Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  Since the distraught Lenslee seemed not to hear the question, Conor said shortly, “We don’t know—yet.” He wasn’t sure what made him add the last word; it sounded like a challenge. He hoped the bard wouldn’t take offense—the last thing he needed right now was to be made the butt of a sarcastic tune. But something was not quite right here.…

  Master Bard Leet glanced over at him. Conor saw the cool gaze quickly take in his brown-and-green tunic.

  “Quite the mystery, Beast Healer…?” Leet cocked his head in inquiry.

  Reluctantly, Conor gave his name.

  “Beast Healer Conor,” the bard went on, “I don’t envy you the task ahead.” He shook his head. “Luck to you.”

  With that, the bard leaned close to Lord Lenslee and murmured something Conor didn’t catch. But it must have been some kind of condolences, for Lenslee, his voice husky, said, “My thanks, Bard Leet. I appreciate—”

  His voice broke; he turned away from the stall and stumbled to the door. The bard followed him. Conor looked away; it was not an easy thing, watching a man as proud as Therinn of Lenslee break down. True, the Kelnethi lord was not one of Conor’s favorites; he was haughty and arrogant, and ofttimes cared little for those beneath his station. But by the gods, he loved his horses as if they were his children and treated them accordingly. That was more than many lords or ladies did for the beasts who won them gold and honor.

  So out of respect Conor averted his gaze. But at the last instant, he looked up again in time to see the bard pause in the doorway and look back over his shoulder.

  The bastard was smiling. Before Conor could react, the bard was gone and old Gorith, Lenslee’s farrier, limped up to stand by his side. The old man scratched his head like one bemused. “Guess old quarrels are forgiven,” he said. “Though I never thought that one would be.”

  “Oh? And what quarrel was that?” Conor asked. He didn’t hold with gossip usually, but he’d give a great deal to know the why of that self-satisfied smirk.

  “Not certain ’zackly what it were,” Gorith said. “I weren’t there, y’see—I were at home working with a colt that needed special shoes. Iffen I remember aright, it happened at the Bellford Fair races. Them’s in south Kelneth, not far from Bylith. His Lordship always goes to those iffen he’s got some good horses.

  “Now, where was I? Oh, yes—heard summat about it afterward, I did, but it were a few years back. Now what…”

  Gorith tugged at his earlobe as if he could pull out the elusive memory. Conor waited patiently.

  At last the old farrier spat to one side, then said, “Think it were summat ’bout a young lad.… Killed, he was, when he were thrown. Tried to ride too much horse for himself and got thrown. Horse kicked him in the head, so m’brother Rumsy told me.”

  Gorith jerked his chin in the direction of Summer Lightning’s stall. “That horse, and it were done real deliberate, Rumsy said.”

  Before Conor could ask what he meant, the rumble of a large cart across the cobblestones cut him off. It came to a halt before the wide stable door. Lord Portis’s stablemaster Tuerin entered at the head of a crew of workmen. Gorith slipped away.

  “You’re taking him already?” Conor asked, seeing the ropes and pulleys the men carried.

  “We must, Beast Healer,” said the stablemaster. “Lord Lenslee cannot bear the thought of him feeding the flies. And in this heat…” He let the sentence trail off.

  Conor ran his fingers through his hair. “I’d hoped to have one of my superiors look at him, but I understand. Still, leave his stall uncleaned, if you would. I’d like to come back to look it over with someone.”

  “That I’ll do,” Tuerin promised. He turned to his crew. “You know what to do” was all he said.

  Conor left as the men entered the stall. He couldn’t bear to watch.

  * * *

  Maurynna rode into Yarrow’s encampment. She sat Boreal a moment in front of the common tent and looked around. No Stormwind; that meant Raven was somewhere else. She saw one of the grooms she knew from Yarrow’s holding in Yerrih pitching hay to the line of horses in the center of the camp. “Alder! Is Yarrow about?”

  “She’s inside, Dragonlord,” he called back. “And Raven should be back soon.”

  Maurynna waved a hand in thanks. She dropped the reins on Boreal’s neck and swung down from his broad back as Yarrow pushed the tent door back.

  “Welcome, Maurynna,” Yarrow said. “Come in and have a bite to eat and some ale.”

