Otter snorted. “It might very well sound nice, but most bards wouldn’t have a harp made of ash even if they could find a luthier to make it for them. Ash is considered unlucky because it’s a wood of war; spear shafts are made from it.”
“How appropriate for a harp meant to kill,” Lleld murmured. “Brrrr! That thing makes my skin crawl.”
* * *
Otter studied the harp. It truly was a beautiful thing; Thomelin the luthier had outdone himself. Still, as far as he could tell, it was just a harp like any other.
Then Shima ran a finger down the strings. He snatched his hand back with a curse in his own tongue.
Yet Otter barely noticed. With the first bell-like tone, he was in a different world. There was only himself—and the harp. Himself and the harp … Himselfandtheharp … He sat in one of the chairs, pulled the harp to him, and began to play.
Dearest gods, he’d never felt anything like this. Like a fine wine, there were different “flavors” to it. An undertone of fear, bewilderment, even a touch of revulsion—all from him, he realized—but lost in a rush of power, of standing like a god over all others. And now the last nuance was coming through.… He had it now. Hunger. So much hunger …
Powerful hands clamped over his wrists. He yelped in pain and surprise. Otter tried to free himself but to no avail. A deep voice ordered, “Get the damned thing away from him!”
Other hands snatched the harp away. “No!” he cried, struggling to get to the harp that called so sweetly to him. He wept, a lover wrenched from his darling.
There came a ripping sound, then—peace. It was over. The harp no longer called to him. Otter fell back in his chair. He felt like a man who had escaped from the jaws of a ravening shark and now lay gasping on the beach, trying to make sense of what had happened.
He stared dull-witted at Maurynna as she laid a cloth-wrapped bundle in the traveling case. As she tucked the last bits of embroidered fabric into the rowan box, she muttered, “Beryl will never forgive me for ruining that bed hanging”—here she slapped the lid on the box and pushed down to make it all fit—“but I daresay a bolt or three of Neiranal silk from Dragonskeep will help.”
Whaaat? Otter’s mind asked blearily. Then he saw one of the bed curtains was ripped straight across. The thought of the strength required to rip silk that heavy sobered him.
So did the pain in his wrists. He looked down at them as Linden, standing behind him, released his grip. The marks of the Dragonlord’s big hands were plain to see.
“That will raise a fine crop of bruises,” he said with forced lightness.
“My apologies, Otter,” Linden said, coming around to face him. “But I had to stop you. Yours was not a truehuman’s strength just then.” A pause, then a wary “I didn’t break anything, did I?”
Otter twisted his hands this way and that. “No, you didn’t—but I still would have thanked you if it had taken that to free me from that, that … thing!” he said.
“It was horrible,” Arisyn said. His voice shook.
“You felt it when Otter was playing?” Linden asked.
“I did. It was … horrible!” the boy repeated.
“It was,” Otter agreed. He rubbed his forehead; all of a sudden he felt exhausted. “How could Leet do such a thing? Yet I can also understand why. You can’t imagine the feeling.… It must be like rich wine to a drunkard. You can’t stop; you always want more—and more and more.”
“Now what do we do?” Maurynna asked. “This is the last grace day we had. Tomorrow they’ll…” Her voice broke.
“We invoke our rank and privileges as Dragonlords,” Linden said, “and we call the court back into session right now to show them this thing. I don’t care what candlemark it is.”
A terrifying thought froze Otter’s blood. He said, “If—if Portis or someone insists I play it, all of you please promise me you’ll do whatever is needed to stop me if it … if it takes me over again. Whatever is needed. Please.”
“We shall, old friend,” Linden said softly. “We shall.” The others—even Arisyn, though it was plain the boy was frightened—nodded.
Otter rose. “Good enough, then. Let’s get this over with.”
Sixty-nine
It was late before the court could be reconvened. Many of the lords and ladies of the Judges’ Council had gone off and had to be tracked down. And Maurynna insisted that Kella leave the castle entirely.
