“Her sister Maylin wrote and told me that.” Oh, Maylin—why aren’t you here? You’d get to the bottom of this in no time! Without thinking, she started walking again.
Beryl hastened to her side and went on, “One of the servants brought Kella’s supper to her last night.” Her mouth was set in a grim line that did not bode well for someone. “He didn’t think it worth mentioning to anyone that she was abed when he brought it in. We didn’t find out until this morning when the maid who brought her breakfast found her shivering under her blankets. She, thank the gods, had the sense to run for Quirel and Rann’s governess, Lady Ralene. Ralene sent for me. And I sent for you.”
They reached Kella’s room just as Quirel came out, quietly shutting the door behind him. He saw them and bowed.
“What’s wrong with my cousin?” Maurynna asked bluntly. “Is she ill?”
“No, my lady—at least with no illness I’ve ever seen or studied. Nor is there any injury to her aside from a bruise on her cheek as if she fell.” He frowned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d had some violent shock. Yet nothing untoward has happened that anyone has heard of. I must own myself baffled, Dragonlord. I wish Healer Tasha were here. She might make some sense of all this.”
Maurynna considered his words, then said, “Is she well enough to see me?”
“I would say so. It might do her some good.”
Maurynna went into Kella’s room, leaving Beryl and Quirel to quietly continue the discussion. Just before she shut the door behind her, she heard Quirel ask, “Is there any way she could be sent back to Casna? I would feel better if Tasha could see her.”
And she would be back with her family, thought Maurynna. It was something to consider.
One of Duchess Beryl’s ladies sat by Kella’s bed, knitting a new heel into a stocking. At Maurynna’s gesture, she carefully tucked her knitting into a small basket, whispering, “I hope you’re well soon, Kella.” She made a courtesy to Maurynna and slipped out of the room.
“Sweetling,” Maurynna said softly. “Kella—are you awake?”
A small head appeared from beneath the embroidered linen sheet. Maurynna flinched as she got a good look at her little cousin.
Dark circles under eyes heavy with exhaustion, skin pale and ashen; whatever was wrong, it had taken a toll on the child. Even her hair hung lank and lifeless about her face.
Struggling to hide her fear, Maurynna asked, “Kella, what on earth is the matter? Are you ill?”
A small shake of the head was her only answer.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
Another shake of the head.
“Then how did you get that bruise on your cheek?”
Once again, Kella shook her head.
“Did someone else hurt you?”
A moment of hesitation; Maurynna thought she had her answer and was silently vowing to hunt down whoever had harmed her youngest cousin when Kella whispered, “No. No one hurt me.”
Maurynna sat down on the bed and took Kella’s hand. “Beryl told me you haven’t eaten. Would you like—”
“No.”
Indeed, Kella looked as if the mere thought of food would make her vomit.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Kella’s shoulders shook and, if possible, she paled even more. “No.”
Though her fear urged Maurynna to grab Kella by the shoulders and demand an answer, she made herself say calmly, “Do you want to see Rann? I’m sure he’s worried about you. We all are.”
Kella went very still. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I would like to see Rann, please.”
The prince was summoned. When he arrived, Maurynna led him in. Kella sat bolt upright.
“Just Rann,” she said. “Only Rann.”
Maurynna opened her mouth to protest, but stopped when she saw the feverish light in Kella’s eyes. Whatever this was about, the last thing Kella needed was to spend what little strength she had in tearful argument. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, but Maurynna made herself leave. She would ask Rann about it when he came out.
Which turned out to be a remarkably short time later. He looked shaken; clearly the change in his friend had frightened him. He also looked puzzled.
Beryl pounced upon him. “Did Kella tell you what was wrong?”
“No, Aunt Beryl. She didn’t.”
Is that because you already know? I wonder. She dismissed the thought. Rann wouldn’t look so puzzled if he knew—he’d look guilty. Maylin had once told her he couldn’t hide anything from his aunt. She’d said the boy was utterly convinced his aunt could sniff out any wrongdoing of his from the other side of the castle.
