Josepha Sherman - Bard's Tale 04 - The Chaos Gate

VIP免费

2024-12-19 0 0 344.23KB 117 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

The Chaos Gate

by Josepha Sherman

book 4 of the Bard's Tale Series

version 1.1 minor clean up

Chapter I Old Friends

Swords clashed together, the hard, clear sound cutting through the cool morning air, echoing off the

castle walls. Kevin, once merely a lowly bardling, now Count Kevin, Bard Kevin, struggled to keep the

upper hand, but the dark-clad, hooded figure he fought continued to drive him inexorably back across

the smooth cobbles of the courtyard. All around him, Kevin knew, various guards and servants were

keeping a bemused eye on their lord as they went about their work.

Wonderful. And all I seem to be doing is parrying and parrying again. He's just too inhumanly fast,

curse it!

All at once, though, his opponent stepped back and lowered his sword. "Not bad, Kevin. Not bad

at all."

"Not bad!" Kevin echoed wearily, brushing back damp reddish strands of hair from his face with his

free hand. "Naitachal, this is ridiculous. All we did just now was wear ourselves out. It wasn't working at

all!" "Hush, now," the other murmured. "It was."

"Oh, nonsense."

"It was, I say." Naitachal pushed back his hood, shaking free a silky, silvery fall of hair, revealing a

dark-skinned, ageless, sharply planed face: the classic, coldly elegant face of a Dark Elf. Only the clear

blue eyes, bright with joyous life, proved that he, alone of all his kin, belonged to the Light. Slipping a

companionable arm around Kevins shoulders, the elf added softly, "We agreed that till we had hard

proof no one else should think this was anything other than a duel between friends."

"Well, yes, but—"

"And it was only a theory, after all."

"Yes, but..." Frustrated, Kevin let his voice trail off as a servant approached, and he wiped his blade

clean with a soft scrap of cloth the man offered him. This wasn't a war sword, of course, though for a

practice blade it was sharp enough; the White Elves never did anything by half measures. Still, Kevin

admitted, glancing down at the intricately woven guard, he never would have dared study advanced

swordplay at all if it hadn't been for this beautifully wrought gift of theirs. It very cleverly shielded his

precious hands, which, along with talent, were a musician's most important asset.

The practice blade, and its matching war blade, had come from the Moonspirit Clan in gratitude for

the kindness he had shown their deceased kinsman. Eliathanis, Kevin thought with a sudden sharp little

pang of sadness, remembering the proud, heroic, doomed elven warrior, then determinedly blocked the

past from his mind. It had, after all, been over four years since he and a mismatched little group of

adventurers, including Eliathanis, had set out to rescue a count's stolen niece and ended up defeating the

half-fairy, thoroughly evil, Princess Carlotta.

"Naitachal," he said suddenly, "this isn't all some sort of elven jest, is it? Do you really believe we

can turn my swordplay into a form of Bardic Magic?"

Naitachal shrugged. "Why not? It's not any stranger than a Dark Elf turning Bard!"

Kevin had to grin at that. Naitachal was most certainly the only one of his land ever to harbor a love

of music, let alone show a blazing talent for it. "Yes, but—"

"You're beginning to sound like a poorly trained parrot," the Dark Elf teased. '"Yes, but, yes, but.'

Why do you think Master Aidan let me come here?"

Kevin laughed outright. "Because you've been driving him mad."

"Oh, I have not!"

"Don't give me that look! I received a message from him a few months back all about you." The

message, conveying the Master Bard's wry tone beautifully, had told Kevin, "A fanatically determined elf

with equally phenomenal raw talent can learn a skill far more quickly and thoroughly than any mere, lowly

human. He's a full Bard now, just like you—and he's just as much of a let's go have an adventure'

nuisance!"

"Never mind. Kevin, we went over this before: Since swordplay has its own definite rhythm, and

since you are a Bard who has mastered the basic moves quite gracefully—for a human—you may very

well be creating a new form of Bardic Magic just by duelling. And it was working," Naitachal continued

seriously before Kevin could interrupt. "Something happened when you used the Maladan Maneuver."

Kevin raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Such as what?"

"Such as the fact that just for a moment I found you drawing me into a dancelike pattern I couldn't

help but finish. For that matter," the elf added thoughtfully, "at that same moment it was actually difficult to

look at you."

