The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel (24 page)

Liana settled the matter. She studied Kensal briefly, then handed Emereck the end of the leading rope and began packing her own things. She wasted very little time; she simply scooped most of them into a pile and jammed the pile into a saddlebag. “I didn’t find your horse,” she told Kensal as she worked. “I brought you one of the Syaski ones instead.”

“Let it go,” Kensal said. He grinned, and gave a shrill, carrying whistle. A few moments later, Emereck saw a sturdy brown mare round one of the stone outcroppings and head toward them. Liana looked up, nodded, and began untying the Syaski horses. Kensal turned to Emereck. “Get your harp, and let’s be off.”

Feeling frustrated, angry, and a little afraid of what might happen next, Emereck did as he was told. Kensal watched in silence as Emereck wrapped the Harp of Imach Thyssel, tied it to his saddle, and carefully checked the knots. Emereck was irritated that Kensal did not give him an opportunity to refuse an offer of help. He finished the knots and swung into the saddle. Beside him, Liana plucked a handful of long, stiff grasses and switched the extra horse to make him move.

“Pick a direction,” Kensal said, “and let’s go.”

Emereck looked at the Cilhar in surprise, then understood. If he, Emereck, chose their path, there could be no question of Kensal’s leading them into a trap. The knowledge only irritated Emereck more. He scowled and pointed. “West. We can make the forest in another day, if we push, and it’ll be easier to hide if there’s trouble.” He looked challengingly at Kensal.

The Cilhar nodded gravely. “It is always easier to avoid trouble. If possible.” He made a clucking noise to his horse, and started off. Liana threw the switch after the Syaski horse and followed. Feeling vaguely dissatisfied and thoroughly unhappy, Emereck kicked his horse into motion and went after them.

Wind rustled the branches of the trees outside the tent, casting shivering shadows across the walls and roof. Inside, Tammis, Princess of Syaskor and sometime sorceress, paced angrily up and down between a cot and a small mahogany table. On the table lay a black mirror that reflected none of the tent’s interior, only a clotted crimson stain.

Lanyk had failed. Worse, the secondary link had been destroyed. And they had been so close to success! Mother of Mountains, how
could
he have bungled it? He had been within reach of the power they sought, might have been actually holding it. So close—and now this. Her small mouth was set in a thin line.

The situation was intolerable. Lanyk was dead, the patronizing little fraud, and she had not even had the satisfaction of killing him herself. As soon as the Syaski found out, what little direct influence she had would end, unless she was prepared to use raw power to enforce her claim to the throne.

The corners of her mouth relaxed slightly as she pictured the consternation of the courtiers. Most of them believed in her carefully planned mousiness. Did they really think a Cilhar would be so helpless? The smile faded and she shook her head. It was too soon. She could not ensorcel an entire country, not without help. And to get the help she needed, she had to have the… whatever it was. She ground her teeth in frustration. Lanyk could have at least used the link to let her know what he had found before he got himself killed!

Firmly, she brought her mind back to the immediate problem. Once the Syaski heard of her husband’s death, it would be only a matter of time before some ambitious general or courtier decided that assassinating an unpopular Cilhar princess was the quickest way to the throne.

Very well, then; they must not hear of Lanyk’s death. She could manage that, at least. But how long would it be before the soldiers grew restless anyway, waiting for their precious prince to return? That was easy; they were restless already. She could handle them, but…

Tammis’s frown deepened. She could hold the Mother-lost soldiers, but to do so she would have to stay here, watching her chances of reclaiming her birthright fade as the real prize slipped out of reach. And sooner or later her hold would slip, and the Syaski hatred of Cilhar would take over. Better to risk everything on the chance of seizing the thing for herself. With careful preparation, it could be done. She was no bungler.

She turned to the table and passed her hand over the surface of the black mirror. The red stain faded and was replaced by a murky reflection of the tent’s interior. Satisfied, Tammis wrapped it carefully in a piece of silver-colored silk, then placed it in a flat oak box. She seated herself beside the table and frowned in concentration. There was that boringly single-minded Shalarn and her soldiers to deal with, as well as the group she was seeking. And someone else had brushed her mind recently; that one would need special handling. Tammis smiled and began the list of the things she would need to take with her.

