Bard's Oath (47 page)

Mistress Parmelle set box and tweezers down. “No, I was right,” she stated. “That last was yellowfool. Wilted yellowfool. The scent is unmistakable. It’s strongest and sweetest when half-rotted. Useful for certain conditions when administered by a skilled Simpler, but dangerous if used unwisely.”

She “looked” at each of them with eerie accuracy. “While it is sometimes used for humans in this wilted state, I have never known it to be used for animals. Well-dried in fodder, yes, but not like this. Is this something new?”

Master Edlunn said, “No. This … this is something that should not have been there. But it … explains a great deal.”

Mistress Parmelle cocked her head in a girlish manner that should have looked affected with her doughy bulk, but just seemed endearing. “Ahhh—I think I understand now. Girls,” she rapped out, “not a word of this to anyone.”

“Yes, Mistress Parmelle,” they agreed as they helped her from her chair.

When she was gone, Master Edlunn said, “So—now we know the
how
of it. And I’m sure we can guess the
why
.”

“To keep Summer Lightning from running,” said Conor. “But most important now is: who?”

“That, thank the gods, is for others to find out. Let us go.”

As Conor accompanied Master Edlunn to lay their discovery before Lord Sevrynel, he realized with a chill that the “who” was not the only pressing matter.
Oh gods—will he strike again?

*   *   *

“Is tha Lord Tirael? Garron says tha is.”

Tirael looked around from his mug of ale to find a grubby boy of twelve years or so eyeing him warily. “And if I am, you little worm, what’s it to you?”

The boy flushed angrily but all he said was, “Then this is for tha,” and flicked a well-folded piece of parchment at him.

It struck Tirael on the cheek. He cursed, but the brat was gone before he could cuff him for his insolence. Tirael settled back into his chair and studied the note.

Good parchment, sealed with scented wax, but no imprint in the wax. Had Merrilee come to her senses at last? Tirael opened it eagerly.

The hand, though educated, wasn’t hers. It was clearly a man’s handwriting, elegant, but not one he recognized. And it was unsigned. Tirael nearly tossed it aside after a glance when Merrilee’s name seemed to jump out at him. Merrilee’s—and Eadain’s.

He read the note very carefully after that. Then he sat and thought for long, long while. This would explain some of the looks cast his way lately, the cryptic comments. Did everyone know but him? They must think him the veriest fool!

After a time, Tirael left.

*   *   *

When he reached home, Tirael called for the steward. As soon as Tiniver appeared, Tirael snarled at him, “I’ll need one of the men to take a letter for me. Find one while I write it.”

The steward bowed as Tirael ran up the stairs. Moments later, he sat at the table-desk in his room. He pulled a fresh quill pen and a new bottle of ink to him; the others had been broken when his damned cousin knocked everything off the desk that night.

As he sharpened the quill, he thought long and hard about what he was going to write—and what he was going to do. Satisfied at last, he took a fresh sheet of parchment from the stack, dipped pen in ink, and began writing in his best hand:

Greetings, Master Luyens!

By the time you get this, I’ll either be a married man or a hunted one.

He paused to study the words. He could still change his mind.… But no! She belonged to him, damn it! Why couldn’t she see that?

He would see that she did. One way or another. Once more he set pen to parchment.

*   *   *

Linden had just finished saddling Shan when a messenger in Sevrynel’s livery rode up to him.

“Your Grace,” the young woman said, bowing slightly in the saddle as she held out a sealed tube. “I was to tell you that this is urgent. I’m also to wait for a reply, Dragonlord.”

He sighed inwardly as he took it. “My thanks.” In his mind he heard,
If this is more pedigrees
 … He glanced over at Maurynna leaning against Boreal’s neck and grinned.

The smile disappeared as he read Sevrynel’s note. He swore softly in Yerrin.

I take it we’re not going to old Cade’s booth to get cheese and bread, are we?

No, love, we’re not. Sevrynel says that they know how Summer Lightning died—he was poisoned. He requests that I be there when they inform Lord Lenslee. I don’t know what he thinks I can do, but …
Linden swung up onto Shan’s back. “No need of a reply. I’ll go there now. The manor house?”

“Yes, Dragonlord.”

Turning to his soultwin, Linden asked, “Do you want to come along?”

