A half-dozen heads shook a negative.
Ciris looked up from the silk packet
containing her collection of plectrae.
“What’s the problem?”
“Melicuso’s had himself a little
fit,” the younger woman replied. She was
red-faced and sweating; the combination of heat and stress were taking their
toll both on her composure and on her stage makeup, which was starting to
glisten and look streaky. Her ear-tips
were bright pink. “He broke his reed.”
Ciris sighed heavily. Putting the silk pouch aside, she rummaged
through her instrument case. “The big
pipe, or the small one?”
“Small.”
“What happened? He drop the thing again?”
“No, he…he’s a little nervous. He bit through it,” Oscinis replied, wringing
her hands as her mistress barked a laugh.
“Any luck?”
In a moment, Ciris had produced the
required item – two pieces of bamboo, bound back to back with silver wire and
shaved to a hair’s thickness at the upper, splayed end. “I’ve used it once before,” she warned. “If
he doesn’t mind a little spittle, it’ll serve him fine. And in any case…”
“…beggars can’t be choosers,” the
younger woman cried with a sigh of relief.
“How much?”
“It’s used,” her mentor
shrugged. “He can stand me a beaker or
three after the show.”
“My thanks!” Oscinis seized the older woman’s hands and
kissed them, plucking the reed from her fingers with finesse worthy of a
pickpocket. “Myran bless you!”
Ciris snorted. “Myran can kiss my nether eye.” She waggled a finger at her protégé. “You need to calm down. You and your mate both. Him especially, if he’s taken to gnawing on
his shalm. Remember, this is just
another gestio.”
“Easy for you to say,” the girl
harrumphed. “You’ve played the
Starhall. The closest we’ve ever come is
third-stage at Convallis.”
“I was a lot younger when I sang for
Callaýian,” Ciris reminded her apprentice.
“That was four centuries ago, and more.”
She tapped her throat, smiling wryly.
“My pipes are in no better condition than your mate’s these days.”
“They were good enough to win the fronda,” Oscinis reminded her mistress.
Ciris put a hand to the circlet of silvered laurel
leaves that was woven into her elaborate coiffure. Callaýian, the king, had himself placed it on
her head, standing at the foot of the Filigree Throne under the eyes of the
whole of the court. For a year and a
day, she’d been the toast of Starmeadow.
Every door had been open to her; the rafters of every great hall had
shivered to the splendour of her voice, and the gifts had showered down like
sweet summer’s rain. The King had asked
her back to the Palace more than a score of times - although (she reminded
herself with a grin) on each of those ‘encores’, as he’d called them, she’d had
to come cloaked, and had been ushered through the servants’ entrance by a
grim-faced, tight-lipped praetoriana.
Remembrance of those nights called up a shiver of
delight. By the lord Hara, what a man he’d been!
She stroked the delicate coronet unconsciously. The silver – quite unlike her recollections
of the late King – was badly tarnished; but tradition forbade polishing
it. “That was an age of the world ago,
child,” she said complacently. “There’s
a reason I sing counterpoint instead of solo these days, and wring tunes out of
the cythara, instead of taking centre stage alone.”
She closed her satchel and retrieved her packet of
plectrae. Without further fumbling, she
selected one made of oiled hornbeam – large and stiff, yet smooth to the touch,
and yielding nicely to knowledgeable fingers and the right kind of
pressure. Just the way I like’em, she thought with a half-grin.
Just like Callaýian had been.
Oscinis was still silent. With difficulty, Ciris clawed her way out of
the quicksand of memory. “What is it?”
“You didn’t have to sing for
Alycidio, either,” the girl grumped moodily.
“Hara
Sophus!” Ciris laughed. “Is that it?
The Master Harper frightens you, does he?”
“He frightens everybody!” the girl
exclaimed.
“Only those who don’t know him,
child.”
Oscinis’ flushed, florid face took
on a tragic aspect. “But he yells at
me!”
“He yells at us all,” Ciris
shrugged. “Don’t take it to heart. It’s his way, especially before a
performance.
“You just wait,” she chuckled, reaching for her
instrument. “Once the show’s over, and
the Duke’s offered him the Cantor’s Cup, and the crowd has settled, he’ll be as
gentle and biddable as a lamb. Applause
and a good belt of brandy are his weaknesses.
Like water to a man dying in the desert.” Tweaking the strings gently with a thumb, she
fiddled with the tuning knobs, getting the pitch exactly right.
“That’s no help now,” the girl
muttered. “He’s out there on the
parapet, warming up. Can’t you hear the
obligattoes? In a minute he’ll be in
here, shrieking at us like a madman.”
“And by moons-height,” Ciris said
soothingly, “it’ll all be over, and Alcyidio will be fuddled with wine and
basking in the glorious adulation of the crowd.
And I’ll be doing my best to empty the Duke’s cellar, and counting the
bucket-load of aureae that’ll be
flung our way.
“And you” – she winked – “you’ll be trying to decide
how high to raise the bidding when every son of the Twelve in town tries to buy
his way into the new songbird’s sheets.”
Oscinis, her eyes wide with shock, put a hand over her
mouth.
Ciris laughed at the girl’s obvious discomfiture. Her talented fingers danced a subtle glissade
along the strings. “Best part of these
court shows, if you ask me,” she added with a wicked grin. “If you sing like I know you can, and manage
your time right ‘twixt midnight and dawn, you could add a few choice items to
your jewellery chest tonight.”
The girl’s cheeks turned bright
red. “But…that’s…”
“Stop gibbering, sweetling. I’ve taught you better than that.” She waggled a finger. “And so help me, if you quote Dîor’s dusty
Codex at me, I’ll put you over my knee.”
“But this is Dapis
Adfarum! The feast of farewell!” the
girl protested in a shocked whisper.
“For one of the Twelve!”
“Two of the Twelve, you mean, and
two more of the upper crust besides,” the older woman corrected. “So?
There’s no better place to find a lonely nobleman to console.”
Her eyes narrowed, calculating. “Maybe you should try for the Duke himself.
He’s said to stand at the very pinnacle of honour, but I wouldn’t let that stay
me. Those who put themselves too high
above the herd are often the first to fall.
And he hasn’t taken a mate since the missus went missing, threescore years
since.” She winked. “This’ll be a rough day for him. Wife and daughter and best friend and
chaplain all called to wind, and then a big fight at the Lucum. Pretty young thing
like you could be just what he needs to take his mind off the day’s trials.”
The girl’s mouth flapped open, but
nothing coherent came out.
Ciris looked up from her cythara and
raised an eyebrow. “What is it now?”
“What about Melicuso?” the girl
whispered.
The older woman shrugged and struck
a jangling, dissonant chord on her instrument.
“What about him?” she asked, eyes wide.
“You’re lovemates, not lifemates.
