She was so surprised that she could not even react by closing herself off again.
She could not read thoughts_but she could read the feelings that came with the thoughts: feelings so mixed she could not have said where his wonder began and his own long loneliness ended. He began to speak aloud, giving her the images, the memories, that were calling up those feelings_and clearly he knew what she sensed.
"There are humans who live among the Haspur," he said, softly, as she continued to sing her healing chant, so lost in it now that she could not have stopped if she tried. He fitted the words to the music, and sang them to her as he sang healing into her body as well. "Most of them are as ordinary as bread, but some are granted a rare gift, that of seeing into the Spirit. That is why we call them Haspur Spirit-Brothers, for as often as they use that gift with their fellow humans they also use it with the Haspur, who are their friends and fellow-defenders. Mostly, they provide the simpler gifts: healing of the body as you are doing, ease of the heart in time of trouble. But sometimes, once in a very, very long time, there is need and a compatibility of spirits that binds healer and healed more closely than that. That is when the Spirit-Gift of the Haspur is awakened, and the two become a greater whole than two Spirit-Brothers are singly. They are_"
He sang a long, fluting whistle that somehow melded itself into the healing chant without disturbing it.
"There are no words in the human tongue for this. They are partner-healers, they are wisdom-keepers, they are two souls in two bodies still, but bound together in ways that neither time nor distance can change or sever. Sometimes they are lovers. They are the great treasures of the Haspur. I had not thought to find that potential in myself, though every Haspur at one time aspires to and dreams of such a thing. I would never have dreamed to have found it with you, O Bird of the Night, wild winged singer, dreamer of beauty and gentle healer of hearts_"
There was more, but half of it was in his own language, and at any rate, Nightingale would have lost half of it in her own daze at a single phrase.
Sometimes they are lovers.
How could_well, she knew how, physically they were as compatible as many unlikely human pairings. Now that she had tended his hurts, she knew what was beneath that modesty-wrap he wore, and if he said that his people and humans sometimes became lovers, then of course it was possible. But how_
With care, of course, an impudent mental voice chided her. Those talons could cause a bit of trouble, but on the other hand, you probably weigh more than he does, so_
Oh, it was a very good thing that neither he nor she could read thoughts.
With her mind and body whirling, all unbalanced and giddy, she realized that the chant was nearing its end. She brought it to a close, rounding it in on itself, curling it into repose. And she opened her eyes to find herself curled in his arms, and he in hers, her head pillowed on the soft breast feathers, his on her unbound hair.
Nor did either of them care to move, for a very long time.
The immediate effect of the healing chant was two-fold: both healer and healed were ravenous afterwards, and exhausted, so weary that even had she been ready to deal with the consequences of what had just happened between them, neither of them would have had the strength.
She had more strength than he for she had more experience at the healing than he. It was not the power itself that came from the healer, only the direction_but as riding a fractious, galloping horse takes strength, so did guiding the power. She had just enough reserves left to go down the stairs, leave a message for Tyladen saying that she was indisposed_which was no lie_and order some food brought up. He was asleep when she returned, and only came half-awake when the food arrived, just enough to eat and fall back into sleep. She was not in much better shape; she really didn't remember what she had ordered and hardly recognized it when it arrived. Her head spun in dizzy circles as she got up to put the tray outside the door; she lay back down again beside him and dimmed the light, and that was all she remembered.
But her dreams were wonderful, full of colors she had no names for, sensations of wind against her skin and a feeling of unbearable lightness and joy. She'd had dreams of flying before, every Free Bard did, it seemed, but never like this. This was real flight; the sensation of powerful chest muscles straining great wings against the air to gain height until the earth was little more than a tapestry of green and brown and grey below, then the plummeting dive with wind hard against the face and tearing at the close-folded wings, and the exaltation of the freedom, the freedom....
She woke to find him already awake and watching her, a bemused expression in his eyes.
"Not now_" he said, before she could speak. "Not now. You have never known this was possible. You must think, you must meditate, or you will regret any decision you make in haste."
She nodded; he knew her as well as she knew herself.
Of course he does, said that little, amused voice. And he knows that the outcome is perfectly certain. He can afford to wait, he knows what you will do, eventually, and he is patient enough to wait for that "eventually" however long it takes.
"I want to talk to Tyladen," she said, finally. "This_I only have two choices that I can see, after this last attack. I either move to the Palace with you, or I reveal who I really am and get some of that protection these damn Deliambrens were so free in offering."
"My suggestion would be the latter," he replied. "As long as you are openly still Lyrebird, you have an ear in the city that I do not, that no one who is not human would have. You would not be able to discuss things with our friend Father Ruthvere, for instance. But it is your choice."
