Song Magick (28 page)

He peered around the side of the parchment,
his face lighting with pleasure, and beckoned her to come
closer.

“Belrion a ta,
Telyn!” he greeted her
warmly as she closed the door behind her.

“Belrion ta,”
Telyn responded.
“
Y’deiri ailis?
”

Gwidion made a sound of satisfaction as she
joined him at the desk. “We’ll make quick work of this, if you can
read the old language as easily as you speak it,” he praised. “I’ve
just been locating the Tauron records where I believe I saw the
‘seed-speaker’ reference. There are still some on the shelf, if you
would be so kind as to retrieve them. They are corded in
green.”

Telyn crossed to the wooden shelves, quickly
locating the rolled parchments and gathering the aged documents
carefully into her arms.

“Mithrais, I presume, is still in the solar,”
Gwidion remarked, his voice dropping a bit as Telyn brought the
scrolls to the desk, setting them down carefully on its
surface.

“Yes, he is,” she affirmed with a sigh.
Gwidion looked at her sharply, his eyebrows arched. He lowered the
scroll he was reading to the desk, turning his chair toward her to
give her his full attention.

“Your voice tells me that her reception
wasn’t positive.”

“No, her initial reception was relatively
polite,” Telyn admitted. “I think she knew that I was being
selective on the details of how I came to be here. However, when
Mithrais told her that we were lifemates, she ordered me out. I
really didn’t expect her to welcome me with open arms, but Mithrais
was very angry.”

The older man studied her gravely, his hands
tightening on the arms of his rolling chair. “I’m sorry, Telyn. The
rift between them has been a lifetime’s work, mostly of Marithiel’s
making. You’re merely an excuse to enlarge the chasm.” Gwidion
reached out and took Telyn’s hand between his own. “It’s a great
relief to me that my son is no longer alone.

“Shall we begin to familiarize you with the
dilemma we face in the Wood?” Gwidion patted her hand and released
it, motioning for Telyn to pull up one of the chairs. “How much do
you know about the Gwaith’orn and the Tauron Order?”

“Not a great deal,” Telyn said as she seated
herself. “Mithrais did tell me that there have been Gwaith’orn in
the Wood for longer than the Tauron’s recorded history.”

“The Order was formed more than three
centuries past, but it didn’t keep records until perhaps two
hundred years ago. Much of the history before that time is only
known through oral tradition. It is a hobby of mine to record the
stories here.” He tapped a thick, leather-bound volume that lay on
his desk. “There is no way to determine how long the Gwaith’orn
existed before the Tauron covenant. They are the last true members
of the mystical races that once dwelled here in the Wood, and I
believe that they are the same beings once revered as gods of the
grove. In the times before recorded history, they were stronger,
and their voices were easily heard.”

Gwidion settled into the tale, and Telyn
listened in fascination. “The Wood has always been a source of
magic, and the old ones knew how to bend and shape it to their
will. Although they were wise and lived far beyond the lifespan of
mortal men, those who were like us in body began to realize that
they were a dying race. They began to intermarry with the people
who had settled the eastern coastline of this isle.

“Those that remained here felt that they
could not abandon their earthbound kin, the Gwaith’orn. They, too,
intermarried with those who came from across the sea, but settled
in the Wood.

“At first all of the children born to the
Silde retained the ability to use magic, but as the ancient
bloodlines continued to be diluted, the ability to tap into that
power was lost. The gifts became less predictably inherited. The
Tauron arose from a covenant between the Gwaith’orn and those who
could still access the old magic: The Gwaith’orn would provide a
safeguard for the knowledge necessary to the use of magic before it
was lost, in return for protection. A last, great spell was cast,
sealing this covenant.

“The newly arrived inhabitants of this isle
did not understand that many of the trees were living beings, and
they were cut down to provide shelter or firewood, to the horror of
those who had been Wood-born. The Tauron’s first role was almost
that of a holy order, caretakers and servants, who patrolled to be
sure the Gwaith’orn were safe from harm and to let them know that
they had not been forgotten. The Tauron became soldiers when
disputes between the Three Realms reached the Wood.”

