20: VALATHEA
(Talon’s story)
A raging fire burned in the fireplace at the end of the Milligreest library. The night wasn’t cool, and so the interior air seemed more suited to baking bread than breathing. Jarith left Kihrin with a dual promise to find the High General and to send a servant to bank the fire.
Different colors of woods forming intricate patterns paneled the walls and ceiling of the large library. None of the books matched, but had the worn and well-thumbed air of regular use. Kihrin felt a bit of grudging respect: he had stolen into too many houses where the “library” was a room whose only purpose was providing the maids with something to dust.
Before he poured a drink or checked to see if the High General had a fascination with smutty morgage romances, Kihrin decided the fire had to go. He circled around an overstuffed leather chair that faced the blaze. Even he found it too hot for comfort and he possessed a tolerance for heat bordering on the magical.
As he grabbed a poker, he heard a throat clear behind him. He flushed, embarrassed as he realized someone was already in the library, sitting in the chair where he couldn’t be seen from the entrance.
“I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t see—” Kihrin turned and stopped. It wasn’t the General, or any member of the Milligreest family.
Pretty Boy sat there, reading a book.
“Shit!” Kihrin dropped the iron poker and ran.
The door opened as he reached it. The hulking silhouette of the High General blocked Kihrin’s only escape.
“Please, I—” Kihrin tried to get around the man.
“What’s going on here?” the High General demanded.
Pretty Boy’s all-too-familiar voice answered dryly from the other end of the room. “I have no idea. Normally people require at least five minutes in my presence before they run screaming. I believe I’ve set a new record.”
The High General frowned at Kihrin. “Calm down, boy. No one’s going to hurt you here. Jarith said you were waiting. What are you doing here, Lord Heir?” The question was addressed to Pretty Boy.
Kihrin hid his shudder and tried to pull himself together. “I’m sorry, sir. He startled me. I thought the room was empty. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ll just—go.”
The General chuckled. “I can’t blame you for being skittish after that demon, but the Lord Heir D’Mon is quite human, no matter what his family name sounds like.”
“What was that?” Pretty Boy asked.
Kihrin swallowed and threw a wary glare at Pretty Boy, who stood up and walked toward the pair. The man’s hair formed a perfect series of dark chestnut waves breaking over his shoulders. Just as he had been at the Kazivar House, Pretty Boy dressed as royalty, and wore an embroidered blue silk misha over blue velvet kef. These were tucked into tall, black, leather riding boots. Sapphires and lapis lazuli beadwork sparkled from the embroidery of a hawk in midflight, laying on a golden sunburst field embroidered on his agolé.
No, Kihrin corrected himself. Pretty Boy wasn’t dressed as royalty. Pretty Boy was royalty. House D’Mon.
Kihrin’s heart skipped a beat from shock.
General Milligreest pursed his lips in disappointment. “I invited High Lord Therin to attend me at dinner tonight, not you, Darzin.”
Pretty Boy bowed. “My sincerest apologies, High General, but my father sends his regrets. I believe he’s meeting with a fellow who’s put his hands on a vané tsali stone, and you know how obsessed he is about his collection.” His gaze flitted idly over to Kihrin as he spoke.
Kihrin clenched his fists and tried to slow the rattle drum of his heartbeat. Oh hell. Butterbelly’s buyer. Butterbelly said he had a man who collected the gems. If Butterbelly told them anything, they’d know who’d broken into that villa. They’d know where to find him. I must leave. I must leave now. Oh shit. I’m as good as dead . . . He calmed himself.
“Hmm. Yes, I remember.”
“What was that about a demon?” Pretty Boy asked as if unfamiliar.
“You must have heard,” the High General said with a pronounced growl.
“Oh no. I’m woefully ignorant of the important happenings of the Empire.”
Kihrin found himself wishing he could carve away Pretty Boy’s smug expression with a shiv.
General Milligreest narrowed his eyes. “This young man, Kihrin, was attacked by the demon prince Xaltorath earlier today. I lost a good man before the Emperor could arrive to banish it. We’re still trying to locate the summoner.”
“What? Why would a demon prince go after a boy?” Darzin looked at Kihrin with undisguised confusion.
Kihrin was startled: Darzin D’Mon’s bemusement seemed genuine, and not some faux emotion worn only for the General’s benefit.
Darzin hadn’t sent the demon to attack him?
“We’re still investigating. Xaltorath may have acted on a whim. He can be capricious in his cruelties. We’re still trying to locate the party responsible for summoning the demon.”
“I imagine the summoner was eaten. Isn’t that kind of summoning terribly hard to control?”
“I wouldn’t know.” General Milligreest threw the nobleman a look of ill-concealed disgust.
Kihrin edged toward the door. If he could leave quietly, maybe they’d forget about him. He hadn’t expected this. He wanted to tell the General that he’d witnessed Darzin D’Mon and Dead Man kill that vané and summon a demon, but the General knew Darzin. He knew him well enough to invite him over to dinner. Milligreest wasn’t going to believe Kihrin’s accusations.