“Very useful, that,” Maylin had said, laughing. “Of course she can’t, but as long as he thinks she can, anytime he’s done something wrong, she finds him out in an instant because he looks guilty as sin.”
But Rann didn’t look guilty. He just looked as baffled as the rest of them felt.
Then the young prince turned to her. “She did say, Maurynna Kyrissaean, that she wanted to go home. Now.”
The duchess frowned. “There’s no one returning to Casna that we could send her with. I suppose I could ask Beren—”
“No need,” Maurynna said, thinking quickly. “I can take her. I’ll need some blankets—and tokens for the royal messengers so that Maylin can send me letters.”
While she waited for the things she’d requested, she mindcalled Linden.
What in the name of the gods is going on? he asked worriedly. I remember you getting up early and telling me to go back to sleep. The next thing I know is that something’s amiss with Kella and that you’d gone to the castle. But no one can tell me anything, for they’ve no idea themselves. I didn’t mindcall you, because I didn’t want to risk interrupting something important. Maurynna-love, is the Kitten ill?
Not that Quirel can discover. But he doesn’t know what is wrong with her. He was wishing that Tasha could see Kella. He’s about to get that wish—Kella wants to go back to Casna. Now. I’m going to fly her home.
With that, Maurynna broke the mindlink. She went back into Kella’s room. “Kella, if you really want to go home, I can take you. But are you certain you really want to go?”
“Yes! Yes, yes, YES!”
* * *
“Look! Look up! Look up!”
Raven heard the cry and like Yarrow, and Lord Ashton, who’d come to look at the horses, and everyone else in the camp, looked up into the blue, cloudless sky. To his surprise, a dragon flew overhead. Its scales glittered peacock blue-and-green in the sunlight. It also seemed to be carrying something cradled in its front legs.
It took a moment for it to sink in, then he sputtered, “That’s Maurynna! But where’s she going?” Not to Dragonskeep—she’s flying south. And what’s that in her arms? I could almost swear it looked like a person all bundled up—a child, even.
Lord Ashton hissed in anger. “Young man—that’s ‘Maurynna Kyrissaean’ to you! That or ‘Dragonlord’!”
Raven turned to him. “My lord, I grew up with Maurynna Kyrissaean in Thalnia. We were best friends. We are still friends.”
He spoke more sharply than he’d meant to; but he’d seen Maurynna in dragon form enough times now to read the tenseness in every line of her body. “My apologies, my lord, for speaking so sharply. But something’s amiss—I just know it. I think that was a person she was carrying.”
He shaded his eyes and looked after her as she rapidly dwindled from sight. “She’s flying hard,” he muttered to himself. “What’s to the south?” And if that was a child, who …
Casna. Casna was to the south. A sharp whistle called Stormwind to him. He leapt up onto the broad, bare back. “Aunt Yarrow, would you mind if I go find Linden or Shima and ask them what’s wrong? I think that was a person she was carrying and I’ve a bad feeling I might know him or her.” He added the Yerrin word for “child” and hoped Lord Ashton wouldn’t understand it.
If he
was right, it was one of two children: Kella or Prince Rann. If it was the prince and he was taken ill, it might well cause a panic and break up the fair early—at the least. Yarrow would need to know. If it was Kella … damn, there was nothing he could do but find a temple of the Mother in Balyaranna town and leave some coins for prayers for the little girl.
“Go then,” Yarrow said. “Set your mind at ease.”
He rode off. But he could find neither Dragonlord, though he searched until late in the day. Discouraged, he rode into Balyaranna proper and finally found his way to the temple of the Mother.
Whoever it was, this was the least—and all—he could do.
Thirty-three
Lord Lenslee pushed aside the door flap of the tavern tent and looked around in distaste. The noise was deafening, a raucous mix of babbling voices, bawdy songs, and curses, all spiced with squeals and giggles. Worse yet, the air was thick with heat and the stale smells of sweat and sour ale and roasted meat.
It was, in Therinn’s opinion, a sty. Why in the name of all the gods Garron’s was the current favorite of the younger nobles, he could not fathom. Well and well, it didn’t matter; he wasn’t here for pleasure. Where was—?
