Telyn stirred, reluctant to awaken. The bed was soft, the linens smooth against her skin, and the smell of freshly baked bread pervaded the air. It was a dream from a long time ago, she thought drowsily, when she and Emrys had stayed the winter in Rothvori. She had been ill with a fever, confined to the tapestried bed in her favorite chamber, and Riordan had sent up cups of hot milk and loaves of sweet bread with raisins and spices. The delicious scent had awakened her.
The door clicked softly shut, and Telyn opened her eyes with a start. Overhead, she saw the beams of the upstairs room in which she lay, and recognized it as the Tauron guild house where she, Mithrais, and Cormac had been brought the previous night. The light streaming in through the single window was bright, and she felt that it might be as late as mid-afternoon. The table beside her held the source of the divine smell; someone had left a small tray of currant bread, cheese, and a cup of broth.
Telyn felt better than she had in days, refreshed and clear of mind. She stretched luxuriously and then gasped at the sudden, sharp discomfort as the newly applied sutures in her skin stretched painfully. Wincing, Telyn pushed her body up gingerly to sit against the head of the bed and pulled away the loose neck of the white gown, glancing down at the wound. The deep cut between her sternum and the soft rise of her left breast, perhaps two inches long, was sutured with black threads.
Besides the vivid bruise on her cheekbone where his fist had connected, which promised to be a spectacular black eye, it was the only injury she had sustained in the encounter with The Dragon. The bard was content with that. She was alive, Mithrais and Cormac were healing, and The Dragon was dead.
* * * *
They had arrived at the Tauron guild house, a large, two-story building that lay outside the city gates, not long after dark. Their arrival had not been unexpected, for the door was flung open in a spill of yellow light and the wagon surrounded by several wardens and a healer before it had even come to a full stop.
The bolt that penetrated Cormac’s shoulder had passed between muscle and bone, without permanent damage, but the injury that Mithrais sustained during his battle with The Dragon was more serious than it had initially appeared. Her efforts to stem the bleeding from Mithrais’ thigh wound had been unsuccessful. Coupled with exhaustion, blood loss had brought him to the end of his strength before they reached the Southern road, even with the assistance of Rodril and Halith, who had arrived shortly after the storm blew itself out. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness during the rough, headlong ride to the Guild House in a wagon hastily procured from a settlement.
Telyn tried to follow Mithrais and Cormac as they were taken into the infirmary, but Rodril stopped her with a gentle shake of his head.
“You are in need of attention, as well. They are in good hands.” Rodril interrupted her protest before it started. “Your weapons are military issue. It’s clear you have trained as a soldier, so don’t force me to make it an order.” To have that glower directed at her was intimidating, and Telyn submitted meekly.
Rodril led her to an upstairs room which held a bed, two chairs, and a small table. He left her in the care of a second healer, who cleaned and sutured her wound. The healer clucked over the bruises on Telyn’s cheek but pronounced that the bone was sound.
Someone brought a bowl of hearty stew, bread, and a cup of strong mulled wine. The healer insisted that she eat, staring at her expectantly until Telyn took a few bites to placate him. She ended up eating the entire meal with a ravenous appetite, surprised that she had not noticed how famished she was.
Rodril reappeared after she had finished the wine, and the healer took the empty tray, leaving strict instructions that Telyn was to rest as soon as possible. The tall warden ducked beneath the low beams in the room and sat in the chair opposite the bard, a smile transforming his features.
“Mithrais insisted that I tell you he is well. There was a small piece of the blade in the wound which kept it open; it has been removed and he should recover quickly. The surgeon has given him something to ensure he sleeps and regains his strength. You may see him tomorrow. Cormac is also resting. The bolt is out. They are both young and strong, and will be fine.”
Telyn breathed out a sigh of relief, the last of the worry draining away to leave her limp and boneless in the chair. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“I have heard an intriguing tale from Mithrais and Cormac,” Rodril said, his eyes fixed on hers. “The actions today of the Gwaith’orn are unprecedented: they’ve never roused themselves to defend even a warden, much less a simple bard.”
Telyn thought she heard reproach in his voice, and she flushed with shame, for she bitterly regretted that Aric’s life had been lost on her behalf. Rodril was quick to note her course of thought, and placed his hand over hers where it rested on the arm of the chair.
