Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  Leet bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. “And now—did you get the information I wanted?”

  The luthier spoke reluctantly. “About Lord Lenslee? Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “Excellent.” Leet rubbed a forefinger along the indentation between his lower lip and chin for a satisfied moment. Perfect so far. Now let us see … Then he pulled the silk aside completely and lifted the harp from its traveling case. Ignoring Thomelin’s gasp, the bard cradled the instrument in his arms. It felt right. So, so right.

  Thomelin stared at him for a long moment; his face turned pale and ashen. At last he whispered, “You know that you hold Death in your arms.” It was not a question.

  Leet smiled thinly. “Yes. Yes, I do know it. Now—tell me about Lenslee and that cursed horse. Tell me everything.”

  * * *

  After he woke the next morning, Leet sat in Thomelin’s tent and emptied his saddlebag. The items he sought were at the bottom; when he had found them, he carefully laid them out on the pallet bed.

  He knew what he wanted to do; he just wasn’t sure of the how yet. But as he studied the items before him, he felt certain that it would come to him. It had to.

  And when it did, he would know that the gods approved his course.

  Arrayed before him was the garb of a minstrel, one of those whose talents were above the common run, yet not quite good enough to raise them to the coveted rank of bard: a torc of thin twisted wire, a red and yellow particolored tunic, a yellow cloak with red trim. The tunic was threadbare and shabby, the cloak patched and fraying at the hem. It had been easy to steal them and a pair of well-worn leather riding breeches from a storeroom of the Bards’ School.

  Next to them was a large packet of the powder that mummers used to turn their hair white. Despite his years, Leet’s light brown hair still had little grey in it. Only growing a beard would change his appearance more; a pity he couldn’t stand the feel of one.

  He smiled and stroked the indentation under his lip. It was time for Leet, Bard of Bylith, to disappear for now, and for one Osric, a somewhat adequate minstrel, to take his place. But first he wanted to talk to Thomelin.

  Pleased with himself, Leet pushed aside the canvas door and cautiously poked his head out into the dawn’s chill. Garlands of white mist wrapped the large camp; he peered through it. At last he saw Thomelin talking with another man before one of the smaller tents the carters used.

  “Thomelin!” he called imperiously.

  The luthier looked around. When he saw who called him, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together. After a final word to the other man, he walked through the drifting ribbons of mist that wreathed him like ghosts. “Yes, brother-in-law?”

  Angry now, Leet glanced around. Good; no one was close enough to have heard. He ground out, “Don’t call me that,” and withdrew into the tent, holding the door flap aside so that he could still see the luthier.

  Thomelin stood very still. After a moment he followed Leet into the tent, letting the canvas fall behind him. He said with quiet sarcasm, “Oh, yes—someone might hear, mightn’t they? My apologies, bard. How stupid of me to forget that I’m still not good enough to be part of your family—though my gold was.”

  The reminder that his brother, Agon, had in all but name sold their sister Romissa in marriage to the common-born luthier soured Leet’s mood still further. Nor had the bard tried to stop the union; indeed, it was he who had introduced Agon to Thomelin all those years ago.

  Guilt made him short-tempered. He snapped, “Why did you stop lending Agon money, anyway? Because of you he had to sell my father’s herd to some yokel from Yerrih.”

  “You know damn well he had to do that because of his own bad judgment and lack of control. Your father, Rade, left Agon well off, Leet. He chose to piss it away with gambling and roistering—no one held a knife to his throat to make him throw those dice.

  “Nor was I lending money to him, no matter what pretty name he’s put on it. He’s paid not one copper back and says he never intends to.” Thomelin paused and pressed one hand to his chest. “And after the fine example his father set him, too.”

  Leet stiffened. Was that a hint of … irony … in Thomelin’s voice, mockery in his eyes? Does he know? Leet’s stomach twisted. If so, his hold on the luthier was as nothing. He dreaded the next words.

  But all the luthier said was “No, the money stopped because my lady wife—your dear sister, bard—wants to curry more favor with her damned priest, the greedy bastard.

