Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  It was not enough, or perhaps too much. The tears spilled over; Merrilee pulled away and ran sobbing from the room. Lord Ephris and Lady Kiela turned in their chairs to stare after her in surprise.

  Spirits! Shima thought, bewildered by Merrilee’s reaction. It wasn’t that sad a story—at least not the way I tell it!

  He looked to Lord Ephris and Lady Kiela for understanding. They glared in icy accusation as they rose and left the room as well.

  Shima leaned back against the wall. But I didn’t do anything! he wanted to protest. He caught Karelinn’s eye as she turned back. She stared at him, her eyes cold and distant.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he implored. “I did warn her. Should I have refused? I had no idea she was so tenderhearted.”

  Karelinn blinked; the frozen stare disappeared, to be replaced by a look of contrition. “I’m sorry, Dragonlord; I didn’t mean to imply it was your fault at all. I—I wasn’t even seeing you—”

  She broke off as her father burst through the door. He looked as harried as a fox with a pack of hounds on his tail and no way over the river before it. “Karelinn—what on earth happened to Merri? I saw her just now on her way up to the rooms. She tried to tell me she’s not crying, but I know she is. Is she still thinking about that worthless scoundrel?” The harried look disappeared, banished by a frown as Lord Romsley snapped, “You’re supposed to keep her from—”

  Karelinn burst out, “And how am I to do that, Father? I can’t tell her what to think!”

  Her father glared at her, lips pressed together.

  “I—I’m sorry, Father.” Her distressed whisper was hardly louder than the rustle of a leaf.

  “The gods know I’m not an unreasonable man, but—”

  It was, Shima decided, time to end this. Lord Romsley stopped, flustered, as the Tah’nehsieh Dragonlord stepped out of the shadows.

  “Oh, er, ah—hello, Shima Ilyathan. I—I’m sorry I didn’t see you. I beg your pardon.”

  “Not at all, Lord Romsley. It is I who should be begging your pardon. I’m afraid it’s my fault that Lady Merrilee is unhappy.”

  Romsley’s expression shifted to half-indignant, half-astonished. “Eh? What do you mean, Your Grace?”

  “Lady Merrilee asked me to recite something in Jehangli. I’m afraid I made a rather poor choice. It was part of a very sad story, and of course she asked me to translate,” Shima said, hoping the man would leave it at that.

  So, of course, he didn’t. “What was so sad about it, Your Grace?” Romsley asked.

  Shima looked back as innocently as he could while desperately trying to come up with a plausible fib. He still didn’t think his telling of the story was anything to weep over—except for a bard. Unfortunately, Lord Romsley’s gimlet stare seemed to bore holes in his mind and all his ideas leaked out before he could catch them.

  “The little swallow that had been such a faithful companion in the story died,” Karelinn said into the growing silence. “You know how she is about animals, Father. I’m sure it made her think of poor little Goldwing. She still misses him so.”

  “Hrmm, hrmm—yes, that would do it. She’s too softhearted sometimes.” With a sigh of relief, the now reassured Lord Romsley lumbered from the room.

  As the Kelnethi lord disappeared through the door, Shima let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Karelinn sank down on the bench and wiped her forehead. They looked at each other and laughed weakly.

  “That was close,” Karelinn said ruefully. “Too close.”

  “Indeed.” Shima studied her for a moment; he had two questions for her.

  She met his eyes, then looked away. “Thank you for taking the blame upon yourself, Shima Ilyathan.”

  “It was no more than the truth. Who was Goldwing?”

  “Merri’s pet songbird. He was a darling. Aunt Perrilinia’s cat got him—right in front of Merri, too. It was awful and happened just before we left.”

  “Then I’m surprised she’s so concerned for that kitten Lord Eadain found. I would think she’d hate cats.”

  “Oh, no! Not even Lady Bella, Aunt Perrilinia’s cat. It’s a cat’s nature, after all, to chase birds. If only Aunt Perrilinia’s maid hadn’t left the door to the room open…”

  She must have guessed that there was another question lying in wait. Before he could ask it, she jumped up. “I should make certain Merri’s well,” she said with forced brightness as she sidled toward the door. “And bring Soot some milk. If you’ll excuse me, my lord?”

