Authors: Joanne Bertin
During the night, he dreamed. A dream he’d had many times since Arnath’s death, and always, always it was the same. He’d never seen the horse in life, but knew it when it entered his dreams.
Coat like a new copper penny, shining like a flame as the brute raced across the green field, scorning the figures that lined the fence watching him: two young men and, a short distance from them …
A boy. Arnath; beloved Arnath with his gift of song.
Then the stallion came up to the fence next to Arnath and began grazing. So enraptured was the boy that he never noticed the two young men stealing up behind him.
Each time Leet reached this point in the dream, he would desperately cry out a warning, his heart breaking, but there was no sound. It was as if he were but a wraith, doomed to watch the unfolding tragedy over and over, unable to stop it. Helpless, he was so helpless.…
Like a striking hawk, one of the men caught up Arnath and tossed him over the fence onto the horse’s bare back, laughing all the while.
But over the laughter, Leet could hear the boy’s terrified screams: “Father! Father! Help me!”
Then the stallion leapt away from the fence and bucked. Arnath flew from his back and landed heavily on the ground, too stunned to move. For one terrible moment, the stallion looked over his shoulder at the helpless boy as if considering, then deliberately turned, reared up, and—
Leet woke, gasping, as he always did at this point. He heaved himself up on one elbow, tears running down his face. He had not seen Arnath’s death, had only been told of it, but each time the dream felt as real as if he stood there. He lay tossing and turning, unable to sleep, and thinking about his revenge.
Seventeen
The dawn found a tired
Leet riding through a cow pasture. He had spent a fitful night, wondering if his plan would work, if he’d overreached himself, if someone would realize what Robie was up to.
A couple of candlemarks before, a sleepy, inquiring yip from one of the dogs had brought Leet to the door of the stable. He’d peered out, straining his eyes to make out anything in the near-darkness, wondering if his plan was afoot at last. He hadn’t dared go outside lest the dogs catch his scent and raise the alarm.
But he’d known that drowsy yip should mean— Yes! A slight boy’s form hurried across the yard, heading for the pastures, an empty sack flapping on his back as he ran. If someone were to follow Robie and find him at his task … Leet used the time to make ready to get out in a hurry if needed.
But his luck had held. Soon he’d seen Robie returning, more slowly this time, the full sack heavy on his back. The boy had come up to him, vacant gaze not truly seeing him, and handed over the sack.
“Good boy,” Leet had whispered as he tied the sack into place on the packhorse. Then, still whispering, he infused his voice with the note of command that had made many an apprentice jump to obey. “Now forget all this. Forget until I call you once more.”
“Yes, sir,” Robie said dully.
“You will answer that call.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do without question.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy, Robie. Now keep the dogs quiet while I leave and then get you back to bed and forget all this.”
The boy had dumbly done as he’d been bidden.
Now Leet rode with his means of revenge snugged down between the harp cases like so much innocent luggage.
He hoped he’d soon find the abandoned byre that Robie had told him about. Before the sun was much higher, he wanted to lay Osric to rest. It was time for Leet Welkin of Sansy, Master Bard of the Bards’ School of Bylith, to rise again like a Jehangli phoenix from the ashes of its pyre.
The image made him snarl. Damn that bastard Heronson yet again. Though Leet wouldn’t admit it even to himself, it still rankled that Otter had won such glory; first with the trip to the fabled kingdom of Jehanglan, and then—adding insult to injury—with the sweeping success of the song about the journey that he’d written soon after returning.
If I’m asked to sing that damned song one more time …
The sight of the half-ruined byre was a welcome distraction. It was a picturesque thing of flat grey stone, one wall a tumbled ruin, its stones scattered through a carpet of long grass and wildflowers, empty windows staring blindly out at the distant hills. The thatched roof was long gone; the sharply pointed gables reared up to the sky.
Like something from that old fairy tale, the one where the handsome young lord falls in love with the beautiful shepherd girl and meets her on moonlit nights in the old ruins.
A part of his mind whispered,
Or the weaver girl …
Leet shook his head, refusing to follow the memory. As he led the horses into the byre, he squinted up at the pale robin’s-egg blue of the sky. Dawn was passing; he must hurry.
