Bard's Oath (Dragonlord)

by Joanne Bertin

  Now Brin held out one hand, thumb down. Next he made a motion as if pressing something down. Linden held his breath, and, his own thumb resting on the false knot, mimicked the boy’s action.

  The knot sank slowly under his finger. Brin nodded and made a twisting motion. Linden did the same. As he turned the knot, something clicked. He removed his thumb; the knot remained depressed. Linden hooked his forefinger into the hole and lifted. A section of floor three boards wide and a little more than an ell long came up. He set it carefully to one side.

  Brin, who had been smiling and nodding at Linden for all the world like a tutor with a clever student, lost interest in the proceedings and scooted away on his bottom. He sat turning the coldfire over and over in his hands, cooing happily to it.

  Linden peered into the hidden compartment. It was longer and wider than its lid, extending under the floor on all sides, though not beyond the wide workbench.

  It was, he thought, cleverly done; as long as the table remained in its place, no footstep would reveal the hollow area beneath. He sent the coldfire into the hole and saw that what he had taken for the floor in the dimness was in fact a dark length of cloth tossed over something. Linden reached down and pulled it up.

  Silk! And heavy, too. Who’d waste such costly stuff by putting it in a hole? Wait—what’s this? He called the coldfire back from the hole. By its light he studied the fabric spilled across his lap, looking for the slight roughness that had caught his fingertips.

  The silk was not black as he’d first thought, but a blood red so dark it seemed to drink the light shining upon it. And what he’d thought were snags he now saw was embroidery. Embroidery done in a thread that matched the silk’s deep hue—but why go through such trouble?

  Someone must have gone well-nigh blind stitching this.

  Nor was it the work of an expert. It was clumsy and uneven; it took a few moments of studying it to realize that the ragged stitching formed patterns. He recognized one, a symbol of protection used by mages to keep out—or contain—evil repeated over and over again.

  Silk and mage sigils—someone wasn’t taking any chances, was he? Let us see what needs such protections.

  Leaning over the hole in the floor once more, Linden sent the coldfire back down. He found himself staring at a long, narrow box.

  Fifty-five

  Linden looked at it for a long, long moment. He was no expert on wood, but he would wager everything he owned that here lay the mysterious box of rowan.

  Silk, mage sigils, and rowan—what in Gifnu’s hells is in here?

  The crate was girded with bands of iron, though there were no locks in the hasps. Instead a rope wound several times around the box served to both secure the lid, and, with loops at either end, as handles. Mentally cursing the cramped quarters—if he could stand up straight after this it would be a miracle—Linden dragged the long, low crate out of its hiding place and pushed it across the floor to an open area. He crawled out after it and knelt before his prize.

  Now he would see what was so special that it needed to be both warded and hidden. Linden untied the knots as quickly as he could, wondering what he would find. At last the final knot was undone and Linden threw back the lid to find—

  Boards. Thin boards about two handspans wide resting within a silk-lined box—silk the same color as the embroidered cover. Some were short, perhaps half their width, while others were much longer.

  What the— Hardly believing what he saw, Linden pawed through the boards. He finished by picking up one of the smaller pieces and staring in bewilderment at it. No bones, no hidden weapons, no tomes of black magic with bloodstained covers of human skin. Just boards, for pity’s sake. So why all the secrecy? Why a box of rowan wood lined with silk? And a cover of more silk embroidered with magical symbols? Why hide it all so elaborately?

  He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t these, these … whatever they were. Or, more likely, were meant to be; the thin boards had an unfinished look about them. They reminded him of something, but what? He ground his teeth in frustration and swore under his breath.

  So great was his annoyance that at first he didn’t notice the coldness creeping up his fingers until it flared into icy pain. He flung the wood back into the box with an oath and cradled his hand against his chest. It ached as if he’d held it in an icy pond for a candlemark or more.

  Worse yet was the feeling that had come with the cold.

