The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III (30 page)
Read The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III Online
Authors: Mercedes Lackey
T’fyrr sensed I was making a formal pledge, even though I didn’t make a ceremony about it. Interesting.
The doors opened, and the King was waiting, and it was time to make good on that pledge; now, and for as many days as it took to bring the bud to flower.
If
it could be done.
###
T’fyrr watched Nightingale leaving the Palace from the balcony at the end of his corridor. It was a good vantage point, with the formal foregardens spread out beneath him in neat and geometric squares of color divided by walkways of white pavingstone, and was even better as a place from which to take to the air. He was at least four stories up—apparently, the higher you were in rank, the higher your rooms within the Palace. He could see all the way to the Bronze Gate from here, and he made a point of watching to see that Nightingale got that far. She always turned, just before she went through the Gate, and waved at him, knowing that he would see her clearly even though she was nearly a mile away.
She could not see him, though, so he didn’t bother to wave back. Instead, he waited until that distant figure passed between the open leaves of the gate, then launched himself into the air, wings beating strongly, gaining altitude. The air above the Palace grounds was sweeter than that above the city, and cooler, yet another example of the difference between those who dwelled
here
and
there.
They had been at this for two weeks now, and although he still had not seen any change in Theovere’s behavior, his Advisors were increasingly unhappy with the High King. In Court, Theovere continued to act as if he were supremely bored with his duties, but the Lord Seneschal frowned a bit less these days, and the rest of the Advisors frowned a bit more, which argued that, in private, Theovere might be flexing his royal muscles discreetly.
Harperus showed no signs of disappearing the way he had right after he had gotten T’fyrr installed as Royal Musician. That
should
have been comforting, having at least one real ally with power and a great many tricks up his capacious and frothy sleeves, but it wasn’t as comforting as it could have been. For one thing, the Deliambren clearly had his attention and his mind on other things than T’fyrr. The Haspur actually saw the Lords Seneschal, Artificer, and Secretary more than he saw Harperus.
They often arrived to share T’fyrr’s otherwise solitary dinners. The Lord Seneschal Acreon was more relaxed these days, though he was very disappointed to discover that Nightingale did not reside with T’fyrr in his rooms. She had impressed Acreon profoundly, it seemed.
I think she must have done something for him specifically with that Magic of hers. I shall have to propose a special concert for him—perhaps a dinner concert on Nightingale’s night off? We could do worse than have him on our side.
Lord Secretary Atrovel was his usual acerbic, witty, flippant self; whatever was going on in the private Council sessions didn’t seem to be affecting him in the least. He continued to amuse T’fyrr with his imitations of the other Advisors, and his opinions on everything under the sun.
Lord Artificer Levan Pendleton came less often, as he was involved in some complicated project, but he was the only one of the three who actually
said
anything about changes in Theovere, and only a single comment. “He’s up to mischief,” the Lord Artificer had said briefly but with ironic approval, as if Theovere was a very clever, but very naughty, boy.
Atrovel was there last night with Pendleton, both of them flinging insults at each other and enjoying it tremendously. I wish Nightingale could have been there, too. I wish she
would
move into my suite . . .
T’fyrr suppressed the rest of that thought and used his deepest wing beats to get himself high into the sky, to a carefully calculated point where
he
would be able to make out Nightingale in the street below, but
she
would not see anything but a bird-form above if she looked up. He was worried about her. She told him not to worry, but he did anyway.
They tried to capture me, maybe even kill me. They haven’t been successful, and it is going to cost them to find someone willing to make a third try. At least, that is the way Tyladen says things are done here. He thinks that makes me safe.
Well, maybe it made
him
safe, but it did nothing to protect Nightingale. An idiot could tell that he not only “hired” her, he cared for her. She was a single unarmed female; much easier to capture than a Haspur. She was, therefore, as much a target as he, and a much cheaper target at that.
She had to travel the dangerous streets between Freehold and the Palace twice a day, every day.
He
had volunteered to escort her, in spite of the fact that the crowds made him queasy and the streets brought on that fear of closed-in places all Haspur shared.
She had refused. He had offered to pay for a conveyance, and she had refused that, as well. Tyladen seemed unconcerned, saying only, “Gypsies can take care of themselves.”
All very well and good, but there was only
one
Gypsy in this city, and she would have a difficult time standing up to six armed horsemen, for instance!
So he had started following her himself; not only from the air, but in the places where the streets were too narrow to make out where she was, by descending to use the metal walkways that connected buildings together above the second stories.
