Bard's Oath (Dragonlord) Read online

  The innkeeper asked, “So—how may I help you, Your Graces?”

  “Food, a quiet place to eat, and rooms,” Maurynna said. She twitched her cloak, sending drops of water flying. “I can’t wait to get dry again.”

  A tiny frown creased Elidiane’s forehead. “Oh, dear—we’ve only one room left.…”

  Damnation. Linden had been looking forward to a bit of privacy. For one moment he considered insisting she roust someone, anyone, out of their room. But the desperate look in the innkeeper’s eyes made him relent. Likely the private rooms were already taken by nobles or wealthy merchants who were the inn’s regular custom, while he, Maurynna, and Shima might well never pass this way again in her lifetime. And he knew full well who’d suffer if the unlucky person or persons took offense; it would not be the Dragonlords.

  “We’re willing to share.” He tried to keep the resignation from his voice. By the amused look in Shima’s eyes, he didn’t do very well.

  “And there’s only one bed.”

  “I’ll sleep on a pallet on the floor,” the Tah’nehsieh Dragonlord said. “I don’t even care anymore as long as the roof doesn’t leak.”

  “That it doesn’t. Thank you, Your Graces.” The relief in her voice said that someone had not been so reasonable. “The rooms are up—”

  One of the doors opened and a richly dressed man stepped out. “Ah, there you are, Mistress Tunly! We were wondering if you’ve heard any news about— By the gods! Linden Rathan! Maurynna Kyrissaean! And you must be Shima Ilyathan, are you not, Your Grace?” He bowed to them.

  “I am, my lord,” Shima said, nodding. “But I’m afraid I don’t recognize you.”

  Maurynna said, “Shima, this is Lord Tyrian of Cassori. He helped us on the first leg of our journey over the sea to Jehanglan. It’s not easy finding a ship and crew on short notice, even if they are the crown’s own, but Lord Tyrian did it.” To Tyrian she said, “If I’m ever in command of a ship again, I want that crew.”

  Tyrian smiled broadly. “My lady, I’ll be certain to tell them you said that; they’ll be prouder than peacocks.” He looked more closely at them. “Once you’ve had a chance to change into dry clothes, the party I’m traveling with would be honored if you’d join us for the midday meal.”

  Linden quickly consulted the others by mindvoice, then said, “It would be our pleasure, my lord. If you’ll excuse us for now?”

  Lord Tyrian bowed once more and went back into the private dining room. They followed the innkeeper to their sleeping chamber. As they gingerly removed their dripping cloaks, Mistress Tunly knelt before the wood already laid in the fireplace and expertly set it alight with flint and steel from her belt pouch.

  Standing once more, she said briskly, “My son will bring up your saddlebags shortly, Dragonlords, and I’ll fetch you towels to dry off with.” She made them a courtesy and left.

  Towels and saddlebags came a short while later. Not long after, they were on their way back down the stairs, urged on by their rumbling stomachs.

  To their dismay, when the Dragonlords reached the private dining room they found Mistress Tunly waiting to announce them. She opened the door, said into the noisy discourse, “My lords and ladies, Their Graces Linden Rathan, Maurynna Kyrissaean, and Shima Ilyathan,” then stepped back.

  Silence. Then, as they entered the room and the innkeeper closed it once more, everyone scrambled to rise and either bow or make them a courtesy. Lord Tyrian came to meet them.

  “Thank you for inviting us to share your meal,” Linden said for the three of them. The savory aroma of roast goose with sage tickled his nose; he hoped his stomach didn’t pick this moment to rumble again.

  He glanced around quickly to see how many of the people present he knew from his time as one of the judges of the regency question in Cassori a couple of years before.

  None were from the Cassorin Council, which was a relief beyond words. But nonetheless, many of the faces were familiar; it took him a moment to place where he’d seen them: one of the horse-mad Lord Sevrynel’s “little gatherings.” Thank the gods; horse talk was just fine with him. Politics were not.

  He went on, “As you can see, we’re not wearing our formal garb, so there’s no need for such ceremony, my lords and ladies. Please—let us dine as friends.”

  The babble of voices broke out once more, and the Dragonlords found themselves seated at the large trestle table in the center of the room. Then all settled to the serious businesses of eating and horse talk.

