by Hilari Bell
Perryn wiped his face hastily. “Most fair, sir, and I accept with gratitude. But…”
“But?”
“But I’m not sure I want him. I mean, I’m not sure that it’s him I want. Sir, may I speak to this man alone for a moment? Please?”
“Oh, if you must.” The justice gestured toward an empty corner behind him. “Bailiff, watch them.”
“That’s remarkable,” said the bard before Perryn could speak. “I never saw anybody who could cry on cue like that. Even traveling players have to use an onion. Is it hard to learn?”
“Are you a true bard?” Perryn demanded. “Really a true bard?”
And if he wasn’t, what could Perryn do? How many bards were left in Idris? Could he even find another?
“I’m a bard,” said Lysander. “For what it’s worth, which these days is practically nothing. I don’t know what you want, but whatever it is, you’re unlikely to get it from me. All I have is my harp, and that isn’t for sale.”
“Can you see and sing the truths that are hidden in men’s hearts?”
Perryn held his breath.
The bard’s face went still.
“Yes. I can.”
“Can you prove it?”
The bard laughed. “How?”
Perryn thought. “I’ll chop the wood,” he said finally. “I’ve never used an ax before, so it’ll take a while. While I work you’ll write a song. A song that—”
“Reveals the truths and so on and so on. I understand. What happens if you don’t like the song?”
“Then I leave the last ten logs in the woodpile untouched, and you rot in jail for ninety days.”
Lysander studied him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? What do you want? Really?”
“There’s…a task I want you to perform. If I get you out of jail quickly, will you do it?”
“How quickly?”
“As quick as I can. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to, but I don’t know how long it will take.”
The bard shrugged. “It shouldn’t take more than a week. And whatever you want, it’s got to be better than wasting the summer in lockup. All right, if you get me out, I’ll perform your task.”
“Do you swear that?”
“I give you my oath as a bard,” said Lysander grandly. “Let’s go tell the justice, shall we?”
THE AX WAS LONGER THAN PERRYN’S LEG AND the most awkward tool he’d ever encountered. He’d seen woodsmen at work around the palace, so he knew the basic theory; but theory, as he was discovering, was very different from practice.
“Try hitting the wood with the edge of the blade, not the flat,” suggested Lysander from the barred window.
Perryn glared at him. He was already regretting that the bard’s cell overlooked the woodpile. “Don’t you have something else to do? If you haven’t written a song by the time I reach the last ten logs…”
He swung the ax again.
“At this rate I’ll have a hundred days to write it. Maybe if you gripped the handle a little higher?”
“The wood turned as I hit it.” There had been nothing about chopping wood in any book he’d ever read. Perryn removed his spectacles and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. The blisters on his palms stung. He’d be able to concentrate better if he weren’t so worried about what Cedric was up to. At least there were no other prisoners to observe his unprincely clumsiness. “I don’t need advice from a musician—and a lazy musician at that. Don’t you have a song to write?”
But Lysander continued to offer suggestions. A few of them were even helpful. By the end of the first day, Perryn was picking up the trick of using the ax’s weight, instead of his own scrawny muscles, to split the wood.
As the days passed, they learned more about each other.
“You’re lucky to have found a bard in Idris at all,” Lysander told him. “All the smart bards have gone south, to richer kingdoms. That’s what I’m doing myself, come the first cold nights.”
“Running from the dragon?” Perryn swung the ax. With a sweet crack, the log split cleanly in half.
“Nice blow. Pity you don’t do that more than one stroke in five. Of course I’m running from the dragon. I spent the winter in Cirin, snowed in. The dragon raided four villages in that area—pure luck it missed Cirin. When I realized that, I knew it was time for sensible men to move on. I take great pride in my good sense.”
“So write a song about it,” said Perryn bitterly. “How the once-great kingdom of Idris was cravenly deserted—”
“By sensible men. Why don’t you come with me? You’re obviously not meant to be a woodcutter, but you might find a place in one of the universities. Judging by our conversations, you seem to be very well-read.”
The ax twisted. The wood bounced.
“My father won’t let me,” said Perryn.
“So run away,” said the bard. “That’s what I always do. As soon as I’m out of here, we can—”
“When you get out of there you have to do a job for me, remember? Your oath as a bard? Write a song!”
PERRYN TRIED TO USE THE MIRROR EACH NIGHT, asking the same question. But the surface showed only his own face, except for the night when it showed Perryn’s favorite riding mare, asleep in her stall. Her ears twitched and she snorted in her dreams. This might have been a reaction to his flight, but Perryn doubted it.
More days passed, and Perryn’s skill grew. His arms stopped aching and got stronger. His blisters healed. He learned to work with the grain of the wood. He learned how to make the ax fall precisely where he wanted it to. He developed a rhythmic swing that ate steadily at the woodpile.
Lysander was at the window less often now. From the cell Perryn began to hear chords, fragments of melody, and an occasional, muttered curse.
Finally Perryn stood, chest heaving, before the chopping block. A small mountain of kindling rose behind him—not bad, for a scholar! Only ten logs remained. He hadn’t seen Lysander since early yesterday. He hadn’t heard a sound all morning.
