Bard's Oath (3 page)

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Dunric of Appington urged his horse up alongside Tirael’s. “Do you think there’ll be trouble over this, Tir?”

“From who?” Tirael scoffed, brushing the hair back from his brow. “Who’d take the word of two brats against ours?”

“What about the Beast Healer? Think he got a good enough look at us?” Dunric persisted uneasily.

Tirael shook his head. “I doubt it; I think that Ulris saw him in time. Besides, the plowboy was between him and us. Stop worrying, Dun.”

Dunric tugged at his ear, frowning. “The plow—? Oh, him. Why do you say he was a plowboy? I don’t think that horse was—”

“Oh dear gods! Can’t you tell a plow horse when you see one, you ignorant oaf? Didn’t you see the feathers on its legs? That was just a Shamreen draft horse some fool was riding.” Tirael laughed in derision, then drawled, “If you’re going to be a nervous granny, Dunric, go somewhere else so you don’t bore me.”

Dunric fell back, feeling his face burn. “Still,” he muttered under his breath, “that ‘plow horse’ was
damned
fast.”

One

The following spring in Pelnar

The Dragonlords came to the
inn after a miserable day of riding in the rain. Water pooled among the cobblestones of the yard between inn and stable; the earth was so sodden it had nowhere to go.

Linden swung down from Shan and stepped right into a puddle. Brown water lapped over his boot toes. He sighed in resignation; it wasn’t as if his boots—and Maurynna’s and Shima’s—weren’t already soaked through, but still … He heard Maurynna’s disgusted “Feh!” and knew she’d done the same.

“Gods, but I’m sick of this rain,” she said. “If we don’t dry out soon, we’re going to turn into fishes.”

Shima pushed back the hood of his cloak a little. “I don’t think I’ve seen as much rain in my entire life as we’ve had in the last tenday. I’m glad we’re stopping so early in the day.” He looked up at the leaden sky and grimaced. “If this keeps up, I’m going back to my desert in Nisayeh!”

Even the Llysanyins looked disgusted as the little party waited for the grooms. The three stallions stood morosely, water dripping from the ends of their noses.

“Hopefully it will end in the next day or so and we can wait out the rain here,” Linden said, eyeing the inn.

It was a large one, and—to him—new, being only about fifty years or so old. Though he’d never had occasion to travel this particular route since the first timbers had gone up for the Gyrfalcon’s Nest, other Dragonlords had. “Damned fine ale,” Brock Hatussin, another Yerrin like Linden, had reported. “Even better wine and cider. Good food and plenty of it. And best of all, not only are the beds clean, they’re long enough for a Yerrin or a Thalnian.”

For which I will thank the gods,
Linden thought. Both he and Maurynna were fed up. The last few inns where they’d stopped, they’d had to sleep curled up like hedgehogs to keep their feet from hanging over the ends of the beds.

Thinking that the grooms might not have realized that more travelers had arrived, he led the way toward the stable. “I’d really like to get inside and dry out as quickly as possible,” he said to his Llysanyin, Shan. “Will you go with the grooms when they come? Brock said that they know their business.”

Shan snapped at a raindrop. Linden knew the stallion was as annoyed as he was with the turn the weather had taken a tenday ago. Before that, their journey from the College of Healers’ Gift in Pelnar had been pure pleasure. Up in the crispness of dawn, a leisurely ride in the morning coolness, then a long midday halt to avoid the worst of the summer heat, followed by another easy ride and a stop at an inn or a night spent under the stars: a traveler’s delight. Everyone had enjoyed it—until the cursed rain started.

As they neared the stable door, it opened and a man bustled out, followed by two smaller figures so swaddled in their cloaks it was impossible to tell their age or sex.

“Sorry, m’lords and lady,” the man said cheerfully, peering nearsightedly at them through the curtain of rain. “But a large party arrived a bit ahead of you and we’ve just finished with their animals. Luckily we’ve enough room left for your horses.” He beamed at each of them in turn.

One potential disaster averted, thank the gods; Linden knew if Shan had to spend another night outdoors, he’d make sure Linden would be in for a bad time the next morning. He tossed the reins to the nearest groom. “Behave yourself,” he whispered to Shan.

Shan slapped him with his tail as he passed, then danced out of reach and calmly followed the groom. Boreal and Je’nihahn snorted in amusement as they followed.

