She said nothing, only curled closer to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, against the mass of her hair on the pillow.
“Cariad,” she whispered. “What will become of us? Of you and me, once Lindos is dead?”
There was a long silence. “I don’t know, Juilene. I will talk to my uncle—though it’s hard to think of him that way—now, while he’s so young. He’s younger than I am. If there is any way we can be together—”
She snuggled deeper into the pillow. Waves of longing and sadness washed over her. The candles did little to brighten the darkness, and the thick blankets barely made a difference in the chill. A tear slipped down her face.
“Juilene?” His voice was tender. “Please—you must know I will do everything I can. I don’t want to lose you, either—that’s why—”
“Maybe it would be better if I did die in Sarrasin,” Juilene said, her voice muffled by the pillow.
“What?” He forced her over, flat on her back. “Ah, Juilene, don’t even talk that way. Don’t even think like that. I can’t bear the thought of losing you, of anything happening to you. Don’t you understand that’s why I am less than enthusiastic about this scheme which brings you right into Lindos’s grasp? But—” He clasped her to him and held her close against his chest. “This is part of it, don’t you see?”
She raised her head. “What is?”
“This despair—this sadness—this belief that everything is hopeless. Everyone is affected by it, though Deatrice and her thurges do what they can to mitigate the effect. Galanthir suggested to me privately that the border of Sylyria is sealed because the people believe it to be sealed.”
“What? But you and I saw the border—”
“Yes, yes, I know we did, but the point is, Juilene, don’t give up.”
“I don’t want to lose you and I don’t want you to be angry with me.”
“And I don’t want to put you in danger.”
There was a long silence, and finally she raised her face to his once more. “I cannot believe the goddess brought us together only to tear us apart.”
“No.” He smiled into her eyes. “Nor can I.”
“Cariad,” she said hesitantly, “I—I have been thinking—what if there should be a child—”
He drew a quick breath. “No, you needn’t worry.”
“Worry? I don’t worry—I would welcome a child of yours—”
“No, you don’t understand. In this time I cannot father children. Just as magic doesn’t affect me—well, there are certain other things that are affected as well. But rest now, my sweet. Tomorrow is another long, cold day.”
She settled down against him, turning the information over and over in her mind. No child. And Cariad would go back to the future as soon as he was conceived. What then would she have of him? What, except her memories? She forced the sad thoughts away and closed her eyes. Goddess, send me sleep, she prayed, and for once, Dramue’s answer came swiftly.
Chapter Sixteen
The snow was deep and the roads were rutted pits of ice. Juilene shivered and pressed closer to Cariad’s warmth as the cart bounced over the deepest ruts and the horses staggered and fought for their footing on the pitted surface. The sun glared down, all light and no heat Her eyes hurt. Could she have forgotten the depths of a Sylyrian winter? No, she realized. This was no normal winter. According to the calendar, spring should have made its approaching presence felt. This unnatural cold was Lindos’s doing. Deatrice had explained something of the spell to them before they left. The spell lay over the land like a web, and in truth, as the hours passed, she felt as though they did push deeper into unseen barriers.
She squinted ahead, trying to see through the sunblind-ness. They couldn’t be more than a few hours ride from her father’s keep now. Along the way, the roads had been eerily empty. Not one soul moved across the barren landscape, and although the roads were packed down, there was no evidence, no signs that anyone had traveled upon them in a long time. What was happening here? she wondered once more as she huddled in the circle of Cariad’s arm.
Why hadn’t the League risen up against Lindos? she wondered as she watched Deatrice’s heavily garbed servants urge the horses on once more. The whole League seemed to have drawn back, to allow whatever was happening in Sylyria to happen. Are they blind? she wondered as the cart lurched forward. Are they blind not to realize that what can happen in Sylyria can happen anywhere? Or are they all afraid of Lindos?
