Awakened and Other Enchanted Tales Read online

  Then, as the Queen beckoned, he hastened to join her and Lord Lyr, as they slipped away through the deepening shadows. Watching them go, Kylvan remembered tales of another Tammas, comely and well-spoken, enticed within the Hill to be the Queen’s own harper—and paramour. But those thoughts, too, could wait for another day.

  The shades around them were darkening to emerald and amber; Death was packing up his harp again. Across the deserted hall, he met her gaze, his lips quirking in a wry congratulatory smile. “You never told me,” he remarked, “that the Bards of Ilsevane awarded you a Master’s status.”

  “You never asked,” Kylvan retorted. “And it was a matter of life and music, not of death and dying.”

  Death held up a hand, as if acknowledging a hit. “You have more of craft than I thought. I shall be…interested in seeing how it develops.” He sketched her a grave bow, before following the Queen and her escort into the darkness.

  He would be back, of course—Death always won in the end. And perhaps then there would be other words unspoken, other promises unfulfilled, and other songs left unfinished.

  But not tonight.

  Already, the green-gold shadows of Faerie had yielded to the glow of firelight and the roof beams of her father’s house rose solid and strong above her head. Kennon Corrie lay quietly on his bed, the flush of fever gone from his face, his breathing as even as a babe’s.

  She sat down beside him, to wait.

  Harp Of Bone

  QUEEN Rosalys descended the royal dais and lifted the kneeling bard to her feet. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I had hoped you would pass this way.”

  “My partner and I were delayed on the road,” Kylvan explained. “I’m sorry to have missed the wedding.”

  “Are you?” The queen’s smile was brittle. “Under the circumstances, I only wish I could have missed it myself. You’ve—heard what happened?”

  “Only that there was some trouble after the ceremony,” Kylvan said cautiously.

  The queen’s smile tautened. “‘Some trouble,’ yes.” She stared down at her folded hands and spoke without inflection. “My younger daughter Ellen disappeared three months ago and last night, at her own wedding-feast, my daughter Annet was accused of murdering her. And the manner of that accusation was such—” she broke off abruptly, casting a quick glance around the throne room. “We can’t speak of this here, and I must show you what we saw…and heard last night. Come with me, please.”

  Standing in the Great Hall, from which all traces of celebration had been carefully removed, Kylvan repressed a shiver. The cavernous chamber radiated all the warmth and cheer of a tomb, an impression reinforced by the grim-faced guards posted by the heavy double-doors. If I hadn’t known, I’d never have guessed there’d been a wedding here.

  Queen Rosalys was kneeling on the flagstones, before the long trestle table, carefully unwrapping a strangely shaped object, swathed in blue silk.

  Kylvan watched intently. “This is the evidence against your daughter?”

  “Wait.” The queen rose and stepped back, revealing a harp nearly as high as Kylvan’s knee. The firelight played on its gleaming ivory frame and made the strings glow like molten gold. Then, suddenly, the harp gave a shuddering sigh and the strings rippled as though caressed by ghostly fingers.

  The hair on Kylvan’s nape prickled as the notes ran glittering up and down the scale, then shaped a half-familiar tune. Midway through, a voice joined in, a wispy soprano that nonetheless rose clearly above the harp’s music: “Oh there does sit my father the King, / And by him, sits my mother the Queen!”

  Kylvan glanced uneasily at Queen Rosalys; the older woman was pale but composed, hands clasped in front of her. The harp sang on, losing some of its breathiness:

  “And there does sit my brother Hugh,

  And there, sweet William, brave and true!

  And there does sit my false sister Nan

  Who drowned me for the sake of a man!”

  The voice rose to a near shriek on the last lines, then fell silent, as the last chords hung trembling on the air.

  Kylvan exhaled slowly. “Is—is that your younger daughter’s voice, madam?”

  “It’s very similar. And she spoke to us all, even using the nickname Annet hated so.” Queen Rosalys swallowed audibly. “My daughter went white as milk when she heard—I thought she would faint. One of my ladies did faint; another rushed Hugh from the room. My husband demanded to know the meaning of this outrage. The harper claimed to have found Ellen’s drowned body on the shore; he swore he made the harp of her bones and strung it with her hair…and carved Bardic Runes on the frame to make it sing alone. Is that really possible?”