  She was away before he could reply. Shima gave her enough time to get up the stairs, then followed. It was late, he was tired—and he could always ask her the next time they were alone.

  Five

  Near the border between Yerrih and Kelneth, the dawn was breaking over the Kiltren hills to the east. As the first rays of light spread rosy fingers over the thatched roofs of Grey Holt, a door opened in the main hall of the Beast Healers’ compound and a slender figure slipped out. A heavy, short-legged animal scrambled out just as the door shut once more.

  Yawning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Pod hurried to the stable for her morning chores. Close on her heels came her familiar, one of the powerful, bearlike woods dogs of the north.

  Shaking her head, Pod grumbled, “Bah! Just can’t wake up quite all the way this morning, Kiga.”

  She slapped at her cheeks. What if the Guild Master looked out his window and saw her like this? He’d think she was just a lazy slugabed and would never consider her fit to go with the Healwort Guild for Wort Hunter training.

  “And I really want to go with them before I’m a journeywoman,” she told her familiar. “Only the best go while they’re still ’prentices—like Conor did. I wonder when they’re coming—d’you think I can talk Gunnis into putting in a word for me? Conor will be so proud if I’m chosen to go.” She stifled another yawn before it could escape and slapped at her cheeks once more.

  It didn’t help. Still yawning, she heaved open one of the stout oak doors and slipped inside, Kiga so close, his nose almost touched her boot heels.

  Shrill neighs of alarm woke Pod up that last little bit. She jumped, her heart pounding, trying to look everywhere at once in the dimly lit stable for the cause. Was there a fox, a lynx, a wolf—maybe even a snowcat—in here? What was it? She couldn’t see anything wrong, but the horses were plunging and kicking in their stalls and neighing like battle trumpets.

  It was a long, scary moment before she realized that the frightened horses were none that she knew. And if she didn’t know them, they didn’t know her—or her familiar. She hustled Kiga out of the stable.

  “I guess we can’t blame them for being afraid of you, boy. You’re a bit much first thing in the morning for tired horses. Go back to the house, there’s a good woods dog.”

  Kiga rumbled in annoyance but turned and loped back to the timber-and-wattle guildhouse. He was almost there when he had to dart to one side or be trod upon by a half-dressed man bursting from the house. With one hand the man held up his breeches as he ran; in the other he clutched a stout cudgel.

  As he passed the crouching woods dog, the man glanced at him. Then came a second startled look, a stumble, and a muffled curse; Pod held her breath, fearing the man would fall flat on his face. But he caught himself and staggered to a halt.

  The woods dog hurtled across the stableyard to place himself between his person and this unseemly stranger. He crouched at Pod’s feet, snarling.

  The man gestured at Kiga with the cudgel. His heavy black brows met in a fierce frown and his lips were set in a grim line. “That,” he said, glaring at Pod as if she played him a trick, “is a wolvering.”

  For a moment Pod didn’t know what he meant; then she remembered “wolvering” was the southern Kelnethi name for a woods dog. She nodded. “That’s Kiga, my familiar.”

  He studied her, looking, she knew, at her hair. “A girl with white hair and a wolvering.… You must be Pod.”

  “I
am.” She tilted her head, frowning a little. Was he a Beast Healer visiting from another chapterhouse?

  Then she realized that the breeches he wore were dark green; a Beast Healer’s would be brown. Her breath caught; she thought she knew who—or rather, what—he must be. “You—you’re from— Am I—” She was so excited she couldn’t finish.

  “I’m Leeston from the Healwort Guild. I arrived late last night.” He smiled, all fierceness gone. “And yes, you’re one of those chosen to go on this training journey, Pod.”

  She whooped with joy and grabbed Kiga’s front paws, pulling him up into a clumsy, shuffling dance.

  “We’re going, we’re going, we’re going!” she sang. “We’re going on a journey!”

  * * *

  A few days later, Pod stared at Leeston’s back as he rode ahead of the group of Beast Healer apprentices. She wished they weren’t so pressed for time. She would have liked to ask questions about the plants they passed. But time was in short supply; Leeston had been late getting to the chapterhouse, so now each day they rose before the sun and made camp after its setting.

