Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  The last was said in a tone of such disgust that Tirael’s face flamed. He turned and stalked away, snarling over his shoulder, “If you come to your senses, Huryn, and arrest that serf, I’ll be at Lord and Lady Pearrin’s encampment.”

  * * *

  When he heard where Tirael was staying that night, Arisyn said, “Oh, hang it all—I finally got permission to stay there tonight along with Coryn and Marus and Javriel!”

  Raven studied the fuming boy and came to a decision. “Never mind him—we’ve somewhere else to go. I think it’s time to let you know what Stormwind is, and I think you’ll like this other campsite even more. Follow me.” He led the way through the fair. Once outside the grounds, he set Stormwind to a slow canter through the growing dusk.

  Soon they reached the royal encampment. Raven led the way to the gate Maurynna had shown him at the Dragonlords’ end of the camp. A banner hung across the top of the gate: a silvery white dragon on a black background, the whole bordered in red. The guards at the gate eyed them.

  “Here we are!” Raven said cheerfully.

  Arisyn tugged at his sleeve. “This is where the Dragonlords are st-staying,” he stuttered.

  “Yes,” Raven agreed. “They are.”

  “But we can’t just barge in—”

  “Ari—remember the best friend Rynna I told you about? The one I grew up with?”

  Arisyn stared at him blankly for a moment. Then—well, Raven could tell the exact instant that acorn dropped. “Oh gods—you mean ‘Rynna’ is short for ‘Maurynna’?”

  “Guessed it in one. She’s still my best friend even though she’s Maurynna Kyrissaean now. But that hasn’t made any difference, save that because of her, Linden Rathan, Shima Ilyathan, and a couple of other Dragonlords have also become good friends of mine.”

  Raven forbore to add that he and Linden had not started out as friends. Then common sense—his—had prevailed at last. He’d accepted that he and Rynna would never be more than friends now. He never knew when it had happened, only that it was after their adventure in Jehanglan. But one day, he’d realized that the knowledge that they’d never be together didn’t hurt anymore. It was just something he knew as he knew that the hawthorn bush outside his window bore red berries. It just was.

  Considering Rynna’s temper, perhaps it was just as well, he thought, though he was fairly certain she wouldn’t try to box his ears for him anymore. But most of all, he knew she was happier than she’d ever been and in the end that was what counted.

  He glanced over at Arisyn and smiled. The boy’s eyes were huge.

  “Oh,” said Arisyn weakly. “You’re one of the truehumans mentioned in the song, aren’t you? The two with Llysanyins…” He stared at Stormwind. “Oh, my.” Then, with a big grin, “We’re going to camp with the Dragonlords? Hah! Eat dirt, Tirael!”

  * * *

  The light of the standing torches flickered over the servants as they moved among the men and women gathered around the royal encampment. The dancing glow turned their faces into fantastic masks as they offered wine here, sweetmeats and savory tarts there, or finger bowls and scented towels to the lords and ladies relaxing at tables set beneath the gaily colored awnings.

  Not that the awnings were needed anymore; the sun had gone down a candlemark or so ago, taking with it the day’s wilting heat. The night was pleasantly cool. The fire that blazed merrily in the center of the encampment was more for show than for warmth.

  There was something about being outside at night, Linden thought, that begged for a campfire, and not just for cooking, either. He watched the leaping flames, content for the moment to sit lazily at the table with Shima and Maurynna, listening to Bard Leet as he played.

  A pity Otter couldn’t be here. I prefer his version of “Mist on the Moor,” though it would be damned sticky with both of them here, Linden thought. Leet’s a master, no question of that, but some songs—the old ones at least—are better without the fancy flourishes.

  Still, the harp’s song flowed sweet as honeyed wine, a gentle counterpoint to the various conversations. Linden let it flow over him as he looked around.

  The mood of the camp was subdued. A sense of unease, even fear, hung over the gathering due, no doubt, to the mysterious death of the favorite. Linden knew that each owner had doubled the guard on his or her racers. Yet there were also undercurrents of a kind of fierce … excitement.

  Yes, that’s what it was: excitement. Before—barring some accident—the only question was which horse would come in second. Now … Now others had a chance at gold and glory.

