The Lyre Thief

by Jennifer Fallon

  Lord Erlon seemed to appreciate her dilemma. He smiled and beckoned the young woman who had escorted Charisee to dinner forward. “Wait here. The princess and I are going to take a turn around the gardens. If I try to ravage her serene highness, and you hear her screaming, you must immediately raise the alarm.” He turned to Charisee. “Does that ease your mind?”

  She nodded, feeling very foolish and provincial. He offered her his arm. Charisee slipped her arm into his and they headed off down the path. For no accountable reason, she felt safer, at that moment, than at any other time since she’d decided to pretend she was Rakaia.

  “So, what do you think of Hythria thus far, your highness?”

  “It’s very beautiful.”

  “I meant the people, not the scenery.”

  “So far, they’ve been universally welcoming and kind.”

  Erlon laughed. “Never fear. That will change once you get to Greenharbour. Are you looking forward to your upcoming nuptials?”

  “Of course.”

  “Liar.”

  Charisee snatched her arm from Lord Erlon’s and turned to stare at him in shock. “Excuse me?”

  “I said you’re a liar.” He said it without rancor. He almost seemed amused by the notion.

  “I am not!”

  He smiled even wider. “You delight me, Charisee, you really do.”

  “How can you say tha—What did you call me?”

  “Charisee.”

  “I am Rakaia.”

  “No. You’re Rakaia’s base-born half-sister, Charisee,” Lord Erlon replied with complete confidence. “And, ironically as it turns out, the true princess. Rakaia doesn’t have a drop of Hablet in her. Much more captain of the guard than king of the realm is our dear, sweet Rakaia. Are you all right, my dear? You look quite pale.”

  Charisee feared she was about to throw up. Three glorious weeks her deception had lasted before her lies unraveled. How had Lord Erlon known? Was he one of the trade delegation to Fardohnya last year? Had he met Rakaia back in Talabar before they left?

  “Here,” he said, leading her to a small hedged alcove with a stone bench in the center of it, putting them out of view of the house. “Why don’t you sit down before you fall down?”

  “I . . . I . . . I’m Rakaia,” she insisted. There was only one way out of this, she figured, and that was to brazen it out. Even if Lord Erlon knew the truth, how could he prove it?

  “You are a delight, that’s what you are,” he said, smiling at her indulgently.

  “My lord,” she began, “I don’t know what you think you—”

  “Call me Jak,” he cut in.

  “What?”

  “Call me Jak. That’s my name, and as we are going to be such firm friends, and I know your real name, it’s only fair you know mine, don’t you think?”

  Charisee couldn’t keep up. He knew the truth. He must be planning to do something with it. But his manner was neither threatening nor sinister, despite what he had just revealed he knew about her.

  “Jak,” she repeated warily, with no choice but to play along until she figured out his game. Then she put the names together in her head and jumped to her feet. “Jak? Jak Erlon?” she gasped, with the sudden realization that she was either in the presence of a god or a madman. “That’s your real name? Jakerlon? As in Jakerlon, the God of Liars?”

  Still sitting on the stone bench, he bowed to her. “At your service, your highness.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “Jakerlon, you begged—with the most charming humility, I have to say,” he said. “Hear me, please. If I take on my sister’s identity, I will be honoring the God of Liars for the rest of my life. Please watch over me, Jakerlon, God of Liars. Please keep me safe and I will not let you down. I was moved. Truly moved by your sincerity. And the epic scope of your lie, I have to say. It’s not every day I get one this good.”

  Even if this man was no god and had figured out the truth about her by ordinary means, there was no way he could know of her prayer to the God of Liars unless he was . . .

  Stunned, she dropped to one knee and lowered her head. “Divine One.”

  “Come now,” he said, urging her to rise. “We’re friends. There is no need to stand on ceremony. Or kneel on it, either. Let’s sit and talk a while.”

  Charisee had no choice but to comply. It wasn’t as if she could outrun a god. She sat beside him, perched on the edge of the hard stone bench, bathed in a chill sweat born of fear and awe.

