Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  Leet bared his teeth in a fierce grin. “Perfect,” he whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”

  * * *

  Raven walked briskly to meet Arisyn. The boy hadn’t found something for his mother during their first foray to the Gold Quarter, so they were going back. It was just as well; Yarrow had a few lords and ladies coming to the camp to see some horses and she wanted them to see Stormwind, too. But the last thing Raven wanted was to stay in camp tonight. For some reason he was restless and wanted to be out and about this evening.

  Soon he and Ari were browsing the offerings in the quarter. Just as Raven was certain that they’d have no more luck this time, Ari spotted something.

  It was a circular, domed brooch of silver delicately inlaid with swirling gold lines. Set in the center was a round piece of honey-colored amber.

  “Just the thing for my mother’s shawls!” Arisyn whispered in Raven’s ear. “I hope it’s not too much, though.…”

  One look at the expression on Arisyn’s face and Raven said, “Quick—the merchant’s coming this way. How much do you have to spend? That should do it—now hand over your money and leave this to me.”

  A short while later they were leaving the Gold Quarter. Arisyn’s belt pouch was lighter by a few coins—and heavier by a silver brooch.

  “Where did you learn to bargain like that?” Arisyn asked in awe.

  “That? That was nothing. If Rynna was here, we’d have done better,” Raven said. “She was determined I wouldn’t embarrass her when went to fairs in Thalnia, so she beat some skills into my head.”

  “I thought you said she was a sea captain, not a merchant,” Arisyn said. By the tone of his voice, Raven could tell that Maurynna had lost status in his eyes.

  “She was both. These days … These days she’s doing other things,” Raven said vaguely. “So—where are we bound to now?”

  “Somewhere. Anywhere. I must be back before the bell for the last—”

  “Ho! If it isn’t little Ari and his pet plowboy! How’s your plow horse, peasant?” a drunken voice caroled behind them. Laughter followed the gibe.

  Raven sighed and turned around. Sure enough, it was Tirael, Dunric, Coryn, and a few more of Tirael’s hangers-on. Tirael waved a wineskin and leered at them in mock fellowship. “I’d offer you a taste, plowboy, but it would be wasted on a peasant like you.”

  As Tirael and his group closed the distance between them, Raven noticed the crowd around them disappear with amazing speed.

  “I’m not a plowboy, and Stormwind isn’t a plow horse,” Raven said, suddenly fed up with the insults. “As you’d find out if I could enter the great races here, my lord. But since I’m not noble…” He spread his hands.

  “Since you’re not noble, you’ll never have to prove that boast, will you, plowboy?” Tirael said. He tipped the wineskin and took a long drink, then pointedly turned his back on them.

  “It’s not a boast!” Arisyn yelled. “You all think you’re such good judges of horses—well, you’re nothing but a pack of self-important idiots! None of you know a good horse from a spavined nag. You just look at the trappings on its back and judge from that. And you and Tirael are the biggest fools of the lot, Coryn!”

  Coryn goggled drunkenly at the furious boy; it was plain that he never expected such fire from his young cousin. Tirael, though, spun around. He came swiftly toward them, moving with the deadly grace of a snowcat, his angry eyes fixed on Arisyn. His fist went back.

  Raven hastily stepped between them, bracing himself to take the blow. He couldn’t let Arisyn take a beating on his—and Stormwind’s—account; certainly not from a full-grown man. The boy could be seriously hurt.

  He just hoped he could leash his own temper and not retaliate. This was Cassori, not Yerrih or Thalnia. Tirael would be in the right no matter what provocation he offered.

  Stopping barely a pace from Raven, Tirael glared at him; it certainly didn’t appear to improve the other man’s temper that he had to tilt his head back to do so. “Damned Yerrins think you’re as good as anyone, isn’t that right, plowboy? But just remember this: You’re not noble. And that means you’re nothing here in Cassori.” He slapped Raven.

  Raven bit his lip against the pain and said nothing, but his fists clenched. A slap was for an insolent slave, not a free man.

  “Now get out of my—”

  “What’s going on here?” a gruff voice demanded.

  Everyone jumped. Raven dared to turn his head, enough to see a small group of mail-clad men approaching. They wore the white shoulder sashes of the fair’s peacekeepers. He recognized the stern-faced noble who led them as Lord Huryn, High Marshal of the fair, and breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Huryn was known to be a fair man—for a Cassorin.

