Song Magick (5 page)

“Other charges?” Telyn repeated absently,
still dazed by that strange communion of minds, and confused by her
own reaction. Mithrais nodded in affirmation, his coloring high and
his expression one of mixed surprise and wonder.

“That, perhaps, is a story best told at
another time. The morning moves on apace, and it’s several hours’
journey to Rothvori.”

Telyn was certain he had deliberately changed
the subject, but the Westwarden was right. She needed to reach the
keep by midday, and there were preparations to make before she
could leave. It was a festival day, after all, and a bard was
expected to make a dramatic entrance. Telyn found it difficult to
meet his eyes, knowing that her own color was rising.

“Lord Riordan will have started without me,”
the bard said at last. “He has a generous hand with the products of
his vineyards, and no doubt the villagers have already begun
sampling their share.” She found herself smiling at him, and said
lightly, “I only hope they’re still in a condition to dance when I
arrive.”

Mithrais’ answering smile was slow and
beautiful. “Then we must make haste. I wouldn’t want to be
responsible for the incapacitation of an entire village.”

* * * *

The sun was nearly at its zenith when the
small wagon broke from the trees at last. At the fore, Bessa
cantered proudly, ribbons streaming from her bridle and mane and
tail. Telyn had pulled lengths of ribbon out of a basket to
decorate the wagon as well, and they now fluttered in rainbow
streamers on the freshening breeze.

Mithrais blinked in the sudden brightness of
open skies, unaccustomed to light unfiltered by the dense, green
canopy of the Wood. The day had become unseasonably warm, and the
Westwarden’s forest-green jerkin was casually open at his throat,
his bow and the late assassin’s sword slung on his back as he
walked several paces in front of the wagon.

He had declined to ride beside the bard on
the bench seat, ostensibly in order to keep better watch, though
Aric’s brief reconnaissance and bearing before departing the
campsite had revealed no threats. The previous night’s captive had
fled as instructed, and no other presence in the western Wood
interested the Gwaith’orn—or Mithrais, for that matter—as much as
that of Telyn Songmaker.

In keeping his distance from the bard,
Mithrais hoped to allow himself the opportunity to order his own
thoughts, which were uncharacteristically divided. Something else
was at work within his heart besides duty.

Aric had cast occasional bemused glances at
his friend as Telyn prepared her wagon. The flame-haired warden had
known Mithrais far too long not to recognize that the Westwarden
was affected by the young bard, and pulled him aside when it came
time to depart.

“You’re as distracted as the Gwaith’orn by
this girl,” he murmured with a glint of humor in his eye. “They
missed the threat to her last night until it was nearly too late.
Are you certain that you don’t want me to accompany you to ensure
you don’t do the same?”

Mithrais grinned at his partner, and then
sobered. “I’m even more certain that the Fates are directing my
path in this, Aric,” he admitted in a low voice, but did not
elaborate. “I promise I’ll be vigilant. I’ll find you after I have
seen her safely to Rothvori, but don’t look for me until
tomorrow.”

Aric raised an eyebrow. “I thought Marithiel
had summoned you to return to Cerisild for the spring celebrations.
You’re not going to make it.”

“My mother knows full well that my duties
will not always allow me to return home at her whim,” Mithrais
replied shortly. Aric shrugged.

“You have to face her, not I, the gods be
thanked for that. I’ve seen enough of her venom to last me a
lifetime.” The warden’s amber-brown eyes glanced toward where Telyn
made final adjustments to Bessa’s harness leathers, and he frowned.
“What of the Gwaith’orn, Mithrais? Will you tell her?”

“Not yet. There are few here at the edge of
the Wood, and little danger that they’ll attempt to bring her to
them. It will give me time to explain.”

“The old stories have always been the Tauron
Order’s alibi. No one really believed them, not even the bards.”
Aric’s glance was still troubled. “That secret has never been
shared with one who wasn’t Wood-born.”

“The Gwaith’orn have never shown so much
interest in one that wasn’t Wood-born,” Mithrais countered.

“Unless they’re dangerous.” Aric smiled
wickedly. “And I have never seen you in so much danger, my friend.
I thought you to be immune—or has she bewitched you with a bard’s
spell?”

