"Where?" she asked, looking about before she could stop herself. "Like him?" she demanded, when she recovered herself, then added, "Heavens no. He's dreadfully conceited."
Erynn studied her, then began to chuckle. "Bless me, Tantia! You're blushing! Is it love?"
"Certainly not!" she exclaimed, flushing still redder and feeling her heart pound. "It's the heat."
"Lame, cousin," he teased. "Well, get yourself under control. Here they are."
To buy her some moments in which to compose herself, Erynn stepped out and greeted them. "Hello, Malia," he said with a smile.
She began to coo and flutter, but abruptly she stopped herself. She opened her eyes very wide, and dropping the breathy note from her voice, told Erynn he was wonderful in a sincere tone that Alar had never heard from her before.
Alar fixed Erynn with a curious gaze. They introduced themselves, then Alar asked whether he could see Tantia. "That," Erynn replied enigmatically, "is up to her. Tant?" he called.
She appeared looking cool and composed, and greeted her guests. As he bowed over her hand, Alar remarked with faint irony that she remembered him this time. "How could I forget such a prince as yourself?" she replied. Erynn, sensing something was up, asked Malia if she would like to show him about town, and the two set off a moment later.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Alar spoke. "Tantia, please hear me out. I've never met anyone like you! At first I was irritated, next curious, then fascinated. But now, Tantia, dear Tantia, I realize that I'm in love with you."
"For heaven's sake, Alar, how can you be in love with me?" she demanded. "I haven't even been nice to you."
"I think," he replied slowly, "that that is a large part of it."
"Wonderful," she snapped, turning her back on him. "You want a shrew for a wife." There was a peculiar tremor in her voice.
"No," he said, gently setting his hands on her shoulders. "I want someone who isn't in awe of me, someone who hasn't put me up on a damnable pedestal, totally out of reach; that's a lonely place to be, Tantia. No, I've always wanted someone to care about me enough to correct me when I've gone too far. I love you, Tantia. I love you for your sharp tongue and your quick wit. And for your gentle heart."
"What gentle heart?" Tantia demanded. "I've been awful to you as you well know. You can't possibly..." she swallowed hard and sniffed, "...possibly love me."
"Of course you have a gentle heart," he said firmly. "You've been nice to Malia."
She stood, unmoving, with her back still turned on him. "Are you sure you love me?" she asked in a small, trembling voice.
"Positive," he replied. "Tantia, will you marry me?"
She turned to face him then and smiled, a warm, tender smile that took all the sting out of her next words. "Well, I don't suppose I have anything better to do, my love."
Several days later, the players' cart rattled along the road toward Cymyl's capital. Alar sat with Tantia on the driver's bench and chatted gaily. They had put off the wedding until Tantia could meet his family, even though Alar had told her at the outset that it really didn't matter whether or not they approved, since they had learned long ago that he did what he pleased regardless of their opinions.
Interrupting their cheerful talk abruptly, Alar pointed to a shady gravel road and told her to turn onto it.
As they traveled along, she was struck by the lovely, trimmed green meadow on one side, and the well-ordered orchard on the other. Suddenly, they were confronted by an imposing gray-haired man on a splendid black charger. Tantia nearly dropped the reins when she realized he wore the royal arms of Cymyl.
"I say," he began kindly, "this isn't a public road—Good God!" he exclaimed, passing his hand over his eyes. "Son! You've returned."
Alar leapt lightly down from the seat, and clasped the man's hands. "Father."
"Let me go on ahead and warn your mother...and tell the steward to make up some guest rooms for you—how many are you? Seven? Good, and..."
"And tell the palace chaplain I'm getting married," he added, smiling at Tantia.
"What?" the king exclaimed. Then he beamed at her. "How wonderful! And what a surprise. You must tell me how you managed it, young lady, but not now. You must all be exhausted." With a cheerful wave of his hand, he cantered up the lane before them.
And for the second time in a week, Tantia was completely at a loss.
***
As she ended, Kaela found her eyes drawn once more to Kippen's. She smiled at him and he returned it. She looked about at the others and found smiles and nods of approval. The baron rose and bowed to Kaela.
