Music to My Sorrow

by Mercedes Lackey

"Well, that does sound like his style," Hosea said mildly, getting to his feet after freeing Eric's ankles. Somehow, after all this, he wasn't too terribly surprised. "No wonder he was so anxious for me to have a front-row seat." He walked around to the back of the chair and regarded the silver cuffs. "Ah don't suppose you cain sing your way out of these?"

  "Sorry," Eric said, looking hangdog, as if he somehow blamed himself for not being able to get out of trouble this time. "It's some kind of binding spell."

  "Let's let Jeanette an' me give it a try then. Ah cain try cutting through the metal as a last resort." He smiled a lopsided smile. "Things hereabouts don't seem to like Cold Iron much, now, do they? We'll haveta see jest how they like a little Bard-shine."

  He swung the banjo around in front and took a moment to tighten the strings. He supposed if he'd known he was going to become a Bard who needed to summon up the music magic at a moment's notice, he'd have picked a less temperamental instrument to carry around, like a guitar or a fiddle. But the banjo had been in his family for a very long time, and he trusted it, and besides—he had the feeling that there had always been a certain amount of shine in it, even before Jeanette had made it her home.

  He struck a few experimental notes, then broke into a rendition of "Billy in the Low Land," a fiddler's reel that he'd always liked, and had adapted for the banjo. If you were looking to set something free, this was the tune to do it by.

  It was a bright bouncy tune—the banjo wasn't a mournful instrument—and as the music spilled over his fingers, Hosea concentrated on the silver shackles.

  Most magick glowed. This, embodied in the silver cuffs, ate light instead. He'd hoped he'd sense a locking mechanism, however artfully concealed, but there was nothing. However much it looked like a length of chain and two wide bracelets to his open eyes, to his magickal senses, it was just one seamless block of stubborn, swallowing Eric's hands up to the wrist, and sucking his magic out of him.

  But Hosea was stubborn, too.

  The reel came around to the repeat, and he picked up the pace. If there was nothing to open, maybe he could change the shape, or the substance, or turn them back into what they'd been before they were shackles. Anything to get them off Eric's wrists. You get off'n there, you! he thought at them. You don't rightly belong here, and you oughtta git back to where you come from, right quick!

  He'd just about made up his mind that he was going to have to saw through them when there was a faint, ear-splitting wail; Ace and Magnus winced and covered their ears, and the cuffs turned themselves inside out and vanished.

  Eric gave a faint startled yelp and leaned forward, rubbing his wrists.

  "Thanks," he said, getting shakily to his feet. "Now, let's get out of here."

  "There's a couple of people outside we're going to have to bring along," Hosea said. "All wrapped up in magick, just the other side of that door."

  "It's locked," Magnus announced.

  * * *

  While Hosea had been working on Eric's cuffs, Ace and Magnus had gone over to the door. There was no handle on this side, only a dark door-shaped line in the wall.

  "If they could open it, so can I," Eric said. Now that the Binding Spell had been lifted, he was himself again, as if a missing puzzle piece had been dropped into place. It had been—horrible. He never, ever wanted to find himself in that position again. If he ever saw someone coming at him with silver handcuffs like that—

  Well, that wasn't important right now. What was important was that he get the kids away. The kids and Hosea, to keep them safe. Ria would kill him if anything happened to Ace. Scratch that, she'd kill him, then resurrect him so she could kill him all over again.

  They'd get out of here, he'd send the other three back to New York—and then he'd figure out some way to stop that bomb from going off.

  He summoned up his Flute of Air and played a few experimental notes, then a stronger skirl.

  The door swept inward, spilling the strong light of the room beyond into the grey room. He'd never been so glad to see ordinary light before. It was like god-rays coming through black clouds.

  The four of them stepped through the door in single file, Eric coming last, holding himself back by sheer force of will from rushing the open door.

  "I am so glad to get out of there," Ace said fervently, turning to face him.

  But Eric had stopped, staring at his parents, sitting side-by-side, unmoving, on the sofa.

  "What are they doing here?" Magnus demanded, his face clouding. He started forward, but Hosea put a hand on his shoulder.