Not a spell, perhaps, but some ancient magic
deeper than that... Mithrais wondered if Aric suspected how close
to the truth he had been. The rapport he and Telyn had shared that
morning was an intimacy more profound than physical closeness,
although the touch of her hand had stirred his blood in unexpected
ways. In that moment of unity, Mithrais had realized without
hesitation that she was the one to whom his life’s journey led.

The fear that had caused her to recoil from
that painfully intimate link made Mithrais realize he would have to
move cautiously—in all aspects. Heartspeakers were too few in each
new generation to ignore any who spontaneously developed the gift,
Wood-born or not. Those he served were inexplicably concerned with
the bard’s welfare, and he was doubly reluctant to leave her side
until the reasons became clear.

“Mithrais?” Telyn’s voice floated to him over
the jingle of harness and the soft fall of Bessa’s hooves on the
packed earth. She had been thoughtful and silent since they had
left the clearing that morning, and the warden now dropped back to
walk beside the wagon.

“I have questions about what happened between
us this morning,” she said, her voice subdued. “Was it just
heartspeaking? Or did I do something that was...unwelcome?”

“It was as if we became one,” Mithrais
answered quietly, and she nodded. He could see the conflict in her
expression, and waited for her to finish.

Telyn finally blurted, embarrassed. “I didn’t
mean to intrude on your thoughts, and I certainly did not intend to
show you that I—”

“It was not unwelcome, Telyn,” he stated
gravely. “Among heartspeakers, it is a rare thing to blend
consciousness so deeply. I know of very few who share this kind of
bond.”

Mingled relief and confusion flashed across
her face. “I was afraid,” Telyn confessed softly, “that I had
caused it.” The pain in her eyes was apparent as she glanced away
toward Bessa. “The young lord’s accusation—the truth is I fear that
I was careless with my song magic that night, but I will never
know.”

He understood more clearly that second of
breathless terror which he had sensed from the bard. “We Tauron are
taught to shield our minds against unwanted contact. It was my own
choice to open my mind to yours. There were no misunderstandings,”
he reassured her. The bard met his eyes.

“None?” she questioned with an air of
hopefulness and an arched eyebrow. Mithrais could not suppress his
smile.

“None,” he stated firmly. “Although perhaps
this subject should wait until I am not charged with your safety. I
have given my word to Aric that I would not be distracted.”

The slow, shy smile on Telyn’s face was like
the sun rising, and as she returned to driving the mare with
renewed concentration, Mithrais grinned.

Set on a hill rising ahead of them, against
the green-gold fields of new barley, emerged the walled keep of
Riordan, Lord of Rothvori. The interminable winter had finally
relaxed its grip, and as if in defiant recompense, spring had burst
forth in a flood of green shoots and early spring flowers in this
fertile valley. The village sprawled out before the walls like
spilled grain down the gentle slopes, and smoke was already thick
from the feasting fires. The faint sounds of a drum and flute
snaked their way across the fields, and Telyn sat up straighter,
listening.

The thread of music seemed to kindle fire in
the bard and her excitement was infectious. Bessa snorted in
impatience, pulling at the reins.

People had seen the wagon approaching and
were milling about, shouting and waving, running toward them. Telyn
grinned down at Mithrais, offering a hand to pull him into the
wagon with her. Mithrais hesitated only a moment, then vaulted onto
the bench beside her, stowing his weapons just in reach behind the
canvas flap.

Telyn gave Bessa her head, urging her on, and
the mare increased her speed, trotting eagerly toward the town. The
first of the villagers had reached them and ran alongside, shouting
greetings. Telyn knew some of them by name, and called out to them.
A small girl perched on her father’s shoulders tossed a garland of
flowers, which landed at Mithrais’ feet. He picked it up and
crowned Telyn with the blue and gold blossoms of spring to the
delighted cheers of the villagers.

They drove up to the very door of the keep,
followed by the throng and accompanied by the sound of music. Down
the steps of the keep came Lord Riordan himself, a bear of a man,
already well into his cups and with two or three young women
clinging to him. He was barrel-chested and bearded, nearing sixty,
but still handsome with tightly curling grey hair and a voice to
wake the dead.

“The Green Man and the Maiden, herself, come
to give blessing to our May Eve!” Riordan boomed, his arms
outstretched, “Telyn, lass, come and kiss your Uncle Rio!”

