Song Magick (26 page)

Telyn raised her face to the breeze, letting
the wind tug at her hair. “I shouldn’t be fearful, but I am,” she
said in a low voice. “You entered my life so quickly.” She faced
him, hesitant to hurt him. “You know I relish my freedom. I’ve
never been expected to act as an ordinary woman because of the
rarity of my gifts, and the duties expected of me as the King’s
servant. But what is expected of me as your lifemate, Mithrais? I’m
afraid I can’t be what you wish.”

Mithrais was silent a moment. “Being
lifemates doesn’t mean we must be bound side by side for eternity,”
he said at last. “It means we allow each other to be what we are,
wherever that takes us. You’ll go where your gifts call you, and I
will go where I am compelled to serve the Gwaith’orn.”

Mithrais’ voice held an echo of the
loneliness she had glimpsed before; it made Telyn draw him to her
and hold him tightly. She rested her head against his chest,
listening to the strong, steady beating of his heart.

“Even between lifemates, love comes of its
own accord, and in its own time,” he said quietly, his lips against
her hair. “I will make no demands of you.”

“I understand.” Telyn pulled away far enough
to look up at him and smiled shyly. “But we were to explore certain
things once we reached Cerisild...I believe your exact words were,
‘at length’. You have a promise to keep, or should I give you a few
days to heal?”

In answer, he claimed her mouth with a slow,
lingering kiss that left her trembling with emotions and sensations
she had not experienced before. A sound deep in his throat let
Telyn know that Mithrais, too, had surrendered to the fire that
seemed to ignite each time they touched.

A loud knock upon the door of the dayroom
brought them both back to awareness of things outside their
passion, and Mithrais groaned as their lips parted, resting his
forehead on her shoulder as Telyn clung to him, laughing softly,
her racing heart in step with the rhythm of the pounding on the
door.

“I forgot that Diarmid was sending our meal,”
Mithrais said ruefully, his voice ragged.

“We had best answer it,” Telyn said as the
knock sounded again. Mithrais tightened his hold on her, turning
his head and nuzzling her throat.

“They will let themselves in if we don’t
answer.”

Telyn drew her breath in sharply, her eyes
closing as his lips continued their upward journey, the soft
exhalations of his breath against her skin an intensely pleasurable
sensation that caused her fingers to tighten on his arms.

They stood together on the secluded balcony,
reluctant to move until the sound of voices and the steadily rising
glow of candlelight called them inside.

Chapter
Seventeen

Telyn awakened at the click of her closing
door, still nestled deeply in the soft green-gold coverlets.
Rubbing sleepy eyes, she discovered that toiletries had been left
beside the fire for her by some silent-footed maid. A deep basin of
scented water steamed gently by the small fireplace grate, a stack
of soft towels folded beside it.

She breathed in the sweet aroma of herbs that
steeped in the basin. Remembering that the last thorough soaking
her hair had received had been in the near-disastrous crossing of
the stream below the bluff outpost, she made immediate use of the
warm water and fragrant, soapy oil from a small clay jar. She
bathed quickly and dressed again in the fawn colored kirtle and
tunic, making a mental note to ask Diarmid about borrowing more
clothes.

Plaiting her still-wet curls into a semblance
of order, Telyn found Mithrais awaiting her in the dayroom, having
completed his own bath, dressed in a soft, green tunic that echoed
the color of his pale eyes rather than the deeper forest hues of
his Tauron garb. His damp hair was caught again in an ornate silver
clasp at the nape of his neck. He greeted her without rising from
the tapestried chair, his leg stretched out before him on a small
bench.

“Are you in pain this morning?” Telyn asked
with concern, and Mithrais shook his head.

“It aches, but that’s to be expected. The
healers warned me it would be several days before the pain
subsides.” He captured her hand and kissed its palm.

The bard grinned, her cheeks rosy, and
reached for the linen-wrapped bread, suddenly famished. “When
should we return to your father?” she asked as she added hearty
slices of cheese to the bread, setting them carefully to toast on a
small ledge directly in front of the coals.

“Not until later,” Mithrais replied. He
poured cups of amber cider from a small pitcher, handing one to
Telyn. “I fear we must first pay our respects to Marithiel. It’s
late enough that she’ll be sending someone for us if we don’t
appear soon.”

