Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  Her hand still hurt, too. It will serve him right for being so mean, she told herself, and held the thought as a shield against any prickings from her conscience.

  But the closer she got to Bard Leet’s room, the more uneasy she grew. Bards, like Healers and Dragonlords, were among the favored of the gods. If she dared touch Leet’s harp against his wishes, would the ground open up beneath her? Would her fingers curl up with a palsy? She gnawed on her lower lip. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.…

  And if she turned around now and admitted she was too scared to go through with it? She could imagine what Rann would say, especially since it had been her idea. No, she’d not beg off and be named ’fraidy cat. She could be as brave as any boy, she told herself, even a prince. Kella squared her shoulders and walked on even though her mouth was suddenly dry. The ewer felt as heavy as lead in her hands.

  Almost there, almost there, almost there, a frightened little voice in the back of her mind chanted. Don’t let anyone notice me!

  A servant bearing a towering armload of used bed linens looked over his burden at her as she approached. His nose twitched like a hunting dog’s. “Hoy, there,” he called sharply.

  Certain she was discovered, Kella nearly threw down the ewer, ready to hike up her skirts and flee. But after a quick look at the bulbous red nose, she was certain she knew who he was: Griff, the laziest sack of bones in the castle according to Aralie. Griff, who’d grab any of the younger servants he could and make them do his work.

  Griff didn’t know who she was; Griff didn’t care who she was. He just wanted to dump his chores on her. She swept past him with all the bravado she could scrape together.

  “Sahrreh,” she replied, mimicking the accent of a Casna wharf brat so broadly she could barely understand herself. “Baht eft His Lahdship’s w’ter’s caowld, hit’ll be wurf moy hoide. Yeh knaow how hay is.”

  Kella dared a quick glance over her shoulder. The servant stood, flummoxed, mouthing her words, trying to make out just what she’d said to him. She couldn’t blame him; she’d laid that accent on with a shovel. Kella nearly choked on a torrent of suppressed giggles as she scurried down the hall and around the corner.

  There! She broke into a shuffling run. The scented water sloshed wildly in the ewer, threatening to spill over with every step. Third door down is Bard Leet’s.

  To her dismay, as she reached the door, she thought she heard Griff coming after all. She fumbled one-handed to open the heavy latch. It stuck. The footsteps came closer.

  Open, open, open, you stupid thing!

  The door swung open and she was through it like a racehorse at the drop of the starting rope. Kella shoved it with a foot; the thick door shut with a muffled thud. She stood, listening.

  Nothing. No one called after her from the hall, demanding to know her business bringing water to a man long awake. No one jumped up from the bed, angry at her invasion. She was safe.

  Kella let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “That was too close,” she said to the air. After a moment she set the ewer on the small table next to the door. As she turned, she ran her shaking fingers through her hair. An image of her mother’s calf’s-foot jelly quivering in a bowl came to her mind; she decided that was just what she felt like.

  “I’ve gone this far,” she muttered to herself. “I’m not quitting now. Best get on with this.”

  She made herself take the time to examine the room; Rann would demand a description as proof. Almost the first thing she noticed was the extravagance of two clothes chests at the foot of the bed.

  No, wait—only one was for clothes, she decided, after a quick look at the footboard and seeing that the carvings on both matched. The bigger chest was part of the room’s furnishings. The other must belong to Bard Leet; it was a different kind of wood, uncarved, and the wrong size and shape entirely. Kella thumped her forehead with the heel of her hand. Of course; that one must be the wooden traveling case for his harp.

  “The harp I’m not good enough to touch,” she muttered angrily, all nervousness burned away by a hot wave of remembered humiliation. While she hoped the case wasn’t locked, she didn’t have the nerve to risk that disappointment just yet. In a moment.…

  Instead she made herself walk around the room. It was much like any other guest chamber she’d seen in the castle while playing with Rann. Not as grand as some, true, but then Leet wasn’t a visiting prince. Still, it was large enough—and well-furnished enough—to do him honor; no odds and ends of the castle’s furniture for a master bard.

