Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  What’s that about? Raven wondered.

  Then Lleld nodded. She stood up, the book clasped to her breast. “Lord Asiah—I would like to present the first part of our evidence,” the little Dragonlord announced.

  Sixty-four

  Raven watched, baffled, as Lleld set the large, heavy book down on the lectern and turned the pages. He glanced over to see if Shima knew what she was up to and caught sight of Leet once more.

  But this time there was no cruel smile on the bard’s face. Instead he stared at the little red-haired Dragonlord with frightening intensity.

  “Here we are,” Lleld murmured. She rested her hand upon the page and looked up. Her light, clear voice rang through the room. “My lords and ladies, I have here a history from the library of Dragonskeep. A history written by one Lord Culwen of Cassori—one of your own.”

  Raven looked at Leet once more. Was it his imagination or did the bard look alarmed? As Lleld began reading, Raven watched Leet.

  “Know all that there is one who surpasses all other killers for foulness and cruelty,” Lleld read. “For reasons I do not pretend to understand, while all murder is foul, it is somehow much worse when a murderer perverts a thing of beauty for his vile purposes.

  “Such a one was Gullanin Wortman of the village of Worton, known to all now as Gull the Blood Drinker. Here I shall set down a shortened account of his history. I will follow it with the full tales told me by those still living near where the village of Worton once stood. Some have been proven true, some, no doubt, are made up. All are terrifying.

  “Worton was famous for the rare and useful herbs in the nearby forests, especially the herb known as King’s Blood. All the village prospered from the trade, but the most successful was the family called Wortman, though all their names have been lost but one. They had an uncanny ability to find that most rare and virtuous of herbs, King’s Blood, and built their good fortune upon it.”

  Lord Asiah interrupted. “Dragonlord, with the utmost respect, what has this to do with this trial? It’s just a scary story for a stormy night.”

  Lleld said levelly, “My lord Justice, it has everything to do with why we’re here today. Nor was it merely a ‘scary story,’ my lord. I remember Worton. I … I had friends there. They died by Gull the Blood Drinker’s hand.”

  When the uneasy murmuring died down, she continued reading. “They alone in Worton had a secret method of preparing King’s Blood so that there was no loss of its virtue. So successful were they that they built a long stone barn for their work, for that herb needs darkness.

  “The family’s fortunes rose. But then the gods turned their faces from them. The oldest son, Gullanin, a man known for his fair voice, lost the first joint of one forefinger and his brother lost a hand when the heavy blade of a root chopper slipped. It is thought that was when Gullanin first tasted blood, a taste that woke a raging darkness inside him, when his brother’s blood sprayed upon him.”

  Raven heard the door quietly open and shut, but like everyone else, his attention was on the smallest Dragonlord. She didn’t even glance up at the faint noise.

  “Not long after, disaster struck again. The mother disappeared while searching for herbs. Her body was never found. The same happened to the father, another brother, the two married sisters, and their husbands and children.

  “Soon only Gull and the one-handed brother remained. The village elders pressed Gull to reveal his family’s secret of treating the herbs lest the knowledge be lost. Their pleas fell upon deaf ears. The one-handed brother disappeared and Gull became more secretive than ever. The villagers heard his muffled singing from inside the stone barn as he worked late into the night.

  “Then the villagers began to disappear one after another. They grew fearful and haggard as they went about their work in the forest, wondering what evil spirit they had angered. Only Gull seemed unaffected.

  “Some blamed the Children of the Forest. Others blamed demons and ghosts. In time, they feared the forest that had nurtured them too much to enter it anymore. Instead they huddled around their hearths and prayed. Yet all too often they would wake in the morning and find another bed empty. And all they knew was that every one of them had ‘heard’ a wordless song of haunting beauty in their dreams the night before.

  “So it went until a family of tinkers came to the village.”

  Lleld looked up from the book. “You all know the rest of the story, I’m sure. How the tinker’s son Norrim awoke to see his sister rise from her pallet and go to the stone barn. How he followed and found Gull waiting for her—Gull and a knife with an edge that could cut moonlight, as the tales say. How Norrim fought Gull and won, though Gull tried desperately to ensnare him with the song that had caught so many in its web.

