Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  His mind made up, Linden strode through the grounds of the school.

  * * *

  Oh, curse it all! Maurynna fumed silently. She’d been just about to tell Linden her suspicions about Leet’s harp when the contact between them faded. She kicked herself mentally; between her surprise at “hearing” Linden and astonishment at his request, she’d never thought to try to help him hold the contact. “Idiot,” she growled at herself.

  She jumped up from her chair and began pacing their sleeping chamber. And what in the name of all that was holy did books have to do with any of this, anyway? Books didn’t make music.

  Harps did. Maurynna stopped short and dug her fingers into her long black hair, tugging it this way and that. She was the only Dragonlord left now in Balyaranna. She feared that if she left, something might happen to Raven. But ever since the conversation with Rann, a small voice inside her had been clamoring that what had happened to Kella would unlock this mystery.

  Fifty-six

  Pod had no idea how long they ran for. All she knew was that it seemed forever, a nightmare scramble through briers and brambles, over fallen trees and old stone walls. They’d long since lost all trace of direction. And now and again they could hear Arlim behind them, sometimes close by, sometimes far off as they twisted and turned like fleeing rabbits.

  She knew that Arlim would find them; part of her suspected that he was toying with them, drawing the chase out deliberately. Sooner or later they had to face him.

  Should they turn at bay and face him? Her greatest fear was that they would be too tired to fight when the chase finally ended. But they had no weapons save their small belt knives, nor had she seen any place that was easily defensible.

  And night was coming. Soon it would be too dark to see. They had to find someplace to rest. The thought of stopping chilled her. At least Arlim wouldn’t be able to see any better than they could in this poor light.

  She pushed through a stand of tall weeds. Her heel came down on solid earth, but her toe … Pod staggered and swayed, her arms windmilling for balance, suddenly aware that she stood on the edge of nothing. It was only by the grace of the gods that she didn’t scream aloud and give their position away to Arlim.

  And it was Kaeliss who kept her from falling. The young Wort Hunter grabbed the back of Pod’s tunic and yanked. They fell in a tangled heap. “Thanks!” Pod gasped. Together they crawled to the edge and looked down.

  It was a gully, a little deeper than she was tall, Pod guessed, with a trickle of water running through it. She peered through the fading light.

  “Look,” she whispered, pointing. “See that fallen tree? Let’s see if there’s a place to hide under it—it’s big enough.”

  They scrambled down and slipped and slid their way over mossy rocks to the tree. By the time they reached the tree, they were both soaked to the knees.

  But it was worth it, every scrape and bruise. When the tree had fallen from its place on the edge of the gully, its roots held the bank at that spot, while the dirt below had eroded. The undercut formed a “cave” whose entrance was hidden from above by the huge trunk. They crawled inside and collapsed.

  Pod lay with her eyes closed, gasping. She could go no farther. If Arlim found them, they would make their stand here.

  She levered herself up onto her elbow, to tell Kaeliss that she at least was spent, when she heard twigs breaking in the woods above. She froze.

  Footsteps came closer and closer to the edge. She clawed at her knife. Then came a startled curse and the footsteps retreated at a crashing run, fading into the distance.

  They sat without speaking until full dark fell and the only noises were the normal sounds of a forest at night. Pod slumped against the back wall of their shelter; as her terror ebbed, she realized just how exhausted she was. Every limb trembled with weariness.

  “We have to eat,” Kaeliss said at last. Her voice sounded leaden with fatigue. Knowing she was right, Pod fumbled through her pack, finding her waterskin and a handful of cold cooked day lily tubers by feel. She could barely see her hand in front of her face.

  After the pitiful meal, Pod unrolled her blankets. “He’s gone—at least for the night. I think it’s safe for both of us to sleep at the same time,” she said. “Besides…”

  “If we did try to take watches, we’d just fall asleep anyway,” Kaeliss finished wearily.

  Pod pulled her blanket over herself. “Just so. May the gods watch over us.”

