Authors: Joanne Bertin
It was true. Whoever this Tirael was, Raven could see that for good or ill, he was one of those who drew others to him like moths to a flame. Never mind that they might burn themselves to a cinder while he remained unscathed; they would think themselves fortunate for the chance to circle his flame.
The man smiled broadly as Arisyn slumped under Raven’s hand. His gaze flickered briefly to Raven, then away again, bored. Servants, that look seemed to say, were beneath his notice.
Then the narrow-eyed gaze returned. “Ah,” Tirael said softly. “It’s the plowboy from near Fern Crossing, isn’t it?”
What is he talk—
A sudden memory blazed in his mind: a dusty road and a pack of riders circling two children like the sharks that Maurynna had told him of.…
Oh, bloody hell,
Raven thought in disgust.
Not him again.
“You and that Beast Healer interrupted my fun.”
Raven took a deep breath. “You find tormenting children fun … my lord?” The last two words were as close to a sneer as he dared in Cassori.
If only we were in Yerrih.
…
Tirael heard it; his eyes blazed, but Arisyn spoke before he could say anything. “Coryn—you know that Lord Sevrynel said that while you were with him you weren’t to have anything to do with Tirael!”
Arisyn’s voice cracked. Raven saw the boy’s face go red, heard the gulp that was half a sob. Worse yet, the breeze chose that moment to shift; the smoke from the fire beneath the bubbling kettle of oil billowed over them, stinging their eyes. Now Arisyn looked as if he were crying.
“Go back to your nursery, little crybaby,” Tirael sneered. “Or should I say, ‘little tattletale?’ Go ahead—prove you’re nothing but a little snitch. It’s just what I’d expect from you.”
Raven’s jaw clenched. Damn Tirael; he’d just made certain Arisyn would never tell his foster father about this. No one wanted to be known as a snitch—especially not a youth that age. That prickly age when one was no longer a child, but not yet a man, and all choices were still black and white, without the shades of grey that age and experience teach one to see. Though he was not really that much older than Coryn, Javiel, Marus, and, he guessed, Tirael, Raven suddenly felt as old as Morlen the Seer, the ancient truedragon he’d met at Dragonskeep.
“Never mind,” he said quietly as he drew the boy away. “He’s not worth the trouble. Let’s go.”
For a moment he thought Arisyn would pull free and go back to shove a fist down the laughing Tirael’s throat; he knew
he
wanted to in the worst way. But thankfully Arisyn chose to be sensible—though he was walking so fast that Raven had to stretch his legs to keep up despite the difference in their sizes.
At long last Arisyn spoke. “What did Tirael mean that you and a Beast Healer spoiled his ‘fun’?” The last word dripped contempt.
Raven told him how he and Beast Healer Gunnis had come across Tirael and his friends tormenting two children, Teasel and Speedwell, in the road.
“They’d best not let Reed Thornson see them for a long, long time,” Raven finished. “He views his fosterlings as his own kin and—”
He stopped in midstride as a sudden realization hit him.
Oh dear gods …
“Ari,” he said slowly. “I think Dunric was one of those riders.”
Arisyn groaned. “Oh, no! I like him—most of the time. When he’s not treating me like a baby. It’s that Tirael! I swear he could turn a high priest bad—I wish he’d drop dead!”
“Don’t worry, Ari. One day it will all catch up to him,” Raven said. “The gods will see to it. One way or another, they always do.”
Arisyn merely grunted and shrugged as if to say
Perhaps
.
They turned onto the “road” leading to the Gold Quarter. An excited group of fairgoers clustered in the center of the lane, blocking most of it. As he and Arisyn edged around them, Raven caught part of their discussion.
“Have you heard?” one of them said. “Summer Lightning’s here at last!”
* * *
Pod had lost count of the days. Then, one morning Fiarin shook them awake. Pod sat up, pulling her blankets around her against the predawn chill. She looked around in confusion. Why, it was still dark!
“Whaaa—” Kaeliss mumbled.
“Get up!” Fiarin snapped. “We’ve a long way to go.”
Pod opened her mouth to ask where, then quailed before Fiarin’s fierce scowl. Instead she made haste to roll up her blankets and pull on her boots.
“Eat this,” Fiarin ordered, shoving a few strips of dried meat at her, “as we walk. Now let’s go!”
