Authors: Joanne Bertin
Lord Asiah said, “Your name, priestess?”
“I am Aelwitha, a lich priestess of the Crone at her temple here in Balyaranna.”
“You were one of those who prepared Lord Tirael for his burial, are you not?”
Lady Portis buried her face in her hands. “My boy. My poor bonny boy…” She wept softly.
Priestess Aelwitha looked at her sympathetically and sketched a sign of blessing. The air shimmered for a moment. “I am. A younger priestess and three acolytes assist me, but I am the one who anoints the dead with holy oils and speaks the prayers. It is under my guidance that the others undress and bathe the departed one.”
The Justice of Balyaranna nodded. “Will you tell us what you found that struck you as unusual?”
“My lord, even in the deepest sanctuary in the temple, we had heard of what happened to Lord Tirael, how he’d been struck down, and him unarmed. Not even a knife for eating on his belt. That’s why we were so surprised when we found this.”
She carefully unwrapped the bundle in her lap, folding each layer of cloth back like the petals of a flower opening. There was a gasp of surprise as she held up a long, narrow-bladed dagger, its hilt wrapped in wire. No fashionable young lord’s ornament, this; this was a soldier’s weapon, a blade meant for killing.
Lord Asiah’s voice rang out over the buzz of speculation. “Where did you find it, Priestess Aelwitha?”
The priestess waited until the whispers subsided. “Hidden in Lord Tirael’s right boot.”
The Justice took the dagger from her. “Thank you, priestess. That will be all.”
Priestess Aelwitha bowed her head slightly, then took her leave, her robes rustling as she paced slowly down the aisle.
When the door closed once more behind her, Lord Asiah brought the dagger to Tirael’s parents sitting in the front row. “Do either of you recognize this weapon, my lord, my lady?”
They bent over it, studying the deadly weapon. Both shook their heads.
“Have you any idea what Lord Tirael was doing in Lord Sevrynel’s gardens that night? I understand that he was … not invited,” Lord Asiah said delicately.
Both Lord and Lady Portis blushed before shaking their heads again. Portis said, “But what difference does this make, Lord Justice? It was in his boot, not his hand.”
“It only means that he was not unarmed, my lord. The record must be changed, that is all,” Lord Asiah replied soothingly, inclining his head toward the scribe. She glanced up and nodded, her stylus gliding across the wax tablet on the table before her.
And I’m still as guilty as ever,
Raven thought, watching her. He felt sick.
Lord Asiah turned the dagger over and over in his hands, studying it. “My lord and lady, one last question—have you any idea
why
your son was carrying such a weapon?”
“No doubt because he was afraid of him!” Lord Portis stabbed a finger at Raven.
“If so, it seems odd that he didn’t draw it when he came upon his enemy in the dark,” the Justice observed as he lay the dagger upon the table.
Suddenly both Lleld and Shima sat up straighter, their eyes unfocused. Surprise, even shock flitted across their faces.
What’s that about?
Raven wondered.
Then Lleld nodded. She stood up, the book clasped to her breast. “Lord Asiah—I would like to present the first part of
our
evidence,” the little Dragonlord announced.
Sixty-four
Raven watched, baffled, as Lleld
set the large, heavy book down on the lectern and turned the pages. He glanced over to see if Shima knew what she was up to and caught sight of Leet once more.
But this time there was no cruel smile on the bard’s face. Instead he stared at the little red-haired Dragonlord with frightening intensity.
“Here we are,” Lleld murmured. She rested her hand upon the page and looked up. Her light, clear voice rang through the room. “My lords and ladies, I have here a history from the library of Dragonskeep. A history written by one Lord Culwen of Cassori—one of your own.”
Raven looked at Leet once more. Was it his imagination or did the bard look alarmed? As Lleld began reading, Raven watched Leet.
“Know all that there is one who surpasses all other killers for foulness and cruelty,” Lleld read. “For reasons I do not pretend to understand, while all murder is foul, it is somehow much worse when a murderer perverts a thing of beauty for his vile purposes.
