Bard's Oath (49 page)

Leet stared at the thick smear of red that now ran down the harp’s soundboard ending in a bloody palm print at the bottom. This was no mere streak of blood as before. How in Auvrian’s name was he going to explain—

The blood disappeared, soaking into the soundboard like water into parched earth. Or was it the other way around?
Like a man dying of thirst would drink,
he realized.

The harp shivered in his arms; then a paean of unholy rapture burst forth from the strings, and the cold that had burned Leet vanished, replaced by a rush of ecstasy beyond anything he had ever imagined, ever dreamed of. He nearly swooned.

Shaking his head to clear it, Leet suddenly remembered that Raven stood over him, knife in hand. Cold fear shot through him. But to his surprise when he dared look, the Yerrin still stood rock-steady and blank of face.

How could he not feel that?
the bard marveled.
It was like, like—I don’t know; drinking sunlight, riding a thunderbolt, wrapping a cloak of fire around oneself! All of those, none of those, something even better!

From deep inside—himself? the harp?—a soft voice whispered enticingly,
And you can have it again
.…

The sweet words echoing in his mind, Leet greedily scooped up more blood and slathered it on the keyboard. Let Raven stand there in a trance until he rotted; it was clear nothing would wake him until Leet released him, and Leet had better things to think about. He watched the soundboard, panting like a man after a long race.

Once more the blood disappeared, and once more the rapture took Leet. He moaned. This was like nothing else he’d ever felt, pleasure so intense it danced on the edge of pain. It was almost more than he could stand; indeed, he wasn’t certain he could bear it again, yet he had to have more, so much more.…

But his shaking fingers had just touched the pool of blood when a voice startled him. He jerked his hand back, blood cooling on his fingertips.

No!
a voice inside his mind shrieked in thwarted rage.
No! I want more!

Somehow Leet managed to keep his head and not scream curses at the interloper. With a moan of frustration, he slewed around to see who had interrupted him. A grey haze rode the edges of his vision and his head swam, but Leet could just make out the figure of a man. It was someone familiar; he’d seen that craggy, almost ugly face before—hadn’t he?

Go away,
Leet begged him mentally.
Go away; I must
—

Without realizing it, he brushed his wet fingertips against the soundboard. Once more the rapture overtook him. It was not as powerful this time, but it was still more than his overwhelmed senses could bear. The world slid away.…

As he spiraled down into darkness, the man’s identity came to him: Conor of Red Dale. Beast Healer.

The last thing he heard was a voice laughing in his mind.

And perfect witness,
it said.

*   *   *

At first Conor couldn’t understand the scene before him; he stopped, squinting against the failing light, trying to make out what had happened. He came forward slowly, reluctant to interrupt a private meeting. Some of these nobles were so damned touchy.…

Wait; that was Linden’s friend Raven, he was certain of it. But why was Raven staring so stiffly into the distance? And who was the kneeling man?
Why does he seem misshapen and what’s that he’s kneeling by,
Conor wondered. The skin prickled on the back of his neck. Fighting the urge to walk away and say that none of this was his concern, the Beast Healer walked on step by slow, cautious step. With a shock he realized that the thing on the ground was a man.

Someone’s ill or hurt!
Forgetting his earlier apprehension, Conor cried out, “What happened?” He set Trouble on the ground and ran to help.

The kneeling figure turned and Conor recognized the Master Bard. That explained the oddness of the figure, then; the bard was clutching his small traveling harp to himself. Then, to Conor’s horror, Bard Leet fell to one side like a dead man.

Only then did Raven move. He shook his head, looking around with the air of a man who found himself in a place quite different from where he’d fallen asleep. But Conor had no time to spare for him; all his attention was for the two men sprawled upon the ground. If Raven could stand, he would do well enough for now.

The bard moaned and to Conor’s relief, shakily pushed himself up onto one elbow. Thank the gods, then; the man hadn’t dropped dead of apoplexy or something like as Conor had first feared. The Beast Healer skidded to a halt at the downed man’s side and steadied him against the shuddering breaths that shook the spare frame. Satisfied that Leet wouldn’t keel over dead for the moment, Conor was finally able to look at the fallen man. While his gift was with animals, not humans, he knew as much as any first-year Healer.

