Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)
Page 42
It was true, though she’d tried to hide it. To rest for more than a candlemark, to stay in one place for a whole day—perhaps even two! The thought made Pod giddy with delight. Besides, if Kaeliss’s foot became infected … Pod’s stomach turned over at the idea.
“I think it’s a good plan,” she answered, stubbornly ignoring Kiga’s soft whines and her own uneasiness. “Let’s cut some branches and make a shelter with the extra blanket.”
“Good idea. Then I want to put more ointment on that blister.”
When everything was ready, Pod turned to Kiga. The woods dog had stayed so close to her that she’d almost tripped over him twice. “Kiga—go hunt, boy.”
But instead of loping off, the woods dog just hunkered down. Pod frowned at him and again ordered him to hunt. Kiga refused to go.
Kaeliss looked up from re-bandaging her foot. “Why bother? He hasn’t been much use at it lately, has he?”
Really angry now—at herself, Kiga, or Kaeliss, she wasn’t sure which—Pod did something she rarely did: she lost her temper with her brother-in-fur. “Bad Kiga!” she shouted angrily. “Bad! Go hunt!” And she “pushed” at him with all her will.
Kiga jumped up as if she’d struck him. He stared at her for a long moment, a rumbling, singsong snarl deep in his throat. Then, the instant before Pod was sure he’d snap at her, Kiga turned and loped off. A mix of fright and anger made Pod yell after him, “And don’t come back until you’ve caught something!”
As the woods dog trotted across the clearing, tears pricked Pod’s eyes. She tried to call him back but the words caught in her throat. Then it was too late; Kiga disappeared into the shadowy woods.
Blinking back tears, Pod busied herself with gathering downed branches and twigs for the fire. By the time she stopped, it was full dark and she was exhausted and well-nigh sick with hunger and worry. When she finally sat down before the fire, Kaeliss wisely said nothing, just handed her a bowl of stew made from daylily tubers, groundnuts, and the last shreds of their dried meat. Pod forced herself to eat, straining her ears for the sound of Kiga’s return.
He still hadn’t returned by the time she admitted defeat and rolled herself in her blankets.
And it was the first rays of the sun, not the tickle of Kiga’s whiskers, that woke her the next morning.
Forty-nine
The noon meal—such as it was—sat on the table. It was not, Maurynna thought as she pushed the overcooked peas around her plate, particularly inspiring. “Is this what all your meals are like?”
Raven smiled wanly and nodded. “I’d guess that while they have to house me like a prisoner of rank—thank you again for that!—they refuse to feed me like one. If you let them know you’re coming here to share a meal, I’m sure the fare will improve immensely. They might not even burn the bread next time.”
Maurynna snorted in disgust. “I just might do that—for every meal.”
Silence fell as they contemplated the pathetic meal. The meat is grey and gristly, the peas are mush, the bread is burned, and the wine is barely this side of vinegar. Yes, I think I’ll put them on notice that I might well be sharing Raven’s table without warning.
“Maybe this is how the gods are punishing me,” Raven said suddenly.
“For what?” Maurynna asked in surprise.
“Taren.”
For a moment she didn’t know what he meant. Then she understood. She exhaled slowly and said, “Because he was a kinslayer and you helped him, you mean.” She shook her head. “Raven, the gods wouldn’t be so cruel. It’s not as if you knew what he was.…” Her voice trailed off at the look in his eyes.
“As if the gods care whether I knew or not,” he said bitterly. “Don’t you remember the story you told me after we returned from Jehanglan—what Shima’s mother, Lark, told you? How, because the captain of the ship she was the cook on gave Taren a berth on the crew, they were shipwrecked on the coast of Jehanglan, and all hands were lost save Lark, some other woman—and Taren. They didn’t know, either, and the gods certainly punished them.”
She couldn’t deny his words. Still … “Dragonskeep gave Taren hearth-room, and nothing’s happened there in all this time,” Maurynna pointed out.
