Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

Vehs is going to be insufferable, he thought.

With that realization, Wil finally slept.

Lelia had neither a smile nor a good afternoon for Wil the next day. Wil tried to strike up conversation, and every time she either walked faster or intercepted a street vendor, cutting him off.

Oh, sure, when I want to apologize . . . , he thought, irritated.

Once at the mansion, she immediately set up and started playing. He stood mutely by, finally wandering off when she muttered, “Water.”

He wandered the hallways and corridors, trying to feel whatever his Gift relayed. Past an alcove, past a cupboard, past the door with the twin gryphons carved on it, and—

He stepped back to stare at the door. Hunger pangs, or something else? That door . . .

It opened.

He jumped, face to face with Einan, Chantil’s toady.

“Are you lost, sir?” he asked.

“Uh—yes. Sorry. Privy?”

Einan pointed. Wil thanked him and hurried off.

The Bard’s silence lasted even after her performance, and when they marched back to the Bell, she walked past the front entry.

“Hey—” he called.

She looked back, glaring coldly. She hadn’t yet stopped.

Wil winced. He pointed to the Bell. “I want to talk. Please.”

She slowed, then turned—and came back.

:Nicely done, Chosen,: Vehs said.

Upstairs, she sat down on the edge of the bed and said nothing.

Wil started pacing.

“I—” Can’t believe I’m saying this “—need your help,” he said.

She cocked her head.

“Somehow, I need to get around that mansion without anyone interrupting.” Wil stopped long enough to meet her gaze. “Can you help?”

“I . . . can.” She pursed her lips. “Have you heard about Salia?”

“What?”

“Chantil’s former maid. One of her trusted circle. A week after the Tindales came to Haven for Midwinter Festival, Chantil ousted her for stealing.” Lelia pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on top. “Einan, Marjori, and Ylora—that’s the third one—won’t talk about her, but the others—” She chuckled. “Oh, ’twas just scandalous.”

“Okay. Interesting, but—” He stopped. “Wait. What was she accused of stealing?”

“Silver, jewelry. A couple of necklaces and brooches.” :The brigand’s mysterious employer paid him in gems,: Wil thought, excited.

:You think Chantil took them off her own jewelry to pay the brigand and then blamed it on Salia?:

:And I have to wonder if she melted those settings down or hid them to reset later. How smart do you think she is?:

:Or how arrogant.:

Wil thought of the gryphon-door room, and his gut twinged. :Exactly.:

“Did Chantil report her to the Guard?” Wil asked.

“Curious you should ask!” Lelia’s eyes sparkled. “Chantil never demanded the jewelry back, never brought charges against her. She didn’t even do the ousting—gave all the dirty work to Einan or Marjori, depending on who you ask. Chantil said she didn’t want to see Salia again.”

Wil’s brows lifted. “Well.”

Lelia nodded. “Mull on that. I’ll try to think of a suitable distraction.”

He frowned. “Like what?”

She stood in the doorway and looked back over her shoulder. “The less you know,” she said, winked, and stepped out.

Lelia timed her announcement for when the grand hall was at its fullest.

She stilled her strings, rose, and cleared her throat. With full Bardic projection, she said, “Attention!”

The volume died down. Heads turned. A few stray threads of conversations continued, but not for long.

“As some of you are aware,” she said, “I am the composer and original performer of ‘Today, I Ride’.” She arched a brow. “Or, as some of you call it, ‘That Sendar Song’.” A murmur of recognition—and a few chuckles— rolled through the crowd. “Well, tomorrow I will perform the song—” She lifted the other brow. “—for the last time.”

A collective gasp went through the room. Wil remained stoic.

“I ask that if you all wish to hear it for the last time—from its creator—that you be here tomorrow three candlemarks before midnight.” She bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

A wild clamor followed. The outraged look from Chantil warmed Lelia’s heart. The entourage fluttered and muttered, looking just as distraught as their lady. Lelia had just swiped all the attention, and Chantil could do nothing about it.

If you’re smart, you’ll pretend you suggested it, M’lady, Lelia thought.

Back at the Bell and once again safe from prying eyes and ears, she said, “Sendar’s song is a little less than a quarter candlemark in its full, unedited form. I can get you half if I include one of the parodies.”

“There are parodies?”