The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel (14 page)

The Duke of Minathlan observed them all with a detached, slightly cynical air. Several times Emereck saw the Duke glance in his direction. He added Lord Dindran to his list of immediate worries. The Duke was not a man to cross, and if he had plans of his own for the harp…

Emereck shook himself. This was ridiculous! He was beginning to suspect everyone of wanting the harp. He had no real reason to worry about Lord Dindran, and Flindaran seemed no more interested in the harp than he was in listening to Emereck practice. Gendron did not even know of the harp’s existence, unless Flindaran or the Duke had told him. Emereck frowned and told himself sternly to forget the harp, at least for the evening. He was not successful.

The meal ended at last, and Emereck got up to play. He began with a well-known ballad and followed with one of the newer songs that had come east to Ciaron from Rathane. Both were well received. He sang the first of his “adjusted” songs, and grinned inwardly at Talerith’s scowl. To keep her off balance, he played a couple of lively dance tunes, then swept into an even more pointed ballad.

Talerith’s face, flushed from dancing, darkened as Emereck sang. He glanced at the Duke and saw a gleam of amusement on his face. Flindaran seemed as unaware of the barbs in Emereck’s song as he had been of Talerith’s attitude.

Emereck ended the song. Talerith opened her mouth, then licked her lips and closed it tightly. Emereck was surprised at her restraint; he’d expected her to make a show of temper, at least. Perhaps she had some other plan, but unless she wanted to make a scene, she would have to wait until he asked for requests. He looked at her again, and suddenly he was certain that was why she was waiting. Well, he could avoid it easily enough.

He bowed and raised a hand, and the hall quieted. “It is a custom among minstrels to ask now what songs their listeners would hear,” Emereck said. He saw Talerith lean forward eagerly, and he smiled and continued smoothly, “But tonight I plan something different. Lord Flindaran will join me for the next song—‘The Song of the Wandering Knight.’ Flindaran!”

Flindaran rose amid much applause, and Talerith closed her mouth in an angry pout. Emereck smiled as his friend joined him, and with a flourish he played the opening notes of the song.

“A knight came riding down the road,

Her armor mirror-bright,

Her sword was silver in the sun,

Her horse was purest white.

Oh, she was fair and strong and brave

And none could match her might;

No warrior, wizard, king or knave

Could best the Wandering Knight.

She came to Riven’s castle gate

Where seven rivers run.

She stayed one night, and when she left

She stole Duke Riven’s son.

The knight went on to old Rathane

And stole a baron’s horse,

Then sold it to the Earl of Torn

For twice what it was worth!

A barman bet she could not drink

A quart of Kingman’s Rye.

The knight, she nodded carelessly

And drained the barrel dry.

She drove the thieves from Rotrin Wood

Until not one remained,

And when the town refused to pay

She drove them back again.

She fought the Witch of Morlang Isle

From dawn to dusk of day;

Then they went drinking in the town

Before she went away.

Six men set on her late one night

To steal her purse away.

When she killed two the others fled;

They’re running to this day.

For she was fair and strong and brave

And none could match her might;

No sword that swung in all the land

Could best the Wandering Knight.”

The last chords of the song were drowned in applause. Emereck bowed, smiling, though he knew that the enthusiasm had more to do with Flindaran’s participation than with the quality of the performance. Not that they had done badly. On the contrary, Flindaran had done very well indeed. Emereck made a mental note to persuade Flindaran to try performing more often. He bowed again, and noticed the blond serving-woman watching them intently. So she was not as indifferent to Flindaran’s charms as she pretended!

Flindaran returned to his seat, and Emereck announced his next song. Suddenly, he saw a stir at one of the side doors. He paused. Kiannar came into the hall, her face set. There was a buzz of conversation, which died as she strode toward the Duke. She spoke to him for a moment in a low voice, then bowed and stepped aside.

The Duke rose. “My apologies to you all, but I fear I must leave. You will oblige me by continuing the festivities in my absence.” He bowed to the astonished assembly and turned to accompany Kiannar.