  “It’s possible. And obscene. No honorable bard would misuse the Runes so vilely.” Kylvan fought down nausea. “I’d like to speak to the so-called harper who brought this…thing to you.”

  “I’m afraid—that’s not possible.” The queen stared at her hands. “He’s dead—Lord William struck off his head in a rage once he heard the song. He’s very protective of Annet.”

  “Of Annet? But the harp called him—”

  “‘Sweet William, brave and true?’” Queen Rosalys’ mouth twisted. “I’m not surprised. Ellen always set her cap at Annet’s suitors. When she learned her sister was to wed Lord William, she made a special effort to ensnare him. But Annet’s older and she’s heiress to my lands in Cartheyn as well. And William’s a younger son, though his father is my husband’s dearest friend. He had much to gain by this marriage—the king was considering appointing him Regent if he should die before Hugh is of age.”

  “That’s a great deal of power for one man to wield,” Kylvan said slowly. “Husband to the Princess Royal, Regent to the Crown Prince.…”

  “Too much power to risk by courting the wrong daughter,” finished the queen, wrapping up the harp again. “I’m glad you see that—Ellen couldn’t. I sometimes think, were it not for law and custom, my lord would have plucked away all that was Annet’s and conferred it upon her sister.”

  “Does the king believe the harp?”

  The queen’s eyes darkened. “He called for the guards to take Annet away before the harper’s head struck the floor. Ellen was my husband’s favorite—he was distraught when she vanished and he’ll hear nothing against her. It’s easier for him to believe Annet killed her out of jealousy than that his darling could ever lie or run away without a word to him.”

  “What do you believe, your Majesty?”

  Queen Rosalys smiled tautly. “I loved my daughters, Bard Kylvan, and I hoped they would outgrow their rivalry. But I wasn’t blind to their faults: Ellen is—was willful and spoiled. Whatever Annet had, she wanted. And my elder daughter is proud and quick-tempered. But I cannot believe she would murder her own sister.

  “Tomorrow, Annet must give proof of her innocence before the council. But with my lord so wroth and no evidence to combat the harp’s claim—” she broke off, twisting the kerchief in her hands. “I couldn’t bear to lose another child.”

  A little hesitantly, Kylvan touched the queen’s shoulder. “How may I help, your Majesty?”

  “I was the last person to see my sister that day,” said Princess Annet. “But I swear, before God, that she was alive when we parted.”

  Even in the dim cell, Kylvan could see the younger woman’s pallor and the shadows beneath her dark eyes. But the Princess Royal was her mother’s daughter and her voice and countenance were under control. The fair-haired young man seated beside her was another matter—his mobile features mirrored his every mood. Now his smooth brow was creased with anxiety, his green eyes fixed upon Princess Annet as if she were his hope of heaven. Lord William, every inch the distraught young husband.

  The bard chose her words carefully. “Where was it that you last saw her, your Highness?”

  “By the river. We walked there privately that afternoon. Ordinarily, our ladies would’ve accompanied us, but Ellen and I had…matters of importance to discuss.” Her lips t
wisted in a bitter smile. “You’ll have heard, Bard Kylvan, that there was little affection between us. Our exchange quickly became heated, angry—I thought it best to withdraw before we quarreled outright. I left Ellen alone and returned to the palace.

  “Her maids reported her missing that evening—they said a few of her gowns and most of her jewels were also gone. Father was half-wild, he had his men search through Allegre for her. I thought she’d run away to distress us, to make us all sorry.” Again, her lips quirked humorlessly. “Ellen excelled at that. But then last night—”

  She broke off as the cell door creaked open to admit a page, bearing a tray of food and water. At first glance, Kylvan did not recognize the royal heir. Prince Hugh had been a babe in arms when she saw him last—though yet of tender years, he was well-grown, with his mother’s fine features and his father’s curling red hair, caught back in a tail falling nearly to his waist. Princess Annet’s drawn face softened as she looked at her young brother who smiled shyly back at her. There was, Kylvan noted, no sign of fear or suspicion in that smile.