  A leather ball rolled to his feet. He picked it up and tossed it back to Rann. The young prince grinned and waved in thanks, then went back to the serious business of a game of three-cornered toss with two other children that kept Bramble scrambling happily after the ball.

  A pity Kella couldn’t be here, he mindspoke Maurynna. Have you have any more word of her?

  The last letter from Maylin said that she was back to her old self and that Aunt Elenna has stopped hovering over her like a worried hen. Oh, and Kella says to give her love to Rann and Rosalea. I think Rosalea’s the little girl playing with Rann and that other boy.

  The song ended with a rippling double run up the strings, a delicate filigree of sound that hung bell-like in the dusk. Then it slipped into something Linden didn’t recognize, but liked right away.

  Shima straightened in his chair. “I know that one!” he said in delight. “It’s one of the songs I sang for him—though with a great deal added,” he added, his brow furrowed.

  Linden poured wine all around. “He does seem to like complex arrangements, doesn’t he? Always has, Otter says—the more elaborate, the better, and never able to resist another bit of tinkering with a tune.”

  When the song ended and Leet stood up, Maurynna said, “You know, I can’t help feeling that Leet looks vaguely familiar somehow, but I’m certain I’ve never met him. Are he and Otter friends?”

  The bard wandered among the tables, talking and sometimes playing a snippet of a song, or drinking a cup of wine.

  “Um—no,” Linden said, remembering the long-ago rivalry between Leet and Otter for the love of Jaida, another bard. She’d chosen Otter; unfortunately, she’d died during the birth of their first child, and the child with her. Leet had never forgiven Otter.

  But rather than revive old gossip, he left it at that, hoping that Maurynna would assume it was nothing more than the professional jealousy that happened all too often between bards.

  “Ah.” She flashed him a knowing grin. “I see.”

  “Dragonlords?” a hesitant voice asked behind them.

  As one, they turned to see one of the guards who walked the perimeter of the royal encampment. He was young, and looked uncomfortable, likely at being so close to some of the “gentry,” Linden thought.

  “Yes?” he asked in amused sympathy. When he was a soldier, he hadn’t liked disturbing nobles, either, especially when they were drinking. He wondered if this poor beggar had drawn the short straw.

  The guard cleared his throat nervously and stood up a little straighter. “There are two men—er, one’s a boy, really—asking to see you. The older one says he’s Raven Redhawkson, Your Graces, and that you’ll know him.”

  “So we do,” Linden said with a smile. “He and any of his friends are welcome to join us anytime.”

  Said Maurynna, “He and I grew up together. And about time he showed up, too. I was expecting him before this.”

  As relief flooded his face, the guard saluted. “Thank you, Dragonlords. I’ll escort them here at once.” He turned on his heel and marched briskly off into the darkness. Shima called for two more chairs and goblets to be brought to their table.

  A short while later, the guard was back with Raven and a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years. Raven smiled and waved at them. Once again the guard saluted and left, his task accomplished; he’d looked far happier this time.

  Raven dropped into the empty ch
air by Maurynna’s side. “Well met, Beanpole,” he said, tugging a strand of her hair. “Fall off Boreal yet?” He laughed as she made a face at him, then reached across the table to clasp hands with Linden, then Shima. “Shima, remind me to tell you how glad I am that you came by last night.”

  Linden caught his eye and nodded in amusement at the openmouthed boy who stood a little behind Raven.

  Raven waved the boy forward and pointed to the waiting chair. “This is Lord Arisyn. Ari, don’t be shy—come here and sit down. They won’t eat you.”

  The boy edged nervously toward the chair.

  “Not without plenty of green sauce,” Linden said with a straight face. While he hadn’t recognized the boy himself, he recognized the name of Lord Sevrynel’s foster son.

  Arisyn stopped short. His eyes went very big.

  “Horseradish,” Maurynna countered. “Or perhaps just verjuice and salt?” She looked thoughtful.

  “Gravy and pepper,” Shima voted, all wide-eyed innocence.

