The Eagle And The Nightingales

And the last song was another designed to remind the King of his duties_for it had been written by another High King on his deathbed, and was called 'The Burden of the Crown.' Though sad, it was a hopeful song as well, for the author had clearly not found the Crown to be a burden that was intolerable, merely one that was a constant reminder of the people it represented.

If that doesn't do it, nothing will, T'fyrr thought, then sighed. Well, I suppose I should not expect results instantly. I am not a Gypsy, with magic at my command. If he only listens to the words, it will be a start.

He had been given nothing whatsoever to do except practice and wait for the King to send for him. He hadn't especially wanted to venture out of his suite, either; not until the King had heard him play at least once. He had spent all his time pacing, exercising his wings, and practicing. Nob had enjoyed the virtuoso vocalist's practice, but the pacing and wing-strokes clearly made him nervous. He had sought his room when T'fyrr suggested that he might want to go practice his reading and writing for his daily lessons with the pages' tutor.

Finally the summons had come this afternoon, and Nob brought T'fyrr to this little antechamber to the King's personal suite, a room with white satin walls, and furnished with a few chairs done in white satin and gilded wood. There he was to wait until the King called for him.

It seemed he had been waiting forever.

At last, when he was about to snap a string from testing them so often, the door opened and a liveried manservant beckoned. T'fyrr rose to his feet, harp under one arm, and followed him, the tension of waiting replaced by an entirely new set of worries.

As it happened, it was just as well that he had not set his expectations unrealistically high, for the King did not show that the songs affected him in any way_other than his delight and admiration in T'fyrr as a pure musician. He asked for several more songs when T'fyrr was through with his planned set, all of which T'fyrr fortunately knew. One of them gave him the opportunity to display his own scholarship, for he knew three variants, and asked which one Theovere preferred. That clearly delighted the King even further, and when at last the time came for Afternoon Court, a duty even the King could not put off, Theovere sighed and dismissed the Haspur with every sign of disappointment that the performance was over.

'You will come the same time, every day,' the stone-faced manservant said expressionlessly as he led T'fyrr to the door. 'This is the High King's standing order.'

T'fyrr bobbed his head in acknowledgement, and privately wondered how he was going to find his way back to his own quarters in this maze. He had no head for indoor directions, and more than a turn or two generally had him confused. It didn't help that all these corridors looked alike_all white marble and artwork, with no way of telling even what floor you were on if you didn't already know.

To his relief, Nob was waiting for him just outside the door, passing the time of day with the guard posted outside the King's suite. This was another of those dangerous looking bodyguards, but this one seemed a bit younger than the ones actually with the King, and hadn't lost all his humanity yet.

'Thought you might get lost,' the boy said saucily, with a wink at the guard, whose lips twitched infinitesimally.

T'fyrr shrugged. 'It is possible,' he admitted. 'Not likely, but possible, I suppose. This is a large building.'

The guard actually snickered at that little understatement, and Nob took him in charge to lead him back to their quarters. 'I admit I wasn't entirely certain I knew the way,' T'fyrr told the boy quietly, once they were out of the guard's earshot. 'The hallways seem to be the same.'

'The art's different,' Nob told him, gesturing widely at the statues. 'This one, the statues are all of High Kings, see? We turn here, and the statues are wood-nymphs.'

Nude human females sprouting twigs and leaves in their hair. So that is a wood-nymph! No wonder the shepherds in my songs are so surprised; I don't imagine that it is every day that a nude female prances up to the average shepherd and invites him to dance.

'We turn again here_' Nob continued, blissfully unaware of T'fyrr's thoughts, 'and the statues are all shepherd couples.'

Oh, indeed, if one expects shepherds to be flinging themselves after their sheep wearing a small fortune in embroidery and lace! This is as likely as nude women frolicking about among the thistles and thorns and biting insects, I suppose.

'Then this is our corridor, and the statues are historical women.' Nob stopped in front of their door. 'Here we are, between Lady Virgelis the Chaste, and the Maiden Moriah_'

Between someone so sour and dried up no one would ever want to mate with her, and someone who probably didn't deserve the title of 'Maiden' much past her twelfth birthday, T'fyrr interpreted, looking at the grim-visaged old harridan on his left, who was muffled from head to toe in garments that did not disguise the fact she was mostly bone, and the ripely plump, sloe-eyed young wench on his right, who wasn't wearing much more than one of the wood-nymphs. He wondered if the juxtaposition was accidental.