Music to My Sorrow

by Mercedes Lackey

  Beth had gone back to having black hair again, which was kind of a pity, since she'd made such a good redhead. Still, it was her hair . . . and red did kind of make her look like something out of a comic book when she wore her favorite color of deep garnet.

  "This is just bizarre," Beth said, when Eric had filled her in. "If Maeve was missing, you'd better believe I'd have an all-points bulletin out. And it's not like even the Unseleighe would hurt a Sidhe kid—no matter what they'd do to humans."

  "But one Unseleighe Elfhame would happily hold the child of another hostage, while treating him well," Kory pointed out. "And Protectors have been slain before. Such a loss would make Prince Gabrevys appear weak . . . and any weakness is fatal among the Dark Court. Should he have one, he dare not reveal it."

  "Well, it's nice to know I'm doing him a favor," Eric said.

  "Just make sure he takes it in that spirit," Beth said dangerously.

  "Oh, don't worry," Eric said lightly. "'The person of a Bard is inviolate.'"

  Beth's expression turned meditative. Eric replayed his last sentence in his head and winced. Beth didn't disappoint him.

  "Gosh, Eric," she said, making her eyes very wide, "And here I thought you were in green, not violet. Better get my eyes checked."

  Eric groaned, and pantomimed a rim-shot—and because he could, here, he used a wisp of magic to produce the sound out of the air.

  Beth bowed. "Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, I'll be here all week. Don't forget to tip your server. But seriously—"

  "Seriously," Eric agreed. "Nobody messes with a Bard. Unless this Prince Gabrevys wants everybody from Oberon on down—and probably the Unseleighe Empress Morrigan too—coming to yell at him, I'll be just fine. Lady Day will take me over to Bete Noir, I'll perform my Official Bardic Duty, check in back here, then Gate home in time to make sure Magnus doesn't stay up all night surfing the Internet. Simple."

  "I just hope it is," Beth said darkly. "I do not like Unseleighe Sidhe. I do not like them, nosiree. I do not like them in a box, I do not like them with a fox—"

  "You worry too much," Eric said, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. "And you've been reading too many children's books. Try to pick up something that doesn't have pictures for a change."

  She made a face at him.

  "Hurry back to us safely," Kory said.

  * * *

  Once Eric left the bounds of Misthold's Domain, Lady Day picked up the pace. It wasn't quite a straight shot, or an instantaneous jump between Realms—nothing Underhill was exactly straightforward—but it wasn't very long at all before Eric realized that he must be inside Prince Gabrevys's Domain.

  The natural state of Underhill was Chaos—specifically, the Chaos Lands, where everything was an unformed white mist—pure, raw magick—and the unwary traveler could find his thoughts literally taking form, usually with disastrous results. The Sidhe—and everything else that lived Underhill—imposed form on that chaos, creating Domains with their own forms, rules, and physical laws. The Elfhames Eric knew of—Misthold, Sun-Descending, Neversleeps, Thundersmouth, and Fairgrove—were all held in existence by the power of the ruling Prince and the Elven Magi that made up their Courts, and anchored to the World Above by a Node Grove as well. But he knew that there were many other ways to create and hold a Domain Underhill, and he'd never heard of an Unseleighe Node Grove.

  Whatever method Gabrevys was using—and it was almost certain to be unpleasant, because that was just how the Unseleighe were—it certainly worked. The area Eric was riding through now was as extensive and—for lack of a better phrase—well-realized—as Elfhame Misthold.

  But while Elfhame Misthold was all silver and gold and green—the kind of place San Franciscans thought of Northern California as being (though the weather so rarely cooperated!)—Bete Noir was the sort of place that would make a really depressed Goth feel right at home. In fact—Eric looked down to make sure, and nodded—even the grass was black. And he bet it was always night here, and the moon (a rather unsettling blood red one) was always full. A heaviness fell over his spirit, something that, had he not known from the moment it touched him that it came from outside him, would have forced him into a serious state of depression. Of course. It was much easier to impose your will on others when they were in despair. Depression sapped the will, made you too lethargic to even think of rebelling, and surroundings like this would keep you depressed, even if the spirit-killing magical aura wasn't operating.

