Bard's Oath (34 page)

“Have you seen a Yerrin here, a man with reddish blond hair, young? He rides a big stallion, black with a grey mane and tail,” he said.

Tirael grimaced. “Him? Arisyn Darnhollis’s pet Yerrin? Yes, I’ve seen him, the insolent dog. Needs a good whipping to teach him his place, he does. He’ll get it soon enough.” Tirael smirked. He went on, “What the hell’s important about him?”

“He’s not important. The horse may be,” Therinn said tensely.

His cousin rubbed at his ears as if not trusting what they’d just told him. “The horse?” Tirael said in astonishment. “That bloody plow horse, important? It’s naught but a Shamreen draft horse.”

“According to the gossip running through the fair,” Therinn grated, “that bloody plow horse may well be a Llysanyin.” He couldn’t be certain in the torch’s flickering light, but he thought the other’s face went pale.

Tirael’s mouth opened and closed once, twice, thrice, but no words came out, just a strangled sound. Then, at last, “No, it can’t be,” he said, looking wildly around. “It
can’t
be. He’s no—he’s just a commoner!”

There was a note of—panic?—in Tirael’s voice that Therinn didn’t understand; he knew why
he
feared that the horse was one of the fabled mounts of the Dragonlords, but why that should frighten Tirael …

No matter. Whatever bothered Tirael was of minor importance compared to what this would mean to him if it were true.

“It had better not be possible. Now tell me what you know about this fellow. Lord Dunly said that he’s with a Yerrin horse breeder—Yarrow Whitethorndaughter. Is that true or have Dunly’s brains turned to porridge at last? And what’s
his
name?”

Not that he remembered that damned song that well, but perhaps if he heard the name it would jog his memory.… He grabbed Tirael’s upper arm and was startled to find his cousin was trembling despite the heat.

Tirael jerked away. He rubbed his arm, his breath coming hard and fast. “
I
should bother remembering what some damned peasant’s name is? Why do you care, anyway? You don’t believe those lies, do you?”

“I don’t believe or disbelieve. I don’t know enough yet. But I
do
know that if enough people believe him, there’s trouble ahead.”

Tirael sneered. “You’re afraid of a peasant?”

“Of a peasant, no. Of a peasant with a Llysanyin stallion who is also allied with a respected horse breeder—I’m terrified. As you should be.”

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing! You’re afraid of a mere pe—”

Therinn cuffed his cousin sharply on the ear. “Need I explain it in words a child of three would understand, you horse’s ass? It seems I must, so think upon these two: stud fees.”

“Who’d want a plow—”

Therinn snarled in frustration. “And if it
is
a Llysanyin, who’d want to pay stud fees for anything less? By the Mother’s left tit, Tirael, is there anything in that pretty head of yours?

“Until now, I’ve had every lord and lady who fancied themselves a breeder of racehorses throwing themselves at my feet, shoving their gold at me, begging me to accept their mares for Summer Lightning. I could pick and choose, name my own price, make whatever conditions I wanted, and they still begged me to take their money.

“Then came … this Yerrin and his horse. The horse that
you
call a plow horse, but that many say looks much like Linden Rathan’s Llysanyin. The Llysanyin that journeyed from Dragonskeep on its own to find him—don’t you remember hearing the story from Lady Niathea last winter solstice?”

At Tirael’s nod, Therinn said sarcastically, “Good. I was beginning to think that too much wine had addled your wits permanently. Now—where was I? Oh, yes.”

He went on relentlessly, “As I said, then came this Yerrin and his possible Llysanyin. And suddenly, no one wants to bring his mare to Summer Lightning. Men and women who were begging me to hold a place for them are now avoiding me. A bold few have even demanded their money back. I’ve spent the better part of this day arguing with Lord Ranklin over the money he’s paid me.

“Money that I
need,
Tirael. I had to pay wergild to Lord Agon’s sister for the death of her eldest child, Tirael, remember? And do you remember
why
I had to pay it, dear coz? Because of you, Tirael. Because of your arrogance, cruelty, and complete stupidity. Because it was either pay or let him take Summer Lightning—and I knew that Lightning could get that money back and more.”

