Song Magick (23 page)

The cart turned down the eastern leg of the
crossroads, and followed a wide, winding road through the trunks of
trees and more distantly spaced homes, where shouting children ran
toward the road and waved to the cart as it passed. Mithrais smiled
at them, and Telyn waved back, grinning. The children followed the
cart like a small procession until the road sloped upward and they
began to lag behind, waving as they turned and ran back to their
homes.

“There.” Mithrais pointed toward the
summit.

The manor came into view. Between the trees
at the crest of the rise, grey stones created the walls of the
lowest floor, in which were set tall, arched windows and a massive
door. Above and beside the stone walls, the building had been
expanded many times and was constructed of cream-colored wattle and
wood. The same whimsical architecture that marked the city below
was employed here, carefully incorporating the trees with rounded
walls and even balconies which encompassed them, giving the
illusion of the upper floors being built in the treetops. A low
stone tower with a wide balcony and an open door was half hidden in
the leaves of the trees. Telyn was speechless with delight, for she
thought it was the most beautiful manor she had ever seen.

They pulled up before the enormous door,
which had opened as the cart approached. An older man in a tunic
emblazoned with the green and silver tree of Cerisild walked out
unhurriedly to meet them. His face was sharply angled and pleasant,
his head bare above a fringe of graying hair that had once been
black. He raised a hand in greeting, which Mithrais returned with a
broad smile.

“Welcome back, Mithrais,” the man said
warmly. “You’ve been away far too long this time.”

“I fear that’s so.” Mithrais grinned back at
him, and turned to Telyn. “Diarmid is my father’s steward, but more
importantly, a good friend to both of us. Diarmid, this is Telyn
Songmaker, a true bard, most recently of the court of Amorion.”

“Lord Gilmarion told us that you were out
rescuing fair damsels,” Diarmid said with a smile and a bow. “I see
that he wasn’t exaggerating. Welcome to Cerisild, Lady Bard.”

“Thank you, Diarmid.” She accepted the hand
he offered, and the steward helped her out of the small carriage.
He turned back to Mithrais, arms crossed over his chest.

“Do you want to use one of your father’s
chairs, or would you prefer a staff?”

“A staff, please,” Mithrais grimaced. “I’m
not so injured as to be carried.”

“I thought that might be your preference.”
Diarmid grinned and produced a sturdy wooden staff from behind the
door. “Lord Gwidion is in his library, of course. Are you certain
that you can climb the stair?”

“I think I can manage it.” Mithrais stood up
stiffly and leaned on the staff, taking his full weight on his
uninjured right leg and Diarmid’s shoulder while exiting the cart.
He took a few experimental steps with the staff as the cart drove
away toward a low building that housed the stables.

“We must see my father immediately on a
matter of sanctuary for Telyn, before we see Marithiel, if that’s
possible,” Mithrais told the steward in a low voice.

Diarmid nodded, a flicker of curiosity
passing over his face as he glanced at Telyn, but he did not
question why.

“She is in her dayroom with Lord Gilmarion.
The way to the library should be clear,” Diarmid said
conspiratorially.

The steward turned to lead them through the
doors, moving slowly to compensate for Mithrais’ impaired mobility.
Telyn looked up as they entered and gazed about in awestruck
pleasure.

The central and left hand portions of the
first floor were a combination great hall and entryway; a large
room with a high ceiling contained a dais and tables, and an
enormous fireplace. It was not as spacious as the hall in Rothvori,
but three tall arched windows let in light on either side, so that
the room was airy and open instead of dark and confined. Heavy
shutters that could be closed against the elements or against
attack were nearly hidden by bright tapestries meant to be drawn
across the windows in winter.

Above the grey stone walls, the smaller
entryway soared to the top of the building, two stories evident in
the circular landings. Facing the door, a magnificent banner of the
green and silver tree of Cerisild hung from the highest railing,
glittering with metallic threads.

Mithrais noted her awe and stopped a moment,
leaning against his staff.

“Welcome to Cerisild, Telyn,” he said,
lifting his own gaze to the banner. “I confess that I’d forgotten
how beautiful it is.”