"That's because he's a human!" came a shrill taunt. "The ugly things are always tough to look at!"

Kevin glanced up at a small, sharp-faced figure, her glittery wings an iridescent blur as she hovered

just out of reach. By now, he knew better than to retort. These days Tich'ki might be the aide of

D'Krikas, the castle seneschal, but that rank had hardly dampened her quirky, nasty sense of humor. She

remained as fiery-tongued a little menace as ever; as far as Kevin knew, only the woman warrior, Lydia,

Tich'la's sometime travelling companion and now the castle's com-mander-in-chief, had ever managed to

get the last word.

"Not all of us have the elegance of a fairy," the Bard told the fairy with wry courtesy, and heard her

snicker.

"Or the nuisance factor," Naitachal added drily, brushing Tich'ki away as if she was a bothersome

insect. "Kevin, if you can do that sword-dance to an enemy, entrancing him into predictable moves..."

"I'd have him," Kevin finished, then shrugged. "It's a nice thought, but who knows? We're making up

the rules here, and—ah, now what?"

It was usually pleasant being a count; Kevin couldn't deny he enjoyed holding a noble title and

overseeing the running of a castle, particularly since in these four years he hadn't made any really bad

errors. People here seemed to truly like him. But there were times when he could almost wish he was a

nobody again, responsible for no one but himself. Folks were always after a count! If D'Krikas wasn't

cornering him to discuss in tedious detail this edict or that, it was Commander-in-Chief Lydia wanting him

to oversee the new guard's testing. Or maybe it was the castle baker, bypassing the seneschal to

complain directly to the count about the quality of wheat (arguing that since D'Krikas didn't eat bread,

D'Krikas could hardly understand the fine points of its baking), or the farrier worrying that the current

shipment of iron was underweight (even though D'Krikas could judge each ingot's weight to a

hairbreadth's accuracy), or—or—

Kevin bit back a frustrated sigh. First and foremost, he was a Bard, with the music burning in him,

aching to be used. But now that he'd finally earned that status, now that he'd mastered Bardic Magic,

there was barely enough free time in a day for him to keep his fingers nimble enough to play anything!

And now here came this messenger from the royal court—no. This road-weary man wasn't wearing

King Amber's livery. Puzzling over just who outfitted their servants in quartered blue and yellow, Kevin

watched Lydia, her decidedly female form nicely outlined by her just-this-side-of-tight leather armor, her

curly black hair barely restrained by a leather circlet, lead the man this way. The woman was a coolly

competent warrior, but she had her rough, bawdy side. And Kevin didn't like the mischievous glint he

saw in her dark eyes.

"That would be Count Trahern's livery," a dry, precise voice said suddenly. Kevin glanced back

over his shoulder to see a tall, never-human form towering over him, its shiny, chitinous green skin glinting

in the sunlight. D'Krikas, seneschal to Kevin and the two counts who'd preceded him, was Arachnia, not

human, totally honorable and as coolly logical and fastidious as all that race. "And that is most certainly

Count Trahern's coat-of-arrns on the man's breast," the being continued. "You do remember who Count

Trahern is?"

It was impossible to read expression in those glittering, segmented eyes, but Kevin frowned at the

touch of condescension in D'Krikas' voice: the Arachnia had a seemingly inexhaustible knowledge of

courtly detail— and expected the same of Kevin. "Of course," the Bard said shortly. "His lands lie due

north of here."

"Indeed. Now, let us see.... His messenger carries no parchments with him, nor do any of his

servants. Count Trahern has one child, a daughter. I believe her name is Gwenlyn, and she is of what

humans consider marriageable age. Therefore," D'Krikas decided, "the man has most likely come to this

castle with a miniature of that daughter, and most probably an offer of marriage."

Kevin groaned. "Not another one!"

Lydia had come close enough to hear that, and grinned widely at him. "That's it. Another lovely,

lonely lady languishing for your love."

Naitachal, eyes full of amusement, gave her a sweeping bow of appreciation. "Couldn't have said

that better myself."

Kevin glared at him. "I thought you were on my side."

The Dark Elf blinked innocently. "But I am! I think a bit of romance would be just the thing for you."

"A bit of romance!" Kevin squawked. "Naitachal, they're all trying to get me married!"

