Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  As he sharpened the quill, he thought long and hard about what he was going to write—and what he was going to do. Satisfied at last, he took a fresh sheet of parchment from the stack, dipped pen in ink, and began writing in his best hand:

  Greetings, Master Luyens!

  By the time you get this, I’ll either be a married man or a hunted one.

  He paused to study the words. He could still change his mind.… But no! She belonged to him, damn it! Why couldn’t she see that?

  He would see that she did. One way or another. Once more he set pen to parchment.

  * * *

  Linden had just finished saddling Shan when a messenger in Sevrynel’s livery rode up to him.

  “Your Grace,” the young woman said, bowing slightly in the saddle as she held out a sealed tube. “I was to tell you that this is urgent. I’m also to wait for a reply, Dragonlord.”

  He sighed inwardly as he took it. “My thanks.” In his mind he heard, If this is more pedigrees … He glanced over at Maurynna leaning against Boreal’s neck and grinned.

  The smile disappeared as he read Sevrynel’s note. He swore softly in Yerrin.

  I take it we’re not going to old Cade’s booth to get cheese and bread, are we?

  No, love, we’re not. Sevrynel says that they know how Summer Lightning died—he was poisoned. He requests that I be there when they inform Lord Lenslee. I don’t know what he thinks I can do, but … Linden swung up onto Shan’s back. “No need of a reply. I’ll go there now. The manor house?”

  “Yes, Dragonlord.”

  Turning to his soultwin, Linden asked, “Do you want to come along?”

  Maurynna shook her head. I think it would be too painful; from all I’ve heard, Lenslee loved that foul-tempered beast. She continued aloud, “I think I’ll go to the castle. I want to talk to Healer Tasha about Kella. She was so busy with the race I haven’t had a chance yet.”

  Linden blew her a kiss and touched his heels to Shan’s sides. The Llysanyin cantered off.

  * * *

  “Yellowfool? Someone put wilted yellowfool in Summer Lightning’s hay?”

  Linden winced at the raw pain in Lord Lenslee’s voice. He’d seen a horse die from eating that stuff. The horse—one of his father’s—had gotten into a field where cut hay lay in windrows. Drawn by the sweet smell, it had found a patch of almost pure yellowfool in the curing hay and eaten its fill. They’d found it just a short while later, but it was already too late. The horse spasmed, collapsed, and died before they reached the gate.

  Ironically, had the horse gotten loose just a few days later, it would have lived. The hay would have been fully cured by then and whatever poison was in the yellowfool would have been driven off.

  That, though tragic, had been an accident. This … this was deliberate cruelty. He looked at Lord Lenslee, face buried in his hands, with sympathy.

  “There’s no chance that it was in the hay by accident?” he asked gently.

  “None,” Lord Portis answered. His pale face looked stricken. “The hay came from my own fields. And while I know that yellowfool makes good fodder when it’s dried and some esteem it highly, it’s not a chance I’m willing to take. Whenever it’s found on my lands, I have my people rip it out.”

  “Gods have mercy,” Lord Sevrynel said. “That means…”

  “That means that someone fed it to Summer Lightning deliberately.” Master Edlunn shook his head. “Cruel—a cruel thing to do and a cruel way for an animal to die.”

  A muffled sob escaped from behind Lenslee’s hands.

  “May anyone enter the stables?” Linden asked, though he already knew the answer.

  Portis shook his head; the last of the color drained from his face, leaving him as white as salt. He knew what Linden’s question—and his answer—meant. “It must have been one of Therinn’s people, or … or mine,” he whispered. “But I would have sworn that…” He shivered though the room was warm.

  The painful meeting ended soon after; it was clear that Lord Lenslee was close to collapse. The matter would be given over to High Marshal Huryn and his men for investigation.

  “I know I said that horse should have been put down,” Lord Sevrynel said softly as they watched Lenslee and Portis leave. “But not like that. Never like that. May the gods grant that Huryn soon finds the filth responsible. And now if you will all excuse me, I must see to the final plans for tonight’s gathering.”

