Otter’s fool of a grand nephew was the first to arrive as Leet knew he would be, bound already by the magic of the harp. Raven stumbled into the clearing like a sleepwalker. When he shook his head as if trying to clear it, Leet commanded, “Wait you there, boy, wait you there without a sound, still as a statue. I’ll have a use for you soon enough.”
Raven halted, his eyelids drooping.
Leet smiled. Now for the other one … The bard redoubled his efforts; tears coursed down his cheeks as ache turned to pain, then to agony. But his voice held steady and his fingers did not fail him. This—this was his only chance. Leet squeezed his eyes shut against the burning cold and played on and on. He had no blood to call this prey. His hate would have to do.
He was so intent upon his playing that he almost missed the noise of someone crashing through the garden beds. A muffled exclamation of pain finally broke through his concentration; Leet opened his eyes in time to see Tirael jerk free from the rosebushes that caught him. The younger man’s face and hands were badly scratched and his clothes torn. Leet smiled to see that perfect face crisscrossed with thin lines of blood.
Tirael stared listlessly at him, slack-faced like one devoid of wit. His lower lip trembled.
“Welcome, Tirael. Not so pretty now, are you, my fine lad?” he said softly. His hands continued their dance over the strings. “But you are still welcome, Tirael, very welcome indeed. I have someone here I’d like you to meet—and who wants to meet you so very, very much.”
Tirael’s dull gaze flickered toward Raven.
“No, no,” Leet said with a laugh. “You already know Raven, don’t you? And everyone knows that there’s no love lost between the two of you. Even so, why don’t I let him do the honors? He’s met sweet Gull before—haven’t you, Raven?”
Raven’s eyes opened fully; a look of confused fear filled them as if Raven knew he should be afraid, but could not remember why. That look fed the blaze of vengeance in the bard’s soul like oil upon a fire.
“Call Tirael a ‘cheat,’ Raven. Name him ‘coward.’ I order you to,” Leet crooned.
And Raven did. Tirael was so cowed that he made not even the slightest sign of offense. But enough toying with these louts, Leet thought, no matter how amusing it was. Someone might come.
Ah! If only Otter were here to see his darling grandnephew’s destruction.… Still, this was more—far, far more—than Leet had ever hoped for. He swept his fingers along the strings in a triumphant glissando before continuing to play. “You know what Gull wants, Raven,” he said. “Give it to him. Give him Tirael’s blood.”
It all nearly came to nothing as both men fought his control. Leet swept his fingers across the strings once more, building upon the melody, but Raven staggered, shaking his head, fighting to cover his ears. Even Tirael, pampered brat that he was, tossed his head like a fractious horse. Leet knew that he would lose them in another moment.
Then the harp jerked in his arms. With an oath, Leet caught it just in time. But the harp kept twitching and Leet had to abandon any attempt to play. He clutched the soundbox so hard his knuckles turned white.
Frenzied thoughts tumbled over each other. Must keep playing, damn it, I’ll lose them both, what’s going on, whatthehellishappening, MUST KEEP PLAY—
But the music went on as if ghostly fingers plucked the strings. After one long, stunned moment, Leet realized that the harp was playing by itself.
His first instinct was to fling it away. Yes, a harp could “sing” when a breeze blew through its strings; that was common. But this—this was clearly a song. No vagary of the wind could play a song, damn it. This was more than he’d bargained—
Then he noticed that both Raven and Tirael had stopped struggling. Leet grimly forced his aching hands to keep their hold.
The tune changed, became a delicate, haunting melody that Leet had never heard before—a melody played with a subtlety unmatched by any human hand; a melody of heartbreaking beauty, graced rather than adorned by the simplest of harmonies, a melody that built upon itself, each repetition blending its bell-like notes into those that had come before. It should have sounded muddy. Instead it built a gossamer veil of sound, a shroud of notes that caught Raven and Tirael within its coils.
A cold chill gripped the bard’s heart; he knew he now heard the song with which Gull the Blood Drinker had lulled his victims so long ago. Another heartbeat or two and Leet would understand the words.…
“No!” he gasped. Then, “Kill him! Kill him now!” Lest I be caught in this web as well!
