Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  Before Leet could swallow and answer, Robie rushed on, “Lord Portis gave Father orders that Summer Lightning is to be given the best pasture for his own when he gets here—I can’t wait to see him!—but we can’t give him the very best one after all! Uncle Blaine found a patch of yellowfool in it today—can you imagine that? You know how dangerous that—”

  As Robie rattled on and on, a memory from Leet’s childhood struck him with the force of a blow.…

  He was six, walking the boundary of the upper pasture with his father, slashing at the tall grass with an apple switch, laying low his “enemies.”

  Suddenly his father stopped and peered over the stile in the wattle fence. Leet jumped as a string of lurid curses filled the air; Papa never cursed! He stared round-eyed and frightened at his father. Was Papa angry with—

  No. Papa was still looking over the fence. Now he was calling for Recik-the-Elder, who oversaw the horse pastures.

  When Recik-the-Elder reached them, Papa pointed to something. The pasture steward began cursing, too. Curious, Leet climbed the steps of the stile and looked. All he saw was tall grass, some elderberry bushes, and a big patch of pretty yellow flowers that stretched like a hand toward the fence. The pointer finger almost touched it, he noted.

  His father told Recik-the-Elder to get Recik-the-Younger and his men to “rip that foul stuff up and keep a close eye on this pasture!”

  Recik-the-Elder puffed off as fast as he could.

  Puzzled, Leet asked, “But why, Papa? It’s pretty.”

  “It’s vile, that’s what it is. That’s yellowfool, son. It can kill the animal that eats it. Oh, not as fresh grazing or fully dried in hay—but the poor animal that eats it half-dried and wilted will bleed to death inside. Not even the best Beast Healer in the world can save it then. If that stuff gets into a pasture and there’s a bad dry spell—”

  Leet swallowed hard. He didn’t like the picture forming in his mind. No, he didn’t like it at all.…

  The bard sat as one stunned, almost forgetting to breathe. I know now how to do it. I’m certain I can do it. I’m meant to do it. This is a gift from the gods.

  When he came back to himself, Leet found that Robie had gathered up the now-empty bowl and had passed on to another subject.

  “… You’ll earn lots and lots at the fair, sir, I just know you will! Aaaaaand—will you play for me later, sir?”

  The flood of words ended at last. Robie sat watching him, the bowl clutched to his chest, eyes wide, half hopeful, half afraid. He reminded Leet of a puppy that hoped for a pat but feared a blow.

  Leet smiled kindly at him. His hand stole out and caressed one of the harp cases. “I would love to, lad. I would surely love to.”

  Robie bounced to his feet, grinning from ear to ear. “Would you truly, sir?” He was so excited that he tripped over his own feet. Putting out a hand to catch himself, he cut his forearm on a protruding nail. While not overly deep or long, it bled freely.

  Struck by a sudden inspiration, Leet pulled a clean kerchief from his saddlebag. “Here, lad—stanch the blood with this.” He watched avidly as the embarrassed boy pressed it against his wound.

  When the bleeding was done, Robie thanked him, then looked ruefully at the bloodstained kerchief. “I’ll ask my mam to wash it for—”

  Leet twitched the square of cloth out of the boy’s fingers. He knew just what to do with this. “Don’t fret yourself about it, my boy. Just get that cut bandaged and take care of it—you don’t want to miss the fair, now do you? Oh—and Robie? Believe me when I say that I want to play for you more than anything in this world.”

  * * *

  It had worked. By all the gods, it had worked. Leet had to force himself to keep to his role of the beaten-down Osric. He never thought he’d be grateful for aching muscles, he thought with amusement. If he didn’t have that reminder to move like a man well-nigh worn out with a lifetime of hard travel …

  It had worked—though he’d almost wrecked his chance. Leet had reached for the other harp he carried—the one he thought of as Tern—intending to play that first. He wasn’t certain why he hesitated to play the other instrument; he certainly hadn’t hesitated to wipe the bloodstained cloth over the soundboard as soon as Robie had gone before. Leet told himself that the uneasiness he felt was merely imagination.

