[Lyra 01] - Shadow Magic Read online

  “She hasn’t come down yet,” Bracor replied; “but she should be here any minute.” Turning to Maurin, who was staring almost rudely, he started to ask a question, but he was interrupted once more by the entrance of a tall, gracious woman with silver-white hair. She wore a simple gown of grey, trimmed with silver, and she moved like mist on the water. She came directly over to Bracor and placed one slim hand on his arm.

  “Isme! I have been looking for you,” Bracor said with a smile.

  “I was delayed helping dress Tatia,” replied the woman. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  At that moment a small bundle consisting mainly of arms and legs came flying down the stairs and struck Bracor at about waist level. He staggered, but kept his feet. Bending down, he picked up the missile, which resolved into a small girl in a blue dress. The child was about four years old, with blond braids and Isme’s slanted eyes. “Tatia, have you been keeping your mother upstairs?”

  “No, she was just dressing me. Don’t I look pretty? Where’s Har? I want him to see my dress. It’s new. He is going to take me fishing tomorrow. He didn’t come see me when he got home. Who is that?” She pointed to Maurin, who was standing in awe of the flow of words. Bracor laughed.

  “He is a friend of Har’s and he will be staying here with us for a few weeks while Har is home. Har should be over there; see if you can find him.”

  The Lord of Brenn placed his youngest child on the floor. She stood and stared at Maurin for a moment, then tore off at top speed. Isme shook her head. “After all the time I spent dressing her… It isn’t worth it. But who is our guest?”

  “Forgive me; I should have introduced you earlier. May I present Maurin Atuval of the Traders?” Bracor said, turning to her.

  “Har has told me much of you already,” said Isme in her musical voice as she nodded. The years had indeed been kind to the Lady of Brenn; she could have passed as Alethia’s twin sister easily. Maurin bowed courteously, wondering where the Lady Isme’s native land was. He had never seen the combination of white-blond hair and tilted green eyes before, though he knew most of the peoples of Lyra after his travels. “I hope Har’s report was favorable, Lady,” he replied.

  “You need have no fear on that score,” Isme said. “Har is not likely to speak poorly about one whom he holds in such high regard. You are welcome in Styr Tel.” She nodded again. Smiling slightly, she moved off on Bracor’s arm before Maurin could think of an appropriate reply.

  “It is time to seat ourselves.” Maurin turned to find Alethia beside him.

  “Allow me to escort you to dinner,” the Trader said formally, wondering if he was being maneuvered into taking her in. Alethia’s eyes glinted with amusement; then she inclined her head gracefully. The jewels in her hair flashed as she took Maurin’s arm and they went together toward the great hall.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Candlelight and color filled the banquet hall of Styr Tel. The black walls were hidden behind tapestries in rich hues depicting history and legend. In front of them, the notables of Brenn stood in small knots of conversation, or filed toward seats at the linen-draped tables. Over half the places were already occupied, and serving-boys with silver decanters moved along the tables, pouring wine.

  Maurin felt out of place among the richly dressed men and women. He tried to ignore the feeling, and concentrated on observing people instead. He was successful enough that it was a moment before he realized that Alethia was speaking to him.

  “I am sorry,” he apologized. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear the question.”

  “I asked what you find so fascinating,” Alethia said. “Now I am doubly curious.”

  “I was watching your guests,” Maurin said. “You said this would be a small party, just dinner and songs, but it looks like a feast to me.”

  Alethia laughed. “Just wait until First Lord Gahlon and Lord Armin get here; then you’ll see a feast! Everyone in town will want to come.”

  “I don’t see why; the guest of honor tonight is far more attractive.”

  “Very nice!” Alethia said approvingly. “Are all Traders so courteous?”

  “Oh, most of them are much better at it than I am,” Maurin assured her solemnly. “I am only a journeyman, after all.”

  “Only a journeyman? After everything Har told me, I thought you were a Wagon-master, at least!” Alethia’s eyes danced wickedly; Maurin shook his head in mock sadness.