Maurynna shook her head.
I think it would be too painful; from all I’ve heard, Lenslee loved that foul-tempered beast.
She continued aloud, “I think I’ll go to the castle. I want to talk to Healer Tasha about Kella. She was so busy with the race I haven’t had a chance yet.”

Linden blew her a kiss and touched his heels to Shan’s sides. The Llysanyin cantered off.

*   *   *

“Yellowfool? Someone put wilted
yellowfool
in Summer Lightning’s hay?”

Linden winced at the raw pain in Lord Lenslee’s voice. He’d seen a horse die from eating that stuff. The horse—one of his father’s—had gotten into a field where cut hay lay in windrows. Drawn by the sweet smell, it had found a patch of almost pure yellowfool in the curing hay and eaten its fill. They’d found it just a short while later, but it was already too late. The horse spasmed, collapsed, and died before they reached the gate.

Ironically, had the horse gotten loose just a few days later, it would have lived. The hay would have been fully cured by then and whatever poison was in the yellowfool would have been driven off.

That, though tragic, had been an accident. This … this was deliberate cruelty. He looked at Lord Lenslee, face buried in his hands, with sympathy.

“There’s no chance that it was in the hay by accident?” he asked gently.

“None,” Lord Portis answered. His pale face looked stricken. “The hay came from my own fields. And while I know that yellowfool makes good fodder when it’s dried and some esteem it highly, it’s not a chance I’m willing to take. Whenever it’s found on my lands, I have my people rip it out.”

“Gods have mercy,” Lord Sevrynel said. “That means…”

“That means that someone fed it to Summer Lightning deliberately.” Master Edlunn shook his head. “Cruel—a cruel thing to do and a cruel way for an animal to die.”

A muffled sob escaped from behind Lenslee’s hands.

“May anyone enter the stables?” Linden asked, though he already knew the answer.

Portis shook his head; the last of the color drained from his face, leaving him as white as salt. He knew what Linden’s question—and his answer—meant. “It must have been one of Therinn’s people, or … or mine,” he whispered. “But I would have sworn that…” He shivered though the room was warm.

The painful meeting ended soon after; it was clear that Lord Lenslee was close to collapse. The matter would be given over to High Marshal Huryn and his men for investigation.

“I know I said that horse should have been put down,” Lord Sevrynel said softly as they watched Lenslee and Portis leave. “But not like that. Never like that. May the gods grant that Huryn soon finds the filth responsible. And now if you will all excuse me, I must see to the final plans for tonight’s gathering.”

*   *   *

Maurynna came out of Healer Tasha’s quarters as confused as ever. Knowing that Maurynna would want the latest word on her cousin, Tasha had visited Kella at home the night before she left for Balyaranna.

And Kella had been, well, Kella. Just as every letter from Maylin and Aunt Elenna had assured her:
Kella is healthy and well and driving us mad. She sends her love and wants to know when you can take her flying again.

The only odd note had come from one of Maylin’s letters:

Abern Walbeck, one of the wealthiest members of Mother’s guild, visited yesterday and brought a small harp with him. He told Mother that his son has no head for music. (In truth, I’ve heard that young Abern’s teacher refused to have him as a student anymore. Something about mice in her music satchel…)

Anyway, it’s a lovely thing, very sweet tone—and Kella won’t touch it. Won’t even look at it. This from the girl who was awake before the sun was up on the days of her lessons. Fickle child.

I could have sworn that Kella had a real gift, Maurynna mused. Enough of one to go to Bylith. Could this have something to do—no, how could it have anything to do with her illness? Likely she’s just lost interest; after all, at one time she wanted nothing more than to be a tumbler!

As she made her way back through the castle, Maurynna wondered what new thing had driven music lessons from Kella’s head. Each new theory was more outlandish than the last. By the time the castle steward intercepted her and asked if she would care to join Duchess Beryl for some small refreshments, Maurynna had nearly forgotten her unease.

*   *   *

Conor followed Linden and Master Edlunn as they left the manor. Emotions warred within his breast. First was righteous horror that anyone would treat an animal so. The second was less worthy, perhaps, but the more powerful.