  Fifty-seven

  Shima landed heavily on the large flat cliff the Dragonlords often used when flying to or from Dragonskeep. He sank to his belly, letting his wings fall to either side. By all the Spirits, he hadn’t flown this far this fast since his desperate first flight back in Jehanglan when he and Maurynna chased the mad truedragon Pirakos! His flanks heaved as he tried to catch his breath.

  After a moment, he Changed. The cold of the mountain night washed over him. It felt good. Lying sprawled upon the rock, he made a decision; he was too exhausted to move, but from the urgency he’d felt in Maurynna’s mindvoice when she’d laid this task upon him, there was no time to lose. Jenna and Lukai must begin looking for the needed books as soon as possible.

  Yet he didn’t want to be the one to roust the archivists from their beds. But there was someone who would happily do just that if her curiosity was aroused enough.

  Luckily that was no great task. Lleld? he said. Are you asleep?

  After a moment, a sleepy mindvoice grumbled, Not anymore, thank you very much. Shima, it’s candlemarks yet until dawn. What is so bloody—

  He felt her snap fully awake.

  What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Cassori with Linden and Maurynna! Is something wrong? And why do you sound so tired?

  Because I flew here with hardly any rests, he snapped. Then, before she could say anything else, I hope this will make more sense to you than it did to either Maurynna or me; I’m just passing on a message. From what Maurynna said when she sent me off, Linden seems to think that there’s a clue in some books Master Bard Leet read when he—

  At last! Lleld crowed in his mind. At last I’ll find out why he was reading those horrid tales!

  Shima clutched his head and groaned. That had hurt.

  Apologies, Shima, Lleld said, though her mindvoice held more glee than regret. Shima would have wagered she rubbed her hands in happy anticipation. I know some of the books he studied while he was at Dragonskeep and I’ll get Lukai and Jenna to make certain of the rest. Meet you in the library.

  Shima rolled onto his back and stared up at the stars fading in the sky, counting to himself. One, two, thr—

  Lleld’s mindvoice filled his head once more. “Clue”? Clue to what? Uh, Shima—what’s this about?

  Tell you when I get there.

  Frustration; a brief image/feeling of Lleld, fists wound in his long, black hair, yanking as hard as she could. Then, Damn it all! You’d bloody well better hurry!

  The next instant she was gone. Shima could picture the little Dragonlord leaping from her bed, dressing at breakneck speed, and running like a madwoman through the halls of the Keep.

  At least he hoped she remembered to dress first. And why was he not more surprised that Lady Mayhem would know which books the Master Bard had read while he was here? He stood up and dusted himself off. He was curious to see those “horrid tales” for himself.

  * * *

  It was no use going any farther tonight, Linden decided. Yes, he could easily reach the general area of Worton. But he didn’t know just where it had been. And even if he found it by luck it would still be dark when he got there. Dragonlord or not, it would be impossible to search the forest in human form.

  He swooped lower, searching the ground for an open area. Spotting a large clearing by a river, he landed on the bank and drank deeply. He stretched his wings and settled himself, his wings rattling against his scales as he tucked his feet under and curled his tail around them like a cat. Then he stared into th
e darkness as he waited for the dawn.

  Fifty-eight

  When she awoke the next morning, Pod panicked. For a moment she thought she’d been buried alive; all she saw around her in the dim light was dirt. Then she remembered where they were.

  She rolled over. Kaeliss was still asleep. Even in this poor light Pod could see how pinched and wan her face was under streaks of dirt. She guessed her own looked just as bad. As quietly as she could, Pod crawled out of their shelter, scrambled to the top of the gully, and looked around, trying to get her bearings.

  There—where the sky glowed blood-red with the rising sun—that was east. The old rhyme came back to her: “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Red sky at morning, shepherds take warning.”

  She climbed back down to awaken Kaeliss. It was time to enter the nightmare again.

  * * *

  Linden? Linden, can you hear me?

  Linden roused himself from the waking dream that dragons often fell into while resting. He recognized that mindvoice—nor was he surprised to hear it, he realized. What did surprise him was its unwonted seriousness. I hear you, Lleld. Did Shima tell you what’s at stake?

