Authors: Joanne Bertin
Eyes still glazed, Portis did as he was bidden. It should have been amusing in a nasty way, watching the dignified lord’s wide sleeves flailing the air as Portis lurched about the open floor before the seats, but it was not. Indeed, from the frightened faces staring wide-eyed at the spectacle before him, everyone else found it as horrifying as he did.
Tears flowed down Lady Portis’s cheeks. “Ridler! Ridler!” she cried. “What is wrong? You act as one possessed!”
At her words, Linden said, “He is indeed, my lady. Just as Raven was. Just … as…”
He gave Portis a silent command by mindvoice to lunge at Lady Portis. Portis spun jerkily around and flung himself at his wife. As his hands closed upon her throat, Linden shouted “Enough!” and tried to take his fingers from the strings.
But the harp would not let him go. Fear surged through him as he watched Portis’s fingers tighten their deadly grip on his wife’s throat. This was not what he had intended! And still his fingers danced upon the strings of the cursed harp as he struggled to break free.
A hand clamped his shoulder like a vise. Fresh strength flared through him from the touch. Wielding it like a sword, Linden slashed at the flow of blood magic from the harp. For a moment he feared it would not be enough.…
Then the harp fell from his hands. Maurynna let go of him and caught it. She spun around with inhuman speed and thumped the harp onto the table hard enough to make the strings ring. An unholy chord belled angrily through the room, leaving pale and ashen faces in its wake. With an angry curse, she muffled it with the torn bed curtain and shoved it back in the rowan case.
Portis released his wife’s throat and stumbled back, staring at his hands in horror. Lady Portis fell back in her chair, gasping; she touched her throat gingerly.
For a long moment the only sound in the room was that of Lady Portis’s harsh breathing. Then someone whispered, “Dear gods—what was that?”
Linden shook his head, unable to answer.
“Blood magic, my lord,” Lleld said. “Dark magery of the worst—and the tool of a coward who would not shed blood himself, but used others to kill.”
Linden forced himself to stand. “My lord Portis, my lady Portis,” he began. He felt sick at how close he’d come to getting Lady Portis killed. He cleared his throat. “My lord and lady, I can never apologize enough to you. That is
not
what I’d wanted you to do, Lord Portis. I thought I could control it, but it wanted to kill so badly.…”
“I felt it,” Lady Portis rasped. “That urge to kill.” Other voices murmured agreement. “It was in the song you played.”
“It was.” Portis stared at his hands once more. “It filled me, took control of me. A small part of me
knew
it was wrong,
knew
I didn’t want to do this thing, but the, the …
other
was too strong.”
He looked around the room. “I love my wife,” he said, nearly weeping. “All of you who know me well, know that.”
As heads nodded, he went on, “And I would have choked the life out of my beloved.…” His voice broke as he knelt before his wife. He laid his head in her lap. “Mariela, my lady, I’m so sorry, so very sorry.…”
Lady Portis stroked his head. “It wasn’t you, Ridler. It was—someone else.”
“It was Gull,” Linden said softly. “Not you, my lord. Not Raven. Not Robie. It was Gull the Blood Drinker—and Leet.”
Seventy
The Black Tower had a
new tenant. Once it was certain that he was not ill, Leet was taken to Raven’s old cell. From their tower rooms across the yard, Linden and Maurynna could hear him from time to time, screaming for his harp, his beautiful, beautiful harp, and promising the direst of punishments for those that kept it from him.
Yet Raven, even though it was now accepted that he’d been but a pawn, did not escape unscathed. He stood now in Linden and Maurynna’s small common room, weary, haggard, and dressed for travel.
“I cannot believe they’re doing this to you,” Maurynna fumed as she tugged on her own riding boots. “Banned from Cassori for five years? They might as well punish your knife! It would make as much sense. After all, it wasn’t your idea to kill Tirael.”
Raven shrugged his saddlebag higher onto his shoulder. “No, but Lord Portis will never truly forgive me for killing his son. Nor will many of the other nobles here. I’m just thankful that it’s not forever and especially thankful that they’re not extending it to Yarrow. If you hadn’t proved so powerfully to one and all just how compelling that cursed harp is, I doubt I’d ever be able to come back—and they might well have taken it out on Yarrow as well.”