“I do not judge, Lady Bard, I merely observe. I don’t blame you for Aric’s death. We Tauron accept certain risks with our duties, and know full well that our lives belong to the Wood.” Rodril paused. “I’ve heard enough from Mithrais to know that the Gwaith’orn expect something extraordinary from you. If that’s so, it is doubly certain that Aric did not die in vain.”
The look on Rodril’s face was that same hopeful awe which Cormac had directed toward her, strange in that fierce countenance. Telyn passed a hand over her eyes, unable to quell a small twinge of rebellion that so much seemed to rest on a task that she had yet to define.
The warmth of the wine she had consumed was spreading through her body, and Telyn suspected that it may have been enhanced with something to ensure she slept. She felt it loosening her tongue, and she spoke unguardedly to Rodril.
“I’m afraid that their trust in me is misplaced,” she said in a low voice. “I barely know what it is that they expect of me, or why it is important.”
“Believe that it will become clearer,” he told her. “The Tauron offer you any assistance that we may render in serving the Gwaith’orn—you have only to ask. But for now, you have only one task, and that is to rest and heal.” He rose, ducking back through the rafters, and opened the door. After conferring in a low voice with someone outside, Rodril turned back to her. “No one else will disturb you. Good night.”
“Thank you, Rodril. Good night,” Telyn said, and the door shut behind him. She moved with increasingly heavy limbs to the bed, where she removed her bloody clothing and dressed in the simple white robe which had been left for her before climbing between the linens. Whatever had been in the wine worked with speed, and she was asleep in moments.
* * * *
Telyn’s growling stomach would not allow her to rest any longer, and she reached for a piece of bread and the cup of broth. The unseen individual whom had brought the tray of food had apparently been in the room more than once. There was washing water already warm beside the hearth; folded towels occupied one chair, a stack of clothing and a comb on the other.
She finished the meal with an appetite that still surprised her, and then set about untangling her hair, which was no small feat after three days in the Wood. The curls finally surrendered and submitted to being combed, and Telyn plaited the sides back tightly, letting the rest tumble down her back.
She washed quickly and donned the clothing that had been left for her. The fawn-colored kirtle and darker brown belted tunic fit tolerably well, although she would have preferred her customary leggings. Telyn pulled on her boots, the only footwear she possessed at the moment, and opened the door of her room.
The hallway was empty. Five other doors lined the walls. Most of them were open, revealing comfortably appointed rooms identical to the one Telyn had slept in, and all were vacant. Telyn’s room was furthest from the stair she remembered climbing the previous night. She turned to the right and found the staircase easily, descending into the great room below.
The room was nearly deserted except for a small knot of men near the fireplace, and Telyn saw a familiar yellow head in the center of the group, giving a spirited but fairly accurate rendition of the battle with The Dragon. Cormac saw her approaching, and the broad grin spread across his features. He excused himself from the group and came to meet her. His right arm was still in a sling, but he looked no worse for the wear despite his part in the battle. He attempted a bow, and reddened as Telyn took the opportunity to kiss him soundly on the cheek.
“I haven’t had the chance to thank you properly for saving my life, Cormac,” she told him quietly. “If not for your generous gift, I wouldn’t be standing here now. I’m afraid that I owe you a flute.”
“Oh, I meant it when I told you I’m no musician,” Cormac said, embarrassed. “Rodril said it was the best thing that could have happened to the flute.”
“How cruel!” Telyn couldn’t help but laugh. “Is Rodril still here?”
“No, he left last night to help prepare for Aric’s return to the Circle.” Cormac’s sunny grin vanished; he looked young and vulnerable, and close to tears. Telyn squeezed his hand comfortingly. “There will be rites in a few days. Will you be there?” he asked earnestly.
“If it is permitted, I shall be,” Telyn promised. “Are you leaving now?”
“No, I will be here until the healers are satisfied.” Cormac looked at the group he had been regaling with the tale of The Dragon, who were now watching them curiously. “Those are some of Lord Gwidion’s men. They have come to take you and Mithrais to the manor.”
Telyn glanced at the men, who bowed slightly in her direction. “Where is Mithrais?”
“In that room, second from the left.” Cormac nodded toward a closed door. “There’s someone with him, but I know he’ll want to see you.”
Telyn smiled at him, feeling a great swell of gratitude toward the young warden. “I’m indebted to you, Cormac. I will keep my promise about traveling to Ilparien. They shall hear a proper bardic tale of your bravery. You have my word on it.” She began to turn away, and Cormac stopped her.