He worked quickly. The tunic, breeches, and cloak, all of minstrel yellow-and-red, and the mummer’s powder went into a hole created by pulling out some of the fallen stones. Shivering in the morning chill, Leet washed himself with the cold water from his waterskin, wishing he dared light a fire. But it would take too long to heat the water and someone might see the smoke.
No, cold water, soap, and a good scrubbing would have to do until he reached the public bath near Balyaranna. He washed his hair again and again to get out the grey that had added years to his appearance. When he was satisfied that the worst traces of his rough journey were gone, and that he was as clean as he could be, Leet roughly toweled himself dry and dressed faster than ever he had in his life.
Ahh! It was good to be back in his proper garb once more! Leet smoothed the rich fabric of his red tunic and flicked a bit of straw from the black breeches. He settled his bard’s torc around his neck, stretched, and stood tall, a Master Bard of Bylith once more.
He mounted his horse and rode down from the byre toward the road, the packhorse ambling behind. First that bath, then he’d find an inn to break his fast. Best have the ostler give both animals a good grooming, too.
He was bound for the royal castle near Balyaranna. Everything must be perfect.
Eighteen
As Raven rode slowly down
the section reserved for saddlers and harness makers, he saw young Lord Arisyn come out of one of the tent booths and mount a seal-brown gelding that whickered gently to him. Raven whistled in appreciation; it was a handsome, well-bred animal and obviously fond of the boy. Once he would have given all he had for a horse like that. Once.
“Good day, my lord Arisyn,” Raven called.
Arisyn looked around. His face lit up as Raven halted Stormwind next to him.
“Oh, good!” the boy said in delight. “I’m so glad to see you again!”
“And Stormwind and I are glad to see you again as well, my lord,” Raven said, deliberately giving Arisyn another clue with the Llysanyin’s name. Then he grinned. “Any more guesses?”
Arisyn looked sheepish. “No. I’m at my wits’ end.” Then he tilted his head; his lips quirked up in a sly smile. “Perhaps a wee bit of cheating…” Leaning over, he called out, “Coryn, I’m going home now.”
A muffled voice answered from inside the tent, “Already? Your loss, pipsqueak.”
“Hah! We’ll see about that!” muttered Arisyn as he wheeled his gelding around and sent it trotting off. To Raven he said over his shoulder, “Come on! I want you to meet my foster father.”
When he and Stormwind had caught up with Arisyn, Raven asked, “Cheating, my lord?”
Arisyn grinned. “Very well, then—perhaps not cheating. Not quite, that is. But I want to see if my foster father recognizes your horse’s breed. If he doesn’t, then I won’t feel like such an idiot that I don’t.”
“And why should you feel like an idiot? I can assure you that many people have never seen horses like Stormwind.” Raven remembered what he’d been told by Linden, Lleld, and Jekkanadar about traveling unheralded. He added, “And even fewer have known
what
it was they saw.”
The boy groaned. “Is that supposed to be a hint? I’ll freely admit I’m baffled. I’m enjoying the game, but I’m baffled. I’m just wondering if my foster father will be as well.” After a moment, he blurted out, “I’ll certainly feel better if he is!”
Raven had to laugh. “And your foster father is…?”
“Lord Sevrynel, Earl of Rockfall,” Arisyn replied. “I went to Kelneth to visit my parents. I came back with my aunt and uncle and cousin.”
Raven was delighted; this was a stroke of luck! Yarrow spoke highly and with affection of Lord Sevrynel; Raven also knew that Linden thought well of the man and his knowledge of horses.
And
he was the Lord Marshal of the Balyaranna horse fair. It was all Raven could do not to whoop with delight.
* * *
“Wait in there,” Arisyn directed. He pointed to an opening in a hedge that bordered one side of a cobbled courtyard before a large stone stable. “I’ll see if my foster father has a moment. Here—take Arrow, please.” He tossed the reins to Raven.
“In there” proved to be a smaller courtyard, also cobbled, surrounded by a high hedge. The overhanging branches of a chestnut tree shaded the far end and the stone bench there.
Raven led Stormwind and Arrow within. He waited nervously, running his fingers through Stormwind’s mane again and again to comb it, brushing any hint of dust from the Llysanyin’s glossy coat. It wasn’t long before he heard Arisyn’s voice beyond the hedge.
“Now remember, foster father—if you know what breed his horse is,
don’t
tell me. I want to guess it on my own. Coryn and Dunric said it’s just a Shamreen draft horse, but I don’t think so. I think they’re idiots. I
know
that it’s more than that.” Arisyn came around the corner, a huge grin on his face.
