Music to My Sorrow Page 9

  Eric groaned feelingly. "That's . . . just . . . so . . . special."

  "Isn't it, though?" Greystone grinned, showing a wide mouth filled with stone fangs. "You've got a bit over a week to broker a miracle, boyo."

  Eric just shook his head, walking into the kitchen to brew tea. As he unzipped his jacket, the letters from Jachiel crinkled. He set them on the counter in plain sight, so he wouldn't forget to hand them over immediately.

  But Greystone's news certainly hadn't been anything he wanted to hear. Of course Billy Fairchild wanted Ace's abilities back. Eric was even grudgingly willing to admit the man might be fond of his daughter, or at least as fond as anyone who considered children to be possessions could be. But her powers seemed to be the most important thing to him—from what Ace had told them, Billy had been exploiting her Talent for years. He'd built his ministry on them.

  Like Eric, Ace had Talent. Like Eric, Ace's Talent expressed itself through music. But while Eric, as a Bard, could cast a variety of spells, Ace could do only one thing, though it was the equivalent of a howitzer: when she sang, she could make people feel whatever emotion she chose.

  When she'd been younger, it had simply been the same feeling the song she was singing made her feel, or so she'd told Eric, Magnus, and Ria, when she had finally been willing to talk about her Talent. But now, she could take a song and build on it, shape it, twist it. With song, Heavenly Grace Fairchild could make people feel anything.

  Love. Hate. Fear. Joy. Terror. Guilt. Shame. Rage. Blind panic. Name the emotion, and Ace could conjure it.

  When she'd gotten old enough to realize what she was doing, she'd tried to stop, but her father wouldn't let her. He'd wanted her up on the stage, leading his choir, singing his audiences into a frenzy of adoration for him. Lucrative adoration.

  So she'd run away.

  And now he wants her back so she can keep on doing it. Well, who wouldn't—if they were a manipulative slimeball?

  Eric wasn't quite sure what sort of miracle was required in this case—the real puzzle was why Ria hadn't been able to make Billy Fairchild back off. No matter how much the Reverend Billy Fairchild wanted his star attraction returned to center stage, he ought to be more afraid of what Ria Llewellyn would do to him.

  But obviously he wasn't.

  By the time the kettle had boiled, Magnus came staggering into the kitchen, looking like a disheveled and very grumpy leopard. He went directly to the refrigerator, pulled it open, and chugged half a carton of orange juice before seeming to register that his brother was there.

  "Guy can't sleep with you two making all that racket," he muttered sullenly.

  It wasn't that much noise, Eric thought. And he and Greystone had been careful to keep their voices low. If Trigun hadn't woken Magnus, he didn't see how a little conversation could—especially through Bardcrafted sound-baffles.

  But he knew from experience that Magnus wasn't a morning person. "Sorry," Eric said. "Tea?"

  Magnus shuddered, grabbed a Coke out of the still-open fridge, and wandered back toward his bedroom.

  When he reemerged twenty minutes later, he was dressed for school and looked more alert, and Eric was on his second cup of tea.

  "So," Magnus said. "It go okay last night?"

  "Pretty good," Eric said. "I saw Jaycie. He says there's a problem with the Internet connection, but he can write. I brought you a letter, and one for Ace. If you want to write back, Lady Day can deliver them, and bring his replies."

  "Streetmail," Magnus muttered, as if it were the most horrible thing imaginable. "Snailmail."

  Eric handed him the letter—several sheets of thick parchment, bound together with a green ribbon and sealed with a round blob of silver wax. "You might have some pity on him," he pointed out. "Part of the problem might be he doesn't know how to type, much less use a computer. Not a lot of keyboards Underhill." He tactfully forbore to mention what Jaycie had said about the treaty—no need to involve Magnus in Underhill politics any more than absolutely necessary.

  Magnus gave Eric a look, the kind that said he wasn't sure he believed his older brother, but that if the assertion was true, he, Magnus, could not imagine a more horrifying place.

  "Um . . . Ace wanted to talk to you tonight. And Hosea. If that's okay. She could get her letter then. She's got a kind of a problem," Magnus said tentatively, still holding the unopened letter.

