The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel (17 page)

The chest containing the Harp of Imach Thyssel was securely locked, but Emereck watched it warily as he began to play. No silver echoes accompanied his music, and gradually he progressed from scales to exercises and from exercises to ballads. With a kind of malicious glee, he ran through all of the scales and exercises Flindaran hated most. None provoked any response from the harp, and by the end of the day Emereck began to relax. He was considering whether to go out and face the Duke’s family at dinner, when someone rapped at his door.

“Come in!” Emereck called without thinking.

Flindaran stepped into the room and shut the door quickly behind him. Emereck stiffened. Flindaran leaned back against the door, watching him warily. “I came to see whether you were going down to dinner,” Flindaran said finally.

“You are considerate, my lord.”

Flindaran winced. “I suppose I deserve that. Look, Emereck… I want to apologize for yesterday. Last night, I mean.” His eyes drifted toward the chest that held the harp.

Fleetingly, Emereck remembered the exalted look on Flindaran’s face when he played the harp. He wondered what it had been like. He did not say anything.

There was an awkward silence. “I’m sorry, Emereck,” Flindaran said at last.

“I believe you mentioned that at the time.”

“I thought I’d better do it again.” Flindaran looked at Emereck and managed a half-hearted grin. “Somehow I always have to tell you everything twice.”

“Well, if you’d get it right the first time…” Emereck started, and stopped. They looked at each other, and Emereck looked away. “How is your brother?” he said carefully.

“Mending. The healer says he should stay in bed for about a week, but he’ll be fine eventually.”

Emereck frowned, surprised, then nodded in understanding. Oraven’s wounds had been serious, and Flindaran’s use of the harp had been interrupted. It was entirely reasonable that the harp had not healed Oraven as completely as it had Emereck. “I’m glad he’s better.”

Flindaran nodded, and there was another awkward pause. Finally, Emereck cleared his throat. “Flindaran, I—Well, it was my fault, too. I’m sorry.”

Flindaran’s grin was full of relief, but there was still a touch of hesitancy in his manner. “Then you’re coming to dinner?”

“I suppose if I don’t, you’ll stand there complaining at me all night.”

“Not if you’re going to start playing scales again. Don’t your fingers get tired?”

“How did you know I’d been practicing all day?”

“I was exercising in the courtyard this afternoon, and I heard you.” Flindaran nodded toward the open window.

“I hope you enjoyed it.”

“I might have if you’d played something besides dah-dah-dee-di-dah,” Flindaran said. “How can you stand doing that, over and over?”

“How can you stand swinging a sword at a wooden stand, over and over?” Emereck retorted.

“It’s not the same thing. Come on, or we’ll be late for dinner.”

“Practice is practice,” Emereck said, as he rose and started toward the door. Flindaran grinned, bowed, and swung the door open. Together, they left the room and started toward the castle dining hall, still arguing with outward amicability.

Emereck grew more and more restless as the days passed. The Duke of Minathlan showed no sign of allowing him to leave, and a guard remained outside his door at all times. Though Emereck’s movements were not restricted, the guard’s presence made him feel like a prisoner. He wanted more than ever too leave Minathlan, but he could not bring himself to leave the Harp of Imach Thyssel behind, and he could think of no way of smuggling it out of the castle. In the end, he sat in his room and brooded.

Flindaran tried to distract him by sitting in Emereck’s room for hours, talking. Emereck did not know quite what to make of it, until he noticed Flindaran’s eyes drifting toward the locked chest in the corner. All of Emereck’s earlier misgivings returned with redoubled force. From then on, he watched Flindaran more closely, and soon discovered that whenever Flindaran thought he was unobserved he studied the chest that contained the harp.

Emereck lay awake late that night, trying to decide whether to confront Flindaran with his suspicions. The following morning, he cornered Flindaran in the courtyard and explained what he had observed.

“You’re imagining things,” Flindaran said when he finished.

“I don’t think so,” Emereck said quietly.

“Living with that thing in the same room is affecting your brain. You ought to get rid of it.”

“I will, as soon as I get to Ciaron. The Guild-Masters are more than welcome to it!”

Flindaran frowned. “I mean sooner than that. Why don’t you have it put in the strongroom?”

