Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  At last they were done. Next they divided the contents of Fiarin’s pack and his blanket roll between them. “I keep expecting someone to yell at me for this,” Pod muttered.

  “I know how you feel,” Kaeliss replied. “But he would have wanted it this way. To do otherwise would be a waste.”

  They bade Fiarin a final farewell, and then the two young women set off. They chose to go east, for Kaeliss had kept somewhat better track of their journey. She was certain that the morning sun had been behind them when they left the main camp and, later, to their left as they had crossed the esker.

  That meant that north was the swampy woods with its deadly snakes. They would not go there. But east might take them back to the Wort Hunters’ encampment—they hoped.

  Pod settled her pack on her back, sent a silent prayer up to the gods, and followed Kaeliss, with Kiga close behind.

  Kaeliss stopped and looked back just before they lost sight of the cairn altogether. “Farewell, Master Heron,” she said softly.

  Pod froze. “Master Heron?” she managed to get out at last.

  “Yes. It was what everyone called him—behind his back, of course. Didn’t you ever notice how long his legs were? Just like a heron’s.”

  Forty

  It was well after midnight before one of the masters could accompany Conor back to the stable. Luckily Lord Lenslee—or someone less distraught—had remembered to leave word with the guards to expect the Beast Healers. They passed Conor and Master Edlunn through the gates with no trouble.

  Conor carried the lantern one of the guards had given them at Master Edlunn’s request. The soft light fell around them in a yellow pool. Somewhere nearby in the warm night he could hear a nightingale singing. Its lovely song just made Conor feel worse.

  What did I not see? And how did I miss whatever was wrong with Summer Lightning?

  “There’s the stable given over to Lord Lenslee’s use,” he said hoarsely.

  “So I see,” Master Edlunn said, mild as mild. “Conor, stop flogging yourself. It may well have been something none of us could have foreseen whether apprentice, journeyman, healer, or master. Such things happen sometimes; it’s the will of the gods.”

  They had reached the door. Conor held the lantern up. “Mind the sill, it’s high. I know, sir, but—”

  He stopped, for in the faint light that now penetrated the stable, he could see a shadow moving in Summer Lightning’s stall.

  “Hoy, there—you! What are you doing?” Conor shouted. “Didn’t Stablemaster Tuerin tell you to leave that stall be?”

  He thrust the lantern at Master Edlunn and ran into the stable. A young stable hand jumped and looked about like one just waking up.

  “Wha—what? Oh, yes, of course he did,” the boy said in confusion. “I’m no—” He looked down at the small hand broom he had been using to clean out Summer Lightning’s manger and staggered backward. The little broom fell with a clatter. “By all the gods,” he said in astonishment. “What was I doing?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Conor said grimly. “Now get out of there.”

  The boy shook his head in confusion as he came out. “I—I don’t understand,” he said as Conor gripped his shoulder roughly. His eyes filled with fear. “I was asleep and— Where did Osric go? I heard him playing. Or—did I dream that?” He looked around. “I was in bed. How am I here?” he begged.

  Conor shook him. “Don’t mock me, boy—you’re in enough trouble as it is. Now what were you doing?”

  The boy whimpered. “Beast Healer, please! I don’t know. I was asleep, I tell you!” Tears welled up in his eyes. “Please—you’re hurting me!”

  Master Edlunn held up the lantern. “Easy, Conor. Look at him; he does have the look of someone just waking up. What’s your name, lad?”

  “Robie,” the boy snuffled. “And I swear I don’t—”

  “What’s going on here?”

  Conor turned to see Lord Portis’s stablemaster, Tuerin, clad only in his breeches, come down the ladder from the sleeping quarters upstairs.

  The stablemaster came to a stop. “And what,” he said with cold anger, “are you doing to my son, Beast Healer?” As he spoke, a few of the grooms appeared, their faces unfriendly. One reached for a hay fork.

  “Your son?” Conor said in astonishment, letting go of the boy, who ran to his father’s side. “Then why was he in Lightning’s stall?”