  “That’s where too bloody much of the coin I work for goes, bard,” Thomelin snapped. His eyes blazed. “Or shall I make my wife sell the jewels and fine clothes she demanded of me as the proof of my love when I was still fool enough to think she might ever care for me? Like her brother, she never made good her bargain, either.”

  The luthier glared, his chest heaving. Leet stared at him in astonishment. Thomelin had never dared speak to him so. No matter what insults Leet had heaped on him before, Thomelin had always bent his head. He’d had no choice. For the first time in many, many years Leet had no scathing rejoinder.

  Nor did he wish for one; not this time. For he feared what he might hear if he lashed out at the angry luthier. The man was as tightly wound as one of his own harp strings. Leet began a slow retreat further into the tent.

  But Thomelin was not yet done. “Oh, yes,” he hissed. “That’s where my damned money goes. A greedy brother-in-law, a greedier priest, and to pay for … certain goods, bard. Your goods.”

  Thomelin raked his fingers through his grey-streaked hair. “A harp of ash, the wood of war, and that cursed…,” he whispered, his voice close to breaking, as he rocked back and forth. “Oh gods, oh gods—what have I…”

  Then he drew himself up, grim and determined. “Get that hellish thing out of my tent, out of my life—and never let me see it again.”

  With that, Thomelin turned on his heel and stalked out of the tent.

  Once more Leet wondered if Thomelin had guessed his secret. If Thomelin did, Leet would never again be able to bend the luthier to his will. But surely Thomelin didn’t know; after all, he’d made the harp.… Still uneasy, Leet shook his head and made ready to leave.

  A short while later as he swung up onto his horse, Thomelin came up.

  “Where are you going now?” the luthier demanded.

  “Not your damned business.” Leet urged his horse on. The packhorse snorted and ambled after. To his dismay, Thomelin walked alongside.

  “By all that’s holy, Leet, will you please give up this mad plan?” Thomelin begged. “At the very least, there’s no honor in it—as head of your family, Agon accepted the wergild for Arnath’s death, damn it! And what about your oath as—”

  “Don’t prate to me about honor, you coward,” Leet said coldly. “If you had been a man—if you had given a damn about your son—you would have Challenged that murdering filth then and there.”

  Thomelin grabbed Leet’s reins and dragged his horse to a halt. His lips pulled back in a snarl. Leet shrank from him, suddenly afraid. Had he finally pushed the man too far? The bard looked about for help but they were alone on the road.

  “I couldn’t have loved that boy any more than if he’d been my own blood, you filthy bastard,” Thomelin grated. When Leet sputtered in indignation, the luthier laughed, a cold, harsh laugh. “Oh, don’t try to tell me Romissa wasn’t already with child when we wed—and that you didn’t know it.

  “Yes, I was fool enough to believe her when she said she got pregnant on our wedding night. I believed her until Arnath was born nearly two months ‘early’—and was as long as my forearm, fat as a suckling pig, and had lungs to rival a herald’s. No babe that early is that big and healthy. I’ve seen my share of newborns—or did you all forget I’m the oldest of seven?

  “But from the instant his fingers curled around mine, none of that mattered. I loved Arnath as my own. If my death could have saved him, I would have laid down my life for him as I would for my own blood.<
br />
  “But to throw my life away? No. I would not abandon my other children.” He let his hand fall from Leet’s reins. “Unlike you, dear brother-in-law, I think of others—not just myself.”

  Leet kicked his horse so hard it crow-hopped in surprise, jerking the packhorse’s line. The packhorse, with its burden of twin harps, squealed in protest and bucked as well. Thomelin jumped back. It was a few moments before the animals settled into a trot, leaving Thomelin behind.

  All the damned luthier’s fault, Leet fumed. He cursed Thomelin—but there was an edge of fear in it. He’d never dreamed that the luthier would dare speak to him this way! It unnerved him.

  But Thomelin wasn’t done. Leet heard him shout, “You may think it’s for someone else, Leet, but the death that follows you is your own!”

  Four

  In the private dining room that Lord Tyrian’s party had taken over, Shima sat across from Lady Karelinn at a small gaming table. Lady Merrilee sat to one side, watching and offering advice from time to time or applauding moves.