“One of these days,” Linden muttered as he turned toward the inn. “One of these days…”

“Let’s get inside and dry off,” Maurynna said. “Then I want something hot to eat and drink. I’m starving and I swear the wet has gotten into my bones. Heat spells just aren’t enough anymore.”

“I just hope this town we’re going to is worth it,” Shima grumbled.

“Hmm—I’m not so certain the
town
is worth it, but the horse fair certainly is,” Linden said.

“Isn’t that where the fair is?”

“No. It’s close to it, though. There’s the Balyaranna Fair outside the royal town of Balyaranna, where Balyaranna Castle sits. The grounds that the fair is held on belong to Lord Sevrynel and are part of his holding, the Honor of Rockfall.”

“So why isn’t this the Rockfall Fair?” Shima wanted to know.

“Because it takes its name from Balyaranna Spring in the Honor of Rockfall,” Linden said with a grin.

Shima threw his hands up in mock exasperation as they turned the corner to the front of the timbered building. Linden pushed open the heavy oaken door.

A swell of warmth and rich, savory aromas washed over them as they paused on the threshold. Linden’s stomach growled in anticipation. Stepping inside, his first impression was of wall-to-wall people and a constellation’s worth of rushlights. Maurynna and Shima followed, the latter turning to close the door behind them.

Linden took a few steps into the common room and pushed back the hood of his cloak, as did Maurynna. He surveyed the scene before them.

There weren’t quite as many people as he’d first thought, but the inn was certainly crowded; there was barely room to turn around. Many looked to be merchants, dressed well but not richly. They sat with their heads close together in conversation. Their clerks sat nearby, some jotting figures on tally boards, most playing dice or other games, a few looking bored unto death. One and all, the well-to-do merchants and their assistants ignored their lesser brethren, the peddlers, as the latter moved among the other patrons.

These were peasants dressed in homespun. Some of them sat in a corner with a peddler as they pored over wares spread upon a cloth on the floor. There was even a red-and-yellow-clad minstrel at one table, listening intently to two men and a woman dressed in hunting leathers. A group of peasant women sat off to one side; judging by the gales of laughter and the knowing looks, Linden guessed their husbands and lovers might not be pleased with the tales making the rounds. A few of the women looked him up and down and smiled a welcome. Then their gazes went to Maurynna standing by him. Next came a good-humored, resigned shrug and they turned back to their friends.

But merchant, peasant, peddler, farmer, or the gods only knew what, they all had one thing in common: All talked at the top of their lungs. The noise in the common room was well-nigh deafening.

Shima joined them now. He still wore his hood pulled low over his face and kept his hands hidden inside his cloak, thank all the gods. Linden and Maurynna had found it was no use trying to pass as truehumans when Shima was with them. One look at his dark, honey-colored skin and long, arrow-straight black hair, and anyone with half his wits knew he wasn’t of the Five Kingdoms or even from Assantik. Worse yet, too many folk also knew by now that there was only one such man in the Five Kingdoms—and they well knew that he was a Dragonlord, one of the great weredragons that held a rank equal with any king or queen.

Linden sighed.
If only Otter hadn’t written that song about our mission to Jehanglan.…

Shima muttered, “Is there a quieter room we can go to? It’s too hot to stay bundled up like this, but you know what will happen if I drop my hood.”

Linden nodded. They knew all too well: instant, uncomfortable silence. But the serving girls were too busy to notice them and he couldn’t tell where the two doorways at the far end of the room led; the last place they wanted to wander into was a busy kitchen.

Then the right-hand door swung open; before it shut again, Linden caught a glimpse of the kitchen as a portly woman sailed through. Weaving a path through the crowd, she came up to them.

“Good day, Dragonlords, and welcome to the Gyrfalcon’s Nest,” she said quietly. “I’m Elidiane Tunly, one of the owners of this inn, and at your service. I’m sure that you’d prefer a bit of privacy, so please follow me if you will.” She turned and started off.

Linden blinked. A quick glance told him that Shima was still hidden within the folds of his cloak. He caught up to her. “How did—?”

“My husband. Watkin, my lord. You met him outside.” She looked back at them, her brown eyes alight with amusement. “We’ve had Dragonlords here before, Your Graces, so Wat knows what a Llysanyin looks like. That there were no bits on the bridles clinched it. He sent our son to warn me.”