“Lysander,” he called. “Are you ready? I’ve done my part.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” The bard’s mobile face popped into the window like a jumping jack. He’d charmed the guards into letting him shave regularly, though his hair was getting shaggy and his fine clothes looked bedraggled. “Mind you, the lyrics may be a little rough. I only finished them this morning.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“And I haven’t performed for some days. I may be a little rusty. Are you sure you don’t want to finish up that pile while I rehearse it once or twice?”
Perryn put down the ax and folded his arms.
“All right, all right. But remember, it’s rough.”
The bard’s face disappeared, and music took its place. The voice of the old harp was mellow and true. The swirling melody had a pronounced rhythm that was oddly familiar. Then the voice of the bard joined in and the rhythm, the melody, and the words became a single entity: a song.
The ax is a tool
For woodsmen to use
Or a weapon for warriors
Who’ll die if they lose.
Against men, against wood,
When to win is the goal
It’s the song of the ax
That’s the song of your soul.
The mother creates
A new life with each birth.
The farmer brings life
From the depths of the earth.
The bard strikes a string
And with joy the soul fills,
But the song of the ax
Is a music that kills.
The heart of the pine
Or the heart of your foe.
Both woodsman and warrior
Bring death with each blow.
Each cut jars your arm
Every stroke takes its toll,
But the song of the ax
Is the song of your soul.
The echoes sounded in Perryn’s heart long after they had fade
d from his ears. He winced. “It’s not exactly…heroic, is it?”
“Neither are you,” said Lysander complacently.
“I suppose not.” But he had his bard. That was what mattered. Perryn picked up the ax. “I’ll finish here and go find the justice.”
“HERE YOU ARE, LAD.” THE JUSTICE’S CLERK handed him the order for Lysander’s release. “All done up proper. The justice was sorry not to be here himself, but he serves all the villages in this area. When they call, he goes.”
“Tell him I thank him for drawing up the order before he left,” said Perryn. “And tell him…tell him I thank him.”
“No thanks owed,” said the clerk. “You worked off your friend’s fine. Did a good job too. Are you quite sure you want the man? If you needed a job we could—”
“Truly? No, I’m sorry. I have to go with Lysander.”
No one had ever offered him a job. It left Perryn with an astonishing sense of pride. Or not so astonishing—lowly the job might be, but he’d earned it with his own work.
“Thank you,” he said. “But I can’t.” He left the clerk’s office and was almost out of the public hall when a familiar voice from outside the door froze him in his tracks.
“I must see the justice. King’s business. It’s a matter of grave importance.”
Cedric! Perryn backed up against a bench.
“He’ll likely be in the public hall, sir,” a woman replied. “And if he’s not, they’ll know where he is.”
Perryn looked around wildly. The rows of backless benches wouldn’t conceal him. The justice’s big chair at the end of the room might, but it was too far away. Weapons? There was nothing but a broom leaning against the wall. He couldn’t….
As Cedric’s tall form appeared in the doorway, Perryn snatched up the broom, turned his back on the master of arms, and began sweeping briskly. His rough tunic was even more ragged now, after days of work and sleeping in the jail. Would Cedric be able to recognize him from behind, in strange clothing?
He listened to the footsteps as the master of arms strode down the room. They never paused.
Cedric rapped on the clerk’s door and then went in.
Perryn flung down the broom and ran.
When he reached the street he spun and raced for the jail. Would Cedric reveal his business to the justice’s clerk? Probably not. Cedric didn’t like dealing with underlings. And even if he did, the clerk might not connect Perryn with the missing prince. But if Cedric hurried, and the clerk was alert…. Perryn ran faster.
“FREEDOM!” LYSANDER FLUNG HIS ARMS WIDE, gazing at the open road. “I can’t wait to shake the dust of Dunstable off my feet. Why do you keep looking back? You can’t be missing the place.”
“They were kind to us.” Perryn returned his eyes to the road ahead. “That’s all.”
“Speak for yourself. And that’s no reason to keep spinning around like a top. If you have another reason, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. I’m enjoying myself too much. South, here I come!” He strode off so fast that Perryn had to run to catch up.
“You have a task to perform for me first, remember? That’s why you’re out of jail eighty-two days early.”
“Very true. I am eighty-two days in your debt, and I’ll pay you with pleasure. What is this task you need a true bard for?”
Perryn stopped and waited till Lysander turned to face him. “I want you to slay the dragon.”
Lysander laughed.
Perryn didn’t.
Lysander stopped laughing.
“Dragon’s teeth! You’re serious. You’re crazy, but you’re serious. Good-bye, Perryn. It’s been nice knowing you.”
“Wait!” Perryn hurried after him. “You promised to help me. You swore an oath!”
“Oaths are but words, words are but wind, and wind just blows away. An oath is made of air. The black dragon is as real as real gets. I thought you needed me to serenade your sweetheart or something!”
“Please,” said Perryn urgently. “I can’t make you. But will you at least help me find a true bard who will? And a unicorn? And the Sword of Samhain?”