“You’re among the favored of the gods, remember?” Raven snapped. “Dragonlords and Bards and Healers. No doubt the gods will forgive the lot of you what they’d crush us ordinary mortals for. Or maybe they’re just waiting. Maybe—”
The bitter tumble of words ended in something like a sob. Raven seemed to shrink in on himself like an old, old man. Alarmed, Maurynna reached out to him; the hands that caught hers across the little table trembled.
“I’m scared, Beanpole. More scared than I’ve ever been in my life,” he whispered. “I killed Tirael—I must have. Who else? I don’t remember doing it, or even know why I would do it. But they’ll hang me nevertheless. And, may the gods help me, they’ll be right to do it. I must be mad, or there’s some evil in me I never knew about.…”
He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away, but not before Maurynna saw the glint of tears on his cheeks. “I deserve to die. But I—I don’t want to, Rynna. I don’t want to. Help me—please,” he begged.
He squeezed her hands; Maurynna caught her breath at the sudden pain but said nothing. She’d not add to the burden he carried.
A sudden image formed in her mind of those same hands plunging a dagger into Tirael’s throat; those same hands dripping with blood.… A chill crept down her spine. She fought the urge to pull her hands away.
Somehow Raven sensed her revulsion. He jerked his hands away as if hers had suddenly turned into red-hot coals.
Then his hands twisted and rubbed each other again and again and again. Raven seemed completely unaware of it. It was a moment before Maurynna recognized the gesture for what it was.
But guilt can never be washed away, she thought sadly.
After a time, Raven met her eyes again. He said softly, “Will you please visit Stormwind for me? He must be wondering what’s going on if no one’s had the heart to tell him. Give him my love and tell him…” Raven wiped tears from his eyes. “Tell him I’ll understand if he wants to go back to Dragonskeep.”
A gentle smile curved Maurynna’s lips. “I think you’ll find him a truer heart than that, Raven. He’ll wait for you no matter what.”
* * *
Leet stared at the harp on the small table by the bed. His hands clenched in fists at his side as he fought to keep from touching the strings again. He’d only just put it down.…
It sat in its stand, mocking him with its beauty, its sweet voice, with its power.
Leet closed his eyes. There is no one else’s death I need seek. Tirael has paid the price for Arnath’s death. Otter’s grandnephew will pay the price for Jaida’s life that Otter should have paid years ago. Curse the Dragonlords for the delay, but in the end it won’t matter. His idiot grandnephew’s death will destroy Otter. I will put Gull away now. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t play him. I am stronger than any harp. He opened his eyes in triumph only to see that his fingertips were a bare handsbreadth from the strings. He fought to pull them back. But his fingers crept closer and closer and he remembered the ecstasy he’d found.…
A knock at the door ended the battle. He jumped, startled, and the spell was broken. “Who is it?” he called harshly.
“Daera,” came the response.
Panic surged through him. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be— “Wait! Wait! I—I’m not yet dressed!”
The bard seized the harp and set it into its traveling case, too overwrought to feel its call. He pushed it under the bed and sat down on the mattress. He rubbed his hands over his face and took a deep breath to calm himself.
“Come in, then. Push hard—the latch sticks.”
The door swung open after a moment and Daera slipped in. “Bard Leet,” she said. “I am ready to resume my classes. My thanks for taking them. I hope they went well while I was gone.”
A tiny frown appeared between Daera’s brows. “Most of them must have rejoiced at that, sir, but poor Kella…”
Kella? Who the hell was Kella?
Then a memory rose before his mind’s eye: a little girl in a grass-stained skirt, hand outstretched to Gull. “The merchant’s brat who dared try to touch my harp? She would have been a waste of my time.” He glared at her, the glare that had made many a student squirm. To his annoyance, she merely gazed back at him.
“She would not have been.”
Irritated by her cool tone, he rose to his feet and said, “Is that so? I require you to explain why—and your insolence, as well.”
