Patricia C. Wrede - Lyra Universe 3 - The Harp Of Imach Thys

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THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL
An Ace Fantasy Book/published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace Original/April 1985
All rights reserved. Copyright © 1985 by Patricia C. Wrede
Cover art by Joe Chiodo
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue. New York, New York 10016.
ISBN: 0-441-31756-1
Ace Fantasy Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue. New York. New
York 10016.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
/or all those who have contributed so much to Lyran history, particularly Vabronen, builder of
Castle Windsong, Neriwind, Karinobra, Macarato, Taldor, Virana, Nevarra, Calidion, Quain, Timlin
ri Aster, Viella, Luan, Delmar, Icebolt, Philomel, Jeness, Iranian, Verrick Kyel-Semrud,
Vallafana, Zylar, Colin, Halkana, Krendor, Maricor, Renalda, M aril lion, Agis, Kaskani, Coral
Starfmger, Araken, and anyone else whose proper name I may have forgotten.
One
Uark, still water reflected darker trees and a shadowed sky. As he rode along the take, Emcrcck
studied the scene, wondering whether he could capture it in words. It would make a good opening
fora tragic song, and he'd been thinking of trying to do a new arrangement of "Corryn's Ride." He
hummed the first line of music and paused to fit words around it. Dark water, still water, darker
yet the sky ...
"Emereck!" Flindaran's voice jolted him out of his reverie. "Is that an inn, or am I seeing
things?"
Emereck glanced at his friend, puzzled. He looked at the lake again, and for the first time became
aware of the town farther down the shore. It was a small village, hardly more than a cluster of
cottages, but even at this distance, Emereck could see the bulk of an inn at its center. "For once
you seem to have gotten something right. It's an inn. I take it you mean to stop?"
**Of course! I think we've earned a few small comforts after all this riding. A jug of Brythian
wine, a pretty girl, a little entertainment..."
Emereck laughed in spite of himself. "Beer and bed is all you're likely to find here. And if there
is any entertainment, we'll probably be providing it ourselves."
2 Patricia C. Wrede
Flindaran looked at him suspiciously. "You don't expect me to sing for them, do you?"
"How else would we get a meal and a room?"
"We could pay for it."
"With what?"
"I've got more than enough to pay for both of us, if you weren't so sticky about—"
"We've been^hrough that argument before, and you never win. Besides, this time it's not what I
meant."
"It's not? That's a first."
Emereck ignored him. "If you're going to pretend to be a minstrel, you'll have to act like one.
And no minstrel would pay for dinner if he could sing for it instead."
"Then I'll be a smith, or a soldier, or something instead."
"You'd give yourself away inside of three sentences. At least you know a little about music."
"After two years at the Ciaron Guildhall, I ought to," Flindaran muttered.
"Don't worry, you'll only have to do a few songs. Just enough so people don't wonder."
"They'll wonder if they hear me sing."
"You're exaggerating; your voice isn't that bad. But you don't have to fake it unless you want to.
We could ' just tell them the truth."
Flindaran eyed him with disfavor. "You take all the fun out of things," he complained. "Besides,
you'd still make me sing."
"Probably," Emereck said cheerfully. "So it really doesn't matter, does it?"
"All right, all right!" Flindaran heaved an exaggerated sigh. "The things I do for my friends."
"Oh? Whose idea was this? For that matter, who suggested leaving Goldar's caravan in the first
place?"
"Don't remind me! I'll hear enough about it from my father when we get to Minathlan."
"Then why were you so pigheaded about taking this shortcut?"
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"Because I'd rather be uncomfortable than bored. And' the only thing more boring than spending
four more'
THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL 3
weeks with a caravan of Traders is being a Duke's son and spending four more weeks with a caravan
of Traders. I'm sick of their bowing and my-Iording?. Besides, the girls were all either too old
or too young."
"I thought that might have something to do with it."
Flindaran grinned. "So I'm going to be a minstrel for a while. Come on, let's see what this inn
has to offer."
The two men nudged their horses to a faster walk. A little farther on, the main road slanted away
from the village to skirt the end of the lake. A smaller road, little more than a path, branched
off toward the town, and in less than an hour they had reached their destination. The town was
just as small as it had looked from a distance, but the people seemed used to travelers; only the
children paid any attention to the two riders as they passed through the town and stopped before
the door of the inn.
As they dismounted beneath the faded sign, a black-haired woman came out to meet them. She was
small and neat and quiet-looking; a far call from the usual innkeeper, Emereck thought. Her eyes
swept over the horses and their riders in cool evaluation, then she nodded. "Good day to you,
sirs," she said in Kyrian. "And what do you wish from this house?"
"Whatever you would willingly spare a pair of minstrels in return for song and story," Emereck
said in the same language.
