Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  Bard Leet’s voice cracked in a dry sob. “At first I thought they’d both gone. Then I realized that Raven had but stepped back a pace or two.

  “I didn’t see Lord Tirael. My first thought was that he’d left. Then I saw him lying on the ground. I assumed that Raven Redhawkson had struck him and knocked him unconscious. I hurried then to render what aid I could.”

  Though the bard’s voice was scarcely louder than a whisper, it seemed to ring through the council chamber, so quiet was his audience. “I knelt by Lord Tirael, called to him, to see if I could wake him,” Leet said. “I couldn’t.” He stopped, as if what came next was too painful to remember.

  It was too painful. Whatever came next, Raven didn’t want to hear it, though he finally opened his eyes and stared dully at the floor.

  At last the bard took a deep breath and said, “Frightened, I put my fingers to Lord Tirael’s throat to feel for a pulse. But what I had taken for shadow in the dim light was blood. I looked closer and realized his throat had been slashed. I was so shocked that I couldn’t think what to do at first—I just kept kneeling. That was when Beast Healer Conor came upon us. I thank the gods that he did, for Raven Redhawkson might well have cut my throat next.”

  “What do you mean?” Lord Asiah asked.

  “I hadn’t realized it at first because of the poor light. My eyes aren’t what they once were.” There came a small, brave attempt at a laugh that ended in something like a sob. The audience murmured in sympathy.

  “He still had the knife in his hand,” Leet said. He sounded ill now. “Still in his hand, and both were covered in blood. Even his tunic was soaked in it.”

  At last Raven turned his head and looked at the bard. Their eyes met for a heartbeat.

  The bard turned his face aside. “I—I had thought it was all shadows.” The bard shivered as might any man who’d felt Death’s cold robes brush past him.

  “But it was not,” Lord Asiah said.

  “No. It was not. Blood—so much blood…”

  * * *

  Conor of Red Dale was called to witness next. Raven watched dully as the tall Beast Healer took the witness’s chair, his long, craggy face unhappy. When he swore by the Great Stag to tell the truth, Lord Asiah had to ask him to speak up.

  The Justice said, “Tell us your tale, Beast Healer.”

  Conor cleared his throat, then began with obvious reluctance, “I was on my way to Lord Sevrynel’s gathering to find Lady Rosalea of Thennian.”

  “Why?”

  “Her pony had been ill. She’d left word that as soon as he was back in his stall and safe, I was to come and tell her.”

  “I see. Pray continue.”

  So Conor went on with his damning evidence. When he was done, the Justice said, “It seems quite clear to me what happened last night: murder. Beast Healer Conor, you may step down.”

  “A moment, Justice,” a deep voice interrupted.

  Raven looked to where the Dragonlords sat for the first time since they’d come in. He’d not had the courage before; the sight of Maurynna’s red eyes had come close to unmanning him.

  But now Linden stood up, frowning slightly. “Something puzzles me, my Lord Justice. I would like to ask Beast Healer Conor a question or two if I may.”

  The Justice hesitated and glanced up into the balcony. Raven looked up as well. For the first time Raven realized that the regents of Cassori were here. He saw Duke Beren nod curtly.

  “Of course, Dragonlord,” the Justice said. He sat in his own chair as Linden came up onto the dais.

  “Beast Healer Conor,” Linden said, “since my fellow Dragonlords and I arrived at Balyaranna, I’ve spent a fair bit of time at Lord Sevrynel’s manor of Rockfall.”

  There were smothered laughs throughout the council chamber; Raven heard someone loudly whisper “Pedigrees!” which brought on another spate of muffled laughter. Lord Asiah cleared his throat loudly and frowned at the assembly.

  Linden went on as if nothing had happened, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ve been through the gardens many times now and am quite familiar with them. I was under the impression you also knew your way around the gardens.”

  Conor nodded. “I do, Your Grace. From visiting Fliss and then reporting to Lord Sevrynel.”

  “The small alcove where Lord Tirael died is not on the most direct route from the stables to the place where gathers are held in the garden. Did you get lost?”

