gilmarion of Cerisild was not quite what
Telyn had expected. He was older by several years, and where
Mithrais was darker of hair and skin, Gilmarion was the near image
of King Amorion, the blood running true to the golden-haired royal
family.

In deference to the fact she was wearing
skirts instead of her usual attire, Telyn dropped into a formal
curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord. May I tell you that
you look remarkably like your royal uncle?”

Gilmarion took her hand and raised her up,
his smile pure courtliness. “That’s very good of you to say, Lady
Bard. I hold King Amorion in the highest esteem.” He kissed her
hand ceremonially, his eyes lingering on the honor marks about her
wrist as he straightened.

“Formerly of the court?” Gilmarion
questioned, raising an eyebrow, her hand still trapped in his.
Telyn took a deep breath, and Mithrais rescued her.

“That is a tale that will have to wait in its
telling, Gil. There are things that our mother shouldn’t know just
yet.”

Gilmarion nodded in bemused agreement as he
released Telyn’s hand. “Yes, perhaps you’re right.” Gilmarion
looked pointedly at his brother. “She is most unhappy that you were
not here for the spring celebrations. She could make things very
unpleasant for you while you’re healing.”

“I expected nothing less,” Mithrais said
grimly, and his brother laughed, a sound that would have been
infectious had it not been heavily laced with irony.

“Mithrais, you make your own trouble. If you
simply did everything Marithiel told you, you’d be a much happier
man.” Gilmarion glanced at Telyn, his expression sobering. “Ah,
well, let’s not air our family’s shortcomings here. In all honesty,
you may find her in a rare mood just now.”

He strode to the door, picking up a pair of
leather riding gloves from the back of his chair. “I will see you
at the manor, Mithrais. Lady Bard.” He nodded toward Telyn, and
exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Mithrais was frowning, staring after his
brother.

“Is something wrong?” she asked him gently.
Mithrais shook his head.

“I’m not certain, but I feel there is.
Gilmarion said very little about my father while he was here.” He
grinned half-heartedly. “We’re a troubled lot, as you undoubtedly
have surmised.”

Telyn smiled back at him. “Cormac tells me
that the men outside have come to take you to the manor.”

“And you with me, unless you wish to remain
in the guild house. You’d be welcome to stay here if it’s your
preference, and Cormac would be delighted at your company.”
Mithrais leaned his forehead against hers. “Marithiel will expect
an explanation for my tardiness as soon as I arrive, no doubt. I
wish that I could stay here, but I want to see my father.”

Telyn straightened and set her jaw. “Three
years as Taliesin’s apprentice gave me a very tough skin. I would
like to meet Lord Gwidion, and if I can’t handle a princess, I’m
not worthy to be called a bard.”

“Brave Telyn.” Mithrais laughed. “I’m looking
forward to introducing you to my father.”

Chapter
Fifteen

Cerisild was larger than Telyn would ever
have imagined a woodland city could be. Once the small cart in
which she and Mithrais rode passed through the simple arched sentry
tower that spanned the road, meandering streets wandered in every
direction. Homes and shops were tucked among the trees, the largest
built of stone and thatch, smaller dwellings constructed of wood
and wattle. Where any city outside the Wood would have sacrificed
the trees in favor of buildings, here the structures had been
designed to accommodate the trunks of the trees, and in many cases,
the wood and stone had merged over time. The resulting architecture
was unique and lovely.

The trees prevented Telyn from seeing just
how far the city sprawled. As the cart passed over a stone bridge
and the swiftly flowing stream which hissed and splashed over the
rocky bed beneath, Telyn glimpsed that the high banks were lined
with buildings on either side, and a mill-wheel could be seen
turning in the distance at a bend in the stream. The cart bounced
over a lip of stone, eliciting a grimace from Mithrais as they
entered a large, paved crossroads which housed the primary
marketplace.

The streets were lined with folk concluding
their daily business, hawking their wares or haggling over prices.
There were items for sale or barter that Telyn recognized as having
come from Belthil, as well as common items like crockery, racks of
root vegetables and cured foodstuffs, and sacks of grain ready for
milling.

“In the summer months, the farming
communities bring their fruit and vegetable harvests to be sold
here,” Mithrais informed her. “The northern part of the Wood, where
Cormac hails from, has much larger open spaces that support herds
of sheep and cattle which will be brought here for sale. The
majority of grain still has to be imported from the eastern plains
and from your friend Riordan.”

“What is exported from the Wood?” Telyn had
noted a few richly dressed individuals who were quite obviously not
native to Cerisild—everything about them told her that they were
traders from the eastern harbor city.

“There are mines in the Cesperion Hills that
produce gemstones and good quality ore, both precious metals and
one which blacksmiths prefer for weapons. We allow limited
harvesting of trees for lumber, which the plains cities immediately
purchase to supplement their own resources. It is nothing that
provides a great deal of income, but we are largely self-sufficient
here.” Mithrais looked around with pride at the city. “The Wood
gives us what we need.”

It was that self-sufficiency that had allowed
the Wood-born Silde to remain separate from the rest of the realm
for so long. Many at court viewed Cerisild as little more than an
uncultured feudal state; in the nearly three decades since the
alliance was sealed, none of the high lords had visited the Wood,
not even the King himself. Wagging tongues said that it was because
the Princess and her royal brother had parted on bitter terms,
Marithiel having viewed her arranged marriage as tantamount to
being banished to a less civilized country. More diplomatic
speculation was that the King trusted Lord Gwidion to govern
himself, a privilege that was not granted to many of the other high
lords.