“We’ll need to have that thing out of its box the entire time,” she pointed out, “sitting next to the other harp so that the judges can come up and see the difference between them. Kella could feel it when it was far off in the gardens because there was no silk helping the rowan wood to shroud its magic. Can you imagine what she’ll feel when it’s out for that long? I’m already kicking myself that I didn’t think of sending her farther away before we looked at it earlier.”
So Kella was sent off—along with Prince Rann who refused to leave her—to Lord Sevrynel’s manor, despite dark predictions from Duchess Beryl that the two would join up with Rosalea and drive their nurses to distraction. “At least the children will have a wonderful time,” the duchess finished with a wry laugh.
The last of the judges had just settled themselves when word came that Kella was safely away. Linden looked over the room, surprised to see that so many spectators had also heard of the unusual session. Raven was brought in, looking half hopeful, half terrified. Linden couldn’t blame him.
Lord Asiah, his face stern, came up to where Linden stood by the table. On it was the harp that he thought of as Leet’s “bluebell” harp. Next to it was the box holding the tainted one, still wrapped in silk.
The Justice studied him. “I trust that this ‘new evidence’ is important, Your Grace,” Lord Asiah said quietly. “Or else I shall dismiss this court. For, as I said earlier, you have not proven your case.”
“It is important, my lord,” Linden answered just as quietly. He rested one hand on the box, the rowan smooth and cool under his palm. “In here is the ‘haunted’ harp that holds what is left of Gull the Blood Drinker.”
Lord Asiah inhaled sharply. “Can you prove this?”
“If necessary, yes,” Linden said, though his stomach roiled at the thought of playing it. He silently prayed to all the gods he could think of that Maurynna’s testimony of how they found the cursed thing would be enough.
* * *
It wasn’t. Oh, the judges came up one by one to examine both harps and all agreed that the harp from the box did indeed have different flowers around the seagull. Daera was called in to give her opinion as a bard that, yes, these two harps were indeed made from ash which was well-nigh unheard of in bardic tradition, and that they were clearly from the same maker—she could even identify who just from their appearance if they were so interested. Even Conor was brought forward to verify that the flowers around the purported “haunted” harp were in fact King’s Blood.
Then Maurynna told the fascinated audience how she, Kella, Prince Rann, Bard Daera, and Arisyn Darnhollis searched for the harp, and how she and Arisyn found it hidden in the folly. All who were present in the room when Otter played it testified to the terrible experience.
It was not enough. The doubter, of course, was Lord Portis. “All you have shown us,” he said, “is that there are indeed two harps. You have proven nothing.” His voice was ragged with grief. “Nothing,” he whispered. “And my son’s killer still lives.”
Maurynna said, “Lord Portis, Bard Otter has sworn that the harp holds evil within it. He played it in Linden’s and my quarters. And Linden, Shima, Lleld, and I have sensed that same evil. You will not accept any of our words of honor on this?”
“No. You are Redhawkson’s kin or friends. At least one of you owes him a life debt. I do not accept your sworn words.”
A gasp ran through the room at Portis’s audacity. He glared at Raven, his face twisted with grief. “That man killed my son. You claim he was forced to by this harp. Even if that were true—and
I do not believe it for one instant—he could have resisted. He didn’t, and because of that, my only child is dead.”
Lady Portis wept. Portis laid a hand upon her shoulder.
“I tell you, my lord, that no one could have resisted that harp,” Otter snapped.
“And I don’t believe you,” Portis retorted. He pointed at the harp on the table before them all. “I don’t believe you. How could a—a harp make a man kill? Prove it to me, bard! Prove it! Play the thing! Control me!”
The blood drained from Otter’s face. Linden knew what he feared: to touch the harp again, to succumb to the lure of its power once more—and not be able to break the bond this time.
“My lord,” Shima said. “You don’t know what you ask. This is not like the magics you have heard of all your life. It is much more akin to the magics of my land. For a bard like Otter—for any true bard—this thing is vileness, an unspeakable vileness. I touched it, I felt the darkness in it, and I am no bard to call forth its full magic. I merely ran a finger across its strings and it answered to the magic in me. It was dark and foul. Please don’t ask a bard to risk his gift of music by playing it.”
