Beside me, Brioc inclines his head toward the tent. I wince and shake my head.
He leans closer, murmuring softly. “We go around the back. I can take one if you get the other.”
This wasn’t the plan. Gwenydd’s diversion was meant to draw all four away, though we should have guessed they’d never leave the harp fully unguarded. Brioc is already moving, edging around the side of the nearest tent and out of sight. I can see the path he intends to take, and if we stay silent enough, it might work.
Muttering a curse under my breath, I follow.
Slowly, we creep closer and round the adjacent tent. The backs of the Rhyfelwyr come into view, along with the talismans embedded in their necks. Black veins snake out from their centers. Their Swynwragedd have worked spellcraft on them recently, likely enhancing their senses to aid the watch. One wrong move, and they’ll hear us.
I try to signal Brioc a warning, but he’s already closing the distance with the hilt of his sheathed sword turned in their direction. My teeth clench hard. The nearest guard shifts his weight, and I freeze, pulse hammering so hard I’m certain the Order magic in his veins can hear it.
But Brioc is still moving. I tighten my grip on my dagger and force myself to keep pace. We reach them only a heartbeat later.Brioc strikes first and slams the hilt into the back of one guard’s head. I brace myself and hit the other. The impact jars all the way up my arm, and the grunt that spills out of him is far too loud.
Both crumple instantly. Brioc hooks his hands beneath one man’s arms and drags him out of sight. Still silently cursing him, I do the same with mine.
The scrape of their bodies against the dirt sounds deafening to my ears, but when we risk a glance around the tent, no one’s looking our way.
We duck inside.
A soft glow spills across the silk walls. A perfumed scent swirls through the air—half Order magic, half something else. On a raised wooden platform in the center of the room stands a gilded harp. Its strings are luminous, like they’re spun from gold. A soft gasp spills from my lips. Something about it catches hold of me, tugging me closer, like its soul has called to mine.
The air around it seems to hum, vibrating against my skin like the echo of distant music. I can almost hear something familiar beneath it…Taliesin’s song?
Brioc blocks my path with his arm. “Careful.”
I frown at him. “We need to move it. And fast, before those guards wake up.”
“I know.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “But I don’t think we should touch it with our bare hands.”
I nod. “All right. That’s probably wise.”
Magic requires touch in most cases. For a Swynwraig to funnel strength and precision into their Rhyfelwr, they must make contact with the Rhyfelwr’s talisman. To summon nearby talismans, one must touch their own. And it goes beyond Order magic, too. The only exception I’ve ever heard of is Taliesin, and his magic is so unique in so many ways that I doubt it’s relevant here.
This harp is practically humming with magic. If it reacts to us at all, it will happen the moment we lay hands on it.
I rip off a strip from my tunic and wrap it around my hands. Brioc does the same. And then together, we approach the harp. Its hum vibrates through the air, burrowing into my bones. My eyes water; my lungs tighten. Immense power thrums inside this instrument, far greater than anything I’ve ever encountered. No wonder the Order was so desperate to get their hands on it.
The thought unsettles me. This is not the kind of thing that should ever fall into the wrong hands. Can I trust Rhian with it? Or Gwenydd? They swear their intentions are good, but how can I be sure? I’ve been lied to my entire life without realizing it. Clearly, I’m not a great judge of character.
“You ready?” Brioc asks as we reach the harp.
“No, not really,” I admit. “Getting inside was the easy part. Getting out alive, carrying this thing, is another matter.”
As if to punctuate my words, cool steel whispers across the back of my neck.
“Don’t move.”
I stiffen, every drop of blood in my body plunging into my stomach.
“Raise your hands,” the familiar voice commands. Maelor…but how? He should be out in the woods right now, distracted by Taliesin’s ice.
Dread lances through me.What’s happened to him?
A thousand images crash through my mind all at once. Taliesin trapped beneath an iron net. A roar of pain ripping from his chest. Lifeless silver eyes staring up at the starless sky.
“I said raise your hands.” The blade at my neck presses harder.
I obey, lifting them slowly beside my head. As I do, my mind races. What can I do? If it’s only Maelor and Owen, I might reachone of their throats while Brioc fights the other. We’d have to move fast, and he’d have to know at once what I have in mind.