If he’s any sort of skald, he’ll be bal…er, he’ll be ‘entertaining’ some
equally lonely lady within half a stick of the last note being sung. One with clean, cold sheets, and a heavy
purse.
“Don’t worry,” Ciris added in response to her apprentice’s
stricken look. “He’ll be back in the
morning. They always are.”
She pursed her lips suddenly. “Actually,” she added in a thoughtful tone,
“on second thought, you’d best leave poor Kaltas alone. Rumour ‘round the kitchens has it that his custodia, the Princess Myaszæron, has
got her drawers all damp for the dear Duke.
She’s a humourless old cow, to be sure, but a terror with blade and
bow. And even if she weren’t, you wouldn’t
want to make an enemy of that house.”
“That didn’t stop you when…when you…”
Ciris raised an eyebrow. Had the tale of her long dalliance with
Callaýian gotten that far ‘round? “No,”
she acknowledged slowly, “it didn’t. But
his – and we’ll use no names here, my dove – his mate had already passed into
the Long Halls, and there were no contenders for his heart in the picture. Certainly none like Myaszæron, who’d spent
their lives wading hip-deep in the blood of their enemies. And besides, it was worth it.” She grinned wickedly. “Someday you’ll find out just how much you’re
prepared to risk for a real man.”
Ciris hadn’t thought that her apprentice could flush
more deeply. The girl looked as if she
had developed a sudden sunburn.
“And there’s the Codex, too,” the older woman added,
picking up a soft cloth and applying it to her instrument, buffing the wood to
bring out its natural beauty. “Much as I
think it’s a lot of rot, folk tend to cling to Dîor’s law out here in the
hinterland. The rules are different in
the capital. A lot different, where
Dîor’s line is concerned!
“No,” she concluded with a nod, “best set your eye on
someone a little lower down the ladder.
The potential rewards are less, but then so’s the risk.”
By the end of this lengthy disquisition, Oscinis’ face
was glowing scarlet. There was, however,
something coldly speculative in her gaze.
The older woman raised an eyebrow. “If you’ve aught on your mind,” she said
coolly, “then let’s have it out.”
Oscinis hesitated a moment, then blurted, “Is this how
you won the fronda?”
Ciris’ smile vanished.
“I won it through my song,” she said calmly. “But I won all the rest of this” – she gestured at the costumes, the array of
instruments, and the dozens of musicians and servants crowding the private
dining room that they had been allotted to prepare for the Dapis by the Duke’s seneschal – “through judicious use of my other
skills. All of them. And,” she added
with an equally penetrating glare, “I had a damned
good time doing it.”
The younger woman grimaced. “It’s…that’s…”
“What?
Reprehensible? Singing will only
make you famous, girl,” Ciris shrugged.
“It takes all of your talents to make you wealthy.”
Oscinis glanced involuntarily at the door that led out
to the Great Hall. “And is that how
Alycidio did it?”
Ciris snorted.
“No,” she admitted. “But I never
had that sort of talent. Nor his
ridiculous flair. Nobody does. He’s a prodigy, that one. One of Myran’s pets. Like Divine Andhra reborn.
“And in any case, he’s never cared about wealth.” She shook her head in amazement. “All he’s ever desired is fame.”
The girl looked back at her mistress. “ ‘All’?
Nothing else?”
“Nothing,” Ciris confirmed with a meaningful
look. Her fingers plucked out a
melancholy air on the cythara.
“What a shame,” Oscinis said thoughtfully. The Master Harper was, after all, a
remarkably attractive specimen of high elven manhood.
The older woman saw the girl’s expression, and
laughed. “Don’t waste your time,
missy! I made that trial long ago. And failed it,” she added without rancour.
“Well,” the girl said, shrugging, “if I can’t seduce
Alycidio, and I daren’t get him drunk before we play, then how am I supposed to
put up with the crotchety old bastard?”
Ciris smiled.
“Listen.” With her plectrum, she
struck out a complex phrase, tapping the toe of her slipper in time to the
rhythm. When she had reached the timbre
and beat she desired, she sang a short series of phrases in an unfamiliar
tongue. The words seemed to intertwine
with the music, floating away into the air like smoke from a guttering lamp.
Bemused, Oscinis listened closely, trying to remember
the tune – haunting, syncopated and irregular – and the lyrics. She couldn’t quite make them out. But she seemed to hear sounds of battle in
her mentor’s music – eager stallions pawing at the earth, banners snapping in
the breeze, and the ring of steel.
Ciris finished the short piece and put her plectrum
away. When she noticed that the girl was
still staring blankly into space, she snapped her fingers.
Oscinis came back to herself with a start. She thought she might have missed a
question. “Yes?” she asked, a little
flustered.
“I said, ‘Do you feel better’?”
The girl blinked.
“You know, I do!” she said, surprised.
She did. It was as if a weight
had been lifted from her. Her lifebeat
no longer throbbed in her ears, and her knees felt a good deal sturdier than
they had, moments before.
She turned a querulous glance on her mistress. “What did you do? What song was that?”
“Cantormagicum,”
Ciris replied. “A spell. It’s called Poistaa Pelko, in the wyrms’ speech. That’s how I sang it. In our tongue, it’s Abrogo metum.” She
shrugged. “Works in any language.”
“ ‘Abstraction of trepidation’?”
“Just so.” The
older woman’s eyes narrowed. “ ‘Remove
fear’, for short. Do you remember any of
the phrases?”
Oscinis blinked, trying to recall what her mentor had
sung. She could almost reach the
distant, mesmerizing stanzas, but at the last instant, they seemed to slither
out of her memory. “I’m sorry,
mistress,” she said at last, chagrined.
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a word.
What…what does that mean?”
Ciris sighed.
“It means, child,” she said softly, “that you’re not ready for that
aspect of our profession. Not yet.
“But,” she added in a crisp, assured tone, “you’re
ready for tonight. Aren’t you?”
Oscinis nodded, grinning. “Yes, I am.
Now.”
“Good.” She
pointed at the reed clenched tight in her apprentice’s hand. “Go give that to your mate, with my
compliments, and then come back for a few scales. You’re going to earn your own fronda tonight, my dear. And you’ll do it on your feet, too, with
honour,” she added with some asperity.
“Not on your back.”
The younger woman nodded again, serious once more.
“That comes later,” Ciris winked.
Her face flaming, Oscinis fled.
♦♦♦
“You’re not wearing that, are you?”
Bertanya, startled by the unexpected
words, shook herself out of her contemplative reverie, blinking furiously. The fact that she was stiff told her that she
had been squatting on the rock for several hours, and the purpling sky overhead
confirmed it. The Lantern had dipped
below the eastern horizon. From her
vantage, she could see over the rooftops of Locupletis,
the nobles’ suburb just across the gorge from the Palace, to the surface of the
sea beyond. The water was as smooth and
reflective as polished steel. Not so to
the north; dark clouds still hovered there, moving gradually southwards. Another storm seemed likely.
