Chapter 9 #2
Merriweather, the taller of the inventors and craftspeople known as the Twanes and widely accepted as their leader, bounced with a series of respectful bobs that made the diminutive sir, who barely reached above the height of Magnus’s knees, resemble a puffin hopping along the seaside cliffs.
“Pardon us, oh mighty chief, but the apinlyre is heavier than we anticipated. If ye could possibly be bothered to use yer magic to move it the rest of the way inside? And do forgive us?”
Percival, another of the craftspeople who could always be found at Merriweather’s side, excitedly hopped around the large, elongated stone box held aloft by six red-faced humankind servants. “We couldn’t wait for yer lady to see it. May we welcome it into yer solar, my chieftain?”
Concerned that the servants hoisting the thing between them might soon perish right there in the hallway, Magnus lifted a hand and uttered, “Levo.” The apinlyre floated out of the servants’ grasp, passed through the doorway, then hovered in place, waiting for Magnus to lower it to the floor.
“By the hearth would be best, oh mighty chief.” Still bouncing with every short-legged step, Merriweather skittered back and forth in front of the wide stone fireplace that took up the entire southern wall of the room.
“What with winter coming on, we would not wish the fine lady to become chilled while she weaves her magical music upon it.”
Magnus lowered the thing to the floor, then circled it, studying it from every angle.
“That does not resemble the piano that Lord Darkmist and I described to ye. It looks nothing like the instrument. Where are the teeth? Why is it made of stone rather than wood?” The box looked like nothing more than exactly that: a roughly hewn block of dark gray sandstone, like an obelisk made from the same rock as the fortress.
“Wait! Wait!” His toothy smile so broad it made his beaming face seem even rounder, Percival scurried over and after a nod for Merriweather to join him, the two of them pried open a small hidden lid that ran down the longer side of the box.
They hoisted it open with loud groans and no small amount of huffing.
Stepping back and still grinning proudly, Percival dusted off his hands.
“See, mighty chief? The teeth! Both black and white. Just as ye ordered.”
Magnus eyed the strange contraption. It did indeed have several long, narrow white chunky sticks interspersed with black just as the piano of Lyla’s reality had, but the apinlyre didn’t appear to possess nearly as many.
He silently counted them. “There are not two and fifty of the white ones and six and thirty of the black—as I ordered.”
Both Merriweather and Percival shared a sheepish glance, then bowed their heads and stared at the floor.
“The eight and eighty-toothed apinlyre broke in two, mighty chief,” Merriweather confessed. “’Tis a matter of supports, balance, and replicating the sound of that many that we have yet to conquer.”
“If given time,” Percival continued, “we have no doubt we could recreate it as ye instructed. But with the sickness raging, we thought expediency to be of the utmost importance.”
Merriweather cringed and sadly shook his shaggy head. “It is said that the sickness spreads to the hatchlings now. Perhaps even attacking them whilst they are still within the safety of their eggs.”
Scrubbing a hand across his eyes at that disturbing news, Magnus turned away and went to the windows. “I am sure our lady will adapt to it.” He prayed his words were true.
“The sound is most pleasing to the ear,” Percival said in a whispery tone that might placate a child but did nothing but irritate Magnus.
A soft, gentle clang, like a perfectly weighted blade tapping against the curve of a copper shield filled the room.
Sadly, it was nothing like the ethereal piano of Lyla’s reality of origin.
It was nothing more than metal hitting metal.
Magnus bowed his head, closing his eyes against the cruel hopelessness of his craftsmen’s failure. Kcirred's curse had foiled them yet again. “Ye may leave.”
Merriweather squeaked as though he’d been poked with a sword tip. “But, mighty chief—”
“Come,” Inuk ordered with a toss of his long, silvery mane. “Yer audience is at an end.”
Magnus didn’t bother to pull his focus away from the deceptively serene view of the Highlands cloaked in the vibrant oranges and reds of early autumn. The shuffling of the Twanes’ small feet and the thump of the door made it known when they were gone.
The brass hinges of the heavy door groaned anew. “The Weaver now?” Inuk quietly asked.
“Aye. Might as well get it behind me.” If it was anything like the audience with the Twanes, it would prove just as disappointing.
Mairwen’s entrance made no sound, but her unmistakable scent, her fragrance of the crisp cleanness of freshly hewn pines announced she was there. “She will learn to play it because she must, my chief.”
