Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  Wisely she paid him no heed. Therinn followed her with cold, hard eyes. She stumbled hastily to the door and fumbled the latch open, whimpering whenever she looked back and met that steely gaze.

  When she was gone, Therinn looked back at his younger cousin who had finally managed to get, however unsteadily, to his feet. Tirael stared sullenly at him.

  “What the hell do you want now, damn you?” he demanded. “You ruined—”

  “Shut your filthy mouth,” Therinn said with quiet fury. He went to the table that Tirael used as a desk and sat down. It was littered with empty bottles, broken quill pens, and papers. Therinn absently noticed that there was a letter from Tirael’s old tutor in the one clear space; he recognized the old man’s still beautiful script. “Now tell me—is it true that you’re in a match race with that Yerrin?”

  Tirael wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Before or after I spoke to you about him?”

  “Before.”

  “And you didn’t tell me.”

  Tirael laughed, a laugh full of drunken bravado. “Stop being such an old woman, coz! My fifty gold pieces are safe. Brythian will beat that plow horse easily. And then that damned Yerrin and his horse are mine. He agreed to become my serf, did you know? Lord Huryn witnessed it.”

  That stopped Therinn cold. He hadn’t known what the wager was. He closed his eyes at such stupidity—Tirael’s, not the Yerrin’s. The fury he’d felt before was nothing to what coursed through his veins now.

  He surged to his feet and slammed his hands against the table. “Are you mad?” he roared. “Or just abysmally stupid, Tirael?” He swept the table clear in frustration. A few of the bottles shattered when they hit the floor. He didn’t care.

  “You idiot,” he snarled. “You complete and total idiot! Didn’t you understand what it meant that he was willing to make such a wager? Or have you drowned whatever wits you had in your pretty little head in too much wine?”

  The look of drunken incomprehension on Tirael’s face was too much for him. “It means the horse truly is a Llysanyin, you bucket of horse piss!” he shouted. “Only a man who knows he’s guaranteed to win would risk a wager like that—unless he was either desperate or as stupid as you! And from all I’ve heard, this man is neither.

  “A Llysanyin! The only thing that could make Brythian—one of the finest horses to come out of my stables and half brother to Summer Lightning—look like a snail! I’ll tell you this now: Do not come looking to me for those fifty pieces of gold.”

  Tirael smirked. “Even if I lose, that gold’s safe.” He belched, then leaned over the table and confided, “Y’see, I never swore I’d pay. Never, ever gave my word to Huryn, and the silly asses never noticed, neither him nor that damned Yerrin up—upstart.”

  Therinn stared at him. Of all the things Tirael had done in his short and wasted life, this was somehow the worst. Arrogance, conceit, selfishness—all of these things Tirael had in abundance. That his cousin had a streak of meanness—even cruelty—Therinn knew well, else Tirael would never have put that boy up on Summer Lightning’s back.

  Yet he’d thought that Tirael had at least a spark of honor hidden somewhere. But that foolish hope had just shriveled and died.

  Therinn knew what all this meant for him. The first was bad enough; a horse that everyone who mattered knew came from his stable would be made to look like a nag, thereby driving away more potential breeders.

  But that his good name would be linked to a cheat’s.… The thought sickened him. “You will not race. You will concede the victory to the Yerrin and pay him the gold.”

  Tirael gaped at him. “The hell I will! I don’t have that much gold and you know it!”

  “Then you shouldn’t have made that wager, should you?” Therinn said coldly.

  “Be damned to you,” Tirael snarled. “I’m riding tomorrow. So what if I can’t win? I want to see the bastard’s face when he realizes that he won’t get his gold and there’s not a thing he can do about it.”

  One last try … “An honorable man’s word is his bond,” Therinn said with quiet regret. This was useless, but he had to try … for Brythian. “You shouldn’t need Huryn’s witnessing your pledge to pay. When you made that wager, you gave your word.”

  Tirael told him in no uncertain terms what he could do with his stupid, old-fashioned ideas about honor. Told him graphically and in language that would have made a mule driver blush.