She led them through the other door and into a quiet hallway. As soon as the door closed behind them, Shima tossed back his hood with a sigh of relief. “That’s better. I hate the smell of damp wool—too much like having a wet dog in your face.”

Four more doors lined this hall, two on each side, and the murmur of voices and muted laughter could be heard behind them. These were the private rooms where travelers who did not care for the hubbub of the common room—and could afford it—might dine and take their ease.

The innkeeper asked, “So—how may I help you, Your Graces?”

“Food, a quiet place to eat, and rooms,” Maurynna said. She twitched her cloak, sending drops of water flying. “I can’t wait to get dry again.”

A tiny frown creased Elidiane’s forehead. “Oh, dear—we’ve only one room left.…”

Damnation. Linden had been looking forward to a bit of privacy. For one moment he considered insisting she roust someone,
anyone,
out of their room. But the desperate look in the innkeeper’s eyes made him relent. Likely the private rooms were already taken by nobles or wealthy merchants who were the inn’s regular custom, while he, Maurynna, and Shima might well never pass this way again in her lifetime. And he knew full well who’d suffer if the unlucky person or persons took offense; it would not be the Dragonlords.

“We’re willing to share.” He tried to keep the resignation from his voice. By the amused look in Shima’s eyes, he didn’t do very well.

“And there’s only one bed.”

“I’ll sleep on a pallet on the floor,” the Tah’nehsieh Dragonlord said. “I don’t even care anymore as long as the roof doesn’t leak.”

“That it doesn’t. Thank you, Your Graces.” The relief in her voice said that someone had not been so reasonable. “The rooms are up—”

One of the doors opened and a richly dressed man stepped out. “Ah, there you are, Mistress Tunly! We were wondering if you’ve heard any news about— By the gods! Linden Rathan! Maurynna Kyrissaean! And you must be Shima Ilyathan, are you not, Your Grace?” He bowed to them.

“I am, my lord,” Shima said, nodding. “But I’m afraid I don’t recognize you.”

Maurynna said, “Shima, this is Lord Tyrian of Cassori. He helped us on the first leg of our journey over the sea to Jehanglan. It’s not easy finding a ship and crew on short notice, even if they are the crown’s own, but Lord Tyrian did it.” To Tyrian she said, “If I’m ever in command of a ship again, I want that crew.”

Tyrian smiled broadly. “My lady, I’ll be certain to tell them you said that; they’ll be prouder than peacocks.” He looked more closely at them. “Once you’ve had a chance to change into dry clothes, the party I’m traveling with would be honored if you’d join us for the midday meal.”

Linden quickly consulted the others by mindvoice, then said, “It would be our pleasure, my lord. If you’ll excuse us for now?”

Lord Tyrian bowed once more and went back into the private dining room. They followed the innkeeper to their sleeping chamber. As they gingerly removed their dripping cloaks, Mistress Tunly knelt before the wood already laid in the fireplace and expertly set it alight with flint and steel from her belt pouch.

Standing once more, she said briskly, “My son will bring up your saddlebags shortly, Dragonlords, and I’ll fetch you towels to dry off with.” She made them a courtesy and left.

Towels and saddlebags came a short while later. Not long after, they were on their way back down the stairs, urged on by their rumbling stomachs.

To their dismay, when the Dragonlords reached the private dining room they found Mistress Tunly waiting to announce them. She opened the door, said into the noisy discourse, “My lords and ladies, Their Graces Linden Rathan, Maurynna Kyrissaean, and Shima Ilyathan,” then stepped back.

Silence. Then, as they entered the room and the innkeeper closed it once more, everyone scrambled to rise and either bow or make them a courtesy. Lord Tyrian came to meet them.

“Thank you for inviting us to share your meal,” Linden said for the three of them. The savory aroma of roast goose with sage tickled his nose; he hoped his stomach didn’t pick this moment to rumble again.

He glanced around quickly to see how many of the people present he knew from his time as one of the judges of the regency question in Cassori a couple of years before.

None were from the Cassorin Council, which was a relief beyond words. But nonetheless, many of the faces were familiar; it took him a moment to place where he’d seen them: one of the horse-mad Lord Sevrynel’s “little gatherings.” Thank the gods; horse talk was just fine with him. Politics were not.

He went on, “As you can see, we’re not wearing our formal garb, so there’s no need for such ceremony, my lords and ladies. Please—let us dine as friends.”