Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  Yet the fall did not hurt him as it would have in the waking world. Raven rolled onto his stomach and found himself facing a skull lying on a pile of what looked like moldering spruce needles. He could even smell them, though their scent was mixed with a reek of decay.

  More blood, more blood, more blood, the skull chanted in his mind. Give me more blood.

  Like one bewitched, Raven got to his knees and pulled out his belt knife, then set the sharp edge against the palm of his other hand. A tiny part of his mind whimpered in terror as the blade pressed down against the skin. But Raven had no more will than a puppet to stop himself from slicing his palm. Blood welled up, bright scarlet, the only color in the faded world of his dream. Though he struggled against it, Raven could not keep from holding his hand over the skull and letting his blood drip onto it. It immediately vanished, sucked into the bleached bone like water into parched earth.

  The skull glowed with a sickly, yellowish light and tiny points of fire appeared in the eye holes. Yesss, it hissed in his mind. The first drink was good; this is better.

  Raven stared in confusion at it. What first drink? When had he ever given this foul thing a taste—

  Suddenly the skull shrieked, More! More! More! Get me more blood—a river of blood!

  Raven clapped his hands over his ears against the shrill banshee wails, but the horrific sound pounded in his head, threatening to tear it apart. “Yes! Yes!” he cried, desperate to silence the horrible thing. “I’ll get you—”

  “—More blood,” Raven whispered as he sat up. His head throbbed, his heart pounded, and his stomach churned so that he thought he would be sick. He scrubbed a hand across his face, wiping cold, sticky sweat from his brow, then cursed himself for an idiot.

  “Fool!” he muttered. “You’ll just open the cut again!”

  Then he stopped and shook his head. What cut? He hadn’t cut himself before going to bed—had he? Hadn’t he? Raven looked down at his palms.

  Both were whole. The skin was untouched and there wasn’t a drop of—

  Wait—didn’t I say something about “blood” as I woke up? And that dream—wasn’t there something in there about blood as well? But he couldn’t remember for certain what he’d said as he awoke, and the dream was fading rapidly, spilling from his mind like water from a sieve.

  He shivered. There was something important he should remember, needed to remember, and it was either the key to the dream or the dream was the key to it. But there was nothing to grasp hold of in the confused jumble of his thoughts, nothing that he could latch on to and follow into the maze to the memory he needed. Indeed, the effort made him feel queasy; Raven abruptly cast aside his blanket and staggered to his feet. He wanted fresh air, and he wanted it now.

  Not caring if he woke Arisyn snoring gently in the other bed, Raven stumbled outside into the dark, predawn chill. He gulped in huge draughts of the cold air. Years ago, back in Thalnia, he and Maurynna had been swimming at a little cove they’d discovered. He’d dived too close to the rocks of the natural breakwater and the seaweed bed around it, and found himself tangled in the long, ropy growth. It had seemed like forever until he pulled free and found the air once more. He’d lain gasping on the surface for a long while; he’d never realized how sweet the air tasted. It felt oddly the same now, as if he had come but a finger’s breadth from drowning somehow.

  Had he dreamt about that? If so, he hadn’t drowned then and he hadn’t drowned in the dream, so that was one less worry, he told himself with forced cheer.

  Yet something was still not right.…

  He pulled the cord of his breeches tighter and went to find Stormwind.

  * * *

  Leet sagged in the window seat. His breath came short and quick, and every limb trembled. If he tried to stand, he knew he’d fall flat on his face. It was all he could do to keep the harp from tumbling to the floor.

  Dear gods, he’d never imagined how much effort it would take. He felt like a wet rag left in the washtub for too many days.

  But it was done. Leet shook his head in weary relief. He’d come so close to failing; he hadn’t expected Raven to fight the harp’s call so strongly. It had taken every ounce of his power as a Master Bard to hold the young fool in the summoning dream.

  Or, said a tiny voice from somewhere deep inside the spark of fear growing in his soul, was it Gull’s power?

  It doesn’t matter! Leet snapped back. What matters is that it worked, that the apple of Otter’s eye has bound himself to my will!