“Such a one was Gullanin Wortman of the village of Worton, known to all now as Gull the Blood Drinker. Here I shall set down a shortened account of his history. I will follow it with the full tales told me by those still living near where the village of Worton once stood. Some have been proven true, some, no doubt, are made up. All are terrifying.
“Worton was famous for the rare and useful herbs in the nearby forests, especially the herb known as King’s Blood. All the village prospered from the trade, but the most successful was the family called Wortman, though all their names have been lost but one. They had an uncanny ability to find that most rare and virtuous of herbs, King’s Blood, and built their good fortune upon it.”
Lord Asiah interrupted. “Dragonlord, with the utmost respect, what has this to do with this trial? It’s just a scary story for a stormy night.”
Lleld said levelly, “My lord Justice, it has everything to do with why we’re here today. Nor was it merely a ‘scary story,’ my lord. I remember Worton. I … I had friends there. They died by Gull the Blood Drinker’s hand.”
When the uneasy murmuring died down, she continued reading. “They alone in Worton had a secret method of preparing King’s Blood so that there was no loss of its virtue. So successful were they that they built a long stone barn for their work, for that herb needs darkness.
“The family’s fortunes rose. But then the gods turned their faces from them. The oldest son, Gullanin, a man known for his fair voice, lost the first joint of one forefinger and his brother lost a hand when the heavy blade of a root chopper slipped. It is thought that was when Gullanin first tasted blood, a taste that woke a raging darkness inside him, when his brother’s blood sprayed upon him.”
Raven heard the door quietly open and shut, but like everyone else, his attention was on the smallest Dragonlord. She didn’t even glance up at the faint noise.
“Not long after, disaster struck again. The mother disappeared while searching for herbs. Her body was never found. The same happened to the father, another brother, the two married sisters, and their husbands and children.
“Soon only Gull and the one-handed brother remained. The village elders pressed Gull to reveal his family’s secret of treating the herbs lest the knowledge be lost. Their pleas fell upon deaf ears. The one-handed brother disappeared and Gull became more secretive than ever. The villagers heard his muffled singing from inside the stone barn as he worked late into the night.
“Then the villagers began to disappear one after another. They grew fearful and haggard as they went about their work in the forest, wondering what evil spirit they had angered. Only Gull seemed unaffected.
“Some blamed the Children of the Forest. Others blamed demons and ghosts. In time, they feared the forest that had nurtured them too much to enter it anymore. Instead they huddled around their hearths and prayed. Yet all too often they would wake in the morning and find another bed empty. And all they knew was that every one of them had ‘heard’ a wordless song of haunting beauty in their dreams the night before.
“So it went until a family of tinkers came to the village.”
Lleld looked up from the book. “You all know the rest of the story, I’m sure. How the tinker’s son Norrim awoke to see his sister rise from her pallet and go to the stone barn. How he followed and found Gull waiting for her—Gull and a knife with an edge that could cut moonlight, as the tales say. How Norrim fought Gull and won, though Gull tried desperately to ensnare him with the song that had caught so many in its web.
“He won, my lords and ladies, because Norrim was one of those unfortunate few whom Auvrian, the god of music, turns his face from. To Norrim, all music sounded like cacophony.”
She closed the book firmly. “My lord Portis—was your son one of those unfortunates?”
Portis shook his head.
“Does anyone know if the stable boy Robie is?” Lleld asked.
“He is not,” said Conor over the surprised murmur that arose at her question. For once Raven agreed with the audience; what had the stable boy to do with this? Conor went on, “His father has mentioned that the boy loves music.”
“As does Raven,” said Lleld. “Moreover, I’ve heard Raven sing, and sing well.”
Lord Asiah shook his head. He looked confused. “Dragonlord, I’m not certain what you intend to prove with this. True, Raven Redhawkson
has
made a claim that some kind of music possessed him. Are you trying to say that since Gull the Blood Drinker found a way to do it, someone might have as well?”
“No,” said a deep—and tired—voice from the back of the room. “What she’s saying is that Gull the Blood Drinker walks again.”
Sixty-five
As Linden leaned against the
wall, gathering his strength and waiting for the clamor to subside, he felt Maurynna’s startled mindtouch.
Your tunic is torn!
