Free The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel by Patricia Collins Wrede

gave him a puzzled look. “It’s blowing the same way it was when we got here, from…” He stopped, just as Emereck had done, staring. “Demons in a chamber pot, it’s blowing in a circle!”
    “I’m glad I’m not imagining that. Come on. I want to look around the other side of this place.”
    Slowly, they circled the palace. The grounds were much the same: attractive, slightly overgrown, and dotted with the music-making statues. Emereck stopped several times, as much to rest as to examine the sculptures. He had not realized how tired he was. As they returned to the gate, he stumbled and nearly fell.
    Flindaran was beside him in an instant. “Emereck, you idiot, why didn’t you say something? Here, sit down, let me get—”
    “Stop fussing! I lost my balance, that’s all.”
    “People don’t turn white just because they lose their balance. You’re being an idiot.”
    “You said that already.”
    “Great truths bear repeating.” Flindaran helped Emereck to the nearest tree. “There! Sit still, and don’t do anything stupid. I’m going to make camp.”
    “Already? But it’s not even noon!”
    “So? We don’t know where we’re going; it won’t matter if it takes us a little longer to get there. And you’re not in any shape to do more riding today.”
    Emereck considered the justice of that comment. “You’re right, I wouldn’t mind resting. But are you sure making camp is a good idea?”
    “Why not? I thought you’d want to do some exploring later.”
    “I’m interested in exploring, all right. I’m also worried. I don’t think even one of the adepts from the Temple of the Third Moon could build something like this, and I’m not sure it’s safe.”
    “It’s safer than camping in the woods.”
    “I suppose so. But don’t go looking around without me. You might turn into one of those statues or something,” Emereck said, half-seriously.
    “Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, if I did I’d be off-key, and they’d change me back right away to keep the garden in tune.” Flindaran grinned at Emereck’s expression. “Stop worrying. I won’t let you miss anything.”
    Emereck nodded reluctantly, and Flindaran left to unsaddle the horses.
    Emereck was more tired than he had admitted, and the throbbing in his side was worse than it had been the previous day. He spent much of the afternoon falling in and out of a fitful doze, but by late in the day he felt more like himself. After they had eaten, he got out his harp. He tuned it and ran a quick scale, then settled down to some serious practicing.
    For a long time, Flindaran sat and watched. Finally, during one of Emereck’s pauses, he said, “Emereck, what would have happened if you’d broken your arm falling off that horse?”
    “I’d have been badly in need of practice once the splints came off. Why?”
    “I just wondered whether there was anything that would keep you from playing those infernal scales.”
    Emereck laughed. “Sorry. How’s this?” He began improvising a harp accompaniment to the strange tune the wind played on the garden statues.
    Flindaran leaned back and smiled dreamily. “Much better,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you play so well. How do you do that?”
    “Improvise? Practice, that’s all. It—”
    “No, no! I mean, how do you make it sound like two harps?”
    “Two harps?” Emereck listened closely for a moment, then abruptly muted the harp strings with his palms. As the sound died, he heard what he was listening for. Beneath the constant swirl of the wind-music was the small, silvery echo of another harp. He looked at Flindaran. “That wasn’t me! Did you hear it?”
    “I think so,” Flindaran said cautiously. “Try it again.”
    This time the echo was more distinct. The sound pulled at Emereck like a cherished memory, and he could tell from Flindaran’s expression that it drew him as well. As the echo died, Flindaran rose. “It’s coming from inside,” he said, taking a