  Even the carvings match, Kella thought as she prowled the room, not like my things. I like these acorns and oak leaves—they’re pretty. A warm breeze from the open window brought in the scents of sunshine and the gardens. She looked with a touch of envy at the rich furnishings: a good-sized featherbed with thick curtains, now pulled back; a clothes cupboard; a washbowl and water pitcher with a pretty green-and-white glaze—neither one chipped—resting upon a little table by the window. By the head of the bed and half-hidden by the bed curtains was a second little table. And upon that table …

  Kella blinked, then grinned. There was no mistaking the shape under the covering of red silk. It wasn’t locked away where she couldn’t get at it after all. With her hands on her hips, she tossed her head and said, “We’ll see if I’m not good enough!”

  She stalked across the room, muttering, “Keep him busy, Rann.”

  Telling her conscience to hush its yammering, she tugged at the covering. It slid to the table in a cascade of heavy silk, covering the leather music case lying on the table.

  Before her stood Leet’s harp.

  Kella caught her breath at the beauty of it. The forepillar swept up, elegant as the neck of a swan; the harmonic curve rose from the soundbox of the instrument, dipped, and rose again to meet the forepillar, like “a salmon leaping,” just as Daera had said of a fine harp. Would she ever be able to afford anything half as good as this?

  “Oh, you are a beauty,” Kella whispered. She peered at the design burned into the wood at the inside “shoulder” of the harp where neck met soundbox. It was a bird, long, narrow wings outstretched in flight inside a circle of flowers. She hadn’t been able to see it clearly before. It was perfect in every tiny detail.

  The flowers look rather like ruffly morning glories. And the bird … Oh, I see. It’s a seagull. Hunh—not what I would have picked, she thought, remembering how a seagull once dropped a clam on her head. The resulting gash had bled and bled, and she’d cried for candlemarks. Besides, seagulls couldn’t sing worth a bent penny.

  She traced the gull’s outline with an outstretched finger. A roughness under her fingertip surprised her. Curious that the luthier would leave such a flaw, she bent closer, searching for the source. It was a few moments before she found it: a tiny gouge as if the artist’s hand had slipped right at the end of one wing. It looked as if the gull were missing part of the leading feather, like a finger missing its first joint. Still, it was pretty design.

  The breeze slipped through the window again and teased a haunting refrain from the strings as it blew over them. Kella stood enchanted as the harp “sang” for her. Then, unable to resist the temptation, she trailed a finger along the strings. The glissando hung shimmering in the air, calling to her.

  “Oh, how lovely,” she breathed. Still, she didn’t quite dare play it; if she was caught in here …

  If she was caught in here—even if she never touched the harp—she’d be lucky if she’d be able to sit down for a tenday.

  Oh, hang it all, she thought, just play the wretched thing. You might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. Just do the best you can with that hand.

  So she slipped around the little table and pulled the harp to nestle against her right shoulder. She placed her fingers on the strings, a touch light as a snowflake, then hesitated. What to play? “The Barley Boy”? “Autumn Dance”? She knew both songs well but both seemed too simple and rustic for such a f
ine instrument.

  Still—with her hand still so sore, it wasn’t as if she could play one of the more complicated pieces she’d been learning. She’d be lucky if she could play even scales without making a complete mess of it, let alone even something as easy as “The Barley Boy.”

  Then her fingers chose for her. As if directed by unseen hands over her own, they picked out a melody, at first slowly, then with growing confidence.

  It was a pretty tune, yet strangely eerie, and made the back of her neck prickle. The more she played, the worse the prickling got, until she feared the skin would crawl off. And now there was another feeling, crawling up her fingers, slithering up her arms like a snake. Cold, so cold, and heavy, and … evil.

  Her breath came short and fast. No more of this! She tried to pull her fingers away.

  But the harp wouldn’t let her go.

  Twenty-eight

  Rann watched Kella leave, then turned his attention to the bard. When the man finished his discussion with the steward, he started off again.

  Rann followed at a discreet distance. He hoped the bard was leaving the castle; that would be safest. But if he showed signs of returning to the part of the castle where his chamber was, Rann would intercept him and put Kella’s plan into play. She was right—it was something the vain master bard wouldn’t be able to resist.