Therinn took a deep breath to calm himself. He’d offered a staggering sum for the wergild. Not because the family’s rank demanded it; indeed, the boy’s father—or, rather, stepfather, though that wasn’t common knowledge—wasn’t even noble. A craftsman of some sort, if his memory served him.

Hell, if Agon hadn’t married his sister off to that fellow, the child would have been a bastard. Therinn knew what few others did: Agon’s sister had been with child when she married her craftsman. She’d hoped to snare herself a high-ranking, rich husband and so got herself pregnant by the son of the noble family she was fostered with.

At least, she’d claimed he was the father; Therinn knew that there were two or three other possibilities, all heirs to great estates. What was her name again … Ah, yes: Romissa, whose plans for an estate of her own had come to naught when her foster mother guessed at her game and turned the trollop out. To save the family’s name, Agon had wed her to some commoner who’d become besotted with her and paid Agon a hefty bride-price.

No, Therinn hadn’t needed to pay Romissa or Agon so much; what he’d needed, though, was to close the matter before their elder half brother heard the news. By accepting the wergild, Agon, as Lord Sansy and therefore head of the family, had constrained all his kin to regard the matter as closed and done with. So he’d borrowed heavily and at usurious rates—and with Summer Lightning himself as the guarantee. He’d had to, to get the money in time.

And it
had
been just in time, too; mere candlemarks after the wergild was handed over, the half brother had shown up, furious and grieving. Therinn had never understood that. It wasn’t as if the boy had been any true kin of his, after all. It was something of an open secret that someone other than the old Lord Sansy had fathered Agon and Romissa, but since the old man had never gotten around to disinheriting them before he died, Agon had inherited.

But the man had had to accept the agreement. Therinn still shuddered when he thought of how narrow an escape he’d had. Not only was the “half brother” a bard, he was an elder of that guild, one Leet by name. Thank the gods, it was only in his worst nightmares that Therinn became the butt of many a scathing song.

Songs. The thought brought him back to the matter at hand; what if this Yerrin was the one spoken of in that damned song, the one about some Dragonlords and their journey to Jehanglan? He’d not heard it for a while—he preferred ballads about old wars or rollicking ditties in praise of fast horses—but he seemed to recall that the bard who wrote the song and some kinsman were chosen by Llysanyins. If Tirael’s “peasant” was the kinsman …

Pray all the gods he was not. But even if he was an impostor, it would still be no help. The gold for the all-important stud fees would go to him and by the time anyone was the wiser, he would be long gone, lost among the craggy hills and mountains of northern Yerrih.

Therinn took a deep breath. If he didn’t get that money … Then inspiration hit. “Listen to me, Tir—listen well. There are some Shamreen draft horses here at the fair, aren’t there? And you’ve already said you think that damned horse is a Shamreen, yes? So now I want you and your friends to spread it
everywhere
that you’ve heard the horse is nothing but a particularly fine Shamreen whose owner thought he’d separate some fools from their purses.”

For a long moment Tirael didn’t say anything. He licked his lips, then asked eagerly, “Do you think it really isn’t one? A Llysanyin, I mean.”

He sounded so like a frightened child asking to be reassured that Therinn frowned in surprise. This was so different from Tirael’s usual arrogant manner that if he hadn’t heard it with his own ears, he wouldn’t have believed it.

“Of course the damned horse isn’t,” he snapped. He had to believe that; he had to, or else he might as well just give Summer Lightning over to that cursed Assantikkan princeling visiting the Kelnethi court. Yes, he’d been grateful that the man was willing to lend him that much gold on just his word and a single horse for surety; but he’d known he’d could get the money back.

Yet if this horse truly was a Llysanyin … Therinn slammed the door on the thought even as it tried to creep into his mind. The thing was a plow horse, nothing more; an uncommonly handsome plow horse if Dunly was to be believed, but no more than that.

“Now go,” he said. “Get to work.”

*   *   *

Maurynna slipped into the tent as quietly as she could. It was late and she didn’t want to wake Linden.

She didn’t. He was still awake, sitting in one of the camp chairs, a book open in his lap and a ball of coldfire hovering over the pages.

“How’s Kella?” he asked as he shut the book and set it aside.

“I swear by the gods, the further we got from Balyaranna, the better she felt.” Maurynna sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled her boots off with a sigh of relief. “It was the damndest thing and I
still
don’t understand it.”

