Bard's Oath (13 page)

Yet if it was just a harp, then all he’d done, all his planning was for naught. With a start, Leet recognized the small voice that denied that the harp might have powers for what it was: fear. Fear that his wild guesses had been right. Fear that he would not be able to master …

“I am a bard,” he growled to the gathering night. “By Auvrian’s golden harp, I am a Master Bard, an elder of my guild. If it can be done, I will do this thing.”

With that, Leet rose. A groan escaped his lips as his abused muscles protested; with ruthless determination, he pressed his lips closed against it. For a moment he stood, gathering his will, then walked stiffly to where the two crates with their harps inside rested. He ran his fingers over the V shape carved into the wood of one of them.

“Thomelin said that you would be held by the silk and the rowan wood,” Leet whispered as he eased off the ropes holding the lid. “But I still can hear you calling, can’t I, Gull?”

He slid the lid to one side and pulled the blood-colored silk away from the harp, then drew it into his arms. “So was I right, Gull? Was your spirit in that witch spruce as the old legends say? Or was it all just the fevered imaginings of an obsessed old man?” he said, remembering the books he’d read in the library of Dragonskeep, the volumes written by the now long-dead Lord Culwen who had been so fascinated by tales of death and evil.

A shimmer of notes drifted on the greying light. A sudden breeze through the strings? But not a leaf stirred. Was it …

Leet settled himself back on the log. “Let us see, Friend Gull. Let us see.…”

He began playing.

*   *   *

The camp always seemed so empty after all the Wort Hunters and the apprentices left, Mistress Helda thought as she sipped her tea in the main tent. She wondered what plants—and knowledge—they’d bring back with them and hoped no one would get hurt. It seemed that every year, at least one clumsy ’prentice would stumble into a nest of bees or wasps, wade through the biggest patch of poison ivy in the land, mistake moonseed for wild grapes, or—or
something
.

At least word of Currin’s incredible find of King’s Blood or the fire at White River hadn’t gotten out before the groups left. She’d gotten to Baylor before he could spread the news. Readen and Fenris—the only two Baylor had told before she’d spoken to him—hadn’t told anyone, either, they’d said. They’d just gone to Readen’s tent to discuss it privately.

Mistress Helda closed her eyes for a moment to offer up a quick prayer of thanks. She’d have to find Varron and tell him, of course. But by the time everyone returned, it would be too late for a certain overly competitive Wort Hunter to try for the Haunted Wood.

She shivered. She hated being even this close to it.

*   *   *

The more Leet played, the more convinced he became that he’d been right. There was power here. Faint, so very faint, but unmistakable power—though it seemed reluctant to wake fully. It felt, he thought with grim amusement, like a lazy farm lad who didn’t want to get up and was determined to stay asleep no matter how loudly the rooster crowed in his ear. He played with a delicate touch, improvising or coaxing old songs from the strings, songs that perhaps the one whose spirit he hoped dwelt within the harp would recognize. As he played his thoughts began to wander.

He remembered the first hint he’d had that the gods favored his plan; he’d thought he would faint when he found the map in a book at Dragonskeep—the map that showed where Gull was buried. It had been so easy to slice the page from the book when the Dragonskeep archivists’ backs were turned.

It had not been as easy finding men desperate enough to enter the Haunted Wood, even for that much gold, even though they knew exactly where to go. If they had known what tree they were felling … But he’d paid them well; enough that they could leave and begin new lives elsewhere where their reputations would not follow them.

As for the others, it had been the luck of the gods themselves that had given him the means of coercing each man. And that, Leet believed, meant that the gods felt his cause was right. He savored the thought.

Suddenly the bard realized that his improvisations had subtly shifted from random patterns to the beginnings of a melody. There was only a hint of it so far, yet it was quite a pretty one, he thought. Though there was a sense of … longing? Desire? No, that wasn’t quite right. So what—

He was suddenly aware of his horses’ nervous whickerings and stamping of feet. Then a movement caught the corner of his eye. Startled, Leet gasped and looked up from the strings, fearing bandits.