  "Greystone told me a little about it," Eric said. "He didn't think you'd mind."

  Magnus shrugged, going over to the cabinet for a bowl and the cereal box. "Can't you just make this creep disappear or something?"

  That was a reasonable question, from a teenager's point of view. "A . . . friend of mine always told me to keep my mind on what I actually wanted, not on what I thought I had to do to get there. What we want is to get Ace her Emancipated Minor status. Making Billy disappear might not be the best way to go about that." He countered Magnus's look of disbelief with explanation. "People like Billy don't just vanish. If he disappeared, there would be a lot of questions, and Ria would be right at the center of it because she's helping Ace. Ria's made some enemies—they'd be only to happy to 'find' evidence that Ria was involved."

  Magnus didn't say anything, but he obviously didn't like the answer. Well, Eric hadn't liked it either, the first dozen times he'd heard it from Master Dharniel.

  "Life is war, young Banyon. Art is war. You would do well to remember both these things. Concentrate on the destination, not the journey. And do not allow your lust for frivolity and self-indulgence to distract you, for your enemy will use that against you. Self-indulgence is a vice no Bard—and no warrior—can afford."

  Magnus settled down at the kitchen table with his bowl of cereal to read his letter, and Eric went back out into the living room. Greystone was gone, of course—it was light enough now that his absence from the top of the building would be noticed.

  Eric put away the DVD and settled down to channel-surf for a few minutes. There was nothing unusual on any of the news channels, and like every New Yorker these days, he spared a brief moment of thanksgiving for that.

  After a few minutes—Eric had settled down with an old silent movie—Magnus came into the living room, ready for school.

  "So," he said, sounding oddly hesitant. "Do you think that maybe you guys could come up to Ria's place tonight and kinda talk about it with us?"

  "You guys" meaning me and Hosea, Eric translated mentally with the ease of long practice. "Sure," he said. "And hey, maybe Ria'll even be there."

  "She'd better be," Magnus said darkly.

  * * *

  There were many things Jormin ap Galever liked about the World Above. Bringing his master bad news was not one of them.

  Still it was better—oh, by far!—to be the first to bring bad news to Prince Gabrevys than to have to explain why you had not done so. Unlike some of the princes Jormin had served, Gabrevys rewarded efficiency and discretion.

  Jormin was not supposed to be here now—Judah Galilee and Pure Blood were supposed to be in California, putting the finishing touches on their album and getting ready for their upcoming concert. But this news wouldn't wait. And if anyone did see him, it would be simple enough to explain away, after all. What could be more reasonable than that Gabriel Horn would wish to speak personally to Judah about some minor detail of the concert to come? Musicians were temperamental creatures. All mortals knew that.

  But he arrived without mishap or discovery: a second glamourie cast over the one that gave him human seeming made him look not only more than ordinary, but encouraged all eyes to rest elsewhere. He did not even need spellcraft for the elevator, for Gabrevys had given him all their codes long ago, and he quickly ascended to the residence floor, charmed as always by the endless inventiveness of mortals.

  The door he sought opened as he reached it. Jormin entered quickly, shedding both his glamouries, and knelt respectfully at the feet of his master.

  "You would not have come yourself to bring me good news," Gab
riel/Gabrevys said, after a long pause.

  "I have heard better," Judah admitted, not moving. "Will you hear it, my Prince?"

  "Get up. Tell me all you know. But first—who knows?"

  Judah got to his feet, shaking his waist-length mane back into place. "Any who might have the wit and the spellcraft to eavesdrop on your Presence Chamber—you will know who that might be better than I. And all your court saw Misthold's mortal Bard ride into your Domain and beg audience with you. I know not what they may make of that. I saw him safe away, for your honor."

  "And what purpose did Eric Banyon claim at Bete Noir?" Gabriel asked. His voice was low and even, but Judah was not fooled. His master had sounded just so when sending victims to his torturers.