“The sickness attacks the young now. Before they are even hatched.”
“The Goddess Bride bade me warn ye that Kcirred is a danger to yer lady, yerself, all of dragonkind, and to the Highland Veil. He must be stopped at all costs.”
Magnus kept his gaze locked on the view of the glen sprawling out on the east side of the fortress.
To look at the old one now could render him powerless to control his temper.
“I am well aware that Kcirred must be stopped. If that is yer reason for this visit, to warn me of something I already know, then ye waste yer time and mine.”
“I also brought these through the portal,” Mairwen said. “The Veil allowed it, making the concession since the circumstances demanded it.”
He turned and faced her, noting the odd black cases she’d placed on top of the boxy apinlyre. “And what are those?”
“A violin, a guitar, and a flute.” She primly folded her hands in front of her as she eyed the many teeth of the apinlyre. Lifting her gaze to his, she arched a silvery brow. “How does it sound?”
“Like the blade of a sword striking a shield. Kcirred's curse, ye ken?”
She made a face that confirmed she thought that as useless as he did. “Aye, well…perhaps yer lady can coax a more pleasant sound from it. Her magic is strong. She simply must discover her goddess-given ability.”
“I have told Lyla everything.” Magnus lifted the lid of the smaller of the black cases and eyed the shining silver stick within it.
“I dinna think she will stay,” he confessed, his voice dropping to a ragged, defeated whisper.
“She says she feels the pull of the mate bond, but it is not enough. I will not be her choice.”
“Ye canna possibly know that. She has only just arrived.” The urgency, the fear in Mairwen’s tone, betrayed her. The Divine Weaver didn’t think Lyra would stay either. An unmistakable stench of defeat clung to her.
He pulled in a deep breath, then released it in a heavy sigh.
“I can only keep her here a fortnight. That is the only power allowed me.” He closed the lid of the box containing the silver stick and flattened his hand upon it.
“Will the Veil honor it and close the portal till then?” He’d not had an answer from the blessed weave.
It had remained silent to the call he’d sent through the Scale of Rurik.
“Yer right to fourteen days and fourteen nights will be honored, mighty one.” Mairwen cleared her throat, glanced all around, then moved closer and lowered her voice.
“Yer lady possesses the spirit of a protector. Her tender heart canna bear the sight of a vulnerable trapped in suffering.” She nodded wisely.
“Use that, mighty chieftain. That is part of what pulls at her to return to her time. She worries about those whom she took care of when she left.” She wet her lips and tapped a finger on top of the stack of black cases.
“After a few days, I will visit her and assure her that we, the Divine Weavers, will see to her charges so she may rest easy and know they are not suffering. We already watch over them.” She nodded again and smiled.
“The young one, her Jake that she taught her music to, is thriving.”
“Hopefully, that will bring her comfort.” He just wished some comfort existed for himself, but under the current circumstances, he doubted it. “Is there anything else, old one?”
“No, mighty chief.” The Weaver stood there staring at him, her expression one of sadness and sympathy.
“As I said, I will return in a few days.” Barely shaking her head, she went to the door, then paused with it partially open and looked back at him.
“I know we, the Divine Weavers, are not looked upon kindly here, mighty chief, but we do wish for yer every happiness. Not just for the blessed weave or to please the goddesses, but because the healing of a soul is a beautiful thing.”
He acknowledged the sentiment with a single nod. This endeavor that should have been nothing but ecstasy had turned into nothing but pain.
It was the strongest coffee she’d ever tasted, but Lyla wasn’t about to complain.
Taking another sip, she closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar, nutty aroma of the brew that made the world, or at least this world, seem a little more normal.
Normal? Ha! Never would she ever classify what she’d seen so far of the Thirteenth Realm as normal.
She held the hot, ceramic mug closer, soaking in the steam of its caffeinated facial.
“My lady?”
She opened her eyes to discover the maid who had introduced herself as Martha, standing there wringing her hands. “You can call me Lyla, if you like.”
The young girl’s eyes flew open wider, her expression horrified. “I could never, my lady. It would nay be proper.” She lowered her gaze to the cup in Lyla’s hands. “Be it to yer liking as it was last night? Mistress Tern feared getting it wrong.”