  Anger gave him strength. Cursing, Leet scrambled awkwardly from the deep windowsill, the small harp clutched in his arms. Pins and needles pricked his feet and legs; he staggered stiff-legged to the table by the bed and set the harp into its stand.

  The strings thrummed gently at him. Worms of fear crawled down Leet’s spine at the sound.

  For in that delicate ripple of melody Leet heard a mocking Come now—your will?

  He flung the heavy red silk cover back over the harp and crawled shaking and sweating into his bed.

  Forty-three

  Despite Raven and the Dragonlords’ reassurances the next day, Yarrow would not believe that he hadn’t hit his head. She stared at him when he showed up at their camp after breaking his fast with the Dragonlords, Arisyn, and a number of other lords and ladies. Word had gotten around that he was the Raven Redhawkson of “Dragon and Phoenix,” and while not a lord, it seemed he was suddenly much more than the commoner most wouldn’t have noticed the day before.

  Yarrow turned to Shima. “My thanks once again to you for mindspeaking me last night. It was good to know what was happening.” Then, catching Raven’s chin in her hand, she turned his face from side to side. “Are you certain you feel well, boy? My old uncle Grey Mole used to look sharper after a three-day drinking bout than you do this instant,” she said bluntly.

  “Eh,” said Raven, rubbing his forehead. If he could just get the cobwebs out of his head! “Just a bad night’s sleep. Had one hell of a nightmare.”

  “A pity Zhantse, my old master, isn’t here,” Shima said. “He was always interested in dreams and nightmares. It’s part of a shaman’s duties to interpret them and decide which are significant—and which are indigestion. Can you remember any of it?”

  As if he wanted to … Still, it was Shima asking; Raven shut his eyes a moment and thought. “A skull. It was resting on … oak leaves? No, that’s not right—it was something like spruce needles. At least they looked like the needles that fall off if you leave the winter solstice decorations up too long. I remember I could even smell them, but they smelled of rot as well as pines. And the skull wanted blood. My blood.”

  Shima looked troubled as Yarrow and Maurynna made the sign against evil. “That’s a nasty one. I wish Zhantse was here,” he said.

  “I know nothing of interpreting dreams and I’ve never met your old mentor, Shima, but I also wish he was here,” Yarrow said. “Go lie down, Raven.”

  He started to protest, then reconsidered. Perhaps he should rest; the last time his mind was this foggy was when he and the others had stopped in Thalnia on their way back from Jehanglan. Since he knew he was leaving for good that time, he’d spent their last three days in Thalnia cramming in as much visiting of old friends and celebrating as he could, with a nap here and there.

  Once on board the ship, he’d slept a day through and felt fine again. Maybe that’s what he needed.

  But why? I haven’t been—ah, the hell with it! Raven was too muzzy to think about the “why” of it all. He just wanted to sleep. “I think I will.”

  “If you need to send a message to us, remember that we’re moving back to the castle this day. The north tower, I think Beren said. But Steward Lewell will know for certain,” Maurynna said. “Now go to sleep.”

  “We’ll look after Stormwind for you,” Yarrow said.

  The stallion touched his nose to Raven’s cheek, then lipped his hair, and ended by pushing Raven toward his tent.

  “I can
take a hint!” Raven said, laughing. When he was inside, a wave of weariness washed over him. He pulled off his boots and fairly keeled over onto his pallet.

  His last thought before sleep claimed him was Please don’t let me dream.…

  * * *

  Conor sat alone at one of the long trestle tables in the Beast Healers’ tent, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug. He closed his eyes and inhaled the bracing vapor. Just what he needed: a strong-enough-to-wake-the-dead infusion of roasted chicory root, a bit of cream to take the edge off the bitterness, a healthy dollop of honey to sweeten it all, and Trouble, draped around his neck, sound asleep.

  He relaxed, enjoying a moment of precious tranquility to make up for the day so far. He’d risen before the dawn to care for a nearby farmer’s flock of sheep with the scours. At least they’d fed him when the nooning came so he wasn’t hungry.

  Nor had the farmer and his wife looked askance at him as so many did at the fair these days. Instead they had been delighted to see him and tearfully grateful when he was done. That was a good memory.

