Bard's Oath (19 page)

Raven chuckled, remembering. “Of course we got caught—though not before we’d eaten our way through a good portion of it. It was the better part of a tenday before either of us could sit down without hurting—the cheese had been meant for a feast that night!”

They rode quickly, Arisyn guiding them to a well-beaten path. Raven’s stomach was growling by the time they reached the plank table where the farmer had set up his business.

Arisyn tied his horse’s reins to a sturdy bush; Raven merely dropped his on Stormwind’s neck.

The young noble frowned. “Aren’t you going to tie him?”

Raven smiled. “No.”

“Or hobble him?”

“No. Stormwind’s not going anywhere without me.”

Both boy and elderly farmer looked askance at him, but since Stormwind showed no signs of bolting, they let the matter drop.

When Arisyn and he had been served and sat down in the shade of an enormous copper beech, Raven found that the simple meal of bread and cheese was as good as he’d hoped it would be. As he chewed in bliss, he told himself that he’d have to remember to tell Maurynna about this. Aside from that one memorable occasion, neither one of them had ever gotten their fill of Fat Gorly. And this cheese was, he thought, even a tad better.

This was going to be a
good
fair.

As they ate, they talked about this and that and watched the passersby on the road. Some trudged along on foot along the edges of the road, talking excitedly about watching the nobles’ horses exercising before the races. It was likely, Raven thought, the best view they’d have of the horses in action. Yarrow had told him that the best spots along the racecourses would be taken by the aristocracy.

The center of the road was reserved for riders. Most of these were gaily dressed nobles, though Raven spotted a few high-ranking priests and priestesses from various cults. There was even, Raven noted wryly, a pair from the temple of Duirin in Thalnia, mounted on sturdy Beckfords. He studied their blue-grey robes, wondering if the wool for them came from his family’s sheep, the sheep that had been his stepbrother Honigan’s brilliant idea to import from Yerrih. The sheep that were part of the wool business that Raven had wanted no part of and that Honigan had longed for.

I’m glad that Da’s finally given Honigan his rightful place,
Raven thought, watching the priests of Duirin disappear down the road. He truly was happy for his stepbrother, though Honigan’s good fortune had come at the cost of Raven’s alienation from his father.
But that’s Da’s problem, not mine,
Raven told himself firmly.
He’s the one that pushed me away, not the other way around. I can’t live his dreams for him.

He took another bite of his bread and cheese, wondering if he would have been desperate enough to give in to his father’s wishes if he’d had nowhere else to go. Or would he have had the courage to strike out on his own, to find his own place in the world?

His thoughts were interrupted by a happy shout from Arisyn.

“Hoy there, Javiel! Marus!” The boy waved madly at two riders.

As Raven watched, two boys a little older than Arisyn turned their horses and eased out of the traffic on the road. They dismounted and led their horses over. Arisyn performed the introductions with a flourish.

Javiel and Marus were, it seemed, pages in Lord Sevrynel’s household; Javiel was the shorter of the two, a stocky lad with light brown hair pulled back with a silver clasp. Marus was black-haired with a thin, triangular face and eyes the color of jasper.

The two were puzzled by Arisyn’s choice of companions, Raven thought, amused at their surreptitious glances from him to Stormwind to Arisyn and back again.
Likely wondering what on earth Arisyn’s doing hanging about with a Yerrin commoner.

Still, when Arisyn mentioned that Raven was Yarrow’s nephew, their interest was clearly piqued.

“She’s the Yerrin that has the site next to the Mountain Lilies in the southeast quarter, isn’t she?” Marus asked. When Raven nodded, he went on, “My father bought a broodmare from her, oh, must be eight years ago now. Every foal she’s dropped has been a grand animal. Father says that mare’s one of the best choices he’s ever made.”

“I’m glad to hear it, my lord,” Raven said with pride. “And one day we’ll have even better for sale.” He nodded at Stormwind. “That fine lad there is standing at stud now.”

Marus and Javiel looked at Stormwind, shock and dismay writ large upon their faces.

“But he’s just a—” Javiel began.