  Arisyn’s throat apple bobbed visibly as he eyed the Dragonlords. Linden swore the poor boy turned at least two shades paler. It wasn’t until Raven burst out laughing and asked, “What, no one for bread sauce?” that Arisyn finally realized he was being teased.

  He ducked his head, grinned sheepishly, and slid into the empty seat. “Thank you, Dragonlords.”

  Before any introductions could be made, Bard Leet approached their table. Linden cursed under his breath; hopefully neither Leet nor Raven would remember seeing each other before. It was possible, he thought. It had been for only a few brief moments in the library at Dragonskeep two years before.

  “Greetings, Your Graces, Lord Arisyn,” the bard said, smiling graciously and bowing as well as he could with the harp in his arms. He went on, “And to you, my lord—?”

  Raven said, “No one’s lord, bard. I’m a freeman of Yerrih, a breeder of horses.”

  Leet’s eyebrows went up. “I see.” He glanced at Arisyn.

  Good, Linden thought in relief. He thinks Raven’s here with Arisyn, not the other way around. Let’s hope that cat stays in its bag. To steer the conversation into safer channels, Linden went on, “Your harp has a lovely voice, Bard Leet. Who made it?” He admired the wood-burned ornamentation on the shoulder of the harp: a seagull within a circle of bluebells. Beautifully done, he thought.

  Leet hesitated just long enough that Linden wondered if the question were somehow rude. “A luthier named Thomelin from Bylith,” he said at last. “May I ask why you wish to know, Your Grace?”

  “I was thinking of a new harp,” Linden said vaguely. “I play and yours is particularly fine.” Am I imagining things or did the man just relax?

  “Ah. I will say this for Thomelin: He can make wood sing.” The bard looked around the table once more and winked. “Who do you think will win tomorrow, my lords and lady?”

  “We’re judges,” Shima said with a laugh. “I don’t think we’re supposed to have favorites.”

  “Raven would if he could race,” Arisyn said proudly. “He has a Llysanyin.”

  Oh, no! Linden knew what was coming next and winced.

  “May I ask how you—” the bard began.

  Linden coughed loudly, like a man whose wine had gone down the wrong way. Maurynna slapped his back.

  It worked, but only for a moment. Then Leet frowned and fingered the cleft in his chin as if he were trying to recall something. Linden prayed silently, hoping the bard wouldn’t put two and two together—and that no one would say anything.

  That hope promptly went to hell in a bit bucket. “A pity Otter’s Llysanyin is a mare,” Shima remarked thoughtfully. “It would have been nice to have another stallion in the family.”

  Linden nearly groaned; if that didn’t let the cat—a whole herd of spitting, yowling cats with very sharp claws—out of the bag, nothing would.

  The gracious smile vanished from Leet’s face like dew beneath a desert sun. Despite the warm night, a sudden chill seemed to descend upon the little group; any colder, Linden thought, and there’d be a blizzard in his wine cup. He couldn’t quite read the expression that flashed across the bard’s face: annoyance, wariness, or …

  Or perhaps it was merely a trick of the flickering torchlight, for when he spoke again, the bard was pleasant enough. “You’re kin to Otter Heronson?”

  “Grandnephew.”

  Leet nodded. Any remark he might have made was lost as Lord Sevrynel bustled up to their table. Linden caught a barely breathed, “Oh, no,” from Arisyn, and looked at him curiously. He’d have hardly thought the mild-mannered Sevrynel would be such an ogre of a foster father.

  “Your Graces, Master Bard Leet, please excuse this intrusion, but … Arisyn, what are you doing—I thought you were going— Oh, hello, Master Raven, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you at first, eyes aren’t what they used to be, and these wretched torches, you know.…” He blinked and looked around in mild apology, then began telling Leet all about the wonderful horses Raven would have.

  The panicked look that had filled Arisyn’s eyes when his foster father came up slipped away by degrees. That look piqued Linden’s curiosity. Since no one could ever convince him that Lord Sevrynel was some kind of monster (Horse-mad, yes. Absentminded, likely. But a bully? No.), there was something else going on here. Something the boy didn’t want Sevrynel to know about. Some boy’s mischief, perhaps, or an ill-considered bet on the race tomorrow?

