the realm in the pockets of thieves, in the crowns of queens, having their own extraordinary adventures until chance or story found them a haven in Quennel’s harp.
“I’m honored,” Zoe answered, sitting on a bench beside him. Musicians waited their turns to play, or tuned their instruments in this room. As she took her harp from its case, she could almost hear centuries of overlapping notes echoing around her, resonating in her strings.
“Yes,” the old bard agreed cheerfully, “you are. But so are you rare and wonderful, and I do all that I can to manipulate events so that I can hear that astonishing voice of yours. Have you had any thoughts about what you would like to sing for the duke?”
“A ballad about Grishold, I think. Beyond that—” She shook her head, guessing that he had already chosen for her.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Of Grishold, most certainly.” He hesitated disingenuously, continued, “I wondered if this perhaps had suggested itself to you: ‘The Duel of the Kestrels.’ Two rivals for the Duke—well, in the ballad they called him king, back then—the King of Grishold’s daughter. You know it?”
“Of course. They had a competition with their falcons for the privilege of courting her. The one whose bird killed first would win her. It’s a lovely song, wheeling and turning like the birds high in the air, crying out as they see what the nobles cannot: the princess in the distance, riding off with her true love.” She plucked a string, added dubiously, “Do you think he might be offended? Considering that the princess’s true love trounces her father roundly when he attacks to get her back.”
“Offended by such a confection? It’s a trifle, a fantasy, and your voice would make it a marvel, a shining jewel out of Grishold’s past.” He paused again. “There is, of course, the question of the different endings. Which do you prefer?”
“My favorite,” she said, attuned to what was on his mind, “is the one where the kestrels fly in the opposite direction, for the language of birds is the language of love, at least once in their feathery lives, and they lead the scheming nobles away from the lovers.”
“Yes,” Quennel exclaimed happily. “My favorite as well.”
“Though I do like the long, dark notes of the ending where nobles chop off her true love’s head.”
“Oh, no. Indeed, no.”
“Too dark.”
“Another supper, perhaps. Though,” he said, lowering his own sinewy voice as though the nobles were listening, “I do love those notes, too. Yet so rarely is there an appropriate occasion for them ...”
Zoe smiled, answered as softly, “We could sing it now, together. The hall is empty; the guards will never tell.”
They tuned their harps, began the centuries-old ballad, with its unhappy ending most likely as close to the truth of the matter as a bard ever got.
They hadn’t yet reached it themselves when the great hall began an eerie counterpoint of its own: voices, a great many steps, some slowing, others tapping away in a spiderweb of directions, laughter, exclamations, all tangled together and becoming noisier. Quennel, looking both annoyed and perplexed, finally laid his hands flat on his strings, signaling silence. Zoe set her harp down reluctantly, regretting the unsung ending. She followed Quennel into the gallery, where they could look over the oak balustrade down into the hall.
“He’s early,” Quennel murmured with surprise.
A formidable bald man in brocade and black leather was kissing the queen, whose voice was raised in surprise as well. Courtiers hurried across the hall to join her; pages were running out to summon others; the duke’s wife and their entourage crowded in behind him, while footmen slipped behind them and out to see to the luggage. Zoe hung over the rail, watching the colorful crowd, the gathering of the king’s children hurrying through this door, that, to greet their uncle. The cacophony reached a lively crescendo before she saw the face in the crush watching her.
A young, big, restive man with dark eyes, his long hair black and gleaming like a racehorse, had tossed his head back to scan the gallery. He heard us, Zoe thought with astonishment. All that noise around him, and he looked for the hidden musicians.
“Who—” she began, and stopped herself, knowing who, of course, he must be, even before she spotted his harp.
The duke’s bard smiled at her as though he had heard, through the tumult, even that fragment of a question. Her hands tightened a little on the wood. She amended her first impression.
“Who is that kelpie?”
She realized, at Quennel’s dry chuckle, that she had spoken aloud, and, from the glint in the midnight eyes, the sudden flash of teeth, that the kelpie had heard her as well.
