Bard's Oath (9 page)

“Wonder what? Was there something after all?”

“Sether always denied it. Said I was imagining things. But if I’m right, it started, oh, about two years or so ago, I think. I remember because Leet took a rather long journey. That was odd for him, so it stuck in my mind. He’s not that fond of traveling, as we well know. Might miss a call to play for the king and queen at the castle if he’s away!

“Anyway, Leet came back, consulted with Sether—you’d’ve thought they were bosom friends, Leet was at the Wood Barn so often!—and went off again,” Charilon said. He rubbed his chin. “He wasn’t gone for so long the second time, and when he came back, he looked damned pleased with himself. Never said why, though. And Sether wasn’t quite … himself … at that time.”

Leet up north, about two years ago. Why did that—ah, of course! “He was at Dragonskeep,” Otter said. “For at least part of that first journey.”

Charilon’s eyebrows went up. “Dragonskeep? Really? How strange; I always thought he wouldn’t go there because you’re there so often. And may I say
that’s
been a long drink of vinegar for him all these years, you being so close to Linden Rathan and such a favorite there.”

“Be that as it may, he’d made an exception that time,” Otter answered absently, thinking of something else. Or, rather,
trying
to think of something.

“Odd how he never bragged about going to Dragonskeep,” Charilon murmured as if to himself.

Leet, Sether, and…?
But the thrice-damned thought continued to elude him.

Charilon went on, “Wasn’t that around the time that outcast came back from Jehanglan?”

“That’s right.”
Wait—stories … books?

Otter held his breath. He almost had it, it was dancing at the edge of his mind, blast it all, thumbing its nose at him.…

“Damn—what was the bastard’s name again? Taren Something-or-other, wasn’t it?” Charilon waved a hand as if he could pull the name out of the air.

The errant thought slipped away. “Taren Olmeins,” Otter answered absently, trying to catch the tail end of his idea before it vanished.

But it was gone for good. He sighed. Ah, well; if it was important, it would no doubt come back to him.

Seven

Raven looked up from the
steaming kettle as his aunt Yarrow, a slender, wiry woman, came back from her evening inspection of the horse lines. “All well?” he asked, handing her a bowl of stew and a spoon as she sat on the log seat by the fire.

“So far,” Yarrow said as she scooped up some of the hot stew and blew across it. She swallowed the first spoonful and gave a contented sigh. The firelight played on her hair, the same red-gold hue as Raven’s. He sat down next to her on the log to eat his own meal.

She turned her head to look at him. The movement set the long clan braids on either side of her face swinging. Had she been a man, there would have been but one braid, and that hanging down her back. “I’d like you to do something for me, Raven.”

“Whatever it is, consider it done, Aunt Yarrow,” Raven said, and he meant it. Yarrow had taken him in when he’d broken with his father back in Thalnia after his return from Jehanglan. Redhawk Robinson had vowed that if his son didn’t come to heel and take up the wool trade, he would disown him. He had done so. Even the knowledge that his son had returned a hero from the journey with the Dragonlords to the mysterious empire of Jehanglan had not been enough to turn aside his wrath—or bend his pride.

But not only had Yarrow given him a place in her holding, she’d made him a partner in—and heir to—her horse-breeding business. Of course, that Raven came with a Llysanyin stallion—unheard of outside of Dragonskeep—hadn’t hurt.

Still, he knew she would have taken him in even without Stormwind. He would do whatever he could for her.

“I’d like you to go on ahead to save my place,” she said. “Having to use White Birch Pass instead of Widow’s Rock set us back at least three days. Damn that landslide!”

“At least we hadn’t gotten far into Widow’s Rock before those other travelers coming back told us about it. They lost much more time than we did since the ’slide was near the end.”

“Thank the gods for that much at least. But we’re still behind, and I don’t want to push the horses so hard that they lose condition. I also don’t want to lose my place on the horse lines at Balyaranna—it took a long time to get such a good spot. And I know of more than one greedy bastard that will claim it in a heartbeat if the fair marshals think I’m not coming.”

“And to get it back from them next year would be next to impossible, am I right?” Raven said around a mouthful of stew.