The cat-woman had found a
comfortable, quiet spot for her evening devotions. It was not one that most would have chosen,
nor was it one where she had thought it likely that she would be
disturbed. The ducal palace was perched
on the heights of the west fork of the Gula,
the deep channel that led from the port to the sea. Behind the curtain wall, a narrow path,
hardly wide enough for goats, meandered along the cliff. If one didn’t mind dangling over empty
nothingness while skirting the buttresses and the bases of the towers, it was
relatively simple – given sufficient sure-footedness – to make one’s way out
along the cliff. The view was
spectacular, and except for the periodic clash of arms on the parapets above as
the guards changed post or moved about, it was relatively silent. Except, of course, for the odd bird-call, and
the calming whistle of the wind.
Bertanya had found a small wedge of granite that
projected out from the cliff a few paces, and had been squatting contentedly on
it, contemplating the sunset, and seeking the peace and wisdom that Istravenya
sent through the Lantern’s divine fire. It was a long way down to the water –
seven, maybe eight-score paces. She
didn’t mind. Her only company had been a
nest of eagles a few paces further along.
Until now.
She knew the voice, of course. Without turning or otherwise disturbing her
precarious perch, she replied, “Clothes don’t make the cat, highness. What’s wrong with my attire?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s hardly
appropriate for…for…look,” the newcomer pleaded, “could you please come back
here? By the wall?”
“Why don’t you join me out here,
warrior?” Bertanya grinned.
“Because I’m not exactly dressed for
cra…ahh, damn it!”
Bertanya turned to look at the speaker. Myaszæron had her back to the curtain wall of
the palace, and was looking both exceedingly out of place, and exceedingly
nervous. The former was due to the fact
that she was dressed for the evening’s feast of remembrance, in splendour
appropriate to one of her station, in a long, flaring gown of emerald silk
picked out with gold lace. The bodice –
indeed, the entire upper half of the gown – appeared to be woven out of
gilt-edged emerald flowers. Her hair,
uncharacteristically, was down, confined only by a slender coronet of gold and
green stones, enriched rather than concealed by a knee-length veil of fine gilt
gauze. In the fading light, her
waist-length tresses looked to be almost the same deep, rich green as her gown.
Her arms and shoulders were bare, and Bertanya
couldn’t help but notice the subtle musculature of a trained fighter – nor the
intaglio of fine scars that even the most careful application of concealing
cosmetics would never be able to hide.
The elf-woman’s nervousness was due to the fact that
she was balancing on a ledge about half a pace in width, with her back to the
palace wall, her arms spread along it, and her fingers clutching for purchase
in the joints between the stones. The
position wasn’t doing her gown, her hairdo or her manicure any good.
“Fancy dress for a stroll along a precipice,
princess,” the priestess chortled. “I
hope you’re not wearing heels under those hoops.”
“No, praise the...the White Fire,” Myaszæron replied,
stumbling slightly and catching herself.
Bracing her back against the stone, she tugged on a corner of her gown
and stuck out a toe. She was wearing
light slippers of green silk, with thin leather soles. “Socci. There’s liable to be dancing tonight, and I
didn’t want to risk turning an ankle.
I’m a little out of practice.”
“Good for the salta , but not so good for climbing the parapets, eh?”
Bertanya asked.
“No,” the princess confirmed. Her cheek twitched nervously. “Will you please
come off there? I don’t like heights,
and I want…I mean, I need to speak with you.”
The cat-woman nodded.
“Certainly, highness.” Unfolding
herself from her precarious seat with characteristically unconscious grace,
Bertanya rose to her feet and leapt lightly back to the wall-side path. The princess looked as though she were biting
back a squeak.
Bertanya eyed the noblewoman with tolerant
sympathy. She didn’t understand
height-fear. None of her folk suffered
from it; indeed, it seemed to be an affliction peculiar to the Kindred.
In her normal humour, she would probably have gently
mocked the princess, the vast difference in their social ranks
notwithstanding. Another advantage of
being a daughter of the Prides was that, standing as she did outside of the
rigid pecking order of elven society, she had no ego to sate, no aspirations or
jealousies to feed, and – thanks to the Codex – no status to gain or lose. Among her people, there was no such thing as
rank; simple courtesy was enforced by fang and claw. Leadership of the Pride was by acclamation,
not inheritance. And respect was owed
only to those who achieved great victories, great fame, great skill, or great
age.
Or, she reminded herself with a wince, to females who regularly threw large litters
of strong and healthy kits. That
route to glory wasn’t open to her yet.
Nor was it like to be, so long as the White Fire’s service kept her away
from the Prides, and hundreds of leagues from any eligible mates. She grimaced to herself. That was going to be a problem, when early
summer came and she found herself incalesco
once again.
For some reason, though, tonight she stayed her
jibes. It wasn’t just the fact that the
princess was a serious sort, who had a tendency to take japes to heart; there
was something else in her demeanour.
Bertanya wondered whether her recent communion with the Lady had
heightened her perspicacity and made her more receptive to the feelings of her
fellows. Or whether she was just
imagining things.
Back at the wall, she took Myaszæron’s hand, steadying
her. “Nervous?”
“I don’t like heights,” the princess repeated.
The cat-woman nodded.
“Hold still a moment.” Feeling
the Lady’s power swelling within her, she ran a claw lightly down the woman’s
arm. “Hutanibu mendengar,” she whispered, “berikan sentuhan wanita ini laba-laba memanjat.”
The princess shuddered for a moment. Then she grinned. “That wasn’t necessary,” she said. “I prepared the kynaleta this morning. If
I’d fallen, I would’ve just cast that, and wafted away like a leaf on the
wind.”
“Well, now you won’t have to worry about falling at
all,” Bertanya replied placidly. She
felt powerful, confident, as if she could crush stones between her paws. Wielding the Lady’s power always affected her
physically, leaving a hot, heavy glow deep within her jiwa.
“You wasted a spell, is what I meant,” Myaszæron
said. She laid a hand against the stone
wall and pulled, bemused when her skin seemed to freeze to the stone, coming
away only when she willed it.
“There can be no waste when the Lady’s power is spent
in her service,” the cat-woman replied.
“If I’ve eased your mind one jot, then I rejoice.” She cocked her head. “Pardon me, highness, but you said you wanted
to speak to me.”
“I do,” Myaszæron replied, her nervousness flooding
back. Bertanya was certain that it had
nothing to do with heights. “I do. But not…not as ‘highness’,” she said. “Is there some place that we could talk? Some place private?”
Bertanya glanced around, then turned her gaze back to
the princess, eyebrows raised. “More
private than this?”
Myaszæron sighed.
“A little more comfortable, perhaps?