Lord Portis sneered at him and folded his arms across his broad chest. “Then I will not believe it can control a man.”
A chair scraped across the floor in the back of the room. Everyone turned to look as Lord Eadain struggled to his feet.
“My lords and ladies, my lord Justice, Your Graces, while I am certainly no bard, I do play the harp for my own amusement,” the young lord said. “And I am willing to attempt this thing that Lord Portis asks.”
Linden frowned. “My lord Eadain, believe me when I say that we appreciate your offer. Yet from what I’ve seen of the effects of playing this harp, I’m loath to let anyone else be tainted by it. It should—”
A harsh bark of laughter cut him off. “So you won’t let anyone else play the thing lest they be ‘tainted’? We’re just to take your word that this thing is haunted by an evil dead for—what? Two centuries or so?
“So we take your word for it that”—here Lord Portis clutched his hands to his chest and went on in wide-eyed innocence—“the harp is a bad, horrible thing and can make people do bad, horrible things, so they shouldn’t be held accountable for them because it’s not really their fault. We should let the poor man it took over go free—”
It was a deadly accurate imitation of the stock character of the not-very-bright, all-sweetness-and-light priest in a bad mummer’s play. Linden pressed his lips together; he didn’t trust himself.
The act ended. Portis snarled, “Even if he’s a cold-blooded killer. How convenient that would be for you, Dragonlord. How very convenient for your friend.” Portis’s harsh, heavy breathing filled the room. “No, Dragonlord, no. Unless you can prove your claim to me beyond all doubt, I ask this court to see that this murderer pays.”
Asiah said mildly, “I’m afraid that Lord Portis is right, Dragonlords. We must have incontrovertible proof that the harp can do what you say.”
Lord Eadain’s light tenor broke the silence. “Dragonlord, I thank you for your fear for me, but this is a risk I am willing to take. I count Raven as a friend, and—and there is more.
“And I can understand Lord Portis’s feelings. I agree with him that this must be proven beyond all doubt—for everyone’s sake. Please, Lord Justice, Your Graces, Lord and Lady Portis—let me try.”
The thought of touching that harp was enough to turn Linden’s stomach. How could he let anyone else do what he feared to try himself? “Lord Eadain—”
Eadain drew himself up. “Dragonlord, I claim this task as my right.”
Linden bowed his head. He could not refuse Eadain now without making it seem he considered the young lord as less than a man; no doubt a thing too many people did when they saw the crutches—and only the crutches. So it must be.
It was up to Lord Portis now. Linden turned to Tirael’s father. Bloodshot eyes, their rims red from weeping, met his with implacable fury. At long last, Lord Portis nodded. “Very well,” he rasped.
“Thank you, my lord,” Eadain said. He deftly maneuvered his crutches between the people sitting around him and slowly came down the aisle. When he was settled in the witness’s chair, Linden gestured for a guard to bring the harp to him.
Eadain rested the harp against his shoulder and lightly ran a finger down the strings, testing to see if it was in tune.
Then Raven cried out, “Stop! Stop! It wants me, I can feel it.… If you must play it, then please bind me again or send me away—I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I hear it again. Please!” he begged.
“You missed your calling, boy,” Portis sneered. “You should have been a mummer.”
“And a fine one he would have been, too,” Lleld snapped. “The best in the land to turn white and break out in a sweat just for the wishing! Have you no eyes, Portis? This is no act.” Lleld shook her head in disgust. “Bind him,” she ordered the guards.
Portis darted a glance at Raven; Linden saw him waver. For a moment he thought the man might see the sense in Lleld’s words. Then Portis shook his head and the moment slipped away.
“There’s another thing we must consider,” the little Dragonlord went on as the guards strapped Raven’s arms and ankles down again. “What if magic is needed to call magic? It might not work for Lord Eadain.”
Linden blinked. He hadn’t considered that. Good point, Lleld.
Of course it is, Lleld shot back. I thought of it. Then, grudgingly, You would have too if you weren’t half-dead on your feet.