“What I’d still like to know, though, is why Tirael was even in Sevrynel’s gardens,” Maurynna said, standing. “I clearly remember Sevrynel wondering about it at the time.”
“He certainly wasn’t an invited guest,” Raven said. “At least not by Lord Sevrynel. He’d forbidden all his foster children to associate with Tirael.” He paused, then went on softly, “I wish to the gods that he hadn’t been there that night.”
“As well wish he’d never set that poor boy on Summer Lightning’s back,” Linden said. “That’s what really started all this: Arnath’s death. It was Tirael who set his foot on the road he chose to follow, a road that one way or another would lead to retribution from the gods.”
“Couldn’t they have just tripped him over a cliff or something and left me out of it?” Raven said with a wan smile. “Come on, Beanpole—if you’re still planning to ride with me the first part of the way home, we need to leave now. The decree of banishment said that I have to be on my way before the noon candlemark.”
“I’m ready.” Maurynna caught Linden in a fierce embrace. “You—get some sleep. It’s been what, three days or so? And flying all over half the Five Kingdoms to boot.”
Linden returned the hug with equal fierceness and a kiss. “And you hurry back. There’s a very important task ahead of us.”
The sound of furious cursing came faintly through the open window. As one, they looked over to the Black Tower.
“Leet’s at it again, I see,” Raven said. His voice held no sympathy. “Wonder if he’ll ever find that chisel.”
“Chisel?” Linden and Maurynna asked together.
Raven grinned. “That’s right. A certain little, ah,
adventurer
who shall remain nameless brought one to me with my dinner one day. I’m not certain how he thought I’d escape once I’d loosened the bars—the sheets would never have reached the ground even if I could have torn them into strips—but I knew how I’d escape the hangman,” he finished grimly.
Linden cursed softly as he understood what Raven hadn’t said. Maurynna paled and gripped his hand hard enough to hurt.
It was a horrible thought, but Linden could understand why Raven had even contemplated it. It would have been a kinder death.
Raven continued, “Wonder what they’ll do to Leet? They can’t hang him, because he’s a bard. I guess that’s up to the gods and the Guild Master. Me, I just want to put as much distance as I can between myself and that murdering filth.”
Linden saw them to the door, then went to the window for a final look down into the courtyard. Leet continued to rant and rave in his cell. Linden ignored him; and after Maurynna, Raven, and an escort of guards rode away, he pulled the shutters closed and collapsed onto the bed. He fell asleep between one breath and the next.
* * *
Linden waited as the guard unlocked the door to the cell. As he swung it open, the guard announced, “You’ve a visitor, bard.”
Linden went in. The door shut firmly behind him again. His quarry sat on a stool by the window, staring out between the bars.
Leet turned. Gone was the self-possessed, dignified, and immaculate bard. Facing him was a haggard man who looked years older, disheveled, a patchy beard stubbling his chin. Puffy eyes stared listlessly at him.
“To what do I owe this honor, Dragonlord?” Even the voice had changed, a hoarse, raspy travesty of the honeyed tones for which Leet had been famous. The words, meant to mock, fell flat.
“I’ve questions, Leet. Things that I’m curious about.”
A spark of the old fire came back into Leet’s eye and the bard drew himself up. Then, like a pricked bladder, he sagged once more. “What?”
If he were a better man, Linden thought wryly, he’d find a bit of sympathy for Leet within himself. This was one time he was content to be his flawed self. “Did Sether know where the spruce for the soundboards came from?”
Leet shook his head. “No. He just knew something wasn’t right about it.”
“So why did he help you?”
Leet stared past him, then began talking. Quietly, dully, a man talking to himself. “I made him, of course. You’ve been to Thomelin’s, haven’t you? You must have; you had the—you had … The boy Brin, the simpleton—he’s Sether’s bastard by a cousin of Thomelin’s. She died a year after Brin was born. Thomelin was all the kin she had.”
A ghost of a sneer twisted his mouth. “What a fool Sether was to be so besotted with that cow, Theras. If she’d had any notion the brat was his, she’d have run to her priest bleating for him to tell her what to do—and that would have been to cast Sether aside. He wouldn’t risk that, so I had him. He had to use his ‘little magic’ to season the wood for me, perfectly and quickly.” He rubbed a finger along the indentation between lip and chin. “I had him. But … he must have guessed. Else why would he have h-h…” Leet twined his fingers together and began rocking back and forth, hands between his knees.
