Copyright 1997, Christie
Golden
PROLOGUE
They
had not spoken for over an hour, the large, strong wizard and the slim,
elegant bard, and the silence lay heavily between them.Calleo
paced back and forth, his human heritage of emotion revealing itself in
every line of his ample body.His
big hands clenched and unclenched, and he occasionally rubbed one across
his bald pate, as if to smooth down hair that had not been there for decades.
Jencir
permitted himself a touch of quiet humor."Careful,
Master Calleo," he warned in his musical voice."You
might rub away what little is left."
Calleo
glared at the elf."Curse the day
anyone ever introduced elves to humor," he growled without real malice,
then continued his pacing.
Jencir
smiled, pleased that his teasing had been appreciated, and bent his head
over his harp, his own golden hair as thick and full now as it had been
for the last six centuries.Slim
fingers floated over the strings, coaxing soothing music to fill the tense
silence in the room.
The
two were waiting for Prince Liandir, who had instructed them to meet him
in his private quarters.The room
was large and airy.Its floors, ceilings,
and walls were made of the beautiful milk-white quartz that formed the
palace, home for centuries to Falarah's ruler, King Cynor, and his family.Liandir's
own personal touch was evident in the bright colors of bed linens, draperies,
carpets, and tapestries.In addition
to exquisite elven carvings, there were also the works of human artisans.A
small pool graced with a carved dolphin served as home to water lilies
and small, brightly hued fish.The
large window was open, and an early summer breeze made the sapphire-and-silver
drapes swell and billow.The room
accurately reflected its tenant--a mixture of old and new, human and elven,
inanimate art and life's own works of beauty.
Lovely
as his surroundings were, and soothing as the music he produced might be,
Jencir's thoughts were with Prince Liandir.Away
from the secluded peace of his private chambers, the youthful prince of
the elvenland Falarah now sat at King Cynor's side at the Council of Elvenkind.Under
debate was what was pallidly called "The Human Question," dealing with
the mortal country of Byrn, just across the Falaran border.There
would be no shouting, no name-calling, no half- or completely-drawn weapons,
things Jencir might have reason to expect had the meeting consisted of
volatile humans.No, the elves, by
their very nature rarely able to feel deep emotions, would simply talk.
Some
wished to close the borders, have no further contact with humans.Others,
like Liandir and Jencir, had learned to appreciate and enjoy mortals.Still
others wanted extreme measures, to halt what they regarded as "contamination."If
the extremists carried the vote, Jencir wondered, would he and his friends--human
and elf, prince and minstrel and Court Wizard--pay the price?They
had reached past their own deep-bred prejudices, but clearly others could
not--or would not.
Jencir's
sharp features saddened, the music he played shifting to a minor key.
Falarah
was the most populous of the four elvenlands.Liandir's
father, King Cynor, was among the oldest and most respected rulers.When,
two centuries ago, the elven goddess known as The Lady had reduced the
mountains between Byrn and Falarah to mere foothills, the Falarans knew
that Her desire was for peace, not war.It
was simple, logical, obvious; so obvious that King Cynor betrothed his
daughter Ariel to the human prince Tach.Though
Tach had died long ago, the immortal Ariel yet lived in her husband's country,
the honored Queen-mother of Byrn, she and her part-elven descendants a
living tribute to interracial peace.
The
Falarans were proud of her, of the elven blood that mingled with human
in Byrn.Others, including King Kertu
of Sali, found such a union obscene.
"If
you ask me," said Calleo, though no one had, "King Kertu and the Sa elves
shouldn't have any say in what to do about the border.It's
Falarah's border, not Sali's."
"Theoretically,
you are correct.But the elves have
thought and moved as one for millennia.Two
centuries of contact with humans is not likely to change that."
The
door opened, and Prince Liandir entered.Jencir
leapt to his feet, and Calleo stopped in midstride.Liandir
closed the door behind him and did not speak for a moment, but his sorrowful
expression told his friends what had happened.