"Indeed." D'Krikas, segmented arms folded neatly, was the very image of propriety. "Have we not

been discussing this matter for some time?"

"Ohh yes." The seneschal had been insisting for days that it was high time Kevin found himself a

bride.

"Surely you see the need for such a thing?" D'Krikas asked in a voice that said he'd be a fool if he

didn't. "After all, you are a count. A count must have an heir, and as quickly as possible, to ensure the

succession and protect his people."

"I know, I know." For some time Kevin had been flooded by other miniature portraits of other

unmarried daughters. He might, the Bard thought cynically, be of humble origin, but there wasn't a

nobleman out there who didn't think this upstart young count, King's friend that he was, would make a

valuable political ally. "I understand the whole thing, believe me. It's just..."

"He's scared!" Tich'ki jibed from overhead. "Poor little boy doesn't know what to do. Wouldn't

even know what to do if a woman was plopped down in his bed!"

To his disgust, Kevin felt his face reddening. At nineteen he was hardly the innocent he'd once been,

but he had yet to learn how to keep his cursedly fair skin from betraying him. "I am not scared. I'm

merely—"

"Terrified!"

"No! I only meant that—"

"I'm right, he wouldn't know what to do! Woman had better bring a deck of cards to keep her

amused—"

"Enough, Tich'ki!" Kevin snapped, and heard Lydia chuckle. Furious at himself for getting so

flustered, Kevin snatched up the miniature the bewildered messenger was offering. Like all the others, the

small portrait was far too stylized to show the young count much: the usual perfectly oval face, the usual

perfectly groomed hair, dark and wavy in this case. Kevin was about to hand the miniature back with the

blandly polite refusal he'd perfected during the last deluge of miniatures, but to his surprise found himself

glancing down at it again. Funny, it really didn't tell him much, but there was something hinted at in the set

of those deep blue eyes that—

"You don't have to memorize it," Lydia teased. "No matter how hard you stare, it isn't going to

move."

"Naw, it's not that!" Tich'ki sneered. "He's too scared to think, that's all. Doesn't know which end is

which!"

"I said enough, Tich'ki!" Kevin snapped, glaring up, staring back down at the miniature, praying to

stop blushing. There really was something intriguing about the set of those blue eyes, but he could hardly

change his life because of a stylized portrait. He'd give it back and—

But just then Tich'ki drew in her breath for yet another taunt, and Kevin, to his shock, heard himself

blurt out, "All right, the Lady Gwenlyn it shall be!"

Oh curse it all to Darkness, what made me say that? What have I gotten myself into now?

Too late to back down. Everyone around him was cheering, and Lydia was slapping him joyfully on

his back. The messenger, face wreathed in smiles, bowed and bowed again.

"My master, Count Trahern, will be truly delighted, my Lord Count. As soon as I may, I shall return

to him with the joyous news. Oh, and a portrait of you, of course, Count Kevin."

"Of... course."

But Kevin couldn't help repeating in silent panic, What have I gotten myself into now?

As the days passed, Kevin found himself growing increasingly nervous. What had he done, what? A

betrothal was as good as a marriage, everyone knew that, and by making that stupid declaration he'd as

good as betrothed himself to—to whom? The Lady Gwenlyn? All he knew about her was that she was

Count Trahern's daughter, and he didn't even know anything much about Count Trahern!

Meanwhile, of course, castle life had to go on. He had to continue being Count Kevin. Even if it

meant being faced with the most awkward, embarrassing tasks. Like this one:

"Uh... Naitachal."

"I'm glad to see you remember my name," the Dark Elf said drily. He sat sprawled at his ease,

looking impossibly graceful even so, making Kevin feel very clumsy by comparison.

"Do you... have you any idea why I... uh... asked you to meet me here?"

Naitachal glanced about the private little audience room, with its one window overlooking empty

space and the bare stone walls that offered no hiding space for spies. "Offhand, I'd say you wanted to

discuss something in private." Irony dripped from the elegant voice.

"Uh... yes. You—you've been living among humans for four years now."

"So I have. Bracklin has proved most... interesting-"

"Interesting" was hardly the word Kevin would have applied to the quiet little backwater village that

was the home of Master Bard Aidan. But that very peace-fulness must have been wonderfully soothing

to a Dark Elf trying desperately to turn from the necromancy that had been all he'd known for untold

years to the magic of music instead. "I—I'm sure it has," Kevin said belatedly. "But I didn't mean to ask

you about that. Your people don't believe in—in love, do they?"