“It
would
be impossible. I might even have to start from the bottom again. Stormwind’s the only horse that can get there fast enough and not suffer from it,” Yarrow said. “It’ll mean a few days of hard riding and being alone until we get there. Will you do it?”

“Of course. I’ll pack some things tonight, turn in early, and leave at dawn.” He scraped up the last of his stew. “Are you finished? Then I’ll take those,” he said, and set off to wash bowls and spoons in the nearby stream.

He was to have a few extra days at the fair! And alone! It was all he could do not to whoop aloud.

As he was loping off, his aunt called after him, “Stop by my tent before you turn in. I’ll give you money and a letter to the fair marshals.”

He knew Yarrow would be generous above the fair’s fee and money for food and lodging.
This,
he thought,
is going to be a very good fair.
Raven grinned. He couldn’t wait to get started in the morning.

*   *   *

A few days later, Raven rode slowly into the little village of Duffenwich, looking for a likely place to rest for a bit. He hadn’t ridden this hard and long since his and Maurynna’s desperate journey through Jehanglan.

The road meandered to the village green. There it split and circled the green like a mother’s arms before continuing on. At the heart of the close-cropped sward was a well with a stone horse trough beside it. Close by, a chestnut tree spread its branches, shading a rough bench.

Three old men sat on the bench. They watched avidly as he rode up and dismounted.

“Well met, grandfathers,” Raven said politely as he lowered the bucket into the well. “A good day to you all.”

“And a good day to tha, young man,” the old man in the center wheezed as Raven filled the trough for Stormwind to drink.

“Where tha bound for, youngling?” the old man on the right asked when Raven was done.

“Balyaranna.” Raven sent the bucket down again, this time for himself. When it was full, he brought it up and balanced it carefully on the stone lip before reaching for the long-handled tin dipper that hung on a nail.

“Ah—tha be going to the big horse fair, are tha?” the old man on the left asked with a toothless grin.

“I am.” Sitting on the edge of the stone lip and sipping the cold water, Raven listened indulgently as the old men launched into a veritable flood of advice, memories, and debates on the merits of horses past and present. One horse’s name and praises came up again and again: Summer Lightning, the prize of Lord Lenslee of Kelneth’s stables.

“His dam, Sun Lady, were foaled around here,” the old man in the center said with such pride in his quavery voice that he might have given birth to her himself, Raven thought, amused. “I were there when it happened. I were head groom at Lady Fanna’s manor, I were.”

Raven talked with them awhile longer while Stormwind cropped the nearby grass. When he was certain Stormwind had grazed enough—and he thought his tired legs wouldn’t shake when he stood—he bade them good day and swung up into the saddle again. From here he could see where the road resumed on the far side. As he turned Stormwind’s head, one of the old men called up to him.

“If tha does see Summer Lightning, lad, mind thaself around him. His dam were a sweet creature, but his sire were brother to a demon and Lightning took after him and then some, I’ve heard tell.”

Raven was about to say that it was highly unlikely he’d ever be allowed with spitting distance of a noble’s favorite, but then considered that, riding a Llysanyin, he might well be able to go places another could not. “Thanks for the warning,” he said instead. “I’ll remember it.”

Eight

Linden rose from his chair
at the small table and peered out of the window of their room. Behind him Maurynna and Shima still sat studying the carved and painted game board that took up most of the table’s surface. Small tiles of ivory, each with a colored pattern carved into its face, lay here and there upon the board in a seemingly random pattern.

But the arrangement was far from haphazard. For this was
diyinesh,
a game Shima had brought from his homeland. So simple to learn that a child could play it, yet its subtle depths could only be mastered after long study.

“I can’t believe it’s raining again,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s been, what? Three days now? Every time I think it’s stopped for good and the sun will soon be out, it starts up yet again.”

“If it keeps on like this,” Shima said, looking up from the game, “the next time we Change, it will be into Jehangli waterdragons. A pity Miune Kihn isn’t here; he at least enjoys rain. Whenever we had a storm back home, he’d dance in the village square and the children would dance with him.”

Linden smiled at the image Shima’s words conjured: an eel-like waterdragon dancing happily in the rain, waving the feelers on either side of his snout in the air, surrounded by prancing children. It was something he wanted to see one day.

