The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel (13 page)

His friendship with Liana progressed well, in spite of Flindaran’s heavy-handed assistance. Unfortunately, Talerith’s dislike had also become more evident. Flindaran seemed to be the only person in the entire castle who was not aware of her attitude. Emereck avoided her as much as he could, and remained scrupulously polite when he could not.

In his spare moments, he worried about the harp. He mistrusted the suave Duke of Minathlan, whose only response to his respectful request for further information had been a raised eyebrow and a few politely vague phrases. The Harp of Imach Thyssel would be a temptation indeed to any nobleman, particularly one whose neighbors were as troublesome as the Syaski. He mistrusted Flindaran, who appeared to have forgotten the harp entirely. Emereck did not believe that was possible. Most of all, he mistrusted himself.

It would be so easy to take the harp for his own, and use it to make himself a hero, a healer, a great minstrel. Though he did not believe he would be successful in any of those roles, he found it difficult to banish their seductive pictures from his mind. At times he found himself wishing almost desperately for someone, anyone to take the harp away from him before he succumbed. As a result, he grew more and more anxious to leave Minathlan.

To add to his mental discomfort, his nightmares returned. On his second night in Minathlan, Emereck woke sweating from a dream full of twisted shapes and screams. He paced the floor until his breathing was more normal, then lay down again, but he was unable to sleep. The experience was repeated again, and again. By his fourth morning in Minathlan, Emereck was beginning to feel decidedly out of sorts.

He was also, apparently, beginning to look less than well. “What’s wrong with you?” Flindaran demanded as they left the breakfast hall.

“Nothing.”

“Then you’ve been rubbing soot under your eyes.”

Emereck laughed in spite of himself. “I hadn’t realized I looked as bad as that.”

“Well, you do. So what is it?”

“I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

Flindaran studied him, frowning. “Maybe you shouldn’t play for the feast tonight. Talerith will be disappointed, but—”

“Wait a minute! I’m supposed to play for a feast tonight? When did this happen?”

“Didn’t Talerith tell you?”

“No. She didn’t.”

“That featherbrain! Oh, well, it shouldn’t matter much. It’s more of a family party than a feast, really; nothing elaborate.”

“I see.” Emereck did indeed see. He had no doubt that Talerith had deliberately neglected to inform him. It was a spiteful gesture, more irritating than truly troublesome; no minstrel worthy of the title would be unable to manage a spur-of-the-moment performance. Unless she had something else planned as well…

“I think it’ll do you good,” Flindaran said persuasively. “It won’t hurt you to show off a little.”

“What? Oh, of course. I’ll be glad to play, Flindaran. I was just… thinking about which songs would be appropriate.” There was a ballad about a proud King’s daughter who was outwitted by a swineherd and forced to marry him. With very little adjustment, he could make it pointed enough that Talerith could not possibly miss the hint. And there was another song about a woman who scorned her true love because he came dressed in rags. Talerith would be furious. Emereck began to smile. Flindaran was right; it could well be a very satisfying evening. He looked up. Flindaran was watching him with narrowed eyes. “Something wrong?” Emereck said.

“I’ve seen that expression on your face before, and it always means trouble for somebody. What’re you up to?”

Emereck groped for a way of distracting him. “How would you like to do a duet with me tonight?”

“You’re mad,” Flindaran said with conviction.

“I am not. It would give
you
a chance to ‘show off a little.’”

“All the songs I know are the kind that shouldn’t be sung in front of ladies.”

“You know ‘The Wandering Knight.’ And you’ve done it enough that we wouldn’t need much practice.”

“I’d sound like a crow.”

“Nonsense. A raven, at the very worst.”

“For the last time, I won’t do it!”

“Good. If that’s your last refusal, you’ll have to say yes when I ask you again.”

Flindaran began to laugh. “You must be the stubbornest man east of the Melyranne Sea!”

“I’m good at what I do,” Emereck said blandly. “Now, about the duet…?”

“All right, I’ll think about it.”

“You’re sure you won’t—”

“I said I’ll
think
about it! But don’t plan on it.”

“I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with that. I’m going to practice; let me know when you make up your mind.” Thoroughly pleased with the success of his distraction, Emereck took his leave.

He returned to his rooms and drew up a list of songs for the evening, along with a few alternatives he could use if his audience seemed bored with his original selections. He labored over it for some time, then set it aside and turned to “adapting” a few of the songs to suit his purpose. When he finished, he picked up his harp and began running through them.

He made a few more changes to the first song, and began on the next. He fell quickly into the rhythm of it. He let his fingers move automatically while his mind listened critically to the music. He was playing well today, he thought, very well. It was a pity he hadn’t brought a better instrument with him; the little traveling harp was well enough for inns and taverns, but a nobleman’s hall deserved something grand…

Abruptly, Emereck drew back from that line of thought. He became aware that he was staring at the chest in the corner of the room; somehow, he had turned his chair as he played, without realizing it. He felt suddenly chilled. His hands were still moving over the harp strings; he pulled them away and the music died in a broken jangle. In the silence that followed, Emereck heard the fading silver echo of another harp.

Unbelieving, he stared at the chest. The Harp of Imach Thyssel was inside, wrapped in cloth and covered with linen. The strings should be muffled too thoroughly to make a sound. Slowly, he rose and walked forward. Kneeling, he raised the lid of the chest. The linen looked undisturbed. He removed it and lifted out the bundled harp.

The wrapping fell away. He shoved it aside and picked up the harp. He turned it over in his hands, running his palms along the ivory surface, feeling the occasional roughness of the scratches that marred its smoothness. It was plain, heartlessly plain—
bone-white as dragon’s teeth
. Carefully, he laid a hand flat against the strings. A bead of sweat ran down his back.

Someone knocked at the door. Emereck jumped. His hand jerked away from the harp, and the strings rang faintly. He stared, appalled. He hadn’t locked the door! “A moment!” he called, but the door was already swinging inward.

“Demon’s teeth, Emereck, what are you doing?” Flindaran demanded.

“I was… checking the harp,” Emereck said lamely. Inwardly, he was shaken. Anyone could have walked in and found him with the harp! How could he have been so careless?

“What for? Oh, never mind.” Flindaran paused, then grinned sheepishly. “I just came to—well, to tell you that I’ll sing after all. If you’re still interested.”

“Oh! Yes of course I’m interested; I’m not going to let you out of it that easily. Just a minute while I put this away.” With hands that trembled slightly, Emereck returned the harp and the linen to the chest and lowered the lid. He let out a long breath, half sigh and half sob, then turned to discuss the coming performance with his reluctant friend.

Ryl leaned on the windowsill, her dark blond hair falling loose around her shoulders like a girl’s. “It’s here,” she said softly.

Kensal glanced past her, to where Castle Minathlan stood at the center of the town. “You’re sure.”

“Of course.”

“Then what’s next? Taking it back?”

“First I must learn a little about the Duke and his family, and discover what obstacles we may face besides the harp itself. The harp—”

“—does not move easily from one owner to another. You’ve said that before,” Kensal said, grinning. “What other obstacles are you anticipating?”

“There are many possibilities. The Lithmern who set on us at the inn, for instance. They may be working for Lithra, or for Syaskor, or for the Shadow-born themselves.”

“Or for someone else entirely.”

“Yes. And there is the current Duke of Minathlan to consider. I know little of him personally, but his family tends to be… resourceful.”

“I believe the Cilhar have a somewhat similar reputation.”

Ryl smiled. “It is one reason I am glad of your help. But I think your part will come later.”

“How much later? We have only two weeks left.”

“I do not know. Soon, I hope.”

“If you plan to stay long, we’ll need more than this.” Kensal waved at the tiny, sparely furnished room they had rented.

“That I leave to you.”

“You have other plans for this afternoon?”

Ryl’s smile widened. “Castle Minathlan prepares a feast tonight. They will need extra servants for it. I believe I shall offer myself.”

“You make an unlikely kitchen maid.”

“No more than I do an innkeeper. Come; I am anxious to begin.”

Kensal nodded. They left the room together. Outside the inn, they separated. Kensal started toward the main part of the town, to look for news of lodging places, while Ryl began the long walk up to Castle Minathlan.

T
HE FEASTING HALL OF
Castle Minathlan was large, and less than half full. Rich tapestries covered the gray stone walls, but Emereck could not help noticing that most of them were in older styles of workmanship. Still, the linen that draped the tables was snowy white, and the graceful wine decanters were polished silver.

The guests included a few notables from the town around the castle, but most of those present were, as Flindaran had promised, “family.” To Emereck’s surprise, the group looked little different from the gatherings of merchants he had seen in Ciaron; he had expected a richer atmosphere among the nobility. But Flindaran wore the same second-best tunic he’d always worn for feast days at the Ciaron Guildhall, and his brother Gendron was similarly attired. Even the Duke displayed no more than a single gold chain to mark his office.

Talerith had arranged the seating, and Emereck found himself placed at the low end of the side table. He did not find this as annoying as he might have, primarily because Liana had somehow been placed next to him. “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said as he rose to greet her.

“It is? Oh, dear, I thought everyone was told about the seating arrangements in advance. Talerith…” Liana glanced toward the head table and sighed.

Emereck suppressed an urge to volunteer his opinion of Talerith. There was no reason to spoil Liana’s enjoyment of the feast. “It is hardly of great importance,” he said instead.

Liana looked at Emereck and smiled. “At least it was a pleasant surprise.”

“Never doubt it.”

“Perhaps now I can finally hear about your journey from Ciaron,” she said as she seated herself.

“It was not particularly interesting, I fear.”

“Oh?”

“One caravan journey is very like another.”

“Talerith has been having a game with me, I see. I’ll have to speak to her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, she’s been dropping mysterious hints about Flindaran’s trip home for the past few days. There’s no harm in it.”

“I see.” Emereck looked toward the head table. Flindaran sat next to Talerith; he was reaching forward to fill her glass. He said something to her, and she laughed and tossed her head. Emereck frowned. Surely, Flindaran had enough sense not to trust the secret of the Harp of Imach Thyssel to such a spoiled child! But Flindaran did have a tendency to boast about his exploits; he might have tried to impress her with the tale of their fight at the inn.

Liana’s eyes followed Emereck’s. “I don’t think it’s Flindaran,” she said, misinterpreting Emereck’s expression. “He likes Talerith too much to tease her that way.”

“Entirely too much,” Emereck muttered. He had never actually asked Flindaran
not
to speak of the harp; he’d just assumed… And Flindaran had been spending much of his time with his youngest sister since their arrival in Minathlan. He looked toward the head table once more. Talerith seemed to be teasing Flindaran about something. How much did she know?

“What did you say?”

“I believe you are correct; Flindaran is unlikely to have been teasing Lady Talerith in that fashion.”

“I wish—” Liana stopped. She threw him a quick sidelong glance, then began studying her plate with a pensive expression.

“I hope I’ve not displeased you,” Emereck said, noting her expression.

“Not exactly.”

Emereck’s heart sank. “Forgive me, lady. I—”

“There isn’t anything to forgive.” Liana threw him another glance and returned to studying her plate with renewed intensity. “I just wish you didn’t feel you had to be quite so formal all the time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s the way you speak. When you’re with Flindaran you relax, but whenever you’re with anyone you don’t know well, you sound like the Officer of Protocol at King Birn’s court.”

“I do?”

“I’m not sure whether it’s because you don’t trust yourself or because you don’t trust other people, but it doesn’t really matter. Maybe it’s a little of both.”

Emereck hardly heard her. “I hadn’t realized.”

Liana looked up and smiled slightly. “I didn’t think so. Now tell me about… about Ciaron. Is the marketplace really larger than the one in Kith Alunel?”

Emereck welcomed the change in subject. He made polite conversation with one half of his mind, while the other half worried about Flindaran, Talerith, and the harp. He watched the head table surreptitiously all evening. Talerith was enjoying herself enormously. Flindaran flirted outrageously with every woman who came near him; his father’s presence had very little restraining effect on his behavior. Gendron was more subdued, but Emereck noticed the lingering glances the serving-women gave him, and decided that Gendron was at least as successful as his brother. Only one of the women, a tall, rather plain blond, paid no particular attention to either of the two men.