“So you want me to pretend to be a songsayer—”
“No, Jewels, not pretend. You could be a songsayer, you know it. You have more talent in your little finger than most of them. It’s only your position here that means you can’t do it.”
Juilene stared at him. Was this truly the work of the goddess? It seemed impossible to think that just a few minutes ago, Reyerne had been pleading with her father to allow her to go to the Festival as a songsayer. What had the old man said? “What had the goddess been thinking?” Was this the goddess’s plan for her? She wet her lips.
Arimond knew he had struck a nerve. “Surely you remember, all those years ago? The games we used to play? You were always the songsayer. And remember when we told our parents that that’s what you intended to become? Remember how shocked they all were?”
Juilene dropped her eyes. She well remembered that day, and the looks of amusement, then horrified derision. For although there were plenty of talented songsayers, the women who chose to enter such a life were often little more than prostitutes and sold their bodies with their songs.
Such a life was unthinkable for a girl like Juilene, whose father was lord of a great domain just outside Sylyria. No nobleman’s daughter would even contemplate such a life. Their parents had laughed, and then the laughter had turned to anger when she had persisted. It simply wasn’t done, and that was the end of it. Until now.
She raised her eyes slowly and met Arimond’s. He knew her childish hopes and dreams. He knew how much she still longed to take place in the sacred ceremonies of the Festival. It was one of the reasons she loved him, for he had never laughed or met her dreams with derision. He had dreamed along with her, had allowed her to believe, even if only for a few brief years, that such fame could be hers. Even Reyerne didn’t know how much it meant to her, how much she longed to play and sing before an anonymous, faceless crowd, and to be loved and applauded only for her music and her stories. Was this a chance that would surely never come again?
She drew a deep breath. “How—how will we do this?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s more than I can answer right now. We have to think and plan it out very carefully. You and I both know there are too many dangers involved and we haven’t much time. And we can’t tell your father.”
Juilene shook her head slowly. That was an understatement. He was likely to lock her in her room for the duration of the Festival if he thought she was likely to try such a thing. And old Reyerne—that was his dream to see her play for the goddess, on the Festival stage. But even he mustn’t be told. He would be so proud he was sure to let something slip.
“Jewels,” Arimond whispered. He took both her hands in his and raised them to his lips. “I’ll speak to your father as soon as he comes home. At the least, we can raise enough of an outrage that Lindos might rein his men in for a few weeks. It will buy us time. And then after the Festival, no matter what happens, we’ll be married and we’ll live happily together for the rest of our lives.”
Unless something goes wrong, she thought involuntarily as a cold chill went down her back. She gazed into his grey eyes. Arimond loved her, she knew that as surely as she knew her own name. He would never let her be put into jeopardy. And yet, what if he was wrong? It was entirely conceivable that she would be able to get in and out of Lindos’s keep with none being the wiser, for the songsayers were under the protection of the goddess at Festival time and anyone who dared to harm them would be seen to commit sacrilege and would be shunned by the whole of society whether thane or thurge. But Arimond put himself entirely at risk. And what if he was wrong?
He twisted his fingers around hers, and brought both her hands to his lips. “Juilene,” he whispered. “Don’t you know I would never do anything to jeopardize our life together?”
She could only shake her head in mute response. He drew her close, and involuntarily she leaned into him, forgetting the earthy odors that clung to him. He bent his head and pressed his mouth on hers. Her lips opened in answer, and gently, his tongue teased the very edges of her mouth. A long shudder went down her spine, and she felt her breasts flatten against his chest as his arms tightened around her.
“Oh, Juilene,” he whispered into the thick fall of her hair, “I can’t wait ’til we’re married. This waiting’s been the hardest part.”
She smiled despite her qualms. Arimond was as forceful in this as he was in everything else. Only the rigid code of proper behavior constrained him. She leaned back a little in his embrace. “I love you, Mondo. I just don’t want to see any harm come to you.”
He pressed her head against his shoulder. “I swear it won’t, I swear it.”
“Ahem!” Loud throat clearing from the opposite side of the room made them spring apart. With an overly exaggerated clump of heavy riding boots, Juilene’s brother, Lazare, came striding into the hall, stripping off his riding gloves. His boots were flecked with mud, and here and there, leaves clung to his cloak. “If you two love doves can bear to drag yourself apart, maybe you can tell me where Father went.”
“Lazare!” Juilene jumped up, brushing at her skirts. She knew her cheeks were rosy. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“I know.” He pressed a quick kiss on the top of her head, and nodded to Arimond. “But there’s news in the city and I thought Father ought to know. Greetings, Arimond.”
“What news?” Juilene beckoned the servants who peered into the hall.
“Old Blaise is dead. Sylyria has a new thurge, and the Conclave must name a new head.”
Juilene gasped and Arimond reached out to shake her brother’s hand.
“I must say, Mondo, you don’t look much better than I do. What on earth have you been doing? Having a roll in the hay?”
Juilene blushed even more violently and shook her head. “Arimond brought news of his own—bad news. That’s where Father went—”
“What’s wrong?” Lazare cast a quick glance over both of them.
“My sister was attacked. My mother sent me here to ask for your father.”
