The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel (7 page)

At the rustle of Emereck’s movement, Flindaran looked up, and his expression lightened. “Emereck! You haven’t— I mean, you’re…”

“Flindaran, what are you doing here?” Emereck demanded.

Flindaran’s answering grin held profound relief. “Taking care of you, you ungrateful croaker. You’re lucky I found you.”

“I’m not sure ‘lucky’ is the right word.” Emereck pushed himself up to a sitting position, wincing as he did. “What happened to Ryl and Kensal? And how
did
you find me in all that mist?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know. We had to fight our way out of the courtyard. I lost Ryl and Kensal as soon as we were through, so I turned left and tried to head for the woods, the way Kensal suggested. I thought I saw Ryl ahead of me a couple of times after I got into the trees, but I was never quite sure. I tried to follow her anyway, but if it was her, I lost her again just before the mist started to clear, and then my horse practically tripped over you. It was more luck than anything.”

Emereck shook his head. “I can’t get rid of you no matter how hard I try.”

“Just for that, you get the burned section when the rabbit’s done.”

“You mean there’s going to be a part that isn’t burned? Your cooking must be improving.”

Flindaran made a face at him and reached quickly to turn the rabbit. “Now tell me what happened to you. You went galloping through those Syaski like one of the heroic idiots in those tragic ballads you’re so fond of; I was sure you were going to get killed.”

“They weren’t—wait a minute, you don’t think I took off like that
on purpose
, do you?”

Flindaran stared.

“My horse ran away with me.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Flindaran’s mouth. “Well, you never have been much of a horseman. Go on.”

Emereck described his encounter with the swordsman, but skipped lightly over most of the nightmarish ride that followed. When he finished, Flindaran shook his head. “I keep telling you and telling you, you ought to learn how to handle a sword. Maybe now you’ll listen to me.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Flindaran grimaced. “You’re lucky all you got was a scrape on the ribs! I’m not Philomel the Healer, you know.”

“Just a scrape?” Emereck shifted, and winced again. “It feels a lot worse than that to me.”

“Scrapes usually do.” Flindaran paused, looking worried. “I cleaned it off, but I’m not sure how good a job I did. And I wasn’t sure which of your herbs were good for bleeding, so I didn’t use any of them.”

“It’s just as well, though I suppose you’d have managed not to kill me. Otherwise, you’ve done all the right things.” Emereck stopped and studied his friend. “Don’t worry so much. It would have been worse if things had happened the other way around.”

“What do you mean?”

“What would your father say if the two of us rode up to his castle and
you
were the one with his chest wrapped up?”

“He’d say I deserved it. And he’d be right; those Syaski were lousy swordsmen.”

“They weren’t Syaski.”

Flindaran shrugged. “Maybe the first bunch weren’t, but I’ll bet you a new harp the second batch were.”

“The second… That’s what he meant!” Emereck said, startled.

“What who meant?”

“The soldier who came charging around the inn right before the one on the horse started doing… whatever it was. I only caught a few words of what he said, but it fits. He must have been warning the Lithmern that there were real Syaski coming down the road!”

“You’re sure they were Lithmern?”

“Positive. Their accents were right, even if their armor wasn’t.”

“Maybe they’re hiring their swords to Syaskor for a while. That would explain the armor.”

“Lithmern working for Syaskor?”

“Why not? Half the Lithmern army has turned mercenary in the past couple of years. There wasn’t much else they could do after Alkyra wiped out their invasion.”

“It’s a pity Lithra and Syaskor aren’t neighbors,” Emereck commented. “They deserve each other, and if they were closer together, they might keep each other out of everyone else’s hair. But if the Lithmern we saw were working for Syaskor, why were they worried about more Syaski showing up?”

“I don’t know.” Flindaran frowned. “I don’t like the smell of the whole thing. Lithmern in Syaski armor, real Syaski who can’t fight—none of it makes any sense!”

“Don’t forget the magic.”

“Magic?”

“What do you
think
Ryl and that Lithmern were doing, reciting Varnan poetry?”

“Oh, that. That’s not what I was talking about; magic never makes any sense.”

“At least not to swordsmen.”

