Her feral grin and a hand to the knife concealed in her skirts told the fate he could expect. Gwyna needed no man to guard
her
"honor"-such as it was.
"All right, Robin, I am rebuked. No one puts a tie on you, least of all me. Where away tonight?"
"A party-a most decorous party. Virtue, I tell you, will be my watchword this eve. I am pledged to play and sing for the name-day feast of the daughter of the jewel-smith Marek, she being a ripe twelve on this night. I am to sing nothing but the most innocent of songs and tales, and the festivities will be over before midnight. I will be there and back again in my bed before the night is half spent."
She drooped her eyelids significantly at Daran, who looked first surprised, then pleased. Talaysen bit his lip to keep from chuckling; he knew that tacit invitation. Gwyna would not be spending the last nights of the Faire alone.
"Then may the Lady see to it that the jewel-smith Marek rewards you and your songs with their true value. As for the rest of us-the Faire awaits! And we grow no richer dallying here."
They finished the last bites of their dinners, and rose from their cushions nearly as one, each to seek an audience.
Gwyna's pouch was the heavier by three pieces of gold, and she was wearing it inside her skirts for safety, as she made her way down the aisle of closed and darkened stalls. One gold piece would go to Erdric, with instructions to purchase a roast pig and wine for the company, and keep the remainder for himself. The other two would go to Goldsmith Nosta in the morning, to be put with her other savings. Gwyna firmly believed in securing high ground against rainy days.
With her mind on these matters, she did not see the dark shadow that followed her, mingling with the other shadows cast by the moon. Her sharp ears might have warned her of danger, but there were no footfalls for her to hear. There was only a sudden wind of ice and fear that blew upon her from behind, and hard upon that, the darkness of oblivion.
She woke with an aching head, her vision blurred and oddly distorted, her sense of smell gone, to find herself looking out through the bars of a black iron cage. She scrambled to her feet with a frightened squawk, and a flurry of wings, shaking so hard with a sudden onset of terror that every feather trembled.
Feathers?
Wings?
A dun-colored hanging in front of her moved; from behind it emerged the dark, bearded Priest she had so foolishly insulted. Beside him was a fat little man in Guild purple and gold. She had heard of Priests who practiced magic; now she knew the rumors to be true.
"And the foolish little bird takes the baited grain. Not so clever now, are we?" the Guild Bard chortled. "Marek's invitation was his own, but two of those gold pieces you so greedily bore away were mine, with m'lord Revaner's spell upon them."
"Is the vengeance sweet enough, Bestif?" The Priest's deep voice was full of amusement.
"It will be in a moment, m'lord." Bestif bent down so that his face filled Gwyna's field of vision. She shrunk back away from him, until the bars of the cage prevented her going farther. "You, my fine
feathered
friend, are now truly feathered indeed, and you will remain so. Look at yourself! Bird-brained you were, to make a mock of my masterpiece, and bird you have truly become, the property of m'lord, to sing at his will. You would not serve him freely, so now you shall find yourself serving from within one of those cages you have so despised, and whether you will or no."
"And do not think, little songbird, that you may ever fly away," the Priest continued, his eyes shining with cheerful sadism. "Magic must obey laws; you wear the semblance of a bird, but your weight is that of the woman you were, as is your approximate size. Your wings could never carry you to freedom, attractive though they may be."
Gwyna stretched out one arm-no, wing-involuntarily; her head swiveled on a long neck to regard it with mournful eyes. Indeed, it was quite brilliantly beautiful, and if the rest of her matched the graceful plumage, she must be the most striking and exotic "bird" ever seen. The colors of her garb, the golds and reds and warm oranges, were faithfully preserved in her feathers-transformed from clothing to plumes, she supposed despairingly. Circling one leg was a heavy gold ring-which could only be the gold pieces that had been the instrument of her downfall, cunningly transmuted.
Black, bleak despair filled her heart, for how ever would any of her friends guess what had become of her? Had she been woman still, she would have sunk to the floor of her cage and wept in hopelessness-
Here the most cruel jest of all was played on her. Her neck stretched out, her beak opened involuntarily, and glorious liquid song poured forth.
