The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel (8 page)

“I noticed.”

“It gives a whole new meaning to the idea of wind instruments, doesn’t it?”

“You could say that.” Emereck was only half-listening to Flindaran’s words; he was intent on the music. “Wait for me a moment, will you? I want a closer look at them.”

“Shouldn’t you check with whoever lives here first?”

“Lives here?” Emereck said blankly.

Flindaran gestured. For the first time, Emereck noticed the building in the center of the garden, half-hidden by trees and vines. Though it was large enough for a castle, it was more open and airy-looking than any castle Emereck had ever seen. It was made of a smooth, almost translucent white stone. The door facing them appeared to be made of carved and tarnished silver. No steps led up to it; instead, an area the size of Ryl’s taproom had been covered with the same white stone that made up the building and walls, forming a terrace. The place looked abandoned. One wing had collapsed, and another seemed on the verge of it.

“You really think someone might be living in that?” Emereck said.

Flindaran shrugged. “We might as well look.” They dismounted and tethered their horses to the gate, then walked toward the building. The door was ajar. As they approached, a small bird flew out, scolding angrily. They found no sign of a knocker or bell-rope, and no one answered their calls.

“Let’s go in and look around,” Flindaran suggested.

Emereck shook his head. “No, thanks. I don’t want the roof coming down on my head,” he replied, gesturing toward the ruined wing. “Besides, I want to get a look at those wind-music makers first. I’ve never heard of anything like them, and I’ll wager no one else in the Guild has, either.”

Without waiting for Flindaran to answer, he started for the nearest sculpture. He examined it carefully. He got no better idea of how it had been made, but his opinion of the designer rose even higher. The stones were old, ancient, yet the wear of time had not diminished the quality of the music they made. Somehow, the effects of weathering had been taken into account in their original design.

He finished his examination and went on to the next sculpture, wondering whether the wind ever ceased. It might not matter; the sculptures were scattered all around the central building, so no matter which way the wind blew, some of them would…

Emereck stopped. Slowly, he scanned the garden, sorting out the complex melody in his mind. He paused, staring at the trees on either side of the castle, and realized that Flindaran had joined him. “Have you found something?” Flindaran asked.

“The wind,” Emereck said. “Look at the way the wind is blowing.”

Flindaran gave him a puzzled look. “It’s blowing the same way it was when we got here, from…” He stopped, just as Emereck had done, staring. “Demons in a chamber pot, it’s blowing in a circle!”

“I’m glad I’m not imagining that. Come on. I want to look around the other side of this place.”

Slowly, they circled the palace. The grounds were much the same: attractive, slightly overgrown, and dotted with the music-making statues. Emereck stopped several times, as much to rest as to examine the sculptures. He had not realized how tired he was. As they returned to the gate, he stumbled and nearly fell.

Flindaran was beside him in an instant. “Emereck, you idiot, why didn’t you say something? Here, sit down, let me get—”

“Stop fussing! I lost my balance, that’s all.”

“People don’t turn white just because they lose their balance. You’re being an idiot.”

“You said that already.”

“Great truths bear repeating.” Flindaran helped Emereck to the nearest tree. “There! Sit still, and don’t do anything stupid. I’m going to make camp.”

“Already? But it’s not even noon!”

“So? We don’t know where we’re going; it won’t matter if it takes us a little longer to get there. And you’re not in any shape to do more riding today.”

Emereck considered the justice of that comment. “You’re right, I wouldn’t mind resting. But are you sure making camp is a good idea?”

“Why not? I thought you’d want to do some exploring later.”

“I’m interested in exploring, all right. I’m also worried. I don’t think even one of the adepts from the Temple of the Third Moon could build something like this, and I’m not sure it’s safe.”

“It’s safer than camping in the woods.”

“I suppose so. But don’t go looking around without me. You might turn into one of those statues or something,” Emereck said, half-seriously.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, if I did I’d be off-key, and they’d change me back right away to keep the garden in tune.” Flindaran grinned at Emereck’s expression. “Stop worrying. I won’t let you miss anything.”