  What in every single one of Gifnu’s hells was going on? Though the thought of opening himself to whatever was in the wood sickened him, Linden knew he had to find out more about them. He took a deep breath to settle both his nerves and his stomach; then he closed his eyes and reached out with the magic that bound the two halves of his soul.

  Joy in causing pain. Even more joy in killing. Evil. A sick, twisted thirst for—

  Linden slammed the lid down. At once the vile sensations ended. He sat back on his heels, feeling sick and dizzy, and wondering if his skin really would crawl off his body. He didn’t know what he’d found, but now he understood the elaborate precautions. He only hoped they were enough.

  While he waited for his stomach to stop its roiling, he debated what he should do with the vile thing he’d found. In the end, he decided to leave it where it was; at least there it was no danger to the general populace. When all this was over, he would come back and destroy it. Whatever it was.

  He had to force himself to touch the box again. But there was no other way to get it back to its hiding place. So he did what he had to do, and as quickly as possible. He was replacing the baskets when a small hand moved into his range of vision and pushed one aside and moved another into its place.

  Startled, Linden nearly swore aloud; he’d been so intent on his discovery, he’d forgotten Brin. Now the boy pushed past him to arrange the baskets under the table to his liking. Linden left him to it; though he lacked all his wits, the boy seemed to know where each basket belonged. Brin worked one-handed, the coldfire clutched to his chest with the other.

  Linden concentrated on regaining whatever composure he could. It wasn’t much—hell, it could be carried in a thimble—but he didn’t want to upset the boy. This was not a problem for a child.

  When Brin got to the last basket—the one that held his carvings, Linden remembered—he rooted around in it and came up with something clutched in his fist. He offered it to Linden.

  It was a horse, and done well for a boy his age. It even looked a bit like Shan. How did he know? Linden wondered. True, it was somewhat crude, but there was talent there; Brin had skillfully used both the grain and curves of the original wood. When Linden tried to return it, thinking Brin was only showing it to him, the boy put his free hand behind his back and shook his head while holding up the coldfire.

  “So,” Linden said, “a trade, then.” He forced a smile to hide the queasiness he still felt. “But it’s not really a fair one, Brin. After a day or two, the coldfire will fade, then disappear. Do you understand?”

  Brin studied the glowing ball in his hand. He nodded.

  “Do you want your horse back, then? You can still keep the coldfire.”

  Brin shook his head so hard his hair whipped back and forth.

  “Then I thank you, Brin, for the gift of this horse and for all of your help. While I don’t yet understand what it is I’ve found, you may have given me the key to save a friend’s life.”

  The boy gave him a brilliant smile, then rubbed his stomach.

  “Ah, that’s right. It’s time to visit Cook, isn’t it?”

  Relieved to be gone from this place, Linden held out his hand and let Brin lead him from the room.

  * * *

  After leaving Brin with a very startled Cook, Linden rode through Bylith, letting the last dregs of uneasiness dissipate. His wanderings took him through the various sections of the city until he came out upon Mally’s Hill in an area of houses and little shops that had been old when he first saw them more than six hu
ndred years before. No wagons ever came this way, for the slope was so steep that the street rose in a series of wide, shallow steps. But if he remembered rightly, there had been a fine view of the city from the top, and a place to sit and think. He set Nightsong to the gentle steps that led to the overlook. The gods knew he needed to do some thinking.

  Miracle of miracles, the overlook was still there: a few scrubby trees, a bench of grey stone, and an open area perched on the very edge of a precipitous drop. Someone had planted herbs or flowers, dead now in the fierce summer heat. The breeze that always blew here rattled through the brown stems and brought a sharp, resinous scent with it. Linden dismounted. Nightsong wandered off a few paces, snuffling the ground.

  He stood on the edge and looked out over Bylith. From here he could see the castle, much larger now than the first time he’d seen it. Not so surprising; Rani had taken her place upon the Kelnethi throne more than six hundred years ago. Other kings and queens had added on to it since then. He let his gaze roam over the city, seeing without truly seeing the different quarters and the streets running like veins through it all, letting his thoughts go where they would. He’d often found that what he needed rose to the surface then.