But one glance told him this man was beyond any aid he could give; not even a truedragon’s Healing fire could save this one—not with that great, gaping wound across the throat.

That same glance told Conor that the man was a noble. Someone would hang for this. He swore aloud and looked up at Raven, saying, “Raven, what in the name of the Great Stag hap—”

For the first time he saw the knife in Raven’s hand. Conor gaped at it, stared dumbfounded as that hand came up and Raven gazed blankly down at the dripping blade. The Yerrin’s eyes blazed with sudden anger.

“The music,” Raven said in a harsh whisper. His gaze shifted to Leet. “
His
music.” The knife twitched in his hand.

“Raven—
no
!” Conor threw himself at Raven, one arm snaking behind the Yerrin’s knees. Raven went down like a sack of wet meal. Before he could get up, Conor half fell, half jumped on him. Raven pushed at him and kicked, trying to throw him off.

Conor grabbed Raven’s knife hand and hung on for dear life. He landed a crashing blow to the other man’s jaw. Raven’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.

Panting, Conor pulled back and turned to Leet. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “No? Then thank the gods—I came in time.” He glanced at the thing that had once been a handsome young man. “At least in time for you.” He looked back at Leet.

He found the bard staring at him with a madman’s eyes. For a moment Conor wondered if the bard would attack him. Then, with a visible effort, Leet pulled himself together; to Conor’s relief he turned that burning gaze elsewhere.

“Well done, Beast Healer,” Leet said, half-turning away and cradling his harp to his breast. “You’ve caught His Lordship’s killer. Justice shall be served.”

To Conor it seemed that other words hung unspoken in the grey twilight. And there was something odd about Leet’s manner, but he couldn’t put a finger on that oddity. The bard seemed … he had no words for it. An angry hiss from the ground near his feet distracted Conor. He looked down.

Trouble had caught up with him; she stood facing Bard Leet. To Conor’s surprise, her back was hunched and her tail fluffed as large as he’d ever seen it. Her mouth was open, showing her long canines, and she hissed again and again; Conor thought he’d never seen her so angry.

Angry—or frightened? For when Bard Leet turned his gaze upon her, she whipped around and in the blink of an eye scrambled up Conor and dove into his hood. He could feel her trembling against his back.

Conor craned his head around. “Trouble? Troublesome-weasel? What’s wrong, girl?”

A soft, frightened hissing was his only answer. Then came the last sound Conor wanted to hear.

“I
know
I heard Beast Healer Conor, Lissa. I
must
find out if Buttercup’s well,” a high, clear voice declared.

“But my lady, perhaps he’s busy. And are you certain you heard him? I didn’t, Lady Rosalea. And your mother won’t like it that you’ve left the gathering
again
. Please come back.”

Lissa,
Conor prayed silently,
get the child out of here
.…

The piping voice said, “Not until I find out about Buttercup. I
know
I heard him—right over there!”

“Oh gods—not now!” But Conor had no choice. Loath as he was to leave the bard unprotected should Raven regain his senses, he had to keep Rosalea from this. He jumped to his feet and ran to the opening in the hedge. Careening around the corner, he intercepted Lady Rosalea and her exasperated nurse just in time.

*   *   *

Leet watched the Beast Healer race away to head off Lady Athalea’s daughter. A firestorm of emotions warred in his breast. Uppermost was fury, plain and simple. How dare that great, ugly lump of a pig leech interrupt him? Leet longed beyond anything to taste that rapture one more time. His thoughts tumbled over each other like a fever dream gone mad. Once more his trembling fingers stretched out.

Before the blood gets cold
 …

But one part of his mind remained detached. It knew he didn’t dare feast one more time; soon there would be guards and gawkers. He mustn’t risk becoming so lost in ecstasy that he was seen feeding the harp. No one must know about sweet Gull.… The fingers curled tightly into his palm.

And with cold calculation that same part of his mind also knew that Conor’s arrival might have been the best thing that could have happened. A thing he hadn’t foreseen wanting, but which was the crowning touch: a witness of unimpeachable character.