  Linden came back from his speculations in time to realize that Sevrynel was begging the Dragonlords’ pardon, but there was someone he’d like Arisyn to meet, and could he borrow him for a while? And would Master Raven kindly consent to being one of the messengers for the Queen’s Chase tomorrow?

  “I’d be honored, my lord,” Raven said in delight.

  “Excellent!” said Sevrynel, leading Arisyn away. “Come along, my boy. I assume you’ve finally figured out what Stormwind is?”

  After foster father and son had left, Maurynna said to Raven, “I hope you can stay awhile longer. Where are you camping this night? With Arisyn, wherever that might be?”

  Raven grimaced. “Ah, well now, Beanpole, the reason Arisyn and I are here is to ask if we could camp with you. We ran into Lord Rudeness and he’s camping where Ari was going to stay tonight.

  “And from what Ari said once, Lord Sevrynel’s other fosterlings aren’t supposed to keep company with him, but they’re all going to be there.” He took a sip of his wine. “To tell you the truth, the more I see of this fellow, the more I understand why Lord Sevrynel wouldn’t want any of his fosterlings hanging about him. Tonight he accused us of stealing his horse so that I wouldn’t lose the race! I had to invoke your name, Shima, as my witness so that the fair guards wouldn’t arrest me.”

  Linden sat up straighter. “Did the fool Challenge you or the boy? I’d be happy to act as Champion for either—or both—of you.”

  “Believe me, I thought of you,” Raven said, laughing. “But he backed off accusing Arisyn when the boy threatened to cry Challenge on him and named his father’s captain of the guards as his Champion. Looked downright ill, our fine little lord did, at that. If one of us had named you, no doubt he’d still be running.”

  “Hmph—typical bully. Big and bad—until someone bigger shows up. Could he have hidden the horse away himself?” Maurynna asked.

  Linden had been thinking the same thing.

  Raven shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “I will give him that. I don’t think Tirael did. He seems honestly upset—and baffled—over Brythian’s disappearance.”

  “Tirael?” the bard asked quietly. “Tirael Barans?”

  Raven said, “I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what his second name is, Master Bard. If I ever heard it, I don’t remember it. But … dark brown curly hair, slim, and a face like a maiden’s dream?”

  “That’s him.” The words were barely more than a whisper.

  “Oh gods.” A dark flush spread across Raven’s cheeks. “Bard Leet, I hope I h
aven’t insulted a fri—”

  Leet shook his head, smiling tightly. “Pray don’t worry, Master Redhawkson, I’m not insulted. Not at all. I’m well aware that Lord Tirael can be … difficult.” His long fingers stroked the harp cradled in his arms like a child, playing over the design burned into the shoulder of the instrument. “I know him of old, you see.”

  The mellifluous voice trembled the tiniest bit. Leet drew a deep breath, then bowed abruptly and with a few courteous words took his leave of them. Someone called to him to settle an argument for them.

  Maurynna smothered a laugh behind her hand as they watched Leet listen carefully as each party stated their case. “Oh, my—I’d say that this Tirael Whatever-his-name-is got Leet’s back up once.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” said Raven. He rolled his eyes. “Arisyn said he’s charming when he wants to be, but when he isn’t … look out! Nasty, sarcastic tongue on him and a cruel streak a league wide.”

  “Sounds like a fool, then, if he turned it loose on a bard,” Linden said. Seeing Shima’s blank look, he explained, “It’s not wise to annoy a bard—not unless you’ve a taste for winding up as the butt of a scathing song. And somehow, they always manage to come up with the catchiest tunes for those,” he added dryly. “Spread like wildfire, they will. Everyone singing them wherever you go, and they hang around forever, it seems.”

  “Everyone knows who you are—and not the way you’d want them to,” said Maurynna, smiling wickedly. She raised a hand to beckon the steward of the camp. “Let’s see about getting you and Arisyn some shelter for tonight, Raven. There must be an extra tent somewhere.”

  As Maurynna explained their needs to the steward, Linden wondered what Tirael had done to annoy Leet so much. Still, it couldn’t have been too bad; he hadn’t heard of any mocking ditties with the young lord’s name in them—at least, not from Otter. And Otter knew them all.