“I know what you’re going to say, Jav,” Arisyn interrupted. “He isn’t—a Shamreen plow horse, that is. I don’t know
what
he is, I’m still trying to guess. But I can tell you that Lord Sevrynel was very interested when Raven told him that bit of news.
Very
interested.”

Astonishment, disbelief, consternation: the emotions flashed across the boys’ faces. Raven managed not to laugh.

A weak “Is that so?” was all Javiel could manage, it seemed; Marus said nothing but looked skeptical. Saying that they were expected back, the two made their farewells and mounted their horses once more. As they rode away, they looked back a couple of times, shaking their heads.

“You know that they now think Lord Sevrynel’s lost his wits,” Raven said.

“Then they’re fools,” Arisyn replied tartly. “Are you done?”

“I am.”

“Then let’s be off. I want to find a gift for my mother.”

As Arisyn went off to get his horse, Raven whistled Stormwind to him. He mounted and sat easily in the saddle, waiting for Arisyn.

When Arisyn was settled in his turn, he drew alongside and frowned at Stormwind. “It’s not possible,” he muttered under his breath, “but I’d almost swear…” He shook his head. “Not possible.” He urged his horse on.

You’d be surprised at what’s possible in this life, my young lord,
Raven thought as he fell in alongside Arisyn.
You just have to reach for what you want—and be willing to fall flat on your face if you can’t hold on.

Twenty

Leet settled himself on a
bench in a quiet corner of the gardens. It had taken him a while to find this spot, for he was not familiar with the gardens, but they seemed deserted. And that was just what he wanted.

He had to smile, if a bit ruefully. It was ironic that it was his rank that had “evicted” him from his quarters. He’d been all set to play the Gull harp when a knock had interrupted him.

Sharp on the heels of the knock came a bevy of servants led by an understeward. Some carried brooms and dusting cloths; others were laden with fresh bed linens. A trio bore a table and chair; they were followed by a lad carrying parchment sheets and writing tools.

“My lord bard,” the understeward said with a bow. “Her Grace the Duchess Beryl has asked that we make this room fit for one of your rank. She apologizes that we cannot give you finer quarters, but begs your understanding that the castle is small and that all the best rooms have already been assigned.” As the understeward finished, she looked anxiously at him.

He wanted to scream at them to get out. But he wished no undue attention, and long years of playing in the Kelnethi court had taught Leet how to dissemble. Hiding his anger, he bowed to the understeward. “If there is any fault, it is mine. This room is far above what I deserve, coming unannounced and unexpected as I did. Please thank the duchess for me for her extraordinary kindness and generosity. And if she or the duke have any desire to hear my humble talents, they’ve but to ask.”

He stood and slipped Gull into the embroidered canvas case used to carry a harp short distances. “Ah … is there a place where I might practice in private? New song—not ready to be heard yet,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.

And so he found himself in the gardens. Remembering the fawn, this might be a much better place to play, he realized. He had no idea how strongly the harp could “call.” It would be most awkward if people found themselves drawn to his quarters for no reason—at least, no reason they could fathom. Eventually someone would ask awkward questions.

No, this was not the inconvenience he’d first feared. This was the answer to a need he’d been unaware of; more proof that the gods looked kindly upon his quest. Therefore he would make it his habit to practice in the gardens away from all others. Here he would hone his new skills.

The sight of a squirrel dashing across the grass reminded him there were other benefits as well. Leet took a deep breath and slipped the ties that held the canvas case shut.

*   *   *

With Prince Rann and Bard Daera leading the way, the children laughed and giggled as they entered the little alcove in the garden for their music lesson. Before them were benches holding their harps. But it was the tables to the side that made the children clap their hands and cheer in delight: those were decked with flowers and laden with pitchers of sweet-sour honey drink and little sweetmeats and cakes for afterward.

“This is a lovely idea, Prince Rann. Thank you
so
much,” Willena, Lord Morelby’s ten-year-old daughter, simpered as she edged up alongside the prince.

He felt his face burn and mumbled something.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness?” Lady Willena said, tilting her head at Rann.

“It was Kella’s idea because the day was so nice,” Rann said. “I thought it was a good one, so I ordered it done.”