  After the edge was off his hunger, Linden asked Tyrian where his party was bound for.

  “The fair at Balyarannna, of course,” Tyrian replied. “And you, Your Grace?”

  “The same. We plan to meet our friends Otter Heronson and his grandnephew Raven Redhawkson there, as well as Maurynna’s cousins, who will be with the royal party.”

  Tyrian turned to Maurynna. “Ah! Of course—I remember them. Especially the little girl who wanted to go with you as a tumbler, Kella, Prince Rann’s friend. I’ve been at my own estate much of the past year rather than at court, but from time to time I’ve had word of their … adventures.”

  “Oh dear. It is indeed that same little girl, my lord. Her sister, Maylin, will be with her—for the regents were kind enough to invite her as well.” Maurynna paused. “Though I suspect Duke Beren and Duchess Beryl wanted someone around who’ll sit on Kella if she needs it.”

  “Hmm, yes,” Tyrian said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve heard once or twice that she can be, ah, impulsive, Your Grace.”

  Linden, nearly choking on his wine, thought with amusement, Now there’s an understatement!

  Maurynna laughed. “If by that you mean she has a nose for trouble, my lord—you’re absolutely right.”

  Someone called down the length of the table, “Does Lord Sevrynel know that you’re going to the fair, Your Graces?”

  “Not as far as I know, my lord,” Linden replied.

  Whoops of laughter followed his words. “My, won’t Sevrynel be surprised!” a few voices chorused. After the laughter ended, another voice said, “I hope you enjoy looking at pedigrees, Linden Rathan.”

  A fresh burst of laughter greeted this pronouncement.

  “Oh?” Linden asked.

  “You’ll see, my lord,” Tyrian said with a grin. “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  At the end of the meal the party broke up into smaller groups. Shima found himself the center of attention of a circle of the younger lords and ladies. They plied him with questions about life in Jehanglan and what it was like to live at Dragonskeep.

  Many of the most intelligent questions and comments, he found, were from two young Kelnethi noblewomen, Lady Karelinn and her sister, Lady Merrilee. They now sat opposite Shima on a bench by one of the windows.

  As Karelinn argued a point with one of the young men and Merrilee listened, nodding from time to time, Shima marveled at the difference between the sisters. He would never have guessed they were siblings.

  Where Karelinn was plump, rosy, and, to be honest, quite ordinary, Merrilee was pale, slender, and ethereally beautiful. Indeed, she seemed so delicate that Shima wondered if she was really but a waking dream. If he reached across the short distance separating them and touched her, would she vanish like mist?

  He noted with amusement that every young man in the party watched her with dog-like devotion, vying for a scrap of her attention, a word from her. Yet she seemed not to notice; Shima wondered if she even realized the effect she had on men.

  Lady Merrilee was quieter than her sister and rarely spoke. Instead her wide-eyed gaze went from speaker to speaker, her entire attention on each person in turn; she radiated an almost otherworldly aura of sweetness and innocence. Yet there was also, Shima thought, a touch of sadness in her eyes, as blue as a summer sky in Nisayeh.

  But for all Lady Merrilee’s beauty, it was Karelinn’s smile that attracted him. Ordinary she might be—especially next to her younger sister—but when Karelinn smile
d, it was as if she was lit from within. A man might warm himself with that smile, Shima thought, captivated. Nor did she seem to resent her sister’s otherworldly beauty; the way their heads bent together to share a joke spoke of true affection with no taint of jealousy. He’d seen his own sisters do the same many times. The sight made him a little homesick and he wandered off into his own thoughts.

  He barely noticed when the door opened once more, revealing Mistress Tunly; he ignored whatever the innkeeper said, for in his mind he wandered the stark, beautiful land of his people, smelled the sharp scent of scrub pine and kaqualla bush, sat by a river waiting for his friend Miune Kihn, the young waterdragon, to splash up the bank and sit beside him. He could almost smell his mother’s cooking.…

  Sharp cries of dismay brought him back. Startled, Shima looked about. Nearly everyone had jumped up to crowd around the innkeeper. The clamor was deafening. All Shima could make out at first was “But I must get to Balyaranna! I’ve two horses for the big race!” over and over again. Someone else just cursed long, hard, and impressively.