Then Raven caught his first sight of the Earl of Rockfall. Lord Sevrynel, a short, slender man, was blinking owlishly in the sudden dimness. But short as he was—especially to a Yerrin—this man was a giant among horsemen and -women, the same world that Raven lived in. It was by his generosity that the great horse fair of Balyaranna lived and gave his aunt and a score of other breeders a chance to reach buyers that they would otherwise never have seen.
Lord Sevrynel came a few steps into the enclosure and stopped short. Then he stared from Stormwind to Raven to Stormwind and back again. But all he said was a soft and startled “Oh,
my
!”
“Well?” Arisyn demanded when his foster father showed no further sign of speech.
Indeed, Raven wondered if Sevrynel was even capable of speech at that moment. The man looked thunderstruck. Raven bowed to him. Lord Sevrynel nodded absently, still staring at Stormwind, humming a song softly to himself.
“Well?” Arisyn asked again. “Who’s right—Coryn and Dunric or me?”
The Cassorin lord said in a dreamy voice, “Coryn and Dunric are idiots.”
“I knew it!” crowed Arisyn. Then, with a trace of resignation, “You know what he is, don’t you, foster father?”
“I certainly do. I even know his name, Stormwind.” Lord Sevrynel looked down at his ward.
“How did you know? I only just found it out,” Arisyn said.
Sevrynel chuckled. Even from where he stood Raven could see the twinkle in his eyes. “I saw another of this breed once—and it’s not a thing you forget, my lad.”
Arisyn sighed. “Why do I feel I’m missing something by a good league and more?”
The earl laughed. “I’ll tell you this much, my boy—when you find out, you’ll feel remarkably silly you didn’t guess. Why, you’ve heard this very horse described.”
“I have?” Arisyn gaped at him.
“You have. Think about it.”
As Arisyn scratched his head, looking puzzled, Lord Sevrynel turned back to Raven. “Your name, sir?”
“Raven Redhawkson, my lord earl,” Raven said respectfully, though he had to hide a grin. He knew where Sevrynel had learned of Stormwind: Great-uncle Otter’s song of the journey to Jehanglan, “Dragon and Phoenix.” It was the song Sevrynel had been humming.
He’d also heard from both Yarrow and Linden how horse-mad Sevrynel was; trust the man to remember a horse’s name—but not a human’s. “I’m nephew and partner to Yarrow Whitethorndaughter.”
The smile that lit Lord Sevrynel’s face warmed Raven’s heart. “Excellent! Your aunt is well known here, young man, and well thought of, very well thought of. She has excellent horses.”
“She’ll have even better ones to bring here one day, my lord,” Raven said boldly.
Sevrynel’s eyes grew huge. “You mean—?”
“I do, my lord.”
“Oh, my. Oh,
my
!”
From somewhere beyond the hedge a frazzled-sounding voice called for Lord Sevrynel. The Cassorin noble sighed and called back, “I’m coming, Answell.” To Raven he said, “I would speak further with you, young man, rest assured of that.” He turned to his foster son, whose face wore a grimace of puzzled frustration. “Don’t worry, my boy, you’ll get it soon enough. Do show Master Redhawkson the way to Sweetflag Pond tomorrow, there’s a good lad. I’m certain he and his … horse will enjoy swimming there. And now, farewell all.”
Suddenly Raven thought of something. “My lord earl, a moment more of your time, please? I may have some news for you.”
Sevrynel stopped. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Then, realizing that his tidings would end the game, he said to Arisyn, “My lord, would you mind?”
The boy studied him a moment, then said shrewdly, “It’s something that would be a huge hint, wouldn’t it?”
“It would. Do you want the game to end?”
“Oh, no!” Arisyn answered, and moved off.
Bending down so that he could whisper in Lord Sevrynel ear, Raven said quietly, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, my lord, but Maurynna Kyrissaean, Linden Rathan, and Shima Ilyathan are coming to this year’s fair.”
The little earl reared back in surprise and stared up at Raven. “How do you know?”
“They visited my aunt’s holding just after the turn of the year, my lord. Maurynna and Shima have never seen the fair, so Aunt Yarrow and I invited them. I imagine they’ll get here within the next few days.”