Bard's Oath (12 page)

When they were done with the horses, Fiarin led them to tents already set up for them in a line with the Wort Hunters. “And if you like,” he said, “there’s a pond beyond those birches for anyone who wants a swim.”

He grinned at their whoops of joy. “Mind you, though, it’s spring-fed and
cold
.”

A moment later they’d left him behind. As they raced for the pond, he laughed at their mad dash.

*   *   *

Refreshed by her swim, Pod sat behind a line of tents and brushed Kiga. The woods dog made little growls and grunts of satisfaction as she worked.

“Have a seat. Want some wine?” a man’s voice asked.

Pod jumped and looked around. There was no one there.

“Don’t mind if I do,” another man answered, and she realized that the voices were coming from the tent next to hers. Relieved that she wasn’t imagining things, she continued working on her familiar.

“Thank you kindly, old fellow. So what did you think of
that?
”

She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but she was too tired to move. And, she admitted to herself, too curious. What was the mysterious ‘
that
’?

“Baylor’s news about Currin, and the fire at White River chapterhouse? I think Currin is a damned lucky dog—can you imagine finding a stand that size of King’s Blood! Fifty plants!” A sigh of pure envy followed.

“I once found three plants and counted myself the most fortunate of men,” Second Voice said. “Let us hope Master Heron doesn’t hear of it before he leaves. I swear the man’s been thinking of looking for the old stand.”

“By the gods, you don’t think he’d really do that, do you?” First Voice said, shocked. “He wouldn’t! Not with two youngsters in tow—not even he would be so mad.”

“We hope he wouldn’t.” Second Voice sounded as if he wasn’t as certain.

First Voice went on, “Any road, he won’t hear of it. I saw Baylor stop to tell Mistress Helda the news after he told us. She damn near dragged him off his horse, shaking her head and telling him to shut his mouth. She had that look of hers that says ‘Don’t cross me,’ and Baylor’s not fool enough to do that even for such a fine bit of news as this. So if we keep our mouths shut as well, Master Heron won’t hear of it before he leaves—” Here First Voice paused as if to take a drink.

Master Heron? Who’s that?
Pod wondered. She was certain she’d met all of the Wort Hunters and just as certain none was named Heron. She began going over in her mind who it might be.

First Voice continued, “
Or
about the fire. Do you think it was really as bad as Baylor said?”

“If he’s right, we’re in for a bad time when the lung sickness returns next winter. White River
is
where the most valuable herbs are kept, after all,” Second Voice said heavily.

Silence followed the last words. Kiga bumped Pod’s hand, reminding her that he was there. She tickled him under his chin and continued brushing.

The conversation in the tent resumed once more. “Then let us hope Baylor is exaggerating—as usual!—and not about Currin. Pass your mug over, lad, and have a bit more wine.”

“Thank you. Heh—when he finds out, Master Heron’ll be so pissed we’ll have to pour him into a bucket! He and Currin have been rivals for years.”

“Gods, yes! I’d forgotten, they’re both so rarely about the chapterhouse.”

“Always out hunting, those two. Old Heron found a patch of twenty or so plants years ago and has lorded it over Currin—and the rest of us—ever since. This will be a sweet payback for Currin when next they meet.” There was a long pause, then, “Oh, to be that proverbial fly on the wall…”

The voice sounded so wistful that Pod nearly laughed.

From the other side of the camp another voice hallooed something Pod couldn’t make out. First Voice yelled back, “What? Oh, very well. We’ll be right there.”

She heard the two men grumble their way out of the tent. The next moment the whole conversation was driven out of her mind when the solid weight of the woods dog slammed into her and knocked her to the ground. He snarled fiercely, his ivory fangs snapping in her face.

Kiga wanted a wrestling match.

*   *   *

That evening after the meal they gathered around a roaring bonfire, mingling with the Wort Hunters, introducing themselves, learning names, answering questions about their familiars, and asking their own about herbs. Pod found herself talking with Kaeliss, a young journeywoman originally from Pelnar. She seemed entranced by Pod’s white hair, for her gaze kept straying to it as they talked.

“Are you one of the Kelnethi royal family?” Kaeliss finally asked. “Though your name sounds Yerrin,” she added doubtfully.