  “You two,” the High Marshal said, pointing a gloved finger at Raven and Tirael. “Move away from each other.”

  Raven stepped back as Arisyn skittered out of his way.

  “This peasant was insulting me,” Tirael argued.

  “I don’t care, Tirael. Do as I say, then I’ll hear your story.”

  After a long moment, Tirael stepped back as well.

  Huryn scowled at them both from under heavy black eyebrows. “You!” he said, jabbing a finger at Raven. “What’s your name and business at this fair? I’ve seen you riding through the fair the past few days but I’ve never seen you here before this year.”

  “My name is Raven Redhawkson, my lord. I’m here with my aunt, Yarrow Whitethorndaughter, a horse trader. I came ahead to hold her space for her. It’s my first year at the fair.”

  Huryn nodded. “Be sure I’ll make certain of your claim, young man. Yarrow Whitethorndaughter is well known here and well respected. I’ll not have her name used by a rascal.” He paused a moment, one gloved finger tracing the line of his bearded jaw, his eyes distant. Then a slight smile crooked his lips. “Raven Redhawkson, hmm? I believe I’ve heard that name before.”

  Abruptly he turned back to Tirael. “Very well then, Tirael. How did this Raven Redhawkson insult you?”

  “He called me a fool,” Tirael snapped. “This plowboy dared to call me a fool.” He added sullenly, “My lord.”

  Huryn stared at him like a man who’d found a beetle in his bread. “Indeed?” To Raven he went on, “Did you?”

  “No, my lord earl, I did not call my lord Tirael a fool.” Never mind what I was thinking. “I merely said that Stormwind—my horse—is not a plow horse.”

  So softly that Raven almost didn’t hear it, Lord Huryn said, “I can well imagine you did.” The faint smile appeared once more, only to disappear an instant later, replaced by Huryn’s customary scowl. “And that was all you said?”

  Raven nodded. “Oh—and that I wasn’t a plowboy.”

  “Hardly an insult, Tirael, unless you’re even more sensitive than my lady wife during her moon time,” Huryn said dryly.

  Tirael’s lips thinned to a pale line.

  “My lord?” Arisyn said in a small, frightened voice. “I’m the one who called Tirael a fool.”

  “So I heard, Arisyn,” Lord Huryn said. “Quite clearly. I don’t like being lied to, Tirael. Remember that. I also saw you strike this man for no reason.”

  “He got in my way!” Tirael said in outrage. “You saw him!”

  “I saw him protecting Arisyn from your fists. Which likely saved you from being banned from this fair and possibly every fair to come. Or had you forgotten that Arisyn is Lord Sevrynel’s foster son, and all this,” Huryn waved a hand to take in the cheerful uproar that was the fair, “is by Lord Sevrynel’s goodwill?”

  The soft, regretful “Damn!” slipped out before Raven could stop it. He instantly regretted it as Lord Huryn frowned at him.

  Tirael leapt upon this sudden advantage. “I ought to have you whipped for that insolence, but I’m going to be generous,” he said in a voice sweet as honey and sharp as a dagger. He smiled, a slow, vicious smile. “We race—your plow horse against my Brythian.”

  One of the yo
ung nobles guffawed. “Brythian will grind him into the dirt! This I must see!”

  “Distance, my lord?” This was critical; Raven knew that Tirael’s mount was a Waylshire. And a Waylshire was so fast over a short distance that Raven wasn’t sure even a Llysanyin could beat one. He wished he could consult with Stormwind first, but to those unused to Llysanyins, it would seem a bizarre—if not downright mad—request. Worse, this lot would see it as a way to worm out of the challenge.

  The smile widened. “From the Stone Witches to Radlyn’s Ford.”

  Hellfire; that’s perfect for a Wayl—

  “Oh, no, Tir,” one of his other friends objected. “It’ll be over too quick! I want to see our little plowboy choking in your dust for a good deal longer than that. Come on now, Brythian’s good for it.”

  “He’s right! Make it there and back,” another urged. “Hell, you’ll be able to walk Bryth back and still win!”

