Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

For all that Conor had spoken lightly when he’d told Linden Rathan he’d be careful, the Beast Healer intended to be on his guard when he looked over the notorious Summer Lightning. He’d been hearing about the horse’s racing prowess for some time; but before this, he’d heard only the vaguest rumors of a temper to match the amazing speed and jumping ability.

  Likely Lord Lenslee’s kept most people away from him, he thought as he strode through the merchant’s section of the fair. It would be the only sane thing to do; if it ever attacked some noble …

  That the horse still lived told Conor that whoever the stallion’s young victim had been, he had not been anyone of importance. At least, Conor thought with grim sarcasm, of no importance to anyone who “mattered.” Just his mam and da and anyone else who loved him.

  Lord Sevrynel was right. The horse should never have been put to stud; likely his get would inherit the temper, whether or not they got the speed as well. It was irresponsible as hell of Lenslee to breed such an animal. If he did indeed have his grandfather’s knack, he was misusing it badly. Blowing through his lips, Conor shook his head to rid himself of his foul temper.

  The humid air hung heavy and thick around him as he walked; it was, he thought, like pushing through a dirty, wet wool blanket. His feet stirred up dust with every stride; it would be long before the grass reclaimed the “roads” worn across the meadow by boot and hoof.

  Everywhere around him swirled a tumult of sound and color and scents. Odors of every kind of cooked food seemed to grab at his stomach. Fairgoers called to one another, peddlers of every kind shouted the virtues of their wares, young apprentices tramped through the milling crowds, each one waving a colorful banner with the symbols of their master’s trade and personal mark upon it. Some of the pennants were crude patchwork, others more skillfully done. A select few were of the finest embroidery. Conor noted with wry amusement that most of the banners in the last group belonged to betting masters. As they walked, the ’prentices sang out their masters’ names and trades. A few rang out over the tumult.

  “Master Orvis, saddler! Finest leather, finest stitching! The best in the Five Kingdoms!”

  “Come one, come all! Mistress Phalarope has the hat to suit you! Straw hats, leather hats, hoods of good woolen cloth! Come one, come all!”

  “Cure your palsy! Cure your ringing ears! Go see Master Isserlan, purveyor of the finest remedies from mysterious Jehanglan! Never suffer from the nightmare again!”

  Likely just ground-up beetles from the garden with a bit of spice thrown in to make it taste exotic, Conor thought in disgust. He’d heard Bard Otter’s song—who hadn’t?—of the Dragonlords’ great adventure in Jehanglan. Though the magic that had once shielded that faraway land was now gone, that didn’t mean that the Jehangli were eager to deal with any but their old trading partners, House Whatever-it-was out of Assantik.

  Gods, what herbs might they have for healing, he thought wistfully. Things we’ve never even dreamed of, I’ll wager.

  Herbs … Hmm—he needed more myrrh and witch hazel for his wound wash, come to think of it. He’d have to remember to stop at the Healwort Guild tent at some point and see if they had any at a decent price. Perhaps he’d even find someone who had news of Pod. He wondered how she was faring. Pod was bright, and she already knew most of the common plants. She’d do well and make their chapterhouse—and him—proud; he was certain of that.

  The thought took him from the merchants’ area into the beginning of the horse lines. He heaved a sigh of relief. Not that it was quieter here; in place of the proclamations of the merchants’ “heralds,” there were the shouts of owners, grooms, and stable hands as well as the ear-ringing hammering of the various blacksmiths scattered throughout.

  He followed one of the makeshift lanes that cut through the horse lines like the spokes of a wheel. It took him to a large open area, the hub of the wheel. At the very center, hedged in by a forest of long poles bearing flags with the arms of some noble or even royal house, was a huge yellow circular tent. Men and women of all stations bustled in and out of it. This, Conor knew, was the heart of the great horse fair of Balyaranna.

  He circled the tent, looking for the banner bearing the arms of Therinn Barans of Lenslee. It wasn’t long before he saw it: a red horse within a wreath of golden oak leaves, all on field of white. Sitting beneath it was a well-dressed—and clearly bored—young man.

  As Conor’s shadow fell on him, he glanced up, then rose to his feet and bowed.