There was no help for it. Kihrin would leave. Kihrin could go back and buy a harp, any harp, claim it was a present and give it to Surdyeh. Ola was right. He’d slip a note to Jarith, tell the Captain what had happened once Kihrin was long gone. Silently he started his chant: No sight, no sound, no presence. I am not here . . .
“What good fortune the Emperor showed up, or it would have been a real mess, wouldn’t it?”
“It is Sandus’s duty to protect the Empire, Darzin. He would never ignore the threat of an unbound demon prince.”
“I’ll have to remember that. My son will be so relieved.”
The General looked around the room in obvious disgust. “Argas’s forge! It’s like an oven in here.”
Darzin shrugged. “I like it that way. So why bring the boy back here? Jarith finally proved a disappointment, so you’ve decided to adopt?”
“Of course not! He—?” The General looked around, and then stepped out in the hall. “Kihrin? Where are you going?”
Kihrin stopped his casual stroll and turned around, hiding his sigh. “Oh, I’m sorry, Your Lordship. I thought you might wish to speak with the prince in private.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Get back here. The faster we do this, the faster we can send you on your way.”
“Yes, sir.” Kihrin shuffled back to the General.
“That was amazing,” Pretty Boy said. “I didn’t even notice you leave.”
Kihrin kept his eyes on the floor. “Yes, my lord.”
“A boy like you could make quite a career with such skills of stealth.”
“I have no idea what you mean, my lord.”
“Yes . . . of course you don’t. Kihrin, you said your name is?”
“Yes, my lord.” He contemplated lying, but the High General already knew his name.
“Darzin, leave off shopping for people with a talent for law-breaking until you’re outside these walls. Young man, follow me and I’ll give you that reward.” Qoran walked down the hall with the attitude of someone who expected to be obeyed without question.
Kihrin hesitated before following, realizing Darzin was doing so as well. Every step was like walking on fire, as Kihrin forced himself forward against his body’s overwhelming desire to bolt and run. He would collect the harp and go. Darzin didn’t know Kihrin was the thief who had witnessed Xaltorath’s summoning.
Kihrin reminded himself everything was fine. He reminded himself several times.
Darzin whistled a jaunty tune as they walked, until the General gave him an annoyed look.
At last Milligreest arrived at a set of carved doors, which he unlocked with a heavy brass key. The General swung open the doors.
Against the far wall of the room rested several harps, some floor-length and others of smaller size. Kihrin frowned as he saw that the General kept them uncovered, but at least the room had no window to let in the sunlight, which might have warped the wood of a harp and soured the tone.
Milligreest nodded in the direction of the harps. “Pick one out you like, then I want you to play something for me.”
Kihrin turned back to him. “Excuse me, sir?”
Milligreest frowned. “What didn’t you understand? I want to hear you play something. That demon broke your harp and you deserve a replacement, but I’m not giving up one of my harps to someone who can’t use one, understand?”
Darzin snickered.
Kihrin started to protest the harp had been his father’s, not his. Then it occurred to him that the General was his only protection against Pretty Boy, or “Darzin,” or whatever his name was. He couldn’t afford to upset him. The young man nodded and crossed the room. He would pick something quickly. He would pick something that the High General wouldn’t care if he lost—the least valuable harp in the collection—and he would run back to Surdyeh as fast as he could.
Each musical instrument was a work of art, lovely in form, but most of them were too fancy, inlaid with rare woods and metals, set with precious gems. They were harps as art objects, not as musical instruments. If he sold one of these, he’d be arrested as its thief.
One harp looked like it might cost less than the yearly total income of the Shattered Veil: a small double-strung lap harp tucked into a corner. He turned to Qoran Milligreest for permission.
The High General nodded to him.
Kihrin sat down on a stool and pulled the harp onto his lap. The style of the harp was old-fashioned; he groaned as he realized the strings were silver instead of silk. He wasn’t sure he could play this: he wore his nails clipped short, since silk-strung harps were played with the fingertips, not the nails. He plucked a single string to test if he needed to ask for picks. To his surprise, a pure clean note rang.
He plucked an arpeggio, and couldn’t help but smile at the harp’s laughter. The notes were so clear, so perfect! Who wouldn’t sound like a master using a harp like this?
“Play it, don’t sit there and drool on it,” the General admonished, not unkindly. “Figures you’d find the prize of my collection.”
Kihrin looked up, shocked. “This?”
“She’s an antique. I more than half-suspect this is what Sandus had in mind.”
“The Emperor?” Lord Heir Darzin asked. “The Emperor ordered you to give that boy one of your harps?”
“The Emperor was impressed. Kihrin was very brave.”
Kihrin’s fingers paused on the strings, his look one of confusion.
“Yes, young man?”
“General, I don’t remember meeting the Emperor.” He frowned. He had smacked his head hard when the demon had thrown him. Just because he didn’t remember meeting the Emperor did not mean it hadn’t happened.
The General’s smile was kind. “Remember the man in the patchwork sallí?”
“That was Emperor Sandus?”
Darzin scoffed. “He might wear the crown, but he’s still a peasant. I wonder if he’s paid up on his magic license fees?”
