Authors: Joanne Bertin
As the stable hands trotted off to do his bidding, Conor laid a hand on Buttercup’s back. “Right, then—let’s keep walking.”
* * *
At last Buttercup was back in his stall. Falk went off to resume his usual duties. Conor leaned against the wall and heaved a weary sigh. He looked ruefully down at himself, then shut his eyes.
Trust a pony to pick the wettest, muddiest part of the pasture to fall ill in. They were, he swore to himself, the contrariest creatures the gods had ever created. He didn’t care what anyone said. They were.
“Ah—there tha are, Beast Healer.”
Conor warily opened an eye. He saw Burwell bearing down on him, face split in a nearly toothless grin. Warin was hot on his heels.
Why do I think I’m not going to like this?
Burwell planted himself in front of Conor. “Lady Rosalea insists upon seeing tha right away, Beast Healer. She’s at the lord’s gatherin’, she is.”
Conor boggled at him. “Now? Right now?”
Warin grinned and confirmed the unwelcome announcement. “That’s right, Beast Healer—that’s just what Her Little Ladyship said: as soon as tha was certain that her Buttercup was safe, to come and tell her thaself. Mad about that pony, she is.”
“Not one to be put off, she bain’t.” Burwell’s grin grew wider, wreathing his face in wrinkles.
Conor could imagine Lady Rosalea was one to get her way. She wouldn’t need tantrums. All she had to do was just
look
at you. “And she’s at this gathering of Lord Sevrynel’s? You’re certain of that?” Conor asked in resignation.
“Oh, that she is, Beast Healer, that she is,” Burwell piped, his head bobbing up and down. “I told her tha wasn’t dressed proper for a nobles’ gathering, but the lass wouldna take ‘no’ for an answer.” He sounded downright proud of her. Enchanted by those eyes, no doubt.
“No,” Conor sighed, looking down at the grass stains on the knees of his breeches and the mud plastering his boots. “I daresay she wouldn’t.” He looked over the rest of his clothes. Oh gods—how did he tear that elbow? Damnation, but he was going to feel like a bumpkin. A very dirty bumpkin at that; as if to agree with him, Trouble crawled out of her bed in his hood, balanced herself on his shoulder, and proceeded to wash as much of his face as she could reach.
The old man went on enthusiastically, “Said that a Beast Healer’s green-and-brown was worth any amount of silk and ribbons and lace and what-all even if it was dirty.” Burwell favored him with a nearly toothless grin. “Couldna do aught but agree with her, I couldna. The lass was right, she was.”
“Hunh, thank you.” Conor slapped halfheartedly at the dusty front of his tunic. No, Lady Rosalea would brook no denial—not where Buttercup was concerned, he suspected. He considered just leaving, then dismissed the idea; from the stubborn look on Warin and Burwell’s faces, he suspected they’d frog-march him to the gathering if he tried. Child though she was, Lady Rosalea already had her stalwart partisans. Besides, then he’d have to face those big brown eyes capable of making any male feel like an ogre with but a single mournful look.
May the gods help her suitors when she’s older,
Conor thought as he glumly picked stray bits of grass from his clothes.
They’re going to need it.
Warin must have guessed his concern. He said, “Tha could go the back way, Beast Healer, through the gardens until tha are nearly upon the gathering. From there tha can get one of the servants to tell Lady Rosalea that tha’s come to see her.”
Conor brightened. “Good idea, Warin. I’ll do that.” He looked up at the sky. It was nearing dusk; if he took his time, the fading light would hide a multitude of sins even if one of the gentry noticed him.
Lifting Trouble down from his shoulder and settling her into his arms, Conor bade farewell to the stable hands and set off to wend a leisurely way through the gardens.
It was the perfect ending to the day, Conor thought as he walked. One of those summer evenings that was neither too hot nor too cool, with an occasional breeze slipping past laden with the scent of roses and dame’s rocket and rich, damp earth. He drew a deep breath and let it out with a happy sigh. Trouble’s whiskers twitched as she sniffed the air.
Now the breeze brought with it a snatch of music, a fragment of a bell-like tune that haunted the twilight. He turned aside to find it without even thinking why. It would be only a little out of his way.…
He paused in midstep and shook his head like a man coming out of a dream. Lady Rosalea was waiting for him, worrying about her pony. Why in the world was he—
Once more the shimmering notes beckoned. He followed.