The bright blue eyes turned suddenly hard and cold. "You know that," Naitachal said flatly. "No

Nithathil, no Dark Elf, trusts another. No one of us dares. We come together only for mutual profit or

procreation."

Kevin winced. "Then human ways must still seem very strange to you."

The coldness faded. "After only these four years or so of living freely among your kind? Oh, yes.

Kevin, what is all this about? You didn't ask me here for lessons on Nithathili life." Naitachal paused,

studying the young count thoughtfully, and a slow smile formed on his lips. "So-o. Judging from the

embarrassed looks you're giving me, this has to do with those happy, silly games human men and women

love to play together: the not-quite-true flattery, the not-quite-true lust."

"You've been playing those games, too."

"Flirting, you mean? That is the term? Why, yes." Naitachal's teeth flashed in a quick grin. "The good

folk of Bracklin don't go in for such silliness. But the women here seem to enjoy it. And frankly, so do I.

It's such a novelty to try such a frivolous thing."

"Ah well, yes, but... it's not a matter of the—the games themselves, but—"

"But of whom I play them with? Yes? I thought that didn't matter with such frivolities."

"Well, no—yes—" Kevin floundered to a stop, all at once aware of the amusement flickering in the

elven eyes. "Naitachal..."

"I know, I know. Stay away from the married ladies. I'd already come to that conclusion after some

idiot man tried to challenge me for smiling at his fat little hen of a wife. And it's not fair of me to tease you,

not when you're being so earnest. Not," the elven Bard added delicately, "when you have your own

potential romance to concern you."

"Oh. That."

"The thought does frighten you, doesn't it?"

"Gods, yes!" The words burst out before Kevin could stop them. "I—I know I'll have to wed

sometime; that's part of the duties of a count, after all. B-but I never thought, not really, that I'd wind up

tying my life to a total stranger!"

"You're about to suggest something. What is it?"

Kevin licked suddenly dry lips. Leaning forward in his chair, he said, "I was playing with the idea

of—of going off, secretly, that is, to Count Trahern's castle, so I can meet the Lady Gwenlyn for myself."

He sat nervously back, watching Naitachal intently, half hoping the Dark Elf would talk him out of it. "So.

What do you think of that?"

To his shock, he saw Naitachal grin. "I like it. A most excellent suggestion."

"What—"

"What better way for you to get to know your lady than to appear on her very doorstep after a

weary journey to meet her? What young woman could refuse you after that? Why, it s the very essence

of romance!"

Romance, Kevin thought drily. He should have known better. Naitachal, of course, could never

have known romance, not with his harsh background, but now that he'd discovered the joys of flirtation,

his quicksilver elf mind must be full of fancies worthy of any lovesick minstrel.

"Don't you think," Kevin began warily, "that maybe we should think this over? It might be dangerous

to—"

Naitachal waved that off impatiently. "What danger could we possibly run into on a short trip

through civilized lands?"

"Ah—'we'?"

"You didn't think I'd miss a chance to see human courting behavior, did you?"

"There may not be any courting," Kevin reminded him between clenched teeth. "And isn't it going to

be risky for you?"

"As a Dark Elf, you mean?' Naitachal shrugged. "I've hidden my true identity from humans easily

enough before this with long sleeves and a hooded cloak. No insult meant, Kevin, but your folk really do

see only what they expect to see. So. When we leave, we can't let Lydia know what we're doing."

"Why not?"

"Do you really want to meet your lady fair surrounded by a battalion of armed guards?"

Kevin held up a hand in wry surrender. Lydia was an efficient commander-in-chief, all right, far

more efficient than Kevin could ever have predicted four years back when he'd appointed her. She had

most definitely taken her job to heart!

Ah well, Naitachal was probably right. What danger could there possibly be for two full Bards

trained in Bardic Magic? Besides... he really did want to see this Gwenlyn... find out what he was

facing....

"All right," Kevin said sharply before he could change his mind. "We need some good excuse. Ha, I

have it." Snatching a pen from an inkstand, he hunted for a scrap of parchment and began to write. "I'm

leaving a note claiming you and I are... mmm... going off into the surrounding forest to... to..."

