Authors: Joanne Bertin
But rather than revive old gossip, he left it at that, hoping that Maurynna would assume it was nothing more than the professional jealousy that happened all too often between bards.
“Ah.” She flashed him a knowing grin. “I see.”
“Dragonlords?” a hesitant voice asked behind them.
As one, they turned to see one of the guards who walked the perimeter of the royal encampment. He was young, and looked uncomfortable, likely at being so close to some of the “gentry,” Linden thought.
“Yes?” he asked in amused sympathy. When he was a soldier, he hadn’t liked disturbing nobles, either, especially when they were drinking. He wondered if this poor beggar had drawn the short straw.
The guard cleared his throat nervously and stood up a little straighter. “There are two men—er, one’s a boy, really—asking to see you. The older one says he’s Raven Redhawkson, Your Graces, and that you’ll know him.”
“So we do,” Linden said with a smile. “He and any of his friends are welcome to join us anytime.”
Said Maurynna, “He and I grew up together. And about time he showed up, too. I was expecting him before this.”
As relief flooded his face, the guard saluted. “Thank you, Dragonlords. I’ll escort them here at once.” He turned on his heel and marched briskly off into the darkness. Shima called for two more chairs and goblets to be brought to their table.
A short while later, the guard was back with Raven and a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years. Raven smiled and waved at them. Once again the guard saluted and left, his task accomplished; he’d looked far happier this time.
Raven dropped into the empty chair by Maurynna’s side. “Well met, Beanpole,” he said, tugging a strand of her hair. “Fall off Boreal yet?” He laughed as she made a face at him, then reached across the table to clasp hands with Linden, then Shima. “Shima, remind me to tell you how glad I am that you came by last night.”
Linden caught his eye and nodded in amusement at the openmouthed boy who stood a little behind Raven.
Raven waved the boy forward and pointed to the waiting chair. “This is Lord Arisyn. Ari, don’t be shy—come here and sit down. They won’t eat you.”
The boy edged nervously toward the chair.
“Not without plenty of green sauce,” Linden said with a straight face. While he hadn’t recognized the boy himself, he recognized the name of Lord Sevrynel’s foster son.
Arisyn stopped short. His eyes went very big.
“Horseradish,” Maurynna countered. “Or perhaps just verjuice and salt?” She looked thoughtful.
“Gravy and pepper,” Shima voted, all wide-eyed innocence.
Arisyn’s throat apple bobbed visibly as he eyed the Dragonlords. Linden swore the poor boy turned at least two shades paler. It wasn’t until Raven burst out laughing and asked, “What, no one for bread sauce?” that Arisyn finally realized he was being teased.
He ducked his head, grinned sheepishly, and slid into the empty seat. “Thank you, Dragonlords.”
Before any introductions could be made, Bard Leet approached their table. Linden cursed under his breath; hopefully neither Leet nor Raven would remember seeing each other before. It was possible, he thought. It had been for only a few brief moments in the library at Dragonskeep two years before.
“Greetings, Your Graces, Lord Arisyn,” the bard said, smiling graciously and bowing as well as he could with the harp in his arms. He went on, “And to you, my lord—?”
Raven said, “No one’s lord, bard. I’m a freeman of Yerrih, a breeder of horses.”
Leet’s eyebrows went up. “I see.” He glanced at Arisyn.
Good,
Linden thought in relief.
He thinks Raven’s here with Arisyn, not the other way around. Let’s hope that cat stays in its bag.
To steer the conversation into safer channels, Linden went on, “Your harp has a lovely voice, Bard Leet. Who made it?” He admired the wood-burned ornamentation on the shoulder of the harp: a seagull within a circle of bluebells. Beautifully done, he thought.
Leet hesitated just long enough that Linden wondered if the question were somehow rude. “A luthier named Thomelin from Bylith,” he said at last. “May I ask why you wish to know, Your Grace?”
“I was thinking of a new harp,” Linden said vaguely. “I play and yours is particularly fine.”
Am I imagining things or did the man just relax?
“Ah. I will say this for Thomelin: He can make wood sing.” The bard looked around the table once more and winked. “Who do you think will win tomorrow, my lords and lady?”
“We’re judges,” Shima said with a laugh. “I don’t think we’re supposed to have favorites.”
“Raven would if he could race,” Arisyn said proudly. “He has a Llysanyin.”
Oh, no!
Linden knew what was coming next and winced.
