The Lyre Thief Read online

  Charisee wasn’t enjoying herself. She was terrified.

  A wave of guilt washed over Rakaia at the sight of the man she had tricked her sister into marrying, surprising her. She’d worked so hard to convince herself she had done Charisee an enormous favor by saving her from a life of slavery and hard labor. She could see the lie of her delusion writ large on Frederak Branador’s face.

  Thankfully, Charisee didn’t see her in the crowd. As soon she was past, Rakaia pushed her way toward the gate as another carriage, this one a closed carriage bearing the royal Wolfblade escutcheon, also entered the gates, followed by several other carriages, no doubt carrying the remainder of the wedding guests invited to the official reception.

  She didn’t have long. Once the last of those carriages entered the gates they would be closed and she would have no chance of getting inside to stop Mica.

  When she reached the gate, she hoped she’d be able to slip inside while the guards’ attention was on the carriages, but they were on the lookout for people just like her, and her way was blocked before she could step a foot inside the palace forecourt.

  “Off you go, lass,” the guard ordered. He was an older man, probably a grandfather, if the gray in his beard was anything to judge by, but he seemed perfectly capable of wielding the sword and the baton he carried on his belt. “The show’s over for you.”

  “My husband is Mica the Marvelous,” she told him, glancing down the street to discover there were only a few more carriages left. “He’s performing for the royal family.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “I’m not making this up!” she said, alarmed by his skeptical expression. It struck her then that Mica might have sung to the guards to prevent her following him, but perhaps he didn’t have time. Perhaps he thought he’d be back at the Sarchlo before Rakaia discovered what he was up to. “He has a letter from the Warlord of Krakandar introducing him . . . us . . . to the High Prince. Someone here must remember letting him in! I need to find him. He can’t perform without me. I’m part of his act.”

  The guard studied her for a moment and then walked over to the gate commander. They had a brief discussion, the commander consulted a list he was carrying and then he nodded. Filled with relief, Rakaia waited impatiently for the guard to return.

  “Lucky for you the captain remembers your Mica the Marvelous.” He led her to the gate and waved to the other guards to let her through as the last of the carriages passed through and they swung ponderously shut behind her. “Stay out of trouble!” he called after her.

  Rakaia waved to acknowledge she’d heard him, and then turned and scanned the crowded forecourt with dismay. It was almost as congested as the street outside. But somewhere in this crowd was Mica, getting ready to wreak the vengeance he’d promised her he wouldn’t take.

  She hurried forward, searching at the stalls that lined the forecourt. One housed a juggler, the next was two acrobats and a contortionist. The next offered fortune telling, the one after that offered sweetmeats.

  It was only as she caught a whiff of the sweetmeats that Rakaia remembered she hadn’t eaten all morning. She had no coin with which to buy food, but this was a Fardohnyan wedding, so the food was probably free. Justifying putting aside her need to find Mica for a moment with the thought that she would never find him if she passed out from hunger, she pushed her way over to the food stall.

  Rakaia was so intent on her purpose she didn’t notice the applause or the crowd parting around the stall until she found herself face to face with the new lady of Highcastle.

  There was a moment where they said nothing. Charisee’s eyes were wide, but to her credit, she barely faltered before turning to her new husband, who was being wheeled along beside his bride in a wicker chair by a handsome young man with a snide expression, who didn’t seem capable of taking his eyes of Charisee’s bare midriff.

  “Shall we gift this one, my lord?” she asked, bending down to say the words directly into the old man’s ear. Apparently, besides not being able to walk unaided, he was deaf as a post, too.

  “She’s pretty,” the old man said. He handed Charisee a single gold coin from the purse on his lap, which he clutched with skeletal fingers, as if it contained his life savings.

  Charisee took the coin and turned to face Rakaia, her shocked expression replaced with the serene look of a princess doing her duty to be kind to the poor and less fortunate. “What is your name, my dear?”

  “Aja, your highness,” she said, remembering only then that she should probably have curtseyed to her former slave. “My husband is the minstrel, Mica the Marvelous.”

