Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  Oh, my—look at those faces. There’s going to be some with nightmares tonight!

  Otter rubbed his hands in delight; he might well be one of the victims. These two were good, and they had a seemingly inexhaustible fund of terrifying yarns. But from time to time as he listened to the duo, the question nagged at the back of his mind: What did their home village have to do with their tales?

  He got his answer when, at the end of their turn, one of the youngsters asked, “How do you two know so many scary stories?”

  The siblings looked at each other and laughed. Daralinia said, “How can we not know scary stories, spratling, considering what our village is near?”

  “What’s that?” several voices chorused.

  “Why, the forest that holds the grave of Gull the Blood Drinker. Lost in the woods, it is now,” Elrin said, his voice low and menacing. “But you can find it—if you’re foolish enough. Go into the deepest, darkest part, until you can’t walk anymore, until the trees are crowding around you, and where on even the brightest summer day the sunlight is sickly pale.”

  The wind sobbed and whistled outside the windows. Something—leaves? Twigs? Skeleton fingers?—tap-tapped against the glass.

  Elrin whispered harshly, “Go on until you feel eyes boring into your back. Go on until you hear whispers just at the edge of your hearing, and something chitters soft and cold from the leaves above you. That’s when you know your luck’s run out. Say whatever prayers you know. You’re in the heart of the Haunted Wood.”

  The window latch rattled as if something more than the wind wanted entry.

  “And if you’ve been very unlucky indeed, you’ll find yourself in front of a certain tree. It’s the witch spruce they planted over that evil, evil soul to keep it from walking.… Oh, yes, it’s still there, grown huge on the dark spirit feeding it, its branches waving even when there’s no wind, for Gull … still … seeks…”

  Here Elrin waved his arms and swayed like a tree in a storm while he made a sound so exactly like the creaking of a branch—or perhaps a branch stretching out—that Otter looked up and down the dark hall. Not that anything would be there …

  The low, menacing voice whispered, “For Gull … still … seeks … BLOOD!”

  As Elrin shrieked the last word, Dalarinia lunged at two girls sitting huddled together under a blanket and pulled it up over their heads just as a blast of thunder rattled the walls. The girls screamed; so did at least half the audience. A moment later, everyone burst into laughter, the two “victims” loudest of all.

  “That was fun,” one said when she finally caught her breath. “Tell another story!”

  “Yes! Yes!” demanded a chorus.

  “Another night,” Elrin said. “It’s late, sprats, and time to sneak back to your beds.”

  That was Otter’s signal to take himself off before he was seen. He grabbed his mug, stood up stiffly—Owww, how long was I sitting there, anyway?—and scuttled off, leaving behind the sounds of scraping chairs and lively chatter. It wouldn’t do to let the younglings know that they’d had an unseen audience; let them think—as he and his friends had thought—that it was a cleverly kept secret only they enjoyed.

  All his friends, that is, but Sether. Poor Sether; never could stand those gatherings, Otter thought, tired but content as he made his way back up the stairs to his room. Wonder if there’s anyone like him in this bunch—

  He stopped dead on the stairs. “By all the gods,” he said aloud. “Now I remember what it was about Leet at Dragonskeep.”

  Otter looked quickly around before starting up the stairs once more. Gods, if anyone found him here at this hour, in the middle of a thunderstorm, talking to himself, they’d be certain he was going soft in the head.

  But he’d finally dragged up the memories that had been teasing him since visiting Jaida’s grave: seeing Leet in the library at Dragonskeep. Jenna, one of the Keep’s archivists, later showing him the books that Leet had read during his only visit to the stronghold of the Dragonlords. His own astonishment at Leet’s choice of reading matter: tales of hauntings, tales of blood and death and murder—especially tales about Gull the Blood Drinker.

  Something hit the wall outside with a ear-shattering crack. After swallowing his heart once more, Otter told himself it was just a tree branch, likely from the old apple tree in the courtyard, poor thing. There’ll be trees down all over Bylith tomorrow, I’ll wager!

