Authors: Joanne Bertin
“Kella won’t miss them,” Rann said. “Not with
him.
”
Something in Rann’s voice made Beren pause. He studied the boy. “Can you explain a bit more?”
Rann shook his head. “No, sir. I gave my word.”
“I see.” Beren considered Rann’s request. At least it was an easy one; there didn’t
seem
to be any pitfalls in it. But he wished he knew what lay behind it—especially Rann’s certainty that Kella would not want lessons from this bard. He well knew that Kella had talent. Still, no doubt such a famous bard would consider it beneath him to teach beginners though he would do so if it was by royal request. And most of the children—if not Kella—would be overjoyed at the reprieve; more time for the fair!
“Your Highness,” Beren said formally, “I hereby grant your boon. Music lessons will not resume until Bard Daera returns from visiting her ill mother.”
He thought Rann would melt with relief. “Thank you, Uncle Beren!”
Rann hopped down from the chair, all happy-go-lucky little boy once more. “I promise to study twice as hard when Daera comes back! Good night.” He threw his arms about Beren’s neck and hugged him hard, then scampered out the door.
Beren watched him go, giving way to his own chuckles at last. Gods, but he loved that little imp like his own son!
Still, he wished he knew what was behind all this.
* * *
Kella lay in her bed, staring into the darkness, unable to sleep. She gently rubbed her still-aching hand and sniffled. If only Maylin were here! But she’d had to stay in Casna to look after their mother.
If only Mama hadn’t hurt her leg.
She’d been sad when the message came, telling her the news, but now it was horrible. Kella just wanted to climb into her big sister’s lap and cry while Maylin rocked her.
Maybe she should have asked Simpler Quirel to look at it. But someone might see her go to Quirel’s rooms and ask why. And if certain of the other children found out she’d been slapped by a bard—a Master Bard at that—they’d laugh.
They
could be so mean, not like Rann and Rosalea and a few of the others.
They
would make fun of her forever and ever.
She knew
they
were jealous of her growing skill with the harp—the ones who cared about learning to play, anyway. And all of
them
were jealous of her friendship with Rann. She was Rann’s best friend.
And she knew that some of their parents were afraid that she’d somehow marry Rann. That was silly. She wanted to go to Bylith and be a bard like Otter and Daera.
But not a bard like Leet. Oh, no—not like him, even if she became a Master Bard, one of the respected elders of the guild. She had to find a way to get back at him.
She shut her eyes, chanting to herself.
Have to find a way. Have to find a way. Have to find …
* * *
When Kella woke the next morning, she discovered that Maurynna, Linden, and Shima had arrived the night before. She spent an ecstatic morning with them before court life claimed them for itself.
The only bad moment came after Linden and Shima left. Maurynna caught her hand and turned it back and forth, studying it. Kella snatched it away.
“Sweetling, what on earth did you do?” Maurynna asked with a frown. “That’s an awful bruise you’ve got, and Maylin not here to help you. What happened?”
Kella froze. She’d never thought what excuse she could give to explain away the bruise. Then inspiration struck.
I’ll have to remember to tell Rann and Rosalea.
“I fell onto the stone hearth in my room, with my hand beneath me because I was holding my doll. I was running in my stocking feet and slipped.”
She hung her head; lying to Rynna felt awful. But she couldn’t tell her what had really happened. She knew her cousin’s temper and was afraid she’d do something that would get a nasty song written about her; Daera had once talked about why it was not wise to anger a bard.
No, she wouldn’t tell Rynna or Linden or Shima. She’d sort out Bard Leet by herself … somehow.
Twenty-four
The Dragonlords spent their first
night in Balyaranna at the royal castle. But it was so crowded that when Duke Beren, the Regent of Cassori, mentioned the royal encampment by the start of the Queen’s Chase racecourse, Linden asked if they might move there. He knew that the tents they’d be provided with would be as luxurious as any king or queen might desire. It might even be a little calmer—and certainly not as formal.
“You just don’t want to have to wear the traditional garb again,” Maurynna teased him when he told her about the move.
“Yes,” he said smugly.
Still, their first couple of days were a whirlwind of court activity. Luckily, though, the first excitement wore off and the Dragonlords had more time to themselves. At Balyaranna, horses came before anything, even Dragonlords.