“Arimelle? By whom?”
“Lindos’s men.”
There was a long silence and the eyes of the two men met. Lazare gave a long, low whistle. “Well now. Well, well.” There was another pause, and Lazare asked, “Is she badly hurt?”
Arimond nodded shortly.
Lazare looked from one to the other. “I see. I’m sorry, Arimond. Is there anything I can do?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Let me know if there is anything. Anything at all. I mean it.”
The men exchanged another long look and Juilene wondered what they were thinking. Too many times she had heard Arimond declare that Lindos was a plague upon the countryside and should be removed. But her father always insisted that the situation was far more complicated than that.
The arcane hierarchy of thurges was even more complex than that which governed the thanes and demi-thanes. Anyone who aspired to the rank of master-thurge began an apprenticeship as a demi-thurge. And only after long years of study, by virtue of demonstrated skill and proven ability before the Conclave comprised of all the Over-Thurges of the League, could any demi-thurge hope to rise to the ranks of the master-thurges. Many never rose so far at all. In contrast, the rank of thane and demi-thane was hereditary. Lazare would inherit Jiroud’s title upon his death.
But Lindos, Juilene knew, was unusual. He had risen far more quickly than any other demi-thurge—his ability was legendary. Even old Blaise, the High Thurge of the Conclave, had been said to have consulted with him while he was still nominally a demi-thurge. So although Lindos might be the plague Arimond and his friends claimed he was, the proposition of unseating him was no small matter. But as she watched her brother’s face, Juilene realized that older and presumably wiser as Lazare was, there was always the chance that he could decide to aid Arimond.
Arimond cleared his throat softly. “I’d better be getting back home. Shall I tell your father you’re here?�
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“Yes, please do. It’s nearly dinnertime and I planned to stay the night. There’s no chance I can get back to the city before dark. Eliane doesn’t expect me back until tomorrow.”
Arimond bent to press a quick kiss on Juilene’s mouth as a wild gust of wind blew through the hall. Juilene looked up.
A small woman wrapped in a ragged cloak of homespun wool, a lumpish pack strapped across her back and another clutched in one gnarled hand, stood just inside the doors, leaves swirling at her feet. Juilene blinked. The old woman’s gaze fell upon her, the pale blue eyes watery but clear. “I say the songs the goddess sends.”
There was nothing of an old woman’s quaver in the silvery cadence, nor of an old woman’s weakness in the set of her broad shoulders. This must be the songsayer Reyerne had invited, the woman who had been his own teacher so many years ago. She stared, wondering what it was about the woman that seemed at once so commanding and so frail. Lazare spoke the words of ritual welcome: “Come speak to us, who listen for her voice. Come, be welcome at our hearth.”
As the old woman handed her pack to a servant and limped down the steps, Arimond bent once more to whisper into Juilene’s ear: “I’ll send word to you tomorrow. You’ll be one songsayer Lindos will be sorry he ever welcomed beneath his roof.”
Chapter Two
The pale pink moon had risen above the castle walls and the sky was a cluster of stars when Juilene returned to her chambers at last. She sank to her knees beside the windows and rested her burning face against the smooth fabric of her sleeve. She stared out into the night. Galicia’s words still echoed in her ears, the old woman’s voice damning her performance with faint praise. “A fine technician,” she’d said. “Her delivery is well timed.” As if the sum of Juilene’s playing were no more than that of a time-keeper!
Even Reyerne had been disappointed. Juilene had seen how he had been unable to prevent his face from falling. He had even protested, “But does she not sing as if the goddess herself were alive?”
Galicia had smiled, gently, pityingly, thought Juilene, as she answered: “The goddess is alive in all of us, Reyerne. Have you forgotten so much?”
At that, Reyerne had opened his mouth, and then shut it abruptly.
Galicia had taken his arm and led him a little way off as she continued, “Certainly the young lady has great potential, and her playing in many ways shows great promise. But the songs the goddess sends are not just meant to be well played and well sung. There is a certain passion, a certain understanding that only comes with months and years upon the roads. It is only to be expected that your student should lack this experience, Reyerne, and it would indeed be most unusual if she’d acquired it, at such a young age, and in such a sheltered place. You’ve done well with her, my student, and I commend you. Certainly her performance is better than most whom I’ve been asked to hear. But she is not the next incarnation come to earth, I assure you that.”
And listening, Juilene had felt the blood in her face burn hotter than the fire in the hearth, and it took all the discipline she could muster not to throw her harp into the flames and rush from the hall, mortified.
Now Lazare and her father still sat before the hearth, nursing flagons of last season’s summer ale between them, her performance and Galicia’s long forgotten, a thing of no more consequence than the dregs of the ale. Reyerne had long ago retired, and Galicia was likely to have been given a snug room near her old pupil, her age and reputation ensuring that she received more than the customary blanket and space by one of the hearths.
Juilene was glad that her father had returned even though it had been clear he had listened to her playing with only half an ear, for the news from Ravenwood was not good: Arimelle clung to life by a fragile thread. Her injuries were far more serious than Arimond had known when he had arrived at her father’s house. Already the news had gone out to the neighboring thanes, and there was talk of a Gathering as soon as the day after next.