A shiver of anticipation wove through the music and Leet clearly heard a single word drawn out like a wolf’s howl: blooood.
Eyes blank, Raven drew his belt knife. He turned and marched stiffly to where Tirael stood, eyes equally blank. A fleeting regret passed through Leet’s mind that Tirael wouldn’t know the terror that Arnath had surely felt. Revenge would have to be enough.
The harp played wildly, passionately, like a lover who sees his beloved. Tirael’s head tilted back; Raven’s arm went back, back, then—
Leet closed his eyes, suddenly unable to watch. He heard a grunt, a noise like a sigh, and a dull thump. A crescendo of chords filled the air in sensual exultation and the harp quivered in his arms. Leet’s stomach turned; it sounded too much like a man at the height of pleasure. What kind of man was this, that death was to him what love is to other men?
A wave of nausea swept over him and he found himself gasping as if he’d run a race. He swallowed hard and wondered if his legs would support him.
Gods help me, I—I hadn’t expected anything like this. I must leave, must get—
A wave of cold shot up his arms, a cold so intense it was pure agony. He cried out, his eyes opening in reflex.
Raven stood before him, eyes empty; his knife was still in his hand. Blood dripped from it, drop by slow, thickening drop, and his hand and clothes were stained with the the horrible stuff.
Tirael lay on the ground at his feet. A dark pool spread around the young nobleman’s head. By some trick of the dimming light Leet could see blood glistening along the edges of the gaping wound in his throat.
Leet’s head spun at the ghastly sight and the world swam before his eyes. He knew he was on the verge of collapse.
Then, through no will of his own, the bard staggered to his feet. Still clutching the harp, he lumbered across the short distance, at first jerking and twitching like a mishandled puppet, then moving normally if somewhat stiffly.
He knelt by Tirael’s side. One hand loosed its death grip on the harp and stretched forth, slowly, slowly toward the blood pooled around Tirael’s head. Leet watched it from a place beyond terror; surely it belonged to someone else, this hand.… It wasn’t his, it couldn’t be his.
Oh gods, please, no. A squirrel or rabbit’s blood is one thing. But a man’s? Auvrian help me, I don’t want to tou—
The hand scooped up as much blood as it could from the sluggish pool beneath Tirael’s head. The feel of the warm, thick fluid nearly made Leet vomit. He desperately wanted to shake the stuff from his fingers, scrub them clean until the skin was raw, then scrub them again and again. But they didn’t belong to him anymore; they were … They were going to … going to …
Leet stared at the thick smear of red that now ran down the harp’s soundboard ending in a bloody palm print at the bottom. This was no mere streak of blood as before. How in Auvrian’s name was he going to explain—
The blood disappeared, soaking into the soundboard like water into parched earth. Or was it the other way around? Like a man dying of thirst would drink, he realized.
The harp shivered in his arms; then a paean of unholy rapture burst forth from the strings, and the cold that had burned Leet vanished, replaced by a rush of ecstasy beyond anything he had ever imagined, ever dreamed of. He nearly swooned.
Shaking his head to clear it, Leet suddenly remembered that Raven stood over him, knife in hand. Cold fear shot through him. But to his surprise when he dar
ed look, the Yerrin still stood rock-steady and blank of face.
How could he not feel that? the bard marveled. It was like, like—I don’t know; drinking sunlight, riding a thunderbolt, wrapping a cloak of fire around oneself! All of those, none of those, something even better!
From deep inside—himself? the harp?—a soft voice whispered enticingly, And you can have it again.…
The sweet words echoing in his mind, Leet greedily scooped up more blood and slathered it on the keyboard. Let Raven stand there in a trance until he rotted; it was clear nothing would wake him until Leet released him, and Leet had better things to think about. He watched the soundboard, panting like a man after a long race.
Once more the blood disappeared, and once more the rapture took Leet. He moaned. This was like nothing else he’d ever felt, pleasure so intense it danced on the edge of pain. It was almost more than he could stand; indeed, he wasn’t certain he could bear it again, yet he had to have more, so much more.…
But his shaking fingers had just touched the pool of blood when a voice startled him. He jerked his hand back, blood cooling on his fingertips.