  Charisee smiled. “Then you’re in luck. We met Mica the Marvelous almost as soon as we arrived. My husband was so impressed with his talent, he gifted him most generously.”

  That’s unlikely, Rakaia thought, given that Frederak Branador appeared to be stone deaf, but the important thing was Charisee had seen Mica. He’d sung for her, too, which was worrying. What had he done to her? Who else had he sung to?

  Charisee pressed the coin into Rakaia’s hands, gripping them tight for a moment, saying more with that brief touch than a thousand words could have done. “Be well and happy, Aja.”

  “I wish you the best and happiest life the gods will permit too, your highness,” Rakaia said, hoping Charisee knew how much she meant it.

  Charisee let go of her hands and Rakaia dropped into another low curtsey. By the time she rose to her feet, Charisee and her husband had moved on to the next peasant on whom they planned to bestow their largesse.

  Rakaia wiped away an unexpected tear as she waited for a moment, but Charisee didn’t look back.

  As the bride and groom were lost to the crowd, Rakaia shook off her guilt, grabbed a sweetmeat from the vendor, and went back to looking for Mica before he killed someone.

  Chapter

  59

  FOR A DAY that had such great potential for disaster, Rakaia’s wedding day was progressing quite smoothly. Adrina watched over the carnival from the palace steps, her half-brother Gaffen by her side, ready to carry out her orders, should she choose to issue any.

  The carnival had been an excellent idea. A Hythrun wedding involved a much more formal setting where everyone would have noted the High Prince’s absence. Looking down over the crowded confusion that was the palace forecourt, Adrina was quite sure she could spread the rumor that Damin was down there somewhere, mingling with the common folk, and someone would swear they’d seen him.

  She glanced up at the almost setting sun, aware it would soon be time to call the children inside. She didn’t like them mixing with a crowd such as this, but she was astute enough to realize she was doing her children no favors by preventing them from ever meeting the common people of Hythria. She had controlled the situation as best she could. There was nobody in the forecourt that hadn’t been vouched for by someone she trusted.

  “Are you sure Wrayan checked everyone?” she asked Gaffen, frowning. She didn’t want to spoil their fun, but Adrina knew she wouldn’t rest until the children were safely inside. Marlie was going to be a particular problem, she was certain. As an official member of the bridal party, her daughter would consider being sent to the nursery for dinner a punishment rather than a wise move taken for her own protection.

  The Warlord nodded. “I believe so. There was a minstrel who arrived after Wrayan left for the ceremony, but the guard commander said the lad had a letter from Starros introducing him to Damin, so he let him in. I doubt any threat to the Wolfblades is going to come from that direction.” Gaffen leaned a little closer, adding, “I’d be more worried about the Branadors, if I were you, ’Rina. I swear that little thug, Olivah, has pilfered half the gold his grandfather was supposed to be handing out today and kept it for himself.”

  She allowed herself a wry smile. “You know, having spent more time in the company of that wretched family than I’d like in the past week, I am actually starting to understand why Marla is the way she is.”

  �
��Do you want me to do anything about him?”

  “No,” she sighed. “The money was a gift from Rodja and Selena. We have no right to dictate how it’s spent.” She glanced around and spied Darvad and his wife, Rielle, over by the sweet vendor’s stall. They had Kimarie and Tristan with them and were plying them with treats. Darvad looked up and she waved him over.

  He leaned in and said something to Rielle, then took the steps two at a time to reach Adrina.

  “When you and your wife have finished plying my children with enough sweet sticky things to turn them into blobs and ensure their poor nurses will never get them to sleep tonight, could you take them back to the nursery?”

  Darvad laughed. “Now? Just when they’ve discovered cheese custard tarts?”

  “It’s all the other things they’ve just discovered this afternoon before they got to the cheese custard tarts that worry me,” she laughed. “I do appreciate you keeping an eye on them, though.”

  “Rielle misses her grandchildren,” he said. “Any excuse to spoil yours is a bonus.”