Daera stood up a bit straighter. For a moment he thought she would refuse to answer. It would be her right; she was no longer his student. She was no longer even a journeywoman bard. Nor was it forbidden to take on a merchant’s child as a student, but it rankled him that she’d set the brat on a level with her noble students!
But she answered calmly enough, “As I said, her name is Kella Vanadin, a merchant’s daughter. And she has talent, Bard Leet. It is a pleasure to teach her—she’s good enough to go on to Bylith one day.”
The breath nearly froze in Leet’s chest. The child had that much talent? Oh dear gods—if she’d touched the strings …
He refused to think about it. Instead he snapped, “That doesn’t give her the right to take lessons with the children of nobles. Young as you are, you’ve been given a post many an older bard envies. You’re the royal bard and teacher to the young prince and many of the highborn children of Cassori. How dare you make them share your time and attention with her? I always knew you weren’t fit for this position—rest assured I shall report this gross neglect of your duty to Guild Master Belwynn!”
Her eyes blazed at his words. Then, to his surprise, something like a smile ghosted across her mouth.
“I’m sure you will, Bard Leet,” she said smoothly. “But I’ll not waste any more of your time—I’m sure you want to work on your composition once more. So if you’ll excuse me, I really should send messages to all my students that lessons will resume tomorrow.”
And with that she smiled in truth, an enigmatic smile that made him uneasy. She nodded to him and was out the door before he could call her back.
Of all the insolent—! Yet … there was something there, something he should know.… He took the harp out once again, set it on the table, and stood looking out of the window.
Behind him Gull’s strings vibrated softly. He turned and brushed his fingers across them. He cradled the harp in his arms and forgot all about insolent young bards and merchant’s brats.
* * *
Two gardeners plodded through the castle gardens, sweat running down their faces as they pushed along wheelbarrows full of rosebushes to be planted. The lead gardener, an old man with a straggly beard and a squint, halted so suddenly that his companion, following closely behind, all but ran him down.
“Ferdy, tha horse’s ass, why did tha stop like that?” the second man demanded. “Nearly squashed tha like a bug, I did, and tha almost made me dump m’barrow.” Then, seeing his companion sniffing the air, he went on in annoyance, “Oh, by the Great Consort’s balls, not again! I tell tha, Ferdy, whatever it is these days that tha and Crispin think tha’re smelling, it’s all in tha empty heads, tha foo—” He broke off, almost gagging, as a foul stench reached his nose.
Ferdy turned to him, grinning toothlessly. “Ah—tha smells it at last, does tha, Ebler? Tha should—that’s the wust yet. Or mayhap it’s all in tha head, too? Nah, nah—it’s real enough. Always has been. Has tha noticed how few squirrels and rabbits and moles there are in the gardens these days?”
“Some guest’s cat or badger hound or something,” Ebler grunted as he picked up his barrow again and pushed it along as fast as he could. “Doing us a favor getting rid of the vermin. Now let’s get out of here. I’ll be all day getting that stink out of m’nose.” He forged ahead.
They hadn’t gotten far when Ferdy said, “Whatever it is as does it, it’s getting deeper and deeper into the gardens, Eb.”
“Shut tha damned mouth, Ferdy.”
A dozen more steps and Ferdy called out over the growing distance, “Did tha know that Crispin found a dead rabbit afore it were too far gone? Looked like its throat was cut, he said. Now what cat would cut—”
“Shut tha damned and ill-omened mouth, Ferdy!”
Fifty
Three days gone now. Raven looked out of the tower window at the eastern sky. The sun was just coming up; tattered banners of cloud glowed red and gold in the growing light. From the roof above him he heard the busy chattering of a flock of birds. A breeze slipped through the window. This far above the castle midden, it was fresh and sweet and brisk on his face as he pressed against the bars. It brought the scent of new-cut hay with it from somewhere; if he closed his eyes, he would be back in the meadows of Yarrow’s holding, riding bareback through the long, dew-laden grass as a song sparrow greeted the new day from a nearby tree. Stormwind would be warm beneath him; he could almost feel the powerful muscles moving, the long, coarse mane in his hand as the big Llysanyin cantered down to the pond as they did almost every morning.
