Lona nodded. “I have never seen the Sleepers. But I have seen their crypts.”
Juilene looked at Cariad. “But what has this to do with me, or you, or any of us? What has this to do with Lindos, or your husband, or his sister? What has this to do with the troubles in Sylyria?”
“War in Sylyria,” Cariad corrected her softly. “It will soon be war between thane and thurge in Sylyria, if it isn’t already. I think the rumors that the King has gone into exile are likely to be more than rumors. And then it will only be a matter of time before it spreads over the mountains into Khardroon. Already Gravenhage is affected, as is Albanall. Unless the Council and Conclave intervene, there will be war throughout the League by spring. And if Lindos does indeed have the use of the wild magic—” He gazed into the fire. “Perhaps it can be changed.”
Lona frowned. “Hush, Cariad. Enough.”
Juilene looked from one to the other. “But isn’t there anything that can be done?”
Cariad rose to his feet. “There is a chance, perhaps, not much of one, but a chance. Now that we know, or suspect that Lindos may have the wild magic, we can alert the High Thane of the Council, who is the King of Gravenhage. He must be told. Before, we had no evidence, only suspicion that such was the case. But now—”
“Before what?” asked Juilene, confused.
“Hush,” said Lona, even more emphatically. “Before doesn’t matter, Cariad. We can send him a message.”
“King Mark is—is sickly.” Cariad stared into the fire, an unreadable expression on his face. “He leaves much of the business of the Council to his Queen.”
“Mirta is a fine woman,” said Lona softly. Their eyes met in a long look Juilene did not understand.
“Then—then surely you must send a message to the Queen and tell her,” said Juilene. “Surely everyone must know all this as soon as possible.”
Lona and Cariad nodded and sighed in unison. “It’s easier said than done,” said Cariad. “Far easier.”
“Juilene,” said Lona, after a silence, “why were you going to Eld?”
“I—I had met an old songsayer upon the road that day. I had lost my harp, and truly, I was in even more distress than when you met me. I was hungry and tired, and I hadn’t slept. I had stopped beside a river, and there the old woman found me. She gave me her harp, and told me to take the road to Eld.”
Lona gasped. “Who was this old woman? What did she look like? What else did she tell you?”
Juilene shrugged. “She was very old and close to death. In fact, she died beneath the trees, before I took the harp. She said the goddess was calling to her and she had no more need of the harp. And when I would have refused to take it, she said that the harp had need of me. But, I just thought that was the raving of an old woman.”
Lona stared. “What—what does this harp look like, child?”
“It’s old,” Juilene went on. “You saw it that night when you were at the inn. And Cariad has seen it every night he’s been there. It’s ancient—the carvings are nearly erased, but it plays beautifully.” She glanced from one to the other. “What is it?”
Lona gripped the arms of her chair with a white-knuckled hand. “And where is the harp now?”
“At—at the inn,” Juilene answered. “Why?”
“And the old woman told you to take the harp to Eld?”
“No, not exactly. She told me to take the road to Eld. And to keep the harp safe. That it was her oldest friend in all the world—why? What has an old harp to do with this?”
“Dramue’s harp is lost,” whispered Lona. “And the legend says it will return to Eld when it is needed. A search went on for hundreds of years, but finally it was abandoned. It was thought that the harp was destroyed.”
Juilene looked at Cariad and then back at Lona. “You think the harp the old woman gave me is the lost harp? The goddess’s harp?” She gave a short laugh of disbelief. “That hardly seems possible.”
Before Lona or Cariad could reply, there was a knock on the door. “Enter,” called Lona.
The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and a manservant bowed, holding out a parchment packet. “A message just arrived for you, my lady.”
Cariad retrieved the letter and handed it to Lona. The servant bowed once again and disappeared down the corridor. “Shall we leave you to your reading, lady?”
“No, no,” said Lona, looking up from the letter with a white face and thin lips. “It’s from Diago. He and Rihana will be here by nightfall tomorrow.”
Cariad glanced at Juilene. “Then we better see about getting a messenger out today. Two messengers. One to Sylyria, and the other—”
“To Queen Mirta in Gravenhage,” said Lona. “We have to do something, before Lindos and his wild magic destroys everything.” Without another word, she rose and swept from the room.
Cariad held out his hand to Juilene. “Come, let me see you back to the inn. It will be safer for you there, now that Diago is on his way home. It’s entirely possible he could be here by nightfall tonight. I don’t trust a word that—” He checked himself just in time. “I don’t trust him at all.”
Juilene laid her hand in his, and he closed his over it, his smooth callused palm wrapping around her smaller fingers gently. “Thank you for your concern for my family and for everything you’ve done for me.” The words sounded pitifully inadequate.
He smiled down at her, and he did not release her hand “You’ve done more for me, my lady, than ever I can tell you. I have more to thank you for, believe me.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
For a moment, he looked as though he would say something, and then he flushed. “I know,” he said, looking away. “I know.”