"A fine tale and masterfully told. Miss, you have a gift, a true gift."
Demurely, Kaela dropped her eyes and murmured thanks as befit a poor teller of tales. The baron turned to Kippen.
"A tune from your flute, lad?"
Without a word, Kippen rose and set his instrument to his lips. The flute spoke to Kaela of many things: of the mountains, wind, sunlight on the high, pale peaks; the music danced like the stars in their courses; gleamed and shimmered like a silver thread in a tapestry. It sang of the dawn and of springtime, of open meadows, of the dark, secret places in forests or caverns. She closed her eyes and the music swirled about her like a dream, flitting from fancy to fancy, image to image, and back again. The music lulled her, soothed her, calmed her, and she slept.
When the music ended, she was vaguely aware of strong arms lifting her, very gently, and of her head resting on Kippen's shoulder as if it belonged there.
Chapter Eight
The sunset had died and night was drawing near before Stafgrym could escape the crowds of angry, bewildered courtiers that milled about in the halls constantly asking questions. But for the fierce, forbidding expression on his face, the wizard himself would have been pressed for information, gossip, details about why the two princesses had been taken prisoner. There was no satisfactory official story as yet, and the unofficial rumors ranged from the convincing, whispered tale that the King had gone mad to the more often repeated but less often believed statement that the princesses had conspired to murder the King and take his crown.
Despite the press of the throng, Stafgrym finally managed to get through by the simple expedient of extending his hand and muttering in a strange language. Gaping, the crowd parted and he passed through, as stately as the King himself.
Once outside, he went around to the stables, and following the path Melina had taken days before, he reached the high bluffs overlooking the sea. It was dark, for though the night was clear, the new moon was but a pale wisp of light, low on the horizon, and few stars were out. As the wizard leaned out over the edge and looked down, he could see only the faint glimmering of foam, though he could hear the sea's roaring voice.
He stepped back from the edge then, and cupping his hands together, he extended them forward and upward, as though begging alms of one much taller than he. Over his shoulder he shot a resentful glare toward the moon, but it was young, he knew, and its faint power would be no trouble to him this night. He began chanting, not a muttering, furtive sound, but a loud, clear declaration. The words were strange, strong and vibrant. These were not words of nobility and purity, but rather they were remarkable for their evilness, and for their horrible sense of malignant power.
In his cupped hands, fire began to burn, harsh, bright fire that gave no heat. Reverently, Stafgrym lowered his hands and gazed into the heart of the flames.
"Lord," he began, humbly, beseechingly. "My Lord and Master, I pray you, speak."
From the flames came a voice like the fire itself, crackling and thin. "I am here, lowly one."
"I am indeed, my Lord and Master, the lowliest of your servants. But lowly as I am, have I not obeyed you always?"
"You have," the voice replied.
"Then dare I ask of you a boon, my Lord and Master?"
"Ask, lowly one."
"I beseech you, my Lord and Master, to tell me how to regain that which the princess has stolen
from me."
"You were a fool, lowly one, to lose it."
"I was thrice a fool, my Lord and Master, and I acknowledge it. Without your aid, my Lord and Master, I shall never regain it."
"That is true, lowly one and fool. I will deign to help you. You cannot call the thing to you, but you can follow its path to its resting place. Use the spells of Phalkalan and Teraphys. But hasten, for if the dawn should find you still in the realm of the sea, you shall be destroyed." Then the flame vanished, even before Stafgrym had the chance to thank his Lord and Master. He allowed himself only a moment's hesitation, and then began the spells of Phalkalan and Teraphys. They were long spells, and arduous, involving long incantations and intricate hand patternings, but Stafgrym went through them flawlessly. Though he had never before put these spells to the test, he had studied them long and well. Finally, all was ready. He felt himself the vessel of a great power. His fingertips tingled and his eyes glowed. Taking a few running steps, he launched himself in an arc, the same path the crystal globe had followed, over the edge of the cliff. With a fearsome noise, the wizard's form became clothed in fire and he dove swiftly, cleanly, cutting the air, toward the furious sea.