  The princess remained silent even after her brother had set down the tray and departed the way he had come. It was Lord William who leaned forward, eyes ablaze.

  “Bard Kylvan, can you prove my bride’s innocence? For innocent I know she is, my own heart tells me so!” He gazed ardently at the princess, whose own eyes warmed at his spirited defense of her. He folded Annet’s hand tenderly in his own. “By this hand, I would strike down all who would accuse her!”

  “As you struck down the harper last night?” Kylvan inquired sharply.

  Lord William flushed. “I fear I let rage overmaster me. But how dared he? A ragged rascal with a cheap bag of tricks, to slander and defame my lady! He should have been whipped from our court before he brought such misery upon us all!”

  “He should have been held, for questioning,” Kylvan corrected him. “Ragged rascal he may have been, but the Runes on that unspeakable instrument are real enough.” She turned again to the princess. “What did you and Princess Ellen speak of, that made you both so angry?”

  In an instant, Princess Annet’s face grew closed and still. “That I’ll not answer, Bard Kylvan. It remains between my sister and myself.”

  Recognizing a dismissal, Kylvan bowed and withdrew. The last thing she saw, glancing back through the grille of the dungeon door, was Lord William, kneeling at the feet of his silent bride.

  Kylvan found her partner ensconced in the kitchen, eating his way through a huge platter of food.

  “Tammas,” she fixed a stern eye on his innocent face, “how did you come by all this?”

  The conjurer grinned into his tankard. “I flattered the cook and charmed two silver pennies out of the kitchen-maid’s ear. There’s more than enough here for both of us,” he added, waving a hand over the laden tray. “Leftovers from the wedding feast. I hear it was…memorable.”

  “That’s one word for it,” said Kylvan dryly, sitting down and helping herself to bread and meat. Between draughts of ale, she gave him a terse account of the last few hours.

  “The Runes are genuine,” she concluded somberly “And the harp is made of human bones and hair, most likely those of a woman who died violently. But I never knew Princess Ellen, I cannot tell if these bones are hers.” She took a long swallow from her tankard. “Princess Annet swears Ellen was alive when they parted. Unfortunately, there are no witnesses to corroborate her story.”

  “Do you think her capable of killing?”

  “In the heat of anger, perhaps. But I can’t help thinking she’d have already confessed, if she had. I suspect Queen Rosalys feels the same way.”

  “And the king?”

  “Who knows? He hasn’t seen her since her arrest. Lord William, on the other hand, has to be pried away from the dungeon door.”

  Tammas raised an eyebrow. “You dislike him?”

  She shrugged. “He’s handsome and well-spoken, if a trifle extravagant. He swore his undying devotion to his bride, whatever the outcome of her trial.”

  “Did he now?” Tammas rested his chin on his hand. “They’re singing a different tune in the servants’ hall. At least two of the maids said they saw Lord William trysting with the younger princess before he was betrothed to the elder.”

  Kylvan considered the matter, then shook her head, sighing. “That makes him fickle, not a murderer. Besides, the betrothal went forward, as planned—Annet is Princess Royal and her mother’s heir.”

  “‘The brown bride has baith house and land / Fair Ellen, she has none,’” Tammas quoted.

  “And no doubt resented it. Queen Rosalys says Princess Ellen flirted with all of Annet’s suitors, and she’s not one to lie about such things.”

  “How is it you’re on such good terms with her Majesty?”

  “I helped deliver her son.” She laughed softly at his expression, forgetting present sorrow in pleasant memories. “I harped for her father, the Duke of Cartheyn, six winters ago. Rosalys was visiting him when her pains began, two weeks early. It was snowing, bitterly cold—and the babe was not at all eager to come forth. The midwife learned I was a bard and had me sing cradle-songs to coax him from the womb.”

  Tammas grinned. “Did it work?”

  “Prince Hugh was born at dawn, healthy and screaming.” She chuckled again. “He’s grown into a likely lad. And those curls! They’ll have quite a birthlock from him in a year’s time.”

