Sionell picked up her skirts to execute quick, complicated steps, then placed her hands once more in his. “He knows she’s unsuitable and that Miyon brought her here on purpose.”
“Did he tell you as much?” When she nodded, he smiled. “You made very sure he realized it, didn’t you? Good girl. Still ... I wonder.”
The ladies again separated from their partners for individual footwork. This was Sionell’s favorite dance and she was very good at it. But as she whirled around she caught sight of Meiglan, frozen in place and mortified by her lack of knowledge. Pol wore his most charming smile as he demonstrated the steps. The girl hardly dared breathe.
Sionell was a little late in clasping Rohan’s fingers again. He was adroit in covering the mistake and, mercifully, said nothing.
Miyon beckoned several of his servants to him as the dance ended. A gesture had them clearing a space at the end of the Great Hall, only ten or so paces from the huge doors. Tables were pushed against the side walls, chairs were stacked atop them, and into the area thus provided was brought an immense stringed instrument.
“Knowing Prince Pol’s fondness for music,” he said with a silken smile, “I thought he might enjoy listening to our Cunaxan fenath.” Then, imperiously, “Meiglan!”
Sionell’s fists clenched on the folds of her gown as the girl turned white. Exhausted by the long ride, stunned at recognizing Pol as the man in her dream, edgy with the strain of a formal dinner in the Great Hall of Stronghold, and humiliated by her ignorance of dancing, the last thing the girl needed was a command to perform on this huge and aptly named “string wall.” Sionell was furious with herself for underestimating Prince Miyon.
Meiglan moved woodenly toward the instrument, walking the entire length of the chamber from the high table where everyone had resumed their chairs, the eyes of a hundred and more servants and retainers on her from where they stood along the walls. She approached the harp, hesitating, then circled around it so she faced the high table.
The instrument was obviously an expensive one; Sionell could see that even though she knew next to nothing about music. The frame was made of polished Cunaxan pine inlaid with gold and enamelwork, the tuning pegs decorated with pearlshell. Higher at one end than the height of a very tall man and narrowing to barely an arm’s length, it rested on a cushioned stand that elevated the shorter end and kept its strings in reach. But it was still wider than anyone’s outstretched arms and looked impossible to play.
Meiglan checked the tuning, nodded to herself, and drew six slim little hammers from a velvet pouch hung at the tallest end of the harp. Arranging them between her fingers, three to each hand, she cast an anxious glance toward the high table and bit her lip.
Miyon let the silence drag out, then said, “In times past, the fenath would be tuned to a single chording and set outside for the wind to play. Most people now use the lowest strings for one chord, the middle for another, and the high for yet a third.”
Andry nodded. “It was also used before a battle.”
Raised brows greeted this piece of information. “You know about the fenath, my lord?”
Andry gave a half-smile. “It was left at the top of a windy hill and tuned to a terrible assonance that scraped enemy nerves raw. I’m confident that the Lady Meiglan will show us its gentler music.”
“Certainly. There is no battle being waged here.” Miyon showed his teeth. Then he snapped his fingers at his daughter. “Begin!”
A few notes ventured timidly into the silent Hall, trembling with the tremor of Meiglan’s hands. Another chord, struck wrong—then suddenly there was a ripple of music, sweet and clear as new rain down a green hillside creek. The tune danced around and beneath and through an undercurrent of delicate chords. Meiglan began to sway gently back and forth as the notes flowed from strings low and high, skirts swinging in time to her music.
A breathless enchantment equal to a Sunrunner’s power darted through the evening air. Beyond the strings and the swift, graceful hands Meiglan’s face was glowing, soft, fully alive. Some women might save a face such as this for a lover, for a coveted jewel, for a dream fulfilled, for a life’s passion. Thus did Sioned’s eyes shine when they rested on her husband, or when she wove sunlight for the sheer joy of the flight. Faradh’im knew what spells they cast and the effects of their art. This girl had no consciousness of anyone but herself. A small alone-ness was Meiglan, an isolated island of solitary magic.
A slow movement tugged Sionell’s gaze around. Pol had risen to his feet, hands braced on the table, body canted slightly forward. His lips were parted and his eyes were fixed on the slender, swaying form that brought forth such music, such incredible music.
The strings sang one last graceful chord, ending with a single high, pure note.
“My precious treasure,” Miyon said, smiling.
17
Castle Crag: 30 Spring
Late for an appointment with her steward, Alasen hurried down the hall from the nursery. Dannar was teething, and reacted to the usual salves with roars of outrage that turned his comical little face redder than his hair. The only sure way of settling him down was a song from his father, but Ostvel had already been up half the night with the child so the rest of the castle could get some sleep. Their youngest possessed a truly remarkable set of lungs and wasn’t shy about using them,
“I’m getting too old for this,” Ostvel had sighed when he finally came to bed at dawn. “At least the girls waited until they could walk before they started running the keep. It can’t just be that he’s male—Riyan never screeched like that.”
Alasen’s talk with the steward was directly related to the screeching; there had to be someone else at Castle Crag who could sing Dannar to sleep. She rounded a corner and started for the stairway, then broke into a run as she heard her daughters’ voices in excellent imitation of their little brother.
The shrieks that echoed to the rafters did not unduly alarm her, for giggles soon followed. But she knew her girls and was positive that disaster was imminent for some part of the keep. Camigwen and Milar were themselves indestructible, as last whiter’s exploit involving a chandelier and a ladder had proved.
Now, instead of two small figures swinging merrily from a ceiling fixture, Alasen was presented with an impromptu sledding party on the stairs. A gigantic silver bowl meant to hold an entire night’s portion of soup had been pressed into service. The handles were gripped in Jeni’s determined fists as she shot head first toward the landing at breakneck speed, Milar clinging to her back like a leech. Alasen was relieved to see they had piled dozens of pillows against the wall to cushion the impact, which was still considerable enough to knock the breath out of them. Pillow seams split and feathers flew like snowflakes.
“Again!” Milar cried from the middle of the blizzard. “Once more here, then we’ll try the circle stairs.” Jeni sorted out arms and legs, brushed herself off, and hefted the bowl. As she turned to make the climb again, she saw her mother.
Alasen was trying very hard not to laugh. Guilty faces decorated in feathers, they were adorable. Besides, the wild ride had looked like terrific fun. “The circle stairs, hmm?” she asked. “We didn’t hurt anything, Mama,” Jeni hastened to explain. “That’s why the pillows. And we didn’t even dent the bowl. See?” She hefted it up for inspection.
Milar chimed in with, “You said be ’specially quiet today so Papa can sleep after being up all night with Dannar, so we picked stairs where he wouldn’t hear us.” Alasen bit her lip. The incident this winter had been explained with the excuse that, having been told not to disturb their papa’s peace, they had chosen to climb a chandelier in a chamber on the other side of the castle from his library.