As he walked through shadows, the rain drummed steadily.
He moved through what he supposed had been a kind of formal drawing room and was now serving as an armory. He lifted a sword, testing its weight, its balance, its edge. Geall’s craftsmen might have devoted their time, previously, to arts, but they knew how to forge a sword.
Time would tell if it would be enough.
Without aim, he turned and stepped into what he saw was a music room.
A gilded harp stood elegantly in one corner. A smaller cousin, shaped just as a traditional Iri
sh harp, graced a stand nearby. There was a monochord—an early forefather of the piano—enhanced with lovely carving on its soundbox.
He plucked its string idly, pleased its sound was true and clear.
There was a hurdy-gurdy, and when he turned its shaft, slid the bow over its strings, it sang with the mournful music of bagpipes.
There were lutes and pipes, all beautifully crafted. There was comfortable seating, and a pretty hearth from the local marble. A fine room, he mused, for musicians and those who appreciated the art.
Then he saw the vielle. He lifted it. It’s body was longer than the violin that would come from it, and it held five strings. When the instruments had been popular, he’d had no interest in such matters. No, he’d been for killing whores in alleyways.
But when a man has eternity, he needs hobbies and pursuits, and years to study them.
He sat with the vielle over his lap, and began to play.
It came back to him, the notes, the sounds, and calmed him as it was said music could do. With the rain as his accompaniment, he let himself fall into the music, drifted away on the tears of it.
She would never have come upon him without him being aware otherwise.
She’d heard it, the quiet sobbing of music as she’d made her own wanderings. She’d followed it like a child follows a piper, then stood just inside the doorway, stunned and enchanted.
So, Moira thought, this is how he looks when he’s peaceful, and not just pretending to be. This is how he might have looked before Lilith had taken him, a little dreamy, a little sad, a little lost.
All that had stirred and risen inside her for him seemed to come together inside her heart as she saw him unmasked. Sitting alone, she thought, seeking the comfort of music. She wished she had Glenna’s skill with paints or chalk, for she would have drawn him like this. As few, she was sure, had ever seen him.
His eyes were closed, his expression, she would have said, caught somewhere in the misty place between melancholy and contentment. Whatever his thoughts, his fingers were skilled on the strings, long and lean, seducing the instrument into wistful music.
Then it stopped so abruptly she let out a little cry of protest as she stepped forward with her candle. “Oh please, continue, won’t you? Sure it was lovely.”
He had preferred she come at him with a knife than that innocent, eager smile. She wore only nightrobes, white and pure, with her hair unbound to fall like the rain over her shoulders. The candlelight shifted over her face, full of mystery and romance.
“The floors are cold for bare feet,” was all he said, and rose to set the instrument down.
The dreamy look was gone from his eyes, so they were cool again. Frustrated, she set the candle down. “They’re my feet, after all. You never said you played.”
“There are a lot of things I never said.”
“I have no skill at all, to the despair of my mother and every teacher she hired to school me in music. Any instrument I picked up would end by making a sound like a cat being trod on.”
She reached over, ran her hand over the strings. “It seemed like magic in your hands.”
“I’ve had more years to learn what interests me than you’ve been alive. Many times more years.”
She looked up now, met his eyes. “True enough, but the time doesn’t diminish the art, does it? You have a gift, so why not accept a compliment on it with some grace?”
“Your Majesty.” He bowed deeply from the waist. “You honor my poor efforts.”
“Oh bugger that,” she snapped and surprised a choked laugh out of him. “I don’t know why you look for ways to insult me.”
“A man must have a hobby. I’ll say good night.”