Dark Haven (46 page)

The patrons of the Inn recognized him as he entered, and cheered at the sight of his lute. The regulars remembered him from the early days, when he played for drinks and food. The innkeeper remembered also and, though he knew his bard was now court musician to the king, 391

came out with a tankard of ale and a plate of cheese and sausage that Carroway accepted graciously.

“C’mon Carroway. A song or two for your old mates!”

The tavern patrons moved to clear a seat for him and Carroway settled in, tuning his lute quickly.

His first song was one he had written for the royal wedding, and the crowd cheered when he finished.

“One more! Give us something new!”

Carroway considered for a moment, and then, on impulse, strummed a minor chord. He closed his eyes and began to sing. It was one of the songs he’d written last year, when they’d been at the Library of Westmarch. It told of a girl whose music was so pure that it moved the ghosts to tears, and of the ghost who loved her, forever separated from her by death. He did not open his eyes until he was finished, letting the music fill him completely. When the song was over, there was an instant of silence, and then the crowd roared its approval. Carroway looked up just in time to see Macaria in the doorway watching him, but she slipped away before he could meet her eyes.

Carroway ended the impromptu concert to a round of hearty applause and slipped up the back steps, carrying the plate of food.

“We thought that must be you downstairs,” Halik greeted him, slapping him on the back as he entered. In return for the regular services of Carroway’s troupe of bards, the innkeeper at the Dragon’s Rage kept this small room for them. It was over the kitchen, so it remained warm without a fireplace. The bards used it to store their instruments and music, gather in privacy, and often, bed down for the night.

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Halik and Macaria were there as well as Paiva, who was tuning her lute. Tadhg, a barrel‐chested man whose skill on the fiddle defied the size of his large hands, lounged nearest the food, picking at the sausage on a large tray. He laughed often and loudly, and was first always with the newest ribald rhyme. Bandele, a

waifish woman with long, strawberry‐blond hair, leaned against the wall, seated on the floor at the warmest part of the room, clearly lost in her own thoughts, her harp by her side.

They were the regulars, although at least a dozen more might come and go on any night. The bard’s room was an open secret, though not all musicians were welcome. Some, whom Carroway knew to be aligned with nobility of questionable allegiance to the king, were never invited. Others, whom the group knew to be too free with their gossip or too enmeshed in court politics, were equally unwelcome. This group had remained constant since Carroway’s fostering, with the addition of Paiva a year before. Paiva was the sole survivor of a family killed by Jared’s raiders, and when she sang of those times, she didn’t realize that she wept as she sang.

A large pitcher of ale and tankards all round attested to the innkeeper’s generosity. The Dragon’s Rage was one of the few places commoners could hear such accomplished musicians. And if they were the practice audience for a new song or a ballad not yet completely polished, they did not seem to mind. It was also the best place to hear what the people outside the palace thought important enough to gossip about, which gave Carroway the pulse of the kingdom.

“What brings you out in the storm, dressed like a prize rooster?” Halik said.

“I keep telling you,” Macaria said, stretching. “He’s too tall for a rooster. Peacock perhaps, but not a rooster.”

“Paiva was just about to sing us a ditty she heard in the drawing room at Lady Jadzia’s,” Halik said. “Have a seat.” Carroway settled down on a bench next to Macaria. She slid down to make room, leaving more space between them than Carroway would have preferred. “Go ahead, 393

Paiva,” Halik encouraged. “Play for us.”

Paiva grinned widely. “I’m afraid it’s more of a tavern song than any fine music,” she disavowed.

“But it had a lively tune, and it’s hummable, so I suspect it will catch on quickly.”

In the lands to the north they breed them tall, and the lads of the north are the tallest of all And the lasses they say like to pass their days with a sword and a lance and hey! Hey! Hey!

Oh the men up north are not farmers bred and the likes of their lasses they’d rather not bed So they pack them off for the south to wed with a sword and lance and hey! Hey! Hey!

Now the men up north are not fighters brave, in a battle fierce their own skins they save Then they’ll send their lasses for the neighbor’s ale with a sword and lance and hey! Hey! Hey!

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Now the moral of my story is sad but true—the men of the north are a motley crew And they send their lasses for the work to do with a sword and a lance and a hey! Hey! Hey!

