Authors: Joanne Bertin
Now a pack of horses surged around the turn in a tight bunch. He turned in the saddle to watch them and devoutly hoped they straightened themselves out before the trail narrowed.
They did—barely. Raven let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Now a single horse appeared: a chestnut with a blaze, Lord Sevrynel’s Dawn Star. Raven nodded in approval as he silently cheered Dawn Star; the jockey was holding her back, saving her for the very end. When the frontrunners were exhausted, she’d still have strength and speed left.
He urged Stormwind on. “Come along, then, my lad. We’d best get back to the beginning of our stretch.”
* * *
The sun was at the nooning when, after riding his part of the course a few more times, Raven saw Ormund, another messenger, waiting for him.
“Time to head back,” Ormund said, pointing at the sun. “Everyone’s past us, so it’s safe to ride the course itself now. Tha knows what to do now, aye?”
“I do,” answered Raven. “Linden explained it to me. See you back at the camp, Ormund.”
“Come have a jack of ale with us when tha are done, lad,” Ormund called as he turned his horse around and headed for the course.
“I’ll do that,” Raven called back as he cut across the intervening grassy sward.
A moment later he and Stormwind were alone on the track. Raven heaved a sigh and patted the stallion’s neck. “A pity we couldn’t have entered, my lad.
That
would certainly have shut a few mouths! But it wouldn’t have been much of a contest then, would it?”
Stormwind shook his head.
“Ah, well—let’s finish this final patrol and get ourselves back to camp and some food and drink.”
* * *
They were deep into the woods when Raven heard a noise; it sounded suspiciously like a moan. Stormwind stopped at the same instant, looking around. Raven dismounted and studied the underbrush along the track.
There! It looked as if something had crashed through the brush. “Hellooo!” he called. “Anyone there?”
“Here,” a weak voice answered.
Raven pushed through a patch of spicebush and brambles. He found a man—more a boy, in truth—lying on his back, hand pressed to his collarbone. He wore a particolored tunic of brown and green. Raven recognized him as one of the last two riders he’d seen pass.
The rider tried to sit up, but sank back with a groan. “My collarbone. I think it’s broken.”
“And I think you’re right,” Raven said as he gently pulled the tunic’s neck to one side. “You did a hell of a job on it, too, I’d say. What happened? And what’s your name?”
“Trevorn. We were going hell bent for leather when a fox ran under Oak’s nose,” the boy said. “Stupid horse panicked, went right off the course—and I went right off Oak when he stumbled. He ran off, don’t know where.”
“Stormwind—can you find the horse?” Raven called. He heard a snort and the sound of the Llysanyin moving away. “Let’s see what we can do for you, Trevorn.”
A short while later he had the rider strapped up as best he could to keep the bone ends immobile. As he helped the boy sit up, he could hear horses moving through the woods. He hoped it was help arriving, but a moment later he recognized Stormwind’s whicker.
“I’ll be right back.” Raven pushed through the underbrush to the course.
Stormwind stood by the side of a blue roan whose head hung down. It stood with one forefoot barely touching the ground, its fetlock clearly swollen.
Raven groaned. He knew what
that
meant; the roan would have to be walked back—slowly. Even Stormwind’s walking pace would be too fast. He’d have to do it on foot.
But the rider needed a Healer as soon as possible. Raven knew he hadn’t a hope of “tickling” either Maurynna or Linden’s minds at this distance. So that meant …
“The rider—Trevorn—is hurt. Will you carry him to the camp while I walk the horse back? He needs a Healer for that broken collarbone as soon as possible.”
Stormwind nodded.
“Let’s get him, then.”
Even though Stormwind sank down on his haunches, it was a delicate job getting Trevorn onto Stormwind’s back because of the Yerrin saddle’s high pommel and cantle. The injured jockey was white with pain by the time it was done.
But seeing Trevorn slumping like a sack of meal made Raven glad of that same saddle. It would cradle the boy and once the straps meant to hold an injured rider were buckled, Trevorn would have to work to fall off—especially since Stormwind would do everything he could to keep that from happening.
When they reached the track, Raven said, “Well, then, Stormwind—off with you.”
