Bard's Oath (6 page)

Three

The full moon shone overhead
as Bard Leet urged his tired horse on. Where the hell was that carters’ shelter, anyway? He’d passed the river what must have been candlemarks ago, and skirted the swamp. It should be
somewhere
near here.

For what seemed the hundredth time in the last candlemark he held the crude map up in the cold white moonlight and squinted at the squiggles and markings upon it. At least he was certain he was back on the right path; between taking the wrong turning and his horse throwing a shoe, he’d lost nearly two days.

A cloaked and hooded figure stepped out of the shadows at the side of the road. Leet’s mare squealed in fright and shied, nearly throwing him, and even the stolid packhorse he led jumped to one side.

“I beg your pardon,” the figure said. There was not an ounce of remorse in the soft voice. A dark lantern appeared from beneath the cloak; the man slid the shutter back, allowing light to spill forth.

He held it up and pushed his hood back. The glow revealed a tired, lined face framed by a dark beard shot through with grey. Leet stared down at him, hand pressed against his chest, his heart thudding against his ribs.

“Well met, brother-in-law,” said Thomelin the luthier. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come. So you’re still set upon this course?” His voice was tight with anger. But the luthier made no attempt to argue. Leet knew he dared not.

Leet did not deign to answer. Thomelin shrugged as if to say “On your head be this.” “This way, then,” the luthier said, and led the way to a spacious tent.

Once inside Leet waited impatiently as his brother-in-law pulled back a traveling rug from a large “lump” on the floor of his tent, revealing two identical boxes, each a traveling case for a harp.

He peered more closely. No, not quite identical; one had a small mark burned into a corner of the lid. Leet nodded and smiled. The mark was a V—like the silhouette of a seagull in flight. How very appropriate.…

He pushed the lid to one side and beckoned Thomelin to bring the lantern closer. The yellow light fell upon a cloth-wrapped bundle. Frowning, Leet rubbed the heavy fabric between his fingers and looked closely at it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t black as he’d first thought, but a deep, deep red. “What’s this?”

“Silk. As you value your soul, touch the damned thing as little as possible and keep it wrapped when—”

The bard cut off his brother-in-law with a contemptuous gesture. “I don’t need advice from
you.
”

Only a soft hiss betrayed Thomelin’s anger. He said, “Very well, Leet. I’m sure you know best.” The words dripped sarcasm. A long pause, then the luthier went on softly, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you … brother-in-law.”

Craven peasant,
Leet thought, ignoring Thomelin, though a part of his mind grew uneasy at the luthier’s moment of hesitation. Pushing it from his thoughts, Leet eased the fabric back, exposing a section of a harp’s pillar. With a touch as light as a butterfly’s, he brushed his fingertips along the polished wood. A faint tingle ran up his arm.

Was it just his imagination? Or—or did he feel …

Hardly daring to breathe, he jerked at the cloth, revealing part of the harp’s soundboard. He laid one palm against the spruce boards.

This time there was no mistaking the prickling sensation. It was real. Dear gods, his idea had worked!

Leet bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. “And now—did you get the information I wanted?”

The luthier spoke reluctantly. “About Lord Lenslee? Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Excellent.” Leet rubbed a forefinger along the indentation between his lower lip and chin for a satisfied moment.
Perfect so far. Now let us see …
Then he pulled the silk aside completely and lifted the harp from its traveling case. Ignoring Thomelin’s gasp, the bard cradled the instrument in his arms. It felt right. So, so right.

Thomelin stared at him for a long moment; his face turned pale and ashen. At last he whispered, “You know that you hold Death in your arms.” It was not a question.

Leet smiled thinly. “Yes. Yes, I do know it. Now—tell me about Lenslee and that cursed horse. Tell me everything.”

*   *   *

After he woke the next morning, Leet sat in Thomelin’s tent and emptied his saddlebag. The items he sought were at the bottom; when he had found them, he carefully laid them out on the pallet bed.

He knew
what
he wanted to do; he just wasn’t sure of the
how
yet. But as he studied the items before him, he felt certain that it would come to him. It
had
to.

And when it did, he would know that the gods approved his course.