"Sweet
Lady Death, they're going to war, aren't they?" exclaimed Calleo.
Liandir
held up a slender, beringed hand.A
faint smile tugged at his weary face."Patience,
friend Calleo!It is a good thing
indeed that we elves do not often have strong emotions.There
would be none of us left if we all fretted as you do!"There
was only affection in his voice; the rebuke was friendly.
The
prince walked into the room.The
highly formal robes he was required by etiquette to wear to the Council,
heavy, fur-trimmed, and embroidered, threatened to overwhelm the elf's
slender frame.He shrugged off the
cloak, laying it on the bed.His
prince's coronet, encrusted with rubies and one great, winking sapphire,
blatantly declared his nobility to those who could not see it, far more
subtly stated, in his kind face.Sighing,
he rubbed at his eyes, eyes that were gray as a morning mist and half again
as large as a human's.Handsome
in a race that was, to an individual, uncommonly beautiful, Liandir would
have seemed the perfect Falaran prince of legend had it not been for the
unnatural weariness and pain on his face.He
looked suddenly old, Jencir thought; as old as King Cynor.
The
bard and the wizard waited, the former with the patience of his race, the
latter with the agitation of his.Liandir's
voice was deep with regret when he at last spoke.
"The
Sa carried the vote.Falarah was
the only elvenland willing to actively protest King Kertu's desire.The
Ker did not wish to become involved and yielded their vote.And
the Ilsi!" Liandir's musical voice grew rough with displeasure."The
Ilsi are too afraid of the big, blundering mortals to--how was it phrased?--risk
contact with them.They think Kertu's
desire to show a hostile mien will discourage humans from traveling to
our lands.They do not see that if
this road does lead to war, then they may get far more human contact than
they expected."
Calleo's
bearded face flushed and he swore violently.Jencir
shook his golden head sadly.He hadn't
cared for humans when he was younger, but two centuries of contact had
worn down his prejudices.Now, he
found he enjoyed the company of the blunt-spoken, lively Calleo, and others
of his race.The thought that Kertu
would prefer to murder humans rather than try to understand them--
"How
long do the humans have?" he asked.
"Long
enough, perhaps," Liandir replied.His
face was thoughtful, his gaze directed inward.Jencir
recognized that look.It meant the
prince was planning something."Kertu
first wants to assemble an army of elven troops along the border between
Byrn and Falarah, where the Kyras used to be.`We
no longer have a wall of stone,' said he, `so we shall make a wall of steel.'Then...I
do not know.Perhaps he will openly
attack the Byrnians."
"Elves
will lose a war against humans," advised Calleo."We've
got the emotions, remember.We know
how to hate, how to channel bloodlust properly.You
elves don't have that.And Byrn
has a standing army, well-trained and used to killing.Those
damned Ghil in the north provide mighty fine practice bodies."
Liandir
turned his gray eyes to his friend."Perhaps
Kertu is not capable of true hatred, my friend.But
he does believe in the purity of elven bloodlines, and in the wrongness
of associating with humans.And
the Sa have had as much practice in attacking the Ghil as have humans.It
could be a closer battle than you think, and if the humans are not prepared,
they might be the losers after all."
He
glanced over at Jencir, hesitated, and then uttered the news that he knew
would hit the performer the hardest."Kertu
and the Sa have officially stated that they do not believe the Lady partially
destroyed the Kyras."
"No,"
breathed Jencir."How can they?"
"Well,
it's a big tale to swallow, if you didn't see it," commented Calleo."And
it was only the Falarans and the Byrnians who witnessed it."
Jencir
turned to the wizard, his color high, filled with the closest approximation
of fury he was capable of experiencing."I
saw it, Calleo!I was there, fighting
against the dreadful things that the Nightlands King had sent against us.I
was there, when the sun went out.I
was there when She appeared to elf and human alike, promising a new chance
at peace for all races of Aertha.