  “I will have to speak to her about that,” Adrina said, with mock disapproval. Then she smiled and added, almost as an afterthought, “Can you find Jaz and Marlie and send them to the nursery, too? I want them safe and sound before the evening festivities and the wine starts to flow more freely.” Fardohnyan weddings honored Jelanna, the Goddess of Fertility, after all. The children were a little too young to be exposed to how some people chose to honor her when the wine was free and their inhibitions were low.

  “Of course,” he said, and hurried back down the steps to inform Rielle it was time for the children to retire.

  Adrina thought no more of it, and turned back to Gaffen. “Do you think Damin will be angry when he hears what we did here today?”

  “I think your husband is a pragmatist, ’Rina. He’ll probably only be angry that he missed it.”

  “I hope so. I am glad Marla’s not here. She’d be apoplectic at the idea of a Fardohnyan wedding in her palace, I’m sure.”

  “Not a dissimilar reaction to our father’s, I suspect, when he realizes he has to deal with Marla during the treaty negotiations.”

  Adrina closed her eyes for a moment. “Gods, she must almost be at the Citadel by now. You know, I haven’t spared her a thought in weeks.”

  Her brother laughed. “She probably hasn’t slept a wink the whole time she’s been on the road, worrying about you.”

  “You know, that’s actually a comforting thought.”

  “Mama! Why do I have to leave?” Marlie shouted up at her from the forecourt, struggling to shake off the grip of her nurse who knew Marlie well enough not to let go.

  Adrina sighed. “I knew this was going to be a problem. Excuse me, Gaff. I have a nine-year-old to tame.”

  She left her brother on the steps and headed down to speak to Marlie, not wishing to make any more of a scene than her daughter was already doing.

  “Marlie, people are watching you,” she warned in a low voice as she approached her daughter, who wore a look of unadulterated defiance. “So far today, you have conducted yourself like a princess. If you wish to start acting like a screaming shrew, then I will have to treat you like one.”

  “I have to stay. I’m part of the wedding party.”

  “The wedding is over. What is left now is a lot of foolish adults intending to get drunk. There is no need for a bridal attendant to take part in that.”

  “You’re letting Julika stay.”

  “Julika is sixteen and an apprentice sorcerer. You are nine.”

  “You let Jaz do whatever he wants.”

  “Jazrian is retiring too, Marlie,” Adrina assured her. “So you have nothing to complain about.”

  “What if Rakaia needs my help?”

  “Julika’s the senior attendant. She can take care of her.”

  Marlie’s eyes brimmed with disappointed tears. “But I want to stay, Mama!”

  Adrina embraced her, understanding her daughter’s disappointment while being entirely unsympathetic to it. “I know you do, sweetheart, but it’s not going to happen.” She squatted down to meet Marlie, eye to eye. “I can promise you this, though, my darling. If you don’t bow to me gracefully, right this minute, then kiss me goodnight and walk up those steps and into the palace like a lady, I will have your uncle Gaffen come down here, throw you over his shoulder, and carry you screaming to the nursery so everyone can see you being treated like a naughty child. Choose your poison, darling.”

  Marlie glared at her for a moment and then leaned forward and meekly kissed her mother on the cheek. “Goodnight, Mama.”

  Adrina rose to her feet, smiling. “Goodnight, Marlie. Sleep well.”

  The nurse gave Adrina a grateful look and took Marlie’s hand to lead her up the steps. Adrina smiled at them, and then glanced around the crowd, wondering where Jaz was. Unlike his sister, he had probably accepted the order to retire without complaint, even if he was just as disappointed. He didn’t share his sister’s rebelliousness.

  In fact, he might well be inside already. Jaz wouldn’t think of making a scene. She made a note to check with Darvad as soon as she found him again, and then headed into the crowd to see how the new lady of Highcastle was faring.

  Chapter

  60

  IT TOOK CHARISEE quite a while to recover from finding Rakaia in the crowd. She seemed well, although the blond hair was a shock, as was the plain dress she wore. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine what Rakaia was doing here at her wedding. Had she come to see if Charisee was keeping her secret? Had she come to claim her birthright?

