“What happened?” Rosalea asked in a tiny voice.
Conor resisted the urge to curse the curious Lissa from here to Assantik and back. “There’s been an … an accident, my lady,” he said in the voice he used for frightened younglings of any kind. “I don’t want you to go there—will you promise me that? But I need to go back and see if—if Bard Leet needs help. Can you be brave and stay here by yourself?”
“No,” she said promptly. Then, looking beyond his shoulder, she screamed and buried her face against him.
“Don’t worry, Beast Healer Conor,” a melodious voice said.
Conor looked around.
“I’m … quite well,” the bard continued. He smiled.
But Conor saw the look in his eyes and somehow couldn’t agree.
* * *
Maurynna rubbed the back of her neck, surprised at the tingling she felt. It had come on gradually, become almost painful, then suddenly stopped. What was that about? she wondered as she eyed her goblet of spiced wine. Something in the—
“Lord Sevrynel! Lord Sevrynel!”
The shriek tore through the gathering. The happy babble wavered as guests looked at each other in mingled astonishment and annoyance at such an unseemly disturbance.
Taller than most of the crowd about the laden tables, Maurynna could see a young woman running from the direction of the gardens. Even from here she could see the girl’s face was chalk-white and her eyes huge. Maurynna set down her goblet and started for the edge of the crowd; she didn’t know what was wrong, but from the look on the girl’s face, it was something dire.
A cold pit opened in her stomach. By the gods—isn’t that the girl who looks after Lady Athalea’s daughter?
She began pushing her way through the stunned throng to where the girl had stopped, looking wildly around for Lord Sevrynel. A crowd immediately clustered so thick and deep around the frantic messenger that Maurynna was forced to stop lest she knock someone over. At least her height enabled her to see what was going on.
“Has something happened to Lady Rosalea?” Duchess Beryl demanded.
The girl jumped. Relief flooded her face as she recognized the duchess. “No, Your Grace, she’s well, I left her with Beast Healer Conor,” she babbled as she made the regent a sketchy courtesy.
“Then what’s wrong? What’s the meaning of this unseemly interruption?” snapped a nobleman.
Lissa looked at him with the frightened eyes of a hunted doe. “I—I’m sorry, Lord Oriss, but, but—” She took a deep breath and, breaking into hysterical tears, wailed, “There’s been murder done, my lord! Lord Tirael’s been murdered!”
Stunned silence greeted her words. Before anyone could so much as breathe, Lissa cried out, “It was that Yerrin fellow! The one that has the Dragonlord horse! Bard Leet said so—he saw him do it!”
The girl’s words went through Maurynna like a dagger.
Forty-five
Linden! Linden, get back here! For the love of all the gods, get back here now!
Linden staggered under the force of Maurynna’s mindvoice. Maurynna—what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Maurynna?
When she didn’t answer him, he stretched his senses to the utmost. But her mind was in such turmoil that try as he might, Linden could sense nothing more from his soultwin.
“Your Grace? Dragonlord?”
Linden opened eyes he didn’t realize he’d squeezed shut while trying to sort out Maurynna’s chaotic emotions. He found himself leaning against a stall door and looked down to find a worried Lord Sevrynel tugging at his sleeve.
“Linden Rathan? Are you ill, my lord?” the little Cassorin lord asked as he peered anxiously at him.
Lady Athalea asked, “Shall we send for Healer Tasha, Your Grace?”
Linden pushed himself away from the stall and told the group of worried faces around him, “I’m well, thank you. But my soultwin, Maurynna … Something’s wrong. I must go.”
With that he ran from the stable and across the courtyard. He heard the others running after him but paid them no mind. It seemed to take forever to find his way through the gardens; worse, he still could not make out what might be wrong with Maurynna—just that she was on the edge of hysteria. And that scared him, for panic was not like Maurynna at all.
Gifnu’s hells—she’s faced pirate raids and an attack by a mad truedragon! What could have happened at a summer gathering?
When he reached the site of the gathering, he found it almost empty. Only Lord Eadain and Lady Merrilee were there, holding hands and looking about them in puzzled apprehension. “What happened?” Linden asked.
