Song Magick (38 page)

Mithrais repeated it back to her, hesitating
over the strange names of the runes, and Telyn nodded in
satisfaction. “Now, speak it again, and try to keep the rhythm as I
did upon your knee. I will begin to say it with you the third
time.”

The bard kept the rhythm with her fingers
once more, letting Mithrais become accustomed to the words, his
voice becoming more confident. She let her voice blend with his as
he repeated the rhyme a second time, his hand tapping upon his
thigh in rhythm. She increased the tempo slightly for the third
repetition, Mithrais keeping pace with the cadence and
concentrating with such a serious expression that she had to
suppress a smile.

Telyn reached inward and felt a flare of
triumph as the sought-for trigger of her song magic bloomed in
warmth and power, and rose in her breast at her beckoning. She let
it flow outwards toward Mithrais, seeking the place in his mind
that awaited the touch of magic, and overlaid the complexities of
rhythm upon him.

Telyn changed the cadence of the rhyme, and
he made the transition seamlessly under her influence. She saw that
Mithrais was aware of it, for he smiled broadly in delight, never
missing a beat. For good measure, Telyn began drumming with her
other hand in counterpoint, and Mithrais followed her lead without
a thought. She finally increased the speed until their hands were a
blur of motion as they drummed the rhythm, the spoken rhyme
forgotten. They finished, laughing, as she withdrew the song
magic.

“There may be hope for you yet in regard to
music,” Telyn announced gaily.

“Even under your influence, I didn’t think it
possible,” Mithrais replied, laughing.

Telyn grinned in response, saying as she
rose, “At least we know that this method will allow me to trigger
my song magic. But one test remains: your ability to call upon it
now.” She went to a low side-table where the saddlebag containing
her instruments had been deposited, and fished out her bodhran. She
presented it to Mithrais with a mischievous smile.

“I can’t play,” Mithrais reminded her,
accepting the shallow drum and hefting it awkwardly.

“I know that, but you’ve shown me that you
can keep a cadence under my influence. Trust me.” Telyn seated
herself opposite him. “Drum the rhyme you learned with your
fingers. You don’t have to say it out loud.”

At her signal, Mithrais began to hesitantly
tap out the rhythm of the bard’s rune on the drum, and she nodded
encouragingly as he repeated it without error. His confidence
growing, Mithrais repeated the rhythm, and Telyn felt the first
stirrings of magic as he concentrated on what he was doing. It
flowed from her in an intangible stream toward Mithrais. Within
moments, he was drumming with the fingers of both hands upon the
bodhran as they had at the last; rapidly, unerringly, and with such
an expression of disbelief as he glanced at her that Telyn burst
out laughing in merriment. Mithrais, grinning, set the drum aside
and stood, pulling her to her feet.

“You’re laughing at me,” he stated with
good-natured accusation.

“Never,” Telyn denied, unable to contain a
giggle. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? I won’t make you my
apprentice just yet, but you show real promise...”

Mithrais responded by kissing her soundly,
and Telyn, already giddy with relief and excitement that the
experiment had been successful, felt herself going weak-kneed as
she returned his kiss. His fingers tangled softly in the curls at
the back of her neck, stroking the sensitive skin of her throat and
eliciting delightful shivers in their passage. Telyn let a small
sound escape her as she pulled Mithrais closer.

“The Elders...” she protested without
conviction, glancing at the slanting sunlight outside.

“...can wait a little longer,” Mithrais
replied, stealing another kiss.

* * * *

Cerisild changed by night.

Twilight settled quickly beneath the trees of
the city, softening the lines of the streets and buildings,
blue-green shadows broken at intervals by the pale, golden spill of
light from windows and doorways. The streets were empty of the
clamor that permeated it during the day, save in proximity to a few
public rooms where drink flowed until the tavern keeper’s
watch-candle burned out in its glass-sided lamp.

As Telyn and Mithrais passed one of these
open doors on the fringes of the city, the sound of a flute and a
secail
drifted past, accompanied by the sharp, yeasty smell
of spilled ale. It was no bard playing inside the tavern, but the
musicians were talented and well appreciated by the crowd
inside.