Lysander stopped and stared at Perryn. “I think you’d better tell me all about this. From the beginning. Take your time. Either you’re crazy, or this may be the best story I’m ever going to hear.”
NIGHT HAD FALLEN BY THE TIME PERRYN FINISHED. He’d decided not to tell Lysander about Cedric just yet. The dragon was enough.
“Well, I’ve decided,” said the bard, feeding sticks into the fire he’d built in the center of their camp. “It is the best story I ever heard, and you are crazy!”
“But the prophecy—”
“Is probably cow flop, just like your father said. And your father is King Rovan? Of course he is. What are you then, prince muddy boots? Should I call you Your Highness?”
“Just Perryn, please.” He pushed up his spectacles. He couldn’t blame the bard for not believing him—Perryn couldn’t imagine anyone looking less like a prince.
“On the other hand,” Lysander went on, “crazy or not, I owe you something.”
“So?”
“So I’ll go unicorn hunting with you. It might be interesting. And after we’ve failed to catch a unicorn, we’ll go south and find a nice doctor to help you recover your wits.”
Perryn’s heart leaped. As long as Lysander agreed to help, he didn’t care what the bard believed! “If we do catch a unicorn, will you go after the sword?”
“Absolutely. Why not? And once we’ve done that, we’ll sprout our own wings and fly over the moon. But forget the dragon. By the way, how do you plan to catch this unicorn?”
“I was hoping you’d have an idea,” Perryn confessed. “Aren’t there songs and things about it?”
Lysander had a very unnerving smile.
“Let us proceed in our great endeavor,” said the bard. “I know where a unicorn might dwell.”
5
“WHAT ELSE?” PERRYN ASKED THE GRINNING BARD. The flickering campfire lit Lysander’s face and the tips of the branches above them.
“Pearls. Or more precisely, pearl dust. That’s from The Ballad of the Captured Queen. You take a whole bunch of pearls, grind them up, and sprinkle—”
“Not that either.”
“Moonstones are supposed to work. You get enough moonstones to make a unicorn-size necklace, drop it over their heads, and—”
“What else?”
“That one’s in The Lay of the Loving Maid. It’s a good song. You see, this girl—”
“What else?” Perryn demanded.
“There’s whitethorn seed. You dry it, grind it into powder, and blow it into the unicorn’s nostrils. Of course, it doesn’t say how you’re supposed to get that close to the unicorn in the first place.”
“You blow it into his nose? You’re joking.”
“It’s from The Ballad of the Revenge of the Maiden Cruelly Wronged.”
“What else?”
“I’m beginning to run out of ideas. And you rejected the best one first.”
Perryn blushed. “I am not going to ask every pretty girl we meet if she’s a virgin. We’d get thrown out of every town in Idris. And people would talk about it. Ced—. It isn’t a good idea.”
“But we could—”
“No. What else?”
“Nectar of meadow lilies?”
“Meadow lilies won’t be in bloom for months. And what do you do with that? Sprinkle it on their tails?”
“Bathe their hooves with it. Then you can—”
“What else?”
“Well,” said the bard. “They’re supposed to like everfresh.”
Perryn blinked. “Everfresh are beginning to bloom now. They’re the first flower of spring. What do you do with them?”
“I don’t know,” said the bard. “I’m out of ideas. But there are several songs that mention everfresh; unicorns lying in a field of it, or maidens picking a bunch. That kind of thing.”
“Hmm. If we find a good place
for a trap, maybe we could use it as bait. I suppose the songs talk about a thousand places where unicorns might be found, none of which is possible to reach?”
“They do, actually,” said the bard. “With one exception. Unicorns are constantly mentioned in the forest of Wyr. There’s just one problem.”
“Wait. Wyr is only about a four days’ walk from here. And I think the unicorn tracks I saw in that book were found in the forest of Wyr!”
“There’s just one problem,” the bard repeated. “Those who leave the road in the forest of Wyr never come back. It’s haunted or something.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Perryn told him.
“You’re looking for a unicorn and a magic sword, and you call the curse of the forest of Wyr ridiculous? The gods may not have walked in this world for centuries, but they left a lot of magic behind, and some of it’s still around. Cursed forests, as well as unicorns and swords.”
“But what’s the curse?”
“No one knows,” the bard admitted. “It’s just that no one who—”
“—leaves the road in the forest of Wyr has ever come back. So we’ll set our trap near the road.”
“And hope that unicorns don’t avoid the only well-traveled road in the forest?”
Perryn sighed.
IN THE DAYS IT TOOK THEM TO REACH THE FOREST, Lysander proved to be a skillful traveler.
“It’s illegal to trap game in the spring.” Perryn eyed the rabbit sizzling on the spit hungrily.
“So arrest me, Your Highness,” said the bard blandly.
Perryn shook his head. “But there’s a reason for that law. Arnor, in Bounties of Nature, wrote that if people hunt in the spring they might catch a female, one with young to care for. If people kept doing that, soon there wouldn’t be anything left to hunt.”