A babble of voices rose around the tables, then was cut short by a piercing shriek. In the open doorway stood a fat, red-faced woman, tears running down her face. “It’s the Riders! The Free Riders are back, and dear Lord Oraven’s killed!”

“Quiet, you fool!” Kiannar said harshly.

The fat woman did not seem to hear. “They’ve killed him!” she cried. “Oh, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!”

Kiannar stepped forward and gave the woman a resounding slap. The woman threw her hands over her face and burst into racking sobs. Kiannar took her arm and pushed her out of the hall, then turned back to the crowd. “Oraven’s not dead,” she said in a loud voice. “I saw him myself before I came here.”

“What’s happened, then?” someone shouted.

Lord Dindran looked coldly in the direction of the voice, and abruptly there was silence. “A group of Free Riders have returned from the border of Syaskor,” the Duke said at last.

An uneasy murmuring rustled through the hall, then quieted. The Duke bowed mockingly. “Thank you for your attention. My son Oraven has also returned. He is apparently gravely wounded—but not, I believe, dead. No doubt I shall learn the truth of this myself if I am ever allowed to leave.”

No one said a word. The Duke’s gaze swept the crowd. “Very good. As your curiosity seems satisfied, I will now withdraw. My son Gendron will preside until I return.” The Duke bowed again and the hall. Kiannar followed, closing the door behind them. In the stunned silence, Emereck looked back at the head table. Flindaran was white. Gendron was scowling angrily. Talerith sat hunched over her plate. As Emereck’s eyes reached her, she looked up.

“Play, minstrel!” she said shrilly. “Play something gay. Play something!”

Emereck stared at her. He saw the guests shift uncomfortably in their seats as Talerith said again, “Play!” Then he raised his hands. Still staring at Talerith’s angry, frightened face, he plucked the opening notes of the song he’d been working on since the night in Ryl’s inn.

“Dark water, still water, darker yet the sky;

Shadowed was the path beyond and cold the wind on high.

Black forest, old forest, murky, dead, and dry;

Dark the day and dark the way when Corryn went to die.

Barren fields behind him stretched, and dark and empty rooms

Where lay the young lord’s wife and child all silent in their tombs.

His thoughts were set on vengeance then, as he rode through the gloom;

Sorrow keen for child and queen drove Corryn to his doom.

Past the lake and through the trees, up to his brother’s door,

He made his way, and—”

“Stop!” Talerith’s voice cut across the song. “Stop it!” she cried again, and burst into tears.

Emereck lowered his hands, shaken. What had possessed him? “The Death of Corryn” was a grim song at any time, but now, when one of Flindaran’s brothers was badly injured and perhaps dying… He was dimly aware of the shocked expressions of the Duke’s guests, and of Liana hurrying toward Talerith, but his attention was centered on the head table and Flindaran’s tightly controlled face.

Gendron rose. As he bowed to the guests, his resemblance to the Duke seemed much stronger than it had been earlier. “Under the circumstances, I think it is best to end this evening early. I am sure my father will inform you of whatever news the Riders have brought. In the meantime, I ask your pardon for this uncomfortable finish to our feast. Fare you well.”

Emereck sat motionless, still watching Flindaran, as the people around him began to leave. Liana helped Talerith out through a private door at the back of the hall. Gendron looked at Emereck. “You will answer to my father for this, minstrel.”

“Yes, my lord,” Emereck said without turning.

At the sound of Emereck’s voice, Flindaran looked at him at last. His face was expressionless. Their eyes met, and Emereck swallowed. “Flindaran, I—”

Flindaran made a chopping gesture with one hand. “Later,” he said, and his voice was strained. “When I’ve… Later.” He turned and left the hall. Gendron stood watching Emereck a moment longer, then followed his brother.

With a muffled oath, Emereck sprang to his feet and all but ran out of the hall. He barely noticed the blond serving-woman in the shadows, watching him through narrowed eyes.

