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

step forward. He hardly seemed aware of Emereck at all. “Do it again; maybe I can follow the sound.”
    “No.” Emereck forced the word out, and his own longing to run into the castle in search of the other harp diminished.
    “Why not?” Flindaran spoke without turning, but Emereck could hear the tension in his voice.
    “Perversity.”
    “ What ?” Flindaran turned sharply. “Emereck, that’s the stupidest reason I’ve ever heard.”
    “At least you did hear it.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Do you still want to go charging in there after that harpist, or whatever it is?”
    Flindaran frowned. “I’m still curious, but… no, I don’t. At least, not the same way I wanted to a minute ago.” He looked up, puzzled. “What—”
    “I think we were both spell-struck.”
    “I see. And I thought this place felt so friendly.”
    There was a long silence. “Now what do we do?” Flindaran asked finally. “Whatever it is, we can’t just ignore it.”
    “I know. Well, maybe we can find it without the music.”
    Flindaran hesitated, eyeing the palace dubiously. Then he shrugged. “You’re right; let’s go. But you’d better bring your harp, just in case.”
    Emereck nodded and rose. In silence, they entered the castle. The slanting rays of the early evening sunlight streamed through long windows on the west side of the building, and their footsteps echoed along the stone corridors. The air felt heavy, like a summer day streaked with the first few drops of a coming thunderstorm. The rooms they passed were all but empty; one held a massive stone table, another, a pair of carved marble benches, and that was all.
    “It looks as if someone’s taken everything in the place,” Flindaran said, sounding disappointed.
    “Or as if everything’s been carefully put away so it will be ready when the owner comes back,” Emereck said.
    “What made you think of that?”
    “I don’t know. This place gives me shivers; I feel as if someone’s watching me behind my back.” Emereck stopped and swung his harp into reach. Carefully, he plucked a single string.
    The echo answered, more pronounced than it had been outside, but somehow less insistent. The sound still tugged at Emereck, but not as strongly, and his mind remained clear. He turned in the direction from which the echo had come.
    They had to retrace their steps a short distance before they found a side passage that led in the right direction. Twice more, Emereck stopped and called up the silver echo with his harp. Finally, they turned down a short, featureless hall, and Emereck stopped.
    The hallway ended in a pile of rubble; beyond was the collapsed wing Emereck had noticed earlier. “Just my luck; it would have to be somewhere under all that,” Flindaran said disgustedly. He stepped forward and began lifting stones aside. Emereck stayed where he was, frowning. How could the other harp—if there was another harp—make any sound if it were buried under the rubble? Still frowning, Emereck reached down and plucked a string once more.
    The note went on and on, mingling with the sound of the second harp, ringing around him with a pure clarity. The air brightened; he saw Flindaran begin to turn, slowly, like a fish trying to swim through honey. Beside him, a door-shaped section of wall shimmered and vanished. As if in a dream, Emereck set down his harp and walked through the opening.
    The room was washed with gold. Even the air seemed to shimmer. In the center of the room stood a pedestal of white marble. On it, glimmering faintly with a cold, white light, stood a harp. A corner of Emereck’s mind noted the absence of any scrollwork or inlay; this instrument needed no embellishment. He moved forward and reached for it.
    Something shot through him as he touched the harp—a flash of power or pain or joy, so intense he could not identify it with certainty. He stumbled backward, clutching the harp, and tripped. He fell, and found himself sprawling on the