  Then he realized that the sound of music might draw the other stablemen. He wasn’t certain enough yet of his control of the harp and its power. No; best to get this done while there was but one mind to suborn.

  So Leet laid his hand upon the harp his brother-in-law had so reluctantly made to his bidding and ruthlessly crushed the pang of conscience that said, This is but a child!

  So was Arnath. And now he lies cold in the ground, he told his conscience fiercely. So he first traced the figure of the gull burned into the shoulder of the harp. “Are you there?” he whispered. Then he set his fingers upon the strings and began playing, soft as thistledown, soft as the touch of a mouse’s whiskers.

  Robie’s eyes glazed as the music took him. Leet sang softly to him of what he must do. When he was done, Leet put that harp away. And just as he settled Tern into his arms, he heard other voices approaching. Dusk was eating the shadows; the stable hands were done with their chores and were coming to listen to the minstrel. The gods were with him.

  Leet patted Robie’s cheek gently. “Time to wake up, lad.”

  Robie blinked at him in mild confusion, then smiled as his uncle and the others settled themselves into the straw around him.

  Leet smiled at the men benignly. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said in Osric’s travel-roughened voice. “Let me thank you for the aid you’ve given me this night. You’ve no idea how grateful I am.”

  * * *

  It was late before the stable hands and Robie left. Leet gratefully settled the harp in its case and massaged his throat. Forcing himself to sing in Osric’s slightly hoarse tones had been more tiring than he’d thought it would be. Hopefully, he’d done no damage to his voice. He arranged his blankets and lay down, suddenly exhausted. He fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pack he used for a pillow.

  During the night, he dreamed. A dream he’d had many times since Arnath’s death, and always, always it was the same. He’d never seen the horse in life, but knew it when it entered his dreams.

  Coat like a new copper penny, shining like a flame as the brute raced across the green field, scorning the figures that lined the fence watching him: two young men and, a short distance from them …

  A boy. Arnath; beloved Arnath with his gift of song.

  Then the stallion came up to the fence next to Arnath and began grazing. So enraptured was the boy that he never noticed the two young men stealing up behind him.

  Each time Leet reached this point in the dream, he would desperately cry out a warning, his heart breaking, but there was no sound. It was as if he were but a wraith, doomed to watch the unfolding tragedy over and over, unable to stop it. Helpless, he was so helpless.…

  Like a striking hawk, one of the men caught up Arnath and tossed him over the fence onto the horse’s bare back, laughing all the while.

  But over the laughter, Leet could hear the boy’s terrified screams: “Father! Father! Help me!”

  Then the stallion leapt away from the fence and bucked. Arnath flew from his back and landed heavily on the ground, too stunned to move. For one terrible moment, the stallion looked over his shoulder at the helpless boy as if considering, then deliberately turned, reared up, and—

  Leet woke, gasping, as he always did at this point. He heaved himself up on one elbow, tears running down his face. He had not seen Arnath’s death, had only been told of it, but each time the dream felt as real as if he stood there. He lay tossing and turning, unable to sleep, and thinking about his revenge.

  Seventeen

  The dawn found a tired Leet riding through a cow pasture. He had spent a fitful night, wondering if his plan would work, if he’d overrea
ched himself, if someone would realize what Robie was up to.

  A couple of candlemarks before, a sleepy, inquiring yip from one of the dogs had brought Leet to the door of the stable. He’d peered out, straining his eyes to make out anything in the near-darkness, wondering if his plan was afoot at last. He hadn’t dared go outside lest the dogs catch his scent and raise the alarm.

  But he’d known that drowsy yip should mean— Yes! A slight boy’s form hurried across the yard, heading for the pastures, an empty sack flapping on his back as he ran. If someone were to follow Robie and find him at his task … Leet used the time to make ready to get out in a hurry if needed.

  But his luck had held. Soon he’d seen Robie returning, more slowly this time, the full sack heavy on his back. The boy had come up to him, vacant gaze not truly seeing him, and handed over the sack.

