Bard's Oath (22 page)

“My name is Raven Redhawkson, my lord. I’m here with my aunt, Yarrow Whitethorndaughter, a horse trader. I came ahead to hold her space for her. It’s my first year at the fair.”

Huryn nodded. “Be sure I’ll make certain of your claim, young man. Yarrow Whitethorndaughter is well known here and well respected. I’ll not have her name used by a rascal.” He paused a moment, one gloved finger tracing the line of his bearded jaw, his eyes distant. Then a slight smile crooked his lips. “Raven Redhawkson, hmm? I believe I’ve heard that name before.”

Abruptly he turned back to Tirael. “Very well then, Tirael. How did this Raven Redhawkson insult you?”

“He called me a fool,” Tirael snapped. “This plowboy dared to call
me
a fool.” He added sullenly, “My lord.”

Huryn stared at him like a man who’d found a beetle in his bread. “Indeed?” To Raven he went on, “Did you?”

“No, my lord earl, I did not call my lord Tirael a fool.”
Never mind what I was thinking.
“I merely said that Stormwind—my horse—is not a plow horse.”

So softly that Raven almost didn’t hear it, Lord Huryn said, “I can well imagine you did.” The faint smile appeared once more, only to disappear an instant later, replaced by Huryn’s customary scowl. “And that was all you said?”

Raven nodded. “Oh—and that I wasn’t a plowboy.”

“Hardly an insult, Tirael, unless you’re even more sensitive than my lady wife during her moon time,” Huryn said dryly.

Tirael’s lips thinned to a pale line.

“My lord?” Arisyn said in a small, frightened voice. “I’m the one who called Tirael a fool.”

“So I heard, Arisyn,” Lord Huryn said. “Quite clearly. I don’t like being lied to, Tirael. Remember that. I also saw you strike this man for no reason.”

“He got in my way!” Tirael said in outrage. “You saw him!”

“I saw him protecting Arisyn from your fists. Which likely saved you from being banned from this fair and possibly every fair to come. Or had you forgotten that Arisyn is Lord Sevrynel’s foster son, and all this,” Huryn waved a hand to take in the cheerful uproar that was the fair, “is by Lord Sevrynel’s goodwill?”

The soft, regretful “Damn!” slipped out before Raven could stop it. He instantly regretted it as Lord Huryn frowned at him.

Tirael leapt upon this sudden advantage. “I ought to have you whipped for that insolence, but I’m going to be generous,” he said in a voice sweet as honey and sharp as a dagger. He smiled, a slow, vicious smile. “We race—your plow horse against my Brythian.”

One of the young nobles guffawed. “Brythian will grind him into the dirt! This I must see!”

“Distance, my lord?” This was critical; Raven knew that Tirael’s mount was a Waylshire. And a Waylshire was so fast over a short distance that Raven wasn’t sure even a Llysanyin could beat one. He wished he could consult with Stormwind first, but to those unused to Llysanyins, it would seem a bizarre—if not downright mad—request. Worse, this lot would see it as a way to worm out of the challenge.

The smile widened. “From the Stone Witches to Radlyn’s Ford.”

Hellfire; that’s perfect for a Wayl
—

“Oh, no, Tir,” one of his other friends objected. “It’ll be over too quick! I want to see our little plowboy choking in your dust for a good deal longer than that. Come on now, Brythian’s good for it.”

“He’s right! Make it there and back,” another urged. “Hell, you’ll be able to walk Bryth back and still win!”

Pleeeaaase …

For a long moment Raven feared Tirael wouldn’t rise to the bait. At last he shrugged and said, “You’re right. Bryth can do it easily. There and back, plowboy, the day before the Queen’s Chase. Do you agree to the course?”

Thank you, thank you, thank you!
“I do.”

“Good. And the wager I propose is fifty gold crowns.”

Gasps greeted this pronouncement. Raven blinked, momentarily stunned. By the gods, never mind just fixing the roof on the stable—he and Yarrow could build a whole new one! Still, a wager that size changed things. It was one thing if it had been for one gold piece. Even he could come up with that much, though he’d owe Yarrow for a long time; to a noble like Tirael, it would be nothing. So he wouldn’t feel bad about taking the man for that much—indeed, it would barely cover the wergild that Raven considered the man owed Stormwind for the insults heaped upon the stallion.

But
fifty
? Oh, yes—that was another game altogether. He’d have to reveal what Stormwind was and give the man an honorable way out.

