Bard's Oath (39 page)

“I’m not going any further today,” Pod heard herself say, astonished at her daring. She sank to her knees.

Fiarin gave her an evil look. So; the madness was back. For a moment Pod thought he would strike her—or try to. Kiga would never let the blow land.

Then, by the mercy of all the gods, Fiarin had a passing fit of common sense. “It’s too late to enter the swamp today,” he conceded, looking around as if just noticing the dying light. “We’ll camp here for the night. We cross the swamp tomorrow. And then…”

He stopped and stared greedily at the distant tree-shrouded swamp fading into the darkness. “And then … the Woods.”

Thirty-eight

Raven and Arisyn spent the
day riding slowly through the somber fair. There was no speech between them. Instead they listened, eavesdropping shamelessly. Few spoke of the match race that was never to be. All the talk was of the mysterious death of the favorite of the Queen’s Chase. “Summer Lightning’s dead!” was all they heard. “Did you hear? Summer Lightning’s dead!”

Everywhere they looked, fairgoers gathered in small groups, rank forgotten for once as nobles and commoners gathered together and discussed the little they knew. And because no one knew the truth, rumors flew faster than, well, lightning, Raven thought.

“Poison, it was!”

“Magic,
I
heard!”

“And I heard that his head was chopped off! Someone saw a man with a sword running from the stable!”

“Have to be a big man,” the first gossiper scoffed.

“It were! A giant, I heard!”

Raven shook his head. He’d no more idea than the next man what had happened to the favorite, but a giant with a sword to match would likely have been noticed in the fair by now.

“How could someone do something like that?” Arisyn asked in a subdued voice.

“I don’t know. Whatever it was, I just hope the poor animal didn’t suffer. Is the Queen’s Chase to go on?”

“Oh yes. It’s always run on the solstice, no matter what. The Rockfalls have hosted the fair of Balyaranna for generations. And come what may, my foster father told me, the race is run to honor a vow the first earl made to the Mother. Every earl or countess since then has held to that. When Countess Beline was dying, she ordered that the race be run even if she died that day.”

“What happened?” Raven asked. It seemed horse-madness ran in the Rockfall bloodline. “And did she? Die, that is.”

“She did—the night before. They ran the race as she’d ordered,” Arisyn said. “The legend is that she’d threatened to haunt her family if they didn’t. Guess they didn’t want to take the chance.”

“Good for her.” Raven chuckled. “She knew what was important.”

Arisyn grinned impishly. “But they did draw the line at propping her up in the royal box as she’d also wanted, Lord Sevrynel told me. She was his great-grandmother and he remembers the day even though, as he says, he was but a wee little boy.”

*   *   *

“There he is, Huryn! There’s the thief!”

Raven recognized the voice—much to his annoyance. He glanced over his shoulder, hoping he was wrong.

No; no such luck. It was indeed Tirael. But why was he pointing at him?

Hold on there—did that bullying popinjay just call me “thief”?

It seemed he had, for Lord Huryn called out, “I require you to stop, Raven Redhawkson.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Raven dismounted and waited for the High Marshal and his men to reach him.

Arisyn snorted in derision. “Don’t blame Raven if you were so drunk you lost your belt pouch again, Tirael. Go back to the last tavern tent you were at and start looking there instead of wasting our time.”

“Be quiet, you miserable little pile of turds,” Tirael said viciously. “You helped him steal Brythian, didn’t you?” He lunged at Arisyn with the clear intent of hauling him off Arrow.

Lord Huryn was too fast for him. Somehow the black-haired High Marshal cut Tirael off. “None of that, Tirael!” Lord Huryn said sharply. “I suggest you—”

“They’re both thieves!” Tirael shouted. “I demand you arrest them both!”

A gasp from Arisyn made Raven look up at him. The boy’s face was pale—but not from fear as Raven first thought.

This was bone-deep, righteous fury. Sevrynel’s foster son drew himself up and stared down at Tirael like a man looking down upon a maggot. “How dare you,” he said, his voice full of barely controlled rage. “How
dare
you, sirrah! Who are you to name
me
thief—you who never had any intention of paying a wager you made! Trot out your witnesses, you sack of lies! Where’s your proof that we stole your horse?”

Raven had to bite his lip to keep from cheering. A glance at Lord Huryn told him that the High Marshal—as well as his men—were hard put to keep smiles from their faces.

