The Lyre Thief

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Will it just be the king’s family?” Mica asked. “No Harshini advisors who also want to hear my songs?”

  The officer shook his head. “His highness doesn’t like traveling on water with the Harshini on board. Says they stir up the gods and make the trip too rough. Why?”

  “I was hoping for a truly musically educated audience.”

  The man scowled at Mica. “Whatever . . . just be there.”

  “We’ll be there,” Mica promised.

  The officer seemed satisfied Mica would do as he’d ordered, so he and his escort turned to head back through the markets to whatever other king’s business they were on. Mica waited until they were out of earshot before he turned to Rakaia. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head, feeling almost faint. She was clinging to the rough wooden support of the furrier’s stall to maintain her balance. “Why . . . why did you agree to perform for Hablet?”

  “Because he wasn’t asking.”

  “I can’t go on that ship, Mica.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No, you don’t understand . . .”

  He took her by the hand, and stepped closer to her, his eyes boring into hers. The market around them faded to a dull noise in the background as she was caught in his hypnotic gaze. “It’s you who don’t understand, Aja. There are no Harshini on board, so I can keep you safe. You just need to tell me the truth.”

  “I have told you the truth.”

  “Then you need to tell me the king’s truth.”

  Although she was trying, she couldn’t seem to break the hold he had on her gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I can sing away the danger to you, Aja, but I need to know exactly what that danger is. If you lie to me, if you leave out one tiny but important detail, it won’t work.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking, Mica.”

  “Is it worse than boarding that ship this evening and having the truth you don’t want me to know come out anyway?”

  She shook her head. “Can you really protect me, Mica?’

  “Nobody in the mortal realm can protect you better,” he promised.

  “Hey! If you ain’t buying, you ain’t lingerin’,” the furrier snapped at them. “Move on. You’re blockin’ the payin’ clientele.”

  His words seemed to break the spell. Mica stepped back and took Rakaia by the hand. They walked back to the tavern in silence, Rakaia not sure what frightened her most—the prospect of confronting Hablet or telling Mica who she really was, and why putting herself in front of the Fardohnyan king might well end her life.

  Chapter

  38

  THE HARDEST THING Charisee ever did in her life was come down to breakfast the following morning after throwing herself at Kiam and being so comprehensively rejected.

  She debated asking to have her breakfast served in her room, but that was just being cowardly.

  She had to face him sometime.

  Today was as good a time as any.

  Once she’d finished sobbing like a heartbroken child, Charisee had lain awake until the small hours of the night, reassessing her situation. She felt as if up until now she had just been playing a silly game with Rakaia, which would end at any moment with Princess Sophany marching into the playroom to tell them off, insisting they put an end to this nonsense, and apologize to their father, the king, for confusing him with their little charade.

  But Sophany was nowhere in sight. Rakaia was long gone.

  This wasn’t a game. Even the God of Liars had tried to tell her that.

  At some point in the night, when she had cried all the tears of humiliation and grief she had in her, Charisee wiped her eyes, sat up, forced herself to take a deep breath, and decided to take stock of her situation.

  Only then did it occur to her how foolish she was. She was trying to be Rakaia, and that lie was something she simply couldn’t sustain.

  Jakerlon had tried to explain that, too.

  The best lies of all are the stone-cold truth.

  She could be a princess. She was Hablet’s daughter. But she had to be Charisee, not Rakaia. If that meant people thought her odd, then so be it. If they thought her unnaturally considerate of her slaves and servants, then that would just be her way. People would ascribe her odd behavior to many things, she was beginning to understand, but that she might be a slave and the real princess had run away to join a traveling minstrel show was unlikely to be one of them.

  Charisee wondered what Rakaia was doing. She hoped her sister was happy and well, but her consideration of her sister’s plight was fading with the increasing complexity of her own. Rakaia had put her on this path and she had no choice now but to follow it wherever it might lead.

  Kiam’s rejection—once she pushed past the humiliation and embarrassment she felt whenever she recalled the look on his face as he’d kicked her out of his room—gave her another idea. He had shown her the way to deal with her husband on her wedding night.

  The best lies of all are the stone-cold truth.

  She would not try to fake experience. She would do exactly what Kiam accused her of doing. She would tell Frederak Branador she liked to play games and the game was that she was an innocent and it was up to him to teach her what to do.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, Charisee headed down to the dining room, almost looking forward to facing Kiam. He knew nothing of her inner turmoil and need never know. In fact, it was important she didn’t give him any hint of how much his rejection had hurt her.

  Kiam Miar could live the rest of his life thinking Rakaia the princess liked to play games. There was no reason for him to ever know that Charisee the slave was hopelessly in love with him.

  Charisee the slave did not exist in Kiam’s world and never would. She was as dead as Rakaia was supposed to be. And so were any silly flights of fancy she might be entertaining about the handsome assassin sent to escort Rakaia the princess to her wedding.

  Broos bounded over to greet her when she arrived in the dining room. Lady Saneyah was already there, and so was her husband. Despite Broos’s presence, there was no sign of Kiam.