Trevorn said, “Wait—aren’t you coming? I don’t think I can hold the reins.” Beads of sweat dotted his pinched, white face.
“Your horse needs to be walked back slowly and Stormwind walks too fast. And when I get to that stream that crosses the course, I want to soak that fetlock to get the swelling down if possible,” Raven answered. “Don’t worry about the reins or anything else. Just worry about yourself. Stormwind’ll get you there.”
Trevorn shut his eyes, clearly in too much pain to argue.
Raven affectionately slapped the stallion’s rump. The big Llysanyin started off at a smooth, gentle walk that ate up the ground.
Raven turned to the roan standing nearby, its head hanging down miserably. He caught up its dangling reins. “Welladay, my boy—let’s see what we can do for you.”
It wasn’t long before they came upon the stream Raven remembered seeing on the map of the course. He took off his boots and stockings, rolled up the legs of his breeches as high as he could, and led the roan into a little pool. Raven yipped in surprise at how cold the water was. “If this doesn’t bring that swelling down, I don’t know what will!” he told the roan.
* * *
Leet had kept careful count of the horses that passed him. When all but one were past, he turned his horse onto the racecourse—
away
from the finish line. He could wait no longer.
It was time for the first step of his new plan. If it worked he thought he knew how to achieve the rest.
But this … This was crucial. Everything depended upon what would happen in the next candlemark.
He kicked his horse into a trot.
* * *
When he was satisfied that the cold water had done all it could for the fetlock, Raven led the roan back onto the bank of the stream. He dried his feet and calves as best he could with a handful of spicy-scented ferns and pulled on stockings and boots. He caught up the reins once more and set off.
It was slow going in the sultry heat; the woods pressed close to the track, holding in the hot, humid air. Raven wiped the sweat from his face and thought of the pool with longing.
Like an oven in here,
he thought, swatting at gnats.
But at last the track passed through a shady clearing before curving around yet another bend. It was marginally cooler there; at least the air had a chance to move.
Nor was it empty. To his surprise, Raven saw Bard Leet ride slowly around the bend. Though puzzled, he raised a hand in greeting and politely called out, “Well met, my lord bard.”
Odd that he’s riding
this
way—it’s the long way around to the camp.
“Well met indeed, Raven Redhawkson, grandnephew of Bard Otter Heronson,” Leet said.
Raven wondered if he’d just imagined that odd note—an almost
hungry
sound—in Bard Leet’s curiously formal greeting. But before he could think anymore upon it, the Master Bard smiled at him.
“I saw Trevorn mounted upon your Llysanyin, Raven Redhawkson, as I rode here. He said you were seeing to his horse.”
“Oh, yes—I soaked its fetlock in the stream back—”
“This looks like a good place to change a broken harp string, wouldn’t you say, young master Raven?” Leet interrupted.
Raven just stared at him in confusion.
What on
—
“It’s a very distinctive sound,” Bard Leet went on. “And I’m quite certain I heard one go while I was waiting for the last of the stragglers to pass me. Would you please take this?” He unslung the harp case from over his shoulder and held it out.
Raven stepped forward and caught the broad leather strap of the case in his free hand. He waited politely—if impatiently—while the bard dismounted, then took it back.
Why in Gifnu’s hells had he brought a harp with him? Had he thought to serenade the squirrels and birds? And couldn’t this wait until the man returned to camp, for pity’s sake? It wasn’t as if Leet had to perform right now.
Then Raven remembered how fussy his great-uncle could be with
his
harp, and stifled a sigh. No doubt to a bard this did have to be taken care of right away.
Oh, bloody hell
…
“If you don’t mind, my lord bard, I want to get—”
“Wait for me, lad, if you will and I’ll ride back with you. That way I can ask you more about these horses you’re breeding. And find out more of Otter’s doings.”
Remembering Linden’s words regarding the foolhardiness of annoying a bard, Raven ground his teeth but waited.
Leet walked a few steps to a fallen log and sat on it. With a swiftness born of long practice, he undid the lacing of the stiff leather case. A moment later he cradled the small harp in his arms. The fingers of one hand caressed a design on the harp’s shoulder.
