Authors: Karyn Henley
The jubilant crowd escorted them all the way to the Alta-Qan main gate, where the real actors met them, arriving as a cartload of peasants.
Caepio pointed them out and spoke to the portal guards. “These I’ve hired to set up our stage.” The guards waved both rigs through.
At the entrance to the palace, Caepio halted the wagons and clapped his hands. “My fellow actors, the steward shall escort you to a private chamber where you’ll ready yourselves and rehearse without interference. I shall join you there shortly. Remember: we must give our best today, as we shall be performing for the Honorable Lord Rejius.”
“Overacting, isn’t he?” Jarrod mumbled.
Caepio ordered the real actors to haul this trunk, carry that canvas, while Melaia and her silent, masked friends followed the steward into the palace and up a flight of wide stairs. There he stopped and swept his arm toward an arched doorway flanked by columns. “This is where you are to perform this afternoon. While you set up, guests will gather for drinks in the garden.”
Livia and Jarrod stood beside Paullus, as still as the columns, eying the great hall. Melaia stepped into the room, which was larger than the banquet hall at Redcliff. Both the north and south walls held four tall windows, all wide open. Above the north windows, a high gallery ran the length of the hall.
Along the east wall, opposite the entrance, a dais held the king’s long table and gilded chair. Melaia stared at it, trying to grasp the fact that it was her father who had sat in that chair. If events had been different, she would have sat beside him.
Behind the table six shields hung on the wall, each painted with a different image. Pym pointed to one that bore the picture of a bear. “Main Undrian’s shield,” he said. “The ram is Gremel’s. Brevian held the rock badger. The partridge belonged to Solivius, Vardamis had the osprey, and Catellus the white stag.”
Melaia nodded. The shields were a terrible reminder of the trouble plaguing the kingdom. No doubt that situation too was woven into the outcome of this day. She turned away, her task pressing like a heavy weight on her shoulders. She feared that if she thought on it too long, she might race out the door, never to return.
Two of the actors lugged a wooden platform into the hall. Another trudged in with a rolled-up drape over his shoulder. Servants moved benches and tables aside. Melaia noticed that Livia and Jarrod had slipped away. She rubbed her moist palms on her skirt and wondered if Caepio and his troupe could truly hold Lord Rejius’s attention long enough for the rest of them to find the harps. Might she also have time to find the king, simply to look at the man she should have called father?
She pulled Caepio aside. “Do you know who has seen the king dead?”
“The steward for one. He said he saw the body laid out.”
“Where?”
“That he didn’t say.” Caepio wagged a finger at one of the servants and called out, “That bench will have to be moved. Set the framework closer to the wall.”
Melaia followed Trevin and Pym down the corridor to where Paullus stood outside a door. He waved them into the chamber where the actors’ costume trunks had been placed. Jarrod and Livia were already there, quiet and still, standing sentry at the two open windows, which let in only thick, storm-brewing air. Paullus remained in the corridor and closed the door behind Melaia. Everyone pulled off their masks.
“Flustrations! That’s all I want of being an actor.” Pym wrinkled his nose as if trying to get his face back into shape.
Melaia slipped the book out of her waist pouch and held it close, hoping its warm thrum would calm her.
“This feels too easy,” said Livia. “I expected to sense a stronger presence of malevolents.”
Jarrod stroked his chin. “The talonmasters are here. That’s two.”
“One malevolent guards Hanni and the girls,” said Melaia. “One guarded the postern gate yesterday.”
“Four, then,” said Jarrod. “And I would guess one or two more. Probably bodyguards for the Firstborn, stationed near his quarters.”
“A confrontation would outweigh the two of us, then,” said Livia. “Three if Paullus fights.”
“Four, counting Cilla,” said Melaia.
“That depends on whose side Paullus and Cilla join,” said Jarrod. “If they join at all.”
The room fell into an uneasy silence. Melaia opened Dreia’s book and turned to the blank pages. Again, one was dark. The other formed swaying streaks. But on the third, the shadows soon settled into lines, some vertical, some horizontal, beyond which stood a window like those in Hanni’s room, showing a rooftop beyond. And no one in sight.
“I visited Dreia here. It’s where I met my husband.” Livia strode to the door. “I know my way around the palace. I’ll visit the servants’ quarters and find a gossip willing to say where the harps are being held.”