  This journey, Pod decided, had stopped being an adventure. Now it was just a thing to be endured. She turned in the saddle to wave at the other ’prentices strung out behind her. Darby and Marisha, riding side by side, waved back. Their familiars, Hazel and Jobbin—a squirrel and a raven—rode on their shoulders. Jeord, lagging behind, didn’t see; he was busy talking to the grey wolf loping alongside his horse.

  Funny how Conor never talks about how sore his bottom gets when he goes on his journeys, she thought wryly as she turned back. He always leaves that part out. Or maybe he’s just usually not in this much of a hurry. I wonder if he’ll come back for a visit once the big horse fair in Balyaranna is over. She hoped so; she missed him.

  Sighing, she kicked off the stirrups and let her legs dangle. Risla, riding alongside her, said, “Good idea.” They both groaned. Risla’s familiar, a stag named Fleet, snorted at them as if in amusement as he walked beside his person.

  “Wonder how much further,” Risla said idly. She twirled a long blond curl around a finger. “Any idea?”

  “None. I’ve never been this far from the chapterhouse since I was brought there,” Pod answered. “But it had better be soon. The horses are just about done in.”

  “So’s my butt,” Risla said. “You?”

  “The same. Still, this makes a nice change from training at the chapterhouse.”

  “True—and we need to learn the wild plants sometime. This is as good a time as any, I suppose,” Risla said.

  Pod found her stirrups once more and patted Little Brown’s neck. The gelding wearily flicked an ear back at her. “Dare you to ask Leeston if we’re close.”

  “Hah! Do I look stupid? You heard him nearly bite Jeord’s head off this morning when he asked. But I suspect it’ll be another day or two.”

  “Jeord’s worried about Trebla.” An accident as a pup had cost the wolf two of the toes on one paw. Pod thought Trebla was keeping up well, but the freckle-faced Jeord was a worrier. At her back, Kiga grumbled and shifted on his riding pad. “Want to run alongside a bit, boy?”

  At the woods dog’s yip, she pulled out of the double line of riders and halted. She dismounted and helped Kiga down, then shook her head and smiled. She’d wager that a few miles down the road, Kiga would be begging to get back up. So be it; it was a small price to pay for her familiar. The woods dog started off as she hauled herself back into the saddle with a curse.

  “I heard that,” a grinning Darby sang out as he passed. Hazel, the squirrel perched on his shoulder, scolded her, one paw twined in her person’s hair to steady herself.

  Marisha, his twin, laughed and shook back her long, brown hair. Jobbin cawed, a raven’s laugh.

  “And you’ll likely hear worse before this is over,” Pod retorted with mock severity. “So get used to it, Darby-me-lad.”

  Six

  The rising sun had no strength to break through the grey clouds. A pity—the dawn was always Sether’s favorite part of the day, Otter thought as he looked out the temple door. All the monsters of the night flee before the sun.

  The little courtyard before the temple of Auvrian seemed even smaller than usual because of the crowd that filled it despite the louring sky.

  You’d think with all those different-colored cloaks that it would look cheerful, Otter thought vaguely as he looked out upon the gathered crowd: mostly bards in red, some minstrels in yellow, and a few townsfolk in other colors. It was good that so many had been able to come to honor Sether. Otter reminded himself to thank Priestess Kaelwynn for her well-cast spell of preservation, which had given them these few precious extra days.

  Behind him came the sounds of hammering as Cadfa the coffinmaker nailed down the lid of Sether’s coffin. It should look cheerful. Instead with all that red it looks like, like … He refused to give name to the image that came to mind.

  The hammering stopped, replaced by a soft rattle. Charilon came up beside him. “They’re almost ready,” the other bard said quietly.

  Otter nodded and turned back into the temple. Before him the plain coffin of pine, now sealed, rested upon its bier. As he approached it, Cadfa slid the second of the carrying poles through the iron loops that were to hold them. At a signal from the Temple of Auvrian’s priest, four sturdy young apprentices bent to the poles and, at a whispered “Now,” lifted bier and coffin to their shoulders.