Magic guided him. He sliced the water and continued down, down in the swirling, eddying waters. He felt neither cold nor wet, nor did he feel the need of air; he swam, unfaltering, following a faint, red path of fire ever onward and downward. The currents did not trouble him, though they had tossed and carried the crystal first one way then another.
It took a long time, for the path he followed twisted back on itself, looped and turned at the whim of the currents; and the water had carried the globe a long way. But at last Stafgrym found it, glowing dully, half buried in the sand by the base of an enormous boulder. Eagerly, the wizard snatched it up, then swam straight up, strongly and swiftly, following the rough outline of the boulder. His head broke water, and he noticed with a chill fear that the eastern horizon was growing light. He had no time to waste. Without an instant's hesitation, he began to swim again, not through water any longer, but through the very air. Faster and faster he strove to go, for he knew if the sun cleared the horizon while he was still in the air, the spells would end and he would plummet helplessly to his death.
Higher and higher he went, until he was nearly level with the cliff's top. The eastern sky had changed from gray to gold; birds were stirring. Stafgrym gave a mighty kick and pull, trying to put himself over the grass before the sun rose.
In a brilliance of gold and birdsong, the sun came over the horizon. The wizard felt his spell dissolve and he fell three feet onto a patch of close-cropped grass. Too exhausted to move, he lay there clutching the crystal, a smile of triumph on his face. Summoning up the dregs of his strength, he tucked the crystal globe into its familiar pouch, then rolled over and slept.
Chapter Nine
In the end, they stayed for five days with the baron. True to her word, Alyi had her seamstress make new clothing for Kaela, skirts of bright gypsy colors and embroidered linen blouses. During her stay, Kaela saw little of Kippen, for he was much in demand by the merchants who would hire him to ride in their wagons to play tunes to amuse them. Kaela found herself spending nearly all her time with the baron's daughter. Alyi, for all her airs, was quite intelligent and witty, and by the morning Kaela and Kippen left, there was a firm bond of friendship between the two girls. Amid farewells and Godspeeds, Kaela and Kippen set off down the road. Kaela turned back once to wave, before their path rounded a turn and the baron's castle was lost to sight.
"You're quiet," said Kippen after a while. "Are you troubled or just thinking?"
"Just thinking," she replied, "about Alyi and how lonely she is. I was wondering whether Melina and even Tamera, my sisters, are as lonely and unhappy."
"Alyi? Lonely? She seems happy to me, though I must admit she's grown up a bit. She was quite a scamp when I knew her, a regular hoyden."
"She still is."
"Oh, come!" cried Kippen. "Surely you're joking. She seems quite the proper lady to me."
"Well, she would," Kaela said softly. "But the scamp is still there, underneath. Only someone told her, or she realized for herself, that one day she'll be a baroness; and baronesses can't go climbing the trees in the orchard or bareback jumping a pony over all the garden hedges."
Kippen smiled sadly. "It's called growing up." He sighed. "But sometimes I wish it wouldn't happen to my friends. So many people seem to think of growing up as the time when one modifies one's ambitions. It's a rare person indeed who insists on reaching for the stars despite everyone. I had hoped..." He sighed again. "Alyi used to speak of being the Fytrian ambassador—half in jest but somehow more than half in earnest. I wonder what became of her dream?"
Kaela shook her head. "It's hard to want something impossible. It's dangerous to let it matter so. And which of us is wise enough to decide for another if the gain is worth the gamble?"
They lapsed into their own thoughts, for it was that sort of day, all misty and silver gray, thoughtful with the question of rain. After a while, Kippen took out his flute and began to play, as if thinking aloud, and Kaela listened and understood.
That night they camped, for the land was wild and folk were few; most preferred to farm the fertile valleys farther south, and few wished to live in the shadow of the mountains. Kaela was glad of the quiet, for she found it restful after the bustle and activity of the baron's castle. As the two wanderers sat about their fire, eating of the generous provisions the baron had given them, Kaela found speech an effort. The silence weighed about her like thick wool. Kippen noticed her quiet, she saw, and for his sake forced herself to speak.