  “Har tends to exaggerate,” he explained.

  Alethia laughed again. “I see you know my brother well.”

  “Well enough; we stood watch together from Ciaron to Karlen Gale.”

  “Stood watch?” Alethia looked puzzled. “But you’re a journeyman.”

  “Trader caravans can’t afford to carry dead weight,” Maurin said. “Everyone does something; journeymen earn their keep as guards while they’re studying for full status.”

  “What do Traders study?” Alethia asked curiously.

  “Customs and languages of the largest cities, and tables for converting the coin of one realm to another,” Maurin said. “Some of the Master Merchants can speak and write in twelve tongues, but a journeyman is only required to learn five. It is not really very interesting.”

  Har heard this last remark and leaned forward. “Don’t let him fool you, Allie,” he advised. “Maurin is one of the youngest men ever to master all of the tables and scripts, but he is too modest to mention it. And he wasn’t even born a Trader!”

  “What?” Alethia looked at Maurin. “Then how can you be a journeyman? I didn’t think the Traders let people just join!”

  “They don’t,” Maurin said. He shot a deadly look at Har, who grinned unrepentantly. “But I’ve been with the caravans since I was fourteen.”

  “If you aren’t a Trader, where are you from?” Alethia asked.

  Maurin hesitated. “I was born in one of the seacoast towns; my parents were killed in a fire at the docks when I was an infant.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Alethia looked as if she really meant it. “How did you join the Traders, then?”

  “I was raised by a couple who took me in for charity and never let me forget it,” Maurin said. He was surprised at how easy it was to say. “I ran away when I was fourteen. One of the south-bound caravans picked me up. I suppose I was useful; anyway, they let me stay.”

  “Ha!” Har leaned forward again and grinned at his sister. “Let him stay? Maurin’s one of the best swordsmen in the guard; I’ll bet he was good even then. Of course they let him stay!”

  “I suppose that is another thing he is too modest to mention,” Alethia said. “Go start your own conversation, and stop listening to mine!”

  Har grinned and turned away. Alethia looked at Maurin speculatively for a moment. When she was sure Har was occupied elsewhere, she tilted her head to one side and asked, “Are you very good with weapons, then?”

  “Some think so,” Maurin replied cautiously.

  “Do you know how to throw daggers?”

  “Yes, of course; all caravan guards learn that,” Maurin said, puzzled.

  Alethia glanced down the table. Maurin’s eyes followed hers; he saw that Lord Bracor was turned away from them, talking to someone on his other side. Alethia turned back.

  “Do you play san-seri?” she asked.

  Maurin nodded, still wondering where this was leading.

  “Then would you play a match with me?” Alethia asked, leaning forward anxiously. “Har won’t any more, so I hardly ever get a chance. Please?”

  Whatever Maurin had expected, it certainly wasn’t an invitation to play an intricate knife-throwing game with the daughter of one of the Noble Houses of Alkyra. San-seri was played by professional soldiers and the Traders who had brought it to Alkyra from the lands west of Ciaron.

  Aware of Alethia’s expectant eyes on him, Maurin finally asked, “But where could you set up a san-seri target? The courtyard is much too crowded.”

  “I knew you w
ould!” Alethia said happily, and Maurin realized with a sinking feeling that he had just committed himself. “The target is no problem; Har and I set one up behind the stables when he was learning swordcraft.” She laughed. “When I started beating him, he decided to teach me archery instead, because he was better at that than I was. Father would be terribly upset if he knew; he is always telling me to be more ladylike.”

  She gave Maurin instructions on when and where to meet her, and the conversation turned to other things. Maurin found himself hoping that something would happen to put off the proposed match, such as the ground opening up and swallowing him before he had to arrive at the stables. A clandestine meeting with a noble’s daughter was a good way for a Trader to get into trouble, and he was not quite sure how he had been maneuvered into such a breach of common sense.

  The dinner ended, and Bracor rose. After the obligatory toasts to his daughter and his guests, he said, “We are fortunate to have in town a man who has just been accepted by the Guild of Minstrels. He was only passing through, but I have heard well of him, and I persuaded him to play for us tonight.”

