Authors: Joanne Bertin
But it was the big hazel eyes that had angered him the most. No child’s eyes should ever have that fearful, suspicious look in them, he thought, even at the sight of strangers. When he had the image fixed in his mind, he shared it with the others; shock, anger, and dismay came back to him.
“Oh dear gods,” Yarrow whispered.
Yet when Conor knelt in the mud and spoke to her, she took the hand he offered her though it was plain she was terrified. The next thing we knew, she was hugging him like she’d never let go. It was as if she’d suddenly found her best friend in all the world. She
knew
him. It wasn’t until later that we realized the “why” of it.
“Conor was the one who added everything up,” he continued aloud. “After talking with one of the milkmaids—almost the only person who kind to the child—and watching Pig with the animals, he realized that she was a Beast Healer.” He shook his head. “Gods, I hate calling her that, but it
was
her name then.
“The farm had lost nowhere near as many animals it might have—especially considering that their new bull calf was from the fair where the plague had first appeared. The lord had sent it there before everyone realized what was happening. That’s what made that particular illness so deadly—it took a while to develop and by then it would have spread throughout a herd. But that calf was still alive even though it had been the first one stricken with the plague. When it was sick, Pig went to sleep in its stall with it. She told us that she ‘wished’ it better. She did that with any animal that was ‘sad’ and it usually felt better, she said. When we saw her playing between the front hooves of their old bull, that’s when Conor was certain; that creature was downright
vicious,
yet it was clear that it doted on Pig.
“Anyway, when it was time to leave, we told them we were taking Pig with us. To put it mildly, they were reluctant to let her go. They knew what had kept their animals so healthy all that time and were loath to lose her even though they despised her as the by-blow of a ‘strumpet’—as if her parentage was Pig’s fault.”
“They knew her parents?” Shima asked.
“No. Her mother had appeared on their doorstep in the middle of a snowstorm, newborn babe in arms, and died that night. Pig wasn’t even kin of theirs. They had no right to her and, as the most senior Beast Healer around, Conor did. I had to draw my sword to convince them that we meant business—I hadn’t revealed myself as a Dragonlord at that time, not even to Conor.
“But when they tried to ambush us that night, I did. I’d felt certain they would try something like that, so when we camped, I made sure it was in an area large enough for me to Change. When Shan gave the alarm, that was just what I did.”
He couldn’t help smiling at the memory; it was one of the few times he took a wicked satisfaction in scaring the living daylights out of someone by Changing. “We had no trouble with them after that. We made our way to the nearest shepherd’s cot. The shepherd was so appalled at Pod’s condition he let us use the big wooden tub for washing the fleeces to give her a bath. She squalled and howled and thrashed until Conor and I were almost as wet as she was, but we got her clean in the end. And we kept losing the damned soap in the tub. I never,” he said firmly, “ever want to do that again.”
Maurynna burst out laughing. “Poor Linden,” she said with not a bit of sympathy in her voice. “Not cut out for a nursie, were we?”
“Hmph.” Linden threw a radish at her. She caught it and blew him a kiss. He went on, “Anyway, her hair was beyond us, it was so matted and snarled. So we borrowed the sheep shears and cut it about two fingers’ width long. After that we were able to get it clean.
“And that’s when we found out her hair is white; I suspect she’s a throwback to the old Kelnethi royal line.” He paused for a moment, reliving his shock, the feeling of his stomach dropping away, the leap of his heart. Not that the little girl had looked anything like Rani, but the sight of white hair around so young a face had brought back so many memories.…
Remembering?
Maurynna asked him gently after a few moments.
Oh, yes,
he replied.
There are so very many memories there.…
He rubbed his forehead as if he might push them back. “We gave her the nickname Pod because when she woke up the next day after falling asleep with wet hair, it stood up every which way. Conor burst out laughing when he saw her and said, ‘You look just like a split milkweed pod! Hello, Pod!’ So instead of Pig, we called her Pod after that. I suspect she accepted it because Conor came up with it. She adored him from the beginning.”
“And she’s a Beast Healer now, you said?”
Linden nodded. “She is—or rather, will be. She’s still an apprentice.”
Shima asked, “This talk of familiars intrigues me—what is hers?”
“Let us hope it’s not a pig,” Maurynna said devoutly.