Arrayed before him was the garb of a minstrel, one of those whose talents were above the common run, yet not quite good enough to raise them to the coveted rank of bard: a torc of thin twisted wire, a red and yellow particolored tunic, a yellow cloak with red trim. The tunic was threadbare and shabby, the cloak patched and fraying at the hem. It had been easy to steal them and a pair of well-worn leather riding breeches from a storeroom of the Bards’ School.

Next to them was a large packet of the powder that mummers used to turn their hair white. Despite his years, Leet’s light brown hair still had little grey in it. Only growing a beard would change his appearance more; a pity he couldn’t stand the feel of one.

He smiled and stroked the indentation under his lip. It was time for Leet, Bard of Bylith, to disappear for now, and for one Osric, a somewhat adequate minstrel, to take his place. But first he wanted to talk to Thomelin.

Pleased with himself, Leet pushed aside the canvas door and cautiously poked his head out into the dawn’s chill. Garlands of white mist wrapped the large camp; he peered through it. At last he saw Thomelin talking with another man before one of the smaller tents the carters used.

“Thomelin!” he called imperiously.

The luthier looked around. When he saw who called him, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together. After a final word to the other man, he walked through the drifting ribbons of mist that wreathed him like ghosts. “Yes, brother-in-law?”

Angry now, Leet glanced around. Good; no one was close enough to have heard. He ground out, “Don’t call me that,” and withdrew into the tent, holding the door flap aside so that he could still see the luthier.

Thomelin stood very still. After a moment he followed Leet into the tent, letting the canvas fall behind him. He said with quiet sarcasm, “Oh, yes—someone might hear, mightn’t they? My apologies, bard. How stupid of me to forget that I’m still not good enough to be part of your family—though my gold was.”

The reminder that his brother, Agon, had in all but name sold their sister Romissa in marriage to the common-born luthier soured Leet’s mood still further. Nor had the bard tried to stop the union; indeed, it was he who had introduced Agon to Thomelin all those years ago.

Guilt made him short-tempered. He snapped, “Why did you stop lending Agon money, anyway? Because of you he had to sell my father’s herd to some yokel from Yerrih.”

“You know damn well he had to do
that
because of his own bad judgment and lack of control. Your father, Rade, left Agon well off, Leet.
He
chose to piss it away with gambling and roistering—no one held a knife to his throat to make him throw those dice.

“Nor was I lending money to him, no matter what pretty name he’s put on it. He’s paid not one copper back and says he never intends to.” Thomelin paused and pressed one hand to his chest. “And after the fine example his father set him, too.”

Leet stiffened. Was that a hint of … irony … in Thomelin’s voice, mockery in his eyes?
Does he know?
Leet’s stomach twisted. If so, his hold on the luthier was as nothing. He dreaded the next words.

But all the luthier said was “No, the money stopped because my lady wife—
your
dear sister, bard—wants to curry more favor with her damned priest, the greedy bastard.

“That’s where too bloody much of the coin I work for goes, bard,” Thomelin snapped. His eyes blazed. “Or shall I make my wife sell the jewels and fine clothes she demanded of me as the proof of my love when I was still fool enough to think she might ever care for me? Like her brother, she never made good her bargain, either.”

The luthier glared, his chest heaving. Leet stared at him in astonishment. Thomelin had never dared speak to him so. No matter what insults Leet had heaped on him before, Thomelin had always bent his head. He’d had no choice. For the first time in many, many years Leet had no scathing rejoinder.

Nor did he wish for one; not this time. For he feared what he might hear if he lashed out at the angry luthier. The man was as tightly wound as one of his own harp strings. Leet began a slow retreat further into the tent.

But Thomelin was not yet done. “Oh, yes,” he hissed. “That’s where my damned money goes. A greedy brother-in-law, a greedier priest, and to pay for … certain goods, bard.
Your
goods.”

Thomelin raked his fingers through his grey-streaked hair. “A harp of ash, the wood of war, and that cursed…,” he whispered, his voice close to breaking, as he rocked back and forth. “Oh gods, oh gods—what have I…”

Then he drew himself up, grim and determined. “Get that hellish thing out of my tent, out of my life—and never let me see it again.”

