Authors: Joanne Bertin
For a moment Leet feared he would weep for joy. His revenge was complete! He rubbed the indentation under his lip. This—this was a moment to treasure for the rest of his life.
Then a hated memory reared its ugly head: the smug look on Therinn Barans’s face as he told Leet that he was too late. That his brother, Agon, Lord Sansy, had accepted wergild only candlemarks before. That there would be no songs made of Arnath’s death. That it was over, done with.
It was not over. Not until he saw another expression upon Therinn Barans’s face.
* * *
“Look at him! Look at my poor Lightning! What killed him?” Lord Lenslee demanded. “There’s not a mark on him and he was healthy just yesterday—you said so yourself!”
Conor stared down at the dead horse sprawled across the stall floor. One dull, sunken eye stared up at him in dumb accusation. The heavy buzz of flies droned in his ears as they crawled over the body.
He took a deep breath. Dear gods, he felt sick to his very soul. Had he somehow missed something? But the horse
had
looked well yesterday evening. Hellfire, “well” didn’t even begin to describe the chestnut stallion—he’d been vibrantly alive, dancing at the end of his lead rope with the sheer joy of living, reveling in his speed and strength and beauty.
Now he was meat for the worms. So what had happened?
Conor passed his hands over his eyes. “My lord,” he said bitterly, “I’ve no idea. As you said, there’s not a mark on him.”
A murmur went through the watching grooms and stable hands at his words. “Magic,” it said. “Dark sorcery,” it whispered. It filled his ears like the buzzing of the flies and sickened him even more.
Gods help him—what if they were right? He was no mage to fight a wizards’ war. He was only a Beast Healer.
“My lord, is something … wrong?”
Conor looked up to see a man silhouetted against the opening of the stable. All he could make out was the red tunic of a bard. For a moment he wondered if this was Otter, the bard of whom Linden Rathan had spoken from time to time. Conor had always wanted to meet the man.
But then Lord Lenslee said, “Master Bard Leet!” so he knew this wasn’t the Dragonlord’s friend.
What was odd, though, was Lenslee’s reaction to the bard’s appearance. The man’s jaw actually dropped. Conor wondered why the amazement; he’d met a good number of bards on his travels and had never known one to think he or she was too good to enter a stable—especially a lord’s stable with its treasure of blue-blooded animals. Were Master Bards different? he wondered.
Perhaps they don’t have to worry about keeping potential patrons happy.
…
After a moment, Lord Lenslee said softly, “There is indeed something wrong. So very, very wrong.…”
As Lenslee stared down at his lost hopes once more, biting his knuckles and whispering, “My poor, poor, beautiful Lightning…” over and over again, the Master Bard stepped inside, giving Conor his first good look at the man: medium height and build, with deep-set brown eyes, a cleft chin, and light brown hair gone silver at the temples. A very ordinary man, save for his almost lordly air of assurance and the gold trim on his tunic that proclaimed his as one of the elders of the Bards’ Guild.
“What killed him?” the bard asked as he came down the aisle. When he reached the door of the stall, he looked over it at the animal lying within.
Conor thought the bard must either have the tightest rein on his emotions that he’d ever seen, or that the man was the most cold-blooded bastard he’d ever come across. There was no flicker of emotion on the man’s face as he stared down into the stall, not even an eyebrow raised in surprise.
Since the distraught Lenslee seemed not to hear the question, Conor said shortly, “We don’t know—yet.” He wasn’t sure what made him add the last word; it sounded like a challenge. He hoped the bard wouldn’t take offense—the last thing he needed right now was to be made the butt of a sarcastic tune. But something was not quite right here.…
Master Bard Leet glanced over at him. Conor saw the cool gaze quickly take in his brown-and-green tunic.
“Quite the mystery, Beast Healer…?” Leet cocked his head in inquiry.
Reluctantly, Conor gave his name.
“Beast Healer Conor,” the bard went on, “I don’t envy you the task ahead.” He shook his head. “Luck to you.”
With that, the bard leaned close to Lord Lenslee and murmured something Conor didn’t catch. But it must have been some kind of condolences, for Lenslee, his voice husky, said, “My thanks, Bard Leet. I appreciate—”
His voice broke; he turned away from the stall and stumbled to the door. The bard followed him. Conor looked away; it was not an easy thing, watching a man as proud as Therinn of Lenslee break down. True, the Kelnethi lord was not one of Conor’s favorites; he was haughty and arrogant, and ofttimes cared little for those beneath his station. But by the gods, he loved his horses as if they were his children and treated them accordingly. That was more than many lords or ladies did for the beasts who won them gold and honor.