  So be it. Therinn walked out, not caring that Tirael would see it as an admission of defeat, hardly hearing the mocking laughter that followed him down the stairs.

  There stood Beckrum, waiting. Therinn stopped before him and buried his face in his hands as he thought.

  If only there weren’t so damn many Beast Healers about! he thought with sad irony. Almost any other time and place, he could have Beckram simply lame Brythian—something that would heal on its own in a tenday or so—and that would be the end of it. Nor did he have the time for an elaborate plan. “My faithless cousin plans to run Brythian in a match race,” he began, then faltered. “He also plans to renege on his wager. And Brythian is certain to be defeated—soundly. The race is tomorrow.”

  The groom studied his face and nodded.

  Therinn drew a deep breath. “That must not happen, Beckrum. There must be no chance of it happening.”

  Once more the groom nodded. “Brythian goes out to pasture with the other horses at sunrise every morning,” he observed.

  “I leave it in your hands,” said Therinn with a heavy heart. “Don’t tell me how— Just don’t tell me anything.”

  Thirty-six

  It was time. The solstice was nearly here; the Queen’s Chase was soon.

  He should wait. His revenge would be so much more delicious if he snatched Lenslee’s near-certain victory from him at the very last instant.

  But the closer to the heart he cut this wound, the more chance that something would go wrong. No, he’d not take any more chances than he had to.

  As had become his custom, Leet slipped out of the castle, harp under his cloak. But this time along with it he carried a small sack.

  * * *

  It was warm enough that they didn’t really need the fire in their bedroom. But Merrilee had asked for it, so a servant laid a small one for them. She sat now, staring into it, night robe pulled tight around her as if she were cold. Her long fair hair, hanging loose down her back, looked almost white against the dark blue of the night robe. The sight of it gave Karelinn an idea.

  Let’s try this one last time, she told herself as she picked up Merrilee’s hairbrush. “Will you please tell Father what happened?” she asked as she began brushing.

  “No, Kare. Fighting a Challenge is forbidden during the fair and you know Father’s temper. He won’t be able to wait until it’s over.” She leaned into the brush.

  Pity, Karelinn thought sourly. That’s likely the only reason the cowardly wretch dared approach Merri. If Father goes after that craven—and he will!—he’ll be fined heavily. Fines we can’t afford. “You’re right, of course.”

  It was their father’s only real fault, that temper. And, Karelinn suspected, where the safety or happiness of his daughters was concerned, a snowcat would do well to back down from their father. “Then what about Shima? I told you what he said back at the Gyrfalcon’s Nest.”

  “Shima is it now?” Merrilee teased. “Not Shima Ilyathan, Dragonlord, or His Grace?”

  Curse it all, she could feel her cheeks burning. “Merri,” she scolded, “stop trying to change the subject.”

  “I’m not—yes, I am.” Merrilee’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry, Kare. It’s just…”

  “What about Eadain?”

  Merrilee twisted around on the stool so fast the brush caught in her hair and was yanked from Karelinn’s hand. It hung for a moment, then fell to the floor with a thud.

  “No! Not Eadain! Especially not Eadain!” Merrilee gasped.

  “Merri! Calm down! Why ‘especially no
t Eadain’?” Karelinn retrieved the brush and ran it lightly over the long hair. Just as she thought; that had made a snarl. She began to gently work it out.

  It was a few moments before her sister could calm herself enough to reply. She said, “Because Eadain will ask Tirael to leave me alone. In his own way he’s as protective as Father. He’s just more rational about it. But I’m afraid of what Tirael would do if he found out that Eadain’s courting me—and that I’m listening. I—I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to him.”

  Oh, my, Karelinn thought with amusement. You’re falling in love with him, aren’t you? And she found that the thought of Eadain as brother-in-law was an appealing one.

  But once again Merrilee was right. With his twisted leg, Eadain would stand no chance against the healthy, strong Tirael. If only Tirael would fall in a hole somewhere …

  But now Merrilee was talking so softly that Karelinn had to stop brushing and bend close to hear.