  “What’s a birthlock?”

  “It’s a tradition in Cartheyn and in parts of Allegre too. A child’s hair is cut for the first time when he’s seven, and one tress is always laid aside—for luck, they say, or protection against evil. The longer the hair, the stronger the talisman—” she stopped, eyes widening, and surged to her feet, crossing the room in three strides.

  “Where are you going?” Tammas called after her.

  “To find the queen!”

  “Ellen’s birthlock?” Queen Rosalys echoed, staring at the bard.

  “Do you still have it?”

  For answer, the queen rose from her chair and crossed to the alcove of her private study where her writing desk stood. She emerged bearing a small chest, richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “What you seek is in here,” she said, her fingers caressing the lid. “And none but myself has looked on it since the day it was taken from her.”

  Kylvan took the chest carefully from her. “I shall do my best to return it, when this—investigation is over.”

  “Do what you must.” Returning to her desk, the queen dipped her quill in ink and scribbled rapidly upon a sheet of parchment. “The king’s guards are watching the Great Hall, but this,” she blotted the ink, sealed the document, and handed it to Kylvan, “should clear the way for you to carry out whatever is…necessary.”

  The grim-faced guard to whom Kylvan presented the queen’s edict, peered suspiciously at her before breaking the seal. His grizzled brows rose astonishingly as he read the single sentence inscribed on the page, as did those of his partner when he too beheld the message. Still frowning, they handed the edict back to Kylvan and stood aside to let her and Tammas pass into the Great Hall, closing the heavy doors behind them.

  Tammas set down the basin he was carrying on the nearest table. “Is that it?” he asked, pointing at the silk-swathed harp.

  “Yes.” Kylvan uncovered the instrument and stepped back. Once again, the harp shuddered, sounded its strings, and began to play.

  Tammas paled as the harp began its song but remained silent until it had finished. When the strings quivered yet again, however, he uttered a brief oath and flung out a hand, fingers stiffly outstretched. The harp fell abruptly silent.

  Kylvan grabbed his arm. “What did you—”

  “I put a silencing spell on it, for now! Do we really need to hear the damned thing all the time we’re working on it?” Her partner was breathing hard, a sheen of perspiration on his brow.

  “I suppose not.” Kylvan released his arm, staring at him thoughtful
ly. “Any possibility this might be Faerie’s work?”

  Tammas, whose conjuring skills masked his own faerie heritage, shook his head. “No, this is a wholly human atrocity.”

  “So I feared,” Kylvan sighed. Picking up the basin, she crossed over to the harp and unsheathed her belt-knife. Trying not to wince at the sound, she scraped the blade carefully along the harp’s outer frame, well away from the Runes. Minute slivers of bone fell into the basin.

  Tammas sat down abruptly on the floor and put his head between his knees.

  “Are you all right?” Kylvan was astonished by his squeamishness.

  “My people don’t concern themselves with your dead bodies, only your living ones. Why are you doing that, anyway?”

  “I traveled with a necromancer once—he taught me some tricks of the trade. Nasty but necessary.” Gritting her teeth, Kylvan loosened the tuning pegs around the harp’s shortest string. Her hands felt soiled afterwards, but she laid the hair beside the pile of bone shavings, then added a few strands of Ellen’s birthlock, taking care not to let the basin’s contents mingle.

  Replacing the basin on the table, she sprinkled powdered alicorn, valerian, and vervain over the three piles. Tammas, recovered from his nausea, set the spellcaster’s candle before her, lit the wick, and stepped away, eyes troubled.

  Like to like. Kylvan closed her eyes, concentrated, then began the simplest of the Bardic chants. She sensed the basin growing warm, the candle’s flame burning more brightly, but she repeated the whole incantation, to be certain. Her partner’s exclamation made her open her eyes.

  Within the basin, all three piles were glowing: the bone shavings and the hair from the harp were a pale, phosphorescent green, the birthlock a fiery red.

  “They don’t match!” Tammas reported excitedly. “Does that mean the harper lied, and the princess is innocent?”