The Lyre Thief
Page 1
Map
Map by Ellissa Mitchell
Dedication
For the Champions and those I trust . . .
Contents
Map
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Part One Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part Two Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part Three Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Part Four Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Part Five Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Epilogue
Characters
About the Author
Also by Jennifer Fallon
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Copyright
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank Claire Eddy from Tor and Rochelle Fernandez from HarperCollins Australia for believing in this series enough to allow it to continue. I would also like to thank my many fans for the thousands of e-mails I have received over the years, begging me to continue the story of the characters who populate Medalon, Hythria, and Fardohnya.
I would also like to thank my beta readers, who offered such valuable advice and epic proofreading.
Most of all, I would like to thank my family, TJ (plot-hole finder extraordinaire!), Dace, and David, for their unwavering support and belief. Without their support, this series would have remained in my head. They have inspired me to bring these people back to life and find new characters to love and follow in this world.
I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
Prologue
WERE IT NOT for the voices in his head, Mica would have been incredibly lonely.
They kept him entertained. They often kept him company.
And lately, they’d been urging him to do something more than wander the halls of the God of Music’s palace, humming to himself, occasionally breaking into song, while contemplating the relative merits of suicide as opposed to a lifetime of aching loneliness and boredom.
He didn’t see Gimlorie much. The God of Music had little interest in his captive. He cared for Mica insofar as the young man had never starved all the time he had been a prisoner here, never wanted for sustenance, shelter, or material comfort, but the god felt no need to interact with his charge.
Mica’s only companions since he was ten years old were the demons who owed their allegiance to the Lord of Song. And the voices.
Always, the voices.
Mica blinked and looked down. Below the ledge of the tall window where he balanced, bracing against the crisp breeze that blew around the tower, was a drop so perilous the ground was hidden beneath a layer of fog, making it seem as if Gimlorie’s palace were built on a cloud.
It wasn’t—Mica had been outside several times and knew the ground beneath the tower was firm—but it looked that way from up here.
Mica couldn’t remember how he came to be standing on this ledge, looking down.
Or why.
It’s your only escape.
Ah, that was why. This particular voice had been talking to him a lot lately, reminding him with seductive frequency that he was trapped here. Reminding him that his life stretched before him endlessly; he was a lost soul wandering these hollow, empty halls, singing a song nobody but the demons would ever hear.
The voice was compelling. And it was right.
He was trapped here.
Maybe death is my only escape.
Mica wondered for a moment why nobody had ever come for him. He’d had family. A brother, he recalled. Where was he? Where was the heroic rescue attempt?
Why had nobody in the real world noticed he was missing?
He remembered snatches of his life before coming here, but nothing much. Just a hollow emptiness inside in the place where he thought love and family should dwell. Mica knew of love. He’d heard plenty of songs about it here and occasionally Kalianah came to visit. When the Goddess of Love spoke of love, she seemed sad for him. But she had never intervened.
He was a prisoner of Gimlorie, the God of Music, and that was enough for Kalianah.
Perhaps I should jump, this time. Perhaps this really is the only way I’ll ever escape this place.
Are you sure it’s the only way to escape?
The voice was taunting him, tantalizing him with possibilities.
Do you know of another?
The voice didn’t answer straight away. The chill breeze tugged at Mica’s ragged shirt, one he’d long outgrown. He looked down again. All he had to do was step off the ledge and his loneliness would be over. He lifted his foot. One small step . . .
What if I told you there was a way out of here? Even better, a way to even the score with those who trapped you here.
Mica pulled his foot back, skeptical but intrigued. He thought the voice was lying, but if he wasn’t . . .
I cannot escape this place. Gimlorie is too vigilant. And the demon child sent me here.
The voice didn’t seem particularly concerned. Gimlorie can be . . . rendered ineffectual. And the demon child should be punished for what she did to you. You were a child and she was the one who made you Gimlorie’s puppet in the first place.
He shook his head. Although the voice’s words tugged at a long hidden memory, it didn’t seem to understand.
She is the demon child. R’shiel has all the power of the gods at her disposal. I am one small boy with nothing more than a magical song.
That song turned back an army once, the voice reminded him. And you are no longer a small boy.
One step, and it wouldn’t matter. One step and he would fall silently through the clouds to his death on the rocks below the tower.
Jump, then, the voice said, full of contempt.
The sudden change of tone surprised Mica.
Now you want me to kill myself?