As Telyn smiled back at Mithrais, Diarmid
looked from one to the other much as Gilmarion had. His face held a
mixture of surprise and pleasure, but without the hint of
condescension that Telyn had sensed from Mithrais’ brother.
Mithrais reached out and took Telyn’s hand, glancing at his
friend.

“I’ve found my lifemate, Diarmid, with the
assistance of the Gwaith’orn. Telyn is a heartspeaker as well as a
bard.”

Diarmid bowed more deeply than he had
outside, the smile broadening. “I know that Lord Gwidion will be
pleased to hear this news-–perhaps more so than any other news you
could have given him, Mithrais. But why is Telyn’s presence a
question of sanctuary?”

“Misguided revenge.” Mithrais scanned the
balconies, and then glanced at the bard. “Father must be first to
hear the details.”

Diarmid sighed, a sound that carried the
weight of an unpleasant duty. “And I must return to the dayroom
before I miss anything that Lord Gwidion should know.

“They grow bolder, Mithrais,” Diarmid said in
a voice barely audible, so that Telyn had to strain to hear it. “I
fear that they will strip him of all authority before he realizes
it. He does nothing to reprimand her, and Lord Gilmarion simply
follows her lead in everything.” Diarmid’s eyes were concerned, and
held a silent plea. “If you were to see your way clear to returning
to Cerisild permanently, things may change. He seems to rally his
spirit when you’re here.”

Mithrais looked at the steward, his
expression pained. “I’m here for an extended visit, at least until
I’m fully healed. There will be rites I must attend in a few days.
Aric was killed by the same bounty hunter that wounded us.”

Diarmid looked shocked, then sorrowful. “I am
sorry to hear this, Mithrais.” He placed a hand on the younger
man’s shoulder. “I know that his loss must be difficult for you. He
was a good friend.” Mithrais nodded mutely.

“If either of you need anything, send one of
the servitors to me.” Diarmid bowed and left, disappearing down a
passageway that branched to the right, and Mithrais made his way
toward the rear of the hall, where the stair descended from the
first landing. Telyn walked beside him, feeling the first pangs of
anxiety at the prospect of having to recount her tale once
more.

“Father’s library is in the tower,” Mithrais
explained. “He seldom comes down any longer because he dislikes
being carried about. Diarmid designed for him a chair that rolls,
but he only uses it in the library. It’s his refuge, as the Wood is
mine.” His face was sober as he positioned himself on the stair,
his right hand on the railing and his left gripping the staff
tightly, but he did not move.

“Are you all right?” Telyn asked softly.

Mithrais turned to her, his eyes worried.
“Each time I come home, things have spiraled farther out of my
father’s control. Diarmid’s right—I should stay to ensure that
Marithiel doesn’t take advantage of her regency. It’s my duty as
his son to protect his interests, but I never thought I would have
to protect him from my mother.” He smiled faintly. “I’m a coward
when it comes to that, Telyn. It’s why I hide myself in the Wood,
safely under the excuse of my wardenship. The last time I tried to
defend my father against their assumption of his power, my mother
accused me publicly of being jealous of Gilmarion’s position to
inherit Cerisild.”

“Those are only words.” Telyn reflected a
moment, and smiled wryly. “Never mind. They can still be painful
weapons.”

“They can be.” As he turned to climb the
stair, Mithrais admitted in a voice that Telyn could barely hear,
“But perhaps I stay away because I know there’s truth in her words,
and the truth can also be difficult to face.”

* * * *

The door to the library was closed. Mithrais,
his face lined with pain after the climb up two flights of stairs,
did not knock, but lifted the latch and opened it.

The tower room revealed through the brief
entryway was large, the balcony doors that had been visible from
the courtyard open to the warm afternoon sun. A large desk was
covered with parchments and scrolls, quills and ink, and two chairs
were positioned carelessly beside it in front of the unlit
fireplace. A small alcove housing a bed was partially hidden by a
hanging drapery, but it was empty, and there was no one immediately
apparent.

A rustling behind one of several large, free
standing shelves of leather-bound volumes and other oddments
betrayed the presence of the tower’s inhabitant, and Mithrais
limped in. Telyn followed and closed the door behind them. She hung
back in the entryway, waiting.

“Father? Are you buried beneath the Tauron
histories, or can you come out to meet someone?” Mithrais called,
leaning the staff against the mantel.

