The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden

by Anne Kelleher Bush

Genres: Fantasy

Synopsis

The foremost city-state of Sylyria is in the cold grasp of Lindos, a cruel wizard who has mastered the magic to turn 10,000 years of peace into a reign of horror. Rejected in his marriage proposal to the beautiful noblewoman Juilene, the evil Lindos plagues her with a hateful curse: anyone who helps her will be destroyed. A forlorn exile with nothing more than her harp, the young songsayer flees her home to protect her family. But, in the distant city of Khardroon, she meets a mysterious knight prophesied to be the true savior of Sylyria -- and the confrontation with Lindos is now inevitable.

Release date: September 26, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 336

Sample

Silent as the flicker of the candle he clenched in his fist, the young thurge stole through the halls of the sleeping house.
His white robe, bordered with the glyphs of the House of the Over-Thurge of Khardroon, shivered around him. His bare brown
feet, smooth as the soles of an infant, made no sound on the marble floors, which even in the height of the summer heat were
cool.


But the chill that ran up his spine and lingered like a lover’s hand on the back of his neck had nothing to do with the temperature
of the stone beneath his feet. He had labored long over his books that day, wrestling with the formulas concerning the tides
and the moon phases of the approaching autumn. He had gone to bed with a headache from the arcane combinations that danced
jigs before his closed eyes, and a prayer that somehow it all make sense in the morning. Now he doubted he would see his bed
again before dawn. A summons in the middle of the night from Her Transcendence could mean only one thing. Someone or something
had displeased the mighty Over-Thurge of the third most powerful city in the Sylyrian League, and he, sleepy Siss-Obed bel
’Damin, the nineteen-year-old son of a mere demi-thurge, was about to be called upon to arrange whatever might be necessary
to restore Rihana’s good humor. In no way did Siss believe himself to be anything but expendable, even though his growing
reputation for discretion had earned him the favorable notice of Her Transcendence. But now he wondered what quality had made
her call for him in the middle of the night: his discretion or his expendability? He gripped his smoking candle until his
nails dug into his flesh, and tried to convince himself it was only the heat that made his palm sweat.


The flame threw up huge shadows against the white walls of the corridor, and as he passed by, the light glimmered off the
unlit sconces of polished gold set high upon the walls. The palace of the Over-Thurge of Khardroon had never been so magnificent
before Her Transcendence had come into her power. He entered the long gallery, where the wide windows were thrown open to
catch the breezes off the sea. The summer night was sultry; the gauzy shrouds draped over the windows to discourage insects
hung still as corpses on the hangman’s tree. He could not even hear the ships in the nearby harbor creaking on their moorings.
It was as if the whole city held its breath, in anticipation of something—or someone, he mused as he pushed open the elaborately
carved doors at the end of the gallery. But what could have so disturbed Her Transcendence on such a night, when surely all
the good citizens of the city slept in heat-drugged stupor, and even the rest were likely to lie in snoring oblivion in their
rat-infested warrens?


He paused a moment and took a deep breath. With only the slightest waver of the candle, he opened the door and stepped into
the antechamber of Her Transcendence’s suite. The light of a hundred candles stung his eyes, and an incessant buzzing rose
to a fevered pitch upon his entrance. He allowed the suggestion of a frown to cross his face, even as he dropped his eyes
and composed his features into the impassive mask it was wisest to wear. He gathered the folds of his robe more closely about
him, and hoped she wouldn’t notice that his fingers trembled.


“You’re late.”

The voice cut through the thick air with the precision of a scalpel, soft and biting all at once. He raised his eyes without
the least hesitation, for that was never wise, and met the dark, hooded eyes of Rihana, the Over-Thurge of Khardroon.


She was still a young woman, not yet passed her child-bearing years, but her beauty emanated from the power that clung to
her like a garment, not from any symmetry of face or form. Her full lips were red in the candlelight, and her skin had that
subtle glow that told him she had used her power but only a short time ago. Her black hair was piled in a careless knot upon
her head, and her dark nipples made round shadows beneath her thin white shift.


