Naitachal broke off in mid-sentence, pain flashing in his eyes. Kevin winced, remembering the White Elf’s embarrassment and the Dark Elf’s teasing, remembering that silly, happy time that seemed so long ago.
Berak’s sharp, clever gaze shot from the bardling to Naitachal. “Never mind,” he said gently. “We won’t need anything quite so ... ah ... drastic. Hey-o. everyone! Prepare to ride!”
The elven minstrel troupe paraded into Count Volmar’s casde with cymbals clashing and trumpets blaring, and sec up camp, along with all the other groups of minstrels, acrobats and stage-magicians, in the increasingly crowded outer bailey.
“How do you think I look?” Lydia, grinning, tossed her newly dyed, brazen hair, and Naitachal shook his head wryly—
“About as elven as Count Volmar. But definitely not like that wanton warrior woman.”
“Wanton!” She tapped him with her fan. “I’ll give you wanton, you stage-magician, you!”
The Dark Elf looked down at himself and laughed. “Stage-magician,” he said ruefully. They had decided to play up Naitachal’s dramatic coloring by dressing him in the gaudiest of red robes, a gold-threaded scarf draped theatrically about his head and face.
Kevin, who was dressed in fairly gaudy yellow and purple himself, wasn’t really listening to their nervous banter, instead, he stared thoughtfully up at the various casde towers. “There,” he murmured suddenly, “beside the Great Hall.”
“The chapel?” Berak asked. “What about it?”
“Not the chapel. The bell tower next to it.”
“What are you—Ah. You’re thinking of acoustics.”
“Exactly.” Kevin studied the tower for a long moment. It was plain and square-sided, with no windows save for the great arches at the very top. “The bell can’t be rung. I remember someone saying it had cracked and they hadn’t gotten around to getting it down and recast”
“But that’s still a pretty-looking sound chamber it’s hanging in.” Berak smiled faintly. “Quite nicely designed. Anyone standing in it who decided to start singing would be heard all over the casde.”
“He would,” Kevin agreed. “And if I have any say in things, he will be.”
“That officious servant told me my troupe isn’t to perform until some time tomorrow. And of course the site of the performance, of all the performances, is going to be in the courtyard. Coincidentally, right in front of that chapel. With its oh so pretty bell tower.”
Berak and Kevin exchanged conspiratorial grins.
But even as he tried to act the role of a minstrel without a care in the world, calmly helping the others prepare for tomorrow’s show, Kevin’s hands shook. His heart pounded so fiercely he was sure the casually watching guards were going to hear it and drag him away for questioning. Berak had sent messengers off to King Amber and Master Aidan with word of what had happened, but the bardling knew he couldn’t count on them to get here in time to do anything.
It—it’s all up to vs. To me.
Gods, gods. he couldn’t make a move until after dark, and here it was only afternoon! How was he ever going to get through this day? And even after the night came, if it ever did, what if he couldn’t get into that bell tower? What if Count Volmar had locked it, or set a guard, or—
Kevin battled with his growing panic. This was stupid. After all, the whole thing came down simply to this:
Tomorrow he, Naitachal and Lydia would be heroes—
Or they would be dead.
There was some mercy, Kevin thought: at least there was no moon this night. It wasn’t difficult, thanks to Naitachal’s elven night-vision, for three people to steal across the crowded courtyard to the bell tower without waking anyone—and without any merely human guard being able to spot them.
The bardling paused at the base of the bell tower to look nervously up and up its height: a starkly black mass against the star-filled sky. The tower hadn’t seemed quite so tall from the outer bailey ...
Don’t be silly, he scolded himself. You—were higher than that when you were up on the castle tower.
Sure, he answered himself. And look how that turned out!