“Mithrais! At last.” The deep voice held
greeting and affection, and a moment later, Gwidion, Lord Cerisild,
appeared from behind the shelf in a rolling chair, ink-stained
fingers gripping the wheels and propelling them forward.

Gwidion’s resemblance to his youngest son was
striking, with only small differences. The dark hair was silvered
at the temples, hanging in a braided queue down Gwidion’s back, and
the eyes beneath expressive brows were more brown than Mithrais’
startlingly pale green eyes. The lines on his face described a man
capable of intense emotion. At the moment, Gwidion was looking at
his son with an expression that spoke only of pride and
pleasure.

His upper body was still powerful, his
useless legs hidden beneath a robe across his lap as he opened his
arms wide to Mithrais, who grinned and then winced as he stooped to
return his father’s embrace.

Gwidion noticed immediately. “You’re not
badly injured? What did the healers say?”

“I’ll recover soon enough. Don’t worry about
me.” Mithrais clasped his hand. “It is good to see you,
Father.”

“And I am glad you’re back. Sit down and tell
me all, Mithrais. And who is this you have brought?” Gwidion looked
at Telyn lingering in the doorway and smiled a welcome, and at
last, Telyn saw something that was not an echo of Mithrais: the
smile was Gwidion’s alone. It was radiant and full of enormous
charm, but held an undertone of sadness.

Mithrais beckoned to Telyn to come closer,
smiling. “Father, this is Telyn Songmaker, a true bard and a
heartspeaker, who until a year ago was at the court of
Amorion.”

Telyn dropped into a deep curtsy. “My Lord
Gwidion, it is an honor to meet you at last. The court speaks of
you with great admiration.”

“Lady Bard.” Gwidion inclined his head,
glancing at Mithrais with interest as Telyn rose. “Do I have you to
thank for this transformation in my son? I haven’t seen Mithrais
smile in longer than I care to remember.”

The Lord of Cerisild looked up at Telyn,
beaming, and the bard silently cursed her uncontrollable blushing,
unable to keep from responding to the charm of the man’s smile.
Mithrais grinned and gave Telyn one of the chairs before pulling
the other up beside her and lowering into it slowly, bracing
himself on the arms.

“There are many things we must tell you,
Father.” Mithrais settled into the chair with a sharp exhalation of
breath, extending his wounded leg before him. “First, in the midst
of the western Wood, I came upon the missing piece of my soul
beside a small fire, playing a harp.” He shook his head in wonder.
“I have found my lifemate, Father.”

“That is joyous news, indeed.” Gwidion
regarded them both with solemn pleasure. “For that alone, Telyn
Songmaker, I welcome you into my house. However, why do I suspect
that there was more to your meeting than that?”

Mithrais sobered. “Telyn didn’t know that she
was being pursued by bounty hunters, who caught up with her in the
Wood not long after our initial meeting. I’ve offered her
protection here in Cerisild, and we ask that you hear her story,
and sanction it.”

“Indeed?” Gwidion’s hand went to his chin,
leaning on the arm of his chair. He appeared to be considering
something carefully, studying Telyn’s face. “And why, exactly, are
you being hunted, Telyn?”

Telyn took a deep breath that quavered
slightly. “It never gets easier to tell,” she said shakily.
“I—killed a young man in self-defense, while I was at court. King
Amorion would not allow any action against me, but I had to leave
Belthil.” She closed her eyes, steeling herself against the memory,
and for the first time since that night, spoke his name out loud.
“The young man’s name was Vaddon, and his father has set a very
large price on my head, against the King’s command. He is Vuldur,
the Lord of the East.”

Gwidion grew very still, his eyes flicking to
Mithrais, who nodded solemnly. Gwidion stared at Telyn unblinkingly
for a moment, and then leaned forward, extending his hand, palm
up.

“Tell me everything that happened that night.
I must know exactly what occurred, and exactly what was said.”

Telyn drew a breath and prepared to speak,
but Mithrais sat forward and said, “He’s asking to read the memory
directly.” He turned to Gwidion. “She’s only just learned that she
is a heartspeaker, but is proving to be adept.”

Gwidion’s brows rose and he nodded. “Telyn,
do you understand what I’m asking?”