  A cold shiver rippled down his spine. Another memory came back to him; he “heard” Linden say once more, “Let’s hope that witch spruce they planted over his grave still keeps his soul pinned down.”

  Let’s hope no storms like this ever hit those woods, Otter thought, listening to the wind outside shrieking like a mad thing as he let himself into his room once more.

  He pulled off his clothes, shivering as he slipped back into his bed, then wrapped the blankets around himself like a cocoon. He shook his head at the thought of ever going into the woods that held the grave of one of the most evil men he’d ever heard of. He could easily imagine that witch spruce reaching for him.

  Brrrr! Then, Why anyone would found a village near there, the gods only know! And odd how many good young bards have come out of Little Coppice.… With that, Otter slipped into an uneasy sleep as the thunderstorm snarled its way into the distance.

  Fourteen

  Pod shifted her pack slightly and wiped the sweat from her forehead. By all the gods, Fiarin could walk fast on those long legs of his! It was all she could do to keep up with him and Kaeliss.

  At long last Fiarin stopped, motioning them to do the same. A few more paces, then he knelt and studied something on the ground. Some kind of mushrooms, Pod thought. She halted by Kaeliss’s side, glad to see the other girl was breathing hard as well.

  “Does he always walk this fast?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” Then the young Wort Hunter gave her a rueful grin. “Don’t worry—you’ll get used to it … eventually.”

  “Gah.” Pod wondered if she could ask him to slow down for Kiga’s sake—though the woods dog seemed happy with the pace.

  Kaeliss giggled. “I know. Now you know why the others call him—”

  “Come look at this, girls! Morels! We’ll eat well tonight.”

  * * *

  It had been, Pod thought as she walked behind Kaeliss, a few hectic but productive days. Fiarin was indeed a good teacher and he’d been pleased to discover that she was already well versed in all the basic and even some of the rarer herbs.

  “Who taught you?” he’d asked.

  “Conor of Red Dale, now of the chapterhouse of Grey Holt,” she answered proudly. “He’s a good friend and teaches me many things whenever he’s at the chapterhouse. But he’s in great demand among the nobility for he’s very skilled at healing and with medicines, so he’s not at Grey Holt very often.”

  “And he had a very attentive student when he was there,” Fiarin said in approval. “The best teacher in the world can’t teach someone who won’t learn. You’re doing very well.”

  Pod felt herself blush. Truth was, Conor was her hero. So whatever he’d taught her, she’d learned with fierce attention to detail. Since she wanted to make Conor proud, she listened to Fiarin as if his every word were carved in gold.

  Oh, yes—she’d make Conor proud of her no matter what it took. She just wished that Fiarin didn’t walk so fast! And was it her imagination—or was he spending less time showing them herbs than he had in the previous days?

  Maybe he just wants to get somewhere special, Pod thought. But I do wish his legs weren’t so long!

  * * *

  As they journeyed on, Pod noticed that Fiarin was searching for something—and not finding it. Day by day—indeed, almost candlemark by candlemark—he was growing more and more annoyed. At first Pod thought she was imagining it, but one evening as she and Kaeliss picked berries for the evening meal together, Kaeliss brought it up.

  “So it’s not just me imagining things,” Pod sai
d in relief.

  “I don’t think so,” Kaeliss said. “True, I haven’t known Fiarin all that long—I only came here from Pelnar last winter—but while he might be a bit of a stick-in-the-mud at times, he’s usually not so, well, cranky.”

  “Let’s hope he finds what he’s looking for—ow!” Sucking her thumb, Pod thought, These bushes have thorns like sewing needles!

  * * *

  They sat around the campfire, toasting strips of meat from the rabbit Kiga had caught earlier, washing them down with the last of the wine they’d brought with them.

  They’d had a good day. Fiarin had been pleased with their progress and the questions they’d asked. It hadn’t hurt that they’d found a few white mandrake plants. He’d laughed when Pod nervously asked him if it was true that a mandrake screamed when you pulled it out.

  “Naught but an old wives’ tale,” he’d reassured her. And throughout the rest of the day they’d hear him chuckle now and again as if remembering.