  He turned to Karelinn. “Lady, what is it? I wasn’t paying attention.”

  But Karelinn had her own distractions. Whatever the news was, it had upset Merrilee. She looked, Shima thought, like a frightened doe. “Oh gods—Kare?” the younger woman said uncertainly.

  Karelinn put her arm around Merrilee’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Merri. He wouldn’t dare disobey Father. He won’t follow us.” She spoke so softly that only Shima could overhear in all the tumult.

  And what is this all about? Shima wondered, suddenly alert. Had someone threatened the gentle Lady Merrilee?

  “Did Mistress Tunly say how long the bridge will be impassable? I couldn’t hear,” Merrilee whispered before he could offer his protection as a Dragonlord.

  Spirits! So that was the cause of the uproar. From what Linden had said during their journey, Shima knew that this was the only bridge within a tenday’s ride. True, there was a ford; but it was at least three days’ ride downriver, and if the Ostra River had flooded enough to wash out the stout stone-and-timber bridge they’d come over a few tendays ago, the ford was a lost cause.

  He hoped they got to Balyaranna before the horse fair was over; he looked forward to seeing Raven and his aunt again.

  But things would fall out as Shashannu, Lady of the Sky, willed it, Shima thought. Until then, he would see what he might do here. “Lady Merrilee—is there something I or the other Dragonlords might help you with?”

  A rosy flush suffused Merrilee’s cheeks. A quick look passed between the sisters; after a moment, Merrilee smiled her thanks, but shook her head.

  At that moment their father, Lord Romsley, called Merrilee. He looked worried. What on earth is amiss? Shima wondered.

  As Merrilee stood up to go to her father, Shima rested his fingertips on the back of her wrist, holding her back for a moment. Their eyes met.

  “Just remember—if you do need help, any of us will aid you,” he said quietly.

  “Thank you, Shima Ilyathan. But I fear this is a thing that only time can mend.” As she turned away, he caught the glint of tears in her eyes.

  Ah; that sounded more like a heart broken than a life in danger. Somewhat relieved, he turned to her sister. “Lady?”

  She took a deep breath. “By your courtesy, Your Grace, but…” Her eyes begged him to understand.

  “I see—telling or not is Lady Merrilee’s decision, is that it?”

  “Yes, if you please, Your Grace.” Her voice trembled.

  He knew he could force the issue; he knew how powerful the words “Dragonlord’s orders” could be. He had obeyed Maurynna when she’d said them to him back in Jehanglan and he’d had only his mother’s stories of Dragonlords. To one raised to obey a Dragonlord, it might as well be a command of the gods. It would be that unthinkable to disobey him.

  He was tempted, sorely tempted. But he also knew such power was not for whims. So he said, “Very well, my lady. But if you or your sister need help in the future, I lay this command upon you: You will come to me for aid.”

  Her smile lit her face; Shima basked in the warmth of it. He found himself thinking, I hope this rain goes on for a few days yet.…

  Leaning forward, he said, “Now—it looks as if we’ll be companions here for a while yet, lady, so let us talk to pass the time.

  “You’re from Kelneth, I heard your father say before. I’ve had no chance to go there yet, though Linden’s spoken of it. He knew one of your long-ago queens. Tell me about your home.”

  “I will—if you’ll tell me more about Jehanglan and Dragonskeep?” Karelinn countered.

  “Done,” he said. Then, with a grin, “You first.”

  Two

  At the sound of a knock, Otter turned from sorting the sheets of music lying upon the desk in his chamber. Even as he stood up to answer it, the door swung open. Charilon, another of the older bards and a longtime friend, entered.

  “What’s wrong?” Otter asked in concern as the other sat on the edge of the desk. Charilon’s eyes were red and he looked grim and sad. Strands of his grey hair had escaped from the tie that held it back and hung limply around his lined face.

  “You’ll be wanting to hold off on going to meet your nephew at the horse fair in Balyaranna, I’m thinking,” Charilon said.