They shook their heads. “We don’t know,” Lord Eadain said. “We heard someone screaming and then a great deal of shouting, so we came. We were … in another part of the garden.”
From the northern path that led into this nook came a frantic buzz of voices and a glow that he was certain was coldfire. Linden ran up it only to find his way blocked by a crowd of nobles craning to see what was going on in front. As Linden began easing a way through the crowd, one voice rose above the rest.
“Tirael! Oh gods, Tirael!” the voice keened like a lost spirit. “He killed my son, my baby, my bonny, bonny boy!” Wail turned to hellcat shriek: “Kill him! Kill him as he killed my heart’s own! Guard, I order you to kill that peasant!”
Murder? Here? And by the sound of it there might well be another if the guard forgot that even a peasant had a right to justice—at least if a Dragonlord was around. Linden dove into the crowd and pushed people aside in earnest as the voices in the front joined in the blood hunt.
An explosion of coldfire lit the garden like a noonday sun. Linden paused for a moment, eyes dazzled, as those around him cried out and cowered in fear and surprise.
“Run him through and I will hunt you down.”
The menace in Maurynna’s voice cut through the babble; silence spread out from it like blood flowing from a wound.
That menace shocked Linden. What the hell was going on? Gods knew he’d seen Maurynna angry enough times; she’d flare up, then be laughing again an instant later. But this … This was as far beyond anger as a forest fire was beyond a candle flame. This was a fury that would hound a man to the end of time. Linden prayed that the guard was a man of sense.
Now the only sound was a woman’s voice thick with tears, sobbing over and over again, “Kill him. Please kill him. He killed my bonny boy, my poor bonny boy.”
At last Linden reached the center of all the turmoil. He stared at the scene revealed by a large globe of coldfire. It cast a light like a winter moon, cold and hard with knife-edged shadows.
The sharp, sickly-sweet smell of blood lay over everything. Linden saw a body to one side of the little garden bay; in the icy white glow it was easy to see the gaping wound in the throat. An older woman knelt by the corpse’s side, weeping bitterly over it. Only the firm grip of another noblewoman—Linden recognized Lady Jorusha, owner of one of the favorites in the cross-country races—kept her from throwing herself upon the victim.
Guards surrounded a kneeling man, twisting his arms behind his back and forcing his head down from the little Linden could see of him. A small belt dagger lay on the grass before the clot of figures. Even from this distance the blood upon it was plain to see. One guard held a drawn sword; he and Maurynna faced each other over it, their gazes locked upon each other.
Before Linden could react to the sight of that threatening blade, the contest of wills ended; the sword disappeared into its sheath. A moment later Maurynna turned away and went to the prisoner and his guards.
One, clearly their leader, said to her, “The bard saw him do it, Your Grace.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
An ominous rumble of muttered rebellion greeted her words.
“There will be no more killing this night, do you all understand? You have laws; you will obey them.”
Linden just watched and listened, puzzled. Maurynna seemed in complete control of both herself and the
situation; true, no one looked happy, but it was clear none would disobey her command. So what had prompted the panic that he’d felt?
She said, “You will bring Ra—” Her voice came close to breaking for a moment. She took a deep breath and went on, “You will bring this man to a prison cell where he will await trial.”
For the space of three heartbeats it seemed there might be a mutiny after all. Then the leader saluted, saying, “As you command, Dragonlord.”
The barely hidden hostility in his voice roused Linden’s anger. As the guards dragged the prisoner to his feet, he started forward.
Only to stop in shock at the deathly white face revealed by the coldfire’s merciless glow. Now he understood Maurynna’s fear. For herself, she’d react to a threat with anger. But for her heart-brother, yes, that would terrify her.
Yet … Raven? A killer? Linden looked again at the corpse; no sign of a weapon. Not just a killer then, but a cold-blooded murderer. He understood the guard’s feelings.
As the guards hustled a dazed-looking Raven past him, Linden prayed that there would be some explanation for all this. But to save his life, he couldn’t see one.
Nor, worse yet, did he see one that would save Raven’s life.