Therinn sighed. He should have known he’d find Tirael with a girl. This one, though, didn’t seem to be falling under his handsome cousin’s spell. Indeed, she was trying to push him away, her eyes flashing angrily. The Kelnethi lord pursed his lips in sardonic amusement; how refreshing.
Therinn elbowed his way through the crowd and tapped Tirael on the shoulder. “A word with you, cousin.”
Tirael kept one arm around the serving girl’s waist as he turned to see who wanted him. “What is it?” he said sullenly. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Not as busy as you’re going to be,” Therinn said too sweetly.
Taking advantage of her captor’s distraction, the girl stamped on Tirael’s foot. He stumbled back, letting go of her in his surprise. She eeled off into the crowd that hooted with laughter at her erstwhile tormentor’s discomfort.
Good for her, Therinn thought. He grabbed Tirael’s arm before the other man could go after her. “Let her go. I’ve something important to discuss with you. Outside, where the air’s fit to breathe.” When his cousin balked, Therinn growled, “Now.”
His face flushed with wine and pouting like a child, Tirael obeyed with no good grace. Therinn shook his head as he pushed back through the crowd. His parents had much to answer for in their raising of this spoiled puppy. How Tirael managed to charm almost everyone else was beyond him.
A pity his old tutor’s eyes began to fail and he entered the temple of Rhoslin as one of their scholars. Luyens was the only person who could influence Tir for the better.
When they were finally outside, Therinn took a deep breath of the night air, grateful for its fresh sweetness, dusty as it was. He took the torch from the groom’s hand and pulled Tirael well away from both tent and retainers.
“Are you sober enough to be worth talking to?” Therinn snapped.
“I’m not near as drunk as you think or as I want to be,” Tirael retorted, wincing in the torchlight. He glared at his cousin. “What the hell do you want?”
“Keep a civil tongue in your head, or have you forgotten all you owe me, dear cousin?” Therinn said in a voice edged with steel.
Tirael dropped his gaze, mumbling something that Therinn didn’t give a fig for. He had more important things to worry about.
“Have you seen a Yerrin here, a man with reddish blond hair, young? He rides a big stallion, black with a grey mane and tail,” he said.
Tirael grimaced. “Him? Arisyn Darnhollis’s pet Yerrin? Yes, I’ve seen him, the insolent dog. Needs a good whipping to teach him his place, he does. He’ll get it soon enough.” Tirael smirked. He went on, “What the hell’s important about him?”
“He’s not important. The horse may be,” Therinn said tensely.
His cousin rubbed at his ears as if not trusting what they’d just told him. “The horse?” Tirael said in astonishment. “That bloody plow horse, important? It’s naught but a Shamreen draft horse.”
“According to the gossip running through the fair,” Therinn grated, “that bloody plow horse may well be a Llysanyin.” He couldn’t be certain in the torch’s flickering light, but he thought the other’s face went pale.
Tirael’s mouth opened and closed once, twice, thrice, but no words came out, just a strangled sound. Then, at last, “No, it can’t be,” he said, looking wildly around. “It can’t be. He’s no—he’s just a commoner!”
There was a note of—panic?—in Tirael’s voice that Therinn didn’t understand; he knew why he feared that the horse was one of the fabled mounts of the Dragonlords, but why that should frighten Tirael …
No matter. Whatever bothered Tirael was of minor importance compared to what this would mean to him if it were true.
“It had better not be possible. Now tell me what you know about this fellow. Lord Dunly said that he’s with a Yerrin horse breeder—Yarrow Whitethorndaughter. Is that true or have Dunly’s brains turned to porridge at last? And what’s his name?”
Not that he remembered that damned song that well, but perhaps if he heard the name it would jog his memory.… He grabbed Tirael’s upper arm and was startled to find his cousin was trembling despite the heat.
Tirael jerked away. He rubbed his arm, his breath coming hard and fast. “I should bother remembering what some damned peasant’s name is? Why do you care, anyway? You don’t believe those lies, do you?”