  But not this time; this time his mind shied like a nervous colt from what he’d found. He pulled Brin’s horse from his belt pouch and rubbed a thumb along its back, idly wondering how the boy had come to be in Thomelin’s household. It was plain Lady Romissa had little affection for him, poor lad.

  After a time he noticed that his attention—such as it was—had paused at the docks. He smiled a little; funny how, ever since he’d met Maurynna, boats and docks and such like kept cropping up. He’d never thought much about sailing before a certain young sea captain came into his life and made him whole.

  His interest caught, he spared a moment to watch the activity around one of the ships. From here the workers looked like ants scurrying about as they loaded her. The memory of his first meeting with Maurynna came back to him: the hot sun on their backs as they’d worked to empty her ship, the shouts and songs of the sailors and dockhands, the smells of river mud and tar, while overhead the gulls wheeled across the sky and screeched at each other, and the ship bobbed at—

  Gulls. As if the word were a key in a lock, all at once he realized what the wood in the box was.

  Soundboards. The cursed stuff was for soundboards, both entire and pieced together. And the best soundboards were made from … spruce.

  But why would thinking of seagulls and Leet … There’s something there, I can just feel it. Something I need to remember … Something to do with seagulls and Leet. But what is it?

  He turned abruptly and went to the bench. He settled himself comfortably on it, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax. Leet … Leet … There’s something about Leet and seagulls.… The warmth made him drowsy and set his thoughts drifting.

  An image floated to the top of his mind like a bubble: Otter sitting by a hearth at Dragonskeep, looking perplexed. Then came another, this one of Leet at a table in the library, a book open before him. What had been so interesting to bring Leet all that way?

  As if from a long way off, Linden “heard” Otter’s voice once again. You know the kind of tales I mean—the ghost wolf of Lachlan forest, Grey Carra, the Creeping Hand—all those “scare small children into nightmares” kind of tales. Culwen seemed especially fond of the stories about Gull the Blood Drinker.

  And what was it he’d said to Otter just a few moments after that? Something about hoping that the witch spruce they’d planted over his grave still kept Gull’s soul pinned down.

  Not seagulls and Leet. Gull and Leet. Linden’s eyes flew open. “Gods, no—he couldn’t have,” he whispered, horrified. “Not from that spruce—”

  The idea so sickened him that he wanted to vomit. Despite the heat, he shivered. Elbows on knees, Linden hunched over and rested his forehead in his hands.

  No one could do such a vile, evil thing, he thought over and over again. No one—especially not a bard, dear gods. It would violate everything a bard is.

  For a wild moment he thought that he had the answer: for whatever reason—some private revenge, perhaps—Thomelin had tricked Leet by making a harp with that cursed wood and foisting it off—

  No. That wouldn’t work. Leet would have known the instant he touched the strings that what he held was tainted. Besides, from what Rose said, he’d been with Thomelin on that trip. Linden rubbed his face, wiping cold sweat away.

  He had to find out where Thomelin was, and have a long, long talk with him.

  * * *

  Linden neared the gate of the luthier’s house just as Lady Romissa and her little retinue of children and apprentices passed through it on their way back from Sarushun’s temple. She didn’t see him until one of her sons tugged her sleeve, making her look around. The face she turned upon Linden made her look as if she had just quaffed a goodly dose of vinegar.

  “Get the children into the house,” she snapped at Cotler.

  As Linden came nigh to the gate, she shut it with a resounding clang. With that thin barrier between them, Lady Romissa drew herself up, and stared in haughty silence at him, daring him to invade her domain once more. Her little cleft chin quivered with rage.

  Linden said nothing, merely sat easily on Nightsong and returned her stare, one eyebrow raised. Moments passed in the silent war.

  Lady Romissa broke first. She looked away, then back to him. “Yes, Dragonlord?” she said.

  “I would speak with your husband,” Linden began. “Wh—”

  “He is not here,” came the quick interruption.