  Pleeeaaase …

  For a long moment Raven feared Tirael wouldn’t rise to the bait. At last he shrugged and said, “You’re right. Bryth can do it easily. There and back, plowboy, the day before the Queen’s Chase. Do you agree to the course?”

  Thank you, thank you, thank you! “I do.”

  “Good. And the wager I propose is fifty gold crowns.”

  Gasps greeted this pronouncement. Raven blinked, momentarily stunned. By the gods, never mind just fixing the roof on the stable—he and Yarrow could build a whole new one! Still, a wager that size changed things. It was one thing if it had been for one gold piece. Even he could come up with that much, though he’d owe Yarrow for a long time; to a noble like Tirael, it would be nothing. So he wouldn’t feel bad about taking the man for that much—indeed, it would barely cover the wergild that Raven considered the man owed Stormwind for the insults heaped upon the stallion.

  But fifty? Oh, yes—that was another game altogether. He’d have to reveal what Stormwind was and give the man an honorable way out.

  Damn; he would’ve enjoyed seeing the look on Tirael’s oh-too-handsome face when he lost. Badly.

  Raven took a deep breath like a man coming up from deep water and said, “You must know, my lord, that I don’t have that kind of gold, so I can’t match your wager. So what do you get if you win?” Which you bloody well won’t.…

  “You and that creature are mine, plowboy. You become my serf,” Tirael said in a voice like a dagger slipping into its sheath. “And that nag will spend its days pulling a cart.”

  Dead silence now. To Raven it seemed even the crickets held their breath. “Even that much gold is a poor price for a man’s freedom, my lord,” he said quietly. “But I know I’ll win, so I’m not afraid. You, though, will want to reconsider when you know what Stormwind is.”

  “I don’t care what you claim that Shamreen nag is,” Tirael snapped. “I’ll race you no matter what! Do you think you can scare me off? Is this your way of trying to weasel out of a race you know you’ll lose? Bah! I’ve seen mice with more courage than you!”

  To Huryn he said, “I ask you to witness my word on this, my lord. I’ll race this scum no matter what he claims that horse is! And now I’ve had enough of him—I’ll see as much as I like when he’s mine and I can school him well to respect his betters.”

  The High Marshal said mildly, “I suggest you listen, Tirael.”

  But Tirael shook his head. “I don’t listen to serfs, my lord—even those who are not quite yet mine. You have witnessed, my lord, that I said that I would race him no matter what. Now also witness that should I win, he’s mine and that he agrees to it—he hasn’t done that yet.”

  “Before I agree, my lord, will you witness that Lord Tirael has refused to hear my warning?” Raven asked. “I’ll not have it said that I tricked him to get my hands on his gold.”

  Lord Huryn nodded, his face grave. “I will bear witness to that, Raven Redhawkson, before any man or woman in the realm. You tried to warn Lord Tirael as an honorable man should do and he refused to hear your words as a reasonable man ought to. On his head be it.”

  Sudden doubt filled Tirael’s eyes at Huryn’s words. But it was too late; Tirael could not back down now, Raven knew, without being named craven.

  “Now, Raven Redhawkson, do you agree to Lord Tirael’s terms if you should lose?” the High Marshal asked.

  “I agree,” Raven said.

  The old, cocky Tirael was back in an instant. He smiled like a wolf. “Then I look forward to whipping your back raw, plowboy—because I know that you’re bluffing and I’m going to prove it.”

  The sound of a distant commotion brought Huryn around like a hound questing on a scent. Tirael hurried to say, “By your leave, my lord, I’ve had enough of this peasant.”

  He backed away and called his friends to him. “Let’s be off, lads, where we don’t have to breathe the stink of field muck. To Garron’s!” He hastened off, followed a moment later by his surprised friends.

  Wait a moment—something’s not right.…

  For a moment Raven thought Lord Huryn would call Tirael back, for the High Marshal looked like a man trying to remember something. The same thing, perhaps, Raven was trying to think of?

  But a redoubling of the distant racket made the black-browed High Marshal swear. “I must leave now. But listen well, Tirael,” he called after the other man where he had paused for a hurried conference with his friends, “if there’s any trouble from either of you before the race, I’ll have you up before my lord Sevrynel and request that he ban the troublemaker for five years—and rest assured I will find out who’s responsible.”