Damn; he would’ve enjoyed seeing the look on Tirael’s oh-too-handsome face when he lost. Badly.

Raven took a deep breath like a man coming up from deep water and said, “You must know, my lord, that I don’t have that kind of gold, so I can’t match your wager. So what do you get if
you
win?”
Which you bloody well won’t.…

“You and that creature are mine, plowboy. You become my serf,” Tirael said in a voice like a dagger slipping into its sheath. “And that nag will spend its days pulling a cart.”

Dead silence now. To Raven it seemed even the crickets held their breath. “Even that much gold is a poor price for a man’s freedom, my lord,” he said quietly. “But I know I’ll win, so I’m not afraid. You, though, will want to reconsider when you know what Stormwind is.”

“I don’t care what you claim that Shamreen nag is,” Tirael snapped. “I’ll race you no matter what! Do you think you can scare me off? Is this your way of trying to weasel out of a race you know you’ll lose? Bah! I’ve seen mice with more courage than you!”

To Huryn he said, “I ask you to witness my word on this, my lord. I’ll race this scum no matter what he claims that horse is! And now I’ve had enough of him—I’ll see as much as I like when he’s mine and I can school him well to respect his betters.”

The High Marshal said mildly, “I suggest you listen, Tirael.”

But Tirael shook his head. “I don’t listen to serfs, my lord—even those who are not quite yet mine. You have witnessed, my lord, that I said that I would race him no matter what. Now also witness that should I win, he’s mine and that he agrees to it—he hasn’t done that yet.”

“Before I agree, my lord, will you witness that Lord Tirael has refused to hear my warning?” Raven asked. “I’ll not have it said that I tricked him to get my hands on his gold.”

Lord Huryn nodded, his face grave. “I will bear witness to that, Raven Redhawkson, before any man or woman in the realm. You tried to warn Lord Tirael as an honorable man should do and he refused to hear your words as a reasonable man ought to. On his head be it.”

Sudden doubt filled Tirael’s eyes at Huryn’s words. But it was too late; Tirael could not back down now, Raven knew, without being named craven.

“Now, Raven Redhawkson, do you agree to Lord Tirael’s terms if you should lose?” the High Marshal asked.

“I agree,” Raven said.

The old, cocky Tirael was back in an instant. He smiled like a wolf. “Then I look forward to whipping your back raw, plowboy—because I know that you’re bluffing and I’m going to prove it.”

The sound of a distant commotion brought Huryn around like a hound questing on a scent. Tirael hurried to say, “By your leave, my lord, I’ve had enough of this peasant.”

He backed away and called his friends to him. “Let’s be off, lads, where we don’t have to breathe the stink of field muck. To Garron’s!” He hastened off, followed a moment later by his surprised friends.

Wait a moment—something’s not right
.…

For a moment Raven thought Lord Huryn would call Tirael back, for the High Marshal looked like a man trying to remember something. The same thing, perhaps, Raven was trying to think of?

But a redoubling of the distant racket made the black-browed High Marshal swear. “I must leave now. But listen well, Tirael,” he called after the other man where he had paused for a hurried conference with his friends, “if there’s any trouble from either of you before the race, I’ll have you up before my lord Sevrynel and request that he ban the troublemaker for five years—and rest assured I
will
find out who’s responsible.”

With that, Lord Huryn called his men to him and hurried off into the night. Raven put his hand on Arisyn’s shoulder and said quietly, “Time for us to be off, Ari. Despite what Lord Huryn just said, I don’t trust our dear Lord Tirael not to cause some kind of trouble if he can.” He nodded at a face peering around the corner of a tent. It ducked back when it saw him watching.

Before it could return, Raven urged Arisyn into the darkness between two tents. They quickly walked away. After a time, Arisyn asked, “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” Raven admitted. “No place particular, I just wanted to get away from them.”

“Shall we go see what all that noise was about?” Arisyn said. Before Raven could object that a brawl was the last place they’d want to be, Arisyn went on, “It was a happy sort of noise, don’t you think? Like people cheering.”

That made Raven stop. The boy was right; he hadn’t really thought about it, but the clamor hadn’t had the knife-edge feel of a fight about it. Curious now himself, he said, “Let’s go see.”

Arisyn grinned and set off like a hound on a scent. Raven groaned and ran after him. Soon they had come upon the edge of an excited crowd kept back by soldiers bearing torches to illuminate a lane.

“What’s afoot, mistress?” Raven asked a matronly woman who was peering eagerly around those in front of her—though he thought he might know.

