Patricia McKillip - The Bards of Bone Plain

“Kelda doesn’t need to play tricks,” she told him bluntly. “All he has to do is play.”

He shook his head, unconvinced; his Kelda was capable of anything. Which was exactly true, she knew, but not in ways that Quennel could imagine even at his bleakest.

He finally let her go. At the bottom of the gallery stairs, she found Kelda waiting for her.

He had probably heard every word, she thought wearily, judging by the amusement in his eyes.

“A final lesson?” he asked lightly, indifferent to his voice carrying up over the gallery balustrade. She walked out of the great hall without answering, forcing him to follow, get out of earshot. In a silent corridor, she turned to face him.

“I don’t know what you are.” Her voice shook despite all her training. “Your powers are astonishing and terrible. Your playing melts my heart. That’s what I know. And I know that when we compete, all the lies you hide yourself behind will vanish; only the music and the power will be left. I will give you back the very best I have. But I think it will be only a trifle, a handful of wildflowers, a shiny copper or two, compared to the terror and the treasures that will come out of you. That will be as it will be. So. There’s no need to wear that face with me now. It’s just another lie. Grant me that much, before you change at last into something I won’t begin to recognize.”

She turned again without waiting for him to answer, made her way to the main doors, listening, all the while, for all he did not say.

The new dawn broke with a ray of light and a shout of trumpets across the plain, summoning the bards from inns and mansions, from school and court, from tents, skiff bottoms, and tavern floors, to gather under the golden eye of the midsummer sun and play until only the best of them stood alone: all the rest were silent.

Phelan woke the sleeping princess with a kiss. She stirred, blinked puzzledly at his bedroom ceiling, then rolled over swiftly, groping for her wristwatch.

“What time is it?”

“The trumpets just sounded. I have to go.” He didn’t move, sat there in a riffled puddle of purple silk sheets, watched her push her tangled curls out of her eyes and smile at him, a little, private smile full of memories. Then the memory changed, and she sat up abruptly.

“I must have heard them in my sleep. I dreamed that my mother was competing to become the Royal Bard. She was playing an antique ear trumpet. She won.”

He laughed. “No.”

“Yes.” She was silent, then, her smile fading, studying his face. She put a hand on his bare shoulder, kissed him gently. “I’m glad you can laugh. If I were you, I’d be terrified.”

He shrugged the shoulder under her long fingers, slid his own hand over them. “I don’t have such an exalted opinion of my gifts to be afraid of losing. I’m just there to keep Zoe’s mind off Kelda.”

“Kelda.” She shivered lightly; he drew her hand from his shoulder, kissed her palm. “Will he win?”

“My father says over his dead body. That sounds like wishful thinking to me. And my father can’t play even an ear trumpet. He doesn’t have a chance of stopping Kelda.”

She drew her knees up under the sheets, dropped her face against them. Her voice came, muffled by silk and her disheveled hair. “I’m still trying to absorb what he told us. It’s hard not to want for him what he wants, but it’s also the last thing you or I would want.”

“Yes,” he said softly. He touched the band of lace and satin that had slid off one shoulder, added, “I would never have imagined you in that color.”

“What color have you imagined me in?”

He opened his mouth, stopped himself, and smiled. “Well. Not orange.”

“Tangerine,” she amended. “My lady-in-waiting refuses to let me wear the color in public. So I have to keep it hidden in my underwear.” She raised her head, sighing. “We have our scant hours between the trumpets and the tide this morning. At least I’ll be able to come for the opening ceremonies. Then I really must put in a few hours at the site. And then go home and face my mother.”

“My father doesn’t expect you to—”

She shook her head quickly. “I know. But I want to, today. I have explored every curve of the great dour keep where kings used to imprison recalcitrant nobles. I want to understand what we’ve found before I get locked up.”

“I’ll come and rescue you.”

She gave him her sidelong smile. “You’ll be busy helping Zoe. Surely I’ve learned enough working for your father to dig myself out of anything.”

He dressed hastily and left the princess in Sophy’s amiable care, discussing whether they should chance the traffic in Beatrice’s car or take a barge upriver. As usual, Jonah was nowhere in sight. Phelan hoped his father hadn’t gone after Kelda with a cobblestone. He took a tram crammed with whey-faced musicians and musical instruments of every size and shape to the huge stone amphitheater on the north edge of Caerau, built by the school four hundred years earlier for bardic competitions and used, between times, for everything from early steam-car racing to coronations.

The elaborate scaffolding rose like a wedding cake out of the center of the amphitheater to support the stage, the whole festooned with banners and garlands, and littered with equipment so that even those ensconced on distant hillocks, under the shade of a solitary tree, could hear the musicians compete. Even that early, the sheer numbers spread out over the grass looked like an invading army, laying siege to the old stonework. The thousands waiting to be seated inside spilled beyond every gate but two: the Royal Gate, from which a long purple carpet ran halfway to the barge docks, and the Musicians Gate. Phelan joined the crowd making for that humble entrance, on the shadowy side of morning. Around him, the competitors were mostly silent, bleary, and grim, some looking as though they were about to lose their breakfasts. As they entered and gave their names, they were handed a schedule. Phelan cast a glance over it and almost lost his. By some twisted luck of the draw, he was scheduled to play first.

He wandered inside dazedly, made his way through the labyrinth of instruments strewn all over the floor and musicians waking up their fingers and voices. The place sounded like a flock of demented mythological birds. He finally found an empty corner, put down his instruments, and looked around for Zoe.

As though he had made a wish, she was there beside him: an eyeful of bright multicolored silks, colors such as only ancient Royal Bards were once permitted to wear.

He smiled, dazzled by crimson and purple, gold and orange. Tangerine, he amended, and wondered if Beatrice would be there long enough to hear him play.

“I wore them for luck,” Zoe said, reading his thoughts. “And hearing you will give me courage. I don’t play until after noon.” She stopped, studying him silently, quizzically, until he felt himself flush. She said slowly, “No one has ever put that expression on your face before. Not even me.”

“How can you even pay attention to such things,” he demanded, “at a time like this?”

She shrugged, her own warm skin ivory around the edges. “I can’t help what I see, especially in those I love. I can’t stop noticing, can I? What are you going to play?”

“One of three things.”

She laughed, an incongruous sound among the broken flutings and tunings and ragged runs of notes. “I suppose you’ll make up your mind at the last moment.” Her lips brushed his cheek lightly, a kiss from the dead, judging from the chill in them. “Stay with me,” she pleaded. “Give me something to think about besides Kelda and Quennel.”