  “I know that, my lady,” Linden said as patiently as he could. “I want to know where he’s journeyed to this time.”

  For a long moment Linden thought she would refuse to answer. Then with a sullen expression more befitting a five-year-old than a mother of three, she told him, “Parra, I think. For gemstones.”

  That made sense; many nobles liked their harps ornately decorated. “More money than taste,” he’d heard Otter sniff more than once. And Parra in the northwest of Kelneth was one of the best markets for gems. He smothered a sigh of annoyance.

  Lady Romissa went on, “Or perhaps Corrieton. My husband likes to choose his own gems for the harps.”

  Linden caught the faint note of derision on the word “husband.” Suddenly fed up with Lady Romissa and her self-importance, he said curtly, “My thanks, lady. Now I bid you good day.”

  Without waiting for a reply—or, more likely, a thinly veiled dismissal—Linden wheeled Nightsong away. “Back to the Bards’ School, my grey-maned lady.”

  She snorted and set off at a ground-eating walk. Linden let the reins rest on her neck and thought.

  Gull and Leet. It could explain a great many things, but as yet it was naught but speculation. What they needed was proof, hard and cold as iron. But Thomelin wasn’t here to give it—even if he would talk.

  Very well, then. He’d do this the hard way: find out whether Gull’s witch spruce was standing or not. And of the three Dragonlords, only he had been alive when Worton, the village Gull had terrorized, still thrived. It was not a place he’d ever visited, but he knew roughly where it had once stood. He was also the closest since he was already in Kelneth.

  What else must be done? A trip to the library of Dragonskeep for— He couldn’t do it all. There wasn’t time. He must reach Maurynna, and soon. Thank the gods he was riding a Llysanyin and not an ordinary horse. Closing his eyes, he “cast his call on the wind” and sent his thoughts winging toward his soultwin.

  At first he thought it was too far for him to reach her without some other source of magic to draw upon. But his fear for Raven lent him the strength he needed, it seemed, for he “heard” her astonished Linden?

  It was faint, but it was real. Maurynna, listen well, he said, putting all the urgency he could into his mindvoice. I can’t hold this for very long. I know you’ll want to stay wi
th Raven, so send Shima to Dragonskeep. Tell him to get there as fast as he can and go to Lukai and Jenna. Tell him to find out from them the books Leet was reading when he was there—especially those by Lord Culwen—and to bring them back to Balyaranna. Understood?

  He remembered belatedly that she hadn’t been present at the conversation two years ago with Lleld and Otter about Leet’s odd reading habits, and prayed that she wouldn’t ask for explanations now.

  Yes, she replied. He could feel her puzzlement, even at this distance, but she wasted no time demanding to know what this was all about, or what the chief archivists of Dragonskeep had to do with their plight. For a moment he felt her mind turn away from his; then she was back, saying, Shima’s off as soon as he can find a place large enough to Change.

  Good. If I’m right, we’ll save Raven from that gallows yet, Maurynna-love, he said. Now I’ve a journey to—

  The contact was slipping from him. He had time only for a farewell and it was gone.

  “Dragonlord? Are you well?”

  Startled, Linden opened his eyes and looked wildly around. Before him stood the sturdy timber-and-stone stable of the school. A worried groom was looking up at him.

  “Yes, I’m well. I was just mindspeaking my soultwin,” he said. The groom’s mouth made an O of surprise.

  Linden swung down. To the Llysanyin, he said, “Thank you, Nightsong.” She lipped his hair in reply. To the groom, “Please see to her.”

  As Nightsong followed the groom, Linden stood thinking furiously. Otter had named Charilon as one of the two people he needed to speak with at the school. He’d already spoken with Rose, and the bard should be awake by now.

  But he needed to find lost Worton and the secret its forest held as soon as possible. Night was coming but he didn’t want to wait until the morning. There was too little time left. No; Charilon could wait. If necessary, Linden knew he would have no compunction against rousting the bard out in the middle of the night.