He dropped his eyes again, and stood just inside the door, his posture that of perfect submission. “My Transcendence,” he
murmured.


Just as he spoke, the mantling on her desk shrieked. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Immediately, from across the
room, a sympathetic moan arose from the gilded cage that contained at least a score of the things.


“Ssh,” she said, one long fingertip gently touching the tiny head of the thing writhing upon the smooth surface of the desk,
its pink human-shaped head at odds with the black carapace of its insect body.


Siss-Obed swallowed hard. How could she stand the presence of the mantlings, let alone to touch one? They were a legacy of
the long-ago Age of Anarchy, before the Goddess Dramue had set the world in balance, when the thurges quarreled among themselves
and used their power indiscriminately. The mantlings had the faces and features of humans, with the bodies of insects. They
could grow as long as a man’s longest finger, and their young were as affectionate, it was said, as puppies. Not that he would
know. He had never touched one of the things, and would have sooner shared the room with dwarf dragons. At least they didn’t
look at you with human eyes.


Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed hard with effort. It would never do to let the Over-Thurge see his disgust. She might
order him to touch the thing itself.


Beneath her finger the creature had calmed, and the angry buzz from the gilded cage subsided to a low hum. He raised his eyes
to hers once more. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I had gone to bed early, and your servant had a difficult time waking me.”


She ran the edge of her tongue over her lips and continued to stroke the head of the mantling. “Please”—she gestured toward
the gilded chair on the opposite side of her desk—“sit.”


The black carapace of the insect tapped from side to side as the creature squirmed in mindless ecstasy. He sidled closer and
sat down. Better to concentrate upon Her Transcendence than the creature on the desk.


“Word has reached me from Gravenhage,” she began without looking up.

“Oh?” He kept his face carefully neutral. Gravenhage lay to the north, second in power only to Sylyria of all the seven city-states
of the League. The Conclave of Thurges was due to meet there in less than a month. He remembered the cold winds that blew
off the mountains and shivered. He most fervently hoped the lady had not taken it into her mind to send him there any sooner
than was absolutely necessary.


Her eyes flicked over him, colder than the memory of that mountain air, impersonal as the sting of a whip. “I know you like
your comforts, Siss, but I’m afraid I must send you there. Sooner than I ever expected.”


He clasped his hands on his lap, willing them to relax. “As you will it, Transcendence, I obey.”

She circled the mantling’s downy head with one fingertip and smiled as it preened. “The young heir of the King of Gravenhage
has gotten himself into a fine coil of trouble. And it seems to me we can turn it to our advantage.”


Of course, thought Siss-Obed, settling back. Of course it would be turned to her advantage. For if Her Transcendence didn’t
take advantage of whatever tangle the young Prince of Gravenhage had happened to find himself in, the other thurges of the
other city-states surely would. He leaned against the thick cushion and waited to hear more. It was never wise to try to second-guess
Rihana’s intentions.


This time she smiled directly at him. The dark depths of her eyes glittered with power and something else, something hard
and hungry. He preferred to think that it was curiosity that caused his throat to close as if seized by a predator. He allowed
himself one “Oh?”


“He’s gotten his half sister with child.”

“What?” Involuntarily he started out of his chair. “The heir of Gravenhage has no—”

“Ah.” She held up her hand. “That’s what they wanted everyone to think. Queen Mirta kept her mouth shut a little too tightly,
for no one ever guessed that General Keriaan was the father of her son. However…” Her voice trailed off and she dropped her
eyes once more to the thing undulating beneath her finger. A small smile played at the comers of her lips, and Siss-Obed once
again suppressed a shudder.


“However,” he finished for her, “your spies are well paid. But what is the use of such information to Khar-droon?”

“I intend to help, of course.” Her expression was so perfectly guileless he wanted to laugh in spite of his fear. “Something
must be done about this, or the entire House and City of Gravenhage may be disgraced. Mirta has had a hard enough time controlling
the various factions with the House, especially the one led by Lord Amon. What if the House of Gravenhage falls?”