The moment the young women were ready, the senior Wort Hunter set off. Pod caught Kaeliss’s eye and mouthed “What’s wrong with him?” But Kaeliss just shook her head and fell in behind Fiarin; she looked, Pod thought, a little frightened. Mystified—but not willing to be left alone—Pod hurried after her, Kiga loping alongside.
What on earth is happening? What is driving him?
Yet Pod wasn’t certain she really wanted to know.
There were no lessons that day, not even the pretense of one; no gathering of useful herbs, though Pod saw a number of them: goldthread, spikenard, healmoss, and wild ginger among others, and once, high up in an oak tree, a glimpse of mistletoe. Whenever either she or Kaeliss tried to point them out, Fiarin would dismiss them with a contemptuous wave of his hand.
“You’ll thank me for this,” he snarled at them when they protested the unrelenting pace. “You’ll thank me for this, oh yes. Now
move
!”
He frightened Pod so much that for a moment she considered setting Kiga on him so that she and Kaeliss could escape. But she had no idea where they were or how to find her way back to
anywhere
with people.
At least Fiarin seemed to know where he was going. So Pod held her tongue and followed, her fear growing with every step. If she’d had the faintest idea of where she was or how to find her way out of these cursed woods, she would have left, training journey be damned. But she didn’t. So she followed Kaeliss, who followed Fiarin, and tried to be brave.
Twenty-two
A village straddled the road
ahead and spread along the banks of the small river beyond. The road continued over a wooden bridge that was barred by a gate. It was a pretty little place, Maurynna thought; many of the whitewashed homes had roses or ivy climbing over their walls and thatched roofs. Late-afternoon sun bathed the village in golden light and an air of quiet contentment hung over the town.
“Ah, good,” Linden said as he halted Shan. “This must be Oakbridge. Fooled me at first—it’s grown a bit since I last saw it. Most times I’ve approached Balyaranna from the north.” He paused. “Hmm, the gate’s new. Used to be just a wooden beam they raised and lowered. And the inn’s new as well.”
“And what’s good about being in Oakbridge?” Maurynna asked.
“This inn has good food?” Shima asked hopefully.
“It means we’re not far from Balyaranna,” Linden said. “I’ve no idea about the food.” There was a long silence, then a resigned sigh. “We should enter the fair wearing the traditional garb, I suppose.”
Maurynna tried not to smile. Linden’s dislike of the full, dagged sleeves of the Dragonlords’ formal garb was legendary at Dragonskeep. Truth was, they
did
seem to have a talent for landing in the gravy.
She said, “I think it would be best. I wonder if we can get baths at the inn as well as a meal? I’m as dusty as this road.”
Shima laughed and nodded. “As am I. I cast my vote for breaking our journey here.”
“Very well, then,” Linden said. “Even if we take our time, we can reach the fair by dusk.”
* * *
Very well, then, he needed to go farther into the gardens. Leet cursed under his breath and hitched the carrying strap across his chest to a more comfortable position. Damn that stupid girl, anyway! He’d thought that little nook had been perfect, hidden away and with a fountain nearby in case he grew thirsty. Clearly, though, it hadn’t been far enough from the castle.
At first he wandered aimlessly, taking good care to keep an eye on the sun and noting anything unusual; a striking topiary form here, another one there, a circle of dwarf apple trees whose branches were so cunningly grafted together that they made a “house,” a fountain with a frieze of carved rabbits running around its rim—all were landmarks in his search for the perfect place.
From the signs around him he was now in a neglected part of the gardens. The roses were smaller here and all of a color, red, pink, or white; more like their wild cousins rather than the showy, many-petaled wonders now grown with their astonishing range of colors and streaked petals. Likely this part had fallen out of favor long ago.
This bodes well,
he thought.
Very well indeed.
He turned down yet another path and saw before him a long tunnel of rose-covered arches stretching before him. Curious, he entered it. At its end was a lawn of chamomile. And across that lawn …
Leet bared his teeth in a fierce grin. “Perfect,” he whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”
* * *
Raven walked briskly to meet Arisyn. The boy hadn’t found something for his mother during their first foray to the Gold Quarter, so they were going back. It was just as well; Yarrow had a few lords and ladies coming to the camp to see some horses and she wanted them to see Stormwind, too. But the last thing Raven wanted was to stay in camp tonight. For some reason he was restless and wanted to be out and about this evening.
