Authors: Joanne Bertin
“Young mistress,” Raeli said in trepidation. She put out a hand as if to restrain Maurynna, then withdrew it. “Please, he’s a nasty one. We’ve seen him before. Best to just endure until he grows bored and takes himself off again.”
“Raeli, I want you and Cade and your son to stay well back. Whatever happens, don’t do anything. I don’t want them to have an excuse to go after you, do you understand? All will be well.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry, Raeli,” Maurynna said. “I’ll not do anything foolish.”
Not for a Dragonlord,
she continued to herself as she stepped out from the sheltering branches. She could hear Raeli hustling her father-in-law and little boy away.
Bless her for listening.
Maurynna stopped by Boreal’s side. The stallion turned to lip her hair, then dropped his head once more.
Now the young men in the band crowded around their leader, laughing and egging him on. He continued, “You! Is this your horse?”
She nodded.
Let’s see how deep he can dig this hole.
“Where’s your plow, peasant? Did you lose it?” He shook his head and glanced back over his shoulder to his friends. “Can you imagine that—another Yerrin like that dog Raven aping his betters, riding around as if those creatures are real horses!”
“Actually, I’m Thalnian,” she said pleasantly. Too pleasantly; anyone who knew her would have been looking for a way out.
Oblivious to the edge in her voice, he patted his horse’s neck as if to say
Now
this
is a horse
. To Maurynna, it looked like a rail next to Boreal. But considering his pride in it, the horse was likely some well-bred something or other; she openly acknowledged she was no judge of horseflesh. It seemed this fellow did not own up to the same; remembering his comment about serfs, she was suddenly certain of who this arrogant ninny might be.
This had to be Tirael Barans; far too good an opinion of himself and a terrible judge of horses, just as Raven had said. Even
she,
horse idiot that she was, had realized the first time she’d seen a Llysanyin that here was something special—and her without the faintest idea that there might be one within a hundred leagues. This idiot wouldn’t have the same excuse; it was no secret that there were Dragonlords and Llysanyins at this year’s horse fair.
Boreal snorted in disgust and turned his back on the man. He flicked his tail high over his back and began eating again. If that cocksure young man could ever look uncertain, he looked it now. But no doubt his innate conceit told him it was naught but chance. The sneer returned.
Maurynna, on the other hand, knew exactly what was happening. She burst into laughter.
That brought the young man’s attention back to her. Maurynna saw his fingers tighten around his riding crop. Pointing it at her, he said with a sneer, “You’re a …
friend
… of that … dog Raven, aren’t you?”
“I am indeed, my lord. And I’d leave now, if I were you,” Maurynna said much too sweetly. “I’ve been told a time or two that I have a lovely temper—and I haven’t even begun to lose it.”
But if you call Raven a dog one more time …
“How dare you speak to me that way!” the young lord snapped. His friends exclaimed in astonishment.
“I’ll speak to you any damn way I please,” Maurynna shot back. “And don’t even think of using that riding crop.”
The chiseled jaw dropped; he looked like a fish out of water. It was, Maurynna decided, a beautiful sight. From the corner of her eye she saw Boreal ready to come to her defense; she signaled him to stay put. By the gods, if she couldn’t hand this spoiled brat’s head to him on a platter, it was time to find a seat by the hearth at Dragonskeep and drowse in front of the fire all day.
She glared up at the well-dressed young man looking down his nose at her. The riding crop trembled in one white-knuckled fist. The image gave her the shivers inside; she remembered the fiery pain when another riding crop caught her across the eye, so long ago and yet no time past at all.
But this time she was ready with a Dragonlord’s strength, speed—and rank. One move she didn’t like and she’d dump him out of his saddle before he could react, and there wouldn’t be a damned thing he could do about it.
But it seemed the brat had decided to change his tack. “Listen to her! She dares speak to me as if she’s as good as I am! Is it something in the water hereabouts?” he asked his friends in mock consternation.
“Must be, Tirael,” one of his friends called back, laughing. “I’d say she needs a lesson.”
“Make an example of her,” another urged. “Have her whipped for insolence, eh?”
“I know a better use for her.” Tirael leered at her.
His friends whooped with laughter as Maurynna thought with grim satisfaction,
Oh, yes, fool—dig that hole a little deeper, why don’t you?