What
happened to you? Were you attacked?
Yes, but no lasting harm done, love. I’ll tell you later,
he promised. He glanced around but didn’t see her. Odd; she had to be where she could see
him,
so why couldn’t he see her?
Where are you?
Later—for both of us,
she said enigmatically.
He didn’t have time to sort out what she meant by that. He needed to concentrate on what he was about to do. Gods, he was so tired.…
He walked slowly down the aisle to the lectern. Charilon had told him so many things that, exhausted as he was, he desperately hoped he’d kept it all straight as he’d strung together all the bits and pieces he knew—or guessed—like beads on a necklace as he flew back to Balyaranna. It had all made sense to him at the time; may the gods grant that he was right.
Still, there was one thing that
didn’t
fit in. Worse, there was no way that he could see around it, either. And that worried him. But this was all he had.
He reached the front of the room and turned to face the assembled lords and ladies. They stared and muttered to each other at his appearance. “My apologies for appearing before you like this, but I have just returned from a journey—” He looked for a certain face in the crowd; surely the man would be here if he had guessed right … ah, there! “—to the north of Kelneth.”
Though drops of sweat started on Leet’s forehead, his expression never changed: polite interest, nothing more. Looking straight into the bard’s eyes, Linden went on, “I found where once Worton had stood. I found the remains of the old stone barn, where Gull the Blood Drinker lured his victims with his song. Where he cut their throats, drank their blood, and then buried them under its dirt floor.
“I also found in Worton-that-was a man possessed by the evil lingering in the forest. He, too, had killed and buried victims. His name was Arlim. He was hunting two young women when I got there.”
Linden kept his gaze locked on Leet’s. Now the sweat dripped down the bard’s face; yet still there was only that mask of polite interest.
Linden said softly into the uneasy silence, “But worst of all, I found that the witch spruce that had been planted over Gull the Blood Drinker’s grave to trap his soul had been cut down, freeing his evil once again. The stump was there—but the tree itself was gone.” He paused. “But I know what was done with the wood.”
The color drained from Leet’s face, leaving two spots of red high on his cheeks, like a man with a fever. Still, not a muscle twitched in that impassive countenance.
Once again a tumult of voices rang out. Swaying on his feet, Linden let it wash over him. Two nights without sleep and the long distances he’d flown so quickly had drained him. He shut his eyes for a moment as Lord Asiah thumped the heel of his staff on the floor again and again, shouting for quiet.
Lord Portis stood up. “Do you expect me to believe this man Arlim somehow forced Raven Redhawkson to kill my son all the way from northern Kelneth?” he asked in disgust.
“No. Do you remember that I said Arlim was hunting two young women? He died at the fangs of one girl’s brother-in-fur, a
ghulon,
known to most of you as a woods dog or wolvering,” Linden told him.
Conor’s strangled gasp sounded like thunder in the quiet room.
Asiah frowned. “Then who do you think is responsible? And why would he or she do such a thing?”
Linden rubbed the back of his neck. He hoped Charilon knew what he was talking about or else he was about to slander a man and make a prize fool of himself. He took a deep breath. “I will answer the second question first, my lord.
“Like most things, my lord, the answer begins in the past. On the estate of one Rade Welkin, Lord Sansy of Sansy, now sleeping peacefully in his grave.
“He married twice. Much to his family’s dismay, his second wife was a beautiful young girl from the weavers’ hall in the village. She bore him a son and a daughter who were the delight of his old age. But then the whispers started: the children were not his. Did Lord Sansy believe those whispers? No one knows, for he died soon after they started. If the rumors were true, no one knew for certain who the man was—but some in the village suspected. Didn’t they, Leet?”
“Lies!” Leet hissed. “How dare you? This is nothing but vile lies!”
“Is it, Leet? Then look in your mirror. That doesn’t lie. While I’ve not met your son, Agon, I
have
met your daughter, Romissa. She has the same cleft in her chin that you have—the same chin that your mother had, Leet. Your
mother
—not your father. Charilon remembers her well, you know. It was seeing
her
chin on Rade’s supposed ‘children’ that set the village gossips’ tongues wagging, he said.”