Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  No surprise there; it was a well-known foible of Sether’s, and one that had often gotten the poor man teased over the years. Otter remembered how poor Sether would be the only one left in the apprentice dormitory when everyone else had sneaked out for the midnight story sessions. All alone, blankets pulled over his head, listening to every creak and rustle, knowing that everyone else was telling those ghost stories that he just couldn’t bear to listen to …

  Otter shook his head, wrenching his thoughts back from the past. He still couldn’t believe Sether had taken his own life. “What was the tale about?” he asked.

  The question steadied Charilon as Otter had guessed it would. The man was a bard before all else; no matter if the sky was falling, he couldn’t resist the lure of telling you a story you hadn’t heard before.

  “Oh, something about a screaming tree and people gone missing in a ‘forest of evil’ somewhere up north. Eaten by the tree, I think it went, or something like. Couldn’t hear very well, I was up by the kegs talking to the innkeeper just then, but old Burley—the timber merchant—told me the gist of it later.

  “Now, I’d never heard this particular foolishness before, but you know the kind of hoary old chestnut I mean. Good for telling around a campfire. Don’t even have to really think about it, just play a few eerie chords now and again and sound menacing. Gives everyone the shivers and shakes and makes ’em look over their shoulders into the night. Great fun and all that.”

  Smiling, Otter nodded. He’d done it many a time himself.

  “This tale was nothing more than that, and badly told to boot. The fellow was so drunk, it was a wonder he was still standing. Burley told me later that Sether asked some questions, then turned bone-white and hurried out. Guess that was when he realized what kind of story it was. Funny how such things took him. He never would sit through to the end of that tale of the little run-in you and Linden Rathan had with that hag.”

  Otter blinked. That encounter had been more than a “little run-in.” But a scary story wasn’t enough to drive a man, even Sether, to suicide.

  “So what could it have been?” Otter asked in despair. Gods help him—were Sether’s friends never to know the why of a good man’s death by his own hand?

  Suddenly overwhelmed, he covered his eyes; he’d known Sether for years. They’d entered the Bards’ School at the same time. So now there was one less of the friends of his youth—and there were already far too few. All at once he felt as ancient as the huge oak before the main hall.

  Slamming his fist down on the desk, he said, “There has to be a reason! A man doesn’t kill himself on a whim.”

  Charilon nodded. “So what was it?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut. He suddenly looked far older than his years. “Oh gods. The Guild Master has sent word to Sether’s children, they live here in Bylith, but his sibs still have to be told. And it will likely fall to me—Sether and I were from the same village. They still live there. This will break their hearts.”

  “Why not Leet?” Otter asked, naming another bard who had been a fellow student with them—though no friend, especially to him. “His half brother is still the lord there, isn’t he? I’d’ve wagered that Leet would demand the task as his ‘duty.’”

  Though a bard was supposed to put his past life behind him when he or she took the bard’s oath, Leet somehow never let anyone forget that, but for becoming a bard, he would have been Lord Sansy of Sansydale.

  Despite his grief, Charilon snorted in wry amusement. “Ah, yes—we must play the noble lord whenever possible, eh, complete with our nobly cleft chin held high in the air and looking down our long, noble nose at the peasants around us, don’t we? A pity Leet didn’t get his mother’s sweet disposition along with her chin. No, he left a few days ago. Didn’t you know?”

  “No,” Otter said dryly. “I try to avoid him when I’m here and he does the same.”

  “Then I’m thinking you’ll be delighted to know that he’s on his way to Balyaranna.”

  Otter grimaced. “How … splendid. And how odd; he usually doesn’t bother with it unless the Kelnethi royal court is going. And since the Guild Master was at court last night at the queen’s request, I know they’re not.”

  “He’s bothering this year, gods only know why. Wonder if he’ll bring the new harp he commissioned. Took Thomelin the luthier long enough, too, I’ve heard.” A pause. “Won’t you two have fun together at Balyaranna.”