Her amazement broke the despair for a moment, and the music ceased to come from her. The Priest read her surprise correctly, and smiled a predatory smile.
"Did we not say you would serve me, whether you would or no? I was not minded to have a captive that drooped all day on her perch. No, the spell binding you is thus; the unhappier you are, the more you will sing. Well, Bard, are you satisfied?"
"Very, my lord. Very."
The Priest clapped his hands, summoning two hulking attendants in black uniform tunics. These hoisted her cage upon their shoulders, and carried her outside the tent, where the cage was fastened to a chain and hoisted to the top of a stout iron pole.
"Now all the Faire shall admire my treasure, and envy my possessing it," the Priest taunted her from below, "while you shall look upon the freedom of your former friends-and sing for my pleasure."
As dawn began to color the tips of the tents and roofs of the Faire, Gwyna beat with utter futility on the bars of her cage with her wings, while glorious music fell on the tents below her in the place of her tears.
By midmorning there was a crowd of curiosity-seekers below her cage, and Gwyna had ceased her useless attempts at escape. Now she simply sat, eyes half-closed in despair, and sang. She had learned that while she could not halt the flow of music from her beak, she could direct it; to the wonderment of the onlookers, she was singing every lament and dirge she could remember.
Once she saw Daran below her, and her voice shook with hopelessness. She was singing Talaysen's "Walls of Iron" at the time; it seemed appropriate. Daran stared at her intently as she sang it with the special interludes she had always played on her guitar. She longed to be able to speak, even to throw a fit of some kind to attract his attention, but the spell holding her would not allow that. She thought her heart would break into seven pieces when he walked away at the end of the song.
The Priest had her cage brought down at sunset and installed on a special stand in his tent. She was scrupulously fed the freshest of fruit, and the water in her little cup was renewed. Despite the warnings that she could not fly away, she watched avidly for an opportunity to escape, but the cage was cleaned and the provisioning made without the door ever being opened. Revaner evidently had planned a dinner party; he greeted visitors, placing them at a table well within clear sight of her cage. When all were assembled, he lit branching candles with a wave of his hand, the golden light falling clearly upon her. The guests sighed in wonder-her spirits sank to their lowest ebb-she opened her beak and sang and her music was at its most lovely. The celebrants congratulated the Priest on his latest acquisition. He preened visibly, casting a malicious glance from time to time back at the cage where Gwyna drooped on her perch. It was unbearable, yet she had no choice but to bear it. Torture of the body would have been far, far preferable to this utter misery of the spirit.
At last the long, bitter day was over. A cover was placed over her cage; in the darkness, bird-instincts took over entirely, and despite sorrow and despair, Gwyna slept.
Talaysen questioned everyone who knew the Free Bards, and especially those who knew Gwyna herself. Always the answer was "no." No one had seen her since the previous day; the last to see her was Marek, and she had left his tent well within the time she had promised to return.
It was bad enough that she had not appeared last night, but as the day wore on, it became more and more obvious that she wasn't just dallying with a new, chance-met lover. She was
missing.
And since it was Robin, who truly could defend herself, that could only mean foul play.
As Talaysen searched the Faire for some sign of her, he could only think about the incident she had reported the previous evening. The Priest who had approached her-he wasn't one that Talaysen knew, which meant he wasn't one of the Priests attached to Kingsford.
He ran a hand through his hair, distractedly, and another thought occurred to him-one which he did not in the least like. Ardis had asked him to be on the watch for a Priest who might violate his vows to please his own desires-a Priest who would use extraordinary means to get what he wanted.
Could this Priest and the one that threatened Gwyna be the same?
Given that she had quite vanished from the Faire, it was not only possible, it seemed likely. Ardis had said that she didn't know the exact identity of this Priest, which meant he wasn't one she ordinarily worked with as a mage. So he would be new to Kingsford, and probably camped in the Priests' tents with the other visiting clerics. If he had Gwyna, in any form of captivity, he would keep her there. He wouldn't dare bring her into the cloisters, not with Ardis on the watch for him.
Talaysen made up his mind, called his Free Bards together, and passed the word. Look for anything that reminds you of Gwyna, anything at all. And look for it especially among the Priests' tents.
