Then his fingers moved to the deepest string on the harp, played that one string all at once, echoing the deep, fierce longings, despair, and certainty strung along Nairn’s sinews, reverberating in his bones, that Welkin cheated, that Welkin had no great gifts, that all the ancient power belonged to his harp, and Nairn could break those strings with a wish and prove it.
One string in Welkin’s harp did snap, before the old bard himself gave an anguished, untuned cry. The harp dropped first, then the harper, following it to earth.
From out of the suddenly starry sky, stones began to fall.
Chapter Seventeen
Quennel sent his message to the school before the day ended: a formal request, brilliant with colored ink and the king’s seal, that a search for a new Royal Bard should be called without delay across the land, and all musicians from village to high court be welcomed to compete on Stirl Plain on the first day of summer. Zoe was stunned by the date. It seemed scant breaths away, one final smile from the moon at spring before it turned its face toward summer. But, she realized, any day within the next century that pitted her against Kelda would be too soon.
“I can’t do it,” she whispered numbly as she stood staring at the parchment pinned to the board where all could see. Students and teachers jostled around her, exclaiming, laughing with excitement; she could almost feel the air tuned to their tension as they mentally tightened their strings and calculated their chances. “Quennel, I can’t win this thing for you.”
She could hear his answer, his aged, light eyes fierce and burning: Do it anyway.
“Zoe.”
She started. It was Phelan beside her, whom she hadn’t seen since the previous evening, when he had appeared so unexpectedly in the fussy little inn, his father blowing in the back door like a squall at the same time. Kelda had said something, or maybe Jonah had. Then she had found herself hurrying along the walkway between herbaceous borders, caught in a scurry of students fleeing the place as though they had been discovered stealing the tea service.
Phelan’s fingers coaxed her out of the crowd; she looked at him silently, puzzled, when they stopped under the shadow of an oak tree. He seemed weary, oddly bruised around the edges. His father, she thought instantly. But that wasn’t what came out first.
“What made you go off with Kelda last night?” he asked her bewilderedly.
She gazed at him a moment longer, not entirely sure herself. Then she gave him the simplest answer. “Something Quennel told me. I wanted to know if it’s true.”
“Is it?”
She paused, searching his face again. They had known one another so long and so well it seemed by now there would be nothing she couldn’t read in his eyes. He looked unsettled, wary and strangely distant, as though half his mind had gone off on some wayward road she didn’t know existed. They both had secrets, she realized then, from each other.
“I don’t know,” she answered, to her own surprise. “Maybe. I don’t know yet. I have to find out. Phelan ... I’m not really sure what happened at the inn. I heard a word spoken when you came in, and—”
He shook his head. “It was a harp note.”
“No—One of them—Kelda or your father—said—”
“You think it was my father?” he asked incredulously. “He didn’t have a harp.”
“I didn’t hear a harp note.”
“That’s what I heard. The power was in the harp. That’s what—Well.” He looked away from her briefly, at the memory. “Who did what is not so important at this moment. What’s important is: you’re doing this for Quennel?”
She nodded, and wasn’t, in the next moment, entirely sure that was true. “He’s afraid of Kelda,” she told him. “I want to find out why.”
Some of the confusion lifted; his eyes became familiar again, seeing what he thought he knew. But he was still frowning. “Be careful,” he pleaded. “I’m not sure myself what happened, but Quennel may well be right to be afraid. My father would say so.”
“Would you?” she asked quickly. “You seemed indifferent to Kelda yesterday.”
“I’m not anymore. Not after last night. Somebody blew the back door of the inn off its hinges, and Kelda was the one with the harp.” She stared at him; his mouth crooked. “Magic,” he admitted, and she felt the word flow like water through cracked, parched earth.
“Yes.” She shook her head, half-laughing suddenly, and stepped into light. She lifted her face to it, let it burn the edges of her vision, let the wind blow her hair like leaves. “Yes.”
“You’re bewitched,” Phelan breathed, watching from the shadow.
“I’m fascinated,” she amended. “That’s better than being afraid.”
“Zoe—”
“Don’t worry. I promise I will be careful. You, too. Stay away from flying doors and strings that speak.”
She left him with that, all she had to give him at the moment, for Kelda was crossing the lawn toward them, and suddenly the last thing she wanted was the two of them face-to-face. Fortunately, Phelan, after giving her a skewed glance, took himself off in the opposite direction, toward the library, with an inexplicable amount of energy and purpose. Zoe turned to meet the bard.
Time elongated as she watched him, slowed and lingered over each long stride, each ruffle of black silk tunic in the wind, each spark of light along the brass studs patterning his harp strap. He seemed to walk a long way across the grass and the intricate patterns of oak shadows, as though he moved out of some distant past, his expression blurred, unreadable. Then light drew his features clear, and time caught up with itself. He reached her in a step or two, speaking before he stopped. For once he was not smiling.
“Was that Phelan Cle? I wanted to apologize to him.”
“For what? Exactly?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“For what happened last night. I seem to raise his father’s hackles for some reason. Maybe my ancestors offended his. Or he is simply enraged at the sight of me for no particular reason. Did Phelan mention anything?”
“Only vaguely,” she said carefully. “I couldn’t make the incident any clearer to him. One moment we were sitting around the table in a perfectly ordinary lounge discussing eggs or clouds or cauliflower, the next we were all out skulking through the back garden as though we were trying to avoid the innkeeper’s bill. What did happen?”
“A bit of carelessness,” he answered ruefully, “between Jonah Cle and me. It was unfortunate. I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again. There are far more private places where we can meet. Have you seen Quennel’s announcement? I found it astonishing.”
“Did you?”
“Well, of course. He told us all that he wanted to die midsong in the king’s hall. I believed him. You didn’t?”
He paused for an answer, one brow raised innocently; she felt her own hackles stir.
“Of course,” she said, settling them ruthlessly. “And you? Are you going to compete?”
“I wouldn’t miss this competition if it meant my death,” he said complacently. “And I intend to win.” He flashed his glowing smile finally. “But, please, don’t let that make you hesitate to compete with me. I love hearing your voice. And Phelan? Will he compete?”
“He says no.”
“Pity. Try to get him to change his mind, will you? The better the competition, the better I play. I feed on challenge. You may have noticed.”
Indeed, you feed on something, she thought grimly, and saw his eyes narrow, glinting with amusement as though he had read her mind.
She backed a step. “I must go. My father will want his supper.”