Tirael dug into the small leather pouch at his belt and held up a copper. “This should be more than enough for the likes of you, trull!”
Before she could say anything, a dappled-grey blur flashed past her. Boreal lunged at the rider, his strong white teeth snapping in the young noble’s face. The man yelled, and his frightened horse squealed and fell back before the enraged Llysanyin’s attack.
Maurynna stared in astonishment. By all the gods, she’d no idea her sweet-natured mount hid such a temper. “Boreal!”
At first she thought he didn’t hear her—or chose not to. He snapped a second time at the man’s face. Then Boreal wheeled around to stand by her side, his ears pinned back, still watching the man. She patted his neck and whispered, “Thank you, but I can take him if necessary. Honestly.”
Boreal just snorted but she felt him relax under her hand.
“Did you see that?” Tirael cried to his friends. “That damned plow horse attacked me!”
“Oh, by the gods—how thick are you, anyway?” she asked in exasperation. “You can thank whichever poor god has to look after fools like you that I don’t have a belaying pin at hand—I’d be tempted to smack you alongside the head to let in some sense.”
Tirael’s face flushed an unbecoming brick red but he seemed too stunned to do anything. Maurynna suspected he’d never before been spoken to this way.
She went on, “And if Boreal had really attacked you, there’d be gobbets of you spread about by now. He’s war-trained.
“How dare you speak to
me
that way, anyrate? Turnip or Tirael or whatever your name is, you have worse manners than a pig at feeding time.”
Her last words seemed to be the cask that popped the ship’s planking, as her aunt Maleid used to say. The riding crop came up.
“Tirael! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a man’s frantic voice yelled. “Stop!”
Maurynna jumped in surprise; she hadn’t noticed a new rider coming down the road from the exercise grounds. She looked to see Lord Eadain galloping toward them.
The crippled lord pulled his horse to a halt barely an ell from them. “Tirael,” he said between clenched teeth. “Put. That. Whip. Down.
Now.
”
“And who the hell do you think you’re ordering about, Crook-leg?” Tirael said viciously. “Get out of here before I give you a thrashing after I finish with this upstart peasant.” He turned back to her.
Eadain’s lips thinned at the taunt. Tireal’s friends laughed as if at some clever joke.
That tore it. Insult her because he thought she was a peasant, fine; she knew that she’d have her revenge in the end, so it didn’t matter very much to her. This odious wretch was not one whose opinion she gave a rotten fig about, anyway.
But he’d called Raven a dog. And worse yet, to mock Lord Eadain about his crippled leg like that … Enough was enough, and this was beyond that. Tirael had just popped
her
planking.
But before she could say anything, Eadain smiled coldly and said, “Remember those boys swimming in the stream, Tirael? They weren’t the peasants you thought they were. And neither is she.”
Maurynna had no idea what Eadain was talking about, but it stopped Tirael like a blow to the stomach. His face worked as he looked from her to Eadain and back again.
She smiled at him. It was not a kind smile.
Then Tirael wrenched his horse’s head around and spurred it cruelly, leaving his followers gaping after him.
“I understand your dear friend is going to be in a match race,” she said to the nearest one. “Tell him I am looking forward to it. I intend to lay a wager—a very
large
wager—”
She paused, holding her victim’s gaze with her own, long enough that Tirael’s hanger-on squirmed before continuing softly, “On the ‘plow horse.’ Now I suggest that you leave.”
Tirael’s followers looked at one another in consternation. Then, one after another, they turned their horses’ heads and pelted off after their leader.
“Well and well, that was less than amusing,” Maurynna said briskly. “Will you be at Lady Gallianna’s gathering later, my lord?”
“I will, Dragonlord, as soon I finish with some business I’m helping Lord Romsley with.”
“Then I shan’t keep you any longer. I look forward to talking to you again, Lord Eadain.”
Eadain bowed in his saddle. “Your Grace, and I look forward to seeing you again this evening under far more pleasant circumstances. Good day, my fine Llysanyin lord.”
Boreal “bowed” in return. It was one of the tricks Lleld had taught all the Llysanyins before the journey to Jehanglan.
Lord Eadain raised a hand in farewell and urged his horse on. Maurynna went back to the table; she watched the three Cassorin peasants make their way back, Raeli and her son helping Cade along the path. They looked both relieved and baffled.