“The Tauron’s knowledge of the Wood, and
their expertise in fighting in the deep forest allowed our people
to hold fast. The Gwaith’orn’s existence became a closely guarded
secret, for they would warn the Tauron whenever invaders seeking
battle would enter the trees, and it was feared that the old ones
would be destroyed if the enemy discovered them.

“Now we face a new threat to the Gwaith’orn;
one we can’t understand completely, but that we are bound by the
covenant to try and avert. These beings are the last vestige of our
magical heritage, and hold the arcane knowledge in trust until the
time comes that the old gifts can arise once more. If the
Gwaith’orn cease to exist, I fear that all connection to the old
magic will be lost forever, and with it, the Silde’s identity as a
race.”

The sound of the door opening caused them
both to turn. Mithrais entered the room, his face drawn tight with
the remnants of an unpleasant confrontation. He could manage only
the barest of smiles for Telyn and his father as he crossed the
room stiffly, one white-knuckled hand gripping his staff as if he
would impress the wood with his fingers, crumpled pieces of
parchment in his other hand.

“Mithrais?” Gwidion inquired, concern on his
face as he withdrew his hand from Telyn’s. “What has she said to
you this time?”

Mithrais sat in the other chair with a bleak
laugh. “Threats, insults, avowals of her disappointment in
me—nothing that I haven’t heard before, but I fear that anger
overwhelmed my better self. I’ve said things this time that she
will not forget.”

“Telyn told me that Marithiel wasn’t as
pleased as I to meet her,” Gwidion advised, glancing at the
bard.

“She was unforgivably rude to Telyn, but that
wasn’t all.” Mithrais tossed the documents on Gwidion’s desk,
continuing as his father picked them up, “She’s used her power as
your regent to make a change to the treasury expenses.”

Telyn watched, alarmed, as Gwidion’s face
grew dark with anger. “She dares much,” he said, reading the
document. “She can’t simply order the Tauron to disband, according
to the covenant. Even as an amendment to the treasury it is
meaningless unless she has obtained Gilmarion’s signature as
well.”

“She has it,” Mithrais stated flatly. “The
original is ready to be delivered to the Elders, unless...” his
voice fell, and he glanced at Telyn, who felt a stab of
foreboding.

“Unless what?” Telyn asked quietly. Mithrais
took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it
apologetically.

“She thought to force me to agree to a
marriage contract in order to prevent the dissolution,” he said in
a low voice. “Gilmarion’s intended has had a change of heart about
leaving her twin, and apparently, if I wed her sister, all will
proceed as planned.”

“Ludicrous!” Gwidion snapped. “I’ve told them
that it is a desirable match for Gilmarion, but we will survive
without owning Belenus’ wheat fields as long as we can continue to
import what we need.”

Gwidion looked ashamed, and saddened.

“I’ve brought this upon myself,” he said,
shaking his head. “Had I been seeing to my own responsibilities
instead of hiding in this library with my wounded pride...” He
looked up at his son, his eyes cold. “I’ll write an order
disavowing this ill-conceived act, one that can be delivered on the
heels of their document as a recantation of the dissolution if it
gets so far.”

“Father, I spoke to Gilmarion afterwards.”
Mithrais brow was creased in concern. “Has something happened
between the two of you?”

Gwidion wilted a little in his chair, and
shook his head. “Not on my part. Gilmarion no longer sees me in
private. At first I thought it was because his responsibilities had
increased since the winter solstice, but I have come to realize
that he is avoiding me. I don’t know why.” He looked searchingly at
Mithrais. “Did he give you any indication of the reason?”

“No.” Mithrais frowned. “It makes no sense,
Father. He told me to do what I must in regard to the Tauron, but
he was more resigned than angry. He didn’t deny that he had kept
this information from you at Marithiel’s urging when I pressed
him.”

“There is little question of that.” Gwidion
shook his head, his face grim, and began to fish for an empty
parchment and an inkwell atop his desk.

While the men worked on reversing the
potential damage of Marithiel’s treasury amendment, Telyn retrieved
one of the Tauron histories and unfurled the aged and brittle
document carefully. The gravity of her task was beginning to become
apparent, and her time was short.