  “In the stall?” Tuerin asked. He looked at his son. “What were you doing in the stall? You were supposed to sleep in the empty stall next to Lightning’s.”

  He looked at Conor. “As you asked, Beast Healer, no one’s been allowed into Lightning’s stall; we’ve even posted a stable hand by it to make certain it was left undisturbed. Robie begged to be allowed to watch at night. I thought it would do no harm.”

  Conor thought he knew what he meant by “no harm.” No harm to the boy anyway; if it was illness or magery that had killed Summer Lightning, it had already done its work.

  Tuerin went on, “Boy, that stall hasn’t even been cleaned out. What were you thinking, sleeping in all that muck?”

  “He wasn’t sleeping, stablemaster,” Master Edlunn said quietly. “He was sweeping out the manger.”

  “What!” Tuerin turned on his son, a hand lifted to box his ears.

  “I was doing what?” Robie squeaked, dodging.

  Conor stared at him and held up a hand to check Tuerin. The boy truly doesn’t remember. Then, aloud, “Do you sleepwalk often, Robie?”

  Tuerin’s hand fell and he looked at his son in concern.

  “No! Never—at least, I don’t think so.…” Robie bit his lip in confusion.

  “Hmm—you did this time, son,” said Master Edlunn soothingly. He smiled at Robie. “Don’t worry, lad; no one’s going to hurt you, I promise.”

  Conor recognized the voice Edlunn used on frightened animals. It was sometimes effective on humans as well, particularly children. Robie was perhaps a bit old for it, but it seemed to be working, particularly when Master Edlunn went on in that same soft, soothing tone, “Now then, lad—you said you were dreaming? Can you remember about what?”

  Robie visibly relaxed. He looked up at Master Edlunn. “I’m not certain, sir. I remember thinking that I had to clean Lightning’s stall for him before he came back to it. It had to be perfect for him because…” He swiped at his eyes. “Be-because he’d won the Queen’s…”

  Here he broke down and buried his face against his father. Tuerin stroked his head.

  Master Edlunn cleared his throat. “I think Robie can go back to sleep now—upstairs. Could we have a few more lanterns?”

  Tuerin nodded and herded his son up into the loft as the grooms fetched lanterns for the Beast Healers.

  * * *

  They’d gone over the stall from one end to the other. Master Edlunn even scraped up some of Lightning’s droppings into a small wooden box he pulled from his scrip.

  “I’ve not seen anything amiss yet, have you? Didn’t think so. I’d like to look at what was in the manger,” he said, straightening up with a grunt. “Anything left?”

  “Only a few bits,” Conor replied. “If there was much there when Robie started, it’s trodden into the straw and muck now.”

  “Worth looking at now?”

  Conor shook his head. “Even with all these lanterns, the light’s not very good here. I’ve another small box—shall we put the bits into that and take them with us?”

  “Good idea.”

  When it was done, they blew out the lanterns and set off for the Beast Healers’ encampment.

  Forty-one

  Raven trotted up the trail that ran alongside the racecourse. A few wisps of morning mist still lay across the path like gossamer ribbons and twined among the trees. Soon, he knew, they’d burn off, but for the moment they made the forest a magical place.

  A pity there had been no way to get word to Yarrow about the honor Lord Sevrynel had done him this day; he’d forgotten to
ask one of the Dragonlords to mindspeak her. True, he wasn’t a course marshal—he couldn’t hope for that—but to be one of the messengers for the Queen’s Chase was considered a privilege.

  He looked up at the sun. The race must have started by now. He was sorry he couldn’t see it or the finish, but this part of the course was thick woods. He ticked off the route in his mind: first came a string of open meadows, then some woods, followed by fields with a series of fences to jump, another stretch of forest—this one—with twisting trails and streams and fallen trees to jump, and finally back to the meadow where the race began.

  Until then, he would patrol his route, riding between the tall slabs of stone that marked his section, the downhill section of the last field and well into the woods. He pulled Stormwind to a halt as he heard the thunder of hoofbeats coming toward him. Moments later two horses came over the crest of the small hill and down the straightaway that led into the forest. The horses ran neck and neck, their riders jockeying for position as the track narrowed before it entered the woods.