"Song and story are very well, but there are few guests to be entertained tonight and the folk of
this town have a choosy taste in such things."
"Including yourself?" Flindaran asked.
Emereck frowned, but the woman did not appear to be offended. "Perhaps, though I think my likes
are somewhat different from those of the people of Tinbri," she replied calmly.
"You don't consider yourself one of them?"
"There are those who've lived half their lives in Tinbri and don't consider themselves townsfolk.
But no, this is not my home. I'm keeping this inn for a time as a ... favor to a friend."
4 Patricia C. Wrede
"If songs are unwelcome, is there some other way we might earn your hospitality?" Emereck said. He
heard Flindaran shift uncomfortably, and shot him a warning look. Two wandering minstrels would
never offer to pay for a room in hard coin, and it was too late now to change their story.
The woman did not notice. "If you and your brother are willing to work, I think I can arrange
something."
Emereck did not correct her mistake, though he grinned inwardly. He and Flindaran had frequently
been taken for brothers during their two years in Ciaron, for they were both tall, brown-haired,
and trimly built. Though they were not even distantly related, their resemblance had been of use
to them before. Emereck glanced at Flindaran and said, "We're willing to do whatever's
reasonable."
The woman laughed suddenly. Emereck blinked. There was music in that laugh, and a startled
amusement, and the shadow of a joy as pure as sunlight, and... and his imagination was running
wild again. Emereck shook his head as the woman said, "And we may differ somewhat on the
definition of reasonable?, Well, I will try not to be too stem. My stableboy has been ill three
days, and the stable needs cleaning. Or there is wood to split, or you may help in the kitchen if
you prefer. Is that to your liking, or shall I keep naming chores until you meet one that suits
you?"
"No need!" Emereck protested, laughing. He glanced at Flindaran and made a quick, questioning
gesture toward the horses. Flindaran nodded slightly, and Emereck looked back at the innkeeper.
"By your leave, we'll begin with the stables."
"And see your own horses tended as well, I suppose. No, I do not mind; it does you credit that you
think of your beasts before yourselves."
"If you'd rather choose the work yourself—"
"As long as the stable ends cleaner than it began, your motives are none of my concern; Fm simply
glad it will be done at last. When you're finished, come to the kitchen and Til show you your
room. And if any
THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL 5
question you in the meantime, say I sent you. I'm called Ryl."
Emereck bowed and gave her their names in return. Ryl smiled and directed them to an enclosed
courtyard at the back of the inn. The stable was set on the far side, opposite the only gate into
the courtyard. A large, sweaty man was forking hay into a small wagon just outside the stable
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door. He looked at them suspiciously, but when they mentioned Ryl's name he grunted and went back
to his work. Flindaran looked at Emereck and raised his eyebrows. Emereck shrugged, and they went
on into the stable.
Inside, they found five empty stalls and two occupied ones. The empty stalls were clearly in need
of cleaning, but the occupied stalls had recently been swept out. Judging by the condition of the
gear hanging beside her stall, the sturdy brown mare was a recent arrival. The roan gelding in the
other showed signs of longer residence.
A variety of shovels and rakes were hanging on the wall beside the door; they each selected one
and began on the stalls nearest the door, where they planned to put their own horses. Flindaran
was in an excellent mood, since it appeared he would not have to sing for his supper after all.
"This is going to be even more fun than I expected," he said, pulling a clump of moldy straw out
of one of the stalls with a long-handled rake.
"You call this fun?" Emereck looked skeptically at his friend.
"Not this, half-wit! The trip, the inn, the whole evening."
Emereck heard a familiar note in Flindaran's voice, and shook his head in amusement. "And Ryl?"
"What? No! I—Oh, blast you, Emereck, you know me too well. Yes, and Ryl."
"I'd be careful there, if I were you," Emereck said thoughtfully. "She certainly isn't what I'd
expect to find in a village like this."
"Weren't you listening? She's not from this village."
6 Patricia C. Wrede
"She also speaks as if she's well-born."
"She's probably from Kith Alunel; everyone there sounds like a noble or a minstrel or something."
"It's possible. But—"
"Oh, pack it up!" Flindaran poked his head around the end of the stall Emereck was working on and
scowled at him. "You know, what you need is a girl of your own to worry about, instead of picking
on mine."
"Don't start that again! All right, I'll quit annoying you. But I still wish I knew why Ryl didn't
want us to sing."
"Is that what's bothering you? You ought to be glad I won't be ruining your reputation. Watch
where you're stepping!"
Emereck glanced down and sidestepped. "It's not my reputation that's worrying me at the moment,
it's Ryl. Innkeepers are usually happy to have a minstrel stay the night, but she wasn't even
interested."
"Maybe she's just being careful about how she runs her friend's inn."