  Yes. Lleld couldn’t quite hide her distress. We have the books by Lord Culwen that Leet read the most, Jenna says. What do you need from them?

  The location of Worton and if at all possible, the whereabouts of the witch spruce. I never visited Worton, so I’m not certain just where it is.

  More distress and a deep sadness. I know where it was. I … I had friends there. She then told him what to look for, finishing with, The twin lakes and the esker between them are your best landmarks, I think, to find Worton. But someone—we think it was Leet—has cut a page from one of the books.

  Linden closed his eyes, trying not to lose his temper. Damn Leet! Let me guess—you suspect the location of the witch spruce was on that page.

  We do.

  Have you any idea? Do you remember it?

  He heard her “sigh” in his mind. No, I don’t. By the time I returned from Assantikkan, Gull had been dead for a few years already. I … I never went back there, Lleld whispered.

  I’m sorry to make you remember, Lleld, Linden said gently. But have you any guesses whereabouts the tree might be?

  Silence followed. Then Lleld said, I would think they would have buried that filth as far from the village as they could, even if they had to travel a few days by wagon or packhorse to do it.

  I suspect you’re right. Who would want him nearby? Thank you, Linden said. And I’m sorry about your friends.

  If I hadn’t been in Assantik then …

  The contact cut off abruptly. The guilt he’d felt in Lleld’s mindvoice made him bow his head. He knew it was a guilt she didn’t deserve, but could never escape.

  There was no use waiting here. He might as well take to the air; he knew he was still too far south. Unfolding his wings, Linden crouched on his haunches, then sprang into the air with a mighty leap, spiraling up to meet the leaden sky.

  He tasted the air. Just as he’d feared: a storm was coming.

  * * *

  Linden flew over the forest, slipping through the air from one side of the woods to the other. The witch spruce that held down Gull the Blood Drinker’s soul should be in these woods. But if he was correct that the tree had been chopped down, he wasn’t certain if he’d be able to sense anything, even while in dragon form. To make matters worse, this forest was much larger than he’d thought it would be. It was with relief that he saw the landmark of the twin lakes divided by a narrow esker in the distance.

  The rain found him then; the drops came down hard and fast, rattling against his scales. Shaking his head, Linden saw what he’d been looking for—a long foundation of stone.

  If he was right, this was the pride of Worton-that-once-was: the big stone barn for drying the rare herbs that had given the village its name and the people their living.

  Or so it had been before a human demon had used it for his own twisted ends. Now barn and village were abandoned, forgotten by man; in another decade or two, even this much would be gone. Remembering the conclusion both he and Lleld had come to—that Gull was likely buried well away from the village—Linden quickly spiraled out from the ruins to begin his search.

  He let his mind empty, seeking with the magic that bound the human and dragon halves of his soul for a trace of the spell that had bound Gull the Blood Drinker’s spirit to the earth. The wind buffeted him, at one point almost flipping him. He fought to remain upright.

  He thought he felt something, a sense of … wrongness, of a seething darkness. But he wasn’t certain; nor could he afford to give the search the undivided attention it needed. The wind was at a dangerous level now, and the worst of the storm was almost upon him. For a moment he considered relinquishing control to his dragon half, Rathan, as he’d done a few years before, but discarded that idea even as it occurred to him. This time, he feared, Rathan might not subside into sleep again.

  Linden swung his head from side to side, craning the long neck of his dragon form as he searched for the wellspring, the source of the darkness. But his quest was in vain: the entire forest below felt shrouded in evil.

  And he would not be able to stay aloft much longer, anyway. He turned his long neck to look back over his shoulder. Yes, those storm clouds were closer and moving fast. They would be upon him in less than half a candlemark, he guessed.

  He didn’t dare fly through a thunderstorm. More than one Dragonlord had met their end by lightning. He had no intention of adding himself to that grim list.