“Cariad,” she began, wishing she knew the right words to break through his reserve, “you listened to my story. I will listen to yours, when you are ready to tell me.”
He drew a deep breath. “You deserve the truth, lady.”
She gazed up at him, puzzled. “Have you lied to me, Cariad?”
“No.” He shook his head. “But the truth—the truth is more complicated than you could even begin to imagine.” He looked away, and once again he looked as though he wanted to speak.
“Cariad,” she said softly, nearly a whisper. “Let it wait. You’ll know when the time is right. It isn’t anything—bad, is it?”
He smiled then, a sad smile that made the corners of his mouth lift, even while his eyes seemed to darken. “I’ll let you be the judge, Juilene. Now, come. I don’t think you should be here when Diago returns.”
She waited until they were on horseback, trotting down the rutted road on the way back to the inn. The road to Eld, she reflected. She lifted her head and stared off at the blue mountain peaks, barely visible on the horizon. “Cariad,” she began, a little uncertainly.
He visibly roused himself from his own thoughts. “My lady?” The title fell naturally from his lips, and once again Juilene wondered who and what he was.
“What does my harp have to do with any of this? Why was Lona so interested in it?”
Cariad looked grave. “Three things are necessary to awaken the Twelve, it is said, and those are a thane, a thurge, and the harp of Dramue. Only the true harp will awaken the Sleepers.”
“What will happen if the Sleepers don’t wake?”
Cariad sighed. “You test me, lady. I wish I understood such things better than I do. I’m not sure anyone knows the answer. But there are those who say that if the Twelve do not awaken, then the Covenant shall end, and the magic shall be unbound, and wild magic will be loosed once more upon the world. And when I think of the horrors which are with us still, after the last Age of Anarchy, I shudder to think what could happen next.”
Chaper Eleven
Cariad bid her a quiet farewell, promising to return that evening. With a curiously heavy heart, and a deep sense of foreboding, Juilene went to her room and unwrapped the harp. Could it even be possible that such a thing could once have b
elonged to the goddess herself?
The old wood shone with a low luster in the glow of the late winter sun. Deep nicks, gouges, and scars marred the surface of the wood, and it was impossible to guess what had been carved deliberately as part of a pattern, and what the years had carved at random. A shaft of light fell across the brass strings, dull with age and use, and she gently touched them with the very tips of her fingers. The harp quivered of its own volition, and Juilene drew back as if she had been stung. How could such a thing have survived so relatively intact through thousands of years?
But trees did, and rivers, said a voice in her mind. The land itself was ageless. There were things that lasted almost as long. And if Dramue herself had played upon this harp, who could say that it had not acquired some vestige of her divinity?
Juilene sighed and placed the harp upon its makeshift stand. She glanced at the window. The sun was low in the sky; soon it would be time for her to go down to the common room and play. More than a few had said there was magic in her harp. Maybe they were more correct than they had ever guessed.
She had just seated herself beside the hearth when a girl’s voice, high-pitched and imperious, made her look up from tuning the harp. A man’s lower voice answered her, although the words of both were indistinguishable. She glanced out the window and saw the large train of horses and men milling in the inn yard. With a pang, she recognized the colors that Cariad wore. The door slammed open with a loud bang, and a slight woman strode into the room, the upper half of her face obscured by the black hood trimmed in amond fur. Her entire cloak was made of the priceless material, and it gleamed in the inn’s dim light. Even from across the room, Juilene recognized the quality of the garment.
The woman swept the hood off her face, and her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders, black and lustrous as the fur. Juilene was startled. The girl was young, younger than Juilene, for she could not be more than fourteen or fifteen years old at the most. But her obvious youth was at odds with the imperious glance with which she swept the inn. She looked over her shoulder and called outside, “Well, Diago, where’s that innkeeper friend of yours?”
His answer was lost beneath the thrum of the harp, but the girl laughed at his reply. Her dark eyes took in every detail of the inn. She strolled to a table in the center of the room. She placed what looked like a very small gilded cage upon it. Something moved inside the cage, and startled, Juilene’s attention was diverted.
Her fingers stumbled and the discordant note echoed to the rafters. The thing in the cage shrieked, and Juilene jumped. The girl’s gaze fell upon Juilene. A chill of revulsion ran down her spine as the girl’s black eyes lingered on her face. This must be Diago’s sister, Rihana. And looking at her, Juilene understood why Lona was so unhappy.
“Well, well,” said the girl, her eyes boring into Juilene’s, “you must be the ’sayer my brother speaks of so often. You have no idea how eager I have been to meet you.”
“I—I say the songs the goddess sends,” Juilene managed, and she gripped the harp in both hands.
“Yes.” Rihana smiled. “I’m sure you do.” She squinted a little and cocked her head, as though trying to see something better. “Let’s hope she sends you better ones than she did the last one,” said Rihana. “There’s nothing worse than a ’sayer who can’t sing. Personally, I think there’s only one thing that ought to be done with them. Would you like to meet my pet?” She picked up the cage, and for a moment, Juilene thought she might thrust it into her face. She fought not to recoil visibly.