Arrow sidestepped until Arisyn was directly in front of their accuser. He leaned down until his face was a bare handspan from Tirael’s. “The penalties for laying false charges against a fellow noble are severe, Tirael. Shall I cry Challenge and name my Champion? Have
you
a Champion? Mine will be Black Althur, my father’s captain of the guard.”

From the guardsmen’s whistles and the way Tirael’s face paled, Raven guessed that this Black Althur was known as a fell warrior. A little voice in the back of his mind snickered,
He’d likely wet himself if you named Linden.

“You little—” Tirael sputtered. “You wouldn’t da—”

“Lord Arisyn would be well within his rights,” Lord Huryn said mildly. “That is, unless you have incontrovertible proof, Tirael—such as eyewitnesses?”

“I withdraw the charge against Lord Arisyn,” Tirael said sullenly. He pointed at Raven. “But not against him! Arrest him, I say!”

Raven said quietly, “I was in my aunt’s camp all night long with a friend of mine, my lord, playing a game from his native land, and talking over the race. He left not long before Lord Arisyn brought me the news about Brythian. And in that short amount of time I was within the view of the men and women of my own camp and the camps around me. Nor would there have been enough time for me to get to wherever you keep your horse, steal it, and hide it someplace it
still
hasn’t been found—which is the last I heard. I’m sorry your horse is missing, my lord Tirael, for he seemed a fine animal indeed, and I was looking forward to our race even though I’d already known I’d never see my gold when I won. But I had nothing to do with it.”

“Lies!” Tirael hissed. “And who cares for the word of a bunch of peasants!”

“One of my witnesses is no peasant.” Raven turned to Arisyn. “My lord, would you ride aside, please?”

Arisyn chewed his lip. “Knowing who your visitor was would end the game, wouldn’t it? As long as High Marshal Huryn has no objection, I’ll wait for you by that leather worker’s booth.”

“The ‘game’?” Lord Huryn asked.

“Lord Arisyn has been trying to guess what breed Stormwind is. Very honorable about it, as well. He won’t listen if someone tries to talk to him about it.”

Chuckling, Lord Huryn waved away the young lord.

When Arisyn was gone, Raven said to Tirael, “My lord, the friend with whom I talked all night long is Shima Ilyathan. I met him in Jehanglan. Would
his
word be enough for you?”

“Yet another lie! You dare claim friendship with—”

“Oh, give over, Tirael,” Lord Huryn said in disgust. “He’s not lying. Surely you’ve heard the song ‘Dragon and Phoenix’ at least once? Remember the part about some truehumans with Llysanyins? He tried to warn you when you challenged him to that race, but you wouldn’t listen. Brythian would have lost, pure and simple. A lucky thing for you that he’s gone, isn’t it—not that you ever intended to honor your end of the wager, did you?”

The last was said in a tone of such disgust that Tirael’s face flamed. He turned and stalked away, snarling over his shoulder, “If you come to your senses, Huryn, and arrest that serf, I’ll be at Lord and Lady Pearrin’s encampment.”

*   *   *

When he heard where Tirael was staying that night, Arisyn said, “Oh, hang it all—I finally got permission to stay there tonight along with Coryn and Marus and Javriel!”

Raven studied the fuming boy and came to a decision. “Never mind him—we’ve somewhere else to go. I think it’s time to let you know what Stormwind is, and I think you’ll like this other campsite even more. Follow me.” He led the way through the fair. Once outside the grounds, he set Stormwind to a slow canter through the growing dusk.

Soon they reached the royal encampment. Raven led the way to the gate Maurynna had shown him at the Dragonlords’ end of the camp. A banner hung across the top of the gate: a silvery white dragon on a black background, the whole bordered in red. The guards at the gate eyed them.

“Here we are!” Raven said cheerfully.

Arisyn tugged at his sleeve. “This is where the Dragonlords are st-staying,” he stuttered.

“Yes,” Raven agreed. “They are.”

“But we can’t just barge in—”

“Ari—remember the best friend Rynna I told you about? The one I grew up with?”

Arisyn stared at him blankly for a moment. Then—well, Raven could tell the exact instant
that
acorn dropped. “Oh gods—you mean ‘Rynna’ is short for ‘Maurynna’?”

