Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  It was quiet this high up. The gentle breeze flowed like silk over his skin, and the honey-colored shimmer of the bright sunlight spoke of tranquil summer days riding through the mountains around Dragonskeep, of dallying in flower-strewn meadows. So peaceful on the surface, so serene …

  He only heard the anguished scream because he’d been listening for it. Muffled behind the shutters, it was so faint it might almost have been imagination. He knew it wasn’t.

  Despite the heat, a shiver went down his spine. Linden glanced through the doorway to where the others still clustered around Otter and almost went to join them. Instead, something made him stay at his post. So he waited and watched—though for what, he wasn’t certain.

  After a time, something happened. The guards who had escorted Leet back to his prison chamber must have left, for the heavy shutters opened slowly. Pale hands thrust between the black iron bars of the windows; the long, agile fingers that once had danced skillfully upon harp strings clawed at the air, graceful no longer.

  Linden wondered if anyone had had a chance to thoroughly examine the room since Leet had replaced Raven as its occupant so quickly. He knew he should have no pity for the man. Yet he understood why Leet had sought Tirael’s death in revenge for his grandson’s. The part of him that was still Yerrin—and a mountain Yerrin at that—sympathized with the need to see a blood debt paid.

  Not that I can now. I’m a Dragonlord. But what would I do if someone killed Maurynna? Could I hold to my own oath?

  But there was also the matter of how Leet had taken his revenge. By freeing Gull’s spirit, Leet had driven one man into dark evil and cost his victims their lives as surely as if he himself had cut their throats.

  Then he had used a child for a foul deed, and made Raven into a murderer, a tool to be destroyed in turn because Leet had always been jealous of his great-uncle. No, all that was more than Linden could forgive anyone, oathbound bard or not.

  But he’d seen Otter’s stricken face, knew what Otter—if faced with a choice between losing the first two joints of each finger and his thumbs, or death—would pick.

  Leet would have no choice. Because he’d abused both oath and gift, his fingers would be amputated and he would be turned out to make a way in a world that would now regard him as a thing of vileness, a living blasphemy to be driven away with curses and blows. The only thing forbidden would be killing him and ending his punishment. Nor could he take his own life and end his misery. Linden knew a temple mage would lay a geas upon Leet to prevent it.

  Oh, yes—Leet knew what he faced. Linden could see it in the way the renegade bard threw himself against the iron bars again and again, trying to force his way through the narrow gap, seeking the mercy of death.

  Linden mindspoke Otter. Do you hate him?

  As he waited for a response, he could see Leet slamming against the bars; Linden winced as the bard staggered back, then flung himself headfirst at the barred window.

  The weary answer came back at last: Believe it or not, I can’t bring myself to hate him. I did before, because of what he’s done to Raven, and I still loathe him for what he did to those other people, of how he perverted our calling. Yet now that I know for certain what will happen to him, part of me feels sorry for him. Can you believe that?

  Bright red ribbons of blood dripped down Leet’s face. He threw himself at the bars once more.

  Yes, Linden replied. I can. And he could. For him, it would be as if his wings were to be cut off. He’d be only half alive then. And as he soared through the sky on his wings, a bard’s spirit soared in his music.

  But you can’t play the harp without fingers, Linden thought.

  Leet collapsed against the bars. The sound of his weeping came thin and ghostlike across the gulf between the towers.

  His mindvoice shaking, Otter went on, Leet is to spend half the year wandering, and half the year at the luthier’s home so that all folk will know Thomelin’s part in this. By the gods, I wish they’d chosen to hang the man. It would be kinder, though I’m not certain Leet deserves any mercy for all he’s done. But then I look at my own hands, and wonder if that had been my grandchild …

  You would never have chosen a coward’s way of striking back, Linden retorted. You would have openly Challenged Tirael even though it would have meant your expulsion from the guild.

  Would I, though? And let the world know why it mattered so much to me? Left my daughter to bear the shame of old scandal as Romissa will? No, I’m not certain I can point that finger, boyo.

  Having met Romissa, Linden had somewhat less sympathy on that count than Otter. It was her surviving children whom he pitied. Not because they were the children of a bastard; to him, that was no shame. In the oldest Yerrin law—the law that Linden grew up with—there was no such thing as a bastard child, only degrees of legitimacy.

  But an oathbreaker and murderer in the family was an ill thing for anyone. And Leet would likely live for years yet, a constant reminder for his grandchildren of the tainted blood they bore. Because of their grandfather’s sins, they would be tormented endlessly, and shunned by all.

  He felt no sympathy for Leet. He had precious little for Romissa. As for Thomelin, he was unsure. Had the luthier known where the wood came from? But the children … They were innocent.

