The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel (30 page)

“There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Tammis laughed again. “I’ve learned more than you think since I left the Mountains of Morravik. I know the weakness of the Eleann.”

The fingers of her left hand began to uncurl, one by one, and Emereck saw that she held something within it. Kensal started forward, but before he could reach her, Tammis cried loudly, “
Arsklathran fin
!” and pointed at Ryl. At the same moment, Emereck saw exactly what she held in her hand. It was a slender crystal of smoky black.

A
S
T
AMMIS SPOKE, THERE
was a sudden, wailing discord from the musical statues. The air darkened and grew colder. A ripple of distortion moved outward from the crystal Tammis held; as it reached him, Emereck felt a twisting stab of pain in every bone and muscle of his body. He wanted to cry out, but he could not move. Then the ripple passed, leaving him gasping. A moment later, Ryl screamed.

The sound froze Emereck’s blood. He knew it, recognized it, though he had never heard it before. It was the scream of the golden people of his nightmare, as they twisted and melted and changed, the scream he had never quite heard in the dream but had always known was there. Slowly, reluctantly, his head turned, and he looked at Ryl.

She was lying on the ground, curled in on herself, her dark hair falling in a tangled veil around her. Her body shimmered and slipped out of focus, then solidified briefly. The outline of her form blurred and ran, like butter melting slowly on a hot griddle. Her shape firmed again, and for a moment she lay gasping on the ground. Emereck had a brief hope that she had succeeded in throwing off whatever was happening to her; then the cycle began again.

Kensal, too, had glanced at Ryl. He hesitated, apparently torn between rushing to help her and attacking Tammis. Then Welram threw himself to his knees beside Ryl and took her hand in one of his. His eyes narrowed to thin slits and he bared his teeth; it was a moment before Emereck realized that the Wyrd was concentrating on something.

That was enough for Kensal. He lunged toward Tammis, sword outstretched. Tammis raised the crystal. A shaft of blackness darted from her hand to Kensal, and the Cilhar crashed to the ground in front of her. She looked down. “Old fool,” she muttered.

When Kensal lunged, Emereck had begun edging slowly toward the overgrown garden on his right. He still had his dagger; if he could get behind Tammis, perhaps he could stop her. He knew it for a faint hope, at best; he was a poor fighter by any standards while she was both Cilhar and a sorceress. But he had to do something. Ahead of him, he saw Liana moving with the same caution toward her bow and quiver. He would have smiled encouragement, but he did not want to distract her or to draw Tammis’s attention in their direction.

As Kensal fell, the Duke started forward. Welram caught at him with his free hand. “Not with swords,” the Wyrd gasped, so low Emereck could hardly hear him. “Need magic. Use Windsong.”

“You!” Shalarn’s voice surprised Emereck; he had almost forgotten her presence. She was staring at Tammis with undisguised loathing. “Servant of the Shadow-born!”

“How clever of you to notice,” Tammis said. “Yes, I serve them. As you have.”

“No! I hate them!”

“You have served them nonetheless. How do you think I found out about all this in the first place? Your captain was helpful, but hardly knowledgeable enough to lead me to this.”

“My captain?” Shalarn stared down at the man’s body.

“Your captain,” Tammis said, mimicking Shalarn’s tone. “Why do you think he started this fight?”

“
You
told him to?”

“Very good. There were a few too many of you for me to handle alone, but you killed each other off quite nicely. Rylorien was a surprise, but she’s no threat now.”

“I’ll kill you!” Shalarn’s fingers curled into claws.

“I think not.” Tammis smiled with maddening certainty. “I’m afraid I took the precaution of smearing poison on my raven’s-feet. Neither you nor the Duke there will last much—”

Tammis broke off, and her head snapped in the Duke’s direction. “What are you doing?”

Duke Dindran had not moved, but somehow he seemed to have grown taller and more substantial. His expression did not change, but his eyes met Tammis’s and she swayed as though she had been struck. Shalarn glanced quickly from Tammis to the Duke, then reached into a black velvet pouch by her side and withdrew a small gold sphere. She breathed on it, then closed her eyes and muttered something under her breath.

Tammis was concentrating on the Duke. She raised the smoky crystal, and the darkness in the air intensified. The Duke’s lips tightened, as though he were bracing himself for something. At that instant, Shalarn opened her eyes and threw the gold sphere like a dagger at Tammis.