  Conor frowned. It was some moments before he replied. “No, I wasn’t lost,” he said slowly. He sounded puzzled. “But you’re right, Dragonlord, I shouldn’t have been anywhere near—wait! I remember now. I heard music.”

  Music again! For the first time there came a chink in the despair that walled Raven in. He sat up a bit straighter and looked keenly at the Beast Healer.

  Conor shook his head. “For some reason I went to see where it came from. Why on earth would…,” he muttered.

  Lord Asiah rose. “Your Grace, with all due respect, may I remind you that, according to his testimony, Bard Leet was practicing in that alcove before performing? That must have been the music that Beast Healer Conor heard.”

  Linden looked steadily at the man. “I had not forgotten, my Lord Justice. I had not forgotten that at all.”

  And that was all he said, the only question he asked. That any of the Dragonlords asked. Linden sat down once again and Raven sank back into his despair.

  Silence fell over the room. It seemed forever until Lord Asiah coughed slightly. “Very well then—let us hear what the accused has to say.”

  The Justice of Balyaranna turned a look upon him that seemed to pry into every corner of his soul. Raven felt colder than he ever had before.

  Yes, he was named Raven Redhawkson. Yes, from Thalnia, now living in Yerrih with his aunt. Yes, this was his first fair at Balyaranna.

  “What were you doing in Lord Sevrynel’s gardens?” Lord Asiah asked.

  “I was on my way to the gathering.” To Lord Asiah’s raised eyebrow, Raven insisted, “I was an invited guest.”

  The Justice looked over his shoulder. “Lord Sevrynel?”

  The little Cassorin lord stood up, flustered. “True, my Lord Justice.”

  “Hmm.” The Justice of Balyaranna turned back. “And then what happened?”

  I don’t know! Raven wanted to cry out. I don’t … “It was the music,” he said dully. “I felt the song in my head.” He paused; even to him, the words sounded mad. “It was like it crawled into my brain and set it on fire. I think I remember seeing Tirael in the garden, but that’s the last thing I remember.…” He looked around the court, silently begging them to understand, to believe him.

  No one did. He read it in their faces. Not even Rynna—else why would she look so close to tears?

  He had to make them understand. “Th—it was the music! I know it was!” he cried, struggling to get to his feet, forgetting about the stout straps that restrained him. It was hard to breathe now, as if the noose were already choking away his life.

  The Cassorins shrank from him as if they thought he might get loose and cut all their throats as well. The only gaze that met his was Leet’s.

  The bard smiled as he rubbed the indentation beneath his lower lip. A tiny, mocking smile, gone an instant before Raven was certain he’d seen it.

  As the soldiers hauled him out of the chair and out the door, Raven heard Lord Asiah announce, “My lords and ladies, the Judges’ will now retire to discuss this matter. We will meet here again tomorrow at the thirteenth candlemark.”

  The rest was lost as his guards marched him down the hall. All the way back to his cell in the dungeon, Raven wondered if his eyes had played tricks on him.

  * * *

  Duke Beren made a small but comfortable chamber over to the use of the Dragonlords so that they would not have to go all the way back to the north tower. A tray of sweets, savories, and tartlets sat unheeded on a richly carved table. No one had any appetite.

  But all fel
t the need for the Pelnaran wine also provided. Linden handed around goblets filled to the brim with the rich vintage.

  For a long time nothing was said. Then, pouring herself a little more wine, Maurynna said, “It doesn’t look good, does it?” Her voice trembled.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Shima said gently. “It doesn’t. But somehow, this just isn’t right. I just cannot see Raven cutting an unarmed man’s throat over a race that never happened.”

  “I’ll tell you what else isn’t right,” Linden said, frowning into the ruby liquid in his goblet. “What Conor said.”

  “Conor?” Maurynna and Shima asked together. The looks on both their faces said they thought he was mad.