Every day you come up here, stand on that ledge, and consider ending it all. So do it. Die. Or do something to change your life.
Mica looked down. The voice was right. Every day he came up here and considered jumping off. And every day he discovered he lacked the courage.
Die. Or do something to change your life.
It seemed such a simple choice. He closed his eyes for a moment and let th
e chill wind caress his face, wishing the answer would come to him on the breeze.
Die. Or do something to change your life.
Perhaps that was the answer. Vengeance will taste good, he thought. As clean and sharp as the cold wind swirling around the tower.
Filled with an unfamiliar sense of purpose, Mica opened his eyes and stepped back off the ledge. He turned his back to the window and looked around the empty tower room.
It certainly couldn’t be any worse than this place.
“Very well, then,” he said aloud to the voice inside his head. “Talk to me about vengeance.”
You will find it a salve for your wounded soul.
“I won’t find it at all unless I can get out of this place,” Mica informed the voice, impatient, now, to get on with it. This was the first decision he’d made in years that gave him any sense of control over his own destiny. “So let’s start with how you think we can render the God of Music ineffectual.”
Mica was ready and he had a long list of scores to settle.
Well, the voice told him. First, there is something you have to steal . . .
Part One
Chapter
1
NAVEEN RAVEVE, CHAMBERLAIN to King Hablet of Fardohnya, examined the marriage proposal from Frederak Branador, Lord of Highcastle, who controlled one of only two navigable passes between Hythria and Fardohnya, and then looked up to meet the gaze of his visitor, who was finding his silence unsettling.
“Well?” she asked. “Will you do it?”
Naveen bit back a smile. He was a slave, after all, and yet here he was, with a princess of the realm standing before him, begging him for a favor.
Not just begging. He suspected she was willing to pay handsomely for it.
The women of the royal harem had so much to learn about how different he was from his predecessor.
“You ask this favor as if you expect to be able to purchase it, your highness. I am not Lecter Turon. I am not for sale.”
“Lecter made himself a wealthy man being for sale.”
“He used coin to compensate for the fact he wasn’t a full man, your highness. That is quite a different thing.” The old eunuch used to sweat like a pig, too, something Naveen was much better at controlling. The humidity in Talabar was dire at this time of year, and Lecter’s rich robes—while impressive—just made the problem worse. Naveen had no need to dress in brocade to impress others. He was tall and handsome and a loronged court’esa. He had years of specialized training behind him. He had survived being poisoned with the foul sterilizer, loronge, and survived more than a decade as a harem court’esa. He had presence and knew how to use it to his advantage. He’d entertained half the women in the Fardohnyan royal harem before managing to convince Lecter his talents lay elsewhere.
The old fool wouldn’t have taken him on as his protégé, Naveen supposed, if the old eunuch had known the first thing his apprentice would do, once Lecter considered him trained, was kill him and take his place as the king’s most trusted aide.
“Even if I were prepared to do this for you, my lady, what you ask will be difficult to arrange.” He leaned back in his seat, savoring her discomfort. He’d never lain with Sophany, something that left him at a disadvantage. He knew the quirks and peculiarities of many of the royal wives, but not this one. She didn’t know that, though. “Your daughter is neither the only nor the most worthy contender.”
“Who else is my husband considering?”
Princess Sophany was trying too hard to sound commanding, but there was an edge of desperation to her words that intrigued Naveen. Sophany of Lanipoor was usually much more circumspect. In fact, she’d gone out of her way to keep her head down in all the years Naveen had been in the king’s harem. Carrying the double stain of giving him yet another daughter, and being the younger half-sister of Hablet’s first wife, who’d been beheaded for attempting to murder a rival, she’d done all she could not to draw attention to herself for more than twenty years.
And yet here she was, willing to sell her soul for a boon that would surely bring her to the king’s attention.
There was a mystery here. Naveen knew it would niggle at him until he solved it.
“I am not at liberty to say, your highness. But you can be sure there are several other wives in the harem just as anxious as you to see their daughters elevated.” And then he added with a hint of malice: “Younger daughters.”
“My daughter is barely twenty-one.”
“That is quite old in some circles.”
“Has this Hythrun warlord demanded a child bride to seal the deal?”
Naveen shook his head. “He has requested a royal bride of childbearing age. And the king is determined to see he is accommodated. High-castle is strategically the second most important place on the border, and once this deal is struck it could well become the most important. He will not risk offending Lord Branador by offering him anything less than the best. At twenty-one, her serene highness barely qualifies as being of childbearing age.”