With a brilliant flash of light, the sphere struck the blackness that surrounded the Cilhar sorceress. Tammis jerked, and the bolt of black energy she had intended for the Duke skimmed over his head and demolished part of a tree. The music of the wind-sculptures grew louder, and the darkness thinned.

Tammis whirled. Shalarn’s face was pale and tense with concentration. The golden sphere hung coruscating in the air, slowly eating away at the shadows Tammis had made. With a snarl, Tammis struck at it with her crystal, then spun back to face the Duke once more.

The sphere exploded in a shower of brilliant sparks. Shalarn turned chalk-white; as Emereck watched, she swayed and slid slowly to the ground. The Duke’s eyes narrowed. The wind-music skirled angrily, and the darkness around Tammis thinned still more.

Emereck was almost close enough to strike. He looked quickly around. Liana was barely two paces from her bow. Ryl was still fighting the spell Tammis had thrown at her, but it was clear that both her strength and that of the Wyrd was dwindling.

Emereck’s eyes flew to the Duke, but Lord Dindran showed no sign of weakness. The invisible battle continued unabated, with the shadowed air and the swirling changes of the wind-music the only outward indications of its progress. Tammis took a step backward, then another. Emereck held his breath and raised his knife.

A ray of blackness licked out from the crystal Tammis held, but it struck Liana, not the Duke. The arrow Liana had been aiming went wide. “No!” Emereck screamed, and brought his knife down. Tammis dodged in a sinuous sideways motion, and Emereck’s blade caught only the edge of her cloak.

“Stop!” Tammis cried. “One more move from either of you, and the girl dies.”

Emereck froze. Half-unbelieving, he looked at Liana. She had not fallen; relief made his knees weak. Then he saw the dark glow that surrounded her, like a bubble of black glass. His skin crawled, and he looked back at Tammis in horror. She was panting slightly, her hand still holding the crystal high. Her eyes were fixed on the Duke, who had turned to look at his daughter.

Duke Dindran turned back, and his face was grim. “No,” he said. “I cannot—”

As he turned, Tammis gestured. One of the black rays stabbed at the Duke. He reeled and fell to his knees. Emereck tried to lunge at the sorceress, but found himself unable to move. Tammis struck again. The Duke raised an arm as though to block her, then toppled. The music of the garden slowed, became a dirge. Breathing hard, Tammis looked at her erstwhile opponent.

“You almost won,” she said, half to herself. “I can see I will have to learn more about this castle.”

She turned to Emereck and gestured. He staggered and almost fell as the spell holding him vanished; then he struck at Tammis. She avoided him easily and raised a warning hand. “Not so fast! Have you forgotten?” She clenched her fingers around the black crystal and squeezed. Liana screamed.

“Stop it!” Emereck shouted.

“Drop your knife.”

Emereck did. He felt numb and dazed. “Why don’t you just kill me?”

“There’s no need. You’re no threat to me, and I dislike meaningless waste.”

“What do you call all this?” Emereck said bitterly.

“Necessary.” Tammis smiled coldly. “Now, bring me the harp.”

“No!”

“Do as I say, or…” Tammis closed her hand, and Liana screamed again.

Emereck shut his eyes in pain. “All right! Just stop it.”

Tammis nodded in satisfaction, and the screaming stopped. Emereck’s shoulders sagged in defeat as he turned and walked toward the harp’s hiding-place. He had failed again, and this failure was the worst of all.

He bent and brushed the concealing clothes and bedding away. Underneath, the harp leaned against the white stone of the terrace. It was shimmering faintly with a cold, white light, and Emereck hesitated. It seemed a desecration to give the harp to Tammis, but what else could he do? He was neither a warrior nor a wizard, only a minstrel.

“Bring it!” Tammis commanded.

Emereck bent and picked up the harp. A flash of power shot through him as he touched it, like a joy so intense that it was painful, bringing with it a crowd of memories. Flindaran’s voice: “It might be worth the price.” The Duke: “I will not chance the Harp of Imach Thyssel’s falling into Syaski hands.” The exaltation on Flindaran’s face, as he played the harp. Liana: “Be careful, Emereck.”

Emereck rose and turned, holding the Harp of Imach Thyssel. For the first time since he had found the harp, he felt certain of what he must do. He smiled in pure relief, and drew his hands across the harpstrings.