“Greetings, my lord!” Telyn stood and bowed
with a flourish, eager hands reaching up to lift her out of the
wagon. Mithrais, to his amusement, was also lifted out of the wagon
and boosted in Lord Riordan’s direction by the enthusiastic
crowd.

Riordan met Telyn on the steps, acknowledging
her reverence before drawing her to him in an enormous bear hug.
“It’s been too long, Telyn! Have you finally tired of court life
and come back to us?”

“I couldn’t stay away, my lord. Nowhere in
the Three Realms do they celebrate the Eve of Spring as you do here
in Rothvori!” Lusty cheers followed her words.

“And who have you brought to celebrate with
us?” Riordan beamed with wine-enhanced good humor at Mithrais, who
stifled a grin and bowed as well. He was certain that he liked this
feudal lord.

“My name is Mithrais of Cerisild, my
lord.”

Riordan’s eyes narrowed, taking in his
forest-green clothing. “A warden, if my eyes do not deceive me,” he
said in more private tones, “and what’s more, outside the Wood!
Telyn, are you in trouble?”

Telyn’s smile faltered and she patted
Riordan’s hand where it lay in the crook of her arm. “Later, my
lord. I will explain what I can in private. It is because of him
that I was able to arrive in time for the festivities—moreover,
that I was able to arrive at all.”

“Then he is welcome to celebrate with us. And
speaking of celebration, it is time for more wine!” Riordan
bellowed, and a servitor appeared immediately with a tray and cups.
Riordan’s was an enormous tankard, and only slightly smaller cups
were offered to Telyn and Mithrais. Riordan raised the tankard in
his meaty fist, and a reverent silence fell over the crowd.

“Blessed be!”

“Blessed be!” Telyn and Mithrais repeated
with the crowd, and Telyn drank deeply of the wine, her eyes
meeting Mithrais’ over the edge of her cup. He saw the telltale
heat of a blush creep into her cheeks, and hid his smile behind
another sip of wine before relinquishing his cup to the
servitor.

“Telyn, I would see you before dinner begins,
dear heart.” Riordan kissed her soundly on the lips, and reached
over to clap Mithrais on the shoulder with a hand that was nearly
as big as the warden’s own head. “Mithrais of Cerisild, be welcome
in my home, and join us at the feast this evening.”

“I am honored indeed, my lord.”

“Now, there are people waiting to dance, my
pretty bard!” Riordan waved her away affectionately, and Telyn
scampered down the stairs to retrieve her bodhran. Her harp and
pipes she gave to the servitors, who bore them away to the inner
keep, and Bessa was led with the wagon to a well-earned stable and
fresh hay. Mithrais watched his weapons disappear into the stable
yard with the wagon, ill at ease, but knowing that it would be
inappropriate to go about heavily armed on a festival day. He had
belted on Aric’s spare dagger opposite his own before they left the
campsite. It would have to serve should anything happen.

Telyn caught him looking after the wagon
worriedly, and she winked at him, forming silent words with her
lips: “I’ll be all right.” Then she was swept away toward the
village with the other musicians, and the sound of her bodhran
began to call the dancers to the Maypole.

Riordan had noticed all this with his sharp
black eyes, and he said quietly to Mithrais, “Go with her, my lad.
I am as fond of the girl as if she were my own daughter. If she is
under your protection, then something is amiss indeed. I expect to
hear it all before the feast.”

Mithrais needed no other urging, and he bowed
quickly to Riordan before joining the stream of people heading for
the public square. He found Telyn easily, as she and the other
musicians were being lifted into an empty hayrack in order to be
heard clearly. Mithrais leaned against the edge of a building
behind the cart, watching as dancers clustered about the
ribbon-bedecked pole. Cheering erupted as a lad shimmied up and
topped it with a wreath of freshly gathered blossoms and leaves.
Good-natured squabbles over who got to hold a ribbon erupted with
laughter and catcalls, and blushing girls watched their chosen
young men take their places beside them. Telyn drummed a slow
rhythm on her bodhran, and the musicians took up the call, the
dancers whirling into life. Mithrais watched the wreath begin its
journey down as the ribbon plaited itself around the shaft.