  For a moment Charilon snickered at him; then his face fell once more. “Oh gods, Otter—save that he’d do it in the coldest way possible, I would wish this task upon Leet. I don’t want to have to tell Raefus and Timmea that…” A tear slid down his cheek. He whispered, “We all played together.…”

  Otter rose and crossed the room to a small cupboard. He pulled out a flask of wine and two goblets, filled them, and made the ashen-faced Charilon take the chair while he sat on the edge of the bed.

  They drank slowly, trading stories and memories of the dead man, trying to understand “Why?”

  They could find no answer.

  * * *

  The evening after Sether’s death, as Otter left the stables where he’d gone to visit his Llysanyin mare, Nightsong, he found Charilon waiting for him. After seeing the other bard’s face, Otter asked in surprise, “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve just found some idiot apprentice carving his sweetheart’s name into your harp.” For there was fire in the other bard’s eyes and his face was mottled red with anger.

  Otter had never seen Charilon like this; he hadn’t thought Charilon could get that angry. What on earth …

  It was a moment or two before Charilon could master himself enough to answer. “Otter, my lad,” he finally growled, “all I can say is that in all of my years as a bard, I’ve never come so close to betraying my oath.”

  He held up his forefinger and thumb; there was perhaps the width of a hair between them. “This close I was,” he said, his voice shaking with rage. “This close to throttling that woman—hell, throttling both of them.”

  Otter stared at him openmouthed. This was no exaggeration for effect. Charilon meant every word—and Charilon was one of the gentlest souls Otter knew. He also knew how sacred the other bard held the oath that all bards shared: that they would do no harm to another except in self-defense or to save a life.

  That oath cut them off from family, clan, and country. They forswore all thought of vengeance for wrongs done to themselves or their kin. They could not take up arms in a war. Instead, their task—impossible as it all too often seemed—was to remain impartial and seek a peaceful solution to conflicts.

  By all the gods, who had pushed Charilon so close to the edge? One wrong word and he’d explode into violence. Otter jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the bench beneath the old apple tree in the courtyard. “Let’s go sit down and watch the last of the sunset,” he said. “You’re not ready to talk about this yet.”

  As he led the way, Otter called to one of the first-year apprentices to fetch them two mugs of cider. That should do the trick, he thought; last year’s cider had been one of the best in memory. One mug could make an iron bar relax.

  He bade Charilon sit. To his consternation, the other bard dug his fingers into the cloth of his breeches, hands clenched in a death grip as he stared straight ahead, seething.

  When the boy returned with the cider, he said in an awed voice, “Priestess Kaelwyn’s just arrived at the main gate, sirs, to cast the preservation spell for Master Sether.”

  “Good,” Otter said as he took the mugs and handed one off to Charilon, who seemed not to have heard a word. “Thank you, lad.” He nodded a dismissal. The boy sketched a rough salute and ran off.

  Otter sipped, thinking. They were lucky that Kaelwynn was available, for she was skilled at this, and, as a priestess of the Crone—the aspect of the Goddess that dealt with death—she was usually at the small temple-hospice three days’ ride away. She must have been in Bylith to consult with the Head Priestes
s at their temple. Her spell would give more time for the mourners to gather.

  Not until the cider was half gone and the dangerous red hue had left Charilon’s face did Otter ask, “What happened?”

  Charilon took a long pull on his cider. Staring straight ahead once more, he said, “Guild Master Belwynn asked me to break the news to Widow Theras since I know her better than most. I found her at home; unfortunately Thomelin the luthier’s wife was visiting.”

  “Ah.” Although he’d never met the woman, Otter had heard a few stories about the luthier’s wife. He didn’t know what was coming next, but suspected he wasn’t going to like it one bit.

  As the last edge of the sun sank below the horizon, a few petals from the apple tree drifted down. Otter caught some in his hand. He fancied that he caught a faint hint of their lovely fragrance. So beautiful, so fragile, so quick to pass—like human life.

  “Tell me about it,” he said. He let the petals fall as Charilon began his tale.