"To practice music and Bardic Magic," Naitachal continued, and Kevin nodded eagerly.

"Exactly. To practice our Art without any distractions." He stopped short. "Oh, what a wonderful

thought that is."

Naitachal smiled softly. "No reason we can't include some music in our journey."

"No reason at all." Kevin bent over the parchment, scribbling hurriedly. "There. I'll just sign it, thus,

mark it with my seal, thus. A servant can deliver it to D'Krikas." Kevin grinned. "Shall we be off?"

Naitachal bowed extravagantly. "We shall, indeed. Come, my friend, romance awaits you."

"Uh... sure," Kevin said in sudden wild doubt, and followed.

Chapter II The Battle Is Joined

The young page stood frozen in horror, listening to the sounds of violence in disbelief, then turned to

run for help. But before he'd gotten more than a few steps, hands clamped down on his arms, dragging

him to a halt.

"Whoa, now," amused voices asked, "where do you think you're going in such a rush?"

"There—the sounds—battle—my Lord Trahern is being attacked, and Lady Gwenlyn is—" The

page broke off to stare at the squires who'd caught him, trying desperately to place them; pages didn't

associate much with squires, who were, after all, several years senior. A stocky towhead, a skinny,

brown-haired boy, a dark-haired, slender fellow: Ah, he had it! "Matt, Garin, Wellan—what are you

laughing at?"

"That's no enemy, you idiot!" said towheaded Matt. "That's His Lordship, yes, and Her Ladyship,

too, having at each other."

The page blinked. "A—a family quarrel? Is that all it is?"

"You new in this castle? You must be new if you

haven't heard them fighting before this. Those are two of the most hot-blooded stubborn folk you

could care to meet, and when they disagree—wheel"

"B-but they're noble!"

The squires laughed. "Does that mean they aren't allowed to get mad at each other?' brown-haired

Garin asked.

"Well, no, but..."

A crash made them all start. "Now what?" Wellan wondered, quickly brushing wild black hair out of

his eyes. "Have they started throwing things at each other?"

Matt shook his head. "Not a chance. Throwing things isn't their style. They are noble, as the kid here

says." The squire hesitated, listening. "Can't quite make out what they're saying. What do you think

they're fighting over this time?"

"Her betrothal," Wellan said with certainty. "What else could it be?"

"Her betrothal," Matt echoed with wonder. "Who would dare marry a fierce one like that?"

Garin shrugged. "Someone 'smitten by her charm,' as the minstrels put it. Hey, don't give me those

looks. Our Lady Gwenlyn may not be one of those pretty little perfect creatures the minstrels rave

about—"

"You mean, those perfectly brainless creatures," Wellan corrected drily. "One thing our Lady

Gwenlyn isn't is brainless."

"She sure isn't. And maybe she isn't a raging beauty, or whatever they call it, but Lady Gwenlyn isn't

exactly hard to look at, either."

"Besides," Matt added, "she's got a good heart underneath all that fire. A pretty clever wit, too."

"Right," Garin agreed. "Our Gwenlyn can manage to charm anyone she sets her mind to, and you all

know it."

"Huh. Anyone save her father," Matt muttered.

Angry voices still roared and rumbled in the background. Garin shrugged "Five to one her ladyship

wins this one," he said.

"This is ridiculous! Ridiculous, I say!" Count Trahern, tall and elegant and blazing with rage, was as

impressive as a great, handsome bird of prey.

Gwen—Lady Gwenlyn Mared Rhona Gwinerya— wasn't impressed. "Ridiculous, is it? This is my

future we're discussing, my life!"

"Don't be so melodramatic!"

"What do you expect of me? You've bargained away my entire future!"

Her father gave a great sigh, visibly struggling to calm himself. "You knew the day of your betrothal

would come eventually."

"Of course I did, curse it!"

"Gwenlyn!"

"After all," she forged on, "I'm nothing much, am I? Nothing but a girl. Why should I expect to have

any say in what happens to me? It's not as though I was actually worth something. Except as a pawn in

political games, of course. I'm just a—a—cursed bargaining chip!"

"Don't be a—"

"Don't try to deny it! We both know—"

"Stop this stupid self-pity right now!"

"It's not—"

"I said, stop it! Gwenlyn, I could have married again, I could have fathered another child—"

"I wish you had!" But then Gwen added, almost softly "I know you've been lonely since—since

Mother died. And I—I hate seeing you alone. It's been nearly twelve years, Father. I wish you would let

yourself find someone else to love."

