by Cas Peace
“He had you worried? I nearly had a seizure when you slipped at the end.”
She frowned. “I did not slip! Have you ever seen me lose my footing? No, love, it was a carefully calculated move to put him off balance. My only worry was wounding him too deeply. I did not want to put him out of action.”
Robin stared down at her, not sure if she was being truthful. She returned his gaze and he changed the subject. “Alright then. What was all that ‘Tallimore’ stuff?”
She smiled in memory. “Years ago—I was about nine, I think—I spent a whole summer exploring the east coast of Andaryon. It was easy to pass myself off as a boy, and as the ports were all teeming with strangers, no one took any notice of me. I was fascinated by the many vessels coming and going and soon found myself yearning to see what sailing was like. I offered myself as a cabin boy and was accepted on board the third ship I tried. By sheer chance, this vessel—a much racier craft than the heavy cargo ships, although at the time I had no idea why—turned out to be a free trader. By the time the captain discovered I was a girl we were too far out to put back into port, so he let me stay. He was pleased he did so, for I made myself useful. I used my senses to find the shoals of fish they trawled for—and they did fish, although fishing was not their most lucrative means of obtaining gold—and I also managed to warn them of a serious storm. The crew was convinced I was a storm-seer and did not want to part with me. They thought I was ‘lucky’, and I did not explain. Seamen are such a superstitious lot!
“In the evenings, I entertained them with songs and also learned a few of theirs. The one they sang most was The Ballad of Tallimore. Tallimore is where seamen believe they go when they die, and it is found far across the mythical Triple Sea. To wish someone a ‘broad reach to Tallimore’ is to give a seaman’s blessing. I knew Ky-shan would recognize it and be curious.”
She smiled up at him. “Come, love, pleasant though this is, we must dress for dinner. I do not want to be late.” Sliding her slender form out of his arms, she left the pool, water sheeting off her smooth, tawny skin.
Their clothes were waiting, having been laid out by a servant. Pharikian had provided a gown for Sullyan. Made of pale lavender velvet, it caught the light attractively. It was plain and simple in design with a close-fitting bodice, a scooped neck, sleeves that clung to her arms, and a full skirt falling almost to the ground. She slid into it, liking its soft, warm feel. There was also a gold girdle which sat low on her hips, accentuating her flat belly. Once she had dressed, she partially braided her hair, leaving a long mass of it to flow down her back.
Robin’s clothing was equally plain, yet elegant. Soft, black breeches with a white lawn shirt subtly trimmed with gold, and a black sleeveless tunic. Sullyan eyed him admiringly when he was dressed, and he smiled invitingly back.
Ruefully she shook her head. “Come now, Robin, duty calls. There will be time for that later.”
A servant appeared at the door to escort them. The Count, although clearly nervous, had dressed with care. A long mantle of maroon velvet was shown off by a black sleeveless tunic and white shirt and breeches.
Sullyan smiled approvingly as he joined them in the corridor. “The ladies will be all over you tonight, Ty.”
His melancholy expression lifted at her compliment and he fell into step beside them.
On entering the small hall where the dinner was being held, they saw that most of the other guests had already arrived. Pharikian, who had been talking to Anjer and two ladies, was watching for their arrival and came to greet them immediately.
“My dear Lady Brynne,” he said, loud enough for all to hear, “I’m so pleased you could attend.” Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips, then smiled conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “According to Anjer you’ve already made your mark in my service, child.”
She curtsied deeply. “Just being practical, Majesty.”
He chuckled as he went on to greet Robin, who managed a respectable, courtly bow. Marik was next, and he stuttered over his greeting, but Pharikian merely addressed him as ‘My dear Count,’ and acknowledged his reverential bow.
As he ushered them further into the room, Pharikian led the introductions. Anjer stepped forward, his huge frame elegantly handsome in unrelieved black. His eyes found Sullyan’s in amusement. He presented his wife, the Lady Torien, who was a small, slim woman about Sullyan’s age. The Major eyed her, thinking she would be crushed beneath Anjer’s weight in bed. Yet Torien obviously adored her husband, and she gave Sullyan a friendly smile.