It was a question Pod was used to, but that didn’t make it any easier to answer. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Didn’t your mother or father ever say anyth—” Kaeliss began.

“I never knew them. I’m an orphan,” Pod said shortly. And for all she knew it was true. Her mother at least was dead; that she knew for certain. As for her father, well, only the gods knew. But “orphan” was better than “bastard.” People looked at you all sideways if they thought you were a bastard, as if it were somehow your fault. She went on, “‘Pod’ is the nickname that Conor and Lin— The two people who found me gave me the name.”

She’d almost said “Linden Rathan” but was suddenly afraid that Kaeliss would either not believe her, or worse, think she was bragging. And everyone always wanted to know all about the Dragonlord. But she’d been so young that her memory was simply of a big man with blond hair and a deep, comforting voice, a man who had been kind to her.

She was saved from more questions by a summons from Master Varron, the senior Wort Hunter in charge of the encampment. “Gather together!” he boomed. “All come to the bonfire, all co-ome!”

Pod quickly stood, thankful for the reprieve. Along with her fellow apprentices and the Wort Hunters, she made her way to the circle of logs around the bonfire and took a seat. Kiga plunked himself down on the ground between her feet. Pod scratched his back and stared into the blazing fire that held back the night around them. Kaeliss took the place next to her.

When they were all settled, Master Varron beamed at all of them. “Welcome all,” he said. “And a special welcome to our friends from Grey Holt. We’re glad Leeston was able to reach you in time so that you could join us, for the teaching journeys begin tomorrow.

“Apprentices and journeymen, Wort Hunters and Beast Healers—you will go in small groups for your journeys so that you may have the fullest attention of your teachers. From this spot a variety of places can be reached on foot: old woods, marshlands, hills and valleys, pine forests—all places where useful and valuable herbs grow. You will learn as much as possible in each area, then return here so that you may have a day or so of rest, then be sent on to learn in a new place. So over time you will learn the herbs of each habitat.

“This is especially important for you young Beast Healers. Once we’re past our apprenticeships, we Wort Hunters often choose to concentrate on plants from a certain area, be it woods or marsh or meadow. But you Beast Healers must go wherever your animal patients are. You need to know about the plants in many different areas.

“And now I shall ask Mistress Helda to give you your assignments.” With that, Master Varron took a seat.

Pod sat up a bit straighter. She recognized the name from the conversation she’d overheard and wondered what such a fearsome woman would look like.

Mistress Helda proved to be an elderly woman with a face seamed with wrinkles. Despite her age, though, she strode briskly to take her place before the bonfire. She stood, scroll in hand, and surveyed them. “A fine-looking group,” she said approvingly. “A fine-looking group you are, indeed. Luck and good learning to you all.”

She snapped the scroll open and, holding it to the light, began reading in a clear, firm voice. Pod soon noticed that while the apprentice Wort Hunters might go in groups of two or three, the young Beast Healers were never two together. She listened carefully and finally heard her name.

“Pod of the Beast Healers, Kaeliss Ageslin of the Wort Hunters—you will both start with the woodland plants. Your instructor will be Fiarin Smithson.”

Beside her Kaeliss gave a squeal of pleasure. The young Wort Hunter leaned over and whispered, “Hurrah! We’re lucky—Fiarin is one of the most successful Wort Hunters—and I’ve heard that he’s generous with what he knows, not like some others.”

For a moment Pod didn’t know what she meant, then remembered something Jeord had said on the journey here: “Gunnis told me that the Wort Hunters hunt not just for their Guild, but for themselves as well. They’re paid by the Guild for what they find and the competition between them can be harsh.”

The idea of such competition had seemed alien to Pod then, and she wasn’t sure she understood it any better now, even after overhearing that earlier conversation. Still, she supposed she was lucky to get Fiarin rather than the mysterious Master Heron; she still hadn’t figured out who he was. Perhaps tomorrow …

No, tomorrow they would be on their way shortly after dawn—or so Mistress Helda was saying to a chorus of groans.

“To bed with you all! To bed!” Mistress Helda said, shooing them all off.