Emereck nodded reluctantly, and Flindaran left to unsaddle the horses.

Emereck was more tired than he had admitted, and the throbbing in his side was worse than it had been the previous day. He spent much of the afternoon falling in and out of a fitful doze, but by late in the day he felt more like himself. After they had eaten, he got out his harp. He tuned it and ran a quick scale, then settled down to some serious practicing.

For a long time, Flindaran sat and watched. Finally, during one of Emereck’s pauses, he said, “Emereck, what would have happened if you’d broken your arm falling off that horse?”

“I’d have been badly in need of practice once the splints came off. Why?”

“I just wondered whether there was anything that would keep you from playing those infernal scales.”

Emereck laughed. “Sorry. How’s this?” He began improvising a harp accompaniment to the strange tune the wind played on the garden statues.

Flindaran leaned back and smiled dreamily. “Much better,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you play so well. How do you do that?”

“Improvise? Practice, that’s all. It—”

“No, no! I mean, how do you make it sound like two harps?”

“Two harps?” Emereck listened closely for a moment, then abruptly muted the harp strings with his palms. As the sound died, he heard what he was listening for. Beneath the constant swirl of the wind-music was the small, silvery echo of another harp. He looked at Flindaran. “That wasn’t me! Did you hear it?”

“I think so,” Flindaran said cautiously. “Try it again.”

This time the echo was more distinct. The sound pulled at Emereck like a cherished memory, and he could tell from Flindaran’s expression that it drew him as well. As the echo died, Flindaran rose. “It’s coming from inside,” he said, taking a step forward. He hardly seemed aware of Emereck at all. “Do it again; maybe I can follow the sound.”

“No.” Emereck forced the word out, and his own longing to run into the castle in search of the other harp diminished.

“Why not?” Flindaran spoke without turning, but Emereck could hear the tension in his voice.

“Perversity.”

“
What
?” Flindaran turned sharply. “Emereck, that’s the stupidest reason I’ve ever heard.”

“At least you did hear it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you still want to go charging in there after that harpist, or whatever it is?”

Flindaran frowned. “I’m still curious, but… no, I don’t. At least, not the same way I wanted to a minute ago.” He looked up, puzzled. “What—”

“I think we were both spell-struck.”

“I see. And I thought this place felt so friendly.”

There was a long silence. “Now what do we do?” Flindaran asked finally. “Whatever it is, we can’t just ignore it.”

“I know. Well, maybe we can find it without the music.”

Flindaran hesitated, eyeing the palace dubiously. Then he shrugged. “You’re right; let’s go. But you’d better bring your harp, just in case.”

Emereck nodded and rose. In silence, they entered the castle. The slanting rays of the early evening sunlight streamed through long windows on the west side of the building, and their footsteps echoed along the stone corridors. The air felt heavy, like a summer day streaked with the first few drops of a coming thunderstorm. The rooms they passed were all but empty; one held a massive stone table, another, a pair of carved marble benches, and that was all.

“It looks as if someone’s taken everything in the place,” Flindaran said, sounding disappointed.

“Or as if everything’s been carefully put away so it will be ready when the owner comes back,” Emereck said.

“What made you think of that?”

“I don’t know. This place gives me shivers; I feel as if someone’s watching me behind my back.” Emereck stopped and swung his harp into reach. Carefully, he plucked a single string.

The echo answered, more pronounced than it had been outside, but somehow less insistent. The sound still tugged at Emereck, but not as strongly, and his mind remained clear. He turned in the direction from which the echo had come.

They had to retrace their steps a short distance before they found a side passage that led in the right direction. Twice more, Emereck stopped and called up the silver echo with his harp. Finally, they turned down a short, featureless hall, and Emereck stopped.

The hallway ended in a pile of rubble; beyond was the collapsed wing Emereck had noticed earlier. “Just my luck; it would have to be somewhere under all that,” Flindaran said disgustedly. He stepped forward and began lifting stones aside. Emereck stayed where he was, frowning. How could the other harp—if there was another harp—make any sound if it were buried under the rubble? Still frowning, Emereck reached down and plucked a string once more.