With that, Thomelin turned on his heel and stalked out of the tent.

Once more Leet wondered if Thomelin had guessed
his
secret. If Thomelin did, Leet would never again be able to bend the luthier to his will. But surely Thomelin didn’t know; after all, he’d made the harp.… Still uneasy, Leet shook his head and made ready to leave.

A short while later as he swung up onto his horse, Thomelin came up.

“Where are you going now?” the luthier demanded.

“Not your damned business.” Leet urged his horse on. The packhorse snorted and ambled after. To his dismay, Thomelin walked alongside.

“By all that’s holy, Leet, will you please give up this mad plan?” Thomelin begged. “At the very least, there’s no honor in it—as head of your family, Agon accepted the wergild for Arnath’s death, damn it! And what about your oath as—”

“Don’t prate to me about honor, you coward,” Leet said coldly. “If you had been a man—if you had given a damn about your son—you would have Challenged that murdering filth then and there.”

Thomelin grabbed Leet’s reins and dragged his horse to a halt. His lips pulled back in a snarl. Leet shrank from him, suddenly afraid. Had he finally pushed the man too far? The bard looked about for help but they were alone on the road.

“I couldn’t have loved that boy any more than if he’d been my own blood, you filthy bastard,” Thomelin grated. When Leet sputtered in indignation, the luthier laughed, a cold, harsh laugh. “Oh, don’t try to tell me Romissa wasn’t already with child when we wed—and that you didn’t know it.

“Yes, I was fool enough to believe her when she said she got pregnant on our wedding night. I believed her until Arnath was born nearly two months ‘early’—and was as long as my forearm, fat as a suckling pig, and had lungs to rival a herald’s. No babe that early is that big and healthy. I’ve seen my share of newborns—or did you all forget I’m the oldest of seven?

“But from the instant his fingers curled around mine, none of that mattered. I loved Arnath as my own. If my death could have saved him, I would have laid down my life for him as I would for my own blood.

“But to
throw
my life away? No. I would not abandon my other children.” He let his hand fall from Leet’s reins. “Unlike you, dear brother-in-law, I think of others—not just myself.”

Leet kicked his horse so hard it crow-hopped in surprise, jerking the packhorse’s line. The packhorse, with its burden of twin harps, squealed in protest and bucked as well. Thomelin jumped back. It was a few moments before the animals settled into a trot, leaving Thomelin behind.

All the damned luthier’s fault, Leet fumed. He cursed Thomelin—but there was an edge of fear in it. He’d never dreamed that the luthier would dare speak to him this way! It unnerved him.

But Thomelin wasn’t done. Leet heard him shout, “You may think it’s for someone else, Leet, but the death that follows you is your own!”

Four

In the private dining room
that Lord Tyrian’s party had taken over, Shima sat across from Lady Karelinn at a small gaming table. Lady Merrilee sat to one side, watching and offering advice from time to time or applauding moves.

Shima frowned at the board, trying to ignore the noise all around them as the last of the noon meal’s dishes were cleared away and everyone broke up into groups once more. This game of draughts was harder than it seemed at first; there were nuances to it he had not appreciated when first shown the board and pieces. They’d looked so simple: a board of dark and light squares and round markers, also dark and light.

This is like
diyinesh
,
he said to himself, thinking of the ancient game of his people that he had introduced to Dragonskeep. It had become all the rage among the Dragonlords. Simple, so very simple—but like this draughts game, harder than it looked.

He had just made a move when the door opened and one of the younger lords—Olliner, it was—entered. “I say, Lord Tyrian, look whom I found walking in the door,” the chubby Olliner said cheerfully.

A man followed him in. He looked tired; deep lines etched his face. At first Shima wondered at his odd, halting gait. He understood when someone took the man’s sopping fur-trimmed cloak from his shoulders: the newcomer leaned on crutches. As he came forward slowly, Shima noticed that one leg was twisted; the toe of his riding boot barely touched the floor.

Cries of pleasure greeted the man; he was clearly well-known to many of the party.

“Eadain! It’s so good to see you again!”

“Welcome, lad, welcome! Are you bound for Balyaranna?”

“I am,” he said.