Song Magick (36 page)

“You’ll have another sword at your side
should Vuldur try to harm you again,” Emrys had vowed. “I will talk
privately with the King and advise him of what has happened.
Justice will prevail, Tel.”

Inwardly, Telyn felt that the Fates had
already passed their harsh judgment upon Vuldur, and any ‘justice’
would be rendered insignificant by the specter of mortality. All
she truly desired was to be able to resume her life without fear,
secure in the knowledge that there were no other hired blades or
bounty hunters searching for her on the roads.

Seeing Emrys again had stirred the wandering
soul in Telyn, she longed for the open road and the touch of music.
She and Mithrais still had not spoken of the future, but the Fates
had spoken regarding her destiny, and it seemed certain that the
life she resumed after the solstice might be much different.

She sighed as she rested her lips against the
polished curve of a small harp, hugging it to her in delight as she
climbed the winding stairs to the library. Telyn’s foster father
had gallantly offered her the loan of the small counterpart to the
great harp from which he derived his name: the larger instrument
that Emrys Harpmaster played was nearly as tall as Telyn, and rode
in the covered back of Emrys’ borrowed wagon swaddled in thick
blankets and oiled canvas. Her fingers itched to be touched to
strings once more.

Knocking softly upon the door, Telyn waited
for Mithrais or Gwidion to acknowledge her, but there was silence
within for some time. She suspected that they might be deep in the
sharing of minds, and when a response came at last, she lifted the
latch and pushed through the heavy door.

Telyn saw no sign of Mithrais, but Gwidion
waited at his desk. He greeted her with a weary smile that did not
reach his eyes, gaunt with fatigue and an emotion that Telyn could
not immediately name. Telyn set the harp upon the worktable and
took his hand, crouching beside the chair.

“Are you all right, my lord?” she inquired
with concern.

Gwidion nodded after a moment, patting her
hand. “I was awake until dawn, and my endurance is not what it was
when I was a warden,” he said wryly, a spark of humor returning to
his face. “I slept but a few minutes this morning before I was
interrupted by the arrival of Lord Harpmaster...with whom Mithrais
tells me you are already well acquainted.”

Telyn smiled fondly. “It was wonderful to see
him again, but awkward at the same time.” Her smile faded, and she
shrugged in unconvincing nonchalance at Gwidion’s look of inquiry.
“Emrys has been named Taliesin’s heir. He will be the next Royal
Bard.”

“I’m sorry, Telyn,” Gwidion said quietly.
“That must have been difficult news to hear.”

“He deserves the honor, and he is certainly
worthy of the title.” Telyn rose and moved to sit in the chair
opposite Gwidion, drawing one knee up and clasping her arms around
it, her chin resting against the joint. “It seems so final,” she
mused softly. “My old life is truly over, and someone has taken my
place. I suppose I knew that I would never return to Belthil,
but...Emrys says my father won’t even talk about me, just as he
won’t talk about my mother. I don’t know how to feel about that.”
She met his eyes. “He told me that Lord Vuldur is coming.”

Gwidion shook his head in regret. “After all
of our assurances that you would be safe in Cerisild, it must seem
like a betrayal. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t worry about it now. I have something
else to accomplish.” She straightened resolutely, determined not to
let the knowledge pull her into the mire of self-pity. “At least
one thing has become clearer,” Telyn stated as she met Gwidion’s
eyes. “I told Emrys that the Fates had led me here for a reason.
Now that I know why, all that remains is how. I thought Mithrais
would still be here. Did tell he you what we’ve learned?”

“He shared the details with me,” Gwidion
nodded. “Mithrais has gone into the city for a short time. I
disconcerted him with a bit of news—I am certain he will share it
with you when he has had time to digest it.” Gwidion did not
elaborate, and Telyn wondered what tidings Emrys had brought. The
Lord of Cerisild continued purposefully,

“I have found the information we sought,
Telyn. It contains a great deal that may prove useful to you.”

“That’s wonderful,” Telyn said, excitement
bringing a smile to her face. “In which scroll?”

