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.”
21: THE ISLAND OF YNISTHANA
(Kihrin’s story)
I woke, alone, lying on a reed mat in a cave full of the wet sound of water dripping off rock. I remembered the dream with unusual clarity, probably because it was the first dream I’d had since Tyentso’s summoned demon had torn out part of my soul.
Had it been a hallucination, the product of a near-drowning, or had I really just experienced a heart-to-heart chat with the Goddess of Luck herself? The dream had been surreal, but no more so than any events of the last week. Had I really survived a passage through the Maw, and a Daughter of Laaka, and sung a duet with a dragon?
A real dragon. I felt immortal.
Sure, I thought to myself, and now you’re the gaeshed slave of a vané hag who might also be a dragon, trapped with her rabid son on an island somewhere in the Desolation. If they’ve saved you for something, you won’t like it.
Taja said I just needed a better attitude.
I laughed out loud.