No! a voice inside his mind shrieked in thwarted rage. No! I want more!
Somehow Leet managed to keep his head and not scream curses at the interloper. With a moan of frustration, he slewed around to see who had interrupted him. A grey haze rode the edges of his vision and his head swam, but Leet could just make out the figure of a man. It was someone familiar; he’d seen that craggy, almost ugly face before—hadn’t he?
Go away, Leet begged him mentally. Go away; I must—
Without realizing it, he brushed his wet fingertips against the soundboard. Once more the rapture overtook him. It was not as powerful this time, but it was still more than his overwhelmed senses could bear. The world slid away.…
As he spiraled down into darkness, the man’s identity came to him: Conor of Red Dale. Beast Healer.
The last thing he heard was a voice laughing in his mind.
And perfect witness, it said.
* * *
At first Conor couldn’t understand the scene before him; he stopped, squinting against the failing light, trying to make out what had happened. He came forward slowly, reluctant to interrupt a private meeting. Some of these nobles were so damned touchy.…
Wait; that was Linden’s friend Raven, he was certain of it. But why was Raven staring so stiffly into the distance? And who was the kneeling man? Why does he seem misshapen and what’s that he’s kneeling by, Conor wondered. The skin prickled on the back of his neck. Fighting the urge to walk away and say that none of this was his concern, the Beast Healer walked on step by slow, cautious step. With a shock he realized that the thing on the ground was a man.
Someone’s ill or hurt! Forgetting his earlier apprehension, Conor cried out, “What happened?” He set Trouble on the ground and ran to help.
The kneeling figure turned and Conor recognized the Master Bard. That explained the oddness of the figure, then; the bard was clutching his small traveling harp to himself. Then, to Conor’s horror, Bard Leet fell to one side like a dead man.
Only then did Raven move. He shook his head, looking around with the air of a man who found himself in a place quite different from where he’d fallen asleep. But Conor had no time to spare for him; all his attention was for the two men sprawled upon the ground. If Raven could stand, he would do well enough for now.
The bard moaned and to Conor’s relief, shakily pushed himself up onto one elbow. Thank the gods, then; the man hadn’t dropped dead of apoplexy or something like as Conor had first feared. The Beast Healer skidded to a halt at the downed man’s side and steadied him against the shuddering breaths that shook the spare frame. Satisfied that Leet wouldn’t keel over dead for the moment, Conor was finally able to look at the fallen man. While his gift was with animals, not humans, he knew as much as any first-year Healer.
But one glance told him this man was beyond any aid he could give; not even a truedragon’s Healing fire could save this one—not with that great, gaping wound across the throat.
That same glance told Conor that the man was a noble. Someone would hang for this. He swore aloud and looked up at Raven, saying, “Raven, what in the name of the Great Stag hap—”
For the first time he saw the knife in Raven’s hand. Conor gaped at it, stared dumbfounded as that hand came up and Raven gazed blankly down at the dripping blade. The Yerrin’s eyes blazed with sudden anger.
“The music,” Raven said in a harsh whisper. His gaze shifted to Leet. “His music.” The knife twitched in his hand.
“Raven—no!” Conor threw himself at Raven, one arm snaking behind the Yerrin’s knees. Raven went down like a sack of wet meal. Before he could get up, Conor half fell, half jumped on him. Raven pushed at him and kicked, trying to throw him off.
Conor grabbed Raven’s knife hand and hung on for dear life. He landed a crashing blow to the other man’s jaw. Raven’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.
Panting, Conor pulled back and turned to Leet. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “No? Then thank the gods—I came in time.” He glanced at the thing that had once been a handsome young man. “At least in time for you.” He looked back at Leet.
He found the bard staring at him with a madman’s eyes. For a moment Conor wondered if the bard would attack him. Then, with a visible effort, Leet pulled himself together; to Conor’s relief he turned that burning gaze elsewhere.
“Well done, Beast Healer,” Leet said, half-turning away and cradling his harp to his breast. “You’ve caught His Lordship’s killer. Justice shall be served.”