Melaia closed the book. “One is in a tower room, I think.”
“But which tower?” asked Livia. “I hesitate to send us out in all directions. It’s much too risky. Wait for my return.”
“And if you don’t return?” Melaia tucked the book back into her waist pouch.
“I’ll take Paullus to mask my color,” said Livia. “I’ll return.” She slipped out the door.
“Paullus,” muttered Jarrod. “I’m not comforted.”
Melaia paced to the window and gazed out at the courtyard. The two wagons that had brought them were nowhere to be seen. Instead, guests dressed in fine tunics and loose, flowing gowns approached the castle. Some were accompanied by servants stirring the air with wide feathered fans. Melaia felt certain that some of them would meet Lord Rejius for the first time today, and
she wondered if they were as unsuspecting as she had been upon entering the palace at Redcliff.
She turned to Jarrod, who sat near the door, his arms folded, his eyes closed. Listening, she supposed. “Jarrod,” she said, “you were a priest at Redcliff.”
His eyes eased open as if his mind was returning from far away. “Priest at court. Yes.”
“Where would a king’s body be laid out?” she asked.
His eyes opened fully, and his eyebrows arched. “Are you simply curious?”
“He’s my father. I want to see him before he’s buried.”
“A foolish distraction,” said Jarrod.
“I never saw my mother. I just want to get near enough to see—”
“He wasn’t worthy of your mother.” Jarrod rose, his face red. “She wanted a child with human will and chose her mate from the highest rank, but he was never worthy of her. I tried to warn her, guard her, protect her, but she wouldn’t listen. She was always running ahead of wisdom. So are you. But you’re twice as hard to protect, for I can’t sense you.”
Melaia’s eyes widened. “You loved Dreia.”
“Of course I loved her. She was my mother.” Jarrod’s face was hard with pain.
“Your mother?” Melaia gaped at him. “Then
you
are Dreia’s child. Can’t you restore the Tree? Why should I be involved?”
“I don’t make the kyparis wood leaf out—evidently because I have no mortal, human blood. Believe me, my father and mother both explained in no uncertain terms that my father was immortal long before I was born.”
Melaia frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“My father is Benasin. His blood runs with the life of the Tree.”
Melaia covered her mouth and stared. Jarrod was her half brother. Dreia’s son. And Benasin’s. Of course. She saw it now. He was very much like Benasin.
Jarrod’s face softened into a sad smile. “I told you Dreia ran ahead of wisdom.”
Melaia dropped her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“And risk your hatred?”
“Why would I hate you?”
“Because I should have protected Dreia. I was at Aubendahl when Dreia came to get the harp she had hidden there. I was completing a volume of the histories and asked her to wait for three days so I could accompany her. Three short days. But she set out without my knowledge. She was always leaving and going who knows where. I was so exasperated with her that I stayed at Aubendahl, debating whether I should follow her or not. Then the Erielyon came for help. By the time I got there …” He turned away. “I failed her. I failed you.”
“You don’t know that,” said Melaia. “You could have been killed with the rest of them.”
“I should have been.”
Melaia hardly breathed, wondering what to do next.
Trevin’s touch on her arm startled her. “To answer your earlier question,” he said, “a king would normally be laid out in the courtyard or in the great hall for viewing and mourning. Right, Pym?”
“Normally,” said Pym. “But this turn of events is far from normal.”
“Maybe my father is on a bier in the temple.” She headed for the door.
Jarrod blocked her way. “We have no time.”
“I agree.” Melaia ducked around him. “We have no time to argue. And frankly, I’m glad you weren’t killed. I could use your protection right now.” She opened the door and sauntered out, smiling over her shoulder. “Brothers can be such a thorn in the foot.”
Jarrod grumbled, but he led her a roundabout way, skirting the presence of malevolents, to the temple. They found easy access, for the priest was attending the celebration, but the king’s body was not on a bier in the altar room.
“Surely they’ve not buried him already,” said Melaia. “Where are the stairs to the catacombs?”
Jarrod turned and swept down the corridor. Melaia followed on his heels. After a few moments he yanked her aside. “A guard,” he whispered.
“Malevolent?”