It was only a deer—a fawn, really—that stared back at him, its brown eyes filled with bewilderment and fear. Even as he exhaled sharply in relief, Leet was seized with a desire to sink his teeth into the fawn’s tender throat. To feel the hot, sweet blood run down his chin …

Leet retched at the thought, nearly dropping the harp. The song—if that’s what it was—ended in a jangle of notes. As if released from a spell, the fawn bounded away.

It was only then that Leet recognized the feeling he’d tried to put a name to before: hunger.

A deep, dark, soul-wrenching hunger. Shaking, Leet laid the harp in its case and threw the silk cloth over it. He burrowed into his blankets and stared into the fire until sleep claimed him.

*   *   *

The sun in his face woke Leet. He lay still, trying to remember.…

Such strange dreams! Such strange, strange dreams!

His fingers twitched. He was suddenly aware of a desire to pick up the harp again. For he now realized there had been something more than just that frightening hunger last night; there had been something elusive woven through it like a shining gold thread in an acre of cloth.

Joy. He’d felt it, a feather’s touch. Leet crawled out of his blankets and looked hungrily at the harp.

This time, before he began playing, he laid his knife on the log beside him.

Thirteen

Otter lay in bed, listening
to the storm that had swept in from the west after dinner, glad to be somewhere warm and dry even if he couldn’t sleep. Thunder boomed and rumbled, rattling the windows, even shaking the sturdy walls now and again. Lightning blazed across the sky, turning night into day. Almost worse was the wind: it howled around the eaves like a hungry ghost.

Yawning, he pulled the pillow around his head and turned his face to the wall. He then arranged a bit of blanket to shield his eyes from the sudden bursts of blinding light.

Mm—it was working, he thought sleepily after a bit, his thoughts turning honey-thick with fatigue. Teaching students was hard work. Kept him on his toes, they did. A fine lot they were, though; Charilon was doing a good job with ’em.… Could hardly hear anything, thank the gods for feather pillows. Storm was moving off, too, getting longer and longer between lightning and thunder. Oh, yes, slipping away.…

The clap of thunder was so loud he would have sworn on all he held dear that it went off just above his nose. He jumped, and half fell out of bed. Untangling himself from the blankets, Otter crawled from the bed and groped for the breeches and tunic he’d left hanging over the chair, grumbling all the while as he dressed once more. The storm raged overhead.

Bloody hell, a new storm must have moved in—and a nasty one to boot! Worst I’ve heard in years. Gah—I’ll never get back to sleep with this racket; might as well take myself downstairs and see if there’s a bit of bread and cheese left over from dinner.

Moving as quietly as he could, Otter slipped from his room and padded barefoot down the hall. No light from the celestial tantrum outside reached this inner hall, but it didn’t matter. He knew these halls as well as—hell, even better than—the reflection of his own face. As he went down the staircase, he skipped the sixth step from the top without even thinking about it. He’d learned well as an apprentice that on a damp night it would let out a squeak that could wake the dead.

Not that anyone would hear it tonight
.…

When he reached the main hall, Otter paused for a moment to listen and carefully look around. No, no one about; he hurried on into the passage to the kitchen.

Not that anyone would say anything to a senior bard on a midnight food raid. But he’d been caught enough times before he’d reached such an exalted rank that old habits died hard. Besides, it made him feel young again.

Otter grinned as he reached the kitchen undiscovered. He hadn’t lost his touch. And there was just enough glow from the banked hearth fire for someone who knew his way around. If he were younger, he’d dance a jig.

Not long after, Otter had his plunder wrapped in a cloth napkin and was ready to leave. He paused in the doorway, turning around to look back into the kitchen. Bread and cheese alone would be dry eating; perhaps a bit of good brown ale that wasn’t under lock and key …

“The keg’s in a different place these days—we stuck it amongst the barrels of vinegar,” a voice whispered from the blackness of the hall behind him. “Tap’s still where it’s always been, though.”

Otter yelped in surprise. He spun around, swearing under his breath at the man standing behind him, candle in hand. The faint light turned the other’s grin into a troll’s leer.

“Damn it all, Geryd, don’t
do
that! You nearly—” Otter paused as the other’s words sank in. He laughed softly. “By all the gods—you mean that you and Bern—?”