So far, nothing whatsoever had happened, but that did not make him less worried, it made him more worried. His unknown enemy could be waiting to see just how high a value T’fyrr placed on her before moving in to kidnap her. His enemy could also be trying to figure out just where she figured in Theovere’s altering personality. Anyone who wanted to ask the bodyguards could find out what they were singing for the High King, and at least half of the songs were of a specific kind. You wouldn’t even need magic to get a particular message across to Theovere,
if
he was listening. Their choice of music alone would alert that enemy to what they hoped to accomplish.
He looked down, spotting her from above by the misshapen bundle of the harp case on her back. She was out of the better districts and down into the lower-class areas of the city; the streets narrowed, and it was getting harder to watch her from this high. On the other hand, she was jostled along by the crowd, and it would be a bad idea for her to look up now that she was in this part of the city.
He descended. It wasn’t time to take to a walkway, yet; just the point where he should skim just above the roof level. People doing their wash or tending their little potted gardens would gawk at him as he flew past, but he was used to that now. He moved fast enough that their interest didn’t alert anyone in the street below.
And speaking of the street below
—
He fanned his wings open, grabbing for a now-familiar roost. He came to rest on a steeple, clinging with all four sets of talons, and watched her as she turned the corner into another narrow street. He particularly didn’t like this one. There were a dozen little covered alleys off it, places where you could hide people for an ambush. This was one of the worst districts she had to cross to get back to Freehold, too. There had been murders committed here in broad daylight with a dozen witnesses present, none of whom, of course, could identify the murderer.
She was nervous here, too; he sensed that as his neck hackles rose. His beak clenched tight, and the talons on his hands etched little lines into the shingles on the steeple. She felt that something was wrong
—
And it was.
Three men stepped out of an alley in front of her just as three more stepped out of one behind her. They were armed with sticks and clubs—and as everyone else sandwiched in between their ranks fled the immediate area without being stopped, it was obvious who they were after.
One of them stepped forward and gestured with his club as Nightingale shrank away, putting her back up against a building.
T’fyrr shoved himself away from the steeple, plunging toward them in a closed-wing stoop.
###
Nightingale knew she was being followed; she’d known it the moment that her tailer picked her up just outside of Leather Street. He had been following her for the past five days, in fact, always picking up her trail at Leather Street and leaving it just before she got to Freehold. He was good, but not good enough to evade someone who could sense a tracker’s nerves behind her.
That was why she had paid all of her army of street urchins an extra penny to follow her, as well, from the Palace gate to Freehold. They might be children, but they weren’t helpless; you couldn’t live in and on the street around here if you were helpless. They had their own weapons; tiny fists as hard as rocks, the stones of the street, slings like her own, even a knife or two. They had their orders: if someone tried to hurt Nightingale, they were to swarm him, give her a chance to escape, then run off themselves.
But she had not expected to be attacked by more than one or two at the most.
The three stepping out in front of her made her freeze in shock; the three closing in from behind brought a cold wave of fear rushing over her.
Quickly, as the normal denizens of the street vanished into their own little hiding places, she put her back to a wall and reached inside her skirt for her own knife. This was no time or place for Magic
—
Although a nice Elven lightning bolt would be welcome right now!
At that moment, the bolt from above
did
come in, wings half-furled, talons outstretched, screaming like all the demons of the Church put together.
T’fyrr!
He raked the scalp of one with his foreclaws as he plunged in, striking to hurt and disable, not to kill.
That
man was down, blood pouring over his face so that he couldn’t see; he screamed as loudly as T’fyrr. The pain of his wounds probably convinced him that T’fyrr had taken the top of his skull off and not just his scalp.
With a thunder of wings that sent debris flying, and a wind that whipped the ends of her hair into her face, he landed beside her and turned to face the rest of her enemies.
He didn’t speak; he just opened his beak for another of those ear-shattering screams.
But any hope that he might simply frighten them into giving it up as a bad job died when three more appeared behind the five that remained standing.
Nightingale’s fighting knife was out and ready in one hand, a nasty little bit of chain in the other. Good enough in the ordinary run of street fighting
—
None of those men seemed at all impressed as they closed in.
