She raised her head, pot forgotten. “The winner was Blasson Purser of Waverlea.”
“Yes.”
“So what happened? Welkin sounds like someone in a story. Was it folklore? Ballad? About Nairn and Welkin?”
“No.”
“They both just vanished? It’s documented?”
He gave a faint laugh then, his face so pale it might have been his own bones she was looking at. “It will be.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Phelan, what are you not telling me?”
“And what are you not telling me?” he challenged her.
She answered quickly, before he brought words to play like “magic” and “secret” and “abandoned sewers” that would have disconcerted her orderly father.
“I’ll tell you when I can,” she promised.
His eyes held hers a moment, gray as old iron; he nodded briefly. “So will I.”
After they finished the unfortunate eggs, she tossed her robe over last night’s outfit and taught her class. Then she finally had the time to wash and change into something suitable for visiting the Royal Bard. She pondered Phelan’s odd paper as she rode the tram downhill and along the river road. It should have been as dry as dust; that had been his original intention, to write it as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Instead, it leached the blood from his face and gave him secrets to eat that he would not share even with her. Fair enough: she kept her own secrets from him. From the sound of it, neither of them even understood exactly what they were carrying around locked behind their teeth. It was an exhausting weight to bear, along with the demands of the competition, and having to hide it from Quennel that day was a burden she could have done without.
Fortunately, he was so preoccupied with his own passionate determination and ambitions for her that he didn’t sense the turmoil in her own head. He was completely well by then, and his playing more skillful and vibrant than ever, fueled by the sudden glance death had given him and by the dire figure in the tale he forged daily for himself about Kelda. Zoe wished he would just change his mind, tell everyone to go back home, including Kelda, and keep harping through his waning years, as even the king had urged him to do. But no, he was adamant: Zoe must take his place, or the kingdom would fall.
“I have thought of what you should play and sing in the opening round of the competition,” he said as they sat in private in the musician’s gallery.
“But you told me to play—”
“Yes, I know, but I was wrong. This is the perfect ballad for you.”
“But—”
“Hush,” he said, hands poised on his strings. “Listen.”
Choosing her song for her yet again reminded him of his own experiences during the last bardic competition. He cautioned her about this, offered practical suggestions about that, remembered a story, embellished like a formal ballad with details from years of retelling, about a pair of not very good but extremely competitive musicians, and the tricks—the split reed, the suddenly sagging drum, the missing harp string—with which they undermined one another.
Thus reminded, he turned grave again, warned her to guard against Kelda’s meddling.
“Kelda doesn’t need to play tricks,” she told him bluntly. “All he has to do is play.”
He shook his head, unconvinced; his Kelda was capable of anything. Which was exactly true, she knew, but not in ways that Quennel could imagine even at his bleakest.
He finally let her go. At the bottom of the gallery stairs, she found Kelda waiting for her.
He had probably heard every word, she thought wearily, judging by the amusement in his eyes.
“A final lesson?” he asked lightly, indifferent to his voice carrying up over the gallery balustrade. She walked out of the great hall without answering, forcing him to follow, get out of earshot. In a silent corridor, she turned to face him.
“I don’t know what you are.” Her voice shook despite all her training. “Your powers are astonishing and terrible. Your playing melts my heart. That’s what I know. And I know that when we compete, all the lies you hide yourself behind will vanish; only the music and the power will be left. I will give you back the very best I have. But I think it will be only a trifle, a handful of wildflowers, a shiny copper or two, compared to the terror and the treasures that will come out of you. That will be as it will be. So. There’s no need to wear that face with me now. It’s just another lie. Grant me that much, before you change at last into something I won’t begin to recognize.”
She turned again without waiting for him to answer, made her way to the main doors, listening, all the while, for all he did not say.
The new dawn broke with a ray of light and a shout of trumpets across the plain, summoning the bards from inns and mansions, from school and court, from tents, skiff bottoms, and tavern floors, to gather under the golden eye of the midsummer sun and play until only the best of them stood alone: all the rest were silent.
Phelan woke the sleeping princess with a kiss. She stirred, blinked puzzledly at his bedroom ceiling, then rolled over swiftly, groping for her wristwatch.
“What time is it?”
“The trumpets just sounded. I have to go.” He didn’t move, sat there in a riffled puddle of purple silk sheets, watched her push her tangled curls out of her eyes and smile at him, a little, private smile full of memories. Then the memory changed, and she sat up abruptly.
“I must have heard them in my sleep. I dreamed that my mother was competing to become the Royal Bard. She was playing an antique ear trumpet. She won.”
He laughed. “No.”
“Yes.” She was silent, then, her smile fading, studying his face. She put a hand on his bare shoulder, kissed him gently. “I’m glad you can laugh. If I were you, I’d be terrified.”
He shrugged the shoulder under her long fingers, slid his own hand over them. “I don’t have such an exalted opinion of my gifts to be afraid of losing. I’m just there to keep Zoe’s mind off Kelda.”
“Kelda.” She shivered lightly; he drew her hand from his shoulder, kissed her palm. “Will he win?”
“My father says over his dead body. That sounds like wishful thinking to me. And my father can’t play even an ear trumpet. He doesn’t have a chance of stopping Kelda.”
She drew her knees up under the sheets, dropped her face against them. Her voice came, muffled by silk and her disheveled hair. “I’m still trying to absorb what he told us. It’s hard not to want for him what he wants, but it’s also the last thing you or I would want.”
“Yes,” he said softly. He touched the band of lace and satin that had slid off one shoulder, added, “I would never have imagined you in that color.”
“What color have you imagined me in?”
He opened his mouth, stopped himself, and smiled. “Well. Not orange.”
“Tangerine,” she amended. “My lady-in-waiting refuses to let me wear the color in public. So I have to keep it hidden in my underwear.” She raised her head, sighing. “We have our scant hours between the trumpets and the tide this morning. At least I’ll be able to come for the opening ceremonies. Then I really must put in a few hours at the site. And then go home and face my mother.”
“My father doesn’t expect you to—”
She shook her head quickly. “I know. But I want to, today. I have explored every curve of the great dour keep where kings used to imprison recalcitrant nobles. I want to understand what we’ve found before I get locked up.”
“I’ll come and rescue you.”
She gave him her sidelong smile. “You’ll be busy helping Zoe. Surely I’ve learned enough working for your father to dig myself out of anything.”