Next was Ephan, dressed in a dark blue that emphasized his grey hair and white eyes. His lady was more his own age. Her name was Hollet, and she regarded Sullyan coolly, although her eyes rested easily on Robin. Gaslek stepped out from behind her and took Sullyan’s hand. He seemed to be unattached, and his fussy manner was absent in such relaxed company. Having greeted her, he touched Pharikian’s arm and they moved away, deep in conversation.
General Kryp approached reluctantly, showing his unwillingness to greet Sullyan as an equal even in this informal setting. However, once his eyes had roved over her slender curves and more appropriate attire, his expression changed. Sullyan felt a shiver of discomfort. She preferred his hostility to this speculative stare. It reminded her too much of Rykan.
Prodded into his duty by a light cough, Kryp introduced his lady. Falina was a woman of ample girth to match her husband’s, although her height was less than his. Her grey eyes were cold and she held out just her fingertips to Sullyan in a condescending fashion.
Sullyan inclined her head. “Lady Falina.”
“So you are Brynne Sullyan.” Falina looked down her nose and her voice was high and thin. “I barely recognized you out of those awful things you were wearing when we passed you in the Citadel.”
Sullyan kept her tone pleasant. “Oh, were you there, Lady? I am afraid I did not notice you among the crowd.”
Falina went pale and Sullyan saw Robin hide a smile. He knew very well that she had identified Falina as one of those simpering, gaudy peacocks who had sniggered behind her fan.
Determined to score a point, Falina said, “Will you take some advice, my dear? That lavender velvet does your complexion no favors at all. You really ought to ask an expert to go through your wardrobe.”
Sullyan smiled sweetly. “Do you think so, Lady? Then I must remember to pass your opinion on to his Majesty. He will have to discipline his chatelaine, since it was she who chose this gown.”
Falina’s mouth closed with a snap. Kryp rescued her from further embarrassment by pulling her away to talk to Lady Hollet.
So far all the guests had pointedly ignored Marik, despite the Hierarch’s greeting. He trailed disconsolately behind Sullyan and Robin as they moved farther into the room. They were about to find their seats when Pharikian approached them once more. On his arm was a woman who appeared to be in her early thirties. Sullyan guessed immediately who she was by her resemblance to her father, and made her a deep obeisance.
She heard Pharikian say, “Lady Brynne Sullyan, I would like you to meet my daughter, the Princess Idrimar.”
As she rose, Sullyan studied Idrimar. The young woman was attractive in a pale sort of way, but she had a listless manner that wasn’t entirely healthy. She seemed friendly as she greeted them, but Sullyan thought she probably had a gloomy nature. Of course, she reflected, the woman had lost her twin sister at birth and her mother soon after. She was also unmarried, unusual enough for an Andaryan woman of her age, but virtually unheard of for a ruler’s daughter. It seemed she had every right to her sorrow.
Despite her underlying sadness, Idrimar chatted easily with them and even included Marik, which clearly unsettled him. As the servants announced supper, Sullyan noticed Marik watching the Princess out of the corner of his eye. She hid a private smile.
The meal passed pleasantly. Sullyan sat with Robin and enjoyed light conversation with Gaslek, Ephan, Anjer, and their ladies. She had been wondering where the Hierarch’s
son was, but soon learned he was currently staying in Morvaigne, the province of Tikhal, Lord of the North. Tikhal was Pharikian’s premier noble, senior to Lord Rykan. As powerful as Rykan, Tikhal lacked the dark lord’s brutal ambition, having no desire to overturn the Hierarch’s rule. Should Rykan succeed in his challenge, Pharikian’s Heir would be Rykan’s next target, so the Prince had been sent to the safety of Tikhal’s mountain stronghold. He wouldn’t return until the war was over, when he would either congratulate his father or prepare to fight for his life.
Musicians played softly throughout the meal, and when it was over, they struck up a dance tune. Sullyan could hardly help remembering the last banquet she had attended as she danced in the Hierarch’s arms, and judging by the look on Robin’s face, he was remembering too. However, the handsome young man had little time for somber reflection, for he was soon claimed for dances by Anjer’s young wife Torien, Ephan’s Lady Hollet, and once, to his utter amazement and honor, by the Princess. Idrimar came alive when she danced, and Robin soon found himself entering into the spirit of the evening.