  Otter “sighed.” How odd—when I was young, someone once told me there were worse things than death. In all these years I never believed it. Now I do.

  I wish you’d never learned otherwise, Linden said. Then, Have they given him to Iryniel yet?

  Linden couldn’t remember the last time a bard was given to Iryniel; the Punisher must be hungry indeed these days. He would not easily let go of Leet, and woe to anyone who cut that cursed life short before Iryniel was moved to grant the final mercy.

  But until that time …

  No—that will be done at the dark of the moon, in the cusp of time between one day and the next.

  Linden nodded; yes, that would be the proper time. And it meant half a tenday’s grace.

  He let the contact with Otter’s mind fade. I wonder if Leet’s strong enough, he thought. Then he reached out with his mind, letting an image of the other window flicker across it like a flash of lightning. The other window—and a chisel.

  There; it’s done. Now it’s up to the gods—and Leet—whether he pays for all those lives with his own and his grandchildren live free of his shadow.

  And if Iryniel didn’t like it, Linden thought, the Punisher could bloody well take it up with him when he died in his turn. Too many children had already suffered.

  Epilogue

  Yarrow’s holding in Yerrih

  “What in the world—?” Raven said as a shadow slid over him. Shading his eyes, he looked up in time to see Maurynna, in her dragon form, wheel in the sky to pass over him once more before spiraling down to land and Change.

  “Well met, Beanpole!” he called as he rode to meet her. Stormwind neighed a greeting.

  “Where are you bound for?” she asked.

  “Nowhere in particular. Want to come with us?”

  She laughed. “How can I refuse?”

  He held out his hand and an instant later she was up behind him. Stormwind ambled on. “So what brings you here?”

  “This and that. I’ve news for you. The first is … Leet was never given to Iryniel. He found the chisel.”

  Raven inhaled sharply. “And the loosened bars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.” Raven thought about that, unsure how he felt. It seemed too easy a death for all the pain Leet had caused. “And the luthier who made the harps? Will he be punished?”

  “No, there’s no proof he knew just what the wood was. Besides, he’s Kelnethi. Cassorin law doesn’t reach that far.”

  They rode on in silence for a time. “Do you still blame yourself for Tirael’s death?” Maurynna asked him at last.

  Raven laughed bitterly. “You already know the answer: Of course I do.” And he always would. It was like a
wound that wouldn’t heal, a sick burning in his stomach. It would never go away, he thought. Never.

  “Thought so. This might make you feel a little better.”

  With that, her hand appeared in front of him, offering him a folded parchment. It had a seal on it, but the wax was already broken. She waggled the letter—for that was what it seemed to be—at him.

  He took it, puzzled. “What is it about?” he asked as he turned it over in his hand.

  “Just read it.”

  Raven sighed. As he unfolded the parchment, a small voice in the back of his mind complained that this was a waste of time. He thought of refusing, but no doubt Rynna would tell Stormwind not to bring him home until he did, and it was one hell of a long walk. Even so, he’d half a mind to refuse.…

  As he glanced at it, certain words and phrases seemed to leap out at him. Raven held his breath and read.

  Greetings, Master Luyens!

  By the time you get this, I shall be either a married man or a hunted one.

  Remember the girl I told you about? She’s here, I’ve seen her, and I’m more in love with her than ever. I must have her.

  But she refuses to see me or to speak with me. She won’t even read my notes! My messenger told me that he saw her cast the last one he gave her unopened upon the fire.

  Can you believe this, my dear old tutor, my friend? I, the heir to a rich holding, I who have women aplenty casting themselves at my feet, begging me for a dalliance—I am being scorned by the daughter of a lord with but a single manor! By the gods, who does she think she is, to spurn me so?

  Word has been brought to me that she will attend Lord Sevrynel’s gathering this night. I’m going now to find her, and I will ask her one more time to marry me. If she refuses, and I find out that it’s true she betrays me by listening to that cripple’s suit, I—

  I must remember to take off my belt knife. I was rather foolish the last time I saw her, I’m afraid. If she sees that I’m armed, she’ll call for the guards immediately—not that she need fear me if she’s sensible. And if she isn’t, it will be her own fault, won’t it?

  Your affectionate student,

  Tirael

  Raven looked up. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely read the signature. “Rynna,” he whispered. “Just what is this?”

  Maurynna’s hand appeared again and plucked the parchment from his nerveless fingers. “It means you saved two lives that night, Raven,” she said quietly. “Remember the dagger Tirael had hidden in his boot? He wasn’t carrying it because he was afraid of you. In his conceited view of the world, no doubt he was certain you, a mere commoner, would never dare lay a finger on him.

  “It’s far worse. We’re certain Tirael was planning to kill Merrilee if she wouldn’t come away with him. If he couldn’t have her, no one would.”