Flindaran ignored him. “I wish I knew why they thought Kensal was important enough to send a raiding party for him.”

“We could go back and look for him; maybe he knows.”

“Are you out of your mind? We barely got away as it was.”

“It was just a suggestion.”

“Your curiosity is going to get you killed one of these days. Besides—are you sure you should ride?”

“I don’t have much choice. We can’t camp here for a month while my side heals.”

“We have a couple of weeks to spare before we’ll be missed in Minathlan; Father’s expecting us to come in with the caravan. At the rate Goldar was going, it’ll be at least three and a half weeks before they get there. We can do it in a week, once your side is healed.”

“You’d go out of your mind, sitting here doing nothing, and I’d do the same from watching you. Riding may wear me out, but it won’t do me any real harm.”

Flindaran looked at him sharply, then grinned. “All right, we’ll head for Minathlan. But first we eat.” He leaned forward and reached for the rabbit.

By the time they were ready to leave, it was mid-afternoon. Flindaran helped Emereck mount, then swung himself into his own saddle. “All right, pick a direction.”

“I thought we had decided to go on to Minathlan.”

“Yes, but which direction is that?”

Emereck stared. “You mean you don’t know where we are?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion.”

“That’s because we’ve mist our way.”

Flindaran groaned. “I surrender.”

“You started it.” Emereck shook his head. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“What difference would it make? We’d still be lost.”

“You and your shortcuts. I don’t suppose you have any idea how to get us out of this?”

“Well, we don’t want to go back to Tinbri, and I think that’s west of us. Minathlan ought to be somewhere north and east. So why don’t we… why don’t we…” Flindaran frowned, staring into the trees. “That way,” he said suddenly.

“What?” Emereck squinted up at the sun, then looked at Flindaran in puzzlement. “But that’s almost due east; you just said we have to go northeast to get to Minathlan.”

“It feels right.”

Emereck blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“It feels right,” Flindaran said stubbornly. He hesitated, then continued with more confidence, “Besides, it’ll be easier to find out where we are if we go east.”

“Oh, really?”

“There’s an old road the caravans take that runs northeast from Kith Alunel; we should come to it before long. Then all we have to do is follow it and we’ll get to Minathlan.”

“That makes a little more sense.”

“And when we get to the road, we’ll be on a regular route again.”

“You just convinced me.”

Flindaran nodded absently and they started off. Flindaran went first and Emereck followed, gritting his teeth. Despite the reassurances he had given Flindaran, he was in no condition to enjoy the ride. Even at a deliberately slow walk, his side was painful. He tried watching the trees to take his mind off it, but they all looked the same. Watching them gave him a headache.

Flindaran moved surely through the forest, seldom checking their direction. After a time, Emereck grew uneasy. How could Flindaran be so certain of their way? Emereck looked up to determine the position of the sun for himself, but the heavy canopy of leaves made it impossible. Finally, he rode up to Flindaran and asked bluntly, “Are you sure you’ve never been in these woods before?”

“Of course I’m sure. What kind of question is that?”

“I just thought—” Emereck was suddenly at a loss for words to explain his nebulous suspicions. “Never mind. I’ll just be glad when we’re out of this forest.”

“You will? Why?” Flindaran’s voice was surprised and puzzled. “I like it. It’s so green.” When Emereck did not reply, he went on in a musing tone, “You know, my grandfather claimed our family originally came from somewhere around here, back when Minathlan was still desert.”

“Really? I didn’t think there were any records back that far.”

“There aren’t. It’s just a family legend about some ancestor who left this area and settled in Minathlan.” Flindaran looked up at the trees. “No doubt he had a good reason,” he added sourly.

Emereck swallowed the reply he had intended and said nothing. Flindaran did not speak often of his home, but Emereck had heard descriptions from minstrels who had been there. Minathlan was a flat country with few trees, tending to a dusty yellow-brown in summer and a muddy gray-brown in winter. The land had been reclaimed from desert many centuries before by some anonymous wizard, and the Dukes of Minathlan had worked it well since then. But neither magic nor diligence could coax more than a mediocre harvest from most of the land, and though Minathlan was not poverty-stricken, it was far from prosperous. Emereck did not find it surprising that Flindaran preferred this lush forest.

