Janny Wurts - The Curse of the Mistwraith

Warmed by the prince’s enjoyment, Maenalle apologized for lack of the gentler arts. ‘We don’t risk our bards in the mountains. Masters of the lyranthe remain in the foothills with our families, that our children learn grace before hardship.’

Lysaer’s surprise must have showed.

‘I forget you weren’t raised among us,’ Maenalle apologized. We’re not entirely the barbarians the townsmen name us. Our women serve with the scouts until marriage, and after that only by choice. The experience at arms is necessity, for in the event of attack, some of the mothers must defend while the households are taken to safety.’

Left selfconscious by his steward’s perception, Lysaer did his best to return her direct courtesy. ‘Your hall need not go tuneless this night. My half-brother is accomplished on the lyranthe.’

‘But I have no instrument,’ Arithon protested, as if all the while his ear had been tuned to the exchange. Having somehow evaded the ceremony due the half-brother of a prince, he wore his plain tunic and much-worn scabbard still. Though conspicuous in his lack of finery his preferences had been humoured without offence until Maenalle saw fit to correct matters.

‘You shall have your pick of instruments,’ she announced, and waved over one of her captains. ‘Escort the prince’s half-brother to the vaults and let him choose a lyranthe that suits him.’

Servants rolled one of the smaller tapestries aside and a key was brought that fitted the grilled doorway behind. Arithon and the leather-clad captain took candles and disappeared within, while Lysaer, who had not missed proof that his surmise concerning treasure-stores was accurate, involved himself with praising the knife-dancers.

An interval later, Arithon returned. Resting in the curve of his arm was a lyranthe so battered and plain it almost looked fit to be discarded. The tuning pegs were chipped and not one string remained intact.

‘He would have none of the jewelled ones,’ the officer who escorted him explained hastily.

Maenalle’s gaze turned stormy. ‘Do you mock us?’ At her tone, the knife-dancers melted away; nearby clansmen broke off conversations and went very suddenly still.

Arithon looked up from the instrument on his arm. ‘I chose the best,’ he said, bemused beyond thought for deceit. ‘Listen, lady.’ He whistled very softly over the sound board just ahead of the bridge. The wood in his hands caught the tone and responded in a resonance of absolute, dusky purity.

The sound caused Asandir, involved in discourse with Lord Tashan, to turn and stare. ‘Ath in his mercy,’ the sorcerer exclaimed. ‘Allow me to examine that lyranthe.’

Clansmen stepped aside as the sorcerer approached and lifted the worn old instrument from Arithon’s hands. Asandir ran his fingers down the wood, scraped grime off one tarnished fret, then turned the neck in his hands to view the back. There, begrimed under layers of yellowed lacquer lay a single Paravian rune, inlaid in abalone that somehow through the years had not chipped.

‘Well, here we are,’ the sorcerer murmured. He scraped at the inlay with a fingernail and bared a rainbow glimmer of fine pearl. ‘There was truth to the tale that a second lyranthe crafted by Elshian remained behind on the continent. ‘ He returned the instrument to Arithon with reverence. ‘One is held in trust by Athera’s Masterbard, Halliron. The other now belongs to you, by courtesy of Camris generosity. Guard her well. The sunchild Elshian was the most gifted bard known to history and an instrument made by her hands sings more beautifully than all others.’

Maenalle laughed in flushed triumph at Arithon’s evident dismay. ‘Return us the gift of your playing,’ she said, and dispatched Maien to the tents to fetch wire.

But Asandir raised a hand in restraint. ‘Wait, lady. Brass strings will break on that instrument.’ He considered a moment, then added, ‘If you provide a few ounces of silver, I can refit her as the maker intended.’

Without hesitation, Maenalle removed her left bracelet.

‘Any bent spoon would do as well,’ Asandir said gently.

Maenalle’s eyes flashed. ‘Mine the honour, Kingmaker.’

The sorcerer inclined his head, accepted the heavy, interlaced band and cupped it between his palms. The clansmen crowded closer to watch as, unmindful of his audience, Asandir bowed his head. No other move did he make, but a power sang upon the air. The bracelet in his hands shimmered, then flashed incandescently white. The watchers nearest to Arithon felt a sear of heat on their faces. Yet the sorcerer’s flesh did not burn. His hands moved, and the light grew blinding, and the ones who dared the dazzle saw the metal in his grip glow red. As if he handled nothing in the least beyond the ordinary, the sorcerer twisted the ore between his fingers and drew out a glowing filament.

The task took scarcely a minute; then light and magic faded and the sorcerer opened unmarked fists. He held half an arc of silver knotwork and a shiningly perfect length of wire. As if the ruined symmetry of Maenalle’s bracelet prompted him to further inspiration, he gave a mischievous glance to the lady steward, then murmured, ‘Indeed, it is not meet that so great a gift should keep such mean appearance.’ And spell-light rinsed his hands once again as he reached out and cupped the fragment of interlace to the unadorned fretboard of the lyranthe.

A snap like a shock whipped the air. When the sorcerer released the old wood, the silver knotwork remained, its pattern transmuted into the ebony as though stamped there from the day of creation. Arithon ran his fingertip over the result. He felt not a single raised edge; the inlay had fused with the surface beyond any hint of a flaw.

When the lyranthe was re-strung with the sorcerer’s spell-tempered wire, the virtue of Elshian’s craftwork became apparent from the instant Arithon struck the first note for tuning. The scratched wood in his hands came alive with a tone that touched the farthest recesses of even that cavernous stone hall. Harmonics seemed to shiver and melt upon the air, and every conversation faltered to a hush. Speakers forgot their next words and listeners heard nothing beyond the dance of Arithon’s fingers and the languid, gliding sweetness of the strings as he turned each peg to true the pitch. When his work was done and the first full chord rang out under his hands, he stopped breathing, bowed his head, then damped the magnificent sound to silence.

‘Lady Maenalle,’ he said, in his voice a jar like heartbreak. ‘This lyranthe is too fine for me. Let me play this one night and return her for your masterbards in the lowlands.’

But the Steward of Tysan dismissed his conscience with an imperious lift of her chin. ‘I don’t begrudge you my bracelet,’ she called across the quiet. ‘And our bards, every one of them, passed over that instrument for another of prettier appearance. Since they chose by their eyes and not their ears, I call their claim forfeit.’

Arithon’s hand remained frozen against glittering bands of new strings.

‘If the word of a prince carries weight, I stand by Maenalle’s judgement.’ Lysaer chose a seat and by example all in the chamber followed suit. ‘Brother,’ he said on a strange edge of exasperation, ‘will you have done with moping and play?’

Lacking the knowledge of Athera’s own lore, Arithon chose a sea ballad from Dascen Elur, a lively recap of a pirate raid in which a wily captain reduced three merchanters to ruin. Although the names of the vessels were changed in deference to his half-brother, Lysaer remembered the incident well; the merchanters had died badly, the seamen’s widows and their families forced to beg charity to survive. Yet singer and lyranthe wove their spell deftly. The clan lords responded to the tale in raucous and whole-hearted enjoyment. No one beyond the performer ever guessed how the laughter stung their prince’s pride. In fairness, Lysaer could not blame Arithon: his duty was to please his hosts, and in a camp without wives or sweethearts, he had performed with a minstrel’s true insight, his choice most apt for the setting. Yet the thievery that delighted these barbarians had roots in a past that reminded how terribly wide lay the gulf between subjects and sovereign.