  “He won, my lords and ladies, because Norrim was one of those unfortunate few whom Auvrian, the god of music, turns his face from. To Norrim, all music sounded like cacophony.”

  She closed the book firmly. “My lord Portis—was your son one of those unfortunates?”

  Portis shook his head.

  “Does anyone know if the stable boy Robie is?” Lleld asked.

  “He is not,” said Conor over the surprised murmur that arose at her question. For once Raven agreed with the audience; what had the stable boy to do with this? Conor went on, “His father has mentioned that the boy loves music.”

  “As does Raven,” said Lleld. “Moreover, I’ve heard Raven sing, and sing well.”

  Lord Asiah shook his head. He looked confused. “Dragonlord, I’m not certain what you intend to prove with this. True, Raven Redhawkson has made a claim that some kind of music possessed him. Are you trying to say that since Gull the Blood Drinker found a way to do it, someone might have as well?”

  “No,” said a deep—and tired—voice from the back of the room. “What she’s saying is that Gull the Blood Drinker walks again.”

  Sixty-five

  As Linden leaned against the wall, gathering his strength and waiting for the clamor to subside, he felt Maurynna’s startled mindtouch.

  Your tunic is torn! What happened to you? Were you attacked?

  Yes, but no lasting harm done, love. I’ll tell you later, he promised. He glanced around but didn’t see her. Odd; she had to be where she could see him, so why couldn’t he see her? Where are you?

  Later—for both of us, she said enigmatically.

  He didn’t have time to sort out what she meant by that. He needed to concentrate on what he was about to do. Gods, he was so tired.…

  He walked slowly down the aisle to the lectern. Charilon had told him so many things that, exhausted as he was, he desperately hoped he’d kept it all straight as he’d strung together all the bits and pieces he knew—or guessed—like beads on a necklace as he flew back to Balyaranna. It had all made sense to him at the time; may the gods grant that he was right.

  Still, there was one thing that didn’t fit in. Worse, there was no way that he could see around it, either. And that worried him. But this was all he had.

  He reached the front of the room and turned to face the assembled lords and ladies. They stared and muttered to each other at his appearance. “My apologies for appearing before you like this, but I have just returned from a journey—” He looked for a certain face in the crowd; surely the man would be here if he had guessed right … ah, there! “—to the north of Kelneth.”

  Though drops of sweat started on Leet’s forehead, his expression never changed: polite interest, nothing more. Looking straight into the bard’s eyes, Linden went on, “I found where once Worton had stood. I found the remains of the old stone barn, where Gull the Blood Drinker lured his victims with his song. Where he cut their throats, drank their blood, and then buried them under its dirt floor.

  “I also found in Worton-that-was a man possessed by the evil lingering in the forest. He, too, had killed and buried victims. His name was Arlim. He was hunting two young women when I got there.”

  Linden kept his gaze locked on Leet
’s. Now the sweat dripped down the bard’s face; yet still there was only that mask of polite interest.

  Linden said softly into the uneasy silence, “But worst of all, I found that the witch spruce that had been planted over Gull the Blood Drinker’s grave to trap his soul had been cut down, freeing his evil once again. The stump was there—but the tree itself was gone.” He paused. “But I know what was done with the wood.”

  The color drained from Leet’s face, leaving two spots of red high on his cheeks, like a man with a fever. Still, not a muscle twitched in that impassive countenance.

  Once again a tumult of voices rang out. Swaying on his feet, Linden let it wash over him. Two nights without sleep and the long distances he’d flown so quickly had drained him. He shut his eyes for a moment as Lord Asiah thumped the heel of his staff on the floor again and again, shouting for quiet.

  Lord Portis stood up. “Do you expect me to believe this man Arlim somehow forced Raven Redhawkson to kill my son all the way from northern Kelneth?” he asked in disgust.

  “No. Do you remember that I said Arlim was hunting two young women? He died at the fangs of one girl’s brother-in-fur, a ghulon, known to most of you as a woods dog or wolvering,” Linden told him.