“I don’t believe or disbelieve. I don’t know enough yet. But I do know that if enough people believe him, there’s trouble ahead.”
Tirael sneered. “You’re afraid of a peasant?”
“Of a peasant, no. Of a peasant with a Llysanyin stallion who is also allied with a respected horse breeder—I’m terrified. As you should be.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing! You’re afraid of a mere pe—”
Therinn cuffed his cousin sharply on the ear. “Need I explain it in words a child of three would understand, you horse’s ass? It seems I must, so think upon these two: stud fees.”
“Who’d want a plow—”
Therinn snarled in frustration. “And if it is a Llysanyin, who’d want to pay stud fees for anything less? By the Mother’s left tit, Tirael, is there anything in that pretty head of yours?
“Until now, I’ve had every lord and lady who fancied themselves a breeder of racehorses throwing themselves at my feet, shoving their gold at me, begging me to accept their mares for Summer Lightning. I could pick and choose, name my own price, make whatever conditions I wanted, and they still begged me to take their money.
“Then came … this Yerrin and his horse. The horse that you call a plow horse, but that many say looks much like Linden Rathan’s Llysanyin. The Llysanyin that journeyed from Dragonskeep on its own to find him—don’t you remember hearing the story from Lady Niathea last winter solstice?”
At Tirael’s nod, Therinn said sarcastically, “Good. I was beginning to think that too much wine had addled your wits permanently. Now—where was I? Oh, yes.”
He went on relentlessly, “As I said, then came this Yerrin and his possible Llysanyin. And suddenly, no one wants to bring his mare to Summer Lightning. Men and women who were begging me to hold a place for them are now avoiding me. A bold few have even demanded their money back. I’ve spent the better part of this day arguing with Lord Ranklin over the money he’s paid me.
“Money that I need, Tirael. I had to pay wergild to Lord Agon’s sister for the death of her eldest child, Tirael, remember? And do you remember why I had to pay it, dear coz? Because of you, Tirael. Because of your arrogance, cruelty, and complete stupidity. Because it was either pay or let him take Summer Lightning—and I knew that Lightning could get that money back and more.”
Therinn took a deep breath to calm himself. He’d offered a staggering sum for the wergild. Not because the family�
��s rank demanded it; indeed, the boy’s father—or, rather, stepfather, though that wasn’t common knowledge—wasn’t even noble. A craftsman of some sort, if his memory served him.
Hell, if Agon hadn’t married his sister off to that fellow, the child would have been a bastard. Therinn knew what few others did: Agon’s sister had been with child when she married her craftsman. She’d hoped to snare herself a high-ranking, rich husband and so got herself pregnant by the son of the noble family she was fostered with.
At least, she’d claimed he was the father; Therinn knew that there were two or three other possibilities, all heirs to great estates. What was her name again … Ah, yes: Romissa, whose plans for an estate of her own had come to naught when her foster mother guessed at her game and turned the trollop out. To save the family’s name, Agon had wed her to some commoner who’d become besotted with her and paid Agon a hefty bride-price.
No, Therinn hadn’t needed to pay Romissa or Agon so much; what he’d needed, though, was to close the matter before their elder half brother heard the news. By accepting the wergild, Agon, as Lord Sansy and therefore head of the family, had constrained all his kin to regard the matter as closed and done with. So he’d borrowed heavily and at usurious rates—and with Summer Lightning himself as the guarantee. He’d had to, to get the money in time.
And it had been just in time, too; mere candlemarks after the wergild was handed over, the half brother had shown up, furious and grieving. Therinn had never understood that. It wasn’t as if the boy had been any true kin of his, after all. It was something of an open secret that someone other than the old Lord Sansy had fathered Agon and Romissa, but since the old man had never gotten around to disinheriting them before he died, Agon had inherited.
But the man had had to accept the agreement. Therinn still shuddered when he thought of how narrow an escape he’d had. Not only was the “half brother” a bard, he was an elder of that guild, one Leet by name. Thank the gods, it was only in his worst nightmares that Therinn became the butt of many a scathing song.
Bard's Oath (Dragonlord) Page 26