In the lands up north—

“That’s enough!” Carroway snapped, rising to his feet. Paiva nearly dropped her lute in astonishment before fleeing into the hallway. The other bards regarded Carroway as if he had suddenly gone mad. Bandele jumped to her feet and headed toward the door.

“I’ll go after her.” Bandele gave Carroway a sour look. “In the meantime, calm yourself.”

“And exactly what was that about?” Macaria demanded, hands on hips. “You’re not usually a surly drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. But I am worried. Don’t you get it? That song is about Kiara.”

Macaria shrugged. “Tavern songs are often at the expense of the nobles—even the king. That’s 395

why drunk soldiers like them so much. So?”

Carroway ran his hands through his long, black hair and began to pace. “It’s not just a tavern song,” he said. “You’ve seen how much has been happening—Zachar dead, Malae poisoned, Mikhail imprisoned. Eadoin’s been hearing talk among the nobles. Instead of realizing that we’ve got a traitor among us and taking Kiara’s side, some of the nobles are blaming Kiara for bringing misfortune on the court. It’s hard enough to be a foreign queen and have the king gone for months to war. But if the court turns against her—”

“I’ve heard some of the same talk,” Halik confessed. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure it was more than a couple of hotheads with too much ale.”

“So have I,” Tadhg said.

“But why? The marriage is official. And if it hadn’t been Kiara from Isencroft, it would have been a princess from Trevath to keep the peace.” Macaria wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Whoever’s behind the attacks on Kiara might not even be from Margolan,” Carroway said.

“What if the rebels in Isencroft are desperate enough to try to kill Kiara in order to start a war between Tris and Donelan?”

“No queen, no heir, no joint throne,” Tadhg summed up with a grim expression.

“Could they?” Macaria asked. “Start a war, I mean?”

Carroway shrugged. “If King Donelan gave his daughter into Tris’s protection and she was murdered, that’s provocation enough for war, I’d say.”

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“And a war with Isencroft on the northern border might be just the excuse Trevath needs to attack,” Halik said. “They’d put Jared’s bastard on the throne with a Curane as regent.”

“For a bard, you think like a damn soldier,” Tadhg said.

“You travel with a company of soldiers for a year and see if it doesn’t rub off a little, along with the lice.”

“But I thought they arrested one of Lord Guarov’s men for sending that awful shroud,” Macaria said. “Lord and Lady Guarov left court very suddenly after that.”

“Do you really think Guarov’s behind everything that’s happened?” Tadhg asked with a snort.

“He’s not smart enough to dream up a scheme like this—or connected enough to make it happen.”

“Or there’s more than one scheme going on,” Macaria said. “And more than one schemer.”

“Tris hasn’t had time to undo all Jared’s damage,” Carroway said. “If someone tapped into that anger, channeled it against something—like a foreign queen—it could be like a tinderbox.”

The door opened and Bandele and Paiva entered. The young girl was red‐eyed from crying, and Bandele fixed Carroway with an accusing gaze.

Carroway walked over and knelt before Paiva. He took the girl’s hand and kissed the back of it.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been sharp with you. Can you please forgive me?”

Paiva smiled at the extravagant show of remorse. “Oh Carroway, you know I will.” She threw her 397

arms around the bard’s neck.

“Carroway thinks there may be a plot to turn Margolan against the new queen,” Macaria said, looking at Bandele. “Paiva, you have a gift with remaking folk songs. What if you used the same tune and came up some new lyrics—lyrics that say something good about the queen.” She laughed. “By the Dark Lady! I don’t even think it would hurt if you said all the Northern lasses are lusty, as long as they’re not running our men through with their swords and stealing our ale!”

Paiva sniffled and wiped her hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can do that. And if I teach it to all of you, maybe we could get out to the other taverns before the first ditty catches on.” She smiled, thinking about how to turn the tide. “If I add a little bounce to my version, pick up the tempo, and get the drinkers to thump their mugs on the ‘Hey! Hey!’ it might just overtake the first version.”

“Some of the traveling companies that came for the wedding have stayed because of the weather,” Halik added. “Macaria and I can offer them our welcome. And, if in the process, we get down to swapping tales and songs, well, that’s what bards do, isn’t it?”