“And Towhee are still sneaking a keg of the best stuff and hiding it? We certainly are. Shame to let a good tradition die, don’t you think? Had to stop for a while when someone found the full keg amongst the empty ones, though; that’s when we moved it.

“And it’s bit harder these days. You and Olinia aren’t here very often to help anymore. Naril, Jaida, and—” A pause as Geryd swallowed hard. “—and Sether are gone, and our backs aren’t what they used to be. But we still manage—haven’t had to ask one of the youngsters to help us yet,” Geryd said smugly. He raised the candle; its bright light shone on his bald head. “Come along—I’ll show you where it is now. And speaking of traditions, once you’ve gotten your ale, take yourself down to the old practice room in the north wing to see another one still going strong. They’re even using that same beat-up old bench. Remember—don’t let them see you. Might make ’em nervous.”

*   *   *

The old practice room was never used anymore. Instead it had become a kind of a graveyard for harps. A cracked pillar? Put it in the old practice room until it could be fixed—
if
it could be fixed. Impossible to keep the tuning pegs from slipping all the time? Store it until someone could set it to rights. A harp had outlived its player? Tuck it away with the others until someone had the heart to make it sing once more.

For generations of fledgling bards, it had made a wonderful place to tell ghost stories.

Otter could hear the murmur of voices, muffled squeals, and nervous giggles that spoke of a gathering even before he reached the corner. Gods, things hadn’t changed a bit since he’d last been down here, first as a nervous youngster getting the daylights scared out of him, then as an older ’prentice doing his best to give his younger cohorts nightmares. In his day, thunderstorms or winter nights with howling winds had been deemed the best time for a session of scary tales; it seemed these youngsters thought the same. The tradition was still alive and well.

He cat-footed down the hall and settled himself against the wall opposite the open door of the practice room. Here, in the deepest shadows, he could see into the room—at least a bit—but unless someone came to the door, he couldn’t be seen by those within. This was a thing for the younglings.

Inside it was just as it had always been. A small fire burned on the hearth, making the shadows dance eerily, playing tricks on the eyes. Draped harps turned into hunched-over trolls, or a pair of young ’prentices huddled together beneath a blanket became a two-headed monster in the flickering glow. Here and there it glinted on eyes round with delicious fright. Judging by the number of mouths gaping open in fear and wonder, someone was telling a corker of a story. Otter pulled off a chunk of bread, bit off a mouthful of sharp cheese, and leaned back to enjoy himself.

*   *   *

Not bad at all,
Otter thought, nodding from time to time as he listened.
Not bad at all and some are damned good; they’re giving
me
a good case of the cold grues!

He grinned. This was just what he needed; he hadn’t had this much fun in a long time.

The curly-haired young man who currently held the floor finished his story to a round of muffled shrieks and nervous laughter. He stood up, bowed with a flourish, and relinquished the storyteller’s “throne”—a battered bench that had seen much better days, held together now by glue, twine, and the goodwill of the gods—to another young man and a young woman working their way through the audience. Both were medium height, with dark brown hair and apple-cheeked faces.

Otter sat up a bit straighter.
These must be Elrin and Daralinia, the brother and sister from up north that Geryd told me about when he tapped the keg. Where were they from? It had something to do with why they’re so good at this, Geryd said. Oh, that’s right: Little Coppice. Same place as Daera. Surprising that such a small village has produced three bards. Little Coppice … Still don’t see why that would make them so special. Ah, well—let’s see if they’re as good as Geryd says.

They were. Both were uncanny mimics; they took turns telling their stories, and while one spoke, the other imitated sounds like wind moaning through tree branches or the eerie hooting of a killy owl with its unnerving screech of
k-k-killl, k-k-kiiillly!
at the end.

Oh, my—look at those faces. There’s going to be some with nightmares tonight!

Otter rubbed his hands in delight; he might well be one of the victims. These two were
good,
and they had a seemingly inexhaustible fund of terrifying yarns. But from time to time as he listened to the duo, the question nagged at the back of his mind: What did their home village have to do with their tales?