So, on their first free day, Linden went to Lord Sevrynel’s manor to talk horses. Maurynna begged off; she spent the morning with Kella again and then went off to find Raven.
But Shima had the best day of all. For, by dint of hard riding, Lady Karelinn, Lady Merrilee, and their father rode into the courtyard of Balyaranna Castle along with Lord Eadain and a few others from the inn.
* * *
The dappled light of the arbor danced across the two large parchment sheets upon the table. They were covered with neat writing, the entries upon them spanning centuries.
Linden sipped his wine as he looked over the pedigrees Lord Sevrynel had brought to him. To his right was the pedigree of one of Sevrynel’s best broodmares, a bright blood bay named Fliss who was descended in a long line from Rani eo’Tsan’s mare Mhari. To his left was the bloodline of a stallion also descended many generations back from the long-ago mare.
“What think you, Your Grace?” the little earl asked. “Both are of Mhari’s blood, but not too closely related. And neither has Hornet in their ancestry.”
Linden thought for a moment. “Ah—wasn’t he the one with those absurdly small hooves? What on earth was anyone thinking to breed that into their bloodlines?”
He shook his head in disgust. No doubt there were some that thought such hooves looked elegant, but to him it was a useless—even cruel—vanity. He remembered hearing how badly the poor horses so afflicted fared on journeys. They were only good for short distances about a holding.
“And there’s worse, so the Beast Healers think,” said Sevrynel. “It seems that—”
“My lord! My lord!” a young voice called in distress.
Both Linden and Sevrynel looked up at the sudden interruption. A boy—one of the stable hands by his dress, Linden thought—rushed up to them. Tears streaked his dusty face.
“My lord,” he sobbed as he stumbled to a halt before the two men. “My lord, please come…” He stopped, panting for breath.
“Everrad, what means this ill-mannered—”
“My lord—it’s Fliss. Someone let old Aster into the mare’s pasture and she’s gored Fliss badly,” the boy gasped, so upset that he interrupted the earl without apology. “She’s been brought to the mares’ barn.”
“Oh dear gods have mercy!” Sevrynel was so distraught he ran off without a word of apology.
Not that Linden could blame Sevrynel. The Earl of Rockfall loved all his horses, but he made no secret that Fliss was the jewel of his heart.
Linden turned his attention to the boy, patting him on the shoulder. “Easy, lad. Catch your breath now. Better?”
The boy nodded, hiccuping.
“Good. Well, then—who’s this Aster? And has anyone sent for a Beast Healer?”
Thank the gods this happened during the horse fair—Beast Healers are nigh as thick as the flies around here. It shouldn’t take long to find one.
“Aster’s one of the goats, m’lord, and a foul-tempered old nanny to boot. She once blinded one of the yearlings who stuck his head over the fence into her pen. She knows how to use her horns too well, that one—”
Here the boy paused and peered up into Linden’s face, his gaze suddenly riveted on Linden’s Marking. Linden thought he paled under the dirt on his face. “Your … Your Grace, couldn’t you…?”
“Change and Heal her with a dragon’s Healing fire? Lad, think—what would the poor beast do when a dragon appeared in front of her?” Linden asked with a smile.
He could almost see the image take shape in the boy’s imagination. “Oh” was all the stable boy said, shaking his head. “No. No, no, no.”
“Indeed. And we won’t even talk about the rest of the stable. Now—a Beast Healer?” Linden prompted.
The stable boy took a deep breath and answered, “We were in luck, Your Grace. One was already here to see another mare that’s due to foal in a few days.”
“Thank the gods for that, then. Now I’m off to see if I can help either the Beast Healer or Lord Sevrynel.”
More likely than not, it will be poor Sevrynel—if only it wasn’t
Fliss
!
He ran after Sevrynel, managing to catch up with the little earl just as the man reached the broodmares’ barn.
Linden followed a near-frantic Sevrynel through the broad open door. The Cassorin lord raced ahead and stopped before a roomy box stall; he peered over the stall door.
“How bad is it? Is she dying?” he asked anxiously. “Oh gods, her poor leg … Is it broken? Will she be well?”
A voice rich with the burr of the Kelnethi north country answered him from inside the stall. “Aye, she’ll be fine, m’lord. Not to worry now, nothing’s broken. And the cut, while bad, is nothing to fret yourself about. She’ll bear many a foal yet, the gods willing.”