  “Beast Healer Conor,” he said. “Thank you for coming.” He might have been saying “Thank you for the bag of dirt” for all the enthusiasm he put into his words.

  Reminding himself of Lord Lenslee’s gift, Conor made himself reply with far more cordiality than he felt. “My pleasure,” he said, while thinking As long as your master’s horse doesn’t rip my arm off. “There was an emergency at Lord Sevrynel’s stable. I hope you haven’t had to wait long for me.”

  A haughty sniff was the thanks for his concern. “I’d expected you before this,” the other answered with another sniff. “Lord Lenslee is a very busy man, Beast Healer. This way, please.” He sauntered off with yet another disdainful sniff.

  Conor fell in behind him, wondering if he could keep a straight face while suggesting mint-and-horehound tea for the other man’s “cold.” A pity Pod wasn’t here; she’d have no trouble at all.

  Trouble swarmed up onto his shoulder once more and draped herself around his neck like a furry scarf. It was a little too warm for it, but Conor let her bide; he knew she enjoyed watching the big world outside his hood from the safety of her favorite perch.

  The way led through a confusion of horse lines that Conor hadn’t seen before. Gods, this is so much larger than the last Balyaranna fair I went to! I swear that it’s doubled even in the last few da—

  “Kerras have mercy!” he exclaimed, invoking the Great Stag the Beast Healers followed. Without thinking, he put out a hand to stop his guide and stood in openmouthed astonishment at the horse being ridden in the cross lane a short distance ahead. He wasn’t certain what had first caught his eye: the high, floating action of the slow trot, or the horse’s unusual coloring, black with an iron grey mane and tail. Its rider sat easily, holding the reins in one hand. By his reddish blond hair and long clanbraid, the man was a Yerrin.

  Conor watched, more baffled by the moment. “What is that?” he wondered aloud.

  The man shrugged Conor’s hand from his shoulder and glared at him in outrage that a mere Beast Healer should have dared lay a hand upon his exalted self. He barely deigned to glance over.

  “Some kind of plow horse, a Shamreen most likely,” he said waspishly. “I’ve seen it before. The peasant gives himself airs, but that will end soon enough,” and finished with a sniff of dismissal. He waited with exaggerated patience, straightening the embroidered hem of his tunic, for Conor to come out of his reverie.

  Conor shook his head in disgust. Yes, there was a passing resemblance to a Shamreen draft horse—a particularly fine one. The stallion was a big animal with a round, broad barrel, legs that looked as sturdy as young trees, and feathered feet; it might be understandable that a man might make that mistake—if the man in question had no eye for horses and the horse stood still.

  For no plow horse moved like that. Nor had Conor ever seen a grown horse with that coloring. Foals, yes, but those had gone pure grey as they’d grown.

  There was something familiar about the horse even though Conor was dead certain he’d never seen this animal before. Where had he seen something like it? Then it came to him, and he almost left Lord Lenslee to wait in vain so that he might chase after it.

  No, he’d never laid eyes on this particular animal, but had seen one like him: Linden Rathan’s irascible stallion, Shan.

  “By the gods,” Conor whispered as horse and rider disappeared from view.

  His mind raced. Linden had said there were two other Dragonlords here—one of which was his soultwin. That left only one oth
er possibility; but there was no chance that the man he’d just seen was the newest Dragonlord, Shima Ilyathan from Jehanglan. Not with that hair. Conor remembered the songs he’d heard of late, and could guess who it was. “I must find him,” he whispered.

  His guide looked up from brushing imaginary specks of dust from his clothing. “Did you say something, Beast Healer?”

  “No,” Conor said. “Let’s be off, shall we?”

  A sniff was his only answer.

  To his surprise, Conor’s guide led him a short distance to where two horses were tied.

  For pity’s sakes, the fair isn’t that big. “Aren’t Lord Lenslee’s horses kept within the fair?” he asked as he swung up into the saddle.

  Sniff. “No—Lord Lenslee’s kinsman, Lord Portis, has an estate near here and allows my lord to stable his horses there during the fair. It’s much safer for the horses. They’ll move to Lord Portis’s stables at the fairgrounds in time for the races.” Sniff.