Where we wouldn’t have to cling to the cliff-side like a pair of
mountain goats”
The cat-woman laughed and nodded. “Follow me.”
Instead of returning northwards along the goat-path,
she led the princess to the south, towards the sea. The trail rose and dipped precipitously,
following the contours of the palace wall.
Myaszæron, reassured by the effects of Bertanya’s spell, grew
increasingly confident, running one hand along the close-laid stones and
watching her footing carefully, but otherwise keeping up with the priestess.
They skirted two more towers and a dozen heavy
buttresses before the cat-woman halted.
The light was failing fast now, although they both had the eyes to see
the path easily by the light of the stars above and the city below. When they reached a spot where a small patch
of grass grew out from the wall, Bertanya halted. “Have you ever been here?”
“No.”
“I found it the last time we met, just before
Jule. I was looking for a place where I
could touch kesatuan without being
interrupted. Notice anything?” she
asked, nodding at the wall.
Myaszæron looked at the stone. The path had dropped quite a distance,
dipping down between two towers. The
parapet was a good twenty paces over their heads, and one of the towers – the
southernmost one – was graced with an elaborate trio of jutting outworks. “That’s Rykki’s – I mean the Duchess’
boudoir, isn’t it?”
Bertanya nodded.
“And the wall?”
“What about it?”
The cat-woman rapped the stone with her knuckles. It gave off a hollow thud that sounded
entirely unlike rock.
Myaszæron gaped.
“Wood?”
“Sally port,” the cat-woman replied. “Don’t get your hopes up. It doesn’t open from the outside.”
“With your spell, I could just climb over the wall,”
the princess replied. She put her hands
against the rock and pulled herself off her feet by main force. Her dress scraped over the rough stone, and
she winced. Then she thought about the
long drop to the water, and shudderingly lowered herself to her feet. “Well, maybe
I could,” she amended.
“You can try that later, if you like,” Bertanya said. She pointed away from the wall, towards the
cliff. “We’re going this way. Watch yourself.”
And so saying, she strode to the edge, stepped off,
and dropped like a stone.
This time, Myaszæron really did shriek. She ran to the cliff, slowing as she approached
the precipice, and glanced over it.
Bertanya smiled up at her. The priestess was standing on a narrow stone
ledge two paces below the lip. From her
new vantage, Myaszæron could see a long, narrow staircase snaking down the
cliff-side. “Escape route,” the
cat-woman explained. “Come on.”
The princess sighed.
She thought about sitting down and squirming over the edge, but
realizing the damage it would do to her garb, she discarded the notion. It took all of her considerable courage to
step off the cliff and drop the six feet to the stone ledge. She landed lightly, bending at the knees to
absorb the impact.
Bertanya nodded approvingly and led the way down the
stairs.
It was easy in the starlight. After perhaps a hundred steps and a dozen or
so twists, turns, and switchbacks along the cliff face, the stone staircase
debouched – to Myaszæron’s astonishment – onto a garden.
The overhanging cliff had been hollowed back, and the
ledge before them broadened, leaving a platform that was perhaps five paces
wide and fifteen long. The path led
between a forest of vines, flowers of all types and colours, and even a number
of small trees clinging valiantly to the vertical stone wall. At the other end of the ledge, the stairs
continued downwards, descending towards the waters of the Gula.
“What do you think?” Bertanya asked, grinning.
“It’s beautiful!” the princess replied. She stepped closer to the wall and ran a hand
over the stone. It was impossibly
smooth. “This was shaped, not cut. Wasn’t it?”
The cat-woman nodded.
“Those, too,” she said, pointing at a pair of low benches that had
obviously been drawn by magical power from the gut-rock of the cliff.
“By whom?”
“No idea,” Bertanya shrugged. “But the Duke’s lifemate was an especially
gifted caster. Or so it’s said,” she
added, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
Myaszæron nodded.
“We were at scholae together,
as children. In Starmeadow. She was amazing.” She ran her hand over the wall, remembering
her friend.
“Also,” the priestess added thoughtfully, “Kalestayne
used to live here. So I suppose it
might’ve been him.”
“No way to know,” the princess murmured. “Not that it matters. It’s lovely.”
She gazed out over the crevasse at her feet, enjoying the play of the
starlight on the water, and the twinkling lights of the mansions just across
the gorge.
“We might know who did it, if we could figure out
where this goes,” Bertanya said ruefully, tapping the stone wall between the
‘benches’.
Myaszæron smiled.
“Another secret door?”
“Mm-hmm,” the priestess nodded. “Stone this time. No idea how to open it, though.”
She gestured at the stone seats. “These shouldn’t dirty that gown too
badly.” She brushed a few dead leaves
from the surface, then sat down on one of them.
“What did you want to talk about, my lady?”
To her surprise, Myaszæron lifted her skirt and knelt
carefully in the dirt. When she had
settled herself, she held her hands up, palm to palm, fingertips touching. “Veni
in expiare, antistitae,” she whispered.
Bertanya blinked in astonishment. It was a ritual request, and required a
ritual response. She put her hands over
the princess’ – they were trembling, and she held them tightly to still the
tremors – and replied, “For what do you have to atone, daughter of the White
Fire?”
Myaszæron took a deep breath. “I am…considering…relinquishing my vows,” she
said haltingly.
The priestess struggled to keep the shock off her
face. This was not Bertanya’s area of
expertise; when her Call had come, it had been as a warrior – a runner of the
plains, a hunter, a Champion of Istravenya.
She was accustomed to leading the Pride in war, howling the White Lady’s
fury at the top of her lungs, revelling in the blind rage of battle and the
slaughter of the foes of the woodlands.
She was not a temple priestess, accustomed to offering counsel to those
doubting their faith. Certainly not to
anyone as devoutly pure as the princess.
To her immense relief, however, her recent devotions
had granted her an unaccustomed measure of spiritual tranquility. This helped her to overcome the surprised
shock that the elf-woman’s astonishing confession had aroused. “You have no quarrel with our divine
mistress, I hope?” she asked, hesitant in her confusion.
“No!” Myaszæron cried.
“No, no! It’s not that. I simply…I can no longer…” She broke down then, sobbing heavily.
Bertanya would not have been more flabbergasted if the
princess had suddenly transformed into an ogre.
Myaszæron was widely reputed to be one of the most formidable servants
of the White Fire in all the realm.
“You’re going to spoil your makeup,” the cat-woman said inanely,
regretting the words the moment they came out of her mouth.
To her relief, the incongruity of the remark made the
princess chuckle. “That’s the problem,
isn’t it? I mean, why am I even wearing makeup? Why am I prancing about in this…this
ridiculous dress?” She grasped a handful
of the priceless material and gave it a half-hearted shake. “Decked out like a debutante at her limenis?”