"I
watched as the mountains crumbled before Her words.She
did this to bring humans and elves together, to learn from each other.And
if Kertu and the Sa deny this, then they deny the lessons She was trying
to teach."
"I
pray it will not come to war, but..." Liandir's voice trailed off.
"If
it does, will the other elven nations fight with Sali?" asked Calleo.
"I
do not believe so, but I could be wrong.Most
likely, Sali will stand alone."
"Will
it?" pressed the wizard."What about
the People of the Sea?They have
little reason to love my race."
"But
they will not fight you," countered Liandir."The
conflicts of those on land do not much concern them."
"What
about the Changers, or the Hidden Folk?"
"Changers?I
have not heard of anyone encountering one in my lifetime," replied the
prince."They may not exist any more.Even
if they do, they have never sided with elf or human in any struggle.There
is no reason for them to do so now.And
as for the Hidden Folk, they are as shy as the Ilsi.No,
we have little fear that Kertu will find allies for actual warfare."
Jencir
spoke up."But the Sa alone, as Liandir
said, will be formidable enough if they are allowed to surprise the humans."
Liandir
took a deep breath, and shook his head."This
is wrong, terribly wrong.I know
it.We must warn your people, Calleo.They
must know what is going on before Kertu has a chance to gather an
army.Could you perhaps send a message
to Queen-mother Ariel?"
Calleo
reluctantly shook his bald head."My
strengths lie in hand magic, not mind magic."
Liandir
sighed in exasperation."I would
go myself, but I would be recognized, and Kertu will be watching me."
They
sat in distressed silence, their minds working furiously.Suddenly
an idea occurred to Jencir.
"Highness...I
could carry a message for you."
Both
Liandir and Calleo stared at him.
"I
am but one of many bards in the castle," Jencir pointed out, "and it is
not uncommon for us to travel to other cities, even other lands.If
you, or Calleo, or even a royal squire were to attempt to carry a message,
he or she would be suspected at once.Music,
however, knows no borders."
"It
damn well knows the Byrnian border, as far as Kertu and his ruffians are
concerned!" Calleo exploded.
Gently,
Liandir touched the human's sleeve, and Calleo composed himself.
Jencir
was touched by the wizard's concern."There
are ways for one lone musician to slip past the Sa border guards," he insisted.
Kertu's
plan must bot be allowed.All it
could possibly lead to would be horrifically high casualties on both sides,
casualties that called to the bard's mind songs and tales of centuries
before, in which both human and elves nearly slew one another down to the
last child....
Jencir
had been witness to the most recent war between the races.It
could not be permitted to happen again.
"I
could take some kind of message that might be passed along to the Queen-mother
even if I am stopped," Jencir pressed."Come,
Highness, you know this is the only way to save all of us!"
"Yes,"
said Liandir, his beautiful face lighting up with a new sense of hope."And
perhaps Calleo can help."
Two
pairs of gray elven eyes fastened on Calleo.He
was confused at first, but when Liandir and Jencir began to explain, the
wizard started to smile.
It just might work, after all.
CHAPTER
ONE
Raise
thy voice in songs of praise, for music greatly
pleaseth
the gods.
--
from Opening Prayers to Light
The
Borderlands regional bardic competition, held in the small town of Hallenore,
was starting to wind down.The weather
had cooperated, granting a cool morning and now a glorious, sunny afternoon.The
more than half a thousand souls who had attended the annual musical event
sat together in sweaty but jovial proximity, listening to the performers
with avid interest.Filling every
inch of the town square and taking up room on the steps of the buildings
that surrounded it, they were by and large a genial crowd.They
had come to listen to fine music and enjoy the day, not to drink, carouse,
or pick fights.The Kyras in the
east gazed benevolently down upon the scene, a constant presence in this
town that was nestled against their rolling foothills.
