Song Magick (4 page)

In the morning light, this information seemed
easier to examine logically. She resolved to keep her weapons
within reach at all times. She was no more than a few hours outside
the keep’s walls, and once she reached Rothvori, she would be safe.
The small piece of silvered glass mirror hanging on the wagon frame
reflected troubled hazel eyes, and Telyn looked away before she
could convince herself otherwise.

Telyn loosed her hair from its straggling
plait and reached for her comb, taming the unruly curls enough to
allow her to braid it neatly. She began to plan for the more
pleasant activities that awaited her at the keep.

Lord Riordan of Rothvori was an old friend, a
bawdy giant of a man that Telyn had visited often during her long
apprenticeship with Emrys Harpmaster. Telyn’s cousin and a true
bard in his own right, Emrys had fostered her and trained her in
their craft until she was old enough to go to court, and Emrys, not
Taliesin, was the one Telyn considered her closest relative.

The letter she had sent to Rothvori in hopes
of finding her foster father there had been what precipitated
Riordan’s affectionate invitation to perform at the spring rites.
Riordan had told her that Emrys was engaged elsewhere but did not
know by whom, or where he could be found.

She frowned as she wound a bright ribbon
around the end of the braid. She had heard no news of Emrys either,
and had been unable to locate him since her exile from court. This
morning she missed his affectionate company on the road more than
ever.

She changed from her traveling clothes into
colorful leggings, a silk shirt and embroidered jerkin in
preparation for her entrance, wanting to appear every inch the bard
for the festivities. The May Eve celebrations in Rothvori were
still conducted with all the abandon of ancient fertility rites,
where wine, food, and music flowed with equal generosity. The
villagers would have been up before dawn, gathering flowers and
setting up the Maypoles in the square. Telyn felt a growing sense
of excitement as she thought about the dances and the merry,
breathless music that would accompany them. There was nothing like
a spring celebration in Riordan’s vineyards and barley fields to
raise one’s spirits.

The flowing cuffs of the silken sleeves came
only to the middle of her forearms, clearly revealing the honor
marks tattooed on her skin at the left wrist. She ran her fingers
thoughtfully over the Sildan King’s crest of sun and moon, feeling
a stab of anger that the marks which so often protected her were
now a liability. The Royal Bards had always been so marked; it was
an outward sign of the royal house’s obligation to the descendants
of Meurig, the first Royal Bard, who had been instrumental in
bringing a lasting peace to the Three Realms. It not only defined
their family as one in favored service to the King, but afforded a
measure of privilege that had been to Telyn’s advantage, traveling
alone.

She was determined to thwart anyone who might
try to identify her in that way. The bard located a small box at
the front of the wagon. Inside were a few items of jewelry; one was
a silver-chased copper cuff that would cover the marks completely.
She slipped the bracelet over her wrist.

Locating soft leather gillies, she dropped
barefoot out of the wagon into the dew-laden grass, shoes dangling
by their laces from her hand. There were no signs of the previous
night’s events; except for Mithrais’ weapons and cloak beside the
circle of stones housing the ashes of the campfire, it was as if it
had never happened.

“Good morning.” Mithrais hailed her as he
returned from the stream with a pail of water for Bessa.

Telyn shook her head in wonder. She had
thought him beautiful the previous evening, but those pale, green
eyes were even more startling against the sun-browned face by
daylight. He was younger than she had thought at first, perhaps not
much more than her own age. His serious demeanor and air of command
had made him seem older.

She realized she had been staring too long
when Mithrais’ brow furrowed as she studied him.

“Lady Bard?”

“Please call me Telyn.” She was disconcerted
by the strength of her attraction to him, a faint blush creeping up
her cheeks. “I was just envying those Tauron tricks of endurance
that allow you to go without sleep.” She yawned in
demonstration.

“We seldom sleep on patrol. I’m used to it.”
Mithrais set the pail in front of the horse, and Bessa snuffled
greedily over it before drinking.