The woman turned and looked up at him. Despite the crow’s-feet around her eyes and wisps of grey hair escaping from her head kerchief, she looked as excited as a young girl. “Eh? Haven’t you heard yet, lad? A messenger rode in a bit earlier to say that there are Dragonlords coming tonight! Imagine that! I didn’t get to see them when they were in Casna during the regency debate a while back, I had to go to my daughter in Oakbridge, her youngest was that ill.… But Dragonlords came to Casna—you’ve heard of that? Wild times, it was, wild times, what with attacks on the Dragonlords, the young prince kidnaped, black magery, and the gods only know what else! Or so my second cousin Tarrant said—and he heard it straight from his niece who got it from her neighbor what has a lad as works in the tavern in their town and he heard it from a carter passing through.” Here she drew another breath and went on, “And that carter said she once cussed out Linden Rathan himself before she knew who he was!”

Here the goodwife looked a little doubtful. “Don’t know if that last was true, young Dar said she was an old woman and maybe a bit daft—but I’m sure as sure that all the rest was true!” With that, she turned back to her eager watch on the road.

“I wasn’t there either,” Arisyn said mournfully. “But my uncle said it was awful. He still hates to talk about it, it was that close to civil war and all.”

“Rynna did say it was damned scary at times,” Raven said absently as he looked over the heads of the crowd. Luckily there were relatively few Yerrins or Thalnians in this part of the crowd; he had a clear view of the lane.

“Your friend from Thalnia was there?” Arisyn asked, all puppy-eagerness. “Did she ever get to see the Dragonlords up close?”

“Indeed, yes, she was here. And I know for a fact that she’s certainly seen Linden Rathan up close,” Raven said, somehow keeping a straight face. He watched Maurynna’s stock with Arisyn soar again.

“I
must
speak with her one day! Did she get to see his Llysanyin as well?”

Thank all the gods that Arisyn turned away then to watch the road once more; else Raven would have burst out laughing and given away the game.

Then suddenly, out of the blue, Raven knew what had seemed wrong before. Tirael had never sworn before Lord Huryn that he would pay the fifty gold pieces if he lost. Raven had put his freedom and Stormwind’s hostage to chance. Tirael had risked nothing.

There was no way to get out of the race without damaging his reputation—and Yarrow’s—irreparably.

You wretched, thieving cur,
Raven thought in a cold fury.
You’ll pay for this.

Twenty-three

“Uncle Beren? May I speak
to you, please?”

The regent of Cassori looked up in surprise from the reports he and Steward Lewell were going over. His nephew, Prince Rann, stood in the doorway, standing straight as a soldier. Bony little-boy ankles peeked out from beneath his linen nightshirt. His nurse hovered behind him.

“Of course, Rann,” Beren said. “Is something bothering you?”

Rann considered. “Yes,” he said at last. Then, with an endearing gravity far beyond his years, “But what I’ve really come for is to ask a boon, my lord regent.”

Beren blinked at the formality. A slight cough made him glance at his steward. The man was hiding a smile behind his hand. A warning glance from his royal master and Lewell was serious again, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth told of the smile trying to break through. Beren couldn’t blame him.

But he schooled his own expression to a gravity that matched Rann’s. “Of course, Your Highness. Ask, and if it is within my power, I shall grant it.”
And though I know Willena is a pest, I shan’t risk offending her parents, my lad, so don’t ask me to send her packing!

“Thank you, my lord uncle.” His eyes slid to Steward Lewell as he padded into the room. “Um—alone, please?”

Beren nodded. “Lewell?”

Lewell bowed to both of them and removed himself, hand still over his mouth as he muffled coughs that sounded suspiciously like chuckles. He closed the door behind him.

Rann climbed into the chair in front of the desk and settled himself, bare feet swinging. Beren said, “Your boon, Your Highness?”

Rann met his eyes squarely. “That until Bard Daera gets back, we don’t have harp lessons,” he said, his voice firm.

Hmm—didn’t see that one coming!
Beren thought with amusement. He knew that Rann was all thumbs when it came to playing the harp, but he hadn’t realized that the boy hated lessons
that
mu— Wait; he’d said “until Bard Daera gets back.” So it was not Daera that was the problem; it was something about this bard from Bylith. “Won’t Kella miss them?” he probed. “I understood from Daera that this Leet was considered one of the finest bards and teachers at the Bards’ School. I know Kella is hoping to enter the school one day. This could be a good opportunity for her.”