"Maybe." Emereck did not believe it, but he could think of no argument that would convince
Flindaran. Particularly when Flindaran was clearly determined not to be convinced; Emereck had
caught the note of stubbornness in his voice. He shook his head and said lightly, "And maybe she
doesn't like minstrels. Where would that leave your plans for tonight?"
"Ryl may think she dislikes minstrels," Flindaran said with dignity, "but I intend to convince her
otherwise."
"Oh? How?"
"Good looks and irresistible charm, of course."
"Is that what you tried on that farmer's daughter in Harmalla? The one who blacked your eye?"
"I'm sure Ryl has far more discriminating taste. You realize, of course, what a favor I'll be
doing the Minstrel's Guild?"
"I'll make sure to let the Master Singer in Ciaron know as soon as we get back."
"Thank you. No doubt the Guild will find a way to return the kindness."
THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL 7
"Oh, if that's all you're worried about, Til write you a ballad," Emereck said, bowing.
"You already owe me four ballads and a drinking song, and I haven't seen any of them yet,"
Flindaran said, unimpressed. "How long do I have to wait?"
"Quality takes time. But if you're in a hurry, I suppose I could dash off a third-rate epic poem
or a few scurrilous couplets."
"What I'm in a hurry for right now is dinner," Flindaran said. "So pick your feet up! I'm ahead of
you already, and I don't intend to do all the work."
The sun was setting when they finally finished in the stable and hauled their packs to the kitchen
where Ryl awaited them. She studied them briefly with the same cool appraisal she had given them
when they arrived, then led them to a room on the upper floor. The room was large, with a window
overlooking the lake, and to Emereck's surprise, a tub of steaming water was waiting for them to
wash off the dust and stable smells. By the time they descended the stairs once more, Emereck was
willing to admit even to Flindaran that their hostess did not seem to dislike minstrels.
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When they entered the kitchen, Ryl was stirring a large pot of something dark and spicy-smelling.
She gave them each a bowl of it and sent them back to the taproom to eat, pointedly ignoring
Flindaran's attempts to strike up a conversation.
The taproom smelled of beer, onions, and smoke. Several of the rough-hewn stables were already
occupied. A tall blonde girl moved among them, serving beer and stew with bored efficiency. Most
of the customers were clearly locals, but a wiry, white-haired man in a faded green leather
uniform caught Emereck's attention. He nudged Flindaran and pointed him out.
"So?" Flindaran said after glancing toward the corner table where the man was sitting.
"So what's a Cilhar doing in a place like this?"
"Spending the night, the same as we are."
"I didn't think Cilhar traveled much on the east side
8 Patricia C Wrede
of the Mountains of Morravik." Emereck studied the man speculatively. "I wonder if he knows any of
the Witrian song cycle."
"The what?"
"The Witrian song cycle. It's a series of Cilhar songs based on the Two Century War. I heard part
of it from a Cilhar woman who stopped at the Guildhall last summer, and I've been looking for a
chance to learn the rest ever since." Emereck set his bowl on an empty table and paused
uncertainty.
"You're not thinking of asking him about it, are you?" Flindaran demanded.
"Why not? I may not get a chance like this again.**
"Most people don't have your passion for obscure old songs. He's probably never heard of it."
Emereck started to reply, then paused. "What's worrying you? All I wanted to do was ask a few
questions."
"I don't think it's a good idea to bother a Cilhar," Flindaran said with an uneasy shrug. "They
like privacy, and it's not exactly healthy to argue with one of them."
"I see." Emereck felt a sudden perverse desire to walk over and strike up a conversation with the
Cilhar for no other reason than to annoy Flindaran. He suppressed the impulse; irritating
Flindaran did not seem a sufficient reason for ignoring his advice. He glanced speculatively at
the Cilhar as he seated himself at the table. Perhaps he could persuade Ryl to introduce him to
the man before they left. That ought to ease Flindaran's objections. Emereck shoved the matter to
the back of his mind and began eating.
The stew was excellent, and they finished it quickly. Emereck accepted a refill from the blonde
girl, but Flindaran, after a moment of indecision, shook his head. As the girl left, Emereck
looked at him curiously. "Something wrong with your appetite?"
"Not at all," Flindaran replied, grinning. He picked up the empty bowl and balanced it on his
finger, then flipped it into the air and caught it in his other hand.
THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL 9
"But you don't expect me to miss an opportunity like this, do you?"
"Opportunity?"
"I'm going to get my refill in the kitchen. Didn't you hear Ryl say we could?"
"Yes, but I got the distinct impression that she was interested mainly in getting you out of the
kitchen at the time. And the stew's the same in both places."
"It's not the stew I'm after, idiot. I want to talk to Ryl."