“Guessed it in one. She’s still my best friend even though she’s Maurynna Kyrissaean now. But that hasn’t made any difference, save that because of her, Linden Rathan, Shima Ilyathan, and a couple of other Dragonlords have also become good friends of mine.”

Raven forbore to add that he and Linden had not started out as friends. Then common sense—his—had prevailed at last. He’d accepted that he and Rynna would never be more than friends now. He never knew when it had happened, only that it was after their adventure in Jehanglan. But one day, he’d realized that the knowledge that they’d never be together didn’t hurt anymore. It was just something he knew as he knew that the hawthorn bush outside his window bore red berries. It just
was.

Considering Rynna’s temper, perhaps it was just as well, he thought, though he was fairly certain she wouldn’t try to box his ears for him anymore. But most of all, he knew she was happier than she’d ever been and in the end that was what counted.

He glanced over at Arisyn and smiled. The boy’s eyes were huge.

“Oh,” said Arisyn weakly. “
You’re
one of the truehumans mentioned in the song, aren’t you? The two with Llysanyins…” He stared at Stormwind. “Oh, my.” Then, with a big grin, “We’re going to camp with the Dragonlords? Hah! Eat dirt, Tirael!”

*   *   *

The light of the standing torches flickered over the servants as they moved among the men and women gathered around the royal encampment. The dancing glow turned their faces into fantastic masks as they offered wine here, sweetmeats and savory tarts there, or finger bowls and scented towels to the lords and ladies relaxing at tables set beneath the gaily colored awnings.

Not that the awnings were needed anymore; the sun had gone down a candlemark or so ago, taking with it the day’s wilting heat. The night was pleasantly cool. The fire that blazed merrily in the center of the encampment was more for show than for warmth.

There was something about being outside at night, Linden thought, that begged for a campfire, and not just for cooking, either. He watched the leaping flames, content for the moment to sit lazily at the table with Shima and Maurynna, listening to Bard Leet as he played.

A pity Otter couldn’t be here. I prefer his version of “Mist on the Moor,” though it would be damned sticky with both of them here,
Linden thought.
Leet’s a master, no question of that, but some songs—the old ones at least—are better without the fancy flourishes.

Still, the harp’s song flowed sweet as honeyed wine, a gentle counterpoint to the various conversations. Linden let it flow over him as he looked around.

The mood of the camp was subdued. A sense of unease, even fear, hung over the gathering due, no doubt, to the mysterious death of the favorite. Linden knew that each owner had doubled the guard on his or her racers. Yet there were also undercurrents of a kind of fierce … excitement.

Yes, that’s what it was: excitement. Before—barring some accident—the only question was which horse would come in second. Now … Now others had a chance at gold and glory.

A leather ball rolled to his feet. He picked it up and tossed it back to Rann. The young prince grinned and waved in thanks, then went back to the serious business of a game of three-cornered toss with two other children that kept Bramble scrambling happily after the ball.

A pity Kella couldn’t be here,
he mindspoke Maurynna.
Have you have any more word of her?

The last letter from Maylin said that she was back to her old self and that Aunt Elenna has stopped hovering over her like a worried hen. Oh, and Kella says to give her love to Rann and Rosalea. I think Rosalea’s the little girl playing with Rann and that other boy.

The song ended with a rippling double run up the strings, a delicate filigree of sound that hung bell-like in the dusk. Then it slipped into something Linden didn’t recognize, but liked right away.

Shima straightened in his chair. “I know that one!” he said in delight. “It’s one of the songs I sang for him—though with a great deal added,” he added, his brow furrowed.

Linden poured wine all around. “He does seem to like complex arrangements, doesn’t he? Always has, Otter says—the more elaborate, the better, and never able to resist another bit of tinkering with a tune.”

When the song ended and Leet stood up, Maurynna said, “You know, I can’t help feeling that Leet looks vaguely familiar somehow, but I’m certain I’ve never met him. Are he and Otter friends?”

The bard wandered among the tables, talking and sometimes playing a snippet of a song, or drinking a cup of wine.

“Um—no,” Linden said, remembering the long-ago rivalry between Leet and Otter for the love of Jaida, another bard. She’d chosen Otter; unfortunately, she’d died during the birth of their first child, and the child with her. Leet had never forgiven Otter.