The harp came alive in his hands. Power crackled through him as he played. He felt it spreading out through the castle and gardens around him, shredding the darkness of Tammis’s spells and making the air sing like chiming crystal. For a moment he thought he had won; then he saw Tammis turn with the slow inevitability of a dream and clench her fist around the smoky crystal.

Emereck tensed as a wave of darkness swept toward him, but his fingers did not falter. The shadows closed around him and he could no longer see the garden or Tammis, but nothing could muffle the song of the harp. The music buoyed Emereck up; as the darkness touched him, he felt only a distant twinge, like an old memory of pain or the faint echo of a broken chord. He almost laughed aloud. Tammis could not reach him! He plucked a chord of triumph, then began a run of notes to dispel the cloud around him. And then he heard Liana scream.

Fear stabbed him. The harp caught at the emotion and intensified it, and the darkness that hid the garden was swept away in an anxious ripple of notes. He saw Tammis’s tight smile as Liana crumpled to the ground, and his fear exploded into murderous rage.

He stared at Tammis, and with a sudden, sure knowledge shaped nightmares in music. The harp sang of loss and power and revenge beneath his hands: deep notes of menace, eerie minor chords of fear, a steadily building rhythm of anger and hatred. He saw Tammis lift her hand once more, and he plucked a single high note on a string that shimmered with a faint silver-green light.

The black crystal shattered in Tammis’s hand, showering her with tiny slivers. Her face twisted in terror, and Emereck grinned in savage triumph. With all the power that ran singing through him, he sent her worst fears back to her in music, willing them to destroy her.

The garden shimmered and faded around him. Emereck saw only Tammis, drowning in the sea of music he was making. Exultantly, he forced his fingers to move even faster. Tammis screamed and writhed; then she, too, vanished, leaving Emereck alone with his song of madness and revenge. Emereck laughed, feeling the power of the Harp of Imach Thyssel. His harp. He played on.

Faces formed in the haze around him: a Guild-Master he disliked, a fellow-student who had been deliberately offensive, a merchant who had cheated him. Emereck smiled. With the harp to call on, he could send retribution on them all. He could do anything, he could—

Another face formed in the mist before him. Emereck’s heart lurched and his fingers slowed. It was Flindaran. He looked gravely at Emereck, without speaking. The memory of Flindaran’s betrayal swept over Emereck, bringing with it a mad desire for revenge.

Emereck drew a sobbing breath. The other images disappeared; Flindaran had done far more to hurt Emereck than any of them. The face hung in the air, waiting, while the strings of the harp pulsed with a song of revenge and hatred and insanity. Waiting for Emereck to set the magic of the harp free to do its work.

“No,” Emereck whispered, and muted the droning of the lower strings. His mind cleared a little, and he shuddered at the thought of what he had almost done. He was worse than Flindaran; his friend had never sought to use the harp in anger and hatred. Emereck looked up. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “About everything.”

The last shreds of the hunger for revenge left him. Flindaran smiled. As the haze around Emereck began to clear, the smile became Flindaran’s old, mischievous grin, and then the apparition vanished.

The Harp of Imach Thyssel still hummed beneath Emereck’s fingers. He looked up from his playing, and saw Tammis lying motionless in front of him. Involuntarily, his head turned toward Liana, and the harp sang sorrow in his hands. Then, as he started to turn away, he saw her fingers twitch.

Almost without his willing it, the music of the harp swelled once more. His mind spread out along with it, filling the garden. He could hear the song of the castle, powerful and complicated and constantly changing. Held within it was a soft, fading melody that was Liana’s link to Windsong. He heard another, similar melody as well, deeper and stronger but slowly waning; the Duke, too, was not yet dead. Only the magic of Castle Windsong had kept them both alive this long.

Quickly Emereck plucked two high, sweet chords, sending a surge of healing toward Liana and another toward the Duke. The magic did its work almost instantly; he could hear their new strength in the music that was Windsong. Then he remembered Kensal, and looked for him. There was nothing, not even a dying echo. Emereck felt a stab of sorrow, but he had no time to indulge his grief. There were still Ryl and Welram to consider. Emereck turned his attention in their direction.

Instinctively, he recoiled from what he heard. Ryl was trapped in a harsh jangle of sound, a twisted parody of music that should never have existed. He heard it below the music of the harp, behind the music of the garden, as a greedy, strident discord. A delicate web of harmony was all that kept the deformed spell away from her. Welram’s magic was a steady accompaniment supporting the fragile defense, but it was clear from the slowing tempo that the Wyrd was almost exhausted.