“The fourth. I fear I became impatient and
skipped ahead, but it was productive.” Gwidion’s indicated the
scroll which lay unrolled on the surface of his desk. As Telyn rose
eagerly to view the parchment, his hand covered the writing
quickly. To her surprise, Gwidion reached out and gently prevented
her from coming closer.

“Telyn, there is something I have learned
within these records that disturbs me greatly, and I feel I must
tell you before you read it.” His voice was odd, and held the
timbre of uncertainty. He guided her back to the chair, and Telyn
seated herself with a faint sense of alarm. Gwidion’s usual
composure seemed thin and stretched; a brittle facade that
threatened to break if tapped too sharply.

“Mithrais has shown me that the Gwaith’orn
announced they will restore the responsibility of magic to the
Silde,” he began. “We’ve been so preoccupied with those Gwaith’orn
that have gone silent that we have not thought on this aspect of
the covenant in some time.”

“I had just begun to suspect that there was
more at stake,” Telyn told him. “My instincts appear to
correct.”

“Your instincts are exactly what I wish to
address,” Gwidion responded soberly. “Mithrais and I have been
urging you to trust the Gwaith’orn, and not to fear them. Perhaps
your instinctive mistrust of them shouldn’t be dismissed so
lightly.”

Telyn, taken aback by this sudden reversal,
listened carefully to the Lord of Cerisild as he relayed the tale
of his ambitious ancestor, and the tragic consequences of Genefar’s
attempt. His subsequent suspicions of the Gwaith’orn were so like
the conclusions Telyn had reached separately that she was able to
receive his words with no sense of surprise or fear, only a strange
satisfaction that she had been right.

Gwidion admitted as he concluded, “I can’t be
certain that my perceptions aren’t being governed by emotion rather
than intellect-–but when all is said and done, Telyn, it’s you who
possess the gifts necessary to accomplish the task. This decision
can only be yours. Early this morning, I had begun to believe it
could be done, regardless of the risk. I didn’t begin to question
it until Mithrais shared last night’s revelations with me.”

“What changed your mind?” Telyn asked
gently.

“Selfish concerns, but valid ones. If it were
simply the restoration of magic in the balance, I could not justify
you and Mithrais risking your lives—nor the lives of any of those
chosen—the covenant be damned.” Gwidion shook his head and sighed
deeply. “My argument founders upon the matter of whether we have
the right deny the Gwaith’orn any chance to preserve their
existence. They are living beings with a will and consciousness,
and, it seems, enough duplicity to withhold information that might
keep you from attempting to fulfill their charge. I remain
concerned about the Gwaith’orn making continued attempts to compel
you. I have vowed to protect them as one of the Tauron Order and as
the Lord of Cerisild, but my conscience will not allow me to let
them use you thus.”

“I believe we have reached an accord on that
point,” Telyn reassured him. “I exacted a promise of free will from
the Gwaith’orn last night. They claimed to understand that they
have to earn my trust, and I will hold them to it.”

“Indeed?” There was a small smile of pride on
Gwidion’s lips, and affection in his eyes that warmed Telyn as he
regarded her. “You seem to no longer fear them.”

“Not entirely. But I have something they
want, and only I can give it to them. I studied diplomacy for the
last three years, after all—it is a game I know well.” Telyn
frowned, and admitted dryly, “Although I never dreamed I would be
negotiating with trees.”

“Remember that they are not encumbered by our
ideas of honor. The Gwaith’orn will keep their promises, but
perhaps in ways you don’t expect.” Gwidion held her gaze. “Be
careful when assigning them virtues, Telyn.”

Telyn nodded gravely, taking his words to
heart. She rose to pace and think a moment, and Gwidion watched her
from his chair. She quickly realized that her resolve was
unchanged. The words she had spoken to Mithrais before the life
celebration had carried the weight of an oath—to refuse to try and
fulfill the task set before her would be to render meaningless the
risks and casualties the Tauron had already endured on her account.
Telyn refused to ask Mithrais, Cormac, and the other wardens to
unknowingly face more peril.

After a moment, she faced Gwidion squarely.
“Those who were called upon must be made aware of the danger. I
will allow them to choose whether or not they wish to
continue...but I believe my own path is clear. I have to read the
scroll before we meet at the guild house tonight, my lord.”