  Charisee was both relieved and disappointed.

  “Good morning, your highness.”

  “Good morning, my lord, my lady. Is Master Miar not about?” she asked as she bent down to pat Broos.

  “He was,” Cam Rahan said, “but a courier arrived for him from the capital just now. I’m sure he won’t be long.”

  “How does one even guess how long assassin business takes?” Saneyah asked, making no attempt to hide her feelings about being forced to entertain one. “Do you think they’re planning to murder someone in this house?”

  “Please excuse my wife, your highness. Several members of her family have been eliminated—”

  “He means murdered. Don’t beat about the bush, Cam. Name it for what it is.”

  “. . . murdered . . . by the guild.”

  “I understand. But I was just wondering if you’d like me to return Broos to Master Miar’s room,” she offered. “He can be a bit much when there’s a breakfast table full of food on offer.”

  “Glad I’m not the only one who thinks that monster should be in the stables,” Saneyah muttered, but Lord Rahan shook his head.

  “I’m sure he’ll be back soon, your highness. Please, won’t you join us?”

  Charisee took the proffered chair and waited patiently as the slaves in attendance hurried to seat her, feed her, and ply her with freshly squeezed fruit juices. Broos padded happily along beside her and flopped at her feet to wait for her to pass him a tidbit. She selected the spiced pigeon eggs and the soft, still warm bread, with a silver goblet of apple juice. She had barely taken a bite before Kiam came back into the dining room. Broos abandoned her immediately for his master.

  “Good morning, your highness. I trust you slept well?”

  “Like a baby,” she assured him, forcing an air of nonchalance she really wasn’t feeling. “You?”


  “Very well, and I have news I’m sure you’ve been waiting for.”

  “News?”

  “I have orders to resume our journey, your highness.”

  “Has Damin recovered from his wounds?” Cam asked.

  “The courier didn’t say, my lord. Just that the High Princess Adrina awaits her sister’s arrival, and that we are to make our way to Greenharbour as quickly as possible.”

  Before Charisee had a chance to react to the news, Lady Saneyah tossed her napkin on the table and rose to her feet. “I will have the cooks prepare food for your journey,” she announced. “We should be able to get you away before lunch.”

  Charisee noticed Cam Rahan biting back a sigh at his wife’s unseemly haste to be rid of her houseguests.

  Kiam bowed graciously. “Your generosity is most appreciated, my lady.”

  The lady of the house didn’t bother to reply, already on her way to ensure her household staff did whatever it took to rid herself of the assassin she had been forced to host these past few weeks.

  Kiam turned to Charisee, addressing her as formally as he had done the first time they met. “Your highness, is an early departure acceptable to you? We should be able to make it to Remon Falls by sundown. There is an inn there you might find adequate. We should be in Greenharbour in a few days after that.”

  “I am in your hands, Master Miar,” she said without looking up at him.

  There was a moment of silence, one of which only she and Kiam were aware, and then she saw him bow out of the corner of her eye. “Your wish is my command, your highness.”

  Charisee’s heart skipped a beat and then he was gone, Broos by his side, leaving Charisee to her breakfast and the sickening realization that a few days from now, after he handed her safely over to the High Princess for her wedding to Frederak Branador, she might never see Kiam again.

  Chapter

  39

  RAKAIA LEANED BACK in the rickety chair of the inn’s bathhouse and closed her eyes. Mica stood behind her, a basin and several buckets of water at his feet, massaging the dye into her scalp. It was foul smelling and disgusting, and Rakaia doubted it would work, but she had seen Mica perform miracles before. If he thought changing her hair color would help protect her tonight on Hablet’s ship, even for a few moments while Mica worked his unique brand of magic, she was willing to give it a try.

  “My real name is Rakaia,” she said, as Mica’s strong fingers lathered the foul concoction into her hair.

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “Is it? I never really thought about it.”

  “And the rest?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You promised the truth, Aja whose real name is Rakaia. What else goes along with that pretty name? A title?”

  “Sort of.”

  “As I suspected. What are you? A duchess? A baroness?”

  “A princess.”

  “Even better,” he said, not sounding the least bit surprised. “So King Hablet of Fardohnya is your father? That makes Adrina of Fardohnya your sister.”

  “Yes . . . no . . .”

  “Which one is it?”

  “My true father, apparently, was a captain of the guard.”

  “Aha . . . the plot thickens! Does King Hablet know about your true father?”

  “Maybe . . . probably, by now.”

  “And that’s why you ran away?”

  She nodded, but his fingers didn’t stop working the lather into her scalp. “My mother found out her lover had run afoul of my little brother, Alaric. She was certain he would break under torture and reveal my secret in lieu of anything else he had to confess.”

  “And did he?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Mama was so worried about what Hablet might do when he found out, she arranged for me to marry a Hythrun border lord and leave Talabar before it was too late.”

  “So, now it really gets interesting. There’s a Hythrun border lord out there somewhere, on the warpath because he’s lost his wife.”

  Rakaia shook her head. “I changed identities with my base-born half-sister. We look alike enough to pass casual inspection and she has blue eyes, too. I ran away and left her at Winternest pretending to be me.”