She saw pain flicker in his dark eyes, but the count answered with cold dignity, "What I do or do

not do with my life is not your affair. I have no other child, and that is as it is. I raised you as my heir, I

gave you the best education. I even, curse me for a fool, encouraged you to use your brain."

"Yes. That's why—"

"Then use it!" he shouted. "I could have married you off to some doddering old idiot or a monster

who'd beat you every day. Instead, I go out of my way to arrange a fine match for you—"

Here we go again. "A fine match!" Gwen yelled back. "He's nothing but a boy!"

"Ha! That boy, as you call him, is a full year your senior."

"But he's a nobody," Gwen protested, "a commoner without one drop of noble blood."

"Let me remind you," her father countered, "that he is both a full Bard and a hero."

"Some hero," Gwen sniffed. "He was made count just because he happened to be in the right place

at the right time!"

"And knew what to do about it when that time came. And won royal favor, I might add. Gwenlyn,

like it or not, he is an important political figure. And I will not have you make us both look like idiots!"

"Idiots, is it? He's the fool if he thinks he'll marry me!"

With that, Gwen stormed off before her father could shape a suitable retort, hardly noticing the

squires she hurried past. But their whispers reached her: "A draw, by the gods, a true draw!"

Why, those little idiots were wagering on us!

For an instant she wavered, torn between raging at them and laughing at their nerve. But if she

stopped now, her father would almost certainly overtake her, and Gwen just did not have the heart to

continue the battle.

"We're always fighting these days, she thought wearily. Over politics, over castle affairs—even over

the state of the weather!

It hadn't always been like this. Gwen could barely remember her mother: twelve years was, after all,

a long time. But surely there had been peaceful days back then. She seemed to recall days when father

and mother and daughter were one harmonious, cheerful family. And even after, there had been times

when she and her father had laughed together more than they fought. Days when they weren't always

challenging each other. Days when they were happy. Her vision suddenly blurred, and Gwen fiercely

blinked and blinked again, refusing to weep.

7 don't want it to be like this! I don't want either of us to be unhappy, truly I don't. I try to be

properly meek and submissive, but I—I just can't be that way. Father, Father, I love you dearly, but if

this goes on much longer I swear one of us is going to kill the other!

How could she possibly escape this tangle? By forcing herself into a submissive mold, no matter

how much it hurt? Gwen snorted, refusing to lie to herself. As soon ask a hawk to turn into a dove! She

was never going to fit into the dull little niche society seemed to demand of a noblewoman. But what else

was there for her to do? Marry? Marry thaknobody?

Ha. He'd probably try to rule over me like a tyrant, the arrogant son of a—

"Bah!" Gwen said aloud and, heedless of her fine linen gown, threw herself down on her knees.

Every castle had its herb garden, ruled over by the castle lady, and she, perforce, ruled this one—and

spent a good deal of time taking out her frustration on it. Tossing her wild black mane impatiently back

over her shoulders, Gwen began savagely to pull weeds.

But slowly her fierceness faded. What was to become of her? A commoner could do pretty much

anything she dared. Gwen had even seen a few women warriors.

Oh, right. Some warrior I'd make. What would I do, terrorize enemies with my little belt knife?

No. A forced marriage or a cloistered life—there really weren't any other choices for a

noblewoman. There certainly wasn't any choice she could imagine that included... happiness.

Surrounded by greenery, Gwenlyn saw none of it. She sat staring instead at a future that looked all

too bleak.

* * *

"Oh no, my lord, oh no, my lord, I shall not marry thee. For I shall bed my bandit bold And live both

wild and free!"

Kevin and Naitachal, riding side by side through the forest, roared out that last stanza together, then

burst into laughter.

"Fortunate none of the courtiers heard that," Kevin gasped out, and Naitachal corrected:

"Fortunate Master Aidan didn't hear that!"

"Oh, yes!" Kevin agreed. "I can just see his scowls. Trying to prove Bardic Magic doesn't work on

the tone-deaf, are we?' But hey now, a Bard can't be elegant all the time!"

Naitachal grinned. "We just proved a Bard can't be in tune all the time, either! Lucky our horses

didn't throw us in indignation."