Soon Pod was wrapped in a light blanket, one hand resting on the softly snoring Kiga. She fell asleep wondering what new plants she would learn about.

In the middle of the night something woke Pod. “Whaa?” she mumbled into the darkness.

“I drank too much wine,” Risla whispered urgently. “I’ll never make it until morning. Come with me? Please?”

“Guh. Give me a moment. Kiga—stay.”

The woods dog snuffled and curled up again on his blanket. Pod hastily pulled on her clothes. She crawled to the tent’s door and undid the tie holding it shut. “Ready?”

“Gods, yes!”

Pod led the way into the moonlit night. Risla motioned for Fleet, sleeping outside the tent, to stay when the stag made to rise. The two girls trotted through the camp and across the field to the woods. As Risla disappeared behind some bushes, Pod kept watch.

Something moved at the far end of the camp. Pod ducked beneath a bush, wishing she’d brought Kiga along. Then she recognized the tall figure of Fiarin. Had he also had too much wine? Oh gods, if he began to unlace his breeches … Pod made ready to cover her eyes.

But Fiarin stopped at the edge of camp and turned, looking to the west, his back to her, hands at his sides.

He was still there when the girls slipped back into their tent.

Twelve

It was early yet to
stop, but Leet was sore and tired. He was also alone on the road for once; he’d turned down numerous invitations from parties who thought that it would be a fine thing to have a minstrel entertain them every night. If any site looked even remotely appealing, he’d camp now.

Shading his eyes with a hand, he scanned the surrounding countryside. A tiny flash between far-off tree trunks caught his eye. A heartbeat or two later his tired mind said,
Water
. With a sigh of relief, he turned his horse’s head to the left and slowly rode down a gentle slope and through a rocky meadow filled with wildflowers.

Bees thrummed as they bumbled from flower to flower in the warm sunlight and he could hear cicadas singing in the trees that surrounded the meadow. His leg brushed against a small shrub with fernlike leaves. A sweet odor tickled his nose for a moment, and then he was beyond it.

Wonder what that was,
he thought without any real interest. He was sure there were those among his brethren who could name it—fools like Otter who enjoyed gallivanting about. He wished he was back in his comfortable quarters or sitting before Queen Aelynn in Bylith. He could still turn back.…

No; this was for Arnath. Arnath who had shown such promise; Arnath who would have followed in his footsteps with honor and acclaim.

He would endure anything for Arnath’s sake—for the sake of revenge. It was Thomelin’s fault, really, that he was driven to this. If the child’s father hadn’t been too much of a coward to Challenge that murdering bastard …

The sound of distant voices came to his ears, carried on a sultry breeze. Leet cursed and kicked his tired horse into a canter. The packhorse snorted a protest as the sudden change of gait caught it off guard. Could he make the trees by that hint of water before they saw him?

He could. Leet drew both horses behind a screen of underbrush just before a party of travelers passed by. He could hear their loud banter and the creaking axle of their small oxcart even from here. Peddlers on their way to the fair at Balyaranna, no doubt. He held his breath, fearful that they would somehow spot him and decide that they, too, would stop early.

But the group was soon out of sight. Leet sighed in relief and set about making camp.

The glint of water he’d seen proved to be a small, spring-fed pool. Leet picketed his horses out of sight of the road and relieved the packhorse of its burdens. Next he led each horse in turn to the pool and let it drink, then hobbled and fed them. As they munched contentedly in their nosebags, Leet set himself to gather wood, interrupting that task from time to time to arrange rocks to shield the glow from the fire he’d light for his meal or to pick berries he’d found.

Without conscious thought, Leet busied himself with a hundred little things, pushing himself even though his weary body cried out for rest. At last there was nothing else to do. The horses were settled for the night, his meager meal cooked and eaten, and he had enough firewood to feed a much larger fire than he’d built for the night.

Twilight was creeping over the land when Leet found himself sitting on a log before his little fire, his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth. There was nothing to do, nothing to distract him from …

He was imagining it, that sweet seductive humming at the back of his mind. He had to be imagining it. But it felt real. He
knew
the harp was calling him; the very special harp that he’d forced Thomelin to make for him. But it was just a harp.…