Nightsong Read Online Free Page A

and smoked tuna – and yet, in the poet’s heart, someone’s absence was deeply felt Men and women in Lycomede’s kingdom dined separately, as was proper throughout the Greek world. But never before had the poet so missed the companionship of a certain woman.
    Soon, thought Orpheus – I must see her again soon.
    When the poet finished a song about the safe harbor of Chios, and how the keels of every ship dreamed of entering the restful waters of that isle, Orpheus sipped his wine. This court drank their wine akretos – undiluted with water. This was not usual among Greeks, who valued moderation, and Orpheus felt that his senses were already addled enough by his passion for the princess.
    â€œI wonder,” the king was asking now, “if you could teach my son to sing that poem you recited earlier – about Diana at her bath.”
    â€œI’ll be pleased and honored to,” said Orpheus with a smile. “If Lachesis so desires it – and as the gods permit.”
    The king shook his head with a bitter smile. “Talk of pleasing the gods, dear poet, does not move my heart. When my beautiful wife, Halia, died of a fever just after childbirth, I turned away from any belief in the immortals.”
    â€œGood king,” said Orpheus, “I am sorry to learn of your grief.”
    â€œMy daughter never knew her mother’s kiss,” said the king with a sigh, “and I came to believe that no god existed who would allow such sorrow.”
    â€œI was hoping that our noble guest could tell us more about divine Diana,” said Lachesis, respectful toward his father, but hoping, too, for some further word about the immortals.
    â€œI am sorry to say,” responded Orpheus, “that I have never set eyes on that undying goddess.”
    â€œOf course you haven’t seen her, Orpheus,” said the king with a sad laugh. “Those tales are merely fireside tittle-tattle.”
    â€œThey say the divine Phoebus Apollo,” retorted the prince, “gave Prince Orpheus his well-crafted silver lyre.”
    â€œThis pretty instrument here,” chortled the king incredulously, “the one leaning against the footstool of our guest?”
    â€œSo they say,” asserted his son.
    â€œWe don’t seriously believe that,” laughed the king, “do we?”
    â€œYou will think me an ungrateful guest,” said Orpheus, rising.
    â€œTell us, please, noble Orpheus,” pleaded Eurydice’s brother, “if you have seen the god of daylight.”
    Poets of many lands still chanted of the day, many years before, when Apollo had allowed his beloved mortal son Phaeton to take the reins of sunlight’s chariot. Their verses still commemorated falcons falling in flames, and rivers flash-scalded into steam. Apollo had become a more thoughtful god, it was told, ever afterward, and had tried to make amends to mortals by helping poets create stories – and in particular by giving Prince Orpheus a lyre of perfect pitch and dazzling beauty.
    Orpheus could see it all again that instant in his heart – the day he received the lyre from the divinity’s own hands. The god’s voice had been music, and his laugh sweeter than the west wind.
    â€œOn a cold day, Lachesis,” said Orpheus at last, breaking off his reverie, “my lyre is still warm from Apollo’s touch.”

SEVEN
    It was not until the following night that Orpheus walked with Eurydice beside the royal pond.
    That day Biton had asked, eagerly, “What poem will you use to win her heart, master?”
    The poet had sighed – if only he could think of one.
    Orpheus would not have admitted as much to anyone, but there was, in all his travels, more than a little loneliness. True, Biton was a steady companion, but Orpheus found the men and women he met too easily dazzled by his reputation, and sometimes too easily charmed by the simplest song.
    Bright-haired