Willena’s mouth pursed for an instant. “Oh.” She looked around, trying to hide a triumphant smirk. “Then what a pity that she’s not here to enjoy it. I do hope she’s not being punished.”

Rann thought that it was a good thing Willena didn’t have to make her living in a troupe of wandering players. She’d get rotten eggs thrown at her every time. He also truly hoped that his uncle the Lord Regent didn’t betroth him to Willena; he knew Lord Morelby was making Uncle Beren’s life miserable about it.

“Not at all,” Bard Daera said pleasantly. “Duchess Beryl wished her to have some new gowns. Kella will come once Mistress Colwe’s finished fitting them on her.”

“Oh,” Willena said again. “How … nice for her.” She dropped back.

Good,
Rann thought.
A music lesson’s bad enough; I don’t need Willena, too!

Another little girl, Lady Rosalea, scampered up to take Willena’s place. She grinned at him; Rann grinned back. Rosalea was fun and she liked Kella. He wished Rosalea were staying at the castle instead of Willena. But her mother was some kind of distant kinsman to Lord Sevrynel, so they stayed with him. Maybe he and Kella could stay with Lord Sevrynel, too, during the whole fair, not just go there to play.… They’d have such fun games all the time with Rosalea’s pony and Raven.

“Did you remember to ask for lots of honey-spice cakes, Your Highness?” she asked.

“Of course I did, silly.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. Rann returned the favor. He thought that if he had to marry someone someday, he wouldn’t mind the pink-and-gold Rosie, even if she did give her pony a silly name like Buttercup.

As he and Daera passed under one of the many rose-covered arches in the gardens, Rann heard the sound of a harp being tuned somewhere. He looked up at his teacher in question.

“It must be Bard Leet, Your Highness,” she said. “He was once one of my teachers. Steward Lewell told me he arrived yesterday.”

From the tone of her voice, Rann guessed that this Leet had not been one of Daera’s favorite teachers. And since Daera was so nice, it probably meant the older bard was mean.

He was glad he had Daera for a teacher and not that bard.

*   *   *

Leet froze at the sound of children’s voices.
Not children! Not here—not now!
He damped the strings and waited, hardly daring to breathe. After far too long a time, it seemed, the young voices faded.

Even after they were gone, Leet sat without playing. Fatigue from his journey to Balyaranna still weighed heavily upon him; he’d never been fond of travel, and he wasn’t as young as he’d been even during his journey to Dragonskeep.

And it was getting harder to bend this harp to his will.… Too often of late he’d found himself reaching for it without thinking. Leet closed his eyes.

The strings beneath his fingers vibrated slightly. Very well, then; time to match wills once more with the instrument he cradled in his arms like a lover.

Perhaps a candlemark later, Leet forced himself to set down the harp and put a hand to his forehead. Odd; it was a warm day, but he felt cold. And yet there was sweat on his brow.

He remembered how for one terrifying moment he’d thought he was falling into the harp’s music like a man falling into a well. It was impossible, of course; he was the master here, not the harp. But the sensation was still enough to unnerve him.

He thought of the fountain that he’d passed on his way here.
I’ll get a drink from it and splash water on my face. That should wake me up from these fancies.

It was hard to stand; his knees felt wobbly. It was even harder to leave the harp behind. Leet kept looking back as if it might disappear, or, or …

It will be safe enough here for a few moments. There’s no one about. You can’t even hear those cursed children anymore! Pull yourself together, man!

*   *   *

The tables were bare and the castle servants were waiting to clean up. Bard Daera clapped her hands. The laughing children paused in their play and looked to her.

“Time to go back,” she announced to a chorus of groans. “Both lesson and picnic are over.”

Not,
she admitted to herself,
that it was much of a lesson today.
Eyes and minds had been on the tables full of sweetmeats, not on strings and chord progressions.
Ah, well—a holiday once in a while is good for them.

As she walked back with the children, Daera thought she heard Leet’s harp again. She sighed; she’d have to greet him sometime. She might as well get it over with. Hopefully after this she could avoid him most of the time.

“Portran, Fane,” she said to two of the servants, “please escort the children for me. I must see my old teacher.”