  A ripple of anticipation went through the hall as Bracor signaled to the man and re-seated himself. Full-fledged minstrels came seldom to Brenn.

  A young man stepped forward, dressed in the blue and green of a traveling minstrel. He carried a melar, the stringed instrument that most wandering musicians used, and the hall hushed in anticipation.

  “Now will I sing for you the song of Gasinal and her love for Kellingarm the Kulseth seafarer,” said the minstrel, and he drew his hand across the strings and began. Though all had heard the song before, and knew it well, the hall was silent as he played. For the minstrel was he who was later known as Tamsin Silver-Tongue, and though he was not yet at the height of his power, still he held them. Even Tatia kept still, without fidgeting, until the song was done.

  When he finished they would not let him go, but showered him with praise and begged another of him. And so he sang for them the greatest lays of Alkyra, one after another, on into the night while the candles burned low in their sockets. When at last he ended his songs and bowed and slipped away, the guests shook their heads and gathered in quiet knots to speak of older things in low voices until the close of the eve was upon them, when they went their several ways.

  * * *

  Shortly after noon of the following day, Maurin picked his way across the courtyard of Styr Tel toward the stables. He was still not certain how he had gotten himself into this ridiculous position. Fortunately, Har was out with Tatia on the promised fishing expedition, so he had needed no excuse to slip away from the young noble.

  The stables of Styr Tel were built in a corner of the courtyard. On one side they extended up to the outer wall, but on the long side there was a gap of six or seven feet between the stable wall and the fortifications. This was partially roofed over, so that it was not clearly visible from the towers of the house, and it was one of the most popular trysting places of Styr Tel.

  Maurin rounded the corner of the stable to find Alethia waiting for him. Her hair was braided again, and she had tied the plaits back to keep them out of her way. The severe style emphasized her high cheekbones and the slant of her wide eyes. She held a rack of daggers in one hand: twelve of them, with green handles.

  “I am so glad you came,” Alethia said as soon as she saw Maurin. “I was afraid you weren’t going to show up.”

  “I almost didn’t,” Maurin admitted.

  “Are you worried about getting into trouble with Father?” Alethia asked. “Don’t be; he will know exactly who to blame if he finds out. But if he does, you must promise to smuggle some pastry up to me after he locks me in my room; I don’t mind missing supper, but not Ceron’s pies!”

  Maurin grinned back at Alethia. “But what if he locks me in, too?”

  “Oh, Father would never do that,” Alethia said with mock seriousness. “You are a guest!”

  “Then you have set my fears at rest,” Maurin said, and bowed with a flourish.

  “Are you ready to start, then?”

  Maurin nodded, and Alethia waved toward a second rack propped up against the wall of the stable. This one held red-handled daggers, and on closer examination they proved to be exceptionally well-made and balanced for throwing. Maurin tossed one in the air, enjoying the feeling of quality.

  “They are good daggers, aren’t they?” Alethia said with some satisfaction. “Har brought them from Col Sador the last time he rode guard.”

  “No wonder they are so well-balanced!” Maurin said as he rose, holding the rack. “Where is your target?”

  Alethia nodded toward the end of the alley. Someone, probably Har, had fixed a large board in position against the stone of the outer wall. On it the square, circle and diamond shapes were drawn roughly but clearly. Maurin nodded. For a few moments they took turns making practice throws, and Maurin found the red-handled daggers just as good as he had expected. Then the game began.

  They flipped a coin for the first throw, and Alethia lost. Maurin stepped to the throwing line and, with the ease of long practice, brought his arm down. The dagger flew in a perfect arc, turning in mid-air to strike point-first at one of the four intersections between the three figures. Alethia nodded in appreciation and stepped forward to take her turn.

  The green dagger placed itself perfectly in the next intersection, and Maurin raised an eyebrow in surprise. Alethia was better than he had expected, unless it had been a lucky throw. The game went on, and it soon became clear that Alethia was not going to be easy to defeat. Maurin was hardly a novice player, but Alethia matched his throws with an ease that surprised him, and she was no mean strategist.