  And probably it's always autumn, too. I know the Sidhe can't create, only copy, but you'd think they'd, I don't know . . . copy more interesting things? If this place looks this way all the time, no wonder Jachiel left. If I spent any time here at all, I'd start playing nothing but Morissey.

  As if something had heard him, the landscape abruptly changed. Suddenly Eric found himself riding through what he thought of as a "default Sidhe" landscape: rolling green hills with tall stands of trees on either side of a wide path of silver sand. Above him was the twilight sky of Underhill.

  He signaled to Lady Day to stop, wondering if something was wrong. He glanced back over his shoulder. There, behind him, was the Halloween forest. The darkness stopped as if it had been cut with a knife.

  It was an eerie effect.

  "Some people just put up 'No Trespassing' signs," Eric muttered. "Or hang out a name-plate." He patted Lady Day on the shoulder. "Let's get this over with, girl."

  Lady Day snorted and tossed her head vigorously, obviously in full agreement.

  * * *

  He'd thought he might have to do a bit of hunting for Prince Gabrevys's palace unless someone came to ask him his business here, since Sidhe buildings, like the Sidhe themselves, had a habit of being difficult to find when they didn't want to be. But as he rounded a curve in the road, he spotted the palace up ahead. Evidently it wanted him to find it.

  It was more of a castle than a palace—make that medieval keep, heavy on the drawbridges and bronze gates. For something built by the Sidhe, it actually looked pretty normal.

  Which either meant that Gabrevys didn't spend a lot of time in his Domain—or that he was a lot smarter than most of the Unseleighe that Eric had run afoul of. Subtlety really wasn't their strong point.

  He thought about it for a moment. Subtlety wasn't a Seleighe strong point either, actually, especially when you considered what Beth had told him about Glitterhame Neversleeps. It was just easier to overlook when it was something you liked.

  And all this philosophizing wasn't getting him any closer to going through that castle door. He was close enough now to see the guards standing on the wall, and more just inside the portcullis, ready to lower it at the first sign of trouble.

  He rode Lady Day to the foot of the drawbridge, sighed, and swung down from the saddle.

  "I'd better hoof it from here," he told his elvensteed. "I'll yell if I need help—but really, this should be simple. Honest."

  Lady Day didn't make a sound, but he could sense her doubting disapproval.

  * * *

  The water in the moat was murky, but as he crossed the drawbridge, something broke the surface before diving deep again. Eric caught only a glimpse of a long green-gray body, like the mother and father of all eels—if an eel were as big around as a horse.

  He was very glad he'd taken care to stay to the center of the drawbridge.

  "Halt!" the sentry on the wall called down, when Eric had reached the middle of the drawbridge. "Who goes there?"

  "Sieur Eric Banyon, Knight and Bard of Elfhame Misthold, on business from Prince Arvin to Prince Gabrevys," Eric called back.

  The sentry withdrew, and Eric sensed a whispered consultation before the sentry reappeared.

  "Misthold owes allegiance to the Seleighe Court. Tell us why we should not cut you down where you stand," the sentry demanded.

  Because I'm a Bard, moron. "Does Bete Noir now offer violence to the sacrosanct person of a Bard? Is this the word of your Prince? I will go away and make a song abo
ut it," Eric said, with his best sneer.

  It was no idle threat. Even in the World Above, the songs of Bards had once been feared for their power to blight or heal—and in Underhill, that power was greater still. Words had power here; words with the creative force of a human Bard behind them could melt stone at need. A song of mockery would send Gabrevys's prestige crashing down in no time.

  "—Wait! I will send an escort to the gate, Misthold's Bard. You may approach."

  Eric took a step forward. Just as he did, there was a violent thwack from below to the wooden planks on which he stood. He glanced aside, to see the eel-thing gliding by once more.

  Just like a shark, seeing if something tasty can be knocked into the water.

  If he'd been in the least tempted to forget he was in an Unseleighe Domain, that temptation had vanished. He moved forward, doing his best to get off the drawbridge gracefully before the whatever-it-was came around for another pass.

  A pair of knights in black-and-silver armor met him at the gate. Their visors were down, and Eric wasn't entirely certain there was anyone inside the armor.