  “Dear gods,” Raven said. He shook his head, unable to make sense of the logic in the letter—if there was any. What made Tirael think Merrilee belonged to him? That because he wanted her, she had to want him—or suffer for it? “I can’t believe it. It’s—it’s just too fantastic.… I mean, you hear of it in stories, but it’s not real, it’s just made up.” Raven couldn’t fathom the mind that reckoned like that, especially when the intended victim was as sweet and gentle as Lady Merrilee.

  How could he even say she “betrayed” him? It wasn’t as if they were married, handfasted, or even in the midst of a dalliance! “He would have actually killed her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gods.” Raven ran a hand through his hair, still unable to understand a mind so warped. “Wait—you said ‘two lives.’”

  Maurynna said gently, “Eadain was with her in the garden that night.”

  An image of Lord Eadain leaning on his crutches sprang into Raven’s mind. No, there was no way the frail lord could have fought off a man of Tirael’s strength. But for Merrilee’s sake he would have tried, and died for it.

  She went on. “Eadain had just asked Merrilee to marry him—and she agreed.”

  Dear gods … That it should be the crippled Eadain who won Merrilee’s hand rather than the “perfect” Tirael … Oh, yes, that would have driven the mind that could write that letter beyond any rational thought. To murder, even. And Tirael would have thought it no more than his right.

  Raven shuddered at the warped reasoning. “Then if Leet hadn’t—”

  He couldn’t finish; yet behind the deep reluctance to speak of what had been done to him, behind the shame of being used, there was now an unexpected sense of … relief? Comfort?

  Or, even, pride? Both Lady Merrilee and Lord Eadain were people he admired, decent people, good and kindhearted. Not like that—

  A sudden realization that Maurynna had slipped down from Stormwind’s back and was walking away brought him out of the tangle of his thoughts. “Where are you going, Beanpole?”

  She stopped, looked over her shoulder at him, and grinned. “I need room to Change, silly—remember? I only came to show that letter to you. I thought you needed to see it.”

  “I did,” Raven said softly. “Thank you. But how did you—”

  “Come by it? Conor. Lord Eadain gave it to him when he heard that Conor was coming north. Eadain got it from Master Luyens, Tirael’s old tutor. It seems they were friends, too. And now I must go—oh, I almost forgot. Lord Sevrynel sent word by Conor asking if we thought you would be willing to run Stormwind in a match race at next year’s fair.”

  “The fair? But I’ve been banned from—”

  She shook her head, still smiling. “It’s been lifted. When that letter came to light, it explained the dagger they found in Tirael’s boot. Have no doubt of it, Raven—he went to Sevrynel’s gathering intending to kill Merrilee at least.

  “When he read the letter, Sevrynel begged leave of the duke and duchess to lift the ban. He’s quite fond of both Eadain and Merrilee. If they had died at his gathering…” She shivered. “Lord and Lady Portis have also agreed. It’s as if now that Tirael’s not there to dazzle them, their eyes have finally been opened to the kind of man their son really was. Give Yarrow our love, please. Now I must go.”

  With that, Maurynna spun around and ran through the field, long grass rippling like waves against her legs. As she ran, her form faded into a red mist that spread, then took the shape of a ghostly dragon.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, the mist solidified and a long, slender dragon the iridescent blues and greens of a peacock’s tail leapt into the sky, her scales glittering like jewels in the bright sunlight. The great wings swept out and down, and Maurynna was aloft.

  Raven tilted his head back and watched her as she spiraled up and up. When he got home he’d have to remember to tell Yarrow how incredible Maurynna looked flying against the pure blue sky.

  A peal of laughter rang in his mind, and then Maurynna said, Maybe Boreal and I should enter that match race, too. I wonder what we’ll win.

  As he stood staring at her in openmouthed indignation, Maurynna rolled in the air, then flew due north. Laughter still echoed faintly in his mind.

  “Of all the cheek!” Raven sputtered at her retreating form. “As if you have a chance in—”

  He paused and thought for a long, long moment. Maurynna was a much better rider these days. Then he grinned.

  This was going to be fun.

  Tor Books by Joanne Bertin

  The Last Dragonlord

  Dragon and Phoenix

  Bard’s Oath

  About the Author

  Joanne Bertin is the author of two previous novels, The Last Dragonlord and Dragon and Phoenix. She lives in Connecticut with her husband and young son. Learn more at www.sffworld.com/author/44.html.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BARD’S OATH

  Copyright © 2012 by Joanne Bertin

  All rights reserved.

  Edited
by James Frenkel

  Cover art by Bob Eggleton

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-312-87370-7 (hardcover)

  ISBN 9781466801158 (e-book)

  First Edition: November 2012