The other was a woman with soft chestnut hair, someone Leoff fancied he had seen at court once or twice. The two were surrounded by a block of the regent's black-clad guards.

"I thank the saints, Your Majesty," he said under his breath, "that you should hear this." He hoped she did not despise him for helping her enemies vilify her.

The regent, Robert Dare, raised his hand to indicate that he was ready.

Leoff made sure the musicians had his attention then set his fingers to the hammarharp and sounded a single note. The lead flageolet took it up, and then the bass vithuls, and finally all the instruments as they adjusted their tuning. When that was done, silence fell again.

Fingers shaking, Leoff once more stretched his fingers toward the keyboard.

"It is meant to be Broogh," Muriele whispered to Alis as the musicians began tuning their instruments.

"A very pretty stage," Alis noticed.

It was. It depicted a town square, overlooked by the bell tower in the rear, and a tavern on the left, with a shingle that read PAETER PAETER'S FATEM. The tavern was cleverly cut away so that one could see the facade, but also the inside of it. A new, small stage had been built some four yards or so above The World to represent an upper bedroom in the building.

On the right side of the stage stood the famed bridge the town was named for, crossing a convincing canal along which dried flowers had been placed, dyed to resemble living ones. Behind all that, painted on canvas, were the long green fields and malends of Newland.

As Muriele watched, a young man came out and sat upon the edge of the fountain in the square. He was dressed in the subdued wools of a landwaerden and orange sash of a windsmith, suggesting he'd recently been confirmed as one by the guild.

The musicians had stopped tuning now.

"Damned lot of vithuls and croths," the Duke of Shale muttered, somewhere behind her. "I can't see why all that is needed. Should make a dreadful racket."

As Muriele watched, the tiny figure of Leoff raised his hands above the hammarharp and brought them down.

And such a sound rose as Muriele had never imagined, a swelling thunder of music with high clear notes ringing to the stars and low drone of bass like the deepest, most secret motions of the sea. It broke straight into her soul and enthroned itself. It was as if the most important thing in the world had been said.

Yet despite the immense beauty and power of that chord, it was somehow incomplete-aching for resolution-and she knew she could not rest, never turn her eyes away, could never know peace until she heard it made perfect.

"No," she thought she heard the praifec say. But then she only heard the music. she thought she heard the praifec say. But then she only heard the music.

Leoff grinned fiercely as the first chord filled the half-bowl of the Candle Grove and spilled out into the night, a chord that no one had played in over a thousand years, the chord Mery had rediscovered for him in the shepherd's song.

That for your wishes, Praifec, he thought.

Because now that he heard it, he knew no one, not the praifec, not the Fratrex Prismo himself, could stop him before it was done.

The boy rose from where he sat at the fountain, and his voice suddenly soared with the instruments, as one with them. The language was Almannish, not the king's tongue, which jarred just for an instant and then felt completely right.

"Ih kann was is scaon," he sang. he sang.

I know what beauty isThe wind from the westThe far-going greenThe curlew's songAnd her,And her . . .

His name was Gilmer, and he sang of life, joy, and Lihta Rungsdautar, whom he loved. And as he did so a girl appeared from the tavern, young and beautiful. Muriele knew when she saw her that this was Lihta, for she had "tresses like sun on golden wheat" that the boy had just been describing. And then she, too, began to sing, another melody entirely, though it wound perfectly around his. They were as yet unaware of each other, but their songs danced together-for Lihta was as much in love with him as he with her. Indeed, this was they day they were to be wed, as Muriele learned when they finally did see one another and their duet became unison. The music quickened into a lively whervel, and they began dancing.

As the two lovers stopped singing an older man came onstage, who turned out to be Lihta's father, a boatwright, and he sang a song both comic and truly melancholy.

"I'm losing a daughter and gaining a debt," it began, and then out came his wife, chastising him for his stinginess, and they, too, sang a duet, just as the young couple began to repeat their song, and suddenly four voices were lifted in an intricate harmony that somehow opened like a book all the ages of love, from first blush through complex maturity to final embrace. Muriele relived her own marriage in a single moment that left her breathless and shaking.

