Song Magick (27 page)

Glancing at Mithrais, she answered carefully,
“My performance depends upon my being able to locate instruments,
for my own are being kept in Rothvori until I can return. I feel
that I am but half a bard without the tools of my trade.”

“We shall do our best to locate the
appropriate instruments. What do you favor?”

With an inward sigh of defeat, Telyn
responded, “I prefer the harp and the small pipes, your
highness.”

“When do you anticipate returning to Rothvori
to collect your own?” Marithiel pressed again for a limit to her
visit.

Even as Telyn opened her mouth to answer,
trying to formulate a response that would satisfy Marithiel,
Mithrais interjected smoothly, “It’s likely that Telyn will be in
residence as long as I’m here, Mother.” Mithrais looked at Telyn,
his expression tender, and she could not help but respond, the
blush rising in her cheeks. “A wondrous thing occurred amidst the
terrible events of the last few days. I’ve found my lifemate in the
person of Telyn Songmaker.”

Telyn forgot to breathe for a moment,
watching Marithiel’s reaction. The princess’s eyes flickered from
her son to the bard, her expression disdainful and displeased. When
she spoke again, her voice held the chill of winter.

“I see.” Those two words dropped and
shattered like icicles. “We have a great deal that should be
discussed privately, Mithrais. Lady Bard, leave us.”

It was a command, not a request, and clearly
she expected Telyn to obey as one bound to the royal household.
Mithrais stiffened at the tone directed toward Telyn, plainly
offended by his mother’s refusal to acknowledge his declaration.
Telyn pressed his hand firmly, letting her eyes remind him that she
had not expected a warm welcome, and inclined her head to Marithiel
in obedience.

“As you wish, your highness.” To Mithrais,
she said softly, “I will join Lord Gwidion, as he requested.”

“I’ll come to you shortly,” Mithrais told
her, kissing her hand. His eyes were smoldering with barely checked
anger. Telyn curtsied to Marithiel, and then made her way to the
door, imagining that she could feel Marithiel’s eyes on her back in
the tense silence. As the door closed behind her, she took a deep
breath. The storm was apparently about to break directly over
Mithrais’ head, and Telyn was divided between relief and guilt that
she had to leave him to weather it alone.

* * * *

“That was uncommonly rude, even for you,
Mother.” Mithrais kept his voice carefully even, but he made
certain that Marithiel knew how furious he was.

“Did you simply expect me to welcome her as
if she were your bride?” Marithiel asked contemptuously.

“My father had no such reservations and has
already done so.”

“Ah, yes, of course he has.” Marithiel’s lip
curled. The princess sat in one of the chairs and motioned for him
to join her. He did so, settling stiffly into the seat with his leg
stretched out before him.

“What can you truly know about this girl in
five days’ time?” Marithiel inquired archly. “She must be some kin
to the Royal Bard if she is honor-bound to the household, and what
I remember of him is unpleasant. He was a cold, ambitious
upstart.”

“She is kin to Taliesin, and I think Telyn
may agree with your opinion of him.” Mithrais did not offer any
further information. “I’ve learned a great deal about her, and I
look forward to learning more about her for the rest of my days.
Telyn possesses the gift of heartspeaking, as well as the gifts of
a true bard.”

Her eyes narrowed, and Marithiel rested her
chin on long, slender fingers that glittered with the ring Gwidion
had given her in token of their marriage contract.

“You surprise me,” she said, her voice
disarmingly casual. “I would not have thought a soldier could be so
sentimental as to believe in some mystical connection between a man
and a woman.”

“Nor did I believe it, until I met Telyn,”
Mithrais admitted.

“Love is a luxury for those of us born into a
royal house, Mithrais, a luxury which cannot be valued over the
greater good of the realm.”

Mithrais sighed, seeing where this
conversation was leading. “I’m the second son of the Lord of
Cerisild, Mother, not an heir to the kingdom. The royal house will
survive without me entering a political marriage. We’ve had this
discussion before.”

“Indeed we have.” Marithiel raised one
elegant eyebrow and sat back. “Gilmarion’s search for a bride has
been somewhat more limited than we had hoped, but for one very
promising match. Negotiation for the hand of Lord Belenus’ daughter
is well under way. You do know who Lord Belenus is?”