The priestess knew that she had to tread
carefully. Sometimes, a penitent could
heal themselves, if they could be led towards the answer. There could be no driving this one. “Why shouldn’t
you be dressed like that?” she asked.
“Well, who am I trying to impress?” Myaszæron
laughed. Tears streaked tracks down her
cheeks. She looked around helplessly,
realized that she had no sleeves, and used a corner of her train to wipe her
eyes. “I mean, I’m sworn to the Paragon,
am I not? I’ve never known a man’s
touch, and I long ago avowed my chastity to Valatanna. Do you think she would care about all
this…all this nonsense?” Her hands
fluttered, indicating her elaborate garb, cosmetics and coiffure.
“I see your point,” Bertanya acknowledged. “I tend to primp a little myself when the calor strikes and I’m on the prowl for
likely mates. Not that I’ve had much
luck in that area,” she added with a wry grin.
“Maybe you should be wearing this, instead of me,”
Myaszæron chuckled weakly.
“Doubtful. The
gold is nice, but all that green would clash with my fur.”
She paused. The
same sense of heightened awareness still suffused her jiwa, and she could feel that the time for playful banter was
over. Time to touch the heart of the
matter. “It’s Kaltas, isn’t it?”
“It’s that obvious?” the princess asked ruefully.
“Not normally,” the priestess shrugged. “I just seem to be noticing things
tonight. So…the vows you are weighing
are those binding you to the Paragon, Valatanna?”
Myaszæron nodded miserably.
“You think to abandon Her, in hopes of espousing the
Duke?”
Another nod.
Bertanya drew a breath through her teeth. “You stand to gain a great deal,” she said
slowly. “A duchy, to be sure, although I
would imagine that that’s less important to a princess of the Blood Royal than
it might be to any other woman. You
would also gain the love of a good man.
A great man, if all I’ve heard about Kaltas is true.”
She paused again, giving the princess time to chew
over her words. Then she continued. “Have you considered what you would have to
give up?”
“I’ve thought about little else,” Myaszæron
murmured. “For one thing, the wash of
the world would not longer pass me by. I
would resume aging normally. That’s not
serious, not at my age, but it’s something.”
Bertanya raised an eyebrow. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Eighteen-score years,” the princess replied
moodily. “And one, come Heitsommer. Why?”
The priestess shrugged. “Oh, I’m just wondering why I’m counselling
you. From the lofty heights of the
wisdom I’ve gleaned over thirty-four summers.”
She smiled. “Well, if you were to
start showing your years, instead of eternally looking like a girl of seven-score
turns of the seasons, I suppose your countrywomen would stop hating you like
poison.”
“Or they’d find another reason to hate me,” Myaszæron
chuckled without smiling. “I’d lose
this, too,” she added, twirling one of her waist-length, forest-green tresses
between her fingers. “It would go back
to black. At least, I think it would.” She sighed.
“It’s not mortal, of course.
Hells, it wouldn’t even be an inconvenience. But it…it would be a mark of shame. A sign of my fall. That I no longer stood in the Paragon’s
favour.”
The priestess nodded.
“What else?”
“I would lose the power to speak with the denizens of
the woodland, and to influence their conduct.
Also, I would no longer be able to walk with the shadows.”
Bertanya’s eyes narrowed. She had no idea what ‘walk with the shadows’
meant. The Beloved were a secretive lot,
and she had never so much as heard of that power. “Could you not make up these deficits,” she
asked carefully, “through arcane means?
Or perhaps through your skill as a hunter?”
Myaszæron nodded.
“Possibly. But it would not be
the same. The loss of these gifts…it
would be…”
“… a mark of the withdrawal of the Paragon’s favour,”
Bertanya interrupted. “I
understand. Anything else?”
The princess hesitated. At last, she whispered, “I would never see
Syelission again.”
“Your divine companion,” the priestess nodded. She had seen the animal, a magnificent
unicorn stallion, in the forest a few nights earlier. Even Bertanya felt a wrench at the thought
that, if Myaszæron forsook her vows, he would disappear from her life forever.
The elf-woman nodded.
Tears began running down her face once more.
Bertanya sighed.
“Would he not understand?”
“That’s the worst part,” Myaszæron choked. “I know
he would.” She took a deep, shuddering
breath. “Our jiwas are one, Tanya. I’ve
felt the pounding of his heart when he runs.
I’ve scented what he scents, when the females of his kind have
approached him in heat. He ignored their
pleas to remain true to me! How can I fail to extend the same…loyalty…to him?”
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “And yet, I know his heart, as well as I know
my own. And he knows mine. He has felt what I feel for Kaltas. He even approves! If I betrayed him, he would forgive me at
once, even knowing that we must part forever!
That’s what makes this so hard!”
The priestess put a gentle hand on her friend’s
shoulder. She said nothing.
The elf-woman’s tears came hard and fast. “What should I do?” she wailed.
“That is for you to decide. As always, where matters of faith are
concerned,” Bertanya said soothingly, “it comes down to choice.
“That is the Holy Mother’s gift to your kind, Mya, and
her curse. She – and the Dark Ender
along with her – made every other creature, angel and demon, dragon and giant,
hawk above and serpent below, to follow their plan; but for your kind, there is no plan. That was Bræa’s gamble – the act of madness
that doomed her. The future is set for
all of us, but not for you. There is no
fate but what you make for yourselves.”
“I’ve heard all of this before,” the princess
whispered.
“Of course you have,” Bertanya laughed. “It’s my job to remind you that you know it.”
She took her friend’s hand again, pulled her off her knees, and helped
her to the rocky bench. “Nothing is set
in stone, Mya. Not yet, anyway. If you choose to follow your vows, you will
do so in strength and purpose, knowing that the choice was yours.
“And if, instead, you choose to follow your heart, and
pursue your mate…” she squeezed the elf-woman’s hand “…why, then, provided that
you do so for love’s sake, I congratulate you, and bless you. So will Syelission. And so will Valatanna. And so,” she added firmly, “will our divine
mistress.”
“You’re sure about that,” Myaszæron murmured.
“As sure as I am,” Bertanya chuckled, “that you’re
going to be late. For what, I expect,
could be the most important dinner of your life.”
Myaszæron smiled tentatively. She nodded.
Bertanya looked at the elf-woman’s eyes. “You’ve already decided!” she said
accusingly.
“Nearly,” the princess admitted.
“Excellent.
Well, let’s get you back upstairs, and get that makeup repaired.” Bertanya looked up at the walls, and at the
long trek back up the goat path.
“This’ll be quite a hike,” she added morosely.
“I’ve an easier way,” the princess said. “Let me show you this while…while I can still
do it.” She put out her hands.
Perplexed, Bertanya took them. She watched in puzzlement as Myaszæron closed
her eyes and adopted an aspect of fierce concentration.
The world seemed to waver slightly, the night taking
on a strange, grey, glimmering light.