  For a moment all was still. Then a soft drumbeat broke the silence. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone, it said. On the fourth beat, the pallbearers stepped out. Otter and Charilon fell in behind as the small cortege began Sether’s final journey. By unspoken agreement they went to either side of Rose, Sether’s apprentice. She wept softly as she walked.

  They passed through the silent crowd, which parted before them. Pacing slowly to the steady beat of the drum, the crowd of bards, apprentices, minstrels, and others followed the coffin out of the temple courtyard and up the long, wide path that led to the guild’s cemetery. From time to time a soft sprinkle of misty drizzle blew into their faces.

  Otter still couldn’t believe it wasn’t only a bad dream. Surely I’ll wake up any moment now.…

  But before him were the strong backs of the pallbearers, and beside him Rose wept for her master.

  It was a long walk at any time and always an extra league or two when it was a friend, Otter thought sadly. But at last the sorrowful parade reached the newly dug grave.

  The ceremony was simple. Ropes were slipped under the coffin; when it was secure, the coffin was lifted up over the grave. Then Sether’s remains were lowered into the dark earth. Many came forward to cast flowers they’d brought into the grave as the priest intoned the words of farewell.

  Charilon began singing “Lady of the White Rose,” Sether’s favorite song, his voice thick with tears. Others joined in, raggedly at first, but growing strong and true, doing honor to their friend.

  When the first shovelful of dirt thudded onto the coffin’s lid, many of the mourners began drifting away, unable to watch. They left the rest of their flowers by the side of the grave. Most went back down the winding path; others gathered in small groups, talking quietly and shaking their heads. One by one, they eventually wandered off. In the end, even Rose succumbed to the ministrations of her friends and left with them to a warm fire and a hot meal.

  At last only two figures stood by the graveside. A fine mist swirled against Otter’s face as he and Charilon looked down at the freshly turned dirt of Sether’s grave with its simple stone plaque. They began scattering the mass of flowers left behind over the grave.

  When they were finally done Otter said tentatively, “I didn’t see Widow Theras. Did she…?” He stopped at the sound of Charilon grinding his teeth.

  “No,” the other snapped. After a moment Charilon managed to say calmly enough, “I went there last night to tell her that we would be burying Sether today. I was hoping she’d come to her senses. Care to
take a guess who was there?”

  Otter closed his eyes and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Lady Romissa.”

  “How ever did you know?” Charilon said with heavy sarcasm. “You never told me you were a Seer, m’bucko.”

  “There are many things I’ve never told you, my lad. Let me make another prophecy: Theras wanted to come, but the good Lady Romissa—”

  “Opened her cursed big mouth and rode roughshod right over Theras. Threatened to snitch to their priest, the bloody cow.” Charilon spat in disgust.

  “And that was that,” Otter said.

  “And that was that,” Charilon agreed.

  Both men fell silent again. Poor Theras, Otter thought. Not only did she lose Sether, she’s had even the small comfort of saying farewell taken from her. Wonder if she’ll ever forgive herself for not having the backbone to stand up to that bitch?

  The faint wind tugged at their cloaks. “Gods, what a waste of a good man,” Otter murmured as he pulled his cloak a little closer.

  “And still we have no idea why. Even the heavens are weeping over it,” Charilon said, looking up at the leaden sky.

  “So they are.” Otter knelt and gently pushed aside the flowers covering the granite stone set in the center of the grave. He ran his fingers over the outlines of the harp chiseled above Sether’s name. The edges rasped sharp and new against the calluses on his fingertips. In time wind and weather would soften them, he knew, just as they’d softened the carvings in another stone not far away.

  Otter didn’t come here often; there were too many hopes, too many memories buried here, and one day soon enough it would be his turn. Was there still enough room, he wondered.…

  Otter must have turned his head—or Charilon knew him all too well—for the other bard said, “There’s still space on her right. The Guild Master’s made sure of it.”

  Otter nodded, then replaced the flowers and stood. He set off, wending his way among the stones marking the graves of his kind, seeking one particular resting place.