  * * *

  Maurynna came out of Healer Tasha’s quarters as confused as ever. Knowing that Maurynna would want the latest word on her cousin, Tasha had visited Kella at home the night before she left for Balyaranna.

  And Kella had been, well, Kella. Just as every letter from Maylin and Aunt Elenna had assured her: Kella is healthy and well and driving us mad. She sends her love and wants to know when you can take her flying again.

  The only odd note had come from one of Maylin’s letters:

  Abern Walbeck, one of the wealthiest members of Mother’s guild, visited yesterday and brought a small harp with him. He told Mother that his son has no head for music. (In truth, I’ve heard that young Abern’s teacher refused to have him as a student anymore. Something about mice in her music satchel…)

  Anyway, it’s a lovely thing, very sweet tone—and Kella won’t touch it. Won’t even look at it. This from the girl who was awake before the sun was up on the days of her lessons. Fickle child.

  I could have sworn that Kella had a real gift, Maurynna mused. Enough of one to go to Bylith. Could this have something to do—no, how could it have anything to do with her illness? Likely she’s just lost interest; after all, at one time she wanted nothing more than to be a tumbler!

  As she made her way back through the castle, Maurynna wondered what new thing had driven music lessons from Kella’s head. Each new theory was more outlandish than the last. By the time the castle steward intercepted her and asked if she would care to join Duchess Beryl for some small refreshments, Maurynna had nearly forgotten her unease.

  * * *

  Conor followed Linden and Master Edlunn as they left the manor. Emotions warred within his breast. First was righteous horror that anyone would treat an animal so. The second was less worthy, perhaps, but the more powerful.

  Relief. Pure, blessed relief. It had not been his fault after all that Summer Lightning had died. He was not, as rumor had it—and he’d feared—incompetent, thank all the gods.

  It must have shown on his face, for when he caught up with Edlunn and Linden, both smiled gently at him.

  Master Edlunn stopped and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I, for one, never thought it was your fault, lad. I know you. I know how careful you are.”

  “So stop beating yourself about the head over it,” Linden said. “And don’t even think that if you had thought to look in on the horse that night you might have saved him. It happens too fast, Conor. I’ve seen it.”

  Conor nodded. He knew the Dragonlord spoke the truth, but there would always be a part of him that would wonder if, if, if …

  He wanted to be alone for a bit. “If you’ve no immediate need of me, Master Edlunn, I’ll have a look at Fliss. Just to make certain…”

  The older Beast Healer looked at him shrewdly, then nodded. “Of course, lad, go on.”

  “I’m off to find my soultwin once more,” Linden Rathan said. “And maybe even a bit of that cheese she keeps telling me about.”

  Conor watched until they had passed through the main gate; then, because his legs shook, walked slowly to Fliss’s paddock. Reaction, he told himself, just reaction.

  * * *

  Fliss was well. Cantering around her pasture, even, her tail flying gaily in the air like a flag. Conor heaved a sigh of relief and leaned on the fence, letting all the fear and anxiety of the past days seep out of him.

  He was still standing there when one of the stable boys pelted up to him. Conor listened to the boy’s gasped explanation and started running.

  He found his patient by
a small stream that flowed sluggishly through the lower end of one of Lord Sevrynel’s pastures: a small pony with a golden coat and flaxen mane and tail. It was being walked by Falk, one of Sevrynel’s stable hands. Two other stable hands, Warin and Burwell, a white-haired gaffer, walked on either side of it. From time to time the pony would stop and snap at its sides or kick at its belly.

  Standing nearby were two muddy children—a boy and a girl—as well as a young woman and a young man. The young woman had her arms wrapped around the little girl, plainly holding her back.

  Thank the gods—Falk’s kept the pony from rolling.

  When he was close enough, Conor skidded to a halt. He walked the rest of the way so that he wouldn’t spook the pony. Laying his hands upon its broad brow, Conor soothed it, easing the pain.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I’m going to rip her hair out!” the little girl shrieked. Tears poured down her dirty face. “I’ve told Willena a hundred times not to give Buttercup any apples!” She began sobbing.