Sullyan also had her share of partners, and once saw Robin trying to suppress outright laughter at the expression on Falina’s face as the portly General Kryp escorted Sullyan around the floor. He was also highly amused by the look on Sullyan’s face as she was forced to dance with the unwieldy General.
When they were finally able to dance with each other, Robin asked her how she had enjoyed Kryp’s attentions. She shot him a look and was about to voice an acid reply when she spotted something that both amazed and amused her.
“Oh my, Robin,” she murmured, “will you look at that.”
Turning in the dance, she let him see the incredible sight of Count Marik and Princess Idrimar dancing closely together. Oblivious to the other guests, they were gazing deep into each other’s eyes.
Robin chuckled. “I do believe our dear Count is making an impression.”
Sullyan smiled and glanced at Pharikian, who was watching the pair with an unreadable expression.
The dancing finally ended. Sullyan had intended to excuse herself and Robin as they had an early start the next morning, but the Hierarch had one last surprise for her. Rising from his seat next to his daughter, who was still gazing down the table toward the Count when she thought her father wasn’t looking, he turned to Sullyan. He was holding out a sheaf of papers, and as she stood to take them, she saw that they were musical scores. Her heart started to pound.
“I promised you the music your father wrote, my dear, and while I wouldn’t presume to ask you to play it now, as you’ve only just seen it, might I prevail upon you to play something else?” His eyes were pleading. “I know you intend to take the field tomorrow, so I won’t keep you from your rest. But it has been too many years since this was played, and I thought—I hoped—you might care to have it.”
He gestured, and a servant approached Sullyan, bearing something covered with a blue velvet cloth. As soon as it was set on the table before her, she knew what it was. Fingers trembling, she drew the cloth aside and gasped with delight.
The harp was exquisite. Its rich, highly polished red wood was decorated with intricate gold and nacre inlay. The strings were gold and silver wires, and tiny diamonds adorned the tuning pins. It had been lovingly cared for and was in perfect tune when she ran a light hand over it. Tears standing in her eyes, she looked up at the Hierarch.
“It belonged to your mother,” he murmured, “but it was your father who played it. If you are not too overcome, I would love to hear it again.”
What could she do but take it in her arms? Robin placed a chair in front of the high table and she sat with the harp nestling into her lap as if it belonged there. She tried the strings, as much to compose herself as to test its tone.
Softly, she played a melody with no words. The last time she had played a harp was at Marik’s mansion before Bull, Taran, Cal, and Rienne had left, and the melody was a subtle lament which brought back painful memories. She changed the tune and the Hierarch sat straighter in his chair, recognizing what she played. It was the air she had played for Rykan at Marik’s banquet, and when she began to sing the words, the Count covered his face with his hands. He too associated the song with pain and loss.
Pharikian sat enthralled as Sullyan sang the words in the old High Language of Andaryon, a tongue no one spoke now. As the song shivered to a close, she felt a serene sense of completion, as if finally laying the bad memories to rest. She placed her hands on the strings to still their quivering, and the room resounded with applause. Even the sour Falina had found nothing to criticize in the Major’s skill. Sullyan didn’t react, simply sat with her head bowed over the harp while one hand stroked its wood. It wasn’t until Pharikian came round the table and put a hand on her shoulder that she raised her face, her eyes full of emotion.
“Where did you learn that song, Brynne?”
“I cannot say, Majesty. I feel as if I have always known it.”
His face showed wonder. “Maybe you have, child, for Bethyn used to sing it to you before you were born. The melody is very old, ancient even, but those words were written by your father, as a loving tribute to his wife.”
Suddenly, Sullyan couldn’t breathe. Everywhere she turned here she found reminders of what she had lost. This was just too much. She laid the harp aside and covered it with the rich velvet. In a choked voice she said, “I cannot tell you what it means to have this, Majesty, but may I beg you to keep it safe a while longer? There is no place for it where I am going. And now, if it does not offend you, might I ask that you release us? Robin and I have much to arrange for tomorrow, and the hour grows late.”