A
handsome young man finished a heartbreaking ballad, and was rewarded with
enthusiastic applause as he bowed and descended the rickety stairs of the
makeshift stage.
Jencir
suppressed a shudder as a chill swept through him.He
leaned with feigned casualness against a column that supported a building
called Holding House.He pretended
interest in the performer, but his sharp eyes were constantly scanning
the crowd, searching.The elf wore
only a nondescript tunic and simple breeches.In
his arms he held a lute, wrapped for the moment in a protective covering
of cloth.Jencir was glad for the
press of people.The presence of
so many witnesses would make a murder attempt far less likely.Not
that it mattered much now.Chances
were he was already dead.
He
shuddered as the pain racked him.His
muscles ached constantly, their protest increasing by the minute.Breathing
was becoming agony.Despite the
mild temperature, sweat broke out on his pallid face and trickled down
into the collar of his tunic, damp from a hundred such paroxysms over the
last agonizing day and a half.Angry
heat radiated from the inflamed wound on his shoulder where his enemy had
struck a glancing blow, inflicting a comparatively light dose of poison.Only
that had allowed him to live this long.
Liandir's
plan to warn Queen-mother Ariel had been put into action.Jencir
had come with the warning Ariel, indeed everyone in Byrn, desperately needed
to receive if war were to be prevented.It
had been a good plan, though, Jencir now realized with uncharacteristic
bitterness, terribly naive.The three
had assumed that no one would suspect a bard carrying nothing but the instrument
of his craft.
They
had been wrong.
The
enemy's poison blazed its path through Jencir's once-numberless days as
a fire burns kindling.Again salty
liquid trickled into his mouth and he sucked on his bleeding gums.Inside,
he knew, he was also bleeding--part of the poison's deadly legacy.He
could have halted it, could have cured himself, had he done what his body
had, over centuries, been taught to do.All
that he needed to do was to simply lie down, close his eyes, and let his
body shut itself down while it healed.It
was a powerful, primal physical reaction, and it was what enabled elves
to live so long.Only a beheading
could kill an elf outright.For all
other injuries and illnesses, the body went into what was known as Resting
for as long as was necessary to heal, sometimes for years at a time if
the wound were serious enough.
But
Jencir had a task, a task his friend and prince had charged him with--a
task that he owed the Lady Herself.So
he had denied his body's cry for Resting, fighting the instinctive drowsiness
and forcing himself to continue.He
had never heard of anyone delaying Resting for more than a few hours.He
suspected that he had already delayed too long.
Jencir
squinted up at the sun, now well in the west.Even
now, the shadows of the shattered mountains were creeping over the scene.Only
a few more hours until sunset; only a few more hours of relative peace.With
the night would come the enemy--a relentless, nameless pursuer who had
a limitless array of disguises at its disposal, who had been hard on Jencir's
heels since he had left Falarah, who had slain his beloved steed and who
had, in the end, slain Jencir himself.The
elf simply hadn't yet had time yet to die.
He
shifted the lute in his arms and applauded politely as another bard finished,
but did not watch the performer depart the stage.His
eyes were on the crowd, still searching.
Lady,
I pray You...just a few hours more...
His
mouth began to tingle.The poison
was spreading.
He
was here, in open view, because he was supposed to meet a contact in Hallenore
at this competition.The contact
had been intended as a precaution.Traveling
alone across what remained of the Kyras was always risky, and the dire
nature of Jencir's errand made it more so.If
he were injured, or someone were following him, the contact would bear
the message to Ariel.Jencir's increasingly
weakened condition cast a new sense of urgency over the scheduled meeting.This
contact, whoever he or she was, must be the one to take the message to
Kasselton.By morning at the latest,
Jencir would either be Resting--or dead.
But
where was he--or she?
Jencir
wished that Liandir had told him whom he was supposed to be meeting.He
could have at least had a description, to aid him in recognizing this person.But
Liandir had not been sure whom he would select when Jencir had left."Someone
will be sent," the prince had assured his friend."I
have...friends."