The Beast Healer was well known and, Leet knew, well thought of among the nobles here at the horse fair. He was also known to be honest and conscientious; his word would be accepted in any court of justice. And he had seen Raven, a dripping knife in his bloodstained hand, standing over a still warm corpse.

Leet hugged the harp and laughed softly.

*   *   *

“There you are!” Lady Rosalea exclaimed. “I was waiting and
waiting
but you didn’t come! Didn’t Warin and Burwell
tell
you?” She ran to him and put her hands into his. “Is Buttercup well now?”

Before Conor could speak, she looked beyond him as if something—some noise?—had caught her attention. “Oooo—did you bring him, Beast Healer? Is he in there?” she squealed in delight and tried to slip past.

Conor grabbed her. “No!” he yelled. Tucking her under one arm, he carried her away from the opening in the hedge. Lissa stared at him in astonishment as he strode past, but he had no time—and less inclination—to explain.

Conor set Rosalea down again and knelt before her; her mouth made a round O of surprise and her big brown eyes gazed in confusion at him. Then she giggled and, no doubt thinking it all some new game, tried to dodge by him. He caught her and set her in front of him again, this time gripping her arms.

Rosalea’s lower lip began trembling. The game, it seemed, was no fun anymore.

“Now listen to me, my lady,” he said roughly. “I swear to you that Buttercup is safe and well in his own stall in the—”

He’d been so worried about Rosalea, he’d forgotten about Lissa. A shriek from beyond the hedge reminded him all too clearly. Rosalea clung to him in fright as her sobbing nurse ran past, pale as moonlight. She disappeared into the darkening garden.

“What happened?” Rosalea asked in a tiny voice.

Conor resisted the urge to curse the curious Lissa from here to Assantik and back. “There’s been an … an accident, my lady,” he said in the voice he used for frightened younglings of any kind. “I don’t want you to go there—will you promise me that? But I need to go back and see if—if Bard Leet needs help. Can you be brave and stay here by yourself?”

“No,” she said promptly. Then, looking beyond his shoulder, she screamed and buried her face against him.

“Don’t worry, Beast Healer Conor,” a melodious voice said.

Conor looked around.

“I’m … quite well,” the bard continued. He smiled.

But Conor saw the look in his eyes and somehow couldn’t agree.

*   *   *

Maurynna rubbed the back of her neck, surprised at the tingling she felt. It had come on gradually, become almost painful, then suddenly stopped.
What was that about?
she wondered as she eyed her goblet of spiced wine.
Something in the
—

“Lord Sevrynel! Lord Sevrynel!”

The shriek tore through the gathering. The happy babble wavered as guests looked at each other in mingled astonishment and annoyance at such an unseemly disturbance.

Taller than most of the crowd about the laden tables, Maurynna could see a young woman running from the direction of the gardens. Even from here she could see the girl’s face was chalk-white and her eyes huge. Maurynna set down her goblet and started for the edge of the crowd; she didn’t know what was wrong, but from the look on the girl’s face, it was something dire.

A cold pit opened in her stomach.
By the gods—isn’t that the girl who looks after Lady Athalea’s daughter?

She began pushing her way through the stunned throng to where the girl had stopped, looking wildly around for Lord Sevrynel. A crowd immediately clustered so thick and deep around the frantic messenger that Maurynna was forced to stop lest she knock someone over. At least her height enabled her to see what was going on.

“Has something happened to Lady Rosalea?” Duchess Beryl demanded.

The girl jumped. Relief flooded her face as she recognized the duchess. “No, Your Grace, she’s well, I left her with Beast Healer Conor,” she babbled as she made the regent a sketchy courtesy.

“Then what’s wrong? What’s the meaning of this unseemly interruption?” snapped a nobleman.

Lissa looked at him with the frightened eyes of a hunted doe. “I—I’m sorry, Lord Oriss, but, but—” She took a deep breath and, breaking into hysterical tears, wailed, “There’s been murder done, my lord! Lord Tirael’s been murdered!”

Stunned silence greeted her words. Before anyone could so much as breathe, Lissa cried out, “It was that Yerrin fellow! The one that has the Dragonlord horse! Bard Leet said so—he saw him do it!”

The girl’s words went through Maurynna like a dagger.

Forty-five