Forty-four
Leet arrived early at Lord
Sevrynel’s. When the harried understeward looked at him a bit curiously, Leet announced, “I require privacy and time to ready myself for my performance. I will do so in the gardens. When I am ready, I will join the gathering.”
He glared at the understeward as if she were a student, the same withering glare that had made many a young upstart slink off, tail tucked between their legs.
For a moment he thought she would defy him. But then she bowed and stood aside. Leet nodded imperiously and swept past.
Now to see if the next step in his plan would work.
* * *
At last Leet found a place in the gardens that suited him, well away from the gathering, since he wasn’t yet certain how many people might be affected by his “call.” He settled himself in a likely spot.
* * *
Leet bent all his will to his summoning. Yet Gull refused to answer. Desperate, the bard bit his lower lip until he tasted blood, his fingers still running unerringly over the strings as the eerie yet beautiful tune poured forth like a bubbling spring.
Come! Come to me!
he sang in his mind over and over again, calling the harp to answer. With his right hand keeping the tune, Leet touched the tip of his left forefinger to his bleeding lip, then brushed it against the soundboard. The bright red stain disappeared instantly. Leet held his breath; if this didn’t work …
Nothing. Despair nearly claimed him, then he felt the spirit within grow restless, hungry as it woke once more. Now malignant lust vibrated through the strings. Gull wanted more than that paltry offering, much more: fresh blood, thick and hot, sweet and salty, all that was in a man’s body.
Now Leet sang aloud, the merest breath of a whisper, sending his words aloft with the bell-like notes, cajoling, commanding those who heard his song to come to him.
The strings grew ice cold. For a moment Leet feared they would snap. He’d heard philosophers speak of the deadly cold that many said filled the space between the stars, a cold beyond any in the mortal world.
This, he thought, clenching his teeth against the ache that crawled up his arms, this was such a cold. He wondered that the wire strings did not shatter like glass. Yet they stayed whole; indeed, the sound became sweeter and more beguiling the colder they grew.
Otter’s fool of a grand nephew was the first to arrive as Leet knew he would be, bound already by the magic of the harp. Raven stumbled into the clearing like a sleepwalker. When he shook his head as if trying to clear it, Leet commanded, “Wait you there, boy, wait you there without a sound, still as a statue. I’ll have a use for you soon enough.”
Raven halted, his eyelids drooping.
Leet smiled. Now for the other one … The bard redoubled his efforts; tears coursed down his cheeks as ache turned to pain, then to agony. But his voice held steady and his fingers did not fail him. This—this was his only chance. Leet squeezed his eyes shut against the burning cold and played on and on. He had no blood to call this prey. His hate would have to do.
He was so intent upon his playing that he almost missed the noise of someone crashing through the garden beds. A muffled exclamation of pain finally broke through his concentration; Leet opened his eyes in time to see Tirael jerk free from the rosebushes that caught him. The younger man’s face and hands were badly scratched and his clothes torn. Leet smiled to see that perfect face crisscrossed with thin lines of blood.
Tirael stared listlessly at him, slack-faced like one devoid of wit. His lower lip trembled.
“Welcome, Tirael. Not so pretty now, are you, my fine lad?” he said softly. His hands continued their dance over the strings. “But you are still welcome, Tirael, very welcome indeed. I have someone here I’d like you to meet—and who wants to meet you so very, very much.”
Tirael’s dull gaze flickered toward Raven.
“No, no,” Leet said with a laugh. “You already know Raven, don’t you? And everyone knows that there’s no love lost between the two of you. Even so, why don’t I let him do the honors? He’s met sweet Gull before—haven’t you, Raven?”
Raven’s eyes opened fully; a look of confused fear filled them as if Raven knew he should be afraid, but could not remember
why
. That look fed the blaze of vengeance in the bard’s soul like oil upon a fire.
“Call Tirael a ‘cheat,’ Raven. Name him ‘coward.’ I order you to,” Leet crooned.
And Raven did. Tirael was so cowed that he made not even the slightest sign of offense. But enough toying with these louts, Leet thought, no matter how amusing it was. Someone might come.
Ah! If only Otter were here to see his darling grandnephew’s destruction.… Still, this was more—far,
far
more—than Leet had ever hoped for. He swept his fingers along the strings in a triumphant glissando before continuing to play. “You know what Gull wants, Raven,” he said. “Give it to him. Give him Tirael’s blood.”