"Speaking of horses," Kevin added, patting the neck of his mount, "it's time to give them another

rest."Naitachal slipped gracefully to the forest floor. "They earned one, listening to us."

Kevin followed, stretching stiff muscles. "There's nothing wrong with the occasional bawdy ballad,

and— what is it?"

The elf had been glancing warily about, alert as a predator. "Nothing," he said after a moment. "I

was just being cautious. Remember how Lydia would scout out escape routes every time we stopped?"

Kevin nodded. "I thought it was silly back then. Not any longer." He snapped lead ropes to the

halters the horses were wearing under their bridles, then looped the ropes securely about a tree near a

good stand of grass. "There. Graze a bit."

The journey so far had been more like one extended camping trip than anything else. Kevin paused,

realizing with a jolt of surprise that he never had had a chance to travel just for the joy of it. Now, alone

with a good friend and the chance for good music, the Bard could almost trick his mind into thinking this

was a light, ram-bling-for-the-sake-of-rambling trip.

Almost. If it wasn't for the nagging guilt he felt at up and abandoning the castle that had been given

into his charge—even if said castle could function quite well without him.

And if it wasn't for the quiet little fact that there was, indeed, a goal to this trip: a dark-haired,

keen-eyed potential bride to whom he just might have to tie his life forever—

Oh gods.

Naitachal had settled himself comfortably on a grassy knoll, fingers idly running over the strings of his

travelling harp, waking soft, sweet falls of notes. Kevin forced thoughts of What Might Be out of his mind

as best he could, and sat beside the elven Bard, taking his lute out of its protective case, tuning it with

what was by now unconscious ease. There weren't too many compositions for harp and lute, particularly

since the little travelling harp had no sharps or flats, but that hadn't stopped them so far. After a few false

starts, the two Bards improvised a cheerful, deceptively simple melody that sent a small shiver of delight

up Kevin's spine.

What of Gwenlyn, though? Did she like music? What if she was tone deaf? Worse, what if she

actually hated music and—and—

Kevin's fingers stumbled on the strings. 'Thinking about your intended?" Naitachal asked slyly.

'Trying not to. Naitachal, what do I do if I can't stand her? Or if she can't stand me?"

"Don't look at me for an answer! I'm hardly an expert on your human romances. Or on any of your

human ways, for that matter."

"I thought at Bracklin—"

"The folk of Bracklin accepted me because I was clearly a friend and student of Master Aidan, but

that didn't mean they took me into their confidences. Besides," the Dark Elf added with a grin, "I doubt

that the matters of commoners and nobles have all that much in common."

"But I'm not—I mean, I wasn't born noble, I don't understand how nobles think, either,

and—and—"

"Hush. From everything I've seen, Kevin, you're doing a fine job as count. And if this Gwenlyn

doesn't appreciate what she's getting," Naitachal continued, humor glinting in his blue eyes, "well then, she

doesn't deserve so fine a lad!"

"Huh." Studying his lute, Kevin said with forced lightness, "What do Dark Elves know about human

women, anyway? They're so wrapped up in their sinister plots they wouldn't know a pretty woman

from—"

"Stop."

Kevin glanced up in surprise at the chill tone. Naitachal's face had suddenly gone cold and still. "Do

not jest about them," the Dark Elf warned quietly. "The Nithathili are still my kin. And they hate me for

escaping what they saw as my destiny as a Necromancer— and for denying them my share of Dark

Power."

"They... aren't hunting you, are they?"

Naitachal shrugged slightly. "Not yet. Not as far as I know. But who knows what may happen? In

their eyes, particularly those of my own clan, I am the worst kind of traitor, one who has willingly turned

from the Darkness they worship to the Light. If they ever should choose to hunt me, if they should catch

me..."

He shrugged again, eyes so bleak and empty that Kevin shuddered, remembering with a shock, this

is the sorcerer who could age a man to instant death with a touch, just for a moment not at all sure that

Naitachal had quite banished all traces of Necromantic magic. "Well, then," the young count said with all

the defiance he could muster, "we won't let them catch you!"

To his relief, he heard Naitachal chuckle and saw life come back in to the blue eyes. "Thank you, oh

great and mighty hero." The elf got to his feet, slipping his harp back into its protective covering. "So

now, our horses look rested enough. Come, let's continue our ride."