  What on— “Oh?” Otter said, puzzled. Charilon knew how much he was looking forward to meeting Raven there. So what could be important enough to hold him back from the trip? A sudden chill danced up his spine. Something was very wrong. “Why?”

  His voice breaking, Charilon went on, “I came to bring you the news. Sether’s dead. His journeywoman, Rose, just found him.”

  Otter’s jaw dropped. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. Sether, the master of the wood barn, the man who helped everyone from the newest journeyman to the Guild Master himself find the perfect woods for their treasured harps? For a moment Otter’s thoughts froze. Then a torrent of possibilities flooded his mind. Had Sether finally fallen from that rickety old ladder by the woodbins? He finally managed to ask, “How? Did that damned ladder get him finally?”

  Charilon shook his head.

  Otter couldn’t imagine what else might have befallen the master. Then a thought came to him; the Wood Master was getting older.… Aren’t we all? another part of his mind asked sadly. “His heart?”

  “No. He, he … Sether hanged himself.” The master for the older apprentices wiped at his eyes with a sleeve-covered hand.

  “What!” Suddenly Otter’s legs would not support him. He fell back into his chair. “Dear gods!” was all he could say at first; then, after a moment, “That poor, poor child.” He could imagine only too well the scene she’d come upon, and what she’d felt. Too well—

  The next thing that burst from his lips was a single, anguished word: “Why?”

  Charilon shook his head.

  “Did—did he leave any kind of a message?”

  Once more Charilon shook his head. “Not that anyone’s found yet. And before he did it, it seems he built a bonfire out behind the Wood Barn. From the way it’s burning, they tell me, he must have poured oil or something on it. That’s why Rose found him—she ran to warn him about it. She thought it was a student prank. But one of the first-year apprentices saw him building it. The boy had no idea at the time that it was something untoward.”

  Otter still couldn’t believe it. Why would Sether, the Wood Master for the Bards’ School in Bylith, build a bonfire, then take his own life? Yes, his wife, Herala, had died, but that was years ago and their children were grown, with families of their own. As far as he knew, all was well there. Had there been some recent, unspeakable sorrow in his life that Otter hadn’t heard about?

  He must have asked the question aloud, for Charilon said, “No—not that I know of, at least. And I talk—I mean, talked—with him whenever I bring—damn it all, I mean brought—one of my ’prentices down to choose the wood for their journeyman’s harp
.

  “Hell—I saw him just last night! He told me he was still courting Widow Theras—Thomelin the luthier’s wife’s friend, remember Sevrynel told us about her?—though gods know why any man would fall head over heels for such a priggish—”

  Charilon stopped with a sob. He bowed his head and wiped his eyes again, then wrapped his arms around himself, rigid as a statue. His harsh breathing filled the room.

  He’s taking this very hard, Otter thought. I’ve never known him to babble like this. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he said in as soothing a voice as he could manage, “I never understood it either. But he was pleased with his courting?”

  Not that Sether had seemed the kind of man to hang himself if a woman turned him away, and certainly not for a woman such as Widow Theras, no man in his right mind would …

  Otter wrenched his thoughts back to the matter at hand. No, he might not kill himself for the love of a woman like Theras, but another man might be so driven. It was not his place to sit in judgment.

  Still … Widow Theras?

  Charilon’s voice broke into the swirling jumble of thoughts in his mind.

  “Yes, curse it—he was pleased! All smiles about it, he was. I was chatting with him about it. We were at the Green Rushes having a pint or four or five with that timber merchant who’d brought in a shipment of cherry and walnut. Beautiful wood it was, and Sether was delighted with it. True, he got upset and left when one of the carters told some idiot tale he’d heard, but nothing unusual in that.”

  “Oh?” Otter asked, leaning forward. Could that have—oh, wait; I’ll wager it was a— “Scary story?”

  “First shot right in the gold. You know how Sether was. Did the usual; said such tales gave him the cold grues and nightmares, then lit out of the tavern as if Iryniel the Punisher was snapping at his heels,” Charilon said, referring to the savage, wolf-headed servant of Auvrian, the patron god of the bards. “Stayed longer than he usually did, I’ll admit, but I think that, between ale and accent, he was having trouble understanding what the fellow was saying. But the moment he realized it was a ghost story—phwwp! Gone.”