“Telyn, there is something else,” he said fervently, and continued at her quizzical look, “I don’t know exactly what the Gwaith’orn have told you, but I...I can help you.”
“Thank you, Cormac.” Telyn hugged him, knowing that she had a valuable friend. Cormac returned the embrace awkwardly with his good arm, and Telyn turned away quickly before the self-doubt could rise into her eyes. First Rodril, now Cormac had all but sworn their service to her because of the Gwaith’orn’s mysterious charge.
She paused before the closed door, knocking softly, and an unfamiliar voice called, “Enter.”
Telyn pushed open the door cautiously. Immediately she saw Mithrais sitting in a chair facing the door, his wounded leg propped on a small bench. His eyes lit when he saw her and he automatically tried to rise, then, wincing, held his hand out to her instead with a sheepish grin. Telyn closed the door and hurried to him, kneeling beside his chair, and Mithrais touched the blossoming bruises on her face with gentle fingers.
“You’re well?” he asked softly.
“Yes. And you?” Telyn saw that the left side of Mithrais’ forehead was badly bruised, a cut that had not required the surgeon’s needle standing out in angry red relief against the knot. His hair was loose about his shoulders once more, dark chestnut waves against a pale linen shirt.
“Now that I’ve seen you, I am.” He kissed her. “There is someone you must meet,” he said, taking her hand, and spoke to the room’s other occupant. “This is Telyn Songmaker, a true bard, formerly of Amorion’s court. Telyn, this is my brother Gilmarion, heir to Cerisild.”
Telyn’s head turned quickly, and she stood up beside Mithrais’ chair. The man in the opposite chair rose, looking from Mithrais to Telyn with a surprised expression. “Well, well. Perhaps my little brother isn’t destined to be a tree-monk, after all.”
Gilmarion of Cerisild was not quite what Telyn had expected. He was older by several years, and where Mithrais was darker of hair and skin, Gilmarion was the near image of King Amorion, the blood running true to the golden-haired royal family.
In deference to the fact she was wearing skirts instead of her usual attire, Telyn dropped into a formal curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord. May I tell you that you look remarkably like your royal uncle?”
Gilmarion took her hand and raised her up, his smile pure courtliness. “That’s very good of you to say, Lady Bard. I hold King Amorion in the highest esteem.” He kissed her hand ceremonially, his eyes lingering on the honor marks about her wrist as he straightened.
“Formerly of the court?” Gilmarion questioned, raising an eyebrow, her hand still trapped in his. Telyn took a deep breath, and Mithrais rescued her.
“That is a tale that will have to wait in its telling, Gil. There are things that our mother shouldn’t know just yet.”
Gilmarion nodded in bemused agreement as he released Telyn’s hand. “Yes, perhaps you’re right.” Gilmarion looked pointedly at his brother. “She is most unhappy that you were not here for the spring celebrations. She could make things very unpleasant for you while you’re healing.”
“I expected nothing less,” Mithrais said grimly, and his brother laughed, a sound that would have been infectious had it not been heavily laced with irony.
“Mithrais, you make your own trouble. If you simply did everything Marithiel told you, you’d be a much happier man.” Gilmarion glanced at Telyn, his expression sobering. “Ah, well, let’s not air our family’s shortcomings here. In all honesty, you may find her in a rare mood just now.”
He strode to the door, picking up a pair of leather riding gloves from the back of his chair. “I will see you at the manor, Mithrais. Lady Bard.” He nodded toward Telyn, and exited the room, closing the door behind him.
Mithrais was frowning, staring after his brother.
“Is something wrong?” she asked him gently. Mithrais shook his head.
“I’m not certain, but I feel there is. Gilmarion said very little about my father while he was here.” He grinned half-heartedly. “We’re a troubled lot, as you undoubtedly have surmised.”
Telyn smiled back at him. “Cormac tells me that the men outside have come to take you to the manor.”
“And you with me, unless you wish to remain in the guild house. You’d be welcome to stay here if it’s your preference, and Cormac would be delighted at your company.” Mithrais leaned his forehead against hers. “Marithiel will expect an explanation for my tardiness as soon as I arrive, no doubt. I wish that I could stay here, but I want to see my father.”
Telyn straightened and set her jaw. “Three years as Taliesin’s apprentice gave me a very tough skin. I would like to meet Lord Gwidion, and if I can’t handle a princess, I’m not worthy to be called a bard.”
“Brave Telyn.” Mithrais laughed. “I’m looking forward to introducing you to my father.”