* * *
“So what the hell happened?” Linden asked the air when they were back in their rooms in the castle’s north tower. With them were Shima and Conor.
No one answered. Maurynna sat staring out the window at the night, her back to everyone, forehead pressed against the glass; Linden wondered if she was crying. She had not said a word since they left the ruins of Sevrynel’s gathering, but walked like one ensorcelled. All had made way before her white, set face and burning eyes. She’d said nothing to Linden; there was not even a word of greeting for Boreal when he was led to her. Linden had not intruded beyond reaching out once with his mind, letting his love and trust brush feather-light against the turmoil of her thoughts. She’d smiled at him for that, a strained, grateful smile that disappeared an instant later. After that he’d left her alone, guessing how thin that armor of frozen calm really was.
Shima, who had come from watching a mummer’s play with Karelinn in answer to Linden’s mindcall, shook his head. “I can’t understand it,” he said, sitting cross-legged on the floor; in private Shima followed his people’s ways more often than not. “The man was unarmed, you said? That is what I truly don’t understand. Defending himself or another, yes, Raven—or anyone, for that matter—could kill someone. But an unarmed man? That is not the Raven I know. It’s so hard to believe.…”
“Well, I don’t believe it. Not one bit. He didn’t do it.” The muffled words came in a hard, flat voice; Maurynna still hadn’t turned around. “He couldn’t have done it. That’s not Raven, not at all, and I would know better than anyone.”
Conor opened his mouth, eyed Maurynna’s rigid back, shut it again. He bit his lip and looked away.
“Maurynna-love,” Linden said gently, “but what of Leet’s testimony? He saw Raven cut the man’s throat.”
“Then he’s lying, hallucinating, I don’t know. But Raven would never kill someone in cold blood and for no reason.” She turned around in her seat before he could get the next words out. He didn’t even try in the face of that wild-eyed gaze. He was not, thank the gods, a stupid man—or at least not that stupid.
“And don’t try to tell me that he had a reason because Tirael had oozed out of their wager, the slime.
“On the contrary, it was Tirael who would have had a reason to harm Raven. When he claimed his horse was stolen, he looked the world’s worst coward and cheat—you know that most people are certain he knew where his horse really is. Then, when word got around that he’d never had any intention of paying the wager if he lost, he destroyed any respect that anyone—anyone decent, that is—had for him. You heard people talking about it. You saw them flocking to Raven. By the gods—you could even say Tirael did Raven a favor!”
Her voice breaking, she declared, “Even if Leet saw true, even if it was Raven’s hand that wielded the knife—it wasn’t Raven’s heart!” Then she fled the room.
Forty-six
Something scrabbled busily in the straw at the far end of the room—if six paces away could be called far. A rat, no doubt. Raven huddled tighter into the corner as if he could push himself through the damp stone wall. He wished he was anywhere but here.
Then the heavy oak door swung open, creaking on the black iron of its massive hinges. Two burly soldiers entered. Before he could say or do anything, they caught him under his arms and dragged him out of his dungeon cell.
They hurried him down one hall after another. At last they pushed him into a long room with tiers of seats—with one section roped off—facing a raised dais. On it stood a low table before a lectern, and three chairs. One looked like any other chair in the room: that was for witnesses, Raven knew. In the center, on a small dais behind the lectern, was a more ornate one befitting the dignity of the Justice who would preside. The last chair … The last chair looked heavy enough to hold a bull. Thick-framed, it was, and dark with age. Leather straps dangled from its arms and legs.
The soldiers pushed him down into it and buckled the straps tightly over his forearms and ankles. Raven tugged. No, he wasn’t escaping from here any time soon. He doubted even Linden could tear leather this thick.
Somehow it all felt unreal. Despite the things on the dais, he wasn’t really in a Justice Hall. He couldn’t be. Raven looked up at the balcony that ran along three sides of the room. The sections to his left and before him flowed together and were open to the room. But the balcony to his right was separated from them and screened. Stairs led down from this section to the dais.
Somehow the sight of that balcony brought home to Raven where he was even as the straps cutting into his wrists did not. This balcony, he knew, was where the witnesses sat hidden from sight until they went down those stairs to testify. From there they would go to the roped-off seats.