Pharikian’s eyes clouded as he took her hand in farewell. He escorted them to the door and reluctantly let them go.
“Stay safe, Brynne,” he whispered. “I couldn’t bear to lose you too.”
Chapter Twenty
The early morning air was chill and Taran shivered as he drew his cloak tightly around him. He looked up, noting the glitter of the frost-spangled trees. It promised to be a beautiful day, but Taran wasn’t looking for beauty. His thoughts lay elsewhere as he strolled aimlessly, eyes unfocused and heart uneasy.
He had slept poorly the night before and had come out to clear his head. Too many thoughts were crowding his mind and he couldn’t stop their nagging. Uncertainties still plagued his life, and this dreadful waiting for bad news day after day was dragging him down. Cal’s elevation to Apprentice-elite had brought things to a head, and Taran had felt unsettled ever since. Not that he was unhappy for Cal. Quite the contrary, he was proud and delighted. He clearly remembered his own euphoria on gaining such a prize, and Sullyan’s recent ceremony confirming his Adept status still swelled his heart.
No. It was the future that bothered Taran.
The relative ease with which he had attained the rank of Adept after only a few hours’ guidance had brought forcibly home to him just what he might be capable of. It wasn’t something he had dared consider before. Sullyan’s masterly touch and confident air, even Robin’s forthright instruction, contrasted sharply with Taran’s memories of his father’s blunt and condescending comments. He couldn’t recall receiving a single word of praise from Amanus, who had obviously considered goading and humiliation to be the best forms of encouragement. At the time, Taran knew nothing else and did his best to progress. Now, he realized he had been trying to please his father rather than identifying and acting on his own strengths and weaknesses.
Sullyan’s method was to lead and encourage. Instead of highlighting failures and dampening spirits, she fostered understanding through experiment, praising each achievement on its merits. Taran knew he could only flourish under such gentle instruction.
That only made it harder to lose.
“Dammit to hell!”
He couldn’t believe he had discovered such talented people only to have their support snatched away just when he was making progress. His love for Sullyan, which refused to d
ie despite his knowledge of her commitment to Robin, would make losing her distressing enough. To be also denied the training he so desperately desired would only deepen his misery.
Taran knew that once Sullyan was gone and Robin came back to the Manor, he, Cal, and Rienne would be forced to return to Hyecombe. They were only here on sufferance, and that was because of Rienne’s healer skills. Despite Sullyan’s parting words at Marik’s mansion, Taran knew that once things were back to normal neither Robin nor Bull would be free to spend much time with him. He would be right back where he started—only worse, because now he would truly know what he had lost.
He really didn’t think he could bear it.
Eventually, cold air and a sad heart drove him to seek warmth and company. Rienne and Cal should be up by now. Perhaps he could persuade Bull to part with some of his time. It might help take their minds off what was happening beyond the Veils.
As he began the walk back, the sound of voices made Taran raise his head. One of the voices was Blaine’s, and Taran frowned. Why was he up and about so early?
He soon found out. Two men appeared from the direction of the training ground, and one of them was indeed Mathias Blaine. The General was more casually dressed than Taran had ever seen him, in a plain linen shirt and loose, black breeches, his sword belted at his side. His companion was the Manor weaponsmaster, Falkerk, and the two were strolling together, deep in conversation. Judging by their flushed faces and sweat-dampened clothing, they had been fencing.
Taran was mildly surprised to learn that Blaine still actively trained, but then reminded himself that the man was no great age. Bull was older, and he still trained regularly. As he thought more about it, Taran realized the General must have come out early to escape the curious eyes of his men.
He walked on, intending to greet Blaine politely as he passed. Before he got close enough, however, the General turned to Falkerk and made a comment. The weaponsmaster glanced briefly at Taran and nodded. He walked off down another path while Blaine came on, eyes fixed on Taran. He wanted to talk, Taran realized. What could be on his mind? Perhaps he had already had enough of them and wanted them to leave. After all, the reason they had come, the Andaryan artifact buried in the ruins of Taran’s cellar, had lost its significance in the tragedy of Sullyan’s fate. No one would be spared to deal with it until this sad business was over.