  “Yes, Conor. He was on his way to relieve a little girl’s fears for her beloved pony—and he detoured to listen to some music?” Linden scowled at the reflection of his eye in the wine. “There’s something wrong there—very wrong. But I don’t know what it is.…”

  Then a thought came to him and he shut his eyes for a moment in pain. “Oh gods have mercy—we need to get word to Otter. And this is not a thing you can tell someone at a distance.” He tossed back the rest of his wine. “And since neither of you has ever been to Bylith—”

  “How soon can you leave?” Maurynna asked.

  “As soon as I can find an open space big enough to Change,” Linden answered grimly.

  Forty-seven

  Linden flew steadily. He was making better time than he’d expected; earlier he’d found a current of air flowing westward and used it to speed himself along.

  Still, it was long candlemarks before he spied Bylith below him. But not long enough. He hated being the bearer of bad news. He circled above the city, looking for landmarks that his dragon eyes could see in the dark.

  Damn! Bylith had certainly grown since he was last here. Ah—there was the main building of the Bards’ School; it was the only one with that distinctive cross shape.

  And over there was the big courtyard where the journeymen and younger students gave performances for the townsfolk as part of their training.

  He arrowed straight down for it. Even before he’d touched the ground, Linden let himself flow into Change. He fell from a little more than his height and landed like a cat. Then he set off at a run for the wing where Otter had his quarters.

  * * *

  “Drink this,” Linden ordered as he thrust a goblet at Otter. The grey hue of the bard’s face scared him, as did the blank-eyed stare.

  Otter took it. The wine brought a little color back into his cheeks, but not enough for Linden’s comfort. Still, he’d take whatever improvement he could get from the corpselike pallor of a moment ago.

  “I simply cannot believe it,” Otter whispered as he stared at the flickering oil lamp. “It’s just not possible. Raven isn’t the sort…” The goblet crashed to the floor. Otter buried his face in his hands and wept.

  When the worst of the storm was past, Linden said quietly, “We need you in Balyaranna.”

  Otter wiped his wet cheeks. “Do you think I’ll be able to get there in time? Before he’s— I mean, Nightsong is fast, but I can’t ride the way I used to, Linden. And I’m teaching Charilon’s class until he returns.” He sounded defeated.

  “Someone else can take Charilon’s classes or Belwynn can damn well give them a holiday,” Linden said roughly. “And you won’t be riding. I need to rest, so we won’t leave until the morning, but I’ll be carrying you. So pull yourself together, old friend, pack what you’ll need and gather some warm blankets for the trip. We’re leaving at dawn. Dragonlord’s orders.”

  * * *

  Shortly after breaking her fast the next morning, Maurynna went down to visit Raven. At first the guards didn’t want to let her in.

  “And why not? Do you think that I’ll Change, scoop up the prisoner, and burn my way out?” she asked coldly.

  The chief jailer squirmed under her withering stare. “’Course not, Your Grace, even if he is a friend of yours. It’s—it’s just that a cell isn’t a fitting place for—”

  Maurynna stabbed a finger at the door. The jailer jumped to open it.

  The stink that met her nearly made her gag. It smelled like the filthiest barn she could imagine. Gritting her teeth, she stalked inside.

  An instant later, she hurled her mindvoice at Duke Beren.

  * * *

  Raven’s being moved to a different cell? Why? Shima asked as they settled into their seats once more. There was still a bit to go before the flame burned down to the band of black wax that marked the thirteenth candlemark, but they wanted to watch faces as the others came in. Because there were a few Cassorins already ahead of them, they used mindspeech.

  Because I demanded it, Maurynna replied grimly. I’ve seen—and smelled—cleaner midden heaps. And there were rats in there that you could slap saddles on. While I can’t demand that they ignore their laws and set Raven free, I damn well will use my rank to insist on better quarters for him. If anyone squawks, Beren will just tell them that I insist on visiting Raven and it was not a fitting place for a Dragonlord. End of argument.

  Shima considered that. As far as “abuses” of power went, it seemed a harmless one. So where will he be?

  A cell in the tower opposite ours. It’s called the Black Tower and is where they keep prisoners of royal blood if needed. Now I need to get them to let Yarrow visit him. Damn all stiff Cassorin necks!