Telyn sighed with a sudden, unexpected pang
of nostalgia. Beneath her, Bessa balked and snorted, sensing her
change of mood. From the back of his horse, Mithrais glanced toward
the bard in inquiry, and grinned as Telyn shrugged
nonchalantly.

The windows of the guild house were brightly
lit, a few wardens lingering outside the doorway in the darkness. A
familiar voice called out to Telyn and Mithrais as they tethered
their horses next to the building; it was Colm, the Northwarden,
and he approached them casually.

“I had begun to think you were wise enough to
stay away,” he said with thick irony. “They started without you.
It’s been an ugly evening, and tempers are high. Three of the
Elders are more than willing to accept at face value what happened
last night, but Jona will not accept that none of them were called
to aid Telyn—or at least, that
he
was not.” Colm
snorted.

“Perhaps Jona won’t be so eager to volunteer
once he hears what we have discovered,” Telyn said in a low voice,
withdrawing the membrane tube containing the fragile scroll with
Genefar’s writings from her saddlebag.

“What is that?” Colm asked interestedly, and
Mithrais shook his head, clapping Colm on the shoulder.

“It seems our endeavor will not be without
risk, my friend. Everyone should hear it at once.”

“And everyone allowed to make their own
choice,” Telyn said firmly. She walked toward the door, the men
following her, and entered the guild house.

The large common room was ablaze with
lamplight, several of the long, low tables moved together to form a
hollow square, and chairs set all about the outside edges. Cormac
sat at one edge of the table opposite the Elders, and smiled in
relieved greeting as Telyn and Mithrais entered the room, his young
face troubled but flushed with the excitement of being included in
this most exclusive council.

There was a rustling as the wardens came to
their feet when they saw Telyn. Coming to attention at a softly
spoken command from Colm, the eight chosen Tauron bowed deeply in
deference to the bard. Mithrais, suppressing a smile, followed
suit.

Telyn acknowledged the wardens with a mixture
of gratitude and foreboding; she saw that the gesture was not lost
on the Elders. Semias immediately joined the respectful greeting,
followed a breath later by Conlad, but Jona did not, glaring darkly
at Colm. Nor did Declan offer a bow, but the senior Elder looked
uncomfortable as he breathed a small sigh and nodded politely at
Telyn.

They moved quickly to the empty chairs beside
Cormac. Mithrais stood on her left, and Colm claimed the chair on
the opposite side of the Westwarden.

“The council will come to order,” Declan
said. “Welcome back to the guild house, Lady Telyn.”

“Thank you, respected Elder.” Telyn bowed and
requested, “Please forgive me for our tardiness. I have been
studying the Tauron histories this afternoon in an effort to learn
something of my task.”

“Be seated,” Declan directed the wardens. “We
have called this council to determine how the Tauron will proceed
in order to fulfill the task the Gwaith’orn have given Lady Telyn.
It is an unprecedented matter—”

“With all due respect, Elder Watchwarden,”
one of the wardens interrupted dryly, “It is Lady Telyn who must
fulfill the task, and we Tauron have been appointed merely to aid
her. We feel that it is she who should determine our course, and
not the Order. Who are we to question the word of the
Gwaith’orn?”

Telyn could see Cormac shrinking into his
chair beside her, and Mithrais watched in dismay as Jona began
arguing with the warden who had spoken. The tension that had been
building before their arrival had come to a head. The bard stood up
and pitched her voice to carry over the din, years of vocal
training making her words ring compellingly from the rafters of the
room:

“The word of the Gwaith'orn should be
questioned!”

“The Gwaith'orn do not lie,” Semias began,
and Telyn held up a hand.

“Perhaps not, but they have withheld
information from all of us regarding this task.”

Certain now that she had their undivided
attention, Telyn touched the scroll that lay on the table before
her. “What the Gwaith’orn declined to tell us last night is that
this attempt to restore magic to the Silde is not unprecedented—two
hundred years ago, an attempt was made and it failed with
disastrous consequences.”

The announcement brought a moment of
astonished silence, and the wardens listened intently as the bard
wove a condensed version of the tale of Genefar and her doomed
effort, glancing at each other in shock as Telyn revealed the fatal
outcome.