Setting her shoes on the nearest wheel of the
wagon, Telyn opened the box beneath the seat and checked her
instruments, then removed a dagger and a belt from the box. She
frowned at it a moment before girding it on resolutely, moving the
pommel of the dagger to the small of her back, where it wouldn’t
interfere with her playing but would be in easy reach. She glanced
toward Mithrais, who was watching her arm herself, displaying an
expression of approval.

“Your sword is there.” Mithrais indicated the
scabbard hanging from the side of the wagon.

“Thank you.” Telyn moved it closer to the
front of the wagon, where it could be drawn from a seated position
if necessary. “Where is your comrade?” she asked, realizing the
redheaded warden was absent.

“Aric is taking a bearing. I sent him back on
patrol at sunrise.”

Telyn made a small noise of revulsion when
her bare foot came in contact with the cold, slimy lump of the
bloody tunic she had discarded by the wagon. She picked it up
gingerly by the collar. “I hope Riordan still employs a laundress,”
she muttered in disgust.

“You defended yourself well. You didn’t tell
me you were a warrior bard.” Mithrais’ voice was quietly respectful
as he watched her.

“The Royal Bards are trained as soldiers in
case there is ever need to accompany the King into battle.” Telyn
rolled up the tunic and stuffed it hastily into a basket hanging on
the outside of the wagon. “What did you do with the bodies?”

“We gave them to the Wood. It was a long
winter, and the wolves will know what to do.” His eyes flashed,
looking almost wolf-like himself.

Telyn sat down by the circle of stones to put
on her shoes. She was unable to find the appropriate words of
gratitude, and it bothered her. Bards were known for their quick
wit as well as their song magic, and here she was, as tongue-tied
as any shy village maiden with a crush. She finished tying the
laces, wrapped her arms around her knees and sighed.

“Mithrais, if you and Aric had not been
nearby, I would be dead. I don’t know how to repay such a
debt.”

He shook his head at her as he leaned against
a young tree, arms crossed casually over his chest. “There’s no
need. The Tauron patrol these roads for that very reason. The deep
Wood seems to attract violent men who either seek to hide from
justice or to relieve unwary travelers of their purses.”

“Even with the haunted groves?” Telyn
attempted to joke.

“Even so!” Mithrais replied to her jest in
all seriousness, and paused. “But the trees keep the Wood-born
nearly as isolated. We’ve had no true bards visit Cerisild since I
was very young.”

Telyn sat up straighter. Cerisild, the city
in the heart of the Wood, was remote and mysterious. There were
still few people who had traveled there despite the fact that trade
and commerce had flourished between the Three Realms since the end
of the Great Wars. Those who had ventured into the deepest reaches
of the forest relayed tales of Cerisild’s unusual beauty and a
surprisingly large population.

“Perhaps if you’re not otherwise contracted
after the spring rites, you might consider visiting our city?”
Mithrais continued. “There are many who would relish hearing the
latest news from outside the Wood, especially my father.”

“I have no obligations after Rothvori and
would be glad to come,” Telyn accepted eagerly. “I will make
certain to discharge my duty directly to your father. For whom
should I ask when I arrive?”

“Gwidion, Lord Cerisild.”

Despite Mithrais’ mild tone, Telyn’s jaw
dropped at the unexpected information. He had just named himself
the son of one of the most powerful men in the Three Realms. She
rose and offered respectful obeisance.

“It will be an honor, my lord.”

Mithrais made a gesture of protest. “Out
here, I’m only a Tauron warden,” he stated firmly, and his smile
widened to become genuine. “My mother finds my calling most
unsuitable, so I make it a point to remain on active duty as much
as possible.”

“Your knowledge of court becomes clear to
me.” Telyn found herself smiling back. “I have never met the
Princess Marithiel, but I’ve been told that she is...” Telyn
searched for an acceptable word, finishing with,
“...formidable.”

“Worse things have been said of her, I
daresay,” Mithrais countered with grim humor. His expression
changed to that guarded mask she had glimpsed the night before, and
he smiled mirthlessly. “In Cerisild, we are much less inclined to
follow the rules of etiquette, although my mother has always
insisted on the formalities due her rank.”