She glanced over at Cariad. His mouth was grim and drawn. Without the blankets and the thick cloaks Deatrice had provided for them, they surely would have frozen to death. Even the bandits who roamed the roads had been absent, and when she had questioned Cariad, he had replied with a furrowed brow: “Robbers require people to rob, lady.”
And she had known for certain then that something had happened in her native city, something more terrible than she could imagine, and she had wished she had paid more attention to the lessons of the demi-thurge her father had engaged to teach her history and the uses of the power the long-ago thurges commanded.
“Does anything look familiar, yet?” Cariad interrupted her thoughts.
She glanced over at him with a start. “No—no, not yet. Everything looks so different now—this snow, this ice—”
Cariad nodded. “I understand, lady.” He glanced around once more. “Not even a village—were there not villages on this road? There’s been no sign at all…” His voice trailed away as a bitter gust of wind blew icy snow in then-faces.
He tightened his grip on her. She watched as Cariad and Skar exchanged another glance. At least they were together. The thought of going to Lindos terrified her. She had no reason to doubt that what Cariad said was true—she believed wholly that he was the non-born knight. But so many things could go wrong… Her thoughts trailed off into a troubled jumble. Beside her, the harp gave a soft strum. She glanced down at her gloved hands. She had no doubt that the sapphire on her finger was glowing a vivid blue.
The road forked, and Cariad slowed the cart to a near halt and looked around. “Now which way?”
Juilene followed his gaze in all directions. On the distant horizon, a dark smudge rose against the bright white sky. “That way—I think.”
“All right,” Cariad said with a sigh.
Juilene bit her lip. “There should have been villages all along this road.”
“Yes,” he said as he flapped the reins. “I know.”
“Deatrice was right.” There was a little catch in her throat she couldn’t conceal. “He’s destroyed everything.”
“He can’t have destroyed everything, Juilene. What use is a land laid waste? The villages may have been destroyed, but the villagers are still alive—most of them, anyway. And the keeps of the thanes—he’s left most of them intact—only has his own people in them. When this snow clears away, you’ll see.”
Juilene took a deep breath, willing herself to believe what Cariad told her. “If the snow ever clears.”
“As soon as Lindos is dead, it will clear.” Galanthir spoke from the back of the cart. Whatever spell Lindos had laid upon the hearts and minds of the people never affected him. He was quietly and unfailingly optimistic, even as depression settled upon Juilene, pulling her deeper and deeper into herself.
The cart bounced over the rough ice. Cariad kept one arm tightly around her. She smiled bitterly, remembering a time when she would have protested that such a display was not proper, no matter what the weather. So very much had changed. Everything had changed. She glanced back at the harp, strapped securely to the seat, wrapped in thick oiled skins. She had debated taking the harp with her when they went to Lindos, but the idea of facing the wizard without the strength the harp seemed to endow was more than she could bear. Who knew what awaited them? The harp thrummed a low note with each jolt of the cart.
As the road wound down into a low valley, she could see the high towers of the keep rising black against the white winter sky. She shi
vered uncontrollably. “Be brave, sweet,” Cariad whispered. “Be brave.”
They rounded a rise, and spindly, twisted trees rose on either side of the road, their bare branches reminded her of outstretched skeletal hands. Could that have been the little clearing where Arimond’s friends had waited for her return; where she had watched and waited, and where Lindos had found her? She drew a deep breath and the cart lurched on.
The road threaded through the trees now, and the long blue shadows softened the blinding brilliance of the light, but the intertwining branches arching overhead reminded her of bars. But this was the road for home, she knew, and joy, great and unchecked, bubbled up within her, conflicting with her feelings of deep and utter dread.
Suddenly, the walls of Sarrasin rose before them, high and dark and somehow forbidding. Nothing moved upon the walls, no banners floated in the crisp air, the gates were locked and barred Grey smoke leaked from the chimneys, wreathing the towers in grey clouds that shifted but never quite dissipated. She swallowed hard. Fear and despair descended on her like a shroud, and she tried to fight. I mustn’t think this way, she told herself, over and over again. I mustn’t let it affect me. If I let it, then Lindos has won.