He sucked in a long slow breath. The question was merely rhetorical. He knew as well as she what would happen if the House
of the Thane of Gravenhage was to fall. The delicate balance of the world order would be upset, and suddenly he felt cold
all over. Could Rihana’s sudden interest mean that the throne of Gravenhage was in imminent danger of falling? But her next
words were even more startling.


“And in order to prevent such a calamity, I intend to offer my power to Galanthir.”

“Galanthir? He’s no more than a master-thurge in the service of the Over-Thurge—why does he deserve such an honor?”

“Keriaan is his brother—and that makes the young prince his nephew. He will do anything to spare his family and that of the
ruling house the disgrace of incest. Think of what the nobles of Gravenhage would do were it known that the young prince and
his own half sister…” Rihana’s words ended in a sly smile.


“Galanthir’s appealed to you for help?”

“No.” She snorted impatiently and the mantling whimpered its displeasure at the abrupt change in her touch. “Of course not.
But I’ve read the Book this night. There may be a way to overthrow Lindos, and secure the power of the Conclave for ourselves.


Now he was beginning to understand. Rihana had only a passing interest in the affairs of the thanes of Gravenhage. It was
Lindos who was her target, Lindos, Over-Thurge of Sylyria and High Thurge of the Conclave. As High Thurge, Lindos was the
most powerful thurge in the entire world. Rihana would do anything to bring about his downfall in order to take his place.
“What do you intend to do?” She smiled once more, and this time he shivered visibly. He reminded himself to relax. “And what
do you want of me, Most Transcendent?”


Her lips quirked a little at a title. It was the one reserved for only the High Thurge, whose will was considered a divine
manifestation of the goddess. “You know me well for someone who’s been in my service only a few years, Siss-Obed,” she murmured
as she allowed her eyes to linger on him.


A needle of fear slivered through him. Was this a good thing, or a bad? He lowered his eyes. “I have always been observant,
Transcendent One.”


She laughed softly. “Yes. So I’ve noticed.” She stroked the head of the mantling, which had fallen into a deep sleep. “And
that’s why I want you to go to Gravenhage. Ostensibly, as my agent, you will make the arrangements for my arrival—find suitable
lodging, arrange for servants, that sort of thing, you know.” She paused and he waited.


“But most importantly, you are to seek out this Galanthir. And when you judge the time to be right, you are to offer him the
help of Khardroon. Do you understand?”


He spread his hands, more than a little confused. “But what help am I to offer, Transcendence? How can the Power of Khardroon
assist?”


She paused once more. She stroked her chin with long fingers, pinning him to the chair with her pointed gaze. At last she
pushed her chair back from the desk and rose. Noiselessly, she padded to the wide window and gazed out at the silent courtyard
far below. “What I am to tell you, Siss-Obed, you will reveal to no one. Do you understand?”


“You have my word, Transcendence.”

She turned and the smile on her face made him shudder. “I’ll have much more than that if you betray me, Siss-Obed. But never
mind.” She turned back to the window and spoke softly, so softly that he had to lean forward to hear her. “We do not so much
wish to bring down the throne of Gravenhage as we wish to bring about Lindos’s doom—do you understand?”


“Yes, Transcendence.”

“And the Book is clear—Lindos’s doom is the non-born knight.”

“Non-born knight? What’s that? How can there be a knight who isn’t born?”

This time her smile was genuine. “I have puzzled over that for longer than you can imagine, Siss. And the answer came clear
to me tonight. So this is what we are going to offer to Galanthir. We will offer to send his nephew—Cariad, that’s his name—back
in time. And we’ll tell him that the Book reveals that the House of Gravenhage will be secured if he does.”


“And will it?” asked Siss, momentarily confused.