“No, but his presence means there’s something to guard, doesn’t it?” He shook a finger in her face. “I’ll do the talking, and you’ll be quick about paying your respects.” He bowed his head, folded his hands, and stepped solemnly down the hall, chanting softly all the way. Melaia followed. When he reached the glum guard, Jarrod bowed. His priestly hair slipped over his shoulder. “This chantress has been sent to administer death rites since your priest is occupied with more urgent matters.”
The guard jerked his thumb toward the stairs, and Melaia descended behind Jarrod into a burial chamber much like the one at Redcliff. On the far wall, beyond biers and death masks, one torch burned in a bracket. Below it, on a stone slab, lay the body of the king. At his feet a coffin-sized recess in the wall gaped hungrily. A broad stone stood nearby for sealing the tomb.
“Go ahead,” said Jarrod. “Take your look. I’ll keep the guard occupied.”
As Melaia made her way to the king, she heard Jarrod trudge up the stairs. “Ah, what a shame,” he said to the guard. “Such a terrible, wasting disease that caused the king’s death.”
Melaia tiptoed toward the king’s body, then froze. His spirit floated like a fog around him, wavering and struggling in a horrible death dance. But he was alive. Her father was alive.
She stroked his face. High cheekbones. Long, narrow nose. Dark hair, graying on top and on his beard. He didn’t appear as old as he had seemed from a distance.
Melaia touched her own face, felt her cheekbones and nose. Then she pressed her hand to his chest. His heartbeat was almost imperceptible. Hers pounded in her ears:
do something, do something, do something
. But what would bring back a king so nearly dead?
Her fingers tingled. “A harp,” she whispered. “A harp with runes that say
awaken.
”
One shall wake
. She cupped his face in her hands. “I’ll return …,
Father.” The word sounded foreign on her tongue, but when she said it, she sensed something in his spirit shift. Was it recognition? Hope? Or regret?
Melaia had to will herself not to dash up the stairs. Halfway to the top, she was glad she had slowed, for she spied the guard’s flask lying on the top step. The guard’s back was toward her, Jarrod holding him in conversation, so she plucked two orange berries from her waist pouch, crept up, and squeezed dreamweed juice into the flask.
She completed her climb and nodded to Jarrod and the guard. “He’ll rest in peace now,” she said.
“I pray that the king’s disease is not a plague,” Jarrod told the guard. “May the Most High have mercy on your health, sir.”
The guard took up his flask, saluted Jarrod, and swilled his drink.
M
elaia didn’t feel free to speak until Jarrod had brought her safely back to their quarters. Even then, she had to hold her tongue, for she was besieged by Caepio and the other actors eagerly asking how they looked with this hat or that sash, this cloak or that pendant.
At last she pulled away and wormed through the fuss to Jarrod. But Pym held his attention.
“Livia and Paullus haven’t returned, and it’s almost time for the performance.” Pym ran his hand through his hair. “What now?”
“I say we spread out and search for the harps on our own,” said Trevin.
“The guard at the catacombs spoke of a protective spell,” said Jarrod.
“Listen!” hissed Melaia. “King Laetham is alive.”
Jarrod rubbed his forehead. “Are you certain?”
A knock sounded at the door. “Lord Rejius calls for entertainment,” said the steward.
“Then let the performance begin!” Caepio strode out of the room with a flourish. His actors danced out behind him.
At the same moment Livia swept in, her cheeks flushed. “We have friends here,” she said. “Throughout the city, people blame the poor sailing weather on Lord Rejius, for the wind stopped blowing the day he arrived.”
“What about the harps?” asked Jarrod.
“Only one has been seen,” said Livia. “In the northeast tower.”
“The king is not dead.” Melaia grabbed Livia’s arm. “I saw him myself.”
“How did you—” Livia eyed Jarrod.
“She was determined to go without me.”
“He’ll be buried alive if we don’t save him,” said Melaia.
“We must have the harps,” said Jarrod. “With or without the king.”
“With or without the king?” snapped Melaia. “With or without Hanni and the girls? Is that all that matters to you—saving
your
people? What about mine?”
Trevin cleared his throat. “You should know that I intend to get my brother, Dwin, out of Qanreef.”
Livia pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Most High, help us!”
“I can wake the king with the harp. I’m sure of it.” Melaia paced to the window. The courtyard was almost deserted now. Only a few servants scurried across, intent on their tasks.