  “They were in the garden, brushing some fallen leaves from that little shrine of Sarushun the widow has and scraping the candle wax from the stones. At least Theras was. Romissa—pardon me, Lady Romissa—was just standing there, telling her how to do it and preaching the way she always does.”

  Charilon took another drink. “I swear, Otter, the woman can’t open her mouth without preaching at you—how to live your life, how to do this, that, and every little thing, which you and everyone else ought to do according to what she believes, of course. Gods help me, she’d probably hector you on whether you should fart facing east, west, north, or south, the sanctimonious bitch. Never lets you forget she’s nobly born, either—just like her brother.”

  Which tallied with everything that Otter had ever heard of her. Poor Thomelin; sometimes it worked out when an impoverished noble married a well-to-do merchant or craftsman. Most times, though, a lord or lady never let the base-born spouse forget the difference in their stations. He suddenly found himself glad he’d never had the displeasure of meeting the good Lady Romissa. Her half brother Leet was quite enough. If Romissa had ever come to visit Leet at the school, it had been when Otter was away, thank the gods. “And?”

  Charilon ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Damn it all, Otter—it’s hard enough having to tell someone about their suitor’s death, but what came next! That’s when I saw red. Sether was my friend!

  “At first, when I told her Sether was dead, Theras just stood there. I’ll give her this: I think she was honestly shocked and distressed. Maybe not brokenhearted, but distressed. She may not have loved Sether with the passion of youth, but I think she was truly fond of him.

  “Then Romissa opened her big mouth. ‘How?’ she wanted to know. Have you any idea how hard it was to go there in the first place, to tell Theras that Sether was gone? Then to have to tell her it was by his own hand? Otter, that’s like telling someone that, no matter what was wrong in his life, your betrothed didn’t love you enough to live. Which I don’t understand, because Theras was everything to Sether. Everything.” Charilon drained his mug. “So I had to tell her that he’d—what he’d done.”

  He stopped. Otter waited, knowing there was more to come. The twilight deepened and darkness pooled around their feet before Charilon spoke again.

  “And do you know what that bitch Romissa said then?” he asked indignantly. He tugged with both hands at his grey-streaked beard.

  Otter was suddenly sure he didn’t want to know; fanatics of any sort were capable of incredible cruelty. But it was his duty to listen.

  Charilon’s voice rose in an imperious whine. “‘Stop grieving for the creature this instant, Theras, or I shall tell Priest Amas. You know Sarushun forbids suicide. One who takes his own life is stricken from his holy books and is lower than a worm. Such a one is not worthy of notice from a Believer. Ask that he be left for the dogs to worry and tear apart. It’s your duty.’”

  Otter closed his eyes for a moment in disbelief at the brutal words. “Why isn’t she at home with her family? Surely she has duties there.”

  “I suspect she fobbed the children off on Thomelin’s sister Analiss so that she could play busybody. Ever since Ana’s husband died and she went to live with her brother, Romissa has treated her like a servant, Sether once told me. Thomelin usually puts a lid on the worst of Romissa’s antics, but he’s off on one of his buying trips. He likes to pick the woods and the gems for the harps himself if he can.”

  Otter nodded. That made sense. He knew that besides making harps for a number of the senior bards, the luthier made instruments for many Kelnethi nobles and even members of the royal house. That’s where the gems went, of course; no serious bard tarted up a harp that way.

  Not to mention the poor fellow probably seized any excuse to get away from his shrewish wife. The gods knew he would if he stood in Thomelin’s shoes.

  Gazing up at the first star of the evening, Otter said wistfully, “I know she’s Kelnethi and Gifnu usually doesn’t take Kelnethi, but I truly hope he’s holding a very special place in one of his hells for Lady Romissa.”

  “Either that or that Auvrian tosses her bone by bone to Iryniel the Punisher,” Charilon growled. “Though she’d probably poison him even though he’s a godling. She’d poison anything she touched.