  “So, let us talk about you being a princess.”

  “I . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Of course you did,” he said, amused by her denials. “You chose this life, Charisee, and you are living a lie to maintain it. You will go through life deceiving kings and princes. I can’t think of the last time anybody honored me so comprehensively.”

  “What do you want of me?”

  “What do you think? I want you to keep honoring me,” he said. “Not since Sophany of Lanipoor handed over a newborn babe to Hablet of Fardohnya and told him how much the babe looked like his beloved dead sister—whom he’d killed, incidentally—has anybody honored me with such a delicious swindle.”

  Charisee didn’t know what to say. She was still trying to process the notion that she was sitting here talking to a god.

  “Ah!” he said with a smile. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

  “Princess Sophany?”

  “Mother,” Jakerlon corrected. “You must always refer to Sophany as mother, not as Princess Sophany.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If people hear you referring to her as—”

  “No, I meant the baby. What baby?”

  “Well, Rakaia, of course.” He seemed a little confused by her puzzled expression and then he sighed as he realized she had no idea what he was talking about. “Fine. Let me explain. Rakaia is not Hablet’s daughter. Never has been. Sophany had a fling with the captain of the guard and passed the resulting child off as a princess, a deceit that would never have been discovered, except by chance. I intend to speak to Jondalup about that, by the way, because I don’t believe for a moment that it was chance . . .”

  “You think the God of Chance had a hand in this?”

  “I just said that, didn’t I? Do try to keep up, sweetness. Anyway . . . where were we? Ah . . . Sophany. When she realized her lie was about to be exposed, she did what all my best disciples do—she lied some more. She lied to Naveen Raveve and offered him a safe haven should your father die an untimely death. She lied to you, telling you Rakaia was going to Hythria to marry this Branador character. And then she arranged for the best lie of all—which was to have you take over Rakaia’s identity, enabling her daughter to escape unharmed. Hablet’s not going to be happy when he finds out.”

  “But Rakaia didn’t escape unharmed. She’s dead.”

  “She’s not dead,” Jakerlon laughed. “The demon child arrived on the back of a dragon and heroically saved her in the nick of time.” He leaned forward and patted her hand. “Don’t worry about Rakaia. It’s you who are honoring me, Charisee. It’s you that I care about.”

  Charisee was quite numb. “Rakaia is . . . alive?”

  He nodded, oblivious to the impact of his news. “I believe she’s alive and well and having a high old time, gallivanting around central Medalon with a carnival troupe or something. To be honest, I don’t really keep up with Rakaia these days. She was the lie, rather than the liar. Disappointingly, she was honoring Gimlorie last time I looked.”

  “What if she comes back?”

  “She won’t. Rakaia knows Hablet will have her killed as soon as he realizes he’s been duped.”

  He said it so casually, for a moment Charisee didn’t appreciate what he was telling her. “But . . . but doesn’t that mean if I continue to pretend I’m Rakaia, he’ll have me killed, as soon as he realizes he’s been duped?”

  Jakerlon smiled at her, like an immensely proud parent. “Don’t you see
how special that makes you? This lie you’re living may cost you your very life. You are putting your life on the line for me. There can be no greater honoring of your god than something so dangerous.”

  “Is that what you want? For me to die honoring you?”

  “Of course not! I don’t want you harmed, Charisee. I’m here to help.”

  “Help how?”

  “By making you see the truth.”

  “I thought you were the God of Liars?”

  “All lies are just truths served more palatably.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it. The lie you are living is that you are Rakaia, daughter of the king of Fardohnya. But the larger lie here is that Rakaia was ever any such thing. You, on the other hand, are a daughter of the king of Fardohnya, and yet to take your rightful place as a princess, you have to live a lie.”

  Charisee shook her head. “I’m confused.”

  “Do not despair, little one. I will be watching over you from now on. I just want you to do one thing for me.”

  Charisee nodded. How did one refuse a god? “What must I do, Divine One?”