Maurynna put onto the board a blue-edged ivory token with a sun eagle carved on its face.

Shima frowned. “Are you certain you want to play your Luck now? I see at least two other moves you can make.…”

“Which will both lose,” Maurynna replied tartly, “if they’re the same I’m thinking of. And perhaps you can see other moves than those, but I can’t.” She tapped her Luck piece. “This is my only chance. Now give me the wretched dice.”

Cupping them in her hands, she shook them hard, her lips moving silently, then cast the dice on the table. Linden watched with amusement as Maurynna and Shima both leaned over the board, counting aloud.

She sighed. “Oh, bloody … Still not good enough, even with the Luck doubling it, is it?”

“Ahh, no.”

“I swear those dice hate me,” she grumbled as she removed the pieces she’d lost from the board and handed them to Shima. “Thank the gods we don’t play for gold—I’d be a pauper ten times over. It’s your turn, Linden.”

She leaned back in her chair and sipped at her mug. “Oh, well—at least the ale is good and so is the company. They’re all horse-mad and half the time I can’t follow what they’re talking about, but I like Tyrian and his friends. They keep forgetting.”

Linden nodded; he knew what she meant. Tyrian and his fellow travelers often forgot they were not truehumans and talked to, argued with, and even chaffed the Dragonlords as they did each other.

As he took his seat once more and scooped up the dice, Linden said, “I’m glad you like them—because when I was downstairs a little while ago, Tyrian and Romsley approached me and invited us to join them on the journey to Balyaranna. I told them that I’d discuss it with the two of you.”

From the sudden smile that lit Shima’s face, it was plain that
he,
at least, would have no objections.

Maurynna’s expression, on the other hand, told another tale. She frowned slightly, and Linden was certain she was about to object. But instead she looked over at Shima and hesitated.

To gain a little time, Linden cast the dice.
It will slow us down, but not too badly, love,
Linden said in her mind as he picked up the tokens he’d just won.
We’d been planning to ride at a leisurely pace, after all.

True, but we’ve already lost so much time because of this rain, and the gods only know how much more we’ll lose keeping to the pace of ordinary horses. I don’t want Raven worrying about us.…

She glanced at Shima once more. The Tah’nehsieh Dragonlord must have guessed what was afoot, for he smiled wistfully at her. She went on,
Oh, for pity’s sakes—I’ll feel like an ogre if I say “No!” Ah, well—if we’re too delayed, I can always Change and get word to Raven. So let Shima enjoy Karelinn’s company as much as he can.

“I’ve no objections,” Maurynna said aloud. Then, in outrage, she demanded, “Linden—did you just win the last pieces I still had on the board?”

Startled, Linden looked down and studied the remaining ivory tiles. Not one had the blue edging that marked Maurynna’s tokens—but the pieces he held in his hand did. “Ah … yes, I guess I did. Sorry, but it was the way the dice fell.”

“That tears it. No more
diyinesh
for me. I’m off to tell Tyrian that we’ll be traveling with him and his party.”

With that, Maurynna stood up and went to the door. Pausing, she said sweetly, “Shima, do me a favor. Grind him into the dirt, will you?”

Before Linden could reply, she blew him a kiss and slipped out the door, laughing. As it closed behind her, he heard her greet Lady Merrilee and Lord Eadain and then their cheerful replies.

As he bent over the table once more, Linden remarked, “Does Lady Merrilee seem happier to you? Since Lord Eadain arrived, I mean.”

“What do you mean?” asked Shima.

“There always seemed to be a hint of sadness in her eyes before—Maurynna noticed it as well. She remarked last night that the sadness had eased. She said she didn’t think it was just the kitten. Quite the wicked little grin when she said it, too,” Linden said with a laugh.

Shima rubbed his chin. “I hope you’re right,” he said at last. “And a good thing it would be, I think—Eadain seems a good man and it appears the others think well of him. I suspect that there may have been someone else who courted Merrilee, with perhaps a less than happy result. I don’t know what happened, but if Eadain can make her forget that other, I know that Karelinn will be happy.”