Carroway stood and grinned. “That’s my girl,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder. “I’m willing to make a round of ale houses myself for the cause. If we made a tour of the inns in the palace city and a day’s ride beyond, we might get ahead of it.”

“How can I break this to you—you just don’t blend in,” Bandele said with a meaningful look that swept from Carroway’s long sable hair down his ruby silk flounced shirt to his brocade trews.

Carroway rolled his eyes good‐naturedly. “It’s a curse.” Macaria elbowed him in the ribs.

“She’s right,” Halik agreed. “Everyone knows you’re the King’s Bard—and his friend beside. And everyone at court knows you’re close to the queen. Coming from you, it might look like an effort by the palace to stop an embarrassing song—”

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“—which would just make the old song more popular,” Macaria finished. “But .we can be your eyes and ears. Maybe we can even find out where the other songs are coming from.”

“We’re going to need the luck of the Dark Lady on our side,” Tadhg said.

Carroway clapped Tadhg on the shoulder. “I know, my friend. I know.”

In the salle, Kiara wheeled and landed a solid Eastmark kick against the quintain. Once the worst of the morning sickness was over, Kiara found that a good workout just before dawn helped her calm her nerves. The quintain was the opponent of last resort. Until his imprisonment, Mikhail had been a challenging partner. While he lacked Jonmarc’s skill with the East‐mark fighting style, Mikhail’s strength and speed as a vayasb moru created other challenges. But Mikhail was locked in the dungeon. And while Carroway was a dead aim with throwing knives, even by his own admission, his swordsmanship was lacking. There was no one else Kiara trusted as a sparring partner, and so she took out her loneliness and frustration on the wooden quintain.

It felt good to move. She was alone, with the guards on the outside of the salle doors. No one could accuse her of impropriety. Here in the salle, she was free of the cumbersome dresses required at court. A simple dress lay to one side, along with her amulet necklace and her other jewelry. She wore an Isencroft‐made tunic and trews, dyed in the colors of flame. As she danced through the fighting forms, Kiara felt her spirits lift for the first time in many days. Jae dived at the quintain, easily dodging Kiara’s sword strikes, scoring with his talons against the wooden practice dummy. When he tired of the game, the gyregon retreated to a perch high in the salle rafters.

Focused on technique, Kiara could escape the thoughts that haunted her nights and nagged at her days. It was a relief not to think, to worry, to wonder what was happening with the army.

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Here, there was only the freedom of movement and the joy of performance.

Without warning, the temperature in the salle plummeted. A gust of wind snuffed out the torches. Still too early for daylight, the windows at the top of the walls were dark. The salle was pitch black. Before Kiara could react, the quintain spun on its own accord, catching Kiara hard across the belly with the broad side of its lance. The force of the blow knocked her to the ground. And just as quickly, a stabbing pain doubled her up. She tried to call out for the guards, but there was no reply. Jae landed beside her, his head turning watchfully.

The air around her swirled with a faint green glow. The glow grew brighter, and Kiara heard voices in the darkness.

“It’s too early—”

“Not ensouled yet—”

“Then the time is right. We must determine which of us—”

“We had agreed—”

“No agreement yet—”

Kiara tried to climb to her feet, gritting her teeth to ignore the pain. The quintain began to spin wildly and she ducked down, fearing that another blow from its lance could easily knock her out or worse. The green glow grew closer, and she could hear the voices more clearly.

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“Not an easy thing to do—”

“Still, not impossible—”

“One of us will surely be a match—”

A wind rose around Kiara, hard enough that she heard swords clatter down from the walls of the salle. “Guards!” she shouted above the wind.

Laughter rose from the green glow. “They can’t hear you. We made sure of that. We’ve locked the doors, just in case. We’ve been watching you. Waiting.”

“What do you want?”

“To be reborn.”

The green glow closed in around Kiara, and she shielded herself, drawing on the regent magic.

Laughter answered her.

“You’re not a Summoner. We’re not mages. Your shields have no power over us.” The glowing miasma swirled around her and Kiara was shivering hard, in cold and fear. She struggled to her feet, wincing at the pain in her midsection. She held her sword two‐handed, knowing that it would do no good against these opponents. Kiara could see shapes in the glow now, faces emerging. A woman, not much older than herself. A man in his middle years. A young man with cold, determined eyes.