your
song would reach the most people.” Cayle sounded like he almost admired the
bastard’s work.
“Where
could they have cut the shields from?” I asked.
“Since
they were cut while Piaras was singing, it wasn’t from inside this room,”
Mychael said. “They would have worked from the other side of the wall.”
“What’s
back there?”
“Two
rooms. The reception area for visitors and a common room where the men relax
when they’re not on duty.”
“So
it was guests or Guardians.”
Mychael’s
eyes were blue frost. “None of my men would have done this,” he said quietly.
“Then
one of your guests was up to no good,” I told him.
“Who’d
want all the Guardians to take a nap?” Phaelan asked.
Mychael
and I looked at each other. Nightshades or Khrynsani. Take your pick. The
Nightshades wanted to kill Mychael. The Khrynsani wanted me alive. Both would
love to get the Saghred. Sleeping Guardians would make getting any of the above
a whole lot easier.
Mychael
glared at the wall. “Whoever did it simply walked out through sleeping
Guardians.”
“Or
has blended back into the woodwork,” I said. A lot of things didn’t make sense
to me right now, but two questions demanded asking. “Well, whoever it was, how
would they’ve known Piaras would be in here, and what spellsongs he’d be
practicing?”
Piaras
cleared his throat. “I reserved the room last night, and I had to give a
reason.” He paused apologetically. “I wrote ‘sleepsongs.’ ”
“The
logbook is on a desk down the hall,” Mychael told me.
I was
incredulous. “Anyone could have seen it?”
“It’s
a book to reserve time in a music room, Raine. A spellsinger practicing is
hardly a state secret.” Mychael looked at the air vent. “Is it still asleep?”
I
didn’t need to ask who “it” was. There was no pressure in the center of my
chest from the Saghred. I still hesitated before answering. “Yes.”
“You
don’t sound sure.”
“I’m
sure it’s asleep. I just don’t trust it.”
Cayle
spoke. “If it is asleep, the king’s ransom question is how long will it stay
that way.”
“A
century or two would be nice,” I muttered.
Piaras
looked from one of us to the other, now scared and confused.
“Should
we tell Piaras what he just did?” I asked Mychael.
“He
needs to know.”
Out
in the corridor, Guardians were getting to their feet in response to their
paladin’s voice; some of them had thrown an arm over a brother’s shoulder for
support. It was starting to look less like nap time and more like the morning
after a night out.
“You
mean that?” Piaras asked. He sounded a little sick.
“I’m
afraid you did more than that,” I told him.
“I
did more ?”
“Mychael
and Maestro Cayle were spellsinging the Saghred to sleep, but you beat them to
it.”
“Maestro?”
Piaras whispered in sheer terror.
Somehow
I didn’t think Piaras had heard anything past “Maestro.”
Mychael
spoke. “Ronan, this is your audition for tomorrow.”
Cayle’s
amber eyes were locked on Piaras. “So you’re Master Rivalin. Audition, hell.
There’ll be no audition.”
Phaelan
came to his feet. I was about to punch Ronan Cayle.
Piaras
stood perfectly still, his breathing shallow. “I no longer have an audition.”
He didn’t ask it as a question, and he clenched his jaw against any further
show of emotion. He was devastated, but he was going to keep his dignity. “I
understand, sir.”
Phaelan
stepped up beside me, and I laid a restraining hand on his arm. If he was going
after Cayle, he’d have to get in line behind me.
“No,
you don’t understand,” Cayle told him. “You don’t knock out half the Guardians
in the citadel and then audition.” He walked slowly around Piaras, assessing
what he saw and what he could not see.
The
Piaras I saw was tall, had liquid brown eyes and tousled dark curls, and was on
the verge of becoming a handsome young man. Piaras saw awkwardness and a voice
that
song would reach the most people.” Cayle sounded like he almost admired the
bastard’s work.
“Where
could they have cut the shields from?” I asked.
“Since
they were cut while Piaras was singing, it wasn’t from inside this room,”
Mychael said. “They would have worked from the other side of the wall.”
“What’s
back there?”
“Two
rooms. The reception area for visitors and a common room where the men relax
when they’re not on duty.”
“So
it was guests or Guardians.”
Mychael’s
eyes were blue frost. “None of my men would have done this,” he said quietly.
“Then
one of your guests was up to no good,” I told him.
“Who’d
want all the Guardians to take a nap?” Phaelan asked.
Mychael
and I looked at each other. Nightshades or Khrynsani. Take your pick. The
Nightshades wanted to kill Mychael. The Khrynsani wanted me alive. Both would
love to get the Saghred. Sleeping Guardians would make getting any of the above
a whole lot easier.
Mychael
glared at the wall. “Whoever did it simply walked out through sleeping
Guardians.”
“Or
has blended back into the woodwork,” I said. A lot of things didn’t make sense
to me right now, but two questions demanded asking. “Well, whoever it was, how
would they’ve known Piaras would be in here, and what spellsongs he’d be
practicing?”
Piaras
cleared his throat. “I reserved the room last night, and I had to give a
reason.” He paused apologetically. “I wrote ‘sleepsongs.’ ”
“The
logbook is on a desk down the hall,” Mychael told me.
I was
incredulous. “Anyone could have seen it?”
“It’s
a book to reserve time in a music room, Raine. A spellsinger practicing is
hardly a state secret.” Mychael looked at the air vent. “Is it still asleep?”
I
didn’t need to ask who “it” was. There was no pressure in the center of my
chest from the Saghred. I still hesitated before answering. “Yes.”
“You
don’t sound sure.”
“I’m
sure it’s asleep. I just don’t trust it.”
Cayle
spoke. “If it is asleep, the king’s ransom question is how long will it stay
that way.”
“A
century or two would be nice,” I muttered.
Piaras
looked from one of us to the other, now scared and confused.
“Should
we tell Piaras what he just did?” I asked Mychael.
“He
needs to know.”
Out
in the corridor, Guardians were getting to their feet in response to their
paladin’s voice; some of them had thrown an arm over a brother’s shoulder for
support. It was starting to look less like nap time and more like the morning
after a night out.
“You
mean that?” Piaras asked. He sounded a little sick.
“I’m
afraid you did more than that,” I told him.
“I
did more ?”
“Mychael
and Maestro Cayle were spellsinging the Saghred to sleep, but you beat them to
it.”
“Maestro?”
Piaras whispered in sheer terror.
Somehow
I didn’t think Piaras had heard anything past “Maestro.”
Mychael
spoke. “Ronan, this is your audition for tomorrow.”
Cayle’s
amber eyes were locked on Piaras. “So you’re Master Rivalin. Audition, hell.
There’ll be no audition.”
Phaelan
came to his feet. I was about to punch Ronan Cayle.
Piaras
stood perfectly still, his breathing shallow. “I no longer have an audition.”
He didn’t ask it as a question, and he clenched his jaw against any further
show of emotion. He was devastated, but he was going to keep his dignity. “I
understand, sir.”
Phaelan
stepped up beside me, and I laid a restraining hand on his arm. If he was going
after Cayle, he’d have to get in line behind me.
“No,
you don’t understand,” Cayle told him. “You don’t knock out half the Guardians
in the citadel and then audition.” He walked slowly around Piaras, assessing
what he saw and what he could not see.
The
Piaras I saw was tall, had liquid brown eyes and tousled dark curls, and was on
the verge of becoming a handsome young man. Piaras saw awkwardness and a voice
that
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