“That is ludicrous, Naveen, and you know it. Adrina married at twenty-eight. She’s given Damin Wolfblade four healthy children.”
“And incurred the king’s eternal suspicion and enmity in the process,” he reminded her. “Is that what you want for your daughter, your highness?”
Sophany shook her head. “Any suspicion or enmity Hablet holds toward his eldest daughter is a direct result of her running away from the husband he chose for her and marrying the Hythrun high prince without his permission. It has nothing to do with any children she’s produced since then.”
Sophany was desperate, but she wasn’t stupid. Another reason to be suspicious. She was too clever to take a risk like this for no good reason.
“Lord Frederak is eighty-one years old, and he doesn’t carry his age well. How does your barely twenty-one-year-old daughter feel about being given to a scabby old man? And a foreign one at that?”
“Probably the same way I felt when I was given to King Hablet at seventeen and he was already over forty. I was not consulted about my feelings on the matter then. I don’t expect my daughter to be treated any differently now.”
Ah, Naveen thought. She hates the king. He wasn’t surprised. Hablet would be hard pressed to find a single wife in his vast harem who actually loved him. Still, her resentment was not usually so palpable. And it didn’t explain why she was so anxious to remove her daughter from the harem.
“I will consider your request, your highness,” he said, deciding he needed time to investigate this. It was puzzling. It reeked of something going on that he knew nothing about. Lecter Turon had kept his position at the king’s side all these years by knowing everything that was going on in the harem. Naveen would only survive his new position if he did the same.
He needed time to look her daughter over, too. He remembered little about the girl, other than she was pretty—nothing special there. All of Hablet’s wives were stunning beauties, so it was no surprise his scores of offspring were universally attractive. There was some nonsense a few years ago, he recalled, involving the child. It was hard to recall the details. He’d been working in the harem as a court’esa back then and had his own problems with Hablet’s wives and older daughters to worry about. Still, he needed to find out what he could about the girl from his harem spies. And he needed to find out why Sophany was so anxious to foist her daughter onto someone as unpleasant as Lord Branador of Highcastle.
“What do you want, Naveen?”
“Excuse me?”
“What is your currency? What bribe do I have to offer you? What is your price to ensure my daughter is the next baroness of Highcastle?”
Naveen was rather taken aback by her bluntness. “The decision is the king’s, your highness, not mine.”
“Hablet doesn’t belch without consulting his chamberlain first,” she said. “He never did with Lecter Turon when he held the post and I don’t imagine you’re any different. If I know my husband, he will hand over whi
chever of his daughters you recommend, and probably not even ask the reason. I want your recommendation to be my daughter, and I am far more desperate than any other mother in the harem. So let us not play games, Naveen. Tell me your price.”
“Tell me your reason.”
Sophany didn’t hesitate, which meant she was telling the truth or had practiced her story enough to conceal her lie. “I don’t want my daughter in the harem when Alaric takes the throne.”
“Alaric is not even twelve years old, your highness, and the king is alive and well.”
“Alaric is a spoiled and indulged little monster and Hablet is over seventy. I know what happens when a new king takes the throne in Fardohnya, Naveen, and I don’t intend that fate to be my daughter’s.” She stared him down defiantly, and then added, “I would not be surprised if you have not considered your own fate, should our beloved king join the gods before you have ingratiated yourself with his heir.”
For the first time since Sophany requested this meeting, Naveen felt he might be in danger of losing control. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? You were a slave in this harem not so long ago, Naveen, waiting on the whim of every woman there. You know things about many of them they would prefer you didn’t, and they mightily resent the way you managed to get yourself promoted out of the harem and into a position of such trust at the king’s right hand. Every wife and daughter in the harem with a grudge against you is already whispering in Alaric’s ear about how the first thing he should do when his father dies is get rid of you.”
Naveen truly hadn’t thought about it, but now that he did, the scenario was frighteningly plausible. He’d spent the past twenty years playing with the wives of his king, often for his own entertainment rather than theirs. The idea that rather than retaliate directly the women he had been toying with were poisoning the mind of the king’s only son to get their revenge was something he had never contemplated. Worse, Alaric would not leave the harem and the care of his mother, Sybill of Tarkent, until he was fourteen years old. That was still years away. More than enough time to seal his fate.