  "Ah'd reckon they're here to pick the two of you up come the morning," he said, reasoning it out. "And Gabriel wanted them here early, just in case."

  "Leave 'em," Magnus said flatly. "They came here on their own; we've got no responsibility to them."

  "We can't do that," Eric said, immediately, feeling a sick anger even as he said it. He wanted to agree with Magnus—but he couldn't. Like it or not—he couldn't. Even if they had forfeited any right to his concern as a son, he still had a responsibility towards them as a Bard.

  "Don't tell me you care what happens to them!" Magnus burst out. He sounded as if he were trying to keep from crying—or screaming. "You ran out on them the first second you could and never looked back. And don't you say anything," he added, turning on Ace. "It's not like you're trying to do anything but get away from your parents!"

  Ace turned red with anger, and slapped him. Hard.

  "Stop it," Eric said. He didn't raise his voice, but it cut right through the emotional storm about to break, and shattered it, leaving absolute silence behind. "No arguments. I'm not leaving anybody where Gabrevys can get his hands on them. And you owe Ace an apology, Magnus. If you can't figure out why on your own, maybe you'd better ask her politely to tell you."

  He didn't look back to see what Magnus did; there wasn't time. He concentrated on the spell surrounding his parents. No way they were going to be able to drag them out, asleep as they were. They'd have to get out under their own power.

  It was a Sleep spell, but not a simple one. Gabrevys was a Magus Major, and had had centuries to perfect his magick. Gabrevys might be able to break the spell with a touch, but Eric had to unravel it carefully, lest he cause further damage.

  And they had to hurry.

  He studied it for what seemed like an agonizingly long time, still in that complete silence that had fallen over all of them at his rebuke.

  At last he summoned up his flute and began to play. Mozart. He'd always liked Mozart. Not as mathematical as Bach, but somehow more suitable on this particular occasion. There was spontaneous life in Mozart, and joy. They needed joy, here.

  The spell appeared to his magickal sight as a darkly glowing cocoon of thread. Each strand must be teased loose and dissolved, and in the right order, too. Otherwise—

  Well, he didn't know for certain what would happen, but he suspected it would somehow wrap more tightly around its victims, perhaps sending them into a sleep from which there would be no awakening.

  At last the spell broke free—and as it did, Eric felt a flare of warning. There had been something incorporated into the spell that he hadn't expected—a kind of alarm.

  Wherever Gabrevys was, he knew the spell had been broken, and he'd be coming back to find out why.

  They didn't have much time.

  "We've got to get out of here—now," Eric said.

  Michael and Fiona opened their eyes, looking around in confusion.

  "Eric—Magnus," Fiona Banyon said, getting to her feet. "Are you . . . are you ready to go home now?" She looked around the room, obviously searching for someone she didn't see. "Where are—"

  "You have to come with us now," Eric said carefully. "Gabriel Horn lied to you, and so did the people who were working for him. You're in danger here."

  His father gave a sniff of contempt. His mother frowned. "Eric, what are you talking about? Are you out of your mind?"

  "No, no more than usual; he's the same old Eric,"
Michael Banyon said with a wry smile. "Fairy tales, or hallucinations; delusions of persecution. Well, Fi, at least we have Magnus. Come along, Magnus." He held out his hand peremptorily.

  Magnus exploded. "Fuck you!" he shouted. "You think I'm going anywhere with you? After what you tried to do to me? You've spent all your lives trying to turn me into an obedient little puppet, and when nothing else worked, you hired a couple of thugs to do it for you. I wouldn't turn a dog over to you! Well I've got a surprise for you!—the thugs you hired didn't happen to be human. It would have worked great, only that precious musical talent that's the only thing you care about would have been gone for good."

  "For God's sake, Magnus," Michael said in exasperation. "Don't you start too—I've heard more than enough fairy tales from your brother—"

  "Where's Mr. Horn? Where's Director Cowan? What have you done with them?" Fiona demanded, interrupting him.