She had never been in this kind of a fight before; she spent most of her time ducking, and the rest of it trying to fend off grasping hands with her knife. Fear choked her and made it hard to breathe; T’fyrr panted harshly through his open beak. Every fiber of her wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run to, no opening to seize. Bile rose in her throat; she tasted blood where she had bitten her lip. One of them kicked at her legs, expertly, trying to bring her down. She ducked head blows, but not always with complete success. Her breath burned in her throat, and sweat ran into her eyes and coldly down her back.
Nightingale fought like a cornered alleycat and T’fyrr like a grounded hawk, but neither of them was willing to strike to kill, and that actually worked against them. There were too many times when the only option open would have meant killing one of their assailants . . .
A glancing blow to her shoulder made her drop her bit of chain as her arm and hand went numb; she slashed feverishly at the man who’d struck her, but he only stepped out of the way and came in again, swinging his lead-weighted club. With the chain, she might have been able to get the club away from him
—
We’re not going to get away—
She swallowed bile again, and backed away from the man with the club, her stomach lurching with fear.
Suddenly, the street erupted in screams.
The children swarmed fearlessly into the fight, screaming their lungs out, kicking, biting, throwing stones, hitting, and most of all getting underfoot. They were too small and agile for the startled attackers to stop them, and there were too many of them to catch; when one of the bullies actually managed to grab an urchin, three or four more would mob him, kicking and biting, until he let go.
Nightingale spotted an opening at the same time T’fyrr did; they seized each other’s hands, and T’fyrr charged through first, knocking one man aside with a wing, Nightingale hauled along in his wake.
They ran until their sides ached; ran until they could hardly breathe, ran until they were staggering blindly with exhaustion—and did not stop running until they came to The Freehold.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I can’t believe you didn’t break anything,” Nightingale said as she carefully checked every bone in T’fyrr’s fragile-appearing wings. She had already checked every inch of his body, from feet to sheath to keel, knowing from her experience with birds that the feathers could hide a number of serious to life-threatening injuries, and that seemingly insignificant tears in the skin could spread under sudden pressure to an unbelievable extent, especially across the breast muscles. Fortunately, his skin proved to be much tougher than the average bird’s.
She ached, not only from her own injuries, but from his.
I know every bruise, every sprain, every torn muscle. I feel as if I am inside his body. This never happened with Raven!
He signed, and rubbed one elbow. Bruises didn’t show on the scaly skin of his lower arms and legs, but there was so little muscle there that the bruises went to the bone. “It feels as if I have broken a hundred bones, but I know that I have not. It will be days before I can fly again.”
He did not voice the fear that put into him; the fear of the winged creature left helpless on the ground. He did not have to voice that fear, for she felt it as well.
I was an idiot. I should have taken him seriously. I should have confronted Harperus and demanded some kind of damned Deliambren protection! I should have confronted Harperus
and
Tyladen and moved into the damned Palace. I was enjoying the anonymity that kept them from manipulating me, and enjoying my notoriety as Lyrebird too much. I was enjoying all the adulation and success I had here in Freehold, too. Now he’s grounded and it’s all my fault.
Guilt made her avoid his eyes, but she could not avoid the emotions coming from him.
She sat back on the bed for a moment, once she had assured herself that he truly did not have any broken bones. She had injuries of her own, of course—a badly bruised shoulder, bruised shins, lumps on her head—but his injuries were far more numerous than hers. He had shielded both of them with his wings, used the wings as weapons to buffet their attackers, and interposed himself between her and a blow she had not seen aimed at her any number of times.
Well, at least there is a solution to his injuries, if he’ll take it. He might he grounded, but not for long.
“T’fyrr, I can—I can heal some of this, if you like,” she offered tentatively. “It will still hurt, but I can sing it half-healed today, and do the rest tomorrow.” Then she frowned. “I
think
I can,” she amended. “I’m not sure if the Magic will work on a Haspur, or if it will work the same. It should. I have not healed a nonhuman before, but my teacher Nighthawk has, and she never said anything about the Magic working differently for them.”
His feathers twitched, and she felt his relief at the idea that she
might
be able to give him enough freedom from pain and damage that he need not be caught on the ground. “Please!” he begged with voice and eyes and clenched talon-hands. “Half-healed will let me fly again!”
“You know how the Magic works,” she said, and smiled when he shook his head.
He’ll find out in a moment.
“No, I don’t
—
” he began, then his eyes widened in wonder. “Oh. Yes, I do . . .” His voice trailed off, as his eyes sought hers, seeking answers.