“But it worked for the child—if her tale is true.” Portis lifted his chin in challenge.
Seeing Maurynna’s face darken, Linden quickly said, “But Kella has a touch of bardic magic, my lord. Bard Daera can confirm that the child shows a true gift for music and has said that her family should send her to Bylith for testing when she’s older.” He held up his hand against the buzz of speech that greeted his words. “I’m not saying that she could do what we say Bard Leet did. For one thing, if she does have the magic of a bard, it is yet weak and untrained. I suspect she has enough to awaken Gull, but not enough to control him. And I will not ask her to go through that again.”
“Then let Lord Eadain play.”
Softly at first, then with more confidence, Eadain played. He was no bard, Linden thought, but the man played very well indeed. But while it was pleasant listening, there was no … magic to it, no quickening of the pulse as when a true bard played.
After the third song—an old, old one that was rarely played anymore—Lord Eadain stopped, an odd expression on his face. “For a moment I felt something,” he said. “But then … nothing.” He shook his head. “To me it’s just a harp,” he said apologetically. He held the harp out to the guard who jumped to take it, picked up his crutches and limped back to his place.
“As I said before, magic might be needed to call forth magic,” Lleld said.
“Then we are stalemated, are we not, Dragonlords?” Lord Portis said coldly. “For you won’t let a bard play it, and—let me guess—none of you can play?”
Maurynna, Shima, and Lleld all shook their heads.
“I thought not,” said Portis. “How … convenient.”
“As it happens, my lord, I can,” Linden said mildly enough, even though he seethed with anger. Not only were they named liars by this man, but now he forced him to do a thing that he would give much to avoid. Ever since he’d felt that sick, twisted evil in the forest he’d felt tainted, as if part of his very soul was befouled.
Before he could change his mind, Linden took up the harp and sat down. He rested it against his shoulder and began playing. Without thinking he chose a song he had learned centuries ago—from Rani eo’Tsan, who had learned it in a dream from the undead harper Satha.
Whether it was his own magic, or a magic in the song itself—for like Otter, Linden believed some songs held an enchantment of their own; how else did they endure for centuries?�
�he soon felt his fingers moving in a pattern not of his choosing. And as the new tune flowed from the old, a burning cold crept up his fingers.
“Dear gods,” he whispered. Is this what Kella had endured? He cursed Leet anew.
He wanted to cast the harp from him, break it into slivers. But that would prove nothing to Portis. Only one thing would convince the man, he knew. So Linden clenched his teeth and set his magic against the evil within the harp.
At first it fought him; his magic was not that of a bard. Then all at once it seemed to sense what he wanted and responded eagerly. The surge of unholy joy that burned coldly up his arms nearly made him retch.
But it was working. Linden could see Portis’s hands twitch as his eyes glazed and his breathing turned rapid and shallow. The man lurched upright like a puppet whose strings were tugged first one way, then another. Lady Portis looked up at him, a worried frown creasing her brow.
An uneasy murmur ran through the courtroom as the spectators looked around at each other. More than a few made the sign against evil.
Would that was all one needed to banish this! Linden thought. Though it sat ill with him—he’d no wish to make a mock of Portis and his pain despite the man’s thirst for revenge upon Raven—Linden wanted to be certain that everyone saw that Portis was not his own master.
“My lord Portis,” he sang quietly, “flap your arms like a bird—and remember. Remember all this.”
For a moment nothing happened. He wondered if it was because he was no bard. Then …
Eyes still glazed, Portis did as he was bidden. It should have been amusing in a nasty way, watching the dignified lord’s wide sleeves flailing the air as Portis lurched about the open floor before the seats, but it was not. Indeed, from the frightened faces staring wide-eyed at the spectacle before him, everyone else found it as horrifying as he did.
Tears flowed down Lady Portis’s cheeks. “Ridler! Ridler!” she cried. “What is wrong? You act as one possessed!”
At her words, Linden said, “He is indeed, my lady. Just as Raven was. Just … as…”
Bard's Oath (Dragonlord) Page 53