* * * *

Toward midday, Telyn came across the first
tantalizing reference to the mysterious title Gwidion had recalled.
Laboring over the time-worn and faded words, Telyn read the passage
to herself several times before interrupting the men, who were
putting the final touches on the document that would rescind the
Tauron dissolution.

“
I’ve found
something here that may point us in the right direction,” the bard
said excitedly. “It refers to the life celebration of a warden, who
in his youth was hailed as
cel-mathon
—‘seed-speaker’.”

“In which record does that appear?” Gwidion
asked interestedly as he stamped the document with his seal, the
wax hissing beneath the embossed metal.

“It says the tenth year of Niallin, Lord of
Cerisild.”

“Niallin was the fifth Lord. Does it say how
old the warden was?” Gwidion handed the document to Mithrais, who
rolled and sealed it carefully inside a thin membrane tube. Telyn
frowned, reading on, and shook her head.

“No. He must have been quite advanced in age,
because his grandson was also a Tauron warden.”

“So, eighty-some years old, perhaps,” Gwidion
thought aloud. “If we go back seventy years, it should suffice.
That would encompass the third and fourth lords. We will be looking
for scrolls that are listed under Ceivar or...hmmm. Wait a moment.”
His eyes sparkled with excitement as he remembered something. “Look
for scrolls from the years of Turian, the fourth lord of Cerisild.
He had a very long tenure, and there will be five or six.”

“Is that where you remember seeing it?”
Mithrais asked his father as Telyn began sifting through the piled
scrolls.

“No, I can’t say for certain that it is, but
there’s something about the Tauron during his rule that was
unusual.” Gwidion looked at his son expectantly. “Think,
Mithrais.”

Mithrais’ brow creased. “That would have been
just before the wars began. The Tauron were still largely
caretakers, but they began to train as warriors toward the end of
his rule.”

“What else? Something that had never happened
before, nor has it happened since.” He continued to watch his son’s
face until Mithrais’ features lit up in comprehension.

“Genefar,” he said, and Gwidion responded
with an emphatic, “Yes.”

“What?” Telyn asked, lost. Mithrais turned to
her with a grin as he placed the membrane tube inside a locking box
atop Gwidion’s desk.

“Genefar was wife to Turian. She was the
first and only woman ever to head the Tauron Elders.”

Telyn found one of the scrolls and set it
aside. “Do you know why she was so honored?” she asked Gwidion.

“I haven’t been through the entirety of
records under Turian’s rule,” Gwidion admitted abashedly. “The
scribe has a devilishly difficult hand, I fear.”

Telyn groaned as she unrolled the parchment
and saw the minute writing. “Are they all this way?”

“I’m afraid so.” Gwidion located another
parchment, shaking his head in annoyance. “I know that at least one
of them is damaged, as well. It will be slow reading, but I have a
feeling that what we need resides in those scrolls.”

When they had separated the scrolls, there
were five. Telyn removed the unnecessary clutter of the others to
the shelves as Gwidion placed the pertinent documents in order
according to the time period indicated by the cramped, nearly
illegible script.

“Here we begin,” Gwidion said, handing the
first scroll to Telyn and taking the second himself. “Mithrais, do
you think that your knowledge of the old language is up to the
task?”

“I am afraid that’s doubtful.” Mithrais
looked at one of the scrolls, chagrined, and Gwidion shook his head
in mock disapproval.

“Telyn, I expect you to influence him
appropriately,” he said sternly, and Telyn could not help but grin.
“In that case, I fear the task of teacher falls to you, Mithrais.
Telyn must begin to learn the control of her heartspeaking gifts
tonight. That will be your responsibility. I expect you to be a
taskmaster, for she must be able to communicate clearly with the
Gwaith’orn in a very short time.”

Telyn gave a shaky sigh, for the thought of
opening her mind to the Gwaith’orn still filled her with a sense of
dread. As Mithrais left the library to attend his solemn meeting
with the Elders, Telyn began to laboriously make her way through
the first section of the record in search of the details of her
charge.

Chapter
Nineteen

There were times when the calling of a bard
was a somber thing.