Dimly,
Jencir heard a faint buzzing sound.He
realized almost at once that it was not coming from the bard currently
performing.The sound was in his
own ears.Fever raged through him.He
forced himself to inhale, to loosen his restricted chest.When
Jencir shifted position, he realized that his fingers, his long, clever
minstrel's fingers, were slow and clumsy.It
was the first stage of paralysis.The
elf swallowed hard, fighting to stay alert and attentive.
A
sharp sense of desperation grew inside him as he scanned the crowd for
the hundredth time, searching for someone who would perhaps meet his eyes
and nod almost imperceptibly.Or
who would vanish, only to reappear, ready to take the precious message
on to its final destination.
Where?If
Jencir could not put the message into safe hands, the enemy would win.No
matter what, Jencir, his body preparing to shut down for healing or death,
had lost.
Lady...please...
Alarmed,
Jencir shook his head.His mind was
wandering.Another few hours and
he would forget his mission entirely as his body, unable to resist, succumbed
to the Resting.His consternation
increased when he realized that the shadows were far longer than they had
any right to be.What he had taken
for an instant of inattention had actually been over an hour.He
closed his eyes, fighting the pain as another wave of torment crashed and
broke over him.
"My
lords, my ladies, pray you welcome Gillien Songespynner to our competition!"
The
elf glanced without interest up at the stage.The
final competitor was moving to take her place, and Jencir felt a touch
of pity for the girl.Songespynner,
was it?Clearly a stage name, and
not an overly original one at that.She
was also clearly not up to following with any success the outstanding performances
he'd heard today.The new minstrel
was tall and very slender, and her long, dark hair fell unbound to her
hips.Her mauve-hued overdress modestly
covered her throat and arms though Jencir noticed that the sleeves fit
closely.It was logical.No
performer wanted to risk an ornate sleeve getting tangled in an instrument.
But
her movements were awkward and jerky, and her sharp features betrayed her
discomfort.She ascended the stage
with exaggerated care, lifting her skirts almost indecently high.She
clutched her mandolin, an instrument similar to a small, flat-backed lute,
to her chest in an almost defensive pose.Idly
Jencir wondered just how bad the girl would be.It
was a shame, he mused, that the last song he heard would be performed by
an amateur.
Then
she took a deep breath, and positioned the instrument comfortably against
her body.Strong fingers--minstrel's
fingers--curved about the slim neck and positioned themselves on the strings.Before
Jencir's gaze, the awkwardness fell away from her as if it were a cloak
she had casually dropped.Her eyes
remained wide and her expression vulnerable, but as she sang, it became
apparent why she had adopted the guise of a bewildered, innocent maiden.
Twelve
months ago I came here as
A
young and blushing bride.
This
handsome man had chosen me,
And
I'd stand by his side.
'Fore
gods and men, I took the vow
To
love him faithfully.
But
a year has passed; I'm virgin still;
My
husband wants, but wants not me.
'Twas
on our wedding night he said
He
loved his first wife still.
Her
death had left a void behind
Which
I could never fill.
"This
house is thine, and all within,
Do
with it as you may,
But
my bed I cannot share with you."
And
so, alone, that night I lay.
She
is gone, but not forgotten,
And
she haunts my husband's hall,
And
her portrait smiles sweetly
From
the cold and stony wall.
And
he hears her footsteps in the night
And
he starts at every sound,
Even
though he knows she's buried 'neath
Six
feet of cold and stony ground.
Jencir
stared, his attention completely seized, his pain for once forgotten.The
girl, what was her name--something Songespynner; ah, Gillien, that was
it--was magnificent!He had never
heard the song before, and suspected she had penned it herself.It
was encumbered by none of the stilted, formal refrains that unfortunately
seemed common to Byrnian music, and the lyrics, as performed by this sweet-voiced
child-woman, were heartbreaking.From
the silence around him, Jencir knew that he was not alone in his appreciation.