Emereck stared at him, then shook his head. "Why don't you talk to that one instead?" he said,
nodding at the blonde serving girl. "She's at least as pretty as Ryl is, and probably a lot more
approachable."
"Ryl's a challenge." Flindaran paused and looked from Emereck to the blonde girl. "Why don't you—"
"No."
Flindaran looked at him and shrugged. "All right, then. See you later."
Emereck shook his head as Flindaran grinned and started to rise. He glanced toward the kitchen
door, saying, "Well, I wish you—" He checked in mid-sentence as Ryl came through the door, wiping
her hands on her apron. "—had better timing, I think," he finished, nodding in the innkeeper's
direction,
"Oh, demons!" Flindaran dropped back into his seat, looking disgusted. "Now I'll have to think of
something else. And on top of that I have to sit here and watch you eat while I do it."
"I didn't think it was food you were interested in."
"You have a low mind."
Emereck grinned and went on eating. A moment later he heard Flindaran mutter, "Demons take it!"
Emereck looked up in time to see Ryl seat herself across the table from the Cilhar he had noticed
earlier. "Try to be a little patient; she'll have to get up eventually."
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"So? You don't think I'd cross a Cilhar, do you?"
For a moment, Emereck could not believe Flindaran was serious. "He's old enough to be her father!
Maybe
10 Patricia C. Wrede
even her grandfather."
"What does that have to do with anything? Besides, he might be her father, and then where would I
be?"
"You've managed before."
"Not when a Cilhar was involved." Flindaran stared pensively at his empty bowl. "You know, I think
I'd better ask for some more of that stew after all. No reason to starve myself."
Emereck looked at him suspiciously. Flindaran grinned, then turned and started trying to signal to
the blonde serving girl. With a resigned sigh, Emereck went back to eating.
TWo
iwo beers and another helping of stew later, Flindaran and the serving girl were clearly well on
their way to a mutual understanding. About the middle of the evening, Emereck left and went
upstairs. The flirtation would keep Flindaran occupied for several hours at least, and Emereck
wanted to practice.
He unpacked his harp and tuned it, then began with half an hour of the exercises Flindaran hated
listening to the most. He worked for a while on the complex runs in the middle of "The Lay of Long
Tormoran." When he was satisfied with his progress, he stopped and stretched.
He paced the room, then paused at the window, unable to decide what to do next. A glint of
moonlight on the lake caught his eye, and he remembered the song he had started on the ride into
Tinbri. With renewed enthusiasm, he went back to the harp and began picking out chords, pausing
frequently to try different variations of words or music.
Flindaran did not return until nearly midnight. When he arrived he was clearly well pleased with
his evening. As the door closed behind him, Emereck looked up from the small harp. "Flindaran!
Listen to this and tell me what you think."
11
12 Patricia C. Wrede
"Dark water, still water, darker yet the sky;
Shadowed was the path beyond and cold the wind on high.
Black forest, clouded road, where still the bloodstains lie;
Dark the day and dark the way when Corryn went to die."
"I like the tune," Flindaran said.
"I think there's something wrong with the third line."
Flindaran shrugged. "It sounded fine to me. But don't you ever write any cheerful songs?"
"I should know better than to ask you for criticism." Emereck set the harp down. "What are you
doing back already, anyway?"
"There are still two customers left downstairs, and Sira won't be available until they're gone. So
I left, to provide them a good example."
Emereck shook his head, half in envy, half in admiration. "I don't know how you do it."
"Talent, hard work, clean living ..."
"Luck, more likely. Much more likely. Though, knowing you, I'd be willing to believe you'd stacked
the odds in your favor somehow."
"Certainly not," Flindaran protested. "I come by it honestly, whatever it is."
"How can you come by something like that honestly?"
Flindaran shrugged. "It runs in the family. Father has seven or eight half bloods at home, and
Gendron has been flipping skirts for years."
"You mean your whole family is as bad as you are?"
"Oh, no. Gendron's the heir; he has to keep up family traditions. Graven isn't nearly as bad, and
the girls are too young."
"I can see it's going to be an interesting visit," Emereck said dryly.
"You're too stiff in the backbone. Now, if you'd just—"
A loud shout from just below their window interrupted Flindaran in mid-sentence. Emereck glanced
toward the
THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL 13
window, but Flindaran shook his head. "Drunks," he explained, "only get noisier if you shout
back."
"Who's shouting? And if you're going to talk about drinking, I think you've—"
This time the interruption was a scream, ending in a choked, gurgling sound. Flindaran and Emereck
lunged for the window.
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Two armored men stood in the courtyard below. One held a drawn sword that glistened wetly; a body
sprawled in front of him, half in, half out of the pool of light that spilled down from the
windows of the inn. As the swordsman bent to wipe his blade clean, Flindaran stiffened and sucked
in his breath. "Syaski!"