The anticipated summons came just as they
finished their breakfast. Mithrais called out for the person to
enter as Telyn hastily swallowed the last mouthful of bread and
cheese. The door opened to reveal Diarmid, who stood leaning
against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his expression one of
amused tolerance.

“Good morning, Diarmid,” Mithrais greeted
him, his voice carrying a hint of resignation. The steward stared
at him meaningfully, his mouth twitching in an effort to suppress a
smile.

“You know why I’m here,” Diarmid said
pointedly, his deep voice laced with unspoken accusations.

“I can guess. What is the weather like this
morning?”

“A rapidly brewing storm, I think.”

Telyn stifled a smile, covering her mouth
with her hand as she realized they were talking about Marithiel and
not the skies outside, which were bright and clear.

Mithrais grimaced as he got to his feet,
taking a few cautious, unaided steps. He accepted the staff with
thanks when the steward retrieved it from its resting place against
the wall. “I’m sorry if our tardiness has made things difficult for
you.”

“No more difficult than it has been of late,”
Diarmid sighed, and finally smiled as he turned to leave, inclining
his head at the two of them. “Lady Marithiel is in the solar. I
shall tell her that your arrival is imminent.”

Mithrais took Telyn into his arms for a
reassuring embrace. “Remember that the manor is now your home.
However, you may wish to decide before we go how to explain your
absence from court.”

“I won’t lie, but diplomatic truth doesn’t
require that the details be revealed. I am a bard, after
all—well-versed in storytelling,” Telyn said with an air of
insolence, which made Mithrais chuckle.

“Let’s pay our respects, and be done with
it,” he said grimly, offering her his arm. “It’ll be the worse for
us if we keep her waiting any longer.”

* * * *

On the main floor, Mithrais turned down the
corridor that branched opposite the empty great hall. An ornate
wooden door, embossed with bright beaten metal in the shape of the
Tree of Cerisild, squatted at the end of the hallway. Undoubtedly a
relic of the manor’s first incarnation as a fortress, the door was
solid, weathered with age and hung with immense metal hinges.
Mithrais paused before it, inhaling deeply as if preparing to do
something difficult or painful, then lifted the latch and pushed
the heavy door.

The solar was brightly illuminated by the
tall, arched windows which ran the entire length of the manor’s
stone first floor. Rich carpets imported from the trade cities
covered the flagstones, and a table that could seat a dozen or more
spanned the length of the room. One end was covered with leather
document pouches, parchments and inkwells, and Diarmid’s head was
bent over something that the golden-haired woman at the head of the
table pointed out on one of the parchments.

“We shall need more of those,” Marithiel was
saying in the cold, imperial tones that could only belong to a
princess. “Send someone to the marketplace to procure them today—I
can only hope that the quality is acceptable. There is so little
here.”

“It will be done, Lady Marithiel,” Diarmid
said in a toneless, precise way that let Telyn know exactly what he
was thinking. He looked up and saw them standing in the doorway,
motioning them closer even as he began to leave. The two men
exchanged beleaguered glances as they passed, and Telyn had to bite
her lip to keep from grinning.

Mithrais reached for her hand and squeezed it
as they walked forward. She nodded at him to go ahead, remaining a
step behind until Marithiel acknowledged her directly, as court
etiquette dictated.

Marithiel continued to read the list in her
hand, ignoring their presence, and Telyn took the opportunity to
study her a moment. The princess was surprisingly diminutive, but
the bard was well acquainted with the force of personality that the
Sildan royal family could exude when they wished, and knew that
physical size had little to do with it. When Marithiel finally
looked up, the ice-blue eyes narrowed slightly as they passed over
Telyn in a cursory glance, and then flicked to her son, who bowed
with impersonal courtesy.

“Good morning, Mother.”

“Forgive me, Mithrais, if I have disturbed
your...recuperation.” Her voice lingered on the last word with a
hint of suggestive sarcasm, and her eyes returned briefly to Telyn.
It was clear what Marithiel was implying. Telyn felt her cheeks
warming as Mithrais spoke again, his voice as inflectionless as
Diarmid’s had been.