  A little of the tension left his shoulders. Now if I could just stay right here like this until the fair ends—

  “Hoy there, Conor!”

  Krev—go away! Just go away and leave me alone, Conor silently begged. He slitted one eye open, hoping to see Krev turn and leave.

  But it was not to be. The young apprentice—one of those brought along as messengers and errand runners—trotted between the tables up to him.

  “Afternoon and all that, Conor! Master Edlunn would like to see you in his tent.” Krev beamed down at him.

  Conor gulped down his chicory drink, nearly scalding his tongue, wishing it had been anyone but Krev—at least until he’d finished his drink. How anyone could be that bouncy and cheerful all day long … The guild needed a rule against it, he decided morosely as he rose and followed the ebullient boy back through the tent.

  Krev left him at the door to Master Edlunn’s tent and raced off somewhere else, whistling jauntily. Conor glared after him, then rubbed his eyes; it had not been a good night and he had candlemarks of hard work behind him. His eyes felt gritty and his brain like overcooked porridge. And ten to one Lord Lenslee had sent around another complaint about his incompetence and a demand that he be booted from the guild. Ah, well—might as well get this over with.

  Conor ducked inside the tent. Edlunn sat at a small table in the front part of the tent; a screen of painted canvas hid his sleeping quarters in the back.

  On the table before him was the small wooden box that held the fragments from Summer Lightning’s manger. Edlunn looked up from his study of them and smiled. “Come in and sit down, my boy. We’re in luck this day.”

  “Oh?” Conor said cautiously as he sat down. Had Master Edlunn found something out?

  “Indeed. From all you’ve said and all I’ve been told by Lord Lenslee and others, there was not a thing wrong with Summer Lightning when you saw him. Not a thing.

  “A healthy animal doesn’t just drop dead. I suspect the poor animal was helped along and I think the answer lies here.” He tapped the lid of the box. “Now, while we Beast Healers make use of herbs, we’re not the experts that the Worties are. So I decided to enlist their aid.

  “I sent Krev to their tent first thing this morning to ask if anyone could help us identify these bits of grass and leaf—”

  I hope the Worties were more awake than I was. At least he hadn’t had to deal with Krev at the crack of dawn.

  “—And he brought back good news. Because they buy a great deal of foreign herbs from the merchants here, one of their most knowledgeable people usually comes every year. It’s said she can identify a thousand plants by scent alone.”

  Conor thought that unlikely, but to a drowning man, any straw looked like a rope. “She’ll help us?”

  “She’ll try. One of their messengers came ahead to say she was on her way, so she should be here any—ah! That must be her now.”

  Indeed, now Conor heard a murmur of conversation outside the tent. A soft voice said, “Step to your left, Mistress Parmelle, there’s a rope. Now straight ahead is the doorway tent pole…”

  A hand pushed the canvas door flap aside, revealing a fat woman of middle years flanked by two girls, one older than the other. A pudgy white hand reached out, touched the pole, fingers like pale sausages running up and down it; then Mistress Parmelle advanced slowly as Conor and Master Edlunn stood up. The girl on her right caught up and steered the woman toward the chair that the other girl scooted ahead to pull out.

  With a shock Conor realized that Mistress Parmelle was blind. She sat heavily, a soft, shapeless mass, her doughy white face turning from one man to the other. Her eyes, almost lost behind her fat cheeks, were filmed with grey.

  “Greetings, Master Edlunn,” she said in an unexpectedly sweet and childlike voice. “I understand that my small talents may be of use to you.”

  Master Edlunn rose and bowed. “Mistress Parmelle, we—Conor and I—hope you can solve a small mystery for us.”

  “Thank you for coming, Mistress Parmelle,” Conor said, bowing. He and Master Edlunn sat once more.

  She smiled at him. “I hear worry in your voice, young man. I hope I can ease it for you.” She held out her hand.

  Master Edlunn set the box in it. “Inside are some bits of leaves and such that we can’t identify. Perhaps you…?”

  “I will try.” She bent her head over the box and inhaled gently. “Hmm, hmm—there are a few different things here,” she murmured. “Luce?”