So out of respect Conor averted his gaze. But at the last instant, he looked up again in time to see the bard pause in the doorway and look back over his shoulder.
The bastard was
smiling
. Before Conor could react, the bard was gone and old Gorith, Lenslee’s farrier, limped up to stand by his side. The old man scratched his head like one bemused. “Guess old quarrels are forgiven,” he said. “Though I never thought
that
one would be.”
“Oh? And what quarrel was that?” Conor asked. He didn’t hold with gossip usually, but he’d give a great deal to know the why of that self-satisfied smirk.
“Not certain ’zackly what it were,” Gorith said. “I weren’t there, y’see—I were at home working with a colt that needed special shoes. Iffen I remember aright, it happened at the Bellford Fair races. Them’s in south Kelneth, not far from Bylith. His Lordship always goes to those iffen he’s got some good horses.
“Now, where was I? Oh, yes—heard summat about it afterward, I did, but it were a few years back. Now what…”
Gorith tugged at his earlobe as if he could pull out the elusive memory. Conor waited patiently.
At last the old farrier spat to one side, then said, “Think it were summat ’bout a young lad.… Killed, he was, when he were thrown. Tried to ride too much horse for himself and got thrown. Horse kicked him in the head, so m’brother Rumsy told me.”
Gorith jerked his chin in the direction of Summer Lightning’s stall. “That horse, and it were done real deliberate, Rumsy said.”
Before Conor could ask what he meant, the rumble of a large cart across the cobblestones cut him off. It came to a halt before the wide stable door. Lord Portis’s stablemaster Tuerin entered at the head of a crew of workmen. Gorith slipped away.
“You’re taking him already?” Conor asked, seeing the ropes and pulleys the men carried.
“We must, Beast Healer,” said the stablemaster. “Lord Lenslee cannot bear the thought of him feeding the flies. And in this heat…” He let the sentence trail off.
Conor ran his fingers through his hair. “I’d hoped to have one of my superiors look at him, but I understand. Still, leave his stall uncleaned, if you would. I’d like to come back to look it over with someone.”
“That I’ll do,” Tuerin promised. He turned to his crew. “You know what to do” was all he said.
Conor left as the men entered the stall. He couldn’t bear to watch.
* * *
Maurynna rode into Yarrow’s encampment. She sat Boreal a moment in front of the common tent and looked around. No Stormwind; that meant Raven was somewhere else. She saw one of the grooms she knew from Yarrow’s holding in Yerrih pitching hay to the line of horses in the center of the camp. “Alder! Is Yarrow about?”
“She’s inside, Dragonlord,” he called back. “And Raven should be back soon.”
Maurynna waved a hand in thanks. She dropped the reins on Boreal’s neck and swung down from his broad back as Yarrow pushed the tent door back.
“Welcome, Maurynna,” Yarrow said. “Come in and have a bite to eat and some ale.”
She spoke pleasantly enough but Maurynna could see signs of strain on her face. Boreal snorted and eyed her for a moment before ambling off to the water trough. Alder followed Boreal.
Maurynna ducked into the tent after Yarrow. “Is something amiss? You look worried.”
“Gods, yes. Worried and upset.”
“What is it?” Maurynna sat down at the trestle table as Yarrow uncovered some cheese and a half loaf of bread on a platter.
But Yarrow said nothing more until she’d drawn a pitcher of ale and set it down on the table along with two mugs. “You haven’t heard about what happened to Lord Lenslee’s prize horse?”
Maurynna shook her head as she cut bread for the two of them. “No, though I did notice that the fair was buzzing like a hive of bees as I rode through it. What horse—oh, is that the one who’s so fast and so ill-tempered? Linden knows the Beast Healer who’s been looking after Lenslee’s stable.”
“Summer Lightning and Conor, yes,” Yarrow answered.
“So what happened?”
Yarrow tore her piece of bread into bits, her eyes staring at a point somewhere beyond Maurynna’s shoulder. “Summer Lightning. Dead. In his stall. Not a mark on him.”
“Dear gods! How?”
The Yerrin horse trader shook her head. “No one knows.”