  On the heels of that thought, lightning flashed, followed immediately by a booming peal of thunder that made his ears ring. He would have to land, and the only place large enough was the abandoned village; there wasn’t time to find somewhere else, somewhere clean of the taint he felt below him.

  But as Linden came around to make for the clearing, a sudden, violent gust of wind tossed him like a leaf, wrenching at his wings as if it would rip them off. Knowing that if his wings were injured, he would crash into the trees below—a thing even a Dragonlord might not survive—Linden turned and fled before the storm. He’d have to find somewhere else to land, and quickly. The lightning was getting closer.

  He flew desperately, seeking a place free of the malevolence that tainted the woods. For a moment he thought he’d found it, but then realized that what he felt was something alive, a pinprick of “light” in the foul darkness below. Before he could spare more than a moment’s thought for it, he was beyond it.

  He caught sight of another clearing ahead. It was much smaller, dangerously so, but he had no choice. He glanced back in time to see a jagged bolt of lightning blast a tree not far behind him. With a quick prayer to whatever gods watched over reckless Dragonlords, he spiraled in to land so hastily he brushed the branches of the surrounding trees with the tips of his wings.

  He Changed even before he touched the ground. The soaked earth squelched under his boots as he dropped the last few feet in human form. His hands up to shield his eyes, Linden peered around the gloomy clearing for something that could serve as a refuge from the storm.

  There was a shelter of sorts, built under the trees at one edge of the clearing. A charcoal burner’s hut? Or did it belong to someone brave enough—or fool enough—to dare the haunted forest for the rare herbs it still held?

  Linden didn’t care. As the rain pelted down, he ran through the clearing. All around him the wind tossed the branches together with a sound like clicking bones.

  As he pushed open the rickety door of lashed branches, a foul odor from the dimness within drove him back. Only the crack! of another lightning strike nearby convinced him to go in.

  Breathing as shallowly as he could, he ducked inside the hut, leaving the door open behind him; let the wind clean this place as much as it could. He called up a ball of coldfire and looked around.

  The hut was empty save for a sorry-looking bench near the back wall, two rickety stools, and
a pile of rags in one corner. Someone’s bedding? Linden wondered how anyone could sleep in such a stench.

  Another corner held dried droppings—horse, or, more likely, donkey—so old they were crumbling into earth. Rain dripped through holes in the roof in a couple of places and the wind whistled through gaps in the wattle and daub walls like a mad piper.

  But worse than the smell in the hut was the feeling that hung in the foul air like an invisible fog. He’d felt it while flying over the forest, as if the earth itself was ill. Confined in the dark squalor of the hut, it was worse, much worse. Cold crept down his spine.

  Linden moved as carefully as a spy in an enemy camp as he searched the hut. The only two places to hide anything were behind the bench and in the pile of rags.

  There was nothing behind the bench; that left …

  Linden stopped. For the first time, he really looked at the pile in the corner, then crouched in front of it. Catching a fold of cloth, he pulled it free.

  It proved to be a tunic; a tunic with a long tear in the front and a large, dark stain. Linden cursed softly, and seized another strip of fabric and pulled it clear. It took him a moment to realize that this, too, had once been a tunic, one that had been slashed nearly to ribbons. The shreds moved stiffly in the wind blowing through the open door; they bore the same dark stain as the other tunic.

  Sickened, Linden sorted through the pile, finding more tunics, breeches, and once the tattered remains of a skirt. Three of the tunics caught his attention; it was hard to tell from the half-rotted fabric, but he thought they were the green and yellow favored by the members of the Healwort Guild. He made himself look closer at one of them—yes, there was the narrow yellow piping along the hems and neck that marked one of their journeymen. The only comfort he had—and it was a paltry comfort, indeed—was that none of the clothing seemed small enough for a child.

  As he reached the bottom of the pitiful heap, Linden noticed that the foul smell that had pervaded the hut was stronger. He gingerly dragged the last remnants aside and saw that the ground below had been disturbed. With a prayer that he knew was futile, Linden caught up a stick from the floor and scratched in the dirt.