Gwidion closed his eyes a moment, accepting
her decision. “I expect that none of the Tauron will falter,
despite the risks,” he said softly.

“I must discover what else the Gwaith’orn
haven’t shared with me.” Telyn said with irritation, and tapped her
finger upon her lips reflectively. “In the dream-images they gave
me, there was only myself, although they assured me even then that
I would not be alone. I intend to ask them what makes them believe
I can do this, when they have no seed-speaker. How far do I have to
travel to find one of the tree folk?”

“There is but one resonant Gwaith’orn that
remains within the city—a giant that stands just inside the eastern
gates beside the main road. Any of the Tauron can show you the way,
whenever you wish.” Gwidion passed his hand over his eyes, looking
haggard. “I fear that Mithrais will be required to attend me as
often as possible to plan for this delegation’s arrival.”

“Yes, of course. It should be so,” Telyn
soothed him, and crossed once more to kneel beside his chair. “I
will take the scroll to my own room and read it. You must rest, my
lord. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“I think that were I to lay my head down, my
mind would only continue to dwell upon things I do not wish to
think about,” Gwidion said with a deep thread of bitterness.

Telyn was truly worried about him, for
Gwidion had been in high spirits until this morning, and this
change of disposition was alarming. He noted her distress and
touched her cheek gently.

“Do not fret so, dear heart. When Diarmid is
available, he will come to me, and I will have him prepare
something to help me sleep. He has done so before.” He grimaced.
“It is a vile tasting substance, even in wine, but it does
help.”

“I think I can achieve the same effect
without medicines,” Telyn offered softly. “Would you allow me to
play for you?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Gwidion agreed.
As he wheeled his chair to the alcove where the bed lay hidden in
folds of draperies, Telyn retrieved the harp and assured herself of
its tuning. She pulled a chair to the bedside as Gwidion used his
powerful arms to lever himself from the chair and onto the
mattress.

“This is another part of my gift that is
unique,” Telyn said quietly as she warmed her fingers to the
strings, breathing a deep sigh of contentment at the weight and
feel of a harp in her lap once more, the vibration of the
soundboard against her chest not unlike a faint echo of the
Gwaith’orn’s resonance. “You will need to lower your shields, my
lord. Do you trust me?”

“Implicitly.” Gwidion maneuvered his useless
legs into the bed, drawing the coverlet loosely over himself as he
lay back against the heap of pillows, closing his eyes. “Perhaps
when I am not so weary, I can attempt to learn how your influence
works. For this moment I am at your mercy, and seek respite from my
own thoughts.”

It seemed certain now that something in
Emrys’ message had profoundly affected Gwidion, and she wondered if
it was the same thing that had driven Mithrais to seek solitude.
Telyn began to play a soft melody, breathing deeply as she employed
her disciplines—she had no wish to betray this freely offered trust
in her gifts by inadvertently forcing a confession from Gwidion.
The bard willed herself to let the question go and concentrated
instead on crafting an irresistible invitation to surrender to
healing sleep.

As her song magic extended its gentle brush
of influence toward Gwidion, Telyn experienced once more that new
awareness of what she was doing. The impulse to sleep wound itself
silkily around Gwidion’s thoughts, which even now were carefully
held in the most private recesses of his mind. The lord’s eyes
remained closed, and Telyn watched his breathing slow and deepen;
his tight shoulders relaxed against the cushions as Gwidion allowed
Telyn’s influence to take hold and he began to drift. As with
Cormac, she realized that she touched a part of Gwidion’s mind
without any shielding of its own; a part that lay open and blank
like a parchment awaiting a scribe, and of which even Gwidion
seemed unaware despite his prowess in heartspeaking. It was outside
the skillfully lowered barriers protecting his conscious mind.

In his weariness, it was not long before true
sleep claimed him. Gwidion sighed deeply and shifted against the
pillows, the reflected turmoil that had been present in his face
now erased in slumber. Telyn let the music fade into silence before
rising quietly, moving as silently as she could to the desk where
the scroll she intended to read lay unfurled. She set the harp down
carefully on a pile of papers amid the scholarly clutter of
Gwidion’s desk.