  The older girl produced a pair of copper tweezers and proceeded to pick up one fragment at a time and offer it to the older woman, who in turn sniffed it delicately before putting it aside.

  “That’s alfalfa. That’s a bit of wheatgrass. And that’s … hmmmm—ah, red top.”

  Conor’s jaw nearly dropped. Mistress Parmelle had just named the grasses used in the hay at Lord Portis’s stables. But while her skill was amazing, it didn’t solve the mystery of what killed Summer Lightning.

  Luce offered Mistress Parmelle another fragment; it looked to Conor like a bit of withered leaf. Once more she sniffed delicately, like someone enjoying the bouquet of a fine wine. Conor waited for her pronouncement.

  She frowned. “Unusual,” she murmured at last. “Unless I’m mistaken…” She took the tweezers from Luce and sniffed again. “From the other things, I would have guessed hay for horse or cow. But this—this is not what I would have expected. Am I wrong to think this is hay for an animal?” Once more she held the tweezers to her nose and concentrated.

  Conor and Master Edlunn looked at each other, suddenly alert. “You are not wrong, Mistress Parmelle. It is—was—hay,” Master Edlunn said.

  What could it be? Conor thought. She’d confirmed Stablemaster Tuerin’s information about the hay. What now?

  Mistress Parmelle set box and tweezers down. “No, I was right,” she stated. “That last was yellowfool. Wilted yellowfool. The scent is unmistakable. It’s strongest and sweetest when half-rotted. Useful for certain conditions when administered by a skilled Simpler, but dangerous if used unwisely.”

  She “looked” at each of them with eerie accuracy. “While it is sometimes used for humans in this wilted state, I have never known it to be used for animals. Well-dried in fodder, yes, but not like this. Is this something new?”

  Master Edlunn said, “No. This … this is something that should not have been there. But it … explains a great deal.”

  Mistress Parmelle cocked her head in a girlish manner that should have looked affected with her doughy bulk, but just seemed endearing. “Ahhh—I think I understand now. Girls,” she rapped out, “not a word of this to anyone.”

  “Yes, Mistress Parmelle,” they agreed as they helped her from her chair.

  When she was gone, Master Edlunn said, “So—now we know the how of it. And I’m sure we can guess the why.”

  “To keep Summer Lightning from running,” said Conor.
“But most important now is: who?”

  “That, thank the gods, is for others to find out. Let us go.”

  As Conor accompanied Master Edlunn to lay their discovery before Lord Sevrynel, he realized with a chill that the “who” was not the only pressing matter. Oh gods—will he strike again?

  * * *

  “Is tha Lord Tirael? Garron says tha is.”

  Tirael looked around from his mug of ale to find a grubby boy of twelve years or so eyeing him warily. “And if I am, you little worm, what’s it to you?”

  The boy flushed angrily but all he said was, “Then this is for tha,” and flicked a well-folded piece of parchment at him.

  It struck Tirael on the cheek. He cursed, but the brat was gone before he could cuff him for his insolence. Tirael settled back into his chair and studied the note.

  Good parchment, sealed with scented wax, but no imprint in the wax. Had Merrilee come to her senses at last? Tirael opened it eagerly.

  The hand, though educated, wasn’t hers. It was clearly a man’s handwriting, elegant, but not one he recognized. And it was unsigned. Tirael nearly tossed it aside after a glance when Merrilee’s name seemed to jump out at him. Merrilee’s—and Eadain’s.

  He read the note very carefully after that. Then he sat and thought for long, long while. This would explain some of the looks cast his way lately, the cryptic comments. Did everyone know but him? They must think him the veriest fool!

  After a time, Tirael left.

  * * *

  When he reached home, Tirael called for the steward. As soon as Tiniver appeared, Tirael snarled at him, “I’ll need one of the men to take a letter for me. Find one while I write it.”

  The steward bowed as Tirael ran up the stairs. Moments later, he sat at the table-desk in his room. He pulled a fresh quill pen and a new bottle of ink to him; the others had been broken when his damned cousin knocked everything off the desk that night.