  Conor nodded and fell in behind his guide. It made sense; while it was uncommon, more than one horse had suddenly turned up lame the morning of a race. Lame—or worse.

  They rode out of the fair and along a winding road that curved through woods and meadows and once over a cheerful stream. The horses hooves thudded hollowly as they crossed the wooden bridge. Since his guide showed no inclination to pass the time in conversation and the horse was a steady creature content to follow its stablemate, Conor let himself fall into a half doze. Trouble lay across his shoulders and snored softly in his ear.

  Conor came awake when the horse ahead of him turned onto a well-traveled track only a little narrower than the road. It swept up the crest of a small hill. When they had followed it to the top, Conor saw a small manor house before them. He had no need to ask which of the buildings surrounding it was the stable; the hum of activity around it made it seem a giant beehive.

  With a final, dismissive sniff, his guide left him in the yard before the stable. As the man turned away, Conor said cheerfully, “My thanks for guiding me, my lord—and you might want to try a bit of horehound-and-mint tea for that cold, I’m thinking.” He dismounted.

  Before the startled young lordling could say anything, Therinn Barans, lord of Lenslee, strode out of the stable. Conor recognized him from his visit to the Beast Healers’ main chapterhouse the year before: a tall man, with brown hair springing back from his forehead and falling to either side of his face in waves. A neatly trimmed beard followed the line of his strong jaw and square chin. Lenslee bore himself like one who knew where he was going in life and would turn aside for no man.

  Conor bowed. “My lord.”

  Lord Lenslee nodded. “Beast Healer Conor of Grey Holt? Good; I want you to have a look at Summer Lightning. Nothing wrong, mind you. I just want to be certain that he’s fit for the big race.”

  The Kelnethi lord grinned fiercely. No doubt, Conor thought wryly, at the certainty of the gold and glory Summer Lightning would bring him.

  “Robie!” Lord Lenslee bellowed at a youngster peering out of the stable door. “Tell Beckrum that the Beast Healer is here.”

  The boy ran off. Conor waited with Lord Lenslee; the Kelnethi lord rocked from heel to toe in anticipation.

  “Have you ever seen Lightning, Beast Healer? No? Ah, you’re in for a rare treat, then. There’s nothing out there that can catch him. Ah—Gorith, a word with you.”

  An old man wearing a farrier’s leather apron turned from whatever errand he’d been on and limped across the yard to them. “Aye, m’lord?”

  “This is Beast Healer Conor. You and any other stable hand will render him any aid he needs, understand? Pass the word on to the others.”

  Gorith nodded to Conor; Conor returned it. The old farrier said, “I’ll do that, m’lord.”

  The sound of hooves striking cobbles caught Conor’s ear. While it could have been any horse being brought in, from the way the stable yard suddenly emptied, he was certain it could only be the notorious Summer Lightning approaching around the corner of the stable. Even Gorith with his limp was gone.

  Conor, m’lad, this is not good. His mouth felt dry. He reached within himself for a powerful calming spell. Though if this horse was as fast as he’d heard …

  Between one breath and the next the stable yard went from an empty expanse of grey cobblestones to a swirling cauldron of life and color too small to hold the stallion that suddenly spun and danced in it, glowing copper in the hot sunlight. For a moment Conor didn’t even notice the handler at the other end of the lead rope as the chestnut stallion reared, bursting with life.

  He was a beauty all right, Conor thought to himself. Yet he felt no warmth for the glorious animal. He’d seen the hard, cold look in its eye and knew that Summer Lightning was that blessedly rare thing: an animal with a heart as dark as night. Then that cold eye caught sight of him and Conor lost all doubt that this creature had deliberately hurt humans before.

  As the horse’s ears went back and it bared its strong white teeth at him, Conor gasped as the man holding the lead rope put out his hand. Certain that the fellow was about to lose fingers, Conor raised his own hands in warning.

  But the instant the weathered hand touched the muscled neck, the horse calmed. Conor remembered what Lord Sevrynel had said: Therinn’s best jockey, Summer Lightning’s groom, and Therinn himself are among the few people the beast will tolerate.

  Hoping whatever hold the man had over the vicious stallion didn’t fail, Conor gingerly approached the horse that held both so much promise and so much darkness within him.