Surely, she thought, as the soft gleam of the brass strings of her harp caught her eye, that accounted for the fact that her playing was not at its best. Reyerne should have explained to the old woman that they’d had very bad news just that day, that her childhood playmate lay close to death. Surely that explained why Galicia found any deficiencies at all in her music.
Juilene plucked at the embroidery on the sleeve of her gown, remembering how her father had watched her with a puckered frown, while Lazare whispered in his ear. She hoped her father and the other nobles would have a calming influence upon Arimond but privately she doubted it. Arimond never changed his mind once it was made up. She remembered all the times when they were little, when she and Arimond had played together in the very meadows where Arimelle had been attacked. Although most of the time Arimond was the sweetest of boys, he had been in the habit of stamping his foot and bellowing when he had truly made up his mind. Even Arimelle used to laugh at him.
She leaned her head against the sill and felt a lump of unshed tears rise in her throat. What was wrong with her? Here she was lamenting because a ragged old woman found fault with a few songs, and Arimond’s sister lay close to death. Pray the goddess Melly lived.
Melly had been the perfect counterpart to her brother, all golden curls and light blue eyes, her cheeks round and rosy. No dare was ever too daring, no prank too provoking, no punishment too daunting to temper her spirit. Juilene could imagine her reaction when the thurge’s men had come upon her. Melly would have fought; she would never have given in easily. If she had surrendered herself, thought Juilene sadly, she might not have been so badly injured.
But Arimond would be no less intent upon revenge, she knew as she watched a star shoot across the black sky. Far in the western sky, the twin blue stars called the Eyes of Dramue burned low and steadily.
Oh, Dramue, she prayed, look down on us. Ease Melly’s suffering and keep Mondo safe. Guide us all in the direction of your will.
Juilene rose to her feet and picked up her harp from its stand beside the window. She sank down on her little stool, gently turning her harp in her hands. The polished wood was warm beneath her fingertips, and the harp strings quivered gently, almost as though in anticipation. Some believed that harps took on lives of their own if their owner’s music pleased the goddess herself. The harp was sacred to the goddess, that much Juilene knew, and those who played and sang were under her special protection. Dramue protect us all, she mused as she fingered the strings, her smoothly callused fingertips sliding easily over the brass. Her nails were long and strong, a blessing in itself, for without the long fingernails, the brass strung harp could not be played. A few notes rippled randomly.
Juilene paused. Just over the walls, the tops of the orchard trees were visible, the branches nearly bare of leaves. A low wind whined against the window, and the pane of glass rattled gently. This had been her home for as long as she had been alive, and even though in some ways Arimond’s house was as familiar to her as this, it would be very strange to leave her father’s keep.
Her father would be all alone in the great house, and there had been talk of Lazare and his wife, Eliane, coming to live here. And that would be strange, too, to see another woman assume the duties that her mother had done for so long until her death nearly five years ago. She liked Eliane well enough, but she had the feeling that her brother’s wife looked upon her with faint disapproval.
Such a feeling had only grown stronger as she had grown older, and Juilene was always puzzled as to why that was. The goddess knew she labored as long at her housewifery lessons as she did at her music, as long at the chores as she did at her books. Was it her fault that she had always found the songs and stories of the songsayers more fascinating than the nine hundred and twenty-one ways to roast a fowl? It had always seemed to her that there were far more important things in the world than whether or not the linen was properly bleached. But then, she reminded herself with a sigh, she had always lived in a world where such things were taken for granted. It would neve
r occur to anyone in her father’s rank that there might be anything of more importance than one’s duty. And if you were a woman in the ranks of the thanes and the demi-thanes who comprised the nobility of the Sylyrian League, your duty included not only the management of your husband’s estates, but all the day-to-day cares of the immediate household as well. She had been lucky that her father had indulged her as much as he had.
Now she rested her cheek on her knee, and leaned the harp against the window. The strings shivered of their own accord, and she cocked her head and frowned a little at it. It had been made of the wood of the darvion tree, the tree that had borne the weight of the goddess all those years ago, and now flowered in midwinter when all the world was wrapped in snow and ice.
There was magic in the darvion tree, just as there was incipient magic in everything in the world. The power of the magic flowed, through every rock and tree and living creature, and even the smallest child knew the stories of the Anarchy, when the Ancient Thurges ran rampant with their power, using it as they would.
That power could still be raised in everything, even in inanimate things, by the thurges and the demi-thurges, whose lives were lived outside the stultifying code that governed the lives of the nobility. They lived according to their own code, according to the Way set down for them in the Book of the Covenant. Every so often, the ability to work the magic would show itself in one of the members of the noble houses, and the child would be allowed to escape the dull routines of the life she was bound to lead.
But wasn’t that what she wanted? she wondered. Didn’t she want home and hearth and husband? Children to sing to, to hold, to love? It was, she knew in her heart. All she wanted now was a taste, a glimpse of a shining moment to enjoy the talent with which she had been blessed, to let the goddess know how much she appreciated all she had been given. Was that so wrong? And Arimond… her thoughts trailed off into a troubled mire.
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 4