“Thank you for your concern for my wellbeing,
Mother. I’m sorry that I was unable to return in time to observe
the rites of spring. I’m certain Gilmarion has told you that I was
unavoidably delayed.”

“Yes, he has.” Marithiel rose from her chair
and approached her son, raising her face to his so that he could
kiss her cheek formally.

Marithiel’s tone quickly reverted to that of
someone facing a great imposition as she continued, “I have little
enough time to perform the daily duties I have had to assume since
Gwidion’s accident. Diarmid is too busy playing nursemaid to
properly oversee the house staff. You will be called upon to take
some responsibilities, Mithrais.”

“I will gladly see to Father’s needs if it
would help Diarmid,” Mithrais replied coolly.

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”
Marithiel frowned.

“I have obligations that I must fulfill
during the next few days, and then I will do what I am bid for the
duration of my visit,” Mithrais said resignedly.

“Obligations to the Tauron, I presume?”
Marithiel sighed in a great show of inconvenience.

“I could not ignore these obligations. I meet
with the Tauron Elders this afternoon to help plan the rites
celebrating the life of Aric of Cassath. He was killed by the same
attacker who wounded Telyn, an initiate, and me.” Mithrais’ voice
was strained with guilt and sorrow, and when his hand blindly
sought Telyn’s, the bard gripped it tightly, offering him strength
and comfort.

“I had no idea.” It was not precisely an
apology or an acknowledgement of his grief, but Marithiel’s tone
was nearly sympathetic. Nor had she missed her son seeking
consolation from Telyn, and Marithiel finally spoke to her.

“Lady Bard, welcome to Cerisild.” Her voice
was full of curiosity; her eyes, thinly veiled suspicion.

“I thank you for the hospitality shown me,
your highness.” Telyn curtsied deeply, and rose as Marithiel
gestured her acknowledgement of the reverence. She stared at Telyn
appraisingly as the bard completed the formal court greeting: she
touched her fingertips to her lips, over her heart, and extended
her hand toward Marithiel, palm outward. A faint smile of
recognition crept over her features as Marithiel touched only her
fingertips to Telyn’s, a not-uncommon variation favored by members
of the royal family.

“I have not been greeted that way since I
left court. Proprieties are seldom observed here.” Marithiel’s lips
thinned deprecatingly. “Perhaps you can remind everyone here how I
should be regarded. Tell me why my brother has allowed one so young
to wander, Lady Bard. He has always been fiercely protective of his
personal household.”

Telyn took a breath. “I left Belthil with the
King’s permission,” she said, choosing her words carefully to allow
Marithiel to read as much into them as she liked without truly
revealing anything. “No one could have foreseen that I would be
attacked on the forest road as I made my way to Rothvori, where I
was to attend the spring rites at the invitation of an old friend.
Mithrais and Aric came to my aid, and saved my life.”

“The spring rites were five days ago. Surely
your injuries are more recent.” Marithiel indicated the bright
bruises on Telyn’s cheek, and the bard nodded.

“Yes, your highness. These happened two days
ago.” She pulled away the front of her tunic slightly so that
Marithiel could see the ugly edge of the sutures over her
heart.

“You were attacked a second time?”

“Three times,” Mithrais informed Marithiel,
covering Telyn’s hand with his own. She gratefully let him speak,
knowing he could easily pick up the thread of her story.

“Why would someone be so intent on your
death?” Marithiel asked. Her eyes glittered with unpleasant
interest, and Telyn shook her head, meeting that gaze unflinchingly
and speaking the only lie to be given voice.

“I don’t know, your highness.”

Marithiel looked at them both, her lips
pursed. It was clear that she knew some information was being
withheld from her.

“A dispatch was sent from Lord Riordan of
Rothvori to King Amorion, advising him of the attempts on her
life,” Mithrais told Marithiel blithely. “I’m certain that the King
can come to the bottom of it, and take action to ensure her
safety.”

“Undoubtedly.” Marithiel appeared to have
reached some sort of conclusion, and said briskly, “But now you
have arrived safely in our city. It is not Belthil, Lady Bard, but
you will be comfortable. I would like to hear the news, and we have
not had a true bard in this forsaken place in fifteen years. I look
forward to hearing a real musician play. How long will you remain
in Cerisild?”