  “But do you want to know what was the worst part? Theras just said, ‘Of course, Lady Romissa, you’re right as always,’ meek as a mouse. Then Romissa began talking about the best place to buy beeswax for the altar candles, as if the news I’d brought them was nothing! And Theras joined right in!”

  The outraged bard snapped his fingers and went on, “Just like that she denied Sether. Instead of putting that ironhearted bitch in her place, she trampled on Sether’s memory like he was dirt. That was when I had to leave.”

  “Or dishonor your oath.”

  “Or dishonor my oath. It was a near thing, let me tell you.” Charilon ground his teeth.

  “I can well believe it.” And I don’t know that any of us would have blamed you, Otter thought. Hell, Guild Master Belwynn would toast you in private. He went on, “Come on, then—let’s gather up the others and drink and sing to Sether this night.” He stood and offered a hand to the other bard.

  Charilon used it to heave himself off the bench. “Feh—these old bones are getting stiff. Not that many of the old crew left now,” he said ruefully. “But we’ll do what we can, eh?”

  “So we shall, old friend,” Otter said. “So we shall.”

  Three

  The full moon shone overhead as Bard Leet urged his tired horse on. Where the hell was that carters’ shelter, anyway? He’d passed the river what must have been candlemarks ago, and skirted the swamp. It should be somewhere near here.

  For what seemed the hundredth time in the last candlemark he held the crude map up in the cold white moonlight and squinted at the squiggles and markings upon it. At least he was certain he was back on the right path; between taking the wrong turning and his horse throwing a shoe, he’d lost nearly two days.

  A cloaked and hooded figure stepped out of the shadows at the side of the road. Leet’s mare squealed in fright and shied, nearly throwing him, and even the stolid packhorse he led jumped to one side.

  “I beg your pardon,” the figure said. There was not an ounce of remorse in the soft voice. A dark lantern appeared from beneath the cloak; the man slid the shutter back, allowing light to spill forth.

  He held it up and pushed his hood back. The glow revealed a tired, lined face framed by a dark beard shot through with grey. Leet stared down at him, hand pressed against his chest, his heart thudding against his ribs.

  “Well met, brother-in-law,” said Thomelin the luthier. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come. So you’re still set upon this course?” His voice was tight with anger. But the luthier made no attempt to argue. Leet knew he dared not.

  Leet did not deign to answer. Thomelin shrugged as if to say “On your head be this.” “This way, then,” the luthier said, a
nd led the way to a spacious tent.

  Once inside Leet waited impatiently as his brother-in-law pulled back a traveling rug from a large “lump” on the floor of his tent, revealing two identical boxes, each a traveling case for a harp.

  He peered more closely. No, not quite identical; one had a small mark burned into a corner of the lid. Leet nodded and smiled. The mark was a V—like the silhouette of a seagull in flight. How very appropriate.…

  He pushed the lid to one side and beckoned Thomelin to bring the lantern closer. The yellow light fell upon a cloth-wrapped bundle. Frowning, Leet rubbed the heavy fabric between his fingers and looked closely at it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t black as he’d first thought, but a deep, deep red. “What’s this?”

  “Silk. As you value your soul, touch the damned thing as little as possible and keep it wrapped when—”

  The bard cut off his brother-in-law with a contemptuous gesture. “I don’t need advice from you.”

  Only a soft hiss betrayed Thomelin’s anger. He said, “Very well, Leet. I’m sure you know best.” The words dripped sarcasm. A long pause, then the luthier went on softly, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you … brother-in-law.”

  Craven peasant, Leet thought, ignoring Thomelin, though a part of his mind grew uneasy at the luthier’s moment of hesitation. Pushing it from his thoughts, Leet eased the fabric back, exposing a section of a harp’s pillar. With a touch as light as a butterfly’s, he brushed his fingertips along the polished wood. A faint tingle ran up his arm.

  Was it just his imagination? Or—or did he feel …

  Hardly daring to breathe, he jerked at the cloth, revealing part of the harp’s soundboard. He laid one palm against the spruce boards.

  This time there was no mistaking the prickling sensation. It was real. Dear gods, his idea had worked!