In the study of Castle Minathlan, Duke Dindran sat behind the polished desk. His face was an expressionless mask, but the lines around his mouth seemed deeper than they had been. Beside him sat the Wyrd, Welram, on the shortest chair the servants could find. Gendron was across from them, watching his father. When the silence became unbearable, he cleared his throat. “Sir, I—”

The Duke cut him off with a wave. “I do not blame you for what has happened, Gendron.”

“I should have watched Flindaran and Talerith more closely. And I should have guessed that the minstrel would never leave without that harp.”

“You could not have predicted Flindaran’s actions.”

“The responsibility is still mine.”

“I left you and Flindaran in charge. It is as much my fault as yours. More,” the Duke added, half to himself. “Practice at raising children appears to have made me worse at it, not better.”

Gendron looked at him in concern. “Father, I…”

“Dindran!” Welram was staring toward the door, his ears pricked forward like a fox hearing a rabbit in the underbrush. “Someone comes.”

“No one will get past the guards,” Gendron said, torn between irritation and respect. “The orders—”

“Guards and orders cannot stop magic,” the Wyrd said. “And there is a very powerful and subtle magician coming this way.”

Gendron looked at the door as though he had just been told it was made of human bones, then looked back at Welram. “You’re sure? How can you tell?”

“One magician knows another.”

“Enough,” the Duke said. “Welram, how long—” He broke off as someone knocked at the door. A moment later, the door swung open and a lanky blond woman wearing servant’s garb stepped inside. She glanced at the Wyrd without surprise, closed the door behind her, and stood waiting with a serene confidence that was out of keeping with her appearance.

“It seems that you were correct, Welram,” the Duke said.

“It is no fault of your guards and servants that I am here,” the woman said. “I arranged matters myself.”

“Did you. You make yourself quite free of my home.”

“It was necessary. I apologize for disturbing you, but I have need of a few words with you and your guest.”

“Indeed.” The Duke leaned back. “And would it be presumptuous to inquire who you are?”

The woman smiled. “I am one of the Five who have been Watchers and Guardians of the world since before Varna sank, since before the Shadow-born were bound, since before Tyrillian fell. I am one of the last of the Eleann, and my name is Rylorien.” The words rang through the chamber like a bell tolling.

There was a moment’s silence; even the Duke looked slightly shaken. “Guardians?” Gendron said at last. “What Guardians?”

Welram answered him without taking his eyes from the woman before them. “When the third moon fell and the Eleann died, they left five Guardians behind them. Their names were Elasien, Amaranth, Iraman, Valerin, and Rylorien.”

“Anyone may claim a hero’s name,” Gendron said uncertainly.

Rylorien looked at the Duke. “Your library proclaims you a scholar, lord Duke. Have you studied the small green book that opens only to the touch of the Dukes of Minathlan and their kin?”

“How do you know of that?”

Rylorien smiled. “I was there when it was written. Have you studied it?”

“I have.”

“Then watch.” Rylorien raised a hand. Her form shimmered, grew, changed. Her skin was a pale golden color, her slanted eyes a golden brown, her hair the color of clear honey. She stood a head taller than the Duke. Dindran stared for a long moment; then he bowed. Rylorien smiled and began to change again. The golden shape shimmered and ran, and then a small, dark-haired woman stood composedly before them. Gendron closed his mouth and swallowed hard.

The Duke studied the dark-haired woman for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “Your first demonstration was quite convincing. There was no need to display your, er, adaptability further.”

“This is the form in which the minstrel Emereck knows me. If we are to seek him, I think it wisest to make recognition easy for him.”

Gendron looked at his father. “You’re going after that harp?”

“Welram and I had intended it,” the Duke replied. “You will remain in charge here.”

“You’d trust me after what happened last time?”

“If I did not, I would not have made that decision.” The Duke looked at Rylorien. “Have you an objection to such an expedition?”

“None at all. I wish to come with you. There is magic gathering against the harp, and I think we may help each other.”

The Duke inclined his head. “An excellent idea.”