Kevin scrambled up. "Ah, wait, I have a thought. We're pretty well travel-stained by now."

"True," Naitachal agreed with a fastidious sniff. "And we reek of horse. I trust your lady will have

enough patience to let us clean ourselves up a bit before you start your wooing."

"She's not my lady. And you're missing my point."

"Which is?"

"We were planning to arrive at Count Trahern's castle as Count Kevin and Bard Naitachal."

Naitachal raised a wry brow. "Which, I take it, we're not going to be any longer?"

"No. I've changed my mind about that. If I meet Lady Gwenlyn as a count, as her—uh—her

betrothed-to-be, we're not going to be able to be honest with each other. We'll be forced to play the

roles noble society insists upon: polite, formal and totally artificial. But I—I want a chance to judge her

honestly, and to let her judge me, without rank getting in the way."

"I don't think I like the sound of this."

"Wait, hear me out. We won't enter Count Trahern's castle as nobles, but as common musicians,

wandering minstrels, the sort of folk who are usually welcome anywhere but who aren't really noticed

unless they're actually performing."

"And you think your lady won't notice you until you want her to notice you." The Dark Elf s voice

was carefully empty of emotion. "So you'll have a chance to watch her without any artifices getting in the

way."

"She's not my lady. And yes, that's exactly it."

"I'm not too sure about this. If—"

"It'll be easy!" Kevin interrupted hastily. "We've done enough successful role-playing when we were

out trying to rescue poor Charina."

Humor flashed in Naitachals eyes. "Indeed. I seem to remember that you made quite a fetching

dancing girl."

Kevin shuddered. "Uh, well, we did what we had to do. We won't have to do anything as drastic as

that this time around."

"Count Trahern has never actually met you, has he?"

"He's never even seen me. Except, of course, for that stupid, stylized miniature his servant insisted

on taking. And as for you... well... you aren't the easiest person to ignore," Kevin said tactfully, "but...

ah...""But four years isn't enough time for everyone to have heard of the oddity, the Dark Elf who's turned

Bard," Naitachal finished blandly. "The one who was the companion of Kevin, the hero Bard. True

enough. Our clothes look tired enough to be credible as minstrels' wear, and it's simple enough for me to

hide what I am with a hooded cloak and a long-sleeved tunic. But how are you going to explain away our

swords and these fine-blooded horses?"

Kevin grinned. "That's easy. They're the gifts of grateful patrons. You see? It'll all be just as easy."

Naitachal shook his head. "You make it all sound so simple. But I think you're missing an important

point: starting off a relationship by pretense just doesn't seem wise to me."

"It's not pretense, not really. And there may not be any relationship unless I get that chance to know

Lady Gwenlyn fairly."

"Fairly," the Dark Elf echoed.

"Oh, come now, Naitachal! It's only a small deceit, a very small deceit. And... well... things will turn

out fine, you'll see."

"You hope," Naitachal said drily, and swung into the saddle.

Chapter III In The Realm Of Darkness

The cavern was dark and chill, far below the world's surface as it was, lit here and there with the

dim, smokeless, sorcerous blue flames that were all the light the Dark Elves, the Nithathili, needed. No

ornaments marred the smoothness of the stone walls, no noise marred the heavy quiet. Servants moved

with silent, careful grace through the dimness like so many black-robed shadows. These were men and

women of the lowest castes, coldly beautiful as their betters but expendable, subject to regal whim or

sacrifice. They glanced warily at the regal figure slumped on the obsidian throne as they passed him,

sensing the dark waves of his thoughts, not daring to disturb him, not daring to do anything at all that

might rouse his interest in them.

Another had no such fears. Tanarchal strode boldly forward, black cloak swirling dramatically about

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

TheChaosGatebyJosephaShermanbook4oftheBard'sTaleSeriescopyright1994version1.1minorcleanupChapterIOldFriendsSwordsclashedtogether,thehard,clearsoundcuttingthroughthecoolmorningair,echoingoffthecastlewalls.Kevin,oncemerelyalowlybardling,nowCountKevin,BardKevin,struggledtokeeptheupperhand,butthedark-cl...

展开>> 收起<<

Josepha Sherman - Bard's Tale 04 - The Chaos Gate.pdf

共117页,预览24页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Josepha Sherman - Bard's Tale 04 - The Chaos Gate

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: