The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel (15 page)

“Anyway, he went to Kith Alunel to see if he could find a wizard who would teach him. His wife was pregnant, but it was still early and he expected to be home before the baby came. Only he was delayed in Kith Alunel, and the baby was early, and his wife died of it. The child only lived a few hours.”

“I’m sorry.”

Liana smiled at him; even in the moonlight, he could see that her expression was strained. “Oraven blamed himself, though there’s nothing he could have done. I think he still blames himself. After Flindaran left, Oraven gave up the idea of learning magic, and joined the Free Riders. I think he’s always hoped he’d be killed, and now…”

“And now he may have gotten his wish,” Emereck said slowly.

“And everyone knows, but no one really wants to admit it,” Liana said, nodding. “So when you sang…”

Emereck nodded slowly. Unknowing, he had played “The Death of Corryn”—a song about a man whose wife and child were dead, and who wanted to die avenging them. No wonder Gendron and the others had been upset! “And Flindaran—”

“He had to leave for Ciaron just one week after Oraven came home. He wanted to stay and help, somehow—not that there was anything he could have done—but he had to go. He was very unhappy about it.”

“Couldn’t he have delayed it a year?”

Liana looked down. “Minathlan isn’t rich. Lord Dindran had already paid for the first year of teaching. I think he would have let Flindaran stay, but…”

“Flindaran would find it hard to ask him, I think.”

“Yes. So he left.”

“I see. Thank you; I understand much better now.”

Liana did not answer. They sat for a long time in silence, while Emereck considered. Finally he looked at Liana. “Why did you tell me all this?”

“I thought you ought to know,” she said simply. “Especially if—if Oraven…”

“He’s not dead yet, and you said the healer was with him.”

“No, he hasn’t died. But I think he will. He doesn’t want to live.”

Emereck stared. “Where’s Flindaran?” he said at last, in a voice he hardly recognized as his own.

“With Oraven and the healer and the rest of the family. At least, he was when I left, and I don’t think he’d have gone anywhere else. Not now.” Liana rose to her feet. “And I’d better be getting back, in case… anything happens.”

“I’m coming with you,” Emereck said.

“But—”

“I have to see Flindaran, before ‘anything happens.’ I have to explain—”

Emereck broke off as the sound of a single harpnote echoed through the courtyard, soft and pure. Another followed, and another, vibrating in his very bones. He turned and stared at the castle in horrified disbelief. Flindaran wouldn’t, he couldn’t have—but the silver sound kept on. The music pulled at him, far more strongly than it had before. For a moment he resisted; then, with an incoherent shout, he ran into the castle.

Shalarn’s eyes flew open. For a brief instant she lay staring into the darkness, then she threw the bedclothes aside and rose. Snatching her robe from the bedstand, she shrugged it on as she hurried to the room where she performed her sorceries.

A wave and a muttered word dissolved the locking spells on the door that protected her secrets from accidental discovery. Inside, she paused and concentrated. Yes, she still felt the tug of the magic that had awakened her; she had a little time yet. But how much?

She pushed the thought from her mind and whirled to the high chest beside the door. She yanked two drawers open and took the things she needed: four candles, a map, a bag of dried herbs, a small gold sphere at the end of a silver chain. In three steps she was beside the table. Her hands shook with the need for hurry as she spread the map flat and set the candles in their places—black to the north and south, white to the east and west. Carefully, she made a small pile of the crushed herbs at the point on the map where Lanyk’s castle stood. Then she dangled the gold sphere above the herbs and began to chant.

A small figure slid silently through the forest south of Minathlan. Around him, rain fell in a slow, drenching drizzle. His bow and arrows made an oddly shaped bulge under the green cloak that protected them from the damp. His face was invisible inside his oiled leather hood.

His soft boots made no sound on the wet ground. Though there was no sign of a trail, he moved surely. Occasionally he paused to inspect a plant or to examine some nearly invisible mark on the forest mold.

Suddenly he stopped. He sniffed the night air tentatively, then stood motionless in an attitude of listening. Water collected in the hollows of his hood and dripped steadily from the hem of his cloak. He did not appear to notice.