  “Good boy,” Leet had whispered as he tied the sack into place on the packhorse. Then, still whispering, he infused his voice with the note of command that had made many an apprentice jump to obey. “Now forget all this. Forget until I call you once more.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robie said dully.

  “You will answer that call.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do without question.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good boy, Robie. Now keep the dogs quiet while I leave and then get you back to bed and forget all this.”

  The boy had dumbly done as he’d been bidden.

  Now Leet rode with his means of revenge snugged down between the harp cases like so much innocent luggage.

  He hoped he’d soon find the abandoned byre that Robie had told him about. Before the sun was much higher, he wanted to lay Osric to rest. It was time for Leet Welkin of Sansy, Master Bard of the Bards’ School of Bylith, to rise again like a Jehangli phoenix from the ashes of its pyre.

  The image made him snarl. Damn that bastard Heronson yet again. Though Leet wouldn’t admit it even to himself, it still rankled that Otter had won such glory; first with the trip to the fabled kingdom of Jehanglan, and then—adding insult to injury—with the sweeping success of the song about the journey that he’d written soon after returning.

  If I’m asked to sing that damned song one more time …

  The sight of the half-ruined byre was a welcome distraction. It was a picturesque thing of flat grey stone, one wall a tumbled ruin, its stones scattered through a carpet of long grass and wildflowers, empty windows staring blindly out at the distant hills. The thatched roof was long gone; the sharply pointed gables reared up to the sky.

  Like something from that old fairy tale, the one where the handsome young lord falls in love with the beautiful shepherd girl and meets her on moonlit nights in the old ruins. A part of his mind whispered, Or the weaver girl …

  Leet shook his head, refusing to follow the memory. As he led the horses into the byre, he squinted up at the pale robin’s-egg blue of the sky. Dawn was passing; he must hurry.

  He worked quickly. The tunic, breeches, and cloak, all of minstrel yellow-and-red, and the mummer’s powder went into a hole created by pulling out some of the fallen stones. Shivering in the morning chill, Leet washed himself with the cold water from his waterskin, wishing he dared light a fire. But it would take too long to heat the water and someone might see the smoke.

  No, cold water, soap, and a good scrubbing would have to do until he reached the public bath near Balyaranna. He washed his hair again and again to get out the grey that had added years to his appearance. When he was satisfied that the worst traces of his rough journey were gone, and that he was as clean as he could be, Leet roughly toweled himself dry and dressed faster than ever he had in his life.

  Ahh! It was good to be back in his proper garb once more! Leet smoothed the rich fabric of his red tunic and flicked a bit of straw from the black breeches. He settled his bard’s torc around his neck, stretched, and stood tall, a Master Bard of Bylith once more.

  He mounted his horse and rode down from the byre toward the road, the packhorse ambling behind. First that bath, then he’d find an inn to break his fast. Best have the ostler give both animals a good grooming, too.

  He was bound for the royal castle near Balyaranna. Everything must be perfect.

  Eighteen

  As Raven rode slowly down the section reserved for saddlers and harness makers, he saw young Lord Arisyn come out of one of the tent booths and mount a seal-brown gelding that whickered gently to him. Raven whistled in appreciation; it was a handsome, well-bred animal and obviously fond of the boy. Once he would have given all he had for a horse like that. Once.

  “Good day, my lord Arisyn,” Raven called.

  Arisyn looked around. His face lit up as Raven halted Stormwind next to him.

  “Oh, good!” the boy said in delight. “I’m so glad to see you again!”

  “And Stormwind and I are glad to see you again as well, my lord,” Raven said, deliberately giving Arisyn another clue with the Llysanyin’s name. Then he grinned. “Any more guesses?”

  Arisyn looked sheepish. “No. I’m at my wits’ end.” Then he tilted his head; his lips quirked up in a sly smile. “Perhaps a wee bit of cheating…” Leaning over, he called out, “Coryn, I’m going home now.”

  A muffled voice answered from inside the tent, “Already? Your loss, pipsqueak.”