  "What is your business with Prince Gabrevys?" the one on the left said.

  "That is a matter for his ears alone," Eric said firmly. "Take me to him at once."

  There was a pause—rather as if the two suits of armor were waiting for orders from the Mother Ship—and then they turned (silently, in perfect unison) and walked away.

  Eric followed them.

  He'd told Beth this would be simple. He'd almost convinced himself. But now that he was here, there was no getting around the fact that when all was said and done he was walking right into an Unseleighe stronghold with nothing but the fact that he was a Bard to protect him, and he trusted the Unseleighe Sidhe about as far as he could juggle elvensteeds. Every nerve was on alert, and he walked lightly, ready to dodge aside at the first attempt to grab him.

  The interior of the keep looked nothing at all like the outside—in fact, Eric doubted it could have fit into the castle he'd seen, but he'd spent enough time Underhill that it didn't bother him much. The rooms he passed through (hallways, Eric had read somewhere, were a later invention, and apparently this place didn't have them) were a mix of styles and eras—none very modern, all luxurious, and all fairly close copies of things from the World Above. The effect was, oddly enough, like one of those ultra-plush Japanese hotels he'd seen in TV programs, with lots of Theme Suites. Except, of course, that the overall theme was Darkety-dark-dark, so everything was done in somber shades and there was a heavy preponderance of red and black. The few people he saw all stared at him with expressions of unblinking shock—either because he was human, or because he was from the Bright Court, or both.

  At last the two faceless knights stopped before a massive set of double doors.

  "Here lies the audience chamber of Prince Gabrevys ap Ganeliel of Bete Noir. Enter, Bright Court Bard, at your peril."

  They turned and settled against the walls, becoming—as far as Eric could tell—suits of empty armor.

  While it wasn't exactly hospitality, it wasn't—quite—open hostility. Eric stared at the closed doors for a moment. He doubted just walking forward and giving them a shove would work.

  He summoned up a thread of magick and touched them gently.

  The doors flung themselves away from his touch as if mortally offended, revealing a chamber beyond that was nearly as big as all the rooms he'd already passed through put together.

  Here the lurid tastes of the Unseleighe were blatantly in evidence. The football-field-sized expanse of floor looked as if it had churning flames beneath it—or within it—dark-red flames that coiled and writhed like the fires of Hell, which was probably the idea Gabrevys meant to convey.

  The walls were gleaming and silvery black, as if somebody had made the better sort of Gothic cathedral out of anodized aluminum. Eric kept himself from looking up with an effort; it wouldn't do to be seen gawking. It was too dark to see clearly, but he bet there was a really overdone throne somewhere at the other end of the room. He resigned himself to another long walk.

  When he arrived at the far end of the chamber—as far as he could tell, he was completely alone—he wasn't disappointed. There was a huge silver throne set on a stepped dais, and the throne seemed to be made entirely of skulls. Eric wondered who Gabrevys had swiped the idea from.

  The throne, unfortunately, was empty, but there was a man sitting at its foot, leaning against it.

  He was dressed entirely in black velvet, holding a silver harp in his arms. His waist-length hair was the color of fresh blood—the Sidhe liked to play with their appearance—and his eyes were cat gold. He ran his fingers along the strings, and Eric sensed, as he was meant to, a faint uprush of Power.

  "If you seek the Prince my master, Sieur Eric of Elfhame Misthold, he is not here. I am Jormin ap Galever, Bard to the Court of Elfhame Bete Noir. I bid you welcome in my master's name." He rose gracefully to his feet and set the harp on the arm of the skull-throne, bowing deeply to Eric.

  I don't trust him.

  Bards could sense truth, and nothing Jormin had said had been a lie, but Eric still didn't trust him. He returned the bow, anyway. No point in making an enemy. You could distrust someone, and still be polite to him. Even if his skin was crawling, and he wanted nothing more than to beat feet out of here.

  "I bring a message for Prince Gabrevys from Prince Arvin of Elfhame Misthold. Can you tell me when Prince Gabrevys will return?" Eric said.

  Jormin shrugged delicately. "My master has many duties to concern him. You are, naturally, welcome to wait. All the hospitality of Bete Noir shall be yours. Perhaps you will find it refreshing."