I
thought to give him time to grieve,
And
patiently I'd wait.
Then
welcome him back to my arms
And
truly be his mate.
But
time has passed, and here I lie,
A
wife in naught but name:
The
seasons come, the seasons go,
But
winter in his heart remains.
I
fancied I'd a lover take,
But
'twas a foolish whim,
For
as his heart is bound to her,
So
I cleave unto him.
There's
none can stir me as he did
When
courting me so fair;
But,
oh gods, dear gods, it's killing me,
And
my soul is lost unto despair.
She
is gone, but not forgotten,
And
she haunts my husband's hall,
And
her portrait smiles sweetly
From
the cold and stony wall.
And
he hears her footsteps in the night
And
he starts at every sound,
Even
though he knows she's buried 'neath
Six
feet of cold and stony ground.
A
soft sob to his right distracted Jencir.A
girl, a few
years
younger than Gillien's eighteen or so, stared at the singer as tears tricked
down her soft, rose-colored cheeks.For
not the first time, Jencir wished that he had the gift for emotions that
humans had.It was as if, to make
up for their candle-flame brief lives, they felt everything with an intensity
at which Jencir could only marvel.Gillien,
the audience firmly in the palm of her hand now, continued.The
last two verses were sung in a voice laced with torment and brushed with
feather-soft insanity.
There
is no anguish like the pain
Of
loneliness in bed.
He
scorns the warmness of his wife
And
yearns but for the dead.
And
celebrations hollow ring,
For
distant is mine host,
And
my ladies slyly laugh at me,
And
they say I'm jealous of a ghost.
The
first snow of the year has come
And
lies like feathers white.
And
from atop this parapet
Shall
I fly down this night.
For
though it is a fall indeed,
The
flagstones are but down--
And
surely soft white snow I'll hit
Instead
of cold and stony ground.
She
paused, stringing out the moment with unbearable tension, then repeated
the chorus with a slight but sinister change in the wording that made even
Jencir's skin prickle.
We
are gone, but not forgotten,
And
we haunt our husband's hall,
And
our portraits smile sweetly
From
the cold and stony wall.
And
he hears our footsteps in the night,
And
he starts at every sound,
Even
though he knows we're buried 'neath
Six
feet of cold and stony ground.
There
was a silence as the last note of her mandolin faded and died.Then
the crowd members erupted with applause, leaping to their feet and crying
their approval.Gillien started
to bow, like a boy, which Jencir thought was odd, then turned the movement
into a clumsy curtsey as awkwardness returned to her.Her
face flamed at the applause.A tentative
smile played about her lips, then the young minstrel surrendered to it.Her
grin was crooked, but utterly sincere.Still
grinning, she clattered down the steps to the area behind the stage.
Finally,
the clapping died down, and the audience began to chat and mill about.The
competition was over; all that remained was to announce the winner.Some
crowd members left to purchase food from a few vendors who had shrewdly
set up temporary shop near the square.The
judges left their raised dais to the right of the stage to meet in private
and discuss their opinions.
Jencir
stayed where he was, his gaze prowling restlessly over the dispersing crowd.He
would not tax what little energy was left to him by moving for no purpose.His
innate elven patience warred with the pain and the Resting reflex it was
causing.Now, surely, the contact
would approach him.He was well above
the crowd, clearly visible to anyone who might be searching for him--friend
or foe.
Torches
were lit at various points around the square and on some of the nearby
buildings.Dusk was near.
Where
was the contact?
As
they moved past him, the Hallenorans glanced at the elf with polite curiosity.This
close to the Falaran border, humans were not unfamiliar with Jencir's race,
though elves were still far from common in Byrn.He
knew that they were contrasting their own appearances with his, as he had
done the first time he had seen a human.Mortals
seemed to have universally dark hair and tanned skin, whereas the Falarans
were fair of face and tress.Elven
builds were far more slender than the powerful frames of humans, even those
of females.And, of course, humans
had those peculiar rounded ears.None
of the gazes, though, were hostile to Jencir.He
smiled with equal politeness, hoping for a sign of recognition from someone,
but nothing came.