  “Enjoy yourself.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Enjoy yourself, Charisee,” the God of Liars ordered. “Shed this thorny cloak of guilt you’re wearing with such noble self-sacrifice. It’s suffocating me. You were placed in this lie because of Sophany’s infidelity and the willingness of a sister you loved to selfishly put you in harm’s way to save her own life. Embrace it. Make the most of it. Honor me every day by being glad you’re living this lie.”

  “I’m not a liar.”

  “My sweet, you are the most wonderful type of liar there is, because the person you lie to most often is yourself.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t you?” he chuckled. “You lie to yourself about hating what you’re doing, yet at every turn you’ve chosen the lie, in preference to confessing the truth in order to put an end to your supposed suffering. You could have said something at Winternest, but you wanted to have just one night with everything Rakaia had, didn’t you? You tell yourself you’re shattered Rakaia is dead, when in truth, just for a tiny, teeny moment, when you first heard the news about everyone in that caravan being killed, you felt a shiver of relief knowing she could never come back to expose you.”

  Her eyes misting with guilty tears, Charisee shook her head in denial, but they both knew that was a lie, too.

  “Even now,” Jakerlon continued relentlessly, “you’re telling yourself you’re doing the noble thing by pretending to be Rakaia.”

  “I’m not . . .”

  “Of course you are! You’re on your way to her wedding. You are going to allow yourself to be carried off by some lecherous old fool for the sake of a trade route negotiated to further enrich an obscenely wealthy king who would kill you in a heartbeat if he knew who you really were. And you’re lying to yourself about the assassin, too, although that’s more Kalianah’s province than mine.”

  “The assass—Kiam? What do you mean?”

  “Please, Charisee, I am the one creature in all of creation you can be honest with. You know exactly what I mean.” He leaned back against the hedge, folding his arms above his head, looking very smug. “I have to say, trying to make his dog love you so he has to keep coming back to you to retrieve him is a fairly pathetic way of showing your interest in a man.”

  Charisee wiped her tears away with the heels of her hands, smiling faintly at the absurdity of it. There was no point, she’d begun to realize, in denying anything around the God of Liars. “Can everyone see through me like I’m made of glass, or just you?”

  “Just me. And maybe the assassin. You should make the most of him, you know, while you have the chance. That would be the ‘embracing it’ philosophy I spoke of. If you’re going to see this through, my pet, you’ll want a pleasant picture in your mind to concentrate on when the lecher is having his way with you.”

  “He’s the High Prince’s stepbrother.”

  “I’m pretty sure that doesn’t involve the removal of his manhood.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what? You want him. He wants you—and he’s lying to himself by pretending he’s not tempted to break his promise to the High Princess. Neither of you can admit it openly, apparently, because gods forbid you were prepared to be honest about your feelings for each other. So . . . do what your heart is wishing for and then lie about it afterward. You’ll be honoring both me and the Goddess of Love, if you do. How can that be considered wrong?”

  She shook her head, not sure if she was denying his logic or his suggestion. “You twist everything around.”

  “It is the nature of truth and lies, my precious. And the best lies of all are the stone-cold truth.”

  Before she could respond to that, the slave who’d escorted her to dinner appeared from behind the hedge and curtseyed deeply. “Lord Rahan sent me to tell you that dinner is being served, your highness.”

  “Excellent,” the God of Liars said. “I’m famished. And you heard nothing, just now, did you?”

  “Not a word, my lord.” The slave bowed and headed back toward the terrace.

  “Did you do something to that girl?” she asked as Jakerlon rose to his feet and offered Charisee his hand.

  “I just made sure she’ll not report anything she may have overheard,” the god assured her as she let him help her up.

  Beyond trying to comprehend everything she’d learned in the last few minutes, Charisee wiped away the last of her tears, and then studied Jakerlon curiously for a moment. “You’re a god. Do you even need to eat?”

  “Not really.”

  “You said you were famished.”