“Of course.” Mithrais did know the name.
Belenus held the lands outside the eastern Wood; rich and fertile
plains which produced most of the grain that Cerisild imported. “I
assume that Belenus’ lands are to be yielded as her dowry?”

“A goodly part of it-–enough to supply the
grain we normally import from Belenus, which encompasses the major
expense of our treasury.”

“It would be an advantageous match for
Gilmarion.” Mithrais agreed, and Marithiel nodded in assent,
looking irritable.

“I would like to see Gilmarion married before
the harvest, but the girl is quite foolish, and insists that she
will not be parted from her twin. The other daughter will inherit
the second half of her father’s holdings.”

“And you hoped that I’d agree to a marriage
contract in order to settle the matter.” Mithrais shook his head
with a thin smile.

Marithiel appeared exasperated. “It would
provide us with a valuable resource and additional income, and you
with lands of your own to oversee.” Her voice presented him with
this as if it were a gift. “Do you not see how this would benefit
everyone?”

“Perhaps in terms of finance, but there’s no
urgency for Gilmarion to marry Belenus’ daughter simply to inflate
the treasury.” Mithrais returned Marithiel’s gaze directly. “As for
myself, I have no desire to leave the Wood.”

“Gilmarion and I have been looking carefully
at expenses, and there is one redundancy which could be eliminated
immediately.” Marithiel paused meaningfully, and Mithrais’ eyes
widened in disbelief.

“You can’t be speaking of the Tauron.”

“We have countless retainers in the garrison
with little to do. They could patrol the roads just as easily as
the Tauron.” Marithiel made a dismissive gesture, and said
mockingly, “We have also had this discussion before.”

“Then lower the number of retainers instead.
You know that isn’t the Tauron’s only function,” Mithrais countered
hotly. “We can’t abandon the Gwaith’orn, especially not now. You
don’t realize the gravity of the covenant...”

“They are only trees,” Marithiel interrupted
with impatience. “We are speaking of the ability to feed the city
this winter, and possibly the next, and the next. Even you can see
the importance of that, Mithrais.”

“The stipend paid to fifty Tauron wardens
doesn’t equal a quarter of what we import in grain,” Mithrais said
derisively. “The Gwaith’orn are not just trees. They are sentient,
living creatures, with a will of their own. You could judge this
for yourself, Mother, if you’d only allow me to show you.”

“I have no desire to talk to trees, unless
they perhaps can tell me how to increase revenues,” she
sneered.

“Have you or Gilmarion even discussed this
with Father?” Mithrais asked, knowing the answer was negative. “He
knows why the Tauron can’t be dissolved. He’d never allow it.”

“Gwidion cares little for day to day
trivialities such as the treasury,” Marithiel said acidly. “He has
become distracted and distanced from what is important.”

“I think you’ll soon find that isn’t the
case.” Mithrais stood, leaning heavily on his staff and preparing
to leave.

“Think carefully, Mithrais, before you
dismiss this marriage,” Marithiel warned, standing before her
chair. She extracted another document from a leather case and
tossed it onto the table. “It could prevent this item from being
carried out.”

The document lay on the table between them,
and Mithrais did not want to touch it. For several seconds, he and
Marithiel simply stared at each other, eyes locked in defiant
challenge. He finally picked it up and read it, his disbelief
growing with every word written on the parchment. It was an order
of dissolution for the Tauron, stating that the stipends they
received from the Lord of Cerisild would end at midsummer.

“Father will never sign this,” Mithrais said,
his voice dangerously low.

“He does not have to.” Marithiel’s eyes
glinted. “Gilmarion and I have had the authority for years now to
make amendments to the treasury of our own volition. This is only a
copy. The original is signed and sealed, ready to be delivered to
the Tauron Elders.”

Mithrais stared at her, unwilling to believe
what he was hearing. “Are you saying that the continued existence
of the Tauron Order depends upon my agreement to enter this
marriage contract?”

“I am saying that we will do what we must to
ensure the well-being of Cerisild.” Marithiel watched him as she
moved closer, like a cat stalking a wounded bird. “You should be
willing to do the same if you truly care about the Wood so very
much.”

“This is extortion, Mother,” Mithrais said
hoarsely.