She noticed, startled, that all of the scents of the world were
gone. The sea salt, the earth beneath
them, the life and death of the trees and plants all about them, the heavy
scent of the elf-woman’s longing, the smoke from the chimneys far below…all
vanished. She smelled nothing. Not even herself.
A moment later, Myaszæron opened her eyes. “That’s
it,” she said. Her voice sounded
oddly hollow. “Let’s go.”
“Go?”
Bertanya asked, alarmed. “Go where?”
Grinning, Myaszæron tugged the cat-woman towards the
stone wall between the benches. “Here,” she said.
And stepped into the stone.
Bertanya stared, aghast, at the hand protruding from
the solid rock face, still clutching her own.
“Wait…wait a min…” she
gabbled.
Myaszæron yanked her into the wall.
The sensation was nothing sort of extraordinary. Bertanya opened her mouth, gasping in terror
as every particle of her body seemed to slip between the individual particles
of the mountain gutrock. Before her
startled gaze, the world turned grey and glimmering. She was seeing, she realized, the inside of
the stone…and worse, the stone was inside her as well. Inside her guts, her loins, her lungs, her
mouth…
...her
eyes!...
She screwed her eyelids tightly shut, drew a deep
breath, and screamed.
“Shhh!” A finger pressed against her lips. The priestess stopped screaming and cracked
one eyelid.
Before her, coloured in all possible shades of grey
and limned by a sparkling, silver-white aura, stood Myaszæron. “People
can still hear us!” she said. Her
voice still sounded disembodied, hollow.
“Hear us? How?”
Bertanya squeaked. “We’re inside a rock!” She
glanced around frantically. “How are you doing this?!”
“It’s not
earthwalking, if that’s what you’re wondering,” the princess replied,
gripping her friend’s hand tightly. “This is intermundia. The
space between the worlds. Aetherius, as the magi call it. This is where the spirits walk.”
“That’s…how
mighty are you?” the priestess
demanded, twitching nervously. “That spell is…is so far beyond my power,
that…that…”
She paused, breathing deeply and visibly struggling to
calm herself. “Can we get out of here? Please?” she pleaded, trembling.
“Surely!”
Myaszæron replied. She stepped
backwards, tugging the quivering cat-woman after her.
To Bertanya’s infinite relief, they emerged from the
stone into a low tunnel with an arched roof.
To her surprise, it was lit by a single torch burning in an iron
sconce. Behind them lay the stone door
that led to the garden ledge. Beyond the
torch, narrow stairs led upwards.
“Better?”
the princess asked.
“Yes!”
Myaszæron’s cheek twitched. “You
didn’t seem to enjoy that very much.”
“My people are
folk of the plains,” Bertanya replied, still trembling. “I get
nervous in forests. When it comes to
small spaces, I feel the same way you feel about cliffs!”
The princess looked contrite. “I’m
sorry! I didn’t know!”
“No harm done,”
the priestess said weakly. “Could you please dismiss the spell now?”
The princess nodded.
“Done.”
Bertanya blinked, baffled. “Then why can’t I smell smoke?” she asked,
nodding at the torch.
Before the priestess could react or even yell, the
princess inserted a finger into the fire flaring from the wood. “Another spell,” she said
matter-of-factly. “One of the benefits
of attending the College; you learn to recognize this sort of thing.” She nodded at the stairs. “Let’s go see where these come out.”
The priestess put her hands on the walls, reassuring
herself that she wasn’t about to sink through them. To her infinite relief, they felt hard, cold
and damp. “With any luck,” she replied,
“it’ll be in the Duchess’ suite. You’ll
be able to repair your ensemble before joining the party.”
Myaszæron grinned sourly and made a peculiar gesture
with one hand. Before Bertanya’s eyes,
the earth-stains, twigs and dead leaves disappeared from her gown, her hair
corrected itself, and even her makeup returned to normal.
“Well,” the priestess remarked blandly, “that’s
certainly handy.”
“Oh, aye,” Myaszæron snorted. “If I end up spreading for the Duke, I’ll
lose my divine authority, but at least I’ll be able to keep myself looking
fetching for him!” Gathering her skirts,
she turned and stomped up the stairs. Or
at least, she tried to stomp; the soft-soled slippers lessened the ferocity of
the gesture somewhat.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Bertanya snapped.
The princess turned and looked down at her friend,
astonished. “What was that?”
“Do you love him?” the priestess asked bluntly.
Myaszæron looked rebellious for a moment. Then she sighed. “Yes.”
“Then drop the self-contempt, and show some courage,”
Bertanya growled. “Stop moping about like an addled schoolgirl and make a
choice. Angst gives me mange.” She made a show of brushing at her fur.
The princess’ eyes widened in outrage. Then she laughed, as much at herself as at
anything else. “I wish you were coming
tonight,” she said. “I could use your
support.”
“You have it, Mya,” the cat-woman replied
somberly. “But I won’t be there. My folk don’t celebrate the dead. The departed have already gone to wind. I’d like to howl for the four you honour
tonight, but I have no right. I didn’t
know them.”
“I didn’t either, except for Rykki,” Myaszæron
murmured. “I counted her a friend. I suppose I’ll do what I can to help Kaltas
remember her, and honour her. And then…”
she sighed heavily.
“ ‘And then’, what?” Bertanya asked.
“And then,” the princess grimaced, “I’m going to do my
level best to steal her lifemate’s heart away.
If I can.” She turned and started
up the stairs.
“Your friend is gone, Mya,” the priestess said gently,
following after her friend. “How is it a
betrayal, if you love the man she loved, and would spend the rest of your days
trying to make him happy again? If
Alrykkian’s jiwa still sees us from kesatuan, how could she fault you for
bringing a measure of light and hope back into her beloved’s life?
“And anyway,” she added firmly, “hearts cannot be
stolen. They can only be given. In the end, the choice is not yours, but
his.”
“I hope you’re right,” the elf-woman sighed as they
climbed back up to the palace. “I
really, really do.”
♦♦♦
Hinc mihi fletus abundat,
Hinc fletus inundat.
Est mihi pallor in ore,
Est, quia fallor amore![1]
Hinc fletus inundat.
Est mihi pallor in ore,
Est, quia fallor amore![1]
Alycidio cleared his throat
ostentatiously, shooting a surreptitious glance around the battlement to see
whether anyone was listening. To his
immense disappointment, even the sentries seemed to have disappeared. A glance skyward suggested the reason; the
lowering clouds were scurrying southwards again, and the air smelt like
rain.
Nervous lest an errant drop streak chalk and kohl of
his stage makeup or sully the immaculate glory of his gold-frogged doublet of
scarlet silk, he held out a palm.
Nothing yet. Praise Myran, he thought.