  “Hah! We’ll see about that!” muttered Arisyn as he wheeled his gelding around and sent it trotting off. To Raven he said over his shoulder, “Come on! I want you to meet my foster father.”

  When he and Stormwind had caught up with Arisyn, Raven asked, “Cheating, my lord?”

  Arisyn grinned. “Very well, then—perhaps not cheating. Not quite, that is. But I want to see if my foster father recognizes your horse’s breed. If he doesn’t, then I won’t feel like such an idiot that I don’t.”

  “And why should you feel like an idiot? I can assure you that many people have never seen horses like Stormwind.” Raven remembered what he’d been told by Linden, Lleld, and Jekkanadar about traveling unheralded. He added, “And even fewer have known what it was they saw.”

  The boy groaned. “Is that supposed to be a hint? I’ll freely admit I’m baffled. I’m enjoying the game, but I’m baffled. I’m just wondering if my foster father will be as well.” After a moment, he blurted out, “I’ll certainly feel better if he is!”

  Raven had to laugh. “And your foster father is…?”

  “Lord Sevrynel, Earl of Rockfall,” Arisyn replied. “I went to Kelneth to visit my parents. I came back with my aunt and uncle and cousin.”

  Raven was delighted; this was a stroke of luck! Yarrow spoke highly and with affection of Lord Sevrynel; Raven also knew that Linden thought well of the man and his knowledge of horses.

  And he was the Lord Marshal of the Balyaranna horse fair. It was all Raven could do not to whoop with delight.

  * * *

  “Wait in there,” Arisyn directed. He pointed to an opening in a hedge that bordered one side of a cobbled courtyard before a large stone stable. “I’ll see if my foster father has a moment. Here—take Arrow, please.” He tossed the reins to Raven.

  “In there” proved to be a smaller courtyard, also cobbled, surrounded by a high hedge. The overhanging branches of a chestnut tree shaded the far end and the stone bench there.

  Raven led Stormwind and Arrow within. He waited nervously, running his fingers through Stormwind’s mane again and again to comb it, brushing any hint of dust from the Llysanyin’s glossy coat. It wasn’t long before he heard Arisyn’s voice beyond the hedge.

  “Now remember, foster father—if you know what breed his horse is, don’t tell me. I want to guess it on my own. Coryn and Dunric said it’s just a Shamreen draft horse, but I don’t think so. I think they’re idiots. I know that it’s more than that.” Arisyn came around the corner, a huge grin on his face.

  Then Raven caught his first sight of the Earl of Rockfall. Lord Sevrynel, a short, slender ma
n, was blinking owlishly in the sudden dimness. But short as he was—especially to a Yerrin—this man was a giant among horsemen and -women, the same world that Raven lived in. It was by his generosity that the great horse fair of Balyaranna lived and gave his aunt and a score of other breeders a chance to reach buyers that they would otherwise never have seen.

  Lord Sevrynel came a few steps into the enclosure and stopped short. Then he stared from Stormwind to Raven to Stormwind and back again. But all he said was a soft and startled “Oh, my!”

  “Well?” Arisyn demanded when his foster father showed no further sign of speech.

  Indeed, Raven wondered if Sevrynel was even capable of speech at that moment. The man looked thunderstruck. Raven bowed to him. Lord Sevrynel nodded absently, still staring at Stormwind, humming a song softly to himself.

  “Well?” Arisyn asked again. “Who’s right—Coryn and Dunric or me?”

  The Cassorin lord said in a dreamy voice, “Coryn and Dunric are idiots.”

  “I knew it!” crowed Arisyn. Then, with a trace of resignation, “You know what he is, don’t you, foster father?”

  “I certainly do. I even know his name, Stormwind.” Lord Sevrynel looked down at his ward.

  “How did you know? I only just found it out,” Arisyn said.

  Sevrynel chuckled. Even from where he stood Raven could see the twinkle in his eyes. “I saw another of this breed once—and it’s not a thing you forget, my lad.”

  Arisyn sighed. “Why do I feel I’m missing something by a good league and more?”