They rode on in silence. Emereck’s headache receded, but his side still pained him. He bore it as long as he could, but finally he was forced to call a halt. Though it was still early, they made camp, and Emereck fell quickly into an exhausted sleep.

In the morning they went on. Though Flindaran was as sure of their way as ever, they rode several hours without finding any sign of a village, a road, or even of the end of the forest. “Are you sure we aren’t going in circles?” Emereck asked at last. “We should have found that road of yours by now, even at this pace.”

“No,” Flindaran said absently.

“No, we’re not going in circles, or no, we shouldn’t have found the road?”

“I meant—” Flindaran stopped, and his head turned. “What was that?”

Emereck paused, listening. The forest was silent; not even a breath of wind rustled the leaves. “I don’t hear anything.”

Flindaran pulled his horse to a halt and gestured. “It was over that way.”

Shaking his head, Emereck peered into the trees. A sudden gust of wind swept past, bringing with it, faint but clear, a whisper of music.

“There!” Flindaran said. “Did you hear it?”

“I heard it.”

“Who would be playing flutes in the middle of a forest?”

“I don’t know. But those weren’t flutes, or any other instrument I’ve ever heard. And if you don’t mind, I’d like—”

“—to go find out what they are,” Flindaran finished. “And you claim I have a one-track mind!”

“It didn’t sound as if they were far away,” Emereck offered.

The two men looked at each other. Flindaran grinned. “Let’s go, then.”

They swung their horses around and started in the new direction.

A
S THEY RODE ON
, the stirrings of wind became a steady breeze and the music grew gradually louder. The tune was haunting, changing constantly just as it seemed about to slide into a familiar ballad or song. It made Emereck uneasy even as he admired the skill of whoever was improvising it. He thought of the legendary swamp-spirits of Basirth, whose flickering lights lured unwary travelers on until they became hopelessly lost. The music behaved similarly; whenever Emereck and Flindaran drifted off the path, a breath of wind would bring them another snatch of melody.

Emereck shivered. He realized with a start that he had fallen well behind; Flindaran was just disappearing over the top of a low rise. Emereck called to him to wait, and urged his horse forward, heedless of the pain in his side.

At the top of the rise, the trees stopped. Emereck squinted against the sudden sunlight and took a deep breath, then coughed at the heavy, unexpected scent of flowers. Belatedly, he realized that the slope below was a solid mass of blue halaiba flowers. A wake of crushed and bent plants marked Flindaran’s route down the hill, and the air was sweet with their perfume.

The flowers ended at the base of a long, high wall in the center of the open area. Even from where Emereck stood, the milky stone of the wall showed signs of weathering. Treetops rose above the wall, and Emereck could see a flash of white farther on that might be a tower. The scene had an air of unreality about it, like a mountain seen through bright haze on a summer day.

Flindaran stood beside the wall, studying it, while his horse placidly cropped flowers. He looked up and waved. “The music’s coming from inside,” he said as Emereck came up beside him. He looked back at the wall. “I think I can climb it.”

“Well, I can’t, and you’re not going in there without me. Besides, we’ll get a warmer welcome if we’re a bit more conventional about getting inside. There has to be a gate somewhere. Don’t be so impatient.”

“You have no sense of adventure,” Flindaran complained as he remounted.

“You just want to have all the fun.”

Flindaran grinned and denied it, and they started around the wall. About a third of the way around, they found a massive iron gate, which swung smoothly open at Flindaran’s touch. As they rode inside, the music changed sharply. Emereck glanced around for the players.

They stood at the edge of a garden, somewhat overgrown but still lush and green. Immense trees dotted the grounds, and a steady breeze added to the impression of shady coolness. Scattered almost at random among the flowers and trees were a number of stone pillars and spirals in abstract forms. Emereck saw no sign of any musicians… and then he realized that the music was coming from the statues. He froze briefly in surprise, then studied the sculptures more carefully. The wind, blowing through the various shapes, was producing the music.

Beside him, Flindaran gave a low whistle. “Emereck…”