  Conor recognized her as Lady Rosalea, the daughter of one of Lord Sevrynel’s guests; he’d seen her in the stable a few times when he’d come to look in on Fliss. “Apples and Buttercup don’t agree?” he guessed. He’d seen more than one horse like that, the poor things.

  “No,” said the boy, a lad with brick-red hair. “They don’t.” He looked somewhat familiar, but Conor didn’t have the time to think about it right now. He had a pony with colic.

  He looked at the young woman. “Lady, if you would…?”

  She nodded. “Rosalea, please! You must come with me and let the Beast Healer work in peace.”

  Big brown eyes filled with tears. “But I want to stay, Lissa! Buttercup n-n-needs me!”

  The boy rested a hand on her shoulder. “You have to go, Rosie. It’s best. Besides, your mama will be angry if you’re late to get ready for the gathering.”

  “And we’ll be forever getting you cleaned up, Rosalea,” the young woman added. She looked down at her charge’s wet, muddy clothes and winced.

  “Beast Healer Conor will take good care of Buttercup,” the young man said.

  “But, Ari…” Rosalea turned from him to look at the boy with the red-brown hair. He shook his head, then whispered something in her ear. “Oh—truly?” she asked. Then she turned to Conor. The biggest, brownest eyes he’d ever seen studied him for a long moment.

  Ohhh, this one’s going to be dangerous when she’s older. He managed not to smile lest she misunderstand it.

  “You have to make Buttercup better, Beast Healer Conor.” The big brown eyes brimmed anew with tears.

  “I will, my lady,” Conor pledged.

  Once more she studied him. What she saw must have reassured her, for she nodded and allowed her nurse and the boy to lead her away. The young man, who had spoken up for him, walked alongside the boy.

  Conor turned back to the pony. “Falk, you stay to help walk him. Burwell, please see that Buttercup’s stall is ready for him. Warin, I need you to fetch some things for me.…”

  As the stable hands trotted off to do his bidding, Conor laid a hand on Buttercup’s back. “Right, then—let’s keep walking.”

  * * *

  At last Buttercup was back in his stall. Falk went off to resume his usual duties. Conor leaned against the wall and heaved a weary sigh. He looked ruefully down at himself, then shut his eyes.

  Trust a pony to pick the wettest, muddiest part of the pasture to fall ill in. They were, he swore to himself, the contrariest creatures the gods had ever created. He didn’t care what anyone said. They were.

  “Ah—there tha are, Beast Healer.”

  Conor warily opened an eye. He saw Burwell bearing down on him, face split in a nearly toothless grin. Warin was hot on his heels.

  Why do I think I’m not going to like this?

  Burwell planted himself in front of Conor. “Lady Rosalea insists upon seeing tha right away, Beast Healer. She’s at the lord’s gatherin’, she is.”

  Conor boggled at him. “Now? Right now?”

  Warin grinned and confirmed the unwelcome announcement. “That’s right, Beast Healer—that’s just what Her Little Ladyship said: as soon as tha was certain that her Buttercup was safe, to come and tell her thaself. Mad about that pony, she is.”

  “Not one to be put off, she bain’t.” Burwell’s grin grew wider, wreathing his face in wrinkles.

  Conor could imagine Lady Rosalea was one to get her way. She wouldn’t need tantrums. All she had to do was just look at you. “And she’s at this gathering of Lord Sevrynel’s? You’re certain of that?” Conor asked in resignation.

  “Oh, that she is, Beast Healer, that she is,” Burwell piped, his head bobbing up and down. “I told her tha wasn’t dressed proper for a nobles’ gathering, but the lass wouldna take ‘no’ for an answer.” He sounded downright proud of her. Enchanted by those eyes, no doubt.

  “No,” Conor sighed, looking down at the grass stains on the knees of his breeches and the mud plastering his boots. “I daresay she wouldn’t.” He looked over the rest of his clothes. Oh gods—how did he tear that elbow? Damnation, but he was going to feel like a bumpkin. A very dirty bumpkin at that; as if to agree with him, Trouble crawled out of her bed in his hood, balanced herself on his shoulder, and proceeded to wash as much of his face as she could reach.

