Bard's Oath (18 page)

Sevrynel’s eyes were still huge. “I thank you for this news, Raven Redhawkson. Oh, my…” Suddenly he grinned like a little boy who’d just found a pie cooling on a windowsill and no one around. “I wonder if—”

But Raven never found out what Lord Sevrynel was planning for there came a loud cough from the hidden Answell.

Once more Sevrynel sighed. “Master Redhawkson, I am in your debt. And as much as I would like to know more, I really must leave now. Farewell once again.” He bowed, then hurried off, muttering, “Oh, my! Oh,
my
!”

Raven noticed he had included Stormwind in his bow and wondered what Arisyn, standing in the entrance to the enclosure, would make of it. But it seemed the boy hadn’t noticed, he was so busy worrying his foster father’s earlier words for clues. Lord Sevrynel stopped a moment and whispered something in his foster son’s ear. The boy lingered in the enclosure for a moment.

At last Arisyn gave it up. “Shall we go to the pond?” he asked as he came back.

“If it would please you, my lord, I’d like to do just that,” Raven replied. He hoped Yarrow got here soon. She’d be well pleased with this news.

*   *   *

“Thank you for showing me this, my lord,” Raven said. He settled himself more comfortably in the lush grass that led down to the little pond. Save for this small stretch, the entire pond was ringed with the yellow-green, irislike leaves of sweetflag.

Stormwind swam back across the pond, coming to stand in knee-deep water next to Arisyn’s gelding, Arrow. He shook his heavy mane, sending water flying. Arrow snorted at him as if in reprimand.

“It was my pleasure. I’m glad my foster father said that I could. And please, call me Ari—all of my friends do,” Arisyn said. “I’d like us to be friends; I can tell that Lord Sevrynel thinks highly of you.”

“My lor—Ari, I’m honored,” Raven replied. “Thank you.”

Then the boy sat up, a puzzled look on his face. “I almost forgot—as he left, my foster father said to tell you that you were ‘to feel free to invite any friend of yours who came to the fair to go with you to the pond.’” The puzzled look deepened. “He had the
oddest
expression—as if he were trying not to laugh.”

Raven could well imagine Lord Sevrynel had been trying not to. “Tell him I thank him. I know my friends will like this place as much as I do—and their … horses will appreciate it as much as Stormwind.”

At the mention of his name, Stormwind half turned toward them. Seeing he wasn’t being called, the big stallion lowered his head once more to drink.

Arisyn plucked a long blade of grass and chewed on it. “I’ve never seen a horse that knows his name as well as Stormwind seems to. He’s clever, too. With a horse like that, you could pretend you were riding a Llysanyin.”

Raven swallowed wrong and began coughing.

Not noticing, Arisyn went on shyly, “Did you ever pretend you were riding one? When you were younger, I mean?”

Raven got his voice under control and replied, “Who doesn’t? There was one horse in particular, I remember. Rynna—a girl I grew up with in Thalnia and my best friend—came from a family of wealthy merchants. My father was also a merchant; well-to-do but not wealthy. But because Rynna and I were friends, I was allowed to take lessons with her from the riding master that they retained. Master Oberus said it was a kindness to his horses; Rynna’s family were sailors. Ships they understood. Horses, now—the less said, the better.

“Anyway, he had one horse, old Pell, that had been there and back a dozen times, seen everything, and, as the saying goes, wrote a book about it. In his own way, Pell was as good a teacher as Oberus. Oberus would let me take Pell to exercise him on the days when there were no lessons. Then I’d give Rynna a riding lesson. Back then I wanted to be a riding master and she was the only one who would be my ‘student.’

“One day Rynna didn’t tighten Pell’s girth enough when she saddled him. It began slipping. Pell was really very tolerant, but he
hated
having his girth tightened. When he was tacked up, you had to cross-tie him so that he couldn’t reach around and bite your backside. It was the only time you couldn’t trust him.

“This time, Pell was already annoyed because Rynna had been bouncing around on his back—I’d been teaching her to post—so I offered to tighten the girth for her. The instant I laid my hand on it, Pell turned his head and glared at me as if to say, ‘Touch that thing, boy, and I’ll take your head off.’

“Without thinking, I blurted out, ‘Ah, have mercy, Pell!’ And do you know, that horse just gave me a long, long look, then turned his head away and deliberately stared up at the clouds while I tightened the girth. I swear he was gritting his teeth the whole time. It was as if he’d understood me. Wasn’t the only thing like that he did, either.”