"Kippen, however did the Baron Marachor manage to get his name into so many evil legends?"
The minstrel smiled. "Many years ago, the fortunes of the Marachors were established by a highwayman almost as ruthless as the legends paint him, and to this day, the tale sticks. Most Cymyl folk know better, but travelers can often be frightened into paying a servant to allow them to 'escape.' Yet it still seems odd that one as kind and good as the present Baron Marachor is still maligned by a legend hundreds of years old."
Kaela managed to smile, though it was an effort, for the silence and now some chill dread pressed hard against her.
Kippen, mistaking her quiet for weariness, said comfortingly, "Tomorrow we'll be in the capital, and there you can rest properly."
"I suppose," she said heavily and reached for her blanket. But she was not tired and sleep was long in coming.
Kaela woke to a misty drizzle and the sound of Kippen cursing. He could not get the fire started, and at last, after many fruitless attempts, they were forced to settle for a cold breakfast. They agreed it was better to be wet walking than to sit and get colder as well, so they set out. Kaela's mood was grayer than the dripping sky, and because of the rain there was not even a tune from Kippen's flute to cheer her.
They trudged forward, heads down and cloaks pulled close against the searching fingers of the damp. Everything seemed the same, mile after dripping mile; the only change was that the mud got deeper, and there were infrequent houses.
It was late in the afternoon when Kaela noticed that the air seemed lighter. She looked up and saw the sun was trying to fight free of the thick clouds.
"Hush," said Kippen, noting her gaze, "lest you frighten it away."
She smiled back, just as the sun won its battle and the earth gleamed in the sudden brightness. With a whoop, Kippen grabbed hold of a fir branch that overhung the road and shook it. Raindrops flew out in all directions to be caught by the sun, blazing in the air like a shower of falling stars. Kaela tried to catch them as they glittered past. She laughed, then looked about her, measuring the hill before them with her eyes.
"Race you to the oak!" she cried, then sped off, lighter and swifter than a swallow over the muddy track. Kippen pounded after her.
By the time they reached the top of the hill, breathless and laughing, they had forgotten
about the oak, for the race had become a wild game of tag across the wet grass. As Kaela reached the crest of the hill, she stopped so suddenly that Kippen crashed into her and they both went sprawling on the slippery grass. They helped each other to their feet, then Kaela pointed, wordless at the wonder of the view. The land beneath their feet rolled away at a gentle slope to the blue ocean, but the true wonder was the city of Tychat. Its spires and towers gleamed white or pearl gray in the sun, and they soared so high they seemed to be built of air and cloud instead of stone. Most magnificent of all was the palace of Cymyl, the tallest by far, and so graceful and delicate that it seemed to be made of spun sugar or of glass. It looked as though the slightest wind would tumble the entire city into the sea, and yet Kaela knew that Tychat had stood for thousands of years.
She turned to Kippen, a smile shining on her face and in her eyes. "It is beautiful."
"Yes," he replied, his eyes not leaving her face. He took her by the hand. "Come. Let us go down."
The city was filled with people laughing and chattering merrily, dressed in bright colors with brighter eyes and faces. Amid the brilliant, cheerful color, one man's somber garb seemed conspicuous. He wore a black, travel-stained cloak and a tunic of a dark, sullen red. Suddenly, the man turned his face in Kaela's direction. Involuntarily, she clutched Kippen's arm. It was Stafgrym.
"What—" Kippen began, but broke off when he followed Kaela's gaze. "Turn, quickly," he said quietly. "Maybe he won't see us."
"What shall we do?" Kaela whispered, as they began strolling idly toward the stalls of the silk merchants.
But Kippen's reply was drowned out by a collective shriek from a crowd of ladies-in-waiting.
"Minstrel Kippen!" cried the loudest of them. "The princess will never forgive us if we do not bring you to her. She positively pines for a tune from your flute."
"Why, Kippen/' cried another, "is this your wife?"
"No—no," the minstrel stammered. "She is my sister."
"Never the day, you rogue!" challenged a third. "She's your sweetheart."