Linden reached the stall and looked over the high partition in time to see a long, lanky figure in the leather breeches and brown-and-green hooded tunic of a Beast Healer straighten up from examining the injured horse’s near hock, his back to the stall door. The hood of the tunic, Linden noticed idly, seemed rather bulgy.
Odd—I wonder what he keeps in there. Packets of herbs?
“Oh my poor Fliss,” Sevrynel whimpered, his face pale. Nervous sweat beaded his forehead.
Two grooms hovered by the mare’s head, casting nervous glances at their lord chewing his fingernails. The Beast Healer gestured for the leather satchel lying to one side. At once one of the grooms jumped to fetch it for him. The man rummaged through it and withdrew a flask and a cloth. Pouring some of the contents of the flask onto the cloth and the rest over the wound, he cleaned the gash carefully.
The man’s movements were slow and deliberate, his touch gentle but firm. Linden nodded in silent approval; this was a man who knew his art well.
When the Beast Healer stepped aside to wipe his hands on a cloth one of the grooms offered him, Linden could see the long, deep gash the goat’s horn had torn in the mare’s leg. He winced in sympathy. Sevrynel muttered something—a prayer or curse—at the sight of the blood that still dripped sluggishly from the wound. Yet the mare had stood quietly as the wound was cleaned; her head hung down and her eyes were half shut. Linden knew she’d had a touch of the Sleep laid upon her.
The man must be a strong Healer—that mare hasn’t even twitched!
The longer he watched, the more certain Linden was that he knew the man from somewhere. Yet he was also certain it wasn’t one of the Beast Healers he’d met at Dragonskeep from time to time. So who …
Then a hint of a memory surfaced; Linden remembered joining forces with a gangly journeyman Beast Healer to rescue a young orphan. What was—
By the gods—could it be
Conor
?
If only the fellow would turn so that Linden could see his face. It
looked
somewhat like … Linden watched and waited, still not certain, as the Beast Healer returned to examine the wound one more time.
Then the man turned his head enough so that Linden could see his profile. It
was
Conor; there was no mistaking that long, gaunt face with its crooked nose.
But now it was the face of a man, with the prominent bones settled into themselves, rather than the yet-unfinished features of the youth Linden remembered and still held in his memory’s eye. Not surprising, he realized; it had been nigh ten years or more since he’d last seen the Beast Healer. Time enough to grow from boy to man.
And since it was Conor, Linden had a fair notion of
what
made the bulge inside the hood—he just didn’t know
who
it was these days. He smiled at the thought, pleased to see Conor once more. He’d fulfilled the promise Linden had seen a decade ago. Not many Beast Healers could keep an animal with a wound like that so calm. When Sevrynel, unable to stand it any longer, fumbled at the latch of the stall door, Linden laid a hand on the Cassorin lord’s shoulder to hold him back.
Sevrynel looked up at him in an agony of apprehension, but stayed put.
“Watch,” Linden whispered. “All will be well.”
Even as Linden spoke, Conor spread his big, bony hands over the wound and closed his eyes. An instant later a haze, akin to that of a Healer’s, but greener, surrounded them. The sound of Conor’s deep, steady breathing filled a stable suddenly gone quiet as if every creature in it knew a Healing was going on. Even Lord Sevrynel stopped twitching.
Then the haze melted away and Conor stood up again. Only a faint scar bore witness to the now-vanished wound. He moved to the mare’s head and ran his fingers gently down her face, murmuring words under his breath. The mare’s head came up, her eyes alert now, yet calm; she lipped at the palm Conor offered her.
“There, there, pretty one,” he crooned, rubbing her nose. “That wasn’t half so bad, now was it?”
“Well done, Conor,” Linden said. “I know it’s not easy to bring an animal that’s been hurt and frightened out of the Sleep so gently.”
“Eh?” the Beast Healer said, eyebrows raised in polite inquiry as he looked about to see who had addressed him. Then the craggy face broke into a wide grin. “Why, Your Grace! This is a wonderful surprise! I’d not thought to ever see you again. It was, what, a bit more than ten years ago?”
“Something like that,” Linden said. “You were only a journeyman then, I remember. I’m glad to see—”