Cariad pulled on the reins and the horses slowed to a stop. “We’re here.”
Galanthir scrambled up behind them, erupting out of the mountain of robes under which he had buried himself. “Look there,” he said. “What’s that?”
As the three of them watched from their perch in the cart, the great gates slowly swung open. Black-robed figures marched out in precise formation, and Juilene saw they bore no arms.
“Demi-thurges,” Galanthir whispered. “And they’re crawling with sprites.”
Juilene squinted and saw nothing, but she remembered all too well the misshapen creatures that had lurked in the halls and corners of Lindos’s keep. Bile rose in her throat as the memory of that night made her nauseous. I won’t think of that night, she insisted to herself. I won’t.
The thurges lined up on either side of the road leading up to the gate. “I don’t see any sprites,” murmured Cariad.
“Oh, they’re there,” answered Galanthir. “That’s the trouble with thurge-sight. Sometimes you see things you’d really rather not.”
A lone figure marched out from the keep, down the middle of the row of demi-thurges. He wore a long black cloak, bordered in red glyphs, but despite the richness of his apparel, it was clear from the markings that he, too, was only a demi-thurge.
“That’s interesting,” Galanthir muttered. “Are we to think that Lindos keeps no master-thurges by his side?”
The man paused halfway down the row. “State your business.” He spoke without feeling or inflection.
“I say the songs the goddess sends,” Juilene said, surprised how strong she sounded.
“There is no welcome for songsayers beneath this roof. Be off.”
“I think your master will welcome me,” Juilene said, thrusting her chin forward. “Go and tell him that Lady Juilene of Sarrasin has come home.”
If the three expected a ripple of recognition to reverberate through the thurges, they were disappointed. Not one moved a muscle. “Interesting,” mused Galanthir.
The demi-thurge turned on his heel and for a moment they thought they were dismissed. Then he raised his arm and beckoned for them to follow. Cariad sucked in a deep breath audibly and flapped the reins. The horses moved forward.
“Well,” said Galanthir, “let’s hope your name remains the charm it would seem it is.”
And with a shudder and a sigh, Juilene nestled closer to Cariad as they passed beneath the gates of the home she had longed to see. A lump rose in her throat as the shadow of the gates fell across her lap. She felt as if her throat closed, as if she couldn’t get her breath. Cariad made a little sound of encouragement. Shadows swirled within the courtyard, dark and sinuous, like grasping tendrils. Waves of darkness washed over her. Her limbs felt heavy, as though weights were pressing her down from all directions. She struggled to stay upright, but all her efforts against the spell were useless. She had just enough time to whisper, “Cariad” as her vision clouded and she crumpled in her seat.
The sound of singing brought her back. It was Neri’s song, an old, old lullaby, one of her oldest memories of childhood, and the voice was Neri’s voice. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, everything was blurred, and then Neri’s face came into focus. She gasped and tried to sit up, but the old woman pressed her shoulder down.
“Neri,” she cried, “Nenny, it’s you.”
“Yes, yes,” the old woman said, laughing and crying all at once. “Yes, child, it’s me—and more’s the blessing—it’s you!”
Juilene straggled to sit up. She wrapped the old woman in a joyous hug. Neri felt thin, fragile, far more frail than she remembered. She pulled back and in the glow of one stump of a candle, which was the only source of light the room offered, searched the old woman’s face. “Nenny, how’re your hands? Were they very bad?”
The old woman smiled and pushed a lock of Juilene’s hair behind one ear. “No, child, they healed. I’m fine. And so very happy to see that you are all right. You had us all worried sick about you, you know?”
“So I’ve heard. But what about Father? And Lazare and Eliane? Are they here? Are they all right? And Cariad and Galanthir—”
“Hush,” said Neri, smoothing Juilene’s cheek as though she couldn’t bear to stop touching her. “All in good time, child. Your father will be much better once he sees that you’re safe.”