She nodded thoughtfully, agreeing with him. He's right. We need that ear inside the Church that Father Ruthvere provides, and he needs the knowledge of the Court that we can give him. Church and Court are wound in an incestuous dance these days, and if anyone is to break the pattern, it will be Father Ruthvere and those who are with him. Moving into his suite would have forced me to make certain decisions anyway, and I'm not sure I want to even think about them much less make them.
Things were already complicated enough.
It was something of a relief to close herself into the privacy of the bathroom and let the hot water from the wall nozzle run over her, washing away fatigue and letting her empty her mind, as well. She didn't have to guess that he might be feeling as uncertain as she; that was another complication to this situation. It was one thing to imagine finding someone for herself as she sang those love songs of longing and loneliness. It was quite another to find herself presented with a resolution.
And yet, hadn't she wanted someone exactly like this? Well, the old Gypsy proverb advised, "Be careful what you wish for, you might get it." She could not have designed a better partner than T'fyrr, for they were alike enough for joy and different enough for exploration.
And, oh, doesn't that open up a number of possibilities? One can just imagine....
She fiercely shoved that little voice back into its corner. One thing at a time, she told it. We'll take one thing at a time, and the most important comes first. We must deal with the High King and finish the task we have begun, assuming it can be finished.
T'fyrr was all ready when she emerged, and he had cleaned up the room and put the bed into the wall, too. Perhaps he felt as uncomfortable with that particular piece of furniture so blatantly on display as she was.
Of course he is. He's feeling what I'm feeling, which will ensure that he feels the same! Oh, what a bother! No more polite and discreet lies just to salve his feelings! If we disagree on something, one of us will have to find a way to persuade the other, or the bad feelings will chafe between us until we are half-distracted!
They went downstairs together, to find that they were so early this morning that they were, by the standards of Freehold, still up late. The sun was just rising and the last-shift dance group performing its final number. So Tyladen would still be awake, not a bad thing, since she wanted first to speak with him. She was q
uite prepared to wake him, if she needed to.
Not that she was sure when he ever slept. The Deliambrens didn't seem to have the same sleep needs as humans did; she thought, perhaps, that he slept in the mid-morning hours, perhaps a little in the afternoon, but never for more than two or three hours at a time.
Of course they don't need to sleep the way we do. They don't have to sleep deeply enough for dreaming. They express their dreams and nightmares in their clothing.
Tyladen was still awake, but looked a bit surprised to have both of them strolling into his office together, and at that early hour. Nightingale shut the door firmly and put her back to it as T'fyrr leaned against the wall, giving him the advantage of looking down at the Deliambren.
"First of all, Lyrebird was attacked yesterday. She was hurt, and so was I, in trying to help her." His face was without expression, but Nightingale knew that every word was carefully chosen. "You might take note of the bruises, if you should happen to doubt my word."
Nightingale had sent word down at the same time that she had ordered the food that she was indisposed; presumably, Tyladen had found a substitute singer for last night. He just nodded, mobile face solemn for a change. Then again, there wasn't much he could respond to, yet.
And he didn't know that they were together, in more than one sense.
"We have reason to believe that the attack was more of an attempt to gain control over me than because she got in the way of some gang or other," T'fyrr continued. "In fact, we believe that the same person who was behind the other two attacks on me here was behind the one on her."
"That makes sense," Tyladen said cautiously, looking from Nightingale's face to T'fyrr's, as if he was trying to put a number of disparate bits of information together and not coming up with much. "Perhaps she ought to quit her position here, then, and move to the Palace? She doesn't precisely need to work here anymore, and surely you have_"
T'fyrr deliberately leaned over and placed both taloned hands on Tyladen's desk, scoring the surface. "Enough of the nonsense, Tyladen! We both know why I come here! Its not because I'm savoring the nightlife, nor because I happen to enjoy this lady's playing! We both know that I would still have to come here even if the lady moved into my suite at the Palace, so that I could continue to report to you! I'm your little Palace spy, Tyladen, an unpaid spy at that, and its about time you and Harperus began giving me a bit more protection! And you might as well start offering that same protection_no, more protection_to Lyrebird!"
Tyladen didn't bat an eye; he simply put on a skeptical expression and said, "I can't see any good reason why_"
"Because," Nightingale interrupted him, "my name isn't Lyrebird. It's Nightingale_Nightingale of the Free Bards and the Getan Gypsies. And I've been working here on behalf of the Deliambrens without any support since I arrived."
For the first time in her life, Nightingale actually saw expressions of shock, dismay and surprise pass across a Deliambren face. And for the first time in her life, she saw one caught at a loss for words. Tyladen sat in his chair with his mouth half open; his lips twitched, but he couldn't seem to get any words out.
It would be funny, if the situation weren't so serious. He looked exactly like a stunned catfish.
Nightingale sat down gracefully. "Now," she said sweetly. "About that protection?"
T'fyrr smiled. "For both of us," he added, coming to stand behind her and putting both his taloned hands on her shoulders.