  More people were filing in, whispering eagerly to each other as they jockeyed for the best seats. Shima wondered what this day would bring for Raven.

  Nothing good. No sooner had Raven been strapped into his chair once more than Lord Asiah rose and faced the assembly.

  “My lords and ladies, Your Graces, the Judges’ Council of Balyaranna has come to a decision.” He turned his head to look at Raven a moment, then at his eager audience once more. “At dawn tomorrow, the man known as Raven Redhawkson shall be hanged by the neck until dead,” the Justice of Balyaranna intoned.

  Maurynna gasped. She swayed in her seat; Shima slipped an arm around her shoulders, afraid she would faint.

  Shima, she begged. Do something, say something! If I try to talk, I’ll just, just— Her mindvoice “gulped.” Please—there’s something here we’re not seeing.

  But what? Shima asked, racking his brains in desperation.

  I don’t— Wait! Remember what Linden said about Conor? There’s got to be something to explain this!

  It was the thinnest of threads, but Shima grasped at it. He rose. “If I may address this assembly, my lord Justice?”

  From the way the man’s lips thinned, Shima knew he was not happy. Shima counted on the reluctance he’d noticed to refuse a Dragonlord anything outright.

  “Of course, Dragonlord,” the Justice said stiffly.

  Shima went to the front of the room. “I ask that you delay the sentence for a few days at least, my lords and ladies.”

  “But this man has taken a life,” Lord Asiah replied. “And there is no evidence that it was otherwise.”

  “But once he also—at the risk of his own—saved a life,” Shima countered.

  “Whose?” someone called. “A pigherd’s?” Laughter greeted the sally.

  Shima glanced over in the direction the voice had come from. “Mine,” he said grimly. Into the sudden, surprised hush, he went on, “During my First Change, a soldier—part of a Jehangli patrol—was about to throw a spear at me. I had no idea what was happening to me and I was helpless. Raven saw the danger I was in. He used the only weapon he had—a rock. A rock against a well-armed patrol. Had the soldier succeeded in killing me, Raven and my little brother would have fallen victims to the wrath of that same patrol. I can assure you, my lords and ladies, the Jehangli soldiers would not have been kind. Raven and Tefira had escaped them once. The soldiers would have made certain that it didn’t happen a second time. Very certain.” Shima looked around to make sure that all understood his last words.

  He continued, “Luckily, Raven’s
aim was true. He knocked the spear out of the soldier’s hands and saved my life. Until now, I’ve had no chance to repay him. Therefore I ask this boon: We need time. We feel there is something not quite right in the accounts concerning what happened. Please give us the time to make certain that there is no mistake.”

  He paused a moment, and once more studied the faces before him. He read denial in many—too many—of those faces.

  So did Raven. He caught Shima’s eye, then looked down at one hand. Shima followed his gaze and saw Raven raise the two middle fingers and tap the chair arm.

  Shima understood; it was the closest Raven could come to the Dragonlord sign for mindspeech. He reached out to touch Raven’s mind with his own.

  Thank you for trying.

  The Yerrin’s mindvoice was exhausted. But worse was the feel in it of defeat, guilt, worthlessness, and, above all, giving up.

  Shima swore under his breath. Were he playing diyinesh, now it would be the time to throw down his Luck piece, the Sun Eagle.

  And he had one. I’m not done yet, he told Raven. He cast his Luck—Raven’s last chance—before these people who held his friend’s life in their hands.

  Taking a deep breath, Shima said, “I ask it also in the name of the Lady of Dragonskeep and of the truedragon Morlen the Seer. I ask it in token of the services that Raven Redhawkson has rendered both Dragonskeep and the truedragons in the past.”

  May that prove to be the Sun Eagle, my friend, he thought, fighting to keep his fear from showing.

  A lightning bolt couldn’t have surprised the council more. Shima suspected that they had never dreamed he would invoke those names. He watched, amused, as the members of the Judges’ Council turned in dismay to one another. The buzz of their hurried consultations filled the chamber. Shima’s unnaturally sharp hearing caught snatches here and there.