“May I ask how you—” the bard began.
Linden coughed loudly, like a man whose wine had gone down the wrong way. Maurynna slapped his back.
It worked, but only for a moment. Then Leet frowned and fingered the cleft in his chin as if he were trying to recall something. Linden prayed silently, hoping the bard wouldn’t put two and two together—and that no one would say anything.
That hope promptly went to hell in a bit bucket. “A pity Otter’s Llysanyin is a mare,” Shima remarked thoughtfully. “It would have been nice to have another stallion in the family.”
Linden nearly groaned; if that didn’t let the cat—a whole
herd
of spitting, yowling cats with very sharp claws—out of the bag, nothing would.
The gracious smile vanished from Leet’s face like dew beneath a desert sun. Despite the warm night, a sudden chill seemed to descend upon the little group; any colder, Linden thought, and there’d be a blizzard in his wine cup. He couldn’t quite read the expression that flashed across the bard’s face: annoyance, wariness, or …
Or perhaps it was merely a trick of the flickering torchlight, for when he spoke again, the bard was pleasant enough. “You’re kin to Otter Heronson?”
“Grandnephew.”
Leet nodded. Any remark he might have made was lost as Lord Sevrynel bustled up to their table. Linden caught a barely breathed, “Oh, no,” from Arisyn, and looked at him curiously. He’d have hardly thought the mild-mannered Sevrynel would be such an ogre of a foster father.
“Your Graces, Master Bard Leet, please excuse this intrusion, but … Arisyn, what are you doing—I thought you were going— Oh, hello, Master Raven, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you at first, eyes aren’t what they used to be, and these wretched torches, you know.…” He blinked and looked around in mild apology, then began telling Leet all about the wonderful horses Raven would have.
The panicked look that had filled Arisyn’s eyes when his foster father came up slipped away by degrees. That look piqued Linden’s curiosity. Since no one could ever convince him that Lord Sevrynel was some kind of monster (Horse-mad, yes. Absentminded, likely. But a bully? No.), there was something else going on here. Something the boy didn’t want Sevrynel to know about. Some boy’s mischief, perhaps, or an ill-considered bet on the race tomorrow?
Linden came back from his speculations in time to realize that Sevrynel was begging the Dragonlords’ pardon, but there was someone he’d like Arisyn to meet, and could he borrow him for a while? And would Master Raven kindly consent to being one of the messengers for the Queen’s Chase tomorrow?
“I’d be honored, my lord,” Raven said in delight.
“Excellent!” said Sevrynel, leading Arisyn away. “Come along, my boy. I assume you’ve finally figured out what Stormwind is?”
After foster father and son had left, Maurynna said to Raven, “I hope you can stay awhile longer. Where are you camping this night? With Arisyn, wherever that might be?”
Raven grimaced. “Ah, well now, Beanpole, the reason Arisyn and I are here is to ask if we could camp with you. We ran into Lord Rudeness and
he’s
camping where Ari was going to stay tonight.
“And from what Ari said once, Lord Sevrynel’s other fosterlings aren’t supposed to keep company with him, but they’re all going to be there.” He took a sip of his wine. “To tell you the truth, the more I see of this fellow, the more I understand why Lord Sevrynel wouldn’t want any of his fosterlings hanging about him. Tonight he accused us of stealing his horse so that I wouldn’t lose the race! I had to invoke your name, Shima, as my witness so that the fair guards wouldn’t arrest me.”
Linden sat up straighter. “Did the fool Challenge you or the boy? I’d be happy to act as Champion for either—or both—of you.”
“Believe me, I thought of you,” Raven said, laughing. “But he backed off accusing Arisyn when the boy threatened to cry Challenge on him and named his father’s captain of the guards as his Champion. Looked downright ill, our fine little lord did, at that. If one of us had named
you,
no doubt he’d still be running.”
“Hmph—typical bully. Big and bad—until someone bigger shows up. Could he have hidden the horse away himself?” Maurynna asked.
Linden had been thinking the same thing.
Raven shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “I will give him that. I don’t think Tirael did. He seems honestly upset—and baffled—over Brythian’s disappearance.”
“Tirael?” the bard asked quietly. “Tirael Barans?”
Raven said, “I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what his second name is, Master Bard. If I ever heard it, I don’t remember it. But … dark brown curly hair, slim, and a face like a maiden’s dream?”
“That’s him.” The words were barely more than a whisper.