  "They aren't here. They left hours ago, after they . . . drugged you," Eric said, hoping that if he sounded rational, they might actually pause long enough to listen to him, at least a little.

  "Come on, Fiona. We'd better go get help," Michael said suddenly. He put a hand on her arm, drawing her toward the door.

  Oh hell. That'll bring Gabrevys right down on us—

  Eric summoned up his Flute of Air. His parents didn't recognize the truth when they heard it—small wonder—and there was no time to convince them. He'd just put a come-along spell on them . . .

  Hosea put a hand on his arm.

  "No," the Ozark Bard said quietly. "Iff'n you use magick to force them to do what you want—even for the best o' reasons—how are you better'n Gabriel an' his lot?"

  Fiona exchanged a look with Michael, and the two of them edged towards the door, keeping a watch on Eric as if they expected him to suddenly leap on them.

  "But—" Eric protested—

  Then he let out his breath in a painful sigh, letting the flute dissolve.

  He couldn't. No matter if they did bring Gabrevys down on them. Hosea was right. To take away another person's free choice by magick was wrong. And they didn't have time for anything else.

  Fiona and Michael reached the door, snatched it open, and bolted out, slamming it behind them.

  "You warned them," Hosea said. "You've done your part."

  "Not that it will do any good," Eric said grimly. "Let's get out of here. And hope we're lucky enough to get out of here before the hunt shows up."

  Hosea nodded; Magnus just snarled. Ace didn't say anything, but her face was white again. They ran out into the outer office, and then into the hallway. No point in trying to be quiet or subtle now—their only hope lay in getting out of the building before Gabrevys found them, or all four of them would probably end up back in that grey room.

  He didn't see his parents anywhere.

  * * *

  He was definitely going to write to the Better Business Bureau about these people, Michael thought angrily, if not bring them up on civil and criminal charges both. He was positive that they'd both been drugged—his watch said it was nearly five a.m., and the last thing he recalled was that it had been midafternoon.

  And as for the grateful, compliant offspring that Director Cowan had promised, Eric was the same irrational, delusional, defiant boy Michael remembered, and Magnus had grown much, much worse. Dangerously violent, in fact. No wonder Fiona had been terrified.

  To make matters worse, they seemed to be trapped on the tenth floor. All the elevators were locked down for the night. They searched the entire floor, trying doors, finding nothing and no one, while Michael kept his ears open for sounds of Eric and his band of hippies. The look on Magnus's face had made him both angry and alarmed.

  The door to Christian Family Intervention was still open, however, and the others seemed to have gone. Michael quickly urged Fiona inside and closed the door behind him. It shut with a comforting click.

  The phone on the secretary's desk was shut off, which was infuriating, and so was the one in Director Cowan's office.

  "I suppose you expect to simply wait here until he shows up in the morning?" Fiona demanded icily.

  "All of this was your idea," Michael reminded her. Belatedly now, he checked his cellphone, but he hadn't charged it in a couple of days, and as he feared, it was dead.

  "And I suppose you didn't want your son back?" she snapped. She strode over to the door at the far end of the office. "Come on, Michael—show some initiative for once. All of these offices probably interconnect. Maybe someone's left another cellphone in a desk." She flung open the door and ushered him in ahead of her.

  The door closed behind them.

  As their eyes adjusted to the dimness, they could see that whatever this was, it was no office. The room was empty except for two silvery chairs.

  "Well that was another brilliant notion of yours," Michael said. He turned around to leave.

  There was no handle on the door.

  Chapter 8:

  Everybody's Looking

  For Somebody

  Gabrevys entered Toirealach's empty office. The reek of his destroyed spell still filled the air, and it took no Art to know that his prey had escaped. That was unfortunate, and for more reasons than just the obvious. Once summoned, the Soul-eaters must be fed, or else they quickly grew uncontrollable, even for a Magus Major. Apprehension pricked him, but he dismissed it. There was no reason for apprehension at this juncture. It would be a simple enough matter to find them food from among the feckless mortals gathering for the concert if the Bard and his brother could not be recaptured by the time the peu de porte automatically opened a few hours hence, but. . . .