She waved her hand impatiently. “How should I know? The Book only hints of the present future—not one which will be incurred
should the past change. But it won’t matter. For once Cariad is in the past, he will be the non-born knight of Lindos’s doom. I will send him to a time before Lindos was ever Over-Thurge of Sylyria—when Lindos
was only a master-thurge—not much more powerful than the demi-thurges who served him. Lindos’s fate shall be sealed before
he ever has the chance to become Over-Thurge of Sylyria.” She paused once more, and drew a deep breath, her breasts swelling
under the thin white fabric of her gown. “And nothing—and no one—shall prevent me from becoming High Thurge of the Conclave.”


So that was it. Siss-Obed stared at her, his thoughts now a jumbled swirl of terror and confusion. Not only was the House
of Gravenhage about to pay a high price for the help that would come from Khardroon. But he suspected that the real price
was hidden far more deeply than anyone, even Rihana herself, might ever know. “Back in time?” he whispered, more to himself
than to the lady. “Is such a thing possible?”


She smiled again, and turned back to face the night. “All things are possible, Siss, if one but dares. You’re a thurge—a young
one, but a thurge nonetheless. You should know that.”


“But—but to alter time? Won’t that upset the Balance—the Order?” Genuinely perplexed, all his fears forgotten, as well as
his careful control, he gazed at his mistress.


“It may,” she said softly, so softly he had to lean forward once more to hear. “But the Covenant was only meant to last ten
thousand years, Siss. And the tenth millennium approaches.”


“And what if you anger the goddess herself, lady?” whispered Siss. His gaze dropped to the abomination sleeping on her desk.

“I don’t believe in the goddess, Siss. And here’s a little secret: neither do most of us. The Covenant is nothing but an outworn
set of rules that haven’t changed with the world. It’s time new ones were written.” She turned back to him, a smile stretched
across her full bloodred lips, and this time he recognized the look in her eyes. It was the one worn by predators when the
prey is finally within reach.


“But what of the other Over-Thurges? Never mind Lindos—what of the others?” Shock made him persist even in the face of her
most dangerous expression. “Do you think the Conclave will sit idly by and allow—”


“Allow?” She spat the word back at him. “Those fools in the Conclave—what use is the Power if they are afraid to use it? Think
of them all: sanctimonious old men who allow themselves to be bound by an outworn writ, a writ that constrains us to study
but almost never to use. Bound magic. Faugh,” she spat. “What use are such men to me? What use is such magic to me? And what
have I to fear?’


“Wild magic,” Siss whispered. “You mean to use wild magic.”

“I’ve been looking for the secret to unlock the magic ever since I was a child. I’m not the first.” She leaned across the
desk and he had to steel himself to stop from shrinking. “How do you think Lindos became High Thurge? He’s known how to use
the wild magic for longer than you’ve been alive—and he won’t share the secret with anyone. But that’s changed now. And I
intend to change everything with it.”


Siss glanced around the room, casting about for something, anything that would make her change her mind. Every demi-thurge,
even the lowest and meanest, even his father, understood the danger of wild magic. His mind flashed a memory of the hovel
he’d only too recently left, and he wondered what advice his father would have for him now. Even for the greatest and most
powerful of master-thurges, wild magic was something never spoken of, let alone even attempted. Wild magic was the power unbound,
untamed by the complicated series of rules and balances imposed by the Covenant upon the thurges. No one even understood how
to invoke wild magic. At least, he had thought no one did. He had suspected for some time that his mistress might have attempted
it once or twice. But now she intimated that she not only could invoke it; she could use it. As she willed. And if that was
true, Rihana was not only the most powerful thurge in all of Khardroon, but in all the Sylyrian League as well. He stared
at his mistress. In the candlelight, her skin glowed, as if she were lit from within by some incandescence. He felt the blood
rise in his face and in his loins. She was beautiful and terrible all at once and Siss knew beyond all doubt that she was
capable of crushing every single one of them all at once. He wet his lips and tried once more. “But what if this Galanthir
goes to the Over-Thurge of Gravenhage, and tells him what you offer? How will you answer before the Conclave? Before Lindos?
There’s nothing to stop them from turning the Power against you.” In the long silence that followed Siss-Obed wondered if
his expendability had outweighed his talent for diplomacy.