"What? They can't be!"
"No one else wears that kind of armor; I got a good look when he leaned over."
"Maybe they're just a couple of stragglers," Emereck said, but even as he spoke, four men rode out
of the darkness to join the first two.
"So much for that theory. That means there are at least eight of them; they've probably left two
more in back of the inn."
"I don't believe it," Emereck muttered as the six men in sight spread out around the front of the
inn. "Syaskor is nearly a week's ride north! And they wouldn't risk provoking Kith Alunel like
this."
"Tell it to them/' Flindaran said grimly. "But keep a dagger handy while you do. They don't Jook
much like figments of your imagination to me."
"What're they after in a town this small?"
As if in answer the Emereck's question, one of the men outside shouted. "Ho, Narryn! Come down and
play!"
"Come fight, Cilhar scum," added another in a heavily accented voice. "Or we burn you out."
"Now you know." Flindaran stepped back from the window and glanced around the room, then began
scooping their belongings into their packs. Emereck stayed where he was, frowning down at the
soldiers and listening intently to their continued taunts. Something
14 Patricia C. Wrede
was wrong about this; he was sure those weren't Syaski accents, though he couldn't quite place
them. Then the light outside changed, and he tensed. "Better hurry up," he said over his shoulder.
"They've set the building on fire."
"Bloodthirsty half-wits." Flindaran buckled his sword-belt in place, then shoved the packs and the
harp case at Emereck. "Here, take these. I'll go first."
Flindaran pushed the door open. The hallway was dark and already filling with smoke. Muttering
curses, he stepped out of the room. Emereck followed as closely as he dared. He could hear shouts
and screams from the lower floor, and the sounds of fighting outside. He tried to ignore them, and
concentrated instead on the steady, muffled cursing ahead of him. If he lost Flindaran now, they
might never— The cursing stopped. Emereck hurried forward and almost immediately ran into his
friend from behind.
"Ouch! Demons take it, can't you watch where you're going?" came a furious whisper.
"In the dark? Anyway, why'd you stop?"
Flindaran hesitated. "I think we've missed the stairs:"
"Keep going. There ought to be a service stairway at the end of the hall, and we still have a
little time before the fire gets here."
Together they blundered on. When they reached the end of the hall there was a moment of confusion;
then Flindaran found the right door and they half fell into the narrow stairwell. Emereck shoved
the door closed, shutting out most of the smoke. They groped their way to the foot of the stairs.
The door at the bottom was closed, but sounds of fighting came clearly through the cracks around
the edges. Cautiously, Flindaran eased it open far enough for them to see what was happening on
the other side.
They were standing at the rear of the kitchen near the back door of the inn. Ryl and the white-
haired Cilhar stood on the other side of the room. Three Syaski faced them, their backs to
Flindaran and Emereck. Wisps of smoke curled up from the edges of the far wall. The door
THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL 75
leading to the main taproom was already ablaze. Ryl was fending off one of the Syaski with a long
chopping knife, while the Cilhar's sword danced back and forth between the blades of the other
two. A fourth Syask lay motionless on the floor beside the Cilhar.
Emereck had only an instant to absorb the scene; then Flindaran flung the door open with a crash
and leaped forward. Emereck followed, wishing momentarily that he had some weapon. He saw
Flindaran pounce on one of the Syaski. Another was a fraction too slow in recovering from his
surprise, and the Cilhar ran him through. The third Syask stepped back and glanced quickly around.
Automatically, Emereck shifted his weight and swung one of the packs in a slow arc. It hit the
man's head with a satisfying thud just as he opened his mouth to give the alarm. He collapsed with
only a huff of air. Feeling a little surprised, and rather pleased with himself, Emereck hefted
the pack and looked for another opponent.
There were none. Flindaran was just dispatching the last of the Syaski. The Cilhar wiped his sword
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on the cloak of one of the fallen Syaski, then glanced at the burning wall behind him. He looked
at Ryl. "I don't suppose—"
"It would take too much concentration/' Ryl said.
"Then we'd best get out of here. Quickly."
Emereck did not wait for the suggestion to be made twice. He took a firmer grip on the two packs
and the harp case, and kicked the outer door open. A moment later he was standing in the courtyard
behind the inn, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the darkness and hoping fervently that none of
the Syaski would spot him in the interim. He heard the others behind him and turned.
Flindaran and the Cilhar came out of the doorway first, their swords held ready. The Cilhar seemed
to have no trouble adjusting to the relative darkness of the courtyard. He scanned the shadows
thoroughly, then sheathed his sword with an absentminded flourish. An instant later, Ryl appeared,
dragging the body of the
16 Patricia C. Wrede
Syask Emereck had knocked down. Emereck looked at her in surprise as she dropped the man in the
shadows a short distance from the doorway.