“Magic?” Maurynna asked, feeling a little sick.
Please—not another dark mage like Kas Althume
.…
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Yarrow answered. “And that’s certainly the rumor going around.”
“Have you seen it? The horse, I mean,” Maurynna asked.
Yarrow made a rude noise. “You’re jesting, hmm? Think you the likes of me would be allowed into His Lordship’s precious stables even at the best of times? He’d be certain I was a thief or a spy. And now the man’s half-mad with fury and fear, I’ll wager. If a mage struck down his best horse, no doubt he’s wondering if he’s next.
I
would be.”
Maurynna suddenly knew what Yarrow truly feared. If there
was
a mage killing horses, where would he strike next? Here? Maurynna knew how Yarrow felt about her horses. No wonder she looked tense and worried.
“If it was magic,” Maurynna said slowly, “someone must have hired him—I can’t believe that some insane mage is wandering about killing horses at random. Does Lord Lenslee have enemies?”
“He
must
have some,” Yarrow said with a harsh laugh. “The man treats damn near everyone who’s not noble like they were lower than what gets mucked out of his stables. Of course, as long as you’re useful to him, that’s another tale.” She shrugged.
Maurynna nibbled a bit of cheese. “So those who might have the most reason to strike at him likely haven’t the means to hire a mage. Soooo—that would seem to leave a racing rival. Someone whose horse might have had a chance but for Summer Lightning.” She poured them both more ale while Yarrow thought that over.
“Now that Lord Duriac’s in prison,” Yarrow said, “Lord Therinn of Lenslee is Lord Sevrynel’s chief racing rival.” She frowned at the foam threatening to spill over the top of her mug. “And now Lenslee’s best horse—the only one in his stable that without question could win against all comers—is dead without a mark on him. Just dead in his stall.”
The thought that Sevrynel might be behind the crime made Maurynna feel ill. She liked the Cassorin earl. “Don’t seemingly healthy horses sometimes just drop dead? I remember that happened to my uncle’s friend when I was a child in Thalnia.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of it many a time—hell, it happened to
me
once—but not when a horse is resting in a stall. It happens when a horse is working.”
Maurynna nodded. “My uncle’s friend was riding at the time.” She paused a moment to consider. “What if it wasn’t magery? What if it was, oh, poison? Anyone could do that.”
That set Yarrow thinking. “True,” she allowed at last. “But from all I’ve heard, the way Lord Portis keeps his stables guarded during the fair—especially when his cousin Lenslee has his horses there—it’s not likely it would be an outsider, some nobody who would have no business at the stable. So it would seem that it’s one of his stable crew. Yet … yet from all I’ve heard—and horse-copers gossip worse than a bunch of old nannies, mind you—Lenslee’s grooms and handlers are well paid and treated decently. So they’re loyal to him; they know they’d be hard-pressed to find such a good place with anyone else. And it’s not likely that one of Portis’s people would kill a horse of Lenslee’s, for their lord doesn’t have a horse entered this year.”
“Hmm.” Maurynna set her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “So it’s not very likely that a horse would just drop dead.…”
“Considering it had just been examined by a talented Beast Healer and pronounced healthy? I think I’ve a better chance of waking up tomorrow and finding out I’m the next heir to the High Chief of Yerrih. And since I’m in no way related to him, that would be a pretty trick.”
Both fell silent, each woman retreating into her own thoughts.
Please, please, please let it not be a mage,
Maurynna thought.
Or Sevrynel.
* * *
Fiarin had them start too late, Pod thought wearily. This was taking far, far longer than they’d thought it would. The esker hadn’t looked like bad walking from the shore, but it was thick with brambles and pricker-bushes and rambling vines right down to the water on either side. It was getting dark and they were not yet at the end.
For a time Fiarin had forced them to wade in the water alongside. With his long legs, he looked more than ever like some big wading bird, but Pod was too tired to be amused. While they made better time, slogging through the mud was exhausting.
But after Fiarin had slipped and fallen into a deep hole, they went back to forcing a way through the vicious thorns. In the end it had taken Kiga’s enormous strength to pull the senior Wort Hunter back to dry land. Fiarin had been unable to find any purchase for his feet to help and he weighed more than Pod would have thought.
They stumbled into another of the few clearings they’d found during the day. A kind of rank, coarse grass with sharp edges held sway in them, somehow holding off their thorny cousins.