The aethil of the town joined them next, and townspeople arrived for a prenuptial feast and suddenly an entire chorus was joyfully serenading. It was utterly charming, and yet, even as that first act ended-with the sound of distant trumpets, and the aethil wondering aloud who else might that be coming to the feast-Muriele still longed for the resolution of the first chord.

The music faded, but it did not die, as the players left the stage. A simple melody began, echoing the joyous one of the banquet, but now in a plaintive key, a vaguely frightening key. As it grew in volume, a palpable sense of unease moved from listener to listener. It made Muriele want to check her feet, to make sure no spiders were climbing her stockings.

It made her very much aware of Robert.

The second act began immediately with the arrival of Sir Remismund fram Wulthaurp, the music of his coming so dark and violent-with a skirling of pipes and menacing runs in the deep strings-that she clutched at the arms of her chair.

She noticed with a strange delight that the player presenting Wulthaurp looked a great deal like her brother-in-law, Robert.

The story unfolded relentlessly as the wedding banquet became a scene of dread. The props of stage-which before had been transparent as such-now seemed utterly real, as if the Candle Grove really hovered over the empty shell of Broogh, as if they were spying on the town's ghosts, reenacting their tragedy.

Sir Remismund was a renegade, chased from Hansa, seeking plunder and ransom where he could find it. He slaughtered the aethil in the street, and his men ran wild through the town. Remismund-on seeing Lihta-made advances, and when Gilmer protested, he was taken prisoner, to be hanged in the square at sunrise.

Remismund, too proud to take Lihta by force, retired with his thugs to the tavern. And that was the end of the second act.

And on went the music, without pause, pulling them all irrevocably with it. Even Robert, who must surely have understood what was happening, did nothing, which was more than remarkable.

Muriele remembered her conversation with the composer, about why the Church forbade such compositions as this, about the powers of certain harmonies and intervals. And now she understood. He had ensorcelled them all, hadn't he? It wasn't simply like like a spell, it a spell, it was was one. And yet it couldn't be wrong any more than falling in love or revering beauty was wrong. If the composer was a shinecrafter, then there must be such a thing as good shinecrafting; for there was no evil in this. one. And yet it couldn't be wrong any more than falling in love or revering beauty was wrong. If the composer was a shinecrafter, then there must be such a thing as good shinecrafting; for there was no evil in this.

The third act began with a comic interlude in which one of Remismund's men courted a tavern wench, to no avail. Then entered Remismund and his chief henchman, Razovil, the latter to take a letter for him. He dictated a dispatch addressed to the emperor, spelling in chilling terms how he would break open the dike and drown Newland if he was not paid a king's ransom. Razovil wore robes that much resembled those of a praifec, and his beard and mustache strongly evoked Hespero. Razovil suggested constant amendments to the letter to put a fairer face on the demand, saying that the saints were much in favor of this enterprise and that the emperor was subservient to the saints. It was funny, the back and forth between the two evil men, but it was also disturbing.

The tavern maid, having hidden when Remismund entered, heard the whole plot. After the scene, she fled the tavern to tell Lihta and her father the news. The word was sent out and the townsfolk gathered secretly to decide their course of action. Just as the meeting was about to take place, Razovil came looking for Lihta.

To keep him from discovering their plotting, she went with him to meet Remismund, where the conqueror made another plea for her love, singing thus far the most beautiful song in the play.

Mith aen SaelaUnbindath thu thae thongenAf sa sarnbroon say wardath mean haert . . .With a glance,You loosen the bindingsOf the hauberk which guards my heart.With a word,My fortress is takenAnd the towers crumble downWith a kiss,I would make you my queen,And amend my evil ways Despite his earlier actions, he sounded deeply sincere, and Muriele thought perhaps that she had been mistaken about Remismund. Here was a man, not a monster. His earlier actions must have some justifiable explanation, if he could love and court so artlessly.

Lihta told him she would consider his suit and left. As soon as she was gone, Remismund sniggered and sang aside to Razovil: How tender, how winningly guileless, gullible, foolish foolish.