And Hara, and
Larranel and Miros, he added
automatically an instant later. One
couldn’t be too careful when invoking the Powers before a performance. Only a fool risked spoiling the ship for a
groat’s-worth of tar.
Heaving a great sigh, the Master Harper of Eldisle
loosened the lamb’s-wool scarf that he had bound around his throat to protect
it from the night breeze. Inflating his
lungs like a bellows and clasping his hands before his breast, he launched into
another piece:
Si
puer cum puellula
moraretur
in cellula,
felix…[2]
The door of the watchtower nearby crashed open with tremendous force, banging into the nearest merlon. Splinters flew. Lallakentan, his face flaming, stormed through the portal. “By the bloody balls of Bardan,” he thundered, “if you lot don’t shut…”
The minstrel regarded the interloper
with a bemused frown.
“Oh,” the arms-master said. He glanced around, looking dreadfully embarrassed. “Magister.
My apologies. I thought that…er,
that the guards were…were…”
“Singing wonderfully, and with legendary style and
élan?” Alycidio drawled.
Lallakentan nodded.
“Er, yes.” Unconsciously, like a
child about to receive a reprimand, he tugged at the lower hem of his court
tunic with one hand, and straightened the light belt holding his pugio with the other. He felt like an idiot, and felt like an idiot
for feeling like an idiot. He had a good
four centuries on the man!
The Master Harper smiled without warmth. “I congratulate you, centurio. You must have a
remarkably talented garrison if you could so easily mistake my inarticulate
gruntings for the dulcet warbles of your covey of bloody-fisted
pike-pushers.”
He crossed his arms, the silver bells on his cuffs
tinkling lightly. “If they’re really
that good, perhaps I should engage them cum
chora for my upcoming tour of the Ekhani metropoli. You as well.
I take it from your bellowing that your preferred voice is falsetto castratum?”
The arms-master had not managed to survive ten
centuries in high elven society by arguing with minstrels – especially
well-known and notoriously touchy ones.
“Sincerest apologies, magister. I
did not mean either to interrupt, or to offend.” He executed a perfunctory bow. “With your permission, I’ll withdraw.”
“Denied,” the singer said airily.
Lallakentan had already turned toward the door. He spun slowly on his heel. “Pardon?”
“You may not
withdraw.” Alycidio strode over to the
parapet and tapped the stone with an exquisitely-manicured fingernail. “Keep me company, captain. Just for a while.”
The old warrior frowned. Gods, he hated bards. And he hated
formal balls. He was painfully aware
that his finery was worn and ill-fitting.
He’d hoped to be able to arrive at the Dapis early enough to avoid the receiving line. With any luck, he could be cross-eyed-drunk
by the time the obligatory dancing began.
Lallakentan also knew, however, that the Master Harper
was more than capable of transforming any social indiscretion or faux pas, no
matter how minor, into a devastating ballad.
Alycidio was rumoured to be particularly cutting when exposing the airs
and foibles of the nobility. Kaltas
would not thank him for giving the bard an excuse to pen a biting satire about
Joyous Light to sing during the Master’s next tour of the capital.
He shook himself.
The bard was watching him oddly, expectantly. With a mental sigh, Lallakentan strode over
to the parapet and stood awkwardly before the singer.
The skald immediately extended a hand. “Alycidio of Sinucernus.”
Lallakentan laughed abruptly. “I know who you are, magister. The whole city knows. The whole realm
knows!”
“How nice of you to say so,” the bard replied
pleasantly enough. “And you are
Lallakentan of Lux Lætificus,
arms-master to his Excellency Duke Kaltas Æquitatis.” He grasped the old soldier’s knobby hand and
gave it a firm shake. “Delectatio salus.”
“Sentio idem,”
Lallakentan replied automatically. “Er…”
“How do I know you, when we’ve never before met?”
Alycidio said. “Is that what you were
going to ask?”
The warrior nodded.
There didn’t seem to be any point in speaking; evidently the skald was a
mind-reader.
“Your elegia,”
the minstrel replied. “At this morning’s
service. My folk were among the throng,
and they memorized your words, and repeated them back to me. May I say, well done. Particularly your thinly-disguised assault
on...certain houses.” He slapped
Lallakentan on the back. “You’ve a sound
grasp of rhetoric and the art of the declamatio. For an untutored layman, that is.”
The old soldier blinked. “Thank you,” he said hesitantly. “I think.”
“You’re welcome,” the bard replied,
all seriousness. He nodded towards the
east, where only the barest hints of colour burnished the horizon. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Lallakentan waited a long moment, then
continued. “Excuse me, magister,
but…what can I do for you?”
“You could answer me some
questions,” the harper replied easily, “if you’ve a mind. And a few moments to spare.”
He turned to face the warrior. Lallakentan was struck by the penetrating
intelligence behind the younger man’s emerald stare. “Ask away,” the arms-master shrugged.
“How is your good lord, the Duke?”
Lallakentan frowned. “He was well when I saw him an hour or so
ago. Why?”
Alycidio snorted. “I didn’t mean his health, I meant his
spirit. He had a difficult morning. You all did.
What I meant was, how is his humour?
I need to know so I can decide what to sing tonight. And more importantly, what not to sing.”
The warrior frowned, nodding. That made sense. “He’s tired.
And he’s alone, or nearly. His
lifemate and younger daughter are dead, and his oldest friend along with
them. And he also lost his chaplain, and
therefore the comfort of a fellow priest of the Protector. How would you be?” he snorted. “Apart from Jianni, the closest thing he’s
got to a companion right now is a royal princess who’s supposed to be his
jailer. You want the truth? He’s barely staving off despair.”
To Lallakentan’s surprise, Alycidio
nodded. “Would you say that he’s managed
to move past his grief, and on to remembrance?”
“How should I know?” Lallakentan
huffed, eyebrows crawling up his forehead. “And why does that matter?”
“It matters a great deal,” the bard
sighed. “I know a hundred-score songs
and more. If I knew his mood, I could
tailor my – our – delivery to remind him of joy he took, and can still take, in
the departed, without reminding him of his pain. Can you tell me, pray - is he fixed on his
loss right now, or on the fickle vicissitudes of fate?”
“What?” the warrior asked,
perplexed.
Alycidio rolled his eyes. “How would he react to this?
Fortune
plango vulnera
stillantibus
ocellis
quod
sua michi munera
subtrahit
rebellis.
In
Fortune solio
sederam
elatus,
prosperitatis
vario
flore
coronatus;
quicquid
enim florui
felix
et beatus,
nunc
a summo corrui
gloria
privatus.[3]
Lallakentan listened,
mesmerized. The fellow truly had a
wondrous voice. Then he realized that
the singing had stopped, and he shook himself.
“Er…badly, I would think.”
“Why?”