To Conor it seemed that other words hung unspoken in the grey twilight. And there was something odd about Leet’s manner, but he couldn’t put a finger on that oddity. The bard seemed … he had no words for it. An angry hiss from the ground near his feet distracted Conor. He looked down.
Trouble had caught up with him; she stood facing Bard Leet. To Conor’s surprise, her back was hunched and her tail fluffed as large as he’d ever seen it. Her mouth was open, showing her long canines, and she hissed again and again; Conor thought he’d never seen her so angry.
Angry—or frightened? For when Bard Leet turned his gaze upon her, she whipped around and in the blink of an eye scrambled up Conor and dove into his hood. He could feel her trembling against his back.
Conor craned his head around. “Trouble? Troublesome-weasel? What’s wrong, girl?”
A soft, frightened hissing was his only answer. Then came the last sound Conor wanted to hear.
“I know I heard Beast Healer Conor, Lissa. I must find out if Buttercup’s well,” a high, clear voice declared.
“But my lady, perhaps he’s busy. And are you certain you heard him? I didn’t, Lady Rosalea. And your mother won’t like it that you’ve left the gathering again. Please come back.”
Lissa, Conor prayed silently, get the child out of here.…
The piping voice said, “Not until I find out about Buttercup. I know I heard him—right over there!”
“Oh gods—not now!” But Conor had no choice. Loath as he was to leave the bard unprotected should Raven regain his senses, he had to keep Rosalea from this. He jumped to his feet and ran to the opening in the hedge. Careening around the corner, he intercepted Lady Rosalea and her exasperated nurse just in time.
* * *
Leet watched the Beast Healer race away to head off Lady Athalea’s daughter. A firestorm of emotions warred in his breast. Uppermost was fury, plain and simple. How dare that great, ugly lump of a pig leech interrupt him? Leet longed beyond anything to taste that rapture one more time. His thoughts tumbled over each other like a fever dream gone mad. Once more his trembling fingers stretched out.
Before the blood gets cold …
But one part of his mind remained detached. It knew he didn’t dare feast one more time; soon there would be guards and gawkers. He mustn’t risk becoming so lost in ecstasy that he was seen feeding
the harp. No one must know about sweet Gull.… The fingers curled tightly into his palm.
And with cold calculation that same part of his mind also knew that Conor’s arrival might have been the best thing that could have happened. A thing he hadn’t foreseen wanting, but which was the crowning touch: a witness of unimpeachable character.
The Beast Healer was well known and, Leet knew, well thought of among the nobles here at the horse fair. He was also known to be honest and conscientious; his word would be accepted in any court of justice. And he had seen Raven, a dripping knife in his bloodstained hand, standing over a still warm corpse.
Leet hugged the harp and laughed softly.
* * *
“There you are!” Lady Rosalea exclaimed. “I was waiting and waiting but you didn’t come! Didn’t Warin and Burwell tell you?” She ran to him and put her hands into his. “Is Buttercup well now?”
Before Conor could speak, she looked beyond him as if something—some noise?—had caught her attention. “Oooo—did you bring him, Beast Healer? Is he in there?” she squealed in delight and tried to slip past.
Conor grabbed her. “No!” he yelled. Tucking her under one arm, he carried her away from the opening in the hedge. Lissa stared at him in astonishment as he strode past, but he had no time—and less inclination—to explain.
Conor set Rosalea down again and knelt before her; her mouth made a round O of surprise and her big brown eyes gazed in confusion at him. Then she giggled and, no doubt thinking it all some new game, tried to dodge by him. He caught her and set her in front of him again, this time gripping her arms.
Rosalea’s lower lip began trembling. The game, it seemed, was no fun anymore.
“Now listen to me, my lady,” he said roughly. “I swear to you that Buttercup is safe and well in his own stall in the—”
He’d been so worried about Rosalea, he’d forgotten about Lissa. A shriek from beyond the hedge reminded him all too clearly. Rosalea clung to him in fright as her sobbing nurse ran past, pale as moonlight. She disappeared into the darkening garden.
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