Pain
descended again, and Jencir leaned for support against one of the courtyard
arches.Blackness followed.Jencir
almost collapsed.He bit hard on
the inside of his cheek, and swam out of the near-faint.He
tasted blood, but whether from his bitten cheek or his bleeding gums he
wasn't sure.Dimly, he heard an announcement,
and fought to understand the words through his torment and dangerous lethargy.
"...have
decided.Will all the competitors
please come forward?"
Twenty-three
musicians, carrying various instruments and ranging in age from child to
old man, obligingly assembled onstage.Jencir
spotted Gillien.She was shyly trying
to hide in the back, but was tall enough that her ploy didn't work.The
man who had the honor of announcing the winner was Kalaman Herrick, Reeve
of Hallenore, an elegantly handsome man in his mid-forties.His
face was alight with pleasure.Jencir
had observed the reeve watching the competition with more than polite interest,
and knew that the man's love of music was sincere.
"As
most of you know, the minstrel who wins here tonight will go on to represent
the region of the Borderlands in the final round of the annual Byrnian
Bardic Competition.This competition,
for those of you who are willing to travel that far, will be held three
weeks from now in Kasselton, where King Evrei and the rest of the royal
family will select the talented man or woman who shall carry the title
of Bard of Byrn for the next year."
He
paused, and stood up even straighter."No
Borderlander has ever won that title.But
I think I speak for all of us when I say that, this year, that may well
change.My lords, my ladies, I pray
you, give all honor unto the winner of this year's competition--Gillien
Songespynner!"
Even
in the midst of his distress and physical pain, the elf allowed himself
a pleased smile.Gillien was parchment
pale with surprise.Even from where
Jencir stood, he could see that the girl was trembling violently.Reeve
Herrick motioned to her to come down from the stage and accept her just
reward--prize money and a beautiful pendant to wear about her neck when
she performed before the royal family.Gillien
moved slowly past her fellow musicians, who, to their credit, seemed to
be genuinely pleased that she had won.She
tucked her mandolin under her arms, gripped her skirts, and began to carefully
walk down the stairs.
Not
carefully enough, though.As the
crowd watched, adulation turned to sympathetic horror as Gillien stepped
on her dress, stumbled, caught herself for a heartbeat, and then pitched
forward down the stairs.She disappeared
from view.There was a sharp cracking
sound, then Gillien's voice came loudly to Jencir's ears, harsh with her
embarrassment.
"I'm
not hurt, I'm--oh, no!"
The
words turned into a sharp wail, and when Jencir could next see her, Gillien
was on her feet.She did indeed seem
unhurt by the tumble, but her face displayed naked horror.Clutched
in her hands were the broken, jagged bits of wood that represented all
that was left of her mandolin.She
looked as if she were fighting tears, and Jencir could not blame her.
Reeve
Herrick lost his composure and stammered for a moment before he regained
it."Ah, but my lady Gillien, surely
you can make or purchase another instrument?This
should help," he added a bit indelicately, shoving the small purse toward
her.
From
somewhere, Gillien managed a smile as she accepted her rewards from Reeve
Herrick.
"Certainly,"
she said."I shall without a doubt
perform before Their Majesties, as I have been tasked."But
the desperately unhappy look in her large blue eyes gave the lie to her
brave words.
Jencir
felt terribly sorry for the girl.She
might be able to acquire a new instrument, yes, but three weeks was not
a very long time.If only--
The
elf's gray eyes widened as a plan, so brave and reckless and dangerous
that he caught his breath, began to take shape.Did
he dare do it?
Did
he dare not do it?
Lady,
have You given me a sign?I pray
that I am doing the right thing!