They were answers she was not prepared to give him yet—perhaps never. Better that he should never know where that touch of Magic and the knowledge of it came from, if there was to be nothing more between them than there had been between her and Raven. “Simply listen for the music and give yourself to it,” she said, and placed both her hands atop his hard, sinewy talons. It no longer felt strange to reach for a hand and find something all bone and sinew and covered with the tough, scaly skin of a raptor’s feet. Did it still seem strange for him to touch her and find soft skin over muscle with five stubby little scales instead of talons?
She gave him no chance to ask all the questions she felt bubbling up inside of him; she did not want to face those questions herself. The answers, in all probability, would hurt far too much.
Instead, she plunged into the magic that Nighthawk had taught her—the combination of Bardic Magic and Gypsy healing, all bound up in the tonal chanting that suited Nighthawk’s strong, harsh voice better than any song. But the Bardic song lay behind the chanting, and for Nightingale the chant turned into something far more musical than Nighthawk ever produced.
The results were the same, though; as she had when she had tried to ease T’fyrr’s soul-wounds, she became one with him and his hurts and felt them as clearly as if they were hers. She came between him and the pain, in fact, shielding him from it as he had shielded her from the blows that had injured him.
If I had wings, and I could fly . . .
That was the refrain in many of the songs she and her kind sang to their audiences; now she spread wings of power rather than feathers and muscle, spread them over him and sheltered him beneath them, as he had sheltered her beneath his own. She was once again aware of the spicy scent of his feathers, and the bitter scent beneath it of sheer exhaustion.
With her song and the power in the song, she drove into each injury, speeding the healing that had already begun, strengthening the torn muscles, weaving reinforcement into the sprains, soothing the bruises. In the back of her mind, she reflected that it was too bad in a way that his skin was covered with feathers; nothing she had done would be visible.
On the other hand, injuries will not be obvious, either. He will appear up to full strength, which might mislead other would-be attackers.
She sensed him relaxing as the pain eased, sensed his surprise in the lessening of the pain, sensed him finding the song she chanted under her breath.
But then
—
Instead of simply opening himself up to the song as she had asked,
he
began to sing, too.
And the power no longer flowed only from her to him, but came from his hands into hers, as if two great, rushing streams ran side by side, but in opposing directions.
Her shoulder stopped aching and throbbing, as he touched
her
with that brush of power as warm as the caress of a feather and as light. The many points of pain in her skull ebbed, as he brushed the power over them as well.
The quality of the chant changed a little, becoming more musical, with odd tonal qualities, but she was able to follow it effortlessly.
She almost lost the thread of the chant in her own astonishment when she realized consciously what he had just done, and she felt his amusement and wonder—amusement at
her
surprise, and wonder at the thing that had been born between them.
In the past, anytime she had done this, when she had opened herself to someone, it had been entirely one-sided, as she had learned to her sorrow with handsome Raven. Even when she limited her openness to the minimum required to heal, she had still been open enough to feel the mental anguish that all too often came with injury, and always she had felt the pain itself. Never, ever, had someone
else
returned the gift. Never had someone joined her in the chant, to heal her.
And never had anyone ever opened himself to her heart as she had opened herself to his.
Until T’fyrr.
She
knew
that he read her soul as she had read his, felt the long loneliness, and the resignation deeper than despair and just as sorrowful. Her heart had no more secrets from his, for every wound, every scar, every bruise was laid bare to his raptorial eyes.
She was so surprised that she could not even react by closing herself off again.
She could not read thoughts—but she could read the feelings that came with the thoughts: feelings so mixed she could not have said where his wonder began and his own long loneliness ended. He began to speak aloud, giving her the images, the memories that were calling up those feelings—and clearly he
knew
what she sensed.
“There are humans who live among the Haspur,” he said, softly, as she continued to sing her healing chant, so lost in it now that she could not have stopped if she tried. He fitted the words to the music, and sang them to her as he sang healing into her body as well. “Most of them are as ordinary as bread, but some are granted a rare gift, that of seeing into the Spirit. That is why we call them Haspur Spirit Brothers, for as often as they use that gift with their fellow humans they also use it with the Haspur, who are their friends and fellow-defenders. Mostly, they provide the simpler gifts: healing of the body as you are doing, ease of the heart in time of trouble. But sometimes, once in a very, very long time, there is need and a compatibility of spirits that binds healer and healed more closely than that. That is when the Spirit Gift of the Haspur is awakened, and the two become a greater whole than two Spirit Brothers are singly. They are
—
”
He sang a long, fluting whistle that somehow melded itself into the healing chant without disturbing it.
