a journey west, and Strynn had added her own protests. Avall had remained silent, which might mean something and might not, given that the High King knew that he and Strynn were, in all but the physical act, lovers.
In any case, he was here, and Div, who had no use for the place, had abandoned him for the time being in favor of her own hold in the Wild, several days away. In fact, this was his second time playing for Crim. The first had gone well, though she'd had a headache then. This time she seemed … edgy.
He concluded the song with a plaintive “ping, ping … ping,” and let his hands fall to his thighs, where he wiped his fingers on scarlet sylk house-hose and the hem of a purple velvet short-tunic, their textured fabrics chosen to please one sense in the absence of another. Across from him, Crim sighed happily, then took a sip from a goblet of wine she'd lately filled from the frosted carafe beside her. A
metal
goblet, he knew, because of the way it had sounded being filled. A sip, because he heard the sound her lips made on the rim and the soft gulp of the ensuing swallow.
“Do you have anything new?” Crim asked a little too casually, though Kylin caught the subtlety of the inflection. “That's my favorite tune—as you very well knew, wicked boy—but surely you picked up something new in Tir-Eron. Some ballad about Avall, perhaps? And that magic sword of his?”
Kylin felt a shiver of alarm. This was exactly what he'd feared. He was the person in the entire hold closest to the happenings last spring, and to those who had effected them—and Crim would want to know those things, since they affected her as well. Which knowing was her responsibility as Hold-Warden, if not her right as, so he'd supposed, his friend.
“They're mostly whistle tunes, Lady, or tunes for the lute,” he replied offhand. “I haven't taken time to transpose them for the harp.”
“You could, though,” Crim replied with more of that studiednonchalance that put Kylin so on guard. “It would be as easy for you as breathing.”
“The tunes aren't that interesting, challenging, or original.” He tried to sound as indifferent as she, absently removing his black-sylk blindfold and retying it around his long black hair.
“I'm not interested in the tunes. In cases like that, it's the words that matter.”
“I didn't know you were interested in ballads at all—and that's what one mostly hears, never mind that one only hears the newest in the South Bank taverns, and I haven't
been
to South Bank.”
Another sip. Carefully, as though she were watching him intently. “Avall won't let you go?”
He shook his head. “Avall denies me nothing—but South Bank is no place for a blind man.”
“You can't mean that!”—her surprise sounded sincere— “No one would dare harm you. For what you are to the King, never mind that you're High Clan.”
“That last isn't the shield you might suppose,” Kylin retorted, trying to shift the conversation in a less controversial direction while still appearing naively informative. And hoping along the way to learn how Crim felt about certain notions.
“It isn't?”
“I assumed you knew. I wasn't the first to come here since the war.”
A deep breath. “You've always been honest with me, Kylin. I'd appreciate you telling me what you can—what you feel, or suspect, more importantly. I won't ask you to violate any vows or confidences.”
Because it would cost your position
, he thought grimly. “I understand,” he continued aloud. “The problem is simply that some of Common Clan—and clanless, more to the point— have found themselves at odds with the Crown and the King.” He shifted listlessly. “Maybe not so much at odds,” he corrected. “Conflicted. The King saved the country, but the Kinghas also roused the ire of Priest-Clan, and the people don't want to have to choose between them.”
“Will they
have
to?”
“Not if Avall can help it.”
“Avall,” Crim
In any case, he was here, and Div, who had no use for the place, had abandoned him for the time being in favor of her own hold in the Wild, several days away. In fact, this was his second time playing for Crim. The first had gone well, though she'd had a headache then. This time she seemed … edgy.
He concluded the song with a plaintive “ping, ping … ping,” and let his hands fall to his thighs, where he wiped his fingers on scarlet sylk house-hose and the hem of a purple velvet short-tunic, their textured fabrics chosen to please one sense in the absence of another. Across from him, Crim sighed happily, then took a sip from a goblet of wine she'd lately filled from the frosted carafe beside her. A
metal
goblet, he knew, because of the way it had sounded being filled. A sip, because he heard the sound her lips made on the rim and the soft gulp of the ensuing swallow.
“Do you have anything new?” Crim asked a little too casually, though Kylin caught the subtlety of the inflection. “That's my favorite tune—as you very well knew, wicked boy—but surely you picked up something new in Tir-Eron. Some ballad about Avall, perhaps? And that magic sword of his?”
Kylin felt a shiver of alarm. This was exactly what he'd feared. He was the person in the entire hold closest to the happenings last spring, and to those who had effected them—and Crim would want to know those things, since they affected her as well. Which knowing was her responsibility as Hold-Warden, if not her right as, so he'd supposed, his friend.
“They're mostly whistle tunes, Lady, or tunes for the lute,” he replied offhand. “I haven't taken time to transpose them for the harp.”
“You could, though,” Crim replied with more of that studiednonchalance that put Kylin so on guard. “It would be as easy for you as breathing.”
“The tunes aren't that interesting, challenging, or original.” He tried to sound as indifferent as she, absently removing his black-sylk blindfold and retying it around his long black hair.
“I'm not interested in the tunes. In cases like that, it's the words that matter.”
“I didn't know you were interested in ballads at all—and that's what one mostly hears, never mind that one only hears the newest in the South Bank taverns, and I haven't
been
to South Bank.”
Another sip. Carefully, as though she were watching him intently. “Avall won't let you go?”
He shook his head. “Avall denies me nothing—but South Bank is no place for a blind man.”
“You can't mean that!”—her surprise sounded sincere— “No one would dare harm you. For what you are to the King, never mind that you're High Clan.”
“That last isn't the shield you might suppose,” Kylin retorted, trying to shift the conversation in a less controversial direction while still appearing naively informative. And hoping along the way to learn how Crim felt about certain notions.
“It isn't?”
“I assumed you knew. I wasn't the first to come here since the war.”
A deep breath. “You've always been honest with me, Kylin. I'd appreciate you telling me what you can—what you feel, or suspect, more importantly. I won't ask you to violate any vows or confidences.”
Because it would cost your position
, he thought grimly. “I understand,” he continued aloud. “The problem is simply that some of Common Clan—and clanless, more to the point— have found themselves at odds with the Crown and the King.” He shifted listlessly. “Maybe not so much at odds,” he corrected. “Conflicted. The King saved the country, but the Kinghas also roused the ire of Priest-Clan, and the people don't want to have to choose between them.”
“Will they
have
to?”
“Not if Avall can help it.”
“Avall,” Crim
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