  She spoke pleasantly enough but Maurynna could see signs of strain on her face. Boreal snorted and eyed her for a moment before ambling off to the water trough. Alder followed Boreal.

  Maurynna ducked into the tent after Yarrow. “Is something amiss? You look worried.”

  “Gods, yes. Worried and upset.”

  “What is it?” Maurynna sat down at the trestle table as Yarrow uncovered some cheese and a half loaf of bread on a platter.

  But Yarrow said nothing more until she’d drawn a pitcher of ale and set it down on the table along with two mugs. “You haven’t heard about what happened to Lord Lenslee’s prize horse?”

  Maurynna shook her head as she cut bread for the two of them. “No, though I did notice that the fair was buzzing like a hive of bees as I rode through it. What horse—oh, is that the one who’s so fast and so ill-tempered? Linden knows the Beast Healer who’s been looking after Lenslee’s stable.”

  “Summer Lightning and Conor, yes,” Yarrow answered.

  “So what happened?”

  Yarrow tore her piece of bread into bits, her eyes staring at a point somewhere beyond Maurynna’s shoulder. “Summer Lightning. Dead. In his stall. Not a mark on him.”

  “Dear gods! How?”

  The Yerrin horse trader shook her head. “No one knows.”

  “Magic?” Maurynna asked, feeling a little sick. Please—not another dark mage like Kas Althume.…

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Yarrow answered. “And that’s certainly the rumor going around.”

  “Have you seen it? The horse, I mean,” Maurynna asked.

  Yarrow made a rude noise. “You’re jesting, hmm? Think you the likes of me would be allowed into His Lordship’s precious stables even at the best of times? He’d be certain I was a thief or a spy. And now the man’s half-mad with fury and fear, I’ll wager. If a mage struck down his best horse, no doubt he’s wondering if he’s next. I would be.”

  Maurynna suddenly knew what Yarrow truly feared. If there was a mage killing horses, where would he strike next? Here? Maurynna knew how Yarrow felt about her horses. No wonder she looked tense and worried.

  “If it was magic,” Maurynna said slowly, “someone must have hired him—I can’t believe that some insane mage is wandering about killing horses at random. Does Lord Lenslee have enemies?”

  “He must have some,” Yarrow said with a harsh laugh. “The man treats damn near everyone who’s not noble like they were lower than what gets mucked out of his stables. Of course, as long as you’re useful to him, that’s another tale.” She shrugged.

  Maurynna nibbled a bit of cheese. “So those who might have the most reason to strike at him likely haven’t the means to hire a mage. Soooo—that would seem to leave a racing rival. Someone whose horse might have had a chance but for Summer Lightning.” She poured them both more ale while Yarrow thought that over.

  “Now that Lord Duriac’s in prison,” Yarrow said, “Lord Therinn of Lenslee is Lord Sevrynel’s chief racing rival.” She frowned at the foam threatening to spill over the top of her mug. “And now Lenslee’s best horse—the only one in his stable that without question could win against all comers—is dead without a mark on him. Just dead in his stall.”

  The thought that Sevrynel might be behind the crime made Maurynna feel ill. She liked the Cassorin earl. “Don’t seemingly healthy horses sometimes just drop dead? I remember that happened to my uncle’s friend when I was a child in Thalnia.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of it
many a time—hell, it happened to me once—but not when a horse is resting in a stall. It happens when a horse is working.”

  Maurynna nodded. “My uncle’s friend was riding at the time.” She paused a moment to consider. “What if it wasn’t magery? What if it was, oh, poison? Anyone could do that.”

  That set Yarrow thinking. “True,” she allowed at last. “But from all I’ve heard, the way Lord Portis keeps his stables guarded during the fair—especially when his cousin Lenslee has his horses there—it’s not likely it would be an outsider, some nobody who would have no business at the stable. So it would seem that it’s one of his stable crew. Yet … yet from all I’ve heard—and horse-copers gossip worse than a bunch of old nannies, mind you—Lenslee’s grooms and handlers are well paid and treated decently. So they’re loyal to him; they know they’d be hard-pressed to find such a good place with anyone else. And it’s not likely that one of Portis’s people would kill a horse of Lenslee’s, for their lord doesn’t have a horse entered this year.”