Soon he and Ari were browsing the offerings in the quarter. Just as Raven was certain that they’d have no more luck this time, Ari spotted something.
It was a circular, domed brooch of silver delicately inlaid with swirling gold lines. Set in the center was a round piece of honey-colored amber.
“Just the thing for my mother’s shawls!” Arisyn whispered in Raven’s ear. “I hope it’s not too much, though.…”
One look at the expression on Arisyn’s face and Raven said, “Quick—the merchant’s coming this way. How much do you have to spend? That should do it—now hand over your money and leave this to me.”
A short while later they were leaving the Gold Quarter. Arisyn’s belt pouch was lighter by a few coins—and heavier by a silver brooch.
“Where did you learn to bargain like that?” Arisyn asked in awe.
“That? That was nothing. If Rynna was here, we’d have done better,” Raven said. “She was determined I wouldn’t embarrass her when went to fairs in Thalnia, so she beat some skills into my head.”
“I thought you said she was a sea captain, not a merchant,” Arisyn said. By the tone of his voice, Raven could tell that Maurynna had lost status in his eyes.
“She was both. These days … These days she’s doing other things,” Raven said vaguely. “So—where are we bound to now?”
“Somewhere. Anywhere. I must be back before the bell for the last—”
“Ho! If it isn’t little Ari and his pet plowboy! How’s your plow horse, peasant?” a drunken voice caroled behind them. Laughter followed the gibe.
Raven sighed and turned around. Sure enough, it was Tirael, Dunric, Coryn, and a few more of Tirael’s hangers-on. Tirael waved a wineskin and leered at them in mock fellowship. “I’d offer you a taste, plowboy, but it would be wasted on a peasant like you.”
As Tirael and his group closed the distance between them, Raven noticed the crowd around them disappear with amazing speed.
“I’m not a plowboy, and Stormwind isn’t a plow horse,” Raven said, suddenly fed up with the insults. “As you’d find out if I could enter the great races here, my lord. But since I’m not noble…” He spread his hands.
“Since you’re not noble, you’ll never have to prove that boast, will you, plowboy?” Tirael said. He tipped the wineskin and took a long drink, then pointedly turned his back on them.
“It’s not a boast!” Arisyn yelled. “You all think you’re such good judges of horses—well, you’re nothing but a pack of self-important idiots! None of you know a good horse from a spavined nag. You just look at the trappings on its back and judge from that. And you and Tirael are the biggest fools of the lot, Coryn!”
Coryn goggled drunkenly at the furious boy; it was plain that he never expected such fire from his young cousin. Tirael, though, spun around. He came swiftly toward them, moving with the deadly grace of a snowcat, his angry eyes fixed on Arisyn. His fist went back.
Raven hastily stepped between them, bracing himself to take the blow. He couldn’t let Arisyn take a beating on his—and Stormwind’s—account; certainly not from a full-grown man. The boy could be seriously hurt.
He just hoped he could leash his own temper and not retaliate. This was Cassori, not Yerrih or Thalnia. Tirael would be in the right no matter what provocation he offered.
Stopping barely a pace from Raven, Tirael glared at him; it certainly didn’t appear to improve the other man’s temper that he had to tilt his head back to do so. “Damned Yerrins think you’re as good as anyone, isn’t that right, plowboy? But just remember this: You’re not noble. And that means you’re nothing here in Cassori.” He slapped Raven.
Raven bit his lip against the pain and said nothing, but his fists clenched. A slap was for an insolent slave, not a free man.
“Now get out of my—”
“What’s going on here?” a gruff voice demanded.
Everyone jumped. Raven dared to turn his head, enough to see a small group of mail-clad men approaching. They wore the white shoulder sashes of the fair’s peacekeepers. He recognized the stern-faced noble who led them as Lord Huryn, High Marshal of the fair, and breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Huryn was known to be a fair man—for a Cassorin.
“You two,” the High Marshal said, pointing a gloved finger at Raven and Tirael. “Move away from each other.”
Raven stepped back as Arisyn skittered out of his way.
“This peasant was insulting me,” Tirael argued.
“I don’t care, Tirael. Do as I say, then I’ll hear your story.”
After a long moment, Tirael stepped back as well.
Huryn scowled at them both from under heavy black eyebrows. “You!” he said, jabbing a finger at Raven. “What’s your name and business at this fair? I’ve seen you riding through the fair the past few days but I’ve never seen you here before this year.”