  Shima frowned at the board, trying to ignore the noise all around them as the last of the noon meal’s dishes were cleared away and everyone broke up into groups once more. This game of draughts was harder than it seemed at first; there were nuances to it he had not appreciated when first shown the board and pieces. They’d looked so simple: a board of dark and light squares and round markers, also dark and light.

  This is like diyinesh, he said to himself, thinking of the ancient game of his people that he had introduced to Dragonskeep. It had become all the rage among the Dragonlords. Simple, so very simple—but like this draughts game, harder than it looked.

  He had just made a move when the door opened and one of the younger lords—Olliner, it was—entered. “I say, Lord Tyrian, look whom I found walking in the door,” the chubby Olliner said cheerfully.

  A man followed him in. He looked tired; deep lines etched his face. At first Shima wondered at his odd, halting gait. He understood when someone took the man’s sopping fur-trimmed cloak from his shoulders: the newcomer leaned on crutches. As he came forward slowly, Shima noticed that one leg was twisted; the toe of his riding boot barely touched the floor.

  Cries of pleasure greeted the man; he was clearly well-known to many of the party.

  “Eadain! It’s so good to see you again!”

  “Welcome, lad, welcome! Are you bound for Balyaranna?”

  “I am,” he said.

  Eadain’s voice was younger than Shima had expected. He looked again and saw that what he had taken for lines of age were old lines of pain.

  “By the gods, old fellow,” another of the young lords called, “you look like a half-drowned marsh rat.”

  A rueful grin took the years off Eadain’s face. He shook his wet brown hair back from his face. “I feel like one, too. But that’s nothing to what this poor little fellow feels like, I’ll wager.”

  With that, Lord Eadain carefully slipped one hand into the large embroidered pouch hanging from his belt. When the hand reappeared, it held a tiny kitten, its black fur plastered to its body and its eyes squinched shut. The little mouth opened wide in a plaintive “Mew!” It was a pitiful sight.

  “Found him under a hedge not a mile from here,” Eadain said. “I’m not even certain how I heard him with all that rain drumming on my head.”

  “Oh, the poor thing!” Lady Merrilee gasped and sprang up from her chair.

  A moment later she bent over Eadain’s hand and touched gentle fingers to the kitten’s head. “My lord, if you’ll let me, I’ll see that this poor creature is fed and warmed,” she said, looking up at him.

  Eadain just goggled at her for a long moment. Then, recovering, he managed to say, “Ah, yes, my lady. If you would be so kind…”

  His voice trailed off as she scooped up the kitten. When she looked up at him once more and smiled, whatever he’d been about to say ended in a strangled gurgle. As Merrilee bore her charge to one of the benches by the fireplace, calling to her sister to please fetch a bowl of milk and a clean bit of cloth, Lord Eadain gazed after her with something of the look of a poleaxed steer.

  As Karelinn rose, she leaned over and whispered impishly to Shima, “There goes another one!”

  * * *

  It was late; few people were left in the common room of the Gyrfalcon’s Nest. Shima knelt to lay a small log on the fire. It caught and flared up, popping merrily; sudden heat washed over his face. Shima rose and went to stand by the side of the hearth, where his clothing would be safe from flying embers. He leaned upon the mantel, smiling down at the two young women seated side by side on the bench before the hearth as they gazed dreamily into the flames.

  Soon it would be time to let the fire burn down for the night—but not quite yet. For a little while longer, he would enjoy this quiet time with Karelinn and her sister. The rain drummed a never-ending lullaby overhead; over in the corner, burly Lord Ephris and his lady wife, Kiela, talked softly. The soothing murmur of dainty Lady Kiela’s voice reminded Shima of the cooing of a rock dove. He fought the urge to yawn.

  “Dragonlord, may I ask a favor of you?”

  Merrilee’s gentle request brought Shima back from the edge of a waking dream. “Of course, my lady. What is it?”

  “Ever since a visiting bard sang Bard Otter’s song ‘Dragon and Phoenix’ about the great journey to Jehanglan, I’ve been fascinated with what I could find out about that land. I know you said your tribe is different from the Jehangli, with a different language, but … Do you speak any Jehangli?”