  “Hmm.” Maurynna set her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “So it’s not very likely that a horse would just drop dead.…”

  “Considering it had just been examined by a talented Beast Healer and pronounced healthy? I think I’ve a better chance of waking up tomorrow and finding out I’m the next heir to the High Chief of Yerrih. And since I’m in no way related to him, that would be a pretty trick.”

  Both fell silent, each woman retreating into her own thoughts.

  Please, please, please let it not be a mage, Maurynna thought. Or Sevrynel.

  * * *

  Fiarin had them start too late, Pod thought wearily. This was taking far, far longer than they’d thought it would. The esker hadn’t looked like bad walking from the shore, but it was thick with brambles and pricker-bushes and rambling vines right down to the water on either side. It was getting dark and they were not yet at the end.

  For a time Fiarin had forced them to wade in the water alongside. With his long legs, he looked more than ever like some big wading bird, but Pod was too tired to be amused. While they made better time, slogging through the mud was exhausting.

  But after Fiarin had slipped and fallen into a deep hole, they went back to forcing a way through the vicious thorns. In the end it had taken Kiga’s enormous strength to pull the senior Wort Hunter back to dry land. Fiarin had been unable to find any purchase for his feet to help and he weighed more than Pod would have thought.

  They stumbled into another of the few clearings they’d found during the day. A kind of rank, coarse grass with sharp edges held sway in them, somehow holding off their thorny cousins.

  “I’m not going any further today,” Pod heard herself say, astonished at her daring. She sank to her knees.

  Fiarin gave her an evil look. So; the madness was back. For a moment Pod thought he would strike her—or try to. Kiga would never let the blow land.

  Then, by the mercy of all the gods, Fiarin had a passing fit of common sense. “It’s too late to enter the swamp today,” he conceded, looking around as if just noticing the dying light. “We’ll camp here for the night. We cross the swamp tomorrow. And then…”

  He stopped and stared greedily at the distant tree-shrouded swamp fading into the darkness. “And then … the Woods.”

  Thirty-eight

  Raven and Arisyn spent the day riding slowly through the somber fair. There was no speech between them. Instead they listened, eavesdropping shamelessly. Few spoke of the match race that was never to be. All the talk was of the mysterious death of the favorite of the Queen’s Chase. “Summer Lightning’s dead!” was all they heard. “Did you hear? Summer Lightning’s dead!”

  Everywhere they looked, fairgoers gathered in small groups, rank forgotten for once as nobles and commoners gathered together and discussed the little they knew. And because no one knew the truth, rumors flew faster than, well, lightning, Raven thought.

  “Poison, it was!”

  “Magic, I heard!”

  “And I heard that his head was chopped off! Someone saw a man with a sword running from the stable!”

  “Have to be a big man,” the first gossiper scoffed.

  “It were! A giant, I heard!”

  Raven shook his head. He’d no more idea than the next man what had happened to the favorite, but a giant with a sword to match would likely have been noticed in the fair by now.

  “How could someone do something like that?” Arisyn asked in a subdued voice.

  “I don’t know. Whatever it was, I just hope the poor animal didn’t suffer. Is the Queen’s Chase to go on?”

  “Oh yes. It’s always run on the solstice, no matter what. The Rockfalls have hosted the fair of Balyaranna for generations. And come what may, my foster father told me, the race is run to honor a vow the first earl made to the Mother. Every earl or countess since then has held to that. When Countess Beline was dying, she ordered that the race be run even if she died that day.”

  “What happened?” Raven asked. It seemed horse-madness ran in the Rockfall bloodline. “And did she? Die, that is.”

  “She did—the night before. They ran the race as she’d ordered,” Arisyn said. “The legend is that she’d threatened to haunt her family if they didn’t. Guess they didn’t want to take the chance.”

  “Good for her.” Raven chuckled. “She knew what was important.”

  Arisyn grinned impishly. “But they did draw the line at propping her up in the royal box as she’d also wanted, Lord Sevrynel told me. She was his great-grandmother and he remembers the day even though, as he says, he was but a wee little boy.”

  * * *

  “There he is, Huryn! There’s the thief!”

  Raven recognized the voice—much to his annoyance. He glanced over his shoulder, hoping he was wrong.

  No; no such luck. It was indeed Tirael. But why was he pointing at him?