Relief. Pure, blessed relief. It had not been his fault after all that Summer Lightning had died. He was not, as rumor had it—and he’d feared—incompetent, thank all the gods.

It must have shown on his face, for when he caught up with Edlunn and Linden, both smiled gently at him.

Master Edlunn stopped and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I, for one, never thought it was your fault, lad. I know you. I know how careful you are.”

“So stop beating yourself about the head over it,” Linden said. “And don’t even think that if you had thought to look in on the horse that night you might have saved him. It happens too fast, Conor. I’ve seen it.”

Conor nodded. He knew the Dragonlord spoke the truth, but there would always be a part of him that would wonder
if, if, if
 …

He wanted to be alone for a bit. “If you’ve no immediate need of me, Master Edlunn, I’ll have a look at Fliss. Just to make certain…”

The older Beast Healer looked at him shrewdly, then nodded. “Of course, lad, go on.”

“I’m off to find my soultwin once more,” Linden Rathan said. “And maybe even a bit of that cheese she keeps telling me about.”

Conor watched until they had passed through the main gate; then, because his legs shook, walked slowly to Fliss’s paddock. Reaction, he told himself, just reaction.

*   *   *

Fliss was well. Cantering around her pasture, even, her tail flying gaily in the air like a flag. Conor heaved a sigh of relief and leaned on the fence, letting all the fear and anxiety of the past days seep out of him.

He was still standing there when one of the stable boys pelted up to him. Conor listened to the boy’s gasped explanation and started running.

He found his patient by a small stream that flowed sluggishly through the lower end of one of Lord Sevrynel’s pastures: a small pony with a golden coat and flaxen mane and tail. It was being walked by Falk, one of Sevrynel’s stable hands. Two other stable hands, Warin and Burwell, a white-haired gaffer, walked on either side of it. From time to time the pony would stop and snap at its sides or kick at its belly.

Standing nearby were two muddy children—a boy and a girl—as well as a young woman and a young man. The young woman had her arms wrapped around the little girl, plainly holding her back.

Thank the gods—Falk’s kept the pony from rolling.

When he was close enough, Conor skidded to a halt. He walked the rest of the way so that he wouldn’t spook the pony. Laying his hands upon its broad brow, Conor soothed it, easing the pain.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I’m going to rip her hair out!” the little girl shrieked. Tears poured down her dirty face. “I’ve
told
Willena a hundred times not to give Buttercup any apples!” She began sobbing.

Conor recognized her as Lady Rosalea, the daughter of one of Lord Sevrynel’s guests; he’d seen her in the stable a few times when he’d come to look in on Fliss. “Apples and Buttercup don’t agree?” he guessed. He’d seen more than one horse like that, the poor things.

“No,” said the boy, a lad with brick-red hair. “They don’t.” He looked somewhat familiar, but Conor didn’t have the time to think about it right now. He had a pony with colic.

He looked at the young woman. “Lady, if you would…?”

She nodded. “Rosalea, please! You must come with me and let the Beast Healer work in peace.”

Big brown eyes filled with tears. “But I want to stay, Lissa! Buttercup n-n-needs me!”

The boy rested a hand on her shoulder. “You have to go, Rosie. It’s best. Besides, your mama will be angry if you’re late to get ready for the gathering.”

“And we’ll be forever getting you cleaned up, Rosalea,” the young woman added. She looked down at her charge’s wet, muddy clothes and winced.

“Beast Healer Conor will take good care of Buttercup,” the young man said.

“But, Ari…” Rosalea turned from him to look at the boy with the red-brown hair. He shook his head, then whispered something in her ear. “Oh—truly?” she asked. Then she turned to Conor. The biggest, brownest eyes he’d ever seen studied him for a long moment.

Ohhh, this one’s going to be dangerous when she’s older.
He managed not to smile lest she misunderstand it.

“You have to make Buttercup better, Beast Healer Conor.” The big brown eyes brimmed anew with tears.

“I will, my lady,” Conor pledged.

Once more she studied him. What she saw must have reassured her, for she nodded and allowed her nurse and the boy to lead her away. The young man, who had spoken up for him, walked alongside the boy.

Conor turned back to the pony. “Falk, you stay to help walk him. Burwell, please see that Buttercup’s stall is ready for him. Warin, I need you to fetch some things for me.…”