“That’s enough,” the General growled. “Your father may be one of my oldest friends but that doesn’t mean I will tolerate insolence from you.”
Darzin stared at the General. The bone of his jaw turned white and clenched and his nostrils flared. He tilted his head in the General’s direction. “My sincerest apologies, High General.” Nothing in his tone of voice sounded sincere or apologetic.
“But that—that’s not possible,” Kihrin protested. “That man said he was a friend of my father’s. My father doesn’t know the Emperor.”*
Darzin blinked and straightened. His eyes widened as he turned and stared at Kihrin, stared long and hard. Despite Surdyeh’s lectures, Kihrin met the Lord Heir’s stare.
Why was he surprised Darzin had blue eyes? It was so obvious, in hindsight.
You look like him, Morea had said. You even wear his colors . . .
How many noblemen had god-marked blue eyes? How many noblemen who delighted in murder and dealt with demons?
Kihrin stared too long. As he did, Darzin frowned in confusion.
“You have blue eyes . . .” Darzin whispered softly, staring at Kihrin as if to memorize him. A look of dawning comprehension stole over him. Darzin smiled then, cruelly, and ran his tongue over his lips. “And here I didn’t think Taja liked me.”
Kihrin’s hands tightened on the harp.
Darzin chuckled.
The sound of Xaltorath’s screaming had not filled Kihrin with more dread.
“Are we amusing you, Darzin?”
The Lord Heir stifled his laughter, giving General Milligreest an embarrassed glance. “Oh, not at all. My apologies. I just remembered the punch line to a funny joke. The young man was going to play us a song, yes?”
The General stared at him a moment longer, then turned back to Kihrin. “Go on, play something.”
Kihrin wanted to vomit. He realized with sick dread both Ola and Surdyeh had been right. He shouldn’t have come. Pretty Boy had blue eyes.
Kihrin bent his head over the harp and fiddled with the tuning while he tried to keep himself from shaking, while he tried to remember something, anything, to play.
Surdyeh had often said Kihrin was a hopeless musician. Kihrin was hurt every time his father said it, but only because he knew it was true. He had no motivation. When he was a child, Kihrin always found more important things to do than sit in darkened rooms practicing his fingering. And now that he was growing up, plenty of new diversions, especially female diversions, attracted him away from lessons. He was a passable harpist, but he wasn’t in love with music. When Kihrin’s voice broke, he discovered it was good enough for entertainment, and that had been sufficient.
He sat still, trying to remember the old songs that his father had made him memorize. He froze, thinking he had forgotten them, but after a few hesitant strokes, Kihrin began to play with more confidence.
It wouldn’t have mattered if he plucked the strings at random. The harp wouldn’t allow him to play poorly. The room ceased to be, his worries about demons and royalty ceased to be, and all he felt were silver chords of music floating around him, dancing on the air. For the span of a song, he forgot every concern.
The music died. Kihrin fought the need to keep playing, even though the tips of his fingers ached from plucking silver instead of silk. He looked up and saw Milligreest examining a far wall, his eyes unreadable except for pain and an almost-forgotten wistfulness. Darzin’s eyes were closed and his mouth open; the prince shook himself as from a dream.
“Huh. You’ll do well by her I think. She likes you,” the General commented. “Her name is Valathea.”
“Valathea?” The response came out like a question.
“Very special harps, like special swords, are named. She is a vané harp. In their language her name means ‘sorrow.’* She has never left the possession of the Milligreest family until now, so you will take care of her.” The last sentence had the weight of a command.
“I will, High General.” Kihrin covered her. For a moment, he forgot the danger he was in. She was beautiful, the most beautiful harp he had ever heard. Surdyeh would be so happy. How could he stay angry with Kihrin after this? If he sounded this good playing her, how much better would Surdyeh sound?* “May I go?”
“Of course. Go show your father your reward.”
Kihrin left as quickly as the burden of the harp allowed.
After he left, the room was quiet. Then Darzin broke the silence. “Well. If you’ll excuse me as well . . .”
“Nonsense, Darzin. You wanted to dine with me, did you not? I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.”
“Of course, and I’m honored, but . . . umm . . . pressing business. You understand.”
“I do not understand. You said you were here to take your father’s place. What business draws you away from that?”
Darzin frowned. “I assumed you invited my father here because of the boy. Which I appreciate: he’s clearly one of ours. I know you’d rather not share my company; why don’t I go inform my father you’ve found one of our house’s lost scions?”
“Think of this as your best chance to impress me. Which you will need to do, if you are ever to convince me that your son and my daughter are not so closely related that marriage is out of the question.”
The Lord Heir ground his teeth in defeat. “Of course.” He waved a hand at the harps. “The boy was raised as a street rat, you realize. He’s just going to sell your precious harp the first chance he has, maybe even tonight.”
“No, he won’t. I saw the look on his face. He would die first.” The High General shrugged. “Besides, it’s not my decision. The Emperor is interested in that boy. I wouldn’t want to be the person who allowed him to come to harm.”
Darzin D’Mon looked as if he’d swallowed bile. “No. No, neither would I.”