“Oh gods.” A dark flush spread across Raven’s cheeks. “Bard Leet, I hope I haven’t insulted a fri—”
Leet shook his head, smiling tightly. “Pray don’t worry, Master Redhawkson, I’m not insulted. Not at all. I’m well aware that Lord Tirael can be … difficult.” His long fingers stroked the harp cradled in his arms like a child, playing over the design burned into the shoulder of the instrument. “I know him of old, you see.”
The mellifluous voice trembled the tiniest bit. Leet drew a deep breath, then bowed abruptly and with a few courteous words took his leave of them. Someone called to him to settle an argument for them.
Maurynna smothered a laugh behind her hand as they watched Leet listen carefully as each party stated their case. “Oh, my—I’d say that this Tirael Whatever-his-name-is got Leet’s back up once.”
“Why am I not surprised?” said Raven. He rolled his eyes. “Arisyn said he’s charming when he wants to be, but when he isn’t … look out! Nasty, sarcastic tongue on him and a cruel streak a league wide.”
“Sounds like a fool, then, if he turned it loose on a bard,” Linden said. Seeing Shima’s blank look, he explained, “It’s not wise to annoy a bard—not unless you’ve a taste for winding up as the butt of a scathing song. And somehow, they always manage to come up with the catchiest tunes for those,” he added dryly. “Spread like wildfire, they will. Everyone singing them wherever you go, and they hang around forever, it seems.”
“Everyone knows who you are—and not the way you’d want them to,” said Maurynna, smiling wickedly. She raised a hand to beckon the steward of the camp. “Let’s see about getting you and Arisyn some shelter for tonight, Raven. There must be an extra tent somewhere.”
As Maurynna explained their needs to the steward, Linden wondered what Tirael had done to annoy Leet so much. Still, it couldn’t have been too bad; he hadn’t heard of any mocking ditties with the young lord’s name in them—at least, not from Otter. And Otter knew them all.
Dismissing the thought—rude young lordlings held
very
little interest for him—Linden asked Raven if Yarrow had yet seen that band of mares from Pelnar, the ones that came in yesterday afternoon.
Both she and Raven had, it turned out. That led to a spirited discussion of each mare’s strengths and weaknesses and which ones—if any—might cross well with Stormwind if Yarrow could get them. Then the conversation turned to tentative plans to stay at Yarrow’s holding for the autumn and winter.
At last, yawning hugely, Shima announced he was going to bed. “I didn’t sleep much last night, nor did you. A fine pair of fools we’d look, falling asleep and tumbling off our Llysanyins just as everyone raced past.”
That set off a round of yawns. “The only thing to spread faster than a rumor,” Linden said, shaking his head as he finished his. “And since we need to be off before everyone else so that we can be in our places, we’d best get to sleep.”
Groans greeted the reminder. “Who are the other judges?” Raven asked as they all rose.
Linden ticked the list off on the fingers of one hand as the small band walked through the camp. “Besides the three of us, there’s Archpriest Urwin of the temple of Valerissen in Kelneth; Palani, the Head Priestess of the Grove of Mila; and, finally, Bard Leet. He’s an elder of the Bards’ Guild, hence the honor.
“Priestess Palani will be the judge at the start-and-finish line—she’s too pregnant to ride far, especially over rough terrain—and the rest of us will be strung out along the loop that forms the route. Your job will be to patrol a section of the course, going between the judges at either end, looking for injured riders or to take messages.”
A servant came up to them and bowed. “Good evening, Your Graces. Master Redhawkson? Your tent is this way, sir.”
Raven waved as he went off with his guide. “See you in the morning. Let’s hope for an exciting race, eh?”
As Raven disappeared into the darkness, Shima chuckled and said, “Let’s hope it’s not too exciting.”
“Oh?” Linden said, pausing before turning off onto the little track that led to the pavilion that he and Maurynna shared.
“The Jehangli have a curse: ‘May you live in interesting times.’”
Linden thought that over for a moment. “Eh, that
is
a nasty one, isn’t it?”
Frowning and shaking her head, Maurynna said, “I must be more tired than I thought. Why would that be nasty?”
Shima said, “Consider what can be ‘interesting’: war, fire, floods, pestilence, drought—”
“Getting caught up in one of Lleld’s schemes,” Linden muttered under his breath.
“Say no more,” Maurynna said, laughing. “May the gods spare us all of those.”