  Conor’s strangled gasp sounded like thunder in the quiet room.

  Asiah frowned. “Then who do you think is responsible? And why would he or she do such a thing?”

  Linden rubbed the back of his neck. He hoped Charilon knew what he was talking about or else he was about to slander a man and make a prize fool of himself. He took a deep breath. “I will answer the second question first, my lord.

  “Like most things, my lord, the answer begins in the past. On the estate of one Rade Welkin, Lord Sansy of Sansy, now sleeping peacefully in his grave.

  “He married twice. Much to his family’s dismay, his second wife was a beautiful young girl from the weavers’ hall in the village. She bore him a son and a daughter who were the delight of his old age. But then the whispers started: the children were not his. Did Lord Sansy believe those whispers? No one knows, for he died soon after they started. If the rumors were true, no one knew for certain who the man was—but some in the village suspected. Didn’t they, Leet?”

  “Lies!” Leet hissed. “How dare you? This is nothing but vile lies!”

  “Is it, Leet? Then look in your mirror. That doesn’t lie. While I’ve not met your son, Agon, I have met your daughter, Romissa. She has the same cleft in her chin that you have—the same chin that your mother had, Leet. Your mother—not your father. Charilon remembers her well, you know. It was seeing her chin on Rade’s supposed ‘children’ that set the village gossips’ tongues wagging, he said.”

  “Dear gods!” Lord Lenslee blurted out. He turned to gape at Leet. “So that’s why you were so upset when that boy Arnath died—he was your grandson! I couldn’t understand it at the time. Why should you care so much about a bastard? When you refused to visit your old home while your stepmother lived, that seemed to confirm that her children were sired not by your father, but rather by some other man. I remember my parents wagging their heads over it. Your grandson!…”

  “And that was the reason Summer Lightning was poisoned. It was also why your son had to die, my lord and lady Portis. For it was Tirael who set Arnath on Summer Lightning’s back, was it not, when the boy and his father broke the journey they were on so that they might see that fair? Well, my lord?” Linden asked harshly.

  Portis would not meet his eyes. Linden went on relentlessly, “You know full well it was, my lord. Just as Tirael knew that Summer Lightning was vicious, had even killed a groom. He tossed Arnath onto Summer Lightning’s bare back. But Tirael was often cruel to those he thought beneath him—such as a boy who had only one noble parent—if that parent was even truly noble at all.

  “Of course Arnath fell off at the first buck—and Summer Lightning crushed his skull with a single blow.” Poor child—victim of two vicious creatures, Linden thought in disgust. The horse should have been put down long before. And as for Tirael … He thought over the stories he’d heard of the cruel young lordling. His parents have much to answer for, turning a blind eye to their son’s true nature all those years.

  Once more Linden caught Leet’s gaze with his own. “But you didn’t dare take your own revenge, did you, Leet? First, it would mean you’d have to give up being a bard. Besides, your son, Agon, had accepted wergild for his nephew’s life. So you ensorcelled an innocent boy to poison Summer Lightning, and Raven to kill Tirael.”

  Leet stood up, hands clenched at his sides, shaking. His face was white and pinched. “I never thought I’d hear such a pack of foul, disgusting lies from a Dragonlord!”

  A buzz of agreement greeted the bard’s accusation. Linden flinched from the righteous fury in the bard’s voice. By the gods—had he guessed wrong? For one long, horrible moment he feared he had. Then he remembered the power in a bard’s voice, what he’d found in the hut—and what waited in a room nearby, guarded by magic and swords.

  “I stand by my words, Leet,” he said, his voice edged in steel.

  “Then you are a fool, Dragonlord,” Leet replied venomously. “And I will make you pay for those lies.”

  Sixty-six

  Maurynna peered through the screen shrouding the witness balcony as her soultwin and Leet glared at each other like two wolves over a kill. But then, to her surprise, Leet smiled. It was a cold smile that chilled one’s soul like a howling northern gale; a smile that mocked. She wanted to slap it off his face.

