The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III (42 page)

What’s wrong? Why won’t he wake?

She stretched out her already thin resources to him, trying to sense what was wrong. But she had nothing left; she could not touch him, and her own spirit cried out in frustration
—

T’fyrr began to sing. Softly at first, a song she did not recognize initially, until she realized that he was singing it in a translation so that Theovere would understand it. It was not from any of the Twenty Kingdoms, and she doubted that anyone here had ever heard it but herself before this moment. It was a song T’fyrr had told her had been written by and for the Spirit Brothers.

“What is courage?” its chorus asked—and the song answered, “It is to give when hope is gone, when there is no chance that men may call you a hero, when you have tried and failed and rise to try again.” It asked the same of friendship, answering that “the friend stands beside you when you are right and all others despise you for it—and corrects you when you are wrong and all others praise you for it.” There was more, much more, and the more T’fyrr sang, the more the Theovere-spirit took heart. In a strange way, these definitions, intended to guide the Spirit Brothers of the Haspur as they endeavored to help their own kind and their adopted brothers, were equally applicable to—say—a High King.

With the words, came the
feelings.
Not only the ones called up by the definitions, but the pain-filled emotions, the things that both of them had endured over the past several years at the hands of those who hated and feared anything that did not fit their own narrow definitions of “appropriate.” The Theovere-spirit took those in, too, wincing more than a little as he was forced to acknowledge that this was due to his own neglect, but accepting that as well.

He is looking into the mirror again—but this time, he is seeing not only what
is,
but what
was,
and what
may be
again!

She simply followed the music with her harpsong, as her heart, this time, followed his.

When it was over, the Theovere-spirit stood up straight and tall, looking many years younger than his true age, his eyes bright again with light and life. A sword appeared from nowhere in his hand; he swept it, silvery and bright, and used it to salute both of them.

And then he faded away into a bright mist.

Oh—NO!

Nightingale dropped back into the outer world with a violent shock.

She stared at the bed, certain that the figure in it was no longer alive. Her eyes blurred with exhaustion, as what seemed to be a hundred people suddenly poured into the room.

She shrank away, waiting for them to seize her, seize T’fyrr, haul them both off into the gaols never to be seen again.

And Theovere slowly sat up with a firm, determined smile set on his face.

The Bodyguards shoved the interlopers rudely away from the bed, and she realized that there weren’t a hundred people; there weren’t even twenty. Only the Advisors, and who had told
them
what was going on? Most of them seemed to be shouting at the Captain and the Seneschal, both of whom were shouting back.

Her eyes blurred again, and she slid a little sideways, into the comforting embrace of T’fyrr. “What happened?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.” He held her closely, his own arms trembling with fatigue. “You did something, and made the shadow go away, then we sang Theovere back, like the Elves said to do—he woke up and spoke, and then all the Advisors began pouring in. I’m not sure how they found out that we were doing anything here.”

“It’s a good thing they didn’t get in until we were done,” she said, a bit grimly, as Theovere gained enough strength from somewhere to outshout all of them.

“Silence!”
he bellowed.
“Enough!”

The babble ceased, and he glared at all of them. “We have,” he said, clearly and succinctly, his eyes shining with dangerous anger, “a traitor among us. The note that held the—call it a curse—that felled me was sealed with the Council Seal.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Nightingale saw the Captain of the Bodyguards go momentarily limp with relief.

But she saw something else as well.

Heading up a contingent of his own private guards and standing at the back of the room was someone who looked oddly familiar to her.

“Who is that?” she whispered to T’fyrr, under the sound of the King’s furious but controlled questioning of his guards and his Advisors. “He looks familiar somehow.”

He glanced in the direction she was looking. “That’s Lord Atrovel,” he said. “But you can’t have seen him before; he never leaves the Palace, and you never encountered any of the other Advisors except the Lord Seneschal.”

Just at that moment, the odd little man moved into a wash of shadow that darkened his hair. She saved herself from gaping at him only by a strong effort of will.