Chuckling, Linden shook his head. “No, it isn’t—though I’ve met more than one Beast Healer who’s had one. No, that was the part of Conor’s news that made my jaw drop when I saw him the other day.
“He told me that Pod had never found a familiar after she came to the Grey Holt chapterhouse. She—and a few others—were worried that it meant she wasn’t really a Beast Healer after all. At the time he left the chapterhouse, she was about ten years old and
still
didn’t have one.
“Then, about a month after he left Grey Holt, Conor got a letter from his friends there. Pod had finally found her familiar. That was three years ago. Conor still has the letter and let me read it.” He refilled his tankard, looked around and asked, “Anyone care to take a guess what the familiar is?”
Raven, whose grin had been growing as he listened to the story, held up his hands and shook his head. “I abstain. I think I’ve heard about this young lady already from a Beast Healer named Gunnis.”
Linden raised his tankard of ale to him. “To honorable men! Any guesses, then?”
“A ferret like Conor’s?” Maurynna hazarded.
“A cow?” Yarrow guessed.
Linden shook his head. “Wrong, both wrong. Shima?”
“I would have guessed a ferret as well since she seems to be so attached to Conor. Um—a rabbit?”
“All wrong. It’s a
ghulon
.”
“Gods have mercy!” said Yarrow as Maurynna whistled her astonishment. “A little girl with a
ghulon
?”
To Shima’s baffled look, Linden said, “An animal with long, thick fur, dark brown with a band of yellowish tan along each side. It looks something like a small bear with a long tail. They are
not
known for sweet dispositions. They are also extremely strong for an animal their size—astonishingly so.
Ghulon
is the Yerrin word for them. Other names are woods dog and wolvering.”
Maurynna said, “It’s hard to believe that a
ghulon
could be a brother-in-fur, but you have to say this for having one: that girl will be quite safe when she goes on her solo journeywoman’s trek! Good for her.
“Now tell us more about your race, Raven. Do you really think Tirael will dare ooze out of paying when he loses?”
They talked for a while longer. Then Yarrow could no longer hide her yawns and went off to her tent. Linden and Maurynna took their leave as well. Only Shima stayed.
Raven raised an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you going to see Lady Karelinn this evening?”
Shima laughed. “She, Merrilee, and a number of the other ladies were going to help one of their friends choose the silks for that lady’s wedding dress. Linden warned me to stay well away—it seems he remembers his own sisters’ wedding preparations all too well, even after six hundred years!”
Laughing, Raven poured each of them more ale. “Then how about a game of
diyinesh
? Maurynna gave me a traveling set for a gift last Midwinter Eve. She showed Yarrow and me how to play, but I’d like to learn more.” At Shima’s nod, Raven went on, “I’ll get it from my tent.”
Soon the two men were engrossed in the game.
* * *
Therinn of Lenslee nearly turned and headed off in another direction as Lord Dunly bore down upon him. But that would have been too obvious, and he dared not risk offending the old bore. Not only was Dunly a powerful noble, but he was friends with, or kin to, many others. Therinn pasted a smile upon his face even as he mentally cursed Lady Ramissilen for inviting the old windbag to her gathering. Though, upon consideration, Dunly had likely invited himself.
Gods, wasn’t it bad enough that he’d finally winkled an invitation to the castle—then had to turn around and leave almost as soon as he got there? What the bloody hell was that damned bard doing here? He’d understood that Leet rarely left the Bards’ School in Bylith. It was likely the only reason he’d had enough time to settle the wergild with Agon for his nephew; not being a seasoned traveler, Leet had made poor time on the journey.
And now Dunly …
“Yes, my lord?” Therinn asked politely as the old man harrumphed to a halt in front of him, snorting and snuffling like an old dog sleeping by the fire as he caught his breath. Then he saw the malicious gleam in the other’s eye and braced for—what? A duel with this old bag of bones?
“So, Lenslee—who are
you
wagering on tomorrow?” Dunly fairly cackled.
Therinn blinked. There were no races set for tomorrow; the next one was the Queen’s Chase, but that was for the day after tomorrow. What was the old man blathering about? Had his wits finally deserted him? Therinn had always known it was going to happen one—
No. Everyone else within earshot looked as if they knew what Dunly was talking about. Indeed, they waited expectantly for his answer.