“So she’s not ill? And she never said if something had … happened to her?”

She saw his fists clench and knew what he was thinking. “No—and if someone had done anything to her, you would have had to get in line to hurt him. I’d claim kin-right by blood.”

“I’d just make you promise to leave something for me,” Linden said lightly, but his eyes were hard. “What could have happened, then?”

“I’ve no more idea of that than a fish has of reefing a sail.” Elbows resting on knees, she frowned at her stocking feet planted squarely upon the Assantikkan rug by the side of the bed. “By the time I gave her into her mother’s arms—and Aunt Elenna was over her fright and done fussing over Kella—she was her old self again.”

A memory came back to her; a quick-caught glimpse of a shadowed look in Kella’s eyes.… Maurynna amended her words. “Almost herself, that is.”

“Almost?”

She looked up at her soultwin. “It’s the oddest thing, Linden. It was as if Kella was running away from someone and was finally far enough away to feel safe—yet then she’d think she’d, I don’t know, heard him.”

Linden came over and sat beside her. “Why do you think she ‘heard’ someone?” He began rubbing the back of her neck.

“I don’t know. It was just an impression I got. Likely it was just my imagination.”

“Likely not. When I was a mercenary, I learned that impressions like that were more often than not right. It’s as if your mind notices details and warns you of something, but doesn’t tell you why.”

“Like a bad storyteller, hmm?” Maurynna said with a little laugh. “Very well, then: say my impression was right and Kella did ‘hear’ something—or someone.

“The question, then, is … what did she hear?”

Thirty-four

But whatever Fiarin had planned
for the next day, it didn’t happen, though he woke them before it was barely light. Instead he repeated his odd behavior, walking down to the esker, staring across it, then returning to camp. He said not a word to the girls; it was as if he didn’t see them.

Not knowing what else to do, Pod and Kaeliss busied themselves around the camp or made forays into the nearby woods to look for herbs on their own. Pod found a good-sized bed of healmoss and Kaeliss came upon a patch of wild ginger. The finds cheered them immensely. And when Kiga brought back a rabbit for supper, they could almost pretend that nothing was wrong. At least, as long as Fiarin stayed away.…

Pod remembered something she’d been meaning to ask Kaeliss when they were alone. As she skinned the rabbit, she said, “Kaeliss, who is Master Emberlin, and why does he need King’s Blood? Flarin mentioned his name that one time, but I’ve no idea who he is.”

Kaeliss looked up in surprise as she sliced a tiny bit of their wild ginger into the pot of water heating over the fire. “You don’t—oh, of course you don’t. I forget sometimes that you’re not a Wortie like me.” She finished her task and dusted her hands on her breeches. “Master Emberlin is one of our most accomplished Simplers, the men and women who blend various healing herbs. He’s brilliant, really, and his medicines work wonders. I swear he must have a ‘little magic’ for it, he’s so good at it even though he’s but a young man.

“But even though he’s so young, he’s also very ill. Even the Healers can’t help—or not very much. From what I’ve heard, the only thing keeping him alive is regular doses of—oh gods! The fire at White River chapterhouse! We might have lost most of our supply of King’s Blood, and this winter is the third year of the lung sickness!”

Pod, confused, asked, “Third year?”

“Every winter there are always a few cases of the lung sickness. But now and again, it goes in a cycle: first year more serious cases and more deaths than usual; the second year, it gets worse. I’ve heard the masters saying that we’re in another cycle, and this past winter was the second one.…

“Pod, if we don’t have enough King’s Blood, the lung sickness will be as a plague this year. It doesn’t take much King’s Blood to cure it, but if you don’t have it to give to people…” She was near tears now. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

They ate their meal in silence and tidied the camp, waiting for Fiarin to return.

Finally, Kaeliss shook her head. “I can’t stay up any longer. I’m too tired.”

With that, she climbed into her blankets. Pod pulled her own blankets around herself. They lay near the fire, not speaking and fell asleep waiting for Fiarin to return.

When she awoke the next morning, Pod was stiff and sore. She sat up slowly and massaged her calves and feet.

Owwwww—why does it always hurt worst the day after the day after?
she complained to herself. Before, when they’d spent each day walking, her muscles hadn’t had time to stiffen up. Now they had—with a vengeance.