That alliance had cemented the Sildan Kingdom
into the largest of the Three Realms, and Telyn knew the story
well. The Lords of the Wood had largely been kings in their own
right until Gwidion had been the first to visit Belthil in more
than a century. In reuniting the common bloodline sprung from
intermarriage with the fair folk who had once made the Wood their
home, King Amorion and Lord Gwidion had healed a long-standing rift
between their people.

Telyn sobered when she remembered something.
“I have heard that Lord Gwidion gave your mother and brother
co-regency over the Wood,” the bard said softly, and the Westwarden
nodded curtly.

“Yes, but he is still a great man.” Mithrais
looked fiercely protective. “The injury that cost him the use of
his legs has impaired his spirit, not his judgment, as my mother
would have it believed.”

“No one who knew him at court believes that,”
Telyn reassured him. “I was not fortunate enough to meet him
myself, but all others speak of him with genuine respect.”
Mithrais’ gaze returned to her and softened somewhat.

“That’s good to hear. My father has endured
much from Marithiel for the sake of alliance since his
accident.”

Although Gwidion had made a yearly visit to
court before his injury, neither his eldest son nor the princess
had visited during the last three years to pledge their fealty to
the King in his stead. If the bard read the carefully checked anger
in Mithrais’ words and eyes correctly, it seemed that all was not
well in the house of Cerisild.

Telyn began to ask a carefully phrased
question regarding their absence from court, but an odd sensation
of urgency robbed her of voice. She turned, the query forgotten as
another crest of that strange, intermittent vibration flowed
through the clearing and made the bard shiver. Mithrais, still
leaning reflectively against the trunk the tree, glanced casually
upwards as it passed.

“What
is
that?” Telyn demanded,
rubbing her arms against the wake of gooseflesh that rose in
response. “You called it ‘the pulse of the Wood’.”

“I did indeed.” Mithrais studied her
thoughtfully, and came to stand beside her, his face solemn.
“Before you can truly understand, I need to show you that the
Tauron have other ways to communicate than through words.”

He offered her his hand. Palm outward and
fingertips spread wide, it was a gesture not unlike the courtly
greeting to which Telyn was accustomed. Mystified, Telyn met his
fingertips with hers, and Mithrais slowly and deliberately closed
the distance between their hands, so that their palms touched
firmly.

Initially, Telyn was acutely aware of the
sensation of skin on skin, her hand soft against the warm roughness
of his palm. If his touch had brought comfort the night before, it
now elicited an unexpected flare of yearning that caught her
unawares. His eyes widened as if he knew what she was feeling,
capturing her gaze. Telyn felt herself blushing under that intense
regard, and then...

Without warning, there was a disorienting
rush of thought as a strange connection was suddenly made between
them. Telyn gasped and reeled a moment, closing her eyes against
the unexpected intimacy of the contact. Mithrais interlaced his
fingers through hers and tightened his grip, steadying her with a
gentle hand at her elbow.

She felt as if she had plunged head first
into a deep forest pool, the shock of immersion wearing off
gradually and allowing individual sensations to be distinguished.
She realized that she could feel the steady cadence of Mithrais’
heart in her own chest, and the soft ebb and flow of his breathing.
His pulse sped up slightly, and Telyn somehow sensed that he was as
startled as she at the intensity of the shared experience.

“Mithrais, tell me what is happening,” she
whispered, afraid to break the spell.

His voice seemed to sound in her mind as well
as her ears. “It’s called heartspeaking. Those that have the gift
among the Wood-born are able to speak silently to each other, or
with images. You have this gift as well, Telyn, because you just
entered my mind.”

All of her senses seemed to be heightened;
Telyn was intensely aware of the nearness of his body, giving rise
to a softly building fire within her. Through that intimate link of
hands and minds, she recognized that Mithrais was also deeply
affected by her proximity.

That knowledge caused her to flinch, an
involuntary remnant of the rape’s aftermath. The contact faded like
mist and shadow as Mithrais released her hand with some reluctance,
that green gaze still startled. His voice was uneven as he regained
his composure, and continued quietly,

“Those who have the gift have always come to
serve in the Tauron Order, for we have other charges than simply to
patrol the roads.”