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea what race you mean, my lord,” Therinn said stiffly.
Dunly cackled. “Need to get out and about the fair a bit more, man—not just sit like a spider in his web and wait for fools with money. Fools that aren’t coming, that is. You mean you haven’t heard?”
It was nothing short of a miracle, Therinn thought, that he didn’t slap the old man silly. Instead he said with icy politeness, “Pray enlighten me, my lord. What race?”
The malicious gleam was a fire in the old man’s eyes now. “Why, the match race between your cousin Tirael and that Waylshire of his—the one from
your
stable—and…”
Dunly paused and pulled a linen kerchief from his sleeve and coughed into it. A cough so patently false it was ludicrous.
It went on and on until Therinn, unable to bear it anymore, demanded desperately, “Yes? Go on, damn you!”
As if by magic, the cough disappeared. “Tch! Manners, manners! Why, that young Yerrin fellow, of course! You know—the one with the … Llysanyin?”
* * *
How he got back to Ridler’s town house in Balyaranna, he didn’t know. As soon as he got through the door, the steward rushed up to him.
“My lord! Is something amiss?” Tiniver asked in concern.
Therinn took a deep breath, waiting until he could speak without shouting. “Is Lord Portis back from—?”
“Lord and Lady Jalinet’s gathering,” Tiniver supplied. “No, my lord. I don’t expect Lord or Lady Portis for some time yet.”
Damnation,
Therinn fumed silently. Then, cynically,
You fool—why bother with Ridler? Likely he doesn’t even know what his precious brat’s done. I’ll have to find Tir
—
Like an answer from the gods came Tirael’s voice from the top of the stairs. “Damn it, Tiniver—where the hell is my wine? I told you to get me more wine!” The slurred words were followed by an enormous belch. Then came the sound of retreating footsteps, a feminine giggle, and the slam of a door.
Tiniver cast a worried look up the stairway as he wrung his hands.
Therinn rested a hand on the steward’s shoulder. “I’m afraid my young cousin has had a wee bit too much,” he soothed. “And shouldn’t have any more. Go on now, Tiniver, and don’t worry. I’ll be the one to tell Lord Tirael that there will be no more wine tonight.”
He gave the man a smile and a gentle nudge when he hesitated. “Don’t worry, Tiniver; you attend to your other duties. I’ll attend to my cousin. You must have a thousand other things to see to.”
Tiniver heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you, my lord, I do. If you’ll excuse me…” The steward hurried off as if afraid the Kelnethi lord would change his mind.
“Oh, Tiniver! A moment.”
The steward turned, his face wary. “Yes, my lord?”
“Please have someone fetch Summer Lightning’s groom, Beckrum. Tell him to wait for me in Lord Portis’s study.”
“I’ll see to it at once, my lord. At once!” Relief made the normally reserved steward gush.
Therinn went up the stairs and down the hall to Tirael’s room. A giggle made him hesitate at the door—but only for a moment. The next instant he shoved the door open so hard it crashed against the inside wall and bounced partway back. Slamming it behind him, Therinn stalked into his younger cousin’s chamber.
Tirael lay sprawled on an Assantikkan rug before the cold fireplace, his head in a young woman’s lap. She giggled drunkenly down at him as he batted at a squat bottle, cursing it for being empty. It clinked forlornly as it came to the end of the rug and rolled across the floor. A large red stain covered the rug.
No wonder the fool had needed more wine. He’d spilled the bottle across the costly rug. It was ruined and a fine wine wasted; Therinn recognized the bottle used by the Marlchand vineyard in Pelnar, one of the finest in a land known for its grapes.
A waste—just like Tirael.
“Tiniver? Is that you?” Tirael demanded.
“No,” answered Therinn.
The girl goggled at him, her eyes bleary with wine. From her dress—what there was of it still on her—she was a serving wench from one of the many tavern tents in the fair.
“You,” Therinn said in a voice filled with quiet menace as he pointed at her. “Get. Out.
Now!
”
She scrambled to her feet, letting Tirael’s head thump to the floor, and grabbed for her clothes.
“Ow! You bitch, get back here!” Tirael struggled to roll over.
Wisely she paid him no heed. Therinn followed her with cold, hard eyes. She stumbled hastily to the door and fumbled the latch open, whimpering whenever she looked back and met that steely gaze.