  Now a pack of horses surged around the turn in a tight bunch. He turned in the saddle to watch them and devoutly hoped they straightened themselves out before the trail narrowed.

  They did—barely. Raven let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  Now a single horse appeared: a chestnut with a blaze, Lord Sevrynel’s Dawn Star. Raven nodded in approval as he silently cheered Dawn Star; the jockey was holding her back, saving her for the very end. When the frontrunners were exhausted, she’d still have strength and speed left.

  He urged Stormwind on. “Come along, then, my lad. We’d best get back to the beginning of our stretch.”

  * * *

  The sun was at the nooning when, after riding his part of the course a few more times, Raven saw Ormund, another messenger, waiting for him.

  “Time to head back,” Ormund said, pointing at the sun. “Everyone’s past us, so it’s safe to ride the course itself now. Tha knows what to do now, aye?”

  “I do,” answered Raven. “Linden explained it to me. See you back at the camp, Ormund.”

  “Come have a jack of ale with us when tha are done, lad,” Ormund called as he turned his horse around and headed for the course.

  “I’ll do that,” Raven called back as he cut across the intervening grassy sward.

  A moment later he and Stormwind were alone on the track. Raven heaved a sigh and patted the stallion’s neck. “A pity we couldn’t have entered, my lad. That would certainly have shut a few mouths! But it wouldn’t have been much of a contest then, would it?”

  Stormwind shook his head.

  “Ah, well—let’s finish this final patrol and get ourselves back to camp and some food and drink.”

  * * *

  They were deep into the woods when Raven heard a noise; it sounded suspiciously like a moan. Stormwind stopped at the same instant, looking around. Raven dismounted and studied the underbrush along the track.

  There! It looked as if something had crashed through the brush. “Hellooo!” he called. “Anyone there?”

  “Here,” a weak voice answered.

  Raven pushed through a patch of spicebush and brambles. He found a man—more a boy, in truth—lying on his back, hand pressed to his collarbone. He wore a particolored tunic of brown and green. Raven recognized him as one of the last two riders he’d seen pass.

  The rider tried to sit up, but sank back with a groan. “My collarbone. I think it’s broken.”

  “And I think you’re right,” Raven said as he gently pulled the tunic’s neck to one side. “You did a hell of a job on it, too, I’d say. What happened? And what’s your name?”

  “Trevorn. We were going hell bent for leather when a fox ran under Oak’s nose,” the boy said. “Stupid horse panicked, went right off the course—and I went right off Oak when he stumbled. He ran off, don’t know where.”

  “Stormwind—can you find the horse?” Raven called. He heard a snort and the sound of the Llysanyin moving away. “Let’s see what we can do for you, Trevorn.”

  A short while later he had the rider strapped up as best he could to keep the bone ends immobile. As he helped the boy sit up, he could hear horses moving through the woods. He hoped it was help arriving, but a moment later he recognized Stormwind’s whicker.

  “I’ll be right back.” Raven pushed through the underbrush to the course.

  Stormwind stood by the side of a blue roan whose head hung down. It stood with one forefoot barely touching the ground, its fetlock clearly swollen.

  Raven groaned. He knew what that meant; the roan would have to be walked back—slowly. Even Stormwind’s walking pace would be too fast. He’d have to do it on foot.

  But the rider needed a Healer as soon as possible. Raven knew he hadn’t a hope of “tickling” either Maurynna or Linden’s minds at this distance. So that meant …

  “The rider—Trevorn—is hurt. Will you carry him to the camp while I walk the horse back? He needs a Healer for that broken collarbone as soon as possible.”

  Stormwind nodded.

  “Let’s get him, then.”

  Even though Stormwind sank down on his haunches, it was a delicate job getting Trevorn onto Stormwind’s back because of the Yerrin saddle’s high pommel and cantle. The injured jockey was white with pain by the time it was done.