  Perhaps it would be best to be prepared.

  With a thought, he summoned Jormin, and as he waited, he approached the door that led to the feeding pen and laid his hand against it lightly.

  He raised his eyebrows in faint astonishment. The feeding pen was not empty. And now he knew where the two that had been left in the outer office had gone.

  Perhaps he had underestimated the temper of Sieur Eric's character. Rather than taking his parents with him, the Bard had left them in the feeding pen, as a sacrifice in his place.

  An elegant solution, one worthy of an Unseleighe Prince. Once the Soul-eaters had fed upon them, they would never again be able to make such a covenant with any of the Sidhe as Gabrevys had used against Misthold's Bard on this occasion. Perhaps the Bard was sending another message as well—that just as he would not again be bound by ties of blood, so Gabrevys must look for his own ties of blood to be used against him?

  He had not looked for such subtlety from a human. Perhaps apprehension was in order.

  He turned slightly, as his underling's presence impinged on his consciousness.

  "My lord?" Jormin entered and, quickly sensing his master's mood, knelt and bowed his head.

  Gabrevys looked down on him, broodingly. "Sieur Eric and his followers have escaped. Find them and return them here by dawn. Take with you as many of the folk as can be spared from our work here. See to it that the Bard and his cohorts warn no one of what is to come."

  "I hear and obey," Jormin said, bowing even lower for just a moment, before springing to his feet and running from the room, as if he was running for his very life. Which was just as well, because, in fact, he was.

  * * *

  With Hosea and Eric covering the rear, and Ace in the lead, the four escapees burst out into the lobby, and with shaking hands, Ace punched the lock-code into the door. They ran out into the night, not caring this time if they were noticed.

  But there was more to worry about than the night-shift rent-a-cops. The parking lot was filled with people—

  For a moment Eric was stunned at the crowd gathered here in the middle of the night, but then the hasty explanation back in the Grey Room dropped into place:

  Free concert. Hundreds of—if not precisely innocent, then certainly uninvolved spectators—were assembling in a potential combat zone. Oh, now wasn't that just what
they needed. . . .

  People would be arriving hours ahead of time to make sure they got good places.

  This was not the time to stand out as running out of a building in a panic.

  Right. Now's the time for my favorite "pay no attention to the man behind the curtain" number.

  With a few bars of "Mr. Cellophane" from Chicago running through his head as the key and foundation (damned useful, that song), Eric quickly cast a spell over the four of them so that they could pass through—or around—the crowd unseen.

  But while it would work on the humans gathered here, it wouldn't fool the Sidhe chasing them. Not for one second. The Sidhe invented that "Don't see me" spell, and they knew every counter for it.

  And he knew pursuit was right behind them. Gabrevys wouldn't just give up and go home because Eric and Magnus had escaped. If he could get the four of them back before dawn—and back into that room—he'd still have won whatever game he thought he was playing. And without them free to tell what they knew, he'd still be able to carry out the rest of his plans—at least he'd think so.

  Eric still wasn't entirely certain what else was supposed to have happened in that room. Except that Gabrevys had seemed awfully certain when he'd left them all there that Ace, Eric, and Magnus would be happy little puppets by dawn. Too bad he must have read the Evil Overlord Checklist; he hadn't stood there and gloated nearly long enough, so Eric was not at all clear on the details. The only thing that he was clear on was that by not only consenting, but asking Gabrevys and his minions to snatch the two of them and turn them into good, obedient, mindless drones, the elder Banyons had completely nullified any protections that Eric's status as a Bard gave him.

  Thanks so much, Mom and Dad.

  So maybe Gabrevys really would win, if he could get them back in there.

  So we just have to make certain that doesn't happen.

  They reached the car.

  "Whoa—nice wheels," Magnus said shakily, as Hosea unlocked the doors.

  "Solid Detroit iron, which is more to the point just now," Hosea said grimly as they all piled in—he and Eric in the front, Magnus and Ace in the back seat. "Might spike their spells a touch." He backed out carefully; the last thing they needed right now was to run over someone. Ace already had her phone out.