  “I just wish Tirael would go away. I’ve been listening, you know, when people talk about him. He’s … been making himself known at the fair. And you know how Arisyn says that Tirael won’t honor the wager if he loses the race? I think Ari’s right. And remember that story he told us—about the first time Raven saw Tirael? What he and his friends were doing to those children? It’s not the only tale like that, Merri. Nor is it the worst.

  “And it’s all making me feel like such an … an idiot! How could I have been so stupid as to be fooled by him? It makes me feel so … worthless.”

  Karelinn set the brush down and hugged her sister from behind. “You’re not a fool, Merri, and you’re certainly not worthless. You’re just such a good person that you don’t look for the badness in anyone else. And you’re not the only one who was taken in by him, remember? Aunt Perrilinia thought he was wonderful as well—and if she isn’t a shrewd old bat, I don’t know who is! So dry your eyes, my girl. Think about the gem you’ve found this time and forget about that piece of … coal.”

  As she’d known it would, what came after that pregnant pause made Merri giggle. She was still giggling when Karelinn went to go answer the knock at their door.

  It was Coryn. One look at his face and Karelinn knew why he was there. “At least you finally have the grace to look embarrassed at running errands for that bully,” she snapped.

  Coryn flushed a deep red. Wordlessly, he held out yet another note.

  “Is that from Tirael?” Merrilee asked. Coryn nodded. “Kare, give it to me. And Coryn—you stay there and witness this,” she ordered.

  Marveling at her gentle sister’s imperious tone, Karelinn brought her the note. Merrilee snatched it from her hand and flung it into the fire. Moments later it crumbled into ash.

  “And that,” Merrilee said clearly, “is all my answer.”

  * * *

  Leet smiled like a cat as he watched that fool boy Robie go off, sack clutched in his arms. The calling had worked perfectly! He knew without a doubt that Robie would follow every instruction, take every care, so that he would not be discovered. And the foul stuff was at that perfect stage.… This would soon be over; he would have his revenge at last.

  The gods were good.

  Thirty-seven

  Raven was filling nose bags with grain for the grooms to distribute when Arisyn raced into Yarrow’s camp, pulling Arrow to a sliding halt before him.

  “What in Gifnu’s nine hells are you doing up this early?” Raven asked in amazement. It was just past dawn and Arisyn was rarely up before the eighth candlemark. Nor was the race to start for some time yet.

  Part of his mind noted in amusement that it was a good thing Arisyn hadn’t shown up even a quarter of a candlemark ago. If he’d seen Shima—who’d stayed the night after talking racing strategies until the stars were fading—departing from the camp, the game would have been over. Linden or even Maurynna he could explain away as fellow Yerrins to account for why their horses looked like Stormwind. One look at Shima and Je’nihahn, though, and Arisyn would have guessed everything in an instant.

  Then Raven saw the look on the boy’s face. Arisyn was not here for pleasure. “What’s wrong?”

  “You haven’t heard the news?” Arisyn said grimly as he swung down from Arrow’s saddle. “No—I can see you haven’t.”

  Raven gestured for one of the grooms to take Arrow’s reins. “Walk him,” he ordered. Then, to Arisyn, “I’ve been working here since before sun up so I’ve had no chance to hear any gossip. What news is this?”

  “You’ll not be racing today,” Arisyn said. “And likely not ever—racing Tirael, that is. Brythian and some of the other horses got out of their pasture this morning. Luckily, all the horses have been found—all save Brythian.”

  Raven felt a moment’s regret that he wouldn’t be able to demonstrate Stormwind’s speed and endurance past all doubt. Ah, well—the less he had to do with Lord Tirael, the better. Still, it was a coward’s way out.

  His disgust must have been plain on his face, for Arisyn added, “I don’t think it was Tirael. Coryn said that last night he was boasting how he was going to cheat you out of that fifty gold. Said he couldn’t wait to see your face when you finally realized that he’d never sworn to pay you.”

  Raven made a rude noise. “Hate to disappoint him, but I’d realized it the night we made the wager. I was going to race anyway to show everyone what Stormwind can do.”

  “I know.” Arisyn took a deep breath. “But there’s worse.”