  When he spoke, he gave every rhythm and inflection just as he had heard them, his voice becoming an uncanny echo of Eric Banyon's. "'Hear Prince Arvin's words to Prince Gabrevys: Hail and greetings, cousin. Know that your son, Jachiel ap Gabrevys, resides under the watchful care of his Protector, Rionne ferch Rianten, at the Court of Elfhame Misthold until such time as it pleases her to remove him elsewhere. Should you wish to attend him in Elfhame Misthold, you may send your Bard to arrange the terms of safe passage between our Domains.'" He paused, then added in his own voice: "Such was the message I was given, but I questioned the Bard further, and learned more." Quickly, Judah told Gabriel everything he had learned from Misthold's mortal Bard: how Jachiel had fled to the World Above, pursued by his Protector. How he had refused to return to Bete Noir. How Eric had offered Jachiel and Rionne Sanctuary at Elfhame Misthold, in Prince Arvin's name. The longer he spoke, the more encouraged he became. The Prince was not inclined to punish his Bard this day.

  * * *

  "You have done well to bring me this news as swiftly as you have," Gabriel said, though to speak the words of praise nearly choked him. "Leave me now."

  When Judah was gone, he got to his feet and began to pace.

  His son—his only son—in the loathsome hands of the Bright Court!

  But Rionne was there. His Jachiel would come to no harm with her to watch over him.

  But why was he there? Why had he fled? Why would he not return home?

  Perhaps he had discovered a plot against his life. If that were so, Gabriel would deal with it at the proper time.

  And if that were so—strange as it seemed, he was safer at the Bright Court, where all eyes would be on any Unseleighe who dared to enter Seleighe lands. For now, so long as no one learned where the boy was—well, this was not all bad news. He could use his Bright Court cousins; the proper thing to do with them was to use them.

  At the moment, such things did not matter. Jachiel was safe. And if he were to take his rightful place at the Unseleighe Court, Gabriel's plans must succeed here.

  But to have a son held at the Bright Court, no matter the reason, was a grave insult, and one he could not afford, no matter his certainty of Jachiel's safety there. The moment it became known—and it would become known now that Bard Eric had come to his Court; Jormin knew that as well as Gabrevys did—his enemies would see it as a sign of weakness, and strike. But let him only bring his plans for Billy Fairchild to fruition, and he would create such a feast of blood and pain that it would be sung of all the way to the Morrigan's throne. He would be rewarded with rich gifts from her own dark hands; his power and influence would grow, and none in all of Underhill would dare raise spell or sword against him or his.

  And perhaps he could discover some way to share that feast of pain in which lay his protection with the Bard—the mortal Bard—who had meddled so casually in things that did not concern him.

  Chapter 4:

  Pink Cadillac

  Around eight o'clock Friday night, a council of war gathered in Ria's Central Park South apartment. Despite his teasing that morning, Eric wasn't at all surprised to find that Ria was there: Ria was fiercely protective where Ace was concerned. He didn't say anything, but she'd never been that protective about Kayla, though the two girls were probably about equal in their ability to take care of themselves. He wondered now—did Ria subconsciously feel that Ace was the daughter she'd never had—and probably never would have? Certainly Ace looked enough like Ria to be her daughter; she was as blonde as Ria was, and few people would look past the similarity in coloring to any difference in bone structure.

  Some questions were better not asked aloud.

  Ace was painfully upset at the prospect of the upcoming hearing. After they'd eaten, when she couldn't put it off any longer, she spoke in jittery disjointed sentences about how much she didn't want to have to face her parents again—and it became clear to the others that while she would find seeing Billy and Donna Fairchild unpleasant, she was truly terrified at the prospect of seeing Billy's assistant, Gabriel Horn, again. And that was disturbing. What was it about Gabriel Horn that had her so spooked?

  While Ria had a fairly thick dossier on Billy Fairchild and Fairchild Ministries, it didn't contain much information on Gabriel Horn.

  That, to Eric, set off a faint alarm-bell. Ria's investigators were first-rate. She should have been able to name Horn's favorite toothpaste. . . .

  All they knew was that he was one of Billy's personal assistants, and had joined the Ministry about a year before Ace had fled. Apparently he was very close to the elder Fairchilds, and Billy trusted him as he trusted no one else. Ace had never been able to articulate any reason for her absolute dislike-bordering-on-terror of the man. From everything Ria had been able to get out of her, he'd never behaved inappropriately toward her.