Tyladen just sat and stared at them both.
They returned to the Palace with a double Mintak guard; twins, or so it was said. They certainly looked like twins, insofar as a human could tell. Since this pair had been known to break up fights with their bare hands and now were armed with very impressive axes in their belts, Nightingale doubted that there would be any more ambushes today.
In fact, their path was remarkably clear of interference. Even peddlers found reasons to take their pushcarts out of the way.
As they walked steadily toward the Palace, her street-children slipped up to her one and two at a time, pretending to beg, but in actuality making certain that she was all right and gleefully recounting their own parts in the melee. It made her a little sick to realize that they had seen it as normal, quite in keeping with life on the streets. Perhaps a bit more fun than most of the violent situations they witnessed or were a part of in the course of a month or so. She slipped each of them an extra couple of pennies for diligence and quick thinking; she would have given them more, but that would leave all of them open to robbery or worse. No street-urchin dared carry more than a couple of pennies on his person, and very few of them had a safe place to cache money.
I can give them more, later. I can double their "wages." I can see to it that they can come to the kitchen door of Freehold and be fed, and have it taken out of my wages.
When they neared the Palace, T'fyrr took off into the air, much to the astonishment of the passers-by, leaving Nightingale to go on to the Bronze Gate with her double Mintak guard flanking her. Their presence raised an eyebrow from the gate guard, but one of the Mintaks grunted and said to him, "Been some trouble for Freeholders. People roughing up folks as works for us, callin' em Fuzzy-lovers. Boss wants his investment protected."
The gate guard nodded at that and waved her through; the inexplicable had been explained in terms he could understand. Nightingale passed inside and the two Mintaks went back across the street, took up a station in a nearby cafe that catered to the servants of those who came and went through the Bronze Gate, and set out a tiny portable Sires and Barons game between them. They would be there when she came out again, and they might even hear or be told something useful while they were there.
Now all she had to worry about were the dangers inside the Palace. About which I can do nothing. Hopefully, Tyladen or Harperus have something that can protect me.
T'fyrr landed beside her in a flurry of wing feathers, as she traversed the stone-paved path between two regimented beds of fragrant flowers. With her practiced eye, she knew by his careful landing that he was still in some pain; his wingbeats were not as deep, and he landed on both feet, rather than one.
The flowers in these formal gardens weren't anything she recognized, but then, the High King's gardeners had access to flowers found nowhere else inside the Twenty Kingdoms, and their breeding programs could make even familiar blooms unrecognizable. She allowed herself to be distracted from her concerns for a moment by their beauty and their perfume, but she couldn't be distracted for long.
Among the major concerns, there were some minor ones. Nothing that really mattered in either the long or the short run, but somehow they nagged at her.
One was strictly personal, and a cause for some embarrassment. Would there be gossip about them? It was certainly possible. It would be the second time that T'fyrr had remained out of the Palace all night, and both times (if anyone was keeping track) he had been at Freehold, in her room. She found herself blushing at the notion of what people might be thinking, which rather surprised her. After all, hadn't she been willing to move into his suite and live there?
But that was different....
Oh, certainly. With a preadolescent boy to act as chaperon, it was different. Indeed. She blushed even more.
This is ridiculous! I'm a Gypsy, a Free Bard; people have been saying things about me for as long as I've been alive, and I didn't care! I laughed at them!
She managed to get her blushes under control before they reached their goal, by dint of much self-scolding. Which, in itself, was ridiculous....
But when they arrived at the Palace itself and entered the huge, self-opening doors, they found the place as chaotic as an overturned beehive.
The great hall at the main doors was full of courtiers and servants and everyone in between, all of them chattering, and all of them upset. People of all stations were standing together in tight little groups, rigid with apprehension, or rushing about_apparently with no clear destination in mind. Pages ran hither and yon on ur
gent errands, their eyes wide and faces pale. All that Nightingale could pick up was fear; fear and excitement, and all that those emotions engendered.
What's been happening? She and T'fyrr stood just inside the door, and no one noticed them, which in itself was nothing short of astonishing.
T'fyrr solved the entire question by reaching out and intercepting one of the page boys as he ran past. The boy felt the talons close on his shoulder and stopped dead, with a little squeak of surprise.
"What is going on here?" T'fyrr rumbled down at his captive. "What has happened since yesterday? Why is there all this commotion?"
The page stared at him with wide blue eyes and stuffed his fist into his mouth as he blinked up at them. He wasn't very old, no more than seven or eight_and very sheltered. One of Nightingale's street-urchins would have replied already and been well on his way. T'fyrr waited patiently. Finally the boy got up enough courage to speak.
"It's the D-deliambren, S-sire!" he stammered, then seemed to get stuck, staring up into the Haspur's raptorial eyes exactly like a mouse waiting for the hawk to strike.
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