The Song of Homana by Jennifer Roberson Read Free Book Online Page A

Cheysuli for some years, now. Do you think I discount Finn’s skill? No. You need not be wary of me, with him present. I could do nothing.”
    I gestured. “There is that in your hands.”
    “My Lady?” He was surprised, then smiled. “Oh, aye, there is her magic. But it is Lodhi’s, and I do not use it to kill.”
    “Then show us how you
can
use it,” I bid him. “Show us what other magic you have besides the ability to give us our memories, or to lift our wills from us.”
    Lachlan looked at Finn, almost invisible in the deepening shadows. “It was difficult, with you. Most men are so shallow, so transient. But you are made of layers. Complex layers, some thin and easily torn away, but in tearing they show the metal underneath. Iron,” he said thoughtfully. “I would liken you to iron. Hard and cold and strong.”
    Finn abruptly gestured toward the firecairn. “Show us, harper.”
    Lachlan knelt down by the firecairn. Deftly he unsealed the harp case—boiled leather hardened nearly to stone bysome agent, padded thickly within—and took from it his Lady. The strings, so fragile-seeming, gleamed in the remaining light. The wood, I saw, was ancient, perhaps from some magical tree. It was bound with spun gold. The green stone—an emerald?—glowed.
    He knelt in the snow, ignoring the increasing cold, and played a simple lay. It was soft, almost unheard, but remarkable nonetheless. And when his hands grew blurred and quick I saw the spark begin, deep in the damp, charred wood, until a single flame sprouted, swallowed it all, and the fire was born again.
    The song died upon the harp. Lachlan looked up at me. “Done,” he said.
    “So it is, and myself unscathed.” I reached down a gloved hand, caught his bare one and pulled him to his feet. His was no soft grasp, no woman’s touch designed to keep his harper’s fingers limber.
    Lachlan smiled as we broke the grip. I thought he had judged me as quickly as I had him. But he said nothing; there was nothing at all to say. We were strangers to one another, though something within me said it would not always be so.
    “You ride a blooded horse,” I said, looking at the dapple-gray.
    “Aye,” Lachlan agreed gravely. “The High King likes my music. It was a gift last year.”
    “You have welcome in Rheghed?” I asked, thinking of the implications.
    “Harpers have welcome anywhere.” He tugged on his gloves, hunching against the cold. “I doubt not Bellam would have me in Homana-Mujhar, did I go.”
    He challenged me with his eyes. I smiled, but Finn did not. “Aye, I doubt not.” I turned to Finn. “Have we food?”
    “Something like,” he affirmed, “but only if you are willing to eat coney-meat. Game is scarce.”
    I sighed. “Coney is not my favorite, but I prefer it to none at all.”
    Finn laughed. “Then at least I have taught you something in these past years. Once you might have demanded venison.”
    “I knew no better, then.” I shook my head. “Even princes learn they have empty bellies like anyone else, when their titles are taken from them.”
    Lachlan’s hands were on his harp as he set it within its case. “Which title?” he asked. “Prince or Mujhar?”
    “Does it matter? Bellam has stolen them both.”
    When the coneys were nothing but gristle and bone—and Storr demolished the remains quickly enough—Lachlan brought out a skin of harsh wine from his saddlepacks and passed it to me. I sat cross-legged on my two pelts, trying to ignore the night’s cold as it settled in my bones. The wine was somewhat bitter but warming, and after a long draw I handed it to Finn. Very solemnly he accepted it, then invoked his Cheysuli gods with elaborate distinction, and I saw Lachlan’s eyes upon him. Finn’s way of mocking another man’s beliefs won him few friends, but he wanted none. He saw no sense in it, with Storr.
    Lachlan retrieved the skin at last, drank, then passed it on to me. “Will you tell me what I must know, then? A saga