  “And how did I supposedly accomplish these fell deeds, Dragonlord? Can you tell me—nay, tell these good lords and ladies—how?”

  “Your harp’s sound—”

  “My harp?” Leet interrupted in astonishment. “My harp is—what? Haunted? Like the music the prisoner claims he heard?” Leet pressed the back of one hand to his forehead with an exaggerated flourish. “Oh, oh!”

  The hand dropped and Leet grew serious once more. “While a fine notion for a journeyman bard scaring apprentices, Your Grace, it is nothing but a fantasy.”

  Once more his face changed; now he looked grave, even sad. If she didn’t know better, Maurynna thought sourly, she would have thought that there stood a man, who, though unjustly accused, felt only sorrow at a Dragonlord’s folly. She didn’t know exactly what proof Linden had found, but if her soultwin said Leet was guilty, he must know what he was doing … she hoped.

  Leet went on, “And fantasies, I am sorry to say, Your Grace, have no place in a court of law.” Now the bard turned in place, surveying the room, gathering all eyes to him before turning back to face the front of the room again. His voice rang out. “My lord Justice—while I am not the one on trial here, I find myself accused of a heinous crime. I beg an indulgence of you to prove my innocence. Will you grant it?”

  Maurynna saw Linden tense. Leet’s up to something and it has Linden worried. She held her breath in an agony of anticipation.

  Lord Asiah said, “And what might that be, bard?”

  “I ask you to send someone to my room to fetch my poor, maligned harp. It is sitting on a table by my bed, covered in a silk cloth to keep the dust off.”

  Small fingers dug into Maurynna’s leg. “All will be well, sweetling,” she whispered, slipping her arm around her cousin’s shoulders and pulling her close. “All will be well.”

  A tiny, tiny whisper. “I can feel it again, Rynna. I’ve been feeling it ever since we got here. It’s … it’s calling me. So far away, but it’s calling me. I don’t want it any closer.”

  “Be strong, love, I won’t let it hurt you again. I promise.”

  It seemed an eternity before the servant Lord Asiah had called for returned with the harp. Maurynna pulled the shaking child closer.

  Leet took the harp and settled into the witness’s chair. “Shall I play for you, Dragonlord?” he asked with overblown courtesy as he ran a finger mockingly down the strings.

  Maurynna tensed as the rippling
notes belled through the room.

  * * *

  Nothing. Nothing at all. Linden wasn’t certain what he’d expected, but this was what he’d feared. Leet played on, a merry tune dancing under his fingers, smiling and nodding to this or that lord or lady in the audience. His color was back to normal; he might have been playing at a gathering. The harp was no more “haunted” than the chair Leet sat upon.

  It was the one thing Linden had not been able to fit into his theory of what had happened. He’d seen this harp, heard Leet play it the night before the Queen’s Chase. There was no magic in it. Had he been wrong? Terribly, terribly wrong in his desperation to find a way out for Raven?

  At last the cheerful tune ended. Leet sat back, rubbing the indentation under his lip with a forefinger. “And now, Dragonlord? Do you still claim that my harp is—”

  A child’s voice cut across Leet’s words. “It’s not the same harp!”

  Sixty-seven

  Linden looked around, astonished. That was Kella! But where was she? And what in the name of Gifnu’s nine hells was Kella doing here, anyway? The last he knew she was home in Casna.

  Racing footsteps clattered down the curving stairs. It was Kella, closely followed by Maurynna. Oh—the witnesses’ balcony. Of course.

  Kella came around to face Leet. Though she trembled, she stood defiant.

  “You!” Leet roared. “You’re the one who tried to touch my harp that day in the garden, aren’t you, you little guttersnipe? What the hell are you talking about, anyway? You saw my harp for only a few mo—”

  “This isn’t the same harp and you know it!” Kella yelled back. “There’s nothing in this one. It’s not the one I played in your room. That one was evil!”

  The change her words wrought in Leet was shocking. In an instant, he looked decades older and shook like a man with the ague. He whispered, “Oh dear gods, you pla—” Panic crossed his face and he bit his lip. He tried to speak again but nothing came out.