The door opened and Kensal looked up. “Well?” he said as Ryl entered.

“In some ways, it went very well.”

“In some ways?”

“Both of those we sought are there, and they are the two who fought beside us at the inn. One is, in truth, a minstrel; the other is son to Duke Dindran.”

“So all your suspicions were correct.”

Ryl sank into a chair, frowning. “Yes, but I fear it helps us little. The minstrel bears the mark of the harp already; I think it is in his keeping.”

“Then you know where to find it?”

“He must keep it near him, or the fear of the burden would not be so clear on him.”

Kensal studied her. “You’re worried about something. What?”

“The other—the Duke’s son. He has been touched as well, though I think in him the harp has waked desire. I wish I dared look more deeply.”

“Is that necessary? If we know where it is…”

“Lord Flindaran seems impetuous. I fear what the harp might do in his hands.”

“The minstrel seems a more immediate concern,” Kensal said practically. “He has the harp, after all. I’m glad Flindaran didn’t keep it; taking something from a Duke’s son could be a bit awkward.”

Ryl smiled and shook her head slowly. “The minstrel is his friend and guest. And the Harp of Imach Thyssel will not be easy to take no matter who has it.”

“Then why worry about Flindaran?”

“I think he may create more problems in the future, no matter who holds the harp at present.”

“If we can get it quickly enough, Flindaran won’t become a problem.”

“Do not underestimate—” Ryl stopped. Her head turned, and she went pale.

Automatically, Kensal reached for his sword. “What is it?” Even as he spoke, he knew the answer; the silver harpnotes rang through the room, faint but clear.

“He’s playing it,” Ryl whispered. “By the Four Lights, he’s playing it!”

Kensal darted a sharp look in her direction. Her face was ice-white, and her hands were clenched in her lap. She seemed to be bracing herself against something, like a man holding up a falling wall that threatens to crush him. Kensal’s eyes widened. He jumped to his feet and slammed the window-shutters closed. The harpnotes continued without change.

Ryl’s eyes closed. Her lips pressed together, and she began to shake. Kensal crossed back to her and knelt uncertainly beside her chair. He opened his mouth, then closed it again; distracting her could be dangerous to them both. Finally, he raised his hands and laid them, slowly and carefully, on top of Ryl’s clenched fists.

Strength drained out of him. Ryl’s shaking did not lessen, but it did not grow any worse. He wondered how long he could continue to feed her his energy, and what would happen to them both when he had no more to give. He felt himself weakening, but he did not move.

The music drew Emereck through the maze of castle corridors, and he followed it without hesitation. He passed several servants, all frozen in attitudes of listening, and ran up a flight of stairs. A door blocked his way, flanked by a half-ensorcelled guard. Before the man could move to stop him, Emereck burst into the room beyond. He saw Talerith and Gendron, turning toward him with expressions of bemused astonishment, and an unfamiliar man bending intently over a still figure in a large, canopied bed. Emereck’s eyes swept past them to the source of the music.

Flindaran sat beside the bed, holding the Harp of Imach Thyssel. Some trick of light made it seem polished and undented, as it must have looked when it was new. There was a look of exultation on Flindaran’s face as his hands moved surely over the strings. A detached part of Emereck’s mind noted that Flindaran had not made a single mistake in his playing, though he could hardly be described as even a passable harpist with an ordinary instrument. Flindaran looked up and saw him, but his hands never paused.

In three strides Emereck was across the room. He jerked the harp from Flindaran’s hands. The music ceased, leaving only a faint echo. He set the harp carefully on a small table behind him, then turned back to face Flindaran. “You fool!” he said, not bothering to hide his anger and frustration. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

As Shalarn began the chant, the four candles lit simultaneously with slender ribbons of fire that were almost as long as the candles themselves. Even as their light flared through the chamber, she felt the faraway tugging cease. Grimly, she continued the spell, forcing herself to ignore the cold certainty of failure that was growing in her mind.

She finished the spell without hope; the silver chain had never even trembled in her hand. As she ended the chant, the candles winked out. She lifted the chain and sphere away from the map, then crossed to a chair and sank into it. She sat motionless for several moments, recovering from the exhaustion of performing sorcery hastily and without proper preparation.