  The old man went on enthusiastically, “Said that a Beast Healer’s green-and-brown was worth any amount of silk and ribbons and lace and what-all even if it was dirty.” Burwell favored him with a nearly toothless grin. “Couldna do aught but agree with her, I couldna. The lass was right, she was.”

  “Hunh, thank you.” Conor slapped halfheartedly at the dusty front of his tunic. No, Lady Rosalea would brook no denial—not where Buttercup was concerned, he suspected. He considered just leaving, then dismissed the idea; from the stubborn look on Warin and Burwell’s faces, he suspected they’d frog-march him to the gathering if he tried. Child though she was, Lady Rosalea already had her stalwart partisans. Besides, then he’d have to face those big brown eyes capable of making any male feel like an ogre with but a single mournful look.

  May the gods help her suitors when she’s older, Conor thought as he glumly picked stray bits of grass from his clothes. They’re going to need it.

  Warin must have guessed his concern. He said, “Tha could go the back way, Beast Healer, through the gardens until tha are nearly upon the gathering. From there tha can get one of the servants to tell Lady Rosalea that tha’s come to see her.”

  Conor brightened. “Good idea, Warin. I’ll do that.” He looked up at the sky. It was nearing dusk; if he took his time, the fading light would hide a multitude of sins even if one of the gentry noticed him.

  Lifting Trouble down from his shoulder and settling her into his arms, Conor bade farewell to the stable hands and set off to wend a leisurely way through the gardens.

  It was the perfect ending to the day, Conor thought as he walked. One of those summer evenings that was neither too hot nor too cool, with an occasional breeze slipping past laden with the scent of roses and dame’s rocket and rich, damp earth. He drew a deep breath and let it out with a happy sigh. Trouble’s whiskers twitched as she sniffed the air.

  Now the breeze brought with it a snatch of music, a fragment of a bell-like tune that haunted the twilight. He turned aside to find it without even thinking why. It would be only a little out of his way.…

  He paused in midstep and shook his head like a man coming out of a dream. Lady Rosalea was waiting for him, worrying about her pony. Why in the world was he—

  Once more the shimmering notes beckoned. He followed.

  Forty-four

  Leet arrived early at Lord Sevrynel’s. When the harried understeward looked at him a bit curiously, Leet announced, “I require privacy and time to ready myself for my performance. I will do so in the gardens. When I am ready, I will join the gathering.”

  He glared at the understeward as if she wer
e a student, the same withering glare that had made many a young upstart slink off, tail tucked between their legs.

  For a moment he thought she would defy him. But then she bowed and stood aside. Leet nodded imperiously and swept past.

  Now to see if the next step in his plan would work.

  * * *

  At last Leet found a place in the gardens that suited him, well away from the gathering, since he wasn’t yet certain how many people might be affected by his “call.” He settled himself in a likely spot.

  * * *

  Leet bent all his will to his summoning. Yet Gull refused to answer. Desperate, the bard bit his lower lip until he tasted blood, his fingers still running unerringly over the strings as the eerie yet beautiful tune poured forth like a bubbling spring.

  Come! Come to me! he sang in his mind over and over again, calling the harp to answer. With his right hand keeping the tune, Leet touched the tip of his left forefinger to his bleeding lip, then brushed it against the soundboard. The bright red stain disappeared instantly. Leet held his breath; if this didn’t work …

  Nothing. Despair nearly claimed him, then he felt the spirit within grow restless, hungry as it woke once more. Now malignant lust vibrated through the strings. Gull wanted more than that paltry offering, much more: fresh blood, thick and hot, sweet and salty, all that was in a man’s body.

  Now Leet sang aloud, the merest breath of a whisper, sending his words aloft with the bell-like notes, cajoling, commanding those who heard his song to come to him.

  The strings grew ice cold. For a moment Leet feared they would snap. He’d heard philosophers speak of the deadly cold that many said filled the space between the stars, a cold beyond any in the mortal world.

  This, he thought, clenching his teeth against the ache that crawled up his arms, this was such a cold. He wondered that the wire strings did not shatter like glass. Yet they stayed whole; indeed, the sound became sweeter and more beguiling the colder they grew.