Ryl saw him and frowned. "You'd rather I left him to burn to death? He'll not wake until we're
gone."
Emereck's lips tightened, but he did not feel like explaining that his expression had been caused
by Ryl's strength, rather than her actions. Dragging an armored Syask for even a short distance
would be a heavy task for a large man, much less a small woman, but the innkeeper wasn't even
breathing hard. Then the last half of her statement registered, and he said, "No, he should be
coming to any minute now. I didn't hit him that hard."
Ryl looked at him. "I did. Now, shall we get the horses?"
As Emereck turned toward the stable, he heard Flindaran ask, "Where's Sira?"
"Heading for the woods with the rest of Tinbri," Ryl said. "She fled while we were holding the
Syaski. You need not worry about her; she's safer now than we are."
The four headed for the stable. Their luck held; none of the Syaski appeared before they were
safely out of sight. Inside the stable, they saddled their horses as quickly as they could. Even
so, Emereck took time to make sure his harp case was securely fastened to his saddle. As they led
the horses to the door, the Cilhar said, "I have not thanked you for your assistance. Will you
give me your names?"
"Emereck Sterren of the Minstrel's Guild," Emereck replied, and glanced at Flindaran.
"Flindaran Sterren," Flindaran lied, bowing. "Both from the Guildhall in Ciaron."
The Cilhar raised an eyebrow. "I am impressed by your training. It is unusual to find a minstrel
who is also such an excellent swordsman. Your skill does you credit."
Flindaran flushed with pleasure. "I am honored by such praise, especially from a Cilhar."
"I owe you a life," the Cilhar replied. "And if chance
THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL 17
ever takes you to the Mountains of Morravik, claim hospitality there in the name of Kensal
Narryn."
"First we have to get away," Ryl said. "And if there are more Syaski coming ..."
Flindaran leaned forward and peered out a crack in the stable door. "Looks quiet; they must still
be around front."
Kensal Narryn shot a sharp look at Ryl. "When we're clear of the yard, turn to the left and head
southeast around the lake toward the woods," he said as they left the stable. "If there are more
of them, they'll be coming down the road on the west side of town, and we'll gain a little time."
Flindaran nodded and swung himself onto his horse. "Anything that keeps us out of the way is fine
by—Uh oh."
Four Syaski stood by the corner of the inn, silhouetted against the flames. Emereck mounted
hastily, hoping that they still had a chance of escaping if they moved quickly enough. When he
looked again, the Syaski had not moved, but a row of mounted men had joined them, completely
blocking the only exit from the courtyard.
"So there was a sentry," Kensal said calmly. He and Ryl had not yet mounted, and he had to look up
to study the horsemen.
"Of course," said the man on the end of the line. "Now, throw down your weapons, grandpa, and
we'll let you live."
"Will you indeed?" KensaPs voice expressed mild curiosity. His lips curved in a faint smile.
Emereck thought he had never seen anyone look so dangerous.
"Even a Cilhar can't win against ten men at once. And there are your friends to—"
The Syask's speech was interrupted by a shout from the other side of the inn. As he turned in his
saddle, another Syask appeared, running toward his mounted companions. He called a warning as he
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came, and Emereck stiffened as he recognized the language. "Lithmern!" he blurted in shock.
"That's why the accent was wrong. These aren't Syaski, they're Lithmern!"
18 Patricia C. Wrede
Flindaran turned and stared at Emereck as if be had gone mad. KensaJ looked at Ryl, his face an
expressionless mask. The innkeeper herself stood motionless beside him, staring with tense
concentration at the riders.
The leader of the false Syaski glared at Emereck, then transferred his attention to the runner.
"Well?" He spoke in Lithran; apparently he had decided there was no further need for pretense.
"The sentry's back," the runner panted. He took a deep breath and poured out a stream of Lithran.
Emereck caught the words "Syaski" and "road," but most of the speech was too rapid for his meager
knowledge of the language.
The leader gestured impatiently and the runner fell silent. The leader sheathed his sword and
reached under his cloak. He drew out a small pouch, opened it, and sprinkled a pinch of black
powder out of it into his hand. Carefully, he closed the pouch and replaced it, then hesitated and
glanced at Ken sal. "I'm afraid we're out of time. My apologies; I was looking forward to the
fight;"
With his last words, he stretched his hand out to one side and began to chant. The words were
harsh and repetitive, and they bore no resemblance to any language Emereck knew. He could tell
from the way the soldier spoke that the words had no meaning for him either; he was speaking from
memory alone. Emereck glanced uncertainly at his companions. He saw Kensal half draw his sword,
but Ryl put her hand on his arm and stopped him. She said something in a low voice, and then
Emereck's attention was jerked back to the chanting Lithmern.