The note went on and on, mingling with the sound of the second harp, ringing around him with a pure clarity. The air brightened; he saw Flindaran begin to turn, slowly, like a fish trying to swim through honey. Beside him, a door-shaped section of wall shimmered and vanished. As if in a dream, Emereck set down his harp and walked through the opening.

The room was washed with gold. Even the air seemed to shimmer. In the center of the room stood a pedestal of white marble. On it, glimmering faintly with a cold, white light, stood a harp. A corner of Emereck’s mind noted the absence of any scrollwork or inlay; this instrument needed no embellishment. He moved forward and reached for it.

Something shot through him as he touched the harp—a flash of power or pain or joy, so intense he could not identify it with certainty. He stumbled backward, clutching the harp, and tripped. He fell, and found himself sprawling on the floor of the hallway, facing a blank, featureless wall of white stone. He still held the harp.

“Emereck!” Flindaran’s voice, full of worry and amazement, shocked him out of his daze.

“I’m all right,” he said as he picked himself up off the floor. “Let’s get out of here.” He reached for his own instrument, and realized suddenly that his side no longer pained him. He swung his left arm experimentally, then stretched it. He did not feel even a twinge. He scooped up his own harp and turned to leave.

Flindaran gave him an odd look, but he did not say anything. They left hurriedly. Once they were safely out of the castle, Emereck explained what had happened to him. While he talked, he examined his side carefully. The wound had healed completely; the only sign left was a band of white tissue, like an old scar. Moving his arm was no longer painful and he felt only a small twinge when he probed the scar with his fingers.

“What is that thing, anyway?” Flindaran said, eyeing the harp with respect and a little wariness.

“A harp. What does it look like?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Emereck shrugged. “How should I know what it is?”

“Maybe if you played it…”

“No. Not until I know a little more about it.”

“Then
I’ll
play it.”

“No!”

“But how else—”

“Magic is dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. This is stronger magic than any I’ve heard of outside legends, unless you believe those stories about the way Alkyra fought off the Lithmern a couple of years ago. And with this, neither one of us knows what we’re doing.”

“Sitting there won’t tell you anything. The least you could do is look at it.”

Emereck nodded. Reluctantly, he picked up the harp. This time, there was no shock when his fingers touched it. The strings glowed faintly silver and red and silver-green in the fading twilight. They were made of an unfamiliar material that was neither metal nor gut, and Emereck saw with surprise that they were fixed in place without tuning pegs. The body of the harp seemed to be made of bone or ivory, and it had been carved all in one piece, though Emereck knew of no creature with large enough bones to supply a piece that size.

A snatch of melody ran through the back of his mind, and his eyes widened. Slowly and with great care, he set the harp down and stared at it, unseeing. With a comer of his mind, he heard Flindaran’s questions, and he murmured the words of the song in reply.

“He held the harp, bone-white as dragon’s teeth

And strung with moonlight’s glow. He raised it high

And played, and when at last the music ceased

Like flowers killed by frost, the cities died.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Flindaran demanded.

“That’s part of an old song called ‘King Loren’s Lay.’ It tells how King Loren destroyed Istravar and two other cities when they attacked him.”

Flindaran stared at the harp. “And you think—”

“I think I know what this is,” Emereck said with deadly quietness. “It’s impossible, but it’s the only thing that fits. This is the harp that the ballad describes. The Harp of Imach Thyssel.”

F
LINDARAN LOOKED FROM
E
MERECK
to the harp and back. “The Harp of Imach Thyssel? Isn’t that the one Marryl the Avenger used to play the shadows out of Harwood?”

“No, that was Neriwind’s Harp,” Emereck said. Talking was a welcome distraction from the tangle of awe and fear and desire that the discovery of the harp had roused in him, and he went on, “Neriwind’s Harp has been in the Hall of Tears for nearly three hundred years, so this can’t be it. I wish it were,” he added under his breath.

Flindaran caught the comment and frowned. “Why? Is there something wrong with this one?”