But at that moment, Thane Diago strode into the room, his dark cloak billowing around his wide shoulders, his face heavily bearded. He wore a curved dagger in his belt, and Juilene bit down hard on her lip. It took all her self-control not to run from the room.
Diago glanced in his sister’s direction, and recognized Juilene. “Ah, how happy I am to see you’re still in residence, little songsayer.” He grinned, and his teeth looked even whiter than Juilene remembered against the black beard. “I’ve told my sister so much about you, she’s been most eager to make your acquaintance. You will give us a song or two?”
“It will be my pleasure, my thane,” Juilene said. She lowered her eyes. She shuddered to think what this man could have told his sister. Nausea roiled in the pit of her stomach as the two of them peered down at her. If the two of them did not stand back, she was afraid she would vomit into the hearth. Thankfully, the door to the upper floors behind the bar swept open and Elizondo stumbled out, his cheeks red in his pasty face, his eyes huge.
“My-my thane!” he stammered. “We were not expecting you—this is truly an undeserved honor—”
“Be quiet,” Diago said, snapping his fingers. “My sister—you remember my sister, Rihana, don’t you, Elizondo? Of course you do. Rihana had a strong desire for a decent meal before we descended upon the castle where my beloved wife keeps such pecuniary splendor. Can you accommodate us, or no?”
“But of course, my thane, of course.” Elizondo paused long enough to wipe his sleeve across his broad brow and turned to call up the steps. “Lem! Lemuel! Come down—we’ve guests!” Elizondo sidled around the bar. He bounded over to Rihana, who had shrugged off her cloak and now stood beside the table in the center of the room, looking amused at Elizondo’s obvious discomfort. “My lady, my dearest lady, of course I remember you. Who could forget you? You honor my poor inn like the goddess herself. Sit, please, sit. I’ll have something brought out immediately—the best I have, what would you prefer?”
Rihana laughed in his face, and Juilene cringed. She saw Diago’s lip curl with scorn, and he cuffed the innkeeper lightly on the side of the head. “Off with you, man. Bring us wine—we’ll know if it’s the best you’ve got or not.”
Elizondo scuttled off, his robes flying. Lem ducked into the bar, his shirt barely laced. As Diago’s men streamed through the front door, maidservants entered from the kitchen, bearing trays of cheese and bread and late winter fruits. Juilene struck a few tentative notes upon the harp. Rihana leaned back in her chair and slowly stripped her black leather gloves off her long white hands. As the babble of voices rose higher, Juilene lowered her head and softly played, losing herself in her music.
An hour might have passed, or two. More food than she had thought the kitchens could contain was brought in and out in a steady stream of platters, which Diago and Rihana picked over daintily, searching out the choicest morsels. Wine and ale and mead flowed like rivers from the casks beneath the bar, and bottles of stronger liquor were passed among the company. Her music was lost in the general noise, but Juilene only played more softly, her hair falling across her face in a heavy curtain. Every time she glanced at Diago, her blood froze with the memory of the night of shame and humiliation. The maidservants moved among the men, teasing and laughing, and the company grew more raucous. And in the center of it all, Diago and Rihana sat, calm as if they sat in private on a calm summer day, instead of in the midst of a crowded smoky inn.
The strings of the harp resonated and quivered beneath her fingers, and she could feel the vibration of the strings in the whole frame of the harp. The music seemed to course through her thighs, down her legs, and permeated her whole body. She lifted her face. There was something about the music, something about playing that brought her out and away and into another place entirely. Nothing mattered when she played this harp, nothing at all, and her fingers moved almost of their own accord over the gleaming brass, finding chords and melodies and harmonies she would have said she never knew. The music swelled, over the roar of the men, the shrieks and giggles of the maids. She threw her head back and closed her eyes, oblivious to everything but the spell the music wove around her.
Fingers in her hair and a rough voice in her ear shocked her out of her spell. “Well played, little songsayer.” Her eyes flew open and she stared into Diago’s face. “You have a magic all your own, don’t you?” He chuckled at her distress.
“Please,” she whispered. “Let me go.”
Juilene drew back, holding her harp between them, like a shield. “No, my thane,” she said. “You may think what you will, and you may do what you will, as well, but I do not belong to you, nor will I ever.”
He laughed then, even as his face darkened. Juilene glanced over his shoulder. Rihana was watching with an expression that bordered somewhere between amusement and intense curiosity, her chin propped against her hand. He leaned closer once more. “And if I took you here, who would help you, do you think? If I bent you over a stool and had my way, do you think any would rush to your aid? That fat windbag of an innkeeper? The empty bladder of a barkeep? Any of the men you see? Why, it would be my wager they’d only cheer me on and line up to take their turn with you when I’d had my fill.”
Juilene pulled back, the rounded back of the chair holding her captive. “Leave me alone,” she hissed.
Diago chuckled. “Or what? Leave you alone or what?”
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 20