And for what? She could try again later to trace the touch of magic that had awakened her, but it would be a long and tedious process. Even if she succeeded, she would be only one of those seeking for its source; she could not be the only wizard awakened by that pull. She had lost whatever advantage she might have gained by quick action. She slapped a hand against the arm of the chair in frustration.

Well, it was past mending now. She rose and went back to the chest. More by touch than sight, she found a small lamp and lit it. She replaced the gold sphere carefully in its velvet bag, then turned back to the table to put away the map and the candles. She froze, and then gave a low cry of triumph.

The crushed herbs no longer made a small pile above the mark that indicated the castle in which she stood. They had spread into a thin line that led southeast and ended in a second, smaller pile. Shalarn moved forward to study it more closely, and her lips parted in a smile. She had not realized that it was so close. Tomorrow she would make her excuses to Lanyk and be on her way, to Minathlan.

The figure in the forest stood listening for a long time. Finally, he relaxed and shook his head. Drops of water flew, striking nearby leaves and branches and knocking still more droplets free. He threw a long, considering look northward. Absently, he fingered a small gold ring that bore the image of a tree with three moons tangled in its branches. At last he turned and started back the way he had come, moving swiftly, now, as well as silently.

Kensal knew he was weakening rapidly, but he clung stubbornly to his post. Finally, the music stopped. He stayed where he was. At last, Ryl’s shaking stopped too. He let his hands fall to his side as she opened her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome,” Kensal said. His voice sounded harsh and rusty, as though he had not used it for a long time. He tried again. “Next time, you’d better find someone younger for that. I almost feel my age.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Ryl’s face. “I will—try to remember. Old man.”

He licked his lips. “What happened?”

“Someone played the Harp of Imach Thyssel. I was not prepared for such a happening.”

“Prepared?”

“I will explain later. Now I must rest.”

“You’re all right?”

“Mostly.” Ryl’s voice began to fade. “I need rest now, that is all. Do not worry. I only need to… rest.”

With the last word, Ryl closed her eyes. Kensal looked at her for a long time. Finally, he tried to rise. He almost fell; he had not realized how weakened he was. He tried again, pulling himself up on the arms of the chair, and made it. Carefully, he made his way back to his chair, and collapsed into it.

A long time later, he raised his head. Ryl lay sprawled awkwardly in the chair where he had left her. Except for the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest, she looked dead. He sighed and stood up. This time his legs held him. He crossed the room and placed his arms under her, testing his strength constantly to be certain it would last. He decided it would. He picked her up and staggered to the bed. When Ryl was arranged in a more comfortable-looking position, he pulled a chair over to the bedside and settled down to wait.

A tall shadow, cloaked and hooded, stood frowning in Lanyk’s tower. So that was what they wanted! No wonder the Dark Ones had been reluctant to explain fully. And no wonder they had been so free with information and… other things. They needed hands, to bring it to them. Well, if they wanted the thing that had made that music, they would have to find someone else to run their errand. Someone foolish enough to give away such power.

The shadow’s eyes narrowed. Time enough for such things later, when the instrument was safe in Syaskor. First it must be located, and men sent after it. Warding spells must be cast, to confuse any other wizards and magicians who might have noticed. And there was Shalarn—she might well have heard the music too, and felt its power. She must be delayed. That captain of hers would be useful there. The hooded shadow smiled very, very slightly, and slid away to plan.

F
LINDARAN JUMPED TO HIS
feet, facing Emereck. His face was hard. “Move aside, Emereck.”

“No. You have no right—”

“My brother’s dying! Move aside, or I’ll throw you.”

“No!”

Flindaran’s lips tightened, and he reached for Emereck. Then, behind him, a raspy voice said, “What’s all the shouting?”

“Oraven!” Flindaran whirled and knelt beside the bed.

“I might have known it would be you,” Oraven said with tired good humor. “Can’t you do anything without making noise?”

“Oraven, you—” Flindaran stopped and looked anxiously across at the healer.