Telyn held the gazes of the eight wardens
around the table, lingering a moment on Cormac, who had gone pale.
“Even so, I intend to see this through to its conclusion, but the
Tauron Order has already suffered too much loss on my account. You
who were called had no idea of the possible danger we might face. I
will not hold accountable anyone who agreed unaware of the risks to
aid me in the completion of my task.”

There was an exchange of glances across the
tables, and shaken heads. “I think I speak for all of us, Lady
Telyn, when I say that it changes nothing,” Colm said with a
satisfied expression. “The fulfillment of the covenant is a
monumental event. To be a part of that is an honor, despite the
risk. I cannot imagine what it will be like to call upon the magic
as our ancestors did.”

“Ah, but that is not the only thing at stake
here,” Mithrais reminded his fellow officer. “The very existence of
the Gwaith’orn hangs in the balance, as they have told us.”

“The magic is an issue that we have not yet
discussed.” Another warden spoke up determinedly. “The Gwaith’orn
said that we were chosen because we can wield magic through Lady
Telyn. Once the covenant is fulfilled, the old gifts will rise in
us. But what happens then?”

“An excellent question,” Mithrais responded.
“Whether we succeed or fail, it means that the Tauron Order will
change.”

Heads swiveled to look at the Westwarden.
“How so?” Jona asked with narrowed eyes.

“If the Gwaith’orn cease to exist, there will
be no reason for the Tauron to continue in its present form,”
Mithrais reminded them calmly. “If we succeed, we face the added
responsibility of the use of magic; perhaps even the weight of
enforcing measures against its misuse, for they didn’t say that we
alone would wield it.” Mithrais looked round the table soberly.
“It’s a subject we can’t avoid later, but if we look so far ahead
now we lose focus on what we must accomplish before the
solstice.”

“Agreed,” Declan interjected quickly. “We
must first determine the participation of the Elders in this task.
I have heard both sides of the argument from my peers, and I know
my own mind in the matter.”

Telyn said earnestly above the mutters that
threatened to rise again, “I have no objection to one of the Elders
being involved in a purely observational role. I don’t know if
anyone else noticed, but the signatures of those who were chosen
created a...a harmonic tone when sounded together; a pure
vibration. We are already missing what appears to be a critical
element. I can’t help but feel that it’s important we do not change
that balance. “

“What, precisely, is the missing element?”
Jona inquired.

“Not what, but who,” Telyn informed him.
“Genefar writes that the act will require the powers of the
seed-voice, who must be female, but she has a male counterpart.
Genefar was not the seed-voice, but a warden had been recognized by
the Gwaith’orn as having the gifts attributed to the
‘seed-speaker’. He had been given the knowledge of how the
fulfillment of the covenant would be accomplished should the
seed-voice appear in his lifetime. Genefar described his gifts as
being far more sensitive than her own, with an unusual
understanding of the Gwaith’orn...”

Telyn stopped abruptly, those words again
pricking at her memory, but this time the connection was made. She
looked slowly down at Cormac, whose face grew red, but the young
initiate matched her gaze steadily.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she asked him
softly.

Cormac glanced once at Mithrais, who seemed
to have made the connection as well, and at the Elders, who stared
at him in disbelief. He took a deep breath, looking more relieved
than apprehensive, and rose to stand beside her.

“Yes. I’m the seed-speaker.”

Chapter
Twenty-Five

Every eye was on the yellow-haired initiate
as he faced them, returning their stares with composure and a
confidence that he had never before projected.

“How long have you known?” Telyn demanded of
Cormac, sinking into her chair.

“Since I was a child.” Cormac shrugged
apologetically. “They’ve always cautioned me not to say anything
until I was recognized by the seed-voice. I wasn’t sure how much
they’ve told you.”

“You withheld this information from us? You
mentioned none of this in any of your mind-to-mind reports!” The
Elder Martial was indignant, and Cormac looked scandalized.

“I intended no deception,” he protested
earnestly. “It would have meant nothing to anyone until now. I
learned only last night that the time to fulfill the covenant had
come, just as you did.”