One night of love, and I'm done with her.

Then he and his churchish sycophant shared a laugh together, and the music became merry-and somehow demonic.

That ended the third act, as the instruments throbbed almost away. Muriele found that for the first time since the play had begun, she felt slightly released-that she could speak if she wanted to. She glanced over at Robert.

"I'm very much enjoying this play, Lord Regent," she said. "My thanks for allowing me to attend."

Robert glared at her.

"I think you misjudged my composer," she added.

Robert's breath was coming a little hard, as if he had been trying to lift something too heavy. "It's a meaningless farce," he said. "A silly show of bravado."

"No," Hespero averred, "it is a perfidious act of shinecraft."

"If you're looking for shinecraft, amiable Praifec," Muriele said, "you need look no further than our dear regent. Stab him with a blade, and you will see that he does not bleed, at least not the same stuff men do. I've come to think you quite selective in which diabolic forces you despise and which you cozy up to, Praifec Hespero."

"Hush, Muriele," Robert snapped. "Hush before I have your tongue cut out."

"As you cut out the tongue of the Keeper?"

Robert sighed and snapped his fingers, and suddenly a gag was forced into her mouth from behind. Once the first shock was passed, she did not deign to struggle. It was beneath her dignity.

The praifec started to say something, and then the instruments began building a tower of melody to welcome Lihta back to the stage.

The girl stood near the gaol where Gilmer was imprisoned and once again the two exchanged vows of love. Gilmer told her that he had heard the town would rise up at midnight. He spoke of his fears that they would all be killed, his frustration at not being able to join them, and most of all the pain of never having her for wife. He begged her to flee the town before it was too late. The croths and vithuls lifted his heartache into the air and offered it to the very stars.

Lihta followed his song with hers, and Muriele suddenly caught the echo of the tune that Ackenzal had played for her the first time she went to see him, the one that had brought such unwelcome and unaccustomed tears to her face. Now it brought the tantalizing sense that the final note was coming, the harmony that would at last release her from the first. But then the melody became unfamiliar again, as Lihta reminded Gilmer that his duty was her duty also. Suddenly they were singing the "Hymn of Saint Sabrina," the saint who protects Newland, and a thousand voices suddenly joined the pair, for it was a song everyone in the audience knew. It was a mighty sound.

The lovers parted with the hymn dying on the wind. But before exiting the stage, Lihta met the tavern girl again, who asked her where she was going.

"To my wedding," Lihta replied, and then she was gone.

The tavern girl, distraught, took the news to Gilmer, who sang in anguish while the girl tried to comfort him.

Then, unseen by them, Lihta reemerged, wearing her wedding gown of silvery Safnian brocade, the sum of her father's fortune. As Gilmer wept, and the clouds gathered in the deep strings, Lihta went to Remismund. She met Razovil first, who made mock of her while at the same time suggesting several lascivious notions. Then she repaired upstairs, climbing slowly, stately, to Remismund's room above.

On seeing her, Remismund resumed his charming facade, told her he would bring her joy and riches, and then excused himself to set his guard on watch, as he was soon to be preoccupied.

When he sang that, Muriele gasped through the rag in her mouth as she felt again Robert's body upon her, his hands pushing up beneath her gown. Her gorge rose, and she feared she would vomit into the gag, but suddenly Alis' hand reached and gripped hers tight. The terrible memory passed from visceral to merely unpleasant.

Lihta was alone now, gazing out at the night. The eleventh bell struck, and somewhere in the distance rose the faint chorus of the townsmen assembling for their hopeless battle against Remismund's men.

Then, in the high strings, something began to glide down, a bird returning to earth in many turns, here lifting a bit, but always going lower, until it faded entirely.

Then, alone-almost imperceptibly at first-Lihta began her final song.

When comes again the light of day,My love, I will have flown away . . .

Her voice was tears made sound, but now Muriele heard it, the triumph embedded in the despair, the hope that could die only when belief in hope died. It was the melody from that day, the one that had decided her to commission the piece.