A thread of blackness moved in the man's upturned palm, like a wisp of smoke or a thin black
snake. It curled and coiled around the LithmenTs hand, moving almost too rapidly to follow.
Emereck's horse moved uneasily, and the riders nearest the spell-caster shifted nervously in their
saddles. The smoke began to grow, and the leader flinched slightly, though his voice did not
falter in the chant. The blackness thickened, and the
THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL 19
man's arm sagged with the weight of it. Suddenly the blackness dropped to the ground and flowed
toward Emereck and his companions like a carpet of clouds unrolling rapidly.
Emereck's horse reared, and he almost lost his seat. The blackness rippled slightly and came on.
The horse came down fetlock-deep in "darkness, and stuck fast. Emereck could feel the animal's
muscles straining, but not a foot stirred. Flindaran's horse was caught, too, and the smoky carpet
had almost reached Kensal and Ryl. Kensal was eyeing it measuringly, as if trying to decide
whether his chances were better if he remained standing or tried to mount his skittish horse. RyPs
eyes were closed; she seemed to have withdrawn completely.
The blackness touched the hooves of Kensal's mare, and the animal rolled its eyes in fear.
Suddenly, Ryl's voice cut across the chanting, crying out in a language that pulled at Emereck
though he knew he had never heard it before. "Miramar! Niterbarat cebarrelja rykar rinarnth!"
The chant faltered, and the advance of the blackness slowed. Nothing more seemed to happen. Kensal
and Ryl stepped back a pace, then another, until their backs almost touched the stable wall. Then
Emereck saw something move out beyond the fence that enclosed the courtyard; a fog on the surface
of the lake. It thickened into a dense wall of gray wool and swept toward them. In another
instant, it reached the fence that surrounded the courtyard and covered it.
The Lithmern leader faltered again at the sight of the unnatural wall of mist, then redoubled his
efforts, chanting more loudly than ever. It had no effect. The mist rolled on over the courtyard.
Emereck saw Ryl smile as she vanished into it; then Kensal and Flindaran were swallowed up as
well. Emereck had time to hope that he would be as pleased as Ryl by this unexpected development,
and then the fog engulfed him.
The mist was warm and damp and smelled, impossibly, of halaiba flowers. Emereck could make out a
few dim shapes where the Lithmern stood; then the mist thickened and they were gone, leaving only
an orange glow on his
20 Patricia C. Wrede
right to mark where the burning inn stood. He could hear the leader's voice calling instructions
to his men in Lithran, and the answering shouts of the soldiers. Wondering what good a concealing
mist would do them if they couldn't move, he looked down. The black smoke was slowly dissolving
where the mist touched it. As the last of it disappeared, Emereck's horse reared again, screaming,
and bolted.
All he could do' was hang on and hope that the horse was still heading toward the courtyard gates.
He passed Flindaran in a rush and was among the Lithmern. One of the soldiers started to draw a
weapon; another tried to grab his horse's reins. Then he was through them, and out of the
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courtyard.
Behind him he heard shouting and the clang of steel on steel. He hauled on the reins, but the
horse ignored him. Gradually, the sounds faded into the distance. He hoped fleetingly that the
horse would not stumble; at this speed they'd probably both break their necks if it went down.
Suddenly the horse shied violently, nearly unseating him. As he struggled for balance, Emereck
glimpsed the startled face of an armored rider. He saw the man's sword coming down, and tried to
twist away, but he was not quick enough. The shock of the blow grated along his ribs. Pain lanced
through his side. His horse gave a shrill, frightened whinny and bolted into the mist once more.
Grimly, Emereck clung to the saddle. He had never been more than an adequate horseman; staying
with his terrified mount taxed his ability and the pain of the wound only made matters worse. He
had no idea what direction they were going, for the mist hid everything. The ride quickly became a
nightmare of figures looming unexpectedly out of the gray darkness and then vanishing again. Some
were men; some were trees; some, Emereck was sure, were only his imagination.
He did not know how long it was before his horse slowed at last. He was vaguely aware that the
animal had settled into an exhausted plodding, but by then it took most of his concentration just
to stay in the saddle. He had lost a good deal of blood, and he was having
THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL 21
difficulty thinking clearly. He knew he should stop and rest, but he was afraid that if he did, he
would be found by the Syaski or the Lithmern or whoever they really were. Besides, he doubted that
he would have the energy to start again once he stopped.
As he went on, the mist changed, so slowly that at first he did not even notice it. The air grew
coFd, and the smell of flowers faded. The mist thinned fractionally, barely enough for Emereck to
tell that he was moving through trees. It seemed to be darker as well, though that was probably
only his imagination.