  He laughed and slipped his arm through hers. “I think the thing I love about you most, Charisee, is that even now, knowing what you do about who and what I am, you’re still surprised when you discover I’m lying.”

  Chapter

  26

  “I’VE BEEN THINKING, Naveen,” the king of Fardohnya announced as he turned to wave at the loyal subjects lining the wharf in the rain to see him off.

  “Perhaps if you were to lie down for a time, your highness,” Naveen suggested, “the urge might pass?”

  Hablet smiled at waved at the crowd. “Very droll.”

  “I aim to entertain, your highness.”

  He couldn’t see Hablet’s face any longer, but the king hadn’t ordered him thrown overboard, so he’d probably gotten away with his quip this time. Coming up the slippery gangplank were Princess Sophany, stepping carefully to keep her balance, and Crown Prince Alaric, who was trying to make it bounce. The former looked worried—and not just because Alaric was trying to toss her off the gangplank. The latter was simply excited at the prospect of a sea voyage—however brief and close to shore—before they turned east and sailed up the mighty Glass River to the Citadel.

  “I think it’s time to start taking care of my legacy, Naveen.”

  Naveen leaned a little closer to the king. It was hard to hear over the noise of the sailors preparing to cast off and the cheering crowd on the dock—rented and paid for by the king, although he wasn’t aware of the fact. “Sire?”

  “This business with Sophany made me realize I need to start tying up loose threads.”

  Naveen had seen his predecessor, Lecter Turon, “tie up loose threads” for his king in the past. It usually involved someone dying. “Which particular threads did you want tied up, sire?”

  “All of them.”

  “Excuse me?” He took a step closer, certain he’d misheard the king. “Did you say all of them?”

  “Alaric! Come here, my boy!” Hablet called as his son stepped onto the deck. “Come wave to the people! The people like it when you wave to them.”

  “But it’s raining.”

  “Then they’ll think you even more wonderful for stopping to wave.”

  Pulling a face, the crown prince stepped up to the railing but was too short to see over it. Nav
een motioned to a nearby sailor to quickly bring a box for the young prince to stand on, before he could throw a tantrum about it. At eleven, the lad was not particularly tall, but the gods had blessed him with a sweet face and large brown eyes framed with thick long lashes. He was almost too pretty to be a boy. Perhaps that was one of the drawbacks of the gods intervening in the creation of any human. Alaric was a gift from the gods; the direct result of a request from the demon child to the Goddess of Fertility to grant the king a son in return for his aid in expelling the Karien horde from the Citadel.

  “Are they cheering for me, Papa?” Given the prince’s generally cheerful demeanor, Naveen thought it safe to assume that Alaric had no inkling yet of his father’s plans to leave him with the Defenders in Medalon.

  “Of course they are, son,” the king assured him. “One day you’ll be their king.”

  “Why aren’t there more of them?”

  Perhaps the demon child could have been a little more specific when she made her request of Jelanna to grant Hablet a son, Naveen mused. Listed a few desirable personality traits along with those pretty eyes.

  “We’d never have been able to get to the ship,” Hablet told him, “if the crowd was any bigger.”

  Naveen could see by his frown that now Alaric had put the idea in his head, Hablet was wondering the same thing. Curse the child. Naveen could have hired more cheering peasants, but there was really only so much of the royal purse one could spend on stroking the ego of a king.

  Hablet left the prince at the railing waving to the insufficient crowd and stepped back to speak to Naveen. “I’d like you to take care of these loose threads while I’m in Medalon.”

  “Sire, you need to be more specific.”

  Naveen could feel Princess Sophany’s eyes boring into him from behind. She had been Hablet’s constant companion since he’d revealed the truth about her daughter to the king, something that unsettled her immensely. Hablet had given her no reason for his sudden preference for her company, but she knew something was amiss. Every day she waited for the hammer to fall, and every day it didn’t worried her more. Hablet was enjoying the game. He was playing with her, and the more tense and unsettled she became because of his apparently loving attention, the more Hablet thrived on it.