  With that, Lord Huryn called his men to him and hurried off into the night. Raven put his hand on Arisyn’s shoulder and said quietly, “Time for us to be off, Ari. Despite what Lord Huryn just said, I don’t trust our dear Lord Tirael not to cause some kind of trouble if he can.” He nodded at a face peering around the corner of a tent. It ducked back when it saw him watching.

  Before it could return, Raven urged Arisyn into the darkness between two tents. They quickly walked away. After a time, Arisyn asked, “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know,” Raven admitted. “No place particular, I just wanted to get away from them.”

  “Shall we go see what all that noise was about?” Arisyn said. Before Raven could object that a brawl was the last place they’d want to be, Arisyn went on, “It was a happy sort of noise, don’t you think? Like people cheering.”

  That made Raven stop. The boy was right; he hadn’t really thought about it, but the clamor hadn’t had the knife-edge feel of a fight about it. Curious now himself, he said, “Let’s go see.”

  Arisyn grinned and set off like a hound on a scent. Raven groaned and ran after him. Soon they had come upon the edge of an excited crowd kept back by soldiers bearing torches to illuminate a lane.

  “What’s afoot, mistress?” Raven asked a matronly woman who was peering eagerly around those in front of her—though he thought he might know.

  The woman turned and looked up at him. Despite the crow’s-feet around her eyes and wisps of grey hair escaping from her head kerchief, she looked as excited as a young girl. “Eh? Haven’t you heard yet, lad? A messenger rode in a bit earlier to say that there are Dragonlords coming tonight! Imagine that! I didn’t get to see them when they were in Casna during the regency debate a while back, I had to go to my daughter in Oakbridge, her youngest was that ill.… But Dragonlords came to Casna—you’ve heard of that? Wild times, it was, wild times, what with attacks on the Dragonlords, the young prince kidnaped, black magery, and the gods only know what else! Or so my second cousin Tarrant said—and he heard it straight from his niece who got it from her neighbor what has a lad as works in the tavern in their town and he heard it from a carter passing through.” Here she drew another breath and went on, “And that carter said she once cussed out Linden Rathan himself before she knew who he was!”

  Here the goodwife looked a little doubtful. “Don’t know if that last was true, young D
ar said she was an old woman and maybe a bit daft—but I’m sure as sure that all the rest was true!” With that, she turned back to her eager watch on the road.

  “I wasn’t there either,” Arisyn said mournfully. “But my uncle said it was awful. He still hates to talk about it, it was that close to civil war and all.”

  “Rynna did say it was damned scary at times,” Raven said absently as he looked over the heads of the crowd. Luckily there were relatively few Yerrins or Thalnians in this part of the crowd; he had a clear view of the lane.

  “Your friend from Thalnia was there?” Arisyn asked, all puppy-eagerness. “Did she ever get to see the Dragonlords up close?”

  “Indeed, yes, she was here. And I know for a fact that she’s certainly seen Linden Rathan up close,” Raven said, somehow keeping a straight face. He watched Maurynna’s stock with Arisyn soar again.

  “I must speak with her one day! Did she get to see his Llysanyin as well?”

  Thank all the gods that Arisyn turned away then to watch the road once more; else Raven would have burst out laughing and given away the game.

  Then suddenly, out of the blue, Raven knew what had seemed wrong before. Tirael had never sworn before Lord Huryn that he would pay the fifty gold pieces if he lost. Raven had put his freedom and Stormwind’s hostage to chance. Tirael had risked nothing.

  There was no way to get out of the race without damaging his reputation—and Yarrow’s—irreparably.

  You wretched, thieving cur, Raven thought in a cold fury. You’ll pay for this.

  Twenty-three

  “Uncle Beren? May I speak to you, please?”

  The regent of Cassori looked up in surprise from the reports he and Steward Lewell were going over. His nephew, Prince Rann, stood in the doorway, standing straight as a soldier. Bony little-boy ankles peeked out from beneath his linen nightshirt. His nurse hovered behind him.

  “Of course, Rann,” Beren said. “Is something bothering you?”

  Rann considered. “Yes,” he said at last. Then, with an endearing gravity far beyond his years, “But what I’ve really come for is to ask a boon, my lord regent.”