This cannot be happening.
The doors at the end of the room and the open balcony opened and in filed rank after rank of Cassorin nobility. Many he knew; they had been glad enough to treat him almost as one of their own when they heard that he was the Raven of song. Now they looked at him as if at a particularly noxious insect. He could feel their hate beating at him and wished he were back in his cell. The rats would be better company.
But worst of all was when Linden, Maurynna, and Shima entered. Maurynna’s eyes were red and puffy from weeping. Oh, Beanpole, he thought sorrowfully. I’m so sorry.…
Last of all came Lord Asiah, the Justice of Balyaranna. Asiah was a lean man, grey of hair and beard, with piercing, ice-blue eyes. Silence followed him as he paced slowly down the center aisle, imposing in his ermine-trimmed black robes, his long staff of office tapping the floor with every other stride. It was said of Asiah that he was known to be a fair man, a man who loved the law but loved justice even more.
All this and more Raven had heard since he’d come to Balyaranna. Would Asiah be able to find justice for one Raven Redhawkson? Would he believe that Raven still had no idea of what had happened? That it could not have …
Whom was he trying to fool? It had happened. Tirael was dead. Raven closed his eyes, feeling sick, barely listening as Lord Asiah took his place at the lectern and recounted the occurrences of the night before.
Lord Asiah ended by calling one Leet, a Master Bard of Bylith. The door leading to the witnesses’ balcony opened and Bard Leet slowly descended the curving stair. Lord Asiah motioned him to the witness’s chair. Leet settled himself, his face grave and sad.
The Justice of Balyaranna studied him for a moment before saying, “As a bard, you owe fealty to Auvrian, do you not, Leet Welkin, once of Sansydale?”
“I do.”
“Then do you swear by his name that what you say will be truth?”
Leet cleared his throat. “I do so swear.”
“Then tell us what happened last night
, Bard Leet.”
Raven tried to remember what had happened. He remembered cutting through the gardens to get to the gathering, and then … what?
He heard Bard Leet say, “Lord Sevrynel had asked me to play for his gathering. I came early and found a spot in the garden where I could sit in private before going on to it.” Though the bard did not raise his voice, his words carried throughout the room.
“Why is that?”
“The tuning of a harp is not the most entertaining of performances. Nor are vocal exercises,” said Leet wryly. “I prefer a bit of privacy for it.”
The Justice said, “I see. Please continue, bard. Then what?”
Yes—then what? If only I could remember! Raven bit his lip. You were in the garden on your way to the gathering, he told himself. What happened—
“Finished with that, I played a song or two to limber up my fingers.”
Yes … yes! I remember a song! Raven thought with excitement. I remember hearing music—and then … It was as if he’d run into a wall. Yet the music was important. He knew it was important. But why couldn’t he remember more? In despair he missed most of Bard Leet’s next words.
“… Then Tirael came into the garden alcove. As for what happened next … I was sitting in the bower—perhaps they didn’t see me? Be that as it may, Raven Redhawkson called Lord Tirael a coward and a cheat.” Bard Leet’s voice faltered to a stop.
Gasps filled the room. Gasps and muttered imprecations. Raven squeezed his eyes shut even harder. By all the gods—he’d never say a thing like that to a Cassorin noble! Not even to Tirael, who had deserved worse.
But he had. Now that Leet mentioned it, he could remember saying it. Barely. The vaguest ghost of a memory, but it was there. Oh dear gods—if he did that, what else did he do?
Lord Asiah spoke over the angry rumble. “Silence! Silence! The witness is not yet done with his testimony.” When the room was still once more, he said, “Please continue, Bard Leet.”
“Raven Redhawkson is the grandnephew of one of my colleagues, Otter Heronson,” Leet said softly, almost as if he spoke to himself. Then, louder, “I was afraid there was going to be a fight. I turned away to put my harp down. I was going to try to intervene—I am a bard, after all, such is my duty—but when I looked back … Oh gods, when I looked back…”
Bard's Oath (Dragonlord) Page 39