Lihta's solo voice was joined by a single flute and then a reed, and then the croths with their sweeping glissando elegance. It no longer mattered what words she sang, really-it was only the fear, and the grief-and as the vithuls and the bass vithuls joined her voice, the desperate courage and determination. Tears poured down Muriele's face as Remismund reappeared, unheralded by any music, but swaggering into hers. Lihta was standing by the window, wringing her veil in her hands as he took hold of her, and for an instant it seemed as if the music faltered, as if Lihta's resolve had failed.

But suddenly her voice rose, climbing ever higher while below her the music arranged itself in a mountain, like the very foundations of the world and there, there there it was, the perfect chord that brought rushing everything that had come before, the beginning meeting its end, its completion . . . it was, the perfect chord that brought rushing everything that had come before, the beginning meeting its end, its completion . . .

Its triumph.

Lihta leaned up as she sang, as if to kiss him, slipped the veil around his neck, and hurled herself out the window. Surprised, his hands occupied with her, Remismund had no time to react. Both plummeted to the street. And though Muriele remembered that the stage was not really very high, and that she suspected some sort of mattress lay disguised beneath the window, it did not seem so now. It seemed as if they fell, and fell, and died on cobbles far below.

And still the harmony hung there, Litha's voice taken up by the instruments as if to show that even death could not silence that song. A march began behind it, as the townsfolk rushed upon Remismund's men, who, disheartened by his death, fled or died.

And when silence finally settled, it lasted for a long time, until someone shouted-no one important, just a person high in the gallery. But it was a ragged, glorius, triumphant shout, and then someone joined him, and then all the Candle Grove came to its feet roaring.

Everyone, that is, save Robert and Hespero.

Leoff gazed at the dumbstruck audience, then turned his regard to the praifec, whose glare was the match for any basil-nix. Leoff bowed stiffly, and heard a single loud cheer. Then the crowd seemed to explode. He knew that this was the greatest moment of his life-the like of which he would never know again-and felt not so much pride as the most profound contentment imaginable.

He still felt it half a bell later, when-as he was congratulating his musicians and blushing from a kiss Areana had impulsively given him-the guards came.

Robert's guard dragged Muriele and Alis unceremoniously through the crowd and pushed them into the carriage that was to carry them back to their prison. But all the way back to the castle, she could hear them-the people-singing the Hymn of Sabrina. She couldn't stop crying, and when the gag was finally removed, she sang with them.

That night, she could still hear them through her windows, and she knew that once again, the world she knew had changed profoundly-but this time for the better.

It felt-for the first time in a very long time-like victory.

That night she slept, and dreamed, and the dreams brought not terror-but joy.

CHAPTER SIX.

YULE.

ASPAR WINCED AS THE leic pulled the needle through his cheek a final time and tied off the gut. leic pulled the needle through his cheek a final time and tied off the gut.

"That's done," the old man said. "You were lucky in both wounds. The shoulder should heal well."

"I'm not sure any wound is lucky," Aspar said, relieved to find that the wind no longer whistled through his cheek when he talked.

"It is when another fingerbreadth could have brought your death," the leic replied cheerfully. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've more of you to tend to."

"What about her?" Aspar said, pointing with his chin to where Leshya lay, bundled up in wools, her unconscious face pale even for her.

The leic shrugged. "I don't know much about Sefry," he said. "The wound was pretty bad, and I did what I know to do. She's in the hands of the saints now." He patted Aspar's unwounded shoulder. "You had better rest, especially if you're really so foolish as to try to ride tomorrow."

Aspar nodded, still regarding the Sefry. The ride to the castle was a memory seen through a fog of pain and blood loss. Winna had stayed with him, though, keeping him in his saddle. She'd left only a few moments ago, answering a call from the princess.

He understood that Sir Neil and the Vitellians were pretty banged up, but Leshya had the worst of it by far. They'd found her pinned to a tree by an arrow.

He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up, went over to stand by her in the candlelight. His shadow fell across her face, and she stirred.

"What-?" she gasped, eyes fluttering open.

"Be still," Aspar said. "You've been hurt. Do you remember?"