“No—it is duty!” Marithiel hissed, her eyes
filled with tears of anger. “At last, you understand me, Mithrais.
Can you see now why such bitterness has grown in my heart?” She
wiped away a tear that escaped with an impatient hand. “I ask less
of you than was asked of me. Your marriage would not be a matter of
state. You could keep the bard as a mistress, and still have your
lifemate.” The last word was infused with sarcasm.

“Your marriage of state has never prevented
you from flaunting lovers before your husband whenever the chance
arises,” Mithrais retorted coldly. “Tell me, who had the honor of
being your bedmate for the spring rites this year?”

Marithiel went very still, and Mithrais felt
a fleeting prickle of shame that was quickly burnt to ash in the
heat of his outrage. He rarely let anger control his tongue, but
with Marithiel, his better sense lost the battle time and time
again. Too often now, this was the way things were between
them.

“That was unworthy of you, Mithrais.” Her
voice was soft, but her eyes were as hard as diamonds, and Mithrais
bowed stiffly in acquiescence.

“I apologize, madam.”

Marithiel drew herself up haughtily. “Your
continued refusal to shoulder the responsibilities of your rank
disappoints me.”

“Your approval is no longer something I
seek.” Mithrais turned without offering her the customary bow, the
offensive documents still clenched in his hand. The door slammed
shut behind him with a reverberating boom, echoing down the
corridor.

“I take it that Mother has had her audience
with you.”

Gilmarion was leaning against the wall, his
usual ironic smile subdued as he approached the end of the hallway
and glanced at the closed door.

“I trust that you know it wasn’t my idea.”
Gilmarion had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry,
Thrais.”

The childhood nickname hung between them; it
was Gilmarion’s attempt to let his brother know that he was
sincere. Mithrais nodded, accepting the apology.

“It’s not done yet. I assure you that Father
will not allow the dissolution to happen.” He showed him the
documents he held.

Gilmarion stiffened a bit in discomfort.
“There’s no need to concern him with a matter of the treasury. It’s
been my responsibility for some time now.”

“He is still Lord of Cerisild!” Mithrais
turned accusing eyes to his elder brother. “When I was last here,
you still spoke to him and kept him apprised of all events within
the borders of the Wood. Why wasn’t he consulted in this?”

Gilmarion glanced at the door again, as if he
were worried that Marithiel was listening. “I have assumed the
majority of Father’s duties because I must. It’s my place as his
heir to do so when he cannot shoulder the responsibilities of his
rank.”

Mithrais froze, hearing the echo of their
mother’s words on his Gilmarion’s lips. “You’ve done so at
Marithiel’s urging,” he said slowly.

“Because I must,” Gilmarion repeated
stubbornly, not meeting his brother’s eyes. “As I said before, you
make your own trouble, Mithrais. Would a contracted marriage be
such an intolerable price to pay if it ensured that the Tauron
remain to serve the Gwaith’orn?”

“Given the example of the contracted marriage
between our mother and father, can you be so convinced?” Mithrais
shot back.

Gilmarion sighed, his shoulders sagging in
resignation. “In all honesty, I don’t expect to marry Belenus’
daughter. I have already begun to consider...” His brother paused
as if choosing his words carefully. “...alternative solutions.”

“Tell me what’s happening, Gil,” Mithrais
asked quietly, perplexed at the expression on Gilmarion’s face. “I
know something is amiss.”

Gilmarion shrugged impassively. “She’s
expecting me, so I’d best attend her.” He stopped with his hand on
the ancient wood, and looked back at Mithrais. “Do what you must in
regard to the Tauron. I would expect no less. You’ve always been
stronger of will than I, little brother.”

Gilmarion pushed the door open and
disappeared behind it. The portal closed noiselessly and left
Mithrais alone in the corridor, feeling that another door had been
shut between them, one that could not be opened as easily.

Chapter
Eighteen

Telyn quickly found her way to the tower
stairs and the library, knocking softly upon the door. She was
eager to begin something constructive to dull the sting of
Marithiel’s dismissal. At Gwidion’s immediate call, she entered the
room and caught sight of the Lord of Cerisild at his desk, hidden
behind an unfurled scroll which he held upraised and was scanning
closely.