To his surprise, Rihana burst out laughing. “I like that about you, Siss. You aren’t afraid of me. I can’t quite decide if
you are truly courageous, completely foolish, or potentially powerful enough to challenge me someday. But we won’t wonder
about that now, shall we?” She waved her hand dismissively. “Galanthir go to the Over-Thurge of Gravenhage? Or to the Conclave?
I am glad you anticipate such eventualities, Siss. Because that is the very reason I’m sending you, my dear demi-thurge. You
are to see that Galanthir accepts my offer—and that no one—and I do mean no one—knows of this. Ever.”


He swallowed hard and met her eyes. In Rihana’s stare, Siss-Obed thought he could almost read his own doom. “Yes, Most Transcendent.
As you will it, I obey.”




“You! Old woman!” The harsh voice echoed across the meadow beneath the cloud-studded autumn sky, and reached the old woman
as she stamped her foot, impatiently trying to dislodge a troublesome pebble from the sole of her worn leather shoe. She frowned
a little and raised her head in the direction of the sound. Little wisps of grey hair escaped her hood and obscured her vision.
She swept her hair out of her eyes and gripped the straps that secured her harp to her back. Across the long wind-bent grass,
three horsemen bore down on her so swiftly she knew she had no chance to step aside. She picked up the small pack that held
the rest of her worldly possessions more out of reflex than need. If it were Dramue’s will that her life was to end here on
this rock-rimmed highway, so be it. “As you will it, I obey,” she murmured.


She narrowed her eyes as the riders cantered up, their huge round-rumped horses obviously bred for war. Their cloaks were
a uniform shade of dark red, bordered in intricate designs of black. Some master-thurge’s house guard, she surmised. She noticed
that one carried what could only be a woman’s petticoat, white and flounced with lace so delicate it was no more than a gossamer
banner in his black-gloved hand. She straightened her back, sensing trouble. This was a public road that led eventually into
the City of Sylyria. There was no reason any should deny her access.


The riders reined their mounts a few paces from the roadside, and the animals tossed their heads, snorting and pawing impatiently.
She struggled not to show her fear. One blow from one of those horses’ hooves would be enough to knock her unconscious. “Goddess
blessing,” she said, her voice steady by virtue of years and years of travel upon rougher roads than this.


“State your business here, old woman.” The speaker wore a short pointed beard and his hair was the color and texture of tousled
straw. It stuck up in all directions, and the old woman was suddenly hard-pressed not to laugh.


“I say the songs the goddess sends,” she replied, the old ritual answer falling off her tongue without thought. “I travel
to the keep of Thane Jiroud at Castle Sarrasin. I am invited.” She raised her chin defiantly. These ruffians would not intimidate
her. She noticed that one of them had ragged scratches, still raw and bleeding, across his face, and the other’s cloak was
torn along one seam. What had these men been doing? she wondered. She peered at them more closely, and saw that beneath their
cloaks, their clothing was disordered, and that their breeches were muddy at the knees.


Scratch-face leaned forward and spoke in Straw-hair’s ear. All three men guffawed, and Straw-hair looked at her with contempt.
“I’m sure you are, old woman.” He waved his arm. “Off with you. You’ve another two hours on foot.”


She nodded, not taking her eyes off the men. The one who held the petticoat thrust it down on the far side of the horse, out
of her sight. Her uneasiness turned to fear. Something had happened here, something that involved a woman, and one gently
born by the looks of that petticoat. There was a furtive air about the men, an air of guilt. She stood her ground as Scratch-face
dropped his eyes and pulled at the reins of his horse so quickly that the animal reared and wheeled. “Off with you, old woman,”
he said with a quick gesture to his companions. As one, the men touched their heels to their horses’ sides and galloped off.


She stared after them for a long moment, then scanned the line of willows that surely must bend over a brook. Nothing moved,
and she thought of taking off her shoes and bathing her tired feet in the cool water. The pebble that had lodged in her shoe
somewhere on the long walk between Eld and Sylyria was growing into a boulder, or at least, so it felt.