From the brief glimpse Raven had of the harp as it came out of its case, all looked well; he said, “Looks like no harm done, my lord bard. I wonder what you heard.”
And would you now pack up that thing again and let us be off?
As if in answer, Leet smiled—an odd little smile that made the skin on the back of Raven’s neck prickle—and said, “Are you so certain? Look closer. Listen.”
For courtesy’s sake, Raven dropped the reins and moved forward despite a faint sense of uneasiness at both smile and words. Leet ran his fingers along the strings. A shimmering curtain of sound filled the air like the chiming of tiny bells.
It was one of the prettiest things he’d ever heard. Captivated by the sweet notes, he went even closer, forgetting his earlier apprehension as the bard’s fingers danced along the strings once more, expertly damping each note a bare heartbeat after it sounded. Raven recognized one of the exercises that Otter used to warm up his fingers. Somewhere off in the woods a bird sang as if in answer to the lilting melody.
Then Leet’s fingers swept over the strings a third time. A tune emerged, a pretty song, though in an odd, minor key. The song filled Raven’s mind. He stumbled back, shaking his head, as the music reached for him, twining itself deeper and deeper within his mind. The horse behind him snorted uneasily.
For a moment he thought he’d broken its hold. Then Leet began singing—nonsense syllables, or in some unknown language—and Raven was caught once more. His blood coursed like fire along his veins, each beat of his heart sending fresh agony through him. Raven went to his knees and wrapped his arms around himself as if he could ward off the pain.
Leet’s voice changed and now Raven could almost make out words. He looked up at the other man, trying to say,
Stop! Stop singing!
But the bard’s lips were still.
Raven’s stomach lurched as he realized what was happening. It was the harp that sang, and now he understood the words. They were horrible, filled with a sickening lust made yet more terrible by the beauty of the pure, belling tones.
Blood. Sweet, sweet blood. Give me blood,
over and over again.
Raven told himself that this couldn’t be real, he was dreaming, if he tried hard enough, he could wake himself from this nightmare. This was even more frightening than being captured by soldiers when he was in Jehanglan; he could understand spears and swords. What happened now was beyond all sanity. He raked the nails of one hand along his forearm in the hope that even “dream pain” would deliver him.
It didn’t. Instead he fell to the ground, kicking feebly. He thought he heard the voice laughing in his head, demanding,
Feed me.
…
Raven tumbled into the well of darkness that opened in his mind.
Forty-two
“There you are!”
Recognizing Maurynna’s voice, Raven stopped and looked around. He spotted her standing with a woman who wore a deep green dress over a brown undergown. Behind him the patient roan limped to a halt. Maurynna bade the other woman farewell, then strode toward him, her forehead creased in a worried frown.
“Something amiss, Beanpole?” he asked.
“Not ‘something,’ you idiot—‘someone.’ You. You were
a
-miss-
ing
. Where on earth have you been?”
Raven shook his head in confusion. “What do you mean? I’ve been walking this horse back for—”
She slashed a hand through the air, cutting him off. “For Trevorn, Lady Deverith’s rider,” she snapped. “And that was Lady Deverith. She wanted to thank you for helping him.
“Bard Leet said he saw you soaking the horse’s leg in a stream as he was returning. So we expected you to be a bit late. It’s been so busy I didn’t realize you
still
weren’t back until Lady Deverith said something just now. Leet got back ages ago—did you get lost somehow?”
“I—I don’t think so,” Raven said. For the first time he was aware of a muddled feeling, as if his brain were wrapped in cobwebs. A memory drifted into his mind; he’d felt much the same way waking up from a dose of syrup of poppy after breaking his arm as a boy: distant and fuzzy.
Something told him he should be alarmed, this wasn’t right, but it was too much trouble to sort it out. Easier by far to sink back into the cobwebs.… He rubbed his forehead with his free hand.
“Good gods—what happened to your arm?”
Raven followed Maurynna’s shocked stare to look at his left forearm. His tunic sleeve had fallen back to reveal four long, angry red furrows running from inner elbow to wrist. Dried blood caked the end of one furrow.
Had he fallen into a thicket of brambles? No, the scratches didn’t look right. “I’ve no idea,” he said, examining his wounded forearm with detached interest.