  They reached the final throw, and Maurin paused to study the board. The pattern of red and green was nearly complete. Carefully, he aimed and placed his last dagger. It flew true and fair, and Maurin smiled. The pattern of red was complete. Green could best it by completing its pattern, for Alethia had chosen a more difficult design, but her final dagger would have to be placed almost on top of Maurin’s last throw. If Alethia knocked the red dagger from the board, she would lose.

  Alethia stepped up to the throwing line. She frowned slightly, then in a single, fluid motion she raised her arm and threw. The green dagger came to rest a hair’s-breadth from the red, quivering slightly, and Alethia smiled.

  “What a throw!” Maurin exclaimed in genuine admiration. “Har should have warned me. You have won, I think.”

  “Har doesn’t like to admit that he can be beaten by his younger sister,” Alethia said, smiling.

  “If you always throw like that, I can’t imagine why,” Maurin said. “Where do you get your skill?”

  “I suppose it runs in the family; Father and Har are both very good. Besides, I have a lot of time to practice,” Alethia said. She looked at the board critically. “I must admit, this is as close to a perfect game as I have ever managed.”

  “I would like to see you in competition,” Maurin said thoughtfully. “I don’t know ten men who could have made that last dagger.”

  “You flatter me, sir,” Alethia said, sweeping him a dignified curtsey.

  “No, it is true,” Maurin protested; then he saw Alethia’s grin. Together they walked toward the target. “We must have a rematch,” Maurin said as they retrieved the daggers.

  “Not today, I am afraid,” Alethia said with some regret. “Mother and I are going down to the healer’s houses for our weekly visit. If I stay here to play another game, I’ll be late.”

  “Then I suppose we must wait,” Maurin said. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  Alethia nodded, smiling. “Tomorrow.”

  The rematch was not held. Alethia was caught up once more in the whirl of preparations for the visit of the two lords, and she was barely able to snatch enough time to let Maurin know that she could not make it to their appointment. Maurin would have been disappointed if he had not been busy with Bracor and Har, going over and over everything that wa
s known about the Lithmern. As it was, neither of the two found time for regrets.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Alethia hurried down the back stairs of Styr Tel, skirts lifted high to avoid catching dust on the green silk. The slippers that showed as a result were in the latest style; spangled, with narrow heels. Normally she was not quite so careful, but it was only an hour before the feast Bracor was giving for the two nobles and she wanted to look her best.

  Har had persuaded Bracor to invite Maurin to the welcoming feast, even though the unexpected addition gave the preparations a last-minute touch of confusion. Adding two more to a formal banquet was a far cry from setting two more places at a birthday party, however elaborate. As she reached the foot of the stairs and turned toward the Styr kitchens, Alethia frowned. Maurin was undeniably a personable young man, and she would be glad to see more of him, but she wished he would not monopolize Har so thoroughly. She had hardly seen her brother since the two men arrived. Of course, some of the fault was Bracor’s; he kept the two men studying Lithmern for hours. Still…

  The door to the kitchen swung open, cutting Alethia’s reflections short. She found everything in a predictable and unalarming state of chaos. She waved to Ceron, the head cook. He grinned broadly in response, but he made no move to leave the large kettle he was stirring. One of the assistant cooks came hurrying up.

  “Anything we can do for you, my lady?”

  “Mother sent me down to see if things were going well. She would have come herself, but she has too many details to see to upstairs.” Alethia did not mention that her mother seemed more apprehensive than usual about the evening. Isme’s hunches were known and respected by the members of the household staff. To allow her nebulous fears to be known would insure a disaster, so Isme had reluctantly allowed Alethia to take her place for the customary visit to the kitchens.

  Things seemed to be well under control. Alethia settled several small quarrels, checked the wine, and informed Ceron that he could begin serving upstairs in one hour’s time. The whole tour of the kitchens took only a few minutes, and she left quite satisfied.