That was what was real; not this, not this.…
It was no good. Raven opened his eyes to the walls of his prison. At least it was worlds better than the foul cell they’d first thrown him into. He had Maurynna to thank for that—and for the fact that he was even still alive. Raven had little doubt that if it hadn’t been for her, one of the guards would have run him through then and there in the garden.
And maybe it would have been for the best, he thought in despair. He still couldn’t believe this nightmare was real. How could he have killed Tirael and have no memory of it? Why would he murder Tirael, anyway? He’d already had the best revenge he could possibly have against such a man.
Yet he must have killed the spoiled young noble. How else did he come to be spattered with Tirael’s blood? And the bloodstained knife in his hand, his knife—even he could not deny that.
But why couldn’t he remember anything? Why, why, why?
Raven flung himself from the hard bench and paced rapidly back and forth. His stomach churned; for a moment he feared he would be ill. He stopped, leaning against the wall, its cold stone rough against his cheek, then shut his eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply. He would not be sick. He would not, he would not, he would not …
But three days were gone and the Dragonlords were no closer to a solution.
* * *
Great-uncle Otter and Aunt Yarrow were gone. They were only allowed to visit for two candlemarks a day. Part of Raven wished that they didn’t have to come together, but the guards wouldn’t let Yarrow visit by herself. She was just a commoner to them. Hell, from what Yarrow had said, she wouldn’t have been able to visit at all if it hadn’t been for Linden. It would be nice, he thought wistfully, if they could come one after the other; then his day wouldn’t seem so empty.
But another part wept at the sight of their stricken faces, their brave, sad attempts to pretend that everything would be well. He didn’t think it would be even though Maurynna, Linden, and Shima were searching everywhere for a solution.
But at least he got news of Stormwind from Yarrow. He almost wished she hadn’t let it slip that the Llysanyin was barely eating these days. Perhaps he’d ask Maurynna to have Boreal bully Stormwind into eating more if that was what was needed.
The door opened and shut. Raven turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of a young servant bearing a covered platter that was almost bigger than he was. Indeed, at first glance it looked like something out of an old granny’s tale; but instead of a magic table, it was a tray with legs, bearing food. He c
ould barely see the top of a page’s cap above the domed cover.
At least the food is better these days. “Put it down on the table,” Raven said listlessly as he stared out the window once more, watching the activity in the courtyard far below. It was his one amusement—if one could call it that. From so high up, the people looked like ants scurrying around on their mysterious errands. To while away the long candlemarks, he made up stories about their comings and goings. Many involved mysterious benefactors and daring rescues. None came true.
He leaned one elbow on the ledge and sighed, chin in hand. If only he could be one of those people … Ah, well; at least this was better than the dungeon.
Or so he told himself again and again. It didn’t really help. He heard the serving boy set the tray down with a grunt.
“Hsst.”
Raven ignored the boy.
“Hssst!”
Raven ground his teeth. Another nosy little bastard who wanted to know what it was like to kill someone, eh? He pointedly turned his back.
Another whisper, this time exasperated. “Raven!”
Raven grabbed the rough iron bars as hard as he could, staring outside with grim determination. The slight coating of scaling rust gritted under his hands, digging into his skin. I will not kick the little bastard’s ass through the door. I will not kick—
Next came the sound of a stamping foot. “Oh, don’t be such a ninny! Raven, I order you to look at me!”
Raven blinked. “I order”—from a servant? Turning, he said, “Who on— Oh, by Gifnu’s hells!” His knees suddenly weak, Raven nearly slid down the wall at the sight of the boy’s brick-red hair.
Prince Rann, dressed in servant’s livery, stood beaming at him, floppy cap in hand. Raven thought that if the boy had a tail, he’d be wagging it like a puppy with a stolen bone.