She
had
seen this “Lord Atrovel” before—but not here.

In
Freehold.
And “he” had been
—

Violetta. That’s Violetta—one of the Great Lords of State—and the biggest gossip in Freehold. Someone who was in a position to know everything that was going on in the King’s Chambers, in his private correspondence
and
in Freehold—

And who had the knowledge and the means to sabotage all of it.

And I’ll bet he wasn’t leading those guards here to protect us if we failed to bring back the King!

“T’fyrr
—
” she whispered, clutching his hand and turning her head into his feathers to make certain her voice didn’t go any further. “Put long black hair on Lord Atrovel and tell me what you get.”

She knew by the tension in his muscles that he had seen the same thing that she had. “Violetta
—
” he whispered.

Then he stood up abruptly, and she scrambled out of his way. She had never seen him like this before—but she
had
seen a hawk about to attack an enemy.

“Violetta!”
he roared.

Lord Atrovel started—and so did all the other Great Lords. But none of the others had that look of panic in their eyes—and none of the others had been making his leisurely way toward the door as the King continued to question his Advisors.

T’fyrr launched himself at Lord Atrovel in a fury, and Nightingale was only a second or so behind him. Lord Atrovel’s guards scattered, but the King’s Bodyguards came pouring in from the room beyond, alerted by T’fyrr’s scream of anger.

T’fyrr reached the traitor first.

He seized the little man in his talons and picked him up bodily. His beak was parted in fury, his eyes dilated, and all Nightingale felt from him was a flood of red rage
—

Oh, Lady, no—if he kills the man—

He’ll never forgive himself.

No one moved; no one
could.

T’fyrr held the man for a moment longer, then flexed the muscles of his arms
—

And gently set Lord Atrovel down, right into the “welcoming” arms of the Elite Bodyguards.

“I believe that this is the man you have been looking for,” T’fyrr said, so gently that he might have been soothing a child. “He frequented Freehold under the name and disguise of ‘Violetta,’ and likely other places as well. I believe he owns a house in the Firemare quarter, where you will find two or three mages in his employ who held me captive and maimed me—one of them probably set the spell that nearly slew His Majesty. Hunt through his private papers, his suite, and question his servants, and you will probably find a trail of sabotage and evil as vile as the man himself. And you will likely find lace handkerchiefs that match those left by the mysterious gaol-raider. As well as a
—
” he coughed “
—
remarkable selection of female garments made in his size, which should explain the missing ‘maid’ who freed that first captive.”

The Captain took custody of Lord Atrovel himself and fired off a burst of orders as the rest of the Lord Advisors scattered like so many frightened quail. T’fyrr ignored them all, turning back to Nightingale.

The terrible rage inside him was gone.

She went weak-kneed with relief as she saw his face, and sensed the calm that now lay within him.
He doesn’t need revenge—

“I don’t need revenge,” he said softly, echoing her own thoughts, taking her hands in his. “I have you, and I have love. Vengeance is a waste of valuable time.”

She smiled up at him tremulously. “It is, isn’t it?”

He touched her cheek with one gentle talon. “I know that you don’t like cities,” he said wistfully, “but—could you consider making your home in one?”

“A home is where the people you care for are,” she told him, impossible joy beginning to bubble up inside her. “And if the people I care for live in a city—or the High King’s Palace—then that is where my home will be. I think I will survive living in this one.”

He laughed, then, and gathered her to him for a long embrace. Together, they turned and walked back to the side of High King Theovere, who watched them with a truer smile than any he had worn in Nightingale’s memory.

Theovere clasped the hand of the Captain of the Elite Bodyguards, and the stalwart soldier smiled as broadly as his King, with the glint of a tear in one eye.

“Welcome back, my King,” was all he said, and then he turned to face T’fyrr and Nightingale. He nodded, still smiling. And as he walked away to tend to his duties, Nightingale heard with some surprise that he was whistling a Gypsy melody, of how all was right with the world.