The next day was like the first, save only that she was left outside the tent when the sun set. Evidently since he had no reason to display her, the Priest saw no reason to bring her inside. Or perhaps this was but another sadism on his part-for now she was witness to the Faire's night life, with its emphasis on entertainments. The cage was lowered, cleaned and stocked, then raised again. Gwyna watched the lights of the Faire appear, watched the strollers wander freely about, and sang until she was too weary to chirp another note.
She was far too worn to notice that someone had come to stand in the shadows below her, until the sound of a whisper carried up to her perch.
"Gwyna? Bird, are you Gwyna?"
She fluttered her wings in agitation, unable to answer, except for strangled squawks.
A second voice whispered to the first: "Daran, this seems very far-fetched to me-"
"Rune, I tell you it's Gwyna!
Nobody
performs 'Walls of Iron' the way she does-but this bird replicated every damn note!
Gwyna! Answer me!"
As a cloud of helplessness descended on her and her beak began to open to pour forth melody, she suddenly shook as an idea occurred to her. No, she couldn't talk, but she could most assuredly
sing
!
She sang the chorus of "Elven Captive"-
A spell-bound captive here am I
Who will not live and cannot die.
A bitten-off exclamation greeted the song. Rune gasped. "Wait, that's-"
Daran interrupted her. " 'Elven Captive'! No bird would pick that chorus just at this moment! It
is
Gwyna! Gypsy Robin, who did this to you?"
For answer Gwyna sang the first notes of "My Lover's Eyes" and the chorus of "The Scurvy Priest," a little ditty that was rarely, if ever, heard in Faires, but often in taverns of a particular clientele.
"Bestif and a Priest, probably the one she told us about. Oh hellfire, this is too deep for us to handle," Daran mumbled in a discouraged voice.
"Don't
ever
underestimate Talaysen, cloud-scraper." Rune sounded a bit more hopeful. "He's got resources you wouldn't guess-Gwyna, don't give up! We're going to leave you, but only to let Talaysen know what's happened. We'll be back, and with help! We'll get you back to us somehow, I swear it!"
There was a brief pattering of footsteps, and the space below her was empty again.
But the hope in her heart was company enough that night.
When dawn came, she looked long and hopefully for a sight of her friends among the swirling crowds, but there was no sign of them. As the day wore on, she lost hope again, and her songs rang out to the satisfaction of the Priest. When no one had appeared by sunset, the last of her hopes died. Talaysen must have decided that the idea of her transformation was too preposterous to consider-or that they simply were powerless to help her. She was so sunk in sadness that she did not notice the troupe of acrobats slowly making their way towards the Priest's dun-colored tent, tumbling and performing tricks as they came.
She only heard their noise and outcries when they actually formed up in the cleared space just in front of the tent and beneath her cage. Much to the displeasure of the Priest's chief servant, they began their routine right there, with a series of tumbles that ended with the formation of a human pyramid.
"Ho there-be off with you-away-!"
The major-domo was one to their many, and they simply ignored him, continuing with their act, much to the delight of the children that had followed them here. The pyramid collapsed into half-a-dozen somersaulting bodies, and the air and ground seemed full lithe, laughing human balls. The major-domo flapped his hands at them ineffectually as Gwyna watched, her unhappiness momentarily forgotten in the pleasure of seeing one of her captors discomfited.
This continued for several moments, until at last the Priest himself emerged to demand why his rest was being disturbed.
"Now!" cried a cloaked nonentity at the edge of the crowd-and Gwyna recognized Talaysen's voice with a start.
Everything seemed to happen at once-two of the acrobats flung a blanket over the Priest's head, enveloping him in its folds and effectively smothering his outcries. The rest jumped upon each other's shoulders, forming a tower of three men and a boy; the boy produced a lock-pick, and swiftly popped open the lock on Gwyna's cage. The door swung wide-
"Jump, Gwyna!" Talaysen and Daran held a second blanket stretched taut between them. She didn't pause to think, but obeyed. The ground rushed at her as she instinctively spread her wings in a futile hope of slowing her fall somewhat-