Meilizath
Next
“So you wish to hear my tale of woe?” he asked lightly, resting his welt-crossed cheek on the harp leaning back into his lap. “I haven’t had time to set it to tune or embellish it at all, I must warn you. All dull, factual events, not truly fit to be told for the entertainment of a Weyrwoman.”
Tiyanni might have said something, but Aescha, who had gotten him the Weyrwoman’s ear, spoke first, a frown in her voice. “It’s hardly entertainment, Cantrell.”
“No?” he asked, in mock surprise. “Goodness, what good is a Master Harper if he cannot entertain you? Never mind, I’ll put the bangles and bells on later. This is my story. It all began with a song…”
“Word upon word,
Ink upon hide,
This now, my love,
In you I confide.
If only the Harpers
Had had charge of you,
You’d read these memories
You’d know what’s true….”
“Harper,” Lady Aschiane snapped, stopping him with a brusque gesture. Fingers still set on strings, Cantrell tilted his head inquiringly at the Lady Holder of Windwhip Hold.
“Aye, m’lady?” he answered diffidently, shaking hair already touched with gray back from his face.
Aschiane scowled at him. “Who wrote that drivel? It’s a shameless plug for the Harper Hall, and impossible as well. Whoever heard of a Lord Holder falling in love with a drudge? I won’t have that kind of nonsense befuddling the drudges. They’re muzzy-headed enough as it is.”
“It’s only a little cheer, m’lady. It won’t do them any harm, and some of them are brighter than you’d give them credit for,” Cantrell said peaceably, but something glittered in his brown eyes, just for a moment.
The Lady Holder gave him a look, but let it be. “And please stop playing in the kitchens. You’re a Master, and it’s not fitting that people who are supposed to be working should get free entertainment of that caliber.”
“As you say, m’lady,” the Harper replied, almost too softly to hear. There was an unexpected bite to the words, a steel unexpected in the mild-looking Harper.
“Thread falls, black dust drifting,
Frozen by the wind.
Lady smiles, cold as ice,
Atrocities begin.
Thread falls, black dust chafing,
Cling like a gossamer thread.
Lady hungers, starving still,
For power over hearth and bed.
Thread falls, chill no longer,
Eating at the green.
Power gnaws on the Lady’s soul
Hollowing her heart, unseen.
Thread falls, gray as death,
Slashing flesh and bone.
Lady, angered, turns her worms
Against the few who stand alone.”
The gathering of Lords, Ladies, and Masters of the Dicytra area gave him identical stunned looks, and Aschiane shot him a look of pure hate before Lord Consort Gherol escorted the Harper none-too-gently out of the room.
“You are a fool,” the Consort hissed, teeth bared. “My lady will have your hide for that…if you have ruined her hearing with the Lords, Harper, you’re done for…”
Cantrell gave the Bitran the mild smile he’d perfected long ago. “It was a song that needed to be sung, Gherol. I’m sorry it seems to have upset you and the Lady.”
As he slowly walked away, carrying his harp, the Harper hoped he hadn’t done something that would cost him his life. Aschiane was a vengeful leader, and she ruled by force and threat of force. An exhibitation like the one he’d just put forward could cost him his life—accidents in the mountains were ridiculously easy to manufacture.
It needed to be said, Cantrell told himself resolutely. And if I’ve managed to delay Aschiane’s acquisition of more land and more people, it’s all to the good.
It was near dark, and Cantrell stared out over the pocket thicket to the last remnant of the sunset. Thoughtfully, he stroked the smooth bark of the ging tree, rooted in the cup of vegetation below. Journeyman Iachau was supposed to meet him, and the Harper hoped fervently that he could sway the Healer’s unwavering devotion to the leader of his home Hold. Doubts were being raised about Aschiane’s methods, courtesy of the fateful Dicytran Lords’ Conclave and the nearby Harpers, but Cantrell needed all the crafters on his side before he could put the Masterharper’s plan into action.
Hoofbeats drummed behind him, and Cantrell tensed too late. A bay shoulder slammed into him, sending him off the lip of the thicket-cup and into the brush.
His wide-open eyes caught a glimpse of the enormous plant beside the ging tree before his hand smashed into one broad, spined leaf and his face exploded with a thousand points of pain and the world disappeared behind the flung, toxic spines of the needlethorn.
Cantrell broke his narrative with a sigh. “Iachau got there a few minutes later. He only caught a glimpse of the runnerman sprinting away, but I wouldn’t doubt that it was Gherol. That tunnelsnake-in-the-grass is Aschiane’s bullyboy, and takes care of all her dirty work. After the Healer found me, he cared for my wounds, but Aschiane turned me out of the Hold—threw me out, is more like it—the next day. That was this morning. This charming young lady picked me up at the border, thank Faranth, and here I am.”
Aescha chimed in again, nervously, “He can stay, can’t he, Weyrwoman? And me, as well?”
“I wouldn’t think of turning either of you away,” Tiyanni said firmly.