“Oh, my,” Arisyn breathed. “How odd! D’you think he could have been part Llysanyin?”

“Not a chance, my lo—Ari,” Raven said cheerfully. “Old Pell was pure Thalnian Beckford, rabbity ears and all.”

“Did your friend Rynna ever learn to ride?”

Raven grinned, thinking of Rynna’s newest teachers: Linden and her Llysanyin, Boreal. “You wouldn’t believe how much she’s improved, my lord, though she’d probably tell you that she’s still a better sailor than rider. She’s actually captained a ship for her family—and fought pirates.”

Arisyn looked impressed. “I wish I could meet her someday.”

“You will, my lord. She and her soul—her, ah, husband, that is, and a friend are coming to the fair.” Raven paused a moment, then went on, “I think you’ll enjoy meeting them very, very much.”

*   *   *

Arisyn invited Raven to return to Lord Sevrnel’s manor with him. “I’ve a feeling that my foster father would like to see more of you.”

“Or of Stormwind?” Raven asked with a smile.

The boy grinned in return. “Um, well—yes. But you can’t say I wasn’t trying to be polite. Just wanted to spare your feelings and all that.”

“Don’t worry,” said Raven dryly. “Wait until you meet my aunt.”

When they returned to the manor, Arisyn’s words were proved true. They found the little Cassorin earl still in the forecourt as he consulted with various fair marshals. Sevrynel was indeed delighted to see him once more. Calling his steward, the earl gave Raven the freedom of the manor and its grounds.

“Do come as often as you want, my lad,” Sevrynel urged him. “I wish I could show you about myself, but the duke and duchess are here. I can’t even leave you Arisyn as a guide.” He rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “My apologies, Ari, for I know you’re not on duty this day, but…”

“It’s fine, sir. I’ll be happy to help,” Arisyn said.

“Well enough, then. Answell, you know where to bring Raven.”

The steward bowed as Lord Sevrynel and Arisyn entered the manor. Turning to Raven he said, “This way, if you please, good sir.”

To Raven’s surprise, Answell did not lead him to the stables as he’d expected. Was there some mistake? Then he remembered Sevrynel’s mysterious order. Raven paused just inside the rose-covered arch. “The gardens? Why … is there some mistake?”

“Not at all, Master Redhawkson. If you will please follow me, I shall explain as we go.”

Mystified, Raven had no choice but to follow.

“After you and Lord Arisyn left earlier, my lord sent word to the castle regarding your news about the Dragonlords. Knowing how busy Lord Sevrynel is with the fair, the duke and duchess kindly came here to consult with him. Lady Rosalea, the young daughter of one of my lord’s guests, is a playmate of Prince Rann and his friend Kella Vanadin, so they brought them along. And when the prince heard who’d brought the news, he insisted that you be sent to him if you came back while he was here. It seems that the two of you have met before.”

Raven gaped at the man. He couldn’t help it. The prince of Cassori remembered him? Why, they’d only met a couple of times just before he, his great-uncle, Maurynna, Linden, Lleld, her soultwin Jekkanadar, and the traitor Taren Olmeins left for the first leg of their mission to Jehanglan. He’d been the least of that company and in a permanent sulk to boot in those days. “You’re jesting,” he said weakly. “Aren’t you?”

“Not at all, Master Redhawkson,” Answell said, the very picture of bland serenity—except for the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. As they came to an opening in one of the tall hedges, Answell repeated, “Not at all, Master Redhawkson—and here we are!”

They came upon two little girls sitting atop a pretty little pony; Raven recognized one as Maurynna’s younger cousin Kella. She waved at him. The other little girl had golden curls cascading down her back and the biggest eyes he’d ever seen. Then Raven went down on one knee as a sturdy little boy with brick-red hair ran, whooping, to meet him, an enormous wolfhound cantering behind him.

Nineteen

Leet rode up to the
castle gates. He waited; it was for the guard to approach him, not for him to petition the guard for entrance.

A tall woman in the scarlet of a royal guard briskly came up to him. “Your name and business, sir.” She studied him, no doubt taking careful note of his clothing and torc of rank.

“I am Leet Welkin, a Master Bard of Bylith.”

The guard nodded. “I see, sir.” She turned and signaled to the guardhouse. One side of the great wrought-iron gate slowly opened. “Please wait inside while we send word to the steward, my lord.”