The
darkness was descending.Jencir made
his decision.
Mortified
by the incident, the new Borderlands Regional Bard was trying to plow through
the crowd as quickly as possible.Some
respected her discomfort, but others were too anxious to congratulate the
girl on the victory to give any thought to her own rather obvious desire
for privacy.Jencir threaded his
way through the crowd himself and sidled up to her as she tried and failed
to make her way through the press of people to a place of solitude.
"My
lady Gillien," he said, his musical voice carrying clearly through the
chatter of the throng."A word with
you, if I may?"
Gillien's
eyes widened in mild surprise as she saw who--or rather what--had hailed
her, but she recognized a diversion when she saw one.
"Yes,
indeed, let me speak to my fellow minstrel, please," she stammered, angling
her shoulders and at one point literally pushing an eager young admirer
out of the way.She had barely reached
Jencir when the elf's hand seized her own and tugged.
Clearly
a little worried now, she nonetheless followed him past a row of small
shops and into the shadowed doorway of a bakery.Though
the baker had closed for the evening, the scent of bread still lingered.Gillien
looked up at him, curious but unafraid.Jencir
thanked the Lady that elves had achieved a reputation for benevolence here
in the border towns.At least, he
thought bitterly, elves would have that reputation until Kertu's warriors
unexpectedly bore down on the trusting Byrnians like a storm from the east.
"Lady
Gillien, I shall speak quickly and frankly.I
witnessed your unfortunate misstep on the stage."
Gillien
turned crimson, and a flicker of spirit shone in her eyes."If
you have gulled me here merely to insult me, Master Elf--"
He
held up a placating hand."Let me
finish.I will do you a favor if
you will do me one.This instrument,"
he said, reaching to free the lute he carried from its protective swaddling
of cloth, "is one of the finest in Falarah.Its
music is sweet and pure, and when combined with your own talents, will,
I am certain, win for you the title of Bard of Byrn.I
shall loan it to you."
Forcing
his increasingly numb fingers to cooperate, he held out the lute.It
was a beautiful thing.The wood
out of which it was made was a creamy, light-colored hue and seemed to
radiate a cool glow in the orange-yellow light.Its
back curved softly into a pear shape and the front was flat and smooth.It
looked to have been inlaid with swirls and decorative patterns of gold,
and small jewels winked and shimmered as they caught the torchlight.The
keys that tightened the strings were made of mother-of-pearl.
Gillien
gasped aloud, and slowly, as if she were aware of her own movements, she
reached to hold the lute.Not without
a pang of regret, Jencir yielded it to her.She
held it cradled against her small breasts as she gently ran her fingers
over the smooth, highly polished wood.Maneuvering
it into proper playing position, she plucked a chord, and a smile of sheer
delight spread across her face as the sweet music floated upward.
"Oh,"
she whispered, "it's beautiful!"
"Then
we are agreed."
"Oh,
no, I couldn't--"
"You
must!"Jencir realized that urgency
had crept into his voice, and he brought it back under control."Perform
in front of the royal family, and win the competition.When
you have done so, to thank me for the gift, present it to Queen-mother
Ariel."
"Why
don't you give it to her?"Gillien
continued to tenderly coax music from the instrument.The
lute obliged.
Jencir
lowered his gaze, lest she read his own knowledge of his impending death
in them."My path does not take me
there.Yours does.Come,
lady, you need an instrument with which to play, and I need the lute delivered
safely.There is no answer save yes.You
know it as well as I.Lady's blessings
upon you, child."Unable to help
himself, Jencir reached and brushed her soft cheek with one finger, than
dropped his slim, fine-fingered hand to caress the instrument one last
time.The chord Gillien played changed
subtly, dropping from major to minor key at the elf's touch.Then
Jencir turned and hurried down the little alleyway, vanishing into the
crowded courtyard, now illuminated only by torches.
"Wait!"
Gillien cried, but the elf was gone.