“Better? What’s that monster done to him?”
Neri took both of Juilene’s hands in hers. Juilene looked down and saw the red shiny scars, and bit her lip. “Child, you—you have to understand. Things have been very difficult with your father since you left. All the troubles, you see…” Her voice trailed off.
“What’s wrong, Nenny? Is Father sick?”
Neri met her eyes with compassion. “Sick, yes. And heartsore, with worry for you. But ever since—ever since that—that man came here, your father’s—”
“What’s Lindos done?”
“He’s not himself anymore.” Neri shook her head and turned away. “He’s not himself.”
“What do you mean? He’s sick?”
“He’s out of his head, I guess you could say. He doesn’t know where he is, most of the time, and much of the time he doesn’t know who he is or who any of us are. But don’t you worry—he’ll know you, I’m sure of it, and that will make it ever so much better.”
“Don’t count on it.” A younger woman’s voice cut through the chill air, and Juilene looked up. In the doorway, Eliane, Lazare’s wife, stood, a shawl clutched to her throat, her dress, threadbare and much patched. She hardly resembled the proper lady of her rank Juilene remembered.
“Eliane!” Juilene was so happy to see her again, she forgot the differences they had sometimes had.
The woman let her thin mouth bend just a little. “I’m glad to see you haven’t suffered much, Juilene. You look wonderfully well for all your experiences.”
Juilene sat back, shocked and more than a little hurt “How—how are things here, Eliane?”
“Hasn’t Neri told you? Awful, that’s how they are. Terrible. Your father’s a drooling idiot, Lazare’s ill of some fever that won’t break, I’ve nothing to wear from one day to the next, and you come dancing in, after giving us all months of worry, looking as fresh as tomorrow’s rose.” Eliane turned on her heel and stalked away, her thin slippers slapping against the floor.
Juilene turned back to Neri. “Is it really as bad as all that?”
Neri smiled sadly. “Things are very different from when you left, child. But you mustn’t blame yourself. That’s Eliane talking, not the rest of us. I know you and Arimond meant well. And even Lazare says matters were bound to come to a head, sooner or later. It was only foolishness that got you stuck in the middle of it all.”
Juilene sat back with a sigh. “I
didn’t realize how you all would suffer, too.”
“No, child.” Neri shook her head. “Don’t listen to Eliane. Of anyone, Lindos treats her better than the rest of us.”
“Do you—do you see him?”
“No.” Neri shook her head. “Not since—not since the first few days he came. He sends his minions.”
Juilene smiled at the word. That didn’t sound like Neri. “Minions?”
“What your brother calls his friends.”
Juilene smiled in spite of her fears. Lazare was so much like her father. He would refuse to be cowed, and would fight with every method at his disposal. And if disdain were all he had left—She took a deep breath and tried not to think such despairing thoughts. “Will you take me to Father?”
Neri patted her hand. “I will, child, in a little while. But first, can’t you tell me what’s happened to you?”
Juilene glanced around the room. They were in one of the round towers. Although night had fallen, and the turrets outside were swathed in darkness, she could dimly make out the lights upon the walls. The lone candle spat greasy wax and gave off little light. “All right.” She glanced down at her hands. The sapphire glowed gently, a pale, soft blue. Who would ever have thought that there could be danger for her beneath these roofs?
She took a deep breath, and told the story to Neri, leaving out a few of the more unsavory parts, such as Eral and Diago. There was no sense in upsetting the old woman. And when she came to the part about the harp and the songsayer, she didn’t tell Neri how close to death she herself had come. She didn’t say who Cariad was, or how he came to be there, or even that the harp she carried was most likely the Harp of Dramue. But from the woman’s white face, and the little noises she made, Juilene knew the tale was quite lurid enough. At last she paused.
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 29