  And yet she’d done nothing but wish her sister well.

  It didn’t seem to make a difference to the panic Charisee was feeling. For the rest of the day and long into the evening, Charisee searched the crowd, looking for her sister to no avail, half expecting to hear someone calling her out for a liar at any moment.

  Expecting at any time for her world to come crashing down around her.

  The acrobats, fortune tellers, tricksters, and fire eaters had mostly departed and the gold had all been handed out by sunset. An orchestra had taken over the entertainment for the evening and she was finally able to sit down. By then Charisee was exhausted from the gift giving, wearing an entirely insincere smile all day as she thanked a steady stream of equally insincere well-wishers, and from trying to figure out why Rakaia was here.

  On top of all that, although the evening meal was about to be served, offering a moment of respite, she still had to get through her wedding night.

  That was going to be no fun either. Although the promised court’esa— and the only hope she’d had of pretending any sort of experience—had been gifted to her more than a week ago, Charisee hadn’t even met him yet. Strayan had been with Rodja and Selena’s eldest daughter in Grosburn, Selena had explained apologetically. He had been sent for the day after their late-night discussion with the Tirstones in Adrina’s private quarters, but it was a long way from Pentamor Province, and provided he was here in time for their departure for Highcastle tomorrow, nobody seemed to think there was any great hurry for his services.

  She was still a virgin posing as a princess trained to be a satisfactory wife and she was certain everyone who looked at her could tell she was anything but.

  The only thing likely to save her, Charisee thought as she took a seat at the bridal table next to her husband while the forecourt was cleared for dancing, was that she doubted he’d be able to stay awake long enough to notice if the marriage was consummated or not. Or Rakaia would expose her. That would save her from Frederak, too. But not in a good way.

  “If the old boy isn’t up to it,” Olivah whispered in her ear, startling Charisee with his nearness, “I’d be more than happy to oblige.” He slid into the seat next to her, where she had assumed Adrina, or perhaps even Gaffen would be seated, grinning at her like a cat playing with a particularly juicy mouse. “After all, one Branador cock is as good as another, don’t y
ou think . . . Granny?”

  Charisee was aghast at the man’s boldness. But Adrina had warned her well about Olivah Branador. She knew if she didn’t take a stand now, she would never be rid of him.

  “I’m not in a position to judge that yet,” she said, forcing herself to sound far more calm and in control than she felt. “And I fear you do yourself an injustice, sir, unless you truly believe your virility to be on a par with a man sixty years your senior.” She smiled at him and patted his hand on the table sympathetically. “How sad for you. Is there something you can take? My court’esa arrived today. Perhaps I can send him to you once we get to Highcastle, to offer some advice? I believe they learn how to deal with such . . . unfortunate circumstances . . . as part of their court’esa training.”

  Olivah’s smile faded. He was not amused. “You think you’re such a smart little bitch, don’t you?” he said, snatching his hand from under hers.

  “I am a princess of Fardohnya and your grandfather’s wife,” she reminded him with all the regality Rakaia would have done. “That makes me the lady of Highcastle now, and your liege lady, if I’m not mistaken. So what you really meant to say was: ‘You think you’re such a smart little bitch, don’t you, your highness?’ Wasn’t it, Olivah?”

  He apparently didn’t have an answer for that, because he just grunted something that sounded very rude and left the table. Charisee sipped her wine, hiding her smile in her goblet. I might look harmless and weak to you, Olivah Branador, she said silently to herself, but I grew up in the Talabar Royal Harem. I’m not as easy to torment as you think.

  The main meal was served soon after Olivah left, but the seat beside Charisee remained vacant. Nobody seemed to notice. Although the wedding party was seated, the rest of the guests were standing, either nibbling the delicate finger foods the slaves were offering around on large platters or eating their meal from bread trenchers, tapping their feet to the music. Many of the younger guests were already dancing. The noise level was quite horrendous, between the orchestra belting out a series of cheerful jigs in the hope of encouraging even more guests to dance and people trying to talk over the music.