At last the duke said, “You will persist in this lie against my son?”
“It is not a lie, my lord.”
“Jevik, have my son sent to me now.” The guardsman half-ran from the room.
Gannon was back with his newly healed hands before Bardolf was escorted in.
Bardolf strode in just ahead of Jevik. He was short, with the soft lines of a man who has never done physical labor.
His sensual pouting mouth was set in a confident smile. He was dressed all in brown silk worked with black pearls. When he saw Sidra and Gannon, his smile vanished. Jevik led him in front of the duke, then stepped back, leaving Sidra, Gannon, and Bardolf in a semicircle around the throne.
Bardolf greeted his father first and then very correctly turned to Sidra and Gannon. “Sidra Ironfist and Gannon the Sorcerer. How good to see you again.” He stared up at his father, eyes unreadable. “Father, what is this all about?”
Haydon sat very still upon his throne and kept his face blank. He was a noble and knew how to hide his emotions. He told his son of the accusations. Confusion, then anger crossed Bardolf’s face. Sidra would almost have believed the act herself. Some people had a true talent for lying.
“Would you convict me of such a vile crime on the word of an information peddler?”
The Duke smiled. “No, Bardolf, not on that alone. I want you to take an oath for me.”
“Of course, Father.”
“Swear by the birds of Loth and the hounds of Verm that you did not harm Milon Songsmith.”
“I have never taken such an evil oath!”
“It is only evil if you have something to fear. Swear, Bardolf, swear to it.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
“I swear by the birds of…I swear.” He stared up at his father, a sort of pleading look upon his face.
Haydon’s noble mask slipped, showing pain in his eyes.
“Swear.” His voice held a note of begging.
“I cannot, Father.”
“If you are innocent, the oath means nothing. You are guilty, then.”
“I cannot take the oath you ask. Perhaps another to Mother Gia.”
Haydon looked down at the floor and drew a deep breath. He seemed suddenly older than he had a moment before. “Only the oath to Loth and Verm is binding enough for this. Will you swear?”
“No, Father.”
The duke’s face seemed to crumble. The tears that threatened in his eyes were chased away by anger. The same anger he had been willing to use against Sidra, to protect his child, now turned against his son. “Why, Bardolf? Have I not shared my wealth with you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then why?” He stood and walked the few steps to stand before his son—the son who could still look him in the eye and lie, even now.
Bardolf said, “You gave me crumbs from your table, Father. I wanted my own table. My own money. My own lands.”
“I have given you all that and more.”
Bardolf shook his head. “They are mine until I anger you. Then you take them away as a punishment, as if they were sweets and I were a child.”
“There are honest ways to make money!”
“Not enough money.”
“Not enough, not enough!” Haydon raised a hand as if to strike him. Bardolf cringed, throwing up a hand. The duke stepped back. Sidra watched the man gain control of himself. It was a painful thing to see. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and controlled. “Do you know the penalty in Meltaan for killing a bard?”
“Yes.”
“You will be executed, and your blood money will do you no good.”
“Father, even if I cured the bard and gave back the money, my client would see me dead.”
“Who, who will see you dead? Who ordered such a vile deed?”
“I cannot say. As your son, I beg that you do not ask me again.”
Duke Haydon said, “No! No son of mine would do such a thing.” A soundless tear trailed down his face; his voice remained firm, but he cried.
Sidra looked away.
Bardolf’s face showed fear. “Father?”
Haydon turned to Sidra. “Do with him as you see fit. Let all here be witness. Bardolf Lordson is no son of mine.” Tears flowed in silver streaks down Haydon’s cheeks. Everyone in the room was pretending not to see. Bardolf knelt before the lord, touching the hem of Haydon’s robe. A tear trailed down his face. “Father, please. If I cure the bard, I will be killed.”
Duke Haydon jerked his robe free of the man and left the room. All but two guards left with him. Sidra had wanted to call after the duke, but what could she say? “Thank you, Duke Haydon, for being just and law abiding”? The man had just signed the death warrant of his favorite son. “Thank you” did not even come close to covering that.
Bardolf stood slowly, rubbing his eyes. Sidra and Gannon moved to stand beside him. Bardolf tensed to run and found himself entangled in a spell. He could not move his arms or legs. Sidra said, “Nicely done, Gannon.”
The sorcerer shrugged. “Healed hands do wonders for a person’s magic.”
Sidra stepped near him and asked, “Do you know what a blood blade is, Bardolf?”
The younger man’s eyes flared wide, showing white. She could see the pulse in his neck jump.
Gannon hissed near his face, “Answer the question.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
Sidra said, “What is it?”
“An evil sword that can suck a man’s soul.” All the color had drained from his face.
She leaned against the cool marble throne and asked, “Have you heard the song ‘Blade Quest’?”
Bardolf whispered, “Yes.”
“I think Milon captured the essence of a blood blade in that song: dark, hungry, evil.” Leech chuckled.
Sidra drew the sword. It gleamed in the torchlight. She said, “Leech, I want you to meet Bardolf the Curse-Maker.”
The sword hissed, “Fresh blood, yumm.”
Sweat beaded on Bardolf’s face, but his words were brave. “You can’t feed me to that thing.”
“I think I can.” She bent close to him, the naked blade quivering near his neck. She held it two-handed, not trusting it. She spoke low and close to his frightened eyes.
“The duke, your father, has decreed that I can do anything I want to you. Up to and including taking your soul.”
“No, please.”
“Gannon.” Gannon unlaced Bardolf’s sleeve and began to roll it upward. The skin was pale.
Leech crooned, “Blood, fresh blood, new blood.”
The man struggled until sweat dripped down his face, but he could not move. Only his head was free to thrash from side to side.
“Please, please don’t let it touch me.”
“Tell us who hired you, agree to cure the bard, and you will live.”
“I won’t live. He’ll kill me. Or have me killed.”
“But he is not here, and I am. I’ll kill you now.”
Bardolf shook his head and closed his eyes. “Please, he’ll kill me.”
Leech hovered over the flesh and said, “Blood.” Bardolf opened his eyes and watched the blade come closer to his arm. “No!” The point bit into his flesh and he screamed. Blood spurted out from a cut artery. Leech chortled in a rain of blood. Bardolf cried, “Lord Isham! Lord Isham hired me!”
Sidra didn’t remove the sword but watched it lapping his blood.
“Get it away! Get it away!”
“Why would Lord Isham want Milon Songsmith dead?”
Bardolf swallowed, closing his eyes against the sight of the sword in his arm. He looked as if he might faint. When he finally spoke, his voice was as pale as his skin. “The song that Milon wrote about him. Lord Isham took insult.”
Sidra asked, “‘Lord Isham and the Goose Girl’?”
“Yes. Now, please, get that thing away from me.”
Sidra drew Leech back from the wound, but it did not want to come. She fought the sword two-handed as it struggled and cursed. “Not enough, not enough. Fresh blood, not enough.”
The sword was quivering, fighting against her, and she could not sheath it. Gannon said, “Sidra.” He bared his arm.
She said, “No.”
Leech stopped shrieking and began to wheedle, “Just a little more, a taste, fresh taste.”