  But seeing Trevorn slumping like a sack of meal made Raven glad of that same saddle. It would cradle the boy and once the straps meant to hold an injured rider were buckled, Trevorn would have to work to fall off—especially since Stormwind would do everything he could to keep that from happening.

  When they reached the track, Raven said, “Well, then, Stormwind—off with you.”

  Trevorn said, “Wait—aren’t you coming? I don’t think I can hold the reins.” Beads of sweat dotted his pinched, white face.

  “Your horse needs to be walked back slowly and Stormwind walks too fast. And when I get to that stream that crosses the course, I want to soak that fetlock to get the swelling down if possible,” Raven answered. “Don’t worry about the reins or anything else. Just worry about yourself. Stormwind’ll get you there.”

  Trevorn shut his eyes, clearly in too much pain to argue.

  Raven affectionately slapped the stallion’s rump. The big Llysanyin started off at a smooth, gentle walk that ate up the ground.

  Raven turned to the roan standing nearby, its head hanging down miserably. He caught up its dangling reins. “Welladay, my boy—let’s see what we can do for you.”

  It wasn’t long before they came upon the stream Raven remembered seeing on the map of the course. He took off his boots and stockings, rolled up the legs of his breeches as high as he could, and led the roan into a little pool. Raven yipped in surprise at how cold the water was. “If this doesn’t bring that swelling down, I don’t know what will!” he told the roan.

  * * *

  Leet had kept careful count of the horses that passed him. When all but one were past, he turned his horse onto the racecourse—away from the finish line. He could wait no longer.

  It was time for the first step of his new plan. If it worked he thought he knew how to achieve the rest.

  But this … This was crucial. Everything depended upon what would happen in the next candlemark.

  He kicked his horse into a trot.

  * * *

  When he was satisfied that the cold water had done all it could for the fetlock, Raven led the roan back onto the bank of the stream. He dried his feet and calves as best he could with a handful of spicy-scented ferns and pulled on stockings and boots. He caught up the reins once more and set off.

  It was slow going in the sultry heat; the woods pressed close to the track, holding in the hot, humid air. Raven wiped the sweat from his face and thought of the pool with longing.

  Like an oven in here, he thought, swatting at gnats.

  But at last the track passed through a shady clearing before curving around yet another bend.
It was marginally cooler there; at least the air had a chance to move.

  Nor was it empty. To his surprise, Raven saw Bard Leet ride slowly around the bend. Though puzzled, he raised a hand in greeting and politely called out, “Well met, my lord bard.”

  Odd that he’s riding this way—it’s the long way around to the camp.

  “Well met indeed, Raven Redhawkson, grandnephew of Bard Otter Heronson,” Leet said.

  Raven wondered if he’d just imagined that odd note—an almost hungry sound—in Bard Leet’s curiously formal greeting. But before he could think anymore upon it, the Master Bard smiled at him.

  “I saw Trevorn mounted upon your Llysanyin, Raven Redhawkson, as I rode here. He said you were seeing to his horse.”

  “Oh, yes—I soaked its fetlock in the stream back—”

  “This looks like a good place to change a broken harp string, wouldn’t you say, young master Raven?” Leet interrupted.

  Raven just stared at him in confusion. What on—

  “It’s a very distinctive sound,” Bard Leet went on. “And I’m quite certain I heard one go while I was waiting for the last of the stragglers to pass me. Would you please take this?” He unslung the harp case from over his shoulder and held it out.

  Raven stepped forward and caught the broad leather strap of the case in his free hand. He waited politely—if impatiently—while the bard dismounted, then took it back.

  Why in Gifnu’s hells had he brought a harp with him? Had he thought to serenade the squirrels and birds? And couldn’t this wait until the man returned to camp, for pity’s sake? It wasn’t as if Leet had to perform right now.

  Then Raven remembered how fussy his great-uncle could be with his harp, and stifled a sigh. No doubt to a bard this did have to be taken care of right away. Oh, bloody hell …

  “If you don’t mind, my lord bard, I want to get—”

  “Wait for me, lad, if you will and I’ll ride back with you. That way I can ask you more about these horses you’re breeding. And find out more of Otter’s doings.”