“With all the guards your father has around this castle, the harp is just as safe in my room,” Emereck said. He did not add that he preferred to keep the harp under his own control as much as he could.

“Yes, but in the strongroom you won’t have to worry about it all the time,” Flindaran said impatiently. “Come on; we can do it now. It will only take a few minutes.”

“No. The harp is my responsibility. I’ll be anxious about it wherever it is, and I’d rather have it somewhere where I can keep an eye on it.”

“And I thought minstrels only cared about music!” Flindaran said with a mocking sarcasm that was very unlike him.

Emereck shrugged, trying to keep his temper. “At the moment I’m more worried about you than the harp.”

“Worry about your scales, minstrel, not about me,” Flindaran snapped, and stalked off.

Deeply disturbed, Emereck returned to his room and his harp. His fingers ran automatically through the long-familiar exercises, while his mind turned over and over the implications of Flindaran’s outburst. Finally he rose and bolted the door, then went to the chest that held the harp. He unlocked it, and slowly lifted out the linen that covered the harp. Even more slowly, he raised the harp and set it on the floor beside the chest.

For a moment he stood staring at the dull ivory. The harp was destroying Flindaran, and destroying his friendship with Flindaran, and he hated it. It was powerful, and therefore dangerous, and he feared it as well. Yet, despite his hate and fear, he could understand Flindaran’s secretive obsession with the instrument. It was as though the harp had been meant to obsess people, and that made Emereck fear it all the more.

He pulled his eyes away from the harp and climbed to his feet. He crossed to the tall wardrobe on the opposite side of the room, opened it, and studied the small selection of garments inside. He removed a sturdy, dark-brown tunic and returned to the chest. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up the harp and wrapped it quickly in the tunic.

When he was sure that no gleam of ivory showed through the wrapping, he carried the bundle to the wardrobe. He examined the shadowy interior briefly, then set the harp in the darkest corner. Finally, he adjusted his traveling cloak so that the folds hid almost all of the dark, oddly-shaped bundle.

At last he was satisfied. It was not the most secure of hiding places, but at least the harp was well out of sight. Carefully, he closed the wardrobe door, then replaced the linen in the chest and locked the lid before returning to his practicing.

For the remainder of the morning, Emereck moved restlessly from one thing to another. At last his uneasiness drove him out of his room and into the castle halls. Almost at once he noticed an unusual level of activity. Servants and guards were moving briskly up and down the corridors. Remembering the last, disastrous feast, Emereck stopped one of the men and asked the reason for the stir.

“Preparations for my lord Duke’s journey, sir,” the surprised man replied, and hurried on.

More puzzled than ever, Emereck continued walking. He was about to question another of the servants, when he heard Flindaran’s voice, hailing him. He turned, and saw Flindaran coming toward him.

“So you finally gave up on your scales!” Flindaran said with a grin. “Where away now?”

Emereck blinked. Nothing in Flindaran’s manner so much as hinted at the angry words he had thrown at Emereck that morning. It was as though the encounter had been completely forgotten, or had never taken place.

Flindaran’s expression changed. “Uh, did I say something?”

“What? Oh, no; I was just wandering.”

“Come down to the courtyard with me, then; I’ve got some things to do.”

“You seem a little more cheerful now than you did this morning,” Emereck said cautiously as he fell into step beside his friend.

“It’s been a good day,” Flindaran said vaguely. He glanced down a side corridor, then stopped and called, “Kay! Father wants to see you before he leaves.”

Kiannar nodded in casual recognition, and they continued on. “What’s all this about?” Emereck asked.

“Father’s going to be away from the castle for a few days.”

“This is an explanation? It’s obvious; half the castle is packing things.”

“Well, that’s all anyone knows. He hasn’t said where he’s going or why.”

“Is that wise? What if something happened?”

Flindaran shrugged. “He ought to know what he’s doing; this isn’t the first time it’s happened. Besides—you know him. Would you want to ask him what he’s up to, if he didn’t want to say?”

“No,” Emereck admitted. “But you must have some guess.”

“No, and I’m not going to worry about it. It’s just one of his little mysteries; we’ll find out when he wants us to know.”

A disquieting thought occurred to Emereck. “Who’s going to be in charge while Lord Dindran is gone?”