  And perhaps I'd rather jump off a cliff. Bad enough that the place gave him the creeps, but he had the feeling that the more time he spent here, the more chances there would be for some of Gabrevys's people to mess with him. Like changing the Gates so that he returned to the World Above a hundred years from now—or in the past.

  "Unfortunately, I am expected back at Misthold almost at once, and Prince Arvin will be concerned by any delay," Eric said smoothly. "I know that I can trust you to deliver my message to your Prince just as I would deliver it myself—and when next you see him."

  This much was certainly true: Jormin's honor would be on the line, and Sidhe were very touchy about that. Bards were inviolate in part because you could give them a message, and they had to repeat it, word-for-word, inflection-for-inflection.

  Jormin bowed again. "I will give my Prince your message, Bard Eric, just as you give it to me—and when next I see him."

  Eric hesitated, choosing his next words with care, for if Jormin wanted to make trouble, he could easily deliver Eric's exact words—and nothing more.

  "Hear then, Prince Arvin's words to Prince Gabrevys: Hail and greetings, cousin." He chose his inflection carefully too; not subservient, but absolutely, correctly polite. "Know that your son, Jachiel ap Gabrevys, resides under the watchful care of his Protector, Rionne ferch Rianten, at the Court of Elfhame Misthold until such time as it pleases her to remove him elsewhere. Should you wish to attend him in Elfhame Misthold, you may send your Bard to arrange the terms of safe passage between our Domains."

  "He . . . the young Prince is at Misthold?" Jormin said slowly, sounding almost stunned.

  So they didn't know, Eric thought with an odd satisfaction. At least Gabrevys's Bard hadn't known, and Bards generally knew practically everything about the Courts they served.

  "Yes," Eric said. "I haven't seen him myself, but I've seen and spoken to the Lady Rionne." That was technically true. He hadn't seen Jachiel at Misthold itself, even though he'd been responsible for sending Jachiel and Rionne there.

  "How came he there?" Jormin asked, sounding a great deal less haughty than he had a few moments before. "The Prince will ask me this, Bard Eric," he added, almost pleadingly.

  "He was in the World Above," Eric said slowly, debating how much of Jachiel's story to tell. An Uns
eleighe Prince who was so terrified of magick that he ran to the World Above rather than learn it . . . he doubted that would go over too well with someone who had a throne room like this. "I cannot be sure of how he came there, but he stayed too long, and when he was found, he was—unwell. The World Above had poisoned him, and he was in immediate need of a Healer. Rionne and I found him at about the same time; the World Above had harmed her too, and she was changed and weakened thereby. He . . . did not wish to return here, and she would not compel him. I offered them the Sanctuary of Elfhame Misthold, in Prince Arvin's name, and she and he went there together for Healing."

  Jormin laughed bitterly. "Ah, Bard Eric, the Shadows will feast from your tale! You have done me a service, and now I do you one: leave this Domain as fast as you can, before the walls carry your tale to unworthy ears."

  Jormin reached for his harp, and struck a few notes. Suddenly Lady Day was standing in the middle of the audience chamber, looking upset and baffled. She trotted quickly over to Eric. He could sense her tension, her eagerness to be gone.

  He didn't waste time on long goodbyes, but vaulted into the saddle. Lady Day was moving before he had quite settled himself. He felt her gather herself to leap—

  And then they were outside the keep, and she was running flat-out, with the penumbral edge of the Halloween Forest coming up fast—

  She Gated again, and they were beyond Prince Gabrevys's Domain, but she still didn't slow down.

  In fact, she didn't slow down until they were back to Misthold.

  * * *

  Jormin left the keep quickly, heading for the Gate that would take him back to the World Above. By now the news that the soft Bright Bard had brought might very well be making its way throughout Bete Noir—for others had spies nearly the equal of his own—and the first to bring the news to Gabrevys would be the one who was rewarded.

  Would that he could have brought his master the head of the meddler who had sent the Young Prince to live among the Bright Court as well—but to interfere with a Bard would bring the wrath of the Empress down upon them all. It had been as much as he could do to remove the human Bardling from the 'hame before some of the Court fools forgot that fact in their eagerness to please their Prince.