  Rann stalked his prey here and there, pretending he was a snowcat on the hunt.

  The mountain ram wandered through the valley, unaware of the great snowcat stealing along behind him. Step by slow, stealthy step the big cat crept up on his unwary prey, using every blade of grass, every tiny bush as cover, moving like a ghost. The doomed ram walked on—

  Whoops! Bard Leet had finished whatever business he’d had in the great hall and was heading back to the one place he shouldn’t go—not yet. Rann leaped into action, dodging around a countess and between two arguing lords, almost tripping over Bramble as the wolfhound cut in front of him.

  “Bard Leet!”

  As the lean figure of the master bard turned, Rann trotted up to him. He made himself smile at the man. “I wonder if you could help me.”

  Bard Leet bowed and looked pleased as a cat. “Yes, Your Highness?”

  Rann launched into his appeal. “Shima Ilyathan sang a song from Jehanglan for Ke—” Oh dear, Rann thought, I can’t mention Kella and I don’t want to lie and say Shima Ilyathan sang it just to me, it was really for Kella, oh dear.…

  He swallowed hard and rattled on. “Er, ah … It’s a lullaby called ‘Blanket of Stars’ and it’s very pretty. I’d like to play it for my great-aunt, Duchess Alinya, when we go back to Casna, because I think she’d like it, but I’m not good enough yet to figure it out by myself”—here he patted his harp and gave it a mournful look—“and Shima Ilyathan doesn’t play, because they don’t have harps in Jehanglan. And Bard Daera’s gone to her family because her mother’s so ill.…”

  I hope her mother gets better. I don’t want anyone else to lose their mother.…

  Rann took a deep breath and gazed up at the bard, giving him the full treatment of what Healer Tasha called his “poor little lost puppy dog” look. Few adults could resist it, he’d found. “Could you help me? Please?”

  “Why, of course, Your Highness. I’d be delighted to.”

  “Thank you!” Rann said brightly. “I’d be ever so grateful.”

  He thought the bard would purr. Rann, young as he was, had learned that many people thought mostly of the benefit to themselves when they did him any favor, even if that benefit was as intangible as prestige. Rann didn’t care if Bard Leet asked for gold—not that he would, at least not openly—as long as he kept the man as far away from his chamber as possible. Switching from snowcat to sheepdog, Rann started for the gardens, knowing that Leet would follow. Which he did; but then—

  “Hmm—a moment, Your Highness. It would be easiest with two harps, I think. As I learn the song, I’ll begin teaching it to you. I’ll get my harp, meet you here, and we’ll go together to find Dragonlord Shima—”

  Rann nearly dropped his own harp. His heart felt as if it hammered in his throat; it was hard to force words past it. “Oh, ah—no! No! You can’t— You mustn’t—”

  At Leet’s surprised look, Rann babbled, “When we—uh, I mean when I was in my room a little while ago, I saw Shima Ilyathan in the garden—” Surrounded by all those silly girls. “—but it looked like he might be leaving soon. If we hurry, I think we can get there before he goes.…” Not that they’re likely to let him get away.

  “Then let us go,” Bard Leet said, “before he does leave. I’d like very much to hear this song.” He held out his hands in an unspoken offer to carry the harp.

  Rann handed it to him gladly. Kella was right; one of these days, Bramble was going to succeed in tripping him while he was carrying it, and that would be the end of the poor harp. Rann did not want it to be this day.

  * * *

  As he and the bard walked deeper into the fragrant heat of the gardens, Rann barely noticed various young noblewomen drifting past them in groups of two or three. Some pouted. Most had their heads together, whispering and giggling behind their hands, even as they made him quick courtesies.

  Rann shook his head in disgust. The young women sounded like a flock of particularly foolish birds, all twitter, twitter, twitter. Sillies, all of them—and Lady Niathea looks like she swallowed a wor—

  Niathea? Panic seized Rann. The last time he’d seen Lady Niathea, she’d been in the group surrounding Shima Ilyathan. He spun around, looking more closely at the young women already past him.