Another gust of wind swept over the meadow, and the grass rippled and the swaying branches of the willows dipped and signed.
She looked down the road, and fancied she could see the faint smudge of the walls of her destination on the horizon. If she
kept on, she would arrive well before dark. For a moment, she wondered if she should investigate. But if she paused to find
out what mischief those men had involved themselves in, she might be on the road after nightfall. The looks of those men decided
her. The world was a cold place when one traveled alone, without so much as a roof to call one’s own. She would not invite
trouble. She stamped her foot in one more futile attempt to dislodge the troublesome stone, and gripped the straps of her
harp harder against her back. She coughed. The familiar tightness in her chest clenched around her heart. She thought of her
old friend and student, Reyerne, now music master at the keep of the thane. One more student to assess, one more prodigy to
recognize, one more Festival, and then it would be time to rest. The goddess was calling her home. With a sigh, she shrugged
her pack to her shoulder and continued on her way.


“No!” The word hung, almost visible, not six inches from the long nose of the man who stood in trembling obeisance before
Jiroud, Thane of Sarrasin. “How many times and in how many ways must I say it? Invite all the songsayers you please beneath
my roof; let Juilene play ’til her fingers bleed. But no daughter of mine shall make a public spectacle of herself, at the
Festival or anywhere else, and that’s my final word.” Jiroud folded his arms over the gold medallion of his rank and leaned
against the high carved back of his chair. The late-afternoon light slanted across his face, and the red glow of the fading
sun only made him seem more formidable than he already was. Sarrasin was one of the largest domains in all of Sylyria, and
anyone who met Jiroud never forgot it. The medallion gleamed upon his chest, throwing off golden glints of light in all directions,
and his grey hair, once an auburn as ruddy as the light, hung loose and curling about his shoulders.


From the safety of the far side of the hearth, Juilene allowed her fingers to skip lightly over the brass strings of her harp,
and watched her music master raise a stubborn chin, even as his shoulders shifted with a barely concealed sigh. The tentative
notes faded, even as Reyerne’s persistent pleading continued.


“But, Thane Jiroud,” said Reyerne, a man more known for his musical talent than his diplomacy, “this will be her only chance,
her last chance, to sing and play before the goddess. Can’t you see the opportunity, the honor she will bring to your house?
Not one of the noble houses—”


“Precisely,” Jiroud said. “Not one of the noble houses has ever sent a daughter—or a son, either—to join the ranks of the
songsayers at Festival. And that is precisely why I will not allow it, either.”


Reyerne sighed and ran his fingers with their callused tips and long nails through his shock of unruly white hair. Fourteen
years in Jiroud’s service had inured him to the thane’s wrath. “My lord, I beg you. Your daughter has a rare and unique gift.
I know that most of the songsayers who appear before the Festival are mere charlatans, mere amateurs. But the Lady Juilene
is the genuine thing—she more than any other pupil I have ever had deserves the honor and the recognition. One of the greatest
of them all will be here before nightfall—just to hear your daughter sing.”


“That’s as may be,” answered Jiroud. He looked up and for a moment, Juilene felt her father’s keen eye fall upon her. She
bent her head and hid her face behind the curtain of her curly auburn hair. It wouldn’t be wise to attract too much of his
attention at the moment. “Any songsayer is welcome beneath my roof. But my answer is still no. The songsayers may be sacred
to the goddess in theory, Reyerne, but you and I both know that too many are little more than—than—” Jiroud glanced at Juilene,
clearly struggling for a delicate way in which to express himself. “The reality is far different. Most of them are nothing
but common harlots who offer much more than a song in exchange for a bed. I won’t have my daughter mistaken for one of that
sort.”


“But, lord, can’t you agree that when one is given a gift by the goddess as precious and rare as the Lady Juilene’s, it should
be used, appreciated, not hidden beneath a barrel to shine all alone by itself? What would the goddess have been thinking
when she bestowed this gift upon your daughter?”


Jiroud’s thick grey eyebrows rushed together and met above his hawk nose. “I don’t presume to guess what the goddess was thinking
when