Shalarn rode at the center of the small column of men. Behind the silk scarf that kept the dust out of her face, she was frowning. In another three or four days they would reach Minathlan. Everything had gone smoothly since she had begun her warding spells, yet she was uneasy. The feeling had been growing since the previous day, and she knew better than to ignore such hunches.

She turned in the saddle and beckoned to her captain. “We will stop here for a few minutes,” she said when he pulled his horse up beside hers. “There is something I wish to investigate.”

“Yes, my lady.”

As he turned and began giving orders, Shalarn pulled her horse to a halt and slid to the ground. While her men and horses rested, she took a map, a box of herbs, and a black velvet bag from their special places in her saddlebags. She went a little way off the road and set up the spell, slowly and with great care. She did not want to waste even a fraction of her power.

When the preparations were complete, she took a small gold sphere on a silver chain from the velvet bag. She dangled it carefully over the map, and spoke the words that set the spell in motion. There was a flash of heat and the pile of herbs under the sphere crumbled into ashes.

Shalarn finished the spell and lowered her hand. Her eyes widened, though she had half expected the result. The source of the power for which she searched had moved. The line of ashes pointed west of Minathlan now. She studied the map until she was certain she had memorized the pattern, then cleared away the traces of the spell.

She rose to her feet, dusted the last traces of ash from her hands, and walked back to her men. “Captain!”

“My lady?”

“My plans have changed. We will go southwest from here, instead of continuing to Minathlan.”

The captain looked at her with wary curiosity, then nodded. Shalarn smiled as she remounted. She and her men could overtake these others in a day or two. Provided the ones she sought had no magic to hurry them along, she reminded herself. She would work the tracing spell every night when they camped, to make sure she had not lost them. When she caught up to them—well, she would choose that road when she reached the crossing. She turned back to inform her men of the change in plans.

A
S SOON AS THEY
were well underway, Emereck rode up beside Kensal. “I believe you promised us an explanation, Cilhar,” he said.

Kensal sighed. “So I did. You saw the pieces of crystal?”

“I saw them.”

“That was a shadow-stone. It’s a kind of link to the nastiest bunch of sorcerers I know of.”

“A link?” Liana said.

Kensal nodded. “Under the right conditions, the sorcerers can use their power through the stones, cast spells through them, perhaps even travel through them somehow. And they and their servants can find one of those stones anywhere on Lyra.”

“That’s why you smashed it,” Emereck said numbly. “To keep them from finding us.”

“Yes. Soldiers and fighting men I can handle, if there aren’t too many of them, but wizards are another matter. Magic isn’t my specialty.”

“Then why are you helping us?”

“I owe you a life for your help at Ryl’s inn,” Kensal said after a moment. “And even if I did not, I am a Cilhar; I would do far more than this to keep the harp you carry out of Syaski hands.”

Kensal’s explanation sounded reasonable, but Emereck was sure the man had not told him all his motives. He frowned, searching for the right way to ask the question, and Liana said suddenly, “Who are these sorcerers you spoke of?”

“They are called Shadow-born. They’re the ones responsible for the Lithmern invasion of Alkyra a few years back.”

“The Lithmern were defeated,” Emereck pointed out.

“Defeated doesn’t mean wiped out. The Lithmern are still there, and so are the Shadow-born.”

“But if the Alkyrans killed some of them—”

“They didn’t,” Kensal interrupted, shaking his head. “The Shadow-born can’t be killed, only bound.”

“Can’t be killed?” Emereck said incredulously. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous it may be, but it is true nonetheless.” Kensal looked at Emereck curiously. “You’re a minstrel. You must know the songs.”

“What so—” Emereck stopped. “The Pallersi Cycle? The Wars of Binding?”

“Exactly.” Kensal looked pleased, like a Master Minstrel whose apprentice has just correctly answered a difficult question.

“But those wars were three thousand years ago!”

“What is time to things without bodies?”

“No bodies?” Liana said. “I thought you said they were wizards!”

“They are,” Kensal replied cheerfully. “They just aren’t human wizards. Or Shee ones, or Neira, or Wyrd, for that matter. It’s a pity, in a way; Shee or Wyrds would be easier to deal with.”