  They had also been in the group around the newest Dragonlord.

  Oh,no! Don’t tell me— He broke into a run, leaving the sputtering bard behind. If Shima Ilyathan was gone, Rann had no reason to keep the bard by him—and away from his room.

  Rann couldn’t let that happen. He wasn’t certain how long Kella needed, but he couldn’t let her get caught.

  He came around a bank of moss roses like a hound after a fox and stopped so short he nearly fell over. Thank all the gods, Shima Ilyathan was still there!

  Though he was not alone. He sat with Lady Karelinn of Kelneth on one of the white marble benches near the fountain.

  Oops. Rann had run in unannounced enough times on his uncle Beren and his aunt Beryl both before and right after they were married to know when his presence was, well, not as welcome as it might be another time. In embarrassment, he would take himself somewhere else as quickly as possible.

  But not this time. He didn’t care if Shima Ilyathan and Lady Karelinn were making calf-eyes at each other the way Uncle Beren and Aunt Beryl still did sometimes. He didn’t care if they were kissing. Not even that would drive him away—not this time. He had Shima Ilyathan where he wanted him, and that would keep Bard Leet where he wanted him. Rann heaved a sigh of relief.

  As he heard the bard come puffing around the bank of moss roses, Rann launched into his request, eyes as wide and appealing as he could make them. When he was done, Lady Karelinn smiled and gracefully withdrew. From the looks she and Shima Ilyathan exchanged, Rann knew that they meant to meet again later.

  If he had anything to do with it, it would be much, much later. He flopped down in the grass as bard and Dragonlord greeted each other.

  Conspiracies were hard work!

  * * *

  It was working. Despite his initial annoyance, Shima Ilyathan unbent under the bard’s genuine interest and appreciation of his people’s music. He sang the lullaby that Rann liked.

  “I see why you like it, Your Highness,” Leet said absently as he concentrated on teasing the melody out of the harp. “A lovely tune, simple, but sometimes those are the prettiest.”

  He played a phrase, at first tentatively, then with confidence. “There! I have it. I’ll set that to parchment for you, Prince Rann, so that you may learn it later with Daera when she returns.” Turning to Shima, he asked, “Could I impose upon you for more, Your Grace? Th
e harmonic modes your people use are fascinating.”

  Shima Ilyathan smiled, all traces of irritation gone now. “I’d be happy to. This is a wedding song; the two parts are sung back and forth between the women and the men. It tells of the joy and wonder of beginning a life together, and calls the blessings of the Lady of Spirits upon the new couple. This is the men’s part.”

  As Shima sang it, Rann sighed with pure happiness. This had been a good plan, a wonderful plan. Kella would have plenty of time.…

  Then the first part of the song ended, and before Shima could begin the women’s part, Bard Leet got to his feet, saying, “What a beautiful melody! I must ask your indulgence, Dragonlord. If you would be kind enough to wait, I’d like to get my music case for some parchment to write this out as you sing it. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Shima Ilyathan nodded, and the bard was on his way at a respectable trot before a horrified Rann could say anything. All he could do was stare at Leet’s back as the man disappeared around the moss roses.

  “Oh, no,” he whispered. “Oh, no.” There was nothing he could do but wait—and pray.

  “Prince Rann, is something wrong?” Shima Ilyathan asked.

  Rann jumped, making Bramble yip in surprise, and dragged his attention back from his watch for Bard Leet. “Wh—what do you mean?” He looked everywhere but at the newest Dragonlord.

  “You’re squirming as much as my little brother Tefira did when he sat on an anthill for all twenty-five verses of the Planting Song.” Shima Ilyathan shook his head, smiling, a faraway look in his eyes. “I still can’t believe he took that dare, the little ass.” Then, coming back from his memories, he asked crisply, “Is something wrong? And is there anything I can do, Your Highness?”

  Yes—you can run after Bard Leet and drag him back here, Rann wanted to say. He wished he could tell Shima Ilyathan what was afoot; he liked him almost as much as he liked Linden Rathan.