  But Talents were good at reading people, even if that wasn't where the main focus of their Gift lay. All of them trusted Ace's instincts. If she said Gabriel Horn was somebody to watch out for, she was probably right.

  "They may have forced a hearing, and moved the venue to New Jersey, but it doesn't change any of the facts," Ria said firmly. "There's no cause for the court to deny your petition. The Fairchilds are not fit custodial guardians—especially if Billy's denying you the right to an education and forcing you to continue to work in his 'Ministry' against your wishes. Derek has been handling your paperwork all along; I'll send him down for the hearing. He'll make mincemeat out of these twerps, trust me. And as for Horn and your parents, there's no reason you should have to be down there for longer than to make your court appearance."

  "Can't you go with me?" Ace said, forlornly. Her tougher-than-nails demeanor had completely evaporated in the face of this. "I know you're really busy and all, but I just can't . . ."

  "Not that busy," Ria said firmly. "If it wouldn't make things worse, I'd be right there with you. But if I went along, the press would be on me in a New York minute, and we'd have a real sideshow on our hands. That's the last thing you need right now. Once the media gets involved, this whole thing turns into a feeding frenzy that would make the last half-dozen 'trials of the century' look modest and restrained." She grimaced. "That's the problem with being visible. It's worse having been the media darling for being a corporate hero. Now they're just about ready to start looking for ways to shoot me down. And 'stealing' some yahoo preacher's baby girl would be just the ticket to make me into a monster. So far Billy hasn't played the 'trial by television' card, and I don't want to give him any ideas," Ria added broodingly.

  The six of them were gathered around Ria's seldom-used dining-room table, with the summons from the Ocean County District Court on the table between them. It was odd, Eric thought, that neither of Ace's parents had sent her any kind of personal message in all this time begging her to come home. He knew Ace would have mentioned it if they had. Maybe they'd tried, and Ria had intercepted them. He certainly wouldn't put it past her.

  "Eric and I can go with you," Magnus said.

  "Same dirge, different key," Eric said firmly, though he hated to do it. "For one thing, if Fairchild wanted to play ugly, he could certainly ask what my relationship was to a seventeen-year-old girl—and we can't be sure he wouldn't find out I was down there with
you, no matter how hard I tried to stay out of sight. For another thing, I'm pretty sure Michael and Fiona have private detectives watching both me and Magnus right now, looking for God knows what. So if I either take him out of school to go off to Atlantic City—or leave him alone to go off to Atlantic City with a teenage girl, well . . ."

  "But Ah can go," Hosea said. "An Ah've got the perfect reason, too, so it doesn't matter if he knows Ah'm there."

  Everybody looked at him expectantly.

  "Well, go on, keep us in suspense forever," Magnus said, grinning crookedly.

  "You all know Ah've been doin' a bit o' writin' here an' there these past few months," Hosea began hesitantly.

  "Selling it, too," Ria said. "Don't be so modest. You're going to have to give up singing in subways soon and write a novel."

  "Don't know as Ah'd be any good at yarnin'," Hosea said placidly, "but Ah do know thet if you say you're writin' an article, people'll let you go just about anywhere and ask 'em just about anything. So Ah guess Ah'll go on down to Atlantic City with Miz Ace and find me somethin' to write about there."

  Ace blinked back tears of relief. "Thank you, Hosea," she said quietly.

  "It's always a comfort to do a kindness for a friend," Hosea said amiably. "We've got a few days yet before you have to go. Might be Ah cain wangle me an actual writin' assignment in that time. Ah'll look around."

  "I can always make a few calls, if you like," Ria said. "And all in all, I'm just as glad that Ace will be going down with the big guns in her pocket—legal and otherwise."

  Hosea looked a little self-conscious. "Call it a medium-size gun an' you'd be a bit more on-target, Ah'd guess, Miz Ria. Ah'm nowheres near done learning everything Eric's got to teach me."

  "Be that as it may," Ria waved his objection aside impatiently. "You may not be a fully trained Bard, but you're a full-fledged Guardian, and from all I know about them, if Ace asks you for help, you're bound to give it."