Leet rode inside in time to see a youngster run off, bearing the news of his arrival. To his satisfaction, it was not long before the steward himself, the chain of his office swinging against his chest as he walked, came to greet him. Leet nodded as the man bowed to him.

“Welcome to Balyaranna Castle, my lord bard,” the man said. “I am Steward Lewell.”

Leet smiled at the steward, wielding the charm he rarely bothered to use; his rank was normally sufficient to get what he wanted. “My apologies, Steward Lewell, if I have arrived at an inopportune time. My journey has been long and wearying, and I thought I might break it and visit my old student, Bard Daera,” Leet said, ignoring the little voice in the back of his mind wryly commenting on how surprised Daera would be. “And to provide entertainment should the duke and duchess wish it, of course.”

The steward smiled in return. “I’m certain they shall,” he said.

Leet knew they would. Daera was good, one of the best students he’d ever had—but she was not a Master. Not yet. And no one, not even a royal, would turn away a bard of his rank. Unless, of course, they wished to have their niggardly hospitality mocked in song throughout the Five Kingdoms.

No, Leet was certain of accommodation. Likely they would not be as luxurious as he might expect at another time; no doubt the small castle was full of guests for the fair. Even so, his room would be far from the worst the castle had to offer.

He was suddenly aware of an odd feeling in his fingertips, as if, as if … The next instant a craving burned through his body; Leet fought to stay erect in the saddle.

Suddenly feeling as if he couldn’t breathe, he said, “If I might be shown my room? I’ve journeyed far and…” He forced himself to smile genially once more. “And alas, I’m not as young as I once was.”

Something of what he felt must have shown in his face. The steward’s eyebrows drew down in concern. “Of course, my lord bard. You must be weary.”

A few snapped orders later, Leet was on his way to a comfortable room, servants trailing behind, their arms filled with his packs. It was all he could do not to turn and snatch one particular harp case from its bearer.

But that would cause gossip among the servants. Above all else, Leet wanted no wagging tongues, no cause for speculation.

By the time they finally reached his room, Leet felt as if his very bones ached. The steward struggled with the latch. “My apologies, bard,” he said, “but this latch is stiff and hard to work.”

Leet forced himself not to howl at the delay. At last the recalcitrant latch gave and they all went inside. He barely noticed what the room looked like. At that point, he would have consented to a cell in the dungeon as long as he was left alone.

“I’ll send someone to fix the latch,” the steward began.

A thought came out of nowhere.
No—it will give warning if someone tries to walk in on us.

“Don’t bother,” Leet said, forcing himself to smile benignly. “I’m certain that you’ve much more important things to deal with than a mere latch.”

“But—”

“I insist. Believe me, it’s not as obstinate as some of the thickheaded students I’ve had over the years.” He paused, waiting for the obligatory chuckle. “I don’t mind it at all.”

It took forever but he finally convinced the steward that he meant it. The moment the door closed behind the last servant, he collapsed on the bed. Then, his hands shaking, he scrambled for one of the traveling cases—the case bearing the V marking on one corner. He clawed it open and lifted the harp into his arms.

His fingers brushed the strings. Leet let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, closed his eyes, and ran his fingers along the cold strings.

*   *   *

After a second trip to the pond, Raven and Arisyn decided to go in search of a meal. At the young noble’s suggestion, they took a different way back to the fair. “It will take us down to the road that goes between the fair proper and the exercise grounds,” Arisyn explained. “While I’ve never eaten there, I’ve heard that there’s a farmer and his family that sell bread and cheese by a big copper beech—they’re supposed to have good cheese. I once heard someone tell my foster father that it tasted like Big Moreby—” He paused. “No, that’s not right. Big Borley—something like that. Some Thalnian cheese.”

Raven started in surprise. “Fat Gorly?”

With a snap of his fingers, Arisyn said, “That’s it! Is that good?”

“Better than good—it will be nothing short of a miracle! If it really does taste like Fat Gorly, I’ll have to bring Rynna here. It was a favorite of ours back in Thalnia. We never got enough of it save for one time.”

As they trotted down the track, Raven told Arisyn how he and Maurynna had once stolen half a wheel of Fat Gorly from her family’s larder; they’d been playing their usual game of pretend: they were Bram and Rani, the mercenary leaders in the Heirs’ War of Kelneth, raiding for “war rations.”