  The look of fear in the boy’s eyes set the hair on the back of Raven’s neck prickling. “What?”

  “Summer Lightning’s dead. And no one knows how.”

  * * *

  Leet gave up trying to sleep. He had to know if fortune still favored him. So, as the light crept into the sky, he dressed and took himself down to the kitchens. He’d done this often enough that no one would remark upon it. Indeed, at the sight of him, Mistress Cook nodded at the table, then jerked her head at an underling.

  Soon a cup of small ale and an egg cooked just the way Leet like them appeared before him. As he ate, he debated where might be the best place in the fair to listen for news.

  He had no need to; the news came to him. As one of the farmers who supplied the castle carried in a basket of carrots, he called out, “Have tha all heard the news? Summer Lightning’s dead as dead!”

  For a moment Leet feared he would weep for joy. His revenge was complete! He rubbed the indentation under his lip. This—this was a moment to treasure for the rest of his life.

  Then a hated memory reared its ugly head: the smug look on Therinn Barans’s face as he told Leet that he was too late. That his brother, Agon, Lord Sansy, had accepted wergild only candlemarks before. That there would be no songs made of Arnath’s death. That it was over, done with.

  It was not over. Not until he saw another expression upon Therinn Barans’s face.

  * * *

  “Look at him! Look at my poor Lightning! What killed him?” Lord Lenslee demanded. “There’s not a mark on him and he was healthy just yesterday—you said so yourself!”

  Conor stared down at the dead horse sprawled across the stall floor. One dull, sunken eye stared up at him in dumb accusation. The heavy buzz of flies droned in his ears as they crawled over the body.

  He took a deep breath. Dear gods, he felt sick to his very soul. Had he somehow missed something? But the horse had looked well yesterday evening. Hellfire, “well” didn’t even begin to describe the chestnut stallion—he’d been vibrantly alive, dancing at the end of his lead rope with the sheer joy of living, reveling in his speed and strength and beauty.

  Now he was meat for the worms. So what had happened?

  Conor passed his hands over his eyes. “My lord,” he said bitterly, “I’ve no idea. As you said, there’s not a mark on him.”

  A murmur went through the watching grooms and stable hands at his words. “Magic,” it said. “Dark sorcery,” it whispered. It filled his ears like the buzzing of the flies
and sickened him even more.

  Gods help him—what if they were right? He was no mage to fight a wizards’ war. He was only a Beast Healer.

  “My lord, is something … wrong?”

  Conor looked up to see a man silhouetted against the opening of the stable. All he could make out was the red tunic of a bard. For a moment he wondered if this was Otter, the bard of whom Linden Rathan had spoken from time to time. Conor had always wanted to meet the man.

  But then Lord Lenslee said, “Master Bard Leet!” so he knew this wasn’t the Dragonlord’s friend.

  What was odd, though, was Lenslee’s reaction to the bard’s appearance. The man’s jaw actually dropped. Conor wondered why the amazement; he’d met a good number of bards on his travels and had never known one to think he or she was too good to enter a stable—especially a lord’s stable with its treasure of blue-blooded animals. Were Master Bards different? he wondered. Perhaps they don’t have to worry about keeping potential patrons happy.…

  After a moment, Lord Lenslee said softly, “There is indeed something wrong. So very, very wrong.…”

  As Lenslee stared down at his lost hopes once more, biting his knuckles and whispering, “My poor, poor, beautiful Lightning…” over and over again, the Master Bard stepped inside, giving Conor his first good look at the man: medium height and build, with deep-set brown eyes, a cleft chin, and light brown hair gone silver at the temples. A very ordinary man, save for his almost lordly air of assurance and the gold trim on his tunic that proclaimed his as one of the elders of the Bards’ Guild.

  “What killed him?” the bard asked as he came down the aisle. When he reached the door of the stall, he looked over it at the animal lying within.

  Conor thought the bard must either have the tightest rein on his emotions that he’d ever seen, or that the man was the most cold-blooded bastard he’d ever come across. There was no flicker of emotion on the man’s face as he stared down into the stall, not even an eyebrow raised in surprise.