  Hold on there—did that bullying popinjay just call me “thief”?

  It seemed he had, for Lord Huryn called out, “I require you to stop, Raven Redhawkson.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Raven dismounted and waited for the High Marshal and his men to reach him.

  Arisyn snorted in derision. “Don’t blame Raven if you were so drunk you lost your belt pouch again, Tirael. Go back to the last tavern tent you were at and start looking there instead of wasting our time.”

  “Be quiet, you miserable little pile of turds,” Tirael said viciously. “You helped him steal Brythian, didn’t you?” He lunged at Arisyn with the clear intent of hauling him off Arrow.

  Lord Huryn was too fast for him. Somehow the black-haired High Marshal cut Tirael off. “None of that, Tirael!” Lord Huryn said sharply. “I suggest you—”

  “They’re both thieves!” Tirael shouted. “I demand you arrest them both!”

  A gasp from Arisyn made Raven look up at him. The boy’s face was pale—but not from fear as Raven first thought.

  This was bone-deep, righteous fury. Sevrynel’s foster son drew himself up and stared down at Tirael like a man looking down upon a maggot. “How dare you,” he said, his voice full of barely controlled rage. “How dare you, sirrah! Who are you to name me thief—you who never had any intention of paying a wager you made! Trot out your witnesses, you sack of lies! Where’s your proof that we stole your horse?”

  Raven had to bite his lip to keep from cheering. A glance at Lord Huryn told him that the High Marshal—as well as his men—were hard put to keep smiles from their faces.

  Arrow sidestepped until Arisyn was directly in front of their accuser. He leaned down until his face was a bare handspan from Tirael’s. “The penalties for laying false charges against a fellow noble are severe, Tirael. Shall I cry Challenge and name my Champion? Have you a Champion? Mine will be Black Althur, my father’s captain of the guard.”

  From the guardsmen’s whistles and the way Tirael’s face paled, Raven guessed that this Black Althur was known as a fell warrior. A little voice in
the back of his mind snickered, He’d likely wet himself if you named Linden.

  “You little—” Tirael sputtered. “You wouldn’t da—”

  “Lord Arisyn would be well within his rights,” Lord Huryn said mildly. “That is, unless you have incontrovertible proof, Tirael—such as eyewitnesses?”

  “I withdraw the charge against Lord Arisyn,” Tirael said sullenly. He pointed at Raven. “But not against him! Arrest him, I say!”

  Raven said quietly, “I was in my aunt’s camp all night long with a friend of mine, my lord, playing a game from his native land, and talking over the race. He left not long before Lord Arisyn brought me the news about Brythian. And in that short amount of time I was within the view of the men and women of my own camp and the camps around me. Nor would there have been enough time for me to get to wherever you keep your horse, steal it, and hide it someplace it still hasn’t been found—which is the last I heard. I’m sorry your horse is missing, my lord Tirael, for he seemed a fine animal indeed, and I was looking forward to our race even though I’d already known I’d never see my gold when I won. But I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Lies!” Tirael hissed. “And who cares for the word of a bunch of peasants!”

  “One of my witnesses is no peasant.” Raven turned to Arisyn. “My lord, would you ride aside, please?”

  Arisyn chewed his lip. “Knowing who your visitor was would end the game, wouldn’t it? As long as High Marshal Huryn has no objection, I’ll wait for you by that leather worker’s booth.”

  “The ‘game’?” Lord Huryn asked.

  “Lord Arisyn has been trying to guess what breed Stormwind is. Very honorable about it, as well. He won’t listen if someone tries to talk to him about it.”

  Chuckling, Lord Huryn waved away the young lord.

  When Arisyn was gone, Raven said to Tirael, “My lord, the friend with whom I talked all night long is Shima Ilyathan. I met him in Jehanglan. Would his word be enough for you?”

  “Yet another lie! You dare claim friendship with—”

  “Oh, give over, Tirael,” Lord Huryn said in disgust. “He’s not lying. Surely you’ve heard the song ‘Dragon and Phoenix’ at least once? Remember the part about some truehumans with Llysanyins? He tried to warn you when you challenged him to that race, but you wouldn’t listen. Brythian would have lost, pure and simple. A lucky thing for you that he’s gone, isn’t it—not that you ever intended to honor your end of the wager, did you?”