“Well,” the warrior replied,
cudgelling his brain and trying to force it to function, “it’s not just the
deaths or the funeral. He’s still under
proscription. ‘She’, ‘throned’,
‘crowned’, ‘deprived of glory’…that song might make him think less of his wife
and daughter, and more of the Queen’s judgement against his house, her interdiction
of Eldisle.”
“Excellent!” To his astonishment, the bard slapped him on
the back again. “See?” Alycidio
crowed. “This is why I always ask first.
“Well enough,” he continued, tapping a finger against
his chin. “He’s angry, then. How about this?
Feror
ego veluti
sine
nauta navis,
ut
per vias aeris
vaga
fertur avis;
non
me tenent vincula,
non
me tenet clavis,
quero
mihi similes
et
adiungor pravis.[4]
Lallakentan thought about that
one. “Better,” he said at length, “but
still a little risky. Remember, one of
the charges against Ally was treason.
Those last few lines – ‘looking for people like me, and joining the
wretches’ – that sounds as though his rage and despair might make him consider
joining the Queen’s enemies.”
“The Queen has enemies?” Alycidio
said, all innocence.
Lallakentan regarded the man
stonily. “If she did,” he said coldly,
“the Duke would slay them before joining them.
His loyalty is beyond suspicion.”
“Very well,” the bard sighed. “Let’s try another tack. Did he love his lifemate?”
“More than you could possibly
imagine,” Lallakentan replied firmly.
“Good. How about this, then?
Pulchra
tibi facies
oculorum
acies,
capillorum
series,
o
quam clara species!
Rosa
rubicundior,
lilio
candidior
omnibus
formosior,
semper
in te glorior![5]
“Much better!” the warrior
nodded. “Yes, that’ll do. Not just for the Duke, but for all of
us. We all loved Rykki. But…”
Alycidio’s eyebrows rose. “But, what?”
“Is it appropriate for the feralis?”
“The feast of the dead,” the bard
replied stiffly, “can be about rejoicing in those to whom we say farewell. It needn’t be all hand-wringing and tears.”
“Well then…” the warrior
shrugged. “It’s fine, I suppose.”
“I thank you.” The bard paused for a moment, looking
thoughtful. “Having acknowledged that
she was widely admired, perhaps you can advise me on matters of a…more delicate
nature.”
Lallakentan shrugged. “Say on.”
“Under the circumstances,” Alycidio
said carefully, “I’d thought to avoid specific mention of the Duke’s daughter.”
“You mean the charges against her,”
the old soldier replied. “I know. That’s probably…”
The skald was shaking his head. “Not that.
I meant the tales concerning her…ah…parentage.”
Lallakentan’s fingers curled around
the hilt of his pugio. “What tales?” he asked, deadly calm.
Alycidio eyed the weapon, the
warrior’s stance, and his chill, implacable gaze. “Evidently,” he said with a narrow smile, “my
initial impulse was correct. I shall avoid
any such topic or tune.” He raised his
eyebrows inquiringly. “Is there aught I
could sing to honour her? Perhaps this?
Ave
formosissima,
gemma
pretiosa,
ave
decus virginum,
virgo
gloriosa,
ave
mundi luminar,
ave
mundi rosa .[6]
Lallakentan flushed. “I don’t know,” he said, grimacing. “It sounds all right. But I’m not sure you want to remind that Duke
that his youngest daughter died a maid.”
“She did?” Alycidio asked,
surprised. “Because according to the way
I heard it –”
“Stop right there,” the old soldier
snarled, “unless you want to try singing soprano out of a hole in your
weasand.”
He didn’t notice that his dagger had come out,
seemingly of its own accord. The bard,
however, did notice. “Very well,” Alycidio said calmly. “Is there anything you might suggest?”
The warrior racked his brain. “What about the Lugeo?” he said at last.
The bard’s nose wrinkled. “You are referring to Lugeo Fineleorum, I presume?
Is that really the sort of message the Duke would wish to convey?”
“Why not?” Lallakentan said
pugnaciously. “It’s about a warrior who
ignored the condemnation of the crown, and sacrificed everything – his life,
and his lifemate’s – to defend the realm.”
He hawked and spat. “Under the
circumstances, I can’t think of anything more appropriate.”
A cold smile spread across Alcydio’s
lips. “An excellent notion. I could honour the Duke, and Alrykkian, their
daughter, and his friend – even young Alorestes! – all while pointing up the
folly and lethargy of their alleged betters.”
He grinned at Lallakentan. “You
have a mischievous spirit, my friend.”
“I intended no mischief,” the warrior
snapped.
“Of course not.”
The bard’s fingers tapped nervously on the stone. “If I’m to sing the Lugeo,” he mused, “I’ll need a martial drummer who can maintain a
beat. Preferably two. I only brought the tambours.” He glanced over at the warrior. “I don’t suppose…?”
“I’ll detail a couple of lads from the garrison band,”
Lallakentan growled. “They’re not
skalds, but they’re quick enough, they’ll bring their own drums, and they can
follow orders. Anything else?”
Alycidio’s eyes twinkled. “I could use another baritone. How’s your voice?”
The old soldier frowned. “Suited to the parade ground, perhaps. But nowhere else.”
“Well, then, no, I suppose that is all,” Alycidio
mused distantly. “I thank you. You may withdraw.
“Now…for the dancing…” Clasping his hands behind his back, the
Master Harper of Eldisle wandered off along the parapet, humming a series of
light, harmonious tunes to himself.
Muttering angrily under his breath, Lallakentan
stomped back down the tower stairs toward his quarters. He had to change out of his boots and don the
dreaded socci. Tradition forbade any elf of the Third House
– especially any warrior – from remaining seated while the Lugeo was danced. And if he
was standing, then some merchant’s spotty wife or tubby daughter was almost
certainly going to drag him out onto the boards.
Gods, how he hated formal balls.
♦♦♦
[1] Hence my tears are abundant / Hence my tears are
flowing. / My face is pale / Because of love’s disappointment.
[2] If a boy with a girl / tarries in a little room /
happy is their –
[3] I bemoan the wounds of Fortune / with weeping eyes, /
for the gifts she made me / she perversely takes away. / On Fortune’s throne /
I used to sit raised up, / crowned with / the many-coloured flowers of
prosperity; / though I may have flourished / happy and blessed, / now I fall
from the peak / deprived of glory.
[4] I am carried along / like a ship without a steersman,
/ and in the paths of the air / like a light, hovering / bird; / chains cannot hold me, / keys
cannot imprison me, / I look for people like me / and join the wretches.
[5] Beautiful is your face, / the gleam of your eye, /
your braided hair, / what a glorious creature! / redder than the rose, / whiter
than the lily, / lovelier than all others, / I shall always glory in you!
[6] Hail, most beautiful one, / precious jewel, / Hail,
pride among virgins, / glorious virgin, / Hail, light of the world, / Hail,
rose of the world.