  Their good fortune had done much to restore Fiarin’s usual pleasant humor and the food and wine had done the rest. Pod gazed contentedly into the fire.

  “We did well finding those plants,” Fiarin said, popping a berry into his mouth. “About the only thing rarer than white mandrake is King’s Blood. Now that’s a find. Very rare, it is, very rare.”

  “So that Wort Hunter was lucky, wasn’t he?” Pod asked. “The one who found so many of ’em together. Fifty, wasn’t it?”

  Fiarin frowned at her. “What are you talking about? I’ve never heard of such a thing! Now I once—”

  Kaeliss turned to Pod and said excitedly, “So that was it! Just before we left camp I overheard Baylor, Fenris, and Readen talking together. Something about a fire at a chapterhouse and about someone who’d made a big find—but they never said of what. Was it really fifty? I hope we’re that fortunate!” She laughed. “As long as we’re asking the gods for the impossible, let’s ask for twice that! Who was it? They didn’t say.”

  Fiarin abruptly held up a hand for silence. “A fire? Where?” he demanded. “Do you know?”

  “At White River,” Kaeliss answered. “It started in the storerooms, Baylor said.”

  “Gods, no!” Fiarin choked out. “That’s where most of the King’s Blood is kept. Fifty plants isn’t enough—the lung sickness will be worse this winter. Oh gods—and Master Emberlin needs…”

  The older Wort Hunter buried his face in his hands for a time. At last he looked up. “Who found the plants?”

  “Someone name Curlew—no, that wasn’t it. It wasn’t a Yerrin na—” Pod began.

  A sharp sound from Fiarin silenced her. Pod looked across the fire at him. The dancing flames cast strange shadows on his face; his eyes looked like black pits. Despite the warm night, a chill crept down her spine.

  When he spoke, his voice was cold and hard. “Was the name … Currin?”

  Pod had to swallow twice before she could answer. “Yes. That was the name. Currin.”

  Fifteen

  Raven was up early, long before the rest of the inn’s lodgers. He groomed Stormwind and saw to it that the stallion had fresh grain, hay, and water before he went in to break his own fast. As he finished his meal he heard footsteps and voices upstairs.

  For a moment he thought about waiting until Arisyn came down. He hadn’t seen the boy last night; the Cassorin nobles had taken a private room for dining. He wondered if Arisyn had come up with any guesses yet. He’d love to hear them. But likely the boy’s elders would take it ill that a commoner approached them.

  No, he’d wait and see if the boy found him at the horse fair as he’d said he would. And it was high time he got on the road; he wanted to get Yarrow’s message to Lord Sevrynel’s Master of the Fair. He went off to the stable to saddle Stormwind.

  Later, as Stormwind followed him out into the stable yard, Raven saw the two young men who were traveling with Arisyn come out of the inn. One jerked a thumb at Stormwind and sneered, “You’re supposed to hitch a plow to it, you fool—not saddle it.”

  The other hooted with laughter.

  Stormwind turned his head so that he could see the two men, and pinned his ears back. Raven laughed as the stallion snorted in disgust.

  “Are you so certain of that, my lords?” he asked with a grin as Stormwind, with no signal from him, sank down on his haunches and pirouetted in place so that he faced the road.

  Raven swung into the saddle and gathered up the reins. Stormwind, with a dismissive flick of his tail, paced regally down the lane before breaking into a high, floating trot.

  Raven turned in the saddle and waved farewell. “I’ll see you at the fair, my lords,” he called to their astonished faces.

  Now, why does that one fellow look familiar? Was he ever at Aunt Yarrow’s holding?

  But somehow that didn’t feel right. After a while Raven gave it up and set himself to enjoy the ride.

  * * *

  As he topped the hill and looked down onto the fields below, Raven’s first impression of the great horse fair he’d heard about all his life was of an anthill, an anthill that had been kicked open, no less. He’d listened to travelers’ tales about the fair and knew from them that it was the largest in the Five Kingdoms, but he’d never expected anything like this! It was larger than many towns he’d been in.