After a time, Linden asked, “And Thomelin? Did he know?”
This time the spark of fire stayed lit. Leet snorted. “Does it matter? This is all his fault. If he’d been a man he’d have Challenged Tirael before Arnath’s body grew cold. By the gods, I’ll take him with me, the cowardly wretch. He wanted my daughter to love him—as if she’d ever lower herself to love a commoner like him!—so do you know what he did? His sister’s late husband was a minor mage. He convinced the man to cast a glamour upon bits of colored glass. Then he set them into some of his harps, passing them off as costly gems. I overheard him talking about it once with his sister and I had
him
as well! He claims he stopped long ago and threw the rest of the glass ‘jewels’ into a river, but I’ll wager anything—”
To Linden’s disgust, Leet cackled gleefully. “Once I expose him, they’ll cut off his hands as a thief and that will be the end of him!”
“You know damn well that Thomelin would have died had he Challenged Tirael,” Linden retorted. “He’s a luthier, not trained with a sword as Tirael and every nobleman is from birth. As you were.” He paused, then went on with quiet contempt, “And you’d exact revenge upon him for that? A revenge as pathetic as all the rest has been?”
Leet’s face twisted with hatred. He glared at Linden. “Pathetic?” he snarled. Spittle flew from his lips.
“Pathetic. Revenge upon a dumb—if vicious—animal, and
after
wergild was paid for its ‘crime.’ You didn’t even poison the wretched horse yourself—you made a child do it! Then you saw a chance to revenge yourself upon your old rival by turning his innocent kinsman into a murderer. You never forgave Otter that Jaida chose him instead of you, did you?”
Leet’s mouth worked; tiny bubbles of froth appeared on his lips but he was beyond speech.
“Had you renounced your oath as a bard and Challenged Tirael yourself, no one would have faulted you. But you would have had even less chance than Thomelin, wouldn’t you? So you chose to hide behind your oath even while you drowned it in blood.
“And now you want to destroy a man because you can’t stand going down alone. Go ahead, Leet. Destroy Thomelin—and destroy the blood of your blood with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re so blinded by your selfish desires that you haven’t even considered the consequences to others, have you? If Thomelin loses his hands, how will he earn a living? What will happen to your daughter and your remaining grandchildren? Will you turn them out onto the street to starve?”
“Damn you,” Leet whispered. “Damn you all. Everything I’ve ever wanted I’ve lost. Jaida, Linny Weaver, my children, my first grandchild—the only one who had music in his soul—and now my revenge. All gone. All because of you.”
“No, Leet—the blame for all of this rests at your feet.” Linden got up to leave, then paused at the door. “You know, if you’d left this at the poisoning of Summer Lightning, no one would have ever found out.”
But you’ve always liked adding embellishments, haven’t you, Leet? Just like your music…,
he finished to himself.
Leet waved a hand in dismissal. “What now? They can do nothing to me. I am a Master Bard, an elder of my guild. Only my guild can punish me. Tell them to bring my harp to me. It is an ill thing to keep his harp from a bard. Give it back—or I shall write such scathing songs of all of you that your names will still be a jest when the great-grandchild of the baby born tomorrow is old,” he half chanted, his old power rising in his voice.
Said Linden, “You’ll never see that cursed thing again, Leet.” He left, closing the door against the bard’s curses.
* * *
Three dragons rode the skies above the Haunted Wood. One dark red and larger than the other two, one black, one the iridescent blues and greens of a peacock’s tail. They circled endlessly against the blue above them. The red and black dragons carried wooden boxes cradled in their forelegs.
Then came a small dragon winging up from the south; this one was also red, though a brighter shade. Next to the others, she looked like a dragon-child.
How went it?
Linden asked, shifting the box yet again. Bound in silk and rowan though it was, he would swear he could feel the foul thing within.
They were appalled when they read Otter’s letter and the copy of the court scribe’s record that Lord Asiah insisted on sending along. A wise man, that. Guild Master Belwynn and the other elders decided they didn’t need to see the Gull harp. Indeed, after reading everything, I think they feared to be too close to it. They’ve agreed that it needs to be destroyed as soon as possible,
Lleld reported.
They’ll be ready to leave for Cassori whenever we get there.