  Shima answered, “Yes, I do.” Well enough, he almost added, to trick Jehangli soldiers to their deaths when necessary. But he was afraid that the young women would ask for the story behind it and it was not a thing he wanted to talk about. Spirits help him, he could still hear the screams of those soldiers as the avalanche he’d started took them. Even now he sometimes saw their faces in his worst dreams.

  “Would you say something in Jehangli for me, then? Part of a song or poem, perhaps?”

  Caught off guard—he’d been back on the hot, boulder-strewn hillside with a Jehangli patrol closing in on him—Shima racked his brains for a moment, then recited the first thing that popped into his head. It was a few lines of something that he’d heard from an itinerant Jehangli storyteller. When he’d finished, he asked, “Well? Was it what you expected?”

  Merrilee tilted her head. After a moment she said thoughtfully, “No, it’s not, Your Grace. For some reason, I’d thought Jehangli would be harsh and guttural, with hard sounds like rocks knocking together.

  “But that … that was full of the sound of, oh, rushing streams and the wind rustling through leaves. Especially rustling leaves, I think. It was pretty—what was it? It sounded like it might be a poem.”

  “It’s part of what the Jehangli call a juashen, a story-poem,” Shima said. “I heard it from a traveling Jehangli storyteller. He’d been captured by my people’s allies, the Zharmatians, the People of the Horse. His ‘ransom’ was his stories. I was visiting their camp when the man was brought in, and I stayed to listen. It took many evenings, for he knew a great many tales.”

  The huge blue eyes filled with worry. “Oh, dear—I hope they didn’t hurt him.”

  Shima smiled. “When they released him, he was richer by two good horses, a little gold, and many furs.”

  Merrilee smiled back at him. “Good. But what did those lines say, my lord? Can you tell me?”

  “Hmm—it’s not easy to translate, but I’ll try my best.”

  He closed his eyes, thought for a bit, then said:

  “You ride to join your men,

  while I must stay behind.

  The sky weeps bitter tears,

  but they are as nothing

  to the rain in my heart.”

  He smiled at her. “It’s much prettier in Jehangli.”

  “What is the poem about, my lord?” Merrilee asked. “It sounds very sad.”

  “It is. Are you certai
n you want to know?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she said firmly.

  “Very well, then—I’m no storyteller, but I’ll try.” He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, putting his thoughts in order, making certain he did remember the entire tale.

  Satisfied, he said, “It’s about a young couple, Amsuro and Lenshi, who must part soon after their wedding. Amsuro, an officer in the army, is summoned to war while Lenshi stays behind, pining for him. Though word soon comes that he’s missing in battle and is presumed dead, Lenshi knows in her heart that Amsuro is still alive.

  “But when she goes to search for him, her brothers stop her. It’s not just because it would be too dangerous. A Jehangli noblewoman would never be allowed to do anything like that. They’re very sheltered.

  “So for many days and nights Lenshi prays to the Phoenix—the Jehangli worship it—for help. Her prayers are heard—she turns into a swallow and flies off to look for her husband.

  “After many years, she finds Amsuro, who is a prisoner of the enemy. But by then she’s been a bird for so long that she can’t change back. Nor can she tell him who she is, for she’s lost the power of speech. All Lenshi can do is sit on her husband’s shoulder or flutter around him. He thinks of her as a pet.

  “Eventually Amsuro escapes and Lenshi leads him back to their home. Finding their house empty, Amsuro thinks Lenshi has deserted him. He curses her for a faithless jade and takes a new wife. On his wedding day, Lenshi flies one last time to rest in his cupped hands, then dies of a broken heart.”

  Shima looked at Merrilee; the dying firelight glittered on tears standing in her eyes. “I warned you it was very sad,” he said, feeling a little guilty.

  “You did, my lord,” she said. “You did, and I thank you for telling it to me, Shima Ilyathan. I think I shall go to my room now. Soot”—the name she had bestowed upon the kitten—“must think he’s been abandoned.” Her voice broke on the last word and she rose unsteadily to her feet.

  Karelinn stood up as well. She said “Merri…?” as she slipped an arm around her sister’s shoulders.