  “Can you be sure she hasn’t betrayed you?”

  “Why would she? I gave her the chance to be a princess instead of a slave.”

  “Does she know why?”

  “No.”

  “Well, as the taverns aren’t full of gossip about a slave being arrested in Hythria for posing as a princess, and nobody seems to be looking for you, I’d say we can take comfort in the idea that your ruse has been successful. What do you think her reaction will be when she learns the truth?”

  “What do mean?”

  “Well, I assume you ran away because when Hablet learns the truth about you, he’ll kill you. So now your base-born sister . . . what’s her name?”

  “Charisee.”

  “So now Charisee is no doubt going to suffer the fate destined for you—assuming she hasn’t already.”

  Rakaia had been trying very hard to convince herself that would never happen. It seemed unlikely when she heard it stated in such a matter-of-fact way.

  “She won’t die,” Rakaia insisted, to convince herself as much as Mica. “All she has to do is tell Adrina the truth. The High Princess will protect her. She has to.”

  At the mention on Adrina’s name, Mica hands fell still. “You mean the High Princess Adrina?”

  “Of course,” Rakaia said. “Who else would I mean?”

  “Do you know her well?”

  “Hardly at all, actually. I remember her being in the harem, but I was barely ten when she left Talabar to marry Prince Cratyn in Karien.”

  Mica was still for a moment longer and then he stepped back. “That should do it. Close your eyes.” She heard him pick up the bucket behind her. “This might be a bit chilly.”

  Chilly was an understatement. The water was icy. Rakaia yelped as he upended a freezing bucket of water over her head, drenching her almost completely.

  Behind her, Mica laughed. “And again!”

  He dumped another bucket over her before she had a chance to catch her breath. He seemed to think it was hilarious.

  Water dripping from her hair and face, her shirt translucent from the water, she jumped off the stool, sending it clattering across the chipped tiles of the bathhouse. Rakaia was sodden and chilled to the core. Mica was holding his sides, he was laughing so hard. Furious, she grabbed the rope handle of the other bucket, swept it up and tossed the entire contents at Mica.

  It caught him full in the face. His shock was so genuine, she burst out laughing.

  Laughing almost as hard as Mica, they both spied the last remaining bucket of water at the same time. Rakaia pushed her long, dripping hair out of her eyes and lunged for it as Mica did the same. They collided heavily on the slippery tiles and fell, one of top of the other.

  Somehow, Rakaia managed to land on top. Miraculously, the last full bucket remained standing. Sitting astride Mica she pushed herself up, reached out to drag the full bucket over and then lifted it high, poised to dumped on it his head.

  “No! Wait!” Mica cried, tears of laughter mingling with the water on his cheeks.

  Rakaia hesitated, bucket held high. “Do you yield?”

  “I yield!”

  She glared at him for a moment, to gauge his sincerity, but Mica wasn’t looking at her face, or even the threatening bucket. His eyes were transfixed by the sight of her breasts and her cold hard nipples poking through the sodden fabric of her all-but-translucent shirt.

  Rakaia lowered the bucket, her smile changing from one of mirth to one of genuine curiosity.

  “Mica, have you ever been with a woman?” She’d held him against her breast to calm his nightmares every night for the better part of two weeks and he had never laid a hand on her. Either he didn’t like women at all, or didn’t know what to do. She’d lain close enough to him at n
ight to know he wasn’t a eunuch and everything seemed to be functioning quite normally when he was asleep, even if he didn’t realize it.

  Mica’s face turned bright red at the question. “Of course.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I . . . I don’t remember.”

  “Was she a whore?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Everyone remembers their first time, Mica.”

  He looked away, unable to meet her eye, and tried to sit up. “We should be getting ready for the performance tonight.”

  “Would like to touch them?” she asked gently, pushing him back down.

  “What?”

  “My breasts. You can’t take your eyes off them. Do you want to touch them? Or do you prefer boys? I don’t mind if you do, I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  Mica tore his gaze from her chest and looked at her face, as if trying to tell if she was teasing him or making a genuine offer. “Why would you let me do that?”

  She shrugged. “Because I like you. Because I see the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice. Because without you I would be lost in a foreign country with no money and no way of ever finding my way home. And be—”

  He looked away, as if her words pained him. “You don’t have to let me molest your body just to be sure I won’t abandon you, Rakaia.”

  She smiled, unaccountably pleased he had called her by her real name. “You didn’t let me finish, Mica. The last reason, and the most important one, is because I want you to.”

  “You’re a princess.”

  “Ex-princess,” she corrected.

  “But you’re court’esa trained.”

  Rakaia smiled, reached down, picked up his hand and brought it to her breast. “Then aren’t you the lucky one.”

  Mica was hesitant at first, almost as if he thought she was trying to trap him, but when he tentatively squeezed her breast and she let out a small moan of pleasure, he grew more bold. With his lips slightly parted, his breathing shallow, he brought his other hand up to caress her breasts through her wet shirt, wide-eyed with wonder.