A long time later, he realized that the horse was no longer moving. If I'm not riding I should
dismount, he thought fuzzily. He tried to swing his leg up, but his muscles did not seem to be
working properly and he overbalanced. He felt himself falling, and then the ground hit him and he
lost consciousness.
Shalarn sat in the darkened room, staring at the dying embers in the brazier. Her black hair hung
loose around her face, and her hands were clenched in tense concentration. The room was silent
except for the sound of her breathing and the occasional faint crackle of the fire.
Slowly a picture formed in the air before her, framed in swirling smoke. Men in armor stood before
a-large building, shouting words she could not hear. The scene shifted. Firelight flashed on
steel, and a man fell. Her eyes narrowed angrily; she had ordered them to avoid fighting! With
effort she controlled herself before she lost the vision, and saw that the scene had changed
again. A line of mounted men blocked a courtyard gate, and dark smoke flowed out from them.
Shalarn leaned forward eagerly. They had found him, then! She tried to shift the viewpoint, and
caught a glimpse of two young men on horseback just in front of the line of soldiers. Behind them
was a shadowy blur. She struggled to focus the spell, and suddenly a curtain of mist hid the
scene. Shalarn gasped. Even through the seeing-spell, she could feel the echo of sorcery.
The mist swirled, then parted to show one of the young
22 Patricia C. Wrede
men from the courtyard. His side was wet with blood, and he was alone. As she watched, he swayed
and fell from his horse.
On impulse, she murmured another spell. The picture shivered, and the other man appeared. The room
faded from her awareness as she concentrated on him, drawing him in the direction she had chosen.
It was much easier than she had expected. She brought him to a point almost on top of the wounded
man, then let go of her spells. As the picture vanished, she wondered absently whether the two men
even knew each other. Well, she had done what she could, and those blundering soldiers would have
much to explain when they returned.
With a sigh, she released the last threads of the seeing-spell. She would learn no more tonight.
She stretched her cramped muscles and sat back, wondering whether she should try again the
following night. The seeing-spell was unreliable at best, and it required considerable power.
Then, too, there was always the chance that Lanyk would discover what she was doing. Her men would
return in seven or eight days; perhaps she should wait until then for an explanation.
Shalarn frowned. The raid had failed; that at least was clear. And there was sorcery involved,
strong sorcery. The Cilhar had wizard friends, then. Perhaps that was the key to his importance.
Or was he himself the wizard?
Her frown deepened. There was still too much she did not know. The thought of a foretelling
crossed her mind, but she dismissed it at once. She knew from bitter experience how misleading
oracles and auguries could be. Again she considered making a second attempt at the seeing-spell.
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But a sorcerer might detect it, and that could bring everything to ruin once more.
Shalarn straightened in sudden decision. She would wait the seven days for her explanation. In the
meantime, she would build her strength for whatever confrontation might come. Her face relaxed
into a smile, and she rose and left the room. Behind her, a wisp of smoke curled up from the
brazier and vanished as the last of the fire winked out.
Three
jCmereck awoke to the smell of smoke and the hissing sound of fat dripping into a fire. For a
moment, he was sure that this was their previous camp and the entire episode of the inn had been a
dream; then he tried to move and the pain in his side told him otherwise.
He opened his eyes and looked down. His chest had been crudely wrapped in the torn remnants of his
tunic. He blinked, then rolled cautiously onto his good side and raised himself up on one elbow to
look around.
Judging from the sunlight, it was late morning. He was lying under a tree in the middle of a
forest or a grove of trees. He saw no sign of the mist, the lake, or the village. His horse was
tethered nearby, along with another mount he recognized as Flindaran's. Flindaran himself was
sitting on the opposite side of a small fire, scowling at a rabbit he had suspended over the
flames. Emereck stared at him in disbelief.
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.
23
24 Patricia C. Wrede
Flindaran's answering grin held profound relief. "Taking care of you, you ungrateful croaker.
You're lucky I found you."
"I'm not sure Mucky' 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. We had to fight our way out of the courtyard. I lost Ryl and Kensal just outside,
so I turned left and headed 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, and I tried to follow 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.**
The explanation sounded a little odd to Emereck, but it was no more unlikely than some of the
things Flindaran had done in the past. 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 afraid 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 began tugging 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."
THE HARP OF IMACH THYSSEL 25
"I'll think about it."
Flindaran grimaced. "You're lucky all you got out of it 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 more serious than that to me."
"That kind of wound usually does." Flindaran paused, looking worried. "I tried to clean it off a
little, but I'm not sure how good a job I did. And I wasn't sure which of your herbs were supposed
to be good for bleeding, so I didn't use any."
"It's just as well, though I suppose you'd have managed not to kill me. But it sounds as if you
did 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 like this?"
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摘要：

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