E
MERECK WAS NOT SURE
how long he wandered through the castle halls, but it seemed as if it had been hours. The passageways seemed more mazelike than ever. He was unable to keep out of the way of the servants, and even if he had been certain he knew how to find his room, he was not ready to return to it.

Finally he blundered into the empty courtyard at the rear of Castle Minathlan. He sighed in relief as the door closed behind him; no one was likely to disturb him here. He walked down the staircase and seated himself on the bottom step, leaning back against the wall. The stone was cool against his back, even through the cloth of his tunic. Numbly, he stared up at the stars. Kaldarin had not yet risen; Elewyth was a lopsided silver-green oval overhead. The moonlight gave a faint greenish sheen to the stone staircase.

He did not understand what was happening to him. He knew better than to play death songs in the presence of the dying, yet he had allowed his resentment of Talerith to goad him into playing “The Death of Corryn.” It was a mistake, he told himself, only a mistake; but he felt as if he had betrayed all the teachings of his Guildhall.

And why had the Duke’s children reacted so violently to the song? It had been in extremely poor taste, but that was not enough to explain Talerith’s wild burst of weeping, or Gendron’s sharp anger. And Flindaran—Emereck flinched away from the memory of Flindaran’s face as it had looked just before he left the hall. How could he have guessed that they would be affected so strongly?

He heard a door open behind him, and he leaned backward into the shadows. He did not want to deal with the castle folk yet; he wanted to think before he had to—

“Emereck?” a soft voice said tentatively. “Minstrel Emereck?”

“Liana!” Emereck rose and came forward in relief and surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“I see.” Emereck turned away. “You know I didn’t intend— That is, I am sorry about… what happened.”

“Of course.” Liana sounded mildly surprised. “But it wasn’t your fault, you know. Hesta started it. Though I can understand why she was upset; she was Oraven’s nurse, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.” Emereck hesitated. “How is he?”

“Very bad. The healer has been with him since he arrived.”

“I’m sorry.” Emereck could have ground his teeth at the inadequacy of the reply.
I should never have come here
, he thought.
I just make one mistake after another.
He looked at Liana. “I could use an explanation.”

“Of what?”

“Why everyone behaved like madmen when I sang that song,” Emereck said bitterly. “I shouldn’t have done it, but—”

“Oh. Flindaran never told you about Oraven, did he?”

“No.” Emereck suppressed a flash of anger at Flindaran’s thoughtlessness; after all, part of the fault was his own. He had never asked.

“I thought as much,” Liana said calmly. “That’s why I came.”

Emereck looked at her, startled. Her face was in shadow, and he could not make out her expression. “I’d be grateful if you would explain,” he said at last.

“Come and sit down, then, and I’ll tell you.”

They settled themselves on the low stone wall that ran along one side of the staircase. Emereck looked at Liana expectantly.

“Oraven is… special,” Liana began. “Special to everyone in Minathlan, even Lord Dindran, though he doesn’t show it often. He’s about five years younger than Gendron, and he’s never been as wild as the Duke’s other sons. He’s a—a very sweet, generous person, and everyone loves him.”

Emereck shifted uncomfortably. Liana’s information did not explain anything. The reaction of the guests had already told him that Oraven was highly thought of; surely there was more than that?

“Oraven’s the only one of the family who was ever close to all of the others. But he was especially close to Flindaran, before Flindaran left for Ciaron. He taught Flindaran how to use a sword, and… oh, all sorts of things. Even after Oraven married—”

“Married?” Emereck said, surprised. “I didn’t think any of Flindaran’s brothers were married.”

“They aren’t, now,” Liana said softly.

“Oh. I see.”

“No, you don’t. Oraven had been married a little over a year when he decided he wanted to study sorcery. Well, I think he’d always wanted it, but he felt he owed something to Lord Dindran and his brothers first. So he didn’t do anything about it until Flindaran was old enough to be sent to school in Ciaron.