“You see?” Maurynna called to them as she picked up her food once more. “All’s well.”
Cade shook his head as he settled himself onto his seat. “I wouldna have believed it, Lord Tirael backin’ down like that. He’s got a bad name ’round here, that ’un. Good for tha, lass!”
“Thank Lord Eadain. Now, Cade—I’ve a very important question for you.”
“Aye, lass?”
“How well does your cheese travel?”
Twenty-six
For all that Conor had
spoken lightly when he’d told Linden Rathan he’d be careful, the Beast Healer intended to be on his guard when he looked over the notorious Summer Lightning. He’d been hearing about the horse’s racing prowess for some time; but before this, he’d heard only the vaguest rumors of a temper to match the amazing speed and jumping ability.
Likely Lord Lenslee’s kept most people away from him,
he thought as he strode through the merchant’s section of the fair.
It would be the only sane thing to do; if it ever attacked some noble …
That the horse still lived told Conor that whoever the stallion’s young victim had been, he had not been anyone of importance.
At least,
Conor thought with grim sarcasm,
of no importance to anyone who “mattered.” Just his mam and da and anyone else who loved him.
Lord Sevrynel was right. The horse should never have been put to stud; likely his get would inherit the temper, whether or not they got the speed as well. It was irresponsible as hell of Lenslee to breed such an animal. If he did indeed have his grandfather’s knack, he was misusing it badly. Blowing through his lips, Conor shook his head to rid himself of his foul temper.
The humid air hung heavy and thick around him as he walked; it was, he thought, like pushing through a dirty, wet wool blanket. His feet stirred up dust with every stride; it would be long before the grass reclaimed the “roads” worn across the meadow by boot and hoof.
Everywhere around him swirled a tumult of sound and color and scents. Odors of every kind of cooked food seemed to grab at his stomach. Fairgoers called to one another, peddlers of every kind shouted the virtues of their wares, young apprentices tramped through the milling crowds, each one waving a colorful banner with the symbols of their master’s trade and personal mark upon it. Some of the pennants were crude patchwork, others more skillfully done. A select few were of the finest embroidery. Conor noted with wry amusement that most of the banners in the last group belonged to betting masters. As they walked, the ’prentices sang out their masters’ names and trades. A few rang out over the tumult.
“Master Orvis, saddler! Finest leather, finest stitching! The best in the Five Kingdoms!”
“Come one, come all! Mistress Phalarope has the hat to suit you! Straw hats, leather hats, hoods of good woolen cloth! Come one, come all!”
“Cure your palsy! Cure your ringing ears! Go see Master Isserlan, purveyor of the finest remedies from mysterious Jehanglan! Never suffer from the nightmare again!”
Likely just ground-up beetles from the garden with a bit of spice thrown in to make it taste exotic,
Conor thought in disgust. He’d heard Bard Otter’s song—who hadn’t?—of the Dragonlords’ great adventure in Jehanglan. Though the magic that had once shielded that faraway land was now gone, that didn’t mean that the Jehangli were eager to deal with any but their old trading partners, House Whatever-it-was out of Assantik.
Gods, what herbs might they have for healing,
he thought wistfully.
Things we’ve never even dreamed of, I’ll wager.
Herbs … Hmm—he needed more myrrh and witch hazel for his wound wash, come to think of it. He’d have to remember to stop at the Healwort Guild tent at some point and see if they had any at a decent price. Perhaps he’d even find someone who had news of Pod. He wondered how she was faring. Pod was bright, and she already knew most of the common plants. She’d do well and make their chapterhouse—and him—proud; he was certain of that.
The thought took him from the merchants’ area into the beginning of the horse lines. He heaved a sigh of relief. Not that it was quieter here; in place of the proclamations of the merchants’ “heralds,” there were the shouts of owners, grooms, and stable hands as well as the ear-ringing hammering of the various blacksmiths scattered throughout.
He followed one of the makeshift lanes that cut through the horse lines like the spokes of a wheel. It took him to a large open area, the hub of the wheel. At the very center, hedged in by a forest of long poles bearing flags with the arms of some noble or even royal house, was a huge yellow circular tent. Men and women of all stations bustled in and out of it. This, Conor knew, was the heart of the great horse fair of Balyaranna.