It all nearly came to nothing as both men fought his control. Leet swept his fingers across the strings once more, building upon the melody, but Raven staggered, shaking his head, fighting to cover his ears. Even Tirael, pampered brat that he was, tossed his head like a fractious horse. Leet knew that he would lose them in another moment.
Then the harp jerked in his arms. With an oath, Leet caught it just in time. But the harp kept twitching and Leet had to abandon any attempt to play. He clutched the soundbox so hard his knuckles turned white.
Frenzied thoughts tumbled over each other.
Must keep playing, damn it, I’ll lose them both, what’s going on, whatthehellishappening, MUST KEEP PLAY
—
But the music went on as if ghostly fingers plucked the strings. After one long, stunned moment, Leet realized that
the harp was playing by itself.
His first instinct was to fling it away. Yes, a harp could “sing” when a breeze blew through its strings; that was common. But this—this was clearly a song. No vagary of the wind could play a song, damn it. This was more than he’d bargained—
Then he noticed that both Raven and Tirael had stopped struggling. Leet grimly forced his aching hands to keep their hold.
The tune changed, became a delicate, haunting melody that Leet had never heard before—a melody played with a subtlety unmatched by any human hand; a melody of heartbreaking beauty, graced rather than adorned by the simplest of harmonies, a melody that built upon itself, each repetition blending its bell-like notes into those that had come before. It should have sounded muddy. Instead it built a gossamer veil of sound, a shroud of notes that caught Raven and Tirael within its coils.
A cold chill gripped the bard’s heart; he knew he now heard the song with which Gull the Blood Drinker had lulled his victims so long ago. Another heartbeat or two and Leet would understand the words.…
“No!” he gasped. Then, “Kill him! Kill him now!”
Lest I be caught in this web as well!
A shiver of anticipation wove through the music and Leet clearly heard a single word drawn out like a wolf’s howl:
blooood
.
Eyes blank, Raven drew his belt knife. He turned and marched stiffly to where Tirael stood, eyes equally blank. A fleeting regret passed through Leet’s mind that Tirael wouldn’t know the terror that Arnath had surely felt. Revenge would have to be enough.
The harp played wildly, passionately, like a lover who sees his beloved. Tirael’s head tilted back; Raven’s arm went back, back, then—
Leet closed his eyes, suddenly unable to watch. He heard a grunt, a noise like a sigh, and a dull thump. A crescendo of chords filled the air in sensual exultation and the harp quivered in his arms. Leet’s stomach turned; it sounded too much like a man at the height of pleasure.
What kind of man was this, that death was to him what love is to other men?
A wave of nausea swept over him and he found himself gasping as if he’d run a race. He swallowed hard and wondered if his legs would support him.
Gods help me, I—I hadn’t expected anything like this. I must leave, must get—
A wave of cold shot up his arms, a cold so intense it was pure agony. He cried out, his eyes opening in reflex.
Raven stood before him, eyes empty; his knife was still in his hand. Blood dripped from it, drop by slow, thickening drop, and his hand and clothes were stained with the the horrible stuff.
Tirael lay on the ground at his feet. A dark pool spread around the young nobleman’s head. By some trick of the dimming light Leet could see blood glistening along the edges of the gaping wound in his throat.
Leet’s head spun at the ghastly sight and the world swam before his eyes. He knew he was on the verge of collapse.
Then, through no will of his own, the bard staggered to his feet. Still clutching the harp, he lumbered across the short distance, at first jerking and twitching like a mishandled puppet, then moving normally if somewhat stiffly.
He knelt by Tirael’s side. One hand loosed its death grip on the harp and stretched forth, slowly, slowly toward the blood pooled around Tirael’s head. Leet watched it from a place beyond terror; surely it belonged to someone else, this hand.… It wasn’t his, it
couldn’t
be his.
Oh gods, please, no. A squirrel or rabbit’s blood is one thing. But a man’s? Auvrian help me, I don’t want to tou
—
The hand scooped up as much blood as it could from the sluggish pool beneath Tirael’s head. The feel of the warm, thick fluid nearly made Leet vomit. He desperately wanted to shake the stuff from his fingers, scrub them clean until the skin was raw, then scrub them again and again. But they didn’t belong to him anymore; they were … They were going to … going to …