“Gendron and I,” Flindaran said, and grinned smugly.

“Both of you? Isn’t that a little unusual?”

“There’s a lot to do, and the healer says Oraven isn’t well enough yet to help. Besides, Father is always… a little unusual. Hadn’t you noticed?”

Emereck laughed, suppressing a twinge of misgiving. “Congratulations, then!”

“It’s only for a few days,” Flindaran said with unaccustomed seriousness, “but it’s a chance to show Father what I can do.”

“Have you and Gendron discussed it yet?”

“Of course. He’s the eldest, so he’ll take over most of Father’s public duties. The steward handles most of the details of running the castle, of course, but there will still be a few things he can’t do, and the townspeople will—”

Emereck relaxed as Flindaran talked on. His new responsibilities appeared to have driven all thought of the harp from Flindaran’s mind. And in a few days the Duke would return. Things would be all right, for a few days.

Shalarn knelt beside the broken carriage-wheel, picking the splinters apart with her fingers. Over a hand span of the rim had been smashed almost beyond recognition by its collision with the rock. Her lips were pressed tightly together in an attempt to suppress the anger she felt at this latest mishap.

“My lady?”

Shalarn looked up into the handsome face of her guard captain. “Yes?”

“How much longer do you expect to spend here? It’s a long ride to the next town; we’ll be lucky to make it by nightfall.”

“We’ll stay as long as it takes me to find what I’m looking for.” Shalarn looked down again to concentrate on separating the pieces of the wheel.

“You suspect sabotage, my lady?” The man’s tone was respectful enough, but the question itself was irritating. He might as well be
trying
to distract her. Shalarn sighed noisily and looked up.

“Yes, captain, I suspect sabotage. This accident is too convenient. And there was the broken harness yesterday, and the delays in Syaskor before that.”

“It may not mean anything, my lady.”

“I think it does,” Shalarn snapped. “Someone is trying to keep me from reaching Minathlan.”

“None of the men would do such a thing,” the captain said stiffly.

Shalarn ignored him. Really, the man was becoming impossible. She would have to watch him, or the next thing she knew he would be trying to take her place.

She pulled an old, discolored nail out of the wreckage and dropped it, then scrabbled in the dust of the road to retrieve it. Her finger had brushed something as it fell, a roughness on one side that should not have been there… She found the nail and turned it over in her hands, then was suddenly still.

“What is it, my lady?” the captain said.

“Sorcery,” Shalarn said grimly. A symbol was scratched on one side of the nail, leaving a thread of bright metal showing plainly against the dark surface. Shalarn’s jaw tightened as she studied it: four curved lines like overlapping half-circles opening away from each other. “The Rune of Separation. No wonder the wheel didn’t hold!”

“My lady?” the captain sounded wary and fascinated at once, as he always did when she spoke of magic.

“The symbol on this nail is one of the seven Change Runes, the rune of breaking. I’m surprised the wheel lasted as long as it did, carrying this.” Absently, she fingered the nail. Clever, to have used an old one. She had almost missed it entirely. Who had done it? Lanyk was involved, of course; this explained why he had insisted so strongly on her taking this clumsy, ornate vehicle. Shadows take him and his whole kingdom! But Lanyk was no sorcerer, and only a powerful mage indeed would have knowledge of the Change Runes. Who was helping the Prince of Syaskor? And how much did they know?

Frowning, Shalarn rose. “We’ve lost enough time, captain. We’ll leave the coach; from here on, I’ll ride. See to it.”

The captain turned and snapped a command. Shalarn’s men leaped to unharness the carriage horses and repack the essential baggage. Shalarn smiled. Tonight she would cast more specific warding spells about their camp; there would be no more delays. In a few minutes, the cavalcade was off again, leaving the coach an abandoned shell behind them.

Kensal pushed open the door of the room and stopped short. Ryl was leaning halfway out the window, looking up into the afternoon sunlight. He kicked the door closed behind him, and she turned. “Is that wise?” he asked mildly. “You’re not fully recovered yet, and that wind is chill.”

“I have no fear of wind, and I am very nearly as well as ever.”

“It’s the ‘very nearly’ that worries me. We’re running out of time.”

“I know. But there is little I can do as yet, and to move too soon might do much harm.”