“There are no words in the human tongue for this. They are partner-healers, they are wisdom-keepers, they are two souls in two bodies still, but bound together in ways that neither time nor distance can change or sever. Sometimes they are lovers. They are the great treasures of the Haspur.
I had not thought to find that potential in myself, though every Haspur at one time aspires to and dreams of such a thing. I would never have dreamed to have found it with you, O Bird of the Night, wild winged singer, dreamer of beauty and gentle healer of hearts
—
”
There was more, but half of it was in his own language, and at any rate, Nightingale would have lost half of it in her own daze at a single phrase.
Sometimes they are lovers.
How could—well, she knew
how;
physically they were as compatible as many unlikely human pairings. Now that she had tended his hurts, she knew what was beneath that modesty-wrap he wore, and if he
said
that his people and humans sometimes became lovers, then of course it was possible. But how
—
With care, of course,
an impudent mental voice chided her.
Those talons could cause a bit of trouble, but on the other hand, you probably weigh more than he does, so—
Oh, it was a very good thing that neither he nor she could read
thoughts.
With her mind and body whirling, all unbalanced and giddy, she realized that the chant was nearing its end. She brought it to a close, rounding it in on itself, curling it into repose. And she opened her eyes to find herself curled in his arms, and he in hers, her head pillowed on the soft breast feathers, his on her unbound hair.
Nor did either of them care to move, for a very long time.
###
The immediate effect of the healing chant was two-fold: both healer and healed were ravenous afterwards, and exhausted, so weary that even had she been ready to deal with the consequences of what had just happened between them, neither of them would have had the strength.
She had more strength than he for she had more experience at the healing than he. It was not the power itself that came from the healer, only the direction—but as riding a fractious, galloping horse takes strength, so did guiding the power. She had just enough reserves left to go down the stairs, leave a message for Tyladen saying that she was indisposed—which was no lie—and order some food brought up. He was asleep when she returned, and only came half-awake when the food arrived, just enough to eat and fall back into sleep. She was not in much better shape; she really didn’t remember what she had ordered and hardly recognized it when it arrived. Her head spun in dizzy circles as she got up to put the tray outside the door; she lay back down again beside him and dimmed the light, and that was all she remembered.
But her dreams were wonderful, full of colors she had no names for, sensations of wind against her skin and a feeling of unbearable lightness and joy. She’d had dreams of flying before, every Free Bard did, it seemed, but never like this. This was real flight; the sensation of powerful chest muscles straining great wings against the air to gain height until the earth was little more than a tapestry of green and brown and grey below, then the plummeting dive with wind hard against the face and tearing at the close-folded wings, and the exaltation of the freedom, the freedom . . .
She woke to find him already awake and watching her, a bemused expression in his eyes.
“Not now
—
” he said, before she could speak. “Not now. You have never known this was possible. You must think, you must meditate, or you will regret any decision you make in haste.”
She nodded; he knew her as well as she knew herself.
Of course he does,
said that little, amused voice.
And he knows that the outcome is perfectly certain. He can afford to wait, he knows what you will do, eventually, and he is patient enough to wait for that “eventually” however long it takes.
“I want to talk to Tyladen,” she said, finally. “This—I only have two choices that I can see, after this last attack. I either move to the Palace with you, or I reveal who I really am and get some of that protection these damn Deliambrens were so free in offering.”
“My suggestion would be the latter,” he replied. “As long as you are openly still Lyrebird, you have an ear in the city that I do not, that no one who is not human would have. You would not be able to discuss things with our friend Father Ruthvere, for instance. But it is your choice.”
She nodded thoughtfully, agreeing with him.
He’s right. We need that ear inside the Church that Father Ruthvere provides, and
he
needs the knowledge of the Court that we can give him. Church and Court are wound in an incestuous dance these days, and if anyone is to break the pattern, it will be Father Ruthvere and those who are with him. Moving into his suite would have forced me to make certain decisions anyway, and I’m not sure I want to even think about them much less make them.
Things were already complicated enough.
It was something of a relief to close herself into the privacy of the bathroom and let the hot water from the wall nozzle run over her, washing away fatigue and letting her empty her mind, as well. She didn’t have to guess that he might be feeling as uncertain as she; that was another complication to this situation. It was one thing to imagine finding someone for herself as she sang those love songs of longing and loneliness. It was quite another to find herself presented with a resolution.