  * * *

  After leaving Lord Sevrynel and his fellow marshals still arguing details, Linden wandered afoot through the fair. Luckily the fair drew Yerrins to it like flies to honey; for once in Cassori he wasn’t the only one standing head and shoulders above most of the crowd. And since he wasn’t wearing the formal garb, he looked like any other of his countrymen strolling about. Hardly anyone gave him a second glance.

  Since Sevrynel had told him that Lord Lenslee would keep his horse at his kinsman’s nearby manor until the races, Linden knew he had time to wander before meeting Conor.

  He considered going back to get Shan and seeing if he could find the cheese seller Maurynna had spoken of, then decided it would take too long. If the stuff did taste like Fat Gorly, he hoped Maurynna remembered to bring some back. Instead he bought a small fruit pasty from a booth and set off again, gingerly nibbling the hot pie. He wandered here and there, not looking for anything in particular, just seeing what the fair had to offer now; it had been a good twenty years or so since he last attended.

  Considerably more than the last time I was here! It’s also a damn sight larger. Sevrynel’s done well now that the stewardship of the fair’s fallen to him.

  After a final squint at the sun, Linden decided it was time to find that tent. It took longer than expected. When he got there he was relieved to see that he’d arrived first; it would not have been fair to make the busy Beast Healer wait for him. Since it was past the nooning, it was not as busy as it usually was. Linden sat at the end of an empty trestle table under an awning.

  Luckily he hadn’t long to wait. Even as the young serving man came to ask what he wanted, Conor arrived, puffing.

  “You’ve not been waiting long, I hope,” he said as he settled himself opposite Linden.

  Linden shook his head. “Just got here myself. Are you hungry?”

  “That I am.”

  They ordered a platter of cheese and bread, and ale. When the tankards arrived, Linden took a deep draught and sighed with pleasure. Wiping the foam from his lips, he asked, “And how was Summer Lightning?”

  Frowning, Conor leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Lord Sevrynel was right. There’s a darkness in that horse, Your Grace. I just hope by Kerras’s golden antlers that his get don’t inherit it. That animal should never be allowed to breed—I don’t care how fast he is.”

  Gods, this has Conor upset! “You don’t want to talk
about him, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Then tell me more about Pod,” Linden said.

  The long, gaunt face brightened immediately. “Now, Pod I’m willing to talk about, Dragonlord,” Conor said proudly.

  “Linden—remember? Or do I have to throw some soap at you?” Linden smiled at a memory. If he’d had to listen to “Your Grace,” “Linden Rathan,” or “Dragonlord” all the while they were trying to give a certain four-year-old hellion a bath … It was hard to be formal when you, the walls, the floor, and everything else were soaking wet and you kept losing the soap to boot.

  Conor smiled. “I didn’t know if you’d remember that, Your—Linden.”

  The serving man set a laden wooden trencher between them and flipped back the napkin covering it, revealing a round loaf, a thick wedge of blue-veined cheese, and a knife. Linden took the knife and sawed the loaf in two, then cut a few thick slices from the cheese. The yeasty aroma of bread still warm from the oven filled the air.

  As if the mouthwatering aroma were a piper’s call, Conor’s hood began moving; a moment later a small, masked face had popped out of it. After a huge yawn that displayed a fine set of needle-like fangs, Trouble oozed her way out of the hood and climbed backward down her master’s arm to the table.

  Conor gave her a bit pulled from the inside of his half of the loaf. “There you are, my pretty lady.”

  Trouble daintily ate her morsel, then darted forward, grabbed a slice of cheese, and, scrambling down Conor’s leg, hid under the table with it.

  “Thief!” Conor scolded as Linden chuckled.

  “My long-ago brother-in-law’s ferrets were just the same,” Linden said. “If it wasn’t tied down, off it went. One of ’em once decided he wanted my saddle. Actually managed to move it a good few handspans, too, before Fisher grabbed him. I always wondered what he would’ve done with it if I’d let him have it.”

  “Best not to ask,” Conor said gloomily, tossing another bit of cheese down to Trouble. “My first ferret stole a belt of mine and hid it the gods only know where. Never did find it.