  He eased Stormwind onto the grass along the road and out of the way of traffic; then he sat and just stared. Dear gods, it was enough to take one’s breath away.

  After a time Raven realized that there was order to the seeming madness. In even this short time, horse lines had been set out and temporary roads delineated. Below him a rough “wagon wheel” was taking shape. The anthill had not been kicked; it knew exactly what it was about.

  At the hub of the “wheel” was a large tent of yellow silk, just as Yarrow had described to him. It was surrounded by a circle of slender poles, many of which already had pennons fluttering from their tops.

  That was where he had to go. Raven patted his belt pouch, feeling the stiff hide tube that held his aunt’s letter through the leather. Suddenly he realized how great a responsibility Yarrow had laid upon him.

  Not to hold her place, no. True, it was an important task. But any of her grooms and handlers could have done it—if not as quickly as he and Stormwind had.

  No, it was up to him and Stormwind to make the first impression, to play the ambassadors for the future colts. For the future of Yarrow’s holding.

  Raven took a deep breath. “Let’s go, boy,” he said.

  Stormwind tossed his head and started off once more.

  * * *

  At the great yellow tent, Raven dismounted. “Let’s hope there aren’t too many nobles’ stewards ahead of us,” he murmured to the Llysanyin, “or we’ll be here all day.”

  As he crossed the threshold into the tent, Raven paused to let his eyes adjust. While the inside of the tent was not as dim as he’d first thought, it was a far cry from the blazing sunlight outside.

  Trestle tables had been set up around the perimeter of the tent. Clerks sat at them, quill pens busily scratching in account books as they accepted fees from the men and women in line and deposited the coins in the iron-bound wooden boxes at their sides. Men and women in all manner of dress milled about, some in livery, some quite well dressed, many in plain but good clothes, and a good number in the shabby finery or motley of mummers, minstrels, jugglers, and acrobats.

  Raven looked around in bewilderment. Which line should he get into? Or did it matter?

  A small, wizened old man wearing blue-and-orange livery appeared at his side. “Horse trader, merchant, blacksmith, or entertainer, good sir?” the old man asked briskly.

  “Horse trader,” Raven answered, remembering that blue-and-orange were Lord Sevrynel’s colors. This was no doubt one of the understewards who ran the fair.

  The old man studied him. “I’ve never seen you here before, sir. How many horses have you to sell?”

  “I’m here f
or Yarrow Whitethorndaughter. She’s been delayed by bad weather and a blocked pass. She sent me ahead.”

  “Ah!” The old face broke into a gap-toothed grin. “Yarrow Whitethorndaughter is well known and much respected here. I must tell you, sir, that we were getting a bit worried whether she was coming this year. Usually she’s here before this. You’ve a letter from her?”

  Raven patted his belt pouch in answer.

  “Excellent.” The old man indicated a long line of fairly well-dressed men and women. “That’s where you go, Master…?” He tilted his head in question.

  “Redhawkson. Raven Redhawkson, sir. Yarrow is my aunt.” He almost added And partner, but the words still felt awkward on his tongue, as if he bragged.

  Bushy grey eyebrows went up and the old steward stared at Raven for a long moment.

  “We’d heard that Yarrow has taken a nephew as her partner,” the old man said slowly, fingering his chin. There was an odd note in his voice. It was not, Raven thought, unfriendly; just … thoughtful.

  “That would be me,” Raven replied, unsure of just what was happening and surprised that word of Yarrow’s new partner had spread this far.

  “Indeed.” Now the old man looked beatifically up at him and said, “Just take your place before that table, Master Redhawkson, and Elamry will see to everything.” He tilted his head toward a table where sat a grey-haired woman, busily writing with a quill pen in the account book before her.

  With another gap-toothed smile and a slight bow, and the old man turned away to assist someone else. Raven took his place at the end of the line, still wondering.

  Though the clerk and her assistant were brisk and efficient, the line was long. And while many accepted the site in the horse lines allotted to them, others argued for a better position in the camp. Raven wondered how many prevailed; very few, he thought, judging by the sour expressions as the petitioners passed him.